I'm done. Finished. Caput. Finite literapotter.

As of last night, I officially finished reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. An interesting feat in and of itself, considering the book was released here in the US nearly two months ago.

When it comes to Harry Potter, I got in the habit, starting with the fourth book, of rereading the preceding books before allowing myself to read the newest one. What started as a neat answer to how one book could be shared among so many brothers without too much squabbling has since become a traditional habit that I enjoy. It's fun to reread the old books, refreshing my memory on all the past events, and seeing Harry Potter from a bird's eye view, knowing what's to come and relishing the journey Harry Potter takes.

The day Deathly Hallows was released, I bought the book. But I had not yet begun to read any of the previous ones early enough to allow myself to start the new one right away. In fact, I wasn't even close to being able to read any of the Harry Potters. My first goal was to finish reading Stephen King's Dark Tower series. The Dark Tower series also comprises seven books, and when Deathly Hallows was released, I was only finishing up the fifth installment. To force myself to put on hold that brilliant saga whilst stopping to read Harry Potter made no sense to me. So I continued, and finished the Dark Tower series in just under three weeks.

Of course, once finished with the Tower series, I had to start back with the first Harry Potter and also reread the entire series. I reread each and every one of them, and in the space of about one month, I completed the series.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is nothing short of amazing. I admire JK Rowling's skill at weaving together a story, and especially her commitment to her characters and her story. To say the least, she does not disappoint.

Okay, enough about all that. While it seems like a harmless and easy task, what I have just done was anything but. Because not only did I not want to read the seventh book until I had reread the other six... I really didn't want to hear even the slightest mention of the book in my presence. Even if all someone said was: "In the Deathly Hallows, Harry Potter is in it." I didn't want to hear it.

In this day and age of the internet and loud cell phone conversations in public places, it's not exactly easy to avoid mention of the book, especially considering its popularity. For instance, while walking into the grocery store one day, I overheard two people having a very deep and philosophical conversation. As soon as I heard the word "Snape," I cast the pair a wide-eyed glance and nearly broke into a run in my haste to not hear what they were saying. Sheesh. At the very least, they could have done a simple Muffliato charm so that I couldn't hear what they were saying.

At long last, however, I no longer have to worry. I've read the book. No longer do I need to awkwardly stop conversations about it; instead, I can join in the conversation and try to sound smart. It's a wonderful feeling.

I love dogs. I love how they bark. I love how they wag their tails. I love that they’re friendly. I love that they love attention. And, until I moved into my apartment almost a year ago, I loved just about every dog I met. Sadly, I now have to change that first statement above to “I love most dogs.” Yes, it’s true. There are some dogs that I actually hate. I will now list them off.

• My downstairs neighbor is a dirty old man (that’s a long story; I’ll spare you the details), and he owns a poodle. While I at first sympathized with the creature (it’s not his fault he’s a poodle, after all), all such feeling vanished from the moment I was within ten feet of the thing. Why? Because the little bitch tried to attack me. It came flying out of the apartment, the door to which was propped open, yapping its ugly little head off and trying to bite me. Had the owner not shown up, I might have kicked the wretched thing. I’ve yet to kick it, but I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility.
• Another neighbor in the complex has two giant dogs he walks around and calls “girls” all the time. The man is huge and always sports a long ponytail that rivals dreadlocks in terms of its cleanliness. He’s one of those people whose animals resemble himself. Other than the “girls” running up to me and nearly bowling me over, I’ve been fortunate enough not to see them regularly, as in the case of aforementioned poodle.
• My newest next door neighbor, who is actually very nice, owns a Miniature Chihuahua. The dog, which is a mixture of light and dark brown, is cute enough to look at. But, while he’s presumably full-bred, I think he has some Cocker Spaniel in him. This is because when he sees me, he comes running out to great me, all excited like, and starts peeing all over the balcony. It’s not out of fear, it’s out of excitement, and it’s fucking annoying. And hey, remember this story? That’s why Robert decided the crazy thing needed a new moniker: Pisspot. Fitting, methinks.

Every now and again, dreams do come true. Wednesday night, one of my dreams came true in the form of a rock show. After listening to Rise Against for nearly six years (I got into them when I was in high school), I finally had the opportunity to see them in concert. When I found out back in June that they would be coming, I knew that I had to go see them. And go see them I did.

Rise Against is a classic punk rock band: speedy songs, politically minded, incredible energy, and positive messages all sent out in the form of incredible music. They've opened up my eyes to a great many things, not the least of which include good music and caring about the world we live in. To give you an idea of just how awesome these guys are, here's a quote lead singer/guitarist Tim McIlrath said before jumping into one of their songs (I've paraphrased it): "We know how important it is to live and care about the world, and our own part of it, and that we as people all have the obligation to leave this world a better place than the one in which we came into..." Wow. Just wow.

Rise Against's set consisted of a one hour set, then a 4-song acoustic guitar set encore by lead singer/guitarist Tim McIlrath, and wrapping up with another 20-minute encore by the whole band. I don't think I've ever screamed so much at a show, and I found myself singing and shouting the lyrics along with them, at the top of my lungs. So by the time I left, I was pretty well hoarse.

To the band that has for so long rocked my world, you rock even more than I had ever imagined. Keep it up, guys.

And now, for your enjoyment, check out the video below. The song is called "Give it all," from their album Siren Song of the Counter Culture. I've also included the lyrics below. Enjoy.

Break through the undertow
your hands I can't seem to find
pollution burns my tongue
cough words I can't speak
so I stop my struggling
then I float to the surface,
fill my lungs with air
then let it out

I give it all
now there's a reason why I sing
so give it all
and it's these reasons that belong to me

Rock bottoms where we live
and still we dig these trenches,
to bury ourselves in them
backs breaking under tension

For far too long these voices
muffled by distances
it's time to come to our senses
up from the dirt

We give it all
now there's a reason why I sing
o give it all
and it's these reasons that belong to me

Breathe (breathe)
the air we give (give)
the life we live (live)
our pulses racing distances (breathe)
so wet my tongue (give)
break into song (live)
through seas of competition

So please believe your eyes
a sacrifice
is not what we had in our minds
I'm coming home tonight
home tonight

We give it all
now there's a reason why I sing
so give it all
and it's these reasons that belong to me

Today I offer all myself to this
I'm living for my dying wish
I give it all
now there's a reason
there's a reason
to give it all

*UPDATE:

After a show as good as Rise Against's was, it's mandatory to buy a t-shirt. I did. Check it out.

The smell of fresh-baking cookies wafted into the room, alighting her senses for what felt like the first time in ages. Sandy opened her eyes and sat up, looking around at the room that, despite its familiarity, still seemed foreign to her. How much she had changed!

Arising from the sofa, Sandy strode across the living room and into the warm kitchen, where she had placed the cookies into the oven less than twenty minutes before. She wasn't sure why she had decided to bake them, but was dimly aware that it felt like the right thing to do at the time. As the aroma bombarded her senses anew, she was again overwhelmed with a feeling of complete disorientation, and yet it felt right.

For days, weeks, months, years, she had sought out solace from her own troubled mind. At long last, she had found her peace. And yet, the peace she felt inside was not met similarly by those close to her. Rather, a sense of discord developed, unmatched by anything she'd ever dreamed possible.

Sandy closed her eyes briefly before opening them again. She took a deep breath, inhaling deeply through her nose, as though hoping to smell the cookies that much more. The smell of chocolate enveloped her, warming her body and calming her spirits. Swirling thought became linear, blurred vision became clear, and she knew what she had to do.

As she pulled the large oven mitts over her hands and then pulled open the oven door, Sandy contemplated her choices: she could try to fix that which was broken, or else she cold start fresh, anew. Sandy lifted the pan from its rack and placed it on the stove. She let the warm, soft cookies warm her face as she stared down at them.

Sandy picked up a cookie, ignoring the fact that in its warm state, it was falling apart. Cupping one hand below the cookie to catch what fell off, she proceeded to eat the first of her freshly made chocolate chip cookies. "I may not know even where to begin, and even less where things will end," she thought, "but chocolate chip cookies is sure a good place to start." Humming to herself, and feeling better already, Sandy walked back into the living room. It was time to live again.

Ever the king queen of procrastination, am I. Back in June, I expounded at some length about my first every gay pride experience. My second ever gay pride experience happened over two months ago now, and I'm finally getting around to documenting it here.

Pride this year took place on Saturday, June 9. This time around, I felt like a completely different person. It's amazing to think how a little honesty, to oneself and to others, can open up the world to you. I have gone beyond the stages of denial, doubt, and trying to hide. I've passed the stage of merely coming to terms with who I am, and I cannot change. I've come full circle, embraced myself completely, and am very proud to be the man I am today. I was also proud to have a man who I love by my side. To say that Robert has changed my life would be an understatement.

Neither of us had been to Pride in a few years, so we decided to head down to the State Fair grounds to join in. We skipped the parade, opting instead to enjoy a nice breakfast at a favorite local restaurant, and hit the grounds to see all the booths, shows, and people.

For the occasion, we decided early on that we wanted to have matching t-shirts, and thought the old classic "I'm not gay, but my boyfriend is" shirt would be fabulous. After much searching, we found that, really, no one except for a few E-Bay sellers carried them anymore. So we took a different approach, and decided to make our own.

We hit the hobby stores and found a transfer kit for t-shirts. We also found some incredible purple t-shirts. Next, we designed our shirts on the computer. While looking through some pictures I had taken on our recent Phoenix trip, I stumbled upon two pictures, each with one of us standing next to a large tree in a park. We tossed those onto our shirts as well, Robert's with a picture of me, and mine with a picture of him.

Needless to say, our shirts were a big hit that day.

There was all sorts to see, and between running into friends and socializing, we wandered around, looking at all the booths, and even checking out some of the performances. There was a particularly frightful performance involving a drag king lip-synching on stage, a good singer/songwriter playing light guitar-chord-bluesy songs, and more. Oh, and there was even a demonstration from the local gay square dance club. After the group performed, they had ran out into the audience to grab people to jump in and dance with them. And yes, I was among the chosen. This was no elementary school square dance thing either. I actually had to follow the guy who had asked me to dance, and I quickly discovered just how bad I am at dancing. Maybe part of it was because I was laughing too hard to find proper rhythm, I don't know.

There were booths for people of all ages, including young children. We stumbled upon a cool setup of animals, a la a miniature petting zoo. The booth was replete with a macaw, some snakes, some hissing cockroaches, a tarantula, etc.

I got to hold the macaw, too, who was actually quite friendly.

Even Robert held the macaw. When I originally got these photos developed from my classic 35mm camera, the picture of Robert holding the bird didn't turn out well, thanks to the massive amount of sunlight at his back. Luckily, though, the one that came on the CD turned out great.

Finally, when we were relaxing with some friends, we encountered a friend who had a feather boa. And not just any feather boa, either. It was one that required each of us to pose in front of the camera with it.

A four-hour venture at Pride 2007: fun, tiring, and an amazing opportunity to see just how far I've come.

I'm so glad it's Friday. I've been back at work for a week and a half, and it's been insane. Crazy people, wacky machines, crazy people, and all sorts of stuff to keep me busy during the day. Speaking of work and technology, what on earth is up with copy machine technology?

Last week during the "training" meetings, people were going on about which copy machines they could use. Could they use the regular copy machine? Or the Gestetner? Much ado was made about which one everyone could use any old time, and which one required prior training in order to use. Um, yeah.

Ever heard the commercials for these guys? To me, Gestetner is just another company that makes copy machines. But apparently, to the rest of the working world (or at least the school at which I work), the Gestetner is no ordinary copy machine. It is instead treated with reverence and fear, and referred to as "The Gestetner".

As a matter of course, The Gestetner cannot be used by just anyone. Only those who've gone to special all-day workshops for training can use the blasted thing. And we all know how useful copy machine training is:

During meeting and immediately afterward:

"Oh my god! It's so easy now. I know everything there is to know about The Gestetner. Sure, it's far more complicated than any copy machine ever needs to be, but it does so much more! It doesn't matter that I'll never use 90% of those fancy bells and whistles, it's cool!"

Two days later:

"Okay, let's see here. I need to make thirty copies, so I click here. Oh, shit! I just shrunk it 30%! Dammit! Why's this thing have to be so complicated? Had I not gone through that stupid training, I probably could have figured this thing out anyway!"

Basically, what I'm getting at is that, training or no, we all still learn how to use those damned machines by trial and error anyway. Why, then, bother with training at all? We just need to own up to the fact that copy machines suck, and we will all forever be incompetent when we use them.

The workplace porn humor has got to stop. Right now. I mean it.

First. You're not funny. Second. You're not original. Third. Nobody wants to hear you say the word "porn." Fourth. Making directionally accusing glances to a complete stranger, even feigning "humor," is no way to win yourself over. Fifth. Go fuck yourself.

I didn't ask for you to come fix the computer. I didn't ask for my current supervisors to jokingly say that, now that it's fixed, they have to stop looking at porn.* But what I really didn't ask for was for you to say: "Well, if anyone in this office is looking at porn, I think we'll know who it is." And then look over at me. Har, har.

I realize you think you're funny. And probably you think you're really clever. But you're not funny. And I'm not impressed by your quick wit. What is funny, though, is that you were the only one who chuckled at your little joke. It seems the resident "funny man" on campus can't actually make others laugh, after all. And, worse yet, you have to chuckle yourself to at least try to convince others that you were making a funny.

It's not your fault, though, I don't blame you. You just didn't know any better than to not make a total jackass of yourself in front of someone you don't even know. Next time, study up on some of Bob Phillips's work. You might have more success that way.

*Actually, hearing my two supervisors make those comments about porn was pretty funny, mainly because they're the last people from whom you'd expect to hear such things, but also because they're damn funny.

I'm from the desert. So the only racing I ever grew up with was that of the drag variety, which happened all over the city among the local angry teenagers. My knowledge of all things racing lay not in the reality of the Indy 500, or any other such race. But I did have some pretty awesome Lego racecars, which, needless to say, ruled.

Albuquerque, as it turns out, is actually home to a very famous racing family: the Unsers. That's right. The family who, over the course of a few generations, hold nine Indy 500 championship titles, lives right here in my hometown. And they have a racing museum to prove it.

Today, Robert and I went to the museum for the first time. It seems I had a goldmine right in my backyard and I didn't even know it. At first, I didn't have much interest in racing, but as we drove by the museum time and again, my curiosity started to get the better of me.

And so we went out there today, and wow! I was glad we did. I don't know much about cars, and I know--strike that, knew--even less about racing. The museum is shaped like the wheel of a racecar: round, with six walls from the outer edge and moving inward to separate the museum into five parts. It's really pretty cool.

I found myself fascinated by the cars themselves, their respective engines, the tires, and how the races themselves run. I enjoyed watching the videos about the history of the family, and how they became interested in racing and all the different races they did. It was all new to me, and I loved it.

The one downside was that the simulator they have at the museum, in which you sit in a model seat (replete with steering wheel) and watch a video that puts you in the driver's seat of the car in the middle of a race, was broken. We're going back to check that out though, once it gets fixed.

And finally, they had a real car that you could climb into and sit in, so of course we had to take pictures. Considering my knees were right up against the steering wheel, I came to the conclusion that that particular car was not meant for me.

At least, I thought so until I put on sunglasses.

And here's my competition.

Yes, it's true. We're incredible racecar drivers.

This week, I was confronted with a number of fairly crazy events. For the sake of time and lack of actually interesting events I term "crazy", let's define "number" as "two."

First, the land of perpetual drought (Albuquerque!) got pummelled four days in a row by insane amounts of rain. The days would start out stunningly beautiful, with bright blue skies and sunshine, and a few puffy white clouds dotting the skyscape. Come the afternoon, dark clouds would suddenly blow in, and without warning, just opened up and dumped on the city. And not any old average downpour either. Nuh uh. Let's just say that I got stuck in it after work on Tuesday, and when I had to go the twenty feet or so from the building to the car, I was soaked from head to toe after only taking about three steps. See? Crazy.

A part of me thinks this storm was the same storm every day, despite the fact that it blew over each day. Why? Simple. Sunday: Clouds blow in from the north and head south. Monday: Clouds blow in from the south and head north. For you statisticians out there, that's the only sample I have. I spent the next two days avoiding the driving rain as much as possible, so I wasn't able to test my theory again. But if it's any consolation, I'm pretty sure I'm at least partly right on some statistical level.

Second, and finally, the even more crazy event. I went to a rock concert Thursday night. I'm a big fan of music, especially the rock and roll variety. I went to see Scary Kids Scaring Kids, who I'd seen once before and were so amazing I had to go see them again. Remember this music video? That's Scary Kids. And they rocked once again.

My friend and I decided to chill in the bar, where it's easier to sit back and enjoy the show, because, generally, you don't have to worry about getting punched or jumped by anyone in the crowd or mosh pit. Plus, the average age of those in attendance was like 15, so yeah, not exactly my crowd.

Of course, the bar does have its drawbacks. Mainly in the form of crazy drunk people.

Cut to: Phil and friend, standing and chatting between bands.
Enter crazy drunk girl, who comes right up to Phil and leans into him.

Crazy Drunk Girl:Hey! I like your suspenders.
Me:Um, thanks.
CDG: Hey! You should let me wear them! I really like them. They're cool.
Me: No, I think I'll keep them on thanks.
CDG: Oh come on! I want to wear them! I want to go mosh with them.
Me:No.
CDG: You're no fun! It's okay. You don't know me, but I can meet you at the front of the theater when the show's over. Come on! [CDG leans in really close, using all her drunk sexual energy to try to convince Phil to given in.]
Me: No. Now go away.*

There is a happy ending to this: I proved to be a total joykill to the crazy drunk bitch, and she finally left. Without my suspenders. A price I consider fair, especially because I had to put up with her flaunting her sweaty drunk self in my face. And on a side note, I think that answers the question of whether or not a gay guy can turn straight if the girl trying to jump him is drunk enough.

*This conversation has been edited slightly. It went on for quite a bit longer, but because I got so annoyed listening to it, I took the liberty of editing out all the repetition. Trust me, the version you read is far better than the real thing was.

When it comes to pop culture, I'm a pretty easy going guy, and I'm inclined to say I have a pretty good sense of humor about myself. So when I saw a preview for a movie called I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, I didn't think much of it. Except that I didn't think it looked like a very good movie.

Basically, my first impression was that it didn't seem to be terribly well thought out. As in, awkward characters who are byproducts of the past, waltzing around on screen doing things that made people chuckle five years ago.

And so we have Chuck and Larry, a movie that dares to even breathe Hollywood life to actual gay issues. Except the characters aren't gay. And the movie winds up with an all-too-heterosexual feel anyway. Personally, I'm not sure I understand how characters pretending to be gay can give you a sense of what it's really like to be gay. Oh wait, I get it. Pretending to be gay does make you understand, inasmuch as closing your eyes makes you understand what it's like to be blind.

I was talking to my brothers today, and they reported that they'd gone to see this movie ("film", as one of my brothers likes to say). When I said "WHY?" they just looked at me like I was crazy. "It was actually pretty good, Phil."

When they asked why I didn't want to see it, I first said that I thought it just looked like a shitty B movie. They pressed me further, and I mentioned that I also wasn't crazy about the premise of the movie. Not in the sense of my being an intense gay rights advocate, saying that it only reinforces stereotypes and is a setback for the community, because I know enough about fiction (and the world) to know better.

What gets me is that this movie has a gay theme, and yet it's afraid to actually take ownership of being gay. Apparently, it's okay to have gay characters, so long as a) they have some ulterior motive, and b) they're actually straight.

Perhaps if I was at another point in my life than I am at the moment, I would feel differently. I'm at a place right now where, while I'm close to my family, I'm extremely distant. It's difficult to find what's right when the only impression I get is that somehow, I'm the one who's wrong. What I get from this is that the Hollywood movie gets it right, and yours truly is off by a long shot.

Perhaps seeing this movie and talking about it might open the door to communication, but honestly, I feel like it's not me who needs to take this next step. I've already done so, and just have to hope that soon, I'm no longer the only one who has.

Dark. I used to like this word. It had a multitude of meanings, and proved itself very descriptive in a variety of contexts. To prove my point, here's what Merriam-Webster has to say:

Dark
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English derk, from Old English deorc; akin to Old High German tarchannen to hide
1 a: devoid or partially devoid of light: not receiving, reflecting, transmitting, or radiating light (a dark room) b: transmitting only a portion of light (dark glasses)
2 a: wholly or partially black (dark clothing) b of a color: of low or very low lightness c: being less light in color than other substances of the same kind (dark rum)
3 a: arising from or showing evil traits or desires: EVIL (the dark powers that lead to war) b: DISMAL, GLOOMY (had a dark view of the future) c: lacking knowledge or culture: UNENLIGHTENED (a dark view of the future) d: relating to grim or depressing circumstances (dark humor)
4 a: not clear to the understanding b: not know or explored because of remoteness (the darkest reaches of the continent)
5: not fair in complexion: SWARTHY
6: SECRET (kept his plans dark)
7: possessing depth and richness (a dark voice)
8: closed to the public (the theater is dark in the summer)

At no place on this list do I see the following definition:

of, pertaining to, or describing the Harry Potter series of books and movies, referring specifically to the final four novels (and movies).

Using the word dark to describe the Harry Potter saga seems to be the new and cool word to use so that you actually think you sound smart when you're talking about it. For instance, you're at a party and are talking to some new acquaintances:

Acquaintance 1: So, seen any good movies lately?
You: I saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix a couple days ago.
Acquaintance 2: Oh man! I really want to see that. How was it?
You: It was really dark, man. But damn, was it good.
Acq. 1: Oh wow.
You: Yep.

It's not so much that I have a problem with using the word dark to describe Harry Potter. I think it's actually quite suiting. The problem, then, is the frequency with which it is used. Everyone, and I mean everyone, uses this word. And they use it all the time.

Past: Discussing the movie version of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire with my mother:

Me: So Mom, have you seen The Goblet of Fire yet?
Mom: I just went to see it last night with your father!
Me:: That's great! How'd you like it?
Mom:: It was really good. Dark, though.

Present: Discussing the movie version of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix with my mother, last week:

Mom: So Phil, have you gone to see the new Harry Potter yet?
Me: No, I've been waiting for the crowds to die down at the theater.
Mom: Your father and I went to see it with your brother on Friday.
Me: That's cool. was it good?
Mom: It was very good. But also very dark.
Me: ....

I talked to some of my brothers. Dark. I talked to some random acquaintances. Dark. I read some movie reviews. Dark. I read some blog entries. Dark. Dark, dark, dark, dark, dark.

It is for this reason that I no longer accept the use of the word dark within the context of Harry Potter, unless referring to the literal brightness of a scene (as in: Because Peeves the Poltergeist melted all the candles in the Great Hall, the whole of Hogwarts dined in the dark).

Last night was a night of three. After a very nice day of lazing around, reading, procrastinating, running a few errands, and then going to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (which was amazing!), my evening was rounded out by three events.

• On my way out to go get some new furniture at Target, the door to the apartment next door to mine opened. In the doorway stood the two grandchildren of my new neighbor. Running out the door directly toward me was her little brown chihuahua. The dog bound up to me, yipping its little head off, panting heavily. I love dogs, generally, though this one is something of an exception to that love. But I smile amiably and greet the wretched thing, and he gets all excited and starts peeing everywhere (I swear he's part cocker spaniel). Grandson suddenly starts talking, and once the mouth is open, it never stops moving. "Hey, I have blue goggles! Oooh, now you look blue. And hey, so does your mustache!" While grandson is talking, I'm momentarily distracted from giving the damn dog my attention. During grandson's fourth run-through (of seven) of his blue goggle sketch, the dog decided it wanted to mark me as his territory, and lifted his leg in preparation. I promptly stepped backward, said "HEY!", then left promptly.
• A new Ashley Furniture store recently opened, and happens to be just behind the Target I went to. Thinking I might get ideas for furniture, and secretly hoping to find something nice, I decided to stop by. I'd never been. I opened the door, and then heard an automated voice say "Any available staff, please go to the front desk." Fearing I would encounter a salesperson, I promptly wandered into the store, before anyone could try to stop me and sell me anything. I looked around, and noticed that a vast amount of the furniture there is outrageously expensive. And a fair amount of it is pretty damn ugly, too. While wandering, I got turned around, and for a moment thought I was lost, but then I found the front doors shining from the sunlight, and so made my escape.
• After my shopping extravaganza, I headed home for the evening, and decided to have a light dinner. After I finished eating, I got up and washed the dishes before returning to finish drinking the remainder of my delicious IBC Root Beer (of the glass bottle variety). As I went to sit down, I took a slightly awkward step. I tried to regain my balance by flailing my left arm wildly in mid-air. I got my balance, but before I did so, the left hand, connected to my flailing left arm, connected with my bottle of root beer. The root beer went flying through the air before crashing spectacularly in a display of fizz, liquid gushing out of the open bottle right out onto the carpet. The carpet, eager to get some action, gulped the root beer at a furious rate, while I grabbed the bottle off the floor and placed it in the sink. I then attacked the carpet with paper towels, soaking up my lost soda as fast as I could. I got the stuff out, and went over all the spots with water and a scrub for good measure.

I'm all for adventurous times, but this was ridiculous. Here's hoping that today is far less full of excitement, at least in such terms as these.

I am not a parent, and there's a great deal about parenting that I don't pretend to understand. However, I do work with kids, and so I've learned a thing or two, especially about manners. Or, the lack thereof.

Tonight, I took my partner out to a local Cold Stone for a treat. We opted to dine outside, due in large part to the frigid air inside (we were cold), and also to the mass of people inside. We took up residence at a table just outside. A table whose seats were, for the convenience of other people at the shopping strip, directly up against the glass windows. Inside, opposite the glass from our table, was a table.

Sitting at this table was a young toddler and his father. Here's the first problem: This guy took his son with him to Cold Stone, but did not buy his son any ice cream, opting instead to only feed him small bites from his own heaping bowl of ice cream.

And so, without any ice cream of his own to munch on, this child was left to his own devices. Thanks to his father ignoring him in favor of his ice cream, the child decided to seek attention elsewhere. Just as seems to be my luck, "elsewhere" became the window, against which I was sitting sideways, opposite Robert. The child went directly to the window, and stood against it. He smiled, and in response I gave a little wave. That was the second problem: I made the mistake of actually giving the little brat my attention.

Said child then proceeded to press his face against the glass, closing the gap between us to a matter of only a few inches, and making strange faces. Having never been confronted with such a situation, I tried to ignore it. He persisted, so finally I gave a small wave that said "Okay, that's really not that funny, in fact you're making me uncomfortable, go sit down now." He seemed to get it, and went and sat down.

Meanwhile, Dad the Ignoramus continued to stuff his face.

Satisfied, I returned to my own very pleasant ice cream experience. Things went well for about another three minutes, at which point the attention-starved kid decided to run back to the window and be obnoxious. Again, I tried to wave him off. Nothing happened. Again. The kid actually shook his head no. Again. Finally, he goes and sits down.

Next thing I know, the door to Cold Stone opens, and out steps the kid's dad. And then he speaks, in all his ignorant asshole glory:

"Hey Tough Guy."

Suddenly, an ugly mug with putrid breath appears before my eyes. It's a full-grown human asshole, bent in half, his face a foot from my own, with a pissed-off expression that was trying to tell me that I was the one who was a jerk.

"Look Tough Guy, you don't have to act like this, okay? You don't have to be tough, because that's not how things are. So just, just, just leave it alone, okay?"

Miraculously, I managed to keep my mouth shut (which was made easier by the bad breath and the spit that was spewing forth from the mouth of this model father). How nice it would have been to open a can on this guy. It would have been soooo nice to say something like

"Look, you fucking asshole, I may not have kids, but I know a thing or two about manners. First off, way to set an example of decency and civility to your son there. Now he thinks that any problem can be solved by getting in strangers' faces. And, even better, if he acts like a little brat, you'll go yell at the nice people he's bothering, rather than telling him that he's not behaving appropriately in public. So leave me the hell alone. And better yet, go fuck yourself."

After the fact, I pondered what other options I had, to handle this. I suppose I could have gone in and told the bastard that his son was making me uncomfortable, and would he mind making sure his son behave, or at the very least, stop bothering me. But really, I hate even thinking that I should tell someone how to parent. Or, heaven forbid, ask that a child behave when his parent refuses to extend such a courtesy to me.

I have no doubt that, were I actually to have spoken my mind, or made such a request of this "parent", he would have whipped out his NRA membership card in a flash and then wanted to brawl. And for my part, I decided that verbal assault was enough for me for the evening, I need not further hurt the feelings of this lazy, illiterate, WWF-loving scumbag. To this jerk, I say: "You suck at life. Go fuck yourself."

Ahhh, now I feel better.

I'm all for celebrating holidays. I love getting off work, and I love especially the excuse to have barbecues. When it comes to finding what's important in life, I really think barbecues are in the top ten "best in life", at the very least. Honestly. Surround yourself with friends, get plenty of food and drink, and you're good to go.

So when we were invited to a barbecue for the Fourth of July, let's just say I didn't have any second thoughts about accepting said invitation.

The Independence Day celebration is always an interesting experience, to say the least. Two of my favorite aspects are the hot dogs and the fireworks. Generally in that order, because there's nothing like a good barbecued hot dog. Delicious.

I enjoy fireworks too, however, and have been known to use them myself on such an occasion as this. Albuquerque law has for years only allowed fireworks that do not rise over 6-8 feet into the air to be used privately. I've always been cautious about following this law. Mostly because I'm not stupid. I live in the middle of the desert. A very dry desert. One that, under the best of circumstances, can still fuel a hefty fire.

So the Fourth, while fun, is also a fairly terrifying holiday. Yes, people love the excuse to party, and many of them like to become heavily intoxicated before driving home. Additionally, about as many of them feel compelled to buy illegal fireworks (which miraculously find their way into fireworks sales tents that, gasp, are within city limits) and shoot them off. While intoxicated. In their front yard. With nice trees and plenty of houses in the vicinity.

The other problem with the Fourth is that, while it deserves celebration, it often gets celebrated without deference to history. And antics from jerks who think they're cool, playing with illegal fireworks, tend to carry on for multiple days.

And without conclusion, signing off, yours truly,

Phil the Scrooge

I love going to the bookstore. There’s something about walking into a place full of books, leaving the outside world behind, and opening yourself to the countless worlds found within the pages of books. It never fails to astound, and it always makes me feel good.

However, I’ve noticed some startling, and quite saddening, trends. Particularly in the form of what hits the shelves in the form of new releases.

• Would someone please tell would-be and former politicians to stop publishing books? It’s not that I’m not interested in what you have to say, but do you really expect me to believe you wrote that cookie-cutter crap? I’m willing to bet that there’s some computer program that takes popular political stances, as well as personal “anecdotes”, and randomizes them into the form of an “autobiography”.
• Writing may be a fun past-time for certain former lawyers, but the suspense/thriller is seriously overdone. Maybe instead of playing with fear and work for that page-turner, challenge your readers’ minds, or perhaps some other emotions. To John Grisham: no more lawyer/court stories. To David Baldacci: let’s see, times are great, but wait, someone wants to take over the world, but ooh, someone catches onto them, and uh oh, someone dies and a good guy nearly catches on but then is wrong, only to realize the truth and thwart the evil plot once and for all. I think that nails the plot (or lack thereof) in most of your books.
• I no longer trust anything that says New York Times Bestseller, as it seems every book I come across falls under that category. And honestly, with such authors as James Patterson and Nicholas Sparks constantly on there, I have every reason to avoid such books, unless they come with a recommendation from someone, or merit a read on account of sounding at least vaguely original. James: yours are some of the only characters for whom I hate even the protagonist(s), and the choppy chapters only serve to cause your reader to wonder “why are all the chapters only five paragraphs long?” instead of getting lost in the story. Nicholas: just step out of the closet and admit to the world that you’re a romance novelist. It’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with fiction, and I’m sure the field is quite open to men writing such books. And both of you, no more novelizing letters or diaries. Ever.

For my "summer" job this year, I've been working summer school at the public schools. While my official responsibilities include basic classroom support, I've also unofficially become the "Resident Mac Expert". While during the year, only those I worked with on a regular basis were aware of my knowledge of Macintosh computers, this knowledge has spread like wildfire at summer school.

So, periodically, a random teacher or staff person, some of whom I don't even know, will come into the classroom and request me to help them out. Such an event happened today: a teacher walked in and asked if I could help her figure out how to run some program and then burn a DVD. Let me point out here that I've never used said program, nor had I ever burned DVDs.

Still, I told her I'd give it a shot, and as luck would have it, I managed to figure it out without much trouble. Honestly, all it took was a little searching in the right places, and voila! success. I helped the teacher accomplish what she wanted, and in the process I got to play on her computer and figure out how to do things so that by the time I want to do them myself, I'll have already figured out how to do it, and will be better off. Tee hee.

While working away on the DVD stuff today, one of the teachers sighed and said, "Thank god for Phil." This was then adapted into TGIPh (with the "Ph" still pronounced "f"). It's hardly deserved, but what the heck, I'll be a good queen and accept the adoration.

June 20, 2004 (I'm pretty sure that was the date)

Though I waited a number of years before coming out to become the openly gay man I am today, I never tried to maintain an image as a straight man. Rather than try to "cover up" by dating girls, or talking about them and commenting on every attractive girl I possibly could, I simply avoided the subject. The result was that either people assumed I was straight (which was I guess what I was aiming for), or else maybe gay, but unable to draw a real conclusion.

In my entire life, I've only said the phrase "I'm straight" one time. One. And I said it at none other than the first Gay Pride event I ever attended. Go figure.

Summer 2004. After more than a full year in school nonstop, I decided to escape for the summer. I left the grand state of New Mexico and headed out to Minnesota to try my hand as a camp counselor. But before I left, a Deaf gay friend of mine was chatting with me, and mentioned that there would be a Deaf juggler performing at Gay Pride. Being a juggler (don't ask: I'm working on a blog about that as we speak), I was thrilled to hear that she would be performing, and so, the day before I was to fly out to Minnesota, I headed out for Gay Pride.

Let me point out here that, at this point, I'm well aware of my attractions, but have not yet come out to myself as gay. So on that sunny Saturday, I jumped in the car and drove out to the state fair grounds, for my first ever Gay Pride event.

Upon arrival, I'm shocked to see the masses of people, and how much fun everyone seems to be having. Rather than wander around and take everything in, however, I head directly over to where my friend is, and where I have the safety net of friends and acquaintances in the Deaf community. Once there, I never stray from the group.

I find my friend, but learn that the juggler had to cancel, as her flight was delayed and cancelled. Disappointed, but still determined to be social, I stay and enjoy everyone's company. I meet a number of new people, all of whom are nice and quite fun to chat with. After a while, I end up chatting with a Deaf man who had traveled from Colorado with a group of friends and happened to be in the area. Suddenly, the friendly chatter becomes flirtatious, and I realize that the man, apparently quite taken by me, is coming on to me. Unsure of how to handle this situation, I say the first thing that comes to mind:

"Um, I'm straight."

Strategically speaking, this was extremely effective. Only it served to cease communication altogether with the man, and to later confuse yours truly all the more, later on.

Looking back now, I see this day as a sort of catalyst: a cause for introspection. It was there that I first saw, with my own eyes, the power of love. I saw just what it could mean to truly accept oneself, and to celebrate the life we're given. It took a great deal more time, and far too much sadness, before I was able to realize this for myself. But I have changed, at long last, and each and every day, I am profoundly thankful.

I live in a city with mountains. I love to hike mountain trails. I love staring at the mountains. I love being on top of the mountain and staring at everything around it. And while yes, I've hiked the mountains on numerous occasions, I've never had a chance to go mountain climbing. Or, more specifically, rock climbing.

I don't know. Something about putting myself on those cliffs voluntarily, with no real cushion should I happen to fall. Whatever the reason, I've never dared to even entertain the idea of climbing the side of a real mountain. And I plan to keep it that way.

However, I did have the opportunity to go to the rock climbing gym tonight. I'd never been to one, so I jumped at the chance to give it a try. After all, climbing to heights two and three stories up has always sounded like great fun, so of course I had to go for it. Here's how the experience went:

• I pay for the time and rentals of shoes and harness. I gear up, and, once all set, am told that one of my leg harnesses is on backwards. I remove all gear and fix the leg harness.
• I get trained on how to belay, which is the act of holding the harness rope for the other person climbing. This is rather important, because if you fall from a great height, it's nice to have someone there to make sure you don't accidentally die.
• I strap the harness to my belt and get climbing (this is climbing attempt #1). Much adrenaline flows through my body. Before long I'm halfway up the wall. Like an idiot, I look down. I look up again, and decide to keep going. I keep going. My hands start hurting, but still I keep going. I almost make it to the top, missing it by only a foot or two. I holler that I'm ready to come down. I realize that no one explained to me how to make the trip down. I hear "let go of the rocks and fall backward!" and decide everyone down on the ground is crazy. I finally do as they suggest, and discover, to my delight, that the descent is a fantastic time.
• I wait a few minutes, then decide to climb again (climbing attempt #2). This time, I'm no idiot. I don't look down. I climb to the top, am very shaky by the time I get there, and then yell "down!", ready to get this land mammal's legs back on solid ground. I decide I'm done for a while, and perhaps rock climbing is not for me after all.
• I wait around for a while, happily belaying for others and watching them climb. I realize quickly that I paid a good dollar for this experience, so I might as well make the most of it. I decide to take the plunge and climb some more. Thus ensues a great many attempts to climb, some very successful, others slightly less so (read: quite freaky, and extremely unsuccessful).

After I had done it a few times, I really started to get the hang of it, and actually started enjoying it. Suddenly, the idea of climbing high became less daunting, and more adventurous. I still preferred the trip down, which involves letting go of the rocks and then repelling back to the ground. But nonetheless, I actually liked the task of climbing up, if only for the sake of getting to enjoy the trip down.

Perhaps, in the near future, I just might go back for more. Heck, I don't regularly frequent the other variety of gym, and for my money, this version is far more fun, not to mention a full-body workout. I'll be surprised tomorrow if I'm able to walk, and also if I'm able even to eat a bowl of cereal for breakfast. I'm already massively sore.

On the plus side, while my hands got tired, and quite callused, the rock gym knows how to treat their patrons. On a water break, I went to wash my hands, which were dry and hurting, and in the bathroom was a full bottle of hand lotion, specifically for dry hands. Yay for pampering!

My good friend Sr. Jefe made an excellent point yesterday: he said it's time I stop "relaxing" and post a new blog entry. Indeed, I agree that it is time. Given that I have so much stuff to blog, I need to get on the ball. And so here I am, writing this entry. Where to begin, though? A number of you requested the story of how I met Robert, but for the moment, I'm saving that one for another day. Rather, I wanted to post an entry relating to our recent trip to Phoenix.

While visiting Phoenix, we noticed a billboard for the Phoenix Science Museum stating that Body Worlds was on exhibit there. If you haven't heard of Body Worlds, here's the scoop: it's a traveling science exhibit that has actual human bodies on display. People donated their bodies for use in the exhibit, and a German doctor named Gunther von Hagens preserved their bodies using a technique he calls plastination. Basically, the bodies are preserved in a natural-appearing state, can be posed in an infinite number of ways, all without the smell of more traditional preservation methods (e.g. formaldehyde). To use Gunther von Hagens's own quote: "Plastination unveils the beauty beneath the skin, frozen in time between death and decay."

Robert first saw this exhibit in Denver last year, told me about it, and a month later, I saw it when I was in St. Paul. We both loved it so much that we decided to check it out again, and this time, I had a camera handy. The beauty of the exhibit is that, even if you have seen it once, it's so much to take in that it's really more amazing the second time you see it. And if I chance upon it again in the near future, you can bet that I'll be going to see it.

From time to time, I tell people about this amazing exhibit, and repeatedly get told that that's just too gross to see. I feel I have to report that, as a person with a notoriously weak stomach (less so now than when I was five), it's not bad at all. I find the exhibit amazing, and am exhilarated by the splendor that I see. For it is indeed amazing. I've taken anatomy class in college, and nothing I learned in the classroom comes even close to what you can learn by seeing the real thing. Seriously, if you have the opportunity to see this exhibit, you should. It's the opportunity of a lifetime.

And now for a little pictorial tour. We first begin with the building housing the science museum. It may look small in the picture, but the building is huge, as is that poster.

Next up, the sign directing us to Body Worlds. After having seen the exhibit once before (I saw Body Worlds 2, I think, so the bodies I saw were a different group than the ones I saw in Phoenix).

Walking down the line toward the entrance, I decided to snap this picture. It gets more exciting by the second!

Robert and me, taking Body Worlds by storm. My eyes are practically closed because it's so *bleep*ing bright outside.

And now, because you can't take pictures in the exhibit itself, here's some pictures I grabbed off the website, to give you an idea of how cool Body Worlds is.

This is the soccer player guy. We saw him in Phoenix.

This guy's a dancer. I saw him at the St. Paul exhibit.

Finally, I give you a picture of me, yours truly, showing just how much I heart Body Worlds. Spectacular!

And that concludes your tour of Body Worlds. Now, get it out there and go see the Body Worlds exhibit near you. (Brought to you by Phil, a not for profit entity, who plans on making no money from this blog entry.)

It's amazing how difficult it is to blog when one doesn't have internet at home. I now have a great number of things in the queue, waiting to be posted, and currently am lacking a truly efficient means to be posted.

Last Monday (one week okay today), I turned in my cable modem and said hasta la vista to my home internet. I can't say that I'm completely dependent on the internet, as I've been doing just fine at home without it. But when one of your hobbies involves the use of said internet, it is kind of a drag. But times are tight, and I do have a budget to follow. So I'll roll with it for now, and hopefully can work something out fairly soon.

Of course, given that I have a laptop, it's fairly easy to head over to the neighborhood coffee shop, since I'm there all the time anyway, and make use of their wireless. I always enjoy doing that, though with my schedule these days, I generally have almost nil time to actually spend there.

But there is a happy ending to look forward to: my semester ends this Wednesday evening, so once that day has passed, I'll have more time open to be able to write. Photo blogs, here I came.

Let your love for life be an ocean
Let it totally immerse your soul
Let whatever it is that fuels this heart
Be filled with
Beauty, compassion, and understanding

The above words are not my own. Despite having said them over and over to myself countless times, they still leave me dumbfounded. In their simplicity I find truth. In their truthfulness, I find wonder. And in their wonder, I find inspiration. I find words to live by.

Where I came upon these words is further cause for amazement. I read them not in a book on philosophy, nor in anything academic. Rather, I happened upon them while on a walk. Traversing a bike path that runs near campus, I looked up one day and noticed some graffiti. As I approached, I noticed that, in addition to some graffiti drawings, there were words.

Once close enough, I stopped and read those words. They are the words you read above. Every day I could, I found myself walking the path so that I might again read these words. Each time I did, I found new meaning. No matter what, I could always count on these words to lift my spirits.

Recently, the university finally covered up the graffiti, so this message of beauty and love was taken from those of who stopped to see it. The words live on in my head, though, and continue to astound me as I continue on this path called life. And fortunately, I was able to snap a picture of it, so that I could look at it whenever I wanted to.

Speaking of beauty, I thought I would also take the opportunity to share with you some pictures of my home town. The pictures you see below are were taken in October. All the views appear to be aerial. This is partially true. They were taken about a mile above the city, from Sandia Peak, the highest point in the area.

Here's a view of Albuquerque from the highest point on the peak:

Here's a view of some wispy clouds covering part of the mountains:

Here's a view of the Sandias from the tramway car:

And here's another similar view:

Still another:

And here's a view that shows the steepness of the mountainside:

And speaking of love (refer to beginning of this blog, or thereabouts), it has found me. I often wondered what it would be like, and how I would know that it was upon me. I marvel now at how it did come to be. It was the last thing I expected, especially when it happened. But happen it did, and as those aforementioned words did say, love has totally immersed my soul. The picture you see below is of me and my partner, Robert. We're standing at Sandia Crest, the highest point of the mountain range in Albuquerque. Behind us, you can see the city spread out below.

This concludes your pictorial tour. Please exit to the right. Follow the hall into Next Week, and on your left, you'll find more photo blog tours awaiting you. I hope you enjoyed this one.

It's official: I'm gay. Not that there was any doubt in my mind before (or anyone else's, for that matter), but when you do what I did yesterday, there's no denying it.

Spring is in the air (at least as long as it's not snowing, like last week), and along with this delightful time of year, there's a nasty little thing in the air called "pollen." The way I handle pollen is to sneeze a lot in its presence. Two words: allergies suck.

Several years ago, it dawned on me that my hair is a magnet for pollen, hence why I was forever sneezing indoors, and could hardly sleep. But really, that's not what I'm getting at. It had come to my attention earlier this week that my hair was becoming quite poofy. As in, there was lots of it. So yesterday, on a whim, I decided I would go forth and get a haircut.

Here's where it gets interesting. I grew up going to a "classic" barber, if you will. As in, the man went to barber college and specialized in cutting hair. He's not a hair dresser or stylist. I've always been more than content with this, as it's all I've ever known.

Yesterday, however, that all changed drastically. Because I was running on a time crunch, I didn't have time to go all the way to my usual barber shop. So I head to one nearby (at the time), only to learn that they only accept cash, and they charge more money for a haircut than I had on me.

I exit the barber shop, thinking I'll head to the bank and then go right back. I then spy another barber shop that looks promising. Picturing in my head the previous place, I realize that I'd just as soon not have them cut my hair. Let's just say that it wasn't the cleanest-looking place around, and I'd just as soon not take a chance when it comes to personal hygiene.

Okay. So I spy the other place, and decide to give it a try. I walk in and say hi to the owner. I inquire about if they do regular haircuts (yes) and how much it costs ($18). Pretty steep, especially for me, but I need it cut badly and am short on time. The fee includes shampoo, conditioning, and actual haircut. So I figure what the heck, I've never done this before, I've had a really hectic week, so why not treat myself to something new?

Before I know it, am quickly ushered to a chair so that I can have my hair washed and conditioned before the man actually cut it. The sensation of sitting in the backward-tilted chair and having my hair washed for me was, to say the least, bizarre. But kinda nice at the same time.

While my hair is being doctored, the man comments on my appearance, making sure to point out that my goatee isn't perfectly symmetrical. "Oh my god! Did you trim your goatee? It looks lopsided!" Okay, point taken. "I mean, it looks all crooked!"

Next thing I know, I'm ordered to go sit in the chair across from the basin. I go and sit down, and then the clipping and trimming commences. While my hair gets trimmed and snipped, I make pleasant conversation with El Hair Stylist, who comments that since the weather is so nice, all the girls on campus must be in skimpy shorts, how awesome. Flamboyance is not always as it seems, and apparently vice versa.

After all is said and done, and I look positively smashing according to the guy who cut my hair ("how is it I can be this good?!!"), I pay up and go on my merry way. And for the rest of the day, I get more comments than ever before on my new haircut. So there you have it. The expensive haircut ended up being a good experience (yes, I enjoyed myself), and it turned out good. In the immortal words of Margaret Cho, I say unto myself: "You are so gay!"

Well, this one snuck up on me both faster than I had thought it would, and slower. Why faster? Because I never thought I'd be a blogger. Why slower? Because taxes are almost due, and I've only managed to eek out one blog entry this month. Until today, that is.

Today marks my 200th blog entry. In the past, I've done self-proclaimed "special" blog entries to mark various special milestones (such as this and that). As it turns out, they were just normal blog entries, but with an extended title. And once again, I am following suit with this 200th entry: normal blog, longer title.

And yet, before writing this, I racked my brain trying to come up with a suitable topic for this most trivial (and yet quintessential) of blog entries. I wanted something different. Something new. Something I'd never thought to do before. Periodically, an idea would pop into my head, only to be shot down quickly for being horrible. After reading a few emails that were recently sent to me, I found my topic to write about. I now end my three-paragraph introduction, and will commence my 200th entry, below this incredible line break.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Phil, and I'm a blogger. But what is a blogger, really? I can't answer that question, but I can tell you how it relates to me. My blog is a slice of my life. On it, I get to write anything that happens to float around in my head, congeal into some form of conscious thought, and get typed onto my computer. I have no rules regarding subject matter or specific grammar, except that it has to make sense to me when I read it. I have a tendency to get distracted and go on tangents, and that's okay because there's no rule that says I can't do that. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I'm a blogger.

I was thinking recently about the fact that I blog, and how that all came to be. I realize that kids these days dream of growing up and becoming bloggers. I wouldn't be the least big surprised if some third grader did a report in front of his class saying that he wanted to grow up to become a blogger. I had no such dreams. I'm a self-made blogger. In my youth, there was no such thing as a blog. In fact, the internet hadn't even been invented yet!

When I first started blogging, I had no idea what to do with a blog. For that matter, I didn't even much care for writing. All I knew was that I had all sorts of thoughts flying around my skull, and I needed some way to set them free. I tried writing a journal, but that just felt like a second head, and that was the last thing I needed. Eventually, I discovered Yahoo!360 and started this blog. It seemed a good spot to express myself, and so I set about writing. I had no illusions that anyone would actually read it, much less actually like it.

Little by little, I began to find my voice. I discovered a side of myself I had never before known: I like to write. At the same time, I learned a great deal more about myself, including (but not limited to) a sense of humor, a sense of adventure, keen observational skills I never knew I possessed (i.e. I paid a lot of attention to a lot of stuff I wasn't even aware I was paying attention to), etc.

Strangest of all, though, I discovered that people were actually reading what I wrote. I have been fortunate for having had the opportunity to get to know many of these people (all of whom are incredibly talented writers whose work I love to read), and to call them my friends. Getting to know each of them has been nothing short of amazing.

There are also a number of people who read my blog, but choose not to show their faces or comment. Occasionally, though, I'll get a message from one of them, or a comment periodically. I recently received a few such notes, and was completely stunned by them. The notes offered thanks for my writing, as my words meant something to them. Whether it was to brighten someone's day, to provoke new thoughts or ideas, to inspire, or to ring a chord of sadness, I realized that my words have made a difference. In one way or another, I have touched lives without ever having intended to do so. To learn this is one of the greatest gifts a writer can ever receive.

It serves as a reminder that no matter what it is we do, no matter how small we deem ourselves to be, we can make a difference. To all my friends and readers of this blog, I want to say thank you. You've made all the difference for me.

Life has a funny way of making us lose sight of certain little things. Though I heartily believe in living each day to the fullest and enjoying every moment as much as possible, there are times I find that I must take pause. I find that I need to look back, to reflect. Though a part of this action can be deemed a critical one, it's essential in terms of growth. One can never grow if one never learns from the past.

In reflecting upon recent events, I realized that I owe a debt of gratitude to two of my closest companions. They were with me everywhere I went, and saw sides of me no one else ever has. For every mile I walked, for every curve in the road I approached, for every wall that seemed to block my way, they never wavered from my side.

They saw a man lost, as yet undiscovered even to himself. They saw a man in desperation, pleading for an escape from that which offered none. They saw a man defeated, resigned to never finding that which was sought. They saw a man overcome weakness and gather courage. They saw a man reject inward feelings of hate, and instead discover a sense of acceptance. They saw the life breathe into me as joy sparked its way back to life within me.

They saw the outpourings of a heart in the forms of words onto pages. They saw a never-ending stream of consciousness. They saw the development of a writer, taking time to find his voice. They saw in me a new sense of humor, a growing lightness of spirit and heart. They saw me grow into the person I have become. They saw me reeling, overjoyed by every road traveled.

It is thanks to them that I have arrived where I am today. I could not have done it without them. With these two, I share some amazing memories, and I will never forget them. A lot can happen in two years, one of which is that time serves to break things down.

And so it is that I bid farewell to my faithful and trusty New Balance 766 shoes. The things we did and the stories we have to tell are forever. What I once thought was a mere pair of shoes turned out to be so much more. Shoes are as much a part of our lives as anything. If you listen closely, you might just be able to hear the stories they have to tell.

With each passing day, I become more aware of just how crazy my life has become. Between work, school, and what little semblance of a social life I can muster, I am only too thrilled to be granted relief, even if it is brief. Though I have this week off from work, classes are still in session at the university.

But that's not stopping me from escaping. Today, I'm hitting the road and heading to Phoenix for the weekend. It's off to the land of giant Saguaro Cactus for this guy. I'm thrilled to be getting away, for the chance to see different sights, different people, different things, a change from the daily grind.

In the meantime, because I will be blog-absent, I leave you the following video to keep yourself amused. It is a music video, by a group called Scary Kids Scaring Kids. I saw them about a month ago in concert, and they're pretty freakin' awesome. When I saw this video, which is for their song "My Darkest Hour," I was completely blown away. It is the funniest music video I have ever seen. Seriously, it's the best music video. Ever. I hope you like it, and I'll see you on the flip side!