If there were a good day to have a direct-brain interface developed by humankind, this would be the day.    Plug me in, Scotty, and brace yerself, Effie.

Really.    If I could jack my brain into an HDMI cable into that fancy-ass flatscreen you have in the living room, I could keep you entertained for hours.

Alas, alack.   Thine life doth assail me so.   Work, preparations for a party, sideline projects, sleeping — you know, anything to keep our mind off having fun.

We rely so much on our favorite writers pumping out quality content regularly — you get to know someone from their regular postings and goings-on, much like a favorite newspaper column or coworker who always stops by on Tuesdays to talk about her bar hopping.    We are creatures of habit, routine, and morning lattes.

And here I am, ruining your routine.    Well, so be it — I’m the sugar cube that just won’t dissolve.      All up in yours coffeez, gummin’ up yer mug.

I’d end in a haiku, but that’d be predictable — how about a jaunty pair of boobies?   (.)  (.)

No?   Well, it’s one of those swing-and-a-miss sorts of days.

I have a quirk, and perhaps it’s a bit of an OCD-like trait, but I’m a huge slave to rhythm.

No matter what I’m doing, if there’s a rhythm to be had, I’m bound to find it and adhere to it, or ache trying.   If there’s some rhythm being generated and I can’t match whatever I’m doing to it, I feel physical pain as my guts twist against it.    I once again experienced this last night as I was working out on the treadmill and listening to my iPod; I must try to change my stride length and/or speed to match the beats of the music if I at all possibly can, and if not, I’m likely to change the song just to avoid the headache.

Come to think of it, I’ve always been one to like and appreciate rhythm.   From my first experiences in music, I sucked at learning it, but I loved to do it.     I couldn’t tap out a complex rhythm on a drum or a tabletop from a sheet of music, but I always understood the pattern and felt it.   Marching band was a heaven and hell to me as I loved whacking out a march step and keeping strictly to it — despite my never wanting to be involved in the armed forces, if I had, I could have been a mean marcher.     And if it wasn’t for all the cretins that couldn’t keep step for the love of all that’s holy, I would have had a great time.   Folks without rhythm are my personal nails-on-a-chalkboard demon.

I think about how many places in my life rhythm takes hold — construction work (nailing), gardening (hoeing in beat), walking/running/biking/dancing (especially to music), sex (otherwise you look like you’re having a spasm), typing (although it’s a complex pattern), painting (stroke, stroke), boating (see painting), tapping my fingers, and so forth.

What is it about rhythm that drives me so?    I hate heartbeats — I’ve written about that before.    I love music — perhaps that’s the source?    Whatever it is, I find myself drawn to aligning my mind and my body to whatever external or internal (read: music in my head) beats there are to be had.

How about you?   Do you find yourself consumed with rhythm or are you able to walk through life at your own, jagged, uncoordinated pace?  (consequently driving the rest of us stone mad)

P.S. — I hate, hate, HATE typing the word, “rhythm”.   Who thought of THAT spelling?   Srsly.

Or a hole in my head, take your pick.    Either way, the well is feeling pretty dry right about now.

Have you noticed that?   There’s been about a 2-week dearth of decent blog entries, both from the folks I read and from myself.   Now, my whole family’s been under the weather, work has been so busy I’m catching myself leaving when I get there in the morning, and in general I’ve had a pretty decent case of the lay-on-floor-and-don’t-bloody-move blahs.

SO!   Onward, as they say.

I have 5+ draft blog entries in progress, and I would really appreciate some input from you, the reader, as to what you’d like to see me finish up.   C’mon, give me an idea of what sounds good, because it’ll give me motivation and very well may light a match under my nether regions that I so desperately need.     Why do I smell burning hair?

In no particular order:

Explaining the Bank Crisis — NPR’s Planet Money had a great explanation on exactly why the mortgages are causing havoc with the banks in such a way that I finally got it.    Now, I’ve understood for a long time that having bad mortgages are bad for the banks, but never really the mechanics behind it.   This I now understand.   I’d like to draw you out some diagrams and explain the whole thing, simply and clearly, because I’d like you to understand it and the problems behind the bailout, but….do you give a whelk?

Controversies:   Jesus — The man, the mystery, the wonderment.   My take on this religious figure, what I think of his supposed deeds, and of his importance in life in general.    All the Christ you can stomach in one concise posting.

Face Windows — Talking about (and showing you pictures of) the various glasses I’ve worn throughout my life (yes, I have all of them) and some philosophizing about glasses -wearing folks and how it alters our perceptions — and how people see us.

Controversies: Abortion — Oooh…truly touchy subject, but I have a really logical argument (I think) to describe and explain why my views are what they are.    But this is a tough subject — and while I don’t shy away from touchy things, at the same time, I don’t want you all closing your browsers and thinking, “Oh, god, not another abortion post” because if that’s all I’m going to get from it, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself, ya know?   So feedback me on this idea, because I want you along for the mental exercise, and to help me clarify my own position, even if you disagree.

Musical Limits — Me talking about my struggles with the musical group I’m involved in, how I feel like I’ve really hit a wall with my instruction there, but my other options aren’t much better — and I’m not sure where to go most days with my musical desires and wants.

So, there you go….5 posts that are in-progress, but I’m stuck on where to go with them.    Can ye help, inspire, and comment, dear reader?    My mucus-adled brain appreciates it very much.

Actually, that title is a misnomer — 2008 seemed to stretch on FOREVER.

Through the course of the year, I made 81 posts on this blog — not a great number, but certainly respectable enough, equaling about a post every 4.5 days.   I suspect this was impacted primarily by the shoddiness of  my posting frequency earlier in the year, even though I found a reasonably decent rate in the last few months, which I hope to keep up.   Ah well, not everyone can be perfect.

I think part of the reason that 2008 seemed so long was the politics and economics that happened; truly a long year of huge amounts of information and mind-slaying by the media.

The hilight of the year was watching my son grow, I think, because from January to December he changed so much and yet is still my wonderful little boy.   Children do amaze and confuse in how they grow,that’s for certain.

This next year I don’t have any “resolutions” because I don’t believe in them, but that being said, it never hurts to set some goals.    Better health, better concentration at my job, better attention to my family,carving out some time for personal projects, finding something to call my own contribution to the world.    I’m not going to get more specific than that because I think it’ll detract from the way life works, which can be, at best, random.

Ah, yes…and keeping up this blog.    I hope you’ll hang around with me as we go forth into 2009.   I have a slew of postings to get finished and up here and tons of interviews done by some interesting folks.    Keep reading and good luck with your new year!

It started snowing on Thursday night in typical fashion – light, fluffy flakes wafting their angelic way down from the heavens to grace the earth – but quickly turned into a flurry of tiny paratroopers storming the beaches of Normandy, hard-bent on conquering and obliterating all forms of visibility and automobiles that stood in their way.   In a manner not unlike that of fire ants, their might and power existed not so much in the way of intelligence and strategy but simply because there was so goddamned many of them.

Quickly following on Friday evening the atoms of the world, having been blanket-attacked by this crystallized phenomenon, decided that they’d rather be sunning themselves elsewhere and promptly stopped moving, sending the temperature of the area into digits that have difficulty showing up on any self-respecting thermometer.   You could see the trees practically shrivel themselves up as they cursed the winter and snuggled down into the earth, forever glad that their genitals naturally fall off before it gets this cold.

It was into Satan’s deep freeze that I found myself heading on Saturday morning, intent on finding a means to convey myself and my family to the wild north in search of the season’s quota of pre-manufactured blessings to shower upon my relatives, friends, and those I was unlucky enough to draw out of a hat at Thanksgiving.    To say it was, “crisp”, outside was a gross misrepresentation; it was insomuch as to say that plate glass is, “soggy”.   Snorting a fresh cup of bleach would have been warmer and not nearly as traumatic to my respiratory system.

My thrashings about to free my vehicle from the icy depths and to awaken it (much groaning and complaining ensued) were for naught; for on the outskirts of town and heading away into the barren wastelands was a paved trail intersected by copious piles of meteorological soldiers in strategic positions, that which we so coyishly term here as, “drifts”.   They are amusing when approached by sleighs, snowmobiles, and jackasses in trucks, but not nearly as pleasant when slammed into with a sedan.

Besides – by this time my nipples were tight and my shorts were not.   I know my limitations.

It was not until late Sunday night that we finally ventured forth into the dangerous night, intent on our goal.   The weather had settled down – somewhat – and my wife, gorgeous thing that she is, had a case of cabin fever that would make even a hibernating badger agree to go for a swim and a cappuccino.   If the weather didn’t kill her, I was going to.

Our shopping was rosy, our cheeks were so merry, our bodies were shivering and saying, “Hail Mary!”   The stores were pleasantly stripped of their usual compliment of assholes-with-carts, thanks to the inability to see through frozen corneas, so we were able to complete a good percentage of our mission in record time.   After doing our part to stimulate the economy, we headed to the local 24-hour breakfast-all-day restaurant to replenish our expired load of carbs.

After our meal, my son took off running around the 99% empty establishment to stretch his legs and ended up behind the counter as I was paying for the meal, the workers cooing at how cute he was and so forth.   They let him paw the various muffins for sale in the display case (sorry, folks) and the next thing I knew, he was marching away, lemon-poppyseed pastry in hand, huge grin on his face like he had hoisted a bank.    I admonished him for taking it, but the staff was so overcome by his adorable countenance that they simply tossed it into our order and we took it home with us, sans charge.

“How useful!” you say, and I agree wholeheartedly.   Tomorrow we’re going to a car dealership to let him loose on the place.