I Want A Do Over

There are several congenital defects in the human heart. Their effect is immediately recognizable but their cause is undetectable. If you ask, women can swear with certainty that it is exclusively the fault of the Y-chromosome. If you ask, men will avow that there is a universal rash of behavior attributable to but denied by women. Unfortunately, one of the global symptoms shared by all of these defects is the need to find fault in others.

The impact is so pandemic while the cure so elusive that there is a general acceptance and surrender that belays discussion unless it is in private conversations or hidden in vague language. The philosopher seeks out its pathways; the artist explores it in verse, in lyric and in portraits. The great and the small struggle but find no solution. Those in pain find comfort in blaming everyone with whom they have come in contact. Those crippled or weakened may fight to regain function or find the struggle too great and succumb. Some observe the devastation which others have endured and steel themselves in an effort to prevent circumstances the opportunity to incite the condition.

But when and how and where the defects will present are beyond our control. It doesn’t matter whether one lives in solitude or indiscriminately socializes because, despite the observation that these are communicable, everyone is already a carrier. The same urges, instincts and longings drive us all with the only subtle difference being how far we are driven crazy.

This seldom stops us from asking, “Why?” I am asking quite a lot at this time in my life. The defects of which I am most curious are all about the stupefying insistence of human beings to deliberately dismiss one another. I have no real questions to the causes. I have no unsolved enigmas in the ways we conduct our malice. Where I have a lot of time invested is in why we won’t examine our resentments and bitterness to resolve them but will enthusiastically do so to reinforce them. The human race is determined to wile away its existence in futile passions.

[Insert record scratch, here]

I want a do over. I want a do over in nearly everything. That’s what made me drill down into the things that screw up relationships. I can’t get a do over unless another person gives it to me. That is the underlying problem in all human interaction. Nearly every conflict comes down to one person being willing to try again and the other person being dead set against it. This happens between nations and right on down to family members and is always foundational to a man and woman in conflict.

Historically in the majority of cases involving men and women it is men seeking the do over. This is not because men are solely at fault or necessarily the guilty party – except it seems that it is necessary as far as women are concerned. So it’s men making the pleadings for a re-trial in all of the “love” songs, romance novels, and movies. Seriously think about that. And, then also seriously evaluate that “love” appears to be something men want and women leave men wanting.

Yeah, yeah – Boo Hoo, I know. For all of the claims of women pining for that special someone no one is ever special enough. I am still going to contend that men are willing to work with a woman’s faults but women can not reciprocate. Women suffer a man’s faults. That is in no way the same thing.

The entire system is set up for a “woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” In other words, a woman will not be held to her choices, decisions, or indiscretions or be made to be accountable for her contradictory nature. Instead she is rewarded for being contrary by every aspect of the dating, courting, marriage and mating rituals. Be honest – there is a whole lot of expected ass kissing for women. Men are expected to be consistent, trustworthy, reliable, diligent, devoted – predictable. That is why a woman lashing out at a man for unsatisfactory (in her biased estimation) behavior receives what a woman believes to be her most scathing indictment, “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” If a man were to say this to a woman he would hear derisive laughter. A woman isn’t the same person within the same breath much more any extended period of time.

What this equates to is a performance-based system for relationships between the genders. It is a meritocracy whereby the man is a pawn. Love is purely conditional as far as the affections of the woman toward the man. He must make all of the proper moves in the correct sequence and even then never expect he passes muster. He will be doubted, questioned, taunted, mocked and deceived as ever the woman sees fit. The game is rigged. A man can do no better than finish and had better be damned happy and content with that. While she’s keeping the mystery she’s also keeping score.

By definition the rules guarantee that the man is constantly guilty until proven innocent. This becomes protracted to associate the onus of fault to be exclusively the man’s while the woman holds court as jury, judge and executioner. The extended consequence is that one party believes herself blameless and a victim due to her association with the man. When she tires of the game he is dismissed with a summary sentence of either, “I’ve outgrown you;” or, a personal favorite, “I don’t love you and I never loved you.” In fairness, the latter might actually be the closest to a pronouncement of truth to ever pass her lips.

So, knowing this is the game I still want a do over. I still seek reconciliation and whatever love she has to offer no matter how imperfect . What I want is the same acceptance that I offer her.

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Yes. It's big of me, too

There are some things about men and the things enjoyed by men that most women just don’t get.

As just a for-instance, the male predisposition to their fanatical devotion to a sports team immediately comes to mind as well as most references to the Three Stooges or the Marx Brothers.

Here’s a classic example with Groucho Marx, as Captain Spaulding:

Captain Spaulding: “Well whadaya say girls? Are we all gonna get married?”

Mrs. Whitehead: “All of us?”

Captain Spaulding: “All of us!”

Mrs. Whitehead: “But that’s bigamy!”

Captain Spaulding: “Yes, and it’s big-a-me too.”
- From “Animal Crackers” (1930)

Margaret Dumont, was in seven Marx Brothers movies and publicly confessed to having never understood their humor on or off the set. I find myself in a similar baffled condition with the current exploration of polygamy. I’m curious to know how women feel about the attraction such an arrangement might or might not hold because I’m scratching my head about this as a man. I don’t know if I am more disturbed or intrigued.

The cult under investigation, in Texas, is not the first time the media has taken more of an amused than sober look into this issue. Several years ago there was a gentleman that took advantage of a parcel of land at the intersection of four western states. None of the surrounding states had ever staked a claim to the territory and this enterprising individual built a homestead to accommodate his fifteen wives. Seeing as no state owned the land then no state regulations forbidding polygamy applied. He also took the presumptuous position that since he was not in a state, per se, he was not bound by federal laws, either. That’s an amazing pair of huevos on an hombre happy to take on fifteen women and the United States at the same time. These fifteen women were very similar to women interviewed on a recent Oprah exposé of a Utah community of polygamists. The dozen and a quarter wives all seemed quite sane and quite satisfied with their arrangements. In the case of Huevos Grande, all of the women were well-to-do professional businesswomen – the majority being doctors and attorneys. This completely flies in the face of public expectation. I, for one, imagined most women in such a relationship were “married” at nine years of age and then never allowed to be exposed to the public.

Boy, do I have egg on my face.

But there’s more. Mrs and Mrs and Mrs and . . . Mrs and Mrs Huevos slept in dormitory-like arrangements. I’m not kidding. They slept in bunk beds, four women to a cabin.

Wow.

They also had a calendar of chores with each woman taking turns in a sort of Sweet Sixteen rotation. I don’t know if they wore nametags or had a number branded on their persons to keep things organized but the share and share alike carried right on up to whose turn it was to sleep in the “big bed.”

You see, apparently, polygamists insist their intimate times are wholly monogamous. These men are just your average one-woman-at-a-time kind of guys.

How Do I Phrase This?
The Chinese are a very ancient and wise culture. Their written language is very informative because they use simple symbols combined in unique ways to express complex dynamics of their speech as well as human thought. They are very direct and blunt, as a result. Their expressions have been honed and refined over thousands of years. Do not question the wisdom of the Chinese. An example is in order:

This is the character for a tree:

木

Combine two or three trees and, logically, you have a forest:


The Chinese are very smart.

This is a woman:




Combine two women under one roof and you have Trouble:


The Chinese are brilliant.

Oh, Yeah. The observant among you may have taken note that the character for “woman” used in the word “trouble” looks just like the representation of “forest.” The character for “tree” has the general inference of “wood” and so is related to the qualities of something made of wood – among those: “rigid” and “numb.” The Chinese are insightful.

It would appear that the majority of polygamists innately understand the inherent dangers of only two wives. In the recent interviews that I have encountered the magic number of wives is three. So, officially they are trigamists. It makes monogramming the linens more difficult but seems to make everything else run smooth as silk. The pattern that I seem to be picking up from the few candid couples . . . No, quadruples (?) openly discussing how their relationships work is that there is the traditional monogamous marriage, first. Some time after the marriage is consummated and progressing along the normal lines there becomes a mutual desire of both the man and the woman for another woman. How does this meeting of the mons, er, minds occur??? I can not even begin to imagine initiating such a proposal without anticipating loss of function in several parts of my body thus making the whole proposal moot anyway.

It gets worse. It seems that the most likely candidate to interview for the position is the wife’s sister! This is mind blowing. Sisters are generally known to be close, but not all of the time and not about sharing the same guy. Let’s face it, sisters are usually quite competitive and there is always some psychological cruelty being exhibited from one to the other. No woman wants to follow the pack unless it’s to go to the bathroom. Women hunt alone. Women want to be an exclusive. What is going on here? Curiosity or proving you’re the “better” woman just doesn’t offer enough incentive. And for a guy to risk having more than one pissed-off woman to contend with defies rational explanation no matter how promising the sex. These guys must have evolved through the mutant DNA of the praying mantis and simply expect their heads to be chewed off after mating. Or . . . they have the instincts of a fox and have taken alpha dog to a whole new level.

The Buddy System?
Women are, typically, extremely territorial. So much so that I am surprised that most do not pee on everything they claim as a way to mark ownership. (Perhaps they do?) This awareness on my part has resulted in a few sadistic little things I enjoy in the developing stages of a budding romance. This occurs during that time where I am not supposed to be aware that all of the seemingly harmless and innocuous little out-of-the-blue questions she tosses my way are actually a calculated catalogue. But, I do know what she’s up to so I exact a small toll for such trolling under the bridge being spanned between us. During any quiet moment when she is snuggled up next to me and has taken fascination with my watch I will innocently “confess” that it was a gift from an ex-lover. If my wallet is a little tired or worn? Sure; why not? That was also a gift (even if it wasn’t). This guarantees me a delicious moment of spiteful pleasure and, within twenty-four hours, a few small gift boxes with new watches, wallets and other trinkets to replace my “old ones.” I have no say in this. No sooner has the new watch been unboxed but the “old one” is torn from my wrist, never to be seen, again. Although I have never tested this for any big ticket items like a big screen TV or a car I am nevertheless curious as to whether she would clean out my garage if I could persuade her all that stuff had sentimental attachments . . .

Knowing this about the nature of the creature I think I might pay a hefty sum of money to a polygamist to learn the ways of the master. After the introductory lessons on “What is the sound of one hand slapping” perhaps I would receive enlightenment. Deadly sushi as a steady diet is still too advanced for me. But what is beyond comprehension for me is this: The third woman to join the happy trio seems to be the guy’s office crush. I don’t know how this happens, either. These seem to be guys that routinely say “Yes’ to the fleeting thoughts that go through men’s minds to which one would normally opt for “No.” Where does, “Hey, I love you but you’re sister’s interesting, too,” and, “Oh, there’s real chemistry with a co-worker . . .” ever come into the conversation of a married couple?

Wait! I think the explanation is starting to gel for me. I want to say this slowly so that I don’t lose the concept while articulating it.

These men have brought home playmates for their woman’s multiple personalities.

Rather than turn and vent on the husband the wives can either commiserate or brow beat each other into compliance. The beauty of this revelation is so eloquent. This is an epiphany! I am beginning to be illuminated by the profound nature of this discovery. It’s so elemental; so perfect. It is the Art of War applied to marriage. This is astounding! The enemy of my enemy is my friend becomes the husband of my sister is my friend’s husband is my husband. I am in the presence of genius. I need a moment . . .

It explains everything. In the interviews the men and their wives all assured the audience that these multiple partnerships were not about the sex. The women were so peaceful. They seemed content, at ease, fulfilled. They had their children and their daily routines and their husband and each other. They also seemed fairly affluent and lacking in none of the suburban niceties Americans use to define normalcy. I tended to believe them. It’s a tag team. The wives don’t have the normal domestic frustrations because they essentially have wives, too. Many hands make light the work, don’t you know. And they can definitely relate to each other. When they’re complaining about their husband they don’t have to wonder if they’re being understood. And talk about peer pressure! Who wants to be the wife that can’t hack it and threatens to leave? She’d be torn between letting down her friends and losing position among the wives. Wow; a psychological choker chain.

Hmmm. But, it’s not about the sex? I can see this, too. One wife either draws the short straw or actually happens to be in the mood. Either way, the husband is pacified and the wives return to their business with as little disturbance as possible and no hard feelings. The other thing that was fascinating with these families was the number of children. It is not an exaggeration to say each wife had at least seven children. This is where they looked like Stepford Wives because all of them had their wits and figures about them despite the constant baby production. Yet, that answers another aspect I suppose. These women like being pregnant. These are households full of uterus (uteruses, uteri?) with an itch wanting to be scratched. Many men are adamant that they want families but not too many want large families, I suppose. I guess finding a willing guy with the “minor trade-off’ of a few other breasts to feed isn’t so bad. There are a few logistical issues here, too. Women in groups tend to get on the same cycle. You want to avoid this. So, I guess strategic impregnation keeps the clocks set to different times. And pregnant women are horny women. You polygamists are sneaky devils!

Still, this leaves questions about how children raised in this environment sort it all out. Do the moms as well as the kids have secret suspicions that dad has favorites? With so many step-siblings there have to be some brother/sister crushes and other weirdness. And the chain of authority is hard to follow. Does each mom receive the same respect and obedience? Do the wives wear uniforms with stripes denoting rank? There have to be situations where a mother does not appreciate another mother disciplining her child. When a child calls for mom how many answer?

This calls to remembrance a discussion my ex-wife and I had concerning a friend. He had lost his wife to cancer and had two young daughters. This man was a fantastic father and raised his daughters, alone, for several years but he was a virile dude and wanted a lover and a mother for his kids. For a short period of time the sister of his deceased wife came to visit. My wife and I immediately noticed that there was attraction between the two of them. Such a complicated situation really had the two of them at odds as to what to do. You could visibly see them struggle to not allow their feelings to be expressed. It was agony. My wife nearly broke my ribs to get me to shut-up when I suggested that the girls might have to start referring to her as “Aunt Mommy.’ It was funny but captured the irony inherent in the situation. How bad is the Aunt Mommy problem in a polygamist home?

This post could go on and on so I’m going to wrap it up. I had tried to research to whom to credit the quote, “Once a king always a king but once a knight’s enough . . .” because it seemed anecdotal to this discussion. Unfortunately I was unable to certify the author.

However, I did come across some great quotes that could be dovetailed into my thoughts at several junctures. It would appear that, Woody Allen, has been quite prolific in the quote department on the intricacies of sexual relations. After his marriage to the adopted daughter of his lover I thought surely I would also find ‘Whose Your Daddy?” attributed to him, but alas, my search was inconclusive. So, I will conclude this entry with a series of memorable quotes.

"Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer sex raises some pretty good questions." - Woody Allen

"Sex between two people is a beautiful thing. Between five, it’s fantastic." - Woody Allen

"Sex alleviates tension. Love causes it." - Woody Allen

"Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go, it’s one of the best." - Woody Allen

"Sex between a man and a woman can be absolutely wonderful - provided you get between the right man and the right woman." - Woody Allen

"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.” - Tom Clancy

“You know 'that look' women get when they want sex? Me neither.” - Steve Martin

“I believe in putting women on pedestals . . . high enough to look up their dresses.” - Steve Martin

“There are a number of mechanical devices which increase sexual arousal, particularly in women. Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz 380SL.” - Lynn Lavner

“Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake whole relationships.” - Sharon Stone

“Women need a reason to have sex. Men just need a place.” - Billy Crystal

"According to a new survey, women say they feel more comfortable undressing in front of men than they do undressing in front of other women. They say that women are too judgmental, where, of course, men are just grateful." - Robert De Niro

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Saving for a rainy day? More like for a Tsunami

The economic principle is known as “Supply and Demand” but the world seems to be practicing “Demand and Supply.” Today I’m going to depart from focusing only on my own immediate pacification and look at the endemic picture instead. I don’t care if you’re money is in your mattress or if it’s in well diversified holdings, futures and investments – neither one of you has a pot to piss in. Believe me, that pot will need to be huge because you don’t need to be saving for a rainy day – you need to be saving for a Tsunami.

I say this because if you’ve bought into the world-wide financial pyramid scheme and your credit score number is higher than the actual tangible amount of money you have in the bank then you are so screwed. We’re not even talking savings or retirement accounts. Uh-uh.

The consumer-driven economy has spread to every corner of the globe. Now, regardless of national political agendas the common goal is to buy, buy, buy at always inflated promises on the return. There is only so much real “stuff” to go around. Perhaps you are familiar with the shortages in raw materials required to sustain industrialized societies? Let’s see, there’s copper (which is being stolen from public installations such as telephone and utility poles), platinum is definitely next as well as zinc. Oil seems to be popular . . . these are just the building blocks and sustaining components for everything we use and have become accustomed and or artificially dependent upon. There are other minor inconveniences such as food supplies that aren’t able to be maintained. Now, I am NOT among those that claim there are just too many people. I claim there are too many stupid people.

Everyone in this nation as well as every other nation logically wants the best of everything. Are you detecting a pattern? From the time a baby takes the cookie out of their mouth to steal the obviously better cookie in the other baby’s mouth the game is on. Do you really think the current downward economic spiral is going to correct itself? The apocalyptic answer would be, “Yes. Eventually.” I sure hope we aren’t waiting for that result. But, the collapse of a house of cards always comes to rest on very real ground of tested substance.

The world financial institutions are that house of cards.

Let's see - businesses pay employees who in turn spend their salaries in businesses and all of the above pay income into the government in the form of taxes. All exchange a currency whose value is established by the banking industry, regulated by the governments who set the value of the currency. This value is determined by evaluating the products and services of the businesses and setting a worth to each. That’s all somewhat obvious, yes? Well, it helps to squint a little more closely at the obvious every now and again. At one time there was a principle understanding that whether currency was in the form of tiny pebbles, or sea shells or gold coins or linen with the faces of world leaders, or a row of numbers in a ledger that there was something of globally recognized equivalent value – a real thing that was locked away for safe keeping which was represented by the currency. Everything in this system worked well because there was a built-in protection against abuse. Whatever was considered the treasure upon which promises of payment was based was of a known quantity. There was only so much of this good stuff. Everybody knew it. Everybody wanted it but understood there wasn’t enough to go around. The value of the currency had a fixed limit. Throughout history, whenever an individual or a government tried to misrepresent their worth by INFLATING the purported value they held it would eventually become obvious that they were extended beyond their true means and their accounts would only be CREDITED when they could prove they had enough of the good stuff with which to pay.

Many of you are familiar with a classic example - the hapless state Germany found itself, after World War I, whereby the nation was being denied the ability to get real value for their goods and services in a vengeful retribution by the victor nations. The perfectly understandable impetus for the treatment had been that it was necessary to prevent the aggressor an opportunity to use their industry to tool up for future wars. This became a blanket that cloaked the criminal, deliberate artificial devaluation of Germany’s goods and services. In other words, they were being robbed. In desperation, the German government printed more currency than they had real stuff to back it up and this inflated the price of everything only to drive the nation into deeper debt and devaluation. As has too often been the case, it took war to break the cycle.

Credit used to be difficult to procure. This was (and would still be) a good thing. But now the general mindset is that credit is an entitlement – not a privilege. Where did this change? I deliberately referred to the “financial industry,” earlier. These same entities were once known as “financial INSTITUTIONS.” That is a telling distinction. With the cultural shift in business away from producing a product to showing a profit the whole definition of industry changed. So now every imaginable thing became an industry – not just real things. Why? That is because real things have finite quantities. There are only so many real things to go around. If we’re going to maximize profits then we need to make more stuff. The reasoning followed that an infinite amount of stuff meant infinite profit potential.

Everybody could have everything they ever wanted!!!

Problem: Selling pizzas is limited to several things:

1. There is only so much stuff in the world from which to make pizzas
2. There are only so many places where it is possible to make pizzas
3. There are only so many people that want a pizza
4. Pizza is only wanted a limited number of times.
   

Solution: This all changes if instead of selling pizzas you are selling stock in that pizza! You are no longer selling an actual product but the belief in that product. As long as you can create interest you can sell an intangible concept for an actual exchange of currency and make that all important profit.

This concept is a perpetual motion machine. The problem is that perpetuating motion requires constantly refueling the engine. Oops. There is only so much real fuel to feed the imaginary machine.

Everyone wanted the promises made by investing. Every nation and business and institution bought into the ride. Everyone ignored the fine print which said that the possible gains were not guaranteed but the losses would be real. Everyone extended themselves by believing that the perpetual earnings of profit would increase the imaginary value ahead of the very real inflation. Now there are lame efforts to stop the bleeding and dump more money into perpetuating a fantasy.

For the senior class in my Baby Boomer Generation this has all worked out very well; for the junior, sophomore and freshman underclassmen – not so well. The oldest members of the Boomers invested well and invested wisely and then pulled their theoretical profits out of the stock market in the form of very real assets for their very real retirement. Those assets are not coming back. With real there were only so many of them. Also, the Boomers worked when products were real, too. They manufactured and sold physical goods. They also had the benefit of a very real and very large customer base. Consumers of the same status and fiscal strength were there to purchase the real stuff. There is not much real that is made in America anymore. This includes people. Birth rates continue to decrease and workers grow old and die with none to replace them. Instead, the concept might originate for something in the United States but the real product is manufactured in a “developing nation.”

We are no longer developing. Meanwhile, other nations are desirous to have what we have. They’ve figured it out, too. They have industrialized and look like replicas of what we were a hundred years ago. They also are modeling all of our real failures right along with our real successes. We were the largest exporting nation but are becoming a really large importing nation.

We are entirely dependent upon other nations for our real needs. It should trouble you that we do not even manufacture a man’s shirt on our own soil. Hathaway Shirts, started business to supply clothing to the Union Army for the Civil War. They were the only remaining manufacturer of their kind in the United States until they closed their plant about fives years ago. We don’t even make our own clothes!?!?! Aren’t you frightened?

We run to buy things at the most discounted prices possible and don’t even blink that all of it is made overseas. Am I being alarmist? Answer this concern of mine, then. You are aware that most retailers do not make a profit for the entire year until the Christmas holiday season, correct? Retail – by definition – makes no products but only sells those made by others. Yet, retail is one of the only growing markets in our economy. Meanwhile American industries announce their lay-offs and plant closures in that same season hoping to drown the bad news under carols and sparkling lights and offset the real impact on the imaginary stock market while consumers are drunk with spending. Spending beyond their real ability to pay on extended credit into the next year! So, here’s my question. The retailers make just enough profit to survive and pay their employees minimum wage. How is this infusing the economy in a healthy way? The bigger question is after displacing our own people from their jobs and sending those jobs abroad – How many of the Indian Pakistani, and Chinese workers (just to name a few) do their Christmas shopping over here?

It’s obvious that we need to save money wherever we can because we’re pissing it away on gourmet coffees, off road vehicles for one person to commute to the office, spa treatments and gym memberships because we don’t physically work a day in our lives. So rather than perform some honest day of labor in (god forbid) a factory, or growing a crop of grain or doing real, productive work we spend fortunes on How-To seminars and erectile dysfunction pills. I’m so glad that we have our priorities straight and personal gratification comes first.

Rather than deal with anything having to do with self-control and denial of greed and excess we would rather turn our attention to the “feel good” diversion of the day to get the onus off of us and somewhere . . . intangible. (The flavor of the moment is global warming.) As long as we do not have to really do anything personally to correct a problem, only “contribute” . . . We’re good! The more enormous and beyond anyone’s scope to actually fix it – the better.

We have one answer to everything at present and that is, “Somebody throw money at it and make it go away!” Our money is no damn good, people. The stock market is not a bad thing – that’s not my point. The stock market is not real. It’s the literal representation of a bill of goods. There is no secured value behind the numbers. The very institutions established to police greed got greedy themselves. There is no real value behind any of it. The worth is inflated beyond all proportion. Stop worrying about the bubble bursting and start looking at all of the hot air being pumped in to try and avoid the inevitable collapse.

There is a very strange hush all around the halls of government and investment houses and any other venue where money is the business such as insurance companies. If this were a horror movie this would be the eerie silence just before all hell breaks loose.

We paid too much for the pizza; and, the real estate, and the jewelry, and the no interest until next year. We demanded it and “they” supplied it. We and they just happen to be the same person. None of this will stop itself unless we stop it. It will not continue if we don’t stop it but the spin we’ve been fascinated by for so long is becoming unstable. We don’t have enough energy to put into the top to keep it going and it’s getting wobbly and about to take a wild path before it grinds to a halt.

Here’s another example of what has my attention. Three of the largest suppliers of oil, outside of the Middle East, are nations with serious cash deficits. They do not have real resources to back up the expenses they will incur producing oil. They will pass those expenses onto every barrel of oil they produce. The projected impact is that a gallon of gas will climb above $5.50. Stop to consider that oil is also used in plastics manufacturing and chemicals and other products. The fuel to generate electricity will raise the utility bills further of industry and individuals. Just a small for instance: The cost of a bottle of aspirin will climb dramatically because of the cost to produce its plastic bottle and run the automated equipment that makes the product.

No one is in a position to stop using cars, trains, buses, trucks and airplanes. We can’t stop using electricity cold-turkey. We need to keep producing food, shelter and clothing. But everything else that we could give up (but won’t) will suddenly look very stupid compared to barely scraping by to afford to go to work. Now, don’t think that “the senseless war”, or however you refer to Iraq, is stopping you from enjoying better oil prices. The history of the oil producing nations has always been to maximize profits when the demand is the greatest. Guess where we are? Oil is a commodity. The demand is very desirable to build into your commodity to ensure constant and ever increasing demand. Look at something as totally needless as diamonds – yet how desirable and expensive those little pieces of nothing always are. As long as people want something they will pay to have it. The only time somebody wants most things is to know they have it instead of everyone else. Sad; Isn’t it? How angry are you when someone else gets the parking space?

The economic melt-down has come to a full boil and it’s only a matter of time before it erupts. If you are living on credit or in a house that is over valued or have insurance and investments tied to imaginary money you’re in for an awful series of losses. I am living a very austere lifestyle that includes deliberately denying me a few things. It isn’t all wonderful but it is designed so that I don’t lose things that I value more. You know – real substance. I don’t think things are going to get better anytime soon. I would like to do better than barely survive.

Too bad most won’t do what needs to be done. How am I so sure? Let me introduce a concept that will get immediate chortles and giggles . . .

Abstinence.

Ridiculous, isn’t it? You immediately think in terms of avoiding sex and oh how absurdly funny that is. No one could do that. No one would do that. That reaction is why my argument has already been proven. To abstain is nothing more than to not participate. The prevailing attitude of the day is that one should not have to make such choices. We don’t want absolutes. There is no good or bad. No right or wrong. No good or evil. No one wishes to have any restrictions or limitations placed upon them and absolutes need to be dismissed to achieve that goal. We want no constraints and show no restraint. It’s pathetic and it’s weak and it’s beneath our dignity but who cares about dignity when we demand respect? We want what we want when we want it. We refuse to be denied. Little annoyances like being told that supplies are limited only apply to someone else.

What a load of crap. Because of such “thinking” we can’t quit smoking without a chemical pacifier. No one is responsible for their personal problems – instead it’s somehow a public spectacle and a corporate obligation. Nobody has the balls to stand alone anymore. I don’t mean shoot their mouth off; I mean take a stand on principal. Do we have any principles and values that are still based on something real?

One thing is undeniable about abstinence. If you don’t participate in something you don’t suffer its consequences.

The world has substituted opinion for truth. That may not register with you immediately. Truth is one of those nasty absolutes that are denied to exist. If you live in denial you will eventually be confronted by reality but you will not be prepared for the encounter. Don’t wait for someone else to fix this mess for you. Do whatever you have to, now, to make sure your cards are on the table and not up in the air with the gathering storm.

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WHAT? (Oh . . . THAT)

It’s story time, children. Everyone get cozy and make yourselves comfortable. Today, Uncle Grumpy’s gonna’ tell you about how I got this permanent scowl on my face.

I have been beaten so severely about the head and shoulders for so long that I am practically numb to almost all stimuli. The helpful passerby that takes time out of their day to point out to me something about my life of which I seem to be unaware mistakes my catatonic state for disinterest. They do not recognize that my apparent oblivion is an attempt to recover through deep coma.

Now, for many years Uncle Grumpy wasn’t grumpy at all. There really wasn’t anything to make me discontent. Mostly, I led a charmed life with very little to complain about and very little that didn’t seem to go my way. I had several nice jobs and sort of fell into one great situation after another. I was a bit of a wunderkind watching my star rise and my ideas realized as real products and successes. I had friends and lovers and was surrounded by creative people and the energy around us was electric.

This made me very lazy as well as ill equipped to handle real adversity. Of course, academically at least, I knew no good thing lasts forever and surely some unfortunate things would eventually come my way . . . I just didn’t expect them all at once.

It is a curious thing but something I long ago accepted that I seem to be approximately seven to eight years ahead of the cultural curve in my interests as well as any profound change for either good or bad that comes along. I don’t really have an explanation for this. For example, in 1980 I was neck deep in the computer industry while it was of no interest or concern to the general public. I fell into a company of über geeks that made the central office switching networks able to transmit digital information before people knew what a modem was. I had an interracial marriage in the 80’s and so on. Then I also experienced all of the fallout before most other people. I’ve gone down with the ship with start-up companies, failed to maintain my own sole proprietorship(s), been through a bankruptcy and foreclosure and the loss of my home and credit. I subsequently lost all of my security clearances and ability to stay employed in high-tech fields and had those same bad credit scores used to filter me out of contention for even menial labor jobs. I’ve received the full benefits due a white, middle-class, male that is now down on his luck - because no government sponsored assistance programs were ever designed for me – just paid for by my taxes. So, I am overqualified for everything for which I apply unless I surrender all remnants of a desire for self preservation and become homeless or sneak into Mexico and then sneak back disguised as an illegal alien. I’m not being coy or funny. This is real, folks. Take what I have to say seriously, because if my trend continues – as it seems to be in the housing market, right now – you’re all next!

Of course I also realize that the general whiny nature of my blog posts and the candid, full disclosure of my life will do nothing positive for me from the perspective of any spin doctors out there. Oh well. I’m not trying to paint myself in any light other than that of cold, naked truth. The confessions of a forty-six year old, divorced, man just climbing out of the loss of everything is not an attractive candidate for an interview or a date. I am, however, more than confident I will survive and eventually thrive. That’s the point. If I do not honestly confront myself and my circumstances I’m a fool. By putting myself out in the open like this I can’t hide. Neither do I want to be immune to the hardships of other people so I want to learn from my situation, get past it and my self-absorption, and contribute my energies elsewhere. The only problem is that somewhere between screwed and screwed some more I became Uncle Grumpy.

Out of the blue, I became aware that I could very quickly regain some credibility and credit history by completely re-thinking my career pursuits. I had never dismissed other professions as unsuitable for me but never thought I had the necessary skills or a way to get my foot in the door. In a quantum leap from one career path to another I am now a long haul truck driver – sort of. I’m supposed to be but I have not been on the road for a little over two months and counting. Why? I had some sort of medical hiccup that has not been duplicated or revealed in any tests but as a matter of public safety has kept me home. I laud the concerns for the public well-being. The issue now is simply a lot of CYA behavior and general half-assed efforts by those responsible for deciding not only when but if I should be allowed to drive. No one seems all that concerned that I haven’t earned a dollar (only spent hundreds of them) this entire time. They are jerking me around without any end in sight while I am sucked into the darkness.

If I were even the slightest bit concerned that the event which put me in this situation could happen again I would not be trying to drive an 80,000 pound vehicle. So, I have been playing an infuriating game of telephone tag and even after sitting in various doctor’s offices until they provided more than lip service to my plight the game goes on. My company has been extremely patient but how much longer can that honestly continue?

Well, last week was supposed to be the thrilling conclusion to all of this because my personal physician signed a paper authorizing my return to work without any medical limitations. Yeah!

Then I went to the company provided physician as a mere formality to be cleared to drive. Rah?

Again, you may wish to take notes because my story might become your story. It just so happens that the newest trend is for forty-something year old men and women to become truck drivers. The demand is enormous and the opportunities are really good. Good, that is, if you can get a doctor to return a phone call. My visit to the company doctor was looking great. I had no concerns about the drug or alcohol screening tests, I had blood pressure, vision and hearing results within the acceptable guidelines of the Department of Transportation – so, no problem, right? Of course not. Boo!

The paperwork asked and I answered that I had ONE incident that had required an emergency room visit and after two days of observation and thorough testing showed no abnormalities.

That confession has turned into a limbo contest to see just how low my finances can go.

The company doctor won’t sign off until he gets a report that covers his ass(ets) and makes the decision someone else’s for me to go back to work. I have hand-carried paperwork back and forth and made countless phone calls. No one makes any effort to contact me preemptively or proactively and it has traditionally required two hour dialing attempts before successfully speaking to a human being – usually a clerk, at each doctor’s office. Of course, the poor clerk is in no position to offer any assistance and only makes appointments and apologies. That means that I have no more assurance their memo will reach the doctor than if I left a voicemail message.

As of today I was informed that the company doctor was not in and that it was only last night that he reviewed the information my primary physician had sent over. Then the voice of surprise on the other end of the phone informed me that the doctor was not satisfied with the report and needed more information. Why am I in the middle of this? I should not be the liaison for the exchange of medical information between two doctors. Also, why did I need to make the call to find out something someone should have known was their duty to call me? Yes. These are rhetorical questions as anyone that has had to deal with any “professional” in business well recognizes. I am stuck in the middle of a major cluster and it’s only important to me because I’m the only one being hurt.

Uncle Grumpy would love to tell you that all is well that ends well. I can see this story is boring you, children. Your eyelids are heavy and your heads are bobbing so I will wrap this up.

After the requisite two hour attempt to contact my primary doctor’s office and follow up in getting a sufficiently complete report the poor clerk informed me that my doctor and his staff will be out the remainder of this week. For those keeping score at home that means that it will be a minimum of six days and probably seven before I may contact my doctor to even beg for the information "Dr. Jerk-off who wants to hide" claims to be awaiting. By any miracle I may finally persuade the two doctors to communicate directly. But, I doubt it.

So, children, if the knife in Uncle Grumpy’s chest looks painful just wait until you see the one in my back.

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Women SUCK - You'd think THAT'D be a GOOD thing

Reader Advisory: This is going to be one of those ugly, the gloves are off posts. To what I hope will be the majority of the female population - the ensuing observations won't apply. If you get offended then consider that it does apply to you; and, to everyone else - it definitely applies to you.

I use a convenient (ie, cheap) email provider that costs me nothing except that logging into and out of the service forces me to view a whole series of "articles" and insightful tidbits that are supposed to be designed to entice me. Most times I tell myself I am better off not clicking any of the links but like a car wreck, I just have to look. It's the electronic equivalent of the periodicals that greet you at supermarket check-out aisles. I understand the target audience and that all of these little hooks are hoping to reel in the female and gay consumers because that's where the majority of purchasing decisions are made. Men might corner the market on beer, chips, and pretzels and the other end of the extreme - one-time, large ticket items like a mid-life crisis pacifier but the real money and the majority of print advertising is elsewhere.

So every couple days I bite. I'm just as interested as many others in ways I might improve myself or enjoy a paradigm shift that will allow me to be more savvy or popular or get my teeth their whitest. Why not? Some articles are obviously for women by women and I know that going in. Those are read with the intent of seeing how close to or far off the mark I currently am in juxtaposition to the collective female psyche. It's a sort of mile marker on my journey through life. I'm OK with those articles. But, there is an entirely other series of subject matter that somehow always swings back to a galvanizing theme and it is those sorts of articles that have me looking for appropriate real estate for digging my shallow, mass grave sites.

These articles fall into what I call the "Three T's." In essence, they are always about the same thing no matter what the article is titled. That would be: How to Tempt a man; How to Trick a man; and, How to Teach a man. Of course these are also able to be combined in all sorts of titillating ways. After all, how many articles can one have on such subjects? Why as many as one may have for diets to stack beside the number of "sinful" dessert recipes, of course.

In two of the most recent gems that I read women were informed how to use their stuff to full advantage to get what they want. I always enjoy these articles the most due to the blatant hypocrisy. Here you have the misunderstood and, unappreciated martyr that is woman; an innocent soul with untapped potential that has always been taken for granted and ogled for her fleshy bits throughout the ages, taking notes on how to be ogled for her fleshy bits. Then there are the superwoman bitching articles. These are very hard for me to find amusing but what I find fascinating about these articles is they are always being preached to the choir. The only other soul that gives a damn beside the woman filing the grievance in the article is another woman that already agrees. Such columns aren't generated to open discourse between the sexes. They are designed to venerate the author. If anything it is an open campaign to foment ill will toward men. Ill will toward men is very popular.

Such cowshit is in great supply these days. And Ladies, I know it's unfathomable to you but cowshit smells just as bad as bullshit.

Do you really want an honest man's perspective? An honest man would and should be noticeably angry in the face of the current crap women are throwing his way. There are so many contradictory claims being made by women that a mirage has more substance. Most men try to jump through the hoops and learn the rules of the game to be with you. There are actually quite a few men that want more than sex - not something other than sex but more than sex. (Sex is really the ONLY thing men get as a reward for putting up with YOUR shit. Deal with it.) But, every man has his limit and eventually you will cheat at the game or change the rules one two many times and first he will stop playing and ultimately he'll be gone. For each man the limits are different but the limits are always there. A man in love will overlook as many of your faults as he can. That doesn't mean that you don't have any. Yes. Women have faults. Little itty-bitty ones and great big ones. I know for most women that will be a revelation.

If you're at all bright you will recognize that if it's a man you want in your life then it's HIS opinion that counts and not that of Cosmo or your girlfriend's or even a lot of your own opinion. I don't expect you will effortlessly take such a radical idea at face value. Too bad.

Let me give you a snapshot of the "modern" woman from the male perspective. (Insert appropriate mood music in background, say, "Wannabe," by the Spice Girls . . .)

Involvement on even the most surface level with the modern woman is like a hostage negotiation. A list of demands is painfully extracted and then the waiting game begins. There will be no direct communication and the woman expects to exercise control. There is no promise of a successful negotiation. There probably will be casualties. There definitely will be misunderstandings, threats and irrational outbursts. The man will be forced to admit wrongs have been committed that if not by him, personally, certainly by men at large. The woman will defend her choices and behavior using the wrongs done to her kind throughout history as ample justification - and the man would know this if he weren't, by nature, an insensitive bastard. All efforts to meet the demands in any reasonable way or reasonable amount of time will not go well for the man. He will be accused of dragging his feet or being insincere. The demands will change without predictable cause and effect. The woman will secretly make calls to her friends on the outside for guidance. It doesn't matter that her friends are not concerned with facts and are only accepting her perspective. The man will count how many bullets he has left to use before turning the last one on himself.

It seems that most relationships are doomed before they start. They are if a woman has expectations so idealistic that no man can achieve them. What are those expectations based upon? It would seem that the acid test for a woman's choices is whether or not she is happy. How fortunate for us men that happiness is not something elusive and is so concrete and permanently available! It's a good thing happiness isn't tied into our emotions, hormone imbalances and circumstances. That would be a terribly poor choice of conditions by which to govern our lives.

Surprisingly the efforts of the last few generations of the pursuit of happiness for women have been heralded in very male-sounding military terms under battle cries all relating to freedom from sexual oppression, no more enslavement to the will of men, give me an equal opportunity to make an equal living - basically, get out of the way. The convictions that followed these efforts all promised that once women were able to function without obstructions and traditional roles assigned by the whims of men and their patriarchal societies that all of the human race would benefit from the undeniable superiority of the female approach.

How's that working out for you?

Women now comprise the greater percentage of degrees awarded at the Masters and above levels. The higher paid spouse in an increasing number of marriages is the woman. As I mentioned earlier, women are exercising more of the purchasing muscle and the decisions that determine what is purchased. They have power. They have influence. They have respect.

Women also have many more health issues than ever before because they have now equaled men in stress-related (to job) illnesses such as heart conditions, cancers and diabetes. They are trying to still be "traditional" mommies but also work traditionally long work days outside the home. Men don't have as much value anymore seeing that what they traditionally were used for has been replaced by women. So women are frustrated as much today as they ever were in their sexual relationships and finding a soul-mate.

Some have realized that it isn't enough to talk about how useless men are and to do something about it. So these women have elected to be single mothers where the only contribution from a man is a tablespoon of sperm. Rather than change the "barbaric male" way of conducting business women have embraced it and made it their own. And, now women can rightfully be proud that they've closed the gap in another traditional category - the taking of human life. Only women showed their superiority by using abortion to exercise their rights.

Are you happy, now?

Happiness is the pursuit made by selfish children. We are constantly told about the follies associated with the male ego. Well girls, you might think your cowshit doesn't stink and that's why it's so popular to spread it far and spread it thick. Women are incredibly narcissistic these days. The whole culture resonates with it. We are being swallowed up in it. Every pop culture icon is female. Every excess and hedonistic tendency is tuned to resonate with the frenzied passions of a diva-obsessed marketplace. We are a day spa away from Nirvana if you believe the media.

All that this means is that the pendulum has certainly swung the other way from when women were popularly portrayed as dim-witted, silly little things that were nothing more than amusement and capable of only performing menial tasks to be useful. Now men are regarded as simplistic, awkward, stupid and oafish pets.

Has anybody besides me had enough?

This whole goddess/princess trip that women have sold their souls for is a travesty. We were a pathetic, Me-first society. Now we're a Me-Only cesspool. No wonder relationships don't have a chance. Look, everybody has experienced the transition from falling in love with the "I'll do anything for you/Be anything you want" attitude. We learn the painful lessons that being someone else's doormat like that teaches us. We grow smarter but also colder and more aware of protecting ourselves at the expense of isolating ourselves instead. Have a little more value in yourself, Ladies. Really. I think that's what is behind so much of this. You don't have to sell yourself. You don't have to use trickery. Men don't need to be convinced you have worth. You need to drop the conceit and the deceit.

Don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. It isn't that women lie. Women become their lies. That's what so pisses me off about those Three T's articles. At the heart of it all women want to exert influence and control. Rather than employ brutish and confrontational methods you use subliminal, subtle, psychological ploys. It is not by accident that words like scheming and conniving are instantly identified with feminine articles. Everyone lies but only women have elevated it to a science. Men make up lies after the fact. It makes them incredibly vulnerable to discovery. Women not only pre-plan their lies but conspire with their female friends so that everyone is on the same page and their stories will match. Women know when they are going to lie and cheat and have a justification for why before hand. They are so involved in the perpetuation of lies that perception becomes reality and they believe their own lies to be absolute truth. These switches women possess to compartmentalize their conscious create frightening labyrinths. Invariably, a woman is going to get caught in her own web.

I have a daughter who is only thirteen. We are separated by a great geographic distance but I took a lot of solace in the fact we seemed so close, otherwise. A few weeks ago I became party to my daughter taking a fundamental step into womanhood. She knows my concerns about boys. She knows that I want her to be safe and not lose herself while getting her heart broken navigating through unchartered waters. I have no double standard in these matters. My two sons are being told that they have no right to treat any woman differently than the way I expect their sister to be treated. In light conversation I just casually asked if she were interested in any boys. For the first time in our relationship she broke my heart. Rather than tell me the truth she told me what she knew I would want to hear. She has now learned how to lie to a man that she loves by justifying her actions as in his best interest. I want to die. I shouldn't have been so naive as to expect her to behave any differently but it still wrenched something pure from me. What I'm asking is don't do this to yourselves or do it to us. No little secrets. No lies of omission. No veil of silence.

I used to think women only wanted something when they COULDN'T have it. Now, of course, I realize I was wrong. Women want what they DON'T have . . . Because of this they're seldom happy. There is always an unsatisfied hunger. You know it is funny in a really unfunny way that women seem to want control and authority but not the blame and responsibility. Men are still good for blame. Somehow there are supposed to be men that can rescue the I-can-do-it-myself princess. If any man gets close to rescuing her from herself then she runs like hell.

A fundamental difference between boys and girls is this: Boys live for the moment and aren't too concerned beyond that. Meanwhile, Girls are never content with who they are in the moment. When they are little they want to be big. As soon as a girl is old enough to convey any of the dynamics of human expression she is on a quest to demonstrate her mastery. It's another need for control. Boys are fun. Girls are serious. The fun element never leaves men and it's a good thing because that's what makes life tolerable. The serious thing, in girls, cascades and escalates into critical. Women are sold on the superiority of sobriety. The cost is high. They're not happy. Men accept that their contribution is to make women laugh. Women grudgingly "accept the responsibility" of "helping" men "grow up." So men grow out of the moment and into always looking to the possibilities of the future. Women are too occupied with the need to take care of obligations to catch their breath. They start to look back (with a critical eye) to evaluate everything in a historical perspective. "It WAS BETTER that way . . ." What generally happens is that neither Men nor Women are living in the Now. He's off in a glorious future and she's back where it was good. My favorite example of this is what I call "The Mirror Test." A woman looks into a mirror and exclaims, 'Oh, worse than I thought." A man looks in the mirror and shrugs, "Huh. Better than I thought."

It would take actual effort and discipline and maturity on the part of both men and women to live in and enjoy the moment. I believe it's called selflessness. I think everybody that tried this would be . . . well . . . happy.

Alright. I have filed my grievances concerning bad, terrible, awful women. I hope that even if I angered you that you realize I'm not picking a fight. I'm frustrated with how absurd getting along has become. As a peace offering I am trying to be candid - not mean or insulting. I was entirely honest. You might even have gained some insights.

As a public service I offer women some real truth and direct recommendations:

Any man you can change already lost your interest and your respect and isn't going to have anything to offer of any substance since you're calling the shots. If he doesn't come out of the box the way you like - keep looking. He's not going to change and you'll eventually realize that, anyway. If it scares you that you may never find the right guy then YOU have to deal with two possibilities: 1) You're afraid to be by yourself; 2) You need to change things about yourself or get some realistic expectations.

If men are really evil incarnate to you (and I know some do qualify) and you think women are better please consider the numerous truly miserable and even hostile and bitter lesbians that would be the alternative. Things are not always ROSIE . . .

If you are keeping score - you both lose.

If the sex is good but nothing else is then why are you settling for a below average experience?

Being vulnerable and open is an incredible personal risk. It's also the hottest, most irresistible thing a woman can do. Find someone where it's an investment and not a gamble.

Be Yourself. (Not like in women's magazines where even your own mother can't recognize you.) Really. Yourself.

Desperation leads to compromise which is just another name for lying to yourself and him.

Happiness is a choice - not a destination.

Expectations KILL. Not every kiss, cup of coffee, and moment together can transport you to an out of body experience. Despite the advertisements you do know even bath oils and candles can't pull this off. And they're supposed to. Right??

Get over yourself, first.

The Male ego is incredibly fragile and so insatiable for attention. - So? If you know things about men to be true what is the big friggin' deal about just accepting it and making a little space for it instead of putting everything important to him or about him that WON'T CHANGE out in the garage?

In a relationship try not to become a snake swallowing its own tail.

There is so much more and I'm sure something else will set me off in the near future. So expect this kind of saber rattling another time.

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My life do me like a MOTOWN song

" . . .

Hang ups, let downs

Bad breaks, set backs

Natural fact is

I can't pay my taxes

Oh, make me wanna holler

And throw up both my hands

Yea, it makes me wanna holler

And throw up both my hands . . ." **

My life really is a compilation of Motown songs. I can not delineate just how much is subliminal influence and how much is pure coincidence but I have been observing the signature impact on my life for some time.

Music is the underpinning to the core of my being. In fact, my epitaph (should they find my body or not merely dump me in a reinforced, plastic lawn bag) will likely be an old Elton John/ Bernie Taupin piece, “This Song Has No Title (Just Words and a Tune).”

Many people claim such an intimate link between music and their souls and some I would actually believe and acknowledge as authentic. Mine is certified. I grew up before digital music and also when people actually played instruments and wrote original material and did not merely sample someone else’s creativity. There was this thing known as A-N-A-L-O-G. That is significant on so many levels and I will give it its proper rant another time. Sufficient for this diatribe is that analog is a continuous passage of time. Digitized anything is a quantization which is a rate of bits and pieces with gaps and missing stuff. There is so much irony in how much stuff those born in the “digital age” miss and are not even cognizant.

Now, I am by no means a techno-phobe as I was personally involved in designing and introducing such products as . . . oh, the desktop PC and data over voice telephony that made the Internet far more real than anything in Al Gore’s imagined contributions. These are digital products. Some valid music has been and is being made with digital equipment and the sonic possibilities are remarkable. It’s just too bad no one has stepped up to demonstrate this AND, for the purposes of my argument, digital recording techniques lose too much in the translation from the analog world in which we live. This is not a lone, crazy man’s opinion. Recording studios are spending large chunks of money to find, restore, and adapt analog amplifiers and effects processors into their LED and LCD clustered studios to breathe life into their products.

Anyway, more to the point of this post is that I am so tuned into the music that usually within a note or two I know what the song is by the ambiance and atmosphere captured on the recording. I feel and hear the breath of acoustic instrumentation. I sense the dynamic coloring of the microphones used and to what recording media it was transferred. I just do. I am just a person extremely attuned to such things in my environment. I do this without deliberate effort.

I have the same awareness when I walk past a woman, by the way. From as far away as five feet I detect the pheromones being radiated from the back of her neck and know where she is in her ovulatory cycle. No cologne or anything else masks this from me. I just take note of it as casually as registering the color of her car if she were driving past. I have even told women that they are pregnant before they or their test stick knew it. This has been tested on several occasions by skeptical, female friends and colleagues. I have never taken advantage of this knowledge. If women have a sixth sense then I claim a sixth “scent.” Oh, to dissuade any women from being horrified about “smelling” (I know this is a huge area of fanatical concern for women to freak out about) Don’t worry. This specific scent is not offensive regardless of what day it is.

Relax.

As long as you are creeped out or even perversely intrigued I will share a few other bits of candor with you. I shave dry and pull off bandages meticulously and slowly. I also sleep with my eyes open and in such a shallow state of unconsciousness that I carry on conversations (which I do not recall when awake) in which I have been known to sit up and ask and answer questions. Now you know so much about me. Pleased to meet you. And, you are . . . r-u-n-n-i-n-g . . . away . . . hmm. Fine.

Somehow I will steer this back to the music.

All of this sensory perception is probably related to my Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactivity and a cherry on top. The things that regulate “normal” people’s thought processes do not work in my case. It creates all sorts of interesting possibilities for really poor human interaction. But it also makes me sensitized to things that the body usually has mechanisms for dulling the reception. That’s right – I’m calling YOU dull. For example, I can feel my hair grow. This is one of the recognized oddities associated with ADD. But as far as music is concerned these same failed mechanisms allow me to really sense music so deeply. I really also believe I am very sympathetic to the souls of the musicians and artists. It is just second nature for me to have a song lyric at my finger tips that is appropriate for whatever situation I encounter. There are often times where I will be examining my mood or trying to determine how something is affecting me and I will suddenly become aware of the soundtrack playing in the background of my thoughts. Invariably, my subconscious interjects what my conscious mind has yet to fully realize.

So since I am so trusting of music and the meaning it has for me I am taking a look at how dangerous that just may be. This has nothing to do with backward masking and satanic messages. There is, however, a very subtle power in the things expressed in music. Am I allowing too much influence? Many times I have heavy philosophical arguments with the stereo because of my strong reaction to either the real or implied intent of the lyrics. It is very easy to allow an idea that would otherwise meet critical evaluation “slip past the guards” because it’s packaged in a catchy tune. Now since my formative years occurred in the era just before AM radio ceased to be relevant I was basically weaned on the Beatles and Motown. Therefore my tutors in how to be a man and to face the world into which I found myself growing up presented my instruction in three minute bursts. The impact of all of my teachers was pretty much history by 1974. That means that between the ages of two (when I asked for and received my first Beatles album, in 1964) and my twelfth birthday I was immersed in the sage counsel of John, George, Paul and Ringo; Sam Cooke; Jackie Wilson; Smokey Robinson; Aretha Franklin; the Supremes; The Temptations; The Spinners; Gladys Knight and the Pips; Otis Redding; and, Marvin Gaye. There were other influences but these certainly predominate.

Consequently, I have filtered my understanding of life and love through the words and fisheye lens of the music I probably sing in my sleep. I know I sing it in the shower as I prepare to face the world each day. You know, if I examine this too closely I may well be horrified. Music is so personal and it isn’t hard to imagine that I have personified what I’ve listened to all of these years.

I became acutely aware of this is in just the previous several months. Just turning on the radio was too painful. Even before my marriage crashed and burned I had become depressed and stopped doing anything creative. I stopped writing altogether. I wouldn’t even pick up a guitar or keyboard. I just . . . couldn’t. At the time I could not account for this. After the divorce I sort of allowed for such behavior but had no insight. Music is so intimate but it isn’t exclusive – it’s inclusive. A song puts it all out there. Whatever the writer or performer is experiencing gets broadcast with the knowledge that they are making themself naked (meaning: exposed, vulnerable) to the world. It’s a desperate pleading. It’s a cry of anguish and for help and for understanding and recognition all rolled together. I realized why I couldn’t listen to the music. Music is to be shared and I have no one to share it. I would be begging to be heard by someone deliberately not listening. I couldn’t take the rejection. I couldn’t share my life with anyone.

I also recognized that I shifted from listening to viewing. I turned down the sound and started watching movies. Movies allow you to eavesdrop into another person’s world without needing to make a personal investment. You can live vicariously without living at all. I think it’s why pornography can suck the soul right out of you. You can imagine whatever selfish pleasure you need to without regard for anyone at all. You can reward yourself when no one else will. Then you can pretend you have some affirmation and solace. I now observe other people – synthetic people – actors – pretending to have romances and find love and live. Music allows no such voyeurism. You have to participate in music.

It is unfortunate that the music that shaped my thinking mostly involves pleas for forgiveness, break-ups and begging for second chances. But, that also happens to be where I find myself.

I ain’t too proud to beg, sweet Darlin’ . . . ***

Footnotes:
** Marvin Gaye - Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)
*** The Temptations – Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

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leave my MOTHER out of THIS

Today, is my mother's birthday. I was her first, her only son, and likely the bane of her existence. She has hinted at that in the past, even used it as a weapon in moments of exasperation - but, these days her maternal instincts have her denying anything but love and support for me.

I have no horror stories or psychological damage or scars for which to make her a scapegoat. She has just always been my mom. She made it such an effortless journey growing up.

She has incredible strength and a sharp mind yet a fragile self image. My friends always told me how pretty she was. Your mom isn't supposed to be pretty or ugly or anything else. She's supposed to be androgynous. Just . . . Mom. But, even I knew she was pretty and it wasn't only because she was a girl. My mom is one of the most beautiful people I've ever met. She's so funny and insightful and kind and patient and self-sacrificing. She also spoiled me rotten but . . . of course she did, she's a mom.

There has never been a day in my life where I doubted her love or felt estranged from her. I'm sorry for those of you that can't say that. But, my life at home was so secure - with both of my parents, that I have never been afraid to lend my parents to anyone that needs them. I have several friends who have lost their mothers or have very poor or no contact with their mothers. I could not be prouder of anything in my life but to boast that now my mom is their mom, too. She has a knack for putting people at ease and making them comfortable.

I never saw any conflict between my mother and women that I brought to our home. She didn't sucker them in by pretending to be friendly to them - she was always sincere and genuine. She didn't feel compelled to make a show of her dominance. Actually if anyone had cause to be uncomfortable at those meetings it was me. In a matter of moments the two "girls" would be sitting at the kitchen table with tea or something and I'd be sent off so they could talk. Somehow I would manage to find the best out-of-sight listening post (like they didn't know) so I could assuage my paranoia. If my mom took sides it was with the young lady across the table from her. Nothing about me was off limits in those conversations. My mom delighted in sharing every dirty little secret and insight she believed would be essential for that woman to know in dealing with me. You know, of course, my mom was too smart to actually take sides but the easy environment and trust she established with my dates was remarkable. Whenever one would visit they would naturally seek out and gravitate towards my mother. My mom could be their friend without losing any position as the matriarch. What I'm saying is my mom is VERY cool.

I think I'm a fairly decent son. That's about the only relationship I've not screwed up. But, perhaps that's mostly her doing? Our relationship has developed along all of the expected stages. As a child the world only existed in whatever atmosphere my mom occupied. In my very early teens mom represented gender for the first time. She took care of that issue in her usual candid ways. At the onset of puberty I was greeted with these words, "Can't you hide that thing??" And shortly after that she advised me to go get a girlfriend. Mom got all of the awkward conversations and situations. It was my mother that taught my sister and me about sex. It was my mother that asked the tough personal questions. It was my mother who had to develop a poker face so she could listen to whatever statements or confessions I made through my teens and into my twenties that she really would have preferred not to know about. It was my mother that had to endure a period of anger and rejection when I wanted to distance myself from her affection and apron strings and I really didn't need to be such an asshole about it.

It was my mother who allowed herself to always be transparent and vulnerable so I could learn and not want to be an insensitive bastard when it came to what is important to women. My mother was the ambassador to the totally foreign world of femininity for me. Sometimes that diplomatic immunity got stretched a little far as when she yelled to my date as we walked out the door, "Watch his hands!" But, she also let me in and included me in her world. I still love our discussions about her hopes and aspirations. I'm glad that even though we are more peers than parent and child at this juncture that I'm also mature enough to appreciate she is still my mother.

When you come home for a visit, as an adult, who else but your mother hovers over the bed as you sleep to make sure you're still breathing? Who else is convinced you can win no matter what? Who makes you keep going so that one day you have the ability to show her, "It's OK to stop worrying, now, Mom. I'm happy and reasonably well-adjusted. And . . . I love you . . . and you did a GREAT job."

Happy Birthday, Mom.

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I'm Estrogen Free! Ask Me How!!!

I have way too much time alone. Others would happily try a day or two, and perhaps longer in my place. But, I have never been the typical guy in looking to get away from it all. In fact, I generally look to get into it all. Besides, those looking on are not gaining the experiential knowledge of my circumstances. For example - when I have time then I have no money. When I have money then I have no time. Worst of all? When I have both time and money then I find myself depressed and I have no interest. The really "awesome" days are (you guessed it) when I have no money, no time and no interest. I spend a lot of those moments in asking what am I really living for in light of all this. My current life consists of seemingly wonderful attributes which many men have admitted to envying. These would include:

• I am single and not involved in any romantic relationships.

• I work in an industry where I travel all but about seventy-two days a year and am never in the same place more than a day.

• As long as I meet the deadlines my company ignores me.

• I earn a good income - My overhead and expenses are roughly one third of my monthly gross.

• Most people have no idea where I live and if my email and cellular telephone accounts were canceled I would be untraceable.

• My ex-wife lives thousands of miles away and contacts me very little.
  

On paper, I live an idealized lifestyle. What is neglected or forgotten to be mentioned whenever my friends review these "benefits" are the following:

• I am single and not involved in any romantic relationships.

• I am never anywhere long enough to enjoy a social life or make plans to even lounge around and watch a ball game.

• From my divorce, bankruptcy, and foreclosure AND IRS tax lien I am still in a financial hole with no tangible assets and nothing to call my own.

• I have two, male friends and my mother as the only remaining human beings that call me to take a vested interest in my well-being. I occasionally get a call from my children (whom I've not seen in nearly three years) but that's so depressing let's not delve into that any further.

So, for my friends who are wistfully dreaming to take my place I always ask them revealing questions such as, "How's your wife and the kids?" "What are you doing, tonight, when you get home? This weekend?" Or remind them that I can't work on any hobbies or much other entertainment as not much is portable to travel with me in a duffel bag. And I commiserate when they are struggling to figure out why their relationships are difficult sometimes without trying to always remind them that at least they have one to work out.

Then there's the sex thing. Even men have commented on the looming shadow my libido has always cast. One friend described my drive as, "a large house with a three car garage." Women who were merely acquaintances felt compelled to comment on several separate occasions that I would never need to worry about old age diminishing my interest. Sadly, they were all correct. But, that house hasn't been on the market for a while and it looks like I'll be the only one living there in my golden years.

And that brings me to the ego grinding elements of this situation. My pride has really never been comfortable with the whole "Man Needs Woman" thing. Maybe because I'm living in denial that it's primarily true but I think more because of the socially upheld insinuations that men are weak when it comes to women. There's plenty of supporting evidence but I refuse to be the poster child. Also, I very much resent the verbal slaps and inferences that whatever went wrong must certainly have been my fault and the vulture-like hovering of those waiting to watch me wither and die simply because I don't have a woman to save me. It is incredible how many women are slack jawed that I can take care of myself, prepare actual meals and basically appear to function like an adult human being; All while working without a net or the requisite feminine influence, apparently. For their sakes, and their psychological stability, I do improvise masculine sounding faux pas for seasoning when I tell them how I'm doing. Any woman that resents the stereotypes of the damsel in distress needing to be rescued by a man because she is helpless to help herself had better understand why what I'm describing offends me. While some of my favorite songs have a man professing his undying devotion to some heartless bitch who doesn't even notice what lengths he's willing to go to for her so he's compelled to spell them out - crawling, begging, working himself to death - whatever. - I'll be damned if that's going to be me. But, that doesn't mean I'm not damned already.

I think wanting a woman is a far more powerful message than needing one. I am not a player. I'm not after conquests. I don't have an agenda for collecting women for any reason from massaging my ego to any other part of me. I want to love one woman and I want to be married. That's it. From the time I was five years old that has been my ambition. Love is not a matter of chemistry, gamesmanship, bait and deception. It isn't a romantic wet dream. Love is an act of will. It is entirely volitional. I dare you to find anyone willing, however.

WARNING: I'm about to bore you with reminiscences of my life experiences with women. I'm doing this as a man that believes the last chapter has nearly been written on this subject for me - so humor me.

My history with women has been the catalyst for enjoying life but if you want to piss me me off you may ruin it by quoting, "Behind every successful man is a woman" and I might just smack you. (Show of hands - how many just wrote me off as having "issues?"). I was only five when I made the journey into my pursuit of happiness - girls. I grew up in the Northeast, in a major city during the 1960's. You could still safely walk to school, which I did in about twenty minutes depending on what caught my interest along the way. It took longer to walk home, after school however, because my kindergarten class had nineteen girls in it and I needed to escort each one to her door and give her a kiss. To think back now on what a curious sight this must have been really makes me smile. Also, the fact that as I arrived at each door that the other "Ladies in Waiting" would cluster together and await my return from the departing girl's front stoop is just so full of mysteries. That I thought nothing odd about this and that girls were so willing to wait their turn, as it were, is just amazing. There's a fascinating study in psychology and all sorts of other "ologies" bundled up in that. Needless to say it established a precedent that never caused me to pause and give much thought. I simply showed intent and they responded in kind. Only one of them took things a little too far. I still vividly recall the look of my teacher glaring at me while, Sherri, hugged and kissed me during story time . . . Sherri then sent me a Christmas card and I had no idea what tic-tac-toe X's and O's had to do with signing a card until my uncle explained it to me. I shrugged that off and a few years transpired where girls were the other creature that took up space in the classroom and of no other use until about third grade. There was A girl. Even to this day she is the stuff of wonder. Her name was Thordice Olafson and we called her "Disa." She had an older sister, Inga. They were from Iceland. She had a wonderful accent to her English and I was smitten. As you can tell she hardly left an impression on me at all. I barely remember any details about her . . . She probably set the archetype for my preference for brunettes with brown eyes. Sigh. She very sweetly told me she was not interested in me and her family moved over that summer. Thus opened my fascination with the irritating, whispering, giggling things with long hair and knowing smiles. I spent lunch with the girls and let them fight over me - well, more whatever candy or snack was in my lunch. I learned how to sit and observe and listen to all the gossip and "secret girl stuff" and I learned how to be funny and ate up every bit of attention they gave me. That's when I began drawing and writing and probably anything else that girls noticed and appreciated. I was addicted.

Junior high school was not as awkward as it should have been. Circumstances thrust me into a small, private school and I became popular because I had no competition. I started finding the few hidden "dirty books" my dad had in his closet. Found a copy of Masters and Johnsons and discovered not only was I not the first person in history to have an orgasm but about all sorts of strange and curious "practices." I had my first real girlfriend and she is another, like Disa, who makes memories about women nothing but sweet. The girls always initiated and opened the doors to new territories. I was just a willing participant and a quick study. My junior high girlfriend taught me about French Kissing and how exciting holding a woman is. She also taught me that a girl can convince herself and you she is madly in love with you one minute and be totally over you the next. Wish I had committed that knowledge to memory for future reference. My classmates were all reading romance novels, though, and I was too distracted by being told about their lusty dreams about me to learn any valuable lessons for life.

High school was in a different state with different rules of engagement. I was a nerdy guy with a big mouth who was on the fringes from day one. I transferred into the model for every high school angst movie that would be made in the 80's starring Molly Ringwald. It was a small population of very wealthy, ignored children of the leaders of American industry. I was a sophomore that no one knew and so was dismissed as a freshman with way too much attitude. It was a slow climb out of social leprosy and an even more glacial progress toward the female student bodies. There were so few opportunities for me to date that my father actually sat me down and asked me if I were gay. It didn't help that I had gay friends among the artists and intelligencia (of which I was unaware until they started professing their love to me) or that the few girls I did approach left no doubt they wanted nothing to do with me. I had one wonderful friend that had all of my same interests, was super sweet, filled out fuzzy sweaters like no one else and had long strawberry blonde hair. We wrote poems and shared our collective pangs of unrequited love. She was my greatest supporter and kept everything I ever wrote, convinced that I would be famous. We would show up at parties, alone, and ultimately find each other and spend most of the evening snuggled up in a chair consoling each other with promises that one day would dawn where our pining for someone to love would be over. We cuddled, maybe kissed but never pursued anything further. It is quite possible I was just too stupid to realize she was making herself painfully available to me. I couldn't. I loved her too much, if that makes any sense.

And, other girls finally started taking notice and I was too busy trying to take advantage to reflect on what might have been. The drought was finally over and I suddenly had some sort of grass roots reputation spreading that was making me a desirable product. The only thing that set me back after that was the fact I wanted to remain a virgin. A high school age guy that wants to be a virgin defies logic or rational explanation to almost everyone. I know. That's why I'm not even going to defend it. Suffice it to say that not every guy is after just one thing just like not every guy can't live without a woman.

No, Dad. I'm NOT gay.

This choice of mine caused two schools of thought and response. The first school was a group of baffled girls whose only experience prior to me was, "That's what you do. A guy takes you out and you put out, in trade." Some of these girls had been so deprived of any trace of love and only known the physical act for so long that my refusal short-circuited their wiring. The other school flat out interpreted my refusal to sleep with them as rejection. That, and the expense I would cause them in batteries. See, I was already looking for something that no one else around me at that age was: permanence and devotion.

This pursuit of mine was not something most were looking for as I moved into my twenties, either. It might explain why I found myself dating women mostly five to ten years older than myself as a consequence. I was looking to find my wife just as most women were shifting to the idea that wife equals bad. Being a virgin in your twenties, especially dating women who haven't been for quite some time, makes for very interesting situations. The truly odd dichotomy in my resolve was that I wanted to be a virgin when I married but I did not expect nor require that the woman also be a virgin. Again, I wanted to be a permanently married man and prove I was serious by what I didn't bring with me into marriage.

Did I succeed? Nope.

In another of those familiar situations where I followed along blindly in arrangements made by a woman I lost my virginity to someone who was merely curious if the experience would be any different (better?) with a virgin. Her curiosity being the only thing satisfied from the experience - she was gone.

Was I a victim? Certainly not.

That doesn't mean I didn't feel robbed and cheated. In fact, as I wrestled with my moral failure (during the very event) it was a numbing greeting when she looked at me and disappointedly exclaimed, "That was it?!?"

There it is. I somewhat succeeded yet all at once failed. That's my true history. After the virgin-killer I didn't sleep with another woman until I married in my late twenties. My wife was definitely worth the wait. But now she's gone. I have said in other posts it is not likely that she'll be back. But, just like the want to be a virgin when I married I wanted that marriage to last my lifetime even more. One other curious thing is that almost all of my relationships were ended by the woman and likely because of my inertia or unwillingness to accept its demise but I really don't think those are valid reasons. I found what I wanted by having those women in my life. But, each found that I wasn't enough for them.

I hold loyalty and love above all else.

I have not been with another woman in the over five years, since my wife left. I don't want to say that without a woman I can't function - but, I haven't felt like living since. When other women that I dated left I had a simple policy - "Don't think that you can come back." I meant it. But, a wife is a whole other thing entirely. I believe marriage is not revocable. That's what distinguishes it from all other relationships. For my wife (I mean, ex-wife) the door is always open and the light is always on. That doesn't mean that I am pining away and wringing my hands in her absence. But she's not replaceable and what left with her is conspicuously missing from my soul. If I didn't feel her loss I would seriously have to question my love for her. I just have no answers that solve any of the questions that I know to ask. And I have no idea what the questions are that I should be asking. I made a vow and I see no way that I can break it; even when I am so miserably lonely or turn to share something with her and remember she's not there. As cliche' as it has become, she is my best friend. I'm also not without some serious appetites for demonstrable affection.

There's another ridiculous female accusation for you - "Men are afraid of commitment."

Because of my commitment I am likely facing a life sentence without possibility of parole. I am bereft of the promise of any intimacy in my future. I am very much estrogen free out of necessity. I do not engage women in any conversation beyond polite pleasantries nor spend too much time studying their eyes or smiles because I don't dare do anything that encourages the slightest flicker in them or me. I am a very hollow remnant of my former hopeful self. I no longer have the benefit of my muses and going cold turkey from the influence of women in my life is the most empty thing I have ever experienced.

I wish there were an alternative. I don't know what to do. The vulgar answer would be to simply apply an estrogen "patch" and hope my symptoms abate but that has too many risks and complications. Besides - I won't cheat on my wife.

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