How To Balance A Budget With No Vaseline or These Chickens Are A Roosting

                I voted for Jerry Brown.  I admit it - I walked into my polling place, held my nose as if encountering a pail full of diapers soiled by babies who’d been exposed to expired milk, and punched the circle for a man not so affectionately known around the state as Governor Moonbeam for his gaze and points of view that at times seemed to stem from a chemically altered place during his previous tenure as Governor of the state of California.    So why did I lean his way -- Because his opponent was ostracized from being CEO of Ebay for activities that would charitably be described as questionable and sounded like Marge Gunderson from Fargo.  

Needless to say, it was a lesser of two evils situation.  As someone who works for the state I was well aware of Brown’s rhetoric about slashing the state budget, but history had shown him to be a friend of education.  Sadly, nobody told me about the Real Housewives style falling out that had apparently taken place sometime between Election Day and the unveiling of the new state budget proposal.  Now not everyone felt the sting; K-12, armed with an ability to perform non-stop oral copulation on Brown in a manner normally reserved for a Best Of Spank-O-Vision 5000 DVD, has not been touched.  As for Higher Ed (Community Colleges, the University of California system, and my little corner of Shangri La, the California State University system), the damage was 1.4 Billion dollars.   Yes, B – the same numbers associated with McDonalds customers served.

CSU’s share of that monstrous sum is 500 million.  Allow me to give you some perspective on this figure (Don’t get too excited at the thought of inside info; these figures can be found in multiple newspaper websites across the state or by performing a Google alert on “California State University”.) In 2009, CSU commenced a 2 year 625 million dollar cut that resulted in belt tightening usually found in a size 32 waist stuck in size 36 jeans, 2 day a month furloughs for all employees for 1 year (Great for catching up with people, lousy for the paycheck) and layoffs that mostly affected management, though a few union employees were let go as well.  None of the belts have been loosened, nor have those positions been filled, thus they are not part of the upcoming budget that now asks for 500 million more in reductions. 

                What did I take from these numbers?  To paraphrase rapper DMX:  “Someone’s about to lose their job. Up in here, up in here!”  You would think such a bombshell would result in an all hands meeting to have a candid discussion about the unavoidable ramifications.  You would think.  It’s now been nearly a week with no mention of it in anyway.  It’s like management has taken on the role of The Ministry Of Magic and the budget is Voldemort – That which shall not be named.  It’s not just management either.  I’ve attempted to espouse my feelings to co-workers only to have them look at me like Nurse Ratched waiting to lobotomize R.P. McMurphy in One Flew Over The Cukoo’s Nest.

                Hey, I’m not looking to be the bearer of bad tidings but I also don’t look good with my head in the sand.   The evil priestess of life altering change is coming and the “I’m not noticing you” defense isn’t going to work.   Good people are going to suffer and those left behind will be forced into a work overload that will leave them worn out and with sparse time for those they love.  And who do I blame for that?  ME!  Because I voted for Governor Moonbeam, only to have him turn into The Gimp and treat me like Marcellus Wallace.

California – Penny wise, pound foolish.

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Starting The Year Off Wrong or Being A Walking Nyquil Ad

                Did you know that being sick sucks?  A lot?  Especially when you have teeth rattling shivers normally reserved for a cartoon character in spite of the fact you’re wrapped up tighter than Han Solo during the Hoth sequence of Empire Strikes Back.  This non-stop fever dream leaves a person so devoid of strength and viewing the world through blurred vision they end up doing things like watching 3 Men And A Baby twice in the same day because their dog never ceases to react to the baby, thus providing the only respite from the mind numbing mix lethargic boredom.

How did I get here?  This sorry sequence of sucky sicktitude began the first day back to work after my holiday break. As silly as it sounds, I always get a bit of a kick out of getting ready for the first day of work.  It represents a fresh start, a chance to rectify past mistakes, to change people’s misconceptions about me.  Of course this heartfelt optimism goes out the door when I enter my workplace (Known hereafter as The Incubator) and within a few hours begins to feel a shiver that for once is not brought about by the overload of work or certain people I work with.  When I mention this in passing to a co-worker who I respect, she proceeds to give me the lowdown on people who are recovering from or in the midst of battling a multitude of illnesses.  Some of these people join in the conversation to provide an unnecessary overview of their ailments.  I can feel the white blood cells decreasing in me by the moment.

The next day I return to The Incubator for further frying of my immunity system but can only make it through 2/3 of the way through before throwing in the towel and heading home.  Now I start to do whatever I can to joust with the aches within.  I sit for an extended period in the confines of the steam room at my gym in the hope of sweating out the toxins, but just end up annoyed from listening to two teenagers debate who could stay in the room longer without a drink of water. (Obvious Jersey Shore fans are they.)  I come home and take a bath in water as hot as possible while listening to Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue, but that only throws into my head a yearning to have a voice that sounds like it has partaken in 762,265 cigarettes.   I imbibe enough Vitamin C to ensure scurvy will never be an issue in my life, but that just leaves me with the complexion of an Ooompa-Loompa.  This is not going well.

So I gut through The Incubator on Friday and settle in for a weekend of becoming a living breathing Pig In A Blanket.  This is where having a dog is a beautiful thing as my beloved lab B Is Love alternates between laying on my knee and looking up at me with eyes that radiate “Anything I can do daddy?”  I spend 2 days sucking this in and begin to feel better…then I woke up this morning and feel as I did in the opening paragraph.   So I’ll head to bed early tonight and head back to The Incubator in the dim hope that I will finally shake this monstrosity of an ailment and get 2011 going proper.

But first, I’ll have to make room in the Pig In A Blanket – my wife Charger Gal just texted that she’s feeling achy and icky.

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Let’s Get Physical Ladies or The Truth About Gym Eye Candy

To quote David Lee Roth in Ice Cream Man, I'm dedicating one to the ladies.  Right about now, those of you who made a serious New Year's Resolution to get to the gym are in the midst of your first full week. This means you have discovered the joys of simultaneously cursing your maker of choice for creating the agonizing phrase "physical fitness" while praying to said maker to get you through another 20 minutes on resistance level  5.  You’ve also come to realize that the fickle finger of fate always seems to poke a spec of dirt, lint, or eyelash into your eyeball right as you reach the midpoint of said exertion, thus causing you to convulsively blink in a manner reminiscent of Elizabeth Berkley’s sex scene in Showgirls . If you have indeed reached this point, congratulations! It’s now high time to prepare you for the next task in your personal road to better health:  analyzing your male gym rats. 

Let's get Carrie Bradshaw about this shall we?  A good portion of you jumped into this odyssey of physicality because you wanted to look better in order to get laid.  The rest of you entered into this out of a medicinal need to improve your interior well being…with an ulterior motive of wanting to look better in order to get laid.  As with all situations involving intercourse without procreative intentions, the attainment of carnal pleasure via calisthenics is littered with bad decisions borne out of failing to recognize the meaning behind non speaking cues.  Allow this veteran of the gym wars to give you some simple tips to adhere to:

1.       Any man who continuously grunts in a manner reminiscent of Chewbacca begging Han Solo not to use his blaster in the trash compactor will do the exact same thing while he is atop you, pumping away like gas hurtling toward an empty tank you are no longer certain you want filled.  Believe me when I say that you do not have the mental toughness to overcome this no matter how vividly you imagine yourself in the middle of a Brad Pitt-Johnny Depp sandwich.

2.       Any man who has the upper body of Adonis attached to two toothpicks attempting to disguise themselves as legs will have a penis that makes your pocket rocket look like a Big Gulp container.  Several female friends have confided this fact to me over the years and attempts to prove me wrong will leave you as unsatisfied as half the Lost disciples after their series finale. 

3.       Any man who wears a tank top with straps that can double as dental floss has the intellectual capacity of a young Forrest Gump.  Ditto any man who wears a weight belt. You can ravage their rippling muscles all you want, but after sharing a meal you will feel like my wife Charger Gal each January after her beloved San Diego Chargers end their football season:  I wasted my energy on this????

4.       Any man who looks at himself flexing after every set he completes will never care about you, never appreciate you; it is entirely possible he will not even know your name.  The only name he will ever shout out in the heat of the moment is his own.  GOD doesn't even have a prayer of escaping his lips during climax. 

5.       Any man who over breathes in the steam room like Luka Brasi being garroted or drinks coffee during his work out is highly likely to be equipped with blood vessels so constricted there’s a fairly decent chance he will literally screw himself to death.  Unless you have a burning desire to be a black window, I’d steer clear.  (Should your sexual proclivities run dark, I suggest the asphyxiation route – same danger/pleasure combo, far less potential for body count).

6.       Any man who feels compelled to let every patron in the workout area know his feelings about the sport highlight before him will never feel for you under any circumstances what he does for Tom Brady and Brett Favre.  This is not a comment on his sexuality, but rather his inability to put things in their proper perspective.  This will never change -- not even if you are blessed with the oral copulation skills of a first ballot hall of fame pornographic actress.

         Live fast and true to these guidelines ladies and you could find yourself ending up with Mr. Right and if not…..ah screw it, just find Mr. Right Now.  It’s what everybody else does at the damn gym!

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A Year Of Milestones or Resolution Time, Resolution Time

                I’m not much of a New Year’s Eve guy, mostly because I haven’t had a lot of success on the last night of the year.   I did the party thing in my younger days of course, but those evenings generally ended up with my face investigating the inner workings of a toilet or lying next to a woman, trying to hide a raging Charlie Horse after having my pass freshly rejected.  I saw Poison and Warrant once (Don’t judge, it was the 80’s), but that ended with a former roommate (who tragically shed his mortal coil this year) attempting to balance on a spike strip, falling the wrong direction, and slicing his foot like Uma Thurman taking out one of the 88 Keys in Kill Bill.

One year my wife Charger Gal was sucked into this vortex of sucktitude as we went to San Diego for her first Charger game.  The result:  Her favorite player, Drew Brees, had his shoulder decimated, leading to his leaving for New Orleans where he now challenges Jesus and the creator of Gumbo for most popular person in the history of Louisiana. The Chargers were crushed by the rival Denver Broncos, and Charger Gal became deathly ill.  Now we end the year with our own personal tribute to gluttony:  In-N-Out Burgers and an extra-large bottle of white wine.  (You know you’re jealous).  We also do our own little year in review with one another.  (We try to include our dog B Is Love in the proceedings, but the cheeseburger she gets from In-N-Out zonks her out by 9:30.)   

We also talk about our resolutions for the year ahead.  It’s a significant year for us:  We both turn 40 (Don’t quite look it but feel every bit of it), celebrate our 10 year wedding anniversary (Unless I screw up on a monolithic level, which has been known to happen more than I want to admit), and 5 years of B Is Love being a part of our lives.  Such a significant year requires significant resolutions and based on my impeccable track record on resolutions, I have no doubt that at least one of the following has a better than average chance of mostly coming to pass.

Lose 30 Pounds – I know, I know, the oldest resolution there is.  You know why?  Because most of us are fat!  I’m telling ya though, if I accomplish this task, my 1-10 rating shots straight up to 6.

Sell A Screenplay – One thing about certain goals; you get to keep listing them until they come to pass.  Springsteen once asked “Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true or is it something worse?” This sounds depressing as Hell so I think I’ll just keep dreaming this dream until it does, in fact, come true.

Get A Gig Blogging – Be it freelance or teaming up with a site full time, this is the brass ring for 2011.  I’ve really enjoyed writing for this World Wide Web thing and look forward to doing more of it in the coming year. 

That’s the list.  I’ll aim to be as observational as Seinfeld, as anti-establishment as Carlin, and as confessional as Pryor with the thoughts and words ahead.   And yes, I did just compare myself to three of the greatest comics of all time.  One must dare to believe they can fly like an eagle in order to soar above the crowd.

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Eviscerating The Christmas Shoes or Making A Sad Song Happy

                I was driving with my wife Charger Gal the other day, listening and singing along to the Christmas tunes on the radio (Yes, we’re saps like that).   Over the speakers of my car began a song that was unfamiliar to my ears, but made my wife explode in the excited proclamation “You gotta hear this song.  It makes me cry every time.”  I myself never get excited by the prospect of being driven to tears, but I respect my beloved’s opinion and listened intently. 

                The song in question was The Christmas Shoes, the tale of a narrator who’s standing in line, not feeling terribly in the holiday spirit until a scruffily attired young boy armed only with a gaggle of pennies explains to the cashier and the narrator that he only wishes to buy a pair of shoes for his gravely ill mother before she meets Jesus tonight.  The narrator is so moved by the child’s plight that he pays for the shoes, thus renewing to himself the true meaning of Christmas.  The song ends, and I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit to having a golf ball sized lump in my throat, but I also possess a comedian like need to take the piss out of any situation so I snarkily stated:  “And then the kid get to the hospital and finds out his mother is dead.”

                To say this comment did not go over well with Charger Gal is equivalent to saying Noah guided his ark through a rough patch of inclement weather.   But the Gods of retribution had it in for me this day, for as we came home and began flipping channels, Charger Gal discovered the TV movie based on the song was just starting (A Hallmark film starring 80’s teen heartthrob Rob Lowe.  Talk about sticking it in and breaking it off on a guy.)  Charger Gal proceeded to watch the 2 hour flick (Yes, they stretched a 4 minute song into a 2 hour film) and ended up so emotionally drained it took two hours and multiple glasses of wine to return her to some semblance of normalcy.

                Now call me kooky, but I have this crazy desire to be HAPPY during the holidays.  And between the song, the movie, and the post traumatic sadness disorder, that’s 4 plus hours of my life with my wife I’m not getting back. That is unacceptable and thus I must respond.  So, for husbands who must endure a morose spouse, for people who wish their Christmas to not be interrupted of its’ Merry, and for the overall greater good, I must now go Ivan Drago and break The Christmas Shoes.

                Let’s start with the real villain of this song…the kids’ father.  The song states that the boys’ clothes are worn and old and he is dirty from head to toe.  How about a shower and a new shirt dad? And if, as the little boy states, the mommy doesn’t have much time and could very well meet Jesus tonight, why is the dad letting the kid go out and buy shoes?  Shouldn’t the kid be by his mom’s bedside?  Way to go dad!   And just how old is this little bastard?  Apparently he’s not old enough to understand that a crap load of pennies can’t buy you a pair of shoes even at Payless.  Of course if the father was worth anything, maybe he’d give his kid the money before letting him go out and setting him up for failure?  Seriously, isn’t this neglectful Neanderthal due a visit from child services?

                Let’s talk about the title object.  Does mommy really need a new pair of shoes?  By all accounts it doesn’t seem like she’ll be doing much walking with the precious time she has left.  Oh, so now you’re on me to leave the family alone?  Fine…how about this scumbag behind the counter?  The little boy tells his tale of woe, the one that moves our narrator to shell out the big bucks for the titular footwear, and the cashier is so unmoved that he/she might as well respond with a W.C. Fields “Go away kid, ya bother me” retort.  Now you’re probably thinking “At least he can’t say anything to the narrator. Not our bastion of giving and understanding to the true meaning of Christmas.”  THINK AGAIN!  Are we sure his gesture of kindness isn’t really the ultimate sucker act from one big ruse?  I read Oliver Twist, I know how this works.  (Ok, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. But it’s December, one can’t help but have Dickens on the mind.  Ooof, that didn’t come out right.)

                Do you smell that?  It’s the stench of retribution.  I look over at Charger Gal; her mood is much lighter, as if a defense mechanism against ever feeling moved by this piece of music again has been implanted Inception style.  Something tells me she’s not the only one.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

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The 12 Songs of Christmas or Music Not To Slit Your Wrist To

                As is customary this time of year, the music of the season infiltrates our lives in every capacity we can think of:  Commercials feature people with an over/under of 74 ½ teeth displaying fake smiles and a piss poor ability to lip sync.  Elevators and department store sound systems take songs that are at best barely tolerable and turn them into mindless musak massacred pieces of soulless synthetic slop.  Now contrary to the programming of this years’ holiday specific channels, there are holiday songs that exist not sung by the cast of Glee.  So in honor of the 12 days of Christmas that represent the homestretch of this season of receiving cleverly disguised as one of giving, I present my personal mix tape of 12 quality Christmas songs for your enjoyment. (Note for the Twihards:  A mix tape is a series of songs with a similar theme that is presented to another person, usually in CD or cassette tape form.  Back in the day, this was generally utilized by nerdy soulful types to express affection for females, who usually responded to such gestures with as much appreciation as New Yorkers to a 9/11 joke.  Not that I’d know about such things.)   Thus without further ado…

                12.  BAND AID “Do They Know Its Christmas” – The song from Europe that makes you feel guilty about any success you have in life by a super group of rich musicians. It always gets a listen for hearing which participants still resonate (Bono, rocking the mullet in the video), which you forgot about (Paul Young, also rocking the mullet), and which left you scratching your head (JT from Kool and the Gang?).  Still, I always find myself singing “Feed them” by the end, which in turn makes me think of Sam Kinison’s iconic Ethiopia bit (NOTHING GROWS OUT HERE!  NOTHING’S GONNA GROW OUT HERE!)

                11. THE PRETENDERS “2000 Miles” – I find that the older I get, the more I appreciate the soothing hard worn wisdom of Chrissy Hynde’s voice and lyrics.  The song is an ode to those who are away during the holidays, thus making it a perfect tribute for the men and women fighting for our country.  This opening back to back lament of heartache also underscores the fact that there are SOOOOO many sad songs written about Christmas.  Why do we call it the most wonderful time of the year again?

                10. RUN-DMC “Christmas In Hollis” – Now we’re getting hip and happy.  I remember as a teenager that Music Television (Despite all evidence to the contrary, the M in MTV does stand for music) would use this song as a frequent bumper during the holidays  and why not? It’s such a great jam that will get your head bopping in no time.  Plus, your mind can’t help but harken back to the beginning of Die Hard (And why doesn’t that film get brought up in the discussion of great Christmas films? Nothing says Christmas like Bruce Willis, bare feet, and broken glass.)

                9. Bing Crosby and David Bowie “The Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth” – Here’s the 70’s in a nutshell:  In the Christmas special this song appeared on, Bowie was whiter than the phony snow on set, and it’s the most normal he had looked up to that point in his career.  He also proceeded to blow Crosby, only considered to be the greatest American voice until Sinatra came along, completely out of the water in a one-sided display only equaled years later during the Axl Rose-Tom Petty Free Fallin’ duet.  Bonus:  You Tube the pre song banter between the two.  Military fathers and gay sons aren’t this awkward.

                8.  Relient K “The 12 Days Of Christmas” – And you thought there wouldn’t be any sort of modern music on this list?  The group that answers the question “What would Blink 182 sound like if they were a Christian band?” gives this timeless tale some fresh sounds and asks questions we’ve all thought. (What’s a partridge and what’s a pear tree? /I don’t know so please don’t ask me.)

                7.  Michael Bolton “Our Love Is Like A Holiday” – Yup, Michael Bolton.  The song crystallizes what I imagine musicians who just want to get home for the holidays feel and has a soft, romantic vibe.  (And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that I was once a courier who shared an elevator and hung out in a lobby in Universal City with Bolton at his pinnacle and he couldn’t have been a nicer guy.  Nothing at all.) 

                6.  Harry Connick Jr. “Must’ve Been Ol’ Santa Claus” – There’s no doubt in my mind this song was recorded in New Orleans.  The jazz vibe just oozes through this tune about a kid who gets to hang with Santa during his annual sleigh ride.  I have no tap dance ability whatsoever, but it doesn’t mean Harry and his gang don’t make me want to try. (No matter how scuffed up the floor below me may become.)

                5.  CHUCK BERRY “Run, Run Rudolph” – There have been countless remakes of this song, but none did it better than the Godfather of the Guitar.  The thing that always stands out is just how clean the solos sound.  So many modern day guitar gods use their tricks of the trade, but Berry always just let the instrument do the talking. (Probably because he had no choice.)  Plus his voice, never technically proficient, is perfect for the playful nature of the tune.

                4. BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” – There are countless live recordings of The Boss, but this is the song that completely captures what it is like to see E Street Live.  Bruce telling the fans a story that doesn’t quite resonate, but is entertaining nonetheless;  The band taking any song put before them and jamming in unison like they’ve been playing it 100 times a day for 20 years;  the uncontrollable joy that manifests itself in the laughter on stage and the smile on your face.  That personifies Christmas more than any number of “Ho, Ho, Ho”’s bellowed by the Big Man.

                3. THE EAGLES “Please Come Home For Christmas” – Don Henley’s voice has always been a contradiction: soothing beauty swirled with cantankerous admonishment, all hiding the vulnerable pain underneath.  That makes it perfect for a tune about a guy marveling in the joys of others around him while asking for his loved ones’ return with more than a hint of edginess. There hasn’t been such a reluctant romantic since Lloyd Dobler held up the boom box in Say Anything.  

                2. U2 Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) – It’s not Christmas time until the tree is up, Linus has given his spotlight speech on the birth, and I’ve been caught air drumming in the car to the beginning of this infectious two minutes and twenty-one seconds.  Bono is in prime voice (and still rocking the mullet) and you’ve never heard a song sound so vibrant when its subject matter is so sad. (AGAIN with the sad stuff!)

                1. NAT KING COLE “The Christmas Song” – The Gold Standard.  Despite Spielberg’s attempt to stamp it with tragic overtones in Catch Me If You Can because he can’t get over the fact his parents divorced and he didn’t have a perfect existence (Yeah Stevie, you’re a real ‘effin party of one on that front.), it remains THE song to pour some wine, turn out all the lights except for the tree, curl up on the couch with your wife on one side and your dog on other, and listen to utter cool wrapped in a singular velvety voice.  And that I do know something about.

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The Things We Think But Do Not Say or I Love You Stupid!

Dependent upon your love for film in general, or more specifically the words of Cameron Crowe, you will recognize the first half of the title above as the name of Jerry Maguire's Mission Statement.  A magnum opus that gets him fired but unexpectedly kicks off his gratifying journey of rewarding self discovery.  When most people think of a phrase of this sort, they usually associate it with negative connotations such as the aspects of a friend or loved ones’ physical features or mental prowess normally reserved for ridicule and disdain.

I see it a bit different. (Kevin Smith is hardly the only person capable of having a view askew.)  I see The Things We Think But Do Not Say as representative of our fear from expressing the deep affection we feel for one another.  Think about it for a moment; How often do you hear a person extol the virtues of another with unbridled enthusiasm?  Now think about how often the person they are exalting is in the room when they do it.

Society exhibits this “He’s a wonderful human being, but don’t tell him I said that.” mentality for a multitude of reasons, almost all of which trace back to the analogous theme of fear.  We have become so emotionally fearful in modern day America that if FDR proclaimed the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, a great majority of people would respond by suggesting he attempt to have intercourse with his fecal matter. (People in denial tend to be angry like that.)  We fear potential rejection or ridicule when vulnerably looking someone we care for in the eye and telling them what they mean to us because the possibility exists that the reply will be crickets chirping, thus leaving us feeling like a comic who can't get the laugh due to something in their delivery and is now powerless to prevent himself from sweating beneath white hot lights.  Conversely, we can tell other people anything and everything about a person we care for, liberated of any potential denial or humiliation and thus free to trip the night fantastic as we wax poetic over the virtues of someone who has carved out a niche in our hearts. 

You may be getting the vibe that this subject is limited to only the most romantic of situations, but allow me to break into my best Lee Corso impression and state in one singular word “Notsofastmyfriend”.  Not only is that not the case, but I would daresay this happens infinitely more often when the subject is friendship.  Put yourself to the test:  How many friends have you said "I love you" to directly?  Now how many of those same friends have you spoken of in rapturous tones to others and stated, sometimes in so many words, "I love them to death."   This is the point where you say to yourself in a rationalizing tone: "They know. They have to know after everything we've been through."  Take it from someone who early on in life thought he had to always maintain an even strain and learned this lesson the hard way:  Sometimes people just want and need to be told what they mean to you as if they have the IQ of Forrest Gump.  Even a person possessing the most outwardly confident of personality has internal doubt and insecurity that gnaws away at them ever so slightly, waiting for someone to make like Bill Murray at the end of Lost In Translation and deliver a whispering vow of eternal solidarity only they can hear.

Don’t think about style points for they matter not. You don’t need to deliver a Shakespearian sonnet nor do you need to be as melodramatic as a typical character on Grey’s Anatomy.  One of the most heartfelt moments of my life was when my younger brother Excrement looked at me during a New Year’s Eve party and simply said “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”  It still makes me smile to this day (Yes, I know nicknaming my younger brother Excrement ruins the emotional punch.  What can I tell ya?  He loves the more common vernacular for the word.  Nobody said true feeling was perfect.)

So take a word from someone who speaks the truth:  Look a friend in the eye and speak to them like you would if they weren't in the room.  You won’t be disappointed and may even be surprised by the heartfelt nature of their reaction.  As for the warmth that will course through your own veins from speaking in such candid tones, that won’t exactly suck either.  And to those of you who have come away from this vignette with the observation its nothing more than a self-absorbed plea for the people closest to me to do some expressing of their own… what do you want Sigmund, a cigar? (Sometimes they really are just cigars ya know.)

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