The Missing Piece

A friend of mine in Israel is working on a series of short films that show a person dealing with a missing piece from his past. It could be about something that was being said or something that wasn't said. It could be a missing "I love you" or a missing kiss, or it could be a missing punch in the face.

At the end of the blog post about the project, he asks readers to tell him about their own missing pieces.

I have been trying to find mine ever since I heard about the project a few years ago, but I can't find it. Either I'm lying to myself or I'm living the perfect life. There's no person from my past who needs to hear what I have to say. There's no one to apologize to or kiss or hit. Maybe I'm just shallow. How is it possible that I don't have a missing piece?

Here's one of the shorts, "Haircut."

A Short Post About Reading Blogs and Virtual Hyenas and My First '10s Prediction

At first, I was so desperate for a good reading, that when I found Blogger, I used to click on that "Next Blog" button some still have on top. Then I found Blog Explosion, where I met Ricardo, and Sebastien, and Tom, and many others. I also met Jerry from Fat Cat Politics, who was the first one to add me to his blogroll. Spammers still leave comments on his blog, two years after his death.

I found more blogs through other people's links. Some people visited here and for some reason stuck around. I met some people through the other blog, where I collect fathers. And now I've done my second review for Ask and Ye Shall Receive. It will be up next week. I'm having fun with that one.

I'm stretching myself too thin, is what I'm saying. (Was that a cliché? Man, I'm so out of the loop, I don't know what's a cliché anymore! Is "Out of the Loop" a cliché?) After all, it's not like I have time to do any of that. I get a few hours at night when everyone is asleep and I type quietly and with constant fear that What's-His-Name wakes up and starts to cry, which means I can't even read or write properly because I'm not focused, which in turn produces run-on sentences.

It also means I haven't been spending enough time reading other people's blogs. And I'm not saying that as an apology; that would be presumptuous. I wish I were able to spend all day reading my favorite blogs, is what I'm saying.

That's it about that. The snow is coming. Maybe there's a metaphor there, but who cares. And anyway, the '10s are going to be the decade of Realism, and everything before that will be lost in time, like tears in the rain, for example.

Speaking of Bottom-Loading Water Coolers,

I better write something uplifting here, with lots of pictures, so that the people who visit me for the first time after reading this review won't be overwhelmed by my previous post.

Things are better back in the Holy Land, which makes things here easier. It enables us to feel sorry for ourselves for having a cold. The baby having a cold is a different story. It's not easy to listen to my boy cough at night. I put the heat on 70 and I give him Tylenol, but that's really all I can do. I feel helpless.

But he's happy. He jumps around and says funny things in two languages. Let me find a cute picture...

We celebrated his second birthday on Sunday. As usual, the city had a parade.

That's Mayor Dixon. She might be kicked out soon because of Gift-Card-Gate. She was found Guilty a few days before Liam's parade. She is appealing, saying it's nothing more than politically motivated witch hunt. The Baltimore Sun says there's no such thing as a small theft. I guess they're both right, but she's more right.

Hey, here's What'sisname!

So I stood outside for a while and took pictures, but then,

Because it was too cold.

More people came inside.

And anyway, we had more important things to do inside:

But it was too late, and now we're all sick, which is fine. Whatever.

Speaking of random: I wrote an angry email to IKEA and now, as a result, they're sending me a $50 gift certificate. But I hate being the guy who emails Customer Service to complain about shit. It takes a certain type of person to do that, and it's a little disappointing to find out I'm THAT guy. It's not like I did it as part as an overall quest for world-justice.

First, they came for the people with real wooden furniture, and I didn't stop them, because I had IKEA shit. Then, they came for me, and there was no one left to stop them...

Well, that should be enough for now. Fifteen more weeks, Bitches!

Dealing With Shit

Sometimes shit is too much, you know? The quadruple bypass surgery shit.

My dad needs to re-learn to live. He can't let the shit get to him anymore. When he leaves the hospital, he needs to commit himself to living right, to setting his priorities, to take it easy. And he has no idea how to do that. Sixty-five years of anger and stress and PTSD is a lot to get over, but maybe this shit he's going through is so traumatic that it just might work.

Even though I have to deal with the guilt of not being able to visit him in the hospital, I'm the real beneficiary of this whole heart-attack and surgery shit.

I know the kind of food he eats, the number of hours he sleeps at night, I know his anger and his stress. And I know I'm a lot like him. I imagine him lying in the hospital, a big man like him with his chest cut open, and I know I don't want to get there. I know I can't stress over things beyond my control, and I know I have to set my priorities and let go of the rest, and I know I have to find time to relax. And I have to sleep, and exercise, and eat well, and be content, because when I'm sixty-five I want to go on a goddamn cruise and get Isaac to pour me a fucking Martini.

My priorities right now are simple. I have a pregnant wife who needs me to bring her laundry up, and a little kid who needs me to put the Elmo video and sit with him and watch this shit again and again and again. Piece of cake.

(By the way, you know I just pretend watching vintage Elmo is a chore. I know there are haters among you, but Elmo is a fellow Baltimorean, and I respect him for that.)