Written last Friday night:

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By most accounts, today was a good day.

I ended the week strong at work. I had dinner and drinks with some good friends. There was a quick internet chat with a friend where I got some things off my chest. I witnessed an improbable comeback at a high school football game.

I came home and watched a classic Clint Eastwood movie with the roommate, who was excited about calling a girl, and that things were looking up for him. Then a Frank Sinatra WWII movie came on, so I'm hooked. Roommate #2 comes home, and we catch up a little bit.

It was, indeed, a good day. Much better than I deserve.

Now I'm lying in bed in a dark room, hearing the rain fall and trickle its way down the gutters. The clock is ticking just audibly enough to remind me that I'm not sleeping. I start replaying the day in my mind, which doesn't exactly help The Sandman do his job, thankyouverymuch.

It hits me: The people in my life... today they were like a revolving cast of characters. Short stories; quick hits. Or maybe like a 30 minute sit-coms where I fast forward through the commercials. And if I hurry, I can watch another one before bedtime.

As fulfilling as my friendships are (and, seriously, you wish you had friends as awesome as mine), there's still something missing. And to me, it's obvious.

Plato:

A wise man talks because he has something to say, a fool talks because he has to say something.

Proverbs 15:2 (NIV):

The tongue of the wise commends knowledge, but the mouth of the fool gushes folly.

A trusted friend:

Dude... shut up.

I don’t remember where I got this from (if it rings a bell, please comment), but it seems as profound now as when I heard it the first time. I absolutely believe this:

A true friend is someone with whom you can comfortably occupy the same room without having to speak.

That is, silence is comfortable and not awkward. Speaking is not necessary; speech might even be unwelcome.

One of my favorite memories is the time a few of us met over at a friends’ house for a evening of reading books. By the time I arrived, the kids were in bed, and readers were already sprawled about on comfy chairs with books in their laps. We didn’t talk much, but that was part of the point. Simply being together was enough.

I am not perfect. Duh. But I’m not the cause of all your problems, either. Do not blame me for your ignorance.

I am not perfect. If I haven’t already, I may yet hurt you, cause you to stumble, and/or generally annoy you. When this happens, the situation will not likely be fixed unless you tell me about it. Sharing with someone else before I get a chance to make it right will only stand to 1) embarrass us both and 2) alienate me from you.

Let’s be friends. I respect and love you. Please respect and love me back.

My two given names and my surname mean “supplanter,” “giver”/“gift from God,” and “of the north,” respectively. Consider it all joy, then, if I should descend upon you to uproot you.
 
In the Bible, one my namesakes took advantage of a situation to gain the family birthright. The other namesake was all up in King David’s face about how David, as my college chaplain once delicately put it, “screwed up with Bathsheba.” So if I am anything like them, it’s possible that either I am a treacherous deceiver who likes to exploit an advantage, or I might be an honest-yet-in-your-face truth teller without regard to my personal safety even in the presence of supreme authority. (With all this internal conflict, it’s no wonder that I failed that personality test. (Yes, that really happened.))

And I’m coming at you from the north. Like a cold, Canadian air mass, eh.

Anyway... the point...

Words mean things. Names mean things.

I changed the name of my blog after the new year (to Taco Wolf (from Mediocre Coder)). I bought the old domain name soon after participating in the Top Coder competition in which I and 85+% of the other participants failed to advance to the next competitive coding round.

At first, I thought the name was ironic and funny. It’s a term that has been used to describe software design/programmer types who 0) just fill a chair to get the paycheck by 1) not caring about their craft, 2) not outstandingly contributing to the betterment of their employer or 3) their down darn self.

It turns out that the negative connotations were just another thing weighing me down. I have plenty of weights already; I don’t need to be piling it on myself, thankyouverymuch. I needed to give myself a break.

Not to mention that the name never worked well in pick-up lines (“Hey, baby! I’m the Mediocre Coder! Why don’t we go back to my place write some pretty-ok code.”)

So, yep, the new name is better:
1) It’s connotatively neutral.
2) It’s a reference to my favorite local food joint.
3) I like that food.
4) Heck, I like all kinds of food.
5) And it’s much, much better in pick-up lines: “Hey, baby! Let’s go back to my place and wolf down some tacos!” Oh, yeah... that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Works every time.

I loves me some tacos.

I live alone by choice. Sometimes I can’t wait to get home and away from everything. In a bit of irony, I love having people over, and I think it’s great when people just drop by. It reminds me that I’m not really alone, and that the people I love really do love me back.

Sometimes the silence and the alone-ness scream louder than my neighbors’ revved motorcycles.

Since I live alone, I choose not to spend a lot of money on heat. Since it is only I, I don’t mind donning a sweatshirt and ducking under a blanket if I’m just going to watch TV.

Last night, it was quiet and cold. I crawled in to a chilly bed with crisp sheets and shivered for a few minutes before it warmed up.

If you’re being thankful for things, please remember to be thankful for your spouse and for the love and warmth the relationship brings. Give your wife a squeeze and smooch and say something nice. Snuggle up to your husband and run your fingers through his hair. Do something to show that you cherish each other and never want to be without him/her.

The final results from yesterday’s genius quiz question:

Men who say Man: 12
Men who say Woman: 16
Women who say Man: 11
Women who say Woman: 4

People who say Man: 23
People who say Woman: 20

Some of the responses:
-- Woman says it’s a man because men relate to their stomachs
-- Woman says it’s a woman because I’ve heard women say that before
-- Man says it’s a man because I’ve heard men say that before
-- Man says it’s a woman because a man wouldn’t have used that many words
-- Man says it’s a man, but he’s totally metro
-- Woman & Man says it’s a woman because she’s talking about rage
-- Woman says it’s a man because women don’t say “ragingly greedy”
-- Woman says it’s a man because “I know a man who is a writer and he writes like that”
-- Man says it’s a woman because it is expressing something about emotions and attachment
-- Man says it’s a man because girls don’t say “like starving”
-- Woman says it’s a man, but it could go either way. God created us to mate. (Son of Woman then announces his discomfort with the current conversation.)
-- Man says it’s a woman because “no comment”

What respondents said, and how they said it, was where all the fun was. Other things I recall: A few sought me out later to change their answer; some guessed immediately without a second thought; some wouldn’t answer without more context. Some men didn’t want to talk about it and gave me an answer so I would stop bugging them. I suspect that the sex of the questioner (I’m a man, baby) may have influenced some guesses. I also suffered threats when I refused to divulge the answer immediately (It’s amazing the power people give you when you withhold information).

'Nuff chit-chat. The author is unveiled:

These words were penned by Megan, an engineer in Sacramento. So she’s a woman. A very articulate, very geeky (in a good way!) California gal.

Megan writes, “I would have thought it would be immediately obvious that a woman wrote that.  I don't think of men as pining for a relationship that much.”

Kudos, Megan, for being able to succinctly express a common human condition. And thanks for letting me rip off your comments for fun and non-profit. At the very least, I learned a lot about my co-workers; and they me.

I’m taking a poll. Conducting a test, as it were.

Here’s how it works: I share a quote, and you tell me whether it was authored by a man or a woman.

I did not write it. No one in the state of Washington wrote it. If you know how to effectively use teh internets, you can learn who wrote it soon enough. To be true to the test, please respond using your gut rather than your google. For now, please read the following and answer the question:

When I think even a little about wanting to be with someone, I get ragingly greedy. It feels awful, like starving. Please let it happen soon, or please let me stop wanting it so much.

The question: Was this written by a man or a woman? Why did you give that answer?

Here’s my Why (as in, "Why are you even asking?"): I read this and I immediately identified with the sentiment. I’ve seen it in my life; I’ve seen it in other people’s lives, both men and women. My working theory is that this blurb expresses a universal emotion and experience with which both women and men can identify because it is such a basic truth. (You could probably make other guesses... good for you. You are soooo smart.)

My current results (data pool is mostly Caucasian, Anglo-Saxon office workers in a software company where men outnumber women):

Men who say Man: 11
Men who say Woman: 12
Women who say Man: 9
Women who say Woman: 4

People who say Man: 16
People who say Woman: 14

Thanks to those who have guessed already. There is a correct answer to the question, but the answers to “Why do you think so?” have been where most of the fun is. Each person who entered the office’s lunchroom yesterday was sucked in to the discussion. I’d like to get a few more respondents before I publicize the final results.

I’ll share the Who and the final What later.

[Update 2006-11-03T16:20:41Z: Concluding comments are here.]

Sure, it's sounds like fun. But do I actually do it?

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise. You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.
          -- $verse(Deuteronomy 6:4-9) (ESV)

I have a lot on my mind.

I should be paying bills. Some of them are late. I hate being late.

I should be wooing a woman. Some of them are awesome. I love making them laugh.

I should be eating better. Some of my recent dinners are crap. It’s like I’m making my own $amazon(B0002OXVBO Super Size Me) movie, but without the video camera and the fame.

I should be solidifying old friendships. I should be spending more time in prayer. I should memorize poetry. I should finish the laundry. I should be helping the poor. I should ride my bicycle. I should work late. I should blog more. I should this, and I should that.

Tonight I add one more: I should perform karaoke.

I met a friend after he got off of work at at a local establishment that, unbeknownst to both of us, was holding its weekly karaoke night.

Chip loves karaoke. Jimbo, not so much. He’s a performer; I’m a, um... not. Usually. Especially when it comes to singing.

Chip (stage name “Chucky D”) went wild (it was a slow night) and sang 3 times (Johnny Cash, The Bee Gees, America). He even won a drawing for a $20 gift certificate. I drank an adult beverage and flipped through the song title booklet, hoping no one would lay on the you-should-sing-it’s-a-lot-of-fun-everyone-is-doing-it guilt trip. (Boy, am I out of it. There are a ton of pop songs I don’t know.)

I didn’t sing this night, but maybe next time. I think I’d rather sing my own songs, if I ever were to write them. Oh, and play my own music, if I could learn more than those 4 chords. (Add another "I should": I should practice my guitar.)

Or maybe I should lighten up.

As Chucky D says, “Sometimes life doesn’t always make sense... and that’s why we should do karaoke.”

I’ve interrupted my self-imposed, unintentional blogging hiatus to re-bring you what you really should not have been missing:

A return to “what I did yesterday.”

So, let’s see... by the time you read this, it’ll be not today, so my ‘yesterday’ is right now.

Today... er, yesterday... I got tossed about on the waves at work and left not feeling like I accomplished anything. As a pick-me-up, I left a few minutes early to get some time in on my fancy bicycle before the sun went down.

I always feel better after riding. If I don’t ride for awhile, I start to miss it. My knees and legs start to ache from inactivity, and I start going a little stir crazy. As I'm in my car or walking down the street, I wistfully watch other cyclist pass me, wishing I could be where they are.

When the exception of the “ache from inactivity,” I used to have the same reaction to a lack of TV and corn chips. Used to.

After I got home from the ride, and while I’m feeling all full of myself, a friend stops by and suggests that I need to date more.

Talk about a buzz killer.

No, not wino (we can argue about this later). I said "whiner."

I just had a birthday, and traditionally, the birthday boy gets birthday gifts. And I did receive some exceptionally thoughtful gifts and notes from some incredibly gracious people. Thank You, all!

Receiving gifts, though, for some sinful reason, often turns my thoughts to other things (material or otherwise) that I don't have.

I can be an impatient jerk most days. It goes like this: I want stuff => I can't have stuff => I whine like an attention-starved puppy. I could stand to be a little more grateful rather than wishing for things I don't have.

But yet I still want. And it's not that I shouldn't ask:

If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!
         -- $verse(Matthew 7:11)

So I guess if I ask and I don't receive, it could mean that what I'm asking for isn't a good gift.

Or maybe it means that I have wrong motives:

You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your passions.
         -- $verse(James 4:33)

Or maybe there's a bigger picture that I don't understand:

Jesus answered, "It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him."
         -- $verse(John 9:33)

At the very least, I can know that what I have right now are still good gifts, and that my Father in heaven actually cares (see also $verse(James 1:17)). He did, after all, show how much he cares by coming to earth in person for us. For me.

Isaiah expressed part of what kind of joy this particular gift should inspire:

You will say in that day:

I will give thanks to you, O Lord,
for though you were angry with me,
your anger turned away,
that you might comfort me.

Behold, God is my salvation;
I will trust, and will not be afraid;
for the Lord God is my strength and my song,
and he has become my salvation.

With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation. And you will say in that day:

Give thanks to the Lord,
call upon his name,
make known his deeds among the peoples,
proclaim that his name is exalted.

Sing praises to the Lord, for he has done gloriously;
let this be made known in all the earth.
Shout, and sing for joy, O inhabitant of Zion,
for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.

         -- $verse(Isaiah 12)

I had some friends over for lunch yesterday after church. Grilled chicken (bummer that it was dry), salad, rice, biscuits and a vegetable platter followed by ice cream and brownies for dessert.

We all sat at the table with a tablecloth. Seeing as how I eat most of my meals standing at the counter, reclining in the living room, or sitting in the car, and the food itself usually comes through a window or out of a polystyrene serving container (or both), this was re-new experience. I hope that guy at the Jack in the Box doesn’t mind, but it was lots more fun to sit at a table with people. [Update 9am: I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that I had put the knife on the wrong side of the plates. I guess I need to do this more.]

I have two distinct memories when it comes to Sunday dinner. (In my vocabulary, dinner on Sunday is the noon-hour meal; dinner on any other day is the evening meal.)

First, back in the day: it was pretty predictable who came to join the family for dinner after church. It was either Manford and Helen and/or Jim. Manford and Helen were like our grandparents, since our biological grandparents lived far, far away. Manford was a real ham (some stories about him here). Jim was a bachelor in his mid-to-late 30s and early 40s who helped run a family business in town, lived alone on his farm where he sometimes reared horses, and played cello masterfully. I can easily single out Jim as someone who had a massive impact on my life, and I wouldn’t at all be surprised to hear my siblings say the same thing. More on Jim another day.

These Sunday meals at home ended for me when I went off to college. At some point during my sophomore year, I started tagging along with Daniel who attended Sunday services with our Greek professor Kelly and his wife Janice. Normal for us became one of two things: 1. retire back to K&J’s house for whatever great thing Janice cooked up, followed by a yummy dessert and freshly brewed Twining’s loose leaf tea (with a cloud of milk) or 2. go out to a local Chinese restaurant and try to steal each other’s crabmeat rangoons. Being the college age, we’d sit around the table exchanging all manner of silliness with equal part seriousness, either belly-aching about some theological craziness on campus or trying to one-up each other in winning the “servant prize” for the day (taking care of dishes, setting the table, etc). I learned a lot around that table, including how you can make your host reel with giddiness when you say, “So what was your doctoral thesis on?” They are great folks. You should meet them.

For a long time I thought that I received the better end of the things. I show up, someone feeds me, we have a good time, I go on about my business. Pretty good deal, no? It turns out that Kelly and Janice loved our childish antics and thoughts as much as we (me, Daniel, Rachel, and later Peter) loved their life experiences and wisdom (and, um, their food). I know, too, that Jim must have looked forward to lunch with my family, since he wasn’t the type to stick around a place if he didn’t enjoy it. It took me some time to realize (and partly from talking directly with Kelly and Janice some years hence) that those Sunday afternoons may have been just as significant to Kelly, Janice, and Jim as they were to me.

Yesterday, as in, um... yesterday. Friday. Some might be able to make a case for my being a weenie at other times, but I’m not talking about those times. I’m talking about a very specific moment Friday evening.

Friday is supposed to be a party day, or so I hear from partiers. Sure, I’ve had a frothy pint or two after work on some Fridays... I’ll even admit to using them to wash down a Reuben sandwich. But not this day (that is, Yesterday). To celebrate the survival of this particular work week, I hopped on ye ol’ bicycle for a ‘quick’ 15-ish mile road ride.

So you know, this is me NOT being a weenie. Can you do 15 miles? At once? No water break? In the snow? On one wheel? Of course, the answer for half of you (total readership up to 6!) is ‘durrrr.’ The point is, this wasn’t a lazy Sunday afternoon bicycle ride on the boardwalk. I biked up Dewey to Mt. Baker Hwy, continued on up Britton Road, and then back towards home.

If you know the area, you’re now saying, “dude... those are lame hills. Why, back when I did the Death Ride...” blah, blah, blah, “... 10,000 vertical feet ...” blah, blah, blah...

If it isn’t obvious, let me make it so: I’m still not “the best weight for my height.” No hill is still “too easy” even though I’ve been riding now for a few summers. It’s a successful climb if I make it to the top without gasping for air like a concrete-shoe-wearing mob informant.

Anyhow... back to me not being a weenie. Right, I remember:

And then I became a weenie.

As I approached the corner of Lakeway Drive and Yew Street, I thought about Yew St hill and the countless times (ok, 6) I’ve climbed it on my bicycle. To me, the hill is massive (500-ish ft from Lakeway), and I’m just not used to it. Each time before, it was painful. Each time took forever. Each time involved me wondering aloud about what I had gotten myself into (my grammar suffers when I climb, too). But each time after it was over I was glad that I did it; each time I had enough gas to get to the top and cruise down the other side; each time I knew that I’m tougher than the hill.

I thought about the serious, brutal, personal, uncomfortable, panting, light-headed, sweat-inducing 10-to-15 minutes of pain and decided that, since I’ve done this before, I could easily do it again. Some other day.

That’s when I became the weenie. At about 6:30 Friday night.

Two words: 1. We. 2. Knee.

When faced with a challenge, I’d like to think that I always confront it straight on and accomplish it. Vanquish all foes. Eliminate intruders. Eat the whole pizza. Other times I shy away like, if you pardon the Seinfeld reference (used here in a completely wholesome and G-rated context), a frightened turtle. These shy-away times usually leave me with a bad taste in my mouth. I regret ‘em, and I tend to hold a grudge against myself because of it. (You’d think I might be mature enough to get beyond this, but that’s fodder for another post.)

It’s the problem of seeing something you know you can do, something maybe you should do, something you either haven’t done or are afraid to fail at, but you are just too scared, too timid, or too (dare I say) weenie to go through with it. There are too many other things in my life that require me to put my head down and follow through that I can’t be letting this weenie-ness control me during my leisure time, too. It’s a hard habit to unlearn, but I’m working at it. And with all the bad tastes, my toothpaste bill has been astronomical.
 
Next time, I won’t let myself off so easy. That hill is mine. I ownzor that hill. Yew Street, you are now MY STREET.

So if you see me out there, climbing that stupid hill, just know that I’m not being a weenie anymore. I’m not letting fear or pain or whatever so-called demon it is that’s keeping me from ascending that (stupid) hill and triumphing like the hill-climbing, triumphing, non-weenie bicycling stud that I am.

And toss me some water, for goodness sake. It’s a long way up.

I have been sitting here at my computer for a bit, just kinda staring at the monitor.

And now Todd is thinking, “But I see you ‘just staring’ at your monitor all day long.” Touché. But this is different. Something is off, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. And this has been going on for more than a couple of weeks.

And I’ve been beginning a lot of sentences with conjunctions.

The best way I can describe this... thing... is the word ‘restless.’ I’ve been feeling this at work, with friends, and in just about everything else I’ve done recently. There’s this nagging feeling that I should be doing something more, something better, something right, or just plain something else.

Although it’s quite possible that I’m nearing mid-life for members of my family, I’m not going through a mid-life crisis. My proof: My haircut is the same now as it was in the 7th grade; I did not sacrifice my son’s tuition money after the divorce to buy a metallic silver Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet in order to attract the lay-deez; I’m not dating some brainless “pretty little thing” half my age; my ears remain firmly unpierced.

(Full disclosure: I have no son. I am not now, nor ever was, married. I am not dating anyone (and if I were, I'd prefer a brainy gal). I'm trying to make fun of the stereotype. Or whatever.)

It has been an interesting year, though: Ol’ Pops had his chest ripped open so they could fix his heart; I had a real estate sale that lingered (and you think *one* mortgage is a killer... sheesh...); I’ve had to deal with some personally challenging spiritual issues. Today, most of this is resolved: Dad is doing great; the house is all but officially sold; and forgiveness is mine. Seems like things should be all peachy, no?

So I just donno. I don’t mean to leave you hanging, but I’ve got nothing for ya. I’m not really sure what I’m missing. Except for training camp coverage on the NFL Network--I’m well aware that I’m missing that. Apart from that, though, no clues.

From Restless (RealPlayer) by Brooks Williams (album: $amazon(B00005ABIK Skiffle-Bop)):

All the days I have wasted
chasing down the winds of empty praise
And all the times I have lost
searching for riches in abandoned mines

(Chrous)
My heart is restless it finds no peace
I was made for you

Some days my faith is a mighty river
Some days my faith is a barren land
Oh Lord please tell me why
Maybe then I would understand

I promise... next time, I’ll return to talking about “what I did yesterday” stuff, since I know it’s the mundanity that keeps you (both of you) coming back.

So it wasn't all sitting in the car cramping our legs. We took pictures. Herewith, a few more of those pictures.

The first night in the car when we're all still fresh and slightly giddy:

Clockwise from top left: Naomi, Shelley, Justin, James. James should learn to smile more.

In fact, he was accused of being too happy by a gentleman in San Francisco who just wanted our attention long enough to sell us opportunity to give $$$ to a just cause. This man's attention getter: "Excuse me, sir. I'm going to have to fine you... for smiling too much." If you find yourself down by the WWII submarine at Fisherman's Wharf, beware the guy with the "I heart San Francisco" stickers.

Windmills near Stockton, CA:

Some people got tired walking up all those San Francisco Hills (photo by Naomi):

The traffic cop at the base of Lombard Street wasn't enjoying his job this day. Even the flowers couldn't cheer him (photo by Justin):

The Engrish on this awning cracks me up (photo by Justin):

From left to right: Girl, Good Friend, Girl, Girl

One more of the bridge (photo by Justin):

This is the Siltcoos Beach on the Oregon coast, Monday, July 3rd, at about 7 am. Check out how I look all introspective (photo by Justin):

I used to be boring.

Some people (shuddap!) would still say I am. Sing it with me now: “I am one of them... and so are you...” But it’s not because I’m doing nothing anymore. This past weekend, I stayed busy:

-- Axis and Allies marathon game
-- drove to Canada specifically for an 18-hole round of disc golf. I lost a disc and totally “Mickelson”ed the lead on the 14th and never looked back at anyone (because he was in front of me) again.
-- went on an hour-and-a-half bike ride
-- church
-- barbecue party
-- long nap

All in all, a reasonably good weekend. No TV, but lots more internet than normal.
 
Weekends like this are the coolest--just full enough with a friend, but not so full that I’m worn out afterwards. I even road my bike to work today in the heat (80 degrees! So I’m getting soft. Leave me alone) and didn’t feel a hint of weekend lag. Man, I dig that.

Coming up this week: Superman III (IMAX), Brandi Carlile (maybe), 4th of July road trip (likely).

Yep, it’s a blog. Up and running. Yippee. And so it begins.

Already you are now asking yourself:

1. What’s this blog for?
2. Do we really need another blog?
3. Who is this guy?
4. If a blog remains unread, does it still suck?

The answers are:

1. I don’t know.
2. No.
3. Some schmoe.
4. Yes.

OK, ok... the real answers are:

1. I really don’t know. You’re such a peach for asking so nicely. If I had to guess, though... maybe it has something to do with my trying something new, or maybe it’s a way for me be social in a geeky way. There may be techincal content. Or maybe it’s just a way to expose my own thoughts that I should keep to myself. Let’s shed some light on ‘em and see if they don’t scurry away, shall we?
2. No, but we don’t need most of the others, either. There’s a lot of junk out there. Most blogs are self-serving, self-involved, personal props. There must be a balance somewhere. I have a poor sense of balance.
3. My name is James. I believe in Jesus; I attend church. I write code, and I vote. I love my family and friends; I like frothy pints; I like sharing frothy pints with friends. I ride a bicycle; I hike; I play Ultimate and Disc Golf; I love football. I read some; I am not a writer (yet). I like good music, and I seek it out, though I am not much of a musician. Most of my thoughts are jumbled messes (yearning to be organized).
4. Look, I’m trying here. Or, I will try. Or, at least, I will try better than I tried before. The easiest thing in the world to do is to suck at something. And I have lots of suck-cess. Oh, yes, there will be grammatical mistakes, typos-a-plenty, and disjoint thoughts or arguments that seemed like a good idea at the time. But it’s just practice, people. Bear with me.