On Motorcycles

In my endless pursuit to waste time, I was flipping through the channels this afternoon and came upon an episode of American Chopper.

And even though she normally doesn't complain about anything that I watch, it helped that Mel was napping right beside me, blissfully unaware that I was about to indulge one of my guiltiest of pleasures. Plainly put, I think I'd look like a total badass on a motorcycle.

My buddy Dave always talked about getting a bike, or taking his test for a motorcycle license and I was always secretly envious.

I've always had a real appreciation for all things two wheeled, but for many years, was completely forbidden to even think about ever owning a motorcycle.

I used to love watching shows about motorcycles, be it the aforementioned Chopper, or that one with Jesse James whose name is currently escaping me. Hell, I even loved Sons of Anarchy on FX because it dealt with the subject.

I feel like the openness of the craft could be very freeing. And I've always felt tied down. In my mind, it's time for this boy to be cut loose.

In the end, I won't ever end up buying a bike. I'm too rational. I feel like painting the asphalt with my skin is probably something that I can live without ever experiencing.

But a boy can dream, that's for sure.

On Sinking Slowly Into Inebriation

The first shot of whiskey slides down my throat, warm and satisfying. Many more will follow this one.

I think to myself, "My heroes would be proud."

True, Hemingway and Bukowski might be compelled to join me in my drunken fun, but upon further review, Hemingway ended up blowing his brains out, and Bukowski lived his life in a seemingly constant angry state, and would probably be more apt to take a swing at me than accept my offering of free booze.

So let's scrap that plan.

The second shot comes five minutes after the first, making me shake my head side to side as is runs down my throat. I already feel good. Sometimes booze is the way to go.

The third one comes faster than the second, as my lips greedily reach for the rim of the glass. My tongue feels momentarily numb before being awoken by the strong flavor of the liquor.

I've never been one to drink heavily. I could always do it if need be, but I never enjoyed it as much as my friends. My coping mechanism was always to internalize. To choke on my own thoughts, swallow them down deep, much like the way I'm doing to the drink now. But I don't do that anymore, there's no need.

I'm happy, despite this small detour to the bottle. Once in awhile, this just seems the way to go. It'll be a night of deep sleep if nothing else.

Christ, it's not even midnight.

I'm beginning to question things. Nothing on a grand scale, just silly things. I question curling being an Olympic sport. I question why gas prices are so expensive, although I already know the answer to that. I question why I never took certain roads, and at the same time, why I chose some of the ones I did take. All in all I have no regrets, truly.

Should I take a break before the fourth? Maybe. But why bother? I have nowhere to be right now, nor in the morning. I can afford to be slightly reckless, given the fact that I currently have nowhere to be reckless. I don't do that anymore.

Life's been good to me, I realize this now. And in the time it took me to think that, number four was tossed gleefully down my throat.

I've never wanted for anything, never gone hungry. I've never been homeless. I've never lived the life of someone on skid row. But somehow I feel like I identify with those people. But in truth, it's probably just the alcohol speaking for me.

I'm still on number four, but it's officially hit me. My mind has gone hazy. I'm fading. Tonight might be a good night for sleeping. Or I might wake up in a fog in a few hours and not be able to remember ever writing this. I've been honest here, and as the life lesson tells us, honesty is the absolute best policy. But does it make you a good writer? Maybe. But the alcohol helps a great deal.

Just ask Ernest or Hank.

On Life Goals

I talk about it all the time, but the talk really needs to stop.

I am going to finally devote some time to an endeavor that I talk about all the time.

Starting tonight, I begin writing a book.

My issue has always been that I have so many ideas running through my head, it's nearly impossible to devote enough rain-space to just one. The other issue is that these supposed "great ideas" may in fact suck big time.

But how will I know until I try?

Dreams do come true on occasion, and it's time to give mine a shot.

Wish me luck kids.

On Culinary Skills

One of the well known facts about me is my penchant for all things food related. I love to cook and I love to eat.

Hell, my favorite channel on TV is the Food Network (which thank the Lord is finally back). I even subject my poor girlfriend to countless hours of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Or worse yet, Bizarre Foods on the Travel Channel.

Put me in a fully stocked kitchen and there's no telling what I'll create.

Tonight's creation involved steak, potatoes, cheese, broccoli, hot sauce and sour cream. This unholy grouping of ingredients actually turned out to be one of the best and most satisfying meals that I've eaten in a long time.

And that kids, is the secret to my culinary prowess. Experimentation. Some people experiment with their stock portfolios, others in the bedroom. I experiment in the kitchen.

My father always did it, so why not his only son? I used to dread the words "Here, try this." Now, not only do I look forward to hearing them, but I find myself saying them often.

So if you're a little gun shy to experiment, it's well worth the attempt. You might create a science experiment. Or you might come up with food nirvana.

You'll never know until you try.

On Late Night Boredom

It's eleven minutes after midnight on a Sunday into Monday. Shouldn't something good be on television?

I've stopped on Comedy Central to watch Futurama. But I hate that show.

I could read some more, but I've been doing a lot of that lately. And I feel as if I'd fall asleep if I read another word.

I could pop a DVD in, but then I'd actually have to sift through the hundreds that I have to finally watch ten minutes of some second rate flick before angrily turning it off to choose another film. So that's out.

I could listen to music, but blasting some tunes at this hour could force the parental units to like, kill me.

It's a sad existence when the best activity seems to be staring at the candle on my bookshelf, watching the flame flicker back and forth. I've tried to explain this idea to countless people, most recently Mel.

There's just something about watching fire (whether it's a raging inferno or the tiny flame of a Walmart candle) that is very comforting and real to a man.

And I've just struck on something.

On Dreams

I don't ever recall having a real dream when I was a little boy. I never aspired to be a firefighter, or a professional athlete, as I don't like being hot, nor can I hit a 100 mile per hour fastball.

In high school, I excelled in psychology, history and Enlgish, but none of those things really screamed career to me.

Over the years, I toyed with the idea of becoming a police officer, an English teacher, even a pro wrestler. Ok, stop laughing at the last part, it's perfectly true.

Over the last few years, given my affinity for writing, my love of words, I decided that the idea of writing a book was an appealing one to me. I've started dozens, but never gotten beyond a few pages. o subject has ever really grabbed me. I have what I think are brilliant ideas, and they later turn out to be boring, or topics that I just can't sink my teeth into.

A lofty dream I know, but I would love to write the great American novel.

I had an idea yesterday to begin writing the definitive work on Charles Dickens. A biography. The only roadblock there is that know nothing about him. I've enjoyed a couple of his books, but beyond that, I'm stumped. It's also likely that I'll end up hating this idea as well.

In fact, as I'm writing about it, I'm losing interest.

I've thought for several years that I'd love to do a work on Charles Bukowski and his library of works. But several people have already done it. Which doesn't mean that I couldn't be the next, as Bukowski's life had layers that may not be discovered for decades.

I long for the moment when I'm struck by a great idea. Maybe in a dream, maybe while driving, possibly while in the shower, as these are typically the three places in which my "brilliant" ideas come about.

On Chicken Nuggets

As a child, there were few in life that could satisfy me like chicken nuggets. I liked playing with Play-Doh, liked to color, but there were few things that really truly made me as happy as having a plate of chicken nuggets in front of me, waiting to be consumed.

Some twenty-ish years later, very little has changed. Those little pillows of fowl-y goodness still have the power to make everything ok.

They can be really crappy, cheap chicken nuggets, or even the "Rolls Royce of Nuggetdom," the Chicken McNugget. It makes no difference to my tastebuds. I'm in heaven either way.

So...that being said, I've gotta dash, the timer on the oven just beeped, and I have some 400 degree delicacies to devour.

Later y'all.