It came to my attention that yesterday I misstated facts relating to sake. I admit that I did no research in coming up with those facts, and further admit that all the misstated facts were used to further my theory, and obtain “cleverness,” a state of writing in which the reader says (usually to themselves, but in the ultimate case to others who are around them when alone or in a crowded library), “boy, this guy is good. I didn’t see that coming. He’s really on to something; he must be, he’s terribly clever!” While I’d like to apologize for my improper use of facts, I won’t. I’ll stand by warm sake being warm because it hides the alcoholic taste, and cold sake being cold because it is pure and doesn’t need to hide behind the heat. While I do believe my job is to educate the less fortunate that read these musings, the reality is that few people read this, and even fewer expect to learn something. Therefore, I find myself free to make up facts that amuse me and further my ridiculous pursuits. As to the “academic” who reads my musings, he should stick to writing theses on the advantages of warm sake, and leave the impressing those who know nothing about Asian culture to people like me.

Speaking of ridiculous pursuits, I watched a biography on The Biography Channel on Arnold the Goverorator. Remember, I was in the OC this weekend, where my TV watching is allowed and even encouraged (we took many pictures of our sandy hike, which wasn’t terribly sandy nor hike-like, but we’re getting back into “exercising” slowly so as not to wound our tender bodies). The amazing thing about Arnold was his drive. He decided to become a movie star in America at a young age. It wasn’t until he saw a Mr. Olympian become a movie star (albeit a terribly unsuccessful one who starred in Hercules) that he figured out how to do it. His first step: become the best bodybuilder in the world. His next step: use his bodybuilding championships to rocket him to stardom. His plan was simple and beautiful. Here was a poor farmer’s son from Austria (his father was a local constable and not a farmer, but the narrator kept referring to Arnold as a poor farmer’s son, so who am I to argue?) with the true American dream.

How did Arnold accomplish it? Tenacity. I’ve complained lately about distractions and lost focus. I pull my mind in too many directions to accomplish much. Even when I’m writing, I find myself writing to get it over with instead of writing to accomplish something. Even now, as I sit in the airport waiting for my flight away from the wonderful Doolies and back to rainy Seattle, distractions tempt me. The Super Bowl (not sure if that’s one word or two words, which is how little I know or care about it) is on the television at the bar; and a family begs me to watch them. They’re interesting, but not voyeur interesting.

I’ll use the gym as an example of my motivation. There was a time when I went to the gym almost religiously. While in Houston, I discovered that I’m an external motivator for certain activities. I used to think that all my motivation was external, but I’m not as sure anymore. I can write these entries every day based on what is mostly an internal motivation. Sure, there are people out there rooting for me (and some ruing the day I decided to write every day, waiting in the wings for me to make a mistake and swoop down in glorious righteousness to exclaim my failures to the world), but I end up writing this for me. That other people read it helps me, but in the end, if it were about them, I wouldn’t write this every day. The gym was a different story. I liked how the gym made me look and feel, but I knew that I couldn’t do it myself. I could go there a few times a week, but my workouts, when done alone, were never sufficient. I would grow fatigued or bored or hit my disgustingly low pain threshold, and give up and go home. I paid a personal trainer to keep me going. I didn’t need their encouragement so much as their being there. I thought at first that it was either not wanting to fail in front of them, or how much I paid them for each session that kept me honest. But when I look back, it was more than that. I just needed a little push and a schedule. Or something like that.

When I moved to Seattle, I thought I’d be working out with a friend and neighbor. It worked in the beginning, but we’ve slowly gotten away from the gym. I’m not saying he’s unreliable so much as the two of us together are unreliable. I am as much to blame as him. Any excuse I found, I used to get out of the gym. To round out this example (well, it turned more into a tirade than an example, but stay with me here), I’m going to try this week to self-motivate myself to go to the gym. I’m not sure how well I’ll do or how long I’ll last, but because of NEQID, I have to try, otherwise what type of person would I be?

Here I am again, looking for ways of distracting myself to stop writing. McDonald’s is enticing me to break my vow against fast food, but I’m resisting, barely. A cheeseburger would be wonderful now. Doolies and I went for sushi before I left, but the sashimi we ate left me hungry. There must not have been enough carbohydrates to keep me going. I will resist the evil call of fast food, but I wanted to remark on the toll that it exerts on me.

A young girl in a red jumpsuit and pink Puma-style sneakers is sitting on a chair across from me holding a bag of McDonald’s as a bum holds a brown-bagged liquor bottle. She’s munching away at the French fries, her front buckteeth biting each fry in half before she inhales the potato goodness.

Getting back to my original theme, I’ve begun to examine my wasted free time. I’ve asked myself the same question: how can I waste free time? Isn’t that the very nature of free time: it’s free, and anything you do during that time, including but not limited to playing video games and staring into space, doesn’t ruin the free time since by its very nature and definition it’s free? While all of that’s true, I think that every free moment I should be doing something that is (a) fun; (b) beneficial; or (c) contributing to NEQID. I should take an accounting of each day and look back at what I accomplished. Perhaps a list is in order. These are thoughts on a tiring flight.

Story idea: frustration and conflict. I used to love conflict, looking for any opportunity to unsheathe my sharpened knives and unleash them on unsuspecting persons. That has changed slowly over the years. I still don’t shy away from necessary conflicts, but, rather, I find great distaste and frustration in most conflicts. Listening to Doolies’s friend discuss the trouble she’s having as a female surgery resident welled up in me a great unrelenting feeling of powerlessness and anger; or, in other words, frustration. I want to bottle and share that feeling with others through a story. I thought about fitting it in my current story, perhaps as Jake realizes the fall of his society but is powerless to do anything about it. But I’m not sure if that will work.