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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Laundry Day - Loose Ends and Frayed Seams

Today was not all that bad. There were several moments of measurable, if not significant, progress and I was productive overall. There were some events that had been anticipated but were not as disappointing or dismal when they did occur. I am in good spirits.

The least satisfying was finding that my business partner and I did not win a very worthwhile bid on a contracted job. As the outcome was decided on whim more than on the original criteria under which we bid, I find I have some expectations that we may actually have been favored by not winning the contract. We might, in fact, have dodged a painful and likely expensive bullet of working against a shifting standard and expectations. The downside is we both so NEEDED that bid to be ours. We are both in a hard-pressed and pretty dire set of circumstances that only money remedies.

We are both scrambling to make our bills for the end of this month/beginning of next. It will be harrowing to say the least. But, this might afford me other opportunities. I certainly remain optimistic but I would rather have the "problems"associated with too much success rather than hardly any at all as is presently the case.

Several irons are now in the fire and two have been in just long enough to be warming to a cheery glow. Both were initiated by others to include me. I am a willing partner rather than instigator (in some online projects) with one friend and composing and playing music with another. The creative juices are making a tenuous attempt at returning and I am still more of a spectator than participator in their struggles to stand under their own power. I am enjoying this but so longing to be earning a living wage. All ideas to this point have flickered but not caught fire, sadly.

So, this was a deliberate effort to not sound like I am waiting only to die and cursing each breath. I am regrouping and gaining strength to REALLY complain another day! still no real companions and only obligations but I press on.

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Identity Theft

THREAD BARE

I am having some difficulty with the notion that I have lost my identity. In actual fact, I am having more difficulty allowing that I may never actually have had an identity that was uniquely my own. I might take solace in the admission (and even that by so recognizing this reality that I foment opportunity to actually incubate and bring an identity to fruition) However, it is the pangs of sadness and the dull ache of resonating with the hollow sense I feel which holds my attention.

While I may feel as though my sense of self has been hijacked, it simply is not true. One must possess a thing to have it stolen. Yet, one may certainly feel loss for something they have never possessed. I have, apparently, been in possession of an ideal and not of something actual. I will not go so far as to declare the ideal to not be real, but, I will offer that, real or imagined, it has eluded my grasp. Perhaps I have been owned by a thing rather than the owner? All I know is that I am reaching for something and not finding it. I have reached back into my past and find only vague references. I have existed on inferred instead of imparted substance. I have been running on fumes.

I am very much a child of American Pop Culture. As such, I have a keenly developed knowledge base which is inclusive of nearly all subjects but shallow in depth. I take consolation in that I have more depth than most I encounter, but that is far from a triumphant statement. I am fantastically suited to engage anyone in a dinner party conversation or make a good contestant on a television game show. Just avoid prolonged exposure before I begin repeating my anecdotes and stories. In bursts, I am engaging, insightful, and intriguing. I am perfectly suited for life on the talk show circuit as celebrity filler. My life is a collection of sound bites. My age perfectly positions me to span generations both before and after my own. I am a social chameleon. Finding this to be so is very distasteful as it was never my intent.

I was born early in the year, 1962, and by two years of age was requesting my Beatles albums as each was released in America. I was cognizant of the volatile times in which I was a mere child and have never become calloused to the social upheaval or carelessness of the times. I have, however, lived long enough to watch all that was ignored or adored (either deliberately or by a willfully self-induced narcotic fog) prove that history repeats itself. We are very much behaving as those of thirty-five years ago. Our amusement – especially in the form of stimulants, has taken priority over any collective will to participate in meaningful ways in our world. We are extremely sensitized and energized but also detached and anesthetized. There is no drive from within. Like the coils of wire in a transformer, we are induced to motive force only while an external source supplies us. That was how I “lived.” I was induced. The overdriven circuitry of twelve inch Celestion speakers coupled to the weak vacuum of British valve amplifiers stirred me inside. The decades I have experienced, especially the early ones, were a time of wonders and magic.

The 1950s were just before my life began and the residual traces of them had a saturating impact upon me, The 1960s were an explosive spectacle and that included technology and other things from which I have benefited while at the same time I have also endured the detriments of the cultural loss of purpose. But, for myself, I had the magic and the inspiration and found my center in the music; and the Beatles were, of course, the epicenter. When all else failed, the Beatles never had . . . until the 1970s. I took their disbanding as hard as if my parents had divorced. Now, that I have experienced divorce, the loss of the Beatles had just as great an impact upon me. So, recently I have waxed nostalgic and reached back for the sounds and sense of self in which I steeled myself in my formative years and it was gone. Sadly, the Beatles were demi-gods for too much of my life and now that their mortality has begun to take them from me, yet again, I find no comfort anymore. And, now that I am able to play the music which was so elusive and mystical a thing I no longer enter the temple with reverence but rather ritual.

The thing is this. I never needed to go in search of God as He is far too in love with all of us to wait and take that chance. God does not hide. I knew Him before I knew of the Beatles or anything else I saw as wonderful. So, I am not disillusioned and without hope but I am without definition. With the enchantment gone from my daily activities I am just so uninspired. This is tragic. I used to write poetry and music and draw and design and invent; no longer. I still tinker with my music but I have lost the connection I require to give of myself in that way. I have no audience. I was about to insist I have no one to whom to give myself but I must correct that. Music is so personal but it is also self-centered. I have become so reticent to push my own ambitions and desires that I simply do not care to write about or for me in a song. So, not living by every word sung by the Beatles and not replacing them inside with my own voice leaves me without dimension. As a consequence I have gone from speaking from my heart to brooding in my head. A curious thing is how I have replaced the failed structures in my emotional world with the comfort of mathematical postulates. Still, I am an undefined expression and far too variable to plug into this function of living.

I so want to solve the unknowns and perhaps become the sort of artist to inspire others as I have been blessed to experience. Perhaps it is good that my heroes are dead so that I take the courage to act.

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A New Wrinkle - Facing the Unexpected and Unrelenting.

I am writing this as I await the end of the rinse cycle on all of my earthly vestiges. I have an appointment, tomorrow afternoon, that I would love to miss; but, such a choice would result in an even more unwelcome visit by a Sheriff or other state law enforcement official.

A Sheriff awoke me, approximately two weeks ago, and greeted me with a summons. That was awful but these now less than twenty-four hours until I stand before a judge are incalculably worse. Hence this post. I have stopped trying to measure "Worse." I have ceased to weigh the heft of "Bad." I no longer imagine lifting the burden of "Set backs," or try to wrap my arms fully around "Dismay." I am beyond grasping the immense magnitude of my circumstances. I am not at all inclined to bother trying any longer. I have run on well past the twist in the road whereby I lost my bearings and now I am exhausted and do not much care about finishing the course, much less claiming any victory - even a personal one.

I have an image of myself as down on one knee and still being beaten across the back of my shoulders. Everything inside me should seek relief from resisting . . . yet, I insist on trying to stand up. It might be argued that, more than figuratively, I have nothing else to lose and all to gain. People mean well when they express optimism that my lot in life will improve. I have more than reasonable doubt to the contrary. I do have something incredibly valuable left to lose - my freedom. Tomorrow, if things go extremely unfavorably, I could lose that.

My freedom has been slowly and methodically stripped away from me over several years and whoever might be my phantom foe, one thing is sure: their zeal to incarcerate me is now accelerating as the stakes become precious. First, I lost the freedom to be found acceptable to several employers. Then, I found myself deemed unacceptable as a spouse. I then found myself bound to accept conditions that have never eased and are the cause of my court appearance, tomorrow. I have lost my fiscal freedom, my occupational freedom, and, my freedom to participate and associate with my children. (My children and former spouse left the country, too bad for me and my visitation "rights") I have lost the freedom to function as a "normal," and "productive" member of my society. I am excluded from job interviews because I am discriminated against by the only remaining filter not prevented by law - credit history. I am discriminated against by the failure for anyone to prove I have a detectable medical condition, as well - yet, I am not cleared and approved to return to work in one of the few occupations that makes a living wage without scrutiny of my financial blemishes. Not having any fathoming of how or why this has transpired I also have no idea how to fight back. And, this is obviously when one must fight to procure and protect the liberties supposedly provided under the law of the land of which I was born and am a citizen.

There is a serious issue, however. I am not of the special groups for which special care, special provision, or special interest is in vogue. I am (was, for some aspects) a white, middle class, male. My function in my nation is to be the source of revenue and sustenance for all other component elements of that people that comprises these United States of America. That is not a thing I have ever resented or felt put upon in being expected to provide, by the way. Paradoxically, now that I find myself in the position of no longer paying for the multitudes from my wages I face the odd quirk that I am disqualified or ineligible for all assistance programs to which twenty-five years of my employment have contributed. I find myself with no help but the struggling efforts of my friends and family to try to sustain me. And, for what I must ask?

Indeed. Tomorrow I will be asked why I have failed to meet my child support obligations. I am hoping that the explanation that I have been unemployed for nine months, scratched out piece work and small bid projects, and barely subsist on the charity of family and friends will have a favorable weight rather than just an additional millstone about my neck. One can not be certain if the judge may still feel compelled to "make an example of me." And. Yes. I am very much afraid. I have so far been denied unemployment benefits, denied welfare, denied any hope of a job earning a sufficient wage to meet such obligations as my child support and tomorrow I may be denied my liberty. I dare not ask what may yet be extracted from me but the idea of any mercy or favor was spent long ago. The one rest from all of this - to not awake is the only offer in compromise I am not being offered.

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Am I Squinting For or Wincing From the Light?

Years ago I moved far away from my family, friends, and the familiar environment that had incubated my social development, career, and contentment. At the time of that departure I ventured out on a path described by circumstances and the intent of pleasing someone other than myself. I had a new wife and an opportunity to sacrifice my comfort and convenience for the love of seeking to fulfill her ambitions, hopes, and desires. There was no coercion or pressure from her at all. I acted independently, swiftly, and without regret. I also acted carelessly, too dependently, and without realistic consideration. The latter three became the hallmarks of my marriage and all other conduct as the man defined by those actions. I still have no regrets for the decision I made. I have no regrets for the leaving of all I knew behind. I especially have no regrets for having been married to the person with whom I then lived in a world completely removed from my preferences and own dreams and ambitions because I loved her – will always love her – and had counted the cost of discontinuing investment in myself to be a price worth paying to have her in my life.

My failure to invest myself and in myself has left me in a deficit from which I may very sincerely never manage to recover. I am so keenly interested in time, now. I am not interested in the time I have remaining as a positive influence but as the unwelcome reminder of a debt still owed and in collections. Time is not a healer but a compounding of that negative interest and the yield is exponentially wearying. I do not look forward, but, only backward in order to recall happier times. The exercise is not bitter or sweet. It is the checking of figures in a ledger and simply acknowledging that the accounting is accurate. There is nothing on reserve or left to be deposited that will enhance the balance. There is no funding underway for any hopeful or ambitious endeavors. I am made ever sadder by every moment I live. It raises the bar just that much higher beyond my grasp. I am alone to face a future that is certain in its urgency, sparse accommodations, and empty solitude. I am without currency and it is pay-as-you-go.

I am expressing this as a sort of pressure relieving valve and as a cautionary tale. Perhaps someone may feel resonant vibrations. If so, you are urged to tune to another frequency and lower or heighten the pitch of your life to something richer and resplendent with harmonious complements of something fundamentally fulfilling. I have always enjoyed the Blues but never was inclined to pay any sort of metaphoric dues to sing them from my soul. That said, I am on some sort of installment plan, apparently. The words sound familiar but the tune is something I am finding that I groan more than hum. I do not wish you to follow the trail of wasted years I am recollecting. When that journey away from all I knew and had never expected to be removed from came to be it was launched with a going away party. I never anticipated that all of me was to go away. I only expected there to be distance and difficulty but never permanent loss. I have come to experience more loss than any gain in my life here to fore. The first indication of that loss was at the party, in fact. My dearest and closest friends parted with good wishes and warm handshakes and hugs. I have all of them in my life, still. I did not lose them. Had I lost them I would not be here to write this. But the curious thing I took away was what caused tears when it was left behind. That which I cried over and those that cried over me in those goodbye moments were made of incomplete and unresolved stuff. The remorse was in the regret of opportunities not taken, friendships not deepened, and lives not interwoven. I am trying to remember that sting so that I do not live in this coma where all that remains to me are the tears of loss and no hope of gain.

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Hampered - Is It Time To Trash This Blog?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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I Want A Do Over

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

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

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

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

[Insert record scratch, here]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Saving for a rainy day? More like for a Tsunami

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

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

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

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

The world financial institutions are that house of cards.

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

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

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

Everybody could have everything they ever wanted!!!

Problem: Selling pizzas is limited to several things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abstinence.

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

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

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

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

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WHAT? (Oh . . . THAT)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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