We were in a baseball dugout lit only by moonshine and zappy lust. We were 12. We devoured each other’s faces like hungry ghosts and this sloppy wet amateur slobbering—it was the thing to do forever. I was content. Let the world end and start over. Everything was just this making out.

And then she said, or kinda purred, “You can go up my shirt.” and my brain melted. The fact of deep kissing alone had already justified my inevitable death, but this suggestion went further, leading to the belief that maybe God loved me. My hand crept slowly up her skin and then—Michelle Cole scarred my hand, forever burning the tactile sense of her jiggly breast into the memory of my fingertips.

*

I had the sex talk with my son and discovered that school had already covered the technical aspects of reproduction in animals. But there’s so much more. It’s such a bigger story.

*

I remember seeing girls, gazing at their hair, wanting to bury my nose in it, and just wanting to—I don’t know—do something to them. This vague, undefined outline of desire. Emerging into my body’s new longing, ignorant of its aim. But it felt wrapped in the power of the most secret secrets. I dreamed of lost keys to magnificent castles. And gold coins and jewels in forgotten treasure chests buried deep in the cold earth. I wanted to fuck.

*

My son couldn’t identify with this longing or at least he wouldn’t cop to it. I told him that was cool, just alerting him to the possibility of a whole new biological terrain that’s all kinds of confusing. But wonderful too. He nodded his head, wishing I would stop, and I smiled, envying him, remembering the whole new realms of being alive that lurked in the dark on the other side of 12—such a jolt, because you thought you had shit figured out. But then, inexplicably smitten. Sweaty palms. Love letters. And—good God—kissing. Do you remember the joy of discovering kissing?

*

We talked about his Uncle Bryan, how he liked dudes, and how we lived in a time when being gay was struggling through labor pains of acceptance. But assured him that he lived in a home where he was accepted no matter where his treasure was buried. And then he asked if me and Jenna had sex—a question he regrets. I said “Yes”, he looked ill, and our discussion was effectively destroyed. I assured him I was available and kicked him out the door into the seething sexual cauldron of lust and 7^th Grade.

After the explosion it’s quiet for awhile. More quiet than that. Everything holds its breath. The furniture. The books on their shelves. The photographs hanging on the walls. None of them move. Well. I suppose they never move, but now they move less. Everything holds its breath.

I just sweep up glass and fragments of plates and coffee mugs. Everything is broken. I have a feeling that might be guilt but it probably isn’t. I don’t have room for guilt. It’s more likely a residue of last night’s nightmares. I’m hiding in the closet from a drunk man with a knife and, sometimes, the fear for my life lingers past the dream and into the morning. But never for long.

Because after the explosion, I always feel better—eager—like something’s about to begin.

She said I threatened to burn the house down and it doesn’t surprise me. During the explosion, burning the house down always sounds like a great plan but I never do it. Sometimes I burn things like photo albums and chairs. But for the most part I just like smashing things. I love the sound of things coming apart. When a coffee cup hits a TV, it seems to me both things sigh with relief. Freed from their functional servitude, they shatter. The shadow of shattering is relief. Death, I bet, sounds like a window breaking.

We don’t honor Satan the way Hinduism honors Shiva. Destruction gets no love. But you should try it. You know you want to. Go break something. Tell someone to get fucked. Smack them in the face. Quit your job. Destroy your reputation. Light it on fire. Oh sure, creativity, right? Be creative. Create create create! But I don’t believe in creativity not made of broken things. Before creation begins, something’s got to give. Smash!

After the explosion the clocks slowly begin to tick again and things eventually start to breathe. I continue to sweep, assessing the damage. We will need to repaint the dining room. We can shave off the cat’s remaining fur. Front door’s are replaceable. Jenna is crying and I’ll need to tell her I’m sorry. But I’m not. I’m not sorry. Being sorry is an insult to morning. It’s a brand new day!

New York was a blur of making new friends, hanging with old ones, and monstrous buildings that made you question if cities really are our creations or if we're just insignificant parasites delighting in their concrete fur.

More on that. Later.

But I'm writing to tell you that I managed to squeak out 30K and the sooner you pay your pledges X 6, the better. The widget will be live until August 31.

I'm currently 50% of the way to my goal and, of course, any further donations would be gratefully accepted.

New York City's humidity was oppressive to my desert skin and Central Park's hills kept getting bigger with each lap, a dirty trick. By the time I completed 25K, I had consumed the 3 liters of Gatorade I was carrying on my back and ate 2 Clif Bars, which were tough to choke down, lacking saliva. Empty, I went for one more 5K for an even 30 and by the end of it, my fingers were dry, covered with salt. I wanted to weep in my mother's arms or something else you might do when you're dramatically taxed. And yet it was still a pleasure. I wish I could explain that to you with sentences that don't include "fat" and 'lazy". I'll keep trying.

Thanks for all your support, well wishes, and congratulations. ~bhj

Greetings from Sedona. Unless you know where I live. Then, greetings from my house surrounded by vicious dogs and lots of HD video cameras.

A lot has happened during the 7^th month of the 365 BHJ Fitness Regime. Indeed, so much that the Regime morphed into an Extravaganza. Did you notice that? That was pretty cool. I never saw that coming.

First, what started off on the wrong foot as a vain tirade of smack talk about lazy fat people has now matured into selfless charitable outreach for muscular dystrophy. Did you see that? It’s like I’m a fucking butterfly or some other crazy shit that becomes splendid. Like a phoenix or something. Do you hear that? Little chirpy birds are singing their yearly announcement that winter has melted into the birth of spring. It’s a Christmas miracle. Scrooge bought the poor people turkey. Etc.

So if you’d please stop sending me hate mail about thyroids and poverty, that would be lovely.

Play the Beatles. Smoke a little pot. Give peace a chance. Let your anger dissolve into charity and donate some money to a good cause. You think I’m a dick? Turn that into helping people. Don’t give in to the Dark Side, Luke. Darth Vader’s your father but there’s still hope for you. Use the Force. Donate.

On August 6^th, I’m running a 5K in NYC to help raise money for a little boy named Tanner and muscular dystrophy. Except I’m gonna keep going. I’m gonna run as many 5Ks as I can and I’m not quitting until I’m limping or I vomit. It’s gonna be a blast. Click here for more information or you can just use the widget on the right to donate.

*

So, of course, after I received $1000s of dollars in donations and pledges, I got hurt. Karma. It was all part of my transformative butterflication into the Good Lightness from my ashes. On day 200 of the streak, I ran 15K in the morning. I felt good. Strong. That afternoon, I decided to run another 5K in 100+ degree temps because I heard it was hot as balls in NYC. So I’m running along and—ZING—someone sticks a 6 inch knife in my hamstring. That’s what it felt like. I was limping, cursing, slapping my cheeks like that kid in Home Alone.

I spent the next 7 days barely keeping the streak alive with 1 mile limps that got increasingly less painful with the help of my friend, Jimmy, who donated his personal training expertise with text messages all day long telling me when to ice, when to heat, and when to sit in the hot tub. (If you need a trainer, go check him out. He’s the man. And, yes, he can train via email and the phone.)

So I’ve got a couple 10Ks under my belt again and I’m back to feeling healthy and strong. Ready to meet Tanner in NYC and run like hell. If you’re still mad about my post 2 months ago, let’s work it out via email. I’ve made up with a lot of people and I’m sure we can work it out. Unless you’re that dick who leaves nasty comments on every post and sends me email about being bipolar and shit. Fuck you, Stephen. I hope you become a butterfly.

July mileage: 174.

2010 mileage: 1256

Days run in a row: 213

Keep on rockin in the free world. ~bhj

When I return to work in the fall, it’ll be my fifth year—my record—the longest time I’ve managed to keep a job. But I am definitely due for a meltdown. By meltdown I mean that my identity as an employee one day melts. I am suddenly just finished, I stop what I’m doing, and walk away. The boss yells “Hey! Where you going?” but I’m way too finished to answer. I go home and Jenna grimaces. She knows what melted jobs look like. I never do anything for long.

But today my son is 12, I’ve loved someone now for 12 years in a row, and the constancy of our relationship provides me with a great source of hope that some things—something must—defy the law of flux.

When me and Jenna brought him home, we plopped him on the bed and searched for answers in each other’s vacant eyes. What the fuck are we supposed to do with this tiny speck of inquisitive flesh? We were arrogant. We thought that parents raised children but it’s not true. We give them a place to stay and juice when they say “Juice?!?” and overestimate our impact. We don’t raise them. Children raise us.

If you think I’m strange, you should meet my son. The dude’s a crash course in otherness. Sometimes I struggle with comparing him to the me of his age. He’s not spoken once about attraction born of lust and he lacks a single friend who calls or comes by the house. And from the wrong perspective, these things concern me.

But the kid aces school across the board without raising a finger and, more importantly, he’s an abyss of questions. Being a 12-year-old boy-in-the-world for him means to be curious and wonder. He wanders in wonder, always—and I mean always—in the midst of articulating the world in the form of some new question. And if you know the answer, he’ll ask you another one. That’s his joyous game. To inquire into what you know until you run out of answers and the wondering begins.

So while I worry about when he’s gonna start chasing tail and get a big circle of friends, he’s busy making maps to the treasure house. Keep asking questions. Forget what you know. The best minds aren’t worried. The best minds are blown.

Happy birthday, J. Thanks for not conforming to my idea of what a 12-year-old boy is and continuing to astonish me with who you are. Your default is amazed. You transform me every day and it’s been my pleasure to love you this long. I never do anything for long. You raised me.

I was running in the dark of early morning when, up ahead on the sidewalk, I saw a human head. My God a human head, I thought, but it turned out to be a plastic bag.

I wondered awhile what one is supposed to do when they find a human head on the sidewalk. I suppose you contact the authorities. When 911 asks you for the nature of your emergency, you say “Yes. Hello. I was running—just now—and found someone’s head on the sidewalk.” But be careful. Don’t let your voice shake or quiver—even a little bit. Because you’re already a suspect. “You found it. You chopped it off.” That’s what they say down at the station. It’s a police maxim. Police rely on maxims more than the facts because they’re fat and lazy. Man, I hate cops.

How crazy would it be if I went to prison for chopping off someone’s head that turned out to be a plastic bag? I bet that would make the papers. And a bunch of people would organize and protest. They would hold signs that said things like “FREE THE IMAGINATION” and “IT ONLY LOOKED LIKE A HEAD”. Maybe Bob Dylan would write a song about it. It would suck to be in prison but having Bob Dylan write a song about you would kick major ass. So you take the good with the bad.

Jenna would bring the kids to see me and we’d talk on those telephones through the glass. I would explain to Jenna for the millionth time: “Baby. I told you I’m innocent. A). I only found the head. I swear to God I didn’t chop it off. And B). It was a fucking plastic bag.” But she would only look at me the way she looks at me when I swear I don’t snore. Lucy would get on the phone and she’d look like little kids look when their Dads are in prison. It bums them out. Parents are supposed to set good examples. But it’s hard when you’re in prison. A lot of prison stuff is hard.

But I’d put my hand on the glass—it would be very emotional—and say “Cheer up little Lucy girl. This is only Daddy’s imagination. I learned it from watching you.” (I’d say the last part like that little kid in the pot commercial.)

Lucy squealed “Watch me, Daddy! Watch me!” and then she swam in 3 quick little circles. The pool and the sky were bluer than cartoons—the opposite of prison. So pleased with herself, and without even thinking, she emphatically claimed “I’m a fish who’s a dog who’s chasing her tail.” And I did the sputtery Dad smile—the one that makes people with no children sick.

I thought about the way invisible connections make metaphors possible and how all kids are poets. And then, like a fish who’s a dog, I imagined the whole running story about the head and the plastic bag, in prison in a pool on the hottest day of July, chasing my tail.

The hardest part about having kids, hands down, is the way they botch up all your plans. Just a minute. It’s Lucy. She wants some scrambled eggs.

Okay. I’m back. You see there? It’s not like it was hard to make scrambled eggs. The actual event of making eggs isn’t the hard part. The hard part is the way my plan to write this blog post clashed with Lucy’s need to have scrambled eggs.

“Dad. Do fish drink water?”

“I don’t know, Jackson. Does Barack Obama like grilled cheeses?”

“Huh?”

You have to stun them. It buys you some time. Anyway, there’s something in the way the kids so suddenly intrude. It’s like POW! They’re right there. You know? It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You might be on the phone or reading or even merely trying to finish a thought and—hold on.

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT WHAT SHE DID! YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO YOUR SISTER’S HEAD! DO YOU WANT TO KILL YOUR SISTER?”

There’s a weird kind of psychic pain that accompanies having your plans interrupted. It’s not like having someone sit on your head. But still. It hurts. Because it’s your will. It’s like you want to do what you want to do but the kids—they destroy that. The kids destroy what you want. Just a sec—

“Excuse me what?”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Aw, I love you too, Lucy. And guess what. I’m gonna love you even more in 10 minutes after you let me finish writing this blog post.”

See? That was sweet. It’s not like I’m saying the kids are terrible. The point I’m trying to make is subtle. Even being interrupted to be told that I’m loved is a sudden readjustment to my intentions and it’s bracing.

When you think about it, what you want could be construed as a definition of who you are. So kids are constantly messing with who you are. Jackson just knocked a glass of red juice on the carpet. Jackson just knocked a glass of red juice on the carpet. Jackson just knocked a glass of red juice on the carpet.

Shit. I have to hurry. Last night, I was reading—the kids were sleeping, but you’re still never safe—and I came across this Carl Jung quote. It really hit home, so I wanted to share it with you.

To this day God is the name by which—“I’m sure it’s important, Lucy, but I’m right in the middle of a really cool Carl Jung quote. Gimme two minutes.”—I designate all things which cross my willful path violently and recklessly, all things which upset my subjective views, plans and intentions—“I don’t care how much Tom Nook just paid you for a barred knifejaw. Just play your video game and, please, spare me the running commentary.”—and change the course of my life for better or worse.

Gods destroy what you want and mess with who you are. They do this because there’s so much more—worlds and worlds—than you and what you want. And kids are more than kids. They’re little gods. Honor them.