Tagged: women

I Have Two and a Half Other Children

It’s true. I have two and a half other children besides H-. I barely write about them on here. I think I have written about my step-son (he makes up the “half”), A-, the most, and I can recall writing one post about my other daughter, A-. I do not believe I have mentioned my son, J-. If I had to guess, I believe I don’t mention him because he, unsurprisingly, carries all my hopes and dreams. I think I’m trying to say, with my son, that it’s the same as how we don’t tell the birthday wish after we blow out the candles. You won’t get a chance to know him on here. Only time will tell if you have the opportunity in real life.

But I have written a whole series of posts, generally categorized, ‘The Daughter Project’, about H-. And my last post was not just written about her, but to her. (Though in it I did write some facts about her ((that she has been kidnapped by her mother)) as I pleaded with her to “wake up”. Upon consideration of that post’s purpose and this blog’s content as a whole, I found myself almost motivated to rename the blog once again, this time to something like, “Revelatory Blog Posts from One of the Many Divorced American Dad’s Who Desire to Father Their Children on the Topic of ‘How Vicious Women Can Be as Measured by How Absolutely Impotent Her Ex is from Stopping Her Heinous Moral Crimes Against Their Child’, Among Other Interesting Musings.” But given how few blogs are actually written by humans (not AI), and how few of those are written by men, and how few of those are updated with any regularity by men doing anything other than expressing bitterness, I realized, “Pete’s Blog” pretty much does the same job–and it’s much easier to remember.

I want to tell you something I have never written about on here.

I want to tell you what I believe is the real beef between her and I.

Aaron Sorkin, the Hollywood writer/director, offers writer’s the tip, “Each line of dialogue should be an attack. And every argument is always about something beneath whatever the stated topic is.” (I’m paraphrasing.) I really like that. I like it because it is clear and easy to follow for writers, and I like it because I believe it is true. Sure, some folks may not always attack, and some folks may legitimately be superficial, but these folks clearly are missing out on the good parts of life.

I can only imagine what my ex tells her family and friends as she describes her crimes. Everyone loves playing defense these days, so it wouldn’t surprise me if all she said was, “I have loved him from the moment I heard there was a ‘big white guy’ in the studio. I really do want him to play a role in H-‘s life,” and subsequently the whole room always rushed to her aide.

For my part, when I talk about my ex-wife’s crimes against me and our daughter, the general response I get is, “I hate when people use the kids against each other,” and, “That sucks that she is using your daughter to hurt you.” As the respondent begins, I always take careful note to learn if anyone is willing to enter the fray and claim that either of the adults (me or her) need a defense or to be attacked to my face. Nope. They do not. Instead they stick to the fairly obvious and fairly neutral, “DON’T HURT CHILDREN!!” claim in all its agreeableness and wisdom. In other words, people–even friends, especially friends–do not attack her, or defend me. Truth be told, as I candidly mentioned last post, if my family and friends do any attacking, it is against me for writing and posting these stupid posts. Aside from that, the only human being who certainly is attacking anyone (outside of me and my nightly imprecatory prayers to the Most High God, Yahweh Elohim–ineffective as they are) is my ex. And she is only attacking H-.

On to it, on to the raison d’etre of this post. I told you that besides informing ya’ll about my family demographics that may not always come across and I like to believe may have a softening effect on the man behind the blog, I wanted to take a moment and describe, for H-‘s sake, what I imagine is the “real” fight/argument between her mom and I. I want to take a moment, crazy as it may be, to reveal my best guess as to what her mom really has had beef with for at least this past 11 years of being divorced. Ready, H-? Ready, dear reader?

H-‘s mom, unlike me, really loved me. As in, she really wanted to not be divorced from me.

Three clues that lead me to this conclusion.

Firstly, when we were in front of the judge for the first and only time we both appeared together in a court room, even he, the judge, commented how well we seemed to get along. I was, naturally, unconcerned with truth and just doing whatever my instincts instructed would be the winning action/speech to get the hell out of there alive. In the moment, I assumed K- was doing the same. Like a traffic stop on steroids. Survive. That’s the goal. But then one of the weirdest moments of all my life occurred in the elevator down, which we, for some reason, got into at the same time. K- said to me, “Well, who knows? Maybe we’ll get remarried.” I knew then, by the speed of the transition of the look on her face from hope to hate, that without a doubt I wear my feelings on my sleeve.

Secondly, I can’t take sole credit for developing this imaginary scenario of mine. One of the only people to truly listen and try to figure out how someone could still care enough to keep pursuing the crime after seven years was the first to state it. This co-worker said something like, “She must have really been hurt.”

My immediate reaction was like, “What do you mean? Hurt by what? Hurt by who? Me?” It’s actually a bit daunting to consider what I saw as the conclusion of this co-worker’s assertion. I started thinking, that my ex-wife–miserable, vindictive wench that she is–actually loved me and wanted to remain married to me or get remarried to me despite all the unpleasantness of our 6+ year marriage. All the more daunting because I just never did. I had even said, “If it doesn’t work, we can just get divorced,” casually on or near the day I proposed.

I have never been one to hide my faults. I have never been one to deny my sins. And I suspect this is where I am different from most people. I have no problem baldly saying, “I never really loved you. I never really cared about you. There were many outside variables–most of which stemmed from my view of sexual union–that led to my proposal.” I just don’t shy away from confessing shameful things like that. “Let’s get the truth in the air and then figure out the path forward” has always been my modus operandi.

Keep in mind, I also believe that “let’s get the truth in the air” is what is happening all day long by our actions. The distinction I draw or ask for help in drawing is that I believe we should intentionally match our words to our actions. K- was no happy wife/mother. She still isn’t. Her actions said so and say so.

Thirdly, the final piece of the puzzle that assures me that my imaginary world of her “love” for me and wish to remarry is the fact that she got remarried, only after I did. The difference, of course, is that I barely dated–and never lived with a girlfriend for the 6+ years between divorce and wedding. Slow down and read that again. I had 6 years of living alone–and after trying some dating for the first 3 years of renewed bachelorhood–was single for the next 3 until I met my current wife. And we did not live together until we were married. My ex, on the other hand, continued where she left off back when I became her bankbook of the hour. Since our separation, a year before the divorce was final, she had live-in boyfriend after live-in boyfriend. As much as I can cherry pick all the disastrous women I have heard of and conclude that I disdain the female sex in its entirety, believe me when I say that I am well aware that the male is equally as terrible. What kind of man moves in with a single mother–a single mother collecting child support and kidnapping the child as if the father, me, is on the penal farm? Horrible men, that’s who. Tried and true “mother effers”. It’s in the name, folks. But she found them and invited them in. Yet, she wouldn’t marry them, or they didn’t ask, or she didn’t pressure them to ask with the “get the milk from the cow for free” BS that made me feel guilty all these many years ago.

But she loves me still. And I don’t love her at all, never did.

That is the underlying disagreement that all the surface dialogue attacks about child support and parenting time is truly about.

****

What do you think, H-? In your almost 14 year old wisdom, does every marriage have to be based on love? And does every divorce have to be based on equitable lack of love? And do empirical facts have any role to play in determining what love is?

Finally, H-, I’d love to hear how you justify your treatment (or lack thereof) of A-, A-, and J-, otherwise known as your ‘brothers and sister’. Do you know that I barely say your name around them anymore, to protect them? Is that what you want? Or are you gonna reengage sometime soon and I can remind them of their big sister? For what it’s worth, J- is so young and promising that he probably won’t display any care, taking the wisest of stances if/when he decides to speak about it. Something like, “I always figured things would change when the right situation presented itself.” So while you two need each other, the age and gender gap is just too big anyhow. I will tell you, though, that taken together with how much your mom is hurting you, you’re doubly losing by not having A- in your life. I can already see that. She has so much love and energy to give. The four of us can’t receive it all. So please start using your grey matter and come back to us.

What will you do?

Wake Up, H-. You’re Being Lied to by Your Mother.

It really bothers me that my choice of wife has resulted in the kidnap of my daughter. These days, I think it probably best to say “kidnap/runaway.” I think the addition of runaway better reveals the indifference and poor parenting involved. We’re not talking about a fairy tale here. We’re talking about years long moral crimes by mothers and all who support them.

Coming a close second to the fact of physical separation and the resultant lack of influence by yours truly is the absolute nonsense behind the idea that I, me, have any responsibility for the situation. Let me be clear: I don’t cause these crimes.

Not only have I done nothing (ever) that any reasonable person would think indicates that I don’t want to raise or can’t raise or shouldn’t raise my daughter, I have only ever acted with the intent to raise my daughter. Do you know how easy it would be to quit these days?

My intent is evident all the way from the fact that I have a job down to the fact that I have never—not ever—suggested that her mom not get time to raise her. She’s your kid too, dummy! Of course you get the chance to screw her up like your parents screwed you up!

Physiological effects surface by just typing this description of the perverse nature of the situation: a mother kidnapping her daughter from the father while stealing his money to foot the mealticket and nearly every single witness, the judge, and the jury look away. Does God?

It bothers me.

Did I ever mention on here that despite thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars being stolen by H-’s mom that when I finally saw H- again, she was wearing socks with more than one hole in them? That they were thin as tissue?

Do you see the three-fold problem with that, dear reader? First, no one over there has thought to teach her self-respect. Second, “Buy the kid some friggin’ socks!” And third, “Pay attention to your kid’s socks!”

Why is my daughter clothed like a pauper when the money you steal should have her keeping up with the Kardashians? Or do you work for me and not have money left over for H-? I wonder what your husband thinks of his benfactor? Sounds fun. Maybe someday his balls will drop.

The great flaw of Christianity, if it can be called that, is exemplified by the following question that constantly circles my situation. The folks who put this question to me usually preface it with, “Now don’t get upset, but…”

The question is, “Is there anything you are doing to cause this situation?”

I want to answer them, “Uh, yeah. Tons of things. Like, breathing. And eating. And putting one foot in front of the other. The other day I turned on the water; I think that had something to do with it,” but instead an anger of the hottest kind boils over into, “I AM NOT CAUSING THIS!! IT IS NOT A SITUATION WHICH IS AN EFFECT OF A CAUSE!!” (That use of capital letters is meant to convey yelling in the most passionate rage.)

Some people, it seems, live on a planet where there is a balance book, a zero sum world. In their world, if you help an old lady across the street a couple times as a kid, then your future ex-wife is morally grounded, narrowly avoiding the ever-present call all women face to embody a virulent waif. On the other hand, if you discard every instinct and signal your body sends, in favor of optimism, and accordingly marry someone (whose action of leaning over in her car, as the two of you drive separately from her job to the restaurant of your first date, is, you later find out, for the purpose of taking a hit of weed), divorce her later before the madness spirals totally out of control, and write—with uncommon voice, vocabulary, and velocity—both how you feel about the State you served’s defense of a mother’s right to kidnap and neglect a child, rob the father, and that she never once, not once, ever, never ever supports herself (or her daughter) financially, then it’s open season on you.

Sorry, Bible-believers, but if you really thought that “choice of spouse” was that important, then that should’ve been the end of the matter and we can forget about the whole Gospel thing.

But you and I both know that life is about much more than marriage and family relationships, don’t we? That’s right. We do.

The thing, in short, is this.

Every bone in my body tells me I am right, tells me my way of seeing—not everything—but this situation is reality.

I would be betraying myself, I have betrayed myself, by giving time and action to the notion that I somehow, in some way, play a role in the situation. That is simply not true. It is an untenable option.

I want my daughter, I have always wanted my daughter, and I have done nothing to push her away from me. Never. Even the divorce was my way of trying to save her from experiencing her mother for at least some of her childhood—exactly half, if I had my way.

Instead, all my efforts have dropped me off on soil where I am the one who never sees H-.

This bothers me. It depresses me. It makes me want to quit. Quit with a capital Q. I feel like ending all effort and just vegging out on the couch in front of the tv. No more work, no more parenting my other kids. No more reading. No more piano. No more nuthin’. Just leave me alone.

But I persist. I persevere.

Why? Because if I was H-, and this daydream may be my fatal flaw, if I was H-, then I would want to know that I had experienced violence at the hands of the only person I trusted. In other words, if I was H-, I would want to know I had been kidnapped.

I would want to know.

****

Half the reason I am motivated to “keep on, keepin’ on” in life is the quest to find reality. What is real? Put differently, am I alone?

Reality for me, I guess, means peace. It means evidence of order—irrespective of feelings. Reality is not the chaos caused by passions. Most importantly, reality is worth fighting for.

Am I really a deadbeat dad, deemed by society as unworthy of raising my own child? Is that the reality? Am I really some maladjusted, bitter, and just plain mean terrorist of a man, being justly punished for an unending reign of terror—but a man who is always one moment away from changing his ways to the reward of being reunited with his daughter? Is that reality?

Or, or, or, are those and other grandiose fantasies being perpetuated from every angle with all intensity upon an unsuspecting teenage girl who finds herself bound by a seemingly unbreakable spell made up of an unrelenting dark web of lies and half-truths cast by her own mother?

Reality, for me, is the latter. But H- is the one who must decide. So I persist. Because she is my daughter and worth fighting for.

Her Idle Hands

In an EMS job (I just learned this during some yearly recurrent CBT), you have to be ready to respond at a moment’s notice. It can make things like “eating” difficult. For example, yesterday I was grazing successfully for the first six hours of the shift, and then boom!, got a call at 3pm, and upon completion of that one, almost having returned to base, got a follow-on call that kept me out until 1059pm. That’s eight hours, folks. Luckily, I carry two Clif Bars, (one regular, one protein) on my person and a Gatorade in the aircraft. Simply put, I survived. (Didn’t even have to crack open the protein one.)

Another aspect of the job is that you leave the office in disarray, not having time to properly cleanup when the call drops. That’s the stimulus for this post.

I was in the middle of some Psalm reading when the call came, the second and third Psalms.

I didn’t really think about leaving the open Bible for my counterpart pilot to see when he came on shift while I was out, but when I got back to the office, after my truly heroic effort to impose security and peace of mind on the public, I saw it again and couldn’t help but wonder if he snuck a peek. He probably didn’t.

But I like to daydream and the following is my daydream.

****

“I saw you were reading the Psalms, Pete. Did you leave that for me to see? You trying to convert me?”

“Ha. No. I don’t think it happens like that. And I can’t say I knew whether or not you were redeemed until just this moment.”

“Touché.”

Pause.

Then he began again, “Why do you read that book? I don’t see the point.”

“Well, it’s like this. First, it’s true. Jesus really is Yahweh, the God of the Bible, in the flesh. And the Son of God. And ‘Ya’ll need Jesus’ as the meme goes. All that is true. But the reason for reading it is best put like this.

“You know my ex wife kidnapped my daughter, right? I’ve mentioned as much, yes?”

“Yup.”

“Can you help me get her back?”

“Uh. Seriously? Or hypothetically? I mean, you know that I am ready to rock’n’roll Taken-style, just say the word.”

“Nice. But without using force. Can you help me?”

“I don’t see how I could. So no.”

“I agree. You can’t help. Don’t feel bad. I’m making a bigger point. Here are the facts. My parents can’t help either. My wife can’t help. My children can’t help. I have no friends who can help. Mediation can’t help. Lawyers, even if they persuade the judge, aren’t ‘enforcement’, and so they can only help on paper. And the Judge also isn’t enforcement, and so he/she can only wish to help. Finally, no law enforcement actually has time or concern to help. It isn’t exactly prime optics to yank kids out of one of their parent’s arms—not to mention domestic disturbance calls are known escalate so quick that no one is interested in being around for the fireworks, regardless of the principles and titles involved.”

“When you put it that way, I do not envy you.”

“Thanks. In any case, I hope you see why I might read the Psalms. Forget Jesus for a minute. Forget history. Forget all the nonsense we chatted about a few weeks ago regarding the misconceptions of the Bible being translations of translations etc. Just listen to this,

He who sits in the heaven laughs, the Lord scoffs at them.

“And,

I lay down and slept; I awoke, for Yahweh sustains me.

“When I see the world, when I see my little situation and extrapolate it out to others’ situations and even the biggest situations, like wars and such, I cannot find any hope. I mean that I despair. Truly. You don’t want to know. But these words—the idea they hold—the idea that the powers I see are not the highest powers, well, these words become my hope and my prayer.

“‘LORD: for whatever reason, there is no hope down here. In a tone familiar to you, ‘None can help me, no not one’. Can you? Will you? Prove yourself.’

“That’s why I read the Bible.”

“Hmm. I can’t say I will get there from here, but I hope it works. Let me know, will ya?”

“I doubt I could stop updating you even I wanted to. Ha.”

****

On the topic, do you want to hear what the mediator (would’ve thought he was supposed to maintain neutrality…) actually had the balls to say to me? He said, “I did want to tell you that I applaud you for trying so hard to stay in your daughter’s life.”

What does one do with that betrayal?

Umm…thanks? I mean, the only thing I ever did to “leave” my daughter was determine that kids cost money, and then apply for a job, accept the position, and go to work as scheduled. I will never understand how that has resulted in “losing” my daughter. Seriously, her mom has literally never worked full time in the last 18 years. Think about that. And the result is the kidnapping of a child, robbing me, and unilaterally influencing our daughter? Idle hands are the devil’s playground, after all, it seems.

LORD: for whatever reason, there is no hope down here. None can help me, no not one. Can you? Will you? Prove yourself.

Marriage and Family: Arty D vs. Louie Lah vs. C Frazier, A Corner-Joint Review of “Through the Magic Door”, “Passin’ Through”, and “Cold Mountain”, by the Aforementioned Three Greats

Sir Doyle’s book is a must-read for book lovers with a personal library (or bookshelf), but definitely can be skipped by all others. The best moments of it are of the nature of the best moments of all of life, which is to say, the best moments are those in which we unwittingly reveal our core beliefs. For this knight, it comes out in his statements about the barbarians or uncivilized (or the like) that still exist today, but of course we stopped labeling them as such pretty much when the likes of Doyle died.

Mr. L’Amour’s book was exactly what you would expect for an author whose works have sold over 300 million copies worldwide.

And then we come to Mr. Frazier’s masterpiece. Oddly, I first heard of Cold Mountain when in the USAF’s OTS in Alabama after college (you need a degree to be a US military officer, and need to be an officer to be a pilot), and had arranged the third of three terribly awkward and resoundingly terminal “let’s meet up since we spent so much time playing SOCOM together online” rendez-vous’. This online pal was a professor’s assistant or something and so I figured it couldn’t be too weird. And it wasn’t. But the only movie worth seeing after grabbing a bite was Cold Mountain. I figured it looked kinda like Braveheart, so I was a bit surprised how it felt so “Notebook-ee” when viewing with a veritable stranger. Not that I regret the meetup. Live and learn, I say.

I watched the movie later in life for whatever reason and fell in love with it. I bought the piano music even. I even, while in Denver, tracked down a “Sacred Harp” group and used to traipse all the way to it when I could, carrying H- in tow. I probably posted about that actually. H- was adorable at those types of things back then. If you haven’t been, the dozen or so participants sit facing each other in a square. And one person stands in the middle and leads the acapella singing, using a particular and simple arm movement to keep everyone on time. When it was H-’s turn, without blinking or thinking, she just stood up and went to the middle, arm at the ready. So funny and instructional. Form the kids, I say. They can do it.

That was close to a decade ago, and a dozen views of the film. As I looked for something to read with my wife (we started with “The Age of Innocence”), I picked up the book. I figured it had to be good if they made a movie. But I didn’t count on how tricky the English is. Most literate native speakers can handle it, if book sales and ticket sales mean anything, but I found that nearly every sentence contained so much meaning—and maybe just to me and my imagination—that I couldn’t read it to my wife and believe that she was following any of it. In retrospect, it was probably more the simple setting of the Civil War American South than anything else that I saw as the barrier. Try explaining the richness of that history to an alien. As I’m sure they (aliens) have—actually we all know they hold grudges longer than we of the West, how else can you explain Africa?—there is just too much passion and indignation and family, not to mention—or dare I mention—principle involved in that great war for the future of America to be captured by words. And folks who don’t interact with the land of America, just the fruits of America—in other words, “the rest of the world”—just can’t “get it”. They can’t. It’s parroting at best, and falsehood at worst.

How do the three relate? Whether Doyle had any idea he was doing so or not, the way his book ended lumped him into the category of the other two, by virtue of climaxing on the concept of marriage and family. I think Louise writes love stories because he knows women read more than men. Frazier wrote his because it was kinda family legend/history. And then Doyle somehow arrived at marriage and family because he randomly began his trek along his bookshelves at such a point that the end of his collection included Stevenson’s works, thus the platform to display awareness that Robert just chose to bypass marriage/family altogether when writing his classics. It lead to Doyle’s best line, “How many [men] go through the world without ever loving at all?”

Efficiency as Divine Telos?

Did I mention my mother-in-law is staying with us?

Well, one thing that has become crystalized in my marriage to someone outside the dominant culture on Earth is that without communication, besides all the obvious examples of the profound inability to experience good things, efficiency goes right out the window. This occurs all day, every day.

To hear it is like listening to “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” in the round, but the words are, “Oh, you didn’t mean that? I guess we throw it away.”

And verse two, “Oh, you didn’t mean that? Well, we can’t get that time back either.”

But, and here’s an instance of why I sought this marriage in particular, the question remains, “So what? If we had a perfectly efficient marriage, what would that indicate? Is that what life is all about? Efficiency?”

I say, “No.”

That’s Not Exactly How I’d Put It

So my mother-in-law is back with us for a short time before her return to Ethiopia. I believe I have mentioned to someone, maybe not as a post, that her stay with us is not as bad as I had imagined it could be. In truth, it gives my wife someone to talk to, and Ethiopians (or “abasha” if you want to appear “in the know” to them) seem to need people to be happy, far more than I do at least.

At dinner the other night sat my wife, her mother, my step-son, A-, and the two toddlers and I. Whatever caused the moment to develop, the toddlers were declaring that A- was the source of the problem. To hear this gives me great pleasure and my laughter indicated as much.

My mother-in-law asked her daughter, my wife, what was so funny and my wife tried to explain, but even a dummy like me knows this “joke” is very hard to translate. I gave my wife the tip, “Tell your mom that I have trained the two younger ones to always blame A-.”

My wife, generally one to laugh thoughtlessly when anyone laughs, stopped smiling as she realized that her mom might not like to know this fact. Her mom, point of fact, raised A- in the homeland from 1-8 until his father allowed him to join his mom (now my wife) back in 2018. Sensing this, I added, “Tell her that it’s because A- had it so easy for his first 8 years.”

A- surprisingly, and unsurprisingly, clarified, “9 years,” I think because he didn’t officially move in with me until 2019.

The mother-in-law didn’t appear to think it was as funny as I did and to boot she told my wife that, “A- did not have it very easy and he was a very good boy.”

This of course made me laugh even harder because it is patently untrue as measured by his habits/character etc. and the fact that it was now clear to me that “easy” and “hard” were not being translated accurately.

As you know, dear furinj (that’s the name for white folks), by “easy” I meant things like “A-went through life unmolested to the point of living a perfectly terrible balance of getting everything he desired, having no understandable cause-and-effect relationship to his life choices, and being emotionally and mentally neglected.”

My mother-in-law, of course, meant, “He was beaten, with implements sometimes, and while I regret that, he is clearly better for it.”

The next day, he and I had to get some of his grandma’s stuff out of our shed and you can imagine the picture. I would climb over things, begin to lift them or push them and expect that the boy would take note of his necessary role and “put in his oar” as it were. Instead, he moved out of the way every time, as if he was just there to watch. (Bear in mind, it has been four years of this. This includes when I get in the car and hand the pizza boxes to him in the passenger seat only to watch as he squishes back into the seat thinking that the boxes are going to accidentally bump him otherwise.)

We find everything; the grandma’s bags are now in the house. Now they need to be carried to upstairs. He grabs two of them as she watches. I know their language enough to count to ten and hear the number “hulet” which is “two”. So I put together that ol’ grandma is suggesting that he doesn’t need to carry two at a time—and I can attest that they were heavy. A- boldly insists that he can do it—a fact to be decided in real time.

I can’t help but chide him and comment, “Oh, I see. When grandma’s watching you turn into a strongman. Nice.”

A- responds in kind, “I was a good boy for nine years…”

That’s not exactly how I’d put it.

Life On Pitch

There was this kinda scary dude that came to work at the car wash I was assistant manager at almost ten years ago. He was scary in the “didn’t get out much, but had a strong personality” kinda way. Not violent, buuuut ya never knew what may trigger him.

One day I learned that his favorite Batman, keep in mind that the trilogy was already out—TDKR and the shooting happened in 2012—anyhow his favorite was Batman and Robin.

I know, I know. He had to be kidding right?

That’s what I thought and that’s when I learned that he was out there, in his own special way. The George Clooney Batman is simply terrible. More than that, this opinion of mine is universal. It is so universal that when someone declares that their favorite Batman is Batman and Robin—-and the trilogy is already in existence—you take them as a new friend who can deliver deadpan sarcasm with ease. I mean, here was a new best friend.

But then I learned that he wasn’t kidding. He started quoting it and everything. In a way, he was still becoming my personal hero because he clearly had no fear, but there is a thing call “foolhardy” when you’re juuust a bit too courageous.

Later, at another gig where I was assistant manager again, still retail (wink wink), I met a dude that was essentially a tough guy, or that’s what he was paid to be, and he burst my bubble, much like the B&R fanboy, by declaring in all earnestness (and being completely shocked that I dared disagree) that Pitch Perfect was the greatest movie ever.

Those two guys were remarkable. I have never met any others in their class.

All this to tell you that when scrolling for a movie to watch with my wife and 13 yr old stepson tonight, when I saw Pitch Perfect on Prime, I immediately pressed “watch now”.

This decision surprisingly provided the funniest moment of my life—or at least in serious contention for that penultimate experience—as my poor ETL (English as Third Language, and low vocab at that) wife and mother of my stepson (himself laying on the couch nearby) asking, “What is a boner?” after the “Toner” joke. Hahahaha. Can you imagine his awkwardness?

But the reason for the post, the catalyst carrying the muse, is the main character—not sure you need the summary—is a child of divorce that pushes people away, but eventually realizes that that is not the way to live. And she is cool and good at what she likes to do.

In short, this little movie has me in better than normal spirits about H- and her future. Can’t complain about that.

My New Years Plans

You’re wondering what ol’ Pete is doing for New Year’s?

Aww. That’s so sweet!

Of course, men don’t use sweet to describe things, so you know the following is not written by yours truly and therefore cannot be firmly located in the realm of reality. But let’s play.

I’m on night shift tonight, which means—same for any first responder I presume—that I am hoping the life insurance actuarial tables are accurate and you folks hold on for one more holiday tonight thereby giving me an easy shift.

During the day, I plan to finish up breakfast, write and read a bit over coffee and day-old-doughnuts, and then head to Little Caesars for the normal EMB, brookie, and soda. I plan to indulge in this meal fit for kings whilst asking the blacks if they have any answers to my problems—as the whites surely do not. In other words, I am finally going to watch Fences. I have been terrified of that movie since I first heard of it, but today is the day.

Then it’s off to a NSDR-induced nap (hopefully I make it to actual sleep), after which the rat race begins again.

How about you? What are your plans?

To “Anyone Who Would Listen”

I’m so fucking strong. That’s why Life can’t ever get to me. But as I drove home—daughterless—from the court-ordered, though in the main respect unsuccessful, transfer of child for Christmas (odd years are mine), I couldn’t help but think, “Man. I can handle these things because I’m so strong. But imagine if every, or even just a few, of these other schmucks behind the wheel were dealing with this blow. Surely it would destroy them.”

Good thing I’m strong. That’s all I have to say.

My ex actually answered the door. That was a surprise. I think it’s been over 5 years since I have seen her. I wasn’t sure if her father would make the protective trip like he did last time when she first revealed her desire to kidnap my daughter. H- was still innocent those few years ago and believed the lies they told her about his visit. Ah, the good ol’ days.

Let me just say, for the record, my ex looked terrible. She looked like she had lost her entire sense of humor. The years have not been good to her.

I, if I do say so myself, looked as good as I can get. I had a suit on. Blue, with brown belt and shoes. Grey polo underneath. My nice gold-colored watch. I was going for the “I choose the wrench” look. You know the one, right? End of “Good Will Hunting”? Matt Damon is explaining how his step-dad used to layout the tools from which he, as the step-son, could choose to get beat with? A hose, a stick, a wrench (or similar). Good ol’ loveable Will says, “No, I chose the wrench. ‘Cuz, ‘Fuck him.’” Yup, I want my gold-digging ex to see that she has more to take from me, that is, if she was only smart enough to figure out how.

Which brings me to why I even continue to breathe in air. It’s for moments of pure clarity that the clear mountain air brings to us on mornings like this one. Moments like I had on the drive home.

The Deputy I spoke to when I called in this “incident” told me she (lady cop) didn’t have to come out if I didn’t want her to. I told her I wanted as little drama as possible, but I did want a formal record of the non-transfer-event. The deputy continued to explain that the incident is recorded and she can text me an “incident number” that I can use should I file a motion for contempt of court etc.

Hahahahahaha. Ah, bliss.

If you missed it, that was the moment of pure clarity.

Imagine it. Me, a divorced dad, American citizen, filing a motion of contempt of court against my ex. Hahahahaha. Like that would do anything.

I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. While being terrifically strong, sometimes I think I am not that smart.

There is no enforcement! What is the judge, the Court, going to do? Slap her wrist? Lecture her? Make her pay a fine? I should be a freakin’ attorney for women. “Ahem… Pardon me. Here’s all you need to do. Nothing. You just do nothing. Don’t do a thing. Just think ‘rock on a flatland’ anytime you begin to stress. Don’t move. Not one inch. Got it? Good. Total for today’s chat will be $12,786.42–but don’t worry. He’ll happily pay.”

Now here is the interesting, truly fascinating, part. I used to know this! I did. In fact, I distinctly recall writing, and could probably search for, a blog post about the complete impotence of divorced dads in America. It was like 3 years ago, I think.

But then something odd happened. Hope was kindled. But apparently my iceberg of penguins is so full, that when Hope appeared, the Facts of Life had to drop off the edge, if there was to be room.

That, and the fact that, as a strong mother-effer, I have to say that I love proving it. I love flaunting it. Right next to “pure being”, I live to flex. And I love—I think this is why I married two weak women—I love getting punched in the face by puny little children. I feel like Tyler Durden must have when persuading Lou in “Fight Club”. I love it.

So I drove the hour to visit my longest-standing ward. Again, she looked terrible. But me? I drove home unruffled—unlike all the other folks on the road. God help them this Christmas.

Foucault’s Pendulum and Spheres and Earth and Friends and More!

Careful readers noticed yesterday that I used the words “pope” and “Copernicus” when dismantling Tesla-lovers’ desire to save the planet while they commute alongside me. I did this because my guided reading through the Great Books of the Western World has landed me in Ptolemy and Copernicus (and now Kepler).

I told a co-worker that I feel like I’m reading sacred scripture when I read these guys’ words. I mean they are it. These are the ones who tackled the big problems and won (and lost). I cannot emphasize enough how interesting and provocative the writings are—especially the ones that have been disproved. Just fascinating. For example, did you know that folks knew Earth was a sphere over 2000 years ago? They knew. And they knew through easy methods that even you and I can understand, the most simple being that during lunar eclipses, the shadow on the moon is always circular. And only a sphere object can do that.

Anyhow, in short, (because I know you aren’t going to rush out and get the set) Ptolemy (and many in his day, circa 100-200AD) thought the Earth was an unmoving sphere inside a larger rotating sphere which was lined with the stars and the other lights of the sky. To be clear, this is a ball within a ball scenario. Like if we go to a planetarium and lay back in the dome structure to “ooh and ahh” the night sky as projected digitally, that’s pretty much what they thought. I mean to emphasize that they did not see the night sky (or day sky for that matter) as “deep”. Had they thought to travel out to the lights, they apparently thought they would hit a wall/boundary. (Keep in mind, they didn’t conceive of traveling off earth.) This, of course, stands against everything we moderns believe, which includes that we can and will journey further and further and further away from the Sun/Earth or really anything out there.

With me?

Next, it was Copernicus who went through the Pope (and had to in 1543–life is so different today—so very different) to correct Ptolemy’s errant belief that Earth was the center of the larger sphere. The Sun was the center—and, put simply, for the reason that it makes the math simpler. Note here that Copernicus still did not believe that space went out and out and out. (He also showed other things, such as the Earth itself moves and this what makes the stars appears to move, not the other way around.)

In the guided reader, they make mention of the types of proofs that Ptolemy and Copernicus were concerned with and this is where it is mentioned that the Foucault Pendulum was finally invented and put to use in 1851. You can look it up yourself; I still don’t fully understand how it works. Maybe you will. But when you look it up, you’ll discover that these pendulums are all over the globe now at various science museums, and they report in to each other. It is this comparison of observations that is truly the mechanical proof of the rotational movement of the sphere earth.

This was a “Eureka!” moment for me.

To rehearse and summarize some of this trivia, Ptolemy really made his mark because he took into account past astronomical observations and added to them an extensive new amount of data. Then Copernicus did the same. (See the methodological trend?) By the time we get to Foucault’s Pendulum, we already have an established pattern of humans using other humans’ information, so the idea of sharing the results from these pendulums that are swinging all over the world is not entirely new.

Are you tracking yet?

(I enjoy leading folks to the conclusion rather than just bluntly stating it, but I’ll be blunt after one more clue.)

Put another way, Ptolemy alone didn’t suggest the Earth was the center and a sphere. Copernicus alone didn’t suggest the Sun was the center and the Earth rotated. Foucault alone didn’t prove that the Earth was a rotating sphere.

People need people! Get it?

We all have encountered Flat Earthers of late. Or most of us have. Guess what? They are alone. They have no friends. Even the others at the conventions aren’t friends. They don’t compare notes and use each others’ new and unique and accurate and confirmable measurable data to develop and defend their idea. They just bleat. Bah bah baaaa.

I am impassioned by this topic because a very good former friend of mine that I met at the seminary revealed his insanity when he one day decided to lob a joke about the earth being round into the fray. When I didn’t buy into his BS, he wouldn’t allow for any other topic of conversation to pass.

Keep in mind I told him, “I don’t care which mental construction of the universe you hold in your mind. I just think we should be able to talk about something else too.”

Nope. He wouldn’t move past it until I agreed with him.

I had invited him in for lunch in my seminary, Steinway-housing apartment. His wife and him (and baby) hosted H- and I for an afternoon meal and relaxing stroll at his place. We were at the seminary together. Man. It was/is frustrating. But it also proves my “newly learned” point. These folks have no friends. (Did I mention he was a green beret? Yeah. Unrelenting persistency does not always pay off.)

Anyhow. Crazy times we live in. The good part, as I have said and wrote time and time again, is we have books. I’m still with TJ, “I cannot live without books.”