Happiness intro (Darkly comic interpretation of friend zoning)

It Wasn't a Good Month...

I have no idea why there is this romantic attachment to summer. It has all the appeal of something torturous and unpleasant to me. Between the bugs, the heat, the humidity, the smells of baking garbage in open cans or horrific body odor on people, I just don't get the glamorizing of the season. Maybe I'm just old.

Anymore I think the majority of people I meet and sometimes befriend fall into the lyric written by Oscar winner Trent Reznor

"I'll be there for you/ as long as it works for me/ I play a game/ it's called insincerity"

In this past month I had a relationship take a couple of turns to the point it's not even worth continuing. I've been disappointed a number of times, both professionally and personally. It's gotten to the point where a place like Portland Oregon looks more appealing rather than being a place on a map.

Why can't things ever work out in predictability? It's one thing for you to anticipate the worst because that's all your accustomed to in some fields, but, in matters of the heart, it never gets any easier. I've had the proverbial heart pulled out, kicked, stomped on, etc and yet, with all the experience I've had where relationships die, or get "friend zoned" I've not gotten any stronger from it. It makes me more suspicious and nervous to put myself out there.

I could understand the function of having a high school reunion years ago before the advent of social media. There was one for my graduating class this past weekend which I didn't attend for a number of reasons. 1) I haven't done anything so significant in my life that warranted going to a group of people I shared a class of title with to show my accomplishment. 2) Several people I went to high school are still here in town locally. 3) I wasn't really close to too many of said classmates. I came in as a junior, and from the last school I attended, I had the majority of credits where I could just stuff my class schedules with electives that didn't tax the brain. 4) I have no connection with people my age. There isn't something I can relate to in their field. I haven't suffered divorce, no #Y spouse, no children or custody battles, No bankruptcy. Every trivial adult issue I hear about through life, I have no experience in. I can't even get a lady friend to join me in the reunion for a few hours. That's how sterling my life is. 5) Reunions seem archaic and redundant anymore any way. Everyone is on Facebook, or twitter if they're advanced. We post things and pictures daily, some people multiple times a day. I know more about some people's life by being Facebook friends with them than I know some people in my own family.

I know you shouldn't, but, sometimes I take great joy when a relationship goes south. Especially when it's been broadcast over my timeline. I'm awaiting the inevitable break up.

I can't think anymore. May put some stuff up tomorrow. Thanks for reading.

If I Could Be a Super Hero or Super Villain...

If I could be a super hero it would be the Flash. Come on, what's not to like? Moves faster than the speed of light, can vibrate through objects, a keen mind of science and look absolutely ripped in skin tight red with those canary yellow boots with that ridiculous tread. If I could be a villain, I would choose Ozymandias from the Watchmen. There are drawbacks in the character, mainly he's the cause of thousands of people dying and an overgrown giant space squid sitting in MSG, but, he accomplishes world peace in the process. He's rich, skilled, and handsome to boot.

How To Fake Like You're Nice and Caring

Earlier today, I came across a link on twitter to a news article written by Laurie Penny for the New Statesman. The subject of the article was in regards to a tumblr account about "nice guys of okcupid". On the account were screen shots of hypocrisy and genuine self loathing, with a good hearty dash of misogyny. All of this was pretty revealing, because, as the older I get the more and more I realize just inherently greedy and selfish men are as a whole, and how so much more difficult it is in being a woman.

I also looked at this bizarre phenomenon regarding online nice guys, or nice guys in general. I must admit that for years I had generally bunched all females into one category whilst in the throes of self pity as being callous, manipulative, cold, and other rather harsh and nasty adjectives thought because the small intimate design I drafted in my imagination didn't pan out into fruition. The outright rejection I felt was overshadowing the actual reasons in why that particular relationship didn't work, primarily the lack of self confidence in a mundane, boring, sterile day of lounging and conversing. It was never enough to just hear some doting verbal affection every so often. I needed the affirmation daily in some twisted thought, otherwise, I felt I was inferior, or growing slight in their eyes. After the relationship ended, as they are wont to do when one party is as emotionally stable as nitroglycerin, the immediate fallout was to first lash out at myself and then lash out at the now insignificant other in my life. My thoughts weighted so heavy in romanticism come crashing back to the reality of things from their lofty perch and as a result, I would go for months at a time without contacting anyone outside of immediate family and friends. The feelings hurt, spent in retreat among comfort things like movies or comics, while the mind was spending too much wasted time in a forensic pathology of analyzing and breaking down actions that led to the break up.

Something happened along the way that caused me to realign my perceptions and look at things from a different angle. Being a woman seems to be so much harder on a daily basis, given the sociological makeup as a whole where there's so many reminders of ideal beauty or what projected beauty and the endless advertising and maybe subsequent brainwashing women experience at a young age as to what they should become as an adult, rather than be happy with who they are. Inasmuch as I have issues living in my skin some days, it's probably doesn't even register in pressure to say my sister on a day to day basis. Things are even more skewered when as men, there's this inherent thinking of what to look for as an ideal woman. You aren't looking at women as actual persons, but rather an object. Most guys I know would be completely satisfied with a cypher who was completely compliant and showed no independent thought. Something that could be complimentary to them and every endeavour they pursued, no matter how hair brained or idiotic in the long term it could be.

This leads me to the phenomenon of said tumblr account, which exposes the facade of public niceties on the surface, to show the rotten underbelly of what the person is truly looking for. The compliments and seemingly innocuous front to lure a female in then reveals something more insidious and venal in message exchanges. As a nice guy, an inherently nice guy to a fault, I find this so distasteful. There are reasons women have so many defenses up when you speak to them, and for good reason. Coop-ting the label of nice, and then subverting it intentionally (But usually unintentionally in most cases) completely nullifies the term, making it a loaded definition when it comes to actual nice guys.

I think the key to solving this issue, and really to improve all interpersonal relationships with people regardless of their sex is 1) Treat them as a person, not a stereotype nor object. 2) Understand that your life experiences are not the end all be all which all other experiences are to be held against.

I would like to say I'm a nice guy who has a hard time coming to grips with some things in life, but, I'm trying. Maybe that's the best I can do.

An Open Letter To Myself (for future heartbreak)

Jeremy,

So, you're single again? Well, it's not like we didn't see this coming the second she showed an interest in you. Your life is comprised of moments where you engage in someone long enough to have them temporary swoon over you and then wake shortly there after and realize who they're with and decide it's best to cut ties and leave.

I know I know, the whole suddenness of it can be jarring and cause emotional tumult on your end, but, have you ever considered things on their end? Really, think about the endless hours you subject them to banal conversations regarding subjects they feign interest in when in reality they're doing something far better and more fun in their minds. No one likes talking about movies, excuse me film, incessantly, nor books, nor anything devoid of substance to the human condition.

You are shallow. You are surface. You meet someone who you like, and that's what their takeaway is going to be of you in the end. You are inconsequential. You have not effected any life you have come in contact with. On the contrary, you are largely forgotten by the majority of people or known as "that fat guy" or "lazy piece of shit" by those who know of you.

I realize that this is all pretty damning of me, but, you need to know this as you get older. You need to know that you're going to be alone in this world.  You will die alone in this world. There are no kids for your future.No woman in their right mind wants to spend more than 6 months tops with you. Look at your last relationship. You messed that up being all empathetic, caring, and attempting sympathy and all it got you was an half empty house and the flowers you purchased as a sign of affection sitting on top of the trash. That is the summary of your love life sir. A wilted bouquet of flowers on top of garbage.

Quit deluding yourself in thinking you're going to be happy. You're miserable and it reflects around to everyone you meet. That's why you don't get text messages daily. No one thinks of you often. That's why dates are postponed. No one wants to sit in a theater or a restaurant or any public place with you for any period of time. You're boring, banal, and quite frankly would do the world a service if you just disappeared.

It's called tough love and realism. Don't like it? I don't care. I'm angry you keep holding out hope that there is some woman out there designed specifically for you as your ideal mate. That's a childish notion. She doesn't exist. The best you can do is look for someone who is as equally tired and patient enough for your nonsense. You have to settle at some point, or pray you find someone desperate and not discerning.

Go get yourself a drink, and throw yourself into oncoming traffic,
yourself

Stranger in a Strange Land

I want to preface the following as to say I look back in hindsight with a degree of fondness to the town of LeRoy MN. I certainly didn't think that way when I was there at 14 years old. It was the complete opposite. I started the whole puberty thing later than most people my age, so there were the imminent mood swings, weird growth spurts, and some sort of mental disorder(arrested development) where I would be torn by doing the things I did when I was younger(i.e. watching cartoons in the afternoon, playing with action figures sometimes, re-enacting the greatest super bowl win with the then hapless Broncos), and then there's doing more adolescent things(i.e. Rebellion against parents, being more social to people my own age, developing skills like talking to women, or getting involved in car maintenance). I was truly a bizarre individual, regardless where I would have spent these formative years.(Reading Tom Harris Silence of the Lambs and Bret Easton Ellis American Psycho do not make you look mature at this age. You look really creepy) I tended to remain in the former, grasping at the increasingly passe things of childhood, as if things and people would adapt to me. Maybe it was because I was afraid to change and grow up.

Of course, the surroundings, however beautiful and tranquil, were completely alien to me. The weather was consistently nice to begin with. I was hoping as I started 9th grade, we would have a month's worth of snow days, because of the connection with the far north and winter. We only had one day where we missed any school, and this was because it was a complete whiteout in weather.

The second alien like quality of my new surroundings was the fact that this town was small and somewhat tight knit from all appearances. Everyone knew each other and their relatives sometimes three generations ago. I and my family were somewhat interlopers, because we were new. We spoke with a southern twang. There were other differences that you could spot immediately.

For example: all short words with "a" like bag was pronounced "bayg".

There was a term used "Uff Daa" which had 30+ definitions to it. You could never know if it was in excitement or was it an expletive. Depended on the speaker.

The stupid pun that everyone says "yah, sure". It was there, but not everyone said it.

So, take all these trivial things and then absorb it into your 14 year old thought process. It was bewildering and sometimes cruel. Especially High School.

But that will be later.

Fall 1989- The Importance Of Speaking

 There was one class I attended in the year of 1989 that was a very new experience to me. It as an Agriculture class, since this was a rural farming community, it was a required course at least one year and an elective for the remainder. The hallway walls were covered in trophy cases that stretched to the end of the corridor. While sports seemed to be a thing for folks to be passionate about, they really seemed to have a better percentage in winning titles in things like poultry judging, Ag mechanics, or soils.

My teacher was named Mr Schaufler. I had never met a cooler guy than this man in my relative young age. He seemed to be a preminent authority in all things mechanic and farming. He was very laid back to an extent. He would take these new freshman, and for the first quarter or so, we would go through the individual fields that were under the FFA banner. We would spend days sampling cheeses, for example, and there were some that could taste the differences in Cheddars by the very definition they memorized. It was very new and alien to me because though I hadn't been living in a teaming metropolis before this move, we certainly didn't have a lot of farming issues discussed in public restaurants, and it was absent from any family conversation.

Mr Schaufler had a keen eye for talent in certain fields. In one week, we went through a five paragraph statement that was the FFA creed. It was an outline of the groups goals and beliefs. I had an easier time retaining memory back then, so I was able to memorize this five paragraph creed and recite it in front of everyone. It was good enough for me to get enlisted into a district contest, where our chapter would send delegates for different contests to compete with other schools. If you placed first, you were an automatic bid to the state's final on the U of M campus. If you had gotten first there, it went to the national convention in Kansas City. The creed only leveled out on the state plateau, but I wasn't having visions of grandeur. I was concentrating for weeks before our contest, not on having all the words memorized, but little things Mr Schaufler had pointed out. Certain words in sentences needed some emphasis. You needed to have a passion in what you said, sell it like you truly mean it. It was meant to be inspiring for those that listened to it. The most important bit of advice was to study this creed, because there would be questions asked after you recite it. It's one thing to recite anything verbatim, but then to answer questions on said item can be daunting, particularly if you are unsure of the answer, or the context it was given.

We ended going out to some school I forgot where, maybe in nearby Austin for the days events. I waited patiently for my turn, as others had gone in every direction for their particular contests. Mr Schaufler assured me he thought I was going to do just fine, as long as I kept my head and my nerves in check. I went into a small speaking hall, where there were 3 judges sat at a long table. I walked up to the podium... and began talking. I was powerful where I needed, and subtle where it didn't look over dramatic. After wrapping up the creed, I stood awaiting a barrage of questions, for which I received a few, but they were simpler than I thought they would be, and I answered them as thorough as possible, trying to maintain this overall look I was just some simple kid from a farm in Mower county, instead of a transplant bumpkin from Butler county in S.E. Missouri.

The wait leading to the afternoon awards ceremony was arduous, and when you do something you are proud of, but you aren't entirely sold you have the contest won, your nerves start to work themselves over for a while. By the time we had gotten to this auditorium for awards, I was a borderline wreck, despite the assurances from Mr Schaufler as well as other kids that were in my class. The speaker had gotten to the creed contest, listing from 3rd on up to 1st, my heart racing a bit faster with a name that wasn't mine as 3rd, as 2nd. Panic for one brief moment when I realize the very good possibility that I haven't placed at all. I was a failure in public speaking.

And then for 1st, my name and school announced. I was in shock to say the least. I had really no confidence in myself, in talking to others, I thought I was going to be a lost cause, or shot in the dark at the very least. I was taken back at how things went, how easy it truly was for me to get up in front of complete strangers and just talk about the future of farming. I think to this day that my adviser Mr Schaufler had seen this potential in me for this one particular contest. He saw a good placement, if not 1st. He had been the adviser for the school for years, so he knew about winning and how to achieve it, simply because those trophies and plaques lining the halls to his room were won under his advisement. I ended up getting a ribbon which I thought was the coolest thing, because outside of writing short stories to entertain myself, I really didn't know of anything I was any good at. I began to find these things though as a student under Mr Schaufler's guidance. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

8 Things You Don't Know About Me

I decided to post some random facts that not a whole lot of people know. I hope you enjoy.

In no particular order....

1) I enjoy almost all food for the exception of fish sticks and raisins. Especially raisins. If I come across as a pest to you in public, all you have to do in response is hold up a box of sun dried finest and I go cowering as if I were a vampire subjected to a crucifix.

2) I can't handle as much liquor as I was used to not to long ago. Seeing a friend die off young from alcohol related issues can jar you into how short this life is. The appeal definitely lost it's luster as I bore witness to an urn of his ashes February 2008. A major buzz kill.

3) For some reason, if there's an insect with wings and a stinger, I'm looking for an exit. I had a morbid fascination with swarms of bees on nature programs as a kid as well as the old creature features from the 70's, and was repelled at the same time. It's kind of like a car wreck you drive upon. It's ghastly and uncomfortable to see, but you can't stop looking. My overactive imagination also played out the craziest scenarios as a kid where a swarm of bees would attack en mass a whole populace.  This causes me to twitch if I see a bee, wasp, or bumblebee. I think I will be getting stung.

4) I was once a struggling copywriter 13 years ago. I got to read movie scripts and come up with lines you could fit on one sheets, bus lines, park benches, etc. It was a fun job, but this being the early 21st century and being on dial up with money problems stunted that growth after a while. I often wish I could find myself another open door in this field, or something similar to be creative and be paid for it.

5) I hate how my hands feel after washing them. That feel just makes me go blecch! I have to moisturize them as soon as I dry them.

6) Also, seeing stray hair in the sink or in the hairbrush invokes the same reaction.

7) Another fear I had as a kid was from Superman 3. I watched it at the theatre when I was like 9, and there was this bit where Robert Vaughn's sister fell into his massive super computer and her whole face was consumed with metal strands. That thing just bothered me to no end, and I ended up on the phone with my dad while he was at work at a radio station saying it was sex and violence when it was really something else completely.

8) I cannot stand to go outdoors barefoot, especially in the grass. The feeling the grass has against the soles of my feet make me cringe. I will actually stay indoors long enough to put on shoes before leaving, even if it's to get the newspaper.

Well, I think this should suffice for now. This should read more of dumb silly fears than things you don't know about me.

Why Strong Independent Women Rule...

Since I was a wee lad of 14 , I've always had found strong independent women inherently attractive. I blame Sigourney Weaver.



On Christmas day of 1989, I received a VHS copy of Aliens as a present. I had seen the movie on like CBS or HBO, but it was a scene here and a scene there. My parents were pretty much the authoritarian types who really watched the intake of TV their kids had, and if there was too much profanity or a hint of sexual activity or innuendo it was blocked.

ANYWAYS, viewing habits aside, I got this copy of ALIENS on Christmas and immediately I admired Weaver's character of Ripley in that movie. She was pretty strong and yet feminine, handled herself and took charge when needed .Of course the script called for it midway, after the space marines were dominated by the slimy aliens in the bowels of the colony station that of course would doom the planet because the cardboard one note character space marines used live ammunition on an unseen enemy rupturing the cooling system of essentially a nuclear reactor. The little details such as her not being boxed in to a traditional female character archetype, such as sitting idle and concerned while the male hero goes and performs his perfunctory heroics in the last act, or be the perennial lady in peril that motivates an antihero to step his character up. The penultimate scene when Ripley rescues the young girl,Newt, from the nursery and Ripley is armed in true Reagan era style to the teeth and then some? That was the clincher. She was strong and yet maternal. The character was completely cool and just put to waste vaunted cinematic heroes.

I knew in that formative age that even though Ripley was a character, and it may had been a shrewd ploy to get women to go see essentially a B grade science fiction movie, the qualities that Weaver gave to her character would something that I would look for in female companions. A sense of independence. Knowing what they wanted and not taking any crap from anyone. That's an extremely attractive and beautiful quality a person, male or female can have.

Too often I witness people develop a sick dependency on a significant other or close friend. Almost vampiric in nature or sycophantic depending on the dependency. A person molds and shapes their worldview and perspective on the basis of what this elevated idol has or says, completely forgoing any independent thought in the process. Their self worth dissolves into something microscopic, and when the toxic relationship ends, as they are wont to do, the person feels less than the sum of their parts. They invested so much time and energy into someone with such intensity, sometimes cutting ties with close friends, family, or loved ones in the process, the person is completely lost.

I say that to keep myself aware of the easy pitfalls that come in life when someone can appear on the surface the answer to the unanswerable riddle, the end of your life sentence, and how much time you invest in them. I would rather try and retain my wits and independence to me. I seek the company of like minded individuals who don't necessarily just turn to mush at the utterance of a few well placed vapid compliments. Life is beautiful as a whole, warts and all, despite our insistence of wearing rose colored glasses and wrap ourselves in the conventional banalities expressed in hallmark cards and kitten posters.

Thanks for reading

It's A Good Life

Have you ever just dug through a stack of stuff you used to cherish when you were younger, to relive the nostalgia that comes from remembering where you were at that point and time in your life? It happens to me sometimes, and it did with a fury last night.

I was sitting in bed, trying to get to sleep, and in my restless mood I got up and went to my cd collection and walkman. I don't listen to just one cd mind you, I have to select several and then just start searching for songs that I am in the mood for at that moment. This usually results in an armload of cd's carried into the bedroom and spread across the bed strategically to maximize the results. I had opted to listen to stuff I hadn't touched in years. In a few cd's cases, it had been several years. Knocking the dust off the cover and trying to plumb the depths of my memory to see if I can recall a song, a riff, a lyric before playing the music is some weird game I devised for myself.

I put in this cd by Spacehog, called "The Hogyssey," and for some reason last night, it was a catalyst into some memories that I had circa 2001, late April or early May. I was picturing my apartment there on Kinzer, 103 B, with the picture windows and slatted blinds. The brown carpeting. I remember when I first moved in, I had an empty waterbed frame sitting on the floor and I slept on a single bed in against the window of the bedroom. I remember my sister's cat, Maxwell, as being a good lap cat one day, and an ornery cat the next.

Things back then seemed to be looking very positive. I was dating a really smart and beautiful girl, who was my first real solid love.I was gaining experience in my job at the time and it seemed that I was really thinking I could attain it all. I would end up botching it months later on all fronts, but that's not what I was thinking about when I listened to that music last night. It was quiet moments laying in the dark with my girlfriend at the time, buying cookware in Sikeston. Strange and mundane memories unlocked and floating up into my conscious.

Today, I briefly went through my stash of cards, letters, love notes, etc that I have hidden here. For the first time in I don't know when, I wasn't upset at how things fared with the other woman, insert name here _______. I wasn't miserable on how my life hasn't worked out the way I wanted it to. Instead, for the first time in I don't know when, I was re-reading the stuff and filled with happiness. I am that guy for a reason, and in the contents of the buried letters and cards, I was that guy for the significant others in that time. Rather than be depressed about how my relationships never seem to work, or how I have the worst luck, or other such nonsense, I am happy that ultimately, this is a good life. I have my health, I have my family, and I have friends that haven't bailed on me like most do. I could be in a far worse situation with my station in life. I could be poor, destitute, drifting aimless from job to job. I could be an asshole of the nth degree.I could be dead. We move through this life and acquire knowledge to apply in future scenarios. Discerning between right and wrong, adjusting and calibrating our worldview, finding someone who loves you for just being you. These seem to travel with us in this life. I know that they are still open ended questions for me personally, and maybe, for you as well. The journey itself is one that we don't often think about with a clear conscious, unshackled by all the emotions we weigh it down with over the course of life.

I am not one to think that our lives are pre-determined through genetic disposition and environment. I think that things happen both good and bad to someone for a reason. And to quote Paul Thomas Anderson from Magnolia, "We may be through with the past, but, as the book says, sometimes the past isn't through with us."

So, to all the women who have dated me and to whom I loved, to those people who I have called friend over the course of life, thanks for being there. Thanks for your contribution, both positive or negative, great or minor over the course of my lifetime. Thanks to my family for the love and support to which I can never truly match.

It truly is a good life.

I Built My Dreams Around You

(Something I wrote back in 2006. It was a bit for a larger story that never panned out yet. A tale of unrequited love. I was writing what I knew at the time. Hope you enjoy.)


I bet she really doesn't know the magnitude of how much I like her. It's not love, because we are still into that getting to know each other stretch in the relationship, and plus if you are too quick to come to that conclusion, the relationship becomes compromised. But, sitting here, and typing this, it's obvious that she doesn't realize just how much I'm under her thumb, or her spell. I've receded into a nervous 16 year old, where I make excuses up to see her, find reasons to talk to her, and you know, coming up with arbitrary subjects to hold her attention is more difficult than it looks. I actually pace and fret over a silent phone. I haven't done that in years. I just stare at my phone and look for it to ring, and then, I jump when it finally does. If it's another number, I almost just let it go to voice mail.

I often think of her in the morning when I get up, and when I go to sleep is really bad, because I want to execute this properly. I don't want things to move quick and get potentially disastrous on a personal level. Keeping that in mind, I just try and keep a distance from her as to not give her the impression of smothering. I'm trying to not make the same mistakes again, where it's alarming enough for the girl to cut and run when it feels at it's most opportune, and nothing says that like some emotional clingy guy, calling and pestering at all hours of the day.

I just wish any acknowledgement of me would be more genuine, or at least feel that way. If this girl feels the way that I do to some degree, than show it from time to time. I can't get a good indication if it feels as if I'm prying information out, and responses are almost an afterthought. Like she's simulating answers I want to hear, and listening to my responses with entertainment in mind. I have to keep in mind that this person has a full slate of activities on any given week, and I really do feel fortunate when we can talk, but just some quiet time is all I want. A brief moment shared by two people and no other else.

I'm too confused anymore. I want to just let this play out, due in part to how much I like her and have respect for her positions, but it's eating me up sitting and just biding my time. Maybe it's nature, or maybe it's the fear of being alone for the rest of my life. I don't want to put pressure and stress on her, but I don't want to be a foregone thought either.

Treasure me like I treasure you.

Flashback 1990- Grade A Ham

Once a year in the high school, there is a homecoming which all the classes participate. Not merely just the window decoration that would illustrate business windows down main street, but there were also float constructions and there were skits each class had to perform for an assembly for the entire town. One Tuesday night, three days before the homecoming game, each class from the freshman up to the senior class would perform a skit very pro cardinal against their opponent. All fun and no fuss. There wasn't a lot of thought put into much, except maybe the floats. I was assigned to go on this skit team with two other classmates who weren't exactly resonating team spirit much like myself. We sat one 45 minute period just halfheartedly throwing out ideas, but spent more time looking at the girls in the class and making comments as to who was hot.

A week passes and change locations to a church foyer my father pastored at the time. I and this other guy named Jesse were there working on an idea of time travel with the crude transportation device of a cardboard box or something else that had been liberally stolen from Calvin and Hobbes. We were deciding who was playing what, and there was this uneasy assurance we had things together to perform in front of a large crowd later that night. I agreed to meet Jesse there before the program began to make sure where to put the box, and to brush up on any lines that seemed a little iffy.

I arrived to the school gym early, partly for the skit prep, but also because I was playing trumpet in the marching band and we had to get there to set up for the small concert we played during the program. I waited around, fidgeted as the clock started to compress the start time of the assembly closer and closer, and I realized at the point 5 minutes or so before the programs start, my associate was going to be a no show. I had no box, no partner, and no skit. I sat up in the corner of the bleachers with another trumpet player, a fellow classmate. She naturally asks where Jesse is, to which I reply I didn't know. I was talking that I should forfeit the skit, and she replied that would be awful, as well as costly to the class, for non-participation was a fine to the class. It was shaping to be a lose/lose situation.

At the start of the year, I had been goofing around with this percussionist Jay doing voice impersonations. I had managed to make a credible impersonation of comedian Dana Carvey impersonating then President George Bush. Weird I know. I had quickly thought I should use that as the new skit for the class, because I wasn't about ready to be looked at for the impending fine by everyone else in class. I really tried to use this moment as that point where I would be like cool for the class, most popular and all that other stuff we saddle ourselves with in adolescence.

I sat over in the corner with the band. We performed a couple of numbers. The crowd was pretty sizeable, filling most of the floor and swelled into the bleachers opposite of the band placement. The skits began shortly after. I was second in line behind the freshman class. I stood off the side of the stage, behind the curtain pulled back, racking my brain for any one liners or good jokes to say in this impersonation. I wanted to make sure I mentioned the ball team as well as the upcoming game. The name of the sophomore class came out muffled over the p.a. and the curtains drew back, leaving me there in front of the spotlight, hundreds shifting and coughing in their seats.

To this day, I have no clue as to what I said. I know it was funny. Real funny in some parts. I was loose after the first minute, crowd getting loud when I mentioned about the game Friday. I was really starting to ham things up onstage, to point I was so comfortable, the stage manager had been making a cut sign for I don't know how long. I wound up my speech and the curtain drew shut on stage. There was an applause I had never heard of personally. I had seen ovations like this on TV or in the movies, but this was different. The crowd was loud and appreciative to the bit, and when I came out to cross over back into the band, the crowd was on their feet, and the spotlight was centered on me as I walked ever proud back to the top bleachers. Afterwards, everyone was really psyched thinking I had planned this all along, and then were surprised that all of the goofy impersonation had been improved.

Funny ending. There were awards given out the day of the game at a school assembly. The science teacher Mr Henson was naming off classes in 3rd to 1st order, and then when he had gotten to the skit competition, he announced as first the sophomore class, "To his credit", or words to the effect singling me out personally. That was indeed a rich moment, sitting there as the savior of a contest for a class who really weren't all that accepting of me at first. In hindsight, things began to work out better amongst myself and my classmates after the whole skit episode.

Why I Write

As far back as I could remember, I always wanted to write.

I would be composing stories as early as 4th grade, a few pages of truncated plots from movies I had watched on video. I vaguely remember doing tweaks to stuff like The Neverending Story or Cloak & Dagger. With these stories, I would have accompanying illustrations. To me, the thought of being paid to write out my thoughts and create was the best job ever. I remember reading the old adage of practice, practice, practice as well as write what you know. I would try and form a habit of getting stuff down on paper, a notepad on hand to write thoughts or ideas. I even went so far as to have a micro cassette recorder as a fail safe measure should I had forgotten the pad and paper.

As I got older though, the changes I went through at adolescence were crippling at times. A new state and completely different environment just offset these quiet rage filled diatribes to paper. Watching grotesque and disconnected action extravaganzas from the 80's weren't beneficial, as I would supplant the image of the bad guy being filled with hot death, courtesy of a semi automatic weapon with a magazine of endless ammunition, with the image of some class mate I didn't like. It's not that I outwardly hated on someone in those days, I would internalize the things I found grating and mean, and turn it into art. Violent nonsensical art, but it was the only coping mechanism I knew that worked. I'm too much of a pacifist to take aggression out with clenched fists and a furrowed brow garbling something incomprehensible. I'd sooner put to death someone with a series of sentences than a flurry of fists.*

*and for someone who is using some form of gun play in much of his fiction, I have an unease with firearms. No, seriously. This, despite the fact I live in an area that cherishes firearms as much if not more so than their own child, is somewhat humorous.

When I got finished with my senior year of high school. I had amassed nearly 300 pages of a story that had no end. This was due to the fact I never formally outlined any story ahead of time or thought out characters and their motivations properly. As such, there would be wild swings in behavior on the page amongst characters that seemed rather schizophrenic if not multiple personality. During my first year in college, I would work on a manuscript that accumulated 100+ pages of flights of fancy and macabre imagery. It didn't quite work out, though, there were parts that sang like a brassy vocalist in a jazz orchestra.

It was through an extended correspondence with a friend I made in Hollywood, where I found my niche. Shorter in my case was better, according to Dawn, who even sent me links to submissions online. Through my syntax and word play, I was able to do some free lance copy writing. That was some of the best times I had.*

*It may explain my joy of watching Mad Men. Working for a client and being paid to be creative. Sans the 60's wardrobe

Now, my goal still remains the same. I would love to be able to be published or feel as if I'm a significant contributor to something. I want to be at least one person's immediate destination when I put up something new. Feedback and advice is needed and desired. Mostly though, I do this as a release of emotions. I tend to internalize things too much. I think back to a lament by Tony Soprano wondering why more people didn't pattern themselves after Gary Cooper. The strong stoic type. I work every day to not let any negative energy disrupt my balance. I wear my emotions sometimes on my sleeve, and it gets messy sometimes. Writing to me is a conduit for the things that build inside that needs an immediate release. It's one of the greatest gifts to have when you exercise it properly. It's a blessing when someone feels it, relates to what your saying, and appreciates your contribution.

This is why I write...

Muses & Inspriation

The muse which spurs me to write takes many different and varied forms. Sometimes, it's another person that I'm sharing life and spanning time with. Other times, it's a situation that has tapped into the wellspring of creativity. The last significant event that spurred this much writing was when a relationship with a woman ended and it was emotionally devastating. I wrote for a full month. It was pretty creative, though, not necessarily good.

Currently though, my muse is in somewhat a better place these days. It's in the form of a very good friend, confidant, and other assorted adjectives that I feel a deep fondness for, and, stepping away from creativity for just a second, someone I feel a voluminous connection with.

Have you ever gotten to know someone and their likes and dislikes somewhat match yours? Their passions are in close proximity's with yours? Those are the best connections in life, because it seems the legwork and time and effort you spend to get this point alone is hulk leaped over in one moment. Not only that, but, in their company, you strive to be better. They bring out the best, or the closest equivalent of the best in you. You realize their significance in your life grow greater as time passes, and you know that however things pan out, regardless what the future holds in it's hands, you will be forever changed and marked by the time and association you spent with that person.

My muse has me inspired to make written art daily. Maybe it's due to the fact she's herself an artist, or maybe it's due to the fact that she actually took time to read, to listen and to encourage. I'm sure she would most likely say the latter being that she never seems to be at want for a spotlight of attention. I'm thankful that I've gotten to spend time and words with her. I may not likely have ever gathered the courage to write stuff and publicize it if there wasn't encouragement from her. As a friend on twitter said to me about posting blogs, sometimes it's the equivalent of yelling into the void.

So for all this, I got to thank Lisa. You are a vital component in my creative process and awesome person in you're own right. It's been a privilege the past few months. Here's hoping that someday we can collaborate together in the arts.

Requiem For a Home

On Monday June 3rd, the house I grew up in with my family is being put on the block for auction. It's currently in a state of disarray as the family it was leased to have gone and left in the night. Literally not merely figuratively. The power has been turned off there for who knows how long, as the air inside is rancid with the acidic taste of rotten food that was housed in the refrigerator. There are piles of trash and litter throughout the rooms, signs of a life that abruptly fled, as if the authorities were coming in, and the inhabitants of the place fled. The humidity from the barely open windows is causing the woodwork to feel damp and enhances a musty smell to the place.

I'm in the closet that's under the stairwell, using my phone as an impromptu flashlight. Concentrating the LED light to find where my things would be, which looks buried in a compact pile of other things the tenants brought in. I can't find a single thing in here, maybe because the light is sub par, maybe because there's too much of their stuff in here, or maybe it's because I already know that in all likelihood, what I left at the house has been either pawned off for a pittance of cash, or set on the curb with the trash to be picked up.

As I'm going up the stairs to the second floor of the house in the futile hope that my things may be in a closet upstairs, I'm stricken with sadness in how this house has devolved in the past few years. The house was always known either as the Dawe House, or it was known as, "that big blue house with the pine trees in the front". As a small child I remember just how vast and giant it looked. It still has that same look to it, despite the fact I'm 38. For over three decades, this house was made into a home. The lawn was as large as the house, and was cut my brother and I via a push mower when we were 10 or 11. The living room had actually been a small class room for a while, as my mom had created Kinder College for really young kids. In the old days, there was no central heat or air. We wouldn't get that until 1987. Lots of box fans and oscillating fans in the summer. There was a large floor register in the middle of one room that would heat things quite well in the winter, except for the kitchen, it was always chilly in there.

This house went through some changes, and yet it was the family home. Where children grew up, graduated, left and sometimes came back. Where things with my parents took a turn for the worst, and their marriage dissolved. It was a lot of things I'm sure to my siblings as well as myself in the end.

And now, now it's gone.

An end to a proverbial era so to speak. I'm going to miss that place.

Meanwhile, In Marion Illinois...

Getting your brain to function at 7am is a little more difficult than when you planned to wake up at that time the previous night. Physically and mentally drained, I collapsed and shut down early Monday night at a little after 9pm. I've had things slowly start up since I've woken and now, now I feel like I can put something down on paper.

As a city, I've always liked Marion. There's family to visit here, but, everything is different here than PB. I know that the handful of people that read this will be like "Inevitably, every place is the same" which I suppose is ultimately true, but, on the surface here it's not. We stopped at a Wal-Mart Monday night and I was surprised that they can look inviting and clean.

I should backtrack and emphasize just how opposite the Bluff's Wal-Mart looks. It was one of the first "supercenters" back in the 90's, but, the building has seen better days. Added to which, the uniform dress code doesn't apply to all, the floors look filthy, the bathroom's are not always clean, the store runs low if not out of certain items, and to make matters worse, there's always wooden pallets or carts in the middle of aisles unopened and impeding any flow of traffic. One time, you could pick and choose when to go to Wal-Mart for stuff (which was early morning) but now, it seems like regardless of the day you're doomed for a headache.

I said that to say how odd it was to have the exact opposite experience. From the checker who was actually smiling and courteous to floor help actually there to assist. It was like a parallel universe. Despite the over lighting of the building, the layout was condensed and organized. No pallets left in some random spot in an aisle. Even at the deli, there was prompt service. The deli at home is some inefficient, you have to take a number and listen to the employees discuss the finer gossip in the building as they slowly prepare your order.

That may be something else to note, and it's probably because I don't know anyone here, but the staff looked focused on their job. Pleasant and serene faces helping in different departments. Stepping in Wal-Mart at Poplar Bluff is much like stepping in to a multi storied soap opera with bad plots, dialogue, and no interest. There's a sense of soul crushing with the employees because employment in the Bluff is so horrid, you can't just up and leave the job without a backup job.

Maybe I'm making something bigger than I should. I don't know. It may be me looking at the city and it's businesses with rose colored glasses. I really don't want to return to Poplar Bluff. Physically there are a few things that keep me there, but, in the end it doesn't really matter. I get to return home in a few short hours. Return to my job that's been a disappointment for the better part of the year. Blah!

Here and Now (fighting slumber)

I close my eyes, and you're there. Even better than in the flesh it would seem. In the here in now, nothing good seems to come easy. Everything is a struggle in some way shape or form. The square pegs don't fit the round hole. When I'm with you, I feel at peace. The weight of my world is off my back. In you, I find solace. Safe harbor rests on your lips. A calm nestled in your voice.

I close my eyes and we're functional as functional as can be. No sorrows nor anger. No resentment nor duplicity. The general boring mundane things we overlook and take for granted are not done that way when I close my eyes. Every moment matters. Every word counts. Every action is a chorus of magisterial beauty. All the obstacles that we place in front of ourselves have been removed. The shields are down. The defenses lax. In you, I find rest. I find contentment in your arms. We're good for each other when I close my eyes. No worries or fears. We compliment each other admirably.

I close my eyes and I smell the detergent in your bed sheets. The muted fragrance of a candle lit. The incandescent glow of a cell phone turned on. Sounds from the outside rise and ebb like the tide. These feelings, sights and sounds are with me as I close my eyes here and now.

Here and now things work. No harm, no troubles. Peace. The way I feel in a parallel world things would work. Me at my most romantic and you at your most receptive. I close my eyes and can hear your breathing calm and relaxed. The longing to repeat these moments rise. I wake and have to get a drink of water. I feel like I'm rambling. This doesn't quite make sense, but then, some of the best things we experience in life don't make sense at all.

...And Then the Wheels Fell Off

After the early morning encounter, I was being routinely visited by my new girlfriend. She of course didn't want to be known as a girlfriend, we were merely friends with benefits. I didn't mind the classification, because in all truth the conversations we had were staccato and empty. There was nothing in common to relate with each other. She would humbly recite incidents in the life she was passing through the underbelly of Southern Arkansas, the drugs and the cops and while at first it was intriguing and morbidly fascinating it quickly became desperate and sad. Of course my every day nonsense was wearing thin on her I'm sure. You could only revise so many times the daily workings of long suffering employment. To top things off, the heated carnality was quickly waning, as if the satisfaction had peaked early and was beginning to bottom out.

Once, I was preparing to head out to the bar to join some friends when she came in and was crying once more. She wanted to talk to me and she preceded to tell me how dishonest she had been. It was really mean and cruel for her to continue this charade and then showed me this small engagement ring excavated from her purse. She was technically engaged to some other guy in Arkansas and she couldn't continue to pull the cliched wool over my eyes. In her purse, were threatening letters from some illiterate buffoon, accusing her of a cornucopia of offenses. She says to me that she can't help but to still love this guy, even though he's flattened her tires at work and even though he would cheat on her and smack her around she knew the real guy inside and he was worth saving.

I stood there in the wake of this revelation not really surprised. I had my suspicion about it, and here it was in broad daylight trembling and muttering nonsense about saving someone. Then she opens her mouth and tells me that she wants to be friends because I am "too nice of a guy", to continue to sleep with.

If I had a dime for every time that cliched overused statement had been said to my face, I could be a millionaire. A sequence of different faces and voices I could recall telling me that statement. I stood there and just nodded, dejected by the news. I could offered a good argument for her to stay, but what was the point really. She would only leave this guy on a gurney or in a paddy wagon. I was was insubstantial in her eyes. Insignificant.

We hugged and that was the last time I would ever see her.

Later, the ex would call just to find out how I was doing, and I in turn would ask her the same questions. She asked about the new girl, to which I replied that things were over with her before they really began.

"Good," the ex replies. "She wasn't all that anyway. You'll be better off without her."

And Now, For the Poorly Lit, Drunk, Clumsy, and Brief Love Scene....

She manages to come in through the front door without collapsing, which is good in a sad way because I'm somewhat inert on the sofa, bleary eyed, but looking like the picture of health next to her as she flops down on the sofa next to me. Her eyes are pink and wet as if she's been crying and the smell of pot is really heavy on her clothes, but it really doesn't bother me now if it did when I would be sober. She's moaning again about her mother and how she downed a pint of whiskey and there was cursing involved and now here she is, telling me this, fighting tears because she's wanting something a little more normal and not so melodramatic in the way of her family life. I try to be supportive and caring to say the words that could very well start her on the road to a new beginning or something as equally saccharine but I keep slurring out things like, "That's messed up" or "She sounds like a total bitch." My friends have seemed to have melted into the background, either they are listening to this drunk conversation by two people who have the sex glint in their eye or they just are talking amongst themselves and I am oblivious to the conversation.

Before long she excuses herself to the restroom, and I pause to think how to properly move my legs in a forward motion to get to the door of the bathroom. I'm thinking about how she's looking tonight which is rough and skanky in brutal honesty but it looks like a million dollar ticket I could very well cash in. I manage to get to the door and knock and I come in as she's just looking in the mirror complaining about how she's looking tonight, but I tell her that she looks exquisite, and that if she would simply stay with me all her problems would be taken care of. I would be some rock for her in her trials, a safe haven, using every line man has ever scripted to get her to just kiss me in overwhelming passion, but it doesn't work and I make the move with quick motion.

The preceding is all a drunken blur. Pants and sighs admist hands groping legs and necks. Arms intertwined, torsos moving and dipping as if they were clued into some dance we couldn't hear but only feel. I begin to sweat as I pinch her nipple, and her hand starts to grab a hold of my waist. We eventually stumble into the bedroom.

On the California king size mattress we make out some more, slowly removing clothes. Her skin is cream colored in the harsh desk light, while I fondle her ass and begin to suck on her nipples. Her hand grips my cock and then I begin to blindly finger her like a it was a string instrument in a furious symphony. She begins to moan and then moan louder. Loud enough to alarm me in stopping the kissing and try to hush her because it occurs to me there are really other people in the living room, not to mention the ones in the apartment above and here this girl is making some diaphragm induced moans and groans asking me to keep going, while I tell her I will but she has to keep it down. It's no use, she comes twice and she still is really vocal about how good it is, even with my hand over her mouth, she just bites my palm and then my neck. She demands to be fucked as the room is heavy in humidity and passion, to which I oblige by slipping on a condom and then sex begins.

It's hard work when you're drunk on a lot of beer. My stomachs doing somersaults with the motion, skin is all slick with sweat, and I feel winded because this is sadly the most exercise I have gotten in the last month. I ask her if she wants to roll over and go on top to give me a breather, to recline like a slug, and she says no, I'm hitting it fine, and plus she has a old volleyball injury that prevents her from going on top, something involving some messed up knees. I finish, after the blood curdling scream that rattles the window and causes snickers in the other room. It's a weak orgasm, partly because I feel like throwing up a couple pints of bud light on the floor, partly because of the heat in the room. We lie next to each other, glistening in the afterglow. I notice the stereo has been turned up in the other room. I comment how well she looks naked, and she makes a comment about how she hates her small tits and how her ass is too big for a white girl. I ask her if she wants another round to she quickly says yes to, but then dictates there could be no doggy, nor any cowgirl because of the volleyball injury. "I have little to no cartilage in my knees", she says. " You can fuckin' pile drive it in man like you did tonight. I hadn't anything like that in months. That and some head."

"Do you give as well as receive?" I ask her.

"Sorry. I don't suck cock. Just a rule I hold myself to. No ass fucking either."

We dress after she mentions about getting home before dawn and I head into the living room where the snickers I had heard earlier have erupted into laughter. I try to play dumb to no avail and then one of the guys says that I have some nasty bruising on my neck. I run over to the bathroom and look in the mirror. There are three large hickeys on my neck. Dark and black they lie there with glee telling me it's going to be turtleneck sweaters for the next week.

to be continued...

...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober (part 4)

Memories of the ex:

Long dinner conversations of space, of exploration, the meaning of the universe, whether or not there was a omnipresent presence engaged in watching the billions of stories unfolding on the earth. A sleek new Mercury Cougar, with a sun roof and 6 disc changer in it's trunk. Kids or no kids? How difficult it is growing up admist disappointment. The future and what both of us would like to see ourselves in 5 years. The lack of sex due to her being "burnt out" after years of carnal mileage, when in a blunt reality I was never really that good to appease her appetite and adequately explained the toys she brought in... Sloppy housekeeping, the reluctance to settle in a house together, then the abandonment I executed when she was ready to play house in college town.

And now she's here, and we haven't been having the FWB sex nor really talked in sometime, but that's all of a sudden rendered null and void as she's asking about the stray cat she brought over to my apartment because she loves the cat more genuinely than she ever did me which I was almost disgusted by when thinking about it and then thought who cares as long as she's here.

And then there's my new "friend" sitting there smiling a mile wide frantically piecing together this new face and where it belongs in my life. The exchange a brief greeting and then the ex asks where the cat is currently hibernating. I tell her in the bedroom on the window ledge. She excuses herself over to the bedroom and the new friend is starting to question me hard on the ideninty of my visitor and if I'm trying to play her, which I quickly answer no and then it occurs to me how quickly and with great shame I would return to my ex if she merely mentioned it leaving the new girl in the distant memory category.

It's a tense few moments where all natural sound has entered a vacuum, and I can only stand there dazed marveling at the impeccably bad timing of my ex and the fact that the promise of sex with my friend has quickly shriveled and dried to a crisp under heavy scrutiny.

Needless to say, I don't see my friend for a few days, and question the timing of the ex as deliberate planning on her part.

Flash forward to a few more nights down the road. Hip deep in empty beer bottles I find myself watching this low budget indie film called Gummo, nursing a 9th beer, grumbling to myself that there's nothing to do in this town and the door knocks. It's my friend Walt who's a full fledged insomniac of a vampire addicted to cheap Mexican food. Walt's the usual, bored, and decided to visit since my light was on. Then, the door knocks again as if this apartment has become some station between towns. It's Colby who's of course been drinking, more than I have tonight, and we of course all sit down and launch in blue tirades about exes, bosses, the Cardinals, and what rap music is good and what music needs to completely buried. All this talk has me drinking more, because I feel this new developing power where either Walt or Colby are speaking and then the sound goes out, I can only see their lips move or quiver and this only occurs when I take another hit of beer.

Then, the phone rings. I grab a hold of the cordless and it's my friend. Colby remarks she was probably locked up I tell him to shut up. She asking what's going on and how I'm doing and again with the apology of just disappearing on me because there was a lot of shit that went down in Arkansas with some of her friends from the factory involving some speed and weed and the no money so they abandoned me with a dealer named Skip, but I was able to get my step dad to come down and get me out of trouble explanation that makes nailing her almost a priority now in my drunken haze. If I could not close the proverbial deal, I might as well retire my dick to a museum. I ask her if she wants to drink a little, and she slurs she's drunk a little playing Texas Hold 'Em with her mother's friends, but it wasn't much and she wants to come over for something to drink. I lie to her and tell her I have some Seagrams 7 for her consumption but she only has 15 minutes to get here. I neglect to tell her that I have other people over, but I really don't notice them while on the phone with her nor do I really care, as I apply my new super gift at will now instead through just drinking.

15 minutes later.....

30 Minute Night Gardening

It's late in the evening, quickly approaching midnight. The moon is full and the beams have broke through the window pane, spilling across the floor and spreading across the bed in which I lay. My mind races backwards and forwards on my internal timeline, seeing faces, hearing loving statements and sentiments long since gone in the wispy tendrils of fading memory.

It's 1993 in a gymnasium where I'm sitting in a metal folding chair, draped in polyester robes, sweating profusely as someone stands at a lectern delivering a speech about leaving childhood behind or something as equally banal, stock, and innocuous as most speeches in high school are wont to come off. I remember the photo from 1992, dressed in a two piece hunter green suit sitting in a vinyl chair trying to look stoic and mature. I had a thicker head of hair and not as much weight around the middle.

It's 2013 and I'm sitting cross legged in front of a laptop exercising my creative muscles trying to put onto the screen the remnants of memory before I lose them forever. I wish I could be able to tap into my brain's potential capacity to keep things clear and defined. Categorized and cataloged. Time changes everything is what I've read and quickly understand. There's another great line from a film called Magnolia where it goes "we may be done with the past, but, the past isn't done with us".  I don't know exactly what this means in the overall context of this post other than it seems pretty truthful.

I sometimes try and recall past girlfriends and lovers, remembering their attractive qualities. The way their hair fell just so. A smile, the way their eyes looked, a walk, simple gestures with speaking and not saying anything. I have longed since mined the resource of regret and self pity at the failures of these relationships. It's not my fault. It's not my fault. I want to tattoo this on me if I didn't have any regret about doing this afterward.

I'm gardening my mind. Tilling the fertile soil of creativity, tossing out the weeds of negativity that can strangle and kill good thoughts. I'm above that nihilistic thinking that permeated my thoughts in the last decade. I want to cultivate the things that make me smile and chortle a little.

1996- a photo booth in West Park Mall. There was so much hope and happiness in our eyes. I filled a composition book for Christmas in poetry, illustrations, stories. Forgoing the usual gift, though, I'm sure I got one of those.

2000- Sitting on a couch in my living room, staring out my window for a visitor who would never come. I listened to Sand In the Vaseline The Best of The Talking Heads. It would be a few years later when I awake from sleep to notice the time of a nocturnal visit from a former girlfriend, that was in all likelihood a potential physical encounter, pass with no call nor apology. It just happened.

2004- With a girl in a hotel room as we make out in happenstance. 1994- heavy petting and dry humping lead to a premature accident that is forwarded as a punch line for the girl's friends. 1997- sobbing like some infant over a breakup 2007- fighting back tears after a knock on the door informed me that a very good friend of mine had asphyxiated on his own vomit in his apartment. Going through the apartment days later and horrified by the degradation of the place. Caps of duster litter the floor along with trash, pizza boxes, and beer bottle caps. 1995- sharing feelings to this tender red head, and getting brushed off by capricious youth. 2005- Her now ex boyfriend getting confrontational about it while he was half conscious and fully drunk.

I have to stop. Entranced by the power of the moon tonight. Memories can wait.

...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober? (part 3)

Two weeks pass.

I'm working and it's late and lo and behold, she shows up from thin air. I ask her where she went that night instead of my apartment and replied something along the lines of she kind of got cold feet at the last minute and ducked out to a friends house to get high. She fell asleep and then just went home. It wouldn't be the first time I would have heard this explanation.

The next day, there's a note left on the windshield of my car. She wants to see me again, and this time promises no ducking out or anything. Yeah, whatever I tell myself as I get in the car and set the note in the passenger seat. Her phone number is on the note, so reluctantly I call it, thinking that this is probably a non-working number.

She answers after the third ring, and we proceed to make small talk. She rambles on about how she enjoyed that night, how relaxing and refreshing it all was to her. She was really going out of her way to butter me up, but I kept wincing because her voice projects Fran Drescher in the deep south visual. I tell her I'm open to getting together for the proverbial dinner and the movie date, because I know there's something there on a sexual level that I would be an idiot not to seize. She agrees that we should do the date, but then surprises me when she arrives knocking on my door a couple hours later. I thought I told her in a couple of days, but I won't squash any enthusiasm. Maybe this girl DID dig me...

So once again, in my apartment, we are sitting there making small talk, delaying what we really want to do, to come off as if we're each more about the whole person than the sex. The delusion breaks shortly after all topics of conversation had been exhausted, and the embrace and the kissing picks up from that night in the bar. Heated and sloppy, like two novices attempting a professional sport. My immediate problem is I am in the 4th gear of gratification. I want to remove clothes and begin things proper but she wants to go nice and slow.

"I'm not a slut," she moans as her skin flushes out red while I kiss her neck. I manage one hand up her shirt, slowly circling her right breast with my hand, while my other hand is placed on her crotch. It's like I'm some chef checking on the oven to make sure it's heating up properly. Her hand is rested in my lap, trailing up towards the belt, when...

A knock on the front door.

She gets away from me and leans towards the other side of the couch. I get up, trying to think of every mundane and rather cold thing to myself to reduce the erection I was sporting too obviously. The knock goes off again. I get to the door and unlock it and then I see..

My ex-girlfriend.

to be continued....

...But, Do You Like Me When I'm Sober (part 2)

She drives a rundown maroon celebrity. It sputters before reluctantly coming to life. I'm already anxious at the possibility of getting some, I contemplate jerking off in the bathroom to steady myself for foreplay and sex while she fixes a jack and coke or a 7 of 7 while her headlights stick close behind my car as we drive down the main boulevard. The anticipation is really mucking with my initial calm demeanor. It's like I'm 8 years old at Christmas at the sight of my yard covered in fresh snow.

We get to the turn onto a secondary street. I hang left and she follows suit. Then, suddenly, she breaks on the first right onto this side street. I'm dumbfounded at this move. I pull over to my apartment building that's just further up the street. I sit in the idling car, overwhelmed with panic, wondering if she's playing and will double back around to the secondary street. Maybe I should look for her? Maybe she had to buy cigarettes or breath mints or even her preferred condom at Wal-Mart. Slowly, these questions are answered as if she had become a Scooby-Doo ghost by vanishing into thin air. 30 minutes pass in vain searching before I angrily go home.

Ring.

"Hello," I ask.

"Hey man!" It's the club DJ from earlier in the evening. He lives in the apartment building behind mine. "You were looking pretty lucky there tonight."

"Yeah."

"She looked good. Color me impressed. How drunk was she?"

"Not so much."

"She has a good looking ass."

"Yeah," I sigh.

"It wouldn't be next to you in bed passed out would it?"

"Actually...no. She was following me to my place, and then BAM! ditches me at the last possible second."

"Oh my God! Dude! You have the worst possible luck ever."

"Tell me about it," I grumbled.

"Like you were born with one testicle, or with a kick me sign on the back. Or maybe, you've had nothing but full moons and madness..."

"Listen dude, now's not the time for comedy."

"Hey, it's alright. Don't stress. what was she thinking about? Was she worried out in the parking lot?"

"No. Your guess is as good as mine."

to be continued...

...But, Do You Dig Me When You're Sober? (part 1)

The posting below was originally written in October 03, 2005.

Monday, October 03, 2005

..But, Do You dig Me When You're Sober? (Part 1)

She isn't a dime piece.

She's not incredibly ugly, because she does have a pleasant face, lithe supple limbs and a rear end that's more round than flat. Her blue eyes always have a glint, a sparkle to them. A smile that could power a small neighborhood block.

And, there's that voice.

Loud. Grating. Like nails across a blackboard. Deep and husky southern drawl often slurring from ingesting too many whiskey shots. A laugh that's all smoky and full of congestion which makes you wish momentarily that she starts speaking again. Her short tongue, the insides of her mouth always have some cigarette taste weighed in sugar residue.

And she's the best you can do for a date. It feels cheap and desperate, which kind of gets tucked away after a few beers. Lots of beer helps bury the guilt.

When I first met her, it was by some arcane connection. Sometimes you can simply exchange pleasentries with someone and can mentally picture you and her in some afterglow admist tangled sheets and sweat. She sent this "cut the shit, I'm interested," vibe. Who knows why exactly. I wasn't wearing my desperation fragrance that night.

Numbers are exchanged, phone conversations commence, a meeting at a nightclub is arranged.

We get a corner booth, making small talk under the oppressive music selection the DJ is spinning. I would wish that I could have subtitles to make out what she's saying about her pet dog, her drunk mom, her boring job, but it doesn't really matter much, because she grabs my hand under the table, rough and course, extinguishes a menthol cancer stick with the other hand. Her drink sweats as heavy as I do because it suddenly feels as if someone turned up the heat. I lean in for the kiss and she meets me halfway. Sloppy and out of practice make out session begins. She pulls back, laughs, and then excuses herself to the ladies room. As she exits, I exhale, look up for a second at the DJ booth, and the DJ gives me the thumbs up with a quick wink.

When she returns, she's applied fresh lip gloss, complaining of the heat. I pay her a rather lame compliment that would have any self respecting drunk woman to exit stage left, but, she just smiles a flattered look and then quickly asks me if I have a roommate.

Picturing her clothes crumpled on the floor I reply "No".

She then asks if my place was any cooler than this annoying nightclub.

Now envisioning her lying on her back naked, I tell her the thermostat is dead locked on 70 degrees. I'm quick to follow up this revelation with I have alcohol if she needs any, all the while picturing her riding cowgirl. Wondering if her small perky breasts taste like a cigarette filter and if I should have some Altoids on hand for the foreplay. I don't have a spare tooth brush.

She tells me how much she digs me and how hot I'm making her. "It's so stressful to be this frustrated," she says, lighting another cigarette. "Can you relieve the tension?" she bluntly asks.

"Get your keys and follow me," I reply, hoping she gives oral.

to be continued....

The Guy Who Wasn't There

The question was pretty simple in my mind. What does having talent mean when you don't apply it? I keep this query in the notepad as I'm set to meet with Jeremy Dawe at a local restaurant. I was tasked by my editor in finding this man and trying to discover what it was that prevented him from taking the next step forward in the creative process. Research done has unearthed flashes here and there. A copy writing gig here. A well received blog post there. Colleagues would say the man had a really sharp mind and was very verbose at times. Despite the praise, no matter if it was gushing or reserved, there was an underlying question that had to be asked.

What does having talent mean when you don't apply it?

The restaurant my subject selected has seen better days. Worn and faded columns support the dining room. A sad looking buffet sits next to the booth I'm in as I await for Jeremy's arrival. The fake plastic foliage hasn't been cleaned in several weeks if I had to estimate. When I receive my water from the waitress, Jeremy appears from the front door. Ambling slowly with some extra weight around his middle, his hair slightly thinning. He doesn't look like much of anything except a guy rapidly approaching middle age and nothing to show of it. What was the deal with this assignment?

"He was really imaginative in my class," One of Jeremy's creative writing teachers told me earlier in the day. I'm sitting in a sterile feeling office as she kind of nods to herself in approval over her previous statement. "He was always working on something. Generally it was macabre, dark stuff. It was like he was trying to exorcise anything in his self onto the page. Thematically it wouldn't always add up, but, the passion and raw talent were there on display. I told him to write what he knew. That would get him on a road to somewhere by writing more of his day to day life, and less the puerile flights of fancy he was prone to turning in. I'll never forget what he said in reply. He said, 'No one would want to read that. Not even me.' "

I relay Jeremy this as his water he ordered is brought to him. He nods and says it's still pretty much true. "Who wants to read about a guy who's somewhat kind of failed at life? It only makes interesting reading to someone if they're trying to feel superior over the subject."

"What makes you think you failed at life so far? I'm writing a piece on you. Failures don't get that luxury."

"Look around you man. Look where I live. If the surroundings around you don't scream quit than you aren't looking too hard."

Jeremy is telling me of some of the misfortune that has come his way since high school. He tells me that as a senior, he was pretty much incognito amongst his peers as transferring from another school, the majority of classes needed for credits were taken his freshman and sophomore years, therefore, he was able to take nothing but electives. "I was anonymous in the best sense of the word. I would usually keep to myself for the most part. The people I did talk to were generally underclassmen. I just didn't understand the need for a car or any dominant issue that young people at 18 had. I was perfectly content just staying invisible and dreaming big of being the next big thing."

That dream didn't necessarily go according to plan. Dawe found himself in junior college not particularly driven to finish. It's a sore subject for him still. "I was more concentrated on trying to get with girls, and had none of the skills to really get a girl to date me. I would go out on a date occasionally if I worked up enough courage to do so, but, it was more patronizing than attraction."

How difficult was it to relate to the fairer sex? I asked him. He sits for a second contemplating this question and then he leans back a little in his chair.

"It's still difficult. I was told when I was younger, and it has been repeated off and on as an adult, that there is someone out there just for you. That's complete hokum in nicest of terms. As you get older, relationships really thrive from the sheer exhaustion of seeking the one person who not only fills the criteria you seek, but, you just acquiesce and settle".

"Have you gotten close to marriage?"

"Yeah. Once. And then, out of nowhere all this unsolicited advice comes in from all sides, family, workers, you know. 'It's a mistake' dressed a little nicer than what was intended. I bailed on the girl like a coward, already knowing in my mind this was a monumental mistake."

"Were you able to reconcile?"

"No. She found someone else and happiness that went with it. I've dated other women who just can't handle 'nice' or 'respectful'. They would like that in theory, but, when you're used to having emotional battery on a daily basis, and then someone comes along and tells you that you're pretty great, I can see how that could rattle a person. It's pretty foreign."

to be continued...

Tales From My Childhood 1985 Part 2

Subscriptions to comic titles last for only a year. I think my run of Incredible Hulk concluded at issue #308 or 09. I was determined to try and finish the story via news stand because for whatever adult reason my parents had escapes me now, the subscription service concluded and there was no way to pick up another. I would continue to keep tags on the book ESPECIALLY when John Byrne* got to write and illustrate the Jade Giant's adventures once the character returned to Earth from exile.

*(John Byrne is still my brother Jon's favorite artist. Byrne's illustrations and storytelling are still pretty great to go through, if you can turn a blind eye to the things Byrne says in public forums)

At some point, during the reprieve of receiving a monthly comic, I found secluded on the bottom of some spinner rack at Key Drugs a new title that I would fall for completely. The title was Power Pack. Issue number was 14. Title was School Daze.

To those uninitiated, Power Pack was the story of four siblings (2 boys and 2 girls) with the last name of Power who received fabulous powers from Whitey, an emissary from an alien race known as Kymellian. The children, with the help of Whitey's smartship Friday, stop the planet from being destroyed and rescue their parents from the clutches of the Snarks, a reptilian alien species who want to rule the galaxy.

Primed at young readers as the team kept their powers and super hero identities from their parents, Power Pack was something completely different in the Marvel Universe. As written by Louise Simonson and drawn by June Brigman, the kids looked and certainly read like siblings. More often than not in each issue the creative team was able to handle the dynamics of the siblings and have them face off with a villainous threat that was mild of the normal Marvel Manner.

Issue 14 was unlike anything my young eyes had ever seen. It focused more on the pressures and trials of each child in their respective school. The oldest child Alex trying to come off as physically impressive to his classmates. His sister Julie isn't prepared for test, and already knows that some of her peers have the test answers. Her brother Jack has been bit by the hero bug big time, as all he wants to spend his days is out in the public adventuring than getting an education. The villain of the issue was an old business partner of their father's, who saw his nefarious plans for wealth upended in the first story arc and now was seeking revenge for this action.

Needless to say, I was pretty much hooked. Power Pack would be the first title I would actively pursue every month. Before I was able to get another subscription, I had to pursue the title in specialty stores in town. The subject of preteen superheroes wasn't exactly the most sought after title compared to the likes of the X-Men and Spiderman. The first 30 or so issues are really worth looking into if you're curious and makes a decent read for kids from 9 years old and up.

Tales From My Childhood 1985 pt 1

The longest affair I've ever conducted has been with a hobby I began when I was 10 years old. It was at a Kroger's on the north end of my town, near the pharmacy in the building. A spinner rack with super hero comics sat, beckoning eager and hungry imaginations to come and read. Thus began a long torrid love affair.

It wasn't that dramatic. Comics were there as an extension of programs that I watched every Friday night and Saturday morning. Back in the now canonized halcyon days of the early 80's, CBS carried the Incredible Hulk and then Dukes Of Hazzard. On Saturday morning, you could watch more adventures of the Hulk, albeit in animation as well as Spiderman & His Amazing Friends. To a young boy, this was pretty much nirvana that hit all the sweet spots. Besides Superman the Movie, these were the first long standing relationships with super heroes and science fiction.

My brother Jon and I would proverbially jump at the chance to go with one of our parents to Kroger or IGA or Key Drugs since newsstands regularly carried plenty of comics in those days before they were marginalized into specialty shops and book stores. With either sweet cajoling or bargaining we could manage to get 50 cents or 65 cents for a Marvel or DC comic.

One of the best things about comics storytelling was you didn't need to have purchased half a year worth of stories to solicit any enjoyment with what you were reading. Each issue read as a complete story in itself, sometimes telling a larger story. The artwork was splendid in it's workmanlike presentation. Action was conveyed clearly on the page, the vocabulary had me go to a dictionary in search of a word I had recently discovered. You had to put in work to read an issue of any given book, but it was worth it. Even the letters pages were entertaining with repeat writers like Uncle Elvis.(Though it took me a while to realize that 'nuff said was merely a statement and not an actual guy named 'nuff)

I was pretty much hooked. Over the course of a year or so, Jon and I would pick up random titles who's covers sold it well. Master of Kung Fu, Spiderman, X-Men, Daredevil, JLA, Flash, ElfQuest. The first title we both agreed needed to be read from start to finish was Secret Wars which we had a few toys from the crossover promotion. The novel concept of an omniscient presence selecting Marvel Comics greatest heroes and villains and placing them on Battleworld to fight for his enjoyment was so appealing, it was imperative to get all the issues we could find. Being that these were news stands, some months the next issue wouldn't ship, or other variables you connect with not subscribing. Add to that was the fact you had parents who were watching every penny to put food on the table, so you would crap out with your request. Jon and I did get about half of Secret Wars though. At least being witness to the biggest change of the event, Spiderman's new symbiotic suit.

Our father had suggested to us to get subscriptions to one book a piece since Marvel was all about offering deals for more than one subscription on it's back page. Jon selected The Thing, which continued the story of Ben Grimm on Battleworld after Secret Wars concluded. John Byrne wrote the tale, including a soliloquy Ben had internally to his love Alicia Masters which my brother used as a love letter to a girl in his class. I selected Incredible Hulk.

Six or eight weeks after sending the money off, a brown slipcover dropped through the house's mail slot. This was your clue that the comic you subscribed to had arrived, usually bent down the middle in order to get it through the mail slot. To me, getting that mail was like Christmas once a month. The Incredible Hulk was in the mid 290's when I began receiving them. Bill Mantlo and Sal Buscema had been working on a tale that had the jade giant with Bruce Banner's mind, wearing trunks, and strangely walking with a leg brace and crutch. He was seeing Kate Waynesboro instead of Betty Ross and the immediate dilemma was Banner was losing his grip on the Hulk. The savage side of the Hulk was taking over slowly. The villain Nightmare posed problems for Bruce and the story culminated in issue 300 where the Savage Incredible Hulk was laying to waste New York City. Every Marvel hero at the time were trying to stop him to no avail. It took a spell by Doctor Strange to cast the rampaging out of control monster to another dimension all together, and begin the Cross Roads storyline in issue 301.

Good comics done well can have a lasting effect on a boy. I wanted to know more and expand my reading. A kid in my 5th Grade class had issues of the official Marvel Handbook which I read in my free time instead of socializing with my peers over the A-Team or Knight Rider. I was searching for a new book, one that felt more relatable than a one ton jade behemoth with anger issues.

to be continued...

When Comics Anti Heroes Go Mature...

When reading comics, some characters can seem pretty tricky to write. You have the likes of Superman, who you is essentially a benign God, yet, you want to make him relatable to your readers. There's characters like Mr Fantastic, in which you want him to sound smart, but, not come across as illogical. The superhero genre of sequential story telling and cartooning are littered with different characters.

The idea of Deadpool struck me as a one man Shane Black script. Take the ideas and various punchlines from shows like Lethal Weapon and lease it to a certifiable maniacal assassin. When the idea is executed well, it brings in a lot of interested readers. When done poorly, it can be a nonsensical chore. Joe Kelly was able to achieve some good with the character in the late 90's, creating a whole world for a character who up till that point was a supporting character that stole stories from the primary characters. It was a pretty fun ride for a couple of years. As a reader, I fell out of reading the nonsensical adventures of Wade Wilson when Kelly departed the book. I've sampled different issues here and there based on acquaintances reactions via social media, but, nothing seemed to really stick.

Marvel's boutique adults only line, Max, drafted David Lapham to write and Kyle Baker to illustrate a straight up adults only Deadpool story. Not adult where there's explicit sex (there's some, but, implied) nor graphically violent (Well, you got me there. It IS known as Deadpool) but situational comedy that could go for the four letter dirty words rather than imply them. The main duo cross paths from with characters like the Taskmaster, terrorists, the mob, the government, Christians, coked out pimps, hookers, sociopathic orphans, and surprise guest stars from the primary run Joe Kelly wrote many years ago.

The pairing of Lapham & Baker was really inspiring to me reading as it feels the two guys were able to hit it off creatively and they compliment each other amiably. The plot of their story reads that Deadpool and his handler Bob are working with the government to stop the forces of Hydra, a nefarious terrorist organization. Each issue the main plot is paralleled with backstories of the primary characters. Given the nature that Deadpool is indeed insane, it's up to the reader to determine what's real and what's fiction. Bob isn't much better. As his character is greedy, callow, and manipulative. What he says and does are two entirely different things.

Baker is an inspired choice as the artist for Lapham's unhinged story, as Baker's distinct cartoony style lends itself perfectly. As single issues, Deadpool Max works allright, however, as you read the whole series, the much larger story is played out and is delightfully absurd, pitch black comedy. If you're a fan of the current incarnation of Deadpool written by Duggan &Poeshn or of the earlier Joe Kelly version, or, if you haven't checked in a few years, this is well worth investment.

A Great Essay from Chcuck Klosterman About Nemesis

The Importance of Being Hated
In this golden age of enmity, friends are for suckers. What you need are a pair of well-chosen foes.
by Chuck Klosterman | Apr 01 '04

"It's not what you know," they say. "It's who you know." We have all heard this sentiment, and we all reflexively
 agree with it. This is because "they" are hard to debate, especially since "they" never seem to be in the room whenever anyone makes reference to them. Yet they have a secret shame, and it's a shame they can't deny: They are losers. They are failures. They don't realize that life is—almost without exception—an absolute meritocracy, and everyone who succeeds completely deserves it.* The only people who disagree with this are people who will never succeed at anything. You see, "they" want you to believe the passageway to power is all about cultivating allies, so they spend all their time trying to make friends and influence people. And this is why they fail. It rarely matters who is on your side; what matters is who is against you. Unlike Gloria Loring, you don't need a friend and you don't need a lover. What you need is a) one quality nemesis, and b) one archenemy. These are the two most important characters in the life of any successful human. We measure ourselves against our nemeses, and we long to destroy our archenemies. Nemeses and archenemies are the catalysts for everything.

Now, I know that you're probably asking yourself, How do I know the difference between my nemesis and my archenemy? Here is the short answer: You kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him. If your nemesis invited you out for cocktails, you would accept the offer. If he died, you would attend his funeral and—privately—you might shed a tear over his passing. But you would never have drinks with your archenemy, unless you were attempting to spike his gin with hemlock. If you were to perish, your archenemy would dance on your grave, and then he'd burn down your house and molest your children. You hate your archenemy so much that you try to keep your hatred secret, because you don't want your archenemy to have the satisfaction of being hated.

If this distinction seems confusing, just ask your girlfriend to explain it in detail; women have always intuitively grasped the nemesis/archenemy dichotomy. Every woman I've ever known has had at least one close friend whose only purpose in life is to criticize her actions, compete for the attention of men, and drive her insane; very often, this is a woman's best friend . Every woman also has a former friend (usually someone from high school with large breasts) whom she has loathed for years (and whom she will continue to loath with the intensity of a thousand suns, even if she sees her only once every ten years). This is her archenemy. Women intrinsically understand human dynamics, and this makes them unstoppable. Unfortunately, the average man is less adroit at fostering such rivalries, which is why most men remain average. Males are better at hating things that can't hate them back (e.g., lawn mowers, cats, the 1986 Denver Broncos, et cetera). Most men fail to see a world beyond themselves; if given the choice, they would connect themselves to nothing. But greatness cannot be achieved in a vacuum, and great people know that.

In the 1980s, Larry Bird's nemesis was Magic Johnson, and it was always beautiful when they tangled. But Bird's archenemy wasn't Magic; it was Isiah Thomas. When the Celtics played the Pistons, it was a train wreck, and it went deeper than basketball: In 1987, Isiah supported Dennis "Rush" Rodman when he claimed Bird was famous only because he was white. Larry forgave Isiah in public, but he still iced him in the end; the first thing Bird did after becoming president of the Pacers was fire Zeke as head coach. Steve Jobs is Bill Gates's nemesis, but if Gates had only one bullet in his revolver, he'd shoot David Boies. J. R. Ewing was at war with nemesis/brother Bobby for twelve seasons (thirteen if you count the year Victoria Principal dreamed he was dead), but Cliff Barnes was the true Minotaur of Southfork. Jack White turned Von Bondies singer Jason Stollsteimer's face into a speed bag, but Stollsteimer barely even deserves nemesis stature; White's archenemy is Ryan Adams (although he'd be better off if it were Julian Casablancas of the Strokes). The Joker was Batman's nemesis, but—ironically—his archenemy was Superman, since Superman made Batman seem entirely mortal and generally nonessential. Nobody likes to admit this, but Batman hated Superman; Superman is the reason Batman became an alcoholic. **

This fall, George W. Bush will seek reelection, and whoever the Democrats end up nominating will become Bush's "nemesis by default" (although not his true nemesis; that will always be John McCain). But none of the candidates has a shot at becoming Bush's archenemy; that designation is inflexible. W's archenemy is Bill Clinton (mostly because Bill beat up his dad in '92). George W. Bush will never face the man he hates most; this is why George W. Bush will never achieve greatness. However, when we get to 2008—when Clinton's wife faces the little brother of her husband's archenemy—it will be a bloodbath. When the families of archenemies collide, skulls get pounded into pulp. Jeb–Hillary will be like Frazier–Ali III.

I was sitting in the passenger seat of my nemesis's Buick Skylark when he punched me in 1992; I jacked his jaw at a keg party in '94. These days I mostly just read his blog, although we did have a pressure-packed lunch at the Fargo Olive Garden over Christmas. Meanwhile, I've had the same archenemy since eighth grade: He's a guy named Rick Helling, and he grew up in Lakota, North Dakota. Last year, Helling pitched a few innings for the Marlins in the World Series; in 1998, he won twenty games for the Rangers. I went to basketball camp with Rick Helling in 1985, and he was the single worst person I'd ever met. Every summer, I constantly scan the sports section of USA Today , always hoping that he got shelled. This is what drives me. I cannot live in a world where Helling's career ERA hovers below 5.00, yet all I do for a living is type . As long as Rick Helling walks this earth, I shall never sleep soundly.

I realize there are those who don't think it's necessary (or even wise) to consciously create adversaries; Will Rogers claimed that he never met a man he didn't like. But what is Will Rogers famous for, really? For telling jokes that don't have punch lines? For wearing a bandanna like an ascot? Who wants that for a legacy? There is a reason they say, "Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer." Granted, "they" usually don't know what they're talking about, but sometimes "they" get lucky, you know?

*The exceptions being Dale Peck, MTV on-air personalities who aren't Kurt Loder, Al Franken, and myself.
**This is speculative.

HOW TO MAKE ENEMIES

As the accompanying essay makes clear, you'll need a nemesis and an archenemy if you wish to be successful in this world. The good news is, it's entirely possible that you already have each of these entities in your life; perhaps you just don't realize it (or maybe you can't tell them apart). As a public service, here are a few signs.

RECOGNIZING YOUR NEMESIS
•At some point in the past, this person was (arguably) your best friend.
•You have punched this person in the face.
•If invited, you would go to this person's wedding and give him a spice rack, but you would secretly hope that his marriage ends in a bitter, public divorce.
•People who barely know both of you assume you are close friends; people who know both of you intimately suspect that you profoundly dislike each other.
•If your archenemy tried to kill you, this person would attempt to stop him.

RECOGNIZING YOUR ARCHENEMY
•Every time you talk to this person, you lie.
•If you meet someone who has the same first name as this person, you immediately like him less.
•The satisfaction you feel from your own success pales in comparison to the despair you feel at this person's triumphs, even if those triumphs are completely unrelated to your life.
•If this person slept with your girlfriend, she would never be attractive to you again.
•Even if this person's girlfriend was a hateful bitch, you would sleep with her out of spite.