Everything and Two

 'All of the world is about three drinks behind'  Humphrey Bogart- 1950

Bogey made that rather cryptic statement quite a while ago, and I must confess that until this weekend I didn't exactly under the full nature of what he meant by it. However, after this weekend I now know almost exactly what he was talking about, and I am not sure I am quite ready to be Humphrey Bogart. I did get to dress a little bit like him in the ceremony that I was happy to participate in on Saturday, but the suit does not make the man, no matter what those asshats selling suits tell you to the contrary.

It was during this alcohol fueled binge that I realize that I don't feel a thing for you here anymore. That is both a relief, and a tragedy. A relief because, as a wise man once told me, 'the opposite of love isn't hate, it is indifference.' Here I am looking for the space between the arms of another, finally able to feel indifferent towards you. A tragedy because moonlight finds me here alone in this nearly deserted bar, afraid to step out into the unknown. A relief because if I manage to scrape away the barnacles of sadness which you have coated the hull of my ship of soul with, then I will be through. Through expecting the phone, when it does ring, to be you.  A tragedy because when I think of something between everything and two, you were the 'two.'

However, in the long run you couldn't really be the 'two' because I didn't allow you to be. Moonlight brings me back to stay in the half lit, smoke filled bar, wondering exactly why I didn't. If you were here, and in many ways I both thank christ you're not, and wish like fuck you were, I don't know that I would be able to tell you the answer to that question. The question that you would surely ask, the one that I, in my social awkwardness am unable to provide you an answer that you will be able to comprehend. Truth of the matter is, I have no answer that I, in my foolishness, to provide.  I am not that smart, not clever enough to give, what to you is an answer to the simplest of questions, but to me is like lighting a benzine ring on fire and jumping through it.

Answers that come as easy as breathing to you, I find impossible to provide. Either due to being raised by a wolf (though I expect that is just an easy excuse), or a towering amount of cowardice (which I suspect is closer to the truth).  Though those three drinks that I was ahead of the world for those few somewhat glorious hours, gave me an just a bit of a glimpse of the answer that I need to have. I was three drinks of ahead of the whole world, and it allowed me to think of a lot of things that  I wouldn't normally ponder. It made me wonder about things that weren't there, and why they weren't there, and where they were, and where they should be. That is a very complicated sentence, and it was a very complicated thought to parcel out to myself.

The chemicals coursing through my system both sped me up, and slowed me down enough to make a lot of sense of my current situation, and sadly the conclusion I came to was that my current situation does not make a lot of sense. I am steadily becoming a person I don't want to be, and I am not exactly certain I can arrest that slide. I have to try, at least I think I have to because if I don't think I just become a rampaging failure. And that leads us back to the not feeling a thing for you here anymore. To avoid becoming a failure I have to make myself 'unfeel' all the things that you made me feel all this time. That is exactly as hard as it sounds, and to these aged ears it sounds pretty fucking hard. How does one stop feeling something?

Feelings are, sadly, not like a tap that you can just shut off when your glass is full, or your bath as been drawn. Feelings just happen they are no respecter of age, gender, race, or class, and they sure as fuck can have really lousy timing. But, as a being on two with feet with a heart that, while being slightly enlarged, is also broken, we have to move on with the remainder of the time allotted to us by the some higher being that we are not even sure exists. Mostly that time will be spent trying to sort out a lot of problems that haven't even happened yet. Part of that time will be spent rehashing disasters that have already occurred, and the rest of that time, the glorious bit, will be spent being exactly three drinks ahead of the rest of the world.  

Everyman

Everyman would be lucky to have you. Everyman wonders how he actually got so lucky to have you,and is terrified that you will one day 'come to your senses' and be gone like a puff of smoke.  Everyman looks at your cornflower blue, emerald green, smokey grey, or chocolate brown eyes and sees the future there. When you toss your flaming red, silky blond, coal black, or lovely brown hair Everyman's heart goes 'thump' just a little bit. When you walk into a room Everyman holds his breath. Everyman is secretly delighted that you walk over to him after walking into that room. It makes Everyman able to breathe again.  Everyman is also secretly proud of the number of times he has had to answer the 'what do you do to this woman to make her want to be with you?' Truth is Everyman has no real idea how he fooled you into thinking you want to be with him, but is not going to change one little bit of it.

Everyman sees the sway of your hips, and starts to think naughty little thoughts. Everyman wants you to be his dirty little secret, but not too secret. After all, Everyman has a reputation to think about, and has friends that he needs to brag to about something other than his ability to throw darts. Everyman is convinced that you are the best thing since sliced bread, more important to civilization than the wheel, and a lot more fun than a barrel full of monkeys. Everyman is like that, not the deepest thinker in the world, and quite happy (most of the time) to be content with bread and circuses. Everyman shivers when he sees that he has provoked your temper. It is a wonderfully awful thing to behold, and sometimes Everyman makes you angry just to get to see it.

Everyman is puzzled when you talk about things he fully fails to understand. When you quote Shakespeare or when you mention the labeling theory, or when you tell him you love him in a language that he does not speak. Everyman sometimes has difficulty expressing himself to you, because all he can think about is how wonderful you are, and how wonderful it will be to grow old with you. Everyman wants you to be the mother of his children, to rear them, to hope to the powers that be that those children get your genetic makeup and not his. 

You are the Sun to Everyman, bright, shiny, hot, and a little dangerous, but when you are 'shining', so very glorious. Everyman basks in your reflected glory, and realizes that without you the day just isn't really worth getting out of bed for. Although, Everyman would be quite happy not getting out of any bed that you co-occupied with him. Everyman thinks that to see you smile, and to know that he is at least a partial cause of that smile, is worth all the tea in China.  Everyman sometimes gets a little confused about all of this, and just wants to be reassured. Everyman is reassured when you favour him with the briefest of glances. All of these things, and so very many more are what Everyman thinks and feels when he sees you. Things that the aforementioned Shakespeare put into far better prose than Everyman could ever hope to. Things that made the bards sing, the painters paint, and the grass green. Everyman can only hope you realize all of the things that he tries to say in his own poor fashion.

However, and here is the rub, the problem that makes it all go somewhat pear shaped. The fly in the ointment as it were. The ghost in the machine, the reason that sometimes things are better not lived. The one thing that, like the Riemann hypothesis, has no clear solution. The one thing that is simply as sad as sad can be, it is the simple, but unquestioned fact, I am not Everyman. 

Dragons

 It has been six months since I discovered this glorious poison that I have become addicted to. This wonderful drug that was 'invented' in 1874 by some idiot I've never heard of, working at some hospital that probably doesn't even exist anymore. That is your history lesson for the day ladies, learn it well. This stuff is glorious, poisonous, and addicting. It is also the only way I have been able to make it through the past six months. It is the crutch that allows to me 'walk' out into the public world and not curl up into the fetal position.

How I managed to find it isn't really important. The important bit is that, in a few minutes when I press down on that plunger, I will experience an euphoria like no other. All this of this euphoria is due to very complex brain chemistry that happens when the dragon hits my veins. I don't care about chemistry, or about my brain, at least not when that first rush hits. All I care about it how green everything looks, how transcendent I feel, and how I am now almost certain that I know the exact meaning of life. I know everything, I can do everything, I feel everything. It is something that makes Pink Floyd make a lot more sense. To describe it is far beyond my meager ability with the English (or any other) language. It makes everything so fucking clear, that if you could stay there in that rush you would probably cure cancer, feed the hungry, and put an end to war.

Of course the problem is that the feeling doesn't last nearly as long as it should. While I was so busy feeling that rush, and understanding the meaning of life, I forgot to writ it down, or to record it in any way. Therefore, I need more of the dragon to get back to that state of being, and this time I WILL make sure to write it all out. All of those complex formulas that will make the world a better place will be written down with precision, and given freely to humankind as my gift to them. Maybe this is what Jim Morrison was talking about when he wrote some of those hard to understand, crazy lines of his poetry and his music. Maybe a little bit of this stuff, and I will be writing the great American novel.  I can do anything as long as this shit is around. Change the course of history if I feel inclined to. Move mountains, save little babies from burning buildings, the whole nine yards of heroism is mine.

That was one of the beauties of wearing long sleeves as a part of my job, it made my addiction easier to hide, all I had to do was not go out in public much. Then summer came, and the wiser part of me (if any still exists) decided to try a new way to chase the dragon. The classical way, the way that gives the expression its name. Chasing the dragon all over some foil, as it slides to the left and to the right leaving a trail of impurities behind. It is in those impurities that you start to see your doom writ large. If this stuff is doing that to a piece of foil, what is it doing to your system? Making your lungs as black as your soul. A soul that I became willing to sell on the cheap, just so I can get another chance to chase the dragon. I will now tell the most outrageous of tall tales, lies, and stories just to explain my actions while on the dragon, and to attempt to get another chance to grab the dragon by the tail.

It is the 'chic' thing to do chase this dragon along a path that has a lot of potential for bad endings. A lot of people have chased this dragon, none that I know of, have ever caught it. It has been the final path that a lot of people took, and I don't think I want to end up in their shoes (or in the same state as them), but once on this chase, it becomes ever so hard to get off of the chase. Things start to lost a lot of meaning, and the 'dream' life that we are convinced that we are after starts to fade into the background very quickly, and not just because we stopped sleeping more than 2 hours a night about 4 months ago. That faded dream is all too real, becoming frayed around the edges, the edges that we use to further chase our dragon.

The final truth of the matter is that dragons eat people both figuratively and in reality, and sure this dragon isn't really what it sounds like, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous, poisonous, or deadly. That poison that has been coursing through your system for six months, and colouring almost every aspect of your life, has to be drawn out, purged as it were, for you own, and others safety. We all have our dragons to slay, and we all could use a St. George to ride in and 'save the day' as it were, but the fact is there was only one St. George, and he slew his own dragon. Maybe that should be a lesson for us all, it is (at the end of the day) your dragon, you must needs be the one that slays it.

Voices

There are all types of voices. Voices of reason, voices of insanity, voices that make you want to howl at the moon, voices that you can listen to for hours just for their sound, voices of authority that tell you what to do, and when to do it. Persuasive voices that try to convince you that what they are telling you is either good for you too, true, or both. Voices that tell us to have one more beer, what could it hurt? Voices that try to sell us something, insurance, drugs, sex, love, rock and roll, or anything else we could possibly want. Voices of exhortation that try to get you to make that one final push for god, king, or country, or all three. Voices that whisper terrible things in your ear much like Iago does to Othello. Voices that you recognize at an instant, and in that recognition you know exactly what they are going to say. Voices in your head that are in constant disagreement with themselves. One telling you to do the 'right' thing, one telling you to just 'do what the fuck you want'.

We all are bombarded by these voices all the time. We can hope that they aren't the 'voices in our heads' that make us wobble into a McDonald's with a pistol and shoot the place up, but I am sure that has happened before. But those people were insane, and our voices aren't nearly as disturbing are they?  Managing these voices can be quite difficult, and sometimes we just want them all to stop. We just want to sleep, or watch the boob tube and let the TV voices wash over us gentle as a spring rain shower. We don't want to have to think, or to reason with these voices, we just want a moment of peace. Even if you are able to obtain that peace and quite where the only voices you are under assault by are your own, you still are under assault.

In many ways, this assault is the one you are least able to resist, how do you turn off your own voice(s)? Lying very still, all communication devices turned off, and no music softly playing in the background? Usually, doesn't work, at least not right away. The voices are still there, and now that they have got your undivided fucking attention, they are going to have a field day with you.  Maybe those little white pills the kindly doctor gave you will help, but taking them seems to be an act of cowardice doesn't it? Sure they will put a stop to the voices for the moment, but they also make you groggy in the morning, and you don't really want to have to take them forever.  Addiction to get away from the voices is not something that you are willing to entertain as an solution.

Those voices are quite happy you chose the brave man's way out, and didn't take the pill that quells their incessant humming. The droning they provide in your head is like white noise, but not quite white, because you can, if you pay attention (and you are paying attention aren't you?) you can ascertain what they are saying to you. To you, for you, about you.  They are quite good at telling you all sorts of things you probably don't want to hear. The critical voice that makes its life's work to pick apart your day like a dog worrying a bone. Telling you all the mistakes you've made in the last 24 hours. And then of course, while they are telling you about your recent mistakes they go ahead and compare those mistakes with the mistakes you've made in, say, the last decade of your life. It takes a special glee in showing/telling you how you keep repeating the same mistake(s) over and over. That makes the critical voice as happy as a pirate that just sailed upon a fat, overloaded, unguarded Spanish treasure galleon upon a lee shore.

Those mistakes (the critical voice will tell you) are almost too numerous to mention, but the voice will still give it a shot to catalog them all while you toss and turn, and pray for it to stop.  This is not one of those situations where you can kill the messenger, that would certainly stop the voices, but it is a bit of taking a hammer to a fly.  The wonderful thing about this critical voice is that it is a mimic, and a thief. It can mimic the voice it needs to in order to inflict the most damage on your psyche. It is a thief in that it can steal/access your visual memory and provide you with a moving picture of your disaster(s) that it wants you to see on a loop. Make no mistake the critical voice is not your friend, and is, in many ways, unstoppable. Sure, somewhere in your mind (hopefully) is the soothing voice of someone (maybe your dear, old mum?) that will tell you not to listen to that mean, bad critical voice. Though sometimes, maybe more oft than not the soothing voice isn't strong enough to take down the critical voice.

The only voice that has a chance to 'out talk' the critical voice is the voice that you lot are 'hearing' now. That is the creative voice. The voice that is writing this post after a night of wrestling (and losing?) with the critical voice. The voice that hammers on the inside of my skull telling me 'to get the fuck up and write you loser.' 'It's the only way to ensure the critical voice doesn't always win.' The creative voice is right, and while it can't be held responsible for the substandard nature of the creations that come from its fight with the critical voice, it at least tries. It can't please everyone (least of all me), but it makes the attempt, and if the result is hated, well that isn't the creative voice's fault. It can only work with the material it has at hand. It is not standing upon the shoulders of giants, and sometimes it lacks the vision, but without it there might be dead messengers everywhere.  

X=0

One of the few firmly held beliefs that I possess, is that life is at its core a zero sum game. My victories, rare as snow in Algeria, are your defeats, and your victories are my defeats. I've even managed to expand the idea a little bit and work out a points system for adding up the sums. A plus/minus 1 is a small victory something like me getting the last black and white cookie at the bakery while you are the one behind me in line wanting the same cookie. A plus/minus 2 is akin to a 10 point win in American football, something like 17-7, sort of close but clearly one team was just better that day. A plus 3 is a blow out something like me getting my ass fired so that the company can give you a raise, plus 3's sting quite a bit. A plus/minus 4 is a rout, meaning the loser was never really in the contest to begin with. Something like two people trying for same job, and the person doing the hiring is one of the applicants cousin. Not even going to be close. A plus/minus 5 (and on my scale the highest number) is an ass handing. Something close to a German panzer and a Polish lancer squaring off against each other. We all know (even the Pole) how this is going to end, badly for someone.

In this zero sum game that we call life, your score is constantly changing. Almost anything you do has some sort of consequences (intended or not). A simple act like buying a new pair of shoes may affect any number of people in any manner of ways. Ways you did not, could not foresee.  And somewhere out there in the world, someone you may not even know, or have never met is right at this very moment taking some vague action that could possibly affect you in some massive (for good or bad) way. Maybe right now the parents of the person you will eventually marry are having the sex that will bring your eventual spouse into the world in around 9 months. Maybe the guy who will find you at that ATM at 4 p.m. on a random Tuesday, get panicky and shoot you dead, is just now stealing his first car on what will become his own personal 5 year crime wave that will end with a police officer drawing a chalk outline around your corpse. 

The trouble with all of these sums is that constant change. You probably don't know to any sort of decent amount of exactitude your score. You might not even realize that it is in the minus zone.  You may be singing show tunes to yourself right at this very moment drunk on the idea that you are well into the positive zone, and really not even be close to your actual score. This isn't like your credit score or  your blood pressure. This number really counts, not just to you but to everyone else on this rock at the same time. It's not something that you have to share, in fact, if you are able to ascertain the number, you probably shouldn't share it with anyone. After all, it is quite likely that the people you would share the number with are the very same people you are taking the pluses or the minuses from.

 For most of your life, your number will probably be X, that lovely letter than stands for the unknown, the not quite figured out value that remains a mystery to us all. A goal that is just ever so slightly out of reach, the brass ring that we are all trying to grasp. The top of the greasy pole that. like Disraeli, we are attempting to climb.  X does not really mark the spot. That spot is something that shifts second to second, while you are counting hours in your day. Something like X requires a lot of attention, like an extremely high maintenance girlfriend.  Attention that you probably can't afford to pay, because you have a lot of other shit to do, like laundry, grocery shopping, drinking yourself into a stupor, or just merely going to the john a certain number of times a day. The mundane, everyday shit that we all have to deal with, gets in the way of us calculating X, and some of that boring shit even may wildly affect X. 

Perhaps not knowing the numeric value of X is important. If we were to be suddenly struck with a bolt of genius, and figure out what our X score was it might be more than we could bear. What if it was something like minus 75? Then what would we do? Would we look around at our life, take stock, and a really deep breath and think 'seems about right to me.'? Or, would we be so horrified that we would immediately 'flip the script' and begin to behave in ways that we were certain would make our X less than minus 75, i.e. making sure we dicked someone, anyone over just to raise our score closer to the positive. Or what if we figure out it was plus 75? Would we suddenly realize what a complete douche canoe we had been being to people, and 'change our evil ways'? Or would we continue to pile the pressure on other people in the thought that if plus 75 is good, then plus 100 would be even better, and those poor unfortunate bastards that get in our way deserve the pounding we are giving them?

 Maybe there is no real answer to any of those questions that appeals to us. Maybe we just have to keep plugging away at this game of Life, and hope for the best while expecting the worst. X may never be able to be reduced to a number while we are still in the game. Rapidly changing, and wildly divergent, X may be the philosopher's stone of our time. The thing that we realize would be lovely to figure out, but that if we were able to actually figure it out would take a lot of fun out of the game. Perhaps X is just made to be elusive, like a greased pig, or unresolved like the issues you had with your mother, or unknowable like the meaning of life.  Perhaps the goal is to get X to equal 0, because 0 is still a number, and it might just be, in this context, the perfect number. The closest we can get to being a good person might be getting X as close to 0 as possible. One never knows about this things until, of course, it is too late, and by then one is past caring. 

Mechant Loup

Today, in my country as least, is Mother's Day. The day that all of us grateful children of 'the world's greatest Mom ever, ever, get to express that opinion to the whole wide world via facebook, twitter, and maybe even taking the old bird to brunch. Of course, all these great mother's get to bask in the glow of raising such lovely, appreciative children, and maybe get a free meal in the bargain. Quite a payback for lugging us around in the womb for 9 months, a free meal a year, and maybe a flower if they are lucky.

Of the two parental units that I was 'blessed' with, I like(d) my mother the best, of course her competition was my father, and that was not a high hurdle to clear. How do you lose to an disapproving, raging alcoholic with anger issues, and not a lot of a desire to actually parent his offspring?  It wasn't a close race, and the wolf that raised me, as I refer to her as, won easily, but as I said it was not much of a contest. Good thing too because the wolf that raised me, isn't going to be featured on the cover of Time magazine as anything remotely resembling 'mother of the year.'

I have been told repeatedly by various friends of mine to call my mother today, this day of celebrating motherhood, I have, so far, refused to do that, and we are about to take a trip into explanation land.  I haven't spoken to the wolf that raised me since Xmas, for reasons that need not concern us here, I made a choice over Xmas to not go see the wolf, and to stay in the fair city in which I live. It was, in retrospect, a poor choice. At least I think it was, I am not exactly sure, but the choice has been made, and even if I wanted to, I can't change it. That is the shit part of making choices, sometimes six months or so later they finally present themselves as clear, while at the time they were anything but clear. Clearly good or clearly bad choices you made six months ago, weren't so clear at the time, else you wouldn't ever experience regret. And regret is an emotion that just simply MUST be experienced at least once in our lives.

The reason I have been told to call the wolf is that she gave birth to me. My sardonic reply to that is 'I didn't have anything to do with that, and in fact if my opinion had been asked I would have advised her NOT to have a child with that asshole that called himself my father.'  They were not a good match, and they produced, well they produced me, enough said. Sometimes when you breed a sprinter with a sprinter you get a horse that can go the distance, MOST of the time you just get another sprinter, and trust me when I say this, in the race of life, I am nothing but a sprinter.

This is to say thank you to the wolf that raised me, thank you for deciding to bear the child of a poor man, thus ensuring our life was more difficult that it needed to be. Thank you for sleeping with an asshole, that spend the majority of our relationship, calling me, in one form or the other 'a useless fat fuck, who will never amount to anything.'  Thanks for sleeping with a man who would rather drink Pabst Blue Ribbon at the bar than ever attempt to throw a baseball with the son he had waiting at home.  Thanks for moving with said asshole to the middle of the sticks, and making sure your child was socially isolated, and grew up about as socially awkward as one person can be. Thanks for sleeping with a plumber, a man who only read cheap, American western novels, thus making sure that when I did learn to read, I had no clue as to what real literature was. Thanks for the fat gene, and the short sightedness that I inherited from your side of the gene pool. Thus, making me even more awkward, and half blind in the bargain. Thanks for ignoring my budding intellect, and neglecting the intellectual promise that I showed at an early age. Thus, making sure that what could have been a brilliant lad merely turned into one of (supposed) above average intelligence, but always wondering what might have been if I had been nurtured even a little bit.

Thanks for being the wolf that raised me, a title bestowed upon you by someone (not me) that you hardly knew. The title you earned when that person, long ago, got close to your creation (me), and figured out that with all the little 'gifts' you scattered in my psyche that I just simply had to have been 'raised by a wolf, there is just no other explanation.' A title that I am not even sure you know you possess, but one which suits you right down to the ground.  Of course, most people who know me, but haven't had the good fortune to meet you, will tell me that I am being harsh with you, that you birthed me, raised me, and provided for me the 'best you could.' Well no offense wolf, but I have been told by a LOT of people who know me, but not you, who have told me repeatedly that MY best simply isn't good enough. Neither, it appears, was yours, which, in some ways, explains a great deal of my life.

It isn't all your fault, and I don't really blame you anymore. I have, I hope, long since outgrown the need for your approval, or even for your belated attempts to nurture me. It is no longer important what  you did or didn't do to/for me when I was but a whelp. The reason(s) outlined above are the reasons that I won't call you today. Those reasons are enough, though lately I have found out about one more sin of yours that made my desire to speak to you grow even less (if that's possible).  That sin will not be recorded here, but trust me it is not something I am going to forgive anytime soon, if ever. Either way, wolf, happy mother's day, the good news is that the other cub you gave birth feels a lot differently about you than I do, and I am sure she has made this day special for you. I hope you enjoyed the flowers, and the brunch. I have told you before, and I will say it again. I am sorry, but, in me, you raised a lone wolf. 

La Guerre

We are at war, you and I, make no mistake about it. This is war, not some border skirmish where we posture, bang our shields, rattle our swords, and then the square root of fuck all happens. No, this is a full blown, saw dust on the floor war. Peace is not really an option, we passed that stage a long time ago, no peaceful resolution can be obtained at this juncture. Forget calling in the peace keepers, the soft men that are terrified of their own shadows. The time for talk is over. This is quite simply war, no more no less.

The truth is I didn't really want this war, mainly because I seriously doubt I will be able to win it. I think the most I can do is to keep from losing it badly. I figure to lose, but I don't want it to be a rout or a walkover. Therefore, I will marshal my pitiful forces, inspire them with the pack of lies that pass for a call to arms. Tell them what an evil empire you are, and how for years you've oppressed me and mine. Remind them of your crimes,(even invent a few if I have to), implore them to eradicate you from the planet for the betterment of the human race, and then send them off to be slaughtered like the lambs they are, by you.

I am quite willing to 'cut my nose off to spite my face', after all it is my nose and it is my face. And so I will do just that just to keep up the appearance of being able to withstand your siege.  And I know  you, know you well enough to know you won't stop coming for me. You won't let a little thing like me get in your way. I am  merely a blip on the radar screen of conquest to you. Just one of many, one of the weaker ones even, but you will still deign to take the time to wipe the floor with me. I will quite simply be crushed, swept into the 'dust bin of history' by you, some bloody minded Bolshevik.

You probably won't even have to break a nail to win this war, and I am sure you already know that. In your chambers, surrounded by your underlings. The people you gather around you that tell you what you want to hear, the stories of your great deeds (you've moved mountains), your wonderful intellect (you've all but cured cancer), your great compassion (you've virtually ended world hunger). You already know, with what must be a very smug sense of satisfaction, that I stand almost no chance of beating you. You are probably already dividing up the pitiful artifacts that pass for my 'empire'. Handing them out like alms to a beggar to the minions you keep like pet monkeys around your golden chair.

Those hangers on, that group of people who's presence offends me the most, will be dividing up the spoils of our little war, without ever knowing the root cause. You won't tell them that the fault was anyone other than mine, and I won't be around (even if they listen to me) to tell them that you are the cherished one of lore.  They won't know which of us fired the first shot in this dirty war that we are waging, all they will concern themselves with is that who fires the last shot. That will be, if all things go according to plan, you. I will try my best to land as many body blows as I can before your superior forces overwhelm me, but we both know (and that is what makes it hurt even more) that I am Sonny Lister and you are a young Ali. This is only got one ending, it has already been written, and it does not end well for me.

However, once the smoke clears, and I (if I am able) run up the white flag that denotes my surrender. I hope you pause a moment, and ponder (you're not a great ponder, but you should give it a shot), why did it have to come to this? Why did I finally, out matched though I was, declare war?  Why would I, knowing the outcome to be predetermined against me take this final step? Seeing the odds, knowing that they are stacked against me in overwhelming force, why would I ever think this was a good plan? You may ask yourself that question, you may even think you've sussed out the answer. After all, you are the clever one of the group aren't you?  I doubt you really even care, all you'll be worried about is the victory, and basking in the glow of it. You enjoy that while it lasts, for like all good things it will come to an end, and remember this quote from Dr. Who as well, 'demons run when a good man goes to war.'

Pieces of You

There is a piece of you in everything that I write, which is a damn shame because really and truly, 'you' don't exist.  Well, that isn't strictly true, you do exist but only in my mind. You aren't yet complete, you are not quite the sum of your parts, yet.  Nevertheless, here you are in every blog post that I befoul with which I befoul the Internet. Most of the time you are a big part of what I write, sometimes merely a blip like an airplane on a radar screen in some darkened room that a harassed controller has to identify as friend or foe.

To me at least you are both, friend and foe. Friend in the fact that you are the inspiration for some of my finest lines, even though my fine lines are still dross, they are the best I can do. And, for the most part, they are directly related to, or inspired by you. Foe in the fact that you are also the reason that I write what has been called some really depressing shit. For without you, and the things we have done and shared, the dispirited part of me would not be writing things that make other people (not you of course) cry.  Oddly enough, you find that sentiment funny, which is even odder considering I am quite convinced you lack a true sens of humor. It is a part of the paradox that makes you, well you. The reason that you do 'exist' (in the broadest sense of the term), is because if you didn't I would have to invent you. However, make no mistake, I have invented you, or at least pieces of you.

Those pieces that I have painstakingly invented are the important bits, not the colour of your eyes, or your hair, or the size of your breasts. Those are mere details, details that do not overly concern me. Brown hair, red hair, blue hair, it matters not. Green eyes, brown eyes, red eyes make not one whit of difference. Flat chested, average sized breasts, or tits that hang down to your knees are not something to concern me overly much.  Those are the physical traits that aren't important to the story of you. The story that may or may not have a happy ending. The story of why there are only pieces of you.

Of course that is the problem. The fundamental stumbling block to you. The fact that as an entire being, you don't exist. You can't really fully exist, because if you did then I think I would cease to exist. My existence would fold into yours like a well folded blanket placed on a hospital bed by a well meaning nurse.  And, I have grown rather used to (if not entirely comfortable with) my existence. You see, it is the only existence I have known, and if my non-belief system is correct it will be the only existence I have, so you can see why I would be loathe to part with it just so you could fully become you.  Not that I expect you to care, or at least the parts of you that do exist. I can also see your point of view. If the situation were reversed then I wouldn't hesitate to steamroll over your existence like a Panzer division over some Polish lancers in order to bring myself into being.

However, I got here first, and as they (those unnamed bastards) taught me in property law, 'first in time, first in right.' Not that I have accomplished a massive amount of anything with my existence to date, and I doubt I'll be curing cancer, writing the great American novel, or scoring the game winning goal that secures Sweden the World Cup anytime soon, but I kind of feel like I should be given the chance. After all, I am pretty sure you are a monster. A 'monster of the id' if you will, a being that if you were to come into being would have little else in mind but ending my existence. For that I need no help.

And so, you will have to remain pieces only, small parts of you, scattered throughout the world, in different places, time zones, states, and countries. Little bits of your existence that are not allowed to coalesce into one solid form. You have to remain a potential being, a being that is a mere shadow, not allowed to take to the main stage, an actor who's part has not yet be fully written playing a role that doesn't exist yet. A role that I can not allow you to audition for, a role that can not be filled, a role that has to remain only partially written in the recesses of my own mind. A mind that is, in many ways, already at war with itself over your partial existence.  However, fear not, it is a mind that is loathe to and will never completely give you up, a mind that will continue to place little pieces of you in everything I write. I suspect you wouldn't have it any other way. 

A Hatful of Rain

'He still misses you, you know?' These words caused her to stiffen slightly, as I expected they would. It was barely noticeable unless you are paid to notice the small things in life. I am paid to notice the small things, plus I already knew the effect my words would have on her. It was subtle, but a practiced eye such as mine noticed the stiffening of the spine, and the tightening of the grip on the knife she was employing to cut up the tomatoes for the salad she was preparing. A brief thought that perhaps bringing this subject up to her while she was holding a sharp object made for stabbing people was not such a good idea, did wander through my head, but by that time it was too late. The subject was up, and logic would dictate that it would have to be bedded down again probably before the salad would be served.

The intensity of the cutting also changed ever so slightly, and I let out a small sigh of relief that it was the tomato, not my kidneys, or spine, that were going to pay the knife tax as it were. I figured she wasn't really receptive to what I had to say, but I felt duty bound to say it anyway. After all, the 'he' in question was what some people would call my best friend. Part of the problem with best friends is they make you feel that way, duty bound. Also, I wasn't entirely certain that he returned the feeling, i.e I think he was my best friend, but I wasn't sure that I was his best friend. Hell, on certain days I wasn't even sure we were friends at all, or that he had a best (or any) friend(s). 

However, being a loyal bastard, I still felt the need to 'help.' After all, helping people with their problems help the rest of us forget our own problems for a while. I can fix your life easy as pie, my own life, well that is another story entirely. Why not try to fix the problems I can see, and ignore the problems I have? That way I get to feel like I've accomplished something, and maybe even feel slightly superior, and feeling superior around him took a lot of effort. He made people feel 'like a frog being boiled alive' a point of pride. Making other people feel inferior was both a science and an art form with him, and I was never really sure whether he did it on purpose or not.  I like to think that he did it mostly by accident, but every now and then when you saw him in 'full voice' with the ever so hard to distinguish sneer in his voice, I became fairly certain he could 'boil a frog' whenever he felt like it.

'He would probably shank me if he knew I was saying anything at all, but I know he misses you horribly.' She hadn't bothered to turn around, and truth be told, I found it a lot easier to give my little prepared speech to her back. Sometimes looking people in the eye is a lot tougher in real life that it seems on TV. Besides, I am not the wordsmith of the group, that was him, the guy with a clever (or so he liked to think) saying for almost any situation. I was the plodder, the one you came to when you wanted something explained in easy to understand terms, and did not want to be made to feel an idiot for asking a simple question. I also knew that since we were not alone, I had a limited time to say my piece. Her patience with this subject, I knew very well, was going to be very limited, and there are only so many tomatoes that can die a valiant death to spruce up a salad.

'He thinks he's being clever, when he mentions something about you on a daily basis, but he's not' 'He thinks I am not hearing the shake in his voice, the subtle change in timbre that clues me into the emotion lying underneath.'  Once again no response, though I didn't really expect one, she was good at not responding until it was time, he had told me that about her, telling me that it was one of the more remarkable things about her. A trait that he thought was 'better than a painting by Van Gogh.'  I am not much of an art admirer, but I took him at his word. And, as she stood there in the kitchen either waiting for me to finish, or plotting where to stab me, I realized he was right. The ability to wait until the other person has finished talking is an ability that we all (him especially) need to learn.

'I know he treated you like rubbish, mainly because he told me all about it on a daily basis.' 'It made me want to stab him myself.' 'Watching his arrogance, and his idiocy.' 'It was painful to watch, almost as painful as his remorse, and his self-loathing.' Truth be told I have never seen a man so self-centered that has such a complete lack of self awareness.  I knew she was listening because the tomato supply had been exhausted, and the salad was ready, but she hadn't moved an inch from the spot where she was when I came into the kitchen. It was an odd feeling, like we were drag racing time, and winning. That we had somehow made ourselves a 'time bubble' that the other guests at this little party were not allowed to penetrate. I also knew that it couldn't last that she would have to turn around eventually, and my temporary eloquence would fade immediately.  I knew that she probably wasn't going to change her mind, and to be honest I didn't blame her. I just felt the need to express my opinion for what it was worth.

It was just my opinion, but one that was based on a considerable amount of time listening to his lies. The lies he told himself daily in our office, the lies he told himself to convince himself that he had moved on with his life (such as it was).  On occasion, after we had left the office, and he was in his cups a bit, he would admit to these lies. With an overdone flourish of his hands (he liked to talk with his hands), he would proclaim 'at least I am being honest with you about my lies.' Then he would wink at me like I was depriving a village of a perfectly good idiot, and order us another round. 'Look we both know he is an idiot walking some sort of tightrope between despondency, and euphoria.' 'But he is my best friend, and I don't think I want to see him fall off of that tightrope on the side of despondency.' 'You, for whatever reason seemed to make him happy, or at least happy for him, which I know isn't exactly happy, but beggars can't be choosers.'  'I also understand if, after this, you don't really want to talk to me either, but I just wanted you to know that he misses you like a clown misses the circus.' 'And yes before you ask I stole that line from him.'

Still not getting a response, and realizing that I probably wasn't going to get one, and that my 'time bubble' was close to bursting, I turned towards the door. I knew that the over tomatoed salad was just the first course in the meal we were about to share, and that people other than myself were probably getting hungry. 'I just wanted you to know what I think, and what I see, I understand if you don't have anything to say.' As I turned to go back to the party, she finally managed to turn around, and with a world weary sigh that could have meant anything said 'Tell him this . . . .'

The Doctor Lies

The image above is of Matt Smith playing the 11th incarnation of Dr. Who, a classical British science fiction series that goes back to 1963.  'Someone I used to know' turned me on to watching the (rebooted) Doctor, and for that I will be forever grateful.  However, they also forced me to watch all 88 episodes of 30 Rock as well, so I am not THAT grateful (I am a comedy snob, I hated the show). Either way, I guess I still came out ahead in the bargain, because now I can watch all the Dr. Who I want.  M. Smith is the 11th doctor, and is the first one that I saw play the part. Like most things in my life I seem to start at the wrong end, and work my way backwards.

There is a expression connected to the show that states 'you'll always remember your first doctor'. I have found that to be true, I have gone back and watched some of the 9th and 10th doctor's but I (unlike some) prefer number 11. He was my first, and maybe watching Dr. Who is like losing your virginity, the first one is always special.  I like the show so much that I went out, and bought my very own sonic screwdriver. Alas, my version does not open every lock in the universe, but it was worth a try. Somethings only the Doctor can do.  The ginger next to the Doctor is one of his companions, Amelia Pond, the Doctor is fond of young, nubile women as traveling companions, and who is to blame him?  I am also a BIG fan of Mlle. Pond, an admiration that used to cause me a lot of grief. 

The point of this post, if it is to have a point, is that our Time Lord from Gallifrey has a number one rule. He has a bunch of rules, but the number one rule, the rule you must always remember, the rule you have to base your entire relationship with him upon, the rule that you can not forget no matter how many monsters are at the door to the TARDIS, is that the Doctor Lies.  Ignore, or forget that rule to your cost. The Doctor didn't get to be his advanced age by telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. A Time Lord operates under a whole different set of ethical rules that the 7 billion people on this planet, and you don't get the title 'Destroyer of Worlds' for being the white hat type of hero.  In fact the 11th Doctor has been told on numerous occasion that the word 'doctor' has taken on a different meaning in various other cultures within which his fame has spread. It mean 'Mighty Warrior' to a number of people, and that should tell you a lot about the Doctor's personality.

I have shamelessly stolen the Doctor's number one rule with regards to this blog. I lie, I lie a lot, and I also think that if you lie, you should lie extravagantly. We all all lie, and we have all been lied to, until the day we die, we will be both liars and lied to. It is just merely an outgrowth of being human. We don't get to regenerate, or have two hearts like the Doctor, we are human, we have one heart, and when it breaks it hurts all the more for being the only one we have. Things that my vast readership get the joy of reading in these pages are not always true. I usually respond to the question of 'who/what was your latest post about?' with the answer 'I have an imagination, you know.'  Well, I do have an imagination, and I bolster that imagination with a very refined ability, and an undying passion for lying.

If any of my readers see or think they see themselves in a post, or if several readers see or think they see themselves in one post, then I am (in my opinion) lying well. If you know me, and have talked to me before, and then read my post and hear my voice in your head, then I am lying well. I don't (always) lie, nor when I lie do I (always) mean to be hurtful. But sometimes mistakes are made, and people's feelings get hurt. I also have a saying about feelings and them getting hurt, but that applies only to my own feelings, not to anyone else's.  I suppose that is about as close to a 'reader be ware' message as I am going to come, and I hope that if I have managed to hurt anyone's feelings that they realize I am 'so sorry' for doing it. I would suspect that part of the reason I have done that is because I have violated another of the Doctor's rules the one that states 'when you are scared don't run.'

Morning

Morning limped into my room today, just like it has for the past 40 plus years. Bringing with it the beginning of another indistinguishable day. The moon is on its way out of the brightening sky, and the incessant noise of my alarm clock is making me regret the pint night I partook of last evening. I wish that I could transfer that alarm to my worst enemy, that being the bartender that was 'happy to see me' i.e. pour me pint after pint until I listed like a Spanish galleon homeward.  However, I am sure that barkeep is sound asleep, safe in the knowledge that she successfully got me drunk enough to entertain her again.

Since I am not King, Emperor, or even a Crown Prince (drinking Crown Royal does not, it seems, bestow royalty upon a person), I will have to answer the clarion call of that fucking alarm that is buzzing every 9 minutes. Telling me 'hey playboy its time to get up, and by up I mean out of this warm bed, and get your fat ass to work.' It would appear my alarm is invested with the same time of sense of humour that makes my friends want to punch me on occasion. However, since I am in danger of being crushed by the sunbeam entering my room, I suppose I should toddle off to the shower. Over I roll, and I roll quite well, and to my quite unexpected surprise find that there appears to be another warm body occupying about 60 percent of my nice, warm bed. Not that the other body is that big mind you, it just seems she is a bit of a bed hog.  Well this is both exciting and unexpected, and since I wear contacts, being blind as a bat without them, I squint over in her general direction to attempt to ascertain if I took a stranger home, or maybe it's the bartender that decided to get me shit-housed. Surely it can not be her, after all who would have been minding the bar if she went home with me?

Luckily for me, she is still drooling the drool of remorse into my guest pillow of regret. I ever so gently grope for the glasses that will solve the mystery of her identity, and discover, to my surprise, a whole heap of condoms on the bedside table. I think to myself 'Well those weren't there when I left to go out, so she must be a well prepared girl, god bless her.'  I like a woman that comes to the party prepared, and knowing what she wants, and how to get it.  Unsuccessful in locating my glasses, I decide to risk a closer inspection of my temporary bed mate. After all if what I think happened, did happen then I suspect she has already passed (at least to drunk me) the 'eyeball' test.

In fact, she has clearly, judging by both her, and my lack of clothing passed more than just the eyeball test. Well, I never claimed to be anything other than easy, and I certainly hope that won't be held against me. The alarm has now been told to calm down, and quietly shut down. After all, the fates have blessed me with a nice warm woman in my bed in the morning, I feel obligated to at least start the day out 'right'.  As long as this nice girl is agreeable to that, then this day might not be as much of a clanger that my hangover would suggest.  Since I at least pretend to be a gentlemen (even being a member of a newly formed club for gentlemen), I will not kiss (wink wink) and tell. Nor will I shame my lovely companion by giving away her identity. This is how every night should end, and every day begin.

Stylo

I am not a writer, nor will I ever become one. I have never been published, unless you count 'published' as either this blog or certain things I have written about my boss' (lack of) sexual prowess, and my ex's phone number (for a good time call) on certain bathroom walls. I doubt that is published in the conventional usage of the word, and I doubt that some desperate press will come, and take me away from my day job, and make me an author anytime soon.

However, I do read a lot, and I read a lot of obscure stuff. I like to think my reading is fairly extensive, and diverse enough to allow me to recognize both good and bad writing when I see it (or rather read it). That being said I have spent the lack few days reading a book who's author won the Nobel Prize for Literature. It wasn't solely for this book, but he didn't write a terrible lot of books, so I figure this book, in theory, had a lot to do with his winning the prize all author's aspire to win. I won't name this fellow by name, since I don't want to slander anyone. I will say that he is dead, which might not be a bad thing, and at some point in this post (though I won't tell you where) I will use the title of the book I have been reading by him.

Simply put, the book is awful. I mean that in the best possible way, but it is awful. The writing is a bit turgid, and the story is really nothing to get excited about. In my humble opinion a good book needs a least 2 of the following 3 things (at least). Good writing, good characters, or a good story. Those are the 3 basic things a book needs, in my opinion, to be 'good'. You can get by with a weakness in one category if you make it up with more strength in another. For example if your characters are a bit weak, or unsympathetic, then you better be a really good wordsmith, or have a really good story. It is hard to do, or we would all be in the running for the Grand Prize, but I (and call me old fashioned) think that a fellow who wins the Nobel Prize should be able to churn out a book that meets these requirements.

Of course, I am not on the selection committee, nor will I ever be, but I figure that I have read enough to be able to judge a book's worth. At least its worth to me, which is mainly all I care about, me.  This book fails in all three categories mentioned above. The writing, by that I mean the sentence structure, the imagery, the actual words used, is adequate at best. The author is able to describe a scene well enough, and does fairly well with dialogue, but it is nothing special. It is workmanlike at best. Which would be fine, if the other two needs were met. Sadly (for me, the reader) they are not. Not a single character in the book (and I will admit I gave up after half way, but if you are waiting until after half way to introduce your first decent character, you are requiring quite an act of faith from your reader), is in any way, sympathetic or a character you feel any sort of connection to. I don't need heroic characters, in some ways a good villain is a lot more fun to have around, but I need a character who's appearance on the page doesn't make me groan with despair.

This book, that helped this fellow win the Nobel fucking Prize lacks any single character that makes me care even they are mentioned ever again. That is not a good sign. The story which I won't detail so as not to give away the book isn't particularly good either. There is no real mystery to the plot, no reason for this story to really be told. I am sure that the author is trying to tell his readers something, and maybe I am just too dense to 'get it' but I figure that if I don't get it neither will a lot of people. It is great to be vague (I should know), but at some point a story has to be told, one that makes the reader want to get to the end. It doesn't have to be action packed, or some great mystery solved, or full of explosions, but there needs to be a story that keeps me interested especially if your characters stink, and your writing is average.

Like I said, my opinion, is just that my opinion, and isn't worth the time it has taken to type this little rant, but I feel a bit cheated in the end because I know/hope that if this guy can win the Nobel Prize for this crap, then maybe I need to quit the day job, run off to Paris, and write my own novel. I lack the courage ( I think to do this), but after reading this dross of a book, maybe it isn't such a far fetched idea after all.  Free copies will of course be provided to my massive readership, that should get rid of a least 4 copies.

Triste

The German author, Friedrich Traugott Gubler, once said of his friend, the Austrian writer Joseph Roth, that 'Roth should always be sad; the sadder he is, the better he writes.'  Now that comment may or may not have been true, I wasn't lucky enough to be alive at the time Roth was, and so I didn't get to know him, and it is very difficult some 80 years after his death to read his most well written passages and divine the mood behind them. In many ways, that makes me sad, I think me and Herr Roth would have gotten along like a house on fire. Of course he had talent, and I don't but I think we could have overcome that problem over several glasses of schnapps.

Which is to say that Roth was a raging alcoholic, and it would eventually be his undoing, but that is a post for a later day. I have recently read his collected letters, and therefore, being the impressionable sort, you can expect at least two more "Joseph Roth" posts sometime in the future. I have read quite a bit of Roth's writings, and I have also read Stefan Zweig's writing. Roth and Zweig were friends, and frequent correspondents, and many of the letters in the book I read are their letters back and forth to one another. It was mentioned by the editor of the book that Roth was 10 times the writer that Zweig was, and that Zweig acknowledged that. If that is the case, and I have no reason to doubt its truth, then Roth must have been one HELL of a writer, because I've been moved to tears by the brilliance of Zweig's prose on more than one occasion.  Yes, even I can weep when I am 'inspired' or in this case humbled. Reading 'true' writers can be a very humbling experience. Guys would can take the most mundane of situations, or words and turn them into something that should be inscribed in the annals of history for all of the world to read.

The quote about Roth and his sadness being his inspiration led me to thinking, something that usually pains me, but in this case it pained me even more. I have a sneaky suspicion that it might be true about me as well. If I write well at all, which is of course open to debate, I think it happens when I am saddest. Which, luckily for me, has happened a lot lately. Also, in an abundance of good fortune, even when I am blessed with a respite of happiness, I have several sources of sadness on which to draw. Sources that can, without even really trying, make the black clouds reappear in my brief sunny day. I don't know if these sources are doing it on purpose, and I certainly hope they aren't, but I am not sure. All I am sure about it that when I tap them sadness flows like beer from a keg. And like real beer, I drink this 'beer of sadness' down to the dregs. It makes for many a maudlin evening spent downing drinks with the several 'shifts' of my friends required to keep me company over the course of a night.

I had hopes of shedding this sadness that makes me a 'better writer' but after a considerable time spent alone, and thinking about it, I don't think I can. I think that perhaps, I am stuck with it, whether I want it or not. I also think that for the most part it is exactly one person's fault. Mine own. There should be, in theory, a way to shed this sadness. After all, if I made it, or allow it to happen, then who better to fix it, or to stop it from happening. I am not the swiftest horse in the stable, but I figure I would at least be on the board in that race, but I cannot for the life of me, fix this.

Of course, maybe fixing it isn't really the point. I am sure there are some pretty pills that could help, or maybe I need to find Jesus, or get out of the house into the sun more often.  All of this things might help, they might fix me, if that is possible, or they might not. I am sure that, in theory, I should at least try, but in the fixing of me, isn't something going to be lost? The sad part of me, the part that might be the part writing this 'pity party' (for I am sure I know people that will call it that) might be eradicated, wiped out as it where. If that were to happen, it might be the best thing to have ever happened to me (though, sadly I think that the best thing to have happened to me as already happened, and I missed it, and/or pissed it away).

Happy me, jolly me, if he were to come into an almost full time existence, might be a lot of fun to be around. Hell, he might even be a lot of fun to BE, but would it be the same me? The 'me' that is still here in my 'lime tree bower', doing the math and having the numbers not match, and wondering if the candle is really worth the game. That 'me' the one that most of my 'friends' know, the one that can always be on call for a quick pint or five, the one that is typing this (I hope) decent blog post about himself, would cease to be. Out of existence like the dodo bird, of which I have a lot in common by the way.  Perhaps this latest sadness shall pass, as several have in the past. But, in their passing, these saddnesses have each left a bruise or two on the black thing in my centre that passes for my soul.

Those bruises, as we shall call them, never actually fully heal. In many ways, calling them bruises is a misnomer, they should be called marks. Each of those marks stands for something, usually something of import, something that should have been and wasn't or, (worse maybe) something that was and shouldn't have been. It makes little difference to the small soul I possess, all it knows is that it has been inevitably changed, and probably not for the better.  Eventually, and probably sooner rather than later, these marks will 'cover up' my entire soul. It will become indistinguishable, and will probably just drown in a sea of sadness. However, it hasn't yet, and considering I am probably past the half way point of my life, this could be considered a positive sign. Here's hoping. 

Of Goblins, Monkeys, and Crosses

Real writers, by that I mean people other than me, have gotten their inspiration from all sorts of places. Quite a number of them have found their muse in a bar, or in several bars.  I too have seen all sorts of blog inspiring activity going on at my local(s). However bar inspiration is a tricky, tricky thing. You have to go to the bar to find it, but while you are at the bar you have to do what comes naturally, which is to get sauced, right?  A double edged sword in more than one way ( a four edged sword?). Two problems present themselves almost immediately. One you have to be there for the inspiration, but you can't get so drunk that you forget what inspired you. This is VERY difficult to accomplish. A pen and a piece of paper is useful, but in the modern world a i phone with a 'notes' application will be sufficient. The second problem is you have to stay sober(ish) enough to not provide inspiration for some other aspiring Ernest Hemingway. Also, quite tricky especially if your bartender likes to sometimes see how drunk they can get you.

These tales that I can regale you with aren't really that exciting, but they are a slice of American life as it were, and can, in the proper hands, and frame of mind provide at least some entertainment. Shall we start with the guy who drinks PBR in a glass with ice and a cherry through a straw? I think this is, or at least should be, against the law, and it takes a lot of effort not to punch the offender in the face. I mean PBR is a bad enough sin, but with fruit, over ice, through a straw? Outrageous, shameful, and downright awful. Or shall we discuss the other fellow who brings a 'drinking' glove to the bar? I've no idea why, and I don't really want to ask. Maybe his palms are sensitive to cold? Or the older gentleman with a hearing aid that he turns off 'when people start talking shit that I don't want to hear.'  Or the extremely buff fellow that looked like he just came out of the gym going home with a girl my size, and I am not a small man. Or how about the fellow that has to be helped out of the bar by two of his buddies holding him vertical at 8 p.m? I want to party with that guy for sure. Or, the fellow who plays pool wearing two gloves, if you wear two gloves while playing pool, you had better be pretty fucking good, from what I could tell he wasn't that good, and that is just wrong.

 Or we can talk about the bartenders? The one that, for my misdeeds, rightly refuses to serve me, or the one that I can have entire conversations with without either one of us speaking a word? Or the one that just keeps getting fired, and is about to be homeless? Or the one with the girlfriend doing a semester in Cambridge that still did the old fashioned writing letters thing. The one that heard I was a dab hand with words, and wanted me to help him with the letters. I helped him as best I could after all he had done the hard part, he had the feelings, my part was easy putting them into words. The wait staff are a professional drunks best friend. They sometimes tell us that 'hey your bar tab is getting to be awfully high' or better yet they call us a cab when they realize that even a pro like ourselves is too drunk to make it home alive.

 These are the places where you walk in, and they call you by your first name, and have a pint of your choice of beer poured before your ass hits the seat. It is almost too comfortable, a place where you can get as tight as you want, and know that you will be looked after. As long as you take care of them, they will take care of you. You have your profession of drunk, they are bartender(s) it is a clear, simple relationship, and even if the lines sometimes blur it is one of the more important relationships you will create. You can't tell your boss some of the shit your tell your bartender, if you weren't out sinning against the world in the presence of your bartender, you wouldn't have anything to tell your priest, and you certainly can't tell the wife at home all the troubles you can unburden to your bartender.

If you're dedicated enough, you will go through several bartenders in your drinking career, some of them will fade into the mists of time and booze, and become somebody that you used to know, some may show up at your wedding, and not in a professional capacity, some will be there when your buddies (they count among that group) will pour the last drink you'll ever get on your grave. They are a diverse lot, and for the most part if you are not an idiot drunk, or a madman they will probably at least be very civil towards you. They do work on tips, but a good bartender, a bartender that you've established a rapport with, will not be concerned with your tipping. After all, if they are good at what they do, and you have any sort of breeding whatsoever, you will over tip them on principle.  Good bartenders are hard to find, and over tipping is a sign of both respect for them as a professional, and a way of paying them back the good turns they will eventually do for you. And you will need good turns done for you, because at some point they will get you drunk enough so that you will need to be turned and pointed in the direction of your house. That is the revenge (so to speak) of a good bartender sometimes they like to get your hammered for their entertainment, after all drunk you can be quite the spectacle, or so at least you've heard. Most of the time you make a spectacle of yourself, you wake up with little memory of the event, for that you should thank (and write this type of 'love song to) your pal, the bartender.

Jaune

You are to be congratulated, you are a LOT smarter than I thought you were, though I never really thought you were the swiftest horse in the stable so that is not saying a whole lot, but you surprised me. I am not a man who likes surprises, but you knew that, and I am sure that finding out you surprised me makes this little 'victory' of yours even sweeter. And it is sweet isn't it? However, maybe you are not that smart after all, maybe you are just clever. And clever isn't quite the same as smart. Clever is an attempt to convince people you are smart, or smarter than you are, and clever sometimes takes so very much effort. It is like the expression 'close enough for government work' meaning let us do this, and hope that no one inspects the finished product too terribly closely.

Though you've been passing those types of inspections all your life haven't you? Maybe you are more than clever after all, but I am not so sure. You do seem to know an awful lot of things about an awful lot of things, and you are keen to downplay any sort of above average intelligence. That is until someone or something makes you mad, then you trot out all that wicked cleverness/intelligence and point it at the offending target like some sort of intelligence cannon, intent upon blasting the offender back into the intelligence stone age. It is sometimes a sight to see, you carving some, what is to your eyes an offensive idiot, up like a xmas goose. You take a special pride in being a son of a bitch to them, and try your best to make them not 're-offend'. All without realizing, or maybe you do realize and just don't care, what a complete bastard it makes you appear to be. Who gave, or gives you the right to judge other people's intelligence? When you are 'passing' as it where.

And you are 'passing', you know. What is worse is you know that I know you are 'passing.' Which I am sure, and I hope, makes you furious. You see I am not a government inspector, and I don't get paid to approve things with just a passing glance. I might not be wicked smart like you are rumored to be, and I am not a deep thinker, but I can spot a fake a mile away, and well you are a fake.  You might be a well turned out fake, but a fake you are nonetheless. It isn't a war crime to be a fake, but I would imagine it is a very scary experience. Going out in public, or worse sitting at home in private wondering everyday if someone (other than your loyal follower me) is going to find out that you are a fake and denounce you.

Of course, I won't denounce you, I can't, not after your latest 'triumph.' Not after the latest trick you've pulled off, it might not have been your best, but it was certainly in the top five, maybe even top three. It is a trick that does make me stand back and whistle with admiration at how you managed to pull it off without anyone (except of course me, the sad clown) noticing all the smoke and mirrors you used to make it work. To denounce you after that act of deception would just be cruel, like drawing eyebrows on the Mona Lisa. It might not have been perfect, but to 'expose' it would be like ruining a work of art, and I love art even if I can't draw something. 

In fact, the more I admire your latest act of fooling the world, the more I think maybe you aren't really a fake after all, and the ironic part of it all is I don't think you realize it. You have been a fake for so long, and you hide so much of yourself behind a impregnable veil of self-loathing that I think you've begin to believe your own lie.  I truly think that you are intelligence, but aren't smart enough to figure that out for yourself, and I understand it is a bit of an paradox, but you are full of those aren't you?  Perhaps if you stopped trying so hard, and so well to convince other people you are smart, and just let them past that wall you've erected around yourself, you might find that you are actually as intelligent as a lot of people (you think you've fooled) think you are.

Hopefully, if you 'allow' that to happen you can stop wasting the talent that whatever being rules this big, empty universe has granted you to some good use. Instead of blasting people with your intelligence when they disturb the balance of your life, you will accept that your balance isn't the ultimate balance. That you, in spite of your overwhelming belief to the contrary, are not the center of the world. There are seven billion people on this planet, and I am fairly certain that somewhere, some of them could profit from your intelligence (other than you of course). If you turn that lighthouse of your intelligence on, instead of hiding it behind the fog of cleverness, then I would actually be proud to call you a friend, rather than just be proud of how you've fooled all of the friends you do possess.

The Toy Solider

I have been accused, both lately, and multiple times in my past, of hating children. I guess my general misanthropy does extend to the children of the world, but I do not hate them more so than I dislike humankind in general. After all, to quote Henry Blake, I am a former child myself. Not that I can remember my childhood, except for a couple of events, one which I am about to relate, is mostly a blank. Either it was a rather boring time, or I have blacked it mostly out for some deep, dark reason that the wolf that raised me isn't sharing with me.

Truth is that I don't really understand children. They are a complete mystery to me, and why anyone wants to have them also is a bit of a puzzler. I guess they somehow, someway make our live complete?  I always thought that it was incumbent upon me to make my life 'complete' after all it is my life. No one else should have to complete it for me. That is perhaps the underlying problem with my lack of a desire to procreate.  Children are like a free radical, they go off in all sorts of unexpected directions (especially in crowded stores), and I suppose they take our lives in unexpected directions as well. I am, and never really have been a fan of the unexpected, or maybe (at this is very possible) I am just a coward. 

These little replicas of ourselves demand a lot of time, money, and attention, and I am quite sure I am not up to the task. I am the son of a bad father, and one of the few things I have an almost undying faith in is that I would be a second generation bad father. It is a fear that is quite debilitating, and makes me impossible to plan a future with, and makes me want to sail away for Singapore. Many a relationship has founded upon the rock of my childish (pun intended) fear of becoming a father as shitty as my own. I understand that by realizing what a crap father I had, I should be able to recognize the mistakes he made with me, and not repeat them, but as I said most of my childhood is a blank, and just because I realize his mistakes does not mean that I would not be condemned to repeat them. 

One part of my childhood that isn't a blank, that came back to me just recently, and quite unexpectedly is the following cautionary tale. I was about 9 years old, and had recently been given a toy solider. The details of who gave me this gift, and why it became my absolute favourite toy are a bit hazy. I just remember that I LOVED that fucking toy solider. I don't think it was anything that any other child would consider special. This was so long ago that it was just a simple toy solider, no bells or whistles. It did not come fully loaded with an RPG that could launch from a distance, nor did it have a jeep, or any other accessory. It was simple a toy soldier. As I said children are a mystery, it is a mystery to me to this day why I liked that damn toy soldier so much, but I did.

However, after several weeks of adoring this toy soldier, I (for reasons that escaped me then as they do now) took it out one fine day to the local 'creek' and upon calm reflection, or at least as much calm reflection a 9 year old can muster, threw it into the muddy waters of that creek.  It landed with a plop, and sank without a trace. It was a toy soldier, not a toy sailor, and I guess it just couldn't swim. As I stood there on that bridge being asked the 'why the hell did you just do that' question by my relatives, I realized that perhaps I had made a mistake, and I really did not want to be without my toy soldier. However, he was gone and lost forever, and the watery grave to which I had consigned him was not going to release him back to me.

When this little event of my childhood came flooding back to me the other day, I knew pretty immediately what my past was trying to tell my present. It is not a overly good story, and I have told it in my usual vague, poor way. However, it seems that even at the tender age of nine I was my own worst enemy, throwing away the best things in my life, either in a fit of pique, or in some twisted attempt to make myself less dependent upon other people or things.  Now here I am some 32 years later, and still throwing away the best things in my life. It is both incredibly stupid, and incredibly sad. More so stupid I (and I am sure others) would say. I suppose it just shows that I have learned so very little from the age of nine. Because when I throw something away, I generally do it in a way that does not allow for retrieval.

At nine that is childish, after all I was a child, children do that kind of stuff. At my current age it is still childish, and unforgivable. In the 32 intervening years since that day when my toy soldier took his last, fatal swim, I have learned so very much, and so very little all at the same time. There is no moral to this story, and I don't think that as sad as I am writing it, I am able to provide a pithy, snappy ending. I am sorry that so many things had to end the way of the toy soldier, and even more sad that at least one more thing will probably end the same way, but that is a story for another day. For today's purposes, let us just pause and give a moment's silence for the death of a brave man/toy soldier. He didn't deserve his fate, at the hands of a fickle 9 year old version of me, but he was brave until the end. Here is hoping that we all are.

Me and Rube Goldberg

A couple of days ago, in a fit of goofiness, I purchased, on the cheap, a Rube Goldberg machine. It is quite the machine, and has taken me the majority of two days to assemble. If you don't know what a Rube Goldberg machine is, there are many very informative websites that can explain it much better than I can. Mostly, these website use drawings, and I can not draw for shit. Never have been able to draw, never will be able to draw. Therefore, the explanation will have to be fully provided by someone else. I will just give you the highlights, this machine is designed to perform a simple task (it doesn't matter what that task is) in the most elaborate, complex way possible. Using as many convoluted steps that are barely connected, as possible.

In many ways, my life is a Rube Goldberg machine writ large. I like the complex, and sometimes I get a little carried away, and ahead of myself when I am having, what to me, is a brilliant idea. Therefore, I figured I needed to purchase a Goldberg machine in order to see if perhaps it would somehow make the arc of my life easier to ascertain.  It is an unwieldy bastard, and that is a trait we have in common, which I figured is a good sign. However, being unwieldy and complex might be a lot of fun from the outside, but from the inside it is a right pain in the ass, this I was, much to my dismay, to discover when I tried to assemble my wonderful new toy.

I am not the most practical of mechanical men, I understand the theory behind 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' but that is as far as I usually get. The theory is sound, my application of the theory generally dissolves into me trying to figure out what is left to the screw, as opposed as left to me, and then begins to take in the rotation of the Earth upon is axis. Which generally leads to a LOT of swearing, and me throwing the offending tool/item into/unto something or just away.  Why I thought that I would every possess the ability to put together a Rube Goldberg machine boggles the imagination. But, here I was trying my very best, which is to say failing miserably.

I thought I had it all sorted out, I even had the drawing to compare it too, and the finished product, and my assembly looked identical. Looked identical, but there was (and still is as I type this) some fundamental, hard to see, difference. Which lead to me doing two things, one,almost killing my fool self when I turned it on for the first time, and two almost burning down my entire apartment complex.  After a few moments of sheer terror at my near death experience, and a few more moments of swearing, I decided (why I don't know) to attempt to 'fix' the problem. Not, in hindsight, a particularly good idea.

I, it would appear, am not overly adept at fixing certain things. Rube Goldberg machines are one of those things that I cannot, for the life of me, seem to fix. I understand the theory, I am able to see the pattern, 'do the math' and have a solid grounding of what is supposed to happen. The theory behind the machine is not a great mystery, but I seem to possess a remarkable ability to put together things with an important part missing. It almost works, I can tell it wants to work, it is struggling to work like a fat man struggles to breath after eating too many 'fat man pancakes', but it just cannot get every part of itself going in the same direction at the same time. And that is pretty fucking critical to the working of anything, especially a Rube Goldberg machine.

I have spent quite some time, thought (and I like to believe I am a fairly solid thinker), and energy trying to fix this infernal machine. This device that I thought that, while being so very, very complex was going to make my life 'complete' as it were, has turned into an absolute stone the crows disaster. This was not mentioned in the manual at all, but the true tragic part of this tale is that Rube Goldberg machines are a 'buyer beware' kind of deal. They do not come with a money back guarantee, and they are very difficult to find replacement parts for, you know in case you, in a fit of blind rage, took a hammer to one of its core components.

Of course, after that blind rage wears off, and you look around at your newly wrecked Rube Goldberg machine, is when you start to feel remorse, and quite sad.  It was an once in a lifetime type of machine, and your dumb, arrogant, childish, fearful, ass took a hammer to its core, and shattered it into pieces that all the King's horses, and all the King's men cannot seem to put together again. Je suis desole.

Mountains of Mourne

"I know this will come as a shock to you, and I doubt you will believe me, but she was a gold digger." "We all knew it, but I'm the only one who has decided to tell you, that's what you get for getting me drunk on a random Tuesday."

Those (un)kind words, were uttered in my direction fairly recently, and have caused a bit of an upheaval in my life. They led me to thinking, which is almost always a dangerous thing, about their veracity.  It was not a pleasant thinking trip, and I would not recommend it to anyone else. It required a lot of thought, and a lot of thought is (mostly) beyond my overtaxed brain now days. But when I set out to determine whether or not I am a sap or not, I generally try to marshal my thoughts like a Panzer division, and have them roll over any doubts that may exist.

As I sat there in that bar alone (my companion had given up the ghost already),  drinking yet another (one too many) beers, I begin to seriously consider her comment. It was not said out of any malice towards the other person, after all she barely knew the person in question, and it was not said to make me feel like a fool, though it did manage to accomplish that feat quite nicely. I rarely either need any help, or particularly care to be made to either appear foolish, or to feel like a fool. Therefore, this comment left a rather bitter taste in my mouth, that, sadly to say, even the multiple beers I consumed after its pronouncement were unable to wash away.

The thinking that it lead to was, for the most part, unpleasant. I got to balancing the 'costs' of the relationship of which she was speaking of, and I begin to realize that perhaps she was correct.  I've never really considered such an idea before, and it was quite an eye opener when I began to do the math. Math, never one of my stronger suits, led me to the inevitable conclusion that perhaps people could see me as a bit of a gold mine. While still being a prole, and living in an absolute dump of an apartment, I do receive, what to many would be considered a fairly decent salary (of course, I earn every damn penny of it).

Of course that salary comes with a cost, that cost being the massive amounts of student loan/credit card debit that the classical education that I like to (wrongly) claim that I possess. I went to a LOT of school, and I owe a LOT of money to a lot of people. I don't really want for anything, but I am not going to retire to the south of France anytime soon, or probably ever. It is possible for a certain tier of people to consider me 'well off' though that adjective is not one I would use to describe me, well fed springs to mind. 

If I had any politics whatsoever I would probably be considered leaning slightly to the left, a long line of rabble rousting exists in my thinking, and I am not a fan of the 'right'.  Therefore, in several of my relationships there has been a (sometimes unspoken) rule that follows the 'from each according to their ability to pay, to each according to their need' type of arrangement. Mostly, it worked, and since I was the larger purse in the pot, I paid somewhat more than my share. Which, to me, is fair. I do not come from money, and subscribe to the theory that you can't take it with you, so spend it while you can (my heirs, if I ever produce any, will be sorely disappointed). 

That disappointment is, I figure, something similar to the one I experienced when I logically concluded that my companion of the evening was correct, I had been 'gold dug' as it were. I haven't the faintest idea as to why really, and I certainly felt an idiot for not seeing it sooner, but there it was in the number so hastily scribbled on numerous bar napkins. Proof that my idiocy knows no bounds, and has a fairly high price tag. Sadly for the digger, and I suppose my one saving grace is the fact that really, and truly I am not a gold mine in either a financial or personal way. I am a bit of a wreck, and I will (as mentioned before) more than likely die poor (and alone if certain people are to be believed). I suppose that makes me feel a little bit better to realize that even if I do sparkle a bit like real gold, what I really and truly am under that shiny surface is simply fool's gold. 

A tour

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well this saves me three thousand (give or take) words, explaining the uselessness of the world's worst xmas gift. It is, as I mentioned before, going on a tour. Next stop Miami.

Dejeuner

If you wanted to not be a prole, or rude, you would find a better way of writing. --Anonymous


 As I have mentioned before on these pages, I am the son of a plumber and a factory worker. There isn't much more of a prole background to be found that is more prole than mine. I am not overly proud of it but there is the square root of fuck all I can do about it.  My mantra of 'once a prole always a prole' is a firmly held belief. You might see some Joe average ass hat win the lottery, and buy the fancy cars, the big house, and surround themselves with opulence, but they are just trying to compensate for being a prole. They are just the nouveau riche now, it doesn't change their fundamental make up one little bit.

Truth be told, while I am not proud of my prole background, I have come to embrace it. Not that I have a lot of choice, but either way I can't hide from it. A true prole is the enemy of pretense, and all of those fancy places that people would pretend to pretense like to shop, be seen, and (mostly) eat, are places that proles like myself feel the most uncomfortable. It is the angry proles, like myself, that also feel the most contempt for these types of places. I have personally found that the pretentiousness of a place can be measured by the fact that (in my part of the country at least) they serve shrimp and grits.  It is an article of faith that if a restaurant has shrimp and grits on the menu, proles such as myself will not be wanting to partake of the menu. Price matters in a lot of things, food is one of the few things that I am not so sure about. Maybe if it is steak, but a grit is pretty much a grit, and one of the FEW foods that I refuse without a doubt to EVER eat, and a shrimp is pretty much a shrimp. They don't use fancy nets to catch the fancy shrimp.

This is to say, that for the most part, even if I wanted not to be a prole, I feel I don't have a lot of choice. I can certainly 'pass' for a non-prole if the occasion demands it. I can, if I want to (which is that hard part, getting me to want to) carry on the most pretentious of conversation with the best of the pretense lot. However, I rarely feel the need to, and usually doing it makes me feel slightly dirty. Never try to deny what you are, no matter what kind of Eliza Doolittle bullshit people try to pull on you, be true to yourself, and (if possible) your roots. Civilized society isn't the only place were you can have intellectually refined conversations, and I have had more intellectually challenging conversations over BBQ pork, than I have ever had over a plate of shrimp and grits.

The atmosphere that you are paying so dearly for may be all well and good, but more likely than not, some prole is cooking that forty dollar entree you ordered, and making fuck all to do it. The one hundred and fifty bucks you plop down on ONE meal, ordered to satisfy your appetite, and your desire to be one of the 'in' crowd, could probably feed a family of three for three or four days. However, that is a distressing thought, and the 'in' crowd (the pretense lot) probably doesn't like to think too many distressing (or any) thoughts, they would ruin the ambivalence.

There has been, in my very limited, experience one thing that does level the playing field between us proles and the pretense lot. There is generally one area where no matter the fancy finishing school, the pretty dresses, the acting classes, the elocution lessons, the piano teacher, or the riding lessons proles and pretense are the same. It is the one place where most of the female members of the pretense lot become, though not as often, nor as crudely I am sure, what Napoleon, that well known lover of the ladies, liked to call baby factories. Of course the big difference is the pretense lots babies get to own the factory, the prole lots (like the wolf that raised me) get to work in them. 


I hope that answers the first part of Anonymous' comment about choosing not to be a prole. I guess the simpler answer would be even if I wanted to, I couldn't but I figured I would also try to address the second part of her comment about finding a better way of writing, by using this response to practice my writing 'talent'. It is a very limited talent, and trust me Anonymous, if I could just 'find' a better way of writing I would. However, I fear/know that a better way of writing is not to be found at your local Starbucks, tucked amongst the lattes and the cafe du laits. I fear that for me a 'better way of writing' is a bridge too far, but since the internet allows me to do it for free, and I sometimes get a lot of pleasure out of both the act of writing, and some of the responses I get, I fear that I am here to stay after all.

Therefore, like the good prole that I am, lacking the funds to purchase a 'better way of writing' I keep plugging away at this keyboard (since I type this blog, it's too tedious to hand write), in the vain hopes that a 'better way of writing' will appear. If it does I will be pleasantly surprised, like a child at Christmas that gets exactly what they asked for.