Pooches

“I want macaroni and cheese,” H- said as the waitress held out her pad. She smiled at the girl’s boldness.

Then addressing the little girl’s dad, the waitress clarified, “It’s not Kraft macaroni and cheese, but our own homemade version. It has a heavy cheese sauce-”

“I love homemade macaroni and cheese,” H- interrupted.

Again, the waitress smiled. As did the dad.

“I need a few more minutes,” he said, “but you can bring hers out whenever.”

“Okay.”

Minutes elapsed as H- and her dad partook in their respective lunches during spring break.

H- broke the silence and smartly volunteered, “I should eat all my macaroni and cheese before the strawberries, right?”

Smiling, her dad answered, “Right.”

A few more minutes of diligence on H-‘s part passed.

“You really should eat more, H-.”

“Eat? Look at my tummy. It’s so full,” she began, attempting to stick her non-existent belly out. Then, as if realizing she may be her own worst enemy, she added with determined eyes, “But not too full for dessert.”

“It’s not even big, H-,” he answered, rolling his eyes at the four year old’s endeavor.

“Do you know what a pooch is, Daddy?”

He didn’t want to let her see his shock at her question, so he delicately, though quickly, shifted his eyes from hers to something a few inches away. “Pooch?” he thought. “Why does my daughter know what a pooch is? What moron–no, what mother fucker is using the word pooch around little girls? As if little girls don’t have enough bullshit to worry about in this world, some knucklehead is even now ruining their already set-up-for-failure image innocence. Never again will I let her out of my sight-”

“It’s a dog!”

He turned. Relief? Alleviation, perhaps? Mitigation? Easement? None of these words capture the feeling this answer gave him.

“Maybe the world’s not such a terrible place,” he thought.

Is Buried Within The Sequel To Brokeback Mountain?

Mark and Rick

The biggest reason you should know the answer is “no” is that the book isn’t topping any best seller list.

Lesson learned, okay? After seeing The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor not sell, I figured this whole writing books thing was going to be about doing it my way. So I asked my friend, the same one who drew Simon’s cover, to do an oil painting this time. He told me, “Sure, but I don’t usually work with oil.” I replied, “I don’t normally write books. Let’s stretch ourselves.”

I happen to think the painting is great. But I can also admit that formatting it for the book cover took away a little bit, okay a lot, of the greatness. What I will never admit is that two men hugging in a forest are necessarily having sex together that night. Yet nearly everyone that I have talked to in person, not to mention Glenn and one other blogger on his review, have expressed that they expected Buried Within to have something to do with gay men or Brokeback Mountain based on the book cover.

What I really want to say to you all is thank you. For a long time I have feared that it would come out that I’m homophobic. What with my fundamental Christian upbringing, my military background, my having been married and having a child, my love of Michael Mann and Tom Cruise, I mean all these things are classic symptoms of homophobia. But then I heard these rumblings about the book cover and felt an immense swelling of pride. It really is a sign of the times, I think, that you think I have it in me to write a story centered on two gay men. (It also seems like you would prefer to read that book ((which is itself fascinating to me–and noted)) over a simple story of male friendship.)

So thank you.

But, unfortunately for my bank account, Buried Within is an exploration into a pair of men’s hearts that reveals a love that transcends sexuality. It is not about burying anything within anybody–forest or no forest.

Now take your mouse or finger and click here to buy the book. Pick up my other two while you’re there. Do it out of pity. Do it out of the acute feeling of guilt you should have for judging a book by its cover. But do it in any case. And remember, buying a book doesn’t mean you have to read it, neither do you need a Kindle to buy the Kindle version for the low, low price of $1.99.

eIfYouHaveADogYouDon’tActuallyWantAManSoGetOffTheSite-ony

Ahhh! I can’t believe I’m admitting this. I know, I know. This one is going to ruffle a few feathers. Oh well. Get over it.

To begin, my eHarmony profile reveal for today: The First Thing People Notice About Me…

I usually wear glasses with large white frames, and that my mom made me
wear braces as a child.

Isn’t that clever? Not the white glasses part (that’s just honest), but the part about good teeth. And why do people notice good teeth? Because I’m smiling a lot. Layers.

I’d date me. Apparently I’m the only one. It’s been one month of membership and not a single date.

As a reminder, eHarmony sends 10 matches and 30 more “what ifs” for your consideration each day. The matches are supposed to be just that, people who fit your criteria/settings. The “what ifs” are people that you might be a match if it wasn’t for little things like location. I haven’t had a proper “match” since day one. Even the “matches” that they tell me are matches are just “what ifs” that somehow are presented as “matches.” But they’re not matches. They all say, “So-and-so is a great match who just happens to be outside of your settings.” (To be clear–eHarmony is a crock of shit, don’t waste your money fellas.) My “what ifs” live in Oklahoma, Utah, Texas, Kansas, Arizona, Montana, Wyoming and Idaho, which I believe are all states not in or around Denver.

As with all of life’s trials and tribulations, however, I know the fault is my own. You see, one of my criteria (I don’t think it’s listed anywhere) is I don’t date women with dogs. (Or cats, but cats is due to allergies.) Why not? Because my ex left me with the $1200 dog that only she wanted in the first place, and so I was the one who got to hear H- say, “Where’d my dog go?” as we walked from the dumb friends league foyer to our car without it. Because I couldn’t stand watching the next woman I dated rearrange the furniture daily for her dog. Because I will never understand why anyone would live their life on a twelve hour leash to an animal. Because the woman I dated after her had two little shits that of course weren’t shits to her, but they were and I was supposed to be fine with them joining us on the couch. Well, I wasn’t. They’re animals. And it’s not cute or acceptable that they jump on people. Moreover, it’s maddening to watch dog owners repeat the same silly behavior endlessly as if they are in control.

But more than that, I don’t date women with dogs because they invariably and inexplicably choose the animal over the human. When given the proposition “man or dog,” they choose the dog. And that’s just wrong. “I know I never got around to having kids like I wanted, but I did get to carry little bags of warm shit every day. I mean that’s something.” Right.

As if there wasn’t enough to sift through during a relationship between adult humans, I am supposed to be fine with ten more years of your dogs jumping on me every time I come over? Fine with watching you push them down only to notice they snagged your clothing and that you now have to change outfits? Ten more years of your dogs waking us up because they have to pee even when we could have slept in? Not to mention that your car is filthy and smells. And don’t even get me started on the actual dollar amount involved in owning a dog.

I just can’t deal with the fact that such an invasive, intrusive part of a single woman’s life is something she advertises like it’s no big thing, or worse, like it’s attractive in her profile–sometimes in multiple forms. From pictures to “what I’m passionate about” to “things I can’t live without” dogs are everywhere. Go, Dog. Go!

I know, I know. Women are not wrong for liking dogs, they’re just not for me. That doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating. So I wrote about it.

Are Atheists Arrogant? Yes.

I recently responded to a friend’s seemingly angry comment to my favorable views of Christianity by suggesting she calm down. She did. Then she asked that I watch a presentation (that you can find here) in which a speaker essentially claims that my asking this friend to calm down was an example of me unwittingly antagonizing the social change movement known as atheism. News to me.

The presentation, by a woman named Greta Christina, is very generalized and therefore incapable of doing much more than rabble rousing. However, I would like to address one topic that I find fascinating. Here’s her claim:

“I get angry when believers say that the entire unimaginable hugeness of the universe was made entirely for the human race, [whereas] atheists by contrast say that humanity is this infinitesimal eye-blink in the vastness of time and space. And then religious believers accuse atheists of being arrogant.”

As I see it, we’re all guessing. We’re all looking at the data and drawing conclusions. More than that there are two levels at play here that she doesn’t seem to recognize. One level is the idea. The other is the proponent of the idea. If I expound the believers’ idea, I can also humbly admit that it’s just my best guess. No different than an atheist can admit that they are not certain. However, when the atheist or believer declares that for certain they are right, there is naturally, in both cases, an additional off-putting arrogance. And I am no more a fan of religious zealots who prematurely end the dialogue with claims of certainty than I am of atheists who do so. But in my experience, including this woman, while believers can be annoying in their certitude, atheists rue the day when it comes to arrogance. It’s inherent to their argument, the argument that goes something like,

“There are objective, scientific facts to be known. I know them. As facts are synonymous with truth, I know the truth. Moreover if you disagree with me, you’re disagreeing with the truth and consequently you are wrong. (And stupid).”

Does anyone remember the end of The Matrix Revolutions? (That’s the name of number three). The machines are trying to once and for all defeat humanity. Their agent, Agent Smith, asks our agent, Neo, who won’t stop fighting, “Why? Why, why do you persist?” Neo’s answer: “Because I choose to.” Smith’s question embodies the same argument as the atheist’s, just more eloquently. And it is arrogant. As if life is a computation to be solved and afterwards things will be normal.

Is it an arrogant idea that the unimaginable universe was created for little ol’ me? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it. It’s just my freely chosen conclusion–as of today–after studying the historical record and living among you for thirty-three years. Is it an arrogant idea that an infinitesimal eye-blink or even a very numerous group of them have accurately and finally recognized a system of knowledge that answers, “Why?” or “What for?” in a way that demands unquestioning allegiance? Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is.

All The World’s Not A Stage–It’s A Runway

Not to argue with Shakespeare, but from my humble experience all the world’s not a stage–it’s a runway. I don’t mean Top Gun runway, I mean runway like Zoolander–the place where fashion is king.

Topping a long list of very surprising situations in which I have discovered, post Air Force, that appearance reigns is last Saturday’s episode. I found myself wearing a black suit with a black open-collar button-down underneath it. A gold chain around my neck suspended a gold security officer badge. I was stationed at the front of a bar while the St. Patrick’s Day parade was passing by just outside. My mission: prevent liquid from passing by me in either direction.

At least I had a stool to sit on.

The guy who arranged the gig freely told me he wanted me specifically (out of three others) to man this highly visible post at the fairly nice bar because I had “the look.” It didn’t take long for a few of the older women from the group nearest me to come over.

“What are you? Off-duty cop?”

“Nope.”

“Right. You’re the best dressed off-duty cop I’ve ever seen. What’s that badge say?”

“It’s just for show.”

“Sure it is. I like your glasses.”

“Thank you.”

“Can we get a picture with you?” Turning to a friend, she says, “Hey. Use my phone, I want to get a picture with this guy. Isn’t he the best-dressed cop you’ve seen?”

One of the older guys with them then says to me with a knowing nod, “It’s pays to be good-looking, no?”

That proved the day’s only photo-op (luckily–it was exhausting) but about three more times before the end of the shift I found myself unable to convince talkative admirers that I was not an off-duty policeman and that the badge was just a psychological aide to calmness and security for the less talkative. Can you imagine my consternation? I’d suggest envisioning an ironic, unbelieving smile for starters.

A new portrait of the world is slowly forming in my head. One that includes me dressing like a millionaire and parking my Elantra several brisk-paced blocks away.

Because We’re Men

I don’t know what you call it. I’ve never heard a name for it. I think it’s exclusively a male thing, yet I can’t say I’ve ever asked a lady if she’s experienced it. With the advent of texting, however, this unnameable feeling previously limited to the physical realm has made its way to the digital world. And I don’t like it.

The fellas know what I’m talking about. There are moments in life. Maybe you’re standing in line together at the newest Expendables movie. Or maybe you’re both scanning the restaurant for hot-chicks-that-you-won’t-talk-to as you each reach for the salt. The setup isn’t really important. What’s important is the unexpected and new sensation on your hand. It’s heavy. It’s hairy. It’s rough. It’s another man’s hand. It’s your friend’s hand. Something about the moment causes the collision to continue until you make eye contact and only then do you both pull away. Of course the manly-man military/police/firefighter crowd, always looking to distinguish itself from its sissy-man peers, rejects this absolute refusal to touch and, usually, what starts as an inconsequential bumping of mitts becomes full-on hand-holding that is more often than not accompanied by a witty expression such as, “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

And I freely admit that this is a very funny moment, especially when it involves the uninitiated.

But as if texting isn’t difficult enough as is, we men are making it harder on ourselves these days. You know what I’m talking about. With women, we’re adding bogus punctuation and emoticons left and right to make sure we don’t come across as creepy or stalker or needy or rude or sexting or, well, you get the picture. 🙂 But this unnamable feeling that I get when I accidentally touch another man’s hand, well that’s the same feeling I get when I see a text from a buddy who has apparently forgotten that he’s texting a man. What is the deal with male-to-male exclamation points or smiley faces? It just feels wrong, doesn’t it? It’s weak. It’s creepy. It’s stalker-ish.

Take George and I for example. If I text something to George that is so sarcastic that he doesn’t think he gets the joke or my meaning, he simply responds like he should. He replies, “I don’t think I understand.” Because he’s a man. And then I re-attack with more consideration. Or I would maybe just reply “nm.” I might even just not reply. And yet we remain friends. I don’t think I ever have, but say I texted him something that sounded like I intended to sleep with him next time we met. Even then, he’d simply say, “Did you just ask if I would sleep with you?” Because he’s a man. Then in that situation, despite his dashing good looks and fit figure, which probably has epic stamina, I would reply, “No.” And that would be it. Because we’re men.

So fellas, please. Please pay attention from now on. When it’s me you’re texting, lose the gimmicks. Unlike the lady folk, our relationship is not dependent on proper text etiquette. Thank you.

That is all.

eWasteOfMoneyEee

“Just what does he put on his eHarmony profile?”

Well, for today, I’ll tell you my response to the prompt: “The Most Influential Person In My Life Has Been.”

I wrote:

Leo Tolstoy–I thought I was alone until I read his books. If I have to pick someone alive, then there’s this little girl I know who has a way of turning everything old into something new.

To be clear, panties aren’t dropping like I thought they would. Big surprise.

In any case, here’s the latest example of old-to-new that makes me smile.

Once the sun gets working, Denver has been warm of late. But until they turn it on it’s chilly. So I pick up H- from school yesterday and she’s still wearing the two long sleeve shirts I picked out that morning, one thin one and one fleece. Back in the car it’s slightly warm. Like any good woman she complains. Like any good man her wish is my command. At first I turn up the air conditioning fan one click. With the resultant fan volume increase, I can’t help but visualize pricey gasoline being wastefully poured out over the pavement. Then I remember that its not actually hot out. It’s just hot in the car. So I turn off the a/c and roll down her window a bit.

Little did I know that bliss had been waiting right outside her door. Laughter and giggles ensue as she proceeds to narrate to me in detail how the wind is so strong that she can’t push her tiny hand forward. I check the side-view mirror and sure enough her small hand is tucked back as far as it can go against the door frame, barely breaking the invisible plane that demarcates inside from outside.

Next, she excitedly exclaims that Rarity’s mane and tail are blowing crazily in the wind. Turns out that the pony just finished up in the shower and needed to dry her hair.

Then I remember this little girl is around a quarter polish, so I should have seen this unmitigated joy coming. (In my defense, you never can tell how pronounced the illness will be until after puberty). You see, I grew up laughing at the following joke.

A black guy, a Mexican, and a Polack are being exiled to the desert for the rest of their lives. They each get to bring one thing in unlimited supply. The black guy picks food. The Mexican picks water. The Polack picks a car door so that he can roll down the window when it gets hot.

Like I said, old becomes new. I don’t care if the line doesn’t work. It’s true and it’s funny. I’m keeping it.

New Rocky Movie Announced. Rocky Fights Jesus?

(This one’s long and experimental. If you don’t do anything, scroll to the bottom to watch a video I promise you’ll enjoy.)

It feels like I should be embarrassed to admit that as a kid I watched my family’s recorded-from-television Rocky III VHS so often that I broke it. To this day I can still picture my mom’s handwriting on the label. One day after thinking it finished rewinding, I pressed eject and discovered the tape had snapped. Why that movie was ever in our house is beyond me. We never watched it as a family. Maybe it was my dads. I do remember going to see Rocky IV in the theater, though I was very young. Come to think of it, a few years later on a Bunco night at our house my dad took my brother and I to see Rocky V at the dollar theater. Yep, I’m sure of it now. It was my dad who had recorded Rocky III. Had to be.

Anyhow, back to Rocky IV, do you remember the scene were Paulie walks Rocky from the locker room to the ring? Both men know Rocky may die in the fight and this knowledge urges Paulie to say a little somethin’. He says, “I know sometimes I act stupid and I say stupid things, but you kept me around and other people would have said ‘drop that bum’. You give me respect. You know it’s kinda hard for me to say these kinda things, cuz it ain’t my way, but if I could just unzip myself and step out and be someone else, I’d wanna be you. You’re all heart, Rock.”

Fast forward to when I recited the officer’s oath to become a second lieutenant in the Air Force. My family made the trip to Alabama’s Maxwell AFB to witness the moment. I did it in a really embarrassing high voice because I was crying and hadn’t experienced public crying enough to make it at least bearable for the listener. I’ll never forget that my mom came up afterwards and while rubbing my back, said, “You’re all heart, Pete.” Now I’m thinking maybe it was my VHS-labeling mom who was the secret Rocky fan after all–she is left-handed.

Some of my posts indicate that I have a favorable view of attending church and supporting the evidence as I see it that Jesus of Nazareth existed and was crucified and that this information might mean something more. I’m always nervous about writing about such things because I don’t want any potential book readers (buyers at least) to be turned off from this blog or my writing because they think I have some agenda to convert all you godless heathens. I overcome my nerves and as such keep sharing by confessing two realities. First, despite acquiring some 1800 followers, only about ten of you have purchased my books. (Don’t feel bad. I haven’t bought a blogger’s book either.) That means that there’s no actual money on the line. Second, I don’t give a fuck if you can’t get past someone disagreeing with you about Jesus. It is literally not my problem.

I will say this about the Jesus debate though. Almost by definition, following your heart goes against reason. And here’s what I will never do. I will never trade my heart for my reason. I won’t. And you shouldn’t either.

Some of you have been hurt real bad, not necessarily your exterior, but your heart. Like a broken bone is set in a cast, you hardened your heart to allow it to heal. The trouble is that with the cast on you have come to feel invincible. Instead of being a temporary aid to enable mending so you can get back to normal, this hardening has become armor. And this armor calls for reinforcements daily.

In all the talk about hardened hearts, no one ever taught me that they compensate for their lack of compassion by increasing intelligence and reason, but I see it in practice over and over again. However, no one had to teach me that an unintended consequence of this hardening is that it keeps out the heat until the heart becomes cold. That’s evidenced daily. Consequently, I will never stop preaching that a cold hard heart is in need of say-anything-do-anything emergency life support.

To those of you that adamantly and evangelically reject Jesus, what needs to happen to warm up and soften up a cold hard heart? Need the entire planet to deny Jesus ever existed? Or maybe you’re more realistic and need just the really smart people that you want to keep liking to form a consensus that he didn’t? I have no problem conceding that–on one condition. As part of the negotiation you have to give me a specific date when you’ll return to being the person you used to be. The person who knew that not everything in life, certainly not the most important things, are logical, scientific, and empirical. And if you don’t return by that date, then I get my superstition back.

The detached nature of this written argument will never substitute for holding hands or hugging, which are probably the only things hot enough and strong enough to transform hearts. I apologize for that. And if it wasn’t for the bizarre, yet intriguing, question that came to mind, I’ll admit that this post was probably a waste of time for anyone but me. But it is a fun question. The question being, “If Rocky ‘All Heart’ Balboa was ever to fight Jesus–whose very nature would have his corner throw in the towel–do both men win?”

Lastly, here’s a video on the subject that my new job (incidentally, not at a hospital) just showed me during a training session. It’s fairly incredible. Click Here to enjoy.

Free Day At The Art Museum

“Pete, I think that that was the line.”

“There are so many couples here.”

“We’re the cutest couple in this place,” say two teenage girls loud enough for 1995 to hear after taking a selfie.

A flock of college students approach a twenty foot tall stack of folded quilts. To the agreement of the rest, one female righteously asserts, “They should give these to the homeless.”

“George.”

“Yeah, Pete?”

“I don’t think I’m a museum person.”

“Me neither.”

“I mean it’s alright, but I’m not that intrigued or even empathetic to the artwork. I don’t get most of it. I saw that Picasso piece. I was impressed that I was actually looking at a Picasso. Really, though, all I know is he cut off his ear.”

“He was insane.”

“Right. I will say this though. You and I, and H-, we’re walking around here, looking around. When you see something you like, you walk away, and I don’t think twice. I’ve been doing the same. H- too. Then we find each other and move on. It’s a very nice pace. But I’ve never seen couples do that. Have you been watching the guy’s faces as they follow their women around? Art is a very individual thing, no?”

“I have. Did you see that one, the dude with that smokin’ redhead by where we had H- dancing to the African drums? He looked miserable.”

“Oh my god. George. Read that first sentence over there.”

George turns and reads about Jaune Quick-to-See Smith’s Trade Canoe for Don Quixote piece.

Indian canoes were used on the river highways for thousands of years, but after the Great Invasion, they were also used by trappers, traders and U.S. government agents.

His head quickly retreats an inch in disbelief before turning to Pete.

“I know. Great Invasion. How does that get published? Just stick to drawing lady.”

“I wonder how far she’ll get before she realizes you’re not next to her.”

“I don’t know. She’s been doing it all day.”

Pete quickens his pace to keep H- in sight.

“Little girl! Little girl! Where’s your pare-”

“I’m here.”

“Sir, you need to stay in the same room as your child. You don’t know how many kids we lose here.”

Would Freud Have Laughed? An Apology

I have to think he would have at least smirked. But from what I remember being taught about him, he was a very serious, very serious man. So no. Even jokes that I am only able to attempt after his research and ideas have had a century to take root in western society wouldn’t have caused him to laugh.

I love blogging. I love it because it forces interesting questions, questions like this one about Freud, into my head. You see, life is so very easy for a smart, not to mention good-looking, eligible man like me that I need some way to make it challenging. So I write. I try to see if I can make a total stranger laugh in the same way that I can make someone laugh that I’m talking to in person. And here’s the real challenge. I try to see if I can make them laugh for the same reason.

By the way. Please send me a check for, I don’t know, $300, each month from now on to support my quest. Make it payable to Pete Deakon and mail it to PO Box 3392, Parker, CO 80134. Thank you.

A man like me doesn’t just appear. It takes a very special woman years and years, like 18, to mold a boy-child into a man like me. This woman wouldn’t have been afraid to punctuate the training with a wooden spoon if necessary.

One more thing. This woman, the mother of a man like me, a man who shed the constraining shackles of fear long ago, a man who publicly bears his soul in ways that make her shake her head in disappointment, this woman has no problem walking out of a movie. Not that she’d even let herself be taken to a movie of Fifty Shades‘ caliber. Even by her son.

I’m sorry folks. I want this blog to be a place you can come for truth and laughs. I failed yesterday. The opening of yesterday’s post, the truth I sought to share, was it is really funny to think of an adult man and his mom watching Fifty Shades together. I didn’t take her. She hasn’t seen the movie. We don’t live in the same town. The parenthetical apology was an “I’m sorry for picking on you again, mom.” Not that I’ll ever stop.

But picking on her doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I do. She’s my mom. I just am compelled to avenge myself every once in a while.

****

By the way, she finally added to yesterday’s discussion. And on a separate note, Glenn’s review of my new book is up. Buried Within – Isn’t As Gay As I hoped