Closed Doors

"When one door closes another door opens; but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us." - Alexander Graham Bell

We hear this quote, or one quite similar to it all the time, whenever something bad happens in our lives. The breakup of a relationship, the loss of a job, whenever those things happen, someone will invariably pull out this phrase, nodding wisely as if they are imparting the most important piece of wisdom in the universe. We hear the phrase often, but do we ever really listen to it, think about what it means, follow its words?

Not too long ago, I lost someone in my life. More than just someone who had captured my heart, he'd also become my friend, my closest confidant. At the time, it seemed like the end of my world. I moped around, did nothing but lament the end of the relationship, and generally make everyone around me miserable. Of course, someone pulled out the old "when one door closes..." phrase, and of course, I merely rolled my eyes like I had every other time I'd heard it. But later on, when I was alone, I heard those same words again, and I thought about them. I decided that instead of continuing to look at the closed door that was my past relationship, I'd look at the world through different eyes. I decided to look for those doors around that might be opening, to keep an open mind and explore whatever opportunities that presented themselves. I decided that what the hell - I had nothing to lose, right?

So that's what I did. I went places, I did things, I talked to people. I got on with my life. And you know what? Eventually, other doors did open, and had I not kept an open mind, they would have passed me by unnoticed. But instead, I saw each open door for what it was, took a deep breath, and walked on through. And I cannot say that for one second that I've regretted that decision.

For those of you going through something that it seems you cannot get through, let me share what I've finally learned at the age of 31...

Whatever it is you're stuck on, let it go. Look to your future. We will always see the past as better than it was, the present as worse than it is, and the future as more unclear than it truly will be. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past. You can't go forward in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.

Be open to new opportunities, new friendships, new loves. Trust in the fact that everything happens for a reason. It's a cliche, it's trite and overused, but generally it's true. You never know what lies around the next corner - it could be the love of your life, the job of your dreams, or anything in between. Don't close your heart or mind to that possibility.

Be happy. The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything, they just make the most of everything that comes along their way. Learn to enjoy every minute of your life. Be happy NOW. Dont wait for something outside of yourself to make you happy in the future. Think how really precious is the time you have to spend, whether its with friends or with your family.

Be what you want to be, because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to do. Dream what you want to dream. Go where you want to go. Life is too short to spend it hoping to change the unchangeable, and wanting what you cannot have.

Don't waste your life looking at that closed door and hoping that it will magically reopen. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it won't. Instead, look for those doors that are opening around you all the time. Find that open door meant for you, and go through it. You never know what awaits you on the other side.

Viva Las Vegas

"We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole multi colored collection of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon."

This is one of the opening lines to the movie "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas", for those of you who have lived under a rock your whole lives. And while I've never even tried any sort of drug, this is a pretty apt quote to start off the story of my trip to Las Vegas. Let me start out by telling you a little about my trip-mate, TD. I met TD on Wednesday. Two days later, on Friday afternoon, we were on a plane to Vegas. I wish I could make this stuff up. I love this guy. He is the freaking mirror image of me, personality wise. Those of you that know me, know that I'm pretty nuts. I will do or say anything. Usually very loudly. In a crowd of people. Because it's funny. So will he. So why not take an impromptu trip to Sin City?

We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold.
The trip starts out uneventful enough. A couple drinks at the airport bar, a plane ride, a long wait in the 100 degree heat for a taxi. It's when we jump into the cab that we begin to see how interesting this trip will be. Our cabbie is a man of many talents. He's a part time computer programmer, or so he claims. He was the head of security systems at Caesar's. Or so he claims. But he gave up all of that to drive a taxi. We wonder why, but soon find out. Taxi driving is a lucrative profession, especially for this rat bastard. He keeps chattering at us, distracting us from the fact that he's jumped on the freeway and driven us around the city, when he should have taken a straight shot to the hotel. We arrive, and the meter reads $23.65.He quickly clears the meter, jumps out, hands us our bags, and says, "That'll be $27." Uh, no. He suddenly remembers that was his last fare, not this one, and changes his tune. Still, we're on the hook for about twice what it should have cost. Pissed, we go check in.

Our room sucks. In fact, it's not even clean. We're moved to another one, then sit around staring at the walls waiting for someone to bring us new keys. Eventually, we say fuck it and head to the front desk. We get our keys, sign up for comp cards, etc. We head toward the casino floor, and debate what we'll play along the way. TD has a hardon for craps. He loves this game. He's good at it, too, to hear him tell it. So craps it is. We head to the table, and immediately I'm daunted. I just thought you threw some dice. This is way more complicated than I believed. I let TD try to instruct me. He runs through the rules like he's a fucking auctioneer. "Yo, do I hear a yo... 7 on a come out roll... craps, we've got a craps over there... pass line, pass line to the gentleman in the red shirt..." Now, I'm not a dumb person, but this is not a simple game and his crash course isn't sinking in. I give up, and hand TD $60 and tell him to play it for me, so I can learn the game. He adds in his cash and buys in. Ten minutes later, half our money is gone. TD is either full of shit, or the table is cold, because he sucks at this. Hard. Time for a drink.

After contemplating our losses and drowning our sorrows in Tanqueray, we decide to take $20 of our remaining cash and play the slots. At least it's a way to kill time. TD becomes retardedly excited at the prospect of winning a Chrysler Crossfire on the penny slots, so we go there first. I boast that I have monster luck at slots, and being a superstitious person, TD directs me to punch the buttons as he looks on. We actually do pretty well, making about $2. Hell, on penny slots, that's big winnings. Not a car, but still doing well. However, my intuition in picking machines proves to be somewhat lacking, so I demand that TD take over. Honestly, I just don't want the responsibility of losing more money. He picks one, inserts some money and promptly loses $5.

This is where I decide to apply a little brain power. As a sidenote... I tell you, I'm fucking brilliant when I'm drunk. I'm like goddamn Stephen Hawking and Albert Einstein rolled into one. I develop theories on quantam mechanics, cure cancer and have ESP. Too bad that I lose all of that as soon as I become sober. Anyway, I quickly connect the dots... TD picked the Crossfire machine, I did not... I see it. He's got "the touch", as some would call it. "You've got The Hand, man," I tell him excitedly. His eyes light up, and we plot our next steps. It's a simple division of labor: The Hand will guide us to the right machine, and I will insert cash and spin the reels. TD won't touch the machines, as his only talent is picking them, and I won't pick them because I obviously suck at that.

We follow The Hand from slot machine to slot machine, and I'll be damned if we aren't winning. Maybe this Hand business is for real. The new theory becomes "any win is a good win", and that we must take our winnings and move on, even if they're negligible. TD's new mantra is, "cash that bitch out!" which he squeals with amusing regularity. Since he's got The Hand, he's the boss. At one point, we are carrying cash vouchers for as little as 2 cents, and as much as $4.10. Our goal is simple: play slots long enough, not to recover our losses from the craps table, but to make enough cash to buy a bottle of booze, which is available at the gift shop. The flaw in this goal is that we are being plied with free liquor by the cocktail waitresses anyway, so we become more and more inebriated and run willy nilly from machine to machine, playing a couple of pennies at a time, all the while laughing like maniacs.

Get out. The weasels were closing in. I could smell the ugly brutes. Flee.
We devise a shady plan. We are bored of playing, but will pretend to play the slots, in order to get more free alcohol. Top shelf alcohol, no less. We both slide a dollar into a machine and sit down, playing a penny at a time. We're spreading it out slowly, trying to make our dollars last, when the waitress cruises by. "Cocktails..." She ignores us, but TD, not one to be ignored (ever), stops her. Trying to play it cool, he looks at her, then me. "Excuse me. We'd like two shots of Patron, please." He flashes his smile at her. He's got a killer smile, but it doesn't work. "We don't have Patron," she says, glaring. We settle for more Tanqueray and tonic. Oh well, it's free booze.

We hang out by the slots, pretending to play a little more, then bolt as soon as we get our drinks, lest anyone discover our crafty little plot. We decide to take the profits from the magic of The Hand and purchase a large bottle of Captain Morgan Tattoo, which for some reason I keep calling "Hooker". Maybe it's all the prostitutes around, I don't know. Carrying our drinks and the bottle, we head back to our room, taking the indoor walkway to the escalator. Now, the escalator is a little strange. It's like half the size of a normal one. Or more accurately, it's half the length. We don't notice this, of course, as we're too busy looking out the window as we ride down. The escalator stops abruptly, but we don't. Both of us hit the bottom, stagger at the jolt, and fall. Really, who the hell falls off and escalator? At the bottom? These two drunk asses. We had no idea how perilous this little passageway back to the hotel really was. TD would fall victim to it twice in the following days. More on that later.

Returning to our building, via the circuitous walkway route, TD announces an urgent need to urinate. "Whip it out and pee off the balcony," I suggest, and much to my pleasure, he agrees. (See? This is why I like him. I come up with a crazy idea, and he does it. It's good teamwork.) "Wait, wait, I need photographic evidence," I yell, and run down the hall, accompanied by TD's screams of "hurry it up, I've got to go NOW!" I sprint to the room, grab the camera, and sprint back, fully expecting to come out to find him peeing off the balcony. As I burst through the door, I notice a family right in front of me, entering the balcony. I feel defeated. TD looks scared. We head back to the room. "Wait," I tell him. "Just drop your pants and piss in the hall." This seems reasonable. After 5 Tanqueray and tonics, it all seems reasonable. TD pauses, and I give up, turning away. What I didn't know was that he was walking behind me with his pants down, and his um... cock out. I totally missed this. I did finally notice once we got back in the room, but the weiner was back in the pants by then. I mentally start kicking myself for not paying attention, but manage to grab my camera in time to snap a pic anyway. Sorry ladies, no cock.

At a loss for what to do next, we debate the merits of finding breakfast. We call the front desk, asking for directions to IHOP. We flip through the yellow pages, searching for breakfast joints. We drink a little Hooker. Tattoo, I mean. IHOP it is. Drinks in hand, we venture forth onto the strip, moving toward the Sahara. We pick up a couple of flyers, in case we decide to order some call girls later on. A couple of blocks later, no IHOP. TD has the amazing ability to turn his drunkenness off like throwing a switch. One second, he's slurring his words and staggering, the next he's upright, bright-eyed, and enunciating perfectly. I don't have this talent, so he is voted spokesperson. We flag down a couple of men on bicycles, and ask for directions. They don't know, but point us in the direction of a restaurant called the Pepper Mill, several blocks in the the opposite direction. Unhappy but hungry, we trudge back the way we came. Along the way, we pass Slots-A-Fun, a dive casino sandwiched between Circus Circus and Westard Ho. At 7:30am, the craps table out front is hopping. We make note that it's only $1 to play craps until 7pm. Little did we know, this little casino would become a big part of our trip.

Arriving at the restaurant, we notice the sign says "Pepper Mill Entertainment Lounge". This could be a strip club. This probably IS a strip club. Hmmm... boobs and eggs? I shrug. "Let's see some titties!" I'm kind of excited at the prospect, actually. Unfortunately, once I open the door, it's nothing more than a garishly tacky neon and mirrored restaurant. We order our breakfasts, 2 double bloody marys, and coffee. TD literally dumps an entire shaker of sugar into his, stirring like a maniac. "It tastes like syrup," he mumbles, and I don't know if this is a good or bad thing. The caffeine and sugar do nothing to help his flagging energy, and he dozes off at the table. Twice. Giving up the fight, we leave. We stagger back to the room in the glaring 9am sunlight, screaming at each other and laughing hysterically, as only drunks can do. Our livers start to cry no mas, so we call the front desk for a 3pm wake-up call, passing out more than falling asleep.

Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a main era --the kind of peak that never comes again.
3pm dawns bright and early. Okay, well, it's neither dawn at 3pm, nor is it early, but it sure feels like it. Our sleep was interrupted once by a maid, who came in to clean unannounced because we'd forgotten to lock the door. Other than that, it was the sleep of the dead. Or the really hung over. Ouch. My head hurts like hell. Deciding on the hair of the dog school of hangover management, we both take a couple drinks of Tattoo and Diet Pepsi. We shower, pour some more Tattoo into Diet Pepsi bottles, and head out in search of breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Whatever you choose to call it when you awaken at 3pm. After putting some food in our stomachs, we head toward the midway at Circus Circus. TD promises to win me a stuffed monkey, but fails miserably. I try my luck at a game, and win a stuffed bear. We both play darts and lose, but are given consolation prizes of stuffed dogs. We buy some jelly beans. All in all, rather mundane, but - hey, we've got to recover a little, you know?

Our attention turns to Slots-a-Fun. Sure, it's dirty and run-down and packed with some seriously ghetto mofos, but this could be fun. Hell, it has fun right in the name, right? Speaking of the name, we can never get the name of this place right. At various times, we refer to it as Slots-o-Rama, Slots-r-Us, and finally, Sluts-r-us. Really, the name of the place doesn't matter so much as what it offers - $1 craps until 7pm, then it's $2 craps.

Either way, this is the cheapest game of craps on the Strip. It's also ridiculously crowded, since they only have one table. Weaving through the casino, we exit and head toward Slots-r-Us. Slots-a-Fun. Whatever. We get a couple beers at the bar, then TD squeezes into the one spot left at the packed table, and starts to play. Still a little overwhelmed, I hang back, watching the game. I think I'm getting the hang of it, but I'm still not drunk enough to start risking my money just yet.

We have some more beer. I go buy TD some cigarettes, stopping to play a couple of slot machines along the way, scoring a free drink in the process. I wander off and drunk dial my sister, yelling into the phone about throwing dice and The Hand and God knows what. I dial a couple other people too - several of you are probably reading this blog. Sorry about that one. TD has a great roll while I'm wandering, going for at least 45 minutes. I make it back to the table, and watch him play. I think I've got the hang of it now, and I'm getting pumped about taking my turn. I look at my watch and realize that we've spent over 3 hours at Slots-o-Rama, and it's now dark outside. We cruise on back to the room to grab our ATM cards to get more cash, but leave our jelly beans and one of the stuffed dogs at the craps table on accident. In the room, TD makes me practice throwing some dice we bought earlier, to gauge how lucky I am. He tries to teach me his "system" and his superstitions. After a couple rolls of the dice, he decides that I'll do okay, and we're off. On the way back to the casino, in the walkway, TD attempts to run UP the escalator that we fell off of the night before. He falls. Walkway 2, TD 0. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard. My stomach is starting to hurt from all of the laughing.

We return to the craps table at Sluts-r-Us, and the dealer recognizes TD from before. We ask about our jelly beans and stuffed dog, and it's kind of comedic to watch everyone get in on the action. All three dealers AND the pit boss get involved, saying that they wanted to save the jelly beans for us, but someone threw them in the trash. They point at the trash can behind us, as if they expect us to go trash picking for our fucking jelly beans. Uh, no. However, the stuffed dog might have been a good luck charm, so we ask about it again. The pit boss disappears for a while, presumably roaming the casino and asking other employees if they've seen our dog. Defeated, he returns empty handed. It's amusing how everyone is so concerned about a crappy stuffed animal and some jelly beans, but they are astoundingly helpful and nice. I start wondering if they think we're high rollers, just because we're considerably cleaner than their normal clientele.

Making room for us at the table, the pit boss chats us up for a while. We start talking to the dealers, and they're actually pretty cool, too. They tell us stories about crazy people that come in the casino, like the two guys who got in a fistfight during a craps game over a dollar, and ended up both going to the hospital. For a dollar. Peter, the funny dealer with the hideously jacked up teeth, tells us Michael Jackson jokes, and a couple blonde jokes, trying to see if he can get a rise out of me. I just laugh. Finally, the dice come around to me, and I throw. I realize that people are going to be betting money on my ability to do this. I could have a whole lot of friends or a whole lot of enemies in a few short seconds. I get a little sick thinking about it. Too late now. I roll a 7, an 11, then another 7, right off the bat. Hey, not too bad. I throw for a few more minutes, being encouraged by the guy standing beside me, who says, "come on, baby girl," every time I roll. Eventually, I crap out, and the dice go to TD. The players remember him from before, and they're all laying down money. While he rolls, Bill, the dealer originally from Ohio, catches my attention and tells me that I did a good job, even if it did look like I was going to puke on my shoes.

We continue playing, having a great time, drinking obscene amounts of Tanqueray and tonic, and bullshitting with the dealers. While we're playing, a very short man with a very big hairdo comes by carrying a giant cup that resembles a bong. The cup is nearly as big as Tiny Elvis, as I dub him, and I see that TD is immediately curious. He actually stops playing for a minute to ask Tiny Elvis where he bought the bong, and I see the wheels start turning in TD's head. Uh oh. A small voice in my head tells me that this cannot be good. I won't find that out for sure until the next day, though. It's 2am, so we decide to call it quits. I'm up $2, TD is down $18. Not bad for 5 straight hours of playing craps. I guess when you're only making $2 bets, you don't lose too big. You don't win too big, either. We realize we haven't eaten all day, and grab sandwiches at the Pink Pony, a great name for a gay bar if I've ever heard one. After we eat, we're both exhausted and we call it a night, planning to play craps in the morning while it's still a $1 game, and maybe go to the pool.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

I'm up at 8:40. TD, not so much. He continues snoring as I go get us new towels from the maid and jump in the shower. As I step out of the shower, I realize that I've left the clean towels in the bedroom. I'm now faced with a choice - put on my clothes from the night before and go get the towels, or make a run for it, hoping TD doesn't wake up. I decide on option #2, and streak out into the bedroom. As I'm reaching for the towels, TD stops snoring and I freeze. Then, for some reason, I am gripped by some sort of temporary insanity. I creep toward TD and do a little naked dance at the side of the bed. He doesn't move. I shake my ass at him, drop it like it's hot, you know - the usual. He snores, obviously not impressed with my skills, and I give up and go get ready.

After breakfast, we head back to the craps table. Of course. It's at this point that things start venturing into the surreal. I'm wearing a hat. A cheap, white bucket-style hat with something stitched on it in white. "What's your hat say," the dealer yells across the table. I shrug. Hell if I know. It's a hat I bought for $10 on vacation to keep my hair dry in the rain. The hat seems to become the obsession of the table, as every damn dealer asks me about it. The first dealer goes off shift, and actually takes the hat off of my head to read it. Me being hatless must pique the curiosity of another dealer, because he suspiciously asks why the first dealer took it. I eventually get the hat back, but now the pit boss wants in on the action. He comes over and asks what it says. It's a hat. Get over it. The best I can figure is they thought I had some sort of elaborate cheating scheme going on and my hat was part of it. Yeah, at a $1 craps table. At the shittiest casino on the Strip. After logging another 3 hours at the table, we leave for the pool, not really any poorer.

Remember how I said that it was starting to get surreal? Keep that in mind. We change into our swimsuits just in time for the fire alarms to go off. I go out into the hall, and smell smoke. Shit, this is a real fire. We gather our valuables and head outside to see a group of maids, all probably illegal immigrants, arguing heatedly over who is going to take the blame. We then see that someone has set a maid's cart on fire, and that it's been pulled out into the parking lot, still smoldering. That's kind of cool. I'm disappointed that I didn't think of doing that. Oh well, pool time.

Our hotel's multiple pools are crowded and overrun with children. We decide that the KOA RV park nearby might have a decent pool, and sure enough, it's empty except for a few people roasting in the heat. Score! Of course, we're not exactly guests of the campground, but we think we can pass. Sneaking in proves to be disappointingly easy. We just open the gate, walked in, and sat down. We're baking in the 105 degree sun, so damn hot you can't put your bare feet on the concrete, and we're drinking the last of the Hooker, concealed in Diet Pepsi bottles. I'm sneaking glances over at TD, who looks pretty damn good in nothing but a pair of trunks. Life doesn't get any better. But wait - TD has to pee. The restroom has a combination lock on it, and only residents are given the combination. Uh oh. "Go pee in the sauna," I suggest. Actually, I think that's a great idea, because nobody is going to go in there in this heat, and it will also smell really rancid in there afterward. TD declines on the basis that it will look suspicious of him, just going in and right back out. We debate the merits of peeing while standing under the shower by the pool. "Get in the hot tub, dude." Okay, hot tub it is.

We notice a very hairy gentleman strolling toward the hot tub. Small change in plans, but we roll with it. "Just pee on him instead, then get out," I snicker. TD obliges, and hops in the hot tub with the Sasquatch. Now, TD isn't just getting in and out of the hot tub - this bastard is setting up camp. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, book in hand, he settles in. What the fuck? He starts chatting with the Yeti. From across the pool, I try to figure out what TD is doing. Is he making friends with this guy? I creep over, pretending to make a phone call, and snap a picture with my camera phone. "Is it hot, babe," I inquire, trying to explain my presence. He indicates that indeed, it is, and I trot back to my chair, smirking. After about 10 minutes, TD and Bigfoot climb out of the hot tub, and both take a shower. I'm dying to figure out what's going on, but also intrigued by the vaguely gay image of them showering together.

TD... the Sasquatch is on the left, obscured in hair.

TD runs back, grinning. Apparently, he told the male silverback gorilla that he had to pee, but couldn't find a restroom. His intended target said that he, too, had to pee. Between the two of them, they reach the concensus that they will both pee in the hot tub, then get out and shower off. Uhhh, not what I had anticipated, and both gross and kind of homoerotic at the same time. I begin wondering if TD is maybe a little on the gay side. We quit the pool after a couple of hours, sweaty and tired.

TD sleeps while I shower again. I remembered the towels this time, and there's no incidents. However, I forgot to bring any clean clothes in with me, and all I've got is a wet swimsuit, a bra, and some panties. In the grip of that insanity again, I throw on the bra and panties, and leap out into the bedroom Wonder Woman style, hands on my hips. At this point, it's become a challenge: how many times can I run around naked and not be caught? I do a slow striptease, making a big show of removing my bra and panties. He snores louder, and I'm insulted. I wish there were a stripper pole that I could dance on, then he'd see my true talents. Seeing none, I head back into the bathroom with my clothes, giggling.

I let TD sleep for a couple hours, and entertain myself with thoughts of climbing into the bed and waking him up in a creative way, like whacking him with a pillow or punching him in the head. In the end, reason wins out (after all, I'm a nice person), and I just shake him a couple of times. I don't mention the stripping. We grab dinner in a Mexican restaurant that is surprisingly good, also downing a pitcher of margaritas. We exit toward the Strip, with TD determined to seek out the giant cup of alcohol we saw the night before, checking the craps table along the way.

Soon we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back - we would have to ride it out.
Word is that the giant cup comes filled with alcohol and is available only at Harrah's. So that's where we go, passing all the tourist attractions on the way. No Treasure Island show for us, no sir. We're on a mission. We cross the street to Harrah's, find the bar, grab some cash from the ATM, and pee. TD comes out of the restroom. "There's some guy in a stall, crying his eyes out." I immediately flash to the scene in the Austin Powers movie, where Tom Arnold is in the bathroom talking to Austin and thinking he's taking a dump. I encourage TD to run back in and yell, "You give that turd hell" or "who does #2 work for," but he won't. We hit the bar. The drink is $27 for a Long Island. After a short debate, we go for it. The bartender fills the cup with ice, and no lie - pours alcohol in it until it hits the 3 foot mark, then a splash of cola. The drink has 100 ounces of alcohol, he tells us. This doesn't bode well. He jams in 2 4-foot long straws, puts a fucking shoulder strap on the thing, and we're off. "This is the defining moment where everything goes wrong," I predict.

The cup... note the height compared to the floor lamp behind it.

As we walk down the street sipping out of our 4 foot cup, we start to realize how much attention we're going to get. Every person that passes us either laughs, asks where we got it, or gives us the thumbs up. A group of 6 guys comes up to us, and their appointed spokes-asshole puts his arm around TD. "You're a good looking guy - so why do you have such an ugly girlfriend?" My jaw drops. I'm not perfect, I'm the first to admit that, but you don't walk up to a random stranger and call them ugly. I wait for TD to say something, but he just smirks. Thanks, asswad, I'll deal with you later. Doofus #2 leans toward me and whispers, "don't worry, that's actually a compliment. It's how he hits on women." "And reason #1 why he's still a virgin," I reply. I'm fuming. Fuck these idiots. They're harshing on my buzz. TD is still in conversation with the spokes-asshole, so I turn to the one that seems normal and ask where they're from. Salt Lake City, it turns out. That makes them Mormons, right? "Some of us are... Do you have something to say about that," he asks. "Nothing, other than that you are bigamists. And why are you drinking a beer in the fucking city of sin? You're going to hell for sure." With that little bit of anger vented, we move on, garnering stares and yells from everyone we pass. For the hell of it, I demand that from that moment on, TD is only permitted to talk like Lil' Jon, with exclamations of "Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!"

We go to the Forum shops at Caesar's, for no real reason other than to goof around and waste some time. We sip the cup down to about the 1/3 mark. This is going to take a while. A friend of mine who is also in Vegas calls and we decide to meet at the Bellagio. Surely a great place for drunkards. We meet in the lobby under the Fiori di Como, the ceiling designed by Dale Chihuly. I love his work, but I'm too drunk to appreciate it. We spend about an hour conversing, but I can't really say what about. I do recall my friend hugged me rather violently when we left, and I almost fell to the floor. So Tony, if you're reading this, sorry about that... I don't know if you knocked me over, or I was pulling you over, but I'm glad we didn't fall down in the lobby of the Bellagio. Cruising out of the Bellagio ("Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!" says TD), we realize that we've walked several miles, and we don't really feel like walking back. It's hot, we're drunk (but rapidly losing the buzz), and we don't want to walk any more, dammit. We hail a cab, and spend the next 10 minutes hanging on for dear life as the driver screeches in and out of traffic, laying on his horn and screaming out the window. He offers to take us to a strip club for free. We decline.

No more of that talk or I'll put the fucking leeches on you, understand?
Back to the $2 craps table. It's like we're minor celebrities. We're on a first name basis with the pit boss now, and he has other players move over to make room for us at the table. The dealers bullshit with us, telling us stories and goofing around. We notice that they yell at other players for the same things we're doing, but somehow we're magically exempt from their wrath. I realize that the dealers and pit boss think that I am TD's girlfriend, because they defer to him when asking any questions, as if we're a unit. Nice. Like a guy and girl can't go to Vegas, drink their asses off, buy some prostitutes... wait - where was I? Oh yeah - apparently, we can't just be friends. Whatever. "Six and nine," TD says, throwing his chips out on the table. "69," Peter says, and he and TD laugh like they're 12. TD leans forward to watch the roll, and Peter leans out behind him to catch my attention. "I also like 68," Peter says to me behind TD's back. "You know what that is?" Remembering the old joke, I nod slowly, frantically hoping that TD will hear this conversation and intervene. He either doesn't hear, or thinks it's funny, because it continues. Peter splits the rest of the night either staring at my breasts or making creepy comments behind TD's back. He must think he's clever, pulling one over on my "boyfriend" like that.

We're at the craps table until closing ("Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!" says TD, about a thousand times), which is supposed to be 3am, but they keep going until 4. We've nearly finished the giant cup o' alcohol, but neither of us are giving up the fight that easily. We head to the gift shop, and spend about half an hour debating before choosing some Captain Morgans. We head back to our room, hatching a plan. Of course, this means we must traverse the Walkway of Death, which has proven so perilous to us before. The walkway has one of those moving sidewalks like you see in airports - two of them side by side, running in different directions, with moving handrails to hold on to. "What would happen if you tried to straddle both handrails at the same time?" I ask. Before I even finish, TD is hopping up, laying on his stomach. I think we both hoped that the opposite moving rails would cause him to spin around rapidly, launching him a couple feet. Instead, the rails grab at his clothes, he twists slightly, then falls off, screaming, "my balls, my balls." Then, "Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!" For me, this is even better than anticipated, but I doubt he will agree. Final total, Walkway 3, TD 0.

In the room, we wash out the cup. It's so tall that we can only wash it out using the shower. We dump in some ice, two 20 ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi, then fill it the rest of the way with the Captain Morgans. "We've just crossed the line into alcoholism," I slur. "We've gone professional with this shit"... "Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!" says TD. We wander back out to the Strip. There's a giant inflatable Heineken bottle anchored into the ground, and we contemplate our odds of popping it. If only we had our pellet guns. At some point we jaywalk across the street to the Riviera. We use the restrooms, then pause to watch two people at the bar dry humping. "Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!" says TD. Occasionally, he will mix it up by yelling "Wooo wooo," in reference to Bub Rubb and Lil' Sis, something I didn't know about until returning. For the uninitiated, go here to see what the hell I'm talking about.

We then head over to Penny Town, the Riviera's swell penny slots area. Okay, "swell" isn't really an apt descriptor. "Shitty" fits it much better. We continue to drink out of the giant cup like we're some sort of deranged camels storing up alcohol in case of drought. TD finds another set of slots where you could win a car if you hit the jackpot. We sit down, feeding it a couple dollars. Forgetting about the magic of The Hand from the previous night, TD contendedly punches the buttons, consistently losing. However, he decides to scream, "I got the cherries!" every time he spins, pretending he's won the car. Occasionally, he will add in... you guessed it - "Yeah!" and "Ooookaaay!". Amazingly, none of the casino workers are fooled by his act, and they ignore us for the most part, only pausing to glare condescendingly once in a while. I suppose that once you've been in Vegas long enough, you've seen everything. We stumble out of Penny Town and up the street to the crosswalk.

It's okay. He's just admiring the shape of your skull.
"Hey - see that pigeon? Go try to kick it." I'm such an instigator. TD runs balls-out at the bird, who scoots away with no problem. He turns to another pigeon, trying to boot it somewhat halfheartedly. It's at this point we notice we're not alone. We're joined at the crosswalk by a conservatively dressed man, who unlike us, does not appear to have spent the night and morning drinking. Ever the conversationalist, TD approaches him. "You see that pigeon? He was fucking asking for it, man. Giving me the evil eye." The man takes a step back, but nods pleasantly, as if looking for an escape route. I notice the man is carrying a church program, and realize he is probably not only on his way to church somewhere, but also fervently praying to God that we don't gut him and kill him. We advise him of the $1 craps table and how great it is, drop a couple more f-bombs into the conversation, and we're on our merry way.

We shoot through the side door of Circus Circus, and spy a casino security guard. "Hey - help me out here," TD says, scampering toward the poor guy. "Pigeons, man... they deserve to be kicked, right? They're asking for it." The security guard's jaw drops. Of all the crazy conversations he hears in this place, this must top them all. "Well, I love all God's creatures. I'm more of a pacifist..." he begins. Not to be deterred, I add, "They're just rats with wings, dude." TD elaborates even more, and begins recounting the tale of our evening, now morning. I chime in from time to time, adding to the story. The guard listens with actual interest, but he probably is thinking that we're insane. 30 minutes into the story, he makes some excuse about getting back to work, and we stumble back toward the walkway, sucking down the last of our drink.

You would think that the story ends here, with us going back to our room and passing out. Not so fast. In the hallway leading to our room, someone has placed a full trash can. Always one to encourage misbehavior, I urge, "kick it." TD comes at it at a full run, and kicks a field goal. Trash flies down the hall, and the can clatters into the wall with a boom louder than a thunderclap. We race to our room and slam the door before we're caught. "Shhhh! Shut up! We have to pretend we aren't here!" TD whispers. Well, he yells it. There's no whispering with this guy. The coast appears clear, despite our racket. For some reason, and I'm still not clear on this, or even who came up with the idea, TD jumps back into the hallway, drops his pants and boxers, and sprints from one end to the other. I'm gonna claim this was my idea, because I wanted to see TD's ass, but really, I don't know who came up with it.

You can still see the aftermath of punting the trash can to TD's right...

We spend the next hour watching an infomercial for a local car dealer that is the funniest damn thing we've ever seen. That may have been the alcohol talking, but I think TD and I both agree that when either of us needs a new car, we're going to that dealership - prices are crazy. Finally, we call it a night, but then start talking about something. All I remember is muting the television to better hear him say something. I wake up the next afternoon with the television still on, and still muted, so I can only assume that we both passed out in the middle of the conversation.

On Monday, we didn't fly out until nearly 11pm, but we were too tired and beaten down from the debauchery of the previous evening to even bother getting into anything. I did perform the naked booty shake one last time before I woke TD up, though - I just couldn't help it. We ate lunch and headed to the airport early, where we sat staring at each other like zombies. Until TD fell asleep that is. All in all, one memorable trip, that's for sure, and it will take me a hell of a long time to fully recover.

I think I heard my liver sobbing this morning as I looked at the price of airfare to Las Vegas in October...

My Fairy Tale

I remember when I was young thinking that one day I would grow up to be a beautiful woman who would have it all. That I would live that fairy tale - meet my prince and he would take me away, love me, spoil me and grant every wish I had. I outgrew that dream very quickly. Life and the mirror have the tendency to do that. Life worked very hard at teaching me that I was the only person who could rescue myself. I was the only person who could save or destroy myself.

In time I grew to want not someone who would ride up on a big white horse and sweep me away, but who would share his friendship, thoughts, quirks, hopes, dreams and who he really was without any reservations with me. I didn't want any one to save me. Save me from what? I could handle life by myself, thank you. And I had done pretty well, for the most part. Until one day shortly before my 30th birthday. Yes, I don't mind telling my age. I had nearly 30 years of accumulated wisdom at that point. 30 years of triumphs and failures, accomplishments and disappointments... for the most part shared with nobody but myself. Now I am 31 and very proud of the knowledge, wisdom and occasional white hair (hey - I've got one or two, I'll admit it) that I have gained.

Through sheer happenstance, I met the friend of one of my closest friends and favorite people in the world. His smile, his laugh, his attitude - everything about him was fresh and new, and gave me an entirely different perspective on life. Entirely his own person, he moved through the world marching to his own beat. From the moment I met him, all I wanted was to spend more time with him. Three short months later, just one year ago, he proposed and I accepted. We were married five months later, and every day since has been the happiest of my life.

Despite everything it took to get here, I would not have traded one second of it, for that's what put me on the path to finding him. I could not ask for a better and more loving husband. He is my husband, my best friend, my confidant, my lover and the person that allows me to be me. He is my soulmate. He is the being I want to spend the rest of my life with.

I ponder sometimes what I might have done to be rewarded with a husband like him. However, all of a sudden that question becomes a moot point. It really does not matter what I did to get such a husband, what matters is that I have him and I will love him until the day we die, and then longer.

The more time I spend with him, the more I look at him, his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, the way his hair curls up at the ends, and every single small and big thing he does... every day I fall in love with him more and more. I love you, Jake.

Space Madness

A NASA astronaut is being held without bail on attempted murder charges after police say she attacked her rival for another astronaut's attention at Orlando International Airport Monday. Lisa Marie Nowak drove more than 12 hours from Texas to meet the 1 a.m. flight of a younger woman who had also been seeing the astronaut Nowak pined for, according to Orlando police. Reports show that after U.S. Air Force Capt. Colleen Shipman's flight arrived, Nowak followed her to the airport's Blue Lot for long-term parking, tried to get into Shipman's car and then doused her with pepper spray

From CNN:

Inside a bag Nowak was carrying, the officer found a tan trench coat, a new steel mallet, a new folding knife with a 4-inch blade, 3 to 4 feet of rubber tubing, large plastic garbage bags and about $600 in cash, the report said.

Inside the car, police found a half-dozen latex gloves, MapQuest directions from Houston to Orlando International Airport, e-mails from Shipman to Oefelein, diapers that Nowak said she used to eliminate stops along the highway, a letter indicating how much she loved Oefelein and directions to Shipman's home address in Florida, the report said.

First of all, hats off to Lisa for that first rate Nick Nolte style mugshot.

Second... diapers? That's commitment to your cause on a whole new level. The willingness to piss (or worse - shit) your pants in order to get to your destination on time takes a special kind of crazy.

Third - when she found out that Shipman was flying to Orlando from Houston, Nowak decided to confront her, according to the arrest affidavit. Shipman was flying from Houston to Orlando. Nowak drove the 900-mile trip from Houston to Orlando and made it to the airport in time to confront Shipman. That takes more than diapers, man. That takes one hell of a fast car.

Jesus Christ. It's women like this who make the rest of us look bad. I mean seriously - a steel mallet and rubber tubing? Everyone knows that you use duct tape and nylon rope. That space tourist who was going to go up dressed as a Gundam character doesn't look that crazy now, does he?

Hey - your chocolate's in my peanut butter!

I have to confess something - unlike the majority of women, I'm not really much of a chocolate fan. I occasionally eat some Lemonheads, or other sour candy, but rarely chocolate. Every once in a while though, I'll get an intense craving for one particular type of chocolate candy, and I have to give in... Reese's Peanut Butter cups - perhaps the best candy in the world - to me, at least. Despite the fact that I don't really like peanut butter (unless it's Jif Extra Crunchy), and don't much like chocolate either, I love Reese's Peanut Butter cups, go figure. There's just something about the contrast between the slightly salty peanut butter, and the sweet, smooth chocolate that I really, really like. Nothing is quite like it in taste.

It's odd... you can buy Reese's brand peanut butter in a jar at most any grocery store. It's mediocre, as far as peanut butter goes. And, it really tastes nothing like the peanut butter you find in a Reese's cup. Comparing the ingredients between what's in the jar and what's in the candy, they are identical - I even went so far as to call Hershey's once to verify. So why is it that the two taste so completely different? You can buy Hershey's milk chocolate as well - in bars, and as Hershey's Kisses. It's pretty mediocre chocolate - nothing great, but nothing terrible. And again, it doesn't really taste like the chocolate in a Reese's cup. And also again, the ingredients are the same. Why is this? What is it about taking the two key items and separating them that makes them seem so much less satisfying than when they're together?

The answer is simple... you have peanut butter, and you have chocolate. Two things that on their own, each taken individually, are pretty good. But put them together, and you get something way better than either one is alone. It's the blending of the two things... the mingling of flavors, of textures, that make a Reese's cup what it is.

And that's how the ideal relationship is, too. We've all seen "that couple" - they're the perfect blend of personalities, attitudes and quirks - and when they're together, you can't help but notice how well they fit. Of course, neither of them is perfect, but put them together and they sure seem like it. He may be loud and boisterous, she may be shy - but one balances the other - him drawing her out of her shell, her calming his wilder side. The weakness possessed by one is the strength of the other, and when you mix them all together, it's the perfect blend of tastes. That's how a good relationship is - the give and take, yin and yang, chocolate and peanut butter of it all that makes it so great.

So in the context of a relationship, am I the chocolate? Am I the peanut butter? I don't really know. What I do know is that when I'm with my husband, we become something more, something better, than either of us are on our own... we become that Reese's cup.

Jen goes fishin'... a vaguely true story

Sundays at Casa del Jen are Fishin' Days. I'm a very feminine girly-girl, but damn I like me some fishin'. So, last weekend, I ask myself... Sunday? Check. Nice weather? Check. Nothing to do? Check again. It looks like a perfect day for fishing. In a brief fit of stupidity, I call my sister and invite her and her son to go with me. Great, she says. Come on down, I know of a Great Pond to fish. Lots of big catfish, not many people. Sounds good. I arrive, and she decides to stop by one of the pizza shops she owns in town to snag some dinner. I'm going there to fish, not to eat, but hey - whatever works, you know? She grabs some candy, sodas, chips, and some chicken wings at her shop, and we're off. We are all set for some good old redneck fishin'. All we need is some Milwaukee's Best and Copenhagen. Her Great Pond, as it turns out, is a stocked pond that you have to PAY to fish. My inner Orlando Wilson is crying out that this sucks, but I placate him with the promise that a pay to fish pond must surely be stocked with some big ol' fish. I dutifully pay my $7 and trudge toward the fishin' hole. To provide a little backstory, my sister fishes like a girl. As another human of the female persuasion, I feel that I can say this with no fear of recrimination. She won't bait her own hook (worms are "slimy"), and God forbid she actually catch a fish. At the first sign of a nibble (which is when her bobber twitches even slightly), she will shriek and yank her pole while insisting, "That's how you set the hook." If "setting the hook" is defined as yanking your line so damn hard that your soggy worm-laden hook comes flying out of the water and snags in your sister's hair, then she's one hell of a hook-setter. Once in a while, I've seen her actually "set the hook" and catch a fish this way, yanking so hard that some hapless bluegill comes whipping out of the water toward us at Mach 3. On the occasions that this happens, she will invariably squeal, drop her pole and begin her Fish Dance - prancing in place while howling, "Get it Jenni, get it." (I hate that she calls me Jenni, but that's nearly its own rant, so I'll leave it for another time.) That is my cue to pick up her pole, remove the fish from her line and release it back to the water.

Anyway, my sister was in fine form that day. I forgot to mention that her pole whipping "set the hook" rountine usually causes the worm to come off her hook, so I spend a large portion of my time re-worming her hook. Fishing with my sister and her son involves very little real fishing on my part. What usually happens is that I bait their hooks about four times before I can even get down to deciding what lure to use. Last Sunday was no exception.

I realize that I'm not going to get any real fishing done, so I decide to experiment. What types of non-bait foods can be used to catch a fish? Experiment #1 - gummy worms. I mean, it looks like a worm, right? What's not to like? No dice. Not even an experimental nibble. I reel in my line and move on to Experiment #2 - Riesen. I hope chocolate isn't harmful to fish. They don't fall for that either. Bubble gum? Experiment #3 also fails. My gaze falls upon the box of chicken wings. Hmmm. They're meat. Fish eat worms. Worms are sort of like meat. Let's give it a go. I peel off a small bit of wing meat and bait my hook. Bingo! I don't know if it's the chicken or my sister's secret wing sauce, but the fish are going crazy. I reel in two in rapid succession.

Realizing I'm on to something, I grab a Mustad double live bait hook (looks like a safety pin with hooks on the end) and slide on a whole chicken wing. Load on some split shot for weight, and I'm set. I'm gunning for the big fish now. I cast my line far out into the pond, musing that chickens aren't flightless birds after all. As it plops into the water, I settle in to continue my experiment. Five minutes go by. Nothing. I become distracted by baiting my sister's hook for the millionth time. As I'm finishing up, my sister begins her Fish Dance again. Perplexed, I look up to see my pole inching its way toward the water. I lunge at the pole, catching it just in time. Something has taken the chicken wing.

The fight begins. I'm trying my best to reel, but I'm losing ground. My pole is bent nearly in half, and I'm getting pulled toward the water. I'm also drawing a crowd. Nothing like toothless, redneck old men offering their opinions in between spitting tobacco on the ground. "Cut the line," one offers. "Nah, give 'er to me, I'll reel 'er in," chimes his beer toting pal. My inner Oralndo Wilson is dancing a jig with my inner Walt Reynolds. Why I've got two pro fisherman cavorting about inside my mind, I have never questioned. They're just there, and I pacify them with fishin' every now and again. But I digress. At this point, everyone within earshot has stopped fishing, and is heading my way. My sister is performing the most frenzied Fish Dance I've ever seen, and shrieking like a harpy.

The fish breaks the surface of the water. My legs turn to jelly. I'm not sure, but I think I pee myself a little bit too. Oh dear sweet Jesus, this son of a bitch has a head as big as mine. I've hooked the Loch Ness Monster. Okay, it's just a catfish, but I'm scared now. I continue reeling, the old men on the bank whooping with excitement. Ed (that's what I named the catfish - I name things, so sue me) puts up an admirable fight, but in the end resigns himself to the inevitable. My muscles straining, I haul Ed toward the bank, and one of the onlookers leans in with a net and we drag Ed ashore. The pond's proprieter arrives with a scale and a Polaroid camera. I've caught the pond record. Ed weighs 30 pounds, and is 32 inches long. They take my photo, Ed is released back to the water, and the rednecks grumble about a girl catching the record. When they ask me what I used as bait, I just smile and tell them it's a family secret.

So if you ever go to Long's Pay to Fish pond in Carlwick, Ohio, look at the wall of photos. Somewhere on there is a picture of a tall, blond girly-girl, her nicely manicured hands covered in mud, her expensively highlighted hair in disarray, holding the biggest damn catfish you ever did see. That'd be me. True story. Well, parts of it, anyway.

Luck.

I was taking a bubble bath last night (as I do every night), and I had a thought. I often have thoughts in the bath. This is not uncommon. Apparently, bubble baths are a right-brain activity. People often experience intense episodes of creative thought while engaging in right-brain activities. Steven Spielberg apparently gets some of his best ideas while driving in Los Angeles traffic. I read that somewhere once. Driving, too then, is a right-brain activity. If I could drive my bathtub around, I'd be a fucking genius. Anyway, last night, while slowly turning into a prune in the bath, I was thinking about shampoo, and how I'm allergic to dimethicone and apricot kernels and 9 billion other ingredients, and how whenever my fiance accidentally uses a shampoo or a soap that has one of the 9 billion and 2 ingredients that I'm allergic to in it, my face breaks out in these giant bumps and turns red and gets itchy and so on.

And then I started to think about allergies in general, and I started to think about the human condition and general malaise, and then I started imagining a person who was allergic to everything. I started dreaming up this story wher the main character is a person who is completely allergic to every possible allergen on planet Earth. Wheat, milk, soy, strawberries, grass, hell - air. The character's name would be Frank (because that's a funny name) and the story would be called "Allergic to Life". That wasn't really relevant to the topic of this blog, but I thought it, so I'm telling you about it. Deal with it.

Sometime after that, I noticed that my toes were pretty wrinkly. Sometime after that, I started thinking about luck. I've been thinking a lot about luck lately. It seems to me that luck plays a huge role in human life. A big role. A merciless, arbitrary role. Simple good luck. Simple bad luck. Simple middle-of-the-road luck. Luck.

All throughout my childhood and right up into my adulthood, I was constantly told that luck was located at the corner of Hard Work and Preparation. The harder you work, the luckier you get. Or however that cliche goes. I think Thomas Jefferson was the guy who originally said something along those lines.

(Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence when he was about twenty-four years old, by the way. Amazing. His work ethic was off the fucking charts. Okay, okay... he was also born into a wealthy, aristocratic, land-owning family in Virginia, and he received an excellent education. Oh yeah - and at the age of fourteen, he inherited 5,000 acres of valuable property and a bunch of valuable slaves. So maybe his slaves had an incredible work ethic. Lucky them!)

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah - the harder I work, the luckier I get. To some degree, I feel that this statement is true. If you don't work hard, the odds of good things happening in your professional or personal life are pretty slim, admittedly. Making a lot of money is pretty difficult if you don't give a tremendous effort. Accomplishing something of lasting significance almost always involves incredibly hard work, conducted with great consistency over a long period of time.

Hard work is a given - it's part of life... but luck is more important. Luck trumps hard work, and it trumps it every time. Plenty of people all over the world work their asses off, day in and day out, for years and years and years. They toil away in good faith, working their fingers to the bone in the name of a better future for themselves and their families. What they get in return is this - Not much. Jack. Fucking. Shit. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

Rich, successful, fortunate people of the Donald Trump ilk often don't like to hear about luck. I suppose they might feel that it undermines the quality of their hard work and the magnitude of their significant accomplishments. "In my experience," they'll haughtily say, "there's no such thing as luck." I tend to disagree. I think these people are incredibly hardworking, and incredibly talented. In many instances, they lead exemplary lives and should be admired for their achievements. But mostly I think they're incredibly lucky. Dumb fucking lucky, for no real reason. All of them. That's how luck works.

Other times, those blessed with good fortune will say that God has blessed them. They'll attribute their good fortune to God or Allah or Yahweh - some benevolent force who is secretly playing puppeteer with humanity. "God is looking out for me," they'll say. "I'm incredibly, incredibly blessed."

Maybe that's the case. Maybe not. I don't really know. On one hand, these people do seem to be graced with some sort of other-worldly good fortune. Then again, if God is determining the fate of all human beings on planet Earth, playing puppeteer with our lives, then logic would seem to indicate that God is a vile, sadistic fuckwad.

If God really is playing puppeteer in this way, where does this leave all of the good-hearted, hardworking people who don't get shit? Those who starve? Those who can't afford adequate healthcare for their children? Those who contract terminal illnesses at ridiculously young ages and bleed out of their asses while dying excruciating deaths in a tiny thatch-roofed hut in some shithole Third World country? What about the meek who are supposedly going to inherit the Earth one day? What kind of caring God would unleash this kind of twisted bullshit upon innocents? Upon children? If we're going to humanize God and credit Him with our incredible good fortune, shouldn't we be attributing our bad fortune to Him as well?

Go over to sub-Saharan Africa or the Jersey shore, and try telling some long-suffering, hard-working, down on his luck bastard that his shitty wages, aching back, metastasizing tumor, and poorly educated children are simply a matter of God's will. Chances are, he'll probably punch your right in your proselytizing, condescending mouth. Personally, I think the universe is totally fucking indifferent. Based on the evidence around me, this seems to be the case. I don't think God is neccessarily a He, and I don't think there's any kind of puppetry at work here. I think it's luck, in the end. Blind and deaf and fucking dumb. With a little bit of human error and achievement thrown in on the side. There's no sound explanation for any of it. Some people get lucky. Some people don't. No real rhyme or reason. The end. Amen.

Luck is, of course, relative. Some people will have it all and still feel unlucky. Some people by comparison don't have squat, and yet they claim to feel incredibly blessed. In some ways, it's all a matter of perspective. I consider myself to be one hell of a lucky individual. I consider myself blessed. I don't deny that I've worked my ass off to be where I am today... but I've got an amazing kid, I'm getting married to someone I love in 6 weeks, I have great friends, am in relatively good health... and I did nothing to deserve it. I was just born. Other people are just born, and their father beats the hell out of them with his belt, or their mother sits on her lazy ass collecting welfare and tells them that they're worthless. And then they get brain cancer at the age of twenty-six and fucking die. Snake eyes. Then again, some people may look at my life and see me as an incredibly unlucky person. I got knocked up at 19, dated a string of losers before I met my fiance, have had some really shitty fair-weather friends, was diagnosed with a serious genetic disorder at 28, and had a stroke that same year. Like I said, it's all perspective.

Which brings me somehow to Paul Newman. (Come on, don't act like any of this other shit followed any real rational train of thought.) Paul Newman is a minor hero of mine. He's not really one of my favorite actors, but he's definitely one of my favorite philanthropists. In his lifetime, he's donated more than $200 million to charity. And he still drives race cars, even though he's old enough to be my grandfather. He appears to be unafraid. I was reading an interview with Paul Newman once, and the journalist asked him if he had any explanation for how he'd managed to make so much money in his lifetime and have such a wonderfully successful career. His answer? "Luck." That was all he said. Just one word. Luck. That was it.

Some people may disagree, but I've always considered that to be a very wise and humble response.