Dear Toy Guns

Dear Toy Guns,

I felt that, in honour of this holy day, I would celebrate something very special, indeed. Something that has brought joy to me as a child - AND as an adult. Something that mass consumerism has made an important part of the Christmas holiday for so many good little boys - you, Toy Guns.

Now, I wish I was the type of good, moral citizen that would be writing this letter as a condemnation of you. Being a middle school teacher who works with kids who are attracted to the real versions of you, I should be wholly against the existence of you. I really am not for violence of any sort. I am not inclined to ever go hunting. I don't think that people really DESERVE the right to bear arms. I don't think owning a real gun "for protection" is necessarily a good thing. I don't think that even police use their own weapons for good all the time. And yet. And YET . . .

I kind of love you, Toy Guns. I really enjoy the feeling of holding you in my hands, taking careful aim, and then launching some sort of projectile at high speeds at the intended target. What brought this on, you may ask? Why did I suddenly decide that I needed to write you a letter? Allow me to recount the tale.

Yesterday, my brother and I were a little antsy, as we normally are when home for the holidays. We decided that we needed something to DO, as there were no college football Bowl games happening anytime in the next two days (which is a crime - but that is for another day). So we decided that the best use of our time would be to purchase a 3-D puzzle to complete at our leisure, and we headed to a local game and toy store to do just that.

And we walked out the door with a lovely 3-D puzzle of a German castle. And three you. Three sets of Nerf dart guns, complete with protective sunglasses and velcro vests and targets that were to be strapped onto the bodies of the targets. We had walked by the you section of the toy store, and we couldn't be stopped. Flashes of our childhoods pulsed through our brains - images of the two of us and my best friend Gannon yelling while charging forth and shooting each other with you in our basement. We remembered the games we had invented for the most enjoyable use of you, such as "Young Guns" and "Hostage Situation." And we needed to relive that joy (hence the third set for Gannon's use).

So we bought a bunch of you. And I called Gannon and let him know that his afternoon was now booked. And three hours later - after some frustrating-but-productive 3-D castle building - three grown children were yelling and laughing as we shot each other with dart guns in my parent's basement. It really was like nothing had changed in the preceding 15 years. We reverted directly back to those times, coming up with the best game and "situation" to play out in order to maximize our fun. I found myself, at one point, holding two you in my hands, back to a wall, getting ready to make a rush at my brother, and it was exhilarating. It was wonderful. And it most certainly could never have happened without you, Toy Guns.

And I know it was so faux-violent in nature. The whole game consisted of pretending to kill each other. It was childish, totally immature, and somewhat immoral. And SO MUCH FUN. I mean - honestly - I'm not entirely sure why I ever stopped playing these types of games with my friends. Nobody can possibly "grow out" of that kind of enjoyment - we just pretend to. Except me. And my brother. And Gannon. We will not pretend that you aren't for us. We will not pretend that you aren't some of the most fun things in the world. Because we aren't liars, like everybody else.

And as for the violence thing - I'm not buying that, either. Sure, it would be nice and sweet if all anybody wanted to play was games of sharing and helping others, but it just doesn't work like that. Boys are going to play fight and long for the feel of a gun (toy or otherwise) in their hands. That's just how it is. And that doesn't mean we're going to grow up to be terrible people. Now, that may be debatable in regards to myself, but I can certainly say that I am not a violent person. I still don't want to own or use a real gun. And that's that. People need to just relax on that whole thing.

Video games, however. Video games are bad. Yeah, right. It's all about the environment, without a doubt. If a kid is in an environment where real guns are readily accessible and (sometimes) necessary, then they are going to want to use them to some extent. If not, they will be perfectly content to play with you and leave the real ones for others. And that's that.

And so I thank you, Toy Guns, for bringing me and so many other young children joy (notice I said "children" and not "boys" - because I think young and old ladies would enjoy you just as much as anyone else if society would allow them to). And thank you for filling my yesterday afternoon with laughter and (limited) exercise. While so many others will damn you out of jealousy - I never will.

Wearing Protective Glasses for a Reason,
CVT

Fruit Tree Project (fixed link)

For my friend's birthday, I produced this newest hit single.  Make sure to listen to it on a system with good bass, because otherwise you'll lose half of it.

Go here to download (this is the real, working link, if it didn't work for you before): http://download.yousendit.com/7113134D1EFEA121


For more information on what the hell I'm talking about in the song:

http://www.growing-gardens.org/portland-gardening-resources/fruit-tree-project.php

Enjoy.

CVT

Dear Other Blogs

Dear Other Blogs,

Before I start this, I will just say it: yup, TWO letters in one f-ing day!!! Ridiculous. I wasn't going to do it, but I was so blown away by the information I am going to share in this particular letter that I couldn't resist. So just sit back and prepare to be doubly-entertained.

So, after writing my letter to "Eating for the Sake of Eating," I randomly clicked on my 'View complete profile" link on my main blog page. On my profile, I have written pretty much nothing except that my favourite movie is "Big Trouble in Little China." Okay - nothing special there. But why is the name of that wonderful movie highlighted in blue as if it is a link of its own? Hmm. Don't know. There's only one way to find out, right? I clicked on that link, and my world - and mind - were completely blown apart. Why? Because that link gave me a glimpse into the world that is the one of you, Other Blogs.

So how did that happen? Well, it turns out that the link I clicked on showed me every other profile on this particular blog website (blogspot.com) that had "Big Trouble in Little China" as a favourite movie. Hmm. Well, it's a pretty obscure, cult-ish movie, so I figured that the list might be kind of interesting - because what other kind of weirdos would be claiming it as a favourite movie? I started looking through the list, and when I got to the point of going to the next page to see the rest of the profiles with that specific listing, I noticed something: there were 1,700 you listed with profiles that fell into that category. I'll write that out - SEVENTEEN HUNDRED you!!!!

I clicked on a few of those you and read some of them. And they are all pretty much the same. And then I realized something else - mine isn't all that different, either. Suddenly, I have been confronted with the sobering fact that I'm just one of SEVENTEEN HUNDRED bloggers in the world that writes the same old sh-- while also claiming that "Big Trouble in Little China" is my favourite movie (or one of). How pathetic is that? Not only am I completely unoriginal in the fact that I have a blog or in how I write it, but I am not even original enough to write an unoriginal blog while claiming a favourite movie that SEVENTEEN HUNDRED you don't also have!!! So then I mentally crunch some likely numbers, and that suggests that there are probably well over a HUNDRED THOUSAND you out there that are nearly identical to mine that just don't happen to have profiles claiming "Big Trouble in Little China" as a favourite movie. It's so horribly depressing, I can't stand it.

And it only gets worse. Because now I know I am horribly unoriginal and pathetic. Alright - it happens. I knew there were a lot of you out there when I started. I didn't start writing this thing for anybody else. It was supposed to be practice just writing on a regular basis. And that's cool and all. But then I saw how many people commented on these you, Other Blogs. And there are SO F-ING MANY!!!!

So let's reiterate how pathetic I am:
1) I am like hundreds of thousands of crappy bloggers, with very little in the way of an original idea or writing style.
2) I am SO much like SEVENTEEN HUNDRED other crappy bloggers that I even have the same obscure movie listed as a favourite.
3) And they all have a billion more readers and posters than I do.

Not only am I unoriginal and pathetic like thousands of others, but I am so pathetic that only about five people who really know me well even read my sh--; while tons of people take the time to read those pathetic you. I think I'm going to throw up.

And that's all I really have to say about that. Thank you, Other Blogs, for showing me how very insignificant I really am. Thank you.

Doubled-Over in Pain,
CVT

Dear Eating for the Sake of Eating

Dear Eating for the Sake of Eating,

Today, after school, I wasn't hungry. Not at all. It had been a long day (we're just clawing our way to Winter Break as the kids get steadily edgier), and I was tired. But I wasn't hungry. I had had two huge bowls of macaroni and cheese (homemade, of course) with a slice of ham at lunch, so I was actually pretty full. Pretty unusual for me. But still - I wasn't hungry. And yet, when Fred asked me if I wanted to go get some King Burrito after the kids went home, I said "sure." Why? Why did I do that? Because I partake in you, Eating for the Sake of Eating.

Now don't get me wrong - I am often hungry. I have a pretty big appetite, and I will put down large portions of food with little hesitation. No problem. But quite often I find myself simply you. Not because I am hungry, but because I just enjoy eating food. And - overall - I don't think that's the worse thing in the world.

And I know that that kind of behaviour can lead to obesity. Actually, by strict definition (due to my weight-to-height ratio), I AM very nearly obese. There are a lot of responses I have for that fact, but there's no need to go there right now, because that is not the purpose of this particular letter. What I wanted to say is - in spite of the possible health risks of you - I get great pleasure from you, and I think I always will.

Let's take this afternoon, for example. There are some people out there who may think that eating a ridiculously large and greasy burrito on a nearly-full stomach would be an unpleasant experience. And I pity those fools. Because, for me, that was actually quite an enjoyable experience. Because I really LOVE food. That should be no surprise to my Loyal Reader, but it is true. I don't need to be hungry to savour every delicious bite of a carnitas burrito with sour cream and extra avocado. No - I enjoyed the wonderful break from all other sensations that it brought me. For the 10 minutes that it took for me to eat it (I will forever "work on" eating slower, but it will never happen), I was in a blissful state of mind. And that is true whenever I am in the process of eating. No matter what else is going on in my life or the world, I will always be happy for that period of time in which I am physically in the act of eating. Which is, of course, why I like you so much.

And social eating (as an excuse to just get out of school for a little minute and decompress) is not the only time in which this is a beneficial trait - although it often is. I also get a nice little boost from you when I'm bored. When nothing is going on, and I just can't find anything to get excited about, a snack or a next meal is a perfect filler. Other times in which I engage in socially you is when I am around a group of people that I'm not comfortable with, and I need something to concentrate on to get past my anti-social awkwardness. That's when I just go find the food table and munch on things, so at least - for a little bit - I am relaxed, enjoying myself, and have something to do other than stare at the floor or try to read labels off of containers in my immediate vicinity. It works most times, I'd say.

And, of course, there are meetings and trainings. I don't need to go in-depth into the hell that those represent, but if it weren't for you, Eating for the Sake of Eating, I would NEVER survive those. When I find myself on the verge of shaking somebody by the neck while screaming "SHUT UP!!! SHUT THE F--- UP!!!!!!" I instead turn to my plate of -anything- and munch, munch, munch. A few minutes later, I am still bored, but my violent urges have subsided, and I am relaxed again.

And there are likely a number of other occasions in which you saves my ass that I did not mention in this letter. But I think you catch my drift - you are a wonderful thing in my life, and I will never let you go. And so I wrote you this letter to not only show my appreciation, but to directly thank you for all the help you've provided me over the course of my young life. Thank you, Eating for the Sake of Eating, for the thousands of hours of pleasure you have brought me - 10-15 minutes at a time.

Thinking About Having a Cookie,
CVT

Dear Beef Stew

Dear Beef Stew,

Right now, as I type this, my mouth is watering. My stomach is rumbling. I've got that "gulpy" feeling in the back of my throat that indicates hunger. Yeah - I'm hungry. And THEN SOME. And it's that special kind of hunger that only comes from simultaneously being hungry and smelling delicious food cooking in the background. What's cooking in the background? Well you, of course, Beef Stew. You.

Tonight we're having our Middle School staff holiday party at my boss's house. Nothing particularly fancy (we're doing a "White Elephant" - a topic for another day), and everybody is supposed to bring some sort of offering. That's right - pot-luck. Pot f-ing LUCK.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before on this hallowed bloground, but I'm not so down with the pot-luck. Or - at least - I'm not down with MOST pot-lucks. Because, most of the time, pot-luck means a bunch of crap in small amounts. There's usually the rice dish that's okay, but nothing to write home about. Then there's some mysterious creamy, mash-y stuff that may be some sort of bean, but could also be porridge. Then - always - there's a salad of mixed greens (the weed-y, especially bitter stuff), and the only dressing to be had is some sort of "favourite" vinaigrette that runs out by the third guest. Spell that with a casserole-type dish that is always horribly disappointing (and cold upon serving), some chips, artichoke dip, and cheap beer and wine, and you have a pot-luck. Here in Portland, there's generally some sort of bland veggie-and-tofu-dish, as well, because nobody eats any f-ing meat. In layman's terms: eat BEFORE arriving. And probably arrive late, so it's not even necessary to bring anything.

That's what a USUAL pot-luck is, at least. However, the CVT refuses to take part in any USUAL pot-luck. Because USUAL pot-lucks suck so bad and offend him on so many different levels. No - if the CVT goes to a pot-luck, he is going to do everything in his power to make it very UNUSUAL (in the best of ways). And that's where you come in, Beef Stew.

I was going to do another Goose. I was. I was going to roast a succulent, juice-tastic, make-me-close-my-eyes-after-every-sumptuous-bite Goose. But then I found out that it wasn't going to be just current middle school staff at the party. On top of all the staff members and their various partners, any staff-from-the-past were invited (with significant others, of course), so suddenly this small, Goose-sized affair turned into more of a double-goose party. And I can't really afford to be double-goosing it.

There were some, of course, who told me to go ahead with the Goose and just have it be a side-dish. An appetizer to go along with all the other food. They told me it didn't have to be a main-course. We didn't have to have large amounts of it. But you know what I said, Beef Stew? I told them to go ____ themselves.

Okay - so I didn't do it in words, but I did it in action. I'm not going to serve my Goose as an f-ing APPETIZER. I'm not going to cast an UNUSUAL light on this pot-luck with side-dish portions. No f-ing way. CVT don't play that. No. I wouldn't stand for that. I'm not going to spend my time cooking something that people will only NIBBLE at. So I made a decision. To cook up a huge pot of you.

Yes, you was the answer. But not the kind of you that most people make. No water-based mixture of tomatoes, carrots, and potatoes. No Irish you. F--- that. No German you. No - I was going to do this right, and so I found a FRENCH you to make. One that involved Shiitake mushrooms and liberal amounts of red wine. A little bit of squash. Yeah - there are still potatoes and carrots (you can't thicken up a you properly without those), but this is going to be GOOD. This is going to be FINE. This is going to be UNUSUAL (in the best of ways).

And I can smell my you as you simmer on the stove right now. You smell delicious and savoury, and I can't wait. The best part is that I still have SIX hours until this little party, and you are only going to get better as you ripen in the meantime. You ain't no peasant dish, I can tell you that.

And so I will bide my time. I will look at you and breathe you in, all the while getting hungrier and hungrier and more desperate to enjoy you. I will eat some cereal. I may make a sandwich. Little things to keep me from passing out, but not enough to make the hunger go away, because I want to truly APPRECIATE you when I finally get to fill my bowl and partake in your deliciousness. You smell so good right now, I'm tempted to just go to the store and get some mixed greens, so I can have you all to myself.

But there is plenty to go around. That's the beauty of you, as opposed to something of more limited size. Everybody will get to warm and fill their bellies this evening with you. And everybody will weep tears of joy as they thank God for giving them the opportunity to have attended such an UNUSUAL pot-luck as this - one in which you, Beef Stew, are the guest of honour.

And so I thank you in advance. I thank you for bringing joy to my day, and for the future joy you will be bringing to a select group of middle school workers and their loved ones tonight. Thank you.

Slightly Drooling,
CVT

Dear Scraping

Dear Scraping,

I finished something today. It took me a while, but I actually finished it. And if it wasn't for you, Scraping, I don't know if that would have been possible. At least not to my satisfaction. So what did I finish? Allow me to explain.

For the last month or so, I have been painting a cereal bowl. Or GLAZING a cereal bowl. Or painting a cereal bowl with glaze. I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to describe that. But that's what I was doing. As part of my hang-out routine with the Good Sis, I have had the pleasure of going to a little shop that specializes in ceramic-glazing. What that means is that I went in, chose a pre-thrown ceramic bowl, and then paid a small fee to get to paint/glaze the bowl to take it home. Quite a wonderful activity. And - for me - it proved quite cost-effective, as well.

And that's because I took my sweet-ass time. It turns out that there is no time-limit on the glazing/painting of the ceramics at this shop. And that meant that I could take my time and spend many hours painting/glazing my bowl without having to pay an extra dime. Talk about getting my money's worth. With that in mind, I chose to get more and more intricate with my detail at every visit. And since each colour needs three coats to come out right, that meant I was more and more intricate times three.

But it didn't stop there. Because Ms. Sis made a mistake on our second visit: she showed me where they kept dental tooth-scrapers for fine-detail work. And that's where you come into the story, Scraping. Had I been unaware of the possibility of doing intricate you on my bowl, I probably would have just called my job done on that visit, having finished my three coats of each colour. But the presence of the tooth-scraper brought out a whole new world of possibilities.

For, with that scraper, I was able to start you away every little bit of stray glaze on my bowl. Any line that had been slightly wavy or lumpy turned into a smooth, graceful curl under the steady barrage of my you. Pretty wonderful for a self-critical artist such as myself. I was able to clean up any mistakes that I could see. That was the good part. But - sadly - you isn't all roses, as the Sis would attest.

Because it turns out that the sound of you ceramics is not a pleasant one. Imagine the sound of a dental teeth-cleaning and all the associated feelings with that. Then throw in the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. Then alternate that sound with regular sharp exhalations as I blew the freshly-scraped glaze off of my bowl. Repeat. FOR AN HOUR. Get it? This letter is as much a thank-you to you, Scraping, as a testament to the extreme self-control of the Sis. Because, had I been sitting next to me that whole hour, listening to those f-ing you sounds, I probably would have smashed my head in with a ceramic mug. Or at least screamed and cursed. She did, neither, and I was impressed.

But I was also impressed by you, Scraping. I was impressed by your addictive qualities. In spite of the horrible sounds you created - the grating, painful, spine-numbing chills you sent through me - I couldn't stop. I kept seeing just one more little spot that needed some you, and then I would pick the tooth-scraper back up and get to work. And then I'd put it down only to decide that there was some other spot that needed you. Had the shop not been closing up, I probably would have kept going for many more hours.

But even though I did stop and tell the helper-lady that I was finished and she could finally fire my bowl, you satisfied my anal artistic tendencies, Scraping. You allowed me to get to that ridiculous level of "fixing-up" that I always desire and subsequently keeps me from ever declaring any artistic thing I do as "finished." And that's a pretty big deal. Perhaps, after I get my bowl back, I will decide that I wasn't truly finished. But if that doesn't happen, I only have you to thank, Scraping.

So thank you for your help. And for all the ideas you inspired in me of ways to torture annoying people (or kids) by just carrying around a ceramic tile and a dental tooth-scraper. ESPECIALLY for that.

Scritch-Scritch-Scritch,
CVT

Dear Snow Fake-Out

Dear Snow Fake-Out,

It snowed today. That's right. Today, in Portland, Oregon - it snowed. I was out there this morning, playing some good old recreational flag football, and it was snowing the whole time. Kind of cool, really. Except for one thing: it was really just a you. Yup - a Snow Fake-Out.

Now there are likely those out there that don't really know what I mean, when I refer to a you, Snow Fake-Out. You, of course, know what you are. I think. But not others. And so I shall explain, if I may. A you is when it snows, but nothing really comes of it. Flakes fall, it seems pretty cold, and there is the hope that it is even cold enough for those very flakes to stick. And that hope builds. It builds into the hope that those flakes stick, and then more flakes stick onto those flakes that have already stuck. And that more flakes will stick to the flakes that have already stuck onto the flakes that have already stuck (to the ground). Etcetera. And this is where the fake-out comes in. The fake-out in a you is when none of these flake-sticking wishes come to fruition. Instead, it snows - even for an extended length of time - but no sticking occurs. THAT'S a you, Snow Fake-Out.

So who cares, right? So the freaking snow didn't stick - big deal. Exactly. Big Deal. It IS a Big Deal, and I shall now explain why.

It is a Big Deal because some people actually WANT the snow to stick - and stick BIG. Because some people really enjoy the snow. Some people enjoy the beauty of a fresh, new-fallen snow. Some people like to see a soft, yet glittering, carpet of downy whiteness blanketing the world in which they live. That beautiful, pristine whiteness makes an ordinary, run-of-the-mill BLA environment fresh and new. It gives renewed spirit to a man when the doldrums of Winter have set in, and he needs just a little bit of beauty and newness to bring him back to life. Snow that sticks is that Big.

Oh - and it can cancel school. And when school gets cancelled, this particular Middle School teacher gets an extra day off of work. And this particular Middle School teacher enjoys an extra day off work, especially at this point in the school year. Now don't get me wrong - I love my job. I really do. I enjoy the children that I work with - those sweet little raggamuffins. But I also enjoy being AWAY from those same sweet raggamuffins at times. And tomorrow would most definitely have been one of those times.

However, you, Snow Fake-Out, kept me from that dream. The you put hopes and dreams into my fantasy-prone mind, and then snatched them away just as quickly. Instead of sleeping in an extra couple hours tomorrow to a Winter Wonderland, I will get up in the early-morning darkness, sore and limping from two hours playing football with cold muscles. That's what today's you brought me.

But is it really your fault, Snow Fake-Out? Can I blame you for just being you? It's not like you lied to me or anything. I could see with my very own eyes, as the snow was falling, that none of those flakes were going to stick. I knew - in my heart of hearts - that even THINKING about a snow-day was bound to end in tears. But I fed those thoughts, nonetheless, and here I am acting like the you is responsible for those thoughts. And so I must say right now that it is not your fault.

And, to be honest, I enjoyed even that little taste of the dream that you brought me this morning. I enjoyed playing football with snow falling (but not enough to get my feet all wet). And that would not have been possible without a you. And the you today will only make it that much sweeter when (or if, I suppose) a true Snow Day comes my day in the future. If that happens, I will think back to today, and that disappointment I felt, and then reverse it to celebrate my day off. And I can only thank you for that, Snow Fake-Out.

And that's that.

Setting My Alarm,
CVT

Dear Sunny But Cold

Dear Sunny But Cold,

It's actually pretty sunny today. But it's cold. It's you.

And that brings up quite the dilemma. Because when it's sunny, I want to go outside and enjoy it. I want to walk around aimlessly - or just sit somewhere aimlessly - and feel the sunlight bathe my sun-deprived face. I want to let real sunlight wash over me directly, without any windows or walls between us. But it's a lot harder to do that when it's you.

When it's you, the internal battle kicks in: how bundled up am I willing to get to try to enjoy the sunlight? And if I get super-bundled up, so that I can tolerate the cold for any real length of time, does that defeat the purpose (since all the layers will prevent the sunlight from getting to my skin)? I don't know. I just don't. And so I find myself spending the majority of the day indoors, trying to decide if it's worth heading out to get some sunlight-enjoyment going. And then - guess what? I'll end up finally deciding to head out in the afternoon - when the sun is already on its way down, and the day is turning from you to just dark and cold. And dark and cold is pointless.

All this brings up a good opportunity for a Light Therapy Lamp update, of course. How bad do I really need the sun on this particular you day in Winter? Well - to be honest - not a whole lot. I feel a little bit lazy and worthless for not having gone out to enjoy it yet, but I don't feel a particularly strong urge to "make the most of it," or anything like that. I'm not depressed. I'm not anxious or feeling like I need to hide from the world. I just don't care for being cold. And so I'd continue to say that my good old Light Therapy Lamp is working. I've been dragging a LITTLE bit more this last week or two, but it's nothing compared to how I used to drag during the Winter, and I can't imagine my light can make me feel summer-happy through the whole Winter. So it's looking good.

Anyway - back on topic. Although, I don't know if there's much more to be said about this particularly dry topic. The only reason I really went with you as a topic was because I felt like I should finally write another letter today, and I didn't feel like waiting for something more inspiring to come up. I was going to write a few times this past week, but I wanted to wait until anybody commented on my last letter, but nobody did. And that made me just decide to wait. But these letters are not about receiving comments, and so I write again today, in spite of the lack of acknowledgment. "Acknowledgment" is a strange word. Why isn't there an "e" after the "g"? It's the same deal with "judgment," and that just drives me nuts.

Right. So that's all I've got. Thanks, Sunny But Cold, for being a boring topic and keeping me from leaving the house until now. I think I shall leave the house right now, though, so that's all I've got to say about that. Peace out.

About to Get Some Layers On,
CVT

Dear Toothbrushing

Dear Toothbrushing,

Before I get going on this one, I just want to say that I am writing this while listening to a most wonderful classical composition by me, and it is simply MIDI-tastic. Because I am MIDI-tastic.

But want to know something else that's MIDI-tastic? Eating. Eating is MIDI-tastic. Ha. I bet you thought I was going to say you, Toothbrushing. But no. Instead I said "eating." Because eating is actually MIDI-tastic, and you is not. But I didn't write this to surprise let you down or anything else of that sort, so let me get to the point.

I ate some sweets today, and it made my mouth feel a little bit filmy. I had no choice, really (what else can a guy do to survive more hours of "professional development"?). So I ate sweets. I ate a lot of different things - some of them MIDI-tastic - but it was the sweets that were important, because I just didn't like that filmy feeling I had in my mouth afterwards. And there was only one thing to do to try to remove that film: drink water.

Ha. I bet you thought I was going to say you, Toothbrushing. But no. Instead I said "drink water." Because drinking water is actually the only good way to get rid of that filmy feeling. Oh - alright. And you, too. You, Toothbrushing, is another good way to remove that filmy feeling from my mouth after eating sweets. Sometimes.

Because sometimes, water really is all it takes. A couple swigs of water to counteract the imminent sugar-crash that comes from me eating sweets, and it's almost like all I ate was savoury things. But there are times where water just isn't enough. Times where all I find myself thinking about are the little sugar particles coating the inside of my mouth and the outside of my teeth and all the trouble they are likely to cause for me. And those are the times when you is necessary. And only those times.

I know, I know. Dentists and parents and all sorts of other "adults" are always saying how important it is to brush one's teeth all the time. It helps prevent plaque build-up. It fights gingivitis. It kills bad-breath germs. It reduces the likelihood of having cavities. We've all heard it a million times in a million different ways. And we all take it for granted.

But haven't you ever wondered if any of it is true, Toothbrushing? People say all these things about how important and wonderful you is, but don't you ever wonder if any of it carries weight in the real world? Because this is the thing: how often do people challenge the claims of dentists, parents, etc.?

The immediate response (when thinking about children, specifically) is; "all the time." We can all think about all these kids running around refusing to brush their teeth and ultimately paying the price. But does that REALLY happen? No - don't just answer without thinking. Does that REALLY happen?

'Well, of course!' One might hastily exclaim, thinking about all those kids out there getting cavities filled. But there's a little problem with this example - with so many kids getting cavities, can we really assume that none of them are brushing their teeth regularly? We DO assume that, but we all know what they say about asses and me (and you). Really - with all those adults and dentists yelling at their children and overseeing them and MAKING them engage in you, can we REALLY say that they aren't doing it regularly? Then there's a flip side - what about all those adults that get cavities? Are none of them brushing their teeth?

The issue is, of course, that nobody really tests the claims. How many adults out there don't brush their teeth regularly? How many kids past the age of 12? Not a lot. Because, even by then, they all assume that the claims about you are true. Trust me on this one - my kids all lay out these very same claims when the issue of you is brought up.

And so I return to: how do we REALLY know that you prevent all these terrible things? We don't. We just go along with the "common knowledge," even though we all know how often that turns out to be false. Case in point - my Loyal Reader and Brother used to brush his teeth regularly (and likely still does). However, he had a bagazillion cavities. So much for you in that case.

And then there is me, the CVT. Guess what I didn't do a whole lot of as a child? That's right - you. I distinctly remember going an ENTIRE MONTH without you at all. And how many cavities have I had? Zero. Nada. Zilch. Not ONE f-ing cavity. Hmmm . . . The status quo goes challenged.

And so I propose that all the claims about you, Toothbrushing, are a ridiculous farce. The manufacturers of toothbrushes and toothpaste have brainwashed the minds of the world and become powerful beyond our imagining to the point where nobody ever even questions the merit of regular you.

Of course, that doesn't mean you don't have your benefits. Like today, when you helped me remove the filmy feeling from my mouth after eating sweets. Other times, you removes that fuzzy feeling from my teeth. You sure makes me FEEL clean in the mouth. You also improves breath, at times (albeit only temporarily for some).

So I don't really have a problem with you at all, Toothbrushing. I really admire you in some ways. I just don't need you. And I think it is important that you know that. I don't want you or me to be living a lie, whether or not the rest of the world is living it. My breath is naturally neutral. I don't get cavities. This doesn't mean that I won't engage in you on a - somewhat - regular basis, of course; but I won't need to do so. I'll just do it for the previously-mentioned reasons.

And Reader - remember this next time you sit in a dentist's chair: no matter what they say, more Toothbrushing or even flossing never could have kept you from paying that bill. Only good genes like mine could ever do that.

Minty Fresh,
CVT

Dear Cold

Dear Cold,

Before I even begin this letter, I want to be clear (in case this went to the wrong address): I am writing this letter to Cold as in "not Warm," as opposed to the kind that indicates being sick. Okay? Did it get to right concept? Good.

It's officially you now. Which makes it officially Winter now. Which doesn't suck as much as it used to (prior to the purchase of my Light Therapy Lamp), but it still isn't fantastic. I knew that it was you for sure this past weekend when my hoodie and a vest weren't enough to keep me warm. That is a sure sign that Fall has gone away, and that Winter is here to stay. It's not actually going to STAY at all, but it felt appropriate and necessary to make that rhyme, so I did so. Although it sometimes feels like Winter really is here to stay . . .

Anyway. My point being that it is you now, and that means that I have to start dressing for it. And, to be honest, I don't really enjoy dressing for you weather. I know some people who enjoy that quite a lot, but I don't happen to be one of them. I have never been a fan of wearing shoes, in the first place. Me and my wide feet just don't like being constrained, and I would always rather just go barefoot or wear sandals. And since my feet are the first things that get you when the weather changes, I can't get away with that in the Winter, no matter how much I bundle up the rest of my body (not to mention that it's wet and rainy out, and I hate that sludgy, slippery feeling of walking around in wet sandals). Another problem I have with shoes (while I'm on the subject), is that it's a lot harder to match them to the rest of my clothes (barefeet can always more or less go with the rest). I know what my Reader is thinking: what does the CVT care about matching shoes to outfits? Well - I have to admit that I do care now. Things have changed. Being around kids who do such a great job of matching their shoes (and really cool ones, at that) to the rest of their outfits has changed my outlook on the whole matter. Where I once had one pair of sneakers to be worn at all times, I now have a whole slew of different shoes that are only worn with certain combinations . . . I think I'm becoming more vain as I get older.

Anyway. A tangent that was, and it's time to get back on track: reasons I don't like dressing for you weather. Right. I don't particularly like heavy jackets. I have all sorts of nice medium-weight jackets or outerwear that work like an f-ing charm during the Fall (and can be combined with a vest for you-er Fall temperatures, which is my favourite). However, what I DON'T have is thicker, more protective Winter coats that I enjoy. It's mostly just a bulk thing - I don't like the rustling mass of a Winter coat. And they generally look stupid. My Fall coats/jackets, however, are much more pleasing in size, sound, and appearance.

Hmmm . . . All this is making it look like I have some sort of fashion sense, which is absolutely preposterous. Since when does the CVT ever wear anything that actually looks GOOD? I probably did it once, but it was for a wedding, and I had to rent it. So why has this letter to you, Cold, turned into the CVT lamenting his lack of stylish clothes to wear during the Winter? Whatever has happened to me?

Let's try a different tact. Why else do I not enjoy you, Cold? Well - you don't really encourage outdoor activity. One of my favourite past times is to just aimlessly walk around downtown or in a neighborhood with a bunch of shops. I like to pop in places, maybe sit and read a bit outside, watch people - all that. But when it's super-you outside, there's only so much of that I can do before I am miserable. You weather also reduces the enjoyment of my weekly football games. There are few things more miserable than playing football while soaked to the bone and freezing to the point where I can't feel my hands and am therefore incapable of doing anything even mildly skillful on the field. Not to mention how depressed it makes me to be wishing for the game to just be over (so I can stop being miserable) after I spent a large amount of time looking forward to that very game. Just sad.

On the other hand, I do appreciate what you do for me in other contexts. For instance, I very much enjoy ice cream and other frozen snacks. I like cooking dinner for two, eating some, and then saving the other half in the refrigerator for a later meal. What you have done for food preservation alone is enough for me to like you on a general level, Cold. There are a number of beverages that I very much enjoy you. I wouldn't be able to have milk at home without you (as it would undoubtedly go bad before I could drink it). And that would keep me from enjoying chocolate-y baked goods, because I can't enjoy those without milk. I believe in quitting things you-turkey as opposed to weaning off things (so seldom works out). I don't really enjoy the you shoulder, but that does give me something to complain about, and I DO enjoy complaining.

So there quite a number of aspects of you that I DO enjoy. Just not you weather. And that's okay. I have never met a person that I liked a lot that didn't have at least ONE annoying trait - so why should I expect anything different from a generally likable concept like you? I shouldn't. And so I don't. Therefore - I appreciate you, Cold, and all that you do for me. And I really am thankful for that whole food-preservation thing. We all know how much I appreciate food, so I don't need to say any more on that.

And there you have it. Here's to you, Cold, and to me getting some more fashionable Winter coats.

Looking for Cool Red Shoes,
CVT

Dear Urination

Dear Urination,

In, perhaps, my most controversial letter ever, I am writing to you, Urination (I won't degrade you further by referring to you by your childhood nickname of "Peeing;" it just sounds so childish). I feel that there comes a time when a blog based on letters to inanimate objects and concepts needs to gain some edge. When the tough questions have to be asked. When a man just needs to "get real." Today is that day for the CVT.

And so, I write this letter. Shortly after some you of my own. My Reader gasps as I write this. "He's serious. He's fallen to his lowest levels yet. SO immature." Well, Readership, if you cannot handle me "getting real" like I am right now, there's always a million lighter-fare blogs out there that never speak of the harsh realities of our world. The less-pretty aspects of our physical selves. There will always be writings about rainbows. But there will never be more than One of my blog. And don't forget it. So just push past your fear and discomfort and keep reading - and learn something.

Back to the topic at hand. I apologize for ignoring you for so long, Urination. That's not generally a pleasant thing for me to do, and this time has been no different. So why did I choose to write about you? Well, first of all, I thought of it while in the act of you, of course. I found myself really appreciating the relief you brought me, and it made me think, "Well - why don't I acknowledge this taboo pleasure of everyday life?" And so I am. You bring me relief. Every time. Relief. How many other actions can claim the same? Let alone people or things. Probably none. Few, at most. But you bring me relief EVERY SINGLE TIME.

And that is not something that should be ignored or pushed aside. In a time and world where so many things bring stress and worry and fear, why is it so seldom that we celebrate something that consistently does the opposite? It's sad, really. That feeling that comes - especially when I have been holding it for a while - when I finally reach the appropriate location to relieve the pressure in my bladder is beyond description. Yet everybody knows it, so there is no real need to attempt an inadequate description. If it was socially acceptable, I would absolutely sigh loudly - "AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!" - every time I engaged in you. I would. Because you is so delightful.

And, of course, there are times when you aren't the absolute best. Actually - scratch that. As this is a letter to you, Urination, what I just said would be a lie. You is always a pleasure. It is the lead-up to you that can sometimes be painful or horrible. Those times when I have to hold it (for whatever reason). Times when I find myself calculating in my head the chance of me being able to hold out long enough. How long I can bear it before there is no out other than to just let go. THAT is a horrible thing. On the flip side, however, the act of you AFTER all that is absolutely Heavenly. I would say few feelings rival that. So I apologize for even SUGGESTING that you could be unpleasant.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how true it is. Here I was about to complain about having to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (which does suck, by the way), but that has nothing to do with you. Because when I finally do get up because I can't hold it any longer, and I know I won't be able to just ignore it and go back to sleep, you feels great. Not only does you at that time bring me the relief I have mentioned multiple times already, but it also causes me to relax and regain my excitement over being able to get back into bed to sleep some more. It's like a second lease on life.

And so I find myself in awe of you, Urination. You are perfect. At an age where I am realizing that nothing can be truly perfect, I suddenly discover YOUR perfection. You - Urination - of all things. Is there anybody else on the planet that has come to this realization? The Japanese spend their lives searching for the perfect cherry blossom in the name of beauty - all for naught. And they know it. While the whole time they are doing that, they are regularly experiencing perfection without even honouring it. Crazy, really. CRAZY.

We leave in a crazy world, but it makes me feel so much better now that I have realized that I get to experience perfection every single day. Multiple times a day. It's such a revelation that it makes me want to just start drinking gallons of water throughout the day, so that I can experience perfection as much as possible.

Perfection. You. Urination.

It doesn't quite roll off the tongue, but it doesn't matter. Thank you, Urination, for broadening my horizons and making me see the world and its beauty for what it truly is. Thank you. I look forward to experiencing you again soon.

Going to Get a Glass of Gatorade,
CVT

*Yes - I am aware of what the doctors call "Painful You" (as depicted in the photo with this letter), but I have never experienced it myself, and I don't ever intend to contract a disease necessary to make it happen. Therefore, you shall remain perfect for me always. For those who have experienced non-perfect you in their lives - wear protection and don't sleep around.

Dear Strings

Dear Strings,

Continuing along the path I set myself on two days ago with my discovery of MIDI, I spent some time playing around with (and recording) my keyboard today. The day before, I had downloaded some new software instruments, and I wanted to test them out.

The beauty of it all, of course, is that the majority of the new instruments I had downloaded were software you. Some violins, a couple cellos, a viola, a bass, and even a harp. And they are a HUGE upgrade over the crappy sounds my keyboard had been producing for me up until the other day.

You see, I really love the sound of you, Strings. As far as I am concerned, throwing a cellist into any band's mix can never be too much. I really enjoy the symphony and epic orchestrations, and neither of those could be anything without you. And so my first thought when I found myself entering the realm of MIDI was, "Now I can finally get some more realistic-sounding you!" And with a little bit of internet browsing, I was able to do just that - for free. So - suddenly - for the price of a MIDI-to-USB adapter cord, I have turned my cheap-o Casio keyboard into a positively decent music-making machine. It is so f-ing wonderful, and I spent a large portion of today reaping the rewards.

My first move? To compose an all-you masterpiece. I laid down my basic progression on a cello, then added a little bit of rhythm via a bass (the kind that uses a bow, naturally), then went to town with some solos on the viola and violin. All this without having the slightest clue as to how to play any of those instruments. And it sounds pretty good (I think). At least for a first try. The violin has always been an instrument I wish I knew how to play. The beautiful, haunting sounds that can be coaxed out of a violin or similar you cannot be matched by any other instrument in the world.

Unless it's a software representation of said sound. And not the crappy keyboard you that I've been playing with in the past. Oh, no. Sure, nobody is going to start thinking I brought in a quartet to play for me or anything like that, but it certainly gets the point across. It sounds good enough that I found myself shaking my head around in violent emotion like a master cellist as I played and recorded my solos. Seriously. And I didn't even feel too ridiculous doing it. That's how tight it was.

And so I thank you, Strings. I thank you for existing and being so wonderfully beautiful in the first place. And I also thank you for being so humble and generous as to allow your sound to be co-opted by the MIDI revolution so as to allow a ridiculous tool like me to get to make compositions involving various you. It's really quite gracious and kind.

I can't even think clearly enough to write anything else right now because I'm listening to my newest creation, and I can't stop thinking about how I want to enhance it - and what new stringed instrument I want to throw into the mix. If I ever create a beautiful song, I have no doubt that you will be involved, Strings, and I thank you for that in advance. You're the best.

Vigorously Shaking My Head with Emotion,
CVT

Dear MIDI

Dear MIDI,

The digital revolution is here. Or maybe it's been here for many many years, but only now am I getting on board with it. Whatever. All I can say is that I now have you capabilities. Yup. And it's terrific.

As I write this, I am listening to a classical guitar composition I just threw together and recorded. A series of plucked strings and some strumming with a distinct vibration and twang due to mis-hit notes. It's quite nice, really. But there's one little catch - I don't own a classical guitar. Instead, I just played it on my keyboard. And that's the beauty of you, MIDI.

Now, I know what some people are thinking - is that really so amazing that a keyboard was able to make classical guitar songs? Not really. But this is my cheap-o keyboard, playing software instruments on my computer through a you-cord. And the coolest part is the post-recording production. Before, everything I recorded was just a digital audio file, and there was only so much tweaking I could do. Now, with you, I can go back and edit every single NOTE that I played. If I want to add some velocity (to make it twang louder, or softer, or slide), I can do that. If I want to move it back a bit in terms of timing, I can. Or maybe I just want to make that note be a completely different note, entirely. No problem.

Because of you, MIDI. I used to think that you were ridiculous. Just a bunch of crazy computer beeps and such that would come from a crappy keyboard even worse than mine. But I was wrong. So wrong. Although you is, indeed, just a bunch of numbers processed through a computer, the digital age has advanced to a point where you sounds pretty good (and can be even better, depending on the quality of the software). Cool. It gives me control over my sound to an extent that no human being should really even have. Super-cool.

And I'm sure there are those out there who have been on the you bandwagon for years upon years and are just laughing right now. "Oh, that silly, backwards CVT - actually RECORDING his keyboard live. Oh, dear." That's all true. It makes me feel stupid for having done it differently for so long and not figuring this out. It does. But guess what? I'm on it now, and there will be no stopping me. The digital audio world has been safe for a long time, but I am finally on the scene, and the sh- is going to go DOWN.

The first step, of course, is to improve my array of software instrumentation. Then I've got to improve my sound-recording capabilities because they still don't a you-version of my voice yet. Although I am sure that will be a possibility some day in the future. Imagine that - I just type in my lyrics and choose the quality of voice, and it comes out as spoken words. Then I could change the timing and pitch, and next thing I know I have written the new smash-hit by Snoop Dogg. I now realize, thanks to you, MIDI, that that is not so far-fetched at all.

I have been playing in the sandlot all these days, thinking that I knew something. But I just got hit by a 255-pound linebacker that's twice as fast as I am, and I'm thinking about the possibilities and just how far this thing can go. The possibilities.

Whoo!!!

So thank you, MIDI, for rocking my world and revealing a brave new world to my virgin eyes. It's almost painful to realize how low-grade and clueless I have been playing it this whole time, but at least I know now. Next step, the WORLD!!!!

Wide-eyed and Excited,
CVT

Dear Goose

Dear Goose,

It's official. My you has been cooked. And it came out pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

Y'all can be thankful now because the CVT is back on the blog, and I decided to get on it with a letter to the tasty fowl that is currently in my belly. Am I thankful? Of course. I am thankful for the rich, dark meat that is that of the you. Delicious. Truly delicious.

So I went to the store on Sunday and took a look at the turkeys, trying to get ready early for the epic Thanksgiving feast that happens at my house every year these days - two or three people sitting down to way too much food in the form of an early Thanksgiving dinner. Last year, my roommate and I learned a strong lesson when he went to the store on Wednesday night to get our turkey. The scene was totally insane, of course, because it turns out that everybody else is stupid, too, and heads to the store last-minute to do their Thanksgiving shopping. The worst part, though, is that our frozen bird wasn't thawed in time for the dinner we had planned, so we ended up doing some emergency thawing that didn't work out the best.

So we learned. And so I went early to scout out the turkey offerings. But it was not the turkey that grabbed my attention: there, in the frozen poultry section was a thinner, slightly smaller bird with the label "Young You" on it. Instantly, I was transfixed, and I knew what I had to do. I returned home to talk to Matt, and I asked him if he was okay with having a Thanksgiving you for dinner. He had no problem with it, and a new tradition was formed.

Because you is so much tastier than that ridiculously dry, tasteless bird we call a turkey. It's insane that 675 million pounds of that crappy fowl is eaten every Thanksgiving. Why? Because the Pilgrims ate it? The freaking Pilgrims probably ate a whole lot of acorns and tiny little wild berries, but we don't have those for Thanksgiving. Why? Because they taste like crap. So why do we all follow mindlessly into the trap of eating turkey? Sure, they're cheaper by the pound than pretty much any other meat - but that's because they're so awful . . .

They have nothing on the delectable meat of a you. Some people may enjoy white meat, but I think they're idiots. No - give me the dark meat of a you any day. The slices of breast meat had that beautiful pink color of a roast cow product. Juicy and wonderful, the carmelized apples I had with the meat only touched off its magnificent flavour. So rich. So heavenly. I am thankful for you, Goose.

And so I have decided that, from now on, it is a Thanksgiving you for me (and anybody else accompanying me on this special day). And if the people I'm with don't want any Thanksgiving you? Then the CVT will be dining alone, savouring your sweet meat and smiling while they all gum the dry woodchips some people call turkey meat. And that's all I have to say about that.

So Happy Thanksgiving, Reader. I am thankful that I didn't have dinner in my Reader's company - only because then I would have had to eat turkey instead of my wonderful new discovery - the you.

Thank you, Goose. Thank you so much. I look forward to eating you tomorrow.

Full to Bursting,
CVT

Dear Power Tools

Dear Power Tools,

I really could have used some you today. Just some. I didn't even need a lot of you, but I could have used some. Yup.

See, I decided to do a little bit of woodwork today. Well, I actually decided to do a little bit of woodwork YESTERDAY, but I acted on that decision today. Because today is Veteran's Day, and that's the kind of thing a man should be doing on Veteran's Day, right? Yeah.

Anyway, I recently decided that it was time to just bite the bullet and invest some of my saved money in some real audio recording equipment (see "Dear Professional Studio Equipment" or something like that - I'm too lazy to figure out exactly what whom it was addressed to). After hours of research, it occurred to me that the extra equipment I would like to invest in would take up space. Space that I did not really have, due to a cluttered desk, messy room, etc. And so I decided that a real clean-up was in order, and I spent a large portion of this weekend following through on that need to clean.

But I got to a point in my cleaning where I realized that just cleaning wasn't enough. Sure, I could stuff my extra crap in various nooks and crannies, but that kind of thing was what had made it all so messy to begin with. And so I decided that I would make myself some extra storage to maximize my space and keep myself organized. I took some measurements of some of the last real usable space I had and off to the Home Depot went I.

An extended shopping trip later (slowed by impulsive side-trips to Best Buy - for a power strip - and a shoe store), I was ready to go - all the wood a man could need to build the shelving unit/side table that I had planned. Of course, I wasn't quite ready . . .

Another extended adventure later (highlighted by getting new tires for my car - because I spun out on the highway yesterday - and watching a movie with Gate), and I was ready to go for real.

And I set to it like nobody's business. But this is the thing: I have no you. Not one. We used to have a whole collection of you that we had purchased all together, but they had proven to be pieces of crap, and they have long since died. And so I was left with a hand-saw, a screwdriver, and a mallett (that's right - not even a real hammer). For some reason, I had thought we were better equipped than that (hence not buying an f-ing hammer at the hardware store). And it only got worse.

Because it turned out I had bought screws that were too short to be of any use. The only other screws I had were a bit too long and too wide (which ended up splitting the wood). The nails I had at home were mostly sufficient, but not long enough for some uses. And, of course, I was trying to hammer those nails with a mallett - meaning anytime I messed it up, there was no pulling the nail back out. Plus, a mallett just isn't designed for hammering nails. Nope.

So I ended up building the worst side table/shelving unit ever. It's such a piece of crap. None of the legs are on straight. The wood is split. Everything is crooked. Some of the nails are knocked sideways with no way to pull them out. And it took me two hours to make (when it probably would have taken half the time or less with a couple of you). There's nothing more frustrating than trying to hammer in nails with a mallett because the screws that I was using (and screwing in - slowly - by HAND) were too big and ruining the wood. And then knocking the nail sideways.

It almost would have been worth the price of some decent you to avoid this ridiculous mess. Almost.

Except this is the thing: the table works. My crappy, piece of sh- table works. It has provided extra storage within a limited space. It's standing, and it can carry the weight of the objects I have placed on top of it (and on its shelves). And that's all I needed. If I had put some more love and care into the building process, it could have been quite a bit prettier, but I don't really care. Because it has served its purpose.

And so, although I really would have liked to have some you while building my table, it wasn't necessary. Not to say that I won't daydream about you next time I have a little project (which may be soon, because I have one last spot where I'd like to put some storage). But I was able to pull off a functional table without you. The old-fashioned way. And that's not so bad. Really - considering my lack of you and lack of an f-ing HAMMER to boot - I think I did pretty damn well.

So there, Power Tools. You may make my life a little bit better, but I don't need you. And that's good to know, deep down.

However, I wouldn't complain if a few you came my way in the near future . . .

In a Clean Space,
CVT

You Have 7 Days to Download This File

Go to this link and download this song in the next 7 days. This is what the CVT does on his free time.

http://www.yousendit.com/transfer.php?action=download&ufid=6D12AF29114A087A

Dear Leaving Work in the Dark

Dear Leaving Work in the Dark,

I left work a little later than I usually do. We had a staff meeting, so I wasn't able to get out as early as I sometimes can. At the same time, I didn't get out all that late. But it didn't matter, because I still ended up you, Leaving Work in the Dark. 5:15pm, and I walk out that front door into a darkening sky. And all I could think to myself was, "It's not as late as it looks." Or feels.

Because that's the terrible thing about you. It feels SO late, and suddenly my mind and body are tricked into thinking that I really left work extra late, and that I will have no personal unwind time before it's time to go to bed. Which, of course, is not true at all, but it FEELS that way. And when something FEELS a certain way, it's really hard not to follow through on the feeling and just make that happen. Because, in reality, I have a number of hours to do whatever I want before going to bed tonight (in spite of how early I tend to go to bed). But the darkness that surrounded me as I headed home put me a mind-set where all I wanted to do was get home, watch a little football, and go to sleep.

It combats all of my productive instincts. I have a song to record (the one I wrote while at that "Proficiency Training"). I have some new books to read. I have a hobby I want to pursue and get better at (looking into learning about studio recording and what I need and need to do to set up a higher-quality home studio). I have a blog to enter.

But my mind tells me that all these things should be pushed to the background because it seems so late. My mind tells me I need to start calming myself down because bed time is coming soon. My mind tells me that I just can't possibly have the energy or time to put into these pursuits (at least not enough to do any of it justice). So my mind tells me to just shut down and begin my Winter hibernation.

But - aha! - not so fast! Because I have a new weapon against such thoughts: full-spectrum light. I now sit in full-spectrum glory as I write this letter. I bathed in intense, full-spectrum wonder for thirty minutes this morning with my Light Therapy Lamp. Every time I go to the bathroom, full-spectrum light ruffles my hair. And so the simple act of you is no longer enough to knock me down. It is no longer enough to convince me to just lay down and watch my productivity wash away. Oh no! You will no longer have the hold on me that it once did.

Because I fully intend to record some music after I finish writing this. I fully intend to continue writing away as you happens even when I leave at my normal time. That full-spectrum light has given me just enough extra energy to have just enough extra motivation to go ahead and DO something in spite of you, Leaving Work in the Dark. And because of that, you no longer hold the negative power over me that you once did. I don't fear you.

Sure, I don't like you, either. But I can also respect you now. I know that you now will enable me to play in the light until late during the summer. I can appreciate the way the city and car lights play off the rain and roads as I head home. I can see various outdoor, lit-up decorations and smile that little smile I used to have when it was nearing Christmas as a child (or Channukah, depending on the angle I wish to take).

So, I suppose I thank you, Leaving Work in the Dark, for the appreciation you give me of all the light and sunlit work-leavings in store for me in the future. You can actually work in reverse and cheer me up when I realize that I actually have a few hours of play time in spite of the darkness outside my window. So we're cool. Things have changed. I'm no longer going to be rude to you and have a problem. We can move on and even try to be friends. That probably won't happen, but the fact that I'm even saying it shows how far we've come.

You keep doing your thing, and I'll keep doing mine, and all will be good.

Charging in the Light,
CVT

Dear Bad at Their Job

Dear Bad at Their Job,

On June 19, 2007, I wrote a letter ("Dear Teacher Training") after getting some "professional development" in the form of a day of training. I am in a position right now of writing almost an exact copy of that letter after attending a Proficiency Training. However, instead of completely repeating myself, I have decided to shift gears a little bit and direct this letter towards being you, Bad at Their Job.

Now, most people - I would think - would not continue to do a job that they were absolutely terrible at. I think that, after a few years (tops), they would see the light and realize that being you is not only horribly painful for coworkers and clients, but also for themselves. I mean - who would want to continuously be horrible at something day after day? That would be frustrating in so many different ways. To me. And normal people.

But I learned something today. Or at least had some previous knowledge reinforced. Not everybody feels this way. Not everybody actually CARES or has a sense of pride. Some people are perfectly content being you for years on end. People who are so ridiculously you that they don't even REALIZE that they are, indeed, you. People who will put all those around them through misery for the duration of their careers because they are not smart enough to pick up on all the signals that tell them that they are, indeed, you.

And that's really sad. Pathetic. It makes me want to cry. Because today I was in the same room as somebody who was horrendously you for seven hours. And I am really not sure if she was even aware of it. While the people who had come and paid for (or whose schools had paid for) the training slowly started leaving, she continued to talk and talk and talk about irrelevant nonsense while clicking through the worst PowerPoint slides I have been subjected to. There wasn't even any Flash Animation or star-wipe transitions. The two "videos" she showed (one was actually just a faster slide-show set to music) had NOTHING to do with the content and just had everyone scratching their heads afterwards. And she really never did anything other than talk AT all of us. Except for the times when she allowed random attendees to start talking and debating school politics (again, irrelevant) for fifteen or more minutes at a pop.

Oh - and when she talked, she did it in this sort of robot-y, monotone voice in the manner of somebody slowly reading a teleprompter that was really difficult to see. Times seven hours. Getting the picture?

Throughout, people were talking to each other (not that quietly), leaving, openly complaining . . . And nothing changed. Not a whit. She never broke character for a second. She never changed expression. It could have been a fascinating psychology experiment if I hadn't been so pissed off at the waste of time.

Because while she was talking and stealing my life-forces, I had a sub in my classroom trying to administer quizzes. And Lord knows how that probably ended up. I spent extra hours (hourS, plural) after school on Friday putting together my sub plans because of this training. And this is what I got. Seven hours in a room with a person that was unapologetically you. And bad is being very kind.

So what makes that type of person tick? Are they so miserable and sad that any further abuse is just business as usual? Are they mean, evil-spirited people that get a kick out of putting others through Hell (for money)? Do they just not care? Are they totally unaware?

Or are they geniuses?

This woman got paid $120 a head to lead this training. Now I'm sure a chunk of this money went to renting the space, and travel expenses, and the food. But there's no way that didn't leave AT LEAST $50 a pop as profit. Multiply that by the 60 people there (maybe more), and you get a minimum of $3,000 for seven hours of being you. For sucking so bad that 3/4 of the attendees left before the thing was even over. And there was no guarantee, warranty, or anything else that makes her have to pay back that money.

So maybe she's just an evil genius. Somebody who has no problem stealing that kind of money from the Oregon public school system. Maybe that blank look on her face was just a mask to conceal her sh-eating grin as she mentally counted the money she was making.

I think that is probably it. And that I should probably start figuring out something I can "specialize" in, so I can become a teacher training facilitator.

But there was one good thing from just one more person being you, Bad at Their Job. Because it was so horrible, we all left early, and I got home a little after 2:30pm on a sunny day. And for that, I truly and sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart.

At Least it Wasn't MY Money,
CVT

*My Reader should really read my "Dear Teacher Training" again, because it is so spot-on. June 19, 2007. Read it.

Dear Anticipation

Dear Anticipation,

I get really excited about playing my Sunday morning football games. I mean - REALLY excited. I look forward to them all week. I find myself thinking about them the night before. Half the day on Saturday I am thinking about how I wish I could just have my game(s) on Saturday, so that I could just go ahead and play. I need the exercise. And the competition. And the contact. And everything else. I just really enjoy playing football (whether it's real-deal tackle or just with flags on).

So this morning, I ended up waking up an hour earlier than planned. Not too shocking, considering my last letter and the significance of this particular Sunday. But that has been a whole extra hour of you, Anticipation. Eager, giddy you that rivals any you I have felt in the past. Because what am I really supposed to do to pass the time this early in the morning? Football is not on tv yet, so I can't watch that. It's too early to go out and do something. I'm too energized and jazzed-up to just sit and quietly read or draw or anything like that . . . What can a boy do?

Nothing but bide time and watch the clock slowly move towards "Go Time." And I have to say that you most definitely makes that time go slowly.

I am so ridiculously antsy right now. I'm trying to think of clever things to write - and a lot of them - so that I can get into the flow of writing this letter instead of thinking about my tortuous you, but it's not working. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I am writing ABOUT you while trying to write something to get my mind off of you. That may have merit. But it seemed like a good idea, anyway.

I mean - what better way to make use of nervous energy than to write a letter to the producer of said nervous energy? If I am going to be thinking about you for the next 20 minutes, anyway, I might as well be making something productive out of it, right? I think so. I think so.

And I do appreciate you, Anticipation. I really do. Because there have certainly been times in my life where I felt like I didn't really have a whole lot to look forward to (in a short-term sense), and it was kind of awful. Just feeling like I was in a rut where a lot of things were happening and moving me forward to nothing exciting. That's a TERRIBLE way to go about moving through life - believe me. And so I am happy to have some nervous energy due to some you of fun things ahead.

Another reason I am so excited about playing is because my various injuries of the past (see "Dear Knee") have taught me that age-old lesson that nobody ever really listens to until after the fact: it's hard to truly appreciate anything until it has been lost. So the fact that I get to go out and run around on my knee is an exciting thing, indeed. Indeed.

Of course, as I write this, I find myself thinking about the possibility of "jinxing" myself as I talk about how much I look forward to this and appreciate this, etc. It feels like I am just BEGGING for an injury today. And that may just happen (if I were to predict one, I'd say pulled hamstring). But if it does, that's okay, because I'd much rather hurt myself playing than doing something else (stupid or otherwise). And if I DO hurt myself, I hope it's while doing something cool (like returning an interception for a touchdown).

All that said, I have successfully passed enough time to warrant wrapping up this letter and getting myself geared up. So thank you, Anticipation, for getting me up early and writing my blog entry now, so I don't have to worry about doing it later. Because later, I expect to be lying around icing something or complaining about soreness.

About to Get Hurt in a Cool Way,
CVT

Dear Saving Daylight

Dear Saving Daylight,

Today is the Eve of Darkness in my world. Today is the last day for the next 6 months in which I can appreciate the beautiful light of day on my face at 6pm or later. Yesterday was the last day that I was able to leave work with full sunlight shining down on my vehicle. For tomorrow is Daylight Savings Time. Tomorrow, we "Fall back," and I start to find out how effective my Light Therapy Lamp really is.

It makes me think: what if this so-called "Daylight Savings" really enabled us to be you, Saving Daylight? What if we could store up one or two of those extra hours of sunlight during the summer and cash them in during the Winter? Imagine that - on some cold Winter day, after a rough day at work, I could just go to an ATM, slide my card, and get myself full sunlight until 8pm. My mood brightens, I relax, and I'm ready to move on. Now THAT would be a very good reason to be you. THAT would be lending truth to the term, "Daylight Savings."

But - alas - it doesn't work like that. Instead, "Daylight Savings" has little to nothing to do with you at all. Sure, I'll get about an extra week to have some daylight on my morning commute to work, but it's not enough of a trade-off. I'd rather have light until 5:30pm (at the earliest) through the Winter than have one extra week of the sun rising before I leave the house. Because - after that - the sun is going to be rising after I get to work, AND it will be dark at 4:30pm before I leave. Without "Daylight Savings," I would be able to have light during one part of my commute during the Winter. Instead, I shall awake in the dark and return home in the dark. Splendid.

So what do I propose to do about it? Since there is no way I can actually start you, what CAN I do? Well, I can limit my complaining to just this one letter. And then I can go out there on this sunny day and get some sunlight on my face - until 6pm. Because I can. And then, tomorrow morning, I can wake up at my normal time, but enjoy the fact that that will actually give me an extra hour of sleep, which is nice. And then I can go play football for three hours in the last sunlight I might get during my games. And then I will come home, tired and satisfied and sunlight-charged, and rest my bones until evening. And then, on Monday, I shall wake up, see the light, and be glad for it. THAT is what I can do about it.

Because there are a number of good things happening right now that involve daylight. They may not last for much longer, of course, but at least they are here. Now. Because there's no point worrying about the rest, right? Besides, maybe the fact that there is still beautiful sunlight this late in the season means that Global Warming is taking effect more quickly and stronger than anticipated, and I may get my California weather this Winter, after all. And I admit that I would have no problems with that (sorry Sierra Club, OSPIRG, Green Peace, and all the rest of the Global Warming-bashers).

So I'll just keep my fingers crossed that Global Warming is real - because if it is, that's sort of a way to be you, after all. So thank you, Saving Daylight, for the promise of the future, and the extra hour of sleep I'll get tomorrow morning.

Cheery in the Fall,
CVT

Dear Face Paint

Dear Face Paint,

Anybody that has worked with me at camp knows three things about me: I like glowing things, food, and you (and not necessarily in that order). Those who have worked with me in other kid-friendly settings may not know about the glowing things (due to the daytime work hours of most other jobs), but they would know about the food and you.

So what's the guess on whether or not I like Halloween? Yeah - that's right - it's one of my favourites. And mostly because of you, Face Paint.

The thing is, most people my age find themselves in that uncomfortable area where they are most definitely "too old" for Halloween in a lot of respects. We certainly can't go out Trick or Treating at night for fear of coming off as creepy pedophiles. We generally can't dress up at our places of work because that's not exactly "professional" in most cases. So that leaves most of us only one opportunity for dressing up in costumes - Halloween parties. We all know how I feel about parties, so that one is usually out for me. So what is a you-loving, party-hating, twenty-something like me supposed to do on this most wonderful opportunity for glowing and painted faces?

Work at a middle school. That's right - the only reason I have the job that I do is because it guarantees me at least one day a year in which it is not only acceptable, but EXPECTED, that I paint my face. How great is that? And as you know, Face Paint, I have taken full advantage of this opportunity.

Today may have been my best school costume yet. I colour-coordinated a yellow-purple-green jester hat, a purple dress shirt (with bowtie), green knickers, and knee-high socks with my yellow-purple-green you. And I have to say I did a damn good job with my own you. A combination of mime, Cirque du Soleil abstract art, and Insane Clown Posse. I threw a tuxedo jacket (with tails), cummerbund, white gloves, and a recorder into the mix to round it all off, and let's just say - the kids f-ing LOVED it.

But as super-dope as my costume was, it didn't stop there. You, Face Paint, brought out my very best. Behind my painted mask of a face, the true Count came out. As I love to do while in costume, I proceeded to play the part of crazy painted jester throughout the day. The ultimate being a toss-up between: a) Playing Hot-Cross-Buns on the recorder with one hand while juggling two balls with the other; or b) Juggling three balls while jumping and side-heel-clicking at the same time. Have I mentioned that you make me more coordinated? I sometimes honestly think that I can do ANYTHING AT ALL with you on.

So when the school day came to a close, I had so much trouble letting you go. I set up a you-ing station at the kids' Halloween dance. I kept my you on during our weekly staff meeting after school. I considered keeping my you on for answering the door for young Trick-or-Treaters. But I didn't. I sadly washed you from my face (leaving a faint, eye-liner-like green residue around my eyes that makes me look very pretty, but unclean). It will probably take until tomorrow morning's shower to fully remove the you from my eyes.

And that's okay. Because I love you. And I see no need to get rid of you prematurely. If I could come up with legitimate reasons to wear you daily, I would do it in a heartbeat. It would never get old. I already regularly paint my face at camp (to the point where it is a new tradition for all staff to be you-ed for the camp-wide Capture the Flag game). As my friend Gate suggested, I should probably join some sort of performance troupe just so I can wear you on a regular basis. Even though most Performance Art is so ridiculous (see "Dear Performance Art"), I would be willing to do that just to have you on my face more often.

I was born to have you on. And to eat. And to play with glowing things. But mostly to have you on. And so I thank you, Face Paint, for making me whole every time I put you on. And I look forward to the next time I can come up with a reason for us to be together. Until then, don't ever forget what we can be together. Don't ever forget.

A Little Less of a Man with a Clean Face,
CVT

Dear Dark Chocolate

Dear Dark Chocolate,

When I was a child, there weren't a lot of sweets at my house. As a child, I amost never drank soda or any sort of artificial juices. I only really had access to candy on Halloween (and the weeks afterward, when I would save my candy for as long as possible - and beyond). Only on special occasions did my brother and I get sugar cereal.

As a result, we had to get clever. And one of those ways we got clever was by creeping into the food pantry and getting our hands on . . . baker's chocolate. I remember many an occasion when I would stand in the darkness of the pantry (door closed to further the clandestine aspects of the activity) gnawing on a large, bitter chunk of baker's chocolate. And then I would wrap it back up and put it in the box where I found it. And to be honest, I don't know if it was really a secret, or the only reason we had baker's chocolate in the house at all was for me (and my brother, I think) to gnaw on in the dark. Because I don't recall any times that my mom baked some sort of chocolate goodness from scratch . . .

But I believe that my childhood experiments led to my current affinity for you, Dark Chocolate. That bitter, gnawingly tasty treat that you are. I enjoy you so much. I do.

But only on special occasions. Because if I were to eat you all the time, I would cease to appreciate you. And neither of us would want that. Oh, no.

So tonight was one of those special occasions. As I plopped myself down on the couch to enjoy some mindless Monday Night Football watching, my thoughts wandered, and I realized that I had a bar of fancy you sitting in my room - totally untouched. And I knew that I must have you. So I willed myself out of my seat, ran downstairs, grabbed the bar, ran back upstairs, sat down, sipped some water, turned on the game, and unwrapped my special treat. And as I gnawed on my bar of you, I smiled.

I was tired today. Really tired. Mentally and physically. I'm still battling sickness and trying to keep it at bay, but it I am definitely NOT 100%. And so today wore me down a bit, and I was looking forward to an evening of nothing. But as I settled in to eat my dinner and enjoy said nothing, fatigue was wearing down my bones. Something needed to happen. Something needed to change for me to get my second mental wind enough to even THINK about writing tonight (or anything else productive).

Enter my fancy bar of you. After eating a few chunks of you, I am more awake. More alert. And - currently - more productive. Not only were you delicious - a perfect blend of sweet and bitter and crunchy and soft - but you have also allowed me to write this letter in the first place. So, oddly enough, eating you has caused me to have the energy and desire to write a letter to you to let you know that I appreciate the energy and desire you gave me to write a letter to you to let you know that I appreciate the energy and desire you gave me to write a letter to you . . . etc. It's like one of those images of a reflection in a mirror of another reflection in a mirror of another reflection in a mirror . . .

Infinitely wonderful, I'd say. Because that's what you are. In small, carefully rationed doses, you bring joy untold. Once every five months, I enjoy a bar of you, and it is so special. It gives me this warm, cozy feeling - similar to sitting in front of a blazing fire in the fireplace with my family on Christmas Eve. Even more similar to standing on a stool in a dark pantry as a child. And that's a very good thing, indeed. Indeed.

So thank you, Dark Chocolate. For enabling me to write this letter to thank you. And for being so perfectly special. Every time I eat you, I feel like I just opened a present on a once-a-year, special day. And I hope that never changes.

Alert and Thinking About Another Chunk,
CVT

Dear Prophecy

Dear Prophecy,

I'm going to say out right that I'm Multi-Tasking right now. Yup. As I type this, I am simultaneously listening to a television program all about Nostradamus and the mysterious art of you. I was just watching my usual Sunday evening football as I got ready for an early rest, but then I flipped the channel during an ad and found a show all about Edgar Cayce. That show was followed up by the current one on Nostradamus. And it all led to me deciding to write you, Prophecy.

First off, you is absolutely fascinating. Whether it's complete B.S. (as I believe it to be), it's still so much fun to learn about. There are few things that captivate the mind more than the concept of predictions of the future (especially future doom and destruction). As a curious human being, I can't help but wonder "what happens next?" I want to know how it all ends. If the world is going to end in flames and apocalypse, I want to know about it, and I want to be ready for it. And that's where you come in, Prophecy.

You claim to tell me just that. Through your vague references and confusing words, you imply all sorts of exciting things for the future of this world. The best part? Many different yous foretell an up-and-coming End Times - and that's just so fun! Because this is the thing - I have always felt that if the world is going to end, I want to be there. Sure, I'll feel bad for all the people getting blown up and all that, but at least I'll know what happens. I think it would be oddly reassuring, as I lay on my deathbed, to know that I'm not going to miss anything by being dead because it's all going to be gone. Because who really wants to miss out on anything because the world goes on after our deaths? I don't.

But if I AM destined to pass on BEFORE the apocalypse, I would still like to know what happens. And the only real chance of that happening is through true you, Prophecy. If a real version of you was to show itself, then I could read that and know what happens after my death - kind of like reading the end of all the books I didn't get around to as I take my last breaths. Not a bad way to go out, if you ask me.

Of course, that all falls on a big IF - necessitating TRUE you. And that's the problem. Because reading any of Nostradamus' (or other prophets') verses can quickly demonstrate the silliness of most you. All the verses are so vague and chopped up and randomly put together that they make no sense at all. From that knowledge, it comes as no surprise that nobdoy has ever used his yous to accurately predict anything BEFORE the fact. Instead, people are constantly going back to his verses AFTER something big happens and then trying to make all the vagueness fit the actual events. And that's the key. A little bit of common sense reveals that it's a lot easier to make vagueness mean something if you have a meaning that you're trying to attach to it. And that's why Nostradamus and most you is a bunch of bunk.

Which is really too bad, because I would love to believe in you. I really would. It's a lot of fun to think about and wonder about. I love to talk about the predicted end of the world (in the Mayan calendar) in 2012. I mean - that's exciting! I really hope it's true. But - alas - I know it's not too likely. And that's because of how ridiculous so many yous are. Which hurts inside. You hurt me, Prophecy. But you also bring me such joy. Oh, the double-edged sword of love . . .

But I digress. Whether you are true or a bunch of fluff is not important, because I'm just not going to stop reading about you and having fun thinking about you. That being said, I figured that a letter to you needs to have some of my own yous in it. And so I shall end this letter with some visions of the future. Reader, beware - the following yous are not for the faint of heart . . .

"And so shall the moontimes pass into darkness,
The Sun shall hide behind it's gloomy mask,
And the dogged Count shall see visions of darkness projected unto the Future Land -

He sees the Earth rocked by quakes and floods in the year of tree reduction and direness,
The Eastern edge shall slip skyward as the West becomes tied to the elemental,
And no man shall escape the grip of the horrid Blight;

A man of Evil shall arise in the Land of Crooked Temples,
Bringing great devastation in the form of fire and tears,
And only the banding together of Captains from the war-bound
Shall meet the Flayed Man with common fortitude;

And as the mountains bubble fire in the Rim of Mountainaiety,
The ice shall melt in the cold lands of Winter
And Summer shall see ice on the rooftops of the South
And we shall know that the End cometh;

Heed this warning, oh Watchful Ones
Dare not disregard the drudgery of careful contempt
Or all I say shall become Present
And the Count must needs shake his fist in magnificent suffering from his Earthy ashes
And say:

Idiots."

So I Have Written,
CVT