I swore I wouldn’t.

I told myself that there are some things that are absolute, however minor.

And yet here I stand, wondering if my convictions are but folly and foible, my word a rash statement of false bravado. The matter is so minor and yet I vacillate between self-loathing and desire, never quite stopping at indifference.

It isn’t a novel experience, the ground well-tread many times over. As well-intentioned as my words have been, it’s far from rare that my oaths turn into platitudes.

My promises now come with caveats, my plans with contingencies, and my bets with hedges, preferably with a nice two-level effect and a path in between that I can safely tiptoe without harm. I’m left remembering the guarantees that fell by the wayside: the changes in person, the trips planned and forgotten, the aid left ungiven in my feelings of helplessness. Each and every one comes with a set of excuses; ifs and buts layered over a solid foundation of failure.

My course of action has been set, another conviction thrown by the wayside. I’m hopeful that this time, my choice will bring happiness and joy instead of guilt and remorse. Even if I’m vindicated, I’m left with a nagging

What good is my word if I haven’t the means to follow through?

Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

As befit a skier in March, I have begun sporting a stache of glory. I have also designed an ad campaign and hackjobbed a website for March Moustache Madness. Check out the site for all the posters from this year and last, as well as pictures of previous contestants, winners and fakers.

Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

The question hangs over me like a mobile, answers spinning around my head like the slow, dizzying rotations of tiny airplanes or planets.

“Well?” I say it aloud, pondering the possibilities, weighing how bare I should be.

My eyes scan the mottled ceiling above me, but there are no solutions there. A more leading question might tell me where to go. A slightly less vague quandary might offer me an inkling. That single word and its indeterminate nature, however, just stoke the immeasurable cauldron of molten emotion bubbling inside.

“Well, I’m scared,” I whisper, the words hissing out. “I have this fear–these fears. And they’re numerous.”

I take a deep breath before letting the slow rumbling begin spewing out.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

It’s now been nearly a month since Ignite Chanukah 2011. Due to the holidays, a variety of travel plans, and the amazing job the video guy did of putting together the recordings, Ignite Chanukah videos (incorrectly labeled as 2012 instead of 2011) have finally been posted.

There are several highlights that are definitely worth watching. Chaviva Galatz, the Kvetching Editor, opened the ceremonies with an excellent presentation on conversion and being a convert. Daniel Lebowitz talked about gender roles and how Judaism is affected and affects the modern man’s place in society. The amazingly entertaining Dr. Jenni Skyler gave a steamy talk about Jews and their sex lives.

I’ve already written a little bit about my experience before going on stage as the final presentation, and I hope to write a bit about the aftermath in the next week or so, but I’m happy to offer the actual video of Just the TIp (clocking in at 5:21) here and now:

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.

Continued from Thunder Down Under: Part V

WARNING: The following is graphic, at times disturbing, and true with plenty of TMI to go around. Part I doesn’t include anything too disturbing, simply the events leading up. If you’re squeamish, easily disturbed or simply aren’t interested in the details of a serious medical fiasco, I recommend not reading beyond Part I. This entry covers the details of the past several days, starting around 2 PM Monday afternoon when I first experienced an inguinal hernia rupture while working as a ski instructor.

I can feel the slow rumble of wheels beneath me.

Each jostle and jolt would barely register on the Richter scale, yet they combine to slowly rock me awake. I can the echo of voices around me, a surround sound conversation bouncing above my head. I carefully peel an eye open just a smidge to see flourescent lighting sliding upwards above me.

They converse genially as we weave through the halls. I want to participate, but every move of my tongue is like a sandstorm in the desert, dunes rolling ever forward in a slow press toward my teeth.

“How’s it going?” one of them asks me, leaning in a bit, her voice melodic and soft.

Still alive, I think. I try to swallow, rough sandpaper ripping across my throat. “Alright,” I rasp.

I close my eyes and take a mental inventory of my body as she introduces herself and the other nurse guiding my journey through the halls. There’s no shooting pain. My legs are stretched out before me, my feet dangling, as usual, just off the bottom of the cot. I’m lying flat on my back, my arms tucked at my side. I wiggle my big toe, reenacting Kill Bill in the only way that makes sense in a gurney. A small smile crosses my face, my cracked lips preventing it from being a big smile. I’m whole, or so it seems.

I feel good.

“Your stuff is in a basket beneath your feet,” she tells me. “You have an interesting backpack.”

“Comes with the territory,” I manage to reply. Parched has taken on a new meaning. Images of men wandering into town after long days in the dry Western sun flash through my head. I imagine being cast in a Sergio Leone film credited as “Thirsty Man from the Desert.”

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace. You can comment here or there.