tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74455723231333638052024-03-14T02:25:08.627-05:00Unconventional WisdomAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.comBlogger251125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-52161207056280328232015-01-13T12:06:00.000-06:002015-01-13T12:13:07.845-06:00The End<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drove down to Hastings on a warm autumn day in 1998 to
sign divorce papers. My buddy Vinny had been an invaluable friend to me that
whole summer. I called in a final divorce-related favor. I asked him to come
along for the trip. I couldn’t do it alone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We drove past countless good family law attorneys to get to
Hastings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my friend Stacy, who
had just begun her first year of law school, lived in Hastings and worked a
little for an attorney there. She drafted the papers to save me some money. And
she was there on that warm autumn day. She showed me where to sign. We chatted
a little after I had. It was nice to see her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
_______________________________ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After he died, one of Kurt Vonnegut’s daughters wrote of the
best advice he had given her. She’d gone to him when she was a teenager with
some question about the world, about the Way of Things, and he’d responded,
“What are you asking me for? I just got here too.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wrote that she’d been reassured by that answer. It told
her what she was beginning to suspect: that no one knew what the fuck he or she
was doing; everyone was making it up as they went along.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-align: justify;">_______________________________</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;">My friend Stacy and I got married in 2001. Now we’re
getting divorced because neither of us knows what we’re doing. We just got here too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-align: justify;"> _______________________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know people who think I should be angrier than I am, who
think I deserve to be treated better than I have been by, well by life I guess.
I am not one of these people. Here’s how I see it: I think my parents had sex
circa July 6, 1973. They’d been married just over two years at that time so I
imagine it was just garden-variety sex. Listen kids: sometimes when a man and
woman have sex his sperm meets up with her egg and nothing magical happens.
Very garden-variety science happens, has been happening for millions of years.
Yes so on April 6, 1974 a garden-variety boy (who I’ve been told looked a bit
like a bald turkey) came screeching onto a garden-variety planet called earth,
born of garden-variety sex and boring as shit biology. He didn’t ask to be
there but there he was and there he’d be until biology quit happening in what
was now him. So there. I think I am here and I’ll get what I get or can take
and that’s that. And it’s enough. But I’m not more than I am. I am some (too
many) pounds of flesh who just happens to be here and who deserves nothing, bad
or good.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">_______________________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I texted my buddy Vinny this morning. “I signed the papers
this morning, Vin. I like to do these things in Hastings, you know. Stacy was
there this time too! I think she’s bad luck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-align: justify;">_______________________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drove a few blocks in Hastings this morning, a bitterly cold
winter day, to sign divorce papers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My old friend Stacy was there. She’s been a family law attorney for 12
years now. It was her office. She drafted the papers to save me money. She
showed me where to sign. We chatted a little after I had. It was nice to see
her. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-30478406940816971032013-12-24T11:12:00.002-06:002013-12-24T11:12:55.652-06:00Christmas Cheer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can I take another
pain med yet? I’ve been up an hour and I’m beaten. Another pill might get me
through a shower but then what? I’m going to see the kids today. It’s Christmas
Eve. It’s not fair to be in tear-inducing pain on Christmas Eve! I’ll take two
extra today and take less tomorrow. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t. And tomorrow is Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not fair to be in tear-inducing
pain on Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I’ll feel
better the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the doctor will understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have permission to take two extra on
flare up days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe if I run out
early this month he’ll approve an early refill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is this a flare up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Can I honestly say it is or am I talking myself into it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if he doesn’t approve an early
refill?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I’m going to run out
of pills and be fucked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
happened before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember how
miserable that was?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t it
better to stretch out the pain now to avoid two days of agony later?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But fuck! I’m hurting from my groin to my armpits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s shooting out my back! And it’s
Christmas Eve and it’s not fair to feel this way on Christmas Eve!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not often that a guy knows for certain that this is his
last Christmas in his home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
this is my last Christmas at my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My wife asked me to leave on October 15<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went down to Iowa and have been
staying there with dear, generous friends since, seeing the kids when I
can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me two days ago that
she wants to be done with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had been invited to go “home” for Christmas and to stay there Christmas Eve
night so I could be there when the kids wake up on Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m moving into an apartment next week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And next Christmas I won’t be there
when the kids wake up on Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That makes me sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re not separating because I’m sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then again maybe we are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t work; I can’t keep up with a
healthy family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s so much I
can’t do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re more or less
healthy you don’t understand this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe you think you could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or you would if you were in my position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By God you would’ve kept up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you think, “What is wrong with you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not all of you are thinking this. But
some of you are and I forgive you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Honest truth:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s what I’d
think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m fairly sure of it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one gets a flower delivery on day 2,555 of chronic
pancreatitis, or chronic anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Days 1-7 the people are all around making dinners and sending books and
crosswords.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Visiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People come to see you in the hospital
the first time you find yourself there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People ask what
you need, what they can do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But those
people have problems too and they get back to them by and by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The human mind cannot understand the scale of the
universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you know that there
are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on earth?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that. But I can’t imagine
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes and the human mind doesn’t
understand chronic illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
evolved to understand rules that no longer exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For almost all of human existence when one of us got sick he
either got better or he died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
if he was still lying there moaning after a month he was a nuisance, a
fraud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he needed to get the
fuck up and pitch in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good news!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
doctors won’t let me die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad
news:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still lying here moaning
on day 2,555 (or so) and no one really knows what to do with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shouldn’t I be able to get up and pitch
in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is wrong with me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Guess what? I’m more sick today than I was six
years ago. The meds don’t work as
well as they once did. Mostly I
want to do nothing. Strike
that. I want to do
everything. But I feel like doing
nothing. And doing anything hurts
and is damn hard. But there will
be no parades. There will be some
pity and a lot of lost respect for the guy who sits there like a lump</span><!--EndFragment-->
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-77853381105757339342013-10-25T16:42:00.002-05:002013-10-25T16:42:46.678-05:0039: A Not-So-Magic Number<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My parents separated and divorced in 1988, when my dad was 39. As I’ve written
before, my dad was untreated bi-polar, unmedicated epileptic and probably a few
other things. He was verbally
abusive and between his frequent abusive episodes and his seizures, he was
awfully dramatic. You never knew
if he was going to scream and call you names or drop to the ground and flop
around for a while. Anyhoo, when
my mom kicked him out (He finally did hit her. I came home from school to hear
him screaming from the end of the hall and to see something flying from there
too, which my mom blocked with a couch cushion. She went for the phone; he beat her to it and ripped it out
of the wall. She ran for the back door, I backed out the front door. Cops eventually
came and took him away. That was
the last of him living with us.) he went back to his parents to live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw him for the first time after their separation when he
came to pick my brother and me up for a weekend visit. My mom had kept the family car so he drove my grandpa’s car, a maroon Buick LeSabre. We went out for supper at Burger King,
where he paid with quarters, and went to my grandparent’s house. He wanted to spend time with us alone
so we went up to his old/then-current bedroom in the attic. It had creaky wood floors and, I
imagine, looked much as it did when he’d left it 17 years earlier. There was a coffee can on the dresser,
half-full with change and it quickly became clear that that can held my dad’s
money. All of it. The rest of his earthly
possessions were in the suitcase on the floor next to his bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hated my dad then- red-rage hated him. But I felt so sad for him up there in
my grandparent’s attic. He
was my dad for christ’s sake! And he had some clothes and a few coins! He tried
so hard to make those weekends pleasant, tried so hard not to be “sad dad.” He took us to movies and fast food
dinners; he took us to swim in a river and to museums. But he lived in his parent’s attic and
drove their car. It was so
desperately depressing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am 39 years old.
In an hour I’m going to pick my kids up and bring them down to Iowa,
where we will spend the weekend at my friend’s, in the bedroom where I’ve spent
the past week. I hid my bucket of
change. I can’t bear for my kids to see it. My clothes are in a suitcase on the floor though. And I am desperately sad but wearing
the “I’m Not Sad Dad” smile. Ain't that some shit? </div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-12342761961359890462013-05-17T10:03:00.001-05:002013-05-17T10:03:51.787-05:00To Dad, With Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
May 16, 2013</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To Dad, With Love:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled the oldest out of school today. We needed to do something
different. I needed to do
something different. I’ve been
stuck in a depressive rut for the last, I don’t know-months. I’m crabby times 100; I’m walking through
days on the edge of insanity; I’m nearing a nervous breakdown; a powder keg
primed and itching to blow.
(Sorry…I don’t know how else to write it except with that rubbish). Today was the day because last night
was the night. Last night I blew
over nothing. I yelled at her and
she cried. She panicked, would
have done anything to please me and make it stop. It didn’t last long; I was back in control in a minute. But it will haunt me for a long, long
time. And I know you know what I
mean. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You probably aren’t surprised that this episode reminded me
of you. But I want to tell you
that it wasn’t for the reason you may think-I wasn’t ashamed that I had
repeated what must be some of your more humiliating episodes. I thought of you because I understand
you. I’ve been thinking about you
a lot lately and this reinforced what I had assumed: there but for the grace of god go I. Or rather: there but for a few small but key circumstances go I. I’m on two anti-depressants and I acted
like a fool. What could you have
done had your illness been addressed?
You were so close to pulling it off. What could you have done with the freedom I have, the
freedom to explore your mind? You
had the suffocating burden of this illness and had to provide for a family. What would I be now if I was staring
down the barrel of a lifetime of that responsibility? You’ve said you are proud of what I’ve become. Am I not what you could have been if a
few zigs had zagged instead?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, here I am now, needing to do what you couldn’t. I need to fix myself before I lose the
only things that really matter.
And of course I have what I like to think is a better than fighting
chance because I have all those things that you didn’t. Listen to this now…I’ve said it before
and meant it but I REALLY mean it now.
I forgive you. I know that
our past had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you; that you were
yelling into the yawning, starving mouth in your soul, “You are a piece of
shit! You are a fraud! You can’t do this! You’ll never make it!” One of the things that makes my
situation different than yours is that I know that’s what I’m now yelling and I
don’t think you did. And because I
do know that I was able to take the kids out to lunch and say, “Daddy did a
terrible thing yesterday. I scared
you and I’m supposed to protect you.
And I’m more sorry than you can possibly imagine. I want you to know this: my yelling was about me, not you. You did nothing wrong. I did. And it’s my job to fix it.”</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-63255038370571278202013-04-24T20:55:00.000-05:002013-04-24T20:55:19.440-05:00The Second Book<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today was my daughter’s library day at school. She’s in first grade and has discovered
Pokemon. Every week she can check
out two books and every week lately one of them is a Pokemon Ready-to-Read
book. She and I read most every
night and the Pokemon books only provide one night’s reading. The other nights we read from her
personal library. This because the
second book she brings home is usually unreadable. It’s usually a big hardcover arts and crafts kind of
book. Or a cupcake cookbook. At any rate, it just sits on the
nightstand until it’s time to return it.
I’ve asked her before why she chose this or that book and she never
really answers me. So now I don’t even
say anything. I actually have a
good reason for ignoring the “second book”: it makes me dreadfully sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why? Well, I never
really knew until last night.
Here’s the thing: when I
see the “second book” I get this terrible, sad sinking feeling in my stomach; I
have a vision of a sad little kid standing alone in the library, and I very
nearly cry. This all happens very
quickly and the feeling is gone almost as quickly as it comes on. I look away from the book and- poof-
it’s out of mind. But what the
hell right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For obvious reasons I haven’t explored this feeling very
deeply in the past. In the little
time that I have spent thinking about it I’ve decided that I must be feeling
sad for my daughter because she brings home a book that we never look at. But that’s never been a satisfying
answer. So last night I told Stacy
about this overwhelming sadness I feel over the second book. As I was telling her what I “see” in
the fleeting vision it became clear to me that the child in the library is not
my daughter at all. It is little
UW.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little-guy me is standing all alone in a library. He is looking at the shelves of
books. On the other side of the
library my classmates are loudly and excitedly Library Whispering about this
book or that. But I am silent and
still. I’m only pretending to be
choosing a book because I know it does not matter which book I choose. I don’t care about anything and I’m
still too young to read anything even if I did. And I know that no one at home cares what I bring home
either. No one will be reading to
me. Not tonight and not ever. The librarian doesn’t know this of
course and she won’t be hearing it from me. So I make a show out of picking out a book way above my
level. And when I check this book
out she will know that I’m bringing it home to a parent who will hug me and
read this book to me and tuck me in to bed with a kiss and a smile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She does not know that I will bring this book home and hide
it so no one sees it. If anyone
sees it I’ll be embarrassed because I know that they will know I’ve checked out
a book no one is going to read.
If my dad sees it, he may tell me that checking it out was a stupid
thing to do. He may not. Either way I know he’ll be thinking it. And every time I see it, I'll just feel sorry for myself. So I'll bury it good. I know I'm good at that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there we have it- the second book unearthed memories I’ve
apparently done a good job forgetting.
I was tempted to let this end on a sad note because I never do and
thought it might be interesting.
But I find I’m unable. I’m
not able to because I’m not sad anymore.
Today when my daughter brought home her books I grabbed the second book
right away and I held it in one hand has I rubbed her head with the other. “You know, honey,” I said, “if you want
to leave this book on the nightstand all week that’s fine with me. But if you want to look at it with me,
tell me. Nothing would make me
happier.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-11803665532285212052013-04-09T13:16:00.001-05:002013-04-24T09:14:55.995-05:00Willie, Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willie hung up the phone. More fuck, fuck, fucks. Willie looked back at his reflection. He was more and more disappointed at
the man he saw there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You never were courageous were you? Every time you jumped you hoped that
was the time the chute failed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willie’s focus shifted to the man in the photo. Actor or not, he thought, he’s hanging
in there, going to work. This
pussy in the polo shirt is more of a man than I ever was. Willie closed his eyes and eventually
drifted off to sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad. Dad. Dad!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willie woke with a start. He saw Billy standing outside his side window. He would have been less surprised if he
had seen God himself standing there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Billy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad. Are you
ok?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, no, not exactly. I’m, ha, well, I can’t get up here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can you move? Can you get to the door?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah I think so.”
He tried a sort of crawl.
“No. Christ. No I can’t.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I break in somewhere?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The back door.
Lean into it, it’ll open.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Billy walked around to the back door. As he climbed the two steps up to it he
realized he’d never been back here before. The yard was otherwise unremarkable- it was a remarkable
yard for what it wasn’t: a family
gathering spot; a place where grandkids played. Billy leaned on the door and shoved. It opened. He walked through the kitchen and into the living room, where
he found his father rolled over on his back, head propped up on an accent
pillow he had taken off the sofa. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So- well before we get to it, you’re going to need to get
that door fixed. I guess you know
that. So… what happened? Are you alright?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willie was silent for a moment. No, he thought, I’m not. But how do I say that?
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The nurse always tells me to wait for her. I didn’t this time. I, uh…well shit, Billy, I fell.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Billy bent down to help him up. “Are you hurt?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m hurting!
God, Billy, I’m hurting!
I’m so sorry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. I’m
fine. Let’s get me up and over to
that chair there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Billy helped him up.
Once back on his feet, Willie remembered why he had gotten up from his
chair in the first place. He asked
Billy to help him to the bathroom.
Billy was relieved when he learned that the only help his father needed
was with the travel; safely delivered to the far end of the bathroom he could
handle the rest with the help of the bars on the wall. Billy left him there- pants still up
thank god- and went out, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the wall across from the bathroom door,
waiting to be called back in. <i>When did my dad get so old?</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, Billy. I’m ready.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Billy went back into the bathroom and saw that his dad had
been able to get up too. He had
been willing to lift his father off the toilet of course, but he was more than
a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, that turned into a long trip,” Willie said as he sat
down in his chair at last. He
looked over at Billy, now seated in the sofa across from his father. “What are you doing here?” he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You called me.
Do you remember?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. But…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s called caller i.d., Dad,” Billy said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay. But still, I…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I answered I heard you breathing. Then the phone went dead. It was odd enough seeing your name on
the caller i.d. When you didn’t
say anything I guess that made it odder still. I tried calling back.
Which reminds me…” Billy got up and walked across the room to the
phone. He was not surprised to
find it slightly off its base. He
slid it into place. “…The line was
busy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you drove over to see if I was okay?” Willie asked as though he was
surprised. He <i>was</i> surprised. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well…yes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Huh.” Willie
chuckled. “Thanks for your help
Billy. I can’t say I deserve it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hmmm,” Billy chuckled too. “Maybe not. But
here we are.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the silence Willie had been worried about. This wasn’t small talk; this was
getting real. And he had no
goddamned idea how to do this, how to talk to his son about anything that
really mattered. The silence
became uncomfortable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willie looked at his son. “In ’82 or maybe ’83 a bunch of us were down in Texas…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah I know dad.
You’ve told me this story.
You BASE jumped from a skyscraper in Houston. Are you sure you’re ok?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willie couldn’t tell if his son was impatient or
worried. Probably both.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m fine,” he said, “that wasn’t the part of the story I
was going to tell this time. Do
you mind?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. Go ahead.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ok. Like I say
it was ‘82 or ‘83, which would put you at, what? 8 or 9?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Billy nodded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Anyway, there were 10 of us who made the jump. But there was an 11<sup>th</sup> guy
there. Irish guy. I forget his name if I ever knew
it. He was there for all the
planning and as gung-ho as anyone I guess. We had a guy who could get us in- we had to sneak up the stairwell
you know. So we’re walking up the
stairs with all of our gear. The
Irish guy was right in front of me and he kept pulling something out of his
front pocket, looking at it for a few seconds, and putting it back. Finally I slapped him on the back and
asked what the hell he was doing, a rosary? And he said, and I’ll never forget this, ‘Looking at a
picture of my son. His 10<sup>th</sup>
birthday next week.’ I’ll never
forget it because your face came out of the back of my mind and slapped
mine. But…goddamn, Billy, this is
hard. I, ah, ahem, I pushed you
out of the way and went on.”
Willie paused to collect himself before adding, “We got to the roof
finally and as you know I jumped.
The Irish guy didn’t. He
turned around and walked back down.
Never saw him again.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Huh.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. And that
jump was a blast man. It really
was. We spent the next few days-
it takes days or weeks even to come down from something like that- making fun
of the guy who couldn’t do it you know?
Laughing about the scared look on his face when he turned around. But he wasn’t scared Billy, not for
himself anyway. He missed his kid
and wouldn’t take the risk. And I would. And, Billy, I’m really so fucking
ashamed of that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div style="background-color: #fefafa; color: #1b1b1b; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">This is my second entry in a fiction challenge I'm participating in. The prompt this week was:</span></div>
<div style="background-color: #fefafa; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><span style="color: #1b1b1b;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> </span></span><br /><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>To go for something your character has been putting off. 1500 wd max with 50% dialogue. </b></span></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: #fefafa; color: #1b1b1b; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Please check out the other entries, and as always, thanks for your time:</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-80247139484119776402013-03-29T08:59:00.001-05:002013-03-29T08:59:27.541-05:00Willie <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Feats of daring were once so awesome. Climbing Kilimanjaro was daring;
skydiving was daring; running with the bulls was daring. But now here Willie was on his living
room floor, not two feet from his sofa, and he allowed himself his first laugh
at his situation. He had “dared”
to walk from his chair to the bathroom before the nurse came and he had failed
spectacularly, taking a plant stand and his phone crashing down with him. Yes, he thought, he had fallen and he
couldn’t get up. And because
he now knew why he shouldn’t have, why his nurse had always looked him in his
eyes and told him not to be a “daredevil” there was no way in hell he was going
to let her come and find him like this.
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Willie had picked up the phone that had, thank God, fallen
by his face, and dialed the nurse.
He’d told her Alex the Neighbor, as she and Willie referred to him, had
come over and taken care of him.
All is fine, my dear, I’ll see you tomorrow. But of course he had no intentions of letting Alex find him
this way either. </div>
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Willie had spent a few seconds considering calling his son
for help. He understood that
calling one’s son would probably be one of the first things an old man in his
position might normally do. But
the kind of person- the kind of dad really- that Willie was, was not able to
make that call. At least he was
not able to expect a happy response if he did make that call. </div>
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So here lay Ol’ Willie looking at his reflection on the
television screen. The years
looked back at him. He had never
expected to live this long, to be an old man, to need his son’s help. He figured he was leaving for good so
long ago. He knew it was cowardly,
he knew there’d be consequences and ruined relationships. But it had never occurred to him
in all those years that one of the consequences of running away like he had
might be that one day he’d be back and need help from someone on the other end
of one of those relationships. </div>
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I could call, he thought. He’d take my call.
I could pretend that all was well and I was just calling to see how he
was. And then I could simply sort
of mention that, geez, I’m sure sorry about running away. Then I could call back later and say,
Hey boy, you’ll never guess what happened to the old man! He smiled again. Sure. I’ll erase all that pain in one phone call. Jesus Christ.</div>
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Willie looked around the room again for something that might
help. He saw the picture frame
again- the one Nurse Ann had bought for him, “for a picture of the kids”- and
this time his gaze fixed on the image.
It was the image that had come with the frame, a boy and father flying a
kite. The boy and father were
looking at each other with huge exaggerated smiles on their faces. Willie had always thought they were
models, not really father and son.
He found himself staring at the photo now and caught himself thinking
about Billy. Well, Bill but Willie
had always preferred Billy. </div>
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His thoughts surprised him. He realized he was gazing tenderly at the photo and actually
wondering how Billy was. He was
not consciously scheming; he seemed to be caring. What had Billy’s boyhood been like? Had he ever flown a kite? Gone to the library and checked out
adventure books? Spent hours in
his room flipping through an atlas and daydreaming? Now Willie knew he was thinking about his own young years
and the ancient anger he felt towards his own father began to well up. He looked away from the photo.</div>
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But it didn’t help.
A thought was now forming in his head that he’d never shake. Billy was not a secondary actor in the
movie of Willie’s life. Billy was
his son and Willie had really done a number on him. He felt sick. I
became what I hated! How did I not
see that? Feelings he had never
known were pouring down on him now. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck me! </div>
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I’ve got to see Billy right now. I have to apologize!
His mind was racing now. One more adventure! He went to get up…and
remembered that he was lying on the goddamn floor like the broken man he now
understood himself to be. One more
fuck!</div>
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Hold on, Willie, he told himself, you can still call. Yes, I can still say “I’m sorry” and if
things go ok I can even ask for forgiveness. Forget help. I can lay here until tomorrow. God knows I’ve spent time lying in
worse places than this. And with a
smile growing on his face, he reached for the phone.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This is my first entry in a fiction challenge I'm participating in. The prompt this week was:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> <br /><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">to be deflated, belittled or humbled after the failure of a daring or boastful act. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 16px;">1,000 words max and no dialogue, all description. *Show* not tell: how your character has softened, deflated from the beginning of his/her intro to now.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Please check out the other entries, and as always, thanks for your time:</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-87158596639837114582013-02-11T06:42:00.001-06:002013-02-11T06:42:11.653-06:00A Magical Place on Earth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am at Walt Disney World, the Most Magical Place on Earth,
and younger sibling of Disneyland, the Happiest Place on Earth. Magic is a tough idea to quantify but I
think the above claim is dubious.
It’s a nice place, it surely is, and it is almost magical the way they
host all of those people and keep the grounds so tidy and move employees around
so efficiently. But we know their
secret…the whole park is built one floor above a labyrinth of hallways and
such. So the tidiness and
efficiency is nothing more than good planning- not magical at all. </div>
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I’ve only been to Disneyland once, when I was 13. It didn’t strike me then as the
Happiest Place on earth. To be
honest, as a 13 year old boy I would have given that award to a place where
boobs played a more prominent role.
At any rate, let’s assume that the experience between the two parks is
similar; let’s assume that the people over at Walt Disney Corporation would
love for us to believe that Walt Disney World is, if not the Happiest, at least
a very happy, place on earth. I’m
afraid I have some horrible news for them. It isn’t even close.
I’ll grant you that even as a 38 year-old I’d rate any place that
prominently featured women’s breasts more highly than a theme park. But still. It is a place that features moments of great joy surrounded
by hours of temper tantrums, sore feet, exhaustion, crabbiness, bickering, and
kids and adults failing to appreciate what is in front of them and aching for
the things they cannot have/did not do.
I’m trying to think if there is a place I’ve overheard more parents
yelling at kids or seen more kids stomping mad. One would almost certainly find more pleasant family
dynamics in a family counselor’s waiting room.</div>
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Not that all of the crabbiness and foot stomping is Disney’s
fault. Well maybe some of it
is. Off the top of my head I can’t
think of another organization that spends as much time and money convincing us
that we’re having a great time there.
Then when we get here and find that we haven’t been magically
transformed into something that does not feel pain, that is able to be happy
and giddy for 12 solid hours, we are disappointed, we feel inferior (“I’m
supposed to feel Magic and instead I just feel tired and hungry.”) Alas, you are here what you were at
home. But warmer (and sunburned).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why am I coming back next year? Well everyone in my family wants to for one thing and I love
them. Also it is sunny and
warm. And maybe my kids aren’t the
jump-up-and-down-and-point-excitedly-like-they-do-in-the-commercials types but
they do hide behind me and peak out at Goofy. And when we get back to the room and for several days after
they look through their autograph books and tell me about the characters who
signed them. In short we’ve
already forgotten the less magical parts of the past week. Our memories are good and make us happy. And if that isn’t Magical it is at
least magical. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-5888339072032342332012-10-23T11:54:00.002-05:002012-10-23T13:10:34.131-05:00A Cautionary Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After posting this, it occurred to me that this could offend my conservative friends. This is not directed at reasonable people. If you recognize yourself in Ted, well, that's another matter. I don't personally know anyone like him. And yet people like him are all over social media. Go figure.<br />
<br />
“Hey. Tracy, how do you spell moron?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it O-N or A-N?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ted yelled. <b><span style="color: #ef0c11; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s O-N I’m pretty sure. Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just commenting on this asshole’s Facebook post.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You stupid
moron!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it wasn’t for illegals
Obummer wouldn’t even be president.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dad didn’t fight in Europe to have his vote cancelled by an illegal!
Of course I voted for the photo I.D. amendment last time!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should have to show an I.D. to
vote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to show an I.D. to
write a check at Trader Joe’s for shit’s sake! Stop voting before you ruin
America!!!!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ted stood up from the computer, a bit calmer for having
destroyed the Liberal, America-hating punk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went into the kitchen, where his wife was talking with
someone on the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could see
from her expression that something was wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s wrong?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s your dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here you talk to him,” Tracy said as she handed him the phone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, pop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What’s up?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t vote this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you believe that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve walked down to the church and voted in every Mickey Mouse election
for 40 years and I can’t vote for President.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why the hell not?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t find my I.D.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tore the place apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Course, I haven’t seen it in 5 years.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What?! Can’t you get another one?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too late;
not enough time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus,” Ted said, sitting down, “Goddamn Liberals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How the hell does this happen?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-41619771033548828852012-09-18T21:10:00.000-05:002012-09-18T21:18:42.778-05:00The Liebster Award<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I’ve been honored with this thing
called The Liebster Award from my friend over at DeBie Hive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can read about her and it <a href="http://debiehive.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-liebster-award.html">here</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you do, you’ll see that I’m breaking
most of the rules an award recipient is supposed to follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I apologize if that seems
ungracious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assure you that’s
not my intent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call me a renegade
if you like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord knows I’d love
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the honest answer is:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it’s already 9 p.m. and I’m tired. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I don’t have the energy to write
much these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if someone
drops an award on me, you can bet your ass I’ll do something, usually the least
I can do (not proud of it, but it’s apparently true).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The least I can do is answer these questions, asked by DeBie
Hive herself:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">1. Why did you begin blogging?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I have all these ideas, some of which I’ve
conceitedly convinced myself might help a person or two, who feels like me and
doesn’t want to feel alone anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And because I can’t do anything else, communication-wise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost no one takes me seriously in
person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But online?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hell I’ve even claimed the statue,
David, was me, or at least a striking likeness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you know it’s not?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">2. Did you always love to write?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">3. What is something you are very
talented at, but people might be surprised about?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can sing most of Katy Perry’s songs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well her hits anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As any dad with a 6 year old girl
should.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">4. What is your favorite season and
why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one is tough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because I live way the hell and gone up in the northern hemisphere,
Spring would seem like the obvious answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m going with Fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if Minnesota Winters didn’t follow it, Fall would be the
winner and it’s not even close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love “crisp” autumn air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the
word:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>crisp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you hear it, you hear rustling
leaves and smell that autumn musty smell, and you feel your soft, threadbare
sweatshirt and the crackling fire keeps you warm and safe and you are happy, by
god, you are happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">5. Do you play sports? Which
ones?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was a kid I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whatever the season, we in the neighborhood were playing it in a
backyard or at a park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winter, for
us, was basketball, not hockey, by the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">6. What is your favorite meal to
eat?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any which involves a tableful of people I love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">7. If you could spend an entire day
with anyone, who would it be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend, Jon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because I never get to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve chosen to spend my life with my wife, and I’m damn glad I have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I miss Jon like you would not believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">8. If your house was on fire, and
you had time to grab one thing, what would you take?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7445572323133363805" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess this computer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">9. What was your first car?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1981 Ford Thunderbird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I bought it in 1991. So, yeah.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bqp50NTmBuE/UFkrStF_wfI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fTp-lJUnjyA/s1600/Tbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bqp50NTmBuE/UFkrStF_wfI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fTp-lJUnjyA/s320/Tbird.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-no-proof: yes;">10. What is the last book you read?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unbroken:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A World
War II Story of Survival, Resilience and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">11. Where is your dream vacation?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">A:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Greek Islands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-7670731168820649112012-08-24T21:15:00.003-05:002012-08-24T21:15:54.043-05:00Frankie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to see my old pal Frank tomorrow when he and his
family come over for dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because I have stayed in Minnesota, where we grew up, and he and his
wife relocated to Washington, D.C. years ago, we have not met each other’s
kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So tomorrow my daughter will
meet someone whom I’ve known for 25 years!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m really enjoying talking to her about how long 25
years is (only forever, duh!) and what it was like to play championship
basketball with Frank when we were in junior high school, about the same age as
our oldest neighbor kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember meeting a couple of my dad’s childhood friends
when I was about the age my daughter is now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I understood that my old man, who was eight years
younger than I am now, had once been a young man. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I didn’t get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t get that he grew up in my grandparents’ house, used to run
around their yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And anyway I
think I always thought that whatever he may have done before me, he had always
known me, or at least planned to know me- I was always on his mind, I
figured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could I not be?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now here I am, trying to explain to my daughter that
Frank and I were once the big men on two straight Osseo Basketball Association
champions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, we lost our first
three games the first year and didn’t lose again for two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I had no earthly idea I’d be a dad
someday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dad?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever dude!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad’s suck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re boring and fat; they’re slow; they like stupid
movies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank and I played, with considerably less success, on the
same intramural basketball team throughout high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we went to community college
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some time during the
first semester I approached him with a plan:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>let’s get Vinny and the three of us move into an
apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may recall that
Frank, Vinny, and I lived in that apartment for a year before Frank moved out
to Seattle to live with a cousin, for the experience, and with much admiration
on my part for what I considered an insanely brave move.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And life happened to us both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We haven’t seen each other much in the years since, but
we’ve kept in touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that my
daughter knows that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tomorrow she
will be meeting a total stranger and she will struggle to understand how her
dad seems to know this guy, this stranger, like he’s a member of the
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she will no doubt fail
to understand that in all those days before she was even present in my deepest
daydreams, Frank was teaching me low post moves, or sleeping down the hall;
that he is a member of the family, and that she should learn her family’s
history because there is a lot of love there. And a lot of laughs.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-19345675232071005132012-08-19T18:48:00.003-05:002012-08-19T18:48:27.624-05:00Hope and her friend Courage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get busy living, or get busy dying.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That quote from “Shawshank Redemption” sticks with you
doesn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may remember that
Andy is telling Red, who insists that Hope has no place in prison, that Hope is
“the best of things.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the
movie is set in prison, but it is about us, you and me, prisoners of our
lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was going to write a beautiful piece of uplifting prose,
hopeful that if I did I could create a blog sensation that went viral and took
the country by storm!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And instead
I have already said that life is a prison and have given up all hope of
reaching a large audience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who
wants to think of his/her life in those terms?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
yet, who is living an utterly free life, flitting from one adventure to
another, beholden to nothing?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right.
Not many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what’s more: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who wants to?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We live our lives behind walls we willingly construct.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess hurling one’s self off of a cliff takes
courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I’m sure it
does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But people who do those
types of things usually talk about people like us in patronizing terms, saying
that we don’t have the courage to really live our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I beg to differ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Settling down, getting married, having kids takes courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is, it does if you enter into
those commitments intending to stay in them come what may.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sending a perfect little baby out into
the world, knowing that if the worst happened you would never heal, is at least
as courageous as jumping off a cliff with a parachute, knowing that if the
worst happens, you’ll never feel it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And how about people who are single rather than in bad
relationships?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think that
doesn’t take courage in a couple-centric world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or people in relationships who decide they don’t want
children, who have the courage of their convictions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait a minute!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Courage has snuck in and is trying to hijack this essay!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Courage, you dirty dog!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not so fast,” Courage says, “Where you
find me, you will always find Hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Any fool can live a life that has no hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope may be the most courageous act there is.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think one reason my writing isn’t very popular is because
I always write about myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe
people think my blog is just the rantings and ravings of an egotistical
maniac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think that I
write about myself because I’m who I know best but also because I think I’m a
fairly typical cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So hopefully I’m
writing about you too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s try
it:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am depressed (maybe you are too).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have chronic pancreatitis (you probably
don’t). I’m in constant pain (you’re in constant something I bet).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I get better (so do you).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I don’t, I don’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife married a strong man, a healthy
man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is not who she’s married
to now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she is not going
anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In sickness and in
health indeed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think of how brave
those vows are! How hopeful!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
love you now, in your health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of
course, I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I will love you
if you get sick, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will take
care of you; I will hold you; I will do whatever I need to do to keep you warm,
and dry, and safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not because I
am fearless, but because I am brave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am scared; I am weak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
I will get up tomorrow and I will do what needs to be done and I will Hope for
the best.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-81122710952134263842012-06-06T22:20:00.001-05:002012-06-07T00:21:56.622-05:00Thank You, Justin Bieber<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My daughter is an odd duck. And she is lovely because of it (and for other reasons too,
of course). My wife and I worried
a bit at first- when she wasn’t walking and later, talking. In fact, she was such a late talker
that she qualified for speech therapy through our school district. The speech therapist- a tall, gentle
woman- came to our house once a week for several months and worked with our
daughter. But the kid just would
not talk. The therapist wasn’t
worried. “There is nothing
wrong. The words are there. She’s just not in the mood, I
guess. I’ve never seen anything
quite like it. It’s like she’s
playing a game.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think so, too,” I said, “and we’re the game pieces.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She did eventually decide to talk and in the years since my
wife and I, and now her kindergarten teacher too, have learned her ways. She looks like she is not listening;
she claims not to know an answer.
We’ll try to teach her how to draw a letter, say. “Draw an up and down line. Good. Now
draw a sideways line. Good. Now, if you put the sideways line on top of the up
and down line, you’ll have a capital ‘T’, okay? Try it.” And she’ll draw a circle! Or at least
she did at the beginning of this school year. We had conferences with the
teacher, we talked to our daughter; nothing we tried worked; we couldn’t get
through to her. Or so it seemed. One day, she decided to start writing
her letters correctly, and doing her math, too. Just like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we remembered that it had always been this way. She’s playing a game she’ll never
acknowledge. I’ve given up, for
now, trying to understand why. Anyway,
it doesn’t really matter. This
game is a personality trait. She
will never be the first in her class- at least not in an area they test for in
school. She’ll drive all of her
teachers mad. But I know that she
knows what’s going on. And that’s
all I care about. I know how smart
she is, and I’ll push her to use her smarts when the time comes. For now, she
can play her game.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, though, it is nice to see her acting “normal”: running and playing with other kids;
charging up a ladder on a playground, trying to swing the highest. She is so rarely bold; it’s just plain
nice to see her that way now and then.
And she will not be pressured into doing something (it’s not lost on me
that I will be thanking my lucky stars for this when she’s older). Hours spent begging, pleading, with my
daughter to “say hi” “say bye-bye” “say red! Red!” and so on, playing her game,
have taught me this—finally. Her
game, her rules, her timing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is why I damn near fell over in the middle of Macy’s
one day, when she ran up to a Justin Bieber pillow and shrieked, “Oh, Justin
Bieber! I love Justin Bieber! Can I have this pillow? Please, please, please,
please, PLEASE?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait. Bieber? How do you know him?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My friends at school love him, too.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well I’ll be damned,”
I thought, “Fucking Justin Bieber.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand that I was supposed to be outraged by
this. But I was decidedly
not. An infatuation with a
talentless, goofy looking pop star because some girls at school like him? That is so…normal for my daughter. And, dare I say it, a little ahead of
normal! I wasn’t expecting this nonsense for four more years! Put that in your pipes and smoke it,
other parents! My five year-old
has a crush!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also understood that I had before me a wonderful
opportunity. You see, my bed had
become too damn crowded. We had
always let our daughter sleep with us and now our son was two and taking up a
lot of room, too. I suspect that
all of us sleeping in one bed was unusual, too. I guess most kids are sleeping in their own beds long before
they are five. But, it never
bothered us much. Until it did.
And we had been fighting a losing battle to get our daughter to graduate
into her own bed. She’d make it a
few nights but then be back. So
when I saw how much she wanted that pillow, I found my angle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll tell you what.
If you sleep in your bed for 14 straight nights, I’ll buy you that
pillow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How long is 14 nights?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Two weeks.
When we get home we’ll make a calendar and you can cross off every day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But how do we know it will still be here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I guess we don’t.
I’ll try to find you something else. But, you know, sometimes you do
everything that’s asked of you and still don’t get rewarded for it. That’s life.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But can we find something else with Justin Bieber on it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh, yes, I think so.”
(Ya think?!)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay. Deal.”
And we shook on it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was six weeks ago now. She’s slept in her bed every night since, the past month on
a pillow with a goofy looking dope’s picture on it. And she was so proud when we bought it! I don’t mind saying it was a proud day
for me too. And now she’s working
on a two-month stretch. The
reward? We’ll paint her room
purple, because, as everyone knows, the yellow she has now, “is not good for
big girls.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-53612103671482540502012-04-18T00:44:00.000-05:002012-04-18T00:44:23.677-05:00The Commissioned Eulogy: An Unconventional Wisdom First<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend asked me to write her eulogy, with instructions to make her die laughing. This is what I came up with:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are usually urged not to speak ill of the dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think that’s a silly rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the now dead lived decent lives, we
would be unable to speak poorly of them; if the recently deceased lived lives
of dishonor, corruption, and debauchery, we have nothing but those things to
remember them by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which brings us to 50 Sense- that whore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I met her in 2011 and allowed her to
consider herself my friend within a week of that meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Early in our “friendship”, 50 Sense
came out to me as someone who appreciated the highest-brow humor known to
mankind:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Yo Mama joke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As in:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yo Mama is so sweet all the men lick her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yo Mama is so ugly Kim Kardashian wants to marry her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yo Mama is so fat she rides two horses at once.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yo Mama is so dumb her Kindergarten class recently gave her
a plaque commemorating her 50<sup>th</sup> year- as a student.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yo Mama is so old the Fountain of Youth said no.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I kid, of course. 50 Sense touched each of us in this room
at one time or another- sometimes even with our permission. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was smart and quick-witted; she was
a good friend to people who desperately needed a good friend (me included); she
was a good person who expected no reward for her decency; she was humble and
talented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And her breast implants
were not at all noticeable to the untrained eye. </div>
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<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-33614946188530281732012-02-23T14:55:00.000-06:002012-02-23T15:44:20.682-06:00The Disney Post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You may recall that I went to Disney World a couple of weeks
ago. Now, you may expect that I,
being one to brag about knowing when he’s being lied to, would hate Disney
above all else. Yes, and Las Vegas
too. The one is a colossal waste
of energy and resources in the middle of a desert; the other transformed a
swamp into The Happiest Place on Earth.
Am I a hypocritical asshole for loving to go to both places? Perhaps.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is an aspect of “If you can’t beat em, join em” to my
enjoyment of Disney World. Had you
asked me before I became the father of a girl if I would buy into the Princess
shit, I probably would have spit in your face for thinking so lowly of me that
you would even ask the question. But
here is my daughter, draped head to toe in Princess clothes and shit. Round 1 goes to Disney. And I don’t really care. She’s a kid, she likes Belle. Big deal. </div>
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And there is another simple reason Disney is able to
out-duel the cynic in me: They are
better duelers; they outsmart me.
The people at Disney are so damn good at their jobs that I can’t be mad
at them when I’m there. I might
think I’m going in ready for battle, but they disarm me so fast I’m not even
sure when it happens. They
out-dueled me in a store; I do know that.
We went in at the end of the day, looking for Mickey Mouse ears for the
kids. I stopped to check out a big
rubber ball, a kickball I guess, painted with Mickey Mouse’s smiling mush. I looked for the price and couldn’t
find it. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sonsabitches don’t want to say how much this is, huh? Well, I’m not paying
$20 for a rubber ball, I promise you that</i>!” A worker walked by.
“Sir,” I asked, “Do you know how much these are?” </div>
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“Seven fifty, if memory serves me correctly.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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“Seven fifty! Wait, seven dollars, fifty cents? That’s actually not bad.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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I carried the ball over to my wife, bent down and whispered
in her ear, “This ball is only $7.50.
Shh. Don’t draw attention to us. Let’s buy it. “</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Okay, I’ll add it to this huge fucking pile of bullshit
I’ve already grabbed.” She could
have said but didn’t.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, we bought some stuff. But we really didn’t go crazy. And we “only” spent $30. See, they know exactly what price would offend you; you'd probably pay it, but you wouldn't like it. I'll call it the
movie-theater-$4-bottle-of-water-price.
They know that price, and they go below it. That ball would cost $4 at Target. So when I paid less than a 100% Disney Premium, I felt like
I was getting away with something. They almost have you believing they are there to make you happy as opposed to make a buck. I'm not a communist. There is nothing wrong with them making a buck. But you have to admit, some of the Magic is lost when you consider the place as a huge cash register rather than The Happiest Place on Earth. Anyway, I never saw the cash cow while I was there; just the Magic. As I say- Geniuses. </div>
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And of course, Disney has Jasmine. That hussy. I
filed a few live on-location Facebook dispatches. You probably saw them, so I won’t waste much space here with
a blow-by-blow account. Quick
recap: We saw her early on our first day there. She was with The Drip, as I call Aladdin. They were surprised to see me, I think,
as I pretty much wrote her off in a post some time ago. The Drip was flustered, his eyes
darting back and forth between me and Jasmine’s heaving breasts. He saw the same body language I saw-
she was happy to see me- and he did not like it. They both signed my kid’s autograph books and posed for a
picture with the kids. Then my
wife asked Jasmine if she’d pose for a picture with me alone, without The Drip,
explaining that she (Jasmine) was a star of my blog (as if she didn’t
know!). Well, The Drip didn’t like
it and was about to cause a scene when he remembered his duties as a Disney
ambassador. My wife got the
picture (Jasmine grabbed my ass, of course. No one saw, OF COURSE.) And that was that. Well, not quite. I think The Drip had a couple of goons
follow us around the rest of the day but I can’t prove it.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gas2AOaCRwc/T0akKJ5j1tI/AAAAAAAAAGI/i8SOFh_R3GA/s1600/DSCF0616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gas2AOaCRwc/T0akKJ5j1tI/AAAAAAAAAGI/i8SOFh_R3GA/s320/DSCF0616.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The kids seemed to have an ok time, too. Our son is only two, so most of Disney
goes over his head. He loved the
parades and fireworks, though.
Danced-in-the-streets loved.
Jumped-in-puddles-and-laughed-his-ass-off loved. Shook-his-butt-like-Donald Duck loved.
Waved-his-hands-in-the-air-like-he-just-didn’t-care loved. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tpqub5gsKZg/T0alCFCaaEI/AAAAAAAAAGs/6EAc6JugHE0/s1600/DSCF0647.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tpqub5gsKZg/T0alCFCaaEI/AAAAAAAAAGs/6EAc6JugHE0/s320/DSCF0647.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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My daughter is more reserved than my son is. She is uber-shy like me. In the weeks leading up to the trip
practically all she could talk about was meeting the characters and getting
their autographs. But she is not
one of these kids who jumps around with crazy excitement while in line waiting
to meet, say, Rapunzel.
She’ll intently watch the kids in line; she’ll watch Rapunzel so she
knows how things are going to go down when she gets her turn. She’ll have her autograph book open to
the page she wants Rapunzel to sign.
And, when it is her turn, she’ll stare at Rapunzel with a blank, what I
can only assume is slightly off-putting, look on her face. She nods and answers yes/no questions,
but that’s it. It was hard to tell
if she was even having fun a lot of the time. And when you consider that our other kid was too young to
get much out of Disney World, it was sometimes frustrating that my daughter
wasn’t giggly and giddy over the whole experience. But when I did get frustrated I’d remind myself that my daughter
isn’t the giggly, giddy type. Not
in public anyway. And I realized
that I love that about her. I love
that she pays such close attention to what’s going on. I love that she doesn’t always know
what she thinks about something or someone until she’s processed it for a
while. And I love that she’s
learned those things from me. </div>
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So…Thank you, Disney World, for turning a swamp into a place
where my family’s best qualities came out, where each of us could have his/her
own fun, in his/her own way, together.</div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-57877729386586633412012-02-18T21:58:00.001-06:002012-02-18T21:58:03.323-06:00Bye, Bye Miss American Dream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My family and I luxuriated at a fancy Orlando resort last
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The place was huge, with
four swimming pools, a bunch of bars, a couple restaurants, convenience stores,
a “lake” where guests could rent paddle boats and fishing equipment, 9-hole
golf course and, of course, a spa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, it was amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
sort of hated myself for liking it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because by the second day I realized that the resort was lying to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the people, mind you, but
the place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I guess the
employees were part of the lie, too. But in their defense, they were just doing
their jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was the lie that
offended me so?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I deserved to
be there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It occurred to me as I sat on my private balcony, looking
over a palm-lined pool, at the 5<sup>th</sup> hole of Nick Faldo’s golf course,
that the resort was bending over backwards to convince me that I deserved
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You work hard, sir! Enjoy
yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Play an expensive round
of golf!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Send your wife and
daughter to the spa!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pay $8 for a
glass of beer!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buy an ice cream cone!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You look exhausted; here sit down and
have a drink.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I had a nice time at the resort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had fun walking in green grass under
a warm sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had fun swimming
with my family. I had a few nice evenings reading under a light by the
pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I actually had a nice
time pondering and debunking the huge loads of bullshit we Americans are fed
daily, which we gladly gobble up:</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“You deserve this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For most of human history, humans worked every minute of every day
simply to stay alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of
people still do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is hard
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve simply allowed
ourselves to believe the lie that going and standing around somewhere,
separated from our family and all of our stuff, is hard work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for deserving it- that’s a relief
isn’t it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No guilt that you have
so much while most of the world has so little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You work hard!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You deserve it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And forget
wondering why so many laws favor the wealthy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They deserve it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Every American (black, white, Mexican, male, female, rich
family, poor family) who wants to, who works hard, can succeed.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is a link to a study which shows
who your parents are matters more in America than it does in most of the
Western world: <a href="http://www.oecd.org/dataoecd/2/7/45002641.pdf">http://www.oecd.org/dataoecd/2/7/45002641.pdf</a>
.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That alone proves the fallacy of
the American Dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ll go on
anyway.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you think the wealthy have it so easy, you should work
hard and become wealthy.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I know
we’ve already talked about the “hard work” lie. But let’s leave that out of
this argument.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s a real-life
example of this lie that I see a lot:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If I say baseball owners have it too easy, that we taxpayers shouldn’t
build billionaires stadiums, some of you will say that I’m jealous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They earned their money by working
hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t break any
laws.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you want it as “easy” as
they have it, do what they did and become a billionaire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, it’s players who are
over-paid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They demand more and
more money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re lucky to be
paid as well as they are to play a game!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My response is always the same:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If you think players have it so easy, work hard and become one.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
See what I did there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s preposterous to think that all a regular old dope has to do to
become a professional athlete is work hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know that it takes hard work to be a professional
athlete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it also takes some
skills and talents that most don’t have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And it’s worth remembering that for every owner there are dozens of players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore we can say with unassailable
logic that it’s much, much easier to be a professional athlete than an owner;
that the talents necessary to be wealthy are more rare than the talents it
takes to hit home runs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the way-
yes, we’re ignoring, for the sake of argument, all the billionaires who have
used psychopathic means, means you wouldn’t use even if you could, to make
their money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To wit:</div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">British
journalist Jon Ronson immersed himself in the world of mental health diagnosis
and criminal profiling to understand what makes some people psychopaths —
dangerous predators who lack the behavioral controls and tender feelings the
rest of us take for granted. Among the things he learned while researching his
new book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Psychopath-Test-Journey-Through-Industry/dp/1594488010"><span style="color: #09204e;">“The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness
Industry”</span></a>: the incidence of psychopathy among CEOs is about 4
percent, four times what it is in the population at large.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;">Source:http://www.forbes.com/sites/jeffbercovici/2011/06/14/why-some-psychopaths-make-great-ceos/</span></div>
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Anyway, we can say with absolute certainty that hard work,
to say nothing of “hard work”, has nothing to do with success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe most wealthy people have “worked
hard”, but most hard workers are not wealthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they never will be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“Raising taxes on the wealthy is punishing success!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s class warfare! Why do you hate
rich people?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like to say
that wealthy people should pay their “fair share”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not because they shouldn’t; we all should.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t know what a “fair share”
would be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the answer is a
flat tax. Everyone pays the same percentage of income, period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a different debate, one that
comes only after we call this lie out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because, while I don’t know what a fair share is, I certainly know what
it isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the wealthy aren’t
paying their fair share.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mitt
Romney’s effective tax rate has been all over the news lately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s about 14%.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://ieet.org/index.php/IEET/more/brin20120217">That's pretty damn low.</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so low because his income isn’t
considered income.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s considered
a capital gain, a gain on an investment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But make no mistake- it is his income.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he’s not alone, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Warren Buffet benefits from the same loophole. So do all
those delightful Wall Street hedge fund billionaires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope it doesn’t surprise you to learn that the wealthy
benefit from more tax loopholes than you do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to waste time pointing them all out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s agree that if we closed the
capital gains and Cayman Island tax shelter loopholes down, if we took away all
deductions, the wealthy would be affected way more than you and I. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore they are disproportionately
benefitting now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conclusion:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are not paying their fair
share.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that we agree on that,
we can debate what everyone’s fair share is without calling it class warfare,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You own a yacht and a
private plane?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good for you!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want to pay half the taxes I
do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait…what now?”</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“No poor man has ever given me a job.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’ve worked in customer service
for more that four days you’ve heard this from an angry customer:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Goddamnit, I pay your salary!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While that is maddening as hell, there
is some truth to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consumers
make our economy go ‘round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
actually plenty of poor people have “given” you a job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is to say:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re all in this together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wealthy don’t usually just give
people jobs out of charity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
hire because they need employees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And employees need employers who take chances, blah, blah, blah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t need to be thanked for
working. They don’t need to be thanked for hiring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They aren’t doing us a favor; just like our lungs aren’t
doing us a favor by breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They can’t survive without us.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Americans feel entitled to handouts.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This may even be true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it includes the wealthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except when a Captain of Industry wants
a handout, he doesn’t call it an “entitlement,” he calls it greed (And of
course he wouldn’t even call it that in public!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only to his friends will he admit that it is greed that
drives him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In public, he’ll call
his handout a “tax incentive” or something equally inoffensive).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he is very pleased with his verbal
gymnastics!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Greed</i> is still good, but any fool knows only losers feel- I’m
sorry, I know there are ladies present- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">entitled</i>.”
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m a self-sufficient, self-made man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t need the government’s
help.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was an <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/12/us/even-critics-of-safety-net-increasingly-depend-on-it.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=government%20benefits&st=cse">article
in the New York Times that illustrates this</a> last week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you look at the map, you’ll see that
the areas of the country that receive the most government benefits are the most
Red areas of the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put
another way:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people who rail
against the government the loudest, need it the most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does this make them all assholes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means
they’ve bought the lie that people who use government programs are “other
people.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, even while they are
on welfare, they continue to believe that the real problem is everyone else,
who are nothing but a bunch of Commies; lazy sucklers of the government
teat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They convince themselves
that these “others” want welfare, as opposed to the Red Staters, who take it
begrudgingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You only have two choices. You are either a Republican or a
Democrat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bull-fucking-shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should have made their supposed
differences Lie #1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
differences are window dressing; the façade that covers up the truth:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both work for the wealthy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d notice this if we looked very
closely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So they make sure we
don’t look very closely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of
them yell, “Look at those Godless Fags trying to get married!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh my God, they’re kissing!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we run over there and check it
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of us throw stones at
the poor lovebirds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the
rest of us call the stone throwers rat bastards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And guess whose hands are in the cookie jar while we’re over
there fighting amongst ourselves like a bunch of goddamn puppets?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hint:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t the illegal immigrants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Want good news?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It doesn’t have to be this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We can stop letting them distract us, lie to us, and artificially divide
us with wedge issues. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We the People’s rousing defeat of SOPA showed us how to act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before SOPA, few of us had thought much
about online piracy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then SOPA
came along, and with it Big Business’ message that we MUST stop online piracy
now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I suppose we do,” we
thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they didn’t start
muddying the waters soon enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They didn’t have their paid “experts” on news shows, with their supposed
Independent Research, showing us what a great deal SOPA was for us people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their story, their lie, didn’t have
time to set in before the actual Internet experts said, “Hold on a minute! SOPA
would do way more harm than good and here’s why.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And because we had heard the truth before the lie set in, we
were able to clearly see the lie:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was a power grab, a rogering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SOPA
wouldn’t just blow up pirates; it would drain the ocean, which isn’t theirs to
drain. It took too much from Us in the name of giving Them what they
wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We the People saw through
the bullshit and realized that SOPA was a terrible deal for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we stood together and said, “No, try
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And next time come back
with something that doesn’t insult our intelligence. ”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they went back from whence they had
come to lick their wounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
don’t worry, they will go to the oil companies and ask, “How in the hell did
you convince so many of them that climate change was a hoax?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the oil companies will tell them
about muddying the waters with supposed Independent Research, about how to pay
a bunch of experts to go on T.V. and not be in consensus, and then send a guy
out to say, “Well, you know, there is a lack of consensus.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promise you this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will start hearing that there is no
consensus among the experts regarding SOPA soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some well-paid jackass will go on T.V. and say, “Well, you
know, many experts, myself included, believe that SOPA was a great deal for
American consumers, and especially small-businesses on Main Street!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a shame that Internet terrorists
and trolls, with the help of Washington insiders and lobbyists, prevented the
American people from benefiting from that legislation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hope is that one day some valiant
Senator will stand up, sponsor a new bill and fight for the people.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear friend, please, stop believing that and start believing
this: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will never achieve the
American Dream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your life was more
or less decided the day you were born (more on that in a future post). We have
more in common, much more, than any of us do with the uber-wealthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We proved that we are powerful enough
to protect our self-interest when we are clear and honest about what our
self-interest is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We do live in a
Republic after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One person,
one vote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that remains
powerful as long as we don’t allow ourselves to be scattered by lies and wedge
issues that artificially divide us. </div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-27606150730611997672012-02-14T21:24:00.000-06:002012-02-14T21:24:31.749-06:00Happy Valentine's?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My wife, kids and I went out for Valentine’s Day sushi
tonight (it’s the same sushi, you just need to wait an hour for it). When we left, I noticed a kid, probably
17 or 18 standing in the crowd of people waiting for a table. He held two roses and a small,
heart-shaped box of chocolates. He
stood out in the crowd because he was the only person holding something besides
a phone and because he was alone.
His body language made clear something it looked like he didn’t want to
share: He was sad and
anxious. Now I suppose he could
have been worried about any number of things. But standing there alone, with those gifts, on this
night? I think he was
worried about being stood up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">felt</i> that kid’s
anguish and his insecurity. I
remember being that kid. I wanted
to go up and put my hand on his shoulder and say, “You’re a man standing here amongst kids. You don't know it, but you're brave. I hope your night
turns out the way you want it to.
But it’s only one night. And
life is a fucking marathon, not a sprint.
Keep showing up with flowers and chocolates. Eventually you’ll find a woman who wouldn’t stand you up for
George Clooney.”</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-7443087881133223272012-01-02T19:37:00.001-06:002012-01-02T19:58:09.860-06:00The Young and The Younger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My wife and I
took our daughter, son and one of our daughter’s friends to The Muppets last
night. After the movie, we went out for dinner. We sat adjacent to a man and woman in their
mid-twenties. From where I was
sitting I could look across our table and right at them. I couldn’t hear them but they were
clearly on a date, almost certainly their first: they ate small bites and used napkins after nearly each one,
she nodded as he spoke, each of them smiled often, he tried not to look at her
cleavage, she tried not to say, “You look just like Freddie Prinze, Jr.!” and
so on. There were a few
uncomfortable pauses but it looked like they were really hitting it off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Now listen: I did not spend the entire evening
staring at the young lovebirds. In
fact, I would say I was very “present” at our table. My daughter and her friend sat at one end of the table and
colored, talked and giggled. I
looked their way often and smiled every time. Our son entertained my wife and I by coloring- sometimes
even on his paper- and by pointing out the restaurant’s decorations and
fixtures. “Light!” “Tree!” “Moon!" (It was a crescent-shaped light. Close enough.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I came to see
the dating couple as my wife and I- they were the age we were when we began
dating/got engaged, which you will recall happened essentially together. I felt a bit like a wise old man,
looking around the dinner table at what he had created. And I thought if I could have said
something to the daters it would have been this: “Look at our table here; this could be you in ten
years. If you’re insanely lucky.”<span style="color: grey;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-26066126546988192012011-12-20T21:04:00.002-06:002011-12-20T21:04:57.666-06:00The Slut Cabal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Omigod, Tom, that is SO funny!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was my introduction to Jenny, one of the moms in my
son’s Early Childhood Family Education class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the kids are so young, the moms—I’ve never been in
one of those classes with another dad—and I stay for the entire hour and a
half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We play with the kids for
the first half of class and then separate, going to a room across the hall where
we drink coffee and, if it’s a good group, vent about our damn kids or, if it’s
a bad group, give each other nurturing support and positive reinforcement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and there’s a Parent Educator who
teaches us stuff we already know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to Jenny and her voice, just the thought of which will now
bring me close to tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
unhappy to report that Jenny turned out to be a part of a group of three; three
moms who already knew each other well and who all talk and think like Jenny—I
call them, “The Slut Cabal”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Members of The Slut Cabal say things like, “Omigod, Tom,
that is SO funny!” instead of laughing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And they hover over their kids; they are Helicopter Moms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted in ECFE classes parents are
supposed to play with their kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re supposed to get involved in all the activities and ask them over
and over, “Did you put the red ball in the red square? Good job!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But only assholes actually do
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest of us are there for
the break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We do all that shit at
home, we don’t need to do it at school too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one place I can take my kid and he’ll somewhat leave me
alone and I’m supposed to talk to him like a Sesame Street character?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks, I’ll pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’m not such a curmudgeon that I
put someone in a slut cabal just for playing with her kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Members of The Slut Cabal don’t just
play with their kids--they go apeshit every time their kids do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Do you get me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ooh, oh, good job, oh, oops. Good job!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This when her daughter took a cracker at
snack time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked like the
girl was going to grab this one but she grabbed that one instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And her mom was so surprised!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She even clapped when at last her
daughter had chosen a cracker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wish I were kidding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you
imagine how happy mom was when her daughter successfully negotiated the 18
inch-high slide?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re going to
have to because telling you is more than I can bear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I wrote earlier, we parents separate from the class and
go to a different room for Parent Education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ease into this separation because it’s hard on most of
the kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before we leave the
first time we take the kids to our parent room and tell them that’s where we’ll
be and that we’ll come right back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the first couple times we separate we don’t stay away too long,
gradually increasing the time to the current 45 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A teacher and a teacher’s aide stay
behind with the kids and the bona fide Parent Educator leaves with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For this to work, we are told, we must
all leave together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll go and
hug our kids and tell them we’re leaving and then turn and go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the kids will cry but they are
in good hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No decent parent
wants to hear his/her kid cry but sometimes you just have to let your kid work
things out on his/her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
besides you owe it to all the other parents to leave with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If one parent stays (Say, for example,
a member of The Slut Cabal), or goes running back to her crying kid, all the
kids get confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And those whose
parents left get (rightfully) pissed. Now, because one mom couldn’t leave her
kid, all the kids are freaking out and the teachers are in the middle of a
low-grade hurricane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before this
year, I’ve never seen a mom who went running back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then again, this is my first year with The Slut Cabal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you know me at all, you know what I think of the Parent
Education segment of ECFE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
basically a meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as you
know I’ve never once been to a meeting that needed to be held.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the Parent Educator puts on a good
show; she has handouts, and topics for discussion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She teaches us about moods and discipline and all sorts of
happy horseshit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And guess who
giggles and talks amongst themselves much of the time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Slut Cabal!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Holy hell is that one of my pet
peeves!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t care if the class
is interesting, if you’re learning anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the love of all that is decent, if you are in a
classroom and someone is leading a class of some sort, shut the hell up!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t snicker and snort like a twelve
year-old girl who just got passed a note checked, “yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus H. Christ!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my story and I can end it however I want to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I suppose I’ll be honest and tell
it like it is:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Slut Cabal has
been mellowing out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe I
am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it’s them, though,
because I haven’t had to pass a note in class for at least a month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, this is less than ideal for the
writer in me, who has them to thank for this post at least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it is keeping all of me out of
prison for murder, so that’s something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-26876378526581937642011-12-14T12:49:00.002-06:002011-12-14T12:49:50.698-06:00Tim and June: A Terribly Great Love Story!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyes moistened like wet towelettes as she rushed through
the gate, down the breezeway, and onto the great steel bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His heart flipped in his throat, which
itself ached, like the rest of his body, which longed, nay yearned, for her
return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was glorious; she was
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time Tim saw June he was smitten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in line at Starbucks when he saw
her, the barista behind the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The person in front of the women in front of him ordered one of those
absurd drinks everyone makes fun of: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a half caf, triple sau cow, skim, mocha latte or some damn
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tim immediately went about
hating the orderer of the drink, naturally, but was amazed when June tore into
the task of making it without hesitation. The sunlight streaked through the
window like a frat guy at a halftime show and made little angels appear in
June’s blonde hair as she worked. She breezed through the crazy lady’s drink,
made the woman in front of him her Christian latte and there he was…in the
front of the line, facing June and her hair angels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked up at him and spoke, “Can I…uh, hi, can I, umm…”
she was speechless in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Twas love at first sight for her and love at first hearing for him, for
as soon as she spoke, Tim heard not her voice but a world-class choir singing a
beautiful song, and fell madly in love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You may,” Tim said in order to break the uncomfortable
silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, ha ha! I’m sorry!” June giggled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think you’re quite attractive.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh? Oh! That’s great! Would you like to get a soda
sometime? I hate coffee.” June asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I imagine so. Yeah, uh, yes that would be great. When?” Tim
responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How about now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hate this job anyway.” And June untied her apron giving Tim no way to
say no.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure,” is what he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the pair of soon-to-be lovebirds headed off west,
into the sunset, towards the soda fountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In so doing, Tim realized the symbolism of walking into the
sunset and understood that most of the time when people did that in books and
movies it was implied that they were going to spend the rest of their days
happily together; he hoped that would be the case with June and him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The soda fountain was as busy as a bee in a bonnet so they
went to a water fountain instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tim looked at June’s angel hair and listened to her world-class choir
voice and fell more and more in love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was never all that interested in sex but June was making his pants
tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are your pants tight or are you happy to see me?” June
asked, breaking him out of his deep thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“This is exactly the
kind of thing that normally embarrasses me,” </i>Tim thought, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yet I am not now embarrassed at all! This is
the woman for me.” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not only am I happy to see you and your angel hair I’m
happy to hear you world-class choir voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not a big sex guy but I’d love to have intercourse with
you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
June’s face blushed and her nipples poked through her shirt.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are as sweet as sweetened iced tea!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shall we blow this pop, or water as it
were, stand?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Tim was gay, his apartment was extremely clean and
organized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could see that June
was impressed by his decorating style and wondered if the carpet matched the
drapes in her house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>June took off
her clothes and for the second time in his life Tim questioned whether he
really was gay (the first being the time he’d had sex with a man and hated
every second of it.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their lovemaking was awkward and very sweaty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before he’d even touched her girlie
bits, Tim regretted not taking off his sweater and wool socks but he couldn’t
think of a gentlemanly way of taking them off once the action started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it ended satisfactorily for both of
them and, Tim reminded himself, that is what counts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, they gazed smilingly into each other’s eyes the rest
of the night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next few months swept by like dust on the Oklahoma
prairie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tim lost himself in
June’s wrapping embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They went
to the zoo, to movies; they walked on the beach, on asphalt, on grass and
walking paths in parks; they fed ducks and other small animals at a farm where
dating couple do such things. And they tossed their heads back and laughed
through it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, there was
something happening underneath all the laughing, in the groin area, which was
not well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lovemaking had become a chore for Tim and he suspected it
was becoming something worse for June—a task, say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would have fun all day but when they got home and
crawled into bed, for they were co-habitating now, there were no sparks. In
other words, when the time came, no one came.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There is trouble in paradise,” Tim told a co-worker one
day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Another tsunami?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A hurricane?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Volcano?” Will replied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I mean between June and I,” Tim answered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because she’s a woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mean, because she’s a woman?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, you can’t live with them and you can’t shoot them,
right?” Tim said absently.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s not what I meant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I love women. But… Never mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s the trouble?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s no spark anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d even say I love her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there’s no romantic spark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last night I walked in on her changing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was facing away from me and bending
over a little and something stirred in me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then she turned around and it was gone.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I, uh, let’s see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t, I mean, have you ever, um, gone out with a man?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You think I’m gay?” Tim shouted, “I am not!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“To be honest, I’m trying not to think anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just think we should consider all possibilities.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After all possibilities had been explored, it became clear
that Tim was gay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told June on
a Friday and she was gone on a Monday (not that first Monday but the one a week
and a few days later- it took her, like, 9 days to pack and make arrangements,
etc.) She got on that great steel bird and headed west, to California, West
Hollywood or San Francisco perhaps, to find herself a real man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-44177006725326977652011-11-20T19:02:00.001-06:002011-11-20T19:04:42.339-06:00Tim and June, Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The soda fountain was as busy as a bee in a bonnet so they
went to a water fountain instead.
Tim looked at June’s angel hair and listened to her world-class choir
voice and fell more and more in love.
He was never all that interested in sex but June was making his pants
tight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are your pants tight or are you happy to see me?” June
asked, breaking him out of his deep thoughts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“This is exactly the
kind of thing that normally embarrasses me,” </i>Tim thought, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yet I am not now embarrassed at all! This is
the woman for me.” </i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not only am I happy to see you and your angel hair I’m
happy to hear you world-class choir voice. I’m not a big sex guy but I’d love to have intercourse with
you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
June’s face blushed and her nipples poked through her shirt.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. You are as sweet as sweetened iced tea! Shall we blow this pop, or water as it
were, stand?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Tim was gay, his apartment was extremely clean and
organized. He could see that June
was impressed by his decorating style and wondered if the carpet matched the
drapes in her house. June took off
her clothes and for the second time in his life Tim questioned whether he
really was gay (the first being the time he’d had sex with a man and hated
every second of it.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their lovemaking was awkward and very sweaty. Before he’d even touched her girlie
bits, Tim regretted not taking off his sweater and wool socks but he couldn’t
think of a gentlemanly way of taking them off once the action started. But it ended satisfactorily for both of
them and, Tim reminded himself, that is what counts. Indeed the gazed into each other’s eyes the rest of the
night and neither could stop smiling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-2220917969650737242011-11-17T20:59:00.001-06:002011-11-17T21:01:29.718-06:00Tim and June, Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f1c232;">Auth. note: Because you probably know I just got out of the hospital today I'm going to say this: Yes, I was under the influence of powerful painkillers when I wrote this. But it is supposed to be bad! OK? I'm in on the joke.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyes moistened like wet towelettes as she rushed through
the gate, down the breezeway, and onto the great steel bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His heart flipped in his throat, which
itself ached, like the rest of his body, which longed, nay yearned, for her
return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was glorious; she was
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time Tim saw June he was smitten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in line at Starbucks when he saw
her, the barista behind the counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The person in front of the women in front of him ordered one of those
absurd drinks everyone makes fun of: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a half caf, triple sau cow, skim, mocha latte or some damn
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tim immediately went about
hating the orderer of the drink, naturally, but was amazed when June tore into
the task of making it without hesitation. The sunlight streaked through the
window like a frat guy at a halftime show and made little angels appear in
June’s blonde hair as she worked. She breezed through the crazy lady’s drink,
made the woman in front of him her Christian latte and there he was…in the
front of the line, facing June and her hair angels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked up at him and spoke, “Can I…uh, hi, can I, umm…”
she was speechless in front of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>‘Twas love at first sight for her and love at first hearing for him, for
as soon as she spoke, Tim heard not her voice but a world-class choir singing a
beautiful song, and fell madly in love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You may,” Tim said in order to break the uncomfortable
silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, ha ha! I’m sorry!” June giggled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think you’re quite attractive.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh? Oh! That’s great! Would you like to get a soda sometime?
I hate coffee.” June asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I imagine so. Yeah, uh, yes that would be great. When?” Tim
responded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How about now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hate this job anyway.” And June untied her apron giving Tim no way to
say no.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure,” is what he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the pair of soon-to-be lovebirds headed off west,
into the sunset, towards the soda fountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In so doing, Tim realized the symbolism of walking into the
sunset and understood that most of the time when people did that in books and
movies it was implied that they were going to spend the rest of their days
happily together; he hoped that would be the case with June and him.</div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-63054560858027182042011-10-27T09:55:00.002-05:002011-10-27T09:55:54.740-05:00California Dreamin'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vinny, Fugwuh and I shared an apartment our first two years
of college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, Vinny and I
lived there two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fugwuh left
after a year to go live with a cousin in Seattle because, why not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a bold move considering he
didn’t really know the cousin too well; just called him up and went for a visit
and the next thing you knew he was moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I greatly admired him for it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our apartment was much nicer than what we should have been
able to afford on our budget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
only added it to our list of possible abodes as a lark, assuming it would be
out of our price range.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
building was less than five years old when we moved in; our two-bedroom unit
was plenty big and in great condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, we almost didn’t get the apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the manager learned that we were three young guys, she
was hesitant to rent it to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because of Fugwuh’s aforementioned boldness, he called and pestered her
several times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She eventually
agreed to rent to us and the first year went swimmingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Vinny and I went to the office to
sign our second year’s lease, she confided to us that she had been
worried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Three young guys living
together can be trouble. But not you boys!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve been model tenants.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was a single woman in her forties and the “office” was
her apartment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t believe
how much stuff could fit into an apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our living room we had a couch, two end tables (which
were two stacked cases of empty beer bottles) desk, T.V. stand, T.V., Sega Genesis,
VCR, and a stereo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and a dying
plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The manager’s apartment
looked like a home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had nice
furniture and had paintings on the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were plants everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An aquarium covered most of a dividing wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she had air fresheners somewhere
that made the place smell nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Looking around, I was sure that she had food in a cupboard or two and I
guessed she had more than a few ketchup packets and beer in her
refrigerator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, this woman had
her shit together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t feel like a model tenant and wondered if she had us
confused with someone else. “What makes us model tenants?” I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I haven’t heard a peep from you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never seen a bunch of drunk kids out on your deck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And not one complaint from a neighbor!
Not one. And you always pay your rent on time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of that was true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re not lunatics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
though we drank enough beer and vodka to make a Packer fan proud, we never felt
the need to run around the complex naked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We played video games and got drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I was surprised that that was model tenant material.
“That’s a pretty low bar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t
a model tenant be volunteering to pick up cigarette butts in the parking lot or
something?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aren’t we supposed to
be quiet and pay the rent on time?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes. But not many people manage to do both.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
California moved in a month or two after we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if he paid his rent
on time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do know that we didn’t
here a peep from him. Until we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think he lived across the hall from us for a month before we saw him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, one evening when I came home from
work, Vinny told me he caught a glimpse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Well, I saw the neighbor today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fuckin’ California dude in his twenties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dyed blonde hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He drives that Mitsubishi with the sunroof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I followed him in today and saw inside when he opened his
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All black furniture with
white pillows and shit. Plants all over the damn place.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fucking awesome!” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We loved Assholes even then, probably especially then
actually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We Bulls could spend an
evening of high-hilarity making fun of douches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily when you’re an 18 year-old college student, you’re
never very far away from someone worthy of your scorn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now I learned that we were right
across the hall from one!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fake Blonde!
Trendy black furniture! A Mitsubishi! House plants!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My gay-dar is weak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just don’t think much about sexuality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless a man asks if he can put his penis in my butt, I
pretty much just assume he’s heterosexual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or rather I don’t think about where he enjoys putting his
penis at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No doubt if my
gay-dar was stronger, it would have pinged like the Red October whenever California
was near.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it would have been
wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One evening Spot and I were headed down to McDonald’s for a
late supper, on foot because we were too drunk to drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as we stepped out the door and
into the parking lot I heard it:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
woman screamed in sexual ecstasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whoa! You heard that right, Spot?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, yeah.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a nice summer evening and most of the apartment
windows were open. We stopped to listen. It didn’t take long to zero in on the
window from which all manner of grunting and screaming was pouring out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a second floor window. We went
and stood right beneath it, obviously, and enjoyed the show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, that was definitely California’s
apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I added the sound he
makes during sex to my “things I know about California” file.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also added the sound at least one
woman makes while having sex with him to the same file. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to admit that that bit of info
didn’t make me like him any more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had certainly never made a woman sound like that. And because he was a
dipshit I couldn’t bring myself to respect even this about him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spot and I moved on after a minute of standing and listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked the mile to McDonald’s picked
up supper and walked back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
beautiful woman with tussled hair and an odd look on her face hurried down the
stairs as we were walking up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
had to be the screamer; she certainly looked like she had been given a pretty
good rogering very recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were excited to share the news with Vinny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So California just fucked the hell out of some hottie and
we heard a fair amount of it from the parking lot!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Interesting,” he replied, his voice trailing off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I heard her leave just now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were yelling at each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told him not to call and slammed
the door when she left.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That pissed me off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hate it when men treat women like shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What a dick!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe she wouldn’t scream in my bed but she sure as hell wouldn’t slam
the door when she left. Not that she’d even leave if you catch my drift.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our apartment complex consisted of two long three-story
buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The buildings were perpendicular
to each other and formed an “L”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parking lots for each were on the outside of the “L” and
the inside was a large lawn. The street was across the lawn from the bottom
section of the “L” and boxed in the yard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lived in the vertical section of the “L” so our parking
lot was accessible from the street. There was a long driveway from the road to
the other building’s parking lot. So the view from our apartment was the yard,
on the right side of which was the backside of the other building and across of
which was the driveway to that building’s parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One winter day there was a blizzard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither Vinny nor I went to classes
that day because of the storm but I did have to work that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a dicey drive in to work in the
afternoon and an even more dicey drive home. But that is what we Minnesotans must
sometimes do in the winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I passed
many cars in the ditch but luckily made it to the edge of home-- where I
discovered that the parking lot hadn’t been plowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shoveled a bit of a path- yes; smart Minnesotans keep a
shovel in the trunk- and gave it hell. I managed to slip, slide and burrow into
something that could pass for a parking spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I trudged across the parking lot, kicked aside enough snow
to open the door, and walked into our apartment where I found Vinny laying on
the couch, like a bastard, watching T.V.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Usually when I came home Vinny would nod or something equally
unexciting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He certainly never
moved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today he sat up and I could
see by the look on his face that he was thrilled about something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ve gotta look over at the driveway,” he said with a
smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ok.” I answered suspiciously, “What’s going on?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just look.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked to the patio door and looked across the lawn to the
driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw a car, clearly
stuck, about 10 feet into the driveway from the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was dark but the car’s headlights were on and I could
just make out that someone was in front of the car and looked to be
shoveling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Someone’s stuck?” I asked Vinny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That didn’t surprise me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted it was a bit odd that someone had tried to make it
down the long driveway rather than parking in our parking lot, which was right
off the street. But if they lived in that building it didn’t seem as ridiculous
a notion as Vinny seemed to want me to believe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not just ‘someone’, that’s California! And he’s been there
for at least 3 hours!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“California?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What the hell is he doing over there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shoveling.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But, why is he in the driveway?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
driveway was sort of plowed earlier so maybe he liked the looks of it
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got stuck about 5 feet
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for whatever reason he
decided it would be best to shovel his way 100 feet forward than just back out
and try it over here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God, it’s
been a great night!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He even walked
over here for a shovel. And didn’t change out of his work clothes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vinny shook his head, still smiling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We watched California shovel, pull ahead, get stuck, shovel,
repeat for at least an hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally I said, “Vin, we must be wrong about people sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly not everyone we mock deserves
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we’ve been much too easy
on this one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time has tempered my moral superiority. But I promise you
this:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>California is out there
right now, acting like a douche.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-64412476084532620232011-10-18T13:24:00.002-05:002011-10-18T13:39:01.832-05:00We Will Survive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Survivor” shows are all the rage these days. We have
Survivorman, Man vs. Wild, I Shouldn’t be Alive, Dual Survival, and Man, Woman,
Wild to name a few. And I’m proud
to announce that Quadruple Survivor People vs. Themselves and Some Nature will
premier next fall on Discovery. It
is the tale of my family and I as we take on the worst we have to offer each
other. Here is a bit of what you
can expect:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 1:
Mall of America<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this episode we are dropped in the middle of the Mall on
the day after Thanksgiving. We
have no cell phones, no extra diapers, an umbrella stroller with a wobbly
wheel, and one bottle of water. The producers give us (5) one dollar bills and
keys to a minivan, which they tell us is parked somewhere in one of the Mall
parking lots. We have 12 hours to
get to the van and drive to the nearest Red Lobster, which is 6 miles away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 2: Olive
Garden</u> <u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The producers have us seated at a four-top table and do not
give us a highchair- so no seat belts.
They place the menus, silverware, creamers, and sugar packets on the
table in front of the toddler and tell us that none of those things can be
moved or removed by anyone but him.
Elderly men trying to have a quiet reunion surround us on all sides. The producers order for us: spaghetti for the toddler, red wine and
Chicken Parmesan for my wife, Beef Tortellini for my 5 year-old daughter, and a
vegetarian dish for me. Half way through the meal, one of the producers comes
to our table and tells our daughter that the dessert she had been promised is
no longer available. Everyone else
will get his or hers, though, and there is no sharing. It is raining when we leave. They lock the doors behind us and when
I reach into my pocket for the car keys, I discover that someone has stolen
them. What will we do next?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 3:
Disney World on New Year’s Eve</u> <u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The producers wake me up at 5 a.m. on the morning of this
shoot and make me eat 10 White Castle cheeseburgers and drink a pot of coffee.
Then they make me eat 5 Activia yogurts in the car on the way there. They take
the toddler’s shoes and put a pebble in my daughter’s. They make my wife wear
heals. We get to the park when it
opens and cannot leave until the fireworks show is over. They tell Princess Jasmine to ignore
me. At 4 in the afternoon, Mickey runs up to the toddler and kicks him in the
shin. Mickey then goes up to my
daughter, gives her a hug, and says through a megaphone, “Hey boys and
girls! Look at this girl! She
wants to give each one of you a hug!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 4: Church</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We go to church.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 5: Road
trip</u> <u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The task in this episode is to drive from St. Paul to
Seattle in a 1997 Ford Escort with no stereo and no air conditioning over the
Fourth of July weekend. The
producers rig the car so that a tire goes flat the first afternoon. We’ll have to drive the rest of the way
with the donut spare. There are a few Challenges in this episode: I have to stop in a small Montana town,
go into the diner and yell Obama in 2012; we must stop in another town where my
wife must pick a woman at random and convince her that Obama was born in
Hawaii; we have to drive though Salt Lake City with a “Legalize Same-Sex
Marriage!” bumper sticker; and finally, when we get to Seattle we are required
to yell, “Grunge sucks and so do electric cars you Kenyan worshipping hippies!
Long live the NRA!” Will we make
it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 6: Camping</u> <u><o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We spend a beautiful autumn weekend at a scenic campground
in northern Minnesota. We have a great tent; nice sleeping bags; plenty of
food, water and alcohol. The
catch: My wife sees a mosquito on
Friday. Will she be able to go on?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Episode 7: Camping
Again<o:p></o:p></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This episode finds us camping in Alaska. Same situation as
above except this time a mosquito flies into my forehead at full speed and
knocks me unconscious. What will
my family do without me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Season Finale:
The Blizzard</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A blizzard hits Friday night/Saturday morning knocking out
our power and making our road impassable.
Power isn’t restored until Sunday evening, after I’ve missed the
football game. All we have all
weekend is a deck of cards, candles and each other. WTF?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7445572323133363805.post-25340758111591897342011-10-17T19:31:00.002-05:002011-10-17T19:31:53.911-05:00Aww, Shucks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bully is still a douche.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked him up on Facebook and he looks like he walked right
out of Central Casting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could
be an extra on Jersey Shore. And you know those girls whose lips are scrunched
up like idiotic ducks in every picture?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s married to one of those girls!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, yes, I win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe I shouldn’t still be keeping score, but I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sometimes daydream about being able
to tell my bully, and everyone else who has ever told me I would “get killed”
by life, to kiss my ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For this
to be most effective I think it should be done on national T.V.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe David Letterman will be telling
me how much he loves my books and me, “Tom, forgive me for saying this, but you
remind me of a cross between David Sedaris, Kurt Vonnegut, John Irving, Mark
Twain and James Thurb…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dave,” I’ll say, “I don’t want to stop you when you’re on a
roll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ve got to get
something of my chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
remember that story about my bully?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was your first big piece if I remember correctly.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s right, Dave.” And here I’ll pause and look directly
into the camera, “Hey, bully!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
family and I were out on George Clooney’s yacht last week- he spoils my kids
rotten!- and I was telling him, Brad and Angelina about you, and they all said,
‘Who?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, kiss my ass!” Then
I’ll look back at Letterman and apologize, “Sorry, Dave. Can I say that on
T.V.? Anyway, what were you saying?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As much of a cliché as my bully is, I have to admit that I’m
a bigger one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m the
The-Only-Person-He-Has-To-Blame-For-His-Slow-Start-Is-Himself guy. But<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(what the hell, let’s keep the clichés
flowing shall we?) there is a monster stirring inside me, the writer that I was
born to be fighting to the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With every post, every nice comment, I’m less interested in staying
mediocre, less afraid of success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, you read that correctly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have until now been afraid of success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to bitch and moan that my blog was not more popular,
but I never did what I needed to do to make it popular. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d promote myself to a point and then stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I never got serious about trying to
get published, about growing as a writer- not because I was afraid publishers
would say no, or that I wouldn’t grow as a writer, but because eventually
someone will say yes and I’ll get better at writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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And when I did start to promote myself, and my Facebook page
started growing, I shied away from taking a stand on anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that I stayed away from
controversy; the problem was that I was careful not to have an opinion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was afraid to give readers something to
dislike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which brings me to “A Boy
Abused”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always knew that to be
the kind of writer I wanted to be I had to write that post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now that I have, I’ve given my
family something I don’t think they’ve ever had before:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A reason to dislike me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My old position was comfortable and
safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could decide whether or
not to have a relationship with whomever I wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that post I ceded some of the high road. It was a
personal risk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time will tell
what, if anything, that risk will cost me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I already know what I gained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gained the certain knowledge that I’m not holding myself
back anymore.</div>
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<!--EndFragment--></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12704003344923624770noreply@blogger.com2