I was just reading this wonderful news story about a coach and his 16-year-old bride. Jesus christ if I had a teenage athlete daughter in Hicksville looking to train with the big dumb goofy Coach of Hicksville, I’d get the hell out of Dodge and somewhere near a Swiss, convent-run boarding school.

The article got me rocking a pretty reactionary mood. Something like, there ought to be a law where pubescent girls are put on islands away from the menfolks until they are pre-menopausal.

The best thing about those kind of news stories with the advent of the world wide web are the comments. Any fuckwad with a half-brain believing in love gets to believe in love, eternal, everlasting and entirely creeped out.

One guy wrote:

I think that he showed terrible abuse of power in an authoritative position….however, with that being said, I’m a 40 year old male that is involved with a 17 year old female, we’ve been together for a year…it’s a great relationship, the communication is great, there is minimal generation gaps, and I don’t even come close to manipulating, controlling, or sheltering her from life, or acting as a father figure…I am highly successful in my business…while rocky at first, her parents are openly supportive of it…she’s living a normal life, on her way to college then law school….she’s mature and wise beyond her years….my point in this, is it can happen…..and happen succesfully

Apart from the complete lack of awareness on the how to and what for of the ellipsis, um, just “Ew.” Yeah, I’m going out on a limb and judging one of my peers.

I work with some very bright, very mature recent college graduates. Young men and women in their early twenties who are quite poised and interesting. There are all sorts of topics pon which we can talk, levels on which we can relate, blah fucking blah.

But, at the end of the day, they are HALF MY FUCKING AGE. Half. I am much closer in age to their parents than I am to them. They are starting out on their life paths, deciding on grad school or travel or regular working. Nothing about their lives is or should be set yet.

On the remotest, outside chance there was a non-creepy moment where we transcended frienship and considered a deeper relationship, I would be playing from a deck with more cards. No doubt. And, my deck would have the potential for high level predatory lechery. My deck would have 20 more years’ worth of acquired knowledge and experience.

And, if I was a regular person in my 40s, I’d think, “WHOA, Fucking, whoa, I don’t want to be Chester the Molester.” If I don’t feel that twinge, I am Chester the Molester. It ain’t love, it’s statutory.

Barely after midnight, in bed, in clean sheets no less, I’m veritably bursting with pride. Foolish, arrogant and boastful pride, of course, but something.

This weekend not only did I juggle, including meeting some new folks and passing clubs enough to remember what I forget and that it’s a bit like riding a bike, I also managed to get in along walk and a charity vintage car show with M. And miracle of miracles do some writing. I may even have the first draft of a chapter adequate for a book proposal or bonfire.

Even more significantly, I got some laundry done. Our sheets were wrinkle-free on our bed, stiff and firm with a horridly long-lived accretion of filth. No more, all is fresh and tidy. (Note to self, using the gray sheets just makes one oblivious to dirt.)

I can’t do laundry and not think of Dot of dotdwyer.com. A talented and accomplished actress and comedienne, no doubt, but a stellar laundress wise in the field. I always fold now as I remove the items from the dryer, thanks to her counsel.

The only thing I haven’t yet accomplished is the one email about campaign2008.wordpress.com but that’s what worktime is for. OK not really, but I do get breaks more or less.

God, I am an accomplisher.

I admit it. I want an iPhone. And, there really isn’t anything to stop me from getting one.

Fact is, I have used a whole bunch of PDAs, cell phones, music players and convergence devices and all that over the years. I loves me my gadgets. I also tend to use all of the bells and whistles. I customize, set settings, use every kind of photo, contact list, notepad, alarm clock, calendar, wallpaper, ringtone function that can be keyed in or computer sync’ed.

Ultimately, I also get comfortable with limitations. I mean no gadget yet has replaced the battery-operated, Japanese vibrator.

One thing that has always blown when I’ve worked toward convergence, though, is that I favor the Macintosh computers and to date PC-syncing has been ahead. Even the universal Palm with it’s own language, and the old-school Handspring organizers, which I dug before Palm ditched everything but the Treo, all worked, as does my current (sickly) Sidekick. They just lacked that certain je ne c’est pas of native integration.

Shiny and new could be my gadget solution. Or another toy I will figure out, work through, use to its fullest for a couple of years and then figure something else out.

Whilst thinking through all of this hyper-rationalization for a consumer goods jones, I spotted one in the real world. The web is all sorts of full of rumors about folks eyeing them in the hands of testers littering Silicon Valley, mostly at restaurants.

Sure ‘nough, they’re in my neighborhood in the wild, just like the rumor sites claim. A tableful of people (well the dudes at the table not the womenfolk they were accompanying) were passing it about and surfing the web and pressing shiny virtual buttons.

Right there it was, two tables away as they waited for their gourmet burgers and fries in Palo Alto, as M. and I finished ours. I had to wipe the drool from my chin, straighten up and go home.

I admit it. I want an iPhone. And, there really isn’t anything to stop me from getting one.

Fact is, I have used a whole bunch of PDAs, cell phones, music players and convergence devices and all that over the years. I loves me my gadgets. I also tend to use all of the bells and whistles. I customize, set settings, use every kind of photo, contact list, notepad, alarm clock, calendar, wallpaper, ringtone function that can be keyed in or computer sync’ed.

Ultimately, I also get comfortable with limitations. I mean no gadget yet has replaced the battery-operated, Japanese vibrator.

One thing that has always blown when I’ve worked toward convergence, though, is that I favor the Macintosh computers and to date PC-syncing has been ahead. Even the universal Palm with it’s own language, and the old-school Handspring organizers, which I dug before Palm ditched everything but the Treo, all worked. They just lacked that certain je ne c’est pas of native integration.

Shiny and new could be my gadget solution. Or another toy I will figure out, work through, use to its fullest for a couple of years and then figure something else out.

Whilst thinking through all of this hyper-rationalization for a consumer goods jones, I spotted one in the real world. The web is all sorts of full of rumors about folks eyeing them in the hands of testers littering Silicon Valley, mostly at restaurants.

Sure ‘nough, they’re in my neighborhood in the wild, just like the rumor sites claim. A tableful of people (well the dudes at the table not the womenfolk they were accompanying) were passing it about and surfing the web and pressing shiny virtual buttons.

Right there it was, two tables away as they waited for their gourmet burgers and fries in Palo Alto, as M. and I finished ours. I had to wipe drool of my chin, straighten up and go home.

I’m not sure if they would want this announcement, but it is the web and this is how these things worth.

Please check out this newly born weblog and help its nascent self to beingness: http://campaign2008.wordpress.com/

The creators are largely responsible, hugely so really, for my left-slanted political self. It’s amazing the indoctrination powers one can have while reading a child Make Way for Ducklings and bringing her into the Public Garden.

Lately, I just have been considering myself a complete and total creative failure. I might be right, but I think in fairness, I should rationally think the jury’s not out yet.

The writing is slower, harder, lonlier than I want it to be. Which then, of course, begs the question, why the fuck bother? It’s a stupid kind of masochism, really. The sun is shining there are wonderful things to do, people to make fun of, diversions of a thousand score.

So, yeah, I’m just an asshole who thinks I have something more to contribute. Delusional, that’s what I’d call that.

My mood’s a bit more cheery though after one little trick, one small pathetic gesture, one desperate boost to despair or the sinking feeling of fraudulence. I re-formatted.

So where I once thought I had one half-assed, half-written, wholly crappy chapter coming in at 5 pages, lo and fucking behold it now stands at 11 double-spaced. Thank all dieties and powers in the universe for white space.

The words still suck. But the space in between, the air, the light, gorgeous.

Last night I figured something out that I don’t quite understand. I generally don’t write at all when M. is around. (Or anyone else for that matter, but he’s the obvious one to be around.)

I wait for him to go to bed or take a run or otherwise not be here. He doesn’t stop me or distract me. He’s happy to listen to music, watch TV, read a book, take a shit, any number of activities that don’t demand my attention. Still and all, I do all sorts of other stuff beside him but produce crappy prose.

Clearly, this entry is dedicated to his not being home yet.

I wonder if it’s my solo existence for so long. I’m accustomed to the thoughts in my head as company.

Or perhaps it’s the fantasy of a hunched over, grim typist, cigarettes and whiskey and a shotgun in the corner. Nothing makes American writing like the prospect of self-destruction and embodying an angry loner.

Of course, that fantasy suits serial killers as well as writers. Not sure if the verdict is in on me yet.

I wrote a whole thing about the Pope, his new “commandments,” marketing and all sorts of ranting goodness. Then the webserver hiccupped and my words were fucked and vaporized.

It must be the lord working in mysterious ways to prevent my blaspheming. Not to mention, jesus probably wants me in bed by now.

For fun, here’s the papal precedent for road rules from the “Guidelines for the Pastoral Care of the Road” with the top ten list.

. Back in 1956 Pope Pius XII exhorted motorists: “Do not forget to respect other road users, be courteous and fair with other drivers and pedestrians and show them your obliging nature. Pride yourselves in being able to master an often natural impatience, in sometimes sacrificing a little of your sense of honour so that the courteousness that is a sign of true charity may prevail. Not only will you thus be able to avoid unpleasant accidents, but you will also help to make the car a more useful tool for yourselves and others that is capable of giving you a more genuine pleasure”[17].

Didn’t know popes were into cars.

Here’s the list for easy reference:

Drivers’ “Ten Commandments”

In any case, with the request for motorists to exercise virtue, we have drawn up a special “decalogue” for them, in analogy with the Lord’s Ten Commandments. These are stated here below, as indications, considering that they may also be formulated differently.

I. You shall not kill.

II. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.

III. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.

IV. Be charitable and help your neighbour in need, especially victims of accidents.

V. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.

VI. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.

VII. Support the families of accident victims.

VIII. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.

IX. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.

X. Feel responsible towards others.

I think the pope could paraphrase, “Jesus doesn’t want you to be a huge dick.”

Oh, and I also wrote some shit about advertising on catholic.org and how I think I hate Steve Carell and probably won’t see in a million fucking years, expect on a flu-ridden couch moment, alone with cable, Evan Almighty.

I have that stupid poll thing over on the side over there. Look to your left.

Recently, there was an unexplained surge. (Are we allowed to even fucking say surge anymore, or did Bush fuck up that meaning, like he’s done with patriotism, mission accomplished, terror, etc., too?)

From a steady of like 11 voters, not even a dozen, I think, mostly voting for me to get fatter and bask more in the glory of Wal-Mart, suddenly 50 folks are telling me to perform.

Who the fuck are you people? Or who is the one person with OCD and a need to vote?

Leave me a comment. Say “hey.”

Maybe it’s what I need to get back on the trainwreck path of performance.

A friend of mine had an extra ticket to see Roger Waters tonight. Here I am, home, un-rocked out.

Besides it being Tuesday, and a bit of a drive to get to the Oracle Arena in Oakland, I just couldn’t jump on it for it’s own sake of promised fun. Is it because I’m old, or because Roger Waters is even older?

Truth be told, I was never that into Floyd. I mean, I chanted the lyrics of The Wall, especially this shit, alongside the rest of my high school, back when it was new and different.

We don’t need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it’s just another brick in the wall.
All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.

But I ain’t never owned the album. I doubt I even stole it off a brother’s turntable.

Maybe it was the flying pigs, or the ringing telephones, cash registers and howling, barking dogs. At some level, I just didn’t give a fuck. (I gotta say I fucking hate listening to Pink Floyd and looking around to answer the phone or otherwise responding to auditory stimuli. Makes me goddamn jumpy, it does.)

I liked my pretentious art-rock, poetry, bullshit set to music more NYC-style, CBGBs, Cale and Reed, Patti Smith, punk rock baby.

Conceptual stadium drama seemed too Spinal Tap. Minimalism and fast guitars yanked my adolescent crank. Besides Waters always sounded like he was kind of a dick.

Or, maybe I would have gone tonight, if I hadn’t given up on smoking the weed 20 plus years ago.