If a puck falls in the forest does it matter?

I played hockey again tonight. Had a great time. Its competitive. Fiercely. Playing at a higher level is completely different. The game is faster, you have to focus on everyone, because anyone can score on you at anytime.

Tonight was easy. My defense made me look good. I stopped all but one easy one, and gave up one breakaway. Hockey, like most team sports I play has a feel to it. Its like you can tell when things are going your way. You get the bounces, guys miss pucks, open nets, etc. I barely played good enough to win. Barely. Which is probably why we barely won.

I do have some sense of accomplishment from this. I do kind of feel like I've climbed a mountain of sorts to get here.

All this means nothing of course (hence the title). If it makes me healthier, and a better father and husband; then so be it. However, if it becomes consuming, and takes away from the magical time I have with my kids, then I will walk away.

You can put no price on the time you spend with your children. None. Metallica, who I'm not particularly a fan of say, "and nothing else matters". Profoundly accurate.

You can look at it spiritually and say love thy children. Or you can take the Grape Ape approach, and say we evolved to care, to continue the species. I could care less, because in my eyes "Nothing Else Matters"

I wish you well where ever you may be, I hope you are blessed and held in the arms of a loving god.

From the mind of Men

This morning, as I was cleaning up for a meeting at work. By cleaning up I mean wetting my hair and using a disposable razor I stole from a museum exhibit on flint spear-points from the stone age. A narrative voice appeared in my head. "Now when you want to get ready for a meeting you need to have the right equipment. Many top-notch spies now that you can spend $100's of dollars at a hair salon; or you can go to the dollar store and spritzer bottle with some bathroom soap and cheap hairspray will leave you presentable".

My point, and I do have one. My wife and I (mostly my wife) watch this show called Burn Notice on T.V. and this cool spy (who my wife is in love with) always works on these cases trying to find out who got him put out of the spy business. Anyway during the course of the show he narrates how spies do cool stuff, like surveillance, and breaking into and out of places. Probably mostly bunk; but it sounds really cool and macho.

So now, and I suspect most men are like this; whenever I do mundane tasks, I have this cool narrative voice in my head making even the most boring things sound SPY-LIKE :)
"When your mowing a lawn, the edges might be important, but the real key is........"

We also (men and most children) do this with sports announcers. I'll do this with anything (well not anything). "John has been a little bit off on his tooth-brushing this season, but I look for him to finish strong". "That's write Bill, and don't forget this is a man who can floss". Stu, wasn't he actually drafted for his ability to floss?" I think so, but he's always dangerous with those choppers. He's a guy who can brush with electric or hand-held......" I rinse spit, then me Keith Jackson, Al Michaels, and Bob Costas leave the bathroom.

I know I'm not the most technologically sound cat but.....

I know I'm not down with the technological age; however tonight I tried to preview a few other blogs just to get a lay of the land. I got laid. I think I am the only non-pornographic blog on the planet. Maybe I don't know how to blog/surf? All I know is that there are some frightening folks out here on Earth. Granted, everybody needs a hobby; still I don't think everybody should share. Furthermore, my pretty pony should be just that, MY PRETTY FREAKIN PONY. Not, "me freakin a pony". and ya know what scares me? And I think that you do. You and I both know that if we hit a search engine for my pretty pony, you know what we'll find. Frankl you can find it, cause I ain't lookin.

If you need me I'll be showering for the next three hours.
Yours in lufa,
j

Tuesday Night Lights Its 10:50 P.M. on an unusually balmy night here. I got a slow start getting warmed up and in my gear. Everything seems to be going in slow motion. The pregame start horn literally went off just as I grabbed my helmet and left the locker room. The Locker room.The locker room is one of the most interesting places you'd probably never want to visit. The chatter is unusual mix to say the least. Usually at any given point, someone is talking about booze, a stripper, their child's day-care or kindergarten class. Rarely, but sometimes their child's kindergarten teacher who is an alcoholic who strips to support her habit. Were far enough in the south that football is still king of dialogue, and hockey season isn't in full swing yet, so it takes a backseat to pigskin and strippers. I'm in the crease now trying to stretch out as best I can in the waining moments before the puck is dropped. The ice is still wet from the zam cleaning the game before. A couple of guys skate over whack my pads for good luck. At-least I think its good luck, it could just be subtle threats. Tonight we are playing a sponsor-less team who has yet to win a game in two seasons. I am kindred to them in that these are the people I started playing with a little over a year ago when my hockey adventure began. Its hard to get motivated to play a team that has no chance of beating you. Thoughts of my first elusive shut-out creep into my head. Shut-outs. I will never get a shut-out. Never. I usually need to give up at-least one really bonehead stupid goal, sometimes two to wake up and get focused. Especially against inferior opponents. Inferior, that term is so funny to me. I am mutt. Half baseball player, half football player in goalie gear. All I'm doing is fielding grounders and directing traffic.Tonight we have 3 fans in the stands. Probably some players wife. A stripper who is unknowingly dating the same man. Quietly sneaking drinks with 3rd lady, who teaches Sunday School at the first Baptist Church of Smallville. I can smell the fame and fortune. I have made it to the big time. I am on top of the heap. Literally. To solidify my greatness I make a brilliant kick-save on a 26 Kilometer Per hour shot. I assign kilometer values to the shots I face, because Kilometers produce higher numbers than Miles per hour. 26, 35, even the occasional 72 kilometer per hour shot sounds much better than, "a sliding piece of rubber that I can identify individual deficiencies in as it eases slowly in my direction. So one of these rockets goes flying by me into the back of the net. Well, I don't think it had enough momentum to make it all the way into the back; but it did cross the line. My defenseman asks "did I screen you?" He did. But does it really matter? At the rate this thing was moving I didn't need gear, let alone even skates to stop this thing. So, what the hell, I said, "oh yeah. Never saw it".Truth be told, I saw it; and the damn thing was going so slow I was almost hypnotized by it. I think as it floated by I had 17 separate thoughts consisting of strippers, booze, my little girls kindergarten teacher, who has a tattoo, and could have been a stripper. I also speculated some of the recent ideological shifts on global warming, as compared to latent trends indicated in ice-flow residuals recently observed. Then just as the puck eased across the line, I wondered, "If I pour salt on this thing, will it melt and die in the freakish way many a slug met its demise not unlike an ant having its tan improved at the hands of child's magnifying glass. GOOOOOAAAAAAAL

Humor and Goodness in Mental Health

At times humor is subject to a fine line, that few people can see. Often times people blunder over it not realizing it exists at all. Certainly humor is in the eye of the beholder.

I work in mental health. I see some BIZARRE stuff. By bizarre, I mean you know I didn't think of it, because I'm not that creative, so by default of logic.....IT HAPPENED.

Often times when I'm venting and sharing a story about some deranged person who thought they were Jesus, the Pope, Napoleon, or just an Ice cream Vendor named Vito; I do think man this is rich turf for material until. Until I realize that Napoleon is somebodies son. Somewhere there is a parent who is worrying about their child, or their parent. Someone who is lost, ashamed, angry, feeling cheated, not unlike the person suffering a malady that happens to be amusing to the rest of us.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about venting. I'm all about putting others down to lift myself up, but you can't lose sight of those that suffer. I get desensitization. I get emergency room people coping with their lives as best they can to do the best they can; still my point is valid and bears mentioning.

So what is appropriate? How do we deal? I don't know. I think feeling and being present with the client is ok. I think even laughter can be ok. If the client does something odd or funny, you laugh. Again I go back to older adages, With and Not at.

THEY can tell the difference. Anyone who disbelieves that doesn't need to be in the helping profession.

So will I continue to make lite of 300 plus individuals naked, covered in Tabasco Sauce, all in the hopes of being Amorous. You damn right. Will this individual be glad to see me for the umpteenth time when I see them. You damn right.

Sincerely,

Hippocrates

Finding a voice

So its Sunday night and I sit here relaxing thinking about my blog. Strange thing a blog. Apparently they are all the rage. Sort of a dear diary of sorts. I look at it. I proof read it. Change the colors. The fonts. I am the only visitor today. I have advertisements set up so that if I buy something or click something on-line, I can profit from my own shameless surfing.

But I think to myself, do I want to find a voice. I just continue to vomit scattered thoughts on the screen. I wonder, if its interesting to me, is it interesting to others? I wonder, do other parents have an inherent rage at their children when they are accidentally struck in the privates three times? Just me? I love my son more than anything in this world. However, I swear there is this Neo-Freudian/Darwinian survival thing going on. Cause I have been taking some shots to the groin. And I know my shots to the groin.

I have played sports since I could walk. I play hockey two-nights a week (goalie no-less), and I swear the most mortifying testicular trauma I have suffered has been at the hands feet and even concrete hard forehead of my son. If he were Greek I would call him Testicleese.

Still he is my joy. My laughing, smiling, ball crushing ray of sunshine that brightens all of my days.

So I will continue to seek a voice. A theme. A commentary of sorts on relevant issues. Or I will just fall back into talking about football.

Have a great week,

J

I don't do nails

For the past 10 minutes I have had a running dialogue with a woman as to whether or not I am a cosmetologist. This whole dialogue starts when the caller a somewhat polite (at first) elderly sounding woman asked to speak to Kevin. Now, there is no Kevin in this office, but I do work with a Kevin, so I did confuse the issue slightly by saying that Kevin wasn't in. However, to my defense, when asked if I did nails, I responded, appropriately, "no". I, again courteously explained that she had the wrong number and that this was in fact a mental health office. I hang up, phone rings again, This time I answer the phone, "mental health"; thus kicking off the great debate as to whether or not I was in fact a manicurist pretending to be a crisis counselor.

Just a quick aside, I do not have a feminine phone voice. I have probably never been referred to as Gruff and will not be doing any promos for the next big Action Movie coming out. You won't here me saying, "RACE FANS.... HOT RODDERS... PLUS THE SEXY MICHELLE.. SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY". Still not feminine.

So she, and again to her credit asked if this 555-5555 was in fact the correct number? To wit I of hairy chest and testosterone replied YES, trying my best to sound like Lerch from the old Adams Family (if she calls back, I'm going to say "YOU RANG"). This is when all the years of watching Matlock kicked in. She stated, "Well it says here in the book you are Magic Nails". I paused. Cornered. Trapped. Was I in fact a beautician trapped in a posture less body? All these years I had been living a lie, trying to counsel the mentally ill, when I should have been manicuring and pedicuring. Tears welled up. I had to focus.

I stammered back. "No, I'm pretty sure you have the wrong number". She pressed further. "well have ya'll changed". Ya'll? Ya'll? I wasn't about to fall for her southern guile and charm. I said, "look lady, this ain't no salon. Now why don't you just........" Actually I proposed that perhaps her book was outdated, and that perhaps she had a more up-to-date version.

She wasn't biting. She new in her heart of hearts that this was a nail salon, and that I, yes I, Jon who can't wait to watch football this weekend in cut-off shorts and the holiest shirt I can find, am in fact Kevin, the premiere finger and toe nail specialist; trained by none other than Pierre La Petite de La Non Football himself, in the art of Nailistry.

She enquired (probably subscribes to the Enquirer) "what do you mean new book". I caved, beaten and outwitted by a superior intellect I conceded defeat, and told her to drop by at 4. I apologized and said that Kevin was out walking our poodles (I just figured we were dating, I could be wrong), after their nap.

Duke Football

Just a few quick thoughts. Occasionally I hear something that strikes me odd. Something that, well for lack of words, I never thought I would hear. Todays entry is about Duke football. Firstly, Duke football is an oxymoron. The idea that Steve Spurrier came to Duke and won, low those many years ago, basically in my eyes lifts him to Prophet status on the grand scale of Religiousity. Hate the man, or just dislike him (I don't even think his mama likes him), he can coach.

Listening to a Duke Football game one day got me to thinking about how it could or should sound. "Well its 63 days till basketball season here in beautiful Duke". Were just about set for tip-off... er I mean Kick-off. Speaking of Kick off the Duke men will be holding their Midnight Madness first practice this Tuesday at the Cameron... wait he's got seam his at 30 the 40 the 50 cuts back, speaking of cuts The Dukies all shaved their heads for the big start of Basketball Season, to show their commitment to the 40 the 30 just the kicker between him and paint. I mean the end-zone. Touchdown Arkansas State Tech Southern College of Cosmetics A& M.

This would have been funnier last week before Duke beat Northwestern, which ironically is probably the only other non ivy school that could hang with them in a jeopardy tournament. Anyway, I digress, listening to a call in sports show (I was bored) whilst I was driving home, the radio announcers were talking about how strange it was to hear Duke fans calling in saying they Wanted Notre Dame whom they are scheduled to play later this year.

The very notion that Duke could play, and possibly beat Notre Dame in football to me is mind boggling to a cataclismic degree. It is bizarre to the extent that I want to re-read the book of revelations, making sure somewhere it isn't written, "and he opened the 4th seal low the team called Duke rose up and Smite those of the Golden Dome....fire brimstone etc".

Bear Hunting & Ice Hockey

Last night was magic. Pure magic. My wife took a well deserved (WELL) deserved break from the kids, and I got to spend some time with them. My daughter, who is sooooooo creative decided we should play bears, which led to looking for bears; and ultimately Bear hunting. Just for point of reference, bears are indigenous to North Carolina, but not my living room.

So here's how it works. All you need is clothes basket, a jump rope, a bear (preferably small and teddy-like) and some kite string. You can also use these items to spice up your love life later simply keep said items and change Teddy bear to Teddy. Or keep the bear if that's your thing, to each his own. First you have to build a bear trap, which any good trapper knows requires a laundry basket. Attaching a jump rope to the laundry basket, and setting the basket on edge such that it could fall on any unsuspecting bears meandering through your home. Next, attach a kite string to your bear, such as to assist with the meandering.

So picture if you will, a room barely lit as dusk sets in on a home void of light (turned off). Two small children crouched down quietly peeking and shushing each other as my little girl holds tightly to the lever that triggers the ferocious bear trap (jump rope handle). Two little flashlights bobbing off and on "shhhhhhhhh, you'll scare the bear". Giggles abound when suddenly SILENCE. Something moved. If you listen closely you can hear the sound of a bear stealthily slinking across the floor, drawn to the scent of a small plastic plate of honey. You can feel the tension as the beast eases quietly cautiously in, almost knowing that something isn't right. Its as if the laundry basket just didn't seem to belong in this part of the woods.

More giggling as the bear draws closer still (its hard to operate a stealthy bear with kite string). The tension continues to mount. The bear. Stops stands up on his hind legs sniffing the air for children, and dirty laundry. All clear the bear lowers his head and drinks. WHAM!!!!!!! The traps slams shut, and the great bear is captured. Two Indian braves jump and clamor and laugh and cheer as they run to their quarry. Success. I'm so proud of my two little predators. And they are equally adorned to their "cute " little GRIZZLY bear. They pet him and stroke him. And I know I have done well because between the clamors and the laughter I hear the sound the magic words that tell parents they have done well. AGAIN!!! AGAIN!!!

Its 11:37, I limp into the house. I have had about 30 pucks bounced off of me, 5 of which found there way to the back of the net. We lost. Again. I peek into my little girls room, and sleeping soundly holding tightly a silky white teddy bear under her arms I behold my very reason for being. In an instant I am reminded what is truly important in life, and am transformed. I trod down the hall towards the end of my day. I am blessed.

Child of God

Child of God. I love that term. I think that a lot of people mistake child of god, as a model, an ideal. Something that reflects all that is good about the world. I know that others interpret a child of god, along the lines of the metaphor, "God protects drunks and fools".

It occurs to me in my line of work that in some capacity we are all children of god. However, when I see some of the dishevelled lost masses of broken-ness, who cannot control themselves or their lives to the extent that they lose everything and all that they love for a controlled substance; or have simply fallen victim to some genetic fuse which popped at the height of college leaving them lost scared and confused. Imagine having the world by the balls, only to be kicked in your own balls and left in an emergency room at 2:00 A.M. knowing little but that you can't stand the voices in your held telling you bad things about yourself and those around you. Bad scary things. Coming from what you think is either you, or inside or nearby you. Or worse perhaps you have this need to understand some untold epiphany that defies logic to everyone but you.

Then at 2:3o a.m. someone walks in to your dimly lit personal hell, and condescendingly starts to ask you questions, with an undertone of, "how dare you have a psychotic break on my watch". "You had to meet Jesus at Denny's, just before the kick-off of my teams favorite game".

Imagine again at this point you still don't know which end is up, while this person is talking to you in what amounts to Chinese, treating you like you are stupid. Your not stupid, your lost; and all you want is a log, a scrap, something to float hope on in this sea of bizarre in which you have suddenly been tossed.

This is where empathy is needed. This is where a simply tool of love and understanding comes in and translates; saying nothing complex, simply, "I am here, and I hear you". Because mired in the net and wreckage that your life has suddenly or for sometime been, you can only but hear or understand the undertone of support or love. It gives you a sense of calm. If only for a split second, you are not alone. Calm, sweat sweat calm. Just a glimmer.

Having presence and empathy isn't learned. You won't find it in a textbook. It's not in a seminar.

However, God willing if you can convey it to the drowning soul that needs it; if one would but for a minute take a moment to feel, and be present. To cast aside frustrations, the desensitization brought about by the never-ending sea of brokenness. The fear that you have missed something better at the expense of this drowning child of god; then you truly are a child of god yourself, equally pathetic, more so lost than the twisted wreckage that lies before you.

I will leave you with this final irony. Many is the time that the patient in seeing the selfishness of the caregiver, not only sees but feels empathy for the truly lost soul looking down upon them.

And I think he said, don't quote me, "Father forgive them for they know not what they do".

Living the Dream

I love having my own blog. I feel special. Famous. I find myself saying things like, "Oh that's blog worthy". Or telling my wife, "remind me to put that in the blog." Last night I learned how to track how many sight visitors I have. I am still trying to learn how to put it on the sight so it says, " you are visitor # 7". Which is a real possibility because so far, I'm the only one visiting my sight. I'm thinking of changing the title to make it more interesting. Here's some Quick thoughts:

1) Back hair is Sexy
2) Possum trainers need luv too
3) Shave my mullet for Charity (not actual charity, Charity Sue my girlfriend)
4) Neil Diamond for president
5) Conspiracy theories for rednecks. Was it an Ark? or a bass fishin tournament?

Peace,
J

Hamsters with Balls

My wife goes into the vets office to get special cat food for our especially fat cat. Go figure. Its like me getting a value meal at Mc Donalds and a diet coke. So she's in the vets office picking up a 47 pound bag of Puma food (anything over 30 pounds for a cat, ain't for a cat).

Apparently a vet tech answers a call, does the uh huh, uh huh yeah, uh huh thing, puts the lady on hold, turns to the vet and says;"Hamster fell off of a fridge, the lady wants to now if you'll see her?" The vet, like this is common place in household occurances, says, rather matter of factly,"sure tell em to come in". My daughter. My precious ray of five year old sunshine, yells out, " are you serious?" "A hamster fell off of a fridge". Immediately appreciating the oddity and humor in this, which incidentally was lost on the vet and vet tech; broke into serious laughter only to be followed by my youngest who is just saying "Hamster, Hamster, Hamster", having just as much fun.

Now I do realize the seriousness of this situation. How did the Hamster get on the fridge? Did the hamster leave a note? Were there signs? Was this a depressed Hamster? Time can only tell. I would speculate, and I'm a layman here, but I have read of similar incidences; that this Hamster was probably placed in a "Hamster Ball". A Hamster Ball is essentially a mobile terrarium in which a Hamster can move itself around. Or so we thought, because as it turns out this hamsters mobile domicile becomes a play toy for Kitty or Spot. Dare I say it. This was a traumatized Hamster.

So I emplore those of you out there. Get rid of your hamster balls. It can happen to your hamster. Or a friends Hamster. If you have any questions, I would urge you to go online where I am sure someone, even just now, is writing their Hamsterspace.com blog, just waiting; no longing to hear from you (or anyone for that matter, I mean how lonely are you if you are dedicating a site to hamsters?).

Peace,
j

of all the bombs

Recent news reports indicate that Russian has successfully tested the "dad of all bombs". The "dad of all bombs" is reportedly 4 times more powerful than the United States, "Mother of all bombs". Furthermore to clarify the bombs in discussion are non-nuclear, "eco friendly" bombs. Thank god for that. Its scorched earth, but the waters still tasty.

In response to this new muscle flexing by the Russian's, the United States is reportedly testing the "dysfunctional child on the Dr. Phil show of all bombs". Speculations as to the power of this bomb indicate that this bomb is not only 4 times more powerful than the "dad of all bombs", and 7 times more powerful than the "mom of all bombs"; but can also prove that the "dad of all bombs" was in fact not the actually father and was actually the work of Chinese Government in an equally baffling Polygamous Auto-body shop just outside of Salt Lake City Utah.

Good Morning

Good morning:

For those of you who want to post comments on this sight, I apologize for the you have to sign up for g-mail piece. Although g-mail seems cool, and idiot proof. Being an idiot, I'm all smiles.

I hope you and yours are well.

Hockey in North Carolina, continues to baffle me. I'm still having a blast. Hockey is challenging and physically demanding as all get out. However, most of the players are northern transplants who grew up on the game and speak the lingo. Having said this, my fellow southerners creep me out a little. I say this because no matter how technically sound they put the dialogue its still sounds like a post Nascar press conference. Example: "I felt like we forechecked well, kept the puck in their end. We had a few bad breaks, and we still need to tighten up on our power-play. Otherwise, I think we played well". This is what I here " We'll first I'd like thank our sponsor, ice, slippery and cold. Good stuff. I felt like we did well. We were a little loose in the corners, and probably could have done a little more in the straight aways, but good lord willing, and with the help of Gator-Aide, and Good Year we'll be alright.

Today is September the 11th. A day we will all remember, and will be forever burned in our minds. I look at today, and am grateful. Grateful for the many freedoms we have in this country. Grateful for the brave people who have sacrificed so much over the short history of our country to allow these freedoms. To celebrate and remember that day, and those fallen, I choose to go on. I choose to continue being the individual that I am allowed to be. I choose to continue to write satire where I see it. Not out of disrespect, rather respect. I choose not to give ground to tragedy but to honor the sacrifices made by drinking from well of freedoms that those that came before me worked so hard dig.

j

Return of the Pigskin

For those of you that know me, and those that don't. I have this viscerall Love/hate, hate to love, player hater, I'm ok your not ok, ok I'm not well and you seem fine, thing with football. It dates back to my early childhood development years.

Anyway, whenever I think I have finally made some peace with this.... It bites me (metahorically). I'm listening to the radio this morning and 2 guys on the morning rock-show are so immersed and euthymic that football season is finally underway that they suggest people call in with prayer and praise. So lunatics call in and say thank you for football, and go Panthers and what not. I, being struck by the religousity of said suggested event, decide to call in. I GET THROUGH. I don't know what the odds are on this occurence but I get through.

I'm not sure what my point is in all of this; its just odd. Whenever I'm around the football cosmos, strange stuff happens.

Or this is all a coincidence, and further evidence of my narcissism. Go figure.
j

blogging for dummies.....

I'm so siked about this blogging thing. There is so much you can do. You can post pictures. This is like heaven for an agoraphobic. I don't even want to surf the other blog sites for fear of the possibilities. Just the idea that I could type about anything.com and get a result frightens me (Think anything). Ick.

I think I misspelled heaven. Forgive me. I hate spell check. I feel like Tom Hanks on that Island talking to a volleyball. Its like my conversation with space.

Blogs I won't be visiting:
1) My Cats
2) Grandmas Vacation Sites
3) It isn't stalking if you have a telescope
4) Rush is Right
5) Quilting for lovers

Blogs I would peruse:
1) My cat recipe's
2) Rush is Right (under my bumper)
3) It isn't stalking if you have a telescope (I lied, that one has me curious).

peace,

P.S. I have and love my cat, and like cats. However anyone with more than 3 cats (except my pal Sheri) creep me out.

Good Morning & Welcome to my Blog

Good Morning to all and welcome to my Blog. I am going to use this as my medium for tedium. My reason for rage, and opportunity to continue with the delusion that I am somehow more significant than the quantity of water and oxygen my body creates. I intend to mix a little bit of everything. The mirth with the serious (mostly mirth). I also intend to use as many big words as possible such that I can sound important and possibly fool the masses into worshipping me.

peace,
j