Category Archives: Ramblings, ravings

Part of a tribe

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The other day, some idiot drove though the crosswalk to my son’s school.

Now this is not that unusual an occurrence. The crosswalk is on a busy street (Burbank Blvd), and the cars, especially in the morning, are not particularly focused on their surroundings. What made this episode unusual was the amazingly level of blindness performed by this driver. Really almost a Herculean effort. And then when this driver actually had to deal with his epic level of fuck-upidness (is that a word?), sadly he failed.

Let me start at the beginning. The crosswalk is fairly big, in crosswalk terms. There are flashing yellow lights (3 each way), large yellow reflective signs (2 each way), big fat yellow lines, etc. In addition there are signs for the School Zone, and others that say “Reduced Speed 25 MPH when children are present”. On top of all that, there is a crossing guard, whose name happens to be Mali (really the nicest of guys). Mali wears a bright yellow vest with a reflective orange stripe, and carries a very large red stop sign.

These are the hints, the subtile, and not so subtile, suggestions which all drivers are expected to observe and follow. From experience, I’d say about 1 in 10 morning drivers are not up to the level of introspection. The unexamined driver is NOT worth following apparently. At least on Burbank Blvd.

Every morning when I walk my son to school, we have to look out for these bozos, and make sure we are not in the crosswalk when they decide to not see us. Like I said, 1 in 10.

Anyway, my story starts with me crossing back over, after dropping off my son. The South side of the road slightly more congested with parents dropping off their kids. The crossing guard, hits the button, causing those big orange lights to flash. The traffic slows on both sides, and we begin to cross. A eastbound car stuck in the middle of the T intersection, attempts to turn North from Burbank onto St. Clare. A guy in a black car, going the other way (westbound) barely stops in time for the guy to make his left turn, laying on his horn to let everyone know how unhappy he is. By this time, every other car around is stopped, as in NO MOTION. Mali and I are halfway across Burbank, heading North.

So now there is, in addition to all the signs and lights noted above, the fact that every single other car around is completely stopped, and there are people in the middle of the street. The guy in the black car starts to drive forward. Remember he had to come to a complete stop to let the car turn left in front of him. So now he hits the gas, and moves forward. Several people including myself yell very loudly at this time. (Let me tell you, I know how to yell. When I yell at something, it stays yelled at. For hours.) This apparently has no effect as the guy continues to drive, and drives right in front of me.

That was when I slammed my arm down, and hit the top of his rear corner panel with an open palm. Bamm. I’d love to say I can slap a car as good as I can yell. I’d love to say that there were paint flakes in my hand because I hit that car so hard. Alas, I did not damage the car at all. However, I did manage to do something no one else had been able to do that morning; get through the thick skull of the idiot behind the wheel.

In classic American idiot fashion, our young driver pulls over, and gets out of his car. He is mad now. Someone has touched his car. Out of the Blue! or so I’m sure it felt to him. So he gets out, and starts to curse. I wait for him at the corner, and he comes walking over, eyes aflame.

And it is at this particular moment I realize I am part of a village. The idiot comes over to confront me, and suddenly another father, and the crossing guard are at my side. A third father is on his balcony of the apartments above us, yelling for the guys license plate number as he is on the phone with the cops. The other father, (Lee, whom we also happen to know) and I are attempting to out yell the idiot driver. The crossing guard is yelling to. I’m fairly passive, trained as I was to stop situations like these from escalating (special education teachers are good at this), but Lee is having none of that passive crap. He is mad. Mad and tall. He looms over the young man, and suddenly the idiot is realizing he might be in a situation over his head. The idiot’s excuse, “But I didn’t see you,” sounded especially lame.

Moments later, our intrepid idiot, suddenly turns heal and walks to his car.

And you know the best part about all this? That very morning when he got to work, I know exactly what that idiot said to his co-workers: “Hey guess what? Some asshole hit my car today. For no reason.”

There’s an old writing adage that goes, “Every villain is the hero of their own story.” I can tell you, it is true. So very true.

Cool story idea

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This morning while crossing the busy street with my son on the way to his school, I yelled as a car for like the thousandth time. The street is a busy one, and the cars simply do not stop. There are big yellow lights flashing, huge “School Crosswalk” signs, the whole works. Still every time we cross, at least one idiot isn’t paying attention. Short of a stop light, I don’t think there will ever be close to 100% compliance.

But it did make me think of an idea. The FBI enters a trained ninja into their witness protection program. To give the man a job (although I guess it could be a woman protagonist too) they start the ninja as a crossing guard. Because the ninja is low man on the totem poll, he/she get the crummy corner, the one where no one stops.

That is, until the ninja starts the job. The first car that fails to stop gets a shuriken ripping it’s tire, and a crash. The second driver gets the shit kicked out of them. Very soon every driver passing that way is VERY CAUTIOUS.

On another note. I got in a second day of work on a longer short story. The first day, last Friday, felt like pulling teeth. I knew something was wrong, but could not see it, so I kept plugging away. Man it was brutal slogging work. I even got to the point of thinking I couldn’t write a short story. Silly, I know, but there it is.

Today, in contrast, I cranked it out. I had to rip apart half of what I wrote, and about 1000 words will probably have to be jettisoned, but I managed to beat the story into some kind of shape. I’m a little over 4k words in, with most of that from today. Not bad. On a hunch, I’d guess the story will hit around 10k words. I’ll know more in a few days.

I’d still like to have a slightly more exciting beginning on the story. Right now it smells a little pedestrian. I’ll have to read it again when I’m done with the whole things and see.

The novel is still in editing right now. As soon as my mother-in-law is done with her corrections, I’ll put it up as a complete file. I’ve been reading it myself, and found a few stray spots, but for the most part it’s holding up well.

Birds

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When I was young, I remember reading about auguries, which were a way of foretelling the future based upon things like watching birds fly. This fascinated me. There was this other way of looking at the world, a language of fowl flight, that if one read it, one could understand the future. What a cool idea.

I mention this because I am always looking up to the sky, and always noting what the birds are doing around me. It’s not out of some need to guess what the future holds (as it happens, I have a pretty good handle on that, within reason), but because I just like to watch birds. I also like watching airplanes, and look up whenever one audibly passes by, but that is not quite the same as birds.

I know my position on this is unique. I know most people don’t think watching birds if great fun. And the funny thing is, I’m not a bird- watcher. That hobby holds almost no interest to me. What I like is to see how birds interact with each other. How they fly.

For instance, if you have ever seen one bird attack another, then you see some real drama. I’ve seen this lots of times, everything from a Coopers Hawk trying to take out an equally sized dove (like watching a WWI dogfight sped up 20 times), or two crows working a single raven (like a chess game where either party worked hardest to get above the other), or even a murder of crows work over a hawk (always a treat). But my favorite bird to watch fly is a Mocking bird. While other birds will come close to their attacker, a mocking bird will strike them, multiple times, and do this with élan. A mocking bird so out flies any other bird that it really isn’t fair. You can almost hear them say, “Listen up punk. School’s in session.”

Anyway, as I got off the exercise bike this morning, and walked back towards the house, I looked up and saw a hawk circling. I think it was a red tail hawk. He was up and over the nearby grocery store, maybe 300 feet up, and turning lazy circles. Any glider pilot worth his salt could tell you he was working the meager lift provided by the roof of the store. A slight breeze pushed the warm air north, and slightly east, so as he circled he got closer to our house. He  was up high enough that the other birds didn’t see him. I could tell because they didn’t react. If they knew he was there, they would have ducked and run. I’ve seen this happen enough times to know their reaction. They also shut up when they’re afraid, and they were yapping away this morning to beat the band.

So this hawk worked the lift, and circled maybe 4-5 times nearby. I guess he found nothing, because I could see his wings getting shorter as he started to stoop. Soon he zoomed right over our house, and headed for my son’s school at a speed about 10 times faster then he was going when circling in the thermal.

Watching him go, I wondered what was the augury for this? What did it mean? A hawk circled on my right, and then zoomed over me crossing to my left. Does that mean good things are going to happen to me today? I thought so. So far, it’s been a good guess.

Tis the Season

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Maybe it’s because I’ve been unusually busy, or maybe it’s the weather, but I just cannot get into the Christmas spirit this year. Teri has also been busy, and between the two if us, it seems like nothing for Xmas has gotten done. Here it is the 19th of December, and we don’t even have a tree up. Are cards are printed, but need to have a little insert, a thing we add to them every year to makes them to let the more distant family and friends catch up with our life. Normally I handle the insert, but this year I just could not. The loss of my father-in-law has cast a long shadow over our year, and it just seems like we cannot shake it. That is why I could not write about this past year, because I am simply too depressed about it.

Last week I was working on the West Side (Culver City for those not from around here), and had a couple of golden moments in the midst of a otherwise too long commute. The first one was in the morning, Thursday morning I think. It had been raining, off and on, but cleared out almost completely as I took the transition from the 405 south to the 10 East. The sun was out, not in full force, but fairly strongly, and there was even large patches of blue overhead in between the big puffy cumulous clouds. The transition between the two freeways is an overpass that puts you up about 100 feet over the ground level at that spot. Higher than most of the buildings. It is also right underneath the main approach to the Santa Monica airport, which makes for a plesent time if there’s a plane in the pattern.

Anyway, this particular morning, I happened to look over my left shoulder almost due north, up towards UCLA and Westwood. The light was just perfect, and the air was wonderfully clean. The city just down below was all bright greens and light colors; the rain making all the houses and streets look scrubbed fresh and new. You could see the taller dark grey buildings in the distance, and the flat-bottomed big puffy clouds above and below them depending upon how far off they were. Behind the clouds the Santa Monica Mountains were in stark contrast, a nice dark green stripe with a top serrated edge, and behind those mountains, over the valley, the storm was completely socked in, making the distant sky a field of crumbly white and grey. Everything was lined up perfectly, to give that wonderfully breathless perspective you get every once in a while here in LA.

Then the following Friday evening, I had another wonderful moment I’d like to share. It had been raining all day, and I had driven there (to Culver City) and back 3 times already. This was my last trip home, and I was dead tired. I rolled onto the 10 heading West right about 6:00 pm, and the freeway was bummer to bummer. The freeway itself takes a little dip, and then rises again, just after the Robertson Exit. It was on this little hill that the cars all stopped in front of me. All 5 lanes. The road was wet, slick, but the rain has slowed to just the merest or trickles, so visibility was good. 6:00 pm in December meant it was already dark, with the rain making the road gloss black, and the lane lines difficult to see. When all the cars stopped, all of their brake lights came on, and their reflections on the wet cement we beautiful. There were hundreds of big glowly red splashes of light on the ground, following the cars as they slowly moved. Each glow bringing sharp detail to the many lines cast in the cement surface. Occasionally, a car would change lanes, and it’s amber turn signals provided a nice contrast to the red spots. It was so mesmerizing that I drove for quit some time looking only at the reflections, instead of the cars themselves.

On both occasions I really wished I had a camera handy, but it was one of those things were you know it would only last for a moment, and then the moment would be gone.

The god of the handy

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I was riding our exercise bike out in the garage (meaning, in the cold) this morning. I had a good book, and everything was going fine for the first 6 minutes, up until it got to the “steep” part of the program. Then the darn thing started slipping like an elephant on ice skates. There is a belt that transfers the pedaling force into something the computer can use to tell you how you are doing. It was this belt that was slipping, no doubt because of the recent cold temperatures around here. Well I tried pushing for a while to see if it would warm up some, but it didn’t. The darn thing was slipping so much that every push was too easy. So cursing my luck, I got off, and looked at the bike. There’s only a few screws holding the case, I told myself. This should be easy.

Famous last words.

An hour and a half later, I had the whole thing opened up, the pitifully antiquated bearings were soaking in gasoline, and most of the parts were clean. (As an aside, when was the last time you broke down an open bearing? For me it was on an old bike over 25 years ago. Were talking metal races holding a dozen large bearings. Huge gaps in the side with nary a bearing seal in sight.) While I was trying to tighten down the old style bottom bracket I was forcing the wrong wrench on a part while my knuckles kept brushing the last plastic guard I had left on the bike. That last piece was held on by only 6 screws. I knew because I had taken off it’s opposite, mirror-image piece on the other side. 6 screws was just that much more to break down, and I really was trying to finish up. Those of you who are handy will know the rest. Sure enough, the wrench slipped, and wham! I got a pressure cut across the back of the knuckle. Damn.

Funny enough, after that, it was smooth sailing.

All this has lead me to conclude that the god of small repairs must be Hephaestus; the crippled Greek god of the forge. On little projects he does not care as his help is not as needed. But on big jobs, he likes to see a little sacrifice in order to get things to work well. Blood mixed with grease or oil must be his thing. I cannot tell you how many times I bloodied a car engine, or a lawnmower engine, or pretty much anything that takes an hour or two to break down, and put back together. And it is usually after the hand has slipped, and the blood has flowed, that the project begins to snap.

When I got the whole thing back together, I discovered that the belt was still slipping. (insert sound of face palm) A few twists on the belt tensioner seemed to do the trick, and I finished the rest of my ride, 2.5 hours later, in peace.

But it sure pedals nice now.

Busy, busy, busy

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I’ve been working a lot lately, and doing tons of projects at home. This leaves me very little time to write, which makes me slightly bonkers. To help with this I got a copy of The Writers Journey by Christopher Vogler. As a reference, it’s been a wonderful book. Chocked full of good ideas that is helping my plot out Angel of Death. So I’ve been enjoying that part immensely.

But this is also pointing out to me the obvious, that I need to do some more research, especially on Catholic mysticism especially in rural Mexico. Anyone know a good book?

Thinking outside the wall

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Did you ever stop to think about how stupid our walls are?

A typical wall in a family dwelling in North America is a custom built piece of rock, set in place upon either side of a wooden frame. Ostensibly they keep moisture from crossing from one side to the next, and ideally they are airtight. If they are of modern construction, then  they are insulated as well. Every opening, which are frequent (think of it, every window, door, electrical outlet, etc.), much be carefully constructed to maintain this solidity against air and moisture.

That all well and good, but then we also run most of important bits of electrical and plumbing through them, with no way to access those bits when the eventually break down. How stupid is that? You not only have to custom manufacture these walls on the spot, but then if there is anything inside them you need to get at, you have to break them apart (a difficult process all on its own), and then repair them again. That’s like running the break and shifter cables for your bicycle through the inter tubes on the wheels.

Walls should be built with at least one side completely and easily removable. I’m thinking no more than 8 bolts per 4’x8′ section. The edges should mate up so they are air and water tight with neighboring sections, and the borders with other walls, the floor, and the ceiling should either do the same, or at least have a way of applying trim to them which provides this same function. That way if I have a plumbing leak, or need to rewire an outlet, I can just unscrew the trim and wall pieces as needed, do the repairs, and then simply reattach the panels back into place. An added benefit of such panels would be that I could take them out, one at a time, to the garage, to paint or clean them. Much easier than dirtying up the whole house.

The Disposessed

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We had a few days of light rain early this week. Perfect for the garden which is just starting to take off. Then after that we had three days of cooler Santa Ana’s blowing through. The Santa Ana winds blow of the deserts north of us, and are terribly drying. They also profoundly effect the mood of the people around here. On the bus, people are less courteous, and more hunkered down, drawn inward. At night this is doubly so. I don’t know why, it is something about the really dry conditions, mixed with the huge gusts of wind. Wherever the cause, it makes public transportation less fun a people are less likely to talk with strangers (one of my favorite reason to ride the bus), and more likely to be sullen or angry.

For the mentally ill, however, the Santa Ana’s are almost like a punishment from God.  They not only have to deal with everyone else being far less understanding, they also have to deal with their own issues, which are exacerbated by the mood of others. Think of them as the canary in the coal mine when it comes to the mood of a group; they cannot help by be drastically effected by it, like a radio stuck with the volume on high, and can only be tuned to one station. For them it is literally maddening.

So on Thursday night, rolling home somewhat later (8:00-9:00), I met a charming lady from Miami who was here to take a single class on psychiatry to fulfill all her requirements for her MD. She was talking about being a Pediatric Doc, a job see seemed suited for.

Alas for her, she was staying in a hotel in downtown Hollywood, a part of town full of the mentally ill, drawn as they can be to the tourist areas. She had already had one experience when a gentleman had made untoward advances, and didn’t understand polite rebuffs, which had scared her some. Rightfully so as it is very difficult to deal with someone who projects their sexuality onto you, and does not understand they are actually acting like an ass. The mentally ill usually have just as much hormones as you or I, so when they see a person they think is sexy, they will react, only their reactions will often be totally inappropriate, because they view sex through the smashed up lens of mental illness. So a man night think he os being appropriately “sexy” towards a woman be offering to take off his shirt to show off his muscles, and ignore the fact that he is an absolute stranger, and the woman he is afflicted with has a look of horror on her face. And believe me when I say this, his was a mild reaction.

So as we were traveling on the bus, and she was telling me this story, I related to her how I used to teach special ed, and had spent several years surrounded by the mentally ill with what I like to call a hair trigger temper. I had run into mentally ill people on the bus, in fact quite often, but they never really bothered me.

I need to take a side track here, for just a moment, to describe for most of you some of the realities of this town. LA is a wonderful place. The weather is so nice that I often call it paradise; a term not without some tongue-in- cheek, mind you, but it’s not a bad term all in all. This means, among other things, that a lot of people drift here. They come because the weather is nice, or they come because they have a dream (usually to be an actor or musician) or maybe they come just to get away from the small town where they grew up and everyone knows them. Regardless of why they come, lots of people come here. Lots. Now if you couple this with the fact that a certain percentage of the population will always have mental illness, you understand that LA gets its share of the mentally ill, and then some. For instance, if you are mentally ill, and the people in your home town know (often is it all but impossible to hide mental illness), then you will have twice as many reasons to leave where you are, and try to make a “fresh start” somewhere else. That somewhere else is very often LA, the town that practically built itself as a fresh start.

One other thing. At night, living on the streets, a place many people who run out of money end up, is not all that safe. There are some who prey upon the street people, and take pleasure in hurting them. In fact we just had a case where a man was sentenced to death for pouring gasoline on a bumm, and lighting him on fire, killing him. So if you are mentally ill, and cannot hold down a job, guess where you end up at night? Well very often, the bus. You see some of the Metro lines (Metro is the name of our city wide transportation service) are 24 hour lines, meaning they run a constant 24 hours. If you can afford a bus pass, or have one as a part of a county mental health program, then the bus is a great place to be. It is warm, dry, reasonably safe, and if you can deal with the bumping, rolling, and sterile lighting, a place to rest, maybe even sleep. Most bus riders don’t know this because the crazies are smart enough to not get on until after the normal riders, commuters, students and such, have gone home, say 8:00 o’clock or so. I discovered this little trick by accident. I have a client which I get to by bus, and I often work late at that office. If just so happens, one of the two lines (the 217) that make up a significant portion of my route, is a 24 hours bus. This is how I discovered where the mentally ill often spend their evenings, because they would ride alnog with me on my way home from work.

So back to my story. This nice MD student and I were talking, and I was telling her how to deal with the mentally ill, while rolling on a late night bus, during a Santa Ana. In the midst of this, and elderly gentleman sits down next to me. By this time the topic had switched to something else, and the lady and I were conversing in opposite seats in the back of the bus. The bus was quite crowded, so having someone sit next to me was a given. Suddenly this man seated next to me stared yelling at another rider, also, we discovered, someone with mental illness. The two exchanged rants, and the man next to me got more and more agitated. I realized what was going on, having spent some time around the mentally ill, and having a slight mental illness myself. Since the bus is considered a “safe” place for someone thus afflicted, they will often “act out” or get more upset on it then they will out in the open Very much like the may most mentally ill will not act out until they are home, or around people they trust. (which is not so fun if you are in the later category, let me tell you). So these two guys were in a bizarre way, protecting their territory.

So this guy seated next to me, turns to me, and starts in on a rant, and it was pure stream of consciousness stuff; raw, unfiltered junk poured through his mouth, straight from his Id, literally without a thought at all. I don’t remember all of what he said, but this will give you an idea, “Those guys want to turn our shoes into jello, and all for a cup of donuts. That’s why the doctors are trying to close the hospital.” He went on like that for 2-3 paragraphs, each equally senseless. A classic example of a psychotic. As he talked he grew more and more agitated, until he was standing and yelling loudly to the entire bus. Chaotic ramblings and violent mood swings do not make for good company, let me tell you.

Fortunately, the man got off at the next stop, yelling at the driver to open the back door as he belatedly realized he was too agitated for the bus, and needed to get off.The sad thing is, I know he was trying to tell me, or us, something. Something terribly important to him. Alas, the lens of mental illness was so distorted for him that his very thoughts were a mangled heap of chaotic jumps and starts. He was clinically incoherent.

Imagine, of you will, that you had no one to look after you, lived with no money on the streets, AND could not communicate a coherent sentence to save your soul. What most people don’t realize is that crazy people usually know they are crazy, and desperately try to not act so. They get embarrassed when they act up in public, and try very hard not to. Alas, time and tides conspire against them. And when they do, man it must really suck to be them. Suck hard.

So after this man left, I did my best to cheer up this poor Med. student. But I have to admit, I was pretty rattled by the experience. So much so that I spent the past few nights, after Trevor had gone to bed, curled up in a book, waiting for the Santa Ana’s to pass so my ego can come out of it’s shell, and I can feel normal again.

Vacation

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We’re on vacation in another town, have been since Sunday. The vacation started out sucking big time, Trevor came down with a cold, and then Teri and I both got sick after he recovered. We spent the first three days at a nice vacation rental hating life. Finally we got well, and my parents arrived soon after. Since then we’ve been having a good time.

Tonight my parents went out to visit with some friends out here, and invited me along, Their friend is, among other things, a novelist, and a pretty good one; someone an aspiring writer like myself would like to meet. Well I turned it down because I was feeling still a bit tired, and wanted some more happy family time.

So we decided to go out to the pool and play some. When we got there we jumped into the jacuzzi to warm up before going into the pool. Not a bad idea when the outside temp is pretty low. There were a couple of guys sitting in there, so I said hi. We talked back and forth for a bit, and then the next thing I knew we were having a great conversation. Hank, his son Dan, and myself talked for a long time. Far too long as it turned out. As I write this they are likely being chewed out by Hank’s wonderful wife (he was quite specific how great she was), and I know Teri is rather pissed at me. Why? Well because I pretty much ignored my son, ignored his need to play, ignored anything and everything about being a dad, all so I could continue to talk.

By the time I got home, they had both gone to bad.

Well this is not all that new. I am gregarious by nature, not always, but sometimes. When I am in the mood, call it manic if you will, I can be quite charming. This is not to brag, it is not something I am able to always turn on or off. It is more like something I can do, if given the right circumstances. The funny thing is, I didn’t think I was in the mood to be gregarious, or I would have gone out with my parents. Teri would not have minded because she knows I sometimes go out with friends to do the same thing. But because I stayed, she was left assuming I would be around to help, and I didn’t.

No two ways about it, I blew it. Big time. Since she is asleep I can’t go in there and grovel on my knees which is something I rightfully should do, without waking her up, and making it ever worse. So tomorrow I’ll be doing a whole lot of apologizing to her and to Trevor.

Since I have the time to write about it now, it made me start to think about the process. What is it about talking with an adult that is so alluring to me that I can sometimes forget my son, completely ignore him, in order to talk to a complete stranger? I mean that is pretty bizarre, isn’t it? The guys I talked to were very nice, and our conversation was great, but they were not family, and it is not particularity “sane” to put talking with a stranger over the needs of being with your child. Yet I have done exactly that twice in the past two months, one time tonight, and the other time with a neighbor I hadn’t seen in a while.

In the proper context, this behavior, at least the socializing aspects, are normal and healthy. I remember living in an apartment in my single days, and meeting people all the time in the jacuzzi, and having fun talking until all hours. However, it is not cool to disappoint your family in the process, and I do not think it is, even though I just did exactly that.

What can I say? Sometimes I blow it. Fortunately, Teri loves me regardless, or in spite of, my mania. I am a lucky man for that.

Also, I hope Hank and Dan didn’t suffer too much for their sins. They were great men, and we had a good time talking.

Don’t know. Create

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I’ve been thinking a lot about the Tree of Knowledge, you know, the one from the bible. The fruit tree that if you plucked one, and ate it, it gave you knowledge, and a free trip out of paradise.

You know what I think? I think that is all horse shit. You see I’m pretty damn sharp at times, and I know a thing or two. I don’t know everything mind you, and sometimes the lack (not knowing everything) drives me crazy, but I do know some things, and you know what? Knowing ain’t worth shit. Really.

Think about it. What do you know? If your average, then I’ll bet you know a little bit about a lot of things, and a lot about a few things. Maybe even a whole funking lot about one or two things. So what has that knowledge gotten you? Did you ever get laid because you knew about Socrates? Did you ever earn a good meal at a restaurant from knowing romantic neo-classicists? Ever got a broken car to work because you could conjugate French verbs? Yeh, me neither.

See I don’t think that tree in the garden was about knowledge. I think it was the Tree of Creativity. Think about that for a moment. Creativity is the thing God starts out doing. His first job in the bible. It is his main gig, his bona fides. If you ask, “are you qualified to be my God?” He’ll respond, “Well, ah hum, I did creates the universe,” all while buffing his nails on his shirt.

Creating is right there on God’s turf, his main thing. When you create, you are actually being a little God like. Remember Man was created in his image. I think that means, we could create like he does. Not on anything like his scale, mind you, but we sure as hell can create.

And man, is creation the coolest thing or what? It is the best drug, the only cool high, and there is never any hang-over. Making cool shit up is just the bomb! With nothing but a computer, and a little bit of time, I can make up people out of thin air. Try that, mofo. I’ll bet you can too. I can put scars on people who are flawless, or remove their flaws and make them sexy. I can make them look like anything I want. Hows that for power?

Creation is the only thing that could get poor Lucifer to give up his cushy day-job, and move on down to hell with a third of the angels. You think they gave up Heaven for knowledge? Dream on brother. They gave it up to create. No wonder God gets jealous. No wonder he kicked out Adam and Eve. He couldn’t hang with the competition.

So I may not know shit any more, but watch out, because I sure as hell can create. I am a fire-breathing, book reading, mind bending cre-a-tor. I can make up cool shit at the drop of a hat, for a deadline, and pull it off on time, and under budget. Beat that bitch. And you know what, that is the power of the gods.

Here’s an apple kid, Wanna bite?