

# One Page a Day

### by Carl Ehnis

Copyright by Carl Ehnis 2013

2016 Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free ebook, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed it, please review this book from the retail site from which you downloaded it and encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thank you for your support!

# Table of Contents

Preface

One Page a Day

Send Feedback!

About the Author

# Preface

I have never kept a journal and, clearly at the age of 55, this is no time to start. Never needed to before: the first four books came and went quite easily, without notes, diaries, journals, creative writing workshops, and so forth.

My first book was completed at the age of 27, and my buddy said, "Wow, it's great. Didn't know you could even write, dude. You should get it published."

But I said, "Nah, I can do better," then boxed it up and stashed it in the attic.

Book number two was started at age 28, completed at age 34, and was called "remarkable" by another good friend and college professor.

But I said, "Nah, I can do better," and it, too, found its place in the attic. At age 35, book number three was begun and subsequently rewritten eight times because it had legs, or so I was informed by a host of admiring readers. And I had hopes, because it was my masterpiece, thick with plot, rich in style, and brimming with insight and provocation. So I sent it to a publisher and it came back with a polite note saying, "This is a very promising manuscript, but our list is filled at this time and, unfortunately, we cannot take on additional projects at this time," and suggested that I find an agent.

Needless to say, my wife was quite excited by the response and encouraged me to keep sending it out, but I declined. I had learned something about myself. What I learned was that I was not good at handling rejection. So, at the age of 45, I let this book join its exiled cousins in the attic.

Now, it's just another orphan in a brown box embrittled by the breathless heat and shuddering cold of a poorly insulated gable-roof warehouse of neglect. Then came the fourth, begun at age 44 and completed six years later. A nice work, a corporate thriller, mature in tone. A story of revenge exacted by a powerful female protagonist. My wife thought it was great stuff and told me I had to send it out.

But I said, "What if it's rejected?" and with that the manuscript joined my third-story den of detritus about three years ago, as I turned 52.

I haven't written a word of fiction since. Maybe I had nothing more to say. The compulsion for self-expression in my twenties and thirties slipped into an occasional apathy in my late forties and has since become a full-blown complacency in my mid-fifties.

But apathy/complacency precedes death and I'm terrified--terrified of dying. So I will write again, even if I don't particularly relish the demands of its practice. To write is to be—if I write I can't die, or something to that effect. Writing for writing's sake—or rather, writing to ward off the permanent shroud, yeah. Happily, I have happened upon a theme and a style, which I'm calling Extreme Pastiche. The title of this project indicates exactly what it is: One Page a Day. And the topic is: Everything.

# Day 1. May 27, 2009

Since this is the beginning, I'll go back as far as I can. My first memory was of running down a grassy incline in front of my house on a sunny summer afternoon wearing brown shorts and a yellow shirt made out of a corrugated fabric, somewhat like seersucker. I was three years old at the time. I was hugging a large rubber ball in front of me, most likely to join a clutch of neighborhood kids at the bottom of the hill, but that part I don't remember.

The memory cue comes in the form of a stentorian fire horn blast that startled the hell out of me because the siren was mounted on a telephone poll not more than 50 feet from my position on the bluff—so I was subjected to the full effect. The ball popped out of my arms as I clamped my hands to my ears to muffle the sound blast. That's when things get sketchy.

There was a stumble over the ball and then a tumble and shouts from the valley at the base of the hill. I was off my feet and bounding against edges of sharp rocks embedded in the grassy slope. I don't recall making it to the bottom of the hill. This is what I recall: being hoisted up high by adult arms and feeling very sleepy and being shoved into the back seat of our ancient DeSoto (Let's date this around June of 1957) and then there was a zooming take off followed shortly by a brutal stoppage of forward momentum and the sound of crumpling steel and a powerful whiff of motor oil.

The following I can only surmise and piece together from subsequent discussions with family members:

  * I surrendered consciousness when my body was hurled against the back of the front seat, this being the days before seat belts and other forms of passive restraints.

  * There was a welter of commotion from grim rescue teams.

  * The multiple trauma rendered me comatose for more than a week.

I missed the funeral.

# Day 2. May 28, 2009

That, as previously mentioned, is a fair account of my earliest memory. I'm not a psychologist, and have precious little patience for self-analysis other than a random curiosity for interesting behavioral phenomenon. (Yes, I know, odd behavior for a person who has written four novels.)

For example, why do I remember my earliest memory? My assumption, as slyly inserted in the previous section, was that the sudden blast of noise—perhaps the loudest sound ever to rock my forming brain in those days—was behind the staying power of that memory. While the key, life-changing events that followed its initiation would, I think, be the professional interpretation of my memory, it is the running with the ball and the sound that I truly remember—the events afterward were simply events that occurred and were relayed to me through conventional narrative.

I'm glad, though, that for the first time I have put this memory down in writing. The gradual onset of senility is a family characteristic and it could start spreading its insidious vines up my brainstem at any moment, if it hasn't already. But now it's down in electronic form, which means I will have this memory forever, or at least long after I have forgotten it.

Here's a little exercise for you while I finish up my one page for today: Think back: What is your earliest memory? Be sure to write it down on a piece of paper and put it somewhere you can find it so that you can recall it after you forget it. You'll be glad that you did.

# Day 3. May 29, 2009

(Yesterday's page came up a little bit short, so I'll try to make up for it today. It's easy now to tell if I'm content cheating, given Microsoft Word's ability to give you a running word and character count.)

Now that I've introduced my earliest memory, we'll skip through all subsequent periods of my life and focus on the present—my current state, or the building of my next future memory.

As usual, I'm writing this at work because I have nothing else to do, really. I write investment brochures for a mutual funds company and we are in the worst investment crisis since the Great Depression, so no one wants to buy our products and thus have no desire to read the stuff I so ably churn out.

People have been cashing out of our mutual funds right and left, which is killing our bottom line and has led to numerous force adjustments. My department has been cut by 20 percent. They keep me because I'm the only writer, a skill they find awesomely mystical, even though, as an unpublished novelist, I don't really consider myself a true writer. Just a guy who can string together sentences with enough coherence and persuasion to help commercial organizations sell products and influence people. And for this skill I probably make gobs more money than 95% of published novelists.

I've been doing the same job for about 20 years and I, like most people who have done the same damn thing for more than 20 years, am bored out of my skull. My boss was fired some months ago on account of his breathtaking incompetence. (I helped write the dismissal recommendation for his boss!)

I applied for my boss's job, thinking that directing others and being the strategic mastermind behind the various collateral produced in my area might be a pleasant and reasonably challenging change of pace for me—a brooming of the cobwebs threading the creative stalactites of my soul, so to speak.

They went in another direction for the job, much to my dismay. Of course, perhaps there were issues with my disinclination to hew to various company dogma, and a wit that at times dipped into the sarcastic (they said), which I preferred to characterize as "sardonic," a much more agreeable term, in my opinion.

I also know that they don't think of me as much of a team player. They assured me that they value my contributions, that I play an important role in the organization, et cetera. And they're right. I'm an old shoe and a comfortable fit. I'm a copy-generating machine and in that role I am, to my management, a reliable utility. Like a light bulb or a faucet. But there's something else, too. But that's tomorrow's page.

# Day 4. June 1, 2009

Alert readers will notice a calendar anomaly in this endeavor in which June 1 is following May 29 in apparent violation of the thematic structure of this book. Had you been even more alert, however, you would have remembered that this project is being done at work on company time, which precludes page production on weekends, holidays, and vacations.

In other words, Happy Monday! (Most likely other structural improvisations will intercede over time that will corrupt this format, not to mention the havoc that serious editing will reap once the initial draft is complete. But we soldier on.)

Last Friday's page ended with a fairly dynamic cliffhanger of sorts, in which I intimated that there was more to my not getting the job from which my boss was fired than I had disclosed up to that point. The thing is, a whole weekend has passed and now I've forgotten what that thing was.

So there you have it, a structure to a book based on daily output—no more, no less—from an aging author with a failing memory and with an inherent laziness that precludes him from maintaining a journal to compensate for the stuff he would otherwise forget. So, going forward, when a cliffhanger is employed (which will be as often as possible), I will jot a few notes in the margin to remind myself of the forthcoming payoff.

The good thing about all of the preceding dissembling is, as I finish today's page, I will have an exceedingly juicy fresh memory for tomorrow. (I do remember that the task at hand was to counter balance my earliest memory with my most recent.) Tomorrow I will meet my new boss and will relay my impressions before I forget them shortly thereafter. (I guess this is a semi-cliffhanger.)

# Day 5. June 1, 2009 replaced on January 20, 2012

You will note the date has been superseded in this installment. It is because an ironic impossibility has occurred that enables you to read this fine literary creation. One of the compelling themes driving this work describes my previous disinterest in potentially encountering serial rejection in the course of seeking publication of four novels. Now, "ironically," I have actually broken into print via a change in attitude. I've taken a position of publish or die.

I've self published--and skipped the middle man and you, some stranger, can now read my gilded prose. So, about this "replacement" page.

The zero chance of publication that I had assumed while crafting these pages freed me to be boundlessly honest, explicit, and free with my thoughts. I've exploited that potential to quite an extent and, in most cases, you will be treated to the unvarnished me.

However free I may be to practice my art, there are some entries that would put aspects of my life in jeopardy, i.e., things that could blow up my marriage, family relations, job, and friendships. Given the now public exposure of these pages, some of the stronger stuff must be replaced. This entry, for instance, goes into great depth about my current management, not all of it complimentary and, as long as I depend on this job for material sustenance, the replaced entry must be...replaced. My insights into the nature of my new boss may be a little...too...much.

Now, now, please stifle that groan. Yeah, I'm creating boundaries and stifling my art. But, what the fuck. I'm mature and seasoned and experienced and have learned over the years that art isn't everything. Besides, why must you be such a voyeur? This thing will still be 99 percent pure—and the stuff that's left out could only hurt others who you don't even know. Yes, replacement pages constitute a compromise. But listen, Skippy, everything in life is a compromise.

# Day 6. June 3, 2009 replaced on January 20, 2012

Yes, it's happened for a second day in a row. A replacement section. So it was basically a continuation of my impressions of my new boss and what she had in store for me. Let me set the context. As noted previously, I have been in the same job for the past, oh, 14 years. Of course, back when the original entry was done, it had been 11 years. But once the momentum of time kicks in, 14 years isn't much different than 11.

Fact is doing the same job for such a long time can make things rote, boring, and unchallenging. And I feel the same way now as I did on June 3, 2009. Two and half years later, nothing has really changed. But, since I'm on an irony kick, I'll put some more ironies on the fire. (No excuse for that!)

I was not happy when I was not selected for my boss's job. But over the intervening years, she's proven to be a good editor, which has enhanced my work, and has served as a reliable buffer in terms of process and administration so that I can focus on the carefree world of content development. My bitterness at the time was partially a result of career frustration, of carving my rut deeper and deeper.

But as red tape and bureaucracy and the obsessions of those around me to "adding value" pretty much ground progress to a halt, I actually can count my blessings. I would've hated my boss's job if it had been offered to me. Even if she gets hit by a bus or finds something better in the Big City, I will not apply for her job. It's a thankless perch with just a high enough profile to expose yourself to the wrath of your many clients and nights of a churning stomach and disquietude.

Not for me. Now I treasure the days when I can hunker down to the screen and churn out fragments of drivel, un-beckoned to a raft of meetings because it's her role to go to meetings.

So even if I had kept my less than complimentary entry in place here, it would have been misleading because she turned out okay for me, contrary to expectations.

# Day 7. June 4, 2009

There's a young woman on my train, let's call her "Chinless," since that is her chief facial characteristic from my point of view. It's unfortunate that such an unfortunate construction should detract from an otherwise attractive woman. She has lovely blue eyes, long silken brown hair and a fetching slim figure.

Alas, it's the chin, or lack of same, that dominates, but that is not the point. Chinless and I board the same trains each morning and evening and never exchange more than a cordial nod. But yesterday our relationship deepened to a mutual eye roll when a certain blowhard four rows up from me was yakking at trading pit volume on his cell phone for most of the ride.

This is at 6 a.m. when most riders, including myself, address our chronic sleep deficits. So we are in this silent car except for Mr. Master of the Universe pricing this and selling that at rock-star pitch, his voice bouncing against the walls, punctuated by thunderous laughing guffaws and exclamations.

I could've yanked the phone out of his fist and he could have simply talked into his hand and his hapless party on the other end could probably still have heard him without the intercession of electronics. I sighed heavily, other passengers moaned, I happened to glance at Chinless and we rolled our eyes in unison.

The anger, my indignation, a violent rage—I could picture myself rising from my seat, striding over to the fat, balding phone guy, yanking the damn thing out of his, stomping on it and slapping the side of head so it would bounce against the train window.

Then I would tell him to spare his fellow passengers the boring details of his private conversations. And if he rose out of his seat, I would stamp on his foot, knee him in the balls and push his nose in with the heel of my hand, so as not to injure my guitar-playing fingers.

But I didn't—and wouldn't do that. And you want to know why?

# Day 8. June 5, 2009

I'm a flaming coward. A frightened little bunny. I've never been in a fistfight, ever. Not even a pushing and tripping skirmish. I'm afraid of getting hurt, I suppose. I have no clue how to scuffle, quite frankly.

What if I truly bashed someone—how would I deal with the mess issuing from opened-up facial wounds and so forth? What if they hit me in the face, in the nose and blood gushes forth or they belt me in the stomach and I lose my wind and can't breathe, like that time in Little League when I took a pitched ball just below the ribs and it knocked the air out of me and I thought the gray blanket of death was about to smother me? I'm fast and nervous—I can outrun any bully or cower in the face of physical threat that would turn any potential abuser away in disgust.

So that's why I didn't smack the guy with the phone in the side of the head, even though he deserved it. Or the chatty fatty ladies who sit at the front of my car on the evening train and carry on like clucking magpies while I'm trying to read good literature. Or any of a multitude of permutations of such rude and obnoxious people who share my commute and deserve my violence that will never be issued because of my cowardice.

Cowardice, though, takes many forms, which I'll cover in its many shapes over the course of this project. If that's the kind of theme that distresses, bores, or depresses you, then stop reading now.

The agony won't be worth the precious moments that may provide amusement in these daily reports. (Today's Friday, the next entry will not be contiguously numbered calendar-wise (Just a reminder.).)

# Day 9. June 8, 2009

Today is Monday, which long ago ceased being "Go for the Gusto" day. My gusto has been fading badly the last few years, and when I didn't get my boss's job, the gusto just got up and left. It happens when your opinions aren't valued, when you come across clearly contemptuous of management, when the only reason they keep you is because no one else can do your job, which you can do in a comatose state, but have absolutely no other choice but to continue doing what you're doing until the day comes when you leap victoriously into retirement, a prospect over which I obsess daily.

Why is Monday "Go for the Gusto" day? Well, obviously the attitude and energy levels are set for the week on Monday. Guys in Sales do the whole Marine Hoo Hah! thing on Monday and then hit the phone banks like they're storming the beach.

I'm supposed to think about things—about how to pitch our products better, devise powerful new processes and initiatives that will break through the clutter, explode out of the box, innovate the collateral that will break down barriers and make assets under management skyrocket.

Well, been there. Done that. Now each Monday I face the wall, dispirited, disheartened, apathetic, flaccid, enervated, defeated. Before the week has even started. I'm stuck in a yes loop, a bobble-headed nod of concurrence with whatever bright ideas management cares to inflict.

I used to be more swashbuckling—a push-back kind of guy who would get angry over stupidity and question the boss to his face. I thought my behavior was heroic—showed a passion for quality, et cetera. No, I was wrong. Instead, I was a bad team player with questionable leadership skills. But I was good at writing, doing what I do—forever and ever and ever. That is my wall.

This leads to a discussion of another form of cowardice of which I am guilty.

# Day 10. June 9, 2009

Fear of change. Fear to take a risk. When I catalog the list of things I hate, it all seems rooted in my cowardice.

I hate my rut, my routine, lack of authority in my day-to-day, the tedium of at my desk at 8:00 and back on the train by 5:09, the dull conformity of my company, my glacial progress in accruing an adequate retirement stash, the inability to enjoy life with the gusto (that word again!) of my children, the regret of the things I've never done including, but not limited to, bungee jumping, snow skiing, organizing a running race, coaching Little League, running for mayor, doing cocaine, doing LSD, sipping absinthe, making a movie, driving cross country with no money and no plan, visiting Africa, jumping out of plane (attached to a parachute), attending Bonaroo, and so forth.

It's all cowardice. Even 30 years ago I knew I wasn't cut out for the corporate thing. Never was a very good team player—baseball was my only team sport and the part I liked the best was just me with a bat in my hand against the pitcher.

Why did I study English in college when I should have taken some business courses and picked up some skills in starting my own gig? I regret bitterly accepting that safe, comfy corporate job in 1978 and sticking with it only because it was easy and secure and...well.

Cowardice, fear of failure, bankruptcy. But what would bankruptcy really mean to a 25-year-old? Instead I'm this nondescript mid-manager-type guy with four perfectly fine unpublished novels and working on a fifth, whose footprint in life is a dull impression in the sand waiting to be washed away at the next high tide. Here's something: Honesty is but a painful acknowledgment about one or more personal failures that lends perspective to misery.

# Day 11. June 10, 2009

Yesterday was heavy but today's a new day. During this morning's run I was listening to Sister Andrea, a cut from the Mahavishnu Orchestra's live Central Park recording that took place back in the early 70s and it brought to mind the vehement insistence of my virtual guitar teacher who said speed is not important when it comes to soloing, rather it was the hook and story that matters.

But I was/am addicted to the breathless, electric buzz saw fingerings of the great maestro John McLaughlin who is nothing without the blinding speed.

Still, I can see his point. The great bluesmen B.B. King and Buddy Guy and immortal rockers like Page, Hendrix, Slash, and so forth—speed was an element, but it was the beauty and logic of their stories that sold their music. But what's not thrilling about the great McLaughlin or Malmsteen or the whole clutch of metal guys who reel off the cascading notes with preternatural velocity. Well, speed, yeah!

Part of it is I'm not fast. My fingers stiffen and lock up when I try to arpeggiate too quickly. I'm more cut out for the slow blues and torchy rock.

That's why I admire the speed demons, even though, back in the day, it was fashionable to sneer at the conceit of athletic fret-burning at the expense of structure and pace. Nah, it was jealousy!

# Day 12. June 11, 2009

Nothing to write. Only Day 12 and nothing to write. This happened sooner than expected. Makes me long for the days when the fiction writing flowed like blood on the page, which in sunny retrospect now seems like an effortless exuberance. I'm sure I had my dry days then, too. Wasn't really different then.

I did a page or two a day first thing in the morning when I got to work. But I'm really stumped now. Maybe it's time to introduce a major character. We'll call her Micky, her real name. She's been my wife for a long time, going on 35 years. She has made me what I am. She changed my diet. I no longer have bread and butter with every meal and I don't eat unusual species and cuts of meat, such as lamb, pigs knuckles, beef tongue, and a broad range of charcuterie. I now eat lean meats, steamed fresh vegetables, lots of potatoes, brown rice, papayas and other exotic fruits.

My contribution to her diet is shrimp cocktail, which she has me prepare because I am a meticulous cleaner of shrimp. I also introduced her to Beefeaters martinis, extra dry, up with olives. When I make them, I skip the vermouth entirely and go with a few drops of olive juice to cut the juniper nectar a tad.

We limit ourselves to one jumbo martini a week, usually on Fridays. Given the current psychic death spiral of my life, it is taking enormous self-discipline not to haul out my drinking tools more frequently. Self-disciplined--it's over-rated

# Day 13. June 15, 2009

I have been trying to learn how to play the Beatles' _Michelle_ on the guitar for about three years now. It's a classical arrangement and requires a strong ability to read music, which I have, and a decent knowledge of the entire fret board of the guitar, which comes and goes.

It's damn hard, but I plug away at it almost every day. Classical guitar is similar to violin in that it takes highly coordinated, but very different, movements with each hand. _Michelle_ , for example, involves a lot of moving up and down the fret board, a modicum of stretch between the index finger and pinky. I have an annoyingly weak pinky, which is a major liability with my instrument. As for the right hand, there's a lot of intricate plucking of interior strings throughout the piece and I am prone to hitting the wrong adjacent strings or stroking more than the requisite number of strings in certain passages.

And this has been going on for years. The first year was mainly about figuring out the notes and where to play them and which fingers to use to stroke them. Now it's a matter of playing cleanly, accurately, and with emotion--you know, the things that require endless practice and repetition.

Natural musicians can conquer such a piece over a period of a few weeks. But I am not a natural musician and I could go my entire lifetime with but a handful of passable _Michelles_ to my credit.

But I love the challenge and embrace the frustration. At least during the times that I don't have an overwhelming urge to shatter my beautiful Martin D-19 against the concrete walls of the basement.

# Day 14. June 16, 2009

The longer I live, the more I appreciate the pervasive role of luck. Luck is not a myth and luck is not an excuse. Luck is real. Some people are born into money and some people are randomly endowed with certain talents while most of us are not.

It comes down to luck.

Who can disagree that children born into poverty, in broken homes, sent to poor schools and, though they may manage to survive their circumstances, never truly rise to even a middle class existence because of the bad luck of their birth circumstances?

In my case, I look around the floor where I work and see various people rising through the ranks and forging careers that may take them to the C-suite. They are indeed talented and competent people and may even be good at their jobs. But so am I. The difference is they happened to know the right people, were mentored early in their careers and made the advantageous connections that led to recognition and reward. They worked no harder than I did, but they had luck working for them as well.

Me? I've never had mentor I could count on. Most of my promising connections were either fired, left the company or changed entire industries. There was no one ever looking out for me. While I have managed to rise to a middle management position, who knows where I'd be with a little bit of luck? I hope you do not interpret this as whining, but rather as a series of objective observations.

But here's some actual news that you can use. It takes luck to outperform the stock market. So-called whizzes who claim that they can consistently beat the markets are deluding you and themselves. Maybe they'll make dazzling gains for a few years, but don't be fooled, they're just being lucky. And bad luck is just as powerful as good luck, and those high fliers are merely set up for a crash landing.

The numbers are in: 93% of professional money managers fail to outperform the market over a 10-year period. Don't trust in luck when it comes to your money. Invest in index mutual funds.

# Day 15. June 17, 2009

One of the hardest things about writing fiction is creating credible characters of the opposite sex. This problem is especially acute in my case because the last couple of novels I wrote feature female protagonists, which is probably nervy for a guy to try to pull off.

I thought I'd have somewhat of an advantage because I have two sisters and currently live in a house filled with women. Still, I worried that I was creating characters that thought like women as imagined by a man. I was not sure it was working.

After all, I'm not overly interested in or knowledgeable about things like fashion, make-up, romance novels, long hot baths, snuggly bathrobes, chocolate, feelings, having close friends in whom you can share super-secret confidences, etc.

Even so, are all or part of the foregoing list just female clichés? If I tried to write about them would that expose me as a phony? What can I say about that darling canary camisole or rockin' rain boots without sounding like a know-nothing idiot?

My solution in the end was not to overly feminize my characters and to make them unusually forceful and confident and hope that they were credible enough not to blow my cover.

# Day 16. June 18, 2009 replaced on January 20, 2012

Here's another thing. I'm not going to apologize every time I replace an entry. This one wasn't especially juicy but it was fairly personal regarding the sex life of the author and his spouse. Even in this day of full disclosure and the open-door policy of social media, I'm disinclined to share the quotidian details of our intimate life. Instead, let's talk about the guys who fix our cars.

I think car mechanics are the most underpaid workers in society. They don't make as much as plumbers, electricians, computer geeks, yet their job requires skills that touch on all those areas. To me, it takes supreme intelligence to dope out the mysteries of engine malfunctions and, even with the advent of computer diagnostics, it's easy to be led astray by the vague and often contradictory readouts from these systems.

Then, when the mechanic finally figures out what the problem may be, he or she must then have the manual dexterity to root about tight and filthy cavities and exert leverage where it's often impossible to find a purchase to extract, replace, and adjust faulty parts. And they must be able to do this quickly and precisely in order to profit the business.

I gave up working on cars years ago. Usually I was clueless when it came to troubleshooting engine issues and I'm just not that great with tools. A brake job that would take an experienced mechanic two hours would take me an entire weekend. And the blood that I shed--and I never considered a car job begun until blood was flowing.

It takes the highest level of experience, judgment, specialized expertise in an endless number of car models, and physical strength to be a good mechanic. Be kind to your auto technician--he practices a difficult art and seldom gets the respect and monetary rewards he deserves.

# Day 17. June 19, 2009

Maybe I should have been more sensitive to the telltale signs that make all revolutions both impossible and inevitable. The hunched shoulders and nervous grunt of the octogenarian owner of the gentleman's barbershop on Brighton as I greeted him the other day. The refusal to post Today's Specials in the window of Primavera's Italian Delicatessen for three days running.

Sirens in the night, yet nothing in the local paper the following day about the ensuing police activities. No kids in the streets, no Mexican migrants on bicycles, no joggers in the downtown. Patrons did fill the outdoor seating areas of my city's food establishments, but now, in retrospect, I remember the subdued hum of their conversations, the lowering of eyes at my approach, the furtive glances of people having something to hide.

Yeah, in retrospect, maybe the air did crackle with electricity for the preceding few weeks--thick with latent possibilities.

Two days ago I found myself in the middle of it, while feeding my rental DVD to a vending machine at my favorite Foodtown. Shots rang out of the stillness and suddenly I found myself running like a maniac for cover.

But everywhere I turned there were bullets whizzing by my head and embedding in car body sheet metal, walls, trees, and...people. The Foodtown parking lot erupted in a chaotic cacophony of cars slamming into each other trying to escape.

I saw my own car in flames so I took off for Main Street to duck into a store or restaurant until the attack, or whatever it was, ran its course. But then...

(This will have to wait. It's the weekend!!!)

# Day 18. June 22, 2009

There was a tremendous explosion and black clouds and debris filled the air. I was knocked off my feet, my skin shredded by glass and shrapnel as I struggled to get up. Screams and sobs rang in my ears in between bursts of small explosives and the rat-a-tat-tat of small arms fire.

By now lines of bloody victims staggered from the downtown area, clothes in rags, moaning for help. Several toppled and died on the spot. I made my way to the city center where the carnage was everywhere.

Steaming hunks of flesh, decapitated bodies with chests blown apart, viscera puddling on the street and sidewalks. One huge explosion followed another and then all that was left of the downtown was rubble where stores and apartments once stood.

Then I saw Micky and my daughters somehow making their way through the frightened mobs, my one daughter, Erica, missing an arm and her sweatshirt black with blood. Natalie looked okay until I noticed one of her shoes was missing. Along with her foot.

Micky sobbed and fell into my arms and I could feel a damp heat across her shoulder and of course my hand came away dripping with my wife's blood. I could feel her weaken, her grasp give way. I gently let her down to the pavement and watched as she expired.

Natalie and Erica pumped her shoulders and slapped her face, trying to revive her, but I said "Stop! Stop! There's nothing that you can do." And then a tremendous explosion and flash of brilliant light blinded us all. "Stop! Stop!"

# Day 19. June 23, 2009

"Watched me expire? You just stood there and watched me expire?! That's what's gonna happen when we're under attack, you're going to stick me with the girls to get blown up while you wander around in a stupor?"

"A stupor? I've never heard you use the word 'stupor'."

"Well, yeah, that's what it sounds like. You off doing your own thing while I have to manage everything. But, what about the bright light? What does that mean?"

"I don't know what it means."

"Well, that's a pretty overworked cliché, don't you think. If you ask me, it's just a defense mechanism to protect you from visualizing your own death. But you certainly don't lack any clarity about mine."

"Probably makes me a selfish bastard."

"And what's this about blowing your kid's foot off? Mutilating your own children, that's really sicko."

"It's not like I have control over content, Pookie."

"Not consciously."

"Right, not consciously."

"Need you to run to the store to pick up some mayo for the tuna salad."

"Don't you remember, the store is all blown up!"

"Then travel back through time."

"That's a plan!"

# Day 20. June 24, 2009

"And, like, you know, you blow off your own daughter's foot! How twisted is that!"

"Sorry, Natalie, I didn't mean to."

"Well, Dad, that's just twisted. Why didn't you blow up? Why did you get Mom shot? At least Erica probably had it coming."

"It's not something I scripted. I only told you guys about it for the purposes of sharing. I've been told I don't share enough—that I spend too much time inside my own head. Jeez, guys, it was only a dream."

"A dream that you called 'recurring,'" said Micky. "Something is very wrong when you maim your family in a recurring dream. Jiminy Crickett was not joking when he said 'a dream is a wish your heart makes.'"

At this point, for the sake of disclosure, my wife and teenage kid are having a lighthearted moment at my expense. My description of their mutilation did not disturb them in the least. In fact, compared with Natalie's steady diet of blood-soaked horror thrillers that she and her girlfriend devour during sleepovers, my dream was tame.

"But you say you never remember your dreams. Why do you think you remembered this one, dear?"

I don't know. That's what I tell my wife. But I think I do know. I'm not fond of loud, sudden noises. They alarm and irritate me. I never could handle thunderstorms as a child; they sent me into a quivering terrified retreat. Today I just find them rude and unpleasant.

I think about this aversion and certain contradictions. I love loud rock and orchestral music because it overwhelms the senses in a pleasurable way. But loud, sudden noises like explosions and screaming outbursts pierce my false veil of serenity.

I imagine a car suddenly crashing through my living room and pinning me against the wall while I'm watching TV. I imagine intruders in black invading my home and firing loud automatic weapons at me and my family. I imagine aircraft flying over my neighborhood followed by the deafening explosion of ordnance. The flash of light, the terrible loud noises.

I remember at a very young age, lying injured in the back of my father's car—a flash of light, a loud deafening explosion.

# Day 21. June 25, 2009

I must confess: I've already violated my system. My page for yesterday was actually written first thing this morning. Most annoying, work intervened yesterday and I was busy all day in meetings and fixing. Fixing is what I mainly do now. Much of the promotional material spewed from my department arrives at my desk in haphazard, impenetrable form from product experts and other illiterates. They come with instructions to "Work your (my) magic." In other words: to fix.

I write hardly anything from scratch anymore. We don't really do new pieces because of budget constraints, so I'm recycling old stuff or fixing new stuff that will only go on the Web or print-on-demand.

I make sentences out of stream-of-consciousness drivel and create focus out of Medusa strands of random arguments. I take the shapeless rocks of my co-workers intentions and chisel various forms of literature out of them—letting their inner logic emerge. That's what I mean by fixing things. I'm part intensive care nurse, part copy editor, part word mechanic.

It's boring as hell, but my skills strike awe in my co-workers, so that is reward enough for this thankless, enervating experience that my situation here has devolved into.

I'd kill for a brand new product launch, a new think piece about the direction of the macroeconomic economy over the next decade. But not yesterday. I had to fix an emailer with a bad headline and an inappropriate opening. And I had to be nice. Pleasant. "Thank you for the direction," I said to the many many helpful people who extol my work and then go about changing it.

I'm taking a long weekend.

# Day 22. June 29, 2009

About the guitar and me being a musician. Feelings here, as usual, are conflicted. Like all masculine youth reaching puberty in the late 1960s, starting a rock band was de rigueur. I chose guitar and my supportive parents paid for lessons at the local music shop, whose teachers taught me nothing but the notes on the strings and chords, chords, chords.

So my friends and I bashed our way through some Cream and Tommy James and the Shondels songs, with me playing chords, chords, chords and stumbling through lead passages because I knew NOTHING about soloing thanks to the dim bulbs at the music shop.

I played hours and hours and got nowhere, but my senior year in high school I saved all my Golden Broaster and Fuller Brush door-to-door cash and toured Manny's Music and Sam Ash in New York and a bunch of places in New Jersey and bought my first real guitar, a Martin D-18, for $366. I took it to college with me and sang off-key for myself and played lush and loud with my amazing guitar.

In a desperate measure to "get good," I took classical guitar lessons at college, my instructor laughing when he saw my Martin and told me it was not a classical instrument and refused to offer lessons until I got one, which I did the next day at a local Sear-Roebuck for $40.

After a semester of torture and hard work, both my instructor and I agreed that I sucked at classical because I didn't practice enough and I didn't practice enough because I HATED IT! So I wrote songs on my Martin, sang them to my fiancée, got married two years later, and put my Martin in various closets where it sat for the next 30-odd years.

# Day 23. July 1, 2009

(Missed a day here—another power failure, so if the computer can't boot up, neither can I!)

So lately, as an unfulfilled writer, an underachiever at work, a parent with an indifferent attitude toward childrearing, I retrieved my Martin from its dormancy. It began a year or two ago when Natalie started taking guitar lessons from a brilliant kid who leads several local bands.

So I got the itch, realized I didn't know anything, decided to start from scratch and sent away for an Internet guitar course that assured me that I will "Learn and Master" the guitar in 20 lessons.

Took me a year and a half to get through the course, practicing every day. Hey, finally learning how to solo—it's a thing called pentatonic scales. My god, what a revelation! The notes flying from Eric Clapton's fingers, from Jimmy Page's fingers, from Carlos Santana's fingers, from B.B. King's fingers. All based on the five forms of the pentatonic scales.

Why didn't the assholes at the music shop teach me the pentatonic forms? Were they afraid that I would become too brilliant? They wanted to keep the secret to themselves and a select few? Fuck! It would've changed my life. I would've been on the path to guitar god at an age when it would have meant something.

Now, my aged head, where learning new stuff takes double the effort of my formative teen years, plods clumsily through as Natalie bolts through her lessons without any perceptible strain. So at the age of 54, introduced to the pentatonic scales. Four decades too late!

# Day 24. July 6, 2009

This is several days after my last entry, which is acceptable given the long weekend for the July 4 holiday. If I can pick up my train of thought, perhaps calling me an over-achieving underachiever pretty much captures it. It being, facing no professional challenges at the moment and none on the horizon, I seek other outlets.

When you read about greatness in the business world, whether it is the child of a sharecropper rising to CEO or a shoeshine boy or gal who eventually owns an airline—most career ascents evolved from hard work and a break here or there. Maybe a mentor or two along the way to offer insight or a contact or three to grease the skids.

These things, however, do not happen to everyone. None of those things happened to me. At the age of 55 I've never gotten the big break, the breakthrough job—never even had a mentor of any stature.

So I'm in low middle management making a decent salary because I own a craft of sorts. Nobody to blame except myself, really, it's just how it is—so I seek my challenges elsewhere.

I've already written about my reticent travails as a novelist—if only for a contact or two in the publishing industry. Deep sigh. But then, as also mentioned earlier, I've run out of ideas and am reduced to doing this half-ass extreme pastiche that may lapse into fiction eventually once I've run out of interesting things to say about my life. Still, nothing beats the challenge of writing a decent novel.

As I've seen that peculiar talent evaporate with time, I've taken up running marathons, which is a tremendous challenge both physically and mentally. But the best part is, as a sporting event, it's a meritocracy. You know exactly where you stand because the clock doesn't lie. And according to the clock, I'm in the top 20 percent of my age group when it comes to competitive running. More on that tomorrow.

# Day 25. July 7, 2009

(The problem with the page-a-day thing is sometimes I get on a roll, which you must've noticed, has occurred on a couple of occasions, yet I stop when I reach the end of a page no matter what because that is the rule. Sure, I could easily kill two or three days of pages in one sitting, but then I could let a whole week go by without writing a thing and fall behind. Writing is a solitary discipline and the only one you have to answer to is yourself. And sometimes "yourself" can be overly lenient and be in a "What the fuck, I'll let it slide" frame of mind for extended periods of time. It happens to me and I tend to be a pretty disciplined guy. Just ask my wife, my kids...)

So, with running, I started jogging in my 30s, got in with a fast crowd and began competing in three- and five-mile races after a few years. The idea was to keep in shape and find an outlet for my competitive juices since I tended toward lackluster jobs, couldn't indulge in team sports without injury, and because running is cheap and requires no special skill or talent.

As I approached age 50 and intimations of mortality beckoned, I decided to do something outrageous to deny my personal mortality and somehow prove that there are worse things to do to a body than to work it unreasonably hard. That would be to run a marathon.

For a year I trained, ratcheting up my miles to unheard of levels. I ran and completed the New Jersey Marathon one month after surpassing the half-century mark. Damn. Done. More on this tomorrow!

# Day 26. July 8, 2009

I thought that would be that. Half a century old, can run 26.2 miles without stopping, thus I will never die. (What a relief, death is such a terror!) But then, not only did I not die upon completing the New Jersey Marathon, I did it with speed and energy to spare and qualified for the Boston Marathon, the world's most prestigious road race. Running pals insisted that if you qualify for Boston, it is incumbent upon you to enter.

I was on the hook. I entered the Boston Marathon, one of the very few worldwide marathon events in which a runner must meet a rigorous qualifying standard based on speed and age. As a 50-year-old, my qualifying time was much slower than it would have been at age 30, which is the only way I made it, since I'm not an inherently fast runner. But that in no way diminished the pride of accomplishment, since thousands of distance runners make it a life-long goal to run Boston, but never succeed at qualifying. So I was among the elite.

Boston beat the hell out of me. It was the single most difficult and painful experience of my life. It was a bright sunny day with the temperature in the low 70s, a virtual inferno for marathon runners for whom sub-50 degrees is ideal.

The course was hellish—no shade and the monstrous hills didn't begin until mile 16, with the infamous Heartbreak Hill coming up at mile 20-and-a-half. By that time I was a depleted, dehydrated, beaten refugee trudging the final six miles in a throbbing stupor, my muscles twitching like a broken neon sign.

My wife broke down in tears when she saw me at the finish. I affirmed my immortality at age 50 in New Jersey; and unaffirmed it in Boston at age 51.

# Day 27. July 9, 2009

But I have helplessly caught the bug. I've gone from medium distance runner (10K or less) to long-distance running (15K up to full marathons). Is running fun? No, not especially. It can be monotonous, and you can get really tired and out of breath. And you can get hurt.

If you're really competitive and obsessive, which the majority of runners are, you're never satisfied with your training or your race results.

But there are benefits. Remember what I said about control in one of my earliest "days"? Running is one of the few things in life in which I have absolute control. It is, in fact, part of my trinity: Guitar, this dumb writing project, and running.

I control when I go running, where I run, how far I run, and how hard I run. It's all on me because no one else really cares. And it's cheap. Four pairs of sneakers a year, a couple of pairs of shorts and shirts plus entry fees for the dozen or so races I do a year. My exercise space is outside my door, so it's convenient.

Plus, I can do it alone. I don't have to depend on anyone and no one depends on me. It feeds my inclination for introversion, but, ironically, my tiny group of best friends are all runners and some of the greatest times to be had is when I'm running with them. But not too often—don't want to become dependent!

And I never get hurt, because I'm a Chi runner. But that's for another day.

# Day 28. July 10, 2009

Had a great idea yesterday for today's page. Didn't write it down. Forgot it. It doesn't matter—if I had written it down, it would have violated this format since today's page would have been started yesterday. Can't violate the discipline. Oh, wait!

There should be nude photos on the Internet of everybody. (Nice transition?) It would save a lot of embarrassment, scandals, marriages, rescinded job offers, et cetera. Here's how to make it happen:

Take a universally used Web browser, say Google, and add an application to the standard offerings of Google Maps, Google News, Google Shopping and so forth. The application could be called Google Nude.

Click on Google Nude and search a name of someone for whom you seek a nude image. If there's a photo of that person out there somewhere in cyberspace, the Google nude program would automatically alter the image á la buff! Just like jokesters Photoshop people's heads on other people's torsos.

In fact, in the Tools tab of Google Nude, you can customize your friend's nudity in countless ways to suit your body preferences. Make a man a girl a girl a man, adjust anatomical features, skin tones, poses, age characteristics, flaccid or engorged, and so forth. Given today's technology, the renderings would be flawless and indistinguishable from an individual's authentic private parts.

Imagine, no more destroyed careers, marriages, families, or reputations due to unintended Web erotica of their person. Because all our persons would be subject to electronic erotic rendering, thanks to Google Nude!

That wasn't yesterday's brainstorm—I made this up on the spot! See? There's no reason to lament foregone inspiration—there's always another idea around the corner. If it can happen to a spent writer like me, it can happen to you. Have a great weekend!

# Day 29. July 13, 2009

This is harder to do coming back from the weekend. Passed the Google Nude idea around with friends on the train and understanding individuals at work. They seemed favorably impressed and encouraged me to go into production.

It'll never happen, though, since I'm not a programmer and I'm afraid that when I find someone with the skills and dexterity to make it happen, the idea generator will somehow get lost in the shuffle and never reap my rightful gains for the initial inspiration.

I'll never be known for being the person who changed the shape of the pornography industry. The one behind personalized fantasy videos of virtual participation in hardcore activities in which you never have to leave the comfort of your sofa... or your clothes. Raunch for the bashful. I'm done with that now.

My boss is pretty great. She has taken my side in several minor skirmishes with some internal customers and I'm doing all I can to offload the minimal grief I encounter when people invariably insist on saying or doing the wrong thing in print and I resist.

Now I send them to her, who will eventually be worn down by our coworkers' constant resistance to reasonable ideas and good intentions. And when she tries to impose reasonable marketing practices on the group and gets ignored or resisted, then she will quit out of frustration or get fired for not being a good team player.

She seems more capable than the others before her, but I can't help but think that her fate is sealed. But this time I will know better. For the sake of my sanity, when her time comes, I will not be a candidate to succeed her.

# Day 30. July 14, 2009

We had our kitchen redone last summer—refaced cabinets, new tile floor with heat pads and dual thermostats, new fridge and dishwasher. It was all done about a year ago today, about the time Micky lost her job, which constituted half the family income, but that's another story, another page.

We have a half-bath off the kitchen, from which I removed the sink, toilet, lighting fixture and other bolt-ons so Micky could put up new wallpaper. That was a year ago and she only got to it this week. It looks perfect because Micky is a perfectionist.

I am not a perfectionist. I'm not so bad that I can claim that for me "good enough is my very best." I often sweat the little things, but seldom if ever sweat the tiny things.

Micky takes pride in sweating the tiny...the infinitesimal... the molecular. She is one of those people who take on the look of disturbed pride as they describe themselves as perfectionists. The fruits of their labor, I do admit, are often good, but generally sparse and well overdue on delivery.

In the process, perfectionists tend to endure a constant misery and fear of underperformance while creating a hell of outlandish expectations imposed on partners, bosses, and underlings.

"But I can tell the difference," is the perfectionists' lament, even when there is no difference to even the trained eye. And even when there is, I'm a believer in glib retort, "Perfection is the enemy of the good." Just get on with it.

I have written four fair-to-good novels. The perfectionist is still working on his first. And working and working and working with no end in sight.

# Day 31. July 15, 2009

I'm liking my boss even more today. She is asking about my theories and philosophies regarding the projects that I am working on. She is taking an active interest in my supervision of the two writers under my care.

She seems to be a compassionate woman with a good heart and a stubborn point of view. But she makes an effort to accommodate a perceived desire on my part to be taken seriously.

Little does she know, however, that my brain is mostly disengaged and my best brochure work is probably behind me. This is neither sad nor important. It's not her fault that she took my job. It's not her fault that I am (mildly) embittered over that. Those are the circumstances and I am reconciled to them. We have different duties. I write stuff, she changes them, we move on.

# Day 32. July 17, 2009

I obediently had a scope stuffed up my ass a couple of months ago, prompted by a few tiny polyps discovered colonizing in a section of my entrails some three years ago. I duly reported back to the endoscopy lab because I was considered "at risk" for the Big C based on a couple of benign specks.

I endured the prep of swallowing a couple dozen pills taken with gallons of water that turned my internal flora to mush and my bowel movements into a gushing spew. Vivid enough for you?

In the end, (hah hah—so unintended, the best ones are unintended!) I looked forward to the endoscopy procedure because the introduction of pure oxygen in my nostrils that precede lights-out is almost addictively pleasurable.

This is a discussion about age. My 80-year-old doc with a mostly geriatric practice worries about my health, even though I'm a marathoner with a resting pulse rate of 55 and a typical BP of about 117/72 and cholesterol levels in the 180s.

But this is not about physiological boasting. It's about cognitive dissonance. Because my age exceeds a certain number, I get scopes jammed up my ass (fingers as well to fondle the male gland), instructions to take one baby aspirin a day for the cardiac risk I do not pose, pneumonia vaccines because, as an old person, I'm susceptible, I guess.

But if I didn't go to Doc Grabelle, I'd have never learned about my Vitamin D deficiency, which by the way is pretty serious and has become quite common. I suggest you get your Vitamin D levels checked the next time you go and have your doc's finger thrust up your ass.

# Day 33. July 20, 2009

Wrote my first snarky email to my boss today. I did do the thing the Chi Running guru instructed me to do. When I saw the stupid change in my copy that she wanted me to make, I felt the bile instantly rise up to my glottal threshold.

Normally I would have fired off a nasty note of sarcastic rebuke, but, as suggested by my running mentors, I took three deep breaths, pushed away from my desk, centered my spine and tried to summon the oceanic serenity and balance that leads to thoughtful and considered behavior.

Then I fired off the snarky note. I found myself back to the old Carl, the angry, the sarcastic, the non-team-player who will never have the vision and leadership skills to suck up to the high bosses and attain greater executive heights. I was back to that Carl, but instead of feeling a sense of justification and victory, I was regretful.

She is always nice to me. I want to be nice back to her. My company rewards people who are... nice. She even came back with a nice note and another suggestion on the direction of my copy. What was my choice? I agreed wholeheartedly with her proposal and bruited my agreement with a screamer: an explanation mark!

It is hard to tame a person not naturally inclined to niceness. Wit and a talent for the sardonic have difficulty with nice. I'm so poorly matched to this environment. How could I have possibly lasted here for 26 years? Am I nicer than I thought?

# Day 34. July 21, 2009

For those of you who understand the investment world—and there's no reason on earth why I should think that anyone reading this would—you can tell by the date of this entry that we are in a terrible recession with stupid high unemployment, lousy stock and bond markets, and a totally embittered and disillusioned population.

And it's my job, as a professional financial services marketing communicator, to write stuff that will entice people to get up off their asses, take whatever money they have left, and invest it in my company's mutual funds.

First, I'll tell you our theory of investing here at my company—and one I happen to subscribe to. Invest for the long term, don't pay attention to the markets, and spread your money around in a variety of stock, bonds, and real estate mutual funds. It's called asset allocation.

But in this cluster-fuck of a recession, asset allocation hasn't worked and everything...EVERYTHING...tanked. So now the experts are saying asset allocation is a hoax, doesn't work, that you got to find new ways to game the system to save enough so you can maybe someday stop working and start doing stuff that's more meaningful to you.

So bad markets, a failed strategy, unhappy investors—and it's my job to offer hope through words that sing on the page and crackle on the Web as I suffer the slow torture of the exodus of assets from my personal portfolio and a wife out of work.

Well they say, "write what you know, write what you know."

# Day 35. July 22, 2009

A coworker brought her teeny tiny baby into the office today. He was born about a month or two ago. I don't really keep track. I don't understand why people bring their young children into the office. Well, sure I do.

It's an adult version of show-and-tell. Look what I made. I'm so proud! Of course the females in the department coo and gush over the little infants, sweeping them out of Mommy's and Daddy's arms and fuss over them and admire the feral little creatures for what they are.

I'm sorry, it's just not for me. I don't care to see the human, domestic side of my co-workers. Just show me a picture and, for godsakes, don't bring them in when they're only a month old, No!

They don't look like anybody. Not mommy, not daddy. They look like babies and I just don't need the disruption. I'm not terribly fond of babies. Don't really know what to do with them except hold them and make faces, which makes me feel ridiculous and usually causes a look of confusion on their pinched little pusses.

I don't know what to say to them, don't especially care much for their parents and regret having to make the connection that yes, she has family, too. She's not just a glib, pompous, and superficial striver, which is her day-to-day persona.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I have two girls of my own. I love them deeply and I loved them as babies, just as I loved them as toddlers, and teens. But that's because they are mine. I never felt the compulsion to share them with my coworkers. They are my pride and joy. My private pride and joy.

Not toys for show and tell.

# Day 36. July 23, 2009

Yesterday I got home from work and found my wife on the verge of tears. It appears we must put down the ancient maple in our backyard. The one that periodically sheds large, desiccated limbs to often catastrophic effect following extreme gusts of wind.

Last time, a flying branch dented the back of my 1988 Mazda 626, which ruined the integrity of its beautiful body, thus allowing moisture to collect and eventually rust out holes where healthy sheet metal once clad the floor of my trunk.

Old Mr. Maple and his teeming branches has kept us in firewood for years, but we've been playing out the string of our luck that one of its missiles would at some point crumble our garage and significantly compromise our 1981 Fiat Spider and Erica's 1996 Mazda Miata. (Note how we seem to accumulate superannuated vehicles.)

I don't particularly attach myself to trees and other such flora, but Micky attaches herself to everything. While I will miss the shade provided by the few remaining leaf-bearing branches, the source of my tears is more directed at the cost of hiring an intrepid tree-guy in a soaring bucket who will risk life and limb(!) to remove our disaster-in-waiting.

I know when I go home tonight, my wife will be inconsolable. And while it is only Thursday, we may have to move up martini night by one day. Well, I so love martinis. I hope the glasses are in the freezer.

If I hadn't run out of space, I would provide my recipe for the perfect martini right here. Another time.

# Day 37. July 24, 2009

One thing I forgot to mention about another ground rule—I forbid myself from reviewing prior "days" in this opus. Somehow it wouldn't seem right, but it will require extreme focus on my part to make sure I do not repeat myself or otherwise betray an encroaching dementia that would reduce the very fine stature of this work.

I would hate to be tempted to go back and smooth out discontinuities on the fly or otherwise compromise this thing's inherent episodic and scattershot organization, which, of course, will be among the many complaints if I allow any critics to have at this.

I'm trying to convince daughter Natalie to start up or join a rock band. She could get by on rhythm guitar but she has an ass-kicking voice and the rock-star look and stage charisma.

Of course, coming from a parent, her reflexive response was in the negative. Have you ever been in a rock band? I was back in the Stone Age, in the early 70s.

I sucked really bad because, well, I don't want to return to my pentatonic scale rant, but we found a guy who could play lead guitar and knew some weird songs from a West Coast group called Quicksilver Messenger Service that were real easy to play. So we threw open the garage door at my friend's house (he was the lead singer because he could shout the loudest) and we just wailed away.

Me and my cheap Harmony guitar and 100 watt Harmony amp and Steve with his gorgeous blond-toned Fender Telecaster and Fender Super Reverb amp. A few curious neighborhood kids dropped by to check out the noise, but we were rocking and there is no other feeling in the world like it. I would like Natalie to experience that. It's addictive and, speaking from experience, it doesn't take much talent. (Let me add a note here: I've become not too bad at guitar over the last year. And that's pretty cool.)

# Day 38. July 27, 2009

Benjy loves Natalie, but, alas, it's unrequited. Natalie at 15 is very unlike Erica at 15. Erica always had a boyfriend—always had to have a boyfriend.

Terrified of the prospect of the single life. She met her first boyfriend freshman year in high school, dated for four years, got engaged when he began college, got disengaged before the end of his freshman year. She's had many boyfriends since; each relationship was quite serious. She's in a relationship now. It's serious.

But about Benjy, poor Benjy. Fifteen years old himself and smitten like a puppy over my lithe, blonde-haired daughter with the outrageous personality, incredible sense of humor, and Honor Roll smarts.

But Natalie, chastened by the tumultuous ups and downs of her sister's romantic life, does not seem to require a boyfriend. She is smitten with the idea of boyfriends and dating and constantly ogles the bodies and magnetism of various male heartthrobs appearing in films and music videos.

The real-live boys with whom she consorts hardly measure up to the likes of Johnny Depp, and Natalie would prefer not to settle. She will go out on practice dates now and then.

But the boys are ordinary. Benjy is ordinary. The boys make her nervous, and she believes that they are not worthy of making her nervous. So she goes out, curtails the event, comes home early and promises herself, "Never again!" I'm glad Natalie doesn't need boys.

# Day 39. July 28, 2009

I was in bed last night when there was a terrible explosion followed by the unmistakable sound of splitting wood, and then the next thing I knew, half my bed had gone missing and a thick shaft of tree limb was where my sleeping wife had been. It had plunged through the roof on its downward trajectory, through the attic floor and the master bedroom ceiling, plunging straight on through the living room before finally coming to rest in the basement.

I was virtually unscathed, except for a few minor abrasions caused by rushing foliage as the limb speared down. I rolled groggily out of bed and stumbled out of the room down the hallway. I looked up and saw a tangle of dead branches and starry skies where a ceiling had been. Down the staircase into the living room.

I saw body parts: hair, parts of a shoulder with an arm torn from its socket, a foot and traces of blood around the hole pierced by the rampaging limb. In the basement, pinned under the trunk was the bloody corpse.

Shredded, in pieces, my wife of 34 years. The limb impaled her chest and her legs were caught up in forked branches. The flesh of her face a pulpy mash.

I felt so light-headed, so out of the moment. Numb and the creeping darkness. The sound of the children's screams and there was nothing I could do. I was shaking like a leaf (sorry about that one!).

The darkness swelled up and enveloped me. No. No. I cannot look. I cannot look. Too numb to cry, to scream out. Just wobbly legs, a sudden gasp, and then smothered and put down by the darkness.

# Day 40. August 3, 2009

"Dad, that's plain gross. And why is Mom always getting it?"

"I can't speak to that, Nat. I'm just trying to be honest."

"I don't have dreams like that. I think you're just making it up to piss me off."

"No, dear. You know that tree has always creeped me out, the way it hovers over the roof. My unconscious mind was just making some logical connections as it was going through its nightly maintenance process."

"Now there's theory," offered Erica, joining the conversation. "I don't see any benefit in killing Mom in your dreams."

"Yeah, hon. You really want me dead? And like that? Can't I just die in my sleep?"

"Well, you sorta did in this case."

"Thanks, Nat. Okay, from now on, no more reporting on dreams from me. But I do think I need to call a tree guy."

I could see that Micky was mad at me. She gets mad at me for things I do, both intentionally and unintentionally. I would call a dream unintentional, but there are those who categorize dreams as semi-deliberate wish-fulfillment.

The subject to me is dreary, but it is causing true angst in the household. I know all three women and the female pet cat will be aligned against me. There is nothing I can do about that.

My choices are to either go for a run or practice some scales on the guitar. From the look of things, I probably have time for both.

# Day 41. August 4, 2009

All the wars in my life are caused by females. Arguments, misunderstandings, acts of pure innocence with no provocative intent end up as a war. My wife will not speak to me, she will freeze up, dummy up and betray no cause for her distress. "What's a matter, hon?"

"Nothing."

But eventually it's something that results in a braying brawl of bile spewed in my direction, and dare I defend myself with logic, the barrage is merely redoubled. After 35 years, it gets tiresome because I know it will play out eventually even though each of my transgressions is grounds for marital dissolution.

My kids are no better. A little sardonic wit hurled in their direction has them running to mommy with reports of my callous cruelty, which then stokes my dearest loved one all over again.

And here at work, all my bosses are women who obsess on their managerial callings and must micromanage my work and critique my attitude, as though sardonic wit has no value in the workplace!

I'm trapped in the suffocating tides of womanly sensitivities and paranoia. I love women, of course. But I also love martinis and peach ice cream. But in moderation. Only in moderation. I need more moderation in my life. Just some more.

Please, some more?

# Day 42. August 5, 2009

I just had my mid-year review. I proved to be an excellent actor. It was so pleasant! We were civil and cordial and I think we forged a strong bond. We were simpatico. I admitted to shortcomings on occasional writing pieces, which I attributed to a groaning workload and unfortunate lapses in focus.

And when she tried to make me into being more of a leader in the propagation of ideas, I assured her that it was always top of mind and an ongoing process among my stable mates here.

I assured her that she has a very difficult job, treading a delicate balance between doing good and doing what's wanted, and that I was eager to help in any way I could.

Ain't that cool?

The tension in the room at the outset was, as they say, palpable. There are some people who for some reason seem to be intimidated by me. I wonder if she is one such person. However, all stress and emotion in the room was dispelled by my disarming grace, wit, and bravura falsity.

I think I saved my job, which in the scheme of things, is no modest accomplishment. Considering that I am typically a prickly, sarcastic son of a bitch, my self-control and charm both shocked and pleased me.

Who knows, my boss may be on her way to making my very exclusive buddy list!

# Day 43. August 6, 2009

I've been writing all day and am quite tired. I get sloppy when I'm tired; the quality filter gets clogged and discarded. I have always felt it takes a great deal of stamina to write.

Big brains consume a great deal of energy. It's my understanding that humans evolved big brains because they invented the concept of cooked food, which enabled them/us to consume many more calories with a lot less chewing, resulting in a net nutritional gain that spared plenty of calories to grow big smart brains and survive in the wild using wiles instead of speed, strength, and really sharp claws.

Writers tend to be smart, because what is writing but typing out the impulses of our brains? It's pure brain. Stupid people can write, too, but I'm not talking about them. But brains get tired, like mine is today and my sentences meander and so forth. But the theme here is how some great writers can write into very old age.

Where do they find the stamina? Some pretty frail and sickly authors write robust works well into their 80s. How do they keep their focus, their creativity, their drive?

Sure, it's really cool that Jamie Moyer can pitch at the major league level at the age of 46. But Will Durant writing major historical tracts into his late 80's? Updike writing fiction, poetry, criticism, letters to various buddies, into his late 70s. The waifish Joyce Carol Oates speed writing thunderous prose at 72. To be endowed with such everlasting brains.

I'll be dribbling into a cup at those ages. Between naps.

# Day 44. August 7, 2009

TGIF, as they say. It's martini night. It's been a tough week. I have prostituted myself to remake my image as a team player. I've been positive, helpful, loaded with productive thoughts and ideas. We've had great consultations and agreed-upon conclusions and have formed a united front against the corporate enervators that oppress us.

I'm exhausted, in other words. As noted in Day 43, I was beginning to get exhausted on Thursday, so I'm wasted today. Here's what's on my mind.

I'm a Beefeaters martini guy (as is my wife). I place two large martini glasses from my collection in the freezer. Then I fill my shaker with ice and add 8 ounces of Beefeaters gin. I add a splash of olive juice (a slightly soiled martini is how I would characterize it). Then I shake and shake and shake and shake and shake and shake.

And shake.

I remove the now-frosted glasses from the freezer, drop in 3 queen-size stuffed olives in each glass. Then I strain the contents of the shaker into the glasses.

If I shook the strainer enough, there should be particles of ice floating on the surface of liquid. That's how Micky and I like it. Cold and bracing.

Then we clink glasses and, I swear, just the approaching aroma of that fine juniper-scented hooch ignites a sweet buzz. Two or three sips later and my weekend has officially begun.

Since I'm an athlete and tip the scales at a mere 155 lbs, one martini is all I need to adopt an altered perspective on life and give me hope for the future. Two martinis will put me on my back, dry out all my organs and bequeath a nasty headache. Sometimes, however, two are required.

I'm okay with one tonight. Now stop reading and enjoy your weekend.

# Day 45. August 10, 2009

This is about aging. For most people, age creeps up slowly and then socks you in the jaw when you go to the doctor and she tells you that your blood pressure is on the high side, your bones are getting a little porous, you gotta start popping a baby aspirin every day or you'll get a heart attack.

And there are the every-day things like a little less hair, a little more paunch, the minor aches and pains that take longer to get rid of. Loosening flaps of skin, etc. It doesn't happen overnight. But there is a more precise gauge to aging that we runners battle constantly—it's called the clock.

Race times elongate, even with a similar or greater effort. That's how I'm living a lie. I am a trim 5'll'', 158 pounds with fairly lean body mass, very little gray hair and people say I could pass for someone 20 years younger than my true age. But yesterday I completed a 16-mile trail race and I was totally wasted. The same race I finished in a little over two hours two years ago took me two-and-a-half yesterday.

That's just part of the story. I had no stamina, walked for significant portions of the race, and reached my maximum aerobic threshold at a mere trot. A few short years ago I would have breezed through that course, but, baby, the elements of age, gravity, and the tick...tick...tick don't lie.

Runners can't hide from the truth. The truth will leave them panting and puking in the bushes. It was a disheartening Sunday.

Horseshoes anyone?

# Day 46. August 11, 2009

So, what do you know? Found out yesterday that for the first time in my life I finished FIRST in my age group. And it happened in that awful, miserable race. Of course my age group consisted of only three male individuals, most likely experiencing the same deteriorating physical calamities that are encroaching upon my well-being.

Given the paucity of participants in my age group, my conclusion is that some races are simply a younger man's game. I will not, cannot capitulate to that thesis because, as previously noted, I run not only to eat, but also to cheat age and death.

Yet death seems so present at certain stages of certain runs. The psychology of running is a bit knotty from my standpoint. I've never quite experienced the so-called joy of running and distrust those who insist that it is inherently playful and rewarding.

Maybe for the young sprinters and steeplechasers. But for us long-run sloggers, the joy is in the accomplishment, not necessarily in the process. Runner's high? Who's kidding whom? If I run 10 miles today, I can eat a sausage pizza tonight. That's what running means to me.

Plus the envious stares from my MD and the lady at the blood bank who makes me walk around the room a few times to get my resting pulse rate up high enough to fill a bag with healthy runner's blood. That, and once every 15 years finishing first in my age group.

Maybe I am not a good running ambassador. How's this: running isn't heaps of wonderful for what it is, but for what it does.

(In the future I'll try to avoid harping on the same subject two days in a row. There's no reason to expect that your attention span and patience are any greater than mine.)

# Day 47. August 12, 2009

Now the matter of Micky's unemployment. For years she worked around the clock for IBM as a software engineer. She was the butt of howling bosses, impossible deadlines, groaning project lists, not to mention the constant threat of the outsourcing of her group's activities to IBM's fledgling operations in India.

Many were the times I heaped scorn upon her employer and her insistence at trying to meet impossible demands with the gratuitous observation that they'll unload her salary at their earliest convenience.

Still she slaved away at her laptop from 5 in the morning till 11 at night. Until, that is, they outsourced her job to some outfit in India. That was about a year ago. So we are in the worst recession since World War II and Micky's career in technology is probably at an end.

And she's never been happier in her life.

The house sparkles, she's transformed the landscaping and turned the yard into a showcase. We dine when all we used to do was refuel. Her spirits are generally high when before she skulked about with watery eyes and a belligerent edge.

Each day she has a long list of projects and activities and flops exhausted into bed each night. Unlike me, who was a basket case of anxiety, regret and depression during my various stints on unemployment, Micky celebrates her status.

Of course the hit to the family income concerns her somewhat and me a whole lot, still it is my impression that she has no plans to constructively address that situation anytime soon. She consults the various web sites for jobs, but that is generally a waste.

Finding a job is hard work, involving lots of groveling under the guise of networking and setting appointments for lunch with people you either hate or are indifferent to, joining professional organizations and so forth.

Not for Micky. She thinks she's retired. I guess because I'm still working.

# Day 48. August 13, 2009

My daughter's world of smells fascinates me. She plans to devote her life to fragrance. The chemistry, the complexities, the endless varieties of the substances that stimulate the olfactory sense and which is, to my understanding, a huge industry. We're not just talking about fine fragrances that come in precious crystal bottles, but also the stuff that scents detergents, clothing, candles, toys, food—just about everything.

That's what my daughter does. She's a graduate of the cosmetics and fragrance-marketing program at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City, the only one of its kind in the world. Smellers from all over the world vie for the precious 26 spots made available each year in the program.

Yup, my daughter Erica can talk your ear off about smells and describe the endless molecular chains that must be painstakingly fabricated just so something can smell like the ocean just before a thunderstorm.

She brings home big fat books filled with formulations and laboratory protocols along with glossy marketing brochures describing the emotional and historical significance of a particular olfactory sensation. What a cool field!

I think it's important to make something for a living. Bankers and brokers make money—but that's not really anything. Lawyers and accountants just make trouble and I make words and craft communication pieces. I'm proud to have a daughter who makes something, too. She makes scents! (Again, couldn't resist!)

I have no idea what field Natalie will eventually get into, but I sure hope it's involved in making something. (BABIES DON'T COUNT!)

# Day 49. August 14, 2009

Here's some investment advice from a professional registered representative licensed to sell mutual funds and variable investments such as annuities (me, in other words). The advice is simple: ignore what everyone else is doing.

For savvy economic and market historians, you can tell by the date of this entry that we are about to emerge from the worst recession since the 1930s. They're calling it The Great Recession. But as an astute student of market behavior, I happen to know that the stock market begins to recover six months before the end of the recession.

In fact, the market started recovering in late March and is up about 40 percent, but all those people getting in the market are smart institutional guys who manage pension funds, foundations, and corporate cash. Small investors like you and me are still scared of losing more money in the stock market, so we're investing in twice as many bonds as stocks.

History tells us that small investors get out of a falling market too late and get back in just after missing about half of the recovery. That's because we get too excited when the bulls are running and too scared when the bears are barking.

Of course the sad result is people don't make as much money on their investments as they could and end up working much longer than they have to and lead lives of quiet destitution.

So here's my advice. Ignore the fucking markets! Invest the same amount every month. Don't pay any attention to the markets—those who say they can beat the market are liars! Invest every month and you'll get more shares when the market is low that will be worth a lot more when the market is high. In the end, you'll end up richer and you'll never kick yourself for missing the next market rally or for being exposed when the bears burst in.

Who would've guessed that this little screed would offer the best investment advice you would ever get in your life?

# Day 50. August 18, 2009

I shudder to think how out of touch I am. I thought this concept of a page a day would be, if not unique, at least interesting and offbeat. But silly me, millions do exactly what I do, but online in the form of blogs.

I'm not a blogger, but, then, I am. How is this not a blog other than it is being done off line and may eventually get printed out and stored up in the attic with everything else?

Well, there is a difference. While I refuse to go back and confer and edit previous days as the work progresses, I will eventually edit profusely once I've reached a stage of completion, most likely by the end of 365 days, since it would make a nice coda.

If Julie could make all of Julia's recipes in a year, certainly page a day can be tucked away over a similar period. So, this is not a blog. And it's not a log, because in no way is it intended as a mundane linear recording of events.

Rather, it's a mundane recording of random thoughts on specific days. Today, let's talk about why my youngest daughter enjoys shooting guns. I took her to a pistol range and there she assumed the position of cold-blooded killer.

While my shots ricocheted in all directions, everything she shot was straight through the heart and brain of our man-shaped target. Finally a career possibility.

My little Natalie, the SWAT sniper. She'd looked cool in the black jumpsuit and baseball cap. They say that girls are better shots than guys. I guess they're able to focus their rage better.

Or maybe it has something to do with the hip action.

# Day 51. August 19, 2009

Imagine enduring a real-life experience with an improvised explosive device (IED), maybe the headline weapon in Bush's war in Iraq. Guerilla warfare was the great equalizer when facing forces of irresistible strength, from the Revolutionary War in the 18th century through Vietnam, the Middle East, and Africa.

But even guerillas put their own skins at risk by shooting and hiding. Now the terrorists, except for the vainglorious misfit suicide terrorists who blow themselves up in the process of blowing others up, don't even have to be present to perpetrate their brand of mayhem. They can do it with tripwires, alarm clocks, and remote control cell phones.

Yes, IEDs. Imagine you're in a convoy bouncing along a bombed-out pockmarked road, say to Baghdad International Airport, and then suddenly your eardrums are punctured by a sudden burst of sound, your legs separate from the rest of you and your buddies head is in your lap while the rest of his body is lodged cockeyed in the driver's seat.

Your helmet is all bent up and blood is streaming down your face and the pain is general and burning everywhere because it suddenly dawns on you that your clothes are on fire.

But that's not all, you hear sirens and another truck pulls up alongside the smoldering convoy as you are just about to pass out and, sure enough, it's the other kind of terrorist and the last of your earthly impressions is a stentorian blast as the truck loaded with dynamite ignites and mister terrorist driver's head explodes off his neck in a geyser of blood seeking out the promised 40 virgins of Paradise.

Sudden, unbearable explosions evoke a cringing atavistic reaction in my very core. That's my take away from Iraq.

# Day 52. August 21, 2009

About 25 years ago I learned an important lesson from Jack L. It's called the 25-minute rule and it's come in handy the two times I've been fired.

The 25-minute rule is simply this: when the boss or HR comes in and tells you that your presence in the organization is no longer required, you should be pre-organized to vacate the premises within 25 minutes. Doing so serves several useful functions.

First, you eliminate the pain, confusion, and awkwardness of suddenly being around when the new reality is that you're gone. You have all sorts of shit in your office/cube that has to be sorted, packed up, destroyed at a time when you are hardly in a frame of mind that will enable you to execute that function effectively.

And, if you're like most people, you're hurt, possibly tearful, and abashed and would like no better than to beat a hasty exit rather than hang around and be stared-at by equally uncomfortable former coworkers as you pack up.

As a result, I keep no personal effects in my office that I wouldn't mind leaving behind when I'm gone. No family pictures, no toys, no personal artwork, books, tchochkes, incriminating files...you get the idea.

In fact, in 25 minutes you should be able to gather up the few personal items that you must have, such as analgesics, a file or two with personal information, but no more than could fill a small plastic grocery bag and still have an extra 20 minutes to delete all your computer files or, better yet, crash your hard drive.

Naturally, it takes planning to reach the 25-minute goal, such as making sure you remove things from work, such as writing samples, employee reviews, key emails, etc., as you go along. Organization is a must in today's world: few people are leaving their jobs voluntarily.

This is such an important topic, I will continue it on Monday, which is, of course a blatant violation of the rules!

# Day 53. August 24, 2009

It's four o'clock on a Monday afternoon, a day spent sleepwalking through various lures and snares of projects that I either tabled or ignored. Here's some more advice.

Since it is generally understood that managers are taught in business schools that employees are nothing more or less than a unit of labor, they are indeed an expense to be harvested at the earliest convenience.

Employees are the first to go when sales take a dip, the economy shudders, or a cheaper overseas alternative emerges. Companies are loath to hiring people because people cost money and, thus, are to be culled and, as one who has been culled on a couple of occasions, I will offer my anticipatory strategy.

In addition to the 25-minute evacuation plan, I also carry with me a certain file whenever I am called to an unscheduled meeting with an undefined topic and agenda. In that file is my company's latest on-line version of its severance plan, a printout of my defined benefit retirement plan (yes, I've got one of the few remaining DB plans in existence today—a dinosaur that my firm stopped offering employees 10 years ago), and a pro-rated vacation schedule.

In other words, I am always prepared for the HR drone when it comes to outlining separation goodies. Since we all get fired at some point—or points—in our careers, it's inexcusable in my opinion to be shocked and unprepared when it happens to you.

In case you were wondering, according to my company's severance package, I get three weeks pay for each year of service. And, the company in its astounding benevolence, rounds up to the next year even if you've worked only one day past an anniversary date.

I've been with the company for 26 years. You can do the math. Damn good plan if you ask me. Now it's time for you to do your homework. Start packing up your office and be prepared when the Grim Reaper comes a callin'.

Don't think it won't happen to you.

# Day 54. August 25, 2009

Idea for novel from my wife, Micky. A seemingly happily married couple with two kids, probably in their teens. They're moderately modern kids because they're open-minded about sexual orientation.

Come to find out, each happily married spouse has been secretly carrying on long-term homosexual affairs with an array of partners. Yet they are still truly in love with each other; but unfortunately they are sexual misfits. Is divorce the answer?

"But Melissa, I love you," said Sam. "But I'm more aroused by Herman, or Bill, or Spike."

"But Sam, I love you, too," said Melissa. "But it's Cindy, and Joanne, and Cissy who get my rocks off."

The solution is ingenious. Come to find out that Sam is a woman trapped in a man's body and Melissa, well, you get the drift. So on their 20th wedding anniversary they spring for each other's sex change operations. Sam becomes Samantha and Melissa become Mel and they live happily ever after.

In fact, their former wardrobes even fit their re-jiggered spouse. And the kids? Well, isn't that an interesting thing to text their friends?

True love wins—now would that work best as a short story? Perhaps a film. It seems a little sparse for a novel and it could be quite visual. Maybe when this thing is done, I'll try my hand at a screenplay. Good going, Micky. A gift for high concept!

# Day 55. August 26, 2009

A sock in the jaw. A simple expression that loses impact (sorry) from overuse. Ever been socked in the jaw? It's happened to me only once. It is one of life's great mysteries, given my predisposition to snark, sarcasm, and vituperation that I've never actually been rolled, beaten up, assaulted or actually been involved in a fist-throwing grab and roll mucus spewing lacerating brawl of any sort in my entire life.

Also amazingly, given my at times unruly temper, have I ever delivered a message with my fist to another subject's jaw. I guess I feared the damage such an insult could inflict on my hands and wrist.

One day during fifth grade recess I was playing soccer, as usual hovering by the goalie awaiting stray balls that I would try to kick into the goal, grievously off-sides, but we didn't exactly play by the rules anyway and I loved scoring.

And there was my best friend, Jim Jump, arguing with one of the assorted bullies in our class over some rule infraction when a scuffle broke out and the next thing I knew, Jim Jump had a scarlet stream of blood running from his nose down his cheek.

Apparently he had absorbed a blow, which ignited his fearsome temper and he started flailing at what had become a group of attackers. When I tried to step in and pull him off the key instigator, Jim Jump whirled and socked me flush in the jaw.

"Whattaya, some kind of peacemaker?" he screamed. I staggered back dazed, not from the impact of the blow but from the shock of its delivery. It did not exactly hurt, although the side of my face did go a bit numb. I shook my head and crept away from the fray to contemplate this amazing violence from a most unlikely source.

A sock in the jaw. It will get your attention. It sure got mine.

# Day 56. August 27, 2009

Something funny about writing fiction, family fiction. The epic struggles of son vs. father and the psychological torture endured by tender female protagonists from over-bearing mothers.

There has never been and never will be a book by me that extracts personal painful and scarred memories of abusive and fraught experiences that are the product of a traumatic childhood. I don't have an Angela's Ashes in me.

I was never particularly close to either of my parents. They were doting, to be sure, as I was growing up but as I entered my teen years, their influence waned and by the time I started college I had essentially moved out of their orbit and they lapsed into irrelevance when I was married at the tender age of 21.

I did not care much for my dad, who was the police chief in my town. He was short-tempered, bullying at times, loud and an overeater—all things I'm not. His presence tended to make me uncomfortable and in his later years my preoccupation in his presence was to avoid saying or doing things that could potentially light his fuse.

Our relationship lapsed into a tepid cordiality and when he finally died at age 89, I was numb to the event and, I'd have to say, I remain indifferent to this day about our relationship.

My mom was very sweet and kind while I was growing up, but by my teen years, her resentment at having to work to help support the family and her impatience with my father's various attitudes and tics poisoned her attitude and she slipped deeper and deeper into the murky waters of depression, sarcasm, and negativity.

She is still alive and occasionally we speak on the phone, since she has lived in Florida for the past 30 years, and often lapses an endless stream of invective regarding pop culture, our family, politics, et cetera.

I manage her money adroitly since she constantly worries about absolutely everything. I try to set her mind at ease, but, while fond of her in many ways, she is very needy—a fate to which I hope I will never personally succumb. Have I mentioned anywhere yet that I can be a pretty shallow guy?

# Day 57. August 28, 2009

Enervation is a constant threat and a battle that becomes ever more difficult to wage as you age. I think enervation was the true word that Pynchon sought when he examined the concept of entropy in several of his works. Yes, poetically, entropy works as a descriptor of the natural languid state of matter. Just a chaos swarm of atomic particles and so forth. But still, I think of it as a grandiose way of depicting the human condition and that enervation is the more immediate problem.

After all, most of the activities of life entail the mundane processes of work, food preparation, personal hygiene and the dreary interaction with others. Rather than enrich and energize, these activities wear us down.

How long can we maintain a peak of thought, of physical application, of amusement without feeling the tug of depletion, the system waning--when you find yourself weary for no particular reason? You daydream on the job, your mind disengages.

By the time you reach 55, so many of your activities and motions are by rote. Each day, I power up the computer and try to stoke a sufficient level of enthusiasm in my work to do a passable job before surrendering to the irresistible tug of apathy and despair.

My mind just won't turn over, just like an old car with fouled plugs and a corroded battery. I feel myself losing my juice and having to swill too much caffeine, take too many walks, just to prod the engine to turn out one more piece of sales copy.

That's enervation.

The absence of stimuli that stoke excitement and psychic immersion. It's late Friday afternoon after five days of grinding routine. I'm enervated and should go home and have my martini and go to sleep.

# Day 58. August 31, 2009

I wonder if there is too much negativity in this endeavor. As much as I don't expect that this will ever be widely read, if at all, it is still the case that the words are being recorded and one does not record words unless the intent is to have others read them.

The whole thing about the formal articulation of thoughts by physically writing them down to help cultivate an understanding of self is less than convincing to me.

I think people write stuff down because they expect someone to read it at some point. That's usually my intent. It certainly was with my prior four novels, though I'm not as certain with this one.

I can say (with certainty!) that I will read the final work, perhaps several times, when it has reached a point of completion. I'm not sure, however, that it will be an enjoyable experience given its disjointed nature and sloppy and rushed style.

I expect to massage the prose heavily, since my initial drafts tend to be tone-deaf and stilted. Beyond the technical crafting issues, however, is the expectation that the text may be overly critical and negative. That my life will appear as a caricature of despair and futility.

To some extent, that may be true, but if you were to meet me and experience the wit and warmth of my personality, you might be taken aback by the character that emerges in these pages.

Maybe I should lighten up a bit, let my inner sun shine more. I don't want to sound like some petulant teen.

Writing is performance, after all, got to put on the clown's hat a bit more often.

# Day 59. September 1, 2009

Certain foods are less enjoyable in company. These are foods in which I prefer to indulge when I'm alone. High peach season hits New Jersey in late July and continues through September. The peaches are huge, juicy, sweet with just the right amount of fleshy firmness to contain the tides of nectar with each bite.

However, I need to eat those suckers over a sink or, if I'm at work, it requires me to close the door to my office, lay out the wax paper from my sandwich or some other disposable wrapper, throw my tie behind my back and just slobber the thing as it was meant to be consumed. Sleeves rolled up because the juice can stain.

It's an ugly, explosive event when I'm pounding ripe peaches. Perhaps a more polite approach would be to cut tiny mouth-sized segments with a sharp knife, but that is hardly melding with your peach.

Lobster is another thing. I like large, beastly lobsters, since they are actually easier and more satisfying to tear apart. Since my girls are grossed out by the atavistic procedures of a thorough lobster nosh, I never order it out in their presence. It's a fact that I seldom order a whole lobster, and when I do, I don't shred and tear it in the proper way.

In my dreams I am situated in front a 4.5 lb. wonder in a room with a table, equipped with a fork, nut cracker, dental probe and sleeveless shirt and dive in for the crack, and crunch, and tear and twist and push and prod. Eating with my hands, maybe a bowl of butter for a marinating choice bits and sucking the legs and carapace and knuckle and claws until there's nothing left but a translucent heap of dried-out exoskeleton devoid of any soft tissue.

Me.

My lobster.

Alone together.

Paradise!

# Day 60. September 2, 2009

"It just exploded! Everything's...gone!" said a panic-stricken voice on the other end of the phone.

"What do you mean—exploded?"

"The house! The house. It blew up. Maybe gas. Police and fire engines all over the neighborhood. We have nothing left. They won't let me in!"

"Gosh, it's sure loud over there, I can barely hear you. You mean our home is gone? How could that happen? Is anybody hurt?"

"No. OH MY GOD. THE CATS! I was out running, Erica's at work and Natalie's at school. They don't know yet. Our cats, Sami."

"Holy shit. Try to calm down, Micky. What. I mean what are we going to do?"

"The college kids house next door is burning, all our trees—the leaves are stripped off and branches. There's a big hole. I can see the basement, everything is smoking and burning. Take your hands off me!"

"Micky! Micky! What are they doing? Oh what a catastrophe!"

"Carl, you've got to come home now. How fast can you get here?"

"Well, there's a few things I have to clear up at work. My boss is at a meeting so I better wait till she gets back. I'll check the train schedule. Maybe early in the afternoon..."

"What! Are you crazy? We just lost our home. Get off your ass and get to the station. We need you here."

"Well, not much I can do about it now. Got to let my head clear a little. Be home as soon as I can, Mick."

Deep sigh, finishing with an anguished whelp. Loud sounds, bursting fireballs, thunderous aftershocks, total destruction.

Guess I better find a train.

# Day 61. September 3, 2009

If you do what I did, which was play guitar up until you graduate from college, get married and begin full-time employment, followed by socking your beautiful Martin D-18 in various closets for the next 30 years, I can save you a lot of money with an important suggestion:

Loosen the tension on the strings.

There are certain forces of nature that are absolutely relentless and remarkable in their capacity to shape, disturb, and alter mighty structures simply through persistence. The best example is the Grand Canyon, which was forged over millions of years by the seemingly benign sawing waters of the Colorado River until that great hole was carved into the Arizona Desert.

Similar but different forces were at play with my Martin as it waited in my closet in a state seeming, but not in fact, of suspended animation.

I was oblivious to the fact that the strings were roughly in tune, which created a sustained tension on the bridge and headstock, which are the parts that anchor the strings. Over time, this tension caused the neck to slightly bend upward toward the body, which created uneven action up the fret board.

In other words, the space of the strings from the fret board at the end of the neck became wider than the space at the top, rendering the instrument much more difficult to play.

Repairing it meant taking it to a "lutist," who had to steam the neck off the guitar and reset it at the proper angle at a cost in excess of $500. That's why if you don't plan on playing your instrument for an extended period of time...

Loosen the tension on the strings.

# Day 62. September 8, 2009

I trust everyone had a happy Labor Day. I did. Sadly, my oldest daughter Erica has fallen behind and it is affecting her outlook on the world.

As a magna cum laude graduate of the most prestigious cosmetics and fragrance-marketing program in the world, Erica was destined to be swamped with job offers upon graduation from the industry's top fragrance houses. She and her class of 26 would cut their teeth in middle-management positions and, in about six months or so, become fragrance evaluators, marketing directors, sales executives, and so forth and be making seven figures in a lucrative and high-glamour industry.

Ah well, the Great Recession hit and only two of her class of 26 managed to find employment. Erica was a lucky one, but instead of a job leading others and revolutionizing the industry, she is working in the shipping department mixing samples and packing boxes.

It's been six months and she is weeks and weeks away from being promoted to evaluator and then, to her predestined perch among the mighties in her field. She is depressed and angered and frustrated.

"I'm falling behind. I'm not where I expected to be," lamented my soon-to-be 24-year-old daughter. Worse, she's not even engaged yet. The husband and four kids are still small specks on the horizon. It could be two years or more before her boyfriend is out of college and can embark on his own workaday adventures. Oh sigh, kids, husband—she could be 28 or, shudder, 30 before she's fully nested.

"You and Mom were 21 when you got married," she complains in way of argument.

"And 30 before we decided that life was over and so the only thing left to do was start having kids." Usually that joke evinced a laugh or at least a tight grin. This time:

"You don't get it, Dad. This is how I feel." Then she stomps upstairs to cocoon in her room and watch some sitcom from the sixties on her Powerbook. Somehow I'm responsible. I know that. Then again, it's not like she's looking to me for answers.

# Day 63. September 10, 2009

"So now you are blowing up the entire house. It's getting bigger. It's getting grander."

"But nobody got hurt."

"The cats. Lucky and Tangerine. Blown to bits. I'd call them casualties. And the guinea pig."

"Yes, I'll miss Sami. He was our best pet. At least the only one who was ever happy to see me when I came home from work. But then I always had hay and carrots in my hand when I'd go to his cage."

"Carl, you're changing the subject. What's with all the bombings and killing? Why are you always at some kind of violent place?"

"I guess the more interesting question is why do I relate these dreams to you and the kids. Huh?"

"You're changing the subject."

"Well, sometimes I think about having sex with you. I'm not like most men who dream of having sex with women other than their wives. Isn't that a good thing?"

"And then what, we get done with messing around and then a howitzer shell goes off in our room? I think there's something there. I think it has meaning."

"So you would prefer that I not share these dreams with you. I find them quite disturbing myself. They wake me up. The images, the sounds—it's all crystal clear to me. I very much hope there isn't something there."

"So you're going to keep them to yourself."

"Should I?"

"I don't know."

I look at Micky. She looks at me. I can't tell if she's really angry or perhaps a little worried. In situations like this I generally try to exit the conversation because it is so very easy to get in trouble with my wife.

I decide that I have said enough.

# Day 64. September 11, 2009

As you can see from the dateline, this is another one of those anniversaries. The sad, soulful music on the morning newscasts, the tear-streaked eyes of survivors intoning the names of the dead at the old World Trade Center site. The respectful braying of bagpipes and organs.

I've noticed, however, that the media has shied away from actually showing the burning and crumbling towers since the event, except today while I was cross-training on the elliptical machine in my gym I found a station playing back its tape in real time.

I actually saw the second plane hit the tower and seeing it again eight years later I was able to place myself in the context of my office watching the TV as events played out.

I again felt the visceral response of numb disbelief and curiosity watching the towers burn and the surrealistic site of a plane veering in and disappearing behind the first tower and the explosion of flames and debris that emerged as a giant fireball and it was all captured on live TV.

Most interesting are the cameras trained on the towering burning building and the intellectual connection one had to make to appreciate the fact that there were people in those buildings, even if no people were present in the image.

It wasn't until later, when the connection was actually made, that the enormity of the tragedy registered on me. Just looked like a couple of burning buildings to me, one in which I had a job interview at that exact hour about three weeks before.

All the numb, stunned emotion came back to me on the elliptical machine. I finished up my exercise and made a hasty exit before the buildings collapsed. Was in no mood to see that.

# Day 65. September 17, 2009 Replaced on January 26, 2012

This one would've gotten me kicked out of the family. But here is the general theme. It had to do with two folks of admirable qualities who died on the same day as the replaced entry, the actor Patrick Swayze, who died at 57 and Mary Travers of Peter, Paul, and Mary at a somewhat older age.

It reminded me of how absurd, unfair, and diabolical the Master Puppeteer of life can be. Swayzee and Travers, both positive role models and charitable individuals of deep virtue suffer painful and all-too-sudden deaths, while other useless individuals persist.

I'm thinking of retrograde tyrants like Robert Mugabe and any number of superannuated miscreants in various parts of the world. I'm thinking of dull cranks and ancient relatives making the lives of their children and other assorted heirs miserable by their soured outlooks and who find pleasure in tearing down all with whom they come in contact or encounter through the media and can find the dark side of every cloud and cause the sound of mind to scurry from the room upon their arrival and then feel themselves ill-treated if challenged or rebuked in any way—is there any reason why folks like that survive deep into their dotage while the Swayzees and Travers and countless worthy others kick-off before their time?

This, of course, is hardly an original observation, but it's quite potent to me. Can I shed something original on the topic? Perhaps raise the possibility that the tragedy of living past your time is as bad as dying before your time.

A person who has outlived his time and whose unspoken and perhaps unconscious aspiration is to inflict the level of misery on the lives of others that occupies his own sensibility every day. That's a certain kind of Hell that I hope to never personally encounter.

So your suggestion may be to adopt the tactic of empathy. To understand and accept that it's hard being old, infirmed, embittered, disillusioned, disappointed, frustrated, in pain, cast aside and no longer relevant.

That would be a virtuous and compassionate resolution, and, sure, no doubt the correct and noble approach. But this project is not about correct and noble, rather its goal is to get as close to a direct connection to the feelings, impulses, and philosophies that I can muster to define the contours of my ethos. Here's where I stand:

No, don't inflict your misery upon others, you old fart! Keep your nasty thoughts and rants to yourself. Your sound is nothing more or less than a form of air pollution. Sorry you're old and bitter, but that's not my problem!

# Day 66. September 18, 2009

Something funny, normally it only takes about a minute or two to dream up a topic and expound for a page. But, being it's Friday and my brain is weary from three days of family and two days of listless investment writing, the white screen in front of me has remained white much longer than usual. But here's something:

Nothing in my life, except perhaps my family, is more important to me than the New York Yankees. I've been a Yankees fan since the age of 5 and have attended hundreds of games through the years.

I'm no front runner because most of the games I've been able to attend took place in the late sixties through the early 70s and again in the mid 80s to the early 90s—all years when the Yankees were mediocre to awful because in those days you could get good seats on game day. Today, of course, the Yankees are a juggernaut and getting into their fortress of a stadium requires extraordinary sums. I only made one game this year because the tickets came free.

But that's not my thesis. Here's how it goes—I was a Yankee fan since age 5 and will be a Yankees fan until I die. Are they more important than my kids and my job? In the end, probably: because someday I will retire and my kids will move away. I love my kids and depend on my job, but over time they will play a lesser role in my life since, as you know, there's a baseball game almost every day.

All those other things I do: running, playing guitar, cooking, will probably fade away as I grow old, spastic and infirm. But I'll always be able to prop myself up in front of the TV and root, root, root.

Of course Micky is the exception; the Yankees take a backseat only to my lifelong love, even though I didn't start loving her until a decade after I became a Yankee fan!

# Day 67. September 21, 2009

Fun with people. People who need people. Mostly, that's crap. It seems like the only way to be happy and fulfilled in this life is to do and be with others. Hence the obsession with cell phones, texting, "Crack"berries, blogs, etc. In fact, my running magazine touts the joys and benefits of group runs, with readers, writers, and other assorted extroverts rhapsodically singing the praises of the shared running experience.

Well, you know, people are just not comfortable in their own heads. I chose running because it's something I CAN DO ALONE! Don't need teammates, don't need partners, don't need coaches. I can spend a few hours alone, away from people.

Haven't you noticed—in addition to spreading joy and enlightenment, interaction with others can be an intolerable pain in the ass. Similar to religion, people are at the root of much of our joy, but they are also at the root of most of our misery.

No, I draw the line. I need alone time. I love being inside my head, even if its powers and capabilities are not what they once were and were never what I had hoped they would be.

Yes, even I have running friends, with whom I bond three or four times a month. It's great because it's rare. But certain things you cannot always share with a group. Thus I'll never become a texter like my kids, or a group walker and talker like my spouse, or a Facebook networker like everyone I know.

It's not like I'm a recluse or a misanthrope, but it's not like I'm not, either. Oh, just go away.

And leave me alone!

# Day 68. September 22, 2009

I don't remember dreams very well. This is pertinent because I just read a long article in the New York Times Magazine about the upcoming publication of Carl Jung's red book. This is apparently a handwritten and lavishly illustrated 220-page journal of sorts in which he recorded his personal dreams and demonic possessions over a period of 30 years and was kept under lock and key since Jung's death in 1961.

This was mainly due to concerns on the part of his family that publication of the book would stain the great man's reputation with the taint of madness. As many readers are probably aware, Jungian psychology is entirely dream-focused, an expression of a collective unconscious based on shared archetypes and myths and can be interpreted and parsed to help address various mental health issues.

I'd be a poor Jungian subject because I forget most of my dreams. This is disturbing because I recall waking up quite agitated at times but instantly forgetful of the nocturnal stimuli at the core of the experience.

If only I could remember—or if only on those rare occasions that I do recall my dreams I would take the time to write them down. Finally I have captured some of those elusive tableaux in these pages, and while they have definitely disturbed members of my family given their contextual violence, I personally find them rather tame and banal. I know I could do better and probably have. But, shit, I forget I forget I forget.

I should take a pad to bed. But then I'd also need a flashlight and my reading glasses. And then I'd be wide awake after recording my dreams and then have work the next day and not only have to fight off the usual boredom, but also the infernal drowsiness that comes from sleep deficit.

Perhaps it's best not to catalog the mysteries of Dreamworld.

# Day 69. September 23, 2009

Ease up on the kids. That's what my wife and I learned over the years as we evolved into extraordinary parents. The first kid, Erica, did the dancing, piano, singing, and church choir thing, usually simultaneously, through high school and became quite accomplished in several skill sets. It suited her temperament to be overscheduled and organized and, given peer pressure, it was right for her.

In the end, we learned, none of that stuff mattered. She was an outstanding student, so we thought scholarship was in her future. It was not because, after getting into an elite high school, she stopped doing homework and achieved mediocre grades that precluded the Ivy League and other top-tier schools.

No amount of cajoling or pressuring could budge Erica if she didn't want to do something, but she would dance to the brink of death to perfect activities and projects that held meaning for her. Well, she never became an accomplished pianist, actress, singer or dancer. But she's a hell of a fragrance evaluator and has found a lucrative niche.

So with Natalie, we keep her under-scheduled, non-pressured, and incessantly encouraged. She's ended up with a cool personality, extraordinary grades and moderate skills with the drums, guitar, and piano. Plus she has a lovely singing voice and a natural gift for stand-up comedy.

Perhaps, if we're lucky, she will someday become an accomplished evaluator at a major fragrance house. Or something like that.

# Day 70. September 24, 2009

Praying reminds me of the saying by a sage whose name escapes me (and whom I cannot look up because it would violate the ground rules of this exercise) that goes something like this: "Only a fool repeats an action over and over again and expects a different result." (Einstein?)

Praying seems to play into a similar futility to me. Getting down on your knees and imploring for the impossible—please give me this, help that miserable wretch over there, calm my troubled mind, help save my job and my miserable income so I can feed my family.

Like talking to a wall. Just by saying something doesn't make it so and merely asking for it will not make it materialize. But I'm one of those agnostic cranks who think that praying is a socially acceptable way to mumble aloud to yourself. Or, if in the presence of others, praying is a socially acceptable way to talk before others without personally addressing them but rather to some metaphysical construct.

I think praying is mostly an act of futility, but so is unnecessary worry, destructive rage, and the purchase of lottery tickets. Praying, however, may in fact constitute a reasonable emotional salve insofar as it induces self-confidence, serenity, hope, and distraction.

In those regards, it is a tool, hardly mystical and mostly psychological. It ain't talking to God, in my opinion, except for those animists who think that God resides in all of us. I like that concept. I like to think of myself as a particle of God. If so, it's the only God I believe in.

Excuse me while I pray to God...to me.

# Day 71. September 25, 2009

What do you do about the racket that's in her head? Minutes after putting down the cell it starts vibrating intermittently like a bee with clipped wings skittering across a varnished table top.

Laptop opened to Facebook checking out her wall and firing off emails and updating posts and then to the textbook Website of her French class to race through flashcards testing her grasp of aller, etre, avoir and pronunciation and a quick check of texts on her phone and sees she has six messages in the past 15 minutes, yes, three positives for her sweet 16 party in two months and Chris is still waiting for her response about Friday night—no I just want to come home and chill, but Mom wants me to go out because he's so nice.

And back on the laptop for the essay. The essay—got to write five paragraphs, what is the topic sentence—got to ask Dad but he'll get mad I'll have Mom ask him. Mom's in a bad mood, she's unemployed everyone in America is unemployed the economy is awful but I am growing out of my pants but I can't ask Mom it costs money, want to go and see Twilight again this weekend and have Kelly sleep over have to practice the drums...the piano... the guitar. The cell is buzzing, FaceBook is beeping and I have to get working on my essay and my face has another zit and I want blonde hair this weekend. Finally she texts Chris and says she'll go out with him. The

texts...laptop...drums...unemployment. She starts weeping. And can't figure out why.

Where's Mom?!

# Day 72. September 28, 2009

Detox is what we're doing this week. We're cleansing our bodies of the sludge that slows us down, ages us prematurely, and reduces the quality of our lives. This particular program is not exactly a fast and in fact the various produce items, fish, mushrooms, protein concoctions and so forth set us back more than $200 for the four of us.

It is a program made popular by the famous actress, Gwynneth Paltrow. I spent Sunday afternoon at the cutting board and blender processing four different soups.

The day began at 6 a.m. with a tepid cup of water with a capful of lemon juice. At 8 a.m. I arrived at work and had a cup of green tea. Breakfast was at 10 a.m. and consisted of a smoothie composed of almond rice milk, strawberries, two scoops of some obnoxious protein powder.

At 11:30 I gagged on a cup of coconut water. That is something I cannot tolerate—especially on a diet thus far comprising all fluids. At 1:30 was a salad consisting of arugula, red onions, sliced avocado and a dressing made from carrots, olive oil, and other ingredients of unknown origins. Delicious.

At 4 p.m. I had about 10 almonds, the most delicious tasting food of all time. Each bite an orgy of pleasure. And now it's 4:15 and, for some reason, I don't feel hungry, though I was pretty hung over all morning from a lack of caffeine. When I get home, dinner is broccoli and arugula soup. It will be a feast.

It may very well turn out that we eat too much food during the day, or maybe it's just the euphoric excitement of a temporary dietary overhaul that has me less than ravenous. Let's see how this all plays out after seven days. At this point, I'm feeling pretty Gandhi-esque.

# Day 73. September 28, 2009

How to speak of the virtual world and not come across as an old fart. Someone who is confused and intimidated by little devices that are simultaneously telephones, cameras, Internet browsers, satellite guidance systems, music players, gamers, et cetera.

Let me say that it's difficult to keep up. I'm from the analog world of books, magazines, TV, radio and landlines. I'm comfortable on a PC but detest cell phones, which is unfortunate because these are today the demon multi-tasking machines that my kids and contemporaries are hooked on.

It's not denseness or stubbornness or even cheapness that keeps me from acquiring the latest smart-phone technology; rather, it's apathy. I don't want to develop dexterity with texting—who would I text anyway? And I don't need to constantly be tethered to the Net, though it would come in handy at times, such as when I'm shopping for wine or trying to get un-lost, a frequent habit of mine when driving.

I just don't care about that stuff. I will never join a social networking site nor constantly harass the few people I interface with by those annoying thumbing digitations that occupy my daughters constantly. In a world of constant, meaningless communication, I would prefer to just be left alone most of the time. And I accord the same courtesy to my friends and family.

I reserve the right to stay out of touch. Yes, I know, it's against the current flow. People are, after all, afraid to rattle around in the vacuum of their heads and thus driven to seek constant outside stimulation. But I'm very comfortable within the confines of my own.

Besides, being strapped so tightly into the constrained routines of my life, it's mildly exhilarating to, on occasion, opt for non-conformity. A snob's appeal, isn't it?

# Day 74. October 1, 2009

I missed yesterday. So kill me. I got busy at work and am so cranky four days into my detox regimen that I don't feel like thinking, writing, or sleeping. And it's goddamn freezing in my office.

Maybe I feel ornery because this Saturday is Global Volunteer Day at my company, which is a gigantic financial services corporation outside of New York. It expects its employees to sacrifice a golden fall Saturday in October for such noble causes as pruning trees at an inner city park, amuse ghetto kids in Fun Day activities by feeding them pizza, painting their faces, hiding their seek, teaching them chess, and making balloon animals.

Or they want you to collect trash along polluted riverbanks or read to retarded kids or slap food on trays for the homeless. Geez. I did it for a couple of years because, you know, it looks good and all the executives and the CEO have to be there so it's good to be seen. But, what the hell, hasn't exactly catapulted my career into the stratosphere, so I no longer drive an hour from my home on a cherished Saturday to a urban slum close to where I work to amuse a pack of future felons.

I have a problem with do-gooders—underneath it all, what are they doing but feeding off the gratitude of others, which, in some way addresses their need to leverage their nascent sense of superiority.

That's a pretty black thought and crudely expressed. But that is what you get from a tortured soul who loves food and hasn't had a good solid meal in four days. Nothing but compost and vegetable water and protein powder. But the fucking benefits. Oh boy, the fucking benefits. They're just around the corner.

# Day 75. October 2, 2009

It doesn't help a writer to succumb to a myopia that abets lazy observation. This is a grandiose way of saying it does no good to make lazy assumptions and then to be made miserable by them.

For example, I will observe in a facile manner the untamed arrogance and confidence of Donald Trump, the sheer mastery of the bat by Alex Rodriguez, the flawless technique of Carlos Santana, the swagger of corporate titan Jack Welch, the aura of control and eloquence, and, well, you get the idea. And I figure, they have no doubts, no hesitation or fear that they can and will continue to excel and be brilliant.

But I do. There are times, often, when I feel inadequate, incompetent, unworthy and never fully confident of anything. But that is a simple myopia, because aspects of human nature are universal and feelings like mine are shared regardless of an individual's specialized prowess.

In fact, many of the finest minds and talents were constantly racked by spasms of self-doubt and depression—much worse than mine and probably yours, because gifted individuals are unique and tend to experience in greater intensity than us mediocrities.

No, the people I envy are truly special and seem to accomplish more in their lives than I could in multiple lives. Dave Eggers, who writes brilliant nonfiction and fiction prose while running a publishing company, a writing and tutoring lab for underprivileged kids, a daily humor website, a program in which he assembles books comprising oral histories of oppressed people to publicize human rights abuses around the world, not to mention his role as a husband and father. People like Dave Eggers strikes awe and envy in my soul.

But you know, I bet Dave Eggers doesn't always feel like a master of the universe, a splendid achiever, a genius even though he had the gall to allude to himself as such in the title of his memoir and then goes ahead and proves it! I bet there are days when Dave Eggers feels unworthy, untalented, and unmoored.

I sure the hell hope so.

# Day 76. October 5, 2009

I wonder at what point the "ick" factor is overwhelmed by biological imperative. Certainly, when it comes to hunger, it must be well in excess of a week. I have over the past year or so read books about deprivation and hardship, most recently The What is the What by, guess who, Dave Eggers, which traces the hardships of one of the Lost Boys of Africa caught in the crossfire of the southern Sudan uprisings in the late 1980s and 1990s.

The protagonist, Achak, in that instance, wandered with thousands of other young boys over hundreds of treacherous miles hoping to evade the violence of government troops and mercenaries in the throes of an endless civil war. The ick factor passed quickly, it appears, under those circumstances. The kids ate grass, insects, raw road kill, et cetera, with many dying from food poisoning, which hardly discouraged others from quelling insistent hunger pains following similar practices.

So it went with my detox. Some items of ground up and juiced vegetable and protein powder concoctions were so foul that, despite deep hunger, I passed them up completely and over the week of my abstinence I lost about six pounds.

And while I was starving and miserable all week, the idea of super green juice passing my lips summoned a level of revulsion that more than cancelled out the hunger equation. So now that I'm back to my regular delicious food, I still can't answer the question of how much time must pass without solid food before even a protein-infused rice milk smoothie and cold cucumber and basil soup with lemon would be gobbled down with zest and gratitude?

I hope never to be that desperate to be able to answer that question and I wish to same for you.

# Day 77. October 6, 2009

Tee shirt and shorts weather on a dark, crisp morning run. The best possible conditions. A heavy full moon lighting the tree-lined corridor of my street, feet falling lightly on the cracked sidewalks and around a narrow bend, when I take to the asphalt to avoid heaving sidewalks shoved askew by driven roots of 200-year-old maples planted too close to the street.

Past ghostly lawns groomed to perfection, many decorated with real estate signs from fiscally overstretched homeowners sleeping fitfully amongst their silent panics in well-appointed bedrooms in their underwater-mortgaged remodeled structures, but who would know the difference by looking at the meticulously graded and landscaped setting of their soon-to-be seized homes? I have an unemployed wife but few debts and we sleep well at night.

Then I'm on the boardwalk, a few early gulls screaming, a few stragglers from the local college walking off the latest binge. I'm floating, the cool air massaging my legs, a breezy thrumming against my breast, not going hard enough to elevate my breathing.

The ocean's heavy and throbbing from a storm forming 400 miles to the east, white foam whiskering the sand. Still dark, the moonlit stars not yet blurred by morning headlights and condo awakenings, a clarity rare for the Jersey coast.

I turn around at the Pier Village shopping district, its high-end shops locked tight and its well-heeled browsers still snug in their beds. I'm on the boards, doing my five miles, the cool air lapping at my legs, no sweat today, just fluid muscle movement and only the pulsing roar of the natural sea.

# Day 78. October 7, 2009

Creative writing, to me, is a redundancy. I think all decent writing is creative. The other kind of writing is rote, which means using hackneyed thoughts, clichéd words and expressions, and regurgitated plug-and-play word sentence segments.

The assumption, of course, is that creative writing must be fiction and poetry, but to me it takes just as much creativity to compose a lively, original memo at work as it does to sling a few stanzas of free verse. Creative writing is real writing, which, of course is real work. Writing is nothing more than pure brain and intelligence applied to paper or electronic device.

Here's a test: pick a subject, like a sunny spring day, and describe what you see without using any clichés or canned images. Do the same at work when you're proposing a new initiative or process, and do it without lapsing into various business-speak crutches.

It's hard.

Cliches are born from other people's good work that take the form of words and expressions so perfect that others rely on them to convey similar experiences, thoughts, and images. Making up your own way of expressing yourself in your own words—that's creative writing.

Fiction and poetry is creative, but so much of the crap being produced is derivative, plagued with a pestilence of banality and cliché--one could hardly call it "creative writing."

Whereas an adroit and original work of nonfiction is creative writing in every sense, except, perhaps, in its subject matter and description of reality.

# Day 79. October 8, 2009

People are always interested in the writing process. Not just people that don't write, but also writers themselves. Do you work late at night in a quiet room with the door shut and quiet jazz playing? Do you write at the kitchen table with kids making a racket and your wife peppering you with questions as you're trying to think? Do you write in a car, on a plane, on a boat, on a bench, on a towel, use a pad, a computer, file cards and so on?

Those are dumb questions because they don't matter. All that matters is to somehow tease out what you have in your brain and getting it all down in some permanent way, whether it's on paper or hard drive—IT DOESN'T MATTER.

I run, so the assumption, if you read the books about writing and authors and other deep thinkers, is that you think plot and character as you peel off the miles. Not me. When I run, I think about running.

Or I think about nothing and if I'm running with my Ipod Shuffle, I think about the songs that are playing. I'm a time-clock writer. I don't think about what I'm writing when I'm not writing.

I wait until I see an empty page and then figure out some way to fill it. Let's say I try to stay in the moment. When I'm cooking I think about cooking, when I'm playing guitar I think about my fingers, and when I'm talking to my kids I'm thinking about baseball, or running, or the bills, but never, never about writing. Writing is very hard work and I only think about it when I'm doing it.

Why work for free?

# Day 80. October 9, 2009

Kathy Rosenbloom was my first love. She was short with curly black hair and I first laid eyes on her when her mom brought her to my house a week before kindergarten started. She had a deep voice and a melodic jack-in-box laugh that was either naturally throaty or a result of a lingering chest cold.

She had round dappled cheeks and dimples when she smiled and I took her hand when she visited, though I had never done that with a girl before. Her hands were tiny and bunched and a little coarse, which surprised me because children my age growing up in a middle-upper-class suburban neighborhood did not engage in much heavy labor or farm activities.

A few weeks into the school year I visited Kathy Rosenbloom's house, which was on a high hill among a cluster of modern split-level mansions.

Her house was so large that there was an intercom system that Kathy's parents used to summon her and her three brothers and which they pointedly ignored. I remembered a lot of shouting by her parents and the other kids, but not by Kathy, who was serene and seemed to glow in my presence.

I didn't like her house—it was too large and modern and impersonal and the air held certain notes of flatulence—a misty methane miasma seemed to dangle in the air. I suspect now that, as a Jewish household, the Rosenbloom's diet was not terribly suited to healthy digestion.

Alas, I chased heedlessly after Kathy in the playground and kissed her constantly on the cheek in public, without wiles, and unaware of the rules of courtship and so forth at the age of six. I think I scared her away and, in fact, by the end of kindergarten, the Rosenbloom family had packed up and left and I never saw Kathy Rosenbloom again.

I guess I must've scared the Rosenblooms away.

# Day 81. October 13, 2009

It would be cool, in a way, though unlikely, to continue this literary endeavor to my ultimate demise, assuming, of course, that death is the usual drawn-out affair of increasing enfeebledom, both mentally and physically, that leads to total exhaustion and final failure that is typical in my family.

It would appeal to the scientist in me, since I could accurately record the successive stages of deterioration in a measurable way. Most of my failings at age 55 include worsening eyesight, especially up close, and the gradual increase in memory loss. These are vaguely descriptive and difficult to measure, but they are present now at age 55. Real science, however, is my running.

This past weekend I ran the Steamtown Marathon in Scranton, Pennsylvania, a mostly downhill course for half the race, punctuated by killer hills over the last three miles. My 3:40:40 time was respectable, out gunning 75% of my age group.

However, under cool weather conditions and a willing course, I would have run at least 10 minutes faster had I been four years younger. How do I know? My fastest marathons were in 2004 and 2006, and both were 3:29 and change under similar conditions, and my effort was no greater than it was at Steamtown.

My preparation for all three races was superb. The only variable, indeed, was my age. The clock, both metaphorically and in fact, counts out the cadence to my death. Ten minutes lost in three years, maybe 15 minutes next year, maybe in few years there will be no marathons at all.

Eventually no racing and, finally, no running. It's a ruthless science that both intrigues and disturbs me. The next gate for me will be the 2010 Marine Corps Marathon.

I'll keep you posted. You know that!

# Day 82. October 14, 2009

I wage an ongoing battle against my anti-social tendencies. Since childhood, interaction with others, especially strangers, filled me with a dread just a couple of notches below terror. My body did (does) literally shake before addressing a person I do not know well and at a party I'm literally drowning in shyness, insecurity and cowed by the monumental challenge of going up to other people and engaging in conversation. The defense mechanisms are all classic:

My conversation is peppered liberally with clever jokes and sarcastic asides and, in fact, when I cannot conjure an instant quip, I tend to simply fall silent.

It's amazing the defense mechanisms that are erected in my rather mild case of social anxiety disorder. I do not, as a matter of fact, need to be medicated to successfully interact with others; however, I'm not generally comfortable in social situations.

Part of this condition is a result of the ease in which I reside inside my head. I do not fear being alone and in fact I like to be alone most of the time. I enjoy the company of my wife and kids and a few other people, but I don't need them constantly looming and often are the times I seek out an escape path.

And the stuff I like to do, the guitar, running, writing, and so forth tend to be solitary pursuits. It's not an abnormal way to be wired. What I do find interesting is that outgoing and social people do not at all comprehend my social reticence, assuming that nothing beats a party—the more the merrier. Makes me cringe.

Also unlike these people, I would never consider an account on Facebook, Twitter, or a blog of any sort and I do know where to find the off button on my cell phone.

# Day 83. October 15, 2009

Micky has been unemployed now for one year. This is an unemployable person: one who has 20-some years of experience as a software engineer at AT&T and IBM working on some of their most complex processes. A lead troubleshooter with an impeccable work record, glowing reviews, and a Catholic, guilt-ridden obsession for pleasing her bosses that result in perfect execution within the required timeframes.

This person, my wife, is unemployable. Part of it is she made too much money, the other part is, well, she made too much money. Technology companies such as IBM have turned my wife's work over to young engineers in India who make about 10 percent of Micky's former salary.

Granted, they take twice as long, do shoddy work that must be redone when it is repatriated, but this is a world of value—cheap wins. So jobs flood offshore and in return we get crappy quality, wage pressures, and unemployment in the U.S. Micky thinks that she is retired, because she sees no hope of finding work ever again in her industry.

Did you know that America now has a shrinking information processing industry—that our best and brightest would be out of their minds if they took up computer science at the local tech school? That is our firsthand experience.

We believe that once Micky runs out of her unemployment benefits, she may be able to get a job at the counter of the local cleaners. She has experience—she held a similar position on evenings and weekends while going to high school. She's good at making change.

I don't think my job will be outsourced to India or China. I speak better English than they do and some of their written communication is often inadvertently hilarious. No, I don't think I'll get off-shored.

# Day 84. October 16, 2009

I read a really stupid article today in a trade publication that caters to financial advisers, formerly known as stock brokers. The essential thesis was that not only is the adviser's role to help individuals save for retirement, but also to gauge the client's psychological readiness to retire. As if:

  * A person's miserable job is how they define themselves and find meaning in their lives.

  * They have zero imagination on how they're going to fill the yawning hours they formerly devoted to mindless cubicle activities.

  * All their plans revolved around golf, reading, and traveling.

  * They have somehow become a stranger to their spouse and his/her constant presence would be an unbearable burden.

  * When is a problem not a problem? Here's my off-the-cuff blueprint of a typical day in Carl Ehnis' retirement:

  * Get up at 7 a.m. and run 3 to 10 miles

  * Breakfast and read the New York Times

  * Write for a couple of hours

  * Lunch with highly compatible spouse

  * Nap. Oh, will I love taking naps!!!!

  * Putter around the house and yard for an hour

  * Fire up the amp and practice guitar for at least an hour

  * Go the gym for an hour and a half. Or not.

  * Read from my 30 years of literary backlog

  * Dinner and Jeopardy

  * TV, a movie, a play, whatever.

  * Bed

Maybe some days I'll do a part-time job, preferably bagging groceries at the local Whole Foods. Yeah, we'd travel some. Maybe learn how to play golf. I can tell that retirement is something at which I will excel.

# Day 85. October 19, 2009

Chris is going to ask for Erica's hand in marriage. That is a very old-fashioned phrase. Asking for "one's hand." I am sure, however, that given a little a rope to hang himself (another archaism), Chris will not only take Erica's hand, but her entire arm, torso, head and other connected body parts because we here in America are SELFISH!

But that's not the thesis, which is the quaintness of that request and the way it was delivered. He asked to meet Micky and myself for lunch on Saturday via a message from his Apple I-Phone to our Yahoo e-mail accounts. A 16th-century behavior via 21st century technology.

I guess that's why I like Chris. While I'm not too crazy about the bar-code tattoo or his smoking lapses, he does show more than a modicum of respect to his beloved's parents. When most kids would rush into a room and announce their intentions by jamming a dazzling bauble-clad finger under the snoots of her parents, Chris has requested a meeting.

I admire his courage to face the lion's den of the future in-laws alone and without Erica's knowledge.

How could we say no? Is he the right guy for her? Who knows, she's had lots of guys but he's the one who seems to make her the happiest. Whether he has professional prospects or not is kinda irrelevant at the age of 24.

I was nowhere at 24 and, look, I'm somewhat somewhere now. Besides, in America it is not an economic decision—it's a complex mix of love, lust, excitement, exuberance, experimentalism, discovery, practicality, hope, and maturity.

I think maybe he's the right guy for my daughter. And, if not, what can be done can be undone. Why be sentimental about it?

Yeah, Chris can have her hand, and the rest of her as well.

# Day 86. October 20, 2009

My 1988 Mazda 626 is the finest vehicle I have ever owned. I bought it new—my first-ever brand-new car. Twenty-one years later its deep blue exterior has worn away mostly to its white primer until Micky took a couple of spray cans of Rust-O-Leum to it a few weeks ago and now the white has blended into a mottled light blue.

Still has the original clutch after 178,000 miles and that's after teaching my first kid how to shift on it 35,000 miles ago. The radio light went out five years ago, as did the gas gauge. You have to wiggle the key a little to get the windshield wipers going and the heater fan only works at the two highest speeds.

The air conditioner needs to be recharged, but since I've managed the past 7 years without it, why shock the system? The rear-window defroster crapped out 10 years ago, but the cigarette lighter works so fine that when the tip is fully heated, the handle explodes out of its orifice a good 12 inches. There's been no major engine work and my only complaint is the exhaust center pipe rusts out about every two years.

So I was thinking, maybe it's time to let go of the old car and use Erica's much newer Miata (1996) when she buys herself a new car. But then, the 626 usually starts up, runs as smooth as ever and gets about 30 miles to a gallon. That doesn't sound like a car that is on its way to the junkyard.

Natalie will be getting her learner's permit in a couple of months, so maybe I'll give her a crack at my 626's clutch. It's forgiving and well-broken in. And I'm a firm believer, when it comes to cars, the treatment that doesn't break them will indeed make them stronger. Perhaps I'll celebrate a quarter century with my trusty 626.

# Day 87. October 21, 2009

Used to be if you were branded a liberal, it was a badge of honor. But after years of Reagan and Bush brainwashing, the word liberal is a smear and those holding such views are now inclined to calling themselves progressives for protection.

Now that the ultraconservatives have pretty much wrecked America, it will take so-called "progressives" to fix it. But let's step back here. I don't think conservatism wrecked the country. Let's take a temperature of my views:

I don't believe in big government and I don't believe the government should spend more than it takes in for taxes. I don't believe in nation-building or using tax preferences to reward big contributors from favored industries, like oil, guns, agriculture, insurance, religion, and banking. I don't think the government should be in the business of building houses or deciding how much businesses should pay their executives.

Sounds kinda conservative to me.

On the other hand, there are some things that government can do more efficiently than private enterprise, such has building armies, planning infrastructure, providing a safety net for the poor and infirm, managing and paying for healthcare (e.g., the Veteran's Administration and Medicare), regulating food, drugs, financial institutions, etc.

Sounds kinda liberal, er, progressive to me. The government comes in when the excesses of the free market threaten the well-being of the masses. Neither a command society nor a pure laissez-faire approach is desirable or even livable.

It's time for the yang to balance out the ying. Sorry all you neo-cons out there—purity of ideology got us into this mess. A dull drift toward the center is the only hope to get us out of it.

# Day 88. October 22, 2009

One of the frustrations caused by the discipline of this endeavor is the prohibition against jotting down great thoughts to develop when I hunker down to this task at the end of each work day. I had a great thought yesterday evening, which, of course, I have since forgotten and now I can think of nothing interesting to write about.

Perhaps when I finish this project and decide to edit for potential publication, this will simply be a day that I delete. In other words, go back and blatantly violate the cardinal rule of a page a day. So here's one:

Each morning I park in the same spot at the train station that I've scientifically chosen to constitute the shortest distance from the choo choo car that I exit from each night to the front door of my Mazda. I arrive at that spot at 6:33 a.m.

Invariably, this older dude arrives three minutes after I do and parks next to me because he has obviously made the same calculations that I have in order to minimize his post commute walk to the car. I know that he really wants my spot because it would save about three feet, or a long stride, from the train. The reason I know this is because the week my car was in the shop, the older dude parked in my spot.

This has been going on for about a year. We both sit in our cars and listen to the radio for a few minutes before making our way to the train platform. I leave my car first and he follows a minute later. I then stand on the same spot on the platform each and every day because the train door that I use every day will line up right in front of me when the train stops.

That's a key car because it will line up exactly right at Newark Penn Station to the steps leading to the station exit. The older dude knows this, too, and stands about 10 feet away from me. I know that he knows that I occupy a coveted space on the platform, because on the rare occasion that he arrives earlier than I, he stands on my spot!

Here's the thing—we both understand the game we are playing and we have not once spoken a word to each other.

# Day 89. October 23, 2009

One thing I really really hate is public speaking. I get nervous weeks in advance. There is nothing unusual about this since there are surveys that exist that indicate that many people fear public speaking more than death.

I fear death more, so public speaking comes in second. People think I'm joking when I reveal this fear to them because they say that I look so at ease in front of a group and very often I am quite funny.

Well, I do speak loudly and try to place emphasis in the right places. But what most people don't know is I will not speak off the cuff. I prepare careful notes and try hard not to bury my head in them while I speak. If I lose my place in my notes, it becomes a mini-disaster and I start sputtering and leaving out major sections of interesting information that I had intended to impart.

Today I spent all morning putting together bullet points on an innocuous topic upon which I intend to expound at our regularly-scheduled Monday morning department get together. It's supposed to last about 15 minutes, but I don't expect to go longer than 10.

I have thought of a clever and different way to present performance numbers and a clever and different way to transition to my main topic. And then I will struggle to get through my 10 bullet points and not lose my place and remember to glance up from my notes and then feel perfectly silly afterwards.

It's good to have public speaking skills, so I don't regret the exercise. But I loathe it above all things except, of course, a bullet to the brain.

# Day 90. October 26, 2009

The presentation went fine. I was funny, illuminating, avuncular, and insightful. Several individuals complimented me following the presentation, which is quite extraordinary since most people snore through these early morning assemblies.

I was quite relaxed, actually, since I was working on five hours of sleep, staying up late to watch the Yankees clinch the American League pennant and reaching the World Series for the first time in six years. You know how I feel about the Yankees. You do not, however, know how I feel about sleep deprivation.

I need a minimum of six hours of sleep per night, supplemented by a half hour on the train en route to work. I seldom get more than seven hours total. Five hours are clearly not enough and it is now four in the afternoon and I am literally running on fumes.

I've performed no productive work at all and have spent most of the day surfing the net for every crumb of Yankee news that I can find. I did not earn my quite considerable salary today, but I hope to make up for it tomorrow. While I do admit that my job does not exactly thrill, I am grateful for having a position at time when the unofficial unemployment rate is about 15 percent.

It is truly amazing that I made it this far down the page, with only a few lines to go because I really am very very tired and can very very much understand why sleep deprivation is a most effective instrument of torture.

Look what happens to the usually elegant and mellifluous prose of a professional writer like myself when operating with less than optimal sleep—the sloppy habit of inserting too many "very's" in a sentence for one thing—an inexcusable and amateurish mannerism. Hope to be back on the beam tomorrow.

My apologies for this.

Yankees in 6!

# Day 91. October 27, 2009

A concept currently gaining acceptance in the running community is to go back to nature when it comes to footwear. It seems that the best thing to wear on your feet for distance running is as little as possible.

There is an Indian tribe that lives in the hills of the Andes that is known for its 50-mile jogs up and down mountains wearing little more than thin leather sandals similar to those worn in those Hercules movies from the 1950s.

In fact, there are marathoners who run barefoot because it seems the human foot is designed for distance running, what with our short toes and straight-ahead big-toe that is ideally designed for launching the body with little resistance. And all the pulleys and levers that constitute the muscles and connective tendons and ligaments work in concert ideally if the foot is allowed to land as naturally as possible.

Thus, if this is all true, heavily cushioned running shoes distort the natural flexions of footfalls and can lead to pain and injury due to the unnatural landings and push-offs caused by the muting sensations of the typical running shoe.

So, may I recommend that you go with a minimally cushioned shoe, or that newfangled job that's shaped like a foot right down to separate tubular compartments for each toe. And stay away from hard surfaces as much as possible and hit the trails.

Of course, I haven't tried any of this myself, but it makes a convincing theoretical case. We all know that humans are built for long-distance running, compared with other mammals, so why would we want to sheath our feet and deaden them to the natural movements for which they were designed?

# Day 92. October 28, 2009

Another day in which I had a tremendous idea for this page only to find the cupboard empty again when it actually came time to write it all out. Perhaps it never was that good or worth developing, but here's a standby topic that is part of a point of view that has not been sufficiently disputed by those with whom I've shared it.

Simply, those afflicted with severe dementia, along the lines of Alzheimer's disease, are not especially unhappy. Thus, tis to pity the family and friends, not so much the patient.

I imagine myself in the early stages of dementia, given my disturbing inability to remember things that I would like to remember, from basic chromatic scales and notes in the upper reaches of the interior guitar strings, to topics for my daily page, to names of people and places that used to be on the tip of my tongue.

Taken to far greater lengths of dementia, a condition that ravaged my dad in his final years, I can envision waking up in the morning to an entirely new life, without memories and skills, and learned behaviors from the previous days, weeks, and years.

Everything is a rediscovery. I can imagine being miserable at first, then adapting and perhaps even relishing the fact that I have no regrets, transgressions, and guilt to plague my spirit.

True, I will have no memory of triumphs, the names and charms of my family and friends, or of great stories and cultural appreciations. But, gosh, how can you miss things that, in a debilitated mental state you have no clue ever existed?

The family is sad that you don't know them and they believe that you are sad that their significance has faded from your life. But you're not sad, you're just phasing out of consciousness until you're entirely gone. Painlessly, I hope.

# Day 93. November 3, 2009

Been away a few days, to Florida to visit the mother and assure her of my devotion and unfettered attention to her financial welfare. And to sign legal documents giving me the right to terminate my sister's life if she can't make decisions on her own.

Also to sign papers to act as a guardian for her retarded daughter once my sister is dead. And power of attorney to act on my sister's behalf in a fiduciary manner, not to mention the witnessing of a trust agreement that gives me the power of asset distribution in the case of my sister's total incapacity from a brainwave standpoint.

Pretty heady responsibilities foisted upon my shoulders. What to do with my sister's vast worldly assets, which must amount to, you know, several hundred dollars plus her house, which is in pretty bad shape.

Look at the toll that being somewhat competent exacts on a person? Believe me, some people are not saints but have sainthood thrust upon them. Pity me? Well, not really. It's a pain in the neck that will become a full-blown nuisance once my sister croaks and the machinery all grinds into motion.

Would I prefer, hypothetically, to be alone in the world with no one to be responsible for outside of my own lonely soul? Probably not. Though not a gregarious person by any stretch, I'm not exactly a hermit either.

But by having other people around with whom you form attachments come responsibilities. Those whom I embrace, which include my small nuclear family. And those I endure, an ungrateful and needy sister and a sometimes needy mother.

Overall, I could've done worse.

# Day 94. November 5, 2009

I missed yesterday. But I can't make it up. Rules of the game. Chris proposed to Erica and she accepted and is now immersed in the planning process for a wedding that will have a guest list of between 100 and 200 people and for which I shall be paying. At least for most of it.

I don't really care to waste space on pithy comments about the nonsense and profligacy that tends to accrete around such affairs which, in all honesty, ebbs away in a period of 24 hours. The way I figure it, most likely it will take at least five years for me to pay off the expense that is generated in a little less than 14 hours.

Does it make sense to a person like me? Does it matter? It is my daughter and this is what you do. This is the custom and this is what is thought as necessary. And I won't offer a pithy account of how other societies spend much more time and treasure for their matrimonial rituals and so forth, because it does nothing to assuage the assault on my sense and wallet that my own, insignificant situation summons.

Like the movies Father of the Bride, the planning and execution of a wedding will be a gradually unfolding drama with many highs and lows that will be lustily embraced by my daughter and my wife and various sundry females who will be involved.

I must remain serene and aloof, lest I embarrass, annoy, discourage, enrage, and otherwise perturb in that special way of mine. I'll front the bills, press my tux, compose a witty toast and let the waters of my impending impoverishment lap but not penetrate my hide.

She's my daughter and I love her. But it's money and I love that, too. I'm not stupid. It will be a struggle.

# Day 95. November 6, 2009

A page a day using 11 point Courier New type and double-spacing doesn't really cover a lot of mental real estate. I've found that once I get a head of steam on a topic, my page is done and, as I have relentlessly harped on throughout this project, the ground rules are the ground rules.

Unfortunately for the reader, you're simply not getting the full benefit of my wit and wisdom. Even the most provocative topics end up getting short shrift in the limited space I'm afforded, which could make the entire endeavor appear superficial and slap-dash.

How can the reader wallow in the warm embrace of high style and literary insight if the flow of words is abruptly dammed by the constraint of a page ending?

On the other hand (as there is always another hand), great thoughts are usually those that can be briefly described by an artful pen. Remember E=mc2? Ommmmmm? A stitch in time?

The world of mass media advertising is built upon thought compression and economical expression. It takes longer to write short because it's hard to compress and conserve words. Why shouldn't I be able to communicate complex thoughts and impressions a page at a time?

It's not really a barrier to full expression, rather a challenge to fully express oneself with a maximum of economy. It's not so hard, really. For example, I've run out of things to say about this topic.

# Day 96. November 9, 2009

Consider lifelong satisfactions. It's usually not your job, unless you're extremely lucky and have a job you love and from which you never want to retire, unlike most of us.

My lifelong satisfaction, besides my lovely family, of course, and the New York Yankees, which I covered in cursory detail on a previous page, would include food and a nice car. I hope to always relish the sensual satisfactions of both eating and preparing fine foods. For me, I'd rather dine at gourmet restaurants for a week than jet to an island or visit a foreign country—except for the food of course.

I thoroughly understand, admire, and appreciate the creativity and skill it takes to plate a fine meal. And while not personally a gifted chef by any means, I love the intense physicality of prep and complex kitchen techniques and the awesome tools of the trade. Yes, eating and cooking are an eternal pleasure for me.

Now cars. I'm not a car buff and not up on the latest warp-drive exotica available in metal and carbon fiber these days. But we do live in a golden age of automotive excellence. I like a car with European handling—some strong boost when you depress the accelerator and crawl through the gears of a short-throw stick.

I love the ingenious doo-dads of pleasure, from heated seats and power roofs to satellite tracking systems and sound systems that replicate a concert hall.

Snug and fast and agile—so much pleasure and so easily available in today's market. Yeah, Erica bought her first car yesterday—a VW GTI—my god what an irresistible rocket. And me in my 1988 Mazda 626 with 186,000 miles on it. Love it dearly—wish I had my own GTI!

# Day 97. November 10, 2009

As America wrestles with health care reform in the halls of Congress, I'm reminded of lazy thinking by people of great power. Not that all politicians are stupid, or at least stupider than the average constituent. But at least it seems that way because elected officials are constantly seen and heard and thus less successful than others at hiding their ignorance and pandering.

In the case of health care reform, models exist all over the world of successful health care systems, from single-payer set-ups like Canada and France, to a more market-driven approach practiced in Norway. Each successful in their way, each with better outcomes and cheaper costs than we have here in the good ol' U.S.

But the hardened ideologues are lazy. They have shut off their brains and intone the "fact" that the U.S. has the finest health care system in the world.

Of course that is patently untrue, since we have much higher incidences of infant mortality, lower life expectancy, and less treatment for chronic conditions like asthma and diabetes compared with first-world countries with universal health care.

Health care is just one example of ideology trumping facts. If you are moored to a radical belief system, whether extreme right-wing conservatism that preaches that government is the ultimate evil, or extreme left-wing liberalism that asserts that more government is always the answer, then original thought is unnecessary and you remove yourself from reasoned debate.

Meanwhile, serious problems like health care, in which we pay twice as much in the U.S. as other countries for far worse outcomes, fester and the ideologues rant and rave and half-assed measures are hailed as historic breakthroughs.

Perhaps we need an enlightened monarchy in the U.S., because, in this day and age, an enlightened legislative body is just too much to ask for!

# Day 98. November 11, 2009

Sorry, yesterday's was rather preachy and overbearing. But I am right about the health care thing.

What about the desire for sudden violence? Unspeakable urges that I have at times, often for no reason. I feel it some mornings coming off the train and navigating through crowded Penn Station in Newark.

I may see someone walking toward me and I know he or she is waiting for me to make way for her, so she refuses to alter her path. And I'm filled with an unspeakable rage. I can feel my fists clenching, my jaw tightening and an electric flow up and down my arms.

It would be so easy to reach out, grab her by the wrist and bring my knee up to her gut, gratified by the eye-popping shock that would register in her face as she grunted in shocked agony.

And I would swing from the heels with a round-house left and connect on the side of her jaw, which would drop her(!) to the floor and then I would kick and kick and kick. In the stomach, in the rump, on the head and back. Shoulda stayed out of my way, bitch.

Well now.

And there are those times in the car, usually when someone up ahead pulls into my lane without signaling. Instantly I spike from passivity and boredom to molten hot rage.

How I wish I had a cannon affixed to the hood of my car that delivered ordnance so devastating that it would blast offenders into fundamental atomic particles so that I would not have to dodge their miserable debris as I pass through their vaporous remains.

These sudden surges of anger and violence, a curious part of me that I really can't fathom. This would suggest that they are a part of everybody. Irrational but controllable in me. I worry about the irrational, but uncontrollable in others.

Headlines waiting for expression.

# Day 99. November 16, 2009

Restaurant Nicholas in Middletown, New Jersey, is one of the finest restaurants in the country, if not the world.

How does a chef, a restaurateur, like Nicholas Harary become the absolute best at what he does? Inspired genius? Partly. Super secret recipes with super secret ingredients? Not really. He just came out with his first cookbook and it contains the secret of his success.

Like the hustler in baseball, he dives face first into second and leaps into the stands for the out-of-reach foul ball. And just like the scrapper in basketball who lunges after every loose ball and is willing to take charges in the lane from the other team's big guys, success is out-working the other guy. And keen attention to detail.

Yes, Nicholas has a knack for drawing disparate ingredients from out of left field and mating them in a perfect blend of contrapuntal flavors, fragrances and textures.

But it's the way he does it. Called technique. Most photos of him working in the kitchen show him hovering over a meticulously assembled plate arranging delicate strips of this and that or placing a sprig of something else cocked at just the right angle.

A four-step process to cooking lobster that takes the patience of a stalking cat. A perfect roast chicken that includes brining and airing stages that stretches out over three days.

He and his team are inexhaustible in selecting ingredients, prepping them into perfect geometric forms and sauces and assembling it all into a medium of unforgettable presentation and taste.

It takes the perfect wine and a dining staff that is omnipresent and invisible—approachable but not intrusive. The bartenders with a knack for the exotic and a solid grounding in the traditional.

Perfect from valet service to the most studied and appropriate cheese course possible. When you ask Nicholas, what makes him different, he honestly answers:

"My mom instilled in me a tremendous work ethic."

# Day 100. November 17, 2009

Another thing you should know about runners is they are generally on the klutzy side when it comes to other physical activities.

I never was a klutz in my olden athletic days, which takes me through my college years. I was fairly agile at most sports and never suffered injuries of any consequence.

But when I got old and was no longer active in regular athletic endeavors, which takes me up to 20 years ago, I found that my body had changed. I would pull muscles whenever I took the field in softball, sprained ankles when playing pick-up basketball, and so forth.

With running, I suffered the usual running injuries to my shins, calves, knees, and hamstrings. Until about three years ago when I became a Chi runner and all the old injuries went away.

And along came new injuries. Distance running, in contrast to most sports, requires virtually no athletic skill at all beyond determination and endurance.

I realized, however, that I have lapsed into the klutz phase of my athletic life because I continue to injure myself—not by running—but from other activities that are supposed to enhance my running prowess.

For instance, I lost three weeks of training due to Pilates. I have always had the flexibility of concrete, and when I overextended myself in Pilates class, I virtually shredded my lower abdominals.

And, since resistance training is also supposed to enhance the running form, I have managed to chronically pull the same trapezius muscle in my upper back that causes me all kinds of misery in the morning.

Most recently, I am on the shelf because I fell from a ladder cleaning the gutter over the kitchen door. I now have a very sore left knee—another classic running injury not caused by running. I hope to miss no more than a week.

# Day 101. November 19, 2009

Yeah, I missed yesterday. Busy as hell here. Changing the name of our little division and I'm working on 50 different communication items as part of the implementation.

Funny how that works. I write the stuff, then a few people review it and I rewrite it. Then a few more people review it and I rewrite it again and then the loop repeats itself several times over.

In the end, I evolve from a writer to a word processor, no longer contesting or even reviewing changes to my supple prose. More concerned about inputting changes, not mixing up new with old drafts, and getting it done and out before the deadline strikes. Times 50 in this case.

Uneasy again about the inexplicable. Couched in the cozy life of a full stomach, a heated home, and a not too out-of-whack cash flow, yet I feel the fateful pendulum over my head. Perhaps it's the inability to be in the moment—to always be thinking a few days, a few years ahead. Anxious about the unknown.

I used to be worried about death, especially when I was child—-trying to imagine what life was like before I was born and terrified about how I will cope with not being alive for the eternity after my death. Doesn't scare me now, even though it should since I'm so much closer to the end than I was at age nine.

No, I worry about markets diving and being unable to retire and being let go from my job and never again able to earn a reasonable income, similar to my very able but currently unemployed wife.

The worries are not so specific; they're generalized and vague, like a dull ache in the belly that cannot exactly be palpated. Why am I worried? What do I have to be worried about?

Me, socked away in my small office. Churning out copy that people seem to need, but who then feel the urge to change and change again. Think of it from their point of view. If they change nothing, it's as though they haven't reviewed it—-didn't need to review it.

Change my words to validate their need so they can keep their jobs and fend off their own dark worries and unemployment.

# Day 102. November 20, 2009

It's Friday again and the attentive reader will recall from an earlier entry what's on my mind right now, but I must overcome the temptation of another soliloquy on my favorite brand of gin and branch out a little.

The other thing on my mind is the ache in the back of my knee following the impact of running or coming down stairs. It's been less than a week that I've been on the rack, away from running, which is surely as addictive as crack.

Running, I have found, is not especially pleasant. You are forcing yourself to exceed a comfortable walking pace, which causes breathless exertion. And oftentimes it's done in weather that is less than ideal, especially here in New Jersey, where it's usually wet, hot, cold, windy, or some combination of those conditions.

But once you're in the running habit—-it took me about three years—-you cannot live without it. It says less about the activity than about the person engaging in it. Devoted runners tend to be obsessive, overly organized, ridiculously goal-oriented, and maniacally disciplined.

I am all those things and that is in no way to imply that those are positive qualities. In fact, the downside is you can seldom live within the moment and savor the preciousness of now on those occasions when the now is worth savoring. Instead, you are thinking about what's next on The List to be checked off.

So when you can't run, you can't check it off. All that nervous energy collects in radioactive pools of anxiety—-perhaps that was the seed that sprouted in yesterday's entry.

You pace, you worry—-how long will it be before I can lace up the shoes again and absorb that dollop of discomfort and regain the germ of satisfaction from completing a strong run and marking it down in the journal?

If I'm on the shelf for too long, I'll lose my conditioning, my edge. Well, I'm fifty-fucking-five years old—-what exactly is my edge? There's cross-training, yeah. Ellipticals, swimming pools, bicycles, rowers—-none of those things is running. That's not crack. Those are watered-downed Methadone workouts.

Gotta go out Sunday morning to test the knee.

# Day 103. November 23, 2009

Unfairness is a terrible complaint. Why should fairness be assumed? Unless it's a game that's being refereed, fairness is an arbitrary and unattainable condition in real life. My daughter Natalie is a heartbreaker.

She is tall and lanky, cute and intelligent with a wit and grace that is irresistible to every young male who makes her acquaintance. And she has high standards and a limited range of tolerance. She dates young men who are totally smitten and devoted and touched with the realization of their tremendous good luck to be solo with Natalie, only to be let down in a month or two, as Natalie excises yet another mediocrity from her life.

And he's devastated. How can she not understand his wonderfulness in relation to hers? How can I be so worthy yet still discarded before being exhausted of all that I can offer? Natalie is a serial heartbreaker that way.

Natalie is unfair. Her shining qualities like an unconquerable mountain peak that attracts the adventuresome only to end in tumbledown failure. He who desires her who does not desire him and, she who desires him who does not desire her.

Unfair.

I thought I had instructed my children well on the serial unfairness of life in hopes it would somehow cushion them from the trauma of rejection and failure. Certainly I have raised myself as an example-—the powerful desire to write, to play music, to play first base in the major leagues, to break three hours in the marathon.

Worthy goals, all unattainable, all because of insuperable insufficiencies. To want it badly, but being incapable. Unfairness in my life. A goal-driven life in which the goals are well out of reach. My kids occasionally cry "Unfair," but, most of the time and lucky for them, they are on the money side of the equation.

# Day 104. November 24, 2009

I sometimes wonder about the absolute corruption of power. Maybe because I cannot identify with power seekers, since I have little personal desire for power. Power is difficult to obtain.

In advanced societies it takes incredible persuasive abilities, great networking skills, social standing, and money. In less-developed countries, brute force seems to be the currency of power. In the old Divine Right of Kings days, power started out as brute force and, once installed and endowed with a powerful army, a matter of heredity.

But no matter how or who is in power, great decision-making is rare and that is due to its corruptibility.

In the U.S., money, electoral ignorance, and slavish adherence to ideology corrupts power and it is why to this day we have a lousy health insurance system, dilapidated infrastructure, an over-ambitious military agenda, an inadequate power grid, an over-reliance on fossil fuels, and a finance system run amok.

It's because the politicians are caught on the treadmill of a constant electoral cycle and beholden to the groups that finance their positions. Statesmanship does not exist; what's good for the people must take a back seat to those with the checkbooks whose interests are often at odds with good policy. So policy degenerates to half-baked solutions and society devolves into mediocrity. And that's democracy in the U.S.A.

But absolute rule doesn't have much to offer in terms of a track record either. Instead the world is beholden to a pampered king and the historical whims of this class lead to even greater examples of misrule and suffering. Power concentrated in the hands of an individual seems to result more often in Henry VIIIs, Louis XVIs, Hitlers, and Stalins than in Davids and Solomons. Humans are so easily compromised. Humans with power are simply compromised on a larger, more visible and destructive scale.

# Day 105. November 30, 2009

There's little that can be done about the Thanksgiving bloat. I don't often eat meals freighted with unabated mounds of starch. How can one choose among sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, and stuffing? It's not possible so my plate is loaded down with all three and then slathered with a flood of brown gravy.

Though turkey is a relatively lean meat, I tend to dote on the more flavorful and less nutritious dark meat. I am also that rarity that can gorge on mincemeat pie without regret. And now that I know how to make my own crusts, I have a more complete understanding of why pie crust is absolute nutritional suicide.

Similar to my weekly martini, Thanksgiving dinner is absolutely sublime going down, but later come the regrets. It's not possible not to overindulge, though I try to pace myself.

Perhaps because the food is somewhat on the bland side, you need to eat more of it to fully appreciate the flavors. And by the time the contented veil of pleasure descends, you're way past satiety and into a certain realm of leaden bloat. You can't fend off the drowsiness and an all-too-certain nap and the stifling, gaseous ketosis upon awakening.

It's a bad way to go down. But by the next day I am fully recovered and primed to attack the leftovers, again vowing to pace myself and not shark up all those starches and other delectables, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. I don't mourn the passing of Thanksgiving—-it's food that I cannot resist, even though it is not especially delicious. Simply addictive. One doesn't take heroin for its flavor. Does one?

# Day 106. December 2, 2009

The year-end all-company meeting took place today. We have a mid-year meeting and a year-end meeting. For most of us, those are the only times we ever see our president. She's not keen on touring the various floors or showing up unannounced to inspect the troops. She keeps herself hidden away and is instead visited. No one really cares, because who wants a boss knocking about and interrupting our daily routines?

The company had a good year, from what they say, but due to certain financial technicalities, it appears it will not be a good year for those of us who made it possible. Another year of distressed bonuses, no doubt.

But what the heck—we have a not altogether unpleasant work environment. We fully understand the deal: We work at the pleasure of the company and will be let go at the pleasure of the company. We will be advanced and rewarded, or not, at the pleasure of the company.

Today's meeting featured a video clip of various charged up middle managers gushing about the wonderfulness of the organization—the great product line, the challenges and rewards of their jobs, the awesome reputation that our firm is building in the outside world.

Revved up, eyes flashing like crazed dancing robots. But why should I blame them? They're younger than me, probably have young children and crushing debt and, with unemployment at 17%, maybe they are expressing with utter sincerity about the wonders of their world here at my company.

Of course they're scared—-lots of suffering in the world today. It wasn't the shine of zeal and rapture in those faces, I think; more an expression of the sad desperation of a torture victim willing to say anything to stave off the next burst of electric current.

# Day 107. December 3, 2009

Acting on impulse is an interesting thing with which I'm not too familiar. My moves tend to be planned and executed with a certain precision and nearly mind-numbing predictability. The decisions I make for some reason are tempered by judgment heavily informed by a strict moral sense and an unvarying consideration of the impact of my actions on others.

This is something I find strange in an objective sense, since I'm all for spontaneity and impulse and free love. The fact is, I don't have a religious bone in my body and, in fact, I find most organized faiths revolting. I've detached the moral teachings of most conventional faiths, i.e., the Golden Rule, from the swaddle of liturgical robes and dogmatic rituals, and it is my guiding principal.

This is not meant in any way to imply that I am morally and ethically superior to you or you or you. My conduct is indicative of my make-up—-and it is fair to suggest that I am perhaps too cowardly to act on impulse and purely selfish motives.

I'm no alpha male. I'm not Tiger Woods or Kobe Bryant and innumerable other alphas who cheat on their wives because they are alpha dogs and whose constitutions make them more prone to act on impulse and desire.

Power people like that are driven to get what they want and their constitutions brook no challenge to their dominance. Sure, when I see a beautiful woman fantasies may be stoked, but being a beta male, surely I have and never will act on them.

I'm no Tiger Woods—-in every sense of the word. Is it because of my governing morality and rueful consideration of the damage such behavior would wreak on my loved ones? Or am I just too timid to try and I'm merely hiding behind a façade of false virtue?

# Day 108. December 4, 2009

The subject of gay marriage does not interest me—-I just find it curious. I have very shallow and practical views regarding marriage in general. Marriage is an industry, as I am finding out from my engaged daughter who is well on the way to Bridezilla World.

There are specialists in all things attached to the wedding biz, from planners, photographers, cake-makers, banquet halls, to car drivers, honeymoon planners, and so forth and it seems like prices for everything begin at four and five figures.

In other words, marriage is an industry and a meat grinder for the daddy of the bride's wallet. And, as a man, I'm not a big fan of blowing in five hours what will take me three or four years to pay off.

Most men feel this way, but all fathers love their daughters (and their wives, who are enchanted by the weddings of their daughters and care not about the costs). But enough about weddings, which have little to do with marriage, outside of sentimentalizing its associated eternal implications.

Marriage is hard and probably unnatural, given how many of them fail and the preponderance of spouses who cheat on each other. In fact, I hate the word "cheat" as used in this context-— fidelity is hardly a game with winners and losers.

Fornication is not cheating, really; it is in fact capitulating to an overwhelming impulse with the potential to damage terribly or terminate long-term relationships. That's not a game in my book. A competitive sport, whatever, it is not.

I'm not sure I believe in marriage, even though I happen to enjoy a long and happy one with my life mate. But I've always regarded our marriage as an exception to the many broken and unhappy ones in the world.

Why do gays want a piece of that action? Why take on the risk, the imperfection of the institution? Sure, in a free society, it's downright criminal to deny them the right to wed. I just question their good sense in acting upon it.

# Day 109. December 7, 2009

Why is it when I see excellence I both appreciate and wish to duplicate it, even though it is an unreasonable ambition in most cases? It's that way with guitar. I cannot fully enjoy the artistry of a Doug Mikula or a Stanley Jordan without a burning desire to know how they create their music and their techniques of execution.

Since I play guitar, why can't I play like them? Is it because I do not have the innate talent? Yes. Is it because I have not invested the requisite 10,000 hours it takes to develop any skill, from surgery to master mechanic? Yes.

But seeing those who are so much my superior is something I find depressing and somewhat tempers my enjoyment of both playing and listening. That's the appeal of the Beatles or Springsteen or many others whose repertoires are built upon great songwriting, singing and strong, but not virtuoso, instrumentation. I can both appreciate and enjoy their tunes because I don't write tunes and thus don't have to compare my efforts vs. their virtuosity.

Same with cooking—-I can so much revel in the brilliance and creativity found at Restaurant Nicholas in New Jersey or a Le Bernardin or a Jean-Georges in New York. While I do not have the incredible culinary creativity of the master chefs in those kitchens, I can at least duplicate many of their techniques in my kitchen.

I so admire their ability to consistently perform at an incredible level of excellence night after night, from which they must derive a profound sense of satisfaction. I so admire, and envy, their passion given the pale attachment that I have to my professional situation.

If only I had the talent to devise flavor and texture combinations from wildly unexpected places and then assemble and execute in curious and wondrous ways. But I don't. But give me a recipe and watch me cook!

# Day 110. December 8, 2009

People like stories—-they've been drawn to them since the dawn of man. They don't like ranting polemics like this thing you're reading. So I'll lapse into a story to try to stoke your interest.

I was a kicker on the football team in high school. I was otherwise inept at football because I was tall, skinny and weak-—three qualities without much future on the harsh gridiron. Plus, though plagued with extreme myopia, I didn't wear eyeglasses on the football field. Football, in my view, wasn't important enough to risk breaking expensive eyewear, which was a real problem given that my best position was wide receiver and I was oblivious to the approach of the ball until it was about five feet away. Lotsa drops.

But football was a big deal at New Providence High-—we drew some 3,000 people to our little stadium and I truly enjoyed the excitement of performing sports in front of a crowd.

Since kicking was an afterthought back then, I practiced like a demon over the summer prior to my junior year just kicking and kicking and kicking. So when football started up in the fall, I was the only one able to kick the ball more than 30 yards, except the quarterback who could kick it a mile but who was too important to handle such a mundane task.

So I was named the kicker and performed in front of huge crowds, was a perfect 7 for 7 in extra points (we went for two-point conversions most of the time) and earned a varsity letter.

Coach was so proud of my diligence that he ordered a special left-footed flat-toed shoe for me for my senior year (I was a straight-on kicker-—not too many soccer-style kickers in the early 70s).

Unfortunately, I decided over the summer that I hated football practice so much that I wouldn't stand for it anymore and instead got a part-time job cooking chicken so I'd have spending money to date my future wife. Told the coach, who hit the roof and threatened bodily injury for quitting the football team. Got some lousy grades in gym from him that year—-don't know if he ever got reimbursed for the unused left-footed kicking shoe.

So there's your story. Did it carry you along in an imaginative flight? And, is it really a story if it's actually true, or simply an anecdotal account?

# Day 111. December 9, 2009

It's hard to get a gun in New Jersey, so Bill, who had just been cashiered from his job at Metropolitan Life after 30 years cashed out his 401(k) plan, rented a Bentley automobile and drove to Virginia.

He pulled off Highway 60 somewhere between Richmond and Petersburg at a shack with a sagging wind-struck roof that had a huge wooden sign nailed up saying "GUNS AND AMMO." Bill asked for something powerful in a 9 mm and a box of "AMMO."

The clerk got something nice and shiny made by the Glock company and charged him $1,250. Bill offered to show him some identification, but the clerk seemed uninterested, his attention attracted mainly to The Judge Judy show on the television behind the counter. So Bill shrugged, got back in the Bentley and drove all the way back to Jersey.

It was about 4 p.m. when he parked outside the oblong low-rise office building in the office park just off the interstate in Iselin where just two days ago he was employee.

The guy at the gun shop had shown him how to load his weapon, which Bill, with some difficulty, accomplished. He was surprised at how tight the springs in the clip were when he tried to jam in the bullets. He should've taken the guy up on his suggestion to get that automatic loading device. But after a struggle, Bill managed to fill two clips, and then he just waited.

By 4:30, his former co-workers would start emerging from the building, and then Bill could go to work. Suddenly, there was Beatrice Witty, his office mate, with Sam Gatty his former boss. Great, prime targets!

Bill leapt out of his car and delighted in the fact that his targets were shocked by his sudden appearance. They were shocked to see his luxury vehicle, and the fact that soft-spoken Bill was packing heat! Then poor Bill took aim, but not at them. Instead of emptying two clips of vengeance into his former antagonists, he decided to squeeze a single round right between his eyes.

BANG!

# Day 112. December 10, 2009

So, Natalie keeps getting these headaches. A dull throb that starts between the eyes and slowly radiates toward the back of her head and by that time, she is flat on her back and moaning. Advil Liqui-gels used to do the job, but eventually the pain broke through and my poor little girl was reduced to a sobbing heap.

We tried massaging her scalp and that brought some relief, but after a while Natalie, in a plaintive shrill voice would go, "It's like lightning through my brain and knives through my eyes."

The doctors were no help. There were stronger and stronger analgesics prescribed, which mitigated some of the pain but the side effects were horrific, rendering my high-energy kid into an enervated zombie. There were dropped dishes and hours spent glassy-eyed and unseeing in front of a computer screen, and long gaps in conversational coherence. Even then, the hammering pain broke through the drug-induced haze.

So I got busy. I ordered some ether from Ebay and measured a small amount into a dampened washcloth. I summoned Natalie from her room and sat her on the living room sofa and placed the cloth across her nose, which immediately conked her out. I then sterilized a pair of tweezers over a Sterno stove and jammed it as far up one of her nostrils it could reach.

And, just as I suspected, I could hear the anguished cry of pain, not from Natalie, but from a starkly familiar creature from the marshes. I carefully manipulated the tweezers to facilitate a sure grip and with a quick, fluid tug, out plopped a tiny bloody frog, which squirmed free of the instrument and hopped clear across to the kitchen and into the waiting mouth of Tangerine, our very fat calico cat.

And that is how I cured Natalie's headaches.

# Day 113. December 11, 2009

Six months of winter are upon us. Today the temperature plunged to the low twenties and the wind-chill, a dubious measure I know, was much lower. Out I went running in my tights and sweatshirt and tee shirt and windbreaker and arctic hat and gloves. But the icy wind was like shark's teeth against my unprotected face and it nipped at the tips of my fingers like a snapping terrier.

Don't like winter much. I'm thin and hyper-sensitive to cold and of course I have the coldest office on the floor, so I experience winter 12 months a year. But true winter, what's beginning now with the coats and the ice and snow and the car with the doors that freeze and the engine that won't start once I manage to get in and the pounding discomfort of moist cold air insinuating itself in my joints as I wait on the train platform.

Just don't like winter. The electric bill and the gas bill and hauling the garbage to the curb through frozen snow and slipping and skinning skin on slabs of dirty ice. And it's only December 11 and it won't get much better until April.

All I have to keep me warm are the memories of the past hot August and running nearly naked and still swatted like a limp fly by tongues of fiery heat, my boiler overheating and my head light from heat exhaustion. Ah, those were the days!

# Day 114. December 12, 2009

There's a lot obsession with report cards. Today Obama came out with a report card on his own performance in the first year of his presidency. He gave himself a B+. After every NFL game, the New York Daily News and New York Post grade each player and coach on his performance.

They do the same thing for the baseball teams at mid-season and season's end. Grading is a true obsession and dots our conversations constantly, whether it's letter grades or the typical scale of one to ten. Popularized by the film 10, I suppose. So I think I'll grade myself.

Overall, I would give myself a B. I figure I'm good at many things, but not truly great at anything. I think I would grade out at an A for bagels. I make great bagels given that I don't have access to commercial ingredients and equipment; my bagels are fantastic in a different, artisanal way. Yeah, an A for bagels and also an A for risotto. I make a unique and generous risotto and I have never tasted better. Although, I'm probably a B cook and certainly not close to professional.

But for most things a B would apply. I'm a B writer, a B lover, a B husband, a B, maybe a C, driver. I would probably place myself as a C guitar player. I'm a B player in Jeopardy!. A B ping-pong player, but a D pool player, a D swimmer, an F chess and checkers player, and an F artist.

So here's a little smugness to temper the fact that I am clearly good at some things, lousy at others. I think being good at many things is better than being great at one or two things. Although I would love to be Joe Satriani on guitar, I would hope that my interests and skill sets are more diverse than a purely musical focus.

There are few geniuses rating multiple A's in broad areas. So few DaVinci's and Ben Franklins. But for us ordinary folk, I'll trade one A for five B's.

So based on all this, will I achieve renown only for my bagels?

# Day 115. December 13, 2009

Even though Satch was in his late eighties, he had come to fear death less and less the older he got. He remembered as a child having nightmares about the terror of death. Of no longer existing.

He tried to think about where he was before being born—of having no consciousness of existence prior to his birth or cognitive development.

For some reason that did not terrorize him; however dying-—going to sleep and not waking up for an eternity was a concept he could never wrap his head around and hence filled him with unbearable fear.

As he got older he learned to cope by simply putting death out of his mind. He never thought of death as a looming fate like he had as a child. As his acquaintances kicked off one by one, Satch concluded that death happened to other people.

He simply didn't accept the fact of his own death, because he knew there were no answers other than the unspeakable fate of the eternal loss of consciousness. Into his forties and fifties, Satch figured he would possibly embrace death as Nature prepared him for his own D-day. But it never happened.

Now Satch is eighty-nine years old and hooked up to a ventilator and a tangle of plastic hoses and various doctors have pronounced him terminal. And he feels like shit and has no strength at all.

But Satch refuses to embrace the inevitable, because even in his current state, he won't allow the terror back in.

He just can't.

# Day 116. December 14, 2009

People at work complain a lot. There's complaining and then there's complaining. Some people complain to make conversation—they're the ones who generally are dismissive of their supervisors' brainpower and general competence.

They also tend to diss the food in the cafeteria, the attitudes of their coworkers, various company policies regarding benefits and pay, and the lack of support and gratitude paid to their daily toils. That constitutes the bulk of corporate complainers. Experience has taught me that complainers of this sort are spurious malcontents and can be ignored.

If they work for me, my usual advice to them is to grow up and understand that there is nothing special about them, just as there is nothing special about me, and, sorry to say, you, too, my adored reader. Work is called that for a reason. Grin and bear it.

I do not complain about work, because it truly is not that difficult; my office, though cold, is habitable. My boss is decent and the people, though not exactly fast friends, are congenial enough.

My only complaint is I wish I didn't have to waste my time here and that I am underpaid given my rank, performance, and experience. The former is something the company can do nothing about, and the latter, while a valid complaint, is something I can either live with or I can search for a better situation elsewhere.

I've been in situations elsewhere and at places where complaining could be a real and valid exercise. But those are stories for another time. The moral of this story is a guy has to learn how to manage his expectations.

# Day 117. December 17, 2009

One of big mysteries to me is what exactly do managers do? That is not meant to be sarcastic or derogatory. Thing is, I've always been a doer. I've written professionally for quite a while and every job I've ever had involved mostly writing, editing and production.

Even in the days when I supervised several other writers and staff members, most of my time was still spent doing, not "managing." We have managers where I work and where I've worked in the past who don't do specific tasks. Project managers are one thing—-most are overworked wretches who constantly track progress, meet to discuss issues and hold-ups, check on deliverables from other team members and report to management and write-up specifications and so forth. Those are not the managers I'm talking about.

How about the bosses I've had? They're on the phone, go to meetings and occasionally spit out a spreadsheet. The key thing is, when they go on vacation, everything hums along without a glitch. When I go on vacation, work doesn't get done and things fall behind.

So are managers really necessary? I see department heads go on three-week vacations and yet nobody misses a beat. What value do those six-figure salaries add? These are questions—-I'm not saying such people are non-essential. I'm just not sure what I would do to fill the day if my job didn't involve doing something—-tasks, for instance.

I have a feeling that management here doesn't consider me management timber. I can understand that, because we doers do not quite get the je ne sais quoi of managing and supervising while keeping the hands unstained by specific project work.

But whatever it is that non-line management does to earn those big bucks, I wish I could have some of that intelligence and know-how.

# Day 118. December 18, 2009

I read a recent study today that said New Jersey is the 49th happiest state. That took me aback. The happiest state? Louisiana, according the research, but the data pre-dates Katrina, so I doubt the ranking still stands. Among the top 10 happiest states, four are located in the Deep South, which further bewilders me. Can one equate happiness to poverty, poor schools, and fatty foods?

Rather than condemn and mock the so-called happy states, what's this about Jersey, my home state? After all, we feature one of the wealthiest demographics, a lot of really smart people, great public schools, decent industry, excellent cultural choices and diversity, fine restaurants, and proximity to the greatest city in the world. (Incidentally, New York State ranked dead last in happiness.)

We have our faults, e.g., extraordinarily high taxes, corrupt government, weather that ranges from damp and chilly to hot and humid, excessive congestion, crazy drivers, high car and home insurance rates, high cost of living in general, a preponderance of harried over-achievers, and a general lack of respect across the country.

I suppose when you live in a state overloaded with strivers and people too bright for their own good, their standards for happiness can be overly lofty. Whereas an Alabaman may be content to live in a house, afford decent meals, go to a steady job, have their kids nearby, reserve an option for either cable or satellite TV, and maybe tailgate at the occasional Crimson Tide football game, those things may not be enough to satisfy Jersey-ans.

If we don't get that novel published, cop the CEO job, get the kid into the Ivy League, qualify for the Boston Marathon, or buy that McMansion in Mahwah—-then I guess we'll fall short on the happiness scale.

# Day 119. December 21, 2009

I've noticed that atheism is gaining more currency recently. Atheists have always been among us, of course, but it seems more and more that they are not only making themselves known, they are also becoming militant about it.

I am, admittedly, sympathetic to their cause because I also happen to not believe in God, but not to the extreme that I would declare categorically that there is no god. Where I fall on this particularly incendiary topic is this: just as there is a certain arrogance in declaring that there is a god and that we have a purpose in life, there is an equal arrogance in claiming the opposite.

I have been a human being for quite a while and, while I respect the fact that we have some advantages in the intellect department compared with other species, I know that our brains are quite fallible, as are our senses. It is truly hard to declare anything categorically given our observational and reasoning shortcomings. Thus I fall on the side of the agnostics. I doubt there is a god, but I can't prove it.

With that cleared up, today's observation is the virtual deluge of books and articles ridiculing faith and religion and mocking and castigating the various organized religions and those who follow them.

All well in good, in light of the damage that has been wreaked in the name of religion over the millennia, but for the life of me I don't understand the need to proselytize others to the godless belief. Where is the advantage? Seems nihilistic to me to demand that others believe in the non-existence of something.

Why start a movement? At least religions tend to be positive about the benefits of deluding oneself into the mindset of believing in the existence of a higher being who (suppressed chuckle) actually cares about you.

Who cares about an atheist? Make your point and go away—-don't demand others to embrace your disbelief.

A modest thought from a fellow team member.

# Day 120. December 22, 2009

This is my last entry of the year, as I'll be off from now until January 4. Since One Page a Day is a 365-day project and not a calendar-year endeavor, I now find myself about a third of the way through.

When embarking on any literary project, hopes are usually high, expectations and possibilities percolating in the feverish cracks and creases of my mind. But then the quotidian execution ensues and the typical doubts, depression, and disappointment set in.

As I approach the empty page each day with a similarly empty mind and clutch at elusive straws on how to fill the space with virtual ink, I have come to Doubt. Since the ground rules preclude me from going back and reading earlier pages, I have no clue if this project is going well or not. Have I been scintillating, have I been insightful, is there anything here of any worth or is this just another candidate for a box and a hot dry cubic foot of space in my attic?

At least this time there is no pressure. Past writing projects were attached to certain motives with clarity. I wanted to get published by a major publishing house. I wrote four books with that goal in mind. But in each case I shied away from the acting on that impulse, given the rejection aversion thing.

At least that kind of pressure does not exist for this project. This thing stands as a squeak of freedom in a life otherwise constrained in every way-—a lackluster job, a strong but tethered marriage and family situation, and limited financial resources. This stuff is just me screaming in a way that hurts nobody, doesn't waste resources, isn't fattening, and will just be my little secret that others can filch if they're so inclined.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

# Day 121. January 4, 2010

Well, Happy New Year. Since as long as I can recall, the "new year" has never been particularly "happy" for me. It has always occurred in cold weather amid shortened days. After the partying and excesses of the holidays, the gravity and implications of a new year settle in.

While a new year should be a time to look forward and assay the possibilities, the new year for me, for some reason, tends to be a time when I look back at the failings and disappointments of the past year.

There have been so many failures and disappointments to catalog—-another year older and the goals I had set for myself receding farther into the elusive, uncertain future.

Is it so tough to find interesting work, to achieve greater dexterity in my guitar-playing fingers, to run a faster five-mile race, to finally fix the roof over a corner of our sun porch that has leaked forever?

So I toss and turn for most of January and into February, an unnatural restlessness and depression as I dwell on the pages of my life swiftly turning and my inability or lack of drive to move the ball down the field, as it were.

When did New Year's Day cease to be a time of hopeful expectation rather than a ruthless demarcation of a lost, abandoned, or unreasonable quest for achievement?

I think it's mostly about the weather, though. January in New Jersey is cold and damp and bleak. I'm a hot and muggy person. Check back in June or July and my attitude will be entirely different.

In 2010, I'm sure, I will not publish a book and probably won't find a more interesting job or get any better at learning the neck of the guitar. It was so much more fun and exciting when I didn't' know myself as well as I do now.

There are no mysteries anymore-—now it's more an exercise in feeding the drive and staving off the lazies.

# Day 122. January 5, 2010

I hope you are reading this about three or four years from now, because presumably in that span of time things will not be as abysmal as they currently are in the U.S.A.

Life has become entirely retrograde-—unemployment, including those who have given up looking for work or are working sporadically, is about 17%. Jobs have disappeared by the millions. Micky has been out of work for over a year, and she has an amazing background as a software engineer.

She's not some unemployable artist or writer. Supposedly she should be marketable. But jobs have vanished or been sucked up by third-world countries by people working at 10 percent of the U.S. wage. The economy has been staggered by a housing bubble fracture, and banks have undone the economy through untrammeled greed and thievery.

The sad part is there seems to be no end in sight. My household is bumping along at a fraction of its former income, others are being thrown out of their homes by the banks, some are starving.

The times are the worst I've ever seen. If we could just flash forward three or four years—-the only healing thought is time. All things ebb and flow and maybe time will cure what ails us. The dark 2000s are ebbing into the pitch black 2010s. Still mired in the New Year's blues.

It's such a letdown after the rush of hope with the election of Barack Obama and the purge of the Bush atrocity. But what is one man versus a recalcitrant and hide-bound Congress whose members have vision only so far as the next election and the fat checks from favored vested interests?

Charity and altruism and statesmanship are dead. Barack is alone in a sea of the dead. It looks like America in decline, a victim of its own mendacity and myopia.

# Day 123. January 6, 2010

What transports you? Something that provides such intense joy that all other thoughts of the world vanish in its presence? Sex doesn't count because it's more or less a baseline experience common to all people. I'm not going to explain that comment other than to say that consummating the sexual act provides an intensity that is wholly embracing, whoever you are. Casual orgasm is essentially a contradiction in terms, but enough of that.

I'm transported by great food. My theory is I'm attracted by experiences that summon participation of the basic senses: taste and smell (which are also fairly integral to the sexual experience!). A well-prepared dish with a magical melding of flavors and textures and presentation can send me into a swoon so intense that tears will form in my eyes.

It could be a well prepared pasta dish with a tangy tomato sauce cut with a salty essence of prosciutto and parmesan and maybe a touch of sweet red pepper and the unctuous essence of pork fat mated with just the right mouth-feel resistance of rigatoni cooked el dente. Just an example, just like the perfect black sear of a Peter Luger porterhouse encasing the impossibly tender medium rare interior achievable only in an 800-degree broiler.

But then there's wine that, even after 30 years, I cannot fathom. I love wine but still cannot comment much further than "that tastes great" or "that's real fruity and lively" when it comes to a description of its pleasures.

While I can wax rhapsodic on the joys of appetizer, entrée, and dessert, I mostly fail in identifying the wood, charcoal, licorice, coffee, raspberry, huckleberry, straw, orange peel, grass, and hay of the wine-tasting experience. My sophisticated palate is still in kindergarten when it comes to wine.

# Day 123. January 7, 2010

Got a call from the blood bank today. I donate a pint of blood every eight weeks and have done so for the past 15 years. For some reason I am hounded by the need to contribute something in a community-service way, which seems to be a strange impulse for someone like me. It's not so much that I am blessed in my life with good health, a fine family, enough money to get by, et cetera and am dogged by the desire to "give back" to the community in some way.

Neither am I compelled through religious guilt to volunteer and donate, since my religion, as so described, is Devout Agnostic. Nor do I feel especially uplifted by my fine deed of providing precious bodily fluid to someone in need. I have never been able to parse the do-good impulse in my conduct.

I also feel that I should contribute cash to various charities and also occasionally offer up my time to help others cope with pathetic situations. I feel guilty that I don't do nearly enough—-this year I donated little cash because the economy finds me with negative cash for our own needs.

Am I prodded by observing the good deeds committed by others and shamed by my own lack of charity? Sure, giving blood is noble, but it's also easy and you can do it lying down.

Still, why would an apathetic loner like me be driven to offer time, blood, and lucre to the less fortunate? This sense of duty is puzzling, which for now I will attribute to habit. Much of my life is routine, and somehow these activities have been integrated into my process.

Lucky is the poor suck with internal bleeding who could use a few units of O positive. I keep making more all the time!

# Day 124. January 8, 2010

The thing I hate about memoirs, which this thing really isn't, is the tendency for self-pity. Is there too much self-pity in this? It's natural since we are all heroes in our own movie and certainly we root for the hero and hiss at their antagonists and bitch when things don't go their way.

If you're not a partisan of your own interests, then the tendency to lapse into self pity fades, not necessarily into objectivity, but perhaps more likely into nihilism.

I think I am less prone to play the victim to other people's designs, even though I may detect unfairness and venality in their treatment of me. I may hate them, but I would hope not to express the plaintive cry of pity on my own behalf, given my abiding tenet that I expect nothing from other people and even when they do something extraordinary or something especially rotten, I try not to be surprised.

Maybe it would be more productive to point out that the most likely catalyst to the "poor poor me" whine should be directed instead to God (who most likely does not exist!) rather than to mere mortals. Such as, why didn't God make me smarter? Why didn't God make me more talented? Why didn't God make me more outgoing? Why didn't God make my skills more marketable? Why didn't God make me more athletic? Why didn't God give me better eyesight?

I tend to look inward when I'm in a whiny mood. When I'm a victim of poor treatment by others or of circumstances, self-pity to me is bogus and unbecoming. It's the power, talent, and skills that are eternally elusive that provide the grist for my hand-wringing despair.

# Day 125. January 11, 2010

Today Mark McGwire finally admitted what everyone assumed years ago, that he was a raging user of anabolic steroids and Human Growth Hormone during a period when he was hitting home runs by the gross. I have an opinion regarding the use of pharmacological agents by professional athletes for the purpose of performance enhancement.

That opinion: I don't care.

As an avid sports fan, I am against cheating and I believe in a level playing field. But by nature professional athletes are constantly seeking an edge, given the brevity and extreme competitiveness of their jobs.

While I don't admire those who give in to the temptation of drugs to improve performance or speed recovery from an injury, I also understand that human nature wills out and there will always be those who will stop at nothing to maximize their potential, regardless of the consequences. Which, of course, puts those who remain clean at a disadvantage.

Thus, I believe the use of performance-enhancing drugs should be a choice. Those who want to take them can, and risk the long-range consequences and early death that may come from taking a short cut. And those who decide to make do with their natural skills can be reconciled by their state of virtue and underperformance.

After all, it's impossible to effectively police the advanced chemistry of today's performance boosters. Selective enforcement of the very few idiots they catch still does not equate to fairness. Legalize all drugs—-professionals are adults, after all, let them worry about their long-term health issues.

I'm just a fan, I'm looking for maximum performance. Besides, anyone who plays professional football for a living has to be out of his mind and must assume that he'll be a cripple at 50.

That's pretty harsh, for sure. But to me, selective enforcement is no enforcement at all. Let the player decide, not some out-of-touch sports commissioner.

# Day 126. January 12, 2010

Hard work is not always rewarded. Not everyone can fulfill his dreams. Not everything is possible in the United States. If you can dream it, you aren't necessarily capable of doing it. Get that through your head.

Those are the table stakes of life, a grand rebuke to the inspirational messaging that dominates the arts, the TV, the movies, and the delusions of countless mentors who sow the seeds of eventual despair in the hearts of the ordinary, ungifted mainstream like you and me.

Advocates of the limitless horizons tend to be those few who have achieved their dreams, thus their frame of reference is one of euphoric success. Sure, they worked hard and faced failure and rejection-—but their skills were sure and their visions pure.

I could scribble around the clock for years on end but I will never produce a Wallace Stegner. I could whack away on my Les Paul Epiphone for years and years, but I will never be Jeff Beck. The great successes are feted in books, TV, film and so forth because success is so rare. And it should be celebrated. Millions have worked as hard as Alex Rodriguez, but they will never hit a home run in the major leagues, much less 700 or so.

But this entry is not about failure and lost hope. It is about the quality of time spent. Do what you enjoy doing—-just don't expect results out of proportion to what's reasonable.

Be a critical judge of your talent. Understand that what you do on your time is what you do for love. I love writing fiction, playing guitar, running long distances, watching sports on TV. But I'll never do those things for a living. I'm okay with that now. It wasn't so long ago that such was not the case.

# Day 127. January 13, 2010

Can you imagine mass death? Most of us haven't seen death in the raw, say a fresh murder victim with arms and legs akimbo on the sidewalk with puddles of blood and whatnot, like the opening scene of a Law and Order episode.

A few of us have actually seen a loved one pass to the sweet hereafter, but I haven't. My experience is like most people's-—I've only seen stylized death following the exercise of the mortuary arts, which resembles death about as much as digital animation resembles real life.

Yesterday there was a huge earthquake in Haiti and some reports have casualties in the six figures. Imagine walking the streets of Port-au-Prince and observing the crumpled bodies and assorted dismembered limbs and torsos that amount to mass death.

What thoughts go through your mind? What emotions? What is the smell like? How can I know, having spent my life living in a sanitized world? Is it something that I need to experience? Is there some kind of pull that requires me to experience-—or perhaps a voyeuristic urge to embrace-- the terminal calamity?

I'll probably write a check to an aid group in an attempt to dispel the disquiet in my soul regarding a harshness and finality about life in places and situations that I can't wholly understand.

A check as a proxy for my presence, just like sending soldiers to war as proxies for an amateur like me taking up arms. Proxy this and proxy that. At what point are personal experiences replaced altogether by substitutes willing to shelter us from disturbing realities?

# Day 128. January 14, 2010

Sid liked his doughnuts and candied almonds. Whenever he visited the family in the Jersey suburbs he always brought a couple of those white bakery boxes tied with red and white strings and we knew that something enormously delicious was nestled within. Sid always demanded a sweet after dinner—-in fact he would gladly forego dinner and go right for dessert if he didn't have to conform to certain rules in front of the grandkids.

All I remember about Sid, my grandfather, was the easygoing old man with a shiny bald pate, a raspy voice and a kind hand on my shoulder whenever he took me and my sisters on various adventures. In a black-smoke belching peach-colored Chevy my grandmother called "Old Bokey," Sid and Nana took us to the zoo, the store, to visit superannuated relatives in the Bronx, and it was all good.

Sid would skip work as an elevator operator, short-order cook, train dispatcher so that he could be with the grand kids and we always had a great time.

Sid drifted through life, from job to job, moving my mom, her sister, and their mom all over the city and the state of New York. Going from town to town and scraping by. Sid existed for fun and treats, which made him a super grandfather.

Last time I visited the apartment on Sedgewick Ave. in the Bronx, I was about five years old. I remember walking pensively into the darkened bedroom and there lay Sid in bed in the middle of the day. He told me, "Collie, I love you. Could you ask your grandmother to bring me a jelly roll?" Nana said no. Back at home a few days later my mom told me that Grandpa had passed away. I remember thinking at the time: "Nana should've given Grandpa the jelly roll."

# Day 129. January 15, 2010

Never were truer words spoken and by whom I forget as I also forget the exact phrasing, but it goes something like this: The smaller the stakes, the bloodier the battle. I think the sentiment was in reference to the treacherous politics engendered in a small university's English department.

But I raise the point with regard to the annual process of judging employee performance of the preceding year. I have two employees whom I judge, plus I must judge myself. The process is hardly fair and balanced because, to some extent, employee compensation is based on the tenor of the employee appraisal.

So naturally this year, given my horrific financial state, I've waxed rhapsodic on my incredible accomplishments during the year, hoping to convince my boss that my performance was at the very pinnacle of departmental standards. And, as such, I was worthy of a raise and bonus befitting such behavior.

Yet, I know that the spread of dollars between the high and average performers is maybe a couple of grand, which, after taxes and other deductions, will be a few paltry hundreds. But the managers squabble for hours behind closed doors to fight for every penny for their direct reports in a vicious, no-hold-barred zero-sum game.

Much fury and dust raised for such minimal stakes. But I want every penny and more that comes my way. I deserve it, you see.

I DESERVE IT!

# Day 130. January 19, 2010

Saul's perception of his size and magnitude was entirely informed by his self-confidence. In his youth he was not a strapping lad with a wide gait swagger; but rather a wiry and nimble sort with uncanny balance, with movements quick and deft. With great dexterity he could paint a ceiling, clamber across roofs to purge gutters and repair shingles, tinker on the engines of his various motor vehicles, and route pipes and wires to save money on home repairs.

There was nothing Saul could not do and he was the wizard in control of his faculties into his thirties and forties and early fifties. Then the highly perceptive Saul began to feel the ever subtle decay of his hearing, his eyesight. Then he had to think harder to remember things that used to take an instant of reflection.

Eventually he was less steady on the ladder and, in fact, once slipped and fell a short distance that did more damage to his self respect than to his body. The vegetables that he chopped were now done with a shorter stroke and with less symmetry. And it was harder crawling under the car, over the fence, and on top of the roof.

The physical confidence that was once rock solid began to waver and Saul understood that he was no longer the same, and that he was weakening, deteriorating. And observation and experience of others informed him that this process was relentless and natural and progressive.

Saul was fit to do battle-—he stepped up the exercise regime, the resistance training, the running, and though he could do less and not as well, Saul hopelessly beat against the current, because he had no other choice. He felt frail and diminished and, a sensible man, he could not fool himself to project otherwise.

Saul knew as he lapsed into his sixties and seventies and eighties, it was going to get nothing but uglier. He would eventually lose all his powers and he would become a dank empty core where once fired a blast furnace of self-assurance.

His body would collapse within itself as he withered away.

# Day 131. January 20, 2010

Pretty girls want their pictures taken. They want to be models, and they say that it is a skill. To pout your face a certain way, to rest your hand on your hip a certain way. Turn and twist and face the camera-—it's a skill and all the pretty girls want in.

Well, Natalie has been caught up in all that. And she is thin and cute and 16 and the camera seems to love her. Her professional shots do not look at all like her, rather like the photos you see on the cover of teen fashion magazines. And that is Natalie's current obsession.

No, it's not the guitar any more or even the drums or the piano, although she dabbles with all three. Dance lessons ended years ago and the cake decorating phase also passed after a six-week course when the results hardly merited a spot on the Food Network.

Could it be, not to criticize my youngest daughter, those other casual pursuits are...you know...difficult? There is limited-to-zero immediate gratification in learning a musical instrument or one of the fine arts. It takes hours and persistence to gain some facility in the fundamentals of any skill, be it playing scales on a piano, writing a tight paragraph, or painting a vase of wildflowers.

Maybe I'm missing something, but I have been to the photo shoots and still must consider modeling unskilled labor. While I've been corrected by both my daughters that modeling takes a mastery of a constellation of skills-—movement, make-up, facial expression, wardrobe, poise, and personality, I will say, okay. That is all well and good, but modeling to me bears a talent relationship of Wii bowling to hitting the non-virtual alleys and Guitar Hero to shredding a real Strat. The talent is an illusion to justify a narcissistic phase. As we all know, real models never grow up.

# Day 132. January 21, 2010

I think the reason I always feel out of it is because I literally am out of it. I'm a pop culture flunkie. In music I was a student of contemporary rock and jazz in high school and college back in the 60s and 70s. Now I cannot identify most of the names on today's pop album lists.

Most of today's music sucks anyway, so I don't lament my out-of-synch-ness in that respect. My idea of contemporary music was pretty much arrested by the dissolution of Guns N Roses.

I also get the cheapest cable TV package available since all I care about is the broadband internet service. So I get a collection of about 15 channels, only 12 of which are in English. I don't get the premium channels, of course, and have never seen an episode of The Sopranos, Nip/Tuck, Mad Men, Six Feet Under, The Wire and all those other culture-shattering television landmarks.

Although Erica did inflict several episodes of that wretched sitcom with the Carrie Bradshaw character in it, which I found slightly amusing but mostly cringe-inducing.

But that doesn't label me as some sort of cultural aesthete, because my literary oversights are also legion. I have never read books by Michael Chabon, Jonathan Lethem, David Foster Wallace, Cervantes, Samuel Johnson, Borges, Ralph Waldo Emerson(!), Michael Ondajatee, and many many others. I've never finished Moby Dick or Remembrances of Things Past. But I have read every single Tom Swift book through 1963 and most of Aldous Huxley.

I'm a slow reader, so I've only sampled many great writers. I've only read two books each by Saul Bellow, John Updike, and Phillip Roth. I've done them wrong. But the thing is, at least I read, which most people don't do anymore. (Thanks for reading this--there are better choices out there.) Sure, culture is leaving me behind, but all in all, this is one of my more petty laments.

# Day 133. January 22, 2010

I'm feeling decanted. It's a January/February thing. The great ideas, the energy, the optimism. Decanted. It happens every year when I take stock of what is past and what lies in the future and then dawns the realization that I'm probably on the downside of the existence curve.

I've had these thoughts since I turned 30. And now they are no less acute at age 55. Modern science points to a lack of exposure to sunshine and a deficiency in Vitamin D, and probably several other vital nutrients. I don't doubt it, I hate winter. I hate having to layer on the clothes to go for a run—-it kills my time and enthusiasm and I never get the body temperature right.

But truly this year, is there no hope? My daughter is getting married but all I see is how the costs are burying us. I'm lucky to have any kind of job, even one I that fails to stoke my passion and I doubt that will change. Micky may get a job but probably at a fraction of what she used to earn.

I'll have that tight-money knot in my stomach for another year. My fingers still won't do what I want them to do on guitar, even though I'm sounding increasingly decent. Even this project is getting old, it's harder to come up with fresh ideas and I always do it at the end of the day when I'm usually depleted in the idea department.

Even the stuff I usually enjoy I don't enjoy. Except food. I look forward to my meals and finally laying my troubled head down at night for a short but satisfying snooze. I just wish there was more to look forward to when I awaken in the morning. Oooooo, we're so dark today. I apologize!

# Day 134. January 25, 2010

There is an awful lot of dishonesty around. This past weekend alone, my wife almost got ripped off, as well as my daughter (for whom mom and dad would pay the penalty). To spare you the dull details, my wife Micky applied for a job through the great democratized website called Craigs List and was accepted for a job that she could do at home, be paid under the table by a mysterious woman situated in the Cayman Islands and be available only through email.

Fortunately, after some research, we learned that this operation was a scam and probably had something to do with money laundering at a level and complexity too intricate for my poor head to get around.

For Natalie, we visited a children's talent agency that promised all kinds of auditions and "go-sees" if only we paid them $599 on the spot and used their photographer for publicity photos. Fortunately, we were well aware that talent never pays agents, rather agents are paid by producers and agents are not supposed to stipulate specific photographers.

Obviously, this is a scam because the agency probably earns most of its income from its clients and photographers, not from projects, the poor, starry-eyed kids and loved ones be damned.

Sure we're in a depression and so forth, but the wonder of living in a world fraught with endless snares laid by the devious and dishonest amazes me, because, misanthrope though I am, I just can't clip people for my personal gain without suffering the guilt pangs.

That probably doesn't make me better than the scammers, but it probably does, because something is missing from their nurture or they've been poisoned by experiences that enable them to objectify and ruin others for their personal gain. It reflects poorly on the species because there are more of them than we care to admit.

So good guys like us must keep our guard up. Be vigilant, be cynical—-it's your best defense!

# Day 135. January 26, 2010

Evolving as a writer seems to run in fairly common phases. The beginning writer has a head spinning with the whiz-bang stylistic tricks of authors studied in college literature classes and we all blast-off on a mission to be the next Tom Pynchon, James Joyce, Bill Gaddis, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Martin Amis, Donald Barthelme, John Barth and so on.

We all believe the world will applaud our mastery of the witty, stylistic and awesome strokes of our mighty and ingenious pen. And when our first books flop on account of their inevitable over-contrivance and incoherence, many of us wallow in a swamp of righteous indignation.

And that's where most of us remain until we find a mentor who can pound some sense into our needy artistic souls, specifically that true genius is rare to the point of near non-existence and that most of us ink-slingers would be better off adhering to some traditional values that never go out of vogue in fiction.

Have a story to tell. Create a commanding protagonist and supporting characters with layers of interest. Keep it moving, don't show off, because most readers work hard during the day and don't have the patience to have a good read interrupted by authorial preening. Stick to the story—that's what the reader wants.

Even then the odds are stacked against you. I'm old, I've learned my lessons about showing off, and still my works are packed away for no one to see. Even though the pages turn quickly and the characters are strong—-most writers (me, for example) may still lack that certain something that a publisher will notice and be inspired to take a risk.

I used to complain about it and lament my inability to catch a break. Not anymore. After all, there are more writers like me than there are of the other kind, who have a spot on the Barnes and Noble stacks. We keep great company.

# Day 136. January 27, 2010

I'm more than 42,000 words into this and am starting to worry that my most compelling ideas have been exhausted and that stuff is getting more watered down. I can't be sure about that, since I have not gone back to read prior entries, as per agreement.

Even though it is not my intent for the contents of this piece to be widely disseminated, my concern is for the potential head-shaking boredom that any poor reader will have to endure. My pontifications are hardly Emersonian, so I promise that more attention will be paid to delighting and entertaining. As the great pulp novelist James Patterson insists, most people read to be amused and escape their lackluster existences.

So, there's this: the Mega Million jackpot is now $121 million. The Mega Million lottery is an indicator of where my job satisfaction is at a given point in time. Used to be that I would buy a $1 Mega Million lottery ticket whenever the jackpot exceeded $100 million, with the reasonable conclusion that winning anything less is hardly worth the expenditure.

However, ever since I didn't get the job as head of communications, my lottery purchase threshold dropped to $90 million, then to $80 million, and now it's down to around $65 to $75 million, depending on the day of the week. I figure that a jackpot of $65 million will result in an actual payout of about $35 million, which, after taxes, will put about $22 million in my pocket. Since I want the money to last forever, it's safe to withdraw about $1.2 million a year for living expenses. I guess I can get by on that.

# Day 137. January 28, 2010

The boot on the back of his neck meant business. It was usually he who reduced others to that position. It was the reward of a successful scuffle, that assumption of total control. Given the proper leverage, you could completely arrest resistance simply through the application of pressure to the victim's neck bones; to the point, if necessary, to induce unconsciousness and even expiration.

Mark much preferred the booter position to his current status as bootee. In fact, this is particularly embarrassing, as the gleaming black boot arresting his motion and constricting his breath sheaths the foot of a young petite Asian woman in a tight leather micro-mini dress with a loop of fat black pearls around her neck and oversized square-lens architect glasses still firmly affixed to her face.

Gathered in a circle around the pinned-down Mark and his vanquisher is a tittering gaggle of young women in various stages of undress hurling insults in Korean or Japanese—-he's not sure which—-and it would seem to be a small matter of quickly reaching around and punching the foot away; but when he tries that move, the spike of her heel digs deeper into his neck, unleashing a cascading jolt of stars in his eyes followed by a terrific jab of pain in his kidney as his extremely agile foe unloads a pointed metal-toed kick to his ribs.

More laughter from the girls, more helplessness for Mark. He exhales deeply and awaits the second act. He's still not sure how he got there and he's damn not sure how or if he's going to get out. There's nothing left to do but relax and take whatever comes—-he has experienced worse.

# Day 138. January 29, 2010

The drama Maureen felt was not at all what is usually depicted in novels, short stories, TV, and film. And yet, here she is, a major character in a novel under construction by the famous failed writer, Carl Ehnis. She's in shaky hands! Maureen just received the news via email, or better yet, a text message and what she felt did not lead to any of these things:

  * A gush of tears and a tearing of hair

  * Screams and shouts of plain misery and humiliation

  * A running leap out her third story bedroom window

  * A sharpening of a knife, a loading of a gun, a brewing of poison and a plot of revenge

  * A rush to the freezer and the consumption of absurd quantities of extreme butterfat ice cream

  * Nausea and a bout of spectacular vomiting

  * A whimper

No, that kind of writing is amateurish and clichéd and a quick and facile way to move the plot along. No, all Maureen felt was a flowing numbness like a warm, gentle incoming tide of tropical waters. She tried to feel sad, the appropriate response, but sad wasn't there for her today. Just cotton in her head and a warm foam of nothingness drifting down her neck and back and spreading across her chest and arms to her lower extremities.

Maureen just sat in a chair in front of the living room window of her apartment and stared without expression down at cars coming and going on her quiet street on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Watching as drivers struggled to parallel park in tight spaces.

# Day 139. February 1, 2010 Replaced on February 10, 2012

As you've noticed, it's been a while since I had to replace a section. As some background, this particular entry had to do with some personal family observations, some perhaps not of the most complimentary nature.

If you're like most people, there may be family members with whom you do not particularly get along with, who maybe even drive you crazy, and, if they were not family, it may be quite the temptation to have them shot. But that's your dirty laundry and doesn't particularly interest me.

To expose that replaced entry would be akin to airing my dirty laundry, so to say, which I'd rather not do. Let it suffice to say that there was in this entry an element of harshness to my tone, which perhaps you can believe based on foregoing content. And, since you don't know the people profiled, it would lose much of its impact.

Sure, it may be more salient if the people discussed were in the public eye or even related to people in the public eye. But that is not the case and, therefore, please excuse my non- commitment to full disclosure. I'd rather avoid the misunderstanding and damage it could possibly cause to the those involved, and to me.

A former boss of mine at another company who was a jerk in most ways did have a saying that I use fairly often and it goes: "That is not a hill to die on." There may be several different hills that I may choose to die on. But taking a vow of 100% integrity and virtue in this endeavor is not one of them.

I have about another 13 lines to fill up, which I'll use to give a brief self-assessment of how it's going so far. It's been about two years since I completed the original draft of this project and I'm doing my first read through. The first 138 days do seem to be better than what I had expected. Some of the stuff is profound, some very witty. Maybe there's a future for me as an essayist.

But I'm also beginning wonder if I'll be able to sustain a train of thought for more than 400 words going forward. Of course we've both run across some dumb, boring, and tendentious entries, but not as many as I expected. Reading back through this has been something of a morale boost. And, since you are reading this, others must feel the same way, otherwise how did the damn thing ever attract the interest of a reading public?

I hope you're feeling a sense of momentum as you turn the pages and I'm appreciative that you've made it as far as you have. It is flattering to a writer when readers take a sustained interest in his work.

I wonder if now you are at all tempted to read one of my unpublished novels. Do you think I should ask my agent to take a look at them? But what if they confirm the notion that my fiction really does suck and I'm best at this kind of thing? Maybe I'll have some thoughts on this the next time I do a replacement...

# Day 140. February 2, 2010

So I applied for a new job. Like many large corporations, my company has an internal job posting system in which employees have first dibs on jobs that open up throughout the enterprise. It used to be a better perk before the online job mania hit and everything became instantly public. The result is that current employees are often pushed aside by outsiders with more sparkling resumes, but who are greater unknowns and thus a higher risk than internal candidates. At least that was the case for me the last several times I applied for a job post here.

About the job: It's another editorial job, a director of editorial in which I'd have three writers reporting to me. It's for the Retirement Services group, so at least I'd be working in an area that addresses what for me is a daily obsession. Imagine, immersed in retirement planning all day every day until my very own wonderful day of retirement.

To be real, it's still the same company. Still cranking out pap and dealing with corporate intrigues and enervating hours on the Parkway till I plunk my weary bones on my favorite TV-watching sofa each evening.

All the same, it isn't this particular habit I call my current job. The main attribute of this job is that it's different, the subject matter is fresh and new, the people are fresh and new, and I probably have a honeymoon period of a year or two before the inevitable misery slide.

Incidentally, it's highly unlikely that I'll even win the position. It's been a long losing streak.

# Day 141. February 3, 2010

The operation was routine, seldom with complications. Or so Lenora was told. It started badly and that should have been the tip off. The Filipino nurse whose job was to draw the blood probed painfully for a vein and jabbed and jabbed before finally achieving entry, a black and blue lump instantly forming on Lenora's arm.

The countdown from the anesthesia reached 75 before the drugs kicked in and next thing she knew she was flying. Flying and crashing against buildings and slimy green creatures breathing horrible odors into her face. She swore she could hear a whirring sound and sawing and scraping—-a witness not quite sufficiently sedated and bracing for the inevitable pain of a significant orthopedic procedure.

Out of the shadows of her flight popped Rene, a former lover with anger in his eyes and a sharp metal object—-a can opener(?) clutched in his right hand. And paralyzed, as we all are in sleep, she was forced to endure with eyes open wide as he grabbed a hank of her hair and plunged the steel triangular end of the opener into her eye socket, and half the world went dark.

Then another terrible jab and scoop and Lenora was plunged into a conscious darkness, a burning vibration where her eyes once were. No sounds from Rene, just tugging at her robe and jagged pains at her hips, a sickening crunch that had to be an axe and suddenly Lenora's lower half was a wishbone, thrust apart and snapped off. And just a burning vibration—-a dull ache; no sharp pain.

"Serves you right," mumbled Rene, who then dissolved as a presence.

When Lenora awoke in the recovery room, thick gauze covered her eyes. And when she reached down, all she could feel were the heavily bandaged stumps where her legs used to be.

# Day 142. February 4, 2010

Larry was always the salesman, in my mind. We worked together at the god-awful health insurance company in Manhattan, me slaving as a staff writer, as usual, and Larry as the special events and tchotchke guy.

Abused by management, yelled at, told that we sucked even though we were great. But Larry was always joking, bubbly, upbeat and impeccably groomed at all times.

We were all miserably paid, but I insisted that his ease and comfort with people and non-stop gab made him a natural for sales. He resisted for years until, finally fed up with the awfulness of management, quit his job and went on the road selling insurance plans for a competitor.

Today Larry has a sprawling mansion in one of those pop-up yuppie communities in Orange County, N.Y. His two kids go to private school and his wife substitute teaches when she feels like getting out of the house. They have a time-share through Marriott, feast nicely at New York City's temples of cuisine and have season tickets to this and that.

I should get a cut for being Larry's career adviser. Strange how skills are rewarded-—the ability to bluster on your feet offers much more value than the ability to bluster on a page.

There's no patience for the introvert in a party society, where prosperity is proportional to gregariousness. An open friendly face and a persuasive line of patter-—a priceless combination that I can only envy.

# Day 143. February 5, 2010

I wonder what it is that winter does to me that makes running so unrewarding. I find that I never look forward to a run in the cold, even though my performance tends to be better than in the heat. But the layers of clothing and the initial shock of discomfort and just the overall difficulty of rolling out of the bed in the dark and at the coldest time of the day-—maybe that's it. At least in the heat, dressing is simple-—shorts, singlet, socks and shoes and sometimes no top at all.

Perhaps not getting out in the sun is part of it—-a looming cloud of depression between my ears that can't be shaken on terrain made tricky by ice and snow. I feel slow and listless.

Running becomes no more than another source of drudgery—-an unrewarding task added to the heap of unrewarding experiences that dominate my wintry thoughts: my job, my impossible finances, playing the same pieces over and over again on the guitar with scant improvement. Yet I have little drive to learn new pieces that could potentially enhance my skills and sharpen my brain.

I'm not at a good place in the winter, which has been covered in other entries and yet I can't help repeating myself. Why have I grown so conservative and mature? Why has weed left my life—-that wonderful uplift that kept me going at times when poverty and other recreational outlets were unavailable? Weed could jerk me out of my mood.

I don't think Micky would understand. I'm a firm believer in medical marijuana in the treatment of pain. Is this not pain of a psychic nature?

# Day 144. February 8, 2010

The spectacle was never supposed to last. The governor who cheated on his wife was expected to retreat to some dark corner and not be heard from for months or years: the Spitzer and Sanford model.

But they are politicians and, like roaches, they may recede for a while, lie dormant. In wait. But then they re-emerge, they alone sensing some public clamor for their presence. Because, for them, the spectacle must continue.

The question that gnaws at me: How can these individuals have no sense of embarrassment and personal humiliation? Former New Jersey governor Jim McGreevey resigned from office because he was having an affair...with a guy and got caught and then with a calm and thoroughly composed demeanor mentioned that he happened to be a "gay American" (though merriment was absent from his face).

Rather than crawl into a hole, Mr. McGreevey not only failed to disappear, he made a noisy enrollment into a local seminary and is now an ordained minister administering, one can presume, to other devout, gay, Americans.

The spectacle continues—-I'm not sure it's wrong. People are driven to assume perches of power, or at least notoriety, because it affirms their vitality and existence, somehow. Whereas for people like me, public humiliation would be worse than death.

Maybe if I were more self-obsessed and had less of a sense of shame, I would be more successful. Maybe I would even be happier, but I cannot imagine it.

Are you a mole or a peacock?

# Day 145. February 11, 2010

Is the American automobile industry poised for a comeback? I haven't personally owned an American car since we got rid of our Dodge Caravan back in 2001. Piece of crap, leaked all kinds of fluids, would stall out for no reason, had no pick up.

Bought a one-year-old Honda Odyssey, which at the time, was the finest minivan a middle-class suburbanite could own. It cost a fortune-—no negotiating the price for this Consumer Reports best-in-class beauty. Then we spent two years dealing with electric doors that stuck and had to hassle Honda repeatedly to replace door channels and electronics. And now, with 106,000 miles on our best-in-class, we've blown through two transmissions in the last three months. A common problem as we found out through various blogs.

Now Toyota has just recalled millions of their peerless vehicles for maladies ranging from faulty gas pedals to brakes that don't work. And Honda strikes again, this time with air bags that deploy for no particular reason.

Japan is taking it on the chin, and meanwhile, down-in-the-mouth U.S. vehicles are being thought about again. Product quality has improved and now, maybe, the replacement Accord or Corolla is no longer an automatic decision. Maybe a few Ford Fusions and Chevy Impalas will sneak back into the mix.

The Japanese myth is in tatters and that may spell opportunity for our woebegone domestic brands. Just as the heartbeat of our industry was growing fainter and fainter, our Asian adversaries are coming through big time by lapsing into a sloppy complacency patterned after our late great American auto industry.

Me? I'm thinking models from South Korea.

# Day 146. February 16, 2010

I told the president of my company today that my daughter is getting married this year, which means that I have to work at least another four years. Perhaps this conversation will work to my advantage if my boss decides to fire me over the next several months.

My company has become known for its occasional purges. Entire blocks of people are discharged in a single afternoon and I have not only witnessed this phenomenon, I have actually participated in facilitating the plank-walk of a couple poor sucks.

In many cases these heartless ejections are fully justified due to poor performance. But in other situations, the dismissals are political or arbitrary. My own sacking, if it comes to that, will probably fall into one of the latter categories.

Since I do not want to be caught with that wide-eyed expression of shock and despair on my face, if it comes to that, I come to work each day prepared. I periodically print out the company's severance policy and an updated hypothetical computation of my defined benefit retirement package. Thus, when I am summoned to a meeting for which the topic is not disclosed, that thin file always accompanies me.

While I will no doubt be shocked and benumbed at the outset of my dismissal discussion, I will refuse to betray my inner turmoil and instead brandish my file. As it is done here at my company, the meeting will include an HR rep, one's boss and, of course, the victim. When and if it is my turn, I will turn to my boss and say to her:

"Okay, your enormous sorrow over my loss has been gratefully noted. You may now leave while Whatshername from HR and I go over parting gifts.

And with that I will conduct the meeting to make sure HR's numbers mesh with mine. When that's over, I will spend 23 minutes deleting emails, packing a few files, putting on my jacket, and leaving. This is simplified by adhering to a strict policy of not keeping personal items at the office.

I learned my lesson the first two times I was fired—-nothing is more awkward than packing up an office when you've been let go. For the next time, I've arranged things so that I will just...leave!

# Day 147. February 17, 2010

There is nothing more difficult than writing short. So much of what's written is fluff. So much is a clearing of a throat when it comes to writing. It's the most urgent flaw that those who make a living writing constantly battle.

While I by no means consider myself an excellent writer, I do verge on decent at times. But then I'm reminded of my inadequacies whenever a good editor takes his or her pen to my stuff (and it's usually a "her" because for some reason women tend to be better editors and proofreaders and, on the whole, smarter than me.)

More than any other form, sales copy must aspire to the greatest economy of phrasing. And just when I've achieved the final cut, my boss or some other decent editor cuts a line or two and trims words and suddenly the copy sings even stronger.

Professional writing means returning time and again and cutting, cutting, cutting. Seldom are muscle and bone sacrificed, it's always fat. So the next time you have to write something and you think it's finished, see if there's some way to reduce it by at least a third.

Few of us are paid by the word. So spend the extra time to write less. Cutting is an extreme mental exercise that substitutes for chess and jigsaw puzzles in my case. After all, isn't it better to complain that the book or movie was too short, rather than it was too long?

Compression is a game anyone can play. Using fewer words will attract greater attention than using more. I hope your job doesn't depend on it like mine does—-and I still do not consider myself good at it.

# Day 148. February 18, 2010

Lately, there's been a lot of talk about "animal spirits." In my industry, the investment industry, animal spirits refer to a school of thought called behavioral finance. It's a fancy and enormously complex field that essentially says people do not handle money in a rational manner—-that they follow a herd instinct, which results in massive and predictable failures in their investment strategies.

In other words, people buy when other people are buying, which raises stock prices. And they sell when everyone else is selling, when stock prices are at their lowest. Of course, disciplined investors (there are few of us) either do the opposite of the herd or just stick with a plan of investing regardless of what's happening in the market.

Most people are subject to so-called "animal spirits," which refer to atavistic emotions such as fear and greed, which are the true movers of the markets. Even today, when prices of stocks are relatively low, few people are buying because their animal spirit indicators are at the fear end of the spectrum. But when fear subsides and we're spirited away by greed, we'll all rush into the market again and boost prices to unrealistic levels.

I suppose animal spirits rule other areas of life, such as religion, the denial of global warming due to this year's especially harsh winter, and economics—-the animal spirits want to rein in the government stimulus program because someday it may lead to inflation, even though the consensus among economists is that the stimulus must be further expanded or else the economy will take eons to recover.

Animal spirits are powerful—-far more powerful than reason and logic. The joy of knowledge and understanding is nowhere near as compelling as fear, greed, faith, love, hate, and superstition. Strange how a modern society can still be so un-evolved.

# Day 149. February 19, 2010

Swirling snow and blowing drifts and whiteness in historic depths are nothing but my enemy. Where others see wonderland and closed schools and snowmen, I see inconvenience and back-breaking labor. As others in the family sip hot cocoa, there I am pushing towers of snow away from doors and down pathways with particles hard as frozen sand clinging to eyebrows, mustache, cheeks and jowls.

My one faint pleasure is cranking the powerful motor of my huge snow-throwing machine that cuts swaths through drifts collecting in my overlong driveway. My marvelous green machine roars and sends high cloudy arcs of liquid white solids up and over fences and roofs, clearing paths that used to take hours of labor when everything was manual.

It was the last bad winter of 2005 when I put my foot down and told Micky that unless we got a snow blower, no not just any snow blower, but the most powerful commercial-grade beast I could find, we were going to pack up and move to the ignorant South.

The day the semi-rig parked in front of my house and took up half the block and the driver fork-lifted my beauty into the garage, I came to hate winter less and less. Today I can cope with snow because I have a machine that grinds it up and spits it out with a fury and vengeance that matches my own antipathy to winter's most obnoxious behavior.

Still, even my green 9 horsepower MTD machine is not the total cure for the sub-freezing temperatures and howling northeast winds and icy, slushy residues of this hideous season.

But, baby, it's a start!

# Day 150. February 22, 2010

Sometimes the matter between her ears did not make the connections and served no further good than a pillow of fluff, more useful for the packing of fine china in boxes than to solve for the contingencies of ordinary life.

Bill was the blue-suited guy with the buzz cut and powerful scent of manly cologne when she answered the door. "Repeat that, repeat that," she repeated and repeated, and Bill patiently complied. He was there to collect. There to collect her.

"I won't go with you," she insisted, but in her softened voice. Bill looked into her eyes, deeply into her fluff and offered her a cigarette, lighting one for himself as well. He gently encircled her slender wrist in his hand and led her from the threshold of her apartment and down the four flights of steps, her door still open, but she wasn't thinking. He was an attractive man, perhaps she knew him.

"Do I know you?"

Bill nodded, "Of course you do. I am...Bill. I brought you the vacuum, you remember, but you never returned it."

"Okay."

Bill had a large black Mercedes-Benz and he held the door for her and she was almost overcome by the concentrated aroma of his masculine scent that filled the automobile's interior. Bill closed the door with a muffled thump and let himself in the driver's side. And then he looked deeply into her eyes, into her fluff. She looked confused.

"Do I kiss you now?"

"You don't have to, I'm only your brother."

# Day 151. February 23, 2010

When the yearnings of your heart are doomed, what is your recourse? The Mexican who dreams of life in the U.S. sneaks across the border in the dead of night only to spend years on the migrant trail, moving from one back-breaking job after another, never earning enough to establish a future for his family back home.

The line cook who dreams of opening his own place—-to be the boss and then to save for years and scrounge from friends only to see his dream open and close in a matter of months following 20-hour days of loving slavery.

The guy in his bedroom playing guitar and writing songs, who quits his job processing disability claims after cutting a demo disk at home and hitting the road and gigging in spots that pay less than his meals and gas are costing him. For years until spent and exhausted and probably addicted to various substances, he crawls back into the mainstream.

This, of course, is the flipside. TV shows, movies, and novels are not often about failure. We are taught to dream and to act on those dreams, but they're called dreams for a reason. They seldom come true, and when they do, their stories are told in books, the movies, the press and TV because they're uplifting and provide hope for us ordinary folk.

I have nothing against hope, as long as it is not coupled with expectation. Hope is light and fizzy, expectation is firm and muscular. Shattered hope is a balloon pricked by a pin-point needle of reality. Shattered expectations can be a psychic catastrophe and lead to a downward spiral where often there is no return.

High hopes are what get us motivated and out the door in the morning. Have many. But exercise caution on how you set your expectations.

# Day 152. February 24, 2010

Margie calls him juvenile. It's because of the way he looks at other girls that gets Jason into the deepest shit with his wife of 25 years. Is it juvenile to stare at processed Hollywood women with enormous boobs and cut abs and legs and butts devoid of the flab and craters and tangled purple veins that plague the bodies of mortal women?

Is the stirring in his loins a juvenile reaction when he sees these women objectified in the movies with their anatomies blown-up and overexposed on giant screens, much to Margie's outrage.

"What are you looking at? It's disgusting," says Margie, who's putting on a little paunch, but is otherwise nicely preserved at 51.

"Yes, it is disgusting and gratuitous." (Gratuitous: yes. Disgusting: no!)

Sure, Mason himself may be a little worse for wear: there's way too much of him sagging over his belt and the puffy sacs under his eyes have taken on a permanence. The thinning hair became too much so he shaved it all off and now he looks like Uncle Fester. Still, he likes looking at girls and imagining the things he'd love to do with them, but that's not juvenile. That's being a regular man.

"What if men were depicted that way-—strutting around with no clothes on and being treated like sex toys? You wouldn't much like it, would you?"

"Don't see how it would bother me."

And it wouldn't. But Margie doesn't understand that. She's a grown-up woman and the wiring just ain't the same.

# Day 153. March 2, 2010

It's been an endless winter with withering cold and serial blizzards. The hiatus between this and my last entry is primarily due to the latest blizzard, which took me away from work and this project, but it was no vacation.

Freezing rain and sleet and heavy waterlogged flakes piled up 8 inches high—-which was in fact less deep than the last three storms—-and which my snow blower powered through with some ease. These bones did nevertheless ache as I hurled that heavy beast about and shoveled in areas it could not reach.

Now it is March and winter's end is in sight—maybe no more than four weeks left of this. But the cold penetrates to my core. I'm not good with cold and each day rising at 4:30 a.m. for my morning run in the coldest part of the day.

Armored in layers upon layers, gazing longingly at my shorts and singlets folded unused in my basket of running togs. How I hate running in long pants and long-sleeves and jackets and hats and gloves and then hitting the freezing air mostly asleep. Only to eventually start sweating and causing layers and layers to stick to my body, weighing me down, discomfort and exhaustion in combination.

Sure I suck at running in the heat, but at least I'm not wearing too much.

I'm cold to the core and my skin is dried out from wintry abuse and it will take weeks and weeks of spring and summer heat to thoroughly thaw these bones. Till then, it's supposed to start out as rain early this evening and by the time I hit the boards tomorrow morning, it will be a mix of rain and snow—all kinds of shit from the sky and it's still winter.

At least my 1988 Mazda 626 knows enough not to start up in these conditions. Why can't this old man have that kind of sense?

# Day 154. March 3, 2010

I got caught the other night in a moment of extraordinarily inappropriate honesty. My wife of 35 years (in May) were discussing Tiger Woods' (of course) numerous indiscretions and the likelihood of discovery in most cases involving serial fornications.

I have never strayed from the bonds of the marital bed and would never do so other than in my fevered fantasy world and noted so to my wife. And she heartily concurred that she had never been so enticed by another man.

When she asked whether I would ever consider "cheating" (such a stupid word!) I committed an instantly regrettable faux pas by replying:

"Of course not, I'd get caught!"

BOOM!!!

There went a perfectly nice Friday evening at a local watering hole and the pleasant buzz of an ice-cold martini. Because the logic instantly went to that place in my wife's central processor wherein the ONLY reason I would not bed another woman was my fear of being caught.

The magnitude of alarm and pique and misery exploding from my wife cannot be done justice by my words. I fruitlessly tried to explain that nothing was worth risking the idyllic relationship we had forged over the years, especially some bimbo experiment.

Her conclusion was unshakeable: I clearly must harbor some deep loathing of my wife and a hidden desire to deflower others of her sex. And the only thing stopping me was the risk of discovery.

So extreme were the circumstances and my frustration, I did the only thing I could think of and threw a mighty tantrum. Stomping, throwing plants against the wall, slamming doors off their hinges and screaming at my wife for acting like an ungrateful witch.

After a few days, our mutual rage subsided and we are back to our pacific norm. With honesty you clearly can go too far.

# Day 155. March 4, 2010

Sometimes I wonder if I miss marijuana. I think I do. I haven't done marijuana in more than 30 years and it's amazing how societal norms inhibit us from doing what seems so rational. I think about it most frequently well after I've imbibed my Friday martini and am paying the price for its transporting and anesthetizing qualities that make it my very favorite drink.

Even though I know that it will leave me dry-mouthed and insatiably thirsty in the middle of the night and possibly with a headache at dawn, the allure and the buzz of my martini is irresistible after a week at my workplace.

The glory of marijuana is you get the buzz without the kickback. The reason Mary Jane is illegal is because it is indeed the perfect drug. Provides a wonderful buzz without the hangover and other nasty after-effects and is no more addictive than beer or wine and far less addictive than tobacco or whiskey.

The only downside that I can recall is the maniacal desire to eat copious quantities of junk food and the nagging pull of paranoia that you'll be rudely accosted by the narc squad. Other than that, reefer is the best.

Sure, I acknowledge that there are theories that the perfect high of marijuana can be habit-forming and, in fact, filling your lungs with the concentrated smoke of any substance could have long-term health effects. But too much of anything is generally bad for you and we just have to act like adults and employ a little self-discipline. We're not talking about crack cocaine or heroin here.

Fortunately my kids have never quizzed me about my marijuana experience during college and the early days of marriage. I would not lie to them, but I also wouldn't encourage them. I don't believe there is anything morally, spiritually, or physically repugnant about marijuana and it's certainly superior to alcohol in every way.

Why must we be so punished by such misguided laws and social norms?

# Day 156. March 5, 2010

My company likes us to memorize key messaging and other assorted corporate dogma. We must memorize our corporate goals, our mission, and the five important projects that take priority over everything else each quarter. It is important that we all stay on message at all times.

It's sort of like being a soldier. GIs wear the same things and learn the same stuff at boot camp so when one them falls on the battle field the guy behind him can take over without missing a beat. If my boss suddenly dies or quits, I should be able to slip right in and recite our goals and mission and pick up the slack as though nothing happened.

That's just good management. Perhaps I need to train someone to take over this journal, this thing that I'm doing. Since it tends to meander and drone with no clear direction or purpose, it should not take much effort to indoctrinate someone to the discipline of the daily entry.

The sticky part is under no circumstances can my replacement read previous entries because that violates the paramount rule of this endeavor. So I must do something that does not come easily to me—I must explain clearly the purpose, process and parameters of writing a page a day without the benefit of providing examples.

I don't think I will bother. This thing will die with me. In fact, I'm shocked that I haven't already lost interest in it and let it languish unfinished 100 pages ago.

It's my character-—I will see anything to the end, no matter how worthless, fruitless, and unrewarding. I will see this to the end. You can count on it!

# Day 157. March 8, 2010

Maury sat in the student commons strung out after a long night of self-recrimination and reeling from his bad break-up with Marci and her pointed non-acknowledgement of his serial text messaging. As he gnawed on the crusty roll that came with his tomato rice soup, he wondered if his One Idea was the right one. Did it cover all the contingencies? Was it at the core of what he was about and what he would become known for?

He caressed the side pocket of his long leather coat, rubbing the contours of his sidearm. He caressed the secret power of loaded death, assured by how easy it would be to terminate the self-loathing and cycle of disappointment that goads him into putting off the One Idea.

Stupid as it sounds, he was inspired by his advertising class in which his burned out former copywriter adjunct said no ad should contain more than one idea. People are distracted, people aren't too bright. Just give them one thing at a time to think about and maybe they will remember it.

"Just 15 minutes can save you 15% on your car insurance."

So what is Maury's One Idea? He spooned some tomato soup down his throat and savagely tore off another chunk of crusty bread. It tasted good, but that was not the point-—to be distracted by palatable cuisine.

Down went his hand to fondle the significant weight of his weapon. His One Idea. A cafeteria jammed with sullen kids searching for themselves at an anonymous community college campus in the middle of New Jersey.

Outside a pewter sky and wind-blown saplings in a feature-less landscape. His One Idea, he reached inside his jacket and discretely removed the gun and placed it on the seat of his chair as he rose to leave. Maury decided that the gun was a distraction to the One Idea that he was committed to executing.

# Day 158. March 9, 2010

I'm going down to the stream near my cabin tucked in a sheltered bluff in the foothills of Grandfather Mountain in the middle of nowhere North Carolina. I'm going to strip off a dead branch perhaps three feet in length and maybe an inch thick and collect buckets of shiny rocks. And I'm going to toss stones of varying shapes and sizes in the air with my right hand and thwack them with the stick held in my left hand.

This I will do for hours on end and pretend that I am running through lineups of various major league teams from the 1960s and 70s, with each thwack and swing representing the fortunes of each batter.

Batters will strike out if my aim is not pure and the game will be strictly binary in nature. Rocks that clear the stream will be home runs; everything else is a pop out or grounder.

This I will do for hours over a period of days, my hands worn leathery from the rough texture of my "bats," which will have to be constantly replaced as rocks carve grooves and cracks into the wood until the shredded sticks shatter.

I will play game after game this way, hidden from the view of my wife and others who will mock this silly pastime as my father did in my youth when I spent hour after hour hitting rocks with sticks at a nearby ball field. Though he shook his head, it did sharpen my eye and hone my hitting skills by the time my Little League years approached.

I still love hitting rocks with sticks, the rhythm of toss and thwack and towering trajectories that clear the riverbank and disappear into the woods with a whisper of striking leaves. It's what I call retirement.

Others love to toss strings with hooks into shallow water or hitting little white balls with sticks into man-made pits of sand. I like hitting rocks with sticks over running water.

I see nothing wrong with that!

# Day 159. March 10, 2010

It's interesting how expression of anger is not allowed at my company. Then, I wonder, how does one express extreme passion? Calm objectivity and extreme sensitivity to the feelings of others must be respected and practiced at all times.

It's amazing that I've lasted 25 years at a company in which one's boiling emotions must generally be suppressed, or, if expressed, done so in a circular and indirect way so as not to insult, offend, hurt, or otherwise damage the delicate equilibrium of my coworkers.

While sparing the feelings of others in such a manner may promote a certain harmony, my experience indicates that it also encourages groupthink, top-down management, compromised solutions, and general mediocrity.

Seems to me that many of the most successful companies tend to be the most internally blunt and competitive cultures, such as those at major investment banks and technology firms. But as much as top management encourages a "safe-to-say" environment, an open-door policy, a skip-step review of bosses, and a strict focus on bottom-line results, one is still scolded at performance appraisal time for direct and sometimes aggressive behavior toward coworkers.

Quite regularly I have been advised to tone down the sarcasm and strongly expressed point of view by past bosses. Most likely that's why my career stalled years ago.

I think tossing a little sand around in the box is a great way to inspire creative decision-making. But despite radical changes in management and structure in my organization, plain speaking is still seen as the enemy.

Maybe I should seek out a job at Goldman-Sachs!

# Day 160. March 11, 2010

I wonder why I haven't written a song in over 30 years. Is verse a young man's game? Must be, with some exceptions. There are superannuated poets and songwriters, but most of their best work came quite early. And then it stopped. When was the last time Billy Joel wrote a song? To say nothing about the Romantic poets who not only stopped writing, but also had a tendency to cease living before the age of 30.

It's the only time when I think I feel my age. I can run longer and faster than I could in my 20s and I certainly play guitar better. But the only time I write poetry is for birthday and Christmas cards to my wife. And it's a struggle.

In my 20s I wrote a bunch of songs with neat verses and interesting chord changes. Hardly professional, but better than average. And I think I'll find when I go back and review my old verse and crack open fiction I wrote 20 or 30 years ago that I'll be depressed by the level of imaginative creation I can no longer muster.

I used to write a page a day that had continuity, story, character, momentum, and even some biting emotion. Can't seem to summon that up anymore. Back then, ideas and creativity flowed, unlike today when my mind has become something of a desert of recycled thought.

So instead of a story with characters and plot, you're getting a fragmented journal of half-baked ideas and occasional inspiration. Like a sputtering lawnmower running low on fuel.

I think that's what happened to Billy Joel and J.D. Salinger and Bob Dylan (it's ugly when you force it), and classic rock groups that tour performing the same songs from 30 or 40 years ago because their greatness bloomed when they were too young to appreciate it.

# Day 161. March 12, 2010

Big time agency day for Natalie tomorrow. The place is called Wilhelmina, which seems to specialize in non-runway type girls and does a landmark business in commercials, print ads and so forth. It's an agency I've actually heard of and Natalie is shitting bricks over it, if you'll pardon, etc.

She clearly has the chops for this and, given today's technology, I should probably attach her photo to this entry, which has admittedly been overly low-tech up to this point.

She is prettier than most of the babes you see in magazines, especially when she tarts herself up for a photo shoot. And she has a crazy personality, which seems to be what they're looking for these days. So if I'm going to drive three hours in a rainstorm to central Pennsylvania for an interview, she damn well better get signed.

That is what fatherhood has become for me. One daughter was an aspiring dancer and Dad ended up being subjected to endless ear-splitting dance competitions and loitering in dance school parking lots for hours on end waiting for the artist to emerge from class. And now he could end up schlepping all over the universe delivering Natalie to photo shoots and so forth.

My punishment for not having a boy and coaching Little League and teaching Junior how to switch hit so that his career would not end abruptly the first time he confronts a decent breaking pitch.

As it is, I'm the only sports fan in the house and my antisocial nature will never place me in a bar to share wisdom with other sodden sports fans during the big game. My interior world has been reinforced by being a father of girls.

At least they don't smell as bad as boys.

# Day 162. March 16, 2010

I actually missed yesterday's entry because I had too much work to do. Thus I broke one of the central rules of this enterprise—-to do a page every day, not just days that I have the time. I could have come in real early this morning and cranked out an extra page and justified it by saying that my earlier-than-usual arrival time could technically qualify the page as "yesterday's" work. But I must be honest with myself and admit that that would've been nothing but a dodge! Okay, so I'm not infallible. I broke the rules and missed a day and so my penalty is the project will be extended an additional day to make up for my lapse.

Natalie got the call from Wilhelmina yesterday with an offer to be signed to their acting division. Naturally she was totally crazed with ecstasy and it does appear that if she sticks with the program, she could be successful in that field.

I was somewhat surprised that she would make the cut in her first attempt at such a prestigious firm. I've always been modest about the skill sets and talents of my kids, constantly on guard against coming across as a boastful parent—to the point where I actually tend to underestimate their skills and potential.

But there you have it, a thumbs-up from the toughest of judges. Natalie has the potential, and that's something we will nurture. In my extremely humble literary life, that's just another thing that I've never experienced-—representation by a first class agent.

Good for Natalie. Good for Natalie! There's something to be said for the occasional vicarious thrill furnished by the kids.

# Day 163. March 17, 2010

Today is St. Patrick's Day. It's another of many rituals that is observed in my little household. We collect rituals like gewgaws you put on a shelf and whose presence becomes familiar and comfortable like a well-worn sweater and a Friday martini.

I prepare the same dinner every Christmas Eve while Micky and the kids decorate the tree. We still hide the Easter eggs at Easter and our older kids never waver in their enthusiasm for the hunt. And so on for birthdays and Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day-—doing the same stuff that provides the comfort and mooring that our tumultuous lives need for security and compass.

So it's 3 p.m. and Micky is already boiling a huge chunk of corned beef that will shrink to a speck of its former mass by the time it's done around 7:30. She will boil the cabbage in the meat's cooking water and steam and spice the potatoes with parsley, salt and pepper.

When I get home I'll have a warm Guinness and a chunk of Irish soda bread while the kids and the fiancé, a new addition, watch The Quiet Man with John Wayne and Maureen O'Sullivan for the one millionth time and then we will all sit down to dinner. We'll take ridiculous portions of this monstrously unhealthy meal, slather everything with Grey Poupon and the five of us will devour quantities meant to feed 10.

Nothing unusual in any of this, but the ritual is essential; it must be today and not postponed due to scheduling conflicts. Sacred in a way. Like Communion in the Catholic Church, all this must be part of our St. Patrick's Day process. Maybe it has to do with the constant improvisation comprising most of our days and the chilling specter of an uncertain future that we cling so tightly to the prosaic nature of our rituals. But there's no mistaking their power—especially when the power is pleasant and comforting in so many ways.

# Day 164. March 18, 2010

Had a great idea coming in to work today. Forgot it. Shit.

I was just informed that the unofficial casual Friday that most of the gentlemen observe at my company is now contrary to corporate policy and thus I must resume wearing a tie on Fridays, like I do the rest of the week. Sure, there will be a lot of grousing and so forth, but surprisingly, I don't really mind.

I find that I write better when I'm in semi-formal mode. When I'm neater, my work tends to be tighter. As an experiment, some day I should write one of these entries when I'm wearing gym clothes. I bet my coherence would simply disappear and the results would be utterly unreadable.

So, savagely liberal reader, you're probably wondering why I, a rebel in so many ways, does not chafe at such an obvious exercise of arbitrary constraint as imposed by President Judy of my company, especially in light of semi-official "business casual" policy across the rest of the enterprise.

Well, the facts are simple: a corporation is a totalitarian regime amidst a democratic republic. Simply, if you find the rules of the autocrat in charge silly and capricious, you have the democratic option of quitting and joining the teeming masses currently drowning in the tide of today's 18% under- and unemployment rate.

As I said, I do some of my best work while slowly being asphyxiated by the colorful noose adorning my neck.

# Day 165. March 19, 2010

My brain gets more and more tired and by Friday afternoon it is not ready for more input, negative input, regarding the work that I do.

Unlike the novelist who expands upon the raw material of his observations, the marketing writer condenses and condenses and I am no more than a B performer at that. As noted, I am a B performer at most things. The wide range of capabilities that is inherent in my nature and interests precludes mastery and brilliance at any one thing. So to get the desired results requires more work, more drafts, and by Friday I'm tired of the work and the drafts and the revisions.

My brain is tired, mightily tired, and it makes me tired of writing-—the one skill that offers me a livelihood.

That's where the craft comes in. I need to use my hands, which taps a different intelligence. My hands for cooking, my hands for guitar, my hands for cleaning the bathrooms, my hands for changing the oil in my car—-I need the break and though I am no better than a B in any of those skill sets, my livelihood doesn't require me to be particularly adept at any of them.

Perfection is simply out of my reach (except when it comes to bagels and risotto). And the good is no longer good enough at my job, where the bosses have raised the bar and my inadequacy at condensation and prose that pops is tested.

It all makes me tired. It is Friday and I need the balm of my martini and a weekend of assorted physical activity.

# Day 166. March 22, 2010

Here's proof that brains are irrelevant to success. It is pointless to study hard, become proficient in a discipline and expect advancement due to merit. That's been my experience.

Today the health care bill passed Congress, a miracle slam dunk that took a year in the making because of a concerted campaign of lies perpetrated by its opponents. At various times, the legislation was accused of being a government takeover of health care, an encouragement of death panels who would rule for the annihilation of grandma, a huge budget buster and deficit missile, a repository of waste and inefficiency, a destroyer of small businesses and a further assault on the economy, and the end of doctor choice.

All these charges were handily refuted through non-partisan, fact-based sources. But the lies gained traction because the liars were local congresspersons who oppose anything that would spell success for the current administration. They fire up the masses with misinformation, which the voters believe rather than reading authoritative sources on the issues.

Because people run on feral instinct. They feel—they don't think. It's therefore no surprise that I am mired in my dead end hutch, given my tendency for blunt honesty and over-reliance on facts and research.

It also doesn't help that I refuse to mouth the dogma of company, policy, and team with the urgency and sincerity of the righteous who rule. Some are reasonably intelligent, but intelligence plays a minor role in service to their careers. It's persona, projection, and patriotic verve that is noticed and acknowledged.

Many of them I'm sure agree with the know-nothings who opposed the health care bill because it would... wreck... the... economy... and... destroy... life... as... we... now... know... it.

Would that be such a bad thing? You know, the destruction of life as we now know it?

# Day 167. March 23, 2010

There's a difference between depression and sadness. Depression, I've been told, is a clinical condition not necessarily connected to life events—more or less a brain chemical imbalance. Sadness, which can be a symptom of depression, is often caused by external events, maybe the death or loss of a loved one, a marital break-up, losing a footrace to a girl. (Incidentally, there's a word for that among guys in runner's circles: it's called being "chicked," as in "I was chicked five times in last week's 5K race. I'm sure not too many chicks are enamored with the concept or the terminology.)

So I'm feeling rather sad, oh poor me. Much of that emanates from a job where much of what negligible power I formerly held has migrated to my current boss. The work I am doing is being micro-edited, so my drafts are taking much longer to complete to abide the hyperactive orange pen of my editors and other co-conspirators.

To add to the sadness is I do, for the most part, agree with most of the changes my boss makes, which only diminishes my sense of competence.

I have at least five more years to work and my writing appears to be getting weaker and weaker, which makes me sad (though not depressed). One of my goals for retirement is to actually devote significant stretches of time to write another novel—but is that truly a worthwhile ambition the way things are going?

After all, will I be able to write at all in five years? Maybe not. All I see today is doubt and second-guessing in my copy. Not sure that I can spin a phrase any more. The embers growing cold? Even that sounds like a cliché written by someone else with sloppy habits.

Nothing at work is important to me today. I don't care about the company, its products, its people, its success. Don't care. But worse and most dangerous, this sadness and powerlessness is making me care less and less about my craft.

Got to go home. Sorry, reader, this is lousy entertainment. Got to put the clown shoes back on!

# Day 168. March 24, 2010

This should not be another downer. These entries, I think, should be more like a well-thought-out pop album. Fast song, ballad, fast song, ballad, fast song...I just hate books that grind on monotonously in the pits of despair in an effort to appear deep and literary.

I'm old enough to realize that few if any of my thoughts are original or profoundly gray enough to move an experienced reader. Also, I'm cynical enough to also understand that people do not read or engage in the other arts to gain wisdom. They want to be amused and entertained, and neurotic depression has a shallow slope of entertainment, except in the hands of far more gifted artists than I.

So there's this: Earlier this year, Natalie broke up with a boy named after an insect. But he, being an adolescent guy, is not over my hot little girl and so he moons around the halls and seems to always appear in her vicinity "by accident."

Natalie complained about his omnipresence to the guidance department, which did nothing, and to the vice principal, who counseled the young man.

But still Natalie found him cutting study hall to take lunch during the same period as Natalie and sitting at her table making moon faces at her. Rather than eat alone, Natalie sits with her back to him and endures, at least until yesterday.

I received a phone call from a lady at the Red Bank Police Department, who wanted further information from me regarding Natalie's request for a restraining order for one Michael B____ (the boy in question). After assuring the helpful police representative that my daughter faced no immediate bodily harm and explaining the situation, the application for the restraining order was withdrawn.

I do think the problem will resolve itself by the end of June. To Natalie's great relief, the young man is a graduating senior.

# Day 169. March 25, 2010

Best job I ever had was at the Golden Broaster, a storefront on the main drag in New Providence, NJ, which specialized in deep fried chicken and sliced potatoes cooked under pressure in about 11 minutes. I was a senior in high school and worked with fellow intellectuals from my class slapping breading on premium chicken parts and tossing them in a basket that held 36 pieces—9 breasts, 9 wings, 9 drumsticks, and 9 thighs—and lowering the basket into a stainless steel kettle holding a couple of gallons of Crisco heated to 450 degrees and slamming down the pressure cooker top, which resembled a submarine hatch, and cranking the handle to form a perfect seal.

We also had several deep fryers and I became quite accomplished at breaded flounder, shrimp, scallops, fries, and onion rings. I also answered the phone and packed and handed out bags filled with utterly delicious broasted/fried meals to our legions of customers.

I was dating Micky at the time and on quiet Saturday afternoons when I had the store to myself I would fry up lovely assortments of our most expensive items—the scallops and the shrimp, topped off with a couple of slices of New York Cheesecake: our only dessert, which was imported from Brooklyn, NY.

And then, there on the stainless steel table on which we breaded dozens of trays of chicken parts, Micky and I made mad adolescent love until the phone started ringing and I had to start earning my $2.50 an hour.

I loved the bustle, the swooning aroma, the danger of flaring grease, and the sheer exhaustion at the end of the day after feeding so many people the wonderful food that I had prepared and cooked and wrapped and rung up on the register.

To have an end product when the workday is over is something I miss and a satisfaction that I hope to someday rediscover.

# Day 170. March 26, 2010

I wonder about today's quiet and violent generation. I cannot read the kids because their lives are so much different than mine when I was a teen. They are wired, actually wireless, all the time and plugged into a shared electronic world of constant communication.

Teen biology hasn't changed, so the morphing of relationships and tidal pulls of social forces have sped up and the swirling dynamics of Kids World are breakneck and constantly changing. It's clear to see, even though Natalie tries to maintain a poker face and most of the guys at her school have that vacant stare and stoop-shouldered slump, the stuff between their ears is in a white-hot lather of confused emotions and stresses fueled by diets of sugared water, fast-food burgers and chips.

They want to scream but that's not cool, so they collapse into themselves and then the posts and texts become more disjointed, more angry. The weaker and more soulful sometimes take drastic measures. Suicides were few in my time because teens tended to act out more, which helped diffuse the tension.

But today the placid kids go down more often than ever before. Parents blame themselves, parents blame other parents for the pressurized home environment—the ego high of getting Junior into the right Ivy League school, regardless of the collateral damage it may be causing to Junior's psyche.

I see the tension building in Natalie, even though Micky and I make it a point to make no special demands on her—she does it to herself. Her furiously moving fingers constantly on a keyboard, frantic messages flung out into the ether in communion with a similarly crazed crowd kicking the bomb of the psycho-social uproar further down the electronic highway.

# Day 171 March 29, 2010

This is a little known fact. Today is my birthday. I never broadcast my birthday—it isn't and never has been a big deal to me. In fact, I'd rather not celebrate my birthday at all. When I was younger, I had difficulty handling being the center of attention. I felt exposed and conspicuous. Despite the outrageous and controversial things I tend to utter, it is more or less a mechanism for dealing with extreme shyness. But that is a subject for another day.

Plus, birthdays are hardly earned—if you persist, the day is going to roll around and persisting is not as huge a challenge these days as it was way back when we had to kill our own food and build our own shelters. And, I had nothing to do with my birth beyond tumbling out or being yanked from the birth canal.

My parents took care of the process of conception and my mom bore the brunt and discomfort of pregnancy and delivery. I was, more or less, a spectator. Mothers of the world are more deserving of celebrating the birth of their kids because it was their suffering and torment and follow-up obsessing that has earned them the right.

The birthee celebrates by tradition and default. Am I glad that I was born? Yes, I think so—there are many joys and rewards in life to be experienced and cherished. But then there is the looming horror of death and the terrible specter of the endless oblivion of non-conscious eternity.

While I haven't spun out at the hopeless prospect of eternal night, someday I may and then I will rue the day that I was born. The only question to ponder: where was I before consciousness struck—the pre-born years? With each birthday, I cycle closer to the answer.

# Day 172. March 30, 2010

Marcus fears sudden lapses and powerful explosions. He fears not hardware nor software, but rather the undependability of wet-ware—the newfangled word that describes the dense ball of sodden cauliflower housed between peoples' ears. The billions of firing nerve endings multi-tasking in evolutionary-prescribed ways and manifested in the motions, thoughts, and behavior of people.

But Marcus has a less lofty view of the problem. How such a few cubic inches of matter can control large things. He's thinking of a packed superhighway and huge semis sharing the road with his tiny Prius and hundreds of other cars.

The calculations that go into maintaining a true course at speeds that exceeds the ability of the tissue-y matrix to handle when sudden maneuvers are required. A misfiring neuron and that 10-ton rig jumps the lane at 70 miles an hour and mayhem ensues.

Such a complex/primitive structure in command of a Peterbilt projectile.

On days he takes the train Marcus thinks of the nine cars, each with about 100 passengers, and just one guy with one brain driving it. A single lapse and cars are strewn down a ravine and passengers tossed and crunched like potato chips as they knock against all the hard surfaces.

And it keeps going. One guy with flawed wet matter piloting jumbo jets, balancing huge girders with a crane 50 stories above a city sidewalk, and on and on. Weak creatures with imperfect physiology empowered by awesome machinery, a single nervous twitch away from mayhem.

Marcus thinks about this stuff all the time. He's driving down a two-lane highway doing 75 and cars whiz by in the opposite direction at similar speeds—no more than 10 feet away. How do they stay in line? How does he stay in line? When all it would take is a brief spasm, a slight jerk. A brain sneeze.

Mayhem!

# Day 173. March 31, 2010

Is hysterical laughter a control mechanism? There are frequent outbursts of hysterical laughter on my floor. My boss is prone to such outbursts. Room-rocking, crazed expulsions of high-pitched trumpeting laughter. The kind of laughter that I experience at most two or three times a year. And it's usually professionally induced by the likes of Family Guy or films like Blazing Saddles.

But the most innocuous and neutral quip, usually from an executive, sets some people in my company off. Which then spreads to others on the floor and suddenly it's a braying stable of cacophonous managers in the throes of paralyzing, spittle flying mirth.

I think it's a nervous tick, like "you know" or "like" or "uh uh" but so disrupting. Have you ever tried writing something while your walls are shaking from thunderous whinnying screaming paroxysmal guffaws? Guys do it, too, of course, generally along the lines of deep and guttural HAW HAW HAWs, but it's the high-pitched nervous screeching of women that sets me off.

I'm still scarred from attending innumerable dance competitions with teeming hordes of screaming pre-adolescents cheering on their teammates and causing a terrible ringing in my ears that lasted the entire ride home.

Then there's this: things are just NOT THAT FUNNY! Sometimes they're mildly humorous, even very humorous. But uncontrolled roaring mirth is simply not justified 90 percent of the time. It's a marking system—a non-verbal way to inform the mirth-inducer that they are clever, have wit and I'm smitten by your style. But me, I'm just trying to get some work done!

# Day 174. Apri1 1, 2010

Here's how I conduct my life without a significant online presence, without either an electronic date book or one of those business calendar books that people take to meetings with them and fill with pages of notes. And, I'll be the first to admit that my memory has never been much better than mediocre and has only grown worse, thus I don't trust myself to keep everything in my head.

I do it through a simple calendar system that I keep on the wall at home, a piece of notepaper in front of my computer at work, and the development of perfunctory habits so that much of my day is executed at the level of pure muscle memory.

For example, I never have to worry about where my train ticket is because I keep it in the same sleeve in my wallet, which I stuff in the same pocket in my pants (though I frequently change pants throughout the week). So I never find myself rummaging through stuff for things like train tickets, watches, calculators, guitar picks, etc., because they always go in their designated places so I don't have to think about where to find them because that would require too much mental capital, resulting in misplaced items and unnecessary internal turmoil.

And, the saying around my house, or at least the one that I invoke, is "If it's not on the calendar, it doesn't exist." I will not acknowledge a doctor's appointment, social occasion, or other scheduled events if they do not appear on the calendar in the kitchen. Keeps things simple.

Also, I pay bills on the day I receive them, if possible, so they can't get lost among papers strewn about my desk at home, which seldom happens because I file important papers immediately and keep my desk clear. Not because I'm a neat freak or obsessively fastidious—but because I understand my limitations. My memory is untrustworthy and I need to reduce opportunities for disastrous oversights (and usurious finance charges).

It's an inductive approach—rather than finding elaborate mental tricks to remember things, I try to reduce the volume of things that I can forget. Sound like a book idea to you? Go for it.

# Day 175. Apri1 6, 2010

Last night Natalie was multi-tasking with her laptop computer, our Mac desktop computer, while also texting furiously on her phone. Her fingers whiz across keyboards with amazing accuracy and impatience and while she is careful about obscuring exactly what she is attending to on the screens, I'm sure I'd have no idea what she was doing anyway. And the TV was on.

Why does this annoy me? Why does it annoy Micky? And why does it even annoy older sister Erica, who was also born into the age of electronic enablement? Of course computers were slower and more limited and so kids of Erica's age were less tethered. But Natalie is more or less an extension of her electronic devices. She is not a nerd, but a willing cohort of a lifestyle that predominates. In constant communication and visually in touch, the latest tracks playing through the tinny speakers of her iBook while the hi-fidelity stereo system in our house gathers dust.

The pendulum has swung widely from when I was Natalie's age, when the idea was to buy the most advanced, state-of-the-art sound system to reproduce conditions of the recording studio and concert stage.

Now, the idea is to download free music from obscure corners of cyberspace and collect thousands of hours of free music played through low-fidelity devices like laptop computers and iPod ear-buds, because, apparently massive quantity trumps hi fidelity. I'm one of the few clueless idiots left who buys CDs retail because they sound great on my stereo and car speakers.

Still, why do we all resent Natalie and her electronic wonderland? Is it because it's a world we cannot understand and requires opening up our minds to a new, foreign domain of technological immersion that has passed us by? Do we resent Natalie's disdain for living in the present as we see it? Do we resent the multiple simultaneous inputs that constitutes Natalie's present, which, because she's a kid, lacks the validation of our greater wisdom?

Could be.

# Day 176. Apri1 7, 2010 Replaced on February 23, 2012

It's been a nice run without a replacement page, and this time it had to happen to preserve my employment, since it had to do with internal politics and my impolitic take on them and how they impede potential quality outputs. In my opinion.

Instead I'll take on an entirely different topic, which has to do with an article in the NY Times that says a lot about the book publishing industry, which interests me no end since this is my first published book. It seems an author of five previously published novels had her sixth novel rejected by about two dozen publishing houses.

This was odd, because she and her agent felt the story itself was easily as good if not better than her previous works and was on a compelling contemporary topic. Apparently what happened is her prior book was a flop from a sales standpoint, leading editors across the industry to reject her latest based on sales figures compiled by the Nielson company. But this clever author came up with a nom de plume (a pen name, if you will) and resubmitted. Instantly her book was picked up and this "up and coming," unknown, writer scored a high five-figure advance and sold a bunch of foreign rights as well.

There are lots of takeaways here. I can understand book publishers are in a high risk situation and have to marshal their resources, but rejecting a book not on merit but based on past sales is, to say the least, a cop out.

Sure, they are pressurized by the e-book revolution and the blockbuster mentality driving the film, music and literary markets, but this poor author got the shaft and I will always come out on the side of the writer.

Yes, the writer was devious and did conceal an aspect, her identity, which was considered critical by publishers. Still, writing is a commercial venture and when it comes to marketing, whether it's a processed confection produced by a multi-national conglomerate or a literary diversion by a struggling writer, presentation can be left to the imagination. Novels are pretend, why shouldn't that conceit extend to the cover of the book as well, as long as the content delivers? Sure worked out for Mr. Clemens.

# Day 177. Apri1 8, 2010

Dennis the carpenter has worked seven days a week for the past 21 years. He installs kitchen cabinets and is the best and most requested installer for an employer who pays Dennis an annual salary of about $75,000. But if he paid Dennis according to his productivity and the value he brings to his company, he would earn twice that amount.

"I work. I love my work. I work alone."

Dennis calls the woman who has been his beloved wife for 35 years Mussolini. Which may partially explain why Dennis sees fit to kiss her good-bye every morning at 7 a.m. and return 12 hours later to her embrace. Every day for the past 21 years.

"I like working. I'm good at it."

Yes he is. Dennis is a master carpenter and a perfectionist. Every joint perfectly mitered and joined. Every strip of veneer perfectly affixed and matched to the wood grain pattern of its neighboring piece. His framing and installations always exceed company specs and his boss doesn't even do a quality check on Dennis' assignments, which he generally completes ahead of schedule and below estimate.

Dennis is 55 years old, with red hair turning to gray, with a wiry build and bowed legs, but with the strength and endurance to sustain the considerable physical demands of his job. Dennis says it's fear of old habits that drive his work ethic.

"I used to drink a lot with my old Army buddies. Used to smoke a lot, too. Don't do those things anymore. Don't even think about it anymore."

Dennis thinks about this kitchen, and the next kitchen. And solving problems of materials, dimensions, modifications, structure, and budget.

"I don't have worries like other people," he said.

# Day 178. Apri1 9, 2010

Wondering why he should be the cause for postponing her life, Eudora slowly poisoned her husband to death by adding trace amounts of rat poison to his food. She didn't exactly hate Stanley, but after 35 years of marriage, the spark was not even a glowing ember anymore and life had become dull, dull, dull.

She was so done with her paralegal job in Newark, dealing with pompous partners and insecure junior associates and crazy hours and unchallenging work. And Stanley's petrified income was making retirement a dream at best, maybe five or ten years in the future.

Stanley's untimely death freed up half a million in life insurance, which enabled Eudora to stop and restart her life. She announced her retirement after 30 years at the firm and didn't even hang around for her retirement party.

She lined the curb in front of her modest cape cod with Dumpster units and emptied her house of the detritus of 35 years with Stanley and the junk accumulated from raising two girls who were both married off and living across the country. She sold their two aging vehicles and bought a new Infiniti sports coupe.

No, she didn't immediately take off on the banal cross-country post retirement bucket-list trip. Instead, she drove to a strip mall and tested out all sorts of jazz guitars at Guitar World, plunked down a grand on a very fine Ibanez hollow body and signed up for weekly lessons with a cute musician a third her age who channeled Pat Metheny to a T.

And marathon training would begin in another month. She'd learn how to kill and field dress a deer and maybe jump out of plane with a ripcord clenched in her teeth.

No more to bed at 10 p.m. Eudora was going to find out who that David Letterman guy is.

# Day 179. Apri1 12, 2010

Eating psychedelic mushrooms, active ingredient psilocybin, seems to be taking on a new life some 40 years after researchers and shrinks shed the robes of shamans preaching the mind-bending liberation of turning on, tuning in, and whatnot. Now they're experimenting on dying people. A simple nibble and the mind sheds the shell of its corporeal boundaries and dances the ring of eternity, the fine bliss of integration into the cosmic realm of all being.

All described in The Politics of Ecstasy, the overheated manifesto from the late sixties by the irrepressible Timothy Leary. Well, now they're saying he was on to something. By messing with the chemical processes of the mind, these drugs appear to illuminate formerly buried subjects in the dark meat of the brain and set the whole organ buzzing and feeding impulses to the consciousness in terms of rejoining the cosmic wholeness of the universe. A happy, trippy hallucination, in other words.

It does seem a reassuring therapy to cancer patients and other terminals. And, better than anti-depressants and long grinding talk sessions with analysts. These drugs impart a serenity that leads to a deeper understanding of the cosmos and humanity's reassuring place in the soup.

The reports are coming in from the tiny coterie of scientists who have "tripped," as it were, and who insist that the experience was one of the five best of their lifetimes. Hardened professionals and skeptics like these, of course, acknowledge the possibility of illusion.

But if the illusion cannot be disproved and the conclusions remain embedded and a source of joy, what difference does it make? I could go for a tab myself—I could go for a Technicolor vision of the Truth, or whatever the hallucination comprises. Come on baby, everything old is new again, so why keep magic mushrooms only for the dying? Let my dancing electrons join the eternal massing mambo. I long to tune in and so should you!

# Day 180. Apri1 13, 2010

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and I was primed and ready for a 15K race (9.3 miles) through the hills of Middletown, NJ. It's the toughest race of the year, given its verticality and steep drops and a true test of early spring conditioning for those training for half- and full marathons.

I had a real fine run, conserving my energy for the especially steep climbs of miles 5, 6 and 8. Generally I run a steady, even pace throughout a race, but I had so much in the tank at mile five that I picked it up a bit in between the hills and so forth. Of course the last and steepest uphill at mile 7 to 8 took its usual heavy toll, but I toughed it out and suddenly I didn't feel 56 years old anymore and in much better shape than in previous years.

But then I turned the corner to the finish and noticed that I was almost three...minutes...slower...than last year! Well, it was a nice day in the sun and for a short while I was able to amuse myself by the notion that I had turned back the clock and assumed some of the old youthful vigor.

Rather than wax elegiac over the eternal truisms of athletic endeavor and the beauty and purity of testing one's limits against the cold objectivity of time, I'll instead just say "shit." Most things, unlike some wines and my Martin guitar, DO NOT improve with age. With age I don't write better, I don't run faster, I don't retain knowledge better, I don't become more patient and understanding.

But for some reason I still fight the fight, which I don't consider either noble or virtuous. It's just a choice, which I still deem the best choice, especially when you consider the alternatives.

# Day 181. Apri1 14, 2010

I am about to break a rule governing this project. The rule I am about to break is the one about continuing on a topic from the preceding day. But there is a twist here.

My declining athletic prowess notwithstanding, there are other characteristics at play when it comes to performance. Let me amend what was written earlier about how my times have increased drastically over the last year or so. What has really changed is the amount of effort currently required to achieve prior results. While I am not certain about the absolute decay of my performance, I am gaining a better understanding of my capacity to put forth maximum effort.

To wit, my constant goal since I began racing 12 years ago was to beat seven minutes per mile in races of five miles or less, and eight-minute miles in the marathon. It's been a year since I've been able to beat seven minutes in a regular workout and almost three years since I've done it in a race.

However, depressed by my excellent experience and very poor time in the recent Indian Trails race, I decided this morning to see what would happen if I ran as hard as I possibly could for five miles—to expend an effort that would leave me utterly depleted and exhausted at the end—to a degree that is totally uncomfortable and one to which I haven't subjected myself in more than a year. The result?

34:55.

That is, over five miles, a 6:59 pace! So, it proved two things: If I really kill myself, I can still reach my stretch speed goals. And, I really really have to kill myself in order to reach my stretch speed goals.

In the past, it only took extreme discomfort to break 35 minutes; now it takes crazed and loony pain to get there. Sad will be the day when I will be unable to break the barrier regardless of the magnitude of the effort. To me, it will be a form of death. Or at least another step along the Terminal Trail.

# Day 182. Apri1 15, 2010

The best way to slaughter criminals is by firing squad. I think that is the way the Chinese do it, so it must be the best way since they execute more people than anyone else and know their business. In America, we seem to favor the high-tech, lethal injection route, but it's problematical. It's been botched on several occasions and prisoners have either been subjected to excruciating pain or have been under-dosed to a degree that the sought-after effect of death was not achieved.

The electric chair is not better, plus I have heard that it's gruesome to the extreme, the shaking and the smoke, etc. Cyanide in the bucket strikes me as a little cumbersome and requires elaborate venting, and why should those noxious gases be allowed to pollute otherwise pristine prison air?

But mercy for the criminal is not my main concern. There are also the potential moral concerns of the executioner(s). How many people really want to be the one to end the life of another human being, regardless of the heinous-ness of the act that brought the poor suck to that point? Firing squads let the executioners off the hook.

Take a half dozen sure shooters with high caliber weapons, load one of the chambers with a blank, and thus the high degree of plausible deniability that you are a killer of a man is achieved. With the understanding that your weapon is potentially the one with the blank, you can go off and gleefully go for a head shot and still not call yourself a killer.

Yes, if we must have capital punishment, death by firing squad is the most civilized. And, if the victim is tied up in a body bag BEFORE the order is given, you don't even have to be subjected to the gruesome sight of a bullet-riddled body after the deed is done.

# Day 183. Apri1 19, 2010

We're half-through, or will be by the end of this entry. The urge to page back through this can at times be excruciatingly powerful. Yielding to various temptations is a difficult feeling to describe. There are times when I've finished a bowl of Friendly's Forbidden Chocolate ice cream, usually a modest portion given the propensity of certain foods to exact a terrible waistline toll, when I find the urge to slink back to the freezer for more impossible to overcome.

I've tried to intellectualize the desire. What is impelling me—the pleasant memory of the sweetness and luxurious mouth-feel? It's not a visceral pang, pain, breathlessness, or other cue that requires urgent attention. It's not a reflexive, biological calling similar to hiccups, nausea, or the need to eliminate waste.

It's just an urgent plug by some voice in the head and a flashing, pulsating center of pleasure in the brain. I can't find the words that aptly describe the overwhelming urge to load up my dish with ice cream. The same is true of any highly desired food, be it oysters, spaghetti, steak—things that I can consume until I'm ill because there is some indescribably addictive urge attached to them.

My fault, I blame myself and it's an inadequacy. Is it because the urge itself is overwhelming, or is it my inability to link words to a passion my intellectual shortcoming? Even great writers despair at what they ascribe as feeble attempts to describe a scene, a feeling, a relationship, a truth. And these are folks who come across so glib and polished to us mediocrities.

I'm not in their league, but I write enough to understand their pain. What draws me to the ice cream? WHAT DRAWS ME TO THE ICE CREAM? I wish I could clearly and completely express that to you, eager reader.

It tastes really good?

# Day 184. Apri1 20, 2010

Jerome has this annoying habit. When he gets angry or when he wants to show off, or when he's bored, he grabs a fistful of his own flesh and rips it off. His flesh comes off in doughy clumps. No blood, no gore, and a crater remains at the spot where the flesh was snatched. It's gross.

"Hi, Jerome, you really shouldn't wear a tee-shirt," I once said, indicating the bowls of emptiness where biceps once bulged and the elbow joint in his right arm exposed to the pale gray bones, which had been stripped of flesh from a prior episode.

"Well, fuck you," was Jerome's response and I could see that he was in a foul mood. With claw-like fingers he stripped off the skin and muscle from shoulders to wrists of both arms and tossed the clay-like slough at my feet.

And then he added something new. He unbuttoned his trousers—we were on the sidewalk, mind you, in a fully public place—and he pulled down his slacks, bent over and slapped the palms of both hands on his ample buttocks and dug the nails in and raked and raked. The flesh peeled off with sickening THWAPPs and Jerome just tossed his plasm in a pile at my feet. His butt was ravaged and he couldn't stop there. He tore off the rest of his clothes and in a slaking, clawing manner sloughed off his remaining flesh, exposing his entire skeleton, from his forehead to his toes, and between the ribs you could see pulsing organs, and yet Jerome was not yet finished.

He reached for each leg and twisted and twisted until they snapped off with a sickening CRACK! and then he rolled around and around in the filthy gutter. Then he snapped off his left arm with his right. And finally he lay helpless in the street. Skinned, dismembered, and helpless lay Jerome.

# Day 185. Apri1 21, 2010

The frightening thing about Alice was how capable she was of activities that seemed beyond her fragile demeanor. When she spoke her voice was so quiet you had to crane an ear. Her tone was always upbeat and positive; she was always, in her words, "having a great day!" Alice volunteered on this committee, raised money for that cause, and baked a cake for so-and-so just to make other people feel better.

She was popular at work, where she supervised a team of project managers. They adored her, even when she had to provide firm guidance, which she did through a fog of effusive praise. And still. And still. Behind it all was an elusive carapace that Alice allowed no one to breach. It was a barrier erected to protect her from the grimness and blunt forces that can chip away and chip away at an unsullied worldview.

It's interesting. There have been times when Alice has fortified her wall. That time of the force reductions when she sat face-to-face with coworkers who she had to let go. And she was so positive and reassuring, because she herself believed in the Ultimate Good. The wall, the barrier was her cherished tool. Pure, soft-spoken Alice was fortified against the world's harshness, never allowing her essential sweetness to slip away.

Should I tell her that she's living an illusion? Should I tell her that she's setting herself up for a tragic fall? Well, Alice, maybe I should love you instead and keep my mouth shut!

# Day 186. Apri1 22, 2010

Today is Earth Day. To commemorate the first Earth Day some 40 years ago, a bunch of flower children at school wore such things on their feet called "Earth Shoes." These bizarre items were actually shoes in reverse. They had backward soles, meaning the soles of the shoes were thick in the front and thin in the back, the idea being that there was something natural and earth-y about excessively stretching your Achilles tendons and courting the scourge of hyper-calf extension. Backward soles for backward souls—Earth Shoes didn't last that long in popular culture. Earth shoes were painful and ugly.

Things were a lot murkier and smellier in 1970. The U.S. was almost where China is now in terms of environmental muck. Our water was filthy, the air was disgusting--the smog was so thick in LA that you could bag it and sell it as back fill.

Things are cleaner now and most of the harmful shit that we spew is invisible. Earth Day and anti-pollution measures are more difficult because the effects of odorless carbon dioxide and other heat-trapping substances cannot be detected by the senses and their harmful effects lie in the future, thus thwarting what the masses need in order to act: an emergency that you can feel and touch and smell and see and has an immediate impact on you and the ones you love.

In the end, the earth couldn't care less about Earth Day. The earth will be here long after we are. Whether it's a steamy tropical inferno or a frozen blob of ice, the earth is an indifferent orb that couldn't care less about the dreams and hopes of its temporary inhabitants and whose existence is a consequence of the laws of nature. If we care so much about our earthly paradise, maybe we'd be more proactive for our own welfare if we renamed April 22 Human Preservation Day.

# Day 187. Apri1 26, 2010

I took Friday off and, as much as I like taking days off from work, doing so accentuates the frequent frustrations I have for what my job often entails. The seminal writing I do is thrown into a great processing maw that grinds, chews, reassembles, nips and tucks and repackages it in dozens of ways and iterations.

Generally, the final products that emerge have been sufficiently belabored to present a much-diminished version of my original creations. Of course, I'm a relatively rapid writer and often have time to get my work done and still be able to read the NY Times and make personal phone calls and so forth while others burn the midnight oil adding value to my drafts, setting up meetings, meetings, meetings, meetings to discuss and amend.

Generally I attend about four meetings a week that cover the same ground and projects that could be easily covered in a five-minute phone conversation. In my infinite organizational wisdom, I can think of two or three people we could let go and instantly help streamline and increase the efficiency of my department by 50 percent.

But we all need jobs. And mine is lot less oppressive than other jobs here, but that is a pale recommendation for it. This is just sour grapes, I know: I have a job when my wife can't find one and unemployment is about 15%. Also a pale recommendation for my current position.

It's a shame to be in a situation when "not bad" is actually a good day and "I didn't have a meeting" stands as a great day. It's easy to look back and wonder how I got myself into this situation. But from a macro outlook, perhaps my demands are too high. I'm better off than most people, earn a good salary, actually make a living as a writer while others slave away at various dull tasks with no particular skill set to call upon.

# Day 188. Apri1 27, 2010

Here's a little quickie exercise to see where your mind is at the moment. Connect with impulse and respond quickly and without thinking to the question: What thought could fill you with excitement right now?

No cheating! Don't weigh your options, don't consult your list of hopes and dreams, don't rationalize. If it has something to do with having sex, winning a million dollars, or going out and buying a car, I probably have to disqualify you because you probably gave it some thought.

Of course you're dying to hear how I would answer that question and, frankly, the here and now happens to find me at work. Thus the most exciting impulse I have at the moment is putting on my jacket and going home. The prosaic nature of that thrill does not necessarily make me a dull boy; rather, it takes some mental energy to sort through the options and come up with the one true thing.

For me it might mean going to a Yankee game, a fine restaurant, sex, winning a billion bucks—the expected stuff. But that requires a cognitive mediation, which is against the rules of this game.

So, the conclusion: My guess is our immediate thoughts tap current impulses and needs. Depending on your biological situation, the most exciting thing at a given point in time may simply be taking a satisfying dump, draining a fresh glass of water, or sipping the ice cold martini that's sitting in front of you.

Now if a platter of oysters were to cross my field of vision when the question is popped, then the mind could possibly leap to the next obvious impulse.

# 189. Apri1 28, 2010

Do you always find yourself waiting? I'm 56 years old and so much of what I do involves waiting. Right now I'm waiting to go home. On a longer-term scale, I'm waiting to retire. On the intermediate scale I'm waiting to hear whether or not I got the job that I applied for back in February. That's the worst kind of waiting—the open-ended waiting. For that vital piece of information or experience that will settle some issue in your life.

Sure, I'm about 99 percent sure that I will not be selected for the job that I've described a...long...time...ago in these pages; however, being informed of the final decision would provide some satisfying closure. Even more important than hearing about some job whose main benefit is the opportunity to trade this situation for similar situation elsewhere, is the most momentous event of all, outside of my death.

That would be retirement. I know when I want to retire, which is still a wait of several years. But that doesn't mean I'll be able to retire, thus tacking on additional years of waiting.

In our extremely brief presence in the infinity of time, it is disheartening to think of how much of that time is wasted by waiting. Of course, I seldom simply wait.

I carry a book or magazine everywhere I go and I burn a lot of time cruising the Web and writing my one page of nonsense each day. So waiting for me is background noise, representing milestones and anticipated activities that will, I hope, enrich my life in some way while I fritter time away doing other stuff of greater or lesser enjoyment.

Another way to look at it is you are always doing something. Waiting simply means looking to do something in particular. I guess the moral to pull from this is to try to do something fun, engaging, or productive while you're waiting. You know, to avoid the regret of lost hours.

# Day 190. Apri1 29, 2010

I find it disturbing how fat America has become. I read somewhere that nearly a third of our population can be considered obese. This compares with about 10% in Italy, 12% in France, about 18% in Canada. This obviously reflects lifestyle, especially diet. You don't need me to drone on about how the food industry dictates how we eat and all those hidden calories in processed food and the preponderance of eating on the run in fast food places where a single monster burger represents a day's worth of caloric intake.

But, it's everything. We are a sedentary culture that's sufficiently spread out that we have to drive everywhere and our kids exercise vicariously through the various computer games in which the real work is performed by virtual images.

It's depressing that the typical American is stressed by work and family, eats poorly, and fails to blow off steam through exercise. Thus we're fat, out of shape, addled, and prone to avoidable diseases.

I didn't want to turn this into a homily. And it isn't. I just find it distressing that most lack the willpower to eat the right foods and indulge in a modicum of physical activity.

The only thing that gives me hope is when I go to road races and compete with a horde of runners of all ages, most of whom have beautifully toned bodies and most likely impose some sort of discipline over their diets. But then we are the rare 10% who push ourselves to work out and respect the single body we're given.

Many try, but most fail because it's just not fun to exhaust yourself through exercise, even though a high level of effort is seldom necessary to gain benefits. The alternative is too draconian for most Americans, namely eat wholesome, flavorful foods in moderate portions. That's what they do in France and Italy and they certainly don't have better exercise habits than we do. We're just fattened up like pigs here in America—just look at the numbers.

# Day 191. Apri1 30, 2010

I found a wonderful website today called Glass Door dot com. You probably know all about it. Essentially it is a repository of reviews and salaries voluntarily submitted by employees at thousands of companies in the U.S. and abroad. It's like a Zagat's guide for working conditions at major employers and provides a wonderful unfiltered look at how companies are viewed by their employees and how much you can expect to make there. It's so much better than researching organizations by going to their websites, dealing with recruiters, or speaking to the flakmeisters in HR.

Of course, similar to Zagat's and other unfiltered systems, certain cautions must be exercised. Oftentimes people are not moved to comment unless they care only to air dirty laundry, and savvy companies will also plant positive information, similar to book reviews on Amazon.com.

It's also true that many of the posters on Glass Door have systems and operations-type jobs because, I suppose, these are individuals most disposed to frequent such bulletin boards. We in the communications and marketing trade are not as web savvy.

But what did I learn? It's not surprising, but most large corporations are the same. Employees tend to view them as bureaucratic, politically charged, overly conservative, and weakly managed.

There are few exceptions and, in my industry, there are no exceptions. In fact, my company rates fairly well on Glass Door compared with competitors. Another disappointment is my job pays about what it should, and in fact it was hard to find companies that paid much better.

The main takeaway here is the quality of the job opportunity matters more than the company, because companies tend to be interchangeable. A good, challenging job is golden.

# Day 192. May 3, 2010

My third and best book is called Race Riot, which is a tricky title that may conjure an image in your mind about what the book may be about. It is about a race and it does include a riot, but the race is a running race and the riot is caused by a certain chemical that gets people crazy the second they inhale its fumes. Powerful stuff.

The chemical and the book. The climactic scene is, of course, the riot, in which I am able to engage my awesome descriptive prowess to recreate the ruckus and various combatants, the field of destruction and the chaos caused by a freak accident. It describes an unleashing of hostility previously submerged by the human ability to exercise self-restraint.

This is a wind-up to yesterday's annual New Jersey Marathon and Half Marathon in which my redoubtable better half participated. Micky was never a distance runner, but last year she set a goal to run a half marathon and signed up for training and did the deed. A distance more than twice as far as she had ever run.

Well, she did it again yesterday, but the level of difficulty was ratcheted up. As you can see by the above dateline, we are in the first week of May, usually an ideal time of year for distance races in these parts.

It was 85 degrees with 90% humidity yesterday. And there was my poor wife trotting along for almost three hours just going and going and going. I raced from mile marker to mile marker by bike supplying wet towels and water and she got through it.

She is not a hot weather person, but what she is is a stubborn person who will do what she sets out to do and nothing can stop her. Runners are like that. I'm a runner and I'm like that. Maybe that's not a good thing—you can find that you put yourself at risk more than you should.

But what's more boring than a risk-free life?

# Day 193. May 4, 2010

The terrorists have sent mini subs off the coast of Louisiana and will employ high explosives to blow up oil rigs and cause massive oil spills that will pollute the lands and wreck the economy of the western apostates.

The terrorists are building secret rockets in the wastelands of Somalia and Yemen, which they will use to launch bombs and biological agents against Israel and its enablers.

The terrorists have a list of top western celebrities such as Tom Cruise, Kim Kardashian, Miley Cyrus, and Taylor Swift, whom they despise and have plans to kidnap and hold for ransom to be paid by the godless Jews running Hollywood and the music industry.

The terrorists are in your neighborhood and mine, but we can't see them. Because they are clever and careful and ever-watchful as they make plans to recruit our children or even that strange man down the street who never seems to put his garbage on the curb or pick up after his dog that shits on your lawn.

Yes, the terrorists will kidnap young white people who are difficult to profile, and then they will brainwash them in the ways of radical Islam and then wrap them in bomb vests and set them loose in heavily populated areas and then detonate them remotely.

The terrorists are all around us, you know. Just look up from your iPhone, unplug your ears from your MP3, and walk the street as an invader would. You will see them, olive skin and lean-limbed as they hustle along with darting eyes. Biding their time, dreaming of dirty bombs and plotting large-scale bloodshed. Yes, the terrorists are here and they're watching and waiting.

# Day 194. May 5, 2010

I hate the New York Times and I read it every day. It's a newspaper written by extraordinary people about extraordinary people. Not like me, for example. (And, sorry to say, most likely not you, either.) Let's begin with the rationalizations. Sure, if a person hasn't done something extraordinary or difficult, such as produce or direct a film, write a bunch of books, head a plethora of companies, cured the lame and halt, got elected to high office, excelled in fields both great and small, they wouldn't merit their few hundred words of print in the Grey Lady.

So for the few thousand covered in its pages each year, the Times ignores the millions of us unmentionables who dissipate the time of our lives in pure anonymity and un-noteworthiness.

But still, we all had hopes and dreams. By now my 10th book should have been reviewed and reviled by Michiko Kakutani and a celebrity reviewer in the Sunday Times Book Review. Or maybe a few snippets from Ben Ratliff about my show at the Beacon Theatre.

Nope. All I got is this 12-page brochure about our latest market neutral mutual fund that I have to finish by Friday and then have to deal with the savagery that an army of editors will inflict upon it. And then it will be printed on demand and eventually die a quiet death.

The Times does not review sales brochures or give a shit about what you do for a living, either. Doesn't mean that what we do and who we are isn't important. Just that the data of our existence is not news that's "Fit to Print."

# Day 195. May 6, 2010

As an investment professional I happen to know that it is a lot easier to buy a stock than to sell it—emotionally speaking. We get married to our investments, in a way. Many have been the times that I've plowed hard earned cash into an investment, only to ride the price down into the dust.

That is why I do not buy and sell stocks for a living-I just write about it. It's so hard to do the right thing when your emotions pull you in opposing directions.

There is a wonderful thing called a stop-loss, which automatically triggers a sale if your stock dips below a certain price that you set. Since I hate selling anything that I buy and am an avid buyer of my company's stock because they sell it to me at a 15% discount, I made myself an informal stop loss that I had to exercise today.

The stock market fluctuated wildly today, at one point losing almost 9 percent of its value. Trusty ol' XXX stock dipped below my $60 informal threshold late in the afternoon after being as high as $66 a couple of weeks ago. But it fell with the rest of the market despite announcing record earnings yesterday.

I forced myself to sell at $58.80, even though the buy-and-hold tug in my heart said no, because discipline is everything in investing. Of course I didn't sell all of it, maybe about 62% and made a tidy profit in the process.

But then the stock recovered to $60.36 by the end of the day. But it doesn't matter—you make your goals and you stick to your guns. Take it from the guy who's an expert at riding losses all the way to the bottom.

# Day 196. May 7, 2010

I wonder how smart people think—how they process thoughts. Not creative smart people, but people who are adept at problem solving. People who are good at what I'm not good at; for example solving Rubik's Cube, Sudoku, math problems, chess—things like that. It's not that I can't do those things, it just takes me forever. Is it the way my mind works? Tell me if this sounds familiar:

When confronted with a puzzle or other kind of problem, I use my internal voice as I reason through the situation. "Do I put a 1 there, a 3 over here, but if I put the 3 there I can't put the 5 in that spot." These are true vocalizations—and my brain cannot move on to the next step without responding to the vocalization with another one. It's the same with reading.

I've always internally vocalized most of the stuff I read. Most people do. I took an Evelyn Wood speed-reading course many years ago, whose process is essentially ridding students of the internal voice and connecting eyes to brain directly instead of taking a detour through the larynx.

It worked for a while and I was reading at a multiple of my former speed with equal comprehension. But it took a tremendous amount of discipline and sitting in hard, wooden upright chairs. Needless to say I've slipped back into my old habits and I now read slower than ever.

The point is I believe great problem-solvers are those able to naturally connect eyes to brain without vocalizations and thus process greater quantities of information much faster than a recidivist like me. Add a dollop of creativity, insight, and memory retention and that's where your geniuses come from.

# Day 197. May 10, 2010

I've cobbled together a band. It consists of me on lead guitar and all the other instruments emanate from a Yamaha keyboard that formerly belonged to my nephew, who died tragically of an asthma attack about 10 years ago. Since my kids were the only members of the extended family with keyboard skills, my nephew's parents bequeathed the keyboard to them, who never looked at it twice.

But, heck, when I saw that there were dozens of programmed style loops available and all sorts of percussion and other bells and whistles I immediately thought "band."

While the thing wouldn't power up, I was able to secure a fix from another brother-in-law who is an electrical engineer. He rigged up an AC bypass and now I'm in business. I feed the keyboard output through our little Marshall practice amp with my guitar and, it's baby, rock on! I've played blues, salsa, fast/slow/boogie jazz, you name it.

The cool thing is, it never gets tired, never loses a beat and I am sounding pretty damn good. My next acquisition will be a good pair of earphones so I can play as loud as I want without disturbing the household. While the style cycles are short and I don't know how to program my complex jams and key changes, it accustoms me to playing with an ensemble and exploring various musical ideas supported by a rhythm section that tethers me to proper keys and styles.

And its available 24-hours a day, seven days a week and doesn't have any nasty ego, drug or alcohol problems. My Yamaha is the perfect band mate.

# Day 198. May 11, 2010

There's a festering wound on the ocean floor in the Gulf of Mexico from a drilling that went awry from our friends from British Petroleum. The estimate is that 5,000 barrels of crude is gushing from the wound each day and that all BP's men and all of BP's horses can't seem to put a cork in that hole.

Thus we see placid brown curtains of petroleum ooze drifting to land some 50 miles away and further damning the poor Louisiana rednecks who must now deal with an unnatural catastrophe, with many still reeling from the natural onslaught of Katrina some five years ago.

Nature always wins, and not just the nature of earthquakes, hurricanes, typhoons, and volcanoes. There is the nature of man and hubris. The latter in the form of breathtaking feats of deepwater drilling using aircraft-carrier-like platforms far out to sea. With controls in place and emergency protocols that are bulletproof.

Until accidents happen. Man himself is a result of cascading evolutionary accidents. Accidents are in our DNA. If the worst can happen, IT WILL HAPPEN! Derivatives blow up, planes crash, oil wells explode, brakes fail.

The important lesson here is to understand that we are flawed. If we want cars to drive, jets to take us to far off lands, cheap mortgages and so forth, it's important to understand the price we have to pay. I for one am more than willing to sacrifice a few oil-soaked pelicans and a ravaged Cajun shrimp industry for the privilege of taking my daughter's GTI for a spin!

# Day 199. May 12, 2010

The fire and evil in others is outside the scope of my experience. Harboring strong opinions is neither unusual nor inherently bad. But what is it about so many zealots that drive them to inflict their belief systems on others? I'm of two thoughts here:

  1. On a positive note, I admire the confidence it takes to assume a "righteous" stance so powerful that all of mankind or, at least a specific subset, must adopt it or otherwise be shunned, humiliated, excommunicated, maimed, or killed. As you can tell by now, I harbor strong feelings across a range of issues and topics, but I would be the last one to forcibly insist that anyone adopt and execute on my views. I simply don't have that kind of self-confidence. Or arrogance. Or narcissism.

  2. My predominant view is excessive zeal is usually destructive. The practices of religions through the ages have proved that point time and again. Contemporary pig-headed ideologues, whether they be Islamic or right-wing extremists foment nothing but misery and servitude of one kind or another.

Besides, most demagogic views are wrong or misguided because they tend to engage the mind's irrational nodes. True believers scare me. Priests and monks and imams scare me. Mostly because they don't understand the dangers they pose to those all too willing to be enslaved by their influence. Absolute certitude and dogmatic blinders are the destroyers of personal freedom and are potent weapons in the hands of demagogues preying on the suggestibles.

Stay away from me. That's all. Stay away from me.

# Day 200. May 13, 2010

The question is: a Strat, a Gibson ES 335, Gibson Les Paul, or Ibanez semi-hollow body jazz guitar. They all have their pros and cons. And it's not like I'm in the market to drop a couple of grand on a new guitar, given the ridiculous tango I play each month with the bills (Micky, please get a job!).

The Strat is a straight rocker but the neck is a little wide for my narrow little hand, similar to the Gibson SG, the most beautiful guitar in my opinion. The Gibson ES is quite deluxe, even though I have never played one. I am drawn to its versatility as both a blues blower and a reasonable jazz machine.

I do think my future is developing better jazz chops because that style has so much more challenge and depth to it, so why don't I just break down and get a single pick-up deluxe hollow body jazz guitar from the likes of Ibanez or Gibson? Well, it's only one pick-up, thus limiting its versatility, despite the golden, classical tone and perfect neck. So maybe that's out of the question. Also, who knows, I may be able to get a decent Epiphone knock-off of a standard Gibson model at a fraction of the cost.

But then I'd be in the same boat as I'm in now, playing Natalie's Epiphone Les Paul, which is okay—but it ain't no Les Paul.

I dream of spending days at Guitar World just raking one axe after another and being the girl with a curl who just can't make up his mind (or the boy with the coil). Or, when he does, have the resources to fulfill on a notion or two. To be honest, I'm leaning toward the ES 335. That's all I really want in life.

Or maybe an Infiniti automobile.

And Restaurant Nicholas more than once a year.

That's really it. Truly.

# Day 201. May 14, 2010

Here's a story idea you can have for nothing and is based on an article in today's New York Times. GM's Onstar emergency road service enables its operators to do things remotely like start your car up if you've lost your keys or locked them inside and can automatically kill the motor if your car is stolen. In other words, we are in the world of networked automobiles where key functions can be controlled remotely anywhere in the world even while the vehicle is in motion.

So of course the idea is the mother of all car theft rings. Brilliant hackers break through Onstars' security codes and, between that, access to a database of enrolled vehicles, and Google maps, they set out to steal unguarded cars and guide them through GPS to secured lots where they are loaded into tractor trailers and shipped in containers overseas to places that fetch premium prices and are casual in terms of tracing vehicle identification numbers.

And here's an even better twist. These uber-hackers could also set up some kind of extortion ring wherein they use their remote control facility to take over the vehicles of powerful/wealthy individuals as they're driving and shake them down for money or influence. Those who resist will find themselves being guided off bridges or into trees and abutments by nefarious joystick-wielding computer nerds.

And think of the world domination angle. Massing armies of remotely controlled drone cars that run roughshod over the streets of major cities and otherwise induce chaos to achieve some economic or political end.

Why why stop at cars—take over any networked vehicle that moves. Like army tanks, construction equipment, large trucks. Well, that's the germ of the idea. You can fill in the blanks and embellish as necessary. I shouldn't have to do all the thinking for you!

# Day 202. May 17, 2010

It's a marvel how girls can turn on a dime. My girls, my wife, all female creatures, I assume. If you are a woman reading this, you must know that you not only look different, your wiring is completely different from that of a man's. This you probably know and have heard about numerous times in print, in person and in legend.

But I'm not talking about what you and I know, it's all about the deeply atavistic nature of these differences that no one can avoid or defeat. For example, pleasant dinner banter with my wife, teenage daughter Natalie, and 24-year-old bride-to-be Erica: I let slip some "comment," innocently of course, and everything stops stone cold dead and I can see the terrible hurt and anguish and complete disgust well up in Natalie's eyes. She drops her fork, huffs and looks down in her lap. (I don't immediately notice this change in the weather and keep on gabbing.)

The conversation moves on, and suddenly Natalie lashes out, "Stop it, Dad," asks to be excused and is gone. Erica shakes her head in disgust and Micky doesn't seem to know what to think.

"Did I say something?" I ask (INNOCENTLY!)

Micky looks at Erica. Erica looks at Micky. And then I spend the next 10 minutes trying to pry out of them the awful insult that I dealt my youngest.

In the end, it had something to do with a nickname that I had assigned to one of Natalie's casual friends, followed by a lame joke. Micky and Erica understood why Natalie took it the wrong way, but both agreed that she over-reacted. And then the table went silent. Women, silence, hurt, pain. Sympathetic pain. Happens all the time with women.

Men just move on. They don't dwell. Why must these discrepancies exist—they're universal and make sexual co-existence a near impossibility. I believe I can enter this observation on my long list of proofs that God does not exist. And if he does, he is guilty of a plethora of design errors.

# Day 203. May 18, 2010

Part of being a parent is seldom doing anything for yourself. I never buy myself clothes or toys or fancy TV sets or sound equipment or a nice sports car or anything that a guy of means would purchase for himself. There are a few indulgences, such as road race entry fees and a night at a hotel if I'm doing an out-of-state marathon.

I don't go out to fancy dinners too often, and it's never alone. The car I drive is 22 years old, which is also about the age of the clothes I wear. Anything new from a clothing standpoint is usually purchased for me at Christmas or my birthday. Except for sneakers twice a year, I never even buy myself running clothes—my shirts lost their wicking capabilities years ago.

I haven't bought dress shoes in about 7 years and feel guilty whenever I do. I don't go to rock concerts anymore (except at the Stone Pony, a club that has first-rate acts at less than $20 bucks a throw). The irony here is that I now earn 97% of the household income and everything is plowed back into the house and the kids.

And that's what being a parent is about—especially in crunched times like these when half the nation's breadwinners are unemployed and the bills keep mounting. Even when Micky was working and we were pretty solid, I still had to be goaded into spending, but I did benefit from vacations once or twice a year and we ate at nicer places. But now, we do Nicholas once a year and a driving/flying vacation 0 times this year.

But this is just an observation of fact. I don't really mind because, hell, I still eat well and live in a modicum of comfort. Maybe we have enough stuff. We certainly have a lot of OLD stuff. And is it really a "sacrifice" if we don't think about it? I never really think about it. So maybe it's not.

# Day 204. May 19, 2010

Today I learned that my keyboard at work contains more germs and bacteria than my toilet at home. While this seems to be a disgusting observation, it makes total sense. First, I use my keyboard much more than I use the toilet. And every time I use the toilet, I flush it, which washes away the stuff I deposit in it.

That leaves only two places where there can be a significant build-up of harmful microbes: the toilet seat and the handle. As far as the seat is concerned, the only part that touches it is my ass, which is cleaner than my hands since I keep it covered up and away from harmful dirt and bacteria most of the time.

Sure, the handle is an issue because it's often touched with unclean hands. Maybe it should be wiped clean after every use.

Of course I know what you're thinking. I'm a guy and maybe my aim is not always up to snuff, so to speak. Well, nobody's perfect, but when I make a mistake, I thoroughly clean up after myself with clean, almost sterile, toilet paper and it's pretty immaculate by the time I've finished. Since the rest of my household comprises women, only I present a weak link in that regard. (Can you be sickened by your own germs?)

My hands, which touch everything, often attack the keyboard in a less than clean state. Plus, I eat my lunch at my desk every day and no doubt the crumbs I spill between the keys don't simply vanish, but rather grow and propagate into life forms that are less than hygienic.

So yes, it's perfectly reasonable that my keyboard is a far nastier place than the commode. Obviously I should vacuum and spray it with anti-bacterial stuff on a regular basis. But probably won't. I am, after all, an old dog comfortable with old tricks.

# Day 205. May 20, 2010

This is a thought about why it is probably a good thing that none of my books have been published. The number one reason, of course, is that I hate attention. The old saying of the thwarted, "Attention must be paid," does not apply to me. Listen to me if you want, or don't if you don't. I do not care to be the center of attention, which can be a potential outcome of publishing.

There's the book party, where everyone makes a fuss over you, which I would find just as uncomfortable as when I'm opening presents on my birthday or on Father's Day. Don't need it.

Then there's the promotional tour in which I would have to travel to various book venues and sign covers and recite from my oeuvre like some kindergarten teacher. And say a few witty things and act author-like in front of strangers. And I tend to dislike strangers. I hate to have to be "on," which would be the case with a book tour in which I would appear and be interviewed by various media in addition to the dreary mall stops.

Worse, what if the book is an actual success and I win various awards? Then it's to various receptions and dinners in which I am again in the awkward position of being noticed and observed and then have to deal with the harrowing prospect of being witty and charming while being terrified by the sound of my amplified voice. It's never worth it, because the awards that award-winning authors win are pretty paltry, hardly enough to buy a second-hand economy car (which I happen to need very badly at the present time).

And then there's the worst possible scenario, being forced to cross the Atlantic and accept that literary prize in Stockholm and not just attempt to be witty, but also erudite and learned. No, I'm better off this way. Unpublished. Unknown. Unremarkable. And completely content and unbothered.

I suppose.

# Day 206. May 21, 2010

I consider myself a good follower. Working in the business world, however, there is such an emphasis on developing leadership skills, taking charge, being in the vanguard, and so forth. It's the leaders who achieve immortality, who provide the energy and direction that result in progress and prosperity for all and blah blah blah. So it is the mandate of management to develop great leaders. But, as a follower, or perhaps more accurately, a loner, the idea of leadership is mystifying.

I don't really know how to lead. Do I just raise my hand and say, "I'll take charge of that." Or do I just say, "Cmon boys, follow me." It appears that leadership requires a modicum of creativity and ideas. I have that, I believe, how else could I have come up with words to fill the last 240 pages?

Maybe it's a self-confidence thing. Leaders need a lot of that and that complementary trait of narcissism. Maybe I have a deficit of those qualities—I'm not really that sure about anything. I think leadership is an innate quality encompassing self-confidence, reasonable intelligence, an outgoing nature, and a thirst for power.

Sure, while I may roar in these pages, I tend to be a church mouse in a group. I don't like to speak out and take charge when others are involved because it means overcoming a sometimes disabling shyness or assuming responsibilities for which I have little interest or potential payback.

The world needs leaders. And followers. As for myself, I embrace neither role and would rather follow/lead my own path. Not because I'm particularly rebellious or iconoclastic. I just find the group-thing confining and frustrating.

# Day 207. May 24, 2010

Today is my 35th wedding anniversary—more than a third of a century. More amazing is I've been dating and/or married to the same person for 40 years. It makes me wonder when numbers like that began to lose their meaning to me. A 15th birthday, a 20th birthday, or holding the same job for five years at one time in my life had great resonance and produced a sense of wonder. But if I've learned anything as I've aged, a year is actually a very short period of time.

I remember how time dragged when I was a four- and five—year-old. It's a trick the clock plays on us for no particular reason. As we age, why does time speed up? It's just hastening us to infirmity, old age, and death. We were so impatient to reach our teens, to drive, to get to the weekend, to get married.

Now it seems that Spaceship Time just keeps gaining momentum, hurtling, hurtling. Forty years with Micky, 12 years at my present job, 24 years in my current house. When everything used to be three years here, or five years there, or only two or three years ago. Now it's 20 years ago or 30 or more.

And yet, I feel the same. I feel as healthy and strong as ever. My brain doesn't feel less supple. I don't feel that I act any more or less mature than I did decades ago.

Truly, the years pass but I don't change. I look the same, or so I think. Everything is in motion yet I am the same. That is a precious delusion to which I will cling for as long as I can.

# Day 208. May 25, 2010

Today was whistle-a-happy-tune day because I kept my job. The same cannot be said of X, who lost his. He was, in my opinion, a knowledgeable and productive worker who had the bad habit of publicly venting his frustration and misery with regard to the company and his professional situation. For the last 15 years!

He was never happy and tended to be acidic in his criticisms and, you may recall from an earlier entry, this is not exactly the right setting for such behavior. He did not exude the requisite zeal and blind enthusiasm that is expected. Given that I harbor similar feelings of frustration and exasperation with the corporate rah-rah culture, it seems I'm capable of stifling it sufficiently to sustain my employment.

Of course, since only I can do what I do here, a decision to jettison my morose face would be one with consequences, but consequences seldom seem to get in the way of those decisions. After all, X was involved in coordinating communications for obscure parts of the company that no one really knows or understands and it's highly unlikely that those areas and duties will go away with his leave-taking.

Thus, when I think about it, more than half of the summary dismissals over the last three years were not due to overstaffing or incompetence. It was more a matter of attitudinal issues.

It's okay to be half good at your job, as long as you have a smile on your face and a spring in your step. No Mr. Grumpies here. So my new wisdom professes that Woody Allen was only half right. Maybe 50%, not 80%, of success is showing up. The other 50% is smile and put on a happy face!

# Day 209. May 26, 2010

I'm getting tired of loud mouths. And not just the annoying cell-phone jabberers and train "buddies" I have to endure during my twice daily commute, although they're the worst. This is more general. Loud mouths are proliferating and worse, people are listening! The Limbaughs, the Hannigans, the Coulters, the Carvilles, the Sharptons, the Tyras, the Trumps, the Kardashians, the Becks, the Ochochincos, the Ahmindenijads, and it goes on and on.

We scribble down their tautologies and rants as though they are golden kernels of wisdom and it begets a kind of theory in my fevered mind about the nature of leadership—namely those who shout the loudest, engage in the most public displays of self-love and hyper-expression, who ceaselessly seek attention in person, electronically, and in print are those we look to for leadership.

And the thumping irony of this is as loud as the shouters shout, I can only assume that their noise is drowned out by the vast, echo chamber emptiness between their ears.

Loud people tend not to be that bright or introspective. They don't have the time or the patience to formulate robust, logical thought processes. Thus I resent their cacophony and take refuge in the silence of my home and the books and articles that I carefully screen.

The roaring culture deafens me with the ugly sound of over-expressed ignorance, superficiality, maudlin sentimentality, perversity, and the politics of polarity. Are there more stupid loud people today than in the past? I doubt it, but there certainly are more platforms from which to broadcast their bullying screeds.

It's getting so tough to escape the pervasive media that getting "off the grid" is becoming such a comforting concept.

# Day 210. May 27, 2010

There is a young woman at work who has the sunniest disposition I have ever seen in my life. When she says, "Have a good day," you know that she sincerely means it. And all her emails on even the most perfunctory topics always begin with "I hope you are having a great day," and they also have a line to that effect at the end.

She is petite and not at all unattractive. Perhaps she's in her thirties and she's not married. I'm not even sure she's dating. I suspect she is an avid churchgoer and most likely very active in her congregation, which probably precludes a sordid private life.

She has a boring-as-hell job and regularly has to work quite late and she never ever complains and always has a smile on her face. I'm not sure if she's ever been promoted, but it doesn't seem to affect the quality and quantity of her output.

She is truly a dream for her manager. Is it possible to be so utterly upbeat? What is it like to be inside her head? Sometimes I picture myself sharing a meal with her and all I can imagine is a desperate groping for conversational material.

I'm not certain that she has a sense of humor or would understand mine. Most likely she would consider me crass and politically incorrect. My risk could be damnation into the valley of the bland as I coax out her perspective. Or maybe she is among the world's great actresses with an uncanny ability to suppress renegade thoughts of negativity. Hmm. Probably not!

And then I wonder about other things, such as whether she drinks (I doubt it) and whether or not she is pro life (probably). She is a rare bird and the type for which idle speculation was invented.

# Day 211. June 1, 2010

Long Memorial Day weekend, a time to remember dead soldiers from wars, which, for the past 50 years of our history, have been efforts of futility impressed upon the population by the vanity of the holders of high office.

Yes, I'm wearing my high hat, but the facts don't lie. From Korea to Vietnam to Iraq and Afghanistan we send our kids to get killed to satisfy the egos of commanders-in-chief who, for the most part, have no direct experience of war themselves but are driven to project the tough guy image.

However, my sympathies do not necessary lie with the soldiers and the price they pay. Enlisting, after all, is a choice. Frankly, if you sign up to serve, be ready to die. Yours is not to question the imbecility of a G.W. Bush for his vanity wars—if you joined up, that's the risk you've taken. Be ready to be crippled or worse.

It's harsh and it ignores the subtext of the typical American war machine cannon fodder: the raw recruit with few prospects on the job front and probably not university material and a family too stretched to pay for his education.

So let the young man or young lady gain an education in adulthood, learn leadership and responsibility, perhaps even a marketable skill once they're on the outside. Sure, seize on the potential benefits—the free ride at the school of your choice once you've served your hitch.

But that is the hitch, you gotta serve. And, gosh, the supercharged warriors in Congress and the Oval Office have a constant need to project their excessive testosterone by sending youngsters to the battlefields of the Mideast and Asia.

Showing America's might is the first order of the day. Then maybe we'll teach you how to repair a jet engine or read a radar screen. It's simple—a military uniform is target before it becomes a portal to the future.

# Day 212. June 2, 2010

The final straw is seldom really the final straw, because we constantly underrate our capacities. I go back and forth with the Legal Department at work battling over words, phrasings, nuances, style, and so forth and we never weary of antagonizing each other over the most innocuous details. And just when something is finally done and put to bed, I get a call from Legal with another change—a change that should be the final straw, but then I do it, spouting horribly unprofessional invective in the process, but I do it. Eventually it is done, but the phone can always ring, another edit, another tantrum—but never the final straw.

I intended to help my wife rip out bushes and plant trees this past holiday weekend and I worked myself to exhaustion into the late afternoon and nearly 90-degree heat. And yet there were two more holes to be dug and I told Micky, "No, I will die. I am not a large man and you are having me do a strapping man's work."

So she takes my spade and tries to crack the root-infested ground on the spot of a future bushling's home, causing me to lift my weary bones and wordlessly grab the tool out of her hand. And I chop away at not one more hole, but two.

I'm sure that if there were a third bush, maybe even that one would not have been the final straw. It's the same at mile 22 in a marathon—when every bone and muscle in your body is screaming for mercy and the fuel is long gone from your tank. But you soldier on for mile 23, 24...26.2. And, you know what, you could even talk your brain into mile 27 if you were so inclined. The final straw is a bogus concept.

Don't sell yourself short.

# Day 213. June 3, 2010

Part of the difficulty of this task, especially now that I'm 213 days into it is trying to recall whether or not certain topics have been covered. For instance, I want to talk about fat people. I have a suspicion that this has been addressed in a prior entry because it is something on which I have a firm point of view.

If this has been previously expressed, please ignore the following paragraphs. (My wife insisted that if I spent a few minutes every day solving Sudoku puzzles, my memory skills would improve. Well, I have learned to do Sudoku and what's really improved is my ability to...do Sudoku. I'm up to Medium difficulty now and, in fact, the other night I started a Hard one. Only was able to fill in two numbers—I'm not at that level yet).

Fat people upset me. It's not just about their gross dimensions, it is the facile conclusions I draw from their appearance. To me, my knee-jerk reaction is that these people are weak-willed, lazy, and insatiable. Of course, intellectually, I understand that it isn't as simple as that. A person's weight is more influenced by genetic and age factors, dietary ignorance, daily stresses and time constraints on exercise regimens, and so forth.

Most fat people don't like being fat—it's ugly, uncomfortable, embarrassing, and unhealthy. They diet and often lose prodigious amounts of weight that invariably returns because fat is a lifestyle and a hard-wired curse, not simply a diet.

So bottom line, I can sympathize with the stigma and difficulties faced by fat people. Some are doomed to that condition. I'm just fortunate that my own weight is kept under control through vigorous exercise and a modicum of dietary self-control.

I just think people can do more. And they should do more because obesity is sending health care premiums through the roof and weakening floorboards in today's poorly constructed homes.

# Day 214. June 7, 2010

The Oakland Raiders suck and that's too bad. Under a younger Al Davis the Raiders were known for winning and projecting a fierce and ugly attitude so resonant to the game of football as played in the 70s and 80s. They didn't just win, they crushed, spat, and made you bleed and their fans would dress like Barbarians to home games and that was truly the Raiders mystique.

But now they are the worst team in the league and have been for years. The genius of Al Davis was the ability to spot misfits and degenerates discarded by other teams and mold them into a raging, disciplined band of terrorizing winners. Al Davis still heads to the discard pile and salvages the outlaws and cast-offs, but the magic is gone and the discards are truly where they belonged.

Al can't draft straight and he can't sign free agents straight and even his coaching choices are head scratchers.

Al Davis is 77 years old and is washed up. As owner, he's the only one who can fire himself. But like lots of old, washed-up guys, Al can't see the light—instead he contends that he's misconstrued and is perhaps suffering a streak of bad luck.

What happens to bright, insightful people who lose their touch and fail to recognize it? Ballplayers who hang on too long, songwriters who lose their knack, executives who no longer can think clearly through the fog of competing interests.

Maybe it's because I'm not a genius or have never experienced sensational success that I can see that my writing is not as creative as it once was, that my outside shot is not as sharp as it used to be, that I'm certainly not as fleet of foot as I was five years ago.

But more important—I'm reconciled to the verity that those peak performances are likely gone forever. It's tougher for top achievers to recognize when they've lost their edge. Few withdraw graciously.

# Day 215. June 8, 2010 Replaced on March 2, 2012

Don't worry, you're not missing anything. This one had to do with a friend of mine who had a fairly disastrous home life due to a dysfunctional spouse. He has since found happiness with another. Enough said.

Since it's now two years later than the replaced date of this entry, let's bring things up to date. Micky is still out of work, even though I found her a four-month assignment at my company, which was well paying, but which ended back in November. They say things are looking up in the economy and there's a slight improvement on the job front, but we don't see it at our house.

Natalie has been doing on-line schooling at home for her senior year, since the idea was to free her up to seek acting and modeling assignments, which would have played havoc on the regular high school schedule—had she found any acting or modeling assignments!

The real reason Natalie wanted home schooling was she was bored, hated the kids at school, and was ready to move on. Of course she misses the kids who now ignore her because she is out of sight, but it has yet to dawn on her that it is the job of teens to be miserable regardless of their circumstances. Dad's pretty happy about it because he's saving a lot of money that used to be paid to an outside school district and we're finally buying new furniture

You may be amazed, but nothing has really changed for me. Two years have passed, still at the same job, still get the same annual bonuses even though sales at my company have doubled in the teeth of a lousy economy. Perhaps the only change is my attitude—there's less anger now as I've become reconciled to the situation. I know what's expected and do what's expected.

In the instances when I do more than expected, I am thanked but not materially rewarded—but the difference is I don't mind. I'm coming closer to my number. Getting closer to my number and the market's doing well.

# Day 216. June 10, 2010

Something that rarely happens here—I was unable to do my page yesterday due to a groaning workload. I was important for a day—working on a 16-page brochure in its 15th draft and dealing directly with our head of sales on a special project for which I have earned his undying gratitude. That kind of thing used to make me jolly and motivated. Now I think about the extra hour I spent at work and how I will never get that hour back again.

I feel guilty to complain about a job in which everyone says what I do is so important and then merrily goes ahead and changes all the work I turn in. It hit home again today when I interviewed a candidate for a job in another department. He was about my age and lost his job two years ago at a large financial firm that made bad bets in the mortgage market and declared bankruptcy due to the avarice and incompetence of its top executives, all of whom found high-level jobs shortly thereafter working with fellow thieves at other companies. And this guy applied for a job several levels below his old position at his former company where they worked him like a slave.

He's hungry and desperate and not at all qualified for our position. His plight floods me with guilt over having the nerve to complain about my petty disaffections.

Still, life is without justice, empathy, or remorse and I'll complain if I want to, despite the shakiness of my grounds. I acknowledge the pain of others—my wife's included—who are zombie discards of the professional world.

But the professional world is no great shakes and should contribute little to one's perception of self worth. (And no, I'm not making up for a lost day by writing another page today!!!)

# Day 217. June 11, 2010

Adultery is an interesting term to me and while I could consult the Oxford English Dictionary for the provenance of the word, I will use my imagination instead to guess at its derivation. (Besides, research is against the rules that govern this piece of literature.)

First, adultery seems to imply an activity between adults (duh), and not the province of some childhood game. In other words, maybe it's a more respectable way to describe "cheating," in which the extramarital sex is an activity that is in some way associated with the "game" of marriage, which marriage most definitely is not.

Maybe a more accurate guess for the origins of adultery is its linkage to the word "adulterate," in which a substance is made dilute and impure by the introduction of some foreign agent. That would make more sense to me—adultery is when a marriage is adulterated, or made impure, by acts of fornication.

Which leads to the topic of the serious attempt by a website called ashleymadison.com to win naming rights for the new Meadowlands football stadium in Rutherford, N.J. This particular website has become wildly successful in its mission to facilitate the introduction of married individuals into adulterous relationships.

The surprise is not that such a service exists, but that it is so lucrative that it was able to offer $5 million per year to slap its name on the stadium's marquee for four years. The NFL (often called the "No Fun League") turned ashleymadison.com down.

There are so many broad targets here that I don't have the heart to raise my bow and arrow. Suffice to say, fidelity is hard and unnatural, marriage is hard and unnatural, married people are not robots and are weak of flesh and prone to seeking alternative outlets. The Internet makes it easy, and always always always there will be regret and hell to pay in the end.

# Day 218. June 14, 2010

This is the age of the exhibitionist, where all our business is in the streets and on the net. This is the day of blogs that dredge up all our intimate thoughts and desires. The day of the teenage "sexting" and full disclosure of hopes and dreams and carnal desires and various other hang-ups: the days of full disclosure.

You will not get that here. There is a difference between the over-exuberant amateur and the professional who wields control over his material. I will forward confidences only insofar as it proves the point or paints the scene that's in my head that day.

I will not intentionally seek to shock or titillate just for the sake of it, but in the service of some greater thesis, or so I hope. I will not plunge into the morass of sexual fantasy or routines indulged behind the privacy of a locked door. I serve my themes, not necessarily the prurient interests of my audience.

Does that make this journal somewhat dull? A risk.

And all this is in recognition of the power of words committed to a permanent record. One can control the paths of one's thoughts within the province of one's brain. But commit those words to paper or the electronic highway and they breach your power to control with just horrible potential consequences.

A professional commits words to media only after considering all possible potential audiences with a focus on those who'd least appreciate what he has to say. An amateur is less guarded and is more absorbed into the process of "expressing" her deepest thoughts and desires, either for future reference or to amuse a friend or two.

But words these days spread like lightning, not to mention the attached imagery. That's why I watch what I put down and I will never ever pose nude in front of a camera. And I don't look half bad naked. (Seems kind of late in the project to insert the Introduction.)

# Day 219. June 15, 2010

How does one overcome the gag reflex, the queasiness, the light-headedness, the sense of dread, the physical recoil...at the sight of blood and guts? I go beyond outrage when reading news reports about the savagery of terrorist behavior in the Middle East and Africa. Stories of severed limbs, fingers, decapitations, heads on poles, faces sewn on soccer balls, the eating of enemy brains.

I go beyond horror to rarified considerations of the human capacity to plunge up to its elbows in grotesqueries. Could you cut somebody's head off with a cleaver? Could you gouge someone's eyeballs out or even carve out a vital organ from a living human being?

I couldn't. I can't even imagine what it's like. Somehow, that makes me feel ashamed. It means that I haven't experienced the essential sensations of existence. It probably means I've been buffered from the nature of our beastliness. Specifically, I've never killed an animal and dressed the carcass for a meal, though I have dissected a frog.

I've never even cleaned a fish. With that under my belt, I'm sure I could eventually move up the food chain and clear the hurdle of human meat. Perhaps by witnessing abdominal surgery and, once recovered from that nightmare, observe an autopsy. Perhaps once desensitized by the sight of dismembered limbs and pulsating organs, I could then attempt to take the scalpel myself to a cadaver.

I assume that's how medical students do it—they all have to get over the hurdle of understanding the natural organisms that we are. Is it a defense mechanism to not do violence to our kind that seeds the revulsion to gore, and that the only way around it is through repeated exposure and desensitization? If so, I have a ways to go before I can slit someone's throat or parade through town with some heretic's head on a pike.

# Day 220. June 16, 2010

I wonder why I'm depressed today. Could it have to do with work? Could it have to do with the fact that a coworker whose cubicle is outside my office always gets the top rating on her reviews while I'm always stuck in the middle while contributing lots? Does the double standard bother me—can I comprehend why certain behaviors are rewarded while others are not?

How I wish I could separate myself psychologically from the deadening and relentless entropy of the work environment. And this after interviewing eager out-of-work candidates dying to insert themselves into our corporate matrix to finally get off the dole or to escape even more untenable professional circumstances?

Why do we make life so hard on each other? Is it our nature? Must be tied to an apparent disconnect between our sensibilities, reasoning processes, and resulting actions and the perception of those actions on those who are affected. Am I the only one who seems to recognize the predictable failure of our good intentions to achieve good works and motivated peers?

The reason my company is not as horrible as others and in fact receives high ratings in various media surveys as a place to work is that we embrace very good intentions. We believe in high ethical standards, employee recognition, formalized appraisal and career assessments, etc.

However, the execution of these practices leaves much to be desired, because while the policies resonate, those in power are slow in the take-up of their own shortcomings. I'm sure if I were the boss of more people and the breadth of my responsibilities amplified, so would my managerial deficiencies. Maybe my perception antennae are not as sensitive as I think they are.

# Day 221. June 17, 2010

I live one mile from a beautiful beach in Long Branch and I haven't gone sunbathing or even in the water in nearly two years. And, my skin is the most dazzling alabaster in the county because I have never achieved the sexy tropical tan typical of many local residents. So why do I ignore the most alluring of the local attractions, namely sun and surf?

Sunbathing makes no sense to me—lying under a hot sun is uncomfortable and boring, even with a good book, which is generally impossible to read anyway because it's too bright even with a decent set of sunglasses.

And I despise the cold and so often the waters of New Jersey are frigid and, late in the season when it warms up enough to suit my thermal requirements, it tends to be infested with jellyfish whose stingers pack a punch. By late August and early September, those ugly flies with the shiny green carapaces are everywhere, and why should I risk exposure to the plague or worse?

Also, since eternal youth and the parrying of Death are key pursuits of mine, I will not expose my fair dermis to the ravages of solar radiation for sufficient periods of time that would result in sunburn and subsequent wrinkling. With so much northern German and Irish blood in me, melanoma is a real threat, thus I glow with the whitest white year round and I don't care.

I admire a beautiful tan on the lads and lassies, but not for me because circumspect fellow that I am, the potential consequences are too grave.

It's enough to walk on the sand, enjoy the view of the lapping waves and jog on the boardwalks and savor the sea air. That's my joy and it is sufficient.

# Day 222. June 18, 2010

Laura was stunned the night she returned home from work mopping floors at the New York City Public Library and opened the door to her apartment and found the walls of her bathroom spattered with her husband's blood.

She knew it was probably his blood because her husband was lying in the tub with a six-inch kitchen knife in his right hand and several deep gashes carved in the wrist and forearm of his left arm. Laura instantly compromised a potential crime scene by vomiting into the sink and on the floor before staggering off and calling the police.

The CSI team was there within minutes and spent hours asking questions, examining the scene and, way into the early morning hours, finally concluding "suicide," collecting the remains and leaving. Laura still wasn't sleepy and was in fact pulsating with nervous energy.

So she collected her cleaning bucket, mops, sponges and sprays and meticulously scrubbed caking blood and gore from the walls, floor, ceiling (even!), sills and bathroom articles. She scrubbed with a professional fury until the bathroom gleamed and no trace remained of the horror that existed a few hours earlier.

Puffing hard but somehow fed by an animal fury, Laura embraced the restoration of order and civility from the savagery that had took place earlier in the day.

It was that evening some five years ago that inspired Laura to go into the crime-scene sanitation business, where her attention to detail and immunity to the macabre has placed her on the speed dial of every CSI official in the NYPD.

# Day 223. June 21, 2010

My habits define me. Habits that come about not through conscious choices but from tendencies to which I naturally gravitate. I'm a drudge, a slow slog, and long-term methodical plodder. I write, or used to write, novels, not poetry or short stories. I run marathons, not sprints. I love baseball more than basketball and football. How does baseball fit in? Baseball is 162 games that begins in April and ends in October. It's a long, slow slog in which a single game has little meaning but contributes to a complex, many-faceted whole. It taps into my tendency to chew over a project for extended periods and a temperament that says what is happening right now is seldom a reason to act rashly.

Lose a football game in a 16-game season can be a disaster. Lose a baseball game—go on a five-game losing streak—whatever, it doesn't mean a lot. In baseball, it's important to never get too high or too low or you'll wear yourself down as a player or fan before the all-star break in July. In football, each game is a war—there's no pacing yourself. They're two different games requiring different mindsets from fan and participant alike.

Understand your tendencies; at least that's what I've found, because you will probably never be able to change them. I'm a saver, a deferment of gratification junkie, save the good part of the meal till the very end, drive slowly and steady.

That's who I am and that may not be you and it makes no difference because we have no control over these tendencies. Put me in a gambling situation, line me up for a 100-yard dash, tell me dinner is nothing but a huge ice cream sundae, and my response will not be good. Embrace or at least tolerate your nature, because it's the only one you have, or will ever have.

# Day 224. June 22, 2010

Have I harped on this topic before? If so, you may stop reading and go on to the much more interesting contribution that follows this one. We, my serf-like coworkers and I, have a little inside joke about how our skill sets tend to be under-utilized as upper management pigeonholes our functions, resulting in a dull, repetitive routine for most of us.

Taking off on the popular aspersion, "A monkey could do this," we have given each other functional nicknames. My friend, who will remain nameless, is a gifted project manager consigned to administrivia. She is the Admin Monkey. Our webmaster, who also happens to be a strong strategist and consultant, is the Web Monkey. I am, of course, the Writing Monkey (However, I tend to think of myself as the Copy Machine, since most of the day is spent churning out copy. But "Monkey" is cuter.)

The sad part is this whimsy touches a certain reality that exists, and this in an environment in which we are encouraged by management to come up with new ideas, think outside the you-know-what and reach beyond our comfort zone.

However, when we try to do so, our hands are either slapped for offering unsought input or ignored altogether. So Nameless processes requests and expedites the process while I crank out copy. Yes, we are monkeys and, though respected in a limited sense for our gifts in certain areas, we are also demeaned by assumptions that we are also limited to our obvious strengths.

Clearly if I'm a good writer, it means I must be a poor manager, leader, or strategist. It's a fact that's been drummed home on numerous occasions and now I can only joke about it out of a sense of futility.

So, the lesson for you ladder climbers out there: don't get too good at one thing because you'll get mired in it. Get okay enough; then move along quickly to something else. Once you're a monkey, you may spend your career in a cage.

# Day 225. June 23, 2010

I am wondering a little about food and putting together ingredients. The mystery of the intuitive cook interests me. It seems to be a building process with a complexity not really understood by the casual eater. Should all flavors and textures be included in a dish? For example, must all sweetness be balanced by tartness or sour; the rich counter-balanced by the savory, the silky and fatty lushness cut by the brittle and crunchy?

Think enough about those things and the chef can be paralyzed by excessive analysis. Reducing the abstract down to flavors, textures, and colors has resulted in some fairly creative contrivances.

Let's consider, for example, lobster served in a crunchy biscuit covered with a butter-lime sauce, seasoned with pepper to mate the sweetness of the lobster with the sour of the lime.

Perhaps a wilted tangle of Swiss chard with a light hint of garlic to marry the textures of the crunchy biscuit shell with the soft lobster meat. And maybe a few mint leaves to take it in another direction. Would this work or would it be a mess?

I mean, play with textures alone. Build from the bottom with a roasted round of Canadian bacon, followed by a layer of thick oatmeal, and then by a couple of poached eggs with a dollop of caviar and a wispy cucumber foam.

I don't know if it would taste any good, but still an interesting textural construction.

# Day 226. June 24, 2010

Before Micky lost her job, she worked for IBM, which, given its enormous scale and scope, is both a terrible and great place to work, depending on your assignment, management, and location. Unfortunately for Micky, IBM was a terrible place to work for the three plus years she was there until she had sufficiently trained her doppelganger(s) in Bangalore to assume her duties at one-tenth of Micky's salary.

Micky used to work morning, noon, and night seven days a week including holidays due to the impossible demands of the multiple assignments she and her coworkers had to shoulder.

Whenever I saw Micky, who worked at home, she was either tapping away at her computer or engaged in over-amplified conference calls with similarly harried IBM slaves around the world. She was constantly frazzled, in a terrible mood, having problems sleeping, and was putting on weight. She, and all her other friends. And then two years ago it all came to an end, when she was informed by her boss that there was no more money and she got her package.

Since then, Micky has been the happiest person I know. She works like a demon overhauling our neglected landscape and now our yard is a showplace. She's cooking amazing meals, running road races, and even cutting the lawn herself. And while she diligently seeks employment, we both know that's a fool's errand given her age (56 like me) and the endless recession.

While my greatest dread is the day her unemployment benefits run out and we must assume the habits of paupers, her greatest dread is actually finding a job and, worse, one exacting similar demands as her last one.

For her sake, I hope she never works again. For our sake, please start bringing home a paycheck soon. I want to retire someday, too.

# Day 227. June 25, 2010

Back in the world of the forever blood, Maria recalls stroking the hair hanging loose and long on the back of her head and her hand coming away covered with blood. Not the thin, runny lukewarm life flow, but liquid with a more viscous quality, almost like poster paint.

At first she was stunned, but later became accustomed to the phenomenon. A touch of her arm, her shoulder, her leg, and her hand came away smeared with this odd substance that seeped through her skin like osmosis. She walked in that strange land of no sun and forever clouds and came across others moving stiffly in odd, trance-like states.

She tried to make contact with a gaze, a wave of a bloodstained hand. Finally she hugged one of them and the woman, about her age, didn't resist. She came apart in Maria's hands, a soggy bundle of disintegrated flesh and bones, spilling through Maria's arms to the ground, staining Maria's face and clothes with her blood. Her bones turned to sand, her flesh a loose wet red ball.

After overcoming her initial revulsion, Maria set upon one after another and similarly they, without resistance, surrendered to embrace, which in every case resulted in a leaky pile of disintegration.

But, no matter how much of her own blood Maria shed, her skeleton and muscles maintained their structure and substance and she just walked and walked endlessly.

# Day 228. June 29, 2010

Here we are in a day of severe depression, personally, nationally and globally. Check this date in time if indeed you are reading this years from now, because a celebrated NY Times columnist not given to grandiose pronouncements proclaimed that the world is entering the third depression since the 19th century.

Not as black as the one in the 1930s, but more in the style of the 1870s, when for a decade or more the world staggered along in deflationary times marked by high unemployment. That is where we are today, and the wounds are all self-inflicted. Despite great economic minds reminding us of the mistakes that we are intentionally committing, human nature being what it is vehemently shuts out voices of reason.

No, you don't cut government spending during times of high unemployment and marginal economic growth. No, you don't raise taxes and try to balance the budget in times of economic crisis. Yet that is what is going on in the U.S. and the rest of the world, eagerly embracing the policies that buried the recovering economy of 1937 in a double-dip recession/depression that didn't bounce back until WW II.

But now the fiscal hawks have climbed on their soapboxes and are decrying government spending and voters are listening to them so now our president and congress are disarmed from doing anything that will relieve the suffering of millions whose lives are being destroyed by the worst economy in 80 years.

Micky will never work again, and if I do keep my job, there is no relief in sight from a retirement standpoint. All indicators point down and the will to improve them is just not there.

These are the new hard times.

# Day 229. June 30, 2010

Here's another take on death. The old bromides that are meant to comfort the bereaved and populate the pews must be truer than those piping them could ever know. Consider elderly people who endure rounds of constant pain of one form or another in joints, in digestion, in movement, in the head and this is in addition to stiffness and fuzziness in the brain.

Many are not as mentally sharp as they used to be, but are all-too-aware of their diminished capacities and rue these losses bitterly. It's all about what they can't do anymore, coupled with the consternation and confusion caused by a world that has passed them by.

It's a torment upon torment for the aged. They suffer but have little or no recourse for comfort due to the atomization of society and the reluctance to engage their guilt-ridden offspring overwhelmed by demands in their own lives and thus incapable of addressing the tragedy of a failing parent. I have a personal acquaintance with that guilt.

So there they are, obsolete and constantly dealing with assaults on their dignity by doctors, bank personnel, the phone company, landlords, and everyone else. The cold and terrifying truth is that we have been ruthlessly successful at extending life, but to a point where all quality is lost in its terminal stages.

Thus the bromide: "Passing to a better place." Could it be worse than the place that millions of the depleted and despairing elderly currently occupy? My inclination is to consider nature as indifferent. But the cruelty visited on old age doesn't reflect indifference to me, rather of wanton spite.

I hope it's the wages extracted for some kind of eternal paradise. My head says no. My heart longs for yes. At the very least, the physical and emotional pain ends, the cares go away. I'd call that at least half a loaf.

# Day 230. July 1, 2010

The problem with the restaurant dream is sometimes those who think they can cook, and have even earned praise from friends and family for their deftness in the kitchen, really can't!

A local restaurant opened in Asbury Park, the chef/owner a former sales executive at a pharmaceutical firm who made a tidy sum, enough to escape the rat race and open a small restaurant with about 25 tables. She took a sheaf of original recipes perfected by her mom and grandma over the years in their native Cuba and opened for business four days a week about three years ago.

Last night Micky and I were her only customers. We met the owner and chef, who couldn't have been nicer and more welcoming. And then she went into the kitchen and whipped up starters of empanadas stuffed with stringy beef, flavorless cheese and water-logged stem-laden spinach. Soggy with grease that was clearly not hot enough for a good fry, these appetizers were less than appealing.

My main course consisted of flounder and scallops saturated in a butter sauce with overly aggressive black and white peppercorns, a dish sharing the same spongy, characterless theme executed in the empanadas. Micky's pan-seared shrimp was equally bloated in buttery blobs and indifferent spicing, though we both enjoyed the hearty Cuban rice side.

We didn't hang around for dessert, only mourned the destruction of otherwise fine ingredients by a chef with more heart and desire than talent. Failure in the restaurant business happens in hundreds of ways, but I think most of it can be traced to hubris.

Professional cooking is a true art mated with practiced skill, craft and structured training. Lack one or the other or the other, and you're not going to last long. I'm a good cook, but I know that my talents would never hold up in a professional kitchen.

# Day 231. July 2, 2010

I've never had a truly bad accident. This weekend marks the Fourth of July, which is celebrated annually with public service reminders of the grotesque injuries that result from the mishandling of fireworks.

I have met people with blown-off fingers and toes and even one fellow blinded by an exploding device as a young child. These injuries are of course painful, ugly and unnecessary, but that information is not what fascinates me.

Having never suffered a serious injury, I wonder what it would be like to have, say, three fingers on my right hand blown off by a large firecracker that, through some brain cramp, I forget to toss before it does its thing.

Would the pain be excruciating or would my hand go numb in shock? How would I feel if I heard the loud noise and then saw useful parts of my body go flipping through the air? Knowing my practical self, my first thought would be to scramble after the missing pieces in the hope of their restoration to my stunted fist. After taking a few steps, would my hand then get over the shock of the atrocity and remind my brain that there is a significant injury done and thus become bathed in excruciating waves of pain? Elapsed time, I imagine, would probably be less than 10 seconds from blast to pain wave.

I try to imagine what the pain would be like—would it be a screaming pain, a hammering pain, a sobbing pain? I would think so. But, as I said, I've been spared as much as a broken bone and a third- degree sprain.

I've been lucky, very lucky, in other words. Still, in a sick kind of way, I also think I've missed out on something important.

# Day 232. July 6, 2010

There will be much anguish over the next couple of weeks as I prepare my brain for a 12-man relay race across the state of Massachusetts. The idea is to start in the Berkshire Mountains in the western part of the state and run straight through to Boston Harbor, a distance of about 200 miles divided among 12 runners.

It will start at 10 a.m. on July 17 and end sometime the following morning. We will be running through the night with lights strapped on our heads and red flashers attached to reflectorized vests.

The main concerns regard my first of three legs, which will probably start around 2 in the afternoon, when I'm sure the temperature will be in the mid-80s, a most interesting situation. That, plus the sleep deprivation, the curling up in an overloaded van, plus other concerns that I have not yet considered, should make this a memorable experience.

Which goes to show that at my advanced age I am not afraid to try new things. But also according to form, the new things I try tend to be somewhat demanding, either mentally, physically, or both. There will be hills and downgrades, possibly periods of misdirection, hunger and thirst, and, in a way, I will enjoy the test.

Of course, uncharacteristic of my introverted proclivities, I am actually participating as a member of a team of coworkers, most of whom I've never met.

So not only am I exposing myself to severe hard ship, I'm also participating in a team event within my very own company, which I generally hold in contempt. But, if you don't step outside yourself once in a while, then maybe you've given up all hope of exercising a modicum of free will.

# Day 233. July 7, 2010 Replaced on March 13, 2012

Today was going to be something about my current boss, but it was pure speculation, turned out not to be true, and would be an embarrassment for those named. Don't worry, you're not missing much. Maybe a brief update on running. I did the Boston Marathon last year, which destroyed my body and spirit and there's overhang to this day, nearly a year later.

I was scheduled for a local marathon in two weeks, but I pulled up lame a couple of weeks ago and was on the shelf for the last two weeks and lost enough conditioning to bail on the Shore Drive Marathon in Cape May.

Last year I suffered several injuries, to a hamstring, a calf, and most recently, the other calf. I was thinking maybe my Chi Running form was off and got some advice from the local instructor. So I will concentrate extra hard on my form.

The good thing about the hiatus was a renewed appreciation for the place of running in my life. Hard exercise makes the body feel good and is uplifting to the spirit. This morning was my second run following the layoff and it was a run of pure joy. Five miles in the rain, temperature about 53. Shorts and a light shirt and I was running on clouds. There are few days like that, it seems. Normally I run for the good feeling it provides afterwards, not for the suffering it imparts as I'm engaging in the activity.

I guess the lesson going forward is to try to recapture the feeling of freedom and joy and suppress the weariness and drudgery that exercise tends to devolve into. Tomorrow I'm doing six miles and that will be the goal. To make running fun.

I wonder what other people do to blow off steam and restore their spirit. I wonder what I did some 22 years ago before I started running. I get so listless and short-tempered, or more short-tempered than usual when I can't exercise; but maybe the habit of exercising is a kind of drug that you become addicted to and by not exercising you to through a psychological and physical withdrawal.

Thus, it may be fair to say that just as the best way not to become a heroin addict is never to try the drug in the first place, maybe the best way to avoid "runner's withdrawal" is to have never started running. A cautionary tale for non-runners out there: don't start now, it could be habit-forming.

# Day 234. July 8, 2010

The harsh economic times have claimed my favorite running store. Yes, I know I paid too much for my shoes there, but over the last five years, Micky and I have become quite friendly with Christine, its owner and we have entrusted our feet to her. She knew her shoes and how to match them to any runners' feet, something a discount website cannot do.

She got Micky back into running by organizing training programs and recruiting eager neophytes. She worked with race directors to offer inside information about courses and discounts on entry fees, and she inspired customers to persist in what is essentially a grueling, unpleasant activity that is ridiculously beneficial to the human body and spirit.

I hope Micky continues running, but she is a social runner who enjoys being with a group that trains together and races together, so her commitment is in jeopardy. Now, with yet another running store going under due to Web competition and a miserable economy that has people cutting back on everything, this very worthy venture has bitten the dust.

But Christine made mistakes. During the booming economy she expanded from one store to three, plus an outlet that sold baby clothes. Very stylish stuff, high end—the kinds of things stretched consumers cut out in a recession. With her capital spread too thin, Christine's little empire collapsed.

She could be accused of hubris for expanding so aggressively, but I'd chalk it up to inexperience. I hope she doesn't let it end there; she's a natural retailer with a great temperament for the public. She's an elite marathoner, which means she's made of stern stuff.

I hope she treats it like a side stitch at mile 22. Sure it hurts, but you take some deep breaths, walk it off, and get back in the race. I'd rather pay 10 bucks more for a pair of shoes if it's Christine who's selling them!

# Day 235. July 9, 2010

Frankie woke up and he was in mid-air. It was as if someone had removed a hood covering his face and head and suddenly there was a cold wind against his face; he was horizontal in aspect and his scissoring legs had nothing solid upon which to gain a purchase.

Then he started wind milling his arms, which accomplished nothing but to stir up a storm of air molecules. His eyes fluttered open and the cold spike of reality sunk in: Frankie was among the clouds and deep blue sky and urgently in the moment.

He could not remember how he got there—nothing about being pushed from an airplane or other aeronautical vessel, or being catapulted from some device on the ground. And he was clearly too high to have dropped/jumped from a building and, from his position, he couldn't even see the ground—only the surrounding blue and puffy wisps of bright white stratus clouds.

Waves of dread and panic seized his limbs and torso but, against all expectations, he did not feel that he was losing altitude. He was seemingly transported along a strange current. He ceased the thrashing because it was not influencing his trajectory in any way.

The rush of startlement and confusion gradually subsided, replaced by the quandary of how a body heavier than air and with no discernable means of propulsion can float through the endless sky without being sucked mercilessly to earth by deep-throated gravity.

But Frankie sailed on—how he got there and where he was going— the large questions will be explored at another time. Until then, he will float and soar and joyfully surrender to whatever forces were behind the present phenomenon.

# Day 236. July 12, 2010

Another problem faced by Zoe was how to get rid of the body. Murder involved far more problem solving than Zoe had expected, which pleasantly surprised her. She is a former systems engineer at IBM, who was let go about 18 months ago after she had trained her replacement in India, who is currently doing the same work (not as well) for about a tenth of Zoe's former salary.

Zoe applied her project management skills to arrange a trip to Portsmouth, Virginia, to purchase a firearm at a gun show, plus a special attachment that will significantly reduce the bark of the gun's report upon discharge. She then spent several weeks attending firearms training at a local firing range and she became quite good at hitting paper targets in the shape of human beings.

She then purchased a couple of boxes of ammunition for her Glock 9 mm and several empty clips and a mechanical device that loads rounds automatically into the clips because she found the clip springs excessively taut given diminutive Zoe's lack of hand strength.

She then drove to the home of her former department head in Middletown, New Jersey, and waited for the kids to be picked up by the school bus and the wife to go to work. Then she knocked on the door, which he answered, a look of embarrassment on his face, since he knew damn well that the text message that announced his decision to let Zoe go was probably not the appropriate format for such an action—but he did have so many others to dispose of and his time was valuable and blah blah blah and then BANG! or more like BOOF!, given the silencing device.

Zoe was not at all disconcerted by the bony spray from the back of the asshole's head because she had read up and seen pictures of the aftermath of serious head wounds on various forensics websites. It only took one shot, but since she had a full clip, she emptied a couple of other rounds into his chest.

What she hadn't expected was the dog, a very powerful German Shepherd that leaped on top of her shoulders after her fourth shot and started ripping at her neck with rather nasty fangs. Maintaining her composure, Zoe swung her hips hard, momentarily clearing the mutt, just long enough to get both hands back on the pistol grip and to empty the rest of the clip into Fido.

Then she grabbed the empty cartridges and headed home to fill out her biweekly unemployment report.

# Day 237. July 13, 2010

Why do I think that people who disagree with me are stupid? Am I so persuaded by my own opinions—or at least certain opinions—that I am somehow a holder of some universal truths? Well, will you disagree that the following people are stupid:

The current economy is gradually recovering from a huge recession brought on by irresponsible players in the financial services industries who sold mortgages to stupid people who couldn't afford to pay them and subsequently defaulted, causing a chain reaction of similar scenarios.

It was a virus of debt that spread worldwide, resulting in a global economic crisis. In this country, we launched a large stimulus program that was designed by the outgoing Bush administration and embellished and re-launched by the Obama administration. As a result, a large fiscal deficit created by the Bush administration through tax cuts for rich people and two unfunded wars was nearly doubled by the stimulus program, a sound economic response to an economy dead in the water.

The economy is still barely on life support and could probably use another stimulus boost, but now the emergence of deficit hawks say that this is the time to begin invoking fiscal discipline—no more stimulus; deficit cutting is in vogue.

In other words, invoke the policies from the Roosevelt administration in 1937 that killed the nascent post-Depression recovery and plunged the economy back into a new depression that didn't end until government spending had to go into overdrive to fund WWII.

And now, a poll comes out in which a majority of Americans say that G.W. Bush was a better steward of the economy than Obama!

Stupid. Don't you agree? There's lots of it going around and it's like nails across a chalkboard to my sensibilities.

# Day 238. July 14, 2010

George Steinbrenner died yesterday, and Bob Sheppard died earlier in the week. It makes me think of my aging self...again. Bob Sheppard, if you don't know, was the PA announcer for the New York Yankees for more than 55 years. He died at age 99. In other words, his voice was the only one I knew when I visited the stadium to see games.

It was a distinctive, other-worldly cultured voice that was dubbed by Reggie Jackson "The Voice of God." His various ailments made him quit about three years ago and his death only placed a coda on the sadness of losing that important marker of my childhood, youth, and middle age. Everything ends. All people die. Yeh.

George was another matter, the owner of the Yankees since 1973. He was an obnoxious, bombastic slave driver of a boss who treated his employees like crap and demanded perfection. He lifted a listless losing franchise from the dregs of CBS ownership in the early 70s to a revival resulting in a couple of World Series appearances in the late 70s.

But his overbearing supervision of the club and manhandling of ballplayers repelled stars from joining his team and the Yankees failed to win a championship for close to 17 agonizing years. Then he hired Joe Torre as manager and left him and his general manager alone long enough to build a team founded on some home-grown talent and the most generous wallet in professional sports to buy high-priced free agents to fill in the rest.

My experience went from years of empty stadiums in the 80s and early 90s to today, where the Yankees play in a new, magnificent palace where the tickets are well beyond the reach of my stretched wallet. I watched Steinbrenner's empire grow, then fall, then grow again into a juggernaut on the force of his will. There will never be another George Steinbrenner. For better or worse.

# Day 239. July 15, 2010

This may be my last entry until the last week in July because tomorrow I embark on a trip to Massachusetts, wherein I will join 11 other intrepid runners who will start out early on Saturday morning from Mt. Greylock in the Berkshire Mountains and proceed to run across the state, ending at Boston Harbor late Sunday morning.

Each runner will do three legs for a total of 11 to 19 miles. My particular legs will add up to a tad under 18 miles. It will be an exercise in sleep deprivation, thunderstorm dodging, and hill climbing. Sounds great.

And then I'm off for the rest of the week. In the old days before unemployment and wedding expenses, we used to vacation in places like Cape May, Florida, Paris, and so forth. Alas, I'll be home and puttering around, enjoying such adventures as window washing, taking the car to inspection, cleaning bathrooms. I suppose I don't mind; I'm not much of a traveler anyway.

The battle is on over whether my mom will come to the wedding. As it stands, she hates being around my sister and the thought of traveling together is something she cannot bear. Being the good son I even offered to go down and escort her up myself. But that was done under the assumption that she will probably turn it down, pull the old just too overwhelmed to move, and bag the whole idea.

The ethical question I face is do I want to die before I become a burden and nuisance to others, or live and exact my fair share of angst and stress from others? So far I'm leaning towards the latter, because I see no reason why my death should be a way to let others off the hook!

# Day 240. July 26, 2010

It's been a long break since my last entry and during that time I did my Massachusetts adventure run. Over a period of 24 hours, I ran three different legs averaging about 6 miles per, most of which were up extremely high hills in temperatures that ranged from 85 to 95 degrees Fahrenheit. It was a brutal physical experience and it made me weepy at the end.

That's a phenomenon worth discussing. One of the oddities of long-distance running and exposing your body to extreme mental and physical adversity is experiencing the uncontrollable emotions that accompany such activities. Similar to other difficult events, say the two Boston Marathons and the New Jersey Marathon (my first), the completion of this most recent event summoned an immediate urge to weep.

It wasn't that I was sad or glad or mad or regretful a tad, it just happened. It is, I suppose, part of the internal wiring that somehow protects the body at times of extreme stress and is a release mechanism of some sort.

I'm not a weeper, to say the least, and I had to really catch myself to avoid an unmanly outburst amidst the manly men and women with whom I competed and barely knew. But it was there, on the verge and welling in my eyes and nose, the presence of crying, of tears. My friend, Cathy, says she always cries after finishing a marathon and accepts it as simply a reaction and she just lets it pass—and she is much tougher than I.

But for those of you who aspire to crazy racing challenges involving extreme loads on the body, be prepared to be the girly man at the end. You can't control it and it was, all and all, the least unpleasant of all post-race traumas visited upon my being.

# Day 241. July 27, 2010

Why is it on some days it is so hard to care? The salmon fighting its way up the stream, the myth of a man pushing a heavy stone up the side of a cliff, filling in a box or two of a challenging Soduko.

Maybe it's the summer heat coupled with the gradual wear-down of aging that leads to occasional days of not caring. I'm not going to battle the Legal Department over idiotic changes in my copy that in no way expose my organization to lawsuits.

I'm not going to worry over the selection of food stations at my daughter's wedding. I'm not even going to argue with my sister and mother about making the overwhelming journey from Florida to New Jersey to attend the wedding.

Today, I just don't care.

Other things I don't care about today are the half-assed healthcare and financial reform packages finally passed by Congress and characterized by President Obama as milestone accomplishments when they are more or less slight improvements that leave a bad taste that comes from over-capitulation to the know-nothings in Congress.

Nor do I care that there's no appetite to pass an effective energy policy because the contrary interests of the carbon-based lobbies are too strong. Should I worry that it's far too important to keep making the big bucks now and care not a whit for the future when the earth's crust will fry and the ice caps will melt and flood our coasts because, by then, I'll probably be dead, along with the selfish, myopic cowards who roam the halls of the Capital with neither shame nor honor.

I don't care, because even when I do, nothing comes of it and maybe it's better to save my strength. Care about my running and playing guitar. Things I can control in a life that is otherwise ungovernable. Tomorrow, maybe it won't be so warm and I'll be able to gather up some righteous indignation.

Just not today.

# Day 242. July 28, 2010

Poor Erica did a freak-out dump on me today, bending my ear on the phone about the complexities, frustrations, maternal battles, in-law non-cooperation and other traumas that are causing my poor daughter's blood pressure a constant spike.

I'm not sure that I am good at comforting others. Typically, I employ a tactic that has worked with my parents, specifically agreeing vociferously with their points of view whether or not I do and then keeping silent as long as possible to let the volcano vent.

As previously mentioned, the two most important people who plan a wedding are the bride and her mother. Unfortunately, this combination in this instance includes two wonderful, though operatic, personalities whose universes are centered on their own axis, making peaceful cooperation a lucky, and unlikely, outcome.

My wife accuses Erica of being domineering and overly combustible and self-centered and Erica accuses Micky of being combustible, uncooperative, and self-centered.

They are probably both right, yet hampered by their natures, oblivious to their natures and a month away from the wedding, the fireworks become ever more interesting.

I wear a Red Cross armband in this maternal-progeny warfare, trying to lend succor to both sides. Still, I think my best bet is to nod my head, take both sides, and duck the low-flying projectiles zipping past my head.

Yes, this wedding is heating up!

(Note on March 16, 2012: I probably should have replaced this entry, given the possibility that my wife and/or daughter will read it and the possibility that they may take it the wrong way. But, I think it is pretty well written and the content mild enough that I can endure the potential flak that may come my way!)

# Day 243. July 29, 2010

I wonder if some people are destined for a violent death. You know, the ones you read about in the paper and see on the local news. It must be an exclusive group, because violent deaths make the news while quiet, agonizing degenerative natural cause-type deaths are so ho-hum.

I don't think I will die violently, but I often think about what it would be like to be struck in the skull by a screaming bullet. What exactly do you feel when you check out? Is there a blinding pain or do you lose consciousness before the pain even registers?

I categorize that as a flash death, much like getting hit by a locomotive at high speed, a full impact plane crash, a head-on collision at highway speed. I can't imagine that nerve transmissions can occur fast enough to register the extreme bodily insult of those events on human consciousness.

But then there is what could be called Stage 2 violent deaths. For example, not getting shot in the head but rather a bullet or two in the gut—or any wound that rapidly bleeds out and death occurs over minutes rather than seconds. I imagine the pain in those instances is all but unbearable, coupled with the sinking feeling that your life is ebbing away in a slow, relentless slide.

What must that feel like?

I think leaping from a high place, whether a bridge or tall building poses an interesting psychological angle. What are you thinking on the way down? Are you thinking or are you dropping so fast that your mind blacks out as a fruitless defense mechanism?

I'm sure once you go splat on the pavement or body of water, you check out as quickly and surely as locomotive track kill. I can imagine many things, but a violent death doesn't seem to be me.

I'm a plodder, a slow study, a long-distance runner. I will die a slow, painful, methodical and wasting death. Not necessarily my choice but most likely my destiny.

# Day 244. July 30, 2010

Ever play make a wish? I do it all the time—the Aladdin and the lamp model, except I only get one wish and it has to do with sports. My wish goes something like this:

It's often been observed, especially in football and basketball, that for the truly great quarterbacks and playmakers, the game actually slows down. In other words, their brains think in fast motion. The extraordinary quarterback can see a play develop in slow motion and throw just the right pass to the right receiver and to the exactly right spot. The point guard who can thread the perfect pass through traffic to a cutting scorer and so forth. Thus, my wish is to literally have the game of baseball slow down for me.

For example, instead of dealing with a 95-mile-per-hour fastball, I would experience the pitch as a 35 mph batting practice meatball. Also through this enhanced slowdown, I'd easily have time to read the spin of the ball and determine how it will break so I would be just as adept at handling breaking pitches and change-ups as fastballs.

While my perceptions will be in 1/3 time, my bat speed will be in real time, thus tripled, with the result of making me the home run king of the world. And, since I'll be running three times as fast as normal, I'll be able to round the bases on almost every hit I get. A walk will be as good as a triple because it will be physically impossible to throw me out stealing, thus discouraging pitchers from walking me at every at bat.

I see a lifetime average of about .600 and around 900 homeruns. I will be a legend and wealthy beyond the contemplation of all the A-Rods of the world.

# Day 245. August 2, 2010

I finished another relay this past weekend; instead of running across Massachusetts, this time we ran across New Jersey. There were seven on our team and it took 12 hours, compared with the 24 hours it took the 12 people on the Mass team to complete. New Jersey is a bit narrower than Massachusetts.

It was another fine test of pain and endurance, which constantly has me questioning why certain people seek out activities that cause great stress and discomfort. Both the Mass Dash and the NJ River to the Sea teams were euphoric after the events, marking the events as terrific and fun experiences.

Frankly this confuses me because I shared with them the satisfaction of completing something difficult—hot weather, long runs, debilitating side cramps, dehydration and general discomfort. But I do this stuff over and over again and even went out this morning for a run.

On the other hand, most people have no desire to assault their minds and bodies that way. Does this set me apart as a high achiever?

Perhaps there are aspects to the activity that are equated to those who achieve outsized things that have made them great successes. But then there are those who are mediocre in all other ways and don't appear to be driven from a career or life standpoint, who still seek out the grim hardship and torture of long-distance running.

It's a habit, I suppose, similar to tobacco and drugs but somewhat less harmful. The one true thing I take away after suffering through some running ordeal is the relief and joy when the disagreeable thing is removed. The best part of running is stopping.

The best part of stopping is to revel in recalling the suffering and how you conquered it. We need that measure of heroism in our lives—at least I do. We must play superheroes in our own story.

# Day 246. August 3, 2010

When do you pull the plug? I'm a regular reader of the New York Times because I tend to a liberal turn of mind and aspire to high achievement that publications like the New York Times constantly cover and profile. It's page after page of accomplished individuals in government, the arts, sports, business, style, food, and crafts and here I am, an anonymous underachiever.

That's harsh; I'm not really a failure, of course, but not exactly a success, either—at least not a success to the degree that someone who merits a mention in the Grey Lady has attained. The stories are often misleading and leave unsaid certain ingredients of success.

The novelist who weathers serial rejections of his first few literary efforts only to write the breakthrough masterpiece that is acclaimed in the paper's literary and society sections. The same for members of the band and the struggling entrepreneurs.

Left unsaid, of course, are the essentials of talent and smarts. Yes, I've written draft after draft of novel after novel, but my story does not have a happy ending. Maybe I simply do not have the requisite talent and I've come to terms with that.

I'm sure this phenomenon is applicable to most fields. A fine mathematician could slave away at a problem for decades and never crack the solution—not for lack of trying, but a lack of talent.

The New York Times is about those with the talent, which combined with hard work, cross the finish line with the glory. Most others are like me, hard-working strivers without the gift or prospect of glory.

The key is to continue to strive, put forth the effort, but to also understand when to concede and back off. Otherwise, the accompanying purgatory of disappointment, envy, and depression of failure can make life unbearable. Do what you love—whether it is writing or music or skateboarding—but do it for the inherent joy of the activity—not for the elusive glory of popular acclaim.

# Day 247. August 4, 2010

My mind is on Vancouver. My frustrations with America runneth over. I'm sick of the American government, especially the hopelessly feckless Senate. I'm especially sick of extremist conservatives who oppose any potentially productive policies that will put people back to work, address terminal problems like global warming and the healthcare mess, and encourage the proliferation of a gun culture so anyone can go around and carry and start the shootin' war at home whenever the whim strikes.

I'm tired of ignorant Americans who are so tuned into the current gossip and the contestants on American Idol yet remain so ill informed on economic and tax policies that they eagerly give away the store to the wealthy and entitled corporations to their own detriment.

A distracted, dumbed down America no longer has a middle class capable of looking out for its self interest and is allowing the plutocracy to take over.

So I need to relocate. Some day. Vancouver is in Canada, a country with universal healthcare (not perfect, I know, but light years ahead of the catastrophe we have here), no appetite to go off to war at the drop of a hat, a social safety net that shows some compassion, a financial system not plagued by the wolves of Wall Street, and an inherent modesty of a populace that minds its own business and doesn't constantly pound its chest declaring how it's the greatest country in the world.

Yeah, Canadians can be weird and the climate kinda harsh. But Vancouver is milder, modern, and not too Canada for my taste.

# Day 248. August 5, 2010

The opposite of love is not hate. The opposite of hate is not love. The opposite of both love and hate is indifference. Joanne is in love with Mike. She loves the way he looks and loves his sweet and unassuming nature. She loves his smooth skin, his wondrous aroma, and the polite way he speaks to her and his attentive attitude regarding her concerns and opinions.

Alas, Mike does not love Joanne. He is, in fact, indifferent to Joanne. He does not hate her because hate, similar to love, is a strong passion—an attitude of prejudice. Indifference is the absence of passion. Mike is the opposite of in love with Joanne.

So what is the opposite of war? Is it peace or simply an absence of war? Compare the situation—the U.S. harbors no inclination of aggression and hostility to Canada and that is a brand of peace.

We have a great deal of hostility to those running affairs in places like Iran and North Korea. Yet we are not at war with those countries and, thus, technically at peace. But an entirely different brand of peace—one defined mostly as the absence of overt hostile activity.

Not the same as Canada. If the opposite of love and hate is indifference, perhaps the opposite of war is the lack of any inclination for violent aggression toward another nation.

War begins before the actual shooting takes place—there's no shooting and bombing in Iran, yet, but there's plenty of hostility and menacing words, which may be better described as pre-war behavior—not exactly peace. In fact, we're much closer to war on those terms than we are to peace.

# Day 249. August 6, 2010

I start looking forward to dinner around 3 p.m. every day. We work painstakingly on our weekly menu at my house. It's something Micky and I have always done. Is it because we're so anal or uncreative that we don't wing it once in a while? Could be, but I don't know how else to do it.

I go to the supermarket every Saturday morning with a list of meals and ingredients—I wouldn't know how to go to the store without a plan. I guess I'd start buying a lot of different things and hope it makes some kind of sense during the week.

Seems to me it would take a lot longer and cost much more. I can't imagine not planning and then having to stop every day at the market to buy whatever we need that night. But then, since many people operate that way, it's a primary reason why these same people do a lot more take out than we do and spend a lot more money on food.

Yes, this topic is excessively quotidian, but it raises the larger issue of time. Time, in my opinion, is all I have. It's a ticking clock—I adore watches. You watch your mortality ebb away minute by minute.

I feel a need to be engaged at all times while I'm awake because wasting time is something I loathe. Doing stuff that is not rewarding in some way or at least leading to something that has a positive payoff is anathema.

I strive for efficiency (hence the food shopping rant) to stave off unnecessary time sinks. And the time wasted thinking every single day about what to have for dinner. The simple act of spending an hour assembling a balanced menu saves time, saves money, and can boost nutrition. Making the best use of my time is important to me, even if it's irrelevant to others—which it is.

# Day 250. August 9, 2010

At what point do you cease being the star in your own drama? I think for many, perhaps most, that never happens. We all have our interior voices that weigh, appraise, consider, instruct, and react to the externalities we encounter every day.

It is the nerve center, the moral arbiter and problem solver. It's Action Central. From our earliest memories as toddlers, we considered our command center a unique self that acts and is acted upon. The world provides stimuli and our responses and actions to them are who we are.

We are, therefore, each of us, special. In our own eyes. As toddlers, nothing is more central to our individuality than how we process the data input and project ourselves into the world. We are the central focus and all others simply orbit around the axis of our personal nucleus.

But as maturity sets in, we gain an appreciation that we are but one of billions of similar nuclei, each with similar perception apparatuses and each consumed with her similar self. We do accommodate the thoughts and feelings of others, understanding the nature and immediacy of inputs and effects upon selfhoods.

There's no surer sign of maturity and of moral character than when a self yields to other selves, or can negotiate compromises for the satisfaction of multiple nuclei.

Does that mean that leaders—those who must do it "their way" or have the wiles to forge apparent compromises that still result in having it done their way--lack maturity, empathy, and a moral compass?

Possibly.

# Day 251. August 10, 2010

I can't stand the awful death ritual. I've been alive all these years and still do not know what to say and how to comfort a person who has experienced a loss of a loved one. The fellow who I used to work with came home last Friday and found his wife dead. On a scale of one to 10, I would call the death of a spouse a definite 10 (the death of a child is infinity, since it's something incomprehensible and impossible to overcome.)

I've thought about what the death of my wife would do to me and it would be quite ugly. But I was neither close nor terribly fond of the man who just lost his wife, which makes it even harder, I think, for both of us.

I did send an email of condolence with a few chosen words. But then, I don't know him well enough to understand his relationship with his spouse, nor how this will color our interactions if I see him again.

Most likely I will not allude to his loss, since it is very personal and ours is not that kind of relationship. If it were I, I would return to work only when I was emotionally ready and I would want to be treated by others as though nothing had changed, nothing had happened. There's nothing worse than being treated like Kryptonite.

Most people, I'm sure, feel the same sense of awkwardness when dealing with the tragic consequences of life and, I imagine, if you ask most of the bereaved, they would prefer a life-goes-on attitude from those around them. I know I would.

So while I'm falling apart inside, desperate with grief, I'll probably pretend that the situation is normal in an effort to put others—and myself—at ease. Because nothing anyone else can say or do can change the circumstances or mitigate the pain. If I must endure a personal tragedy, keep the grief counselors away—I'll handle it on my own until I can't handle it on my own.

Give me help only when I explicitly ask for it.

# Day 252. August 11, 2010

Most things diminish as you grow out of childhood. Childhood is the unfiltered you. The pure wants, the joys, the sorrows, the selfishness, and aggression are clean and expressed 100 percent. The rest of your life (I'll use "your" in this context to refer to "all of us," especially myself) is a matter of herding and wrangling and controlling the surge of emotions and desires.

Wasn't it cool when we could just grab the crayon out of little sister's hand when our project required yellow? Wasn't it satisfying at the age of 4 to yell out to your mom "I hate you!" and get away with it? To sing out loud, to punch your friend Nick in the face, to violently disagree with Daddy when it was time to go to bed to eat your corn to tie your shoes to shut...your...mouth?

Adulthood is about self-control—not to say what is on your mind to your boss or your spouse, not to sock the guy in front of you who is making a left turn without signaling, not to argue with the umpire who calls you out even though you beat the throw by a foot, not to call your boss a stupid ass when he or she is acting like a stupid ass.

Is adulthood nothing more or less an ever-tightening noose of repression?

There are mitigating circumstances—you do tend to get wiser and more adept with age, and driving cool cars and drinking cold martinis are decent benefits. But they hardly compensate for the lost freedoms of childhood, which excuse behaviors that are innately human yet must be effectively stifled to maintain a civilized society.

By now, however, I've kinda forgotten what real freedom is like, locked into the behaviors and mindsets that make me a responsible adult. It's tragic and unfulfilling in many ways. But then, at age 56, could I truly handle the intensity of a renewed childhood?

# Day 253. August 12, 2010

My dream job is bagging groceries. In many ways people feel that I'm fortunate in that my current job requires a great deal of mental application. After all, writing is nothing more or less than a pure expression of intellectual activity.

Good professional writing is taking that activity and adding the rigor and discipline of form and construction. But contrary to what many people I work with believe, writing does not come easily to me.

It's hard work—I'm tired at the end of the day. It burns tons of calories because the form of writing I do must abide narrow strictures for style, content, and form while retaining a semblance of marketing flair. The restrictions are exhausting, especially in the financial field in which written and electronic collateral is so heavily regulated and reviewed by legal panels. So my brain gets tired. After 30-plus years of this, my brain is very tired.

Bagging, on the other hand, calls on different muscles and skill sets. The issues involve shapes and puzzles versus word abstractions. I love surveying a conveyor of grocery items in terms of their shapes, heft, fragility, and temperatures and in an instant sort and combine them in paper or plastic bags in a way that will maximize bag capacity utilization, preserve product integrity, and group cold items in such a way that they will share, and thereby extend, their coolness for the ride home.

I have a variety of bagging protocols when I go to the produce store and the grocery store and over the years have become insanely fast and proficient. I always chase the baggers away with a wink when I shop, longing for the day when I join their number.

# Day 254. August 16, 2010

I'm wondering if we live in a time with a cleaner divide between good and evil. As America remains bogged down in a senseless and unwinnable war in Afghanistan, we seem confused and unwilling to deal with a direct confrontation of pure evil.

The Taliban terrorists who apply a warped form of Islamic law called Shariah do things like stone young couples who happen to elope. They also disfigure, whip, and murder women who suffer rape that results in pregnancy. And that is not taking into account the suicide bombers and their avowed mission to blow up large numbers of non-combatants, including young children, to prove some elusive point, I suppose.

Pure evil. And there's much of it today and it cannot be stopped or controlled—it's a mass madness whose only solution is to withdraw from that blighted land as fast as you can line up the transport planes.

But there's pure evil in the good ol' U.S., too, which for lack of a better name can be called the plutocracy; the ones who wage war on the poor by trying to block an array of social welfare programs in order to maximize their own wealth. And they have attained the highest levels of power, under the misnomer of Conservative Republicans.

These evildoers do not believe that Social Security should exist, that all Americans should have access to health care, that anything should be done to contain greenhouse gases or that any control whatsoever should be applied to the voracious grab for wealth on the part of our financial institutions.

It's not just about greed and selfishness that drives those who have it all to just want more more more. It comes down to evil. Were I not a "good" guy who, despite man-hating tendencies, actually does care about the welfare of others, I'm not sure that stoning the evil-doers, whether in Afghanistan, Iraq, Saudi Arabia or in our own native land, is something to be rejected out of hand.

# Day 255. August 17, 2010

I think it's time to move my office. It's a phenomenon at my company that people move. New managers come in and reorganize the department to make an imprint. And while often it does not result in actual changes in personnel, it does affect reporting lines. And, to keep various units together, movers are brought in and offices and cubicles are packed and relocated, often no further than 20 or 30 feet from a previous location. It's seldom as dramatic as moving to a new floor or even a new building—it's literally a rearranging of the deck chairs.

It's my understanding that moving a person to another cubicle, whether 10 feet away or 10 floors away, costs about $750 in terms of labor and utilities and wiring expenses. The thing is, the employee does all the packing and all the mover does is possibly roll a few pieces of furniture and rearrange a few connections in the utility closet and then you're done. Maybe a total of 2 hours of labor.

In other words, I want the moving contract here in my building. We're talking at least 100% profit margins, minus whatever kickbacks go on with Facilities Management and the Mob. It's easy work, it never seems to end, and not all that labor intensive. On a personal note, I've been in the same office for about five years and I'm ready for a move myself.

Maybe across the floor—after all, I am at the most distant point from the men's rest room and I'm seriously tired of that onerous trek half a dozen times a day. Why can't the company invest $750 to help stimulate my life with a well-deserved change of scenery?

# Day 256. August 19, 2010

When I used to write novels, I had a terrible time writing about sex. It's much harder than you think. It's hard to determine how explicit to make the scene to keep it in context with the rest of the work.

As a male, it's easy to lapse into the clinical aspects using either the medical or vulgar terminology to refer to various body parts and sexual practices. I've done both and my vulgar sounds pornographic and my formal anatomical sounds pedantic and altogether stupid.

It's rare to find an author, especially a male author, who doesn't bumble through sex scenes. Women tend to lapse into suggestive euphemism when it comes to sex, which sounds silly on the opposite end of the spectrum, though I've run into a few female authors who are shockingly crude about it—which is sometimes a pleasant surprise.

There are of course authors who immerse themselves in scene after scene of sex sex sex, exhausting their characters in exhausting pursuits of pleasure. I admire those who can do that well, but I am not good at it.

If I'm a B or C+ fiction writer, I'm at best a D sex scene author. I often get caught up in the mechanics and staging, thus losing the emotional joy and release of the scene. Or it's all about what's going on in the characters' heads, only to miss out on the impact of orgasmic liberation.

I'm not sure that sex scenes are all that important in novels—in the old days, certain literature was a staple of the pornography trade. But with the Internet, you don't need books anymore to get where you want to go. If I ever write another book, I'd best be advised to leave out the sex scenes.

# Day 257. August 20, 2010

It appears that I have no choice but to join a social media site or two. It will be required by my job. It has been made clear to me that people will no longer open their mail, subscribe to magazines or watch ads on TV because of the wonderful screening software contained in DVR devices.

Even email appears to be passé, as utilities found on such sites as Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn have usurped that role as well. So, as a marketing professional, I need to learn how to use these sites and create business-related content for the day when my company will migrate to social media as a primary marketing tool.

Let me list the ways that I find this development repugnant: First, I don't want my business in the street and, even with strict controls in place, Facebook will invade my space and cause me to pay attention to people I'd rather disregard.

Plus, a fiercely introverted person like me finds the social crush of such sites annoying, stupid, and a waste of time. It makes communication too easy and presents a multitude of potential traps and snares that can destroy one's reputation with a few ill-conceived posts, pictures, etc. I will be very careful.

Email was bad enough with its staccato, elliptical, and telegraphic form that utterly trashes the English language. But now with Twitter and Facebook, the next generation of illiterates has become more profoundly illiterate. And with my new commitment to social media, I will be abetting the frenzy that has become our present and looms even larger in our future.

Oh cursed technology!

# Day 258. August 23, 2010

The New York Times continues to provide fodder for my discontent with how I've conducted my life. Oftentimes it profiles individuals who are smarter, more talented, better connected, more virtuous, and harder working than me.

Since I aspire to greater heights, seeing how others achieve those things coming to life in America's paper of record is...depressing. Yesterday an article about a man who followed his devil-may-care bent for three months every summer fueled my angst and reminded me of things I've never done.

  * I've never been to Los Angeles—I have no desire to go there, actually, but at age 56, I should've made it there by now, at least for business. I've been to San Francisco once for about five hours.

  * I've never backpacked or hitchhiked in Europe, Asia, Africa, South America or, for that matter, New Jersey.

  * I've never really slept under the stars more than five or six times, but even then it was within close proximity to my car.

  * I've never wandered penniless in a land where English was not widely spoken and I've never been held at gunpoint and I've never been in a war zone.

  * While I have been on food stamps, I've never been so broke that I didn't know where my next meal would come from.

  * I've never even got in my car to take an extended drive with no clear destination in mind.

In short, I've never really had an adventure. I've never engaged in swordplay, milked a cow, driven a motorcycle, skinny-dipped in a pond or lake, had sex with strangers, been surfing, skydiving, parasailing, or snow skiing.

While I don't believe in bucket lists, there will be lots and lots of new things to try whenever I get the chance. Or seize the chance, which may be a better way of putting it.

# Day 259. August 24, 2010 Replaced on March 29, 2012

Whoa, this would have led to my immediate dismissal! Obviously this pertained to a less than complimentary entry regarding the workplace—it was fair-minded and even admiring of a member of the management team, but there were aspects that...

Anyway, we'll steer entirely clear of that. In reference to the previous entry, I still haven't done any of those things on my non-bucket bucket list over the past 19 months. This is about David Foster Wallace and the task I've taken on that I've avoided for the last 16 years since its publication—reading Infinite Jest.

Perhaps I've mentioned that as a former English major, it is incumbent upon me to take on serious literature now and then, even when the serious literature exacts extreme torture and brain strain. I've labored through Thomas Pynchon (although Inherent Vice was eminently readable and fun, which is why Pynchon devotees crucified it), William Gaddis, William Faulkner, but could not hack Proust at all.

I was expecting the worst with Infinite Jest, but was pleasantly surprised. The main challenge of the book is its length. It goes on and on and on and I'm on page 1,100 in the E-version on my Nook and still have more than 200 pages to go. At least with Wallace I can follow the flow and figure out what's going on, unlike some of those previously named.

And I go along with the point of view that Wallace was amazingly gifted as a story teller and a knower of just about everything. I truly admire novelists who can spew endlessly with brilliantly constructed sentences and with incredible depth on the most arcane of subjects. Wallace has that in spades. But of course the drawback is that too much is too much and the sprawl of the novel blunts its impact and at times the experience is deadening.

But I've committed myself to a further exploration of his oeuvre, since his talent was remarkable and I like to be dazzled now and then by pure stylists. And now that he's dead, there isn't a lot of exploring to do. I will commit to a piece of David Foster Wallace fiction or non-fiction at least once every five years. Incidentally, I'm 58 years old today. (Big whoop!) Micky says I look amazing for 58.

# Day 260. August 28, 2010

(This is a speech I delivered at the rehearsal dinner the day before Erica's wedding.) We've seen the various versions of the movie Father of the Bride, in which the dad, played by Spencer Tracy in the original and by Steve Martin in the remake, freaks out in amusing ways over the cost and extravagance of his daughter's wedding. While I can clearly identify with what they were experiencing, I've tried very hard not to be that movie dad as this particular wedding spiraled out of control.

It does make me think why parents do the things we do for our kids. I've boiled it down to this: The pursuit of happiness. Parents will do whatever it takes to make their kids happy. In Erica's case, that probably explains the thousands of dance classes, the insufferable dance competitions, the piano lessons, the voice lessons, the New York City apartment, the sauerbraten birthday dinner, the Miata, the candy-color bedroom paint job, and so forth. All to make Erica happy. And we think all those things did.

But then I wonder: Did we really do all that stuff just to make Erica happy? How much of it was about the delight that we as parents felt watching Erica enjoy the activities and things that she truly loved? Could it be just as much about our own happiness as hers?

But the fact is we can't as parents make Erica happy—only she can create her own happiness. And beginning tomorrow, she is taking the most important step in her life to achieve lasting happiness. That's the reason why tomorrow will—appropriately—be an insane over-the-top extravaganza. That is costing a lot. A LOT! But in the end, all we can do is wish her and Chris good luck—we've done our job.

I'll conclude with a simple message to my daughter, Erica, you have made your mother and me very happy. You have made us proud and we love you so much.

Have a long and successful marriage—it is THE THING that will make you and Chris, and all of us here, very happy!

# Day 261. September 7, 2010

It's been a long hiatus since the above speech was delivered to great effect. The audience laughed, the audience cried and my daughter collapsed in my arms in tears.

That's about everything you want a speech to do. Of course, the simple act of standing in front of the crowd and delivering a personal address to the couple at hand is enough to elicit tears from the emotional women in my family. But, in this case, even I choked up, which I didn't expect and was perhaps a little unprofessional.

In any event, the wedding and reception were flawless, Erica was breathtaking, as were her mother and Natalie. And now she is gone, we are broke and can enjoy their honeymoon vicariously as they gush about their primo digs in Cabo, Mexico.

The horseback riding on the beach, the night in bed on the beach, the facials and couples' massages, the Jet Skiing, and snorkeling among a plethora of tropical fish and the first class air travel—all experiences that have eluded me in my 56 years. Reminding me of all the things that I've never done and in most cases never will do. It's not that I feel that I've missed out on these things, it's just a sense of amazement at how circumscribed my life has been, whether due to habit, expense, a lack of imagination or even courage.

It's been a veil of melancholy misting my day today, if I were to cast it in poetic terms. I should have more fun, insist on more joy rather than be a guy who checks things off a list: practice guitar for one hour, run for one hour, wash the dishes, read for half an hour, listen to a Yankee game.

Maybe someday I will mount a Jet Ski.

I want to Jet Ski.

And maybe test drive a Ferrari.

# Day 262. September 8, 2010

There are many reasons why I have no desire to relive my childhood: to go back in time and redo, say ages 5 to 25. Childhood is a fraught period, filled with uncertainty, stress, stupidity, and cruelty. I'm glad to be where I am intellectually and emotionally—maturity, at least to the greatest extent possible in my case, has a reassuring aspect that was certainly absent in my roiling second decade of life.

But there are a couple of aspects that I miss and was unappreciative of in my childhood years, and that was my ability to learn and absorb certain skills.

For example, I am currently trying to increase my dexterity and skill with the guitar and progress has been slow and frustrating. The concepts and finger skills require absurd amounts of focus and practice to perfect. And the idea of learning a foreign language—to me a sign of great intellectual accomplishment—seems beyond me at age 56.

But not at ages 4 or 5.

I read an interesting article that said humans tend to gain the maximum value from music and language instruction at very young ages. Because of the way the brain is wired and the scale and variety of synaptic connections available in early childhood, a five-year-old could learn the scales, soloing finger patterns, and classical conventions of guitar at a much faster pace than my aging brain could possibly absorb. And for language skills—the earlier the better has always applied.

But my goal is not to become a great guitarist, a nice but unrealistic ambition at this point. I'm playing to challenge my mental and physical dexterity and thereby retard the inevitable decay of mind/ body. Plus, the music is beautiful and is a source of satisfaction when I'm the one making the music.

It doesn't really matter that all those pre-adolescents are playing rings around me.

# Day 263. September 9, 2010

Micky has run out of unemployment insurance, even though the federal government has extended benefits to 99 weeks. Micky has now been out of work for 102 weeks and the reality is she will most likely never work in the information technology industry again. Those 15 years of night school during which she earned her AA, than a B.S. and finally an MS in software engineering is down the tubes.

The IT industry in this country has packed up and moved to India and China—that's where Micky's job went and now someone else is doing her job half as well and at a tenth of her pay in Bangalore. As a leading exporter of quality jobs, the U.S. labor market has been suffering and will continue to suffer for years to come.

I certainly hope my work as a writer is not off-shored to India—that would be a hoot, but now even law firms are off-shoring more rudimentary tasks to Indian law firms.

So now Micky is in the market for any kind of job, just so we don't have to dip into savings every month. And there lies another irony—she's not qualified! She can't get a job flipping burgers, manning a drive-up window to for a bank, working as an administrative assistant for some executive, do data entry in a medical office, work a cash register at a department store or any of a myriad of tasks fit for a high schooler.

Nope, she is over-qualified for the few unskilled jobs that still seem available these days. This is a surreal situation in a country dead in the water, yet with so much work that needs to be done. Can we really afford as a nation to have millions of super-qualified individuals like my wife sitting idle for years?

# Day 264. September 10, 2010

There's a crazy preacher in Florida who wants to mark tomorrow's 9/11 commemoration by burning a thousand copies of the Koran. It has inflamed the Muslim world, caused an outcry of outrage in this country and garnered an incredible amount of ink and airwave play from the various media. This for a kook with a congregation totaling about 35 fellow kooks.

Yes, the crazies have taken over. A guy who should be as anonymous as snot in the ocean has the world abuzz by hatching an outrageous scheme, all most likely to draw attention to himself and build his business, as it were.

However, if we were to take a moment from our condemnation, it's hard not to admire the concept and stage management of his sacrilege. It isn't easy in these wild times of You Tube and Face Book and Twitter to break through the clutter of silliness. It takes true inspiration to capture the attention of a jaded world. But this dude with the Wild Bill Hickok facial hair and deep-fried Southern accent has pulled it off.

In one week he has managed to make himself the most vilified human being on the planet. People will kill each other if he intends to go through with the burning and our soldiers in various Islamic battlefields will find themselves in even graver danger.

The downside for him, of course, is I'm sure that it won't be long before a stray bullet will find him, but by that time I'm sure he'll be dealing with a burgeoning and profit-making church business because crazies attract each other like hogs to slop.

The First Amendment is a double-edged sword.

# 265. September 13, 2010

I wonder if there is much difference between those who default to gloom and doom and those who are obsessively optimistic. My theory on that is, unless a person is a deft actor, it is hard to suppress your true nature. I tend to the negative and skeptical (if you couldn't tell), yet all the self-help gurus and professional motivational charlatans insist that attitude is something that is within your control.

I respectfully disagree. If I were to suddenly adopt a sunny disposition at all times, even in the midst of the sorry empirical facts at hand, I would not be true to myself, causing undue stress and an eventual breakdown.

Some who exude constant positivity could have been blessed with great good fortune, which has validated their expectations that goodness ultimately prevails. Still, I think many of these gratingly upbeat people are cynically putting on a front to motivate and instill confidence in others and thereby facilitate certain career aspirations that they harbor in secrecy. In other words, they are play-acting.

People like me, who often concur with a great philosopher that life can be nasty, brutish, and short, consider ourselves more realistic than the Pollyannas of the world. And not being polished play-actors, we can only be true to ourselves and would feel false and humiliated to attempt behaving otherwise.

So that may explain the tendency of outwardly content and upbeat people to die prematurely by their own hand. Either that, or to the spiraling into dissolution resulting from the various medications needed to float the balloons of glee and optimism against the gray-skied turbulence that us realists experience in the actual world.

# Day 266. September 14, 2010

I am very lucky with respect to my outstanding good health. I seldom get sick—I've never had a serious disease or even a serious injury that required surgery or an extended recuperation. In 56 years, I've had the flu a couple of times and mononucleosis in third grade. But I do get a wicked cold about once a year.

Well, today is that once a year. What I have now is a light cold. Some coughing, a touch of congestion, a stuffy head a few aches and pains. In other words, I am miserable. When you're not used to being sick, anything less than 100% is agonizing. I don't handle sick well and my family puts me in isolation when it does occur. I'm grumpy for the week or so of maximum symptoms and I just feel like lying down and groaning.

Thus, I have a hard time identifying with truly ill people such as those with headline diseases like cancer, heart disease, bowel issues, migraines and so forth. I feel great, so I project that upon others, even when they're at Death's door.

Given that the most trivial maladies completely waste me, I am stunned by the abilities of those in the grip of deep illness to remain functional and productive. I can't imagine doing good work with a high fever, diarrhea, or intense abdominal pain.

Here I am with a slightly stuffy nose and writing a page that clearly shows me off my game. The cure, of course, is to get really really sick to better appreciate my light touch of a cold and adjust my expectations accordingly.

But let me wallow in my condition—even if it's nothing compared to your condition!

# Day 267. September 15, 2010

I admire writers who don a variety of hats. John Updike, not my favorite author, is worthy of my respect because of his brilliance in many forms, from long/short fiction, to criticism, to essays, to poetry—all of which I've led myself to believe engage different parts of the brain. I've considered myself a B-minus writer of fiction and B+ writer of straight prose and essays.

I've dabbled in poetry, but the form doesn't interest me much and most of the stuff I put down on paper consists of personal odes to my wife in greeting cards for major holidays. I'm a C- poet. But I have no idea how to write a tight short story or non-simplistic criticism of any media.

I have my likes and dislikes, but am by no means a tastemaker. I'll find myself enjoying a film or piece of literature only to read well-crafted reviews explaining why I shouldn't like them and feel ashamed that I could be so shallow and non-discerning.

I do take heart that most critics are best at analysis and not so adept at the creation of art. But it does stick in my craw that the Updikes and Amises of the world can exercise both a creative wit and a critical faculty, which leads me to conclude that truly brilliant and gifted people possess extraordinary skills that are rare and admirable and worthy of appreciation.

There is much about the world that I cannot fathom, but I deeply believe that I have a well-developed understanding of my own limitations. Perhaps I am selling myself short.

But probably not!

# Day 268. September 16, 2010

I've lost the arrogance of "can do." The heady miracle of man's ingenuity and intelligence is not without bounds. Medical science has and continues to make huge strides, but still people die of ordinary diseases of the heart, liver, bladder, lungs. Pain killing is still hit or miss and people continue to suffer miserably from pains both physical and mental.

And the same with today's economy. There are still 14 million people out of work, the economy is stagnant, there's little demand from consumers and businesses are either not expanding or going dark entirely. Politicians and economists are selling a raft of solutions depending on their ideological bents, opposite to each other and all predicated on hundreds, if not thousands, of years of economic experience. Well, nothing is working.

Brilliant workers like my wife can't land the most menial job and the family income is a train wreck. The government is in gridlock and there is no consensus for a cure. Maybe there is no answer.

The last time the American economy was in such a state, we lucked out with World War II, which put all our factories back on line, led to prodigious growth, albeit all government-fueled. And then when the war was over, the factories kept humming producing stuff to rebuild the European infrastructure that was reduced to ashes during the war. That was the ULTIMATE STIMULUS PROGRAM.

Would it be too much to ask our President Obama to invade Europe—seems like a sure-fire solution to the economic mess we're in!

# Day 269. September 17, 2010

Today I'll be charitable and open-minded about teen behavior, specifically Natalie's propensity to disappear into her room at night, not long after dinner and engage in her private world for hours before lights out, which I guess is around 10:30 or 11:00, but I wouldn't know for sure because I'm dead to the world by 10 p.m.

I used to do the same thing myself when I was her age. I'd steal away into my room and not reappear until early dawn. Of course I didn't have the gear that kids like Natalie have today. While TVs are forbidden in my kids' rooms, they don't really need one because they've had powerful laptop computers since entering high school. And, while I do not disturb her in her hideaway, I do imagine that Natalie is thoroughly engaged on her computer and cell phone socializing with a range of friends and exploring the www world for fun and stimulating amusement—at least much more amusement than her mom and dad can offer. I also know, given her bulging bookcases, that Natalie is an avid reader, mainly of anime and vampire stories.

For me, yeah, I read and listened to sports call-in shows on the radio at her age. I also staged boxing matches against my pillow and oftentimes would see how many times I could punch a balloon in the air while lying on my back, constantly seeking records and placing undo pressure on myself to excel. I also played uncountable board games of Challenge the Yankees and APBA baseball.

I had as many time sinks growing up as kids like Natalie have today, and what she does is no more stupid than what I did. I have always been comfortable alone in my head and am glad that she is, too.

If only she'd show her face once in a while...

# Day 270. September 21, 2010

(Editor's note: I missed yesterday's installment because a meeting I was in ran late. The choice was to either stay late and complete an entry or miss my train. My decision was a no-brainer.)

For you literary lions or artists of other stripes out there, tell me if you feel this dread: Jonathan Franzen has released a new book called Freedom, which, if it is anything like The Corrections, his previous masterpiece, will probably blow me away.

The reviews have been positive and I'm sure it will win all kinds of awards and I dread reading it. I dread reading it because those awful feelings of unworthiness and inadequacy will seep in my craw as I am dazzled by one of America's great writers spinning his art.

This feeling is absurd, of course, because I am not one-tenth the writer of a Jonathan Franzen and could never aspire to the insight and stylistic reach of his work. Still, the writer in me is green with admiration and reading a great work produced by the likes of him can both thrill and disgust me; the latter, of course, due to my comparatively humble talents.

Still, I continue to read great books by great writers—though I prefer dead writers because, even though their books are great, at least I'm alive and they're dead—I have that on them!

That's also how I cope with great guitar players like Jimi Hendrix, Andre Segovia, Fernando Sor, and Django Reinhardt. While I can still make incremental improvements in my fingerboard technique, those guys never will. Because I'm still alive and have hopes.

And they're dead!

# Day 271. September 22, 2010

I'm a lousy project manager and when we fired our project manager two months ago, we distributed his work among my team, none of whom is a good project manager. I've been working on some small projects and have been completely overwhelmed by the gates and details of such work, but then this is a complicated company with many snares and pitfalls on the road to implementation.

I've had jobs where I had to manage things from start to finish, but that was in the old analog days of typewriters, forms in quadruplicate, top sheets, telephones, and long lunches at swanky watering holes with vendors. Today, everything is computerized, databased, pdf-ed, and audit-trailed and the learning curve is brutal.

Technically, I'm supposed to write for a living, but that has taken a sideline while I learned this ridiculous process, which to me is like the proverbial pushing on a string. We're close to hiring a new project manager and I will prostrate myself at his or her feet.

Which brings me to baseball. There is nothing I crave more after a day of project managing than listening to a Yankee game (I don't get their cable TV channel in my plan). I need total escape; even playing my guitar takes too much of an effort—I need a box of Mallomars and John Sterling, the voice of the Yankees.

To project managers everywhere: you are to be treasured, admired, and appreciated. Your job is thankless and your work, once completed, is forgotten. You leave no footprint, but still you are worthy. You are life—struggling, passionate, aggravated, and finally, depleted to no lasting effect.

But I love you all.

# Day 272. September 23, 2010

I was thinking about Sophie's Choice today and like anyone who read the book or saw the movie, you reflect on what kind choice you would make. Do you take the boy or the girl? And you can't chicken out and say "Take me instead," as would most parents.

As much as I am terrified of dying, the reality is in our face every day and I suppose even I would rather take my own life than to witness the death of one of my kids due to my "choice."

So should it be Erica or Natalie? Of course the coward's way out of flipping a coin or other engines of chance are prohibited. And I must not be swayed by anything they say or do to cause prejudice in my decision one way or the other. With Sophie, it was probably a gender decision and, since most cultures value males over females, rather unfairly in my opinion, her choice was not a surprise. But I have two girls. Both healthy, loving, full of promise. And I must choose one.

I'm stuck. Most important decisions should entail a listing of pros and cons and a rationale applied to yield an optimal decision. But my two girls are quite similar and their differences are irrelevant when it comes to weighing decisions pertaining to their mortality.

Natalie is younger and healthier and will probably live longer if I don't have her killed. But Erica has launched a career and is now a married woman with a husband to take care of. No, I can't run away, because if I don't make a choice, they will both be put to death, as will I.

Sorry, this will require more thought. I'll come back to it later. Maybe.

# Day 273. September 24, 2010

I was not always a liberal, and even now I don't think of myself as a liberal so much as a progressive, if there's a difference. But given recent Republican rumblings, I do come across as a raging liberal.

The opposition has successfully disarmed our once-promising president and Mr. Obama comes across as curiously stoic, faint-hearted and indecisive. These are not appropriate qualities when your adversaries are crazed, doctrinaire, and desperate. Desperate to regain power and invoke the same policies that brought the country and its economy to its knees in the first place.

Obama's policies are truly sensible and, to my thinking, if they have a fault, are not radical enough. But he has been buffeted by a party that cares not a whit about anything important—the financial well-being of the nation and its majority populations, the sanctity of free choice, positive economic development. Their commitment is to their all-consuming need to regain power and abide the concerns of their wealthy puppet masters who finance their political well being.

And Obama stands by. The aggression and fury of an FDR is not to be found in the nature of Obama, a man grounded on intelligence and civil behavior. He has taken half measures to address great problems in the spheres of healthcare and financial regulation. These are successes, but success in scope of kicking a field goal when you need a touchdown to win the game. Successes that look good on paper but barely register as sufficient solutions to enormous problems.

I'm convinced the people of the drive and character needed to jam the necessary measures down the throats of the greedy and ignorant of the world to fix today's problems just don't exist. Yes, Obama has great drive and character, but as president his hand wavers at the throttle at a time of great need.

# Day 274. September 27, 2010

The dispiriting aspect of being famished and having no recourse but disagreeable food is a frustration that affects me viscerally. Though I stand a tad under six feet and barely tip 155 lbs. on the scale, food is such a central focus of my life. Good, robust, satisfying food.

Yesterday I ran 20 miles in preparation for my late October marathon in D.C., and then for dinner Micky prepared a dish consisting of white beans and blanched escarole and a whole lot of Romano cheese. It was a nice try, but on a day in which my workout consumed more than 2,000 calories, I need more than a vegetarian's poor excuse for protein.

I need cow. I need pig. I need chicken. And a starch that coats the belly and a nice firm asparagus/haricot vert/brussel-sprout-type meal that will fill the hollow of my belly and replenish the depleted muscles and organs of my corpus.

Escarole and white beans are fine after a chess match, a couple games of bowling. After 20 miles, a couple of eggs, a bagel, and a vaguely square vegetarian bean dish falls a little short. Deliciously prepared, since my wife is an excellent cook, but I woulda made a different choice. Taken a different path.

It amazes me that so many elite endurance athletes are vegetarians, vegans, and so forth. I used to think it was because they had food issues—that food is not important to them—not a focal point of life as it is for me.

But they seem content in their asceticism and skinniness and they certainly rack up world-class performance. Still, I pity them—there simply is no better food in the world than a spicy, fall-apart hunk of pulled pork doused in barbeque sauce.

# Day 275. September 28, 2010

I have a hard time figuring out the logic of aging, how the aesthetics can be so cruel. How beautiful young and middle-aged people become shriveled grotesques as they achieve the far reaches of mortality. It's especially striking for those in which photographic evidence exists of the vast changes that superannuation incur.

Old photos of Bridget Bardot contrasted with how the 70-year-old-plus actress looks now; the same with so many others. Former starlets of outrageous delectability transforming before our eyes into ugly monstrosities. (Guys, too, I know.) What is the point, why the deterioration? The scariest of all are the especially thin ones (myself?) who in their 80s wander the world as animated corpses.

While I do not believe that we are on this earth for any particular reason or that some "God" has a purpose and plan, I do believe that most biological functions serve an evolutionary purpose. Pretty girls attract pretty men to make pretty babies.

Aviary plumage is nothing but a birdie carnal display as well. But what is the point of ravaging the faces and bodies of our aging population—for what purpose? Does it remove the temptation to seek impregnation of a now-barren womb? That seems outlandish to me.

How can we passively accept the concept of "natural aging?" Why should it be natural? By making formerly beautiful people physically repugnant are they also devalued in other ways? Most still have robust minds, active imaginations, and physical vigor, yet their appearance betrays them. What is behind the optics of old people...the evolutionary rationale?

# Day 276. September 29, 2010

I wonder if absolutism will come back in vogue. Is democracy, to put it bluntly, dead? America is stuck in the water, perhaps overcome with too much democracy. Successful democracy depends on an educated population and a certain consensus about direction of policy, whether economic, foreign, or moral.

We see the limits of democracy given today's extreme partisanship, division, general stupidity and poor education of the populace. We're making bad collective decisions, when we're not paralyzed by ideological and political gridlock.

In other words, command societies are beginning to look good. Sure, you lack personal freedom and must pledge blind obedience to the power structure in places like China and Singapore. But those places are growing like crazy and the necessary work in terms of infrastructure, energy policy, trade, and industrialization is getting done.

The tyranny of one-party or one-person rule goes against our ideals of freedom, but it sure seems to power the furnace of economic growth.

Perhaps in our next election, it would be best not to have an election. Let's coronate a king (or queen) and offer up absolute power. Stop arguing and throwing stones and just do. It got China off the mark and maybe it's what we need today.

Congress is broken.

Long live the new monarchy!

# Day 277. September 30, 2010

I was glad to hear the other day that the Great Recession ended last June. Of course nobody believes the recession is over except the brotherhood of geeks who analyze the data and apply the maxims and declare irrefutable conclusions. Of course, to me and many others, the recession is still quite in evidence, given an unemployment rate of near 10%, blocks of empty storefronts, and home after empty home with For Sale signs on their lawns.

What my household is going through is not exactly a recession, but, hewing to the old Truman line (or was it FDR), a recession is when your neighbor has lost his job; a depression is when you have lost your job. So my household has lost 50% of its income due to Micky's prolonged unemployment, which puts us in the depression category.

A quick check on zillow.com shows a 25% drop in value for the house we live in. I do work in the financial services business and am sympathetic to the number heads who monitor the key economic indicators—because one does need key economic indicators to help with developing public policy and investment strategies. But here is a case where the anecdotal outweighs the objective; where the official state gains no traction in reality.

I'm a worrier when it comes to money; it haunts me every waking minute how I'm going to time our various bill payments. I devise strategies to avoid spending of any kind and not touch the sanctity of our savings account. It wears on a person after a couple of years and it's wearing mightily on me.

The glory days of two high incomes and surplus cash seems so long ago that it was another life completely. Sure, others have it much worse, but this is my life and one by which we played by the rules, invoked the necessary disciplines and still the economy exacts its revenge.

I hate the "oh woeful me" rant, but, as I said, it wears you down. So just for today: "Oh woeful me!"

# Day 278. October 1, 2010

Touching lightly on life and tasting rather than gorging is something that intrigues me, but it is also something that is not constitutionally easy for me to adopt.

To explain, tasting means flipping through a magazine or newspaper and pausing only to read an article of great interest, plus a few photo captions. I, on the other hand, don't consider a publication sampled unless I read the whole thing. So I end up with depth rather than breadth.

This applies across the board. I don't usually taste at a smorgasbord, but rather focus on a few items of extreme delight. If I touched lightly on life I would sample tiny bits of everything and let their varied essences add up to a total experience.

I can't travel to a continent and spend a day at each country; I must spend two weeks in one country, or better, one city. I can't trade in a car every year; I must own a car for 20 years. I can't wear a vast array of outfits, collect thousands of songs, play a range of instruments, consort with an array of people, change the color of my rooms and window treatments, and watch every new show on TV.

I must, instead, limit my scope like blinders on a horse and explore a tiny subset of experiences, but with a certain level of depth. Am I missing out? Yes and no.

There are many things that I will go to my grave without experiencing. But the things I see, do, and appreciate will be done at a greater level of understanding and intensity than a mere "sampler." I'm not saying that one approach trumps the other; it's just who I am and what I do.

# Day 279. October 4, 2010

Now to reveal more of my ignorance of foreign cultures. As societies and civilizations continue to rupture around us, there is something that stands out in terms of the innate violent capabilities of our species. Setting aside the constant urge to beat and obliterate one another, mankind through millennia of evolution has never stifled the drumbeat of violence.

The wanton cruelty of slashing, shooting, decapitating, torturing, burning, and gassing each other becomes more imaginative and efficient with the passing ages. I have no explanation for it, but I especially have no theories regarding the over-prevalence of rape in certain African cultures.

When I read about the various pillaging, murdering, and plundering in places like Congo, Nigeria, Sudan, Somalia, and Rwanda today and in the recent past, most reports include gang-banging on an enormous scale, by both government and rebel forces. It seems no women are spared; the young, the very young, the middle aged and even 80-year-old grandmothers are pinned down and violated by legions, generally until victims are senseless or dead.

Of course rape as an act of violence has been with us through every war and perpetrated by every culture, but nowhere, it seems, on the scale of these particular African sieges. I chalk up my bewilderment to an ignorance of African culture; perhaps rape is a ramification of submission, an act of ultimate power not only over the hapless victims, but also the powerless warrior classes of men for whom the victims depend for protection.

Violating "their" women in the most personal way is perhaps seen as the ultimate humiliation to these men—a symbolic gesture of emasculation. Of course, in these cultures women do not count; lower than cattle because they don't provide meat and milk. Women's pain, suffering, and emotional trauma are meaningless beyond how it shames their men.

"Try to stop me," chortle the invaders with their pants around their ankles; a boast met with cowering submission by the village warriors cowering behind buses and trees. That's my guess.

# Day 280. October 5, 2010

I understand that it's boring listening to people drone on about their athletic achievements. So I'll widen the scope of the discussion by attaching a psychological analysis of my latest athletic achievement.

Since my sporting career has been whittled down to the activity of long-distance running, I am currently reveling in the grandest of all running achievements—setting a new PR, which means "personal record." I did that on Sunday at a local half-marathon, beating my old half-marathon record by almost a minute—a giant improvement in the running world. Important to note, given the typically rapid deterioration of one's athletic prowess as we approach our senior years, setting a personal record at any distance for the first time in more than three years is, for me, a singular achievement.

It made me feel good, which is the only literary way that seems right to state it. It made my day it made my week it MADE ME FEEL GREAT!

Now the psychology: as one can glean from these pages, there is little in my ordinary life that seems to make me feel good. There's the brief rush of a great meal, a nicely executed turn on the guitar (quite rare), a vicariously experienced moment in my daughters' lives, the weekly martini. But few things that really provide a rush.

Well, for one hour, thirty-eight minutes, and thirty seconds on Sunday, I beat back the tides of time and rampaging Death by running this distance faster than at any point in my life. It provided a great meal for my pleasure centers, a reaffirmation that there are moments to cherish, that life can be rewarding, and that an accomplishment can be pure and indisputable.

Finishing 75th in a foot race never felt better!

# Day 281. October 6, 2010

I don't particularly care about clothes. I usually look rather slovenly. We're required to wear a tie at work, but I mate my 10-year-old ties with threadbare shirts and ancient slacks whose internal infrastructures are fraying and sometimes falling apart entirely.

I own two good suits; however the stitching on the pant cuffs (are they in fashion anymore?) has come undone, making for rather uneven hems. My shoes are old and out of fashion. For some reason I bought shiny square-toed dress shoes for my daughter's wedding, which look hideous but they're in great shape, so I wear them to work.

My other shoes are badly scuffed brown oxfords and cheap black loafers that I bought for $20 for our Paris trip in 2005. They're holding up well. I know I should invest a few hundred dollars to upgrade the work wardrobe, but I really don't care. Especially with this job, where I'm here for what I do and not for how I look.

Besides, I dress for comfort and I think the clothes-obsessives out there are narcissists in a way. Sure, on the rare occasion when I'm dressed up and looking good, I do feel an element of spiff and contentment, but it passes. For those who stake their value and reputation according to their body coverings seems to me a shallow and pitiful choice.

But, I do believe in the industry and will not begrudge the billions to be made in fashion and that paying too much for silly looking clothes is no more wasteful than shelling out for a German sports car, a Calphalon pot or a Gibson guitar.

I guess I prefer to waste my time and money in other worthless ways.

# Day 282. October 7, 2010

Working in today's labor market is a double-edged sword. When I'm busy, it's crazy and there are not enough resources to get everything done and I lose sleep over ever-looming deadlines. But I deliver because that's what I do. But then there are the dead periods, which happen every couple of months, and that's when I feel useless and worry that perhaps my job is not needed and that this will be discovered and I'll end up on the street.

That could be the conclusion in either case. Micky was working 24-7 at that terrible slave camp called International Business Machines. She was up night and day tapping away at her laptop or snapping at coworkers during endless conference calls. She was a physical and emotional wreck and a heart attack waiting to happen. She is a good, Catholic, guilt-ridden Do-Bee and must complete her work neatly and on time, even though the Herculean tasks assigned to her made that impossible. And the irony, which I grasped completely, was the goal of her company to outsource her job to half a dozen people in a third-world country who earned 90% less than my wife.

This I explained to her all the time and it never sank in. Until her job was outsourced to a third world country and now "Beth" in Bangalore gets paid $1.10 an hour to do a portion of my wife's former work.

The moral here is: busy, you're endangered. Not busy, you're endangered. The common corporate goal in America is to minimize labor costs either through automation or outsourcing to foreign slave camps.

I'm busy as hell now; but what does it mean?

# 283. October 8, 2010

The backward-facing camel bewildered Charles. He encountered it two days after the plane dropped him off in the desert with only the slight provisions in his backpack for sustenance to last the seven days he would be alone on the sands. Covered from head to foot in linen mufti like a Bedouin, Charles roamed for mile after mile in the stifling heat until he came across a herd of camels.

First, Charles was surprised to find a wild herd of camels; he thought they were all domesticated by Arabs to serve man. But here were dozens of camels wandering man-less in the infinite desert. Charles was also surprised how easy a camel could be slaughtered for meat, just a quick slash from shoulder blade to neck and the creature would buckle and moan piteously until it bled out.

At night Charles would field dress the kill and carve up small steaks. He was able to live quite well on camel meat (gamy and tough, but a complete protein and not totally indigestible).

Another thing that surprised Charles was the herd's utter indifference to his savage kill. They just huddled around each other and watched as Charles butchered and packed his meat and then mounted another compliant herd member in search of water. They say if you leave a camel to its own devices, it will lead you to water, and Charles did exactly that.

After a day of riding between the humps, he and his backward-facing camel arrived at an oasis, where a spring slaked his thirst and camel meat kept the hunger pangs away. And when the buzz of the single-engine plane approached, Charles shaded his eyes and waved a towel to signal the pilot that he was ready to be picked up.

As he climbed into the passenger seat, he watched his camel-steed take in the take-off, staring at them backwards.

# Day 284. October 12, 2010

Daughter Natalie is entering the exciting world of modeling. In other words, getting your picture taken and being paid for it. Though it may sound like I am belittling her ambition, I absolutely am not.

She is fearless in front of a camera, posing, mugging, twisting this way and that, assuming a variety of expressions from dour and contemplative to wacky and mirthful. She exudes personality in front of the camera, whereas a person such as myself would rather stare into the barrel of a gun than a lens of a camera.

And, at 16, she seems to be making progress, if no money. She has been signed by an agency called Wilhelmina, which is famous. She had a photo shoot for a key modeling trade publication called Supermodels Unlimited in New York last weekend by a famous photographer. Now they want her to do another shoot for another issue of the mag in Hollywood next week. And attend some gala party celebrating some kind of anniversary for the pub attended by many movers and shakers and celebrities.

All heady stuff, all being subsidized by mom and dad. Yes, I know starting a career like that is tough and requires an investment. And, yes, we love our daughter and want to help her realize her dream. And her dream could be quite lucrative if she catches fire. Or it could be a colossal cash drain if she doesn't.

But we've been assured by people who know that Natalie has the "it" thing going and is a can't-miss as a model/actress. Of course we think she's hot stuff, but don't go by us. We just popped the papoose and pay the bills. The odd fellows in this odd industry will decide our daughter's fate.

# Day 285. October 13, 2010

My favorite food requires no cooking and just one step to prepare, but a very challenging one indeed. The oyster is the most heavenly food on earth, a lump of astringent ocean in your mouth and a pillowy texture that somehow summons atavistic idylls of a person's earliest eating experiences.

But to experience the soft ecstasy of oysters involves first freeing the meat from its craggy shell. The art of a master oyster shucker mesmerizes me; how in his strong hands he can in a few deft strokes of a rounded blade impale the seam in the shell and clear out the muscular attachments that frees the hinge without creating fragments of shell while preserving the precious liquor of the internal creature.

Having made a mess of clams, cutting up shells and scraping along ridges and leaving particles of hardened residue in the meat, I find the prospect of tackling an oyster shell daunting at the least. Yet I've seen the pros do one after another, plating a dozen a minute, not a shell cracked or disintegrated and, if I go to the right places, I can order a platter of a dozen and not have to endure a single particle of shell as I munch precious oyster meat.

I will in my lifetime master oyster shucking. It's absurd to pay the usurious prices for a meager dozen in a restaurant when I clearly long for at least a bushel in a single sitting. But can I develop the knack?

I've never developed the talent for a skillfully taped drywall joint or a perfectly glazed window. Nor have I gotten the hang of a passable omelet or a gift-wrapped present. I just need to summon the courage, buy a dozen and just get down to it!

# Day 286. October 14, 2010

This is, I understand, an archetypal dream. I'm back at high school, not my 1960s-style low-slung-all-on-one-level sprawling suburban structure, but rather a multi-story glass building in the heart of a bustling urban downtown. It's a week before the marking period ends and I am rushing to class, but I forget not only where the class is but also the subject that it is covering. I'm panicked and breathing hard.

I know that I take History, Math, Biology, Gym, American Lit, and Health, but I find myself lost in the swarm and interrupt several in-session classes asking if I'm in the right place. Then finally one teacher calls out to me as I'm passing the door of her classroom, beckoning me to go in.

"Gee, Carl, haven't seen you all marking period. You've got all zeros, you know."

"And this would be..."

"World History, and that is your seat." Then it comes back to me, second row next to the door. I rummage through my backpack and there it is: the syllabus. Where have I been? I have 26 homework assignments to make up. But that's when the bee arrives.

Sure, you've had this dream: A giant bee comes flying into the room. I mean a humongous bee, the size of a basketball and it's buzzing around the room and panic ensues. I dash into the hall as the bee bounces on the heads of rushing students, including mine. I make it outside to the sidewalk and the bee zeros in on me, buzzing like the roar of helicopter rotor. It's flying towards me towards me towards me and I know its sting will paralyze and kill me. Then I find myself in the middle of an intersection, cars passing in a strafing blur, the bee descends and I wake up. Always at this point in the story.

For years, the same dream. So, Mr. Jung, whaddya say? What's it mean?

# Day 287. October 15, 2010

It may surprise you to learn that my daughter Erica, the dainty fragrance specialist who subsists on stir fries and white meat for the most part, takes as her favorite meal in the world, that robust German concoction of pickled beef familiarly known as sauerbraten. It is, in her estimation, her favorite meal in the world and no one makes it better than I.

Sauerbraten is to me the Ratatouille of that eponymous Pixar film with the effect it has on my olfactory bulb. It brings back memories from my earliest years of my German grandmother's sauerbraten. Basically, sauerbraten is a chuck roast that is pickled in a mixture of water, vinegar, cut up carrots, celery, onions, and pickling spice and left to sit in the refrigerator for at least three days.

Since my grandfather's taste buds were shot from 70 years of pipe smoking and beef jerky chewing, my grandmother pickled the beef for a week or longer, causing puckered grimaces around the table. It's my memory of sauerbraten and so I don't make polite restaurant sauerbraten with the hint of a 3-day pickling. I pickle Erica's sauerbraten for 8 DAYS! And she loves it and we all love it.

I create the traditional ginger snap gravy, which is a wine sauce with some of the beef marinade and some more vinegar and she makes the spaetzle and I make the red cabbage and over everything we douse the addictive gravy.

The table is silent except for the scraping of knives and forks as we indulge in the religion of food. Then Micky finishes the feast with her homemade German chocolate cake, the best I've ever had (the recipe is on the Baker's Chocolate box).

Erica's favorite meal in the world—and certainly in my top 10.

# Day 288. October 18, 2010

The truth about most Yankee fans is they are a bunch of front-runners. The Yankees have been a powerful force since the mid-1990s, thus hooking a young generation that worships winning and stars. I am, on the other hand, a long-time die-hard Yankee fan. Sure, I was hooked at the age of six, rooting for the likes of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Elston Howard, and Johnny Blanchard (who? A back-up catcher who was a real nice guy when I met him in 1961).

But when I was in my baseball-rooting prime, things took a turn for the worse. Before Steinbrenner, Yankee owners stopped investing in the team and when they did make trades or buy decent names, the guys were either flame-outs or washed up. Thus, when I was a Yankee fan from the late 60s and the early 70s, the Yankees sucked and the stadium was an echo chamber of empty seats.

Sure, I was rewarded in the late 70s and 80s with championship teams during the golden Catfish Hunter, Ed Figueroa, Reggie Jackson, Ron Guidry, and Goose Gossage years. But I still rooted just as hard as the team endured the fallow years of 1982 to 1995.

This is just a roundabout way of saying the teams you root for have to be in your blood, win or lose, it's your team. That explains my endless patience with the New York Jets, which often tempt and tease but always fall short in the end. I could never root for a team just because they win.

But it sure is nice when they do—fat times these days for Yankee fans.

# Day 289. October 19, 2010

Got a job offer today. But since it involves moving to Bethesda, Maryland, there's a good chance that I won't take it. A former boss who was fired on the basis of his sheer obnoxiousness called me today where he is head of marCom (marketing communication) for a smallish mutual fund company.

Sure, I could use a change of pace, but the money is not that different from what I currently make and it would be easier to uproot a standing redwood than my wife and kid from the paradise called Long Branch, NJ. Not to mention changing Natalie's school and saying good-bye to the boyfriend et cetera et cetera. If I were single and unattached, sure, I'd make the move because as tedious and ridiculous as the man who wants me can be, he was also a bit of a trip and did flatter my work and wit. That goes pretty far with me, a person who seldom gets offers of employment.

I am susceptible to being wanted—I wonder what it's like for those who must sort through offers of employment, whether it is a baseball free agent, a football player, a corporate executive, an actor/model. To be in demand.

We are, most of us, not in demand, so when the phone rings with the occasional interest from a third party, it's joy juice for the ego and a nice rush of epinephrine. I'm liable to take up offers of all sorts just to savor the thrill of being wanted/needed.

So it was cool, my first job offer in about 12 years. The slight excitement of being called in for an interview cannot compare to the offer itself, especially when based on a past relationship that went well.

Sorry, Sir, family considerations as you would suspect. How delicious the sound of disappointment in HIS voice.

# Day 290. October 20, 2010

Writing amidst turmoil is incredibly difficult. It does take a certain form of relaxed energy to unleash the full velocity of creative thought through the conduits of disciplined expression. For me it's best to have a silent place, a tranquil flow, and a reasonable emotional stasis to do my best and most imaginative work. When at a place of pressing demands on my time and emotions, creative expression is more or less thwarted.

Such a time is now. Coming off Erica's all-consuming wedding and Natalie's all-consuming nascent career in acting and modeling, a pick-up in the workload at work, and the daunting prospect of my next marathon barely 10 days away, the Muses are too skittish to inspire. That's why it's been a while since I've penned an entry offering the nonsense of free-form fantasy.

I know there are many who live in a constant state of crisis and/or medical/mental infirmity, who still can crank out soaring flights of fancy. How could the clinically depressed like the Van Gogh's and Kafka's of the world not just survive the day-to-day, yet still spin creative gold at their crafts?

I like excitement, but a constant adrenaline surge disarms and throws my focus out of whack. So you'll know when you read the next inscrutable, head scratching entry that I've finally landed on an island of peace. It can't come soon enough—at present my life is too freaking exciting.

# Day 291. October 21, 2010

I'm now 291 days into this thing and I can't help but think it's getting a little stale. A bit forced, perhaps. Maybe part of it is that every day when I open to a blank screen on my computer my thinking starts from scratch.

It was not an official rule from the beginning to avoid thinking about a day's entry ahead of time and then transcribing ideas and thoughts from an earlier hour. And, since I'm formally forbidden to go back to prior entries to make a judgment on those efforts and allow myself to savor accidental bursts of wit and insight as a salve to my morale, starting from scratch is taking its toll.

I have no idea whether any of this is any good or if it's nothing more than a self-indulgent, vapid exercise of no value that describes most unpublished memoirs. There is a Groundhog Day (as in the film) element to all this, because it does seem like each day starts at page one. I have no sense of progress, no thickening of plots or accretion of insights that may potentially yield a fully formed soul.

Maybe that's not so bad. If indeed one does get exactly what one is looking for when undertaking an extended writing project, then the results are usually rote and flat. However, by providing myself the infinite freedom of writing whatever occurs to me that day, I tend to feel diminished that I can't do full justice in a limited space of the grand topics I choose.

Even more agonizing are the days in which no grand topics present themselves and I fake my way through a page. (I'm sure those days are pretty obvious to you, patient reader!) So, be grateful for this murky insight into the processes and insecurities of a writer's mind. I think, as this project drags on, I may begin to prefer literary endeavors in which one day's work builds on the foundation of a prior day. That's what got me through four boxes of manuscripts. Believe me, sheer discipline is what's getting me through this future overheated box of virtual pages.

# Day 292. October 22, 2010

When I was around 12 years old my grandmother on my father's side sprung for a complete edition of The World Book Encyclopedia, including the Childcraft version for younger kids. I was dazzled! A volume for nearly every letter in the alphabet (actually, X, Y, and Z were contained in one thin volume, but the letter "S" required two books).

I was thrilled beyond elation by that generous gift—unaware of the prevailing notion at the time perpetuated by the marketing departments of encyclopedia manufacturers that the key to a successful and lucrative future was assured if your children were exposed to the world's knowledge through the medium of multi-volume encyclopedias. My grandmother fell for it and I'm glad she did. Those books got me through countless term papers and catered to my pre-teen obsessions: introversion and psychosomatic stress.

The only indicator in early childhood that I had a writer's instinct was the fact that I liked to be alone. Since World Book included a listing of every town in every state by population, I spent hours searching for the smallest towns in America. In 1966, if I were to move to Ironton, Missouri, it would be just me and two other guys. My kind of town.

And, every stomachache and every hiccup and every spasm and pain meant a trip to the World Book to see what horrible affliction was attacking my tender body. At various turns, it appeared that I was experiencing a heart attack, a stroke, pneumonia, Scarlet Fever, diverticulitis, kidney stones, macular degeneration and so much more. Perhaps a truer diagnosis at the time would have been neurosis.

I'm pleased to report that I recovered from all those things.

# Day 293. October 25, 2010

One week away from the marathon and I feel like a boxer must feel when he rounds into peak condition and the only thing left to do is to get the shit knocked out of him on event day. I am in absolutely perfect physical condition—at least as good physical condition as a 56-year-old body can be in.

I've tapered from 20-mile runs to my final long run of 14 miles yesterday, and I feel a vague sort of buzz. A surging energy in the form of heightened nervousness, which I interpret as not true nervousness, but just the enhanced firing of neurons in a body ready to do something awesome.

There is energy and the requisite uneasiness and nerves that have preceded each of my six previous marathons. As you know, I treat each marathon as an event, a culmination of a 16-week process of preparation. I know other runners who run three or four marathons a year and don't map out a specific regimen for each. But my marathon regimen is a religion of constancy and dedication, a personal cultural endeavor and culmination, much like the Catholic Eucharist.

I always want the marathon to be special. I'll never do a longer race, because then you enter into the infinity of possibilities of going longer and longer until no specific distance is special. For me, that would be when the mundane would creep into my running just like it has in most other parts of my life.

Marathons summon expected pains and demons in their execution, and while familiar, I never want them to become quotidian. Why would I want to run a 50K and risk diminishing the magical 26.2 miler? When that is no longer special, then nothing, from a running standpoint, is special.

# Day 294. October 26, 2010 Replaced April 11, 2012

This entry was originally about a girl my daughter (I won't say which one) knows who told amazing tales about her life and adventures that included incredible accomplishments in several competitive fields—so-called truths that we have since learned were either significant embellishments or outright lies. Since she is a minor, it would not be appropriate to relay her story and her difficulties with the truth in a public forum.

But there was news today: my boss submitted her resignation. Eventually I will gain my eighth boss in eight years. She was here for almost three years, which was the second longest stint of any of my supervisors. Most didn't get past one or two years. Why is that? The trend is hard to pin down—four of my bosses have been fired, some served an interim period until they hired a permanent person, and some just got fed up with the company and left for something better.

The latter was the case with my latest boss. While not wildly unhappy with her job, she did run up against the frustration of trying to do professional marketing in a sales-and product-driven organization. Not only will she be going to a larger and more prestigious firm, she is going to one that pays more respect to and does a great job in marketing, and will actually welcome and implement her many good ideas. Plus, she'll be moving back to the West Coast where she was born and raised. Good for her.

As for me, I'll do fine with whomever they choose to replace her, if indeed they do choose to replace her. It will not be with me, however, since I don't want to run into the types of frustrations she faced every day and, besides, I'm not particularly loved by upper management and would never get the job anyway. Unlike three years ago when the endless search for her job was conducted, I felt otherwise. Now I'm content to march to the beat of entrenched powers and just crank out good copy.

That's what I can do and it's all that expected of me. So how's your career going?

# Day 295. October 27, 2010

I bought a lottery ticket this morning—the jackpot was up to $140 million. It's hardly worth it, in my opinion, to waste a buck on the lottery if the pot is below $100 million.

It is astonishing how many people would agree with that statement. There seems to be a couple of tiers when people think about wealth and income. I'm like many people who carefully orchestrate bill payments and stagger debts so that my paltry pay will cover them before finance charges are invoked. Like most, we live precariously from paycheck to paycheck. And then we exult when we get a few thousand as a bonus and a pay bump of 1 or 2 percent.

Then there is the lottery mentality, similar in some ways to celebrities and execs who make millions every year and how we avidly follow their exploits and critically review their relatively lavish pay in context with others in their field. And then we complain that if only Texas had offered $11 million for that pitcher instead of the paltry $8 mill insult they ponied up, he would've signed on the dotted line.

So it is with the lottery. We'll play if the pot is $100 million, but turn up our noses if it's a mere $63 million. How could we afford to put food on the table for such chump change? And of course we would take the lump sum, despite the cash penalty versus going with the annuity. Because it's our money, we have plans, AND WE WANT IT NOW!

I suppose our penchant to think in such strange and contradictory ways is why we hold out hope of someday reaching the level of the elite earners; which is a reasonable explanation for why so many poor people vote for Republicans and idolize and reward the pretenders who preside over many of our corporations. We worship what our dreams conjure and lose our good sense in the process.

# Day 296. October 28, 2010

This will be a speed day because I have to go home in 15 minutes! I no longer have car lust. We own three cars with a collective age of 62 years. The 1981 Fiat sports car is for pleasure only and only has 73,000 miles on it, my 1988 Mazda 626 has 173,000 miles and the 2000 Honda van 118,000 miles. They are all in various conditions of aging, but my philosophy is not unusual.

I hate car payments. Yes, I love driving Erica's 2010 VW GTI that has all the bells and whistles and flies like the wind, but she'll have car payments for the next five years and it makes no sense to me.

Depreciating assets are not worth finance charges, despite the joy and exhilaration elicited from a newly manufactured high-ticket item. Unfortunately, much of America is latching on to my mentality and nothing much is selling, which has depressed hiring, worsened the unemployment situation and created the stasis in which we're currently wallowing.

Sure, I'd like to do my patriotic duty and plunk down some cash on a new Ford automobile, but that can only happen if someone would hire my poor, unemployed wife.

Yes, in a perfect world in which one can only dream, I would have a new car in my driveway, a big flat-screen TV in my sun porch, a new carpet in the downstairs and sofas that don't sag when you sit on them. But this is the new America. The new third-world America of denial and deferred or never-to-be gratification has become the new norm.

# Day 297. October 29, 2010

I wonder how overstressed people who do not run let the steam out between their ears. Currently I'm in what I hope is a temporarily stressed situation. To wit: my workload is quite heavy with several projects on strict deadline; our finances are a disaster with Micky out of work and significant expenditures being made to jumpstart Natalie's "career;" Erica is having severe financial problems because her new hubby, a full-time student, is being blocked from obtaining a student loan to help with expenses; I have to go to Florida in a couple of weeks to clear up some financial and legal matters for my mom; and I'm running a freaking marathon in Washington D.C. in two days.

I'm not sure if the severity or breadth of the situation is the cause of my unease and hampered sleeping, but at least I have running. In the dead of night I find myself wrapped as tight as an Iraqi corpse in a bed sheet. But then when I go out and run, the sweat loosens me up and my body relaxes and my mind is too tired to overheat with worry.

Of course stressed-out people do resort to excessive eating and drinking. The eating I don't really understand, but I have tried a few drinks to bring down the temperature of my angst. The problem with alcohol is the relief is temporary, and, in my case, it worsens my insomnia. Plus, alcohol is dehydrating and causes headaches.

I think marijuana is a promising alternative, but Micky wouldn't allow it in the house and, as mentioned above, I probably couldn't afford it anyway. No, running works and the positive effects do last longer than alcohol.

The only thing better is to rout out the stressors, but too often that is impossible.

# Day 298. November 2, 2010

I keep reminding myself that I run marathons because it is important to regularly do something hard; something outside of your comfort zone. Believe me, there are few things more uncomfortable than running a marathon. Of this I was reminded two days ago when I finished the Marine Corps Marathon, my seventh marathon.

The pattern is becoming predictable: a strong first half followed by gradual weakening in miles 15, 16, and 17. Then at mile 18 the weakness and pain begins to affect my stride and it's all I can do not to stop in between water stations, where I always stop. Then by mile 20 I'm done in and each subsequent mile results in lots of starts and stops.

An amazing thing happens: my body takes over completely—when I run and when I walk and how quickly I do either is totally outside my control. The atrocities of the latter miles inflicted on my body results in a usurpation of control. At this point I share in the community of misery of fellow depleted competitors, all of us in that same mental place of desperation and exhaustion. And wondering why I signed up for Boston in the spring. Why I torture myself with this gratuitous immersion in self-abuse.

Finally, about 3 hours and 40 minutes from when it all began, I reach the clamoring crowds at the Finish, stagger across the timing strips and the chemical elation comes pouring from hitherto dormant glands—another one in the books, though my quads are not impressed.

Another struggle with mortality and despite the fits and starts, a top 10 percent finish; but best of all, 31st out of 610 for my age group. Holding up well despite the abuse I heap on these aging bones.

# Day 299. November 3, 2010

Sometimes I think about what life would be like if I had lived alone. I have never really lived alone. The closest I came was my first year in college and I had a roommate who went home every weekend. So I lived alone for two days a week over the course of two semesters. That's it.

Specifically, I think about what I'd eat if I lived alone. My thoughts stray to pasta—I could literally eat pasta every night. Pasta with red sauce, embellished in a million different ways with crumbled veggie burgers or ground pork, pulled pork, ground veal, hamburger, etc. and supplemented with seasonal vegetables from celery leaves and leeks to any kind of edible mushroom. I could also go the simple olive oil/garlic/lemon route, but then I'd be passing up the opportunity for rich red tomato sauce—but if I did pasta every night, the sacrifice would be okay. And, since I would be living alone, there would be nothing to stop me from chopping up a tomato at the end and tossing it in.

Various foods I would eat that don't gain wide acceptance in my current household: fish filet that is not tilapia, flounder, or tuna; scallops, monkfish, catfish. I'd pry open my own oysters to save cash and learn how to prepare skate. Fish at least twice a week. And my stir fries would range across the gamut of obscure vegetables from my favorite farm market (Delicious Orchards to locals). Meats prepared medium rare (not well done) and A-1 Sauce in the fridge instead of catsup.

I'm not fussy about wine and 3-Buck Chuck would be a staple, as would be pickled herring, beef tongue, fennel in everything, cilantro in everything and ice cream always in the freezer. Yes, the eating would change if I lived alone.

# Day 300. November 4, 2010

A fever dream of an infected tooth. The pain began almost imperceptibly as a dull ache that caused little more than a double-take while I was gnawing on a hamburger bun. Test, test, bite, bite and the dull ache alternated with a sharp streaking pain along the jaw line. Never mind, there are lots of unexplained pain episodes, go sleep on it.

Nothing changed, but then two days later the pain no longer had to be summoned by localized chewing; it made its presence incessantly known without chewing or pressure. The immediate resort to Ambesol was fruitless and the next step was a call to the dentist.

I did forget to note that I was alone in the house and would be for the next several days as Micky and Natalie were off on a modeling assignment. I was set to come in the next morning to have the tooth repaired, but when I awoke in the middle of the night, it was to a head-crashing symphony of radiating waves of agony centered on the back tooth that spread to my cranial cavity with an electric cloud of pure pain.

I reached for the phone—or I tried to reach for the phone and then in a panic realized that I could not move my arms. Or my legs, my head, my mouth, my tongue, even my eye lids. And the racking pain migrated from my head, down my neck, frying a pathway of nerves and shouting distress and then up and down my arms and legs, a pincer movement across the rib cage and deep into my chest, my body almost levitated by the intensity of unbearable agony.

Then, in my fevered brain I could see the fingers of torment encircling my heart, squeezing it to bursting and...that...was...it.

# Day 301. November 5, 2010

Come in to work every day and think about ways to do your job better! You are the CEO of YOU! Resist the temptation to be average. Put on your little thinking cap and critically analyze everything you do to figure out how to do it better, faster, or even not at all!

You are the entrepreneur of YOU! Your brain is an idea factory if you throw off the shackles of ingrained behaviors and habits and think each task anew—am I making the most of my skills and the skills of those around me? Am I reaching out to other people and resources for advice and suggestions to be more effective? Am I proactively seeking new challenges and anticipating customer trends that I can address creatively and thereby shine a positive light on my talent and commitment?

Yes, be a LEADER!!! That's what a leader is—using your noodle and firing up the enthusiasm and commitment of your team and marching off to great corporate conquests. It all flows to the bottom line and, through the proven efficacy of trickle-down, may someday enrich your own life spiritually and economically, and through this positive attitude shift put you on the path to achieving your hopes and dreams!!!!!!!!!!!

And......don't forget: you are the master of your attitude. From this point on, commit yourself to activating the over-caffeinated cheerleader boor that's buried inside all of us and shake your pompoms for the greater glory of the corporate enterprise. It is right and it is good and wipe that smarmy smile off your face. I REALLY REALLY MEAN IT!

(Friday...martini time)

# Day 302. November 8, 2010

Am I more concerned about Derek Jeter's next contract than my own bonus in February? It's the talk of New York. The great Yankee captain, the future first-ballot Hall of Famer, the future monument in center field at Yankee Stadium—the man all the women want and all the men envy. Derek Jeter's 10-year $200 million contract is up. And here's the rub:

Derek Jeter is 36 years old and, having apparently never indulged in performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals, is showing clear signs of baseball mortality. He batted some 40 points below his career average, only hit 10 home runs, and is now a ground-ball hitter with limited range at shortstop. Our venerated immortal Captain is clearly on the slippery slope, and the remorseless calculus of baseball would indicate a significant drop in earnings.

But do you reward a player based on past performance and what he means to the franchise, or on the true worth of future production? Derek Jeter is not an appraisal problem, but rather a moral and public relations issue. He will, undoubtedly, re-sign with the Yankees for a lot more moolah and more years than he likely deserves.

But what about me? Sure, I'm much older than Derek Jeter, but if anything, I may be better than ever at what I do compared with prior years. And yet my pay has gone down the past couple of years and my miserable income is but a rounding error compared with Derek Jeter's salary.

Why not, just once, could I be compensated unfairly in a positive way? Why shouldn't others plead my case—I need it more than Derek Jeter. I deserve it more than Derek Jeter. Damn, wish I were Derek Jeter!

# Day 303. November 9, 2010 (Replaced on April 16, 2012)

The entry that is being replaced would have resulted in my invitation to leave my family. I think, instead, I'll touch on a topic that amused me when I was growing up. Both my mother and father insisted that if they began to behave like their parents that we kids had the right to shoot them.

Funny thing is, both my parents became their parents in their old age—but more specifically, they acquired the worst habits, tics, and other qualities of their parents. I won't bore you with examples, other than to say that it made/makes life difficult for those who deal with such people on a regular basis.

What does cause me to wonder, being as self-absorbed as the next guy, is what will become of me? When they were younger, my parents were well aware of the shortcomings in the behavior of their parents. And I am intimately aware of similar traits that they inherited from their parents—in fact behaviors that they imitated.

Does that doom me to repeat those habits and tics in my dotage? Even though I'm 58 and not exactly young anymore, I am obsessed with being the anti-mom and dad if I feel that I am lapsing in any way. But will the defenses break down as I age and my mind and health deteriorates? Sure, it's easy to say that I'm better and smarter than that and there are very few ways in which I resemble my parents in terms of my outlook on life, intellectual concerns, and parenting biases.

However, if anything, I've learned that smugness and over-confidence always comes back to bite you in the ass. I've never been 78 or 80 before. I've never been in real, protracted pain and have never been heavily medicated. My mind is still reasonably sharp and I'm very much engaged with the world.

What happens when all that starts going away? Instead of devolving into a second childhood, does something more pernicious happen—do I become my mom? I don't think I will but I can't say with any certainty that I won't.

Micky insists that I'll never become like my parents, but how would she know? Her dad didn't make it to 70 and her mom was gone before 80. They never entered true enfeeble-dom and thus Micky has no relevant experience for comparison. Since I expect to survive long enough to entertain significant senility, I worry about what I will become. I certainly hope it's something that will not be too off-putting to my offspring.

# Day 304. November 15, 2010

The martial aspect of my nephew's life was the most striking aspect of my trip to Florida these past few days. My nephew, the same age as Natalie, is enjoying an entirely different high school experience. As Natalie cannot be bothered with such mundane school activities as trying out for a school play, a sports team, or any of the various special interest clubs, C.J. is a major cog in the school marching band, a Boy Scout soon to be an Eagle Scout, and an ROTC officer.

Florida is quite different from New Jersey, it seems. While Natalie is engaged in such "cool" activities as playing rock guitar, modeling, and the like, C.J. is hewing to old-fashion traditional group activities, wherein he is developing a keen sense of teamwork, leadership, the old school spirit thing, and military discipline.

Natalie, however, is not a team player (a chip off the old dad's block), not vocationally driven, oblivious to the allure of representing her school in any way whatsoever, and disdainful of most classmates. Yet she and C.J. enjoy a close bond.

Similarly, C.J.'s mom—-my sister--and her husband are immersed from a volunteer standpoint in most of C.J.'s activities, whereas Micky and I are completely unwelcome by Natalie when it comes to making appearances at Natalie's school.

Yes, C.J. will have a painful separation when the bliss of his high school days finally ends. Natalie, on the other hand, will never look back. I suppose it's sad in a way, but then I never really miss high school. Similar to Natalie, it was merely a milepost marker on the road to the next destination.

# Day 305. November 16, 2010

I wonder about the depths of disappointment. Reflecting on my own, for instance, in which I am an expert. Humans should have at least two lives. One life is a dry run wherein you can accumulate mistakes, take notes, and apply that knowledge to your next life.

At this point in my life, I think I should continue on my present path because I'm not so far away from retirement that this would be a good time to start a new life from scratch. The freedom to control my days and nights is no more than five or six years away, so I'll endure in my patch of indifference until that time comes. Then I'll off myself when the inevitable infirmities overwhelm.

There is not much that I would change from my childhood. I was good enough at school and one of the lessons I learned is it really doesn't matter which college you go to. (Take note, readers with grade-school offspring.)

Things I'd change: I'd focus more on tennis than baseball, perhaps do cross-country, and definitely find a better guitar teacher. I would've majored in business with the intent of going the entrepreneurial route.

Assuming that my various strengths and weaknesses would be replicated in Life #2, I would focus on starting and running my own businesses, because I am not a team player and desire the credit when I succeed and accept the blame when I screw up. I will not hover over my children and instead let them find their own way. I'd learn how to fix cars early in life and always always be a member of some kind of band.

Though I work for a fairly reasonable corporation, I am not a company man and thus the compromised values, petty frustrations, and mindless regimentation of the corporate world would not be part of my experience in my second life. And most surely I would live in a warmer climate and marry a person very much like Micky.

I would, however, make sure early in life to attend a couple of key fiction writer's workshops and make connections, so that perhaps some success in that field would be feasible.

Lessons in life learned late. I should have realized earlier that I am a lone wolf, and could've taken steps before it became too great a liability. Like most people, unfortunately, every minute spent at work is a wasted minute—a true tragedy when you have only a single life. We deserve two.

# Day 306. November 17, 2010

I was inspired by a book called Rant written by a crazy guy named Chuck Palahniuk. (I'll check the spelling when I read this thing back some day.) His work is warped and incredibly imaginative in every way—in terms of structure, style, character development, language, and concept. He basically strips away the conventions of storytelling, whips up a format borrowed from another medium that happens to perfectly suit his narrative, telegraphs thoughts and ideas at a dizzying pace while endowing each character with a unique point of view and style of expression.

And his name is Chuck. A serious writer with a name perhaps more suited to a baseball player or dump truck driver.

So enough about...Chuck. It's what it means to me. While not anywhere near his league, some of my writing has attempted to do what Chuck's accomplishes. Incorporate stylistic flourishes, make time and reality fluid, throw in some narrative tics and pure scientific speculation and have fun with it.

My writing, so it seems, is lacking that fun factor since I've aged. Part of it is maybe I no longer have the energy or ideas, but some of it also has to do with, in the course of trying to get published, my literary quirks were ironed out and my overindulgences excised until I was left with a conventional, sanitized version of my original high-flying efforts.

What Chuck represents to me is aspiration. His prose is not Updike elegant, but it is supercharged and outrageous. I will do supercharged and outrageous if someday I can gather the courage to conjure up some ideas and have fun with them. Got to get me some more Chuck in the meantime.

# Day 307. November 18, 2010

The mind does seem capable of unconsciously summoning unpleasantness. Invariably following a marathon I get a head cold. I thought I would escape this time, having completed my marathon about two weeks ago. But sure enough, the day before yesterday there formed a scratchiness in the back of my throat, painful sneezing and the old nasal congestion. It's not a full-blown cold, but it's right there with all the rest following the marathon.

How much of it is because it was expected—and thus thinking made it so? One can rationalize: the rigors of training, the loss of sleep, and the final relief of accomplishment throws open the doors of resistance, rendering the body helpless against the rude coughing and nasal expulsions from the daily train riders to work.

Some of it may be seasonal; my resistance is lower during the change in seasons—when the warm days turn over to the cool of autumn; though my favorite time of year, it is also the time I'm most prone to my annual cold. Marathons tend to take place in key transitional periods—early fall and spring; another explanation, perhaps.

It places, in a word, a damper on my life. While the physical symptoms and lethargy are inconvenient, it is the emotional ones I find most disturbing. Colds bring on a sense of weakness and depression. Dissatisfaction with my life and the choices I've made. It robs me of the sense of accomplishment following the completion of the marathon and of the other things that I do better than most people. Colds impose a humbleness that I don't necessarily welcome.

I should be tooting my horn, but instead I'm blowing my nose!

# Day 308. November 22, 2010

I am always struck curious by people at work who despise their managers but say they "like him/her as a person." I wonder when I hear that all-too-frequent assertion whether there is any truth in it at all. For me, I cannot separate the person to whom I report as a manager from that person as a person.

I feel personalities are integrated, and the qualities that make one a clueless and insufferable manager leach into their civilian lives as well. Thus, if I dislike a person as a manager, I just generally dislike him or her in his or her entirety.

I either lack the ability to compartmentalize the various aspects of human relationships and tend to judge on the complete package, or maybe people are just a bunch of lying hypocrites. It's hard for many to admit that they dislike someone else. After all, we all like to be liked, and would prefer to limit the list of our enemies. We are a social species and we're much better off if we can manage to get along with each other as opposed to harboring simmering hatreds and the polarities they cause.

I, on the other hand, am inclined to the anti-social and the dogged honesty that tends to run in my family. If I dislike a significant part of what a person is (such as a manager), there's a good chance I will not like that person, period.

That doesn't mean that if a person I find otherwise agreeable holds repugnant Republican-type biases that I will cut off all ties with the guy. A person's politics are not important enough, in my view, to alter a friendship. Bad bossing habits, on the other hand, indicate certain character flaws and insensitivities.

# Day 309. November 23, 2010

This is my last entry before Thanksgiving break. I will not clutter these pages with a sentimental accounting of things that I am thankful for, other than the opportunity to take five days off from work and, especially, writing.

I so look forward to the breaks from both activities, which are both discrete and differentiated. Writing is something for which a have a modicum of talent, but it's not something I particularly enjoy. Anything that you've done for 35 years can get old and tiresome.

If I had become a success as a novelist, I am convinced that my output would have petered out by the age of 35 or so. Fiction is far more challenging than the stuff I churn out at work, but even writing sales fluff is taxing to the brain and constitution. Creating stories full-time would have certainly exhausted me by my fourth decade and I would've been forced into a career shift. Maybe go into PR.

The real joy of five days off is the prospect of not coming into work, wedging myself into my compartment, wearing a tie and forcing myself into the niceness that's expected, all so I can somehow sustain a standard of living for my family. I am, of course, at a time of 18% un/underemployment, thankful for my job. But I'm most thankful for the days that I don't have to go to it.

I guess that's why you have children. Every day something interesting is happening on the modeling/acting front for Natalie, my nascent star. So while I have nothing to report when I trudge through the door after work, at least Micky and Natalie can fill the vacuum of my routine with the excitement and hope of a not-yet-deflated dream.

# Day 310. November 29, 2010

Wow, that was heavy (I only read the last sentence so don't accuse me of breaking the no-read-back rule!) I think it's unnatural to be constantly upbeat and positive. No, not just me in particular, but anybody.

Positivity is something recruiters and executives look for in management candidates. Like, how can you motivate others to carry the ball or knock it over the fence or through the goal posts if you're not exuding manic exuberance and excitement yourself? Hope and certainty and excitement —that's what they're looking for. Rah rah and rah!

The skeptical mind would point out that most successful people have battled failure and, once successful, continue to eye the next rung on the ladder of achievement. Thus, even if I had manage to get a bunch of books published or a few restaurants launched, then the quest would shift to recognition and prizes for my work. Strivers strive.

I'm a striver of sorts, with little to show for it, which makes me grumpy. And I don't believe that positive and upbeat people necessarily are fakers—they just reject the notion that falling short in any endeavor is enhanced by attaching the millstone of gloom, depression, and pessimism to the experience. It's enough to acknowledge the dead end and move on.

Of course, serial failure, which dogs most of us, makes it ever more difficult to "move on." Occasional success would be nice. Thus, it helps when the upbeat, positive executive can soothe the wounds of occasionally falling short if he still gets to cash in the big bonus check, park his Lexus in the three-car garage of his six-bedroom crib and get a backrub from a wife 25 years his junior. There is failure and there is failure.

I could wear a smile on my face every day if the compensating perks were lofty enough. Or maybe the answer is to be "saved" by Jesus and consecrate my brain to the Land of Delusion.

# Day 311. November 30, 2010

It's curious about last wishes. I was thinking about people who make very elaborate arrangements when it comes to the disposition of their corpus upon their croakus (sorry!). As an agnostic, I tend not to harbor illusions about my body. I consider it a transient form and I treat it very very well.

I do subscribe to the notion that this is the only body I get and, if I don't take care of it, I will slide into the infinite abyss sooner rather than later. This makes me less dangerous than, say, a Muslim radical who treats his body as a temporary vessel to be shucked off for a mythical paradise of eternal sex with a passel of fetching concubines. This carefree approach to mortality has led to unfettered terrorist violence to which we craven atheists/agnostics would never subscribe. Life to us is way too precious.

But when death comes, what do I want to become of my remains?

I DON'T CARE!

I'm dead, you see. Outside of a few potentially salvageable organs and whatnot, my body is a biodegradable husk no longer of any use to its present owner. My body is sacred to me while I'm alive, because without it and my luminescent consciousness there really isn't any me.

There will be, of course, loved ones—at least the ones that outlive me—upon my death. Perhaps they'll care about what becomes of my corpse, so I'll let them decide what to do with it. Bury it, burn it, chop it in a stew—have at it, my next of kin. Whatever will assuage your grief is fine by me, because I will certainly be past caring!

I expect to live to extreme old age and most likely this fleshly shell will be pretty dried up and hollow by the time I shuck it off. I can't imagine why anyone will have strong feelings regarding its disposal. As long as it doesn't cause a health hazard...

# Day 312. December 1, 2010

Why does a misanthrope, in this case me, feel guilty about not performing acts of community service? I don't particularly care about my fellow man, and humans in general tend to be ungrateful.

I'm writing this in connection with my appointment later today to give blood. That is a form of community service with the outstanding benefits of being an activity that you perform lying down, doesn't take long, involves tasty cookies and apple juice at the end, and doesn't involve dealing directly with small kids, retards, or old people—those that tend to be the objects of most community service endeavors.

I've written before about do-gooders, which are people who spend gobs of time, resources, and energy pursing noble activities that address the needs of the less fortunate. It's because I'm hung up over the concept of altruism. There is no "selflessness," in my opinion: you do altruism because it makes you feel less guilty about your relative good luck with life's endowments and you revel in the warm fuzzy feeling that doing good deeds imparts.

Which brings me to me. I think I'm more in the guilt part of the equation. There's an irrational sense of "should" that dogs me about doing nice things unto others. To sacrifice my time and money just to soften the gap between my relative good fortune and the piss poor luck of others.

It's not that I feel unworthy; I just want to even out the equation a little. It makes little logical sense outside of my deep hatred of selfishness. I don't care for rudeness and selfishness is a sign of a small, immature mind. This, I believe, is as good a rationale for giving blood to some unknown beneficiary as my misanthropic tendency can afford.

# Day 313. December 2, 2010

Micky has now been unemployed for two years. For two years she has been searching for a position as a software engineer. We've been led to believe by the media that there is a dearth of software engineers in the U.S.

The media has misled us! In fact, software engineering has migrated away from our shores to the lands of cheaper labor and now Micky's job is being done (poorly) by people making about a tenth of what she earned.

So Micky is 56, unemployed for the long term, in a field that is slip sliding away from American talent. I don't expect Micky to work again—at least at the wage level she commanded with her experience and MS in software engineering. And, she cannot get a job working a cash register in retail, taking phone calls as a receptionist in a doctor's office, or even as a mop-wielding housecleaner for a local service because she is over-qualified.

The financial impact of her situation aside, it does make me worry about the net effect of millions of Micky's languishing in our fair nation. A nation whose lawmakers are stuck in the mud when it comes to job creation and refuse to support programs and funding for any cause that doesn't benefit the very wealthiest of our citizens.

Micky would work on a road crew, paint walls, and manage projects in any industry given the chance. But it does appear that our country has turned its back on the unemployed. We whine about it a lot, but the politics are not there—the silent majority like my wife just set their jaws and plug away at what has become an exercise in hopelessness and despair.

# Day 314. December 3, 2010

I kinda wonder why opera ever caught on. I don't care much for opera. I like some of the music—very tuneful stuff from the likes of Verdi, Mozart, Beethoven and so forth. But the singers, screaming at the top of their lungs in such an unnatural vocal style. I personally don't get it and I'm sorry if you're insulted.

Fact is, opera is a stilted, artificial way of singing—and that's even accounting for the extremely elaborate and disciplined study and practice that goes into perfecting that particular art. Give me a growly, semi-off-key Dylan ramble any day over eardrum-shattering opera-house soprano bombast.

When I see opera performed, I always wonder if they're serious. Projecting at the top of their lungs into each other's faces and exuding amazing passion and emotions at such high decibels. There's an element of Greek drama to it that clearly delineates opera as an art versus singing as an expression from the heart. Opera seems from the entire body and diaphragm.

I could level similar observations when it comes to that other stilted, stylized art form called ballet. Again, a rigorous, formalized form that is totally unnatural for the body and stands as a barrier to immediate connection to the observer.

I admire ballet dancers and opera singers, but their art is too rigid and stylized to engage me emotionally. I'm a rock and jazz kind of guy who savors a clean, clear emotional connection to my art. Opera and ballet lovers have a more rarefied appreciation of those forms, which, I guess makes them rarified and superior creatures in some way compared with us cavemen who love our singing and dancing down and dirty.

# Day 315. December 6, 2010

It's important, I've been told, when at extreme heights, not to look down. It is when you look down that the bottom drops out of your stomach and the blood drains from your head and the palms of your hands are sheened with moisture.

I think that is true. I am not fond of heights but I'm not exactly acrophobic. I can function on the roof of my house and string Christmas lights (note today's date) while perched on one foot and reaching far across my body to an extreme corner of roofline in a precarious balance that could go horribly wrong if I lost focus for even a second. But I look straight ahead and never down.

I am applying the same philosophy to my cash flow. In the same sense that one doesn't look down at and contemplate catastrophic potentials, I try to resist the inclination to explore the true financial impact of our negative cash flow over the last few months on our long-term goals.

I used to sweat every penny when Micky and I each brought home lusty incomes and poured gobs of cash into savings. Now I extract money from savings to meet expenses and, especially, the costs incurred due to Natalie's nascent career. The drying up of once generous bonuses and the radical drop in family income is causing me to raid our emergency savings and I find the only way to cope with it is to never look down.

In this case, block out my former obsession with calculating key financial gates that will result in such things as new home furnishings, maybe a new car someday and, the king of all goals, a future retirement. Financially, all those things equate to "looking down." Today, I pay the bills best I can and just look ahead. It's the acquired wisdom of our ongoing fiscal depression.

# Day 316. December 7, 2010 (Replaced on April 24, 2012)

This was a rant about my current company and its pay policies regarding those not in Sales. It made some stinging points that wouldn't sit well if I'm still employed when this thing is published. But it was mostly an internal matter of little interest to you and not worth exploring, given its likely repercussions...to me!

Let's update daughter Natalie's life instead. To my great relief, she has pretty much shucked her affinity with the acting/modeling world. Don't know why; my guess being that the rejection part is annoying as well as the constant marketing involved in landing even the most trivial assignments. This is good for her to learn now, since my sense is if you want to make it in that world, you must be have it in your blood—that doing it is as necessary to your life as breathing.

That ain't Natalie. Like millions of kids, she likes to perform, likes to have her picture taken, likes to be the center of attention. And, in her case, she is beautiful and a talented singer and actress. But so are millions of other kids. She doesn't seem to have the hunger, which is excellent because the suffering involved in succeeding in those industries contains ample measures of heartbreak that she and her parents would rather not endure.

Right now she thinks she's interested in teaching and has always been very good with children. But she's 18, won't start college until the fall and her mother and I are among the few responsible parents I know who really couldn't care less about what our kids will be when they grow up.

This economy makes it easy because there aren't any jobs—no sure things. Lawyers are out of work, many doctors are overwhelmed, in debt, and underpaid. We go overseas to find nurses and systems engineers. I think it makes choosing a career easy—anything goes. Let my kids pursue their interests, whatever they are.

Erica got lucky and has a great job in the fragrance industry. Maybe Natalie will get lucky in some obscure industry in which she'll develop a strange passion. And maybe she might even become a teacher—if that profession ever starts hiring again.

# Day 317. December 8, 2010 (Replaced on April 25, 2012)

I apologize, but I'm replacing a pretty good one here. It had to do with the holiday season with its various shopping rituals and social commitments. Pretty funny stuff that you're missing out on, but it would cost me my marriage to keep it in and I'd rather that my marriage continue in its merry fashion.

You may be wondering why I never seem to talk about friends in this narrative. I won't repeat for the hundredth time that I'm not all friend-friendly and am less than enthusiastic about the human race, but I am not totally without friends. I have zero friends from high school, except my wife—and we're very good friends.

I have one friend from college, his name is Jim Cobb and I'm sure he wouldn't mind being mentioned in these pages. I roomed with him at the University of Richmond for one year and didn't realize that he was gay until he came out of the closet a decade later. For a writer, I am not a terribly observant person. Jim Cobb is a fascinating individual—a film and pop culture scholar who once worked as a costumed settler in the restored village of Jamestown in Virginia. We have kept up an active friendship, first in highly amusing letters and now through email. He still lives in Richmond and comes to visit every few years and I do the same there. In fact, I'm going to see him next month. Mostly, we seldom see each other but when we do, it's like we never missed a beat. We share the same bemused outlook on life and a somewhat sardonic sense of humor. But he's much nicer than me.

I have a few running friends, and that's about it. I'm good with that—I won't mind a sparse funeral. It both pains and mystifies me how my daughters can be so tortured by what they perceive as an insufficient coterie of close friends. How they crave the vibe of a large social circle.

Maybe I don't get it because things I most enjoy tend to be solitary endeavors and other people would just be in the way. But then there is the enjoyable stimulation of mixing with bright articulate people—it lifts the spirits on occasion. Probably I should reach out more and seek the company of others. But then, maybe not.

# Day 318. December 9, 2010

She was stressed about meeting him—it just didn't seem to make sense. She followed his directions exactly. She called the cab at 11:05 p.m., which drove her the 5 miles from her home in Long Branch to an address in Asbury Park, which was in fact a boarded-up automobile tire store that must've served its last customer back in the seventies. It was flanked on either side by storefronts that had closed so long ago that the print had worn off their signs.

She shrugged and paid the driver and stepped out on the sidewalk, which was littered with cracked liquor bottles, fast-food wrappers and more than one used condom.

From the light of the single functioning street lamp she observed a row of crumbling three-story Victorian houses with boarded-up windows and doors. She could hear the throb of hip-hop music and an occasional scream and laughter emanating from the interior of a couple of them.

An unsettling scene that made her nervous. But the guy on Facebook seemed so nice, had a fresh young face and terrific jokes. Their texts streamed forth with energy and connection. She couldn't wait to meet him...but maybe she was moving a little too fast.

Her short tight leather skirt and sleek black pumps and maybe the clingy silk blouse weren't the best choices. Then she heard steps in back of her and she prayed it was him, but it wasn't. She turned just in time to see a burly black ghost with a bejeweled hand balled in a fist that was zooming in a 2 o'clock arc. (Then again, maybe it was the guy.)

Sandy is still listed as missing by the authorities. But after 37 months, ya know...

# Day 319. December 14, 2010

The final determination of Sam's fate was in Julia's hands. What happened was apparent to her, since Sam was the only person alone with the knife in the kitchenette. It had to be he who carved up the bunny and left it headless and tail-less in the refrigerator.

Julia knew that he was alone because everyone else in her office were out celebrating Bunny, the office manager's, retirement at Appleby's across the street. Jill stayed behind for coverage and willingly so since she is the shy sort and is uncomfortable at group activities. Sam stayed behind as well to catch up with some work, or so he said.

It was well known that Sam has a weakness for chocolate, having been observed plundering bowls of sweets brought in by coworkers. Plus, since Jill's cubicle was next to Sam's, she happened to overhear Sam confide to his wife over the phone that he hadn't brought his lunch that day because he expected to join Bunny's celebration, but now couldn't because of a hard 2 p.m. deadline for the contract he was working on.

Seemed open and shut to Jill. And now she found herself encircled by eight angry coworkers and being closely questioned by Leslie, the regional vice president. All were looking at a bunny-shaped sheet cake with the remains of a mutilated chocolate bunny on top.

"So Jill, what do you know about this? I do recall that the bunny had a tail and a head when I brought it in this morning—and I checked on it before we left for lunch. Sam? What about you?"

Jill looked at Sam, Sam looked down at the floor. Jill felt her face grow hot and her eyes tear up. She knew that Sam has a problem with twos: two young children at home, a boy and a girl, two mortgages on his house, and two women to support—his current and former wives.

"Jill?" Leslie repeated. "What did you see?"

After a pause, Jill, feeling the collective gaze of her associates boring in, responded in a meek and barely audible voice.

"I didn't see anything," she said. "No, I didn't see anything."

"If that's your story, I'll see both of you in my office." The following morning, Jill and Sam filed initial claims for unemployment benefits.

# Day 320. December 15, 2010

Matrix managing is the 4-way Stop sign of business. In matrix management, employees can have more than one reporting line, depending on the function or role in which the employee is engaged at a particular time. For example, a senior engineer who leads a group may report to a technical director for the technical responsibilities of the job and an administrative director for the team leadership aspects.

Makes sense insofar that the disparate aspects of a worker's responsibilities draw sufficient management attention. On the other hand, matrices don't always function in harmony, say when technical glitches require creative solutions that may be valued by the technical head, but result in cost over-runs that could lead to displeasure and censure from the bean counters in Admin.

Matrices tend to break down into quarreling and lost productivity as turf wars develop. Imagine a busy intersection governed by a 4-way Stop instead of a standard stop sign or traffic light. Passive/aggressive tendencies combined with an unclear understanding of 4-way Stop rules are an open invitation to chaos and low-speed collisions, which is why I think the 4-way Stop is a milquetoast traffic solution that should be scrapped forever.

Just like matrix management. The charm of a matrix approach is clear when drawn up on a whiteboard in business school, but in practice can be an open invitation to complex disputes among the quadrants and a productivity suck in general as senior management triage the bruised egos of the combatants.

(Frankly, I don't know what brought all this on!)

# Day 321. December 16, 2010

I truly hate Penn Station in Newark, a place I pass through twice each day for my commute. I don't like noise and Penn Station is a profound perpetrator of public address noise pollution. I blame NJ Transit, the reasonably on-time and comfortable train service I take, and whose recorded announcements remind us to "Watch the gap" twice every time we approach a station with door-level platforms, in reference to the 6-inch space between the train's threshold and the platform. The train makes approximately seven stops each way during my commute and subjects my brain to "Watch the gap when leaving the train" twice for each station, which means I suffer through gap announcements 28 times a day, five days a week. Someday I'll slip through the gap just for spite.

Penn Station itself is a cacophony of recorded electronic voices imploring in stilted English and Spanish to "Check the overhead compartments for your belongings," or "If you're traveling with children, be sure to take them by the hand," and "At New Jersey Transit, your safety is our highest priority and asks you to be aware of your surroundings and report anything suspicious to a uniformed transit official."

The tape loops run endlessly throughout the station and crash together simultaneously in a racket that rattles my nerves and vaporizes my patience. Missing from the PA overload, however, are helpful announcements about why my train is late and when we might expect it to actually pull into the station.

Such helpful tidbits are treated as state secrets, as usable information transmitted to weary travelers doesn't seem to be among the "highest priorities" for the anthropomorphic entity that calls itself New Jersey Transit.

# Day 322. December 17, 2010

I think organ transplants should be an opt-out situation, since it's really tough to make most opt-in operations work. For example, instead of an opt-in check mark on your driver's license, you should actually have to make a check mark if you don't care to donate a vital organ or two when you check out.

Think of the circumstances in which most organ donations from the most attractive potential donors are made. We're generally talking about young and middle-aged individuals in the pink of health who get mowed down in accidents or other sudden circumstances in which most of their transplantable body parts are spared from trauma. So you are dealing with grief-stricken next-of-kin who may not be emotionally ready to be confronted by some guy in a white lab coat casually asking to harvest body parts from their beloved.

In such situations, a shocked response and a horrified rejection is quite understandable. But in an opt-out situation, the next-of-kin would have to sign papers only in cases where they demand that all those priceless healthy organs be buried or burned with the victim

Sure, it sounds callous and cruel, but it's my sensibility as an atheist that our singular life is precious, and that failing to preserve one's own does provide opportunity to help preserve the life of someone else—especially if that someone else is desperate and has no firm convictions regarding an afterlife. An opt-out protocol is life-affirming, especially given the appalling statistics of those who die needlessly waiting for healthy organ replacements.

Besides, I hate when anything goes to waste.

# Day 323. December 20, 2010

Tomorrow is my last day at work before Christmas, meaning there will be some separation after tomorrow and my next entry on December 27. Maybe that should be viewed with some relief, because I feel my creative drive flagging.

I haven't felt particularly inspired the last few weeks and no doubt when I go back and read the last couple dozen pages, this dry patch will be revealed in lackluster prose. We all wish we could be fresh and new each day when we encounter the blank screen, but my mindset is just not there.

Gifts at work. I know one of my coworkers is going to bring in a bottle of spirits for me and perhaps even my boss will present a bottle of some kind. I don't offer gifts to coworkers; I don't think it's appropriate, since these are not people I consider my friends, and they are certainly not family members.

Gifting for Christmas is way out of hand and each year we spend more than $2,000 on family alone. It's way overdone and requires too much creative thinking to come up with ways to wow giftees. I've already told my work gifter that I have no present for her, which she said is fine since, after all, she did attend Erica's wedding and knew that it cost us dearly.

Nevertheless, it's uncomfortable receiving and not giving. I will say I like Christmas; the food and cookies and so forth, and I like exchanging gifts with Micky and the kids. But, I wouldn't miss it if it went away, which is sad. I've only begun feeling this way in the last couple of years. I should spend more time contemplating things that make me truly happy. I don't really believe it's my nature to be a miserable depressed wretch.

# 324. December 21, 2010

This is my last entry before Christmas, which in my household we celebrate as a secular event with a focus on good cheer and mindless gift giving and great food. Since there is so much negativity in this work of high art, I'll dip instead into some bathos and devote this entry to things for which I am thankful. And there are a lot of them.

For all the angst and outrage that flows from this keyboard, often obscured is the fact that my family is afforded the key essentials of life. My house provides a good and comfortable shelter, we have few constraints when it comes to nutritious and sufficient eats; we are all healthy and, if those conditions change, we are covered by comprehensive health insurance. Shelter, food, and health are things that can be easily taken for granted, but I frequently remind myself of our good fortune in those respects.

And I have the love of a good woman and two fine daughters. We have a wonderful and full family life and no mortal enemies that come immediately to mind. My job, while imperfect and increasingly unrewarding, pays better than most jobs and affords a comfortable environment and a genial team with whom to interact.

While these are not the glory years when we had two generous incomes fueling our household, we are managing to get by and things could be worse financially.

So we are blessed, in the words of those who put stock in a large invisible friend up in the heavens and, without irony or cynicism, I am thankful for the fullness and positive aspects of my life and will continue striving to shore up the many areas that are lacking going forward into the new year.

# Day 325. January 4, 2011

First entry of the new year after a prolonged period out of the office and indulging in holiday over-consumption, excess, a record-breaking blizzard, and fitful rest.

As a reminder to myself, I should up the dosage of vitamin D to perhaps fend off the annual malaise and depression that strikes me at the outset of each year. When the malignant forces of icy cold weather, another year at the same job, a stressed cash flow, and few positive prospects combine forces to lay me low.

I'll try not to let that happen this year. I will load the calendar with projects. I'll paint rooms and ceilings, train for the Boston Marathon, expand my classical guitar repertoire, and enjoy vicariously Natalie's fledgling pursuit of acting and modeling gigs. I'll prepare fine meals and read fine books and try not to get upset by the phenomenal skill sets of authors more gifted than I.

The economy will continue to be racked this year with horrific unemployment, abusive workplace practices that capitalize on employee fear and powerlessness, and stupid politicians dancing to the tune of the wealthy plutocracy. And in our household's diminished state, I will continue to keep my eye on the ball. Blend in at work, cause no one alarm, make no waves, nod my head until it's about to drop off its fulcrum and try to survive another few years.

After all, things are worse in Haiti. Welcome to 2011.

# Day 326. January 6, 2011

I don't understand why there are so many pizzerias. Everybody thinks they can make the best pizza and those boxes that carry the inane expression "You've tried the rest...now try the best" makes me see red. How can one "try the rest" when there is a pizzeria or two on every street corner in America?

The business case for opening a pizzeria seems obvious—low barrier to entry. Pizza ovens are cheap, ingredients are cheap when purchased in bulk, you don't need a lot of square footage to start with or a whole lot of culinary talent. But it's all downhill from there. I wouldn't go into a business in which I have no pricing power. I paid $10 for a plain cheese pizza 10 years ago, and I paid a deflated $10 for a plain cheese pizza last week.

The world has not stood still, but the cost of a pizza has. And then there are those abysmal chains like Dominos, Papa John's, and Pizza Hut that turn out an execrable product but for much less than the mom and pop stores—and they throw in free delivery.

So we're left with gullible blue-collar-types who pine to stop working for the man and own their own business and scrimp to save enough to open the next Luigi's only to be blown away by cheap chain-store crap or the place a block over that's been in the business for 30 years and has built a loyal following.

Yet, no sooner does the latest Luigi's throw in the towel than the next misguided entrepreneur sinks his life savings into the hopeless entrepreneurial dream of catering to America's favorite flat food fetish. The irony of the situation: even in Italian-besotted Long Branch, it's hard to find a really good pizza!

# Day 327. January 10, 2011

I missed last Friday's entry due to work, which doesn't happen very often, and earlier in this project I would've written an entry first thing in the morning when I came in and then one before leaving to somehow make up for my page-a-day gaffe.

But here I am 327 days into this and beginning to lose both interest and momentum so I will not do it, with the rationalization that it would violate the spirit of the project by, technically, writing two entries in one day. I'll let it pass, when the real reason for not playing catch-up is laziness.

A congresswoman and several others were shot by a maniac in Arizona over the weekend and maybe she will live or not. In the outpouring of media coverage, I learned that there are more than 200 million guns in the hands of the 300 million or so people who make up the U.S.A., the country with by far the highest level of gun violence in the world.

But I don't want to preach gun control and so forth, because it's a waste of time and energy in a nation that's so hooked on lethal toys. I do want to say a few words about lethal toys and the supreme respect I have for them. The two most prominent lethal ones common to Americans are the guns they shoot and the cars they drive. On the few times that I have held a gun and actually shot one, I'm more than a little taken aback by the enormous heft and power of these things—not like being a kid and playing commando in the woods with plastic rifles and cap guns.

Real guns are heavy, serious devices that make loud noises and bore big holes in targets. I was awestruck the first time I shot a Glock 9mm by its power and report and I could picture in my mind the horrific damage it would cause if I were on the wrong end of its barrel. The word I conjure is "terrifying" and the awe it inspires holding a device so fully adroit at causing death and destruction.

Much like driving a car, but most people don't think about the destructive capability that a driving lapse can cause, even though it's far more common than shooting deaths. A simple lapse in attention and our two-ton toy can cause instant death and mayhem, and yet every day we send our sons and daughters out on the road with lethal power and just assume they'll come home in one piece.

This ramble really hasn't gone anywhere, but perhaps most relevant is Natalie got her driver's license last week. And one of her favorite activities is shooting guns.

# Day 328. January 11, 2011

I pride myself on my integrity, reasonably high moral values, strong work ethic, and a willingness to confront authority when my values are threatened. Which makes it strange that today I folded like a tent when protesting one of my marketing assignments.

It was not a major matter. We have this new, very fine mutual fund that doesn't fit into any investment category comfortably. But we found a category where a lot of investor money is going, so we're going to try to sell this fund as representative of that category, even though only half the fund is invested in a way that reflects its category. Which is the reason its performance beats the pants off of other funds that are exact fits in what has been an underperforming investment category.

The risk, as we delve deeper into wonky financial jargon, is that those investing in the fund are not getting exactly what they're expecting, which could throw off their overall investment plan. What our fund will attract are those merely chasing performance while paying lip service to a diversified portfolio.

My job, as the marketing writer, is to imply that this fund has characteristics of the desired category and then launch into a full-scale description of the greatness of its performance and the ways in which investors can benefit from that performance.

Truly, it is a very good fund, but the misrepresentation I'm being asked to perpetrate is troubling. But I will do it and I won't raise a stink. But I will try to couch the language in a way that I don't oversell the fund as filling a particular category need.

It's not exactly kosher, but neither is my industry and, like it or not, it's a minor sin in a business where much greater perfidies are committed every day. So hate me if you must—but I really really really need my job! I'll let you know tomorrow how well I sleep tonight!

# Day 329. January 12, 2011

I slept great!

I am concerned about appropriate ways to disperse anger. First let's do a metaphor-laced meditation on anger. Is anger a vessel, a bucket, as it were, accumulating stores of anger particles? Slights, misbehavior of others, actions such as rude driving or loud talking in a movie theatre or a commuter train. And does the bucket keep filling with more and more particles of incidents, creating a flow of vitriol into our anger bucket until it overflows and the bucket-owner lashes out in a rage of physical or verbal violence, or both? And, are we all endowed with different size buckets with varying tipping points wherein the most patient among us sport large capacities while the more hot-tempered have anger buckets the size of a tea cup?

Or is a more apt metaphor a thermometer, where our temper truly is a measurement of heat? That would explain how a single incident can cause an explosive display of temper. How the response to being cut-off at an intersection can result in an immediate exchange of dueling middle fingers and vein-popping invective and an acute desire for a large hood-mounted cannon to blow the offender off the highway for good. The image of a soaring column of mercury in such an instance is easy to visualize.

But we are cautioned to hold it in, whatever the nature of our anger may be. I can't believe that it's a healthy thing—anger is a toxin that sours and curdles in your gut and it's something that must be got out.

Scream, punch a wall, rant like a wild man to someone who understands. Anger is not unhealthy or unnatural. Keeping it in, however, is self-destructive. But it's like a loaded gun—take care how you purge!

# Day 330. January 13, 2011

We'll indulge in a little irony for a change. I don't like noise, especially loud noises. And yet my hearing is not that good. As a writer, noise is an extension of the sounds I make in my head when putting words together. So loud talking, loud announcements over public address systems, and loud belting blues/soul singers disturb me. I hate the daily train chatter, especially on cell phones, and I hate televisions showing dopey shows with amplified laugh tracks that assault my ears.

Yet, my hearing is going. Please speak up when you talk to me. Turn the sound up a smidge when I'm watching something of interest on the TV. I often make people repeat what they say to me because I don't catch it the first time.

Micky constantly reminds me of things that she told me that I never heard, or perhaps do not remember hearing. So the ears are going just as my patience for using them is going. Happy coincidence!

I do like silence and wish there was an off/on switch for my ears. Our other senses can be neutered: our eyes closed, our mouths shut, our noses held. But there are no biological options to shutting down the ears, and the mechanical devices that supposedly do so are imperfect.

I thought noise-cancelling headphones were the answer, but only to buzzing jet engines, not loud conversations the next row over. The foam earplugs jammed tight in the ear canals do deaden the roar of my leaf blower, but still there's the infernal leakage of the animated conversation by the girls seated behind me.

I guess the next step are the head sets used by the tarmac guys who guide big screaming jets to their appointed gates, but I doubt even those are 100 percent effective against the effervescent squeals of annoying brats cavorting in the next row.

No, my ears work 24/7, imperfectly at best. And while there are wondrous sounds to enjoy and cherish, it would be such a joy for an occasional relief from the cacophony.

Did I mention that I like my Rock music cranked up high? To "11"?

# Day 331. January 14, 2011

It's Friday afternoon, so let's talk sports. As a former almost-all-state baseball player, it's only natural that my favorite sport is baseball and, naturally, I am at my rabid best rooting for the Yankees. However, this is a football weekend and there is no doubt in my mind that NFL football is clearly the best spectator sport in America, and the most successful from a financial standpoint. To me, it's obvious why.

Professional sports exist for television and the NFL is the only league that gets television right. For the most part, it plays its most important games when people are actually awake to watch them. Unlike every other professional sport, where games take place in the middle of the night and too late for us easterners who have to get up for work the next morning, the NFL plays most of its games in the afternoon or early evening.

Unlike the World Series, the NBA, college football and basketball championship games, the NFL Super Bowl starts a little after 6 p.m. on the East Coast and is over by 10 p.m. Every other sports championship doesn't end until after midnight and so I seldom watch the denouement of national championships.

No wonder, then, that usually 75% to 80% of the top-watched TV shows each year are football games. Sure, it's a brutal sport and you'd have to be an idiot to play it for a living, but it's exciting and fun to watch and we'll never run out of guys willing to sacrifice their body and brains for an NFL paycheck.

It's a simple lesson, if you want people to pay attention to what you do, be around when they're around. Love it or hate it, NFL football is there when you want it. Now if only Major League Baseball could take the hint and I could someday watch the World Series without sacrificing three hours of sleep.

# Day 332. January 18, 2011

Are you an idea generator? I don't really think that I am. Now that you have presumably slogged through 330 days of my mental meanderings, you may agree with me on that account. The fact that I've been able to string this thing along for nearly 18 months may indicate that I am just exploding with mighty ideas on a dizzying array of topics.

But doing this day by day and not quite recalling the gist of past entries, I can't help but feel that I've been doing nothing more or less than treading over the same topics again and again with only the most superficial of insights. I usually do this at the end of the day at an energy low, which further reduces my confidence that there are any ideas here worth chronicling.

Pure idea generators—people who regularly have interesting insights and things to say—intrigue me. Look at all the books churned out by Joyce Carol Oates and many others of her ilk. Or the great scriptwriter Woody Allen, who does a film a year. Sure, it's not all immortal stuff, but it's still represents volumes of energy and original thought. Idea generators. Not all ideas are great, but to have lots of them is.

There's a guy at work who's in charge of electronic marketing who is constantly proposing sales ideas and systems solutions and different approaches to knotty, twisty problems—to the extent that meeting with him becomes a confusion of paths and alternatives that inevitably pitches us into a quagmire. Too many ideas! But that's a lot more fun than not enough ideas. And I don't feel I have enough ideas.

For example, I would like to hatch a great idea for my next novel, if there is to be a next novel. But even if the idea comes to me, will I have the sustained imagination to carry it through an entire book? Or even a short story?

Just not feeling fecund anymore. Is creativity something that slips away after awhile? Has Billy Joel written a worthwhile song since the 80s? The Beach Boys?

# Day 333. January 19, 2011

When in doubt, talk about the weather. This past summer was the hottest I've ever endured and clearly the hottest conditions ever for my running. Perhaps it's my age, but the heat seems to take a greater toll than ever on my speed and endurance, because I was clearly working harder than ever to post times that were a shadow of my times a glorious decade, or even three years, ago.

Now we are experiencing one of the coldest and snow-stormiest winters of my life, and there appears to be a similar impact on my running. It seems that I'm expending half my energy just trying to keep warm at temperatures between 10 and 20 degrees Fahrenheit. As a result, I tire more easily and go more slowly.

A proof of that is my time last Sunday for a 13-mile run, which was much faster than in prior weeks. The only difference was temperatures in the low 30s, versus the high teens. Thus more of my effort went to running, as opposed to not freezing. If it had been another 10 degrees warmer, we'd be in personal best territory.

So the conclusion is that aging makes us more delicate and susceptible to climatic whims. I no longer have the strength and flexibility to shrug off adverse conditions to maximize performance. It sucks being so under the thumb of external factors, but then aging is a kind of external factor.

I can't stop the wind, the rain or the sun—or the march of time. I can control my commitment, effort, and motivation. It's a war that, of course, I'll eventually lose. Against all resistance, the time will come when I won't have the strength to run at all, regardless of the weather.

At that point the war is over anyway and I'll just dodder complacently into my grave or fiery chamber or to whatever is to become of this skin bag. In the meantime, I'll soldier on. It amuses me.

# Day 334. January 20, 2011

It's difficult to overestimate the evil and underlying immorality rampant in the world today. How is that for a grand, encompassing sentiment? The proclivity to take the shortcut, to steal and otherwise acquire what one desires through any means necessary.

Like all things, this tendency is magnified by the Internet. Just as our Narcissism and shallowness leap to the fore on various social networking sites, our human urge to sabotage, undermine, and steal is magnified by the convenience of the online world.

I've always felt that community and religion help keep those proclivities in check—community because it's easier to get caught and humiliated for such behavior, and religion because of the ever-present punishment of the Great Inferno.

But the anonymity and scale offered by the Internet reduce the chances of being caught and religious belief isn't as much of a deterrent to the tech-savvy for some reason. Thus, our sinister natures come to full flower in the constraint-free world of the Internet. It's an infinite red light district of scams, boondoggles, con games, vandalism, voyeurism, and sex.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, but when no controls are in place, it makes it much easier to run roughshod over positive social norms. It does make me wonder the degree to which our character is inherently malevolent and destructive. It would seem, when left to our own devices, a predominant choice would be mayhem. Our advanced intelligence and cleverness only makes us more destructive per capita than any other beast. The Internet and how we use it does accentuate our essential beastly nature. In other words, just be on the lookout whenever you log on.

# Day 335. January 21, 2011

Good cooking wasn't all that important to people of my parents' generation—this was a topic at lunch today. And it does seem true. In the 50s and 60s and then into the 70s, I recall the typical American supper of broiled or roasted meat, mashed potatoes and soggy vegetables out of a can. Salads were generally a wedge of iceberg lettuce doused with bottled dressing, and dessert was often Jell-O with embedded bits of canned fruit. Wholesome, nourishing food to some degree.

I remember the predominance of sugar and refined flour, mainly in the form of white bread for sandwiches and so forth. My generation, my wife and I, for example, scrapped most of that and like many, now eat mainly whole grains, fresh vegetables and fruits, and a wider variety of seafood than those old frozen blocks of fish wrapped in cardboard (generally haddock, flounder, or cod—didn't matter, it all tasted the same).

We take time and care in the kitchen, whereas my family was happy to stick the meat under the broiler, bake some potatoes and open a can of Shop Rite string beans and that was dinner. Now we do prep, steam fresh things, vary our starches and use exotic ingredients like sun-dried tomatoes, roasted peppers, capers, cardamom, oregano, and cilantro. Of course, we're not like most families, but there is generally more attention paid to variety and healthful prep than my growing-up diet provided.

Ironically, given my German grandmother's mastery of the kitchen and her terrific ethnic dishes, I replicate more of her recipes than I do of my mother's. My grandmother's was an era of cooking wholesome foods from scratch, which my generation has adapted to an extent with some added conveniences of better kitchen tools and various shortcuts.

My mom's generation became hooked on the novel conveniences that saved time in the kitchen but resulted in lackluster meals.

# Day 336. January 24, 2011

Jack LaLanne died this weekend. Celebrity deaths sometimes cause me to pause, thinking about the sudden absence of a familiar face or the further fade of a passing era. But Jack LaLanne's death bothered me a whole lot; after all, he was only 96. A ripe age, you say? Not for Jack, the one man who could defeat the myth of mortality.

Jack, as you know, was a seminal figure in the fitness industry since the 1940s and had the first televised exercise show in the 50's, one in which my mother participated and even I, barely out of toddler-hood, followed. Simple, repetitive steps using props like chairs and doors and elastic bands as Jack did reps to the thumping chords of an off-camera organ. There was Jack, trim in a belted gray jumpsuit, showing off his bulging biceps and linebacker neck while doing simple housewife moves and urging the audience to always keep moving and always be positive and each show ended with a song in his rich baritone.

But that's not the part that intrigued me about Jack. More to the point, he was obsessed with beating Death, conquering the ravages of age. Twice he swam from Alcatraz to San Francisco Bay, once in handcuffs at age 40 and once fully shackled and towing a 1,000 lb boat in his sixties.

The older Jack got, the more ebullient, almost manic in a sense, he became about pumping iron, swimming laps, and pulling off grotesque feats of strength and endurance into his 80s and 90s. My Jack would be the first man to live a life of pure vitality...forever!

But he died yesterday. It can't be true. Tell, me, it can't be true. Am I the only immortal left?

# Day 337. January 25, 2011

I was talking to a friend on the train last night about posting for jobs outside of my current situation and being not only befuddled by the job descriptions in various marketing areas, but also the lack of enthusiasm I have in applying for them.

At my level there is a great call for strategy, planning, developing guidelines and so forth in a very formal, structured manner. The terminology is dense and jargonized with words and concepts that probably emerged from the caves of university MBA programs and decks from high-priced consulting firms.

These descriptions drone on for lines and lines of bullet points, none of which I can truly wrap my head around, much less hope to fulfill. Yet, I am a smart guy who has come up with all sorts of creative solutions for campaigns and marketing vehicles, yet I'm not that guy being described in the job postings.

The thing is most corporate jobs don't really involve doing anything. Most directors and members of upper management describe what should be done and the goals of the endeavors and so forth, but so few jobs are dedicated to the actual execution of those fine things. And I'm an executioner.

My job is writing, and though my level is fairly high, I'm nothing more or less than the department hack. I don't do strategy and blue sky thinking and marketing and communication plans. I just do. I'm one of the few people here who does do. I suppose that could be construed as a positive aspect in terms of job security. On the other hand, I'm not really qualified for not doing things and instead describing them in a 50-slide PowerPoint presentation.

Working in a modern corporation becomes more bewildering to me every day.

# Day 338. January 26, 2011

I much prefer meat sauce to meatballs in my pasta. Seems like a small thing, an idiosyncratic thing. But there is logic in food just as there is logic in most things. I believe that a recipe, a dish, should contain ingredients that blend harmoniously and rise above the individual characteristics of each element. There must be synergy, to be pretentious about it.

I like meatballs, to be sure, and I could share a marvelous recipe for them here but I don't have it at hand. Spaghetti and meatballs, however, is a problematical dish. There is the pasta, there is the sauce, and there are the meatballs. Three disparate elements fighting for attention. Unless you cut the meatballs up into little pieces, you will have the occasional mouthful of pasta and sauce sans meat. And, if the meatballs are sufficiently large, you may just have a meatball and sauce without the pasta. You see, ingredients battling each other, not blending into a more perfect union, as Lincoln might say.

This is not a problem with meat sauce. Here, the meat becomes a component of the sauce and blends harmoniously with the dish. Meat not battling sauce and noodles for supremacy. No! Spicy, herb-scented meat acquiring the added sensuality and tartness of the sauce and mouth feel of noodles and thus imbuing the entire dish in an integrated manner. In every bite: spaghettisaucemeat.

Besides, why not save your dinner guest the struggle of crudely cutting up her meatballs to clumsily capture the flavor essences of the dish that an elegantly structured meat sauce provides effortlessly and automatically. Bolognese anyone?

(I write these things late in the afternoon when my thoughts often turn to the night's dinner menu.)

# Day 339. February 1, 2011

Been gone for a while, attended a fashion show featuring Natalie, among 40 other aspiring models, in South Beach in a real hip club that made me feel incredibly out of place. I saw the famous rapper Flo Rida. I guess he is based locally in Miami given his stage name. I'm not particularly fond of rap, but the thumping beat and rapid-fire delivery of that hulking beast of a man was entertaining to say the least. Still, despite the layers of rhythms and percussion, I would categorize rap more as a poetic hybrid of the spoken word and music.

Music requires instruments, an aptitude for singing notes, arrangements and harmony, which rap and hip-hip embody in only the most rudimentary ways. Not that it's no good, it's just not music to me.

I wouldn't go so far as Greg Allman, who alluded to rap as "crap without the 'c'." But when you think about conventional musicians who hone their craft with their instruments and arrangements, it's understandable that there is resentment that guys can walk in off the street and spout rhymes to an electronically synthesized beat, call it music and make millions. Doesn't mean it isn't and certainly hip hop has earned its bona fides among the critics and millions of listeners around the world.

But that's no substitute for the thrill of a good shredder and keyboard virtuoso or the vocalist with the soaring pipes.

Though I must admit, Eminem is quite amazing.

# Day 340. February 2, 2011

Sometimes I wonder what it's like to get beaten up. It's fairly remarkable to consider that in some respects I've had an unlived life: I have never been in a prolonged fight where a slew of punches have been thrown and I have never been mugged or otherwise seriously attacked.

While I've bumped my head and have engaged in tackle football without pads and have suffered various collisions on the baseball field and basketball court, I've never exchanged angry blows with another individual.

Not that I'm looking for volunteers, but sometimes I try to imagine the intense pain and shock of being hit flush in the face by a well-thrown fist, perhaps breaking my nose, resulting in an gushing spout of blood. And then being rapped on the side of the head a few more times, and maybe a couple of teeth-shattering blows to the mouth.

This followed or preceded by a kick to the groin and an uppercut to the belly to force out the wind and make me feel nigh unto death, like the time an errant pitch from my father clocked me in the ribs and disabled my breathing reflex for a few seconds.

I cannot realistically gauge the pain from a thorough thrashing, having not endured such general and specific pain all over my body at one time. For example, in the course of a beating do you, after a while, become numb to the individual blows from fists and feet, or does each summon a fresh wave of pain?

At what point do you pass out and when you do pass out, does it last for the duration of the beating or do you rapidly lapse into and out of consciousness? Like many curiosities, however, experiencing the answers to these questions is not something I really seek. And then one final question:

Does one ever get over a serious beating, either physically or emotionally?

# Day 341. February 3, 2011

Ever notice that most favorite food recipes share a certain distinguishing characteristic? It's not necessarily about sweet or sour, bitter or salty. Those are all part of it, but among the most important taste characteristics and the one most difficult to achieve is crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside. Think about it.

My homemade bagels, among the best in the world, boast a thin, crunchy crust that gives way to a warm, doughy interior when fresh from the oven. Texture, after all, is the second phase of taste after smell, because, obviously, teeth come before tongue, so a great and perfect texture is the all-important first impression.

And this is not just about baked goods, though it applies to many kinds of breads, cookies, and pies. It also applies to a properly charred steak. A trip to Peter Luger's is rewarded with a char that is both tasty and offers a slight crunch that progresses to the insanely tender flesh beneath.

If a crunch/soft progression were not important, then what would be the point of fried chicken, French fried potatoes, pan-seared scallops, even stir-fried asparagus, carrots, broccoli, or, what the hell—ANYTHING THAT'S FRIED?

Must I go on? The same formula applies to flan, French onion soup, Godiva chocolates, even Klondike Bars. The hard/soft is a recurring theme and is so potent that overall flavor doesn't have to be that great if you get the hard/soft right.

But if you are sufficiently skilled at mastering texture, which is only achieved with experience, flavor elements are a relative breeze. Just follow a good recipe and add plenty of salt and butter.

# Day 342. February 4, 2011

I wonder about post enjoyment. Think of the times that you're really having fun. For me, most of the time I'm focused on the idea of having fun. Like going to a baseball game at Yankee Stadium and enjoying the environment, but then thinking: "Gee I'm really enjoying this, aren't I? Or, should I be enjoying this more?"

Same thing when listening to great live music. I find my mind wandering from the purity of immersion in the moment to the idea that I should be immersing myself in the moment, but why am I not turning off that exo-analysis and just having fun?

My theory is that the brain works so fast that it absorbs the enjoyment and has leftover processing power to analyze the quality of the experience. So how exactly does one immerse oneself in the moment? Perhaps the answer is to overwhelm the brain.

For example, when corkscrewing down and around in a wild roller coaster ride, the sheer intensity of the exhilaration crowds out all other critical thought. The moment of pure ecstasy is rare and real and, while I try to keep this clean, similar to sexual climax: no room for extraneous thoughts at those peak seconds.

The human brain does think too much and dilutes so many of the pleasures that a feral mind can embrace. It would be so much better to cultivate ways to experience pure enjoyment than to reflect upon the quality of pleasure as the pleasure-thing itself unfolds.

# Day 343. February 7, 2011

The exciting thing that I noticed today is the stock market has continued its ascent and, despite a ruinous cash flow situation, my savings accumulation is doing rather well. I estimate that I have quite a bit in total savings, most of it in tax-deferred accounts not available to me until the age of 59-1/2.

It seems like a lot of money since most people are not assiduous savers like my wife and I were during our 35 years of working for a living. But, you know what, not only will I be only 57 years old and incapable of touching my pot for another 2.5 years, the amount we have, based on my calculations, is not enough.

Pshaw, you say. Well, there is this thing called inflation, plus I expect a long and active retirement and I don't want a lot of financial constraints. My number, as it were, is a minimum savings of $X, and I'd feel a lot more comfortable at $Y. Between that and my pension and Social Security, my wife and I should be able to avoid the soup kitchen.

So you may think that this is unrealistic—that if it were you, you could quit right now and live off my current accumulation. Well, my friend, I have done the math and if you intend to stop working for the next 30 years, you better have at least a million squirreled away or you'll be sweeping sidewalks in your 80s.

Yes, I've run the numbers a million times because my current life and job are in nothing short of limbo. If you, fair reader, are young, say in your 20s or early 30s, whatever you do, sock away at last 5% of your income—10% is better. Then by the time you're in your late 50s you'll have a choice whether to work or not. If you love your job, then lucky you! If you don't, you'll have the funds to walk out the door. Give yourself the choice!

# Day 344. February 8, 2011

Stage fright can take many forms. I've never been an actor because I am terrified of baring raw emotions in front of an audience. Also, I am absolutely certain that I would forget my lines and become tongue-tied on stage, hate the poverty and uncertainty of an acting career, and have absolutely no desire to be the focus of everyone's attention.

But a form of stage fright is attributable to writing as well. As a marathoner, both as a writer and a runner, I go for the long form. Before a marathon, stage fright takes the form not of fear of finishing at a particular time, but of being capable of finishing at all. Most runners pawing the starting corrals are more afraid of the pain and disgrace of bonking than failing to meet some personal time goal, as important as finishing times are before and after the fact.

As a writer of long stuff, like novels and whatever this thing is, stage fright comes at the beginning—do I have a viable story to tell, can my story and cast hold up for a few hundred pages, do I really have something to say?

These fears are especially relevant now because this project is down to its last 23 days, thus my stage fright comes in the form of "what have I accomplished?" This is a grindingly linear process that has progressed in only one direction since the day of my initial entry. One page at a time, no going back.

My concern throughout the project is whether there will be anything worth preserving at the end. Have I said anything worthwhile and have I said anything well? Let's call it retrospective stage fright. It was an unaddressed fear when I started on Day 1: It could all be a significant effort wasted.

Sure, very little risk was assumed, but no writer wants to consistently generate crap!

# Day 345. February 9, 2011

Today I get paid for writing less. Given the domination of Web-based communication, not to mention Twitter and other social media, people no longer have the patience or time to get bogged down in words. The rule today, according to Web usability gurus, is to cut what you write by half. And then cut what you have left by another half.

Presumably the goal is to strip out texture, nuance, depth, and style. Writing for the consumer is posterized—-large type, message snippets sparing of the subject/object/verb and totally dismissive of the adjective. Writing must be tight and telegraphic. Scannable. And though I am responding to my clients' needs, a blast email advertisement with a total of just 58 words seems to be a rip-off of sorts to the reader. I get a character count of 55 for the subject line and 7 or 8 words for a headline. Copy is not comprised of sentences; rather one-line bullet points. And the call-to-action is one, maybe two words.

Granted, when subject to such restrictions, the few words I get must be scrupulously chosen and the chore is time consuming. Yes, I literally go back and reduce my copy by half for most of the marketing material I create. Never use more words than you absolutely need, so I am instructed, because people don't read. They scan and they click. In fact, the bible for writers trying to make it in this industry is actually called Don't Make Me Think.

And that is exactly perfect. Impatience reigns and we are a world of adrenaline-fueled restlessness that precludes a patient literary approach. So, you future ad writers out there, here's the secret. Cut cut cut cut cut. Dashes where you'd normally put colons. The semi-colon is obsolete. Subordinate clauses indicate flabby excess. Get in and get out.

# Day 346. February 10, 2011

It's interesting to me how people I presume to be halfway intelligent behave in ways that are not intelligent at all. I often fall into the trap of ascribing a certain level of intelligence to those with the savvy and persistence to achieve elective office on a national level and that through sheer careerism and pandering to those who finance their elections consent to spout nonsense that no one really believes.

For example, is it true that many Republicans, if not most, insist that global warming is an unproven theory, despite the preponderance of evidence indicating otherwise? My conclusion in that regard is not that the politicians in question are stupid, but rather proof of the Upton Sinclair maxim that "It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on him not understanding it." This would indicate that said politicians are not necessarily ignorant, rather cynical.

But then there are certain cases in which politicians get caught doing silly things like having affairs with young, gabby women or even advertise their perverse predilections on blogs and websites. So, like everything else, there is no reason to believe that there are politicians in office who are not as stupid as they sound.

And, we as a people suffer as a result. So now we have lawmakers who want to drastically cut budgets and throw more people out of work when there are already 14 million people desperate for work due to a flawed ideology.

The stupids, it seems, have taken over and facts and truth are being crushed in their wake.

# Day 347. February 14, 2011

We got our bonuses today and they were about 33% better than last year, which were quite bad. We are now living in what could be called the new normal, a phrase used most frequently by a man named Bill Gross, the most successful and the wealthiest bond fund manager in the world. The new normal means less money for those not residing in the upper tier of wealth, i.e., 99% of us.

There has been a continuing migration of assets to the very elite in this country and that seems to be what happens in any extreme society—from the most autocratic to the most unfettered capitalistic.

Complaining is pointless. I do miss the days of just a few years ago when my bonus constituted about 30 percent of my compensation. Last year it was about 12% and this year 15%. Even though my salary is higher now than it was in 2005, I will end up earning about 4% less in total compensation than I did 6 years ago. Coupled with my wife's unemployment, we're on tap to earn about 45% percent less than we did 6 years ago.

And our expenses have not gone down.

But I'm not here to bitch and moan, but to point out that our difficulties are not unique; few families have two wage earners anymore given a punchless economy incapable of measurable job creation.

So the vast middle class is losing its earning capacity, thus creating a demand sink and dragging the whole mess down with it. There's only so much the gilded 1% can consume and, unless the wealth is shared, there will not be a whole lot of wealth left as we all go spiraling down into various latitudes of poverty.

# Day 348. February 15, 2011

Maybe the reason I've labored over creating credible fictional characters is because I haven't lived the authentic male or female experience. I grew up in a household of women (my dad went to a lot of meetings at night so he wasn't around much). I work with a bunch of women both as co-workers and managers. I have never really bonded with men—not being one to go out and drink beer at bars, go fishing on the weekends, or even attending sporting events featuring the setting up of elaborate barbeque feasts in stadium parking lots. I literally have not much to contribute in terms of small talk when it comes to either men or women.

My novels tend to feature strong female characters, which is a reflection of the strong females in my household. I have a deep respect (or fear) of women confident in their convictions and decisions, even though they tend to have hearts of Jell-O. But beyond that, women's thrall to their emotions and obsession with relationships mystify me.

On the other hand, I'm no back slapping man's man, either. I fail to see the charm of excessive flatulence, video games, simulated sexual experiences at strip bars, earth tones, camping trips with buddies, golf, and so forth. And, since I'm not a gay man, I don't have that convenient social network to tap for insights into the creation of credible characters.

I have no visceral and insightful feel for human beings, and beasts of the jungle terrify and mystify me as well, so animal stories are not an answer, either.

I'm an oddball describing an alien world in my books—a form of science fiction from an observer of surfaces at best.

# Day 349. February 16, 2011

Beware of the wares you sell because, if you're like me, you'll be susceptible to the lures of your own marketing. For example, my job involves marketing and creating an appeal for the investment products we sell. I in fact do such a good job of weaving sales stories that I easily fall in love with almost every product we launch.

If I couldn't mentally lash myself to the mast of my boat á la Odysseus when he was lured by the Sirens, I'd be carrying an investment portfolio stuffed with the likes of long/short funds, market neutral funds, a real assets fund, a floating rate loan fund, a natural resources fund, a short-term corporate bond fund, a mid-cap growth fund, a small company fund, an equity/income fund, and on and on. I'd have a buffet spread for an investment strategy.

Similarly, my daughter the fragrance evaluator collects smells and I'm sure this is not such a bad thing because it's so much easier to work for a company with products that you adore. But we are all attracted by things we adore, and make sure that we are around those things as much as possible.

Not that I love mutual funds, but I sort of enjoy the investment world and pay a lot of attention to my portfolio. And there's nothing wrong with that. It's not like a pedophile seeking out job opportunities at day care centers and sleep-away camps. Or those who join the priesthood to have unfettered access to, well, that's an old story, too.

It is hard to think objectively about the things we make and the rationalizations of why they are the best—but that's not necessarily an illusion to shatter. It's important to believe in your product line, regardless of the strained logic behind our preferences.

# Day 350. February 17, 2011

Yesterday I watched an IBM computer shellac the greatest Jeopardy! players in the world. I think it makes sense, given the amount of knowledge it takes to be a successful contestant on that show. But the most amazing thing was the stuff that makes us human; the ability to read subtlety and nuance and humor in the strange and arcane categories dreamed up by the show's writers, which was in most cases conquered by the machine's programmers.

I could live with Big Blue beating chess grandmasters because I think, given the immense processing power of today's computers, IBM could master the various board scenarios and likely strategies it would take to win a game based on logic and anticipation. But Jeopardy! strikes at the heart of what we liberal arts majors believe makes us more complex and unpredictable and beyond the reach of the yes/no protocols of computer algorithms.

Proved wrong. I can console myself with the fact that the machine is a creation of man and a tribute to the cleverness, intellectual power, and hardware might of those in the artificial intelligence business. But also, as a liberal arts major and concluding that Watson's performance indicated a knack for creative thought, I do wonder where it will all lead.

Imagine a team of Watsons programming the next generation of computer wunderkinds. We will, it seems, see a day when the human brain becomes obsolete. We may have already become the servants of our machines, which would make getting rid of the servants entirely the next logical step. The defeated Ken Jennings, the greatest Jeopardy! player ever, prophetically said at the end of the program, "I, for one, welcome our new computer overlords."

Hardly science fiction anymore.

# Day 351. February 18, 2011

I now live in a country in which half of Congress wants to deny women the right to abortion, abolish regulations that can help arrest global warming, make it impossible to reduce the federal deficit by more than $100 billion by implementing a new health insurance law, deny funding for the financial regulatory agencies to police the banks and brokers who caused the Great Recession of 2008, disallow the Food and Drug Administration from enforcing mercury count regulations for seafood, and much more. Yes, Congress is now in total thrall with big business and has declared war on the vast unwashed that voted them into office.

And, I guess, America deserves it. It was Americans, after all, who approved these lunatics to represent them, and we do get the government we deserve. I've mellowed somewhat from the righteous indignation that peaked during the G.W. Bush administration. At least we have a weak, though somewhat reasonable man in office who may veto the nonsense coming his way.

But there is so much work to do on the economy, for jobs, for the infrastructure and the environment. But the D.C. circus is a doing clown parade while the country burns. But as I said, I have mellowed somewhat because my faith that Obama will not accede to the nonsense is a reasonable backstop.

With the Middle East blowing up and riots in the street, a slow suck of inertia plaguing Europe, and Wacko America squandering its promise, it does call into question mankind as a thinking species. We can create sentient machines like Watson, but it seems that the other, feral, part of the brain is taking control around the world.

It's so enervating when my only remedy is a well-chilled martini.

# Day 352. February 23, 2011

As I close in on the final two weeks of this manuscript, which, according to the word count button below is now totaling 115,359 words, I still find myself hobbled when it comes to the topic of small talk. I remain awestruck watching preternaturally gregarious people walk into a room of enemies, or worse, strangers, and engage them in extended animated conversations.

I've been to my share of parties, meetings, and other get-togethers involving more humans than I care to take on, and still I don't know what to talk about. Since I lack basic curiosity, it would seem that developing competent eavesdropping skills could clue me in on how to talk to strangers with whom I have nothing obviously in common.

More often I will join a group and silently listen as other people banter about things like sports, their kids, the weather and so forth. But either through shyness, a lack of interest, or an inability to make up mindless things to say off the cuff precludes me from participating in conversations in social settings.

I truly am inept and, as a result, loath most social occasions that call for acting civilized to other human beings with whom I have but a nodding acquaintance. For the same reasons, I don't particularly enjoy meeting new people, hanging out with people who are not my wife, or otherwise engage socially.

I still think the driving factor is an almost debilitating shyness and innate awkwardness, but part of it also is why waste time bullshitting with strangers when I could be home reading, playing guitar, watching a good movie or sports event on TV?

I do think it goes deeper than that, since even the thought of striking up a conversation with most people fills me with terror. Even though I have seen the same people every day waiting for the same train on the platform for the last three years, I haven't exchanged words with any of them. They all know each other by name and seem to be able to fill the five-minute space before the train pulls up with pleasant conversation. But I never say a word. And now it's been so long that it would be awkward to begin speaking up now.

But as I said, I'm not a real social guy.

# Day 353. February 24, 2011

What do I miss? I'm fixated on age for some reason, even though I don't feel much different physically or mentally than when I was a teen. In one way I am blessed. I don't miss many things from past years.

There is one thing I miss—my wife working and us having no financial problems, even though I worried about money all the time even when she was working and we were...comfortable. While we scrimp on everything now, at least she worked long enough to help us accumulate a savings that ensures a decent retirement, but I miss the fancy dinners out, buying stuff whenever we wanted to, vacations.

But more specifically, do I miss the physical capabilities of my youth—the ability to hit a baseball a good distance, run fast, and do most other things requiring a young, unbroken-down body? No. Because my body is still in good shape and I can run longer and faster than I could in my youth, but alas I no longer have the quickness or reflexes to compete with my basketball- and baseball-playing prime.

Do I miss my carefree high school or college years? No, generally what I remember is my social insecurity and loneliness at college and the stress of raging hormones and academic and athletic pressures in high school. I don't envy high school kids today and I don't miss those years myself.

How about my early married years? Well I miss the freedom to come and go as we chose, with no kid-ly responsibilities. But we had no money, or we were saving so hard that most of our activities were prosaic and humble.

I also don't miss my kids' growing up years. I cherished every stage of their development, from birth through the wedding for one and high school for the other. But I feel no sentimental tug to revisit any prior stage or period of their development. I got my fill.

No, I have no desire to return to a prior phase in my life, but there is the tug of disappointment that I can't return to an earlier time and adjust my choices and general life and professional trajectory. I could really exploit a do-over opportunity!

# Day 354. February 25, 2011

The Middle East is currently blowing up, despots being overthrown, the people rising up against authoritarian rulers, and the thing that mystifies me most is why do people insist on clinging to power? What is it about power that is so alluring and corrupting?

I could understand the lust for power since the most powerful also tend to be the wealthiest; that's the only appeal to me, as a matter of fact. I have no desire to rule other people—to boss others around, as it were. But I do have the desire to be rich, given the freedom that wealth can provide.

But I think it goes deeper than power = money. People are driven to power because they are controlling and control equates to ego equates to Narcissism, equates to a sense of superiority. Alpha dog, et cetera. Being the guy/girl in charge is a rush unto itself, especially when others bow down to you and fear you because of the high station you hold.

It's not just about money—the presidency of the United States is not an especially high-paying job given the crushing responsibilities and the hell you have to endure to win election. But I suppose the great allure is the trappings of power. People are forced to listen to you, a band plays every time you enter a room, you have a really cool house and lots of toys like Air Force 1 and tricked-out helicopters and you are the constant center of everyone's thoughts and conversations.

But power also can be a drag—you always have to be "on" and it's tough to escape and everyone looks to you for answers. Those are things with which I couldn't be bothered. Power is not for folks like me, who simply want to do their thing and be left alone.

# Day 355. February 28, 2011

There's no reason to be at a loss when nothing in particular is planned for dinner. There are certain things that need to be stocked in the cabinet and the freezer and, zoom, you're off. While I can't summon specifics without reference materials (verboten in this project!), one can create meals or single dishes based on cooking conventions from around the world.

If you're cooking Italian, say a fish of some sort, just fry it up in some olive oil, garlic, lemon, and maybe some wine and then the typical Italian seasonings of oregano, basil and parsley. If you're going American, do the same thing and the spicing would be parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, just like the song.

Mexican-ize the dish with cilantro, chili pepper, parsley again and some other stuff that I forget. The Oriental approach could include things like cilantro, ginger, soy sauce thickened with corn starch, sesame oil and whatever. If you're going Indian, then it's cumin, cardamom, curry, turmeric, garam masala.

I think I need to do up a chart that breaks this into proper spicing and proportions and apply them to various rubs, sauces, stir fries, and so forth and then on days when I don't feel like thinking, I can just take something out of the freezer, line up the appropriate seasonings and make it happen.

I should also do the same thing with mixed drinks—like what goes with gin, vodka, etc., and after 30 years I still never seem to have the right mixers and garnishes on hand to make more than a few drinks.

Believe me, I'll have my act together much better when I retire. It feels like Alzheimer's to me whenever I go into the kitchen—constantly relearning stuff over and over again, when the combinations are quite standard and not that difficult.

# Day 356. March 1, 2011

The only consolation that we can take away when it comes to people like Natalie Portman is that in less than 100 years from now she and we will be dead. It will no longer matter that this famous and accomplished actress was also an Intel scholar in high school, investing hundreds of hours devising experiments and theories that you and I cannot understand. It will also not matter that while she was being recognized as one of a handful of the nation's most gifted young science scholars, she was also building an acting career, working with such slouches as Woody Allen, Martin Scorcese, Julia Roberts, Robert DeNiro, and so forth. And when she went on to Harvard majoring in some arcane science, she continued to act and, let's make a note of this, Natalie Portman's habit of pulling straight A's began in elementary school and continued through college.

And for her latest film she pulled out the old ballet slippers again and fooled the masses of her virtuosity to the point that she won a leading actress Oscar for The Black Swan. Yes, Natalie Portman would be very easy to hate were not for the fact that she is universally described as modest to a fault, accessible, and always eager to learn and share her craft with others.

Yes, Natalie Portman is perfect and a role model and one of those people who make me feel very very very small.

I guess it's good that people like Natalie Portman exist in the world so that we can take a measure of the awesome potential of humanity. But again, death is the Great Equalizer!

# Day 357 March 2, 2011

I've just spent $1,400 on my 1988 Mazda 626, a car that is 23 years old, rusted and looking every bit its age. It's probably worth about $100 in scrap. But today it has a brand new clutch, new rear struts, a new main oil seal and a used but serviceable replacement rear tire.

And, baby, the car runs like a champ! While I don't want to get into the economics of spending 14-times in repairs what the car is worth other than to say it's still cheaper than a few months of car payments and the thing runs fine.

No, my clutch is the topic. My clutch was a noble survivor—it had 188,000 miles on it and survived my wife's heavy accelerations and jumpy starts and I trained my two kids to drive stick with it. The puny clutch on our Fiat sports car crapped out after only 55,000 miles and Erica's Miata bit the dust at 90,000.

188,000 miles. One of the most heavily used and abused parts in a car with standard transmission (a weird term these days when the "standard" for most cars is automatic.) I loved my clutch because it embodied the qualities that I cherish and it coincides with some of my better qualities.

I show up every day, execute my duties quietly and effectively, require little or no maintenance, have endurance beyond belief, and am at my best when no one pays any attention to me. Enjoy your retirement, Carl's Mazda 626 clutch. Someday I will join you, liberated from my daily toils.

I just hope that I'm not as worn and beat up as you were at the end.

# Day 358. March 3, 2011

As part of Natalie's marketing program for becoming an actress, she is spending the afternoon at a New Jersey mall asking people what they think of her. Specifically, she is going to approach people representing as many demographic categories as possible and ask them how old they thinks she, what kind of job they think she has (if they incorrectly guess that's she's out of school), and a few other questions.

This, I suppose, is basically Marketing 101, in which you gauge how your product is perceived by the public and accentuate your attributes to fit those perceptions. A wonderful exercise, in my opinion, that injects a jolt of realism into a person's self-perceptions.

Based on the input she receives today, Natalie will schedule a new head shot that positions her as what she is perceived, most likely a teenage high school girl with an open disposition and an athletic look. Or it may be something entirely different.

Maybe that would be a good thing for all of us to do—go up to complete strangers and find out how we ourselves could be pigeonholed simply by our looks and manner. Do we come across as a potential executive or maybe a cart wrangler at Foodtown?

I have enough experience to understand that my perceptions of myself do not jibe with the impressions of others—and not just strangers. Do I really want to know what others think of me—even dumb strangers?

On second thought, maybe a good exercise for fledgling actors, not such a good idea for us civilians. Just more illusions to be shattered—who needs it?

# Day 359. March 4, 2011

The themes for this one are painfully trite. My daughter Erica sent a despairing email about her dire financial circumstances, a result of hers and Chris' earnings falling short of expenses, mainly because their earnings are so measly and not because they are spendthrift.

So there they are at age 25, still causing pain in a parent's heart because I'd love to help them but can't and probably shouldn't. I guess my mom is right when she says the only time you stop worrying about your kids, stop living vicariously through your kids, stop trying to manage and make decisions for your kids...is when you die.

Other species get it right: a few months of suckling, a little bit longer for flight training, then toss them out of the nest and make way for the next generation.

It's not necessarily my view that rough times build character and discipline. My kids don't seem impressed that I was able to buy Micky's presents for our first Christmas from the proceeds of my twice weekly visits to the blood center to donate plasma at $9 a session.

This was also the time when I was still going to college and Micky was bringing home $100 a week from her job in the mailroom at Bell Labs. We were eligible for food stamps and basically lived on macaroni and cheese, Saltines, and ground chuck. When we went on a date, we split an ice cream cone from Dairy Queen.

The thing I learned from being poor is that I hate not having money—it's a constant worry and lousy from both physical and emotional standpoints and I feel for those who must endure that kind of hardship. No, it doesn't build character; it just cultivates a capacious well of bitterness.

I'm not proud of my period of penury.

# Day 360. March 7, 2011

I truly can be an unfeeling cuss. Today it was disclosed to me that the father of one of my coworkers died on Saturday. This was a man who was a raging alcoholic, an embarrassment at family functions, venal when it came to the treatment of others and incessantly demanding of a son who was understandably estranged from him on many levels but the one who was called when Dad had to get bailed out of the drunk tank or who had to pay his bills and file his taxes because Dad was too besotted to follow up on those things himself. But that is not the point.

What is the point is the son mourns. Now parentless, since his mom died five years ago, the son feels alone in the world, even thought the paternal company he once kept was unbearable. The son mourns and is sad.

Let me say that I do not quite understand the dynamic, hence the fact that I must be an unfeeling cuss. My dad loved me and spent time with me, yet I did not particularly get along with him. He was authoritarian, a braggart, loud, and impetuous. When he died, I was mildly taken aback but I never really mourned, nor do I particularly miss him, which is now four years later.

I wonder if this is a bad thing. It certainly must be unusual, since no one else I know, even my sisters, shares my indifference.

So maybe I don't believe in unconditional love—maybe it's not in my DNA. The people I love—my wife, my two kids, a few others, have qualities that I adore and I could never love a person that I dislike, even close family.

But that, it seems, is abnormal. And something that maybe someday I will begin to worry about. Not today.

# Day 361. March 8, 2011

I keep thinking that if I write something every day, a few things will pop out that could actually be borderline brilliant. But I don't actually think that will happen, because even borderline brilliant pieces must be written by borderline brilliant people. I believe that you can do only so well and not exceed a certain level. Ever.

I notice it on some of my marketing pieces. They are quite well drafted, effectively present their points, and do so in a clear and interesting style. But still, they are not exactly brilliant and, to me, seem to be missing some unfathomable element that would make them truly extraordinary, like some of the competitive material written by borderline brilliant people. And it's the same with my books. I think they include sections of fine inspiration and strong execution. But brilliant? No, they don't go there.

No, brilliant does as brilliant is. I could never write a page worthy of a Martin Amis or a Wallace Stegner. They are brilliant. Of course they did not measure up to their potential with every sentence they wrote. But they had that potential and could do it when the feeling struck them. Similarly, just as Albert Pujols will swing and miss every once in a while when facing a great lefty like Cliff Lee, I will swing and miss as well. The difference is that Albert Pujols can also rock one out of the park against Lee, whereas the best I could ever hope for would be maybe a foul tip—and that's only if Mr. Lee makes a mistake pitch.

Sure, it would be great if you could do or be anything you wanted to be if you just put your mind to it. Sadly, though, we mortals are limited by our potential and have to know when we've hit our personal ceiling and not eat ourselves alive in a state of extended delusion.

# Day 362. March 9, 2011

Here's some great advice from someone obsessed with time management. It works for me at work and is a decent method for people involved in several different projects of varying complexity. It begins with the assumption that multi-tasking does not work. It is virtually impossible to focus on two different things at the same time. Those who try lose both speed and precision.

For example, when I am working on large project, like a client brochure for a mutual fund, I'm better off ignoring the little chime that goes off every time I receive a new email. I'm also better off if I put off doing simple tasks like checking on the status of other projects, allowing drop-ins to my office that drive my attention to other issues, immersing myself in administrative duties, and so forth.

For me, it's best to work sequentially—do one thing at a time with a total focus. I find it improves the quality of my work and often helps me finish things faster. So I divide my time among large and small projects, devoting many hours or an entire day to a large project and then doing a dozen small, nagging things the next. Chances are by not working simultaneously on several things, I'll hit all my deadlines and be less stressed in the process.

This of course assumes that I have a modicum of control over my time. As long as you have a boss who says "do this by such and such a time," and not a boss who insists on "do this now," which can screw everything up.

The key take away is to allocate time, follow the plan, and not try to do everything at once.

# Day 363. March 10, 2011

The concept of volatility has always fascinated me. Volatility from the angle that people constantly change their minds, alter their strategies, reverse their convictions. In the investment industry, volatility is actually a proxy for risk. The more an investment fluctuates, such as movements in stock prices, the riskier the investment is considered.

I am not a particularly volatile person. I do change my mind, but usually after careful consideration or from a desire to be less dull than usual and inject a little drama into my life. I seldom make last minute changes when the waiter comes to take my order for dinner, whereas people like my wife will ask a zillion questions, make a decision and then change it three times before the waiter is allowed to commit it to writing. I see no particular benefit in being so indecisive, she makes as many ordering mistakes as I do, but expends far more energy doing so.

Thus the fluctuations of the stock market interest me. Today the Dow Jones went down 228 points—a big sell-off due to a temporary spike in oil prices and a rare deficit in China. All the worrywarts rushed to sell their stocks to buy relatively safer bonds. But they'll be back in the stock market in the next week or so when their fear subsides and level of greed increases.

Financial markets often go haywire over short periods of time, but history shows that frequent traders who respond to every herk and jerk of the Dow almost always lose in the long run. They know that market timing doesn't work but they do it anyway.

Action based on volatility is almost always counterproductive unless you are the rare individual who functions best in a crisis. Most of us do not and thus slow, steady, decisive and boring is usually the most sensible route. But certain people who are not me are excitable by nature and to them I say, save your excitement for the theme parks, casinos, and computer games. Markets reward boring behavior.

# Day 364. March 11, 2011

Three hundred and sixty-four days into this and I think that repeating myself is unavoidable (only a day or so left WHOOOOPPPEEEE). But as I've said repeatedly, a particular fear of mine is once I go back and read past installments I'll be depressed by the trivial, shallow, prosaic, and quotidian nature of the thoughts that constitute my obsessions.

I am, of course, not a person of any great distinction, a central thesis of this work. I wish I could write of the tremendous humanitarian good that I've amassed. How through my industry I have fed, clothed, educated, entertained, and inspired millions. Such is not the case.

But just making a small dent in the pain and misery that overwhelm various people in the world condemns even today's most committed do-gooders to failure. Evil is in all of us and those with the greatest power can exercise the greatest evil. Much easier to destroy than to build and the take away is this: do good if you must. If it makes you feel better, provides a sense of purpose, raises you in your own mind above your brothers and sisters. But to make lasting change and create a better world, you gotta create better people.

As it is, people aren't so hot. They're hopelessly flawed and while I have a certain respect for the do-gooders out there, I hope they do what they do because it provides some kind of self-fulfillment—and expect nothing in return.

Those who say they can make a difference may have a point for a finite period for a finite population. But if they think they can make a lasting difference without overhauling major components of the human beast, they are just fooling themselves.

Maybe my boring, petty life has not provided a lift to mankind. But at least it is an examined life and perhaps my singular accomplishment is arriving at the understanding that I cannot fool myself. Atheism is not for the complacent or faint of heart!

# Day 365. March 16, 2011

Close to end so the last couple of entries will most likely be a summing up, a winding down, a departing with a murmur and a squeak. The company spent money on me the past couple of days by sending me to a workshop on writing for the Web. I specifically requested this training and my management was eager for me to take it.

This dog did learn some new tricks that I'll employ to spike our search engine optimization and whatnot, but I'll also take away the unfettered enthusiasm of our instructor. She, with a creative background like mine, worked in large corporations for about a dozen years, got promoted a lot, but hated the corporate life. Also like me.

But unlike me, she had the guts to get out. Take stock of her life and put together a plan that resulted in her dream job of working for herself. It resulted in a book, Escape from Corporate America: A Practical Guide to Creating the Career of Your Dreams that I just ordered from Amazon today. She does a bunch of things now—she's a career counselor, she writes for web sites, gives seminars on interviewing techniques, is an adjunct professor at NYU, teaches web writing and other stuff. She's of course quite intelligent, but her modus operandi seems fairly straightforward. She taps her journalism training and interviews experts and reads a bunch of books and thereby becomes an expert in any field that interests her. I could do that, too. Except for two things:

I'm gutless for one; when I was younger and less financially encumbered, I was too scared to take certain risks that weren't all that risky to potentially find work that I would like.

The second thing is I'm quite anti-social—all those marketing calls, seminar leadership assignments, customer interactions and product pitches are not things that are quite in my wheelhouse. To do anything entrepreneurial, it's fairly important to be a people person, which, as you know, I'm not. So those are my excuses: frightened and introverted. But I'll read her book anyway and enjoy her journey vicariously, knowing that her inspiration could never be my aspiration. In the end, maybe we are prisoners of our natures.

# Day 365. March 17, 2011 (redux)

[Note made on June 22, 2013: You may have expected yesterday to have been the last entry in this opus. Well, somewhere along the line I lost count of my entries and came up with some extras, a bonus, as it were. Not to violate any rules, I'll just add a couple of Day 365 entries at the end. Sorry for the inconvenience, and thanks for making it so far! I guess you're a completer-type, too!]

It's taking me longer and longer to get started with these entries, especially as I approach the end. As we squander our lives and age into our 50s, 60s and so on, there's the regret and a sense verging on panic that we have not done the best we can with the time or space we've been allotted. Here I've allotted 365 days and I know this is not my best work. My best work takes honing and rewriting and hours of wrestling with thoughts and form and actual words. Here I have what is more or less an episodic stream of consciousness of interest to no one and probably not even to me when I go back and review it.

I'm happy with the form, at least. A Word file in no way connected electronically with the rest of the world. Not just another blog crowding the air with electrons of tedium and failed wit. To all you amateur writers out there: not everything you consign to a piece of paper or a computer screen is worthy of enshrinement or even the appearance before the eyes of others. This could have been a blog, but now I'm glad that it's not. I have some self-regard as writer and I'm sure some, hopefully not most, of these entries are vacuous shit and an embarrassment.

At least now, as I face my final day tomorrow, the concern that there is little to redeem this project is beside the point. It is too late and, as much as I despise the expression, this thing is what it is. Too late now. The clock is running out and no matter what heroics I commit to the page tomorrow, it won't really matter if the preceding 400 plus pages are the shallow, vain, gratuitous, vapid, etc., musings of a writer doddering into his twilight.

# Day 365. March 18, 2011 (redux 2)

Okay, so this is it. I have completed a year of page-a-days, though only for the days that I was at my job (except for a pair of days, as noted). So working on that schedule, the entire task took nearly 22 months to complete. And that is the operative word: "complete."

That is the thing I do. My greatest, or at least most enduring, attribute. I finish what I start. That's how I finished four books (I guess I could call this manuscript my fifth), ran seven marathons, managed to stay employed at this company for 26 years, renovated major portions of my house, got through two horrific body cleanses. I also finish the food that's placed in front of me, movies that I start watching, journeys that I start driving, and articles and books that I start reading. I read the New York Times from cover to cover every day because I finish what I start.

Whether the fruits of my labor are any good is often beside the point. Some things are better than others, I know. I doubt any of my completions are masterpieces, but in no case have I given up, which I suppose is a kind of redeeming quality. If anything, completion is probably a neutral quality. Some things are not worth completing—elite runners drop out of competitions if they're having a bad race so that they can save their legs for another day. I don't need to save my legs, whether my running or writing legs, for anything because elite is not a quality I possess. Greatness has eluded me, sure. But there is a certain satisfaction to finishing what you start and, when I finish this sentence, I will try to savor the satisfaction of finishing yet another thing that I started. Way back in May 2009.

Oh, TGIF. Martinis at 6:00.

# April 25, 2015

Five years have passed since this project ended, but spectacular things have happened so I need to tack on a couple of days.

Since my career non-trajectory hasn't changed since the day I began this book, I had a terrific brainstorm one year ago that could potentially unyoke me from the corporate world while creating a harmonious transition for my employer--in other words, a "win-win" deal so treasured by the business world. All this would be possible since I was less than a year away from achieving the savings goal I needed to retire.

The deal I proposed was to get "restructured" out of my job and help my company find and train my replacement at a more junior level. The rationale was that my job no longer required a senior level skill set and that the company could save a lot of money by hiring a younger, less experienced writer to do the pedestrian sort of assignments that constituted most of my workload. In exchange, I would leave and receive the customary severance package, which I would ride gracefully into retirement some months later.

The proposal made total sense--the company would get rid of a bored, highly paid and under-utilized employee in exchange for a young, cheaper go-getter with a skill-set better matched to the position. So this sparked a big meeting of various department executives (to which I wasn't invited to defend my position) and the decision came down as expected.

My proposal was rejected. The reasons were vague, something along the lines that my advanced skills would be needed for certain unnamed projects down the road, which, of course, never materialized.

Still in all, I think it was a good attempt to escape the corporate world a year early and again have it acknowledged by management that my amazing talents were indispensible to the wellbeing and success of my company.

# April 14, 2016

Finally, finally, finally the day has arrived. Tomorrow I enter retirement, the Land of Perpetual Smiles. While this day could have taken place months ago if my aforementioned proposal had been implemented, it's all water under the bridge, and, at age 62, I'm not gaining my freedom at an unreasonably advanced age.

It's an hour before the luncheon in my honor (in the kitchenette next to my desk) when the phone rings. It's my department head and the company's chief marketing officer (CMO) inviting me to his office. Well, that's nice, a senior company official with whom I've had little contact over the years wants to personally shake my hand and thank me for my service, hard work, and professional contributions. That's semi-cool! So I head upstairs to the executive wing and enter the CMO's spacious digs with its compelling views of the New York City skyline. But wait, there he is sitting at his desk...and is that a grim look on his face? In a no-nonsense voice, he instructs me to close the door and sit down.

Then he delivers some shocking news. He says, "I've been reading a very interesting book." (Ah, a reader--I never would have suspected.) But the real shock is the book he was reading is the one you are holding in your hands, One Page a Day!

"I find this book to be very disparaging of [the company] and some of the people who work here," he said. "I have to say that I'm deeply disappointed in you. Very disappointed. I know you are leaving tomorrow, but why don't we make this your last day."

And to prove that he actually did read it, he made reference to some useful advice described in Day 52 of the book that encourages the reader to always be prepared to clear out when the axe suddenly and inevitably falls at work. "So why don't you take your 25 minutes to pack up and leave," he said as a final lame quip.

Well, I was certainly taken aback by his little speech and could muster only a quick OK and a heartfelt thanks for releasing me a day early. Ten minutes later I was on the streets and heading to Penn Station for my final train ride home.

I subsequently found out that the CMO did attend my going away party, which went on in my absence, and he acted as though nothing untoward had happened. And that's how my 31-year career at my esteemed employer ended.

# Epilogue

It's been a couple of weeks and I've had time to think about what took place that fateful day. Since I wear the crown of Pariah uneasily, I've been wondering if the CMO may have had a point in his interpretation of this book, and whether his futile attempt to humiliate and embarrass me was appropriate given the circumstances.

Um...no.

The themes of disparagement and disappointment that formed the basis of his complaints are worth exploring. Did I disparage the company? In the sense that my company reflects common behaviors, mindsets, and processes that can drive creative types crazy, yes it was disparaged to a degree. But in revisiting the entire text since being thrown under the bus, I can point to many passages in which I indicated that my company was better than most and no worse than others when it came to its humanity and policies.

But as anyone who works at a large corporation knows, these entities are slow, lumbering beasts with inherent inefficiencies and frustrations and certainly my company is no exception. But when it comes to disparagement, I think the author himself takes far more hits than the company--he was clearly unsuited temperamentally to work in that environment and you would be too if things like group think, conformity, and stifling bureaucracy are anathema to you. My impatience with those aspects is laid bare in gory detail in these pages.

The more interesting theme is disappointment. Was the CMO disappointed that I was not the person he imagined? Well, we never had much of a relationship so it's hard to say what he imagined me to be, so I have nothing to offer here.

Was he disappointed that my view of the company contrasted sharply with his? That would make sense since his experience was a lot different than mine. While he is a capable manager with a congenial personality, his career has benefited from strong mentorship, the right contacts and a career trajectory that was a relatively smooth ride to the executive suite at a young age. We who are pigeonholed and dead-ended at some point in our careers understandably acquire a different perception than those at the top. There's a reason why many senior executives are true believers in the company gospels--and can't understand why others aren't.

But what I think really disappointed him was my inability to keep my mouth shut, as evidenced in this book. Well, writers write. That's what we do. And what I've written in this book are honest reflections on a wide range of topics, including my corporate life. If the experience of others differs from mine and feel I misrepresent the truth as they see it, I suggest they write their own book and set the record straight!

Given the spectacular nature of my departure from the company, I imagine there may be a spike in interest in this book. And, based on the CMO's greatest concerns, I did revisit the manuscript and remove the two instances in which my company is referred to by name. I also deleted a couple of instances in which I name actual employees to protect their privacy. But overall, One Page a Day maintains its integrity and I hope you find it an entertaining read and can relate to some of my experiences. At least the positive ones!

April 29, 2016

###

# Send Feedback!

Thank you for taking the time to read this book! It's tough being noticed, so if you like what you've read, please consider writing a review at the website where you downloaded this book. I'm working on a variety of vehicles to directly connect with my readers. Please check back to my author page from time to time for important announcements, including the upcoming release of my next novel, **Race Riot**.

# About the Author

Carl Ehnis was a highly successful marketing and sales promotion writer for about 40 years, but couldn't care less because what he really wants to be is a best selling literary novelist, lead guitar player for an arena rock super band, a sub-three hour marathoner, and a gourmet cook.

