The choice has been made. Had to decide with logic, and not emotion. The ball or the sword, right? I still don't know how to accept the choice, but I don't think I'm off base saying it is done.
It looks like these blog entries will go back to what they started out as, with less emotion going into them. Why? I think some people have sincerely misread a lot of things and are often so off base that I can't understand them.
On a not-so-related not, "Inglorious Basterds" looks like a prime movie. Brad Pitt in a Tarantino film? I'm pretty sure that's going to fuckin' rock. I will see a remake in this case.
Coming soon to the CZ: "Spin," racist mayors, and more on the decisions that have been made.
Ta-Da.
28.2.09
27.2.09
AT and T At Death's Door
I freed myself today. The cable guy said, "You are no longer an AT and T customer." I then launched into the story as he slowly made his way backward toward the door. He was scared, and I was mad. My arms were pumping up and down in excitement.
"And in conclusion," I said, "fuck AT and T!"
He seemed relieved I was done ranting, and then told me how the phone giant was losing customers and didn't seem to understand that it had competition.
Yeah, that felt good.
Had a really rough day today. It took exactly one minute at work to get pissed off at people's never ending stupidity. I wanted to put my fist through someone's face. Through the teeth and out the back of the skull, blood, bone and brain matter stuck to my knuckles.
That would've felt good, but probably would've caused a report to be written, and I can't do that to my supervisor, who deserves better than I've been given. I'm at the end of my rope with this job. I don't want to be an uncaring worker, but these fuckers make it so hard. Clients. Policy. Everything else. Lately it seems designed to irritate me.
My sister comes out tomorrow. Don't know how much I'll get to write while she is here. Probably very little.
I wish I were anywhere else right now. Well, actually I have a specific place in mind. An oasis. A place where things will be right.
I believe a decision has been reached in the ongoing saga. The story draws toward a new chapter, and I am no longer an AT and T customer. One more bill with those cancer-ridden cannibals. Maybe I'll send my payment with lice or crab eggs in it.
Now that would be mean, wouldn't it?
It's a thought, but I don't want to infest some sucker who probably hates the company as much as I do. To all AT and T employees who may read this: Steal as much shit as you can. You deserve it. And if this offended you, dear employee, I hope you're the one getting stolen from.
"And in conclusion," I said, "fuck AT and T!"
He seemed relieved I was done ranting, and then told me how the phone giant was losing customers and didn't seem to understand that it had competition.
Yeah, that felt good.
Had a really rough day today. It took exactly one minute at work to get pissed off at people's never ending stupidity. I wanted to put my fist through someone's face. Through the teeth and out the back of the skull, blood, bone and brain matter stuck to my knuckles.
That would've felt good, but probably would've caused a report to be written, and I can't do that to my supervisor, who deserves better than I've been given. I'm at the end of my rope with this job. I don't want to be an uncaring worker, but these fuckers make it so hard. Clients. Policy. Everything else. Lately it seems designed to irritate me.
My sister comes out tomorrow. Don't know how much I'll get to write while she is here. Probably very little.
I wish I were anywhere else right now. Well, actually I have a specific place in mind. An oasis. A place where things will be right.
I believe a decision has been reached in the ongoing saga. The story draws toward a new chapter, and I am no longer an AT and T customer. One more bill with those cancer-ridden cannibals. Maybe I'll send my payment with lice or crab eggs in it.
Now that would be mean, wouldn't it?
It's a thought, but I don't want to infest some sucker who probably hates the company as much as I do. To all AT and T employees who may read this: Steal as much shit as you can. You deserve it. And if this offended you, dear employee, I hope you're the one getting stolen from.
Joaquin Phoenix
I'm watching him (I may not have spelled his name right) on David Letterman. I have heard the press about him being nervous in interviews, but this is uncomfortable. He is super fucking nervous. He won't talk. He is unresponsive. Full beard. Hair going into dreads. Letterman is starting to get a bit perturbed. Phoenix is not exactly amusing or a good interview. He appears to be drugged, but I don't think so. It seems like he'd rather be anywhere but there. Letterman is pushing him on his retirement from acting. He does not want to talk about this. He is questioning the audience. I'm sure you can find a clip online.
I think I understand.
I don't like performing on demand, like a well-trained monkey. I don't appreciate it, and I am uncomfortable when put out in the public eye. I don't like simplistic questions. I don't like the trivial. I don't like putting on their show. I'd rather retreat. I have retreated. I've closed off because some people I thought could understand may have twisted things. I can count on one hand those who haven't. You all know who you are because I continue to have good discussions with you folks.
When the fallout of my life has finally settled, things will be different. Some will be surprised. Some won't. I don't think I care. I know what will make me happy, and while it won't be easy. It will be right. No doubt in my mind about that. None at all. There will be those who question my decisions. So be it.
I'm not here to perform on cue. I'm not here to make you comfortable. I'm here to finish a story, and that's what I'm going to do. Happy ending? Some people won't think so. Me? I know so.
I know so.
I think I understand.
I don't like performing on demand, like a well-trained monkey. I don't appreciate it, and I am uncomfortable when put out in the public eye. I don't like simplistic questions. I don't like the trivial. I don't like putting on their show. I'd rather retreat. I have retreated. I've closed off because some people I thought could understand may have twisted things. I can count on one hand those who haven't. You all know who you are because I continue to have good discussions with you folks.
When the fallout of my life has finally settled, things will be different. Some will be surprised. Some won't. I don't think I care. I know what will make me happy, and while it won't be easy. It will be right. No doubt in my mind about that. None at all. There will be those who question my decisions. So be it.
I'm not here to perform on cue. I'm not here to make you comfortable. I'm here to finish a story, and that's what I'm going to do. Happy ending? Some people won't think so. Me? I know so.
I know so.
25.2.09
Goodbye To The Summer
That title is a line from a Chumbawamba song. Say what you will about the band (and plenty have), I respect it and its message.
I've always been a Fall kind of guy myself. I like the idea of everything dying.
There are a lot of things swirling around in my head these days. Most of them good. I've gone into a bit of an exile because I need to clear my head. The tough decision I need to come to terms with may have been made for me (not that I agree with that yet and not sure I ever will). It's not that I'm afraid of change (especially when change is good). I'm afraid of fallout.
And then I realized I shouldn't be.
Every decision has actions that are foreseen and unforeseen. What is absolutely certain, however, is not acting can have some very hard ramifications that may never be overcome. When I was told of what the decision should be, the logical side said it was right. The emotional side got scared. I felt like I was falling asleep at the wheel, but the vehicle was on autopilot and in very safe hands.
Somewhere down the road things will be very different, very good. I think the writing is on the wall, and I can't wash it off because it speaks truth like a Dada slogan. I know what people will think, as many have already spoken. I know what will be said, because it is already being said. But here's the facts: You don't know shit about the reality of the situation at hand.
That's it. People speaking about what they think they know is far different than speaking of what they know. I appreciate the help, but I don't appreciate having my words shoveled into the dustbin of history.
The cards have spoken. What is right is right. What is inevitable is inevitable, and it is all very, very good. I don't expect the world to understand or agree. I don't care, though.
There is a reason for the exile. Now there is a reason for the return.
I've always been a Fall kind of guy myself. I like the idea of everything dying.
There are a lot of things swirling around in my head these days. Most of them good. I've gone into a bit of an exile because I need to clear my head. The tough decision I need to come to terms with may have been made for me (not that I agree with that yet and not sure I ever will). It's not that I'm afraid of change (especially when change is good). I'm afraid of fallout.
And then I realized I shouldn't be.
Every decision has actions that are foreseen and unforeseen. What is absolutely certain, however, is not acting can have some very hard ramifications that may never be overcome. When I was told of what the decision should be, the logical side said it was right. The emotional side got scared. I felt like I was falling asleep at the wheel, but the vehicle was on autopilot and in very safe hands.
Somewhere down the road things will be very different, very good. I think the writing is on the wall, and I can't wash it off because it speaks truth like a Dada slogan. I know what people will think, as many have already spoken. I know what will be said, because it is already being said. But here's the facts: You don't know shit about the reality of the situation at hand.
That's it. People speaking about what they think they know is far different than speaking of what they know. I appreciate the help, but I don't appreciate having my words shoveled into the dustbin of history.
The cards have spoken. What is right is right. What is inevitable is inevitable, and it is all very, very good. I don't expect the world to understand or agree. I don't care, though.
There is a reason for the exile. Now there is a reason for the return.
24.2.09
The Bars
Talk about the highs and lows. So much in my head and feeling so disconnected from the world around me because I've decided to isolate myself so I can make decisions without interference. Is that a good or bad thing? Only time will tell that one.
After a good portion of my friends told me I had to be alone (and they were wrong), I take a lot of what they say with a grain of salt. Not all said that, and some had some real justifications for their statements. Regardless, I think I need to be in a self-imposed exile for a bit. If I seem out of it, you know why now.
I'm still losing weight (it was a struggle to keep my pants up). I'm still sick, but not as bad. I still don't sleep a lot, but the sleep I have is much better.
My little girl, who says some remarkable things, told me this last night. "I want you to have a girlfriend so you have more love in your heart." No four-year-old should ever have to say that. It was touching.
Exile. It's a word that has many romantic undertones. It implies a possible eventual return. Add the "self-imposed" and it starts to add a whole new dimension to it. I can sense it. Those close to me can sense it.
The title of this post is a Black Flag song. A lot of my more personal writing has Black Flag/Henry Rollins connections. In times of tough emotional turmoil and decision making, I turn to that. It always helped me get through and get by.
I can't help but think of another Black Flag quote, either. "This is good."
After a good portion of my friends told me I had to be alone (and they were wrong), I take a lot of what they say with a grain of salt. Not all said that, and some had some real justifications for their statements. Regardless, I think I need to be in a self-imposed exile for a bit. If I seem out of it, you know why now.
I'm still losing weight (it was a struggle to keep my pants up). I'm still sick, but not as bad. I still don't sleep a lot, but the sleep I have is much better.
My little girl, who says some remarkable things, told me this last night. "I want you to have a girlfriend so you have more love in your heart." No four-year-old should ever have to say that. It was touching.
Exile. It's a word that has many romantic undertones. It implies a possible eventual return. Add the "self-imposed" and it starts to add a whole new dimension to it. I can sense it. Those close to me can sense it.
The title of this post is a Black Flag song. A lot of my more personal writing has Black Flag/Henry Rollins connections. In times of tough emotional turmoil and decision making, I turn to that. It always helped me get through and get by.
I can't help but think of another Black Flag quote, either. "This is good."
23.2.09
Deleted post
I accidentally deleted a post when I tried to remove two comments. My apologies. To the one comment that I actually liked: Poker takes money, my friend.
22.2.09
From Hell
3/3/09. As I sit here awake (because I was tired a half hour ago, but now wide awake due to a phone call), I think to this date.
Nashville Pussy "From Hell to Texas" will be released.
I love Nashville Pussy. First, it's a great name for a band that guarantees no airplay on most radio stations. Then there's the music. Rock 'n' roll from the dirty South.
I look forward to this release. I'm hoping the publicist will send me a copy (I usually get them from this band), but I'm not counting on it. I believe it will be a great release, as the band doesn't put out weak shit.
Kind of wish I had an advance copy now. I could listen to it while drifting off. Wonder what kind of dreams I'd have. Probably involve Smart Food, eating (not Smart Food) and screaming. Nashville Pussy does that to you.
So do some phone calls.
Nashville Pussy "From Hell to Texas" will be released.
I love Nashville Pussy. First, it's a great name for a band that guarantees no airplay on most radio stations. Then there's the music. Rock 'n' roll from the dirty South.
I look forward to this release. I'm hoping the publicist will send me a copy (I usually get them from this band), but I'm not counting on it. I believe it will be a great release, as the band doesn't put out weak shit.
Kind of wish I had an advance copy now. I could listen to it while drifting off. Wonder what kind of dreams I'd have. Probably involve Smart Food, eating (not Smart Food) and screaming. Nashville Pussy does that to you.
So do some phone calls.
21.2.09
This is Distortion
Almost three a.m. and I can't sleep. Stomach in knots. Worried about the dinner. Excited about the future. Things happen. Things you can't explain. Things that feel okay, right, natural. I took some back medicine tonight. Spoke out of line. Should be tired. Not. Spoke out of line. Should be crucified. Not.
It takes a lot of honesty to bring us to these places. I've been using this blog as therapy. Some have agreed with that, others advised caution. Man, life is too short. I think something happened that may have changed quite a few futures. Revelations. Destinations. This is good.
"Standing here like a loaded gun/Waiting to go off/I've got nothing better to do/But shoot my mouth off" -- Black Flag
It takes a lot of honesty to bring us to these places. I've been using this blog as therapy. Some have agreed with that, others advised caution. Man, life is too short. I think something happened that may have changed quite a few futures. Revelations. Destinations. This is good.
"Standing here like a loaded gun/Waiting to go off/I've got nothing better to do/But shoot my mouth off" -- Black Flag
20.2.09
It Starts Out Bad
It nears midnight here. This morning I woke up feeling like a piece of glass had been forced down my throat. It was as if someone had broken a beer bottle and took the ragged piece that was the neck, pried open my mouth and forced it in. Then they pushed. Heel of their hand forcing it deeper. I can feel it ripping through vocal chords.
I did not want to go to work. It seemed pointless. I can't do the job as well as I'd like to because there is just too much to do. Can't quit right now. Can't sell a manuscript. Stuck. The economy does not like job seekers at the moment, and the retirement can work out well for me and whatever remnants of my family I shall have.
Relatives are in town. Having an awkward dinner tomorrow night (tonight by the time I post) that everyone says I should not attend. They tell me I'm handling the divorce fine, but that I'm torturing myself. Maybe so, but I get so little time with my girl that I can't picture being away from her.
So I trudge through work, and it gets worse by the minute. I have lunch with a friend and we talk. We talk about her man, The Girl, Nikki, my soon-to-be-ex-wife, my daughter, life, love and sex. It helped, but didn't make work any better.
I grind through the day, feeling like my brain has live electrical wires jammed into it. Trying to get to the next hour without throwing my hands up in disgust and walking out.
Five comes, but I talk to another friend. Discuss the futility of it all. The mind-numbing insanity that we get paid for. Forty minutes later I'm out of there. I'm hoping the place burns down.
I go home. Call my daughter. Wish she were with me.
This day ... it starts out bad ... it gets better.
To talk about what changed it would be to destroy the magic. It would somehow cheapen it. It would make it less real.
Some things feel right. Like they were meant to happen. Some things seem impossible, but they work out. Some things work. My fate became a bit clearer. The fog cleared, and I saw what I could be possible.
It starts out bad ... it gets better.
Such a strange thing for me to say.
I did not want to go to work. It seemed pointless. I can't do the job as well as I'd like to because there is just too much to do. Can't quit right now. Can't sell a manuscript. Stuck. The economy does not like job seekers at the moment, and the retirement can work out well for me and whatever remnants of my family I shall have.
Relatives are in town. Having an awkward dinner tomorrow night (tonight by the time I post) that everyone says I should not attend. They tell me I'm handling the divorce fine, but that I'm torturing myself. Maybe so, but I get so little time with my girl that I can't picture being away from her.
So I trudge through work, and it gets worse by the minute. I have lunch with a friend and we talk. We talk about her man, The Girl, Nikki, my soon-to-be-ex-wife, my daughter, life, love and sex. It helped, but didn't make work any better.
I grind through the day, feeling like my brain has live electrical wires jammed into it. Trying to get to the next hour without throwing my hands up in disgust and walking out.
Five comes, but I talk to another friend. Discuss the futility of it all. The mind-numbing insanity that we get paid for. Forty minutes later I'm out of there. I'm hoping the place burns down.
I go home. Call my daughter. Wish she were with me.
This day ... it starts out bad ... it gets better.
To talk about what changed it would be to destroy the magic. It would somehow cheapen it. It would make it less real.
Some things feel right. Like they were meant to happen. Some things seem impossible, but they work out. Some things work. My fate became a bit clearer. The fog cleared, and I saw what I could be possible.
It starts out bad ... it gets better.
Such a strange thing for me to say.
19.2.09
25 Facts
Inspired by my dear friend's blog, which was in turn inspired by someone else's blog, which was in turn inspired by ... Jesus!
1. I like to think I have fairly eclectic music tastes. I have everything from Prince to GG Allin in my collection. At times I think I am the only person locally with a certain CD ... and I believe that's actually right. (Does anyone else in Humboldt have Possessed by Paul James or Diesel Rhino?)
2. I've always like the Marvel character Daredevil because he was always on the brink of insanity only to be pulled back at the last moment. I realize now that's because it's how I best operate.
3. Even when I hate my job, I do the best possible work I can do. Don't know why, but I think it has to do with my believe that reputation goes a long way.
4. I named my daughter after Asia Argento, a woman I find fascinating, strong and artistic. These were all things I wanted my daughter to be.
5. While I think I treat women with a lot of respect, I also prefer my sex to be on the dirty side. I see no reason why the two can't be combined.
6. I've never smoked pot, never did acid, and have never snorted coke. I also have never attempted to finish a Tab.
7. I believe murder is often justified ... but not when the state does it.
8. I think smart women are sexy, dumb women are annoying, and body size is nowhere near as important as attitude.
9. I will fight the Presidents of the United States if I ever meet that band, and I think I can take them.
10. I prefer amateur porn to the pro stuff.
11. I do not believe in God, but I think that people who declare themselves to be atheists tend to give organized religion more attention and respect than it deserves.
12. I'm registered Republican, but only so I can take part of their surveys and vote in their primaries ... for the worst candidate.
13. I once played a series of pranks on our local weatherman ... six years apart. And I got caught.
14. The one manuscript I spent the least amount of time on is the one that actually got published ("Pocket Aces: The Newbie's Guide to Online Texas Hold 'Em" if you care.)
15. I really, really don't like hippies who live off trust funds and the kindness of others.
16. I once called a drunk, vomiting homeless man a "human pig" and threatened to cut him with a broken bottle.
17. I rarely call the police, but when I do I like to ensure they'll do something, so I threaten them with taking action myself. I've threatened to burn down a junkie's truck, drag a mattress into the street, cut the electric to a building, run a person over and so on. I have never gotten in trouble.
18. I have used 911 to sic some cops on some drunk guy that woke me up one morning. I told them the guy was drunk, described his car to the dispatcher, and then said the man loudly declared he would "kill any pig" that tried to stop him. I wish I would've seen that traffic stop.
19. I once gave a co-worker a heart attack and killed him.
20. I believe in the possibilities of ghosts, UFOs, and Bigfoot. I also believe in the possibilities of alternate universes. Ｉdon't believe in God, though, and that seems kind of hypocritical.
21. I do think I would be a serial killer if I didn't write. At the very least, I'd be hurting people.
22. At least once a month I think I have cancer or some other ailment that will kill me. I will not, however, go to the doctor.
23. I never wanted a child, but now that I have my daughter I can't picture life without her. She means the world to me.
24. I'm very bad at math. Very bad. I do make some great garlic chipotle mashed potatoes, however, and actually got my recipe in "Cooks Illustrated."
25. I like scaring people into thinking they are going to die or be hurt. I have pretended to car jack people, push them into traffic, and beat them to death with a log. I don't do this as much anymore because it seems slightly psychotic.
1. I like to think I have fairly eclectic music tastes. I have everything from Prince to GG Allin in my collection. At times I think I am the only person locally with a certain CD ... and I believe that's actually right. (Does anyone else in Humboldt have Possessed by Paul James or Diesel Rhino?)
2. I've always like the Marvel character Daredevil because he was always on the brink of insanity only to be pulled back at the last moment. I realize now that's because it's how I best operate.
3. Even when I hate my job, I do the best possible work I can do. Don't know why, but I think it has to do with my believe that reputation goes a long way.
4. I named my daughter after Asia Argento, a woman I find fascinating, strong and artistic. These were all things I wanted my daughter to be.
5. While I think I treat women with a lot of respect, I also prefer my sex to be on the dirty side. I see no reason why the two can't be combined.
6. I've never smoked pot, never did acid, and have never snorted coke. I also have never attempted to finish a Tab.
7. I believe murder is often justified ... but not when the state does it.
8. I think smart women are sexy, dumb women are annoying, and body size is nowhere near as important as attitude.
9. I will fight the Presidents of the United States if I ever meet that band, and I think I can take them.
10. I prefer amateur porn to the pro stuff.
11. I do not believe in God, but I think that people who declare themselves to be atheists tend to give organized religion more attention and respect than it deserves.
12. I'm registered Republican, but only so I can take part of their surveys and vote in their primaries ... for the worst candidate.
13. I once played a series of pranks on our local weatherman ... six years apart. And I got caught.
14. The one manuscript I spent the least amount of time on is the one that actually got published ("Pocket Aces: The Newbie's Guide to Online Texas Hold 'Em" if you care.)
15. I really, really don't like hippies who live off trust funds and the kindness of others.
16. I once called a drunk, vomiting homeless man a "human pig" and threatened to cut him with a broken bottle.
17. I rarely call the police, but when I do I like to ensure they'll do something, so I threaten them with taking action myself. I've threatened to burn down a junkie's truck, drag a mattress into the street, cut the electric to a building, run a person over and so on. I have never gotten in trouble.
18. I have used 911 to sic some cops on some drunk guy that woke me up one morning. I told them the guy was drunk, described his car to the dispatcher, and then said the man loudly declared he would "kill any pig" that tried to stop him. I wish I would've seen that traffic stop.
19. I once gave a co-worker a heart attack and killed him.
20. I believe in the possibilities of ghosts, UFOs, and Bigfoot. I also believe in the possibilities of alternate universes. Ｉdon't believe in God, though, and that seems kind of hypocritical.
21. I do think I would be a serial killer if I didn't write. At the very least, I'd be hurting people.
22. At least once a month I think I have cancer or some other ailment that will kill me. I will not, however, go to the doctor.
23. I never wanted a child, but now that I have my daughter I can't picture life without her. She means the world to me.
24. I'm very bad at math. Very bad. I do make some great garlic chipotle mashed potatoes, however, and actually got my recipe in "Cooks Illustrated."
25. I like scaring people into thinking they are going to die or be hurt. I have pretended to car jack people, push them into traffic, and beat them to death with a log. I don't do this as much anymore because it seems slightly psychotic.
To Sleep
Had a good night of sleep last night. It was accompanied by an amazing dream that gave me such a sense of peace and serenity that it can only mean two things.
Things are going to get better.
Or.
I am going to die.
Had you ask me a few days ago, I would've picked the latter. Today? Today is not a good day to die.
Things are going to get better.
Or.
I am going to die.
Had you ask me a few days ago, I would've picked the latter. Today? Today is not a good day to die.
18.2.09
Officially Destroyed
Those two words set off a very friendly, if overly concerned visit from a friend. I think she believed I was going to hang myself or something. She watched me eat and then commented that I could tell her to go when I thought I was going to be sick. I did get sick, but not until like a half hour after she left.
That, oddly enough, wasn't the strangest thing to happen today. No. Today was a good day. A day of strange things, revelations, and the hint of something that may have changed everything.
My soon-to-be-ex-wife and I are on good terms. For whatever reason she is having a rough time. I offered her some solutions, which may or may not have been good, but I think it was the right thing to do. Just knowing she has options would probably help her. I don't hate her despite the pain I feel. I just hate not seeing my daughter.
Later that night I talked to my friend back East. Nikki. My open letter to her caused some people to become upset. Some found it disrespectful (to The Girl, of all people, which makes no damn sense) and I guess to either Nikki herself or Jackie. It was not meant to be disrespectful. It was meant to let her know how I feel and for my daughter to read it sometime in the future.
My talks with Nikki have always been great. We are going through much of the same shit. Tonight was no different, yet it was. I won't go into detail, as our conversation was pretty personal, but I haven't felt this good about life in months. I learned that friends will drop everything to get over here if they think I might be dead, that I have a heart, and that some people from my past are even more incredible than I ever imagined.
For the first time in a long time, I saw a silver lining. I still can't sleep (I should be in bed now, but I talked to Nikki until she about fell asleep so her mind wouldn't be racing, and now my mind is), but I don't mind. I'm happy. Things were said tonight that needed to be said. Friends came through in ways they may not understand.
There is a change coming. I can feel it. I just hope it's as good as I think it may be.
That, oddly enough, wasn't the strangest thing to happen today. No. Today was a good day. A day of strange things, revelations, and the hint of something that may have changed everything.
My soon-to-be-ex-wife and I are on good terms. For whatever reason she is having a rough time. I offered her some solutions, which may or may not have been good, but I think it was the right thing to do. Just knowing she has options would probably help her. I don't hate her despite the pain I feel. I just hate not seeing my daughter.
Later that night I talked to my friend back East. Nikki. My open letter to her caused some people to become upset. Some found it disrespectful (to The Girl, of all people, which makes no damn sense) and I guess to either Nikki herself or Jackie. It was not meant to be disrespectful. It was meant to let her know how I feel and for my daughter to read it sometime in the future.
My talks with Nikki have always been great. We are going through much of the same shit. Tonight was no different, yet it was. I won't go into detail, as our conversation was pretty personal, but I haven't felt this good about life in months. I learned that friends will drop everything to get over here if they think I might be dead, that I have a heart, and that some people from my past are even more incredible than I ever imagined.
For the first time in a long time, I saw a silver lining. I still can't sleep (I should be in bed now, but I talked to Nikki until she about fell asleep so her mind wouldn't be racing, and now my mind is), but I don't mind. I'm happy. Things were said tonight that needed to be said. Friends came through in ways they may not understand.
There is a change coming. I can feel it. I just hope it's as good as I think it may be.
17.2.09
I'm A Lucky Guy
I had a co-worker tell me I was lucky. I have a perfect life. Couldn't understand why I get stressed.
The urge to put a pair of scissors through someone's neck is a healthy urge. It's a primal urge. It's, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.
I'll admit, I have some incredible aspects of my life. My daughter, my friends, the fact that people seem to like what I write -- those are good things. I don't discount them. To say I'm lucky and have a perfect life is a stretch. It comes not from a place of ignorance, but of blindness.
Lucky guys don't throw up blood. Perfect lives do not include fifty percent custody. h soundtrack and then Shit Gets Done. That doesn't happen, though. The love scenes never work out the same because those positions don't work as good as you think they would. Those flowery speeches where love is declared to conquer all come pre-equipped with stammers. The rain never falls just right. The girl sometimes gets away ... and you don't get her back.
For once I wish it were perfect, and that I was lucky, and that all those problems would be solved within ninety minutes. There's no gaffer, though. No credits to roll. And this guy's life doesn't come with a score. It's filled with awkward moments, distrust and a sense of dread as I wait for the other shoe to fall.
Real is the original "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Real is "I Stand Alone." Real is a handgun in your face one night, held by a random stranger. Real is sex that should somehow feel more fulfilling but will do ... for now. Real is a marriage that falls apart for no apparent reason, a break-up with as little reason, a daughter who wants her family back and a sense that the main character is no longer marching toward his doom, but has instead entered the final stages like gangbusters. Real is what happens when your plans go to shit.
When I started this blog, I was going to cover things that interested me. Music, movies, video games and so on. It wasn't meant to be my therapy, but it has turned into that. Personal private thoughts in a public forum. If I said these things on a street corner I'd be prophet crazy. Here, safe from direct stares, I can play God.
If I were lucky, if I had a perfect life, I'd be asleep right now. My daughter would be in her room, close enough to mine that I can sometimes hear her gentle sleep breathing. I would be able to reach over and wrap my arms around someone, keep her warm because I'm good at that. Know that I wouldn't care what she looked like in the morning because that's a reality I enjoy. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee and actually eat ... and not wonder when it was coming up. I would have a best-selling book. My job would be less stressful. I wouldn't be worried about my little girl, and I sure as hell wouldn't worry that I am going to die alone.
Instead, I worry. I'm getting my items together to sell and give away. I'm thinking that alone is how it is going to be, and I'm not too keen on that. I don't know how to meet people. I don't like people. I've been lucky enough (yeah, I said it) that in my past relationships they sort of just happened. Guess what? I'm 38. That shit doesn't just happen anymore.
I finally feel my age. Older, actually. I shouldn't care about this shit, but I do. I shouldn't give a fuck, but I can't help it. Yeah, a perfect life for a lucky guy. I can cure cancer with a touch and make puppies dance on command.
Maybe I need to see life through this person's eyes. See what they see. Maybe I'm mistaken. I can tell you this, though, I'm the one living my damn life. I'm the one up at midnight thinkin' I'll be lucky to get two hours sleep. I think I have a pretty good grasp on what my life is and how my luck should play out.
What is that Rollins Band song? "Gun in Mouth Blues." Click. Bang. Yeah, I'm a lucky guy.
The urge to put a pair of scissors through someone's neck is a healthy urge. It's a primal urge. It's, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.
I'll admit, I have some incredible aspects of my life. My daughter, my friends, the fact that people seem to like what I write -- those are good things. I don't discount them. To say I'm lucky and have a perfect life is a stretch. It comes not from a place of ignorance, but of blindness.
Lucky guys don't throw up blood. Perfect lives do not include fifty percent custody. h soundtrack and then Shit Gets Done. That doesn't happen, though. The love scenes never work out the same because those positions don't work as good as you think they would. Those flowery speeches where love is declared to conquer all come pre-equipped with stammers. The rain never falls just right. The girl sometimes gets away ... and you don't get her back.
For once I wish it were perfect, and that I was lucky, and that all those problems would be solved within ninety minutes. There's no gaffer, though. No credits to roll. And this guy's life doesn't come with a score. It's filled with awkward moments, distrust and a sense of dread as I wait for the other shoe to fall.
Real is the original "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Real is "I Stand Alone." Real is a handgun in your face one night, held by a random stranger. Real is sex that should somehow feel more fulfilling but will do ... for now. Real is a marriage that falls apart for no apparent reason, a break-up with as little reason, a daughter who wants her family back and a sense that the main character is no longer marching toward his doom, but has instead entered the final stages like gangbusters. Real is what happens when your plans go to shit.
When I started this blog, I was going to cover things that interested me. Music, movies, video games and so on. It wasn't meant to be my therapy, but it has turned into that. Personal private thoughts in a public forum. If I said these things on a street corner I'd be prophet crazy. Here, safe from direct stares, I can play God.
If I were lucky, if I had a perfect life, I'd be asleep right now. My daughter would be in her room, close enough to mine that I can sometimes hear her gentle sleep breathing. I would be able to reach over and wrap my arms around someone, keep her warm because I'm good at that. Know that I wouldn't care what she looked like in the morning because that's a reality I enjoy. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee and actually eat ... and not wonder when it was coming up. I would have a best-selling book. My job would be less stressful. I wouldn't be worried about my little girl, and I sure as hell wouldn't worry that I am going to die alone.
Instead, I worry. I'm getting my items together to sell and give away. I'm thinking that alone is how it is going to be, and I'm not too keen on that. I don't know how to meet people. I don't like people. I've been lucky enough (yeah, I said it) that in my past relationships they sort of just happened. Guess what? I'm 38. That shit doesn't just happen anymore.
I finally feel my age. Older, actually. I shouldn't care about this shit, but I do. I shouldn't give a fuck, but I can't help it. Yeah, a perfect life for a lucky guy. I can cure cancer with a touch and make puppies dance on command.
Maybe I need to see life through this person's eyes. See what they see. Maybe I'm mistaken. I can tell you this, though, I'm the one living my damn life. I'm the one up at midnight thinkin' I'll be lucky to get two hours sleep. I think I have a pretty good grasp on what my life is and how my luck should play out.
What is that Rollins Band song? "Gun in Mouth Blues." Click. Bang. Yeah, I'm a lucky guy.
An Open Letter to Nikki
Nik,
We've been talking a lot lately. A lot. I harbor a lot of guilt, and I know you said I shouldn't, and at this point you really are the person who knows me best, and you proved that. Here's how I know.
You and I have a past. Our relationship, which started when you were too young, ended, and it killed me. I couldn't believe I blew such a good thing. After all, you were an incredible friend and girlfriend, and I fucked up. Your reasons were sound, just and right. I was just glad we remained friends.
Eventually I met another girl, and things seemed great. I decided to move to California, but don't ever think it was an easy decision. It wasn't, and I'm still not convinced it was right. Especially now.
My relationship with Jackie was good ... or so I thought. My life, however, was a wreck. I was living in CA, sleeping on the couch of a junkie, unable to find a job for three years. I went to college, got paid for my writing, went from job to job and did everything I was asked.
Jackie wanted to have a child. I was against it. I thought this world wasn't the right place, and we would never have enough money. I gave in, though. I caved ... and I'm glad I did.
Asia spent almost the first week of her life in the hospital. I was afraid to get close to her. Afraid I would lose her like we lost our first pregnancy. As you know, she developed into the light of my life.
Jackie and I struggled financially, but we survived. With the help of relatives we rented a house we couldn't afford. One I never wanted to have. But we did it. And then things got bad.
A few months in this place and I was told my dad was dying. Then Jackie said she wanted a divorce. This came out of nowhere. We weren't fighting. I thought we were happy. I guess I've always had blinders on or something.
We decided to work it out. I didn't want Asia to have divorced parents. In the end it didn't work.
I had developed a friendship with another girl in this time. After the marriage was "over," it became more. I regret that in every way, shape and form. When that relationship ended, which was fast, I saw my future go down the drain. It made me question everything. It made me feel an inch tall. Asia was devastated.
Throughout all of this, as I had done every day since leaving PA, I thought of you. I missed you. I missed our friendship. I missed your insight. We hadn't been the best at keeping in touch, but I looked for your number and got into a car accident and figured I better fucking call you.
All I said was, "Hi. How are you?" You launched into your life without missing a beat, and the similarities were eerie. Lost family members, a marriage slowly disintegrating, a child who was the light of your life.
I told you about my dismal existence, and how I wanted to hang myself (stopped by The Girl). You put shit into perspective. You understood all too well. I listened to you talk about your son, and was so proud of the kind of mother you became. You, like me, have made your child the center of universe.
And then you told me exactly what I wanted to hear.
I told you I didn't want to die alone, and you said you wouldn't let that happen. You've never been one to lie to me. You've never been one to throw words out there just to make me feel better. In such a short time you dissected my relationship with The Girl and my life and made it all make sense. I've known you for about twenty years, and while other friends have told me similar things, only you know me that well.
We've talked every day since that phone call. Our friendship picked up without missing a beat. We both have been through the shit and are still going through it, but you have a handle on it like I could never hope to.
That means the world to me. I've been losing friends, and people are withdrawing from me. Others are getting closer, and I thank them for that (Dayna, can you hear me). But you, dear Nikki, you have not let over a decade stand between us. You didn't turn away from me once our relationship went sour. (And I know we kind of continued things after we broke up, and that was wonderful because it was always good, but we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend anymore.) Things could have went south, and it would have been easy, but that didn't happen.
Thank you. Your words have meant everything. Your take on this has been correct on every front. I wish our lives were different, and I often wish I never moved out here. I got a great daughter out of it, and you got a great son. Neither of us would change that.
So, what does this all mean? Why write this?
Because if I die today, I want the world to know how grateful I am and how much you mean to me. I want my daughter to be able to read this and know that you helped me remain a good father. Other friends have helped, too. Some more than others (Dayna, you there). But they are going off of the Doug they know now. You are going off the one you always knew. You knew through the darkest and the brightest. You know how bad I can get, while the others can only imagine. I want my girl to understand that ... and while I know you know it, I needed to say it.
I don't know what my future holds ... or your's. I know what I'd like out of life, but I'm not dumb. I do, however, know that you have helped more than you realize.
Here's to another twenty. May it never end.
We've been talking a lot lately. A lot. I harbor a lot of guilt, and I know you said I shouldn't, and at this point you really are the person who knows me best, and you proved that. Here's how I know.
You and I have a past. Our relationship, which started when you were too young, ended, and it killed me. I couldn't believe I blew such a good thing. After all, you were an incredible friend and girlfriend, and I fucked up. Your reasons were sound, just and right. I was just glad we remained friends.
Eventually I met another girl, and things seemed great. I decided to move to California, but don't ever think it was an easy decision. It wasn't, and I'm still not convinced it was right. Especially now.
My relationship with Jackie was good ... or so I thought. My life, however, was a wreck. I was living in CA, sleeping on the couch of a junkie, unable to find a job for three years. I went to college, got paid for my writing, went from job to job and did everything I was asked.
Jackie wanted to have a child. I was against it. I thought this world wasn't the right place, and we would never have enough money. I gave in, though. I caved ... and I'm glad I did.
Asia spent almost the first week of her life in the hospital. I was afraid to get close to her. Afraid I would lose her like we lost our first pregnancy. As you know, she developed into the light of my life.
Jackie and I struggled financially, but we survived. With the help of relatives we rented a house we couldn't afford. One I never wanted to have. But we did it. And then things got bad.
A few months in this place and I was told my dad was dying. Then Jackie said she wanted a divorce. This came out of nowhere. We weren't fighting. I thought we were happy. I guess I've always had blinders on or something.
We decided to work it out. I didn't want Asia to have divorced parents. In the end it didn't work.
I had developed a friendship with another girl in this time. After the marriage was "over," it became more. I regret that in every way, shape and form. When that relationship ended, which was fast, I saw my future go down the drain. It made me question everything. It made me feel an inch tall. Asia was devastated.
Throughout all of this, as I had done every day since leaving PA, I thought of you. I missed you. I missed our friendship. I missed your insight. We hadn't been the best at keeping in touch, but I looked for your number and got into a car accident and figured I better fucking call you.
All I said was, "Hi. How are you?" You launched into your life without missing a beat, and the similarities were eerie. Lost family members, a marriage slowly disintegrating, a child who was the light of your life.
I told you about my dismal existence, and how I wanted to hang myself (stopped by The Girl). You put shit into perspective. You understood all too well. I listened to you talk about your son, and was so proud of the kind of mother you became. You, like me, have made your child the center of universe.
And then you told me exactly what I wanted to hear.
I told you I didn't want to die alone, and you said you wouldn't let that happen. You've never been one to lie to me. You've never been one to throw words out there just to make me feel better. In such a short time you dissected my relationship with The Girl and my life and made it all make sense. I've known you for about twenty years, and while other friends have told me similar things, only you know me that well.
We've talked every day since that phone call. Our friendship picked up without missing a beat. We both have been through the shit and are still going through it, but you have a handle on it like I could never hope to.
That means the world to me. I've been losing friends, and people are withdrawing from me. Others are getting closer, and I thank them for that (Dayna, can you hear me). But you, dear Nikki, you have not let over a decade stand between us. You didn't turn away from me once our relationship went sour. (And I know we kind of continued things after we broke up, and that was wonderful because it was always good, but we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend anymore.) Things could have went south, and it would have been easy, but that didn't happen.
Thank you. Your words have meant everything. Your take on this has been correct on every front. I wish our lives were different, and I often wish I never moved out here. I got a great daughter out of it, and you got a great son. Neither of us would change that.
So, what does this all mean? Why write this?
Because if I die today, I want the world to know how grateful I am and how much you mean to me. I want my daughter to be able to read this and know that you helped me remain a good father. Other friends have helped, too. Some more than others (Dayna, you there). But they are going off of the Doug they know now. You are going off the one you always knew. You knew through the darkest and the brightest. You know how bad I can get, while the others can only imagine. I want my girl to understand that ... and while I know you know it, I needed to say it.
I don't know what my future holds ... or your's. I know what I'd like out of life, but I'm not dumb. I do, however, know that you have helped more than you realize.
Here's to another twenty. May it never end.
16.2.09
The Devil's Work
My daughter has been hinting around lately. Hinting at the fact that she wants me to find someone, get married and so on. She's four, so it's cute, but it's also heart breaking. She doesn't want me to be lonely, and she wants her family back.
No four-year-old should have to think such things.
(In all fairness, too, she made one very interesting suggestion. It was cute, and she didn't even know my entire history with the female, whom I shall not name.)
There was so much I wanted to write tonight, but that has kind of gone out the window, as this turned out to be one fucked up evening. Back pain, a failed attempt at sushi rice (my soon-to-be ex-wife always made the rice), suggestions of marriage and so on, all made the entire night very surreal. There's more I won't even mention, but I all that I was going to discuss kind of took a backseat to the idea of finding someone new.
After the incident with The Girl, I don't feel too comfortable introducing my daughter to someone else who will just rip me apart at some point. It leads to questions that I don't feel like answering. At this point in my life, there are few women I would even trust to have meet her. One of the ones she suggested she really likes, which leads me to believe she has good taste in matches for me based on prior history, but it gets kind of painful after a while. How do you explain being jaded to a kid?
She means well. She is my life. I hate to hear her say she wants me to not be lonely. I tell her as long as I have her in my life there's no way I could be lonely. Usually she says something like, "Someone to kissey kiss." Freakin' cute and astute.
What I want, however, has absolutely no bearing on reality. I know what I would have if I could have my way. I think the answer would surprise quite a few people. (Do not ask. I will not tell.) I also think I know my future.
If any of you ever read "Preacher," there's a good chance you read it through to the end. It was just that type of comic book series/trade paperback. Toward the end of the story, The Saint of Killers finally confronts God, kills him, and sits upon his throne. He puts his head down, finally at rest. His journey was a long, bloody one, but his vengeance was deserved. That final death put a period on his tale.
I feel as if I'm approaching the Kingdom. My journey, at least this part, is almost over. I'm about to end things (not in a suicidal way) and rest.
Destiny? I don't know. It's a concept I don't have a lot of faith in. There's been enough happening, though, that I'm starting to see the writing on the wall, and I don't know how to deal with it.
It's time to pull the trigger, sit on the throne and rest.
So be it.
For All You Sinners
My interview with Shane Ryan on "Amateur Porn Star Killer 3" is finally up on Film Threat's main page. Enjoy.
15.2.09
Grinding
I finally got my wireless router working with the help of an adorable-sounding female from the Philippines. She actually seemed amused by me, which I will take from any female at this point. She was a little freaked when I said I wanted to name my connection "Flesh Suit." I named it something else instead ("Mephisto Gate" so that if someone came across it they might think it is some sort of portal to Hell). While we were working on it I asked her about the weather in the Philippines (humid) and how she liked it there (very well, thank you).
I had attempted to do it on my own, and it was driving me absolutely apeshit. I was told it would take two hours. It didn't. When I was doing it, however, it was this slow, maddening grind where I was getting increasingly frustrated with IP addresses, MAC cloning and other such nonsense. All I wanted to do was set the laptop up so I could blog in the bathroom and watch the Daytona 500. (Matt Kenseth wins by default after the race ended early due to rain. He was all choked up, and I know it's the big race, but come on. Yes, a win is a win and you get the points, but it's not a real win. It wasn't earned. On the plus side, however, Kyle Busch was knocked out. I hate that fucker.) But no. I had to call customer support.
I was just happy I could understand her.
Nothing deep tonight. I don't have it in me.
I had attempted to do it on my own, and it was driving me absolutely apeshit. I was told it would take two hours. It didn't. When I was doing it, however, it was this slow, maddening grind where I was getting increasingly frustrated with IP addresses, MAC cloning and other such nonsense. All I wanted to do was set the laptop up so I could blog in the bathroom and watch the Daytona 500. (Matt Kenseth wins by default after the race ended early due to rain. He was all choked up, and I know it's the big race, but come on. Yes, a win is a win and you get the points, but it's not a real win. It wasn't earned. On the plus side, however, Kyle Busch was knocked out. I hate that fucker.) But no. I had to call customer support.
I was just happy I could understand her.
Nothing deep tonight. I don't have it in me.
14.2.09
Another Lonely Christmas
If you recognize that title, you know how sad a song that is. I made it through Valentine's Day. Got to spend two lovely hours with my daughter. Saw her vice parents for a few (and had a lovely dinner with them). Talked to my friends. A lot of good. Helped to keep me from forgetting the pain.
Got high speed Internet finally. Got Skype (look me up). Both should help me connect with people I don't know and have no connection to.
It's a cold night. I have no body to snuggle next to. I miss that. I miss rubbing a woman's back or feet because she had a tough day. I miss exchanged glances. I miss connecting like a human should connect. "Grindhouse" is on. I last watched this with The Girl.
Cold night. Valentine's Day. The world at my fingertips. There's no reason to be lonely, but every night is another lonely Christmas.
I thought of a new motto for our currency. "Unending Misery."
Got high speed Internet finally. Got Skype (look me up). Both should help me connect with people I don't know and have no connection to.
It's a cold night. I have no body to snuggle next to. I miss that. I miss rubbing a woman's back or feet because she had a tough day. I miss exchanged glances. I miss connecting like a human should connect. "Grindhouse" is on. I last watched this with The Girl.
Cold night. Valentine's Day. The world at my fingertips. There's no reason to be lonely, but every night is another lonely Christmas.
I thought of a new motto for our currency. "Unending Misery."
Words That Kill
Friday night. My friend/supervisor (at this point, Pookie, whose thug name conveys nothing but fear, felt his heart skip a beat as rage filled his eyes), had a nice conversation over nachos, beer and soda. I decided that since I've been sick and throwing up a lot of my food, super spicy nachos and tacos would kill my stomach. And they did.
Lost another pound. Four this week.
As always, we had a great conversation. She's good people. She'll stab you, but she's good people.
Around two that morning I received a phone call from a local friend who had just read my blog for the first time in two weeks or so. I was slightly tired, but she kind of gave me the riot act.
Her: Don't you believe in destiny?
Me: No.
Her: Well, what do you think is going on?
Me: Life is going to shit.
Her: You don't see it? You don't see the good?
Me: What is 'it'?
Her: You. Don't you get it? You have reconnected with a girl from your past, you are listening to the same music from then, you are alone again. Don't you get that?
Me: I don't think I do.
Her: Listen, dummy, this is temporary. What you had with the girl you say that Nine Inch Nails song was about wasn't ever real. You would think you would've figured that out by now. You may have had real feelings for her, but she doesn't know up from down. Everyone knows that. Nobody said anything to you, though because you had to figure it out yourself.
Me: Thanks.
Her: You are a good guy. This alone thing won't last. Read the comments you get. Read what you write. Girls like you. You're nice, you're funny, you have a good job, you're a good dad, you have talent, you aren't ugly. I think I know three girls off the top of my head who would fuck you and probably want a relationship, too.
Me: Again, thanks. It's late. I don't feel good.
Her: Obviously. You seriously don't see what's happening?
Me: No.
Her: Are you holding out for Pig girl?
Me: No.
Her: Good, because it's pretty obvious she fucked that up and won't face it. I know these things. I hope you don't plan on hooking up with her again.
Me: Not if we were the last two people on Earth. At this point, she's more an acquaintenace than friend.
Her: Sounds it. So what are you doing?
Me: Nothing. Being sick.
Her: Being stupid.
Me: This is a great conversation.
Her: Well, you are. Do you read your old journals?
Me: Shredded a long time ago.
Her: Too bad. I think your answer is there. I know you pretty well. I know what you eventually want out of a relationship. I think I know what you're going to get, too.
Me: Enlighten me.
Her: Nope. I think it's obvious if you just look. Get your head out of your ass.
Me: Okay. I'll work on that tomorrow.
Her: Who is this girl you keep talking to you? Is it the one you mentioned before?
Me: Maybe. I don't know which you refer to.
Her: From PA.
Me: There's a few from PA.
Her: Whatever. You know, maybe if you weren't so glum one of those girls who does want to fuck you would actually approach you. But you walk around looking like you're either going to cry or kill.
Me: Well, truth in advertising.
Her: You know that's not true. You're a cynic, but you also have a romantic notion of what relationships should be. Jesus, you're a dork.
Me: I don't think relationships can work. I'm convinced of that.
Her: You don't think they can work, or you don't think they will work?
Me: Same difference.
Her: Then why do you stay friends with the people you've had relationships with?
Me: [The Hey, Pig girl] is not that way.
Her: Not because of you. That's on her. Jesus, Doug, stop being stupid.
Me: I don't think they can or will work.
Her: Then they won't. You ever hear that before?
Me: I'm tired.
Her: Me, too, but I had to call because I knew you would be awake.
Me: I'm going.
Her: Think about it. It might not be destiny, but I think you are overlooking some stuff that is clear.
And that's how it ended. I had to paraphrase because I wasn't jotting down the conversation as we had it. I stayed up for a while thinking about it, though. I still don't believe in destiny or know what the fuck she was getting at, but I think there was some merit there.
Four pounds. God, how much longer can that go on?
Lost another pound. Four this week.
As always, we had a great conversation. She's good people. She'll stab you, but she's good people.
Around two that morning I received a phone call from a local friend who had just read my blog for the first time in two weeks or so. I was slightly tired, but she kind of gave me the riot act.
Her: Don't you believe in destiny?
Me: No.
Her: Well, what do you think is going on?
Me: Life is going to shit.
Her: You don't see it? You don't see the good?
Me: What is 'it'?
Her: You. Don't you get it? You have reconnected with a girl from your past, you are listening to the same music from then, you are alone again. Don't you get that?
Me: I don't think I do.
Her: Listen, dummy, this is temporary. What you had with the girl you say that Nine Inch Nails song was about wasn't ever real. You would think you would've figured that out by now. You may have had real feelings for her, but she doesn't know up from down. Everyone knows that. Nobody said anything to you, though because you had to figure it out yourself.
Me: Thanks.
Her: You are a good guy. This alone thing won't last. Read the comments you get. Read what you write. Girls like you. You're nice, you're funny, you have a good job, you're a good dad, you have talent, you aren't ugly. I think I know three girls off the top of my head who would fuck you and probably want a relationship, too.
Me: Again, thanks. It's late. I don't feel good.
Her: Obviously. You seriously don't see what's happening?
Me: No.
Her: Are you holding out for Pig girl?
Me: No.
Her: Good, because it's pretty obvious she fucked that up and won't face it. I know these things. I hope you don't plan on hooking up with her again.
Me: Not if we were the last two people on Earth. At this point, she's more an acquaintenace than friend.
Her: Sounds it. So what are you doing?
Me: Nothing. Being sick.
Her: Being stupid.
Me: This is a great conversation.
Her: Well, you are. Do you read your old journals?
Me: Shredded a long time ago.
Her: Too bad. I think your answer is there. I know you pretty well. I know what you eventually want out of a relationship. I think I know what you're going to get, too.
Me: Enlighten me.
Her: Nope. I think it's obvious if you just look. Get your head out of your ass.
Me: Okay. I'll work on that tomorrow.
Her: Who is this girl you keep talking to you? Is it the one you mentioned before?
Me: Maybe. I don't know which you refer to.
Her: From PA.
Me: There's a few from PA.
Her: Whatever. You know, maybe if you weren't so glum one of those girls who does want to fuck you would actually approach you. But you walk around looking like you're either going to cry or kill.
Me: Well, truth in advertising.
Her: You know that's not true. You're a cynic, but you also have a romantic notion of what relationships should be. Jesus, you're a dork.
Me: I don't think relationships can work. I'm convinced of that.
Her: You don't think they can work, or you don't think they will work?
Me: Same difference.
Her: Then why do you stay friends with the people you've had relationships with?
Me: [The Hey, Pig girl] is not that way.
Her: Not because of you. That's on her. Jesus, Doug, stop being stupid.
Me: I don't think they can or will work.
Her: Then they won't. You ever hear that before?
Me: I'm tired.
Her: Me, too, but I had to call because I knew you would be awake.
Me: I'm going.
Her: Think about it. It might not be destiny, but I think you are overlooking some stuff that is clear.
And that's how it ended. I had to paraphrase because I wasn't jotting down the conversation as we had it. I stayed up for a while thinking about it, though. I still don't believe in destiny or know what the fuck she was getting at, but I think there was some merit there.
Four pounds. God, how much longer can that go on?
13.2.09
Otis
It's not a name that exactly inspires stability, safety and comfort. It brings to mind backwoods folk. Chicken fuckers. Rapists. Teeth that would make Europeans feel glamorous.
If you ever read about serial killers, you know Ottis Toole was Henry Lee Lucas' friend and co-criminal. "The Devil's Rejects" has a character named Otis. These aren't good people. They are misfits and killers. They are unsafe to be around.
I made my way through the security checkpoint at the Humboldt County Courthouse and felt like I was boarding a plane. All metal items placed in a bin. My keys were checked twice. Once again I regretted having a "Pussy Wagon" keychain.
I went to the directory. My destination seemed to be the fifth floor, which meant taking an elevator to the fourth floor and then boarding another one. Push the button. Get inside. Push another button. Wait. Nothing to do but look around.
Otis.
Did it ever strike the elevator manufacturer that Otis might not be the best name for an elevator brand?
I, of course, couldn't help but think that. My stomach was already doing its best to eat itself. I was hungry. The two cups of coffee wanted me to pay. And here I was in Otis, making my way to the top.
On the fifth floor I was redirected to the third floor. No worries. I was still early. Once more in Otis. Once more hoping the cable would snap and that fail-safe break would safely fail. No such luck. This Otis obviously was a fan of torture.
So I waited outside the closed office, sending blog entries and doing my best to avoid the crazy woman and the other woman who declined my offer to move over on the bench by describing herself as a "stander."
The office opens, and I want to to see the papers. I want assurances that my daughter, the light of my life, the only reason to get up in the morning, won't be taken from me. Once again, I wished my friend, The Girl, was here. I had been there for her in tight spots. I could not get a return favor. So, you know. Fuck her.
Long story short, I left without seeing the papers. Took Otis to the ground floor and made my way back to work, but not before placing a frantic phone call to another female back east. This one who has actually stood by me. This one who is brutally honest with me. This one who I miss dearly.
There's been a mistake. The courthouse cannot find the records.
I work for the government. I know shit gets lost. I do my best not to lose it because I know the trouble it causes. Being on the receiving end makes it worse. I want to see. I need to see. I've been told it's 50/50 custody. I want proof. I want to put my mind at ease.
Work dragged me down. I needed to not be there. I was no good there. I'm not even sure what I did. All I kept thinking was that somewhere in that building where Otis delivered people to their own private hells, my papers sat. Perhaps there was a post-it note on it, or a coffee cup. Perhaps someone had thrown the lastest issue of "People" over it, and discovered that before leaving for home.
They are going to call me when they find them. I'm not holding my breath. I am, however, watching myself a bit better, though. My friend from back east, the one whose voice lights up whenever she talks about her son, scared me a bit. It's weird and ironic. I think I can safely say the shoe is on the other foot this go around. She is the voice of reason here. I am the voice of panic.
Tuesday will be here before I know it. I expect a call. Another friend will go with me. I promised her I would take her. I don't know what I'll see. Don't know what Otis will deliver me upon. I do, however, know that I won't rest well until I see them.
If you ever read about serial killers, you know Ottis Toole was Henry Lee Lucas' friend and co-criminal. "The Devil's Rejects" has a character named Otis. These aren't good people. They are misfits and killers. They are unsafe to be around.
I made my way through the security checkpoint at the Humboldt County Courthouse and felt like I was boarding a plane. All metal items placed in a bin. My keys were checked twice. Once again I regretted having a "Pussy Wagon" keychain.
I went to the directory. My destination seemed to be the fifth floor, which meant taking an elevator to the fourth floor and then boarding another one. Push the button. Get inside. Push another button. Wait. Nothing to do but look around.
Otis.
Did it ever strike the elevator manufacturer that Otis might not be the best name for an elevator brand?
I, of course, couldn't help but think that. My stomach was already doing its best to eat itself. I was hungry. The two cups of coffee wanted me to pay. And here I was in Otis, making my way to the top.
On the fifth floor I was redirected to the third floor. No worries. I was still early. Once more in Otis. Once more hoping the cable would snap and that fail-safe break would safely fail. No such luck. This Otis obviously was a fan of torture.
So I waited outside the closed office, sending blog entries and doing my best to avoid the crazy woman and the other woman who declined my offer to move over on the bench by describing herself as a "stander."
The office opens, and I want to to see the papers. I want assurances that my daughter, the light of my life, the only reason to get up in the morning, won't be taken from me. Once again, I wished my friend, The Girl, was here. I had been there for her in tight spots. I could not get a return favor. So, you know. Fuck her.
Long story short, I left without seeing the papers. Took Otis to the ground floor and made my way back to work, but not before placing a frantic phone call to another female back east. This one who has actually stood by me. This one who is brutally honest with me. This one who I miss dearly.
There's been a mistake. The courthouse cannot find the records.
I work for the government. I know shit gets lost. I do my best not to lose it because I know the trouble it causes. Being on the receiving end makes it worse. I want to see. I need to see. I've been told it's 50/50 custody. I want proof. I want to put my mind at ease.
Work dragged me down. I needed to not be there. I was no good there. I'm not even sure what I did. All I kept thinking was that somewhere in that building where Otis delivered people to their own private hells, my papers sat. Perhaps there was a post-it note on it, or a coffee cup. Perhaps someone had thrown the lastest issue of "People" over it, and discovered that before leaving for home.
They are going to call me when they find them. I'm not holding my breath. I am, however, watching myself a bit better, though. My friend from back east, the one whose voice lights up whenever she talks about her son, scared me a bit. It's weird and ironic. I think I can safely say the shoe is on the other foot this go around. She is the voice of reason here. I am the voice of panic.
Tuesday will be here before I know it. I expect a call. Another friend will go with me. I promised her I would take her. I don't know what I'll see. Don't know what Otis will deliver me upon. I do, however, know that I won't rest well until I see them.
A Diet Plan That Actually Works
Up until this week I was losing two pounds a week. This week I think it started to show, so I weighed myself. I'm now losing three pounds a week. I fear by Sunday it will be up to four.
Today I have something to do that I'm not exactly looking forward to. I asked a friend to go along with me (the same said friend I've been writing about), and she declined. I asked for a reason, and the fact that she said no kind of pissed me off considering all the times I've been there for her. But on the plus side, I think she still wants me to buy her lunch those few days before a new pay check. Hey, pig ...
Got three hours of sleep last night. One less than my typical number now. Didn't throw up yesterday, though. Also did not eat much. My daughter was with me. That's when I tend to eat (besides snacking at work). I remember to eat then.
My back is killing me, which hasn't been happening lately. I usually have intense back pain with stress, and that has had me puzzled. It's nice to know that has returned, though.
So for all you people trying to lose weight: Don't eat, don't sleep, throw up as much as you can, get stressed to the max. The results are truly amazing. Don't forget to drink cheap coffee black, and let caffeine fuel you.
Anyone want to donate to my tattoo fund? I need $100 dollars, which on my budget is not easy to do (also trying to save up some spending money for a trip to SoCal, among other things). I need some physical pain and a reminder of what life is all about, so I went to my daughter's vice parent (an amazing tattooist and piercer), gave him an idea and got a price. It's actually the very first tattoo I ever really wanted. It's going to be on my left arm. The Black Flag bars with a line for the band's cover of "Louie, Louie." "Who needs love when you've got a gun?"
Coffee is turning my stomach at this moment. Cheap. Black. Pure. Chemicals raging through a ravaged system. Eyes not staying open.
Let the day begin ...
Today I have something to do that I'm not exactly looking forward to. I asked a friend to go along with me (the same said friend I've been writing about), and she declined. I asked for a reason, and the fact that she said no kind of pissed me off considering all the times I've been there for her. But on the plus side, I think she still wants me to buy her lunch those few days before a new pay check. Hey, pig ...
Got three hours of sleep last night. One less than my typical number now. Didn't throw up yesterday, though. Also did not eat much. My daughter was with me. That's when I tend to eat (besides snacking at work). I remember to eat then.
My back is killing me, which hasn't been happening lately. I usually have intense back pain with stress, and that has had me puzzled. It's nice to know that has returned, though.
So for all you people trying to lose weight: Don't eat, don't sleep, throw up as much as you can, get stressed to the max. The results are truly amazing. Don't forget to drink cheap coffee black, and let caffeine fuel you.
Anyone want to donate to my tattoo fund? I need $100 dollars, which on my budget is not easy to do (also trying to save up some spending money for a trip to SoCal, among other things). I need some physical pain and a reminder of what life is all about, so I went to my daughter's vice parent (an amazing tattooist and piercer), gave him an idea and got a price. It's actually the very first tattoo I ever really wanted. It's going to be on my left arm. The Black Flag bars with a line for the band's cover of "Louie, Louie." "Who needs love when you've got a gun?"
Coffee is turning my stomach at this moment. Cheap. Black. Pure. Chemicals raging through a ravaged system. Eyes not staying open.
Let the day begin ...
12.2.09
AT and T -- My Jihad
I actually talked to a guy today who used to be a customer service trainer for AT and T. He had some interesting things to say.
First he told me that the company's policy, in his opinion, was to confuse customers until they gave up. Then he told me that when he started, the company was experiencing that 33% of all first time customers canceled their service within a year ... due to just such things.
Color me not surprised.
Still haven't heard from AT and T, but I am now switching service.
First he told me that the company's policy, in his opinion, was to confuse customers until they gave up. Then he told me that when he started, the company was experiencing that 33% of all first time customers canceled their service within a year ... due to just such things.
Color me not surprised.
Still haven't heard from AT and T, but I am now switching service.
11.2.09
Hey, Pig
I got an e-mail about this blog. The person wouldn't comment on here, afraid I may say something. The blog, according to her, is depressing. I'm dragging her down. Bumming her out. "I know I'm not your best friend, but if you lost a friend, so what? Get over it. Friends come and go."
I refrained from responding. Friends do come and go when you don't care, but when you keep the gates like I do, any friend leaving is like losing a limb. (And truth be told, I think I can salvage this lost friendship if I'm given a chance.) What I wanted to do with this letter writer was show her how it feels. I wanted to drag her into the gutter and put a cigarette out on her cheek. Instead, I got a phone call from another friend from back East, and I was thrilled.
I was kind of explaining the situation (and I thank her for offering to show up at my place wearing nothing, and if that ever happens I will take full advantage of the situation if the mood strikes me), and she said something along the lines that all this heartache goes away, gets better, and you forget about it and move on.
I begged to differ. It goes away, gets better, but you don't forget.
I compared it to being shot in the face. The bullet catches your lower jaw and just tears it to shreds. Your tongue is a mess. Teeth are gone. You are rushed to the hospital. Surgeons do what they can, and they are pretty amazing, so they've got you back together. Your jaw, however, is wired shut. For the next few weeks you'll have to sip soup through a straw while your wounds heal. You'll have an IV, too, but you've also got that delicious chicken soup. You can't forget that. Once the wounds heal enough, the docs will clip those wires. Now you'll need therapy so you can talk again. That won't be fun. And did they mention the scars? You'll see them everytime you shave.
You don't want to forget that pain. You don't want to be shot in the face again. Yes, you'll get better, but only a fool forgets. Only a fool wants to relive that.
The shit I write here is my therapy. It beats carving up people or burning down banks. It keeps my mind off my mind. I'd be doing it even if nobody was reading, and I don't know how many people actually are. (If the publisher of my poker book puts this blog on its site, I think more will be coming my way, though.) I don't care, however. It's out there. If I can connect with just one person, which I think I have, I'll have done my job.
Not every post is going to be about how AT and T is staffed by morons or how great Voodoo Rhythm Records is. Some are going to be dirty little wounds that quickly grow into infections.
A co-worker, who is also a friend, told me today that I was the luckiest guy. That I always had women at my desk. I told her she was crazy. That I'm not lucky. That women don't swoon over me. In fact, I think most women hate me. I have issues. I'm not a "bad boy" (meaning I don't beat women or think I am the center of the universe), and I think I'm socially awkward. I have never had an easy time meeting women, but the one's I've met have been great. I don't do the dating thing. I try to treat the opposite sex as equals, and I try to be a nice guy. All those things are sexual/romantic/social poison. I don't have all kinds of women at my desk at work, and I don't think I'm a "good catch." I think I've been lucky ... in some cases very lucky. But the losses have been great, and that's hard to deal with.
My luck, as little as there ever was, has run out. I'm broken, bruised, battered and bitter. I'm also tired. I don't care about this anymore. I don't want to care. I have fallen under the spell of apathy when it comes to my life, and that scares me. I'm not boiling animal skulls anymore, or shooting the windows out of cars parked at the bar, but something is brewing ... and that something can't be good.
I refrained from responding. Friends do come and go when you don't care, but when you keep the gates like I do, any friend leaving is like losing a limb. (And truth be told, I think I can salvage this lost friendship if I'm given a chance.) What I wanted to do with this letter writer was show her how it feels. I wanted to drag her into the gutter and put a cigarette out on her cheek. Instead, I got a phone call from another friend from back East, and I was thrilled.
I was kind of explaining the situation (and I thank her for offering to show up at my place wearing nothing, and if that ever happens I will take full advantage of the situation if the mood strikes me), and she said something along the lines that all this heartache goes away, gets better, and you forget about it and move on.
I begged to differ. It goes away, gets better, but you don't forget.
I compared it to being shot in the face. The bullet catches your lower jaw and just tears it to shreds. Your tongue is a mess. Teeth are gone. You are rushed to the hospital. Surgeons do what they can, and they are pretty amazing, so they've got you back together. Your jaw, however, is wired shut. For the next few weeks you'll have to sip soup through a straw while your wounds heal. You'll have an IV, too, but you've also got that delicious chicken soup. You can't forget that. Once the wounds heal enough, the docs will clip those wires. Now you'll need therapy so you can talk again. That won't be fun. And did they mention the scars? You'll see them everytime you shave.
You don't want to forget that pain. You don't want to be shot in the face again. Yes, you'll get better, but only a fool forgets. Only a fool wants to relive that.
The shit I write here is my therapy. It beats carving up people or burning down banks. It keeps my mind off my mind. I'd be doing it even if nobody was reading, and I don't know how many people actually are. (If the publisher of my poker book puts this blog on its site, I think more will be coming my way, though.) I don't care, however. It's out there. If I can connect with just one person, which I think I have, I'll have done my job.
Not every post is going to be about how AT and T is staffed by morons or how great Voodoo Rhythm Records is. Some are going to be dirty little wounds that quickly grow into infections.
A co-worker, who is also a friend, told me today that I was the luckiest guy. That I always had women at my desk. I told her she was crazy. That I'm not lucky. That women don't swoon over me. In fact, I think most women hate me. I have issues. I'm not a "bad boy" (meaning I don't beat women or think I am the center of the universe), and I think I'm socially awkward. I have never had an easy time meeting women, but the one's I've met have been great. I don't do the dating thing. I try to treat the opposite sex as equals, and I try to be a nice guy. All those things are sexual/romantic/social poison. I don't have all kinds of women at my desk at work, and I don't think I'm a "good catch." I think I've been lucky ... in some cases very lucky. But the losses have been great, and that's hard to deal with.
My luck, as little as there ever was, has run out. I'm broken, bruised, battered and bitter. I'm also tired. I don't care about this anymore. I don't want to care. I have fallen under the spell of apathy when it comes to my life, and that scares me. I'm not boiling animal skulls anymore, or shooting the windows out of cars parked at the bar, but something is brewing ... and that something can't be good.
A Letter Of Sorts
Back to the girl, now a woman, I've been talking to a lot lately.
I met her when we were both a lot younger. We started out as friends, became more, went back to friends. And while we have sometimes gone years without speaking, it was easy to pick up the old connections, but something has been different. It's like falling asleep in the middle of a film. When you wake up, the characters are all the same, but there are subtle differences.
This girl, now a woman, is still the same one I used to know, but her voice has an edge to it. She's been through the shit, and is still going through it. She also has a child now, and that little boy is the love of her life. You can hear it in every word that she speaks about him. She lights up. She will destroy planets to keep her boy safe and happy, and I couldn't be more amazed.
She's a good mom, a good friend, and a good person, who deserves more than what she has been handed. I used to feel guilty that I left PA, but she may be right when she said it worked out. It definitely did for her. I have a daughter out of my move, so I can't complain there.
Talking to her now, it's sublime. She is this strong, independent woman who has decided to tackle her problems head-on and leave them behind her. It is awe-inspiring and even a bit sexy (and I mean that in an innocent way). But there is a downside.
That edge in her voice unmasks some very simple truths. She will never again be that girl, now a woman, I knew in PA. You see, life showed her how hard it could screw her over, and she is not about to let that happen again. Cynical, perhaps. Cautious, you bet. And tired.
We've talked every day since we've made contact again. She's kept me grounded. I can't help but tell people how happy I am to have started talking to her again. When I hear her talk about her little boy I know that no matter what she is going to be okay. She will get by. She will survive.
I don't know what the future holds for anyone, but I do know this: She's made mine brighter, and I thank her. If I die today (and I could), I want her to know that. I love you, girl. You know how I mean that, too.
Thank you.
I met her when we were both a lot younger. We started out as friends, became more, went back to friends. And while we have sometimes gone years without speaking, it was easy to pick up the old connections, but something has been different. It's like falling asleep in the middle of a film. When you wake up, the characters are all the same, but there are subtle differences.
This girl, now a woman, is still the same one I used to know, but her voice has an edge to it. She's been through the shit, and is still going through it. She also has a child now, and that little boy is the love of her life. You can hear it in every word that she speaks about him. She lights up. She will destroy planets to keep her boy safe and happy, and I couldn't be more amazed.
She's a good mom, a good friend, and a good person, who deserves more than what she has been handed. I used to feel guilty that I left PA, but she may be right when she said it worked out. It definitely did for her. I have a daughter out of my move, so I can't complain there.
Talking to her now, it's sublime. She is this strong, independent woman who has decided to tackle her problems head-on and leave them behind her. It is awe-inspiring and even a bit sexy (and I mean that in an innocent way). But there is a downside.
That edge in her voice unmasks some very simple truths. She will never again be that girl, now a woman, I knew in PA. You see, life showed her how hard it could screw her over, and she is not about to let that happen again. Cynical, perhaps. Cautious, you bet. And tired.
We've talked every day since we've made contact again. She's kept me grounded. I can't help but tell people how happy I am to have started talking to her again. When I hear her talk about her little boy I know that no matter what she is going to be okay. She will get by. She will survive.
I don't know what the future holds for anyone, but I do know this: She's made mine brighter, and I thank her. If I die today (and I could), I want her to know that. I love you, girl. You know how I mean that, too.
Thank you.
10.2.09
Mind The Animals
I have good friends. Friends I can count on. Friends I can depend on. Not all of them, but enough that it makes all the shit a little easier to swallow. I fear I lost one, or am losing one. For a guy who doesn't have a lot of friends to begin with, that makes things kind of scary.
When do you give up, though? When do you stop trying? When do you just unlock the cage and let the tigers eat you? I don't know, but I think I got a little closer to the answer today.
Three good talks with three good friends. Friends who I am sure are tired of listening, but do it anyway. Things were put into perspective. Ducks laid out. But when the talking stops, the empty starts to creep in. It's uncomfortable.
I remain ... unsettled.
When do you give up, though? When do you stop trying? When do you just unlock the cage and let the tigers eat you? I don't know, but I think I got a little closer to the answer today.
Three good talks with three good friends. Friends who I am sure are tired of listening, but do it anyway. Things were put into perspective. Ducks laid out. But when the talking stops, the empty starts to creep in. It's uncomfortable.
I remain ... unsettled.
9.2.09
Life Will Not Break Your Heart
It will crush it. That's a quote from the Rollins Band. You may know Henry Rollins from Black Flag (where I was introduced to him), the television show or countless spoken word tours. It's a good quote. Very true. It will crush it. Without mercy. Without pity. Without warning.
But what happens when you decide to fight back? You know, dig your heels in and start giving back a little? Twisting the screws? Grabbing it by its neck and putting the shotgun to its head? "Who is crazy now, fucker?" you ask.
I don't like being lied to by "friends." Here's another great Rollins quote. I may have left out a word or two. "I don't know you/I know my enemies/They speak the truth to me with honest eyes/They hate my guts/But at least it's the truth/I trust them just as far as I can throw them off a roof." Very true. Friends, like women, can get under your skin. They can hit where it hurts, and you rarely see it coming. Friends can do damage.
I have someone I consider a friend. He sometimes makes bad choices. Is self-destructive without the use of alcohol and drugs (which makes it worse almost), and has managed to burn bridges in such a way that would make an army proud. Yet, I'm starting to understand that more and more everyday. He hasn't done it to me. I don't know why. Perhaps because I've always been honest with him. But he's poison to quite a few people. I'm starting to wonder why? Is it because he manages to hurt before he gets hurt? Does he see where the shit is headed and decides he's going to just cut to the chase? Yeah, I'm starting to get it. I'm just surprised it took me so long.
I have a small group of people I've let into my life. I'm like that because I'm private. I don't share with people one on one (this is somehow different, though so very public). I don't bring them into my home. I don't let things get deep. It's because it's usually a waste of time. But when I do open up, I do it with people I trust. People I don't think will use that information to hurt me.
That's changed, and by God I won't let that happen again. See, I'm starting to get mad, and that isn't good for anyone.
"My war/You're one of them/You say/That you're my friend/But you're one of them" Again with Rollins.
I don't like being lied to, jerked around, and ignored. I don't like feeling little. I don't like this from the people outside my sphere. When it comes from the inside -- that's murder.
I salute you, my friend. Really. Truly. Honestly. You have a lot to be angry about in your life. You had a great relationship with a great girl, and you blew it. That hurts like hell, but I understand more now than before. I can see why you did what you did when you did it. You were protecting yourself, punishing yourself and you did it before anyone else could. Some people will never see the strength that takes, the devotion. You will spite yourself to save yourself, and it makes total sense. Why give someone the chance to surprise you? Why not yank the rug out from under them?
When your friends get close, you have to watch them closely. Caesar learned that the hard way. When a friend was something more, it complicates matters even worse. Given the chance, I would have done things a whole lot differently.
I wouldn't have done them at all.
And that is the most painful thought to harbor.
I wouldn't have done them at all.
I would've walked away.
I would've turned away.
I would've never considered the idea.
The pain wasn't worth it, and never will be. It's leaving me now, and that feels good. I just wonder what's going to be put in its place. I think I know. I think I have a real good idea. I think before the year is through, a little bit of evil is going to slip out ... and I don't care to hold it back anymore.
God, a Coke sounds good right about now.
But what happens when you decide to fight back? You know, dig your heels in and start giving back a little? Twisting the screws? Grabbing it by its neck and putting the shotgun to its head? "Who is crazy now, fucker?" you ask.
I don't like being lied to by "friends." Here's another great Rollins quote. I may have left out a word or two. "I don't know you/I know my enemies/They speak the truth to me with honest eyes/They hate my guts/But at least it's the truth/I trust them just as far as I can throw them off a roof." Very true. Friends, like women, can get under your skin. They can hit where it hurts, and you rarely see it coming. Friends can do damage.
I have someone I consider a friend. He sometimes makes bad choices. Is self-destructive without the use of alcohol and drugs (which makes it worse almost), and has managed to burn bridges in such a way that would make an army proud. Yet, I'm starting to understand that more and more everyday. He hasn't done it to me. I don't know why. Perhaps because I've always been honest with him. But he's poison to quite a few people. I'm starting to wonder why? Is it because he manages to hurt before he gets hurt? Does he see where the shit is headed and decides he's going to just cut to the chase? Yeah, I'm starting to get it. I'm just surprised it took me so long.
I have a small group of people I've let into my life. I'm like that because I'm private. I don't share with people one on one (this is somehow different, though so very public). I don't bring them into my home. I don't let things get deep. It's because it's usually a waste of time. But when I do open up, I do it with people I trust. People I don't think will use that information to hurt me.
That's changed, and by God I won't let that happen again. See, I'm starting to get mad, and that isn't good for anyone.
"My war/You're one of them/You say/That you're my friend/But you're one of them" Again with Rollins.
I don't like being lied to, jerked around, and ignored. I don't like feeling little. I don't like this from the people outside my sphere. When it comes from the inside -- that's murder.
I salute you, my friend. Really. Truly. Honestly. You have a lot to be angry about in your life. You had a great relationship with a great girl, and you blew it. That hurts like hell, but I understand more now than before. I can see why you did what you did when you did it. You were protecting yourself, punishing yourself and you did it before anyone else could. Some people will never see the strength that takes, the devotion. You will spite yourself to save yourself, and it makes total sense. Why give someone the chance to surprise you? Why not yank the rug out from under them?
When your friends get close, you have to watch them closely. Caesar learned that the hard way. When a friend was something more, it complicates matters even worse. Given the chance, I would have done things a whole lot differently.
I wouldn't have done them at all.
And that is the most painful thought to harbor.
I wouldn't have done them at all.
I would've walked away.
I would've turned away.
I would've never considered the idea.
The pain wasn't worth it, and never will be. It's leaving me now, and that feels good. I just wonder what's going to be put in its place. I think I know. I think I have a real good idea. I think before the year is through, a little bit of evil is going to slip out ... and I don't care to hold it back anymore.
God, a Coke sounds good right about now.
8.2.09
My Speech to the Class of 2009
I am honored to be asked to speak here today, to the Class of 2009. I look out across a sea of eager-eyed, smiling Seniors who are just moments away from becoming “functional members of society.” Some of you will head to college. Some of you will go straight into the workforce. Others will travel. Some will take some time to find themselves. Do what you will. You deserve it. There are some things to remember, though.
Life, as you’ve been told, isn’t fair. That’s true. But not only is it unfair, it’s also cruel, random and dangerous. It does things without rhyme or reason, and it doesn’t stick around to help pick up the pieces. In other words: Prepare to be fucked.
Your fate was determined by the eighth grade. Your teachers and adminstration had a good idea by then how many of you would become income producers and how many would become income takers. They looked at your parents, your class status, and your scholastic performance. They judged you by your friends and your music. They assigned you to neat little boxes and then did little to help you out of them. If you think that is a lie, take a look at them now. That look is discomfort. That look is truth. Come back in three years and get them drunk. They’ll tell you.
Some of your classmates were lost. Some died in auto accidents. Some by their own hands. Those are what’s known in the business as “the lucky ones.” They don’t have a lifetime of misery coming their way. They’ve left us to linger on. You want your future? You want to know how things turn out? You want inspiration? Look around at your fellow classmates, the ones you won’t see again until the ten year reunion. I’ll give you your future.
Coke habits. Unwanted pregnancies. Abortions filled with guilt. Sex filled with rage. Meaningless jobs. Cancer. A college degree that seemed better on paper. A boss you can outperform. A cop who does it because he can. A drunken night of sex that winds up on the Internet. Your parents seeing it. A disease you thought only older people got. Unexplained blood in the toilet. Nine to five nightmare followed by six to eleven drinking. Weight gain that scares you. Weight loss that scares you more. That boy you’ve been dating since the sixth grade -- the one you’re going to marry? Divorce. Men, that girl you fuck and think it won’t come back to haunt you? She lied. Fourteen, but didn’t look it. How does “registered sex offender” fit onto your Burger King application? Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. Body bag. A man who beats you. A woman who leaves you when you should never be left alone. A rape. A homosexual encounter you wanted at the time, but confuses you later. Realizing it all counts for the wrong reasons. Birth control that fails. Endless, spiraling depression. Morons controlling your future. Tyrants controlling your past. A drunk driver who came out of nowhere and didn’t kill you, but wheelchairs just aren’t sexy this year. You driving, knowing you maybe had one too many, but you swear you had control of the car ... until you hit that tree at ninety. Wheelchairs still aren’t sexy, and neither is pissing through a tube. Shattered hearts. Broken bones. Dead souls. Black spirits. The death of hope, and a life best left unlived.
Compared to the future, high school was a blast.
You won’t be rock stars. You won’t write a best-seller. You won’t be giving an Oscar acceptance speech. You’ll be lucky if you get promoted to manager. You’ll be thankful if you can make it just one week without drinking. You’ll never stop smoking. Not because you can’t, but because you don’t care. You pretend these things don’t bother you, but those long looks in the mirror say otherwise. This is what life hands you. That toilet that overflows with all the shit from the neighborhood, your head being forced into it.
There were men in their twenties, it is believed, who broke into a woman’s house. She had a six year old boy at home. They terrorized them. In the end, that mother was forced to perform oral sex on that boy. Those monsters, those random monsters -- did they sit in a similar audience as you do today? I don’t know. What I do know is that not much separates them from you, and you are two steps away from being the victim. When you’re human, this is to be expected. Good people do bad things. Bad people do worse things. Anyone can be caught up in it. You just have to ask yourself how far you will let it go. Now is the time to start asking. Tomorrow is the time to answer.
Your eyes aren’t so eager now. Your smiles have faded. You’ve seen yourself, your fears and (god forbid) your dreams exposed. You feel a little less safe, a little less alive. What should be the happiest time of your life so far has become a snapshot of disaster at 121 miles per hour.
Enjoy the music, the sex, the booze and drugs. Enjoy the friendships, the heartaches. Take comfort in the fact that all the shit you survive makes you stronger. All the disgust that is thrown your way by people too petty to actually confront the lies head on will actually put you above them. Take pride in the fact that the more they try to knock you down, the quicker you’ll get up. Become better than them by becoming less human. More machine.
Less human doesn’t mean you care less. In fact, it means you care more. Most of the humans I know are mouth-breathing sociopaths who care little beyond their aura. The irony of that, however, is that these are the people we are told to be more like. We are not told to admire the truth seekers, the ones who see through the bullshit for what it is. We are told to avoid those people. They are “downers.”
You think those criminals, the ones who forced a mother to fellate her son, spoke the truth? I don’t think they’d know truth if it became a lump in their testicles. I think they only know fear. Humans are good at that. Fear. Lies. Pain.
When I see your faces, your squirming bodies, which are wishing this would end, I see nothing but a sea of misery, but here’s what will get you through the day. It’s something many of you may have learned about ... if you were put into the right box by your teachers. Statistics.
Statistically speaking, some of you are going to make it. You will have a “good life” free of drama and disaster. There will be pain and heartache, but not above the norm. You will die as you lived -- peacefully. There’s a kicker, though.
Most of you will think that it will be you. You believe, because you have to, that you’ll be the one spared. But there are a few of you who know otherwise. I am going to speak to those people.
If you are a truth seeker , you will know -- statistically speaking -- that this picture of happiness ain’t you. I want you to look around. You see all those people who look relieved and like they want to be somewhere else? Those are the ones who aren’t honest with themselves. Those are the ones you have to watch out for, as they will be the criminals. Those are the ones you’ll be forced to care for, as they will be victims. Don’t feel sorry for them, however. They have been warned, just as you have been. In fact, the truth seekers know they’ve been warned their whole lives. Only now they know they have got to pay attention.
Enjoy your graduation party because tomorrow starts a whole new realm of distress. With any luck, some of you may not make it through the night. The real terror? Statistically -- and there’s that concept again -- most of you will.
Life, as you’ve been told, isn’t fair. That’s true. But not only is it unfair, it’s also cruel, random and dangerous. It does things without rhyme or reason, and it doesn’t stick around to help pick up the pieces. In other words: Prepare to be fucked.
Your fate was determined by the eighth grade. Your teachers and adminstration had a good idea by then how many of you would become income producers and how many would become income takers. They looked at your parents, your class status, and your scholastic performance. They judged you by your friends and your music. They assigned you to neat little boxes and then did little to help you out of them. If you think that is a lie, take a look at them now. That look is discomfort. That look is truth. Come back in three years and get them drunk. They’ll tell you.
Some of your classmates were lost. Some died in auto accidents. Some by their own hands. Those are what’s known in the business as “the lucky ones.” They don’t have a lifetime of misery coming their way. They’ve left us to linger on. You want your future? You want to know how things turn out? You want inspiration? Look around at your fellow classmates, the ones you won’t see again until the ten year reunion. I’ll give you your future.
Coke habits. Unwanted pregnancies. Abortions filled with guilt. Sex filled with rage. Meaningless jobs. Cancer. A college degree that seemed better on paper. A boss you can outperform. A cop who does it because he can. A drunken night of sex that winds up on the Internet. Your parents seeing it. A disease you thought only older people got. Unexplained blood in the toilet. Nine to five nightmare followed by six to eleven drinking. Weight gain that scares you. Weight loss that scares you more. That boy you’ve been dating since the sixth grade -- the one you’re going to marry? Divorce. Men, that girl you fuck and think it won’t come back to haunt you? She lied. Fourteen, but didn’t look it. How does “registered sex offender” fit onto your Burger King application? Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. Body bag. A man who beats you. A woman who leaves you when you should never be left alone. A rape. A homosexual encounter you wanted at the time, but confuses you later. Realizing it all counts for the wrong reasons. Birth control that fails. Endless, spiraling depression. Morons controlling your future. Tyrants controlling your past. A drunk driver who came out of nowhere and didn’t kill you, but wheelchairs just aren’t sexy this year. You driving, knowing you maybe had one too many, but you swear you had control of the car ... until you hit that tree at ninety. Wheelchairs still aren’t sexy, and neither is pissing through a tube. Shattered hearts. Broken bones. Dead souls. Black spirits. The death of hope, and a life best left unlived.
Compared to the future, high school was a blast.
You won’t be rock stars. You won’t write a best-seller. You won’t be giving an Oscar acceptance speech. You’ll be lucky if you get promoted to manager. You’ll be thankful if you can make it just one week without drinking. You’ll never stop smoking. Not because you can’t, but because you don’t care. You pretend these things don’t bother you, but those long looks in the mirror say otherwise. This is what life hands you. That toilet that overflows with all the shit from the neighborhood, your head being forced into it.
There were men in their twenties, it is believed, who broke into a woman’s house. She had a six year old boy at home. They terrorized them. In the end, that mother was forced to perform oral sex on that boy. Those monsters, those random monsters -- did they sit in a similar audience as you do today? I don’t know. What I do know is that not much separates them from you, and you are two steps away from being the victim. When you’re human, this is to be expected. Good people do bad things. Bad people do worse things. Anyone can be caught up in it. You just have to ask yourself how far you will let it go. Now is the time to start asking. Tomorrow is the time to answer.
Your eyes aren’t so eager now. Your smiles have faded. You’ve seen yourself, your fears and (god forbid) your dreams exposed. You feel a little less safe, a little less alive. What should be the happiest time of your life so far has become a snapshot of disaster at 121 miles per hour.
Enjoy the music, the sex, the booze and drugs. Enjoy the friendships, the heartaches. Take comfort in the fact that all the shit you survive makes you stronger. All the disgust that is thrown your way by people too petty to actually confront the lies head on will actually put you above them. Take pride in the fact that the more they try to knock you down, the quicker you’ll get up. Become better than them by becoming less human. More machine.
Less human doesn’t mean you care less. In fact, it means you care more. Most of the humans I know are mouth-breathing sociopaths who care little beyond their aura. The irony of that, however, is that these are the people we are told to be more like. We are not told to admire the truth seekers, the ones who see through the bullshit for what it is. We are told to avoid those people. They are “downers.”
You think those criminals, the ones who forced a mother to fellate her son, spoke the truth? I don’t think they’d know truth if it became a lump in their testicles. I think they only know fear. Humans are good at that. Fear. Lies. Pain.
When I see your faces, your squirming bodies, which are wishing this would end, I see nothing but a sea of misery, but here’s what will get you through the day. It’s something many of you may have learned about ... if you were put into the right box by your teachers. Statistics.
Statistically speaking, some of you are going to make it. You will have a “good life” free of drama and disaster. There will be pain and heartache, but not above the norm. You will die as you lived -- peacefully. There’s a kicker, though.
Most of you will think that it will be you. You believe, because you have to, that you’ll be the one spared. But there are a few of you who know otherwise. I am going to speak to those people.
If you are a truth seeker , you will know -- statistically speaking -- that this picture of happiness ain’t you. I want you to look around. You see all those people who look relieved and like they want to be somewhere else? Those are the ones who aren’t honest with themselves. Those are the ones you have to watch out for, as they will be the criminals. Those are the ones you’ll be forced to care for, as they will be victims. Don’t feel sorry for them, however. They have been warned, just as you have been. In fact, the truth seekers know they’ve been warned their whole lives. Only now they know they have got to pay attention.
Enjoy your graduation party because tomorrow starts a whole new realm of distress. With any luck, some of you may not make it through the night. The real terror? Statistically -- and there’s that concept again -- most of you will.
7.2.09
Something New
I've started a new blog (one posting so far), which is found on my profile page. It is for posting much of my published and unpublished works, or links to them. I did this mainly for publishers, but some of you crazy folks may be interested to.
It is Published and Unpublished Works.
It is Published and Unpublished Works.
6.2.09
And Out Come The Wolves
Yeah, it's a great release from Rancid, but it's also how I feel.
So many people have opinions on how I should live my life that it is starting to piss me off just a tiny little bit. All this advice (most not given to me) has ended up pissing me off. So to all you people who thought you were trying to help, thank you. You've made a bad situation worse.
My bitterness runs deep. My hatred for this human race knows little in the way of borders. My good friends know who they are. My friends whom I thought were good, may be too self-absorbed to know who they are. Either way, I'm about to wash my hands to all of this.
To all you people who have had your little opinions about my personal life. Try this: If I don't ask your opinion, advice or for your help, don't offer it. Keep your mouth shut, your eyes straight ahead, and your feelings locked in that tiny thing you call a brain. You aren't helping. You're hurting. I know you mean well, but you don't have the skills to pull this off.
Yeah, I sound angry. Makes me feel alive. I want to wrap that chain around my hand and just start hitting. I no longer want to feel the pain. I want to inflict it. I am nothing but a fist looking for a face to hit. Just give me one more reason. Trust me, you won't like feeling the way I do.
So many people have opinions on how I should live my life that it is starting to piss me off just a tiny little bit. All this advice (most not given to me) has ended up pissing me off. So to all you people who thought you were trying to help, thank you. You've made a bad situation worse.
My bitterness runs deep. My hatred for this human race knows little in the way of borders. My good friends know who they are. My friends whom I thought were good, may be too self-absorbed to know who they are. Either way, I'm about to wash my hands to all of this.
To all you people who have had your little opinions about my personal life. Try this: If I don't ask your opinion, advice or for your help, don't offer it. Keep your mouth shut, your eyes straight ahead, and your feelings locked in that tiny thing you call a brain. You aren't helping. You're hurting. I know you mean well, but you don't have the skills to pull this off.
Yeah, I sound angry. Makes me feel alive. I want to wrap that chain around my hand and just start hitting. I no longer want to feel the pain. I want to inflict it. I am nothing but a fist looking for a face to hit. Just give me one more reason. Trust me, you won't like feeling the way I do.
4.2.09
Voodoo Update
Received the following e-mail. It looks like things are getting better. I'm just running the English one.
dear friends & supporters
First of all i'd like to thank all of you for your support.
we are overwhelmed and humbled by this wave of solidarity.
Here's the lowdown:
The suisa has agreed to re-evaluate their demands based
on papers we have handed relating to their assessment basis.
This will result in much needed relief and it will give us additonal
time to solve the problems at hand.
We'll keep you posted.
Until then we shall remain with the utmost respect and full of gratitude for
your relentless support.
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit shows:
Thursday, 05.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at L'Ecurie, CH
Pirate Love
Friday, 06.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at St. Pauli Bar, Zurich, CH
Admiral James T. / Urban Junior / Les ReBelles Burlesque
Wednesday, 11.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at Usine, Geneve, CH
Sixtyniners
Thursday, 12.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at Chateau Carton, CH
Zeno Tornado & Boney Google Bros.
Friday, 13.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at Reithalle, Bern, CH
The Monsters / Allschwil Posse / The Seniles
Big Bang Boogie / The Twobadours
"Sonic Nightmares" DJ Team
Friday, 13.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at L'Erethik, Nantes, F
Birds Are Alive / New Kids Balnave
DJ's Harry Powell, Pere Pinard, Smalljet
Thursday, 19.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at ISC, Bern, CH
Reverend Beat Man & Money Losers / Zeno Tornado & Boney Google Bros.
Church Of Herpes DJ Team
Friday, 20.02.09
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show at Patronaat, Harlem, NL
Peter Pan Speedrock / Stinky Lou & The Goon Mat / Sixtyniners
The Pedro Delgados / The Sore Loosers / E.T. Explore Me / Low Point Drains /
Lo-Lite
Saturday, 21.03.09 TBA
Voodoo Rhythm Benefit Show in Hasselt, B
El Guapo Stunt Team / 50 Foot Combo
Damned if this doesn't make me wish I lived overseas.
Knew A Girl Named ...
... and she is going to hate me for that title.
In my darkest hour, at the last day of the month, an act of fate made me think to call her. I've known her since she was 14. We have had quite a past. But I called. I wanted to let her know my situation and see what she thought of it. After all, I had all these people telling me that I needed to be alone, and that they were worried about me. But what about someone who knew me at some dark times? What would she think?
That phone call set something off.
I found out in a brief period of time that her life had taken some turns, and that she and I seemed to be swimming in the same shit pool. After a few years of being out of touch, it took all of 2.378 seconds to feel like it was yesterday. And that's okay.
I'm thanking her here because I know she reads this. She's grown both mentally and physically (a whole inch, making her like 3'2"). She's become harder, meaner, and blunter, but that's what happens when life has its way with you. There's still that old girl (now a woman) I knew in there, but it is tempered with experience.
Funny how that works out.
What she let me know, though, is that I'm okay in ways I haven't thought of. Lately it seems like I can count on one hand the number of people I think actually give a fuck, and then on a few fingers the number I think actually understand. These people haven't known me for 20 plus years, though. She has. And when I told her my greatest fear was that I was going to die alone like my father, she said something so simple, so basic, that it changed everything.
We vowed not to break contact now. That's important to me because I'm losing friends fast. Never thought I would care, but I think some are getting scared. I know I am ... was ... whatever.
There's another person I want to thank, too, who isn't in the same boat, but is in the same ocean, and she has known me for a few years. Her and I have talked much about what being alone means and how harmful it can be. She's helped me out, too. I don't write about her because she'll kill me, and she'll kill me for this, but I need to say it. (You know who you are.) Too many people know who she is, and while I expect a blade lodged between two ribs later this week, I want to give her some public thanks.
So, you two nameless females who have heard all my shit. You have both helped in some wonderful ways. And for the girl who had a Prince song attached to her name, you don't know how much your words meant. The people who know me now only know the Doug they've seen the past few years. You knew me at the worst of the worst. You've seen me deconstruct. You know how bad that can get. You stuck by me throughout that. The fact that you still said what you said sets the world right. Thank you. This shit pool got a little smaller. I think it's time we all leave it and let the others drown. After all, they don't even realize they are in it.
In my darkest hour, at the last day of the month, an act of fate made me think to call her. I've known her since she was 14. We have had quite a past. But I called. I wanted to let her know my situation and see what she thought of it. After all, I had all these people telling me that I needed to be alone, and that they were worried about me. But what about someone who knew me at some dark times? What would she think?
That phone call set something off.
I found out in a brief period of time that her life had taken some turns, and that she and I seemed to be swimming in the same shit pool. After a few years of being out of touch, it took all of 2.378 seconds to feel like it was yesterday. And that's okay.
I'm thanking her here because I know she reads this. She's grown both mentally and physically (a whole inch, making her like 3'2"). She's become harder, meaner, and blunter, but that's what happens when life has its way with you. There's still that old girl (now a woman) I knew in there, but it is tempered with experience.
Funny how that works out.
What she let me know, though, is that I'm okay in ways I haven't thought of. Lately it seems like I can count on one hand the number of people I think actually give a fuck, and then on a few fingers the number I think actually understand. These people haven't known me for 20 plus years, though. She has. And when I told her my greatest fear was that I was going to die alone like my father, she said something so simple, so basic, that it changed everything.
We vowed not to break contact now. That's important to me because I'm losing friends fast. Never thought I would care, but I think some are getting scared. I know I am ... was ... whatever.
There's another person I want to thank, too, who isn't in the same boat, but is in the same ocean, and she has known me for a few years. Her and I have talked much about what being alone means and how harmful it can be. She's helped me out, too. I don't write about her because she'll kill me, and she'll kill me for this, but I need to say it. (You know who you are.) Too many people know who she is, and while I expect a blade lodged between two ribs later this week, I want to give her some public thanks.
So, you two nameless females who have heard all my shit. You have both helped in some wonderful ways. And for the girl who had a Prince song attached to her name, you don't know how much your words meant. The people who know me now only know the Doug they've seen the past few years. You knew me at the worst of the worst. You've seen me deconstruct. You know how bad that can get. You stuck by me throughout that. The fact that you still said what you said sets the world right. Thank you. This shit pool got a little smaller. I think it's time we all leave it and let the others drown. After all, they don't even realize they are in it.
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