Don't Print This

Resolution road: Incomplete

2012-01-16T09:14:00.000-08:00

The veterinarian was the subject of a story I was working on, but I'd met him once before at a Halloween party where we'd all drank far too much. I think he'd passed out around three that morning, crumpled up in a pile on a couch with his girlfriend.

Lightweight.

He had a nice house, an interesting collection of pets and a vast array of hobbies: an old car, RC gadgets, music and different remodeling projects.

Everything was kept very orderly, but it was all in that vague middle of completion with no real end in sight. Some of the projects, like the car, he'd been working on for years; since he was a teenager. Most of them, at the pace he was following, would take years before they were finished, if ever.

None of this really troubled him. He joked about how this was kind of his nature, but it didn't worry and the man was anything but lazy or distracted. Everything was being taken care of as needed and as it suited him.

I kind of admired the peace the man had with what were, essentially, things he chose to do. There was no real deadline. Everything would get done when it got done. If he never finished, that was okay, too. The point wasn't necessarily the finished product. In almost everything he did, nothing was ever going to be entirely and permanently finished anyway.

He was learning things, exploring and finding his way. I liked that.

So... another resolution. Take the incomplete sometimes, especially with things that aren't mandatory. Nobody is grading.

Resolution road: Sleeping on it

2012-01-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

The posting in Freecycle read, "Queen sized mattress and box springs," and I almost fell over in my chair. Months ago, as part of a big used furniture buy, I'd landed a Queen size bed frame. The only problem was: I had a full size bed. It was too small.

Still, I'd managed to jury rig the thing, got it off the floor and that was a start, but it was still a little awkward. The ends poke out too far. I've hit my ankle on the lower half three or four times and one night out of five, I wake up with my head crammed down the space between the bed and the wall.

The posting said the mattress was in good shape. It just needed to be cleaned.

Free was too good to pass up. So, I put a claim on it and the owner told me I could have it.

"Just come pick it up."

Easy enough.

So, I borrowed a truck and in the dark of night went to get it. The little house was located at the top of a steep hill. Looking down from the top, I noticed the shiny new guard rail at the bottom and wondered how often that got replaced.

Just a guess, but every other winter.

The street was dark and finding the little house was a pain in the ass. Evidently, nobody bothers with house numbers anymore and postal employees can just miracle the fucking mail to the right house. I doubt a pizza had been successfully delivered on this street since the Nixon administration.

Still, I reminded myself, I was getting this mattress for free. A little hassle was expected.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

The house I was looking turned out to be located behind another house. You had to creep up a set of narrow, river rock steps then fumble past the gate of a chain link fence just to get onto the dark property. I navigated by the stars since the household seemed to have a strict "only use one electrical device" at a time policy. Flickering blue light escaped from a single, dirty window.

I knocked on the door. A scummy looking character opened it immediately.

"You here about the bed?" The guy asked. "It's on the back porch."

He closed the door then turned a light on, not the light for the back porch, but the light for the front stoop.

Right off, the mattress looked wrong. It looked too small. It looked like it was the same size as the one I had at home, but it was dark, I was annoyed and I have been known to make mistakes when it's dark and I'm annoyed. I considered for a second. I was already here.

I decided the situation was still workable. At the very least, I figured, it's an improvement over what I have and I could be wrong.

I lugged the mattress and box springs to the truck then coasted down the hill, riding the breaks and feeling pretty damned glad I didn't have to live here.

It was a bad night. Getting the truck had taken too long. Finding the house had taken too long and by the time I finally got home, the whole evening was shot.

But I had the bed.

It was while dragging it into the house that I noticed the smell: urine, sweat and a sickly sweet deodorizer that wasn't quite cutting it.

In the light, I saw the mattress wasn't in such good condition. It was pock-marked with small holes and the foam beneath looked funny, partially dissolved. I'd seen this sort of thing before, back in college dorm rooms where half the mattresses looked like they'd been scavenged from a plague hospital.

The cats and dog were fascinated by the thing, but there was no way I was keeping some drunk's flop mattress and piss pad in my house. I dragged it right back out, tossed it on the patio and called the garbage company. I asked them to donate the mattress to a deserving family of rats at the county landfill.

The fiasco taught me a lesson. For years, I've done a fair share of scavenging: furniture, food and odd items. I did it because I told myself I was being thrifty. I was being resourceful. Sometimes I deluded myself by saying I could fix it, patch it up or use it to make do somehow.

Usually, that didn't work out. A stock pot I got for nothing turned out to have pinhole leaks six inches up from the bottom. A loveseat I found smelled like a couple of dogs on a two-day viagra binge. The box of chestnuts I took turned out to be rotten and infested with little bugs that took weeks to get rid of.

My list of hopeful acquisitions is long and it is sad.

Looking back, most of the junk I scavenged was just that: junk. And sometimes, the junk cost me something: extra money, extra aggravation; time that could not be replaced. In most cases, if I'd really wanted the item I picked up in the first place, I'd have been better off just buying it.

So... there it is, my first new resolution of the year: Stop picking up other people's trash, especially when it's offered freely. This is not to say, stop looking for bargains, but stop accepting less as adequate. It really never is, no matter how much you pretend that it might be.

Sure, it's true what they say: "You shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," but maybe you should if you think the horse might be a goat.

Back in black

2012-01-09T08:43:00.000-08:00

It only seems like I've been away awhile...

Actually, I've thought about this blog quite a bit, but I wasn't sure about what to write. Lots of things have changed in the six weeks or so since I abruptly stopped posting.

If I was to end the blog, the post about discovering my grandmother had been reading my letters would have been a good one. Parting with the wedding band would have been another. Both sort of represent high points; going out on a high note, but there is no ending in sight.

Explanations are in order for where I've been, naturally, but all in good time. I have to limber up a bit and frame my little stories. I have quite a few to tell, but these are not the same sort of stories we're used to here.

All in good time.

Typically, at the beginning of the year, I make some sort of list of things I'd like to accomplish. I am a believer in resolutions, but I'm usually hit or miss with them. Some years I take the inevitable failings harder than others.

Still, I try. Sometimes the point isn't the actually accomplish the goal. Sometimes it's enough to just try.

Right now, I'm working out what I want to do this year. Some sort of list will be posted eventually, but the possibilities seem almost endless. I'm having trouble narrowing it down. There seems to be so much to choose from. It's funny. My world seems much larger than it used be. I'm not sure how that's even possible, but it sure feels that way.

Ring Cycle: An ending of sorts

2012-01-05T13:21:00.001-08:00

I cradled the wedding band in the palm of my hand and watched some poorly dressed clown swing a bell as people dropped changed into a bright red kettle.

I'd made a decision about the ring. I'd come to it a while ago, but now we'd reached the point where something needed to be done, where I could no longer bear to keep it any longer.

For a while, before Christmas, I'd considered taking the ring to a pawn shop. Gold fetches a nice price these days. I could have traded it for cash, got a waffle iron or maybe bought a few Christmas presents, but hadn't been able to do that.

Once upon a time, I'd had a different ring, nearly as blameless as this one and done just that: sold it off for a few coppers to a guy in a cut off shirt in a dimly lit shop. The memory of watching a greasy, stringy-haired clerk toss that ring in a fat JFG coffee can along with several dozen others still haunts me.

It was a mass grave.

A marriage shouldn't be dispensed with so cheaply, I thought. Even the corpse of the thing deserves some manner of respect.

I always regretted selling that ring and this one, it deserved a better fate.

Truth be told, the ring never quite fit. This is not some existential statement, but a basic fact. I lost weight right after I purchased the thing and the ring wouldn't stay on my finger. I had it resized, gained some weight back and the ring wouldn't fit. Eventually, I lost the weight again, but took up lifting weights and the ring just never rested comfortably on my hand.

I talked about getting it resized a hundred times, but never did. There are a dozen reasons for that, none of them very good.

Still, I was ready to give this one up, but I didn't want it to go cheaply. I didn't want it to pay for dinner or even for the start of my new life. I wanted it to perhaps find its way to a new hand, a new marriage and a new start.

I could hope the same things for myself one day, I supposed. Why not that for me, too?

If I took it to a pawn shop, I figured they'd probably just sell it to a gold buyer. It would be melted down, turned into wiring or tooth filings, perhaps, but the Salvation Army is a church. They believe in marriage --acknowledged: their definition of marriage is a bit more conservative than mine, but I didn't think they'd cast the ring aside or boil it down to its brute material. They deal with charity and the poor. Maybe they'd find someone who wanted to get married, who didn't have a ring.

I hoped so. In my way, I was trying to give the ring a chance to move on, too.

So, I wished it well and slipped the ring into the kettle as I went in to the grocery store to buy Granny Smith apples, flour and sugar. The man standing at the door wished me a Merry Christmas. Almost correcting him, I said, "Happy New Year."

Seasons Greetings

2011-12-19T13:27:00.000-08:00

Not to worry, folks. I'm still working here. I've just been busy of late. Historically speaking, blogging during the holidays is difficult at best and impossible at worst.

There will be new chapters. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Pleasant Solstice or whatever holy day you choose to observe while the neighbors get drunk and naked out in the yard or you sit through another viewing of "Home Alone," playing continuously on cable.

Interlude: The Funeral March IV

2011-11-25T11:06:00.000-08:00

I put on my best suit for the funeral.

I have only one suit. In my business, I could do to have a couple, but maybe not. I’m a fucking entertainment writer. I make phone calls to rock bass players and country singers who play the tambourine. There are days when wearing a t-shirt seems like I'm trying too hard.

Still, the suit was the best I had, worn only a handful of times. It was worn once in 1999 for a wedding. Wearing that suit, I’d told a woman in a parking lot I’d fallen in love with her. She sped off in her truck right after –probably the smartest thing she ever did.

I wore the same suit at my sister’s wedding, my best friend’s wedding then at my wedding.

I wore it once to interview a dying blues guitarist. The man was about 70 and still having to play to pay bills. I thought he deserved better than to have to answer questions from a guy wearing a cartoon t-shirt.

The suit has been employed on a couple of occasions when someone has offered me a job I had no intention of taking. I’d worn the thing as an outward sign of my seriousness, of my deep consideration of their offer, but really, any job that would think someone like me needed to wear a suit to do his job wasn’t really a place I needed to be.

Still, it was the best I had, the best I could give my father, who would remember me better in the suit than my grandmother was capable of. Besides, she’d never seen me in anything more formal than a t-shirt and jeans.

At the entrance to the parlor of the funeral home, my father said, “You clean up real good.”

He repeated variations on the same theme for the rest of the day, which pleased me.

More than anything else, I’d dressed for my father, to show respect both toward him and to the woman who raised him. I wanted him to see me as a man, not a 40-year-old kid. I was there to help, to comfort, but not to mourn. I would do that on my own.

I was one of only a few suits in the room and most of the others belonged to people paid to be there.

My people are working class stock. I come from people who are autoworkers, mechanics, cashiers and clerks. My father was the oddball in the family: the teacher.

As it should be, we buried my grandmother on a rainy day. Sunshine and clear skies are a poor setting to bury people you love. Cold, gray rain came down in a steady pour. As a grim group, we made our way through a cramped city graveyard to my grandmother’s final resting place.

Words were said. I don’t remember them. A few people cried, but it was hard to make out who. I couldn't find it in me to cry in public, but I did have the suit.

Interlude: The Funeral March III

2011-11-25T10:56:00.000-08:00

People were waiting for me at the funeral home in Flint. Viewing and visitation had been ongoing for most of the afternoon by the time my car rolled onto the parking lot.

My stepmother, Laurie, saw me first, hugged me then sent me inside to see my Dad, who was standing next to the room where my grandmother’s body laid in a box.

“I’m glad you made it,” he told me.

For a couple of minutes we talked about my drive and the little controversy that had arisen about my grandmother’s obituary.

Details about her life, children and grandchildren had been submitted to the funeral home by my uncle. My father, a retired, high school English teacher, had been asked to look over the finished copy.

He couldn’t have pissed them off more if he’d made the changes with a red pen.

We talked for a minute then he led me up to the small, wooden casket.

The dead cannot help but be a poor imitation for the living. My grandmother’s dressed, painted, and boxed corpse was only a vague outline of the woman I remembered. Her flesh sagged on her frame. She looked like the woman I knew, but carved out of wax and melted slightly under the lights.

“I don’t think it looks like Mom,” my father said. “I think they did their best, but that’s not her.”

He meant that both aesthetically and spiritually; and I agreed. It wasn’t her.

We spent a few minutes there and I felt numb from grief and guilt.

“She always appreciated those letters you sent her,” Dad told me. “I told you that, but she used to light up whenever she’d get flowers or a card or a phone call from one of you kids.

“She was proud of you.”

I heard what he said, but it sort of went through me.

The viewing was to be broken into two parts. The early part of the afternoon was meant just for family. The evening was open to the public, though none of us expected a crowd. My grandmother was almost 90. She’d outlived most of her friends. Few of those people from her past wouldn't be able to travel.

Still, a lot of family turned up: long-lost cousins. Of course, none of them had been long-lost. That was me. They'd stayed and been part of the ongoing family story, while I'd been absent; the one spoken about, but seldom spoken to.

I don't know that they'd even expected me to come.

Interlude: The Funeral March II

2011-11-16T17:55:00.000-08:00

To me, the worst part about the trip to Michigan for the funeral seemed to be the distance, the time in the car.

A lot had changed.

As a child, my family made an annual pilgrimage to Flint to visit my father’s parents. We’d leave just before dark in the summer. Dad would do most of the driving. By the time I was 10 years old, I rode shotgun with him, pouring his coffee, keeping him company while Mom and my two sisters somehow nodded off in the back and slept.

Those trips were important to me. I remember the smell of the hot coffee poured from his green and chrome thermos. I remember the old radio shows on AM radio: Fibber McGee and Molly, X-Minus One and a million different westerns and crime shows. I remember riding through West Virginia one year and hearing Bill Withers “Just the Two of us” played over and over on every other station we found.

On the road, in the wee hours, we talked –Well, Dad talked. He told me his stories and I listened. He told me things he never mentioned during the day. He talked about Vietnam. He talked about growing up in Flint and mentioned some of the less pleasant things he'd done and often regretted. He rattled off his thoughts about politics and music.

Some of it was nonsense or seemingly contradictory, but I loved it.

Still, the drive was a killer.

Many times, we left just before dark and usually arrived mid-morning in Flint, ready for Dunkin Donuts at Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Dad would sleep all day.

And for years, I measured out the time to get to my grandmother’s house to be around 10 to 12 hours –half the day, for sure. It was too long to try alone, too long to try with a family, too long to try in a beat up Geo Metro, a beat up Toyota Station wagon, a beat up Dodge Neon…

It just couldn’t be done; not under these circumstances.

But with the funeral, at least this time I had a new car with a good engine, solid brakes and tires that didn’t need to be inflated back to a round shape every 30 miles. I also had satellite radio, a working cell phone and a yearly income that exceeded 18 thousand dollars per year. I was insured, too --something that wasn't always the case.

There was never going to be a better time for me to make the trip, even if I was going to have to take it alone. I didn't want to go alone, but I didn't have much of a choice. Neither of the cats are especially good travelers.

Before I left, I needed directions. I had a general idea where Michigan was on the map, just head north, but I’d scarcely looked in that direction in over a decade.

I checked online.

The first time I entered the start and arrival point, I shook my head. It had to be a mistake.

I picked a different map service and tried again.

The results were identical. Allowing some fuzziness to a hard number because of road construction, traffic delays or too much coffee, all sources indicated I could be at my destination in right around 6 ½ hours.

I felt sick and guilty.

As a comfort, I told myself on the road it was probably different. I would probably get turned around and I did, right off the bat. I started toward Huntington when I should have started toward Parkersburg. Also, one of my exits was closed and so I couldn’t leave the main route when I was supposed to.

Beyond that the speed limit fluctuated from 45 to 70 miles an hour and traffic was dicey around Columbus. I drove through the morning, stopped for gas, stopped for lunch at White Castle (a first for me) and got a coffee at Starbucks.

I still made it in 6 ½ hours.

Damn it to hell.

Interlude: The Funeral March I

2011-11-11T09:42:00.000-08:00

I was in the parking lot of the regional jail when I got the call from my sister telling me my grandmother was dead.

“Grandma passed away at about 1:30 this morning,” she told me.

Everybody else was fine.

A week before, my 88 year-old grandmother had entered the hospital because of fluid around her heart. She didn't much like doctors, hated hospitals and had sort of been counting the days until her death for a while. She mentioned not being around in birthday cards sometimes.

My sister broke the news and I tried not to laugh. While I'd been inside the regional jail, talking with a loved one about choosing to sleep on a thin mat laid over a cement floor in an overcrowded cell rather than taking a bed someplace where he'd be beaten, my father was choosing a casket for my grandma.

I imagined him looking at coffins the same way most people would look at used cars and whatever he got would be like my grandmother lived: simple, unpretentious and fiscally conservative.

She'd never piss good money away on an ornament nobody would ever see much of --least of all, her.

Meanwhile, details of the funeral would be forthcoming and probably very soon. Plans were being made. The tune was being called.

“Somebody will call you,” my sister told me then asked me if I was all right.

I was fine. I'm always fine at the point of impact. Later, things would suck, like when I thought about how I hadn't seen her in over ten years and the reasons behind that.

In the beginning, I didn't go because of money. More times than not, I didn't have two thin dimes to rub together. I worked two jobs, struggled to provide both for myself and for my family.

That never seemed to get much better.

Then, there were problems with vehicles. Nothing I drove seemed all that reliable, especially not for a seven hour trip across Ohio to Michigan.

Then I worried about the fragility of my grandmother and the rambunctious nature of my family. I wasn't sure the old girl could handle an hour with us, let alone a weekend, a holiday or a week of vacation.

The minority of voices echoing my concerns encouraged me to think this was for the best.

All excuses were poor and had little merit. The old woman had survived the Great Depression, backwoods poverty growing up in Arkansas and my much loved, but not especially saintly grandfather. She'd raised two kids in Flint, Michigan, in auto worker and union country, which could get rough.

She'd have been fine. If we'd annoyed her, she'd have puttered off to her room and closed the door until we came back later.

And so a decade disappeared with nothing more than a few phone calls, birthday cards and those letters I wrote to her from time to time.

The letters were for my comfort as much as hers. For a while, I was mailing them every week. Grandma didn’t have email and probably didn’t know what facebook was –not that it would have mattered. After cataract surgeries, she could barely see. My aunt, I imagined, read my letters to her and probably wrote her occasional responses back –except around birthdays.

For birthday cards, she managed to hastily scrawl some little note on the inside of the card, telling me she loved me, but mentioning her back trouble, her impaired vision or her advanced age.

They made me laugh sometimes, but I always appreciated those. She was trying to include me in her life in a way that made sense to her. The card with the money, she sent to share her joy. The messages were her little bits of pain. There was balance in that, I thought. She wanted to share the good and the bad, while I tended to gloss over things: car trouble, selling blood for gas money, an ended marriage, etc...

Sitting in the parking lot, it occurred to me that I'd cheated her out of a lot, but there was nothing to be done about it. I hung up the phone then drove home to pack.

ring cycle: Love and Davenport

2011-11-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

There isn't really much of an interest to turn "Don't Print This" into one of those tawdry sex and crime magazines you used to see at your finer convenience stores --or at least I used to see, because my best friend was fond of stealing them --not that he was actually interested in reading it. It was just that he'd taken everything else: the car and gun magazines, a variety of mid-grade porn, and a few comic books that really weren't for him.

Really, those he gave to me, as a kind of payment for keeping my mouth shut and for housing the rest of the loot.

Shoplifting never bothered him, having to explain anything to his parents did and somehow, he thought, eventually, they'd catch him.

Anyway, there have been some odd, gossipy kind of developments. A few people have spoken up as being interested or knowing those who are interested

...in me.

which is at once exciting and baffling. It's exciting that there a few women out there who'd like do more than lunch with me. It's baffling because it just is. I'm a snarling traffic wreck even during the best of times and here I am, split up, divorcing and probably more than a little off-balance and there's interest? in me? Really?

What is also strange is the number of former girlfriends and past crushes that have stumbled back onto the stage, seemingly a little drunk and not entirely sure of their lines.

"Oh, Bill. I have missed you... so. "

I don't know what to make of this, but I kind of like it.

ring cycle: elevator

2011-10-31T08:25:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a moment. I met her at one of the places I go. She was working at the desk, looked me up in the computer. She called me, Mr. Lynch. I laughed, reached out my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Bill.”

She blushed. We shook hands and she told me her name.

A week later in the same building, she stepped on an elevator and stood next to me, not saying a word. We went up a floor. She turned to me then asked, out of the blue, “What’s your favorite color?”

I don’t even remember the last time anyone asked me that and that’s what I told her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed.

“No, it’s okay. I just haven’t thought about it in a while.” For a couple of seconds, I deeply considered the question then said, “I guess it depends on the day. It’s how I feel. Today, I guess, I feel green. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel orange.”

She nodded, understanding. I don’t know if it was a test or if she was just looking for a reason to say something to me. I kind of hoped it was the latter.

“What’s yours?” It was now my turn to be kind of lame.

“Purple,” she told me, finally.

The elevator door slid open and she went her way. I went on the next floor, feeling a little baffled at the nature of the exchange.

A week passed, another week, then another and I didn’t see her except once, walking on the street, far away from the place I knew her. I almost stopped to say hello, but thought maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.

She contacted me on Facebook. It was random and out of the blue. I was a little intrigued. It seemed like… something.

We talked here and there, expressed our sanitized mutual admiration. She thought I was funny. I thought she was kind. We laughed together in front of our individual computer screens.

Again, there was a little momentum, the feeling that something could be happening. She mentioned a show. I thought, you know, maybe I could work something out, bring her along some time, something safe, something that wouldn’t actually have to be anything, but could be.

I moved too slow. The next day there were new pictures of the autumn leaves and the weekend she’d spent with her longtime boyfriend shuffling her feet through them. She smiled a lot. She positively glowed, but not because of the light, not because of the color clashing with her light, brown hair, but because she was happy to be with him.

Looking at the pictures, I was taken with how much younger she was than me. I felt my age. I felt my decades wrapped around me and chained to a lamp post like a bicycle chain. There was the fear, too, not just of being alone, but stumbling forward like a bull in a china shop and making meaning out of the meaningless.

In inexact words, she'd told me she admired me, that she liked my work and thought I was an interesting person to know. She thought I was a big deal.

I told her I wasn’t, but I was vain.

ring cycle: Burn

2011-10-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

A pile of wood lay discarded in a ditch. Leftover from a fallen tree cleared by the county, the state or just some guy with a chainsaw; I didn’t know, but I passed the scattering of logs on my way home, on my way to work and I coveted them.

Cold returned with the falling leaves weeks ago and sent me into a sweat. Winter is coming, and I have come to fear winter. It goes back years and years, from that winter I spent in a hundred year old house with six-foot tall single pane windows, high ceilings and the cracks of daylight coming through the corners of first floor walls.

We put up plastic over everything, hung blankets over the door to the hallway and sealed the front door.

It still wasn’t enough. We practically froze and our heating bills were the stuff of legend.

I don’t know what to expect here. The house has almost twice the living space as the last place I lived. Some days, it’s like I haunt it and have yet to see what all this fine country space is going to cost me. I try not to worry about it, but my nature is to analyze, analyze, analyze.

But… there’s a small wood stove insert in the back room and that, maybe I can use.

Of course, I have no wood. I don’t even have an axe, a hatchet, let alone a chainsaw, but I did have a small economy car with a trunk and a certain sense of certainty.

Better to take what is offered, when it’s offered than to be wanting later. It’s not a bad philosophy to live by. It is a scavenger’s philosophy. It is a survivor’s philosophy and I am a survivor. I will not starve. I will not freeze to death and I will not be afraid of winter, not this year, not in my own house.

I drove past that woodpile several times over several days before I decided that if the owner of that wood wanted it, he probably should have done something about it sooner. It was a nuisance, probably some kind of hazard. So, I parked the car on the shoulder, popped the trunk and got as much in as I could.

I moved quickly. If a neighbor from across the road popped their head out and asked me my business, I decided I’d tell them the truth. I was but a poor man of limited means looking to catch a break, but if the wood belonged to them, I would be happy to put it back.

No one ever came out from across the road. No car traveling on that piece of road did so much as slow, but I could feel them staring as they passed. I could hear the words of my father echoing in my head.

“Fuck ‘em, they can go around.”

Yep, they could.

Lying under the still white flesh of the freshly cut logs were the bleached bones of several deer. I found three small skulls, alongside slender jawbones edged with gleaming teeth. The bones seemed not quite large enough to have come from full-grown animals. If I had to guess, I’d have said it was a doe and two fauns.

For a moment I wondered if the tree had somehow fallen on them, killing the deer together in one stroke, but that seemed impossible. Just as likely, this was left over from some other sort of incident: a heavy truck that could not stop or bored boys with nothing but time, a couple of rifles and nothing like a hunting license.

It didn’t matter what I thought. The bones belonged to the earth. The tree, however, was mine.

ring cycle: valkrie

2011-10-28T06:47:00.001-07:00

There is a kind of peace in roller derby. I can’t explain it, but standing off to the side, watching women in hot pants and fishnet stockings go round and round on roller skates in a beat up former gymnasium is relaxing. It is soothing.

Not everybody sees it that way.

Standing next to me, one night, one of the girls on the injury list told me she still loved coming to practice, “because I just want to see someone knock a bitch down.”

She likes the aggression, the release of tension, even if the bitch getting knocked down is one of her friends.

I like the weird little community of women for other reasons. It's an odd little sport, which I like, but I also like that they seem more or less glad to see me. They also expect nothing. This is somehow different than the rest of the women I know who seem glad to see me and expect nothing from me.

The roller girls joke and talk trash. They say the most outrageous things. On some nights, the word vagina bounces off the walls of the place like a tennis ball in a dryer. The roller girls get raunchy, make sly allusions to sex lives both real and imagined, but they don’t flirt, not really. They don’t confuse me. Nobody pretends they want to take me home with them and somehow, I find comfort in this.

I don’t think I could stand the pretense of being wanted when I’m not.

Love and sex are things I think about a lot more and a lot less than I used to. I guess I mean to say that I think about it differently than I did. I think in past relationships, and not just my marriages, I’ve looked at sex as a kind of a validation. If I was having sex with my wife or my girlfriend on a sort of semi-regular basis, I guess I thought everything was okay. The relationship was okay. I was doing okay. We were okay.

That seems hopelessly naïve, but honestly, it isn’t so unique. I looked it up. Men often gauge the success of those kinds of relationships based on sex. I imagine this is why when these relationships unravel –and it can happen pretty damned fast – you come away from it feeling a little baffled.

It makes you want to reevaluate how you’ve seen the world.

A couple of friends have suggested I just say to hell with it, hit the bars, do the roadwork and play the inevitable numbers game of sex in the city. The ideas is if you ask enough drunks enough times whether they’d like to have sex with you, sooner or later one or more of them will say yes.

“Just move on, man.”

There is a similar theory about monkeys left in a room with typewriters and how long it would take them to reproduce the works of Shakespeare.

I’m not really that big a fan of Shakespeare. I mean I like MacBeth, but never could get to love Hamlet. I think I just wanted to see someone knock a bitch down.

Instead, I go to roller derby. I watch and listen: I only know about half of what is going on at any given time. Nobody seems to mind. I guess I like that they take me at face value and they all laugh when I bring juice boxes for the end of practice.

ring cycle: Musical chairs

2011-10-25T11:01:00.000-07:00

There was nothing particularly special about the chairs except they looked sturdy and were the right height to slide underneath the kitchen table. I wasn’t looking for much. I just needed them to work. They also had to fit in the back of my very small, economy car.

I pulled them out. There was a little wear and tear, but nothing damning, nothing that couldn’t be improved upon. They seemed fine, except for the price.

Twenty bucks each was a bit much. The chairs were probably worth it, but just a week before I’d seen kitchen chairs just like these (well, maybe not as good) for only ten a piece.

I almost walked away.

But I needed chairs. There was only one at the house.

Of all the things I wanted right now, I wanted a place to sit in my kitchen, just someplace where I could look across the table at someone. I wanted to eat dinner with my kids, not serve them individually from the stove while taking bites from a cooling plate by the sink. When it was just me, I wanted to sit at my table, look across at the empty seats and remind myself that other people lived here, too. It wasn’t just me.

Twenty bucks each was a bit much. So, I grabbed two of the four and marched them up to the counter.

The clerk started to ring me up and I noticed a small tear on the back of the chair. It was nothing much, but if I was going to have to pay twenty dollars for the chair, I wanted to make sure I got my money’s worth.

“Hey,” I said. “Would you mind if I swapped this out for one of the others? I think I meant to grab one of the others.”

She shrugged: fine with her.

A couple of minutes later, I was back with a nearly identical chair.

“It’s a shame to break up the set,” she said. “You know there are four chairs back there, right?”

I nodded. Of course, I knew there were four.

“Yeah, but I can’t afford all four of them, just the two right now.”

She looked at me then the register.

“You know, I think today those four chairs are forty dollars,” she said.

“Really?”

She nodded and told me to get them.

I thanked her and in kind of a gush, I explained why I needed the chairs in the first place.

“My wife and I split,” I told her. “She kept the stools and I got the table.”

She laughed and shook her head. I tried to explain that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. I didn’t really want the stools. They never fit the table in the first place and really, I felt lucky to have the table. She’d been kind to let me have it.

I told her, “I’m just trying to put my kitchen together, you know?”

She nodded then said, “It’s going to be okay. You’ll fill your house up with new love. You’ll be fine.”

That sounded great, though I was also kind of looking for a foosball table.

Everybody Leaves

2011-10-21T12:55:00.000-07:00

It's funny how you think you've known someone longer than you have. My friend Mona, for instance, I met four years ago, not the ten it feels. It was summer. I'd just come back to doing weekend radio with the vain hope of catching up on my bills. She'd just started as the new music librarian.

We were fast friends.

Over the past couple of years, I've watched her grow and do things I didn't even think anyone would ever want to do. She's been great and always good company. Together, we've explored at least a third of the bland, half-hearted dives on the West Side.

I regret that we will not find our way to the end of them --if there is an end. Jeez, it's like the only people who can cook over there work at the fucking Taco Bell.

And so, Mona is moving. She leaves in less than a week. My grief over that is only matched by my absolute pride. Mona's next job is going to be amazing. Not only will she accomplish wonderful things in Rochester, she'll see, hear and try things that I will likely envy for the rest of my days.

I wish her every happiness.

ring cycle: Sympathy for Gollum

2011-10-14T11:09:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine has been having a little trouble at the gym. She's young, attractive and a target for the juice heads and horn dogs who believe the men's magazines that say a health club is a great place to hook up.

Now, in their defense, I have seen a couple of middle-aged juicers walk out with some middle-aged mommies in black spandex. I'm pretty sure they weren't going for a gatorade.

Casual sex happens, I think; just not the way most people would like it to happen.

Of course, what the fuck would I know about that?

For my friend, the guys come up, they toss a line that might buy them a minute or two of somebody's time in a bar or ask some inane question meant to gauge interest. She's polite, but she's just there to hit the elliptical machine and maybe work on he arms a little. She's got a boyfriend. They're in love, live together and are one of those cool couples who don't overdo it on the cute stuff that makes me want to climb from a great height then plummet headfirst.

I may be overly dramatic here.

Anyway, she told me about it and I poked fun at her. I, too, have been chatted up on occasion; sadly, by pruney old men in their 60s and early 70s who have intensely stared at parts of me most women have never so much as glanced at in passing.

Later, I felt bad. She didn't ask for the attention. It was a legitimate problem and while I joke about the occasional old guy taking an inexplicable interest in me, it's not really as serious --or as frequent (a couple of times in four years versus a fairly regular occurrence).

Then I remembered an old trick unwed mothers used to use: they'd fake being married with a wedding band. I figured it might work on some of the guys, not all of them probably, but some of them. It might be like a bulb of garlic to vampires... well, to some vampires. Those middle aged couples I've seen hooking up: I'm pretty sure all parties involved were married, just not to each other.

Still, I thought it might help and I have a spare wedding band.

My little band of gold never really fit, which is neither the fault of my marriage or the ring, but the fault of a well-wisher who gave us an Amazon.com gift certificate. We turned it into a South Beach Diet book and I lost 40 pounds. I had the ring sized then gained 25 pounds back. After that, my weight yo-yoed for years. I'd go up a few pounds then come down again.

The ring stayed on a shelf where I looked at it often and tried it on every couple of months, never happy with the result.

I found the ring while I was moving furniture around last weekend. It was never lost. It just never got unpacked. I've been kind of afraid to look at it.

I know I need to get rid of it. The ring has to go. It's part of the healing, the moving on.

A long time ago, I had another ring I wanted rid of, but that was a different marriage and I was a different man. I was very angry, resentful and full of spite. So, I took it to a pawn shop, took 15 or 20 bucks for the thing and watched in horror and strange amusement as the clerk tossed the ring in a coffee can along with what seemed like a thousand others.

"Yes, you, too, are just a statistic."

I didn't want that to happen to this seldom worn ring. It seemed like it deserved better, even though gold is fetching a good price according to those assholes on talk radio. More and more I see the marriage as less of a failure and more of season in my life.

But I am often full of shit.

So, I offered my friend the ring, told her she could put it on a chain and maybe that would keep some of the pigs at bay, give her a little peace. She laughed and said, "No."

I think my gesture probably came off as more creepy than caring and thinking about it, yeah, it kind of does sound creepy; taking a ring from a middle-aged slug for the purpose of warding off other middle-aged slugs.

So, now I have this ring I don't know what to do with.

It only looks like the same problem I've always had.

ring cycle: cancer man blues

2011-10-13T07:22:00.000-07:00

I picked Lisa up at the doctor's office. It was the first time we met. Because of the length of time she needed to be under treatment and the distance in travel, another driver and me had divided the job.

From the sight of her, I knew Lisa wasn't doing very well. Her hair was gone and her skin was the color of sour milk left too long on the counter. Her belly was swollen yet her clothes hung loosely from her dwindled limbs. She'd overdressed for the weather, was in a loose sweat shirt and a coat, which was probably as much to hide the colostomy bag as keep her warm.

Lisa had a frantic, fearful cast to her eyes and she moved like she was perpetually crossing a frozen pond in late winter. She could hear the ice cracking under her feet with every step, getting louder. Lisa was dying and she knew it.

In the car, she thanked me too much for coming to get her and the ride back to her friend's home. She didn't actually live in the city or the county, but was a county or two over. She owned a small house there, something she'd bought just a few years ago.

"I rented my whole life," she said. "I hated it. Something would go wrong and the landlord wouldn't do nothing about it."

This went on for years until she finally had enough money for a down payment.

She'd bought the place with a little money inherited from her parents. Both had died in car accident and left her and what was left of her family with a couple of thousand dollars each.

The house was small, but it was hers. She hated that she couldn't get to treatments from home, but counted herself lucky that she'd landed a spare room among friends long enough to get through this round. Sadly, this was not her first time at this particular rodeo.

"The doctor got me through it eight years ago," she said wistfully. "Maybe he can do it again."

She changed the subject and asked about me, if I was married, if I had children. I explained that I'd been married and had children. She told me she was sorry for my loss.

"I never married," she said and sighed. "No kids."

Lisa said she'd dated a little in high school and through her 20s, but nothing had really took. She'd lived at home until she was in her mid-30s. Being alone didn't seem to bother her much. She had other family around and she had a cat, but no children, no husband.

Instead, Lisa was proud of her education and thought she'd had a good job.

"I worked for the welfare office," she said. "I helped a lot of people who needed it."

She also took a little bit of satisfaction in the screws being put to people who lied to her.

"Most of the time I knew while they were filling out the forms," she said. "I'd tell them to be sure about what they were putting down. Sooner or later, somebody would catch them."

She didn't have a lot of regrets. After decades of living under another's roof, she had her own home. That was a comfort to her, which I have come to understand. A shelter you own can be a different kind of refuge.

Lisa was fine with her house. She only wished she'd get to stay a little longer.

ring cycle: 41

2011-10-05T13:36:00.000-07:00

"Bill, you're 40 and you still have a wallet with a velcro strip?"

This was a friend and she was amused by yet another sign of my retarded maturity. There are plenty to choose from.

At my age, I should have a leather wallet. I should probably have a decent car and a savings account that registered more than double digits. I should probably have a better wardrobe, too, and something going for me other than a gold library card and the ability to make a pretty good apple walnut cake.

I tried to explain that leather wallets rot, but that didn't really get any traction. When a wallet, a pair of shoes, a shirt or anything else outlives its usefulness, you throw it away. That's what everybody does, right?

"I guess I'm aging awkwardly," I said finally and paid for lunch.

She smiled. Poor, silly, clueless me.

Looking at her, I think I saw how most women would see me.

I am 41 years old and don't have much of a future. I'm good for a few laughs, but not much else. Here I am, on the youngish side of middle-aged with few resources and many, many responsibilities. I am the survivor of two failed marriages and the father to a couple of kids. I also work too much and dress like I'm a second year Senior at a mediocre liberal arts college.

And to be honest, I kind of like that last part. If nothing else, I am very comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am. I like who I am. Better than most people, I live by terms I agree with --except this one: I'm kind of a joke.

As I put away my wallet, I could see the outline of my future. There would be many lunches like this one and a couple of dinners. There might be a few adventures here and there, but very few actual dates. Nothing like love. There would be many friends. I do make friends often and easily. I would be good company, but company no one would mind to see go home before it got too late.

It seems like a lot to read from a short exchange about a silly wallet and the look in one woman's eyes, and I can't defend it except to say, that's what it seems to me. I felt like I'd read the pulse of my personal universe, which was strong and steady, but lonesome.

ring cycle: growl

2011-10-03T12:12:00.000-07:00

At the front desk, the receptionist at Hospice asked for my name then told me the person I'd come to see wasn't around.

"She's not in her office right now, but as soon as she is, I'll let her know. You can have a seat over there, if you like."

I was early: ten minutes or so. It wasn't even 8:30 and sure, everyone was just starting to settle into their day. That was fine.

To kill time, the receptionist gave me a clipboard that contained fire safety information and a confidentiality agreement. I signed them both, but really just glanced at one.

Coffee was offered. I declined. Minutes rolled by slowly, but without pause. Volunteers drifted in regularly, spoke as they passed the receptionist, made little jokes or gave details about lives outside of this building. Evidently, Ruby Tuesday is the best place for dinner in the free world.

Eventually, the receptionist spoke with who I'd come to see. After a moment, the woman left her desk, stepped into the hallways and coming only as close as she might a timber rattler, explained, "You'll be meeting with someone else. I'm the director."

"She's in a meeting now," the receptionist said. "She's doing interviews today." She looked at the closed door. The door had been closed since I'd arrived. The receptionist bit her lip. "I guess that one is going a little long."

I kept my seat, but the clock kept ticking. Wearily, I kept checking my phone for the time. I stood up. I sat down. I turned to look out the window. I watched the door.

Half an hour later, I got up, seething and politely told the receptionist, "I think I've come on a bad day. I'm going to go on to work now. If she'd like to reschedule, have her call me."

"Work?" The receptionist seemed genuinely puzzled. Maybe the process of volunteering for Hospice is long and difficult. Maybe she thought I'd come to see about a job.

I left.

Late in the afternoon, I got a call. Nothing much was said about my not sticking around. Nobody apologized. She offered to reschedule and for a while that seemed like a good idea until I realized I wanted an apology. I wanted her to fucking say she was sorry for making me wait out in the lobby for over half an hour. I wanted her to tell me that volunteers were valuable and that she felt bad for having wasted my time. I wanted her to gush. I wanted her to assure me that they weren't going to treat me poorly just because I had a conscience, because I wanted to do right by people. This was just a bad start and could we please try again.

I wanted her to kiss my ass.

And that's when I decided I needed to step back. I was annoyed at her for being busy. She hadn't meant to make me feel slighted. Volunteers were coming in regular bursts. They were in the middle of a project. Shit was going on and maybe she'd bitten off more than she could chew with her calendar.

So, I took a deep breath and apologized for being impatient and annoyed. I also explained that maybe this wasn't the best time for me to take this on. I'd missed the deadline for Hospice in the Spring by reaching out too late for the classes. This time, I just wasn't in the right place emotionally. I'm a wreck. It doesn't always look or sound that way, but I'm kind of screwed up right now and prone to moods.

I asked her if we could try again in the Spring, when I'm not desperate for warmth.

ring cycle: A few words from our sponsor

2011-09-30T11:53:00.001-07:00

Hey, I made some changes to comments on the blog. I'd meant to make the change a while back. Given the nature of what I'm writing about now, it's important for me to say that people shouldn't judge too much.

That's not my intention.

These posts are meant to be both a meditation and description of what's going on with this divorce (at least my side of it), but not really an airing of my grievances if I have any. Yes, there is some pain. I hurt some of the time. I'm scared some of the time, but that's not a cause, just a symptom of how I'm moving forward.

Some of you who read this are my friends --actually, given the number of people who read blogs --most of you are friends. Some of you might feel like you need to show some support for your pal, and man, I ain't turning that away. I need support. I need kind thoughts and words of good cheer as much as people can stand to say them with a straight face, but maybe not so much in the comments section of the blog?

While I can't write about my eventually ex-wife's feelings on a minute to minute basis, it's not easy for her either. This is a trauma for both of us. I just whine about it more.

I also need to say that she's been pretty kind under the circumstances and a lot more reasonable than is maybe coming out on the blog. The world is full of enough horror stories about exes sticking it to the other party just because they can. I'm not writing that story because I'm not living that story.

So, as weird as it might seem, I'm going to say no more comments for a while. This may piss a few people off who've commented and found their comments deleted. I hope you'll forgive me.

I appreciate everything. Really, I do. I mean no ill will to anyone --except that fucker Bruce Springsteen.

ring cycle: exodus

2011-09-29T06:53:00.000-07:00

In the end, you have to go home and so I drove, in the dark, with the radio off dreading the moment when I'd see the house. Maybe, I thought, they'd still be there: another delay. I imagined the dog at the door then my son shrieking my name: one more day.

I did not imagine some sort of magical reconciliation. I did not think that at the last she'd chicken out and decide to try and convince me there was anything left to save. Just one more day where things had been how they had been. You can get used to anything, even the uncomfortable awkwardness of finding scraps of paper around the house; little hearts drawn with your wife's name and another (not yours) in the center.

Going home was like visiting the morgue. The lights were off. The driveway was empty. Nothing moved in the windows, not the flickering blue light of the television, not any pet or child. Opening the door was peeling back the sheet from a body, to see what was left after an accident, what could be recognized.

Of course, everything and nothing was still there. It felt as if the life had gone out of the place.

Eventually, the cats came bounding in, waiting to be fed and I surveyed the house. I turned off lights, threw out trash and found a little for the animals to eat. I turned the television on for noise and when I grew tired of it, went to sleep.

ring cycle: one more day

2011-09-27T14:15:00.000-07:00

The end came sooner rather than later. Yesterday, Jen told me they were going to sign early on the new place and could be sleeping there as early as today.

It didn't happen that way exactly. Generously, she's given me another day, but it knocked the wind out of me when I heard. I was expecting Saturday.

Even though it's just a couple of days, I'd had it in my head that everything would happen while I was away. It would happen while I was visiting my family in Virginia for a night and a day. The move would be like getting a shot. I could turn my head. I'd feel the pain and realize something was being drawn from the vein, but I wouldn't have to watch.

Bedding down last night, sleeping next to my son, he told me how excited he was about the move. He really likes the place. It's twelve times the size of where we live, which isn't small by any means, but he sees adventure and places to explore.

"Why aren't you coming?" He asked and again, I had to pause and explain that my place was here.

"This is my house," I told him. "This is my house and this is your house, but you have two houses now. You'll be with your Mom a lot of the time and you'll be with me a lot of the time."

He nodded, wearily. Outside, rain poured down heavily.

"I'll see you every day?"

"Sort of," I punted. "It's going to be a lot like it already has been. You remember, I work those nights on the weekend and sometimes have to do stuff for the paper? Your mom took those classes. You'll see us both almost every day for a while and then it will be like that, where you don't always see both of us every single day, but you see us almost every day.

"This is going to be different, but the important thing is it's going to be okay. We're going to take care of you: your mom and me. You're safe and everybody loves you. Nobody loves anybody more."

Satisfied for the moment, he drifted off to sleep gripping my arm while I stared at the ceiling for a while then finally picked up yet another book to while away the time until it was safe enough to close my eyes and venture to dream alone.

ring cycle: melancholia

2011-09-26T08:51:00.000-07:00

Out of the corner of my eye, something moved. I jumped. I thought it was a snake or a rat or anything. Early in the morning, before my coffee, I can be a bit skittish. At least, I was that morning, back when I took early morning walks before work.

After a moment, I recovered, turned and looked at what it was: a litter of kittens, piled together for warmth with no mama cat in sight. They laid together on the sidewalk, all six of them, near an overgrown and bramble-filled lot.

I figured they'd probably be gone if took the time to go home and find a box. Instead, I bundled them up in my t-shirt and carried them back to our townhouse.

Jen was in the bath when I brought them in to show to her.

"We can keep two," I told her, not even discussing whether we should keep any. The lease was rather specific about pets, but the neighbors had them. Fair was fair.

They were only a couple of weeks old, filthy and covered in fleas. I called the animal shelter, who warned me that bringing the kittens to them would likely result in their quick death. I told them we'd find homes for them, but asked if they knew how to get rid of the fleas.

"Warm water and mild dish soap," the animal shelter said.

Flea spray, the lady on the phone assured me, would be lethal.

I washed them all, one by one. None of them liked it, but we got them clean, got them fed and quickly chose our two kittens to keep while locating homes for the others. We wound up choosing the one orange tabby in the batch and a brutish, black fuzzball that seemed like the bully of the litter. I named them "Karma" and "Moose."

There was some discussion and disagreement over the naming of Moose. Others in the house had different ideas, but I pigheadedly refused to cooperate and eventually the name stuck. It seemed fitting. He was kind of a dumb lug.

The funny thing is neither cat really liked me all that much. They preferred the company of everyone else in the house, even the kids who tormented them regularly. The cats and me just never bonded. I was just the guy who changed out the litter box and occasionally took one for the team when it came time to wash off the fleas.

I kind of resented that for a long time. These should have been my cats. I'd saved them from certain destruction, fed them and given them shelter. I'd loved them, but they were indifferent. My contributions to their well being did not amount to the love they wanted.

A few months ago, that started to change, I guess. With age, they mellowed. Maybe they finally forgave me for the baths. I don't know, but now, it's not uncommon for me to wake up to see one of them nudging my hand, demanding to be petted. It's not unusual for one of them to squawk and mewl at my feet when they're hungry. They'll sit with me when I read, watch TV or just stare out the window.

The end of my cohabitation with the artist formerly known as Mrs. Lynch is nigh. Boxes are packed. She's told me what she's taking with her and now, we're just counting down the clock. She's taking a little furniture, the kitchen table and her vintage console stereo (which needs a new needle for the record player, if anybody knows where to get one). She's also taking the dog, which is her dog and has always been her dog and could not live without her, but I'm keeping the cats.

I'm glad they like me now, the cats. I kind of need for them to.

ring cycle: the wall

2011-09-23T12:20:00.001-07:00

The next part is the hard part. In a week comes the move and the place becomes this medium sized building I'll haunt and try to make into a home. As funny as it sounds, I've only considered the place just someplace I'm staying at up until this point. Sure, I've mowed the lawn (and bitched about it), I've raked the leaves (and bitched about it) and I've hauled trash the curb (then bitched at the garbage pickup company when they drove on by), but where we've been has been a kind of holding pattern.

It's hard to think of yourself entirely as a bachelor when you're former wife is sleeping down the hall.

Next week, we pass through that wall, the one we can barely see over and I'm thinking a lot about it as this ending/beginning draws closer.

I've received lots of interesting advice about what I should do --after. One friend has suggested what I really need is to have a fling. I think she's thinking I might be hung up about sex or trapped by certain attachments to sex and love as conditioning because I've been in a monogamous relationship for ten years.

Of course, the message also might be that I need to lighten up, get laid and relax.

Others are willing to help me shop for furniture for my new place. A few have offered to help me get away for a couple of days. I've been presented with a whole range of opportunities for diversion.

And I don't know what to choose.

More than a few people have expressed concern. They're worried I'm going to turn into an emotional cripple, become a shut-in or maybe just flip out.

I think I'll be okay, but I'm looking at that wall. I'm looking at next week and feeling the days crumbling into one another. It's going fast and I know that I do not want to be there when that first round of possessions goes out the door.

So, I'm not going to be.

Beyond that, once the dust has settled, I just want to settle in. I like the roller derby people. Maybe I'll hang out with them a little. Their devotion to profanity is kind of liberating. When Hospice gets back to me, I'll do those classes in October. I will drive for the American Cancer Society. I will spend as much time as I can with my kids. I will write letters to my 89-year-old grandmother and maybe not tell her that her grandson is single again. I don't know how she'd feel about that.

I will write more. My muse over and over is my own gallows humor at my predicament.

I will take care of my cats. I will buy something from Ian Bode to put on my walls because I like his work and much of what he does makes me smile and cry a little at the same time. When I have a table and chairs I will invite some friends over... eventually... if the house doesn't feel so creepy.

I will go see "The Shining" at Park Place Cinemas and visit White Castle the week of Thanksgiving. That's as far as I'm willing to think and that has to be enough for now. That's as far as I can see past the trees and into the distance. The rest is cloudy, not frightening, just obscured.

Ring Cycle: Rock band

2011-09-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

In any relationship, there is a give and take of influences. You teach each other and more than anything, my former wife and I shared music.

At the time we met, I'd spent four years working at a six station radio interest in Bluefield that played top 40 country, crispy-fried oldies and the very dregs of mainstream pop (affectionately referred to as Adult Contemporary). It was like I'd spent four years half deaf. Anything I listened to beyond the crap that was on the air at the radio station I worked at was whatever was gleaned by accident on trips to Baltimore, where I discovered Radiohead one dark night on the Beltway around Washington.

Jen came into my life with volumes and volumes of CDs by artists I'd never heard of (Dar Williams and Toshi Regan come to mind) and many artists I'd forgotten (Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana and REM).

Thinking about it, I can't say I added much to Jen's musical experience, really. Probably, because I liked some of the things she already did, it encouraged her to listen to those artists a little more often when I was around. There wasn't much in my CD collection she liked.

REM was the most significant musical artist we shared. I liked them, had listened to them in high school and some in college, but they were her favorite band. She had practically their entire catalog and was a member of their fan club --something she was very proud of, since it gave her access to rare releases.

We listened to a hell of a lot of REM, particularly in the early days, and I came to appreciate the band's early and middle-year stuff much more than I had when it was new. We saw REM twice together --once in 2002 and again in 2004 --and while I can't recall for sure if we really ever had a song that was our song, I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that REM provided the soundtrack to much of our relationship.

They were her band and they kind of became our band.

Yesterday, REM announced their breakup and that seemed so completely fitting.

ring cycle: the crash

2011-09-16T13:16:00.000-07:00

The worst of all of this is what I've come to term, "The Crash." The Crash is all the shit I'm not dealing with, that everybody knows I'm not dealing with, that I've very quietly swept up under the rug: the feelings that range from grief and disillusionment to loneliness and downright despair.

I'm 41. I will live and die alone. No one will ever understand me. It might never have really been worth the effort in the first place.

Intellectually, I know this is bullshit. This is only fear. This is the stuff I tell myself is not true. I have all kinds of data, all kinds of objections: 41 is still young. I'm a good man. I worked hard to make that happen, but it happened. I'm plain, but not unattractive. I've got a good sense of humor. I'm smart. I listen.

And these added up are my shield against the crash, that wall I hide behind while I say over and over I'm fine. I'm fine, really. No problem. I'm fine. I'm fucking fine.

I am not fine.

Because no matter how many times I say it, sooner or later something gets through. Today, it was "Pancho and Lefty," just a song that I thought would be good to listen to while I finished my workout at the gym.

Yeah, about that... suddenly, I'm all but running to get the hell away from people like I've got a stick of dynamite strapped to my chest. I'm coming apart at the seams.

That's the crash. It slams into me and I feel helpless, embarrassed and suddenly everything around me gets very dark and very cold.

So, why "Pancho and Lefty?" The fuck if I know. It's a god damned song about two cowboys. Hell, I hadn't even really listened to it until a couple of years ago when I started to appreciate Townes Van Zandt. I'm not even a huge Willie Nelson fan. I was just tired of listening to the Old 97s.

But there I am, unable to listen to anything but that one song (Thank-you iPod for making that exceeding easy). I don't want to hear anything else and every time I listen to it, the thing makes me want to curl up in a basement somewhere and not come out until around February.

This is the crash. I would like them to stop, please.

ring cycle: the garden

2011-09-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

Talking with the neighbor, I said, "This is going to sound nuts, but I'm not entirely sure where my property lines are. I don't know what's mine and what isn't."

She laughed. She could have told me anything. She could have annexed yards and yards of ground and I'd have never been the wiser --not until she passed away or sold her property.

"My yard ends at that tree and goes over," she said. "All that behind it: that's yours. The couple who lived in your place before, they had an amazing garden. There are some berry bushes up there, I think."

I'd only been mowing about half of my backyard. The horror of it dawned on me: all that space.

"I think I'm going to have a pretty good sized garden, too," I said quickly.

She nodded, smiling, knowing full well I had no idea at all what I'm doing or what I'll be getting into.

It's going to be a brave new world. Starting October 1.

ring cycle: Underworld

2011-09-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

Jerry caught me coming around the corner at Ellen's and told me, after something of a hiatus, he was back to reading my blog.

He grimaced and said, "That stuff with the blood was killing me."

He'd kind of tuned out.

My visits to the plasma center proved to be too much for a lot of people, not that it mattered. I abandoned popularity here from the very beginning. Otherwise, I'd have prattled on about local politics and sports, which might have increased my numbers --if I'd had anything meaningful to say on the subject, but I'm mostly apolitical and have little to say about sports (other than roller derby, which I am learning to love, though I seriously doubt my new derby friends would like to be featured in posts here).

Anyway, Jerry loved the new stuff. Of course, he does. Plenty of people do. I don't even have to look at my stat counter. I can feel the eyes on the new posts. My fan base has always liked the personal destruction stories. They look forward to them. I make implosion fun. It's a gift.

We talked for a couple of minutes. Jerry told me how much he admired my coming apart at the hinges then laughingly said something about it eventually getting better. After six years of this blog, we both know that's not likely.

God, if that were to happen, what would I do with myself?

I have no idea.

Anyway, after a few friendly words about the blog, I said I had to get on back to the ranch. The folks at work would expect me to do something. Two steps past his table, the future former Mrs. Lynch called me over. She was having the pasta salad with a down under coffee thing from Ellen's at the table about eight feet away from Jerry.

I told her I'd just had lunch with an old friend and run into someone who read my blog. She told me the pasta salad was especially good.

Ring cycle: supernatural aid

2011-09-09T07:39:00.000-07:00

A friend I hadn’t spoken to in months called me up out of the blue and said, “Hey, let’s grab some lunch.”

She didn’t know any of what was going on with me. Not everybody knows. Word about the split is moving out in a circular ripple. Like sitting on the edge of a pond, I’m watching the news travel and waiting to see if the ripple bounces off the edge and returns.

So far, nothing, but there may not be a return. Everyone tends to believe their happiness and well-being is more important to other people than it actually is. We are all stars in our own dramas, our own stories. The rest of the cast, the people we know, our friends, our family, are only recurring characters –supporting and bit players whose contracts are constantly up for renewal.

Plans were made for lunch. Conditions were decided: no seafood, no curry. It needed to be close by. I had a big story to write, an interview and photo shoot with a local band, and needed to get to my second job. She needed to get back to work in sixty minutes or less. I wanted a salad, but wanted to stay open to the possibility of dessert.

By process of elimination, a place was chosen.

Inside the Blossom Deli, the Catholic school kids were crowded in a rough approximation of a line, waiting to get back to school. Everybody was in uniform. Nobody had money in their hands. They weren’t in a particular hurry and blocked the front entrance like a half-assembled beaver dam.

I felt slightly and inexcusably annoyed. Dining out is a treat for me. I don’t do it that much and can really only afford a 10 dollar lunch about once or maybe twice a month. The rest of the time, I eat beans, soup or chili, occasionally a sweet potato, a couple of apples. I eat good but I eat cheap.

I envied them their privilege, a petty feeling. Everybody has to eat; even the children of the upper middle class.

While a bus boy cleared tables and tried to prepare for the crunch of the impending noon day lunch rush, the young hostess waved me forward.

“Two?” She asked.

Behind me stood a slender brunette: mid-20s, straight-hair and very pretty. She wore a short, green dress that clung enticingly to her modest curves. Obviously, she was meeting someone. Nobody dresses like that just for a day at the office --well, most people don't. I don't.

I smiled at the hostess as if to say, “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” but I shook my head.

“No, um, I’m meeting a friend. I need table for two, but she’s not here yet.”

The hostess nodded. The statuesque brunette maintained her pose by the door. Her date would be there soon enough. He better be, I thought.

The hostess grabbed two rumpled menus from the counter then led me to a table in the center of the dining room with a clear view of the front door.

“Perfect,” I said and pulled back a chair.

At the booth across me, my soon-to-be ex sat with her boyfriend. The two of them leaned across the table, holding hands and looking at each other meaningfully. Her eyes looked warm and filled with an almost desperate affection. I tried not to look at him, tried not to commit anything about him to memory. It was like gazing into a Kleig lamp.

I pushed the chair back.

“Fuck this,” I spat and fled, practically ran to the door.

The woman in green stepped aside to let me pass. I hope she got my table.

Outside, away from the front door, I drifted toward the corner. I stood and tried to shake it off. I felt cold, baffled, and talked to myself.

A couple of people stepped around me.

“Please don’t do this to me,” I said. “Don’t make me wait. Don’t let them come out. Don’t let them have seen me. Not like this. Not here. I’m not ready.”

Minutes rolled by at a grueling pace: one minute, five minutes, ten minutes. My friend was running late. It would still be another two minutes before her car finally pulled up.

“Get me out of here,” I begged her when she did. “Just get me somewhere else.”

Nobody ever came outside. I wasn’t followed. They hadn’t seen me. Standing there, five feet away, I’d been invisible.

Ring Cycle: Cancer Man crossover

2011-09-07T12:03:00.001-07:00

“You don’t talk about your wife.” It was a funny thing for her to say, but Rebecca was right. I’d been driving her to cancer treatments for a couple of weeks. We’d covered her stripper daughter and her addictions and the vague possibility that the daughter might have a side job of a sort.

We’d talked a lot about her grand kids. They were slowly leaving her nest and getting on with their lives.

It sounded like she’d done a good job with them.

We even discussed FOX news, her grandson’s pornography collection and what she liked best. She liked Jesus, cleaning houses for a living and television shows involving witches and that girl from “Who’s The Boss?” We’d shared. She’d baked me cookies and a slab of Mexican cornbread. I’d bought her an apple fritter from the Donut Connection and she’d laughed when she’d returned from her treatment to find me napping behind the wheel.

“You do too much,” she’d said.

I shrugged. Stuff has got to get done.

“You don’t talk about your wife.”

And she was right. In conversation, I’d mentioned being married and having kids. I’d talked about the new house and getting ripped off on the used lawnmower I’d bought from a guy by the side of the road: that one should have been obvious. I’d said a lot of things, but I’d said nothing about my wife.

So, I told her.

“My wife and I are splitting up.”

I’d already broken the news to my sisters, told a friend, but otherwise hadn’t worked up the nerve to say anything to the people I worked with or to my parents. For a couple of weeks I’d been carrying it around; the inside of my chest feeling like it was made of mangled tin and leaking mercury.

I told her as much as I could tell her, explained that it was real, it was final. I felt like shit for mentioning it. She was sick (technically, though her treatment was more of follow-up to what had already been done through surgery). I was taking her back and forth to the hospital and she had a lot on her plate besides. How fucking selfish was that?

Rebecca was quiet for a minute then she said she’d pray for me.

“You’re a good man." She smiled. "I’ll pray for a good woman for you –one who can cook.”

I might have raved a little too much about the cornbread and the cookies. They were pretty amazing.

I told her she didn’t have to. I told her I was a long way from even in thinking in that direction. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, let alone a wife. I wasn’t ready. I wasn't going to be ready for a long, long time.

“You’re young,” she said. “A young guy like you can’t be alone.”

I assured her it was possible and under the circumstances, pretty likely. I did not give her my reasons, but I think she knew them.

She laughed and told me she’d pray anyway and bake me some more cookies.

She made me a couple of dozen to share with whoever I wanted. It was one of the nicest things, I think, anybody had ever done for me.

The ring cycle: refusal

2011-09-05T11:02:00.000-07:00

Right after we split, we decided to tell a few people. I told my family and one friend a week after we made the decision to separate. I told the people I work with about two and a half weeks after and subsequently have slowly brought it up with people who know me.

I also decided to stop posting status updates on Facebook. I don’t like Facebook, but damned if it’s not addictive. It is the crack cocaine of internet communication, especially when you feel alone. It feeds into your loneliness with instant gratification. Post something and people respond if they like you.

People, I’ve noticed, like funny. They also respond to tragedy (as long as it’s real tragedy and not that stupid shit people cut, paste and repost), but relentlessly grim, self-serving, moody non-sequiters are like jerking off on public transport. Nobody really wants to watch. Well, I don’t want to watch and I didn’t want to be that guy with his trousers around his ankles. So, I stopped --at least with the status updates. I stopped trying to tell everybody what I didn't know how to say.

Everybody has been great about it, so far. A few people offered lunch, dinner or booze. Hugs were few, which was good. I'm a little touchy right now. The number of people I’m comfortable with giving me a hug at the moment could be narrowed to the number of people who could comfortably fit in my car. Close contact with anyone outside of my immediate family or my children is largely uncomfortable. It's awkward and wooden. I get no comfort from it.

This, I expect, is temporary: a kind of shock. It’s something that will fade with time. Otherwise, dating will challenging.

Not that I’m actually thinking about dating, not really. Friends have already suggested they could match me up, but this seems highly unlikely and downright foolish.

I’m not on the prowl either.

After “The Clash in the Coalfields” roller derby scrimmage a couple of weeks back, I was invited to the after-party. They’d been nice to ask me to announce their bouts, which might have seemed like I was doing them a favor and not the other way around. I didn’t have any experience, barely knew the game in the abstract, let alone the actual rules.

I stumbled through the evening like a refugee from a house fire.

At the end of it, my videographer, Kathryn said, “You look totally stunned.”

I felt stunned. I felt exhausted and shell shocked. I also felt more at ease than I had in weeks. For the previous three and a half hours, there’d been nothing to think about except roller derby.

Mostly, I’d thought about how much I was fucking things up.

After it was all over, however, some of the tabled anxieties started creeping back up.

A couple of people asked me if I was going to the after-party. This was supposed to be the best part and what was not to like: A bar full of raucous, wild women in the mood for a few laughs? It sounded like just the thing to kick me out of my funk. Why the hell not?

“Yeah, sure,” I said and I went --for about thirty seconds.

I wasn't even really thinking of a hookup. I just wanted to feel like part of the crowd. I stepped through the door and realized I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea why I was even there. I only knew a few people; none of whom were there yet. I suddenly became very self-conscious of the fact that I'm awful company and even if I stumbled into actually "meeting someone" I had nothing to offer them.

Looking around the bar, I saw lots of smiling, younger men with good hair, decent tans and tight-fitting t-shirts. Every one of them was my superior in every way that counted. I felt outclassed, ugly and freakish: a bad-tempered mutant that should be chased off with fire.

It made no sense. My basic core confidence in who I am just crumbled. I was overwhelmed in a place called Buffalo Wild Wings? Really? Buffalo Wild Wings?

I shook my head. This was ridiculous. I didn’t feel like having a good time. I had nothing to celebrate and wanted nothing much except to find a nice, dark place to curl up in a fetal position and bawl.

So, that’s what I did. I went home, cried all the way and went to bed.

I’m still in the grieving process, not the mourning of the end of the marriage, but the end of a particular identity. I don’t know who I am yet, but I’m not the same guy anymore. I’m not even the guy I was before the marriage. I’m somebody else.

I think after something like a marriage ends you have to redefine who you are. You have to figure out what’s gone and what’s left. That’s not to say that this totally destroyed me. That’s bullshit, but being a husband and the head of a household has been at the core of who I was for almost ten years. It's colored my decisions and my opinions. It has driven my direction.

Now, the road signs have been removed. I don't have any idea where I'm going.

Ring Cycle: The call to adventure

2011-09-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

Some notes about this new direction of the blog. It’s not really a new direction, but I will be avoiding writing about the future ex-Mrs. Lynch. She’s got her own thing to work through and really, this blog has really been mostly about me. No second guessing, no mudslinging and no cheap shots.

This will hopefully keep the lawyers away. Remember the lawyers? I remember the lawyers.

Also few details will be given about my marriage, what we’re discussing as far as the divorce, or our current domestic situation. This isn’t reality television, but it’s not a secret that we’re currently sharing the same house. You do that when you buy a house right before you split up, but it’s temporary.

The important take away is that so far we’re getting along very well as roommates. Space has a new importance, but the property isn’t divided up like in “War of the Roses.” Nobody is sleeping in the tool shed or their car. We still share the costs of running the place and take our turns with the kids while the other does their own thing. We parent both together and separately. I’m working more, but the move was expensive, winter is coming (God damn, where's Ned Stark when you need him?) and eventually I’ll be running a household on my own.

Arguably, I’d be working more anyway, but yes, the financial aspect of what I'm facing is pretty high up in my list of concerns: How the fuck am I going to pay for stuff?

So, really, not a lot has changed...except it really has.

While we're here, I want to head off this question: Since it sounds like we've achieved a degree of domestic tranquility and a functioning relationship, “Why bother with the divorce?”

The circumstance is what it is. The marriage has ended and while staying together for the sake of the kids, the sake of the house or the sake of Jesus sounds like the admirable thing to do, it really isn't so good for the sake of Bill and Jennifer --and it's not that great for the kids, plus the house is only a fucking house and really, Jesus wouldn't mind.

He never liked me anyway.

Finally, a warning: If I'm going to write about this, it's going to get unpleasant --maybe not plasma center unpleasant, but it's going to suck at points. It's going to be miserable and sad. That's what I'm about, but if I do this right, there will also be a couple of laughs. I'm about that, too.

The ring cycle

2011-09-01T04:34:00.000-07:00

The end of my marriage came suddenly and without an apparent warning. Two weeks after we’d moved into our new home, the home we’d fought for months to get, my wife and I stood looking at each other in our new kitchen, both apologizing.

It was over.

The timing could have been better.

The gross details of what happened and how it happened will be omitted, but in the weeks following, I read a lot of books. I always read a lot of books and one of the things that caught my attention was an explanation that most marriages end because the relationship erodes over time. Neither party means for it to happen. It’s quiet, like tooth decay, and only becomes apparent when the outer enamel cracks open. After that, you have agony and extraction is really your only recourse.

I can say there weren’t a lot of accusations. There wasn’t much of a struggle once the nature of the situation was revealed. All we had was grief and the hope that we could both work beyond the pain and move on.

And this is where I am. This is why the blog posts have come to a slow halt. It’s been an eventful summer. My birthday was okay. I got a new house. I lost my wife.

Over the years, I’ve followed blogs that have touched on relationships that have failed. Some of them got pretty scary. Others wallowed in their grief or accused or condemned. A few tried to put on a brave face, but you could smell the bitterness over the saccharin.

I don’t want to do any of that.

I am, however, starting over and working through a process in the only way that makes sense to me. I don’t know what anything means right now. There is a lot to work though. I have new things to figure out and yes, I’ve been through this before, but it’s different this time.

Cancer Man: Last one standing 2

2011-08-12T12:30:00.000-07:00

I could never seem to be on time for Rebecca. Living on the other side of the county, just getting her to her appointment only a little late was a real challenge. Every day, we had road construction, traffic delays and an endless string of red lights that gathered up, you could loop around and around a Christmas tree.

She was good about it. I apologized, explained and Rebecca just shrugged.

"It doesn't matter to me if I'm late," she said. "I've got nothing else to do today."

Of course, I did. I have two jobs, children, a new home, additional responsibilities and a crumbling personal life.

"You do too much," she told. "It's too much."

I nodded, but what of it? What was I supposed to not do?

There is no answer to that.

Every trip, whatever else we talked about (her daughter's drug use, that time the daughter got married out west for six months or that other time the same daughter was tricked into becoming a hooker out in Las Vegas), it always gravitated back toward religion. She took comfort in God. She had a personal relationship with Jesus.

I wouldn't say it was an entirely healthy relationship. Rebecca struggled. She'd raised a couple of kids and a couple of grandkids. Her first husband beat her. Her second husband tossed her out when she gave up her wild ways. She was lonesome. She prayed a lot. She turned to her Bible, to church and to the song and dance of television preachers.

Jesus, by the way, didn't write, didn't call and didn't send money.

This didn't upset her. It used to bug me, until I quit.

I did not mention my lack of faith and took a little bit of solace in her unflappable cheeriness. I looked forward to collecting her for her treatments and enjoyed our time together. It was good to listen to her tell me about growing up in a house with 14 children raised by one mother.

"We had biscuits and gravy every morning," she said. "We drank powdered milk and ate pinto beans every night."

The food was cheap. Anything else they got from their garden or from neighbors. Meat was a rare occurrence. A treat was a bologna sandwich with a dill pickle on the side and a glass of kool-aid.

Comparatively speaking, she had it made, living in a rented double-wide trailer. Beans and cornbread were comfort food, a touchstone to old memories of family, not a daily staple.

She told me about surviving, about getting over the loss of quitting one marriage and being discarded from another. She told me she'd managed to maintain a friendship with her second husband. They were good friends and spoke about every week on the phone. He was a good man, she said. He just wasn't who she needed to be with any more. They'd changed. He drank. She didn't. He wouldn't give it up and she wouldn't pick it back up.

She told me she really hadn't needed the marriage. She'd found purpose in her faith and as the mother to her daughter's children.

"You know, if I'd have thought about it," she said. "I guess I could have asked the lord to send me another man, but I don't guess I needed one. I've been all right without having a man around."

She wasn't bitter about it or resentful. There wasn't even a sense of regret.

I don't think it was always that way for her. I think it took time, but at the end of it, even facing cancer, she hadn't really needed a man around. She hadn't needed someone to be there to hold her, to listen to her or to love her. She'd found most of those things through her grandchildren and through her God.

Really, the only thing she'd needed that she might have gotten from a husband was someone to drive her to the hospital and sit with her for a little while. As that turned out, she hadn't even really needed that.

Cancer man: Long run 1

2011-07-22T08:02:00.000-07:00

Rebecca was downright cheerful; a little chatty (nerves), but cheerful on her first day of radiation therapy.

From the start, she apologized for needing help.

"I've got a car, but it's not reliable. It don't start sometimes and it quits." She sighed heavily. "I don't got no gas to get there anyway."

I liked her right off. She seemed honest and unpretentious.

Into her early 60s, Rebecca looked a few years younger than she was. How that would be possible is anybody's guess. Her life, like some of the others, was an how much battery a soul can take and still retain some degree of hope.

She talked a lot about her kids, her grand-kids.

"I raised them like my own," she said. "Their mother gave them to me when they were little and when she came back nine or ten years later, they didn't want to go."

Both kids were now in their late teens. The eldest, Rebecca's granddaughter, had just got her first job. Rebecca's grandson had another year to go before graduation. Both, she said, were looking toward the future. The girl was looking for an apartment of her own and was engaged to a man who'd been Rebecca's nurse during her surgeries months ago.

Her daughter came around to see them and to see her. There was love, but also a terrible burden.

"She's an exotic dancer," Rebecca told me, stressing the word 'exotic.' She said, "I know what that means. I'm not stupid."

The daughter is 37, has 26 tattoos (many of them the gift of an ex-husband who was a tattoo artist) and Rebecca says she's addicted to heroin.

"She shoots herself in her tattoos," Rebecca explained. "It makes it harder for people to see the marks."

Her daughter also had a drinking problem and a history of run-ins with the police.

"She drives a real nice car," Rebecca told me. "But she's got one of them breath-things. She has to blow into a tube to get the car to start."

The device is supposed to prevent repeat offenders from drinking and driving. Rebecca said her daughter has had four D.U.I.s.

It's a cool car, she said, a fine, luxury vehicle with custom paint and custom interior.

"I can't drive it," Rebecca added. "After I had my heart attack, I lost all my wind. I took it out once, got it to start at the house, but then couldn't do anything with it when I was at Walmart."

Her breath wouldn't register and the machine set off an alarm, summoning the police.

Rebecca doesn't drink, doesn't do drugs and hasn't smoked or had more than a cup of coffee in five or six years. She gave them all to Jesus and Jesus took them.

It's hard to say what she got in return.

On the way back, as we drove up a narrow road to her house, she told me, "I miss weed. I was always a pothead. If they ever made that legal, I'd get a joint the size of cigar and smoke that, but a sin is a sin."

I thought about arguing just a little about the laws of men and the laws of God, but it turned out I didn't really care one way or the other.

I told her I didn't smoke dope and didn't really drink much.

"There ain't enough time, is there?"

No, there isn't.

Thanking the Academy

2011-07-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

We shot a movie. It was silly. It was weird. It was simple. We used puppies to do a jailhouse movie that was long on cute and short on plot.

It was more about money than art. There is nothing wrong with getting paid and five hundred bucks could go a long way. Nobody was there for any other reason. The competition offered no prestige, only a prize.

My team had three. Two of us came for the show, sat in the dark and handicapped the competition. We stood up pretty well. We were clever, funny and very different. We had novelty and we were coherent. These counted in our favor and our actors were as good as anybody.

At the break, fetching drinks from the convenience store down the street and joking about picking up 40s of malt liquor, we broke down our chances.

I figured we'd take the bronze. He figured we might clear the silver.

We lost. Bigger than shit, we lost and it hit me hard. Sour grapes. I hate losing, but I tried to stick around for a few minutes. There were plenty of losers there. I tried to be one of the crowd for once instead of the guy watching.

Standing off to the side, another filmmaker came up to me with a cup of wine in his hand. "So, that was your opus? Puppies?"

Another just stared through me, oddly hostile.

These were people I knew. It was strange to be observed and held in contempt.

Once upon a time, a guitarist whose work I admire asked me why I didn't play anything. He thought I could, even thought I might be good --if I tried.

I told him I never wanted to give up being slightly in awe of what he did. I needed to keep some little bit of innocence. I love music because I love music, not because I understand the mechanics of how it's done. I appreciate they're there, but I like magic to be magic.

That afternoon, I was given another reason: There is no place for me here. I will never be welcome. I will always be suspect and I can never trust anyone who would ask me to join the club because they don't want me. They want what I can give them.

I am a resource, a utility and an outlet --not an artist. For the price of a little coverage, I am welcome to pretend, however, to be anything I want.

Otherwise, I should just take it outside.

Leaving the theater, a woman I'd spoken to about poetry once asked me, hopefully, "You had a good time, right?"

And I did. Right up until the end, when I remembered who I was.

Blues

2011-07-08T12:35:00.000-07:00

I'd never been to the regional jail. A couple of hundred times riding the bus up to the book store and plenty of people sitting next to me or across from me were on their way to the jail to visit or to spring a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a husband, a wife. Sometimes they brought along kids. Sometimes they were only a couple of steps from incarceration themselves.

I remember the guy who was going to see his wife. She was in on a parole violation because of a domestic violence charge. She hit him upside the head with a boot with a stiletto heel. It cut an ugly gash down his face. He sat in the back with a guy, he thought, was a guard or a worker at the jail and explained to him what had happened.

The guy he told his story to worked at Target and could not get away soon enough.

I remember the tattooed grandmother with her grandkids hanging off her talking on the phone and selling drugs by the pill: Three dollars a piece for something. Pain killers. Muscle relaxers. Whatever gets you high.

There were others on that bus ride, going just a couple of stops further than I was, and I'd never been until yesterday.

In the lobby, most everybody had the same bruised and weary look. Some were on the verge of tears. Others fidgeted nervously in their chairs. Nobody really smiled.

The people waiting in the lobby had come to see people in holding; friends, lovers and family awaiting trial or transport to other facilities probably less gracious. Here and there, you could see legitimate heartbreak: a young woman 8 months pregnant; a middle-aged father and mother with hands clasped as tightly as links in a anchor chain; too many small children.

A round woman in a dirty fast food uniform came in wearing a dirty and grease spattered apron. Her skin was like a glazed donut and she had browning tic-tacs for teeth. It was her first time and she didn't know how to operate the lockers.

"You put in a quarter and take the key," someone explained to her.

Visitors aren't allowed to bring in much beyond their identification in the visiting area. Everything else has to be held by someone not going inside or else kept in a small, steel locker.

She couldn't get the locker to work and lost her quarter. It was her first time here, she said. She seemed resigned to a fate that dictated this was not going to go well.

But a couple of kids and their mother helped her. They got the locker to work and gave her the money back.

It was a little thing.

They let someone go. His sentence was up. An order was in. Time served. Whatever. It hardly matters, but a man came out from the other side, wearing street clothes and looking not relieved, but exhausted, as if he'd been pulled from the wreckage of some awful accident: a truth, perhaps. The accident being his life. His family greeted him. They wrapped their arms around him and held him. Each took their turn and nobody rushed.

He was returned to them and they, to him. Everyone was given permission to breathe again.

Cancer Man: Last one standing?

2011-07-06T12:28:00.000-07:00

We joked that it had been a long time.

"I thought someone might have cured cancer and not told me," she said.

"I wish they'd get around to doing that," I told her and the coordinator for the cancer society agreed and said she hoped to live to see it happen.

"I've got someone who needs a ride," she said then paused. "But she's a little out of the way. She's young and lives with her Mom."

She would also need to be at the doctor at 8 a.m., which is awfully early after a late shift at the radio station. I started to balk. Maybe I could do Tuesday. Monday...

"She's got a six hour appointment on Monday, but only an hour on Tuesday."

Right, right, right... suck it up. They don't call if they don't need this. You know exactly what kind of people have to ask for this.

"Okay, I can do Monday and Tuesday."

The coordinator added, hesitantly, "She's got more treatments later in the month."

"I'll have to see, you know? See how it goes?"

The coordinator thanked me then lowered the boom.

"I appreciate you doing this. There are only two of you left."

No pressure.

Mr. Lynch buys his dream home -one

2011-07-05T14:34:00.001-07:00

Buying, owning and residing in a permanent home has never held much of an attraction to me. The idea of moving on has always appealed to me. I have no idea where I want to go, which is probably the chief reason why I don't really go anywhere. There is no clear vision of a place --not like there was when I first came to Charleston --and so I stay.

Looking at the house at the end of the driveway, I sort of shrugged, not particularly impressed. The yard was well-kept; clipped, trimmed and sculpted almost like a child's play set. It seemed incredibly clean, like a house that had only been taken out of the box and played with a couple of times before the owners decided it wasn't that much fun.

Inside, the earnest wood paneling and shag carpeting summoned up the ghosts of Greg, Marsha, Bobby, Cindy and that little bitchy girl who complained about always living in the shadow of her much smarter and significantly more attractive sister.

"What do you think?"

I liked the other place better, the one that was closer to the highway and closer to the noise, but I walked the rooms and studied the grounds. I saw nothing obviously wrong. The walls and roof appeared to be solid. The floor wasn't rotting. There were no chalk outlines, bloodstains or signs of diabolic infestation.

No, the rooms, while not expansive, were comfortable --and there were enough for everyone. No having to double up. No turning a bathroom, a kitchen or a closet into a place to lay your head. There was even space for me to write and space for my wife to write, paint or make sculpture from piles of human skulls, if she so chose and not that she would.

It even had a dishwasher, which everyone believes is the symbol of my emancipation.

There were a lot of windows and plenty of light. The views were of trees and hills, not the shuttered windows of next door neighbors.

My son would have room to run. He's a little boy who needs room to run, trees to climb and amphibians to endlessly torment. The houses in the neighborhood, also, were scattered. Fewer gawking eyes and listening ears: things you think about when your family is different in ways most people don't expect.

I hated that it was so far out of town --about fifteen miles, which is nothing --but it wasn't as far as my wife wanted to go.

"A real compromise," she said and that's what it was.

And it wouldn't be so bad. We'd each have a place for ourselves, space to scratch the earth and try to make something grow. There are fruit trees and it's quiet.

So, I said yes, and this is where our story begins.

Back

2011-06-27T08:28:00.001-07:00

Okay... maybe I like this blog too much to give it up.

Sigh... well, let's just call the past two weeks a vacation. Since FestivALL's over, I have lots to talk about now.

More to follow.

Eat your head

2011-06-14T14:08:00.001-07:00

There comes a point when it becomes time to do new things --and this blog is an old thing. It's a wonderfully clunky, anachronistic hodgepodge of my observations, artistic muddlings, noonday confessions and general everything except math homework --but it's sort of reached an impasse.

Probably, because it has been everything, it's become sort of nothing and while I love this thing, it's time for me to put it down for a while.

This does not mean I'm quitting blogging. I am not pulling a Hippie Killer and gently going into that good night. I'm just focusing my activities in two other places. Think of it as the various members of the band going solo.

The Gazz blog I'm running, which seems to be getting some traffic, will be where I do some of the stuff I used to do about my job with music. The boss seems to be okay with me going off the reservation a bit. I can say I don't like something. I can disagree, which wasn't always the case --see Gazz blogs circa 2004.

Anyway, that's going to be the lightweight stuff --the family friendly stuff --the silly and fun stuff.

The other place... well, that's a different journey. I'll be a different guy.

I'll start in a few days. Maybe you'll find me.

Meanwhile, I'll keep the door here unlocked. I might come back one day. So, stay out of the liquor cabinet. The good stuff's in the closet anyway.

Thanks for reading. It meant something to me.

Gym class heroes

2011-06-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

Over in their little corner of the gym, the muscle-heads were chuckling it up --discussing loudly, their deep admiration for internet porn. Old women in hot pink spandex, wearing jewelry and old men with black socks, not wanting to look embarrassed, scooted quietly over to the back row near the windows or across the room to the clunking, grinding noise of the treadmills.

If the men, all of them giants, noticed they were making a few geezers uncomfortable, they didn't let on.

"I like the women to look normal," one of them said. "You know, I've got plenty of moles on my body. I don't want them to look too perfect, you know?"

Not everybody agreed. They liked what they liked. In a wild, excited cacophony, the men rattled off names of places they went, each representing a different flavor of masturbation --none of them were familiar to me, which seemed kind of funny. While it's not one of my all-consuming passions, I can honestly say I've looked at some porn. I've had roommates who were huge into it --one of them, once he got into a serious relationship that included frequent and vigorous sex, decided to divest himself of most of his collection.

There wasn't much of a discussion. He figured he didn't need it. I'm not sure how that worked out in the long run, but from his room he brought out a bulging leaf bag full of DVDs and video tapes.

I remember he only kept the stuff that was signed by someone --a vaguely Asian porn starlet he went to high school with. He also had an action figure, I think, a 12 inch, doll on some kind of stand. He kept it on a shelf next to his collection of Star Wars action figures.

He offered to let me have whatever I wanted of the stuff, but sheesh... it was a lot of porn. I passed and the guy who took it, kept it for a single weekend of relentless self-abuse before he gave it to Goodwill or his church or something.

But anyway, I know porn. I just didn't know nearly as much as these guys.

The sites they visited were practically boutiques, offering only specific images to them. They also cost money and not everybody liked to pay for the opportunity to jerk off to porn clips or pictures of dwarfs doing housework while wearing flippers or whatever.

"I'm a big fan of redtube," the one guy, the loudest guy said. "I like anything for free."

The weirdest things happen when you bring your kid to the gym.

word search

2011-06-03T07:29:00.001-07:00

I got the e-mail this morning. He said he found me through google --some sort of alert. His business is business communications and marketing --an Ad man --and he was from Bluefield.

I should mention that I used to work in advertising. I was a copywriter and creative director for a nine station radio company. The company is in Bluefield. I worked there for four years, went to school just down the road and grew up about 40 minutes from the place. It was my neighborhood.

I looked him up. It seemed only fair. We couldn't pass as brothers by any length of the imagination. He's probably 20 to 25 years older than me, but well-scrubbed, successful --a millionaire according to his biography --with a staff working for him to help conquer the world.

Really sort of amazing.

He told me he got these alerts because of my byline, which pops up from time to time. He said he liked what he read and asked if I thought we might be related, but no, we're not related. At least, it seems pretty unlikely. My dad is from Arkansas. I was born in Michigan. We moved around some before settling in Virginia.

Parts of my family tree have been submerged. The roots are obscure and secrets have not been revealed, but instead, have been held tight for generations. A few years ago, I found out I had a cousin who'd been given up for adoption almost a decade before I was born. Before that, I was told that my grandfather might not have been my father's Dad --not that it matters, but there's probably other things lurking in closet behind those moth-eaten winter coats.

I thanked him for reaching out, told him it was nice that someone with the same name was doing so well. It was a fascinating, though probably not entirely rare occurrence. These days, it's very easy to discover dopplegangers and namesakes through the web. It's just as easy to reach out to them.

But I'm the kind of guy who believes more in signs and symbols than random coincidences. I'm just crazy enough to think the universe is constantly playing some ridiculous game of charades with everybody all the time --and this feels like some kind of clue: a man from my neck of the woods with my name --which common enough elsewhere was always rare back in the day -- working in a field I came from, making contact.

Why? I'm stumped. Pat can I buy a vowel?

Maybe I could have been that guy one of these days --if I'd stayed with advertising. I was good at it --diabolically good at it. Maybe I could have been that guy if I'd made a couple of right turns instead of gone left or the other way around.

And I have frequently mentioned that I get mistaken for other people on a fairly regular basis. I always look, sound or remind people of someone else. There's always a cousin, a brother, an uncle or an old friend of a girl someone used to date. It's endless and only a handful of people in my life, outside of blood relations, have ever said different.

I'm mostly at peace with this. There are only so many possibilities out there and while we may all be unique snowflakes, some of us are going to tend to look the same --and besides, it's mostly worked to my advantage. I blend in when I need to and can seem oddly familiar when such a thing is more helpful.

I don't know. It's cool, but it's also pretty fucking weird.

Cancer Man: Random

2011-05-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

"Oh, sorry," she said. "I was talking to myself.

I turned and smiled. "I didn't hear a thing."

And this is true. I'd just come out of the bathroom and was thinking about how little I enjoy where I sleep, though I do get better sleep these days and how much I hate washing the dishes, how much time is spent cleaning the plates other people eat off of.

A lot of thoughts... none of them concerning whatever was going on inside of the mind of the threadbare, overly perfumed middle-aged woman in the hallway.

"Mister, can I talk to you?"

And sure, she could. In fact, uttering those words is the easiest way to get me to listen to whatever you have to say.

In the span of a couple of minutes, she explained the reason for her black eye --a fight with an apparently occasional boyfriend she'd known since she was a kid --and her desire to donate her hair to a charity supporting women who have breast cancer.

"I don't have any money," she said.

"You need money to donate hair?"

"I need money for the haircut."

And that thought never occurred to me.

Her mother, she told me survived breast cancer and now her sister was fighting it, but because of the fight with the guy, she'd been off of work for a while. There was no money to pay for the haircut.

So, I told her I'd help --not today, not right now, but she wasn't looking for a hand-out precisely --well, maybe she was. I gave her my card and told her to call me Tuesday. I'll have cash then.

Say cheese

2011-05-26T09:01:00.001-07:00

Today is all about beginnings. I went ahead and threw my hat in the ring for the film challenge thing. More than a couple of people have pushed me forward to give it a shot --what the hell, right? I'm also meeting with someone to talk about the poetry slam idea --just to see what kind of resources I might have at my disposal to make this happen. I sent off the check that should help us finally get to the next phase of purchasing a house --that's a funny thing in and of itself. I'm not doing this for me, but I am doing it.

There is the idea that the things you should do should be effortless if they're right. The path tends to open up become easier when you're where you should be, not because it's well-traveled, but because it's the path that fits your stride.

The great discussion in the back of my head is always whether there is such a thing as free-will or are we all just following a piece of track we have no hope of escaping. Honestly, I can't tell any more. Some days, the things I want seem so far away --are so far away. Yet, often, I am offered reasonable alternatives that are pleasant enough.

So, I will do what I can, I suppose. I will own a house with a yard. I will make a movie that only a handful of people will see, but will be a cute diversion for some, and I will try to start a poetry slam that will help somebody find their voice. These are all noble things, I think, honorable things.

Maybe I can have what I want later.

Me vs the china shop

2011-05-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

The interview was going fine. It was barely an interview, really --more like teasing out a couple of quotes for a story about the 72 Hour Film Challenge.

The event is new and maybe hasn't received a lot of attention outside of a fairly tight circle, but it seemed like something different, something unusual --and Uncle Bill supports the odd. It's almost a religion.

At the end of the conversation, the guy told me, "You should enter."

"I don't know anything about that stuff." A bald lie. I do know a very little about film --more about editing and some about writing for film or television.

"You could do this. You're a creative guy."

"I don't have time."

He reminded me it was 500 bucks for first prize then a couple of people I worked with suggested how it might be done. I know how it could be done... so, maybe. Uncle Bill makes a movie? It has potential.

Meanwhile, I'm supposed to meet with someone from the Arts Council about setting up a poetry slam. It's something I've been batting around for a while. I've been reading a lot of poetry and writing some. Poetry is spoken word. It needs a live audience and I figured with as many writers there are in this town, maybe such a thing might draw them out.

Others have pointed out that this has been tried periodically and it's often failed. I'm okay with failure. It's in the trying that things eventually are born, I guess --and the way I see it, I'm sort of a poster child for what is possible, if you're a writer who tries.

If I can do it, if I can stand up there and read off one of my ugly literary mutants, anybody can do it.

This is the kind of thing where being good isn't required. You just have to not care if you fail.

Vader

2011-05-23T11:37:00.000-07:00

I got my kid into soccer for what I thought were all the right reasons. I thought he'd learn something. He could meet other kids and do something he doesn't get the chance to do living where we live: play outside.

We live on the side of a hill that you practically have to rappel down just to cut the grass.

Of course, he's five and over the course of this waterlogged season, I've watched him lie down on the field and roll around like a dog during practice. He's stomped dandelions in fear of bees during games and has approached the game of soccer with the sort of disinterest usually reserved for leafy, green vegetables.

Saturday was his last game. He had his uniform on, but, really, all he wanted was to go outside and poke a stick in a mud hole for a couple of hours.

So, I let him.

It was hard. Playing soccer meant a lot to me when I was a kid. I made friends playing soccer. I also grew aware that despite my fractured self-esteem and weak self image, I was stronger than I thought, faster than I believed and while never a finesse player, I discovered there was room on the field for a hard-headed thug who took some pleasure in reducing the aspirations of college scholarships for the opposing team.

Soccer helped me get in touch with my dark side and gave me a decent outlet for some of my teenage angst and rage. It gave me a certain amount of confidence and taught me that pain could be endured for the right reasons.

But... my kid isn't me. He's also five and not twelve and trying to define his masculinity by playing a sport more brutal than swimming. He has plenty of friends and kids who already think he's great and look forward to seeing him every chance they get.

This was just another lesson in that education.

So, I let him off the hook, which wasn't easy, and let him go outside to drag his action figures through a muddy ditch and pretend they're fighting evil. He's too young for real demons and when they come, if they come, he'll find his own ways of confronting them. With a little luck, the things he discovers, the things he develops a passion for, will bring him joy instead of only release.

Gym notes

2011-05-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

In the years since I started going to the gym I've avoided the treadmills. I've reviled them as only half a workout, mocked them as being the lazy man's (or more likely, lazy woman's) half-assed way to fitness. To me, it seems there are more effective, efficient and energetic machines in the gym and I've chosen them over and over.

They're better on your knees besides, which truthfully, my knees give me some trouble these days. The arc trainer and the elliptical machines don't stress the joints as much, but you can only go so far doing the same thing over and over. It's a truth, even if what you're doing is the right thing, your returns eventually diminish. Life is the gym. Change is necessary for growth and doing the thing you don't want to do is almost always the thing you must do.

I didn't want to get on the fucking treadmill.

I didn't want to run.

I was afraid of it --the pace, the pummeling my joints would take. I've slimmed down a bit, but I've also muscled up. My weight is the same as it was six months ago, maybe what it was a year ago, but now I can bench press a lot more. I'm back to my college weight plus five pounds, but I wear it differently.

I plugged the information into the machine and started off at a flat run. Two minutes later, the run was reduced to a brisk walk calculated to be a couple of paces faster than the 65 year-old grandmother marching next to me in her overly tight battleship gray.

There was shame --only two minutes. I could only hack two minutes before my knees started begging for me to stop. I walked and consoled myself. Hey, you're 40. Hey, you're heart and lungs are fine, but you know, you've got to be lighter to do this --then I looked over at the 350 pound amateur sumo wrestler sprinting on his treadmill down the line.

I punched the speed upward, went from a walk to a jog from a jog to a run.

Just another two minutes, I thought. Two more minutes and that would be a start.

Funny thing. Two minutes turned to three then to four then to eight. The pain in my knees vanished. My breathing was fine. I could do it.

Elation. I wasn't a cripple. I wasn't an old man. I could still run. Grinning like an idiot I kept at it until the muscles in my legs burned, until I felt it in my hips and knew it was time to let it go.

I could do this.

Ohm

2011-05-18T13:48:00.000-07:00

I am a survivor of many self-help programs and have a tendency to pick up books on the subject when I'm on the edge of something.

Once upon a time, I was in a relationship that over time had grown toxic. I would talk to her about how toxic it had become. I used words like co-dependency and emotional abuse and she would nod and sort of agree that I was right, but then nothing changed. Nothing got better. So, I started bringing home books from the library. When talking fails, I read.

I brought home books on dealing with your own inadequacies and the inadequacies of your partner. I read "I'm OK, You're OK." I read "Zen and the art of Motorcycle Maintenance" and "The Five Love Languages." There were many others. It went on for months.

The last book I read in that particular cycle was "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus." The book basically states that men and women have two different relationship languages --and it's in failing to try to understand what it is the other is saying is a major reason why relationships fall apart.

I remember that book pretty well. Two weeks after I read it for the second time, I quit. There is no question in my mind that the book influenced my decision.

Since then, I monitor what I bring home from the library. I don't really go in with a plan. I'm just a kid in a candy store. Oh sure, from time to time I might be in the mood for a particular flavor, but for the most part I just grab what grabs me. I'm reading a lot of poetry now, books on travel and self-help --lots of self-help.

I've been listening to audio books by Deepak Chopra and another called "The Secret." I've begun to feel like it's not enough for me to be the change I wish to see in the world. I want the world I live in to be a better place for me to be.

I wish it was all the same, but it's not.

Interviews with semi-naked men

2011-05-17T10:42:00.000-07:00

"Are you the guy who plays music?"

It seemed an odd question to be asked while sitting in the humid, foggy bank of a steam room.

"No," I said. "I don't play music. I did in high school, but I wasn't very good. The right thing to do was to stop, I think."

The guy nodded and fiddled with his swim trunks.

"You look like another guy I used to talk to," he said --a familiar line-- "He's like you." He pumped his arms to signify that he thought I was a little buff --an unfamiliar line -- "He had a beard --looked just like you."

The steam machine roared and for a moment drowned out any point in trying to talk, which wasn't my idea in the first place, but I don't know how to shut up.

"No, not me," I said. "I do write about music, though. I work for the paper."

He got my paper on the first try.

"Boy, that must be interesting."

I shrugged. It has its moments.

"I used to play music," he told me. "I got a fender stratocaster and took some lessons --had a whole bunch of a equipment and thought it would really be a rush to play in a band." He frowned and again, fiddled with his short. "But everybody wanted to get drunk or high before or after we played." He shook his head and smiled. "I'm not 21 anymore."

Then he told me, in big brush terms, what it had been like for him to be 21. It sounded familiar --drinking too much, smoking dope and chasing girls.

"I didn't really care for pot, but the girls really loved the weed."

Maybe that had been my problem, I thought, but no, my problem had mostly been I didn't know how to relate past fairly superficial levels with women. I could talk to them, drink with them, but man... I had no idea about how to ask them to come home with me. That always seemed accidental when it happened, which was rarely.

He talked more about drugs: Cocaine, heroin, crack --things he'd never tried, never seen and only understood because of cop shows. Things I'd never tried because nobody thought to offer them to me or because they rightly figured I had enough of whatever I was doing at that particular time.

I listened for a while, eventually grew bored and wondered if this was leading up to either some sort of proposition or a witness. I wasn't really interested in hearing either. Besides, I had to get to work.

"I've got to go," I said.

He followed me as far as the showers then peeled off after he said that he thought it was very sad when people overdosed on drugs.

Dimes and nickels

2011-05-16T09:03:00.000-07:00

He scurried across the parking lot and around the building; right after the woman on the previous shift bolted for home and left me to stand watch over the gadgets and geegaws that make radio magic.

He had a half-empty cigarette pack in his hand and I thought, "This is it." I grabbed a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and went out after him.

He looked up from the ash container as I came around the corner, smiled harmlessly as I lit a cigarette and tried not to inhale.

"Just getting the spares," he mumbled then pushed two half-smoked butts into his flimsy, little paper box.

I nodded. I wasn't stopping him.

Up close, he seemed taller and poorly fed --a scarecrow stretched too far on too little straw.

"Hey," I said, as he walked away. "I'm not hassling you, but I see you over across the street most nights when I leave. I guess that makes us neighbors here. My name is Bill. What's your name?"

He smiled an ancient and ruined smile with teeth like collapsed pillars then said, "Elsa."

"Eldon?" I asked.

"Elsa," he repeated then slunk away, across the street and under the poor shelter he'd chosen.

I watched him go then went to the urn and dropped two cigarettes, unburned into the can --for later --a kind of neighborly gesture maybe.

Inside, I looked up the name Elsa. It's a girl's name, a derivation of Elizabeth.

A, B and C

2011-05-13T12:06:00.000-07:00

It's probably speaks to the kind of person I am, but it's easier for me to remember my worst pains rather than what has really given me the greatest joy. I can cheat and say, "Well, my kids being born. That was my highest point, my happiest moment," but that's not true.

The thing I remember about my children being born was being frightened --of knowing the worst, waiting for the karmic lottery numbers to be pulled and hoping that it would all work out for the best. I also remember being hungry and tired. I also remember having to go to work, resenting the need and feeling ashamed.

Agony is easier. Wounds leave scars. What does joy leave?

The worst was when I was probably three or four. It was an ear infection and it felt like the left side of my head was going to split in half. The sound of infection is white noise, like the off channel on an analog television, like a steady rain pounding on a wooden roof.

The broken arm I got at 15 is a close second. I broke both bones at the wrist, but scarcely felt the wincing snap that everyone around me heard. No, I remember the horror and the jolt when the doctor set it before the pain medication had even started. It traveled along every highway and nerve path in my body.

I still dream about the pain and some nights I jerk awake just before the scream.

I remember my broken hearts, too, but have a harder time remembering what each love affair was --except for need. I remember the desperate need, the craving, the longing. I don't remember the joy so much. It's a struggle to remember the exhilaration, the novelty, the features that made each and every time special. It's easier to remember after; the grief, the sadness, the impenetrable gloom, the despair and the inability to even breath.

I've been trying lately to see beyond that.

My happiest moment was a single day seven years ago that was perfect. Somehow, it was also my birthday, which made it the more special because it was unlikely. Other moments were the five seconds in a pickup truck with the rain pouring down when a woman told me she loved me or waking up in a borrowed bed long, long ago and receiving something completely unexpected at the very beginning of a relationship. There was also a little boy telling me he was my best friend and always would be --twice in the span of ten years --the same words spoken, but by different little boys.

Oddly enough, my happiest moments are things that can not be repeated, which in some ways makes them as painful as the broken arm, the rotting ear, the woman's husband telling me they'd decided to work things out in spite of it all and to never call again.

Power to the people

2011-05-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

Outside of 31 Flavors the lights on the dash flickered then faded out, while the angry red battery symbol came to life. I know where the red battery symbol is --it's right across from the "fucking feed me you cheap bastard" symbol, which appears with some regularity in my little, much maligned and scarcely loved Dodge Neon.

The Neon and I have an uneasy alliance these days. We both know it needs significant repairs --new brakes, rotors, tires, a couple of belts and something called a harmonic stabilizer, which the even mechanics think is too pricey at $350 --not that they won't take the money. The have to make a living, you know? Anyway, I have promised some of these things --along with an oil change, which do to the design of the vehicle must be done by a professional --but I've been a little slow in fulfilling my obligations.

The car failing to start seemed to be a message --particularly since I was in possession of an ice cream cake.

But I had jumper cables and right away --after I popped the hood --a guy traveling with his family in a big SUV left the store and offered to help then abruptly he began yelling toward the store and his wife on the other side of the glass wall.

"Get me a strawberry sundae. A strawberry sundae. Strawberry. A sundae. I want a strawberry sundae." He pounded on the incredibly durable and transparent material then mimed what he believed was the international symbol for strawberry sundae.

Fuck if I know if he got it right, but I'm sure he had his doubts.

Still, he'd come to help. He popped the hood of his vehicle. He wasn't sure which side the battery was on. After some consideration, he decided he should move his SUV to the parking space on the other side of my car, which might have been helpful, if we could have located his battery.

We never did.

"Sorry, man," he told me then offered to get some tools out of his trunk which could be used to test my battery to see if it was dead.

I thanked him then he offered to move his vehicle, if I needed him to, eventually, if someone else wanted to help me jump the battery.

"Sure," I said. "Yeah, whoever would need to be on this side, I think."

Of course, he didn't mean right now, but later, like tomorrow. So off he went in a rush to talk to his wife about that strawberry sundae he wanted her to order.

A few minutes later, standing there with the cables, looking like a great big boob, an old guy pulled up in particularly handsome later model pickup truck that, quite frankly, looked a little too good for a truck older than my youngest sister.

"Need a jump?" He asked.

The answer seemed obvious to me, but I looked toward the guy with the SUV. He watched us through the window, spooning strawberry sauce into his mouth. I motioned toward his vehicle. He nodded and took another bite.

He had a long way to go still.

We decided to go on without him. The old guy didn't really mind and with skill that I would call fairly impressive for a guy who probably fought the Nazis, he managed to deftly navigate this very large truck into an obscure position where the line from one battery to the next would reach --if just barely.

The Dodge started on the first try. I thanked the old guy and his wife handed him a waffle cone. I let the car idle for a couple of minutes, just to be on the safe side, then the man with the SUV left the restaurant with his family. It looked like a little strawberry had gotten on his shirt.

He waved as he left.

Housekeeping

2011-05-10T07:13:00.000-07:00

It was a funny weekend. My passport arrived and along with it the possibility of becoming a flight risk. Next, I need a destination and the means to get there. Russia, Asia, Europe and even South Africa sound kind of cool. I'd even be tempted to see Egypt. I'd love to visit South America, but I don't know --too many stories of Americans getting dragged off into the mountains by kidnappers--of course, that might not be so bad.

The other thing is the guy sleeping across the street from the radio station moved on. I don't know if the cops rousted him, the building owner got tired of seeing him there or if he just found a better place to sleep. With a little luck, he's simply got a better place to go than an entryway of an old building.

As part of the blog, I'm bringing back my half-assed book reports. I still read tons. Currently, I'm working on a couple of books by Noam Chomsky, some poetry anthologies and another attempt at Wallace's "Infinite Jest." I found it tedious and disjointed last time and quit after about 30 pages, but so far, so good.

Staying away from Facebook has been good for my soul. It just became too lonesome.

Wandering stars

2011-05-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

Two preachers were talking between sets; shoulder workouts using the cable machine; both of them lathered in sweat, but smiling broadly --a good natured pair if ever I saw one. They were black, but it's only mentioned here because it has to be.

I have a habit of listening in. I enjoy their political discussions, which falls short of being an apologist for the Obama administration. They want to like the man. The want to love him. They want him to be their John F. Kennedy, their Ronald Reagan, but can't quite find themselves on the same side of the fence. It's a struggle and I enjoy listening to them work through each issue. They're both thoughtful, passionate men and I believe in their faith much more than I ever believe in my own.

Today, I caught a discussion, during one minute rests between reps, about differences in poverty. The poor they knew, the poor they understood were their people in their congregation. A few were shiftless assholes living on the state. Others had chemical problems, criminal backgrounds and mental problems, but most were struggling to stand on their own. They might collect a check or take a little charity, but they were trying to find their way. They were working to raise children and make a life for themselves they could respect.

To them, it seemed like most of the poor they knew were poor by circumstances. They came from little means to begin with and moving upward was difficult. Gravity was against them --but they were trying. One of them had met a man who'd been on the road, holding a sign saying he was homeless, unemployed, hungry, whatever.

"He dressed up in hobo clothes and went out every day," one said to the other. "He didn't have to do that and so I asked him, why?"

The man told him he could make eighty to a hundred dollars a day, tax-free standing out with a sign. He didn't even have to be out all day most of the time.

"You can't blame him," the other preacher said. "That's good money. I hear out west, in California, a lot of young people do that --they go out and panhandle."

The word sounded alien in his mouth. He wasn't used to using it.

"They do that instead of work --kids, you know?"

He meant white kids. Neither of them understood why able-bodied people with what to them seemed like opportunities people in their community might not have would choose to do something so distasteful.

And me, standing there, remembered the words of Milton. "Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven," but also I thought the bottom is deep. Once you make up your mind to fall, you don't get to decide how far.

Hold the Mayo

2011-05-06T08:55:00.000-07:00

At the Mexican restaurant, the thing I noticed right off were the paintings --sort of fantasy pictures of the imaginary old Mexico. Happy peasants worked the fields while someone looking vaguely like the Cisco Kid waved from his horses.

The colors were bright. Everyone smiled and the nipples of the women were working their way through their simple cotton shirts like old nails through cheap ply board.

What the hell?

What amazed and amused me is while I could clearly make out the shape of nipples on the women, the half-naked boy, playing near a stream in the background didn't have nipples. None. The artist had evidently determined that, for the sake of art, the boy did not require them --even if anatomically, he'd be a freak not to have them. Likewise, the guy on the horse, appeared to be wearing a shirt of the same kind of material, that was easily as sheer, but were his nipples poking through?

No, they were not.

I did not check the horse.

So looking at the pictures, I asked a waitress, "Do you know who painted these?"

She looked at me like I was insane then shrugged. The fuck if she knew and why did I care?

I'd have asked the waitress her opinion of nipples, but figured the dark-eyed cook with the carnival prize West Coast Choppers hat in the back would have dredged me in flour and dropped me headfirst in the fryer.

So, I went back and finished my beer and hoped someone would bring more chips.

They never did.

Deer, Antelope, etc...

2011-05-05T09:15:00.000-07:00

We've been looking at houses.

As it happens, I'm not entirely unhappy with where we live. We have too much shit --a never ending stream of objects of limited function and aesthetic value enter the house regularly where they lie in piles, rot and gather dust. Occasionally, they wind up in boxes where they continue to rest in peace, barely remembered and seldom used.

Of course, paying rent in and of itself sucks. It's consumerist truism: You never get rich renting as long as you're giving your money to somebody else. Over the last four and a half years, we've given our landlord something like $30,000 dollars --slightly more than what we've paid for daycare. So, I don't object to not giving the landlord any more money. It's good business sense and my wife talks about wanting peace, about wanting a place of her own, about needing that kind of ownership.

Mostly, she means living outside of the city, with few people around --the country. It speaks to her happier times, to her childhood, to her dreams even. I respect her needs. I understand them and I support them.

For me, it's different. When I've dreamed about becoming a "gentleman farmer," a guy who raises tomatoes and probably has a small still somewhere, it's like how other people dream of having a yacht. It's where I live after I'm a bestselling author and think I need seclusion.

Currently, I am not a bestselling author and being able to walk to a store or to work if my car breaks down weighs heavily on my mind --particularly given my sad automotive history. I pick piece of shit economy cars because I like small vehicles and hate paying for gas. Piece of shit economy cars tend to save me money on fuel, but fall apart because they're made of tinker toys.

For me, living off the grid is only attractive if the grid comes crashing down and barbarism is reinstated as an alternative to the First Baptist convention.

Anyway...

As I see it, the "things" you own end up owning you. My father told me that. I am sure he got that from a movie, but I understand what he meant and I've seen it.

You spend money to buy the car you want to get you to work then you spend money to keep it on the road so it can get you to work so you can keep it on the road. This is endless. The only way to break that particular circuit is to walk.

You spend money on property because if you do the government says it belongs to you. You fill it with furniture, books and appliances. You work and you work and you work some more just to maintain it, to keep it from falling in and at the end of it, you or your heirs end up having to sell it.

Part of this is my middle-aged complaint about being tied down and the craving to move along to the next thing, the next phase and finding that there might not be another step to take on this particular journey. I am a nomad who has never gone anywhere, a would-be explorer who didn't get picked for the trip or who didn't complete the necessary paperwork. I am a landlocked mariner with a raccoon tied around my neck. I am utterly ridiculous and I know it.

So, we're looking at houses. I think we've probably found one.

Kicking

2011-05-04T13:46:00.000-07:00

Adjustments are ongoing. Today, I threw a post for my Gazette blog to Facebook and responded to a comment on that post, but I managed to stay away otherwise. No attempts at being clever or weird or deep. No thinly-veiled pleas for help. No useless and pointless profile searches, looking for a conversation.

It's not as easy as it sounds. I'd gotten into a habit.

It's weird. Over the past year or so, I've gotten used to having a dozen or more e-mails each day from lots of people, following comments back and forth and now... there are none. It's eerie, but I remember back when I didn't have e-mail or back when I only had a work address --and in some ways that's what I'm trying to do: step back toward.

Less = more.

I will not speak ill of the people who've "friended" me or the people I reached out to through Facebook. I really had the best of intentions. I thought that this would be the mechanism that would put me back in touch with every person I ever missed --and there are a lot --the waitresses I worked with when I was 17 and 18, the guys I hung out with in high school and college, the family I've neglected year after year or avoided because of the turns my life have taken... lots of people.

But what I really wanted, an actual connection, and what the service could provide, a shadow of relation, turned out to be different.

The Facebook thing, I think, is a symptom of a larger change going on with me. Self-improvement begins with caring about the self --and I really haven't. I've mired myself in obligations, responsibilities and a long list of reasonable exceptions to the basic rule --you've got to take care of yourself.

So, I'm taking care of me. That's what this is about. I deserve better than to be haunted by electronic ghosts and I deserve better than to be one.

Here, now.

2011-05-03T12:17:00.000-07:00

I tend to pay attention to the people in the building on the other side of the parking lot at Public Broadcasting, where I work at on the weekends. In the past, the place has had a number of interesting residents --the dude who kept the curtains open, never left his apartment and watched classic television shows in his underwear; the ex-con truck driver who let the hooker into his heart and into his life; the middle-aged lesbians who stood by the window and felt each other up; the probably younger lesbians who tossed a planter and maybe a television onto the hood of my piece of shit car.

I love that place.

But lately, I've been noticing a guy sleeping next to the building across the street, over next to the bakery. I see him around town, collecting cigarette butts to smoke whatever is left, but quietly apart from the rest of Charleston's ever-growing homeless population.

I've been meaning to talk to him, see why he's staying away from the shelters. The neighborhood is getting worse. You get the feeling that people are a lot more desperate. Muggings are more noticeable. Goblinfolk are lurking in the shadows and when midnight rolls around, you tend to wonder who is lurking in the parking lot.

Anyway, I'm worrying about the guy --think global, act local, I guess. Somebody needs to watch after him. Since no one else appears to be around, I guess it should be me.

So, that's my plan for the weekend: talk to the guy. See what I can do.

Digital Kiss Off

2011-05-02T11:14:00.001-07:00

It's not a big thing, but I'm going to be stepping away from Facebook --or as much as I can. I blog for the man now --my fault, my idea and it was a good idea --and I kind of need Facebook as a platform to chuck random bits of information out to the masses (since the man is not really all that interested in promoting my blog).

However, I don't need the updates. I don't need me trying to come up with haiku lines about the latest ache of my withering soul. I don't need to get drawn into discussions that are mostly about me being bored, not actually me interested in the topic. I don't need going through pictures or wandering from page to page looking for answers to questions I don't know how to ask.

Anyway, it's a very shallow platform of expression and like every other overly-refined product (granulated sugar, corn syrup, heroin), it's addictive and damaging --or at least it is for me. Facebook eats up my time, breaks my heart and makes me feel like every worst thing I've ever been. It devours my dignity and trivializes my loneliness, my fears and my successes.

So, I'll be staying away as much as I can --quitting it in as many steps as it takes.

Meanwhile, there's this blog I've been neglecting. Here is where I make my stand, I guess. I'll try not to fuck it up.

Headlong

2011-04-19T11:23:00.001-07:00

The passport office was locked up tight and vacant when I walked in. The sign on the door said they were open until four and I'd called earlier in the day to make sure I had everything I needed to get a passport.

I stood there, documents in my hand and wondered where the clerk was.

"We can't tell you how long the line will be," the woman on the phone said. "But it usually only takes about ten to fifteen minutes once we get you in the office."

That sounded good to me, even though the money --about a hundred and fifty dollars -- sounded like a lot to put down. It was scary. In my head, I could number off half a dozen things where I could probably spend the money --bills to catch up, credit cards to pay down, money to save up for future car repairs and unexpected setbacks --but this was for me. It was a lottery ticket for a dream.

Nobody moved toward the office until a hot mama in a tight blouse with too few buttons stepped toward the office, dragging a shy, nervous boy with her. At that point, the guy supposed to be overseeing the passport office came around at something just shy of a trot.

He unlocked the door and ushered the two of them in while I added, "Hey, I'm here for a passport, too."

He looked at me like he could care less --but I didn't mind. He was where he needed to be and I was where I needed to be.

As I slouched there on the bench, wondering if this was the right thing to do, if this was the right time to get a passport, a jovial man sat down next to me. He told me he was just here to update his photo.

"This is my first passport," I told him.

He smiled and asked me where I was going.

"I don't know yet," I said. "I don't have any plans. I just want to see something, you know?"

He nodded and told me he'd been to a lot of places. He did a lot of mission work and went to Africa a couple of times a year. He named countries I'd never heard of and spoke of incredible French cuisine and witchcraft.

"Real witches," he said and shook his head. "It ain't like it is over here. They got witches who sacrifice women and children. Around election time, people lock up their wives and kids --otherwise, they can lose them."

He was deadly serious, then smiled and told me, "You should go to India. The people there are just so kind, so hospitable. They'd like you."

I thought, I'd like them, too. What's not to like about ashrams, the Ganges river and the Kama Sutra? I love curry.

Eventually, the woman and her son left the office and I began the tiresome process of handing over documents, which I hoped would be sufficient, and waiting to see if this was going to work.

It seemed to go okay. He took my money and my picture.

While I was waiting for him to go over the paperwork, I said to the guy, "This is probably a dumb question, but do you have a passport?"

He groaned and sagged in his chair.

"No," he said. "I don't and I should." He shook his head. "I'd love to take my wife somewhere, but we both need them to go, you know, to the Bahamas or something." The clerk signed. "You'd think I might get a discount doing this..."

But apparently not.

Finally, everything was done and I was told I should get my passport in about a month.

On my way out, I wished the missionary on the bench a safe journey.

"Good luck to you, too," he said.

I hope so.

Sargosso 2

2011-04-08T15:13:00.000-07:00

The paperwork arrived the other day for me to sign up to become a hospice volunteer. There was more to it than I expected. I figured all that was needed was a desire to do the job.

Apparently, not.

Reasonably, not. Shuffling off the mortal coil leaves you vulnerable. The news is full of stories about people who take advantage of the dying: thieves, rapists, con artists.

And to be honest, the soon to be deceased aren't always in a good place to make decisions. A few of the people I've given rides to through the Cancer society were so glad to talk to someone; so glad to have a little human contact. I could see where they might misplace some feelings, maybe pass along valuables better intended for grandchildren or friends, write checks when they shouldn't.

So... They're going to do a background check. They've also asked for personal reference. I've already gotten two friends to sign on to stand up for me -and on a lark, I sent a note to one of the guys at Mountain Stage, asking if he wouldn't mind being one of my personal reference. My name gets muttered darkly over there from time to time.

It seemed funny at the time. If he turns me down I'll pick somebody else.

There's more than just the background check. I'm also invited to get Hepatitis B shots on their dime. That sounds like a lot of fun and after this is all over, the class starts in October. If I make the cut and take the classes, I don't know how fast they'd put me to work, but I was given a list of possible job titles.

Some of these job titles are quite grim. The worst is Kid's Path Companion Volunteer. It's the one that sends a chill up my spine and makes me tear up just reading the description.

"Supports the Kid's Path patient and family in home setting or Hubbard Hospice House. Also rocks children as needed."

I believe I have found that thing which I do not want to do but must.

Presuming, I don't get assigned to help with the gardening.

I will not do this because I believe in God or because I don't. I am not doing it because there is some sort of cosmic merit or brownie points in taking on this kind of a job. I'm a Buddhist. Karma doesn't precisely work the way it's popularly portrayed. It's only action and I do not expect to benefit from this action in any tangible way.

Because I do this, nobody is going to love me any more than they already do. Because I do this, my life is not going to be happier. I will not grow taller or live longer because of this and if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I don't think it's going to get me a better seat for the next show.

I am not doing this because I believe this will make me feel better or that it will ease the awful weight on my own heart. This might be one of the most self-destructive things I've ever done, but maybe if I do it, the world around me will seem a little better. Maybe it will be a little closer to the world I wish I lived in.

That's about all I can really hope to get out of this.

Sargosso

2011-04-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

It's been a hard thing to find any reason to write on this blog. Part of what I would occasionally write about has been surrendered to the Gazette. It fits there and that seems to be going as well as can be expected, which should leave plenty of room for my hellish misadventures and goofiness.

The problem is things have been quiet --or they have trampled into the territory of those things which I may not speak of. There are also things I just don't want to write about.

There is a lull. I don't know what to make of it.

My nerves are frayed. That much I can say without explaining the reasons why or describing in any detail the people responsible. Everything is raw. It's like an agonizing karmic sunburn. Moving in any direction hurts.

Yesterday, I went to the library, hoping to find inspiration, escape or God, if he happened to show up. I find lately that I miss talking to God or really, I miss hoping to get some sort of an answer.

As always, I follow my eyes, look at those things that draw me toward them and wonder why? It's never simple. I am always Alice following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole.

Down a block, I saw a slender woman in a figure hugging purple dress. The color was vibrant, almost hallucinagenic and completely wrong for a Monday afternoon downtown. She was pretty. In that dress, I could make out the shape of her underwear. She ought to have gone with the thong, but it wasn't exactly about sex. It was curiosity. I turned just to see where someone wearing what looked like something a woman might wear to a cocktail party would be going.

I turned the corner and saw a weary, middle-aged woman pushing a five-year old boy in a wheel chair. He was half asleep, head lolling to the side while his arms were curled rigidly to his chest.

The boy was handsome, with the well-scrubbed look of good health and a recent haircut. If he could stand, he'd be the kind of kid envious parents would say, "He should be a model." His clothes look like they'd come right off the rack that morning.

The woman's face was unspeakably sad. This was her child. This would always be her child.

I did my best not to stare and not to weep in the fucking street. The woman in purple was gone.

Instead, I continued on my path, returned a load of books I cared nothing about for another batch I hoped would show me something new or speak to me in a way that mattered. I came out with comic books about the zombie apocalypse --reading about the destruction of the world is somehow soothing --and the poet Rumi's big red book.

It was a whim, an idea that came from nowhere. Maybe there's an answer in there somewhere.

The woman in purple was on the corner across the street, waiting, when I came out. Our paths ran parallel almost until the exact place where I'd first seen her then she turned, I turned and we both disappeared.

Raging

2011-03-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

One of the things I've tried to do with driving for the American Cancer Society is to face my own fears. Cancer is a frequent cause of death in my family. It's killed or contributed to the demise of three grandparents and a couple of great aunts and uncles. It's even affected my sisters. It will probably kill me.

The worst part about driving is watching from the sidelines as brittle lives collapse under the weight of sustained strain. It's painful and demoralizing to see men and women with grown children and spouses essentially facing their end almost alone. It's not just poverty --though sure, I've seen plenty of that. It's witnessing the forced poverty of the human spirit.

This is the future I fear the most. It's not the dying. Everybody dies. It's after a life spent as a father, friend and husband being too much of a bother to help any more. It's seeing that no matter what you give, how much you try, in the end it comes down to how much the people around you are willing to put up with. From what I've seen, if you linger too long, you inevitably cross a threshold and exhaust their patience and kindness. Love becomes detached by exhaustion and guilt. They start quietly hoping you'll die, just so they can start to heal from the grief.

Be the change you wish to see in the world.

I'd like my world to be a little kinder. I'd like when the end comes for me, there's someone there who doesn't mind so much. I'd like to be able to tell my stupid stories to an audience and if I want to feel lousy about circling the drain, it should be okay. I'd like to feel like there's still enough time to make one more friend.

So, I contacted Hospice and asked if I could volunteer. I don't have much in the way of skills to offer, but I can hang out. I can help with errands. I can listen. I can even talk if they want me to. I can be company and I can wait with them.

So, that's just what I'm gonna do.

Bad Moon Rising

2011-03-20T08:35:00.000-07:00

I am a man traveling under a curse. I believe this now. I may have believed it all along. I don't know.

Last week, in an effort to take control and manage my time a little better, I started making little lists in a convenient, pocket-sized notebook. The lists were just things I should accomplish: Get to the gym, go for a swim, start work on the taxes, call the circulation desk about just getting Sunday delivery, go to the library.

It started going south almost immediately. On the first day, the list had six relatively easy items to accomplish. I got to four. On the second day, there were another six. I managed two. On the third, the list was six, but nothing got done. By Thursday, there was no list and on Friday, I couldn't even find the notebook.

I could do no right --particularly, at home --and it seemed like, suddenly, the bad old money problems were back after I was sure they were gone. At work, someone else joined the exodus of fed up and worn out employees who were moving on for something with a future and it made me wonder, again, if I'd made the right decision to stay. I could have left months ago, taken a job with decent benefits, maybe 30 percent more pay and a lot less uncertainty.

But I thought, hey... it's just another rough patch and I did the math all over again. In less than six months, my weekly childcare bill drops to about half when my youngest starts school. In another ten months, I make my last car payment and with that, my car insurance goes down. All I had to do was wait it out --just a few more months.

And this was what I was thinking while I was driving Friday evening when the back end of the car began to violently shake and shudder. This was what I was thinking before I noticed I couldn't keep up with traffic, pulled over and heard the tell-tale slapping of rubber against the road.

Fuck.

I looked at the tire. It wasn't completely flat, but it was sagging. An exit was only another two-hundred yards. There was a gas station at the bottom of the ramp, but I squeezed the tire. It was as solid as a loaf of wonder bread.

Cars whizzed by on the highway and not so far in the distance, dark clouds rolled in like the tide.

I popped the trunk and started to work on changing the tire. I'm not very fast and by the time I had the lug nuts off the wheel, rain was pouring down. Cars continued on their Friday path home. Inexplicably, a few of them honked their horns as they passed in either solidarity for my plight (sorry, bro) or to jeer (fuck you, asshole). I don't know which. Nobody stopped.

The moment I put the deflated tire in the back and closed the trunk, the rain had passed. The storm had moved along and I stood there laughing. What a fucking cliche...

The damage turned out to be more severe than I expected. I didn't have any cash so I had to use plastic and Firestone couldn't offer too many options. Two rear tires and a very necessary alignment came to $310. With a coupon, it only cost me $260. The card is now, again, maxed out and this is probably my last save.

My super snazzy Neon is on its last legs and I have no doubts about this. A few months ago when I first maxed out the card with repairs, the mechanics listed a wide variety of needs. It will be lucky to make it another ten months.

I am traveling under a curse, at least for now. Soon, I imagine I'll be walking.

Slingshot

2011-03-08T12:43:00.001-08:00

There's just something weird about going into a jock shop named "Dick's."

I don't usually go to sporting goods stores. I'm not really much of a sports guy, but my son is interested in playing soccer and I played soccer in junior high and high school. I loved it and have often thought about joining a geezer league, but so far... my schedule really hasn't permitted.

So, the two of us found ourselves wandering the aisles looking at soccer gear when I spotted the "outdoorsman" section, where they keep the gear for hunting, fishing and otherwise making a nuisance of yourself in the great outdoors. I do not fish, do not hunt and do not enjoy camping, much to the continued irritation of family who really dig it.

As a boy I was taught a whole set of skills useful if the modern world suddenly ended and the dinosaurs returned. Dad hunted, fished and trapped animals for their pelts. He brought me along and I learned some of it; enough to get by, if I needed to. I know how to fish, how to hunt and can skin animals if need be. I'm an okay shot with a gun, but better with a bow and arrow. I picked that up shooting arrows with the kid across the street. Sometimes he even let me take a turn with his compound bow.

We got the soccer ball and ambled over past the fishing lures and the paintball guns. It was like something was calling me and I moved with clear purpose.

In the lower corner of an aisle, there was a single line of Daisy slingshots --different sizes, different pulls, different prices. They were aluminum frames with yellow rubber tubing and a genuine artificial leather patch where you put the sling bullet.

My son looked at me as I picked one up then grabbed a bag of marbles, what you use as ammo when you don't much feel like picking up rocks.

"Is that for me?" He asked.

No. He was disappointed, but he's five.

Now, I have no idea why I wanted this thing. I have no idea why I bought it, except it was something I wanted.

Over ten years ago at a flea market, I bought a switchblade knife off a guy selling them from the hood of his car for twenty bucks. For almost a week I walked around, flicking it open --click-- then closing it. I felt like some kind of a bad ass. I just loved having it on me.

I got rid of it the day after I took it into a radio studio and nearly made the DJ working that afternoon wet himself. It scared the hell out of him and me a little. It was like I was looking for an excuse to use it and that bothered me because really, what precisely is the purpose of something like a switchblade? It only really has one purpose.

I sold it for what I paid for it and that was that.

A few years later, a friend of mine gave me a gun. His grandfather, suffering from dementia, lost his mind, attacked his wife and put her in the hospital. My friend and his father had to go, settle some affairs and put them in separate nursing homes. While going through the house, they came up with several thousand dollars in cash, plus a couple of guns the old man had hidden.

I was given one of them for no other reason than my friend felt like he needed to distribute them.

It was the same problem as with the knife. I spent hours fiddling with the gun, which was never loaded. I carried it around and probably once or twice I put myself in situations where I could have been in a lot of trouble if a cop searched me.

Eventually, I put the gun away, actually forgot about it for a couple of years, then got rid of it altogether when it turned up again.

So, now I have this slingshot. There's a symbol in all of this, something the wanting and needing of this specific item signifies, but I'm not sure what it means.

It is pretty cool, however.

Magical Thinking

2011-03-07T12:25:00.000-08:00

For the kids' party, they had us cordoned off in a little room in the bowels of the Clay Center. Cupcakes and ice cream had been served, along with apple juice, and the kids were starting to feel the first rushes of the sugar buzz when a lisping slacker in a George Romero "Dawn of the Dead" t-shirt rolled out a cart. He said he was going to do some science tricks and wouldn't the kids like to see?

You bet.

Seats were taken. Parents and the horde of squirming five year-olds waited and watched as the scientist/magician walked the room through his presentation --something he'd done probably a hundred times by now. His enthusiasm was about what you might expect of someone asked to handle urine samples.

He talked about safety. This was why he wore the glasses, the lab coat and the closed-toe shoes.

"I wouldn't want to get any of this on me," he said.

However, this didn't explain the cargo shorts. Presumably, it would hurt just as bad if he got sulfuric acid on his knee instead of his big toe, but nobody pointed it out. We were all just going with it and if he did manage to dissolve his legs, well, that would be a show, wouldn't it?

He asked the kids, "You want to see a Genie in a bottle?"

Of course, we did and he smiled while pouring a little hydrogen peroxide into a two-liter soda bottle. He mumbled something about Robin Williams and granting wishes them dumped a spoonful of some white powder that was going to produce a dangerous middle eastern supernatural being.

The powder went in, then nothing. The clear liquid in the bottom of the bottle turned brownish.

Of course, I still made a wish. That goes with out saying.

Meanwhile, our scientist/wizard swirled the contents of the bottle. Nothing happened. He apologized, tried it again and nothing.

I made another wish. Fuck it. I have needs.

Everyone stared and suddenly, he seemed very aware that his lack of giving a shit was being rewarded. I suspect karmic forces were in play, which was fascinating to watch, but he tried to outrun them. He moved on to the next trick. It had to do with making elephant toothpaste. There was a long, tedious explanation he rattled out while pouring more peroxide into a tall beaker then asking the kids about whether he should add stripes. They said, sure. They liked stripes on their toothpaste. We all liked stripes on our toothpaste. Who doesn't like stripes on their toothpaste? Stripes rock.

He set the trick up then added some magic science powder to the beaker. The peroxide at the bottom turned black and a head of foam shot up approximately 3/4 of an inch, leaving about a twelve inches of glass beaker waiting to be filled.

By now, the guy's nerves were rattled. These were just stupid junior high science tricks and in a room filled with people (most of them around five years old) who might be in awe of such a thing, he was crashing and burning.

He apologized some more and promised he'd get to the bottom of this. They'd do it all over, he said, but first he needed to get help.

"I'll be back in about ten minutes."

Meanwhile, everyone sat around. The kids didn't care. They wanted to go jump off of things, yell and screech, maybe break stuff. This was a party. Somebody throw on a Hanna Montana record! Bring on the press-on tattoos! Break out the Hawaiian punch!

The sorcerer's apprentice brought back somebody who had a few more experience points to do the science tricks again. The results were equally fulfilling and the peroxide was blamed. Someone, they thought, might have washed the inside of the bottle and left water which would have diluted the chemical --what a bastard.

"We'll get some good chemicals and do this right," the more advanced magician promised. "We'll also get some animals for the kids to meet. How does that sound?"

It sounded fine and eventually they got the tricks to go off. The kids got to meet a snake, a turtle and a hissing cockroach. As for me, I totally enjoyed their earlier performance and didn't bother making any more wishes. I didn't want to be greedy.

Bliss: Until Morale improves

2011-03-02T12:40:00.000-08:00

This blog isn't seeing as much action. It's not for lack of time or lack of desire, it's for lack of content. I haven't been back to the plasma center in over a month. I'm not taking my lunch at Manna Meal and there's a whole section of my life I don't blog about either for legal reasons or for a nagging sense of propriety. I'm working on killing that, but it takes time.

This blog is best when I put myself out there. Going outside of my comfort zone gives me space to move, to think and define my angst (among other things). Some of you like the angst. I like my angst. I like holding up my sad little broken heart for the world to see. I like screaming until all I've got left is a silly giggle.

I don't come here to complain. I come here to explain, to explore and to maybe make sense of it all --or at least have a couple of laughs at my expense.

So, I've been looking around for things to get into. Sure, I'm actually training for a triathlon, but big fucking deal. That's just exercise. I'm eating less meat. I haven't actually bought any animal flesh in two weeks and have only consumed a little incidentally, as I was trying to get rid of it. I'm rich enough to not have to sell my blood, but I'm too poor to throw away five dollars worth of ham. However, this is really just another exercise.

None of it makes me really uncomfortable. None of it alters my perception, improves my view or grants me an insight I don't already hold.

But I saw a sign up downtown, I need to find it again, it's for a rugby club. Do I know how to play rugby? No. My general impression is that it's a group of rough men fighting over a ball. It's an invitation to a beating, maybe. I don't know. Maybe that's what I'm hoping for. Maybe that's what I need: a reason and a means to riot.

Maybe it's not what I need, but I figure it's what I can have.

Bliss: Fist pump

2011-02-26T12:50:00.000-08:00

The crowd was firmly middle-class, mostly white and had nothing to lose. I mean that in the most obviously meaningless way possible. Nothing would be taken from them for showing up, for waving signs or listening to a handful of speakers, each with their own sort of vague agendas pinned to their sleeves, tell them exactly what they expected to hear.

It had been a while since I'd been to a political rally. I don't much consider myself political in the sense that I get too involved in the various ongoing debates. I have my views which tend to fall toward the "progressive," "lefty" side of things. I'm not a romantic about it and I don't get terribly upset.

A wise man once explained to me that popular American politics had essentially been reduced to being about property: what's mine and what's yours. The two major parties represented those interests, though he allowed that the Democrats were slightly more concerned about people. He described the whole process of election cycles and campaigns as being a bunch of fascinating noise. It was great to watch, but not worth actually getting involved with because nothing really changed.

George Carlin was a lot more jaded than I am, but I didn't vote in the last special election. I refused on the basis that the two clowns running for office were indistinguishable. I have no idea what I'm doing in another year. Mr. Obama isn't really doing it for me.

But I went to the rally because I'm trying to live a little kinder. I heard about the state workers in Wisconsin and thought it was a crock the governor, after getting the financial concessions he wanted for the state budget, decided it was also a good time to take their collective bargaining rights. It wasn't enough to get them to ask them to take a pay cut, they needed to be punished for being paid by tax dollars.

I do not have collective bargaining. I do not belong to a union, but I think people should have the power to negotiate for the collective betterment of themselves and I think it's wrong for the Governor of Wisconsin to try and stick it to his own people because he thinks he can get away with it.

At the capitol, people milled around the front steps wearing union shirts, Walmart American-wear and comfortable weekend clothes that seemed a little too clean to me. A few brought handmade signs. Some of them made very little sense and would make a junior high class president candidate cringe.

It was social. Friends from previous protests gathered to rabble rouse in three-part harmony. Everybody took pictures to document the occasion. I put a picture of my kid up on Facebook holding a sign I thought his grandparents and aunts would dig. He's a cute kid. I had to show him which end was up.

I doubt there were many Glen Beck fans in the bunch, though the clearly disturbed hovered on the fringes, staring and smiling at odd angles. The real crazies weren't toward the back. They stood up toward the front and when Jesses Johnston, the perennial token third party candidate, spoke of the armed revolt at Blair Mountain 90 years ago, a well-scrubbed assholes shouted out it might be time to do that again.

His wife gave him a hug.

We gave our time. We waved our signs and the organizer asked us to come back in two weeks. I made no promises. It sort of depends on what happens in Wisconsin.

Critters

2011-02-24T11:56:00.001-08:00

The line led from a pair of double doors at an unremarkable salt cracker building and snaked around the edge of the parking lot. Many of the people looked like they only came out of the holler when they got a new circular from Walmart or when it was time to cash a monthly check.

This was a hardscrabble, blue collar bunch. They were conservative in what they smiled about and muddled through the wait with annoyed resignation. Somebody was going to get something they didn't get and the opportunity to eat buffalo, elk or kangaroo only came around once a year.

About half the people brought cans. There was a canned food drive as part of the meal. Donations were encouraged, but not necessary. Plenty counted on that and they arrived with their families. Others gave what they felt they could get away with: off brand corn, green beans or bags of dusty pinto beans.

The man behind me said he didn't much care for the rabbit here.

"They don't do it up right," he said. "Me? I boil mine for 45 minutes then flour it, add salt and pepper then fry it. That's just the way you do rabbit."

I didn't tell him I was a little queasy about doing this. I've been trying to cut back on eating animals and animal products as a way to live a little kinder. Instead, I said, "I haven't eaten rabbit since I was probably 10 years old."

His wife, clearly his second or third, hung on his shoulder and asked him if it was going to take so long. She was about 30 years his junior and maybe only half a dozen years older than the man's granddaughter who was trying to keep up with a 3 year-old.

The little girl kept trying to pick my pocket.

"Katie, stop that," the granddaughter said. "You leave the man's wallet alone. It's not yours."

Then she apologized. She apologized too much, actually, kind of giggled and I swear, she batted her eyelashes and smiled.

My first thought, "You have to be fucking kidding me."

She might have been 16, but I have my doubts.

The old guy told me about his farm and how he'd sort of taken advantage of the hard year for the squirrels and deer the year before. He'd set out food for them and when the season came, he'd taken what he wanted.

"Within the law," he said, but getting a deer had been no trouble at all and his eyesight was shot.

He was glad to get the deer, but disappointed, too. It wasn't as much fun. The sport had been removed from the hunt and it gave him little pleasure.

He'd hunted for decades and some years it fed him better than others. Many times, it had been necessary.

"I've been on my own since I was 12," he told me.

Now, he had to rely on others --his ridiculously young wife, his jail-bait granddaughter and the rest of the family living with him on his farm. He was used to providing, to being in command, but his control was beginning to slip. He could drive and get around, but he had to watch his sugar. He had to take pills.

"I hope they get the smoked turkey right," he said finally. "The stuff made me sick last year."

Records

2011-02-19T21:33:00.000-08:00

A disreputable aura hung over the building like a veil of low grade evil, but kept no one away.

Outside in the parking lot, a couple of teenage lesbians, dressed like skaterboys leaned into each other while they looked for a likely victim to buy them beer. The way they moved around each other I figured they'd be into each other's underwear about the time the evening news rolled credits and faded into a re-run, a game show, whatever.

They had that ridiculous puppy dog look; the old but always new gaze of fresh lust and brainless, unreasonable, irrepressible love. They couldn't keep their hands off each other and they were maybe 15; surely not much older. If they were older, they'd have a car or at least would have found someone dumb enough to drive them around.

They were just so besotted, drunk in their own company and so oblivious to everything around them.

They giggled and goofed and whispered little things to each other, but you could almost watch the second hand ticking down on them. Whatever this was for either of them or both of them, it would have its season then pass and never come again. This grubby, unremarkable parking lot on the edge of this grubby, unremarkable town was the scene of a golden moment where almost everything felt right, but it was fading fast and soon would be gone.

It was all so enviable and sad.

They watched the front of the building with something like curiosity, while a couple of part-time problem gamblers observed them from a safe distance, taking a break from their favorite loser arcade to suck down a bargain cigarette. Smoke, like gnats, hovered above them and clung to their ragged fingertips.

It occurred to me I'd never been inside one of these places. I believe in luck, but think gambling is for suckers and idiots. I never do more than hand a dollar over every now and then to the state to play the lottery, which is only slightly better than buying cans of tuna and tossing them into the sea with the hopes the fish will swim home.

Everybody needs to dream of something impossible. I dream of things I no longer talk about.

There was a record store. Inside, a couple of clerks talked with a pair of future meth addicts about a local politician's insatiable hunger for boys. At length, they discussed the times they'd seen the man in the company of smooth teenagers and thought he cruised local playgrounds for dates.

They were completely appalled by this. They told each other over and over how wrong this was.

"But the people of this town keep electing him," they said. "They know what kind of man he is and they still stand up for him every election."

They went on and on, somehow working in a bit about how one of the future meth-heads liked to watch women masturbate. His girlfriend standing next to him thought this was funny, though did not cop to providing the service. Eventually, one of the clerks realized there was a customer flipping through their stock and yelled back to see if I needed anything and also to announce I should not dwell on anything I hear.

I shrugged, while they continued on with their barbershop quartet damnation of sodomy and celebration of Cinemax-grade kink. I tried to detect some scent of dope underneath the dusty, uninspired aroma of cheap incense, but that was hopeless. They'd only burned it as a poor substitute for a neon sign proclaiming, "Counter culture, right here. Come get your counter culture."

There was nothing to detect, of course, just stale sandalwood, but they did have a fascinating collection of throwing knives and other weapons used in the far east by ninjas and other masters of the martial arts.

Extras

2011-02-15T16:56:00.000-08:00

We go public on Thursday on the new Gazz blog. Shhh... Don't tell anybody.

Okay, seriously... a couple of weeks ago I sort of bull-in-the-China-shop told some people (and eventually the managing editor) that I had an idea on how to run an entertainment blog for the paper. This was right after I heard Hippie Killer was hanging up his wings and magic wand over at 5th column to do... something... my guess at the time was that he'd go work on his novel (which he might have) and maybe start another blog dedicated to cooking or music or knitting.

Anyway, I had this idea and God knows I couldn't make an entertainment blog work four years ago, but... I think I approached it completely wrong last time. Last time, it was sort of mandated and I listened waaay too much to people who have serious issues with Attention Deficit Disorder and a dislike for actual work. The blog tanked because I quit. I got tired of hearing about what I should do and what I should do and what I should do when really I just needed to do what needed to be done.

So, I'm going to do this little blog over at the Gazz. We launch officially on Thursday --probably.

I am not giving up my blog here. I like using profanity and subjecting myself to injury and psychological trauma. I like opening up my own bleeding heart and offering it up on a dirty dish. I like calling my shots and wandering off down whatever alley appeals to me (cliche, cliche, cliche).

Over there, I'll have to behave myself --well, mostly, but less than I did last time.

We'll see how that goes.

Anyway, you know first.

bliss: Mumbo Jumbo

2011-02-12T23:14:00.000-08:00

I wish magic worked.

I wish Tarot Cards and tea leaves and making your decisions based on Babylonian star charts worked. I wish crystals held in your hands and pointed at the sun somehow imbued us all with new vitality. I wish secret symbols, odd combinations of 11 herbs and spices, incantations and esoteric hand gestures called forth answers from the hidden pages of the mystic universe.

I wish there were answers to prayers. I wish that every day. Everybody needs someone to talk to, but it's tragic if the only person you can speak honestly to is yourself.

I wish there were demons, goblins, pixies, sprites, unicorns and angels. I wish gods walked the earth or at least rode the bus like one of us. I wish Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny were duly deputized representatives of the divinity, with regular business hours and payrolls to meet.

I wish the spiritual commerce of sacrifices, be they by blood, money or breakfast, provided boons, rewards and special requests. Please allow six to eight weeks for delivery.

I wish bliss was obtainable in a single lifetime. I wish enlightenment could be picked up like a lucky penny off the street.

I wish reincarnation operated on a stick shift, like a doorbell or a speed dial. It would be nice to order your next life like you order pizza.

I wish you could have fuck to religious music without feeling ridiculous, if not particularly dirty.

I wish holy scripture contained fewer parables and fables and more word searches and drink recipes.

I wish the stores weren't all sold out of heaven. Hell, of course, is always in stock and available in diet, caffeine-free and with lemon. You can also get it in cans, bottles and the convenient party ball.

I wish fortune contained actual winning lottery numbers and we all became millionaires after we had egg rolls.

I wish my spirit animal wasn't Wile E. Coyote.

Blood: Stop

2011-02-11T12:43:00.000-08:00

Of all the things I've done, regularly visiting the plasma center has been the least favorite among my family and friends. People hate it and I can't blame them. The process is inherently creepy and dehumanizing (something, I hope, I've accurately portrayed here). The money is lousy, especially when you consider the psychological trauma of what is being done and the fact that you're a commodity in a buyer's market. The company only pays what they have to for the plasma, not what it's worth. Bleeders in other parts of the country (even other parts of the state) are paid more, which also means there are some who are probably paid less.

Caveat Emptor or fuck you. Whatever.

Also, despite what they say about it being safe, they're not particularly concerned about anyone's overall well being. Otherwise, they'd do more than the obvious, legal minimum required for screening, would cast out the characters they can tell are drunk or high and maybe try to see a few more of the bleeders as people, not bags of blood to be drained.

Sure, they're clean. Everybody uses fresh gloves and fresh needles, but the process is an assembly line of disgruntled workers, some of whom are more interested in what's happening on this morning's episode of "Charmed" than what they're doing to your arm. How safe does that sound?

About three weeks ago, I stopped going. It's easy to fall into a routine, but I agreed not to go in. I opted to stay home and I just haven't been back. It was weird at first. I felt like I should go, that it was part of my routine. I kept saying, "You're going to need the cash. You're going to need it," but so far, I haven't.

Instead of watching the clock on Saturday morning, waiting for my wife to come home from her studies so I can go and "sell blood," I've mostly goofed off. I've read or cleaned house or if children permit, worked on my writing (the job is endless). On Tuesdays, when for the last six months I've had a standing date with the needle, I've been going to the gym.

Here's what I've noticed. My diet, for the first time in six months, is working again. The weight is quietly sliding off. The jeans I bought two weeks ago are already starting to feel loose. Following the same workout routine that I have for almost a year, my muscle tone has improved. I'm getting stronger, too. I've been asked about it and I can see it on the records I keep. I'm also recovering much faster from workouts, don't get as sore as I did a few weeks ago and don't stay as hurt for as long.

Is this because I stopped selling plasma?

I don't know, but it looks like it to me.

Mentally, emotionally, stopping is probably a good thing. Paying for cat litter or for a cell phone or even a biscuit with "blood money" is relentlessly demoralizing. You can't help but feel angry and resentful. It's easy not to feel appreciated --and that, folks, is the soft spot in my scales. It's the hammer that batters my ego and feeds the little revolutions of my life.

Will I go back?

It's been some laughs, but I don't know. I haven't gotten around to collecting my notes, printing out blog posts and writing up a book proposal, but it's coming. All of this, I'd like to think, should add up to more than just a few bucks and some weird memories.

But whatever is whatever. Some of you have stuck with me through this and my weird cinema verite view of the experience. You might be disappointed if it ends. Not to worry. I can't help but find things designed to cause me pain and distress. I need the punishment and I need to laugh about it as loudly as I can manage. Sometimes, I can't, but that's fine, too.

But maybe for now, it's time to let the scar inside my arm heal. The vein is closed.

Cancer: flowers

2011-02-09T12:04:00.000-08:00

Carla didn't come to the door and the house was eerily quiet: no babble from the television, no shrieks or cries from children, no voices on the other side speaking sharply at one another.

Silent and worry.

I was a couple of minutes early and already I'd made up my mind I was buying the lady flowers before I brought her home. Valentine's Day was coming up. It seemed like something nice to do for someone who could use it.

I waited then knocked again.

Nothing.

On the dead grass to the bottom step of the paint-chipped and battered front porch, a dark, rusty stain spread out in a disturbing pattern. It bled out onto the pebbled sidewalk.

The house was awfully quiet and I imagined Carla stepping down onto the walk and bleeding out suddenly, an awful hemorrhage brought on by a tumor bursting.

Then I heard children inside the house and I tried the door again.

"I'm coming," Carla called. "Just a second."

I smiled when she opened the door. Me and my fucking imagination.

"I had to change shirts three times," she said and shook her head.

She was in a pretty good mood. We drove on the interstate, which unnerved her some. Carla's vision isn't so great and each passing vehicle made her feel claustrophobic. She clutched the side of her seat and kept looking down at the floor, but we talked about the new place. She doesn't like it.

"There ain't no closets," she complained. "At least none you can do more than just turnaround in."

I got her to the doctor's office. They were waiting for her and ready to go, which was nice.

"We'll call you when she's ready to go home," the technician told me.

I went to the grocery store and bought flowers. I debated what to get. I didn't want to get something that suggested either romance or a funeral. I just wanted something to put a little color into her day --and I got the impression that it had been a long time since anyone had bought her flowers just because.

Two hours later, I got the call to come back. Carla was weak and dizzy when I picked her up. The doctor had given her two, liter containers of fruit flavored barium (yum), which wouldn't fit in her purse.

"You drink this stuff with a little coke and it just about ruins your day," Carla said. "The oily taste just sticks in the back of your throat. You don't want nothing to eat."

She hated it and also hated what it meant.

"They want to take some more pictures," she said. "I'm not doing too good." She managed to smile. "But you've got to stay positive, right? That's what they tell you: stay positive."

With the barium in her hands, whatever optimism she had was fading fast.

"I don't know if I'm going to make it to the spring," she told me.

As I let her out at the curb in front of her house, Carla stuffed the canisters in her pocket. I reached into the backseat then handed her the purple carnations: four bucks plus tax. The bundle, formerly wrapped in cellophane seemed pathetic and cheap. It was cheap.

Without smiling, she put the flowers to her face and told me they were beautiful.

"It's just nothing," I said, awkwardly. "Valentine's Day is next week and I thought..."

"I appreciate this." She didn't look at me. "I really appreciate what you do."

She started to leave.

"See you next month?"

She nodded quickly and scurried toward her door. It wasn't a promise.

Cancer: Time

2011-02-07T14:46:00.000-08:00

Gina's daughter answered the door while a baby wailed in the background. She looked like your typical new mother: tired and slightly depressed. Her clothes were the low-rent version of house-wear, a pair of cartoon pajama bottoms and an over-sized t-shirt. No bras. No socks.

The woman barely looked at me as I stood out on the porch, next to a smashed alarm clock and a couple of empty boxes leftover from the move. The boxes had been scrounged from her boyfriend's place of business. The company logo was printed on the side. The clock looked like it had been stomped to death.

"Mom, your ride is here," she yelled then disappeared back into the shallow gloom behind the door.

Gina crept out, still moving gingerly like her heels were made of glass.

"I was just getting ready to call you," she said and smiled. "We thought you might have gotten lost."

It would have been easy enough. The new place was in the labyrinthine bowels of the West Side, where roads lead nowhere and traffic signs are scattered along the grid much like dandelion seeds, but I told her I had it covered.

"And we've got plenty of time," I said.

We didn't talk much. Not a lot had happened since our last visit. They'd settled into the little house, which was an improvement from the hellish backyard apartment they'd been in before, but Carla talked about getting out. She wanted a space of her own.

"It's got a pretty big living room and the one bedroom is all right," she told me. "The rest is just too small. My daughter has all her stuff in storage. So, do I."

The place looked like it might be two bedrooms. If her daughter and boyfriend had a bedroom and the kids had a bedroom, where did that put her?

I didn't ask.

"Now, this is just a doctor's visit, right?" I asked. "It's just an office visit."

She nodded and told me she had a chemo treatment in a couple of days. This was just a visit to talk to the doctor, but she offered to check with the receptionist to see how long it would be. Neither of us wanted me to miss too much work, but I could hang out for a little while, if they were going to see her in the next hour or so.

The reception area was full with only a couple of seats available. On the television, Fox News was giving their fair and balanced interpretation of the news while a woman in a dark brown wig talked about how her treatment was interfering with her sleep.

"I'll get two or three good nights and then I can't sleep for days."

Her husband sat beside her, holding her hand, staring at the floor numbly. He looked shell-shocked and defeated.

Carla asked about the wait and the guy at the window frowned unhappily.

"It's going to be a long wait," he said.

Carla wanted me to go on and to be honest, I had to go, but I handed over one my business cards, the one with my name attached to the newspaper and told him to call the moment she was done.

Most of the time the card is useless, but every once in a great while, it helps... a little bit.

"I'll be back," I told Carla then went to work and wrote about bagpipe players, daredevils and guys who play guitar.

Hours ticked by. I stayed at my desk and watched the phone. When I went to the bathroom or refilled my coffee pot, I asked for someone to watch my phone. I didn't dare go more than a few paces.

It was after five when I finally heard back from the doctor's office. After just over four hours, she was ready to go.

Carla was waiting for me in a room full of sad, scared people who looked like they were at their own wakes. I took her home. I told her I couldn't believe how long they had kept her. She explained that the receptionist had said the doctor had needed to go over a surgery with a new patient.

It was a bullshit excuse.

I was baffled. It was after five p.m. and the waiting area was still full. Carla told me they'd run out of chairs and people had been sitting in their cars. The doctor was overbooked. He was double, maybe triple booked. The man's schedule would have to be obscene.

Four hours. Why would you do that to anyone?

With weary resignation Carla explained the doctor had surgeries and he taught. He was a busy man.

She'd ended up meeting with him for just a few minutes to go over her treatment and to let her ask questions.

"I only asked how much longer do I have to keep doing this?"

The doctor wouldn't say.

Irish

2011-02-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

It was hard to get comfortable. I was out of place. The couple of guys and the girlfriend brought along for one of them were half drunk and working on another quarter when the usher kicked them out of our seats.

Apologies, apologies, they cried.

"Sorry man, we didn't mean to steal your seats."

"I thought he knew what he was doing."

The two men grinned and stumbled to their seats a row or so over.

We filed in. I guarded the aisle and handed out 29 cent earplugs. I'd never been to a monster truck rally and had little interest in attending this one, but I also have a five-year-old boy and all of the little boys in his daycare are interested in trucks. Because they are interested, so is Emmett --at least for now --though I doubt it will last.

We watched and he caught the attention of the two drunks in the row behind behind us. While I was trying to keep him from crippling the man in front of us with the toe of his rain boot, the boy was mugging and entertaining. They'd brought their own bunch of kids, but they thought my son was a riot. They liked him. So, when one of them went off to fetch another round of beer, he returned with a glowing fan.

"I hope you don't mind," the man said and handed it to Emmett. "Children are precious."

He seemed sincere and besides the fan was already in the boy's hands. I'd have had to have cut them off to get him to let loose, but it was a generous gesture. I thanked him and had my son do the same.

The drunk smiled. It made him happy, too.

We watched the trucks do their fascinating mechanical ballet until intermission, when Emmett announced he needed to go to the bathroom. So, shedding a pretty cumbersome package of licensed merchandise and candy, we went.

Everybody had the same idea at once, of course. Hey, the trucks aren't jumping over cars, time to take a piss. You had to navigate through the herd. You had to scan and look and move quickly like finding a parking space at the mall with a dozen voices yattering away in ever direction.

One caught my ear.

"The damned Jews," he said and I turned to see who said it. "The Jews, you know? The Jews."

It was a kid, probably 12, talking to another kid, probably 12. I couldn't make out why he was saying what he was saying, only that it seemed like the strangest thing coming out of the mouth of a 12 year-old.

I looked around. What was I supposed to do? I was trying to bring a small and precocious child through a crowd of men in a restroom, a child who needed to pee --now. Was I supposed to confront the kid, tell him to grow up or at least say, "Hey, that's not cool?"

Part of me wanted to. Part of me wanted to stop the moment and have a weird little discussion about race in a men's room at a monster truck rally. Sure, I could have opened up the floor for discussion. Instead, I pivoted around him with my kid and took the urinal he'd been moving toward.

I guess he could blame the fucking Irish if he wanted to.

Jump

2011-02-03T13:03:00.000-08:00

So, people are asking me if I'm really going to do the polar plunge. It's funny. This makes number four but even people who know me forget I do this every year. I got involved with it because:

a) My daughter took part in the Special Olympics and while it didn't necessarily mean much to her, it meant a lot to me. I saw a lot of people raising kids under extraordinary circumstances, spending time together and having a good time in safe, kind environment where nobody is weird.

b) There's a t-shirt.

I almost didn't do it this year. Last year, I hurt my shoulder. I pulled a muscle, strained a tendon --I have no idea, but it hurt and continues to hurt every once in a while. Plus, last year, at the last minute, the Special Olympics people sprung a fireworks display on us and made us wait extra to basically feed the ego of an energy company who decided to donate fireworks.

In my mind, there really wasn't the kind of crowd to merit dropping a couple of grand on bottle rockets. It was sort of pretty, from what I could see, but most of us were under the shelter and the pyrotechnics were obscured.

But... It is for a cause I believe in. I don't write a lot about my kids or Autism or being a parent in a special needs family. Without dwelling too much on the obvious, it's hard. The hours are long, the pay sucks and sooner or later you question everything. It will make you bitter, if you let it.

I believe in the Special Olympics because they're there for people like me and my children.

So, fuck it, I'll keep jumping in the water as long as I'm able --even if Massey energy donates pole dancers and a mime for this thing.

Anyway, open invitation.

Saturday at Appalachian Power Park, 6 p.m. they'll line us up like a bunch of convicts waiting for the scaffold. Most of us will be dressed in swimsuits of one kind or another. There is always at least one cute girl in a string bikini and at least one old geezer in a pair of black briefs you wish his grandchildren would have hidden. Everyone will be pale. Everyone will be shivering and the smart ones will have a couple of drinks in them. The dumb ones will have a lot of drinks in them.

They'll line us up and we'll go two at a time into a big swimming pool that will feel like murder the second your skin touches the water. It's good fun --not for us, but for you. Come on out. Bring your checkbook.

But you can't have my t-shirt.

Fifth Column

2011-02-01T13:51:00.001-08:00

It turns out one of the most venerated and reviled blogs in Charleston is about to go the way of the dodo. Hippie Killer over at the Fifth Column is hanging it up after about seven years, I guess.

I got into blogging --more or less-- because of the Fifth Column. I was a stupid freelancer --really, really dumb --and my editor at the time was keen on getting into the blogging game. He asked me if I knew anything about blogs. I lied and told him, sure. I read them all the time.

He didn't believe me, but he was putting together some new blogs for the Gazz and wondered if I was interested. I said sure. He told me there was little money involved, but I went along with it anyway --thinking that it might lead to bigger and better things.

Actually, it didn't. Nobody read my Gazz blog. Partly it failed because I became frustrated with the process, stopped updating content and there was almost no feedback. The paper also never really got behind the blogs and they tanked.

Still, because of the blogs I met some cool people. I met Karin Fuller, who turned out to be a pal. I also established myself in the local blogosphere, got to know some of the local bloggers --the few who remain, I still read --and when my old Gazz blog was gently murdered, I went ahead and struck out on my own.

I learned a lot about blogging from reading the Fifth Column. I think originally that's what my editor thought my blog should be --though not so much political, but a kind of savage let loose on the arts and entertainment scene. He liked the wit of the Fifth Column and he liked the viciousness. He thought I could copy it --sort of.

But I never did. I barely tried.

I've always tried to be honest, which sometimes gets brutal or uncomfortable and sure, I'm a bit of a bastard. I've got the legal bills to prove it --but I'm not really much of a blunt weapon. I'm just a single pair of eyes and ears attached to a moderately self-destructive personality. My interests, while broad, aren't necessarily the interests of a wide public and almost always, my blogging was more about me than Charleston.

Besides, when I did the Gazz blogs, I was often censored and edited down. Hence, the title of this blog. The only censor I have is someone I used to live with and her lawyer.

Anyway, I owe something of a debt to the Fifth Column. I'm sorry to see the blog go and hope whatever he does next is at least as interesting.

Phantom Limb

2011-01-31T12:55:00.001-08:00

It's not something you notice at first, except the old guy in the marines t-shirt walks with just a hint of a limp. Barely that, it's more of a slight drag in his step. One leg is just a little out of sync with his pace.

Of course, if you follow the man's leg, you can't miss it. He doesn't hide it, doesn't cover it up with by wearing track pants or sweats. It is what it is. At the knee his leg tapers sharply before becoming a dull aluminum pipe that burrows like a screw into a tennis shoe.

It's something to watch him work out. Others his age conserve their strength. They step onto the treadmills like cows drowsily being led through the chutes at a slaughter house, but not him. He fights. He rages. His fists are clenched around the handles and he swings like he'd fucking kill you if you tried to stop him.

I understand.

Every now and again, someone asks him about it --his leg. It's a curiosity at the gym, though he isn't the only man to be missing a leg. There's another man, much younger, also ex-military, who comes in on crutches. He's still getting the hang of his, but the old marine is practiced. He lost his leg a long time ago. He's used to it.

"Does it hurt?"

The marine smiled and shrugged. "The funny thing is I still feel it. I can feel if it's turned the wrong way and just yesterday, I was sure, I was absolutely sure, somebody was standing on it."

Phantom pain, phantom sensations, he talks about and the mousy old man's eyes grow huge. He could not imagine.

"It still feels like it should be there," he said. "It's just not."

Red, Green, Amber

2011-01-28T11:55:00.000-08:00

There wasn't much of a crowd --maybe 25 people, a poor turnout no matter how you looked at it. With it being opening night, at least a third of the audience was probably related to someone in the production. A few others would be members of the theater group. They served on the board. They were volunteers and they'd come out as moral support.

Really, there were only a couple of truly die-hard theater fans: a scruffy, bent man sipping fizzy water flavored with a big olive and very little water; a pair of teenage lesbians who'd taken their waifish, pet boy out for the evening and one or two gray others who'd come alone.

For a second, I envied the guy who'd bought the tonic water with a splash of vodka (six bucks, what a rip off!), but at least he had some idea what he was doing here. Me, I had no clue. I didn't know the play, barely knew the actors and had no idea where I was going with the review.

Reviewing local theater can be kind of thorny. Musicians tend to develop thick skins by exercise, by simply watching how many people leave their seats during their show to go to the bathroom, go outside for a cigarette or head off to chat up the bartender, the waitress or the militant-looking girl with the nose ring, the black boots and the short skirt. Visual artists largely don't care what you think --if you hate it. They're creative cocoon is comfy enough for one and besides, they sold a piece last fall so fuck you --not that it's about the money because it's not.

Local theater groups are a culture unto themselves. They're tribal and when they decide they've been wounded, they can get bitchy. They won't call or write, but you'll hear them mumbling about it for weeks. Their displeasure will not show up in the comments section or on the vent line, but will be telegraphed along the various grape vines.

The best you can do is choose your words wisely, be honest, avoid unnecessary cruelty and look for what works. Getting up on stage is hard. It's brave, particularly when you know you're not GREAT. You're just a local actor doing a small play only a few people will see.

The play was about to start. A few stragglers came in late and grabbed seats in front. The actors took their places. One of them looked out over the shallow pond of faces and seemed to stare right at me. The jolt was immediate and powerful.

For a second, I didn't believe it was her.

In my life, people come and go. Often, they disappear suddenly. They call from the road, leave weird notes that make you think they've joined a cult or sometimes they just stop showing up for work. They utterly vanish.

A month or a year later, somebody tells you some little thing about them, how they ran into them while they were on vacation or how they got a card from them at Christmas, unexpectedly.

Each absence cuts deep into the heart of met. No loss is ever recovered, even if new people come into my life and start new conversations. The ache never goes away. I miss them forever.

Amber was one of those people I'd gotten attached to. She'd dropped out of my life suddenly, went off and got married. I thought she'd left town, left the state, left the solar system, but there she was. She smiled and winked.

I tried to make some sign that I knew it was her, that I was seeing her, too. I wasn't sure if she was getting that then I looked over. Sitting three or four seats over and a row back was her very proud, absolutely beaming husband waving back.

My heart sank. She hadn't recognized me.

It had been a couple of years. It was dark. I was older, though to me I look the same, but I didn't remember if she'd ever seen me with a beard --and honestly, maybe I hadn't meant so much to her. It sounds cynical, but you never never really know how much someone cares about you, regardless of what they say. The allotment of space in the human heart varies from person to person.

The theater darkened and I tried not to stare. I had a play to review, but it was hard not to focus all of my attention on her. We'd been friends. I'd missed her, but that didn't even mean she remembered me.

The play was fine, better than expected. I laughed. I groaned. I tried to keep a tally of what worked for me and what didn't. Mostly, it worked. The play ended. The actors took their bows and the lights came up. I shuffled on my coat. It was time to get back to the office.

At least, I knew her new last name. It was in the program. She seemed to be doing all right.

The actors wandered into the crowd, shook hands and accepted kind words from their friends and family. Amber spoke with a few people on the front row then pulled away and came up the steps.

She called my name.

"I knew it was you," she said. "I tried to let you know I saw you." She smiled. "Your face..."

She told me she didn't know if I'd recognized her. She'd had a child and gained weight. That seemed to pain her most of all. She didn't look exactly like she did four or five years ago.

"I wasn't sure if you'd know me," she said.

"I'd recognize you at a hundred yards," I told her. "I've missed you all along."

She wanted to talk. She wanted to know where I'd been in the last four years, what I was up to. She wanted everything right then, but there wasn't time to explain, though the short answer was, "nowhere." I've been here all along.

I wrote down my office number, the only reliable way to reach me.

"Give me a call," I said. "I'll buy you coffee. We can have lunch. I want to hear everything."

Before I left, she introduced me to her husband. We'd met before. I remembered him. He did not remember me, but that was fine. I didn't really miss him either.

I did the work I had to then while I was thinking about it, I looked her up on facebook. The damned thing has its uses. I threw out a line to her there --just in case she lost the number. I haven't heard back yet, but I'm hopeful.

People have left my life lately and it has been a heavier burden than I would have thought it to be. I thought I was used to the traffic by now. I keep blaming my age, this middle age, and maybe that's it, but also maybe it's a failure to see the people who've come back.

Seeing Amber again gave me some comfort. Not everything lost is gone forever. Sometimes they come back and sometimes they've missed you all along.

I needed to feel that again. I needed to believe that again.

The gig

2011-01-27T08:25:00.000-08:00

"Hey, we're closed."

Sunday afternoon and the Empty Glass was empty, practically dark, but it would be. Only the most devout alcoholic or a fraternity kid would be in a bar getting hammered this time of the day --unless there was a football game on. That goes without saying, I think.

I smiled, waved and said, "Hey, this is Bill with the Gazette."

Roadblock, the bouncer and sort of manager of the place, squinted then smiled.

"Sorry. I can barely see you, man. How are you?"

He's a big guy and comes by his name honest, but I told him, "Fine," as a couple of people scurried out the door, hauling amps and a drum kit.

"I think that's the band I'm supposed to be interviewing," I told him.

Roadblock looked at me. It was news to him. They'd just been recording, and a guy come to do an interview with a band in his bar, that couldn't be terrible.

He chased after them. "Hey, dude from the paper is here for you guys."

I followed outside. The remnants of the band blinked and stared like they thought at any second I might burst into flame and get some ash on them. It was just two of them, a man and a woman. I knew the woman vaguely. Her name was X and our careers in this town had sort of run parallel. She got started in music about the same time I started writing music.

It took her a second, but then X seem to remember inviting me to come, "between three and four."

It was 3:30 and watching her, you could almost see the stomach ache starting to form and the words, "Oh fuck," dangling from her mouth.

Instead, X said, "Sorry. I should have like checked back with you to see if you were actually coming."

In my mind, this had already confirmed, but an argument was pointless. I was annoyed. The interview was a favor to them --on a Sunday afternoon, during what are usually my off hours --but there was nothing to be done except to see if something could be salvaged.

"That's okay," I said. "My photographer should be here in a minute."

I said this because I hadn't given up on them. I was still willing to do this, if they could pull it together.

"No, the guys left," X said, eyes wide-open. "I mean, they're gone."

For the next couple of minutes, they tried calling the two missing players while I worked out what I had and what I didn't.

They'd put away their gear, packed it up and loaded it in the car. So, a cool picture of them looking all rock n' roll was probably out. Also, the bar was closed. Roadblock might have been okay with us coming inside to sit and talk, but then again, he might have had other plans. They hadn't cleared this with him. This could mean sitting in Wendy's, which is just about the lamest places to talk about anything other than taco salads.

Also they were having only limited success in getting in touch with the rest of the band and I had another gig in about an hour. No secure location. Not enough people. Not enough time.

Essentially, the interview was toast. There would be no picture. There would be no story. There would be no press coverage.

"Well, this is pretty much a wash," I told them then broke the news to the photographer. No way were we shooting half a band.

He shrugged. It was just one more thing of his to do list.

X said, "I guess you were right with what you said about interviews at rehearsals being not so good."

She felt kind of bad about it, but there was nothing to be done.

Apologies all around again. I was sorry it didn't work out. They were just sorry. Oops. Didn't mean to like wreck your Sunday afternoon. We made vague promises to work this out another time, but I don't know if it's going to happen.

Six or seven years ago when I was just starting to get into the whole business of writing about musicians, I was working nights at Books-A-Million. One night, X was out on the patio playing guitar. I thought she was pretty good, unusual, so I introduced myself and handed over one of my nifty, little cards I got over the Internet.

"I'd love to do a story," I said then explained that I'd written for Graffiti, wrote for a couple of free papers, and had just landed a few stories with the Charleston Gazette.

She smiled, but never called. I tried asking around some of the people who knew her at the bookstore, but she never came in again, at least while I was working, and I never got much of an explanation of why she didn't appear to be interested.

It was the first time I pitched a story to my editor that I failed to deliver on. The rejection bothered me. I was just getting started. I was a bundle of nerves and back then not a lot of people took me seriously --this is not to say they take me seriously now, but I did get some better.

Anyway, you hear, some things are never meant to be. The timing is never right. Some pieces never go together. Fate always conspires against, never works for.

Of course, I don't believe any of that.

Iron

2011-01-26T12:20:00.000-08:00

There's a cluster of middle-aged men at the gym who tend to hog the benches. They laugh too loud as they work out. They bray like donkeys and it distracts me, with my ear buds planted firmly in each ear canal, the music turned up so loud it starts to hurt after the second or third station.

They chatter and make jokes, talk about football, basketball and God. Politics used to come up, but they don't really agree so they don't talk about it. Everybody wants to be pals. They move from station to station like a herd of Galapagos turtles.

I am a soloist in the gym. I stick to myself, try not to gawk too much (not that it's really a problem in a place where some mornings I am the youngest guy in the room) and do my best not to draw any attention.

Three days a week, I lift weights. The other two days, I climb a machine, swing my arms and legs and quietly work toward a heart attack. This wouldn't be a bad way to go. It would look like you tried.

I think I've come close once or twice.

I am an angry exercise enthusiast. This is where I come to work out my rage, my aggression, my endless frustration and my ever-present sorrow. I do penance for the sins I have committed --both real and imagined. I do penance for the sins I have not committed --both real and imagined. I do not do it for love or for vanity or really even for my health, except to say that I need this. It has become my raft.

Pain is my constant companion. I overdo it and stay sore, particularly over the weekends after a leg workout. In high school, I used to dread squats. Now, I hate them, but I do them. The pain is a comfort. It is shelter against the numbness and the cold pit of indifference.

By accident, the exercise clears my head. Lying on a bench with a weighted bar slowly approaching my throat somehow quiets the noise. The crushing pressure of iron on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees, lances and drains the poison in my mind. This is where I find peace these days.

It lasts barely the length of a single day.

Watching the turtle men, meandering through their workouts, wasting time, laughing like a squad of junior high cheerleaders, I can't help but feel a little envious --not for their little morning communion, not for their fraternity, but that the weights I lift seem so much heavier.

Bliss: Glutton

2011-01-22T21:41:00.001-08:00

I tried a few new things this week. I had lunch with a friend I hadn't spoken to in a year. We talked and I was reminded why people like me: I am an amusing asshole.

We joked and talked and toward the end, I insulted her boyfriend a little by describing my job as not really being about important things. He's a musician and a good one, quite possibly one of the best in the area and I've written about him. There wasn't a way to recover from that, though what he does and what I do is not the same. Creating art and talking about art is not equal.

Self-awareness isn't always kind. I know what I do. I strive for truth, but usually settle with being entertaining or just a distraction.

It's okay. There is some nobility in being a clown. I am a holy fool.

But they were nice enough to buy me a shot of wheat grass, which tasted green. It was a new experience.

Most of my new experiences were edible. I had the wheat grass, ate at the Pita Pit and bought some candy from the International Food Market. None of it was earth shattering and felt sort of shallow. I think I should stop trying to eat my way to enlightenment.

I'm trying to read more philosophy. I'm studying Buddhist writings again. As I like to say, I am a Buddhist, just not a very good one. Anyway, the new reading is me trying to pick up some of the strands of thought I've misplaced --particularly the ones about letting go of cravings and attachments. Right now, I feel like Luke Skywalker, wanting to get off the farm and take on the Empire, and that's kind of silly.

I'm also reading Joseph Campbell, which explains the Star Wars analogy. He's fun and broadening in his way, but not every insight is useful. That's an insight right there. Not all wisdom is important, but it almost always seems that way.

I faced a pair of raccoons living in the crawlspace/unfinished dungeon beneath my house. I scared them off with bright lights, noise and some store bought crap that they supposedly hate the smell of. It appears to be working, which is good for them. The alternative was murder. If it didn't work, I was going to have to try a big batch of poison mixed with a jar of peanut butter.

I'd just as soon not kill something right now. I don't think I could bear the grief.

Bliss: Blood

2011-01-18T07:57:00.000-08:00

A quarter to nine and there were probably ten people waiting to get called. Some of them were regulars, but a couple of newbies were looking around nervously, wondering what was going to happen next.

I did my meet and greet with the computer, explained for around the 60th time that I did not have relations with any Haitian voodoo practitioners while I was having a mad cow burger, took my seat and waited to be called.

And waited.

And waited.

The people leaving the room was a slow trickle. Meanwhile, one episode of "Charmed" rolled into another. I watched commercials about feminine itch problems and snack foods because pretty clearly whoever programmed the show starts drinking pretty early. You'd think they'd try to match things a little better in the same commercial break. I mean, if you've got an itchy vagina, do you really want Cheetos or a can of Dole pineapples right after you use the miraculous sanitary wipe that also deodorizes?

I don't think so. The magic of modern science aside, I'm thinking maybe you might wait --like the 15 minute thing before going back into the pool after having a snack. Maybe you'd want to test drive a new Honda first or plan to watch "The Dark Knight" Friday or Saturday, when it makes its non-pay cable channel debut with limited, but probably still a shitload of, commercials.

Pretty clearly, I was watching too much tv and thinking about it in ways entirely unhelpful to the people seated around me. Suddenly, it was 30 minutes later and there were still quite a few people ahead of me.

I could probably use the money, but I kind of needed to get to work and I wanted to stop by Habitat for Humanity to look at filing cabinets. It was 20 minutes after the hour then 25 minutes.

I got up and left.

There was no fuss. I didn't make a scene. I didn't go up to the desk and say, "Hey, why is this taking so long?"I just left.

Maybe it's time to put up or shut up, write the book proposal and see if anything sticks.

Bliss: Checkout

2011-01-14T07:49:00.000-08:00

The guy bagging the groceries dropped two 50 pound sacks of dog food in the cart then slipped a package of toilet paper, some assorted boxes and bottles of cleaning supplies, and a jug of milk into separate bags. The last thing to go was a plastic container with an eight-piece of cold chicken from the deli, which is always overcooked, greasy and dry.

The woman involved in the transaction looked up at the screen above the cashier and bit her bottom lip.

"I don't know if I have enough," she said and pulled a cheap pocketbook out of her battered purse. "We'll just have to see."

The cashier only nodded. He was a young, but had seen this before.

"I might have to put something back," she said to no one in particular and brushed the yarn-like strands of her thinning, gray hair out of her face.

She waited for the kid to hit the total: $41.35.

The old woman winced, but nodded and began counting out tens, then fives and finally single dollars.

She had $38.

The guy bagging the groceries looked up and said, "You could put one of the bags of dog food back."

He was trying to be kind. The dog food was heavy and she had two of them. It seemed like a graceful way to exit the situation, but she declined.

"No, that's okay," she said. "We need that. Just put back the chicken."

The two grocery store employees looked at each other then I leaned forward.

"How much is she short?"

"About three bucks or so."

I'd come to the store to solve some needs and wants. My youngest wanted kool-aid. My wife wanted lite soy milk. My daughter needed a big ass candy bar and a bottle of root beer. She's an autistic and the last two days had been home from school. Lately, the world has become a lot more threatening to her and the candy was an easy way to calm her.

I'd collected these items and realized I kind of wanted something for me. I thought I kind of deserved it, but the movie selection kind of sucked and I wasn't really in the mood for candy, beer or even a magazine.

I laid a ratty looking five dollar bill on the counter.

"It's good karma," I told the lady. "I happened to have a couple of bucks."

She blinked, a little surprised, then thanked me. The clerks were stunned.

"That's like the nicest thing," the cashier said and I shrugged.

"It's not a big deal."

It wasn't. We all went our separate ways. The guy bagging the groceries only had a half hour to go until he went home and he couldn't wait. I saw the old woman out in the parking lot, riding in an old beat-up van that made me think of the one my parents had when I was a kid, the kind of vehicle good for hauling an army of ten-year-old baton twirlers to a parade or a bunch of very big dogs.

In the car, I turned up an old Motley Crue song as loud as I could force the stereo to go. Nothing had really changed. I felt the same, but it was a good kind of same.

Blood: Dog

2011-01-12T13:12:00.000-08:00

"Can I call you Bill?"

The question caught me off guard. For over six months I've been dutifully showing up like a cow to the barn to get my bi-weekly milking and it's always been, "William," no matter how many times I say, "Really, just call me Bill."

I didn't know what to say at first. No one had ever asked me that and I guess I'd settled into the routine of being more of a number than anything else, but over the past few months, I know I've grown on some of the staff. They seem pleased to see me when I show up with book in hand. I'm like a neighborhood dog --a familiar and safe face. I don't smell too bad and I don't bite. I also ask for a lot, don't demand attention or whine about how much money we're not getting paid.

"I hear you get more in Huntington," I hear people say. "I wish I could go there."

I have no idea. I'm not driving to Huntington --unless, of course, it's a lot of money, which it never will be.

I also listen. The milkers and the techs are a talkative bunch. They grouse about how little they get paid, about how much they don't like the new company and even how they wished they hadn't had that one more beer the night before. Some of them have, or so they say, pretty wild lives outside of their jobs. They get kicked out of bars and concerts for fighting. They go to parties that take days to recover.

Being asked if I might be called by my own name was kind of novel.

Cancer Man: Old Lang Syne

2011-01-10T14:10:00.001-08:00

Gina wanted to give me ten dollars. Over and over on the way back she said, "You ought to get something for this. You're doing me a favor. It ain't much, but it helps, don't it?"

I wouldn't take her money.

"Gina, that's okay," I told her. "I'm doing fine."

At least, good enough, but Gina...

A couple of months ago, I picked her up for a couple of cancer treatments, went to the tiny apartment she was sharing with at least two kids, her daughter and her daughter's boyfriend. Gina was a tiny, mousy woman who moved quickly, but gingerly, as if she didn't get to where she was going soon her back would snap in half.

Her life has been impossibly hard. She didn't have much to begin with then lost her husband when she was in her late 20s or early 30s. She raised a pair of daughters alone, worked every crummy job a woman with limited education and resources could get to support them and it never got any better.

"My parents helped some," she said. "His did, too --and my Grand dad."

She never got over the loss. Gina has mourned her husband these last 25 years and struggled like a fly caught in the web of a very fat and very bored spider. Cancer is just the latest in a long line of insults and injuries leading to her eventual end.

The last time I saw her was before Halloween and I didn't have particularly high hopes of seeing her again. It's one of those unfortunate things I've figured out about driving for cancer patients. By the time they get to needing someone like me to get them to their appointments, they're on their last legs. Their support system of friends and family has failed. They're usually broke and you can feel the fear and hopelessness rising off them like an awful heat.

Gina seemed spry when I met her, but I didn't expect her to last through Christmas. It was the type of cancer, the round of treatment she was on and of course, because she needed someone like me to get her where she was going. I was delighted when I got the call.

"Yes, I'll go. Yes." The details hardly mattered. I'd have taken her to see the doctor at midnight.

In the car, she was all chatter. It was cheerful, but miserable. Her daughter and the boyfriend were in the middle of a move. They had a house they were renting a few blocks over, but she wasn't sure where it was or if she was going right away.

"I might go stay with my other daughter for a while." But they'd been fighting and things were tough with the daughter she was living with now. She felt like she was contributing, but the daughter and her boyfriend kept borrowing money.

"I don't really care about money," she said. "I don't have much and I have stayed with them some." She smiled. "But I watch the kids, too, and buy some of the things in the house."

They always promised to pay it back. Sometimes she'd get a little bit, given to her in little amounts, handed over like spare change. Gina resented it and she didn't like that her daughter opened her mail.

None of them had much. Her daughter was often between jobs. The daughter's boyfriend worked mainly in fast food. He had a criminal record --something he did when he was a teenager.

"But he won't tell us what he done," she said.

The criminal record followed him everywhere. He couldn't shake it and nobody wanted to hire him, except burger joints and pizza places. He can't get ahead and he blows what little money he gets his fingers on.

Outside the door of the apartment there was a swollen trash bag, the transparent kind you sometimes see in restaurants. There were a lot of beer cans; more beer cans than soup cans, more beer cans than tightly tucked disposable diapers.

"He talks about going to school, becoming a paramedic --all kinds of things." She laughed. It was useless. "He's a big talker. He even says he's going to get that felony moved off his record."

She likes him and doesn't mind the money so much, but it bothers her that she doesn't know what it is he did. Gina doesn't know who her daughter is sleeping with. He won't tell them.

On the way back from the doctor, just a consultation, where they kept her waiting for an hour and a half, she points out houses where she used to clean and one place where she used to take care of an old man.

"He had Alzheimer's," she said sadly, like that somehow might be worse than what's happening to her. "Over there." She pointed. "That's where a man was shot."

It's less than a block from where she lives.

She offers me the money one last time before she grabs her purse from the floor and bolts for the alley and the icy steps leading to a battered door closed tightly against the cold.

Bliss: The High Cost of Livin'

2011-01-07T11:36:00.001-08:00

When I was nine or ten years old, I got into the beginning of my petty larceny phase. I was a pretty lousy kid: stupid and envious. Our neighbors coughed up money for their kids whenever they seemed to want it. They had all the cool shit (Swimming pools, HBO, decent bicycles, Atari) and got it for nothing, while most of my spending money came from mowing the lawn in the summer and shoveling the walk in winter. Allowances were occasionally started and frequently discontinued due to lack of interest on one or both sides.

After school, one afternoon, I got the bright idea to go looking for cash around the house. I'd found some spare change in a coffee can in the basement and this led me to think that there might be more hiding around the house. Eventually, the search led me to my mother's jewelry box.

Inside, I found was a few dollar coins. They seemed pretty cool to me and a dollar was real buying power --or so it seemed. It all went inside of a week. I ended up spending them on ice creams at school and two hamburgers at a high school football game. I can still taste the tang of the institution grade concession stand yellow mustard. I didn't even get cheese.

I was immediately found out. My parents didn't give me a lot of money and wanted to know where I was getting the cash to spend it. I lied and lied as much as I could, but they asked me to show them what else I had. That's when they saw the remaining coin.

My mother was heartbroken. I remember her going to her room, looking in her jewelry box and weeping. My father was furious. I was grounded. I don't remember for how long, but it wasn't nearly long enough. I got a lecture, was told I'd have to make restitution and his parting shot before he closed the door to my bedroom was, "It's a lucky thing for you that your grandfather isn't here to see this. He'd have been ashamed."

My grandfather had died a year or so before. I'd adored him and Dad was right. It would have hurt.

In the dark that night, I fell apart and eventually, fell asleep. My mother didn't talk to me for a couple of days and my father didn't want much to do with me either, but I did my time. They more or less got over it. Eventually, it was deemed I'd paid my debt to society and I forgot about it --only I never did.

I've been carrying it around with me for decades --the guilt-- and in my mind, this was my first real crime. This was the one that made all the other stupid and idiotic shit I did possible. It made it okay for me to go along with bad ideas, scheme and do things I knew were wrong. I mean, if I could screw over my mother for a few coins, then why not?

I've never been good with money. For a long time, I thought it was just because I was unlucky or because I made stupid decisions. The main thing is it has taken me years to understand there's more to money than a numeric value. Money is not just cash. It's part of someone's life. Sometimes it represents time and energy traded --almost always at a poor rate of exchange. Other times, it's hope for the future, a balm for relief.

I never asked my mother why she saved those particular and very odd coins. I don't know what they meant to her, but I knew what taking them away meant. I was less than what she hoped I'd be. I was less than what she deserved.

As I've grown older and reflected on what I've learned and what I should have learned, I have often come back to those coins. A few years ago, they started falling into my hands --Eisenhower dollars. I thought fate was helping me make good. I figured the coins were valuable by now and I scarcely have two pennies to rub together half the time, but I refused the spend them. I waited and waited and waited and hoped the others might show up.

Today, I quit waiting. I went to the little coin shop downtown. It reminded me of someone's basement. When it was finally my turn, I said, "I'm looking for Eisenhower dollars."

The guy behind the counter shrugged and said, "I have ten thousand of them. How many do you want and what year?"

I took out a piece of paper. Written on it was a list of the coins I had: 1971, 1972, 1974, 1976 and 1978.

"How long did they make them?" I figured I could start buying the missing ones. If they weren't too expensive, maybe I could have a complete collection in a couple of months.

"From 1971 to 1978," he told me and my jaw dropped.

The old guy halfway sitting in the floor added, "Except 1975. They did the bicentennial coin for two years. There is no 1975."

I had two bicentennial coins.

"How much for 1973 and 1977?"

He counted it up. $1.30 for one and $6.90 for the other, but he didn't take debit or credit cards and I didn't have my checkbook with me.

"That's a pittance," I told him and he seemed insulted, but he was willing to hold them for me while I went to the bank.

I ran. I ran down the street, got 20 bucks out of a machine and all but sprinted back.

He took my money, handed the two coins over and I gushed the whole reason why. He could care less, but I think he got this wasn't about collecting for the future. It was about me trying to buy back a small piece of my past.

They go home to my mother tomorrow.

Eat prey live

2011-01-06T13:41:00.001-08:00

My youngest and I have been looking at a book called, "1001 Things To Eat Before You Die." He's 5. I'm 40. We both look at the pictures and wonder, "What the hell is that?"

Mostly, we just flip through the pages. Occasionally, we stop and I read a description. Often he laughs at the funny-sounding words, which I'm about fifty percent sure I'm mangling. Despite the English teacher influenced diction, I've got a country boy mouth (not a "purdy" mouth, mind you, but a country mouth). I sound like a idiot when I try to order in restaurants by anything other than the number.

"Yes, I'll have the number four. Thanks."

Others in the book are easily pronounced, but might look like the aborted fetus of a German Shepherd... and they're fruit. We look, we laugh and I tell him I'd try it --if somebody offered. He says the same.

Neither of us would ever hold the other to the pact.

Actually, I'm pretty game for anything --minus the more vermin-like game such as possum, raccoons or muskrat. I don't much care if they taste just like chicken or beef or an orange slushy, I am not consuming them --unless it's the annual critter dinner and then you sort of have to or look like a total square.

I also don't like Brussels sprouts, but my son's tastes are even more particular. He prefers for his food to be unnaturally colored and preferably made by time traveling cyborgs.

Anyway, we look, we laugh. Last night's big find was "Black Scabbard Fish," which looks like an old belt with eyes and teeth. I would totally eat the thing, if offered, but I'd never buy it --unless I was looking to ward off neighborhood children.

This morning, as I was driving back from the gym, I considered the Black Scabbard Fish one more time and pulled into the grocery store. It occurred to me that I didn't make a lot of resolutions for 2011 --just some general guidelines. The first one was to follow my bliss. Part of what makes me really happy is trying new things, doing what I haven't done, going where I've never been: new experiences. There is hope in the new, I think, but each new opportunity, sadly, is for a limited time only. No rain checks.

Nothing new seemed on the horizon, but instead of passing by the grocery store, I stopped in and looked for a couple of things to take home --things I haven't tried or maybe have forgotten I've tried. I picked up a couple of pieces of fruit --nothing spectacular-- two golden kiwis, some baby bananas and a melon-looking thing I think is a papaya.

It seemed like a step to me. Grow a little bit. Go someplace new. Follow my bliss --even if it's at the end of a fork.

Blood: New Year's

2011-01-05T08:02:00.000-08:00

New Year's eve and the plasma center was jumping. Up front, at the desk, the two techs working the counter looked hectored and weary. The lobby was half full. New bleeders were coming in and the center was closing its doors in about an hour.

Newbies are extra work for the staff. There is a whole half-hearted screening process they have to march them through. They have to get them weighed and measured. They have to get them to read things --though most people just thumb through it and go along with whatever gets them through the door and gets the money train started.

It's one big hassle for the staff. Boo-hoo.

Anyway, I am now a regular even though nobody calls me by my name. It's always William, no matter how many God damned times I say, "just Bill" or "Bill would be fine" or "I like being called Bill." Formal names are probably easier for them. It's like referring to a car by its make or a refrigerator by its brand. There is no emotional investment. It allows them to care that much less.

I put up with the forced anonymity though a couple of them do check to see what I'm reading (note to self: for the new year, time to bring some really fucked up books to the Plasma Center and see if we can make the milkers squeal). They look but seldom ask and usually glaze over if the I don't say something like, "and I thought it was even better than Dan Brown's last book."

Things went fine. I got processed to the back in record time. The whole place was motivated: Don't try to understand 'em, just rope, throw and brand 'em... There was booze to consume and booty to shake. It's New Years!

The milkers in back were harried but positive. It was a short day. The music was playing. It was Electric 102, the plasma center's favorite radio station. Ke$ha was singing about how my love is her drug while Randal was busy putting a needle in my arm. Call that coincidence? I don't think so. That is karma.

Unfortunately, Randal speared the vein and a process that should have taken about 50 minutes slowed to a crawl as the machine began sucking whatever is in between your veins. When the machine isn't getting fed. It beeps. It makes an annoying noise and everybody starts looking at you like, "What did you do?"

The floor supervisor guy noticed after a couple of minutes and tried to fix it. No luck. He brought Randal over and together they discussed the problem and tried to fix it together. No luck. Finally, after about an hour and a half and only 2/3 of a bottle, they cut me loose.

"Since this wasn't your fault, you still get paid the same." The floor supervisor guy handed Randal the bottle of my life-giving fluid and they sent me to the window.

The giant dude running the cash register wasn't having any of that. As soon as Randal told him it wasn't my fault and I was supposed to get the full amount, he got defensive and loud.

"No, he does not." He pointed to the sign on the wall. "He knows this."

The sign basically dictates prices for when things go wrong. If they get less than half a bottle, you only get ten bucks. If you give more than half, but less than a full bottle, you get fifteen. The least they can send you home with (other than zero) is five bucks for just poking your arm and getting nothing.

"Art said he gets the full amount," Randal said.

"Art should learn to keep his mouth shut." He looked out toward Art. "I know he's the floor manager, but he doesn't know what happens here. He don't control this."

Randal nodded. The giant was throwing a fit over paying me another five dollars because Randal speared the vein and the donation was screwed up, but he wasn't going to have a pissing match over five bucks. I wasn't either. I didn't give a shit. I had places to be and plans of my own.

Randal mouthed a silent apology while the big guy started entering the information into the computer. His supervisor came through the back door. The big man looked up from the computer and began angrily explaining what had happened, how the floor supervisor had decided this donor (meaning, me) was going to get the full amount because it wasn't the donor's fault and he ought not to be doing that.

The supervisor nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with what he said up until he mentioned that it was not my fault then he said, "Art is right. He gets the full amount. The policy was put in place because we had people who wouldn't agree to a second stick or whatever to complete a full donation, but demand we pay them the full price. If it's not his fault, he gets the full amount."

Everything got quiet. The big guy sort of gathered that he'd just made a royal ass of himself. He looked at me then tore up the check he was about to give me and entered new information into the computer. He was obviously flustered and angry.

He never said he was sorry. He never said he was wrong. He handed me the check and said, "He still shouldn't be saying that stuff on the floor."

I can appreciate the guy's predicament. His turf had been invaded and his feelings were hurt. Of course, I can't say I cared for this new level of detachment from what is being done. A dude is selling his blood. Something goes wrong. Even if you can't make good on the loss of income and time, just say, "Sorry" or my favorite bullshit apology "I'm sorry this happened to you." The guy selling the blood is human. He's a little down on his luck because nobody is coming to sell their blood because it's a good career move or it helps them get chicks.

It's about the money and it sucks.

But no apology, no even acknowledging that he'd almost unnecessarily cheated somebody out of five measly bucks. He printed out the check and pushed it across the counter.

I headed out. Outside the door to the parking lot, I noticed the check was for $31. He'd overpaid me by ten bucks. I turned around. The front door was closed and locked. I couldn't get back inside.

For about a second I thought, maybe this is his way of making it right. It didn't seem too likely, but either way, I cashed it.

Fraggle Rock

2011-01-03T12:27:00.001-08:00

Blogging and other projects are pretty slow going at the moment due to the damned fraggles. Another couple of days and I'll have this weird affair done.

2010 ended in the emotional equivalent of a hail of bullets. The car cost me $450. I got another note from the Tax department, which will mean more to pay out and I crept across the finish line exhausted, fearful and feeling alone.

But I have not come to grieve for the losses of one year, but to look ahead. Onward, we move. New Year's day, I worked on the damned fraggles, to finish that promise, but also looked at reworking that old novel I've been carrying around with me for a few years. I looked at an old version and began my first steps toward making it the book it should be.

I also went through the first few dozen pages of the literary agents book I have (a fine gift from my wife and much appreciated). I marked the agencies I thought could represent the book. There were a lot and I wasn't even anywhere near the middle of the section. It was kind of exciting.

Part of what has always hung me up, I think, are expectations. I expect things to be a certain way. I expect people to behave in ways that make sense to me, which typically suit my needs and wants. This is the kind of thinking that dooms friendships, marriages and jobs.

I expected a long time ago to be a successful writer by now, to be financially secure and to be a man of leisure --kind of the dream, I think, of your average aspiring novelist --money enough to write and not have to worry about punching a clock. Everybody wants to be Stephen King --probably Stephen King does, too.

Last year was hard. I've felt almost crippling guilt at times at how envious I was over my sister-in-law's book. She made it look so easy and it's hard not to feel like shit when everybody says how great someone's book is when you've got two manuscripts sitting on the same bookshelf and a bunch of rejection letters. I've really grappled with it, with what she's accomplished and with how when she mentions working on a revision or a writing problem, it doesn't quite mean the same thing as when I say it.

Part of me wanted to dismiss her success as as a fluke, a lucky break. It could happen to anyone, but that does a disservice to her. She had the right book at the right time, but she was also the right writer. In order for her to be lucky, she had to be good first.

I think we learn in starts and stops. I find my lessons in the weirdest places. Lately, I've been bitching about the fraggle project. I started bitching about it almost from the minute I started it. This was supposed to be easy, something to burn through that maybe a few people would like and would help me clear my head. I now have 40,000 words written and the damned thing isn't done.

Keep in mind this is a project that will never be read by more than a handful of people --maybe a dozen. It will never earn me a dime. I'd call it satire and parody, but nobody makes money on that kind of thing (unless it's porn apparently, that seems to be booming from what I read) and the fraggle's lawyers would skin me alive in court, I imagine. I do not believe it can or will advance my writing career in any way. It is an epic time waster.

But here's the thing, it's been fun. I've spent many hours lost in that despicable world I've created and filled with not particularly admirable characters. There is no pressure to try and be good, though it would be kind of a joke if it accidentally turns out to be sort of good. It is pure creation and a joy --even if it's about the damned fraggles.

I have no expectations. It will be what it is. Maybe I could learn something from a fraggle.

Housecleaning

2010-12-28T09:04:00.001-08:00

This is just a quick update. There won't be much blogging this week since I'm currently writing my Fraggle ass off. Sheesh... and I just wanted to do this in about 20,000 words (we are now at 27,000 and not done). Ah well, we write until it's finished and then it's finished. No revisions. No corrections. Once the last word is "published," I'll be abandoning the Fraggle romance genre to do something else.

I'm guessing 2011 will be another rebuilding year. I have a lot of those. Most of next month, I'll probably work on my old book and get ready to send it forth all sparkly and new in February. I'm still not ready to go back to my snakehandler story. Maybe sometime in February, while I'm anticipating the rejection letters and hoping for just one "yes" I'll pick that back up --or maybe not.

So far, my list of resolutions and plans for 2011 is staying pretty modest. Part of me has lost the will to give a shit. I'll keep going to the gym because I like to and because it feels good. However, I'm not making a lot of plans to travel or do things because that never works out. I really don't want to deal with the disappointment that comes at the end of twelve months when I look back at another year spent penned in my cubicle.

I'll continue to go to the library and take chances on different topics, different authors and if they dazzle me, great, but I'll still read a fair share of comic books.

I'm not making plans to make more money because one of the great truths of my existence is there is a very specific sort of thing that happens when I make even a little more money: new expenses crop up just as soon as I start earning even a dollar or two more. It's like fucking magic.

It is my lot to remain broke. The daycare center will always raise their rates just when I get a raise at work. My car will always break down and cost me $200 when I have $100 in my savings account. I will always be behind on the bills no matter how many weeks I go without taking a day off. There will never be enough money and every purchase over six bucks will come with a cold feeling the size of a grapefruit in the pit of my stomach.

This is my fate.

Still, I am going to follow my bliss, chase the things that make me happy, which is what I do already. I'm not really expecting to be any happier than I am right now. I have reached my median range of joy and happiness. This is it. I must take joy in the conflict and the struggle because there is no goal line. There is no touchdown dance or thousands of screaming fans waiting at the end. There is no Superbowl ring.

I am meant to slog, to work until the second before I die and to repeat the same routine until I can practically see the future.

Fraggle Love

2010-12-25T05:33:00.000-08:00

For those of you who aren't one of my Facebook friends or are wise enough not to keep up with every single goofy thing I do, for the last couple of weeks I've been working on a novella. I kind of needed to do something since my previous writing project has stalled out for now.

This new thing is a big change of direction.

It's satire based on an occasional running joke of mine about vampires and werewolves and other fantastic elements in romance novels. I figured if vampires, why not muppets? They're no less ridiculous a creature to fall in love with. Vampires are animated corpses. Muppets are animated dolls made from felt and yarn. Both are hollow inside.

The plan is to release the novella in chunks over the next couple of days. Day one is today. I even created a special blog to house the thing. You can visit it here.

To be sure, it's rough. There are probably continuity errors, writing errors and storytelling errors. The book was sort of vomited out. I apologize in advance for the mess.

I do not apologize for the profanity, the vulgarity or the crude sexual situations which will arise.

And to be clear, no, this is not a new literary direction for me. It's for a laugh. I'm a writer. It's what I do. Anyway, if you're interested, check it out. I'll be updating it over the next couple of days.

Merry Christmas.

Walnut

2010-12-16T13:06:00.000-08:00

There is something almost spiritual about cracking walnuts. I don't mean the thin-shelled English variety you get at the grocery store in the cellophane bag. You put two of those in your hand, squeeze and nine times out of ten one of them breaks. You pick it apart, devour the heart of it and move on.

No, there's nothing spiritual or thought-provoking about that, but black walnuts... those motherfuckers are tough. They challenge you. They confound you. They demand your attention and if you want what's really there, you have to work for it.

First, you have to collect them from somewhere: off a farm, from the backyard of an elderly relative or in the middle of of the national forest. Nobody grows black walnuts deliberately any more --if they ever did. They're messy. In the early fall, a big black walnut tree rains down baseball sized fruit that dent cars, lay waste to picnic tables and will brain a dog too dumb to move its lazy ass out from under it.

You have to seek them out then gather them up and wait. You have to keep them away from the squirrels and the chipmunks. You have to hide them away from the spiders and centipedes, the maggots and the beetles. You have to wait for the hulls to turn black and greasy. You have to wait until they're juicy and rotting before you can do anything with one. You have to wait until just to hold one in your hand means your palm and fingers will look dirty for at least a week. The stain of a black walnut is as good as ink and it smells of decay.

From what I understand, the pulpy mess is poisonous --not enough to kill you, though I doubt anybody has tried --but enough to make you wish you were dead, enough to make you God awful sick.

To get at the nut, you have to peel away the slick, poisonous hull and extract the gore covered pit. Each time, you're witnessing something being born, watching something new being brought into the world.

The hulls are discarded. They dry in the sun and turn to dust. The nuts you clean up as best you can or you don't. Well-meaning guides suggest you should wash them, like you're cleaning off afterbirth, like the damned things need to be polished, like they can be turned into sparkling jewels. They are not jewels.

The exteriors are rough and gritty. They will remain that way even after they are eventually broken apart, but there's something attractive about them. They're durable and the ridges on the shell are like runes.

It takes a while for the nuts themselves to dry. You can put them in a window box and let the sun do the work. That is the old, country way. I put mine next to a heating vent in my house, in a box that used to hold copy paper. A month later, after a cold snap and all the color has gone out of the hills, they're ready to harvested.

They make contraptions for cracking nuts. At the grocery store, you can buy a simple hand cracker for a couple of bucks. They're shiny and impressive. The good ones can also be used to break into lobster claws --or so they claim. They're also useless when it comes to cracking a black walnut. Likewise, the nutcrackers kept in the heads of dolls are useless, as are a wide array of gadgets that promise they are up to the task.

I bought one of those --a Texas two-step-- twenty bucks on Amazon. It cracked two nuts before it warped so bad it couldn't be trusted to crack a peanut without crushing the fingers of the person holding it.

In the end, I settled on an old wooden stump, a couple of study nails driven halfway to the head into the slatted top of the wood and claw hammer. The crude design reminded me of something I'd seen in a Foxfire book. It was an inaccurate representation of a better idea, but serviceable. The nails held the nut in place, kept it from rolling away while I brought the hammer down.

It was a learning experience. Some of the nuts exploded when you hit them --too hard. Others were like tapping on the side of a battleship --too soft. Every now and again, one would break perfectly in perfect fragments where the oily meat inside could be gently dumped out in gorgeous chunks.

However, it hardly mattered how much force I put behind each individual stroke. You could not read the nuts by looking at them to tell how much or how little effort was required. Sometimes a gentle tap did the job. Other times, you had to pound the living hell out of it and you still got nowhere. Every once in a while, regardless of the time, the effort or the expectations, the inside was empty. There was nothing to be had, no matter how hard you tried.

Cracking walnuts is therapeutic. It's hard to think about trouble, the unpaid bills, your broken heart, when you're swinging a hammer down on a little hard nugget and trying very hard not to pulverize the thing. The whole process requires concentration and luck. It is a meditation. It is a form of prayer and like all prayers it is answered by an indifferent other that will only give to you what there is to give. It will never be enough.

Blood: Birthdays

2010-12-14T09:27:00.000-08:00

I reached a milestone last week with the plasma donation. I've donated 50 times, which at one time was going to be my stopping point. This means I've been at this for right at 6 months.

I've gotten past relying on the money. It never gets figured into my budget. I have stopped counting on it, stopped cashing the checks the second I get them, but it's still nice to have the extra few bucks around --just in case.

But I feel like I can start planning to quit. Once I'm done, I'm done. I'll get the tattoo and that will technically finish me off --though as I've learned, short of shooting up in the lobby, engaging in anal sex with a Belgian male prostitute or eating a hamburger that says "Made in England" on the wrapper while the staff watches and takes pictures, there isn't much that would actually disqualify me from donating, provided I don't tell them.

I'm always learning about the ways you can be disqualified from donating --the ones they don't ask you about but are hard to hide from.

"Somebody is having a birthday," she said.

"It's not me," I said and she smiled. She had my chart. Of course, she knew it wasn't my birthday, which would be a pretty miserable way to celebrate --though once, I did sort of plan to do that, but didn't.

"No, it's not your birthday," she said. "But we do something special for birthday people and for when you hit 100."

I knew I'd just crossed 50.

"What happens?"

"Oh, we give stuff," she said. "Sometimes it's a water bottle or one of those drink cozies."

However, sometimes, the gift is a kiss off.

"We had a client come in on his 60th. We really loaded him down with a t-shirt, a gym bag, the water bottle, the whole thing." She seemed sad. "The company changed hands a few months ago. They won't let us take anyone over the age of 60. So we gave him all the stuff, then someone had to tell him he couldn't donate any more."

So he came in for 20 or 30 bucks and left with a t-shirt, a gym bag and a water bottle --along with the message, don't come around here no more.

I hoped the guy needed the money less than I do. Odds are that wasn't the case.

Open casting call

2010-12-10T11:03:00.001-08:00

Well, as part of my new "let's help other writers" thing, I'm starting on the basic level. If you're a blogger who reads my blog and want to be identified with me, I'm willing to add your blog to my blog roll.

Not everybody wants this. Some people dig the sordid, car-wreck-in-progress posts that I occasionally conjure up, but wouldn't want their name attached.

Others might be fine with it.

No big promises that this will increase your traffic. I blog because I like to, not because I get a lot of visitors. 5th Column still gets waaaay more than me, even on old posts. If you've been here before, you know I don't really host a forum that leads to a lot of discussion. Comments are welcome, just not really necessary --I mean, what do you say to a guy who spends money he earned selling plasma on a Christmas tree?

What kind of lights are you going to use? I just don't leave a lot to work with.

Anyway, if you want me to add you, I will --provided your blog isn't about promoting the master race, toppling the government or gathering people to do things that would lead to felony convictions. Everything else is mostly fair game, I think. I'd prefer local, but whoever is interested, I suppose, is good enough.

Just send me a link to your site.

pennies: mood ring

2010-12-09T07:31:00.000-08:00

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been grappling with a couple of personal failures and rejections. The most significant has been the loss of a couple of friends.

Nobody died. They just went away.

A couple of months ago, a friend of mine called me from the road and told me she was through with Charleston and heading home to Texas. It was shocking and disorienting. We'd gotten close and I'd come to rely on her for moral support, as a sounding board for my writing and just someone to kind of get me out of my dull, gray brain.

Her own story is complicated and difficult, but the move wasn't entirely unexpected. She always planned to go. The timing was what was off. I just expected later rather than sooner.

A few weeks ago, she decided that things where she was weren't working the way she'd hoped they would. I really don't know what she thought, but she abruptly stopped communicating.

It scared me just a bit. In the weeks leading up to her dropping out, she'd filled my head with fears about old enemies, talk about a stalkerish new guy she'd sort of been seeing and even her own depressed state.

I imagined all kinds of things. I asked around a little and eventually found out that she was okay, but it hurt. I felt discarded and abandoned.

In the last couple of days, I lost another friend. This one, I've known for years. With him, it's the usual. We've always had a kind of adversarial friendship and snipe back and forth for laughs --sometimes to the point where it ceases to be funny and becomes kind of merciless. On some levels, we're very much alike. We have similar temperaments and ways of thinking, but I have a gift for cruelty. When provoked, I can be particularly hurtful and without really trying.

He can be a bastard, but he's really out of his weight class when it comes to me. I'm just that much more awful.

Anyway, I pissed him off --possibly because he pissed me off --and that was it. He cut me loose. It is probably for the best.

It may be that for my friend who fled to Texas, cutting me out was the best thing for her to do, too --to maybe cut some of the things that tethered her to a specific time in her life that just didn't work. Sometimes maybe you have to get rid of some of the old things to make room for the new in your life.

I've taken the rejections hard. Lately, I've been blathering almost non-stop about change. Well, there you go... change, right there. People change. Sometimes they change because they want to and sometimes they change because they need to. Sometimes it happens because of something you did and sometimes it happens because it happens and it has nothing to do with you at all.

I'm trying to find my peace with this. I've lost people from time to time, but I don't quit anybody. I do give them their space, however. Sometimes that's what they want in the first place --space away from me. I don't chase. I don't beg and I don't plead, but I keep a place open in my life for them in case they should want it.

Sometimes they do come back.

But not always.

Pennies: Resolutions again

2010-12-08T11:25:00.001-08:00

My resolutions are coming together slowly and the list to the side is growing. I spoke to a guy about them yesterday, a drummer as it happens, who told me he didn't bother with them. He also said that losing weight or getting in shape was never a problem because he's married to a personal trainer. When he starts getting fat, she lets him know. Problem solved.

This was not particularly helpful.

Still, my little coffee cup reminds me, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

At the library, looking for a copy of the Writer's Market for a friend --she writes erotic/pornographic short stories involving bondage, masochism, etc... and needs help locating magazines that might consider publishing, one of the librarians asked if I needed help. I didn't, but she seemed pretty unhappy to be shelving books so I shrugged and went along with it.

"Are you a writer?" She asked and I said, sure. I'm a writer.

"Are you?" I asked. She seemed pretty eager to help. She worked around books. She was human. All of these things contributed to the possibility that she might like to write.

She nodded. "I write science fiction and fantasy --but just a little."

"Lots of imagination," I acknowledged.

"Well, reality isn't as much fun."

I nodded, but thought that my friend who writes the porn is probably writing from her own experiences to some degree. Of course, not everybody likes sex or wants to be treated as a personal fuck toy.

The pope, for instance... probably... and maybe some of those guys on Fox News.

We looked for a little while and finally I explained what the book could do. It's a directory of where you could get published --if God loves you. She seemed interested, like maybe she'd wondered about that.

Finally, she located the book.

"Oh, it's in reference." She frowned. "You can't check it out. You can look at it, but you can't take it home."

Ah well, I told her. I can always buy it. It wouldn't kill me to buy something every once in a while.

As I was leaving, I remembered how many people encouraged me to write, how many people cut me slack or gave me a break. I've tried to do that with other aspirants. We are many. But I've never nailed it down as a personal policy. For 2011, it becomes policy. I still want to get published. I want that more than anything and I'm still going to try, but I can also do what I can to help other writers get read, too.

For my friend who writes the porn, I promised her I'd share my copy of the Writer's Market when I got it. I'm selling blood on Saturday. It should be enough to cover it.

blood: Oh Christmas Tree...

2010-12-06T08:12:00.000-08:00

"Why are you wearing shorts?"

Outside, snow was coming down like paper streamers. The sky was leaden and the technicians working the counter were appalled. Just looking at me made them cold.

"Laundry day," I said. This is my standard line when actually I don't much care what I wear on Saturday. It was enough to get my point through. They understood, but thought I was stupid for coming out dressed for a luau.

"You drove, right?" And I nodded.

"But I've got some errands outside," I said. "My family is getting our Christmas tree."

What I really love about the plasma people is no matter what I tell them I'm planning on spending my blood money on, they never flinch. Whatever I say I'm going to buy never seems weird to them.

"I've got to get my tree out of the attic this weekend," the technician said and checked my blood pressure. "I guess I bought it about ten years ago, spent almost a hundred dollars."

I nodded. "Sounds like you got your money's worth. The fresh cut ones run about 40 or 50 bucks. We go out every year. It's kind of a tradition."

"I like live trees, too," she said. "I just can't stand cleaning up the needles."

It is a common complaint.

"I don't mind the extra fuss," I said. "I wish they were cheaper, but we do pretty good. We always go with a budget."

In this case, my budget was exactly $52, the money from a single week of donating plasma.

We picked the tree out at the market. The snow was really coming down. I was still wearing my shorts. My youngest son found the tree.

"I like this one," he said and it looked pretty good to me. It looked pretty good to all of us.

I shelled out 40 dollars and bought a bunch of mistletoe to hang over doorways and to tie above the stalls in the bathroom at work.

Ho, ho, ho.