Wade calls me a Grammar Nazi, and the joke spirals rapidly downhill from there.

Sitting here closing out my work day with a package of powdered donuts (thank you, Mr. Overpriced Vending Machine on the ground floor), it hits me that the Lord of the Rings trilogy was, at its heart, a metaphor for marriage. And not a very nice one, at that. Oh, yeah, that ring is pretty, and you really reallyreallyreally feel its pull to put that bastard on and wear it, but then you end up looking like Gollum and eating live fish you snatch out of the nearest aquarium.

I’ve heard reports of people becoming invisible when wearing the ring, too. And I’m fairly sure the agonizing cry of the Nazgul is more pleasant than being nagged to take out the garbage.

I feel certain that this has occured to someone before. For chrissake, the tagline was “One ring to bind them all.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to marriage (the above is just a product of having too much spare time on my brain). On some levels, at least.

I hope that I can one day find the woman that I want to spend the rest of my life with. Having two marriages under my belt, I can tell you that, for the all the inherent problems that stem from combining two individual lives under one roof, that romantic union is wonderful. There are a million things I miss about it.

But the symbolism of the wedding ring is a little intense. For one thing, marriage (as an institution) is a religious thing, and religion is not my game; with a tip of the hat to Marx, I’m drug free since around ’83. There are the legal ramifications – having power of attorney, for instance – but by and large, it’s religiously based.

This is where the romantic in me comes screaming out of the closet for a moment. I like the idea of spending the rest of my life with someone because that’s what we both want, day after day after long and wonderful decade — not because that’s what we feel obligated to do. It’s not so much the case now as it was fifty years ago, but divorce still has a certain stigma attached to it, societally, and I’ve known too many people that remain married largely because they don’t want to bear the label of “divorced.” Hell, the same concerns have crossed my mind a few times (and it doesn’t help when people refer to me as “Ross” — I know nothing about archeology, people!).

Those of us that are divorced are no different from you who have have long-term relationships that have ended, especially if cohabititation was involved, except that we have phone numbers for lawyers in our desks.

It is a nice thought, to imagine waking up next to someone every day and knowing that they are there because they choose to be, because they enjoy my company in spite of all my faults and flaws, that they want to be with me even after last night’s fight about Krispy Kreme versus Dunkin Donuts, because they still are in love with me. That sits so much more pleasantly with me than wondering if they’re only there because they don’t want to disappoint themselves, or because they swore they’d never get divorced, or because they can’t afford the court costs yet, or because I know where the body is buried and I have the 8 1/2″ x 11″ photos to prove it.

But, like I said, I’m a flaming romantic, and most of my ideals are better suited to movie theaters than real life.

Being a flaming romantic, at least doesn’t inspire me to listen to Streisand. It also doesn’t help me dress any better than I do.Sadly, my fashion sense is more tied to the Grammar Nazi in me.

From Nick Jezarian at Drink at Work:

“My weekend was grand Sally. I blew through five eightballs like it was going out of style. Then I attempted to freebase my new kitten. That didn’t go so well.”

I’m totally using this every time someone at work asks about my weekend. And my parents, too.

Heather is from the South — that’s all the set-up you need for this post.

It’s true, by the way.  You can imagine how much fun we had in junior high when it came time to learn about verb tenses.

Crystal is a really funny writer, but it’s not just the Haha that makes her blog worth reading.  It’s her kids, sometimes, that bring out the great reading.

I would say that kids say the darnedest things, but then I’d feel too much like Bill Cosby, and I’m not rich enough to be comfortable with that.

Go read this post — make sure you get to the last three or four paragraphs.  Those are the important ones — Crystal’s advice to her daughter is good advice for all of us.

There is a real beauty in meeting someone that steals your breath with every meeting, whose smile can brighten even your darkest thoughts, whose eyes sit like mirrorpools beckoning you to dive in.

The reality of the situation — the bad timing, the obstacles, the anticipation and paranoia, and guesswork — is all secondary to that feeling of lightheartedness.

You never know if it’s going to be the one that you’ve been looking for your whole life, that movie-perfect romance that begins and ends with a bang on both sides.  But it is in these moments that hope is born, and that hope lives, shouting to the world and all who will listen that things can be good and beautiful and right.

I refuse to accept that this is all there is… but I think maybe, at the end of the day, this would be enough.

All appeared new and strange at the first:
Inexpressibly rare, delightful and beautiful.
I felt like one coming out of an upper room
To fret no more and walk abroad confirmed.
The houses shone in silence, and the child in me
Stepped in so deep in this unshaded place;
A fine kingdom that meant to be home.
All things were spotless, pure and alive
Free and immortal
So I didn’t want to know
What I was going to be.

All time was eternity.

Dark Suns, Zer0

People give me grief for the behavior I exhibit.  Specifically, referring to the overly-intense / obsessive / dive right in behavior that comes with new relationships (or hopes thereof).  They’re perfectly justified in doing so, I suppose, just as I’m perfectly justified in giving them grief about wasting perfectly good oxygen with each breath they take.

The part of growing older that has been a real struggle for me is coming to terms with the fact that there are many ways of doing things, not just the common method.  The interstate may be the fastest or safest or most stable way of getting from point A to point B, but taking the side roads or back streets will get you there, too.  It all depends on what you want out of the journey — wanting the drive to be over as quickly as possible and arriving with no adventure is what most people want, and it’s how most people travel.  But some people want to sight-see, and others crave adventure, and others are simply putting off their arrival as long as possible.  Though not the majority opinion, these are no less valid ways to travel or goals to have while doing so.

And so, I struggle with the idea of dating.  I see so many people that do things the  “right” way — one date, dinner and a movie, maybe, followed by three days of silence (don’t want to appear too eager).  Another phone call, another date, and slowly the cycle collapses on itself.

Why?

It’s a short and uncertain amount of time that we have here on this material plane.  Why would you anyone give me grief about wanting to make the most of that time?  If I meet someone that interests me, why shouldn’t I spend every spare moment I have with her, getting to know her better, enjoying her company, wasting time — whatever?

It’s one thing to push all of your friends and family and responsibility aside, sure.  For if the new thing doesn’t work out, then you’ve gotten your priorities twisted around, and it’s probably going to come back to haunt you.  But that’s not what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about immersion, about throwing yourself into anything that makes you happy, because you never know how long it will last.  Maybe you get lucky, and you’re together forever — who’s going to question that?  No one — at least no one in their right mind; they’ll call you lucky to have been able to do so.  Maybe you only get a week together before you’re hit by a car, or a month before you have a breakdown and decide abruptly to move on, or six months before she discovers that you’re a weekend arsonist or a Bible-thumper and gives you the boot.  And people will say your crazy then, maybe — look at all that time you’ve wasted, they’ll whisper.

But who’s wasted anything?  You’ve been happy, right?  You’ve been living, allowing yourself to get swallowed whole by the moment — and moments like that can be preciously fleeting and rare, as anyone in their right mind can attest.

Yeah, I’m prone to diving in headfirst. Perfectly capable of playing by another clock, if it’s provided for me; I am fully aware that not everyone is the same.  People are more guarded, more cautious, more afraid.  I can accept that – in fact, I’m perfectly okay with it.

But then, I’ve rarely chosen the road most travelled. Not out of spite for the majority, like many, but because this is how i know to do things.  I’ve tried to be the normal guy who follows the normal rules, and it bores me.  Not to mention that it makes no sense — to let moments of happiness pass because “that’s just the way it’s supposed to be done.”

I’ve loved a lot in my life, and will continue to do so, whether with my current crush or a hundred more.  I’ve been loved a lot in return, and can never regret that. So if you’re concerned for my well-being because you’ve got inside information about someone I’ve expressed interest in, please, by all means, say so.  But if you’re worried that I’m not playing by the rules, for whatever reason you might let that worry you:

Don’t.

Do I seem a little angry, or resentful?  Maybe I am, sure.  But that’s the bitch about hitting this age and having to finally deal with the clash of the things that you want — that make total sense, and always have, and have always served me well enough — and the things that everyone else does, that my parents would push for, that society expects.

Perhaps I am refusing to let go of childish things.  But until you can prove to me that these pieces of me can’t capably co-exist with the rest of the world at large, then feel quite free to look the other way while I continue to cling.

Here’s an excellent article on a new cross-generational case of Peter Pan syndrome gone trendy. It’s something that I’ve thought about a lot off and on lately, largely because I’ve always found myself very much refusing to grow up in the traditional sense: I’m 34 years old, and hopefully don’t come across as immature, but I’ve never worn a suit to a job for more than a single meeting, I still listen to the same style of music I listened to in high school, I still live like a night owl. I’m routinely told that I can’t possibly be any more than 26 or 27 years old (would I really lie about that?).

It’s not something I’ve ever done because it was cool, or trendy. This is just who I am — always have been. I don’t refuse to wear slacks to work, but I push the envelope to see if I can get away with it (I can) because it’s more comfortable for me. My musical tastes have certainly expanded a lot since I was awash in Ratt and Ozzy Osbourne and Metallica, and to be honest, I don’t really understand the appeal of screamo (outside of the would-have-been-Goth-twenty-years-ago-girls hottness). I keep night owl hours because that’s what my body has done since I was in my early teens — but I still go to work during the day.

The article makes it sound more trendy than an unconscious decision to reject the notion that growing up requires letting go of childhood, which is what it has been in my (and , I’m fairly certain, many others’) case. But still, if you feel out of place among the old boys clubs where you work, or your friends give you shit because you’re a bartender at 35, check it out. We’re not alone, folks. The world finally recognizes our ideas.

Apparently, IE — the browser of choice for a generation of lemmings and sheep — breaks for no reason at all. Which is not to say that it’s unbreakable; it’s to say that the damned browser needs no reason, apparently, to break away on it’s own and run screaming from the crowd, off to do things in it’s own little way. Normally, this doesn’t bother me; most of the work I do for freelance clients is very simple stuff, and requires nothing fancy; all the experimental stuff that I play with (mostly CSS) is for my own site only, for which i have the benefit of ignoring users who won’t download a better browser (sorry, but it’s my party, and I’ll be an elitist prick if i want to).

Unfortunately — and you knew this was coming, right? — IE is the choice browser of a dying generation, and that dying generation just happens to be majority at the office (by office, I mean the tens of thousands of people that I program for, not my immediate bosses). And a lot of the time, I can’t count on simple to be the way things are going to get done – this is the IT department, damn it, and we’ve got to look Kewl and Hip like all the other kids out there.

There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts. – Richard Bach, Illusions

I’m tenacious, though, and and enough Google searching led me to a hack that cleared up the problem du jour. As irritated as I am — if there were any Microsoft sales calls going on here in the last half day, I probably lost someone’s commission for them — I’m reminded of the fact that, in my life so far, there’s not been a problem that couldn’t be solved. Perhaps not easily, perhaps not quickly — in fact, maybe not until much later. But I think that all problems are solvable; even NP complete, that wonderful group of mathematical Holy Grails, are not labeled as impossible.

I’m not suggesting that any one of us is capable of confronting our problems head on and alone; this is even taking into account that we all have different ideas of what a problem is. Probably most obstacles in our way are within our own power to overcome; they might require a different perspective in order to view the solution, or perhaps a different set of tools than we imagine we should be using.

There’s nothing wrong with seeking help, though — whether it be Googling in hopes that some random stranger out in the interweb has had the same problems and blogged about them, or calling a professional, or assembling a team of experts. Perhaps it requires a group mind to clear the way ahead, or just someone with a fresh eye.

What is wrong is giving up. There’s no reason to give up, just as there’s no reason to think an unworkable solution will work after you’ve already tried it 216 times without success.

Both are extremes; satisfaction is found in the middle. Just like most other things, I’ve found.

From Intellectual Property Run Amok (Clara Jeffrey, ed.):
For including a 60-second piece of silence on their album, the Planets were threatened with a lawsuit by the estate of composer John Cage, which said they’d ripped off his silent work 4’33”. The Planets countered that the estate failed to specify which 60 of the 273 seconds in Cage’s piece had been pilfered.

Fucking HA!