Different, but the same

He sat on the sand, the cold, wet sand, watching a boy dance in the breaking surf. And though he'd known this boy, his son, for 10 years, it was as though he was watching a stranger.
Maybe because, as of late, they had been strangers.
And while the boy pranced in the sand, turning cartwheels and running from the encroaching surf, he thought about how little he really knew the boy. How could his son, so serious, be so playful? How could the boy, so self-absorbed and selfish, find joy in something as simple -- and free -- as running on the beach of the Marin Headlands.
They shared likes and dislikes. They battled and laughed. They were genetically linked.
But something had been unplugged recently. The boy had grown angry with his father. The father disillusioned with the angry youth.
It hadn't always been that way. Or had it?

Making lemonade

It sucks when your mother, the one who's battling Stage 4 lung cancer, tells you to get off your pitty pot and work on finding happiness.
What do you say?
"Sorry, mom. You're out of your fucking mind. I'm miserable. I want to be miserable because life sucks and doesn't hand me everything I want. I am nearly 40 years old, my 10-year marriage was a sham for the final 5 years, the ensuing divorce has been a blessing and a curse, I find love again only to watch it disappear. I' ve got a job I love, but in a business I despise. I've got a kid with serious fucking problems. A kid who hates me and everything I stand for even though he doesn't really believe it. What? I've got to medicate him too? And my two other boys are good kids caught in the middle of a situation that makes Iraq look like a fucking Sunday at Disneyland. I'm fat and am back at the point in my life where I was after my divorce -- feeling completely alone, lost, unloveable, wandering through life and about two seconds from snapping and going postal on someone."
Somehow, I just don't think that would fly.
So, I've decided to make lemonade. That's right. Life's handed me a giant fucking lemon. Bigger than that goddamned peach in the Roald Dahl book. So I've got to make lemonade.
And it starts by putting one foot in front of the other and walking. And doing. And sitting. And writing. And venting. And talking. And crying.
I don't know how I'm going to come out of this. But I will. I will wake up every day and just go. I will make a list of things I need to do before going to sleep and wake up and hit the ground running. I will not beat myself up when I do not finish everything on the list. I will cross them off as they're done and move on to the next item.
And hopefully, one day, I will look up and realize I've made something of my, what I feel today, is a pretty fucking miserable life.

Gotta go drink some lemonade

I want to marry Paul McCartney

Because I'm SUUUURRRREEE I could live on $50 million, PLUS $70,000 annually, AND pocket change for nannies and other "necessities." That's what Heather Mills is bitching about gett from the ex-Beatle.

Just for one day I'd like to live in the world of the rich and famous. If for nothing more than to prove to myself that the grass really IS greener. The incessant bullshit about "how celebrities still have problems" simply rings hollow. Sure, they have problems. But $50 million can BUY a lot of happiness and make a whole lot of problems disappear.
Don't get me wrong. There are a lot of things in my life I wouldn't sell for $50 trillion. But I pretty sure all that cash would make me happier, better looking and a helluva nicer guy.

So get over yourself, Heather. After all with $50 million, you can buy a zillion fake legs at about $2,000 per stick.