I don’t have much to write about right now. I’m really anxious to meet my son, and I just thought I would take note of that. He has tons of clothes, and some pretty funky little toys, and I just can’t wait to get his little ass over here to hang out.

Today I did something that has been done only 1 or 2 other times before. I deleted a post from this site. It was one hell of a post too. It was classic gethurt.com type stuff. It was pure. It was angry, vengeful, and written entirely in the moment. It was human honesty in all its imperfect glory. So why did I delete it?

Last night I had a discussion with a good friend. It covered a range of topics, but much of it focused on my art and how there’s been none of it to speak of for quite some time now. It’s become clear that I’m in a strange position because of the type of inspiration that is required for me to create. Generally speaking, I strive for happiness. I want things to be good all around, and part of that is being artistically satisfied. The problem lies in the fact that I seem to only be inspired by negativity. If I feel some genuine anger or pain, I can draw inspiration from that, and react to it. That satisfies my urge to express myself, but it surely doesn’t help the whole “happiness” bit. Talk about a catch 22.

One of my theories is that as I grow older, my fire is simply cooling, and dying. It’s basically my worst nightmare. Well, half of my worst nightmare (the other half is being victimized by censorship).

Anyone who considers themselves a friend of mine, has to have some appreciation or at least acceptance of my attitude, my inability to lose an argument, and the way that I like to just lay it all out there, saying the things that usually go without saying. I know it can be abrasive at times, but it’s taken me damn near 30 years to get this way, and I’m just not gonna change now. To quote myself, “It’s part of my charm”.

So what was the big deleted post about? Well…

And why did I delete it? I’m not sure. I was asked to delete it, but I declined that request as respectfully as I could. In the end I’m not sure if it was that request that got it taken down, or my own “maturity” creeping up on me, or just the fear of what could possibly come my way if I didn’t. We’ll never know.

And for the love of god, please look at this.

Michael Moore has done it again. I’m a fan of his work for several reasons; he makes me laugh during every one of his films, he makes me cry during every one of his films, and he makes me incredibly angry during every one of his films.

A lot of people criticize the fact that he’s actually a passionate human being and therefore presents an opinion in his films. But really folks, everyone does. Your “no spin zone” nightly news does it too. The real star of Mikes films are the facts and information that he presents us with… the ones that most mainstream media doesn’t talk about. SiCKO is no different.

I won’t get into too many details, or blow the movie for anyone, but SiCKO is basically about the Health Care system in America, and how it compares with the systems in place in many other countries around the world. Needless to say, things here in the U.S. are straight fucked. Go see the movie when it opens, or download it from a torrent site like I did.

GRADE: A

Watch the trailer:

That is a picture of my Father. To find it, I had to search the internet. I’ve had the idea of Fatherhood on my mind quite a bit lately, for obvious reasons.

I was listening to the Howard Stern show today, and he had Chris Cornell on. During the interview, Howard asked Chris about his relationship with his parents, which is something I’ve never heard him speak about. He hasn’t spoken to them in at least three years, and never had much of a relationship with them. Howard eventually asked “Did they tell you that they loved you?”. They did. That got me to thinking. If my memory serves me correctly, I have never heard my father tell me that he loves me. Now, I’m not going to assume that “love” is or is not a feeling he’s ever had for me, I’m just stating the fact that it’s never been expressed to me. And I don’t just mean with words. In fact, if I dropped dead right now, it could be years before my father even knew about it, despite the fact that he lives 10 minutes away from me. And if that were to happen, I can’t imagine that it would change his life in any way whatsoever.

I’ve gone back and forth with the idea of speaking to my Dad over the years. I’m at a point now where I think I’m just not going to do it. It won’t involve avoiding him at all, because unless I stop over his house we don’t talk anyway. I could call, but unless he answers we don’t talk, since he doesn’t call back. I’ve “chased” this relationship very casually for years, and I think it’s enough.

I’ve said for a long time now, that “my family” starts now. It starts with me, and includes my woman, and soon my son. The people I grew up with (and without) have provided me a prefect blueprint of what not to do. The relationship I never had with my Dad has shown me exactly what I need to do with my son. Among many other things, I need to make sure that expressions of my feelings for him flow like water; constant and strong. I need to lead by example, and make sure that I can be counted on when I’m needed the most. And I need to make sure he doesn’t listen to lame music.

My son really needs a name. There’s not much longer to go, and I’d like to have a name for him once he gets home. We’re entering week 34 (of 40), and there’s always the chance that he’ll come a bit early. This is getting pretty urgent.

I never met a guy named Darwin.