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…….
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
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
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