Did Anybody See Where I Put My Blog?

BOTHERED BY THINGS

2020-06-12T11:38:00.001-07:00

BOTHERED BY THINGS

Things bother me. Quite a few things; I’m not ashamed to say. Sometimes the same things. Other times, other things. The key to me is how you manage those things. To not let the wrong things bother you. Which is why they are organized into three categories for your convenience ~ Little Things, Medium Things, and Big Things. There may be some overlap, and not every person’s categories may contain all the same things, but in general terms, we have Little, Medium, and Big.

Let’s start with Medium Things. Over the course of our lives, we become conditioned to the medium things. Those are the things we more or less expect to happen. It’s the nature of life, and it’s such a simple concept to grasp, yet there are still so many people who are perpetually surprised by Medium Things. Which could become a Big Thing. A big unnecessary thing. What did you think would happen in life? Nothing medium? Nope. Sorry. Life is populated with Medium Things. Get used to it, because the quicker you do, the simpler your life will become. For example, there might be a time in your life when you drive three hours to a hotel for a weekend getaway, and realize once you arrive that you forgot your suitcase. It’s not a Little Thing, but it’s not really a Big Thing, either. You might get a cold sore the afternoon of a blind date. Again, not a Little Thing, not a Big Thing. Medium Thing. Now, getting a cold sore the afternoon of your wedding ~ that’s a Big Thing. You ran out of gas? Everyone runs out of gas at one time of another. That’s a Little Thing. You ran out of gas and your cell phone battery’s dying? That’s a Medium Thing. You ran out of gas, your cell phone battery is dying, and your pregnant wife is giving birth in the backseat? That’s a Big Thing. And if she has a cold sore…

Our lives are programmed for the possibility of Medium Things. Which is why we buy insurance. Car insurance. Homeowner’s insurance. Renter’s insurance. Life insurance. It’s why we join Triple A. And why we make sure our cell phone batteries are charged. So when Medium Things do present themselves to us, we as adults are able to confront them and say, “I was ready for you. Here is my credit card number. (PAUSE) Yes, I can hold.” Which is usually a small thing. Unless the hold music is bad, or there’s a sales pitch repeated every fifteen seconds. Then, well, that’s where things shift. Fun fact: There’s a Venn diagram of Medium and Big. Which circle the Thing settles in is very often dependent on the background music.

Medium Things are normal, non-life-threatening, run-of-the-mill, things. We’re not happy about them, but we accept that they are inescapable, if from nothing other than a statistical standpoint.

The Big Things now, they throw us. People like to convince themselves that they’re ready for the Big Things, but no one ever is. War. Death. Disease. House burning down. I know what you’re going to say: “House burning down? But we have insurance, so wouldn’t that be a Medium Thing?” No. Because everything you owned is now smoldering ash. You have no clothes. No food. No computers. Nowhere to sleep. And your dog’s two front legs need to be amputated. Do you really think that’s a Medium Thing? Sure, there will be reimbursement ~ for you, not the dog ~ but even that’s not guaranteed. The insurance company could decide it was an act of god. And I can tell you from experience ~ they don’t care if you’re an atheist. Argue all you want, but when it comes to your policy, the insurance company is a fundamentalist Christian, and are the subservient Stepford wife that they will abuse and control whenever they want.

In comparison to the other two, Little Things seem like nothing. But that’s how they get you. Big Things shock us. They make us pause and reevaluate. But Little Things. Little Things are annoying. They don’t shock us, they piss us off. Big Things send us to doctors and therapists. Little Things send us to liquor stores. Little Things are like trick or treaters. They arrive in waves. And there’s always more than one. Just when you close the door and walk toward the couch, three more of them are ringing the bell. Sure, you could leave the bowl out, but you know some little shit is going to dump it all in his bag. Then other kids who come by later are going to think you were too cheap to leave enough for everyone, so they egg your house.

You have to take care of each Little Thing as they happen. It’s not like debt ~ you can’t consolidate all of your Little Things into one Medium Thing to take care of later. It’s a linear progression. You’re running out of the house, but you can’t find your keys? Well, you have to find them. Now you’re ten minutes late for your regular train? Okay, no big deal. Call the office and let them know. You grab your phone, but it starts ringing? You better answer that first.

“Hello? Hey, Ted. I just got hit by a bunch of Little Things, and I’m kind of in a hurry. You’re out of gas? Where are you? Is that a baby crying? Hello? Hello? His phone went dead. I wonder why he hung up? Oh, well. He’ll call back if it was anything big.”

It's all about how you manage them. Which sounds like a little thing, but it's not.

2017-10-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

"Terrorist" - official designation of a shooter or bomber who is one or more of the following:

1. Dark-skinned
2. Born or living in a foreign country
3. A follower of a non-Christian religion

"Lone Wolf" - official designation of a shooter or bomber who is one or more of the following:

1. White
2. Born and living in America
3. A Christian

It's much easier for politicians and talking heads to ramp up fear, and the subsequent donations and Federal dollars, when the bad guy fits the "Terrorist" description. They immediately leap into (in)action, giving speeches about the need to increase military spending, tightening our borders, deportation, building walls, oh, and the need to further loosen gun laws.

They have no idea how to react when the murderer falls into the second category - that person could live next door, could be a relative, could be a voter. Calling them a "Lone Wolf" is a convenient, and cowardly, way to dismiss their actions as little more than an anomaly. A Lone Wolf isn't part of a larger organization out to get America. A Lone Wolf is crazy, (as if the other shooters are perfectly same). More investigation is focused on "Why" they committed this horrible act. Fingers will be pointed for political gain, and nothing will be done to prevent the next shooting, because there will be a next shooting.

Even if the shooter left a detailed explanation, speculation will abound - frightened, angry, and apathetic citizens will project rationalizations onto the shooter as a way to confirm their own existing biases. The shooter will eventually become the poster child for everything each person who speaks about him hates the most. Many others will search far and wide for a tangible evil to blame this on, without looking directly confronting the truth that surrounds them. These "Lone Wolves" are our neighbors. Our friends. Our relatives. And the reason they kill is simple - because America doesn't stop them. Because they can.

Billions upon billions of thoughts and prayers have done nothing to end the slaughter. The "Greatest Country in the World" should be able to stop its innocent citizens from becoming random victims of another's target practice.

2017-07-26T12:37:00.002-07:00

A MOMENT OF VENTING

The Cynic in me thinks it won't matter, but the Optimist in me holds out hope that this is what will finally open some eyes.

Oh, sorry.

The Airhead in me forgot to mention the theme of this post.

McCain is a selfish, heartless asshole. As is every other Republican who has been eagerly waiting to eliminate affordable health care for millions of needy Americans. A sizable number of whom are represented by the very politicians who will be ruining their lives. Yet, these charlatans continue to win elections by manipulating, (and often times fueling), the hates and fears of their base. And that base, for the most part, believes every word they are told. By pretending to be Christians and patriots, while actively exhibiting neither behavior, these predatory scumbags have made rich, comfortable lives for themselves and their friends at the expense of everyone else. When their constituents complain, the blame for their troubles is redirected elsewhere: to liberals, gays, people of color, foreigners, "urban elites", atheists, abortionists, etc. They manage to get away with these lies because that base never really bothers to check the facts. And unfortunately, when they do try to check, the lies are supported by the inescapable pervasiveness of fake news. Ironically, if they do happen to stumble upon the truth, they process that as fake news, because it doesn't conform to their preexisting bias, and listen to the propaganda.

But I'm preaching to the choir. You already know this. Which brings me back to the beginning of this post ~ Republicans have not been shy as of late about publicly exposing their true agendas in public. Much like the inflated arrogance of a comic book villain who never gets caught, and eventually decides it's not worth the bother to put on the mask that disguises his real identity, they too, have convinced themselves they are invulnerable. It's that brazen level of contempt for others that may finally do them in. When those in need finally reach the apex of anger and desperation after losing their health care, those who cast the deciding votes will have no more wedge issues to hide behind. They will not be able to talk themselves out of it using the old bromide of blaming it on the Democrats either, since they are on record as the ones working feverishly to kill it, yet not passing a suitable replacement. This could be what turns all that red to purple. Or even, (dare we suggest?), true blue.

At least, that's what I hope. But then that cynical voice keeps insisting that these voters will never, ever, gain the awareness to see how they are being deceived. Such an about-face would be a concession to their own gullibility, and I don't see that happening on a large scale. Modern day Republicans could rob their constituents at gunpoint in broad daylight, then blame it on the Democrats, and the victim would believe it.

It's a shame how many of these folks fall in line at the sight of a bible, but never bother to open it and read the warnings about false prophets and self-righteousness.

2017-07-11T12:42:00.001-07:00

EXISTENTIAL BREAKDOWN

I had an existential breakdown at a restaurant the other day. No, that’s not the name of a dish I ordered. Although, if that were an item served at restaurants, it wouldn’t be on the menu. It would delivered to your table unexpectedly like an amuse-bouche, if, say, the chef was a sadist who knew your most profound psychological vulnerabilities. But I digress.

An existential breakdown is really the worst of all the major breakdowns, because it affects you at your deepest level. Why am I here? Not specifically “here”, (although maybe. Who knows?), but more in the grander sense of “Here”. Life itself. What is your purpose? You think you know, but far too often, you spend the bulk of your life developing skills for a particular goal that for one reason or another never comes to fruition, all because reality and aspiration never coalesce. For example, let's say you play basketball in high school. You’re six three and score 30 points a game. You dream of playing in the NBA, but you don’t get scouted for a scholarship. So you go to a junior college as a walk-on. But you start shrinking. Literally. Five inches a year. By your senior year, you’re four foot eight. Now you’re too short to even play video game basketball. There is a height requirement if you read the fine print. What do you do? That was you’re life’s dream. All your focus went into that dream. And now it’s gone. That, and twenty inches. After years and years of dreaming for a happy ending, you instead are the butt of a cruel joke. Even though you may not relate to that example, it is a all-too-common of an occurrence. And the reason why so many people seem lost.

There are some people who never breakdown. Everything comes easy to them. They know exactly what they want, and they get it. I hate those people. I do. I want to kill them. Metaphorically. Don’t worry, I’m incapable of committing such an act ~ even as a fantasy. In the darkest moments of my past, when the thought of murder may have tip-toed into my mind as a possible solution to a crisis, some innate sense of morality always prevented me from even imagining the scenario. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve closed my eyes and mentally placed myself, weapon in hand, in front of an adversary, only to toss it aside and instead take the person to court. If you’re wondering, I’ve never lost a case. Retribution is meted out by the legal system, and my conscious is clear.

Besides, do you know how difficult it is to metaphorically kidnap and torture someone? Indirectly, or course, because even within the context of a literary device, it’s advised to stay as far removed from your subject as possible. The last thing you want to do is have an existential breakdown based on the way you’re handling your original existential breakdown. Making that mistake could suck you into the Vortex of Existential Crisis, and once you’re trapped in that, forget it. There's no escape. You start questioning EVERYTHING, probing for esoteric meaning to the most innocuous events.

“Why did I order coffee?” (This is when I was in that restaurant). “Do I really need coffee? I’m not sleepy. Am I a caffeine addict? Was I compelled by a chemical urge to order it? Should I seek help? If there are twelve-step groups for caffeine addicts, what refreshments would they put out for the members? Speaking of refreshments, why did I say I was interested in the special? Blue cheese soup and a gyro? That doesn’t go with coffee at all. In fact, in doesn’t even go with each other. It’s actually quite disgusting. Am I disgusting? Is my soul disgusting? Is that why I’m alone in this restaurant? Could this be the best life has to offer me? A disgusting man eating disgusting food? How did I get here? Is there a possible pathway out?”

At that very moment, your server approaches your table with your plate of disgust. “Would you like anything else?”

It feels like the first time you've truly contemplated that question. “Yes”, you shout. "I do! My god, have I been suppressing my actual desires all my life?”

Your waitress’ silence leads to a new, and extremely deep subcategory of questions. Rather than privately speculating, you cut to the chase and ask her directly, addressing her by name, hoping that this simple touch of personalization will reveal a greater truth.

“Are you truly capable of enhancing the lives of others, Madison? Or were you just being rhetorical? Because if you are so capable, I don’t want this! I want something else!”

She quickly glances down to her chest. “Madison is the name of the restaurant. I’m Penelope. My nameplate fell off. Anyway, I was only asking you if you wanted more…”

“More! Yes! I DO want more! Oh, it feels good to say that out loud! Thank you!”

Penelope smiles awkwardly, refills your coffee and walks away. Which makes you wonder, “Why did she leave? I didn’t tell her what I wanted more of in life. I have a list I carry with me, it’s just a matter of digging through my wallet and finding it. I just updated my Top Ten last week, so I know it’s there.” You absently reach out for your coffee, and a small wave generated by the movement of the cup splashes out on your hand. Just enough to cause a small verbal reaction, but not enough to leave lasting pain.

“Is that what she’s trying to tell me?” you think. “That no matter what my choice, I’m going to get burned? Who wants to live in a world as dismal as that? Or perhaps, the coffee symbolic of what she can provide for me? She did fill it all the way to the rim. There’s not even room for cream and sugar. Wait… is that the message? The cup is an extension of myself, and the coffee is life. So, fill it to the top! And don’t worry about needing room for cream and sugar, because they aren’t essential to the mix. Is she telling me there is no need to dilute and over-sweeten my life? Stop looking to alter what I have in front of me, and experience it pure, and at full strength? To take life as it comes, and enjoy every sip for as long as it lasts?”

“Oh, Penelope! My darling Penelope! You’ve given me the answer that’s eluded me for my entire life, even though it’s always been right there, in my grasp, but unrecognizable! I cannot wait to savor every moment that presents itself to me in life!”

In the midst of your jubilation, she walks back and hands you the check.

“No!” you shout. “It’s not my time to go! I want to stay! You promised me more!”

"Right."

Without saying another word, she takes back the check, rips it up, and hands you a menu. A second chance. All of the choices are right in front of you. All you have to do is pick what you want. But, what if you pick the wrong thing? Should you ask her for suggestions? In your peripheral vision, you see Penelope lead a man to the booth next to you. She offers him a menu, but he declines, saying he knows exactly what he wants. God, I hate people like that.

2017-07-10T15:26:00.001-07:00

THE DOWNSIDE OF GOOGLE

Have you ever, seemingly out of nowhere, thought of a person you knew 10, 20, 30, years ago, and Googled their name? And find out they’re dead? Then open the link and see there’s still an open investigation? They’re calling it a possible homicide ~ vehicular manslaughter ~ and the police are looking to question you? You think, “How is this possible? It must be some kind of joke.” Then you scroll down and see an ad for a site called, “This Is No Joke.” You open that link and see it’s an ad for a company called “Got Them”, which is a service that creates elaborate online hoaxes to pull on your friends. So now you’re convinced it’s a joke. Then you realize, “I have Ad Blocker. Plus! I shouldn’t be seeing ads.”

Just then, someone starts knocking on the front door. You peek outside. It’s the police. A LOT of police. Now slowly, like a heavy morning fog lifting from the street, a series of events begins to unfold in your mind. It hasn’t been decades since I last saw him. I ran into him a few weeks ago, didn’t I? Is that possible? Something about all of this doesn’t feel right, but you can’t quite put all the pieces together just yet.

Now the police are pounding on the door, calling your name and shouting that they have your picture. Which sends you in a panic. Why? Who knows? Something about names today has been slightly unnerving. You run out the back door, because for whatever reason, the police in your town never seem to cover the back exits. You hop fences, running frantically between buildings and down alleys, trying not to be seen. Finally, you reach a busy street. There’s a cab sitting right there at the curb. You’ve mostly been using Uber the past year, and have been seriously thinking of switching to Lyft, because you haven’t been pleased with Uber’s business practices lately. Not only that, Douglas in his brown Nissan Sentra is six minutes away, and you don’t have time, so you cave, and jump in the taxi.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

“Anywhere,” you answer.

“Anywhere it is… Mister Egan.”

How does he know my name? And that voice. It sounds so familiar. You look in the rear view mirror to have a peek. That’s his face! The person you just Googled! He’s not dead!

“The police think I killed you! We need to tell them you’re alive!”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he sneers.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “I kinda would.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“What in particular?” you ask. Because you literally have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Three weeks ago. You were out bar hopping with your friends. I picked you up in this very cab and drove you five miles, and you ignored me the entire trip.”

“I probably didn’t recognize you.”

“I introduced myself!”

“I must not have heard you.”

“You laughed! Just like high school. We were in every class together for four years, and you never said hello to me.”

“Come on! I was drunk!”

“In high school?”

“That night!” you exclaim. “And yeah, in high school, too.”

“I’ve been waiting thirty years for this moment,” he mumbles to himself.

“Were we really in every class together?”

He steps on the gas and weaves through traffic, as your limp body bounces like a rag doll in the backseat. You finally manage to take hold of the door handle, but you can’t open it.

“Only I can unlock the doors,” he laughs.

Luckily, there’s no Plexiglas partition separating driver and passenger, so you put your hands on the top of the front seat and vault yourself over. He tries fighting you off, but you manage to reach across him to the door lock switch, and open the passenger door. You know it’s stupid, but you jump out anyway. There’s no oncoming traffic, so you tuck and roll until you slam to a painful stop at the curb. He kicks the brakes and makes a wild U-turn. The thought pops into your head: he’s going to run you over, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve seen this moment countless times in movies and TV shows, and always wondered what would be your final thought when you knew the end was seconds away. Would it be a memory of a woman you loved? Would you think back to a particularly happy time as a child? Or instead, would regrets overwhelm your senses, and run a list of maybes and what-ifs through your mind? In all of those instances, you never once considered those last seconds would be used trying to remember the full roster of every class you had in high school.

The world is moving in slow motion. You can see his maniacal grin as he directs the cab toward you. You won’t even have time to get all the way through the third row of junior Spanish. But before he can reach you, a bus rams into him on the passenger side. He’s ejected from the taxi and thrown to the street.

A witness runs up to you. “I think that guy’s dead.”

“I hope so,” you say.

“I saw the whole thing,” the witness says. “What you did? That’s vehicular homicide.” Then he takes your picture and calls the police.

Just before passing out, you quietly wonder if any of this would be an appropriate story to tell at his wake.

2017-07-10T13:27:00.000-07:00

LIFE IS SO BORING

Life is so boring sometimes. The same damn thing, day in and day out. Mind numbingly dull. Tedious. Mundane. Nothing interesting ever happens ~ it’s always the same dreary slog. Which is very depressing. Boring and depressing.

So what do you do? You go to the doctor. She asks what’s wrong, and you’re like, “Thanks for listening to the setup, doc.” You tell her directly, you’re bored and depressed. She asks if any of your friends or family have noticed any change in you. You tell her you have no friends and hate your family. So she gives you pills. You take them every day, and after a few weeks you feel slightly better. You still don't have friends, or a likable family, but neither seem to matter so much anymore. However, you’re still bored. And now, you’re putting on weight.

So, you go to your doctor. Doctor tells you to go on a diet. Now, you’re eating salads. But you’re still bored because there’s nothing exciting about lettuce. Lettuce is little more than green, chewy water. Not even the cool kind, like the green, chewy water in Olympic swimming pools. Just pieces. Stupid little pieces. The lettuce not only bores the hell out of you, it makes you feel tired. Listless. You’re finding out that green, chewy water doesn’t deliver that needed much of an energy boost.

So, you tell your doctor. Doctor says she knows just the thing for you ~ external stimulation. You think about it for a moment. Sure, she might be a little older than you, but why not give it a try? You ask her if it’s covered by your insurance. She says she doesn’t understand. But you do. That’s not really her field of expertise. Who really understands how insurance works? Not even the president. You figure, the hell with it. She can send a bill, and you’ll file for a reimbursement later. So, you start to undress. She calmly asks you what you’re doing.

You tell her. “Preparing for your external stimulation.”

She says, “I think you may have misunderstood me.”

Not the first time a woman’s ever told you that while you’re unzipping. She clarifies. “I meant, you should go out. Try new things. Go to a museum. Or the zoo.”

“The zoo?”

“Yes. Bring a friend.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“Make some.”

So, the next morning, you take your pills. Squeeze into your newly tight clothes. Put some green, chewy water in a Zip-lock bag for lunch, and go to the zoo. You get there, and what do you see? Animals in cages. Looking as bored as you. Walking around and eating grass ~ which is just another type of green, chewy water. The zoo, it turns out, is even more depressing. Then you remember the doctor told you to make friends, so you talk to a couple people as they walk past. Ask them if they’d like to hang out later. Maybe have a couple drinks. But after a while, their teachers get freaked out by your overtures, and rush all the kids back to the school buses.

So, now you’re banned from the zoo for life. Then the realization hits you ~ life. What’s that, another 50 years, give or take? At this very moment, there are animals in the zoo that will outlive your lifetime ban. Which means, decades and decades of tortoises telling the same story about you getting kicked out. Over and over again. And laughing. You wonder if it’s worth the risk to sneak back inside and confront the tortoises. If not now, maybe in fifteen years, or so, when things have cooled down. You decide against it. Why do you care what these particular tortoises think about you? It’s not like their information is going to get very far. So, you step back and reflect on it all. You wonder if anyone is really having fun, or if they’re all lying about it. Just to screw with you. What if everyone in the entire world is just like you ~ trying anything, but hopelessly failing, all in desperate attempts to keep them from being bored out of their frigging minds? And if that’s true, how many other stories do the tortoises have?

So, you go to the doctor. You did what she said, but nothing worked. Except now, you know the tortoises are laughing at you, and you’re fairly certain the world is conspiring to keep you from ever being happy. She smiles and gives you more pills. The cycle continues. Wake up. Pills. Tight clothes. Lettuce. More pills. More sleep.

Nothing interesting ever happens.

2017-04-22T10:27:00.000-07:00

Thank you for visiting my blog! I really do appreciate you taking the time to read my stories and articles.
If you like what you've read, and have a little extra time, it would mean a great deal to me if you visited Amazon and took a peek at my novel "Get Happy".
The full description, along with the first dozen or so pages, are available to read by simply clicking this link. It is available for purchase in paperback, and for your Kindle. If you happen to be a Kindle Unlimited member, it's free!
Thanks!

https://www.amazon.com/Get-Happy-Patrick-M-Egan-ebook/dp/B008RFKIZC/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1492881271&sr=1-1&keywords=Patrick+M.+Egan+Get+Happy

2016-02-18T10:02:00.001-08:00

Hello! My friend's mother makes $78 an hour working from home on her computer! Last month she earned over $50,000! Most of the time she doesn't even have to work ~ her website generates the money for her! That sounds pretty amazing, right?
Well, not to my friend. He is politely asking that you stop visiting his mother's website and giving her money. He says it only encourages her immodest behavior. True, she's an adult, and her personal conduct shouldn't be influenced by an easily embarrassed son, but she's already been kicked out of nine assisted living facilities, and the only in-home "nurses" who he interviewed turned out to not be nurses at all. His life has become incredibly challenging.
So, won't you please help my friend, and leer at pictures of somebody else's mother? He thanks you.
Also, if you've read this, you must send me $5. I'll tell you why later.

2015-08-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

GUNS. AGAIN.

Another day, another senseless incident of gun violence. This time, a reporter and a member of her news crew were murdered on-air by a disgruntled former employee.
When will we ever have an honest conversation about our obsession with guns?
Seeing how the right to bear arms is written in our Constitution, it would be a tough sell to get rid of all our guns. (Oh, and the crybabies at the NRA and various gun lobbies would naturally have something to say, as well).
I have, however, been a proponent of a buy-back program which would rid us of the excess, while maintaining the current Castle Doctrine laws ~ citizens would be allowed to keep a certain amount of guns in their house to protect against intruders. A concept that rarely ever plays out in real life ~ studies show that when guns are kept in the house, they are overwhelmingly used against others who live within the house ~ domestic abuse, suicide, or "accidental" firings.
My plan would be as follows:
1. Set a number of guns each person is allowed to own.
2. A government buy-back program for all legal guns that surpass that amount, as well as any illegal guns.
3. Gun owners would have to register and insure all guns, and go through a licensing process similar to driving a car.
4. Create a national data base similar to car owners for gun owners.
5. Gun owners would not be allowed to take their guns outside their homes unless they are: A. Selling the gun. B. Having the gun repaired. C. Going to a gun range. D. Chasing an intruder who is/was in the act of committing a crime inside the house.
6. Gun owners would be allowed to visit a gun range once a month, but they must record their activity online with the data base ~ once from home before they leave, again when they enter and leave the gun range, then finally when back home.
7. While in transit to and from the range, all guns must have the safeties on, be secured in a locked box, and stored in the trunk at all times.
8. If any of the above rules are broken, stiff monetary fines will be assessed, and gun privileges will be suspended for a predetermined length of time.
9. If a gun is used outside the home in commission of a crime, heavier monetary fines will be instilled, your gun rights will be removed forever, and you will serve a mandatory prison term.
As far as I can tell, the only way to make this work is to treat guns like cars, and scare the owners with hefty fines that would severely damage their personal finances. Only the treat of potential bankruptcy and prison will force people to be accountable.
And no, these measures will not stop "everyone" ~ society will always have a small amount of people who are going to break the law no matter what ~ but these rules will drastically drop the number of murders, suicides, and other fatalities in the country.
For those of you who still insist that "people" kill, and not "guns", I ask you to honestly imagine a scenario where there is a mass murder using a knife, bat, pipe, or other implement. One such incident did occur in China, I believe, a few years back. "ONE" incident. Not a series of weekly events as we see in this country. Guns can kill a large number of people ~ instantly, and from a distance ~ where other such weapons cannot. A victim also has a greater chance of protecting themselves, whether it be fighting back, fleeing the scene, or merely locking a door and calling the police.
The nation has a problem that needs to be honestly addressed.

In Search Of A New Cold War

2012-12-21T15:20:00.003-08:00

A thought just now occurred to me.
Since the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the demise of the Soviet Union, the GOP has been desperately searching for a new enemy in their hopes to recreate a modern-day Cold War state, which is the ideal environment for them. The Cold War allowed them to build up the military industrial state. Trillions were spent on defense and assorted weaponry. That glut of spending made many private citizens, as well as many politicians, very very wealthy. But that cannot continue without an enemy to shove in the face of America in order to justify their spending binges.
Iran turned out to be something of a bust.
The government of Afghanistan is too chaotic and backwards to be a major threat.
China? More friend than foe nowadays. And possibly more powerful.
North Korea? As far as security threats go, they are more of a petulant child who might act out by taking a pair of scissors to your leather couch.
Terrorists? Yes, but they don't necessarily belong to a country, and that's what the GOP needs ~ a physical country to be against. Terrorism as an idea is too abstract for their purposes.
No, they need an enemy that is more concrete. I believe the average GOP voter has become a little too jaded about the idea of terrorism. Fear of one particular enemy has a limited shelf-life, and once you approach the expiration date, you need to find a new product to scare your constituents, or the money supply starts to run out.
So, why not make the country to fear America itself?
And who within America are we afraid of? The mentally ill. Those crazy people who's main goal is to kill other Americans, while in the process, scaring liberals into thinking that all guns should be eliminated from society.
What can be scarier than that phone call telling you not to go in the basement?
So, Mr. and Mrs. America (subtle same-sex marriage shout-out), you are not safe! The idea of the mentally ill trying to kill you is not just a creeping specter ~ it's a chilling reality! And even if they don't get you, they WILL get your guns! So, one way or another, you are in dire trouble! Save yourself! Save America! Buy guns and vote Republican!

Please visit my page ~ Spotlight On Hypocrisy
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Review of "Get Happy"

2012-12-06T17:28:00.004-08:00

A new review was just written today for "Get Happy", and I wanted to share it with everyone:

Marie DaBlond rated it 5 of 5 stars
Daryl Gleason has hit rock bottom. In fact, he’s chiseled a hole in the rock bottom and has fallen through that. He can’t remember the last time he was -if he ever was- happy.
Daryl and his loquacious canine sidekick, Steve, embark on a fantastic cross-country journey to find the cure for Daryl’s perpetual morose apathy. Chancing upon a horde of unique and sometimes wacky characters along the way, Daryl takes away some new change in perspective from each encounter, even as his dilemma touches the lives of those he meets.
Love, loss, learning to accept gifts and reject pain, and finding your own voice are concepts beautifully and hilariously explored in “Get Happy”.

Available at Amazon and Barnes&Noble

Please visit the page and read the sample chapters, then download a copy today!

On Race

2012-10-15T15:29:00.000-07:00

I'm a little worried.

Not about the slight shift in the polls after the Presidential debate, although there is reason enough to be concerned about that matter. No, what worries me more is where we are as a country. How did we get to this point? Why did we get to this point? And more importantly, where do we go from here?

Hate, in all it's virulent manifestations, has always existed, whether we admit to personally witnessing it or not. To hide your head in the white sands of ignorance and pretend that it does not exist because some right-leaning talking head once proclaimed that we now live in a "post-racial society" is more than naive. It is enabling the culture to grow unchecked by your unwillingness to face the truth that lives all around you. Perhaps though, the problem is less not wanting to look, but more not knowing how to see.

The neighborhood where I grew up in the 70's was, at the time, the last unintegrated area of Chicago, and the white inhabitants intended to keep it that way. Being a kid, 7, 8, 9 years old, I really didn't know any better. I didn't watch the news, and if I did happen to catch a glimpse of a story about a race riot, it meant very little to me. Those activities were nothing I could personally relate to, since I never viewed them on any level with my own eyes.

That's not in any way meant to suggest that I was unaware of "them". Blacks. Although, blacks wasn't the word of choice around my house. The N-word was tossed around with such casual frequency by my father and other family members that I wouldn't be surprised to open my baby book and read that it was one of the first words I uttered.

In my defense, I did not know any better. If you're told as a child that Vic Damone is the greatest singer in the world, then you believe in the lone magnificence that is Vic Damone, because that is what your parents told you. For a long stretch of your early life, especially back in the days that preceded the internet and satellite television, your parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and family friends were your only credible news source. They informed you of a worldview that was not broadcast anywhere else. You learned of subjects that your school neglected to teach. What to eat, what to wear, pet or no pet, Pepsi or Coke, etc. And weighing even heavier than the subject matter was the commentary on the subjects themselves. What to think. Until the time when you are exposed to a wider range of ideas, and become sophisticated enough to make a valued decision on your own, your parents opinions are your opinions, too.

I'm ashamed to admit that I lived in a shadow of ignorance for as long as I did. I heard all of the jokes and thought nothing of them. They were as prevalent as the standard issue Polish/Italian/Irish jokes of the day ~ to an 8 year old, nothing more and nothing less. When they were repeated around home, school, or elsewhere, no one intervened to enlighten our under-developed minds of the inherent ugliness and hatred that clung to every punchline, or to warn us that with each laugh, we were laying the foundation to a possible future of blind hatred and corroded morals. We would stand under the flag as it waved proudly over the school's door, and cruelly dismiss and marginalize a segment of the country's population by repeating the crude jokes that were overheard, and in some cases, told to us directly, by the adults in our lives, without ever knowing just how wrong and unintentionally hateful we were.

If you've ever seen the original "Blues Brothers", then you are familiar with the scene in the park where they encounter members of the Illinois Nazi party. That idea did not randomly form in the imagination of Dan Aykroyd. It was all too true. The park was Marquette Park, on the southwest side, and the Nazis were an actual hate group with an office in the neighborhood. They would boastfully strut around town wearing Nazi uniforms, not just at parades or events, either ~ I remember seeing a man in full regalia shopping at a nearby grocery store. They were considered so commonplace in the area, that I recall being handed fliers, while in the playground during school hours, warning us of the Black Menace that was plaguing the city. The missives were as racist as you could imagine, but filled with cartoons and jokes to attract interest from us stupid kids. Why pass up the chance to cultivate a future generation of hatemongers?

One of the biggest purveyors of these sick notions was my own father. But as much as he so willingly proclaimed to anyone who would listen about how much he hated, hated, blacks, (again, I use a placeholder word here), I slowly began to notice a disconnect between his words and his actions ~ he would watch, and seemingly enjoy, black people on television. Sammy Davis Jr., Redd Foxx, Flip Wilson, and Nipsey Russell would all make him laugh, while Walter Payton and other black athletes made him cheer. Something in my young mind found this puzzling, so I asked him why he didn't seem to dislike these black people as much as the other ones I constantly heard him complaining about. What made them so different?

He replied without a moments deliberation. "There are good ones and bad ones. These are the good ones."

The response was so swift and effortless, as if he was absently answering to the question of "Fries or baked potato?", to finish out his dinner order.

For quite some time I struggled with the concept of good ones and bad ones, because as a white boy, I had heard, read, and seen my fair share of bad ones who wore the same color skin that covered my body. And if it's true that there are good ones and bad one within a race, is that in itself enough to cripple and destroy the entire race? Are we all to be judged by the worst examples of people our own color? If so, then the entire white race was just as guilty of everything we accused the black race of being. My father and his sublime bigotry provided me with an unintentional lesson in race relations.

Even though my thoughts were reaching in new directions, the neighborhood was still all white, and my friends were all white. Certainly not their fault ~ you can't blame someone for being white, just for acting white, and at this ripe age, that's really all many of us knew how to do. I was not yet old enough to drive, so that impaired me from experiencing any interactive diversity on my own. City buses were available as a mode of transportation, but you couldn't step on to one without hearing the words of your parents ringing through your head ~ "Be careful. Don't go too far away from the neighborhood. It's dangerous." As open-minded as I was, or rather, wanted to be, a fear persisted inside, one that was implanted in me as a child and could not easily be shaken off. You tried to see the world with a new set of eyes, but were continually haunted by those foundational teachings, as repulsive and wrong as they were. If the adults were attempting to create a human Pavlov's Dogs of Intolerance, they succeeded.

It wasn't until 1979 when I was 16 and working at a movie theater in the local shopping mall that I came into daily contact with African Americans. I know, sad, isn't it? Slowly, that inner fear which would unexpectedly grip me from time to time began to erode, because guess what? I realized that black people weren't any different from the white people I knew ~ some very nice, some not so nice, and a whole lot more residing between the two extremes. How could my father, and so many others like him, hate this entire group of people? Why did they hate them? It was making less and less sense to me, and I began to see my fellow white people in a new light. A light that was exposing flaws I had not previously seen. Or chosen to see.

The turning point for me occurred one day while working at the cinema. For the first time, an African American had recently been hired as an usher ~ not because of a sudden desire to compensate for years of inequality, but rather because our theater had a weekend softball team, and in his lust for wanting to crush teams from other theaters, our assistant manager tried to hire as many burly guys who applied for summer jobs as he could. Enter this African American teen, who, for the sake of this story, I will call Dave. Dave was a nice guy, kind of funny, but for the most part, kept to himself.

One day, after walking out of the theater where I just made my rounds, I entered the lobby where Dave was working as the ticket taker. For the sake of clarity, the cinema had three theaters, each with its own separate entrance, not like now, where a moviegoer would find one entrance that funnels into twelve or more separate theaters. What I found though, when walking into the lobby, was not Dave standing at the door, but rather backed into the concession counter by five white kids, all his age, but half his size. They were threatening him, throwing out the N-word, and telling him he didn't belong there. I don't know what the hell came over me, because I had never considered taking a stand against racial prejudice at any point previously in my life, but the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of Dave, telling those five white kids to get the fuck out of my theater, or I'd personally kick all of their asses. The truth is, I wasn't a big guy, and would have undoubtedly lost miserably. But there was something in my fury that spoke to them, and they left without further incident, other than calling me a n**r lover and kicking the glass entry doors, that is. I felt good about what had just happened, but then Dave opened his mouth and ruined all my self-satisfaction.

He said, "Thank you."

I was suddenly struck with a horrifying epiphany. The reason Dave kept to himself wasn't because of his personality, it was because of his geography. The mall was on the outskirts of the still all-white neighborhood in which I lived, so even though people his color came regularly to shop at the mall, he was fully aware that he was outnumbered and unwanted. Looking back on this, it was incredibly brave of him, given the time and place, to even submit an application. I can't think of one white kid who would have done the same in an all-black neighborhood. In that instant, all of the comments, all of the behaviors, I encountered over years manifested into this single moment, and I saw the world differently for the first time. There wasn't black and white. There weren't good ones and bad ones. There were just people. People who wanted to live normal lives like everyone else, but were at times scared to death by the inescapable clamps of racism. Dave was as big as any two of them, and could have knocked them senseless with exerting very little effort, but because of where he was in space and time, he was unable to stand up for himself. He needed the help of a skinny white kid with a big mouth, and that made me feel sick inside.

That was over thirty years ago, and I've never forgotten it. I wonder how many other Daves there are in the world ~ nice normal people who are weighed down by fear, and the invisible anchor of a diseased and antiquated philosophy. I thought we had progressed beyond that point in those subsequent years. Perhaps I was too hopeful, or gullible, but I actually believed that, at the very least, the success of "The Cosby Show", Michael Jackson, Oprah Winfrey, and other African Americans in the mainstream of America might relax some old prejudices and open even more eyes, but the truth is, it was always there, boiling just below the surface like a toxic oil, bubbling up from the ground occasionally, but usually plugged up in time to make any real mess.

Pardon the cliche, but 9/11 changed all that. After we were attacked, a group of powerful people realized that they could advance their own personal agendas as long as they continued exploiting our fear. Initially it was the fear of being attacked again, but it soon morphed into a fear of "others". People who weren't like "us". Once that sentiment was allowed to grow, the earth opened up and all of that lingering racism exploded, finally culminated with the extremism of the Tea Party.

So this is where we are, in an America where racism is once again the accepted norm. A place where people openly ridicule our President's skin color, a land where chairs representing Obama are hung from trees. A country where influential people claim he was not born in America and demand to see his birth certificate. (John McCain was born in the Panama Canal, but I don't remember one Democrat of any color making an equal fuss.) The most powerful country in the world, but one where a chunk of society is willing to pretend they believe the lies of the rich, white, male candidate simply so they can vote the black male candidate out of office.

Right now, the country is similar to a relapsing alcoholic ~ sober for a long time, but now binge drinking with no intention to stop. So, where do we go from here? The good news is that I don't believe it's entirely hopeless, but we are in desperate need of an intervention. We need leaders, people of authority to step in show us our disgusting behavior. Not leaders like politicians and celebrities, but community leaders, people we know personally who have actual influence over our lives. It needs to start small. Do not look the other way when someone you know behaves inappropriately. Show them how they are wrong. Humanize the issue. How would they like it if they, or someone they loved, were treated in the same manner? And if they once were, then they should know better than to repeat the cycle of hate. It will take more than just seeing the problem, the offenders will need to establish better habits. It's one thing to accept the problem, you have to want to repair it. Since it's our collective problem as a country, are were willing to take it on?

It's not easy. There's a lot to be fixed, and that's what has me worried. For better or worse, we all have to live together for as long as we're alive. Why live in hate and fear? If you say you are a Christian, then act like it. If you say you are a patriotic American, then act like that. But whatever you do, do not pretend it doesn't exist and look the other way, because eventually, the other way will circle around back to you. Apathy kills. Take a stand, for yourself and everyone else.

Thank you.

Rolled by the Right About the Role of Government

2012-10-05T09:49:00.003-07:00

One of the most important aspects of our country is that we allocate and spend money on taking care of the less fortunate, whether they are in that position terminally, or temporarily. I am willing to bet that there are very few poor people who wish to remain that way, and regardless of the fantasies that the right wing tries to proliferate, no one is getting rich, or basking in a life of luxury, from receiving Federal aid. The numbers vary, depending on the program, but the average annual amount of Federal aid received by a person living in poverty is nominal at best. In many cases, it's barely enough to scrape by. For the most part, the poor want to work, but have trouble finding jobs, because of the economy, lack of training, etc. Even when they do find work, they must negotiate and pay for day care, work clothes, transportation, and every other expense that comes with having a job.

Sure, there are a number of welfare cheats in the world, but compare the amount of money taken from the government by those people to the amount of money siphoned off by big business each year through tax breaks and incentives ~ billions that have led to no trickle down in jobs, but rather, a huge off-shore cash hoard in the trillions that don't earn a dime for American banks. And that's not even accounting for the no-accounts like Romney and his buddies that pay less than their fair share of taxes, or no taxes at all.

Blaming the poor is just another straw man, another distraction, designed to keep us from realizing their main objective, that they are they are the ones who are really robbing us blind. And with our full permission!

It's standard bagger/winger subterfuge ~ falsely blame someone else for behaving in the exact same manner that you are in order to take away focus and diminish the severity of your actions.

As a country, as a society, we can't turn our backs on people in need. But we can stop the perpetuation of greed by those who don't need any more of our money.

Don't sacrifice the needs of the less fortunate for the fortunes of those who don't need it.

Get Happy - The Novel Idea

2012-08-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

It all started with a barking dog, and ended with a self-published novel.

Everything in the middle is kind of a blur.

I have a neighbor who keeps her dog in the backyard, (several neighbors actually, but let's stick to the topic), and this poor thing barks all day, every day. Talking to the neighbor about it didn't help. Neither did complaining to Animal Control. It seemed that no matter what steps were being taken, this dog insisted on barking. And one day I wondered if perhaps there was a reason for it. Was the dog trying to say something? And even if it was, what would it matter? No one could understand it, given the obvious language gap.

At the time, I was slogging through an unfulfilling career of writing screenplays for a couple of small budget production companies. The drill was as follows:
They would tell me what kind of film they wanted.
I would pitch a story idea.
They would LOVE it.
I would write it.
They would suggest changes to it.
I would rewrite it.
They would LOVE it.
I would get hopeful.
They would then take a pass (Hollywood lingo for, "No, thanks").
A week later, we'd go back to the beginning and start all over again.

I was increasingly becoming more and more fed up with the process as time wore on, and was not in the least bit shy about expressing my displeasure with my friends and family. Then, within a two day span, and independent of each other, two different people told me I should write a novel. I wrote one once, a long time ago, but didn't go out of my way to sell it. I'm not even sure why ~ it was pretty good, seeing that it was my first attempt at such an endeavor. But at the time, I didn't think of myself as a novelist, and let the manuscript lie dormant in a drawer.

But the more I thought about this recent suggestion, the more it made sense ~ I could write what I wanted, and have complete control. If people didn't like what they read, it would be because of me, and only me, and not because of fifty random changes made by ten random producers. This would be wholly and solely MY work. I fell in love with the idea, and saw it as a creative challenge to myself.

But what to write? My first novel was too dated by now, so I couldn't pull it out of mothballs and rework it. Besides, I wanted to write something new. I looked at some of the ideas I had collected for possible screenplays, but none of them appealed to me in this new format.

Then while I was brainstorming, that damn dog started to bark. And don't ask me how, but something clicked. A brand new story popped into my head, and I started writing. Now, a few years later, I have a finished novel.

Please check it out if you have a chance. Currently, it's available as an e-book on Amazon, and there are a few sample chapters on the site for you to browse through.

While it's fun, and personally satisfying, being a self-published author, it's tough getting the word out about your work. For that I require the help of as many friends, both new and old, that I can get.

Thanks for your support, and most of all, I hope you like the book.

Here's the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Get-Happy-ebook/dp/B008RFKIZC/ref=pd_ybh_1

Hump Days and Bump Days

2012-05-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

It doesn't matter how positive your outlook usually is. It doesn't matter how hopeful you are for your future. And please, don't tell me how you've successfully embraced your inner chi and can clearly picture yourself achieving your stated goal some time in the near future, because that too, is insignificant to a plain and simple fact of human nature: Every once in a while, you will feel defeated. Regardless of how long you've had a run of "happy vibe days", you will, suddenly and without warning, have a bad day. Encounter a problem. Hit a bump in the road. Get a snag in your mental nylons. (Yes, you have mental nylons. Everybody does. Hope that didn't bum you out.)

You could be zooming through your week, experiencing nothing but happiness after amazing happiness ~ kicking ass at work and charming the hell out of everyone you meet. Maybe you even found a twenty dollar bill in that old pair of pants you finally just fit back into for the first time in over two years! What's that? You're up for a promotion? And that annoying neighbor who was throwing loud parties every other night just sold his house to an old woman who likes to go to bed at 8:30 pm? Fantastic!

Then...

Well, there's always a "then...", isn't there? "Then..." could be anything. Something could have unexpectedly broken, either down, up, or out, (perhaps all three at once), and your immediate response is to blame yourself for not being prepared for it, and/or not being able to fix it.

Maybe you ran into or heard about an friend/acquaintance/co-worker who's had an even more impressive string of good days, and it depresses you ~ for a few reasons. One, that it's not happening to you. Two, that it COULD have been happening to you, but you chose to do something different. Three, it would be wrong to kill them.

These kind of bumps are part of the Human Experience, or at least they should be. If you walk away from this essay with only one lesson, let it be that it's best to avoid people who never experience self-doubt. Why? Because they are the type of people who will insist that they are always right, or, they are liars.

The bottom line is, it's okay to doubt ourselves, because when we do that, we are in essence questioning our choices, and that's a good thing. "Am I an idiot because I don't know how to fix our plumbing issues, or is it perfectly okay to hire someone else to do the job because I can't know everything, and am sort of good at other things that a plumber might not be?" (Full disclosure ~ we are currently having a minor plumbing issue at the house. Now, back to the story...)

The problems with bumps are that bigger problems often result as a consequence of the bumps. We doubt ourselves and then wind up doing something very stupid as a form of subconscious punishment. We give the bump of doubt more weight than all of the positives that have come and gone over a much longer span of time. At the risk of sounding like a speaker at a self-help seminar, don't let that happen to yourself. We're better than that. When you have a bump, when you are absorbed in self-deprecating doubt, realize that we all go through that every now and again. And most importantly, stand up for yourself. Be the defending attorney rather than the prosecutor.

Even the very best baseball and basketball teams lose a few games every season. (Yes, I know about the '72 Dolphins, but unless you expect your lifespan to be the equivalent of a fourteen game football season, they do not adequately fit into my metaphor). We are all going to lose a few. We are all going to hit a slump. Part of the success of a person is measured in how they overcome their own personal hardships.

But you all knew that already, didn't you?

Excuse me while I go call a plumber.

$20,000 x 1,000,000

2012-05-10T13:59:00.001-07:00

(I originally posted this on Facebook, but thought I should include it here, as well.)

For those of you who are, or ever were, married, please consider for a moment how much money the total endeavor cost you and your spouse. From beginning to end. Just to touch on the highlights, there was:
The rings, (bride and groom, engagement and wedding). The invitations. The bridal gown. The tuxedo. The shoes! The flowers. The hair and makeup costs. The rehearsal dinner. Gifts for the bridal party. The limo. The church, (or other venue). The reception hall. The photographer. The DJ. The food and drinks. The hotel rooms. The honeymoon, (hotel, airfare, food, etc.). New clothes for the honeymoon....
Add to that the cost of gas, stamps, food and drinks during the planning, and the dozens of other things I missed, and it quickly adds up to often times astoundingly high numbers.
Now, take the estimated total cost of ONE wedding, (to be safe, let's lowball it at $20,000), and multiply it by hundreds of thousands, possibly even millions, over the course of a couple years. If your calculator works like mine, it will arrive at $20 BILLION! Isn't that amazing? And that's just the expenses of the couple getting married! Toss in the cost of the dresses and tuxedos for the people who stood up in the wedding, hotel and airfare for people coming in from out of town, along with all the money spent by all the other guests, and the numbers are astronomic!
That is the amount of money that could be added to our economy over the next few years if gay marriage were legalized.
Complain all you want about the sanctity of marriage being destroyed, (which I personally think to be bullshit), but while married heterosexual couples are out having affairs and getting divorced, (and thereby destroying the sanctity of marriage), the money generated from these loving people being allowed to marry each other could help many, many Americans in need.
It's that simple.

Now let's talk about pot...

Last Call

2012-05-01T13:56:00.002-07:00

(Editor's Note: I found this story when I came across the three Roy Fleming pieces. It was written around the same time period, but, as you will soon see, it has nothing to do with Roy. Then again, his mother is a bartender, so if I was looking for a connection, it could be made, but at the time this was written, it wasn't in my plans.)

LAST CALL

It seems like every week or so I'm pickin' some what you'd call arbitrary day in the future that I'm gonna change somethin' in my life. I'll be sittin' there in Flannigan's and there'll be Ray or Coots or Jimmy C. or anybody, all havin' a beer watchin' a game and I'll go, "Wednesday! Wednesday I'm gonna stop smokin'!" Or, "Mondays 'n Tuesdays I ain't gonna drink! Or at least cut back." And everyone that hears me laughs or smiles and calls me "Lyin' Pete". Most a the time no one hears me though, 'cause sometimes I maybe just mumble it ta myself 'cause I ain't so sure if the day I picked is a good one ta start just yet. And I tell 'ya, most a them ain't good 'cause it seems like something's always comin' up. But no one understands when I tell 'em that. 'Cept Wally. Wally knew. Wally knew. Great guy, Wally.

Wally'd plan a lot, too. We'd sit next ta each other, sippin' our beers talkin' how we'd quit the smokes and the booze and blow outta the city and get jobs on a train, like be a porter or somethin', so we could go cross country 'n find the perfect place ta live. Only problem was at the end a the night, I always wanted ta live in the mountains, and Wally'd always want ta live in the desert. We'd get ta yellin' at each other, callin' each other the filthiest a names, all in fun mind you, it was all in fun, then Phil the bartender'd say somethin' like, "Look at you two here, Huey and Dewey, fighting' over where yer gonna live when 'yas can't even pick a day between 'ya ta stop smokin' 'n drinkin' ta start it all!" Then we'd all get ta laughin' and someone'd buy a shot for us.

Well, the whole reason I'm bringin' this up is 'cause that was the first thing that I thought a when I walked inta Flannigan's 'n Sandy the day bartender told me Wally was dead. Really it was the second thing, 'cause the first thing I did was I looked over a couple a stools down where we'd usually sit and think it was a joke. There's a different crowd during the day, old-timers mostly, and it's a well known fact they don't like what we call the night crowd. I don't know why. Maybe we leave some sorta smell for them in the mornin' that they don't like, or like Coots once said, maybe they're jealous 'cause we're younger and can stay up later. Whatever it is, they got somethin' against us. I don't know what, 'cause no one's talkin'. You'd think they'd cut me a break though, 'cause even though I'm more of an official night crowder, I do get there early enough most days ta sip a couple with them before they leave. But, like I said, they don't like us, so I figured the Wally's dead thing ta be some sick joke. So I just smiled after a minute and said, "Right. What's the gag? I ain't payin' his tab, if that's what yer gettin' at." And I drop a twenty on the bar and order my usual draft.

Only Sandy didn't move. And if she wasn't the old witch I thought her ta be, I'd swear she was gonna start cryin'.

"I'm tellin' 'ya, he's dead. It's no gag. His Ma just called an hour ago. Wake's over at Greer's on Fifty-ninth."

All of a sudden, I was, I don't know, groggy. I guess that's what you'd call it. Like, I don't know, hitting yer head not hard enough ta go out, but just hard enough ta not know where ya' are for a few minutes. Sandy poured me a Bud 'n a shot a Wild Turkey 'n whispered, "It's on me." If this was a joke, it was a pretty big one, 'cause she ain't never give me nothin' before, and believe me, Turkey's a pretty big deal.

I didn't know what ta say. My arms started ta hurt like they was goin' numb, so I let go a the bar 'n sat down on my stool. But in my head, 'ya know, up in my head, I couldn't feel nothin'. It just felt empty. I didn't know what ta think or feel. I was, you know, what I said before. Groggy. Stunned. I don't know how long I stared at that shot before I grabbed it 'n threw it back, but it's when I tasted it that I started ta think a the mountains 'n the desert 'cause it was just last night that Wally 'n me closed the place with the same fight. He still wanted the desert 'n I still wanted the mountains. Man, the names we were callin' each other. We even picked next Thursday ta quit smokin' 'n cut back on the booze, 'cause there wasn't a game that night. That's what's hard about pickin' days in the summer. Baseball's on every night just about, 'n when we'd watch our team look like they're gonna blow another one, we'd get ta feelin' all tense and start yellin', and we'd smoke and drink even more than usual. That's why I couldn't believe it, 'cause a last night. It was fourteen hours ago we was together and he seemed fine. Drunk, but fine.

So I says ta her, I says ta Sandy, "How'd he die?" I was all worried that she was gonna say somethin' like he had a heart attack, or it was his liver, or somethin'. 'Cause if it was 'cause we ain't never picked a day before, and it came back ta haunt him, I don't know what I'd do. And, he was my age, thirty-seven, maybe younger. That didn't sit right, either. But she didn't say any a that.

"Hit by a truck. This mornin' on his way to the bank to cash his disability check."

Then about ten stools down this bastard I can't stand Tom Harris starts laughin', so I look over at him.

"Tell 'em what kinda truck!" he says. Sandy just give 'em a dirty look and turned away. There were only four other guys in there, like I said, all old-timers, George, Harry, Frank, and Mr. Mulrooney, and they all looked away, too.

"You know what hit 'em?" Harris says.

I just kept lookin' at him. "A truck. That's what Sandy says, right?"

Sandy just sipped her gin 'n tonic 'n stayed shut up.

"Not just any truck!" he says. "A Salvation Army truck! Ain't that a scream? A Salvation Army truck! You believe it?"

Like I said, I don't like this guy Harris. A real clown. Thinks he's Jay Leno, or somethin', which he ain't 'cause I ain't never laughed at anything he said even though some people do. But I thought this was too much, even for him, to be makin' jokes about Wally after bein' dead for just half a day.

Sandy musta known what I was thinkin', 'cause she looked at me all sorry-eyed and nodded, so I guess it was true, but Harris kept laughin' anyway.

"They said they had ta hit 'em! Stock was runnin' low, 'n they needed some a their old clothes back!"

Mr. Mulrooney mumbled at him to shut up, and "You're not funny, Harris," is what I told him.

     "Like I said, I'm just quotin' fact," is what he says back. And he's got that kinda grin, the kind that as soon as you see it, you want ta smack it off his face. And I woulda too, and he knows it, if it wasn't for my bum leg. I've been on disability myself for over a year with the city since I fell off the side a the garbage truck during my route. She hit a pothole in an alley 'n I lost my grip 'n fell underneath 'n got smashed by a tire. If one a the guys hadn't yelled ta Carlos the driver ta stop, it woulda ran tight over the whole leg the way i was layin', and I'll give 'ya odds I woulda lost it. So now, no lie, my left knee and ankle will just flare up on me, sometimes when I'm just goin' to the bathroom. My lawyer says I'm not s'posed to be doin' anything what you call strenuous until 'til after the lawsuit. He says, he says after his cut, I'll be comfortable for life. Money-wise, that is. Who knows if my leg'll ever feel comfortable again. Well, that money's what was gonna set me up in the mountains. Or the desert. Whenever the hell it comes.

     Disability's another thing Wally 'n me had in common. He was shot by a cop. While he was sleeping. Who ever heard a anything like that? He was in his own apartment, passed out in bed, when about five in the morning or so, the cops bust in the door of his next door neighbor. I don't know what the guy did, Wally said he only met him a few times, never much of a talker, but the cops say he pulled a gun on them, so they shot at him. 'Cept, one a the cops missed, and missed bad. Two bullets went through the wall and hit Wally. One went in his right hip, the other tore completely through his upper arm and went inta his chest. Just missed his heart by an inch, is what they say. It was in the papers. He was gonna have the story framed, but he never got around to it. Some big shot in the department tried ta say it was just friendly fire. Wally'd say, "Nothing friendly 'bout nearly gettin' shot ta death while yer sleepin'!" I tell 'ya, sometimes he'd play up that shoulder 'n hip like they was gonna fall off when he'd see the doctor, which didn't really make any difference, 'cause he was set-up for life after the settlement. His lawyer got him a big lump payment, plus a check every week for the rest of his life. Which I guess, stopped today. I don't know.

     Sandy poured me another shot 'n a beer, then took my twenty and give me back twenty in change. That was her way a givin' me a freebie without lettin' on ta everyone what she's doin'. But, believe me, it was no secret. Everyone knew. Both Mr. Mulrooney and Frank said more than once that they was real sorry 'cause they knew how much we got along. Harris just kept up with his wise mouth stuff. "Remember that green striped short sleeved shirt he had? I liked that. Maybe tomorrow I'll go pick it up for half a buck." They'd tell him ta shut his mouth, but he wouldn't listen. We got a couple reasons why he's the way he is. He usta be a night guy like us, then his hours changed, and now he hasta come in drinkin' durin' the day. That might be one thing, him havin' ta sit with all the old guys. The other is, he hasta work and we don't, so he's kinda spiteful. And if either one were really the case, he'd be mad at more than half a the people who hang out here. Why he's all over us is beyond me.

     He was still layin' inta Wally when the regular night crew started comin' in. None a them knew and Phil, who took over for Sandy, told 'em when they came in. They'd look over at me first thing when they heard, and they'd set me up with a couple drinks. I couldn't down 'em fast enough. No matter how much I drank, there'd always be about another fifteen white chips sittin' in front a me waitin' to be cashed in. By now, Harris is half in the bag, and says somethin' else about Wally. Something like, "It certainly was salvation for me!", whatever the hell that means, when Big Steve Brady stands up 'n says, "If you don't get outta here now, I'm gonna make sure you're laying in the room across the hall from Wally at Greer's!" Harris was about ta say somethin' when Big Steve looks at him real fierce and says, "Closed casket." Oh man, that scared the crap outta everyone in the room. Harris didn't say anything. He just pocketed his change and split. You shoulda heard the room after. Everyone cheered and laughed. "Aw right Big Steve!" half of 'em yelled. The other half were laughin', "Closed casket!" Then Big Steve comes over 'n pats me on the back. I don't know if anyone seen it, but that's the way Big Steve is. He takes care a people he likes, and he liked Wally 'n me. Closed casket. I ain't never heard a anything like that before. That even scared me. No kidding.

     All the regulars were there 'n the place was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night. I heard Phil say to Jimmy C., "Business is great. One a yous guys should die every week!" They looked over at me, and I'm laughin', "Let's kill Harris next! That'll pack 'em in!"

     "Who'll mourn him?" this guy Leo screams.

     "No one!" I says. I says, "We'll just be happy to get rid a him!" Biggest laugh I ever got in there. That one got me even more chips. "Wally's bein' dead's really gettin' me loaded," I mumble to myself. And Phil hears me.

     "Don't get too faced," he says ta me. That's one a his favorites - don't get too faced. "You wanna make it to the wake in one piece tomorrow."

     "I'll be there," I says. "No matter."

     "Hey, Pete," Big Steve says. "'Ya need a ride tomorrow?"

     I had a mouthful a beer, so I swallow and go, "Nah. I'll just take the bus." Then I take another sip, right?

     Then this guy Mickey D. goes, "Be careful crossing the street!"

     Now, the whole place went nuts, and I just about choked on that beer. "Just spit it out!" Coots goes. "What a 'ya savin' it for? 'Ya got twenty more coming anyway!"

     I started coughin' from laughin' so hard, and I couldn't swallow the damn thing, so Big Steve, like I said, always takin' care a people, slaps me on the back, like I'm some screwed up old TV set. I'm just lucky beer was the only thing that come outta my mouth he hit me so hard. But I'm laughin'. So hard there's tears comin' outta my eyes. Big Steve gives me a pat on the back after. A soft one.

     Before we know it, Phil's flickin' the lights and screamin', "Last call! 'Ya hear me? Last call!" Well, we all get ta moanin' just like we do every other night he does it, but this time he starts wavin' his arms at us ta all be quiet.

     "Listen," he goes real loud. "Listen. If you alls can keep yer mouth shut, the last round'll be on me."

     That shut everyone up, I'll tell 'ya that. Sure did shut 'em up. And quick.

     Then Jimmy C. goes, "Hey Pete," he goes. "You need a wheelbarrow to carry those chips home?"

     "Nah," I go. "Stick 'em in my pocket," is what I says.

     So when Phil's pouring my last shot 'n a beer, he goes, "Who yous gonna argue wit anymore?"

     "Argue?" I says. And I'm thinkin', "Who do I argues wit?"

     "Yeah, argue," he says. "All that mountain and desert stuff. You gots no one ta bicker wit anymore. You jus gonna go ta the mountains on yer own now?"

     "Yeah. I dunno. Guess I could, huh? Whenever that settlement come in."

     Then Ray lifts up his beer and goes, "Here's ta Wally! Wherever he is, heaven or hell, I'll tell 'ya one thing - it's looks better than this place!"

     We all laughed 'n took a drink.

     "Yes sir," Phil goes. "It's gonna get lonely around here wit out you two goin' off on each other."

     Then Coots looks at me and goes, "Aww, you guys was all messed up anyways."

     "How's that that we're all messed up?" I says.

     "You had it all wrong, is what I say," Coots goes. "Mountains and desert. The ocean's where 'ya should go!"

     "The ocean!" I says, and I had ta laugh. I go, "'Ya got hurricanes down there! And floods!"

     Coots yells back, "Yer nuts! Floods? There's no floods! When you ever hear a the ocean flooding?"

     "Oh, there's floods!" I says. "And mudslides! Floods and mudslides!" I scream at 'em. Old Coots, he doesn't watch news a lot. So, "Watch the news!" is what I says to 'em.

     "There's no mud at the ocean! Mud's in the mountains! Where you wanna go!"

     "No no no no no!" I go. "No ocean for me," I go. "'Ya got the hurricanes," I go. "And the floods!"

     "Here we go again," says Phil, and he starts ta laughin', 'n so does everybody else.

     The ocean. Geez. I just had to laugh. Some people just don't get it, you know? I pounded my beer and collected up my chips.

Shakespeare And The Lies

2012-04-16T16:25:00.003-07:00

(Here is another story in the Roy Fleming series. Enjoy.)

SHAKESPEARE AND THE LIES

God, I am so sick of Shakespeare! That's all these excuses for English teachers talk about is Shakespeare! Shakespeare, Shakespeare, Shakespeare! Like there's been nothing else worthwhile written since the early 1600's. That's probably why Hemingway shot himself, I bet. Some windbag of a literature professor ran into him one day and said, "You know, Ernest old boy, your writing is good and all, but it's certainly no match for a four-hundred-year-old dead guy that wrote in a language we barely understand nowadays. Try tossing in a few thees and for art thous'."

I'd jump in a boat and pull the trigger, too.

And Beowulf? Come on! You might as well read a thousand pages of doctor's prescriptions. It's all a conspiracy. It is. Why else would teenagers be forced to read that junk? You know why? Because there's a truth hidden somewhere that no one wants us future generations to know. For centuries they've been shoving this crap down our throats and telling us it's meaningful. Maybe it was back then, when people thought witch burning was normal, but it doesn't do much for us now. And even if there are some issues in those dusty old books that might have some meaning today, isn't there a much more modern book that might say the same thing? I know there are, because I've read some. Why won't they let us read those books in class?

Salinger would be perfect, but forget about ever reading him in the classroom. Adults tried to ban his books, saying they were inappropriate for us dumb kids because of all the bad language and sexuality. Yeah, we all lead such sheltered lives. I guess they never bothered to read any of that Chaucer they force on us. Really though, what are they thinking? I mean, come on, do they really believe teenagers are sitting around thinking, "I'm so bored. What I really need is some good reading this weekend. But what to get? What to get? Oh! I know! How about some John Bunyan? Yeah! Nothing says fun weekend for a teenager than reading The Pilgrim's Progress!" It won't make any sense unless you have an interpreter, and even if you did, nobody'd want to read it anyway. Except of course, the few phony romantic girls, who at age sixteen, think they actually have a grasp on the language and swear they need no help getting through it. They just want to impress, is all. Get straight A's. Go to college and major in Romance Languages, like there's so much of a calling for that, just so they can sit around with their little girly clique one day and say, "Oh, have you ever read, Beowulf? What a thoroughly wonderful poem! Of course, in terms of emotional content, it's no match for Romeo and Juliet!" "No, of course not!" the rest would chime in, then all release these lofty chuckles above each others heads, sip their demi-tasse, and chain-smoke their extra-long filter-tips.

I know it happens, because I've seen people like that. That whole picture could be erased if there only wasn't so much emphasis placed on these out-of-date books. But there is, and I think I know why.

     Part of it is, they want us to live in the past, instead of the present and the future. Youth intimidates them. Them, being the adults. They all treat people like me as if we're idiots with no opinions of our own. And then when we do express an opinion, they act like we're idiots for even thinking it. Then those kids grow up to be adults with absolutely no opinions of their own except the one that was jammed into their heads when they were young: that kids shouldn't have any opinions of their own, and if they do, they're stupid ones. So then they wind up doing exactly what they hated when they were kids, and that's treating teenagers like idiots and forcing their own opinions on them. Hell of a vicious circle, isn't it?

     It's all a superiority thing. That's why they keep alive the myth of Shakespeare being important - as long as kids don't understand the real truth, the adults and teacher can act all powerful pretending they do, and continue to make the kids feel insignificant. Give them all Nelson Algren books. Or Catcher in the Rye, and let's see what happens. There'd be a revolution. Full scale.

     I've kinda felt that way for some time now, about Shakespeare and the lies, but I never said anything about it before. That is, not until today. All the pieces finally came together. Second period. Mrs. Pritzer's class. I sat there the whole time not saying a word. I just waited. I waited 'cause I knew she was going to mention him. And not just once. It was gonna happen a lot. She just loves saying his name. So I set myself a limit. Ten Shakespeares, and it was all gonna hit the fan. Big time.

     The class goes forty-five minutes, and half of it didn't even pass before she hit us over the head with eight. I said nothing. Didn't even turn a page or take notes. Even if I wanted to, all I'd write was, "She said his name again."

     A few minutes later she tossed out the ninth one, and I pushed my chair away from the desk a little. Then, and I still don't know what strange dimension of reality this one was pulled out of, but she decided to ask me a question.

     "Mr. Fleming? Are you alive back there? You look sick."

     I only stared at her, 'cause I made that promise to myself not to say anything until the limit was met.

     "Okay, Mr. Fleming, how would you compare what we've been talking about to the themes of Shakespeare's Hamlet?"

     That was it. Not just the tenth, but The Trap. No matter what my answer, it would be ridiculed and considered wrong. Even if I had been paying attention to what they were talking about. That's the way it always was. I was going to put a stop to it, though. Not just for me, but for future generations.

     I skidded back my chair and pointed directly at her face. "Shakespeare is full of shit! Why can't adults tell us the truth? Why do you think we can't handle it? I refuse to be a prisoner of the past!"

     Now it was her turn to be silent. Man, did I blow her away. I looked around at the rest of the class and I think they were pretty impressed 'cause I saw all the smiles. You could tell they were waiting a long time for someone to stand up and say what they've been secretly thinking. I felt powerful for once, and I knew in that moment what I had to do. "I'm going to start the revolution!", is all that filled my head. All I could think about. I wanted to gather together my peers, show them the truth that had been hidden from us for so long, and march them all to victory.

     There'd be lots of marching. What revolution would be complete without it?

     I guess I got pretty caught up in the whole thing, because somehow I ended up in the library. Kinda like how you daydream in the shower, and then when you're drying off, you can't for the life of you remember if you washed your hair or not. You distinctly remember washing it the day before, but not just two minutes ago. Only this time, instead of having dirty hair, I was in the library. Sitting on the floor between two rows of fiction, and my lap completely blanketed by books. Good books, at least. Suddenly, I couldn't remember where my books were, or how I ended up like this. I figured I must have left them on a table, and came over here to check something. It bugged me though, how I had become this space head. I hate people like that.

     But, I guess, for all the negatives I had stacked against me, like having a lousy memory and being covered by books, there was one big plus on my side. It was real quiet. Nobody talking. Which meant, nobody lying. And, most importantly, nobody mentioning that guy's name. Very tranquil. That's a nice word, isn't it? Tranquil. Just saying it makes you feel all calm inside. It's a naturally soothing word. I think it's the qui part. The same three letters start the word quiet, and I don't think that's a coincidence.

     QUIet...tranQUIl...real peaceful.

     "Roy? Sweetheart?"

     I knew that voice, and it wasn't Mrs. Pritzer. Besides, to her, I'm always Mr. Fleming. No, that voice belonged to my mother. What I wanted to know was, why was she in the school library? I hope it wasn't to give me lunch money, or something. Parent's can be so embarrassing sometimes.

     "Be careful, Mrs. Fleming. I think he's on drugs."

     "He's not on drugs. My god, you people are clueless. And the name's not Mrs. Fleming. It's Ms. Crowley. Now please, let me, okay?"

     Why would anybody think I was on drugs? I was just looking at some books. That's all. Adults are so suspicious. All part of their need for control and power. More lies.

     "Roy...?"

     She was being so quiet. I assumed it was because we were in the library and all, but she could have read my mind and knew about the qui part. Could be.

     "Roy, what are you doing?"

     "Just looking at books. Modern books. What are you doing here?"

     "They called me at home."

     "Who? Why?"

     "Vice-Principal Jensen. He said something happened in your English class today...?"

     I looked at all the titles scattered around me and tried to make some sense out of it, but all I could think of was Shakespeare and the lies, so I just said that to her. A few times. I figured she'd know.

     She reached out and gave my hand a little tug. I knew what it meant: she wanted me to look up at her. I did, and she looked so sad. Now I kinda half wondered if someone died. People always have a different look on their face when someone dies. It might not always be honest, but it is very specific. Maybe that's why she came - to talk about someone dead. Or, maybe even to talk about someone not dead. At this point, it was too soon to tell. Either way, I didn't like seeing her like this, so I turned my eyes back down to the floor. But then this weird thing happened. I don't know whether my ears were plugged up or what, but nothing sounded right. It was like when you jump into a pool. A real deep one. There's noise when you're on the diving board, then you hit water, and nothing. Everything is smothered. Strange that it would happen in a library.

     "Pumpkin, what happened today?"

     Then, like I shot to the top of the pool, everything came back to me. My sound and vision were both clear. And I started crying. A lot. Niagara Falls crying. Like I'd been held in solitary confinement for a year, then released and shown "It's a Wonderful Life". The only difference was, these weren't happy tears, because when I looked back up at her, I wanted to just lash out.

     "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

     "About what?"

     "Not what. Who! Why didn't you tell me he was alive?"

     "Oh, Roy." I could tell she wanted nothing more than to look away, but I had my eyes locked good and hard onto her, and there was no letting go.

     "I saw him last night. He's very much alive!"

   The muscles in her face flinched a couple times, then she got all whispery. "What do you mean, you saw him?"

     "I mean, I saw him. My father. Last night. I was coming home from Amy's and there he was, sitting there in his car, as calm as can be, just staring up at our apartment."

     "What makes you think it was your father?"

     "Because he said to me, Hi Roy, I'm your father! All 'ya had to do was look at him, and you knew."

     "Why don't we go home, Sweetie?"

     "I don't want to go home!"

     Then the brilliant Mr. Jensen added his two cents. "I'm afraid it isn't that easy. We have to stop at Principal Danker's office first..."

     That really set off my mother. "Look! If you want to do something helpful, you can clear the crowd of gawkers away from the door, and then shut it on your way out! I'll handle this. Now, go!"

     Being a bartender, she can act real tough like that when she needs to. I wanted to see what Jensen thought of it, but he had already started stomping away like a baby before I had the chance.

     "Come on, Roy." She pulled on my arm to help me up, but all I really wanted was to stay put on the floor. "Roy, please."

     "No! Why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me he was dead? Adults. Lies. I thought you were different, but you're all the same. All the damn same."

     "I never told you he was dead. I told you he was gone. You're the one who assumed gone meant dead."

     "Then why didn't you set me straight? At least then I woulda known he was alive. I coulda kept contact with him, or something!"

     "Roy..."

     "I couldn't sleep. I sat up all night thinking of all the things we coulda done. Wondering why you never told me. I heard you come home from work, but I hated you so much for lying, I couldn't leave my room."

     "I always meant to tell you someday, but..."

     "...But what? What, mom?"

     Now she started crying, too. I swear, it's always about her. "I couldn't. I just...how do you tell your five-year-old boy, or your teenage boy, that his father left because he found another woman that he thought was prettier than Mommy?"

     I was stunned. Stunned to the point of shaking. It was a possibility that never crossed my mind. I figured 'cause she never told me, that it was something she did. Not him. Now I felt stupid.

     She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out a crumbled Kleenex, and sat with me on the floor.

     "So, umm, what did he say? What did he want?"

     "He said he wanted to see me."

     "Mmm. And, why did he say we aren't together? Or did he?"

     "Yeah, he did. He said things didn't work out."

     "Right. Things didn't work out. It's real hard for things to work out when all you do is lie to your wife and tell her you're working overtime when you're really spending the night with another woman. And I suppose he told you he misses you, and thinks about you a lot."

     That hurt. "Yeah."

     "Yeah. Me, too. Every month for about a year, he'd call me and say the same shit. I miss you. But he'd never act on it, you know, never leave her, or even pretend that he wanted to make it all work again. Just, I miss you. And for a while, I believed it. Then I realized that those three words were just his way of controlling me. And a good way of relieving his guilt. So, I just let go. Letting you believe he was dead was one of the ways that helped me get through it. I swear, I never thought it would hurt you, because I never thought he'd come back."

     "I'm sorry."

     "No no no no. Don't you be sorry. You're right. I should have told you."

     The very top of my head started to throb. Information overload, maybe.

     "Who was it?"

     That one question totally changed her expression. She didn't seem so sad anymore. Now she looked downright aggravated.

     "It doesn't matter, Roy."

     "What? Another thing you're not going to tell me?" I could get just as annoyed as she can.

     "Even if I told you, it wouldn't mean a thing. You didn't know her."

     "Are they still together?"

     "I have no idea. Didn't he say anything to you about it?"

     "Don't get mad at me. I just asked a question." Boy, she can get snippy sometimes.

     "Sorry..."

     Just when it seemed like she was ready to give in and fill me in on everything, we heard this screaming from clear across the other side of the room.

     "Roy! Let me in, damn it! Ro-oy! Jenny! Where are you?"

     Amy. Great, now I really felt foolish. My mom flashed me this coy little grin. At least I think it was supposed to be coy.

     "My god! What happened! All those books! Did someone push a shelf over on you?"

     I couldn't help it, but I started laughing. So did my mom. Then for some stupid reason, we both started to cry simultaneously. It was like we didn't know what the hell to do. This didn't sit too well with Amy, though. She must have thought we were laughing at her.

     "Well, what then? All I know is Julie Marshall told me you went crazy or something about Shakespeare, ripped up your book, and marched out of the room screaming something about a revolution."

     "Oh, Christ..." My stomach started to hurt now.

     Mom took Amy by the hand. "Can you leave for a while?"

     "You mean, can I cut? Yeah, but my mom won't be too thrilled."

     "She won't know. And if she does, I'll take care of it. Are you okay to leave now, Pumpkin?"

     I nodded, and brushed a couple books off my lap.

     "We can go to Conrad's. Have some lunch and talk."

     By now, Mom and I seemed pretty relaxed, but Amy was still a little fidgety. "So, what happened? Is anybody gonna tell me?"

     "Let's get out of here first," then she reached down with her other hand to help me up. I didn't let go this time.

     "Do you still hate me?"

     "No. I just wish you woulda told me the truth in the beginning."

     "I know."

     The rest of the books on top of me fell off when I stood. They were mostly hardcovers, so it sounded like a big game of dominoes. What I didn't realize until we were almost out the door was that I was unknowingly clutching on to this Vonnegut book. A newer one that I hadn't read before. For a moment I honestly thought about going up to the desk to check it out, but I thought that really would have seemed nuts.

Found Not Looking

2012-04-12T16:27:00.000-07:00

(Editor's Note: Far too much of my writing from the 90's has been lost due to my early battles with technology, either as a result of my forgetting to backup the hard drive in case the computer crashed ~ and back then it always did ~ or because the floppy disc I used did not have the life span that it promised when first purchased. I recently found some short stories written from then that survived, mainly because they were written on a typewriter (!) and probably duplicated at a Kinko's, which means, in order to share them with you, they must be retyped. Retyped, not rewritten. At least, that's my intent. I'm sure a couple things will need to be cleaned up here and there, but I will try to remain as faithful to the original version as possible.
Anyway, here's the first of the batch. I started to write a series of stories about a character named Roy. I've only found three of them so far, although I do believe a few more exist. Hopefully they will turn up someday. So, in no particular order, here is the first installment.)

Found Not Looking

     I'm not too thrilled about it, but I'm going to spend the weekend in Wisconsin with my mother. It was either that, or spend it under the watchful eye of Gladys, the seventy year old widow across the hall. If her wrinkles and smell don't kill you, it's that stuff she shoves down your throat she dares to call food that will. Why I can't take care of myself for two days is a huge mystery to me - I mean, come on, I'm sixteen, not five. It's not like I'm going to fry meat next to an old pile of papers, or play in the tub with a clock radio, or anything. And why is it okay for me to be alone at night when she works at the bar, but not now? I don't know. You treat a kid like a kid for too long and they develop complexes. That's what I think.

   Anyway, don't get me wrong, I think Wisconsin's a great place. I've been there about a thousand and twenty times, but all those were on vacations, or something like a vacation, and believe me, this is not a vacation. My Aunt Bridget went off the deep end again. We found out last night and I swear, my mom hasn't stopped crying since. Even here in the car. I've been trying not to bug her 'cause I know she's upset, so I haven't said anything the whole trip, and, I even let her listen to her own radio station the entire way without one complaint, but I don't know, seems like every time we see a sign on the road just telling us how much further we have to go, she immediately busts up. Five miles outside of Chicago Ridge, I gave up on constantly reopening the glove compartment and just pulled out the box of Kleenex and dropped it in the seat between us.

   I said, "went off the deep end again", because she has a long history of going off the deep end. She's like the Olympic diving champ of crazy. A lot of the earlier stuff I don't know about, probably because of that age discrimination thing again, but in the past few years I've listened in on enough conversations to think I'm pretty well informed. I don't have the time to go into everything, that is, unless you don't mind me me going gray and having grandkids before I'm finished, but I will tell you about the last episode before this.

     It was about a couple weeks ago, July third to be exact. I know that for a fact because my mom had to make a similar trip up there the very next day, leaving me unable to watch any fireworks 'cause I was stuck inside Gladys' all day, eating three meals of this crummy mush that tasted like greasy bread and liver. I was sick for two days. Anyway, my loony Aunt Bridget picked July third to announce to all of her neighbors that she was suddenly psychic, which is odd enough, but apparently, she could only perform her powers when totally naked. And that's how she spent that day informing everyone. I don't know all the details, but I got this picture in my mind of Aunt Bridget, who's really not too bad looking for a woman in her upper thirties, completely nude, skipping up and down the streets in broad daylight screaming, "I'm psychic! I'm psychic!", and pointing at people sitting on their front porches or looking out their windows, "Your favorite color is blue!" "You wish you were a car mechanic!" "You have trouble doing long division!" I'd love to know what really happened, and, why she thought she could only be psychic when she was naked, but my mom is crying all over the place. It's gotten to the point where hotels signs are making her weep. And excuse me, but that's one thing I can't deal with - when people try telling you stories while they're crying. Gasping for air in between words, stopping all the time to blow their nose...if there's any humor at all in the story, that's certainly gonna wreck it.

     The only thing that's keeping me going is the fact that when we get there, I don't have to hang around. I already asked a couple times, so everything's settled with that at least. Aunt Bridget's house is only a block or so from the woods, so I'm gonna go in there and meditate. I've never done it before, but I've been reading "The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac, and as far as I can tell, the two things the characters really like to do are meditate, and play yabyum. Yabyum is some sex position, I guess, where the man and the woman sit facing each other and don't move for something like ten hours. Obviously, between those two choices, I'm limited to meditating. Which is fine with me, 'cause I've wanted to do it ever since I read about it early on in the book. That's not to say I never wanted to try yabyum, but given the circumstances, meditation seems like the easiest one for me to get involved in.

     Plus, who's got ten hours to do something like that? I guess my question is, even if you did have the time, what do you do for the ten hours? Do you talk? And if you do, what do you say? I don't think I'm being insensitive when I say that ten hours with anyone is a lot of conversation time to kill. I just can't imagine being locked in the same sex position with a naked woman and getting to the stage where you're talking about what chances the Cubs have next season. You know what I mean? I really think you can only say "I love you", "Wow, this feels good", and "You've got a great body", for so many hours before it gets boring. I really have to finish this book and see what they're trying to accomplish. I'd get into it now, but reading in a moving car gets me supremely nauseous, and I already don't feel so hot as it is. Long car rides in general get me sick. I could never be an Indy driver - I'd fall asleep after the twentieth lap and kill everyone. I would. I know it.

   "Wake up, Pumpkin. We're almost there."

     See? I fell asleep. It just hits me and BOOM, I'd swerve and take out all the other drivers. I really wish she hadn't woken me up until we pulled in front, though. We're still about three blocks away. If there's one thing I hate, it's being woken up from a nap while the car is still moving. When I wake up like that, I usually feel worse than I did before I fell asleep, and I like to end that feeling immediately by stepping out. This only makes me feel cruddier. But I can't tell that to her. Not now. She'd start bawling again, then when we did get to the house she'd never stop. I know her with these crying jags. She's incredible. I think I'll put a character like her in one of the novels I'm gonna write. A woman who never stops crying. Winning the lottery would be no different than misplacing your keys to her, she'd just be a crying and sniffling wreck. My mom's not that bad, but characters in novels are always exaggerations of people you know. I read that somewhere.

     It wasn't as bizarre as I thought when we walked in. Since I'd never been to one of these deals before, I kinda half-expected to find Aunt Bridget in a straightjacket and chained to the wall, all wild-eyed struggling to break free while these big orderly guys stood by with whips and clubs wait for her to get good and loony. But it wasn't like that at all, which is good, 'cause I don't think I could have handled that. What happened was this nice old man in short sleeves and gray pants answered the door and introduced himself as Dr. Miller. He's Bridget's psychiatrist. I know that from eavesdropping. "Dr. Miller this", and "Dr. Miller that", is all you ever hear my mom say. It's half her conversation. I'm not kidding.

     He patted my mom on her shoulder, giving her the whole whispery, "Jenny, I'm so sorry" routine, then shaking my hand like we were long time business associates, or something. That's better than the old guy rubbing your head and calling you Junior. I just want to scream when they do that. Or, recite every four and five syllable word I know along with their definitions to prove I'm not a little kid.

     My mom squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I was one of those communications like, "Well, this is it. I hope I can do it," followed by, "You can. Just be brave." Sometimes, those tacit moments that only you can understand are pretty cool. Tacit, in case you don't know, means "unspoken". It's a word I came across last week. Maybe I'll use that one if anybody ever calls me Junior. Or maybe, I'll just stare at them, real tacit-like.

     There were about ten people there, most of them I knew, but it was still kinda strange because it was more like a small party that what it really was - people getting together to decide if Bridget needed to be put away for good. They were all standing around in small groups talking, breaking away for a minute to say hi to me and mom, then going back to what they were doing before like it was all no big deal. To top it off, Dr. Miller's wife laid out this buffet table, right there in Bridget's living room, with sandwiches, salads, and a bunch of desserts. It was too much. I wanted to comment on how inappropriate it seemed, but Mom was on the other side of the room already, and I was, after all, pretty hungry, so I didn't say anything more than hello, and ain't it a shame, to a couple people who tried to talk, and made a beeline to the table and dug right in.

     About twenty minutes later I felt fed enough, and secure enough, to leave the house and go out to the woods. I mean, Aunt Bridget was in her bedroom asleep, I guess, and my mom was busy doing the group console thing with everybody, which left me with nothing to do anyway. She just told me to be back for dinner, which, when I think about it, was never given a specific time. What time do people visiting a crazy woman in Wisconsin eat dinner? I'm guessing six-thirty, seven.

     But, like I said, that's just a guess.

     While I was looking for a good tree to meditate under, I started thinking about Aunt Bridget and how much fun she used to be. It was eleven years ago this summer that her and Uncle Rick moved up here from Chicago. I don't remember too much about being five years old other than coming up here for a few weeks at a time and goofing off. I'd just get out of the car and start laughing and running. Step out of the front or back of the house, and start laughing and running. Never really knew where I was running to, only I knew I wanted to, and when I'd gone too far, someone would call me back. Kids are amazing. All they ever want to do is run. Now here I am, in the same place I was when I was a kid, and I'm looking for the perfect tree to sit under so I can meditate.

     Getting old is a real strange deal sometime.

     I don't know anything about Wisconsin trees really, other than some have leaves, and some have needles. I chose a big old leafy one so I wouldn't get a butt full of needles. I figured it would be hard enough to clear your mind without all if that going on, too.

     Just in general, it's not easy to clear your mind. You know, make it a total blank. It's near impossible. One of the characters in the book said that you're supposed to relax and empty your mind of thought, or something like that, but I can't. I mean, it works for a little while, then goofy things start popping into my head. Things like Aunt Bridget with that long crazy black hair of hers, chasing me around the yard, then running out of breath and her falling on me,wheezing and laughing like some mad woman. And then four months later going to Uncle Rick's funeral and seeing her with those big dark sunglasses on, crying and wiping her cheeks every ten seconds. Then coming back up here the next couple summers after that and wanting her to chase me, but winding up just running in circles by myself and falling down like some aired-out balloon.

     I opened my eyes as wide as I could until I heard a stretching sound inside my head, and then shut them again. For about five whole minutes, it was working just fine, until I started thinking about breasts. I don't know why, but it's this odd subconscious kick I've been on lately. Whenever I'm not thinking of anything important, and my mind starts wandering, I suddenly start thinking of breasts. Nobody's in particular, just random female breasts. In fact, as gruesome as it sounds, there's never a head attached. Not that I'm imagining decapitated women, or anything like that. It's just that I never see the head to know who's they are. I only picture the breasts, and part of the stomach. Sick, huh?

     I'd like to say that it's not my fault, but it is my mind, so I guess I have to take some responsibility. The strange part of it is I've only seen breasts once in my life, last year at the community pool. I was kinda dating this girl named Cindy Bowers, for only about three months, and the whole time never got more than a kiss or two. Then, one day we go to the pool, and she flashes me! Right outta the blue! Which, really, is no big deal, if you knew Cindy. I mean, she's a nice girl and all, but she was only fifteen at time time, and they were nothing to marvel at, so believe me when I say, these breasts I'm seeing in my head are not, nor ever were, Cindy Bowers'. I can't say who's they are, 'cause like I said, there's no head. I never told anybody this because I'm afraid they'd start analyzing me and figure out I should be put away with Aunt Bridget.

     I'm hoping it's just a phase.

     I decided to give up on the lotus position, which is the way they say to do it in the book. My legs aren't that stretchy. I'm able to fold them how they should be and all, but forget about trying to hold them like that for any length of time. I don't know how people can clear their minds and sit like that 'cause all I can think about is "How long do I have to sit like this?", which kinda interferes with the whole clear-your-mind business. I'm figuring it's like the whole Ten-and-Two thing. They teach you in Driver's Ed. to think of the steering wheel like a clock, and to drive with your hands set on the ten and the two. We all do it during the lessons, 'cause otherwise they won't give you your stupid license, but in the real world, nobody does it. My mom, for instance, keeps her right hand on the six, and her left hand in her lap. I noticed that today. And we didn't get in some fiery crash. So, I figure, as long as you get to your destination, who the hell cares where your hands are? Or your legs, for that matter?

     I have to say, it is kinda relaxing, sitting cross-legged with your back real straight, thinking about nothing and just taking in all the sounds and smells. Wisconsin has this great smell around August like nothing I've ever smelled back in Illinois. It's like there's this contest where every tree and plant is trying to outdo each other. Kinda like walking past the saleswomen at the perfume counters of a department store: "Hello, would you like to try some Oak today?" "May I interest you in Bunches of Purple Flowers?", and stuff like that. Only the trees don't pretend to be twenty years younger than they really are, and wear eight pounds of makeup.

     It occurred to me after a few minutes that the harder you try not to think about things, the harder it is to not think. That made no sense. Okay, how's this - ? The moment you say, "I'm not going to think anymore", you get flooded with all this nonsense. But then, no matter how relaxed you seem to get, there's just no way, I'm sorry, that you can't be thinking of something. So I'm wondering if that's part of this whole meditation thing - that you get as relaxed as possible, and whatever's the most important to you at that given time is what you wind up thinking about.

     My Aunt Bridget and disembodied breasts. What the hell does that mean?

     "Are you okay?"

     I can't tell you how far that made me jump. I whacked the back of my head into the tree. I hate, absolutely hate, unexpected voices from nowhere. I wish there was some international law where everyone who was going to unexpectedly sneak up on someone else had to say "Psst" first, or they went to jail.

     I opened my eyes, and there was this skinny blonde girl with ripped blue jeans and a Badgers shirt standing about ten feet in front of me. I don't know how the hell I didn't hear her feet crunching the grass. I must be starting to master this meditating stuff.

     "Ow."

     She said "ow." Can you believe that?

     "Hi," is all I said. I couldn't really yell at her for scaring me. I mean, how did she know? And besides, she was pretty good looking.

     "What were you doing? If you don't mind me asking."

     "Meditating."

     "Oh."

     She had a look in her eyes, so I thought I should be nice and save her the embarrassment. "It's a thing people do to relax. Buddhists do it."

     "You're not Buddhist."

     "I might be."

     She lightly shook her head. "You're Roy Fleming, aren't you?"

     "Yeah. How'd you know that?"

     "I'm psychic...what's so funny?"

     I'm sorry, but I had to smile. I really wanted to ask her how she could read my mind with her clothes on, but I'm chicken, and just smiled.

     "Nothing. You're just supposed to smile after you meditate. It's like a ritual. So, how do you know me?"

     "You used to go out with Cindy Bowers. I'm in her homeroom."

     Now I wondered if I had some weird religious experience. I sit by a tree to meditate; think about Aunt Bridget who claimed she was a psychic; and think about breasts, even though the only pair, if you could call them that, were Cindy Bowers'. Then I meet someone who in one minute ties it all together. How supremely strange.

     "I'm Amy Branden. I sat behind her, you know, Bowers, Branden. I used to hear her talk about you. I saw you in the hall last week of school. Your hair was shorter."

     "She talked about me? What did she say?" I was curious as hell. I really needed to know because it always struck me as odd why a girl would break-up with you just two weeks after flashing you. I wondered if it was some experiment gone awry.

     "Just stuff. Nothing major."

     "But, like what?"

     "I don't know, ahh, stuff you did, where you were going. That kinda thing."

     "Anything in particular stick in your head?"

     She took a little while to think about it, which I kinda liked, because some people wouldn't even bother to give it a second thought. She brushed back her hair and puckered her lips, like she was trying to force herself into remembering, but in the end, she shook her head. "No..." I figured admitting to your classmates that you flashed a guy maybe wasn't a big topic among girls.

     "Oh, there is one thing I remember. She said you kissed better than Art Sanders."

     "What the hell? She kissed Art Sanders?"

     "I guess she musta."

     "Yuck. That's not too depressing. I'm gonna have to make a point of finding out more about a girl's past before I go out with her."

     "Still, you should take that as a compliment."

     "I guess, but isn't it kinda the same as saying pizza tastes better than bird crap?"

     "I wouldn't know. I never kissed Art Sanders."

     "And you should take that as a compliment."

     She laughed. She had a funny laugh. Not funny like it was so hideous that it made it funny, but funny because it was a real laugh, and it made you want to laugh along with her. Only I didn't, because it would have seemed like I was laughing at my own joke, and I hate people like that, so I just smiled. Suddenly, I'd become King Smiles. I must have looked like I had a lobotomy, or something.

     So, you go to Bailey?" Boy, what an insight. I'm such a master of conversation. "I've never seen you before." Like I'm some spy, and I know everyone.

     "I don't know. This'll be my third year there. Maybe you just weren't looking."

     She laughed again. Not uproariously, or anything. Just a little one. Like a little bubble in a pop bottle. Geez, listen to me.

     "You guys aren't going out anymore, are you?"

     "Who? Cindy and me? No. We broke up like a year ago."

   "Why?"

   "I don't know. I was kinda hoping you would."

     "We weren't really friends. I just knew her from class."

     "Oh." I looked around, because at that moment, I didn't really know what else to do. It was one of those awkward moments where you really want to say something, but you can't think of anything worthwhile. I kinda caught her looking at me while I was staring off. I know because as soon as I saw her, she shifted her eyes back to the ground real sneaky-like, then smiled and licked the bottom of her lip.

     Times like this, guys could start getting poetic and not realize it until it's too late.

     "Can I try it?"

     I had no clue. None. The only thing I could think of was that maybe Cindy did tell her, and now she wanted to flash me, too. Kinda like how everyone going to Ireland has to kiss the Blarney Stone - every time you're with Roy Fleming, 'ya gotta flash him.

     I must have given her a dirty look, because she seemed a little bent out of shape.

     "What? Can you only do it alone?"

     Now I was really confused. "Do what?"

     "Meditate. What'd 'ya think?'

     "Nothing. I knew what you were talking about. I was just thinking. No, come on. So, what are you doing up here? You up for the weekend, or the summer? Here. Just sit down and cross your legs."

     She dropped to her butt like it had a hundred pounds of padding, which it didn't, believe me, and crossed her legs like I said.

     "My parents went on a cruise for a couple weeks, and then they're staying in San Diego for another week or so, and I got stuck up here with my grandparents. It's sooooo boring. About the only excitement's been some woman who freaked out and ran through town totally naked. Honest. I heard she flipped out again yesterday." She looked kind of embarrassed about saying it out loud, then made an X over her heart and raised her hand in the air like she was taking an oath in court. "What about you? The weekend?"

     "Yeah. My mom and I came up to make sure my aunt kept her clothes on."

     I can't tell you how many colors she turned, but I bet the trees were taking notes for next season.

     "Oh, god! I'm so so sorry! That's your aunt?"

     "Yeah, but don't worry about it. She's been messed up for a while."

     She didn't say anything for what seemed like a year. Seriously. Calendar pages were flying past her face.

     "I better go."

     "If it's about my aunt and what you said, don't worry. You didn't know."

     "No, it's not that."

     "She's just my aunt. My clothes are staying on. It's not genetic, or anything."

     She laughed again, which I took as a good sign.

     "No, I have to go anyway. If I'm not back in time for dinner, my grandma gets all huffy."

     "Is it dinner for just your grandparents, or does the whole area eat now? 'Cause that's when I'm supposed to be back, too."

     "The whole area. They voted on it last year."

     Even I had to laugh at that one. "I don't know how long we're staying, so just in case, I guess I'll see you back in school next month."

     "Well, I'm gonna be stuck here until a week from Tuesday. Are you gonna be coming back up before then?"

     "Have no idea, but if I do, I'll look for you."

     "You have to finish teaching me how to meditate. I'm staying about two blocks from here just past the church. They're the Sawyer's."

     "I know them. I've been coming up here since I was five. I wonder why I never saw you before?"

     "I was here. Guess you just weren't looking."

     I walked with her to the street. She went right and I headed left. "See 'ya."

     "Hope so."

****************

"How's Aunt Bridget?"

The living room looked like a team of maids came in and worked for hours: the food was all gone, and everything else was put back into place, dusted, polished and scrubbed. The only people left that I could see were Dr. Miller, Bridget's sister-in-law Kathy, a woman who I never cared for, and my mom, who was sprawled out on the couch with her shoes off and her feet propped up on a freshly dusted table. Just looking at her answered my question. Not only did she look wiped out, but she was drinking a whiskey and water. She's strictly a wine woman. Whiskey and water was for serious occasions only.

"Not too good, Pumpkin...I'm sorry."

"That's okay. You can call me Pumpkin. You had a hard day. But tomorrow, it's gotta stop."

She hummed out a tiny laugh, which was all she could do with a mouthful of whiskey and water, and then patted next to her on the couch. "Sit down."

When I did, she set her glass on the table and hugged me. Real hard. I felt uncomfortable. Not because I was hugging my mom in semi-public, but because I didn't like the circumstances that it was happening.

"Dr. Miller wants to observe her for a while, but, but he thinks it may be necessary to...have her go somewhere. For treatment. Where she could be...taken care of better. I feel so useless, Roy."

"Come on, Mom. What could you do?"

"I feel bad because I wasn't there for her."

"What are you talking about? When? When she was running around town?"

She took a healthy swig from her glass and swallowed real loud. "When Rick died. She couldn't handle the day-to-day crap. I should have known better."

"How come you didn't freak out? Dad died a year before Uncle Rick did."

She tugged at her lip like she was trying to stop was she was about to say, but the words came out anyway. "Because I had you. You helped me. You made things normal. She was all alone."

Then she sniffed, and I knew immediately what was about to follow. I looked around the room for Kleenex, but there wasn't a box to be found. Whoever cleaned did a damn good job. Luckily, she managed to keep herself together and didn't need any.

"Do you think we have to come up again next weekend?"

"I'm afraid so. I'd like to just stay, but I don't think I can get all my shifts covered in time. Don't worry, you don't have to come with. You can stay by yourself. I trust you."

Great. Now she trusts me. "No, that's okay. I'll come up with you. I, ahh, I found someone up here who goes to Bailey, if you can believe it. Besides, you shouldn't be alone. Fumblin' around for the Kleenex while you're driving and everything'll get you in an accident, and I don't want to have Gladys cooking for me the whole time you're in the hospital."

She gave a little laugh, and then the damn broke. Tears were squirting out all over. It looked more like she was sweating than crying.

"I love you, Pumpkin."

"I love you, too. And remember, tomorrow, no more Pumpkin."

I'd love to know where she got this Pumpkin thing. I don't look anything like a pumpkin. If I was any less secure about myself, I might go loony.

Patrick's Essential Guide To Growing Old

2012-03-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

"All the world is in stages. Men and women play in one, then roll on to the next." ~ (I just said that)

* When you are in your single digits, you can't wait to be in your double digits.

The greatest achievement of a 9 year old is to turn 10. Double digits imply wisdom and experience. A pair of numbers standing side-by-side forces those immature 9 year olds to look up at you with respect. You've successfully passed the first major threshold in a hopefully long life. Forget growing in all your permanent teeth, never mind learning to ride your bike, or finally conquering long division. Ha! All of those trivialities are nothing when compared to joining the Double Digit Club! Remember when you had to overcompensate with the use of fractions? "I'm six and a half!" "Today I'm seven and three-eighths!" No more sounding like a hat size. Today, you are proudly and officially a shoe size!

* When you're 14, you can't wait to be 16.

At 16, you get to drive! Even if you don't have regular access to a car, the simple knowledge that there is a card in your wallet that allows you to get behind the wheel is a life-changing sensation. Driving opens up a whole new world to you. It doesn't even matter where you go, just as long as you go, because even if you never previously ventured more than four blocks from your house, or if your parents took you on annual trips around the world ~ all future journeys are yours, and yours alone.

At least in theory. That new found freedom you discovered in your driver's license also became a sense of liberation to your parents. Behind that look of anxiety on their faces every time you reach for the keys is a smile of satisfaction, knowing that the burden of all those mind-numbing chores they had to slog through over the years has suddenly been removed. Hope you like visiting the grocery store a dozen or so times a week, because the path to your independence is going to have a few detours. Don't forget to bring your Preferred Savings card.

* When you're 16, you can't wait to be 18.

18 is when you legally become an adult. Sure, you've had the power and authority of a car for two years, but now, now you can stay out past curfew! And drive across state lines! A word of advice, though: try your best to squelch the temptation of driving into Utah at two in the morning. It's really not worth it. In fact, I'd strongly advise against entering Utah at any hour.

You can also legally buy lottery tickets, get a tattoo, and go to a strip club. And if you're lucky, all at the same place. (Again, another reason to avoid Utah.)

Of course, there are downsides to being 18. You're now eligible for the draft, if the government ever institutes one again. Not that there's anything wrong with military service, but if getting shot at isn't your idea of fun, you'd probably be bummed by this invitation.

There's also the matter of being treated as an adult in the legal system. You can now sue people, but they can in turn sue you back. Oh, and all that fun stuff you were doing with your 17-year-old girlfriend in the rapturous days leading up to your birthday is now considered illegal. That's right, even though she turns 18 in another month, depending on where you live, you could be arrested and tried for statutory rape. And no, driving across multiple state lines into Alabama is not the answer, because you've now just committed a Federal crime. Being an adult with an under-aged girlfriend or boyfriend is not what it's all cracked up to be. Google Jerry Lee Lewis or Mary Kay Letourneau for reference, if you don't believe me.

* When you're 18, you can't wait to be 21.

Now that you've spent three years worrying if you'll be arrested for statutory rape, you can finally have a drink! Woo-hoo! You're 21! You can walk into any bar in any town in the country ~ assuming that they don't mind having you there. Couple things about bars, though ~ you'll find that they can be just as cliquey as sitting at the wrong table in the high school cafeteria. And a lot of them just plain suck. Few folks though, at this inchoate stage of bar-hopping, possess the aptitude to distinguish a good bar from a bad bar. Similar to the concept of a two-year-old not being selective about who their playmates are ~ as long as there's someone else to frolic with in the ball pit, they're happy. The smell, filth, and crappy music are of no concern.

But, for all of 21's inherent significance, it's really a clandestine plateau. When you hit 21, you feel like you've never been happier in your life. Obviously, some of that's the alcohol, but hidden behind the buzz is an unsettling reality that this might be it. You might not ever be happier than you are right now. You shrug it off as paranoia due to all the sudden abilities, and responsibilities, that have opened to you as a result of your recent birthday. The euphoria returns, for a while, and things level off. 21 quickly becomes 22, and you must seriously begin planning on what to do with your life. You begin to imagine the future, and for the first time, you look at 25, but you don't look too hard, because 25 is about when your car insurance premium drops, and when you start thinking about things like that, you really get the sense you've come to an end.

* Then suddenly, you're 30, and you wish you were 21 again.

One morning, you wake up at six to that goddamn annoying alarm clock, and your head hurts like holy hell. It was only a few years ago that you could stay out all night and get up the next morning for work, or class, without feeling any worse for wear. Now, you can barely pull yourself out of bed, and when you do, muscles you didn't even know you had are screaming at you for deciding to use them today. You slowly creak over to the mirror and take a look at yourself: haggard, wrinkled, slightly stooped, and notably heavier than you ever remember being. Your eyes may be red and puffy, but you're still able to notice the small clump of vomit on your shirt. You are relieved when you realize that it's not from you, but from the baby. Your eyes open even wider. "Oh my god!" you think to yourself. "I have a baby! I can't go out partying like this!" Slowly, bits of last night's party begin to come back to you: you had one glass of wine while watching the local news, and fell asleep on the couch.

You shake your head, wondering when you became this pathetic person. Pieces of animal crackers fall out of your hair. You pretend not to notice, and brush your teeth.

* When you're 40, you wish you were 18 again.

All the frenzy of getting your life together and putting your dreams into motion is over. By now, your path has long been determined. You are firmly ensconced in your career, and more than likely, a long-term relationship, as well. You have a house, a car, maybe two, and a little money in the bank. When people look at you, they see a reasonably well-adjusted person who appears to have their life together. You are the envy of your peers!

When you look at yourself, you only see how damn old you are. Every line on your face contains an unfulfilled promise you once made to yourself. Each new gray hair personifies a missed opportunity. A choice made out of obligation, rather than personal desire. You are convinced that you and you alone are the ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD who is suffering through this burden. Yes, your life is good, but you wish it was slightly better. So, you make another promise to yourself. You resolve to work harder at becoming exactly the person you always wanted to be. It's not too late! You can do this! There's still a lot of life to live! You feel energized! So, you compile a list of things that you need to get started, because now that you're 40, you've found that it's best to compile your thoughts into writing, so you don't forget. When the list is complete, you immediately hand it to your 16 year old so they can drive to the store and pick up your supplies after school. This is going to work!

* And by the time you're 50, your kids are 21, and you wish you were 16.

Well, you gave it a shot. When it all sets in that there's no way any of your extraneous dreams are going to happen, you ask yourself a simple, yet direct question: "What the fuck happened?" All you want to do now is get in your car and drive. It doesn't matter where ~ you just want to go. That card in your wallet informs you that in a few short years, you'll be allowed to get a ten-percent discount at Denny's. It's life-changing, and it scares the hell out of you.

How did this all happen so fast? It seems like only a week ago I was young and appealing. Strangers actually flirted with me! Now, you're being called sir or madam, and for some damn reason, you can never remember where you put your reading glasses!

You look at teenagers today, (with your other glasses ~ and not for very long, either, because if you stare at them for more than a second or two, you're quickly suspected of being a closet pedophile), and you find yourself astoundingly thinking, "Kids nowadays! They don't have a clue of how good they have it! They have the time and freedom to do anything they want ~ travel, read, learn to play an instrument, or speak a new language ~ but all they do is hang out at the mall and shoot me dirty looks whenever I watch them."

If you could go back in time, you'd show them how to properly manage their time! You'd have a spreadsheet, with a different activity planned every hour: reading, exercise, music lessons, interaction with friends. Why does that sound so familiar? Oh, yeah. All of that was in the brochure you got in the mail last week for the rest home.

What the hell is wrong with me?

* When you are in your 60's, people treat you like you're 14.

The kids are grown up and moved out. It's now just you and your spouse, and the two of you are finally able to do all of those things that your previous constraints kept you from doing. Congratulations! You've finally made it!

Except your kids keep getting in the way. Calling all the time asking you to babysit, reminding you to take your medicine, or telling you not to drive after dark.

But, you're not a child. You're an adult, and you know what has to be done ~ you want to party like it's 1999! You've earned that right! Just for the hell of it, you have a Bloody Mary for breakfast. Why? Because you can! But the acid from the tomato juice has upset your stomach, and the vodka's made you sleepy. Going back to bed to sleep it off is out of the question ~ it's already six a.m. ~ the day is almost half over by now! You opt instead to make a pot of half-decaf, and get an early start tackling those dang weeds out front before the grandkids come by for the weekend.

* When you are in your 70's and above, you can't wait to be 100.

Okay, the truth is, you can wait. And you want that wait to be as long as possible. But it's a wait you look forward to ~ being in the Triple Digit Club! A trio of numbers standing side-by-side forces those jealous 99 year olds to look up at you with respect. You've successfully passed the last remaining threshold in a hopefully even longer life. Forget that you've managed to keep all your permanent teeth. Never mind learning to navigate your wheelchair through tight spaces. And winning at bingo four times last month? Ha! All of those trivialities are nothing when compared to joining the Triple Digit Club! Remember when you had to overcompensate by rounding down, and talking in decades? "I turned seventy not long ago." "I'm in my eighties." No more sounding like a vague weather report. Today, you are proudly and officially the winning score in an NBA game!

* And Beyond...?

To date, the oldest living human was 122 years old. Science very well could find ways for us to eclipse that number, (I hope they figure it out soon!), but how we'd behave would only be conjecture at this point. My guess is, there's going to be an awful lot of smiling.

And probably far too many people trying to do things that will probably kill them. But, at least they'll die old, and with a smile on their faces.

The Happy Post About Dead People

2012-03-01T15:00:00.003-08:00

My father is twenty-nine years older than me, so when I was fourteen, he was forty-three. A year later, I was told my parents were getting a divorce. I only bring up the divorce because it is a reference point from my past that I can vividly recall. The day my father officially moved out, some friends and I helped move furniture from my house to his new apartment. In addition to all of the obvious emotions and thoughts that filled my head that day, as I hauled the various boxes and tables up the three flights of stairs, I remember thinking to myself how old he seemed. Forty-four? That was old!

Now that I have a little more age under my belt, along with unwanted body fat, I can unequivocally state, no, it's not old at all. Not even close.

Conservative blogger/activist Andrew Breitbart died today. I was not a fan of the guy. As a liberal, there wasn't much for me to like. My intention though, is not to perform a ranting autopsy on the recently deceased. Instead, I'd rather discuss the legacy left behind as a result of premature death.

Forty-three is a ridiculously young age to go. So is forty-eight, which was how old Whitney Houston was when she passed away a few weeks ago. The Rule of Three was complete with Davy Jones dying at sixty-six ~ which, while yes, is mathematically is a larger number, is still far too young. Trust me, the older you get, the lower those numbers seem. Ask your eighty year old grandparent about Ben Gazarra, and I bet they say eighty-one is too young to die.

While Jones' cause appears to be nothing more nefarious than a heart attack, it is widely assumed that Whitney's death was attributed to drugs ~ whether she was using at the time, or if her body finally broke down as a result of past abuse. There is a selfish part of me that's hoping drugs had a role in Breitbart's death, as well. Not so I can do mean-spirited grave dance, but so it helps relieve the fear and paranoia that it really can happen at any time. I don't know about you, but my first reaction after hearing about someone dying young is to pack my gym bag, and hope that rededicating myself to a daily elliptical regimen will add extra time to my life. My plan is to celebrate my one-hundred-and-fifth birthday. Sure, I might not be able to blow out the candles, or recognize any of the guests, but damn it, I'll be alive to see it!

There are many downsides to dying young, but one that gets overlooked in my opinion is the way your life is framed to others as a consequence. Your lasting legacy.

Not many people have it all figured out early in life. If you happen to be one of those lucky bastards who know what you want when you're a teen, and actively pursue it and achieve it in your early-to-mid twenties, then good for you! I'm jealous, and think you suck, but really, good for you! Sadly, that's not the way it works out for most of us.

Most of us have no idea what we want. Ever. We stumble around from job to job, relationship to relationship, or experience to experience, hoping that sooner or later, one of them will seem appealing and stick. There is no data that I can find to back this up, but I have a strong feeling that if you asked a group of one hundred random forty year olds if the job or career they they are currently involved in is the one they hoped for as a youth, an overwhelming majority of them would say no. Then again, it's not our fault if the demand for cowboys and astronauts is at an all-time low.

That's why people spend so much time and energy re-creating themselves. The job that fit you well at twenty-three suddenly feels old and constrictive at thirty-three. Others have a significantly different problem ~ they feel trapped in their job, unable to make the wanted change for one reason or another. Because of that constant change, or the resentment at not being able to change, we sometimes do stupid things. You get into fights and make regrettable comments. You spend your time masking your pain with drugs. You become bitter and take it out on the wrong people. The examples are limitless.

The good news is, you can overcome all of it.

The bad news is, you might not have the time.

Of all the things Andrew Breitbart accomplished in his life, he will probably be remembered most by the events that occurred just before his death: being captured on video maniacally screaming at Occupy protestors, and calling them rapists. There are few people who would view this clip and not think his unprovoked actions are borderline insane. Had he died twenty years from now, (which, as I pointed out earlier in this piece, would still be too young), that moment might merely be a fleeting chapter of a greater story. True, he could have gotten even crazier with the passage of time, but he could also have been granted the opportunity to put into context his actions of that night and tried to make sense of it. We'll never know.

The same goes for poor Whitney Houston. I was never a fan of hers either, but there are millions across the world who were. And when her name is mentioned, to a great many of us, the memory of her drug abuse will enter our minds before thoughts of her musical accomplishments will.

Please don't think this is some anti-drug screed, because it's not. Nor is it a plea to curb your emotions in the political arena. It's about the opportunity to alter the way we're viewed by others, and by ourselves. Now, I'm the last person to suggest that we all live our lives like saints. First of all, it's because I'm an atheist, and therefore don't believe in saints, but secondly, it's because I realize that it's an impossible goal. As humans, we are imperfect and vulnerable to emotions, and that shit always gets us in trouble one way or another. What I am suggesting is that we take the time to consider our actions, and how they affect other people in our lives, because if you went right now, guess what?, that stupid thing you're currently doing is going to be the primary way we remember you.

The simple response to that is, "I'll be dead. What does it matter?" Well, if there are people you care about now while you're alive, imagine what they have to go through after you're gone. Blaming themselves. Defending you to your critics. Or, separating themselves as much from the memory of your miserable life as they can. If that's not anything you care about, so be it. Maybe you're not worried because you think you have time to iron this all out, so none of it will be a problem in the future. You could be right. And I hope you are.

But what if you're not?

Okay, so this didn't end up as happy as the titled claimed. Luckily, I have time to fix it...

May we all live to see one-hundred-and-five!

If you come to my party, I'll come to yours!

Let's all wear name tags, though. Just in case.

I'm Just Bloggin'...

2012-02-29T13:47:00.000-08:00

I'm really not a complainer.

Regardless of what my wife, kids, friends, family members, or that guy I talked to for three minutes in the grocery store checkout line yesterday, might tell you. But there is something I want to get off my chest. And out of my head and ears. So, get ready, I'm about to complain.

Everybody has a phrase that sets them off. A combination of words, that once uttered, immediately generates a quick and negative response in the listener.

It could even be one word, or as simple as a solitary sound. I know people who become physically agitated over the repeated use of "um". If they um, hear a person who um, continually leans on the crutch of um while um, giving a speech, they clench up, as if reaching into the television and smacking the um out of the violator were a feasible option.

I am not that person. Ums don't necessarily bother me. I find them amusing, treating them more as a drinking game than as a reason to visit your local Anger Management branch office.

My daughter has a couple examples that give her fits. One is when people exchange the "d" for a "b" in the word supposedly. "Supposebly". The other follows along the lines of Um Factor ~ she despises when people unnecessarily use the word like.

It's like, the best place in the world!

"Do you mean that it IS the best place in the world, or it's merely SIMILAR to the best place in the world? And if you mean that it's not the best place in the world, then what is the best place in the world that you're comparing this one to? Please, tell me. I may want to visit!"

I, myself, am guilty of tossing out a few likes every now and then. Not trying to suggest that it makes it right simply because of my usage, I'm merely pointing out why I'm not as bothered by it as others.

Which brings me to what has been bothering me lately.

"I'm just saying..."

Yes. You are. Thank you for pointing that out.

Idioms constantly fall in and out of fashion ~ an odd twist of a phrase from a television show might be quoted the next morning at the water cooler for a laugh, then repeated throughout the day, multiple times, by multiple people at multiple water coolers, (actual and virtual), all in hope of trying to recapture or remember that initial moment of laughter. Within hours, the phrase has become a meme, quickly wearing out its welcome on YouTube.

Then there are those people who repeat a phrase for no other reason than to appropriate it for themselves. To overcompensate for the sad fact that they have no personality of their own, and desperately needing something to fill those empty minutes when they are forced to relate to other people (see my previous entry regarding awkward silences). How many people knew a guy at work or school who's schtick was walking up to women and sneering, "How YOU doin'?" Thanks, Friends.

And then there's just lazy and stupid. In my estimation, that is the category where "I'm just saying..." is filed.

I cannot describe how much that infuriates me, but don't worry, I will give it a good try.

As far as I can tell, that egregious phrase was introduced to the public by comedian Paul Reiser back in the 90's. He would tack on said catchphrase to the end of a comical statement, implying that the comment was not made as a judgment or criticism, but merely an observation.

"You're fat. I'm just sayin'." (Not a Paul Reiser joke. Only an example to prove my point.)

Think of it as the bookend to "No offense, but..." or, "Don't take this the wrong way, but...".

It was humorous when Reiser said it because it was part of the joke. His onstage persona would make fun of someone, then, almost as an afterthought, quickly gloss over his indiscreet remark by insinuating that he wasn't trying to disparage his target in any way ~ no, not at all! ~ he was "just sayin'..." It was an off-handed topper to the punchline, a designed gimmick employed to convince his audience that he's not really a bad guy ~ he's just pointing out the obvious.

I found it amusing when Reiser used it. My problem with the phrase now is that the intent seems to have changed. Rather than bothering to craft a joke, people feel free to hurl insults, and as long as they tag "I'm just sayin'..." to the end of it, like that somehow makes it acceptable.

It not only acts as a lazy and ineffective cover for all manner of derision, but it also ends up mocking you.

"You're fat. I'm just saying..."

Translation: "Hey, in case you didn't realize it, you're fat. In fact, it's so obvious that you're fat, I'm not even going to bother wasting my time to find a clever was to say it, so I'm just going to say it, because it's so damn noticeable."

Some offenders have become so frigging lazy about it, that they skip speaking the setup themselves, and add the punchline to someone else's statement.

"Damn, he's fat."
"I'm just sayin..."

Are we really that lazy as a society, that we can't even try to be clever anymore? It's like the old Jerry Seinfeld joke about seeing someone walking around in public, wearing sweatpants: "Did you just give up?"

I don't like bringing up subjects like this because it sounds too much like the Old Man And The Lawn Syndrome, but sometimes we have to fight the urge to remain silent for the purposes of a greater cause ~ to convince people to try harder. Use their brain power. And goddamn it, get their own catchphrases!

I know being funny is important to you, and trust me, I realize how hard it can be. But just like how growing a porn star mustache doesn't automatically make you a porn star, stealing material and using it in a half-assed manner does not automatically make you funny. At best, it only reminds the listener or the reader of how funny the original person is who delivered the line. At worst, it reminds the listener or reader of how unfunny you are.

This all may seem harsh, but, no offense, you need to stop. It's annoying. I'm just saying.

Aimless Wanderings

2012-02-25T15:21:00.000-08:00

"There once was a young bear cub who went wandering out in the woods and got lost."

"Who?"

"Who? What do you mean who?"

"The bear cub. Who was he? What was it's name?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"It's not relevant to the story."

"I disagree. If that was your bear cub lost in the woods, it would matter a great deal."

"I wouldn't have a bear cub lost in the woods."

"You don't know that."

"Yes. Yes, I do. I can resolutely confirm that I would never have a bear cub lost in the woods."

"Probably ran away because you wouldn't name it."

"Glenn! Okay?"

"Glenn? The bear cub's name was Glenn?"

"Yes. Now, can I get back to the story?"

"This was an actual bear cub? And his parents named him Glenn?"

"Yes."

"Was it a family name?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's just...Glenn? Seems like a strange name for a bear. You'd think a bear would have a more majestic name. Something imposing. A name that strikes fear into the other animals. So, I'm thinking, was that the father's name? I don't know, maybe Glenn has a different cachet for bears than it does for humans."

"Xenophilos the Fourth!"

"What's this now?"

"Glenn was his nickname. His birth name was Xenophilos the Fourth. There, happy?"

"Is that a joke?"

"Why would you think it's a joke? That's an imposing name."

"Xenophilos. Xeno, from the Latin for stranger..."

"I don't know."

"...and philos, also Latin, meaning having a love or preference for."

"I guess."

"You're telling me, this bear was named, Person who loves strangers? No wonder he was wandering in the woods."

"You're reading way too much into this."

"And if he was the Fourth, all that pointless gallivanting is a genetic trait he undoubtedly picked up from his father, the Third."

"Sure. I don't know. Whatever. Now can I...?"

"No, hold on. You don't know about that, either? Is there anything in this story that can be verified as true?"

"How would I know?"

"Seriously? Research! Ask questions! Didn't any of this strike you as odd when you first heard it?"

"I was two!"

"That's no excuse."

"I could hardly speak!"

"Are you inferring that the inability to speak automatically makes you gullible? I know many mute people, and none of them are that naive. Unless you're just making it up as you go along. And if that's the case, you should stick to your day job. Unless your day job is being a storyteller."

"Are you finished?"

"Are you finished?"

"I haven't even begun!"

"Fine. Then please, continue on with your remarkably unsubstantiated story."

"It's not unsubstantiated."

"How can you say that? It's obviously not factual."

"It's a story!"

"Okay...Fiction, or nonfiction?"

"What difference does that make?"

"You're kidding, right? Do you really not know? How were you raised? Hold on...Is this story about you? Are you really the lost bear cub?"

"No!"

"Then it's an allegory, isn't it? You're trying to deceive me into believing some fictitious nonsense as the framework for your personal draconian moralism, aren't you?"

"I'm just trying to tell a story...!"

"Well, you're doing a lousy job of it."

"Will you two please stop?"

"Who said that?"

"I did."

"Who are you?"

"I know who it is. It's Egan."

"Oh, hey."

"Just couldn't stop yourself, could you?"

"Stop myself from what?"

"Inserting yourself in the story. Holy hell, man! Does everything you write have to do with you? You know, only last week you were complaining about other people being narcissists. Maybe you should take a look in the mirror and make a little confession. Then again, when aren't you staring at yourself in the mirror?"

"Look. Stepping into the story wasn't my initial intent."

"Sure."

"You need to stop arguing and get on with it."

"Mister Big Shot."

"He has a point."

"I knew you'd side with him."

"Nobody is siding with anybody. It's a simple fact. The story's not moving forward."

"I'll move you forward."

"Is that some kind of taunt?

"Yeah? What did that mean?"

"It wasn't supposed to mean anything."

"This is too confusing. I'm outta here."

"Who said that?"

"First Guy said it. He's gone."

"Seriously? After all that?"

"I guess so."

"How the hell am I ever going to find out what happened to the little bear cub?"

"Oh, I can tell you that. He kept wandering, deeper and deeper. Stayed lost. Never found his way out."

"So, it was an allegory!"

"Hmm. How 'bout that."

Hey! That's Disgusting! Stop It! Now It's My Turn!

2012-02-22T17:42:00.000-08:00

Hello again.

I find myself staring at my monitor, wanting to write about something, but not quite sure what that something will be. Nothing uncommon about this. Of course, realizing it's regularity doesn't mollify the frustration.

Often times, inspiration can be found simply by examining the current state of both you and your surroundings. A modification of the old theory, "Write what you know".

Let's see...in my pajamas, crazy hair, drinking a fresh fruit smoothie for breakfast.

Really nothing inspiring about that. Especially if you were peeking in my window. Unless you consider an immediate desire to run away from a window as a form of inspiration.

Ah! Now there's an idea: peeking in windows!

I'll calmly walk up to each house on my block and peer into every uncovered window, looking for something to arouse my creativity. What could go wrong?

What could go wrong? is usually the line uttered by a dimwitted TV character right before the scene cuts to "LATER THAT EVENING", when us viewers find out exactly what went wrong. But don't worry, I won't get into any trouble with the law over this. How could I? We have people in elected office right now who are not only snooping into our living rooms, they're opening the front door, walking into our bedrooms, lifting up our women's skirts, and examining their uteri with over-sized probing devices. With deviants of that magnitude strolling our streets, how could a mild-mannered window peeper ever spark anyone's attention?

For the record, that is the first time I ever used uteri in text. Not that I have anything against used uteri, all uteri is good uteri in my book, theoretically speaking. I don't discriminate. It's just that I don't find myself writing about it all that often. So, if anybody wishes to celebrate this significant occasion with me, I'll wait while you fetch the champagne.

Why do so many people on the right want to monitor and legislate other people's sexual habits? First of all, in what context is that ever an example of "Small Government"? That aside, why does it matter to you if the neighbor you get along with out on the street is performing a slightly different dance in his or her bedroom than you are in yours?

If you found out after forty years of marriage that once a month, your parents were engaging in an act that personally revolted you, would you call your Congressman and demand that their marriage be terminated? Or force it to be declassified as a civil union?

How would you like it if, the next time you were laying on top of your bored suburban wife, someone busted down your door and prohibited YOU from having sex in the future, merely because you lacked variety and imagination? (I'm sure your wife would welcome it).

Would you feel like your civil rights were violated? Or would you say to yourself, "they are only doing it because of their strongly held beliefs, and I should abide by their decisions"?

Stupid questions, huh? Especially the last one.

Yet, here they are, the current flock of flunkies, achieving near orgasm in their daily diatribes about other people's morals. All the while they themselves tip-toe through the garden of their own fetid indiscretions.

Staunch belief in religion is often cited as the reason for their desires to stop our fun. But if they truly believed in the Bible, their ignoble crusades would be thwarted by text within the Bible itself. There's more than a few passages about the evils of judging people, throwing stones, and mere mortals trying to do God's job. But none of that information ever seems to faze them. They soldier on, insisting that soldiers should not be on each other.

Jealousy is another possibility. If I can't do it, then nobody can!

Psychological projection is another ~ they themselves have an insatiable taste for a lifestyle considered by many in their flock as aberrant, but since they don't want the rest of world to know it, they call out others, hoping that their objections will act as a smokescreen to conceal their own behaviors.

Yeah, like that ever works.

Or maybe their actions are so strategically devious that they rise above our normal scope of awareness. What if the people complaining about morality are, like previous stated, just as "guilty", (again, in their minds only), as the people they are condemning. But, these lascivious politicos/religious leaders are sick of hiding their fun. What if they want to experience it out in the open, but without the stigma attached to it by the rest of their brethren? How could they successfully manage that tightrope act?

By forcing a vote on the issue.

Get on your ivory soapbox (not the brand name, but the color of the soapbox ~ because most of these folks are white), and scream how wrong it is. Force a bill to be written, or create a state Proposition that is brought to popular vote, and hope for it to be struck down. Hope that enough people become so outraged that the act you are supposedly against becomes legitimized and legalized. Then you may finally announce to all that you, too, are partaking in the newly accepted legal activity.

Nah.

They're just arrogant assholes who think they know what's best for the rest of civilization, regardless of what or how civilization feels about the matter, and nothing any of us say or do will change how they feel.

Okay, that's settled, but it still doesn't solve the problem of needing something to write about.

Sigh. Guess I have to go peep in a few windows.

The World Speaks...And There Is No Immediate Response.

2012-02-16T15:03:00.000-08:00

Hello to all of my readers in Taiwan, Russia, and Belgium!

Yes, you read that correctly ~ according to my stats, I'm multinational! Not bad for a guy who hasn't traveled further than 30 miles beyond his house in the past month.

Since I don't know anyone in those parts of the globe, I'm guessing the reason for these page views is due to the fact that my blog was added to StumbleUpon. For those of you who never heard of it, StumbleUpon is a discovery engine that searches, and recommends, random web content for users, based on their marked preferences. If you've never used it, I highly suggest you give it a try. You could literally lose yourself for hours bouncing from page to page.

Okay, commercial over. I'll keep an eye out for that endorsement check.

It's been over a week since my last entry, and for that, I apologize. I never promised that I'd write every day, but there was an implication that I wouldn't allow huge gaps between new posts. Let's see if I can make up for that today.

So, what do you want to talk about?

...

I know. What about silent pauses? That seems contextually appropriate.

Chances are, you're a person who feels uncomfortable during pauses. Most people are. But unless you're on a talk show and have an abundant supply of pre-written index cards, lapses in conversation are bound to happen. (Okay, that's not entirely true. The world does have it's share of blowhard narcissists who never stop talking about themselves long enough for there to be a pause in conversation. If you know someone like this, let's toss them from the equation, since they're not the subject I'm trying to address. However, if you claim to NOT know someone like this, at the risk of sounding like a Jeff Foxworthy joke, you just might be a blowhard narcissist. And if that's the case, feel free to leave a reply in the comment section. Just don't be upset if everyone scrolls past it.)

Some think of themselves as the person who tries to fill the breaks, while others consider themselves the type who stay silent and hope someone else does all the heavy lifting. And talking. Either way, these occasions are awkward, frustrating, and hazardous to navigate. But why?

The reason silences cause so much anxiety is because they get us thinking. And based on our ridiculous thought processes, you might conclude that thinking is an activity us humans should avoid at all costs.

Long pauses during our interactions with others lead us to moments of personal introspection that we would not normally entertain. They compel us to question our intelligence. They force us to ponder our personality. Most of the time silently, but some times verbally.

"I am so stupid," you mutter aloud. "And really not very interesting."

Your friend takes this in for a moment, before finally speaking. "Huh? You say something?"

What fascinates me the most about this is, why do we always jump to the immediate conclusion that it's us? A two-person conversation is a two-person exercise, (at least, it should be), so why can't it ever be their fault? Why don't we ever think to ourselves:

"Damn, this person is stupid. And really not interesting." (By the way, saying this out loud is a guaranteed catalyst to break the silence. Just in case you were looking for a quick fix.)

Does this in fact, subtly confirm a form or our own narcissism? That by filling every empty space with dialogue, we are attempting to prove to ourselves, and others, that we are indeed smart and interesting?

Or, does it uncover our deep-seated fears that maybe, just maybe, the reason this person isn't talking to me is because they don't really like me? Does anybody truly like me, or is it all a big charade? Oh my god, I have to say something, because if this quiet lasts any longer, it's going to make them realize just how shallow I really am. Holy shit. What if the entire world finds out? Thanks to StumbleUpon, there's a few people in Russia and Taiwan who already know. What if they start talking?

So you search your brain for any bit of pointless information ~ do Alaskans like purple? What else smells like a balloon? ~ it doesn't matter what. Speaking must occur. Which is why we have the cliched fallbacks of "How about this weather?" and "See the game over the weekend?". But those are such patently obvious proxies for real conversation, that once uttered, you wish you had remained silent.

How we react to pauses, and waiting in general, (see my previous entry on this subject), says more about us than we're willing to admit. We don't blame the other party for not being smart enough to hold up the conversation because we'd rather use these moments as a screen onto which we project our neuroses.

If you think someone hates you, or is mad at you, that's why they're not talking.

If you suspect that you aren't as intelligent as the other person, (and dammit, there's a word for that particular condition that's on the tip of my tongue. I'm sure he knows what the word is, but if I ask, I'll really seem stupid), that's your answer right there.

We desire to be liked so much, that other people's opinions of us, whether actual or perceived, often times become our own opinions of ourselves. We then drive ourselves wacky trying to disprove or correct these criticisms, when most of the time, there was never a problem to begin with. But don't get me wrong, I'm not insinuating that there is never a problem, because there can very well be one, and when that's the case, it should never be overlooked. What I've discovered though, is if someone has a real problem with you, you'll know it. Of course, they seldom come right out and say it, so you'll have these long periods of uncomfortable silence that only gets worse if you try to talk.

Didn't I say it was difficult to navigate?

If by now you realized that this post is meant to be a rationalization for why I haven't written in so long, congratulations, you are the winner. Winner of what, I'm not saying. But don't take it personally. This isn't your problem. I think it might have something to do with the weather. Kinda been weird lately, hasn't it? What are the temperatures like over there in Russia?