This End Up

When reason and emotions have failed is there a third alternative? Or, why limit the possibilities? My self restricting limitations seem to be the undercurrent running over, under, through, and even, permeating the stuff of which I am. This is essentially the “riddle of the ages” question of labeling and identifying “ME.” I am pondering all of this as I am alone with my own thoughts and feelings entirely too much for my liking. And, people keep asking me how I feel with seemingly more intent and interest these days. I am really not all that concerned with how I feel. My feelings are not reliable indicators or even necessarily associated with anything of substance. That, I suppose, is the real rub for me. I do not feel connected, involved, or, engaged in anything other than consequence. I have had nothing to be about doing and nothing of any importance to say for a very long time. I do not even have busy work to distract me from the banality of my daily routine. So, what am I all about?

Besides the age old question of “Why am I here?” and “What is my purpose?” comes the more direct question of ”Why Bother?” I have the “opportunity” to reinvent myself, yet again. I really don’t want to. While I actually don’t have the chance to be anything I’d like to become I still have occasion to be many other things than what I have become. But? Why? All of these sorts of exercises are supposed to be for self benefit and be because they are the things that I want for myself. In reality, all such efforts are to placate detractors, dissenters, and well-wishers alike. I am simply tired of it all, tired of myself, tired, tired, tired. The thrill is gone. My life is endless drivel.

The entire quest of the past six months to return to my latest career (and reinvention of self) ended in an all too expected but entirely undesirably protracted way. Had someone merely decided they were going to abandon and then dismiss me months earlier I could have made different plans and pursued another course of action. Now, I am dazed and angry; disenfranchised, stunned, and immobile. I have no luxury of capital at my disposal to be selective and must take on some very unappealing work to try to extract myself from the muck and mire in which I find I am sucked under. How do I feel? Please refrain from asking such questions if you REALLY care about my well being. Also, add the following other attempts at concern for me to the list of topics to avoid; in fact . . . let’s list them all:

1) How are you feeling?
2) What’s new?
3) What have you been up to?
4) Has there been any news?
5) Why aren’t you rich?
6) How come you’re single?
7) How are your children?
8) Have you got a social life?

I’m sure there are others but those nine pretty much test the limits of my civility in not going blind with dismay mingled with rage and screaming unpleasantries at the person who has asked them. The reason I get so testy about those questions is that (in some cases every day) I have to remind the same people how much I despise those questions and have repeatedly asked them to refrain from asking. So, I suppose the truly frustrating aspect for me is the general indifference and lack of attention I am paid by my friends. That alone keeps me mostly occupied so that I do not extrapolate the data to the logical conclusion that if my “concerned friends” care so little to oblige my requests then how vastly uninterested in me does that make everyone else? Right? If the sympathetic souls – aren’t ??? Never mind.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

The STATUTE of Liberty

When Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi sculpted “La liberté éclairant le monde” (Liberty Enlightening the World) or what is commonly referred to as, the “Statue of Liberty,” it was as a commemoration of the centennial celebration of the Declaration of Independence. It was also a remarkable ideological as well as technological achievement. The copper skin of the figure was wholly supported by an internal structure of iron, designed by Alexandre Gustave Eiffel. Yes, the engineer responsible for the Eiffel Tower. But, what I believe is all the more remarkable is how the history of the statue has been more telling than the symbols in its composition. I now look upon the monument as a sort of national “picture of Dorian Gray.” There are many parallels in the maturation of the young nation of the United States of America to the central figure in Oscar Wilde’s novel.

The concept that drove the forging of the statue was the idea of Liberty as a progression away from slavery, oppression, and tyranny. The grandest hopes of a free society were entrusted to what the founding fathers referred to as the grand experiment. The United States was to be a republic of independently governed states where democratic principles would guide and sustain it. So, within the elements of the statue are such things as the left foot trampling broken shackles while the right foot steps beyond them. There are seven spikes upon the crown to represent both the seven seas as well as seven continents demonstrating that the principles of Liberty should encompass the whole earth. The raised torch is to show enlightenment while the tablet clutched in her arm represents knowledge. To be sure, all of these things are indeed noble. They are also lofty and ambitious objectives so one does not consider that such accomplishments would be easy. However, it would not appear that any of those things indicated by the statue are either regarded or are possibly any longer noticed much less remembered.

I am a staunch supporter of capitalism. Yet, I do not subscribe to the notion that it is a fundamental tenet of the Constitution. The Preamble to the Constitution refers to Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. It guarantees none of those and it is very appropriately phrased that happiness is a pursuit and not a right to be expected, much less, demanded. What causes me to take issue with the current public mindset is that I sense that “we the people” have upset the balance of reason in favor of selfish pursuit. It is why I believe that when a nation loses its fundamental grasp of the principles, beliefs and convictions intended by its founders and subsequent generations that there becomes a “Statute of Liberty” and that statute has limitations.

And from this point forward in this essay is my concern as best as I have presently developed the analogy. When first delivered to the shores of America, the statue was in crates and needed to be assembled. There were mistakes made in the assembly that were not detected for nearly one hundred years. There were no mistakes in the design or the pieces as forged but in the understanding of the complexity of the instructions and the foreign language used to explain the process. The torch arm was actually attached improperly. Nevertheless, because the design work was so well thought out and so painstakingly constructed - even the foibles of the common man could not disrupt the integrity of the whole. When new, the figure was a shiny copper without any of the green patina that is now far more familiar in the minds of the world looking on her form. The flame of the torch was a solid and complete representation covered in gold leaf. It reflected the sun and shone brilliantly. For many years Liberty towered above other manmade achievements.

Over the course of time the statue became an iconic figure and many added their own symbolic elements to its meaning and purpose . . . even losing sight of its initial intent.
In the 1930’s it was decided that rather than reflect light, externally, the flame of enlightenment needed to be amended and cut full of holes to allow more light, internally. This was one of the first efforts that weakened the underpinnings and allowed the storms of the descending decades to penetrate the edifice and rot the framework. At this same time it was also decided that artificial light was needed to enhance the appearance of the visage of the statue. More holes were cut beneath the arm supporting the torch to place lamps to shine upon the face, and this further weakened the structure. More decades transpired and because the outward appearance of the statue seemed “fine” no one concerned themselves with any examination of the supporting internal works until it was noticed a few years after the bicentennial that Lady Liberty appeared to be “stumbling” and her torch arm was drooping.

It took a charismatic campaign to raise enough financial support to repair Liberty and make her whole, once more. There was not sufficient public interest in preservation of our heritage without the use of commercial ventures and entertainment value to garner the required effort. The benefit to the many was struggled and fought for by a dedicated few. Indifference and apathy replaced patriotism and the appreciation of preserving a national institution. The nation was enjoying a prosperity boom but had no interest in investing in its own relevant past so that future generations would benefit. The picture of Dorian Liberty was showing its age.

Upon close inspection it was discovered that the whole structure was on the verge of collapse – rotting from within. The generations had taken their toll, consuming without putting anything back or exercising any maintenance. The structure had been forged of iron by hammer, hand, and sweat at its core, with a copper skin, and the whole edifice was “safely” surrounded by a saltwater basin. When the notion to alter the natural cycles of day and night with electric light was applied to Liberty Island, the current was carried beneath the water and into the statue. Galvanic corrosion resulted, where the figure became a giant battery, with the saltwater acting as an electrolyte. While everything on the surface appeared unchanged, hidden forces surged from underground channels and dissolved the entire framework that upheld the lovely skin deep illusion of a colossus. The cosmetic portion of the figure was all that remained to carry the weight of the image and it was failing under its own grandeur.

I hope the symbolism is not lost on you. There is a familiarity with the corrosion of the once new and shiny plan and purpose of my nation. On the Statue of Liberty we call it “patina” for it is more attractive a word than ”rust.” We embrace the crusty film over our emblem as it would be far too overwhelming to return a shine, again. The task seems daunting. Likewise, we neglect our infrastructure because, cosmetically, all seems good. And we argue that the crusty film we have developed on the skin of our nation helps to protect us and adds to the distinctive character we project. That is both lazy and troubling. We used to be a bright beacon of hope for other peoples of other nations. But our flame is not so bright any longer and the fire has too many holes as we look for inner light and grow dim and flicker with doubt. We have also grown tired of holding that torch high and in a forward cast. We are directionless and purposeless, I fear. Perhaps if the torch were replaced with our current desire it would be a fist full of dollars or a new cell phone? All I know is that the current light in which we are illuminated isn’t natural. The only accurate element remaining for the modern Land of Liberty is the tablet of knowledge. We exhaust ourselves pontificating, exploring, and babbling incessantly about our superior knowledge. Sadly, wisdom has been forfeit in order to make more room for ambitious learning, apparently.

And the seeking of pleasure and happiness is the new slavery and tyranny that we elect to step into with eagerness. It was somewhere, approximately fifty to sixty years ago, that “thinking” was replaced by “feeling.” No wonder we are adrift as a culture. All of the principles, convictions, and beliefs used to construct this nation are now out of sight and out of mind. We attempt assembly of a complex structure in a language foreign to us. The subjective has been substituted for the substantive. Only because the original design was so diligently calculated and devised are we still standing, today. The core is rotting; hidden beneath a familiar façade assumed to be permanent despite neglect and a failure to maintain it. But there is a statute of limitations on the liberty of ignorance and arrogance.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

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.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

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.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

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.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

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.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Male Bashing – The International Sport

One of the many snappy quips in Oscar Wilde’s, “Lady Windermere's Fan,” was a statement made by an elderly gentlemen in reply to the accusation that it is the behavior of men that causes women to mistrust each other. His remark was, “Women don’t trust women. Men don’t trust women. It is what binds the Catholic and the Hindu, together.”

One of the unexpected pleasures of researching that quote was all of the interpretation it has been given by women who have simply brushed it aside and explained it away as the misogynistic ramblings of a man without perspective. How those women wish that were true. In point of fact women are not trustworthy. Now, during this high season of celebrating every nuance of women without apology or acknowledgment that woman is FLAWED should only be expected when at the same time men are regarded as unnecessary or at best are incorrect in all their imaginations. The least valid source of honest evaluation is found by going to that being sampled and inquiring its opinion of itself. Yet, for women, that is exactly what is being done. Never mind that nearly half of the population is not female and has likely had enough involvement with the creature to have drawn some measurable conclusions. While the world party continues for the celebration and deification of woman it is time to say enough already.

If you want my respect try earning it. I’ve not seen a lot to recommend women anywhere near as highly as they regard themselves. And let’s get a few of your general conclusions out of the way. I am not afraid of you. I am not intimidated by you. I am not made insecure by your success. I am not lost and without a defined place in this world because you have trampled under my precious patriarchal values. Most importantly - I am not fooled. If you want to be treated like a man I will beat you down like any other man that steps out of line. That you want to have your cake and eat it, too, by asserting rights when they accommodate you and cry unfair when they don’t is something you’re going to have to relinquish. Maybe when we were children and were told to “let the girl win” it was different. Few of you have changed your ways – you still cheat and expect it to go unnoticed. You still expect your mistakes forgiven and another free chance. I dare you to reciprocate.

Behind all of the empowerment bravado is a lack of confidence and an unaddressed fear. The cold-hearted, I mean business woman is a sham. I have offered the challenge before and offer it, again, here. If you really have something better and different to offer in place of how men conduct themselves why not show me that instead of the practiced deceit and subterfuge? None of you are honestly trying to prove anything to men. You are trying to convince yourself that whatever you are pursuing with cut-throat ambition will validate you and prove your worth. Meanwhile you trample and haphazardly discard everything in your path leaving a wake of needlessly damaged people and experiences. When that academic, or career, or political goal is reached what else will you have to offer? What are you wildly slashing to ribbons as you try to slay your own demons? So write off what I say and continue to insist that I’m just another man that either doesn’t understand or doesn’t want you to succeed. I would like to give you more credit than your being that shallow and self serving. If you think the world was a bad place, before, you had better consider what would happen if men turn enemy rather than make allowances for your collective behavior.

There are a few of you out there that have a better focus and a firmer grip on reality. I have been made to shut-up by a few extremely reasoned and articulate female voices somehow able to be heard over the din of the chaos otherwise surrounding. I will not give their names but I have asked their permission to share their thoughts. I will try not to take their comments out of context and give you their insights. If I knew more women such as these I would find better ways to spend my time than taking on this insanity. I will offer this: I have shown their comments to other men without introduction or explanation and to the man their response was, “Wow. Where did you find honest women? They really get it.. I would love to know a woman like that who doesn’t play games.”

I will end with the actual words of actual women.

The first thought was in response to me suggesting “[When] women fail to recognize the feminine as strength they are so cheated."

“I'd say that's very true. There is power in femininity but most women fail to recognize it thinking that different automatically means weaker.”

“The Psychology of Gender class was the most obnoxious class I took in my entire college course experiences. Instead of a fair analysis of genders and how they develop it was a slam on men, male bias, abortion promotion, and basically a treatise on how to wipe out the differences in men and women. Why? That's one of the most offensive goals I've encountered. Celebrate the differences. I'm more than happy to teach my hoped-for future children that men are big and strong and women are soft and squishy and that having intelligence and thoughtfulness can be the purview of either. The fact remains that many women think they want to become men and they want to stomp their men into submissiveness. Then they lament the results.”

Other thoughts –

“I am not an emotive person . . . Needless to say it didn't work out. He thought I was cold and distant and loved my work more than him. Sadly enough it might have been true. I was more of a workaholic then than I am now.”

“There are days when I feel like I'd like to be in a relationship, again. I miss knowing that I would have plans on a weekend, if I felt like it, and always knowing where to sit at a table of friends and the little bits of a relationship that are more about belonging and being comfortable than anything else. There is very little outside pressure, besides a mother who wants grandchildren (and I'm' young, I'm not having kids anytime soon, if ever!). I also think that I'm at an age where I'm very selfish, I hate being tied down to anything. I love traveling and I like the idea that I could pack up and go tomorrow if I want to, without worrying about anyone else. People find that attractive in the short term, but in fact I am very difficult to live with!”

“My view on relationships, with all of my vast experience, is that if the right person comes along I'd be very happy, but if not - I'm also happy. I have a lot of personal issues to sort out, and that's a lot easier to do on my own. I'd like to be happy and comfortable with myself and sort the little things out before I complicate matters by bringing other people into everything. I am a firm believer in relationships being a part of life, but not your whole life. You have to be a complete person on your own. A partner should complement you, not complete you. You have to do that yourself first.”

“As much as it is nothing personal from your side I really do hope that I can help you to forgive women a little bit. My reasoning for this is as follows: most women are manipulative and mess with people's heads to get what they want. But a lot of that is not because they hate men. A large part of it is that we (particularly my generation) have been raised to believe that we can do everything we set our minds to, so in essence, No we don't need men. And so we're forced to stand alone and cope with everything life throws our way because we're expected to right all the 'injustices' of the past. Feminism has long since passed equality, and is focused on the superiority of women over men. That is as narrow-minded and prejudiced as all the pre-feminist ideas! So yes, women can be nasty and make men feel as if they aren't needed. But if you look into it you may find that that stems from women battling to cope with everything expected of them - if there comes an occasion when she can make a man feel like he's not needed, it means that she's accomplishing what is expected of her - on some level, anyway!

Humans are totally messed up.”

“I remember a woman who always used the quote, "We should be strong enough on the inside that we can be gentle on the outside." As much as I found it intensely irritating and clichéd, I seem to be thinking about it a lot!”

“I think women know what they really want. In some cases it's independence and a career, but not always, and not only! The problem is that the world still sees things like cooking, housekeeping and childrearing as 'women's work" - I'm not blaming men for it, it's as much as women taking on responsibilities that we've been trained for. A little while ago I went to visit my father, where I automatically shopped, cooked, and generally looked after him, while still having meetings and other business both personal and professional. It's seen as special when a guy cooks a meal, and not a regular occurrence. So basically, women are faced with a huge dilemma - we can be lonely and independent, which is often the easy option, or can we balance a career and a family with all of the responsibilities of both.”

“You also get women who get married and stop working and become devoted housewives and mothers. I've met a lot of them, they put their own pursuits on hold . . . And as much as I don't understand it at all, I can see that they're really happy. But seriously, women aren't as cold-hearted and calculating as we seem - most women, anyway!”

“Women are scared to admit it, but deep down, we all really want a big strong guy to protect us and have deep emotional insight, of course. But primary to all the companionship and repartee and everything else, a girl just wants to feel safe and secure, and wanted.”

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Things To Do, Today - Forget to Breathe

Being of German descent it is the natural state for me to treasure misery and glory in despair. That being the case I should be the hap –hap –happiest man on the face of the earth. Today has just been another in too much reflection, introspection, and attention to minutia. I had three conversations which afforded me opportunity to try and fit my thoughts into manageable phrases and sound bites. The world is no longer a place interested in delving deeply into any topic other than celebrity gossip so in order to be marketable one must package themselves appropriately. The first intercourse allowed me to realize that the only reason I make any effort is not because of hope but because of despair. I simply refuse to admit defeat and give anyone the satisfaction. It is not that I have any real aspiration that something good awaits me if I persevere because the fixed constant in my Boolean argument is that the Universe wants to crush me; little sub-atomic particle powder, crush me. This is unfortunate for the Universe because in direct opposition to my annihilation is its desire to have me cognizant of the event.

I hate to lose. I don’t mean in some trite, “I’m going to sulk in the corner” hate to lose but as in abject rage and desire to do serious harm – hate. Since my birth it has been so. I was that kid that threw the game board across the room, tore the playing cards to shreds, and melted the tokens with the fire in my eyes. I am still that kid. Only a nod to civility has put that in check but occasionally I excuse myself and go scream obscenities to the Universe or look for something that “deserves” my wrath and pummel the living sh*t out of inanimate objects with my fists. There is satisfaction in destroying that which has the equal potential to destroy me. I am particularly fond of masonry or metal for sparring partners. Some mushy knuckles and an unrecognizable something later and I am at peace.

I hate games of chance. I dislike war only because I can’t control all of the variables. The weather would be certain to always change against me. The Universe has decreed it so. I hate office politics for the same reason. I like to win – I do not like games. Winning has nothing to do with me ceding power or authority away from anyone else. Winning is all about winning. Winning is succeeding. Losing is failing. I hate to lose so a quick look at the statistics is in order. What do you know – the game is rigged. I have NO wins, only a few draws (or, “successful failures”) and all the rest losses. I have achieved a remarkable measure of failure in my life. I know for I have remarked and re-shaped and marked many things over my long, unabated run. That was the focus of my second exchange, today. I have such a string of failures yet I simply have no impetus to give up. Surrender is never an option. While hugging the Universe’s pestle with my feet dangling precariously above the mortise I shout in defiance, “Is *THAT* the best you’ve got???” I really want to go out fighting. As I recently told my friend, Evan, I want to exit this life being vaporized. I want to be hurling through space at such a ferocious velocity that it shreds me into fibers. That would make my having lived all somehow worthwhile. I will not go down no matter how badly beaten. Kill me or I will never let you rest. All of those moronic stickers of “No Fear” and other childish nonsense are for pretenders. The truly fearless don’t have any need to call attention to the fight in which they are actively engaged. Fight to live. Fight for your life; then and only then come talk to me. I don’t know why but I’m still here. Is there a purpose in it? Will I achieve some heroic status? Not likely. I’ll be among the hundreds of thousands that have lived and fought and died that never got the attention of anyone in this world but the Universe had one hell of a time taking them down.

All of which brings us to the third of today’s conversations. I am no sage. I am no wizened authority. Whatever I am is still standing long after having a reason to stand so I must take stock of that uncrushable thing that is not clearly obvious or defined and stop trying to be pliable and compliant. The Universe knows I was never meant to conform but to reform and possibly transform. I am; in direct opposition to the forces of this world. For better or worse I am a force of some other invention and I must recon with myself and let others recon with the consequences. I am through trying to be less than myself to be seen as more by others. I will not stop being even if I stop breathing. What am I going to do about that? I must set my course and follow only one path. Hopefully there will be those walking in the same direction during the journey. I can’t sit by and expect them to wait for me and I can’t wait for anyone else.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Friends Don't Let Friends Perform Sailor Dives Into 4 Feet of Water

Alright . . . Since yesterday’s Evan story was so popular I am going to treat you to another. Evan loves boats. He is particularly fond of kayaks, squirt boats, and C1’s. For those unfamiliar with a C1: picture kneeling like the Land O’ Lakes Butter, Native American squaw brand icon and then picture someone compressing your thighs until your heels disappear into the back of your lower legs. Got it so far? Now, paddle around like that with a goofy smile on your face through jagged rocks, white water rapids and near freezing air and water temperatures while the circulation completely ceases to your lower extremities and that’s Evan’s idea of heaven.

He is a master craftsman, especially in wood. He once bought me a set of traditional Japanese, hollow ground wood chisels. I have lost my marriage, my immediate contact with my children, my home, my career and what passed for self respect but I still have those chisels. I build guitars among other amusements. Evan builds wooden boats and occasionally prostitutes himself and repairs fiberglass hulls. He can hand plane a board over twenty feet long which will perfectly sit along the line of the bucks he has intended for it. He marvels at my skills. I have none in contrast to his. Both of us are fanatical in our devotion to the “old ways.” The shipwright is all but gone but there is still my friend Evan to prevent its demise. I love the sea but he would live on it if he could. Where I have a passing interest he has a devotion that borders on unrequited love.

As a consequence of our tireless longings to do beautiful work with our hands we had worked on many projects, together. We still spend a lot of our conversations detailing our latest wish lists for projects. I have a tendency to not suffer such distractions as concerns for my safety which makes the project ever so much more interesting. For Evan, it makes the projects ever so much messier when he’s preparing bandages and tourniquets for me. There was a particular incident when he rolled up in front of my house in a 1965 Mustang Coupe. We were in our mid-twenties and so although the Mustang was just fine as it came from the factory, obviously we could improve it. Work began. I sketched out and then completed the casting dies for the new aluminum valve covers. We got the green sand for the casting molds and Evan finished those after I rechecked my draft angle calculations, checked wind speeds, etc. etc. . . . over-analyzed everything as usual. Those valve covers were so good we just couldn’t wait to start tearing down the engine and rebuild it.

Well, I couldn’t wait.

I started wrenching on all of the fasteners and got down to a few head bolts that were a little stubborn after roughly twenty years of high engine heat. “Wait,” said Evan., “Rather than do something stupid why don’t I just go get something like WD-40 to free those seized studs.” “Eh?. Something stupid? Nonsense,” said I with my usual pluck and assurance, “I’ll just slide this length of pipe over the end of the ratchet to increase the fulcrum and my leverage [grunt, strain, minor internal bleeding . . .] and . . .” CRACK!!!

As I write this, I’m looking at the scar on my left thumb. I had both hands clenched around that pipe and put everything I had behind it. In a demonstration of Newton’s Second Law of Motion, when that bolt loosened, there was barely any resistance to the force I had exerted. Not only had the length of pipe increased my leverage but it also increased the mass. Mass multiplied times acceleration equals force (F=ma). It certainly does . . . Picture the position a thumb is in when making a fist and then picture that bent knuckle making contact with a sharp corner on a cast iron chunk of engine. I split that puppy wide and deep. There was some concern the wound might never actually close, since it could not be stitched and I had to rely on butterfly bandages as my only recourse.

This all occurred during Evan’s search for the solvent so imagine the look on his face when he returned to find spurting blood and me trying to stem the tide with an oily rag. In jubilation I proclaimed, “Got that bolt loose . . . “

But that story was just the setup for the real story. Because each of us was so convinced that our personal interests were superior sources of enjoyment over the other one’s hobbies and ambitions we were always trying to provide opportunities for each to experience the real deal. Evan’s turn came at the community college swimming pool. I am an excellent swimmer. I had been trained as a life guard at only twelve years of age. I know pool safety. No. Really – why are you smirking like that? I do! But, Evan is the water baby. He was teaching me some techniques used by sailors and among those was the Sailor Dive. The Sailor Dive, as successfully demonstrated to me by Evan, looks like a normal dive except that instead of extending your arms over your head and pointing your hands to form a sort of spear with your entire body you instead dive with your arms at attention against your sides. (As in the T-Shirt graphic for this post). “I can do that,’ I said, and off I went.

The Reason I Grew a Beard
The guy famous for calculating the volume of a gnat’s anus didn’t even consider that he was six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Evan. Springing gleefully into oblivion and only four feet of water when you are six feet, two inches tall presents difficulties. It also presents a brilliant display of intense red flashes across your entire field of vision. My chin, nose and forehead all made contact with the bottom of the pool at the same time. As my face detached from the grout and tile I paused to assess, “Hmmm. Not good.” I had recently learned of the means to kill a human being by shoving their nose into their brain. I figured I had just succeeded in testing that knowledge. The expiration was supposed to take no more than thirty seconds so I stood up in the pool and counted to thirty-six and determined it was likely I would live. It was also good that I had not forgotten any numbers along the way; two good signs. I turned to face Evan who was ghostly pale. “That was a sickening thud.” I asked him what was wrong. “You’re bleeding.” “Oh, Yeah . . . I know” I said calmly. Evan wasn’t so calm, “NO. Y-O-U A-R-E Bleeeee-DING!?!” Now, you medically inclined know that there are so many willing capillaries and such in the skin of the face that love to bleed. Mix that with a lot of water and it looks like hemorrhaging. So, I trotted off to the showers to rinse off and then get a look-see in the mirror for myself.

In the shower I could not figure out why as I ran the jet of water across the bridge of my nose that blood poured from my nostrils. When I got to the mirror I understood. The reason I had not died was because the cartilage in my nose had come out rather than gone in. It was sticking out of the top of my nose just below my eyebrows. The gouge in the flesh of the nose around the protruding, white, rubbery stuff was purple, and blue, and red. I spread and pulled up on the wound, the guy standing nearby watching me fainted, and the cartilage popped back inside my nose. All better.

The tile used to cover the swimming pool had left a reverse imprint in my face. My chin and forehead had what I was later told is called “Swimmer’s Cross” by competitive swimmers that dive too deep and scrape bottom. I headed out to locate Evan and then went to file an accident report. (I told you I was a trained life guard) I was the picture of loveliness with my red, criss-crossed gouges, punctured nose, and purple bruises under my eyes as I assured Evan that I was just fine. The staff turned out to be two women the same ages as Evan and myself. I do not think that “life guardettes” is the technical term but this was pre-Baywatch. The Blonde took immediate compassion on me and her nurturing, Florence Nightingale, genes kicked into overdrive. The Brunette must have been interrupted from her snack of lemons and persimmons and did not care for me - at all. As the rescuing angel began to ask me questions from the report form and apply bandages to my wounds the other stood rigidly with arms crossed and her weight cocked to one hip tracing the inside of her lips with her tongue. This was a marriage made in heaven for both of us. Guardette Sweet asked what happened and as I attempted to answer, Evan interjected, “Dummy hurt himself while performing stupid tricks at pool.” I laughed as did Evan and even Guardette Sour but Guardette Sweet shot Evan a look of death such as I have never seen. Several outer layers of his skin melted away . . . maybe I’m exaggerating . . . but, not by much. Evan continued to make insulting pokes at me to the delight of Guardette Sour and the glares of Guaredette Sweet and a good time was had by all. If Evan and I hadn’t been such morons we would have asked those two lovely ladies out. Ce la vie.

What did I learn from that experience?

1. Friends will be there to put the proper spin on your death.
2. Absolutely nothing about proper conduct around a swimming pool.
3. Practically nothing about my own mortality.
4. A woman’s attention makes everything all better.
   

A sidebar would be that when I went back to work I wanted to make the cuts and gouges less hideous for my co-workers. I found that by going for the humorous angle I learned something about the people around me. I used Snoopy and Woodstock comic strip bandages on my face. I thought that it would get a chuckle and the girls would find it cute. Nope. I found out the hidden feelings of the women I worked with by wearing those stupid things. The ones that secretly liked me were furious when they saw me wearing those! Who knew that something so simple could flush them out of hiding??! That was the event that defined my forever screwing with people’s heads. So, I guess you could say that dive knocked some sense into me.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

It's Not Easy Being Me - But I'm the best man for the job!

Each of us has gifts. John Lennon had, and I have the gifts of misery and sarcasm. Misery indeed loves company. John had Ringo. I have Evan.

What in the world am I talking about? A great deal of the inspiration for John’s songs was a result of spending time with Ringo. In ordinary conversation, Ringo, would say extraordinary things. Expressions such as “hard day’s night,” and, “eight days a week” were pure Ringo. These things just flowed from his lips in the middle of the monotony of a day in the life because “tomorrow never knows.”

My relationship with my friend Evan has all of the same attributes. Simply amazing things come out of his mouth without any strain or forced effort. We are members of the mutual admiration society but the difference is like comparing the design of German and Japanese automobiles. I am like the German engineers. I set out to design an ashtray and although the result will be a magnificent achievement in precision it will require twenty-six pieces and seven screws to assemble. Meanwhile, the Japanese designer assembles most of the interior with eight fewer pieces and only four screws. That is my relationship with Evan. I will sweat the details and set the tolerances to plus or minus 0.00003 of a millimeter, and include a complete ISO 9000 compliant CAD drawing package and a finite element analysis model before I even present my idea to him and he will glance at it and ask, ”Why don’t you just use a stick and a rubber band?”

My reply is of course, “Because that would be simple and work and wouldn’t be any fun, Damn it, Evan!!!”

[*sigh*]

Anyway, having Evan around simplifies a whole bunch of my convoluted approach to thinking and living. Today’s T-Shirt message is pure Evan. That is an original Evan quote, “It’s not easy being ME but I’m the best man for the job.” It’s so deep yet so simple. That’s his eloquent solution to my complex problems. When we first met he described me to others as a simple-minded genius. That sounds more like an insult than a compliment but he meant that I tunneled right down to the core of things, identified the problem, and suggested the optimum solution. What happened to that guy? Well, I think a big part of it is that I am no longer among those like Evan that just by being around – turn things around. I am not forgetting my friends locally, Randy and Steve, in particular, by any means. They have literally fed me and housed me and kept me sane the past five years. But there is a symbiotic relationship with Evan that just happened. Where Randy and Steve are real friends that tell me when I’m being stupid I think only Evan comprehends my stupidity. Every work day on his drive home I get a phone call and forty-five minutes of pure Evan. He lives 1900 miles away but makes it a point to check up on me. When he has no answers listening is enough. When he speaks there is always an answer worth my listening. I swear he has cameras and microphones inside my head.

Now, I look back quite a lot in these posts. I do so because I believe that when you’ve lost your way it is better to retrace your steps until you get your bearings rather than fumble around. Evan always points true East, where I grew up. Randy and Steve point true Southwest, where I live, now. When you are searching for something lost you should start where you are certain that you saw it last, right? The things I’m not finding inside myself any longer are back East.

Friendship, just as other marks of character, is forged and tested through adversity. My recent season of testing has been continuous and intense for five years. That produces a different temper than a cycle of heating and cooling as I experienced growing up. Evan shared those cycles with me and we were forever fused together as an alloy of allies. We met in high school . . . in detention. What better crucible to fire a friendship?! Our being found there reflected our personalities. I was being punished for defiance. He was being detained for ingenuity. Our common bond was the recognition of the other’s achievement.

I had been summoned to the head of the English department and informed that I demonstrated a real talent for writing. However, she decided that the proper way to inspire and motivate my efforts was to show me the work of a (wait for it) female student whose work was nearly as unique as mine but not as developed. Her challenge to me was that the other student would receive a higher grade than mine so that I would apply myself with even more fervor to raise the bar. I informed her that negative reinforcement would yield negative results and that if I were not given the grade I deserved I would not write another assignment the remainder of the year. She balked at what she considered an idol threat and informed me such an action would land me in detention and that I would fail the class. She did not raise the grade and I did not write. I languished in detention for the remainder of the school year without submitting another work. She awarded me an “A” for the class and I chastised her that both of us were cheated out of my developing skill under her tutelage due to her ridiculous posturing. Yes. I am still resentful.

Evan made far more noise than I. It so happened that one day as classes began a deep, thunderous BOOM reverberated through the halls of our school. The experience had all of the earmarks of an explosion. The floors shook and the assembled mass held its collective breath until all seemed good. As fate would have it that was the same day I defied my English teacher. On the third floor of our well equipped and very new school was a fantastic art studio. The tables in that room were oak with two inch thick, solid slab slate tops. Each table sat ten students; very large tables, indeed. Evan’s home room was assigned to that art room. Three days earlier while fidgeting with one of the table legs he had noticed that whoever had assembled the furniture did not tighten the fasteners. He was able to completely remove the bolts. By the fourth morning he had managed to work from leg to leg until all four corners were free of fixed hardware. The table remained together by delicate balance and its own undisturbed weight. When the first period teacher huffed in and tossed her stack of bookwork on the empty table it collapsed and the several hundred pound table top dropped like . . . well, like a rock, oddly enough. Now you know the source of the explosive boom.

Rather than learn any valuable lessons from our experiences we instead praised each other for our noble feats and became fast friends. With so many interesting adventures after that it is best to stop the account. What is remarkable is that having been Best Man for each other’s weddings and after thirty years the bond has never weakened and seems that it never will. To have experienced that once is a gift but to have experienced as many times as I have is a miracle. So, in tribute to Evan and to Randy and Steve I would like to complicate the T-Shirt slogan as only I can and claim that,” It’s Not Easy Being Me But My Friends Make Be The Best Man For The Job.”

Treasure your true friends and make sure they know that you do.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Give My Creation Life

I have never been one to shy away from pain nor have I ever been a masochist. Physical pain is easiest to handle in my purview. Bodily threats and risk of injury are taken in stride. There’s a certain acceptable risk factor and beyond that it comes down to whether one has demonstrated through skill and sometimes blind luck the management of the threat and avoided serious consequences; or, through inept and foolish effort, endures wounds or trauma as a consequence to their folly.

Emotional pain lingers far longer and can not have any real remedy directly applied. This causes most to avoid matters of the heart over what matters to the head. Emotional issues are more like a toxin spread throughout the organs of the body. The smallest prick of the soul and the complications can become unmanageable in a moment of time. The symptoms mimic so many possible causes and obfuscate any honest diagnosis. A physical scar is often able to be accepted or forgotten but the emotional scar may never actually heal. One forgets the intensity of physical pain and reflexively avoids experiencing any unnecessarily but emotional pain can be remembered in full and actually hobbles the sufferer ever after. The rational mind wants to find patterns, hazards, and dangerous behaviors to identify and avoid in order not to make the same mistake, twice. Unfortunately, the heart tries to provide the mind with the same sort of list of the intangible issues of living and the results are the avoidance of a singular event as if it were indicative of a predictable cause and effect. Subsequently, the desire to avoid hurt generates a list of occurrences that overwhelm the ever shrinking expectation of desirable experiences. People shrink back and become afraid to touch or be touched. Memory no longer serves but enslaves.

There was a time when I was undaunted by challenge or threat. The possible risks held no sway over the urgency of my passions to obtain whatever I purposed. Any opposition was faced down with defiance and blood in my eye. I took what I wanted, who I wanted, when I wanted. A shift of perspective corrected some of that inordinate self focus and I was not afraid to explore feelings or experience the rough handling that exposing them would guarantee. It was deemed an acceptable level of risk. Those experiences did not adversely affect me because I had put myself in the line of fire deliberately and anticipated the consequences with a fair approximation of the causality and cumulative disruption to my comfort.

I was smug and I was arrogant and I was defining the rules of the game so there was really little chance of me suffering all that greatly. I put that entirely aside and left myself completely open and vulnerable . . . and I was torn to pieces. I wasn’t betrayed by an enemy. I wasn’t deceived by a friend. I wasn’t left to rot by a stranger. I was wounded to the same extent that I had wounded her. For neither was it out of conscious effort or vengeance or self- protection but out of simply living and getting burned by singular events that had nothing to associate them but that they were grouped together because the pain was the same. That pain overwhelmed our senses and left us numb and shattered. Rational escape from the wounds was warped by the struggle to get free of the pain. Once pulled apart there were no remaining threads left whole to affect a proper mend but the pain remained intact.

She moved out and moved on. I dug in and went under. I have spent too much time sifting through the dirt for traces and shards of the life we had together. The pieces I discover are ugly and mangled. The slivers pierce and cut me but no matter how many I gather the restoration is incomplete. Too much of us and too much time has been lost. It doesn’t matter that I continue to bravely face the pain; there is no substance behind it. I am not afraid of a broken heart. I am afraid of our broken promises. She may have been the one to leave but that does not mean that I was wholly there before her decision. Promises were broken; I failed and she failed and we failed. I am not afraid of failure. I am afraid of our surrender. Where was my defiance against our common enemy? Why did I shrink back from the challenge? Why did we believe the journey to be so daunting? I am not afraid of the journey. I am afraid of stopping to rest and never starting up, again. I mustn’t be afraid of the pain. I mustn’t rest to try and escape it. I can not allow what I mustn’t to prevent me from doing what I should.

I am starting with something that is emptier than starting with nothing. I keep insisting upon reviving that which is dead. How do I put aside the emptiness and the hollow echoes of that which once fulfilled me? Let go. Get up. There’s nothing left alive there anymore. I have sewn together a figure of straw and stuffed it with my memories. My tears won’t give it eyes or my cries a voice. My wasted breath won’t give it life or my blood a beating heart. I stand in this place, alone.

The journey is not over. I’ve rested long enough.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

TAKE ME - I'm trying not to care what you do with me after that

A Welcome Reception

After my friend’s wedding, I of course, enjoyed the reception. I had such a good time feeling almost human. It’s fun, and I’m told healthy to pretend, sometimes. One of the many highlights of the experience was to meet a friend of the groom’s with whom I had only “spoken” through instant messaging a couple years ago. I was what I still am today and she was not far removed experiencing all of the same pain from the opposite spouse point of view. I had abruptly stopped communication at that time among many of my sincerely stupid moments of smashing what could not be incinerated in my life.

I introduced myself after speculating that the lovely, tall blonde with the handsome man at her side must be the co-worker described to me by the groom. Those two extremely charming people were stuck with me the rest of the night. I latched onto them and they were too nice to shoe me away. They were inundated with a numbingly detailed recount of my past twenty years. Fortunately, there was alcohol to anesthetize them. Talk, talk, talk . . . Blah, Blah, Blah . . . oh, today I feel bad about it but last night there was no stopping me.

Despite all of that I did come up for air occasionally and really enjoyed watching the relationship of “M” and “L.” (Initials have been used to protect the innocent.) “M” is so far down the road from the misery she had experienced those two years ago and “L” was just a great guy. He had gone through his own hell right along with us at roughly the same time. They got a few words in every now and again and I got to find out how they met – all good, good stuff. It was not lost on me that I was enjoying my dream played out by two different couples at the same event. The bride and groom had advanced to the bonus round but “M” and “L” are right on their heels. I can not stress enough how hooked I am on this pair. I hope I get other opportunities to be in their company (provided I have been properly medicated, of course). Either of them alone just leaves you thinking, “Wow! What a NICE person.” When the two are put together it is just remarkable. They were genuine, real, and they loved each other.

So, when I finally had to relinquish my death grip on the two of them and began my drive home the bottom fell out of my emotional bucket; All of these divorced people who had allowed themselves to find new loves – better loves. Then there was me, the stoically constipated dork losing more and more of that warmth I had just enjoyed with every mile of distance from the hotel. That’s what I keep doing; I keep distancing myself from what I really want.

So, I awoke this morning with what to me was a revelation. I had an epiphany. No. There was no heavenly light or choirs of angels only the usual stray headlight beam and hypersensitive car alarms.

I Want To Be RAVISHED.

There it is. The secret longing of my heart is to wake up to find myself being molested by a woman without reservation. I have searched for her forever. Before I was married, while I was married, and now in my solitary confinement I am still searching the classifieds for “Woman Seeking Man to Rape.” Where is the stalker waiting for me to turn on the shower? Where is the mouth to member resuscitation? Where’s the public groper in the red dress?

In an email discussing this with a happily married, curvy squishy bit critter with a thousand insights into my soul her reply was basically, “Duh – Stupid.” Well, she actually was more polite and said, “That's exactly the vibe I get with your blog.” Great, so everybody knows what’s going on but me.

She then concluded that I’m too conflicted to get out of my own way. I know that’s why I want to be sexually harassed in the most graphic of ways. I tell myself that if I were found in the clutches of a sexually secure woman who took all the initiative without any negotiation, bargaining, scheduling, asking, or pleading from me and could claim I was a “victim” that she groped me or took me in the most inappropriate places and at the most unexpected times that I would be ecstatic! I tell myself that a lot because I’m still trying to convince myself. Damn!? I’m pulled in two contradictory directions and I figure eventually I’ll wimp out and succumb to what will amount to a quickie fix (as in "Quickie," and, overdose) that will not fix anything at all. And the longer this nonsense goes on the less secure I become. It absolutely is not like riding a bike. You don’t have to kiss a bicycle. I’m becoming so ridiculously insecure that I couldn’t manage to go in for a kiss so there’s no chance I’m cool with any extra-curricular activities. (Although, not entirely true - those other activities have more tolerance built in for awkwardness.)

I can’t make the leap to man whore that this dilemma seems to deem as necessary. I’m not the dangerous, bad boy type that would make things easy. It’s damn pathetic and these are not the credentials of a man who’s seriously got a chance of getting any. Mrs. Squishy Bits told me I’m too cerebral to operate from my impulses. Well, doesn’t *THAT* suck. I take risks with everything else in my life and am able to self-destruct without a moment’s hesitation but I can’t bed a woman because I’m so morally superior. No I’m not – I just want to be. I am “complex” as my friend loves to quote to me from “The Money Pit.” I am sure he’s right but it’s the complex that I’m developing psychologically that has my attention. Mrs. Squishy Bits also dared to point out that I deny myself the notion I am allowed to have joy in my life. Joy would have to be the name of the man rapist that I’m looking to attack me to have hope of it in my life, now.

What should I do? Better yet, who wants to do it to me?

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

we get to where we are by living the way we DO

I attended my friend’s wedding yesterday. It was terrific. The ceremony and most of the reception were outdoor events (located at different parts of the same venue) and the weather was nearly ideal. The first impression feel and ambience was “Happy.” I’d say that “Content” would better describe the mood. My friend was relaxed and smiling, the bride was the usual bundle of nervousness, anticipation, and excitement and she was beautiful. Not that she isn’t, usually, but she just had that glow a bride should. Despite my own less than ideal life I was honored and very glad to be a part of the lives of two people enjoying love and each other.

I got to see some friends and acquaintances I’ve not seen in a long time. It felt good to fit in and belong, again. I tried not to weigh people down with the details of being me when they asked about how I was and what I’d been up to lately. Some of it slipped out but only to a select few. I was deliberately not trying to dwell on me and fortunately with the great location, great couple, and wonderful guests I didn’t have time to think of me at all.

The thought that created this post was while I was preparing for the wedding. Brushing off a suit, polishing some shoes, and actually dressing as a reflection of my love and respect for my friends – both the bride and groom, had me reminiscing about the “me” I see before I look in a mirror. I used to prepare a suit on a regular basis. Now, I’ve worn that suit twice in a year; one funeral, one wedding. The man in the suit was and still is the image of me that is the most natural and real. The opportunity to be that person, again, is nowhere near any mirrors that I pass these days.

So the thoughts running through my mind about my friend’s long nightmare finally coming to an end and his loneliness being replaced by the love of a truly wonderful example of a woman had me contrasting where he and I took different paths. The conclusion that I came to was that it was not a matter of one having chosen better and the other making a mistake. The paths each of us took were certainly the correct ones for each of our situations.

I simply understood that we get to where we are by living the way we do. That may seem underwhelming and obvious but the truth is found where one places their focus. Living is doing. I have not put much effort into the “do” part in quite a while. So, even with my still wrestling with my understanding that if I am sincere in my convictions I must remain single for the remainder of my life my heart is not in it all the way. I am not living because I am not doing anything about that. I need to decide if I’m going to toss out the path of most resistance which would require me to find contentment only in my daily pursuits or if I am going to abandon myself to my passions and desires. Either way I need to do something – anything.

Even saying that . . . here I am. I’ll let you know if I ever do even a single thing about it.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

Fits Me to a "T"

Here I was going along all righteously indignant and mad at the world and one of those curvy critters with the squishy bits got in here while I wasn’t looking. Now the whole plan to hold a grudge and incite riot with my inflammatory posts is in serious jeopardy.

She was here for one afternoon and now all of my stuff is being boxed up and tossed out in the garage. All of my sulphur and brimstone has been reupholstered in pastels and frills. (Is that Fabreze in her hand . . .?)

See what happens when you listen to women? As the bumper sticker so aptly remarked - “God, made Man, and rested. Then, He made Woman and no one has rested since.”

Man, she blind-sided me! She caught me off guard with her feminine wiles by flattering me with a comment on one of my posts. Next thing I know she’s making helpful suggestions about improving my site and I end up spending the next day and a half totally overhauling and renovating the joint. Even put a room addition on, the left margin column with the greeting and labels and stuff to “Let a little light in this place so someone might visit.” She thinks this blog ought to be warm and inviting. The Nerve!!!

You know what I say? IT’S ABOUT TIME!!!

Surely, anyone reading my blog knows it’s a pitiful attempt to get attention. My one friend has assured me my blog will either bring in women to try and fix me or women that really want to kill me. He is very smug in predicting that either result is exactly what I’m after. Of course, he’s right but what’s that got to do with anything? Now, this still doesn’t make the world a perfect place. I am grateful for a friendly feminine touch in my life but my overall lot in life remains the same. The woman in question is going to prove to be a wonderful sounding board for some creative projects and I hope to be the same. But, I’ve still got the “single for life” syndrome to contend with as I try to establish relationships that don’t cross any boundaries or send false signals. Right - Lots of luck.

The problem with the squishy bit critters is they’re so darn hard to ignore. Thank God this is a medium without face-to-face interaction. A smile or tear from one of those double X chromosome things and I’d be lost. If they continue to actually participate in my posts with comments I’m liable to forget myself and write a lengthy entry on how wonderful a woman can be. The thought sets my teeth on edge and makes my spine cringe.

I must remember my mantra: “Women are evil, Women are bad . . .”

. . . Where . . . did this ring in my nose come from?!?! What the . . .?

I’m really losing the battle, now. I don’t know if my heart is in the fight to stay away from them anymore. My friend is getting re-married in two days and I’m more excited than he is. (OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration.) The woman he is marrying is wonderful and I’m equally pleased for both of them. In some ways this will alter our friendship and I will have to suffer the loss of monopolizing his time. You know what? It’s so worth it to see what a difference having her share his life is making. I love that guy and to see him happy, again, doesn’t make me jealous or envious it just makes me glad that the right thing can still happen in this world. I just don’t have a map for the world I find myself in at this time.

So, I keep looking at that pink silhouette on the above T-shirt. Am I not supposed to desire someone standing there with me like that? Is there a reason for me to remain alone, but somehow not lonely? Is there a fit for me with a new love and a woman whose form is only a shadow to me now? I have no answers. I know how I feel. I know what my longings are. I know I could easily chase after the first woman willing to stop and talk to me. That’s so pitiful. I also know that I won’t indulge myself and that I will spend a good deal longer hemming and hawing and watching time run away from me because I’m too unsure where to place my next step. Even getting lost is so much better with someone by your side.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!

I'm NOT paranoid. Why does EVERYONE think that?!?

Too much of anything is really never a good thing. We all know this from experience. The “thing” in question determines what quantity isn’t enough and what is too much but you know when you’re hungry and you know when you’re full.

For me there are a lot of things where I’ve wrung out the last drop and there is a hollow, empty, echoing void. In direct proportion to this I have had more than my fill of several negative consequences. There are certain corollaries in this life. There are inverse relationships. I really can’t quantify their measure but I can qualify their significance. I am beginning to feel as if my life is playing out like a lost episode of The Twilight Zone. Somewhere, Rod Serling, is directing the daily monotony of my life.

Mr. Serling loved to explore what the consequences would be for people if they were to get their greatest yearnings and wishes. These secret longings usually involved being left undisturbed or to be able to replace a weakness in their character with a perceived strength and so on. His work employed a lot of reflection on the realization that people generally were better off where they were. The irony, in my case, is that I was already extremely content with where I was. I was aware that I had fundamental work to do on some areas that adversely affected my family and I don’t believe I was blind to my faults. Just, generally, life was really good. So, because of that safe life and content existence I never had the compulsion to change direction or reinvent myself. I liked me – which, based on my tenaciously clinging to a now very distant past, tells me I still like me; that me that was in cruise control in the family mini-van.

Unfortunately, that min-van ran out of gas a long time ago. The wife and kids thumbed a ride out of my life, the bank repossessed the mini-van, and that highway was diverted and all traffic rerouted far, far away from me.

Now, I’m that creepy hitchhiker guy that everyone is uncomfortable around. According to surveys I actually represent the majority of people in my economic circle and age group. There are a whole lot of people single or single by divorce, starting new careers, starting over in their forties. We must all be behaving the same as well, for the most part, as I do not come into contact with such folks. I do have myself in a hermit-like lifestyle. Admittedly, that isn’t conducive to a thriving social life. But it goes back to that satisfied feeling with which I used to be so familiar. I’m not at all interested in a diet of fast food relationships and junk food get-togethers. I want to be able to sit around a table and drink in the company and the atmosphere. I want to be able to slow down and enjoy the experience. No one has time for that. I require too much attention. I’ve got too much to get out of my system and to work through for most people’s palates. When you have time – lots of time, but not much else – you get your fill of hearing your own thoughts in a hurry. I may be more lucid than at any other time in my life. So what? No one cares. Now, to recognize and accept that no one cares would cripple anyone. When all you have is time to review that rejection over and over again it’s torturous. And the excuses that those who make time to care for you have are all legitimate. They are actively participating in living. Those excuses and pre-occupations are also their protection against contemplating the pain someone such as me is experiencing. No one likes to hear cries of pain. But, when you are the one in pain you are going to cry out involuntarily regardless of how unpleasant that may be to others. So rather than tell me to shut up, people don’t tell me anything at all. In fact, they just stop visiting, stop calling, stop answering my emails – just . . . STOP . . . being a part of my life.

So, what is the opposite of paranoia? Because no matter how much some wish to shrug off my observations or down-play the severity of some action’s affect on my well-being, I am not imagining. Right now, I am the biggest buzz kill on the planet. I enter a conversation and people stop talking. I go to dinner or a movie, alone, and people rootch around uncomfortably in their seats. I tell someone what I am really thinking or feeling or experiencing and they stop contacting me. I write a blog and no one acknowledges it. I join a discussion in someone else’s blog and I kill the participation like water on a lit match. I am endeavoring to reach out and beyond myself and circumstances to reconnect with a larger representation of humanity. If my methods are awkward or offensive one might expect even that would be addressed by someone. What I do not want to declare, despite the evidence, is that I’m seeking humanity and no one has any. There is no other conclusion. A beggar will find more than one person to extend themselves and contribute. A prisoner can find amnesty. The convicted may still hope for mercy. I am not afforded any of these things. Go ahead – look ME in the eyes: Selfish bastards . . . Liars . . . Cowards, all.

Read more! Don't question me [click here] - DO IT!!