Tagged: love
I Killed Church
Arrest me. Do it soon. I need to feel the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. I am even okay with the sharp-edged plasticky feel of zip-ties. Hurry up and place a guiding hand on my head as I step into the back seat of a squad car.
I did it. I confess. It was over a decade ago. I cannot remember the exact day but I remember why I did it. He had become weak. He had lost his edge. He was no different than anyone else. He did not even know my name.
Replace my name with a number. You can have my personal effects. I look forward to putting on a jump suit. My favorite letters are D O and C. I will wear them with pride.
I never wanted to hurt him. You should know that. But I did it just the same.
So what if it was negligence. I am still the guilty party. I saw his thirst for more money. I heard his desire for a bigger house. I felt his demand for more friends.
I prefer powdered soap. I have no friends. I have no family. No one will miss me.
He disgusted me. So I killed him the only way I knew how. I left him.
I thought I saw him last Sunday. I was mistaken. The man I saw was just an imitation. He was older. He would not offend. He would not provoke. He would not incite. He would not love. I knew then that I must confess my crime. The world needs to know. Church is dead. I know because I killed him.
My Online Dating Profile
Sometimes I like to dare myself. Recently my hopes of actually finding a like-minded soul online were dashed again. Shortly thereafter it seemed fun and yet inconceivable to share something as intimate as how I sold myself. I could preamble this for forever but will stop here. You will never know how much pleasure writing this and imagining womens’ reactions to it brought me.
ABOUT PETE
Can you handle truth? Here goes. I am a divorced father who works a goofy two-weeks on/off schedule on an oil rig. Before that, I was an Air Force pilot. I usually have my daughter when I’m home, but her mom gets her for a few nights. I’m looking for a pump and dump. Well, at least the pump part. The dump part is up to you.
What are you looking for? Are you looking for spontaneous? Are you looking to laugh? Are you hoping to find a guy who isn’t interested in breaking your heart? Perhaps you’d like to finally meet a guy who makes you feel special? That’s me. Promise!
Ladies: No matter how nice you think I am or if I ask you the most interesting question you’ve ever been asked on here, please don’t message me if you’re not interested in meeting in person. A pen pal has no appeal to me. A woman, though, a real woman? Now that is the most appealing thing I can imagine. If you read at all, to give you a flavor of what she looks like read this post I wrote: A Jaw Dropping Woman.
Also, you should know that people probably don’t use the word “kind” to describe me. That’s good, because I’ve never even wanted to be kind. Instead, I’ve always aimed for things like a huge heart, a great sense of humor, edgyness–sometimes crossing the line–and pretty sharp. Other things that I wouldn’t think to say out loud (but am learning I need to) include great father, hard worker, and uncommon integrity. Though it seems most people can’t even discern those qualities’ value until it’s too late.
As a final note, if you have “finally ready to settle down” on your profile…well, I think Danny Kaye in White Christmas says it best, “My dear partner, when what’s left of you gets around to what’s left to be gotten, what’s left to be gotten won’t be worth getting whatever it is you’ve got left.” The point is “finally ready” sounds depressing as shyat to me. A “thanks for giving everyone else in your life the good stuff. I guess I just get leftovers.” No thank you.
Lastly, I’m not fat; I went to college after high-school and graduated in four years, and I am not all tatted up. Couples look like each other. Have you ever noticed that? Then again, I don’t put stock in checking boxes, so maybe you think you have what it takes and have sleeves. I doubt it, but would love to be wrong here.
FIRST DATE
I pick up the tabs, you put out.
(I’m laughing so hard. If you’re not, allow me to welcome you to earth.)
The end.
Sleepless
“So how’s working nights these last three months been going?” George asked.
“It’s okay. The night shift is slightly less stressful and as you know I worked nights nearly my entire time in the Air Force,” Pete answered.
“That’s right. So no big thing? No problems sleeping?”
“Nope, no problems sleeping,” Pete said. “Well, that’s not entirely true. Sometimes, if I discover something undesirable is happening that is out of my control right before bed then I lie awake thinking about how to regain control. And then I just watch the clock. That’s no fun.”
“Like what?”
“The home loan thing did it to me last time. I have no idea why I answered the phone, but I did and it proceeded to limit my sleep to about three hours out of eight that afternoon. Want to know what I thought about most of that time?”
“Sure. What?” George asked.
“Her.”
“Of course you thought about her. H- is your daughter and you miss her. Everyone knows that. That’s nothing to be worried about,” George conceded.
“Not her. Well, of course her, but her. H-‘s mother.”
“Oh.”
“Yep. It seemed as rational and logical as anything as I laid there. I was trying to solve the problem of not seeing H- as much as I think I should. And then it hit me. If we re-married, then I’d be able to see H- all the time. And you know that I hate that she has another male adult figure in her life besides me. So I started developing this whole scenario of what life would be like if I approached her mom and tried to make an argument for trying again. She’d have to lose the dogs of course. And quit her job. And do what I say. But man, it could be perfect.”
“Jesus Pete.”
“I know!” Pete retorted. “I know. That’s what I’m saying George. It was eight acres all over again.”
“Eight acres?”
“Yeah. You remember? The book I’m writing. It’s about how some of us seem to be fine living with unpleasantness in the present by simply imagining and dreaming about some ideal future that is only a few strokes of luck away.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. You didn’t mention this to her while you were gone did you?”
“Of course I did. Ha. It’s a lot of alone time George.”
“Oh shit. What’d she say?”
“Not interested.”
“Well, considering her actions during the marriage and the divorce I’d say she just did you a favor Pete. It would’ve never worked. H- would’ve been the worse for it.”
“You’re right. You’re right. Even when I did bring it up, the fantasy had worn off a little and reality set in,” Pete conceded with an expression of sadness that was quickly erased by sincerity. “I just want to see H-.”
“Yep. We all do. Don’t worry so much. You’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so.”
Part 6
His hands never did grow back. Of all the possible reminders of this fact, from eating to drinking, to driving, to making love, the one that bothered him most was hitting the snooze button on his morning alarm. It had been three years since losing Tara and his hands and he figured he’d had to reset that damn clock four hundred times. And while he could still use his nubs to navigate a smart phone or tablet holding one was another issue. For Jim the little things always added up to big things.
The sound of tires rubbing against cement accompanied his turn out of the garage as he backed out onto the dimly lit street before sunrise. After six months the neighbors began to openly question why he visited her grave every day. Leaving before they woke up was his solution. But he knew that they knew he still went.
For a while he tried to explain why he went, but no one would listen. Most people claimed ignorance about such things. They didn’t want to hear words like guilt and shame. Guilt and shame are what drove him to the cemetery though. Guilt for knowing he could’ve saved her. Shame for not saving her because of office politics or some such shit.
They hadn’t any children, so daily visits were the only way he could think to pay his respects and atone for his weaknesses. And the visits worked for the first half of every day. Three minutes into every lunch break, as he finally folded back the flaps of his brown paper lunch sack, though, he could only feel an intense desire to trade places with her. Or join her.
Huge Numbers For Four
“And when your daddy was young H-, he used to laugh so much at dinner that we had to send him to his room,” the grandma said as she leaned into the table signaling that this was privileged information.
“Uh-huh,” answered H-, happy to be counted as trustworthy.
“That’s right. We would have plans after dinner and need him to hurry, but he just wouldn’t stop laughing. So we sent him to his room.”
The little girl giggled and shyly glanced up at her dad seated to her right. She seemed poised to interject her thoughts.
Her grandma saw this too and in hopes of hearing some unpredictable commentary explained further, “It happened over and over again. He would just laugh and laugh, so we sent him to his room again and again.”
“Like a hundred fifteen nineteen times!?” H- guessed excitedly, her voice’s pitch rising to a nearly inaudible level.
The laughter that filled the room might have been mistaken for making fun of the guess if it wasn’t for the accompanying knowing nods between all adults and the purity in H-‘s eyes as she absorbed the limelight. Yes, she was her father’s daughter.
Vulnerable and Mature, A Counterpoint Review of Michael Jackson’s “Dirty Diana”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. People generally wouldn’t say MJ was a mature man. But then again, no one really knew him, did they? Just like no one knows Sam Smith. So, taking their respective singles as simply stand alone art, I see no reason that the man who built Neverland for real shouldn’t get a fair shake.
Have you ever read the lyrics to the number one single “Dirty Diana”? I feel like I have memories of watching the video from childhood, though I can’t place from when or where. I know I certainly didn’t know what the song was about until about a decade ago. Then I was shocked. Who knew he ever sang about such things?
Contrary to Smith, MJ’s masterpiece lacks introspection or self-reflection. It starts slow, builds, and then reaches a climax all the while admitting a terrific weakness of character. For my money, it is perfect art for the precise reason Tolstoy was leery of music’s power. Tolstoy once wrote, “Music transports me immediately into the condition of soul in which he who wrote the music found himself at that time.”* (Since reading that, I haven’t been able to get that concept out of my head. Good art makes the listener/viewer feel the way the creator felt. Nice. Simple.)
And just like Smith, there is something in MJ’s voice that sounds personal. These are two clearly torn artists. But unlike young Smith, not-quite-as-young Jackson didn’t feign insecurity or doubt about his station in life. He knew the score. And that was in 1988, which was a few years before Smith was born. Point being, when will we ever learn? Jackson didn’t want to do it, but did. Smith did it and now questions his decision. Me? I’m with MJ on this. At twenty-two, Smith is too old to waffle. Ignorance is not bliss. You knew what would happen. Grow up. Everyone has to.
I guess I’m just bothered because I liked the song. And I wasn’t alone in liking it. But then I saw that it wasn’t what I thought. And I don’t like being taken. Argh!
*Tolstoy, Leo. Master and Man ; The Kreutzer Sonata ; Dramas. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1904. Print.
Correction to Friday’s Post
A mellow friend of mine informed me that Sam Smith is gay. The interwebs confirm this is true. So, in my last post about his song, I’ve gone back and edited three words. In the third paragraph, the word “girl” is now “guy” and “her” is now “him”, and then in the fourth paragraph “her” is now “him.”
Please accept my apologies for this error.
Vulnerable or Immature? A Review of Sam Smith’s Hit Single “Stay With Me”
We all know the feeling we get when we find out a singer isn’t black. It’s really quite humorous that we think we can tell people’s skin tone by the sound of their voice. And Sam Smith is the newest artist to shock the masses and sell a few more records along the way. I bet most of you didn’t know that I’m black. Just kidding.
Smith’s new single “Stay With Me” has been hogging air time for at least the last month. It’s catchy. It’s all heart. Men I’ve never heard sing have sung it. And that’s because it’s edgy. A simple three verse song, “Stay With Me” is a request for a groupie to not leave in the morning. I imagine most male listeners claim to identify with the feeling because they think women find Smith’s vulnerability appealing, and yet these guys still get to maintain their man-card because they could only identify with the song because they’ve had one-night stands themselves. If I’m right, everyone is mixed up. Here’s an attempt at order.
First, as a friend of mine’s dad once told him, “Be grateful for the sex you’re getting. It’s more than you deserve.” Second, while the brutal honesty the song portends is no small feat, I can’t help but wonder if it’s a valuable confession. It only works if it’s in response to the idea that guys who have one-night stands are supposed to kick the ol’ belt-notch to the curb at first light. Right? Smith is basically winning his version of a rap battle Eminem-style. Some real-large-type arse-hole picked on Sam for calling the guy back the next day. Instead of defending his action (which would be weak) he goes one further and admits that he never wanted him to leave in the first place (which is a fatal blow in these contests it seems). Good for him. But we can’t let uncommon vulnerability distract us from the truth. His actions which trigger the song demonstrate that he is not a man. He is a boy. And boys shouldn’t be listened to.
Men–real men–do not have one night stands. They don’t. How do I know? The same reason you know. Because it’s the way it is. Smith wonders why he’s so emotional the morning after, and then advises himself to gain self-control. Another good friend of mine would tell Smith he’s emotional because “the inner man isn’t one with the outer man.” You want to stop crying over him, Sam? Too late buddy. You’re crying because you just caused the two of you pain. And pain hurts. The good thing is that the pain wasn’t lethal. You can learn from it. We can learn from it. But learning is defined as a change in behavior caused by experience. A change. And no fellas that doesn’t mean that you learned if you don’t get weepy next time.
In the end, the world could use a whole lot more and a whole lot less Sam Smiths.
The Morning That She Didn’t Put Up A Fight
They had finished bathing the baby. She was asleep in the pack-n-play. The dog’s constant pacing made the temporary apartment feel smaller than it was. Not that it mattered now. The seller had accepted their latest offer on the house, so only a month remained until they closed and would be reunited with their own stuff.
“I care about you,” she began to answer. He couldn’t remember what question he had asked. “But I don’t like you,” she concluded.
She wore the same resigned look he had grown tired of seeing for the past two years. Ever since the stripper.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this information,” he said. “Why would I want to live with someone who doesn’t like me? I’m glad you care about me, but to me that’s not as noble as you just made it sound. I’m taking the dog to pee. Is the trash full?”
Without their separate beds he let her have the covers and slept in his sleeping bag. Sleeping bags added a level of fun to any night so he didn’t mind. He was all out of fight himself as well, especially over something as trivial as sheets.
The closing was uneventful. He tried to stay positive about the new job that didn’t pay as much as they hoped. She tried to not stress about shift work on the weekends. With each passing day his walk to the bar seemed shorter; her options, fewer.
She went out with a co-worker after he returned from happy hour with a friend. Waking by himself at two-thirty he figured she was on her way. At three his worry hardened into a decision. He was never going to feel knots like those in his stomach again. Never. Four am will forever sound to him like a door handle, the bathroom fan, and the plop of vomit into toilet water.
After the baby went to sleep the next night they were finally alone. He raged. She sat as he lectured. With each non-response he raised his volume.
The following morning she behaved as if the fight was over. For her, the cycle was complete. For him, the marriage was. Some cycles should never be repeated.
She followed him out of the house for a few steps after he said divorce. He answered the phone thirty minutes later. She told him her parents had two attorneys ready to schedule a consultation.
He now lies to himself that the hurt has decreased since that morning–the morning that she didn’t even put up a fight.
Pilots More Capable Than Almighty Roughnecks?
For the pilots. (And Greeny.)
Raccoons might be taking over the world. That is, unless roughnecks hear about the story.
To a roughneck nothing is impossible. So when I heard that the raccoons that Japan imported for fun have multiplied out-of-control and are about to destroy thousand-year old buildings and that there’s nothing that can be done about it, I pictured a roughneck. Clear as day I saw the same face I see on the rig every time I express doubt that something can be done. The face has eyes that are lit with excitement and a mouth whose left-half is pursed together while its right half is barely open in a smirk. And though a still image, I can see that the face is mid-nod and I know that the next words that come out of that face will be a confident, “We’ll get ‘er done.” And they do.
Since day one on the job I have been nothing but amazed at what roughnecks can accomplish. And you know me, I thought I had seen mountains move while serving in the Air Force. So that got me thinking. Who is more capable? Pilots or roughnecks?
It hardly seemed a fair comparison at first, what with pilots winning wars in hours and making ladies swoon by simply getting dressed in the morning and all; but the more I witnessed roughnecks at work, the more I thought back to a lot of pilots I knew that might not make the cut as a roughneck–I know most days I fall short.
Here’s the thing. I love that I get to say that I’ve done both–love it. But there’s something else. The other day I brought the paperback copy of this blog to the rig to prove to the fellas that it existed. Now, these men are not Luddites, so they’d read the posts about them. But one of them, you’ll read about him soon, was very excited to share the stories with a man who didn’t know about the blog. And so this young man started to read aloud in the change house (locker room). I had to hold back tears of joy. The pilots that are reading know why. Most of you know why. And that makes pilots more capable. But hey, even if I’m wrong and roughnecks actually are more capable, I still win. I love that type of competition.
Captain’s Log 