So the good folks at Blogcatalog are offering a moochers pass to Blogworld and New Media Expo for the person who is most worthy.

I am here to state my case as to why it should be me. Unlike the previous winner, I am not good looking woman nor can I sing worth a darn. I do, however, have a distinct advantage over other wannabes. I am mentally deranged. Not dangerously so. I just have five other personalities inhabiting my wiry frame.

Thus, I am both more fun to be with and a great bargain in these hard economic times.

By sending me, the folks at BC will be sending six fascinating individuals to a single bloggie event for the price of one. Hell, that’s like killing SIX birds with one stone. Hoo-rah!

By sending me, BC is essentially performing a public service. Bloggers are ALWAYS on the lookout for interesting angles to write their posts. They love to reveal the strange and the macabre, uncover the silly and the sanctimonious. My rather eccentric brethren and me would thus become fodder for the blogging community at large. We’d be the toast of Las Vegas.

And, it just so happens that I am also a damn good luck charm. People around me seem to win at everything: gambling, love, Parcheesi. Stand beside me at a craps table and watch the dice roll you sweet numbers.

So in conclusion, pick me!

Sincerely,

JD, Billy Bob, Pepe, Abu, Jimmy John, Thurston Winchester III

So what is blogging to you?

To me blogging is all about all about lending cogency to a thought, breathing life into a whim.

Some days the swirling ideas, the tornado of life, whips up the mundane and transforms it into the sublime. At other times, it morphs the exquisitely divine into the muck of everyday existence.

We gather here in this space to share our observations. We laugh, we cry, we titillate, we entertain one another mightily. We commune, we share, we sympathize, we blog each other our humanity. We take the high road, the low sexy road and all the paths that criss-cross like silk-laced panties in-between.

In the final analysis, we are but scribes, bloggers bearing witness to the grace and glory of our own life stories. But always there is a thought, an idea, bursting to be expressed. An intention itching to leak out onto the blog and into our, sweet reader’s, consciousness.

So what is blogging to you?
Can you link an especially nice blog here today and share the love. I, for one, have been absent much lately and would love to meet some new blogging talent.

Today’s topic is about the feeling of apathy. Some people would call it lazy but that’s just apathy with intention. Others would say insouciant but that’s just plain lazy without caring. Lassitude is too dang slow to describe the feeling.

Half-heartedness. That’s it! Apathy is all about heart, really. Or lack thereof. You see when your heart wanders you lose sight of your goal. Without a goal you flounder. Like a flat fish on dry-land flip-flopping for water you gasp for meaning. You need a purpose. A destination maybe. A reason to compel action.

Sometimes you take these for granted. You never notice them. You work to earn a living. You love and create to feel alive. When times are good you function on autopilot and all is right and good with the world.

When crisis erupts, however, you lose your bearing. Like a drunk, you stagger woozily. Disoriented, you sometimes lose sight of your goal. Instead of action, nothing. A profound sense of sadness or frustration or carelessness typically underpins apathy. The result is non-action. Time drags by slower. The world dims. You have urgent desires to eat chocolate or watch re-runs of “I Dream of Genie”.

So what to do?

Turn on all your lights? Ramp up your heat? Or shake it off like a dog waggling off water? Yeah, spray everyone around you. Piss them off. Will yourself into the world and the world will kick you in the shins and it will hurt. But the pain will focus your attention on the big questions: What am I doing? Why am I doing it? The feeling of apathy then becomes a gift of sorts. An opportunity for you to re-evaluate those questions and reinvigorate your response to them.

So have you ever suffered from the feeling of apathy? What brought it on?
What was your response? How did you beat it?
What is Truth North on your life’s compass?

Today a little updating of Shakespeare “All the World’s a Stage” soliloquy similar to my last attempt (“To Blog or Not to Blog”) for your reading and commenting pleasure …

All the world’s a blog,
And all the men and women merely writers:
They have their posts and their reposts;
And one blogger in the Blogosphere writes of many farts,
His acts being seven ages.
Like a kid in fact, he spews and pukes on other’s blogs.
And then like the wine-drinking schoolboy, blogging with his Gallo
And red morning face, creeping like a drunk snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover, signing the girl’s privates guestbook, with a sad blog dedicated to T and A.
Then a soldier, full of Iraq angst and bearded like the bard, jealous of Petraeus’s seat, secret and quick in quarrel, seeking no trouble or reputation.
Even there be a sharp comment near Bush’s mouth.
Ah the justice, on a fat tummy, a capon (castrated cock),
With a tough guy visage and a bikers beard,
Full of shit and modern contrivances;
And so he writes in his blog. The next,
Old man, thin in fuzzy bunny slippers,
With spectacles on nose and paunch of belly,
His unyouthful member, Viagra driven, a world too long
For his shrunk shank; and his manly blog,
Turning toward kid again, music players
Crank out the songs. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful blog,
Is second childishness and the internet down,
Sans readers, sans comments, sans blogs, sans everything!

The question for today is which of the Bard’s seven parts (kid, schoolboy, lover, etc.) are you playing these days?

Oh yeah, here’s the original passage from “As you Like It” so you can see for yourself how badly I butchered it …

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

When we left those sylvan environs we had lots of lost meals (and burrito supremes) to make up for so we both became ravenous foodheads. This particular misadventure takes place years later in Samezu, (literal translation: Shark Country) a working class Tokyo suburb that sits on the inland waterways off Tokyo Bay.

So flash cut a few years after Tennessee but a few years before Shark Country to a small apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Clark was in grad school on his way to being a world famous biologist and I was on a fast train to nowhere. So one fateful evening we decided to home cook a Thai meal. We procured the necessary ingredients and set about making our curries. So if you’ve ever cooked Thai curry you know to add a small spoonful of curry paste from one of those distinctive small Maesri cans.

Well, we started drinking and cooking (a practice i highly recommend you not engage in) and bragging about how manly we were and one thing led to another and we ended up adding the entire can!

Youch. Neither of us would admit it as we forced down the oh too spicy and not really fit for human consumption curry. At that moment our macho ‘hotter than thou’ rivalry was born!

Ok, so a little about Clark. His real name is not Clark. I’m using that pseudonym to protect his identity as he as currently teaches biology at UC Berkeley and I figure there’s a high probability that one of his students might be reading this blog.

Why Clark you ask? Like the eponymous Clark Kent, he too wears glasses and has a folksy down to earth mild manner. But underneath that slide-rule-pocket-protector-aw-shucks exterior lies is a man of steel. A fierce competitor. A worthy opponent!

So now to our story. He came to visit Tokyo for some worldwide biological save the kelp meeting and we decided to get together since I was then living (in Shark Country) and working (in a salt mine of sorts) in Tokyo. I suggested a little Thai restaurant some 15 minutes from my apartment next to a Sony factory (where many Thais worked).

It was a little late when we walked up and I was afraid they were closed. As we stepped in we saw a bulky Japanese man with a big smile and a white bandana wrapped around his head standing next to a petite woman with an evil glare. There was no one in the restaurant. He said in Japanese they had had a long day and that they were planning to close but since we were there, what the heck, he’d whip us up some dinner.

We sat and death-beam-lasers-for-eyes dropped our menus on the table. I said something to her in Japanese but it only seemed to incense her. The man walked over to take our order. Clark had already started trash talking:

“I’ll bet their curry’s not even hot. If you were a spice girl your name would be ‘wimpy spice.’” I drowned him out to concentrate on what the man was saying.

Apparently there had been a TV crew in not but a few minutes before we arrived filming one of those inane shows you so often see on Japanese TV. In this case they had been taking five contestants around Tokyo to various restaurants to eat ‘the hottest foods’. His restaurant had been chosen and his Thai wife had made a Tom Yum Kung (soup) that, in his own words, would make a Thai blush.

I immediately said we’d like some. He glanced nervously back at his wife. “Well, we do have some left, but I would not recommend it. Really.” I explained in Japanese that my partner was afflicted by a rare disease and his suffering could only be lessened by spicy foods. The spicier the better. That’s why we had come to his restaurant in the first place.

Kicking Clark underneath the table and I hissed at him to frown glumly. Which he did. The proprietor finally acquiesced and the game was afoot.

When he finally brought the small earthenware pot on a small flame to our table it looked rather innocuous. We each poured some and the carnage began. The moment, nay, the nanosecond the soup touched my lips I knew I was in big trouble. It was soooooo hot. Spicy hot. Temperature hot. Ungodly hot. The pain impulses raced down my backbone such that even my toes hurt. I tried to control the pain but it was all consuming. Tears welled up in my eyes.

Thank god Clark was crying too. The big baby. Yet neither of us would give in. Another spoonful of agony. The woman came over and with a look of raw compassion placed a box of tissues on the table. But neither of us would reach for one. My eyesight blurred. Then Clark blurted out, “Dude, your lips are as big as grapefruits!”

Indeed they had swollen to five times their normal size. I felt like a freakoid. A huge lipped monstrosity. I could eat no more soup. Or dinner for that matter. Even the air began to hurt them. I had to concede defeat. Et tu labia. Betrayed by my own flesh and blood. Damn lips.

So have you ever been engaged in an epic rivalry? Did you win or did you lose? Was it a graceful win (or loss) or was it ugly?

So I decided to investigate this claim in my typical pseudo scientific method for you gentle readers. Herewith are my findings:

The first question we must ask ourselves is what malady is laughter the best medicine for?

I mean, I guess if I had a gangrenous foot that needed lopping off I might get by with a good Saturday Night Live skit or The Onion. But I daresay a good anesthetic might be a tad more efficacious. Then again, the most common anesthetic, is nitrous oxide after all.

So then let’s assume laughter is the best medicine because it remedies the most common illness afflicting the human species. I would have guessed that to be turf toe but according to the internet that would be hypertension.

Previous scientific studies have proven that laughter:
- reduces pain and allows us to tolerate discomfort.
- reduces blood sugar levels.
- improves job performance.
- synchronizes the brains of speaker and listener so that they are emotionally attuned.
- will eventually bring about world peace

And now comes hard new evidence from American College of Cardiology member Michael Miller, M.D., of the University of Maryland that laughter helps your blood vessels function better.

It acts on the inner lining of blood vessels, called the endothelium (I’m not making this word up, I promise), causing vessels to relax and expand, increasing blood flow. In other words, laughter is good for your heart and brain.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. How can laughter compete with the likes of drugs such as Prozac, OxyContin, weed or ecstasy for ‘best medicine’ honors? I guess it boils down to cost performance.

Laughter comes ostensibly for free, whereas both legal and illicit drugs cost a pretty penny. Just try selling laughs on a street corner for a morning and then drugs in the afternoon and you’ll soon understand my point if you’re not gunned down in a senseless act first (and I do mean in the morning).

So in conclusion I guess Laughter IS the best medicine after all. So next time you’re feeling blue, take two (laughs) and call me in the morning.

What do you believe is the best medicine?

So the other night with that basic premise in mind I attended one of those mandatory meetings for entrepreneurs grubbing for money in the Silicon Valley. Excuse me while I digress. I think I read in a paper recently that every third person in the South Bay area either is in the process of starting a company or dreams of doing so one day. Hell, the other day my Taco Bell cashier was pitching me up for investment in his IC (Integrated Circuit) company idea while I waited for my Burrito Supreme. We couldn’t agree on valuation so I changed my order to ‘to go’ and skedaddled out of there.

Anyway, the meeting took place in what we affectionately call the ‘Death Star’, (Black Hole might be more appropriate as many an entrepreneur goes in but nary a few come out with their shirts on their backs), the most famous Valley law firm at their sprawling Palo Alto campus. After giving my name and confirming my registration I headed upstairs to join the pre-meeting festivities.

Being a veteran of many campaigns, I knew the secret to effective networking was to be strategically seated and well fed and lubricated – and since this event sponsor was particularly cheap – get to the food and alcohol quickly before it disappeared. I dodged a mine field of glad-handers and smile-effers and put my jacket on the first seat in the front row and then made a bee line to the food.

Trouble. Silver trays arrayed on tables piled high with deep fried gunk that they tried to pass off as ‘Chinese food’. Unfortunately I had not eaten lunch and was thus famished so against my better judgment I ate a heapin helping of some gelid dumplings of congealed fat. This was California, dammit. Land of bean sprouts and healthy food.

What, were they trying to kill us? Harden our arteries on the spot? Cull the entrepreneur herd? I half expected to open the last tray and find triple nicotine cigarettes and heroin needles.

So I settled into a birds nest corner with a glass of wine in one hand and another two placed at arms length. Up walked a thin wiry man with intelligent eyes and a wispy mustache. He introduced himself as Yuri in a thick Russian accent. As he worked his way through his pitch I felt the warm embrace of the wine come over me. I said “Yuri.”

“Vhat?”
“I once had a girlfriend in Japan named Yuri but you look nothing like her.”
“Ves, people are always mistaking me for Japanese or Brazilian bikini models as Yuri is also popuuular name in Brazil.”

I shuttered as I imagined him in a bikini needing more wine.
So I almost imperceptibly and deftly switched my empty glass for the full one in mid sentence.

He resumed his pitch and droned on about algorithms and saving the world when I became aware of a young Chinese-looking girl standing in front of us obviously intent on joining our conversation. Slightly impaired by the wine, I strained to determine whether it was more impolite to break into Yuri’s pitch yet again or leave the poor girl standing there in the cold.

It’s the Southern in me, I guess. Thinking ’she’s darn cute,’ I extended my hand in introduction. She said her name was Christine and while she tried to hide it, it became apparent to me she was the main squeeze of one of the mega-zillionaire speakers.

Thereupon we were all called into the meeting room to begin. The subject was ‘can you successfully fund your start-up on less than one million dollars’. The panel consisted of two VCs and two entrepreneurs. I won’t bore you with the details of the meeting. In short, the entrepreneurs said the VCs were greedy bastards and the VCs, ever slick, said they were not. The VCs then said “We love you entrepreneurs and want to have your children.” They meant it like ‘lets get it on’ but in reality what they meant was ‘we’ll take your first born as collateral on you company’.

In the middle of the debate my stomach began to growl. Not a polite, little, rumbly-in-my-tumbly growl but a real live cross-between-a-bear-and-a-lion growl. I shushed it like I would a wanton child but much like the child, my stomach would not stop. As queasy as I felt I was equally determined to make it to the end and the ritual exchanging of the cards and the perfunctory ’send me your business plan and we’ll do lunch’ comment.

Now besides queasy, I had become somewhat disoriented. When it ended, being in the front row, I stumbled up and took my rightful place at the head of the line, the room spinning and my stomach yelling at me to run.

“No,” I yelled back in my mind, I have to complete my mission. As I reached out to exchange cards with the alpha VC a wretch in my stomach brought out all of its contents as I projectile vomited congealed fat and red wine on the floor splattering his shoes and pants. The room stopped spinning for an instance of stunned silence.

After feeble attempts to apologize and clean up the fetid mess, I slinked out of the room a mixture of embarrassment and misery. Come to think of it, I did, however, in the end, get his splattered business card.

Have you ever encountered a more embarrassing situation?

Should I email him and request a lunch meeting or not?

I felt strangish from the moment the first light of morning woke me from a mildly unfitful sleep. I made my way down, bumping somewhat bleary-eyed into the kitchen and straight for the coffee maker. As usual I had set everything up the night before so all it took was a ginger press of a lone button and soon the soothing drip and savory smell of coffee was filling the room.

I took an English muffin out of the package, broke in two and slid the halves into the toaster. You know, one of those silver, rounded faux friendly looking devices that produces oh so heavenly toast when you pull down the manly black lever.

I poured myself a grailful of holy water /coffee and slurped a hot mouthful. I took the knife out the drawer and began cutting an apple to put into my Greek style yogurt to partner with the English muffin. Making it what? A Greeklish breakfast?

I slid on my slippers and headed out to get the morning paper. Upon returning I smelled smoke!

Rushing to the kitchen I found the toaster burning my muffins mercilessly. I tried forcing the black lever up to free my poor, enkindled muffs but it would not lift as if some unnatural force were holding it down. Smoke billowed uncontrollably and flames licked up the sides of the toaster.

Suddenly awakened, the fire alarm began a high pitched squealing. I grabbed a fork and pulled the flaming muffins out and doused them with water while simultaneously trying to cover my ears. Soon thereafter I tossed the cool retro looking silver toaster into the trash and took up eating a safer breakfast … cereal.

Why, I have to ask myself, do these appliances have it out for me?

So my question for today is … Do you have any morning rituals – must have coffee, morning paper, specific breakfast, exercise regimen, or sacrificing a small goat, etc.?

After grabbing my sandwich and picking up a loose paper I sat down and came to an article on the editorial page written by the Dalai Lama.

It was originally written in the Washington Post but reprinted in this local newspaper. There were two paragraphs that blew me away so I thought to share them with you here today:

“Many people today agree that we need to reduce violence in our society. If we are truly serious about this, we must deal with the roots of violence, particularly those that exist within each of us. We need to embrace “inner disarmament,” reducing our own emotions of suspicion, hatred and hostility towards our brothers and sisters.

And …

Large human movements spring from individual human initiatives. If you feel that you cannot have much of an effect, the next person may also become discouraged, and a great opportunity will have been lost. On the other hand, each of us can inspire others simply by working to develop our own altruistic motivations – and engaging the world with a compassion-tempered heart and mind.”

His message, while simple, was profound. Change begins at home. Peace starts at a very personal level. I wondered, though, if the folks in war ravaged lands like Iraq or Sudan could possibly adopt his credo. And then I thought those folks probably represent less than one percent of the human population on earth. The point is, I guess – for those of us in the other ninety-nine percent – to develop our good-hearted motivations while engaging the world at large.

So on the spot I vowed to change the toilet paper roll without cursing the heathen who left it empty and in first place. Also, I figure writing this blog post should build me some karma points since there is a small chance at least ONE of you reading this will take it to heart, get off your butt and really do something!

Then my entrepreneurial instincts kicked in and I thought wouldn’t it be cool to open deli with a ‘world peace’ motif. The house specialty vegan sandwich would, of course, be named the ‘Dali Lama’. We’d have a hot pastrami on rye called ‘Global Warming.’ My favorite would be the ‘Mahatma Gandhi,’ a curried treat only to be eaten sitting down. And of course there would be the ‘Martin Luther King Jr.’ for those dreamy types who love miracle whip.

On second thought maybe I’ll just propose my own sandwich to the owners of the Whistle Stop: ‘The Peace Train.’

What ingredients should go into ‘The Peace Train’ sandwich?
What small do-able thing can you commit to doing to make this world more peaceful?
If you could add a sandwich to the menu what would it be (name and key ingredients)?

Anyway, Liz, which I mistakenly took as short for “Lizard” much to her apparent chagrin, finished the book and laid it thoughtfully in her lap. I personally thought it was an honest mistake.

“So did you like it?”

“Well, actually no, because the bad guys win in the end?” she twanged with and unmistakable English or possibly Australian accent.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I do believe you just did?”

“Ah, right, well, how many novels do you typically read in a year?”

“52.”

“Wow, so what types?”

“Unthinking pap, like this novel, or sometimes non-fiction … but mostly fiction. I love a good story.”

“And why? What do you get out of these stories?”

“I learn, I stretch, I grow, I see the world in a different light.”

“Ah, so I am writing a story and attempting to craft just such an experience.”

She muffled some laughter.

“So basically anything I say now might end up in your fiction?”

“Hmmmm, good question. Yes I suppose it might.”

“So what’s this story of yours about?”

“Well, the never ending quest for meaning in an absurd world.”

“Brilliant, when can I read it.”

“As soon as I finish writing it and assuming I’m lucky enough to get it published.”

“So you will write me up fondly if you do include me?”

“Of course, I will describe you as an exotic beauty with rare intelligence and the wisdom of a female Solomon.”

“Good!”

Are you playing the part in a story? What is it?