Apollo

The following list is far from comprehensive, or remotely complete, but I am (as I have mentioned before) a lazy, lazy man.

First, there was Becky. The first girl in my love rodeo. The girl I lost my virginity to oh so many years ago. It was a mutual deflowering, and as you would expect it was (at least the first time) pretty brutal. It was probably like watching a killer whale taunt, and kill a baby seal. It was short, nasty, and I am not sure if either of us enjoyed it too terribly much. However, after a few more attempts, we got things in the right spot, and I found 'the' spot, and we began a wonderful, happy relationship. This was back before the war, and in the small town where I was reared, when you deflower a girl, it was only supposed to end one way. And that way, isn't recollecting events over 20 years later without Bethany in the room. It was SUPPOSED to end happily ever after, and it did for Bethany and another fine fellow (a former friend) they are happily married with 3 children, or at least they were the last I heard. She promised she loved me, and wanted to spend the rest of my life with me, clearly she was talking to the wrong guy when she told me that, and I wonder if she told him the same thing. She seems to have meant it, and least when she told him, me not so much. She left.

Years later, there was Yvonne. An exotic name for an exotic woman, from another country she was (and still is I suppose) some place that most of the people I grew up with have never heard. Did I mention I am from a very small, very redneck town? Not that it mattered, by the time Yvonne and I crossed paths, I had been out of that place for a very long time.  Yvonne was a very, very bright girl, which makes why she took up with me an even greater mystery. However, at the time it was not a mystery that I wanted to explore to deeply. She too, said a lot of nice things about and to me, and even offered to take me back to the exotic place of her birth to live our lives out together. She is still in this country, and dating a wonderful fellow, i.e. not me. She had a pretty bad accident, and was not quite the same woman after, she became a woman who did not suffer fools gladly, and I am, without a shadow of a doubt, a fool.  She too left.

Then there was Eileen, and as the name imply she was a redhead with a LOT of Irish in her. Tall, thin, pale, and young. She was (at the time) a walking embodiment of the perfect woman for me. However, while she had quite a bit of musical talent, she wasn't the swiftest horse in the stable. I am far from being a genius, but sometimes Eileen and I were reduced to awfully lengthy discussions about the colour yellow. Now, I like yellow as much as the next fellow, I even painted a bathroom yellow once, but there isn't a whole lot new to say about the colour yellow. But she was tall, thin, young, pale, and covered in freckles, so I managed to overlook the 'yellow thing' for as long as I was able.  She was another girl that I deflowered, and that really seems to mean a lot to women. She eventually became a long distance relationship, and I flew many a mile to see her. I came close to asking her to make it permanent, but the distance and the 'yellow thing' were just too much for me to cope with. She also told me, in different words, that she would have said 'yes' if I had asked. The other big problem with Eileen was I met Anna (see below) when she moved away. They were together the perfect woman, it was a damn shame that there were two of them. She is now married with three children, and happy as a clam. Good on her. She too left.

Then there was Lisa, Lisa was another fiery redhead that actually had 2 'bites at the cherry'. Round 1 was also many years ago, and it was more of a fling than anything else. She was, at the time, a long distance relationship, and I drove a lot miles to see her on more than one occasion. She was an exciting girl, and pretty sharp herself. However, the distance, and time were against us, and she faded into the mists of time. Then one day out of the blue, I got an email from her, I've no idea how she found me, or why she wanted to find me, but she did. It was an instant reconnect, but there was still distance involved. We talked for hours on the phone, and if you know me at all, you know I don't really talk on the phone. We planned almost our entire lives out during those phone calls. We fell back into love during those chats, and then it all when pear shaped. We talked about everything during round 2 of our relationship, and the breaking point was, of all things, Charles Baudelaire. She pretty much told me "It's Baudelaire or me." Well, on my bedside table is a book of Baudelaire's poetry. The whereabouts of Lisa, I do not know.  I like to think I made the right choice, but she promised she loved everything about me (including my love of literature), and she left.

Then there was Alice, Alice was a fellow student of history, and a lovely girl. However, Alice was a bit too frail for me. She had (and presumably still has) a fairly significant illness, that made our relationship a lot harder to conduct. It wasn't any sort of illness that prevented the good stuff, it just made her tired a lot. She once told me "if you asked me to marry you right now, I would say yes.' Guess what? I quickly changed the subject, and moved on to less dangerous relationship waters.  It was probably a wise decision, since after me Alice decided to revenge fuck my best friend. This is one of the reasons that I no longer have a best friend. She has recently became engaged, and I am happy for her, and hope that the lucky groom's best man isn't too handsome. She too left.

Then came Nancy. Fancy Nancy as I liked to call her. She was not amused by that nickname, and I quickly found out that Nance wasn't amused by much of anything.  Those who I allow to know me these days, will (hopefully) tell you that I am a pretty funny guy. Funny as in HA HA, not funny as someone who like to wear a lot of chartreuse scarves. I never really understood Nancy, and I don't think Nancy ever really tried to understand me. It was, in spite of all this misunderstanding, a torrid affair, and my roommate at the time was so impressed he once, clapped when she left the house after a night at the opera (as he liked to call it, I'm certain you can guess why).  She wasn't amused about that either, but she certainly did care enough to want to sign up as a permanent ticket holder, if you catch my meaning. However, operas have limited runs, and she too left.

Then came Anna, Anna was, when put together with Eileen (see above) the perfect woman. Anna was (and I am still sure is) one of the few women I have dated that was miles smarter than I am, and I don't date dumb women. Except for the fact that they have dated me, which causes their sanity, not their intelligence, to be called into question, I love intelligent woman. Anna was a fucking overachieving genius, and why she fell for me was completely unfathomable to me. She was smart, funny, well read, well spoken, and a a for sure keeper for almost any man in the world. Any man but, yours truly it seems. We had a really, really rocky relationship that was defined by, me still having feelings for Eileen, and one other fact that I have only ever told 4 people about. This is not the time to reveal what that fact/issue was. There may never be a time to reveal that fact again, and I hope that Anna has forgiven me, even though she said she never would, and I peg her as a woman of her word. She is also married now with at least one child. I heard from her about three years ago when her team, the Saints, beat my Vikings in the NFC championship game. It was not a consolation email, it was a gloating email. It led me to believe that Anna has not forgiven me, and truth be told, she probably shouldn't. I thought many a night how she was a keeper, and she really was. She too left.

Then came Esther, I married Esther, and that should tell you all you need to know. If you want to know more, I suggest you read "Portraits of a Marriage" by Sandor Marai. A good book that will tell you a lot of things about Esther and I, even if she's never read it, or is ever going to read it. She too left.

As I said this isn't a complete list of all of my follies, and I am sure there will be more follies to come, but to each of these wonderful women I told one important story. I won't go too far into the details of the story (more of a theory) that I shared with women, because I don't share it that often. It has to do with numbers, and each of them will understand exactly what I mean by that. It is not a happy theory, but it is a theory that I believe in strongly. A theory is just that a theory, something that isn't a law but something that can be shown to happen again and again under the same set of circumstances. Thus we get a theory. Each of these women, to whom I owe both a massive debt, and a heartfelt apology, to, have helped me show that my theory, as depressing as it is, is sound.  It is another tragedy that I will have to deal with, and it makes me very sad. Sometimes being right about things hurts a lot more than being wrong.



P.S. There is no hidden agenda or meaning in the post, but there is, if you try hard enough to find it, a hidden message. 

Bulkheads

In the past month, I have had my ass handed to me emotionally twice. Once was at work, and once was in my personal life. I try very hard to keep them separated, but sometimes, given the subject matter of my job, they bleed over into each other. When I first started my job over nine years ago, I swore not to let it define me as a person, I fear, after those nine long years, that I have failed in that task. I really want to be more than the sum of my parts, but I fear I am failing at that goal (as I do at most things I try). 

These two 'ass handings' have led me to become what I hate the most (other than my father), an emotional 'wreck.' Normally, I am not the most emotive of fellows, and I try very hard to compartmentalize my emotions. It is not the easiest of tasks, but I have been accused of doing it quite successfully in the past. I say accused, because the person making the claim about my ability to compartmentalize things, was not saying it in a positive light. The emotion ass whipping I received at work, I can do sod all about, it was delivered from on high, and a mere worker ant such as myself can not nothing about it. Not that I didn't at least try, but as I mentioned earlier, I am a professional when it comes to trying and failing. Seymour Skinner doesn't have anything on me in the failing department.

The work beating wasn't even given to me to my face, it had to be delivered to me by someone other than the architect, I guess that is what minions are for, to do all the unpleasant tasks that the throne would find off-putting. Either way it was done, and I'm still struggling to determine how much of my pride, and other important bits of me survived. It is going to be a bit of a slog, but it looks as if I'll survive, at least for a while. Though I fear the matter has merely been delayed, and will not be denied.

At least the personal beating took place to my face, though in retrospect I wonder if that makes it better or worse. I wasn't overly surprised that it happened, but I was, and still am surprised at it swiftness and its brutality.  These things are not for the weak of will nor the faint of heart. I didn't think I was either, but as flail about trying to understand what is happening, I fear that I might just be both. That is not something that I find particularly pleasant, or easy to admit. Things have recently begun to fall apart, and there is a growing concern that the centre cannot hold, and that is a oddly frightening notion to attempt to wrap my head around.

The bulwarks that I painstakingly built over so very many years have begun to collapse like a house of cards on a very windy day, and the 'ship of me' the only ship I have, is listing dramatically to the left. Taking on water at an alarming rate, and is caught on a lee shore that will be very difficult to navigate off of.  I have put all hands to the pumps, but the only hands I have are mine own, and as referenced above, me doing something equals me failing at something. It is a gift, one of the many I would like to return but can't, seems I've lost that receipt as well. 

All of this is to say that if the melancholy expressed on these pages, has been, or gets too bad, at least now some of the sources have been identified, and perhaps that is the first step to building better, stronger bulkheads. I guess failure does have its purpose. My watching the compartments I build be breached with such ease, I now understand that unless I want to stay under these waves tonight, I will have to build with more care, and more cruelty. Whether I am up to the task remains to be seen, and I wouldn't bet on me if I were you. But, then again if I were you, I wouldn't be having these problems in the first place would I?

Heureux

'I just want you to be happy' three, not one, not two, but THREE different people have told me that in the last week. As if happiness is something that I can order off of the Wendy's 99 cent menu.  Which is why I gave the reply 'happiness is not on the menu.' The tricky part of the statement is that, in their own way (I think) each of them actually meant it. They actually want me to be happy. Why, I don't know, nor do I particularly care. The fact that when one of them told me 'they wanted me to be happy' they were in the middle of making me decidedly unhappy is an irony that was probably only evident to me.

The other two 'happy wishers' have also, at different times been in a position to make me happy, and or sad depending. I am just now beginning to realize that is my fault not theirs. The fact that I allow another person or persons to control my mood or emotions is just plain stupidity on my part, and it is something that will have to be changed, and soon. To continue to allow any other human being, and I am using that term very broadly, to have the ability to influence or determine my feelings is deplorable. I can not for the life of me sort out how the blue fuck, I allowed myself to be placed into such a position, but here I am. However, just because I am here, doesn't mean I am going to STAY here, and I think that a certain self-adjustment shall be made. Self-adjustments are the hardest to make, but when they are pulled off properly they are well worth it.


Each of these 'happy' souls also told me that they thought I would make a good father, again I had to disabuse them of that notion as well. As a card carrying misanthrope, and a cynic of the brutal type, I am fairly certain I would make an awful, awful father. My normal response is to say that i do not like children, and in many ways that is still true, but being a former child myself, I have now determined that it is the parents that I don't like. I certainly didn't like one of my at all, and the other one is currently not speaking to me, so maybe that colours my thinking a little bit, but I am beginning to warm to the idea of disliking parents.

I am sure that most parents do the best they can rearing their offspring, but it's just that most of them also do a really shit job of it. Children, from what I have been told, do not come with an instruction manual, and even worse, seem to have a mind of their own. Though I am not sure I am ever going to be ready to have children, mainly because of the potential 'motherships' out there seem to have disqualified, or disabled themselves in one way or another. There is a reason for this, but I lack the words (or the courage you pick) to explain that reason. It is just sufficient for now to say that their actions could never be reconciled with their words.

This happiness that these well meaning people wished me, is something that I am going to have to find myself. A lot of people will tell you that happiness is the presence of something, cold beer, warm women, a large piece of unguarded chocolate, can and may provide you happiness, but it is fleeting happiness. After the beer has been drunk, the chocolate eaten, and the woman has left (and each of these things will happen), then you are right back where you started, unhappy. That is if, of course, you allow the presence of things to make you happy. Another theory is it is the absence of things that can make you happy, the absence of pain, the absence of hunger, or maybe even the absence of people can make you happy. Once again a flawed theory, you are going to experience pain again, unless you die, you are going to get hungry again, and people just have a tendency of getting in the way. Leaving you back were you started, unhappy.

Happiness might be a bit too much to hope for, and besides is it really necessary?  After all there exist in this world people who go out of their way to attempt to ruin other people's happiness. Almost seems pointless to find happiness if there is just someone who is going to try to take it away.  Perhaps happiness is a house in the burbs, 2.5 children, and the white picket fence that we all liked to gently mock as rebellious free thinkers in our student days.   Or maybe it is some radiant city, that lets us drink for free, never age, and not have to go to work in the morning. Either way it is something that while elusive, need not be exclusive. 

Bunny Hop

As I was taking a nice relaxing bath the other night burning one to make the day's stress disappear, a very loud, very insistent knock came upon my door. 'Damn and blast' I muttered, can't the world leave me alone long enough to get high in the bathtub? I am not an important person, and my presence is not really ever needed that often, but here it was at 5 in the afternoon, and some damn fool just wouldn't leave me in peace. I threw on a robe, and slightly dizzy, made my way to the front door. Now, I know that most of you, dear readers, will probably think I've gone mad when I tell what I saw but, I swear it was the truth.

On my doorstep, and it took a few rapid blinks of my eyes to confirm it, stood the fucking Easter Bunny! No shit! There he was in all of his glory, the fucking Easter Bunny, basket in hand waving at me as I opened the door to let him in. I really didn't know what else to do except let him in, after all there really doesn't seem to be a protocol for this sort of thing, and besides I had be led to believe that this guy/thing didn't exist. I was certainly going to let him in, and try to sort out this mystery myself. I could be famous, going down in history as the man who 're-discovered'/proved the existence of the Easter Bunny.

He wasn't as tall as Harvey the other 'fictional' bunny I had heard about, and he didn't say anything, he just bunny hopped into my living room, basket in hand, and gave me a stare that only a rabbit could get away with, it was a bit unnerving, and really fucking funny all at the same time. He seemed to know what he was doing as he hopped around on my fancy rug, and he placed his basket down on my coffee table, pulled out what I can only describe as the largest fucking egg I have ever seen, and placed it in my (suddenly) out stretched hands. 

He then shook his head very slowly, as if to say 'I know you didn't believe in me, and I know you probably don't deserve any of my gifts, but here I am to show you that sometimes non-belief doesn't matter. You can believe in what you want, it doesn't make me any less real. Yes, he was somehow able to convey all of that with a simple shake of his head. It was amazing, and a little humbling. He then wagged his finger at me as some sort of vague warning and hopped out of my door, slamming it ever so gently behind him.

As I stood there gawking like a country bumpkin who has traveled to Brooklyn to see 'this here bridge they keep trying to sell me', and clutching his egg like a rube, I couldn't help but notice, and be very upset as I looked down and noticed that the fucking Easter Bunny had tracked mud all over my rug, and that rug really tied together the room!


For the birthday girl, who gave me this idea, I hope it is a happy one, both your birthday, and the tone of which you've noticed is a bit bleak at times.

Stranger on a 5

It is funny how two people can remember the same event so very differently. What I said to him wasn't 'I am leaving you' but four more important words which were 'You have to leave'.' Those two statements are radically different, and make a huge difference in what followed. I was his mistress for five and a half years, that much is true. During that time, I got to know him very well, probably better than he knew himself. Not that he would either admit that, or for that matter knew that. However, that was his problem not mine. In those five and a half years he told me, without really meaning to, everyone one of his passwords. Which is why I am here now, I know, or have known everyone of the passwords he so jealously guarded from the rest of the world. You see he isn't the only classically educated person in the world who knows a shit ton of French history. He will be both appalled, and impressed once he figures out he has been hacked, and he will change his password immediately. It will be to something that he thinks, wrongly, that I don't know, but I will let him keep that dream alive. 

For five and a half years, I put up with his lies, his self-delusions, and his cheating.  He thought he was clever, and that I didn't know. I knew, and I know, it was just for five and a half years I didn't care. I knew that no matter how far afield he might have strayed, that he would always come back to me. I was (and still am) quite that good. He knows that even to this day, even if he is too stupid to admit it.  Therein lies part of the problem, he isn't stupid, in fact (and he refuses to admit it) he is, in so very many ways, the smartest man that I have ever met, and I have met a lot of smart men. 

He is probably, as I type this, out with one of his 'whores', at least that is what I called them. The multitude of women that he somehow convinced he was single that fell for his charms. They aren't really to blame for what they did, it is almost entirely his fault, but they are still what I call his 'whores.'  They didn't understand him like I did, they didn't know him 5 plus years ago as a shy, socially awkward man, who really didn't understand which fork to use for which course. I had to teach him that, I had to teach him a lot of things.  Some of which he really didn't want to learn, but I taught him anyway. He should, but he won't, thank me for those life's lessons.

He complains that 5 and a half years is a long time for a man his age, and he is correct, but for a woman my age (about 10 years younger than his old ass) it is even longer, and women and aging are not friends at all. Men grow distinguished as they age, women just grow old, so I feel no pity for him as he approaches another birthday. In the grand scheme of things 5 and a half years to him is like 9 years to me. I was a very young, and very naive girl when he met me all those years ago, but I have both aged and matured, he has just aged. I doubt that he will ever mature, which is part of the reason I told him he had to leave. He didn't like being told that, and I suspect that is why he chose the coward's way of posting a blog post about it. It is typical of him, to argue with me, or anyone else he has an issue with via some vague, hard to decipher blog post. A post that he likes to think only he knows the true meaning of.  What a fool! I know him inside and out, and if he thinks that he can write a post that I can't figure out the true meaning of, then he is an even bigger fool than I thought he was.

However, when I met him, he was just as naive as I ever was. A wet-behind the ears idealist who thought by just trying hard enough, he could change the world. I had to be cruel to him several times, and I was cruel, cruel beyond compare. I broke his heart, and shattered his concept of justice and fairness, for his own good. He won't ever thank me for it, and he probably shouldn't, but regardless whether he will admit it or not, I made him, (forged him if you will) a stronger, better person.  I even made him cry, twice, it took a hell of a lot of effort, but he cried like a Jew at the wailing wall. He will deny it, and he did a remarkably good job of hiding it, but he cried, twice. It was about the only time I ever saw his human side. Which is sad in so very many ways.

I know he hates himself, I know that if he could just get the courage up, he would either run away to Paris, and starve to death by trying to live by his pen, or that he will take the revolver that he inherited from his father, and blow his brains out.  I tried, so very hard to convince him that the first idea wasn't so bad, and that the second idea was just a coward's way out.  He is still alive, but not living in Paris, so I guess I failed at both.  I know all the childhood issues that he has, the one's that he refuses to admit to himself, but that are so very clear if you pay close attention to his actions. 

He is correct when he says that when he first met me that we loathed each other. I was loud, I was crass, and I was (like six perfections) hard to tame. He was shy, confused, and timid. The fact that he gathered the courage to attempt to 'tame' me is one of the few things that I give him credit for.  Considering his awkwardness he did a remarkable job at taming me. After all, I am a force of nature, and taming me is like bailing out the ocean with a very small, slotted spoon. It is to his ever lasting credit that he tried, and tried for 5 and a half years, about 2 years longer than any other fool I have ever known.  Maybe that is why I still admire him so much, the fact that he had the audacity to try to conquer me for so long speaks volumes about his staying power. You see, I am a breaker of spirits, I take people (men, women, children)  chew them up and spit them out. It is always just a matter of time before I break the spirit of anyone silly enough to try to tame me. It is to his everlasting credit that he tried for so much longer than anyone else, and I am pretty sure that, given the choice, he would try again in spite of the bruises I have left upon his soul.

And I did batter his soul, not that he was some sort of sensitive soul when he came to me, but I made sure to find out his weaknesses and exploit them to my benefit. He will tell you I was a cruel mistress, but the truth of the matter is that I am quite simply, a raging bitch.  And he was, in so very many ways, the bitches bastard. He was just as cruel as I ever tried to be. He could break a heart as easily as other men put on pants. I should know I saw him do it on more than one occasion.  It wasn't really his fault but the one's who's heart he broke. He had a rehearsed speech that he gave to these poor women explaining what a bastard he was, and that he wasn't going to be good for their soul. They hardly ever believed him, at least until it was too late, and by then, well it was too late. He gave me that speech when we first met, but much to his dismay, I believed him. He was pretty convincing, and I took his measure pretty quickly. Perhaps that is why we lasted for 5 and a half years.

The real reason that I had to tell him to leave was twofold. The first was that I knew that he loved me, but that he didn't trust me. It was a constant source of friction in the relationship, and one that we just couldn't resolve. It was just a bridge too far for us, I never really understood why he didn't trust me, but after a while I made sure that he had good reason not to trust me. I guess that makes me a bad person, but I was dealing with him, and he was, and remains one of the worse people I have ever met.  The second reason that I had to tell him to leave was that he was scared. He was scared to allow himself to love me as he knew he should. He was afraid to love me like a 'normal'  man, the type of man I deserve, the type of man that could screw his courage up to the sticking point, and make the serious, life changing decisions that needed to be made.

And so, I forced him to leave, telling him how happy I was when he wasn't around. Destroying his confidence, and breaking both his and my own heart. It had to be done, and I really do wish that it would have been him, rather than me, that would have eventually pushed the little red button that led to our relationship entering nuclear winter.  We were two points collapsing, and it was just a matter of time before one of us buried the other. I can only hope that he realizes that this figurative burial is much better than a literal one. Je t'aime.

Roxanne

I love The Police, the rock group, not the guys in the blue uniforms (though I guess they aren't all bad its just that for the most part they can't sing). It is a clear sign that musical tastes have passed me by, the fact that I still cling to a rock band who's music is over 30 years old. Back in the day, when I was a young impressionable, lad, I listened to the Police A LOT.  The lyrics written by Sting, and the wall of sound produced by the band have had a long lasting effect upon me. I would have as many hours of tantric sex as I could manage with Sting, and would be proud to brag about it (providing I survived the experience).

Most of us know at least a few Police songs, and one of the most famous is Roxanne (partially thanks to Eddie Murphy and 48 Hrs). It is a song about falling in love with a prostitute (never a good idea) pure and simple. Sting was 'inspired' to write it by seeing the prostitutes 'working' outside his hotel in Paris in 1977. The name is stolen from the lead female character in Cyarno de Bergerac, and even though the band wasn't overly excited about the song at first, it has since gone on to become one of their all time greatest hits.

All of the above is background to my own little tale of romance gone horribly awry. Until the events that I am about to relate took place, I am fairly certain that I had never even seen a prostitute, and for certain never paid one, or fell in love with one (a certain lack of money, and good sense kept me from falling into that trap).  Even when I met my first prostitute I wasn't aware of it. It wasn't like I called some escort service after striking out at my local pub, or was I cruising the 'red light' district in hopes of a new, sordid, experience. Nope, the prostitute that found her way (briefly) into my life was an normal looking girl seated a few chairs down from me at a bar having a few drinks with a (female) friend of hers.

A certain lack of memory, and a desire not to give away too much information, will be the reason that I will gloss over exactly how I managed to strike up a conversation with her. Drunk me, according to some reports is much more of a talker, and rumor has it, is a bit of a charmer. It was clearly drunk me that worked up the courage to speak to her, 'charm' her, and eventually take her home. Drunk me is a fast mover it seems. Whatever charms drunk me possessed on that night worked like a charm, because I did take my Roxanne home, and enjoyed the charms she sold to other men for free.


She did not spring the 'oh by the way, I have sex for money' thing on me on that first fateful night, and perhaps that is why I never had to pay. I don't know if prostitutes are like drug dealers, and give you the first one for free to get you hooked or not, but I know I got the first, and every other time afterwards for free. Even when she did tell me about her prostitution thing, I didn't believe her. I mean who the hell thinks hey I am lying in bed next to a woman who has sex for money, and I am getting it for free?  I figured she was just yanking my chain (so to speak) about the prostitution thing, until she showed me solid, convincing proof (and no it wasn't some video).


Needless to say I was a bit shocked by this proof, but considering the sex was fantastic, and I was not having to pay for it, I kept seeing her. We had some interesting times, and some pretty odd conversations, and some really dirty sex in our time together, and I would be lying if I didn't admit that I was probably a little impressed with myself. After all, here was a very pretty, very young, very nubile woman that charged other men a fair chunk of change to bang her, banging me for free. Even going so far as to say that she 'liked me'. Take that for what's its worth, lucky me huh? I find a prostitute by accident in a bar, and get to have sex with her for free, and she starts to like me.


To her credit, she would never have sex with me on the same night she 'conducted other business' which was nice of her I guess. I never really got the protocol down for 'dating' a prostitute. I mean Hallmark does not make a card for this kind of situation, and trying to explain to your friends that the babe you've just introduced them to is a prostitute will get you some very odd looks. Looks of utter disbelief, and a lot of laughs, but when she herself would confirm my story, those looks changed really quickly. I guess some of my friends were disgusted by it all, but a couple began to show a new found respect for me. I guess getting a prostitute to have sex with you for free is some sort of an accomplishment, though I am pretty sure my mother would not be at all pleased.



The relationship, as it were, lasted only about 3 months, but those were 3 of the most interesting months I have lived in a while. Of course, I sort of figured, once I did in fact realize I was 'dating' a prostitute that it couldn't last, and I am only surprised that it lasted as long as it did.  I mean there isn't really a long term future in dating a prostitute is there? And eventually she is going to sort out the 'why am I fucking this guy for free' issue, and start to wonder what the hell is going on.


Recently, as a part of my job, I had to argue that a gentleman who is mentally ill, be committed to a mental institution for both his own safety and the safety of society. It wasn't a particularly difficult hearing as there were two doctors that both agreed that the gentleman in question needed serious mental help. However, one of his 'delusions' was that prostitutes were controlling his thoughts. It took all my sense of what is proper not to tell the court "Your honor, I used to know a prostitute, and I can tell you with all honesty that, at certain times, she most certainly controlled my thoughts, she even controlled  my actions on several occasion as well."  I doubt that my employers would have been amused, and I seriously doubt that the judge would have been too happy with me either. Besides, I figured that if that delusion was getting that poor bastard sent off to the funny farm, they might just decide to take me as well.


For my own Roxanne, where ever you may be, I can only hope that just like your name sake, you don't have to put on the red light tonight.

Maitresse

'I am leaving you' she said with a slightly impatient sigh, and left me sitting there with a slightly stunned look on my face. After all, she had been my mistress for 5 and a half years. In the grand scheme of time, that isn't that long of a time. For a man of 40 odd years it is a significant amount of time. Considering I didn't lose my virginity until I was strapping lad of 22, I have only been in the dating/gene pool for a little over 18 years. All things considered, 5 and a half years out of 18 is almost one-third. When you do the math that way, you start to understand my shock.  And shock it was, an almost (to her I am sure) comical look was surely on my face as she uttered those four simple words, "I am leaving you."

It doesn't take a genius to sort out that once one party utters those deadly words, that there isn't a whole lot the other party can do to stop the actual statement from becoming true. Of course, that doesn't stop us, it just that it is going to be harder than Chinese math, a sum that you can not solve, like me trying to explain why I thought leaving me was an awful idea (and not just for me). After 5 and a half years, we had no secrets, we had no uncharted territory, no real surprises for each other. However, that really wasn't the reason she was leaving. I said we had no uncharted territory, we did have however, have unexplored territory. We both had walls that the other was not allowed behind. Thick bastard of walls that just did not encourage climbing over, mining, or tunneling under.


She had built her walls early on in our torrid affair, and it was a torrid affair, and I bumped into them quite frequently, and with some force, until eventually I learned to respect their existence.  Of course, like the mature adult I am, I built walls in response. It was like a relationship arms race, and the more walls I bumped up against, the more walls I erected. It became quite silly after a while, and I am pretty sure that if you were to ask her, she would tell you that I built the first wall, and she was just trying to protect herself from becoming walled in by me. Who knows maybe she is right, maybe I built the first wall, maybe she did. It might have mattered then, it certainly doesn't matter now. 

The ironic part is that when we first met, I couldn't stand her. She was demanding, loud, rude, and frustrating. So frustrating that I didn't for nearly two years consider the candle worth the game. We were sort of thrown together by forces beyond our control, and we just decided that if we were going to be planted together, we should go ahead and bloom. And bloom we did, I like to think that I came as close as man could or will come to taming her. I am not bragging, I am merely stating what I feel to be a fact. It took about 4 years to get her under some facsimile of what I call 'control' (and not in a bad, creepy way). 

She was a hard mistress, and she taught me a lot life's lessons, and she didn't teach them softly. She forced me to look out upon a sea of failed relationships, and didn't sugar coat the fact that we were, in many ways, adrift upon that sea in a very small, very leaky boat.  She was not gentle, and a small part of me will hate her for that for a very long time. Even though the larger part of me realizes that her cruelty was the only way she had to show me what I needed to know. Of course, I thought I knew all I needed to know, and that was probably the problem that led to her leaving to begin with. The impatience with which she declaimed her desire to leave was almost more than I could bear at the time, and remains a source of mystery to me. After all we had been together for 5 and a half years, and now suddenly I was being judged to be made of inferior material.

I did try to understand, to comprehend why after so long, and some really good times (some bad one too, but that the nature of relationships) she suddenly (or so it seemed to me) concluded that she was 'happier when she wasn't around me', and 'happy when she knew she wasn't going to see me.' Those statements left a very large, very dark bruise on my psyche that I am not sure will ever fully heal.  The fact that she repeated them about 10 times certainly didn't help. 

You have to trust your heart to know what is real, and my heart had spoken, it promised her the sun, the moon, and the stars if she would just stay. However, she was not the type of woman that needed those types of promises, she walked on moonbeams all on her own, and certainly was not going to believe the sun, the moon, and the plans we had made to be anything other than the last gasp of a desperate man. She taught me to feel as blue as blue can be, and I guess I should thank her for that, for showing me that despair is a feeling that you can eventually get used to, and then get over. She left, and took a lot of my time with her, wrapped up in her being like a butterfly in a cocoon. Time mostly well spent, and I can only hope that my next mistress allows me to do the leaving. Because say you what you will about how hard it must have been to leave, it is the being left here, leaning against the loneliest street lamp this clown has ever leaned against, that has taught me another of life's valuable lessons. However, I will keep the details of what that lesson is to myself. After all, if I told you what that lesson was then you would be almost as clever as me, and I can't have that now can I?

My Day

My desire to participate in this day died about ten minutes ago. Not that any of you lot care, but my phone will be off, I will not check either email, or facebook, and if you try to come to my house and knock on my door, it will be to your cost.  I am quite sure that before any of you read this post, if any of you read it at all, none of you had even one little thought about me anyway. Therefore, my checking out of the events of the day, or the day itself will have little to no effect upon you.

There was no Kierkegaadian type earthquake that tripped my desire to suspend my participation in this day, and even if there was, it isn't anyone's business but my own. I try to accomplish two things on a daily basis, mind my own business, and not put my business too far out into the public view. I try to mind my own business because it is my business, and not anybody else's.  It is (at least I hope so) unique business to me, and if I want anyone to know about it, I will tell them myself. Which leads to the second thing I try to accomplish, keeping my business from becoming too public. A trifle more trickier than it seems, because people love to mind other people's business (myself, to my shame, included).


The truth of the matter is that I realize that the day, just like every other day, will sail along quite smoothly, maybe even more smoothly, without my participation. There are just over 7 billion people on this rock at the moment, and the loss of one person's interest in the day, will make not one fuck to the either day or the rest of those 7 billion (minus one) people.  In fact, though I hope it isn't true, my non-participation in this day might either make the day go by better, faster, and happier for a certain number of people. If that is the case, and as I said I hope it isn't but suspect it is, then well my participation in any number of days probably needs to be rethought.

It is that rethink that I might indulge in while I am sitting in the coffin I call my apartment disconnected from the world in general, and the people who I normally interact with daily in particular. This isn't some sort of 'cry for help' I don't want your help even if you wanted to try to give me help. It is merely me checking out of the loop for a day to see if one, I can do it, and two, if it has any positive affect on me (and by extension others). Or, if that rethink starts to distress me over much, I might just fall asleep, and see if perhaps the dream world can conjure up a better day for me. The risk there is a nightmare but it is a risk I am willing to take, after all nightmares aren't real. This day is and has been so far, all too real.

Plans or Sweet Revenge

Plans are something that we all make, from the lowliest prole struggling to put bread on his table, to the king in the high castle trying to sort out how to conquer the chambermaid or the country over the mountain range on the southern border.  Hopefully, for the prole, maybe for the chambermaid and not so much for the king these plans, so painstakingly made, and (also hopefully) based on sound judgment, and a fair amount of common sense, succeed. It is the success of those plans, if they succeed, that allows each of the people in the above example to continue to plan. If plans fail regularly then, sometimes people just throw over the whole idea of planning anything. A failure to plan generally leads just to failure.

In many respects to live is to plan. You plan your day from the (too fucking early in the morning) time that your alarm jolts you out of dreaming of Nicole Kidman (or some fairly close model thereof), until the time that the copious amount of alcohol you've had to consume to get to sleep, finally overcomes you final vestiges of consciousness, and you fall into that black hole know to the rest of the world as sleep. The awful, awake time that comes between those two events, that time that is know as 'your day' (the thing people are always asking how it was), is the part that it is necessary to plan. If, and it is a big IF, you are allowed to plan the majority of your day by yourself, then you are one lucky bastard.

Most of us (proles at least) have a large chunk of the majority of our day(s) planned for us. This is done by the thing that we generally call work, or if we feel fancy, we call it a career. Either way work or career is just another way of saying that (generally) someone or something else is planning our day for us. However, they, those bastards planning our days, do allow us some time to ourselves to plan however we choose, and it is that, ever so precious, time that is the really important part. How you plan your 'free' time is entirely (you hope) up to you. Certainly if you are burdened/blessed with either a significant other, or a group of friends you might have to, on occasion, alter your plans, or go along with their plans. But, that is just part of being the social animal known as humans right?

All of this non-sense is to say that I, personally, have made a lot of plans, most of them were shit. Lots of them were absolute shit plans, and their (eventual) failure should have come as a surprise to no-one, least of all me. However, in my 40 plus years on the planet, I have on the rare occasion had some absolutely brilliant plans, some real corker of plans that left even me shaking my head at my (ever so brief) genius. I am far from brilliant, and the only type of genius that I might (just might) be is the evil type, so when one of my plans comes out the idea oven as brilliant, it is a cause for general rejoicing.  However, that rejoicing usually did not last for too long, because as I said the vast majority of my plans have been shit. Long-term, short-term, or life-term, I am a man that is very good at making really, really bad plans. I guess it is a gift, but a negative type of gift that, unlike your usual awkward xmas gifts, take more than they give.

The good news is that I have, finally after many years of angst, realized that my plans are usually foiled, and not by some secret agent like James Bond, but by the simple passage of time. It seems that my plans are, in many respects, like me, easily foiled, and not overly well thought out. Either way the knowledge that, as a planner goes, I am shit, while costly, and painful, has lead to some good consequences. I am now able to, with remarkable ease, recognize a shit plan when I see one, especially if someone else is making it. Which is a lot more fun than one would think. 

This is the good part, being able to recognize eventual failure can entertain you for days on end. If you really don't like the person, and let's be honest, I don't like a lot of people, then when you see the failure of their plan before they do, it can lead to a chuckle or even a guffaw. The misery of others can be almost as much fun as your own misery, and the if some ship of fools crashes upon your shore, you would be remiss not to get a few laughs out of their plight.  Things fall apart, and sometimes the centre cannot hold, you can only hope that you have braced yourself for the eventual moment when it all goes pear shaped, and you are able to survive.  The real joy of watching another person's plan fall to shit is not being the person who caused it, but playing no part in it, but then reaping some, quite unexpected, reward from the disaster you just watched. There is no rule that says you have to be 'nice', and sometimes being cruel is actually the right thing to do. Sure you look like a bastard, but only if you aren't clever, if you are clever the person who's plan just collapsed like a house of cards around them, has no idea that you are the person benefiting. That is a rare as a virgin in a Venezuelan whorehouse, but it is as sweet of a revenge as you are ever going to find. The trick is to enjoy it because tomorrow, way too early for your own good, your alarm is going to shock you out of your sleep, and you are going to have to start planning your day, some of those plans, as plans are wont to do, will fail in spectacular fashion, and somewhere, someone will get their sweet revenge upon you. Thus the circle of life and failure is complete (at least until we break on through to the other side).



This post is dedicated to (at the very least) 3 people, maybe more, but 3 for certain, who's ever so brilliant (and they are ever so smart at planning) plans have fallen to shit about 24 hours after making them. They were plans that took a lot longer to make, and the fact that they collapsed so very quickly, has become a source of everlasting joy for me. Enjoy the taste of failure, you lot deserve no less than that.

Siege

I am, for the most part, a patient man, and I like to take things somewhat slowly. I would make a great besieger, in fact, I have laid two sieges in the last three years. Thus, the point of this post. Back in the grand day of Vauban, he of the star-shaped fortified towns, siege craft was an art form. You dug your approaching trenches, you mined under the walls, and tried to create a breach of the city's walls. That done, and depending on how you felt about the town you were besieging, you gave your loyal troops 3 to 7 days to rob, pillage, rape, and burn the place until their hearts were content.

However, usually it was considered the proper thing to do to let the besieged city, once they knew their game was up, to allow them to surrender with honor, and to allow the city to be saved being sacked by your troops. It showed that you weren't the bad egg your enemies had made you out to be, and allowed you to keep from getting too terribly many people killed.

Then, as with most things, someone had to go and spoil the rules by which the game of siege was played by, and thus you got the fight until the last man type of siege. The sieges of the Vietnam War, and of Korea. The really dirty sieges that didn't allow for honor, and didn't really care about the human cost, the goal was to win at all costs.

The two sieges I laid were one of each, both were, eventually, successful, but both had different costs. One was quite simply war at it worst, there was no quarter asked for, nor any quarter was received. It was a long, drawn out affair, and the eventually success I obtained was all the sweeter for the fact that I was, at first, the offended party. In fact, it was that offense, which the person giving offense might not have even realized what they had done, that lead to the siege taking place in the first place. I said I was a patient man, I did not say I was a pleasant man. Truth be told, I am not sure the besieged ever really knew that they were surrounded, or that I was, in fact, besieging them. Maybe that is the best kind of siege to endure, the kind that you don't know is happening, and even after your city 'falls' you really don't understand the reason behind it. For the besieged, that is probably as good as it gets. Ignorance being bliss. 

Those type of sieges are still quite fun for the besieging army as sieges can get. The fact that your (eventual) success has gone (mostly) unnoticed should not detract from the fact that it was still a success. In many ways this type of siege is the best type. All you have to know is that you are winning, and that you will win, your target doesn't really need the knowledge about their loss. It would probably just hurt their feelings anyway, and you've probably already done that once or twice anyway.

The second siege that I (most recently) successfully concluded was more of the 'surrender with honor' type of siege. It has been a siege of just over two years, and while their were losses, they were not huge losses. Don't get me wrong, this siege had its nasty moments, and for a while it looked to be a bit of a 'fight till the bitter end' type of siege, but eventually, finally, good sense, and good manners prevailed. It was in some way better, and in some ways worse than the first successful siege, but that is a story for another day. The sweetness of the victory is slightly different than that of the first siege, but by no means is it less sweet for that. After all, two years is a long time to besiege a city, any city, and when it eventually falls, by hook, or crook, or a lot of booze, fall it has, and to the victor belong the spoils right?

It's the Mention I Miss

The title of this post is a line stolen from one of my favorite movies, and in that movie it is said by the character that I like the most. I will leave it up to you, if you care enough, to look that information up yourself if you want to be bothered, if not it really isn't that important anyway. It is just a cool title.

Picture two people having a chat, one male, one female, because if it wasn't like that, then this post would be even more pointless than it already it. This being the 21st century, this little chat takes place via text, after all isn't that an easier medium than either face to face, or by talking over the phone. . I guess our Juliet didn't have a convenient balcony for our Romeo to declaim his love from underneath before climb the trellis to claim his just reward. The male member (pun intended) is clearly a nice enough bloke, and is chatting up our female contestant quite nicely in an uniquely 21st century way.

This being christmas, god and the baby jesus get a mention, and our Romeo claims to believe in both. Of course, what was he supposed to say? Being a religious person herself, our Juliet would not react well to some raving atheist.  Back and forth this little quasi-romantic chat zips over the mysterious airwaves of cell towers in their fair city, and eventually after laying it on a bit thick, Romeo asks Juliet to 'let me buy you dinner'.


A time, a day(Thursday at 8,  and a (quite pricey) place (that I would never go) were selected, and everything seems to be going along swimmingly for our Romeo and Juliet.  Until of course, as often happens with these tricky negotiations, life intervenes by throwing one of life's little roadblocks in the way. Seems Juliet had an unexpected event (doesn't matter what) come up at the last minute, and our poor Romeo's tryst had to be postponed until a latter day. I am sure the blessed event will be rescheduled, but that information is not available to me at this time.

Not that it matters I am not the Romeo, however, I do know the Juliet, and I am sure it will be a lot of fun for them both. It is just that during all this flirting back and forth, no mention of Count Paris has been made, and it is that (since I am the Count (sort of) in question) mention that I miss. Funny you wouldn't think I would.

Pants

'You do whatever you want' she said with that tone in her voice that made it crystal clear that doing whatever I wanted was an absolute shit plan (not that I haven't had shit plans before, but that is a post for another day).  I have come to the conclusion that when someone, anyone, says that you can do whatever you want, that you shouldn't do it. No matter how much you want to do it, whatever it is, no matter how much you think that doing it would make your life complete, you shouldn't do it.

And that is where pants come into the story. One of the things I want to do is not to wear pants. I may or may not being wearing pants now as I type this, I will leave that up to your (horrified) imagination. I am just not a big fan of wearing pants, but since 'society' seems to think pants are necessary, I have to spend way too much of my life wearing pants. I find it quite sad. You see, I have never, ever made a bad decision while not wearing pants. In fact, the majority of my bad decisions (and I have made A LOT of bad decisions) have been made while wearing pants. I am not sure if it is the pants fault or not, but I tend to blame them.

I also think that a certain (mostly female) portion of society can go without wearing pants as well, but that is probably something that "I want to do" that isn't going to happen either. The trick about doing the things you want to do is that almost everything you want to do, no matter how trivial (in your mind) has wide ranging effects on people. Not just the stern person telling you to 'do what you want', but other people too, people you might not even realize are going to be affected are going to have to bear the burden of your decision 'to do what you want'.  It might be your boss, it might be your girlfriend, your best friend, or a total stranger on a train, but it is this lot that is going to possibly be blinded by the sight of you not wearing pants. Treat them kindly, even if you think they don't deserve it.

And even if they do deserve it, who gave you the right to decide that? It is not your place to decide who deserves what, nor who gets what. Unless you've risen way above your station, and are suddenly in some place of power, you are not the person to give people what they deserve, after all that would mean you get what you deserve as well, and I am pretty sure the last thing I want is what I deserve.

Merry Xmas you lot, and remember pants has another meaning as well, and I am pretty sure this post fits squarely within that meaning, sorry. 

Punchy

The first punch you rarely see, it slips past your guard, catches you square in the mouth, and leaves you seeing little stars dancing around your head, like some Looney Tunes character that has just had a piano dropped on their head. You (eventually) managed to shake that punch off, and get to your feet, because more than likely the first punch has knocked you flat on your ass, and you need to get up eventually.  Once you get up, and get your bearings (east is to the right, west to the left, got you), and run your tongue over your teeth to see if any of them have been dislodged from your mouth, you come to the realization that your ballroom days are over, and this just got serious.

How serious is yet to be determined, but you are fairly certain that it is much more serious than you had imagined as you spent yet another day locked in your ivory tower. If, you manage to slip that second hay maker that was following the first like an express train following a local, then you have at least managed to ward off quick defeat. But now of course, you have to get it together because you are certain that this wasn't just merely a skirmish but the opening salvo in a fight that one of you will not walk away from.  School, all those glorious years of school, has not prepared you for this, and the only thing you have to rely upon now is your wits, which have sadly been addled by the first punch that knocked you somewhere south of goofy.

Hopefully, you will be able to at least defend yourself, even as you realize that David vs Goliath usually ends up with David being crushed like a bug, and as you look around over your situation, you realize that you've been cast as David in this particular dance, and that does not instill you with a great deal of confidence. And that is Goliath's main objective, to take away you confidence, and then hammer you into submission. That is what hammers do you know, they pound and pound away until whatever they are hammering turns into dust. Once they've stripped away what little confidence you possessed it is just a matter of time, and time is usually on their side.

Eventually, though you are going to have to throw caution to the wind, and throw a few punches of your own. It is a risk, and it has a high degree of difficulty that might (more than likely really) end up with you staring up at the ceiling wondering how wonderfully cool the floor feels upon your shoulder. And there Goliath will be looming (he is a great 'loomer') over you asking you if you wouldn't mind getting up, so that he could knock you back down again. And this is now going to be, whether you like it or not, your defining moment. If you stay down, which is really what you want to do, he will just kick you, because (from all I've ever heard) it is wonderful to kick someone while they are down. It then become incumbent upon you to get up, and get up quickly. Sure you'll probably (likely) get knocked back down, and maybe multiple times, but that is the point. They can't knock you down unless you are upright in the first place.

You know who you are, and you know what this post means, actually you probably don't Goliath isn't known for his intellect. Sort it out for yourself big man.

Tradition

Tomorrow in this country, is a little holiday that we like to call thanksgiving. It is a day that leaves dead turkeys and bugling waistlines everywhere.  A day where the 'tradition' is to collectively cook enough food to feed Norway for a week, and individually eat enough food to feed Oslo for a week. It is a day that people like Jenny Craig exist because of.  The tradition of the day is supposed to be, as far as I understand it, to thank god for the bountiful harvest that keeps us able to shovel food down our greedy gullets at Rabelais-like rates. Some pilgrim/Indian deal that I wasn't a party to, and cannot fathom why I have to celebrate.

Truth be told, I don't celebrate it, as a card carrying agnostic, I find that giving thanks to 'god' is a bit over the top, and I certainly don't need to spend an entire day eating myself into a coma. I am already tubby enough thanks. But it is tradition, I hear you cry, we HAVE to get together with family, eat until we are struggling to breathe, then go out after with our friends, get drunk, and complain about how crazy Aunt Jessica has become since the last time we saw her (which was last thanksgiving). 

That is the tradition and we all have them, there are sports traditions, like the President of the US throwing out the first pitch on opening day of baseball season, kicking the ball out of touch when a player is injured in football, social traditions like lawyers wearing wigs, and military officers wearing spurs, and not double dipping a chip. Traditions abound, you cannot swing a overly dry turkey leg without hitting a tradition. It is the way things have always been done, and by jesus it is the way we are going to keep doing them, whether you like it or not, and if you don't like it then we will make you sit at the kids table again this year.

Of course there are an increasing number of us non-traditionalists that buck that tread. We aren't cool, we aren't trend setters, and we aren't powerful individual with enough force of personality to tell the world to 'go fuck itself'. For the most part we are just assholes that what to be left alone, that figure this tradition stuff is bollocks, and can't be bothered to pretend to care about Uncle Earl's gout acting up again. Trouble is when you tell people that your plan is to sit on the couch in your spiderman underwear, eat Krystal's burgers, and read a really good book, they go through two stages of reaction. First, they say 'oh you don't have an family here?' and give you a pitying look, then they look at you as if you are a leper, and mutter something about 'well to each his own I guess.'

Those are the kinds of questions and looks that are the precise reason I have the (non) plans I do, not a fan of people. Another problem, though not one for me, is what if you have conflicting traditions what if one of your traditions clashes with either another one of yours, or with someone else's? Who wins that clash of the titans? Do you draw lots? Play cards? Flip a coin? The conflicting traditions must be resolved right, or the Earth may spin off of it axis and go hurtling into the Sun, and that would be just awful.  However this conflict is resolved, it is more than likely going to disappoint someone, and that is one of the rubs of tradition, just because we've always done it this way, doesn't mean it was right. It was bollocks a hundred years ago, and it is just as much bollocks today. 

Sometimes that conflict can't be resolved, and feelings are hurt all around. Compromise, that dirty little word, must be reached but sometimes just the NBA lock out, both sides dig in their heels, and refuse to budge. It is possible for the conflict to create a, brand new, first time for everything, tradition, but usually it isn't a pleasant one.  The choices you make with regards to tradtion are your own, and whether you choose to 'tow the party line' or to be an outcast is up to you. Just remember next year we will be in the same fucking position again, and I hope you enjoy your choice because you are stuck with it. happy turkey day!

Grace

'After hanging up the phone, I stood for awhile looking out my window wondering if I should have told him no.'

After all, he had asked me to commit a serious sin, and a crime to boot, but he was like that, a guy you found it hard to say no to. I stood there looking out of my tiny little window at the dirty street below that was being washed 'clean' by the third straight day of a  pissing rain, and wondered why I didn't tell him no. I might not be the most moral, or ethical fellow in the world, but I had managed to live my life up until this point without committing any major crimes (a little speeding, and a bit of drink driving are not crimes where I am from they are traditions).

As I watch the rain fall in buckets, I begin to realize that the reason I didn't tell him no was because I just didn't give two shits anymore. My life had reached a point of indolent indifference that would make an Ottoman proud, and it was apparent to me that things were not going to change anytime soon. So why not agree to this madcap scheme of his, after all, we are two clever lads, and who knows we might just pull it off. One never knows I guess, well until it is too late, and by then all one can do is say to one's self that 'it seemed like a good idea at the time.' Which is the problem with these types of ideas, them seem sound at the time, they seem obtainable, and they seem like the type of idea you should have had ages ago.

The problem is they aren't they are shit plans, ideas that are best left in the dustbin of history, there is a reason why no one has had this idea before, it is because it is an epically bad idea. An idea so fatally flawed, and so toxic that if you were to think it too many times you might catch cancer. But, bad ideas are like bad relationships you think they are good at the time, and you find them so very hard to let go of, both are something you can get used to, and who knows when another one (relationship or idea) will come along. Either one don't just grow on trees you know, and besides you aren't getting any younger, or better looking for that matter. 

However, the more you thought about his idea, the more you thought it a work of genius, and you wouldn't want to miss out on a genius idea would you? It can't rain forever, and eventually the sun has to come out for all of us, and you can't just ignore the signals all the time. It was a far reaching idea, and one that if it were to work, would allow you to finally tell your boss to do awful things to themselves, while you bunk off to the south of France. The crime wasn't one that required any (large amount) of violence, and besides you would be careful. No need to let anyone die just so you can skip out of work for the rest of your miserable life. 

Which is the main reason you didn't tell him no, your life's plan (if you ever had one) has gone awry, and you are not going to be able to straighten it out with the resources you currently possess. In fact, it only seems to be getting worse, and the more you try to paper over the widening cracks, or ignore the massive flaws, the more you realize that time is not your friend.

The friend you do have, the one that placed that important call is the one you need to be thinking about now. Hard to turn down, not because he was some physical presence that reeked of bad things happening to your limbs if you told him no, but a charmer. The type of guy that could sell a copy of the Koran to the fucking Pope at a profit. The kind that could charm the pants of a nun, if nuns wore pants. Your partner in crime, and in sin, the type of guy you wish was your brother other than the fat, lazy slob that actually shares your DNA.  A stand up guy, one that you would 'go to the wall for' and not think twice about it.

But as I picked up the phone to call my other friend the one that would be ever so conveniently placed to foil this dangerous plan of my'brother' you sadly think to yourself. It really, really is a clever idea, and with my help he could have pulled it off, and no one would have gotten hurt, and that villa in the south of France would be all mine. Of course it wasn't the criminal nature of the idea, nor was it the immoral part of the idea that led me down the path of betrayal. None of that overly concerned me at the time, nor does it concern me now. Now that my friend is spending his time as a 'guest of the state.' No I wish I could claim that it was my sense of right, and morality that led me to 'drop a dime' on my friend, but the truth of the matter is that his 'crime' was much more mundane. He fucked my girlfriend more than once, and for some reason that upset me, now I hope he enjoys being some large fellow's 'wife' for the next 10 years.

“I stole this line from page 220 of Rules of Civility by Amor Towles” 

For Grace

For Shame

Tricky title, and not going to be some post where I wax poetic about how many things I (and the rest of us) should feel shame for doing, thinking, or eating. This is a post of a different flavour, so enjoy if you want, or ignore it if you must.

Imagine yourself a writer, an author, not some scribbler that works for the local rag producing yellow journalism to scare the ignorant masses, but a full blown, this is how I earn my daily bread, and pay the rent, type of writer. A published writer of many large tomes. A writer of fiction, a writer who has created entire worlds, and populated them with some the best (and worst) characters in fiction today. Hundreds of characters all, for the most part, well drawn, not the cardboard type of characters that we see in many of today's moder literature, but characters that have some depth to them. Good on you right? Good for taking the wasteland of American/Modern literature, and giving it some life, some hope for the readers amongst us that are desperate to read something worth our time.

An author is what you are, it was what you always wanted to be, and you've made it! Made the grade and have whole bookshelves in local bookstores that are groaning under the weight of your published works. Does the heart proud, might even make the parents happy, though I am sure dear, old Dad wanted you to be something useful like a doctor, or a lawyer, but you've got the last larf on him haven't you? Shows him what's what doesn't it? How many lawyers do you know that can just laze around in front of a computer screen "thinking" all day? Most of the lawyers I know don't do a lot of thinking period, and certainly couldn't sustain thought for an entire day.

Of course, the rub is this, and it is the reason for the post. You've become a victim of your own success. You've written wonderful, wonderful books, and the reading public, those greedy bastards, have come to expect you to churn out a book on a regular basis. They, the bastards, have no idea how much work it takes, how hard it is, and how difficult new ideas are to come by, they just want to hand over their 10 quid, and read something fantastic, and it is incumbent upon you to give them what they want. After all, you're a writer aren't you? Write us something clever then.  Go on, write us something that we want to read, something that takes our minds off the shitty economy, the bad hair days, and our under-performing hedge fund, and miserable sods of a football team.

And that is your job isn't it? To write something that does all of the above, so your vast readership isn't tempted away from you by some other writer with fresh ideas. Knuckle down, and get to writing, and suddenly there it is! Your latest work, complete only about 200 pages which is a lot less that your major works, but hey you were in a bit of a rush weren't you? It will suffice, it will feed the need of your readers for a bit,while you work on your tan, err your next 'major' work.  They won't mind a short little tale to tide them over, after all if they had any brains, they would just write something decent themselves.

But, here's the rub, and it is a big rub your latest word is dross. It is awful, and as a member of the bastards known as the reading public, I feel it is my duty to tell you that it is one of the worst books I have ever had the displeasure to read. One of the top ten worst books I have even seen. It is just god awful, no story, no plot, disjointed, and just plain BAD.  It is an insult to the world of literature, and I hope you are ashamed of yourself. Though I doubt it, after all you got paid didn't you? What I can't fathom is how you got this piece of donkey shit past your editors, and your friends who (as you are quick to point out) read your work, and offer brilliant insight as to how to make it better. Trust me on this, there is no number of brilliant insight from anyone that could have made your latest book readable. Though on the bright side they couldn't have made it much worse. All I can say is, For Shame!

Benefits

"I will give you the benefit of the doubt" she said with very little conviction in her voice. Truth be told I probably didn't deserve the benefit of the doubt, so I merely replied thank you. Not trusting myself to say anything further without getting myself back into the trouble she was offering me a way out of. Also, I figured that keeping my mouth shut was probably for the best, it usually it, and it needs to be one of life's golden rules that I follow more often.

However undeserved that benefit was, it got me to thinking about benefits in general. There are quite a few benefits that we toss around like dwarfs at a Scottish fest, and I am pondering which of them are really important. There are the fringe benefits that those of us who have what are termed 'real' jobs have. The medical insurance, the life insurance, the paid vacation, and all the other little perks that some jobs can provide. There are friends with benefits type relationships, that I am sure many of us have been in at one time or another. These types of relationships are easy for shallow, emotionally stunted men like myself, are designed to have. The relationships that start of easy enough, but generally end in tears. While they last, and while both parties are in agreement as to what they are, they are not the worst type of relationship to be a party to.

Then we have the 'benefits of a classical education'. These types of benefits are myriad, and sometimes very difficult to quantify.  They can range from being really good at trivia competitions, to being a marvellous dinner companion that people love to sit next to at those awkward social gatherings that we, as social animals, are forced to attend in order to be normal.  The ability to carry on a conversation about a topic that does not involve your favourite sports team, is a very desired quality, especially in a man.  These benefits can also include the ability to make meaningful, positive changes in the world around you. If you are classically educated enough, and armed with the proper motivation, and the right tools you can change at least a little part of the world for the better. That is a solid benefit, and one that should not be over looked. It is this benefit that is probably the greatest benefit a classical education can offer, and one that is well worth paying for, and believe me classical education does not come cheaply.

I, perhaps without proper authority, consider myself to be classically educated. I am a fair hand at trivia contests, and if I were such an awkward sod/misanthrope, I would probably make a decent dinner conversationalist, but I am a misanthrope, so my dinner party invitations (also thin on the ground) have pretty much dried up as of late. Not that this upsets me in the least, it is just something that I am not prepared to mourn.  I certainly do not use my trumped up classical education to effect the world in any positive manner.  I am not armed with the proper motivation, nor do I generally find or receive it in/from my fellow human beings. I also lack the correct tools, or at least I haven't figured out how to use the tools I do have properly to make the world a better place. I understand this is a major failing on my part, and I at least try to hope that if I don't make the world a better place (as I should), I at least try not to make it a worse place (not sure I succeed in that endeavour).

Maybe an unintended side effect of a classical education is what is preventing me from positive change. That side effect is, in many ways, very ironic. To be classical educated is to realize that there are HUGE gaps in one's education, and to understand that one is woefully undereducated.  No one can process all the knowledge of the world, but one has can be smart enough to realize just how ignorant one actually is. It is a humbling realization, a frustrating thought, and a crushing burden all at once.  On the other hand, it while it has been a bit of a burden, it also has provided me (quite recently) with an new idea.

That idea is simplicity itself, if I am actually classical educated (which is debatable) I should, and do understand the gaps in my education, and my new found idea is to fill those gaps. They are too numerous to every fill in completely, and I am not sure I am quite certain where to start, but at least now that I have the idea I can begin try to make the holes less glaring.  I know nothing of opera, very little of the history of China, next to nothing of any foreign language, and am clueless on a wide number of other topics. At least, I now realize that these gaps are unacceptable and that has fired my desire to plug those gaps with actual knowledge not just to pass the time at my local trying to avoid stabbing douche bags in the eye, although prison might be able to provide me the isolation, and regular schedule I could use to continue my classical education, I prefer to try to do it on the outside, after all I am too pretty to go to prison.

Freedom

Friday at about 4:30 p.m. the warden of my prison allowed me out of my cell, marched me down to a lovely little conference room, and gave me my freedom. I had to sign a bunch of papers, and promise to be a 'good' boy from now on, but I am free. My sentence begin a little bit over five years ago, and I had to sign a bunch of papers then as well My crime was not particularly odious, and I don't know that I totally deserved to flatten my time, but I did and now I am free. I even had a 'charge partner.' However, that person was released a long time before me, and I am sure they have been good every since. We don't talk much, my charge partner and I, they have moved on in both the literal and figurative sense, and I plan on doing the same now that I am a free man.

We have all heard of the stories that things taste better when you are free, the air smells cleaner, and even your football team manages to win a game they weren't supposed to win. I am here to confirm those rumours, food was better, beer was sweeter, and Arsenal beat Chelsea.  Now that I am free to find other things to fill my time, other than serving time, I am pretty excited. As anyone who either knows me, or has read any of this blog, I don't 'do' happy very well. Well, I am coming out of that cave of despair, and showing the world the (albeit small) happy side of the GI.  I doubt it will last, and I expect that I won't be the best at showing my happiness, but the noose around my neck has been removed, and gods damnit that gives me joy.

The emptiness of the valley of my heart is to now to be filled, and filled with new, joyous memories, no shame in defeat, and all but this one time I won. Even though it was a Pyrrhic victory, and another one like it, and I would be undone, it was still a victory. The iron walls and steel bars that held me prisoner for over 5 years are gone, and I now plan to bloom in my new 'planting.' I suspect that my new found happiness, and less Eeyore like behaviour will garner me some odd looks from my friends, but they will just have to adapt. It is an adapt or die kind of world, and I sure they will do the former rather than the latter.

The 150 thousand dollar weight that has been lifted off of my shoulders makes me want to stand taller, and be a better person (which shouldn't be that hard to do).  The bittersweet part of my parole was I had to sit across that conference table from two people making the same mistake I made five years ago, and pretend to be excited for them. It is a testament to how badly I wanted out of my prison that I smiled at the right times, nodded in agreement at their enthusiasm, and even gave them a parting gift. I felt slightly dirty doing it, but only for about 3 seconds, for the whoop of joy that I gave vent to after I walked out of the room probably gave them a hint as to my true feelings.

I do wish my prisoner replacements well, and I hope their sentence is more joyful (if a prison term can be described as joyful) than mine was, and I also hope it is longer. They seemed to be thrilled at the prospect of moving into the prison, and were just bubbling with happiness. I wish them bon chance, and am going to go bubble with happiness myself for a while. I think I might even start out with a little bubbly at brunch. Freedom!

Droit

Her: 'Why do you act the way you do?'
Me: 'I am just trying to do the right thing.'
Her: 'Well why don't you then?'
Me:  'I am not sure I know what the right thing is.'

That last line caused us both to collapse into laughter, and that is what it was designed to do. It was my (not so) clever attempt to prevent any further probing into my actions, and why I act the way I do. It worked, just barely, and for that I was thankful (at least at the moment).  Maybe my temporary companion wanted it that way as well, I sure as hell wasn't going to ask her to continue to ask me questions that I either did not want to answer, or worse, did not know the answer to myself.

However, afterwards (afterwards what I will leave to your imagination), I got to thinking about what that 'right thing' was. What was the elusive thing that I was trying (and clearly failing) so very hard to do?  Was it something specific to the conversation? Or was it something more general? Some overarching 'right'  thing that I need to do in order to call myself (in any sense) a decent human being?  For no matter how hard I try to deny it, I am still a member (no matter how reluctantly, of the human race).

And we all know some decent human beings, some people who are just way too  nice for you to stand next to for any length of time lest you start to get a complex. People who know, and do the right thing on a daily basis. Helping little, old ladies across the street, opening doors for ladies, etc, etc.  These are the people that make the rest of look bad without even knowing they are doing it. The people we want to be more like even as we want to push them out in front of an oncoming train.

The truth of the matter is that, after a while we start to expect these people to do the right thing, and after more time we even start to equate their actions with the right thing. But, what if, just if, they aren't as ''right" as they seem?  What if they either had this evil idea of being a 'good' man from the beginning only to lull the rest of us into trusting them? Or if they just decided one day that wearing the white hat, and being the hero is just dull as dirt, and they wanted to be Hans Gruber for a while? Would the rest of us even pick up on it until it was too late?  The trust we have placed in them, and it is a LOT of trust, is going to be shattered like a glass, bad luck to break, but even worse to keep intact and see their reflection in after they have gone off the rails. 

It is a crap shoot in the end, to decide whether to trust this 'good man' and their ability/history to do the right thing, or to step back refocus for a second, and look into their eyes to see if what you want to be there is actually there or not. It is in many ways a lose/lose position, if you are right and the good man has gone bad then a little part of you has died inside, if you are wrong, and you mistakenly believed that a right thinking/doing man has done wrong, when in reality he hasn't then how can he ever trust you again? It is a grave dilemma, and one that does not have an easy answer. But then again, who ever told you life/doing the right thing was going to be easy. If someone told you that then they were obeying the first rule of life, the rule that one should NEVER EVER forget, the rule that should be the basis for every interaction you have with the world, the rule that can be summed up in two simple words. People Lie.

La Luna

A buddy and I have an idea for opening a bar, since we are lawyers we figure we have enough drinking experience between us to have a reasonably good chance of success at our joint venture. However, in many ways it is but a pipe dream, but it is fun to blather about over a pint at the bars that we haunt that are already open.  We have even picked out, what we believe to be an awesome name, and have figured out our 'theme' for our bar.

The name is J______'s Rocketship, and it is an going to be a space themed bar. Even more of a pipe dream if you realize the shite hole of a town in which we live. It  is way too complicated to open this type of bar in this town, and therefore this bar will remain on the drawing board of our minds rather than becoming a reality.  However, when I ran the name past a friend of mine they replied 'that it sounds like a gay bar.' I protested that it did not sound like one to me, and wouldn't be a gay bar, even explaining my astronaut them to her. She replied 'that will even increase the chances of it being a gay bar.'  Not that I am opposed to the gays, after all a lot of them have more disposable income than us straight men, but I really don't want to be the owner of a gay bar. No offense, but it isn't something that is on my 'bucket list.'

I argued that the name and the theme is, in fact, as manly as you can get. After all, to human kind, the Moon is the ultimate piece of ass. Hanging above us on a nightly basis, going through it monthly cycles, making us mad as a March hare when it is full, and taunting us by being just so out of reach. Only 12 people, all men, all American, have stepped foot on the moon, and while 12 might be a high number for a piece of ass to give it up to, it is a very tiny number in the grand scheme of things. This isn't the hot bartender at your local watering hole, that the regulars all love, and want to have sex with, even though she would never favour any of us with the time of day in that regard, this is the fucking MOON! Entire countries have spent millions of quid in the attempt to make it there, and to make it there first (taking the Moon's virginity as it were) was quite the feather in the cap for the good, old United States.

If you get the Moon to grant you her favours, then you sir, are in an exclusive club that few men have entered, and fewer still are likely to enter, if you are good enough. That is the trick to keep the Moon's favours, you have to realize that even though there are moons as thick on the ground as fleas are on a camel, you are in possession of THE MOON. The fucking Moon, picked you, of all the daft blokes in all the gin joints, in all the world, the Moon picked you. Because after all, as much as you would like to think that you picked the Moon, the truth is the Moon picked you. That is the first step to both the most exciting, and the most terrifying realization that man can come to.

That wonderfully scary realization that on one day, at a certain hour, the Moon was positioned just right for you to 'walk on the Moon' as it were, and even though you have no clue as to why you are blessed with the Moon's favours. They are delicate favours, and sometimes the Moon can be a fickle bitch, but you, the daft slob that you are with enough fault lines to cause your own earthquake, have set foot on the Moon.  Sadly, your weight isn't reduced by one third, and the Moon has a dark side, but you've got the one thing you, and all of mankind have been striving for generations to accomplish. It is now incumbent upon you not to 'fuck it up.' There is one one Moon in your universe, and if you bungle the landing, then you will go down in history, and not in a good way. Success is tricky, success is hard, and success is sometimes fleeting, but if you stay focused, and avoid the pitfalls that have destroyed greater men than you, then you get the Sea of Tranquility all to yourself. Bon chance!