There is something charming and dependable about the average mother's perennial distance from whole swaths of popular culture.

Take this afternoon, when the wife came home from Goodwill with the glow of a woman who's found a rare bargain.

"I got a present for Finley," she says. "It's from Lego. I think it's Star Trek. Or no, It's Star Wars, because it came with that monkey, what's his name, Chekkie?"

"Chewbacca?"

"Yes, I think so. Finley's going to love it!"

I was wondering how big a problem it is that this site, as yet, doesn't really have a point. And then my kid wanted to watch this cartoon for the tenth time which I don't really mind because it's narrated by Ringo Starr and has a charm that easily surpasses any of the noisy gimcrack shows they make these days for kids. And as embarrasing as this is to admit, I can be influenced by animated characters in drug induced colorful fantasies, so when they say in their happy hippy way that you don't have to have a point, man, you just have to be, I can't help feeling better and hugging my kid even as he strains to keep watching the screen while I pull him into an all enveloping bear hug that dad's are predispositioned to do, even thin dad's that have yet to develop a proper sheen of full body dad fat that I'd expected to have had by now.

Ever since reading this article in Harper's a couple months ago, I can't stop thinking about fasting. I had finally resolved to do a 24-hour fast, thinking I'd do one of those every couple weeks and then after I was feeling comfortable with the process, prepare myself for a longer fast, maybe a week or two.

The results of my first attempt:  I lasted six hours before ripping open the cellophane on a Dave's Killer Tempeh Burger that the wife had brought home a few hours before (the expiration date was about up so our co-op gave her four of them for free.)

Six freaking hours. Shorter than most people fast every night while sleeping. Well, I guess if you count the sleep then I lasted fourteen hours. But still.

Feeling slightly guilty after devouring the burger whose vegan goodness I topped with mounds of whole sour cream and squirts of tobasco, I stood alone in the kitchen and announced with  confidence: Now I'm gonna eat some fucking ice cream.

Which I did, and it was awesome.

I'll probably try again next week. I still believe in the positive effects of fasting, I'm just gifted at talking myself out of things. Others might call that weak will power but I like to say gifted.

Sometimes I think I should write more about the kid and being a dad and all that. But everything I come up with seems like Family Circus material, like this conversation we had the other day:

Finley:  What's tomorrow?

Me: Tomorrow's Saturday.

Finley: I don't want Saturday.

Me: Saturday's nice. On Saturday you're free.

Finley: I'm not free, I'm four.

When I first noticed the lump I didn't consider practical next steps. Instead I made the imaginary leap to my death bed where I would be the strong, philosophical one, murmuring beautiful truths to my inconsoluble wife while my confused son would add, "Mama it's okay. Papa's just going to sleep." At which point she'd collapse into a new round of tears.

Then I got out of the shower, toweled off and called the doctor, feeling now some real fear. He referred me to the radiologist up the hill at the big university hospital which didn't make me feel better. Though the thought of riding the aerial tram sounded fun.

In the waiting room, my name was called by a 24-year-old girl with an open white lab coat and a thin scoop neck t-shirt that seemed wildly innappropriate. She told me her name and that she would be administering the ultrasound. I thought, Really. You?

She spent what seemed an unusual long time examining my balls, rubbing gel on them, and taking pictures with her ultrasound wand which had to be pressed up close and held there while she found the right angles. "This'll be a little warm."

She asked me if I had any kids, which I assumed couldn't possibly matter and the reality behind the question was that she, naturally, was so into my balls that she was hoping I was single. I understand the absurdity of this.  I was just telling the guys at work last week how no one, man or woman, gay or straight, no one really likes the sight of a man's balls. And yet here was this medical student who at one point stopped moving the ultrasound and stared for a good thirty seconds.  I asked if everything's okay and she jumped, pushed her hair behind her ears and blushed, Oh, yes, of course. Um, everything's fine. Then she invited her assistant in, a freshman, and the two of them fought over who got to finish the examination.

After a lot of hair pulling, an adult entered and got things under control. She showed the girls how to properly do what was necessary, and eventually declared the lump benign, no reason to remove, just a third ball I'll have to get used to.

I wrote this with the Portland Fiction Project. We all read our stories at a weird space in NW Portland, it felt like a cross between an art gallery and a car dealership.  Too much space and too much light. I remember looking down at the cracks in my wrinkled sneakers and thinking, jesus, I've had these things for five years. What a good buy!

It maybe doesn't matter how old I am but I will say that I am deeply ashamed to have just discovered, today in fact, the true definition of a bung hole.

It is not what I thought.

These are very short stories that I read at the Waypost a few months back. They came off well that night so I thought I'd share them here.  The only shitty thing is I didn't have the foresight to record the stories live, so what you'll hear is me alone in my room trying to sound cool. If it helps, during any part that seems even remotely funny, imagine not only the sound of everyone in the bar exploding with laughter, but also the sound of underwear from several members of the audience being thrown amidst whistles and cheers, while the normally colicky babies who try to sleep in the orphanage next door (yes, it's next door to a bar) they finally stop their crying and look up with happy eyes and clap the way babies do when they're happy, which I guess doesn't make a sound because babies' hands are too fat to clap properly. But they do it anyway.

**update: this is dumb. I can't find my usb cord to link what I recorded on my mike to my computer. I really need to clean this place up. I'll find it soon. Um, don't come over tho till I do. Becuase if the audio's still not up that probably means my place is still a sty, which I'm embarrassed about in public but privately not so much.

**Update to the Update:  I've found my cord!  Here are the shorts.

Tires on Asphalt

Lumberjack Coffee

Another Plastic Mask

On Finley's first day at pre-pre-school, my wife started a routine with him. She'd put him on the swing, push him three times and then say bye. He liked the routine, it was fun and easy to get used to. As soon as she said bye and started walking away, one of the teachers would swoop in, give him a few more pushes. And his day without us would begin.

Now it's February, I brought him to school today, and the first thing he says is, "Where' s Luke?" I look around the playground, kids are running around everywhere, they're mostly all the same size, little people in shiny rain clothes. Finley points at the fort, "There he is."
We hustle over. Luke sees Finley and giggles, Finley giggles back. Then Luke turns around and runs. And the chase is on. They run up and down ladders and around trees. They run past me and I yell, Bye Finley! He yells back, Bye! They're already deep in their own world, inventing new games amidst the chaos of four-year-olds on a playground, a light rain falling, my eyes tearing up.

I've fallen back into writing the book that I've been tinkering around with for some time.  Once I loose steam, as I inevitably will, I'll sink into a brief and dark period of depression, where I will describe to anyone interested how I've done nothing of worth. Ever. Then I'll hear something funny, break out of my funk and completely reverse my position on life, at which point I'll return to what I was planning to do with this site - post some of my short stories and recordings of readings I've done, and links to other things I've been a part of, all in an attempt to make me look important.  In the meantime, you can click through my site's meager pages. Oh god, I'm feeling depressed already.