My Dog is Lactose Intolerant

Those of you who know me know that I am quite a fan of mixed martial arts. That’s how this story starts. Once upon last night, in my living room, I was watching the fights with my wife and our friends. The fights were great, the food was amazing*, the beer was fantastic, and all was right with the world. Little did I know that everything was about to change.

Whilst dishing out some homemade mint chocolate ice cream for my guests and myself, one fateful scoop got away from me and ended up on the kitchen floor, where my dog promptly descended upon it. This is one of those innocent seeming scenes that often unfold at the beginning of horror movies. A scientist absentmindedly drops a test tube, a barrel falls off a truck, a young couple drives into the woods for a little hanky-panky. It was that kind of event. Nothing too out of the ordinary, and no way (short of a frantic soundtrack) to full comprehend the gravity of the moment.

Friends went home, and the wife and I cleaned up and got ready for bed. All seemed right with the world.

Our first hint at trouble came around 3am. Zeb** was whining to be let outside. He hasn’t had trouble getting through a night since he was a much younger puppy. Zeb came back inside, and I crawled back into bed. Zeb followed, because he’s adorable and likes to cuddle up next to us sometimes. Less than three hours later, I would witness first hand the consequences of my cavalier attitude towards the scooping of iced cream.

I was awoken by a splatter sound. It sounded as if my dog was peeing in our bedroom. My assessment was off. I rushed Zeb to the yard, and upon returning discovered that the splattering sounds I had mistaken for urine was, in fact, a horribly loose stool.

Apparently, my dog’s digestive tract does not cope well with dairy. At 6:30am, my wife and I were faced with the evidence of this shortcoming on our bedroom carpet and (far worse) our comforter. Not. Cool.

Not a good way to start Independence Day.

We cleaned the floor and washed the bedding***. Zeb looked sad and guilty through most of the process. It was not a great morning in the Wagner household. But, as Lord Byron said, “Adversity is the first path to truth.” So, clearly, Hallie and I are on our path to the truth... which is probably a good thing. SO, if anyone is in the market for truth, we’ve got a head start. You’re welcome to come along, though I’d recommend getting your adversity somewhere less messy... maybe from an old light bulb or a scratched DVD.


p.s.

Zeb is just fine now.







*My wife an I tend to make friends with people who can cook.
**That’s the puppy-dog mentioned above
***As a side note, our washing machine is not a fan of queen sized down comforters. I ended of finishing that part of the cleaning process in the shower, struggling to manipulate, and then wring out a giant water-logged comforter.

So.... I've been married for a year....

A couple is lying in bed. The man says, "I am going to make you the happiest woman in the world."
The woman replies, "I'll miss you..."


On June 20th, 2009, I married the most wonderful woman ever. Those of you with calendars will note that the date I just mentioned occurred 366 days ago. In other words, my wife and I just had our one year anniversary... Holy cow. A year went by. My first reaction to that factoid is one of shock. How could a year have possibly passed without my realizing it? Isn't your first year of marriage supposed to be some kind of traumatic adventure?!? I don't feel traumatized. Do I feel adventured? I had to think about that last question. Lets make a list of the cool, interesting, or, at the very least, difficult things that have happened to my wife and I in the past year. By the end of the list, we should be able to determine whether or not my first year of marriage was eventful enough.

Things I Did in My First Year of Marriage:

Traveled out of the country: Canada for a su-weeeeet honeymoon)
Narrowly avoided being eaten by grizzly bears
Climbed a mountain (a tiny one)
Got a puppy
Slept next to the puppy crate until he got used to things
House trained a puppy
Started and finished an internship
Had a "First Thanksgiving" with my wife (Complete with waaaay too much AMAZING turkey)
X-mas with the in-laws (we hauled our two cats and puppy along)
Ran the Warrior Dash
Ran the Armadillo Dash
Started a tradition of Homemade Pizza Fridays
Started training with a new dojo
Graduated
Got hired
Remodeled a kitchen with my wife and mother-in-law
Officiated at an awesome wedding (Hallie did a reading at it)
Brewed awesome beer
Officiated at the Navasota Special Olympics
Bought a rotisserie and learned how to make sweet gyros
Malted my own barley
Kicked copius gluteus maximus in a co-ed innertube water polo tourney (sadly, it wasn't enough to win)
Started a blog


Looking at the list, I must conclude that my first year of marriage has been sufficiently awesome. And that's just based on the spectacular/adventurous stuff. Add in the fact that my wife is just about the coolest person ever, and you, my friend, have a recipe for the greatest year ever. Last night we had dinner at the same place that played host to our rehearsal dinner, and followed it up with a piece of wedding cake (as apparently we are supposed to do). Other than that, we hung out, read comic books, and watched movies. 1st anniversary = successful.


That is all. Have a pleasant evening.

It's a Girl!

A woman has the last word in any argument. Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.


First, no, I didn't have a baby. Nor, is my wife pregnant. Wanna know what happened? I got a new baby sister! My brother-in-law Troy married the loverly Mary this past Saturday, and I. Am. Pumped. I won't bore you with too many wedding details. If you were there, you had a ball. If you weren't, the anecdotes probably won't mean very much to you. If you've ever been in a wedding, or known someone who has, you know all about the last minute emergencies and dramas without which it seems, no ceremony can proceed.

Here's a rundown of the important stuff:
-The bride was beautiful
-My wife looked AMAZING
-I was the officiant (and a pretty good one if I do say so myself)
-Tears of joy all over the place!

I believe I've mentioned Mary before. You can find her blog here. Though I expect you may have to wait until after the honeymoon for her to update it. Troy I haven't mentioned yet (give me a break, I have an enormous family and only a few blog posts so far). He's a way-cool dude. Imagine one of the smartest people you know, who's also a stellar athlete, and a gourmet chef (I know, the perfect combo... single ladies everywhere should despair). They are a great couple, and I'm looking forward to watching them grow as a couple and raise what may very well be the fairest skinned children in the history of humans having babies.

I will be sure to post some pics once I get my hands on them. In the meantime, use you imagination. To aid your imagination, I was wearing a sweet black pinstripe suit with a pink shirt, black silk suspenders, and a pink paisley tie. Hot. The bride was in a white dress. Hot. The groom was in a tux. Hot.

Right about now (or a couple paragraphs ago) you might be wondering about my role as officiant. "Kyle!" You may have exclaimed, "I didn't know you were a religious man, let alone a member of the clergy." Well, dear reader, I am not a religious man, though I am a member of the clergy. Troy and Mary asked if I would officiate their marriage, and I said, right away, that I would dust off my whistle and pick up some yellow flags at my earliest convenience. After some confusion, and a bit of explanation, I rushed off to my local internet to find the Universal Life Church, of which I am now a Reverend.

Am I a heretic? Am I, your friendly neighborhood blogger, mocking God and religion? Is it indeed blasphemy for one such as myself to claim the title Reverend? Well.... Yes*. Not really**. No***. I helped my friends/family put together one of the most important days of their respective lives. For any other debate or remarks regarding religion, you'll have to wait until I feel brave enough for a blog post or five dealing with the topic.

To summarize: The wedding was AWESOME! My new family members ROCK! Everybody's happy!

Have a nice day.


*I am a heretic in that I choose to fundamentally disagree with many precepts of quite a few organized religions, and choose, instead, to follow my own way.
**I would never mock God, though I often mock ridiculous traditions that are often attached to Him/Her/Them
***I am absolutely irreverent towards some "holy personages, religious artifacts, customs, or beliefs", though me calling myself a reverend really has nothing to do with that.

Judo Day 1

A minister dies and is waiting in line at the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is a big guy in a judogi with a worn black belt who has cauliflower ears and looks like he's been around the block a few times.
Saint Peter addresses this guy, "Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?"
The guy replies, "I'm Joe Johnson, Judo competitor and national champion for 17 years."
Saint Peter consults his list. He smiles and says to the Judo competitor, "Take this silken robe and golden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
The Judo man goes into Heaven with his robe and staff, and it's the minister's turn. He stands erect and booms out, "I am Joseph Snow, pastor of Saint Mary's for the last forty-three years."
Saint Peter consults his list. He says to the minister, "Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
"Just a minute," says the minister. "That Judo man gets a silken robe and golden staff. How can this be when I have been preaching the gospel all my life?"
"Up here, we work by results," says Saint Peter. "While you preached, people slept; but when he entered the dojo, people prayed."



Well, I told you to expect a report on my first night in the new dojo. Here goes...

In a word... ouch. It has been quite a while since I've done any grappling, and my muscles are reminding me exactly which ones were used. Last night we focused on ne-waza (ground fighting for those of you who aren't judo players and don't speak Japanese). After warming up*, we proceeded to spend 40 minutes on chokes. So, for 40 minutes my partner and I took turns setting up and applying chokes using each other's gi's (uniforms) and forearms to squeeze shut carotid arteries. It. Was. Awesome! We followed the instruction time with several 2 minute randori (free rolling) rounds, and finished with some drills. It was a good first class, and I'm looking forward to getting back to it tonight. Hopefully we'll be working more throws and get into the stand-up grappling that is judo's trademark.

It occurs to me, that some of my fan base may be unfamiliar with judo. Well... I'll have to remedy that another time. While I would love to expound upon various martial arts for pages and pages, I expect I would lose what little readership I have amassed. In the not too distant future, I promise, I will write a (hopefully) not too boring compare and contrast that will let all of you understand my hobbies just a bit better. Until then, wikipedia has a pretty good article.

It appears today's post is big into brevity, as such, I'll leave you with some bonus material. Here are some quotes from my favorite president/judoka**. I'll stick his name at the bottom of the blog for those of you who may not know to whom I am referring.

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in that grey twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.

Don't hit at all if it is honorably possible to avoid hitting; but never hit soft.

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

A man who has never gone to school may steal from a freight car; but if he has a university education, he may steal the whole railroad.

A man who is good enough to shed his blood for his country is good enough to be given a square deal afterwards. More than that no man is entitled to, and less than that no man shall have.

I have always been fond of the West African proverb "Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far."


*read "warm" as "dripping with sweat"
** Give up? Teddy Roosevelt.

All the world's a stage and all the men and women are merely players.

Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly. They lit a fire in the
craft, it sank, proving once and for all that you can't have your
kayak and heat it too.

Big weekend. I graduated on Saturday. Pretty cool huh? I can now add a Specialist in School Psychology degree to my Bachelor of Arts. The SSP sounds sooo much cooler. "What is an SSP?" you might ask. Is it like an MA? Is it a Phd? Does this mean you're a school counselor? The answer to all those questions are "Sort of, no, NO." An SSP is a 60 hour graduate degree that culminates in a one year, 1200 hour internship in the schools. (For comparison, most MA's are in the 30-ish hour range, and PhD's are somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 plus a dissertation, and sometimes an internship). The degree means that i eligible to be licensed as a school psychologist (Licensed Specialist in School Psychology in Texas), which means I can do psychological and learning disability assessments, deliver therapy, consult with teachers for behavior problems, as well as deliver other services and training in a public school setting.

Sorry. That got long winded. Here's the short version. I'm graduated! Woot!* I can now begin my life as a productive member of society. I can changed my linkedln status to reflect my new degree. My C.V. no longer has an "expected" graduation date. Life is good.

On a separate (but still stage-related) note, my wife and I went to see our local theatre's presentation of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It was awesome. Oompas Loompa-ed, Willy Wonka-ed, and Charlie rocked it out. Go support your local theater, unless, like us, you have a local theatre... in which case, support that one.

That's all for now. Expect another post after Tuesday, when I'll have my first night at the new dojo. Will I kick ass? Will I get my ass kicked? Tune in next time to find out!**


*I believe that is the appropriate exclamation.
** Is that a cliff-hanger or what!?!?

Happy Mother's Day

Your momma so fat, all the restaurants in town have signs that say: "Maximum Occupancy: 240 Patrons OR Your Momma."

Happy mother's day everybody! If you haven't called your mom, then goodness sakes! What are you doing reading a blog? Today, instead of writing about bits of my life that you may or may not care about, I'm going to do one of those sweet poems where I spell a word vertically and write stuff with each letter.

M is for the multitude of boo-boos, fevers, and various owies that mom nursed me through.
O is for owe. To quote Lincoln "All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel Mother."
T is for teaching me... how to cook, count, read, laugh, and a million other things.
H is for hugs. Moms give the best.
E is for everything I'll never have the words or the time to thank her for.
R is for reading to me. Mom got me started with He-Man, Calvin and Hobbes, and Wayside School, and I never looked back.


Well there you are. Happy mother's day mom! I love you!

The Voices are Telling Me to Buy Toys

What does a ghost wear when it's snowing?

Boooooooooooooooooooots!



Here's the thing, sometimes... I hear voices. These aren't psychotic, "Oh no, Kyle's got schizophrenia!" voices. These voices are more like Jiminy Cricket voices. I've got the obvious mom and dad voices that tell me when I'm about to do something that isn't too smart (Thanks btw. I'm pretty sure I'm alive and able to function like a mostly normal human because of those). Those are pretty useful, but the voices that pop up the most lately appear to be coming from a younger version of me. It's like 8 year old Kyle and 21 year old Kyle (I call them Kyle-8 and Kyle-21 for short) are constantly looking over my shoulder and providing a running commentary on my life.

In a lot of ways, those voices are pretty proud of me. Kyle-8 is super psyched that I earned a black belt a couple years ago. He's just waiting for me to totally wail on the masked villain who's waiting to pop out from every bush and alley*. Kyle-21 is pretty excited with my little home brewery and my smokin' hot wife. Those are two of the major things he wanted to accomplish with his college education.

I fear, however, that every now and again, I am a disappointment for Kyles 8 and 21. In Kyle-8's imaginary mind, I don't spend nearly enough time with my X-box. By his way of thinking, I go to work everyday because someone needs to pay for food and video games, and while he sees me eat EVERY day, I'll sometimes go weeks without picking up a video game controller. Kyle-21 certainly agrees that I could be spending more time kicking virtual butt, though his concerns rest in other areas. Mainly time spent in bed. I thought I'd have a homunculus hari kari on my hands the other night when I crept into bed at 9:15 (that's pm). He still isn't talking to me for the two weeks I had to get up at 5am to start my morning at a particularly distant and early rising campus.

When I was younger, people told me things would change when I grew up. I fought that hard. Real hard. But here I am. I eat vegetables without complaining. I read books that don't have space ships OR wizards. I have dinner parties and think more about the quality of the beverage I am imbibing than I do about the quantity. I am, for better or worse, an adult**. And that's... OK. In fact, I think it's great. I spend more time working and less time playing than I envisioned when I was 8 and 21, but that's the way the world works sometimes. And because I work a little more, I have the opportunity to spoil my 8 and 21 year old selves a bit from time to time. I believe I mentioned the martial arts training, home brew, and smokin' hot wife. What I hadn't mentioned yet was my remote control helicopter, comic book collection, Great Dane puppy, or turkey deep fryer.

Some voices, like Mom's, you should listen to, and trust that they're probably right. Some voices, and I think you know who they are by now, you have to tell to be a little bit patient. They can play when we get home.


* So far, he's been pretty impressed with the way I sprung into action that time those butterflies came at me in San Antonio.
**Please read "adult" as Maynard G. Krebs would read "work".

Do You Enjoy... Comic Books?

Two peanuts were walking down the street. One was a salted.*


Lets go back in time. The year is 2001. The season is Fall. The place is a bus. The event is a trip to a football game. There I was, fitting the mold of a diligent student athlete. My textbook was in my hand. I was reading. We have officially set the scene. I glanced up to rest my eyes and noticed a fellow freshman lineman who, upon that first glance, appeared to be even more studious than I. His bag was near to bursting with what I imagined to be various educational materials. Further inspection proved that to be a false assumption. My friend (and future best man) was in the midst of a Batman comic book. His bag? Full of comics. Being the serious minded student I was, I tossed my book into my bag and asked Chris a) if he would lend me some reading material, and b) what he recommended. That was the day I got hooked.

This was by no means the first time I'd been exposed to panels and word bubbles. As a kid, I loved reading Spider-man. Calvin and Hobbes books were read and reread for most of my life, as was The Far Side. But that bus ride was the first time since puberty that I had picked up a superhero based comic book. That trip I blasted through a bunch of Batman. Chris was a big fan. Over the next four years, I checked many a trade paperback out his library. Batman, X-Men, and Justice League were some of the first I devoured, but soon, my friend handed me The Authority, Top 10, and Conan the Barbarian. My mind was blown.

Before you poo-poo the world of comics and write me off as a geek, I would like to offer you a challenge. Head down to your local comic shop and wander around a bit. Are you a fan of Grimm's classic stories? Pick up Fables. Want a new spin on the idea of a superhero team? Read Authority. Need a laugh? Calvin and Hobbes or Lio will be happy to oblige. Not every comic is full of adults in spandex punching bad guys. Though, if you take the time to peruse a few titles, you may find that costumed heroes are not all cut from the same cloth. While, I'm not the biggest fan of Reed Richards and his irradiated family, I eagerly stroll to my mailbox each month to pick up my newest issue of Deadpool**.

Some titles are pretty straight forward "good guy beats up bad guy" stuff, but every once in a while you run across something like Goon, an Eric Powell masterpiece, or Preacher, Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon, that leaves you with the same warm glow and racing thoughts you get when you put down a Heinlein classic. A good comic (and this applies to superhero slugfests as well) is characterized by deep, three-dimensional characters, art that supplements and enhances the story, and a story whose elements could work just as well were they not set in a City*** full of heroes .

The next time you're in need of reading material. Look around for your friendly neighborhood comic book geek and ask him or her what's good. You might be surprised.


p.s.

They weren't mentioned individually, but other AMAZING comic writers and creators include Alan Moore , Frank Miller, and Chris Brimmage. I recommend reading anything and everything written by any of them.



* That joke is for you Kammie.

** My brother-in-law got me subscriptions to Deadpool and Thunderbolts for Christmas (Thanks Troy!).

*** To my fellow grammar Nazis, that capital C is intentional.

Running Man

What's a Wok?
Something you throw at a Wabbit.



We're going to start with a little guided imagery. I want you to relax and close your eyes. Crap. I forgot that you're reading this. I'll wait until you get confused and open up again... You there? Good. We'll start over... I want you to think about closing your eyes. Now, picture a runner. Build him head to toe. Imagine someone who hits the road with the express purpose of placing his right foot in front of his left, and then his left in front of his right. This is a man who has practiced the aforementioned foot placements for hours and miles. You have the picture in your head? Good. Please compare it to the picture next to this blog. You will note a stunning absence of similarity. I am not built like a runner.

When I have need to travel any manner of distance on foot, my preferred pace is a mosey. Occasionally, I might break into a meander. When I'm late, I've been known to get up to a pretty good lumber. Running? Not my thing.

Don't get me wrong. I love sports and exercising. You might even call me an athlete. It's just that I'm better suited to sports that require great feats of strength, throwing people to the ground, or both. Running has always been something for other, more slender, people... until my wife said, "Let's run a 5k." At the time I couldn't think of a reason not to run it (other than "I don't wanna.". The running began.

At first, I ran as far as I could and walked home. That sucked. I did some research, and started training smart. You still wouldn't confuse me with a competitive runner, but now I can get through a few miles with relative ease and more or less enjoy myself. In the past year(ish) I've run quite a bit. I've competed in 5 kilometer road races. I had a pretty good time. But running still isn't an activity that resonates within my very soul... well... not until recently. You see, I've discovered a race that seems custom made just for me. I have discovered the Warrior Dash.

This weekend, I will lumber through 3.51 miles of Texas countryside. I will leap through fire, crawl under barbed wire, and traverse 12 other obstacles designed to make my life more difficult. The whole time, I will be placing one sized 15 foot in front of the other in a more or less vigorous manner*.

So let's try that guided imagery again. Picture a runner. He should be about 6'4" and built like he used to spend 3-6 hours a day training to throw heavy things as far as possible. He should also be covered in mud and straw. And just for fun, lets see how fast we can make him lumber.



* I'll post some pictures next week if I can remember a camera.

In the Doghouse

A man takes his Great Dane to the vet and says,
"My dog's cross-eyed, is there anything you can do for him?"
"Well," says the vet, "let's have a look at him."
So he picks the dog up and examines his eyes, then checks his teeth.
Finally, he says "I'm going to have to put him down."
"What? Because he's cross-eyed?"

"No, because he's really heavy."


It's not that I don't like cats. Cats are awesome. I adopted The Baron when he was a kitten and he got me through a lot of tough times, for that and other reasons, he'll always be a part of my family, and I'll cry buckets when he passes. But the thing is, I'm a doggie person.

I don't remember a period of my life when we didn't have a dog. Brandy, a beautiful springer spaniel, was smarter than most people I've run across, and was a huge part of my family (just ask my little sister who she was named after). Max, Taboo, Uno, Spats (Spaaaaaats), and Sandy taught me a lot about life, and were always ready to play. No day is so bad that it doesn't improve a little when you open the front door to the happiest little fur ball in the world*.

For four years in college, and then a few more in grad school, I was dogless. Cat's are independent, but subjecting a dog to my small living spaces and erratic hours would have been cruel. I didn't realize how much I missed having a mutt in my life, until I started visiting friends with dogs. I was moving through life missing something... Then I got married.

Oh dear... that last line did not come off the right way**. I bought my wife an engagement ring. She bought me a puppy. Zeb is a Great Dane. We picked him up the day after we arrived home from our honeymoon. Zeb, like many additions to families, has been both more difficult and more rewarding than we could have imagined, and like many milestones that are difficult and rewarding, he has brought my wife and I closer together.

Dog ownership comes with responsibilities. My dogs have all demonstrated that they will not allow their families to come to harm if they can prevent it. They have all provided company, affection, learning experiences, and comfort. In return, I do what I can to make their lives happy and comfortable. They are treated with the respect they deserve as members of my family. Our species evolved to work together. Centuries of intentional breeding for specific purposes has, if anything, strengthened that bond.

So, as you reach the end of what, upon review, looks like a long and rambling blog with a loose canine association, you may wonder what sparked these doggy thoughts. Inspiration was found today in a status update from my future sister in-law. "Along with some coworkers, rescued this ADORABLE puppy from a nearby business. The guy apparently planned to leave the litter under his building when he boarded up the holes." The quote was accompanied by a picture of what was, indeed, an ADORABLE puppy, and went on to explain, to the relief of many, that all the puppies were adopted.

That was not an isolated incident. I'm sure many of us know a coworker who has picked up a box of abandoned puppies from a park or the side of the road. And we all certainly know about the unpleasantness in which Michael Vick was involved. It was that kind of nonsense that inspired this post. Remember my "No Jerks" policy? Well it applies to furry people too.

When I think of the good times I have had in the past, and will continue to have in the future, I get sick when I think about the miserable life some of our four-legged friends lead because someone was not a dog person. They were just a person who thought they wanted a dog.


*One reason The Baron will always hold a special place in my heart is that when we were living alone, he would greet me everyday at the door, and follow me in the window when I left. He is a cat who loves being a part of a family.

**Did some of you make a horrible pun about me "REALLY being in the doghouse now"? If so, you're welcome. If not... why? Do I know you?

Be Excellent to Each Other

What's the difference between roast beef and pea soup?
Anyone can roast beef.



"Be excellent to each other." That bit of wisdom comes from a Mr. Bill S. Preston, Esquire. If you aren't familiar with Mr. Preston... well, maybe you should take some time to familiarize yourself with your cultural heritage. Bill's impromptu address to a group of dignitaries stands out, in my mind, as one of the highlights of his academic sojourn with Mr. Ted "Theodore" Logan. Many disparage the two for what may be perceived as a lack of eloquence or subtlety, but I would challenge any of my multitude of readers to find fault with their landmark thesis statement, mentioned above, a mantra by which they led their lives.

In day to day life, it is easy to find examples of discourtesy, disrespect, and outright malevolence. In fact, just recently, a friend's car was vandalized in the parking lot of her apartment complex. Whether a random act, or retaliation for a noise complaint, it matters not. A person, or persons, went out of their way to intentionally inconvenience another person. Not very excellent at all.

Behaviors akin to the incident above can easily give us the impression that the world is full of jerks. Unfortunately, that attitude doesn't lend itself to our own random acts of excellence towards our fellow man. To curb the lack of excellence, I would like to propose a "No Jerks" policy on life.

The rules are simple:

1) Be excellent to each other.
2) No jerks

That's it boys and girls. Nothing could be simpler. But before you come at me with all the reasons this might not work, let me explain my policy a bit. We'll start at the beginning.

Be excellent to each other. Am I advocating altruism? Should we run around doing charity work for no personal benefit? If you like, I suppose you can. Personally, I'm not sure I believe in a truly altruistic act. All I'm asking is that you try to be polite towards everyone you meet throughout the day, and to try to do someone a favor every now and again. If someone is nice to you, say "Thank you," and pay it forward.

No jerks. Don't be one. Play fair, be polite, and treat folks how you would like to be treated. "But Kyle, what if I run into a jerk?" That is an excellent question. Take a page out of the good book on that one. Turn the other cheek. Maybe this jerk is simply having a bad day. Give him or her the benefit of the doubt. Vent to a friend if you must, but don't let said jerk ruin your day, hour, or minute. Keep in mind, however, that any given person only has two cheeks. I believe there is a famous aphorism which goes, "Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, sleep with one eye open, because I'm coming for you when you least expect it." Tell the jerk in no uncertain terms, that you will not allow them to interfere with you being excellent towards other people.

There it is folks. Be excellent to each other. Words by which one may live.




p.s.

Keep your eyes open. I hear something is afoot at the Circle K.

Damn You Jim Butcher!

A linguistics professor was lecturing to his English class one day. "In English," he said, "a double negative forms a positive. In some languages, though, such as Russian, a double negative is still a negative. However, there is no language wherein a double positive can form a negative."

A voice from the back of the room piped up, "Yeah, right."



For any of you who may be unfamiliar with the individual addressed in the title, Mr. Butcher is an author. He has written the Codex Alera series, as well as the Dresden Files. I had my first run-in with his work while spending a summer in Maine as the fitness director of a summer camp. My wife and I spent a lot of our off time in the local Barnes and Noble, and the cover of the recent Dresden book looked intriguing. I picked up book one, and that's where this whole mess got started.

Here's the thing. Jim (I've spent enough time with his characters that I feel like I can call him Jim*) is a great writer. Great is probably the wrong word. Fantastic? That probably works well. Tell you what, we'll play this like mad-libs: Jim Butcher is the (insert hyperbole) writer putting words on paper in America today. That's the problem. Sometimes (read "every night"), I like to read myself to sleep. Can't do that with Jim's books. I can barely make it to work on time if I happen to pick one up for a couple quick pages before I walk out the door. Pick up a Butcher book, and you're lucky to put it down until you hit "About the Author." Damn you Jim Butcher, sometimes I just want to read for 30 minutes and turn out a light.

Here's another thing. I'm a busy dude. I have crap to do. Often, this crap takes a significant portion of my cognitive bandwidth. It's hard to focus on writing an assessment report, planning an intervention, or any of my other "duties as assign" if a Chicago based wizard, or Aleran based hero, are running through my head. This guy has the audacity to write interesting, conflicted characters who make me want to read more and more. Damn you Jim Butcher, sometimes I want to set a book down and not think about it for a little while.

Here's the last thing (for this blog). I'm a laid back kind of guy. I exercise regular. I enjoy a good book. I play the occasional video game. Given the types of sports towards which I've applied myself, when I get excited or worked up I feel the need to throw something (or someone) as far as I can, or kick someone. Jim's books tend to get me all excited, and where am I supposed to put that energy? People don't take well to large men throwing them around, and my wife doesn't appreciate it when I use our decorations in place of a discus. Damn you Jim Butcher, I just finished Changes! Holy Crap! You left me there?!?!

A few days from now I'll calm down. I may even for get about Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden for a while. Until that time, Damn you Jim Butcher! And one more thing... Thank you Jim Butcher. I appreciate what you're doing. You're an inspiration for young writers, like myself, who need to know that there are still new and interesting ways to look at the themes we've grown to love.



* Jim, if you read this, and you would like me to use another form of address, please let me know.**

** Jim, if you read this and DON'T want me to use another form of address, please let me know. It'd be WAY cool to know you read this.

Invisible Ink

What's the difference between a psychologist and a magician?
A psychologist pulls habits out of rats!

One Christmas, or birthday, I picked up a rectangular package and ripped off the paper with a reckless abandon found rarely on this side of 8 years old. Under the paper was a home science kit. You cannot imagine how excited I was. Visions of robot armies and mutant pets marched through my mind. Seeing the look on my face, I'm sure my parents had dreams of their little boy growing into a doctor or a famous scientist. You'd think they might have known better by then.

My kit did not, much to my chagrin, contain everything I needed to grow monsters or terrify the masses. It did have what I needed to make a crystal radio. That was pretty cool. Most important, it had everything I might need to make invisible ink. My mind was blown.

I could write something that no one could read... unless of course they also had a Dixie cup full of the secret solution required to make the words legible (well, visible anyway... many would argue that no tonic exists that could ever render my handwriting legible). I had the ability to send secret messages! How cool is that?!?! Unfortunately for Kyle (age 8) no one in the house could quite manage to be interested in secret messages for more than a few minutes at a time. Also, it is difficult to run a guerrilla war against the establishment, when the only folks who are available to communicate via secret invisible ink are, themselves, a member of said establishment. Nonetheless, for a brief period of my childhood, I had the power to write what no one else could read.

Fast forward a decade or two. The scene opens with what passes for grown-up Kyle in a meeting. He has just suggested a solution to a problem. Knowing Kyle as we do, we can only assume this solution is brilliant. It is probably based in solid research, and it is most likely perfectly suited to the situation. The person who has the problem, and is the reason for Kyle's consultation, responds with something akin to, "No, that won't work. I think we should do something that requires no effort on my part, and puts my problem in the hands of other people."

At this point Kyle thinks about the 6-12 hours he has spent over the past week gathering data and developing a solution. After blinking twice he looks at his notepad and writes something that her certainly ought not to write anywhere it can be read by polite society. Fortunately, he had clicked his pen shut the moment before. Invisible ink has been rediscovered! Once again, the joy of writing something that no one else (without a Dixie cup full of magic liquid) will ever be able to read.

Since that rediscovery, I can often be found in meetings taking furious notes. My supervisors co-workers have the impression that I am a whirlwind of thought, solving problems left and right. Little do they realize that as soon as I find some other revolutionaries, the guerrilla resistance will be in full swing.

What's next? I'll talk to Mike about getting resources together for a robot army. It'd be nice if we could make them all look like Rosie from The Jetsons.