One of my twitter friends mentioned a few days ago that Rob Kroese’s “humor blogs” site was down and then wrote a blog post about it.  I visited myself and saw this (go ahead and check the link).  My heart sank.

I thought about how when I first started my blog and had a “.wordpress” in the middle of my URL and wondered if anyone would want to read my stories from childhood and child-rearing after enjoying this activity called “blogging” with surprising success during my deployment to Iraq a few months earlier (thanks, New York Times!).  I wrote every day and hoped the readers at the “humor blogs” site I’d found on accident (which had >1000 blogs on it) would vote favorably on the level of humor in each post, and after a couple months, I was on the first page!  Top 30!  A few weeks later, I was top 10, and then top 5 for several months.  I think I actually called Pretty Bride from work on the day I cracked the top 5.  I was such a dork back when I was 33.

Participating waned a bit when my work situation changed, but I still enjoyed the blogs there, especially last July when they became tangible after I met Margaret, Kathy, JD, Anna, and Meg in person.  I could tell they thought I was as funny-looking as I was funny-reading.  We bonded.  Humor Blogs suddenly became a smaller place.

So, now that my posts aren’t automatically sent to H-B for voting on whether they’re funny or not, should I start being more serious?  Turn this into a “personal blog” or “daddy blog?”  Or try to stick with “humor blogging?”  Or give it up and concentrate on other activities (i.e., something that pays well)?

I’m not sure.  Probably a hybrid.  I enjoy being part of the blogosphere.  Hell, I’m meeting several twitter friends this Saturday night for the first time for a night of debauchery (unbeknownst to them).  I’ll probably take them to the bar where I did this:

I have no recollection of how I met the guy on the mic with me.  I don’t think I want to know.

I’m planning to go to NYC in August for BlogHer 2010.  I’m entertaining Adam when he comes up for a wedding in May.  I’m debating South By Southwest with Johnny Truant.

Okay, internet.  I can’t quit you.  I’m just not sure what will follow the “form of ….” command after I tap fists with my Wonder Twin. Whoever the hell that is.

Filed under: Blogging, humor blogs | 36 Comments

On Day 3, I ditched the rental’s keys and boarded a tourbus for Arenal Volcano National Park.  Five minutes into the trip, my bride asked if I was enjoying this traveling better that the previous two days’ journeys.

Me:  Infinitely.

See?

We befriended folks from such foreign lands as Puerto Rico, Poland, France, Denver, and Indiana.  We learned about what we were passing instead of wondering about it.  I didn’t give a shit about traffic or young pedestrians.

We passed the extinct Chato Volcano, which is part of a mountain formation called the “Sleeping Indian.”  I renamed it the “Sleeping Indian with Morning Wood” upon closer inspection, however:

After a stop that allowed some shopping for local goods (to include cigars for me), we went to the hot springs at Tabacon:  a series of heated pools and water falls below the volcano.  They were wonderful.  So much, in fact, that I actually got out to piss behind some palm trees instead of going in the water, because I didn’t want to soil the wonderful creation around me.

Damn right it felt good.  We stayed in the hot water for 3 hours before a pretty good meal and then a trip to the base of the volcano after dark to marvel at the glorious eruptions of rock and lava and fire storms to follow.

But we were there on one of the 80% of evenings in which the cloud cover prevents seeing anything.  So, we stood in the dark with a bunch of strangers and stared into the blackness and nothingness for 15 minutes instead, while I made out loud observations about how screwed we were if the tourbus didn’t return to pick us up.  Luckily, the bus came.

The next day we boarded another tourbus at 7am to try, again, to see Poas Volcano National Park.  This time, it was clear:

We did some hiking and took pictures.  On the way, we stopped at the Doka Coffee plantation for a tour and the chance to buy 7 bags of damned good coffee.

And after the volcano, we saw La Paz Waterfall Gardens (we actually found it this time, when someone else was driving).  An earthquake rendered part of the hiking trail to 3 additional falls impassable, but we were able to see 2 of the waterfalls and a bunch of wildlife.

We headed back to the hotel, and I begin to notice something odd.  Just about every home or business we passed was surrounded by bars, fencing, and/or concertina wire.  It was as if everyone was Scott Stapp and created their own prisons.

Read more…

Filed under: Travels, costa rica, vacation | 27 Comments

A few weeks ago, when I decided we needed a “babymoon” and to use some of my USAA points before they dropped in buying power on April 1, a few friends and a neighbor suggested Costa Rica as a warm and relatively inexpensive January destination.  But, they advised me that I should not drive.

Me:  Why?  I’ve driven in Puerto Rico, Kuwait, Iraq, New York City, and Atlanta.  I’m not afraid of a highway.
Everyone Else: The roads suck, and the other drivers are crazy.
Me:  Fearing ‘other drivers’ is for pussyboys.  I fear nothing.

We arrived late Wednesday night, and first thing Thursday morning, I went to the concierge to arrange for a rental car, so I could go explore San Jose and some volcano thing called Poas at a park up the road.

It was a Suzuki with no shocks.  It sucked.

After two hours of traffic in a stick shift, I was eager for this to be the best damn hole in the ground I’d ever seen.  I pulled up to the park entrance.

Ranger-looking-dude:  Bad news.  I must tell you–the clouds are in the crater, and you can’t see anything today.  I’m sorry.
Me:  And I must tell you–kiss my ass.  Do you know the hell I went through to guide this piece of shit up the God-forsaken trail you people call a street?
Ranger dude:  I’m sorry…you can go hike there if you want, but there is no view.  Just down the road are some waterfalls, though!

We headed back down the mountain to look for a Shell station and a dirt road that lead to a bunch of falling water.  Two hours later, we were lost and were nowhere near a bunch of falling water.  But we did find a butterfly farm!  By the time we stopped, neither of us was speaking to the other, my left arm was sunburned, and my left hand was calloused from holding the steering wheel in anger for the past 4+ hours.  But we toured the butterflies and learned some stuff about pupae.

We then tried to find some jade museum thing that was closed when we arrived.  I declared alcohol a necessity and plopped down in a martini bar we found after walking 5 blocks to a restaurant site that had gone out of business 3 years prior, just after our tourbook was published.  The TV behind the bar was showing MTV2.  At that point in our vacation, having martinis and watching 80s videos was the highlight of my trip.  I didn’t want to leave, but Pretty Bride was concerned about the parking attendant I’d paid for 1 hour of parking 2.5 hours ago, so she insisted on leaving.

I sat in the outdoor hot tub for several hours that night and wondered what I’d done to piss God off so royally.

The next day, I thought it a good idea to drive 7 hours roundtrip from San Jose to Manuel Antonio National Park.  Through the mountains.  With no painted lines, signs, reflectors, or guardrails.  But plenty of 18-wheelers, bicycles, ATVs, and motorcycles.

We liked Manuel Antonio.  Our guide found sloths, a frog, some spiders, a crab, several birds, and some frighteningly large insects along the trail to a beach filled with monkeys!

It was over 90 degrees that day (a welcomed heat after a preceding weekend of snow and ice in Atlanta), making the Pacific’s cool waters a welcomed conclusion.  Dinner was at an old C-123 from the Iran-Contra affair turned into a restaurant before we began the harrowing drive through the mountains at night (after pulling over to watch the sun set).

The next morning at 7, I walked up to the concierge with my Suzuki keys and rental agreement.

Me:  Hello.  I’d like to return my car two days early.  I don’t enjoy driving in your country.
Concierge:  hahaha!  *backs chair away from desk to allow for more hysterical laughter* hahahaha!
Me:  No really.  I don’t know where the little car rental dude is, but I’m putting this shit in his chair.  I’m going to find a tour bus now.

At this point, my questions are these:
1) Why have I seen no advertisements for abogados?  Do I really want to spend time in a country with no lawyers?
2) Should we have gone to Dollywood instead?

To be continued…

Filed under: Travels, babymoon, costa rica, vacation | 10 Comments

There’s nothing quite like the hysteria a military unit will feel (during peacetime, anyway) shortly before a general officer is slated to visit.  There’s mopping of floors, straightening of furniture, and polishing of boots going on throughout the building instead of any of the work that’s supposed to be observed and commended.  I’ve always thought it a bit lame.

Yes, I can appreciate the tenacity and expertise required for one to get a star or two on his or her epaulet, but am I going to stop working so I can push a broom around?  No.  But here’s what I did instead.

See that window above?  That’s my office’s door.  Long before I moved in, some dildo stuck a metal door on the glass and wrote “PRIVATE” on it, using velcro to affix it to the glass when it’s shut.  Really?  Is that what we need in the wake of the rampant sexual assaults going on across the services the last couple decades?  A stepping stone?

So, I doctored the sign like this:

And in case you can’t see the note at the top, here’s a closer look:

Then I shut the flap across the window and closed the door, allowing everyone who walked by to assume that I was furiously touching my privates inside.

Lastly, I changed all the clocks to show this:

And I do mean “all the clocks.”

Then I wait for Mr Two Star to come in while everyone under my command remained absolutely horrified (or tremendously entertained…mainly the latter).  But dude never did.

He apparently bypassed my hallway before addressing our group in the conference room.  Must’ve been scared of the team of masturbating pot smokers.

Yellow belly.

Filed under: Military, visit from a general | 22 Comments

I gave a speech for a public speaking class in undergrad about how it was cool to wear red ribbons and talk about supporting money for an incurable but preventable disease, while another disease killed more people and was much less preventable.  I spoke of a Homecoming Queen from my hometown and delivered an argument for funneling more resources toward a disease that takes people unpredictably and in numbers far greater than the other disease that was completely preventable but more hip to get behind.  I got an A- and was told I sounded a little “too much like Rush Limbaugh” and should consider lawschool.  Noted.  For the next two years as I’d run into classmates from that course in other classes or football games or out at bars, they’d ask about that “girl I gave the speech about who had cancer,” and I’d have to tell them she was gone.

My last year of lawschool, a friend named Karen graduated near the top of our class, got hired by the biggest firm in town, and then learned she had cancer while studying for the bar exam.  She passed the test, went through chemo, and invited me to several charitable events requiring black tie attire, because she knew I owned a tux and liked to throw back a few beers and dance for 3-4 hours straight, even if we were the only ones doing so in a room full of law partners and charitable people with grey hair and wrinkles and were unaccustomed to a white guy who liked to shag with a black girl.  But she died a few months after everything was supposed to be in remission.  Right before she was suddenly gone (after the illness had gone into remission), The Complete Lawyer interviewed her.  The last question and answer were:

q: What Do You Want To Make Sure You Accomplish Before You Die?
a:  I want to enjoy every day. Make the most of it. Whatever time I have.

At the beginning of 2009, another friend from lawschool named Celeste told several of us who’d gathered for a New Year’s happy hour that her chemo was going well and that her solo venture was succeeding.  I announced my own plans to go solo and looked forward to having her as a source of advice and encouragement as I pursued my own dreams of self-employment and advocacy for the un-advocated.  But she died 6 months later.  I sat by myself at the funeral and “kept it together” throughout, until we were supposed to walk down to the front and shake her husband’s hand and say something comforting,  but I couldn’t do it, because what does one say to the guy who’s just lost his wife?  Instead I stood in the back and cried a bunch while a few of my old classmates tried to tell me it’d be okay.  She was supposed to turn 40 the next day.

A month later, I was walking back from lunch provided by a woman trying to sell me on using her company for structured settlements when my cellphone rang, and I learned that the partner for whom I worked my first several years of practicing had just died–about 2 years after she’d walked into my office, closed the door, and told me, “I just thought you should know I have cancer.  But don’t worry, I’m not going to die on you or anything–I’ll just leave work early on Fridays for treatment, and when I come back, I might vomit some, but I’ll otherwise expect everything to run as it normally would.”  Her name was Leigh.  She was the second person I told after I eloped, and the person from whom I learned more about practicing law than anyone with a “professor” preceding his or her name.  She believed in me even before I did.  And I never told her how much that meant to me.

A few days ago, my father called to tell me he has cancer.  And like Leigh and Celeste and Karen and Anna, he’s upbeat about what’s sure to be a quick surgery and maybe some radiation, and all will be fine.  But what if it isn’t?

Filed under: Rants, cancer | 80 Comments