A tiny old woman approached me at Dunkin Donuts this morning as I sipped my coconut iced coffee, waiting for my cinnamon raisin bagel. High off of her morning coffee, she stabbed a bony finger at my arm and said "So, how do you get by with that on you?".
I looked down at her nonchalantly, took a hit off of my coffee, and then looked down at my tattoos as if noticing them for the first time. "What do you mean?" I asked, knowing full well what she meant but wanting to hear her say it.
She got flustered.
"Well, don't they hurt?"
"Nope," I said grinning, "they just tickled!"
She thought this was hilarious. She asked me what they were and as I explained to her that they were a phoenix and a dragon, I could hear another old woman relating the entire conversation to her friend, who clearly had trouble hearing. I caught the translator's eye as the first old lady took her leave of me, and she said, "That could have been your mother talking to you like that."
I laughed. "My mother hates these things."
"I'll bet she does." She shook her head seriously.
"But I wear a t-shirt with long enough sleeves when I'm with her so that she doesn't have to see them."
"Oh do you? That's a good boy." she said approvingly, and then to her friend, "He said he wears a long sleeve shirt so his mother doesn't have to see them."
"Oh does he? He's a good boy."
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Me -11; X = Now
Confusion. Like gale force winds buffeting me from all directions. Can't tell which way is up. Had an anchor but I dropped it. Thought it was keeping me down. Turns out it was keeping me safe, grounded, upright. Thought I didn't deserve safe, grounded, upright.
Turns out I did.
I do.
Comfort comes from discomfort, sanity from chaos. Taught to expect it so why want anything more. Why trust anything more. If it's too easy it can't be real. Can't be trusted.
When the winds finally stopped and I found myself face up on my back, I realized that good is real. Good should be mine. I deserve it. Up is up and down is down, and chaos can be learning but doesn't have to.
I dip my finger in the pond of life and watch the ripples spread away from me. A slight breeze blows in the trees but I am not afraid.
I am anchored.
Turns out I did.
I do.
Comfort comes from discomfort, sanity from chaos. Taught to expect it so why want anything more. Why trust anything more. If it's too easy it can't be real. Can't be trusted.
When the winds finally stopped and I found myself face up on my back, I realized that good is real. Good should be mine. I deserve it. Up is up and down is down, and chaos can be learning but doesn't have to.
I dip my finger in the pond of life and watch the ripples spread away from me. A slight breeze blows in the trees but I am not afraid.
I am anchored.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Carpe Diem Rule #5 - It is Never Too Late to Make Amends
Sometimes we don't realize we did something wrong until much later. Other times we know we did wrong, but don't have the strength to admit it right away.
It is never too late to make amends to people that you have wronged. Making amends isn't the same as apologizing, but apologies are definitely part of it. Making amends constitutes giving someone you wronged the opportunity to face you and do whatever they think they need to in order to feel better about what you did to them. They may yell, kick, and scream, they may ask questions, they may shrug their shoulders and walk away. But whatever they do, making amends means allowing them to do it, and responding with compassion and understanding. Most importantly, one cannot make amends unless one is fully aware that they did wrong.
Making amends gives others the opportunity to forgive us, but more importantly, it gives us the opportunity to forgive ourselves.
It is never too late to make amends to people that you have wronged. Making amends isn't the same as apologizing, but apologies are definitely part of it. Making amends constitutes giving someone you wronged the opportunity to face you and do whatever they think they need to in order to feel better about what you did to them. They may yell, kick, and scream, they may ask questions, they may shrug their shoulders and walk away. But whatever they do, making amends means allowing them to do it, and responding with compassion and understanding. Most importantly, one cannot make amends unless one is fully aware that they did wrong.
Making amends gives others the opportunity to forgive us, but more importantly, it gives us the opportunity to forgive ourselves.
I Have Gas
I have the same exact conversation every time I am at the pump filling up my speed bike next to an older woman. They are always older too, not yet grandmothers, but not mothers anymore either. I guess they need someone to baby.
The conversation always, without fail, goes exactly like this:
Her: Do you feel safe on that thing?
Me: Absolutely. [taps helmet] Besides, I'm an excellent driver.
Her: It's not you that you have to worry about, it's those other knuckleheads out there.
Me: Tell me about it.
Her: You've only got that one headlight, so they just don't see you.
Me: I just pretend I'm invisible. That way I'm never suprised when someone does something dumb.
Her: There are so many bad drivers out there.
Me: You know, when the cell phone law first came out I thought it was stupid, but every single near-accident* I've been in was with someone holding a cell phone to their ear.
Her: [shaking her head] Well let's hope they all stay "near" and you don't get in any accidents. Be safe out there.
Me: Thank you, I appreciate that.
And I genuinely do appreciate that. It's really nice that people can be so caring. That this woman who knows nothing about me can be so genuinely concerned about my safety makes me feel really nice about humanity in general, something that happens oh-so-rarely.
* Why do people say "near miss"? If you nearly missed something, then you didn't miss it. You hit it.
The conversation always, without fail, goes exactly like this:
Her: Do you feel safe on that thing?
Me: Absolutely. [taps helmet] Besides, I'm an excellent driver.
Her: It's not you that you have to worry about, it's those other knuckleheads out there.
Me: Tell me about it.
Her: You've only got that one headlight, so they just don't see you.
Me: I just pretend I'm invisible. That way I'm never suprised when someone does something dumb.
Her: There are so many bad drivers out there.
Me: You know, when the cell phone law first came out I thought it was stupid, but every single near-accident* I've been in was with someone holding a cell phone to their ear.
Her: [shaking her head] Well let's hope they all stay "near" and you don't get in any accidents. Be safe out there.
Me: Thank you, I appreciate that.
And I genuinely do appreciate that. It's really nice that people can be so caring. That this woman who knows nothing about me can be so genuinely concerned about my safety makes me feel really nice about humanity in general, something that happens oh-so-rarely.
* Why do people say "near miss"? If you nearly missed something, then you didn't miss it. You hit it.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Eating cottage cheese with chopsticks
I once spun hardcore techno at a house club. I never got invited back to DJ at that particular venue, but if one kid on the dance floor thought "No fucking way he's spinning hardcore this is so awesome" then it was worth it.
Scratch that, it was worth it anyway.
I did it because I wanted to hear hardcore. I did it because it was right for me at the time. I did it for reasons that only I could explain, but I wasn't concerned with that. With explaining.
Spinning hardcore at a house club is not generally viewed as a good thing to do. Doing things because they are right for you at the time will undoubtedly lead to consequences. The severity of those consequences dictate how worth it to you it is to do what you did. I didn't hurt anyone else with my hardcore (unless there was someone there having a bad trip, which would be regrettable but arguably not my fault).
I don't regret what I did that night. It made for a far cooler story than would have the next 5 times I spun house had I not been banned - all put together.
But most importantly, that night, for 1 hour, I didn't care what anyone else thought of me. I did what I wanted to and wasn't concerned with validation from others.
For a brief moment earlier today I considered eating cottage cheese out of the container using chopsticks. I had gone to reach for the spoon, and there was one there, but for whatever reason I wanted to use chopsticks. So I did. It does not work with that particular food, for the record.
I'm going to spin whatever I want to from now on. If it happens to be what everyone in the room wants to hear, then that's good. If there's only one kid on the dance floor that is on my wavelength, then that's good too. If I clear the floor and get kicked out of the club, then that's good too. Because none of those outcomes change the fact that I am going to be true to myself no matter what.
Scratch that, it was worth it anyway.
I did it because I wanted to hear hardcore. I did it because it was right for me at the time. I did it for reasons that only I could explain, but I wasn't concerned with that. With explaining.
Spinning hardcore at a house club is not generally viewed as a good thing to do. Doing things because they are right for you at the time will undoubtedly lead to consequences. The severity of those consequences dictate how worth it to you it is to do what you did. I didn't hurt anyone else with my hardcore (unless there was someone there having a bad trip, which would be regrettable but arguably not my fault).
I don't regret what I did that night. It made for a far cooler story than would have the next 5 times I spun house had I not been banned - all put together.
But most importantly, that night, for 1 hour, I didn't care what anyone else thought of me. I did what I wanted to and wasn't concerned with validation from others.
For a brief moment earlier today I considered eating cottage cheese out of the container using chopsticks. I had gone to reach for the spoon, and there was one there, but for whatever reason I wanted to use chopsticks. So I did. It does not work with that particular food, for the record.
I'm going to spin whatever I want to from now on. If it happens to be what everyone in the room wants to hear, then that's good. If there's only one kid on the dance floor that is on my wavelength, then that's good too. If I clear the floor and get kicked out of the club, then that's good too. Because none of those outcomes change the fact that I am going to be true to myself no matter what.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Southwest Airlines
I flew Southwest for the first time this past trip to Florida, and I have to say that I see no reason to ever fly another airline again. They are inexpensive, the "pick your own seating" deal is awesome (I got exit seats both flights - even though I was one of the last people on the plane each time), and they actually have more frills than other airlines that are more expensive (they actually offer pillows and blankets, unlike the other guys).
But more importantly, their staff really is the friendliest out there. And funniest. On my trip home, the head steward was a flamboyant gay man who peppered jokes into every one of his announcements. His safety speech was actually applauded by the entire plane, it was that entertaining. And somehow he managed to get all of the boring stuff in there as well.
Here, for your amusement, are some exerpts:
But more importantly, their staff really is the friendliest out there. And funniest. On my trip home, the head steward was a flamboyant gay man who peppered jokes into every one of his announcements. His safety speech was actually applauded by the entire plane, it was that entertaining. And somehow he managed to get all of the boring stuff in there as well.
Here, for your amusement, are some exerpts:
If we had anticipated a water landing we wouldn't have come into work today, but if it does happen, place that yellow rubber thingie over your big old nose and breathe like you've never breathed before. It will sound like this: [launches into Darth Vader breathing and a minute and a half of Star Wars quotes]. For those of you that are travelling with small children, we have NO idea what you were thinking. Also, once you get your oxygen mask on then help your children with theirs, starting with your favorite - you know, the one with potential - and then work your way on down the line.
When the Captain - or Tennille - turns off the fasten seat belt sign...
Next time you decide to hurtle yourself through the air at 300 mile per hour in a tin tube, we hope you will think of us.
If you have any positive comments about this flight, please direct them to our southern office at www.southwest.com. Any negative comments should be directed at our northern office at www.northwest.com.
Convicts of Conviction
My good friend Brian recently posted something in his blog about political action, and nobody (including me) replied to it. When I first read his post what came to mind were radical movements of secular groups holed up in mountain strongholds against FBI strongmen, and I reacted accordingly - I moved on to something else. Extremism is a turnoff, radical behavior is also avoided.
But it sort of festered in the back of my head since then, it got me to thinking about conviction, and I realized that (as usual) he has a point. You can believe in something all you want, but doing nothing about it is the same as not having any beliefs at all.
Believing something is true isn't the same as knowing that something is true, as belief requires no proof - only faith. Some things can never be proven. The morals I believe in, the ones I choose to live my life by, they are not right or wrong - they are only right or wrong for me. I will never know if I'm getting it, but as long as I believe that what I am doing is right and good, then that makes me a right and good person. Delusion is not a crime. Neither is misinformation.
Every year around my birthday I look back on my life. Then I generally get depressed. Not because my life has been bad - on the contrary, I have led a wonderful and full life. It's the regret that gets me. Wondering if I did everything right, thinking about the people I've left behind and what could have been shared if things had worked out. When I was younger I used to say (with conviction) that I had no regrets because every choice I had made in life shaped who I was. I don't feel that way anymore. I'm not sure why.
Maybe it's because I'm a perfectionist. Monday-morning quarterbacking is my specialty, and I am my own worst critic. What I so easily forgive in others I don't allow for myself. What I am learning in my old age is to relinquish any attachment I might have to an image of myself who does the right thing all the time. Instead, I have learned to formulate some good core beliefs, and always try to live my life according to those believes. But life is messy. Sometimes it's not clear how some decision fits. Times like that and you throw a hail mary pass and hope it works out. And at the end of the day when you look back, however, you have to forgive your mistakes as long as you believed that you were doing right by yourself as you made them. Doing something that you believe to be wrong is what constitutes a sin.
This thought process started with one of Brian's posts, and came full circle the other day when we were talking deep metaphysical shit over dinner. Well, mostly he was talking and I was listening, as usual. He rolled off a hyperbole which just seemed funny and silly to me at the time, but really sunk in later (as much of his wisdom tends to):
But it sort of festered in the back of my head since then, it got me to thinking about conviction, and I realized that (as usual) he has a point. You can believe in something all you want, but doing nothing about it is the same as not having any beliefs at all.
Believing something is true isn't the same as knowing that something is true, as belief requires no proof - only faith. Some things can never be proven. The morals I believe in, the ones I choose to live my life by, they are not right or wrong - they are only right or wrong for me. I will never know if I'm getting it, but as long as I believe that what I am doing is right and good, then that makes me a right and good person. Delusion is not a crime. Neither is misinformation.
Every year around my birthday I look back on my life. Then I generally get depressed. Not because my life has been bad - on the contrary, I have led a wonderful and full life. It's the regret that gets me. Wondering if I did everything right, thinking about the people I've left behind and what could have been shared if things had worked out. When I was younger I used to say (with conviction) that I had no regrets because every choice I had made in life shaped who I was. I don't feel that way anymore. I'm not sure why.
Maybe it's because I'm a perfectionist. Monday-morning quarterbacking is my specialty, and I am my own worst critic. What I so easily forgive in others I don't allow for myself. What I am learning in my old age is to relinquish any attachment I might have to an image of myself who does the right thing all the time. Instead, I have learned to formulate some good core beliefs, and always try to live my life according to those believes. But life is messy. Sometimes it's not clear how some decision fits. Times like that and you throw a hail mary pass and hope it works out. And at the end of the day when you look back, however, you have to forgive your mistakes as long as you believed that you were doing right by yourself as you made them. Doing something that you believe to be wrong is what constitutes a sin.
This thought process started with one of Brian's posts, and came full circle the other day when we were talking deep metaphysical shit over dinner. Well, mostly he was talking and I was listening, as usual. He rolled off a hyperbole which just seemed funny and silly to me at the time, but really sunk in later (as much of his wisdom tends to):
If you come from a place where it's OK to spit in other people's drinks, then you aren't committing a sin by doing that. You are only committing a sin if you believe that spitting in people's drinks is wrong.
[puts hand over drink]
Where are you from again?
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
And on, and on, and on...
Just when you think you've reached the bottom of the barrel, the end of the tunnel, the limits of your endurance, just when you think you've had about as much as you can take, thankyouverymuch, just then is when things from the past come find you and call in their IOU's. Actually, this time I went looking in my past myself. As in "on purpose". I've lost so much lately that I can either ask for that one last cigarette and lean back against the pock-marked brick wall with the blindfold on, or I can take control of my life and turn it upside down and shake it up and see what else falls out until I'm sure there's nothing left in my pockets. Start fresh, in other words.
Part of starting fresh (ask any AA member) is making amends. I'm pretty proud of my past decisions, for the most part. I've been honest with people, for the most part. When I've wronged people it was never as much as they had wronged me, for the most part. I've done what I thought was right all along, for the most part.
I've never understood the making amends thing properly, I've always assumed that it has to do with taking responsibility for your actions. But now I see that it is deeper than that - it's about finding out about those things you didn't know or ignored when you made life-altering decisions, about seeing yourself through other people's eyes, and most importantly, about forgiving yourself whether the ones you've hurt forgive you or not. I'm going to go back to try to forgive myself for the wrong I've done to people who didn't deserve what I gave them. And the only way to do that is to lay it all out there and give them a chance to forgive me, and accept what happens.
So this is what Catholics call "confessional". I always thought it'd be easier. And that they'd serve wine and cookies.
What I've learned today is that even when you think you have nothing left to lose, it is possible to lose things again that meant so much to you long ago. Things that you've already lost. You can lose them again. Or you can find them, look them square in the face, and try to be the man you weren't back then. Not to get them back, but to try to forgive yourself for decisions you regret.
With any luck they will still be as understanding as they always were and forgive you. But I would understand if they never will. The question then becomes: can I forgive myself?
Part of starting fresh (ask any AA member) is making amends. I'm pretty proud of my past decisions, for the most part. I've been honest with people, for the most part. When I've wronged people it was never as much as they had wronged me, for the most part. I've done what I thought was right all along, for the most part.
I've never understood the making amends thing properly, I've always assumed that it has to do with taking responsibility for your actions. But now I see that it is deeper than that - it's about finding out about those things you didn't know or ignored when you made life-altering decisions, about seeing yourself through other people's eyes, and most importantly, about forgiving yourself whether the ones you've hurt forgive you or not. I'm going to go back to try to forgive myself for the wrong I've done to people who didn't deserve what I gave them. And the only way to do that is to lay it all out there and give them a chance to forgive me, and accept what happens.
So this is what Catholics call "confessional". I always thought it'd be easier. And that they'd serve wine and cookies.
What I've learned today is that even when you think you have nothing left to lose, it is possible to lose things again that meant so much to you long ago. Things that you've already lost. You can lose them again. Or you can find them, look them square in the face, and try to be the man you weren't back then. Not to get them back, but to try to forgive yourself for decisions you regret.
With any luck they will still be as understanding as they always were and forgive you. But I would understand if they never will. The question then becomes: can I forgive myself?
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Sorry, Future-me
I've been thinking about mortality lately (must be the birthday), and I'd like to publically apologize to the future me in the unlikely even that I allow myself to live past the age of 50. So here goes:
Sorry, future-me, for smoking all those years. That lung cancer is going to suck. I have no excuse, except that while some people were telling us it was bad for us, cooler people were telling us that it was an awesome thing to do and would make us good-looking to women.
Sorry, future-me, for smoking all those cigars like they were cigarettes in aught-eight. In my defense, I could have taken up cigarettes again, and that would have been bad, but I chose to smoke 2, 3, 4, 5 cigars a night instead to calm my nerves. That throat cancer is going to suck, but hopefully you'll think talking through an esophageal squawk box is as cool as I think it is now.
Sorry, future-me, for drinking so much. Your liver is going to be completely useless, I know. I have no excuse, I could blame my alcoholic father, or his alcoholic father, but fuck it. Self-medication is the way of the Marlboro man, and men aren't supposed to be depressed. They are supposed to be drunk and beat their women. In my defense I have only loved women, not beaten them. I know, you'd probably prefer in retrospect that they suffered instead of you, but I'm not that guy.
Sorry, future-me, for the years I spent taking increasingly larger amounts of LSD. Those chemicals can't have any positive long-term effects, and someday they might all come back, flooding into my system from whatever spinal joint they've been holed up in all this time and make me insane. Although an insane person with a squawk box might be pretty cool.
Sorry, future-me, for all the women I have slept with and will sleep with. I'm clean now, so we've got that going for us, so we'll just consider this to be a sort of "sorry in advance" thing in case anything comes up. I'll certainly be more discriminate and careful about what I put my body in than I have been about what I put in my body, however, so maybe we'll be OK.
Sorry, future-me, for riding my motorcycle so fast, for skydiving, and bungee-jumping. Hell, you may never even get to experience life.
Maybe that's a good thing though, given everything else I've put you through...
Sorry, future-me, for smoking all those years. That lung cancer is going to suck. I have no excuse, except that while some people were telling us it was bad for us, cooler people were telling us that it was an awesome thing to do and would make us good-looking to women.
Sorry, future-me, for smoking all those cigars like they were cigarettes in aught-eight. In my defense, I could have taken up cigarettes again, and that would have been bad, but I chose to smoke 2, 3, 4, 5 cigars a night instead to calm my nerves. That throat cancer is going to suck, but hopefully you'll think talking through an esophageal squawk box is as cool as I think it is now.
Sorry, future-me, for drinking so much. Your liver is going to be completely useless, I know. I have no excuse, I could blame my alcoholic father, or his alcoholic father, but fuck it. Self-medication is the way of the Marlboro man, and men aren't supposed to be depressed. They are supposed to be drunk and beat their women. In my defense I have only loved women, not beaten them. I know, you'd probably prefer in retrospect that they suffered instead of you, but I'm not that guy.
Sorry, future-me, for the years I spent taking increasingly larger amounts of LSD. Those chemicals can't have any positive long-term effects, and someday they might all come back, flooding into my system from whatever spinal joint they've been holed up in all this time and make me insane. Although an insane person with a squawk box might be pretty cool.
Sorry, future-me, for all the women I have slept with and will sleep with. I'm clean now, so we've got that going for us, so we'll just consider this to be a sort of "sorry in advance" thing in case anything comes up. I'll certainly be more discriminate and careful about what I put my body in than I have been about what I put in my body, however, so maybe we'll be OK.
Sorry, future-me, for riding my motorcycle so fast, for skydiving, and bungee-jumping. Hell, you may never even get to experience life.
Maybe that's a good thing though, given everything else I've put you through...
Saturday, July 19, 2008
36
So I turn 36 today. Whooptie-friggin'-doo. I never thought I'd live past 35, yet here I am. Turns out that a whole lot of people would probably have been better off if I had died in some sort of fiery car crash or been abducted by aliens and anal-probed and left for dead somewhere just outside the Andromeda star system when I was younger. Much younger.
Here's what I learned last night, on the eve of my birthday:
So, to recap, I now have it on both good and bad authority that I am a piece of shit asshole. I don't disagree; in fact I couldn't agree more. But hey, it is what it is. I am who I am. And at least I'm genuine.
Happy birthday to me. As they say in Boston, go fuck yourself.
Here's what I learned last night, on the eve of my birthday:
- I am an asshole.
- See #1.
So, to recap, I now have it on both good and bad authority that I am a piece of shit asshole. I don't disagree; in fact I couldn't agree more. But hey, it is what it is. I am who I am. And at least I'm genuine.
Happy birthday to me. As they say in Boston, go fuck yourself.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Astrology. Go figure.
I never put much stock in astrology until a friend of mine shared some of her books on the subject with me and I'll be damned if the stuff they described about me was WAY too accurate to be just coincidence. Just for fun, I was looking up a new friend of mine to see how we would get along, and along the way decided to tally up each sign and see how I'd fit with them. Here are the results, take it for what it is:
Good Match:
Cancer
Scorpio
Pisces
Taurus
Requires Effort:
Leo
Aries
Gemini
Don't even bother:
Virgo
Libra
Sagittarius
Capricorn
Aquarius
Good God, that narrows the field.
Good Match:
Cancer
Scorpio
Pisces
Taurus
Requires Effort:
Leo
Aries
Gemini
Don't even bother:
Virgo
Libra
Sagittarius
Capricorn
Aquarius
Good God, that narrows the field.
To All the Girls...
To all the girls of Central Florida, daughters of Civil War generals thrice removed - blonde, nubile, and tanned, to you I say that I am coming, so prepare yourselves because this Northerly hurricane will make you wet, even if it doesn't leave a wake of destruction in its path.
My heart belongs to another, but I am yours in every other way. I ask only that you teach me the ways of the natives of your sunny state, for I am an outsider, a Northerner, a Yankee with pale, pale skin and a distinct lack of any accent. In return, my dears, all that I know and have experienced is yours to explore. Together, we will make sweet, sweet southern music, and rejoice under the sun and bright blue skies of the penisular state of Florida.
My heart belongs to another, but I am yours in every other way. I ask only that you teach me the ways of the natives of your sunny state, for I am an outsider, a Northerner, a Yankee with pale, pale skin and a distinct lack of any accent. In return, my dears, all that I know and have experienced is yours to explore. Together, we will make sweet, sweet southern music, and rejoice under the sun and bright blue skies of the penisular state of Florida.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
My Muse
As I recently mentioned, I've been in a blunt honesty vein lately, and I feel compelled to warn you that this post is a continuation of that. This post (or at least the next paragraph) is going to be an "overshare", or T.M.I. (Too Much Information) for some. "Too bad," I say. "Suck it, " I say.
I'm not going to mince words here: I've been depressed lately. Very much so. In fact, I've been in a pretty bad state since, say, March - for various reasons. My therapist seems suprised, in fact, that given everything I've been through in the past 4 months I haven't tried to off myself yet (but she never actually says that, I think it's bad form to bring up suicide in therapy). But don't worry, fearless readers, I'm on the mend. I'm turning the corner, so to speak, and opening the throttle as I head into the straightaway. This spring I've self-medicated, doctor-medicated, tried diet and excercise changes, and travelled - many times combing all of the above in some sort of hazy, chemical-infused trip into the surreal (i.e. North Carolina). Each works to assuage my despair temporarily, but sometimes the best healing force is time combined with a concrete plan of action (with a solid backup plan). I finally have both on my side, hence the rejuvenation.
Part of being depressed is a loss of all creativity. When nothing is important to you, your muse is impossible to hear. I've posted a lot of song lyrics lately, quotes from books I've finally been able to get through (thanks Paxil), and a few emo and melancholy rants, metaphoric essays, and positive-thinking empowerment speeches to try to get myself unfunked. But last week my muse came screaming back into my mind from whatever tropical island she'd been vacationing on, unpacked her bags, and wasted no time in feeding me inspired chains of words in the form of posts.
When I write, I slip into a sort of trance. I don't feel like I'm responsible for what comes out, rather I feel like an editor for some unseen force that takes over my mind and body and types shit out on my laptop. Most times I'll get inspiration for a post or a story or a screenplay when I'm riding my motorcycle. There's something zen and meditative about tuning out the rest of the world and focusing on staying alive at ridiculous speeds amidst the sound of rushing air and a roaring engine. Most of the posts I've made this week I wrote in my head while flying down the interstate then feverishly transcribed when I got to Starbucks or my deck and plugged back into the rest of the world. This particular post came to me in a flurry as I was writing an e-mail to my BFF Brian.
My new favorite writer once wrote about writing, lamenting that it is so fickle an art that it can't be forced. I can't agree more. Sure, I can sit down and force myself to write something, but it's never as good as the stuff that just pops into my head, sentences and phrases coming together on their own, rearranging themselves into a cohesive train of thought. She says she doesn't like reading her own writing, but I love going back and reading mine, because each time I marvel that it came out of my head. Not that it's especially wonderful, but because I don't remember writing it or thinking it - it's as if it was someone else. It's like driving home from work while you're on the phone - it's something that happens on a second plane of awareness outside of your ego or even superego.
Most of the great writers, Poe, Bukowski, Bunny, Keorac; most of them were alcoholics or drug addicts. Some both. There's a reason for that, and I think that reason has to do with depression. Chuck Palahniuk said in Diary: "Maybe people have to really suffer before they can really risk doing what they love." Maybe muses are drawn to lost souls, those of us who wander the earth looking and longing for a place to fit in. Or, maybe both creativity and depression are linked to intelligence, which would also make some sense.
Whatever the case, my muse has returned for now, and I intend to ply her with cookies and fruity rum drinks so that she doesn't get the hankering to return to whatever white sandy beaches she spent this spring sunning herself on. There are no guarantees though, because muses are fickle bitches and don't owe you anything. And they make a point of reminding you of that by disappearing at the most inopportune times.
I'm not going to mince words here: I've been depressed lately. Very much so. In fact, I've been in a pretty bad state since, say, March - for various reasons. My therapist seems suprised, in fact, that given everything I've been through in the past 4 months I haven't tried to off myself yet (but she never actually says that, I think it's bad form to bring up suicide in therapy). But don't worry, fearless readers, I'm on the mend. I'm turning the corner, so to speak, and opening the throttle as I head into the straightaway. This spring I've self-medicated, doctor-medicated, tried diet and excercise changes, and travelled - many times combing all of the above in some sort of hazy, chemical-infused trip into the surreal (i.e. North Carolina). Each works to assuage my despair temporarily, but sometimes the best healing force is time combined with a concrete plan of action (with a solid backup plan). I finally have both on my side, hence the rejuvenation.
Part of being depressed is a loss of all creativity. When nothing is important to you, your muse is impossible to hear. I've posted a lot of song lyrics lately, quotes from books I've finally been able to get through (thanks Paxil), and a few emo and melancholy rants, metaphoric essays, and positive-thinking empowerment speeches to try to get myself unfunked. But last week my muse came screaming back into my mind from whatever tropical island she'd been vacationing on, unpacked her bags, and wasted no time in feeding me inspired chains of words in the form of posts.
When I write, I slip into a sort of trance. I don't feel like I'm responsible for what comes out, rather I feel like an editor for some unseen force that takes over my mind and body and types shit out on my laptop. Most times I'll get inspiration for a post or a story or a screenplay when I'm riding my motorcycle. There's something zen and meditative about tuning out the rest of the world and focusing on staying alive at ridiculous speeds amidst the sound of rushing air and a roaring engine. Most of the posts I've made this week I wrote in my head while flying down the interstate then feverishly transcribed when I got to Starbucks or my deck and plugged back into the rest of the world. This particular post came to me in a flurry as I was writing an e-mail to my BFF Brian.
My new favorite writer once wrote about writing, lamenting that it is so fickle an art that it can't be forced. I can't agree more. Sure, I can sit down and force myself to write something, but it's never as good as the stuff that just pops into my head, sentences and phrases coming together on their own, rearranging themselves into a cohesive train of thought. She says she doesn't like reading her own writing, but I love going back and reading mine, because each time I marvel that it came out of my head. Not that it's especially wonderful, but because I don't remember writing it or thinking it - it's as if it was someone else. It's like driving home from work while you're on the phone - it's something that happens on a second plane of awareness outside of your ego or even superego.
Most of the great writers, Poe, Bukowski, Bunny, Keorac; most of them were alcoholics or drug addicts. Some both. There's a reason for that, and I think that reason has to do with depression. Chuck Palahniuk said in Diary: "Maybe people have to really suffer before they can really risk doing what they love." Maybe muses are drawn to lost souls, those of us who wander the earth looking and longing for a place to fit in. Or, maybe both creativity and depression are linked to intelligence, which would also make some sense.
Whatever the case, my muse has returned for now, and I intend to ply her with cookies and fruity rum drinks so that she doesn't get the hankering to return to whatever white sandy beaches she spent this spring sunning herself on. There are no guarantees though, because muses are fickle bitches and don't owe you anything. And they make a point of reminding you of that by disappearing at the most inopportune times.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
On Boobies
I love boobies. I am a boob man. I also like legs, asses, stomachs, collar bones, and lips, but I'm a boob man first and foremost.
I love all boobies, except those saggy ones in National Geographic that have never seen a bra. And Granny boobies. I don't love Granny boobies either. Or developing ones. That's just wrong, and besides, puffy nipples on otherwise flat chests remind me of when I was fat. In fact, for the record, I only like boobies that are over the age of 18, as required by law in my state.
Boobies are wonderful. I love how women like to show us parts of them (some more than others) in otherwise non-sexual settings. Side-boob is the best, but only because it's so rare - you usually only see it on celebrities on the red carpet or at cocktail parties (not that I've ever been to a cocktail party, but I imagine that if I did go I'd see at least one side boob every time).
In seventh grade art class there was this super-hot eigth grade girl who sat diagonally across from me. We sat in a square, all facing the middle of the room. She used to love wearing this grey sweatshirt that she had cut the sleeves off of. She never wore a bra. When she leaned forward to draw, the front of the shirt would billow out and I could see her right tit in its entirety. She had the most wonderfully firm B-cup boobies and beautiful little half-erect pink nipples. I don't know if she even had a left tit, I only ever saw the right one because of where I sat. Whenever she showed me her boobie (and I think she knew I could see it, because she wore that damn shirt every Thursday when we had art class) I'd immediately pop wood and forget what I was drawing. I'm pretty sure I also got red in the face. My circulation definitely increased, there's no doubt about that. Maybe that's why I have high blood pressure now. From boobies. Those were the first boobies I saw in person, and I will never ever forget them as long as I live, even though I have since forgotten her name and what her face looked like. I do remember she had sun-colored feathered hair, but only because it framed her boobie when she drew. I also remember that she was an "Eastie", which means she hung out with the potheads in the East parking lot between classes and smoked.
Boobies make me sleepy. Maybe it's all the blood suddenly rushing to various parts of my body, but when I see too much cleavage on a woman, my eyes start drooping and I will invariably yawn, a Pavlovian response to my deep desire to nestle my head between those soft and / or firm mammaries and take a little nap, drooling ever so slightly while the owner of the boobies strokes my head gently.
There's no such thing as boobies that are too small (except for ones that have not yet fully developed to their full potential, but as previously stated for the record I have no interest in those). There's no need to get your boobies enlarged, ladies, but if you do, I also fully support that decision. Not too much enlargement, however, because there IS such a thing as boobies that are too big. Big boobies are silly, and have as much place on the chest of a woman as balloon animals do. Go ahead and get those reduced, thankyouverymuch.
I prefer real boobies, but fake ones are nice too. But if you are gonna get fake boobies, do it so there's no scar. A scar on an otherwise perfect set of boobies takes you out of boob-trance as fast as bad acting or special effects takes you out of a movie. It's not neccessary, and kinda gross. And sad. And even if it's dark and we can't see the scar, we can still feel it. And it feels like a smushed caterpillar that was crawling under your tit and then got smothered. Please don't underestimate how much we men love your boobies, even if they are small / slightly mis-shapen / uneven. Don't risk the caterpillar effect for unneccessary alterations.
When radio personalities Opie and Anthony (now on XM radio) had an afternoon radio show in Boston, they started a thing called "Whip 'em Out Wednesday", in which men would write "WOW" in the dirt on their car and when a female listener saw this they were obliged to flash their boobies at the driver of the car, who was then obliged to call the radio station and report a boobie sighting. This was a wonderful thing that eventually led to Opie and Anthony getting kicked off the radio when it came to the attention of the Governor. I was commuting in and out of Boston at the time but unfortunately never saw any boobies, even though I would religiously follow cars with "WOW" written on them in hopes of a glimpse.
What is this power that boobies have over men like me? I have speculated that my love for boobies comes from not ever having been breast-fed as a baby. This might be true, but it doesn't explain ass-men.
In conclusion, I would like to state, also for the record, that if I was a woman I would never stop touching my boobies. EVER.
I love all boobies, except those saggy ones in National Geographic that have never seen a bra. And Granny boobies. I don't love Granny boobies either. Or developing ones. That's just wrong, and besides, puffy nipples on otherwise flat chests remind me of when I was fat. In fact, for the record, I only like boobies that are over the age of 18, as required by law in my state.
Boobies are wonderful. I love how women like to show us parts of them (some more than others) in otherwise non-sexual settings. Side-boob is the best, but only because it's so rare - you usually only see it on celebrities on the red carpet or at cocktail parties (not that I've ever been to a cocktail party, but I imagine that if I did go I'd see at least one side boob every time).
In seventh grade art class there was this super-hot eigth grade girl who sat diagonally across from me. We sat in a square, all facing the middle of the room. She used to love wearing this grey sweatshirt that she had cut the sleeves off of. She never wore a bra. When she leaned forward to draw, the front of the shirt would billow out and I could see her right tit in its entirety. She had the most wonderfully firm B-cup boobies and beautiful little half-erect pink nipples. I don't know if she even had a left tit, I only ever saw the right one because of where I sat. Whenever she showed me her boobie (and I think she knew I could see it, because she wore that damn shirt every Thursday when we had art class) I'd immediately pop wood and forget what I was drawing. I'm pretty sure I also got red in the face. My circulation definitely increased, there's no doubt about that. Maybe that's why I have high blood pressure now. From boobies. Those were the first boobies I saw in person, and I will never ever forget them as long as I live, even though I have since forgotten her name and what her face looked like. I do remember she had sun-colored feathered hair, but only because it framed her boobie when she drew. I also remember that she was an "Eastie", which means she hung out with the potheads in the East parking lot between classes and smoked.
Boobies make me sleepy. Maybe it's all the blood suddenly rushing to various parts of my body, but when I see too much cleavage on a woman, my eyes start drooping and I will invariably yawn, a Pavlovian response to my deep desire to nestle my head between those soft and / or firm mammaries and take a little nap, drooling ever so slightly while the owner of the boobies strokes my head gently.
There's no such thing as boobies that are too small (except for ones that have not yet fully developed to their full potential, but as previously stated for the record I have no interest in those). There's no need to get your boobies enlarged, ladies, but if you do, I also fully support that decision. Not too much enlargement, however, because there IS such a thing as boobies that are too big. Big boobies are silly, and have as much place on the chest of a woman as balloon animals do. Go ahead and get those reduced, thankyouverymuch.
I prefer real boobies, but fake ones are nice too. But if you are gonna get fake boobies, do it so there's no scar. A scar on an otherwise perfect set of boobies takes you out of boob-trance as fast as bad acting or special effects takes you out of a movie. It's not neccessary, and kinda gross. And sad. And even if it's dark and we can't see the scar, we can still feel it. And it feels like a smushed caterpillar that was crawling under your tit and then got smothered. Please don't underestimate how much we men love your boobies, even if they are small / slightly mis-shapen / uneven. Don't risk the caterpillar effect for unneccessary alterations.
When radio personalities Opie and Anthony (now on XM radio) had an afternoon radio show in Boston, they started a thing called "Whip 'em Out Wednesday", in which men would write "WOW" in the dirt on their car and when a female listener saw this they were obliged to flash their boobies at the driver of the car, who was then obliged to call the radio station and report a boobie sighting. This was a wonderful thing that eventually led to Opie and Anthony getting kicked off the radio when it came to the attention of the Governor. I was commuting in and out of Boston at the time but unfortunately never saw any boobies, even though I would religiously follow cars with "WOW" written on them in hopes of a glimpse.
What is this power that boobies have over men like me? I have speculated that my love for boobies comes from not ever having been breast-fed as a baby. This might be true, but it doesn't explain ass-men.
In conclusion, I would like to state, also for the record, that if I was a woman I would never stop touching my boobies. EVER.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Dying... Dying... Dead
I wrote recently, somewhat matter-of-factly perhaps, about dying in a fiery motorcycle crash. I want to be clear: I love life, and intend to live for at least another 15 years (I can't picture myself being older than 50, but then again 15 years ago I used to say that I was going to die at 35, and here I am about to turn 36). I do not have a death wish, and do not ride my motorcycle the way I do because I WANT to die. I ride it that way because I want to LIVE.
I have, at 35, lived a full and action-packed life. I have travelled America and Europe, been to most of the locales I've wanted to visit, and done most of the things I've wanted to do. I have found true love, not once but twice. I have tripped the light fantastic, sipped mushroom tea, and swum in the depths of a barrel of rum. I have stopped and smelled the roses, planted a tree, and owned my own house. I have rung in the new year in Las Vegas with the greatest cover band of all time, caught beads at Mardi Gras in New Orleans with the two most special people in the world, and been flown out to Seattle to be honored for my talents. I have stood on stage in front of thousands at the peak of my game and performed. I have been a best friend, a lover, a father, a brother, and a son. I have done my best at all of those things, and could not have done better. I am who I am.
I have no regrets that I have any control over; I have lived my life following the philosophy that we each make our own fate. I am not one to simply float on the breeze waiting to see what happens next or who comes along, I have gone out and made my own destiny.
I still have a list of things that I want to do before I die, and I believe that everyone should always have something on that list - otherwise we have nothing to look forward to except more of the same. Nothing on that list, however, is anything I would be upset about not accomplishing, because I've lived my life to the fullest as I went along. I didn't save the best for last, I experienced the best as soon as I could. Everything left is pure fluff.
If you told me that I would die tomorrow I would not be sad. I would not beg and grovel for more time on Earth. I would not pine for the things I never got a chance to do. Instead, I would call a handful of special people and say goodbye. I would tell them how much I love them, and thank them for what they gave me. I would tell them that I wish we had more time together, but that I don't regret the time we did have. Any of it.
I have, at 35, lived a full and action-packed life. I have travelled America and Europe, been to most of the locales I've wanted to visit, and done most of the things I've wanted to do. I have found true love, not once but twice. I have tripped the light fantastic, sipped mushroom tea, and swum in the depths of a barrel of rum. I have stopped and smelled the roses, planted a tree, and owned my own house. I have rung in the new year in Las Vegas with the greatest cover band of all time, caught beads at Mardi Gras in New Orleans with the two most special people in the world, and been flown out to Seattle to be honored for my talents. I have stood on stage in front of thousands at the peak of my game and performed. I have been a best friend, a lover, a father, a brother, and a son. I have done my best at all of those things, and could not have done better. I am who I am.
I have no regrets that I have any control over; I have lived my life following the philosophy that we each make our own fate. I am not one to simply float on the breeze waiting to see what happens next or who comes along, I have gone out and made my own destiny.
I still have a list of things that I want to do before I die, and I believe that everyone should always have something on that list - otherwise we have nothing to look forward to except more of the same. Nothing on that list, however, is anything I would be upset about not accomplishing, because I've lived my life to the fullest as I went along. I didn't save the best for last, I experienced the best as soon as I could. Everything left is pure fluff.
If you told me that I would die tomorrow I would not be sad. I would not beg and grovel for more time on Earth. I would not pine for the things I never got a chance to do. Instead, I would call a handful of special people and say goodbye. I would tell them how much I love them, and thank them for what they gave me. I would tell them that I wish we had more time together, but that I don't regret the time we did have. Any of it.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
If you don't like it, SUCK IT.
My regular readers may have noticed a recent trend in my postings away from metaphoric similes and towards honesty and blunt truth. For example, you may not have expected a tally of my shits or jerk-off sessions on Monday, but if you tuned in, then that's what you got. This isn't part of any master plan, it's just what's been coming out lately (no pun intended). I don't control what the muse brings me, I just mold and shape it and then barf it out there for your literary enjoyment. I debated quite a bit, in fact, before posting what I did the past few days, and in the end decided to go ahead and just do it anyway. It's me, I don't care if it makes me look weak / perverted / girly; I'm done censoring myself to enable people to feel comfortable around me. I'm a strong, unabashed, sensitive, confident, funny, sexual, weird, and romantic fool. If you don't like it, then suck it.
I'm sure I'll make a dramatic return to the metaphoric at some point, perhaps peppering it in like grated cheese on top of a plain clear-cut pasta dish, but lately I've just simply been in a blunt mood. I've been reading a lot of other people's mind dumps out there on the Internet, and have been inspired by their mostly-complete honesty amid much larger reader bases than mine. I'm well aware that it's possible that they are just making all that stuff up, that it's a character that I'm reading about, but either way it seems very real. If it makes you feel better, then tell yourself that what you read here is just a character too - a charicature of me. Those of you who know me in real life know the dealio.
I'm sure I'll make a dramatic return to the metaphoric at some point, perhaps peppering it in like grated cheese on top of a plain clear-cut pasta dish, but lately I've just simply been in a blunt mood. I've been reading a lot of other people's mind dumps out there on the Internet, and have been inspired by their mostly-complete honesty amid much larger reader bases than mine. I'm well aware that it's possible that they are just making all that stuff up, that it's a character that I'm reading about, but either way it seems very real. If it makes you feel better, then tell yourself that what you read here is just a character too - a charicature of me. Those of you who know me in real life know the dealio.
Grind YOUR Gears? I'm 2 Fast 2 Furious. WHAT son.
Some of my readers have expressed displeasure (in the form of calling me a "moron", a "dipshit" [Editor's Note: thanks for reading, mom], and even a "menace to society") regarding my last Grind my Gears post in which I lambasted certain drivers whose timidity on the highway frequently prevents me from riding my speed bike in a straight line at 130 MPH. They feel that I am a danger to them and their babies on board [Editor's Note: If you are the type of person to have babies, why the fuck are you reading my blog? You vicarious-living motherfucker]. They feel that my antics are reprehensible and I should promptly be thrown in jail while the key to my cell is tucked into a pimento loaf and fed to an anemic crocodile. Further, they feel that riding a performance motorcycle down the highway at 130 MPH is superfluous and otherwise unneccessary.
To those readers, let me assuage your fears by giving you a completely made-up scenario. You are going down the highway at 70 MPH. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I have not yet reached your postion on the road, but am travelling at 100 MPH. When I come up behind you and the dumbass next to you in the other lane (who is going 71 MPH in this example) and then weave through both of you and blast out the front, it is the same as if I were negotiating a slalom course at 30 MPH (100 - 70 = 30). That's cake, and not, in and of itself, dangerous. I'm not breaking any laws except speeding (and in the case of exceeding 120 MPH, "reckless" driving).
What IS dangerous is dipshit timid drivers, drinking Starbucks hot coffees in your air-conditioned comfort and chatting away on your bluetooth devices which apparently operate on power from your brain causing your cognition levels to be significantly reduced, when you make a lane change without noticing the motorcycle next to you. I've seen this happen more times than I care to count. It's happened to ME more times than I'd like to think about. Therefore, it is in my best interest to spend as little time in the lane next to any car and / or truck driver as possible. I do that by passing you at 30-60 MPH faster than you are moving, it's as simple as that.
I'm not even going to get into the debate as to whether driving that fast is neccessary or not, because until you've done it you can't possibly realize just how neccessary it actually is, and if you've never done it you probably wouldn't get it even if you did.
Rest assured, if some important part of my machine happens to fall off or I a blow a tire, I'm going to be dead whether I was going 70 or 130. My helmet will not protect my brain and cranium from being rapidly processed into grey matter pudding at any of those impact speeds, and will become what EMTs affectionately refer to as a "brain bucket" - its sole purpose to contain the mind sludge created on impact from spilling out onto the road, making it easier to scrape what's left of me off the highway before rush hour starts. Between the two of us, my bike and I weigh not quite 650 pounds, and are made of substances that are more likely to give way to a steel bumper than dent it. So even if I wreck directly in front of you, I doubt you'll even spill your mochachino.
So chill out, you timid motherfuckers, pop an extra Zoloft and just stay the fuck out of the left lane. It's for passing, and that's what I'm doing. Let me enjoy myself on my performance machine while my head is still attached to my body. You're just jealous because inside your car you can still hear your wife nagging to you about morons like me flying past you with a silly grin and the wind on our face.
Edit: And if they didn't want me to drive at 130 MPH on Rte. 2, then they wouldn't have paved it with that perfectly smooth fresh asphalt. It's like sliding across the surface of the monolith from 2001: A Space Oddessy. Makes me want to bash my fellow cavemen's heads in with a spear fashioned from a tree branch and then invent fire.
To those readers, let me assuage your fears by giving you a completely made-up scenario. You are going down the highway at 70 MPH. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I have not yet reached your postion on the road, but am travelling at 100 MPH. When I come up behind you and the dumbass next to you in the other lane (who is going 71 MPH in this example) and then weave through both of you and blast out the front, it is the same as if I were negotiating a slalom course at 30 MPH (100 - 70 = 30). That's cake, and not, in and of itself, dangerous. I'm not breaking any laws except speeding (and in the case of exceeding 120 MPH, "reckless" driving).
What IS dangerous is dipshit timid drivers, drinking Starbucks hot coffees in your air-conditioned comfort and chatting away on your bluetooth devices which apparently operate on power from your brain causing your cognition levels to be significantly reduced, when you make a lane change without noticing the motorcycle next to you. I've seen this happen more times than I care to count. It's happened to ME more times than I'd like to think about. Therefore, it is in my best interest to spend as little time in the lane next to any car and / or truck driver as possible. I do that by passing you at 30-60 MPH faster than you are moving, it's as simple as that.
I'm not even going to get into the debate as to whether driving that fast is neccessary or not, because until you've done it you can't possibly realize just how neccessary it actually is, and if you've never done it you probably wouldn't get it even if you did.
Rest assured, if some important part of my machine happens to fall off or I a blow a tire, I'm going to be dead whether I was going 70 or 130. My helmet will not protect my brain and cranium from being rapidly processed into grey matter pudding at any of those impact speeds, and will become what EMTs affectionately refer to as a "brain bucket" - its sole purpose to contain the mind sludge created on impact from spilling out onto the road, making it easier to scrape what's left of me off the highway before rush hour starts. Between the two of us, my bike and I weigh not quite 650 pounds, and are made of substances that are more likely to give way to a steel bumper than dent it. So even if I wreck directly in front of you, I doubt you'll even spill your mochachino.
So chill out, you timid motherfuckers, pop an extra Zoloft and just stay the fuck out of the left lane. It's for passing, and that's what I'm doing. Let me enjoy myself on my performance machine while my head is still attached to my body. You're just jealous because inside your car you can still hear your wife nagging to you about morons like me flying past you with a silly grin and the wind on our face.
Edit: And if they didn't want me to drive at 130 MPH on Rte. 2, then they wouldn't have paved it with that perfectly smooth fresh asphalt. It's like sliding across the surface of the monolith from 2001: A Space Oddessy. Makes me want to bash my fellow cavemen's heads in with a spear fashioned from a tree branch and then invent fire.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Department of Labor
One of the things I put off doing during yesterday's mental health day was filing for unemployment. I took care of that this morning, and it was suprisingly painless. The weekly value of what I'll get isn't going to amount to much in the great scheme of things, but it'll cover my mortgage so I've got that going for me. The process was exceedingly easy: fill out a form online, and then call the Department of Labor to fill in the details. The guy who answered the phone was bored but efficient. My type. If he was a woman I would have fallen in love with him. With her.
Got me to thinking - wouldn't it be great if there was the equivalent to unemployment for other things? Any good entymologist knows that the 4 things that sustain life are sun, food, water, and love. Sun is free (and abundant, at least in the Sunshine State), and unemployment insurance takes care of the food and water. But love? Ah, love. What if there was a Connecticut Department of Love? I wonder how that phone call would go...
Got me to thinking - wouldn't it be great if there was the equivalent to unemployment for other things? Any good entymologist knows that the 4 things that sustain life are sun, food, water, and love. Sun is free (and abundant, at least in the Sunshine State), and unemployment insurance takes care of the food and water. But love? Ah, love. What if there was a Connecticut Department of Love? I wonder how that phone call would go...
CDL: Connecticut Department of Love, how can I help you?
Me: Uh, yeah. I was dumped a little while back, and I need to file for unempowerment benefits.
CDL: Sure, I can help you with that. How long have you been single?
Me: Since March.
CDL: Uh-huh. And were you given any separation payments?
Me: Yeah, sort of.
CDL: For how long?
Me: 4 months.
CDL: 4 months?
Me: Yeah. I wasn't quite sure what to do with it at the time, it was kinda weird. It was like if your job told you that you didn't work there anymore, but they still wanted you to show up and do your job. Just not wear your uniform or get paid. And if you get hurt on the job they aren't responsible. Because you don't actually work there. It was all very confusing, to be honest with you. I think I'm better off now. Well, that's what everyone tells me, but it certainly doesn't feel that way. Hence my call to you.
CDL: OK, we'll put down "4 months / Partial". And what reason were you given for the termination?
Me: [sighs] See, that's the thing. She said a lot of stuff, most of which was contradictory with itself as far as I could tell, but it's entirely possible that I'm stupid. I guess it was because I'm an asshole? I don't know. I'm basing that on the last time she talked to me, when she called me a few things [Editor's Note: "Asshole" was not actually one of them, nor was anything like it] that nobody's ever accused me of being before. [Editor's Note: like "Illogical". Me? For realzies?] Then she told me that I broke my own heart - that she had nothing to do with it. I'm not sure what that means, or if that's even possible, but-
CDL: We'll just put down "Not enough love".
Me: Uh, that doesn't sound right. If anything, there was too much lov-
CDL: Sir, there's only one reason for termination that qualifies you for benefits, and that is "Not enough love", so I'm going to go ahead and notate it for the record.
Me: [sighs] OK.
CDL: Alright, everything's all set on my end. You qualify for benefits.
Me: Fantastic. So, now what can I expect from this?
CDL: As part of your unempowerment benefits, the Connecticut Department of Labor will assign you with a temporary girlfriend, who will call you daily and spend no more than 15 minutes on the phone with you.
Me: 15 minutes? My ex and I used to talk on the phone for 4 hours every night!
CDL: Sir, may I remind you that unempowerment benefits are not designed to replace a girlfriend, only to hold you over until you are able to find a new one.
Me: What about text messaging?
CDL: Text messaging is not provided.
Me: Fantastic. This is nothing like having a girlfriend. Do I get to see her? Will she make out with me? Will she come over and scratch my back even if I haven't gotten out of bed that day? What does she look like? What if I don't like her?
CDL: Sir, the Department of Love is not a call girl service. Again, may I remind you that this is not designed to replace the girlfriend that you lost, it is merely supposed to get you through the interim.
Me: Great.
CDL: To keep your benefits going, every Sunday you will be required to call the same number you dialed to reach me, choose option "1", and answer a 7 question survey about whether or not you have been actively looking for a new girlfriend.
Me: Looking for a new girlfriend? But I'm in love with someone who doesn't want to be with me. I can't just turn that off, I couldn't possibly be emotionally availab-
CDL: Sir, the Department of Love doesn't require that you be emotionally available, only that you actively seek a new girlfriend.
Me: Right. Lovely.
CDL: Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: Yeah, you sound cute, are you single?
CDL: I'm married sir.
Me: You and everyone else in the state.
CDL: Have a nice day sir.
Me: Yeah, right.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Honesty, Honestly
Nobody's REALLY honest. Everyone says they are, but we're always holding back. If you said everything you wanted to anytime you felt like it, people would think you were crazy (this applies to some of you more than others, and you know who you are: Brian). And honesty never gets you anything except credit for being honest. Instead, you have to sidle up to what you really want to say like you're trying to catch a loose puppy. Go right for it and the puppy runs away. Pretend you don't care about it or have something shiny and tasty-looking in your hand and the puppy will come to you.
For example, I am lying here in my bed and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be pretty sweet if a hot naked girl was here to scratch my back. There are a few people I could call, but that conversation would go like this - if I was being honest:
So, honesty is out the window. Instead I would have to wash my ass, get dressed, scrub the toilets, and then go out. Have a conversation, drink some coffee or eat some dinner, make someone feel pretty and special and wanted, have sex with them, and THEN get my back scratched. Not that I don't typically enjoy doing those things, I typically enjoy them very much. It's just that right now it's all about me. And I don't have the balls to dial a call-girl service and ask for a cute little blonde girl in pigtails and a pleated plaid skirt to come to my house to scratch my back.
Let me clarify before I get accused of having or being a vagina: this isn't a wimpy metrosexual '00's man need for cuddling. I don't want to talk about feelings or hear about your day. It's more of a Dionysus louging on a couch in a toga getting fed grapes by plump naked Greek women type of thing. I need my back scratched. And having some nice plump boobies pushed up against it while it's getting scratched would make my day.
Just sayin'.
For example, I am lying here in my bed and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be pretty sweet if a hot naked girl was here to scratch my back. There are a few people I could call, but that conversation would go like this - if I was being honest:
Me: Hey. I haven't showered today and don't feel like getting out of bed. Feel like coming over and getting naked and cuddling with me?
Her: ...
Me: Hello?
Her: You haven't showered?
Me: Nah, I'm not getting out of bed today. Mental health day and all.
Her: ...
Me: Hello?
Her: At least you're being honest, but I have things to do. Later.
So, honesty is out the window. Instead I would have to wash my ass, get dressed, scrub the toilets, and then go out. Have a conversation, drink some coffee or eat some dinner, make someone feel pretty and special and wanted, have sex with them, and THEN get my back scratched. Not that I don't typically enjoy doing those things, I typically enjoy them very much. It's just that right now it's all about me. And I don't have the balls to dial a call-girl service and ask for a cute little blonde girl in pigtails and a pleated plaid skirt to come to my house to scratch my back.
Let me clarify before I get accused of having or being a vagina: this isn't a wimpy metrosexual '00's man need for cuddling. I don't want to talk about feelings or hear about your day. It's more of a Dionysus louging on a couch in a toga getting fed grapes by plump naked Greek women type of thing. I need my back scratched. And having some nice plump boobies pushed up against it while it's getting scratched would make my day.
Just sayin'.
Mental Health Day
When I was a kid my mom used to let me stay home from school from time to time just for the hell of it. She called it my "mental health" day. She said that every now and then you need some time off from your responsibilities to just do whatever you want. It makes it easier, she'd say, to digest your routine when you have to go back to it the next day. I never really bought this, because going back to school the day after a mental health day was always harder than otherwise, kind of like when you take a bite of a candy bar and then someone takes it away from you before you can take another bite. You get the taste in your mouth and just want more, you want the candy bar that you could have done without until you bit into it and got that taste in your mouth. Still, I'd torture myself by taking mental health days every chance I got, because that day off was so sweet. In fact, it became such an ingrained part of my routine that I almost didn't graduate high school because I had too many absences.
The only rules of mental health days were that I was not allowed to leave my room (except to eat or shit), watch TV, or have friends over. If I was calling out sick, I had to act sick. It seemed reasonable to me. Still does.
My early mental health days I would spend playing with blocks and army men on the floor of my room. Nothing heals the mind like simulating the desctruction of tiny plastic men and monotone wooden structures. As I grew older, I'd spend the day in bed reading comic books and listening to music. Still older, and I'd slip a Playboy inside the comic book (in case my mother walked in) and beat off. Repeatedly. My mom actually caught me polishing my knob on one such day. She walked in, said, "Oh, you're... doing... something...", and then walked out. We never talked about it again, obviously. Yes, I finished.
I had a list of things to do today, and I did none of them. Instead, I stayed in bed, getting up only to shit and eat (separate occasions, I assure you). Tomorrow I will be unable to avoid that list, and will probably regret this morning's choice (especially since it was partially sunny today for the first time in 100 years), but tomorrow-me will have to deal with that. Today-me couldn't deal with today so he took the day off. I read the Internet, rubbed one out a coupla times (there was nobody to walk in on me so not only did I not hide my porn in a comic book but I turned up the volume really loud), and took 3 or 4 craps for some reason.
I feel rejuvenated. Like Tuesday won't be so bad. I wonder if I have a candy bar downstairs...
The only rules of mental health days were that I was not allowed to leave my room (except to eat or shit), watch TV, or have friends over. If I was calling out sick, I had to act sick. It seemed reasonable to me. Still does.
My early mental health days I would spend playing with blocks and army men on the floor of my room. Nothing heals the mind like simulating the desctruction of tiny plastic men and monotone wooden structures. As I grew older, I'd spend the day in bed reading comic books and listening to music. Still older, and I'd slip a Playboy inside the comic book (in case my mother walked in) and beat off. Repeatedly. My mom actually caught me polishing my knob on one such day. She walked in, said, "Oh, you're... doing... something...", and then walked out. We never talked about it again, obviously. Yes, I finished.
I had a list of things to do today, and I did none of them. Instead, I stayed in bed, getting up only to shit and eat (separate occasions, I assure you). Tomorrow I will be unable to avoid that list, and will probably regret this morning's choice (especially since it was partially sunny today for the first time in 100 years), but tomorrow-me will have to deal with that. Today-me couldn't deal with today so he took the day off. I read the Internet, rubbed one out a coupla times (there was nobody to walk in on me so not only did I not hide my porn in a comic book but I turned up the volume really loud), and took 3 or 4 craps for some reason.
I feel rejuvenated. Like Tuesday won't be so bad. I wonder if I have a candy bar downstairs...
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Observations from the Mall
It IS possible for a goofy-looking 33 year old man who thinks it's OK to still wear his Guns N' Roses t-shirt from 1987 to find love. Unfortunately for him, she looks like a bit of a bitch, and seems to come as part of a package with her mother.
I have a (untested) theory that you can tell whether a teenage girl is a virgin by the way she stands. Teenage girls tend to slouch at the shoulders and frequently walk around with their arms crossed across their stomachs and chests because they are still getting used to having boobies and feel self-conscious about them. This makes me sad, because it's a reaction to insecurities caused by having boys (and men) stare at their developing girl parts constantly. [Editor's Note: on behalf of my gender, I would like to publically and formally apologize for that one - sorry 'bout that ladies.] My feeling is that not until a girl is made to feel pretty and special by a man do they start to feel comfortable in their new bodies and stand up straighter and flaunt what they've got.
Guys who have just been taken underwear shopping by their girlfriends do not have the expression on their face that I expect them to. Most of them tend to look like deer caught in headlights. Me, I'd look like a lion in a pack of gazelles. Rahrrrr.
Women are getting pregnant at alarming rates. Many of them by balding men who look like they couldn't handle a hammer let alone their cock. Makes me think that there are a large number of mailmen and milkmen that are having more fun at work than they should.
The mall is the last place one should go when one is feeling lonely. Now I feel like I am the last single person left in Connecticut. Guess I should have kept my ratty old GNR t-shirt.
Edit (7:39 PM): Joey Garlic's, however, IS the place to go when you're feeling lonely. I went in to see my buddy Amy and had the pleasure of meeting the new bartender Louise, who was awesome. I had a great time hanging out with both of them, as well as Dave, Larry, and Frank.
@LuLu: thanks for clarifying that I remind you of Seth Rogen because I'm funny and not because I look like him, I feel much better now. And let me just say that if your parents had known how beautiful you would turn out, they never would have named you after your grandmother. I would have named you "Zoe", myself. Looking forward to seeing you next weekend! ;-)
I have a (untested) theory that you can tell whether a teenage girl is a virgin by the way she stands. Teenage girls tend to slouch at the shoulders and frequently walk around with their arms crossed across their stomachs and chests because they are still getting used to having boobies and feel self-conscious about them. This makes me sad, because it's a reaction to insecurities caused by having boys (and men) stare at their developing girl parts constantly. [Editor's Note: on behalf of my gender, I would like to publically and formally apologize for that one - sorry 'bout that ladies.] My feeling is that not until a girl is made to feel pretty and special by a man do they start to feel comfortable in their new bodies and stand up straighter and flaunt what they've got.
Guys who have just been taken underwear shopping by their girlfriends do not have the expression on their face that I expect them to. Most of them tend to look like deer caught in headlights. Me, I'd look like a lion in a pack of gazelles. Rahrrrr.
Women are getting pregnant at alarming rates. Many of them by balding men who look like they couldn't handle a hammer let alone their cock. Makes me think that there are a large number of mailmen and milkmen that are having more fun at work than they should.
The mall is the last place one should go when one is feeling lonely. Now I feel like I am the last single person left in Connecticut. Guess I should have kept my ratty old GNR t-shirt.
Edit (7:39 PM): Joey Garlic's, however, IS the place to go when you're feeling lonely. I went in to see my buddy Amy and had the pleasure of meeting the new bartender Louise, who was awesome. I had a great time hanging out with both of them, as well as Dave, Larry, and Frank.
@LuLu: thanks for clarifying that I remind you of Seth Rogen because I'm funny and not because I look like him, I feel much better now. And let me just say that if your parents had known how beautiful you would turn out, they never would have named you after your grandmother. I would have named you "Zoe", myself. Looking forward to seeing you next weekend! ;-)
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Grind my Gears
You know what really grinds my gears? People who drive in the left lane of the highway when there's nobody in the right lane. Or overtake someone going 1 mile per hour faster than the person they are overtaking. It really impedes my ability to ride 120 miles per hour.
Something else that grinds my gears is people who drive in the left lane of the highway who have no business in the left lane and then complain about speed bikers who weave through traffic. If you kept the left lane open we wouldn't have to shift lanes. Dumbasses. Timid motherfuckers.
Something else that grinds my gears is people who drive in the left lane of the highway who have no business in the left lane and then complain about speed bikers who weave through traffic. If you kept the left lane open we wouldn't have to shift lanes. Dumbasses. Timid motherfuckers.
Carpe Diem Rule #4 - Solutions
There is more than one solution to every problem, but there is never a perfect solution, so don't waste your time looking for it. Find the best solution you can find in an appropriate amount of time, and implement it without hesitation.
When more than one person is affected by the problem, the most perfect solution possible is the one that everyone involved can accept (it is up to each person involved to speak up for themselves, it's not your responsibility). Anyone involved who refuses to even consider any solution other than the one they put forward should be immediately ejected from the game and thanked for playing.
Always come up with two solutions, Plan A and Plan B - to be used when Plan A fails. Plan B is never as good a solution as Plan A is, but it must be foolproof because there is no Plan C.
When more than one person is affected by the problem, the most perfect solution possible is the one that everyone involved can accept (it is up to each person involved to speak up for themselves, it's not your responsibility). Anyone involved who refuses to even consider any solution other than the one they put forward should be immediately ejected from the game and thanked for playing.
Always come up with two solutions, Plan A and Plan B - to be used when Plan A fails. Plan B is never as good a solution as Plan A is, but it must be foolproof because there is no Plan C.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Carpe Diem Rule #1 - Seize the Day
Live each day as if it could be your last. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Grab the bull by the horns. Go balls to the wall. Seize the Day.
Carpe Diem Rule #2 - Apologizing
Don't apologize for anything unless you did something wrong intentionally and genuinely feel bad about doing it (see rule #3). Apologiing for accidents is for pussies and followers.
If you bump into someone and they look pissed off, say "Pardon me" or "Excuse me", but never say "Sorry about that". If they pretend they didn't notice, there's no need to say anything, they know it was an accident and are already over it (or they realize you're bigger than they are and don't want to scrap, which is also fine). If you go for ice in the cocktail sink at the same time as a co-worker and accidentally stab them in the hand with your scoop and they say "Ow!", don't apologize, say "wow, that was careless of me!"
Apologizing for accidents is weak. Apologizing for intentional slights or things you recognize that you did wrong, however, is manly (again, see rule #3).
If you bump into someone and they look pissed off, say "Pardon me" or "Excuse me", but never say "Sorry about that". If they pretend they didn't notice, there's no need to say anything, they know it was an accident and are already over it (or they realize you're bigger than they are and don't want to scrap, which is also fine). If you go for ice in the cocktail sink at the same time as a co-worker and accidentally stab them in the hand with your scoop and they say "Ow!", don't apologize, say "wow, that was careless of me!"
Apologizing for accidents is weak. Apologizing for intentional slights or things you recognize that you did wrong, however, is manly (again, see rule #3).
Carpe Diem Rule #3 - Own Your Mistakes
If your actions hurt someone else, even if that wasn't your intention, apologize (see rule #2) and make it up to them.
Not owning up for things you've done wrong is immature, selfish, and the mark of a person with no self-esteem. Not recognizing your faults will cause you to spin in circles until you finally grow up, doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again.
Children never admit doing something wrong, it's always someone else's fault. Part of becoming an adult is owning your actions. All of them, even the shitty ones.
Only the insane are given a free pass to act completely without regard for others, but generally we remove them from society so nobody else has to deal with their fallout.
Not owning up for things you've done wrong is immature, selfish, and the mark of a person with no self-esteem. Not recognizing your faults will cause you to spin in circles until you finally grow up, doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again.
Children never admit doing something wrong, it's always someone else's fault. Part of becoming an adult is owning your actions. All of them, even the shitty ones.
Only the insane are given a free pass to act completely without regard for others, but generally we remove them from society so nobody else has to deal with their fallout.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Rocks and Feathers
6 times I threw the rock into the water. The first two times it skipped over the surface of the water joyfully and I thought for a moment that it would keep going forever. But eventually the rock sank below the surface. 4 more times I threw the rock, each time it sank deeper than before.
They say that the mark of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results each time. I plead temporary insanity, a lesson learned, it's time to move on. In my defense, your honor, I was led to believe each time that the rock would not sink. My bad for thinking rocks can float.
Now I seek a feather, or a leaf - something pretty and light and unbroken. Something that will float on the water and freely drift with the current instead of weighting itself down. Rocks aren't free to skip and hop but instead they just sink through the murky waters to the depths below.
Every time.
You can't will rocks to float.
They say that the mark of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results each time. I plead temporary insanity, a lesson learned, it's time to move on. In my defense, your honor, I was led to believe each time that the rock would not sink. My bad for thinking rocks can float.
Now I seek a feather, or a leaf - something pretty and light and unbroken. Something that will float on the water and freely drift with the current instead of weighting itself down. Rocks aren't free to skip and hop but instead they just sink through the murky waters to the depths below.
Every time.
You can't will rocks to float.
Tuesday Night Limerick
There once was a man from Minnesota,
Who was pushed within one last iota,
Of straining his nerve,
He had lost of his verve,
For playing games he had fulfilled his quota.
Who was pushed within one last iota,
Of straining his nerve,
He had lost of his verve,
For playing games he had fulfilled his quota.