Magic Carpet

Step on board my magic carpet ladies and gents, it is not the prettiest pig in the poke, nor it is the most stable, but it is mine, and if you will indulge me this once, it can be yours too. That is if you are willing to suspend, at least a modicum, of belief. Because without that suspension and lack of (full blown) belief, well magic carpet rides become a whole lot less magical.

So, step aboard, mind the fraying around the edges, and above all, pay attention. This carpet ride is not as effortless as it seems, and it is taking most of my, very limited, skill to keep it air-borne. If you distract me too much with inane questions, then we might crash into some (in)convenient mountainside. And that would be awful, just awful.  Either way mountains aside, try to enjoy the ride, for it is a ride, and like all rides it will, eventually, come to an end. But that is for later, for now enjoy the scenery.

Certainly someone will need you back down there on the ground, but once air-borne there are no refunds, and remember to keep your arms, and hands inside the boundaries of the carpet at all times. We do not want to become unbalanced, or unstable. I wish the carpet was more luxurious, and could provide you with every little thing you want, but we are working with a limited budget, and space is at a premium. Also, be careful to not get too excited about this being a happy magic carpet, it certainly has the potential to be a thrilling ride, but it also has the ability to be a 'fuck the lot of you' type of ride as well. One never knows where the carpet is going to take you, well that isn't strictly true, one does know, but that one is a cryptic fellow, and isn't likely to tell you beforehand, that would ruin the trip.

And it is a trip, one that you might not like (think bad acid), or one that you might want to continue on for a few years, or even forever, if you are allowed. Magic carpet are fickle bitches, and you are never going to be sure when the ride is going to end. It will end eventually, hopefully not in tears, but ending is as certain as the sunrise tomorrow. There will be pain on the journey, do not doubt that for a second, and if I decide to open my bag of tricks, and offer you one of a billion ways to feel no pain, then you have a tough choice in front of you. It is entirely your decision, but be aware that not feeling any pain is tantamount to wanting to get off the ride.

If we are inclined to stop the ride because the pain is too great for you, then be aware there are no refunds, and you will not be invited to ride again. There is a list of people who have made that choice before, and once on that list you are on it for life.  On the flip side, there is a great deal of pleasure to be had on the ride as well. You just have to have an open, but not too inquiring, mind.  If you allow the ride to just be the ride, and don't try to stitch together the fraying bits of the carpet, or attempt to 'spot shot' any of the noticeable stains, then the ride will be like riding on a dreamboat. 

And that is the key to this ride, or any other magic carpet ride that you choose to take. The ability to look over the small flaws, and see the big picture, if there is a big picture to be seen. We all like to think there is a big picture, but I am quite sure that millions of us are deluding ourselves into believing that particular fantasy.  Though you may seem secure throughout the ride, be aware that sometimes (to steal a line from HUM) that downward is heavenward.

Pictures of Them

As you stand there in the ruins of another failed relationship, amongst the blow back from the horror that just happened, do you start to think? Or are you so stunned at being told, in more than one way (and maybe even a foreign language) to go fuck yourself that you cannot even form a single clear thought. The storm you've just witnessed may have taken your breath away, and left you feeling like you've been hit by a bus, but it surely wasn't that unexpected. After all, you entire 'relationship' life has been one storm off after another. The ruins of your failed relationships make Egypt green with envy.

However, once the shock of the loss has passed, and it will pass eventually, you start to realize that you have in fact been here before, and if history is any judge, you will be (sadly) here again. You close your eyes, and you picture the latest ruin, and it finally occurs to you, that if you were to line her up beside all the other 'hers' that have told you to fuck yourself, it might look very familiar. The people you call your friends have made this joke for years about your 'type', but you scoffed at that saying you were not so limited in your appreciation of the fairer sex. Then you start to ponder, after a while at least, if maybe, just maybe those so-called friends were on to something. Something so vague and buried in your own psyche that it takes someone with some distance to point it out to your blinded eyes.

The horror that it entails is not something that you wish to consider too much, after all, it is a startling, and somewhat disturbing realization.  It is not just the sad fact that if you were to line up pictures of 'them' (them being your last 5-7 relationships) you might detect an odd fact. That fact being that if a stranger were to look at the photos they might ask "Oh, are they all sisters, or related somehow?" You would wince with pain if you were asked that question aloud, but as you put those pictures (both real and the ones you carry around in your head) into an "all-star studded ex-girlfriend" line up, you realize, that the similarities are eerie.  The sad truth of the matter become suddenly, shockingly apparent right there before your very eyes. You sir, have a, what is commonly referred to as a 'type', and there is no mistaking it. The evidence is overwhelming.

Of course, you try to mount some sort of (weak, unconvincing even to you) defense, in the hopes of convincing someone, anyone that you do not have a type. Then again, as you ponder this concept deeper, you begin to wonder all sorts of other things. Things you are afraid to verbalize because if you spin the idea out to its logical conclusion, that conclusion just plain frightens the pants off of you. And the world is a much better, safer place if you mange not to take off your pants. 

A Parade

Life is a succession of bad days, they progress past you like a parade of the damned, one day blurring into the next because bad days can be blurry. In fact, bad days need to be blurry, all the booze you consumed to make up for having a bad day, is supposed to wipe the memory of the day from your mind. That is one of the many, useful purposes of alcohol.  But, after so many bad days, after the parade gets to be so lengthy that you wonder if you can remember any GOOD days squeezed into your life, alcohol ceases to help.

That certainly does not stop you from trying to get alcohol to help, the truth is you probably just increase the dosage in the hopes that more alcohol makes up for more bad days. Sadly, for you, happily for your bartender(s) it doesn't. They live well off the slightly extravagant tips you, in your daze, leave them, but you well, you know that even if you manage to sleep tonight, another bad day is waiting outside your window when you wake up tomorrow.  And you have to wake up eventually, and face the day, whether you want to or not. The day will wait for you, it has nothing else to do, it's a day, that what days do. Wait for you so they can start falling to shit.

The biggest problem with this parade of bad days is that you begin to expect them, you lie there in your bed trying to avoid opening your eyes on the disaster that is your life, and ponder what the fuck went wrong while  you were asleep. Because bad days will wait for you to realize they are bad, but there is nothing in the rule book (trust me, I've looked) that says they have to wait for you to start being bad. They can become the kind of day that ends in tears while you are snoring away the last bad day. And the sad part is that, as far as you can tell, there is fuck all you can do about it. Ever been told to "have a nice day?" Sure you have, but the truth of the matter is that the day is the one picking the music, and you are the one dancing the jig.  I doubt many of us have tottered off to work, school, church, or the strip club with the express intent on having a bad day. Personally, I have started off a few of my days with the intent of making someone else's day bad, but that just because I am an asshole.

And maybe this parade of bad days that I am seeing slide by me week to week is sweet revenge. Maybe there is some medicine man in some far off tent, chanting my name over some fire placing a curse on me for my douche bag behaviour. If that were true then I wouldn't feel so morose about these days that continue to go to hell in a hand basket. For then at least, I would know the source, and the reason of this bad day parade. Instead I am left to sit on ponder rock, surrounded by an ever increasing number of empty beer bottles, and try to sort out what exactly I did to deserve this many bad days in a row.

It can, on occasion, devolve into a pity party, but not usually. I am a fully grown man, and I deserve little, if any pity. I don't deserve, and I certainly don't want it. After all pity is just going to make a bad worse. It might give off the impression that the bad day is somehow winning our little war, and I don't want to let the day know that, now do I?  After all bad days can sense weakness, and they do not come as single scouts, but in battalions. Wave after wave of them will assault you as they try to batter down your resistance, and make you spirit break. The only spirit you have any time for comes in a bottle, and gets you ploughed so you can face what is already, and you are still in bed, another bad day. Perhaps it is time to invest in one of your own, hopefully better, medicine men before you find out to your dismay on your deathbed, that your life when it flashes in front of you is nothing but a VERY long parade of bad days. 


This post is dedicated to someone who had a bad day Friday. It was his last bad day, and hopefully, if the people that are celebrating today's date are correct, that person is in a better place. Here's also hoping that his flashback was not a parade of bad days, but was a happy, if all too brief, parade of good days. They made a few of my days less bad, and they will be missed, both the good days, and the person. 

Pictures of Me

There used to exist, before I destroyed it along with most of the other pictures of my childhood, a picture of me and my maternal grandmother. She was a lovely, hard working woman, and I spent a great deal of my childhood at her house. She, unlike the wolf that raised me, was a wonderful cook, and is probably the reason that I was such a tubby child.  She died about a decade ago on this day, and I, much to my dismay, rarely think of her nowadays,.

Either way, in this picture a (very young, tubby me) is seated upon my doting grandmother's lap it is a picture that Norman Rockwell would be proud of, and is disgustingly happy. Such a happy photo except for one small flaw, that being that in the picture my grandmother is sporting a lovely black eye. When I was older I inquired about how she obtained the shiner in the photo, and was told that the younger version of me had "accidentally' head butted my beloved gran, and given her an unintentional black eye.

It is a sign of my gullibility, and my sheltered childhood that I believed this story without any second thought. After all, who expects the grandmother they worship to lie to them?  Now that I am a fully grown, card carrying cynic, I realize the truth of the matter. It is what I do for a living, not buying the lies I am told on a daily basis. I get lied to a lot, and I like to believe that I have a fairly well developed ability to spot a lie when I am told one.

Fast forward about 20 years until yesterday afternoon, I have been in a murder trial from Monday to Friday of this week, and it was only on Friday afternoon that the jury found the defendant guilty of all sorts of bad things, and sometime next month the judge is going to sentence the murdering bastard to a whole bunch of time in prison (hopefully).  It is what he deserves, and I am mostly proud of the result.

Though the credit for the verdict goes mostly to my brilliant co-counsel, I like to think that I played at least a small role in the piece. Friday night, after the verdict was rendered, was a night of celebration where I received the congratulations of many of my very supportive colleagues, and was bought a whole lot of alcohol.  It was a nice night, and I must admit I was a bit proud of myself. However, as I awoke the next morning with the mother of all hangovers and feeling smug, I realized that instead of basking in the glow of "winning" a trial I should remember the victim.

She was not Snow White, and she was not 'as pure as the driven snow' but she did not deserve to die like she did. She did not die a brave man's death, but died pleading for her life (on the 911 tape).  She had a child in common with her killer, and he took away a little boy's mother. I know it is silly, but I kind of feel that now I have taken away that little boy's father (even though he is a murdering bastard).  That was my week, and I am very glad that it is over. Until yesterday, it was a week that could be classified as a 'good week.'

It was yesterday afternoon that things all went pear shaped.  I was listening to my IPOD, minding my own business ( I find that minding my own business gets me into a lot of trouble), when a song about domestic abuse begin to play, and the 'repressed' memory of my grandmother's black eye bubbled to the surface. It was like my own personal punch in the face. When the, now grown up, me connected the dots that younger me could not manage to do all those years ago, I was shocked at my ignorance.  That song, of all things, brought the concept that my grandmother was a 'battered' woman to the forefront of my mind.It is a good thing that I was already sober (for a change) because it was a sobering, gut wrenching thought, and I must confess that I had several moments of deep seated angst (or I cried like a Frenchman at the fall of Paris, you pick).

After those moments of angst, which are still plaguing me as I write this post, I called the wolf that raised me to confirm my suspicions that my dear gran's 2nd husband (she had buried the 1st) beat the shit out of her on a regular basis. It was confirmed with a world weary sigh, and the comment that "it was a long time ago." I replied that I did not give a shit how long ago it was because it was all new/green to me, and I proceeded to tell the story of my week to the wolf that raised me. I made her promise to visit my grandmother's grave, and pass along the story of my jury's verdict. She promised me that she would, and for only the second time (that I remember) in my adult life the wolf that raised me said "I love you" to me.  It was a proud moment, and a sad moment all at once, and this post is dedicated to all those women and men, like my dear gran that are true victims of domestic violence. You are not alone, and I will be there for you as long as my sanity allows.

You, Again

This is a post about you, not to you, or because of you, but about you. Not any of your traits per say or, anything that you have done other than be yourself.  Let's focus on you as you sit there reading these words in your apartment, house, or office. Whatever the surroundings are isn't really important, because this post is about you, not your surroundings.  Take a deep breath and allows your eyes to wander over this page of nonsense, and then close your eyes, and focus on you. On yourself as a being in, of, and out of time (think Sartre or if you are really bright think Heidegger). For you are a being in time, a time that we all occupy known as the present, you are a being out of time for you will occupy someones future, and you are a being of time because you occupy someones past. 

Feel your pulse, your heart beating (does it go thump sometimes?), then thank some guy named William Harvey for figuring out the circulation of the blood that is being pumped through your body by that heart.  Think of the rest of body, move those fingers, those arms, those limbs. They are yours to command, and if you remain healthy (here's hoping) they might be at times the only thing you can command. Think of all the other body parts that go together to make up you. The lungs, the liver, the circle of Willis in back of that wornderful mind of yours, and the miles and miles of blood vessels, and skin that are the building blocks of you.  Open those brown/blue/green eyes back up, and continue to peruse this page of nonsense.

Shake your head of brown/blond/black/red hair, and ponder how you've managed to survive all the minor disasters that take people like you out of the world. Maybe you are special, more than just a number, more than just one example of human life form in a world of six billion people. More than the sum of your parts, more than just a cardboard cut out of a person.  You have feelings, whether you want to admit them or not, and you (even though it makes you upset to hear it) impact other people's feelings as well. But that isn't the point of this post. This post is just simply about you, the fully functioning example of carbon based, human life form that you are. And we hope you remain a live, fully functioning human being for years, and years to come because (to quote Sting when he was still with the Police) without you, we would be so lonely.

Snoopy the Vulture

We all know the fellow above, the lovable dog Snoopy pretending to be a vulture to scare poor Linus below, for whatever reason a dog pretending to be a vulture to a young boy who needs a security blanket just to get through the day is supposed to be funny. And, it is funny in many, many ways, and on many, many different levels it is high comedy.  It is also tragic, and since I am better at writing tragedies than comedy, we are going to lightly brush over the tragic part of Snoopy's attempts to bully Linus.

Vulture are divided into two major groups, Old World Vultures, and New World Vultures. These two groups are not closely related, and probably do not exchange a lot of Christmas cards with each other. Regardless of which type of vulture you run across, it is probably not good news for you. If you are being hounded by a 'wake' of vultures (the term for a group of them) then you might be in need of a wake yourself. They rarely attack healthy animals, preferred to prey on the sick, and the dead/dying of the animal kingdom. I suppose there are enough of the dead, sick, or dying to keep the vultures in business for they don't show any signs of dying out, and I also guess that they perform a sort of 'garbage man' type service to Mother Nature (the bitch). I mean without vultures around, all those dead animal carcasses would just stink up the joint. 

However, like I said they do get a bad rap, and I am fairly certain they deserve it. I mean no one invites vultures to any sort of gathering, they just show up, and shit starts to break bad. Seeing a vulture, whether it be circling over your head, or sailing past you as you jump out of a perfectly good airplane, is a sign that shit is about to break bad. Probably for you, or at the very least for some member of your group.  Vultures are hard sons of bitches, they don't have real jobs like the rest of us, and therefore, can afford to perch patiently on the nearest tree, waiting quietly while you become their breakfast, lunch, or dinner (or maybe if you are chubby enough, all three). There they loom, staring at you with those unblinking eyes, quietly reminding you of your impending doom.

They will pick your bones clean, and leave you being only a memory in the rest of the group's minds, providing any of the group survives. Vultures probably aren't big fans of survivors, after all, survivors are just a meal that managed to get away, and I imagine vultures like to eat just like the rest of us.  You start seeing fat vultures, you suddenly realize that you've wandered into the wrong horror movie.  While the picture above is in a 'comic', and is intended to be funny, I can only imagine Linus' terror. Above him sits a reminder of his mortality, an unsmiling, looming, dark presence that is there for only one purpose, to watch him die, and pick his bones clean. It must be doubly horrifying for a sensitive, intelligent child such as Linus. No, I choose to not see the comedy that is supposed to be inherent in the drawing above, I see the horror of a child/man being stalked by his doom.

It is that doom that vultures foreshadow, they are a patient lot, and can wait out the strongest of victims, it may take them a week, a month, or even several years, but vultures usually 'win' in the end. After all, they are vultures, and this is what they were put on this earth to do. And unless someone gives us a proper burial so that we can be food for worms, then we are likely to just end up food for vultures.

Beware of Bears

The poor, obstinate fish that is about to meet his 'maker' is a salmon. Someone thinks that salmon would make a good blog topic, and so here I am trying my best to make salmon interesting. I do consider the salmon a particulary stubborn fish. They swim upstream to return to the pool of their birth, and swim alone. Unlike the tuna, salmon are not caught in giant nets while swimming in schools like a bunch of plebs. The tuna isn't that hard to catch, get yourself a good boat, some rubber boots, a big ass net, and a sonar, and boom! There you are a tuna fisherman. Well, there might be a bit more to it, but you get the general idea.

Salmon spawn in freshwater, live most of their lives in seawater, then return home (upstream) to spawn, and die. That is if they manage to make it past those tricky sons of bitches known as bears. Bears just have to sit there in a nice pool of cool water, mouth agape, and wait for food to jump in their general direction. I am sure it isn't that easy for the bear, and they probably would tear me from limb to limb for thinking so, but still it looks like the predator wins this round. 

Perhaps there are more clever enemies of salmon out there in the deep, blue sea that make your average bear seem small in comparsion, I don't know, I don't fish. Never have fished, and never will fish. In this analogy I am on the side of the salmon. Swimming upstream, just trying to get a little loving, have a couple thousand of small fry, and die a happy death.  Not that complicated, and not that much to ask for, but it sure seems to be a lot more difficult that you would think. It is ok to be stubborn, and swim against the stream/tide (it is a bit like walking against the karma wheel), but at some point the game is no longer worth the candle.

And you know this, as a fish, that those stinking, tricky, bears are there waiting for your tasty ass to make one bad leap, and become their dinner, but you can't help what/who you are. You can't (successfully at least) fight against what is fundamentally your nature (or fight nature for that matter, you won't win).  But that is the point, you won't win, the bear will eventually win, that what bears do, win. It might take them a couple of years but they win cause thier bears, and you, well you are just a stubborn, dumb fucking salmon.

Chess

The still photo above is from the movie The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman. It is a lovely movie, and even though it wasn’t made in this century, I still highly recommend you watching it. The reason for this post (other than the topic that was posed to me as a challenge) is chess. It is a wonder game, that can be used as all sorts of analogies, and while very complex has rules that can be understood fairly quickly if you pay attention. Chess is a bit like life, the rules are fairly simple, but it is the interaction of difference pieces, within those rules that have a tendency to make things a bit complex. The use of chess in The Seventh Seal drives the plot, and without a little knowledge of the plot of the movie, the plot of this post is wasted. But, since the title of the blog is all about my wasted breath, I figure one more possibly wasted post wouldn’t hurt.


The fellow on the right is Antionus Block (played quite well by Max von Sydow), and he is about the engage the lovely gentleman on the left (i.e. Death) in a chess match for his life. Clearly, the result is already decided Block is just buying time to try to get home from his travels aboard (he had been on Crusade) to see his wife and child before the endgame. Throughout the film Death cheats, posing as a priest to take Block’s confession, during which Block confesses his chess strategy to beat Death. Death is a tricky bastard and only reveals his true self after Block has given away his strategy. Near the end Block intentionally knocks over the pieces hoping to put off his fate, and save a family of young friends from Death. Claiming he does not remember where the pieces where positioned, Block hopes to avoid being mated. Death replies that he remembers where the pieces were, and begins to reconstruct the game. However, and this is where there is some disagreement amongst film historians, there is a theory that Death cheats with his reconstruction. Either he cheats, or has a remarkable memory for a chess board, regardless of which, Block is mated on the next move, and is sent off to “Dance with Death.”

Clearly, this is what we are all doing everyday, playing chess with Death. Maybe not quite as obviously as our hero Block, but regardless the pieces have been chosen, and it is our move. The wisdom of that move requires a lot of thought, and people have been playing chess, and trying to cheat death for a LONG time. Ever heard of Paul Morphy, Jose Raul Capablanca, or Emanuel Lasker? They were all Grandmasters of chess, guys who are whizs at the massive number of combinations on a chess board, but each of them ended the same way, dead. Remember all the stories of people surviving crashes, etc that should have killed them? We say they “cheated death.” Well remember Death cheats back, so before you use the French-Indian defense or the English opening think very carefully, your next move might end in mate.

You

This is a post for you, about you, and because of you. You know who you are, and you know what you do to me. You are the sole reason that I eschewed another night of drinking, so I could sit down in this coffin I call my apartment, and write this post for/to/about you. I hope that makes you happy, and I hope it makes you sad. I doubt it will make you either, because you don't read this blog anymore, or at least I don't think you do. You wouldn't tell me if you did, and I certainly learned long ago not to ask you questions I don't already know the answer to. 

You enjoyed giving me answers I wasn't expecting, and I loved and hated you for it. You know I don't like surprises, so you would go out of your way to surprise me as often as possible. It drove me mad, but I suspect that was the point.  I wanted to know everything about you, and I found out quite a lot, but not all. You never told anyone the whole story, no you preferred to share a bit of your stories with several of us, enjoying being the only one who knew all the details of the plot. And your life, even when seen from a distance, had several plots. You were the only one who knew the whole plot, and I don't think that was very fair to the rest of us.

Not that you give, or ever gave, a shit about being fair. You were one of the most unfair people I ever met.  Yet you could do the most complicated favour for people, think nothing of it, and ask nothing in return.  How you managed to be both unfair and generous is a mystery that I will never solve. In fact, you are a mystery I will never solve, not for lack of trying mind you, but for a fundamental lack of intelligence. You are much smarter than I ever will be, or aspire to be for that matter. Your kind of intelligence must be frightening to possess. I wouldn't know because I am not that smart, and you did a fairly good job of hiding (for the most part) how super-intelligent you really are. 

It was that intelligence that is one of your most endearing qualities, and that makes you an insufferable asshole.  Not that you care or cared what I, or anyone else thinks of you. You are your own judge and jury, and I am just beginning to realize how sweet that is. It is the world's revenge upon you. The world you give a shit less about, gets to sit back and watch you attempt to live up to your own expectations, knowing full well you will never be able to.  That gives me great joy, and I hope you know that.  I could never, ever in my wildest, spite-filled moments damage you as much as you have damaged yourself.  I am, when I am in a good mood, sorry for that, but I also think you deserve all the bad things you do to yourself. 

You still make me furious, sad, and extremely happy on any given day that I have the pleasure/misfortune to spend with you.  I still spend time with you, even if it is only in my head, and I recall the awful things you would say to me, about me, and in front of me with amazing clarity.  For that I should thank you, and I should tell you to burn in hell, but I know that I won't do either. It wouldn't do any good even if I tried. Your opinion of me mattered so much that it hurt, and yet I found myself jealous of you in the strangest of ways. When you weren't around I wondered what you were doing, but sometimes when you were around, I wanted you to be on the moon as far away from me as you could get.  I sometimes think of you as carrot cake, an abomination that should not exist in nature, and yet here you are, a living, breathing, insult to that idea. 

I wonder why we became, how we remain, and why we will always be 'friends.' To give you up would cause me either the greatest pain in my life or would cause be to suddenly becomes the happiest rodeo clown this side of the Mississippi. However, I guess I will never know, because I have no intention of giving you up, and I fairly certain that you, even though you won't admit it, like having me around. Who doesn't like a slave/foil/partner in crime to have around for festive occasions? And so, here we are in this crazy life together, for we are together even if not physically, and we will remain that way. Because we are both to stubborn or too stupid, I am not sure which, to realize that we probably aren't that good for each other. For in spite of your solitary nature, I think you need someone like me around. Someone who spends all this time thinking about you enough to write this epic length blog post about/to you, even though I know you will never read it. I think I hate you. 

Missing

Have you ever been convinced that you are missing something? Something so simple that you have the suspicion that if a passing 4 year old child were to look at your situation, they could solve it with about three words. And the problem, the awful feeling in the pit of your stomach is that you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that somewhere at some time  you've known what it is you are missing, and just can't put it together. It might be something as simple as plugging in a cord into the right slot, or remembering someones favourite food, but you KNOW it is important.

So important, in fact, that you've been racking your tiny, little brain for a solution for almost a week, and you, to your despair, realize that instead of getting closer to a solution, you are, in fact, losing ground. You are getting so confused by over-thinking the problem, that the problem, once so very, very simple, has taken on a life of its own. It is now like the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Sitting there in the corner waiting for you to give it attention, because it is not in a mood to go away anytime soon. And as problems go, it isn't something vague that only someone like Thomas Aquinas would be required to solve, but something as plain as the nose on your face. Remember that 4 year old? It hasn't gotten so bad that you are actively trying to find someone with a 4 year old child so that you can bounce the problem off of the child, and hope that 'from the mouths of babe' wisdom will flow.

The other side to this problem is that your mind, who people think is fairly sharp, is as empty as the ocean pictured above. If your  mind could be projected onto a computer or TV screen that is the picture that would be on screen, coupled with the lapping of the waves as the only sound. Clearly mental activity has ceased, and you can't seem to kick start it do matter how hard you try. You sit down with the intention of 'getting your shit' together, and solving this problem that has so vexed you, and suddenly something shiny distracts you, and you are suddenly gazing into the middle distance, slack jawed, and mouth agape like the village idiot.  And, you don't think you're the village idiot, but the inability to solve (or in many ways even spot) this problem has shaken your faith in your intelligence.

It is that intelligence that you've prided yourself on through all of the other problems you have faced in your life. That intelligence that people remark upon as being one of your greatest assets. Since you are a fairly rotten person otherwise, it is that intelligence that people keep you around for. And here it is abandoning you like a rat leaving a sinking ship. It has disappeared like a puff of smoke on a windy day, and you are left confused as to when, or if, it will return. All you know, as you sit there in your ocean of emptiness is that you aren't really a strong swimmer.

Friendless

You see us, a group of anywhere from 3-8 people with a fair mixture of males and females, out at a bar, and you see a group of 'friends.' I mean, after all, we seem to be having a fairly jovial time of it, and who goes out to have those type of times if not with friends? Look closely at the group, and ponder really hard on each individual. Because a group is made up of individuals, and is very rarely larger than the sum of its parts. Which one in the group is 'the leader?' Is there a leader? There might not be a clear leader, but there will surely be the ones recognized as followers. The alpha dog may just be the subtle leader type that doesn't like to show off their leadership ability, and therefore it might be hard to spot them.

But, take a step back and listen to (without being too nosy) what the members of this group are saying, and if you're a clever fellow you might even want to listen to what they are NOT saying. A much harder task, but if you're good at it you can learn a lot.  You might even learn a few things that the majority of the people don't even know.  That is of course, if you are good, and you give a shit enough to pay attention. Which are two big hurdles to clear, but you are good right? And, you don't have anywhere else to be or you wouldn't be getting piss drunk on a Monday night in a bar right?

You might even learn a life's lesson, because life lessons are tricky like that.  They show up when you least expect them, and sometime smash you over the head when you are least expecting it. As you focus on this band of brothers what do you see? The one that talks to loud? The one that laughs too much? The tall one, the short one, the fat one, or the skinny one?  Maybe there isn't a each one of those types, or maybe one of them is more than one type. You don't know, and you don't really care because you are a stranger to them. Other that the tall one that bumps into things they aren't really a remarkable group, but you are stranded in this joint with them, so you might as well try out some of your powers of observation. 

And you have those types of powers, powers of observation that would make Sherlock Holmes proud, and you quickly focus on the one just to the left of the centre. The one who seems to be doing their fair share of talking, but one that (despite his jolly appearance) makes you just a bit nervous. This person seems to be 'one of the group,' but you know better. You've seen this type before, in fact he reminds you of someone you used to know. You've seen this before, this person is the friendless one, the one that is, ever so slightly, out of focus.  Sure they are here surrounded by people in a bar, and these other people seem to know this person, and they are talking to this person like friends talk to each other. They even seem to be sharing the occasional joke, and have even had a couple of shots together like friends.

But, and there is always a but, you know better. You've spotted the friendless one, the one you know is going to one day be in a bar, like this one, alone and bitter. The one who is going to be the person at the bar, talking to know one while getting blotto, and making other people wonder why they are there alone all the time. The one who, with any doubt in your mind, has only a small clue as to the bleakness of their future. The one, that even though you know is a total asshole, makes you want to go up to them and say some words of consolation or warning, in the vain hope that you can provide them a life line. It won't work, you know this from experience, and you know you won't try, because it really isn't any of your business.  This poor fool has to learn, like most fools, the hard way. Even if you told them, they would probably just tell you to 'fuck off and die.' Which would be fair enough, after all, you don't know this person, and this person doesn't know you. Why should they listen to some total stranger attempt to give them some 'insight' into their future?


And, besides you aren't a charity. Why would you give some total asshole advice on how they are going to end up alone, and bitter one day if they don't change their ways. Let them sort that out if they have the brains, and if they don't well then too bad for them. They will get what they deserve (as most people usually do), and will have to deal with the consequences of their actions. In the zero sum game that is life, it is just exactly what should happen to them, and you are not going to 'save the world' one asshole at a time. Mainly though the reason you don't attempt to rescue this person is because five, ten, or fifteen years ago, no one bothered to try to save you, which is why you are drinking alone in the first place, and misery loves company. 

Dear Future Me

This blog, back in the days of its inception at least, was supposed to be like a journal. Not a diary, or a confession but a journal. In it I, in my wisdom, had planned to write down a lot of things that happened to me, and how I dealt with them. In the (now vain) hope that going back a re-reading my entries would provide the 'present' me, i.e. the one actually sitting here typing this post at this moment, some guidance for how I should act.  It was a long shot to hope that 'past' me would be able to write down something useful that would allow 'present' me to be a better person.

That was one of the ideas back in the beginning, and it was a noble idea, but like most noble ideas it all starts to go potty when humans are involved. In particular when I am the human being involved. I look back at the past 5 plus years of this blogs 'life' and I realize I am not one iota better as a person than I was when I started it. In fact, and I pretty sure I would get universal agreement on this, I am almost certainly a worse person than I was back then. Early on I listed a list of 'flaws' that I possess, and when I go back and revisit that list I come to the horrible conclusion that instead of getting shorter the list has gotten lengthier. Which is, in many, many way, quite depressing. One of the main things a journal can be is a way for the past you to give advice to the present you. Sadly, if the present you isn't just not the type to listen, or just doesn't care to heed advice, the journal just becomes a source of angst.

 It allows you to go back and re-read all the mistakes you were making back then, and then when you realize you are making those same mistakes plus a few extra, it all ends in tears.  You had the hope that you were on the upswing of the 'being a better person' scale, only to come to the horrid realization that you are really on the downswing. It is a real kick in the teeth. After all, now what do you do? You can't trust 'past' you, you can't trust 'present' you, and you aren't 'future' you yet. And as you stand there in the pissing rain, because you don't have enough sense to come in out of it, you begin to realize that maybe you've topped out. Maybe the type of person you are now is the type of person you always were, and are always going to be. Maybe self-improvement, like home ownership, is just a big fat rip off, or some fucking myth created by the self help industry to be able to sell more books.

All the thinking you can do, (and you can do a lot of thinking if you try) doesn't seem to either help, or change things. All the vows to 'do right' and to 'start making some changes' are lies as soon as they leave your lips. Lies you tell yourself to make 'present' you feel better, and to give 'present' you the (vain) hope that 'future' you will be a better person. If only 'present' you puts forth a little bit of extra effort, and tries to start acting 'right.' It was a dream, and as you know from your years of experience with dreams, very few of them come true. Nightmares, now they come true with all too frequent regularity, but dreams, those remain as slippery as goose shit on glass. And it is the dream of being a better future you that was part of the impetus for this blog in the first place. Now, that the clear realization has hit you like a ton of bricks, where do I find motivation now? I would say I am open to suggestions, but I realize I won't get any, and even if I do, I am such a lousy person I probably won't listen to them anyway. A tout a l'heure.

Something Vague

In the last six months (give or take) I have been told the following things by my 'friends'.

That 'you are really easy to hate.'

That I am 'more emotionally damaging than a brain tumor.'

That I 'am trouble.'

That 'you shouldn't go home with him, he comes with a house.'

That 'no amount of therapy will help you.'

That "I'm going to fuck your girlfriend.'

That 'every woman should get to experience you.'

That I 'am an idiot.'

That 'you don't have feelings.' (this was said twice by two different people)

 Now all of these comments are, more likely than not, true. But, that isn't really the point of this post. The point is, if there is a point, that each of them were said by people that I count amongst my friends. If you know anything about me at all, you will know that I am not over burdened with too many friends. By a generous count I have about six friends, and that is being generous and catching both me and them in a good mood. All of the statements above were said both to and about be my members of my 'inner circle.' There is a theory that you should keep your enemies close and your friends closer, but I am sure that is what I am actively doing. It sometimes seems that way when one of my 'friends' starts to remind me (and anyone within a half mile radius) of my multitude of flaws, and my deplorable character traits. 

The beauty of it is that none of these comments ended any friendships, and they only caused a small amount of angst.  They are, as I said before, mostly true, and probably something that I needed to hear. But, hearing and even agreeing with them only removes so much of the sting. They, if I had feelings, would have possibly hurt my feelings (now you know why I don't bother having feelings).  It is closer to the truth is that I do have feelings, and that these comments did not really hurt them over much, but they are beginning to have a cumulative effect. They were said over a period of time, by a diverse group of people (of both genders), and by fairly intelligent people. The law of averages dictates that they probably aren't all wrong in their assessment. They might be harsh, but there is a element of jocularity about a couple of those comments that at least allow me to continue to believe that the speaker(s) can still be counted as my friends. However, given the nature and the amount of these comments is it any wonder that two nights ago I woke up face down on my bathroom floor after a hard night of drinking?

The Chair

Sorry for the long break in posting but it takes a lot of effort to come up with, and then remember a topic when you are living the Neil Diamond life style. However, luckily for me, I just managed to keep it together long enough to remember the fascinating tale I am about to relate. This tale begins with me reading a book, not that exciting I know, and it is something that I do a lot of, but this book (which is wonderful so far) is written by an absolutely wonderful author by the name of Stefan Zweig. If you have not read him (and few of the people I know have) you should rush out and buy anything by him you can lay your hands on.  He is fantastic, he writes sentences that are perfection incarnate. Sentences so wonderfully constructed that it makes you want to weep, or to re-read them over and over again aloud so you get their full effect. 

The book's is called 'The Post Office Girl' and it is quite wonderful so far (I have only managed a couple of chapters), but as I was drinking in Herr Zweig's words like fine wine, I noticed a small blip. It is the kind of blip that usually goes unnoticed, and in fact did go unnoticed (or at least I assume it did for it makes no sense otherwise).  It is a simple blip, and one that we all make, but one that shocked me nonetheless. It was an easy error, Zweig was describing the room that his main character and her aged mother live in, and was describing the furniture, and how the family had fallen on hard times and as a result most of the furniture had been sold off to a junk dealer. Easy enough, and very well written, and descriptive, good tone setting literature.  However, it was during this little passage that I noticed the blip. He describes a chair, an old family 'heir loom' that after being in the family for generations, also had to go the way of the junk dealer. Sold off to help pay the food bills, after all, a girl's got to eat you know.  Then suddenly about a page later, the aged mother, upon receiving some shocking news, falls into a faint. And here lies the rub, where does she land BUT INTO THE CHAIR. The same chair that a page or so ago had been consigned to the junk dealer's second hand shop. There was no mention of it being retrieved from hock, and it was just a simple error on Zweig's part. After all, he was writing wonderful story arcs, what did he care about the mis-mention of a chair from one page to the next? 

Zweig was also writing to pay HIS bills, and I am pretty sure that is a full time occupation, and he probably had several books 'going' at once. I find it hard to READ more than one book at a time, I can't fathom what it must be like to write more than one at a time. I am sure that he didn't notice the slip, and his editor should have caught it, and I doubt I am the first reader to see it as well, but there it is for all the world to see. This is not a criticism of him in anyway, in fact, it is a celebration of his art. It made me very happy to find that mistake, because it made me realize (as an very untalented 'writer') that even fucking geniuses make mistakes. Zweig took his place on my hero podium on his assigned day, and this little blip only makes him more heroic.  As a 'writer' who has been told a couple of times lately that he has talent, but who is full of self-doubt to the point of disbelieve, finding this blip was a godsend. It showed me that sometimes even the best of the best make mistakes, and even with all the editing in the world the mistake is still there.

I have a tendency to put my hero's on higher pedestals that they 'deserve', and I tend to measure myself against them, and being hard on myself, I find that in that measuring I come up very, very, short by comparison. It is a flaw (amongst many) in my character, and I realize it, but have difficulty in repairing it. However, this little 'magic moment' has restored (if that is the right word) a small modicum of self-believe. And self-believe is important it is one of the few things that (in theory at least) the world can't take (or give for that matter) away from you. It is the believe in your 'self' that should fuel your battle against the world. The 'war' we wage each and every day against the world that sometimes seem bent upon our destruction. It is one of the few weapons we possess that allows us to fight off the hordes of people who wish to annihilate us. It is something that is precious beyond price, and something that you should never, ever give up to another living soul. Keep that self-believe, wrap it around you like a cloak of invincibility, and hold on to it like grim death. 

Of course, Zweig is (and will always remain) streets ahead of me in the writing 'race', but I can take some comfort in the fact that he was, in spite of his massive talent, not perfect. Not that he claimed to be, his perfection is just me projecting onto him my wide eyed amazement at his ability to turn a phrase. That amazement remain undiminished despite this little blip in his writing. I am certainly not going to stop reading him, and will probably read even more of his writings, because now that I know he isn't perfect it makes him even more readable, and in many, many ways more human. 

White Blank Page

That blinking cursor that we all know and love is torturing me, it is blinking there at me on this white blank page taunting me, daring me to do something, anything to stop it from driving me mad. We have all, at one time or another, been the 'victim' of that devilish cursor. Just sitting there blinking at us, reminding us that we are bereft of ideas, or at least of the words to give voice to our ideas. It sits there on this white blank page slowly, very slowly, driving us mad. It isn't that I don't have ideas, nor do I lack for words. I am failing miserably in my attempt to become laconic. It is just that the ideas I have, the words I possess are bunged up behind a dam of indifference.

I have a couple of ideas for a blog post or three, but each of them are fraught with peril. I have one that might, if the right people read it, get me fired. That would be no fun, I heard unemployment is not an enjoyable experience. Therefore, that idea shall remain still-born, that post shall remain written only in my head. I have another couple of wonderful ideas that might, if (again) read by the wrong person(s) cost me a couple of friendships.  Since I am not overburdened with many friends, those posts too shall remain unwritten, except in my head. Those ideas shall not see the light of 'day'.  These not so brilliant ideas have to remain in the bookcase of my mind, since I am too big (and not in fat kind of way) of a moral coward to send them out into the wide, wide world.

So in the mean time, that blinking cursor taunts me, daring me to write something detrimental to myself, my career, or my friends.  Since, despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary, I am not a total fucking fool, I have to sit here staring at this white blank page without any idea on how to fill it, or the time before I nod off to sleep.  A dearth of ideas coupled with a yellow streak a mile wide have lead me to the desert of un- imagination.  The good thing, if there is a good thing, about this trip into the desert is that I know there have been many fellow travelers here before me. Great pioneers have tread some of this same sand, and left behind their foot prints for me to follow. Footprints that have already been here for decades, and will be here for decades to come, long after I stagger by in search of my own 'other side.' 

And I hope I will eventually find that 'other side' the side that allows me to 'write' again without fear of unemployment, or angry, angry emails sent to me questioning my sanity, or my fellowship. There is something out there in the middle distance waiting for me, and I can just about make it out. It is hazy, and it isn't very close, but I know it is there, and if I keep on the track of those who have gone before, I know that eventually I will find it. This El Dorado of my mind, the holy grail that holds my imagination is there ever so tantalizingly out of my reach at the moment.  However, I also know not to try to hard to obtain it, because the more I reach for it with my grasping hands, the further it retreats into the desert.  I have to be patient, and I have to remain calm. It is a game of 'nobody moves, and nobody gets hurts' that I am playing with myself, and I certainly do not want to get hurt.  Therefore, I stagger onward into the desert hoping that just over that next hill, or in that next chat I have with a buddy will provide me the key to unlocking the treasure chest of my mind. Let's hope that when I find the key, and open the box it isn't empty.

Incomplete

A lot of things can be incomplete, passes, roads, paintings, books, and people. The good thing about most of those incomplete things mentioned above is we generally know they are incomplete with just a glance. When the ball hits the ground the pass attempt is over, when you run out of asphalt the road is done, the last pages of a book are usually a surefire way to tell if a book is complete, if there is a big white patch on the canvas, then the painting is probably not finished. However, with people it is virtually impossible to tell if they are incomplete until it is too late to do anything about it. 

That was part of the problem with 'number 7' mentioned in the previous post. We all knew him, some of us better than others, and we thought we had a pretty good grasp on his personality. However, as we gathered for that brief, poignant ceremony we realized that we were working with incomplete information. And that is the problem the incompleteness of our information about each other, or anything in the world. We all think, or like to think, that our boon companion, the fellow we have shared so many drunken conversations with, is telling us the (whole) truth. We like to think that he is being as honest to us as we are to him.

After the few of us that were able to attend the farewell left the place it was being held, we went to the local we all used to share, and begin to dissect the tragedy. For that is all you can do, huddle together for 'warmth' or band together against the world, and try to sort out why it all ended in tears. These things do usually end in tears, and you know that (even if you refuse to believe it) on the front end. We sat there on our bar stools (his left empty out of respect), and pondered what it was that he wasn't telling us. We began to realize that he was telling some of us different parts of the truth, but no one of us was getting the whole truth. Perhaps each of us were getting the part of the story he thought we wanted to hear, or the part that he thought we could 'handle.'

He didn't leave some long winded note or ribbon covered diary for us to sort it out for ourselves, and when we drove to the airport to ship him back to the land of his fathers, we just didn't understand why it had to all go so horribly, horribly wrong. Maybe those loved ones that receive him at the other airport understood him better, and maybe one day they will share that understanding with those of us 'left behind'.  The ceremony awaiting him, and those wonderful people is bound to be much lengthier, more poignant, and more personal.

The battlefield of his mind remains an almost complete mystery to us, and I have yet to decided who is more to blame for that. Him, for not trusting at least one of us to throw him the life preserver he needed, or us for failing to realize he was drowning, not waving right in front of our very eyes. Truth to be told, there is probably enough blame to go around, but that certainly does not make any of us feel any better. As for blaming him, it just seems wrong in some fundamental way, but I still do it. I blame him, even if I realize how horrible of a person it makes me seem. I blame him because I can't shoulder all this blame myself, and blaming him is the only way I can cope.

I blame him because I am so fucking angry at him that I can barely see straight. I blame him for having the last word. I like to think that if I could just talk to him one more time, I would shake some fucking sense into him, and I wouldn't be having to type these words.  I am angry at him for taking the talent he possessed (and he had quite a bit of it), and pissing it away. Taking that talent for so many things, some of them quite useful, out of the world with him when he left.  Angry that of all the self centered sons of bitches I know (and I happen to be one of them as well) he chose the obvious way of expressing his self centered-ness. People tell me that 'anger is just a stage' and that I 'will get over it' well, these people obviously underestimate my ability to hold a grudge. 

I shall, till my dying day, remain angry at him, even as I eventually forget him, and if I am around long enough I will forget him. He will stop popping into my head on a daily basis eventually, and I will stop remembering all those drunken chats we had. The details, along with the pain will fade, and he will become another ghost that occupies a small cemetery like section of my mind. A place that I visit less, and less frequently because of the pressures of my day, or because of the pain it causes. A place that eventually I will occupy as well for someone else in my group. But, hopefully not for a good long while, because I think that his choice, while having its allure, was the coward's choice. And even though on many levels, I am a coward, I am not going to give into to that siren's song. I prefer to make the Gestapo like demons of my life fight inch by bloody inch for any ground they gain, and so I will abide. 

Seven

There were seven of us at one time, seven fellows drawn together by fate, bad luck, cheap booze, and a common desire to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. We liked to joke that we were like the seven deadly sins, and even tried to assign one sin to each of us. However, we quickly determined that each of us possessed a fair amount of all seven deadly sins, and we just decided to be what fate had intended us to be. That was a group of fellows that 'were mad, bad, and dangerous to know.' Or at least that is what some of us liked to say after we were a little too far into our cups to form coherent thought. We were a diverse group coming from 3 different countries, and possessing a wide range of backgrounds. Some of us were clever, some of us were smart, and some of us just were a combination of the two.

There was no real leader of the group, we were a bunch of strong willed individuals, and trying to lead this group would have only led to disaster, or to the hospital for the one of us stupid enough to try. There were no real reason for some of us to even be friends, except for the love of drink, and the ability to tell (and listen to) a ripping good yarn.  It was a happy time for all of us, even if some of us were going through some rough times in the 'real' world. That world that existed outside of whichever bar we were gracing with our presence, that world that each of had to totter off to at the end of our wild drinking sessions, that world that contained the day jobs that we each had to hold down in order to pay for our alcohol fueled 'lively times.' And the times were quite lively, we weren't anything special to look at, and I am quite sure that at times we were quite insufferable to the other denizens of our local, but we didn't really care.  We didn't start any bar brawl (but did finish a few), and we paid our tab, and even tipped fairly well. In short, we were rowdy, but not rude, and I am pretty sure at least one of our bartenders bought a new jet ski thanks to our patronage of his establishment.

However, like all good things (and I guess bad things) it couldn't, and didn't last. We were each living on borrowed time, and somewhere down deep inside we all knew it. We knew that whatever fate had banded us together against it, would prove to a fickle bitch, and would eventually pull us apart. We only hoped that it wouldn't be too painful, and that it would take just a bit longer before the wheels started to come off. That is the nature of these types of relationships, all is right with the world for the briefest of moments, and you take the occasional pause to look around you at the six other boon companions you are having such a good time with, and realize one day it is all going to have to end.  You only hope that everyone one survived the ending, and that it is quick, and painless. However, with seven wildly diverse personalities, and seven different gene pools, there is always 'one at every party' that makes things just ever so difficult. This post is (eventually) going to be about that one.


Before we get to that 'one' we have to at least begin to see the, ever so subtle, disintegration of the group as a whole.  None of us really noticed the loosening of the bonds that once held us so tightly together, but it was pretty plain to see. Perhaps the booze made us blind to the obvious decay, or perhaps we just didn't want to come to terms with the obvious. Either way, it was happening whether we cared to acknowledge it or not. It felt sudden, but in fact it was just merely inevitable, and when it came it came with the force of a Mongol Horde. One day we were seven in clover, the next day we were buzzing about the news of one of us 'tying the knot.'  It can happen just that quickly.  We all knew, the one tying the knot most of all, that we were now going to be six. He wasn't dying, but we knew that things just wouldn't or couldn't be the same. After all, if you have six, and a vote is necessary, a 3-3 tie is quite likely to be the outcome, and we had just lost the tie breaking vote. We were, quite rightly, devastated. 

He tried to pretend that things weren't going to change, but we all knew by the shake in his voice, and the look on his face that he was lying. He knew it too, he just didn't want to be the one to say it aloud. We had a fellow for that kind of stuff (not him), and eventually he did get just drunk to say exactly what we were all thinking. "Well, that's him then isn't it?" was the general gist of his summation, and we all knew he was right. But, being stalwarts of the art of comradeship, and drinking, we soldiered on, we even went to the wedding, and afterward placed bets on how long the marriage would last.  Then we were six.

Most things that begin to fall apart do so rather quickly, and once we lost our first man, the others started dropping like flies. One moved away to another state, cleaned up his act, and seems to have found some sort of religion. It is a disturbing image for those of us who knew him back in the day, but he seems to be happy. And I guess happiness takes on many forms, even if we don't understand it, or even approve of it. It was quick, brutal, and necessary, but his leaving was still a blow, and it left it mark on us all. Then we were five.

I supposed after that fate sensed the weakness in the remainder of our happy band, and she begin to lob life changing hand grenades at us like kids in a Halloween water balloon fight.  The next to go decided to try his hand at his own business ( a bar of all fucking things), and while it wasn't too far from us, the remainder just was too deeply in their 'drinking rut' to be bothered going those miles out to the place.  It was not a happy chapter in the history of the group that several of us never even went to the joint to at least have one beer, and catch up on old times.  It is a solid black mark against the survivors that we did not do this simple task, and some of us still feel the shame all these years later. It was a roaring success, this new business, until recently when mother nature (the bitch) decided to drop six feet of water onto the place. It was not pretty, and it proved to be a watery grave for the business. But, that is getting ahead in the story, after he left, we all missed him, and talked about 'going to see him' as if he was in Federal prison, but like I said, we never did. Then we were four.

These 'defections' begin to take their toll, like an infection that just keep getting worse, weakening the host before finally finishing it off. We tried our own brand of 'anti-biotics' by trying to bring other people into the group to replace the ones that had left. That was not a success, we made the mistake of trying to go 'co-ed', and, as expected that was a raging failure. We became really good at failures after a while, and anyone with any brains could see that the death knell had been sounded, it was just the remainder of us that were deaf to the bell's toll. 

The love bug struck down another one of us pretty quickly after we when co-ed, and the blushing bride (really a lovely girl) was one of the females that had crossed our gender line. It was a bitter lesson, and we learned it the hard way. Women have a tendency (without really meaning to sometimes) to complicate things.  It was another wedding that the rest of us were required to attend, and happily enough it is still going strong today. We all are glad about that, and we do not begrudge the couple their perfect life (it is disgustingly perfect in many ways) but there is always that little bit of 'he was ours first you know' feeling that lingers even today. It isn't a pleasant feeling, and it isn't really held with any malice, but it is there none the less. Then  we were three. 

Marriage had claimed two of us and two of us had relocate, so now relocation decided to take the lead. One of us got a job halfway across the country that he just couldn't turn down, and he had to pack his trash and move. He was in many ways one of the stalwarts of the group, he could always be depended on to just be there, and in this kind of company, just  being there counted for a lot. He became incomprehensible to understand when he was deep into his cups, and on more than one occasion I was the only one able to understand a word he was saying. Eventually, he became impossible even for me to translate, and I would have to tell him that "I haven't understand a word you've said in 30 minutes, it's time for you to go home." And, he usually did, muttering something unintelligible, but probably vaguely threatening in our direction, he would stride out of the place like he actually had somewhere to be.  He eventually did have somewhere to be, and that was a place about 2500 miles away from the rest of us. He is deeply missed to this day. Then we were two.

The surviving two of us took at look around at the carnage, and came up with radically different solutions to what they thought was the problem. One of us quit altogether, he put down his booze filled glass one day, declared he was 'off the sauce' and has been seen very rarely since. He is trim, and slim, and all healthy now that he doesn't try to poison himself with alcohol four times a week, but he can be quite a bore. He was a loquacious drunk, which is acceptable, but now he is just a sober guy that talks a bit too much, which isn't nearly as much fun. I can not fault him for taking his chosen path, and he seems to be actually enjoying the sober life, which does boggle my imagination, but I guess there is no counting for taste.  He seems to be happy, and I suppose happiness is hard to find drunk, maybe if you're sober happiness grows on trees.  I don't know, nor do I intend to find out, but I wish him all the best. Then we were one.

As you might have guessed this post is about that one. The one that was left behind. Unlike our sober fellow above this one chose the darker path. I think he chose to attempt to make up for the other six leaving by drinking their share of hooch as well. He did a valiant job of trying, but eventually it became more than he could bear. We didn't fall off of the planet, and the ones of us that stayed around would try to stop his descent down the path of destruction, but we just were not able to. Maybe if we had been around a bit more, or paid just a bit more attention, or just punched him in the mouth a couple of times as a wake up call, things would have been different. But, we didn't or couldn't and things went about as badly as they could have gone.

We couldn't help but feel that, at some fundamental level, we failed him, failed to see what the 'break up' of the group had done to him, failed to realize, that while he may have been the brightest of the lot, he was also the one who had the most demons. And demons are horrible, horrible things. They get inside of your head, and say the most cruel  things, things that aren't close to being true, but you don't know, or want to know that. The sauce has clouded your judgment, and your ability to determine which are true, and which are false. None of us realized that was the battle taking place with our buddy on a daily basis, we were either too wrapped up in our own lives, or just too fucking stupid to pay the required amount of attention. And it was attention that was necessary, attention to the war being waged within his mind on a daily basis  Attention to the war he was losing step by bloody step.  By the time any of us sorted out what was going on it was too late, and we (the ones that could make it) were attending another, much more solemn, ceremony with him. Now there are six of us.

What If?

"You're haunted by the two most dangerous words in the English language, What If?" Now, I am not original enough to make that lovely line up by myself, but I am also not clever enough to remember from where I nicked it. If you can figure that out, please feel free to let me know. Because not only am I haunted by those two words, but the fact that I don' t remember the source is a bit off putting as well.  I figure since this is the last day of this rather undistinguished year, I would toss out some random post to wrap it up in style.

Although style is something that I have rarely been accused of having, and I doubt my vast readership will be sober enough to read this post.  However, regardless of readership, I shall press on to the point. If I have a point that is, I am pretty sure I did when I started this post, but that doesn't mean I will have one by the end of the post. It also doesn't eliminate the idea, that the point I had will not be the point (if any) that I make. I write on the 'fly' as it were, and sometimes the beginning, the middle, and the end of my posts aren't always what I had in my (brutish) mind when I begin to type.

Back to the 'what if' dilemma.  We have all faced these type of problems in our lives, and the end of the year is just as good a time as any to reflect upon the 'what ifs' of our lives. What if I had asked that question? What if the answer had been different? What if the bank had said no? What if I were just a bit smarter or better looking? What if I could do it all over again? What if she had answered the phone? What if I had answered the phone? What if I had turned left instead of right, would she be alive today? What if I had taken the under on the Super Bowl?  There are a million of these little dilemmas that each of us have in our 'luggage.' Shit that we carry around that we can not do one fucking thing about. Things that, barring the use of a not yet invented time machine, we can't not change. However, that doesn't stop us from wanting to, or thinking about the what ifs.

Maybe the results would have been the same no matter what you would have done. That might just be fate fucking with you, sometimes (people say) things are just 'meant to be.' That may or may not be true, and I am not so sure I agree, but it might give you some solace as you lie there awake for what seems like an eternity pondering your life's work.  And it is work, your life, it isn't something that is going to come particularly easy, and it is something that you are going to have to get out  of bed each and every day, put in your shift at it, and live with the results, no matter what they might be. We can not all be winners at the game of life, in my opinion it is at its core a zero sum game, and quite a few of us are just going to have to accept the fact that we lost.  Sometimes the best we can do is to cut our losses, and to hope we get another shot. That is unlikely, but sometimes it is all the hope we can cling to. Everybody gets outplayed once in a while, and even the best of us are beatable given the right set of circumstances.

And, until they call time on the thing you call life you always have a chance to swing the balance back in your favour, unless you just quit trying, which would be a shame. After all that what life is all about, trying. You don't have to have a winning smile or a 'great personality' (though I guess they would help) you just need the grit to keep plugging away. Don't bet on the law of averages, because it is rarely a law, and you are usually going to be determined to be just below average. Just plug away at it, and try to improve your performance, the what ifs will just have to take care of themselves.

Love thy Neighbor?

Since today is a pagan holiday christmas, I figured I would trot out the old 'love thy neighbor' line, and see if it still makes any sense.  Freud thought it was one of the sillier pronouncements of christianity, he thought that for a religion, any religion, to attempt people to some sort of universal love was the height of folly. I have to admit, I am inclined to agree with him. To love everybody as a neighbor is to love nobody very much. My neighbor generally has not proven worthy of my love "I must honestly confess that he has more claim to my hostility, indeed my hatred." (Freud Civilization and Its Discontents).  

And if I look at that statement in its most personal of terms, I agree, my neighbors are raging assholes. Both of my neighbors and I have engaged in a 'battle of the trash can.' One neighbor has, on more than one occasion, 'stolen' my trash can. We all have trash cans, and why he feels the need to steal mine, and attempt to foist his trash can off on me, is unfathomable to me. A long time ago, I wrote a post about my trash can (good old number 1947), and clearly I am not the type of fellow to take this theft lightly. Even painting my house number in LARGE letters on the top and side of my trash can, did not stop my 'loving' neighbor from can napping my trash can. A quick visit, and an exchange of some terse words, did eventually lead to 1947's safe return, but really who steals a trash can? Thus neighbor one has proven himself unworthy of my love.

Neighbor number two is also a raging ass hat, that should be taken out, stood up against a wall, and shot like a dog. In fact the source of the trouble I have with number two is a dog. Their dog to be precise, when they moved into the house on the other side of me there was a fence that connected onto my house. It was not my fence, and it was quite, illegally, protruding onto my property. After several warnings, that were ignored, I hired some grim men with chain saws to remove the offending bit of fence from my property. Number two just did not seem to understand the problem, the fence was the only thing that kept their dog  'penned in' their backyard. Tough shit, get your own fence was my reply, and eventually they did, but not before trying to 'create' a fence of their own by using THEIR trash can (rolled onto my property ) to close the newly minted gap in the fence line.  Not the brightest of ideas, and for over a month I took unmitigated pleasure in coming home, piss drunk, and moving their trash can back to the 'right side' of the property line. They caught onto that trick and tried to built a 'makeshift' fence, I took even more pleasure in drunkenly kicking it down at 3 am. It was a lot of fun, and I miss being able to do it. I miss it because eventually they figured it out and built their own fence along the property line just like a 'good neighbor' should. 

Clearly, I am not going to be asked to do a State Farm commercial anytime soon. I am not a good neighbor, nor do I intend to be. I keep to myself, and all I ask is for you to leave me the fuck alone. It is just that simple, but apparently too complicated for people in my 'hood' to understand. I am going to have to take the side of Freud here, and agree that in my neighbors the idea of love is not a popular one. I do not doubt they could regale you with stories of what a crap neighbor I am as well, but that is their problem. I will not be going over with cookies to make peace anytime soon. Universal love is for people who live in ivory towers. I live in a place surrounded by trash cans, it is called reality, and loving thy neighbor is not going to happen. Merry Xmas, happy holidays, God Jul, bah humbug!

Project of the Second Part

Other than being some important day for a bunch of savages, December 25th is the six month 'turn' on my yearly procession of aging. Meaning I have six months to go before I have to change the second number on my age group list. It makes it for a depressing day all the way around, considering my disdain feelings for 'christmas' (which I have made clear on numerous occasions). 

Other than boycotting all sorts of 'parties' that I am, in spite of my scrooge like exterior, invited to attend, I have been trying to find some project to keep myself occupied during this festive season. Other than knocking over christmas trees bringing good cheer to my fellow citizens.  The idea that I have hit upon is another type of hero project, and is probably more work than I am willing to do, but I thought I would toss it out here, and see if my vast readership one loyal follower would approve of it.  It is a small revisit of my hero posts, except this time I am going to take the hero of the day (whichever day it might be), and discuss what they were doing on their 42nd birthday. Where they were living, where they were in their lives, providing they were still alive, how much longer they had to live, and any other thing I can think of to toss out there. 

I suspect that, for the most part, it will be a depressing exercise, but I never claimed to be all sunshine and lollipops.  I am at least planning this idea with some sort of forethought. It will not start tomorrow, since it requires some actual research, and I am a lazy, lazy man. I don't know if it is a good idea or not, nor if it is worth doing or not. So I am throwing it open to a vote. If you care, please let me know, if not well then to hell with you.

Secrets

Sure it is a bit of a 'tool' song, but it is a pretty good starting point for this post. It is, after all, all about secrets and giving them away. I am sure we all understand that we all have secrets, and giving them all away is one fucking dangerous idea. Freud had his secrets, mostly the identity of his patients. I mean who remembers Ernst Lazner, other than his family members (if any are still alive), but mention the 'Rat Man' and you will get a glimmer of recognition. Or at least that is the hope, if you don't, well then Freud secret is lost on the person, and will remain a mystery to them.

You do not have to be the founder of modern psycho-analysis to have a ton of secrets in your luggage, all you need to be is alive, and paying attention. Although paying attention is not strictly necessary. All you really need to do is be in the right place at the right time, and be able to listen closely. You manage that trick, and you have secrets galore being poured into your ear whether you want to know them or not.  Did you hear that what's his name, and his wife are separated? Or what about Mrs. Y who is married, but rather enjoying fucking two boyfriends? You didn't know that? Well just be sitting on the right bar stool at the right time, and you will find it out soon enough. What about Mr. X, who is in the middle of a very nasty divorce, and still finds time to have a girlfriend. Oh? You didn't know, well now you do, and now you have some dangerous knowledge to use.

Using that knowledge can be dangerous as well, after all, you have secrets too right? No one alive on the planet can fail to have a couple of things they consider to be a 'secret'. Things they would prefer the general public not be privy to.  Like to dress up as a cowgirl, and be tied down in the shower? Pretty sure you don't what that little peccadillo getting out to the world wide web. Like to be covered in peanut butter, and have it licked off by a combination of the family pet, and the pool boy? That is not something you would want the postman to know about you now is it? We all have these secrets, things we would prefer not to have to discuss with people we don't know. However, at some point we told someone, maybe our closest friend, and poof! There goes our attempt at keeping it a secret. Because that is the nature of secrets, they are just so very much fun to share. Usually with the old 'nudge, nudge, hint, hint, wink, wink' don't tell anyone else but I heard so and so about so and so.

In that way secrets become a kind of currency. You know a good bit of juicy gossip about your boss? Trade that little tidbit for an even juicier rumor about the guy in the mail room, and then pass it along later for a kick ass story about the boss's secretary, and midgets.  By now you are knee deep in the rumor mill, and loving ever minute of it, unless of course in your wanderings you happen to hear some awful, awful secret about yourself. It doesn't matter if it is true or not, and it may be quite false, and much less damaging that your real secret, but there you are smacked in the face with some piece of information about yourself that is circulating in the world about YOU. Information that is whispered in a low tone, with narrowed eyes, and a quick glance around to make sure you aren't anywhere within hearing distance. 

You may laugh it off as absurd, or it might hurt your feeling, or worse yet, you might be able to (based on the content alone) be able to trace it back to its source. Either way it is going to be a shock to the system, and something you have to address. After all, you were just the person that people told secrets to, not the person that gave away their secrets like candy at a county fair.  And that is the trick isn't it? Having other people give all their secrets away for nothing. We all want to know stuff, stuff that might be bad, or damaging to other people, but we don't want to give similar information about ourselves away to other people.

If you are clever, or brave, you might feel the need to start a good old fashioned, saw dust on the floor type rumor about yourself, and see how long it takes to get back to you. Also, seeing what form it is in when you hear it again is always instructive. How much has been added or subtracted? Is it the same general rumor, or has it taken on a complete new life of its own? More likely than not, it has changed in some significant way, and you will be aghast at the change, but such is the nature of secrets.



This is the 'secret game' that we all play, and that we all try to avoid as much as possible. The trick to avoiding being a victim of the 'secret game' is quite simple. You have, at least two choices, and which one you choose says a lot about you as a person. Option 1 is that you don't tell ANYONE your secrets, and that means anyone. Your mother, your best friend, your postman, or your priest. NO ONE ever gets the intimate details of your life, that way they can't be used against you. This option is tough, I mean after all if you choose this option is it unlikely that you will get told any secrets about anyone else because you aren't playing the 'game'.  It is a tough option, but probably, in the long run, the best option to pick. Option two (and the one that I generally pick) is just the opposite. That is, to tell everyone that will sit still long enough to listen, EVERY little secret you possess. That way you take yourself out of the rumor mill.  If everyone knows it, then it really isn't a secret now is it? Since it isn't a secret it really isn't worth knowing or repeating, and therefore will probably remove you from the rumor mill. It is a brave choice to make, and requires you to have nerves of steel, because even if you put the secret 'out there' it is always possible that it gets embellished in a not so good way for you. The trick is to not give a shit to show just enough honesty and indifference where giving all of your secrets away just isn't any fun.

As for me, I will continue to quietly sit on my bar stool and listen. Paying attention is free, and you can find out wonderfully juicy information, by just keeping your big mouth shut. I find having a full beer to wrap your lips around helps to keep them from flapping, and it is quite easy to listen and drink at the same time.  Until of course the person pouring out secrets wishes to be paid back in kind, then things get a bit dicey, but alcohol and a stern glance should get you through to the end.  

11 11

There is a line in a song by a band called Something Corporate, that goes "I always check the clock, it's 11:11." Now, I am not sure about two things, first what the hell that line means to the moron who is singing it, and secondly how I came upon such a band. However, I am sure of one thing, and this is going to be a trip into the weirdness that is my mind, so be prepared dear readers.

11/11 as a date is certainly familiar to students of history, and back when I was a younger and more clever lad, I was a student of history, but that is not how the number is important to this particular tale. The important of 11:11 is as a time, at least in the twisted part of the story that I am trying to relate. The date DOES have a significance to me, and people who know me well enough (and where there on that major day in my life), will understand what that importance is, and why the rest of this story freaks me the fuck out a bit.

That day happened a little bit over four years ago, and it was not a date in which I covered myself in glory. It was, upon calm reflection, the day that I made one of the biggest miscalculations of my miserable life.  There were a lot of people who knew me there, and in theory they could have prevented my error, but the reality is they really were not in a position to prevent my mistake. And, it was my mistake, and it is one that I should own, and one that I knew, at the time, I was making. The good news, if there is any good news is that the mistake is mostly over. I say mostly, because there are two lingering issues from the fateful day that continue to 'haunt' me to this day.

This post will only deal with one of those two issues, and it is the weirder of the two. I said that the mistake happen on the day 11/11, but the numbers 11:11 are how I am reminded of the date everyday. You see, I don't wear a watch, I check the time by my cell phone, and my alarm clock. And almost everyday for about 2 years with very few exceptions, I check the time on my cell phone at 11:11 (a.m. usually, but sometimes p.m.), and this is NOT intentional. When it first started happening I thought it was a little odd, but nothing too weird. As it continued to happen it started to freak me out a bit, now that it has been happened for almost 2 years it is beyond weird.

It has begun to become a part of my day, like the daily rituals that we all go through just to get ourselves together to get to work, school, or the horse track, it has become something that I have become to expect to do.  In fact, if I somehow (rarely) manage to miss checking the clock, and it being 11:11, I almost feel disappointed, like I have let myself down in some odd way.  It is almost like a parlor trick, something that I could be local slack jawed gawkers that I could do without trying. I should try it for about a week, and see if I could make enough money to allow me to retire to the south of France. I don't know what this ability curse means to my psyche, mainly because I have too afraid (until now) to think too much about it. I have a feeling that if I did take the time to trundle off to Dr. Kronenburg, he would tell me a few 'home truths' that I would not want to hear. 

Those truths might just be more that I can bear, and I don't like taking on more than I can bear.  I have not done a particularly good job at explaining how weird I find this little phenomenon. It still creeps me out a bit, and when I try to explain it to people, they look at me like I am a mental patient. As I mentioned I don't know what the line in the song meant to that fellow who wrote it, but I am quite sure that he didn't mean for his line to become such a meaningful part of my life. I hope where ever he may be that he is being eaten by crabs proud of himself. 

Disaster

'I hate you, I hate everything about you, I hate your smile, I hate your laugh, I hate what you make me do, and I hate how you make me feel.' These words were just the beginning, of what would become a tirade of epic length, and proportion, launched at me like a heat seeking missile at an invading jet fighter that has invaded enemy airspace. I say 'at me' but that isn't exactly true (or maybe it is). These words could have been aimed in my direction, or I could have just been handed a letter written by a friend's (so to be ex) girlfriend. That is for me to know, and for you to find out (if you care), and I can't give all my secrets away. After all, they are all just my secrets, but a lot of other people's secrets as well, and I don't have their permission to give them away.

Either way, back to the tirade. After that opening salvo, things got much more interesting, and in spite of everything, quite poetic. 'You make my voice shake when I talk about you. People understand, without knowing you, or our history, what you do to me. They listen, but they don't actually have to hear WHAT I am saying, they can tell by the catch in my voice when I say you name aloud the effect you have on me. You make me wonder about the meaning of life, about the meaning of MY life, about why I am here, and about why you are here with me. I sometimes wonder if you are here on this planet for the sole purpose of enslaving me. I wonder is maybe I was put on Earth for the sole purpose of being your victim. You make me shake. You make me wonder how anyone, anyhow, or anywhere could possibly think they have a grasp on reality. You are a dream and a nightmare rolled into one, wonderfully awful package. I wax poetic about you and yours to people who actually know you, but just don't see what I see in you. They shrug their shoulders at my declamations, and make me wonder if perhaps I have lost my fucking mind. I sometimes envision pushing you down a flight of stairs, just to see how your fall would make me feel. You make me want to board a tramp steamer to Norway, and toss my identity over the side as I sail far, far, away from you.'

'I almost did, I had a place booked on a plane to anywhere but here, I had a whole new life, without you, planned out to the finest detail.' Then you called, and asked for the recipe for my mother's apple pie, and I cancelled it all. I hate you for that with the type of passion than an Ottoman emperor reserves for only the most prized member of his seraglio. I tried blaming my friends for not taking me outside, and beating some sense into me, but they told me I am an adult (despite the overwhelming mountain of evidence to the contrary), and I could "take care of myself." I came very close to "taking care of myself" with the strong desire that maybe, just maybe you would have felt some sort of guilt if I had. I now know that you are incapable of feeling guilt. I am not sure what you are capable of feeling, or if you are capable of feeling anything at all.'

Not a lot one can do when faced with this sort of organized assault upon one's self, but sit there and hope that you are going to be able to salvage some small amount of self respect. I mean Hallmark does not make a card for this kind of thing. Nor should they, this should be an experience that is unique to you, and you alone. If you are lucky, the lashing you are receiving will be written down, placed into a plain envelope, and slid under your door at some bizarre time of the night (while you are dead asleep). Tirades are all well and good if they are heated and short, but a true 'dressing down' should be done in writing. That way you can re-read it over and over again to see if you truly deserved it or not. If you survive it, you will probably (hopefully) be a better person, but survival is the first step. You really have no one to blame but yourself, and that is the point. They want you to blame yourself. That is what the tirade (in many ways) is designed to do, get you to blame yourself. It is a very effective tool in the wars that we wage against each other, and people have been doing it for centuries.

Not that that makes you feel any better, you sit there reading those carefully written lines with an ever growing sense of dread, maybe you let out a nervous chuckle, but that is just for show. A well written, carefully planned 'dressing down' is a dismantling, and if done properly leaves you shaking for days. Both for the now damaged sense of self you possess, and for the person wielding the sledgehammer against that sense of self. Because, at the end of the day, you understand that a reply is necessary, and in polite society (of which you claim to be a member) is expected, and you have just been 'put on the clock' as it were. And like most things in life, the timing of answering a tirade is critical. Good luck, you are going to need it.