It all started with a wedding. Ski was going to school at Western Illinois University. There was a wedding in Chicago. The child of a long time vendor of the Wet Pet Shoppe was getting married and the Gavigan clan was invited. Ski got the last minute call that he was the appointed emissary.
He came into town completely unprepared. He resurrected his father’s 70’s zip up the side pleather boots and stopped by my house and borrowed my green zoot suit. He looked ridiculous, so of course at the wedding he met a girl, went home with her and made hot monkey love all night. (Of course, “all night” in my book is longer than 12 minutes.) The next morning this girl, Christine, invited him to go to church with her. Never the one to pass up an opportunity to offend the Almighty, Ski still in the zoot suit, went along. It was one of these contemporary churches, all hip and shiny. He pretended to stay awake, hollered out a few “Amens” and was rewarded with after church sex in the car behind a grocery store. Thusly began the long distance “romance” between Ski and Christine.
Every time Ski came into town, he dragged me along and forced me to spend time with Brenda, Christine’s super Christian, not puttin’ out room mate. One look at me and Brenda decided that I was a heathen and instead of trying to show me the light of the Lord with her supple body, she simply treated me like a man with one foot in the fire. This went on for a couple months. If Ski came into town and I wanted to see him, I had to double date with the Church Lady.
One weekend Ski came into town and said, “We’re going to breakfast with Christine and Brenda.” I protested, but who was I to prevent him from getting enlightened? So went headed downtown. Ski cleverly waited until we were in the car to inform me that we were also going to church. I was understandably displeased, but he told me it was an inner city church. I had images of James Brown at the pulpit and conceded that this could be an interesting cultural experience. The girls were living on the north side in a neighborhood called Edgewater. Edgeofcivilizationandthelastplaceacoupleofwhiteboysshouldbe was more like it. We went up to their apartment. Christine squealed and giggled. Brenda burned a hole in my soul with one glance. We left the apartment and began walking through this neighborhood that at 10am on a Sunday still felt very dangerous. We walked under the El tracks and turned into an alley. My typing hand to God, there were bums sleeping in the alley. We gingerly climbed over their Ripple soaked bodies and headed into certain death. At the end of the alley was the entrance to what turned out to be an old gymnasium. We walked in and were met by a few hundred folding chairs and dozens of hippie throw backs. We were greeted enthusiastically by someone who was probably named Star Child. We plopped down in the oh so comfortable chairs and Christine began to tell us that this was JPUSA. Jesus People USA. It was a commune. It was also the home of the Rez Band, a moderately successful Christian Rock band. (They still exist. http://www.resurrectionband.com/) She also informed us that the service tended to run a couple of hours. Now I love Ski, but he was closer to meeting his maker than he realized.
The room filled up and eventually some Jerry Garcia look-a-like strolled out onto stage, wearing a tie dyed t-shirt, saddles and a ponytail. He was the pastor. I started to glass over. This was too much for even me. During the service, as the faithful felt the spirit, their arms would shoot up into the air, or they would jump up or run down to the front of the stage. After an hour or so, I closed my eyes and I think I dozed. I was awaked when Brenda elbowed me in the chest. Later, I was startled by a flash of light and feared that the End of Days had arrived. It turned out to be Ski, taking pictures. To this day, I have never seen the photos. I assume Jesus ruined the film.
The climax of the service was when Pastor Jerry announced that they were going to sing the Days of the Week Song. He explained that when the song reached the day of the week that you found Jesus people should stand up. “And at the end of the song, we’ll see who’s still sitting.” And then they ripped into the Days of the Week Song:
“On a Monday I found Jesus!” pop, pop, pop up went a few dozen people. “And on a Tuesday he found me!” pop, pop, pop. Thirty more. The song went on, pop, pop, pop. Pop, pop, pop. Everyone jumped up, hands extended up to the ceiling as if they were trying to catch a swinging trapeze. The song came to its inevitable Sunday conclusion and there were four people sitting; Me, Ski and two guys in wheelchairs who were reaching for the sky like they had a gun pointed at their backs. And everyone, including the wheelchair guys, was looking at us. Think of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Think of the last 20 minutes of Night of the Living Dead. The only difference was at the end of Night of the Living Dead, the black guy got shot. We weren’t going to be so lucky. The service concluded a few minutes later and I made a dash for the door like…well like an Atheist trying to get out of Christian Hippie Commune.
We left the alley and Ski told me to take Brenda to breakfast as he and Christine had some catching up to do. They headed off to Nookieland and Brenda and I walked to the nearest Salmonella factory of a diner. We sat down staring at each other. I was trying to decide what blunt instrument on the table I would use to take my life and I think Brenda already had hers picked out. So we left. We walked slowly back to the apartment, giving Ski and Christine the 12 minutes they would need.
I am pretty sure that was the last time I saw Christine and Brenda. I think Christine found some nice Christian boy and ended her relationship with Ski and hopefully Brenda fell down a deep well. But I have to say that JPUSA has never left my memory. Every time I see a photo of Jerry Garcia I am back in that gymnasium and I get a little scared. Pop, pop, pop.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Insomnia Redux
Almost three years later. I still can’t sleep. I haven’t been sleeping well since I came to Austin. I think part of it is that I have never gotten used to sleeping alone. But I still wrestle with the same demons each night. Tonight’s foray into sleeplessness is sponsored by the fact that it was my 20th high school reunion this weekend. And that has me just a little freaked out. So where do I stand in my battle to come to terms with my life? Let’s see.
Tonight Dexter Gordon will be my accompanist. Sometimes when I think that maybe there is a heaven (or hell) I ruminate on the idea of meeting Dexter. The guy really knew how to make a sax sing.
My other companions will be vodka and nicotine. The clear, biting elixir of my homeland never lets me down. And cigarettes will never let me go.
So let’s start with work. No real change. I transferred to Texas with World Market in hopes of getting a GM position. And I did. And I wasn’t very good. I had no passion for it. Wine and wicker turned out not to be my milieu. Plus I hated my boss. He was a gay man in a straight man’s body. So, recognizing myself in him, and vice versa, we didn’t hit it off. Eventually I quit. And I didn’t work for 5 months. I keep repeating the mantra over and over that I took the time by choice, but I know in my heart that is a lie. I was paralyzed. I spent the entire time alone, in my apartment, with the blinds drawn. Finally I got a job with a company that sold boxes. I ran a tiny little store in the same shopping center as my World Market store. So I had the pleasure of passing yet another failure in my life each day as I went to sell cardboard to stressed out, angry people. The job was mindless at best and although it gave me the opportunity to work on theatre (which we will cover later) I was like a caged lion the entire time I held that job. In the spring of 2007 I took a job with a national chain of bicycle shops. The bike business is the ex lover that I keep returning to, even when I know that I am no longer in love. It’s the devil you know. So now I work way too many hours trying to create something that I can point to and say “look what a great job I did” and it will never happen.
When we were kids, my buddy Ski played the sax. I always hoped that he would become a great player, like the guy who played in Billy Joel’s band. Now I listen to Bee Bop and have to laugh at the comparison. Jazz is something I don’t share with too many people. It’s way too hard to describe. Great jazz makes me cry. No matter how many times I hear it.
Love. This is now a topic that I think will remain in past tense. I don’t think I will venture down that path again. It’s too hard. There is too much sacrifice for me. Although I long for it at times, I know that it would be a foolish endeavour. I think I am destined to be alone. Since coming to Austin, two women have been in love with me. One was a married woman who hit the road as soon as she realized that she wanted more. That was a shame, I liked her. The other run in with love was with a wonderful woman who used to be a man. And if I could get around the fact that she used to be a guy, if I had a real attraction to her, I might actually have had a chance at some sort of happiness, maybe. She has one of the biggest hearts and finest minds I have had the pleasure of being around. But, if I can’t get passed hairy armpits and women who don’t shave their legs, there is no way I am getting past gender reassignment. I’m just too shallow. Plus, she has a dog. And I am not emotionally equipped for another dog in my life.
Did you know that the Finns invented the Molotov cocktail? Vodka and kerosene. Named after a Russian general. Well, throw at match at me; I’m turning my liver into a fuel soaked rag.
Sex. Another arena where they can retire my jersey. It’s a shame really. Just when I finally started to get good at it, now nobody wants to do it with me. I guess I shouldn’t really say that. I’m sure I could find somebody. There are plenty of lonely people in this town who could use a little pick me up. But frankly, I have never been the pick up kind of guy. I always left that to Ski. He had the moves. Me, I want to get to know the person. I am a cerebral lover, I think. I can’t just jump in the sack with someone. I have to know something about them. What they want out of life, what makes them laugh, what are their fears. All of these things come into play when you’re rolling around with someone. For me it has always been about more than just bumping uglies. But it has been so long, I fear that I am forgetting the myriad of circus tricks I have picked up over the years. Damn.
There is a guy on this album (I still call them albums) who can make a xylophone sound like raindrops. It’s fucking beautiful.
Bills. Still an issue. I bought a new car. For the first time in my adult life I have a car payment. It’s funny. Even at 38 years of age, I can’t accept the fact that I am an adult. I certainly don’t feel like one. What have I done that qualifies me as an adult? Nothing.
Well, I’m five days late on my car payment. I have over $2000 in the bank, but I still haven’t mailed the $250 check. What is pathetic is that all I have to do is pick up the phone and I can pay the bill. But I don’t and I can’t explain it. It is self destructive behavior and yet I continue. Pathetic.
When I listen to Dexter, I close my eyes and I am at the Blue Note in the 1950s. Times like this make me think I was born during the wrong era.
Death. It is still one of my favorite subjects. I have been working on my eulogy for the last few years. I am determined to have the last word. The eulogy is complete, with the acception of the part about women. That subject is too challenging for me to reduce to a paragraph or two that make any sense. Maybe I will just sum it up with something cheesy like, “I loved each and every one of you.” But in the meanwhile, I have decided to make one last attempt at survival. I am building up my bicycle again and have vague, unsubstantiated intentions of getting in shape. And when that fails, I will begin my slow decent into the abyss in earnest. I currently suffer from hand tremors, numbness in my extremities, bleeding from my ear and lately have been having really annoying memory lapses. I have been unable to recall entire days. I’m not complaining, really. None of this is unexpected or entirely unwelcome. Still, part of me wants to meet my grandchildren and my kids are just starting to become really interesting and those annoying little issues keep me from just pulling the plug.
You know what I love about vodka? I can drink it all night with little or no effect. And then all of a sudden it hits me like a train. Well, I hear the horn off in the distance. Better wrap it up.
Art. It’s worse than love. It breaks my heart every time. I love to direct. I love the process. You take a group of people, most often than not strangers, and a text and you create something that has the power to move people. I throw my entire being into directing. Since I came here I have directed two plays. Both were well received and both left me more depressed than ever. I can’t come to terms with the fact that I never made it to the big time. I never became a full time, professional director. I never achieved what myself and so many people thought I would. And so each time I direct, it hurts. But I still want more.
Well, as Bill Cosby once said, “the Sandman is beating me to death”, so now I will retire.
There is an empty bed and a solid four hours of sleep calling my name.
Eric
Tonight Dexter Gordon will be my accompanist. Sometimes when I think that maybe there is a heaven (or hell) I ruminate on the idea of meeting Dexter. The guy really knew how to make a sax sing.
My other companions will be vodka and nicotine. The clear, biting elixir of my homeland never lets me down. And cigarettes will never let me go.
So let’s start with work. No real change. I transferred to Texas with World Market in hopes of getting a GM position. And I did. And I wasn’t very good. I had no passion for it. Wine and wicker turned out not to be my milieu. Plus I hated my boss. He was a gay man in a straight man’s body. So, recognizing myself in him, and vice versa, we didn’t hit it off. Eventually I quit. And I didn’t work for 5 months. I keep repeating the mantra over and over that I took the time by choice, but I know in my heart that is a lie. I was paralyzed. I spent the entire time alone, in my apartment, with the blinds drawn. Finally I got a job with a company that sold boxes. I ran a tiny little store in the same shopping center as my World Market store. So I had the pleasure of passing yet another failure in my life each day as I went to sell cardboard to stressed out, angry people. The job was mindless at best and although it gave me the opportunity to work on theatre (which we will cover later) I was like a caged lion the entire time I held that job. In the spring of 2007 I took a job with a national chain of bicycle shops. The bike business is the ex lover that I keep returning to, even when I know that I am no longer in love. It’s the devil you know. So now I work way too many hours trying to create something that I can point to and say “look what a great job I did” and it will never happen.
When we were kids, my buddy Ski played the sax. I always hoped that he would become a great player, like the guy who played in Billy Joel’s band. Now I listen to Bee Bop and have to laugh at the comparison. Jazz is something I don’t share with too many people. It’s way too hard to describe. Great jazz makes me cry. No matter how many times I hear it.
Love. This is now a topic that I think will remain in past tense. I don’t think I will venture down that path again. It’s too hard. There is too much sacrifice for me. Although I long for it at times, I know that it would be a foolish endeavour. I think I am destined to be alone. Since coming to Austin, two women have been in love with me. One was a married woman who hit the road as soon as she realized that she wanted more. That was a shame, I liked her. The other run in with love was with a wonderful woman who used to be a man. And if I could get around the fact that she used to be a guy, if I had a real attraction to her, I might actually have had a chance at some sort of happiness, maybe. She has one of the biggest hearts and finest minds I have had the pleasure of being around. But, if I can’t get passed hairy armpits and women who don’t shave their legs, there is no way I am getting past gender reassignment. I’m just too shallow. Plus, she has a dog. And I am not emotionally equipped for another dog in my life.
Did you know that the Finns invented the Molotov cocktail? Vodka and kerosene. Named after a Russian general. Well, throw at match at me; I’m turning my liver into a fuel soaked rag.
Sex. Another arena where they can retire my jersey. It’s a shame really. Just when I finally started to get good at it, now nobody wants to do it with me. I guess I shouldn’t really say that. I’m sure I could find somebody. There are plenty of lonely people in this town who could use a little pick me up. But frankly, I have never been the pick up kind of guy. I always left that to Ski. He had the moves. Me, I want to get to know the person. I am a cerebral lover, I think. I can’t just jump in the sack with someone. I have to know something about them. What they want out of life, what makes them laugh, what are their fears. All of these things come into play when you’re rolling around with someone. For me it has always been about more than just bumping uglies. But it has been so long, I fear that I am forgetting the myriad of circus tricks I have picked up over the years. Damn.
There is a guy on this album (I still call them albums) who can make a xylophone sound like raindrops. It’s fucking beautiful.
Bills. Still an issue. I bought a new car. For the first time in my adult life I have a car payment. It’s funny. Even at 38 years of age, I can’t accept the fact that I am an adult. I certainly don’t feel like one. What have I done that qualifies me as an adult? Nothing.
Well, I’m five days late on my car payment. I have over $2000 in the bank, but I still haven’t mailed the $250 check. What is pathetic is that all I have to do is pick up the phone and I can pay the bill. But I don’t and I can’t explain it. It is self destructive behavior and yet I continue. Pathetic.
When I listen to Dexter, I close my eyes and I am at the Blue Note in the 1950s. Times like this make me think I was born during the wrong era.
Death. It is still one of my favorite subjects. I have been working on my eulogy for the last few years. I am determined to have the last word. The eulogy is complete, with the acception of the part about women. That subject is too challenging for me to reduce to a paragraph or two that make any sense. Maybe I will just sum it up with something cheesy like, “I loved each and every one of you.” But in the meanwhile, I have decided to make one last attempt at survival. I am building up my bicycle again and have vague, unsubstantiated intentions of getting in shape. And when that fails, I will begin my slow decent into the abyss in earnest. I currently suffer from hand tremors, numbness in my extremities, bleeding from my ear and lately have been having really annoying memory lapses. I have been unable to recall entire days. I’m not complaining, really. None of this is unexpected or entirely unwelcome. Still, part of me wants to meet my grandchildren and my kids are just starting to become really interesting and those annoying little issues keep me from just pulling the plug.
You know what I love about vodka? I can drink it all night with little or no effect. And then all of a sudden it hits me like a train. Well, I hear the horn off in the distance. Better wrap it up.
Art. It’s worse than love. It breaks my heart every time. I love to direct. I love the process. You take a group of people, most often than not strangers, and a text and you create something that has the power to move people. I throw my entire being into directing. Since I came here I have directed two plays. Both were well received and both left me more depressed than ever. I can’t come to terms with the fact that I never made it to the big time. I never became a full time, professional director. I never achieved what myself and so many people thought I would. And so each time I direct, it hurts. But I still want more.
Well, as Bill Cosby once said, “the Sandman is beating me to death”, so now I will retire.
There is an empty bed and a solid four hours of sleep calling my name.
Eric
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Making babies
We were trying to get Amy pregnant. Scout was a month old and now it was time to start on baby number two. I had gotten pretty good at jerking off while two lesbians waited for me, but this time was different.
“I’m ovulating.” Amy told me on the phone.
“Alright, I will be up to the house after work.”
“We’re going to be at my mom’s house. Meet us there” she said.
“Your mom’s?”
“Yeah, all the grandchildren are having a sleep over.”
“Where going to inseminate at your mom’s house?”
“Why not? She knows what we are doing. Her place is good as any.”
“Okay, I’ll be there around ten.”
Now, to catch you up, I was a sperm donor for a lesbian couple. And rather than do it the old fashion way, with doctors and science, we opted for the home method. Me, to a Rubbermaid cup, to a baby food syringe, to them. Sheri’s theory was if people can get pregnant in the back seat of a 1974 Camero, we could do this.
So I drove up to Amy’s mom’s house after work. Mom is cool and liked me because I was taking a sign language course and she’s deaf. We all sat around and made small talk for a while and then I decided it was time to go do my thing.
“Okay, where am I going?” in the past I would use Sheri and Amy’s bedroom, leave my “deposit” on the nightstand and return to the living room. No such luck here.
“There is a bedroom downstairs. We need to be quiet because the kids are sleeping down there.” Sure enough 5 little kids were sleeping on the floor of the downstairs rec room. We gingerly made our way around them to a bedroom at the end of the hall. We opened the door and I immediately smelled “boy”. Someone was living in the room.
“Who’s room is this?”
“Oh, one of my mom’s friends threw her son out and he is staying here for a while.”
“And where is he?” I asked.
“He’s at work,” Amy said casually.
“And when will he be home?” I said not so casually.
“Uh, pretty soon, I think. Well, good luck!” and she left.
So I am standing in the bedroom of some guy. There are clothes strewn everywhere and again, it smelled like him. I walked in and sat down on the edge of his bed. This wasn’t going to be easy. I will spare you the details, but let’s just say that I had been “doing my thing” for well over a decade and this time it was almost impossible. But finally after much focus and will power I was successful. Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. Picture this; I am sitting on some other guy’s bed, pants at the ankles, cup of “stuff” in my hand. How do you answer that knock?
“uh, yeah?”
“Are you done yet?” It was Amy.
“Yes. Just.”
“Well get up here quick.”
I got myself together and rushed upstairs, with my little cup, to find Sheri lying on the ground in the fetal position.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her! We called the ambulance.”
The worst thoughts shot through my head. If Sheri died, I was legally responsible for a one-month-old little girl. That chilled my blood. The paramedics arrived and carted Sheri, with Amy in tow, off to the hospital leaving me with Amy’s mom and baby Scout. Talk about feeling helpless.
For the next hour we heard nothing. Nothing except Scout crying. It was time for a feeding, but the necessary breast was at the hospital. So Grams and I took turns rocking, singing, and praying. Finally around 1:00am we got a call from Amy.
“It isn’t her heart. It might be gallstones. We will know more in a couple of hours.”
“We don’t have a couple of hours. Scout is hungry.” I pleaded.
Amy of course remained calm.
“Have my mom give you directions to the store and pick up some formula. Oh, and a bottle. And a nipple. She should be able to stomach some formula.”
“Okay.” And she hung up.
I got directions from Amy’s mom for three different stores and headed out the door like a rocket. I didn’t, and still don’t, know anything about babies. If figured if she didn’t eat soon she might spontaneously combust. Store one was closed as was store two. Store three was 900 miles away. It was a huge grocery store. I ran inside and found the baby food isle. I got to the formula and stopped dead in my tracks. For as far as the eye could see in each direction and straight up was every type of baby formula known to mankind. Soy, non-soy, lactose, non-lactose, carbonated, dye free, high octane, free range, kosher, vegan, and generic. I began to shake. I grabbed three different formulas at random and turned around to the bottles. Once again the shelves grew until they reached the sky. I grabbed a few bottles and any nipples that I might have enjoyed and sprinted to the register. The kid behind the counter could see the panic in my face and did what any overnight cashier would do. He took his time. Fortunately for him, my desire to care for the little hungry girl outweighed my desire to cause him bodily harm.
I ran to the car and spent three minutes trying to invert the directions back to the house. Not since Blues Brothers has nighttime suburban driving been taken to such levels. I came tearing around the corner on two wheels to see a cab pulling away from the house. I parked in it’s spot and leapt from the car. I ran inside to find Sheri holding Scout to her breast and Amy and her mom smiling. I put the bags of feeding supplies down and plopped in a chair at the kitchen table. Then I noticed my “sample” waiting on the kitchen counter. Spoiled. All my hard work down the drain. And that is exactly where it ended up.
Fortunately Amy got pregnant the next month. And 40 weeks later Tate arrived. But that is another story…….
“I’m ovulating.” Amy told me on the phone.
“Alright, I will be up to the house after work.”
“We’re going to be at my mom’s house. Meet us there” she said.
“Your mom’s?”
“Yeah, all the grandchildren are having a sleep over.”
“Where going to inseminate at your mom’s house?”
“Why not? She knows what we are doing. Her place is good as any.”
“Okay, I’ll be there around ten.”
Now, to catch you up, I was a sperm donor for a lesbian couple. And rather than do it the old fashion way, with doctors and science, we opted for the home method. Me, to a Rubbermaid cup, to a baby food syringe, to them. Sheri’s theory was if people can get pregnant in the back seat of a 1974 Camero, we could do this.
So I drove up to Amy’s mom’s house after work. Mom is cool and liked me because I was taking a sign language course and she’s deaf. We all sat around and made small talk for a while and then I decided it was time to go do my thing.
“Okay, where am I going?” in the past I would use Sheri and Amy’s bedroom, leave my “deposit” on the nightstand and return to the living room. No such luck here.
“There is a bedroom downstairs. We need to be quiet because the kids are sleeping down there.” Sure enough 5 little kids were sleeping on the floor of the downstairs rec room. We gingerly made our way around them to a bedroom at the end of the hall. We opened the door and I immediately smelled “boy”. Someone was living in the room.
“Who’s room is this?”
“Oh, one of my mom’s friends threw her son out and he is staying here for a while.”
“And where is he?” I asked.
“He’s at work,” Amy said casually.
“And when will he be home?” I said not so casually.
“Uh, pretty soon, I think. Well, good luck!” and she left.
So I am standing in the bedroom of some guy. There are clothes strewn everywhere and again, it smelled like him. I walked in and sat down on the edge of his bed. This wasn’t going to be easy. I will spare you the details, but let’s just say that I had been “doing my thing” for well over a decade and this time it was almost impossible. But finally after much focus and will power I was successful. Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. Picture this; I am sitting on some other guy’s bed, pants at the ankles, cup of “stuff” in my hand. How do you answer that knock?
“uh, yeah?”
“Are you done yet?” It was Amy.
“Yes. Just.”
“Well get up here quick.”
I got myself together and rushed upstairs, with my little cup, to find Sheri lying on the ground in the fetal position.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her! We called the ambulance.”
The worst thoughts shot through my head. If Sheri died, I was legally responsible for a one-month-old little girl. That chilled my blood. The paramedics arrived and carted Sheri, with Amy in tow, off to the hospital leaving me with Amy’s mom and baby Scout. Talk about feeling helpless.
For the next hour we heard nothing. Nothing except Scout crying. It was time for a feeding, but the necessary breast was at the hospital. So Grams and I took turns rocking, singing, and praying. Finally around 1:00am we got a call from Amy.
“It isn’t her heart. It might be gallstones. We will know more in a couple of hours.”
“We don’t have a couple of hours. Scout is hungry.” I pleaded.
Amy of course remained calm.
“Have my mom give you directions to the store and pick up some formula. Oh, and a bottle. And a nipple. She should be able to stomach some formula.”
“Okay.” And she hung up.
I got directions from Amy’s mom for three different stores and headed out the door like a rocket. I didn’t, and still don’t, know anything about babies. If figured if she didn’t eat soon she might spontaneously combust. Store one was closed as was store two. Store three was 900 miles away. It was a huge grocery store. I ran inside and found the baby food isle. I got to the formula and stopped dead in my tracks. For as far as the eye could see in each direction and straight up was every type of baby formula known to mankind. Soy, non-soy, lactose, non-lactose, carbonated, dye free, high octane, free range, kosher, vegan, and generic. I began to shake. I grabbed three different formulas at random and turned around to the bottles. Once again the shelves grew until they reached the sky. I grabbed a few bottles and any nipples that I might have enjoyed and sprinted to the register. The kid behind the counter could see the panic in my face and did what any overnight cashier would do. He took his time. Fortunately for him, my desire to care for the little hungry girl outweighed my desire to cause him bodily harm.
I ran to the car and spent three minutes trying to invert the directions back to the house. Not since Blues Brothers has nighttime suburban driving been taken to such levels. I came tearing around the corner on two wheels to see a cab pulling away from the house. I parked in it’s spot and leapt from the car. I ran inside to find Sheri holding Scout to her breast and Amy and her mom smiling. I put the bags of feeding supplies down and plopped in a chair at the kitchen table. Then I noticed my “sample” waiting on the kitchen counter. Spoiled. All my hard work down the drain. And that is exactly where it ended up.
Fortunately Amy got pregnant the next month. And 40 weeks later Tate arrived. But that is another story…….
Caroline
The interrogation was brief.
“Have you been drinking?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Do you live around here?”
I pointed towards home and nodded again.
“What were you doing out there?”
“She doesn’t love me.”
“Oh. Can you make it home?”
Again a nod.
“Well, then get out of here.”
I met Caroline at a high school theatre festival. I saw her across the lobby of a theatre and was mesmerized. There was something about her. She had a smile that just sucked me in. Of course, at the time I was standing next to my girlfriend Lori, who I loved dearly, so I just smiled like an idiot. Throughout the two-day festival I would see her at shows and at workshops and we finally got to talking. We exchanged addresses and began the longest written relationship I ever had with another person. We wrote each other weekly for almost 3 years. I lived in the suburbs of Chicago and during that time she lived in southern Illinois, the Azores islands and Iowa. I really had a thing for this girl. She was absolutely lovely and had a habit of sending me pictures just to remind me of that fact.
I dropped out of college after a year and moved into the city to live the good life. Caroline was attending college in Iowa and her choir came to town. She stayed with me. I spent the day playing tour guide and that night we fumbled around in bed. I felt like Casanova, some worldly man showing her all that I knew. In retrospect it was pretty pitiful, but at the time I was ecstatic. She left the next day and we continued to correspond. I was absolutely head over heals for her and I thought she felt the same way. The following spring she invited me to visit her at school. I took a week off work and drove like a madman to the middle of Iowa. I was on fire the entire drive. This was going to be it. We were going to fall madly in love and she was going to come home with me.
I pulled up to the school after calling from the outskirts of town. She was waiting. She looked better than I had remembered. I jumped out of my beat up Toyota pick up ready for the loving embrace of the woman of my dreams. The look on her face was not what I expected. It was a look that can only be described as “oh” and a disappointed “oh” at that. I hoped that it was the truck, or the 8 hours of driving, but it was most likely the beer gut or the fact that she had a new boyfriend. However, we spent the day having fun. I met her friends and we hung out. At one point one of her friends pulled me aside to inform me that I wasn’t getting laid. I was okay with that. My plan was to be the consummate gentleman and romance my way back into her good graces. That night we talked, I expressed my feelings, which were very unrequited, and then we went to sleep in separate beds. The next day was tense. I started to notice all the good-looking, chiseled frat boys who were noticing Caroline. I was neither chiseled or a frat boy and Caroline noticed that. I began to see that we were not going to be married, have children and grow old together. The next morning I left. (I have never returned to Iowa.) I drove with my broken heart to Macomb, Illinois where my best friend, Keith, was attending college. Being my best friend and hearing my story, he new just what I needed. Alcohol. We proceeded to get drunk and he told me stories about having sex with a fat girls. It made me feel better. I rose the next morning and made my way back to Chicago. During the drive my grief returned. I could see clearly that I was going to die alone, blind and drooling in a flophouse in the outskirts of Shanghai.
I got home and began to act like a complete moron. I began drinking again. I called Caroline and told her how much I loved her and assured her that I would win her back. She was kind and understanding but let me know that I was wasting my time. I had 2 roommates and they were very understanding as I drank myself back into a lovelorn stupor. March in Chicago that year was shitty. And as I plowed through the last half of a bottle of Southern Comfort I decided I needed to get out and take a walk. I staggered out the door into a sleet storm. We lived a half a block from Lake Michigan and that was where I headed. When I got to the beach the wind was ferocious and sleet was blowing horizontally. I looked up at the sky and began to give God a piece of my mind. “WHY GOD?! WHY DOESN’T SHE LOVE ME?! WHAT KIND OF A CRUEL JOKE IS THIS?!??” I was like Lear on the heath. I finished off the bottle with a sloppy gulp and hurled it into the storm. It never landed. I charged down toward the water. At this beach there happened to be a concrete break wall that went about 50 feet out into the lake. I made my way to the end and proceeded to pass out.
Suddenly there was a bright light. I opened my eyes and was looking down a tunnel of white light. “Thank God, I’ve died.” was my only thought. I put my head back down and closed my eyes. A few minutes later someone was kicking me. “Shit, I’ve gone to hell” was my next thought. I looked up to see a Chicago police officer standing over me. He was not at all happy to be standing on a slippery concrete wall 50 feet out in Lake Michigan in a sleet storm. As waves crashed onto the wall I dragged my shivering, soaked, drunken carcass back onto the beach.
After my wet conversation with the very understanding cop, I weaved back to my apartment a broken man, unable to find love and unable to died a tragic death, the police cruiser behind me the whole way. My loving roommates then let me fumble at the door for almost 30 minutes while I tried to work my key. When I finally made it in, I walked into the living room and fell face down onto the floor.
My roommate, Denise and her boyfriend got me into bed. They were concerned about me choking on my own vomit so they told me a story about how Janice Joplin had died by choking on a bologna sandwich. So I fell asleep on my stomach and woke up on the floor. I never spoke to Caroline again.
“Have you been drinking?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Do you live around here?”
I pointed towards home and nodded again.
“What were you doing out there?”
“She doesn’t love me.”
“Oh. Can you make it home?”
Again a nod.
“Well, then get out of here.”
I met Caroline at a high school theatre festival. I saw her across the lobby of a theatre and was mesmerized. There was something about her. She had a smile that just sucked me in. Of course, at the time I was standing next to my girlfriend Lori, who I loved dearly, so I just smiled like an idiot. Throughout the two-day festival I would see her at shows and at workshops and we finally got to talking. We exchanged addresses and began the longest written relationship I ever had with another person. We wrote each other weekly for almost 3 years. I lived in the suburbs of Chicago and during that time she lived in southern Illinois, the Azores islands and Iowa. I really had a thing for this girl. She was absolutely lovely and had a habit of sending me pictures just to remind me of that fact.
I dropped out of college after a year and moved into the city to live the good life. Caroline was attending college in Iowa and her choir came to town. She stayed with me. I spent the day playing tour guide and that night we fumbled around in bed. I felt like Casanova, some worldly man showing her all that I knew. In retrospect it was pretty pitiful, but at the time I was ecstatic. She left the next day and we continued to correspond. I was absolutely head over heals for her and I thought she felt the same way. The following spring she invited me to visit her at school. I took a week off work and drove like a madman to the middle of Iowa. I was on fire the entire drive. This was going to be it. We were going to fall madly in love and she was going to come home with me.
I pulled up to the school after calling from the outskirts of town. She was waiting. She looked better than I had remembered. I jumped out of my beat up Toyota pick up ready for the loving embrace of the woman of my dreams. The look on her face was not what I expected. It was a look that can only be described as “oh” and a disappointed “oh” at that. I hoped that it was the truck, or the 8 hours of driving, but it was most likely the beer gut or the fact that she had a new boyfriend. However, we spent the day having fun. I met her friends and we hung out. At one point one of her friends pulled me aside to inform me that I wasn’t getting laid. I was okay with that. My plan was to be the consummate gentleman and romance my way back into her good graces. That night we talked, I expressed my feelings, which were very unrequited, and then we went to sleep in separate beds. The next day was tense. I started to notice all the good-looking, chiseled frat boys who were noticing Caroline. I was neither chiseled or a frat boy and Caroline noticed that. I began to see that we were not going to be married, have children and grow old together. The next morning I left. (I have never returned to Iowa.) I drove with my broken heart to Macomb, Illinois where my best friend, Keith, was attending college. Being my best friend and hearing my story, he new just what I needed. Alcohol. We proceeded to get drunk and he told me stories about having sex with a fat girls. It made me feel better. I rose the next morning and made my way back to Chicago. During the drive my grief returned. I could see clearly that I was going to die alone, blind and drooling in a flophouse in the outskirts of Shanghai.
I got home and began to act like a complete moron. I began drinking again. I called Caroline and told her how much I loved her and assured her that I would win her back. She was kind and understanding but let me know that I was wasting my time. I had 2 roommates and they were very understanding as I drank myself back into a lovelorn stupor. March in Chicago that year was shitty. And as I plowed through the last half of a bottle of Southern Comfort I decided I needed to get out and take a walk. I staggered out the door into a sleet storm. We lived a half a block from Lake Michigan and that was where I headed. When I got to the beach the wind was ferocious and sleet was blowing horizontally. I looked up at the sky and began to give God a piece of my mind. “WHY GOD?! WHY DOESN’T SHE LOVE ME?! WHAT KIND OF A CRUEL JOKE IS THIS?!??” I was like Lear on the heath. I finished off the bottle with a sloppy gulp and hurled it into the storm. It never landed. I charged down toward the water. At this beach there happened to be a concrete break wall that went about 50 feet out into the lake. I made my way to the end and proceeded to pass out.
Suddenly there was a bright light. I opened my eyes and was looking down a tunnel of white light. “Thank God, I’ve died.” was my only thought. I put my head back down and closed my eyes. A few minutes later someone was kicking me. “Shit, I’ve gone to hell” was my next thought. I looked up to see a Chicago police officer standing over me. He was not at all happy to be standing on a slippery concrete wall 50 feet out in Lake Michigan in a sleet storm. As waves crashed onto the wall I dragged my shivering, soaked, drunken carcass back onto the beach.
After my wet conversation with the very understanding cop, I weaved back to my apartment a broken man, unable to find love and unable to died a tragic death, the police cruiser behind me the whole way. My loving roommates then let me fumble at the door for almost 30 minutes while I tried to work my key. When I finally made it in, I walked into the living room and fell face down onto the floor.
My roommate, Denise and her boyfriend got me into bed. They were concerned about me choking on my own vomit so they told me a story about how Janice Joplin had died by choking on a bologna sandwich. So I fell asleep on my stomach and woke up on the floor. I never spoke to Caroline again.
The Snap
11:00am July 12th, 2005 Los Angeles, California:
Katie picked the rug up off the shelf. Blue. That was a good color. But would it go with her lamps? Decisions, decisions. She shook the rug out and threw it down on the floor of the store. She contemplated for a minute, trying to imagine the rug in her living room. She slipped out of her sandals and walked across it. Nope. Too rough, it would never do. She slipped her sandals back on and began to walk away.
“Are you going to just leave that there?” came a voice from behind her.
“What?” Katie answered incredulously as she turned around.
“Are you going to leave that rug on the ground where you dropped it?” asked a middle-aged man in an apron. Have a stupendous day! read the button next to his nametag.
“Hey dude, you’re wearing the apron, not me. You get paid to pick it up.” Katie turned around and began to walk away, satisfied that she had put him in his place.
“Okay.” Carl mumbled as his hand slid into the pocket of his apron. His fingers wrapped around a bright orange OSHA approved box cutter, it felt like it was built for his hand. He lifted the day glow instrument from the pocket and his thumb pulled the safety latch back. He quickly closed the space between himself and the young lady who had just crossed some unforeseen DMZ in his psyche.
Katie was unaware of Carl as he moved in on her. She was looking at wicker baskets, wondering where she could put them in her bedroom, as he raised the box cutter and brought it down onto the back of her neck. She felt the impact, but was more confused by her necklace falling down the front of her t-shirt. Before her mind could disseminate what was happening, Carl’s hand came back, the side of his fist striking her in the back of the head, driving her face into the edge of the wooden shelf in front of her. The blow broke her nose; the pain and shock buckled her knees and dropped her to the ground in a heap. Katie tried to scream but before she could open her mouth, the heal of Carl’s foot crashed across her face, dislocating her jaw.
Her head bounced off the ground and she rolled onto her back, dazed and whimpering, she could not fully comprehend the blur of rage in a green polyester apron that knelt down over her. Carl grabbed her hair and smashed the back of her head onto the concrete floor. He brought the blade of the box cutter down onto her face, next to her ear, and began to cut towards her throat with all his strength. As he crossed the jugular vein, blood rushed out, spraying Carl across the face and apron, but he was unaffected. Katie tried to struggle, but Carl was kneeling on her arms. He pulled out the blade, turned Katie’s head and began to cut on the other side. The pain of the blade was enough to make her blackout.
Satisfied that he had taught her a lesson about manners, Carl climbed off of Katie’s motionless body. He put the bloody box cutter back into the pocket of his apron, leaned down, grabbed Katie’s hair and began to drag her towards the cash registers at the front of the store. As he rounded the corner a group of women who were browsing in the pillow department, saw the sight of a blood soaked man dragging the blood soaked body of a young woman along the floor. In unison they screamed and ran away.
Carl kept moving as more people noticed, understood, screamed and ran. He reached the registers, dropped Katie’s head and looked at a co-worker who was frozen with fear and confusion.
“I’m going to take a break,” Carl smiled and walked out of the store. He sat down on a large concrete flower planter at the edge of the parking lot, leaned his head back and began to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his blood soaked face.
As far as anyone can tell, that was the incident that started The Snap. Over the next 72 hours people all around the world would simply stop tolerating behavior that had become commonplace in human society. The body count would be enormous.
Katie picked the rug up off the shelf. Blue. That was a good color. But would it go with her lamps? Decisions, decisions. She shook the rug out and threw it down on the floor of the store. She contemplated for a minute, trying to imagine the rug in her living room. She slipped out of her sandals and walked across it. Nope. Too rough, it would never do. She slipped her sandals back on and began to walk away.
“Are you going to just leave that there?” came a voice from behind her.
“What?” Katie answered incredulously as she turned around.
“Are you going to leave that rug on the ground where you dropped it?” asked a middle-aged man in an apron. Have a stupendous day! read the button next to his nametag.
“Hey dude, you’re wearing the apron, not me. You get paid to pick it up.” Katie turned around and began to walk away, satisfied that she had put him in his place.
“Okay.” Carl mumbled as his hand slid into the pocket of his apron. His fingers wrapped around a bright orange OSHA approved box cutter, it felt like it was built for his hand. He lifted the day glow instrument from the pocket and his thumb pulled the safety latch back. He quickly closed the space between himself and the young lady who had just crossed some unforeseen DMZ in his psyche.
Katie was unaware of Carl as he moved in on her. She was looking at wicker baskets, wondering where she could put them in her bedroom, as he raised the box cutter and brought it down onto the back of her neck. She felt the impact, but was more confused by her necklace falling down the front of her t-shirt. Before her mind could disseminate what was happening, Carl’s hand came back, the side of his fist striking her in the back of the head, driving her face into the edge of the wooden shelf in front of her. The blow broke her nose; the pain and shock buckled her knees and dropped her to the ground in a heap. Katie tried to scream but before she could open her mouth, the heal of Carl’s foot crashed across her face, dislocating her jaw.
Her head bounced off the ground and she rolled onto her back, dazed and whimpering, she could not fully comprehend the blur of rage in a green polyester apron that knelt down over her. Carl grabbed her hair and smashed the back of her head onto the concrete floor. He brought the blade of the box cutter down onto her face, next to her ear, and began to cut towards her throat with all his strength. As he crossed the jugular vein, blood rushed out, spraying Carl across the face and apron, but he was unaffected. Katie tried to struggle, but Carl was kneeling on her arms. He pulled out the blade, turned Katie’s head and began to cut on the other side. The pain of the blade was enough to make her blackout.
Satisfied that he had taught her a lesson about manners, Carl climbed off of Katie’s motionless body. He put the bloody box cutter back into the pocket of his apron, leaned down, grabbed Katie’s hair and began to drag her towards the cash registers at the front of the store. As he rounded the corner a group of women who were browsing in the pillow department, saw the sight of a blood soaked man dragging the blood soaked body of a young woman along the floor. In unison they screamed and ran away.
Carl kept moving as more people noticed, understood, screamed and ran. He reached the registers, dropped Katie’s head and looked at a co-worker who was frozen with fear and confusion.
“I’m going to take a break,” Carl smiled and walked out of the store. He sat down on a large concrete flower planter at the edge of the parking lot, leaned his head back and began to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his blood soaked face.
As far as anyone can tell, that was the incident that started The Snap. Over the next 72 hours people all around the world would simply stop tolerating behavior that had become commonplace in human society. The body count would be enormous.
Insomnia
December 15, 2004
It’s 1:25 in the A.M. and I can’t sleep. My brain is spinning in too many directions. I lie down and one too many thoughts try to take center stage in my mind. Work, love, sex, bills, death and art are all vying for my undivided attention. So I get up. I turn on the TV. I have a cigarette. I change the channel. I have another cigarette. I have a glass of wine. I change the channel. I try to read a book while drinking a glass of wine, watching TV and smoking. I consider calling someone, but I don’t have anything coherent or worthy of a middle of the night phone call. So I grab my smokes, the bottle of wine and Tom Waits and head for the computer. I sit down in my high backed pleather office chair and turn my back to the painting I have been cursing at for weeks now. I have no idea why I bought the paints and canvas. Apparently, I needed some artistic frustration in my life.
I love Tom Waits. He makes me want to drink whiskey out of the bottle. Too bad it usually makes me puke. Whiskey, not Tom.
So now I will try to exorcise the sleep blocking demons from my mind. Let’s start with work. Work. Something I do in order to avoid being the guy at the end of the freeway ramp. I don’t like doing it. I don’t know many people who do. Yet somehow I manage to allow it to infect me. I become obsessive. I work too many hours. I spend too many hours thinking about it when I am not there. A man without work is lost. For some reason I live by this creed. I have no idea why. Nobody ever told me that. Nobody ever said, “You will find your meaning for existence in work.” Yet that is what I seek. I crave validation, not from the fruits of my labor, but from the labor itself. (I wonder what Freud would say about the fact that when I typed labor, valor appeared on the page.)
Sing it Tom. I wonder how many cigarettes I will have to smoke before my voice sounds like yours. Millions I suspect. Am I up to the challenge? Will my lungs give out before my voice gets gravely? Only time and my future oncologist will tell.
Love. Now there is a subject that I have certainly made a mockery of. I am skilled at falling in love. I am an artisan at romance. I understand the seduction. I can dance the dance. It’s amazing what being kind and supportive will get you in this life. I have been in love with some amazing women. Smart, funny, creative, beautiful women. And I have screwed it up every time. Is it genetic? Is it learned? Nature versus nurture? Can I blame my parents? I think not. Although I mimic much of their behavior, I also watched with open eyes as they made their mistakes and was never short of criticism. Perhaps I don’t feel I deserve love? Hardly. I may be a journeyman in self-deprecation, but I am also my own biggest fan. A lovely woman once told me that my ego protected the world from the hole in the ozone layer. Touché. Even in jest the joust was indefensible. So why can’t I succeed in the love department? Maybe it isn’t love that I don’t deserve. Maybe it’s happiness. I am never happier than when I am first in love. New love holds unlimited potential. Marriage, children and a nice place to live always seem attainable. (“This ain’t a purchase, it’s a rental, and it’s purgatory.” Well said Tommy. And well timed. You know me so well….) But I can kill any dream with the deadly weapon called reality. Why get married? I’ll just end up getting divorced. Children? Please. I already have two offspring and I already fear that they will turn out like me. And a nice place to live? Me, buy a house? Yeah, it’s a nice dream, but that’s all it is. Perhaps it’s just pessimism. In the end I just can’t buy into the dream entirely. I’m not sure what to make of it. Maybe there is hope I will get it right. Only time will tell.
Ah, French wine. For a country of smelly cowards they sure know how to make good grape juice.
Sex. This is a favorite topic of mine. I take great pride that at times I am pretty damn good at it. Oddly enough, my interest in the topic was born out of fear of failure. I just didn’t want to be bad at it. I believe that good sex is something that stays with you. You never forget the people who knew how to curl your toes. And I don’t want to be forgotten. I want to be the guy that retains high marks when put up against my competitors. And I do think of it as a competition. In my favorite novel the main character is so good in bed that for most women it is a punishment to sleep with him. Because afterward, they will spend the rest of their lives trying to find a lover that good. I may never be that good, but I see it as a worthy goal. I want to be the guy who makes you make noises you haven’t made before. I want to be the guy you think of and smile. “Yeah, he knew what he was doing.” It’s funny (or sad) that I just assume that I will be replaced. I can live with that, just as long as I am not forgotten.
I am running low on smokes. I will have to make a point of living within walking distance of a 24 convenience store next time I move.
Bills. Somewhere along the line, I developed a bill paying dysfunction. No, not just a dysfunction, but a disability. I can sit down and budget my life. I make this much money, so I can spend this much money and still have money left over. The math is easy. However, when it comes time to write the check, I develop a life threatening cramp in my writing hand. So I have learned how to not open my mail. In fact I am particularly good at not retrieving my mail. I let it build up. Usually, I only visit the mailbox weekly. Sometimes I wait longer. More than once in my life the post office has given up on me. Why, I ask you, would a man who makes a decent living and who lives a relatively Spartan life avoid paying his bills? No, really, why? It doesn’t make any sense. The only thing I can come up with is car repairs. I have an almost suicidal passion for crappy used cars. I can’t bring myself to purchase a new car, because that would add one more bill for me to avoid. So I drive cars that should have been put out to pasture years ago. However, the thing about a crappy used car is that it is always just about to break down. So you are always just a few miles away from a repair. And if you have gone and paid all your bills, you might not have enough to pay for the car repair. Truthfully this is just a reinterpretation of Descartes’ argument for the existence of God. God exists because the Bible says so and the Bible is correct because God is the primary source. So I don’t pay my bills because Descartes needed to kiss ass to the Catholic Church. Now that I can live with.
“…and a line of thunderstorms was developing in the early morning ahead of a slow moving cold front, cold blooded, with tornado watches issued shortly before noon Sunday, for the areas including, the western region of my mental health and the northern portions of my ability to deal rationally with my disconcerted precarious emotional situation, it's cold out there” The guy is a lyrical fucking genius.
Death. Hmm, what to say about that. Would you think me morose if I said that I was ready? I can’t say I walk out the door each day looking for it, but it does feel like it’s just waiting around the corner. One wrong turn. Just one misstep. One slip on a ladder. One unchewed pretzel. My grandmother once said, “At this point I am just waiting to die.” I hope it takes me before I get to that point. Death kinda feels like that bus you wait for on a real cold night. The ride isn’t particularly inviting, but standing there shifting your weight, clenching and unclenching your fists isn’t all that fun either. So you light a smoke and test the theory that a lit cigarette is like a beacon in the night for a graffiti covered ship lost in the seas of a big city. Well, I keep lighting up and testing the theory. I’ll publish my findings when I get an answer.
It’s working. I’m getting tired, just one more subject to mull, one more glass of wine and one more burn and I should be able to slide off into the comforting ether of sleep.
Art. The cruelest of all mistresses. I have battled with my creative impulses most of my life. Singing, dancing, acting, directing, writing and painting. I always say that if I could do it all again I would learn to operate heavy machinery. But the truth is I would probably do it just the same. There is certain insanity in creativity. A fire that burns inside you that is always threatening to become an inferno that will engulf you. The people who succeed creatively seem to have the ability to gauge just how high the flames can go. They know how to add just enough fuel to keep it hot, but under control. I never learned how to control it. When I neglect it, I freeze up inside. But when I want the fire to burn, I always tend you use gasoline instead of kindling. I will keep trying. That is for sure. It’s unavoidable. There are too many ideas in my head, too many expressions that need to be presented to the world. Too many things that keep me up at night. Maybe I will just write for a while. As long as I have Tom, cigarettes and wine, the stuff will keep spilling out of me.
Thanks for listening. I’m tired now and I need to get some sleep.
Goodnight.
Eric
It’s 1:25 in the A.M. and I can’t sleep. My brain is spinning in too many directions. I lie down and one too many thoughts try to take center stage in my mind. Work, love, sex, bills, death and art are all vying for my undivided attention. So I get up. I turn on the TV. I have a cigarette. I change the channel. I have another cigarette. I have a glass of wine. I change the channel. I try to read a book while drinking a glass of wine, watching TV and smoking. I consider calling someone, but I don’t have anything coherent or worthy of a middle of the night phone call. So I grab my smokes, the bottle of wine and Tom Waits and head for the computer. I sit down in my high backed pleather office chair and turn my back to the painting I have been cursing at for weeks now. I have no idea why I bought the paints and canvas. Apparently, I needed some artistic frustration in my life.
I love Tom Waits. He makes me want to drink whiskey out of the bottle. Too bad it usually makes me puke. Whiskey, not Tom.
So now I will try to exorcise the sleep blocking demons from my mind. Let’s start with work. Work. Something I do in order to avoid being the guy at the end of the freeway ramp. I don’t like doing it. I don’t know many people who do. Yet somehow I manage to allow it to infect me. I become obsessive. I work too many hours. I spend too many hours thinking about it when I am not there. A man without work is lost. For some reason I live by this creed. I have no idea why. Nobody ever told me that. Nobody ever said, “You will find your meaning for existence in work.” Yet that is what I seek. I crave validation, not from the fruits of my labor, but from the labor itself. (I wonder what Freud would say about the fact that when I typed labor, valor appeared on the page.)
Sing it Tom. I wonder how many cigarettes I will have to smoke before my voice sounds like yours. Millions I suspect. Am I up to the challenge? Will my lungs give out before my voice gets gravely? Only time and my future oncologist will tell.
Love. Now there is a subject that I have certainly made a mockery of. I am skilled at falling in love. I am an artisan at romance. I understand the seduction. I can dance the dance. It’s amazing what being kind and supportive will get you in this life. I have been in love with some amazing women. Smart, funny, creative, beautiful women. And I have screwed it up every time. Is it genetic? Is it learned? Nature versus nurture? Can I blame my parents? I think not. Although I mimic much of their behavior, I also watched with open eyes as they made their mistakes and was never short of criticism. Perhaps I don’t feel I deserve love? Hardly. I may be a journeyman in self-deprecation, but I am also my own biggest fan. A lovely woman once told me that my ego protected the world from the hole in the ozone layer. Touché. Even in jest the joust was indefensible. So why can’t I succeed in the love department? Maybe it isn’t love that I don’t deserve. Maybe it’s happiness. I am never happier than when I am first in love. New love holds unlimited potential. Marriage, children and a nice place to live always seem attainable. (“This ain’t a purchase, it’s a rental, and it’s purgatory.” Well said Tommy. And well timed. You know me so well….) But I can kill any dream with the deadly weapon called reality. Why get married? I’ll just end up getting divorced. Children? Please. I already have two offspring and I already fear that they will turn out like me. And a nice place to live? Me, buy a house? Yeah, it’s a nice dream, but that’s all it is. Perhaps it’s just pessimism. In the end I just can’t buy into the dream entirely. I’m not sure what to make of it. Maybe there is hope I will get it right. Only time will tell.
Ah, French wine. For a country of smelly cowards they sure know how to make good grape juice.
Sex. This is a favorite topic of mine. I take great pride that at times I am pretty damn good at it. Oddly enough, my interest in the topic was born out of fear of failure. I just didn’t want to be bad at it. I believe that good sex is something that stays with you. You never forget the people who knew how to curl your toes. And I don’t want to be forgotten. I want to be the guy that retains high marks when put up against my competitors. And I do think of it as a competition. In my favorite novel the main character is so good in bed that for most women it is a punishment to sleep with him. Because afterward, they will spend the rest of their lives trying to find a lover that good. I may never be that good, but I see it as a worthy goal. I want to be the guy who makes you make noises you haven’t made before. I want to be the guy you think of and smile. “Yeah, he knew what he was doing.” It’s funny (or sad) that I just assume that I will be replaced. I can live with that, just as long as I am not forgotten.
I am running low on smokes. I will have to make a point of living within walking distance of a 24 convenience store next time I move.
Bills. Somewhere along the line, I developed a bill paying dysfunction. No, not just a dysfunction, but a disability. I can sit down and budget my life. I make this much money, so I can spend this much money and still have money left over. The math is easy. However, when it comes time to write the check, I develop a life threatening cramp in my writing hand. So I have learned how to not open my mail. In fact I am particularly good at not retrieving my mail. I let it build up. Usually, I only visit the mailbox weekly. Sometimes I wait longer. More than once in my life the post office has given up on me. Why, I ask you, would a man who makes a decent living and who lives a relatively Spartan life avoid paying his bills? No, really, why? It doesn’t make any sense. The only thing I can come up with is car repairs. I have an almost suicidal passion for crappy used cars. I can’t bring myself to purchase a new car, because that would add one more bill for me to avoid. So I drive cars that should have been put out to pasture years ago. However, the thing about a crappy used car is that it is always just about to break down. So you are always just a few miles away from a repair. And if you have gone and paid all your bills, you might not have enough to pay for the car repair. Truthfully this is just a reinterpretation of Descartes’ argument for the existence of God. God exists because the Bible says so and the Bible is correct because God is the primary source. So I don’t pay my bills because Descartes needed to kiss ass to the Catholic Church. Now that I can live with.
“…and a line of thunderstorms was developing in the early morning ahead of a slow moving cold front, cold blooded, with tornado watches issued shortly before noon Sunday, for the areas including, the western region of my mental health and the northern portions of my ability to deal rationally with my disconcerted precarious emotional situation, it's cold out there” The guy is a lyrical fucking genius.
Death. Hmm, what to say about that. Would you think me morose if I said that I was ready? I can’t say I walk out the door each day looking for it, but it does feel like it’s just waiting around the corner. One wrong turn. Just one misstep. One slip on a ladder. One unchewed pretzel. My grandmother once said, “At this point I am just waiting to die.” I hope it takes me before I get to that point. Death kinda feels like that bus you wait for on a real cold night. The ride isn’t particularly inviting, but standing there shifting your weight, clenching and unclenching your fists isn’t all that fun either. So you light a smoke and test the theory that a lit cigarette is like a beacon in the night for a graffiti covered ship lost in the seas of a big city. Well, I keep lighting up and testing the theory. I’ll publish my findings when I get an answer.
It’s working. I’m getting tired, just one more subject to mull, one more glass of wine and one more burn and I should be able to slide off into the comforting ether of sleep.
Art. The cruelest of all mistresses. I have battled with my creative impulses most of my life. Singing, dancing, acting, directing, writing and painting. I always say that if I could do it all again I would learn to operate heavy machinery. But the truth is I would probably do it just the same. There is certain insanity in creativity. A fire that burns inside you that is always threatening to become an inferno that will engulf you. The people who succeed creatively seem to have the ability to gauge just how high the flames can go. They know how to add just enough fuel to keep it hot, but under control. I never learned how to control it. When I neglect it, I freeze up inside. But when I want the fire to burn, I always tend you use gasoline instead of kindling. I will keep trying. That is for sure. It’s unavoidable. There are too many ideas in my head, too many expressions that need to be presented to the world. Too many things that keep me up at night. Maybe I will just write for a while. As long as I have Tom, cigarettes and wine, the stuff will keep spilling out of me.
Thanks for listening. I’m tired now and I need to get some sleep.
Goodnight.
Eric
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
She
She relented. She retreated. Somewhere, sometime along the line she realized she was falling in love. And that was something she couldn't do. She had a husband and three children. The affair had been motivated by revenge. Her husband had cheated. Probably more than once. But moving on with no developed, marketable skills, with three children, with the dream of social standing and the thought of being a single mother were too much. So she strayed.
The problem was she strayed with the wrong man. He was nothing like her dream man. He wasn't forceful. He was gentle. He wasn't beautiful. He was over the hill. But he listened to her. He encouraged her to be herself. He told her she was beautiful. He paid attention to her needs. And she fell. For over a year them met whenever they could. Sometimes in hotels, sometimes at his place, almost 200 miles from her home. He romanced her. He brought her flowers and wine and music. He made love to her, and unlike her husband, his focus was entirely on her.
But when she realized that she wanted more, when she realized that she was in love, she had to stop. The disparity between her daily life and her affair became a problem. But how to end an affair? How to tell this man she could'nt see him anymore? She tried a few times. She stopped calling. She stopped answering his calls. But he reacted the way he should have. He let her go. He respected the fact that she needed to stop. What she didn't expect was that she wanted him to pursue her. She wanted him to keep calling, and eventually she would reach out. And he would let her back in. But almost immediately she would realize she had made a mistake and would run away again.
The third time she shut him out he decided that he had to be the strong one. He had to be the one end it once and for all. And so he did.
But he misses her.
The problem was she strayed with the wrong man. He was nothing like her dream man. He wasn't forceful. He was gentle. He wasn't beautiful. He was over the hill. But he listened to her. He encouraged her to be herself. He told her she was beautiful. He paid attention to her needs. And she fell. For over a year them met whenever they could. Sometimes in hotels, sometimes at his place, almost 200 miles from her home. He romanced her. He brought her flowers and wine and music. He made love to her, and unlike her husband, his focus was entirely on her.
But when she realized that she wanted more, when she realized that she was in love, she had to stop. The disparity between her daily life and her affair became a problem. But how to end an affair? How to tell this man she could'nt see him anymore? She tried a few times. She stopped calling. She stopped answering his calls. But he reacted the way he should have. He let her go. He respected the fact that she needed to stop. What she didn't expect was that she wanted him to pursue her. She wanted him to keep calling, and eventually she would reach out. And he would let her back in. But almost immediately she would realize she had made a mistake and would run away again.
The third time she shut him out he decided that he had to be the strong one. He had to be the one end it once and for all. And so he did.
But he misses her.
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