When I first started junior high- thinking about how long ago that was -I tried to be a loner. I didn't hang out with anyone or tried out for anything. I was content to find my way through it all on my own. But along the way, I made a few very close friends, I found that I wanted to write and started acting. It was all a far cry from what I had originally intended.

I wasn't a popular kid, high school or junior high. I think I was known or at least recognized. High school for me was generally good, but I was quite lost, even after it was over. Still, I wasn't a loner. Never at one point did I figure that there were forces around me conspiring to make me look bad or to harm me. I was a bit of a non-conformist, yes, but I knew I had friends.

I wasn't the kind of guy girls just swooned after. I had a girlfriend in junior high how I broke up with after we reached high school. I had a couple of girlfriends after her. My senior year being the defining moment for me. And despite how bad with the women I was, I never thought that they were evil or that I would never find love.

So I get to looking at the media coverage about Virginia Tech and I can't identify...
Alright, let me be perfectly clear on one point before I continue. My heart goes out to the families of the 33 people who were needlessly gunned down last Monday. That being said, I'd like to continue.

There was so much coverage and now there's nothing but speculation. I don't want to see it anymore. I don't want them to analyse it anymore. People are grieving and 33 people are dead. Let the subject rest. But it got me thinking about people who have cross my life line that may have once felt like Seung-Hui Cho, the gunman who left his mark on the lives of those who were left to pick up the wreckage at Virginia Tech. Of course, I can't really say, with any degree of accuracy, who they were and when they came into and out of my life.

At some point in our lives, we are all misfits. Misunderstood by society, our families or friends... the world. Then there are those we just shut out. The ones we don't include. The ones we laugh at. The fat kid in gym class, I heard someone talking about around the office the other day. The one who gets picked last, if at all.

When I was in college, there was this skinny kid with glasses who liked to draw cartoons. He always came around the office right around the time that articles and ads were due. Tuesday or Wednesday, I think were those days. He wore a ball cap and had glasses and was rail-thin. A real scrawny kid. He would come into the den of wolves that was our newsroom and proceed to try and talk to one or all of us. None of us ever really gave him the time of day. With each visit he would leave us with a cartoon strip he drew, asking if we could run it in the paper. Someone would always take his cartoon and tell him we would look at it and see if we had room to run it.

After he'd leave, we would all take turns looking at the cartoon and reading it. The humor never came across, at least not to us. There were about four panels and the recurring characters were crudely drawn and badly outlined. There was no color and they were sometimes delivered on a piece of college-ruled paper. I can't, for the life of me, remember his name. But he was somewhat forgettable.

He delivered his cartoon to us each week. Sometimes he'd miss a week and we'd see him again the next. And each week we'd give him the same line. I felt bad sometimes, taking his cartoon, shoving it under a pile of papers and sometimes forgetting all about it. Then I'd find it there days later and we'd all cringe at the absurdities he'd drawn or question the humor or just shake our heads in confusion.

I always wondered why he never just came to work on the paper. The staff could be a bunch of real ball breakers, but at the end of the day, they were all great people to be around.

I can't remember why it was I wasn't there when he finally decided to chip in and help out one night to put the paper together. My advisor told me later that the night he helped out, he had an epileptic seizure and hit his head on a table on the way to the floor. No one was sure how to stabilize him, but they were able to get a pencil in his mouth to keep him from swallowing his tongue. We never saw him again. Probably didn't want to show back up there, afraid we would make fun of him or maybe just embarrassed. I can understand both those feelings.

It was weeks and weeks later that we were cleaning up the office as we did each semester when I found a notebook on a table near the darkroom. It was the scrawny kid's notebook. And it had some cartoons. The same cartoons he'd been submitting for publication week after week. Each of them made little sense and were never really funny. I flipped through the pages of the notebook when suddenly I found a letter he'd written. It was addressed to the staff of our paper. And it was darker than anything I thought he was capable of. He was angry. Very angry. Angry we never published his cartoons. That we never spoke to him or befriended him. That we were mean and that one day he would be a famous cartoonist despite our attempts to keep his work out of our paper. It was a one page letter. We all read it. I think I kept it for a while. I don't know what became of it and what ever became of him.

Sometimes it can feel like no one in the world understands you, much less, likes you. I'm not a stranger to those feelings. But there's a fine line that a person must cross to decide to arm themselves and take the lives of people who never caused him any harm. I think that's what happened at Virginia Tech. 32 people suffered the rage of a man who could not come to grips with his anger towards the world and ultimately, towards himself. Because if there's no love of self, there's no love for anything. Those people paid the price for his lack of faith in humanity. For his lack of love. For his lack of self.

Analysts can break it down anyway they want. They can read between the lines of his videos and letters and interpret his photos however they see fit. It won't change what's happened. And why let the loved ones left behind relive the day on continuous loop for the sake of ratings? Don't claim to inform me. Don't claim to protect me. Let the victim's families, friends and loved ones grieve. Please.

"Let us not live in timidity and ignorance. And in dying, we can say, we were dedicated to the most noble cause of all: the liberation of the human mind and spirit, beginning always with our own." - Maya Angelou.

I don't know why I felt compelled to tell the story of that shy kid from college. Maybe because I felt guilty. I don't know that he would have ever been pushed to that point. But then it doesn't take much for some people. And no matter how safe schools make thing sometimes, it won't change how one person decides to deal with the pressures of life. There is no predictability factor there.

To the families and friends of those who were lost at Virginia Tech: I hope the pain subsides one day.

-30-

Recently, Christopher Reeve's costume from "Superman: The Movie" sold at auction for $115,000. If I was single, I would have sold my house to buy it. And, not that it would fit me, but I'd wear it at least once.

-30-

iPods rule. Here's the Last Five for today.

1. Too Tough To Die - The Ramones
2. Run - Snow Patrol
3. It's Yours - Wu-Tang Clan
4. Stone Free - Eric Clapaton
5. Finish What Ya Started - Van Halen

-30-

I thought it would be good to give the blog a new look. I dig it.

More to come.

-30-

Let me begin by pointing out what many of people who are close to me know about me. I am hardly a religious person. Spiritual, yes. Religious, no.

When people ask what faith I belong to, I usually reply, "Catholic by default."

That being said, when people ask me, "What are you doing for Easter?" I'm usually stumped by the question. My parents never took me to Easter egg hunts. We never really went to services that Sunday. Sometimes my mother would drag me along to an early, Spanish mass at Christ The King. I remember those days because there was a priest from South Africa, Father Bernie, who would sometimes do that service. His accent didn't always lend itself to the Spanish language.

Anyhow, back to the rant, already in progress.

My son, Terrance, and I had gone to see the absolutly awful "Hills Have Eyes 2" when he suggested we go to the Dollar Store and roam around a bit before we had to go home. Like most stores, Dollar Store had their massive collection of Easter paraphanailia. From plastic eggs to chocolate bunnies. But as we made our way through the holiday isles, I saw something that caught my eye.

They were made of chocolate, the praying hands. You know the ones I mean. You sometimes get the little prayer card with them at church or you see them adorning the rear window of some God-fearing person's Chevy Tahoe or Ford Explorer. Or maybe even tatood on some part of the body. Two hands, presumably of Jesus, I think. Outstretched, held together with a little bit of the sleeves showing.

Why not a chocolate Jesus? Or a chocolate crucifix? Christ on a chocolate chip cookie? Oreos with holy filling? Purified, bottled, holy water you can drink while working out? Come on, chocolate praying hands? Gimme a fucking break.

-30-

I just noticed that there have been over a thousand hits on my blog.

I can only hope that it's being enjoyed.

Hit on, brave cyber readers, hit on!

And thanks.

-30-

Earlier today, I was at McDonald's getting some fries when I took a minute to prefold my parking money.

You know how those things are. If you don't pay for a monthly pass, you gotta slide your money into those coin-width slots on that metallic parking lot piggy bank. I'm OCD on some things. I always check the number on my space at least three times before I go to the appropriate slot on the bingo board. And to be sure the attendant or the security guard knows I paid, I leave the little, flat push bar thing that helps you shove your money all the way in stuck in the slot of my space.

Anyhow, back to McDonald's. I waited at the counter for them to bring up a new batch of fries. I carefully folded my money into a half. Then I folded that half. And then I folded the 3rd half. As I did this, an older guy- white beard, white hair, wearing a hat -laughed.

OLD GUY: You're as nit-picky as me.

He laughed again and I stopped folding my dollar bill.

ME: I wonder what that says about me.
OLD GUY: Nothing. You're just a young nit-picky.

For a few months, nay, years, I've been feeling the persistence of time. Each year just affirms what I've been trying to avoid. The long shadows are setting in and one day, in 10 or 15 years, I'll be avoiding all those things I've often found myself running headlong into.

Take booze for example. Fred, my long standing drinking buddy, and I have noticed that a six pack doesn't sit as well with us as it use to. We've always been the kind to pace ourselves. Speed drinking is for rookies and people who enjoy the taste of puke. And while I never condone mixing, I often like to sneak a martini or a tequila shot with a bunch of beer. A couple of girls at a bar in Arkansas I use to drink at tried go gig me one night with two Irish car bombs, a cement mixer, some shot that tasted like branches off a Christmas tree and some cinnamon schnapps. I'd already had a few shots of tequila and I was drinking beer the whole time. I woke up that morning feeling like a million bucks. And that was just a few years ago.

Not now. I mix and I pay the next morning.

I find myself telling Terrance, my youngest, things like "When I was your age..." What the Hell is that? I'm turning into my Dad. I see those kids with the baggy pants or the emo haircuts and I'm suddenly Abe Vigoda: "You crazy kids need to keep it down over there! Young whipper snappers." I've started dispensing that mumbling criticism of things I can't understand. "I don't know where they get that mumble mumble mumble mumble..." All I need is a cane to shake defiantly in the air when I'm being a crotchety bastard.

The irony of it is that I still like some of the music that's coming out these days. I don't care for the fashion; I've never been that kind of guy. The stuff I wear now is the stuff I wore as a younger guy. I like some TV shows they spin these days and I'm into some of the films they produce.

And I'm not old. I'm fucking 35. I'm still old enough to know, but young enough to ignore and claim total ignorance. Or maybe I'm not and I have to face that facts that if I don't start to act like a real grown up, I may continue to feel this way.

What's worse is when I think about that last statement, does that mean that I've become one of those guys I hate that refuses to get with his responsibilities and thinks that if you're not a rebel by 18 you've got no heart, but if you've not sold out to the man by 30 you've got no brains?

I always thought of myself as a child, in some respects. A child in the way that I always want to learn and invent and explore and create. A child, at heart, they say. But what's that line from 1 Corinthians 13:11...

"When I was a child I spoke as a child I understood as a child I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things."

My body is getting older. I am a married man with to teenage sons. I have a mortgage. I have bills. I have a job. I am not a child. I know this. But sometimes I feel like that's a sensibility that has always kept me thinking from a fresher stand point. But I think it's also a sensibility that spurs selfishness.

I looked at that old man today and I felt insulted. I'm not old. I'm not old. But in the morning, when my knees make that popping sound as I climb out of bed and I've got a hangover from the EIGHT BEERS that I had the night before, I have to wonder.

I stare at the toys on my desk. The pictures of my wife and my kids. I wonder, what's in store for me next?

-30-

It was a sinus infection, not a chest infection, that ended up preventing Aaron's surgery. A chest infection would have been more serious. Tonya alerted me that I put down the wrong kind of infection on my last entry. Just wanted to clarify it for everyone.

-30-

We got up early Friday morning and made our way to Santa Rosa Hospital for Aaron's long awaited surgery.

Shriner's Hospital has turned us down some time back. They didn't have the critical care staff needed to care for Aaron after the surgery. Long story short, we were very disappointed. Tonya is still mad at the doctors there. They just didn't listen to her.

We got to Santa Rosa early and waited almost an hour before we were called. Before long they had Aaron in a gown and were walking us up to meet with the surgeon and the anesthesiologist.

They were prepping him for the IV when the anesthesiologist stopped the nurse.

They were all worried that with Aaron's most recent chest infection, it would open the door to a possible infection to the hardware that would be installed into his leg. It wasn't anything we'd thought of at all.

Tonya was upset. Nearly at the brink of tears. We had been fighting to get this surgery going for some time now. We spend a year getting ready for it with Shriner's just for them to turn us down the day of surgery. Tonya did her best and kept her composure. In the end, she understood the reasons, but couldn't help but still be disappointed. I was just as upset, but also understood the reasons for the delay.

In the end, they rescheduled for the beginning of March. Days before Aaron's 18th birthday.

Oh, that's something else we didn't see. The last time that the surgery was rescheduled, Aaron was relieved. He never really showed signs of being disappointed. He spoke about it sometimes, but never really revealed any feelings other than looking forward to getting it over with. This time, he was mad. He spent the morning being worried and when we told him we were going home, he was confused. On the ride back to the house, we watched him sit in the backseat with a scowl on his face. Tonya began talking to him and it became obvious that he wasn't scared. He was pissed off. He's had to endure so much hype about the surgery only for it to be stopped twice. I'm not sure how he'll take it once it comes time to try again in a month.

The doctors suggested we finish his antibiotic treatment and get Aaron rechecked and cleared by the surgeon before his scheduled date.

Thanks to all of you who sent us positive thoughts and for all who donated your time and money to Aaron.

-30-

The wife and I decided to take the boys to Fire Mountain Grill the other day. It was the day of Terrance's 5K, which he did fantastic in, btw.

The boys were off getting their plates refilled while Tonya and I were eating our meals. Off to my left was a waitress busily placing wrapped silverware on empty tables. She was talking to another waitress. The exchange went something like this.

WAITRESS 1: The exterminator was hear, so I don't think we're gonna have a problem.
WAITRESS 2: Oh, the exterminator was here?
WAITRESS 1: Yeah and I ain't seen any all day. But they're still around, I think.

Okay, what the fuck? Whatever it was the exterminator didn't get can't be fucking good. Especially in a restaurant.

Look it's no secret, I'm not real fond of buffets. Not with all the ones I went to in Arkansas. Watching those inbred, hillbillies ingest large portions of mashed potatoes while smoking their Doral Lights. Ugh.

But I go to them. Most times, the food ain't bad. In fact, more often than not, it's pretty good. And the price is fair too.

That, however, doesn't always apply to Fire Mountain. This place has been a thorn in my side for some time.

As we sat there and continued to eat despitethe "exterminator" fiasco. A woman behind us made some comment about roaches. My wife and I both looked up at each other.

Me: Did I just hear what I think I heard?
Tonya: Yes.
Me: You hear it too?
Tonya: Yes, I did.
Me: Damn it, it wasn't just me.

We're not going back to that place for a long, long time.

-30-

I'm going to start something here. If I'm near a computer and I've got the stereo, iTunes or iPod going, I'm going to list the last five things I listened to at any given point in time. Here's the first offering:

1. Lord Raise Me Up - Matisyahu (Live at Stubb's)
2. Sweet Child of Mine - Guns n Roses (Appetite for Destruction)
3. Poor Fractured Atlas - Elvis Costello & The Attractions (All This Useless Beauty)
4. Not Listening - Papa Roach (Getting Away With Murder)
5. Heaven - Simply Red (Picture Book)

What are you listening to?

-30-

Last night, my wife and I were watching television when a commercial came on. It was for a children's toy that was part chalk board, part speak and say. A neat contraption. I muttered to Tonya that they never had anything like that when I was a kid.

After that commercial ended, another quickly rolled through.

Wife: That was cool.
Me: That's what I said.
Wife: What are you talking about?
Me: What do you mean?
Wife: I don't think we're talking about the same thing.

Rather than continue with the conversation verbatim, let me break it down. The basics about men and women can be easily explained like this.

When I watch a commercial, I watch the commercial for what it advertises or what it says. When my wife watches a commercial and the spokes woman is wearing a particular kind of dress or a blouse, that's what my wife is watching.

I can't think of how many times we're watching the same thing and I comment on what's ON the screen and she's commenting about what's IN the screen.

I wonder what that says about our differences.

-30-

Despite the fact that I tend to lean towards a sort of cynicism that would directly indicate I hate people in general, sometimes that's just not the case. A lot of times, I have such hope and love for people. The soul of an idealist still lingers somewhere inside my brain.

That day in September five years ago might have had something to do with that feeling coming up in me again. The way we all came together as Americans, as New Yorkers, to pick ourselves up and to heal our wounds. There are some wounds that will never heal.

I just wanted to post a message, for myself, for anyone who will listen, in hopes that we all start to heal a little bit more.

Their plan failed. We're not running from them; we're running at them.

Peace, love & understanding....

-30-

I've got a bunch of heroes. Martin Scorsese. John Frankenheimer. Shane Black. But there are heroes that don't always resonate with the public. Like Bruce Campbell. He is "Ash" from the "Evil Dead" trilogy.

Recently, my brother text messaged me with great excitement. Most text messages are generally ambiguous, but when it comes to my brother, I can tell. Especially when it comes to something like meeting Bruce Campbell.

So, my brother texts me and tells me, "I'm going to meet Bruce Campbell." I'm in Texas; he's in Buffalo. I'm just as excited as he is.

A few days later, he calls me and tells me all about the book signing and his long conversation with Bruce. I say long because my kid brother, my blood, got me three different books, all autographed by Bruce. And during this time of signing, he had a very cool conversation with him.

I'm not gonna go into the whole thing here, but I will say this. During the conversation, Bruce shared something with him which he prefaced with, "Here's some trivia.."

Apparently, Bruce was persuaded to write his first book, "If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor" by the "PC Guy" from the current Apple advertisements. The "PC Guy" is named John Hodgman and according to Bruce, was the reason for his first novel. Hodgman is a published author (Areas of My Expertise) and a contributor to both the New York Times Magazine and the Daily Show w/John Stewart. How's that for interesting. My brother also mentioned that he worked for Apple. Bruce followed that up with a comment about how he knew all these movie makers, since he was in the "business", and he was the only "idiot" still using a PC.

From the entire conversation, Bruce Campbell sounded just like I'd always hoped he'd be like. What's more, this was his first book signing tour and he still managed to take pictures and sign things that weren't his book. He is and will continue to be one of my heroes and inspirations.

-30-

I take the freeway to work most days. Unless there's lots of time to kill and then I take the scenic route.

Most of the ride to downtown is relatively uneventful. But yesterday's ride was cute, yet gruesome.

As I finalize my approach into downtown, I ease over to the lane that leads to my exit. As I did that, I found there were dozens of plush toy carcasses all along the shoulder of the freeway. Dozens of 'em. Well, some of them were just parts of bears or monkeys or clowns. Others lay face down in pools of rain water. They were spread out over 30 or 40 feet.

I'm going to get a picture of it tomorrow. It's too odd to fully describe and too strange not to have a picture of it.

There's an orphanage somewhere with a bunch of crying kids.

-30-

Suri Cruise is a very special child. This picture obtained by very special, confidential sources is obvious proof. How dare anyone say Cruise was lying about having a child? Just look at this face. How could anyone make something like this up? Obviously, everyone else is lying.

At least, that's what the baby's casting agents tell everyone. Casting for Cruise's Baby must be taking forever.

I look at this photo and I'm afraid. Very afraid.

-30-

Classified. Or about classifieds. I love 'em. Not the vehicle ones or the homes for sale or the job ones, but the ones that post things for sale. And the pets.

The paper here has a classification called, 'bargain basement'. I love to browse that every day. I don't know what it is about that. I mean, lots of times, I don't have a need for 'Bucket Seats for Pinto of Bobcat,' but I like to read about them. I don't have a need for 'Reptile Habitat clean and secure w/lamp, new heat pad, 20 gal long,' but it's neat that it's out there.

I don't know what it is about the 'bargain basement'. Someone owned these things and love them for a time and has now decided to part with them. Or maybe they didn't love them. Maybe they didn't even want them. Who knows.

I could use a 'Coke 2 door glass cooler,' but I can't afford it.

-30-

Examining some of the many features of my new toy, er, I mean, cellphone, I decided to see if it came with any games. I was then reminded of my wife's dismay:

Tonya: Man, this sucks.
Me: What?
Tonya: This doesn't have very good sounds. It doesn't even have any games.

Despite the fact that our original's phone's shelf life was about six minutes, it was still a good phone. Color screen, backlit numbers and relatively decent volume. Our new phones are fucking cool.

They've got a speakerphone, a camera, they came with a headset and car charger AND it's a flip phone. I've always wanted a flip phone. The only thing with these phones is that the service providers want you to buy ringtones and wallpapers and games. So they don't put anything cool on them as default.

The first day we got ourselves one ringtone to help personalize it. The phones also came with these fancy, mock-leather cases that you can clip to your pocket or belt. She put her's on her phone to help differentiate it from mine.

For the next few days we were taking pictures and sending them and trying new text messages and sound and all sorts of stuff.

Anyhow, back to my original rant. I decided to browse through the games available for purchase. I just wanted to see what kind of stuff this phone could do.

They had the obligatory games, like Tetris, but then they had stuff like Tiger Woods PGA Golf, The Sims 2, 2006 FIFA World Cup and even a Family Guy game. On a cellphone.

Anyhow, I browsed around until I ran into one that caught my eye. Call of Duty 2. Now, I played Call of Duty on the PlayStation 2. It was freakin' hard. There's all kind of period weaponry, different ways to attack and a very accurate story line. All in all, it was a great game that I'm sure took a long time to create, let alone play. Here's what the cellphone game boasts:

"Application Description:
Experience the true intensity and tension of war in the most realistic World War II game ever seen on a cellphone."

On a cellphone. Ugh.

-30-

I didn't bring my lunch to work yesterday, so I took a walk to the Rivercenter mall and their expansive food court.

A burger just didn't sound very appealing, but I didn't have much money. I had relegated myself to getting a Hunger Buster from Dairy Queen, when suddenly I spotted a Schlotzsky's sandwich shop. I looked through the menu and counted all the money in my pocket. I'd be able to squeeze out a sandwich and a drink.

So, I ordered my food and when I got my drink, it had this scratch and win thingy stuck to the side of the glass. I pulled it off and stuck it in my pocket. I didn't figure I'd win anything anyway.

I made the long trek back to the paper, my nearly bald head baking in the hot sun. There were puddles of tourists all over the streets. You can tell the out-of-towners by the sun beaten squint and way their mouths hang open in a sort of "I just had a lobotomy" kinda way.

Anyhow, I got back to work and sat down to eat. Toward the end of my meal, I remembered the scratch-off thingy in my pocket and grabbed a coin.

The game is like a hand of poker. You rub out the top layer to reveal your hand, then the dealer's and then you can see what prize you win. I like to do it all in that order.

So I scratch off my hand. I had to look at it closely because the letters are so small, but I had four queens. Four queens. That has to be a good thing. Then I scratched off the dealer's hand. A full house; 3's over Jacks.

I had to think for a moment whether four queens beat a full house, but I was reassured by a coworker that they did.

At that point, I was fully satisfied I'd won big. I mean, four of a kind is a hard hand to get on one deal. Let alone on some randomized scratch-off game. So I scratched out the prize and what did I find:

"75 cents off your next pizza purchase."

Never has a four of a kind felt like a losing hand.

-30-

Tonya and I loaded up our two boys and hit the open road for Houston a few days ago. Our trip had several levels.

On one level, we were on our way to admit Aaron, our oldest, for surgery at the Shriner's Hospital. The Shriners' organization perform medical procedures free of charge to qualifying families. Tonya has taken Aaron there since he was a wee little knipper. Most recently, we took him there for a procedure to remove some metal hardware from his hip. The following surgery would then correct the alignment of his left leg (which turns inward due to his cerebral palsy). To make a long story short, he was scheduled for surgery on the 27th.

Part two of our trip consisted of taking Terrance, our youngest, to the airport for his summer visit to Arkansas. It also marked a first for Terrance- his first plane ride -a fact that we were reminded of for several weeks, nearly every two to three hours.

Tonya quit her job in preparations for the three weeks she and Aaron would stay for rest and rehabilitation. During that time, I had prepared to work overtime and edit my film. Terrance would arrive in the middle of the month just in time for school.

Our plans had been firmly set in stone.

Part I: Pressure
Tonya has been dreading this surgery for Aaron. The procedure is scheduled to take 3 hours and is wrought with a bit of peril for Aaron. Since he has the use of only one lung (and not a complete lung at that) anything that requires anesthesia is dangerous. He must be kept under constant supervision by physicians who understand his condition and the pitfalls that it creates. It seems unless there's a "Doctor" in front of your name, most physicians won't really listen to anything you have to say regarding the condition of YOUR OWN CHILD. Nevermind the fact that she's gone to school for respiratory therapy. Nevermind that she's made it a point to ask the questions and understand the answers to all of the things that happen to Aaron. Her statements in regards to his condition have been met with some hostility and have fallen on deaf ears. Needless to say, there's been a lot of pressure building in our home.

Terrance is like any normal teenager. Filled with angst. Plagued with deafness. And afflicted with an attention span of a squirrel on speed. But when his mind locks in on something he really wants, he ain't afraid to let you hear about it. I don't know how many questions I've answered about air travel. And how many times I've heard how great his grandma's cooking is and how he listens to her better than us because she's nicer. While I've had her cooking and agree that it is very good, I don't think she'd be anywhere near as nice if she had to live with our son. His grandmother, Donna, went above and beyond and bought Terrance a ticket on Southwest, to and from. She didn't want to have me driving to Houston and then to Sherman to meet her and her husband, BJ. That was an awesome thing to do.

With Tonya having quit her job, our concerns were raised further with my job. As a temporary employee, I wasn't sure if I had any sick days or if any of the days I had to be absent for Aaron's surgery were covered. This would put a strain on us, financially, if the days weren't paid. We didn't really think of that until the time crept up on us to travel to Houston.

At the end, there's my film. I actually did what I set out to do: I finished on time and on schedule. Well, almost. I fucked up the internal mailbox scene twice. And I'd forgotten to record Luis' narration for THE ENTIRE FUCKING FILM. I had to find a way to get done what I had to do before I left. Luis would be gone before I returned and if that happened, the film would be incomplete. I also promised Tonya that I wouldn't talk about the film while we were en route and in Houston. That would be a tall order.

Did I mention that our cell phones were cut off a day before we left for Houston? I didn't mention that, did I? Yes. They were cut off. Tonya and I share a plan with my mother and father on T-Mobile. Apparently, a month or so ago, someone in Dallas opened an account with all of my father's information and then ran up a huge bill. My father has since been in a struggle to obtain information from T-Mobile, who has essentially washed their hands of the entire episode and the incredibly rude collection agency, which has also been less than forthcoming with information on this bogus account.

PART II: On The Road Again
Tonya figured it would be a great idea if we left early Wednesday morning, the 26th. This was good for several reasons. Most importantly, the heat is incredibly bad for Aaron. Secondarily, it would keep all of us cooler to drive in the dark. We also planned to stop for breakfast just before Houston at this place the Shriners' drivers take Tonya and Aaron each time they go to Houston. We left a little later than we planned, 3am, but we were on the road and making good time. Until the rain started. We tried to keep the windows down a little, since the windshield was getting foggy from all the body heat and breathing. Fortunately, the rain wasn't hard and it wasn't constant. Unfortunately, neither was my energy level. I was twice as tired after our breakfast stop and was becoming quite irritable. My condition and the weather, didn't improve much when we finally made it to Houston. Traffic on I-10 West was crawling. There were six or so wrecks on all the highways and byways leading into Houston. I had just enough juice to get us to the hospital.

Upon admittance, Aaron has to go through a few tests (blood, urine, etc) before he can be green lit for surgery. Just as these tests were to begin, the anesthesiologist came and the discussion about Aaron's pulmonary condition began. Tonya tried to explain to them what they would later find out, but there was no doing. They postponed the surgery and scheduled Aaron with a pulmonologist for exams. Knowing we don't currently have insurance, they footed the bill for all of that. And for a hotel for two nights. And for a few meals.

Tonya was angry and rightfully so. Still, we let them do their song and dance, trying to figure our between ourselves how we'd handle the next surgery date. With my job not being secure, we agreed she'd have to come up with Aaron, alone. That's a prospect I didn't want her to have to contend with, but Terrance would also be returning about the same time and his school would then begin.

Somewhere along the way, Tonya strained a muscle on her back. She hobbled around, from place to place in real pain. I had to buy her some back pain meds to help her sleep, but the concrete block beds at the La Quinta didn't help it at all. She was horribly unhappy. It was a chore for her to even get in and out of the car.

We waited for Friday to come so that we could put Terrance on his flight and make our way home.

Part III: People Suck
The ride back would be a trying one. After sending Terrance on his way, we had to make the journey back home. So far, we'd adjusted for all the changes and all the things that had gone wrong. We knew it would be hot and we knew it would be trying as Hell for Aaron. We made our way out of town, hitting a bit of traffic, but feeling confident that once we left Houston our troubles were over.

We stopped a few times and took restroom breaks and got cold water and snacks. After a couple of 20oz Lipton Green Tea's, I had to stop a few more times than I cared to. It was a stop in Weimar, Texas, that broke the camel's back for this trip.

I had to stop and go to the bathroom. Tonya figured it would be good for all of us to do so and get something else to drink. We pulled into a small, non-descript Shell station. After we did our business, we noticed that the store boasted a lot of Pick 5 and scratch-off winners. Tonya thought maybe we'd try our luck and get a scratch off ticket. We won nothing. On the way out, I grabbed another ticket and another tea and got in the car. I took off my Docs and wore my flip flops for the rest of the ride home. After getting in the car and starting towards the highway, we began to hear a very distinctive sound. I knew the sound very well.

Tonya: What's that noise?
Me: A flat. That sounds like a flat.
Tonya: I think you're right.

When we pulled over, I got out to inspect the tire. What I found was nothing more than the most infuriating thing in the world.

If you have children reading over your shoulder, you should have them go to their rooms at this point.

I looked down to see the rear, driver's side tire flat. I thought maybe I'd picked up nail or a piece of glass, but those assumptions quickly left me as I noticed the SIX PUNCTURE MARKS that went around the tire. Six. Some lousy, piece of shit, mother fucking, son of a bitch slashed my tire. Some sorry fuck neck took the time to punch large holes into my tire, not once, not twice, but SIX FUCKING TIMES. And for what? What good would that kind of vandalism do? It's not like spray painting a wall or setting a building on fire or stealing money. All those things might be considered a statement. No, this sorry fuckhead decided that his statement for the day would be to slash MY FUCKING TIRE. His act of rebelliousness would be to ruin an otherwise good tire. To ruin someone else's property. For what? FOR WHAT?!?!?

I was coming undone. And the situation felt as though it got worse. I really didn't, but at that point, a fly could have pushed me over the edge. As I tried to change the tire, the heavy traffic flew by and shook me and the car. Tonya played lookout while I started the process. Some people would move over to the far lane. Other people would try, but traffic would prevent them from doing so. Still others didn't give a shit and would just ride that line and zoom past me and my wife. No one bothered to stop nor did the police or highway patrol pay us a visit. All these things further reinforced what I've always felt about the majority of people: they are no good.

After some struggle with the tire, I managed to get the donut on and we drove into the next gas station to make sure it was properly inflated. We then spent the next couple of hours driving around 50MPH all the way home.

Epilogue: Be It Ever So Humble
Tonya and I were never so glad to see our house. Not to mention our bed. I saw a couple of other people with tire troubles, but there was just no way for me to stop and help them. I thought about it. In the back of my mind, I'd hope that someone had thought about me as they drove by, knowing that might bring some solace to my plight.

We were so happy to be home after such a trying few days. Now we await for Shriner's to let us know if and when Aaron will have his surgery. We've got bills to pay and things we need to do and it just seems like they've asked us to place everything on hold. While I know their service is so valuable to us and that they do such a noble thing by offering it free of charge, I feel like it comes with a few strings. Strings that we must deal with and smile.

In the end, all that's important is that Aaron have the best quality of life possible. With the surgery or without.

And despite how bad the trip was, I was with my wife and my kids. I can't ask for a better gift than that.

-30-

We had day 6 of shooting on my film, "A Matter of Time", today and we went right down to the wire. I had hardly any time to get myself ready for work or to grab something to eat.

I took my son, Terrance, to the store to pick up some pizzas for he and his brother. While there, I figured I'd grab a coupe of those little, double cheeseburgers that McDonalds has on their Dollar Menu.

First, let me just say that I've seen Super Size Me. And I've sort of, kind of, felt the after effects of too much Mickey-D's. Lately, I've been using these little burgers as a substitute for a real meal. They're cheap, they have two paties of what appears to be meat and they can be eaten on the go.

I left my son at the Wal Mart near the house with money to pay for the pizzas, stopped and got those greasy little burgers and made my way. I always get two with no pickles and no onions. They always compensate by adding far too much ketchup. Not to mention that they're greasy as all Hell. They'd slide right out of your hand if it wasn't for the McWrapper. And the fact that the processed McCheese is stuck to the McWrapper.

As I got in my truck and drove away, the smell from the burgers started to make me sick. I mean, I became physically ill. I felt like I might toss my cookies right there in the truck. Just typing this out I have to drink some water and resist the urge to hurl.

But I need to eat something, I thought. My wife gets after me when I don't eat and I get those hunger headaches. I unwrapped a burger, rearranged the McWrapper so I could eat the greasy morsel and took a big bite. I took three before I had to put the thing away. I was going to get on the freeway. I didn't want this to be what the cops told my wife:

Police: Ma'am. I have bad news.
Tonya: (shaken) What's wrong?
Police: Your husband was involved in a collision on the 410. He's dead.
Tonya: (Crying) NO!!!
Police: Ma'am it gets worse.
Tonya: (still crying) How could this be worse?!?!?!?
Police: When we were able to peel him from the steering wheel, he had two McDonalds' 99 cent hamburgers squished against his face. I think it was suicide.

I could feel my arteries hardening as I chewed. In fact, I could feel the grease running through my veins.

When I arrived at the company parking lot and got out of my truck, I figured I needed to finish what I started. I took the bitten burger out, fired it down with great remorse and uttered to myself, "This is the last double cheeseburger I'm going to have." As I passed an alley, I saw a bum sitting the warm shade of a building. I called out to him.

Me: Hey, bub, you want this?
Bum: What is it?

Now, this immediately drew my ire, so I thought, 'Oh, you really deserve this now.'

Me: Food.
The bum thought about it. Bum: Okay.

He just sat there. And since this directly conflicts with how I feel about some homeless people, I launched it at him. It fell near him and he reached out and took it.

Bum: Thanks.

When I got to my desk, I quickly chugged down the remainder of my "sparkling water beverage" which was "mandarin orange" flavored in hopes of washing out what remained of the grease bomb.

If we kill Roland McDonald, could anyone really prosecute us?

-30-

I lifted this straight from IMBD.com. I think it's from Reuters Wire Service.

Poll Shows Moviegoers Are Big DVD Buyers
A poll of moviegoers indicates that 83 percent of those who see ten or more movies per year in theaters also "frequently" or "sometimes" buy the DVD of many of the same movies, the New York Times reported today (Monday). The study, conducted by Nielsen Entertainment, concluded that seeing movies in the theater and at home "are not mutually exclusive occurrences" and appears to boost arguments by theater owners that they would be harmed significantly if movies were released in theaters and on DVD simultaneously. Thirty-six percent said they would skip the multiplex if that were to occur.

Hey, I have an idea! STOP CHARGING TO FUCKING MUCH FOR POPCORN AND DRINKS AND MAYBE PEOPLE WON'T WANT TO STAY HOME AND WATCH A FUCKING MOVIE!

What the fuck? These theatre owners are getting their panties in a bunch because if people are given an option of dropping $20-$25 on a brand spankin' new movie or dropping $80 for the same movie they only get to see once and then have to buy all the marked up concession stand crap, people will most likely take the $20-route. Does that logic fail to register?

Listen, I'll be the first to say, I love the movies. I loved them when I was a kid and they were $1.25 for a brand new release. I even loved them when they were $3.75. And loved them when they went up to $6. But at $8 a pop, I have to shell out nearly $40 to take my family to the movies. Then there's the food. A bucket of popcorn is almost $5. Drinks start at $3.25. And there's the overpriced candy. Let's do some math:

Aaron: soda ($3.25/sm), candy ($4/split with Terrance)
Terrance: soda ($3.25/sm)
Tonya: soda ($4/lg)
Me: soda ($4/lg)
Family: popcorn ($4/w/refills)

With tickets and tax added, I'll drop nearly $60 on a night at the movies. SIXTY FUCKING DOLLARS. I'm not saying my family isn't worth the expense. I love them. If I could afford to drop that much at a time, I would do it with a big fat grin. But the key here is AFFORD TO DO IT.

While nothing compares with the feeling of watching something like "Superman Returns" on the big screen, if the prices continue to go up and I'm given the option to buy the movie (which I most likely will anyway), I'll grab the DVD and run.

I know why I go to the movies. It's not the same reason most people go. I go because I'm a film buff. There's nothing that compares quite like watching "Army of Darkness" or "Apocalypse Now" on the big screen. Or some sweeping epic. A western. "Die Hard" was awesome on the big screen. I should know. I saw it 12 times. 8 of those times I paid full price ($3.75).

And you can't always wait for the print to head to Cinemark's Dollar Theatres. There's nothing worse than sitting in those crappy seats, your shoes stick to the floor and the print is worn and wonky. Not to mention the fact that people who go to the Dollar Movies go and pretend that it's THEIR LIVING ROOM. They kick their feet up on the seats, talk on their cell phones and cut up with their friends. Just shitty.

With the advent of better special effects, bigger budgets and two-studio pictures, I've seen the prices of tickets rise by 50 cents every couple of years. And the concessions go up three fold. Before long, you'll have to take out a loan to go to the movies.

It's all a game of numbers. Is Tom Hanks worth $20 mil a film? No, I don't believe so. If less money changes his desire to act better, then he needs to find a different career. Because last I remember, he said that he loved acting because "he got to pretend to be different people." He never said he loved getting bags full of money. Everything a studio does, from working their people till all ends of the night to paying an actor, AN ACTOR, millions of dollars translates to higher ticket prices.

When I was a kid, my Dad would take the family to the movies pretty often. I doubt that they go to the movies at all now. But back then, we were guaranteed to see a new release movie, $1.25 for the late show, then we'd go have pizza. It was only at the movies that I got to have some pop. Dad discouraged soda at home. I'd get my own and a bag of popcorn. I remember the feeling of the theatres then. I got excited when the lights went down and the trailers started. To this day, I hate being late the movies because I love the trailers so.

I'll never stop loving movies. Never. But if I'm given a choice as to where I want to enjoy the movie, I'll pick at home with my wife and my kids any day. Theatres don't have a pause button.

-30-

Everything comes full circle.

I busted my ass jumping off the side of my house with a towel wrapped around my neck pretending to be Superman when I was a kid. My mother made me the ABSOLUTE COOLEST COSTUME EVER. I dare anyone to beat my mother's costume. She hand made me a Superman costume. From scratch. She even bought me these crazy boots that she later hot glued or adhered red fabric to so that I'd have real boots. My mom fucking ROCKS. She had done it once before when I wanted to be Batman, but that's fodder for another post.

Last night, after nearly 20 years, Superman finally returns to the big screen in Brian Singer's aptly name "Superman Returns."

I've written about this before, but maybe not on the blog. I remember the first Superman poster like it was yesterday. The blue and red streaks shooting through the clouds. And the tag line, "You will believe a man can fly." Say what you will about that movie, but look at the powerhouse cast you had. Marlon Brando playing Superman's father. The great Gene Hackman as Superman's enemy. The then unknown Chris Reeve as Superman. Directed by Richard Donner. Story and script by Mario Puzo. I left there believing I was Superman. The feeling hasn't yet subsided.

I'll be honest with you. I'm scared. And I'm not even an uber geek when it comes to Superman. I never really kept up with the comic books. But when it came to my favorite superhero, hands down, it was always Superman. He died and came back, for Christ's sake!

I've got a bunch of Superman action figures. I try to look for new ones all the time to add to my collection. I try to buy two at a time, so I can take one out of the packaging.

I have yet to purchase the original Superman poster, though. I've been looking around for a print that's close to the original date and that I can afford. Although a reprint would be just as good.

I said at the beginning that everything comes full circle. Superman represents a lot of things to me. He's not just my favorite superhero. Not just one of the first movies that I really remember making an impact in my life. He's a major reason in my wanting to write and direct films. Miles Davis talks about the fire that drove his life. It was in St. Louis and the year was 1944. He'd heard that Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker, among others, were going to be playing a small club around the way. He loved listening to Diz and would often play along with records and memorize solos.
He grabbed his horn and went to the venue. While he was there, a man approached him and asked him if he had his union card. He told the man he did and the man told him they needed another horn; their trumpet player had gotten sick. Miles said that at that time, he had been just chewing on everything that Dizzy ever did. He didn't recognize the man who asked him to join the band until they got up on stage and Diz began to play. He then realized who that man was.
He went on, about the Jazz heavy hitters on that stage that night. He said Bird (Charlie Parker) just mesmerized the group. He said they all took turns playing solos, one after another. He said that night he played the best music that he's ever played in his life. Ever. Everything he did after that, he said, was just an attempt to recapture that moment in '44. He chased those notes till the day he died.

I think that you could interpret that several ways. What I chose to read from it is something positive. This torch I carry for film was sparked when I saw a guy in blue and red tights fly across the screen. It wasn't the man, the myth or the legend that got me. It was what he represented: everyone has some super power inside. So we don't have x-ray vision or super strength. Maybe our gifts are intelligence, wisdom or talent. I know that's what make my wife super. She's understanding, sexy, loving and supportive.

I don't know when my gift was planted, but I know what helped it grow. And some 20 years after it sparked my dream, I'm finally going to do what it's asked me to do for more than 10 years. On July 7th, I begin shooting what will be my new film, "A Matter of Time." Even the title seems fitting. This project will test everything I've learned. There have been lots of starts and stops in this journey. Lots of pitfalls. This time, there's only blue sky.

"They are a good people Kal-El, they wish to be. They only lack the light to show the way. It is for this reason above all, their capacity for good, that I've sent them you, my only son."

You will believe a man can fly.

-30-

As I was leaving work a day or so ago, I cut through the loading docks adjacent to the Express-News press. The area I mention is sandwiched between the main offices and the press area.

Walking through there shaves a minute or two from my walk to the truck on most days.

Anyhow, as I was making my way out of the dock area, I happened to glance down to find the classifieds from the paper I got canned from, Rumbo. A truck had just left the docks and ran over it. Greasy, black tire treads were stamped across the tabloid pages.

How fortunate that I should be there to see that. Irony at it's finest.

-30-

My first couple of weeks in Arkansas were pretty shitty. I had removed myself from everything and everyone that mattered to me. It was a tough new beginning.

I kept to myself for a long time. I mean, there was a lot of tension from the locals. Not a lot of Mexicans in Arkansas when I first arrived. I was a drug dealer as far as they were concerned. Slowly, I started mixing more with my coworkers. I got invited to lunch and started exploring the city more on my own.

One Sunday night, the page reader came over to drop a page off at my desk. I can't remember how the subject of the Sopranos came up exactly, but we got to talking about the show. I told him that I'd watched from the beginning. He told me he and some of his friends got together to watch the show after work. Armed with the invitation to his apartment, I went home and grabbed a six pack of beer then headed over to his place to watch the latest episode. That was how I became friends with Ben.

I remember he was surprised that I brought beer. He was even more surprised when I didn't take the untouched beer home. Ben found a lot about me strange, I think.

Over the course of the next few years, Ben and I became close friends. I've met a few people in my life; none of them like Ben. During all the time we spent together, Ben never judged me about anything. He was always there to listen and offer advice. He's a great drinking buddy and a smart motherfucker too. Just an all around great guy. We found out we shared similar tastes in music and film. Not to mention the fact that we both enjoyed good conversation and a good cigar. Top that all off with our love of The Ramones and it sealed the deal.

I'd like to think that we both learned a lot about life from each other. Even though we've only been friends for a short time, I feel like we've been friends forever. I know that there were times where maybe I wasn't the best roommate, but he was forgiving.

Then there was the camera. The man bankrolled my miniDV camera. What can you say about a friend who helps you buy something like that? Shit, even if he hadn't, I've got lots to say about him.

There were times when my world was collapsing around me. He was there to knock a bit of it off my back and help me up. I tried to do the same for him whenever I could.

See, Ben wasn't just my friend. He was my brother.

We roomed together with another one of my best friends, Lyon, at a 5,000 square foot Victorian home dubbed "The Five Points". It was the ultimate bachelor pad. Three movie geeks, two TV rooms and a generous helping of beer. We hosted some great parties and had some great benders together.

We had our weekly drinking night, Thursdays, at a local pub. He and I, Stewart, Jeff Arnold and Lyon. That was our fortress of solitude. Those were good times.

And we took some road trips too. He and I saw Graceland together. We took a tour of the Gibson guitar factory in Memphis. We saw Dylan in Oklahoma City. And we even traveled to Dallas to visit a couple of arthouse theatres and catch movies we normally wouldn't be able to see.

It was his birthday yesterday. Sadly, it's another one I've missed. He's married now. He use to think it wouldn't happen; my wife would always tell him otherwise.

Ben, I wish I could give you more than just these few words. I wish Tonya and I could meet you and Jenny at the bar and share a pizza, a few drinks and a lots of laughs.

But for now, I'll just wish you many happy returns, a long life and lots of love.

Salud, dinero y amor, my brother. I love you.

-30-

I just wanted to send Al Gore props for inventing the internet. He's brought me hours upon hours of fun.

I want to get to my first find quickly because it will be old and stale by the time I'm done. I must have been living under a rock not to know about this. I can't remember just how I came upon it, but it's quickly becoming my new mantra. What the Hell am I talking about?

Snakes On A Plane

This has become some kind of internet phenomenon. It's spawned all kinds of websites and attention.

Click Here

What's more, I found a great blog from a screenwriter named Josh Friedman. You need to read his Snakes blog. I've become a big fan of his blog.

Snakes On A Motherfucking Plane

Finally, there's a radio show that my brother, Ben, introduced me to.

The Treatment

Elvis Mitchell, formerly a film critic for the New York Times, hosts this show where he interviews actors, producers and directors. The talks are always lively and there's always something cool that you may or may not have known about the machinery that is Hollywood.

There's a lot I could say about these sites. But only one thing could truly sum it all up.

Snakes on a plane. Yeah. Snakes on a plane.

-30-

My brother, Dorian, flew into Corpus Christi to be best man in the wedding of one of his best friends. A week before the wedding, he came to SA and we did our drinking & catching up thing.

As we always do, we smoked a bunch of cigarettes, did a couple of Irish car bombs and sucked down a lot of beer.

After the drinking came the obligatory trip to Whataburger. My wife got up at 6 a.m. and found us asleep on the couch, TV on and Whataburger remains on the coffee table in front of us.

Here's the evidence.



-30-

One of the perks of working for the Express-News is that they give us tickets to see the local minor league baseball team, the San Antonio Missions.

I have yet to take Terrance to a major league ball game, but I've taken him twice to see the Missions. He really likes it. We buy a bag of sunflower seeds and both get into the game.

The seats are really good; right behind home plate. We even get VIP parking. Although this last time it proved to be the cause of a near heart attack. We walked out of the third base exit and couldn't find the car. We thought it had gotten stolen. I stopped and talked to a bike cop and found out we'd walked out of the wrong exit. The VIP lot was at the first base exit. Whew.

I never caught anything at a ball game before last Saturday. They were hurling "burritos" from the commentator's box late in the game. I couldn't figure out why they would launch food from a high window into the crowd like that, but as I caught one of these things, it turned out to be a "stress burrito". You know the stress, squeeze stuff: foam rubber. A local Neo-Mexican food place called Chipotle glued a sticker to the bottom for promotion. Turn in the foam burrito at one of their restaurants and get a real burrito. I've eaten there. Good stuff.

Anyhow, here's some pictures from the game.






-30-

It's been a bit of a roller coaster ride these last few weeks. Being dropped like a hot potato by the company who claimed that I was a superstar. RUMBO is not heading down the tubes. All the loyalties have started to go out the window. The one of the founders is heading back to California and will 'remain in some capacity.' That's code for, 'I'm getting out before this thing comes crashing down.'

I'm with the Express-News now. I'd hoped to have been here long before, but I had to take my chances with Rumbo. I'm not upset about the firing. I'm not upset that all our work was diced and chopped and spit back out as some border town rag. I'm upset that we were lied to, from the beginning, and then left to hang from the flagpole until the bitter, fucking end. I gave them my loyalty and my blood; they gave me my walking papers. They tried to run with the big dogs and we paid the price.

To make matters worse, we were lied to in another respect. We were told that the company would do everything possible to set us up with another job. Do you know what that was? It was a shitty letter of recommendation. Shitty. Apparently, my hook into a new job was how "enjoyable he is to have in the newsroom." They never did a damn thing to find me another job. Had I waited for them to do so, I would have starved, lost my house and gone bankrupt. I had to find my own job and I didn't need the shitty letter of recommendation to do it.

Needless to say, my layoff has affect us in many ways. It has set us back in all respects. Tonya's brother was married this weekend and we had planned on trekking up to Arkansas for the wedding, but since I didn't have a job and she couldn't take time off because she was brining in the income, we couldn't go. We've had to tighten the belts in all ways and we've paid the price. My parents, thankfully, came to the rescue and helped us with a few bills and groceries because Tonya's check and my unemployment were just not enough.

Rumbo has now spent 1.5 million in a new advertising campaign to promote the recently reorganized product. They are rehiring designers at nearly $10,000 less. The VP of editorial, one of the founders, has stepped down and will be "promoting Rumbo's interests from California.' He's going to help expand the empire. In the meantime, people are leaving the company like rats off a sinking ship. I'm sure they will inspire a lot of confidence in their advertisers, not to mention their staff.

Shedding the hair was a rebirth for me. The Express-News is a new beginning for me. It's been tough learning all new methods and workflows, but I feel good. I'm doing business and have done several covers already. I know that as my knowledge base grows, I'll get better. I feel a little bit anxious; I want to know it all now so I can rock the house. But as my mentor, David, says, "Trust your instincts and take it one step at a time."

The family is good, healthy and together. We're lacking the wants, but we got the needs. And that's the important part.

-30-

Well, yesterday marked a wild day in my life. Not only did I let someone other than my mother cut my hair- before you freak out, my mother has been a cosmotologist for the last 35 years -but I shaved my head. Well, almost. There's about a quarter inch of hair left.

It feels good. My head feels lighter and I don't wake up with all this hair all over my face. No more hair ties. No more having to spend 15 minutes washing my freakin' hair. Low maintenance. My best friend, Ben, takes the same approach. I wish I would have done it sooner.

Anyhow, I just wanted to share the news and throw in pictures of the event.

Yes, I took pictures.

-30-

I don't know what the Hell this Muppet song is called, but my wife got me this for Valentine's Day.

Enjoy!

-30-

Well, it's a dark day for Terrance. Shit, it's equally dark for me.

Fudge, the slightly skewed Lab mix we got Terrance, bit a kid next door. The child in question, about 10 or 11 years old, got pinched in the back. It was a bite, just not a puncture bite. Fudge's teeth raked across the kid's skin. He drew blood.

The mother was frantic, but when Tonya and I went over to talk to them and see the boy, she started to calm down. Tonya and I didn't have any problem with her anger. She was justified. And we cooperated as much as we could, even in so much as reporting it before the kid made it to the doctor to be looked at.

Of course, the kid's mom said that she'd have to file a report. I knew what might happen then. Fudge would have to be quarantined for about ten days. Sure enough, they served us papers yesterday stating just that.

This morning, Terrance was heading out to catch the bus to school. I had Fudge on the leash, having just taken him out for a potty break.

"You're not gonna wish your dog well. You're not gonna see him for ten days." I said.
Terrance hesitantly approached him and began to pet him.
"I was just heading out, to catch my bus. I might miss it." he said
"Oh, okay." I replied.
I began to lead Fudge back to the crate.
"He doesn't have rabies, right?" Terrance asked with great uncertainty.
"Don't worry," I replied, "he's gonna be fine."
I heard nothing else but the sound of the door closing and him telling both Aaron and I that he loved us.

Before heading off to work, I took Fudge on the ride to the big house. As soon as we stepped off the truck, he began to bark and growl.

He barked at a woman who was coming into the shelter offices. When we were inside, there were three control officers taking a break. One of the three, the second woman, eyeballed Fudge as he barked and growled.

"He ain't happy." she muttered.

One of the other guards, the male, helped me get the paperwork to the cashier all the while Fudge was asserting himself to the officers. The woman he barked at outside, stepped out from a door and began to talk to me. Well, at me.

"He doesn't have to do that. He can be taught not to do that when strangers are near." she said forcefully, increasing her volume to surpass Fudge's barking.

She then instructed me to give Fudge a tap in the ass, with the side of my shoe, each time he barked at someone. After which, I should reward him. Each time he began to growl, she would bark at me.

"Do it now! Do it now!" she'd say forcefully.

So, I did it. It worked. Each time he barked less and less until, finally, he didn't bark at all.

"He's a nice dog, it's a shame he isn't well trained. But it's not too late."
With that, the grey haired stranger was gone.

"Sir, can I tell you something." the male animal control officer said. "If an animal control officer sees you kicking a dog like that, he ain't gonna be too happy."
"I was just thinking that very same thing. They tell us not to hit a dog and she's telling me the exact opposite."

The control officers were very helpful. They told me about muzzles and ways to help stop Fudge from being aggressive. It made the fact that I had to leave him there easier.

We walked to the back of the facility, which didn't smell too great. The officer led me into the kennel and signed some papers, then had me follow him to find Fudge an empty dog run. After finding it, he let me stay with him for a minute or two before he came back with a bowl of water.

The entire time, Fudge was hesitant to approach the water or even get near the cage. And when I got up to leave, he knew it. He began to yelp and bark.

They did tell us we could come and visit. We can even bring treats. But we can't have physical contact. A vet will check on him, daily, for signs of rabies. Of course, he won't show any; he's got his shots. But afterwards, when we pick him up, he'll have to get neutered.

I've never had something like this happen before. I can't say I'm not upset, cause I am. He'll be released on Valentine's Day. Hope the big house don't change him.

-30-

Nothing is sacred.
Not dead bodies. Or live ones.
Now, it seems, drug dealers in Colombia are using innocent little puppies to bring their garbage into the U.S.

Heroin In Puppies

Sick fucking people.

-30-

I was up one night watching Fuse, back when it was called MuchMusic, on the day that Layne Staley was found dead of a drug overdose. If you didn't know, Staley was the front man for Alice In Chains. Chains was one of four bands (Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and Kurt Cobain's Nirvana) to bring the Seattle grunge sound to the mainstream. Just about every music & entertainment channel had run some kind of retrospective about Staley that day.

I was never fortunate enough to see Alice In Chains perform live. I'd always heard that they were one of the best live, rock bands of their era. There were times when I heard Staley sing and thought his voice was just so haunting. Even though I didn't know it at the time, his voice carried with it a great deal of pain. I'm still doing some research on him, to know him better even though he's been gone a while. He died at 34, a tortured soul, an "angry angel." The only time I had ever had a chance to see them was on the Metallica tour that would precede their release of the Black Album. The bill was Alice In Chains, Suicidal Tendencies, Candlebox and headliners, Metallica. Chains had dropped out of the bill before they made it to South Park Meadows in Austin, Texas. They had stopped touring completely, it was said. Reports of Staley's drug use were widely known and most of the people I knew all agreed that the band was done due to it.

But that night, MuchMusic aired a special on Staley that burned itself into my mind. They spoke to several of his bandmates, including Jerry Cantrell, who was shown to break down from interview to interview. It was the evolution of a guy who didn't know what to do for his friend. At first, he was oblivious, almost happy. But by the end, he was stuttering and fearful, maybe even guilt stricken. Fact is, no one knew what to do about Staley. Friends and critics alike all have said that it wasn't something that just came up, they knew it was happening. One music industry insider said, "He's never gonna get off that(heroin) junk." He struggled hard to get clean, from what I read, but it never came together.

I sat there, watching them air clips from their MTV Unplugged special. You could tell from the way his body slumped and the suddenly vacant stare that Staley wasn't well. Inside or out. The voice, even more haunting that before, came through clean and clear. I could see, in the face of Staley, that he wasn't holding on very tight. Another talented soul with a great gift was sent home.

If you've never seen Alice In Chains' performance on Unplugged, you should find yourself a copy.

-30-

Yesterday, like a lot of days, I debated on what route to take home. Usually, I take the freeway since it's the quickest way. My trusty truck, Scarlette, downs gas like a frat boy at a kegger. In the spirit of low gas consumption, I usually opt for the freeway, since that saves all those starts and stops.

But sometimes, I'll get on the freeway and the big Lite Bright signs they've posted in certain junctions warn of "Congestion Ahead; Use Caution". With that prompt, I then take the first exit off and take the street. The exit ramp takes me to my street and I just travel down that road until I reach home. The entire ride probably adds five minutes, maybe 10, to my trip home.

Well, yesterday, I decided I would take the freeway. The lit sign didn't warn of any congestion, so I went ahead. Little did I know that after about 10 minutes, I'd be chocking my steering wheel. I should have taken the street.

This afternoon, after waiting for a parent to calm her child down at the checkout line, I decided to take the freeway to work. I like taking the street because it gives me time to think about the work day and plan, but I was running late. Well, I'd be later because there was a wreck waiting up the fuckin' road. Ugh.

It's like Russian roulette but with all the bullets.

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that 2/3's of the population of this town needs help.

ONE needs to be sterilized. Don't ask you kid if he/she wants to stop crying. Parents shouldn't need to ask. If you ask me, part of the problem parents are considered to be "soft" and why we lose our kids to "violent" video games and films is because we haven't put our foot down hard enough. 50 Cent ain't got shit on my Dad. He whooped my ass good and, as much as I hated it then, it made me a better person. Granted, you can't just smack a kid for any reason, but if a kid don't respect you for being his/her parent, they should fear you for being just that.

TWO people should be tested to see if they qualify to drive on the freeway. My wife, for example, CHOOSES not to drive on the freeway because it gives makes her nervous. Occasionally, for her job, she might take a stretch, but for the most part, she stays off. And she's better for it. There's a cross section of people who, despite how it makes them feel or how ill equipped they are for it, they get on the freeway. I just have one thing to say: stay the Hell off. I was seriously late for work because of an accident on the 410. Of course, I can see how it might have been cause by two people who might have been a little too sure of their driving prowess.

I guess it's just been a shitty day. Car wrecks, congestion on the roads, computer problems at work and I'm just tired.

I can see the cars on the freeway from my window. I dread the decision I have to make when I get into my truck later. Ugh.

-30-

I'm having a bit of trouble getting to the end of my latest script. My wife gave me two weeks to complete script and I have about 6 days left. She knows how much trouble I have finishing these things. The pressure is helping, but I'm resisting. Ugh.

I'm also trying to do a mad dash to get my Steadicam fixed, get a new mic for my portable sound mixer and try to narrow down my ideas for the resolution of my lead character's motivations. Not to mention that I've done some internet research on the theme of my script and it's opened up the possibility for this thing to go into a full-fledged feature, which I don't want to do because otherwise I won't get it done!!

Ugh.

I've had some writer's block the last few days and today I just feel like crap. Had some broccoli and cheese earlier that didn't quite agree with me. I chased it with some instant noodles and then chased that with a couple of Alka Seltzers. I feel good right now, but now I'm tired and slightly unmotivated. You'd figure that with living in a deadline oriented job I might be better with the pressure, but I'm just not.

I gotta get it together.

I think this project is gonna be great, once we start shooting. I'm gonna do video storyboards this time. My director of photography and another friend are waiting for me to bust out with the script.

I'm feeling better just typing this out. I think I'm working through my writer's block as we speak. I'll update the progression of this film as it develops. I'm gonna start a blog specifically for a diary of this project. I think that will help me too.

Stay tuned.

-30-

I'm embarking on my next directorial project in a few weeks. I'm in the process of finishing the script for a short project that I've had rumbling around my head. The documentary I'm doing for work will have to take a back seat. I have to do this.

I'm not saying much about the project, not just yet, but I plan to shoot first and ask questions later. The treatment won't be long and it won't take long to shoot.

More as details develop.

-30-

I've never once believed that we, as a people, as a society, have ever really settled racial tensions. I've always been hopeful that people have changed, but not that racism has been eliminated. Case in point: the riots in Toledo, Ohio.

Planned Nazi March Sparks Violence

If you ask me what I think, I think the White Supremacy movement is a load of shit. I think its a hateful and ignorant way to live. Especially here. Culturally and racially speaking, the United States is one of the most diverse countries on the planet. Yes, it has been marred by years upon years of civil unrest because of many people's inability to blend and share. And with all the years of racial inequalities, with all those whom we have lost in the battle to make everyone's voice equal, it stands to reason that we might have learned something from our mistakes and our successes.

My children are part black and I hope that they are able to embrace what it means to be black. I want them to research their roots and celebrate their shared cultures. I want them to learn that it's okay to be black or white or brown. But I also want them to learn that even if they don't agree with someone's ideology, they have no right to squash it. I hate Neo-Nazis. I hate them. But unfortunately, the Constitution of the United States of America gives these racists the right to peacefully assemble and to express their views. Yes, there are limits, but the right is established.

As much as it pains me to say, the White supremacist have a right to their beliefs just as much as I do. If I chose to march for my beliefs, I would hate for someone to be there to throw food or trash at me or to cause me harm for my choice of beliefs.

The Neo-Nazis were planning to march through neighborhoods to express their outrage over gang violence. They claimed that people urged them to march. I don't know if there's a shred of truth to that last claim. The group got a permit and outlined a route with local authorities in which they planned to walk. This was planned almost a week in advance, according to news agencies.

Hatred and intolerance breed from hatred and intolerance, yes? If you throw gasoline on a fire, the fire intensifies, yes?

I understand that people don't want a Neo-Nazi group to march through their neighborhood and spew their rhetoric. I wouldn't want that happening in my neighborhood. But what would give these people more satisfaction:

A] that you watch from your porch, in seething silence, as they march down the street telling you that they hate you.
B] that you throw things at them, attempt to hurt them and then systematically destroy your own neighborhood in protest.

It takes the same kind of ignorance to tear up your own shit and loot your neighbor's property as it does to believe that because you aren't white, you're no good. They automatically share something. Ironic, isn't it? They are joined together by the gene for stupidity.

Because the Neo-Nazi's were allowed to assemble, protesters of the march felt they were in their own right to attack police officers and destroy both public and private property. What kind of ignorant shit is that?

You know what that says to Neo-Nazis? That they are right. The march protesters have given up their right to be angry and any argument they present is void. The violent mob said, "You're protecting the wrong people!" They were protecting everyone!!!!

I would hate for a group of Neo-Nazis to walk down my block saying, "Send those wetbacks back to Mexico!!! They've come here to steal our jobs and dirty up our streets!!! They are lazy and stupid and they bring down property values wherever they settle!!!!"

I'd be livid. I'd be angrier than shit. But here's what I'd yell back. "If you want your chicken de-boning job, you can have it back. If you want to mow the lawns and trim trees, go for it. If you want to open up tire shops and Mexican restaurants, have at it. If you want to take back all the jobs that lazy, unmotivated WHITE folks don't want and think they are above of, feel free to take them." Better yet, I'd grab the phone, call my buddy Fred over and we'd sit on the lawn, drinking imported beers and smoking cigarettes and laughing as they walked by.

THINK PEOPLE!!!! When you become consumed by hatred, you not only give people like that ammunition from which to continue to fuel their incoherent, ridiculous beliefs, but you take a step down the ladder and are soon beneath them. Channel your fears and angers into something productive from which a real solution comes. Listen to the music you believe gives you strength. Empower yourself to make a difference and give yourself and those around you true strength.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said:
"The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."

If you can't beat hatred with love, beat it with indifference. You cannot defuse a bomb with another bomb. It might seems silly or idealistic to read those words, in this day, that MLK felt so strongly, but their value has never diminished. And neither has the sense of promise which they so beautifully outline.

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.' I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today."

Hatred is fueled by ignorance and fear. Don't give them the satisfaction.

-30-

I still don't know why my parents waited so long to have another child.

My "little" brother, Dorian, is somewhere in Buffalo right now listening to my voicemail message advising him not to drink and drive tonight. He'll be out with his friends celebrating his birthday. I think he's 23 today.

Just yesterday, he was chasing me around the backyard, wanting to hang around with me. Well, it seems like just yesterday. I remember wanting to pick him up from his little carrier when he was just a baby. He was a little guy back then. Now he's bigger and taller than me. Little brother, my ass.

I remember when he was little kid, still in his crib, he'd stand, hold himself up by the gate and look down. He was big enough to see over the top. Somehow, he discovered that if he hoisted himself right, he could flip over the rails and reach the ground. Of course, that meant that when he'd flip, he'd come crashing down on his backside with a tremendous THUMP! I came running into the room and there he was, on his back, giggling and laughing. I got scared and put him back, not knowing what happened. As I left, I hear, THUMP! So I run back and there he is laughing again. After putting him back the second time, I turned the corner and snuck a peek. He stood up and hoisted himself over, doing a complete flip on the way down and then THUMP! Back to the giggling. In retrospect, that might explain a lot about the man I'd come to call, 'Dee.'



He was a good kid. Very bright and personable. He inherited my father's volatile sensibility which always put him head to head with Dad. When he was about 10 or so, we'd tell him that Dad was on his way home and he' high tail it out to the backyard to hide. They still lock horns from time to time. But he doesn't run anymore.

Between school and my parents, I tried to have as much of a positive effect on him as I could. We'd get on each other's nerves from time to time. But for the most part, we were close. He always hung around me and my friends, trying to throw his two cents worth into anything he could. I offered him all the best music I could find and we always went to watch movies together. I ripped the manager of a Dollar Theatre a new asshole for not allowing him to watch a rated R movie with me. It was a shitty, Jean-Claude Van Damme movie too. "Timecop."

When I was still at home, we didn't have separate rooms. Not for a long time. We had this bed that had another bed underneath it. It had a handle and you'd simply pull it out. We'd stay up talking about games, movies, girls and God knows what else.

He and my dog, Jordan, grew up together. There's a photo that, if I ever find, I'll post. He's kneeling down and she's at his side. He must have been about 8 or 9. For 14 years, they played in the spacious backyard at my folks house. He loved her just as much as I did. Maybe more. It was a heartbreaking day when we had to cut a hole in the living room floor to get to her lifeless body. We both cried all day long, it seemed.

The day he told my folks he was going to Buffalo with his girlfriend, my parents nearly lost their minds. Not because they were gonna miss him, but because they thought he was making a mistake. There was, of course, no talking him out of it. He and Susan seemed solid. In the back of my mind, I was hoping that it would last. He's not with her anymore, but he's still in Buffalo. He's had his share of fuck-ups, but who hasn't. Still, he's managed to make close friends, he's a volunteer firefighter and he's happy and healthy. My parents are very proud of all he's accomplished out there.

What makes me particularly proud is that all the things about literature and film and music that I taught him stuck with him. Not to mention the fact that he's a great guy. One of the finest men I know and I'll ever know. He doesn't visit as often as I'd like, but I have yet to visit him in the nearly 5 years that he's been in Buffalo. He was the best man at my wedding. That was something. Damn near had me in tears with his toast. I think about it, I get teary eyed.

For years I called him "kid." After a while, I came to realize that he wasn't a kid. He'd begun to sprout hair on his face, had a girlfriend in tow and was sneaking beers here and there. And now, he is undeniably a man. A great man.

So, hoist a drink up for Dorian. The best brother a guy could ever have.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

I can't say I was ever a die hard Van Morrison fan. I mean, I listened to a few albums of his. An Irish friend use to listen to an album with Van and The Chieftains. That was a great album. They even sang in Gaelic.

The last time I gave Van a try, he was rambling through a chorus of "Boom Boom" with John Lee Hooker. What is it about aging singers that makes them repeat words or whole sentences over and over when they sing.

"And I, and I, and I, and I love you, baby!!!!" Christ.

Needless to say, I didn't go through the whole album.

Then I found this. I haven't listened to any of these songs yet. Well, just the one about the danish. I'm dying of curiosity.

Contractual Obligation Album

-30-

It's not often that I have a picture of me to post since I'm usually the one taking the pictures. Seems it's been like that all my life. Jaime, our Photo Editor, took this one of me taping Jonathan Thompson during his going away party. 

Sometimes I'll be driving and just utter, "I fucking hate people."
Sometimes, I feel bad about saying it. Even though I mean it. Other times, I don't give a good goddamn.
This is one of those times.

Aaron has been quite miserable these past few weeks. A wheelchair, coupled with a brace he wears all day, has reduced what he can do to just about nothing. He and Tonya went to Shriner's in Houston last week and they took away the wheelchair and diminished the use of the brace to just at night. Aaron was delighted. He was given a walker to promote his mobility and to help strengthen his leg. Since he has very limited use of his left arm, the walker comes with a handy platform and strap to immobilize his arm and help provide support.

Tonya and I had to go cash her paycheck and figured we would go to HEB (our local grocery store) and stock up for the next couple of weeks. Since Aaron was with us, he would either have to amble around the store with his walker or ride in one of those motorized shopping carts. He elected the cart probably because it allowed him to drive. He sometimes gets excited at the prospect of driving, but we have to bring him down from his cloud. Aaron will never drive. But he is able to control a bumper car, so we figured this would be okay. He actually drove very well, minus a few minor collisions with endcaps and miscellaneous store obstacles. As we moved about the store, Tonya and I both noticed that just about everyone we encountered was fucking rude.

This HEB ain't nothing to write home about. The produce isn't always fresh. Some of their items are marked up a bit compared to the HEB by our house. For me, the only reason to drive over there is for the beer selection. Aside from that, the store is nothing special. The Central Market on Broadway, which is frequented by the likes Tommy Lee Jones, when he's in town, has the major selection of fine foods and produce. Of course, you pay through the nose for the privilege. I mention all this because some of these people must have thought their shit didn't stink by the way they behaved. And they behaved like a bunch of rude fuckers.

The entire time we were there, trying to help Aaron move around the store, there were nothing but sighs and eyes being rolled and general dislike of the fact that our son couldn't move around properly. Or at least well enough for them. A bunch of fucking snobs, these assholes were. A couple of people were really nice to Aaron; they moved their carts and offered him the right of way, whether they had it or not. Most everyone else could have given a damn. They blocked isles and stood by as Aaron repeatedly said, "Excuse me, please," in a very calm and respectful tone. Aaron was the model of manners. I wanted to start smacking people in the mouth.

I don't know that we'll be going back there to shop. I might head there for the beer, but if it's possible, I'll just try some other place. I won't take away from any of those people who were nice to Aaron and gave the kid a hand. Kudos to them.

What remains clear is that I do hate people. They prove to me, with great frequency, that their capacity for selfishness and their love of material worth is greater than their capacity to get along with the other people on this big blue marble we call Earth.

I hope that someone reaffirms my faith in humanity soon. Lately, I just fucking hate people.

-30-

As I left work, I could see this guy from a distance. When I got in the truck, I drove up and took his picture. Late evening snooze at the bus stop. Or too drunk to stay awake. Anyhow, I thought it was funny.