I know, wisdom dictates that I either keep fixing up what I have or buy something used, preferably 2 years old, because values drop most during those first years and if there are any major defects they’ll have shown up, probably. However, this wisdom is faulty, outdated, and doesn’t account for my admitted control issues. (I’m OCDelightful!)

Our Situation

Currently we have 2 cars, a Civic and an Accord, both (obviously) Hondas, both from model year 2002 (and both which have recalls on them for some airbag issue).

The Civic, which I bought new in March of ‘02 for around $13,000 (including tax, tag, and title), is at 160,000 miles. Overall, it still runs great, although maintenance issues have slowly become costlier. (For example, I just spent $600 in non-regular maintenance related issues.) Still, the car doesn’t cost me more than $2000 a year in total maintenance, which is pretty decent considering I own it outright. Fuel economy is still excellent and for the exception of a faulty fuel pump sometime back in late 2003 I’ve never had any issues with it. (The fuel pump was under warranty.) This is not the car I’m looking to replace.

The Accord, on the other hand, I bought used in September of 2006 for $13,500. Includes extended warranty, taxes, tag, and title. At that point the most important things for me were to get a reliable car with a payment of about $250 per month, and to get a car I felt comfortable driving long distances in. (I love my Civic, but being 6′1″, I can’t quite stretch out my legs.) The car had 43,000 miles when it was purchased. Just under four years later, it sits at approximately 122,000 miles, meaning that I average about 22,000 miles per year on the vehicle. This is the vehicle I’m looking to replace. Why? Because I can’t trust it (and its starting to cost me).

Don’t get me wrong: the car has never left anyone stranded, and it’s a good car, but before I got to it someone drove it for 43,000 miles, meaning I can’t account for its care history for the first 1/3 of its total mileage life (or half its age, although whoever had it obviously drove it a lot less than me). Recently it started having transmission issues, nothing big, just shifting harder than before; once in a while (very infrequently, actually), mid shift, the RPMs shoot straight up and the car quits accelerating. A second or two later, it catches and goes, pulling the car forward and threatening passengers with a mild case of whiplash. Due to this, we took the car to a transmission shop to get it check. The mechanic said that there didn’t seem to be anything wrong externally with the transmission, but that he thinks there’s something inside that needs repair. Minimum cost: $800, just to take the transmission out, look inside, put it back together and put it back. (This includes taxes.) Parts and additional labor would be extra. Add to this the need for new rotors, a timing belt, and a few other miscellaneous items and suddenly this car threatens to cost me around $2000 in repairs, not including the paint job I need to give it because of some major scratches on the side of the car (there when I bought the thing and are begining to rust) or the $900 I just recently spent on its 120,000 mile maintenance and getting it new tires. My father, formerly a car repair shop owner, says I should try a transmission flush, although the transmission mechanic said he doesn’t think that would help. Still, that’s at least $100.

The value of the car, in its current condition, is about $3900 for sale in the private market, according to Kelly Blue Book. We still owe about the same on it. If I can get that much for it it’ll be a miracle.

Can you see now why I’d rather get rid of this one?

The Fallacy of the Used Vehicle

Cars depreciate, that’s a fact. However, some cars depreciate far more than others. American cars, for example, have a far steeper depreciation after the first two years than either Hondas or Toyotas. (Some claim this is changing, particularly with Fords, but I haven’t really seen the evidence: I don’t know how much of that sentiment is based on fact and how much is based on patriotism.) This means that if you’re going to buy an American car, you might do well to go ahead and buy something used. If you’re going to buy a foreign car, though, chances are you’ll pay nearly as much with the used as you would with the new. There’ll be a few thousand dollars difference, true, but if you’re financing then this difference is offset by the financing deals banks and car dealerships give new car buyers. (For example, Honda currently has 0% for 36 months and 1.9% for 60 months on all new Accords, while Ford is has 0% financing, 60 months, on all new Fusions, plus $2500 cash-back.) Here’s a concrete example:

A 2010 Accord EX-L starts at about $29,000 according to Honda.com. Go to Cars.com, and do a search for used Accords and here’s what you get:

• 2010 Accord EX-L, 72 miles on it, $29,815
• 2009 Accord EX-L, 9,256 miles on it, $24,980
• 2009 Accord EX-L, 6,266 miles on it, $23,998
• 2008 Accord EX-L, 36,086 miles on it, $23,991
• 2008 Accord EX-L, 28,295 miles on it, $23,703
• 2009 Accord EX-L, 9,500 miles on it, $23,279 (although my first question becomes, “what’s wrong with it?”)
• 2008 Accord EX-L, 19,356 miles on it, $22,987 (Honda Certified Used, which is excellent.)

Looks good, right? If I was paying cash then this would be wonderful! Now lets look at monthly payments, comparing the last vehicle on that list (the Honda Certified Used) and the new Accord. (I’ll be using the Cars.com Auto Loan Calculator. Note that I round up for prices.)

• Used: At $23,000, no down payment or trade-in, 6.5% sales tax and 6.96% interest at 60 months my monthly payment is $480.
• New: At $29,000, no down payment or trade-in, 6.5% sales tax and 1.9% interest at 60 months my monthly payment is $540.

Alright, so there’s a $60 dollar difference. Not huge, but nothing to balk at. Now comes the big one: maintenance. (I’m using the AOL Autos calculator and presuming, quite safely, that I’ll be driving 20,000 miles. Yes, AOL still exists; I was surprised, too.)

• For a 2008 Accord bought in its third year, my estimated maintenance costs would be around $1,610 for year 1. Year 2: $210. Year 3: $3,700. This breaks down to around $153 per month.
• For a new 2010 Accord my estimated maintenance costs would be $120 for year 1. Year 2: $353. Year 3: $1610. This breaks down to around $57 per month.

This means that by buying used I’m spending, total, about $90 per month for the used above the price of the new, with the diference being purely maintenance. This doesn’t include efficiencies provided by new technologies introduced into the later model, or the fact that while the bulk of maintenance cost rise for the new will occur after the loan has been paid off (and the car is a mere 5 years old), the maintenance cost rise for the used car combined with the monthly payment will make the auto increasingly more expensive in the later years of the loan.

To put it simply: if you’re going to do a long-term (60 month) payment, buying new allows you to separate car payments from increasing maintenance requirements: you’re either paying for maintenance or for financing, but not both. Buying a used car, however, means that towards the end of the loan you’ll be paying for maintenance AND the loan itself, leaving you in the same place I’m at now, feeling like you’ve been taken for a sap.

Finally, there’s the whole control issue. I don’t know who did what to that car for the first 20,000 miles of its life. Did they change the oil on time? Do routine maintenance? Drove it around mostly in the mid-western and northern states, ensuring that rust would become a factor once it made it down to Florida? (Interesting fact: cars that spend their entire lives in FL develop far less rust than those which are brought from up north.) When I buy a car new I know exactly what goes into that car and what kind of care it has had; if something goes wrong, thee’s a pretty good chance I’ll know whose fault it was. (This is why I always either go to the dealership or find someone recommended in the CarTalk Mechanics Files. In fact, this is how I found my favorite Honda shop in Ft. Lauderdale, ForeignTech (formerly HondaTech), located on State Road 7/441, just north of Broward Blvd.) In other words, I control the environment that car exists in and there are few if any unknown variables. That’s piece of mind a new car will give you.

Of course, there is a third option: just keep what’s already here. Fix it up, pay it off, and keep it for a while longer. This has been heavily considered, but we decided that having two very high mileage cars, no matter how well maintained, put it at risk of finding ourselves in some future date needing to buy two cars at the same time. The last thing I want to do is have to buy two used cars in a hurry. While I love sparring with used car sales people, (seriously, I LOVE it!) I don’t care to do it at gunpoint.

Sidenote: There are a few points I’m sure some of you more financially astute folks are thinking, like “why not just save $500 a month and pay cash when you’re ready?” and “why not get a cheaper used car but finance for a far shorter term to avoid the maintenance cost overlap?”

With the first question its a question of practicality: we didn’t start saving for a car years ago (even though we do have savings, a rainy year fund NOT to be spent on cars). Had we successfully done so, it would be fine, probably. $500 for 4 years would be $24k, just about the right amount for a new midsize sedan. But starting now, even at $500 per month would still mean that it would be 2 years before we could buy something as cheap as a Smart Fortwo, which my wife refuses to drive around here (lots of trucks) and is impractical from the standpoint of our parenting plans (don’t read into that), or a used vehicle, which we would rather not buy, due to the aforementioned control issues. I really don’t think we have 2 years. Combine the repair and finance costs for what we do have and we wouldn’t even be able to start saving any appreciable amount for the next year.

The second question is actually a great one, and something we’re considering. I used a Honda Accord for my example because it was our default choice, since that’s what were replacing. Smaller, more inexpensive cars are also options. We also plan to put a down payment. The examples were simply for the sake of having some numbers to play with.

Alright, So Buying New. What Are the Options?

Although I used the Honda Accord for my example above, we’re far from making a final decision. We’re still considering the Ford Fusion and Taurus; Toyota Venza, Matrix, and Prius (yes, I’m well aware of recalls), Honda Insight, Civic, Crosstour and Fit, and others we haven’t yet really looked at. (One car, the Smart Fortwo, was eliminated, sadly, because we need a back seat. Oh, but how I want one of those little skates.) It’s still nebulous for us so the answer to this will come in another article sometime in the near future. For now, if you have any recommendations, especially about the cars I’ve mentioned here, I’d love to hear it.

Even as recently as last year, we unwrapped Christmas gifts first thing in the morning. As we’ve gotten older, “first thing” has come increasingly later (despite efforts to the contrary). Mostly, people want to sleep in.

This year we start at noon. We’re waiting for the arrival of my sister. She decided to stay at her in-laws’ with her husband and daughter, officially breaking the last vestige of an outdated tradition, one dependent upon the excitement of children, a vibrancy now missing. A new tradition therefore begins, and presents will be opened not first thing in the morning, but at the crack of noon.

Everything changes, even Christmas.

Wow. I made myself feel old. Let me try that again.

Today I turn 1e.

Better, although since most people don’t count in either the binary or hexadecimal systems, I suppose I should tell you that today, according to the decimal numbering system and Gregorian calendar, I turn 30.

Automated systems have flooded my inbox with celebratory messages; friends have sent me emails and notifications in various social sites wishing me a happy birthday. (The automated systems outnumber the friends. How sad is that?) Some of those people have been asking me how it feels to turn “the big three-oh”. I tell them it’s just a number in a particular numbering system. In truth, the answer–which involves the feeling of aging, marking one year closer to the end of my natural lifespan, joying at the understanding that comes with age and seeing history unfold, better appreciating the greatness of life and the people around you, etc.–is far more complicated; it’s far easier to keep it simple since those same complicated answers apply to every birthday, not just this one.

I know it’s supposed to be a pretty big deal, turning 30, but I would rather judge how monumental a birthday is according to what happens around the time itself, not because of a milestone in a particular numbering system. (Think about it, if we only had four fingers per hand then the world would likely run on a base-8 numbering system; I would be turning 36 today, which would be as much of a milestone as my turning 25.) For example, in retrospect, the year I turned five was a pretty monumental one.

I had recently grown cognizant of the concept of a calendar, though it hadn’t yet dawn on me that every year had 12 months. In fact, I still distinctly remember the day it happened, looking at the calendar and reading Septiembre, which meant that Christmas was only four months away, then New Year’s. “How many months will next year have?” I asked. My mom said “Twelve,” and for weeks I wondered how people knew how many months a year had, or what those months would be called. Maybe there was an announcement made on television, or maybe they got a letter. And if this year had four months while next year had twelve, then how many months would the year after that have, sixteen? Eight?

A few months later, I still was not yet totally comfortable with that whole “number of months in a year” deal, but at least I knew enough to know not only when my birthday was, but I also to anticipate it well in advance. Those random parties people threw for me in the past, although I didn’t quite remember them, now finally made sense, temporally speaking.

Yes, in some ways I was a slow child, one with far more imagination than sense.

Despite my inability to remember these previous birthday parties, I knew they were good events. Even with all the milestones and events of that year, or maybe because of them something about this year was different. Everything changed. That’s because this was the first birthday I can, to this day, really remember having a birthday party. Actually there were three, but I can only really remember one. (I think I remember another one, but I might be mixing up memories.)

My uncle’s family owned a place on a mountain in Jayuya, a tiny town in the middle of Puerto Rico’s central mountainous region, the Cordillera Central. While I infamously hated the trip up there–the twisty mountain roads all but guaranteed my becoming a fountain of vomit–I loved everything after arrival. The weather was cool, the view unmatched and I got to walk around in their farm. (A farm there is often on a mountainside.) In the house, I got to play with the arcade machine my uncle kept in his porch, the one with the coin bucket lock open so we would only need to use one quarter to play.

It was fun. Lots of fun. But as great as that was, a warning from my cousin turned that from a a dream-like, hazy occasion into a concrete memory.

For my birthday that year, during a party previous, I received a He-Man game. (I don’t remember that party, but I do remember getting the game, playing with it over and over, and taking it with me.) The only thing that still sticks out in my memory is the board, which had a plastic overlay that shifted players’ positions throughout the game session. During that period it was my favorite game. (It was a new toy, what else would you expect?) My cousin’s cousins (unrelated to me) were coming over, and while I was excited about more people coming to play, he told me they were thieves, and they would steal my toys. That’s when paranoia struck: they wanted to steal the game!

I raced though the house not only putting that game away, but also everything that belonged to me which I feared they might steal, mostly other toys. After hiding everything in the room, I went looking for my mom, who was in the kitchen with my aunt, and tried to convince her that we should leave before these thieves got there. Of course, I didn’t call them thieves. I didn’t even tell her I was worried. I just told her I really wanted to go home: there was another birthday party waiting there for me and I was simply making sure we wouldn’t be late.

I never met these cousins. We left before anyone got there.

Since then I’ve wondered whether what my cousin said was true, or whether he said that just to scare me. I’d like to think both are at least as likely, but given how my cousin was and given my willingness to trust him–being that he was so much older and therefore wiser than me (he was six)–it was far more likely that he wanted to scare me.

There isn’t much I remember after that point. I’d like to say that I remember having a party at the local Burger King, but while I do remember a party there, I don’t remember whether it was subsequent the trip, or even if it happened that year. I do remember going back to school after the Thanksgiving break and feeling like an old soul, wizened by the passage of years, finally able to stand tall next to all the other five year olds, although later, as a 5 year old in the first grade, I would once again learn that I was still young. Only in retrospect can I truly appreciate how young I was.

Makes one wonder whether youth really is wasted on the young, or whether it can only truly be appreciated by them.

Today I turn 30, or 1e or 11110. Take your pick. While I’m not in the “age is just a number” crowd, the fact is that it is, so instead of judging whether a year is a milestone based on a particular numbering system, I would rather judge it by the events surrounding it, and more importantly, by the memories that survive over the long haul. For example, I’m in the middle of my first attempt at a novel now, spurred by the National Novel Writing Month. I’m also working with my dad on his new business venture. My health is steadily improving, making this birthday considerably better than my 27th, 28th or 29th, even though it was during that last one that I bought a house, and during that first one that I went down to Puerto Rico for a great, but short vacation. Still, I actually feel younger than I did then, and unlike then I actually feel good about the year to come.

Instead of passing judgment, however, I’ll spend my time enjoying the occasion. Whether for good or for ill–the best memories contain aspects of both–history will attend to the rest.

I wonder if people will make as big of a deal when I turn 100000, or when I turn 20.

One day, when mom was doing the laundry, she looked at the back yard told me, “That grass is so high Tarzan’s going to make his next movie in our back yard.” This was the greatest news any four year old could get: Tarzan would be coming to my house to make a movie in my back yard!

Somewhere in the back of my mind thoughts wondering whether there would be enough room for him bubbled up. I mean really, there were no trees back there, how was he going to swing around? But I pushed those thoughts out as soon as they appeared. After all, mom said he’d be coming to make a movie, so she had already talked to him on the phone, right? And how had he found out about our yard? Dad probably told him. (They knew all the famous people.)

Although those questions still gnawed at me, my excitement never lessened, my faith never waned. He was coming to make a movie: he was the king of the jungle, and our back yard was as jungle as he was likely to get around here. And most of his movies were done just a couple of streets over, like everything else.

For days, I bragged to my friends that Tarzan would come to my house sometime soon. They were excited. I beamed. We all wanted to meet him, all wanted to be in the movie, all wanted to swing on vines. We even practiced our Tarzan screams, much to the chagrin of our parents and the neighbors.

Sometime later, I can’t say when, I heard the sound of an engine buzzing in the back yard. I stood at the marquesina and looked on as dad slowly mowed the grass, cutting it down to a more civil size. Why was he doing this? Tarzan hadn’t come yet! Then again, maybe Tarzan was like Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Mouse, coming and going without being seen. Or maybe he had decided to film somewhere else this time. I never asked anyone about that, thinking that if I didn’t, maybe he’d still show up.

Months passed. Every time the grass grew more than six inches I would get excited: maybe this time he would come, or if he’d come last time, maybe I could see him. Or maybe I’d find a lion in the back yard. Or maybe… maybe…

Justifying to myself why he hadn’t come yet was easy. After all, it wasn’t like the back yard was big enough to swing in, and there really weren’t any trees, other than our neighbor’s lemon tree, which branches that grew over the fence to our yard. Maybe dad and mom decided he couldn’t make the movie in our back yard and forgot to tell me. But the hope lived, and lived, and lived, until one day it left.

I waked to the back yard, barefoot and in my underwear, with woolly hair looking a bit like a jungle boy. The grass was about as tall as my ankles. I looked around yard, at the bushes then at the sides of the house, even the where all the recao grew. He wasn’t there. He wouldn’t be there. No Tarzan, no movie. He wouldn’t come. He didn’t come. Tarzan never showed up.

Edit: P.S…
Years later–only a couple of years ago, in fact–I finally asked mom about what she said that day. She looked at me with as if she’d heard something very strange, then told me she didn’t remember saying anything along those lines.

For years I had wondered whether maybe she used the phrase regularly for things being so wild that Tarzan himself would be involved. (Having four small kids running about, this couldn’t be discounted.) Turns out this she didn’t; this was an off-hand remark, something she no longer remembered, and likely didn’t remember just a few hours after first saying it then. I obviously did.

Academic Overview

The 48-Hour Bravo pH Esophageal Test monitors the esophagus (the tube connecting the mouth to the stomach) for 48 hours in order to determine whether the heartburn I’m feeling is really acid or something else. In this case “heartburn” actually means the burning in my throat, as if I’d just swallowed battery acid, rather than in my chest, as if my heart had burst into flames. (This might indicate another condition entirely, one called LPRD, or laryngo-pharyngeal reflux disease. It’s sort of like GERD, but felt in the throat, not in the chest.)

During the test, the doctor puts a 26mm capsule down the throat and sticks it to the side of the esophagus. A monitor is then given to the patient which records the capsule’s pH readings. These will, in theory, help determine if the person has GERD. Two days later, the monitor is returned. A week later the capsule will detach itself and go through the digestive track.

For more details on the test, including getting ready, check out the Cleveland Clinic’s information site on it.

My Experience

I went over to Tampa General Hospital to get implanted with the Bravo pH capsule. I got there, as per instructions, at 1:30 P.M. Got checked in, found the waiting room which overlooked Tampa Bay and Bayshore Blvd. The Wife, there with me, cracked a smile when she realized she “could see [her] old high school from here!” The soft music playing in the background made the scene like something out of a travel video. A few minutes later we looked at one of the nearby televisions and realized it was playing a travel video.

After an hour of watching, waiting, and enjoying the aroma of hot chocolate–especially aromatic considering I’d not eaten anything in almost 24 hours–the nurse stopped by with a device the size of a small-to-medium camera which I would, for the next two days, wear around my neck. This would be the external monitor, which would record all the transmissions sent from the tiny device which I would soon have implanted in me. Additionally it had three buttons which I would press every time I felt I had heartburn, regurgitation (food coming up to the back of my throat) or chest pain. Then she gave me a diary and told me to write down all my symptoms along with the time they occurred, making sure to use the time shown on the device itself, and not any other time piece. Beside the time, I would later find out, there was also a display of my current esophageal pH. I would later find this a very useful tool with which to experiment.

With all that said and done, I was brought in for the procedure. I laid down on a bed, clothes and all, and my gastroenterologist came in. He told me to gargle some numbing liquid–”DON’T SWALLOW IT!” he repeatedly reminded me.

“Aren’t you going to put me to sleep?”

“Nope. The procedure will take about a minute. The stuff you just gargled will numb your throat to quell your gag reflex.” As he said that, the nurse stuck a plastic ring in my mouth to keep it open, then strapped it to the back of my head. (Frighteningly S&M-ish.) Then he continued, “Alright, now I’m going to put this down your throat.” It was at that very moment that he pulled out this long, thin hoobajoob, about the size of my arm, out from under some desk. Oh, shit, I thought, as he asked me to turn to my side. “To make this a bit more comfortable I’ve lubricated the device with a bit of water-soluble KY-jelly.” Seriously, I didn’t need to hear that.

As I lay on my side, the doctor stuck the device in my mouth. When he got to the back of my throat he ordered me to swallow. As soon as I did he shoved the hoobajoob all the way down to just above my stomach. That’s when he turned the suction machine on. “Alright, now this will take about a minute, so just relax.”It took everything I had not to start heaving. All I could do was count. Seventy-two seconds later, he pulled out the hoobajoob. A monitoring device about the size of a #2 pencil’s eraser and ferule had been implanted in my esophagus. It would take about a week for it to dislodge itself and go through the Chamber of Doom.

The whole process, the laying down–the gargling stuff, the implantation–all took about ten minutes. It would be an hour before I ate or drank anything, as per doctor’s orders, seeing as the numbing agent I gargled also numbed the control valve which keeps food from accidentally finding its way into the lungs.

The Testing Period

Normal esophageal pH is somewhere between 4 and 7. If it goes lower it indicates that acid is being refluxed, since the stomach’s pH is between 1 and 2. If it goes higher it might indicate bile reflux, although the stomach sometimes as alkaline periods. (The pH of bile is above 8.) Sudden drops of pH (from 7.1 to 5.3, or 6.1 to 3.8) indicate acid reflux. During the testing period my pH went as low as 1.8 and as high as 8.6, possibly 8.8. All this as per the pH display in the Bravo monitoring device I now had hanging around my neck. (It really did look like a camera.) The vast majority of the time it stuck between 4 and 7, usually between 5 and 7. What this means, I have no idea. I will when I get my results back.

I was told to eat foods which would cause my symptoms, so the first thing I did was head to my parents’ house, where my father, a pizza restaurant owner for years, would be making pizza. It was delicious. Deeeelicious. I topped the pizza off with a small Starbucks frappuccinno. Yes, evil, I know, but these are foods I KNOW would bring about symptoms. There was one small hitch with my plan, however…

Did I tell you I have a bad gallbladder? Yeah, I do. Having it taken out sometime soon (probably in the next week). Runs in the family. Also doesn’t help that I spent more than my fair share of time pigging out to crapstacular food. Mia culpa, mia culpa. Problem now was all those highly acidic foods were also fatty enough to cause problems.

My gallbladder took its revenge on me not immediately, but rather the next day. (It holds grudges.) While I had heartburn after the pizza (the pH reading dropped as low as 2.0 for brief periods, but stayed mostly above the 4.0 mark), it wasn’t until the next morning that the problems really started. After my breakfast–a sandwich made of egg whites, wheat bread and kale, followed by a cup of vanilla almond milk–I started feeling bloated. Real bloated. Then suddenly I started having pains. I was having a gallbladder attack. This was at 9:30 A.M. It would be almost 7:00 P.M. that night before the attack passed. In the meantime, my pH fluctuated between way-too-acidic (pH 3) and way too alkaline (pH 8). Since I wasn’t able to eat or drink during this time, the test was pretty much ruined.

I tried to salvage the situation on the final day. I was feeling well enough to eat what I would regularly eat, including low-fat foods that would cause me symptoms, foods like barley, oats, and juice (although it never dawned on me to try out BBQ sauce). For the most part the worst food of the bunch was the barley, which always gives me problems after a while. Don’t know why, really. It goes down fine, but then about an hour later I start burning up. Same with oats. The pH monitor corroborated this observation.

Anyway, the test ended at 4:00 on the dot; that’s when the monitor shut down. I dropped it off at the hospital and was finally rid of the thing. I should be receiving the results sometime this week. At that moment all I cared about was that I could finally go back to doing things like sipping water throughout the day and eating mostly fruits and vegetables, things which I know keep my heartburn at bay, medications or no.

The hardest part of this test, gallbladder problems aside, was that I couldn’t take anything for the discomfort I felt. I couldn’t chew gum, couldn’t suck on hard candies, couldn’t drink water to wash out the acid, and certainly couldn’t take antacids. Hopefully, however, this test shows that things aren’t as bad as I thought they’d be, even though they’re obviously not good. Now that it’s over I’m only concerned with one thing: getting rid of the bad, un-salvageable gallbladder. That’s a story for some other time.

She was describing something she was excited about. Not just speech, but also lots of hand motions. Lots. Suddenly she whacks me with her elbow; doesn’t know whether the hit lands in the head or what, but she starts inspecting me. That’s right before a punch to the arm jolts her out of sleep. “Ouch! Did he just punch me?”, she thought, turning to me and seeing me fall asleep with my back to her. Was he dreaming? What the heck was that all about?

Next morning we talked about what happened. She told me about her dream, how she thought she beaned me. I told her about my dream and how after she beaned me I, still in my dream state,  did the knee-jerk thing and punched her on the arm before going back to the park to hide and seek or whatever.

We called it even, and now tell the story to get a laugh, the story of the night we beat each other up in our sleep. Anger issues? Maybe. Not likely. For now we’re going with love taps.

A few days after our arrival, we picked up a couple of wooden-frame bunk beds from either a garage sale or some of my dad’s friends, I can’t really remember, although I still remember–vaguely–the neighborhood from where we picked the beds up. To me the area looked like the typical American neighborhood: large yards and two-story homes with gabled roofs, wooden accents, no window or carport bars, and neutral colors, mostly browns. This in contrast to the flat-roofed, bright colored cement houses with, tiny yards, barred porches and car ports we had been used to until that point. It was the kind of place I would see on TV, not one where I expected to find myself in, riding a bicycle around, which I did.

Even before the beds were in the house, I was excited. It wasn’t because the mattresses themselves were blue with a spaceship theme. It wasn’t even because we finally had full beds again. It was because these were bunk beds! Bunk beds! We… had bunk beds! I always wanted to sleep in one of those. Having seen them on television and at friends’ houses, I always imagined they were a world of fun.

While it seems to be customary to fight for the top bunk, I was always more interested in the bottom. My brother lept to the top bunk and claimed it for himself, while I was more than happy taking the bottom. In fact, I’ve always preferred the bottom, for which I can think of only three reasons: First, I like small, enclosed spaces, provided they’re at least tall enough to let me sit comfortably. Second, I have a fear of heights. No, let me rephrase that: I have a fear of falling. More than once, I envisioned myself falling from the top bunk during my sleep, even though it had a guard rail. Third, I’ve always been bigger than my younger brother, and was afraid that my weight would one day snap the bed’s frame and in the process kill him. A fat kid’s worst nightmare. It also almost came true, though not because of me.

My younger sister and brother were either playing or fighting once (I don’t remember which, and one eventually led to the other anyway), with her at the top bunk and him at the bottom. With his legs, he was lifting and dropping the top bed. During one push, the bed became dislodged and fell on to the bottom. A yell went out, and mom, my older sister, and I raced into the room.

“I din’t kill him!” my younger sister yelled. “I didn’t kill him!” She was crying, shaken, repeating the innocence plea. My mom raced to the bunk and we lifted the fallen bed. Because it had fallen at an angle, my brother was able to roll into the empty pocket between the edge of the bed and the wall. He came out of there laughing.

The thing about the bottom bunk is that it was my own space, my room within a room. Here I covered the walls with drawings of the Ninja Turtles and the various starship Enterprises, decorated the bed frame with action figures, and stacked the space below the bed with books. In a three bedroom apartment of four kids and two parents, this personal space was priceless.

After we moved from our first apartment into the house where we’d spend our second and third years in the country, the bunk beds were sawed in half in order to make two separate beds. We always thought about putting them back together, until the day I broke the frame by tossing myself onto the bed, trying to imitate a move I saw Razor Ramon do on WWF. The damage was irreparable. That bed frame was eventually replaced with a box and a wooden frame which would last me until college.

The next time I had a bunk bed setup was in college, where I roomed with an old friend from high school. The bed configuration changed on a regular basis, so that sometimes we would have bunk beds, and others he would have a bunk-desk setup, with the bed on top and the space below it occupied by a desk. I, on the other hand, never once spent any time with the bottom of my bed higher than about a foot from the ground. Again, fear of falling, fear of breaking the bed. (Fear of breaking furniture comes with being fat, and by now I was fatter than when I broke the other frame a few years earlier.)

My college roommate was in the Naval ROTC program in high school, graduating the most decorated member in our school’s history. That always stuck with me, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d one day end up in a submarine. What would it be like to be in one of those tiny rooms, where the bunk beds had barely any headroom? I wondered about this for years, even after he switched from Navy to Army. I remember seeing how many of them kept pictures, books and lights in there, some even keeping curtains in order to have some proper privacy, in addition to being somewhat self sufficient. I tried, therefore, to decorate the bottom bunk in such a way that I could do almost everything I needed in that tiny bedroom (by which I mean a room that is also a bed). I built a magazine rack, kept my books and instruments under the bed, and… well, really, that was about it. I never got to adding a curtain, and everything else, other than eating, was done outside of the dorm.

Like my previous bunking experience, this had not just ups, but also downs. One of the downsides of taking the bottom bunk in college is hearing your roommate and his girlfriend at the top bunk do things they hope you don’t know about because they think you’re sleeping. The noise level was low, but there’s no mistaking the bed’s rocking. Although she was a looker–and I mean seriously, the guy did far better than I expected–I still considered this one of the biggest downsides to having a bunk bed, mostly because I didn’t know whether I should have been offended or mounting a camera. I never said anything, thinking that maybe, eventually, I’d stop being so sensitive about such things. I never did. Still, it didn’t matter: their relationship didn’t last long, and eventually it was just me and him in the room, watching Patton, burning popcorn, and prank calling the university radio station, pretending to be Bill Clinton or quoting lines from Full Metal Jacket.

I wasn’t all alone in there all the time, mind you. That bottom bunk was where I first slept with a girl. No, I don’t mean sex. I mean actual sleeping. A friend, I’ll call her Brandy, had this thing about going to sleep hugging. She didn’t sleep around, mind you–coitus or otherwise–she was just really, really friendly and very touchy-feely. The first time she asked if I’d ever done that I answered with a quick, “Uhm… no. I wish.” So she invited herself to stay over at my place. She felt like hugging and just wanted to lay down and hug. Of course, I decided to give it a try. The fact that she was beautiful, tall, slender and shapely had nothing to do with my saying yes. I just liked hanging out with her. Really. Stop laughing.

Before that night she had warned me of one thing: “I tend to be a spider in bed. I just sort of take over and end up in weird positions. The only person I don’t do that with seems to be my boyfriend.” Wait, boyfriend?

As you can probably guess, I didn’t sleep very well that night, waking up 37 times, each time in a strange, usually uncomfortable position. She seemed to do fine, a bit like a rock with arms and legs. At least that’s what I thought, until I woke up at about five in the morning. She was gone, with a note that said, “Sorry, not enough room here. Hope I didn’t disturb you. I’m going to my place to be a spider.” Next time I saw her she apologized for leaving, and invited me over to her place “sometime”. I never took her up on that offer. Couldn’t help but wonder of sleeping with someone else on the bed would always be that uncomfortable. I wondered, too, if it was the height: she was almost 6-feet tall, just a couple of inches shorter than me. Or maybe it was my girth.

Two days of marriage would later teach me a valuable lesson: never try to spend an extended period of time sharing a bed with someone if the mattress is either a single or double, not unless both of you are very slender. If both of you can’t be described as “skinny” and also “short”, you should at least make it a full size. Queen is preferable. Also, when you’re still getting used to having someone on your bed, depending on how much you move around, there’s a fair chance you’ll end up in different Y-axis positioning than when you first stared, so make sure you have both head and foot room, something I didn’t have at that point. But yeah, back to bunk beds.

It was during that semester that another one of my fears regarding bunks almost came true. My roommate was trying to get down from his bunk, not totally awake. A sudden thump followed by an “Aw, crap!” woke me (and his girlfriend, who’d been in his bed) up in an instant. He was OK, limping a little, but had it been me, I might have broken my knee. Again.

After that semester, I moved back in with my parents. My exposure to bunk beds was incidental from thereon out. The only place I steadily encountered them was at J & A’s  dorm. (J was my best friend during college, and A was her roommate.) J was the artsy, lively kind and A was a free and calming spirit. This combination made for great room ambiance, including individualistic, but subdued decor; incenses of a hundred different smells, and a constant soundtrack that included Tori Amos, Dead Can Dance, DJ Shadow and Loreena McKennitt. Of course, I never slept over at their place, so I never again slept at a bunk in college. In fact, only visits to my then girlfriend, a long-distance affair that lasted about two years, would have me sleeping in a bunk, always the bottom.

Everyone fights for the top bunk. Everyone but me, it seems. The fact is that although the top bunk gets all the glory, the bottom bunk offers a room within a room, a quiet place dedicated to only one person, and can also double as a couch in some cases. I’m a fan of small offices and private spaces, and without a hesitation I will state that almost nothing beats a well designed bottom bunk. At least, that’s what you realize if you take the time to look at the world according to the bottom bunk.

I belong to more than a few email groups. Usually, these are for subjects I wish to learn on: psychology, health, writing, philosophy, etc. Recently I joined a particular health group because I wanted to find out more about a particular condition, one that isn’t well studied but which is being revealed as being more prominent than people once thought. I did this in order to learn, and to help others. However, the old adage “No good deed goes unpunished” proved true, as it was my helping others that cost me my ability to learn more about it. I’ll explain:

For months, I had been part of this group. I spent my time in the shadows, reading messages and learning, since there wasn’t anything I could really jump in and teach or help. Frankly, it was a bit of a relief, since I’m used to being the person who steps in and is instantly a factor in the conversation. Don’t ask me why that is, it just is. Probably because I make it a point to learn by teaching.

As I read, I learned. A lot. More than I could have ever learned by reading some web page (and I read a lot of them). More than I could have ever learned by listening to a lecture. More than I could have learned by asking a doctor during a visit. I learned about the personal struggles of some, their victories, and their frustrations. Their world became real to me, not because of knowledge, but because of emotion. I finally understood their pain, and I knew that, at least as far as I was concerned, they weren’t alone. Turns out many people with this condition are, and they’re afraid because they don’t know what life now holds in store for them.

Yet, I never pitied them. Never. I empathized, I felt for them, and I prayed. In fact, with the knowledge I’d gained in this group, I started helping others in different forums, helping them see that their diagnosis wasn’t the end of the world, just the beginning of a challenge, that there was still good to come. And it felt good when someone would come back and tell me “Listen, your information was spot on, and I’m now on the path to feeling better because I followed your advice.”

That’s a really, really good feeling. Times like these make me wonder whether perhaps I should indeed go into the medical profession. I’ve certainly considered it more than once.

A few months after I joined, a message came up in the group: one of its members was having a problem with her daughter. The girl had gone off her ADHD medications and was engaging in self-destructive behavior, causing her mom to worry and the condition to worsen.

Now it was my time to give back to the group, even though it was off-topic.

I wrote her mom in order to talk to her about Dabrowski’s theory of positive disintegration. Based on what she had described, it seemed her daughter was at Level II, spontaneous disintegration, espressed in her case by both prurient behavior (possibly due to sensual and emotional overexcitability) and self-destructive tendencies (drugs, alcohol, and very likely suicidal thoughts; possibly psychomotor and intellectual overexcitabilities). Many of these overexcitabilities often cause people to be labled as ADD or ADHD, and stuck on medication to suppress these symptoms, when in actuality it’s just the mind screaming for proper stimuli. I explained in my letter that her daughter would do well to be evaluated by someone familiar with TPD, and bore my soul as I told her, in very detailed terms, of my own experiences.

The email never made it through the filters.

Don’t get me wrong, the reason was very valid: the email was not within the scope of the group’s intent. No problem, totally understood. It was the next part of the letter that floored me.

See, it was with this letter than I introduced myself to the group. I told them that while I was not diagnosed with the particular condition, I had stuck around in order to learn. I thanked them for the knowledge given me, since I’d been able to help others with what I learned. The response I received from the moderator was essentially this: You don’t have the condition, therefore you shouldn’t be in this group. If you want to learn more and raise awareness, here’s a website.

Turns out I had seen that website before, and read it in about six minutes. It gave me a great intellectual overview of the condition, but it was devoid of all emotion, the root of all desire to learn. Then I was kicked out of the group.

I couldn’t help wondering about this, couldn’t help questioning when I should start caring. Seriously, when is it OK for me to get into learning about issues on the personal level instead of the intellectual? Should I be as selfish as most people generally are (including myself) and be concerned only with conditions which affect me directly? Too often, wealthy folks and Hollywood elites are lampooned for caring about causes only after something affects them: autism, AIDS, cancer, multiple sclerosis… They’re called selfish and self-serving because they didn’t put their face out for that or some other issue when they were healthy. Yet, when someone genuinely goes out of their way to get to the personal level with an issue, trying to not just learn about the issue, but also to care enough to be stirred to action, should they be shunned?

This morning I was watching the news, and a commercial came up about a walk to raise money for research into the causes of premature births. The organizer? A local news anchor whose twins were born four months early. How would she be perceived if she gave more than a passing rip had her babies been born at 9 months? Would she be seen as someone who truly cared, or seen just as another celebrity looking for a cause in order to get more of the spotlight?

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that some may fear that their suffering is being exploited for someone’s sick form of entertainment. You’re going through something completely life changing, possibly life threatening. You don’t want someone there gawking, offering nothing more than their pity, or even worse offering bad advice which makes you feel weak or like if this is somehow your fault. But do you prevent that by shunning both the good and the bad, those who would gawk as well as those who could potentially help?

I realize the answer to this is very personal, and I don’t expect there to be a universal response one way or another. Still, I can’t help wonder: if you want people to really get emotionally involved in your cause, why wouldn’t you let them see the human side of things? Do the benefits of secrecy outweigh the risks? Consider also whether you really expect people to be inspired to action by a pamphlet’s worth of information on a condition that’s little understood.

So here I am, left wondering. I still help those I can with the information I gained, but the loss of that resource was cataclysmic; sadly, I now find myself being less able to help those who come for help regarding that particular condition, not the least of reasons being because I no longer have a teacher, and frankly, I don’t have the time to do a ton of my own research. Maybe the onus is on me to go out and read up on this. (To a certain extent, I thought I had.) I haven’t seen any local support groups, so that’s out of the question. And if I’m left to be a one-man army on this, without getting any sort of personal experience, would my help do more harm than good? That strikes at the heart of my fear.

For now, all I can do is pray. Maybe I can start something, start an organization or a web group, but given I don’t have the condition, would anyone really take me seriously? Probably not, and for good reason. It reminds me of a story wherein a pig and a chicken are standing on the side of the road and see a billboard which reads “Bacon and Eggs: America’s Breakfast.” The chicken says, “Wow, isn’t it inspiring to be a part of that.” The pig responds, “Sure, it’s easy for you to say. For you it’s merely dedication. For me it’s total commitment.” The selfish passion of someone who’s in the trenches, battling the monsters themselves will always be greater than that of someone whose only passions spawn from a non-selfish desire to help. One person’s fighting for their life while another is fighting for what the perceive to be a good cause.

For now I’m only truly welcome to learn if I’m committed, instead of just dedicated, which leaves me wondering when I should start caring.

“Now is the time to design the next ten years of your life–not once they’re over.
– Anthony Robbins, Awaken the Giant Within

Driving to my parent’s house last night, I was listening to the Gnarles Barkley song “Crazy”. Over and over again. That’s because it was the first time I’d ever caught this passage:

My heroes have the heart
to live the life I want to live.
And all I remember
is thinking
“I want to be like them.”

Thing is, I’d been giving a lot of thought to exactly that: my heroes, the lives they live, and what it takes to be like them. At the same time, I’ve been thinking about my future, where I am, and where I’m going, starting with goals for the next year.

It didn’t take long for me to start writing down these thoughts. What I came up with was not a list of what makes these people successful, what makes them my heroes, but a list of things I’ve found keep me from succeeding to the highest possible level. Unfortunately, succeeding only 90% is sort of like jumping across a gorge only 90%. Anything short of all the way keeps us from where we hope to end up.

At the top of that list was productivity, which can be broken down into the following: useful information gathering, action, and growth. If I’m to become more productive, here’s where I begin.

Last night at Border’s Books, I found myself spending more time than usual in the Self Help section. For the past week I’ve been eying some of the books in my library, particularly those by Anthony Robins. I listened to some of his stuff earlier in the day, so my being there was a directed coincidence.

When I got back home, I looked through the stack of writing magazines I picked up a few days before. I thought about the last year, my goals then, what I’d written and, most importantly, read. Someone once told me that if you were to read just one book in your field every month for a year, by the end of that year you would become an expert in that profession. In his book, On Writing, Stephen King talks about keeping a novel with him at all times, and how he reads over 50 per year. Thinking back through 2008, I realized this is one of the areas where I’ve faltered. Badly.

Taking this to heart, I resolve to read considerably more. Offline. Don’t get me wrong, I still plan to do a lot of reading online. But the fact remains that on most subjects, blogs haven’t yet come close to replacing the depth with which a book covers a topic. (The only area I’ve really seen this be any different is SEO, and that only because SEO is such a dynamic, web-specific field that print media doesn’t have much hope of catching up.) As of now, topics of interest are fiction writing, technical writing, business, and self improvement;

(In case you’re wondering, I’ve already started on Awaken the Giant Within. I had been reading Nancy Kress’ Nano Comes to Clifford Falls: And Other Stories, which is inline with my desire to focus on short fiction, a genre I believe will make a very strong comeback over the next few years.)

As for my reading online, I realize more and more every day how much I loathe sitting for long periods of time when I could instead be walking. (I already sit for 8 hours at my job, I don’t need to do it for any part of the other 8+ I spend awake.) While I’ll be reading more books, there’s a lot I can still gain from reading online. That’s why I’ve decided to get an iPhone, or at least a phone plan which also allows for unlimited internet plus a better phone than I have now. Obviously, an iPhone is preferred, but any phone with a good screen where I can comfortably resize the text will do, since I plan to do most of my blog reading while either on an elliptical glider or walking around the neigborhood. Oh, and FYI, I’m still using Google Reader and couldn’t be happier.

In addition to reading, I also need to review the tools I use. At my job, the tools are fairly simple: RoboHelp, Microsoft Word, Microsoft Outlook, SnagIt, and Adobe Acrobat are the standard. Over the years I’ve found these to be the best for what I do (though I’ve yet to try FrameMaker), and just about everything else is extra. As far as blogging goes, while I love the new Wordpress 2.7 administrator interface, running multiple blogs means logging into multiple sites and keeping track of multiple article lists, schedules, etc. It’s far easier to use a tool like MarsEdit (which costs US$29.95) or even Flock (which is free) in order to post to multiple sites from a single interface. The fact that the Internet is not always accessible also makes it somewhat of a necessity. Currently, I’m evaluating some of these tools to see which meet my needs. (MarsEdit seems to be winning. Ecto, which costs US$17.95, also looks like an option.)

But what about the tools I use at other times? When I write (as opposed to blog), how do I leverage my time? For not-necessarily-online writing projects, should I use WriteRoom, Ulysses, Scrivener? Or is it better–though seemingly less productive–to instead use my typewriter for first drafts? (It is considerably more fun than my Mac, love it as I do. And since it forces one to think before hitting the page as opposed to thinking on the page, it might actually make for faster creation of a finished product.)

Of course, lest we not forget, paper and pencil still can’t be beat.

Strangely, part of this drive to narrow down my tool set has brought with it a desire to redesign this site in a way that would make it simpler, better suited for a reader, since the bulk of what I do here involves words. (I realize some people are thrown off by the lack of pictures. Maybe the next theme will include some.) Wordpress.com has a wonderful theme called Journal v3 which I can’t seem to find anywhere else. Maybe instead I’ll just do a little rewriting of the current theme (based on Derek Punsalan’s Grid Focus). The point is that while I’m working to be more productive, I’d also like to help you, which is why you should sign up for the RSS feed, if you haven’t already.

On a similar note, I’ve discovered that my accounting needs are not currently being adequately met by current organizational methods, so an exploration of tools like Mint and Quicken Online is underway. The possibility of hiring a bookkeeper also comes to mind, particularly if The Wife and I decide to start another business (mostly, though not exclusively, online endeavors).

Alright, so you can see where this is all leading. I resolve to become a more productive person in 2009, to not waste time, and to use the best tools available to me towards that end. And I’m not waiting until January 1 to start. Right now I’m on vacation from the job; during this time, in addition to some hiking, biking, and driving we’re planning on, I intend to get this process started and resolve to finish what I responsibly can before returning to work. For the record, I’ve already cleared my email clutter, opted out of a bunch of newsletters I didn’t need to be receiving, unsubscribed from a bunch of blogs I know I won’t be reading, organized and de-cluttered much of my iTunes library, and organized my computer clutter both at the home and work computers. Not bad for two days, though I’m sure I’ll learn a lot more when I read The Power of Less by Leo Babauta.

By the way, you’re probably wondering why I opened up with the quote from Anthony Robbins. I don’t know about you, but I spend a lot of time imagining what life would be like had I done one thing or another different in my past. This is tantamount to planning the life that has already passed. I know, I should spend the time planning the life that’s ahead of me, but sometimes I get caught playing a bit too much “What If”. I’m not talking about ignoring the lessons that need to be learned, but there’s a difference between reviewing a memory and sitting there, nurturing it, and growing it into what I wish had happened. Maybe this is normal and maybe not. In either case, it’s something I resolve not to allow myself to do from hereon out. I seriously doubt my heroes are people who allow that to happen to them. Instead, they use that time to be productive and think about the future, being more sure of it than the past.

Most people overestimate what can be accomplished in one year. Paradoxically, they underestimate what can be accomplished in ten. While this might sound a lot like Kurzweil’s Law of Accelerating Returns, it’s actually an axiom in personal development.

I still haven’t finalized my plans for the year, and all of this is subject to change, pending any future ideas, but while I understand that 2008 was a year of overcoming challenges, 2009 will be a year of succeeding where I had previously failed. This year I’ll lay the groundwork for the next ten years of my life.

I’ve always had this strange… I don’t know, fantasy I guess you’d call it. It revolves around the question of where dreams come from. I always imagined that lucid dreams–those which seem as real as life–are actually us looking into alternate reality versions of ourselves, into the lives that would be ours were it not for decisions we’ve made or circumstances in which we somehow found ourselves. What if this were indeed the case?What if we, through some unknown mechanism of the Deus ex Machina known as Quantum Physics, were actually able to see through to other dimensions, to other lives we not only might have lived, but are living right now, in other universes?

The theory behind the fantasy goes something like this: every choice we make actually creates another, parallel universe for every possible action (or inaction) which takes place. With that being the case, there are an infinite number of universes in which an infinite number of you exist. Presuming everyone of those other versions has a soul, what happens to the soul of one after it dies? It moves on to another body, until there is only one last version of you, which contains all the other souls. Almost by definition, this last version is at the point of death when this occurs. (In case you’re wondering, the thought goes that one soul is born in one universe/time line. Eventually that one soul passes away, having lived countless lives during the person’s existence.)

If yuo’re wondering how I came up with this fantasy, it’s because I seem to have the unfortunate knack of seeing myself die in other universes. Morbid, I know.

A long time ago, I had a lucid dream where I was in a gang. Not as an active member, but as someone who just happened to hang out with them. In the dream, I remember it being night. A group of us was driving around in the middle of downtown somewhere, when we were shot at from another car. I was hit and died. My soul then slid from that world to this one. I saw myself slip back into my body, then woke up.

Recently, I had lucid dream where I was about to be in a duel. My brother and I had gotten into an altercation with a few other guys, and we ended up agreeing to a gunfight at a later time. In the interim, I was with my family, taking care of a few affairs at home, including the plumbing, which kept breaking. The guys never showed up, and the gunfight was apparently canceled, though I wouldn’t know: the phone rang, waking me up before I found out what happened.

I know both of these dreams have to do with guns and dying. I’ve had others, most of which don’t include guns. Almost all of them, however, the ones I would consider part of that fantasy, include some form of life-threatening (or life-ending, in more cases than not) peril. As I said, an unfortunate knack.

Macabre fantasy? It probably is. But really, even if it wasn’t, how would I know?

I don’t know when it stopped feeling like Halloween. Probably around the time I stopped caring about costumes, or when I felt too old to go out and beg for candy from strangers. If I had to put a number to it, I would say it happened sometime in the seventh grade, around the time when girls discovered that the adult imagination for costumes generally included prefixing any known profession with the word “sexy”: the sexy nurse, sexy police officer, sexy mortician, and so forth. Still, I’m not sure.

That year, the in seventh grade, I went out with my best friend, he dressed as an executioner, and I as… you know, I don’t even remember. Probably a vampire. I always liked dressing like a vampire. (Think Bela Lugosi, not sexy goth with an eating disorder.) Which is funny, because I’ve never really cared much for vampire lore. Now zombies… they’re another matter. Zombies are awesome. But I always hated putting on lots of face paint, and short of me going as a 28 Days Later zombie, which would have made me look more like a drunk Rodney Dangerfield than the living dead, I would have had to put on a lot of it.

Last costume I can actually remember was my cheap ghost costume, which consisted of a white sheet with two holes cut for eyes. That was during my first year in the US. Before then, all the costumes I remember involved plastic masks bought at the local Walgreens for a few bucks.

So tonight, I’ll be handing out candy, sure, but I won’t be dressing up. Instead I’ll be at home, watching The Nightmare Before Christmas and It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (because it wouldn’t be Halloween without the Great Pumkin). Maybe it’ll feel like Halloween again. Of course, looking at the conservation area behind my house sort of feels Halloweenie, which I suppose is a start.

Last night I had a dream, about going back to USF, this time for film. During the entire thing, everything I did was juxtaposed against my experience as a music student, with the worst of moments–those I’d go back and erase, for they brought nothing but ill–being accented most of all. In the end, I awoke with both dread at the idea of going back to school and facing demons, and hope that I could actually be successful in film.

But first and foremost, I’d like to continue further with my writings.

You may not know it, since I don’t remember whether I’ve mentioned this here or not, but I’m a musician by training. I started playing the violin when I was 10, the double-bass when I was 13, and the viola when I was 18. In 2002 I got a B.M. (Bachelors of Musicology) in music composition. Since then music has been, at at best , secondary in my life. Hell of an expensive hobby, wouldn’t you say?

It was during that time that I started writing, first for computer companies, then eventually for my own, in the form of commentary and fiction. This has been moderately successful, by which I mean I’ve been able to make a fairly good living off of it, though I’ve yet to attain any massive fame or fortune from my writing. Still, even with that, I feel I need to do more, like if the creative process, at least mine, can’t really be constricted to one format. That, and I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a stage and film “creator” (I won’t use “director”, since it’s not entirely what I’d like to do). As well as an actor, since I’ve also always enjoyed being on the stage. But then, maybe I’ve been watching too much television.

My office, if I may change the subject, is coming along nicely. When we moved here, it was the one room I knew I had to set up before concerning myself with any of the others, including the bedroom or kitchen. But in reality there are two offices, not one. The first is my job office/library. It’s a 12′ x 12′ room facing the conservation area in the back yard. It has its own bathroom and a walk-in closet. That walk-in closet is the second office, what I call my writing office. In it there is one small AC vent, one light, and no electrical plugs. That’s because I don’t intend to use any electronic devices in the office, at least not for long. (I’m writing this on my MacBook and yes, I’m sitting in the writing office.) I’ve added a bookshelf, a (beautiful) writing desk, and a chair, but that’s it as far as furniture is concerned. On the desk is my typewriter, and until last night, a stack of papers full of unfinished stories, bits of diary entries, and plans for a couple of books.

In that stack of papers were the drafts for seven distinct works, including two books. One’s a comic book script. Another is a book I started a year ago, but which I don’t quite feel the need to write right now, another is a collection of short stories set in a universe of absurd realism. And then there are a few short stories. Of the stack, most were written on my computer. Some were written on my typewriters. Yet all were written with the desire to create something, a world, a universe.

You know what my dream is? I admire guys like Joss Whedon, Gene Roddenberry, and J. Michael Straczynski. Why? Because they’ve been able to do what I can only dream of doing: they created universes so enjoyable to be in that people will choose it over the universe in which they currently exist. So, yeah, maybe that’s my dream: to become the purveyor of escapism. But I think of it as creating something that makes so many people feel good, that so many enjoy, that it takes on a life of its own.

Someone wise once told me that God created us in His own image, and that since He is a creator, then that must mean we are also. I’ve held that belief as my own ever since.

While I completely admire people like Steven King and Gene Wolfe (hard to imagine the two being held up to the same light), people whose lives are defined by their words, I’ve come to the realization that my ambitions stray a bit from this solitary discipline and encompass also the visual and aural arts. That’s why I look to people like Neil Gaiman, whose works transcend the written word and move to the visual arts, whether that be via comics or films; and Stanley Kubrick, who create a world of not only sight and words, but of sounds.

The office isn’t very large, as you can imagine. At 6′ x 8′ it isn’t small, either. It’s just the right size for its purpose. It’s only window to the outside world is the closed door to the main office. Yet in here I can sit with my own thoughts, write, and dream up worlds which will one day, I hope, exist somewhere other than in my own mind.

As I write this I’m at a friend’s house. I’ll be staying here for the next couple of nights, since I no longer have a place to call “home” in south Florida, officially having moved out of my apartment of four years yesterday afternoon. (Moving was an adventure in itself, one I’d rather never repeat.) Friday night I’ll expect to be in Land O’Lakes, finally enjoying my new home, and unpacking. I guess I’ll be doing that last one for a while, though. Who knew we could pack so much crap into a one-bedroom apartment?!

Being totally transparent here, I’m not entirely sure where I want to take this post. My mind’s off in a thousand places right now, recalling memories from a long ago past which, for some reason, have resurfaced during this tumultuous time, maybe to teach me a lesson, or because things going on now mimic things that went on in the past. For example, right now I keep thinking about this summer’s Montana vacation (particularly our time in Cody Wyoming, which had an unusually large population of extremely attractive Russian and Ukranian women) and about a trip to Disney I took last year along with The Wife and my parents, siblings, and niece. Maybe being in a bed that’s not my own is making me recall these.

In order not to bore you, I’ll stop here. I’ll resume a more regular writing schedule as soon as I settle down in the new place, when I can finally sit down for longer than just a few minutes and when I actually have a reliable Internet connection.

(As for the title, I’m sure anyone who’s read the first book of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series (The Gunslinger) will be familiar with that line, which is my favorite from my favorite book in the series.)

When we are no longer able to change a situation–just think of an incurable disease…–we are challenged to change ourselves” — Viktor Frankl, Man’ s Search for Meaning.

Borderline. According to my doc, I’m borderline. This is great, provided things get better. I’m confident (by which I mean really, really hoping) they will.

So as I’ve mentioned before, I have heartburn issues. They started a few months ago after a bout with a rather nasty, unrelenting flu that just wouldn’t leave. Mind you, I’ve had heartburn issues since I was 18, but these would come for about a week, then go for a year. These started getting worse over the past few years, but nothing I’d consider out of the ordinary: if I overate, or ate a wrong food, I’d get heartburn. The solution was simple: avoid overeating.

Not so this time, however. Heartburn started and stayed, for months. For a while I treated this with calcium tablets, but after a few weeks I decided to (listen to The Wife and) go to my doc to see what was going on. Of course, deciding to do something and actually doing it are two totally different things. I decided, but didn’t go. I was ashamed to, after having been there almost weekly for the past month with non-specific symptoms of something, I didn’t quite know what. Frankly, I think most of it had to do with anxiety, but not so then.

Anyway, so I waited. And kept in my junky-eating ways, until one day I got some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt, gnawing away at my abdomen like an alien burrowing through my intestines. This was on a Saturday, and by Monday I was at the doctor’s office, getting blood work done. Within a few days I went in for an ultrasound. Both of these were to check my liver and pancreas to make sure they were working properly. The suspect then became my gallbladder.

Went to a gastroenterologist who told me to get a HIDA/CCK done. This is where they lay you down under a Geiger-counter and inject you with some radioactive stuff to make your gallbladder expand, then contract. Needless to say, it made me nauseous and bloated as hell. The result was an ejection fraction of 19%, meaning the gallbladder was pumping at about 1/5th normal strength.. Recommendation was to take it out, but I resisted. The doc gave me some meds and I was on my way.

A few months later I returned to the doc. Heartburn was still there, even after changing my diet and losing weight. The next test was a “gastric emptying exam”, where I was to be the recipient of a deliciously bad radioactive egg sandwich. Mind you, this wasn’t just any sandwich: this was a scrambled egg sandwich (made with egg substitute), on white bread and with strawberry jelly. As if the strawberry jelly on an egg sandwich wasn’t disgusting enough, the egg was laced with a radioactive isotope. Maybe they were hoping to feed the alien in my intestines, I don’t know.

So I ate the sandwich, laid down under some type of scanner and then watched as the food stay in my stomach for a while, then start moving down my intestines. A week later came back to the gastroenterologist for the result: 50% gastric emptying was achieved in 80 minutes. As you can see, this test was to find out how fast my stomach would empty its contents. The expected time was around 70 minutes, but the lowest range of “normal” was at 90 minutes. I told him before he received the paperwork from the lab that my emptying rate at the end of the test looked to be at about 50% and described to him the progression. After looking at the paperwork he suggested I become a radiologist. Officially the diagnosis was inconclusive. A bit lower and I would have been officially diagnosed with gastroparesis. A bit higher and… well, I would be in the same position, I suppose.

So you’re probably wondering what gastroparesis is, and why, if I don’t officially have it, I’m talking about it.

Gastroparesis is a condition where the stomach contents empty slower than they should. (Whether it’s common or uncommon depends on who you ask, but from the numbers I’ve seen it seems that while incidents are low on an annual basis, prevalence is fairly sizable in most populations.) Sometimes this is just a bit slower, like in my case. Other times it can get bad, to the point where tubes have to be inserted in order to deliver nutrition to the person. A number of things can cause gastroparesis, but a third of all cases are considered to be “idiopathic”, meaning they have no known cause. A large percentage (perhaps including some of those idiopathic cases) are caused by post-viral syndromes. In other words, if someone, for example, had a bad flu that wouldn’t go away, and the flu bug made its way into the nervous system and attacked the vagus nerve–the nerve responsible for a great deal of the autonomic functions of the digestive system–then the impairment of this nerve could conceivably cause the stomach to not pump properly, or the gallbladder to quit functioning as it should. That’s not to say this is what happened to me, but it is certainly a possibility given my particular case. Other causes include diabetes (which I don’t have), autoimmune conditions, multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s, autonomic neuropathy… the list goes on.

Now why am I talking about it? Because I’m having a bunch of the symptoms–heartburn, weight loss, early feeling of fullness, nausea, stomach twitching, and stomach pain being the most common–and despite the official diagnosis, being borderline to me means that I have it, but not to the point where I’ll be given any medication for it. (Normally motility agents, such as Reglan and–outside the US–Domperidone get prescribed. These help improve the stomach’s emptying by stimulating the stomach muscles.) Given my history, the doctor suggested first taking care of the anxiety issues, which is what I’m working on now. (Part of this, of course, is moving back to Tampa, which I’ll be doing by the first week of October. I really do believe that my health has deteriorated while in south Florida.) Additionally, he said that losing weight, exercising, acupuncture and moving to six small meals a day should control the heartburn. He also still recommends the gallbladder removal, but I told him I’ll request another HIDA/CCK be done in about a year to see whether there’s any change in function. If it’s considerably better, then it stays. If it’s considerably worse, then it’ll probably go. If it’s the same, then… I’ll consider that a victory. Additionally, he wants to see how the gastric emptying is like in about a year. If it’s improving, then we’re on the right road. If it’s deteriorating then we have to look into what may be the underlying issue. Needless to say I want the former.

So that’s where I’ve been. That’s why I haven’t written. Between the stuff for the house and my health concerns (really, I do tend to be too much of a hypochondriac), I just haven’t felt like writing. The fact that I’m forcing myself to do this is because I figured I had to get SOMETHING out, and this was the most pressing item on my mind.

Now that this is out, I’ll leave it as is and leave the matter alone. I’m watching my diet, exercising, and losing weight. For now, this is all I can do. Hopefully my case is one of those which stands a good chance of recovery, because while I’m not overtly concerned over what might happen the next year, I can’t help but wonder how this will affect my life when I’m in my 40’s or later. Whatever the case may be, I know this: I have a wife who’s more supportive than I could have ever imagined, and a family who’s there for me at times when I don’t even seem to be there for myself. What else can a guy really ask for? Other than for good health, I mean.

P.S.
Within the week I’ll have some pictures of the new house, I promise.