Tagged: relationships
Growth
Some of you know I started a side-project blog with a singular goal. It didn’t pan out. I’m shutting it down today. I wasn’t going to mention it here again, but the experience really helped me in a specific way. The life lesson was kind of a nice end-cap to the year while the bigger paradigm shift is less than a month away. And, as usual, I think by sharing my experience others might be able to learn from it too. Backstory in a nutshell is I hear about a female blogger here in Denver that dates a lot and never pays for the dinners. I tell her I’d like to date her, but we have to split the tabs. She balks. I create a blog to woo her. She still balks. I contemplate everything for quite a while until it happens–growth.
Dear C-,
A couple of things. First, I took a personality test once that revealed my personality falls under the larger category of “Guardian”. Ooo. Makes sense, what with serving in the Air Force and all. Second, I love The Matrix trilogy. Do you remember the second one? The scene with the architect and the word ergo? Neo has to choose between saving his one true love, Trinity, or the whole of Zion. It’s a bigger philosophical point, of course. Most of the time, in my life, I choose to defend Zion, the group. But defend is what I do in any case. Ergo, while I found your voice and personality on the radio that morning many weeks ago very appealing and believed this may mean you would like to play, I have since concluded that my intentions with creating this blog and writing you have not been pure.
You sound sharp. You write well. But I’ve realized that this whole thing (split tab condition/blog) was about defending men. It took many of my closest friends and family members telling me that I’m wasting my time to finally come to this conclusion. However, I should’ve known this just from the fact that I told many people that I thought what you were doing–getting so many free dinners–was criminal. And if in my little brain you’re the criminal, then it naturally follows that I think the men are the ones under attack and in need of protection. Rather than just say this outright (defend), I created a blog and attempted to stir your emotions (offend). That was wrong.
C-, I do think what you’re doing is hurtful. Date away, I say. Find your white knight. But don’t hurt the guys. You’re better than that. In any case, it seems an apology is in order. Here goes:
C-, on behalf of all men, I’d like to apologize for my actions. Your dating life is your dating life. I shouldn’t have treated it like a game. You’re a real woman, not a voice, not a picture. “Life is immense” (Legend of 1900). I hope you achieve the happiness that your writing indicates you desire.
Pete
PS – I’m not ducking you. You know where to find me.
Review of My Church
Well, that’s a lie. It’s not my church. I’ve only been there once. But it was wonderful. And I will be returning every chance I get. The search is over. Finally.
For the record, I am a human. This is worth articulating because, especially when it comes to churches, I want to be treated like a human and not a farm animal. I don’t need to be herded, nor do I want to follow the herd. That said, as I walked into the building I was greeted and I watched as a woman took my name down on some sort of ledger with a pencil. Remember pencils? While there were no children-specific activities that day, I’m certain H- won’t have to be processed and tagged to take part in them next time.
Quickly finding George, I suggested we move closer to the front than where he had chosen and we did. Next thing you know, he and I are standing wide-eyed amidst the seated congregation at the behest of a young women who read off the names of all the guests. Little H- remained seated until our kind neighbors in the pew in front of us urged her to stand when the young woman asked for any guests whom she may have missed to also stand. H- stood proud.
This next part is probably a little too personal, but this is my blog so I’m writing it. It’s been a while since I’ve had much physical contact with anyone but H-. And she’s in that tight spot where I think she does it because she recognizes this. Anyhow, I’ve been thinking this probably needs to change. Touch is important, they say. Well, during an amazing baby dedication that lasted about ten minutes and crowded seemingly an entire extended family at the front, like thirty people, we were asked to stand and next thing I knew my hand was being touched by the lady next to me. I looked down before moving my hand out of her way and noticed that she was simply reaching out to hold my hand during the dedication thing. It was then that I looked around and quickly noticed that everyone was holding their neighbor’s hand. I joined suit and grabbed H-‘s little hand. Next thing I noticed (George too), H- was placing her limp hand in George’s. At the end, my kind neighbor gave my hand a squeeze before she released it.
Did I mention that the three of us were the most under-dressed folks in the entire building. I measured by layers. I had two. All the other men were at least at two, most at three. Probably half the women had hats on. These people dressed with a purpose. And yet they were naked. Can you understand that?
I thought the roof was going to come off at one point during the worship. Talk about Holy Ghost power. A real piano, an un-amplified small drum set, and an organ accompanied a real, though small and old, choir. Though I’m sure no one could hear us, George and I both sang.
Finally, we came to the Word. And here’s where I discovered what I have been looking for all along in a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be smug. A sermon shouldn’t cause my mind to distractedly go academic on it. A sermon shouldn’t teach beyond its speaker’s–nor audience’s–intelligence, nor should it dumb down that which cannot be in order to meet the audience. We’re talking about a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be chocked full of witticisms, nor jokes. The preacher needn’t prove “even though I’m a preacher, I can be funny, see?”, nor should he tell some inside joke that requires his giving a politician’s knowing nod to some poor soul who will undoubtedly feel a little too special for the rest of the afternoon and at the same time causes me to wish it had been me. Most important, I realized that I want a sermon which is a sermon. Not a presentation. Not death by powerpoint. Not a motivational speech. And the sermon that day was none of those things. It was more than those things.
Afterward, we lingered. People lingered. We met the pastor. Oh. And did I mention the service’s total duration was over two and half hours? 10:30 start, when it was over I pulled my phone out and it displayed 1:15. And it did this without filler like Broncos mentions, professional videos with floating words, or hollywood movie clips.
Walking to our cars, George said it best, “Pete. This was by far and away the best church yet.”
Letter to My Friend About Publishing The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor
Hey Friend,
I’ve been thinking about your phone call last week, about the unnamed feeling you felt. Now, I can’t possibly know what you’re thinking about your book, but here’s what I’m thinking about my book. I’m terrified to put it on sale and have people read it. Terrified. Why? Because on that day the dream ends. I think I told you about my next book, Eight Acres, and that I have always had a problem of fantasizing about the future rather than living in the now. After talking with you the other morning at the Egg and I (and even before then) I’ve been sustained by the dream that The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor will really take root. That it will go viral. That men (and their women) will write me to thank me for being the vulnerable one and sharing my experiences with such daring. And oh yes, radio shows. Probably even television will be in the mix, to be honest. And more than that, the dream has included that I won’t have to get a real job again. Because I can’t stand working.
But the day I list the book on Amazon, the dream ends. In its place will be only one simple reality–it won’t sell. Unlike the book version of this blog, Simon Pastor may sell 50 copies or so to family and friends and random blog followers because it is new material. But it won’t go viral. It won’t “put me on the scene”. It won’t prevent me from having to endure a real job again. It might, of course, but it won’t. No, it actually doesn’t even have a might. It just won’t. Make no mistake, I needed to write this book. I needed to write it like I need my next breath. And I need to write my blogs. But that’s a far cry from it selling. I’m beginning Eight Acres this weekend and will likely have it complete before February. But then the money starts running out. The dream will end. And I’ll be putting to test my resolve at being kind to my ex-wife as my new job’s schedule will likely act as a catalyst to backsliding into anger and hurt.
I am happy though. Really happy. I don’t regret anything and I wouldn’t change a thing about how I lived my life since taking the oil rig job. 33 is a big year for me. Laughing, I told George the other day that only after having finished this book did I remember that I predicted back in church camp years ago that 33 was when I’d start my calling. Ha. Everyone else always acted like it was in/around college that they would begin their calling. Well, at 18 I said that I felt mine would begin at 33 because that’s how old Jesus was (give or take) when they killed him. Immature, misguided, morbid, delusional, but true nonetheless. And you can bet I never imagined my calling would be a book centered on divorce. Suffice it to say, I can’t wait to hit 34 and laugh at my prophetic abilities. Either way, I’m certain that no matter what it is going to be a helluva lot of fun.
Okay. Sell your book. Give it away. Get people reading it. And on to the next one.
Pete
PS – James Hetfield of Metallica said, “Music is my therapy. I need to do it.” I’m not sure that’s exactly where you’re at with writing, but I think you can see the value in his honest admission. With this book, I am certain now that money has nothing to do with the fact that I need to write.
Enough About Change, Enough!
Daily, so-called experts advise us to change our perspective, change our job, change our life. They believe we should change our world. It’s sickening. Like you, I’ve followed that message too many times to count and for what? It is a false hope. Change? No thank you.
As the year wraps up I’m happy to report I like life the way it is. And I know you do too. Here’s how I know.
Forgiveness – You forgive me daily. I struggle with why, but am sure you’re the better person for it. It is at once free and invaluable.
Friendship – Again, you give it freely. I cannot imagine a world without the ability to make friends. I don’t want to either.
Peace – The world is close. Real close. Some want to keep the focus on the unrest. The rest of us know to keep peace the focus, and rightly so. Focus on the peace and see what unfolds, I say.
Compassion – Everyone I have ever met understands compassion. While not always possible to act on, their feelings of compassion are always real. I cannot imagine this world before it was filled with compassion. Like most good things, once conceived, the concept of compassion cannot be forgotten. And it never will be.
Love – There is no greater source of strength than the fact that the lowest of the low, the meanest of the mean, I’m talking about the most wretched wretch, this man or woman is still loved by at least one person if they’ll only let themselves feel it.
Change that? Never.
Teaser for Pete Deakon’s New Book: The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor
You know how movie teasers and trailers are fun in and of themselves? Well, here’s the teaser for my new book. Enjoy!
A black screen disappears in favor of a silent scene of a bloodied, weeping man trying desperately to beat down an apartment door; inside the apartment is a slouching drunk wearing a look of frightening resignation and throwing his nearly empty tumbler at that door; curious music now accompanies the camera as it closes in on the drunkard’s painful expression of doom. As if a film projected onto his eyes we see video of a beautiful woman leaning in expectantly towards that same man, though younger and full of life. His eyes dissolve out of the background and we now see the man jealous of the woman as she dances the night away with others; then an engagement; then the music quickens to frantic as the pace of the montage of already short video clips speeds up until they are not much more than still images in which we see yelling, fighting, painful looks, divorce papers, fear, and hurt.
Then the screen returns to silent black and the text “The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor” appears. As it fades away the text “Coming Soon” takes its place almost in a whisper.
Happy Birthday Sam
Brother,
I started this in my head about fifteen times and always discard it because it is too much about me. How to proceed, then?
I shut you down big time earlier this year, as you know. Believe me when I say (again) how embarrassed I am for that.
I can’t promise that I’ll believe this tomorrow, but special for today let me say that I think your life has proven that despite your being the younger brother, you lead the way in exemplifying the best qualities a man can possess, especially when measured against a certain “know-it-all who can’t keep his trap shut.” See? What is the problem?
I’m proud of you. I love you. The last two visits have been very nice. H- seems very nice. Hold her like a butterfly.
Happy Birthday.
Pete
PS – I’m so excited for the speech come April. You are not going to regret your decision. (You should be nervous enough to consider if maybe you should pick someone else, but not so nervous that you do more than consider it. Part of the reason I’m struggling now is I can’t say a lot that I’m saving for that more appropriate setting.)
PPS – I need the next month to go by slow; the fast-approaching trip to Copper is having the opposite effect, no thanks to you.
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:
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.
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.”
Review of There Will Be Blood, by Paul Thomas Anderson’s Agenda
The only reason anyone works to pump oil out of the earth is greed. Greed only spawns more greed which eventually creates (or perhaps is a catalyst for) a downward spiral of human vice that passes through selfishness, hate, betrayal, and ultimately murder. Or at least that’s what Paul Thomas Anderson’s award-winning There Will Be Blood wants us to believe. As much as false-prophets–con-men–deserve to be hated, it is impossible not to hate Daniel Day-Lewis’s remarkable portrayal of oil tycoon Daniel Plainview more. And in hating Plainview, it’s difficult not to hate oil.
People hate oil.
Funny to read, isn’t it? It rings true, but it really isn’t. It’s no more true than if we said people hate dirt or people hate wood. It is foolish to make these inanimate, naturally occurring objects the object of our hate, just as it would be to make them the object of our love. They merely are. But we can certainly hate people. We can certainly hate ideas.
Maybe people hate oil men. Maybe people hate their own ignorance of geology. Maybe people hate what they don’t understand. Surely people hate greed.
It seems wherever oil is under the earth American troops are over it, and service members who deploy to the middle-east are bombarded by activist’s propaganda filled with facts and figures which encourage hating Texas Oil Men George W. and Dick Cheney. And Halliburton and KBR and Lockheed Martin and every other group of people that could be lumped into the war-for-profit-is-clearly-a-bad-idea category. Tightening the frame dramatically, I needed no encouragement to hate my aircraft commander on my last deployment. I astonished even myself with how little prompting it took for me to heap some hate on my sister and her small group.
Finding myself in the oilfield here in Colorado, I occasionally hated living in the man-camps. I hated being away from my daughter. I hated her mom for wanting to see her for more than her half during my days-off.
Similar to all men, hate and I have had a long and storied history. Luckily, I have a friend named Kirk. One day, years ago, I told my friend that I was floored to discover that a Kelly Clarkson pop song included the sage lyric, “For hating you I blame myself.” Being the good-natured midwesterner that he is Kirk didn’t miss a beat and replied, “That’s right Pete. Hate comes from within.” Doesn’t it though?
And that begs the question, “Will there be blood?”
Anderson made an excellent film. It is an excellent portrayal of greed from both ends of the spectrum. But in making the film relevant for the masses, in using oil as the backdrop, he, perhaps unintentionally, allowed the oil to obscure a greater truth. Hate, greed, everything comes from within.
Captain’s Log 