Idiotic Embarassing Weakness

“I’m David,” the guy said, extending his hand.

“Pete.”

His handshake was firm, and while the whole situation caught him by surprise, he was glad it was over.  He had always wondered what it would be like to meet the ex’s boyfriend.  No big thing.  In a way he was almost glad to see that she’d latched on to someone else.  Maybe there’d be a day when he’d finally be done paying her way.

The next time he saw the two of them, Pete noticed nicely wrapped presents under a well-placed Christmas tree.  Seemed like a lot considering Santa hadn’t come yet.

“Whatever,” he thought, brushing off any emotions.

Perhaps it was the monotonous sound of the shovel against the concrete, but a curious thought formed.  Standing still, the shovel parallel to the ground, he thought, “Wasn’t her long-lost love named David?”  Thinking back to the news video she showed him of this David on the computer screen in his parent’s basement years ago, he instantly flew into a rage.  “You gotta be shitting me.  No way.  I can’t believe it.  She’s back with the guy that didn’t take her with the first time around.  What the fuck?

“Why would she ever marry another man and have a child with him if all this time she just wanted this other guy?  Holy hell.  I have never felt so used in my entire life.  It’s like I’m slowly becoming white-trash because I met one person,” he thought, as a feeling of madness encroached.

“I can’t wonder on this one; I have to know for sure.”

He pulled his glove off, and took his phone out of his pocket.  Looking around to make sure no one saw him texting-while-shoveling, he shot her a quick inquiring text, “Is that David the ol’ PJ, love of your life David?”

Trying to calm himself through work, he found snow-removal’s singularity only accelerated his passions.

“It all makes sense.  She didn’t work a day during the marriage.  And from what I remember this guy is not one to want for money.  Here I am essentially working two jobs to pay her off and stay out of debt that should have never accrued, and she’s living the high-life with an old fling.  Are they living together?  She better not be planning to do something stupid like move out of Denver.  There are things I can take, and things I can’t.  I’m not fighting a woman for my child because she’s a gold-digging, lazy, negative louse.  Her and her folks.  The whole clingy, enabling lot of them can join in a chorus of ‘blood’s thicker ‘n mud’–I’ll stick with right action.

“Surely she’s responded by now.”  He checked his phone.  “Nope.  Why not?  I know they’re awake.  The little girl can’t sleep past 7:30 for anything.  I should’ve seen this coming.  I’d always heard about women, and yet I thought I was smarter than other men.  So much for that.  Should’ve never spent a day with that girl.  My God, what have I done?  It’s like crazy Charlie Sheen said, ‘You don’t pay a prostitute for sex, you pay her to leave.’  Isn’t that turning out to be the truth?”

He anxiously checked his phone again.

“At last a text!” he muttered.  It was just the library letting him know the book he ordered had arrived.

“Come on woman.”

Now inside, his warming fingers checked the device again.  Finally she responded.  Her text was beautiful for its simplicity: “No.”

“Perhaps she’s not entirely an evil succubus,” he thought, his relief more acute than his shame.

A Plea For Help

Dear Brain,

Why?  Why are you doing this to us?  What are you even doing to us?  We haven’t felt this way in years.  Decades.

Don’t you remember the days when sitting is all that you had us do?  Whether at a desk or in the cockpit?  Weren’t those pleasant?  Sure, you didn’t seem to be that stimulated, but at least we had it easy.  Not everyone gets their way all the time you know.

Look at us now.  Feel us now.  Can’t you tell that we’re exhausted?  So much running.  And for what?  Oh, and I spoke to Fingers the other day, they told me not to say anything, but they’re starting to feel it too.  What about your piano?  Are you really going to let Fingers become too tired to tickle the ol’ ivories?

We just don’t understand it.  What are you running from?  Responsibility?  Failure?  It doesn’t make sense.  We used to live in harmony, and now look at us.  Muscle mass is shrinking, and we’re sore all the time.

We aren’t saying we can’t keep up, we just believe you are underachieving at the moment.  Remember what Bruce said in TDK?  “I believe in Harvey Dent.”  Well, we believe in you!  We’re with you.  No matter how far this road goes, we won’t let you fall.  Just please consider us in the softer moments.  Please.  Okay, that’s all.  Try to get us some rest.

With Support,

Legs

Relief

And with that they were out the door.

As usual, she ran to the car, and verbalized her victory upon touching the driver’s side passenger door–her door.  He simply shook his head and said, “Yep.  Looks like you beat me again.”  He opened his door, placed everything in the car and started it.  Then he opened her door and put her in her car seat.

Getting back into the driver’s seat, he backed the car out of the garage.  Next, he put the car in park and got out.  The recent week of sub-freezing temperatures took their toll on the garage door opener, so he was forced to use more than just his finger muscles to open and close the garage.  In a jiff, he was back in the car and they were on their way.

At the daycare, he grabbed her nap stuff from the front seat and told her she could start unbuckling and get out.  Like always, she seemed to not hear this command, and he was at her door before she could comply.  She happily dropped down to the cement, and reminded him about the dangers of walking on ice.

Leaving her with the teacher, he walked out of the building briskly.  He had time, but never liked the feeling of being rushed.  There was something rewarding about getting to work early enough to be able to sit in the car for a moment before going in.

He pulled into the parking garage, and turned off the car.  Reaching for his lunch, he nearly jumped.

“MOTHER EFFER!” he shouted.  “GOD DANG IT!  I know I grabbed it this morning.”

His mind raced to figure out what he would eat for lunch now that he had discovered he left his on the counter.

Walking past the passenger door, his peripheral vision picked up on a grocery sack which looked awfully similar to the ones he packed his lunches in.  Turning for confirmation, a shudder of relief almost knocked him off his feet.

“I knew I didn’t forget it,” he said, impressed at his ability to believe a lie.

After A Hard Days Work

Opening the door, he simultaneously managed to drop into the seat, press the brake, insert the key into the ignition, and start the engine.  “Finally,” he thought, “I’m outta here.”  He turned up the Christmas music and began his drive to pick up some dinner.

He made believe that he hadn’t decided where to go, and ran down the list of options–mostly fast food.  He knew, though, that he was only craving one thing.  His own version of crack-cocaine.  Or at least his own version of crack’s most common feature that the planet’s comedians can’t stop talking about.

Turning into the familiar parking lot, he avoided the enormous dip that surrounded the manhole cover.  He got out of the car and noticed there were a couple people waiting in line as he pulled open the door to the restaurant.

He overheard the entire conversation between the current customer and the cashier.  It was shocking.  The lady had ordered a pizza other than pepperoni or cheese.  “Wow!” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.  The rarity of the moment caused the cashier to take a moment to place the order during which he noticed three more customers pile in behind him.  For a restaurant bent on having its food hot and ready the growing line created a palpable angst.  Finally, one lady near the end of the line couldn’t take it any longer and broke the awkward silence.  Gripping her cigarette pack with the familiar three-finger cradle, she nervously packed the tobacco against her left hand with the recognizable staccato “thwack! thwack! thwack!” and said, “Man!  This place is hoppin’ t’night!”  The others rewarded her benevolence with wide-eyed nods and exhaling.

He smiled.  Then he wondered if they knew how much he loved them.

Review of Their Eyes Were Watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston

Push through the first chapter.

Anyone who has worked through Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights knows how rewarding sticking with a book can be.  Zora Neale Hurston’s classic Their Eyes Were Watching God is nowhere near as difficult, but the eventually transparent phonetic spelling of the dialect along with the introduction of several female characters does make for a slow opening.  Push through the first chapter.

We are quickly introduced to Janie and her life in the deep south.  From the start we are told about Tea Cake, who is apparently the man Janie loves after two less-than-successful marriages.  Hurston uses the familiar start-with-an-intriguing-end-then-tell-how-it-came-to-be formula, and–as usual–it works well.

The book reeks of female-empowerment, which can be off-putting at times, but upon completion, the reader discovers that that notion was ancillary to Hurston’s sure message.

I’ve always assumed that good books are considered good for a reason.  (I say this to emphasize that I’m a half-full reader when it comes to highly recommended books.)  For me, what separates a book from other artwork, is the work that’s required to intake  it.  Reading is interactive, to say the least, and unlike other art-forms, the power of a book rarely fades.  Add to this perspective the notion that there really aren’t that many eternal truths, instead just a few that require a steady river of reminding, and it is clear why this novel resonates with readers of all backgrounds.

The setting, characters, and drama are all believable and compelling.  Janie’s concluding wisdom conceals any would-be flaws.  It is a lesson as old as time, but as refreshing as sweet tea just poured into a glass of crushed ice on a sweltering summer afternoon.  Maybe you’re looking to read something new.  If so, be sure to check out Hurston’s classic.

****

Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. New York: Perennial Classics, 1998.

Older Metallica Fans Depressed By Recent Findings

Rock Gods Metallica just became the first band to perform live on all seven continents last week.  Adding icing to the cake, they accomplished this enormous feat within the last calendar year.  However, the news isn’t all unicorns and rainbows.  Without stating its intentions, a private polling organization released survey results which strain credulity, and frankly, are depressing.

736 randomly selected participants, ages 13-25, were given the following information and question: “Metallica just performed on on Antarctica.  This means they have performed on all seven continents in 2013.  What is a continent?”

  • 13% answered “I don’t know”
  • 36% answered “Something in space; like an asteroid, I think.  Metallica sure is crazy”
  • 19% answered “It’s another word for country”
  • 32% answered “One of the main landmasses on the globe, usually reckoned as seven in number (Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, North America, Australia and Antarctica).

More surprising than the fact that more participants thought a continent was an off-earth body is that these young people never learned that the longest answer is usually the right one.

Nevertheless, “you can’t keep a good dog down” as they say, and the older Metallica fans are lifting themselves out of these findings’ mild depression by reminding themselves that over the last 22 years Metallica’s Black Album is the “highest-selling record in the U.S., period.”

Mars: Happy News…Sad News

Lockheed Martin just signed on to the Mars One mission.

Mars One has pushed the landing date to 2025, two years later than the original 2023.

The mission got legitimized and stigmatized in the same breath.  That’s life.

Still no news on who was chosen for round two.  They’re supposed to let people know yes or no by the end of the year.  What do you think?  I really wanted this group to have their stuff together, but that seems like it was asking a bit much at the moment.  Oh well.  That they have Lockheed Martin really does break the fall from the date sliding.

Cross your fingers for me being selected for round two.  Can you even imagine?

Review of Killing Season starring Bobby D. and Johnny T.

The previews looked like someone had re-tooled Hopkins and Baldwin’s 1997 thiller The Edge.  Two elderly-ish men trying to survive, and possibly kill each other in the woods.  But what we have here is something new.  It is at once a simple action flick–kinda B-movie action at that–and a portrayal of one of the most challenging commandments Jesus of Nazareth issued.

The film begins with scenes of the not-so-familiar Bosnian war.  We are shown images of genocide which would be striking if they weren’t nauseatingly familiar.  Like Shutter Island before it, we are then shown that even the good guys sometimes commit atrocities.  While in Bosnia we think we see Travolta killed.  Moments later we are introduced to DeNiro’s character and discover he has taken to hunting in the woods…with a camera instead of a gun.  Nothing surprising here.

The fact is nothing too surprising happens for the next hour or so of the film.  There is a game of cat and mouse that seems to drag on and on with no point.  But then something magical happens–the point appears.

Movies which improve with their run-time are few and far between.  I grew up on the idea that most movies can be recognized for what they are in the first minute.  This one is a rare exception to that rule.

Now Ma–before you think that you’re ready for this film, allow me to offer a word of caution.  There are two surprisingly gruesome scenes that even caught me off-guard.  So, just ask me about the movie next time you call and I’ll tell you what is so neat about it.

The rest of you, proceed at your own risk.  It’s no Saw, but it still isn’t for the faint of heart.  Too bad really, because it’s message is so full of heart.

I Love You

From Warrior:  “I’m sorry Tommy!  I’m sorry… Tap out Tom!  It’s OK! It’s OK!  I Love You!  I Love You Tommy!”

From Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves:  “I have a brother?  I have a brother!”

From Tommy Boy:  “Brothers don’t shake hands.  Brothers hug!”

From Lion King:  “Scar!  Brother!”

From Brother Bear:  Hell–the whole thing.

From Dances with Wolves:  “Do you see that I am your friend?  Can you see that you will always be my friend?”

From Rocky 5:  “Home team.”

Seems like there’s been more trying than doing between us.  I wish this wasn’t the case.  I guess that’s what we get for being so similar.

I’ll tell you what I know.  The summer before I left was probably the best summer.  You forsook your friends for me.  I’ll never forget it.  24oz Code Red’s.  Either Hot’n’Ready or Pizza Maker pizzas.  And enormous bowls of ice cream.  Every night.

There’s something in me (I think most people call it “asshole”) that wants to forever be your guide through this world.  I do apologize for that.  When I think how old you are now, I am kinda stunned.  The good news is the old people I like have shown me there is plenty of time.  Maybe we’ll get to our Tombstone yet.  (“Virgil!  Morgan!”)

I’m really at a loss here.

You’ve always meant the world to me.  Watching you “come into your own” these last couple years has been nice.

Happy Birthday.

Christmas Cookies

Then in the morning, the two of them began their weekend day as usual.

She pleaded “Daaaddy” while prone and unmoving.  He went to collect her.  As it was the weekend, he convinced her it was to be a lazy day, so more sleep was necessary and allowable.  Now in his bed, she seemed to try to sleep.  That lasted all of three minutes.  After thirty minutes of unsuccessful attempts to quell her, he finally agreed to wake up.

“You forgot my chair,” she reminded him, standing and pointing to the table and chairs.

“That’s right I did,” he groggily responded.  “How can you help me make chocolate chip pancakes if you don’t have your chair?”

“I want cocoa puffs,” she confessed.

“Really?  That’s too bad.  I want chocolate chip pancakes, so that’s what we’re having.  It’s going to be a rough life kiddo.”

****

“What kind of cookies are we making?” she wanted to know.

“You’re not going to know them by name, but they’re called peanut butter blossoms.  They’re special Christmas cookies.”

“Christmas cookies?”

“Yep.”

“Can I pour it?  Can I pour it?  Can I pour it?”

“Sure.  Be careful, it’s heavy.”

“What’s that daddy?”

“It’s peanut butter.”

“You’re putting peanut butter with the muh-muh-margarine?” she asked, inquisitively seeking proper pronunciation affirmation.

“Yep, that’s what the recipe says to do.”

“Can I stir?”

“Uh, your bowl just has flower.  But sure.  Go ahead.”

“Look daddy, I’m stirring.”

“Yep, you’re doing a great job.”

“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”

“Because-”

“Watch me stir fast!”

“Whoa, slow down.  Try to keep the ingredients inside the bowl.  You didn’t make the mess because you stirred fast, it’s that you didn’t watch what you were doing when you stirred fast.  When I stir fast, I’m always watching the bowl.  Understand?”

“Like this daddy?” she asked, beginning to speed up while looking him directly in the eye, again seeking approval.

“No silly, you’re still not looking at the bowl.”

“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”

Luckily, for him, the war had acted as a preparation of sorts for relentless interrogations such as these.

“Just keep stirring your bowl H-.”