What Is Marriage?
August 8th, 2010Yup. Pretty much sums it up.
For Just 24 Hours
August 4th, 2010
Just for today, just one day, could we all try something? For today, just today mind you, can we just have good news? It’s not that I don’t want to be informed. It’s not that I don’t care. I do care. I do want to be informed. I do want to be aware of what’s happening in the world and in the Nation.
But I need a break.
For one day only, can I please not hear about the oil that keeps gushing out of the earth and killing the gulf?
I support our troops, but can I take a day off from hearing about the ravishes of this ridiculous war in Afghanistan? And Iraq?
I don’t want to hear that President Obama is a muslim/communist/Nigerian/Nazi/ and that ObamaCare is the thin edge of the wedge to socialism.
For today. Just today. Will all the idiots at Fox News just take the day off? While we’re at it, MSNBC can call in sick today and maybe both channels can just play Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons instead of their usual right wing left wing slant.
For just 24 hours, I don’t want to hear about DADT, ENDA, UAFA, or DOMA. We can talk about the need to get all of that stuff done tomorrow. Yes it’s important, but it’s also depressing to have yet another day go by where there are still civil inequalities in our country.
For one day, I ask that all of the bullshit religious fundamentalists just zip it. I’m tired of your un-Christ like bile so just shut it. That goes for you too, Benedict.
I don’t want to hear about the proposed Mosque at Ground Zero. Stop it for today.
I don’t want to hear about the bigotry and racism in Arizona. Let it alone. Just for today.
Leave the reports about the bad economy, how people are loosing their jobs and homes, and how we need to do another bail out of the big guys so that the recession doesn’t worsen. Not today. Please?
I don’t want to hear about the rampant poverty and ignorance and drug use in this country for just one day.
I don’t want to hear about the crazy teabaggers or NOM or AFF or Westboro or any other hate group for a little while.
For just one day. For just 24 hours. Please. Stop. I don’t think I can take it anymore. I need a day off.
I Want It
July 11th, 2010My sister had a rather newer model when I was a teenager. I'm afraid I've got the bug for a bug.
Summer Evening
July 5th, 2010
Long lines of light stripe the garden as the sun fingers the sky with purple, pink, and orange. The din of the highway has ceased – at least for now - and I sit in the quiet and contemplate. Drops of water clinging to the geraniums catch a sparkle before they evaporate like so many wandering thoughts. Refreshed flowers, after baking in the Missouri sun, seem to sing a silent song of longing. Light beer soothes my parched throat and dulls my troubled mind. For right now, I’ll let the exhaustion wash over me and just be in the moment.
I’ll block the worries from my brain and just exist for a little while. I’ll try in vain to push out of my head so many demons of the past. Memories that, although faded, still haunt me. Although I am a man, I am very much still that frightened little boy who fears his father’s wrath and his mother’s subtle rejection. Still the child of slight build who is afraid of the big boys in the schoolyard.
House wrens squabble over a make shift feeder. A feeder that I destroyed quite by accident while trying to protect it from a marauding squirrel. How many things have I destroyed while trying to protect them? I’ve lost count. I would do better to learn to let things be as they are. How badly have I hurt you? I’ll never know. You’ll never tell. As badly as you’ve hurt me? You’ll never know. I’ll never tell.
I live in a fortress. A wall around me larger than the one in China. I may not have been happy, but I was safe. Without knowing it, you took a sledge hammer to that wall. Now I am neither.
Repair the wall. Shut the door and lock it tight. Push the demons back into the cellar and hide behind a façade of indifference.
This evening will end like so many others. The darkness will come. The quietness will come. All I will hear is bug music as my body is curled around a pillow, tucked between cool cotton sheets, staring at the stars, sleepless.
Go Go Boy
June 27th, 2010
The floor of the converted garage was packed with an untamed assortment of men wildly gyrating to the latest offering of popular music. Colored strobe lights pulsed in time with the booming bass while circles of blue smoke wisped into the stratosphere. The place smelled of sweat and stale beer. He stood on one of the raised platforms of the bar strategically placed so the patrons of the club could get a full view of his twinkish body clad in low rise shorts, Red Wing boots, and open white shirt which would soon be removed. Other platforms had other young men (boys really) dressed in similar attire all vying for the attention of other, rougher men who had wads of dollar bills destined for pockets and waistbands.
They came from different places, the go go boys. Tony was a street hustler. Mike, a high school drop out. Stephen, an aspiring actor. The boy, a college student trying to pay the bills. The job didn’t pay very well, but the tips were abundant for a cute, young thing that showed ambition and a willingness to please patrons.
The shifts were grueling. They danced for a minimum of 50 minutes followed by a 10 minute break for hydration and a smoke, and then back for another 50 minutes. The rules were simple: Groping was acceptable, even encouraged, but full frontal nudity was forbidden. Drinks could be accepted, but no drugs. If sexual favors were to be exchanged, it was done on your own time, and stuffing your shorts for an extra bulge was prohibited.
The idea for the boy was to simply get caught up in the music and let the movement, however suggestive, just follow. Rather than put on a stern facial expression like the others, the boy simply smiled and winked at anyone who seem interested in watching. This worked well for the boy because his attitude suggested one of naivety and innocence which wasn’t that far from the truth.
The patron that favored him most was easily 20 years his senior. An older man who dressed nice but looked out of place amongst the younger, more vibrant men. His hair was thinning and touches of silver were at his temples. He took a liking to the boy and the boy in turn appreciated his attention. Night after night, the older man wound his way through the other patrons to where the boy would be dancing. No words were exchanged, but only smiles and nods and five dollar bills. A bit more than the other dancers routinely earned.
The January night when the boy learned of the older man’s name was bitterly cold. The bar had finally closed and the boy and another dancer were sharing a smoke as they made their way to the car. Richard stood in the moonlit parking lot and tried to chat the boy up a bit which resulted in a rather offensive barrage of insults from the other dancer.
“Where’d you pick up THAT troll?!” Was the shocking question.
“Hey, come on” the boy replied. “I think he’s nice.”
As the car idled, the boy walked over and gave Richard his phone number on a scrap of paper buried in the pocket of his beat up leather jacket. He didn’t realize then that what would transpire would be a lesson of heartache and betrayal. Sometimes, the object of one’s affection should stay aloof and unattainable for once he was added to Richard’s collection, a new and more interesting boy would soon be on the horizon.
That, however, is a story for another day.
The boy is much older now. The same age as Richard was during those more carefree days in search of instant gratification and fun. The boy, now a man, lost track of Richard long ago and found more suitable employment and companionship. Still, sometimes at the end of the week, he’ll crack open a beer, crank up the music, and dance with his eyes closed and remember.
Learning To Swim
May 2nd, 2010
It was a cool, spring morning when I learned to swim. My dad and I were wading in the shallow end of the pond that was just past a wooded section of our farm. He simply picked me up without warning and threw me into the deeper cold water. He suggested, after I coughed and choked on a mouthful of pond water, that I hold my breath when my head was under. Terrified, I kicked and fought with arms flailing, learning to sort of dog paddle my way back to more shallow water.
“That’s good”, he said. “Now do it again.” And with that he picked me right back up and threw me in again, and again, and again. I kept being thrown into the deep until I learned not to panic and just navigate the water. See, that’s how it was growing up with my dad. There were no negotiations. No crying. No sissy boys. There were no flotation devices. We learned quickly. His lessons were, if not extreme, very effective. His was a sort of “tough love”. Love? Well, it is my memory and so I’ll remember it as I wish.
In my experience, it’s the same way with God. Like a stern parent, our Heavenly Father has this laundry list of lessons that I need to learn and learn them I will. Like it or not. Sure, the lessons usually start out gentle and loving, but when this doesn’t work then it’s into the deep I go quicker than I know what hit me. And just like with my dad, I seem to keep being thrown in again, and again, and again.
So I’m doing the best I can to try to navigate the water. I’m trying to learn to hold my breath and keep my mouth shut when I’m under. I’m trying not to panic and keep my head up. I’m trying to swim. The problem is I can’t seem to find the more shallow edge of the water. I keep searching but I tend to just get myself in deeper and deeper. It’s like I’m trapped in this cold water. My fingers are getting wrinkled and my legs are getting numb. I’m tired of paddling and there doesn’t seem to be a life saver in sight.
Image found at millnm.com
Funny Friday
April 23rd, 2010Here's a joke for you all: So, what's red and smells like blue paint?
Red paint.
That's all I got. Now, share a joke with me.
Sunday
April 4th, 2010
Friday
April 2nd, 2010
It’s In Our Hands . . .
March 29th, 2010
Well. Not exactly.
So. We finally got our census form delivered rather unceremoniously in a plastic bag thrown on our front porch. I would think the better place for it would have been hung on the door knob, but okay, the important thing is we got it.
I brought the envelope inside and opened it up. It was addressed to the resident(s) of 509 Starke Blvd.
The problem is, I don’t live at 509 Starke Blvd. That address is about two miles away from where we live. Sigh. I guess this means a call into the Census Bureau Help Desk. So, Monday morning, I made the call. After wading through the mire of automated voice messages (both in English and para Espanola) I finally get to a human. The conversation went something like this:
“Hello, and welcome to the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. My name is Andre`. How can I help you today?”
“Hey, Andre`. My name is Curtis. How are you doing today?”
“Uhh. I’m fine. Welcome to the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. How can I help you today?”
“Well, Andre`, I received our Census packet this weekend, only there seems to be a small problem. The packet I received is actually addressed to a different residence, so I’m calling to ask what I should do about that. Can you help me with this?”
“Please hold while I look up the correct answer to your question.”
“Okay.”
Holding and thinking that Andre` must be new if he needs to look up the answer, but that’s alright. I appreciate his diligence in trying to get it right.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Andre`”
“Thank you for holding the line of the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. I have the answer you requested.”
“Okay, thanks.”
It is apparent at this point that Andre` is reading from a script “If you have received the incorrect United States 2010 Census Bureau form and have completed the form . . .”
“Hey Andre`, let me just stop you right there. I haven’t filled out the form, I just opened it.”
“Oh. Please hold while I look up the correct answer to your question.”
Holding and thinking that this might turn into something tedious.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Andre`”
“Thank you for holding the line of the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. I have the answer you requested.”
“Okay, thanks.”
It is apparent at this point that Andre` is again reading from a script “If you have received the incorrect United States 2010 Census Bureau form and have NOT completed the form, please return the form to the United States 2010 Census Bureau and write ‘wrong address’ on the outside of the envelope.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Okay, Sir, thank you for calling the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“Well, yes there is, Andre`. Can you tell me how to then get my correct Census form?”
“Oh. Please hold while I look up the correct answer to your question.”
Holding and thinking that this IS turning into something tedious.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Andre`”
“Thank you for holding the line of the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. I have the answer you requested.”
“Okay, thanks.”
It is apparent at this point that Andre` is back to his script “In order to answer your question, I will need your United States 2010 Census Bureau Identification Number.”
“Uhhmm. I don’t have that. How can I find out what that is?”
“Sir, your United States 2010 Census Bureau Identification Number is located on the front of your United States 2010 Census Form.”
“I don’t have my form. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Sir, in order to answer your question, I will need your United States 2010 Census Bureau Identification Number, so since you don’t have that, I will send someone to your residence to help you fill out the form.”
“No, Andre`, please don’t do that. I don’t really need help filling out the form, I just need the form. I think I can handle filling out alright.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but in order to answer your question, I will need your United States 2010 Census Bureau Identification Number which is located on the front of your United States 2010 Census Bureau form.”
Sigh. “Andre`. Can you see where we’re having a bit of an impasse here? I don’t have MY form, I have someone else’s form and therefore I don’t have my identification number to give to you in order for you to send me the correct form.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but in order to answer your question, I will need your United States 2010 Census Bureau Identification Number which is located on the front of your United States 2010 Census Bureau form.”
Sigh. Okay. Well here’s what I’m going to do, Andre`. I’m going to send back the incorrect form as you have instructed and if you all want me to fill out the correct form, then you’ll need to send it to me. Other than that, I really don’t see that there’s anything else I can do here.”
“Okay, Sir, thank you for calling the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
“No, I . . . think we’re done here today.”
“Okay, Sir, thank you for calling the United States 2010 Census Bureau Help Desk and have a nice day.”
“Yeah, so long, Andre`. You too.”
