They rolled apart and fell onto their backs. He took his hands and pulled the perspiration from his face. He wiped the sweat from his chest and put one palm behind his head and the other on his heart. “You can’t marry him.”

She slid to her side and reached for her cigarettes and withdrew one from her pack. She grabbed her lighter, lit her cigarette, put the lighter on her nightstand, took a drag, and then reset herself on her back. “I am going to marry him.”

“Then what are we doing here?” He felt the damp hairs on his chest, whisked the wet, and wiped his hand on the sheet. “Jesus! What the hell do you have your heat on? It’s hotter than a bitch in here.”

“Apparently, we’re melting,” she exhaled.

“Let’s go take a cool shower.” He flipped to his side and faced her.

“Could I finish my cigarette?” she sighed.

He took his finger and traced her nipple. He bent and kissed his trail. “Baby, what are we doing here?”

“Well I know what you’re doing,” she smiled.

“Talk to me.”

“I wanted to see you.” She lifted her back, arched it toward her side and tamped her cigarette into the ashtray. She replaced her head on her pillow.

“I’m glad.” He leaned into his elbow and raised his mouth to her kiss. He rested his head on his hand. “You love him?”

“No.” She pulled a portion of the sheet up above her waist.

“I don’t get it.”

“I love me with him.”

He pinched the points between his eyes. “Do you love me?”

“Mark, we’ve had this conversation.” She stood up and walked into the bathroom.

He watched her climb back into bed. “We just slept together and you’re engaged to someone else. Indulge me. Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t get it.” He rolled onto his back and cradled his head over his opened hands.

“Your foot looks good.” He followed her eyes to the foot of her bed. “Have you been having any problems?”

“No.” He lifted it about a foot off her bed and waved it like a windshield wiper. “It’s been good. Jesus. Do you remember the first time you saw it? You cried.”

She flipped on to her side and slid over his arm. Her head rested on his shoulder. Her hand rested on his chest. “I saw how ashamed you were.”

“Yeah.” He bent to her upturned face and kissed her. “Talk to me.”

“I’m going to marry him.”

“I know.” He took a breath, slid his arm from under her, swung his legs away from her, and sat up straight. He balanced himself against his hands. She raised herself up to his pyramid, slipped her hands under his arms, and surrounded him. He felt her breasts against his back. “I just don’t get why.” He stood up and scanned the carpet for his shoes.

“You can walk on the carpet.” She looked up at him. “I vacuumed it to make certain there wasn’t anything you could injury yourself on.”

He dropped onto the edge of the bed and put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “I can’t believe you did that.” She wrapped herself around his back and kissed his shoulder. “It’s like the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” He turned his face and she lifted up to kiss him. “You must have been pretty confident I’d come over!”

She slightly slapped his shoulder as she laughed. “You bastard!”

“Why did you ask me to come over?”

“Because you’re in love with me.”

“Yeah.”

“And because I’m in love with me too.”

“I know.”

“You love me. He loves himself when he’s with me. I love I don’t have to be anything with him.”

“Yeah, you have to be something with me.” He stood up and walked toward her bathroom.

“You’ve gained weight. I’m glad. You were too thin.” She stretched across her bed and grabbed her cigarettes from their rest. She heard his stream from across her room. “How’s your blood sugars?” She heard the faucet dash, his splash, and watched him return toward her bed.

“Good. Everything’s good.” She scooted over toward her side and made room for him. He slid back on her bed. “Why today? What made you think of me?”

“Why?”

“I want to know. Lots of things remind me of you.” He plumped the pillow and sprawled out. He sat up and pulled the sheet that haloed his heels. He pulled it up to his chest. “Be romantic. Indulge me.”

“Okay.” She tamped her cigarette and rested it in the ashtray and stretched out on her side. She faced him. “I walked out of the shower this morning and when I went into the bedroom he was touching himself. I asked him why. I was there. We could have had sex. It would have been different if I hadn’t stayed with him last night. But there he was. And he said that sometimes he liked to do things that make himself feel good.” She took her hand and whisked a hair out of her eyes. “I asked him if he wanted me to join him and he said no.”

He started to laugh, “Okay, and this reminded you of me, how?”

She stared in his eyes. “I thought, if he can do things without me that make him feel good, then so can I.”

“So you asked me over?”

“Yeah. I wanted to listen to you.”

“To listen to me?”

“Yeah, I love to listen to you. I love that you talk to me. He doesn‘t talk to me.”

“Don’t you think that’s pretty goddamned selfish to use me like this?” He sat upright and swung his legs off of the bed.

“I didn’t use you. We traded conversation for sex.” She echoed his actions, stood up, and walked around the bed toward her closet. She pulled her robe off of a hook and wrapped it around herself. She belted it. “I’ve always loved your honesty sweetheart. So, be honest now.” She walked over to her dresser and picked up her hairbrush. She began brushing her hair to cool herself off. “Can you see that you just used me for exactly the same reason?”

“What?” He put each palm on a knee and leaned toward her.

“You’re in love with me.”

“Yeah.”

“And you just made love to another man’s fiancée.”

“Yeah. Hardly my finest hour.”

“And you did it because you feel good when you’re with me.”

“Yes.”

“So all three of us did something that made us feel good that could hurt someone else if they knew it.”

He put his head down on the pillow and crossed his arms over his chest. “We suck.”

“Well I’d call it selfish maybe. But I think it’s forgivable.”

He lifted his head and looked her in her eyes. “Do you realize that if you marry him I’ll never see you again?”

“Yes.” She put her brush on her dresser.

“Are you prepared to lose me forever?”

“I already did Mark. Can’t you see that honey?” She turned around and entered into her bathroom and shut the door.

A friend of mine posed this question on my Facebook wall:

Question: Do you like to debate topics just for the sake of enjoyment? And would you get upset or ‘unfriend’ or ‘underfriend’ someone if they completely disagree with your viewpoint?

Yes I like to debate. I don’t know anyone who has a greater array of friends than I do. You know, I am tremendously fond of you – so I’m going to really answer this. Okay – let’s break this up into both worlds: 3D (visual) and online (virtual.) I am exactly the same man online as I am on the street. I treat everyone exactly the same.

Right now I’m in the middle of the most difficult moments in my life (so far.) I have stress that I’m partially stunned and painfully proud I’m able to endure. I can’t count the nights I swing my legs out of bed, put my feet to the floor, walk to the wall, and take the crucifix down and grasp it through my night.

My life is difficult. And yet I endure.

Now – I honestly try with my entire soul to be a good man, a good son, a good brother, and a good friend. I strive until I sweat.

I’ve recently decided that I will no longer endure the stress associated with self-seeking, self-absorbed, and self-centered people. I have eliminated them from my life. And I’ll tell you why: I have set beside beds and offered succor. I have set in booths and offered brotherly agape. I have walked beside my brethren and offered support and encouragement. And along the way I’ve shared my struggles and my sorrows. Two weeks ago I realized I had some friends who merely sucked from my strength. And I realized I had allowed strangers to snap at my pride and pull at my pain and laugh from the realization that I had allowed them that close of a proximity to my heart. Some people like to be cruel because they enjoy the reaction. I won’t give them the reaction anymore. So, I’ve eliminated them from my life.

In a virtual world – people I have met through social networking – if someone subtracts or obstructs – I unfriend them. Look at the activity I have on my Facebook wall – people like to comment and share. And by God I’m going to offer support and encouragement. But anyone who wants to use me to propagate hate or share sarcasm or promote an activity that induces fear or anxiety – they’re gone. I unfriend them.

Now specifically – last week I mentioned a television program that offended me as Roman Catholic. Anyone who reads anything I have ever written or listened to anything that I have ever said – knows that I offer complete allegiance to the Roman Catholic Church. I do not care whether others follow my faith. And that’s why I have so many genuine 3D visual (they actually see me) friends who follow so many different faiths. I don’t care what people believe. I do not demand compliance of thought. I do demand equity in respect. When I mentioned how unsettled this anti-Catholic television program made me feel – a man – a 3D friend – belittled my feelings and went so far as to propagate the program and praise it. And at that moment, I knew we could never be friends again. He doesn’t need to adhere to my Faith – yet as my friend – I demand he respect me enough to not rub my face in ridicule for his sport. So. I told him I would not be friends with him anymore.

I feel there are certain causes in a human being’s life that should be above entertainment or ridicule. I think as fellow human beings – we must take care and caution to not unsettle our brother’s foundations just so that we can feel the power of reaction. Will I discuss theology? Yep. Will I listen to someone tell me I am limited or indoctrinated or ignorant? No. No one can read any word of mine and define me as limited or indoctrinated or ignorant. I don’t take the time to listen to the jabbering of jealousy. I’m too old and I haven’t enough time left to offer it for someone’s intellectual masturbation. I am not a whore.

Last week my friend Dan and I discussed the definitions of ridicule and sarcasm and humor. I tremendously enjoyed it. At the conclusion of the conversation – neither of us redefined our opinions. But we each retained the utmost respect for our friendship. Debate like that? Dandy. Yes. Please.

I have a secret weapon that everyone is surprised when I pull it from my emotional arsenal. I can walk away. And I can forget. A buddy of mine looked up from his eggs benedict a couple of weeks ago and he said, “There’s no compromising with you. That’s what nobody gets at first. You just don’t compromise.”

And I don’t.

I never underfriend – although I want to take the time to tell you how much I love that word – underfriend. I have the courage to confront. When I am angry or hurt or disgusted – I tell my associate the who, what, where, when, how, & why. I feel I am required to provide that as a participant in the relationship. So I do not underfriend.

However, I am frequently underfriended. Often people feel that my expectations supersede their enjoyment in the relationship. Yet they don’t want to end the relationship because they enjoy my access to a vast selection of people. A lot of people feel I am too popular to forsake. So, they move me to the back of their list – and usually use me and my connections to “trade up” and then sort of disappear from my surroundings. Or they treat me like their favored doll. I’m no longer their prized. I’m in the middle of a menagerie displayed on their toy chest or in their photo albums. I’m decoration; I’m collected; I’m coveted; I’m forgotten. Well, until a playmate spots me and takes me into his affection. And then the collector grasps me and surrounds me with suffocation and uses me as a shield against their sense of sharing.

This never hurts my feelings. It used to – it used to kill me. But now it occurs as often as a tongue bathes the shag of a broken tooth – at first it snags. And then one day the saliva smooths the shard to stone. Then the tongue travels without the pain of the point. I’m used to the furrow of the loss of friends.  My smile is less luminous with each loss.

And I still know each time my tongue travels.

Does that mean I always offer an explanation for the ending of a friendship? No. I used to think people didn’t know that they went too far or caused too much pain. But they do. They already know. And at those times I keep my tongue in my mouth and put my palms in my pocket. And I turn my cheek and offer them the view of my ass as it walks away …

I know a woman who sits inside a box. To her left she’s bricked her bias as earth’s boundary. To her right she’s walled her womanhood. To her back she’s paneled her passion. To her front she’s spackled her sympathy. Beneath her feet she’s founded her fears. It’s easier to contain her emotions than shed her selfishness. She covers herself with a leaden lid and slaps a yellowing sash across her pride with the word INDEPENDENT scrawled in cautionary capitals. She alludes to the fact she’s supportive. Her illusion is as transparent as the scrimmed sides of her space.

I know a woman who’s stuffed her spouse into a box. To his left she’s splashed her symbols of symbiotic suffragettism. To his right she’s splayed her chalk prints grading his intellectual inferiority. To his back she’s splattered the stains of his spilled sins. To his front she’s spat like a pointillist; she’s punctuated her illusions of aches to create a mosaic icon of her pain-free past. She covers him with a leaden lid and slaps a yellowing sash across his pride with the word FLAWED scrawled in cautionary capitals.

She sits inside her box. It’s easier to remain covert and covet than to coincide and coexist.

He sits inside her boxed. It is easier to remain inside than to rebut, retool, and rebuild.

She sits her box on her boxed. It’s easier to contain a contestant than to compete or compromise.

He cowers in her boxed. It’s easier to confine himself and concur than to contend and confront.

It’s an unusually sunny autumnal Saturday and I find myself inside. So, I’ve decided to write.

I use Facebook a lot. Well, I work at home; it’s my watercooler.

Last week a friend of mine unfriended me. Now that in itself doesn’t surprise me or upset me. I unfriend people all the time. I unfriend people who are acerbic and sarcastic and confine their comments to criticism. I have enough stress in my life; I avoid people who court the caustic. Or I unfriend people who have added me as an accessory to a game. I don’t mind that they play the game, but if a friendship doesn’t evolve or exist, why feign it? I unfriend people because sometimes I wasn’t aware of the fact that they not only have created a little world outside of reality, they want me to live with them inside their fantasy whirled. Yep. Some people are just nuts.

So my feelings weren’t hurt because she unfriended me.

Well, because people unfriend me. People unfriend me because I post often. I’ve heard that criticism. People unfriend me because they disagree with my personal philosophy. I’ve heard that criticism. Last week two women unfriended me because they felt that I had “ignored” them. Which okay – I was glad. I didn’t even really know them. I’ve accepted their friendship requests with the hope that a friendship might develop. So for a stranger to feel hurt that I wasn’t attentive screams, “lack of proportion.” I breathed a bit easier with their absence.

But this woman was my friend.

And then I received her email. She was verbose. She was emphatic. She feels that I encourage immoral behavior: I mention beer in my status updates. She feels that I encourage the abuse of alcohol. Hell, the way she wrote it – I carry the banner of alcoholism and lead some sort of parade toward the gates of Hell. As a recovering addict, she feels I make the practice of consumption attractive and therefore encourage people to partake in my plastered party. And she ended her tirade with a chastisement. She stated that I make people feel excluded because they can’t participate in my conversations and my activities.

I read her words and I felt ashamed of myself and ashamed of my actions. I have been excluded in my life. Okay, for the sake of honesty – I’m rarely excluded now. But, I have been excluded. That’s why I try so hard to include everyone. I know how it feels to press my nose against the bakery glass and see the treats I can’t taste.

I read her words and I felt like a pig.

I carried my heavy heart inside my heaving chest and I walked around my block. I saw people raking. I love raking. I love the rhythm of the whisk. But I can’t do it anymore. I am diabetic. The repetition of the steps affects my feet. Every year I get a blister. Every year I risk a limb. As a diabetic, a blister can be perilous. This year I did not rake. I saw a couple jogging. I used to jog. I can’t anymore. I can’t risk the blister or the injury. I saw a father pushing his son in a stroller. I used to push my boys while I walked. I used to walk 9 miles a day. I said my rosaries while I walked. I can’t walk any sort of distance anymore. I can’t risk the blister. I saw a woman taking packages out of her car. I can’t window shop at malls anymore. The last time I walked a mall, I got a blister. So now I park near the entrance and walk in – purchase – and walk out. I don’t dawdle. I don’t peruse. I shop like a surgeon with a scalpel. I enter – I excise – I exit. I saw a man on his bike. Last year I biked 10-15 miles a day. This year I haven’t biked around my block. I felt melancholy that I could only observe the activities I used to enjoy.

And I realized that my disease prevents me from participation in certain activities.

Get it?

Should I feel angry that people post status lines that speak of walking or jogging or exercising or shopping or biking or eating, (I must control my diabetes with diet and exercise) or traveling? (The leg room of airplane seats constrict the blood flow in my legs and causes me to crimp a vein. If I sit too long in that position I am unable to feel my feet or negotiate my legs. Uncomfortable seats also prevent me from attending prolonged athletic events. The term, “7th inning stretch” has an entirely different meaning to me.) Should I feel excluded when my friends go for a bike ride or take a walk or go shopping?

So, her disease prevents her from full participation in all activities. Okay. So what? Isn’t it rather self-absorbed to demand that others refrain from referencing activities that might not include everyone? Isn’t it self-centered to only consider a topic and how it affects us? And isn’t it indicative of someone who has lost a sense of proportion to feel a mere mention can coerce someone to commit acts that are unethical, unhealthy, or unwise?

You know what? Exclusion isn’t always a bad thing. There are many activities I’d rather not participate in. And as far as I’m concerned – I enjoy my right to exclude myself from certain activities.

And I enjoy my right to exclude certain people from my life.

I didn’t send her a new friend request. I didn’t apologize. She’s the one who put the scotched tape A on her chest. Perhaps it marks the spot where an inclusive heart used to be located.

“If Merry Susan Hyatt has her way, every public school pupil in California will have the voter-approved right to sing “Joy to the World” in the classroom. Ms. Hyatt, 61, a substitute schoolteacher, is the chief proponent of a proposed California ballot initiative that would require the state’s public schools to offer Christmas music during the holiday season. …

[S]he added that in her experience as a substitute teacher in schools in largely Latino, largely Christian neighborhoods in Southern California, she had not often encountered people who do not celebrate Christmas. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a Jewish child in one of my classes,” she said. “If so they never said anything.”“

Okay, I’ve already written about my feelings of public displays of private beliefs – Symbols vs Cymbals. So, I’m not addressing that. I’m addressing Ms Hyatt.

I don’t know why I am stunned each year by those who lack enlightenment and insight. Aren’t they the ones who usually place sights up to their pupils and aim while they hunt? No, I don’t imagine she knew she had Jewish children in her classes – she obviously is so narrow visioned she couldn’t see the poor child raise his hand in objection. But then people like her don’t see differences – they just see objects for derision.

It’s funny – I live by one of the most famous landmarks on earth and I forget that I do. I took this picture from my pda this morning. (Yeah, well I didn’t buy it for the camera capabilities.) Anyway in autumn when the leaves have left their limbs, I can see Minneapolis from my house. And between my house and Minneapolis is the Mississippi River. (The red arrow points to the Minneapolis bank.) I thought this morning about how much our culture has changed in the last century or so – and the evolution of the topography.   I considered how many authors wrote about rivers.

And I haven’t considered it.
Not once.

Okay, so this is my 1000th post.

What have I’ve learned?

→ I’ve learned that I’m a better writer than I am a man. I’m able to express myself yet not progress beyond my failings.

→ I’ve learned synchronicity is as much about endings as it is about beginnings. I know when I should speak. I know when I should remain silent. I know when I should stand staid and watch a loved back away when I won’t relent. I’ve learned that loss doesn’t maim like it used to scar me. I care less about the back I watch and more about the wobbling knees I must firm.

→ I’ve learned explanations won’t eradicate confusion. I used to think if I explained the situation I could shed enlightenment. I can’t. Some concepts are just beyond some capabilities.

→ I’ve learned hypocrisy is alive and well and living in the hearts of the tolerant. It seems I am required to accept everything including anti-Catholic sentiment.

→ I’ve learned that jealousy is a carnivorous sin. It eats men’s souls and pride until it burps gnawed friendships and regurgitated relationships. It’s ravenous and unable to find satiation. Unfortunately, it’s not inert. It sneaks up behind me and bites me on my ass. I’ve learned I can’t recognize it in my associates until I feel its teeth on my cheeks.

→ I’ve learned I can be alone.

→ I’ve learned I have blog readers if I post. Each time I add an article my hits jump by triple digits. Perhaps I should spend more time here and less time on a novel.

→ I’ve learned most people want things to be easiest. No wonder chronic masturbation is the new buzz disorder. You can’t get less friction than when you’ve eliminated something that’s fucking you back with expectations of emotional reciprocation. Are there lower expectations than none?

→ I’ve learned that I had more to say than I had thought. I’m humiliated by the exposition.

→ I’ve learned money matters. And anyone who says it doesn’t – has it.

→ I’ve learned that pigs love to play in the mud. No matter how many times you pull the garden hose to the sty and wash the piglets, they’ll still waddle until they can wallow. The more water you add – the more moist the splatter.

→ I’ve learned that men are verbal. It’s why they avoid putting it into words. I’ve learned women are visual. It’s why they constantly need to describe their vision. I’ve learned that men aren’t abstract; they’re obstruct. They know the concept. They just don’t want it said aloud, described in full, or expected of them. And they’ll avoid it and obstruct it no matter how persistently someone instructs it.

→ I’ve learned that no matter how hard I try, I can’t take a decent picture. These 5 photos are the profile pictures I’ve used since I began my blog. They are chronologically placed from first – last.

→ I’ve learned that the concept of “pricing themselves out of the market” is beyond the intellectual and emotional capabilities of high maintenance women.

→ I’ve learned that sometimes a conflict demands too many words for resolution. I’ve learned that a mouth moves up and down and sometimes it’s more sagacious to move it up and allow things to calm down.

→ I’ve learned it doesn’t matter if you have feet if you don’t have a firm foundation of morality and responsibility to stand on.

→ I’ve learned if you allow yourself to be open, honest, and vulnerable, you’ll be persecuted, humiliated, and shunned. But just by most. I took the risk and now I have more friends than I can count and more love than one heart can hold. I’m blessed by my friends.

Thank you for reading me.

Yesterday I sat at a bar and silently sipped. It was during the day and I wanted a little quiet. I wasn’t at my usual bar. The Tap limits itself to beer & wine and I wanted a Manhattan. I glanced to my side and saw a man slumped over his shoulders and shrunk inside his suit. He quietly sipped his drink, set it down, lifted his hands to his head, pressed his palm against the perspiration, and seeped a silent sigh. He wiped his brow with the wet on his fingers and took his two pointers and pushed each one against the side of his nose like a child plugging his ears with poor aim. He rested his closed eyes against the length of his index fingers and weighted his worries against his pedestaled elbows.

I did not want to talk with him.

My PDA rested near my cocktail glass and silently shook each time someone courted my attention. I came for contemplation; I sought solitude. The responsibilities rang within my conscience. I reached over and turned off my telephone. I wasn’t saddened. I wasn’t stressed. I was disinterested. Sometimes there are too many words required in a relationship. I had permitted my perimeter. Yesterday I resolved to reserve.

He set his emptied glass on the bar and burrowed his head in his hands.

I did not want to talk with him.

The responsibilities rang within my conscience.

“Okay, did you watch the Vikings Sunday?” I turned to talk. It was a precarious question for my pride.  I had no secondary statement. I don’t follow football. But I love Brett Favre.  He is a practicing Roman Catholic. I am too. I pray for him each Sunday. “Please Jesus, just don’t let him embarrass himself,” I plead.

He swung his head up and over like a excavator swinging his load to deposit into a dump. “What?”

“I’m asking you if you watched the Viking’s Game.” I twisted my torso toward him.

“Yeah I caught some of it.” His jaw dropped his words; his eyes echoed it. I could see the sorrow sit on the rim of his eyes. His tears didn’t trickle; they pooled.

I had no intention of dropping his petition. I racked my brain trying to recall the conversations I‘d heard between buddies over their beers. “Okay, I don’t know anything about it,” I said, “but my buddy tells me the Vikings still need a better defense.”

“Oh.” He turned his head and faced the bottles along the back of the bar. “I don’t really follow football.”

“Yeah, I don’t either.” I admitted. I silently prayed, “Come on God! Help me out here! He doesn’t want to talk to me. Jesus! Come on. You gotta help me!” I lifted my drink to my lips and my eyes toward my cap. “So you going hunting this weekend?”

“What?” His irritation wavered his word; his head didn’t move.

I turned my body and put my feet on the stool at my side. I leaned over a bit and said, “Hey? Look. My day sucks and I don’t want to sit here quietly. I was just trying to get something going. I’ve got to get my mind off of all of it. That’s all.” I twisted back on the stool and placed my feet at rest. I picked up my drink and took a sip.

“Oh well, no worries,” he said. He turned and offered me a slight smile. “My day’s not been the best either.”

“Okay, you first.”

“What?” He looked at me.

“Oh come on. I don’t even know you. We’re never going to see each other again. What the hell.”

He looked straight into my eyes; I did not break his glance. “My wife’s cheating on me.” He spoke the words without inflection like a novice setting up his microphone on his webcam.

“Oh Christ!” I said. “You win! Jesus! I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” He turned his face and picked up his drink. He took a sip and placed the glass down with his fist. He took his bottom lip and placed it like a mustache under his nose. He swallowed and closed his mouth taut. “Me too,” he leaked.

Silence sat between us.

“What’s yours?” He turned his face toward me.

“Work. It’s just career bullshit.”

“Yeah you’re right.” He turned his head and dropped his chin to his chest. “I win.”

“Someone you know?”

“Next door neighbor.” He didn’t lift his head.

“A buddy?”

“Not anymore.”

“Yeah, fuck him.”

“Found them in my garage.” His head remained bowed.

“You’re kidding?”

“No,” he turned toward me. “He was fucking her by the tool bench.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah my daughter was in the house.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“4.”

“Shit! Okay, there are no good words here. Sucks on every level.”

“Yeah,” he turned and faced the front.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I can’t afford to divorce her.”

“I get that. You could try counseling.”

“Yeah maybe. I don’t know. She’s got some self-esteem issues.” He picked up his drink.

“Okay listen to me,” I turned and faced him. “Every human being on earth has self-esteem issues. We all do. Hell, I do. But I don’t bend over the tool bench and get fucked by my neighbor. You know – most people don’t. So, let’s live in a little reality here. Okay? If low self-esteem was a legitimate excuse for selfish behavior, mankind would be still dragging their knuckles and grabbing their ankles. There would be like 6 people walking earth fucking us. So – cut that shit. What? You‘ve never had your pride bruised? How many people did you fuck over the bench? Huh? Her self-esteem is low and that gives her the right to lower yours? Fuck that man.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’ve gotta go.” He stood up to leave. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and threw cash on the bar. “Good luck with the career.”

“Hey bro? Listen to me. It’s not your fault she didn’t keep her vow. That’s the bottom line. She decided what she was going to do. And now you’ve got to decide. So, you want to teach your daughter that if things don’t go her way she can just bend over a bench and blame everyone else? That’s what you have to decide.”

He turned and walked out of the bar. I saw his future at his back. He was going to go to counseling and be told it was his fault. And I got angry. I felt angry with him. I felt angry with me. I felt angry with his wife.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know the whole story. I don’t need to know it. Because I know some things:

I know that only two people can be in a relationship. I know I can’t date a woman and date her past and date her mother’s alcoholism and date her father’s indifference and date her teammates’ taunts and date her classmates’ caustic criticisms. I can’t. No relationship can endure all that. It’s so disproportionate. It’s like being at an orgy and having your face pushed into a pillow and be forbidden from flipping to your front. No relationship can endure one person having all that baggage. It can’t. No one person can be expected to cart all that weight for someone else.

You know, there are certain rights of passages in a life: first kisses, first bras, first jockstrap, first disappointment, first rejections, first failure, first loss, first love. And each person must pass those moments and move them into the past. And if one doesn ’t move ahead – then it is unjust. It’s unjust because it puts too much pressure on the shoulders of the spouse. He or she is dealing with the spouse’s emotions and rejections and affirmations and confirmations while trying to deal with his or her own. It’s too much to ask from a spouse. Where is the balance? “I can’t do that because when I was a kid ….” What? Are you serious? So who is going to do it?

Who is expected to carry the emotional weight of the relationship? And woe to the one who is psychologically healthy enough to endure. Have you ever noticed that people with issues never maintain any equitable relationships? Or hell, any relationship? The weight of their emotional selfishness smothers anyone in their midst.

Look. If you expect the person you claim to love to forgive your actions or forget your indiscretions and justify your unjust behavior because of your “issues” or your “low self-esteem,” I want to ask you – how can you be so selfish and self-absorbed to require so much and handle so little?

Christ – think of a relationship as a teeter-totter. And I mean all relationships. As partners or friends or siblings, participants must take turns lifting the pair or stopping the pair from crashing. As our lives peak and dip, we trust that our loving ones won’t jump off and leave us jerking until we plummet. And we trust that our partner won’t be weighed down and leave us dangling without a firm emotional ground to stand on.

Hey? If you can’t enter into a relationship – whether it be romantic or platonic – and be in control of who you are and how you treat others, then don’t enter into the relationship or friendship. If you can’t pass your past – then step aside. It’s so unfair to ask others to carry your weight when you should have waited. Whether it be a bench or an altar – no one should have to bend over for you.

Son Says Obama Father ‘Abusive’

Hey – when I’m rich & famous – will you guys not purchase the books or watch the interviews of the maggots who try to chew off my pride and privacy? Okay? Thanks! Oh and BTW – no setting up lemonade stands in my front yard (dear Christ it’s too small to be a ‘lawn’) and offering to “tell the inside story.”

Thanks again.

He pulled his cap from his head and bowed as he dipped his fingers into the font. He saw the arrow pointing to the poll and stuffed his cap into his coat pocket as he descended the stairs toward the ballot box. He saw the open space where the Mass is often prayed. He noticed the Crucifix on the wall and the Altar at its feet. He noted the empty seats. He looked at the placed parallel poll appurtenances. On his left the poll workers were seated and weighted with the responsibility to register or to authenticate. On his right were the voting booths. At his side was the ballot box. Everything was placed. Yet the line was as absent as Floridian voters. He approached the table on his left and saw the N – Z sign. He stood behind two men as a novice election board volunteer shuffled through lists to verify and certify. He looked at his shoes and shuffled them to ease the ache of his hips. The loss of two toes had misshapened his foot and he sought balance and solace with his shuffle.

He withdrew his wallet, offered his driver’s license, retrieved it from the outstretched hand, and returned it into the cavern near his cash. He palmed it into his back pocket. He was in his parish; he didn’t worry about his wallet’s placement. He bent at his waist, signed on the line pointed out by the volunteer, and straightened himself.  The volunteer took the pen, exchanged it for a green slip of paper, and pointed toward a woman near her side. He took a step to his right and turned to mark his ideals. He looked up toward the stairs and saw her feet as she descended the stairs. Shapely legs met the hem of her skirt. A tapered waist met full breasts. Her flawless face sat like a crown on her elongated neck. His libido voted a silent, “Hell Yes!” the moment he cast his eyes on her. Their eyes met and he popped his eyebrow toward his scalp, slid a smile to the side of his mouth, and twinkled his eye in an impromptu ASL adlib. “Jesus, you’re adorable,” he tried to mime. He walked over to the ballot table and traded the slip of paper for a ballot. He turned toward the booths and found her behind him.

“Is this the line?”

He looked past her and saw that there were three people voting. There wasn’t a line. He knew she was giving him a line. “If you’re following me, it is.” He smiled; she smiled. He looked into her hazel eyes; she cast her eyes toward her blush. He walked into the booth, studied the names, colored the spheres, and stuffed the ballot into a sleeve to cover his cast. He wasted a little time in the hope of encountering her again. His heart raced with anticipation. Two political races and one referendum prevented him from taking up too much time without seeming like a dolt. He walked toward the box as she emerged from her booth. He stood before the ballot box and turned toward her to flirt. “Okay, this is the line.” He smiled.

She smiled, “Oh, I was just following you this time.”

He laughed; she laughed. “Do you go to Nativity?” he asked. He’d never seen her at Mass.

“No.” She shook her head and pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder. He pulled his ballot from its sleeve and fed it into the machine. He picked an “I VOTED!” sticker from a basket and peeled it from its paper and tried to think of something appealing to say to her.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” He stepped aside and watched as she fed her ballot into the machine. She hadn’t used the sleeve. She tossed it onto the pile.

“Look.” He punched his hands into his pockets, thought better of it, and pulled his keys from inside. “My name is Mark.” He pointed toward the volunteers who silently sat at the empty tables. “They can verify it. I just had to prove it to the entire district.” He smiled and instantly felt the fool. “If you’re not married, I’d love to take you to coffee. You’re absolutely adorable and you’ve got a darling personality.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Oh, okay,” he interrupted. “Are you married?”

“No.” She smiled. “I’m late for work. How about meeting me for a drink?”

“I’d love to.” He smiled. “I vote yes.” She smiled. “This afternoon?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry I can’t. But let me give you my number. Tomorrow afternoon will work for me. Are you free?”

“I’ll be free.” He took his phone from his pocket. “Why don’t you call me and then I’ll have your number?” She took his phone from his hand and punched in her digits. “Okay, I don’t even know your name,” he said while she typed.

She offered her name as she offered his phone. He took his phone and took her hand. They shook hands and exchanged smiles. “I’ve gotta go!” she giggled.

“Me too.” He turned to walk beside her toward the stairs. “You’ve made my morning,” he said as they started their ascent.

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you too Mark,” she said near the top.

He dipped his fingers into the font, made the sign of his faith, thanked his God, and pulled the door open for her. They walked into the sunshine and smiled as they went to their cars.

I remembered two things last week.

1. I remembered a conference I had with an English prof in college. He decided we needed to talk and he requested an office visit with me. Instead of sitting in his office, we walked the campus and discussed my writing. I felt glad not to be confined to a chair. It was during a time when smoking was allowed on campus and I loved the opportunity to puff as I listened to his lecture.

At the time he praised my ability and encouraged the profession. Yet, he cautioned me too. He told me that my style would never be commercial. He told me I’d have to write to the masses. And he spun his message something like this, “Mark, you have to reach people where they are. You can’t expect them to come up to where you are.” That’s not verbatim, but it’s so Goddamned close it’s frightening. I walked away from our walk and I thought something like, “Well fuck that! If I can’t make money, I’ll do something else.” And so I didn’t seek employment with my pen. If a career couldn’t finance women and cigarettes, I wanted no part of it.

Yet food and shelter trump sex and cigarettes and I soon found myself writing under other men’s names. I justified my actions by assuring myself that my time would arrive when everything was synchronized. And I put my words behind me and I put their words in the mouths of their readers. I diluted the message yet never deluded myself into thinking my compromise was morally right. I felt I hadn’t compromised my gift; they compromised theirs. Throughout my career, professional writers have praised my abilities and cautioned my form. Their clamoring, “You’ve gotta dumb it down Mark!” has reverberated in my ears as often as the sound of scraping snowplows. It’s nearly seasonal. Each season I offer a piece – and each season they offer advice.

I had a series of medical problems and I found myself struggling to maintain my health while burdened with diabetes. A friend of mine, an internist, encouraged me to document my struggles. So I began a blog.

When I began – I toyed with the notion of a pseudonym. I intended to write without allowing my pride to edit my words. I knew that my format would not be popular. Well, because I knew how to write a popular blog. I had and have written other men’s blogs. I know how to use keywords to capture attention and hits. I know how to spin popular culture.

Yet on my blog, I decided not to compromise. My Name. My Words. My Level. Amen.

And it became fairly popular. At my blog’s best, I had 700 hits a day. I’ve often received encouragement to write a novel. I’ve balked. I knew I wasn’t commercial. I know what sells. I’ve written what sells. I’ve sold for the sellers. Writers suggested I add ads to my blog. I didn’t. I didn’t want to sell my words or allow finances to influence my thoughts.

I didn’t want to compromise.

The economy has killed opportunities for freelance writers. There are simply too many connected writers (who are now available because of the decline of newspapers) for the more meagerly networked to find work. So, I adapted my words into a novel. It hasn’t sold yet. I know if I rework it, I can sell it. I know if I write to reach the masses, I can write a novel that could be a massive bestseller. I know I can. I have complete confidence in my writing ability. And I need the money. Each day I am losing more ground. Diabetes already threatens the firmness of the foundation I stand on.

Yet I’d rather write a missive and risk missing an opportunity. So, I will not compromise. If my novel doesn’t sell – it will remain online as a personal achievement. I cannot write better than I have written. It’s as good as I can do. I know I’ve written definitive posts on many contemporary cultural subjects. That’s not hubris. It’s a fact. Writing is the only thing I do well.

Look. I know the nature of blogs. People don’t start at the beginning of a blog and read it. I’m hardly stupid. I’ll never have a child. I can live with that. I may never be a success. I can live with that too.  My blog is my testament. It stands.  My blog is uncompromising; I’m uncompromising.  The words are me.  And if anyone wants to know me and know how I became me, they can read me. I offer my words to them. People often judge me. “You’re so unique Mark! There’s no one like you!” I think they mean it as a praise but I see it as a symbolic ostracism. I’d like to think there are others who will not compromise. I’d like to think it. Maybe people will read me and discover there are others like them.

Did you think I missed the second thing I remembered last week? Hardly.

2. Last week while I struggled with confidence and juggled my finances, I picked up a book my friends Geoff and Angel gave to me. It’s an almanac of Saint Paul Minnesota. I perused through the articles. I read a piece about a diner that existed downtown Saint Paul. The writer mentioned an immigrant woman who washed dishes during her day. And I thought – I can wash dishes. I can do that. If my career dies – I can still do work with my hands. I effortlessly breathed for the first time that day. I knew in that instant that I didn’t need to compromise. I felt happy.

I can wash dishes.

My words will stand; I won’t compromise.

I will not compromise my faith.
I will not compromise my gifts.

Not for money or shelter or companionship or feet.

On May 26, 1962 I was born.
On August 23, 1985 I change the kind of man I intended to become.
On August 14, 2004 I changed how long I intended to live.
On November 1, 2009 I changed my goal.

Each day I have fewer moments to Mark. And I’ll be Goddamned if I intend to make them matter less or mark them with mediocrity.

I can wash dishes.

And I can do it alone.

Okay I’m in the mood to write this morning.

Most people feel uneasy in social situations. It’s not that we all feel intimidated. Although most people do. But even if one has self-confidence in his social skills, if he has any sense of decency, he feels the moral obligation to offer kindness and acceptance to his fellow participants who don‘t feel equity in the ease. And fulfilling that obligation is exhausting. Well, there is always a need.

I don’t understand why people create that need. Wait. I understand it. I just refuse to participate in the creation or find it an amusing recreation.

But I have.

I wrote this before: “I’ve spent 25 years of my life wearing the crown of bullshit king. I can chat and chuckle on a championship level. I was the classic clown in a class by myself with a wit that whipped and a pun that punished and only the wounded weren’t amused. And then I saw the sin.”

Insults. I should take the time to research the etymology of the word insult. But I think I’ll create my own etymology. Insult – in salt. Salt in the wounds. Do the math.

I used to insult people; now, I don’t. I used to associate with people who found humor in hurting others; now, I don’t.

Yet I have many friends. I didn’t have friends. When I was younger and hate-filled, I used my wit as I sought inclusion. I had been excluded and chose to join the antagonistic and the caustic to soften their blows. And my humor often went straight to the heart of their matters. I bellowed my punch lines and punched my associates with my puns. I sought solace – as do all sarcastic smartasses – in the security of my intelligence. Smartass / smart ass / an asshole who is smart. Yet as I’ve aged and sought to become a better man, I realized that truly intelligent people can use their cleverness to create communions. I realized that truly witty people can use witticism to explain wisdom. Now I have friends: true friends who seek my companionship because I offer trust and care and love and kindness.

I want to make this clear:

It is never acceptable to make another human being feel inferior. It is never acceptable to make another human being lose his dignity. It is never acceptable to make another human being doubt his masculinity or doubt her femininity. It is never acceptable to make another human being self-conscious. It is never acceptable to make another human being feel excluded.

Now here’s an aside. Anytime a participant in a relationship – whether it be romantic, platonic, economic, theological, ideological, or political – makes the relationship about a single participant and not the pair, it’s wrong. Every relationship must have equity in the partnership. It must be about the marriage – not a spouse. It must be about the friendship – and not a friend. It must be about the business – and not an employee. It must be about the Communion and not the communicant. It must be about a society and not a citizen. It must be about nonpartisanship and not a party. It must be about partaking and not parting the parts into partitions. (Biblical proof: Saint Matthew 12:25.) Each participant must seek parity and equity for any relationship to endure. It’s not about me and my needs; it’s about us and our goals. A relationship is how parts relate to each other as a whole. It must be about a union and not a division.

Now, I need someone to explain to me when it is ever acceptable to make a fellow human being feel uncomfortable or unwelcome. I need someone to explain to me how it’s humorous to make a fellow soul unhappy or uneasy. And frankly at our age, I cannot comprehend the selfishness of making another human being live under even more stress than he is required by his responsibilities to endure.

And if you can explain to me how these divisive actions are acceptable – then I think you should offer yourself as the punch line. And as you stand there and feel the sting of slapped sarcasm, and the punch of puns, and the hits of humor – I want you to explain to me how you can insult God the way your behavior insults Him. Explain to me how you feel God’s creation – you – are so inferior that you’re unworthy of kindness, compassion, dignity, and respect.

The line between ridicule and acceptance is black & white. One can define blasphemy, ridicule, satire, sarcasm, and jeering with many words. Yet, it’s all the same thing: anytime one auctions off the dignity, humanity, theology, or philosophy of another human being for the benefit of self elevation or selfish satiation – the action is morally reprehensible.

Always.

I don’t know of any valid theological or moral belief system that advocates the mistreatment of others. If it does – it isn’t valid. Anyone with a head can see that. I’m not saying that all theological and moral belief systems need to practice inclusion. They can’t. If one actually believes the tenets of one’s faith – he cannot say that all beliefs are valid. All may be parallel – but not all are valid.

The difference between persecution (which is actually founded in xenophobia) and racism is black and white. There is a difference between abusing someone for what they are and abusing someone for what they believe. If you punish me because of the color of my eyes – I can find solace (no matter how slight) in the fact that I cannot change the physical attribute that is considered unfashionable. Because it is unfashionable. I cannot alter it and fashion it into a different attribute in my quest for inclusion.

However – if one is persecuted for one’s beliefs – he can alter his belief to seek inclusion. It is in our physical nature to bend at the waist and touch our toes. It takes effort to remain erect. That is why humanity has celebrated the steadfast throughout history.

The duplicity I see is that our society touts a fundamental foundation of non-judgmental acceptance. Yet judges each act as it occurs. If one judges that ridicule is permissible when used against the prevalent or the majority, then we live in a judgmental society. Now – I will freely admit that I am judgmental. Anyone with ethics is judgmental. One must judge his ethical response to a plausible scenario or pending action. All ethical people are judgmental. Any man who reads my words and decides I’m right or wrong – is judgmental. Being judgmental is not a bad thing – It’s a contemplative act. Rendering punitive actions is sinful.

I feel as a society (with differing moral values) we must make clean and concise standards of behavior for the ethical treatment of our citizens and our neighbors. I feel that anytime one auctions off the dignity, humanity, theology, or philosophy of another human being for the benefit of self elevation or selfish satiation – the action is morally reprehensible.

Either abuse of religious symbols is always wrong or it’s always permissible. And that is regardless of intent. The action is inappropriate.

And no – I have not lost my sense of proportion. The ethical treatment of our fellow human beings must be paramount in our society. Hell, in any society.

“ESPN broadcaster Bob Griese has been suspended one week for a remark he made about NASCAR driver Juan Pablo Montoya.”

He made an anti-Hispanic slur and has been suspended and publicly chastised.

And
Rightly
So

“The Kansas City Chiefs announced Tuesday that they’ve barred running back Larry Johnson from participating in all team-related activities while they and the NFL investigate comments attributed to him in recent days.”

Larry Johnson used a homophobic slur on his Twitter account.

“The Chiefs on Tuesday barred Johnson from all team activities, and a suspension from the league – and even a trade from the Chiefs – has been widely discussed.”

And
Rightly
So.

Saturday is Halloween and I’ll watch partygoers slip the signs of my Faith over their heads and laugh at the symbols of my sacred. And if I object to these tricksters dressed in the anachronistic garb of the clergy, I’ll be called: extreme, earnest, and humorless.

Anyone who can’t see the duplicity is beyond reasonable.

And Mark Roland Trost said so.