Dear Imagined Glory

Dear Imagined Glory,

Why is it that the worst player always talks the most ish? Why is it that the worst teams are always the cheapest and play the dirtiest? Why is it that those that actually are in a position to run their mouths don't?

It's because crappy people have nothing but their mouths.

So I played a game of flag football today. I was playing with a team that I play with on occasion (but not my main team). The league is a competitive, full-contact flag league where there are some pretty good players. Of course, few of those were present on the field today. Because the team I play for is garbage. I don't say this to brag, but only to say it - but I am by far the best player on this team (with maybe one other good player). And I am NOT the best player in this league by any stretch.

And the team we were playing? Worse than us. I mean, really bad. The kind of team that makes you wonder what keeps them coming out to play.

Of course, I found out the answer to that today: to be a--h--es. To run their mouths. To revel in the you of playing FLAG football and talking about all the things they MIGHT do or WOULD do if things were different. What do I mean by that? Well, there was this one big, tall, slow guy who constantly yelled to his quarterback about the "mismatch" he had on a shorter cornerback covering him. He said it with that faux bravado that only people compensating for something can muster, and - of course - he didn't catch a single ball all game long (because, as expected, his teammates knew how awful he was).

Every time anything happened, the team would claim that there should have been a penalty and talk about how they WOULD HAVE made the play if it weren't for (enter the name of a particular penalty here). This from a team that constantly took cheap shots and played dirty. Because crappy players can only get their licks when they do it cheaply. These are the types of guys who talk about "if we were playing with pads . . ." Suggesting, of course, that they would be dominant if that was the case. I don't need to go further for my Reader to guess how accurate that would likely be.

But they were not the only culprits - oh, no. Unfortunately, some of my teammates on this back-up crappy team also play to revel in you. The bad players. And so the entire game was this constant pissing contest between unathletic, weak "men" complaining and talking about what would happen in an imaginary world where they weren't horribly insignificant. It was sad. And really irritating. Because the decent players and I just wanted to have some fun and play a game of football. And it didn't really happen that way.

It's a bad sign when players on both sides are telling their teammates to "just shut up and play."

Anyway, to make a long story short, the game ended up being called early by the refs because it got so ridiculous. A great way to spend an ugly, rainy day. Maybe if they all had some Light Therapy Lamps, we could have had some fun.

And so I wanted to write you, Imagined Glory, and ask you to really think about those times when you choose to make yourself known. Because there are a lot of weak minds out there, and they often latch onto you when they realize that there is no real glory or accomplishment likely to happen to them. It's the one thing that I hate about playing football - all the posturing and talking by the lesser players (and "men").

The flip side, though? While the idiots are talking about their toughness while playing recreational flag football, I usually have some pretty funny interactions with the other good players about how stupid they are. Because the good players on a team like that are usually just as sick of it (probably more), so they get a kick out of witty smart-ass remarks about that (coupled with sportsmanship). I like playing against good players and telling them they made a good play after the fact. That's fun. It's the challenge without the attitude.

So why does you have to come in and make people act like such jerks? I know the answer to that, of course. It's all about insecurity. Something I figured out when playing the game back in high school. The worst people were always the most insecure, and it is only magnified in situations like this. And the worst people continue to be the most insecure in other fields, as well, and that knowledge keeps me from hating them. Because they're just sad.

It's sad.

So that's all I've got for you, Imagined Glory. You prey upon the insecure, and for that, I lose a lot of respect for you. I do. But did you see that game I had a couple weeks back when I scored 5 touchdowns and had two interceptions? That was awesome.

So Awesome,
CVT

Dear Waking Up to Light (As Opposed to Sound)

Dear Waking Up to Light (As Opposed to Sound),

Hey. There's not a whole lot I really need to say to you in this letter, but it's important that I say it, nonetheless. And maybe I'm jumping the gun just a little bit, but I don't really care because I'm so excited about you.

You are a great thing. My new dawn simulator alarm clock woke me up this morning. It went something like this:

I become conscious while my eyes are still closed, and I know that it's time to be getting up. My alarm clock has not gone off, however, so I'm curious as to how I know that it's time to be getting up if nothing set me off. So I open my eyes to see that the room is softly lit up and steadily getting a little brighter. A-ha! I realize that I am you, and it feels so good. So satisfying. I don't go through that "aaah shhhhh . . . " feeling that I normally do when I wake up early in the morning and all is dark around me. Nope. Instead, I wake to look around my room and see things. So f-ing incredible, I can't even begin to explain it.

You totally erased (for one morning, at least) that painful, sudden sit-up-and-swear feeling I get when I am knocked out of the land of dreams by the sound of my radio turning on (don't even get me started on the days when I woke up to an alarm beeping - that's got to be the worst sound in the history of Man). It made me excited to just get my day on. Granted, some of that excitement came from me eagerly anticipating the use of my new Light Therapy Lamp, but still . . .

Talking about the lamp, though, I think that might have had some benefit today, as well. I know that it's not supposed to work like that. I shouldn't have instantaneous results. But all I can say is that today was a Friday, at the end of a FULL week of teaching crazy middle school children, and it was RAINING - and I felt better than ever. I was energetic and excited to just go out and DO something (as opposed to my normal urge to just find a bed to go lie in). Hell - I even ended up shopping for some clothes, and being perfectly happy doing so.

I bought some athletic shorts because they were on sale.

THAT'S how good I felt this late afternoon. And can I attribute it to you? To the Light Therapy Lamp? To both? I know I probably should withhold my judgement a little bit before I do so - but f- that. I think I can attribute it to both. You were the most wonderful way to wake up ever devised, and it only got better with some quality time under the lamp. So many other variables were involved (such as a good day at school, plus an amazingly awesome all-school assembly), but I still think a large portion is due to you and the lamp.

Have I mentioned you yet? Or the Lamp? Because I want to. At this rate, this blog is slowly going to become a free advertisement for light therapy and dawn simulation, in the form of letters to different iterations of your names. How long can that go on before my Loyal Reader stops reading? It might take a little bit.

If today really was an indication of how I could feel this winter with the help of my lightable friends, I may just end up starting a non-profit here in Portland that specializes in giving people Light Therapy Lamps during the winter time. Or maybe building little light therapy kiosks all over town for public use. It might just make the Portland world a happier, better place. Maybe if - instead of sending kids home when they are out of control - we had our students sit under a Light Therapy Lamp for an hour, it would completely change their behaviours, as well.

You never know. This could very well be the beginning of a movement.

Of course, maybe all those other variables were the real contributors to my lovely mood today, in which case we can expect a lot of complaining on my end in a couple weeks. But I just have this feeling . . .

Thank you, Waking Up to Light (As Opposed to Sound), for helping me start my wonderful day off right, and I am looking forward to more of the same over the course of the next seven months.

Giddy Like a School-Teacher,
CVT

Dear Different Day

Dear Different Day,

People often say, "Same sh-, you" in reference to the daily grind. And that's fine for them. Albeit a little sad. And pessimistic even. I, on the other hand, am writing you to CELEBRATE a you. To thank you for the change that can be wrought from one day to the next.

Yesterday was a bit rough. The kids were riled up. I had a specific issue with one of my advocates that bore a lot of work and little hope of being worked out. The kids were getting frustrated with their math. We had a long staff meeting where not everybody was in agreement about some important kid matters. And so I ended up going home feeling a little bit of that old "working-at-a-middle-school" exhaustion and stress that I had become used to in years past. It wasn't the most exciting way to put myself to bed.

And then a you came. Today. Today was a you, indeed. The kids were quite a bit calmer today. My classes ran smoother and were just more fun. I got to play with the kids a lot more - have a good time. They were treating each other relatively well (as far as they are able). And then, to end the school day, I got to play two hours of badminton with a handful of the kids who decided to stay after school for Open Gym. Badminton. Talk about good, clean fun.

And it WAS fun. A lot of fun. The kids were relaxed and having a good time, and I got to just hang out with them without telling them what to do or giving them ish for not doing their work. So calm and stress-free. And it felt so damn good. So good that I ended up just going straight home afterward, as opposed to doing any real work that might have stolen that joy away from me.

It only gets better. Because guess what was waiting for me when I got home? Oh, come on - really guess.

Yeah, that's right - my f-ing Light Therapy Lamp. The CVT went ahead and ordered his possible winter saviour, and it arrived today in the mail. It was just sitting on my doorstep in it's special little box, waiting for me to pick it up and bring it inside, where it belongs. And with that lamp was my dawn simulator. Yup. I got both together as part of a special offer. As I type this, I have a night-light (in the form of said dawn simulator) that is slowly dimming itself as it produces an artificial sunset on my behalf. It's ever-so-exciting.

But the really exciting part comes tomorrow when I awake to the slow brightening of said light. And after I wake, I shall eat my breakfast under the ridiculously bright glow of my new Light Therapy Lamp. Tomorrow shall be another you. And a triumphant one at that.

And so I find myself eager to get to bed and to sleep, so that I can more quickly find myself waking to a simulated dawn. Because that's an exciting thing. I can only be thankful of the many joys that a you can bring.

That's why I wrote you this letter, Different Day. Because you so often get insulted and degraded in association with this "same sh-" that everybody's talking about. But it doesn't have to be like that. Each day doesn't have to be the same. There doesn't have to be a daily grind. Not as long as there are badminton and special lights and light-related alarm clocks. No sir. If that's the case, then a you can be the most wonderful thing, indeed.

Indeed.

So thank you, Different Day, for bringing me joy in mine - and something to look forward to in another you tomorrow.

Constantly Looking Over at My Dawn Simulator Because the Sunset is Going Too Fast,
CVT

Dear Can't Be Funny All The Time

Dear Can't Be Funny All The Time,

You you. I you. We all you. You know?

It doesn't particularly surprise me that (mostly) nobody had anything to say about my last letter. My Reader has come to expect hilarious - or light-hearted, at least - fare from my keypad, and that was not the fare I brought yesterday. Oh no - I brought some f-ing fire, instead. Was that fair to do to my Loyal Readership? Perhaps wi, perhaps no - but I did it nonetheless.

Because the thing is this - I you. I just can't. Sometimes, I've got to get all riled up about something and say my piece. Even if it sort of sidelines a large portion of my readership (i.e. "white people"). Not to say that that was who my little letter was aimed at, but still. For those that were bothered by that whole tirade, I have a secret: I share a lot of commonalities with white folks, such as a white parent. Really. So don't get so upsot, man.

Because I you. I know, I know. It's ever so shocking. The CVT you? That hilarious, nefarious, teetering-on-the-precarious-edge-while-giving-all-a-vicarious-thrill, as-genius-as-Stradivarius pill, the CVT? Yes, even me. I you. And I'm going to give the reasons for this outrageous shocker right now.

First - there are times when I get tired. My job is quite taxing mentally (and physically, to a certain extent), which tires me out. Tired people aren't as funny as non-tired people, in my humble opinion.

Second - there are times when I am hungry. I like to eat food. A lot. And part of that is because - when I am hungry - I get ridiculously low-blood-sugared and can't even make a decision, let alone anything else. When that happens, I definitely am not funny.

Third - outside of times the first and second, I can get riled up and cranky or frustrated. There are all sorts of things that make that happen. Mostly, it's a result of stupid people choosing to have their stupidity affect my life directly. Other times, it's a-holes doing the same. Then there are the ignorant people . . . Oy vey - don't even get me started on that one. Point being, a lot of things put me in a less-than-hilarious mood at times. And then I'm less-than-hilarious.

Fourth - sometimes I'm asleep. I don't think I'm that funny when I sleep.

Fifth - I have a job that requires I be serious sometimes. Not ALL the time (which is why I chose it), but sometimes. And it's very difficult to be funny while being job-required serious.

Sixth - sometimes I daydream and miss things. If I'm not paying attention, it's difficult for me to respond and say something timely and witty.

Seventh - when I'm showering, brushing my teeth (which I don't do as often as others), or using the bathroom, I'm not generally funny. Maybe it's because I'm otherwise occupied. Maybe it's due to the serious nature of all of those things. But I'm just not that funny while I do those things (or other mundane, ritual activities).

Eighth - when I'm coughing or swallowing, I can't speak. Although I have some pretty hilarious facial expressions and gestures in my repertoire, it's still quite difficult to be funny while I do those things.

Ninth - sometimes, other non-funny things happen. The types of things range from one end of the spectrum to the other, but there's no room for being freaking hilarious when non-funny things are going on.

Tenth - once, I had a nightmare where I was trying so hard to be funny, but everything that came out of my mind was just not funny at all. It was horrible. I seriously wanted to cry. When I woke up and realized that it was just a bad dream, I was so relieved, I almost wet myself. Thank God that was just a dream.

And that's about it. That's why I you. All the rest of the time, I can be. Because I'm like the Einstein of well-timed remarks. That didn't make a whole lot of sense, but it's okay, because I'm both the First AND the Second right now. So I'm going to get some food in me.

That's all. Carry on with your life.

Moving Right Along,
CVT

Dear "Anti-Racists"

Dear "Anti-Racists,"

I just read an e-mail. It was a forward from a group that was informing the public about an upcoming rally and gathering of skinheads and white supremacists here in Portland. Groups that are associated with violent hate-crimes and attacks in other parts of the country.

However, we’re lucky because – as the group says in the e-mail – the you of Portland are going to unite and rally against the racist hordes.

Now I don’t mean to make light of hate crime or overt racism. Not at all. If I was to run into one of these people alone, I might find myself inclined to fight back. Of course, is that very different from the other side of it? It’s all spawned by fear, right?

It’s just a perfect example of “picking your battles,” though. Because, to be honest, what is the chance that having my own little rally or yelling at racists is going to change any minds? Is it going to cause them to decide that other races are okay and nothing to fear? Of course not. So what’s the point of rallying against a rally? I don’t see it.

And I’m going to come clean – I fear the you almost as much as I fear the overt racists. Actually, I may fear them more. Because the you come with the same exact sense of righteousness without the fear. In Portland, who are most of the you likely to be, anyway? Right. White folks. Self-righteous white folks fighting for the cause of people they are in no real position to represent.

But that’s not a scary thing. Because – obviously – there’s nothing wrong at all with wanting to fight against racism. It’s all done with the very best of intentions, and I honour that. But the scary part is that these are going to be the same white folks that chose to live in Portland – the whitest city in the United States. See the irony yet?

If not, let me keep going. These are the same white folks who likely revere “other cultures” so much that they have appropriated music, art forms, symbols and religions from cultures that aren’t even connected to them by a slight thread of blood. People who form an all-white, American marimba band and perform for money without seeing anything wrong with that. The same people who go to white-dominated roller derby events where one of the participants calls herself “the Wetback Attack” while carrying a Mexican flag – and don’t even notice (or care). To me, that’s the scary thing. The sad thing. And the most frustrating.

It’s the whole “the enemy I know vs. the enemy I don’t know.” A skinhead is an easy one for me. They’re just openly hateful, scared, and ignorant. That’s one thing. But the you who yell and rally against those skinheads while being completely ignorant of their own – well – ignorance? That’s an entirely different matter. Those are the ones that do the most damage, in the end. Because they’re the ones that pat themselves on the backs for doing such a great job of “making a difference” while they help it all stay the same.

Hell – the skinheads get a response from outside folk that might actually BENEFIT people of colour. It’s the ironic side-effects of people’s actions that make the difference, usually. And that’s why these you scare me so much.

And I apologize to all those you out there who are offended by me generalizing so much about this particular crowd. That's just as bad, and I don't mean to do that. However, to all those you out there who ARE offended and are SURE that I'm lumping them in with a crowd that they don't actually represent - check yourself inside and out and make DAMN sure that that's the case. Because the more certain somebody is that they are above something - the more likely that they aren't.

I'm not condemning anybody. Yet. I just wish more people would read the sign in the photo with this letter and laugh out loud at the joke that it represents. I am picking my battle - and it just seems to me that there's a chance I can get through to some you, "Anti-Racists," and less likely to change the minds of the skinheads. I'm sure I'll hear it if I'm wrong.

All Riled Up,
CVT

Dear Food Show

Dear Food Show,

I don't generally watch much tv. Barely ever, really. When people ask what "shows" I watch on tv, I usually tell them that I don't watch any "shows" at all - that I just watch sports. And that's mostly true. Especially during football season. That's when I watch the most television, and it's almost entirely football (generally college, of course). And that's no different than how I was spending some relaxed tv-watching time today. Until I tried to find something to flip to during commercial breaks and found a you.

The show itself wasn't important, but if you have to know, it was "No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain." This particular show was set in Tuscany. And - oh my f-ing God - it made me drool.

Because this is the thing: I enjoy food. A lot. I like crappy food and get joy from it - yes. But those few times when I've had REALLY good food . . . I can't even begin to describe the joy that was brought to me. I am getting an excited, giddy exhilaration just THINKING about those meals. I can still see them vividly in my mind as I picture them. I know where I was sitting in the restaurant - where everybody else was. It's like playing sports at a high level - in much the same way that the game slows down when I'm in "the zone," and I'm aware of every little thing going on around me - I find my senses heightened when I eat ridiculously good food. It feels like finding my place. Like that's the state I was meant to be in.

So there's no good way to explain how excited the you I was watching made me. There's just something beautiful about Italian food. So simple. So light. So fresh. And that's just talking about the pastas. What about the meats? The cured pancetta and salamis. The pork. Sausages. On the you I got to see this beautiful seafood dish made with prawns in the shell. Sauces so beautiful and creamy. Or light (depending). There was a sequence in which the host went to a butcher's shop (a shop that had been passed down from father to son for 250 years, no less), and I almost cried at all the beautiful shots of perfect cuts of meat.

And the worst part is that my roommate was cooking something up during the show, and it smelled very distinctly of beef stroganoff - or some similar creamy, mushroom-y type meat sauce, and it put me over the edge. Granted, he wasn't actually cooking that at all (his food didn't look too wonderful), but being able to smell a creamy sauce while watching the most beautiful creamy sauces in the world . . . It was enough to make a man weep tears of blood. I didn't. But it was enough to make it happen.

You, Food Show, put me in this unnamed land of desire that goes far beyond that of most mortals. I would have punched a puppy to get just a little taste of the food I was watching on the tv screen, I was so mad with hunger (so I guess it's good that that wasn't an option because I probably would have felt pretty bad about it later). Had I not already had dinner, I probably would have jumped in my car and driven to the nearest Italian restaurant and demanded the best of everything.

Instead? I ate a bowl of cereal. Cold, crunchy cereal. While I watched a never-ending array of gorgeous dishes parade across the screen on a you. It made me really look at my life and self. Made me examine my priorities. And made me decide that I need to go out and eat me a fantabulously good meal (or try to cook one up) very very soon. The extreme joy that that represents is too much to just let it pass. It's similar to my metaphor about the Light Therapy Lamp. There's just so much to gain that it would be just plain stupid to not follow up on it.

So I will. That is a promise.

So thank you, Food Show, for reminding me of my other highest joy - my best self: me when I'm eating ridiculously fine food. I wish I made $100 an hour.

Salivating and Giddy,
CVT

Dear Old Potato Salad

Dear Old Potato Salad,

For some reason, a week and a half didn't seem "old" to me. It didn't occur to me that mayonnaise-based products could go bad that quickly. And it should have. It really should have. But you smelled okay. I was really hungry. So I ate you.

And - almost immediately - I felt nauseous. Not disastrously so, but it was uncomfortable. Especially because today was open gym, which meant I had about an hour of basketball with the kids ahead of me. But I persevered. I pushed through, played that whole time (and even scored the majority of points for my team) and didn't puke even once. Not even a little bit into my mouth only to be swallowed again.

But I don't feel like this little game is over. I don't trust you not to come back to haunt me later this evening. I've made it pretty far, and it FEELS like the worst is behind me, but it's just hard to tell. I think food poisoning can take up to 24 hours to manifest itself, so there's that outside chance that I'm going to wake up throwing up tonight. And wouldn't that just be great?

The thing is, though, the you didn't even taste all that bad. Sure, it wasn't as good as the you was when I first sampled you. No. But there's obviously a difference between fresh and refrigerated, and it didn't really phase me. You seemed like the perfect snack post-school, since I had limited time and definitely needed food in my system, so that I could participate in said open gym.

And - I guess - I might not have been wrong. My stomach is bubbling a little bit right now. More than it should normally be. But I got all hungry and ate three different mini-meals for dinner tonight (a round each of canned soup, Cup o' Noodles, and a bowl of cereal), and still no return to Pukey-Land. Could I really be so luck as to have survived a run-in with you, Old Potato Salad?

Perhaps I ought to be thanking you for that. Maybe I SHOULD be puking my guts out, but you are looking out for me. You thought I seemed like a fine young gentleman - so charming - and so you decided to spare me. You went into my system, rolled around a bit in my stomach, and then just moved on to the intestines without making a big fuss. Maybe you just didn't feel like coming back out once you were in (at least not in the same guise as you went in). There are a lot of different possibilities. Maybe a week and a half actually ISN'T that "old" for a mayonnaise-based product such as yourself. Maybe.

Or maybe I have an iron stomach, and there ain't nothing that can knock it off stride. But I hesitate to say that because I feel like that's just ASKING for some late-night pukey-time.

So let's just say, "Thank you, Old Potato Salad, for sparing me a terrible fate." But I'm still going to throw the rest of you out when I get back to work tomorrow morning. Really.

Could be Worse,
CVT

Dear Artificially-Created Purpose

Dear Artificially-Created Purpose,

I was listening to the radio on my way home from school today, and I heard a story about some lifeguards in California that are currently rowing some plastic boats through extreme seas in wind and rain to some island and back again. It's a multiple-day trip, and they are putting in 11-hour days of rowing. They have little food, the current is against them, and their hands are blistered while their faces are chapped. When they get to the island, they plan on turning around and just going back home.

What the f-?

Why are they doing this? Because they are recreating a "famous" feat achieved by two lifeguards about 75 years ago. Why did those two lifeguards do it back then? Probably because they were bored. Because people invent you when they get overly bored.

The problem people have in the modern world is that - in general - day-to-day survival is just too easy. Although there are a lot of deadly, terrible things happening out there, it's still easier than back in the days of our ancestors when one had to go hunt their food on a regular basis. When food was just as likely to hunt them. It's so easy that people live long enough for diseases that never really existed before to kill us. And that's a problem.

Why? Because we have no real purpose. When surviving and finding food and shelter is a challenge in and of itself, nobody gets bored. There's no time for that. There's not even a whole lot of time to get depressed and feel self-pity because there are more important things to take care of. But not in today's world. At least not in a large chunk of today's world.

As a result, people are constantly coming up with you. They create these ridiculous challenges for themselves just for the sake of being challenged. They climb mountains. Swim across freezing channels. Jump from airplanes. Run in front of angry animals. Row against the current. All because there's nothing better to do, and the planning and implementation of the plans to make successfully overcome these faux challenges lends strength to you. For a minute, at least, there's nothing else on the person's mind but the goal to be achieved.

No matter that it's generally a miserable endeavour from start to finish. Climbing Everest is cold, exhausting, brain-numbing, frightening, painful and everything in between. Yet people do it. They would never agree to being punched while dipped in ice-water and starved just to say they did it, but that's pretty much the same thing. Why? Because of you. That's why people REPLICATE the inane, tortuous challenge of two bored guys from 75 years ago. Because of you. Because there's no naturally-created purpose in their lives. It's kind of scary, really. And a little bit sad.

But can I really talk? Why do I enjoy sports so much? Why do I make art or write? Why do I do the job I do (or seek any job that I enjoy and am good at)? It's all because of you. I don't have the luxury of actively pursuing an after-life, and so I have to look for you in the other things I do. Way after the fact, I have realized that I kind of hate back-packing, and yet I get excited when I talk to my roommate about going on another trip in the future. Why do I go to trainings?

Because life is too easy. And I don't really think that that is a bad thing. You give hope. You give a reason to do anything at all. Because I could just say that you're a crock of ish and give up, but then what? I certainly wouldn't have my handful of Loyal Reader to entertain. I wouldn't be happy about anything. Ever. I wouldn't care about ending up with a stupid tattoo.

And those are all bad things. I am glad that I have you. And I say to all those who make you as a reason to undertake ridiculous challenges - "Right on. If it brings you joy, then - by God - don't you ever stop doing those ridiculous things." I mean - why do people run?

Oh, right. I hate Running. But still.

So thank you, Artificially-Created Purpose, for giving me a reason to do most anything at all. Because doing things is nice.

Feeling Proud of Another Letter Written,
CVT

*By the way - that guy in the photo? Sure, it looks all pretty and what-not, but we all know that all he's thinking about is how tired he is and how close he is to being finished, so he can get the Hell out of the cold and eat a big meal and just lie in bed, all warm and toasty.

Dear Tattoos

Dear Tattoos,

Once I start thinking about you, the harder it is to stop. I find myself doodling you designs on paper, looking at every cool image and thinking of it as a you design, wondering where on my body a good you should go . . . It's kind of ridiculous.

Because there's no getting around it, Tattoos, you are cool. Really cool. You look cool and feel cool to have. You represent this other way of being in the world that is just plain fascinating. When somebody mentions having you, everybody in the vicinity just feels like, "Oh! Let me see!"

You are hard to explain to people that have none and would never consider having one. One must have a certain type of mentality to get one in the first place, I think. But once somebody gets some you, there's no going back. You are addictive. You make a person want to keep getting you until their whole body is covered up. Kids love fake you. They draw them all over their arms with Sharpies (I certainly did - and still do, sometimes). And then they grow up to get you and show them off to other people (or keep personal, depending on the person).

But here's the catch - you are permanent. I'm serious. You last forever. And so the cool you of ten years ago may prove to be the embarrassing you of today. In fact, I think that probably happens quite a lot. And with that knowledge comes the fear of, "what if I get this one, and it just looks DUMB once it's actually finished? What if the artist sucks?" What then?

And so the smarter people of the world hesitate and really put some deep thought into their you. Because nothing is stupider than stupid you. Few things can be worse than the feeling of looking at you in the mirror and regretting it. Because that just makes a person feel STUPID.

And so today I found myself in Powell's (the largest bookstore in the States, I think) looking for books about you. And where were they? Locked in a special case where nobody could access them without the aid of an employee. Which is awfully strange considering there are thousands and thousands of books in the store - many quite valuable - and all of them on open shelves. Except for books about you. And marijuana. Which were in the same locked case. What does that imply about people's assumptions about those who want or have you? Right.

But I still want one. And after looking at the books that I was allowed to touch and only read while standing AT the information desk, I have decided that I want some full-back Yakuza-style Japanese you. Because they are incredible. And really, really cool. And there's no way I could EVER regret that.

Nope.

So thank you, Tattoos, for being so awesome and making me want more you. I'm sure my parents thank you, as well.

Looking Forward to Getting Pretty,
CVT

Dear Light Therapy

Dear Light Therapy,

Oh boy. Yeah - that's right. That time of year is coming around. Those dreaded months of less light and all that means for our charming hero. I found myself looking up a Portland sunrise/sunset calendar today to see how soon I'll be waking up in the darkness. And it made me think, "maybe I should seriously think about you."

Now, I've found myself thinking about this before, but I never took it that seriously. A few years ago, when I was working at the VA Hospital, I ended up spending a large chunk of my work-time looking up research on dawn simulators. These are basically alarm clocks that - instead of making a wake-up SOUND - produces a slowly increasing light level meant to simulate the steady increase in light of a natural dawn. The theory is that this helps people wake up more naturally, re-setting their circadian rhythms and elevating their mood. The research seemed promising, so I soon found myself purchasing a Dawn-Simulator alarm clock at the internet.

Of course, I wasn't willing to put too much money into it, so what I ended up getting was this tiny piece that had a bulb about as powerful as a single Lite Brite color-piece. Needless to say, it wasn't much of a success.

So I spent the next few years facing the winters without the support of added light. But after four straight ugly grey-ish days and the subsequent change in mood I've experienced, it seems like I'd be crazy to not look into you. Because the question is: what if you really work? What if I could feel a fraction of how I feel during the summer during the WINTER? How amazing would that be? Maybe I'd stop hating this city so much. Maybe liking my job wouldn't be such a problem because I'd actually not mind living here. Maybe I'd actually be in touch with other human beings during the winter. Maybe I'd continue to be creative and follow up on all my disparate dreams and goals for my future production. Maybe I'd see friends. And have fun with them. Maybe I'd do something other than think about the next time I get to sleep in.

Maybe. A lot of possibilities contingent on a glorified light working out for me, but it's got to be worth a shot, right? And the research really seems to support the benefits of you. So much so that it would be difficult to deny its efficacy at this point. Of course - the thing that keeps holding me back is that it is relatively expensive. It's not like a you lamp is a few dollars. More like a few hundred. But - if you really work - wouldn't it be worth it? What hundred-dollar item has ever brought me the kind of joy and life satisfaction that you may promise? My Ipod may have brought me a lot, but that's nothing on what you can bring me. I'm looking around my room, and I can see a couple items from right here that - had I never purchased them - would equal the price of a you lamp. And they certainly never brought me untold joy and a new lease on winter life.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm going to invest in you. And - being a pessimist - I am fully aware of the risks. You may not work at all. You may work only a little. You may blind me. But what if? It's like the inverse of my previous comparisons about Physical Therapy. What if somebody told you that you could pay two hundred bucks for a jar of oil that you had to rub into your scalp for fifteen minutes every day that could bring you high self-esteem and give you super-powers? You'd buy it, right? Even if they told you that there was a 30% chance the oil would just mildly burn and could trickle into your eyes and cause irritation. And that's why I need to just do a little more research (but not a whole lot) and purchase a you light. Because I get oil in my eyes, anyway, and it's just not that bad.

I sit here at my computer, imagining what it would be like with full-spectrum light shining into my eyes. Looking back at my dying house plant and smiling, because it is also responding to all that sun-like light, causing it to grow healthy and vibrant again. That is what my future could bring in six to eight weeks if I just suck it up and make it happen. I will blow two hundred dollars on sugary snacks before this winter is over - so why not do the same on you?

It may not all work out in the end, Light Therapy, but thank you for bringing me hope and something to look forward to. And if you DO work - I will marry your ugly cousin, the Dawn Simulator . . .

About to go on Amazon,
CVT

Dear Performance Art

Dear Performance Art,

This one is likely to be a short letter, but I felt that it was important to write you.

See - there are two types of people in the world. The first type watches a piece of you that makes no sense and just seems downright ridiculous and decides that the confusion is a result of their own inability to "understand" said art. They assume that - if they didn't get it, because they are such intelligent, discriminating art patrons - that that must mean that the you was over their head and just so damn genius. They then tell their friends about how brilliant it was.

The other type of human being watches a piece of you that makes no sense and just seems downright ridiculous and says, "Okay - now what the f- was that!?" These people demand metaphors and symbols that are actually decipherable outside of the creator's mind. They don't accept random silliness as art. These are the kinds of people who have complain-y blogs.

So what kind of person am I? Right.

I saw this show this evening. I'm not really going to get into a description because I don't have that kind of time (nor the inclination), but let's just say that it was you. It was more or less a play, but there were definite instances of you happening throughout that caused it to make little sense. When it was over, I could only look around at the surrounding audience to see if they were as dumbfounded as I was.

And I'm not saying it was terrible. It wasn't. It was worth the price of admission, for sure. Of course, I got my ticket for free . . . But had I paid money for it (like $5 or $10), I would have been okay with it. Because it wasn't terrible.

Aspects of it were pretty okay. I even liked some of it. But there was just a little bit too much capital "T" "Theatre" going on, and I couldn't really handle it. And the thing is - it was part of this larger art festival going on in Portland called TBA ("Time-Based-Art"). To be honest, I don't really know what "Time-Based-Art" is really supposed to mean. I guess it's non-permanent art. Like you and stuff. Whatever it means, it's a relatively large festival, and it brings in a lot of money (or so it seems).

And that just made me wonder how the acts/shows get chosen for this. My theory is mostly that it's based on somebody reading critiques written by the first kind of human being. Because the description of the show I saw didn't really match up to the nonsense that I ended up witnessing. I suppose it did to a certain degree, but only a bit. It seems more like one of those situations where the creator told the critic what the play was SUPPOSED to be, and the critic didn't have enough self-confidence to refute that claim when the piece made no sense to him/her. That's my theory.

And so the show made it into this festival because nobody had the guts to challenge it. Why is that? Partly, because most of the more influential art patrons of the world are the first type of person. The second reason is that this is Portland, and the show was about another culture, and Portlanders automatically think anything about other cultures is amazing because that's what they do here. Mostly because Portlanders are a version of the first type of human being - just substitute the confusion about you to other things not understood, and there you have it. Not that they'd ever admit that they don't understand it, but that's a letter for another day (probably after the sun has gone away) . . .

And it's not that I have anything against you, in general, Performance Art. Music is a you, and I most definitely enjoy that. There is a sketch comedy group that I quite enjoy out here. I even have some appreciation of spoken word these days (a certain kind, but spoken word nonetheless). So I'm not trying to hate against you. I'm just not about that kind of you that gives you such a bad name. That kind that appeals to the first type of human being.

It's like pop music vs. good music. Pop is for those who don't want to have to think about it - which I get (and sometimes enjoy, to be honest). And this is the same as the first type of you - it appeals to those who don't want to actually think but are afraid to admit that. In another TBA piece of you I saw, the performer described some you he had seen in Paris where a woman spent half an hour climbing in and out of a plastic bag and then kissing random audience members through cling wrap. Although that description sounds funny enough that I actually would be willing to pay to see it, that can't be good for the world, in general. But who knows?

Now that I think about it, maybe I'm just not getting it. Or maybe that's the whole point. If some of these pieces were created simply as a joke on the audience - a big laugh because they all paid to watch intentionally ridiculous nonsense - I would love it. That's pretty much my life goal - to perform in front of large crowds, doing things and making jokes that nobody understands at all except for me. So maybe I shouldn't bash the first type of you, after all.

A joke. I see it now. I take it all back. The first type of you really IS genius, but in an entirely different way than perceived. How could I not have seen that earlier? Wow. My goal in life is now to become a famous creator of the first type of you - done on as large of a scale as possible. My Reader can be proud that they were there when I first consciously formed this goal.

Thank you, Performance Art, for giving me a dream. And thanks to Young Lee for creating the you that inspired the letter that inspired the dream.

Thinking Big (and Confusing),
CVT

Dear Quality Recording Equipment

Dear Quality Recording Equipment,

I just spent a couple hours recording some music. And it was pretty wonderful. Fun. Inspiring. All that kind of thing. But it would have been even better if I had some you, Quality Recording Equipment.

I had the distinct pleasure of using some you when I was working with the Audio Production crew at camp, and it definitely opened up my eyes - and spoiled me. Because it sounded so damn good. Even poorly-produced stuff that I did just sounded better with a nice mic, pre-amp, and software. So now, although I think I am better at writing and making music, I just can't be satisfied with the quality of the work I'm doing on my relatively crappy equipment.

So, once again, I find myself contemplating an investment in some you. Which is quite an investment, indeed. And I find myself going back and forth on this one. At first, I think to myself, "Well, if I put in the money, I could really produce some better-sounding stuff, which may even inspire me to do more than just share it with friends. Besides - what am I planning on doing with that money, anyway? I don't really drink or smoke. I eat for free at school. I only eat out on occasion. So I should just go ahead and do it."

But then my realistic side kicks in and tells me, "Oh, come on. We both know that we'll be all inspired and loving the new toys for a little while, but it will just end up sitting useless eventually. We're not talented enough to do anything more than slightly entertain some friends, and sound-quality doesn't really make a song any funnier. We could use that money to buy a plane ticket to somewhere sunny."

And then I end up not doing anything, while being mildly unsatisfied with my musical productions because of my lack of you. But I have come up with something else to do with some of that money - I DO need to buy new sneakers and cleats this weekend. And those can be expensive. It would also be nice to have some different clothes to wear from time to time. Although I don't really mind having two pairs of pants and two pairs of shorts on my regular rotation, it probably doesn't do me a whole lot of favours in the social department.

Of course, I'm so damn charming, my clothes probably don't really matter.

But shoes and cleats without blown-out sides are probably good for me, physically, so I'll go ahead and purchase those.

Back to the topic.

Um. Yeah. I'd like to have some you. But you is expensive. So I probably won't buy you. That's really it.

Can you tell I spent this evening's creativity on my musical pursuits and didn't leave enough for this letter? Yup.

So I'm just going to wrap it up there, Quality Recording Equipment. I will continue to daydream about having you someday. And maybe, someday, I will. Right after I buy Gate an RV.

Slightly Lower Quality,
CVT

Dear Milk

Dear Milk,

It's past my bedtime. Long past, by some standards. And yet, I'm still awake. Even more than that, I don't feel all that tired. But I know that I ought to get myself to sleep relatively soon, so that I can bring my all to the kids tomorrow. It's all about the kids, right?

Right.

So what am I doing about it? How am I preparing myself for some shut-eye? For my forty winks? To saw the old log? To travel in the Land of Dreams? To thank the Sandman for his good work? To wrap myself in lullaby goodness and nod off like a fatigued gelada baboon finding a good hole in a cliff to safely spend the night?

I'm drinking a glass of you. Actually, a MUG of you. A nice, cold mug of you.

Those who know me may be a little bit shocked. Not by the fact that I'm drinking you (I've been known to order glasses of you at many a coffee shop in this town to go with my cookies). But by the fact that I'm drinking cold you for my sleeping comfort. I know, I know - I ought to be drinking warm you if I REALLY want to do the trick. But the fact of the matter is that even cold you seems to take care of me like no amount of tryptophan-laced turkey could ever do. Tonight will be night two of my special you experiment - but I drank you last night before I went to bed (a good two hours past my bedtime), and I slept so well that I didn't even feel the need to nap this evening when I got home from work (although I did, anyway).

But that's certainly not your only goodness. Everybody knows your importance to the development of growing infants (whether human or otherwise), of course. And MOST people (at least most American people) are well aware of your wonderfulness when companioned with some cookies. But there is so much more to you.

For example, yesterday I found myself spending almost an entire class period talking to my students about the glories of cereal-you. Cereal-you being - of course - the you left over after eating all the cereal out of the bowl. It's got that semi-sweet taste and a slightly different consistency that makes it so very special. We even talked about marketing cereal-you as a separate product (and I think it could be a hit).

Then there's your many uses in the world of cooking. Most quality baked goods use you. Anything cheesy of worth does, too. Cream sauces. Omelettes. Youshakes. Ice cream. Smoothies. So many wonderful goodies. You chocolate.

Then there's the medicinal uses for you. I'm not sure of any, but I bet there are some. I seem to remember something about putting you on the skin for some reason. I bet it works. Because you is so great.

One of my only positive memories from my days at the VA Hospital involved me buying a tuxedo cookie (chocolate chocolate-chip half-dipped in white frosting) and a pint of you at the cafeteria every afternoon and enjoying both as I walked back to the lab. It took exactly the duration of the walk to lovingly finish my cookie and you as I walked through the lab door.

When I couldn't sleep as a child, my mom would make warm you for me to drink. She would heat you up and put some sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon in you and serve you up in a warm mug. Whether or not it actually helped me get to sleep, it certainly comforted me.

When I was living in Tanzania, I had a friend who would bring me a thermos full of fresh you straight from his cow every morning, and I would boil it up and just drink it like I would a morning cup of coffee. I didn't need to add anything to it because fresh, real you is naturally a little bit sweeter - and it was the greatest pick-me-up to start my day. I also started ending my day by boiling up a large mugful of you and sipping it while I sat in my candlelit room, contemplating life. It was especially cool when it was raining outside, and I could hear it pounding on the tin roof while I was comfortably dry inside.

I have so many you-related nostalgic memories, it's ridiculous. This could end up being one of my longest and most positive letters ever if you weren't starting to kick in right now, getting me ready for bed.

I should say, though, that I'm just not down with soy "milk." The reason I'm putting it in quotes and not referring to it as "you" is because it's such a pale, crappy imitation that I don't want to insult real you by connecting you to soy "milk" in that way. I understand that some people are lactose intolerant. I even understand that some people are hippies. But I still don't accept soy "milk."

That said - that's my only complaint about anything you-related. Which is saying a lot, considering my general nature. No - I'm in love with you, Milk, and I thank you so much for all the memories. Check "Dear the Little Things" for another you-related memory reference. I could write a book all about your impact in my life, and I may just do that. I would call it, "You: From Teat to Tat and Everything in Between." Or possibly something else.

Thanks, Milk, and don't you ever change a thing. Even if I become lactose-intolerant, I will never let you go.

Getting Tuckered Out,
CVT

Dear Multi-Tasking

Dear Multi-Tasking,

I have something to admit. It's a heinous act, and it affects every single reader of this blog (yeah - all two of them). That last letter I wrote? To Momentum? I wrote that while doing something else. Mildly distracted. Not fully engaged in the act of writing. Because I was you.

That's right. I was you. And I hate to admit it, because I like to think that I am a serious blog-poster. That I honour each and every one (and I emphasize ONE) of my Reader. And so it hurts me to have to admit that I did not put my all into that last letter. But it's true. And so I have to come clean.

Not that my other task was necessarily a bad one. I had just received a copy of Immortal Technique's "Revolutionary, vol. II" in the mail (ordered from an independent retailer on Amazon, of course - quite cheap), and I was eager to do some listening. But I had a blog to post to, and I wasn't about to let myself become immersed in the listening process while letting my letter-writing fall to the wayside for another day. And so I sinned. I fell to the vice of you, and I listened WHILE writing.

Those who are familiar with Mr. Technique know that his music doesn't exactly allow itself to become "background music." As a performer with "something to say," he demands attention to his lyrics. And that was the issue. I was listening to lyrics AND trying to write a halfway decent blog entry at the same time, and I have to say that I didn't do either very well. It was an unsatisfying process, and I would like to say I won't ever partake in you again.

But that's not true. Because I actually began this letter while you. My roommate Matt was watching tv as I began this, and I admit that I was aware of what was going on in that arena as I wrote. I sometimes try to engage in you while talking on the phone, as well - and all those who have been on the other side of those conversations are quite aware of it. And to them - and those who shall be subjected to my you in the future - I apologize. But it's difficult to avoid in this era of technology. I don't currently own a cell phone, so I am able to avoid a lot of potential you opportunities, but there is always the internet and television to get me. Not to mention my appreciation for music.

And I don't want to blame it all on technology. While I'm coming clean, I have to admit that my new-found lyrical creativity has gotten me into trouble a few times recently. While talking on the phone or being in some sort of meeting, I have found myself writing lyrics in my head and completely losing track of the conversation. Today, while undergoing four hours of "Proficiency-based Education" training, I doodled for hours on end without registering a whole lot - another form of you. Does spacing-out while doing other things count as you? If so, I guess I'm you almost all the damn time.

I'm not sure if you is exactly a bad thing, either. Sometimes, it is. It certainly isn't polite or fully respectful when it means ignoring or missing part of a conversation. But, sometimes, you is pretty great. Like this morning (and every morning since I started school again) when I was driving to school but able to concentrate on my Chinese lessons as opposed to solely focusing on the road. Those few times when you happen to me while biking, I actually have a second or two of sweet escape from my near-constant focus on how much I hate it all.

So you CAN be good. I bet monkeys appreciate you when they're leaping from tree to tree and notice a particularly lovely flower blossom mid-air. Probably keeps them from smashing their brains out more often.

I don't really know what my point is on this one. And that's probably due to the fact that I was you for most of this blog, which kept me from really concentrating on the task at hand (and remembering all the tricks of the trade such as sticking to a theme and bringing it full-circle at the end).

Oh, well. Seems kind of appropriate for a letter to you. So that's that. There's something else going on right now, and I'd rather focus on that.

Distracted,
CVT

Dear Momentum

Dear Momentum,

I'm a heavily you-based man. 'What do I mean by that?' you may ask. Well, thanks for asking, because that's a great segue to the rest of my letter.

It goes like this:
It takes me a while to get started on things when I'm not fully motivated to do it. It also takes me a while to get said motivation to get to the point where I'm actually trying to start something. But once I do . . . Once I do, you take over, and then it gets tough for me to stop it.

For example, I was going heavy on the blog entries for most of this summer. Then I went away to camp and stopped writing for an entire month. I get back, and suddenly it was really hard to just sit down in front of the computer and type away. No particular reason - because it doesn't really take a whole lot of time or energy to write these things - but the stoppage took away my forward you, and it has taken me a while to get that ball back rolling. In fact, I'm not even sure if the ball IS rolling yet. That's how long it takes.

And this can be a problem for me, at times. Because I'm really good at coming up with great ideas and getting inspired by them. I do it all the time. I come up with these "Master Plans" that have a ridiculously awesome final result. Ideas that people would pay me good money for because they're so brilliant or so great in terms of increasing the productivity and cool-ness of my life. All the time. But then the problem of you pops up. Because, to put any of these plans into action, I actually have to start. And then, once I start, I have to keep it going. And so most of these oh-so-wonderful ideas never come to fruition. And then, a year or two later, I am reminded of said wonderful idea, and I decide to do it "for real" this time.

I bet you can guess the result.

But, knowing this, I am often able to use you to play to my favour. For example, if I can just suck it up and get a routine going for myself, months later I'm patting myself on the back for my vast improvement because I have kept it going. Or how I commit myself to various things through paid money (think "playing in a football league," or "taking a class"), and then I have no choice but to get you going. After that, it's just expected. It also pays to know how you work for me because then I can use it as that added bit of motivation to actually START something (because I know that it only gets easier the more I do it - and get used to doing it).

As long as I start it.

And, once I DO get started, OH BOY OH BOY does the magic happen. A good example is the first few months of this blog (up until camp). My figure-drawing (which has, unfortunately, fallen victim to the lack of you at the moment). When I sit down to do anything creative, you kick in and suddenly I'm just fully immersed in it all, not eating, producing something to be proud of. I'm currently in a state of lyrical/musical you, and it's been doing some great things for me. I started writing this particular letter with very little motivation, and now I've written an acceptable entry. Not great - but acceptable.

And - while we're trying to get the you going - acceptable is perfectly fine (as long as I'm doing it at all).

So thank you, Momentum, for the ups-and-downs. For without great downs, there could never be great ups. Which isn't true at all, but it seems like a good positive spin on the whole deal. I suppose it WOULD be better if you were always a favourable thing in my life, but it would also be better if water instantly hydrated after just one sip and chocolate didn't leave that weird film in my mouth that can only be cured to a fully satisfactory level by a glass of milk.

Yet we keep drinking water and eating chocolate, and so I will keep doing my best to keep you on my side.

I think this might be the beginning of something,
CVT

Dear Headache

Dear Headache,

This is why I don't like you and wish I would never see you again, Headache: it's damn near impossible to do ANYTHING when you're around but try to close my eyes and lie in the dark. You certainly don't make me capable of writing any sort of decent blog entry.

I'm not exactly sure why I have you, but I can guess. I went out and played a game of football in high 80s heat on a turf field (made of little black rubber pellets that make the field an extra 5 - 10 degrees hotter). It was so damn hot that when I tried to drink my water, the water burned my throat.

Okay - I'm exaggerating (slightly), but my water was ridiculously hot - beyond comfortable bath water. That was horrible. Being all hot and tired and finally getting a chance to run off the field and grab my water, and it's scalding. Not cool at all.

So I think I'm pretty damn dehydrated (see "Dear Dehydration"), and I just can't get it going. Drank a ton of water, but my body is only capable of absorbing so much before I just start peeing like crazy without actually getting myself hydrated. At least I just ate a ton of salty-ass pistachios. I hear those are great for dehydration and yous.

Right. So that's all I've got for tonight. Haven't written for a while, so I felt the need, but I've given it all I can. The light of the computer screen is hurting me. All because of you, Headache.

Thanks so much.

Excited about closed-eyes and darkness,
CVT

Dear Physical Therapy

Dear Physical Therapy,

I'll have you know that - when I was looking for appropriate images to post with this letter - I found a million photos of smiling trainers and patients having a good old time while they underwent you. Well - I think that's complete . . . Call it nonsense.

This patient isn't smiling. And he wasn't when I started up, either. No way. Because I really dislike you. Big-time. This is the thing: I'm playing football again these days, and it feels pretty good. I'm still not 100% in terms of cutting and all that, but I'm running close to full speed. That's good. Once again, I've dodged a missile as my knee is still pretty damn functional, and I get to play my sport of choice. I appreciate that. And I appreciate the role of you in that process.

However, this is the part that sucks. Because I know (and my doctor told me) that I should be doing you for pretty much the rest of my life. Some basic stuff, some stuff that's not so basic. For me to know that my knee is remaining in top shape and my muscles are in good condition to protect said knee, I'm supposed to be running, biking, or swimming regularly. I don't need to go into detail (see "Dear Running"), but we all know that I hate all that kind of repetitive exercise. So what's the chance that I'm doing any of that now?

Right.

But I'm also aware that I need to be doing SOMETHING to keep my knee in shape. So it's this horrible balancing act between doing real you and being confident in my knee-strength, or playing with a large amount of fire and doing nothing (but not hating 15 to 30 minutes of every day of my life). It's hard. Because, on paper, 15 - 30 minutes a day doesn't seem like a whole lot. And it isn't. But it's not like I am motivated all the time. In fact, I'm NEVER motivated to do this. I finish work and it takes all I've got to do 5 minutes of simple knee exercises. If I'm going to do those other things, I need to get dressed, make sure I haven't eaten too recently - but that I've eaten recently enough to have the energy (not to mention hydration), and then I have to go do it, then I'll need a shower when I get back, I need to eat something of substance because I'm regularly exercising . . . It just gets more complicated. And then there's that whole aspect of me hating it with every ounce of my soul (and body - to add weight to make sure that that's a lot of ounces). And here's the thing: would it even guarantee that I wouldn't re-injure my knee? Hell no. Does it make it "less likely" that I will injure it? Of course. But how hard is it for "less likely" to be a strong motivator to do something I hate?

Think about it. What if somebody told you that attaching yourself to a rack and pulling your limbs near the point of tearing ligaments for half an hour every day would make you "less likely" to get hit by a car over the course of the rest of your life? Would you do it? Of course not. That's pretty much what I'm dealing with here with you, Physical Therapy. Sure, the basic strengthening exercises are more like 10 minutes of getting punched every day to reduce the chance of losing an eye, but it's still no fun or an easy choice. Because what if I do all that and STILL lose an eye? Get hit by a car? Hurt my f-ing knee AGAIN!?

Right. Now you're starting to get it.

So, for now - I haven't really been doing anything about it. I know I should. I know. And I know that if I don't do anything and then tear up my knee, I'm going to feel like a jerk and be really mad with myself. But I also know how much I hate repetitive exercise and how there are still no guarantees. What if I use my post-school energy to do you instead of making music or drawing or writing or something like that and then end up damaging myself, anyway? Punching holes in my wall would be the least of my worries . . .

Dilemmas, eh? In the end, I still know that there's no debate. If I'm going to choose to keep playing sports, then I have to follow through with some regular you. I know. But I will never like it - and I shall continue to complain about it. Because if I ever run out of stupid little things to complain about, I'll probably come up with a much more problematic vice.

So there, Physical Therapy. I get why I should partake in you. I likely will. And soon. But I will never, EVER be your friend.

Resigned,
CVT

Dear Impending . . .

Dear Impending . . . ,

Hey there. How you doing? I see you threatening on the horizon, and I just felt like there's no reason ignoring the elephant in the room, so to speak, so I might as well just send a letter your way. And here it is.

Now you might be wondering which particular ellipses I'm referring to in writing you. I suppose there are a few, but there is one that I am thinking about the most these days - the end of summer. Yeah - I know - I should be enjoying what I have without worrying about the coming dearth, but that's just not how I roll. I'm ridiculously conscious these days - as the sun sets just a little bit sooner each evening - of the upcoming lack of sunlight and the likely effect that will have on me. And I'm not so excited.

Because this is the thing - I'm doing pretty damn well these days. I feel great. I'm getting a lot of exercise. I'm eating relatively well. I'm socializing (during the daylight hours). I'm absorbing some sunshine. I'm not all pale and white-ish. But these salad days can't last forever, and soon all those things will cease to be. Maybe not the exercise (if I can keep my athletic obligations rolling), but the rest, most likely. I'm going to start losing my energy. I'm going to start being just a little less likely to go out with friends. And when I do, I'll be a little less likely to be witty as Hell. I'll start eating a lot more chocolate (that was my strange twist last winter). I'll get all pale and white. And we don't even need to talk about the sunshine.

And I'm going to try to combat the light-less onslaught that is you. I am. I'm going to try to remain as productive as I have been. As I said, I'm going to try to keep my athletic obligations intact, so that should help out a bit. I have also promised myself I'll be more social, and I have already lined up some possible ventures to the horse track come Fall to follow that up (as we all know I'm just not so likely to do the evening-time smoke-filled-room-fests that normally go on through the winter). School seems like it might just be a tad bit less stressful (I'm not going to kid myself and say anything beyond that), which just might get me a little bit more energy to do things. I am planning to talk ish about white folks to make myself seem less pale. I'm covering every base.

But there's only so much I can do, and I'm frightened. That's right, Impending . . . , I'm frightened. Because the last winter was so miserable in a lot of ways, and this you one can't be too much better (even if I'm taking all these precautions). Although I do have my Free Round-Trip Ticket to try to get me to a sunny place. And Becca just moved to Arizona, where I hear there is sunlight . . .

Maybe it WILL be a little better. Maybe I WILL survive. Who knows? Maybe I can run my air conditioner at full blast with my windows open for as long as the warmth remains to speed up the global warming process to get me some more sunny days. I will do whatever it takes.

Because it's no fun to be thinking about you things. Even if doom doesn't seem to be in the works (that's not until 2012 - which, I suppose, creeps a little bit nearer all the time). Hmmm . . . maybe I need to write a new letter.

Well - until then, Impending, thanks for getting me to keep my head on a swivel and to look out for myself. That's a good thing, overall.

Glancing over my shoulder,
CVT

Dear Creation

Dear Creation,

Now this could be a very interesting letter, indeed, if I were addressing it to the super-big capital "C" Creation that encompasses the entirety of all things known. How powerful and intense it could be. However, just for clarification's sake (in case that Creation thought this was for it), this letter is to the general act thereof . . .

That's right, Creation, I'm writing this to you. Because I spent the large part of today in the act of you, making some wonderful new written and auditory works. I didn't quite FINISH anything, of course, but I am well on my way to producing two brand-new yous that I am relatively happy with. In the end, of course, it doesn't really matter if I'm completely satisfied with the end result because it's all about the pleasure in the ACT of you - not so much the final product.

Now, I've already written a letter to "the Zone," which is where I generally end up while immersing myself in you, Creation. So there is no need to repeat myself and try to describe that particular journey. That's what archives are for, after all. No - instead, I shall just talk about how I feel right now - post-zone, post-you, at the end of the day.

In short, I feel pretty damn good. It's sort of a mix between a chemically-induced "high" and being especially proud of myself. It's similar to the shit-eating-grin-inducing-feeling of having just told an especially clever joke that took my audience a full minute to get, but once they catch it, they start laughing uncontrollably for ten minutes. It's this pride of "look at me, Mom!" It makes me want people to look at me, so they can know how ridiculously awesome I am for having made so much from one single day away from work.

It makes me feel pretty, oh-so-pretty.

It makes me feel like - although I'm starting get tired and nearing bedtime - that I need to go out into the world and DO something because just going to bed is not enough celebration of such a wonderfully productive day. A feeling similar to the "I could die happy now" because there's one more thing going out into the world (and hopefully staying there) because of me. My voice has been thrown into the void and I actually heard an echo.

That kind of feeling.

You feeling me?

You should be, Creation, because you brought me here. And I have to say that the feeling you bring me whilst making auditory prettiness is quite different from that brought on whilst drawing. Drawing brings on a sort of "I'm at peace with the world/look at me gliding among the mortals-for I am on a different plane" kind of feeling. Audio-you puts me in a state where my mind is more or less running wild and unfettered, and I feel like I could pretty much accomplish anything at all if I really wanted to - right now. I'm tempted to prove it by reaching through this computer to poke my Reader in the face right now, but that's no way to treat family.

I feel very smart and clever. Like you could bring me any number of bent-nails-looped-around-each-other-and-ostensibly-stuck-together, and I could pull them apart in seconds. With my mind. Like I'd finally be able to win a game of Scrabble. Boggle would be no more of a challenge than eating unsalted peanuts. That's how clever I feel.

And with all this prettiness and cleverness and pride going around - the big question is: what should I do with it? Should I go fling it at the world and see if it is ready for me? Should I invent something especially useful like an open-parking-space-finder?

Of course not. All those would be perfectly wonderful things - don't get me wrong - but I have an even better idea. And that idea is to go to sleep early, so I'm nice and rested and ready for my first full day of school. And if I have a little bit of luck, this cleverness and prettiness will flow into tomorrow and help me start it all off on a wonderful, beautiful foot. Because feet can be beautiful if you put some time into it (see "Dear (Toe) Nail Polish").

And so that is what I shall do. But before I do that, I shall thank you one last time, Creation, for helping me have such a splendid day.

And to be so pretty.

I have a clever brain,
CVT

Dear Social Life

Dear Social Life,

I could have a you if I wanted to. A grand one. Full of late nights, laughter, ridiculous exploits and people spilling things on me. Oh, the fun we'd have.

If I wanted to. But that turns out to be the issue. Because I don't particularly want that kind of you. Sure, I want friends. And I've got them. I enjoy laughter. Anybody who knows me in my most recent incarnation as a camp carnie knows I'm all about the ridiculous exploits. And, now that we mention it, one of those ridiculous exploits DID involve somebody spilling water all over me.

But.

But.

But I'm not so down with the late nights. And I'm not so down with the common interpretation of what a you means. Because, mostly, I kind of hate bars. Here in Portland, they still haven't pushed through the non-smoking laws, so I generally come out smelling disgusting, and feeling equally so. I'm also not the biggest fan of loud music and dim lighting, and the need to lean in close to somebody yelling "WHAT!?" to carry on any semblance of a conversation.

I don't know. Must be something wrong with me.

But this is something I figured out recently (well, actually - I had it figured out a long time ago, but not the wherewithal and proper friends to make it work on a regular basis): I can have a you AND go to bed relatively early. It's something a lot of young people aren't familiar with, but may catch on if I spread the word. I call it "Daytime." That's right - "Daytime." Some of you may have read about it. Others may have even participated in it from time to time. But I have perfected its use as a form of having a you.

For example - it turns out that one can see friends during the "Daytime." Crazy, right? Yeah - all you have to do is call a friend during said Daytime and ask them, "would you like to hang out now?" When they agree to do so - you're golden. Next thing you know, you're spending time together, laughing, possibly eating food or sipping drinks . . . And you can SEE it all because there's this huge light on the whole time (some call it the "Sun").

And get this - you don't have to just hang out with any one person. You can call multiple friends and bring them together. You can eat a big lunch. You can go someplace.

And all this makes me wonder - whoever came up with the idea of the modern night-life? I imagine it originated way back when and involved prostitutes and/or criminal activities. And since dark, shady dealings are so intriguing, more and more people started getting involved in late-night socializing. Next thing you know, a you becomes synonymous with the "Night Life."

And I acknowledge the importance of night-time. I do. I'm just not entirely sure why people feel the need to wait until it kicks in to socialize. Call me crazy, but is there any reason people can't be drunk and obnoxious during the day? Can't people wear special little outfits for each other in full light? This one time, I saw music played loudly during the day, and people still enjoyed it.

Now, with all this sarcasm just splashing out onto the page, you'd think that would mean I am being what they call "bitter." But, to tell you the truth, I'm not. It kind of makes my day to wake up early on the weekends and have the morning to myself to do with as I will. I do get frustrated at times when I want to hang out with people, but they won't do it until late. However, these days I have tended towards friendships with people who are not afraid of daylight.

I WOULD like it if music or shows took place during the day. But you can't make everything perfect.

So here's to the you that ends at 10pm on a weekend, Social Life. To early breakfasts with friends and ending my social day with a nice, long dinner. To feeling rested and having little trouble adjusting to the weekday schedule. All while having more social options now than I did a year ago. Basically, to being a crotchety old man at the age of 27. And totally cool with it.

Happy with a Bedtime,
CVT