Enjoy.

“Not only doesn’t the right hand know what the left is doing, the left hand is actively engaged in a disinformation campaign while the right hand is secretly planning a coup d’état against the left hand’s democratically elected government.”

“Does anybody really know what time it is?”

“Yo, tell me what you want, what you really really want.”

“Could we do something like this – only not.”

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“You haven’t changed a bit.”

I might have popped her square in the mouth if such random violence wasn’t generally frowned upon. Really? Who did she think she was? Where was she for the last 25 years? Was she there when I was teaching Sunday school? Or when I was DJing in topless clubs? Did she help me through my divorce or congratulate me on becoming a father? Was she around for any of my life since high school?

No.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when the cloud of piss-off had cleared from my brain that I realized she was right. It was a thick, cold mouthful of truth to swallow, but it was one of those things you don’t see standing in the water of your life.

I. Me.

I think I spent most every day of my life since about eighth grad wrapped up in a tight little ball of angst. Twenty five years may have added a lot of experience to me, but it hasn’t changed me all that much. I’m still the same boy who waited for people to come to me, who pulled pigtails to express love, who stood on the outside looking in. It’s only taken me a lifetime to see it… or at least my lifetime up until now?

So, where does that leave me?
That’s a good question.

Where does it leave me? Quite obviously, it leaves me in the same place it has ever left me. It leaves me in the position to either remain the same person or to change. Ideally, the best option is to change. The present is no place to live while schlepping large hunks of past behind you like cinder blocks. Is there pain in my past? Loss? Sure, but that is only a part of the picture, not the background which we render our life now on. The present should be a mosaic of our past: little bits of color taken from here and there to create a constantly evolving picture Maybe it’s time I started really believing that. Maybe it’s time I ditched all those outmoded means of interaction, the canned responses, the fear and stepped out into the now.

It’s only something that probably should have happened 9,131 yesterdays ago.

Related posts:

1. 9,131 Yesterdays Ago

Call it the visual equivalent of Muzak.

Heap many moons ago, I subjected myself to this stretch of asphalt while on a brief road trip with my friend, Hector. Once we had exhausted all our small talk and chitchat about women and work, I turned my attention to the blur of landscape that streaked past my window. It wasn’t long before my mind began to wander.

I remembered a conversation I was having with a girl I used to work with. Sometimes, I’ll forget conversations outright. Sometimes, the memories of the content or people I have them with all blur together.

This one I remember.

******************************

“I never should’ve gotten married.” Angela said as she knelt down to talk to me. Angela was a very pretty young lady with ringlets of red hair that flowed to the middle of her back and freckles that dust her fair skin from her shoulders all the way down to her… I probably haven’t mentioned before that one of my multitude of jobs was as a DJ in a topless club, have I? It’s not important to the story per se, but it does explain how I know the extent of her freckle coverage. Anyway, I hadn’t known her very long but, sometimes, you don’t have to know someone very long to recognize sadness in their voice. Or regret in their eyes.

Besides, mostly naked people usually tend to be just that – naked.

“I know I shouldn’t have,” she continued, “but I just can’t be alone. You know what I mean?” I didn’t answer immediately. Mainly because I was lost in my own thoughts of my own failed first marriage. I thought back to the day when I looked at myself in the mirror on my wedding day, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I spent years wondering until one day it hit me.

Y’see, regardless of what some scientists or the chronically unfaithful say, people are wired to be with a single someone. Sure science may see one thing but not long ago on the cosmic calendar, science also saw the universe revolving around the earth. Though I do think I have an ex-girlfriend who’s still totally convinced that it revolves around her…

It’s not that there’s a perfect someone out there for you. It’s that there are perfect someones out there. When we are young, chances are we’ll date people that we look back on and say to ourselves, “What was I thinking?” As we get older, the picture of what we’re really looking for becomes more and more clear. But, as we are waiting for that image to resolve itself, we seek out one of those rare few out of billions that are a fit for us, running sometimes through choices like blind children in a candy shop, driven to fill this hollow feeling inside us. A lot of times, we’ll try to shoehorn someone who doesn’t fit in there.

In doing so, we end up settling.

Settling (not to be confused with settling down) is by far one of the greatest sins we can commit against ourselves. For whatever reason, we think that we aren’t going to find anything better. It’s not perfect, we think, but it’ll do. Maybe, we’ve just grown tired of the chase. Or maybe, we will never find that someone who we are truly supposed to be with. Or that, somehow, the end of all relationships is the same, no matter who the other person is.

So, instead, we end up at a rest stop.
Or a motel.
Not at home.

And really home is where we want to be. Ironically enough, it was Miss “The-world-revolves-around-me” who taught me the most important thing in a relationship is not appearance, not sex, but compatibility. Because really, there are plenty of pretty people out there. There are plenty of great lays out there too. But there are only a few who we are compatible with. The trick is learning the will and the patience to be able to sift through those and wait until the right someone comes along.

Slow down.
Put down roots.
Do something.
Anything.
But whatever you do . . .
Don’t settle.

******************************

Outside my window, fence posts went past with a constant zip-zip-zip and I wondered idly whether or not this would be a good day to buy a lotto ticket.

Related posts:

1. A Simple Introduction to Guys Like Me

Something from the Way Back Machine, updated just a skosh.

I remember it was a Sunday afternoon many years ago as I sat on my bed, somewhere between heaven and hell, briefly wondering what belt went well with a single man and khakis.

Really, it wasn’t a difficult choice; it was one I made day in and day out, but today as I looked at myself in the mirror, I was stuck. I was stuck somewhere between the brown and the black, somewhere between the desirable twenties and the stable forties. I could go either with the brown belt, which like Angie, fit one particular situation or I could go with the black belt, which like Elizabeth, went with everything or I could even go with none at all.

I wish I could say that the analogy about women came to me then but I’m not nearly that clever.

At least I wasn’t then.

Later, I thought how easy life would be if all our choices were like that; things that don’t suit us right now, we put back into the closet of our lives and pick them up again later – later when they fit us. I tend to think some of us would have a closet full of gadgets and toys, dozens of clockwork hearts stacked to the ceiling . . .

Some tinkered with.
Some broken.
Some stored away because I didn’t think I needed or wanted them at the time.

Me? I finally decided on the brown belt.

******************************

I know I’m not God’s Gift to Women. This I know because everyone knows God’s Gift to Women is chocolate. I’m pretty sure I’m no gift though. I don’t even think I’m a missent parcel. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone would even sign for me if UPS dropped me off at their door. Invariably, I’m the wrong size, the wrong shape or, the gods forbid, the wrong color.

Return to Sender.

I don’t think I’m a bad guy. I’m pretty sure I’m not an asshole. Assholes are the guys who think too little, lie too easily and, in all reality, don’t think enough of themselves. Assholes are always the other guys. Sometimes, I have to remind myself of that.

I like to think I’m not stupid either. Of course, being with a woman makes me do dumb things. Being alone makes me do dumb things.

So when do I know better?

The truth is I don’t know. An even more frightening truth is I’m not sure what I know and what I do know always seems to be wrong.

At least it seems wrong at the time.

I’ve meandered through relationships and certainly wandered through the desert-like time without them. I’m not lost… at least I don’t think so, but then I’m male, dammit, and if I am lost, I won’t admit it and I’m damn sure not asking for directions.

I just know that I’m stuck. I also know that there are dozens or hundreds or thousands or more like me. Standing there in front of their mirrors, holding out choices and wondering which goes best with whom they are — sometimes also wondering who exactly they are.

And that, somewhere there, between the sublime and the ridiculous, between the brown and black and even nothing at all, are guys like me.

Related posts:

1. Rules of the Road

Another Friday night was winding down at Johnnie’s. It was a few minutes after one in the morning and a steady, light rain tapped impatiently against the big, front window. It added soft percussion to the guitar’s plaintive cry from the club’s speakers. Scott Henderson was behind the bar cleaning bottles and emptying wells. As the newest bartender, he drew all the late weekend shifts. This was his second. And while it was more or less a death sentence to his social life, he didn’t mind. He’d spent most of his bartending years in meat markets watching the pretty people all but copulate on his bar. This small, neighborhood bar, where wood and brass reigned, was a far cry from what he’d been used to, but he welcomed the change.

With all the beer taps wrapped and only one well left, Scott felt pretty good. The rain had kept most people away and probably accounted for why the bar was empty so early. At least I can leave early, he thought. Then, like a misbehaving child, he looked over his shoulders and poured himself a shot of Grand Marnier. He leaned over the bar and sighed wearily. It hadn’t been a hard night, just a slow one, which meant a long one. He picked up the shot but before he could drink it, the front door opened. The rain outside splashed and splattered loudly until the door shut, muffling it again. A woman entered wearing a taupe trenchcoat and a similarly-colored, wide-brimmed hat. She walked to the bar as he quickly set his drink behind it.

“You still open?” She took her hat and coat and shook them lightly before setting them on the stool next to her. Underneath, she wore a navy-blue suit with a long, straight skirt.

“Ah . . . sure.” He managed to get his train of thought rolling again. “But I’m about to give last call” The woman looked curiously around the bar before turning her deep brown eyes back to him.

“Be sure to give it good and loud. I think everyone’s hiding from you hon.” He let out a small laugh. She smiled with him and adjusted her suitcoat as she sat.

“What can I get you? . . .” He picked up a highball glass and spun it in his hand.

“Sadie. And you can get me a gin and tonic.”

“O.K. Sadie. One G and T, coming up.” He reached down to grab an unwrapped bottle of gin with one hand, scooped ice into the glass with the other. “So what brings you out so late Sadie?”

“Hon, what brings any woman out this late?” She smoothed the hat dents out of her long, chocolate brown tresses. “A man.” Scott nodded.

“Were you supposed to meet him here?” He set the drink on the bar. “Maybe I . . . ”

“No lime.” He took the lime he was about to squeeze into her drink and threw it in the trash. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“Yeah. I was going to say maybe I saw him in here earlier.” He leaned against the bar. “We didn’t have too many people in here tonight. I might remember him.”

“There’s no tellin’ hon.” She drew a gold case from a small, black clutch and pulled out a cigarette. He produced a lighter and lit it for her. “Glen, my . . .” An embarrassed smile crept out as she looked for the right word. “Aw hell, the man I’m seeing behind his wife’s back.” She stopped. The smile left her face and she took a drag. “I know what you’re thinkin’.” Smoke burst out in short puffs as she spoke.

“I’m just listenin’, Sadie.” He shook head and raised his hands defensively.

“Yeah.” She sighed, then took another drag. “Tonight was supposed to be the night. After all this time, he was gonna tell her tonight.”

“Was he gonna leave her?”

“Yeah. Finally.” She took a sip of her drink.

“How long had you been . . . ” He gestured vaguely with one hand.

“Eight years.”

“Eight years?” He tried not to sound surprised. It didn’t work.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a long time. It’s not like he didn’t want to tell her before. Things just kept coming up . . . First, the promotion. Then, his mother getting sick and all.” She tapped ash into an ashtray. “Then, the baby . . . ” She took a long drink. Her cigarette dangled limply in her pale, slender hand.

“Baby? He got you pregnant?”

“No, no, not me . . . ” She set her glass down, ice shifted noisily. “Accidents happen, he said. But tonight’s the night.”

“I don’t mean to pry . . . ”

“Sure you do, you’re a bartender.” She smiled wryly.

“O.K. . . . Why did you wait so long?” She took a long drag.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. A thin stream of smoke slipped from her lips. “Call me silly and old-fashioned but I’ve always said if you love someone, you’re willing to wait for them.”

“Does he love you?” Her look became decidedly sharp for a second.

“Yeah.” Her look softened and she continued. “He’d better.” She laughed and picked up her glass. “Y’know, I’m no spring chicken any more. Aren’t too many roosters who want a bird this old . . . ” She took a drink. “Too old to start over hon.”

“I don’t know about that.” He smiled.

“You’re sweet.” She looked at him appreciatively. “You gonna let that shot ferment all over again or are you gonna drink with this old woman.”

“Sounds good to me.” He picked up his shot and thought for a moment. “To love?”

“To love.” She picked her drink up in agreement. The glasses clinked. Scott slammed his shot, she finished her G and T.

“When is he supposed to meet you?” He set his glass behind the bar.

“He should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago.” She looked around the bar. “I was running late on account of the rain. I’m sure he is too.”

“Sadie, I got a couple of things left to do. You mind if I turn up the lights and finish up.”

“No hon, go right ahead.” She picked up her purse. “How much do I owe you for this.”

“It’s on me.” He winked as he turned to go.

“Thank you.” He felt sorry for her. No one had been in for at least thirty minutes before she got there. She had waited eight years for this guy because she loved him and he . . . What a jerk, he thought.

“Sadie . . . ” He turned to break the news to her, maybe even ask her out to breakfast. After all, she was fairly attractive and didn’t look much older than he was. But as he turned up the lights, the woman with the sad smile faded like a dream. “Sadie? . . . ” He ran around the bar. The seat she was at and the floor around it were wet and smelled of gin. The seat where her hat and coat sat was also wet. Her glass was on the bar. There were ashes in the ashtray. And she was gone. He ran frantically around the bar. “Sadie! . . . Sadie! . . . ” Men’s bathroom. Women’s bathroom. Office. Kitchen. Stockroom. Broom closet. Nothing. He sat at the bar, practically throwing himself onto one of the stools. I’m going crazy, he thought. Some kind of small bar psychosis. He grabbed his head with both hands as if trying to keep it attached to his shoulders. And then he saw it. Behind the bar. He scrabbled over the bar desperately, knocking over and breaking glasses as he came down on the other side. He pulled an old black and white photo off the wall. It was a picture of a group of friends. The owner kept lots of old pictures like this up as a testament to the bar’s longevity. In the middle of the group was Sadie. Written on the picture: In memory of Sadie Grigsby. Died of a broken heart. 1-15-39. His lips moved as he read the words. Then read them again. Then read them aloud. “January fifteenth nineteen thirty-nine.” Almost sixty years ago. “God love ‘er,” he put the picture down, “she’s still waiting.”

It was a few minutes after two when Scott Henderson locked up Johnnie’s. Rain was still pattering in puddles. “‘Night Sadie.” In his head, a guitar moaned softly.

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Yes, I know I’ve been gone for a while now, but it’s not like I’ve been off being a man of leisure, nosiree. The last few weeks have been busy, busy, busy; mostly working with Red Carpet Crash to cover the Dallas International Film Festival. So far, as my first and only festival experience, I have to say that it was pretty amazing. I got to see some great new horror movies – the reviews of which will be gracing these pages in the immediate future.

I’m also going to go back to riding the train on a regular basis again. It’s downright therapeutic and it gives me about an hour and a half to think or write that I wouldn’t have driving to work everyday. Then there’s the additional benefits of it saving me on gas and wear and tear on my car.

Oh, and along with the DIFF reviews, I’ll be getting back to the Master of Horror season one reviews and catching everyone up on some personal news that is mostly no longer news anymore. Stay tuned.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of god these days and how odd it is that we attribute so many human behaviors to god. Really, does god put his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us? Do ants wonder why we watch Jersey Shore? Is there some kind of ant-y analog to it or do we humans just move in ways too mysterious for them to comprehend? Are god’s way truly higher than ours or do we just say they are? It’s preferable, I imagine, to thinking he’s sitting on some grand, celestial couch, watching us on the 24-hour Doofus Channel while shoving Cheet-os into his holy boxers.

Or is it preferable to casting our words to the empty air.

The Green Line train to Victory Station is going the opposite direction. Coincidence?

The guy has gone now, replaced by a girl wearing a big gold chain with a Peace symbol on it. Is it another coincidence or perhaps just another event that I’m trying to apply meaning to on my own.

The stories of the gods take place all around me, every day.

At least, to the ants.

Related posts:

1. Musings From The Morning Train Ride
2. The Toughest Six Minutes

• Take your kids out of public schools.
• Don’t use public utilities.
• Don’t call the police or fire department when you’re in trouble.
• Stay off the paved roads.

I think you get the picture.

• To form a more perfect union
• Establish justice
• Ensure domestic tranquility
• Provide for the common defense
• Promote the general welfare
• Secure the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity

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See? How great is that?
Oh, but don’t fall asleep.

I’m in the first car today. We’re in the tunnel between Cityplace and Mockingbird. I can see, in the distance, a small blue-gray circle that marks the end of the tunnel. It is hopeful.

At the Lovers’ Lane station, I notice a man sitting behind me who’s wearing an Oakland Raiders jacket and a Dallas Stars cap. Divided loyalties or convenient clothing?

7:28 A.M.

Related posts:

1. Musings From The Morning Train Ride – March 30, 2010
2. The Toughest Six Minutes

X amount of minutes later after some isolated polite-ish applause and widespread indifferent silence; I caught up with the rest of the family to discuss the movie. As a group, we decided that the film was a disappointment. I, in fact, tweeted as much. I got a few frowny faces in reply, but the one that has driven me to my keyboard this morning is one I’ve heard repeated a couple of since is this. And I paraphrase:

“Yeah I know, but I’m going to see it anyway.”
Wha????

I don’t get it. And then people bitch that Hollywood does nothing but turn out mediocre crap. Well, here’s a news flash for you: They’re going to if you keep going to see movies you already know are crap. Really. I mean should “Transformers 2″ have made ANY money? How about “2012″? No, not one thin dime. Instead, people rationalize their choice, “Well, I’m just going for the effects.” Or “I just want to see Megan Fox in short-shorts bent over a motorcycle.” It’s maddening. If you’ve ever had to rationalize going to some crapfest, turn in your Bitch card now. You don’t have any right to complain anymore. You are decidedly part of the problem and not part of the solution. Oh, and if you happen to do it around me, there’s a good chance of you getting punched in your gods-given reproductive bits.

You have been warned.

It just seems to me that too many people buy in to what the studios are pushing just because it features their favorite actor or director. Never mind the fact that they are just churning out the same crap over and over or that the movie sucks like a hooker when the fleet’s in. It’s like fake throwing a ball to your dog – except that eventually, the dog figures out you’re not throwing anything.

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