Back in black

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.

Bliss: Until Morale improves

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.

Extras

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

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.

Irish

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.

Red, Green, Amber

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.

Bliss: Glutton

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

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

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.

Bliss: The High Cost of Livin'

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

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.