The Willingness of Others


You know what would be awesome. Is if someone wanted to do a project then actually enthusiastically participated. I get tired of people who say yeah let’s do it, then they do nothing to move it forward.

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What World is This?


The Difference Between the US and Less Developed Countries

We feel so superior to others. We disdain them as less sophisticated than us, or call them “backwards” or “peasants” when we read their stories. We shake our heads knowingly and feel a superior pity towards them.

And we think how awful for those people.

We see a post on Facebook or a segment on the evening news in which nutters from (insert country in strife here) are shouting hateful epithets and beliefs so foreign in concept, we believe them absurd. They wave homemade signs, and they look crazy.

And we think how awful for those people.

Someone sends us a blog post profiling some folks in a faraway land who can’t get a fair shake because their government is so corrupt, so hopelessly broken that it has ground to a halt. Perhaps there’s even a picture of their leader, some grinning despot with eyes lacking humanity.

And we think how awful for those people.

We slide past posts of their environmental disasters as fast as we can because we just can’t read one….single….more story, our guts contracting, and a pervasive sense of futility and helplessness washing over us.

And we think how awful for those people.

We Haven’t Come As Far As We Thought

After spending a Saturday morning perusing the News app on my iPhone, I encountered each scenario above and others that were once-in-a-blue-moon news reports, and I came to the conclusion I don’t understand this world anymore.

Hell, I don’t even recognize it.

They (whomever they are) changed it. They chipped away at it, eroded it bit by bit, these tiny bites not even registering. This pale imitator doesn’t even look like the one I grew up in. I’m not talking about romanticizing your childhood. I’m talking about it’s allllll fucking changed, a world lacking in integrity, compassion, decorum, and some goddamn common courtesy.

We used to do what was right not because we had to but because it was how we were built. We were fair. We respected and upheld the laws. We believed in things.

Not Some Third World Country

I read the news.
I read the stories.
They were sad.
They were infuriating.
They were relentless in their numbers.

And they weren’t about some backwards, easily dismissed country, they were about America.

  • We’ve held prisoners in jail for decades without ever charging them with a crime. They are treated roughly receiving broken bones, concussions, etc. and they’ve NEVER even been charged with a crime much less convicted of one. I hate bad guys too, believe me I do, but I believe in the tenets of our laws and justice system more. You don’t get to keep people in jail forever.
  • Pedophiles and sexual harassers are put up for or are elected to office with impunity. Worse yet is that persons of faith, especially prominent celebrity ministers, publicly excuse or ludicrously explain away this behavior.
  • Our government is in complete disarray with opposite sides warring with each other.
  • The rich get richer. The poor get poorer. The middle class pays for it all.
  • Anger crazed, wide-eyed hate protestors make the news regularly. Our children watch these reports on tv.
  • There is another mass shooting every week.
  • Our environment is an ecological nightmare, a fact hastened along with current federal government roll backs of our hard fought for protections.

And I think how awful for us.

Brad Pitt, Fight Club & Gritty Philosophy 


Find Peace in this Life


Stop Buying Bullshit


Find a Fucking Purpose

Amsterdam Travel Journal


4:43 AM, THE NETHERLANDS: Hanging out in this tiny hotel lobby with a sleepy eyed clerk at the desk. Drinking a 7-up, and eating Paprika flavored Lays and a candy bar named Lion. I just can’t sleep anymore tonight because of the time change. That ✈️ lag got me like…

Despite the junk I’m eating right now, I can’t begin to tell you how utterly amazing the food is here. It is beyond any comprehension of fresh you can imagine. Today I went to the “Marqdt” (grocery store) to buy stuff for a bed picnic this rainy evening. 
It was a small urban type store (all of them are) and the food selection and freshness left us with dazzled moon glow eyes. I stopped at a Fromagerie (cheese shop) who made me a gorgeous sandwiche, and a bakers’ shop on the way back to the hotel. The baker’s assistant wanted to kill me because I wanted one of everything (no, seriously-one of everything.)


Needless to say I had a veritable feast sitting in bed watching King of Queens in incomprehensible Dutch (hilarious) while the rain dribbles down on the streets outside. The hotel room is ground level, facing the street and a canal just past it. This is both a blessing and curse. It’s convenient because I am able to pop outside quickly but the Dutch like to sing, and since the preferred mode of travel here bicycle, they tend to blithely pedal past all hours of the wee morning singing at top volume. 
So far, Amsterdam is as quaint, charming and thoroughly European an one could imagine in their head. Crooked streets. Mind-blowing food. Just happy people everywhere you look zipping about their lives quite merrily. 

I am ready to move here. 

Funny memory


One of my earliest memories is of my mom and I coming home from Grandma’s house. I was little, maybe around 4 or 5. I was still riding in a car seat, and we were in her station wagon. It didn’t have air conditioning and the windows were down. Kids didn’t have to ride in the back seat by law yet so I was up front with her. We took our freeway exit and while sitting at the light, a man pulled up in a beat up old chevy who also had windows down. I looked him square in the eye and cried out, “Daddyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”

My mom didn’t even turn her head. She got a laser lock on the traffic light with her eyes, nary a muscle twitched on her face and flush began to spread over her face. 

It looked like this.

Trading Places-Nice Purse

Self Portrait


Easy Like Sunday Morning

Boxing, Cooking & a Father I Could Never Connect With


My dad was a scary dude to me growing up. I spent most of my childhood in my room because it was a haven away from the devastating words he used as effectively as wielding a sword to my burgeoning child psyche. I tried to spend as little time around him as possible. 

But at a time in my life when we couldn’t talk to each other, no…., we couldn’t communicate with each other, I managed to absorb two passions of his, nearly by osmosis. The first was boxing. This was back when boxing meant something. Mohammed Ali. Leon Spinks. Angelo Dundee. Mills Lane. And yes, in later years, Tyson. Boxing had heart then. Two men. Two sets of determination. Two different skill sets. Get in a ring and let the best man win. 

For this, I would actually emerge from my safe place and sit in front of the telly, and we’d share some time cheering on our champion. These were glorious moments.

My dad’s only other discernible passion was food. Preparing it. Finding exotic recipes and replicating them. Going out to eat to places my peers never went to. Hell, I never ate at a McDonald’s until I was 18 years old because he considered it garbage. Kids I went to school with didn’t eat pate or escargot or caviar. They ate macaroni and cheese or chicken fried steak and such. My dad would fix borscht. He’d make his own sausages. He didn’t discriminate, and cooked dishes from all over the world.

Me, eh, I loved eating it but preparing it, having that passion just didn’t exist. Somehow though, his cooking commentary, and his willful education of my palate made a huge impact on me without my even knowing it at the time. 

Later in life, much later, I just started cooking one day, and I’ve never stopped. All that rabble he would summarily explain when he cooked stuck in my head somewhere. Now, I cook the most amazing kick ass food, and it has all come so naturally to me. I dream of food and wake up with the taste of it in my mouth. I visit other countries and my goal is basically to eat my way across it.

We’ve all got our shit when it comes to our parents, and I’m no different. I never did really connect with him. But still…. there is a part of him in me, in my DNA, that he delivered up to me because he had a passion for it, and my life is better because of it.

Thanks Dad. This was a good thing you did and you never even understood that it was a gift you gave me.