Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Even Meatloaf can't write a song about this.

October 19, 2010

I went a little Deepy McDeepster the other day on ya.  I can't be Hi.Larry.Us all the time don't ya know.  Or any of the time, some of you are saying.

Does anyone remember the Meatloaf song Two Out of Three Ain't Bad?  Not to be confused with On Top of Spaghetti, all covered with cheese...

Well, I have realized I am oh-for-three.  Here is what I am talking about.

I was revisiting why I started this blog back in July of 2009, and I came up with three reasons.  One was to become famous as bloggers have a tendency to be.  Actually, I do not know how many famous bloggers there are, but I do know that some have gazillions of followers and I wanted to be one of those special contributors to society as we know it.  As it turns out, I am not funny enough, thought-provoking enough, dedicated enough, or wild and crazy enough to have good blog fodder every day.  I have some faithful readers (thank you Katie and Beth), but that falls a little short of the gazillion mark.

Wow, a little self-important you say?  Yeah, it sounds like that, but that is really not the main reason I started the blog, it was just a hopeful by-product so I could quit my job and make a living sitting on my arse.

The two more important reasons I started this here blog have to do with my family.  For some reason, I have had the Michael Keaton movie, My Life, stuck in my head since I saw it 100 years ago.  He finds out he is dying around the same time he finds out he is going to have a child.  Therefore, he videotapes segments of life-teaching moments that his child can watch in the future to know about his dad.  It was a real up-lifting movie.  Can someone hand me a hanky just thinking about it.  However, I always thought I was Michael Keaton, or at least his character in that movie, so I decided that some day I was going to die before CJ was old enough to hear all my words of wisdom.  As it turns out, I mistook which Michael Keaton movie I really wanted to emulate.  It should have been Mr Mom.  Beth did not really help me out with that one either as she has not gone out and gotten that corporate job with the opportunity to sleep with her smarmy boss.  Thanks sweetie, no really, thanks.

So I had a brush with my mortality earlier this year.  It was not a big broom-sized brush with death, it was more like one of those little paint-by-numbers paint brushes brush with death.  I had this brain/ear thing for which I was tested for MS only to find out there is nothing actually in my head.  Apparently, the pain in my ear when I am sleeping is actually caused by the hamster that spins the wheel in  my brain taking the night off to sleep, and he falls out of bed sometimes with gravity smashing him into my inner ear.  What?  That is what it said on the diagnostic printout.  They would not charge me all that money and lie to me. 

So, I am not dying.  Well, I am, but really slowly.  My death certificate does not have an expiration date on it.

So the last reason I started this blog was to communicate with my family.  A friend of mine from college writes a letter at Christmas time every year that he sends out to his family and friends telling what has happened with his family.  It is usually quite funny, especially the year he tried to convince everyone that they had another baby and named it LeBron.  He grew up in Cleveland, and LeBron James used to play basketball in Cleveland.  I thought I better explain that for people that live in Portland where they do not know of such things.

It was not a stretch, therefore, to think that I could have a blog, and my brother and sister could check in on my family whenever they wanted.  They could also then give me less grief about how little I phone them.  However, their lives are rather hectic, and they have never gotten in the habit of checking in on my blog.  Plus, they grew up with me, so they stopped finding me funny a long time ago.

So, I am finding less and less incentive to keep blogging, at least regularly.  If you can call two or three times a week regular.  I know people trying to poop certainly would not call that regular.  So I will probably become even more constipated, or less regular.  Depends on how you want to look at it.  I will be posting when something comes up that I want to chronicle for CJ to refer back to someday, but how often Beth gets pulled over by a police officer is about as unforeseen as how often CJ misspells a word like "Sindy". 

Perhaps I will be here more often than I think.

Finally, in other news, congrats to CJ for finishing his cross country season with a personal best time of 14:40 for two miles.  He did awesome and even recovered from tripping over another runner at the beginning.  CJ, if you read this, I am very proud of you and look forward to seeing you grow up.  Please try to be funny every once in a while so I can find something to post about.  Or you can do something awesome like joining the Junior Cincinnati Youth Wind Ensemble and nailing that triangle solo.  (He is a percussionist, and they bang things to make sound-again for Portland where they are still trying to figure out if sounds are made from trees falling in the forest.)

Thank you all for reading this rather long post, but they may be longer now in correlation with being less frequent.  That actually does not make sense, but I cannot think of another appropriate poop reference. 


  1. Steve, I found your blog by way of June at BBP. I think your posts are sweet and funny. I began reading about the same time you began to blog less. Obviously I am the kiss of death to blogs, if I check in every day you will surely stop blogging altogether. It's the same with tv shows. I'm a late adopter. My family will tell me repeatedly what shows I need to watch. When I finally get around to it, the show has been canceled. Anyway, if you maybe keep writing I will maybe keep reading. Cheers!

  2. Steve look! Your very own lurker!!! And you know I'm here to say. All you have to do is look at that postcard I sent you (because it's on the refrigerator, right? ...Right?).