HAVE YOU EVER PLAYED?

Oh, but you must! It's a kick-ass game. It's like golf (obviously) but it is played with flying discs, heavier and smaller than your average Frisbee. There are different styles of discs--some more malleable than others. Putting discs, mid-range discs and driving discs. Each disc maintains a different trajectory. Some hook like motherfuckers and others are more stable--these fly straighter to the basket.


I have been playing for about fifteen years now. It is a great way to get outside and get some exercise and have loads of fun. If you haven't tried it, do! You'll get hooked, just like I did a decade-and-a-half ago.

[Yes, I am getting paid by Innova to write this. :-P]

IN THREES...

Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and the King of Pop.

Damn. It always seems to work that way, doesn't it?

McMahon was 86 and Farrah had cancer, but Michael Jackson? He was only 50 or so. He left the life as strangely as he led it, apparently. My thoughts are that the stressors of his life (the fame, the fall from grace) finally had their way with his body. But, who knows?

It is strange, though, how the Trifecta of Famous Deaths always seems to be dead-on.

Um. No pun intended?

REMBRANCES AND CHANGES OF SEASON

June 21st. Fathers' Day. June 21st. The first day of Summer.

It has been about seven-and-a-half months since my father passed away. I haven't thought about him every day, but, often, when I have felt like I were in a hole from which I could not extricate myself, the memory of Robert Raymond came to my mind and I found myself digging deeper within myself to "make Dad proud." (Or, at least, to not embarrass Dad.)

Dad is in another realm, now. He lives here on Earth only through memories and objects of his that just scream Daddy B. His safari hat, for instance. Every time I look at that damned thing (hell, every time I think about that thing) I tear up. He always wore it a jaunty angle and the hat was him. Sunglasses beneath the brim, his big beard beneath the glasses. It is then when I miss the hell out of him; and it is then when the final weeks of his life come smacking me back in the head with a clarifying jangle. I remember his final days and I remember the sense of impotence that I--we all--felt. I wanted to hasten his exit Stage Left, yet I didn't want him to leave. No one should have to leave this life, this transition station, in that way. In all actuality, his was a quick exit. He was really only in a helpless state for about two weeks. Yeah, I can say that. "Only" two weeks. Try living it, Adam. Where each minute seems like an hour. Where some limbs are paralyzed and to speak is a Siphyean chore. But.

Let's remember the good times, shall we? I tend to sink readily--almost greedily--into gloom and doom and dark shadows.

Growing up, Dad was always the strong bear of a man. Seen from a little kid's perspective, he was larger than life. Big booming voice, super-wide shoulders, big bushy black beard. Thick muscled forearms. A ubiquitous glint in his eyes. He was a mischievous guy, he was a playful guy; he kept us three kids entertained. And he worked hard. He worked his ass off. An engineer at Chrysler, he would come home during the week for the dinner hour and then shoot off to his second business, a yarn and loom shop. He'd put in about five or six hours there--business was definitely not always booming--and then he'd come home and go to sleep and then start it up all over again the next day. I'd like to say that I got my sense of hard work from my father, but, no. I'm a little lazy, sometimes. When I'm at work, sure, I bust my ass. But I have not nearly the drive my dad had. And that's okay. I'm fine with that. Everyone is different. Everyone has their own pace to life. My dad's was hyperkenetic...until he retired. And then he was off to globe-trotting. Kenya, India, China, Vietnam.

I miss him, sure. It's a part of life, sure. But, today, on Fathers' Day, I just want to send a shout out to Bobby B., wherever he is. I miss you, Dad, I love you, Dad, and you'll always be the number one dad in my life. I just hope that I can live up to what you did. I love you, father.

--Adam

PERSPECTIVE IS EVERYTHING

We get spoiled as adults, I think. Though life can be tough (and often is a bee-yotch), I think that we take for granted the luxuries of life. Take, for instance, the automobile. Most of us have cars, as adults. It is only when they're on the fritz that we truly understand how much of a privilege, how much of a luxury, car ownership is.

My brake lights have been staying on, when the car is in any gear other than Park, for about a month, now. I--and my co-worker--tried installing a new brake switch today and, when that didn't solve the quandary, I drove my little Focus hatchback to the garage after work and dropped it off. I told the uber-sun-touched woman behind the desk what the problem was and then I commenced to hoof it to my house. The garage is located at Nine-and-a-half and Hilton and I live two blocks east of Ten-and-a-half and Hilton. A little more than a mile away. My backpack was slung over my left shoulder and my red plastic Coleman lunchbox was in my right hand.

Now, I used to walk to and from when I was in grade school. 'Twas about a mile from my house. There and back. Two miles a day.

To have never had is far better than to have had and then lost.

Exercise excluded, I think the difference between walking when you're a kid and walking when you're an adult is that you've been conditioned, as a "grown-up", to go from Point A to Point B in as little time as possible. As a kid, you just haven't been initiated into the Kar Klub and so you know not what could be.

Slow it down. Walk it. Right? Well, no. Not really. Actually, I like being able to climb into a wheeled machine and go from Point A to Point B in eight minutes rather than thirty.

But, here's the rub: I like walking, once in a while. The world slows down. I'm not in such a rush. I see things that I'd never have seen had I been behind the wheel. I guess this is kind of akin to taking rural highways on trips rather than bulleting along on the super expressways. You see more of Life.

I'm sorry. I'm taking a simple walk from the garage and turning it into some kind of life experience. It truly wasn't all that. But...it made me think. It stretched my mind, a bit. I didn't see anything special. Nothing to write home about. Though what I saw was Ordinary, seen through a different perspective, it became Extraordinary. [Just a brief interjection, here: "Extraordinary" seems like a misnomer. If something is "extraordinary" would that not mean that it were "ordinary" jacked up; would it not be "ordinary" on steroids? If so, why would that be a superlative? Wouldn't it mean that whatever was just as ordinary, if not more ordinary, as ordinary could be?]

Anyway, things are seen differently through a walker's eyes. Blurs of pedestrians become three-dimensional people. Dogs on the sidewalk become, perhaps, threats instead of four-legged sidewalk canterers. A house's landscaping can be appraised at a more moderate pace. It's actually kind of cool.

This really wasn't meant to be a kind of slow-down-and-smell-the-roses type of post, but I guess it turned into just that.

JUNE 16TH, 2009, 1:00 AM

I just haven't felt much like writing, lately. I don't know...it's just one of those things. My verve for writing will come back to me.

In other news, June 16th was/is my mom and dad's anniversary. I forget how many years they were together. I think it was, like, 45 years, or something. This will be the first time in almost half a century that my mom will be apart from my dad on their anniversary date. She's a tough one, my mom. She's quite emotional, but she also keeps her feelings to herself. If that sounds contradictory, well, I guess it is.

She's going to Port Huron tomorrow, to the trailer, to spend some time by the water. I have the feeling that she won't be by herself. Memories can be almost tangible, sometimes. Dad will be with her.

I wish her a peaceful, loving, time.

FOR MEEGIE

For Meagan Elizabeth.

This:

Queen.

Freddy had it kicking, on this one.

Enjoy, babe.

THE TWILIGHT ZONE--MY 400TH POST

This is my 400th post. I have spent about three years on this spit. And I love it. I love to write, I love to blog. Sometimes, thoughts don't come easily to me. On those days, I don't post. Those days have been frequent, of late. I just don't have too much to say. I think my mother may have told me once: "If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything."

I mean, seriously, what could I write about? No one wants to hear of the struggles of an alcoholically-minded dude. Who the fuck wants to hear of pain and suffering? I could write about my job, but that has been boring me lately. I go to work, I put in my eight hours, and then I go home. I could write, maybe, about hobbies, but I have none. The dogs are boring me, too. (And Ollie, he of the weak bladder, is flat-out pissing me off.)

What does one write of when one is merely existing?

...

...

Exactly.

I just watched a Twilight Zone episode in which the protagonist ran down and killed a young boy named--of course--Timmy, and, after the fact, his life was turned upside-down. His conscience was killing him. And his car was possessed. (I think S. King may have seen this episode; I think that Christine may have been thunk up after seeing this show.) His car honked, his car blasted its lights, his car, actually, in the end, drove itself to the point at which the dude fell down on the rain-slicked streets and the car zoomed towards him and then...stopped. Its tires were mere inches from the guy's head. The passenger door opened and--I wouldn't have!--the guy got in and the possessed car drove him to the local cop-shop.

The man got out and walked into the police ossifer shack and Rod Serling intoned something like, "A man's conscience is the staff with which he walks. A man's conscience is the value by which one must live. But, sometimes, the Twilight Zone is one's conscience. In the Twilight Zone."

I watched the episode and I just got to thinking. I miss them daze. Late 50s, early 60s. I wasn't born, of course, but those days seemed easier. You have the guy and his wife sleeping in seperate single beds (but how did they fuck?) you have the cars made of metal and chrome rather than plastic and bubble gum, you have cops as friendly peace-keepers....

I just enjoy the Twilight Zone. The episodes are good. They are parables, of sorts. They make you think and they make you want to be a better person. Black-and-white litmus tests. The time period in which we suck breaths is too frenetic. We need to slow down.

We need to watch a b-and-w classics. We need to slow down and appreciate what we have. And, yes, I am mainly telling myself this.

May you have Peace in your lives.

MAY SOMETHING OR OTHER

Memorial Day.

WATER AND BARLEY AND HOPS--OH MY!

The bottle is winning. It is kicking my ass. Hard. It is an old-school ass-whipping.

Beer, vodka, wine...whatever. As long as it is an alcoholic beverage, I am down with it. I am down with it and it brings me down. So damned down. So damned low.

It is far from fun, anymore.

It is a motherfucking disease. It has to be. Why else would I continue to pour this poison down my throat? Why else would I put work and love on the back burners? Why?

Why?!

My name is Adam and I am a blistering alcoholic. Just fucking blistering. Mad burning flames surround my yearning, my want, for alcoholic beverages. I have the tool box that I need to combat this evil life-sapper, yet I shove that tool box into the shed; I cover it with a tarp and forget that I ever had it at all.

I'll tell you this: This is not living. This is shit. The fear, the pain, the hurt, the melancholic meanderings day after day after day...it completely sucks.

When I do not drink, life, sometimes, gets very fucking boring. But what is worse? Boredom or this ever-tightening noose of alcoholism? I'll take the noose for a thousand, Alex. That--this--is much much worse.

The bottle is kicking my ass. It's really not even a fair fight anymore. And it can--and will--only get worse. Unless I can find some spine. Unless I seek help, go to meetings, take Antabuse, drag my nuts out from my ass and man the fuck up.

Being bitten by the bottle-bug is a tragedy. Alcoholism is tragic. I consider myself a pretty special person. I have much love to impart to the world. But I'm burying it underneath this fucking monster addiction. If I continue down this road of self-destruction I will lose all that matters to me. Fuck. Lose it? No, I'll give it away.

I am not prepared to take a dump on what I hold dear. I am neither ready nor willing to throw it all away.

I'm. Not.

Tell that to the bottle, Adam. Tell it to the bottle.

Words are words, man. That's all they are. I need to see Action. Blistering Alcoholic Boy? It is faaar past time to nut up, to sack up, and take motherfucking bull by the horns. Or by the balls, as it were.

This is my life. Mine. Life is *so* much more God-damned beautiful and fulfilling than waking and cracking a beer-top and smothering oneself with the "nectar of the gods."

Enough! Enough with the Dionysian Lethargy.

I talk a mean game, don't I?

Some days, I hardly even know what day of the week it is. Is today Wednesday? No. It's Tuesday, right?

I feel the tears welling up. I am in so much fucking pain, right now.

But I have Faith. I have Faith that I'll emerge from the other side of this self-made maelstrom a stronger individual. I do have Faith.

And that counts a whole hell of a lot, damn it.

WERDZ

I was just having a conversation with my lover, Meeg, about the words Faith and Hope.

I see it this way: Faith is the unwavering knowledge that things will work out just fine. Scenario: a guy is in a liquor store that is getting knocked over--bullets are blazing--and he has the Faith that he'll get out of it unscathed. He does not Hope for good health; he has Faith that he'll be okay.

Same scenario: guy in the middle of a liquor store robbery. He Hopes that he'll be okay. He Hopes that the crossfire won't knock 'im in the noggin. He Hopes that a .44 bullet will shear through a can of Campbell's instead of churning his head into soup.

Which is stronger? Faith? Hope?

I don't need the dickshunhairy to answer the question. It is a landslide victory. Hope is Faith's bat-boy. Hope? Stand back for the power-hitter--Faith.

Hope, to me, seems, ineffectual. Hope, to me, seems wishy-warshy. You ain't gotta Hope; you've just got to have Faith. Hope wears Faith's hand-me-down clothes. Hope is Faith's little brother, little sister.

Faith knows that the world will be okay, eventually. Hope wishes so but then shrugs and clicks the TV remote, looking for the last American Idol re-spin.

Faith is the mortar that solidifies the Wall of Being. Hope is the groundwater that destroys the Being.

Raise yourself up into Faith. Believe. In whatever. Just--believe.

A ROMP AROUND THE MAYPOLE?

Happy Friday, everyone. Happy May 1st. It is May Day. Why? What does May Day stand for? I'd look it up, but I am lazy, I guess. All I know about May Day is that, in some parts of the world, people gather in the village square, 'round a tall pole to which ribbons are affixed, and they walk slowly around the pole, the ribbons clutched in their sweaty palms. Or...something like that. Why? I haven't the foggiest notion. And, then, I do believe, they reverse the direction! Egads.

I may put my little ole spin (no pun intended) on the oh-so sacrosanct May Day tradition: I think I will walk circles around my warshing machine. Yes, my warshing machine is "on the fritz," as they say. The spin cycle is...troubled. The motor is runnin', but the tub ain't spinnin'. Oy vey.

I have looked online and I am prepared to open the lid (after unplugging the beast) to see if, mayhaps, something--a bra, a sock, a clump of dirt, a rhesus monkey--is stuck somewhere in there. My bet is on the monkey. Those damned animals are nuisances! Just ask India.

Anyway, may your day be bright, may your footsteps be light, and may your monkeys not be tight.

In the warshing machine.

THE STING OF DEFEAT

The first softball game. Nineteen to one. A loss.

Not a good start.

I struck out. Not cool. Next at bat, I ripped one down the left-field line--it landed just foul. Not cool. The pitcher, a 45-year-old with a couple kiddies, spun the next pitch and I popped it up to the third baseman.

Did I mention that the Dirt Dawgz lost by eighteen runs? Yeah.

We did not hit the ball well, we did not field the ball well, and the pitcher walked too many men. Personally, as I said, I did not hit the ball well and, in the field, two balls went over my head that I should have caught.

Long story short: we need to get better, much better. We have a slick shortstop and third baseman and we have an ex-college baseballer on our team, but we need to improve. Expo-fucking-nentially.

A "WANNA GET AWAY?" MOMENT

I think the airline is NWA, or Northwest Airlines, the airplane company that has those too-funny (most of the time) "Wanna Get Away?" commercials.

There's one where the cute black woman has something in her contact lens and she stumbles into the bathroom to fix her eye only to realize that she had stumbled into the men's restroom, all the guys staring at her as if she had two heads. There is another one in which a vendor at a sporting event laughs at a "Wanna Get Away?" commercial on the scoreboard and then proceeds to stumble down the stairs, spilling his full bevy of drinks on the isle-sitters. At the end of each commercial, Announcer Guy intones, "Wanna get away?"

That was me, today, at work: the woman with the effed-up contact lens, the vendor spilling down the stairs.

"Why don't you back-fill that hole, while I draw up the picture," Paul said. No problem. I had already back-filled a smaller hole, adjacent to the house's driveway, I was familiar with the Ditch Witch front loader, and, if this other hole was bigger and dug fresh out of muddy Bloomfield dirt? So what? I could do an adequate job of it. I was sure of myself, I was confident. Usually, the linesman does the machine work, though my job title is TMO, Trenching Machine Operator. Hey, it's like that for all the TMOs, for the most part--the linesmen -women do the digging and the TMOs do the grunt work.

Paulie's a little different. And, in a way, that's good. It's good to get practice on the machinery so that you don't get rusty with your skills. Well, I haven't been doing any digging, for the most part, since I've been in the department. I am rusty.

But, like I said, I had already back-filled a hole admirably and so I had a little confidence under my belt. Plus, it was a small Ditch Witch, easy to move and use, almost like a joystick-centered video game.

"All right, Paul," I said, "I got it."

This hole was different than the previous hole I'd filled. On the first hole, I could sit myself on the driveway--very stable--and I could just sweep the dirt and clay and roots into the hole by use of the digging arm. Very easy. This second hole, however--this one was different in a number of ways. First, this was a much bigger hole; this was where we had done the majority of the work, namely retiring a service tee and having the welder weld a new tee on and running a new service to the house. Bigger hole: more dirt. Second, there was no stable driveway upon which I could sit the machine. This was on the front lawn, butt-up against the two oversized mailboxes on posts. Third, the ground was soft as a baby's posterior. Fourth, I was tired--it had been a big job--and I just wanted to finish up and go home. Does that set the stage for disaster?

Maybe, maybe not.

This time, yes. Kind of.

I could go into detail about back-filling and how I had the welder's advice to which I listened, but I'm pretty sure I have bored y'all to tears by now. Long story short, I switched to the big shovel bucket on the front loader so that I could more easily push the dirt back into the hole and, having not had a lot of experience on the machine, I went a little too far into the not-quite backfilled hole and I...sunk in. No problem. Back out, right? Well, um, no. The problems were thrice. One, lack of experience. Two, the way in which the little Ditch Witch propells itself. It moves on treads, rather than wheels. Kind of like a little tank. Good for something, I guess, but not as reliable as good old-fashioned wheels. Three, the soft ground. I had gotten myself into a pickle; I had gotten flat-out stuck.

Matters were made worse by the mailboxes. I sincerely did not want to try to extricate myself from the mud and, upon operating the machine, take out two home's mailboxes with the front loader. So, maybe in the beginning, I tried to play it too cute, too cautious. Bad idea on soft untamped mud. I just dug myself deeper and deeper. I looked to the welder for help: he was on the phone. I looked to the linesman for help: he was in the 44, working on the computer diagram of the job we had done. I was on my own. It was not a success story.

Eventually, Paul wandered over to the hole, just in time to see me slam my hardhat against the machine's roof. "What was it?" he asked, smiling. "A bee?" Paul is a good guy, as genial as they come. He's also got an absurd sense of humor; often you can't tell whether the guy is serious or is yanking your crank. I have the same sense of humor and also I know that when Paul says something, you can bet that it is Theater of the Absurd. He plays good Make-Believe.

I told him that it had not been a bee, that I was stuck, that I was frustrated, that I was fucking pissed off. He smiled.

I fucked around a while longer with the controls and only succeeded in burying myself deeper in the mud. It felt like an Uncle Remus story, all Tar-Baby and shit. I gave up. "I give up," I said to Paul. "I'm stuck and I can't get out. This is fucking bullshit." At that point in time, I wanted to break something, anything. I got off the machine and Paul got on.

He had no more success than I. Though we tried to dig it out, put wooden planks under the treads, get a tow-chain from the welder's truck, nothing worked. In the end, Paul had to put down the digging arm to make sure the machine didn't topple onto its side. "No good," he said mildly, "we'll have to call for a tow truck."

I've been largely ineffectual since I came to the department. Sure, I work my ass off and people appreciate that, but I just have not yet caught on; I have not yet become as proficient a worker as I believe that I can be, should be. Maybe I put too high of expectations on myself, maybe not, though. It's coming up on two years in this department--I feel that I should be running circles around my previous self.

In most ways, I am. I understand what needs to be done, now, on jobs, and I do the work in a professional, hard-working, proficient manner. Yet I feel that I can't escape the ghosts of Adam Past, and getting the machine stuck in the mud?! Yeah, that didn't help my confidence.

In the end, like I said, the digging arm was down for support and the machine was tilted at, I'll say, a 30-degree angle. Not cool.

To make matters worse, Paul was on-call and a job had been sent to his attention. He was needed but he couldn't get to the job because his TMO had sunk his machine into about two feet of mud. Joy. He had to call, over the truck's radio, to the dispatch for a tow truck. "My machine got stuck in the mud," he said. "Tell'em I did it," I mumbled angrily. "Don't let them think it was you who got your machine stuck."

"I'm not saying that," he said, after he hung up the CB transmittor. "Shit happens. It's fine."

After the tow truck came and the driver took exactly seven minutes to winch the machine out of the mud, Paul walked up to me, smiling, and asked, "So...were you scared when the machine started to go into the hole?"

I know his humor. I knew he wasn't asking if I were seriously scared. I answered, "No, Paul. Not scared. Just fucking pissed and frustrated."

I have a softball game on Sunday. The welder is on the team. Other co-workers will have heard the "news of the stuck machine" on their truck's radios. I'll get some guff, some good-natured ribbing. I'll try not to be sensitive about the matter. But, seriously, ineptitude begins to get old, especially to the practitioner, if he cares a whit.

But, like Paul said, laughing, "This kind of shit always seems to happen to me. Never anyone else."

And now, as I write this, remembering the events, it is actually pretty funny to me. Shit does happen. I get super-worked up at the time, but, later, I'm all good with it. I think Paul has a good philosophy on life: don't take shit so damned seriously. It'll only raise your blood pressure and make you old before your time.

(By the way, because of the stuck machine, I got a meal ticket and an extra hour-and-a-half of overtime. But, no--it was not intentional!)

A PARABLE (WITH NO KNOWN OUTCOME)

Once, there was a man. He was neither slender nor fat, his head was well-shaped, his muscles did bulge.

It was a gray and rainy day, yet the man did walk; he walked to the store to get some tobacco products. He was addicted, you see.

Along his walk, he noted things like the gray squirrel slicing to the top of the branch, he noted a neighbor's front yard gargoyle (complete with a lighting system) and he nodded his approval.

He walked.

Satan blindsided him from his left. God was an afterthought on his right.

Satan said, "Just buy some, you skank whore."

God murmured in the man's right ear.

Satan said, "Don't listen to that pussy punk motherfucker. All you need is here."

The man walked on; raindrops sluiced off his fedora's bill. He thought, I want silence in my mind. I just want God-blessed silence.

God spoke, then, but the man chose not to hear Him.

Satab said, "Good deal, sucker. You're with Us."

The man walked on. The skies were gray, there was intermittent rainfall; the man felt at Home.

For a few blessed steps, there was silence in the man's mind. He walked and breathed and appreciated Nature.

And then, God spoke up: "Son, you need to do some deep deep thinking. You need to face your demons and, I'm here to say, you have to best them. You've a lot of Love to give this world; you just have to cut the demon off."

"Easier said than done, Yaweh," the man muttered. "Easier said than done. Why don't You ask me to move a fucking boulder? That? That maybe I could do. What you're asking is nigh impossible, Sir. What you're asking is paramount to a...life change."

God nodded and trees swayed in His wind.

"God, I don't know," the man said.

Satan chimed in. "Don't listen to that billion-year-old fuck. He's a whitewash. He's nothing. I am king. I have the pleasures. What the fuck does that old coot have? Nothing. A cloudy throne? So fucking what? I am the king."

The man walked. Raindrops dripped. In his blood, the heroin was swirling. It made a dreary day palatable. The heroin made the man appreciate the blessedness of the drizzle. It made him...Heavenly.

Work, girlfriend, house, bills...all the concerns floated away. And he thanked Satan.

And he walked. The Future he was walking towards ceased to be paramount. The Future that he was walking towards ceased to be tangible--it lost its meaning. The man walked and he thought. And forgot. And thought. And forgot.

And he thought, This?! Is this what I signed up for?! Hell. No. I wanted picket fences, man. Whadda fuck?

Satan said, "You listened to me. Good boy."

God spoke from his right. He said, "You purposefully shunned what I had to say. You dropped the ball, son."

The man walked on, through the gray rainy late-afternoon and he thought. And he thought. And he thought. And he bristled at his earlier transgressions. And he bristeled. And he walked, through the rain, to the store to buy cigarettes...and a sixer. And a fifth of vodka and a balloon of the H.

And he walked out of the store and he turned his eyes skyward. "God, Jesus," he said, "how can I extricate myself from this self-made bondage? How do I bust the cycle?!"

And Jesus Christ answered and he said, "Fuck you, lackey. We've been here--always. You chose your path, you made your fucking bed. Lie in it. When you're serious, We'll answer. Until then, fuck off."

And Satan snickered and he said, "We'll always have a bed for you, here. Just call on me. I'll hook you up."

And the man walked on, towards home, from the Crime-Free Heroin Store in the gray sky, and the rain dripped off of his fedora's bill.

***

SPRINGTIME IN THE MITTEN STATE

I think the weather is finally breaking, here. The skies are blue. The birds are chirping. From across the street come the steady heavy boomp-boomps of bass from the rap CD the kids are playing while they shoot hoops.

I have "Where the Streets Have No Name" by U2 playing on the laptop--for me, always uplifting. I've got a long weekend. Life is good.

Do you ever get those fleeting moments of total euphoria? Yeah, I know: there is one place that we all get fleeting moments of euphoria (the bed at climax), but do you ever get out-of-the-blue euphoric feelings that tell you that life is just fine, that life is just great, that life is just as it should be, that you are in the place in life that you are because...just because? And it's good? It's a good place?

I say, cling to those moments. I say nibble at them, eat at them, savor them. Savor the honey taste of Good.

It is a rocky world, full of pitfalls and spiderholes. But there is also great beauty. And it is all around us. Things can certainly get rough and tough around us, of course. But we need to always have that beauty within us. We need to be able to call up our reserve pack of love and beauty and hope. We need to be able to appreciate the goodness of the world. We need to be able to inhale deeply of Life--and love it.

And maybe I am only writing this to myself. If that's so? Then so be it. Sometimes, I just need to remind myself just how truly blessed I am.

Spring has apparently sprung, here, in the Mitten State, and I guess I'm all verklempt over it.

Love each other. Pass along a random act of kindness. Appreciate yourselves.

Till we meet again.

IG'NANT? READ

I just saw "Milk," starring Sean Penn.

Just like any other movie of Injustice (Mississippi Burning), I cried. I teared up, I cried, I had a little somethin' in my eye.

Gay, straight, bi, transgendered...who gives a fuck?

We had a fucking boob in the Oval Office in the last eight years--he gave a fuck.

I teared up because of the injustice. Why--oh why?!--was homosexuality considered such a cultural maelstrom? Why?

And. This is my Book: God made us as we are. One is born with homosexuality or heterosexuality or, sometimes, human beings are fucked, not knowing--spiritually--whether they are of a male or female gender. But...God knows. And that is good.

God is the Creator. You don't believe, fine.

I do.

I was pissed, during the movie, when they had a cut-away old-school newsreel of reactions. There was this cunt, with the Christ cross behind her, in the daylight--as clear as day--and she was bitching about what the Homosexuals would do to her family. I had an answer, and I muttered it out from betwixt teeth clenched tight: "Woman, you take care of your fold. Mmmmkay? Teach them right, protect and encourage them. If they turn out to be a homosexual male or a lesbian...so what? It is no reflection upon you. (Well, maybe a little.)"

The point--from my pointy mind--is this: G0d made us as we are. Hetero-, homo-, whatever. God made the decision. And so for any preacher or tight-lipped bitch to make sexuality an issue, well, they speak against God.

They may bring up Leviticus and other Bible verses, but, so what?! Who gives a damn? The world has moved on. The world recognizes people as people.

This is what I hate: "Well, God said...."

Bullshit. Go back to Genesis. God made man in his own image. God is perfect. Thus, whatever the hell God makes? It is perfect. Be it a platypus, an aardvark or a gay human being. God doesn't make Mistakes.

And so that is why, when I hear people talking negatively about "faggots," "lezzies," etcetera, I get a little hot under the collar. Do I say anything? No. I just write off the "joke-teller" as ig'nant.

But, still....

This movie opened my eyes. It might yours, too.

Peace.

THE OUTRIGHT *PAIN* OF SOFTBALL

These are not just empty words...these are my thoughts.

Don't worry. It not that serious. I just wanted to let anyone who may think differently that, whatever I write on this weblog, I put my time and thought (and sometimes soul) into it.

This time--not much soul.

My co-workers at my company got a softball team together. C-League, I believe. It's kinda like A-ball in the Majors. I think we should call ourselves The Gashouse Gang. The 1930s Saint Louis Cardinals were nicknamed that, for what reason, I'm not sure. I just figure it fits. We work for the gas company, thus "Gashouse." "Gang?" Self-explanatory.

I'll be Ducky Medwick. Or one of the Dean brothers, either Daffy or Dizzy (probably more apropos). Today was our first practice.

It was about what you'd expect. There were a lot of missed catches, a lot of errant throws. One thing that was in our favor, however, was that some of these guys can really crush the ball. I mean, like, over-the-fence power. We work hard, we develop muscles, we hit softballs really really far.

Unfortunately, we aren't all athletes of the highest caliber. Some of us are a little out of shape. (Me included.) I lost the first few fly balls hit my way, due to--I assume--the fact that I had not my eyeglasses; they were misplaced on Sunday, along with a couple of birthday checks. Another factor in my early fly ball misjudgement was the fact that I really have not played the game for about 10 years. It takes an adjustment period, you know? Eventually, though, my fielding came back to me and I was able to judge the trajectory of the softball more efficiently. I made a few good grabs.

The problem came, though, towards the end of practice. I had been in the outfield the whole time, save for the period in which I was belting the balls from home plate, and so I was getting tired...and a little careless in my outfield cantering. The field was not pristine at all. There were dips and sways in the outfield, valleys and peaks.

On one monster hit by a teammate, the ball sailed way the fuck over my head and skittered across the basketball court, about 350 feet from home plate. I tiredly loped after it and--bam!--my left ankle twisted in a "field divot" and I heard a sickening pop/crack. Oh. Oh, the pain. I thought I had broken it, at first. The pain gave way to unnatural warmth and I limped to the ball.

"You all right, Adam?" Brian called.

"Yeah," I said, "I think so. Just turned the ankle a bit. But I heard it crack, man." I limped towards him and soft-lobbed him the ball; the fight was out of me. First practice?! Injured already?! Fuck that noise, man.

I limped out of the outfield and over to the bench and I watched the last 10 or so minutes of practice.

After practice mercifully ended, I had a few of the guys asking if I were all right. I thanked them for their concern, but I pretty much brushed it off. I wanted it to be not a big deal. Ankles get popped, they get twisted, torqued, sprained, strained. I have had it happen many times before, while playing basketball. You come down on a guy's foot--bop!--there goes the ankle. This time, however, I was a more than a little concerned. (For many reasons, most of them work-related.) At least when it first happened, and I heard that pop and felt that searing pain. The pop/crack was the thing that got me. That didn't sound good, I'd said to myself. That sounded like I broke my fucking ankle. Well, no. I could walk/limp on it, the pain was not excrutiating--I figured I was good. Not great, but good.

On the way home, I got myself an ankle brace and some pain-killers and some Icy Hot cream. I have not been as fastidious as I should be on the keeping the ankle iced thing, nor have I followed the R.I.C.E. home therapy (rest, ice, compression, keep it elevated). In fact, I've done none of that. Oh, sure, I pressed a cold-pack to it for a while, but the rest of R.I.C.E? No.

My ankle is cracking, now, whenever I move it in a certain way. The pain is not overwhelming, no, but the outside of my left ankle bone looks as though someone has sewn a golf ball underneath my skin. The right side of the ankle is whence the pain radiates and the left is swollen like a dude's stomach at a steak-eating contest. I reckon the bruising will start tomorrow.

Been there, done that. It's just a simple (painful) ankle sprain. It'll heal. But I don't think I'll be playing hockey on Saturday, like I had been planning to do. Hockey entails a whole hell of a lot of sharp cuts and stops. I reckon I'm not going to subject my ankle to that madness. Hell, work itself will be tough. There is no sense in being nonsensical about the matter, you know? So my body let me down. What of it? I'm not Superman. Everyone knows that, right?

I'm just pissed that the start of the season, in two weeks, may be a bit of a nail-biter. After the first fucking practice. Damn.

Peace and love to you all. And, yes, those are heartfelt sentiments.

EASY: LIKE SUNDAY MORNING

Faith No More. The band. This is a great cover of the Commodores' classic. Lionel Ritche? Was he in the Commodores? I don't know. I do know, however, that whenever I listen to Faith's rendition, I am instantly put at ease, mellow, oil on the skillet, slooooowly spreading my Being.

Sunday mornings are great. Wake up when you want, crack the bizzle when you want, eat when you want, read the newsie--when you want.

There ain't no "work pressure," there ain't no "errands pressure"--assuming that you took care of what needed to be done on el Sabado--there ain't no pressure, at all.

Life is just groovy, man.

Today, I am going to my Mom's house, along with Meeg (and probably Naomi), to celebrate my 36th birthday tomorrow, the 30th of March. We'll have cake and iced cream and pizza and (beer) pop--my suggestions--we'll play some trivia games (which I should win, because I am a genius, don'tcha know) and then we'll trek to Grandmammy's place, in an effort to include the 91-year-old in the reindeer games.

No! I never want to lose this connection, this often-frenetic gathering of family for celebrations of birth. On the other hand.... I don't know. Maybe I'm selfish. Assuredly, I am. But, sometimes, I just wanna be easy on a Sunday morning. I want to slough about, I wanna be my impression of a lazy ass. Three-toed?! Hell, I have five digits with which I can be lazy.

[As an aside, how on earth are three-toed sloths so fucking slow?! What is their heartrate?!What are their thoughts?! I think I'd have to grind about 50 Valiums to get into their zone. They're special, sloths, really special. I hate to say it--no I don't--but I think Yahweh created them on an easy Sunday morning, Day of Rest be damned.]

Back to Sunday birthday celebrations: On the flip-side of the coin, though I may want to relish my (selfish) time to myself, do you know how fucking good it feels to see and be with family? It's great. I was raised in a tight-knit fam dambly--our ties are chokingly tight.

And that's fine. Just fucking fantastic, actually. I've read, in the blog-world, of angst and hatred towards Family. I consider myself blessed beyond belief to have been born into this family. I must have been a pretty decent guy in my former life.

So...the meal for today, to celebrate my 36th birthday on Monday, is pizza (with allll the fixins), Sander's "Bumpy Cake"--chocolate cake with top-side buttercream ribbons--peanut butter-and-chocolate iced cream, my mom's bean salad (fucking otherworldly), a regular lettuce salad (made Brilliant by Moms), and...pop. Soda pop. Or grape juice. Yeah. Beer goes best with birthdays but, I reckon, that ain't an option. For me, at least.

Easy like Sunday morning. Yeah. I can get behind that.

I worked eight hours of time-and-a-half yesterday and I took tomorrow of 'cause it's my birthday. So, shit, eight at 1.5 and then a Sunday-Monday weekend, as well?! It must be my birthday.

I get to celebrate myself, eat some fantastic food, get lovin' by the family, come home, watch the Spartans of Michigan State battle Louisville.... That's a damned good day!

::smile::

Raise a cup.

Here is to loving families and having loving Family, pizza, March Madness (with your team still kicking), cake, iced cream, presents (?)--do I deserve them?--and Sunday mornings.

Easy Sunday mornings, in which the oil does lubricate and in which the thought of work is a million miles away.

Peace to you.

I AM PEEVED

Sometimes, it does not pay to be altruistic, to trust people. Sometimes, you get screwed.

I'm pissed off. My baby girl is getting fucked. Monetarily. Two thousand large.

Before Meagan moved in here on January 31st (out, promptly, as she told the buyers--many many trips with a U-Haul pick-up truck), she sold her mobile home to a couple with two small children. The woman/girl was young and cute and 21 or so. The "husband" was in his mid-30s and he talked all wide-eyed and without guile. He spoke a good game; I believed that he and she were down on their luck and that they would benefit greatly from getting a home (they'd been living on couches of friends and relatives) for a LOW! LOW! PRICE!

And Meagan did hook those sorry asses up. She surely did. She sold the mobile home for next to nothing and (!) included the appliances--stove, washer, dryer, refrigerator. Sure, the furnace wasn't working well, and, sure, there was a water leak due to the pipes freezing, due to the furnace not working as it should have. And, sure, there was a whole hell of a lot of Meeg's and Nay's "stuff" that they had assured us that they had no problem dealing with, getting rid of, whatever. "My cousins can help me out," Joe said. "They can drive up a big ole truck and haul away whatever you don't want to keep." Meagan and I were quite pleased. We could slice into the Juggernaut o' Stuff and have her and Naomi move in more expediantly. Cool beans.

In the end, Meagan actually cut them more of a deal. She knocked $200 off the already-miniscule selling price because she felt a little guilty for leaving some things behind for them to deal with. And, of course, she felt a little guilty for saddling them with the water bill that was escalated due to the broken pipes.

"No problem," they'd assured us. "We know people. We can get these things fixed."

And...they did. For--obviously--much less than someone not in the "know."

Now, here's the thing: They've been skating on the lot rent for the last two fucking months. The lease is, somehow, still in Meegie's name. Until April 1st. Then, and only then, do the SQUATTERS become responsible for the payment of the rent.

Meagan flat-out told them that she would pay the rent to the community office until they got approved. She told them, hell, write me a money order and I'll make sure that the Central Office gets the payment. They failed to do that. Meagan called them numerous times, trying to get a palaver with them, trying to make good on the payment. They blew her off, they didn't return phone calls...in the meantime, she received eviction notices, sent to her (our) new address.

Yikes.

Basically, what the sons-of-bitches did was SQUAT in the home until they were approved, thinking, I'm sure, well, hell we're not responsible for the payment of the lot rent. We ain't approved yet; the lease is still in Meagan's name.

So, Meagan has gotten court documents. Meagan has been told that, despite the fact that she hasn't lived in the house for nigh upon two months, she still owes the lot rent for the months of February and March.

I--and she--say bullshit.

The outcome is undecided, right now. I think she/we should retain a lawyer. There has got to be a way that the SQUATTERS should have to pay for the home in which they have lived for the last two months.

How does someone do this to someone? How does someone blatantly fuck someone who has given them such a good deal, gone out of her way to help a young "family" with two small children? Where the hell is his sense of decency? Where are his testicles? How does he let his 21-year-old girlfriend, the mother of at least one of the cute kids, work at Burger King while he smokes down, drinks 40s, basically mooches (leeches) off of her?

Legally, I don't know if Meeg has much of a leg to stand on. To help them--and to expediate the process of moving out--she did not go through the Central Office of the mobile home community. She didn't particularly follow the community rules for selling a trailer. She simply signed over the title to the couple with the young kids, the couple that was down on its luck. The law is stringent, sometimes.

In regards to Karma, though, Meegie is standing on fourteen legs. Trying to help people should not Achille-slice someone.

Like I said, the end has yet to play out. There may be a legal loophole.

If not, we'll chalk it up to a learning experience. Sometimes, though, "learning experiences" taste pretty fucking sour.

And, if not a learning experience, perhaps it can be a vengeful experience. She has had, and is still having...evil thoughts.

But, in terms of Karma--and just being good honest people--we think that the Higher Road is a better way to go.

Oh, but I'm peeved.

IN THE WEB OF SUPPORT

The Web is a joyous thing. With the click of a mouse, the tap of a finger, one can jettison him- or herself to a virtual world in which many others feel the same emotions, share the same experiences. It is, actually, a beautiful thing.

When I started this blog, I did so because I loved to write and I thought it might be cool to see people react to what I had written.

I have gotten SO much more out of this little "experiment" than I thought I would. I have gotten to "sit in" on people's lives, from here, in Detroit, Michigan, to the outer reaches of Aussie Land. Technology is grand. Seriously, it is.

But the thing that is more grand is that said technology can allow people to share the true gold: emotion, human feelings and care, pitched about by the binary code of 00001111001111011. Whatever. I don't know much about binary codes and routing and wireless technologies. What I do know, though, is that this world is filled--contrary to popular belief--with caring individuals who are there for you.

At the click of a mouse, at the tap of a fingertip.

It's a good thing.

It--they--were there for me during dark times, and they help me to celebrate good times.

What's not to love?

I consider the people with whom I virtually interact to be friends. That's a strange concept, kinda. I mean, I ain't never met him or her in the flesh, I've never shook his hand or hugged her, but, still, they're friends.

Just thinkin' and typin', here on Friday, the second day of March Madness.

I hope whoever reads this has a great day, a fantastic weekend and a superlative weekend.

Peace and love, my brothers and sisters. Peace and love. Because, if we ain't got that, what the fuck do we have? A sour world.

Spread sweetness.