As I come clean

Writing a blog is like writing a sermon for an empty congregation, it’s based on faith that some how the message will get out, to whom is the big question. 

So I have confidence in you that one day some of this will create a revelation about the existence of a lesser social dynamic group, one left alone to their own devices, left to fend for themselves in the purist sense of survival known. 

I face the sun as I place a wreath upon my door, in all it’s warmth and glory I can feel a new beginning, I step down and walk away.

my personal oil slick

I watch the TV and feel an oily existence seeping from my gaping wound. I turn it off and I turntable some Stones and close my eyes wandering off to my own not so happy place. 

You ever think why are people so screwed up? You see it all the time so seemingly obvious, the cheat, the lie, narcissistically a society seemingly oblivious to their own self absorbed behavior. Yet from my own righteousness based on a foundation of moral flaws (knowing the difference), my correctness about right and wrong is sometimes brought into question a brief  moment of doubt a  moment of angst that maybe it’s not them that are so screwed up but it’s me(ref why so flawed). What if I am the ignorant one? Anymore people seem to excel at an unreasonable rate of success regardless as to their actual pedigree or ability to work hard making the right choices, an actual reward for their misgivings….imagine that. I wonder if they really know when they commit said crime, not when an actually law is broken but that the law of morality is being abused. With no moral police to remind us that you are about to cheat and manipulate that they might in small way understand the true damage, not likely. Perform some act of idiocy and it’s more likely that you will be rewarded. These days, we can manipulate a whole cultural change steeped in “I’m an idiot but I don’t care” so watch me on a reality show or performing every night at the local night club in the board room or as an acting politician. Ah yes doesn’t it seem obvious(?), so why reward it, maybe because it seems so removed from who we are,  yet highly entertaining??. My fear accepting it seems make an adjustment bringing it into the facet of everyday living. So again maybe I’m wrong. I mean I live with my guilt, I do the idiot role quite well sometimes  thank you. I know when I sleep with women that 9 out of 10 times it’s not an expression of love moreover lust and I feel bad of course after the fact not before or during while I am fully engorged. When I instill a false sense of hope knowing that it’ll be a minimal chance of success  I know I have manipulated the situation to motivate, wrong all the same. But you see I know when I am doing it, the scary part is that people seem to so easily justify their action and project into the mire of victimization so quickly these days and we the other faction pay the price caught up in your oil slick of lies. I guess history repeats itself, most advanced societies have fallen to similar deception. It seems so obvious and the fact that it doesn’t seem to be is more troublesome as we are all self-absorbed to a degree.  I guess I will return to my perch amongst the eroding rock from which I observe and hope that the whole of those who do not know get a proverbial bitch slap to wake us all up ……or maybe it’s just me and if this is the case I will go quietly….right!!!

fall from pride

A man’s tale one that has been passed down since the beginning of time, our internal Iliad, a battle of wills versus ego and pride. The more we feed on elements to satiate our own need for success the further we move along an intrepid parapet of false security. We never see the end because pride can blind and test the ability for survival. Humility is so bitter sweet to maintain as an element of modesty you must look beyond your immediate addiction. And when you fall, the return to humility runs a rampant feverish rate bordering insanity and acts of defiance. We only find humility as we are lowered into the hole of our own stench sitting broken and in despair. And even then pride still jades the recovery process, thinking immediate pleasures will expedite a full recovery, it runs deep in our marrow. Some will never make it back dying a bitter death knowing neither a full sense of confidence nor the ability to love unconditionally. The social dynamics may be the culpable party but my addiction my ID is a self imposed wanton. I languish in my daily regiment only allowing brief glimpses into my past: travels, money, lecturer, CEO, warrior, lover, husband, father….. all the former none the present. I escape only when I know you are not looking I slide unto my Jean-Marc chair (a memento from a French Aristocrat) and I open the wound I see the flaws but I do not care. I close my eyes, ease to the comfort of a good scotch, a low rolled smoke, a virtuoso playing Suite No. 1 in G minor and I am swaddled by my memories past. Undoubtedly my comfort is temporary and my dreams cut short by the aggrieving images I have left behind in my own wake of self destruction and I find myself cold and alone on a leather chair defaced by humility.

excitable boy

It’s a decrepit attitude, henceforth ever in decline with every passing day but it’s mine, owned and distributed by me. Molded and formed, I pass some of the credit to others. Never more the resilient child that I was, the child that could be brought back to the former shape by those close to me. I now wobble and steer a crooked path through life. Still hoping to hit in the general proximity of the objective I once saw as easily achievable. No the false sense of security replaced by a vanishing vantage point of life’s successes, a Warren Zevon parable of loss, truth and love. Self pity no, altruistic hardly an observation mostly. It’s an endurance test, a race, in life things come up short, people are pliable but not indestructible and fail to regain their resiliency with the constant battering, an inherent flaw or modest effort in gaining grace or losing faith.

 “Carmelita hold me tight I think I’m sinking down”  I can appreciate a line so prolific considering the source, I raise my glass to you Mr. Zevon  as those sounds emit from my speakers as the bourbon soaks into my porous soul. You can seek refuge but can you ever truly escape the storm, when the storm is all you’ve ever known….hope says yes and in the moment that maybe enough.

woman attention deficit disorder…w.a.d.d.

It was only a thin veil, enough to keep me intrigued and engaged, not enough to impassion me to say something profound. She fit neatly into one of those categories in that shoebox in my own mind labeled “Middle Aged Women”.

The drone of the coffee shop music and the rhythmic guttural tone of her voice, lead me to believe that this dissertation was going to be a minute. In those moments the automated survival instinct kicks in, escaping down that rabbit hole of my own creation I slide out of minds sight while nodding egregiously to ever uptick.  To that though; I smile at the very tan very young barista sneaking a peak at me through the steam of the latte machine and I ease into the Lazyboy of my mind, we might be here awhile.  

 Back to the shoebox ah yes here it is filed under “obstinate over opinionated man eater” footnote: approach with caution!

 Somewhere between my daydreaming thought of the 20 something year old barista standing naked in front of me with a smile, latte cream strategically placed, the gnawing realization that the black coffee I had been sipping on had knocked something fiercely loose from my upper G.I. and it was moving at light speed towards a quick exit. I snapped to and excused myself to find the bathroom, my new friend look peeved as I cut her off mid sentence, (obviously not understanding the sudden need for me to exit so rudely). Of course you’d think in this pint sized coffee shop I could find the damn bathroom (starting to sweat), I had to ask the young barista who kindly pointed to a closet sized room right next to her latte machine, perfect.

 *Much like a bad episode with tequila I had once, I have yet returned to drinking the fine Kona blend coffee that I drank that morning. Having never attended a seal beating, I can only imagine the pitch and noise from which my balloon knot was producing had a similar quality as the anus barrage continued well past the allotted time for this solitary bathroom. The door handle jiggled a couple of times and whomever it was finally (probably more out of fear for the howls escaping from my enlarged lower intestines) left me alone. I knew it was epic but somehow found humor and relief that I had not shit my Columbia crème colored cargo shorts before finding les toilettes. When I stepped out it was apparently obvious to my young barista who now looked intently into her latte machine no longer giving those sideway flirtatious glances.

 No sense in hiding my extended absence I breathed heavy in an expression of relief. My date seemed rather contemplative and as if on cue knowing I was not really engrossed in our prior conversation then went on to say something very profound (actually the prompting measure to write this little jig).

  “What I’m saying is that I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m looking for a fuck buddy”. Okay now I’m all ears. She continued knowing she had triggered my finely honed listening skills. “So the way I see it, guys at your stage of life really don’t like women at my stage of life.” “In fact you have very little tolerance for all the energy sucking resources they fail to offer but you endure because you need some form of validation” ……….. and there it was she had summed up an honest assessment and pretty much nailed something I might have been in denial about but hearing it with such candor from the opposite sex, I had to agree. And by agreeing was an admission an egregious developed flaw, one that grows in the mix of failures, love, loss, abuses and control an inherent adjunct a fissure grown so vast it was now a part of my landscape. She got it but I was living a life of false hopes somehow thinking that I could emerge unscathed from a being thrown through a glass window. Pride, ego battered and bruised so obvious to the onlookers but not so to the ones like me who can not, will not admit defeat even in the smallest incision to the severe loss of a limb. No we wallow in our own abusive actions compounded by another round of false hope. I keep thinking tomorrow will be different, I’ll wake up to a searing light that will blind me and a voice will speak reaching into my gullet and evacuate what ails me and miraculously I will jump up and start running without abandonment again, no fear of the large pane of glass around the corner. In other words I’m kind of fucked.  

I almost didn’t notice the smallish hand sliding north to my dangling majesty. I jumped realizing I was in my own deep thought again. In fact whatever she said past that point I never really heard, sometimes people say something and hits home whether she realized it or not. Whatever bad intentions I had before seemed less important now, especially since I was only marginally interested before and now that the cards were on the table, the game seemed less then appealing. I stood up in my hazing demeanor slid a ten spot on the table and leaned over and place the most intense kiss on her smoke laden lips that I could for being in a coffee shop. And I whisper “I am not and will not be your boy toy” Veil removed her face shown her age in the light as it poured through the coffee shop window. She was in love and disgusted in that moment, it was obvious to the by-stander. I walked to my truck not looking back, lighting my cigarette and smiling at my decrepit attitude. Citizen Cope poured from the floor board JBL speakers and I drove not knowing where I was going and in some small way not really caring being alone was better then being validated in this one moment.

the weather pattern

I could feel the grey before I even opened my eyes. I could sense the cold before I rolled back the wool blanket.

Debating the merits, finding the motivation to take that first step is harder and harder these days. The repetition, the never changing weather pattern of grey, cold and snow was enough to want to stay in places more interesting then the real life weather pattern which seems to reflect that pattern of my current life. I can only think I’m on some self-destructive course a glaringly obvious fact, to which I still challenge but to which I am losing ground fast.

 But even in the midst of debate, by shear mechanical nature my legs take stride and I ramble downstairs to the john. I even seem to pee less enthusiastically these days as I watch with sharp aim so as not to urinate on my foot( that would only add insult to injury). The house is cold, the same cold that keeps me in a suspended state of animation also wakes the shiver of petulance. Three weeks no sunlight, lake effect snow a steady fallout, wonderment gone and the desire washed from my mouth. If only I had one thing that presented a positive to counteract the creeping affects of my growing indifference.

 To my surprise a slight laugh escaping my mouth. The fleeting memory of the red face belicosa who made advance after advance until finally I slipped her a stick of Juicy fruit( to mask the smell of wine and hard salami). Not unlike most nights at the local petri-dish bar, except this night I would accept the flailing hugs of this drunken meat princess, daughter of the local sausage king. I accepted and slapped the package a rightful firm meat tenderizing session. Exit stage left as the princess lay drooling on her pillow, I dressed in the bathroom and help myself to a stick of hard salami from the frig, the family knew its salami….which was the fleeting memory the pushed the smile across my face.

 The occasion, a less then character story, a minor flaw, a mild incursion was a temporary reprieve from the otherwise mundane night of disparaging glances.  It really only adds to my disappointment to the former man I respected. I glance at my turntable and instinctively reach for some vinyl love “Let It Bleed “….the static that only vinyl can give as the warmth spreads, I light my smoke from the gas burner. The first chord to Gimmie Shelter  strikes and I slide back onto the Jean-Marc leather, close my eyes “Oh, a storm is threat’ning” and again I smile by surprise

i like the way you stroke my blog

Every wonder why we write blogs?

I’m sure some blogs are actually functional but I really could care less about learning the exacting techniques on making a pumpkin flambé. No we‘re here because there is a certain amount of validation we seek, not so much concerning our proper use of pronouns or conjunctive sentences moreover the approval about our menial functions in life. The grandness of a new baby, the loneliness of divorce, the allure of infidelity, political views, art , love ….war all written/posted with the hopes of validation…..all seemingly the most important moment in our lives at the moment it was written. And yet the exposure is minimal at best, just one friend is all we need to make our penned endeavor worth it. We are all flawed in such a way, social entrepreneurs in the process of bolstering our own views and beliefs.

I appreciate and can not get enough of reading your blog, these train wrecks you call life are a precious episodic read for me. There really is a wealth of useless information being spewed out like the muzzle end of a sewer pipe, when the truth of the real issue is so painfully obvious to us the reader. The truth in which the writer may or may not want to hear….”you’re flawed too” is not an easy thing to hear, hence why I get more blocked comments than approved ones….oh the hypocrisy of it all. Yes I am just as fucked or else why would I need a blog too (my self-admission to all my insecurities my need for the morphine of your comments to ease my social delirium). So I write this blog to find common animosity for the very thing I write about, a search for a friend who will sticky sweet the moist tender part of this blog for me, validate me with a comment…write on my wayward souls.

kiss me I have a tattoo

kiss me I have a tattoo

 Maybe it was the slight buzz of Monkey Man playing in the background at the local Venice  bar or the ease of the cold Jim Beam after a 18 hour day. Sitting there in the wee hours my best friend and I hatched our grand revenge on middle age.

 My buddy not being an LA native was born and raised in the conservative wholesome mid west, where tattoos in the era from which we hailed, were for the most part viewed with certain disdain and downward glances. However now some 42 years later with an expanded perspective having escape the microcosm of small town America, that misconception and those stigmas seemed less applicable living in the land of superficiality. It almost seems as if tattoos in LA make you more genuine dare I say a real persona amongst so many false pretenses.

 The question; “Are we too old to do something wild, are we past the age of defacing our temples with some fashionable ink?”….My response;“Hells yah you’re too old”, “which is exactly why we should do it” Now I had gotten a tattoo 20 years ago when I was in active in the Navy, seemed like the thing to do as a Sailor and to this day do not regret getting the Skoal can sized tattoo on the upper left shoulder commemorating my days in service. There have been some reservations, a few women have express concern at the moralistic standard of the person who would knowingly scar their own body. I asked they just consider it a character witness to my other slight flaws, seemed less consequential after some hot body thumping session. A little bad boy image never hurts as it relates to my clean cut baby faced appearance.  

 Not sure what the real allure of tattoos are for the general ink populous, for me I had no real desire to ever get another, I was fine with just the one. My daughters were much relieved at my contentment in just having one, maybe being the suburbanite father that I am I unknowingly instilled those stigmas associated with the tattoo a cult. I can only imagine their disappointment the next time they see me without my shirt off and see a rather large ink extension now running from my upper arm to the lower part of my scapula , fairly obvious.

 Maybe I was caught up in the moment, excited to turn out my rather listless vanilla life. Or was it the thought of being a 40 something struggling with a sagging midsection, crazy body hair and a craggy older looking unshaved face staring back at me in the mirror. Whatever it was it seemed to be looming in my friends subconscious too.   

 Three days later and I’m back in the Midwest writing this blog feeling the itch above my right shoulder listening to some Neil Young with a broadening smile creeping across my face. You would have thought we shagged the homecoming queen, as the two youthful 40 something year old men high fived on the stoop of the Hollywood tattoo shop, stopping for a moment to light up our cigarettes, then strutting our new wares down the boulevard. We were kings and if only for the briefest of moments we turned the clock back on a wasted youth.

in the vacuum of confidence

Either I have the confidence of Michael Jordan and Brad Pitt combined or I lack the intelligence to know better.

My impatience makes me lazy but it also makes me the hardest worker. I have aspired to greatness thousands of times and so many times have come short of grasping that brass ring at the top of the rung. Maybe it’s just me but my gut and watchful lethargy tells me I’m not alone. I’m like that interesting homeless guy, just not homeless….yet.  I love the “experience” in it all and that is irreplaceable but being the embodiment of confidence has its draw backs. Confidence is not a renewable resource contrary to popular science it is moreover like a fat cell expanding and shrinking over the course of its life on your ass but the numbers never change. I only realized this after the majority of my confidence had been eaten by others and then the other not so positive traits rushed in to work in a frenzied catalyst to attach themselves to the dying cell to mask its true identity. So now in my life of second place achievements and Wal-mart door prizes I still aspire to greatness. The dribble sauce of confidence is such that it needs to be accomplished in short order….hence my very impatient disposition on life. I’ll give you all the depth you need until the next time you dive in and hit bottom, I’ll give you the quickest 40 in 20, wager a bet on me you might win back your losses. No I need to make it quick because I can only fool my false sense of ability for so long until I realize I am too far away from the safety and security of the front porch. I can usurp a nation on one leg but this trick is old, remember observation, the only difference I have a conscience, the flaw thing.

 So here I sit hedging my bets that the smoldering ember formally known as the emblazed tower of confidence will somehow pull me through in the end of days a Warren Zevon protégé sort of speak. Is that truly an over inflated ego or the ignorant wishes, the slow fade of some past memory that won’t go away.

the lost files/Christmas Cookies

the “lost files” are some of my older writings which I somehow managed to stumble across. Of these works which I now review those that I can read without thus wincing I will interject with my new blogs. Christmas Cookies is my satirical journey as a middle aged bachelor faced by the misguided presentation of cookies.

December 2006

Cookies ah the delirium of Christmas/Holiday cookies. It seems to be common place with being a middle aged bachelor that I think people feel somehow that a big batch of homemade cookies around the holidays is the best present to give  such a guy in need. I get cookies from my family, neighbors, friends, ex girlfriends, potential new girlfriends and the list goes on and on, even my dog Jack gets dog cookies….??.  Please don’t get me wrong I am a preferred cookie guy to other sweet treats, like Santa I know the trade off for being a “Good Boy”. However and there is always the other darker side to these Yule tide giving’s that I take exception with.

The obvious problem is that I have no time to consume the mass quantities of all the cookies at my disposal. The shear quantity of cookies would definitely stand for a large amount of ass growth and weight gain, not to mention the residual health factors from the lard, sugar, butter and other crap people concoct when baking up these little devilish delights( I have to think this way as I slither into middle/high risk heart attack age). With the vast array of cookies to eat I am allowed the luxury to pick and choose which ones I so like better then the others.  I segregated the cookies by appearance, known ingredients and texture, to my dismay this year I found my liked pile was significantly smaller then the “I’m not sure” to “definitely” do not like pile. Not to be pretentious or seemingly like cookie snobberish I decided to live on the edge and try the “Other” category of genuine, made original from someones kitchen with love cookies.

Here’s what I decided:

If it don’t look good it probably ain’t good: How many times does this apply to real life situations but because of some inherent flaw instilled by our parents we must first try it before we create final cookie suicide. I really should have taken pictures for the full effect but in my 13 hour drive from Michigan to Raleigh I did find many of these cookies helped in my defensive driving or road rage as I hurled one cookie after another out my sunroof.

1. The first cookie I call Cancer Cookie: Somewhere along the line moist gooey chocolate morsels were replaced by M&M’s and other hard candy which take some amount of applied dog like jaw pressure to break off from the main land cookie mass. The one I had was so over run with junk, the cookie doe was the exceptional part, bleeding pastel chunks and white tumor looking bits massed together like cancer cells on lymph nodes. I knew if I ate this one I would need Chemo in the months to come.

2. The Sticky or Napalm Bomb cookie: The Apricot Growers of America have found their way into American households with their undeserving recognition as their goods are displayed each year into horribly bite sized taffy, tooth decaying little cookies. What genius thought “hhhhhhmmm a cookie needs an Apricot jam center” Hell no…… not even close, Apricot Brandy is the only things these little crappy fruit should ever be reduced to. Napalm is exactly what these are (for those who are too young to remember Napalm is a sticky flammable substance used in wars , more effectively in Viet Nam for burning out/on the enemy). On 4 attempts as I passed big rigs on the highway I had 3 stick to their trailers. You know there is some trucker scrapping them off today, cursing me all the way.

 

3. The Dark Skinned Nipple Cookie: I always wanted to take two of these and use them as pasties. You know the cookie, a big ole Hershey Kiss surrounded by a little cookie dough. Now my problem is not so much with the kiss but come on is this really a cookie or an excuse to dress up a Hershey’s Kiss. It’s chocolate with a little dough boat……….stop the madness I want COOKIE even though in principle I like nipples just not on my cookie tray from Grandma. The moisture is also lacking in these bad boys and I don’t know but it screws with the chocolate too.

4. The White Desert Storm Cookie: Or Cocaine cookie, these boogers should come with a warning: If eaten without any significant amount of milk on hand you will experience immediate shortness of breath followed by heart arrhythmia and or death. What……… do you make these suckers with……. all dry ingredients and then when you cough because it’s lodged in the back of your throat because it’s too dry to swallow,  the little crushed up nuts get stuck in the back of your nasal passages………………for Mercy’s sake do not drive or operate heavy equipment after taking one of these. Out of my blurred vision I somehow maintained my vehicle in my lane until such a time I could pull over to blow my nose and take a drink. 

Okay I know you all are thinking how ungrateful I am to say such things…… but I bet you all have your favorites too and you know there’s a cookie snob in all of you. Everyone is a Martha freaking Stewart this time of year, if you can’t cook 11 months out of the year Christmas cookies are not the project to cut your teeth on……. say box cake with me. They are sacred to some of us middle aged, bachelor types….don’t mess with perfection or tradition. Simply let the old standards come back into popularity. soft chewy chocolate chip, sugar cookies, oatmeal and raisin. They’ve been making us fat bastards happy since the beginning of traditional cookie giving around the holiday season. So next year to all my friends and family,,,,,,,know that you’ve been served notice……I’ll be here milk in hand waiting

Happy Kwanza, Merry Christmas, Felice Navida