Belong. Belong. Belong.

"Tell me who you spend time with and I'll tell you who you are."
-Dominican Aphorism

No, really. I don't want the attention.

Strange

My friend Hotstream has posted a summary of Tap Tap, a comic we created while we were in Peace Corps. It's about zombies, talking dogs, missionaries and voodoo. The story was a bit unwieldy. But the pictures are beautiful.

Hunting

FIELD TRIP: Head over to Head Sticks. Click on animated docs. Enjoy the short film "Hunting" by my friend Kate Gorman.

The Order

I had this statue of Grumpy Bear from the Care Bears. My friend Josh and I pretended it was alive. And when we did bad things it would get grumpier.

I didn't know enough to laugh at myself when I was a kid.

Love Poem to No One In Particular

Crack

The egg recipe WINNERS are Dave Hotstream and Jennifer Reeves. Here's a mash-up of their winning entries:

EGG IN A HOLY BLANKET

1. Fry baby bread hole coffee cup.

2. Salt pepper runny yummy toasty egg.

Grow Up

A SIMPLE IDEA: The Movement to end the Institution of Permission.
Stop following. Start touching.

I do not need permission to go to the bathroom.
I do not need permission for anything else.

You're Not Safe

[Thanks for the photo shoot Rory and Topher. Oh and Jaime, thanks for being a good sport last Friday.]

Several academics, including the economist Christopher Garbacz, have pondered the seat belt paradox. The following comes from Garbacz's paper on New Zealand's seat belt law:

"It appears that the favorable effect [of seatbelts] on automobile occupants may be offset partially, or in some models perhaps completely, by deaths among cyclists and pedestrians that may be caused by more dangerous driving by drivers who feel safer."

In John Adams' book Risk, he suggests accidents would decrease if a sharp spike were installed in every steering wheel.

I've long been infatuated with the paradox of safety. The rush of an audience watching as my ensemble and I perform an improvised musical. The thrill of spending two years on a tropical island. The excitement of the next Big Thing. Those things only happen when the risk of failure is palpable.

I'm a normal guy -- maybe even a little boring. Maybe even a little risk averse. Which is why I need that spike, not the seatbelt. Without it, I'll just go crashing into life willy nilly.

NOTE TO READERS: No more new stuff till Saturday. In the meantime, read the good stuff:
Start Touching
If I Were A Robot
We All Need A Guru
I'm Wrapped In Goodness
Looking Down

Turn that Smile

Dearest reader. I'm in an existential funk. I want you to make me feel better. Right now. Right here. We'll do it together.

Pink monkeys. Unicorns. Duck ponds. Cotton candy. Holding hands. Singing songs. Hanging on someone's words. Having them hang on yours. Laughing because it's the right time to laugh.

Think of Cabbage Patch Dolls, My Little Pony and puggles (a mix of a beagle and a pug).

Now. Take a breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. You are the sea. You are one with the Earth. Now, for the love of God, go make some money.

I'm This Big

INTERACTIVE: Post a good egg recipe in the comments. Bonus points for recipes that include food coloring. Best entry will be reposted on my blog.

It's My Fault

Remember that huge fish I caught when I was a kid?
3.7 foot carp, big and glugging?
I didn't catch it.

Another fisherman gave it me. I put it in my bucket and acted like it was mine. Tons of pictures. Calls to the grandparents. I smiled a lot that night.

We tried to eat that fish but it wouldn't die.

I cannot give everyone a hug.

IF I WERE: A robot

I'd make my bed every day. I'd brush and floss after every meal. I'd do the dishes, dust, disinfect. I'd be very, very clean.

I'd hit on electricians. I'd look up to superconductors. I'd worry about shorts.

Life would make sense. I would enjoy a good cup of coffee without worrying about the existential ramifications of spending three dollars for a beverage that actually depletes my liquid reserves.

Work would involve a lot less singing, very little snacking and absolutely no laughing.

I would be energetic. A team player. A people person. Ready to serve. A piece of work.

Atlas, meet Harold

Just a quick reminder. There are more than 6.5 billion people on Earth. When did this happen? February 25, 2006.

BLOG SWARM OF NOTE: Ze Frank's sandwich-centered vodcast world. (Thanks Sweetney.)

Recurring Dreams

Why do we vote for people and not beliefs?
Same hair. Same suits. Same words.

Why is the idea of a parade better than the reality?
Same elephants. Same floats. Same bare chests.

Why do I contemplate growing out the hair on my head?
Same bald spot. Same horse shoe. Same dream of hair.

It's my only consistent recurring dream. I wake up. I walk to the bathroom. And there I am with a full head of hair. Hi there. Wow. It was all a dream. Deus ex machina. The story is over. Pert Plus is back on the shelf. Boyish life regained.

The current six year-old president, Nate Duffmeister of Illinois, would like to remind you to wash your hands. His vice president, sixty-six year old Merna Johnson of Kansas remembers washing her hands in a sink for the first time and thinking, "All this trouble just to get water to my hands."

Can You Believe It?

A SIMPLE IDEA: Believe everything people say. Believe them, until proven otherwise. Everything.

If the dood behind the cash register says, Hey, I like that shirt. You might want to wear it more often.

If your boss says, that's good work. That's good work. Keep doing it that way.

If the guy on the street says, I want your money. He wants your money.

It's amazing what happens when you start trusting other people.

I'm Gonna Live Forever
Rock Heals is having a zombie haiku contest. Enter people. Enter now.

Here is my entry. It's so going to win.

IN LIEU OF FLOWERS
I’ll be honest about the zombies.
They were meant as decoration.
I didn’t know they’d eat flesh.

Facing Up

When I was a kid, I didn't like to play sports because I was worried a ball would hit my face. I was very careful. Nonetheless, I often got hit in the face.

Now, when I play sports (which, honestly, isn't very often), I mock the ball, frisbee, puck. Hit my fucking face. Hit my fucking face. I haven't been hit in the face in years.

I'm scared.

We all need a guru.
The father of painter Andrew Wyeth, NC Wyeth was an illustrator. Kick ass illustration mind you, illustrating versions of Peter Pan, Treasure Island, Swiss Family Robinson, etc. NC raised Andrew like one of the Lost Boys. It was not a rational "education." In fact, one of NC Wyeth's students, Peter Hurd, noted that the child Andrew could barely read. To this day, Andrew plods along in books. But, um, have you seen Christina's world? Take a look.

The freedoms NC gave his son, the crazy unconventional freedoms, turned Andrew into an illustrator of the soul.

We all need a guru that pushes us to do the unconventional. The scary shite. The stoopid shite. The stuff we're meant to do.

My grandmother used to tell the story of driving through Maine in the summer and seeing Andrew Wyeth on the side of the road with a clothes line across two trees, dozens of watercolors hanging off. To humor him, she bought some of the paintings (a few cents a piece) then threw them away. Whoops.

Start Touching

Come on. Try it. You know you wanna. Yer so ready.

I'm going out on a limb. Your retirement plan is not rocking your world with romantic candlelight dinners and funny kissy poo nights.

Your new plasma TV didn't help you realize life is about getting into other people's craws and sticking there.

Your rennovated kitchen will not keep your neighbors' kids from being functionally illiterate or the homeless man sleeping under your stoop from getting his next hit of crack.

Start touching. Come on Try it. You know you wanna. Yer so ready.

OVERHEARD: "Only in Rhode Island can you keep from going to jail after rear-ending a police cruiser."

I AM SEEING YOU

Have I become a speculative fiction writer, or am I just being prescient? I believe, very soon, you will see people at cafes, headphones in, video instant messaging with friends. Meaning, video iming like it's a cell phone. This makes sense. This is why the whole video messaging didn't work with cell phones. It's not the right medium. You know, the media is the message (or the massage). A computer is the right medium. People will suddenly video message on a computer. Computers are what we use for work. We are ready to pose. We're not ready to pose walking around with a cell phone. Put the lap top on the table. Even if you are out in public, and suddenly, it's cool. It works.

It's a Fixed Race

SIMPLE CONCEPT: The leaders of our country can only be six year-olds and sixty-six year-olds. They get one four year term. All presidential candidates must choose a complementary vice president. For instance, if the candidate is a six year-old named Russ, Russ can pick a sixty-six year-old named Hermione.

Why the dichotomy? Six year-olds know the difference between good and bad. Sixty-six year olds have lived the difference between good and bad.

You Are My Body Guards