What a Spectacle!

Football. Baseball. Hockey. Basketball. Soccer. Tennis. I really couldn't care less. I never understood people's fascination with sports. Sure, it's one thing to participate, but it's something completely different to act as a spectator. And yet, millions are psyched about each sports season as it comes, rooting for their favorite teams, wearing the jerseys, going to the games. To me, it's a complete waste of time.

It's not that I don't understand the rules of each game. There's a big difference between not understanding and not caring. Still, complete strangers will strike up conversations, as easily as they would to talk about the weather. It's easy to talk about the heat, the cold, the rain, or whatever. Everyone experiences it. But to talk about who won the game last night or how close it was, is just beyond me. I simply answer with a polite, "I don't know". I try not to be flippant about it, but I really just don't care.

I've only been to two baseball games in my entire life. From what I understand, tickets are still relatively inexpensive, but I'd rather spend my money on a movie, or a giant chocolate bar, or a pedicure. Sports have never interested me. Sometimes I feel like an oddity, someone who could have traveled with the circus back in the day. They'd charge a couple coins for the people to see me. They'd gawk and ogle and throw trash at me. I'm a cultural abomination.

But really, who's the oddity here? People who pay exorbitant amounts of money for the "experience" of seeing a game in person, watching and waiting for their team to score a winning point? Some hardcore fans actually paint their faces with their team's colors so everyone knows who they support. Others aren't as obnoxious with their love of the game. Instead, they prefer to wear expensive jerseys with the name and number of their favorite player plastered on the back. They like to worship their athletic icons. And I'm the oddity?

And how does a person decide which team to root for? Is it wise to always support the home team, or choose a random team because their colors coordinate with your handbag? People actually get into arguments and segregate themselves like they're part of some kind of political campaign. Always us and them. But they love it.

As we approach another football season, my news wall is becoming inundated with posts from friends who talk about their excitement. They can barely contain themselves. And it seems everyone comments.

"Oh yeah, can't hardly believe it. I'm gonna go to the game topless with my boobs painted so everyone knows who I root for."

"Shoot, girl, all I have is a jersey with my fav player's name in huge letters on the back. Your boob idea is so much better."

"Dude, I'm totally going. Boobs, beer, and pigskin!"

Everyone seems to know the names of the players. Who's good. Who's new. Who was traded. What their best score was. It's like complex characters in some movie or soap opera. And most of the world is hooked. They love the drama of the game. The edge of the seat moments that get their adrenaline running. The beer flows, the nachos and hotdogs come around, and the spectacle unfolds on the field.

Sports make no sense to me. A football game is comprised of four quarters. Supposedly, each of these quarters is fifteen minutes long. I'm pretty good at math. This equation should equal 60 minutes, an hour. Yet, in the history of everything I've grudgingly known about the sport, no football game has lasted a mere hour. Not even close. Overtime, again. Heck, this country takes the sport so seriously, the evening news is pushed back in light of men in uniform tousling of some bizarrely-shaped ball.

When I was in high school, I was forced to play softball. I always envied the girls because they didn't have to shower if they were on their period. They didn't have to show proof, they could just sit out. No need for a shower, or to get changed in the locker room. Girls had it easy. I, on the other hand, dreaded P.E. I was not athletically inclined in the slightest.

Every time Ian was up to bat, the basemen would take fifteen steps forward. And that was only banking on the very idea that the bat would make contact with the ball. My coordination was horrendous. Once, I was completely mortified when the pitcher, our Phys. Ed. teacher, purposefully tossed the ball way up over my head. He did this a number of times so I had to "walk" to first base. The team in the outfield laughed and jeered at me. It was the most horrifying moment of my sports career.

Perhaps my past makes me loathe the game, any game. But when I sit back and think of how addicted people are for sports and how they live for their favorite seasons, I realize it's not me so much as it is our popular culture. Our world has cultivated multi-million dollar sport franchises with players who make just as much money. Players are nothing more than entertainers who enjoy putting on a show for their devoted fans. If that's the case, actors and singers are my favorite players. But you won't see me wearing grease paint on my face because I'm going to see the latest Annette Bening film.

Costume Capers

Halloween has long been my favorite holiday. As a child, I could dress up and be any number of things. I can do the same as an adult. The only real difference now is that I'm too old to go door-to-door for candy. Of course, if I really wanted to, I could, but people would most assuredly laugh in my face, or call the police. Unless, I dragged some kid around as a guise. I'd never exploit a child like that. Maybe my neice really would like a chapperone. Hm.

In any event, now that I'm older, much older, I can design my own costumes. No need for those cheapy constructed, AND super expensive, all-in-one costumes from the store. The man in the hospital gown with his rubber butt exposed is so cliche, as is anything Dorothy themed. Things that are relevant are always a hot topic. Any election year, we're faced with cheesy masks of politicians' likenesses. If a blockbuster movie comes out, it's guaranteed that much of the characters from the film will be out in full force. Multiples of the Mad Hatter or the vampires from Twilight will abound! Now, that's truly frightening.

With my creative gene, I'd much rather create my own work. Sure, it may be a long process filled with tears and anguish, but I'm typically pleased with the finished product. I love the idea that I have something no one else in the world will ever have. Made by me, it's preciously one of a kind. Something I've always taken pride in.

As an adult, I've conceptualized and constructed many costumes. There was the half man, half woman I dubbed "He Said, She Said" that earned me first place in the costume contest at work. A blood soaked torn shirt with and evil cat sat, poised to attack on my shoulder was a hoot at a friend's party. That creation was called "Cat Scratch Fever" or, "Pussy Whipped", as some drunk dude called it. One year, I took all the elements of an office (push pins, letter opener, stapler, etc) and made them into dangerous weapons, sticking them to my body with horrendous results. A few years later, I created and sewed a couple costumes for my partner and I. We were members of the royal court (king and jester) with regal tapestries and fancy trim.

Yes, I love Halloween, and this year will be exciting, most assuredly. I'm not revealing our plan just yet, but it will turn heads. And even if it doesn't, I like the feeling of playing pretend...and getting away with it.

Nothing But Good Juju

Every time I think about writing, I get a little excited. Ideas start swirling around in my head. What shall I write this time? Sometimes I really don't know the true content of what's in my mind until I log onto this site and start typing away. Speak from the heart, and the brain will follow, or something like that. Before I know it, it's a long read. But my hope is, it's a good read.

I think about money a lot. How much my bills cost. How much living costs. The cost of healthcare, not only for myself, but for my family...and our dogs. Seems like every time theres a problem, a vaccine is due, or just time for an annual physical, it's a hundred bucks a pop. My car's almost paid off. Almost. Just another 10 months or so. It'll be nice to have "extra income" to focus on paying off these damn credit cards.

It seems so unfair how critical money is. There's been talk that the middle class is disappearing as the poor get poorer and the rich get richer. I've never considered myself materialistic, or even a lover of money, but it would be absolutely wonderful to live comfortably without throwing darts at bills to see which ones I'll pay first. I don't live extravagantly, but I am living paycheck to paycheck. I know I'm not alone.

Then, I hear stories about people who seem to have an endless supply of cash. The creator of Facebook is worth billions. And he's in his mid-twenties. There's another kid who generates over $300,000 a year for being the best video blogger on youtube. Then this boy did something the media has dubbed the "trading game" where he used a site like Craigslist and traded up from a paperclip to a HOUSE. Just by finding people who were interested in doing a trade from an item of little monetary value for something that was valued a little more. Time and time again.

Seems like the internet offers an endless supply of opportunities on striking it rich. It appears it's entirely possible to do so using the tools that others have created. It's all right there, in front of us. If you can read these words I'm typing, you already have access to this very powerful tool. But just how realistic is it that I, or anyone else, for that matter could make big bucks by using modern technology.

Within the past few years, I acquired a taste for online surveys. Companies seek out real people to see what their likes and dislikes are when marketing a new product or service. Online survey sites such as Harris Poll and Zoom Panel offer incentives for people who help them out. Surveys take minutes to complete, and you're awarded on a point system to redeem for prizes. I've gotten gift certificates for Amazon, a 4-slot toaster, a blender/smoothie maker, magazine subscriptions...the list goes on and on.

I know to award all these prizes, there's some major incentives for the sponsoring websites. I'm sure they get paid handsomely by advertisers and other conglomerates to use the service. And I get small appliances. A fair trade off, I suppose. Just a few moments of my time each day. No big whoop. There's another site with tons more prizes I recently discovered. It's called Swag Bucks and there's lots of great things people are saying about it. In the few days I've been a member, I've acquired quite a few points. If you're interested in signing up, you can do so by going here:

http://www.swagbucks.com/refer/geminian77

If you sign up with this link, I'll be on your buddy list automatically!

Still, I crave more. Why make someone else rich when I'm just as talented as the next guy? It's not lack of motivation or creativity. I have both of those. It could be lack of opportunity. At what point did the quarter-million-a-year youtube sensation realize he had made it? I'm sure he started off kind of slow, maybe he even never entertained the thought he'd be the highest paid earner on the site. Who even knew you could make money posting videos? I didn't.

A couple years ago, my partner started creating bottlecap pendants. He called them "juju caps". Juju is a term for supernatural powers. It's derived from West African origins. His goal was to sell these on Etsy and become known for them. I wanted to help.

Dressed as a character I dubbed "Lady Juju" I created mini-commercials for the product, and posted them on youtube. The ads are hilarious at times, especially if you know me personally. Complete with my signature goatee and donned in makeup, I transformed myself into this outrageous character. Other characters soon followed. I contacted radio morning shows via email in hopes they'd direct their listeners to the site. The campaign fizzled.

We deleted the video spots from the website, but I had them archived on my hard drive. Although the Jujucaps website no longer exists, I've decided to entertain the world with my many ads for the campaign. Here's one of my favorites:

Depending upon response from this video, I may just repost all the old videos and create some more. But I gotta give the people what they want if I'm to become the next youtube superstar. So, what do you think? Do I have what it takes?

Slumber Party!

There's something I'm really good at, that I imagine a lot of people wouldn't brag about. I have this incredible ability to sleep. Soon after my head hits the pillow, I drift off from a state on consciousness to a state of deep relaxation. Problems and worries don't seem to bother me when I'm laying down, so I just fall asleep. And oh, peace. Tranquility. And I can do it at any time I so choose, and not just bedtime.

I can wake up, feeling well rested, go about my day and when I have a down moment, I sleep. It's like a belch on command, only more polite. Well, polite provided I don't fall asleep in front of company. Call it narcolepsy, but I can control it. Some might say I'm depressed. I say they're jealous of my ability. It never gets out of hand. I'm always in command of my awakeness, so I don't miss out doing things. But on my days off, when I feel the mood strike, I take a trip to Slumberland. And it's amazing.

Now, I know there's a ton of sleep disorders out there. Recently, I saw a special on a boy who would sleep for days at a time. Like hibernation. He wouldn't wake to use the bathroom or eat, or anything. And his family have no idea when his deep sleep will happen, it just does. He retreats into his bedroom and doesn't emerge until his body tells him it's time.

Others might look at this kid like a poor, pitiful thing, who's missing out on what life has to offer. I look at him like a person who's somewhat blessed. He has an excuse for sleeping. That's the only thing I lack when I lounge around and sleep all day. Sometimes I get quizzed on why I choose to sleep some days. My partner suffers from insomnia, so I know there's a touch of envy there. If I had what this kid has, I'd be able to write it off to science, a biological deformity within me. But I cannot. On the other hand, I wouldn't want to lose control of my ability to sleep. I'd want to sleep when I wanted to, not because my brain knocked me unconscious against my wishes.

Today was one of the days I chose to sleep, Labor Day 2010. The movers and shakers in history before us pushed to have working conditions improved and a national day of rest for workers. So, I took their commemorative holiday and did exactly how I felt they intended it to be used. For doing no labor. Nadda. And there's no better way to stall work habits than to become unawake. Naked body between satiny sheets for hours on end, oh so luxurious.

On the Hunt

Robert Stack had such an impeccible eeriness about him when he presented stories of missing suspects, paranormal activities, and abducted children alerts on "Unsolved Mysteries". And I loved him for it. That classic trench coat and authoritative voice made him seem all the more convincing as a man with the plan to solve these mysteries. I saw him as a sleuth who would sit outside the home of a suspect in an unmarked van, just waiting for the right instant to draw his gun and shot 'em dead. Of course, I knew the great Mr. Stack was just a talking head, in a get-up to make him seem that way. Still, I thought he was cool.

My television viewing habits had long surpassed Sesame Street and Mr. Wizard's World. I liked big kid shows. The more mysterious, the better. I lived for the mystery of life, the who's and why's of bad people, the possibility of UFOs or the surrealism of spirits interacting with the real world. But, as much as I enjoyed "Unsolved Mysteries", the shows UPDATEs proved disappointing. It was great for the family and the investigators that the little girl was found safe and sound. For me, it was a let down. Congratulations to the joyous mother, but sad for the viewer who liked everything shrouded in mystery.

It was during my intense fascination with Detective Stack that I evolved into my own gumshoe character. In my imaginary fantasy world, I was Fred Fickle, a bumbling detective with my own mysteries to solve. Only years later, would I learn "fickle" was another word for shy. But I was a shy kid, with very little friends...but I liked it that way. I enjoyed living in this fantasy world where I could create my own mysteries and solve them. However, I'd often find myself trapped, and would have to elude my captors to piece the clues together.

I'd get wrapped up beneath the fitted sheet on my mattress and it would cling to my body like a gigantic spider web, obviously spun by the minions of the diabolical villain. Bed sheets could also double as restraints. When I was feeling really adventurous, the floor of the bedroom was electrified or lava. I dare not touch it with my bare feet. The bad guys were never named, and I never saw them. It was Fred Fickle against whatever obstacles were in his way. The plots typically involved rescuing the daughter of a distinguished and very wealthy business man. My reward would be love, most certainly, upon finding her. Other times, plots involved a missing diamond or an important document.

Never would I, as Detective Fickle, ever come across an actual person. My sister and I would play "next door neighbors", a version of playing "house", but instead of husband and wife, we were neighbors. But I dare not share my mysterious fantasy world with anyone. It was all make believe. All in my mind. Yet, it was so vivid, so real to me. I could be anywhere in the world. The bedroom was an industrial wasteland. The back yard, a dark forest, full of snakes and monsters. The attic appeared as a dimly lit haunt for spirits and chain-rattling demons. The world was my oyster, and I wanted to discover it as only Fred Fickle could.

As an adult, I'm still fascinated by true crime. None of that scripted CSI or Law & Order stuff. I want to see how investigators piece together clues to get the bad guy, or identify the cause of a localized epidemic. Robert Stack isn't around any more. I've caught new episodes of "Unsolved Mysteries", which feature a different host, and are therefore not the same. I'd much rather watch Forensic Files, and have more recently discovered a whole 24-hour network devoted to true mystery shows. I read true crime novels.

I know I'll never be a real detective, but I do enjoy the psychology of it all. I'm endlessly entertained by why people do what they do. Motives are always interesting. Love triangles, deep-seated secrets, drug money...it's fun to solve along with the professionals.

Dangerous Living

As humans, we are succeptible to just about anything. The medical and insurance industries make billions, trillions of dollars from expecting us to fail as a species. Each one of us is only temporarily abled. We can fall victim to any number of mishaps, either physcially or mentally; innate or put upon us from outside forces. Something could be lurking in any one of us just waiting for the optimal time to attack. Danger is around every corner, and where there's no corner, it's there too.

Our bodily enemies could be invisible to our eyes, such as the case of viruses. Or, our enemy could be something very concrete, like an oncoming vehicle. At any point, with the elements are just right, the wrong thing could happen.

I've had my fair share of mishaps. I experienced clinical death resulting from a car accident when I was ten. Nearly killed my whole family. Eight years ago, I sliced the top of my hand wide open, doing the incredibly menial dish washing chore. I've hit my head several times and stubbed my toe. I've had my finger smashed in a door, and cut a thumb with a hand saw. Once, I fell with one leg on each side of a metal beam, used to support my bed. It felt like it split me in two. I've had the wind knocked out of me when the misguided inner-tube I was riding ran ashore. Tonight, I bit my lip over a meal of fried rice.

None of these things were expected, but they all happened. Sure, I sound accident prone, but who isn't? We all are, really. And even if we are super careful, drive with our seatbelts on, lift with our legs, and never look up when it's raining, mishaps will happen. We will harm ourselves.

Sometimes, the mishap is much less noticeable. We humans like to indulge. Hey, we only get one life, why not live it to its fullest? I have an affinity for cold coffee. Too much caffeine is bad, and it's bad on the wallet, too. We like things that are sweet, or salty, or too good for our tastebuds to be true. We're told if we don't watch what we eat, we'll pay dearly for it. High cholesterol, diabetes, coronary heart disease, obesity. But, don't eat too much of the "good stuff" (veggies, whole grains, and the like) or your teeth will fall out, you'll lose your hair and you'll become anemic. Damned if we do, damned if we don't.

Recently, I started lowering my daily caloric intake and exercising on that blasted exercise bike. Oh, how I loathe exercise. But I did it a few years ago, and lost many, many pounds. I was looking good. But that was two years ago. I put all that weight back on, and then some. I have a love-hate relationship with ice cream and chocolate. Oh, the sweet-wonderful-take-me-away taste of Heath bar pieces intermingled with smooth-and-utterly-delicious espresso ice cream and almonds. But oh, you bitch!

Truth is, I'm like most everyone. I want what I want, when I want it, but I don't want to pay the price of eating such delectable treats. I don't want to exercise, but I want to eat it, and eat it all. And, oh yeah, I want a model body. I want to be able to walk around with my shirt off without parents' shielding their children's eyes as I mow the lawn. I'd like to visit the beach without fear of leaving tanlines below my man boobs. And I want to eat ice cream with all the goodies mixed throughout it. But I can't have that.

I've been doing really good the past few days. Ice cream and I have decided to take a little break from each other. I curb my loneliness by getting on that dreaded bike and cycling while listening to classic rock or some dance track. I burn 1000 calories each trip, and I feel so much better.

Last night, I was thumbing through photos (yes, in a day before digital photography) to seek out pictures of Halloween costumes I've made in the past. I want to create a collage of my previous works to display, even if purely for braggin' rights. In the process, I jogged down Memory Lane. Many of the pictures dated back ten years. And wow. What a difference life makes. That, and the comfort of being in a relationship with the right person. You just kind of let yourself go. "Oh, we're in love, so let's eat!"

I want to try to reach the physique I had in my twenties. Well, I didn't really have a "physique", per se, but my waistline was a bit smaller. I'm happy to report that ice cream and I have decided to divorce. It's an amicable split. He's gotten quite a few years of my life, I have the rest to make my own.

Yes, we can get attacked at anytime. Either real, or imagined. I know I'm giving my all in an attempt to make my life better, but even the strong can fall. It only takes the right moment and the right conditions to make things not the way we anticipated. I read this quote on a bumper sticker once, and I've carried it with me: "Life is what happens when you plan for something else." It's true.

A New View

When you speak from the heart, words move freely. They channel from visions in your mind down through your nerve endings and into the muscles that control our fingertips. Our fingertips either find a pen, pencil, marker, or other writing implement. In this day and age, and with the ease of technology, I choose the computer screen as my instrument for sharing my thoughts, words, and other musings.

I could have been "Tiffany", if I were born with a vagina. But, I was blessed with a weiner. Well, I use the term blessed loosely. Being male is neither a blessing nor a curse. I am forever grateful I don't have a menstrual cycle. The sight of blood, my blood, even the slightest, makes me queasy. Yet, oddly enough, I draw blood as part of my job. Stabbing and jabbing complete strangers doesn't seem to bother me at all. Provided their blood stays in the test tube and doesn't mistakenly pool to the surface.

It is a curse, but only slightly, that I wasn't born Tiffany. I'll never know the joy of childbirth, or how weird it feels to experience my body changing as a seed grows into a baby within me. I'm male. All male. I have a penis, and that's that. No pregnancy, no morning sickness, no stretch marks. Oh wait, I DO have those.

I believe I have more feminine characteristics than masculine. My testosterone levels must not be high enough. I still get mistaken for a woman on the phone, at times, and half the time in the drive-thru at the fast food joint. Puberty hasn't quite hit me, and I'm 33. I have stretch marks, though not through pregnancy, but to look at my naked body, you would think I had. I have child-bearing hips and large thighs. Still, I have a male organ. And I like it that way. I do not desire to be a female, yet so many of my traits are characteristically so.

I'm emotional. What macho man would write such a musing, really? Then again, what is macho? I'm on antidepressants, for reasons, I'm not quite sure. I know why Zoloft is key in my life, I'm just not quite sure why I'm depressed. Any sob story or family reunion on Oprah will get me to cry along with these people. Perfect strangers to me, yet oddly familiar. The story. We all share a similar story, as humans. But I don't come from a broken home. My parents are still together after all these years. And everyone seems to accept me for who I am. If they only knew. Still, why do I appear to be unhappy? Am I unhappy?

Just today, I was talking with my partner, the love of my life, about the meaning of life and the idea there's no "great beyond". Once we're gone, that's it. No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. What we do now, won't matter a hundred years from now. Or will it? What will we each do, in our own way, to be remembered? To make our imprint in our world, our culture, and our community. The Egyptians worked their asses off, and thousands of years later, historians are still mystified by their lives. I want to walk like an Egyptian. I want to have a life others marvel over. Not in the way of money or material goods, but in some deeply moving emotional or spiritual way. Like Mother Teresa, only non-religious.

I love who I love.

I'm not religious, but spiritual.

I believe in big things and making a difference.

I'm here now, and plan to be.

I want to live life, not to just exist through it.

I'm creative and smart.

I love to write.

So, why can't I do what needs to be done to make an impression, not just in my life, and the lives of those around me? But to society as a whole. I want people to remember me like DaVinci or Princess Di. I want to be known for something.

Mind to nerve, nerve to muscle, muscle to finger. I will write. I will stand out and be known for doing my best and giving my all to be known for something. Just what, I'm not sure yet. But as I type these words on this Friday night, I know that someone, somewhere, at some point in time, will feel deeply moved by my musings. Maybe it will be just another human with nothing better to do than to browse through other peoples' writings. All it takes is one person to make a difference in another person's life. Are you that person? I know I will be...to someone.