The Forkes Report - Life

Dreaming of the 934

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 00:01:00 -0700

Just woke up from the strangest dream. I had taken a bus somewhere, the original destination already forgotten, realized I had gone too far on the wrong line, got off — and the bus driver was letting the bus drive itself at that moment and got peeved because he was forced to go to the front of the bus — and then decided to walk back to where I needed to be.

And got lost.

When it became so absurd reality could no longer be dismissed, I decided to ask for directions, except that all the people living in the neighborhood were Hispanic, very few of who spoke understandable English. Dammit! I wish I had learned Spanish!
 You have to wonder about a person who has to be forced to accept reality in his dreams.

After being led through a succession of dark buildings and darker rooms, I was taken to a patio sparsely lit by the waning sunlight. It was an overcast day and the waves were choppy on San Diego Bay. The bay was somehow recognizable, but still I couldn’t put my finger exactly on my location.

Trains came through and the other men, there were few women, would play chicken with the trains and then look at me as if I should join in the fun. I stood in the back and watched.

The leader, and toughest guy in the room, was a cop, and he was very much a macho type, knew he was the alpha dog in the room and treated the situation accordingly. He didn’t pay any attention to me; his eyes were focused on the most attractive of the three (?) women and those two began their little dance of seduction. As seductions go, it didn’t last long and her clothing was off in a hurry. And then they disappeared to be alone.

It was then I began insisting they tell me where I could catch a bus and they kept pointing me to an isolated alley. Too paranoid for that, I tried calling a friend with my cell phone, but couldn’t get any reception.

Beyond the railroad tracks there was a busy street, so I decided to walk to it and see if there was a bus line. Once there, I could see it was Palm Avenue in Imperial Beach. There had to be a bus line, the 933/944, which would take me to the Palm Avenue Trolley Stop!
 I just looked it up!

And yet, I got on a weird contraption of a thing that only allowed passengers to stand as it rolled down this micro-size railroad, heading east. While this was happening I couldn’t believe I had taken that mode of transportation and not waited for a bus.

And then I woke up. It was 2:15 in the afternoon and I realized my window for going out had closed substantially. Going out, relying just on a bicycle and the public transit has limitations you might not even consider, one of which is, do you want to get back before it gets dark? Me, I hate pedaling home in the dark so getting home before the streetlights come on is important and at 2:30 p.m., I’ve got, at best, 2.5 hours to do my thing and get home.

Not to mention, it takes a good thirty minutes before I am cognizant enough to actually do anything. Generally, after just waking, I’m groggy, losing my balance and bumping into things. If it didn’t occasionally hurt, this would be funny. I’ll sit at my computer and stare at Spencer Scott’s nude form — or maybe Colleen Marie’s — waiting for full and complete consciousness.

To leave the house by 7 a.m. to make it to work by 9 a.m., I need to be “awake” no later than 5:30 a.m. It takes that long for me to gain complete consciousness, and then get showered, make my breakfast and lunch and then get out the door.

This week, thankfully, I don’t have to be at work until noon. Work is slow. So, I’ll be plenty awake before heading out the door. I’ll even have breakfast at home first.

The topic though isn’t waking up or looking at nekkid Playmates — although that’s always a great topic for me — or even dreams, although this was a pretty weird dream. No, the basis of the dream, an activity I have been involved in for well over a year now, is taking the bus — public/mass transit.

Right now, the cost of gasoline is well under $2.00 a gallon everywhere, including here in San Diego so most Americans aren’t even thinking about giving up their private motor vehicles for public transit. A few weeks ago while waiting for the #20 going to work, I had a conversation with a guy who was taking the bus downtown for jury duty.
 Told him he should have taken one of the real express buses since the #20 ends 15 blocks from the courthouse. He walked back to the Park-n-Ride, got in his super-size SUV, a Toyota Land Cruiser, and drove Downtown.

So, this man wasn’t taking the bus to save money on gas, he was doing so to avoid the high cost of parking your car for the day down by the courthouse. He was okay driving that gas-guzzling SUV everywhere since the price of gas was so low. It’s no stretch to believe most Americans feel the same way about driving their own vehicles as opposed to taking public transit.

But the thought for me is, wouldn’t this be the best time then to start pushing for more public transit and make it even cheaper? Like most other cities in America, san Diego is sucking wind financially and the infrastructure is falling apart, but one way to spur the economy is to do public works, like extending the San Diego trolley, adding more bus lines and have current lines — like the infamous #20 — run more frequently.

And then encourage citizens to use public transit.

Barack Obama and his various opponents in the presidential race talked, at least a little, about the energy crisis and even less about global warming. The talk was about reducing fuel consumption in vehicles and changing the type of fuel. What was disappointing was that none of them said anything about public transit, not locally and certainly not a national transit system.

They put all their eggs in the free market basket, ignoring the successful models of national and local public transit systems we can find in a variety of European and Asian nations. The closest we have to a national public transit system is Amtrak. Here in Southern California Amtrak runs the Surfliner between San Diego and Los Angeles. Other areas with close metropolitan centers have similar local Amtrak lines.

But that’s it. Americans are wedded to owning and using their own motor vehicles and to really make a difference, both in weaning ourselves from carbon fuels and making a dent in cleaning up our planet, public transit, both locally and nationally, has to be a major part of the puzzle.

Currently, I live about a mile from the nearest bus stop, a mile and a quarter if I’m coming home from the south. No one in a metropolitan area like San Diego should live more than a few blocks from either a bus or light rail stop. Also, I spend a large amount of time waiting for one particular connection. Without that wait, a trip home from work that takes at least 90 minutes would be shorter by 30 minutes.

If we make it accessible and feasible, the public would use it, once they realize just how much money they could save by leaving the car at home and taking the bus or trolley. Yeah, we might pay for it in taxes, but the overall savings would be undeniable.

Might even change our dreams. Did mine. That was the first dream I can remember that revolved around taking the bus. Maybe I lead a boring life.

It's a Mystery

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 00:01:00 -0700

The great mysteries of life:

What is our purpose on Earth, why am I here? What comes after life? And when we get a glimpse at our own mortality, when and how will I die?

Most people hate talking about these topics and if you bring them up, there’s a good chance the person on the other end of the conversation will automatically assume you are either a fatalist, prone to depression and a glass-half-empty attitude, or you’re suicidal. Americans, by and large, do not like discussing any topics that involve any introspection on their own mortality.

That’s another great mystery: why are Americans so afraid of death we don’t even want to talk about it? For many, “Death” is a depressing subject. Rather, let’s talk about your job, better yet my job, or better yet, the new season of American Idol!
 Well, one of my favorite topics is Hooters Girls! My friend John and I had lunch at the Rancho Bernardo Hooters! There’s nothing like a Hooters Girl to fuel your unrealistic expectations!
 Then of course there is always the NFL Playoffs. My skeptical — not cynical — view of Saturday’s game between the Indianapolis Colts and the San Diego Chargers in Qualcomm Stadium was that the Colts were on a tear, Peyton Manning had woken up and was beginning to start a pro-bowl worthy season.
 Much to my surprise, the Chargers were up to the task and they won in dramatic fashion just over six minutes into overtime. Hero of the game: Darren Sproles, the 5’6” running back filling in for the injured LaDanian Tomlinson.

Back to the topic: The question of why Americans are so afraid of mortality is a mystery. Not all Americans of course, and many who avoid the topic at all costs will tell you they aren’t afraid of either death or talking about death. They just like to “keep positive!” They don’t want to “dwell on the negative.” Often enough, these are people who have at least a modicum of religious faith, most likely of the Judeo-Christian variety. And that’s okay.
 Brings up another trait I’m trying to change in myself: be a more tolerant person when it comes to religion. If most people are afraid of death, I’m afraid of religion. Even though I believe the world would be better off without it, I need to accept that people have a right to believe in religion if they choose. Just had to edit the last statement from “cling” to religion.

We all die. The only questions are when and how? And isn’t that what we really obsess about when it comes to death? How long will I live? How will I die? Some of us get a clue as to the how and when and that’s not really pleasant. On the other hand, it does a great job of reordering our priorities if they’ve been out of balance.

Some people are blissfully ignorant — like the skiiers and snowboarders who were killed in avalanches in Canada and Wyoming (I think). Bet none of them even thought about dying in the mornings of the days when they were killed. But, you have to wonder if they thought about it when they crossed into areas that were off-limits due to the threat of avalanches, as some did despite the posted warnings. Personally, I have no sympathy for someone who defies the warnings to do something like snowboarding or skiing in an area posted as “off limits.” Too bad for you. The survivors of those parties ought to be charged with a crime — being fatally stupid.
 Okay, who am I to talk. I once went scuba diving on LSD.

It isn't just death we are afraid of, we can worry ourselves to death if we dwell on the when, where and how. That’s the true rub right there. The purpose of life is to live each day, each moment to the fullest and enjoy the moment we have at hand — ironic considering I’m writing this in my tiny cubicle at work. “Enjoy being at work? My god! That’s ... that’s ... unthinkable!”
 The next question then becomes, am I willing to walk the talk?

In the October 22, 2008 post I quoted a Buddhist axiom: “Learn to die and thou shall learn how to live. There shall none learn how to live that has not learnt to die.” In the Buddhist philosophy, from my uneducated interpretation, we start from the premise that life is suffering and death is inevitable. We should not fear either death or suffering. Accept death as a part of life and then don’t sit and wait for death, go and live life. And if we do that, we can then replace the suffering with happiness and contentment.

This is what I’m pondering today, my birthday. Not death, but life. Death is but a part in this play. I think about volunteering to leave work early and enjoy life a little more. Why can’t I just enjoy sitting here in this tiny cubicle? Whatever I choose — or maybe someone higher up in the food chain will choose for me — I’ll do it without regret or a longing to do something else or to be somewhere else. I am here and I am content with that.

A New Leaf

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 00:01:00 -0700

Happy New Year!

One of the things we can always count on for New Years Day is that there will be wall-to-wall college football on TV; five major games Thursday; The Outback Bowl, formerly know as the, held in Tampa, FL, the Tangerine-Citrus-Capital One Bowl held in Orlando, the Gator Bowl, held in Jacksonville, FL, the Granddaddy of bowl games, the Rose Bowl, held in Pasadena, CA and the last game of the day, the Orange Bowl, held in Miami, FL.

Significantly absent from the lineup: the Cotton Bowl, which had been held on the first day of the year for so many decades. Now, it gets played on January 2. Not to mention, this year’s game, between Texas Tech and Tennessee, will be the last Cotton Bowl Classic played in the Cotton Bowl. As of 2010, the Cotton Bowl will be played in the Dallas Cowboys’ new stadium. As far as I know, it doesn’t have a name yet, the new stadium, but I’m betting it has a corporate sponsor real quick and then it will have a name.
 Here’s what I would suggest: Church & Dwight Co, Inc, the makers of Trojans prophylactics, become that corporate sponsor. Can you see it? “The Cotton Bowl, in the New Trojan Supra Lubricated Stadium!”
 They can have promos like “The Smooth Protection Offensive Play of the Game,” featuring the best blocking, or, instead of the Player of the Game, the “Always Prepared Player of the Game!”
 Let the Free Market do its thing!

The Cotton Bowl, which was first built in 1932 and recently renovated in 2005-06, won’t be torn down since two of the Dallas area’s college football teams have signed contracts to play there through 2015.

Heritage, tradition, history — it all falls away when the topic turns to money. It’s all about the money. That’s why we have the “Outback” Bowl and the Capital One Bowl.

PSU sucked. USC … eh … actually, they were really good. Now I’m watching Virginia Tech and Cincinnati in the Orange Bowl. Got no dog in this fight so I’m just hoping it’s a good game.

That was my New Years Day.

New Year’s Resolution: to start having a positive attitude and be skeptical, not cynical. It’s tough though, cynical can be so entertaining!

So, I’m reading on the Internets a story about why risk-takers take risks. According to studies done at Vanderbilt University and Albert Einstein School of Medicine, it’s the neurotransmitter dopamine. Risk takers have fewer of the dopamine inhibitors that control the chemical and therefore risk takers’ brains are saturated with dopamine making them want to continue taking risks to satisfy that need.

They drive fast, go skydiving, pick fights with guys twice their size … and drink too much and take drugs. Sometimes, they drink too much, take drugs and go skydiving all at the same time!

When a “normal” person jumps out of airplane, dopamine is released and we get the rush of excitement, but the inhibitors block some of it so you don’t get as big a thrill and of course, you still come close to shitting your pants with fear.

The people with fewer dopamine inhibitors get a bigger dose of the chemical. Dopamine isn’t just for exciting activity. It’s the chemical that tells your brain you feel good or are having a good time, so, when you dive into the 22 ounce Melbourne steak at Outback, dopamine is released telling your brain you feel so good. Dopamine makes you feel warm and fuzzy all over.

So, you couple that with the thrill of skydiving or free-diving without a cage amongst great white sharks, and it’s easy to understand why people keep taking risks well into the golden years.
 I remember years ago when someone my age was considered to be approaching his or her “Golden Years.” My, how times have changed.

There isn’t much dopamine in my brain. When I go snorkeling in La Jolla Cove, for instance, I never venture out to the kelp beds. Let’s leave that for the fools in their 20’s. Also, if one is going to encounter a shark like the occasional great white, it’s going to be out by the kelp beds and beyond.

Once, at Pacific Beach, I heard a guy tell the woman he was with there aren’t any sharks in San Diego waters. Which is funny. Just about any day in the summer, someone fishing off the Crystal Pier in Pacific Beach catches a juvenile blue shark. They grow to be 12 feet and one won’t normally encounter them even in the kelp beds. They tend to stay farther out to sea.

But not always. Once in a while they choose to cruise the shallower waters. Ask any lifeguard.

So, the lack of dopamine in my brain protects me from risking all and paddling out to the kelp beds and beyond. It’s actually not a big risk for most people. The people diving in the outer edges of the La Jolla Cove Preserve aren’t in any serious danger, but going in the ocean presents risks and most people who get in trouble while in the ocean do so because they are ignorant of the risks or they choose to flaunt those risks — in other words, risk-takers. My take on it, too bad for them. If you don’t know the risks, you should have and if you know the risks and do it anyway, too bad for you.

Taking risks isn’t my cup of tea anymore. My doctor says otherwise. She doesn’t think I should be pedaling up the 11% grade that is part of my ride to the bus stop every morning. It causes great strain on my heart, which has only three working chambers. The fourth is gone, never coming back.

It’s something to think about as yet another birthday approaches Sunday, January 4th. If I want to be morbid, I can read through the obits everyday and see people my age or younger dying of heart-related diseases, the same ones I have.

We all die and quite possibly the number of days left in my life are shorter, so my goal is to enjoy life more. Not in the sense of doing all the risk-taking adventures, but of accepting each day as it comes and enjoying the moment.

Being unhappy every day gets tiring. Maybe I could use a little more dopamine.

Happy New Year

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 00:01:00 -0700

Here we are, in a New Year, looking forward with ambition and optimism, the latter not quite the usual attitude for what has been, the previous three years, a period of unhappiness in a prison of thought that life was over and my time was over.

Friendships — those bonds of love, tolerance and acceptance outside the confines of this Macintosh and the world it represents — have pushed and prodded, willing my soul when that dark fiber could find no willingness of its own, carrying on most days, like the poetic story of one set of footprints in the sand.

“God,” if such an entity truly exists, is there in the voices, the eyes and the souls of those around me, most especially those who have cared for me these past three years. How does God speak to us, if not through those who are most passionate about our well-being?

Truth and Love can be abstracts, “true love” absolutely an abstract, yet in what is the rarest of relationships, Truth and Love become something tangible; a bond that withstands any desire for separation, despite the desperation in the moment.

The saying goes, “desperate times call for desperate measures.” Maybe, but quite the contrary, desperate times here have called for strength and willingness and a Faith that those who love and support us will not leave us to suffer, let alone to suffer alone.

For that I am eternally grateful, even when such gratitude seems far from the present reality, without any hope that it may return.

And now, a brief reminder of why I am here with this blog, greeting the New Year with a new resolve: The beginning of the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights.
•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.
•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••
Article ICongress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Article IIA well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Article IIINo Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Article IVThe right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Article VNo person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Article VIIn all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.

Article VIIIn Suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any Court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Article VIIIExcessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Article IXThe enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Article XThe powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.
•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••

May Love, Peace, Happiness and Prosperity be yours in 2009.

It’s All About Me

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 00:01:00 -0700

Twenty-three days until Barack Obama is sworn in as president of the United States. Question is, can the U.S. survive that long? Well, we’ve survived so far, so the last three weeks of this current administration, we can suffer.

San Diego Chargers fans are probably suffering hangovers this morning. The Chargers made it into the Playoffs, beating the Denver Broncos 52-21. This needs to be mentioned since my family in the Denver area never had a problem reminding me when the pony boys made it to the playoffs. “Euwww! John Elway!”
 Now the pony girls have Jake Cutler at QB. He did a lot of talking before the game ...

Going to and from work I use the trolley that stops at the “Q” (Qualcomm Stadium), the Green Line. Sunday, there was a large number of Chargers fans dressed in the Chargers best heading to the game. Here was a chance for the Chargers to not only get in the playoffs, but win their division as well. They just had to beat the hated Broncos — which, this season, isn’t really a tall order.

In fact, winning the division wasn’t a tall order either. The Chargers did it with .500 season. The Broncos have a.500 season. The difference: the Chargers beat the Broncos this season — twice. Good lord, if the Chargers had lost …

The thing about riding the trolley on Sunday is that it is usually not crowded and one can have a quiet ride. I enjoy riding the trolley any day of the week, but the weekends are especially nice. Not so Sunday afternoon when the boisterous crowds jammed the three and four-car trains. Usually, the Green Line has but two cars per train.

Regular trolley riders know the routine and let the bike riders have the spaces on the cars best suited for hanging on to a bike. The occasional riders jam on to the trolley car in herds and for some unfathomable reason, choose to stand in the doorways, even if there are seats available.

It has to do with all the movies set in New York, I think. People see crowded subways with people standing, hanging on to rails and straps in the movies or on TV so naturally, to get that real New York effect, they choose to stand on the trolley, rather than sit and the only places to stand with something to hold on to are right in front of the doors.

Blessedly, the people going to the game got off five stops before Fashion Valley, where I usually disembark. Had I needed to get off before then, trying to push through the crowd would have been infuriating.

Years ago, it used to be that people getting on to the bus or trolley would wait for the people getting off and would move away from in front of the door. Not these days. As I get off the trolley especially, the inconsiderate jerks are themselves pushing their way on to the car and the ones still on the platform won’t move out of the way so those of us getting off don’t have to thread our way through a crowd.

Manners are noticeably absent in today’s world, at least in San Diego. Most young people on the bus don’t give up their seats for the elderly or disabled, unless instructed to by the driver. Most people getting off the bus will push around the elderly to get off, rather than wait as these older people who have certainly paid their dues in life, get off as best they can. Yeah, I’d like to get off the bus as quickly as possible, but I’m not pushing anyone aside to do so.

This nation lacks civility and I’m probably one of the worst offenders at times. Especially online. Maybe, with the incoming president, someone who actually worked with his community, there will be a return to a more polite society. We’ve been a “me first” nation for far too long, ruled by greed and avarice.

Maybe, with our economy in shambles, our reputation around the world shattered and a different view of the world taking office on January 20, 2009, that will begin to change.

Next week though, I’ll be traveling home from work on the Green Line when Chargers fans will be heading to the game. The thought makes me wish the Chargers were playing on the road in Indianapolis. Let someone else deal with the transit issues. But it’s all a part of life, just one game.

Unless those fuckin’ bastards beat the Colts … DAMMIT! They just might too! That’s it, I’m wearing a Raiders jersey next Saturday.

The Weather Outside

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Sat, 27 Dec 2008 12:01:00 -0700

For all those laboring under the rumor that it never gets cold in Southern California, let me disabuse you of that notion: at 3:22 a.m. Saturday, December 27, 2008, it is now 45°f in my little corner of the world. At the moment, that’s as cold as La Crosse, Wisconsin where my brother Ken lives!
 Ken and his wife Cindy are expecting their first child. Should be born in August I believe.

There are family members and friends in the Snow Belt who will say, “45°f isn’t cold! That’s a heat wave! I go sunbathing nude when it gets that warm!”

First of all, none of them, save for my Canadian friend Lisa, who is as … err … licentious … as I am — more so, some would say — would actually sunbathe nude in any weather. Okay, my friend Christina — Miss March — who lives in Northern California in the Cascades, sunbathes nude, but not at this time of year.

Other than those two, I have no family members or friends in the Snow Belt who get nekkid outside the confines of their bedrooms, dressing rooms or other such private confinements … well, my friend Kimberlee does. She’s in State College, Pennsylvania attending PSU …
 Okay, for you Kim, since your Nittany Lions whipped my Badgers: GO NITTANY LIONS!
… °sigh° … the things I do to impress a girl …
 PSU will be representing the Big Ten in the Granddaddy of all bowl games, the Rose Bowl, so I’ll actually be cheering on the Lions. After all, they are playing the hated USC Trojans. Boo!

So, this notion that those in the Snow Belt find 45°f — 7°c for those of you in Canada — to be warm is BS! You should have heard them in September through November when it was getting down to these temperatures. “It’s too cold! I’m so cold … boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo.”

Effin’ crybabies. You could up and move to Southern California and over-pay for everything, especially housing — just like I did. So quit your bellyaching! You like living where you do!

If you moved here, we could sit around our patios, with those cool palm tree-looking space heaters warming us up as we sip our margaritas and Diet Cokes, lamenting global warming and the lack of a sane, sensible progressive income tax system — okay, some of you yahoos would argue against a progressive income tax in which case I’d put a laxative in your margarita — but there we’d be in our designer hoodies talking about how cold it is this winter.

Sure, the mountains in winter can be beautiful in the crisp, clean winter air, but the moment you step outside, you’re thinking, “I should go visit Tim in San Diego for a few weeks!”

But for a variety of reasons, all those dear loved ones stay where they are at, in the bone-splintering cold beneath yards and yards of snow, meters for those of you in Canada.

My brother in Milwaukee, Rick, can’t think of any esthetic reason to stay there. It can be beautiful in the summer, but the winters are a horror. But he stays.

Milwaukee is a curious place. For almost my entire life in Milwaukee we had a Socialist mayor (Henry Maier) in a state that for the most part voted Democratic and was the birthplace of the Socialist Party of America.

It started in 1901 in Janesville. There is a modern misconception — once held by me even — that Fightin’ Bob La Follette was a part of that political movement. He wasn’t. Fightin’ Bob started his political career as a Republican, based on the ideals of the Lincoln Republican Party.

When he saw how the Republicans had become a tool for Big Business, squashing the average American in the process, he formed the progressive wing of the Republican Party, and later the Progressive Party.

So, Milwaukee, and Wisconsin, has a strong and storied progressive past, one that leads the nation. It’s been mostly a union state, as far as labor goes, but since the time of Reagan has voted for Republicans — a lot.

Anyway, I digress. Milwaukee has this rich, socialist history and enormous sense of right and wrong politically … and yet personally, they are some of the most conservative people I’ve ever met. All of them church-going types who still grumble about stores and taverns doing business on Sundays — even though many of them frequent those stores and taverns on Sundays.

They are a lovable, generous bunch, those Milwaukeeans, but morally, they are as conservative Christian as they come. The may have voted for Barack Obama in the general election, but they went to church every Sunday and prayed about it first.

So, the only people who ever leave that state to live elsewhere are different. A deep down in the soul Milwaukeean would never consider leaving Wisconsin, the benefits, for them are obvious! Truly, it’s a relatively clean government, unlike California and other states. Hard work is still a virtue!

You’re not likely to find many Mercedes, Beemers or Porches driving the streets either. Those who can afford such luxury automobiles don’t, instead opting for more “sensible” cars, ones that don’t stand out in a crowd. Hell, they still buy American!

It would please me to no end to have my brother Rick move out here to Sandy Eggo, but he’s a deep down in the soul Milwaukeean. He ain’t moving away from there! Besides, his life is taking place in Milwaukee.

Once, years ago, he tried living in Nashville, working as a musician, but he moved back to Milwaukee. Bet he’s frickin’ cold right now, thinking about a vacation in Jamaica or even out here, which isn’t nearly as warm as Jamaica. But he wouldn’t move here or to Jamaica.

Granted, after a couple weeks of sub-zero temperatures, 45° is a welcome relief, unless it’s raining, in which case it’s bone-chilling cold, but they know 45°f is cold, really cold! They just don’t like to admit it when I’m lamenting the chill in the air.

But, I love my family, despite their peculiarities, so Rick and the rest are welcome any time if they want to come visit. My door is always unlocked, but not open — it’s too damn cold.

Colder Than a Witch’s ...

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 14:01:00 -0700

It’s cold outside. Doesn’t matter where you live, it’s cold.

It’s been down to freezing at night here in Sunny Sandy Eggo and the mountains that ring the Eastern edges of the county are full of snow. Skiers and snowboarders like that sort of thing, but it’s my studied opinion that they have deep, self-destructive psychological issues.

Right now, it’s about 50°f and raining here, not the sort of weather a bus and bike guy like myself enjoys when traversing the streets. I was gonna do my Christmas shopping today — there are gifts I need to get in the mail to relatives in other states and this might put a crimp on getting them there by Christmas. Maybe I’ll just order online!

The weather is just crazy though, freezing all over. My brothers in Wisconsin have been looking at sub-zero temps for some time now, as have my relatives in Colorado. My first thought is, “Better you than me.” But, I worry for their health. In the Forkes family, cardiac issues are the rule, not the exception.

In Colorado: Denver: 21°f, Greeley: 14°f. Wisconsin: La Crosse: 0°f! DAMN! And Watertown isn’t much better a 1°f! Even my Dear Sister in Sealy, Texas — the one who makes the best cookies — is experiencing 39°f! Sheesh!

Cousins in Minnesota; Bemidji: -3°f; Elk River: -2°f, Minneapolis: -3°f …

Makes the temperature here (50°f) and in Tampa, home to another Dear Sister (61°f) seem … temperate. Doesn’t matter, it’s cold! And raining! Who wants to go outside in this? Well, besides the psychologically challenged who do things like go snowboarding and skiing. My nephews Dan and Andrew do that sort of thing, and I believe my niece Emyli.
 That’s how she’s decided to spell her name so I support and celebrate her creative process!

They’re young, they’ll grow out of that sort of thinking. One day they’ll wake up and say, “You know, Uncle Tim is right! This is nuts! I’m moving to Sunny Sandy Eggo!”

Their parents, stuck in their ways, will no doubt stay in the snow belt, shoveling snow, putting on layers and layers and layers of clothes — what am I saying, I’m wearing a t-shirt and a zipped up hoodie with sweat pants and nice warm socks. Well, I don’t have as many layers.

Just about all of my siblings have come to visit, but usually in the summer. That’s always welcome. Bet they all wish they could come visit right about now. 50°f probably sounds like paradise to them!

In Alberta, Canada, where my friend Lisa lives, it’s -13°f. In Celsius, that works out to -25°, the thermometer by which Canadians measure the temperature. They have to be so damn different! See what you get for being different Dear Canadians! It’s 12 degrees colder than it could be if you went by the Fahrenheit thermometer!

You measure your liquids in liters — and in Quebec you spell it “litre” —distance in meters … here in the states with have inches, feet, yards, furlongs, leagues (for going under the sea) and miles. None of this millimeter, meter, kilometer nonsense! Hell No! In fact, we, as a nation, won’t even bother to learn the metric system!

Unless, of course, we’re competing in the Olympics and have to run a 100-meter dash, or swim the 400 meter freestyle. Then, yeah, we’ll put up with that metric nonsense. But nosiree will we convert from Fahrenheit to Celsius! It’s too damn cold as it is! Jeez, 50°f converts to … let me pull up that converter page on the Internets … OH MY GAWD that’s like 10° in Celsius! I’m dying of pneumonia just imagining it!

I’m sticking with Fahrenheit.

Some unpronounceable place in Russia hit an astounding -67° last week. People live there! It has hot springs, so … no! No! it’s too effin’ cold!
 Hmmm … in Celsius, that’s like only -55°. Well, Celsius has its place … I guess.

Yeah, it’s cold all over. Canada is expected to have a White Christmas from coast-to-coast for the first time in over four decades. Well, listen to Bing Crosby. Me, I’ll pull up the site for the Edmunton Sun and admire their SUNShine Girls and listen to my collection of Beach Boys!

Canada has many beautiful women of course, some really celebrated ones. The current Playmate of the Year, Jayde Nicole, is from Canada, as is Miss February 1990 Pamela Anderson. Bet they’re glad they aren’t in Canada right now. Well, maybe Jayde Nicole is. She still considers herself Canadian, poor girl. She needs to find a good man in Southern California … HEY! THAT’S ME!

Anyway, I’ve deviated from my topic. Well, I’m deviant. And cold! I wanna go outside, do some Christmas shopping and then get it in the mail! °sigh° I’ll call a friend and ask for a ride.

That’s one thing I like about life; my friends are loyal, courteous and helpful when I need it. To them I extend my love and loyalty, as I do my family. Without family — even if they are so far away, some much colder than I — Christmas would be a terribly sad affair indeed.

This Article my friend Lisa posted really says it all about Christmas; I think you’ll agree.

Still, next Christmas, let’s all agree to meet in Kona, Hawaii.
•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••
One more thing, my friend Lisa, who is a witch, assures me her tits are plenty warm. I’ll have to take her word on that. Err ... no further comment needed.

Reality 3.1.1

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 06:01:00 -0700

This is a replay of a previous post!
•••• •••• •••• ••••
Ever wonder about the online world of forums and message boards? Chat rooms? Me neither, until I joined one. A forum that is.

Our family has an online forum, but it’s seldom used nemore (anymore). We still post in there on occasion, but not like years past. It’s morphed into something wonderful and easy to use, with great features like photo and art galleries, links to all of our local weather pages and of course sub forums for topics like music and the arts, politics and religion, health and … I forget’em all. Wish we posted more.

Mi familia is scattered all over the U.S.: Colorado, Texas, Florida, California and Wisconsin, where we originated. So, the family forum is a great way for all of us to keep in touch and check in on one another. There’s an older brother I haven’t heard from in months. He’s going through some desperately difficult times and I worry about his health, both emotionally and physically.

Then there’s a sister in Texas. I just worry about her. She makes the best cookies at Christmas and regardless of our differences in opinion — we are solidly on opposite sides of the political fence — life without her would be significantly diminished. Then there is another sister in Florida. I worry about her constantly. Some of us have hardscrabble lives and existing would be a step up from surviving. And yet, when we communicate we hardly read or hear a peep of complaint.

My two younger brothers are doing well, bringing up their families; their children are either in college or about to graduate from high school, so they have a lot going on in their lives and it would be nice to know what’s going on with them. The also have significant health issues, just like mine, so trading stories, sharing our experience, strength and hope with these issues not only gives us a way to vent, but also could give us the courage, discipline and hope to change our lifestyles for the better and live longer, less pain-filled lives.

Then there is my younger sister. She is such a sweetheart! One can never say that enough! Well, her two children — both grown now — could probably give us ample reason to refute that, but they’re 20-somethings. What do they know! She’s got health issues too — we’re all at that age when health issues are generally the main topic of conversation — so I worry about her health as well.

So, that family forum is important. But it isn’t quite like a forum where all the members are people you’ve never met in “real” life.

Everything you’ve ever heard about online “personalities” is true. Few, if any of the members (including myself), are exactly who or what they are in “real” life. Much of who I am is contained in those posts. If anything, it’s my personality magnified. Online, you can say things with the keyboard you might not consider saying to someone face-to-face, although I’ve called someone a “dickweed” in person and online.

Also, when talking down to someone, I’ll often correct his or her grammar. When talking down to someone online, I’ll correct his or her spelling! Sometimes though, I’ll correct someone’s spelling just out of kindness because I have affection for the person so the difference is all in how the spelling lesson is delivered.

The most amusing aspects about online forums are the various personae one encounters. In this one particular forum, as one gathers more posts, he or she is given a new title. Currently I am a “Forum Fanatic.” One of my favorite titles is “Addict.” Which is funny because one gets that title early on in the posting tenure when it isn’t quite apparent if the poster is indeed addicted or not. Maybe it’s an inducement to the posters to continue posting until they do indeed become addicted.

Once a poster (member) reaches a certain number of posts — 22,000 to be exact — the poster can choose a title of his or her own, like “The First Family,” “Chairman of the Board” or “Romantic Dream Weaver” and (I’m not making this one up), “The King.” Really? The king of what?

Actually, the guy has a little fiefdom in that forum, with a lot of disciples willing to do his bidding online — including one who claims to be, in his screen name signature, “The Official Bouncer.” Now, bear in mind, anyone who is a member of the forums as a whole can post in any topic — called a thread — and they really can’t be stopped from posting. But he has a menacing photo in his online I.D. so that pretty much tells you he’s the tough guy. Oh, and he’s studying to be a security guard.

Which brings us to the point of this little commentary: a “flame war” has erupted between factions of this forum, this community. Yes, it is a “community,” complete with cliques and clubs, pulpits and even a Surf Shack! It used to have two Witch’s Tits, but when the Witch was banned the moderators deleted the Tits.
 It would appear unnatural to have just one tit, so the Witch created two.

Nevertheless, the flame war was on, two of my friends were banned and the creeps of the forum still have their way. Forums don’t like flame wars. It disrupts the quiet, friendly congeniality forums are supposed to engender on the Internets. It’s a place where like-minded people gather to discuss common interests. But, like everything else in life, people have personalities and those personalities — amplified exponentially — come out.

In an online forum, you can be whomever you want to be; you can be that “person” you wish to be in real life but are too afraid to live since you most likely will lose your job, go to jail or get your ass kicked into the nearest emergency room. In an online forum, you can call someone a “dickweed” and what are they gonna do? Threaten to fly half way across the country, find you and kick your ass into the nearest emergency room? Not likely.

What someone does, when they feel they were slighted or someone they like was slighted, is go to the moderators — the “mods” — and complain that [me for instance] “called me a dickweed.”

“Yes [moderator], I called [the dickweed] a dickweed. I won’t do it again.”

That’s how it goes. Of course, there are the little perps who suck up to the moderators so that when they start some shit, they, the perps, might get preferential consideration when an offense needs to be adjudicated by the moderators.

How does one suck up to a moderator? You start a thread (topic) extolling the virtues of said moderator. That’s happened more than once and the latest is a paean to a content editor to the forum’s parent website.

People generally dismiss online forums and chats as not ‘real,” but they are every bit as real as the physical aspects of our lives. Online forums aren’t a flight from reality, they are completely different realities. And for some forum members — of every online forum — the forum is their reality. Some people may consider this harmful, mentally or emotionally debilitating, but only because we’ve been brought up in a world without computers and the Internets.

True, forums do not prepare one for the reality outside our door, outside the cocoon of the Internet, where bill collectors still want their lucre, employers still want us to work like dogs for their low-paying jobs and maybe, if you have a spouse and kids, the demands and responsibilities of having someone else to answer to in life.

For many, the forum is an escape, like playing video games, a retreat from “reality” as other folks like to call the physical world. It’s a refuge from the daily horrors and torments of that physical world — which will still be there when we log off and deal with the physical world.

Forums let us be free of the constraints that frustrate us in daily life; we can voice opinions and show our inner beings without facing the scrutiny or condemnation of our fellows. We can talk shit and never have to worry about walking the talk. Think about it: if I ever had to be “John Wayne” in the physical world, at this stage in my life, well, the thought scares me because in my part of the physical world, that can easily become a reality. And that’s a topic for another blog.

If the people who inhabit my physical world really knew what I was into, they would probably cut a wide berth. Maybe even suggest I “get help.” Not so in the virtual world where I can find like-minded individuals or at least people who tolerate and accept my somewhat … err … less mainstream … interests. Some of which I would never have the courage to share with family. I love my family and would rather be happy than be right.

Except when it comes to politics … in which case my sister makes the best cookies.

Fear of ...

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 06:00:00 -0700

This is a repeat of a blog written a few months earlier.
•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••

On MySpace.com, if you have a page, you can post a blog there; I often post this one there as well, although on MySpace … well, everything about MySpace is nearly discouraging. It’s so popular it crawls at a snail’s pace when you want to check in on someone’s page or read messages or load a comment on to a friend’s page.

But I have a lot of hotties on my friends list and that makes up for all the detractions I find with MySpace.

When posting a blog on MySpace, you can attach little thingies to your post, like, “what are you listening to” (right now I’m listening to the finches in the trees outside my window), “what are you reading” (Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller) “what are you watching” (nothing) and what is your mood. Right now, my mood is depressed. Things have not been going great for the past few months and all day I’ve been engulfed in fear; fear of my financial future primarily, and the fear of being alone I guess.

That last fear surprised me. I’ve never been married, but had a couple live-in girlfriends. Having a life-long mate has never been a dream, priority or even a passing consideration and it probably isn’t now, but once in a while, on the dark nights I’m glad there’s an Internet.

Richard Jeni

The sadness was perpetrated by the un-spoken news that a cyber-friend didn’t get something she really wanted. My first thought was that I had something to do with her disappointment. You know the syndrome: the whole world revolves around what we say and/or do. As it turns out, her sadness had nothing to do with me. Imagine my disappointment with the news that I’m not the center of the universe. Nevertheless, I share her sadness.

One thing about fear and sadness is that taken together they can breed depression. That’s a clinical disease we as a culture treat as an aberration, a pariah, something to mock, especially if the depressed person, like comedian Richard Jeni, ends that depression in suicide.

Britney Spears is the latest laughing-stock since shaving off her hair. That girl must truly be depressed and addicted to some substance; I’m guessing either alcohol or prescription narcotics, judging from the way she fell asleep at a party she was “hosting” New Year’s Eve. Or maybe both, which can be a lethal combination. But that’s just a guess.

This morning I made one of my M.D. visits to the V.A. medical center and what struck me — and has caught my attention for the past three-plus years — are the number of young men and women Britney’s age and younger hobbling in on prosthetics and/or crutches, rolled in via wheelchairs; or they’re missing arms or wear eye-patches or walk so carefully with canes for the blind. That’s depressing.

Are you aware of what’s going on in this world? Do you know anyone who has to make regular visits a V.A. hospital due to injuries incurred in Iraq or Afghanistan? For most Americans, the cost of this war is non-existent. There is no draft and with Bush’s war in Iraq, the wisdom of having a draft has become apparent. If more Americans had to shoulder the burden, it’s not likely this war would have started, or dragged on for so long.

Hillary Clinton just said that if elected president she would keep American forces in Iraq, in smaller numbers than are now present, but still that diminishes her chances of winning the Democratic nomination. I have to give her kudos though, she knows she’s going against the rising tide in the lefty, progressive, Democratic ranks, but she’s sticking to her position, right or wrong.

More young men and women, for years to come, will be required to visit the V.A. medical centers around the Nation. A large percentage will suffer Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which, for many, will go undiagnosed for years to come. They will join the ranks of the chronically depressed, made the butt of jokes, like the “humorous” stereotype of the Crazed Vietnam Veteran. Don’t know many Vietnam Vets who are crazy, but PTSD is synonymous with Vietnam Veteran.
 Do you know what the symptoms of PTSD are? Probably not, but you saw enough TV shows, sitcoms and otherwise, so you think you know. The West Wing covered PTSD over several episodes after the assassination attempt wounded Josh Lyman (Bradley Whitford). They tried to capture one category of symptoms in that arc, and did a decent job for a television series.
 Symptoms fall into three categories: A) Reliving the event; B) Avoidance and C) Arousal, as in arousal of anger and/or hostility.
 You can read up on PTSD on this page from the National Institutes of Health. Don’t act like you know when in fact you don’t. Educate yourself. Ignorance is not a virtue.

Many of these young people, who once had promising futures, will find themselves sleeping on cement walkways in places like La Jolla because their disease will render them incapable of interacting with the rest of American society. And we think so little of our veterans — we treat them with such distain — they have no where to turn. Our lawmakers continue to cut the V.A. budgets and we see abominations like the Walter Reed Hospital scandal, and do nothing.

What have you done for our service men and women lately? Putting a little ribbon sticker on your motor vehicle doesn’t count. One of my favorite Playmates, my first Playmate, Cynthia Myers (December 1968), makes regular visits to the V.A. hospital near her home. She’s a peach! Sweet and always brings a smile!

So, chin up Miranda! You’re a peach too! Party like a rock star, enjoy the beautiful beaches in your neck of the woods and remember: we will always have A Doll’s House.

Au Revoir, Mon Rêve

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 00:01:00 -0700

This post was first published
this past summer.

•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••
Saw the trippiest thing today on my weekly pilgrimage to the warm embrace of the Pacific Ocean: on the #30 bus there was a couple, early 20’s nice looking and the young man was sucking his thumb. At first I thought it was a gag, one of those cutesy games young lovers, or lovers young in the relationship, play, but after watching them it was clear the young man was sucking his thumb. As a habit. Really.

For nearly 15 minutes I watched in first wonderment and then shock as this young man sucked his thumb, wondering why on Earth a grown adult would do such a thing. Maybe he was just trying to shock old people (it worked), but after watching him snuggle and twitter with his girlfriend, that theory melted in the not-so-hot July afternoon.

Then I was distracted by a gaggle of young French girls who got on the bus, heading towards La Jolla Shores. They were dressed for the beach (obviously) hence the distraction. One was wearing this airy purple dress that was nearly transparent. Alas, she had a skimpy blue and white bikini underneath, but nonetheless the mystery of the shadowy figure under the purple, visible only with the proper and fleeting angle of sun light, set my imagination adrift in a warm sea of immoral thought. And it kept me from staring at the thumb sucker who was mostly forgotten for the remainder of the ride.

The bus was so crowded the gaggle of French girls were standing in the aisle and when any of them wanted to move from front to back, or visa-versa, they would push against my bare right arm. You’ll just have to imagine which of their body parts were doing the pushing. It was quite a distraction.

Back in the good ole days, when I was a young(ish) college man, I took French.
 Oui!
 Parlez vous Français?
 Je le parle pas beaucoup. Je ne parle pas Français très bien.
 You’re killin’ me Smalls. Speak English.

My goal then was to study the poetry of Baudelaire in his native language at the Sorbonne. It would have been a rather quick course of study. Baudelaire was such a naughty, naughty man, he died young with but a wisp of literary works left behind, the most important of these being his collection of poetry, Les Fleurs du Mal.

It was to be a year abroad in a very romantic setting with a very beautiful young woman. She and I studied French for a year, in different class times, but pretty much on the same course so we did our homework together, speaking in the little French we knew, all in an effort (for me) to maintain a “C” grade. For some reason she got a “B.” When we studied together, which was everyday, my attention was most often centered on her wonderfully exposed cleavage.

When the semester ended in May, I headed to Northern Wisconsin for a bit, thinking of my young French partner. When we returned to school that following August, she was pregnant — by another man’s sperm. Alas, the Sorbonne quickly lost its allure. Au revoir, mon rêve.

So it was on to Shakespeare and Henry V.

Back to the crowded bus with the gaggle of French girls — and the thumb sucker, lest we forget. The bus (and transit system) is a wonderful place to make friends, if you speak the same language. Alas, my year of French was gone, interrupted and forgotten over 20 years of neglect and indolence. The gaggle quickly lost interest in me and returned to the fast pace chatter of the young, only theirs was a tongue foreign to my ears. I couldn’t even eavesdrop properly. Ah, the bane of middle age, forgotten and left behind like an old piece of furniture, functional, yet no longer comfortable.

The thumb sucker and his girlfriend got off the bus a couple blocks before it reached the beach, Mission Blvd. Gotta wonder why a man in his 20’s would still be sucking his thumb. Berger, a man of low taste and questionable morals — a good man to know obviously — theorizes that the young man hasn’t been weaned from his sucking. You know, as in sucking a pacifier or his Momma’s tit.

Berger’s had children, lots of them apparently, so his insight makes perfect sense. The thumb sucker’s parents never weaned him from the tit. Makes you wonder what’s for dinner when he goes home to visit mom. Makes me wonder, in that immoral imagination of mine, how much time does he spend sucking his girlfriend’s nipples and does he ever get past her breasts to enjoy the rest of her beauty, the graceful curves of the woman’s form, the warmth of her vagina on a pulsating penis.

Sucking one’s thumb may appear to be the epitome of innocence, yet innocence is lost once our carnal desires have tasted the nectar from the Tree of Knowledge. Sucking thumbs becomes, at best, a fond memory and for most, a forgotten chapter of childhood when we find so much else to pleasure with our lips and tongue.

If religion has taught us anything, it is guilt and shame; the latter for even thinking of the pleasures of life, and the former for indulging in those pleasures. To paraphrase Baudelaire, we know from birth all pleasure lies in evil.

“Evil,” Baudelaire quoted, was in the Christian tradition of the word, encompassing every pleasure of the flesh. In the old religious tradition forced into our young lives, only the veneration to “God” was to be exalted, which, for all practical purposes, meant one was to subjugate him or herself to those who held the religious, and therefore political, power of the land.

A middle-aged man on a bus fantasizing the young curves beneath a purple sun dress therefore is evil, and even more so for fantasizing an adult thumb sucker wrapping his mother’s nipple in the warm embrace of his lips and tongue, imagining that the young blonde girl friend is but a surrogate for the woman the thumb sucker truly wishes to love. That it mocks the edicts of religious rigidity is one thing, but it also brings up Sigmund Freud.

The sin of Oedipus was not that he married (and had sex with) his mother, but hubris. Pride. In our society, to wish for the warm carnal embrace of one’s mother is a sin and indeed, inbreeding has its physiological problems, but what really is the sin?

To be honest, I have no carnal interest in my mother and I doubt more than a fraction of a fraction of men (or women) do, but we all, including women, have early in life, an Oedipal Complex that must be resolved before we move on. Most children resolve their Oedipal Complex before the age of eight (although it lingers subconsciously for our entire lives), but for some, the challenge of coming to terms with parents lingers long into adulthood and manifests in a variety of ways, including thumb sucking.

Sex, with its power, drives us and the suppression of that instinct inhibits our emotional growth. Few Americans grow up with a healthy attitude towards sex. Which is why beer commercials are so popular and work. Sex sells and the idea that having a Bud Light can hook me up with a young French girl in a diaphanous purple dress is a compelling fantasy.

Years of experience have taught me otherwise, but the dream of that purple dress will linger and any connection to Oedipus and his famous complex will be long forgotten once I press the “publish” button on this blog’s administration menu.

Hell, Oedipus and Freud wouldn’t even be a topic of discussion if not for the thumb sucker, damn him! The real sin is, I didn’t continue my study and use of the French language. Who knows where my Sunday would have ended had I dazzled them avec mon Français.

C’est la vie.

Sharks Revisited

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 00:01:00 -0700

(This is a replay of an earlier post,
a rerun if you will)

What do you think death is like?

Is it restful, does it have stars and bars, blaring bands heralding a new beginning? Is it just a white light with the glowing souls of our dearly departed beckoning us to follow them to the end of the tunnel?

How do you think you’ll die? In your sleep from a heart attack, in a motorcycle accident — murdered — from cancer, emphysema, diabetes or a host of other incurable degenerative diseases?

We don’t know. Every time when standing on the bus going to or from the J.O.B., I often picture myself flying through the windshield if the bus has to suddenly come to an abrupt halt. As in, it rearends a vehicle in front of it, causing the abrupt halt and everyone holding those little straps or the aluminum rails go flying forward in a screeching crunch of flesh against flesh against shatterproof glass and then most certainly metal and concrete.

Kinda messy: blood, brains and flesh splattered all over California State Route 163, the howl of sirens screeching through the early morning commute, the emergency vehicles causing an even more time consuming traffic jam as two or more lanes — maybe in both directions — are closed to facilitate the clean up.
 Which brings up this tangent, a rehash of a previous post, about the crushing number of single occupant vehicles cramming our roads and freeways. That probably has more to do with traffic accidents than anything else.
 And what about my Trusty Trek, attached to the bike rack on the front of the bus? I’d be pissed were I to survive and the Trusty Trek didn’t.

More than likely, I’ll be doing something mundane or routine and have that third heart attack … or maybe the fourth or fifth … and voila! You’ll be reading my obit in the San Diego Union-Tribune, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel and quite possibly the Shepherd Express. Yeah, they’d write my obit. At least I hope they would.

If there’s a fantasy death, it would be making wild, uninhibited sex with one of my many fantasy girlfriends (Click Here) and voila! Just as I squirt, I expire. With a smile on my face of course. ’Course, the flipside is I could be having some “alone time” with one of those many girlfriends, her photos splayed across my monitor, and just as my erectus genitalia is about to explode its sinful load of wasted human seed all over the … whatever … phewt! My last thought will be, “This is so fucking embarrassing.” Umm … what can I say? Shit happens, even at the most private of times.
 Remember the episode of The Sopranos when Gigi Cestone, one of Tony’s Capos, died on the shitter whilst either taking a dump or … err … having some alone time … at Satriale’s? That was pretty funny.
 But it wouldn’t be so funny if someone found me in that … err … state of flux ...

When the time comes, I’d like to be cremated and my ashes interred at a military cemetery, preferably Fort Rosecrans, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. That’s where my Dear Brother Carl’s ashes are resting. I miss him. If not Rosecrans, then let my ashes fall into the Wide Blue Pacific off the end of the Crystal Pier in Pacific Beach.

Which brings up the reason for this moribund subject: a man was killed after suffering a great white shark (carcharodon carcharias) attack this morning off Solana Beach. He was 100 yards out, swimming with some folks who were training for a triathlon.

I’m going snorkeling tomorrow (while you are reading this) about 10 miles south of where the attack occurred, That is, of course, if La Jolla Cove is open. Much of the coastline has been closed for 72 hours so the authorities can search for the shark and “remove it” from the area. That actually means they’ll kill it if they find it.

It’s a tragedy for the man’s family of course, but there is the risk, every time we get into the ocean more than a foot deep, we will stimulate the curiosity of some giant predator that thinks we could possibly be one of the harbor seals it’s hoping to munch on for breakfast. I don’t really tell my visiting relatives this when they come out to Sandy Eggo and want to jump in the ocean. Unless they ask and I’m guessing if they come out anytime in the next six months to a year they will probably ask. I do mention they should shuffle their feet to avoid stingrays. Anyway, if they read this blog they have the standard answer.

One of my favorite photos is of my wonderful sister Elaine having fun jumping in and getting pounded by the waves at Pacific Beach, a smile of pure ecstasy on her face. Life doesn’t get any better than that for me. If I could see that every day, life would be grand.

It would be a shame though if a shark attack, as infrequently as they occur, kept any of my family or friends from getting in the ocean. Sharks live in the ocean and no doubt when Dear Elaine — and Dear Brother Tony — were jumping about in the waves, there were flesh-eating sharks no more than 100 yards away doing what they do. I didn’t tell them that, as I recall, since the odds of getting attacked were next to nil. So, this is the forewarning: there are sharks in the water.

Once, when my nephew Dan was visiting from Colorado, we decided to do some snorkeling. In La Jolla Cove and then off La Jolla Shores Beach, the latter in the hopes of swimming in and about the local leopard sharks. They’re bottom feeders and rarely ever attack humans. They can be as large as seven feet, but I’ve never seen any that big.

As I recall, I forgot to mention a small detail to Young Dan. At the time, hundreds, maybe thousands, of leopard sharks were congregating at the south end of the beach, in as little as five feet of water. You could actually see their silhouettes in the water. As we finally paddled out to them I said — yelled — “Dan! Sharks!” Dan had been close on my right. When I looked towards where he had been, he was gone. My first thought was, “How am I gonna explain this to his mother (Dear Elaine).”

The day before, Elaine and I had gone ’round and ’round about Dan and I visiting Tijuana, B.C., Mexico, even in the light of day. There are a lot of nasty stories about Tijuana, most of them true, so Elaine was adamant I would not be taking her son into Mexico — Tijuana in particular — without adult supervision. I really wanted to take him to a donkey show or something. He was 16 and it was about time, I thought, for his first real intense sexual experience.

I didn’t tell her that of course … moms get peculiar about those subjects and what the Hell, she was objecting to the relatively benign reasons I had for visiting T.J. Buying Cuban cigars being one of them, getting some cool souvenirs was another … can’t remember the others. Maybe brush up on his Spanish.

So, Young Dan was forbidden from going to Mexico, but when I told her we would be swimming with sharks, she was okay with that. Geez, moms are fucking peculiar. But I love the ones in my life anyway, as goofy as they are.

So, getting back to our shark encounter. After the shock of losing Young Dan in about six feet of water, my heart pounding with the fear that he might be lost, I turned in every direction hoping to spot his snorkel bobbing in the water. After a few seconds I turned to the beach and there he was, already on dry land. Bear in mind we were about 150 yards out. In about 15 seconds he had turned around (we were facing out to sea when we first saw the sharks) and bee-lined his way back to the beach. He was one helluva swimmer that day and I’m still impressed.

No amount of persuasion could convince Young Dan we were safe from attack, as even the harmless leopard sharks look pretty mean, so we didn’t spend any real time with them. Didn’t get any photos either. Foolishly I tried reaching out to touch them, but they skittered away, frightened by the big blob of a human invading their home. But, they could have acted more aggressively to defend themselves so trying to touch them was an idiot thing to do. Ah … live and learn.

So, when you come to visit, don’t be afraid of getting into the water. Especially in the summer when the water temperature is too warm for great whites. Shark attacks are so rare we’re more likely to be killed in a traffic accident getting to the beach, so maybe we’ll take public transportation.
•••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• •••• ••••

Sixty-seven years ago today our nation was launched into World War II when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, on a calm Sunday Morning. There are those of us whose parents lived through that time, and even fought in the war, and like those who survived WWII and are still alive, the memory still lingers.

A New Day

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 12:01:00 -0700

It is a new day in America. With President-Elect Barack Obama waiting in the wings, reminding us there can be only one president at a time, the caveat he adds when he’s telling us what parts of the Bush policy he will undo with Executive orders, the rest of us look busily towards our days, that are remarkably the same as the ones we had just ten days ago.

Some of us have some hope: maybe even a new job! Now that’s a commodity hard to come by! Mine is but a seasonal gig that, hopefully, could turn permanent. Do I really want that though? I mean, it is a job!

On the other hand, as pointed out in my previous post, this sure beats living on the streets, dumpster diving for dinner. But it’s 6 a.m. and I’ve been awake for an hour now, woken by my alarm, the Yes art rock classic from 37 years ago, Starship Trooper. It blasts out of my cell phone at astounding volume. Tuesday I woke before the alarm went off (thanks to my aging bladder) and was in the shower when it blasted. Hope the upstairs neighbors weren’t bothered.

And then it’s off for a nearly two hour journey to this job, which isn’t a bad job actually, helping to secure the retail future of a prominent online market for upscale gift-giving. Ten years ago this company got famous for being the place to shop for men who forgot their wives’ birthdays, anniversaries or otherwise found themselves not getting any of the dwindling sex life they hoped would be a daily deal when they got married in the first place.

Curiously enough, many women wonder why their sex life has dwindled since marriage. My guess is the disappointment and lack of interest is a two-way street. As a woman, who wants to do the hokey-pokey with a guy who know looks like Peter (the husband) on Family Guy, doesn’t shower every day and forgot the benefits of dental hygiene?

And what man wants to get it on with a middle age woman who looks like the same woman he’s been diddling for the past 15 years — only now her boobs and butt sag? Older men getting much younger women has been celebrated so much these past few years, why wouldn’t a married man fantisize trading in his 40-something for two 20-somethings?
 Honestly, I have no idea what women fantasize, although I’m sure it’s far different than what men fantasize. I know some women think Daniel Craig (who looks like me when I’m shirtless) is hot.

Most men won’t admit it though. It would be the epitome of insensitivity to be honest about it, but that’s why they still look at the men’s magazines and the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. We dream, we fantasize and if we get a few moments free in the bathroom, we masturbate about it.

As a single man, I feel uniquely qualified to be judgmental. I don’t have to have a moment free in the bathroom, I could do it right here if I chose. But alas, I have to get ready and go to this new job. So, I fantasize, not so much about having a couple 20-somethings at my every beck and call, but about being wealthy enough that being awakened by Yes at 5 a.m. is just a distant memory.

It’s the bane of adulthood — having to actually go out and make a living, be responsible, even having pride in knowing we are responsible! There a people who pride themselves in getting up at 5 a.m. every day and going to a job five days a week and coming home to a family and a dog! Well, it’s easy to understand the family and dog. Or cat.

In many cultures, maybe most, there is status to having a family. It’s like a man’s primary possession. From a different angle, it is a woman’s most precious possession because she bore the children. The kids are, most directly, a piece of their mother. They were a part of that woman’s body and the instinct of a mother for her children is born by the fact that at the start of life they were one.

Men don’t share that and as much as men may feel connected to their kids, as much as men love their children, we will never have the same connection to the children. Men’s advocacy groups want to deny biological reality in custody fights and worse yet, when they want to force a sex partner to go through with a pregnancy because we, as men, “have rights too.”

When it comes to pregnancy, as long as it is the woman who will spend nine months with a child in her womb, she will have the responsibility and the choice. Once that child is born, she will, by default, become the primary — and in many cases, the only — care giver of that child. More importantly, because it is the mother who provides nourishment to that child from her body, created by the woman, the mother is the most important of the two parents; the children are the fruit of the woman. The man was just a sperm donor.

Men, when they demand they have rights too, do so from pride. They want to believe the kids are every bit their possession, it’s been the paradigm for thousands of years, written into the Bible’s earliest stories.

Of course, most women know they are the ones who actually “wear the pants in the family.” Some men even agree! In fact, I know couples who are genuinely happy with their family lives and all this blather bears little if any resemblance to their lives. Hell, they may even droop and sag and resemble Maxine and Peter, but none of that matters.

Hell, I’m single, what the heck do I know about love and marriage? Maybe love does conquer all now and then. And who doesn’t want that?

And all I wanted to do originally was whine about having to get up at 5 a.m. to go to work.

The Jones

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 11:01:00 -0700

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m suffering withdrawals. Got a serious jones. Might go into the DT’s at any moment now. It’s been over 12 hours now — 12 damn hours and I’m wide-awake, waiting for the sweats to start. Addiction is one of the most wide spread diseases on the planet.

We all are addicted to something they say, but I don’t believe it. True, most of my friends are former drunks and dope fiends — come to think of it some of the ARE drunks and dope fiends — but that’s really just a mark of the company I keep. All my friends are in low places, or however the song goes.

Drunks and dope fiends are a special breed of human. They self destruct in the most prolonged, miserable sort of way, dragging anyone and everyone who cares about them down into their pit with them. It’s not that they don’t care about their loved ones, or themselves, it’s that they can’t help themselves. Many times, well, sometimes, drunks and dope fiends actually would like to extricate themselves from their hellish existence, but that requires actions that are just too damn difficult.

Some drunks and dope fiends though not only make the decision to stop and get out of that hell, they actually follow through. True dat! And then they’re sober assholes, at least for a little while. Once they stop they realize, some times, they have the personality of a 10 year old. It’s like we never grew up. Did I write “we”? I meant “they.”

But that’s not what I’m jonesing for at the moment. Nope. There are a few addictions lurking about in my life, like candy corn. Oh man! I’ve loved these things since I was but a wee lad! And always, right after Halloween, every store has bags of them on sale for half price or better! Screw the trick-or-treaters! They can have the bite-size Snickers, the candy corn is mine!

It isn’t the candy corn that has me in knots though. As a matter of fact I’m finishing off a bag as I type! Kroger brand Indian Corn Candy! Nope, I’m feeding that addiction quite pleasantly, thank you!

You’re probably thinking, “He’s stopped looking at pics of nekkid women!” Naah. I don’t think prurient predilections are addictions anyway, regardless of what some clown with a fake diploma might tell you on the Internet.

When David Duchovny hustled himself off to treatment for a “sex addiction,” my eyes just went blurry with disbelief. Why on Earth did he do that? No doubt he was caught cheating on his wife, Tea Leone. The irony of course is that Duchovny is the star and producer of the Showtime program Californication.
 I’ll have to check and see how that lawsuit by the Red Hot Chili Peppers turned out. The Chili Peppers are a little miffed about a TV show with the same name as one of their most popular albums.

In Californication Duchovny is a sex-crazed writer (with writer’s block) who boffs any and every beauty who gives him a wink. That’s not an addiction, that’s just good game. Most of us men are absolutely jealous of the men in that enviable position. Fifty years ago you didn’t read or hear about the Rat Pack going to treatment for sex addiction. Hell no! When they got the itch, they scratched it!

Of course, they were cheatin’ on their wives when they did, but they were big stars, the biggest, and they just paid for the alimony by making another movie or two. They didn’t go shufflin’ off to a treatment facility for “sex addiction” in some bizarre form of a mea culpa. Hell no! They just kept on fuckin’!

Now, I’m not condoning or promoting sexual misconduct or cheating on one’s spouse. If you take a vow, you ought to live up to it. Taking a vow is giving your word and if you can’t live up to that — then don’t take the step.

I’ve never been married.

Most people who get married do not have any intention of breaking those vows, but it happens. I know a few who feel the regret and guilt for doing so every time the subject comes up. I feel for you. We are all human and subject to making mistakes.

In his memoir, Senator John McCain (remember him?) admitted to cheating on his first wife many, many times. He also said he was sorry for doing it and blamed the break-up of that marriage on himself. Of course, he had a hot, young millionaire heiress for a second wife when he wrote that.
 I have such a jaundiced eye.

Neither the American Medical Association nor the American Psychiatric Association recognizes addictions to sex or pornography. At best, they might be disorders, not addictions. But, in our religion-controlled society, any Christian freak with an online diploma can open up a treatment center for “sex addiction” and call it “therapy.”

Looking at nekkid women — or people having sex — in books, video or on the Internet is not a disease, is not a sickness. If you’re spending more time looking at pictures and videos of people like Danielle Richardson on the internet than doing the deed with your spouse, it isn’t a sex or porn addiction, you’ve just lost interest in him or her and maybe you ought to examine your attitude towards your spouse.

There are married folks, I know a few, who look at what people consider “porn” and have happy marriages with active romantic and sexual activity. Some of those couples married longer than 20 years. I won’t spot them out here.
 Ironically, much to my surprise and dismay, California voters approved Proposition 8 banning same-sex marriage. My guess is it will be over-turned by the courts. They have ruled such a ban unconstitutional.

Anyway, it isn’t sex or photos of Mel Pressley I’m jonesing for, although I sure have a desire to … err … get to know her (and a cavalcade of others) a little better. With the magic of Photoshop, these women think I look a lot like Johnny Depp! Or Daniel Craig! Photoshop and MySpace, ain’t it great!

My addiction: I haven’t watched any news channels for nearly an entire day. No MSNBC, CNN and certainly no Fox News. I did watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart but that’s more like comedy, not news. I wanna hear and see Keith Olbermann and Chris Matthews talking about the news, wanna ogle the women of all three networks as they talk about the important news — Zain Verjee of CNN and Erin Burnett of CNBC and MSNBC — but I’ve cut myself off. Cold effin’ turkey.

Nope, no news TV for me, I’ve actually watched MTV reality shows, one of those being Paris Hilton’s New BfF. Really. Not to mention one of the Terminator movies and two of the Lethal Weapon flicks.

Yesterday afternoon, when I found myself adding comments to the Jack Cafferty File through CNN’s website, I knew I had hit bottom. So, I got up from my chair — after clicking the send button to post my comment, my second, or third … can’t remember — and made the decision to turn off the news.

°sigh°
Enough of this, I’m turning on the TV’s, two of them, one to CNN and the other to MSNBC and when Sean Hannity comes on, Fox, so I can watch his continuing melt down and those of his equally unfair and unbalanced colleagues. I gotta have my fix.

This Defining Moment

nospam@example.com (Tim Forkes) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 07:01:00 -0700

“At this defining moment, change has come to America.”

Forty years and seven months ago, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King said. “Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land!”

At 8:05 p.m. Pacific Time, Senator Barack Obama of Illinois — from the Land of Lincoln — brought us into the Promised Land. That was the defining moment when change came to America.

A year ago you could not have convinced me we would see an African-American elected president of the United States in my lifetime. The racial divide was still that wide, that deep. Indeed, 22 months ago when the scrawny young man who had but a couple years of experience in the halls of the United States Senate declared his candidacy for the highest office in the land, and as my friend Lisa of Canada reminded me — Leader of the Free World — it was with just mild interest that I took notice, that most Americans took notice. We would not see a Black Man elected President of the United States in our life times.

Never have I been happier to be proven wrong, to see my cynicism and sarcasm tossed aside by the forces of history, pushed out of the way by the power of a new generation and the positive attitude of several generations that said “Yes we can!”

We have been to the Mountain Top and now we are in the Promised Land.

As if talking directly to me and the millions who thought as I did, President-Elect Barack Obama of America said, “If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.”

Yes it is. Anything is possible in America, any child can grow up to be president of the United States, the senator from Illinois not only told us, he showed us. Like the Doubting Thomas from the Gospels of the Bible, we have touched the wounds of racism, to see that they are real, to know that truly, a man who is not a White Man has been elected President of the United States.

Change has come to America. Not just from an eight-year presidency and political control that ran our nation into the ditch, the impetus of this remarkable moment, but a change in the way we think of America. People of color, be they Black, Hispanic, Asian or Native American, can achieve whatever they set their minds to, whatever their hearts demand of them.

It not only confirms that the dream is real for people of color, but that it is still true in these United States that all of us can achieve that which our hearts desire, that the American Dream, however it manifests itself in our hearts, is within our grasp as long as we have the “industry” to work for it.

In my lifetime I’ve seen a young Catholic named John F. Kennedy elected president, a generational shift that brought America fully into the 20th Century. A man walked on the Moon just eight years later, a triumph of man’s will to achieve the impossible and we no longer thought of science fiction as fantasy. It was real. Neal Armstrong walked on the Moon. In 1989, the Berlin Wall came down as millions declared an end to political tyranny.

And at 8:05 Pacific Time on November 4th, 2008, the news pundits confirmed what many of us had felt building for the past two months, confirmed what had been written in the first paragraphs of our Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

It took a perfect storm of a war gone bad, a government caught asleep at the wheel during a national emergency, scandal and corruption in the high corridors of power and a financial crisis we haven’t seen since the Great Depression, for this moment to arrive. And it took the hard work of millions who gave their time, energy and money to the cause.

The money, primarily from people who couldn’t afford to give as the donors to previous campaigns once did, in big bundles worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but in small amounts as little as five dollars; that money defined the candidacy of Barack Obama. It was borne on the hopes of millions of Americans, not the greed of the few who openly bought government with their millions in campaign donations.

This was a campaign finance reform no one had envisioned; that, like some Frank Capra movie starring Jimmy Stewart, the multitude once left behind by the big money controlling Washington, had taken matters into their own hands, from their own wallets, and changed the course of history.

On January 20th, 2009, Senator Barack Obama from Illinois will be sworn in as our 44th President of the United States. Is it irony that this comes from the same state that 148 years ago gave us Abraham Lincoln? The cynical side of me still thinks so, but that fact didn’t escape President-Elect Obama. In his speech Tuesday Night, Obama reminded us, it was from Illinois that our greatest president, Abraham Lincoln, first brought the Republican Party into the White House.

As Barack Obama quoted Abraham Lincoln, “We are not enemies, but friends ... Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.”

We can now crown our good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.