All the static in my attic shoots down my side nerve.

I struggle with knowing myself.  I try to be a very self-aware human being, understanding any changes I am going through, my motivations, the way I treat other people.  For most of my adult life (or at least my P.S. life [Post-Sobriety]) I have thought I was pretty good at it.  But lately it’s become more and more clear that that was a foolish, illusory notion.  I have only a glancing understanding of what powers me.  The only thing I am sure of is that I am complicated–not simple–and that my motivations and desires are a shifting, fluid grab-bag.  Go figure.

Dear NFL:  I am a somewhat new convert to enjoying your game and your league.  I can still be won over for life, or lost.  I understand your reasons behind your complicated system for which games get televised in which markets.  I get it and I approve; however, I think sometimes you need to just televise the really desired games.  This season, you’ve got a fantastic story in Tim Tebow.  The drama and storybook quality of it has helped reel me in to your league even more this year, but I’ve only been able to follow it via highlight reels, newspapers, and talk radio.  Not a single Denver Broncos game has been broadcast in my area (unless there was a Monday or Thursday game, in which case, I had to work, but still…not a single Sunday game).  Now today, they are playing the Patriots in a game I would very much like to see.   When you’ve got a golden soap-opera opportunity like this one, you should capitalize on it, not make me watch Bengals vs. Rams.  A glance at the games being televised in my area today reveals nary a single game of interest, either nationally or locally.  I understand you want me to GO to the game, but shouldn’t you, secondarily, at least want me to watch?

I note often (in conversation at least, perhaps not online) how surprised I constantly am by how drastically my likes and dislikes are changing over time, as this strange process of aging continues.  There are obvious things such as my taste in music and movies (which is changing more than my public persona admits to; probably my favorite discovery this year has been this).   But even bigger things are changing;  nothing like my basic philosophical outlooks, but here’s a big one:  this year, I don’t really hate winter.  Previously, hating winter has been a large part of the public image I present to the world, and much like any time these large blocks change, I’ve been hesitant to admit to it publicly (people like keeping you the same in their minds), but I can’t deny it any longer.  I am kind of enjoying the frigid darkness.  I’m curious to see if it lasts.

The title of this entry is just a line from a Pearl Jam song that I was listening to today.  It has no significance.

My hometown (OK, my second hometown) of Carlisle, PA is home to something known as the Carlisle Indian School.  In Carlisle, there is a sense of pride concerning our place in history, as the Indian School is indeed more than a footnote in our national history.  It is just recently that I’ve begun to fully comprehend the vile, evil nature of what our nation did with the Carlisle school and other “Indian schools” that came after it.  So I just want to put it out there, now, that I am no longer proud of the Carlisle Indian School.

When I’m really attracted to a woman, I can be viscerally affected by even her handwriting.