I already love cheese and I just discovered another one that is to die for. Trader Joe's Cave Aged Gruyere.

But I had to know, what the hell does 'cave aged' mean? So I went and found out. No wonder I like it. Take an already fantastic cheese - Swiss Gruyere - lovingly place it in a sandstone cave (or warehouse not doubt - but I'm sticking with the cave image no matter what) and let it get all crumbly, sharp and oh so delicious for 12 MONTHS. Think of a sharp, white cheddar and you'll start to get the picture. Only this is better.

Three more words: tastes like more.

So I get a new pair of shoes, okay? Nothing special, just a pair of black, leather, sorta nice, slip-on shoes. Last Monday I wore them to work for the first time; along with a pair of good looking jeans and long sleeve shirt.

A couple of days ago while I'm helping one of our staff with a computer problem she says to me, "How come you were all dressed up the other day? You're not interviewing are you?"

?!

It made me realize that my work 'uniform' basically is raggedy-ass faded jeans, any old top and either slip-on Vans or Converse in the winter or shorts and a T-shirt (same shoes) in the summer. Throw in some fabulous cycling socks and I look like a hobo eight hours a day, five days a week.

It was kind of a wake up call as I'm usually the guy making superior fashion judgments about anyone I pass on the street. :( Now who's laughing. Not me. That was rhetorical.

• Anyone with a sunburn. Especially those with a burn in the pattern of a bathing suit they have not worn in 12 months or the shoulder straps of a tank top. Not to be confused with the person that has too much sun and looks like a well-tanned piece of cow hide; that's an aging Caucasian local or transplant.
• The guy walking along the beach with his boogie board or surf board leash attached to his wrist or ankle.
• Anyone with pants that zip off at the knee.
• Anyone with a hat that is made of high-tech fabric and is supposed to wick moisture away from your head.
• Most anyone in a Hawaiian shirt when it's not a special occasion.
• The woman walking down the street wearing a flower lei.
• The woman walking down the street wearing a flower lei like a necklace instead of letting it hang down in back as well as in front.
• Anyone with a camera.
• Just about anyone applying sun screen.
• Pretty much anyone in any sandals other than zories. Locals don't wear Tevas, Keens, Chacos or anything with buckles or Velcro straps.
• Anyone wearing socks. Like that guy with the hi-tech Eddy Bauer hat in the zip-off pants wearing white, crew length 'athletic' socks in his Teva sandals... yikes.
• All those people that bring a HUGE bag of accessories to the beach filled with stuff like sun block, a camera, books, the legs of zip-off pants in case it gets cold...
• Anyone that wears a raincoat when it rains. All the locals know it's 1) warm rain and 2) that it will stop very soon and all they have to do is hang out for five or 10 minutes.
• Anyone driving a convertible Ford Mustang. Actually, anyone driving any Ford Mustang at all; they're all rental cars on Kauai.
• People who check the weather forecast. What's to check? In the winter it ranges between 65-78 and in the summer it ranges between 70-82. It's gonna rain somewhere on the island every day and there will probably be wind. Get used to it.
• People who think what the locals speak is called "Pigeon English" instead of pidgin.
• Anyone that gets upset when you schedule a meeting for 4 in the afternoon and the other party is not there at 4:05.
• Seemingly anyone worried about their hair; like keeping it in place or coloring it.
• People who suggest the pool when someone asks, "Where should we go swimming today?"

"I think you're all fucked in the head. We're ten hours from the fucking fun park and you want to bail out. Well I'll tell you something. This is no longer a vacation. It's a quest. It's a quest for fun. I'm gonna have fun and you're gonna have fun. We're all gonna have so much fucking fun we'll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles. You'll be whistling 'Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah' out of you're assholes! "

56.

Never, in all my years of college, high school (hell, ANY school) did I think I would ever utter these words. Now that I'm out of school and doing my own thing it seems I can't sleep in if my life depends on it. Thinking back it might have started when I began going to the gym early in the morning with a friend about 10 years ago but really, is this kind of thing truly learned or are there just morning people and evening people?

Since that day way back when I have been getting up at around 5 am on most weekdays on a fairly regular basis and now come the weekend or, heaven forbid, a vacation where you are fully, 100 percent able to sleep in I am unable to do so. Like today. I woke up at 5 and finally got out of bed at 6 and now I'm sitting here typing.

If you ask Shelley the answer is clear. I'm a morning person (read: freak, weirdo) and she's normal. On weekdays I regularly get home from the gym and she's still in bed. On weekends she can wake up to tell me goodbye as I leave for a ride, roll over and be asleep in a heartbeat. In fact, she'll set her alarm on the weekends just so she can turn it off and go back to sleep with the feeling of satisfaction that she does not need to get up. Not me. Once that alarm goes off I'm done for. Even if I just have to get up at 4 or 5 to visit the bathroom I'm finished. I'll go back to bed but just lie there staring a the ceiling.

You might say, "Martin, why are you fighting this? Think of all the extra time you have each day that most other people don't." Well it's not exactly like that you see... I might wake up early but then come 8 pm; unless I'm actively doing something, I shut down pretty fast. We'll be watching a movie or (trying to) read books when all of a sudden my head hits the couch/pillow. The only exceptions seem to be when we're out with friends, at a party, you know, doing stuff. Sadly there is one other exception; the computer. I can sit and mess with shit for hours it seems. There have been times when my ability to stay awake in front of the glowing LCD has been kinda ridiculous in fact.

On those days when I don't get to bed until late and only get six (or five or four) or so hours of sleep I still seem to do okay. I'm not one of those people that has a second job at night or some massive hobby they do when everyone else in the house falls asleep but I do seem to do alright with less sleep than some.

But sometimes I really want to sleep in... I have vivid (and fond) memories of being able to shut my eyes, go back to sleep and then have breakfast at lunch time. Plus, there are times when your body just needs more sleep. Mine needs it too but it refuses to get it. Thinking back I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say seven hours is the most I have slept in years. What's that you say? Eight is normal? Whatever.

If this is one of the affects of aging I guess it could be a lot worse. I could be going to the bathroom not just at 4 but at 2, 2:45, 3:30... you get the idea.

See, now this is where this gets funny. So I'll put away my hanky from that last post and tell you the sad, pathetic story of my unrequited teen years.

As luck would have it, I ended up going to school on the north shore of Lake Tahoe. Incline Village to be exact. From about 2nd grade on. Not until I reach 6th grade did I realize the wonder that was Grady Clifford. He played drums in my band class. Clifford, meaning Doug Clifford. Cosmo. Not that I even grasped that fact at the time. He just played drums and I played clarinet. Was there ever a more sexy instrument than clarinet? Just ask Benny Goodman.  So he was like the pinnacle of hotness and he dated some chick named Cindy and they made out in the back of the bus all the way down to the Nevada Band-Off or whatever the hell the field trip and I drowned my sorrows in Twizzlers. Such is love at 14. I carried a torch for Grady for a year or two. Until the time one winter where I actually got to ride up the ski lift with him. OK. Yes. Here was Shelley's big moment. The culmination of all my dreamy ruminations in my girly bedroom, painting my toenails and tracing his initials on my Keds. The moment I had dreamed of for all of 1986. My girlfriend (who was TECHNICALLY DATING HIM at the time) let us take a lift ride together. And what did I do? All that time imagining the day we would actually come face to face. Applying makeup in my Clairol mirror just so with the blue eyeliner, just a touch of the shimmer pink lipstick.

Total silence.

I did not say one word the entire ride. All the way to the top of the lift. Zip.

And that was that.

He went left, I went right.

Isn't that weird? If I wasn't a sad, sad, confused teenager, I'd really beat myself up about that one. But I'm beginning to forgive myself for being a complete douche between the ages of 12 to 19. I know, 19 seems beyond the douche cut-off but break me off, eh?

Anyway. I wonder sometimes what Grady Clifford is doing and if he knows that he had any effect on a silly retarded girl from junior high. My guess is no but then maybe. Just maybe.

Ah. Have you ever seen the rain.

I'm not sure, I might be the only one. But Creedence makes me cry. It's so chalked full of memories. In more than one way, I suppose.

It's weird, I've been thinking of my dad lately. And this song always makes me think of him. Before my step mother poisoned his soul and made him love Celine Dion. He used to love Creedence. And he used to have lambchop sideburns and wear patterned golf pants and Budweiser can hats and drive a blue Chevy van. We lived in a trailer and my Uncle Reed bought me a harmonica for god, my second? third? birthday. How can I remember that? The mind is such a miracle. And I have these pictures of my father from then. He and my mom, so much younger than I am now, together raising two kids. All my memories are Glen Campbell, Willie Nelson, Neil Diamond, Dolly Parton, George Jones. How is it that a 3 year old can remember. That when I lay on the beach a million miles from that memory and that song comes on, I cry. Remember my father in the absolute perfect father light. And I hit repeat about 10 times.

1. Direct flights. The less take offs and landings, the more skin left on my lips.

2. Online check-in.

3.  A fresh new outfit. Nothing distracts from imminent death quite like a crisp flattering shirt. If I feel good walking through the airport, I'll feel better when everyone stares at me while I'm crying during takeoff. Small comforts, people.

4.  Arriving at least 2 hours before takeoff. Minimum. This allows me to do my weird rituals like, buying a magazine I won't read, scoring gum I'll use to cover up my booze-breath (see #5), go to the bathroom 2 or 3 times to do my breath exercises, hit the ATM for cash for yes, in-flight booze!

5. Taking my time at the bar. Ritual requires two scotch on the rocks. Neat if I'm feeling especially vulnerable. (None of this is logical, I know).

6. Comfortable shoes.

7. Podcasts on my ipod.

8. A soothing scent. Sometimes I like to try out something new for a trip. There's something about catching a whiff of nice that makes everything OK. Not quite as OK as say, being tucked in my bed on land, but hey. The upcoming flight to Hawaii is all about this.

9. Sitting next to people who hate flying even more than me. I feel so much better about myself! What weaklings.

10. Sitting next to people who care so little about flying, they barely notice they're on a plane.

11. Having a lot of kids on the plane. What are the odds of them all being struck down in their youth?

12. Lots of empty seats. In my (totally delusional, again, I know) estimation, it makes the plane lighter and therefore less likely to plummet from 30,000 feet.

13. Having a seat that allows me see the flight attendants. The reasoning being, if they're chuckling about last nights escapades at the Best Western Deluth Airporter Lounge or blissfully catching up on their knitting while waves of turbulence twist the plane, I probably have nothing to worry about.

14. New planes. There isn't anything worse than realizing you're about to board a plane from the late-80's. The exterior paint job may be shiny but the fixtures will give it away. The yellowed plastic cabin siding. The old-school orange/white attendant call buttons. Ashtrays. Nothing says, "Last Voyage" quite like re-re-re-upholstered seats.

15. Easy access to my emergency copy of The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Just in case.

Aloha.