The Official Rick Bell Blog

Unorthodox Pagan - Excerpt #2

Like a dilapidated dike holding back a rain-engorged river, my bladder was nearing the breaking point. Sober, I would have probably done the math: two half pints of vodka, a can of Red Bull and bottle of Diet Pepsi might be more than a bladder can retain on a 75 minute walk between the piers at Newport Beach. But sober and two half pints of SKYY don’t really go hand-in-hand, even given the high tolerance for alcohol I had invested years in developing.

I needed to whiz and I needed to whiz now. Had I been bestowed with the gift of advanced hindsight I would donned something other than Levi’s and a sweatshirt when heading out this morning. I was at a beach after all. Give me a pair of swim trunks and I would be looking at mile upon mile of self-flushing seashore. The jeans, however, complicated the “world-is-my-toilette” viewpoint that most men are blessed with.

I was still a half mile from the nearest inland toilette, my bladder was strained beyond measure, and my six-year-old daughter had long since opted to be carried rather than move under her own power.

Briefly I considered prayer. Lately, the only prayers escaping my lips came as police cars pulled behind me as I made my way home from a bar or nightclub. I had put whatever concept I had of God on the back burner long ago. I’m sure his caller ID was set to block my feeble attempts to call him in as a pinch hitter.

I could just march into the ocean and go. Man, the Levi’s were a bad call. I was drunk enough to risk a public intoxication charge if I drew unnecessary attention.  A man in jeans walking into the surf in February would definitely arouse the suspicions of the people surrounding me—walkers, readers and the I’m-the-guy-who-shops-at-24-hour-Walmarts-at-3-AM fellow combing the sand with his metal detector.

If the onlookers were a little less sparse I could probably sneak my trouser trout out and just go in the sand, but it was a Saturday and all the “I-like-long-walks-on-the-beach” personal ad types were out in force. Man, I needed relief.

Then, the unspoken prayer was answered. Had I not dealt with wetting my pants once before? It was my first year of junior high--a bleak, rainy winter day. My bladder was strained to the breaking point then too… in math class… with Mr. Jarvis.

Jarvis had no sympathy for those who asked to use the facilities during class. He’d been in the math-teaching game long enough to know that no one wanted to stick out a pre-algebra snoozefest. Throughout the semester some of my classmates had tried to get time out of class to answer nature’s call, and they were always rebuffed… harshly. His rebukes were forceful, almost sadistic--it had been months since anyone even tried to ask for a bathroom break.

I feared that my bladder would explode, but I had an even greater fear of authority figures.

I thought I could tough it out. I made it to the final bell. But when I went to leave my seat, the precarious groin muscle grip I had on my urethra was loosed. A 13-year-old boy sprang a leak. And once the flood gates were cracked there was no turning back. The classroom emptied. I was alone with my urine.

As the puddle formed in the seat beneath me my brain raced. I was due to make an appearance in drafting class in about four minutes. I had no change of clothes. I feared the system too much to risk cutting class and heading home.

Necessity is the mother of pants-wetting-cover-up invention and I was wallowing in a pool of yellow necessity. Then it hit me--it was raining… rain meant puddles… I was known for being clumsy…

Back on the beach the memories of my youth illuminated the path I was to take. I edged closer to the shoreline. Putting my daughter down and tossing my sandals up to dry ground I put the plan into action.

“Breanne,” I toyed with my daughter, “I bet you can’t outrun a wave.”

“Whatcha mean daddy?”

“Let me show you.”

As the surf pulled out I followed the receding waterline closely. A wave crashed further out. I waited, and waited, and, just as the oncoming surf drew close, I darted towards my daughter and away from the white, frothy wash coming towards me.

One time. Two times. Breanne joined in the fun. Onlookers saw nothing but a father and daughter frolicking along the shoreline. The incoming breakers were getting bigger. This was my set. Time to catch a wave.

I waited for the next incoming surge. Closer and closer it came. Breanne took off running. I waited. As the water raced up I turned to run. But wouldn’t you know, inept Val got his feet tangled. I tumbled down. The oncoming wave raced over me. I was soaked. Mission accomplished.

Those passing by looked on amusedly. Clumsy fool. My daughter laughed. I stood up and joined the merriment. As I laughed I unclenched my PC muscle—the urine flowed. Just like in junior high I was branded a klutz. My ego could take that. Better a klutz than a pants wetter.

Unorthodox Pagan - Excerpt #1

The first drink of the morning is a risky proposition—especially after a night of when the demons needed a little more sedation than usual.

But this morning I am ready. On the passenger-side car seat next to me a striped beach towel lays in wait in case there was a post-swig upchuck. In the cup holder, an open can of Red Bull is ready to do its chasing.

I slide down in my seat. Though I had parked my car a good distance from the gaggle of cars nestled closer to the beach I want to keep as low of a profile as possible. I unscrew the cap from my half pint of SKYY vodka and brace myself.

It’s best not to sip room temperature vodka. Just take a breath and go. The good thing about half pints is that, with practice, you don’t have to come up for air before the bottle is emptied.

I drink quickly. Beads of sweat form on my brow before the last gulp does down. The warmth spreads through my body. Before my stomach can react I grab the can of Red Bull and take a pull. Now is the moment of truth. Would last night come back up or would my liquid friend settle in just so?

As my guts began to burble I hit it with another ice-cold sip of liquid energy—the only nourishment I’ll take today. Good thing the chaser is cold. That’s my only shot at quelling the violence before the alcohol is absorbed and my body shifts gears from rejection to acceptance to craving.

Today the battle is easy. One mini burp—bile free—and I settle in and enjoy the oncoming buzz. The fog of morning lifts and I gain the clarity I so desperately need.

Where had the tape stopped? Oh yeah, sheeple. That’s what we're becoming, sheeple. Maybe you can’t make a man by standing a sheep on its hind legs. But a flock of sheep and a conference room of full people has more in common than we care to admit.

Vocal minorities rule the day. The apathetic masses follow vocal shepherds blindly—bleating as they go and calling it opinions. Bill Gates and Michael Dell telling us it is all about the Information Age. Manufacturing has no place in our modern society—outsource that nonsense to the emerging Third World economies. We are enlightened Information Engineers. The computer is god.

What a load. I bought into to that story and look where I am. My business card says I’m a software engineer—champion of the information-driven economy. In practice I am impotent little cubicle troll.

My big accomplishment for the week? Coding a report to calculate the absence factor for the folks up in HR. Total days absent divided by headcount multiplied by total work days. A little extra code and the report drills down from business unit to division to department. Which department proportionately has the most absences? That’s the story my coding tells.

The red-flagged departments get a call from HR. A manager’s bonus drops from 2.78 percent to 2.76 percent because Sally Jo had the sniffles one day too many. My work is done. Maybe I’ll etch it on my tombstone: Here lies Val Benson, never met a metric he couldn’t code.

That’s a marketable skill? I’m guessing after the terrorists finally get a hold of a few nukes my ability to calculate Key Performance Indicators isn’t going to be worth much in the resulting barter economy. The people with the ability to make things from scratch are going to rule the day. When the electromagnetic pulses wipe out our information-based economy I won’t have a pot to piss in. What am I talking about? I won’t even know how to make a pot.

My dad built the last three homes he lived in from the ground up. What have I ever built? I can’t even fix my toaster oven. It breaks and I run to Walmart—problem solved.

I’m one of the sheeple. Herd me into my eight by eight cube, buy me a Starbuck’s and watch me code. Gates and Dell are billionaires. I aspire to one day occupy the eight by twelve “manager’s cube.” Four extra feet and an extra chair—that’s what I aspire to.

Please tell me I have another half pint ready to go. Ahhh, there it is. Under my seat. Away from the prying eyes of cops, truckers and passengers.

I drink it down fast. No need for a chaser this time, my stomach is settled, waiting, demanding. The warmth spreads again. Then black. Now I’m back.

A ghost of a thought… Bill Gates… a product of the hate factory I call my mind. Forget Gates, it’s that “because-I-have-the-MBA” wiener roaster from the second floor that I can’t stand. Tom, that pathetic little suck up.  I’m sorry my thesaurus isn’t as over used as yours. You might have the MBA but I’ve got the ideas. Real ideas, not Key Performance Indicators copied from some grad-level text book.

I know it was Tom that had me dropped from the strategy sessions. Tom, oh I’m sorry, you prefer Thomas. Sorry that I have the ability to make people think. Sorry that I don’t follow you blindly. Sorry that my Dockers aren’t as neatly pressed as yours.

Screw you Tommy. At least I’m not an inspirational quote regurgitating corporate clone. At least I…

“Daddy?”

What was that?

“Daddy, when are we going to walk down to the beach?”

The voice comes from outside of my driver side window. It’s my daughter. I forgot about my daughter… again.

Writer's Block

Why did I ever announce I was going to write a novel? As I work with a publisher back East on a collection of stories about places I made wee wee I find that I can crank out those stories with ease.

Piddle comes easily to me. It is my special gift.

But last week I mentioned I was going to use this blog to post excerpts from a novel I am working on… more serious fare.

All week I “wrote” the first entry in my head. I worked out exactly how I was going to create snippets--one blog at a time--that I could weave into my novel.

In my head, I was writing volumes. Then Sunday I sat down to put pen to paper… or rather, finger to keyboard…

I froze.

Much like when my wife asks me to make sweet, sweet love to her, I was totally incapable of performing. The pressure was too great. (Though, unlike the private moments with my wife there weren’t three midgets standing next to the bed chanting “Go, big boy, go!” (That’s my wife’s thing, not mine.)

This whole writing a novel idea is a bit more challenging than I'd like. Can I do it? We’ll see. I am going to start writing tonight with the goal of posting next weekend. I may need to seek professional help in the interim. (Man, did I pick a bad time to stop drinking or what? No wonder all the great writers are such lushes.)

To ease my anxieties, I’d like to point a few things out. First, whatever I post will just be an initial draft. Like my blogs, I will have not reworked and reworked the drafts to perfection.

I cringe when I read my blogs a few weeks after the fact. I am a huge believer in the value of rewrites. For example, on the first go around I might say: “The tinkle burst forth from my loins like a resplendent shower of gold.” Lots of words and note how I'm trying to show off with "resplendent?" But it doesn't convey what I was going for. With time, that same sentence might become: “Once again, I found myself sloppy drunk and making piddle in the corner of a vacated elevator.”  More descriptive, but not quite right. With a bit more rework I will finally find the words to capture the true essence of what I was trying to convey: “Mom!” I screamed, “Why can’t you just love me for me!” See how the process works?

It helps me to know that you know I will be doing rewrites. Also, I don’t know that I can do posts related to the novel every week. Sometimes I will need to go off on a tangent. I will try to make it clear when the post is novel related and when it is therapeutic.

Finally, there is no guarantee that novel-related posts will make it into the final product. I just need to experiment. You will see shortly that my main character likes to go off on thought tangents just like me. Though the story is fictional, I will be interweaving big chunks of my real life and real thoughts. Have fun picking out the truth.

So, that being said, let’s get started. I will post as soon as the first excerpt is finished.

P.S. The working title is "Unorthodox Pagan."

"The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne Revealed - Part 3 of 3

Special Note: If the previews for Pirate Master, the new reality show on CBS, make you sit up a say “Wow, I really want to watch Pirate Master!” please don’t read my blog… ever… I am serious… and please don’t breed or engage in activities that may result in breeding. Oh wait, if you are a Pirate Master fanatic you probably don’t understand words like “breed.” Let me use terms you might understand: Don’t do what boy dogs do to my leg when they are feeling funky… ever… and now the blog…

Judging from the lack of bulge in my wallet, I’m thinking I didn’t win the Powerball this past weekend. (Speaking of lacking bulges… oh, never mind... my wife has suffered enough.)

Anyways, slap me upside the head and call me “Sally.” I asked, I believed, and yet, I did not receive… OK, so I didn’t do all that much believing. Well then, you scoff, how can you doubt the power of “The Secret?” if you admit not believing?

Simple. I’ve tried to apply that “Genie-in-a-bottle” view of the Universe many times in the past. Did I mention that I am diagnosed Bipolar I with psychotic episodes and delusions of grandeur? My wiring, sans a daily does of Geodon, is like the wiring on Albanian electric treadmill… (“No dad, it wasn’t a bargain! That treadmill you bought me for Christmas launched me though the bedroom wall!”)

Seriously, with faulty circuits like mine do you think maybe, just maybe, I over thought Matthew 21:22 when I first read it? (Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.) I was on that passage of scripture like a fat kid on deep-fried, State Fair Oreos.

I am so vehement in discrediting “The Secret” not because I can’t open my mind to it. At several points in my life I insanely pursued the very same ask, believe, receive formula the film/book outlines. Mix a little scripture reading with a manic episode and my “believe” vibrations were more powerful than the bowels of that fat kid after a day long, grease-laden eating binge at said State Fair.

I chased the Genie-in-a-bottle Universe into the gates of madness. Positive thinking? Yes, it works. I land almost every job/contract I pursue because of it. But does the Universe grant your every wish as you sofa surf and chant? Of course not.

“The Secret” purports that men like Winston Churchill and Henry Ford were practitioners. But were they? Consider their actual words:

Continuous effort - not strength or intelligence - is the key to unlocking our potential.
Winston Churchill

Sounds like Churchill favored a little elbow grease.

There is joy in work. There is no happiness except in the realization that we have accomplished something.
Henry Ford

Ditto for Ford. Maybe the “believers” of “The Secret” actually believed in backing up your dreams with a little action.

But Rick, you say, what about the Bible?  “The Secret” is clearly laid out in the Bible. Yeah, well that Bible also says “faith without works is dead.” Hmmm.

Or consider an alternative take on Matthew 21:22 from those womanizing Mormons. The Mormon’s claim that Christ visited the America’s centuries ago and left a more accurately translated account of his teachings. In the American-ized version Christ said: “And whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is right, believing that ye shall receive, behold it will be given unto you.” If I had read that version maybe my religious episodes wouldn’t have been so memorable (and amusing to my children… they think “crazy dad” was pretty funny.)

So am I just a hater or do I offer an alternative? I have found my personal secret to a happier life… though I forget it often. Consider the actual words of another supposed keeper of “The Secret.”

Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.
Albert Einstein

Service and love are far more powerful than any secret. Remember my claim in part one that I finally found the key to selling my house in the stagnant Arizona housing market. Well it was a complete accident. For months that house sat and drew nary an offer. I was at the end of my very short wit. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to drop everything I was doing and fly out to Arizona to help a friend in need.

As I, for a change, stopped thinking about myself and helped another, my world brightened in many ways. For a moment I was not the self-absorbed turd that I usually am. I cared about another human being instead of worrying about poor little greedy me. There were many small miracles. Not the least of which was that on the same day a woman visited my house and made an offer. Hmmm.

But Rick! Oprah and Ellen and all my favorite daytime hosts love hosting the “teachers” of “The Secret.” True enough. But they also love ratings. Do you think the promise of a wish granting Genie of a Universe might capture a few eyeballs?

But Rick! “The Secret” is spreading like a gymnast on an oiled mat. True enough. But since the “teachers” of “The Secret” relish in quoting the famous dead (and conveniently un-interviewable) let me dig up another actual quote from Sir Winston:

A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.
Winston Churchill

Will Tonight's Post Be The Last?

So I just got back from a week up at Jackson Hole, WY. My travel day yesterday was brutal. Up at 3:30 to fly from Salt Lake City to Phoenix and then a road trip back to California. Keep in mind that we had to travel from Jackson Hole to Salt Lake City the day before.

Funny thing about exhaustion, an idea for a novel that I had rolling around in my head for years finally jelled. As some of you know I have been threatening to write about about places I've made wee wee. The good news is that I have moved beyond that (maybe).

I have an idea for a novel the is fictional, but with heavy doses of snippets from my life (including places I've made tinkle.)

I started on it this morning... it is brilliant.

My proofreading Nazi of a sister will not allow me to say "begs the question" (I think she was brutalized by a sadistic English professor years ago... begs the question makes sense to me, but I lack her superior education...) so let me say it this way: Now that I have an idea for a novel, the question is raised as to what I will do with the blog.

My first thought was to put it aside while I work on the novel for a year. Then I rethought things. I need my self-imposed (and never met) deadlines to keep me moving. Why not blog parts of the novel?

So that is the plan.

Tonight I will wrap up on "The Secret." Once that is out of the way it's all about the novel.

For the next year you will see bits and peices of what is to come. Some dark. Some humorous. None of it will tie together and you will have to buy the book to make sense of it all.

I am not revealing the story line. And what I blog will have to be redone to work into the over all plot. Do not attempt to figure it out. I attempted to explain the story to my wife yesterday and she just stared at me like "What the heck?" I think she was more than a little troubled by where it might be headed. No worries. It's a thought-provoking story with a moral and hopefully some laughs.

The biggest change in the blog is that there are going to be some snippets that are pure fiction. Let me just say I have never killed anyone in real life. We'll leave it at that. But, for the most part, the snippets will still reflect my disturbed life.

P.S. Long time readers will notice that I will be rewriting some past blogs and taking a little literary license with the once true stories.

“The Secret” by Rhonda Byrne Revealed – Part 2 of 3

My eyes pop when I see the seven-figure check in my hands. How could I have ever doubted “The Secret?” This was no hoax. This was riches beyond my wildest dreams.

Then I awake. There is no check, but I have an unsettling feeling. Have I scoffed too quickly at the concepts taught by “The Secret?” Am I robbing myself of a more fulfilling life because I, as is often is the case, am too quick to judge?

I pause. I open my copy of “The Secret” by Rhonda Byrne and began to read: “The Great Secret of Life is The Law of Attraction.” “The Law of Attraction says like attracts like, so when you think a thought you are also attracting like thoughts to you.” “Your thoughts become things.” “Like Aladdin’s Genie, the Law of Attraction grants our every command.” “The Creative Process helps you create what you want in three simple steps: ask, believe and receive.”

A “Teacher” of “The Secret”--wealth specialist David Schirmer--illustrates the power of the Law of Attraction by describing how he amazes people by always finding a parking spot where he imagines before hand that it will be. I can relate. I’ve proven to my wife on repeated occasions that I can always find a parking spot in crowded Newport Beach by slowing down, thinking positive and waiting for a space to come available. Though others race around the vast beachside parking lots to no avail, I consistently snag a prime spot just across from The Crab Cooker—our favorite restaurant.

Could it be I have been unwittingly tapping into the power of “The Secret?” I decide to experiment. Saturday I go for a bike ride. As I pedal, I think positive thought of Olallieberry pie. An Olallieberry is a special hybrid that is genetically about two-thirds blackberry and one-third red raspberry… and 100% delicious. For one hour I pedal and think affirming Olallieberry thoughts.

Pulling into Polly’s Pie Palace I sidle up to the counter and order myself a piece. Alas, it is not meant to be. The elusive Olallieberry is out of season. But, make that “my big butt,” is gladdened to discover they have the even more elusive fresh peach pie ready to be served. My taste buds dance like barefoot children on hot asphalt. Children who are unable to seek relief on the cool grass because their deranged mother is zealously guarding the lawn by wildly swinging a wickedly sharp garden rake… wow, how did that childhood memory work its way into the blog?

Suffice it to say, the peach pie is pleasing, but I quickly forget my experiment with the Law of Attraction… until the next evening. Sunday I am unexpectedly invited to a gathering on my ex-wife’s side of the family. Sunday I am surrounded by pies—at least a half dozen different types. Sunday I become a believer.

The signs are everywhere. Parking. Pies. Peach Pies. A Plethora of Pies.

The Law of Attraction is in full swing and the focus is the letter “P.” “P,” as in Powerball—my heart’s true desire. I focus on what the Universe is telling me. My thoughts merge with a power greater than myself.

“P.” The sixteenth letter in the alphabet. One followed by six. One plus six… Seven. My father had seven children. What a powerful number. What is the Universe telling me?

As I meditate on the Powerball it all becomes clear. As fate would have it I am in Arizona. Arizona, where the Powerball is the multistate lottery of choice. Not the Mega Millions like my newly adopted home state of California.

Power surges through my body. I race to the local convenience mart. Sixteen Powerball tickets are purchased--eight with the Powerball of 16 and eight with the Powerball of 7.

Alone in my recently escrowed house I collect my thoughts. I pray, Not some empty words to a faceless diety. Today I command the Universe that knows my name. “Friday I will win the Powerball!” I shout. My words echo off the walls. “Friday I will win the Powerball!”
I know the Universe hears me. I feel it in the core of my being.

Tune it next Monday when the full power of “The Secret” is revealed.