I Don’t Like It When You Laugh At Me

She was nearly ready for the bath. Her dad began to pull the rubber band out of her hair.

“I’ll get it, daddy,” she said.

“Okay.”

She bent her little head forward and continued pulling from where her father had left it. Once her hair was free, she shook her head the way women do in shampoo commercials and smiled. He laughed.

“I don’t like it when you laugh at me,” she said.

“Huh?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t laugh at people, daddy,” she asserted.

“Oh, H-, I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing because what you did was funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she said.

“Oh okay. Well, tell me about it then. What’s the rule?”

“You shouldn’t laugh at people, daddy. It’s not nice. That’s the rule,” she said. Her earnestness made him smile.

“Okay, H-. No laughing at people.”

“D- and Mommy don’t laugh at me. Only you laugh at me,” she continued, unaware of the particularly sharp barb her words contained.

“Is that so? Hmm. Well, I laugh a lot. And I think you are funny a lot of the time. And you seem to want to make me laugh a lot of the time.”

“Can I play a little after I’m clean? Mommy lets me.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t lecture her,” he retorted. Immediate and intense regret followed.

A clean little H- put her My Little Pony onesie on and picked out the story to follow the obligatory reading from The Hobbit. It soon became clear that he wasn’t ready to concede defeat.

“So you don’t like it when I laugh at you?” he asked. “What if it’s because you did something to be funny?”

“It’s like this, daddy. When I do something funny, it sticks to me. And so when you laugh at it, you’re laughing at me.”

On the bed with her, half laying, half sitting, book in hand he stared at her. Not thinking he even twitched, he watched as she began a sustained and genuine-seeming bout of hysterical laughter. It seemed pure, but he couldn’t be sure. And his uncertainty frightened him. If there was one trait he knew he could work on, it was kindness. But he didn’t need his daughter to be the one to force him to learn it. Though, she was probably the only authority to which he would abdicate his power. After calming down, she claimed he had made some funny expression that made her laugh and playfully asked for another. But he had not. Being called out by otherworldly logic had put him nearly in tears, not poised to play buffoon dad. On top of the uncommon display of sage reasoning, is it possible she noticed this and purposefully disrupted the forming somber mood?

Kids.

Setback

Church-going Christians: Probably want to skip this one. Or maybe you are my target audience. It’s difficult to say.

Because the topic is endlessly fascinating to me, I have read John P. Meier’s A Marginal Jew series–the first four volumes–and I am anxiously awaiting the concluding fifth volume. I am also one book in to N.T. Wright’s New Testament and the People of God five volume series. These books center themselves on the question “What does the historical record say about Jesus of Nazareth?” I believe them to be intellectually honest, and I have found great comfort and value in them. As an added bonus, I am fairly confident that I understand who Jesus of Nazareth was and thought he was much better than before. So much so that I have recently begun to hunt for a church which I think I could stomach attending week to week.

You should see the looks on the generally elder crowd’s faces when I tell them I’ve been away for a decade. They are so thankful that I’ve returned. It’s a little hokey but feels good nonetheless. My biggest complaint about modern churches is their music selection. It’s horrible, just horrible. I have never sat next to a person who didn’t agree, either. Because I’m older and can only attempt this adventure with authenticity, I let a guy know that I missed the Baptist Hymnal of my youth. He tells me, “You’re in luck!” It seems there is a Sunday School type class that sings the old hymns because there are others like me. Another vote for opening my big mouth, I think.

Yesterday, however, I discovered I should just sit quiet from now on. While the packed room did sing one (1) traditional hymn, I was sure that before the hour’s end I would be the only one not grasping St. Peter’s welcoming hand at the pearly gates.

Social decorum demanding obedience as it does, I remained in the room.

Skipping to the end, what did the well-meaning old timers want to debate for the hour we had together? Whether there is such a thing as unpardonable sin–a sin which is so awful that even Jesus’ saving power can’t redeem the perpetrator’s soul. (Consensus – There might be one, but don’t worry you can’t commit it inadvertently.)

The only thought that occupied my mind for that hour was, “Who gives a shit?”

The sermon was pretty good at least.

Captain’s Log Now On Kindle

Captains

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I started writing the posts that make up this book April 20, 2012 after serving for eight years as an Air Force Captain and pilot. The most common response readers give is a smiling, head-shaking look of disbelief that is sometimes sprinkled with joy. What no one has said–but I’m confident all feel–is that after reading these posts, after reading this book, they know they are not alone. And that’s the truth. You are not alone. And the only way to get there is together.

From Professor Batman to A Jaw-Dropping Woman, Captain’s Log April 2012-2014 is now available for Amazon Kindle. Purchase it here for only $2.99.

On Mustaches

Lazily leaning against the kitchen counter, George routinely placed some kind of large green leaves into the pan on the stove as Pete unknowingly wrinkled his face in disgust.

“I think I told you that I finally joined that gym.”

“How is it?” George answered.

“It is quite the place. And it’s ridiculously cheap for what they have. They have a lap pool open twenty-four hours a day,” Pete said. “And a towel service! The last club I belonged to that had a towel service cost one hundred thirty dollars a month. This place is just forty.”

“That’s not too bad.”

“And, I might add, even at ten in the morning there were a lot of young fit women,” said Pete.

“Those places are meat lockers for sure.”

“On principal I have never picked up a woman at a gym, but I’ve also never seen such a high ratio before,” Pete continued. “It’s crazy. I’ve always hated the feeling I get that I might meet a women there. Luckily, I have my sights already set on this Cammie.”

“You’re wasting your time, Pete,” said George.

“I mean, this one blonde, there was no reason for her to walk right past my machine. No reason at all. But she did.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you, Pete, that women are more forward than you ever let yourself believe,” said George.

“No. No way. This one was gorgeous. She wasn’t checking me out. She came by because she was pissed I wasn’t ogling her,” said Pete.

“That’s beautiful women for you. And that’s why they hate the mustache.”

“What?” asked Pete.

George then elaborated, saying, “My mustache. Beautiful women can’t stand not getting the attention. And a mustache, different than a beard, demands so much attention, that women can’t stand them. I was with M- at the mall the other day. She was actually getting upset. She thought it was a fluke the first time, but a total of three random strangers complimented me. Nearly everyone else stared at me, not her, as we walked around. It was eating her alive. It was so funny.”

Don’t Look At Me, She Started It

And now another challenge to myself.

With one singular purpose in mind I created a second blog. You can view it here: petewooscammie.wordpress.com

I am not going to mention it here ever again (unless to announce wedding bells), but today, and today only, I’m posting writing from that blog. The About page comes first. Then my first post. If you enjoy what you read, please help a fella out and like and follow that blog too. While I’m making requests, ladies, if you could add comments that include the idea that you wish it was you receiving the attention, and gents, if you could likewise promote the general mood that Cammie would be silly to pass me by, I’ll owe you one big time. Thanks. You’re the best.

ABOUT

Cammie wants to meet a man and live happily ever after. To do this, Cammie is dating men in Denver. Besides many, many, many free dinners Cammie has not had much luck. Read about her experiences on her blog:

CammieDatesDenver

Pete heard about Cammie’s plight on a radio show that featured her heavily read, though young, blog. Pete has his own blog, Captain’s Log, and decided to see if he has what it takes to capture Cammie’s attention.

Unlike other suitors, he has two conditions. First, split the tabs and second, no matter what, no making out.

Her response: “Pete, I haven’t paid for a dinner in months, you’d have to be pretty special for me to start now!”

Believing that he is pretty special and hoping that she proves worth the effort and wait, Pete has decided to woo Cammie.

WOO:

verb (used with object)

1. to seek the favor, affection, or love of, especially with a view to marriage.

2. to seek to win

IT STARTS

Me: How do I get on the list? I’ve only ever met maybe two women worth competing for. You think you’re that high of quality? I like that. And I write too. Check out Captain’s Log. Might be good material for both of us. Oh, conditions include splitting the tab, and no matter what, no making out.

My Queen: Pete, I haven’t paid for a dinner in months, you’d have to be pretty special for me to start now!

Me: I wouldn’t let a woman pay for our first date no matter who she was. The thing about free is that you don’t know what you really paid until it’s gone. Most of the time free takes a portion of your soul, at least that’s been my experience. Your posted experiences seem to concur.

A quick survey of my brother and brother-in-law resulted in an opinion that you wouldn’t be worth the time it would take to pursue you. But they haven’t heard your voice.

WordPress Stats indicate that you likely clicked on my blog today and despite this, still replied. (Google+ referrer.) Were you bored or curious? You’ll find every reason to not encourage my pursuit if you read much of it, but this post will tip the scales one way or another for sure: On Breeding.

The Object of My Desire: Pete, do you have any idea what I look like or just hopeful? Also, I enjoyed your writing. Good stuff. But why did your family suggest I wouldn’t be worth the chase?

Me: Can we agree to only be honest on here? I’ll lead the way. On the radio you described yourself as tall and blonde, and you made it seem like a burden. So, while on the whole I prefer brunettes, I didn’t quite imagine you being repulsive. Plus, you have written that you’re going on four dates a week. That’s generally not a feat homely women pull off in the world of online dating, no matter how reasonable their cleavage makes them sound. Then, there’s you using your real name (why?) and a blonde woman working in Denver possessing a LinkedIn profile with the same name. However, I would like to add that I recently watched Beauty and the Beast for the billionth time. And it occurred to me that peers of ours would have to be pretty effing dense to not be aware of the “…warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within” concept.  I, for one, breathe the concept. The point is hair can be dyed.

I wonder if you know how rewarding you complimenting my writing will be for you.

Why you wouldn’t be worth the chase? Two things. First, every vibe that your massive and complicated dating life sends out includes a resonance to “high maintenance.” Second, I think they were thinking about me being a divorced dad and because of, not despite, their high opinions of me and hopes that I find a good woman, I imagine they were nervous about you eventually hurting me.

In any case, I’m a big boy. And everyone knows that winners don’t focus on the bad things that might happen. They focus on Cammie. At least I do.

She Has Become Self-Aware

Even if there was an accredited parenting class, it seems unlikely it would cover bathroom protocol for opposite gender single parents.

“Are you shutting the door, daddy?” H- asked while standing outside the bathroom, as he, in fact, shut the bathroom door most of the way no different than he had done many many times before.

“Yes I am, H-. You’re getting old enough that you shouldn’t be able to see me nor me see you when we go potty,” he answered. “I know it’s confusing because on the car trips you have to come with me. But that’s just because I can’t leave you alone.”

“Oh. Okay,” she responded.

Like an apparition floating passed the cracked door, her locked-forward head led the rest of her body to her room for who knows what reason. Then he saw her pass by once more, heading back to the living room.

“Ughh! I forgot to turn off the light,” she said, exasperated.

Passing by again, she reached up the wall to flip down the light switch.

With a fourth pass she completed her second round trip.

Then, with a giggle, little H- noticed the pattern and blurted out, “It’s like I’m guarding the door!”

He had his very own little volunteer sentry. And that would have been fine until she announced, “I have to go potty now. Will you guard the door for me?”

What It Is Like

Their bags were packed. The car was mostly loaded. H- was sound asleep as usual. It was midnight.

He finished setting his alarm and closed his laptop for the last time before the trip. Experiencing a feeling that, he thought, must be akin to what the great prophets felt so many years ago, he eagerly picked up his phone for one final text.

“I just got excited because dinner and visit might provide good blog material. 🙂 Watch what you say…lol”

Not being awake at that late hour, his mom didn’t send a reply until morning.

“Ha ha ha. I only say intelligent things,” he read, already three hours into the drive.

What with her life only two-thirds complete, her assertion still awaited final judgement. But he knew he had hit his mark.

“She’d never admit it, but she’s nervous now,” he happily thought as he drove on.

*****

H- played with Uncle Sam’s beanie babies from a time long gone as the adults finished their lazy and uninspiring dinner. Then Sam left. Then Pete put H- to bed.

His mom walked by as he quietly left the bedroom door cracked a little.

Heading the same direction as his mom, he couldn’t help but ask, “Really, Ma, what’s it like?”

She turned, “What’s what like?”

His eyes led his answer.

“What’s it like to know that,” he paused, his hand signals emphasized the next bit, “you know, that you, your genes are responsible for creating me?” he asked.

“Hmm. What’s it like?”

He nodded, smiling with great anticipation.

“I guess I’d say that I feel like I’m getting Eve’s full punishment.”

“Nice Ma. I mean, you did have two days to prepare but nice just the same.”

Black People Does Not Exist

Black People does not exist. Black People is not an organization. Black People has no leader. Black People has no agenda. Black People has no logo. Black People is not looking to increase its membership. Black People has no bank account. Black People has no buildings.

Black People does not hate White People. Black People does not believe in looting. Black People does not encourage lawlessness. Black People does not teach its young members to ignore policemen. Black People does not fear for its life.

Black People does not align itself with views held by Al Sharpton, Eric Holder, Barack Obama, or Bill Cosby. Black People does not have a dress code. Black People does not believe the dream is deferred.

Black People is not responsible for Ferguson. Black People does not support Michael Brown’s family. Black People is not angry at Darren Wilson. Black People is not angry, period. That’s because there is no Black People.

You may wonder where Black People came from if it does not exist. You may be curious and ask, “Did Black People ever exist?” The answer is irrelevant to the universal goal. The goal is to get there. And no, there will never be defined more clearly than as an abstract place that I want to arrive at safely–with you.

The only way to get there is together. It’s the slogan of this blog. It is by no means an original concept. Air Force pilots and flight crews say it in the negative or inverse, well, they say it this way: “You don’t crash in compartments.” It is a stark reminder that aircrews use to eloquently express the concept if you know something is wrong with the flight and choose to let an outside pressure–real or perceived–prevent you from sharing the information and consequently the aircraft crashes, you die too. In this case, the mechanical problem is the widespread belief of a falsehood–that Black People is a real thing.

Crew, Black People does not exist. This has been true for some time, but it is now clear that the safe landing of this flight depends on you believing it. Black People does not exist. There is no Black People. Believe it.

It’s Time To Give Thanks

Damyanti, Stephswint, iGamemom, Stuart M. Perkins, Frausto, E.I. Wong, Man of Many Thoughts, theryanlanz, RobertOkaji, Elan Mudrow, Dennis Cardiff, KidazzleInk, Dieter Rogiers, Christine Fichtner, Betsy, Karen, Daedalus, Ron, Drew, David, Joan, Vince, Alex, Joe, Eileen, Elliani, Susan, Greeny, Schoen, Tripp, Andy, Garrett, Shannon, Preston, Janet, Larry, Kate, Sam, (Mike?), Grandma, Grandpa, Noa, and K-: Thank you for reading. Some of you have read every single post, and it seems that the rest of you have read nearly every post. Thank you. You give me your time and that means the world to me. Thank you.

We’re all busy today, but in exchange for two minutes more, I’ll give you guys tomorrow off. Please keep reading.

I have quit every  job I have had since leaving the Air Force. The other day I finally figured out why. The reason has to do with time and energy. I gave all my time and all my energy to my singular goal of becoming a hero pilot for the United States of America for over a decade. And now when I unintentionally find myself in front of a news source, I see stuff about ISIS. To be clear, I can’t shake the feeling that I wasted my time and energy. If I believe serving in the Air Force of a country whose way of life is worth defending to the death is a waste, you needn’t read my anti-carwash/anti-customer posts to empathize with how I might feel about working at a carwash. Simply put, I realized I’m once bitten, twice shy as they say.

But through it all it’s been seeing your gravatars at the bottom of the posts that keeps me writing. I don’t think it’s a waste of my time to improve my writing, because I think I have something to say. Whether I do have anything of value to contribute on a large-scale is yet to be seen. What I know is that you make me feel like I might. While this blog is primarily a sounding board, I spend hours making sure I don’t think I’m wasting your time. And I think my writing has improved. I’m especially proud of Piano Practice and there is no way I could’ve written that without two years of your encouragement. Again, thank you.

Next to H- and the Mark Twain Listening Club, this blog is the only other thing I give my full attention to. If your name is in the list above, whether you care or not, know that you are one of my top three reasons to try–to fight–in this life. But there is one name missing.

George.

I met George two years ago. He is a constant source of inspiration. He is as principled a man as I have met, moreover he reads and responds sincerely to every post. I have moved away from nearly every friend I’ve ever had for one reason or another and will not hesitate to admit that I’m scared to ever lose George. Honestly, regarding my writing, his encouragement falls under the “dangerous” category.

To know that someone believes in you is probably the most empowering/powerful feeling we can experience as humans. Only I know how I’ve handled this life, and despite the tone that I’m sure comes through in my words, the great “I Am” knows that the truth is not pretty. But that’s the thing about believing in someone. It’s contagious. I know George believes in me. And that makes me believe in me. That makes me believe that no matter what mistakes–sometimes terrible mistakes–I’ve made, the fight is winnable and worth winning.

Thank you George.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

The only way to get there is together.

Trolls and Tolls

“I just realized something, H-” he announced, turning down the car stereo.

“What, daddy?”

“I just remembered that on our trip today we’re going to be passing through the toll booths again,” he said. “You know, the ones that have the trolls in them–the trolls that look like people.”

“Trolls that look like people?” she asked, her tone signalling that memories were beginning to solidify.

“Trolls collecting tolls, remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember now,” she said.

“Do you want to practice your song now? Or do you think you’ll be ready to sing the beautiful flower song when we get to where they are?” he asked.

“I can practice now,” she answered. “And daddy?”

“What?”

“If I don’t sing a beautiful flower song,” she began earnestly, “then the trolls will chase us down and eat us.”

“That’s right, H-. I gotta pay the toll, and you gotta sing a beautiful flower song as I do. Do you think you’re up to it today?”

“Yep,” she said.

The little girl then began to sing.

Flowers are up in the sky

Flowers are up in the sky

Flowers are dying and some flowers are dying-

“Wait, H-,” he interrupted. “Why are flowers dying? I don’t think that’s going to pass the test. Dying flowers aren’t beautiful.”

“Oh,” she said, realizing he may be telling the truth.

“That’s okay, H-. Just start again.”

The little girl began again.

Flowers are up in the sky

Some flowers are unhappy and other flowers are unhappy-

“H-!” he interrupted a second time. “What is going on here? Why are you singing about flowers dying and being unhappy? The song to keep the trolls from eating us has to be a beautiful flower song. Beautiful. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, daddy, I can.”

And so again, H- began to sing.

Flowers, flowers are up in the sky

Some flowers are happy 

And some flowers-

She cut herself off as soon as the “D” sound began. Laughing at her perfect demonstration of what pilot’s call “strength of an idea”, he suggested she wait until they were at the toll booth and just shoot from the hip then.

Luckily for our duo, on cue H- put together a beautiful number as he paid the toll to the troll.

“That’s my girl. You did good, H-, real good,” he said as they sped away from the danger.