What does this cute little guy and today's image conscious female have in common? Women want the emu's oil and the emus are trying desperately to keep it.

Okay, maybe it's not quite the titanic struggle. But these odd little guys produce an oil that appears to have fantastic abilities. How do I know? Well, I haven't tried emu oil just yet, but I had heard somewhere about it becoming the next miracle skincare product. Then my wife discovers it online while looking for a better skin product and she goes out and buys some - something like $14 for 2 oz. at the health food store.

I think, yeah, okay. Whatever it takes for her to be more at ease and spend less time with all the makeup. Honestly, I thought she was still singing the praises of ProActive by Rodan & Fields. Guess not.

The first night she tries it, I can hear in her voice how impressed she is. She has that sound like she's being pampered, only she's just got some emu oil on her face. She tells me that her skin doesn't feel clogged, that it can still breathe. This is apparently not a common occurrence with skincare. She makes sure to inform me that emu oil penetrate's seven layers of skin, whereas water only penetrates two. Those extra five are apparently a big deal...

So the emu oil discovery is great and all. I mean, I guess the reason she looked for something new is because of the one and only complaint I had about her appearance: she has spent so much time doing stuff to her skin that I've seen her in green or white face masks almost as often as not when we're at home. I don't worry about her wearing sweats at home. I just want to see her face. Funny thing is, her face looks great with or without all the fuss. You know how people are, though - they study themselves for flaws and find microscopic details that other people never notice.

On the stranger side of things, our cat has a morbid fascination with the new smell on Heather. I see gluttony and lust in his eyes like when he hears me opening a can of tuna. He sniffed her hand and started licking his chops over and over and over. He tried to nibble on her nose when she bent down to nuzzle him.

So basically, I can't take my wife out into the wild while she's wearing her cat bait. I wouldn't want her getting chased by bears or other wild animals because she smells like a fresh and tasty emu. I guess that's one of the prices you pay for not buying industrialized chemical products that destroy our environment. Animals are smart enough to stay away from those. Hmm... what does that say about us?

*photo belongs to allaboutemu.com

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Though the compulsion to write flows strongly through these veins, I cannot escape an addiction to math and statistics. I like to crunch numbers for potential scenarios. I like to know how the numbers break down - which blog posts are viewed the most, which search terms lead people to my website the most, etc.

The overwhelmingly most popular blog post was The Metrosexual, written over a month ago. It is seriously leaving most other posts in the dust. Of course, you have to keep in mind that the older a post, the more time it has had to be viewed. So that always plays a factor. The second or third most popular post was about Texas Bowfishing. Apparently, people have an obscene fetish for gar.

The picture on the right is of Carson Daly. He is one of the premier American metrosexuals in the celebrity spotlight. As mentioned in the previous Metrosexual post, the epitome of the Metrosexual is British soccer phenom David Beckham. Now there's a man who can't go anywhere without a thousand women trying to do something unspeakable. Daly is nothing in comparison to Beckham's star power and marketability. But he'll do for the moment.

I've asked women before what's the big deal with metrosexuals. I partly understand it, and I also fundamentally cannot. Let's look at it this way: I think it is safe to say that the majority of women either dream or have dreamed of a tall, muscular, strong man sweeping them of their feet and romancing them in a magical world of something or other. Okay, with that said, where does the scrawny metrosexual fit in?

Granted, the big muscular guys are frequently jocks, which means they spend most of their childhood and adolescence surrounded by morons. No offense. It's a simple fact that people who specialize or focus on one thing do so to the detriment of other aspects of their lives. You can't be experienced and talented at everything.

David Beckham represents a metrosexual hybrid whose appeal is more understandable because he is so athletic. I mean, he kicks ass as a soccer player. And I do know a few other guys who fit the bill of soccer metrosexual. Maybe someone should coin a new term for that kind of guy... maybe a header-o-sexual.

But I think it's safe to say that the majority of metrosexuals are not so athletic. They're usually scrawny little guys who dress well, stare into the mirror too much for their own good, and act like they're God's gift to women and fashion. Quite a few of them have one thing or another going for them - some are musicians, some are successful businessmen, and some are artists with above average art. That I understand. After all, I reeled in my wife by singing and writing. I understand appealing to a woman's heart and her sense of beauty. Then again, don't we all use the weapons in our arsenal to compensate for whatever we're lacking? Guys join bands all the time because they want the fame and the easy access to women who, under different circumstances, wouldn't give them the time of day.

But why are these guys being elevated to the status of gods when many of them couldn't defend themselves in a barfight? Not that I'm advocating barfights, mind you. But my point is that somewhere along the way, a lot of women have changed what they want, and I want to know why. There's got to be some semblance of masculinity in a guy, doesn't there? I mean, you want him to defend you if necessary, not vice versa, right?!?!

Until I learn otherwise, I'll chalk it up to Hollywood. Seems like they decide for the masses what is going to be cool, desirable, and worth striving for. If you watch enough television and movies, you constantly see the same thing presented in a certain light, the concept has more of a chance to work its way into your mind and affect the way you think.

Whatever. It's just a bunch of guys wearing women's jeans and eye liner, right?

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I haven't written anything here in quite some time. There's not enough time in the day to get everything done and have the accompanying panic attacks. Today being what it is - Valentine's Day - I thought I should at least attempt to write something thematic.

The painting to the right is of Trinity Valentine at age 18. Who is that? I have no idea. Her last name's Valentine... that's thematic enough. The painter is Fred Burkhart. The surrounding blues are so startlingly blue in comparison to the black outline of her face and the lighter tones of her hair and face. I don't know... something about it captivated me. You can see more paintings by this artist at www.burkhartstudios.com.

As for Valentine's Day proper, I am reminded of Valentine's Day 2004. Heather and I had been married a whopping 18 days, and I was on a mission: to find the perfect kitty that Heather has been wanting for more than ten years. I was one of those Valentine's Day haters. It was and still is my firm belief that a man who loves his wife finds special ways to show his love throughout the year, not just on some day that someone randomly chose as a day of romance. I personally resent it, though less now than I used to.

The point of it is to make men feel so guilty at the thought of not buying something for their wife or girlfriend that they end up feeling obligated to go spend money so that she won't be the only woman at work or at church who didn't get some token of how special she is to her man.

I so totally lucked out! The first place I stopped, PetSmart, had one little Siamese Snowshoe with piercing blue eyes. I was transfixed. Doubt crept in. What if Heather gets mad that I adopted a cat without even consulting with her? It was risky. It's the kind of thing careless married couples fight about all the time.

I was going to drive around and think about it, when this couple walked up and started cooing over the same kitten. Panic. What if someone else chooses him while I'm still thinking? Can I take that chance? No. I cannot. He's too beautiful. He's too perfect. It's him or nothing.

He was so tiny. So precious. He cried all the way home. I sang to him to calm him down. When we got home, my wife was taking a shower, probably getting ready for a possible Valentine's Day dinner. I carried the kitty into the bedroom, opened the bathroom door just a crack, and gently nudged him on. I closed the door and listened carefully.

Five seconds later, I hear Heather gasp. I hear the shower door open and she says, "Where did you come from, kitty?" in the sweetest voice I've ever heard her use. The rest was history. She fell in love with our new cat, and he has been an irreplaceable member of the family ever since. Now, whenever a gift-giving holiday comes around, she always tells me, "Just give me Mr. Kitty again. Wrap a bow around him and give him to me as a present!"

I haven't tried it yet. Somehow, I think the idea of it might be a little cuter than how it might play out for real. Still, Mr. Kitty earns me bonus points on every holiday when my wife remembers how wonderful it was to receive the perfect kitty on a day I had never previously celebrated.

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So, believe it or not, I came across this girl on Blogger.com. Wow, is she talented!!! Take a look at her website and you'll see what I mean. She's done incredible work in fashion, travel, portraits, commercial, and music. Take a look at her section called "Projects" - Rosane plays with refracted and reflected light and colors. Very cool stuff.

Check her out. If you need professional photography anywhere in the Dallas area, visit her website and contact her via email. Tell her I sent you - that'll freak her out!!! She has no idea who I am!

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I grew up examining things. It came naturally. I was introspective by nature. I always wanted to know why. This was considered an irritant by my elders until I reached a certain age, and then I was told it was a strength. While I think a certain level of introspection and intentional philosophizing is healthy, I managed to find no motivation for living because of my extremes. I disassembled ideas and principles to bare bones and found that I had nothing to live for.

I was amazed later on when I first read Ecclesiastes. Ecclesiastes confirmed my suspicion that more was wrong with the world than with my view of it. Solomon was the wisest man who ever lived. And yet he managed to proclaim "All is vanity. Everything is utterly meaningless." He knew there was no point. I saw this too, and lost all desire to strive for a lifetime of nothings.

He knew that whatever stuff you accumulate, you can't take it with you when you die. He knew that rich and poor alike get sick and die. Righteous and unrighteous alike suffer. You can work your ass off for 50 years, missing out on everything else but work, and you'll end up with nothing. You can spend a lifetime loving someone and raising children, but they can get sick or die.

You cannot control every aspect of life. You do not decide which way the wind blows, and you do not decide which countries' economies fail. You could live a pauper's life, saving every penny for a retirement you never live to see. Or you may live to see it and find that you'd rather give all the money back to savor more of the moments along the way.

I watched. I watched and I learned and I studied and I hurt. People can teach so much just by living in front of you.

At the end of it all, I saw that I am not in control. I saw that I absolutely anything I count on can change against my wishes. I saw a world of no guarantees. I saw a world full of choices with no guaranteed results. I saw too many risks and too many potential outcomes of each decision. I felt paralyzed. I could think myself into a stupor and want to curl up into a little ball and hide.

This was supposed to be about formal, scholarly philosophy. That's not what came out this time. I'll give another try sometime soon.

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There are too many plotlines to keep up with. I cannot follow on a linear path, yet the details are soaking in.

I've finally finished watching all of season one on dvd. Things I've learned about LOST since my last update:

1. Things happen to animals that Walt sees pictures or drawings of.
2. The Spanish comic book Walt was reading belonged to Hurley before the crash.
3. The Others were specifically after Walt at the end of Season One - not just any child or any boy.
4. If you believe the obvious, Walt has access to a computer by which he communicated with his dad, Michael.
5. Locke could turn out to be a total loon. He believed the island was giving him clues on what to do next, but he might be losing his edge on sanity or faith because he's been doing nothing new for a while.
6. John Locke was an English philosopher. I'd read his treatise on Human Understanding if I had the time, just to see if the writers of LOST drew anything out of his writings which would clarify some of the mystery.
7. Walt shakes Jack's or Locke's hand in Season One and immediately warns him not to open it (the hatch). He displays what would appear to be some kind of psychic or prophetic ability. What exactly is the danger, though? Why does he say not to open it? What will happen because they did?

The Numbers - Hurley won the lottery with the numbers. He heard the numbers from a supposed crazy man in an institution. The crazy man served in the military with another guy in the Pacific. They monitored the air waves. Usually, all they heard was static, but one day, they heard a voice, repeating those numbers. We discover that 16 years ago, Rousseau found a transmitter on the island that was playing voice which repeated those numbers over and over and over. Rousseau recorded a new message in French over the previous one, and set it on a continual loop. This is the distress call Sayid picked up after the Oceanic flight crashed. The numbers were found on the outside of the hatch, and they are the numbers someone has been entering into the computer system below for years. So the numbers are at quite old if men serving in the military decades ago heard the transmission. Why were the numbers on the outside of the hatch? The hatch had no handle or way to open from the outside. It would stand to reason that no one on the outside was intended to have anything to do with it. If that is the case, it is either a serial number, a combination to some kind of lock, a warning of some kind, or something else I haven't thought of.

John Locke will either figure it out or be responsible for more deaths. That is one of the only opinions I will voice right now. Will Michael find Walt? Why did the Others stop Jack from pursuing Michael, but we see no evidence that they stopped Michael from looking for Walt?

Is Libby really an Other?

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is it a coincidence that the wisest people are always those who take advantage of stillness and quiet? when was the last time you met a sage that was "making things happen"? you don't.

of course, you could pull the old person trump card and claim that those wise people are also old people, and thus more prone to stillness, quiet, and a slow-paced life. while that may be true, not all old people are wise, though most are slow and quiet.

the wise ones of which i speak are the ones who live a slower pace. they are the ones who don't acquiesce to the impulsive and increasing speed of our culture. how they survive, i do not know. i doubt i could afford food, rent, electricity, and water if i refused to participate in the rush of societal commerce.

there are people who do it, though. maybe some farmers, ranchers, and homeless people in America, but i'm thinking more of normal people in places like Japan and Taiwan. i'm thinking of little fishing villages, where some old men and women grow and catch their own food each day, and have little use of urban anxiety. true, they may eat fish and rice with nearly every meal, but perhaps they see no problem with that. perhaps they live a quality of life i can only imagine.

for me, the thought of stillness causes feelings of shameful laziness. every day, i feel guilty for "wasted time", which refers to time not spent actively doing something. then again, the kind of stillness i'm used involves a sofa and a television. that's vegging. i'm not talking about that.

asian cultures have encouraged stillness in religious practices. meditation, zen, and yoga all deal with stillness or slow, deliberate movements. tranquility is one of their highest virtues.

jews and christians, though the westerners seem unaware of this, have similar principles, i.e. "be still and know that he is God." sad how that command has been all but forgotten in practical daily American life.

even worse, in my mind, is how the opposite is culturally acceptable. "time management" is one of the bastardly uneducated ideas of our time. technology allows us to operate multiple machines at one time, all of which produce immeasurably more results than a single person could ever dream. with greater capabilities has come higher expectations. the "normal" bar is continually raised. a minor example is the cell phone. most people have one. now there's no reason for being an hour or two late to work. flat tire? why didn't you call? no cell phone? that's irresponsible. you are now held to the new standard of normal. you either keep up and participate or you fall behind and risk extinction.

i've said all that before. it's one of my biggest complaints against metropolitan life in this country. but technology and time management are not the main issue here. the question at issue here is this: is it okay to be still, silent, and unproductive? Think of Mister Miyagi or Yoda. masters or a failures? corporate America says failures. and yet we all know the simple truth.

wisdom says competing for top honors is wasteful. wisdom says serve others rather than try to rule them. wisdom says it is better to be poor and at peace within one's self than to be a shallow, heartsick millionaire. the hard-hearted will disagree. that's just the callouses talking.

time is a precious jewel. more precious than what most of us spend it on. what would you have to face if you were silent for one hour? what could you understand if you allowed yourself the time to reflect?

think about it. in silence.

can you handle it?

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