Rags to Riches . . . or Ruins?

I am back after a long hiatus. I had (re)cycled through my musings and grown bored with myself. As a public service, I discontinued blogging. Instead I followed the advice of a friend suggesting a departure from my routine. That resulted in pursuit of a degree which I am only 15 credit hours shy of completing. So some progress has been made. I have done quite well in my course work but nothing in my economic status has changed other than accruing more debt from student loans. I may continue with yet another degree on the heels of completing this one. That is a pending decision.
So, a quick status update is on order:
• I gained weight/lost a good amount/gained most back . . am now losing, again.
• Not yet returned to a full-time job.
• Not able to secure a part-time job.
• Almost out of the woods on my credit smudges that preclude consideration for hire.
• I gained several new friends that are dispersed around the globe but are closer than my immediate community and previous acquaintances.
• I retained all of my true friends and am glad that poor judgment only applied to other areas of my life.
• I continue to be supported and kept fed and sheltered by these friends.
• I have some contact with my children but have still not been in the same space with them for over six years.
• I am closer to my own parents and wish I was taking care of them rather than them me.
• I had a friends with benefits relationship that was her idea - not mine. I will say that it put a lingering smile on my face and brought temporary clarity akin to the fitting of a new eye glass prescription. It did not last and opened an area I had successfully suppressed. Bothersome.
• I remain gravely single and this is not from emotional scarring, mistrust of women, or other such non-sense. It is purely from a lack of means - both financial and transportation-related. I am simply not free to come and go as I need to much less as I would please. This, and this only, prevents me screwing myself up further by returning to dating and mingling.
I suppose I consider my circumstances to be a cocoon from which I will eventually feel inspired to struggle free and not realize how I have changed from when I entered it. Age is advancing, though, and time is another thing that I do not have in surplus. However, most days my circumstances are more like living in a box, sealed on all sides. With no light from outside, I can only be certain of "up," and "down" but nothing that confirms whether I am moving left, right, forward, or backward. All persons and conditions outside of my confined space are hidden from me. Sounds are muted, dangers and rewards are unknown. I have to trust in the muffled encouragement and directions of those outside the box and also determine which voices are reliable from those merely amused, blindly optimistic, or malicious. I have yet to tumble any further down but neither have I advanced. So many have insisted I have been just a little while away from "things" turning around" for the past five years but I also am near persuaded things are changing. There is just no measure to determine whether the changes will bring riches or ruin.

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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.

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.

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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.

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