Just because the muppet, Oscar the Grouch, is cute and lovable doesn’t mean that people who act like Oscar are cute and lovable too. Really, those of you who are negative 99.999% of the time … stop. Please.

Let’s take a look at just a slice of this negativity.

You complain because your DVR only lets you record two shows at once and you want to record three. So to make you happy (yeah, right), someone buys a SECOND DVR that you can hook up to your own private TV in your own private room. Voila! Problem solved right? You’re happy now, right?

Silly me. No, of course you’re not happy. Now you’re unhappy because you can only watch that 3rd show that you recorded in your own little private space. You can’t watch it out in the den where the other two shows you recorded can be watched on the other DVR. /sigh…

Multiply that little scenario by however many minutes there are in each and every day, and that’s you – every moment of your life.

• Never happy about ANYTHING.
• Never satisfied with ANYTHING.
• Nothing is ever good enough.
• No one else is ever smart enough.

Every good, precious, blessed moment that ever happens is going to somehow be wrapped up in a cold, wet blanket by you.

And the kicker? You think that makes you cute.

It doesn’t. It just makes you very, very tiring to live with.

I’ve learned to share the joys of life with others because I really don’t want to hear you poo-poo every wonderful thing that I find happiness in. And that’s a shame, because life can be filled with joy and laughter, if only you stopped burying it under the sludge of negativity.

Remember Timothy Leary? “Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out” was Dr. Leary’s 60’s counterculture phrase which was usually simplified and therefore misunderstood to mean, “hey let’s all get high and just hang!”

Leary later explained: “Turn on’ meant go within to activate your neural and genetic equipment. Become sensitive to the many and various levels of consciousness and the specific triggers that engage them. Drugs were one way to accomplish this end. ‘Tune in’ meant interact harmoniously with the world around you – externalize, materialize, express your new internal perspectives. Drop out suggested an elective, selective, graceful process of detachment from involuntary or unconscious commitments. ‘Drop Out’ meant self-reliance, a discovery of one’s singularity, a commitment to mobility, choice, and change. Unhappily my explanations of this sequence of personal development were often misinterpreted to mean ‘Get stoned and abandon all constructive activity’.”

In this decade, and in this technologically-connected world, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to abandon the structures of our lives that we’ve become so attached to – and so committed to – and simply drop out. What would happen if we detached ourselves from what we know? How would our own lives change if we suddenly moved to a completely different world than the one know and lived in a way that is foreign to us? What if we “communed with nature” for a while? How would our lives be impacted?

I love the technology that enables me to reach out and communicate with people from all walks of life and from every culture on our planet. But am I constraining myself with the very technology that gives me that freedom? Would my life be better if I were to abandon the tech world and instead drift through rain forests and deserts? Would that mobility, choice, and change lead to new internal perspectives? Are we fooling ourselves when we appreciate the reach that we have via our wired and wireless connections? Or can we tune in and turn on via those very connections?

Just wondering.

I’ve been remembering childhood moments lately, and it really hit home that I had superb parents. I thought I’d share a few of those parental moments here, in the hopes that maybe my stories will inspire young parents elsewhere.

My dad, whom I called Daddy until the day he died at the age of 83, was a simple man who never had a problem finding his inner child. Daddy was childlike in many ways, and that playfulness endeared him to everyone. But as sweet and innocent as he generally was, he was an incredibly hard worker, and provided well for his family. Part of that hard-work attitude came from the fact that his parents died when he was just 8 years old, and he had to quit school and work for the people who took him in. That meant farm labor, generally, as well as hunting and fishing to put food on the table.

Daddy grew up to be a supervisor at a chemical plant, making good money, but he never stopped gardening, hunting and fishing, and he always included his kids in the process of getting food for the family.

As a kid, I wasn’t fond of gardening or hunting, but I loved to fish. From the time I was 4 years old, every Saturday morning, at 4:00 a.m. sharp, Daddy would wake me up to go fishing. While I stood around, groggily trying to wake up, I’d watch Daddy prepare our lunch for the day. He always made me a cream-and-sugar sandwich (it is exactly what it sounds like it is) and he’d make a bologna sandwich for himself. He’d then add some snacks (chips and cookies usually) and some Cokes to the ice chest and we’d head out.

I wore glasses as a kid, but I never put them on during the trip to whichever bayou we were headed to. Since it was still dark out, I liked to look at the street lights and the lights on the old Mississippi River bridge without my glasses, because they’d be all fuzzy and pretty – like stars. Once we’d reach our destination, we’d spend all day paddling around in our little bateau (small boat) amongst the cypress trees to find the best fishing spots.

In those days, there was a lot more Spanish moss hanging from those beautiful old cypress trees. Although time and people have taken a toll on moss over the years, and we don’t see it nearly as much anymore, we do still see lots and lots of water mocassins – there were plenty of snakes then, and there are plenty still. At least once per trip, we’d generally have a large snake drop into our boat from a limb above, but luckily Daddy’s reflexes were quick, and he’d flip it out of the boat before it had fully landed (usually with a paddle).

We’d drift along, threading worms onto hooks, and catching mostly catfish and bream throughout the day. Because the fish tended to congregate near tree stumps (cypress knees), there was always a strong likelihood of me casting my line into branches, and getting the line “caught” and tangled. But no matter how many times I got my line caught, Daddy would patiently paddle to the area of the tangled line, and free the line for me. Never once did he even sigh from impatience.

During the morning, we’d munch on snacks and drink our sodas, but as noon approached, I’d excitedly wait for Daddy to pull out my cream-and-sugar sandwich. Oh it was awesome by then. Why? Because by then, it would have turned all soggy and mushy, with a little worm dirt from my fingers thrown in, and it was the most wonderful food in all the world. Weekly fishing trips were the ONLY time I had those sandwiches, and only Daddy ever made them for me, so they represented a very special bond between us.

Later, as the sun would start to set, we’d return to the dock, put the boat back onto the trailer attached to the pickup truck, and head home. We’d usually haul in about 30 or 40 fish. When we got home, we’d spend an hour or so cleaning the fish, saving a few for supper that night, and freezing the rest for future meals.

The fishing trips ended when I was about 12 or so, because of course, by then, my pre-teen interests were elsewhere. Luckily though, by that time, my parents had bought a camp (like an old cabin) that was sandwiched between two bodies of water. In front was a large lake, and in back was a bayou. The camp was raised because the lake often overflowed the banks and felt compelled to meet the bayou, resulting in water under the camp. At those times, it wasn’t uncommon to hear (and feel) the thump, thump, thump of alligators mating under the camp. My parents owned the camp until they died (it’s still in the family), so as we all grew up and had families of our own, we had a place to go when we wanted to fish and just hang out.

Maybe some other time, I’ll tell tales about my incredible Mom, who was the queen of mom-dom. But for now, since this is getting long, I’ll just say that she completely devoted her life to her family, and nothing was too much for her kids. If it meant being the head of every school club, or the coach of a school team, she’d do whatever needed doing to ensure her kids were healthy and happy. Most of all though, no one ever questioned her ability to love – and we all learned what love really is from her (and of course Daddy too).

Young parents often struggle to be good parents, but I hope at least a few of them understand that spending time with their kids, being patient with their kids, and loving them beyond all measure will go a long, long way towards creating a happy, healthy family.

As this year comes close to ending, I hope everyone looks forward with plans for good times to come. So let me wish you a Happy New Year! May 2009 be a wonderful year for you and your family.

Oh my, have I just caused a collective gasp amongst our dear readers? Have I just spoken words that surely brand me as insane? I mean, surely, NO ONE in their right minds would ever believe that sex isn’t the most glorious thing in the universe, right? Or perhaps, the truth may be that no one in their right minds would ADMIT that they aren’t as enamored with sex as everyone thinks they should be.

I’d like to posit that for many people, sex is merely okay. And no, I’m not talking about people who are emotionally scarred from some terrible childhood sexual trauma. I’m talking about average, ordinary, human beings who just frankly think that sex is not the end-all, be-all, gotta-have-it-often, kind of experience.

I mean, I kinda like the whooshy experience of a good rollercoaster. But I wouldn’t want to experience it more than – oh I don’t know – maybe once a year or so.

I really like stuffed crabs. But I’m perfectly content to eat them once in a while; every few years is typical.

So why then is it considered abnormal that I really don’t have a craving for sex more than once every three to six months? And even then, it’s an enjoyable but unnecessary experience. Why does that make me someone who must “need psychological help”?

Guess what? I don’t need help. Sex is a’right. It feels good for a bit, sure. But so does a good massage. Do I need psychological help if I don’t go to a masseuse 3 times a week?

I believe society places an incredible amount of pressure upon people – making them feel as though they absolutely MUST crave sex often, and if they do not – then they are branded as sick or broken in some way. I’m not sure where the pressure originates from. My guess is that it is founded in some sort of religious or procreation philosophy, but I’m really not sure. Frankly, it doesn’t make much sense to me from either of those standpoints either.

Must one crave sex, in order to procreate?

Must one crave sex, in order to honor one’s God?

Is it strictly relationship-based? Can one not love another human being without wanting to jump his/her bones x times/week?

I love chocolate. I can’t imagine not loving chocolate. But guess what? Not everyone loves chocolate. Some people like it okay, but don’t crave it, and can do without it.

I’ve had some fun sexual encounters over the years. I’ve also had fun riding rollercoasters. I don’t need either x/times per week. Why does that make me crazy?

Why can’t we just be honest? For people who crave sex x times/week, yippee for them. For people who don’t, yippee for them too. Why is it such a taboo to even ADMIT to this? How many of you reading this are thinking that I need help of some sort? Why?

I just saw several people gasp aloud because they read an article in which a poll showed that a lot of U.S. adults would prefer to go two weeks without sex than two weeks without the Internet. I didn’t take that poll, but I would have said the same. And that shocks people! Why?

I’d also love to know how these “shocked” people are split amongst genders, and although I have my opinions on that, I’ll keep silent, since it’s opinion not based upon any kind of fact.

In any case, I felt it was time to speak up. It’s time to not be ashamed because I don’t crave sex all the time. It’s time for me to say, “I’m not a sicko. I just don’t have to have it all the time. Big fucking deal.” (Oooh, I used the F-word so now we KNOW I’m sick.)

That’s all I’ve got to say about it. But hey, I had the balls to say it. That’s got to count for something.

I very often remember my dreams for a short time, at least long enough to be able to share the dream I had the night before with whomever might be willing, or even unwilling, to listen. I’m not sure why I feel the need to force others to visualize my recent dreams, knowing full well that my rudimentary description of whatever fantastical visions sprang forth from my wrinkled brain could never really be relayed to another human being in all its insane glory. But the desire to share the odd visions is too strong to ignore, so I usually find someone in my family who will pretend to listen as I relate the crazy goings-on of my midnight wanderings.

Memory, on the other hand, is something I have difficulty holding onto for more than a nanosecond. I utilize all sorts of memory-enhancing devices, from the old-fashioned notepad to the latest web-connected gizmos, hoping that I remember at least the most important things I must attend to on a daily basis. On most days, I first have to remember where the todo lists and reminder gizmos are. But it’s not just to-do lists that I have a hard time remembering. Over the years, I’ve lost track of so much of my childhood. I mostly remember just fleeting images, some that I’m not sure are real memories. I wonder if they aren’t just planted images from photographs I’ve seen as the years have gone by.

If I can only remember dreams for a short time, and forget important events from my childhood, why then can I still vividly remember a dream I had when I was a young child? I suppose I was 6 or 7 at the time. This is what I can still see:

I stood in my elementary school’s parking lot, which doubled as our playground during recess and lunch breaks. In front of me was a large cavernous, rectangular underground “room” (sans ceiling), with steps leading down to it from the parking lot. This room was our school’s storm shelter or bomb shelter, built to protect us in case of some sort of Communist attack during a hurricane, I suppose. I’m not sure how an open pit provided shelter from either, but there it was.

As I so often did in the waking world, I stood next to the rail, looking down into the pit. In my dream, however, at the bottom of the pit was a large white horse. The horse looked up at me and spoke.

“Help me. I need help to get out of here”, he said.

“How can I help?”, I asked. I couldn’t begin to understand why he couldn’t just walk up the stairs, nor could I conceive of how my tiny self could help such a large animal, but I assumed he knew the answer.

“Bring me a bottle of barbecue sauce,” he demanded, in a rather gruff tone of voice. Confused, I stood there for a moment, and then rushed off only to return a split second later with the bottle of barbecue sauce in hand.

“Thank you,” the white horse said, as I dropped it down into the pit.

And then I woke up.

What is it about that dream that has enabled it to remain in my memory for so long? Does it have some significance so important that it would stand the test of time through memories long gone? Is there some reason my brain clutches it within its synapses and refuses to let go?

Maybe it’s the meaning of life. I don’t know. But I do know that if a white horse is stuck in a bomb shelter, I’ll be sure to bring it a bottle of barbecue sauce.