Its not paranoia if they are actually out to get you.

It might have been obvious, but let me get this out in the open. I'm a physician. As a part of my education, I learned the basics of many core areas of the practice of medicine, including psychiatry. The basics for psychiatry entails making either of the following statements with some degree of certainty. 1. "This guy is crazy," or 2. "This guy is really crazy." (I know your mother told you it was impolite to call someone crazy. Just tell her you heard it from a real doctor, so it's OK.) I am able to make these definitive statements because I spent 30 days with some really crazy folks in a lock down unit with some psychiatrists. We spent time talking to these people, asking about their mothers and how they feel about their genitals and other very important things.

A common problem was the fear that other people, aliens or garden vegetables were out to get them. While it may seem obvious, our first job was to make sure that there weren't actually other people, aliens or garden vegetables trying to get them. So, here is the point. I am sure that there are people smoking cigarettes and sipping bourbon while sitting around a dark, cherrywood club room discussing the best way to get me. I believe I have discovered their method and let me tell you about it so they won't get you.

Everywhere I have lived in my life, there has been a professional league sports franchise that was better than most but never made it all the way. I would root all season long for the team to score the touchdowns, make the baskets, and hit homeruns. And, for most of the season, they did just that. Its as if they considered the quarry and then gave the team just enough success to get me to root for the hometeam. When the regular season transitioned into the playoffs, they made it appear as though the hometeam would go all the way. However, as soon as that thought crossed my mind, the lead withered, the buzzer would sound and my team, heads bowed, would leave the playing surface. I have not figured out how they knew exactly when that thought crossed my mind. They must have a sub-committee working on that very subject.

This year has been no different. The Dallas Mavericks, by virtue of proximity, have become my team. All season long, I have heard sportscasters discuss how this season will be different. This year, wait for it, the Mavericks will go all the way. Going into the playoffs, they had me hooked. When they took out Memphis in four straight, I said to myself, "This doesn't mean anything." When they went up on the Spurs 2-1, I thought, "Well maybe this is different, but they could still blow it." It wasn't until they were up three games to one with three chances to end the series that I made the fatal error. "This is it. This year is different. This year we go all the way!"

I sit here tonight watching game 7. Those bastards from the club room did it all over again. Up by 20 at the half, the Mavericks lost the lead with 32 seconds to go. They build me up every year and then rip out my heart just to show it to me as I fall into the . . . Nevermind. Just won in overtime. Maybe this is the year we go all the way!

Let me make one thing clear up front: I am not a cat person. By this, I do not condone those anti-feline activists strategizing over new ways to skin a cat. I, simply stated, don't like animals relieving themselves in my home. I looked for a photo to add to this blog online, and this is what I came up with. So, now that this issue is settled, onto the blog.

A friend mentioned that "rants" rather than "raves" make good blogs. I shall rant then.

I remember when I was eight years old. Several important things occurred. First, I turned eight. I was alive, healthy and ready to pursue the adventures another year of my life would bring.

Second, I became an official member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, aka. the Mormons. This process involves participation in Sunday classes for kids, called Primary, as well as an interview with the local ecclesiatical authority, the Bishop. He asks questions to test your knowledge and preparedness to make the covenants that coincide with the ordinances of Baptism and Confirmation. This was the largest, most serious official organization I had joined in my life. The second being the Cub Scouts of America.

The third thing coincided with my joining the Church. I was given a journal– a book in which I could write my history, record my thoughts, document any accomplishments (which, at that time, I was told there would be many), and jot down any little insight I felt inclined. I expected this journal to pass into the hands of my future offspring and serve as a guide and warning to them based on my experiences. It was private. Not meant for others eyes. At least until after I was feeding the worms and pushing up daisies.

Now, for the rant. Journaling or, as it is called now, "blogging" has lost its intimacy. Along with many other intimate things, the internet has filled its void with this low hanging fruit. And, unfortunately, my personal life was not exempt. I will set for the situation that set off this rant:

I don't like tight pants. On the occasions that I wear closely fitted trousers, I make an attempt to remove them as quickly as time and situation permits. On just such an occasion, I returned to my home and removed my trousers. In their stead, I adorned myself in loose fitting pants, of the type with a drawstring, and went to join my family. When my wife, Lara, saw me, she said, "Whoa, lemme get a picture a' that. You's wearin' a fancy shirt an' those pants. I'm gonna post that on my blog." (the idiomatic speech was added by me) The photographic record was obtained. The blogging commenced. My self-image was shattered.

Blogging can serve a wonderful purpose. It can unite groups, keep up acquaintances, and foster relationships made difficult by distance and time. This only occurs when the posts remain thoughtful, concise and appropriately distant. I should mention that this remains true despite my garish transgression of these rules in this blog.

There it is, Rant #0000000001. Many to follow. . .

The family has picked up "blogging." My wife and I both have them and read each others comments. We keep in touch with friends and loved ones and find out all the dirtly little secrets that the anonymity of the computer screen enables us to share. For example, I never realized that calling my wife a "nutball" would end up an international event or that a friend has an agreement with his toddler not to poop unless he is at work.

So, this new method of documenting our lives has become a staple of our relationships. Star Trek always seemed to find that uncharted planet with the pale, purple-silk clad men with heads the size of sputnik that had advanced to the point of telepathy. Well, instead of communicating by a supernatural link between the minds of individuals, the inginuity of man has developed a surrogate– the wireless laptop. Wont it be fun to have a full conversation with your table mates at the local watering hole using this telepathic intermediary without ever speaking a syllable.

Thanks for reading. More to come. . . .