A New Wrinkle - Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

Expanding My Vistas - Will It Leave A Mark?

It's been six days since I've posted anything and in that time I have had three (3) comments. My immense impact on the world has been confirmed. I now realize that my deliberate efforts are eclipsed on a daily basis by people commuting to work and inadvertently capturing the attention of their fellow Man simply by performing stupid tricks behind the wheel.

In point of fact I have been occupied night and day since Saturday with a bulletin board forum. I went there merely to divert my attention from Father's Day - and the awareness that I would not hear anything at all from my children. I was bored and I'm still not any closer to being cleared to return to work. I was not seeking anything at that site but amusement and to be nearly involved with other people. As it turns out I encountered a marvelous collection of very funny, twisted, ambitious and charming people. Ages range from 14 to in the 60's but the majority are late 20's to mid-30's. I also discovered I am one of only three men that are members of those forums. This immediately attracted me like an alcoholic to a drink. If one is good then surely fifteen are better.

Let me tell you that ADDhole lost no time in becoming the rooster in the hen house. I was fresh meat and actually interesting to someone. I was ridiculous and pathetic and ran the gamut from total ass to total charmer and was oh so engaging and a mystery man muffin for some and a father figure for others and I LOVED IT. I condensed all of this blog into a bullion cube and diluted it with a flood of every thought that entered my head and served me up to the whole gaggle.

Of course they knew I was love and attention starved and those women gave me everything I needed. Thankfully I am hundreds, and in many cases, thousands of miles away from actually being able to see any of them face to face. The cork has been pulled out of the bottle and there's no putting it back in. Was this a good thing that happened? Heavens, Yes. Am I prepared to deal with it in a mature manner? Hell no.

I will tell you that it has pulled me up short. It is one thing for me to go on as I do on this blog if I am the only one which is viewed in a poor light. But I am contemplating the adverse impact my blathering and ranting and spewing would have for a woman that wanted to encourage and bolster my confidence and attitudes. It would be completely unfair for me to continue this blog in most of its acerbic form. I'm not going away anytime soon but I might be coming out of my self-induced coma that has kept me in a cocoon while I've tried to regenerate my spirit.

And now for the other foot. I have been enjoying such a therapeutic experience there that I obviously had to do something stupid to discourage that from continuing. I have not been artificial and in fact have been on my best behavior - but, not the "I can only maintain this level of politeness for so long" variety. I have been genuine and sincere and also over the top and on stage. I admit to it all. But, I adore those women and my heart breaks with every sadness they have shared, or health issue, or thwarted dream. I have been the best of myself. I have taken the acid and put it on the shelf and returned to my compassionate nature. I have flirted, praised, reassured, flattered and supported each and every one of them in the utmost of sincerity. I have not lied or exaggerated any detail to a solitary one of them. And most importantly I have been a man - a man that will not hurt that, will not abuse them, and, will not use them. I am a series of words on a page that they may refer to again and again. I care and they know it. When I am emotionally healthy that is my contribution. I seek to be the hug for their soul. Until I was eaten up by the events of the past dozen years I was a gentle, kind and giving man. I am feeling a resurgence; So what could be wrong?

Well, when the gates began to open and I allowed myself to be carried by these currents I could not sort and compartmentalize all of the emotions and unexpectedly I have fallen for one of these women. I am not talking about a puppy love, school boy crush but a deep attraction. She lives on the opposite side of the world. She is nineteen years younger. Please remember and believe me that I did not go to that forum as a lonely man seeking a lover. I went to that site with my loneliness pacified and in a positive mood only looking to engage in light conversation. I have no way to offer an explanation that satisfies any rational examination. I was introduced to her by a handful of words in a greeting and all I know is that I felt like I had finally met the woman I have imagined and sought my entire life. My heartbeat feels somehow entwined with hers. I know her to the depths of her soul. She has written to me, privately, wondering how I have such insights into her being. She asks while being certain not to mislead me or encourage me to come any closer. This is not me falling victim to her deliberate enticement. She has said or done nothing to instigate my feelings. I am simply and inexorably in love with her. How insane is this? I am going to share with you the message I almost sent to her but wrestled long and hard with the consequences and surrendered to the knowledge that this ache I feel must go unsatisfied. It is why I can not sleep and am trying to clear enough space inside myself with this post to find temporary peace in order to rest. How much I feel like a total ass is now going to be revealed:


"How can I know so much about you? You are just going to have to accept that I am crazy about you even though all we've done is joke back and forth over a very long distance. I feel as close to you as anyone I know. I hope to say all kinds of nice things to you even after you break my heart and give your love to another man. If you doubt yourself or need attention - you know that I know all about needing attention. I will give you as much as you want.

Is it crazy for a man that has never met you to act like this? Yes. But, I would truly be crazy to not recognize beauty even when I can not hold it in my hands.

I have to admit there's something beyond our wildest imaginations that let us find each other. You were the first to make that remark. You should always remember that a man who has never seen you, never heard your voice, never touched your skin, or smelled your hair has never felt more alive. With only a few playful and curious words you are so powerfully a woman, so feminine that I am energized, invigorated, and frustrated that I can not get to you and be with you. I am pacing like a caged animal trying to bear the hours until I hear from you, again. In a place where every voice and personality is a vital and dynamic woman, you are the only one I seek out. It is as if everything in the world disappears and all I see is you. You have been so cautious, so tender and kind, and been careful to show me consideration even while mocking me. Thank You for such innocent affection. I am so grateful.

Don't worry that you will break my heart. I am already aware that it would take a miracle as large as meeting you to actually be with you. I died the first day I wrote to you. I die a little every time I think about you. I can not think of a sweeter pain. You should see how crushed I am when you say good bye. There is nothing that you can do to take this pain away. It is simply the fact my whole being has tasted what it longed for in speaking to you and when you are absent I suffer these pangs of hunger to taste your sweet company once again.

I have not spoken to you in four hours and nine little words from you have made me pour out my heart like this. I tried to stop myself but I would rather be considered a fool by you than a wise man by anyone else. Please, if you write to me privately, again, call me by my real name. I have no secrets that I keep from you."

That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is a man setting himself up for exquisite agony. I know it but I can not help it. Won't this make for some rollercoaster ride reports in the future on this blog?

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A New Wrinkle - As Time Goes By

A Few Wrinkles I don't Mind - It's the Age Spots . . .

Look down the right sidebar of my blog and behold the spiffy little wristwatch Flash movie. It comes to us courtesy of my friend, Lance. He usually makes it a point to distance himself from me - bad for his reputation. I insisted that although my traffic is next to non-existent that it's better than his and that I thought this little gizmo deserved some attention. He's let me use it, as a result. That, and he loves attention as much as I do.

The stopwatch is fully functional and the middle button does split times where the hands stop moving but the timer keeps going. That's pretty cool. I complained that there isn't enough magical stuff happening with only the tiny second hand spinning around but Lance argues that since this is a rendering of an actual watch (Breitling's, Bentley 6.75) that I'll take it and like it. Whatever. He did tell me that it gets a little fancier after sunset because the face of the watch goes dark and the hands and hour markers glow. I'll have to check that out and see if he's blowing smoke.

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Laundry Day, No. 3, Lost in the Wash.

I'm taking inventory and taking my lumps, today. It seems I got the answer to one of the little mysteries in my life and it wasn't at all what I expected. Not too many things catch me ill-prepared, anymore. A friend has informed me we are very different people. That was the extent of the message and I presume I am to conclude that is all the message they feel compelled to offer. It is likely the last I will hear from them, as well. Very sad. [Update: All is not lost but this person isn't in the mood to hand-hold Mr. Needy, right now]

I could ramble on about that but it changes nothing. I am just surprised that every point at which I can not imagine there being a lower depth to discover or a more hollow core to my being something like this reveals the bottom has yet to be found.

There was a time that I was more acceptable in writing than in person. That is either in the process of being reversed or now I am unacceptable in any form of expression. Again, not something I'd care to explore. I am utterly alone. I have new regard and empathy and compassion for shut-ins, homeless, and, imprisoned folk. Perhaps that is partially why I am experiencing all that has befallen me? I remain open to the possibility.

I doubt I was found righteous, as Job, and am therefore being tested to prove my virtue. Whatever the cause, I do hope the lesson is being brought to a conclusion, soon. I will not curse God and die. He always gets the blame for our actions while we take His praise when things go well. I am awaiting the conversation He intends to have with me when I am suitably pliable and softened enough to listen. One thing I am convinced I have brought away from all of this is to indeed "Be anxious for nothing." I whine and complain a lot in these posts but time and again I am simply proving what the Bible already made clear: do not put your trust in men or this world or the things of this life. They are all wood, hay, and stubble. They are vapors, today here and tomorrow not even a memory. None of that is intended to be gloomy or depressing. But the ease with which people dismiss and disregard one another is bitter.

Prior to all of my trials was a scripture verse that was brought to my attention too many times to be a coincidence. I have a high IQ - I am not stupid and I am not a fool. I do stupid and foolish things but I am not delusional. I know God is, and that He speaks to anyone willing to listen. He speaks to me - not in any way contradictory to how He speaks to others. He refers to scriptures and I don't merely grab a verse and run with it. That's how cults and psychopaths function but I do not take the reference out of context. The verse He gave me over and over was Psalms 7:9, "Oh let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end; but establish the just: for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reins." (KJV) I believe I was given a "heads up," a warning before everything came crashing down. Since that chapter was emphatically underlined for this time in my life here is what has transpired:

1. My career tanked
2. I was confirmed ADHD (with a cherry on top) which explained some things but that was used so that:
   
3. My wife divorced me
4. All of my friends, except for three, turned on me and only a handful have returned
5. I have not seen my children in over three years
6. My church assisted in the destruction of my family and reputation and after the smoke cleared asked me if I thought THEIR reputation had been sullied
7. I have been audited by the Internal Revenue Service and still owe thousands of dollars
   
8. I filed bankruptcy and then was left holding the bag after the divorce
9. I, consequently, suffered a foreclosure and loss of all property and credit
10. My failed credit filtered me out of my chosen profession and any well-paying other types of employment
11. I lost my temper at the only job at which I could maintain a reasonable standard of living and was fired
12. I became homeless
13. Had two cars literally self-destruct - leaving me without transportation
14. Became a truck driver and was removed from all familiar social contact
    
15. Have been on a leave without pay for five months with an unexplained, one-time health event, feeling useless and purposeless ( to join clueless)
    
16. Have been run around for that same period by doctors who have found nothing wrong but won't clear me to return to work
17. Have been turned down for all employment I have tried to secure in order to supplement myself until I may return to work
18. Have never been more alone or isolated in my entire life

It is remarkable, even to itemize on paper. As I said, I do not claim to be the character of a Job but it appears that is not my decision to make. By the grace of God he allowed my family to be taken away but not killed as happened to Job. This has been going on for over five years and there are no mile markers to help determine where I am in the journey. I could still be near the beginning for all I know. So that's the "hearts" part of the verse. What is that word, "reins?"

As it so happens, the word used in the King James version - "reins" is translated "kidneys." Guess what? I have several issues with my kidneys, as well. Of course I do, because God doesn't stutter and He doesn't skip the details. The cool thing (I imagine) about being God is that you don't have to embellish your words. I am a major stone former. I had had my first bout with kidney stones back at ages 19 to 21. I formed multiple stones - six in each kidney at any instance. These were not tiny things. No grains of sand for ADDhole. The average length of one of my stones is, 10mm, and the girth, 6.5mm (25/64ths of an inch x 1/4 of an inch) and to have a dozen of those at any given time makes for some developed endurance for pain. The peculiar thing about the male nervous system is its specific ability to target and identify pain. I can measure, by pain alone, the size and position of a stone from the time it forms in my kidney all the way through the urinary tract. I had made some dietary and stress-related changes and had not really suffered much in the way of a recurrence until - TADA! - all of these other events transpired. I also developed hypertension and it is always fun to answer the questions asked by doctors as to whether I have experienced anything recently that has added stress to my life. So now I am being monitored for an observed but not identified cause for the increase in my creatinine levels - a measure of damage to the kidneys. It's nominal but going in the bad direction. Ain't life grand???

I'm recording all of this because I need to recall and remember and reassess. I have been hit hard, with precision. There is nothing accidental about this. I am miserable but I am not suffering beyond my endurance or limits. I am not being asked to bear too much. That is important to recognize. I have also had the benefit of friends NOT like Job's. At least not to my face - no one has accused me of anything. I don't like what is going on but I can't cry foul, either. I do not believe that as bad as all of this has been and still is that it is going to be used to destroy me. It hurts - but who is spared pain? Besides, pain tells the immune system where the problem is that needs attention. I have to believe the same thing happens in the spiritual. I also can not overlook the word in that verse, "tries." That is a reference to the refining of metals. A clump of material is tried in the fire until the impurities are burned away and the metal becomes fluid. For precious metals the refiner knows when the metal is pure and free of crud (dross) when he looks into the molten mass and sees his own face reflected. If that is what's happening to me then how can I give up when all I want to do is shine? I have to consider that the things I hold to so tightly may not be anything but dross. If I am being tried for my integrity then nothing other than what He has designed me to be must be allowed to remain. By being torn apart and turned inside out I am actually being made whole.

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A New Wrinkle - Oh Where, Oh Where Are My South African Friends?

The crease that won't cease

Oh Where, Oh Where Can They Be . . ?

At the risk of slighting all of you that voyeuristically peak at my posts and never comment I am going to pay special attention to the South African contingent, yet again.

But, first - someone that gets all of my abuse, ridicule, and scorn on a regular basis needs to be mentioned. Evi (Not her real name - suspicious? I know I am?) And today, I add her blog as the first official external link that will be permanently affixed to my own. She is a terrific friend and all because she invited me to visit her site, Obsessed with Bones. She's just a very sweet person and her site is the best of its type. That's not hyperbole. Yes. I have mentioned her, before. I am overdue in giving her the first real estate just below my archive list in the right sidebar. So, sorry Evi, that it took too long to rectify that situation.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Now then. Back to those Johannesburg, Gauteng, South African characters. Helen, was the second person ever to feel compelled to comment on my posts. She was then followed by her friend, Luke. These "irritatingly" nice people took one look at my whiny, mopey, woe is me rants and decided to intervene. They may have no idea how much I like them because I never give them a break and love to make snide remarks and generally be a royal pain. They have continued to come back, regardless. That is to say, I think they are still coming back. I heard from Luke, recently, but Helen has cut me off. I think my purely all in good fun post recommending the best hat for her work estranged us? I'm not certain. There are so many possible places I could have offended her or given her creepy vibes - the opportunities to fail are nearly boundless. There is the possibility that she's not as nice as I thought - or, she and Luke are one-in-the-same person.

The latter is a distinct possibility. That brings me to, Candice. I have never really engaged her in direct conversation. There have been random passings at the comment watering holes of other people's posts. Luke claims, that in actual fact, Candice and I are one-in-the-same person. You can see Candice's picture, above, on the side of the milk carton. You may also have noted there is no picture of me to be found. I would argue that as proof but then the exact same situation applies to Helen and Luke. Helen has no picture - I wouldn't know her if I fell over her - and Luke is grinning away, just like Candice. This means that it is more likely that Helen, and I are the same person and the ramifications of that are quite disturbing because that means I have stopped speaking to myself!

What does it all mean? I'll tell you. I want to find that magic post - the skeleton key - to unlock all of the conversations I'm so hungry to enjoy. I have had the door crack open and then slam shut. What will it take to make that door swing wide open and stay that way? I have become fond of the thoughts, opinions, and attitudes of every person that has ever commented on this blog. But, I want more. I want people to let their hair down and use this blog as an open forum. I am an open book. Maybe not the best read but if you don't see it all you have to do is ask with me and I'll tell you nearly anything. I don't expect those commenting to be so candid but I do like comments.

I don't want to have to resort to shock tactics to draw comments out of people. I just want conversation. How come nobody wants to be my friend? [stage directions: dark stage except for solitary spotlight; ADDhole sits in despair, pouting and sulking; a single tear streaks down his grimy cheek . . . ] Cue the sad music! Where are my warm, fuzzy South African do-gooders when I need them? Where are the dark, sinister South African sadists when I need them? (I'm talking to you - Candice) My favorite reaction to storming into the comments of another person's post was here. When he read my comment, his reply was, "Thanks. Who are you?" Yet, he like most everyone else, isn't bothering to find out.

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Space & Time - Who Has the Energy to Know If It Matters?

Yes. I’m being oh so clever. My philosopher’s heart has turned to stone but an object in motion remains in motion until acted upon by an external force. That forced change of momentum has definitely not allowed me to remain at rest and my equally opposing reaction must be seen as the consequence of disturbing my inertia.

The terminology is so woven into our culture without any real understanding of the expressions - matter, energy, inertia, gravity, relativism, quanta. The men responsible for making these concepts common to our ears but not to our understanding were such polar opposites in temperament, personality, approach to their studies, abilities and philosophies.

I am not going to claim parity with Sir Isaac Newton or Albert Einstein but I’m not going to deny fundamental similarities, either. The real differences between their lives and accomplishments and the order of things to date in my life is simple choices and actions. It is not that I don’t have the faculties and cerebral acumen to engage intelligently in a dialog of their work – it is that I have not been engaged and they were. Newton elected to pursue the motions of heavenly bodies and to ignore the motions of earthly ones. He elected early in his studies to distract himself from the pursuit of women by engaging his mind in the study of nature. He understood his own nature well enough to know that if he dwelt on abstaining from the pleasures of female company that would be all he would think on. He knew he would fixate on that which he was denying himself. That is failure one on my part. I not only dismissed anything as being more or equally important to the company of women but then I became equally fixated after their departure. I have frittered away decades on the fleeting pleasure of a woman’s company. I could have invested myself in something with perhaps less promise but more substance of thrill, discovery and satisfaction in the exploration. The universe is measurable, predictable, and reliable and demonstrates behaviors that hold constant. None of that can be applied to women. I have squandered energy on creatures where the investment never matters. Just as Newton was frustrated in his pursuits of alchemy I have been frustrated in turning the love of women from lead to gold. I’m left with only the weight and toxicity of the attempt.

Einstein was a great visual scientist but not a mathematician of the caliber of Newton. I am similarly wired. I understand advanced mathematical concepts with far greater ease than I do the rules of exponents. My right hemisphere dominance allows me to see trigonometric relationships in three dimensional space. I see sinusoidal motion as a helix, for example. It’s simply a matter of phase to represent it as either a two dimensional wave or as a circle. But, I struggled through my math studies because I had no application for the knowledge. Now, I am going in reverse. I have the application and am going back to study the math relevant to describe phenomena. It is in dispute whether or not Einstein’s first wife, Mileva Maric, was his scribe for translating his conceptual thoughts into mathematical language. When they divorced, he latched onto a doctoral student in Mathematics at Princeton where he was installed. What is important to take away is that recognizing personal weaknesses is the means to act to overcome them, and; the women may leave but the work remains.

Everything measured about matter is applicable only in the context of an environment defined by space and time. The infinitesimally small is used to describe the incredibly large. The forces acting on the fundamentals apply to the complex. Newton and Einstein were scientists but they were also philosophers. Their pursuit of the relevance of mankind in the universe recognized a design and purpose to it all established by a supreme designer. The laws of motion and the measure of energy are also related to the conduct of human beings. Newton and Einstein devoted their time and allocated space to pursue understanding of the behavior of the natural worlds. I find myself compelled to follow. I have not been as wise as Newton to make the choice voluntarily which revealed the nature of light. I am not the visionary that was Einstein to quantify the light. However, it is possible that I may have as little as 40 seconds or another 40 years on this planet. There is still time for me to experience the light.

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Discount Rack - Random Style 3-Pack

A few T-shirts that haven't had an inspired post. As it has become painfully obvious that whether or not I make targeted comments that people will draw their own (often unintended) conclusions I'm just going to toss these out there like remnants that didn't sell. Those looking for a bargain will probably come back for more and be surprised when I'm out of business . . .

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A New Wrinkle - A Font of Information

Now Certified Lint Free!

As if I didn't have enough little distractions, FontStruct has come along. I have always had an addiction to pens, calligraphy, and creating my own fonts and, apparently, at least concerning the last of those, I am not alone.

There is a type creation and generation application on the FontStruct web site. It started as a tease to get people to notice the products for purchase but was almost instantly so popular that the number of visitors crashed their servers. You may convert your compendium of squiggles into a True Type font, selfishly keep it exclusively yours - or, do what thousands have done and, make it available to the world.

I would venture to say that the majority of efforts will not be consistently reliable for use in your doctoral thesis or job resume but they might inspire you or spice up some email correspondence.

I have so far resisted the urge to fritter away the hours I know I would devote to stems and serifs but the tools are there to create as simple or elaborate a font as you please. I will not be held responsible for your claims of being an enabler. I'm just sharing the wealth.

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Out, Out, Damn Spot - The Unspoken and the Small Things

I live in a large American city. This particular city neither appears nor conducts itself as a large city. I was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. That’s a city. It’s loud and it’s dangerous and it’s old and it’s home. I haven’t been in Baltimore in decades. My teens and twenties were spent in suburbia, in little burgs of New Jersey among the privileged corporate executives and their families. So, now I have lived in three very different worlds. Baltimore is an industrial town, a port city, blue collar – nuts and bolts. The artificially maintained and manicured hamlets of New Jersey are the bedrooms of industrial management, closed communities, white collar – stocks and bonds. Now home is not really home but where I lived with my own family, and since their departure, no longer consider that I live; No longer think of anywhere as home. I am in San Antonio, Texas – a market place town. Cattle, memories of oil, ranchers, Spanish flavor, open collar – bucks and boots.

San Antonio, is a warm town. I claim we have nine months of summer, three weeks each of spring and fall and a little winter. But its real warmth comes from its down-home nature and is in no small part due to its survival based on tourism and the military presence. Life is very simple and reasonably direct in these parts. There is a thing called “Texas Friendly.” This is the same attitude that prevails throughout the southern portion of the United States, but as this is Texas – it believes it has something special to contribute. There is something to recommend about southern hospitality – unfortunately, the South relies too heavily on this commodity and has done nothing to bolster the supply in many a year. And it comes in all sorts of distinct flavors and variations depending on which part of the South one happens to visit. There is a sweet spot for this sort of hospitality in states such as Tennessee, Mississippi, and Kentucky. I find it real and genuine, there. But there is a saccharine flavor to the brand that comes from, say, Georgia, as only one example. Unfortunately, no matter where one finds the friendly and polite sparkle of the South they will also find the backstabbing hypocrisy that comes with a lot of those slaps on the back. The Texas Friendly variety has its spicy flare but I don’t believe it is disingenuous, only unaware that it lacks some of the emphasis on the “friend” part. I have a theory as to how this came to be.

The unsettled West was a rugged and unforgiving place. A great portion of it remains the same to this day. The requirements for making one’s way across the hostile and merciless terrain required self-reliance and absolutely no expectation that help or assistance would come from any external source. That attitude never was replaced by anything more communal. So, the most accurate way for me to describe getting by in South Texas is the following analogy. A man and his friend are sitting on their porch looking out across the sprawling scrub desert before them. Among the rising waves of smoldering air shimmers the figure of a man crawling on his belly into the endless basin of sand and rock in search of water. The men on the porch never move, never change their gaze, never so much as shuffle their feet or shift their weight in their chairs. After a while of observing the unfortunate fellow the one friend speaks. “That’s that John Roberts guy that works in plumbing supply or general contracting or something. I’ve met him a couple times.” Meanwhile, our hapless Mister Roberts continues his useless efforts to drag himself to a better place. He’s starting to hear angelic voices and is drawn toward the light . . . “He’s a nice guy. It would be a shame if he doesn’t make it.” The other friend never even nods or speaks, instead the two go on doing nothing and watching John Roberts like a spider on a hot griddle. They’ve done everything they can. They’ve thought nice things, about John, and wished him well.

I don’t know if I can convince anyone reading that I’m not exaggerating.

That’s the world I find myself in today. If your car breaks down, if your roof collapses – you’re on your own. Everyone hopes you’re a nice guy so they can wish you well and hope that you make it. To be fair, there is also the unwritten rule that you only should help a man if he asks. That has weight. I can accept that. But, in those cold-hearted, “evil places” that I lived previously in the God-forsaken Northeast (by any virtuous Southern opinion) complete strangers will run to assist a person in trouble. Friends will cut off their own limbs if necessary. I’m not exaggerating, here, either. The contrast is so stark that I can not get beyond it even though I have accepted each place for what it is and is not. I am far more amused than reading into it anything more dire. That amusement is where I want to take this post.

I’m a people watcher and sometimes I can do that without directly interfering and screwing with people’s heads. Only sometimes.

One of those rare occasions occurred yesterday evening. I was walking home from a fine dining experience at my local fast-food restaurant. I approached the used car lot for a Lexus dealership. The lot is surrounded by a fence constructed of pipe. This fence is only bumper high - tall enough to prevent thieves from driving over it but not so high as to obstruct the view of the shiny chrome goodies. There was still sufficient daylight for a good look around and a determined fellow pulled into the adjacent lot and proceeded to head toward the displayed automobiles despite the dealership being closed. In a much less enthusiastic display of gestures, his lovely female companion also stepped out of their vehicle. “Now,” I thought, “this will be fun to watch . . .”

It may have seemed as though I was complaining about southern attitudes earlier; Not at all. Here is a place where the perspective flips 180 degrees. At least for the time being (and hopefully until time is no more) in the South, traditional roles and values are nurtured and preserved. That makes for some of the most contrasting comparisons between men and women but then also some of the sweetest interactions to be witnessed anywhere. I honestly don’t think that the South struggles with gender and identity as most of the world does. I think they’ve gotten way past that. There are duties and responsibilities as part of the day-to-day that no one but an outsider ascribes any sort of prejudice toward. I’ve never met anyone in the South lacking a clearly defined and strong personality. It always stands far above the roles they take on. Some people hung up on such things would be advised to observe people that aren’t reduced to who cooks and cleans and who splits wood and harvests the field. There is a lot to recommend people who just do the work because it needs to get done. Along with that comes this. Southern women allow their men to be men – with all of the impending disaster that may almost certainly portend.

It was apparent that my friends interested in the cars had two entirely different opinions about the choice of time in deciding to look around. In universal, gentlemanly fashion, Bubba, was out of his truck and half way across the parking lot toward the used car lot before he even thought to look back to see if his delicate partner was safely out of the vehicle and would have to sprint to catch up to him. Now, I’m certain we all can imagine what dialog preceded his parking the truck and insisting they go look at the cars. As soon as she had voiced her opinion that she wasn’t sure traipsing around the yard after hours was a good idea that was what clinched the decision for him. Right? This part of the scenario would have been identical to any similar portrayal on the East coast. From that point on is where things would differ. Ms. San Antonio poured herself from the passenger side of the truck as slowly as molasses on a cold morning. Her body language was timid. Her whole body was being pulled in to make her as narrow and invisible as possible. Her elbows were clenched to her sides and she was biting on the thumb nail of a tiny little fist with her eyes fixed on a point no more than a yard in front of her. She really thought this a bad idea but her relationship, to Bubba, compelled her to support him. She was moving toward him but hoping that the slightest gust of wind or a sudden incline in the pavement would prevent her moving forward. I almost laughed out loud as she let her knees knock together almost tripping with every step. By that point it would have been too obvious to have slowed my pace to keep observing that scene. It really wasn’t that big a deal to look around that car lot and I’m sure that once she made that giant leap over the ten inch high “fence” that she probably enjoyed shopping.

But thinking of that scene made me speculate on the same situation presented in the two other cities I had called home. The options for New Jersey would have started with whether we’re talking about a Bon Jovi/Bruce Springsteen guy and his Jersey Girl girlfriend or the other extreme which is actually more representative of New Jersey as I experienced. I’ll save Bon Springsteen and Jersey Girl for their Baltimore counterparts. It’s a shame to leave out the Bondo-bucket Camaro, but, oh well . . . Ms Short Hills and her husband would likely not want to visit after hours as it would make being pretentious and ostentatious before a respectably sized audience too difficult. We’ll imagine they have decided that their sixteen year old son with his learner’s permit isn’t getting the BMW that is automatically purchased in such circumstances. No. They want their son to appreciate such things must be earned so they will provoke his drive to succeed by looking at inferior automobiles. Since New Jersey is more about outward appearances that will surely get a fire set under their son to motivate him properly. After all, as long as the automobile and clothes and exterior of the home meet the profile it hardly matters that there are no furnishings beyond what is visible through the windows. Same goes for personality. Our Jersey couple is slumming it. Mr. Just For Men has left the gray in the temples and the comfort of his Escalade and not even bothered to glance back at his wife as he strolls toward the lot. Ms Short Hills NEVER intends to leave the vehicle. She will observe from her perch and occasionally glance up from a study of her nails, her make-up, her hair, her purse, or the thread count of her Armani jacket to make a round-about glance in the direction she vaguely noted her husband had taken. Mr. Short Hills will look at only the black cars on the lot and mostly at his reflection in the tinted glass to ensure the wind is mildly tussling his hair, his pink Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and lime green slacks are crisp, and that he is satisfied with the look and his inspired efforts as a father. He will call his wife on his cell phone for any last minute instructions and the adventure is recorded as a remarkable success.

And what of Baltimore? When their 1976 Impala careens to a stop over the curb and partially on the driveway apron for the car lot the radio will abruptly stop but the shouting at Mr. Baltimore by Ms Baltimore will get louder. As the windows are down on all four doors (because they can’t be rolled up on at least two) smoke from brake pads and tire rubber will partially fill the empty spaces in the back seat of their car. Mr. Baltimore is thinking he might negotiate a trade-in of his current automobile. He doesn’t trust The Man so he’s on a reconnaissance mission to study his options without anyone looking over his shoulder. The fact that the driveway entrance is blocked by concrete highway dividers and the lot is surrounded by a ten foot high, chain-link fence and crowned with razor wire doesn’t give him a moment’s hesitation. His children’s elementary school, his grocery store, and his church have the same barricades. Sure enough, there is a corner where the pipe has been bent to a sharp kink that makes a passageway into the lot of about a shoulder’s width where he should be able to step through. He kicks the broken glass of some liquor bottles out of the way and returns to Ms Baltimore’s side of the car and opens her door. Ok . . . Two tugs later he opens her door. She has already asked him if he’s crazy so now she merely adds emphasis with her eyes when he invites her to step through the fence. Ms Baltimore’s hips are a little wider than Mr. Baltimore’s shoulders. She is not averse to entering the lot she would simply like to do it with dignity. His suggestion that since she is in jeans that a simple assisted boost with his hand on her buttocks would be sufficient to get her over the fence is not what she had in mind and she begins to explain this to him, with gusto. Having proven that her voice will certainly carry for the sake of intelligibility, Mr. Baltimore slips through the fence and receives a constant stream of instructions from Ms Baltimore. Just when they may actually be narrowing their focus to a vehicle that both could accept, Mr. Baltimore offends the delicate sensibilities of his love and she returns to the car, arms folded across her chest, refusing to acknowledge any further questions or pleas for forgiveness from Mr. Baltimore.

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DAMN YOU, Diane Lane!?!

I have to add a third redhead to my mention of Julia Roberts and Nicole Kidman. This wasn’t supposed to be a theme but my weekend was invaded by the three of them inadvertently. As previously mentioned, Nicole Kidman, is a true redhead and Julia is a real person so that brings me to Diane Lane and I’m going to have to go with this – who isn’t really either a real redhead or a real person.

Hey! I winced, too, because if Diane Lane is in a movie I am compelled to watch. The problem is that I’ve also had the misfortune of seeing her in interviews and after all of her over-the-top, hopeless romantic roles I can’t make the adjustment and like the real person the way I love her portrayals.

Per design, every movie where I see her insecure but holding on to her dreams of loving and living to the fullest makes everything about her the most desirable woman on earth. Last night, it was “Under the Tuscan Sun.” As one reviewer remarked – just once they’d like to see her in a movie where she isn’t rich, has real life problems, and has to take out her own garbage. But, that wouldn’t provide the escape we go to movies to enjoy. And, in fairness, she often almost seems like an everywoman character. Just not any woman I’ve ever actually encountered. That’s where I have to shake myself awake and tear myself away from both the emotional and physical attraction to an actress and return to a world where I can’t afford the eye candy.

This just sucks the life out of me every time. Romance makes promises it knows it will never keep. What happens is the specter of expectation tears off a piece of our own soul and shows all the sparkling beauty of a piece of self that is about to be lost forever – but, we think it is something from outside our self. We think we are reaching for something more – something beyond; but then when the puppet show passes and we awake from the dream we find we’ve been left with our pockets turned out and our heart raw and exposed.

So today while I lick my wounds and promise myself I’m smarter and won’t get fooled, ever, in only hours I will catch the glimpse of a passing woman and be ready to fall all over again. And, the next time I hear Diane Lane’s name or voice or see that compelling face I’ll be in front of the screen and succumbing to the anesthesia. If, as according to Carly Simon, there’s more room in a broken heart than I’m as spacious as the great outdoors.

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Hampered - Is It Time To Trash This Blog?

This is going to ramble and wander all over the place. I watched some television last night. It’s not that I am above sitting in front of the tube it’s only that I get seven channels (three stations clearly enough through the static) as I’m not in a financial position to afford cable and when I get cleared to return to work I won’t be here to enjoy it so why pay for it. Anyway, I watched David Letterman (variety talk show for parts of the world where that name means nothing) and I watched an episode of Frasier.

There are very few celebrities that make me notice. I was never a guy that had posters of the super models or TV stars on the wall. It’s just not something that draws me. But, every once in a while I do take note of a personality and I hope that I can distinguish the difference between the real person, and a character portrayal that I fell in love with, if that person were ever in my world. It is interesting that I’m about to mention two names where their acting is quite good but I have never been attracted to them for that reason. I am pleasantly engaged by their real-life personalities. Back to Letterman. The first of those two women for me is Julia Roberts. I find her real and incredibly quick on the draw and last night she was both of those things and I was so wistfully wondering why I never had anyone like that in my life. I immediately thought of the other woman that I have incredible respect for – especially because she has had her fair share of adversity and has not been beaten down by it. That would be Nicole Kidman. Both redheads (although only Nicole is a real redhead) and I hope happily and permanently married with wonderful children. That’s all I ask for in this world are women with spirit, character, poise, brains and grace exhibited under pressure. Those two “do it” for me. I left the end of that broadcast . . . happy.

Then, I left the television on while I thought about composing a blog post and Frasier came on. There is history with that show and maybe that was where the first clouds started forming. My wife and I watched that show, and laughed, together. It was one of the few sweet memories I have left. I am so uncomfortable with Frasier, now, for the loss of that bond and especially for the fact I too easily identify with his pompous character, pretentious nature and total self-deceit as well as conceit. While others may enjoy the show and wonder what it would be like to know such a person I watch and wonder what it would be like to not be such a person. The episode I viewed last night hit me hard. Frasier had just broken up with an ideal woman and was on a binge of trapping his family and friends in a room where they couldn’t escape and pontificating about his woes. His father made the poignant observation that Frasier would always fail to keep a good woman. That sent him on a road trip to a secluded camp site where he intended to clear his head. Along for the ride, however, came the emotional and mental baggage of his first and second wives, a lover who had jilted him for another, and, his dead mother. The first discovery for him was that all had left him. All had abandoned him. I don’t have the mother complex. I never saw my mother as anything but my mother. She was never the model for all other women and she has never been my ideal. She was the first of a string of enablers but all that shows is I’m manipulative – nothing about anyone else. But what I couldn’t run away from and couldn’t turn off the TV to escape were the rest of his conclusions. He was so determined not to have women reject him and to be left alone that he made certain women rejected him and left him alone. Ouch. The second conclusion was that he never actually left any of those women. They were with him all of the time and influenced every past, present and future decision and especially his relationships with any new woman. No woman was ever allowed to stand or fall on her own merits in his life. Triple ouch.

I was absolutely devastated by that program. I didn’t actually get to sleep until around four, this morning, because of the demons that dialog awoke.

I am in a very inflexible and confining time of life. I have all of the guilt, debt, and responsibilities of all of my life from before to the present without any of the good things to make it bearable. I am afraid to meet people I know. I have not contacted my children in months because I fully expect to blurt out something like, “Your father is a failure and a fraud and it would be so much netter for you to treat me as if I were dead.” The love and trust of my children and their total belief in me is too painful. I can’t align it to fit into any part of the reality I am enduring. I have gone since February without a paycheck while waiting to be cleared, medically, to return to work. I have applied to and been rejected by menial jobs from gas station clerk to fast food restaurant help. How is this possible? As a consequence I have lived off the charity of family and friends. I can’t wait to get back to work to take that additional burden of daring to love me off of them. It is something I consider all of the time that I should finally surrender; just give up any last vestiges of hope and drop out to join the homeless and hopeless and forgotten. I'm not far from that at all. I am terrified of the fact that I fit the profile. I could be living in a box and engage the hapless passerby in a knowledgeable discussion of world events or Quantum Mechanics. I simply doubt I am able to continue to function on the level necessary to remain even on the fringes of society. I am isolated and alone and I am now chasing away and discouraging the few who have stuck by me. I am so ashamed and really scared all at the same time.

I lost my previous comforts and crutches and I haven’t recovered. I found a job that pays well but offers no other reward. I took that job for the money and it had just started to give me the means to settle old obligations and even to contribute in meaningful ways to my children whom I have not seen in three years. This month, June, was going to provide me a vacation where I expected to visit them and at least demonstrate I was functioning. My nine year old son actually worries that I have no place to live and no food. How can I live with the knowledge a child is deeply worried his dad is suffering? I hope he doesn’t comprehend where my real suffering is occurring. But, my health crisis in February has taken all of that away. I’ll have no vacation until another year passes, at least. It will then be a minimum of four years since I have hugged my children or heard their voice while looking at their faces. My daughter is thirteen. My sons are nine and seven. I don’t even have a recent picture of them to know what they look like and how they’ve grown. My children were literally wrenched from my arms at an airport five years ago. I have those memories of a three, five and nine year old being dragged away crying and screaming to stay with their father in front of me everyday. All they have known since is disappointment and broken assurances and promises.

So, if the tests which I am taking next week are good I will finally be going back to work. I will be driving a tractor-trailer across the country. That is the last thing I ever anticipated doing occupationally. As I said, it pays the bills and does so better than most other available legal means. That I will get caught up on my bills and obligations will be a relief but the life will be worse. Right now, I sit in an unfurnished apartment. I take advantage of an unsecured wireless router to have the internet connection that I use to post these blogs. But I hear the children play outside and the noise of people going about their day and I am still somehow connected. You – whoever you are that read these things – are my only contact with the outside world. There have been two women that have regularly commented on my posts and I have had some wonderful email traffic back and forth with them, as well. They are young, rightfully enthusiastic, energetic and busy. One shares my passion for writing but she is doing something about it and things are starting to happen for her. And, they should. She is a dynamo. The other is a scientist and appeals to all of the technical and professional things which satisfied me as a younger and ambitious man. They have both tried to prop me up. That has to stop. I can not let my manipulative ways use these two women as additional enablers in my Frasier psychosis. They also are experiencing and sharing things I can relate to in their posts. They are seeing things from the start when such things are new. I am seeing them when they seem as if they’ll never end and all things are old. One has longings and desires for both her art and her family and I believe with my whole heart she will find fulfillment in both. The other is studying her own behavior as well as that of the world around her and although she has struggled with bouts of isolation and frustration, hers have known beginning and end dates and she may look forward to known relationships in professional and private life that are secure and stable. I have none of that. I have been waging this war for decades. They have not. I wish them better success than I have had but I haven’t much fight left. They are also women. Not as fragile on the inside as I am.

I have friends and family that claim to be impressed by how I bear up under my current struggles. There is nothing there for me to take credit. I simply continue to breathe under the crush of consciousness. There isn’t any fight left – only a superstructure that has yet to yield and buckle. I am on one knee trying to catch my breath and as I continue to get beaten down I am asking why do I keep trying to stand up? My adherence to my spiritual and moral and ethical beliefs will not right the wrongs of this world. I am not some heroic figure that has the hopes of mankind in his care. When I ultimately collapse and finally fail for the last time I will go out with probably not even a whimper. Beethoven, was in a coma for the last ten days of his life. He awoke from that condition during an intense thunder storm, said, “This comedy is over,” and died. I will have no one recording anything I say now or at the end. I have not brought beauty or light. I am slipping into the ugly dark.

When I am in that truck I will be in a mobile prison. Truck driving is like solitary confinement. You are alone and alone with your own thoughts. I will be given a few minutes a day “in the yard” to get out and exercise my legs and visit with some of the other inmates and try to avoid some others. One of the first misconceptions I had to alter when I began driving was that truck drivers were the loner types who like the independence and freedom from family and normal job responsibilities. No. That’s not really true. That’s the exception and not the norm. A great many of the men I’ve met have stories similar to mine. They had families and other careers. Divorce, financial troubles and other hardships and heartaches brought those men into trucking just as it did me. I have heard stories to make my misery seem trite. But, because there is no release or escape from yourself as a driver the few moments of contact with other human beings are strained affairs. Too much or too little is said. Crazy thoughts and ideas get argued while you eat and plan your next stop. Between the racist garbage and conspiracy theories are the bragging rights and political arguments and the resolution of all the world’s problems over a glass of iced tea. The waitresses are often worn and more tired than just from a long shift. It is sadder for me to see women in the company of men like us and know they’re having it hard, too. Then there are all of the half-hearted attempts at flirting and choked cries for affection and attention from the men at the counter. And when you’ve had your fill of that there is the hollow sound of your boots to keep you company on the way back to your truck. If you aren’t wired with a TV and a laptop and a wireless broadband connection you are in for more solitude – just enough to chase you to seek refuge in sleep. The next time you awake the cycle starts all over again. There’s always that knock on the glass of your door by the pretty little drug addicts selling themselves to the drivers with money and nothing else. Depressed, yet?

Well, here’s where all of this is going. Soon. Hopefully, very soon I will be at least earning a paycheck and trying to remove some of the debt hanging like a vulture over my carcass. I do not have a television or a laptop or a broadband connection in my truck and I will be on the road away from “home” (my little apartment with the stolen wi-fi connection) for typically three weeks at a time. Despite all of that there is limited internet access while on the road but it is only sufficient to check my empty email inbox. I will not be able to post other than the two to five days I will be home per month. I am seriously thinking to let the bills continue to wait and use my first influx of cash to purchase my new lover – a laptop. Even so, I am looking at the world through an even narrower lense, at the moment, and wondering about the fate of my blog. This blog is my digital head. I am carrying all of the baggage of my unresolved and disappointing issues around and putting it on display as an attention seeking device. If I pull the plug I am in essence removing my own life support. I’m just wondering if that isn’t what needs to happen. I have an audience that has far more voyeurs than those volunteering to contribute their thoughts. What do I need that for? It is now the time to reflect on just what I am trying to do and say in the blogosphere and why I should continue, what I should continue, or if I should continue at all. I thought I was releasing things – letting go and moving on. I’m not so sure anymore. I’m tired of being kept company by only my own thoughts and the minuscule contributions by others are insufficient to make a life-altering impact. Where is the stimulating conversation I anticipated? Where are the me-changing discoveries? When will this comedy be over?

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You Scratch My Back and I’ll . . . Never Mind.

When I was first starting out in the business world I was a draftsman for a computer company just at the birth of the Personal Computer. That meant that my compatriots were all significantly older – basically the age that I am, now, and perhaps even a decade more. I have nothing but gratitude for each and every one of them as I was the typical brash, cocky, arrogant, life-will-never-hold-me-down punk. I bragged and strutted around and really had no ill experiences to quench my fire. These people embraced and loved me anyway. There are still times I wonder about what happened in the rest of their lives after we no longer worked together. Some of them were of World War II vintage. In fact, Fran, the only draftswoman in the crew, got her chance in engineering because of the war. She had become a drafter because of The Draft of all able-bodied young men to go off to battle. This was way before affirmative action and equality in the work place. There was no glass ceiling when Fran started her career. It was steel and concrete and stenciled with the words “Keep Out” when she decided to take on the system. I winced as she tolerated an endless stream of demeaning and sophomoric sexual innuendos and constant barbs and jabs. But everyone respected her knowledge and skills and there was no man her better. Once in a while I would act my age and get a frown of disapproval or a comment like “grow up” from the pit (typical reference to a pool of designers or draftspersons) only to have one in particular apologize and say, “I’m sorry, I forget that your only 19 because you usually seem so much more mature.” I could live off a comment like that for a week, at least.

But, what I did most of the time while getting the benefit of all of their collective years of knowledge was to study their lives. It was such a cross-section of America represented in that group and every personality and temperament was on display. Each had or was having their own trials and difficulties but the disturbing trend among the men was a general expectation that relationships – both professionally and romantically - were disposable and not expected to work out. There was a classification of contract employee known as “job-shopper,” or, “jobber.” These were temporary assignments and basically free-lance arrangements. One jobber, in particular, stood out because he was an artist that spent most of the year on his small yacht, island hopping in the Caribbean. When money would run low he would take a short-term circuit board design assignment. His art was to paint large canvasses using multiple colored paints and the naked bodies of women as his brush. His work was not slapped together during drunken orgies. It was very well thought out, laid out, and executed. A memorable example was one in which the full length of one woman represented the body of a butterfly and two other women in curled postures formed the wings. He represented the full caricature of the job-shopper mentality. No authority was recognized or given more than obligatory lip service and no responsibility was too important that it could not be abandoned. This was the prevailing attitude of most of the men I worked with in that department. Nearly to the man, all were divorced. Some had been divorced several times. I wrote the whole group off as immature, irresponsible, lazy and quitters. There was, however, one peculiar similarity shared by the very different personalities. I observed that lonely men had back scratchers.

A previous post discussed my attitude to losing. I equate losing with failure. The last place I intended to lose was in love. I had my share of dating women that were totally wrong for me but irresistible nonetheless. I had some very specific ideas and a checklist of requirements for the compatible future mate. I got all of those and more with my wife. Neither of us had come from families with a history of divorce. Both sides of our families had preserved marriage through every obstacle and struggle. I would never divorce and my wife believed that about herself just as strongly. Fifteen years after meeting we were over. She moved 1900 miles away and left me stunned. I had failed in every area most important to me as a man. I had become those losers I had disdained two decades earlier. All of the ensuing stages have followed. There was a very eager participation in the belief I could woo her again, as I had at the start. There was no involvement of third parties to make it messy. Surely I was worth her love? There are no such guarantees. That it has been over five years and she has gotten along seemingly effortlessly without me is its own proof. Even if she has done so stubbornly she has succeeded where I have failed nevertheless.

So although I still don’t have any higher opinion of those men or view them less harshly I must count me among their number. And of all of the myriad things I miss of living and loving with my wife – such as turning around to share an experiential moment with someone no longer in the room . . . I miss her enthusiasm when scratching my back. I even miss those preemptive words, “Pick, pick, pick” used to give me less than fair warning she had found some blemish to dig into. Gross, maybe; but a fond, bitter-sweet, and painful memory. I will always miss the heat of her closeness, the fire in her fingernails, the glow in her voice and the delicate warmth of her touch. And I have invested in a back scratcher. Mine is made of the über grass, bamboo. It adds comfort to a solitary man’s day where the flame has nearly gone out.

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I Love You , Dad

Today is my father's birthday. Fathers often get taken for granted. Well, I don't know so much if that is what it amounts to or expressing to a father how you feel is not usually as easy and comfortable as the same conversation and admissions with a mother. There are all sorts of built-in barriers to a lot of that sort of emoting to Dear Old Dad. My father spent his entire career with the telephone company (when there was only one, in the United States) and told me with a smirk on his face that Christmas Day and Mother's Day vied for the highest single day of telephone call volume each year. Then he let the other shoe fall and told me that Father's Day held the record each year for highest number of collect calls in a single day. "Hi Dad, Happy Father's Day and thanks for picking up the tab!"

I've never done that but my father has certainly had to pay for being my father in many costly and painful ways over the years. He has never held that against me. I have probably dangled my own feet over the fire much more than he. I am so proud of my father. He's by no means perfect but I wouldn't change anything about him. Warts and all - I love to point out to people that, "That's MY Dad." As I shared in my post on my Mom's birthday, I have parents whom I am proud to share and lend out to my friends. Not everyone (and it seems way too few people have) has as healthy a relationship with their parents as I have with mine. There's plenty of room in my parent's hearts and home for anyone that needs them.

I learned at a very young age that my parents and particularly my father garnered respect that was never sought or demanded. I even had to contend with some of the kids I knew that wanted to nudge me out of the way and be my Dad's "favorite." That is really and truly funny because my dad is a man of few words, even less tolerance for nonsense, and does not like social gatherings. He basically lives in the downstairs family room of his home and I don't think he'd come out unless a fire flushed him from his "Man Cave," as my mother refers to it. The sounds of flipping television channels and the rustling of snack wrappers are the only audible signs of life. There is nothing more comical than when my mother invades his sanctuary to snag chips or soft drinks and bring them upstairs to give to members of the family or guests. She is a towering figure of 5'-2" tall and about 112 pounds. My father is 6'-4" and in the 200's. It's like watching a Chihuahua yap at a Great Dane - hands on her hips in defiance and neck bent all the way back on her shoulders to make eye contact with him. She, like all of my friends, think nothing of invading his personal space or gravitating toward him wherever he is. He just attracts people. They want to be with him. They want to impress him, and, they want his approval. That's just not something he has ever been comfortable doing. But, he does it anyway. My Dad may be uncomfortable in social settings but he fears only two things: God (as in reverence and respect) and failing to act responsibly. In other words, my father has nothing to fear. He is the most honor-bound, duty-bound, responsible person I have ever known.

My mother sometimes feels slighted that he can not express his love and devotion but I remind her that he demonstrates those, without fail, every moment of their lives. He never experienced that in his own family. He is the equivalent of emotionally color blind. He just doesn't get the nuances and subtle variations of emotional interaction. I remind my mother, as well, "That's what he's got you for." His own upbringing never made any space for expressions of love and caring. I experienced it as a grandchild and can only imagine how much colder it was as a son. But, he knows how to show love by his actions not by his words. He may lean too heavily toward practical gifts like washing machines and vacuum cleaners but my mother has never had to fuel her own car, deal with any maintenance, ask for a dollar, doubt his fidelity, or worry when or if he were coming home. Just the other day I told her that his calling her every day at lunch, from his office, made me want to do the same thing when I grew up and had a wife. "That showed how much he loved you and was really important to me, as a boy," I told her. Her response caught me totally off guard. "Yeah, I used to think that, too, when he first began calling - then I realized he was only making small talk until I told him what had come in the mail that day!" I am still laughing uncontrollably because *THAT* makes sense! My sister is three years younger than I and has that gift all daughters possess in relation to their fathers - they can melt a man to a sappy puddle of goo. He had a little more trouble being the strict disciplinarian with her. He had no such reservations with me - and no recourse, to be honest. But one evening while getting ready for bed my sister started crying that "Daddy doesn't love us . . . He never tells us . . . He never hugs us . . ." and my Mom, interrupted with the most important words that I, as his son, needed to hear. "Your father never does anything for himself. He only thinks of us, first. When we have a meal, your father waits until we have all taken everything we want and have had our pick and then he takes what is left. Your father won't even go buy himself underwear if he isn't sure you and your brother and I have need of anything, first. Other fathers go to bars and drink their paychecks and don't care about their families. Your father loves you and he might not say it out loud all of the time but we are his whole life. Take a good look at your father and see what a man looks like." Preach it, Mom!

My Dad had been a Marine and missed being selected Honor Guard at the White House because he was 1/2 " too short. He was an expert marksman and possessed all of the necessary skills and attitude to dispatch any deserving target. The alterations to his psyche by the Corp were so ingrained that when I was in my late teens and came home very late from a night out he had stayed up to meet me. He looked very uncomfortable which was not normal. It seems that he had watched a movie called, "The Great Santini," which is the relationship between a Marine sergeant and his son. My father apologized to me. He said he saw things in that movie that were too close to home and that he was afraid he had harmed me. I am the one that needs to apologize to him. I have never become as much a man as my father. He never pressured me to make me think that way. I just so want to not be a disappointment and a worry to that man. My father has a brilliant and reasonable mind. He is gifted artistically and mathematically. He was a successful engineer. My father was actually offered a full scholarship to the U.S. Naval Academy but my unexpected conception sort of spoiled that. Neither of my parents ever blamed me and my father claims that I saved his life because the graduating class he would have been in all died in Vietnam. So, as a child when I was trying to learn to write, my father sat down with me and I watched him teach himself to write with his left hand (because I am left-handed) so that he could instruct me. At that early age that told me everything I needed to know about my father. He never tried to change me only make every opportunity for me to be the best me that I could be.

So let me tell you the other things you need to know about my Dad. My mother's brother was a Green Beret and is about eight years younger than my father. They have been buddies forever. My uncle would come home from a training mission and my civilian father and he would test each other. My uncle would come in and say, "Hey old man let me show you what I learned." And my father would say, "Bring it on, Junior." The next thing would be a bunch of out of breath laughter and my father would have my uncle pinned to the ceiling. They were like kids. Then leap forward about a dozen years to a near fatal accident for that same uncle. My father could not deal with that at all and hates hospitals as I came to discover. Only because it was my uncle could he muster the resolve to go to that hospital room. I have never seen my father so shaken but at the birth of all of his grandchildren he was just as much a mess. He has nine. None of them is fooled by the big, pretending to be fierce, man. They've got his number and he's everybody's giant teddy bear.

He doesn't speak much and he tries to stay sequestered in his "Man Cave" but he's always listening and ready to spring into action. I learned that the hard way at about 14 years old. My mother was telling me to do something and I mouthed off. Before the words were out of my mouth, he was up those stairs and I was having a lesson on respect and the proper attitude toward authority and women "administered" by the big guy. That same man also took me aside when I was an awkward adolescent and a distant female relative had just spent ten minutes going on and on about how my curly hair and eyelashes would make me such a pretty girl. He punctuated that conversation with the word, "Son." That was the first and only time in my memory that he ever called me that directly. As I mentioned, earlier, he had no personal experience from his upbringing to know of love being expressed or many of the other things that he taught and willed himself to do and be for his own family. Just as an indication of his side of the family we only referred to his parents formally as "Grandmother and Grandfather;" no pet names like my mom's family. By pure accident I picked up another phone while he was speaking to his parents after we had moved to another state. My father was 35 years old at that time. In wrapping up the conversation with his parents I heard him struggle and finally blurt out the words, "I Love You." There was silence on the other end of the line! Never did I ever hear his parents tell them they loved him.

Well I Love You, Dad. I want everyone to hear it.

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