My barber, an older gentleman from Italy, has twice mentioned he'd like to "maybe 'hightlight' my hair on my next visit"; I'm not quite sure why he keeps suggesting this to me, I've never considered myself a "frosted tip" type, certainly not one to consider such a suggestion. Tony, the barber, tells me he at one time was a hired barber on the Warner Brothers studio lot many years ago, seems interesting enough to me, I'm just happy he has some skill with cutting. I don't need a cut for another few weeks, but I'm now faced with this question every visit and consider other throw-back hair fads that are now open to me. For instance, what about the lines on the side of the head just above the ear Dominic Wilkins style? Or, the quarter inch shave in the same area with a mullet? I guess there are some things men really shouldn't continue after 30, like wearing "skinny jeans" perhaps. I'm not one to judge...just sayin. 

September 7th 2008...

...was the day a harmless fender bender (101 fwy/Woodman Ave. intersection) became a few thousand dollars and a couple hundred hours of public servitude. Last night, while riding my bike to Universal City Station, my progress was inturrupted by yet another fender bender, by yet another careless woman driver not paying attention and once again I was hit at the very same intersection.

No need to worry, I've had worse bruises and scrapes (as a rad bmx'r when helmets weren't invented yet and Christian Slater was Gleaming the Cube), however I was a little freaked that the woman might call an ambulance or the cops and I'd be arrested. I made my way to the Red Line and played some pool with some friends. Yay! I have a feeling God is telling me something. Perhaps I wasn't meant to live in Sherman Oaks, perhaps I wasn't meant to be around that intersection. I think I'll move.

Oh...and Good Friday wasn't so good last year either.  

Happy Easter everyone. 
I have a "He is risen" party to attend. 

Ciao. 

House (the show)

I think I might end up on the show House, well, not really ON the show, but at least develop some strange disabling sickness that would be written into a script for the show. See, you know how I’m always complaining that my ceiling leaks when it rains? Well, the leaky ceiling turned into a leaky wall and eventually into a damp mess. I lifted up all the plastic I had laid down today (to semi protect the carpet from getting soaked) and when I did, low and behold the great and lovely mold that I hear so much about that tend to kill people, make them sick or perhaps even turn them blind. At first I was pretty disgusted with the nastiness of what it looked like, kind of pancake like, and seriously, about the size of those tiny pancakes I got as a kid at Perkins.
So, with all that said, if I end up passing out someday in front of you, make sure when they take me to the Hospital tell Dr. House that I’ve been living in an apartment room that has been moldy. I’m not sure something like mold can be taken care of overnight either. If it’s showing on the outside of the wall, what’s going on inside the wall and the ceiling?

Any Moron Can...

take a picture. 

write a story. 

be creative. 

maybe it's just the moron that decides to do such. 

i think i may have a moronic nature. 

why?

i want to write stories, stories i have no business writing. 

if you know me well enough you've experienced my daily struggle of not being able to entertain with my stories. i have plenty. 

you've most likely been on the recieving end of a long winded, never ending story that has no direction or point. 

the struggle? slowing my mind down enough to simply articulate an idea and complete a structured, thought out narrative. 

if i could only write. 

i mess around with photos instead. i know how to mess with photos some.

but. 

any moron can take a picture.

I'm not "Dad" material

Yeah. I don't know why I'm even mentioning "dad" type things, but, at the moment, I know I'm not Dad material. I'm not even relationship material. I'm simply my material. My material is made up of all things me. All things "me" mean all things I can handle, all things I have a tolerance for. I have a high tolerance for all things dirty and leaky...like my ceiling. I'm okay with a leaky ceiling in my bedroom, considering the fact that I pay a good weekend out for rent. I'm cool if I don't have furniture of my own, or cutlery for that matter. I have a few pair of converse, a pair of Sperry topsiders and a decent collection of Lucky jeans. 

I have an idea, and an idea is enough for me. Of course, my idea needs a pinch of experience, equipment and money, but who's really counting? I've been done living my life for my parents a hell of a long time ago, I figure if I become successful in anyones eyes, they'll be proud that I've done anything.  

I'm my own worst enemy in my own world; so I cheated and read the last chapter where I ignore the worst enemy and started to do stuff regardless of equipment, experience and money. There isn't a sequel cause I've stopped the horrible questioning and insecurities that happen in the original. 

Like I said, I'm all things me; I'm on this journey by myself and I'm not letting anyone distract me with reponsibility or expectations that are destructive to what I want, or where I believe I'm being called to be. 

Selfish? Hm...not really, I'd say more responsible than I've ever been. 

that's it. 

On the Road

there are few times i'm able to leave my life and engage in things that are half fantasy and half reality, a kind of reflection on what has been and where it can lead. tonight, i reflected upon a book that impacted my life early in my twenties. i'm beginning to see things that have structured my current existance and am not surprised where I see myself in years past and years to come. "On the Road" was the one book that continued to haunt my mind this evening as I sipped a 1664 French biere. i think of the many adventures i've been apart of and wonder if i'll ever be able to tell my children (if i ever have children) of my travels, fights in Croatia, the night spent under a tree behind the motel in Wyoming next to my motorcycle as the rain fell, my Long Beach vacation with two loyal friends, and the night in jail where I learned the lesson of king david. 

our lives are filled with the present stresses of our time, and rarely do we ever have the chance to reflect, share and reveal the things that have impacted our lives. perhaps these are the things that are to be revealed around the dinner table to our children; God knows the lives of my own family have been repressed through the decades. we never chit chat about what dad did when he was at georgetown university, or what mom went through in nursing school. 

we seem to detatch ourselves from our past and eventually, we forget what we did and how that impacted our future. there was one moment i remember, many years ago before i entered my first year at biola, my dad and i had dinner at perkins in richfield minnesota. it was winter and the snow fell on the other side of the glass, just a few inches from our booth table. i can't remember if it was of my prompting or if it was simply my father trying to connect with his first born son, but, what i do remember was him tell me a story of a time when one of his buddies got so drunk mid winter, he passed out on the edge of the street in the snow and they had to lift him into the car and take him home, all along knowing they were going to get in trouble. 

these are the stories we are not supposed to tell our children, yet, i want this to be exactly what my children know of me. i want them to know who their father is, i want them to know i know who i am and why i am. 

we continue to forget ourselves everyday, we continue to forget what we've done everyday and eventually, we become a product of what we are trying to become. it's so sad, but that's what we end up doing isn't it? 

What I would do with The Rio Bravo