arrogance

got a "j'accuse" this morning on the subject of arrogance. my best perception of one dictionary definition of that is letting other people know what you think about them when it's not the way they'd prefer to be thought about. (which is to say, yup, there he goes again...)

i'm having a hard time getting past this one. nope, not because the opinion mattered to me (tres arrogant, wouldn't you say?) but because i can't reconcile "be a better person" in this case with "be yourself".

i can spell. i like big words. though i appreciate people who appreciate things that way, let's be honest with ourselves, the whole sorry intent behind this pitiful and almost consistently-by-the-world-ignored blog is not to write things that anyone else but me is going to care about or even have the patience to try to understand. it's a journal. it's not literature. or even to the level of traditional internet self-absorption. but it's me and it's mine, and if i correspond with people in this style and they find it rude and guilty of the "A" word, then their opinion, unfortunately, makes it so.

so what am i to do about it?

the grovelmeister would have me erase all of it, and eradicate it from my personality. i get where he's coming from, and i get the benefits of that. but let's say i don't dislike this arrogant s.o.b. let's say it helps to maintain this part of me while i try to fix the rest of it. yeah, yeah, this part may be the most broken-est of the lot, and the source of all the evil. but when it's gone, in a very real way I'M gone, and right now i'm the only friend i've got.

so kiss my ass, with all due respect and kindly intention. if folks weren't so self-conscious about the size of their mental thesauri, they likely wouldn't care when others take theirs out for a walk. it's not intended, when all is said and done, to exclude. it's intended to find a way to connect with ONE. so when others are editing their myspace pages to appeal, i'll be editing mine so it reflects who i am. if that appeals to someone, then that's a wonderful thing. if it doesn't? well, that's my peril. but at least it's me.

but thanks for your opinion.

two trains

the feats penned a memorable tribute to twisted love that doesn't really apply in this case, but the schizo concept has been coming up more and more lately, so i'm borrowing the title in homage to LG and company.

following, or preceding as the temporal case may be, are two populuxes that i really, really love. (rob shapiro, where are you now???) the first, or second as the case may be, is really rather sweet. "while you're sleeping". mmmmmm. the second, or first as the case may be, is really rather not. "this uniform is strangling me". amen.

rather than choose one, i'll offer both. consider one the world as it is and me asking "why?". consider the other the world as it could be, and me asking... nah, not this morning.

this morning it's berchtesgaden, and eva saying don't even look at me. but hopefully you get the idea. (don't forget to push the "play" button on the little amiestreet/populuxe icon on the right).

in my house

when i'm walking through the room it feels like berchtesgaden
and eva said don't even look at me
i can't stand being out of place in the one place i could be anything
but a cardboard cutout of all your enemies

well if you walk around my place you might see me
nothing in my eyes, my voice, my face but believe me
i'd give almost anything to be like you and be here
and be here walking in my house

now we're lying in the bed so cold that ice is forming
when i melt you'll complain that the bed is wet
behind that silver lining she's convinced of storm clouds waiting
to ruin a party that hasn't started yet

well if you walk around my place you might see me
nothing my eyes, my voice, my face but believe me
i'd give almost anything to be like you and be here
and be here walking in my house

well if you walk around my place you might see me
nothing my eyes, my voice, my face but believe me
i'd give almost anything to be like you and be here
and be here walking in my house

now i'm trudging up the hill, i feel my stomach tightening
and this uniform is strangling me

while you're sleeping

all the pictures that i carry around aren't good enough
only paper's somehow convinced me that they're you
but primal people think it steals their souls
they may be onto something we don't know
i gather evidence, but that won't stop any hours from turning

i kiss your face and you just laugh at me
but i can't replace the time
my memory grows longer, i can't waste the years i've got
so i steal this kiss from you with love
while you're sleeping
while you're sleeping

all the million dollar letters i send you aren't everything
words on paper, if a good wind grabs them then they're gone
but primal people use them for their fire
they might connect with something so much higher
i'm writing furiously as if that proves that the world was turning

i take your hand and you just laugh at me
don't you understand we're only
products of what came before us, and soil for what's next
so i'll steal this kiss from you with love
while you're sleeping

everything that gets in my way
every dollar that i overpay
if everything but the car went away
i wouldn't mind
i wouldn't mind
because i love you

i know that sometimes i run around acting like an animal
on about some stupid little problem no one else cares about
but primal people wouldn't waste that power
or rectify it, it's too much time and flowers
this lasts for hours, it's just my clumsy way of saying i'm sorry

cross my eyes and you just laugh at me
but all jokes and laughs aside
if the language on my tongue might fail me, bad blood won't clog my heart
i know we struggle through our problems, and we crawl our way from darkness
and i hope and pray that you're ok, and that i don't dim your spot
even though your day is through now, i'll stick around with you now
and i'll steal this kiss from you with love
while you're sleeping
while you're sleeping
while you're sleeping

the line

i've tried valiantly to remain circumspect and respectful in (almost) everything i've said these past months (and, less face it, going on years). i know this results in a tediously boring blog, but i always figured it was the price to be paid for becoming earl's better person. (apologies to the readers who slog through the dreck nonetheless). so this morning i'm once again at the proverbial line, making my daily decision upon which side i shall set down today's foot.

to be fair, there's been a fair amount of stress around the house preparing for a week away. it'll be one of the progeny's first extended experience away from home and family, and between things like that and the heat, it's been a recipe for frayed nerves and short tempers. (not mine--i've been mr. mellow through it all, honest!) so i'll stray a loose toe over said line, and correct that last sentence: it's been a recipe for HER frayed nerves and short temper. no two ways about this--it's not been a good time to be the favorite object of disappointment.

i've actually seen this coming, and (i thought) adjusted accordingly. laundry, dishes, bed-making, lawn-mowing, and mr. never-a-discouraging-word around the house has been on his best behavior, giving a wide berth to "girls evening at the beach" and keeping the kids fed. can ya guess? can ya guess the reward?

for example:

"the printer isn't working". really? without a trace of flip (i SWEAR), and without the first thought ("wanna bet?") going through my head allowed to even cross the expression on my face, and with a kindly smile and all affection: "i'll take care of it for you". ok, the backup printer downstairs with the light blinking about the paper jam actually had a paper jam, but the toner on the one with the message about the toner being low was indeed only warning-level low, and working fine from the first test print request i made while getting about taking care of things at 5:30am this morning. in addition to confirming that all was in order, and not "not working" as complained, i pulled the offending sheet out of the works of the backup, and changed the offending cartidge to get rid of the warning on the favorite, just to be thorough. (hand cupped behind ear... listening... waiting...)

it goes like this every time. you've heard me kvetch about the paycheck. (that the fact that i make one is considered an attack on her worth as a person). so what do you think is the response to doing anything to help around the house? trick question! you're SUPPOSED to always do things to help around the house. it's EXPECTED. no thanks could possibly be in order, since it's ones JOB, and it shouldn't even be acknowledged. silly husband.

so here's the line once again.

high tech

cell phone batteries being what they are, especially in these days of on-board video and bluetooth everything, it was bound to happen. "be-booping" every couple of seconds to remind me it was getting hungry, i couldn't find my handy-dandy power adapter anywhere, so, silly me, i turned the damned thing off. i suppose i could have waited for it to turn itself off, after it had consumed its very last and precious on-board milliamp... but, either way, any other day, i could gone off the network, and for a month for all anybody ever calls me, and nobody would have noticed. but, today, i think, being murphy's birthday...

"what's up with your phone"

"um, the battery went dead"

"why didn't you tell me?"

"um, i guess i figured because i was sitting here at my desk at work with both the desk phone and my work cell phone still operational that you could get in touch with me easily enough, especially after you'd notice my cell went straight to voicemail and you'd know it wasn't on."

is there a text-message short-hand for "wrong answer"?

i still don't know where the charger is. but i do know that my upcoming week away is going to become something out of kafka. i'd write you a blow-by-blow account, except bringing internet communications on a "just us" getaway is likely to be an even worse (if that's possible) electronic crime than being out of contact without a hall pass, or a note from your mother or an excuse from your doctor in the first place.

the grovel spiel

i got the grovel spiel again this morning, with more attempted-guilt and reminders about things being my fault. i don't mind, really, if this is part of the penance, but i will say i think sun tzu got it right when he observed that water seeking its own way will always choose the lower obstacle. given the conditions of things, and the immovable object across the way, it's not hard to predict who will get the majority of the relationship scoldings, even without consideration of past transgressions.

if anything, it did give me a moment to contemplate the mechanics of human apology and (potential) forgiveness. to my limited experience, there are several critical points along the path:

first, is the criminal instant. no, not the instant when the crime was committed, (we'd all love to have that one back), but, rather, the moment when the crime is discovered and the accusation is leveled. it's a once-in-a-transgression opportunity, and it shouldn't be missed. abject contrition without qualification is vital. unfortunately, even if the prescience to be apologetic is present, 99% of us and the times are concomitant with excuses that dilute and threaten to wash away any positive effect offered by the apology. we just can't be and say we're simply and unequivocally sorry, even if we discover after the fact that we were, and are. i suppose this is because most of us non-sociopathic types have to heavily rationalize ourselves to become able to be, in the inimitable words of arlo guthrie, "committing our special crime", and it's hard to turn that off and on a dime to arrive at an un-rationalized admission of guilt, failure and repentance.

strike one...

second, is the long heart-to-heart sentencing and rehabilitation plan/phase. here's where we all excel at tears, crocodile and otherwise, and pleas for mercy, complete with prayers to god and to the aggrieved to please let us off just this one (more?) time and we'll x, y and z for the rest of our lives. no matter how sincerely we mean this, god and the aggrieved rarely seem to give the free pass when the stakes are highest and the sins are direst, and you can ask paris hilton how she feels about the strains to the quality of traffic court mercy. sometimes we don't deserve to be let off so easily, no matter how perfectly contrite and rehabilitated we are, and the sentence becomes literally part of the process of perfecting ourselves beyond a changed heart. (it can actually feel good to be laboring on the chain gang of promise for a better tomorrow). but sometimes the particulars of the crime are so reprehensible to the judge and jury, that there is no amount of sorry or penance or restitution that can change the profound, abiding and immovable object of utter loathing and contempt.

strike two...

so now we approach a fork in the road. on the one hand, there is the would-be direction that is the object of the grovel spiel, to lather, rinse and repeat as it were the apology, contrition and never-do-it-again, perhaps amplifying the offer of each of the three, increasing the tears, augmenting the contrition, and accumulating more and more time to have never done it again. i don't mean these things in jest, either. the longer the convict is out in the wilderness, the more sincere and ardent becomes his "i'll do anything" to be let back into the fold of society. right up until that aforementioned fork in the road. at which point, there arrives a fascinating intersection of the lines on the graph of a sorry-to-have-ever-betrayed love.

in a healthy recovery, at least i think, theoretically, there has to be, ultimately, a forgiveness of the sin and the sinner by the sinners themselves. in a perfect world, this might actually occur together with or shortly thereafter the true forgiveness by the ones betrayed, but in this crazy little world we happen to really live in, no such happy accident of timing seems to be reasonably expected or possible. it seems, rather, that somebody is going to be circulating in their little death spiral of self-loathing long after the other party has stopped trying to flush the interpersonal toilet. Perhaps, in a better world, we might still hope that it's the early-release convict who carries a bit of extra guilt and motivation to behave better into his brave new/old life. but, murphy being an optimist, you know the odds on that one. so it's a race between the dropping line of better hope, against the rising repair of the broken spirit.

strike three.

i'm sorry. i've been begging by word and deed for mercy, and i have (unfortunately) received a premature sense of why i'm not incorrigible or unworthy of love, especially in my now-default state of daily contrition, apology and restitution. yeah, to the grovel-spieler, it hasn't been enough and it's time to go back behind the woodshed for another dose of humble punishment pie. how could i ever.

you know, i could tell you, if you were ready to hear it. it's just not so one-sided anymore, here in this rebuilding heart. there's a bit of it for everyone.

why i love soccer and why most americans just can't get it

sport is a beautiful thing. ask any fan about their favorite(s), and you'll likely hear rhapsodies to their appreciation of human endurance, skill, speed and/or power.

without playing favorites, it's safe to say a lot of sports excel at delivering to various areas: e.g. the endurance of marathoning vs. the skill of golf, vs. the power and speed of american or rugby football. but, though it takes consummate skill to handle a puck on skates at full speed, and you gotta be in shape to last an entire hockey game too, lets face it, those hockey players and their 90-second shifts aren't playing quite the same game as the peleton in the tour de france, nor is any of that quite like the challenge of hitting a 100-mph fastball with a 2" stick from a distance of 60 feet.

so, why do i love soccer, and why can't most americans get it?

current estimates of the distance covered by a professional soccer player during a world class match agree on up to around 10,000 meters. (over 6 miles, or 350 times up and down the full length of a regulation basketball court). yet, unlike the practice of most freely-substituting team sports, this endurance test is required of no fewer than 7 of the starting 11 players (allowing for 3 substitutes and the goaltender) all without commercial interruption. no matter how devastating the skill of an individual, (viva pele), or the speed and power they can generate on the field, all of it must stand together with their fitness and endurance to compete successfully at the highest level.

it's no wonder that the talented brazilians and argentinians prefer not to play at altitude, as their clear advantage in skill can be mitigated by a seventh mile of running, if their opponent is willing and capable to push them to it. jan helgerud et al. (norwegian university of science and technology in trondheim) measured the advantage given by cardiovascular fitness to on-field performance in a recent study of norwegian national team candidates. he showed, even at the highest levels, that fitness training makes just as much difference (actually, in many cases, more) as skills training. (so, when was the last time you saw manny ramirez run out a ground ball?) here, in soccer, is a fascinating intersection between everything that is to be loved about sport.

my point isn't to denigrate other sports. i love baseball and ice hockey and american football and bicycle racing and even the nice leisurely game of curling. (though not golf, with apologies to tiger fanatics everywhere, but that's a personal preference and not an editorial comment). my point is to remind those who might become lost in the doldrums of a 1-nil result that there is far more happening before their eyes than they are willing or perhaps capable to see. watch how the players relate to each other over the course of the match. see who is flagging and who is catching each turn just that much more quickly. see who wants it more.

americans like scoring. (heck, we've even bastardized our national pastime to introduce "designated hitters" because pitchers didn't hit enough home runs). our favorite basketballers are shooters (chamberlain over russell, though don't get me started about the errors intrinsic in that) and our favorite football play is the touchdown pass. (our 6 o'clock news replays would have us believe that these are the majority of each game). sure, premier league highlights are all about the goals too, but check out the player ratings from the matches, and try to correlate the ranks with the tallies, and you just can't do it. soccer is about something else.

soccer rewards fitness, endurance, speed, power, skill, and teamwork to a combined degree to which few sports can compare. ice hockey and rugby come closest, i think, at least to me, but soccer is the pinnacle.

until americans play the game and learn what they are seeing first-hand, i think they'll always be left to wonder why.

mexico 1, US match fitness and perseverance 2.

as with most soccer stories, reports have ranged from one side of the hyperbole scale to the other. (compare this la times blowjob to the harangue of a whiny everton supporter). dramatic, per the times? um, not unless you count blown tap-ins from two-on-none breakaways. pathetic, per the toffee wanker? closer to the truth, maybe, but hardly so simple.

there were a disheartening number of US give-aways and defensive late-steps (anybody want to mark guardado now? anybody?) to show by their only goal that mexico just isn't all that good right now. borghetti came up lame in the open field, and blanco looked mostly like somebody's dad had taken the pitch. (caricatures both). but there were flashes of youthful brilliance and exuberance (guardado, for one, was consistently electric) to suggest mexico isn't completely without potential or threat. on the us side, though dempsey didn't quite create what he had in previous matches, ching played the solo striker well, earning a penalty and almost slotting home a back-breaker after eluding both the keeper and a defender for an open try at goal. (of course, he missed...)

the difference? the difference is the one between pablo and ricardo. (americans mastroeni and clark, tyvm). it's the difference between the first half, when the mexican legs were fresh, and the second, when the american ones showed their resilience. instead of oguchi being late to stop castillo's cross (was he the only guy playing defense yesterday?) it was feilhaber with the time and space to unleash a world-class volley straight into el corazon del tri. the yanks don't know they're giving away a boatload of technical and tactical ability, and bradley has ensured they don't need to care. (arena can be a putz when he isn't given the candy store on talent).

when the outcome matters, come to play both halves.

7 steps

unrelated to stages of grief, (unless you count buyer's remorse), my job chases 7 steps to persuasion:

1. describe the problem
2. quantify the impact
3. specify the need
4. describe the solution
5. quantify the benefits
6. make the pitch
7. deliver the proof

1) i always hurt the one i love (nods to the mills brothers) . unable to receive love, 2) i'm driven to withhold it. 3) i need to be able to accept affection without punishing it. 4) if i could be forgiven for the pain i cause, my anger and distance would dissolve. 5) then i would be free to open my heart without reservation. 6) if she'd love me, i'd be all she could dream... 7)...

but what proof could there be after what i've done?

wise guys have added kubler-ross up to 7 on her grief chart: disbelief, denial, bargaining, guilt, anger, depression, acceptance.

1) i have no idea how it's come to this. 2) i didn't mean to do anything that would hurt her. 3) if she'd only forgive me, i would make it up to her. 4) but i've done such terrible things, and there can be no excuse. 5) except that she is holding me to a standard she's never met herself. 6) there can be only one result, and that is i am alone. 7)...

le bag job

rewind to ulsan, south korea, exactly five years ago last night--german defender torsten frings extends his arm to stop a sure goal in the 49th minute, and the cruelest non-call in US soccer history leaves the yanks stunned and out of the tournament at full time. fast forward to last night, and canadian striker atibo hutchinson is inexplicably ruled offside from a fair position, nullifying a clear goal and sending the canadians likewise home in bitter disappointment and disillusionment.

perhaps the circumstances are slightly different (non-call vs. bad call, middle of the game vs. end of the game, victor outplayed by the victim vs. not so much) but the parallels are eerie and remain a huge cloud over FIFA's enforcement of the laws of the game. the team expected to win is given all benefit of extreme doubts, made doubly damning by the ubiquity of video replay that preserves the travesty for all time, and the underdog who has earned a fair result through honest good-faith effort has learned once again that it's just not supposed to be, nor is it seemingly ever, fair.

like the umpires finally and twice reversing incorrect calls during the red sox game 7 triumph over the yankees in 2004, the US receiving this inexplicably generous benefit of an extremely small doubt merely serves to underscore the gulf between the "haves" and the "have nots". when you're respected as a favorite, you're expected as a favorite, and, all of a sudden, human judgment sees many things in incredibly biased ways.

i'm sick for the canadians today, and nagged by the sour taste of an unearned "honor". better for all that the asterisk could be made to never exist by discovering a way to repair the profound flaws to human perspective.

testing yourself

it's monday morning, and the long, unflattering story of my team's fortunes for the season has come down to a perfect storm of adversity. worse, when sunday's contest was still in the balance, commitment led to violent collision, and the contusion deep within my quad has morphed into a rock-hard ball of debilitating humility. i can scarcely walk, let alone see another 60 hours into the future when it all is to be put upon the line, and yet there is still a decision to be made, and an opportunity to be had. ice. ibuprofen. AIS. i'm not going to be knocked out of the game. i'm going to be there to be counted when the test is taken. we're going to win.

i've rarely enjoyed three days as much as i've enjoyed the early half of this week. i had a focus. i had a goal. there wasn't a trophy to be won, but there was a team to stand with nonetheless. ice. ibuprofen. AIS.

it was glory of the most ridiculous kind. it was a dozen 40 and 50 year old men creaking their bodies against an opposing dozen, and cheering themselves hoarse in exhortation and celebration of every slight success. first a goal, then another. then a third, and a fourth to cap the evening. beer rarely tastes so sweet.

so, this morning, no ice, no ibuprofen, and no AIS. (well, maybe stretching later). sunday morning we're going to do it all over again, this time completely for fun, in our socks and summer tshirts, sans shinguards and with a spare white one in the bag just in case the teams need evening. but they won't, because nobody is going to keep score. these are my boys of summer, and we've passed the test.

what is irony?

the english suggest we americans just don't/can't get it, but twice every month, when my automatically-deposited-paycheck hits "our" checking account, and i'm interrogated as to the disposition of the decimals so that the quickening (which she's compelled by her anxieties to share with no one) can be reconciled to the last penny, i'm tempted to ask for a remedial explanation of the concept.

the "thanks" i get for bringing home the decimally-variable bacon is the accusation that earning it is in scorn of her not. so, even though it might be an american abomination of the idea, i'm still tempted to call it ironic. i mean, breadwinning is supposed to be a *good* thing, right?

as in, "hi, honey, i'm home with the paycheck", which one might be tempted to think should be followed by "gee, honey, thanks so much for what you do every day to support the family", instead of "how could you be so thoughtless as to rub this in my face by not telling me where the spare penny is supposed to go".

"black" irony, i guess, and though i was always taught it's unseemly to talk about money, i'll have to accept that several hundreds of thousands of those pennies every month, which one might improperly suppose to be worth something besides derision, aren't. did i mention it was the 15th again?

he is us

walt kelly said "we have met the enemy, and he is us" in response to our ongoing worldwide ecological battle to not shit where we eat, but i've found it, like most other good lines, applies in an almost endless number of situations. (i go pogo). recent self-reflection has reminded me of some very vivid memories, where my perverse nature caused me to act in full defiance of both my best and even my worst selfish interests, and it's hard to believe now how blind i could have been to better sense at the time. and this doesn't just go for high-minded "kindler and gentler" ethics and missed opportunities to be a better person. this extends full-on to situations where even my ability to be a selfish asshole was fully compromised by what a bumbling version of a selfish asshole i generally turn out to be.

e.g. most guys would like a chance to sleep with two girls at the same time, right? (i know that's not necessarily literally true, but there's a certain demographic out there, and i know you know who i'm talking about, so please bear with me). there was this night once, at a drunken party, when me and my in-hindsight-open-minded girlfriend of the moment were dancing and carrying on all over the place with a winsome lass whose brother was throwing the party, and who had coincidentally also arranged our invitations and accepted a ride with us in my two-seat tonka pickup truck to get there. (yes, they were both hot, and, yes, they both had to sit in each others lap on the way to and from and lean into each other and giggle at each corner i took just a little too hard, but we're getting ahead of ourselves here). i was in rare form. i was more than a little aroused, and more than a little drunk (chicken or egg, you tell me) and i was telling it like it was to anyone and everyone who had the (mis)fortune to be standing near enough to hear it. i wasn't always polite or charitable in my comments and i had offended a good cross section of the proceedings, including both of the carpool-ettes, and was even eventually admonished by previously-referenced brother for my bad behavior. fair enough. eventually, as it always becomes, it was time to go.

suffice it to say that the ride home wasn't quite as giggly as the way there, and there was a fair amount of cold shouldered silence directed in my direction by both passengers, again sitting in each others laps, though, as we'll soon see, they weren't completely uncomfortable about the accommodations while doing it. in the driveway, while my invitation to my gf's boudoir basically a given, the second passenger pointed out that i had been poorly behaved, and didn't i feel like an apology might be in order? the first passenger concurred, and even went so far as to suggest actually giving one. (with, as is clear now in the 20/20 of hindsight, a pleading eye because she *wanted* her aggrieved seat-mate to put bygones aside so that a third invitation to the boudoir could be reasonably expected to be accepted, she even said please). as in the unspoken thought, "you asshole, don't you know she's going to do BOTH of us if you'd just say you're sorry, even if you're not really". what did einstein come up with as a response? not much. nuthin, really. nada. zilch.

yeah, i eventually got laid that night. and it was good, too. but WTF was i thinking???

said gf talked about that one a lot after that. usually when my obstinance was at issue. always with the reminder that "you know, she would have done both of us if you weren't such an asshole". it wouldn't sting so much after all these years, except that she had proven her eagerness for such things on a further occasion, the beautiful memory of which has always served to remind me of that saying about the taste of honey, with the "worse than" part multiplied by ten thousand because it's accompanied by the coincident memory of that whole hiveful right there in front of me that i just couldn't bring myself to say sorry in order to enjoy.

it's not all sordid in my past. some of the worst things i've done or not done have even been related to socially upstanding things like supporting a friend or extending a kindness to a stranger. but the common thread is how, in the moment, my inner reptile was always in charge of the perverse behavior without even the courtesy of letting me in on the secret that he was gleefully undermining our shared life. i think he enjoys fucking with me. but, as walt better put it: it's more likely that i've met the enemy, and he is me.

i think i'm slowly figuring out the secret. no, i'm not going to even pretend it's worth advising folks to just "do the right thing". we all know we're supposed to do that. we just don't know at the time that there's a right thing to do. see, the inner reptile is the king of chameleons, and he goes much further than just pretending to be the devil on your one shoulder, contradicting and tormenting the angel on your other. no, he's a sly one far beyond simple shit like that. he goes right to the bottom of everything, and makes you see only one choice, completely blind to any other. BUT! i'm learning that he leaves little reptile footprints while he's doing it. there's a way to clue yourself into the times when you're down into your baser misbehaviors. at that point, and here's as far as the advice gets so far, i'm recommending a quick george costanza. you remember that episode where george not only gets his job with the yankees, but gets himself promoted and everything he's touching is turning to gold? he just "did the opposite". he thought about what george would do in any given situation, (we all know what we'd do), and he had the faith to not think any further about it, and he just did the opposite.

george was king of his world, with women, with work, and with absolutely no effort whatsoever.

do the opposite. say you're sorry. don't give in to anger. forgive. or get your back up instead of letting something slide, so that you're not part of the greater evil. there's no telling which answer will be the right one, just know that when you see the footprints, and the repeated patterns of your failing life, you need to start doing the opposite.

baby, i'm sorry. i truly am.

gender bending

VA mentions on occasion that many of her readers disbelieve that she's a she. consequent to linkbacking to her catchphrase contest, i indulged myself that fantasy that she might randomly read a few of my scribblings while back-tracing the sycophant side-link, and so i re-read what's been written here with that little androgynous bug planted in my ear. odd to admit it, but i imagine she (and other readers, i suppose) might be tempted to wonder if i might, conversely, not be a he. funny thing, gender.

my excuse, because gender politics would seem to insist that i offer one, is that writing about your innermost thoughts and feelings isn't socially accepted/expected to be a "male" thing to do, so, as a result, we're all likely to attribute "female-ness" to anyone and anything that attempts it. the secondary element, i'm reluctantly compelled to admit to myself, is that, these days, articulation itself (on any subject) is fading from the male portfolio as well. we're to be "deciders" and doers, not contemplaters and forbearers.

so here's where i'm caught: i decided, and i did. i also screwed some things up pretty good in the process. so i've since decided to do the contemplation and forbearance thing, and it causes quite a lot of cognitive dissonance across the board. (myself not being immune from that, either). the societal pattern of acceptable behavior being breached, i guess it's my way to breach the societal pattern of acceptable contrition as well. i'm taking the blame for it all. i'm stipulating to any and all charges and i'm agreeing in advance that any problems that exist, existed, or will exist grow solely from my own salted earth of personal shortcoming. definitely not a "male" thing to do. nor, it would appear, at least until this point in time, a productive thing, either.

do women respond best (only?) to arrogance and confidence? (my little subjective pile of evidence wouldn't argue against the premise). do they self-flagellate that they can't get a "good man", or create one, or whatever, meanwhile opting for the bad when it's time to put their emotional coins in the relationship vending machine? i guess it's just my luck to be with one who's stuck between the contradiction, coins in hand, refusing to buy either choice of it.

billy s warned me/us to whom to be true, and maybe we're all just following the advice to the letter, without regard for secondary options. i only wish i didn't grow suspicious that the "own self" to/for whom i'm seeking the truth isn't comfortable on either side of this fence i've constructed. that guy seems both to chafe at emotional negligence, as well as unilateral blame for any consequences.

the VA catchphrase contest and linkback/jack test

on amiestreet.com you get "street cred" for recommending stuff (based on future traffic that may or may not be due to your props) which is kinda like trackbacking, only for cash credit instead of possible ad revenue and/or the disposition to care, but even though REC'ing that newly-arrived, can't-miss BNL track did make me feel a little dirty (i've REC'd other more-deserving stuff without reasonable expectation of personal benefit, I swear) i guess i shouldn't let past sins bother me so much while experimenting with the blog traffic equivalent... (that, and as a self-styled alpha geek, it's impossible to resist an experiment to test out a new trick/toy).

and, just so you know, the amiestreet plug isn't completely gratuitous, since rob shapiro and his populuxers are one of my new favorite sources for words to live by, especially those with (inferred) relevance to the VA theory of interpersonal communication. (as always ever with apologies for all possible errors in interpretation and/or understanding). one of my current personal favorites includes this sweet little breakup disapprobation (that i've been saving for months now) that's part of "it's over now": "jesus loves you (at least you assume that's true) but he died 2000 years before he got a chance to live with you". no, i'm not planning anything, honest, all previous blog complaints to the contrary notwithstanding, but you gotta love a guy who knows how to make sure things stay right where they've been intended to be put. (yup, if it wasn't before, it is now).

so, for VA, (by paraphrased way of either alice roosevelt longworth or dorothy parker, i don't know which, since both have been offered various credit in various places in the past), with apologies for its having been done to death before, but offered not least because, to me, forthrightness is fetching:

"if you can't say anything nice, come sit here by me"

and, if you don't like that one and are compelled to say something smart in expression of your contempt, i think harlan ellison once opined and requested:

"i don't mind you thinking i'm stupid, but don't talk to me like i'm stupid"

the edge

a little dehydration, a little lack of sleep, a little vitamin deficiency... the morning sometimes arrives with an edge, and i'm inclined to sometimes appreciate this kind of one. ("guate! guate!")

it won't be the same on saturday when the canadians encounter those same 20,000 flag-waving patriotistas while i'm instead observing familial decorum and the more-tepid us brand of support. (guadaloupe????) in the meantime, "drifting" by the vegetarians provides effective soundtrack for the need to deal with life upon the edge.

i have one--i guess i need to admit that up front now. to some, it's the edge that ends the phrases beginning with "beyond the" or "over the". with a little license, and apologies to those who've heard this one from me before, i like to think of that edge as the line beyond which i've always seemed to prefer to choose to stand. either way, it's not generally received by others to be a positive thing. mostly, i think, the edge they see is my quick transition from cumulus to cumulus thunderhead. fair enough. that's been part of me.

so now i'm kicking around the alternatives, from earl's "better person" to bush sr's "kinder and gentler", and looking for a view that might fit. oddly enough, it's never been hard for me to be a nice guy when i've been inclined to be. i think what offends others most egregiously is that it's not a constant condition. (as if, once you've done something nice for somebody, you're to be limited from ever choosing an alternate option).

i guess people do like to put others they meet and know into reliable little boxes. (i guess it's how they figure they "know" you). most sacred of all becomes the box into which people's spouses are put, where the insidious, slippery slope of emotional laziness leads them to demand our staying put, without crossing any of the edges/lines/boundaries that they've mentally constructed to confine the object of their incarceration, i mean affection, meaning us. heaven forbid they do anything to motivate us to prefer staying there beyond relying on the bounds and chains of an institution that nobody really seems to completely agree upon anyway, other than to agree that hands and other body parts are to be kept inside the ride at all times.

"edge play" is thus verboten, in more ways than many.

i've always liked to remain mindful of the need for words to be matched to deeds. (ironic, huh). that parable of the prodigal son always bothered me, because, besides the fact that it never seemed to deal with the probability that mr. fatted calf was extremely likely to be on the road again at some soon point anyway, it left the faithful and the dutiful unrewarded and unacknowledged for their faith and duty. now i'll likely need to shush the peanut gallery for the hoots and catcalls about my being, at first blush, far more of mr. prodigal than his less charismatic brother, but i think if i were to be honest with the audience and with myself, my first and every wrong turn in life has been a result of a decided lack of fatted calfs before me and mr. kerouac were compelled to go looking for glory or transcendence, or whatever it is that the beat and beaten go looking for in their wanderings when they're otherwise going hungry.

so, while jba encores their "don't say goodnight", with chris and derek singing into the echo machine, and the channel crowd surging in enthusiastic appreciation, and yet another image of those about to depart is crowding into my head, i'm left to think about the edges all around me in my life. can't cross that one... don't want to think about being on the other side of that other one... can't remember where the hell that third one used to be...

would it have been so hard to gut an innocent piece of livestock every now and then?

come to think of it, putting on the prodigal frock for a moment here, the board has been pretty bare since coming in from the cold these past months, literally begun to be going on years now. never wanted a feast. just some nourishment, that's all.

that's all.

piling on

(because yesterday wasn't enough self-expression on the topic)

pardon my indignance, but i've just been given the old "if at first you don't succeed" homily, and i'm not feeling exactly charitable about it. (for those not reading between yesterday's lines, the last paragraph sums up the reward for my past year's efforts at "just trying to be a better person"). apparently, it's some kind of vision quest, to have every expression of affection and exposure of vulnerability to be met with apathy if not outright rejection. i guess i could think of it as yet another penalty for going outside the societal rules while competing in what i thought was referred to as the "all's fair" derby, that i'm learning isn't at all fair. (maybe that's the part they meant was all fair--the part enjoyed by the other side).

if you're trying to keep score at home, it would seem that only the aggrieved spouse has license to rewrite the entire past history in context with present feelings of scorn. the one driven to "misbehavior" loses all standing, and becomes guilty for even those things that they didn't do, under the heading that such a person must have meant to even if they didn't actually. forgetting the misguided notion that marriage might be supposed to be sometimes about love and affection, since that would have been all forfeit anyway by crimes against nature even if it were imagined to be possible to exist, the "duty" falling fully on only one side of the "partnership" is to take responsibility for all problems, endure all penalties and punishments, and continue to express gratitude for the privilege of being able to experience being actively loathed by another instead of having to do it all by yourself.

ahhh, marriage...

can't say who wants to take credit for the original idea, whether it be harcourt fenton hendrix or the good doctor or any one of their compatriots, (that guy pearce thinks he can levitate, so maybe he's the one), but the idea is that i'm so screwed up that i need to recreate the vortex of my agony so that i can "get it right this time". well, i've found that vortex alright...

right (again, i'm paraphrasing from the "sages", so forgive me if i'm not getting this exactly right) action is to "take it like a man", and remain steadfast and loving and caring and giving.

haven't left yet? "yet" can't possibly be steadfast enough. responsible for 95% of the expressions of affection? 20 times the outpouring can't possibly be loving enough. heart constantly feel like it's going to break? if it's not broken (and if you're not broken down past the point of functioning) at every moment of every day, it couldn't possibly be caring enough. earn 95% of the living, and do 95% of the household chores, and spend 95% of all remaining available time with the children? see question 2 above regarding the inadequacy of 20 times things.

feel like you need some love and support? get ready to do without it for the duration, and forget that it was the lack of it that originally sent you south in the first place, because we're going to practice doing without it forever.

because that's what it takes to "heal".

see, once someone gets everything they've ever wanted, they magically become whole, and all their previous troubles are forever erased.

oh, except you. you magically become whole because you specifically get nothing you've ever needed more desperately than life itself.

it's that magical thing. you'll get used to it.

how many?

though i've occasionally been tempted to recount fewer than the truth in order to save offense against a sensitive audience, it's also true that, at any one time, i'm likely incapable of recalling the exact count. it's not that it wasn't all memorable, per se, it's just that i've usually found context to be the catalyst for my memory to work at its best, and there just isn't as much anymore. (lest anyone fear they, or anyone for that matter, might be among those "forgotten", rest assured, things haven't faded quite so far that i'm not going to be accurate within one or two, but since i'm not inclined to keep a written or even a mental list, there isn't going to be total recall either). the fascinating consequence of recalling "free-form", is experiencing how memories seem to automatically sort themselves into tiers of relevance, from profound, to meaningful, to "oh, i remember you..."

in these days of relative celibacy (relative is relative, ya know?) i'm given pause to think quite a bit about how i got here. there are a few who rise to top of mind via temporal proximity (an unfortunate situation related to infidelity) but the important ones always transcend watches or calendars. among them are first loves, first kisses and first lots-of-things, but the "first-ness" isn't their salient feature, either. (remarkable how often memory understands significance before it even starts to work). i'm recalling at this moment an experience with one of those would would arguably define the contest for "first love" who, coincidentally, enjoyed nowhere near the running for "first f***". so here in my memory of her, there's a vast confusion over when, exactly, carnal knowledge was (finally) achieved. (her slot amidst the mnemonic pigeonholes is clearly not the one between her legs...) but, time out of mind, as the song goes, the salience of her isn't finally a "when" or even a "how", but, rather, a "how often", as in, how often we were both rubbed raw from the frequency and still unable to get enough. funny thing is, in retrospect and with respect to all the others, in the end, "it" really wasn't all that remarkable. (one might even be tempted to say "good", but, as we all know, it's always good...) rabbits we were, and tempestuous ones at that. A fair proxy for desire, if ever there was one, i suppose...

then, in the timeline, our next stop would have to be the infamous "college gf". those who knew me then would have to laugh that i'd even try to get away with the singular on this one, but, i swear, having 'em half-a-dozen at a time (not at one time, but over the same time, silly) doesn't preclude the significance of this one. now here was a love i absolutely didn't deserve, that did more for me than even my mother ever did, and wonderfully well. what sort of an idiot can't be/fall/stay in love with that? nothing out of bounds, nothing held back, and all to be forgiven... (imagine insatiability of a fuller kind, enveloping both me AND my body). imagine me being compelled to drive it away... who knows what would have been real/possible (or not) if i had been human, but that's like wondering what would have happened if gravity had stopped working...

third stop, skipping the uncounted legion(s) between, winds us up with the best yet. maybe not as much of a whiz in the kitchen as #2 above, but there's more to happen in a kitchen than just cooking. even her mother was accommodating to my incivility, offering excuses for the inexcusable on my behalf. and there was an emotional intimacy to be found there which was beyond anything i could imagine, that only served to ignite the fires of passion to heights and variety immeasurable. yet again fodder for the questions that all tend to being "how could you..."

well, for that one i had at least the excuse that i was arrived at my marital destination...

looking back during a difficult time, it's impossible not to be tempted to draw comparisons. when was the last time you simply couldn't keep your hands off? when was the last time someone was devoted to you fully past any point of question? when was the last time that you were let into someone's soul? i know there will be others who will feel themselves compelled to imagine they had with me elements of all three, and some desire to feel themselves apart in some if not all areas. but, the truth is, sometimes first comes first, and leaves no room for what comes after. and if there was ever a moment to combine all three, i'm sure lightning would have struck and the world would have ended. besides, they're my memories, and i get to misinterpret them as i please. ;-)

so where am i? one might observe i've finally and successfully combined the "tempestuousness" (#1) with the pushing-away (#2) and, piece de resistance, the emotional abandonment (#3) with one single "lucky" partner, and cynically add to my compulsion for trifected faithlessness an insistence on the very same things as part any and all sordid affair(s) thereof. but, rather than see similarities, most folks closer to the action are (that red flag again) distracted by the "hows", and prone to see distinction between the missionary and the profane.

irony of ironies, the cruelest i've been hasn't been with the one who'd be voted ms. masoch by both the peanut gallery, or even by the various participants themselves. the most adventurous, neither. a perverse shudder accompanies the thought of it, but, i'm afraid now, i was possibly (likely) playing out a complicated production of self-loathing for past sins upon (all-too) willing flesh each and every time something appeared, at least to first blush, a new thing. so now, though I may have ended up a better man for realizing how truly disturbed i am, i'm without liberty or license to make amends or productive use of the improvement.

here's the laugh for today: it's never been about the one i'm with now.

so, though i understand it's now about fixing things with the one i'm with now, i want to ask, i HAVE to ask, where's the desire? where's the devotion? where's the intimacy? because i have all three on my mind, and in my heart.

all that you dream

paul barrere (accent grave) and bill payne said it once:

all that you dream
comes through shinin'
silver lining
clouds
clouds change the scene
rain starts washing
all those cautions
into your life
makes you realize
just what is true
what else can you do
just follow the rule
keep your eyes on the road that's ahead of you

trailin' 'em home

she always said she regretted the pickup, spoiling what would have been, for her, a perfect tableau of cattle and cold and the life of trailin' 'em home. she grew up amidst it, and the now-invisible horses, and, for her, i know what she meant. but i was sincere and still am drawn to the almost invisible truck at the head of the herd, obscured until only an eye let in on the secret can see what's enveloped by the steamy vapor and warm breath of fifty head. the ice encasing the twigs and trees on either side of the arrow-straight trail through the frosted alberta wood makes perfect metaphor for how time stands, and frames the photograph that will always be among those dearest to my heart. (such brilliance and genius, to climb down and wait for them all to pass, to know that there would be magic to capture). it's a window into where i've come from, and who i've come from, and it's precious.

wil maring sings of the edge of this feeling in "keeper of the farm". her harmonies paint a picture as indelible to my heart as the photographs of the spring beside the farmstead where i nestled as a boy in the lap of my aging great aunt, who had been the bedrock of an orphaned tribe of children, alone on the alberta plains through the depths of winter, earning their existence through the force of their all-too-human spirit, bending but never breaking against the bitter cold. i'm struck by how little i know of the schism that wound the bands of brothers up on either of the far sides of the continent, but i'm comforted to remember that it was never my business to know, either, and it's just not part of the legacy to need to. same for the reasons why a husband and wife and their only child would leave once again, one more time, to start again alone, but never so far as to really be alone.

i was welcomed to be part of the fabric of spring brook, just as i am blessed to know joy's trails, perhaps as a prodigal, apart from the land, but, ultimately, never quite completely. i recall that i stood for my ice cream by the side door, never waiting in the sweltering lines at the front, in that very same way. i'm connected to these places and these people by my memories and by the open secret of knowledge that passes from one generation to the next. it's there in the photographs, and in the odd mementos that clutter my life, to the consternation and confusion of anyone who doesn't know what they are.

now i'm in a fight for who i am, forced to confront the good with the bad, and to answer for how i've come to be. to the legacy, perhaps, i am a disgrace, and to the present i am surely. but i can never be completely free of it, nor, truly, would i know how to try. once somebody can explain how a man can be in love with six hours of daylight and the brain-numbing cold of 40 below, there may be hope.

until then, color me trailin' 'em home.

"do no evil"

in an earlier age of innocence, the well-intentioned founders of google codified their intent to always "do no evil". always hard to quantify, the slippery-sloped line has now extended to google adsense nonsense turning up at the bottom of piracy sites like pirateshare.net (since removed once attention was drawn), google suing the intrepid folks at froogle over their name (despite the "froogles.com" domain predating google.com by two years), and the insertion of "rollover" pop-ups on search result web pages despite google's own policies prohibiting advertising that might "be a distraction". oh, what a tangled web we weave. (nods to sir walter).

so here us well-meaning sox fans are, enjoying our jabs at the quite-often-this-year-last-place "evil empire" of george m. steinbrenner, as we are wont to do, when the italian courts drop the most heinous kind of surprise on our unsuspecting red-sox'd asses: philip morse (a minority owner of the sox, for those of you keeping score at home) has been named as a witness in the trial of 25 us operatives accused of the "extraordinary rendition" of egyptian terror suspect (though now known to be an innocent man) hassan mustafa osama nasr from milan in february 2003. (aka abu omar, cuz i think you gotta believe having a middle name like osama is not the kind of detail you'd like on your travel documents these days). it would seem, if court documents are to be believed, that mr. morse was kind enough to loan his personal gulfstream jet to the cia so that they could whisk mr. omar out of milan to an undisclosed "secret location" where he could be subjected to the friendly habits of our intelligence experts like waterboarding, sensory deprivation, and other stuff that they're petitioning the italian courts to keep out of the public record. what a peach!

i suppose many will feel old phil a patriot, but i have to ask myself whatever does patriotism (the love of ones own country) have to do with invading others because we don't like their politics or the way they treat their citizens in exactly the same ways that we have shown ourselves to prefer to treat them outside our borders when our executive branch isn't constrained by our own constitution? how telling that mr. v.p. dick "darth vader" cheney exhorted the recent graduates of our military academy to uphold their oath to "defend the united states against all enemies, foreign and domestic", without pausing to correct his misstatement or care about the gross error.

um, actually dick, our boys and girls are sworn to "support and defend" the constitution of the united states, where, last time i checked, all are created equal, enjoy certain unalienable rights including life and liberty, and are guaranteed to be able to face their accusers in an open court, let in on the secret of the evidence against them.

i think i owe george steinbrenner, johnny damon, and alex rodriguez an apology.

women don't age well

i think i can feel the un-feeling-est rant of all coming on here, and i think it's going to feel very good to get off my gray-haired chest. but all questions of bad manners and rude commentary aside, i think it's pretty clear that the vast majority of women just don't seem to age very well, and i, for one, am pretty sick to death of having to tip-toe around the subject.

i'm quite sure the first pang of defensive, knee-jerk, "he's a jerk" emotion to the previous paragraph among the distaff set will include reflexive preparation for an amalgam of rails against societal double standards, denials that sagging and spreading and wrinkling body parts aren't what they are, not really, and maybe there'll even be some retaliatory darts fired back at paunches, farts and comb-overs, and questions about who gave who the right to... but none of that will have caught the point.

so get your head out of your rapidly expanding asses, ladies, it's not about the bad comparison between you and a younger version of yourself--we all get old, and we all slowly (rapidly?) lose our ultimately temporary grip on eyesight, hearing, taste, smell, strength, appearance, resilience, wit, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. you know, me-at-30 could have kicked me-at-40's ass with one arm tied behind his far-more-supple back, but, you know, he's long gone now, and it may very well have been me-at-20's doing, but he's not available for comment. i get it. me-at-going-on-50 is a pretty miserable SOB, from the outside in. and even before this mean-spirited attack at the core of you, you already knew the answer to the question--you don't want me.

and there it is--the nub of the rub.

there was an "either" at the end of that last sentence when you read it, wasn't there.

see, you read all this bitterness and bile and you think you know what i'm thinking. face it, (i'm learning to face it) you think you know what all men are thinking. you're thinking we all used to want you because you were once nubile and all-smile, and our mono-railed little heads were pre-programmed right from the primordial ooze to want what god and your deepest wishes put between your legs, and you're thinking now that we can't see so well or move fast enough to chase the younger pieces of tail, our bad manners and bad habits have turned pursuit of yours into a bad flashback of a chase scene from an old flintstones cartoon. you're afraid to admit to yourself that you can't believe any man would want you, and you're not done taking that out on me and the rest of the penises that you loathe to touch or have touch you when your self-doubt crowds out any memory of the woman you were.

want to know a secret? i/we never thought you were all that hot to begin with.

no, we weren't capable of thinking in terms of "hot", we were only thinking that you were the sun coming up in the morning, and setting in the evening, and the moon and the stars and the wind on our faces and at our backs and beneath our feet as we floated on the emotions that beat the hell out of us and left us for grateful dead at your feet. spencer tracy turned to katherine hepburn in woman of the year (or was it any other of the eight loving films they made together) and said "you slay me". he wasn't speaking metaphorically.

our eyes weren't any use to us, any more than our hands or our hearts, because they were all yours. our whole self was poured into the puddle at your feet, and all memory of the pin-ups or the push-ups (bras, i'm on a roll here) were dissipated like the smoke after a cannon fire, after the ball had torn through our bodies and left a hole that only you could fill. you. you. ageless, priceless, matchless and peerless. the same you that we yearn to touch, and to feel, and to pour ourselves once again into loving you. if only you were there...

but you're not there anymore. in your place, though the scent is the same, and the longing we feel is as overwhelming as ever, is some aged, aging crone with a withered soul who can't love herself enough to love anything else but.

yes, you're going to put the blame for that and all this once again at the feet of your supplicated tyrant suitor, the one who got old at the same time you did, but never learned to leave you and your feeling-violated private parts alone.

"but you..."

yes, i did.

yes, i did.

you don't ever want to know the truth about why, do you. not the real truth. not the "i'm such a needy, dependent child of what can never really be called a man" that i'm never going to be the one who can rescue you from your life's despair, on top of the fact that i've caused more despair than all the other men in your life combined, father included. not that you drive me to all of it, because my life and my broken never-was-whole-in-the-first-place heart is a bloody pulp of heinous secrets, and vast ugliness. not that you can wound me with a glance, and pierce me with a word, and slay me just because you are who you are, and i am prisoner to it all in my heart, and always will be, because you are my love.

i didn't choose it to be this way, and i never noticed your age or your appearance or the way the candlelight still draws your body to be the most perfect i have ever seen...

getting it good

let's just say i'm under no illusion regarding the impolite response that polite society has toward all of this--it's not hard to understand the reactions i've provoked. the challenge is to nevertheless achieve a dialogue about the importance that hides beneath. think of it akin to convincing an excitable bull to go for the seat of the trousers instead of (in addition to?) the fluttering red hanky. (how lucky for the wizard, that toto couldn't be so easily distracted). though it's easy to raise eyebrows, it's not so easy to forge a better understanding.

case in point: i've enjoyed a fairly wide experience of the fairer sex, yet that in and of itself creates the essence of the challenge to achieve a deeper experience of just one. i always have an uncomfortable chuckle when i hear kid creole's lament, that there's "no more casual sex, mon". (once was a time, a man with experience was a welcome find...) so what is to be done when the experience of a person, prima facie, is held to be objectionable? can there be believed to be a truer devotion and desire beneath perceived rival bedsheets? who knows, but i'm willing to wager that the sight/thought of a naked woman will always serve to distract...

it's given me, at least, opportunity to ponder the meaning of "good" in relationship to "getting it".

have you ever? had it good? and, if so, was outre part of the ouvre? or was it out there for more subtle reasons that might not catch the attention of a raging bull? both?

could it be, maybe, like music, and understood/appreciated best in particular contexts? i mean, zep is good, but i'm not likely to be sharing it with mom & dad. and even opera comes alive for me when it's mozart, and when it's good. (how ironic/appropriate that it's don giovanni that springs first to mind...) so, is my adoration of hoagy carmichael undermining or amplifying my appreciation for norah jones' cover of "the nearness of you"?

all metaphor fails to capture the interpersonal intensity of sexuality, so lets not get carried too far away. but i'd like to share something i've learned amidst the tragedy: sex, like love and pole vaulting, similarly benefits from more than just a little touch of fearlessness amidst the tension of brutal vulnerability and insecurity. i've let fear of rejection, even in the face of outright rejection, distract me from the truth of my desire, so i know a little of what i speak. the answer isn't in protecting ones self (or projecting ones would-be self) if getting it good is the goal. yeah, there are naked women in both (all the) beds, but we all need to hurl ourselves, un-armored, into the breach if we are to "fire all of the guns at once and explode into space", like our true nature's child.

we can climb so high.

not fadeaway

back in the good old days, when a decent interpersonal snarl was all in good fun, i used to camp out in any number of dark and smoky dens of iniquity to weekly dose myself with an historically amazing cavalcade of boston rockers. thursdays were 50 cent drafts at great scot, and party outfits like the trailers and the eleventh hour band were always a good time. but it still amazes me to recall that we could see the atlantics, del fuegos, lyres, outlets, mission of burma, human sexual response, real kids, neats, classic ruins, robin lane (with her chartbusters), neighborhoods, nervous eaters, willie alexander, angry young bees, etc. etc. etc. and enjoy all the beer we were pleased to drink for just a couple of bucks, all while standing right down in front with those beers in hand, getting blown away with the rest our friends, right directly in front of the marshall stacks. (if you're tempted to say "huh?" and "who?" to some of the preceding, maybe i should have added the cars, aimee mann, j geils and aerosmith in case you're too young, or if all you ever did was listen to "top 40" radio at the time...) these were some of the greatest musical experiences to be had anywhere on this planet since the 60's gave way disco.

but of all the bands and beauty of it all, there will always be a special place in my memory and heart for jon butcher axis. (props to chris martin and derek blevins). three guys, a rainbow array of fender strats lined up like the beers we were drinking from the bar, and two hours of the most infectuous, dance-inspiring rock and roll that's ever been my privilege to have poured into my ears. if you've never heard jon do holly's not fadeaway, i'd say you've only heard half the song. (no disrespect for buddy, for, as careful readers will know, he's to me the greatest of them all). we all thought we were actually there following cissy around (but NOOOOOOOO backstage pass...) with jon the way he told/sang it, and i'll always remember that "you can tune a piano, but you can't tunafish". (all those head muscles, still can't grow hair). you go, jon.

this friday and saturday night, in an homage to the old mohawk lounge, jon and charlie farren and a whole raft of those who were there will be lighting up the stage at the bull run in shirley. (how do i know? i just happened to run into one of the old drummers for the fools the other day--i think spinal tap got the spontaneous combustion joke right on musical drumming chairs--and we got to talking, but lets not digress too far...) it's amazing the power music has over us...

however, the fascinating part isn't always where we've been and who we've seen, but where others go once we've lost track of them. ever heard of the barefoot servants? dare you to go to their website and not stick around to take a sip of all the tasty musical teases there for our listening pleasure. i think to myself, twenty years of seasoning has done amazing things to jon's voice... and then i catch an eyeful of that beard... that inimitable, better-than-zztop's-ever-were BEARD... Leland Sklar. between nights soaking my head in the full ocean in motion, i think i literally wore holes in my running on empty lp. i saw lee with jt at harvard stadium. i caught i can't tell you how many bands for no better reason than they had the good sense to put lee and his buddy russ kunkel at the heart of what they were trying to do. (linda ronstadt's accountant will tell you the good sense in that). and there he is. him and jon. him and jon and ben shultz and neal wilkinson. him and music that leaps straight out of the earbuds and into my whole body, just like it always ever did.

not fadeaway

generosity of spirit

if this were a legal proceeding, i think all sides would stipulate to the dearth of it on my part, but, absent an abundance, still how does one do the best one can with a paucity of it, nonetheless?

i've been emotionally browbeaten on several points this past year, among them the risk of displaying any amount of temper. those who know me might understand the challenge here. living at such close quarters with the red-eyed monster as i do, (tongue planted firmly in would-be-scowling cheek), you'd think i'd be consulted on how best to deal. however, to my rising blood pressure, i'm treated to frequent approbations (i was going to say lectures, but that's inflammatory ;-) and re-educations on the subject that are delivered with a vigilant and wary eye askance toward even the least visibility of objection, disagreement, or related rise in the diastolic. to my credit, i've not been caught nearly as often as i've been guilty, which, strange as it sounds, is actually to be judged not guilty after all, since, see, the anger isn't verboten, per se, (no thought police on this case... yet...) but it's the intimidation that ensues that cannot be tolerated. (actually, in down payment for a truer generosity of spirit, i get that, and i accept it--i'm an emotional bully, and that doesn't work here anymore, and, truth be told, it never really did).

but bully is kind of a harsh word to me, and since i'm the author of this little fantasy world here, i get to blow off a little steam about it. you see, there aren't a lot of ways that children can defend themselves from emotional abuse and/or neglect, and, for lack of a better imagination or more effective emotional tools, i'm wired to go straight for the scowl. it's not out of malice, or even intent to harm in any way, but, rather, it's the best (and it would appear only) way i knew (and, evidently, still know) how to build a protected space for myself. kinda like an emotional animal backed into its emotional corner resorting to its emotional teeth and claws, holding the perceived threat at bay... it's what animals do.

catch-22, by committing my past personal crimes, i'm beyond hope now of emotional kid gloves coming to reach out to me into my present corner. sadly, in hopes of growing a true generosity of spirit, and a corresponding lack of emotional prickliness, it occurs to me that a soothing word and gentle stroke might go a long way towards helping to re-wire the crossed emotional lines that bedevil my best efforts at rehabilitation. but those aren't terms of my emotional incarceration in aforesaid corner...

the hell of today is that i'm watching, as if in slow motion, the destruction of other relationships in a domino-like cascade from that of mine with my oppressor, i mean, spouse. (oops, there's that inflammation again). i have to accept that now i'm not just snarling my way out of a corner anymore--i'm truly angry. and i'm anything but generous about it.

i see now how alec baldwin got started down his tortured road.