Sunday, March 20, 2016

Time to Move on

Dearest Readers,

I would apologize to both of you for not posting before now, but what's the point.  Can't go back now. In that spirit, I've moved from my palatial imitation apartment, my Hobbit hole, my sanctuary and into the abyss.

I'm quite surprised by my emotional reaction to the move out.  Wasn't expecting it. Although when I moved in there were so many emotions going on, I'm sure I was numb to most of those feelings back then, but I would imagine they were there.

As I was packing the last of my stuff into my car today, the little girl across the street came running over.  She has done this every day since she and her family moved in during the summer.  She waits outside, rain or shine, until my car pulls in.  The runs across the street to my shouts of "Stop, you'll get your ass run the hell over".  Then she proceeds to tell me all manner of 4-year-old things. Kitties, puppies, poop...she's everywhere you want to be.

Last weekend when I started my move, she ran over and asked what I was doing. I told her I was moving, but I could see it didn't register.  She asked me the same question all week and weekend. What does one say?

When I packed the last of my belongings into the car today, she and her parents were coming home. She ran to me and asked the same question she's asked for over a week: "Where are you going? What are you doing?"

"Well kiddo, I'm going to a new house. A place where the dog has a yard, the cat has a room and I can finally move on."

"You are going?!"

"Yes, I am."

At this point she broke down screaming and calling me a bad man and an ugly person. Her parents grabbed her and apologized to me; that was heartbreaking.

I don't blame her. I probably am.

I know she was just hurt and didn't know how to express what she was feeling, and to be honest, I was really packing fast because I didn't want to have to see her.  I knew it would be bad.  That she wouldn't understand what was happening.

I've lived that. Hell, all of us have in one way or another. That sense of loss.  That sense of safety from the predictability of our day-to-day lives suddenly ripped away.  That's hard as a 4-year-old girl...or a 44-year-old man.

Ultimately, I could have chosen to be the sad-assed old man in the apartment with his cat and dog and decided to never risk anything again.  I wouldn't have been happy, but I wouldn't have been sad either.

In short, I've been in a rut.

I guess at the end of it all,..I'm thankful for that little place.  It gave me safety, sanctuary.  It made people I met friends, friends I had family and family I have closer.

But driving away today, with that little girl crying, made me realize something.  I was part of a neighborhood, a community, a FAMILY of it's own making by happenstance. And it allowed me to put the past in the past.

It gave me bonding with Roger, Rodney and Monte.  It gave me Hal. It gave me Stevie and Jeff. Dana and Dawn. It gave me solace after so many nights on planes and in gave me my life after the shock of losing what I thought my life would be turned out to be so untrue.

 And I'd be lying, dearest reader, if I said there wasn't significant sobbing on the way to my new home this afternoon.  Good luck, kiddo.  Don"t wait for me on the stoop.

All my love and let's be safe out there,

Saturday, September 6, 2014


Dearest Reader,

I give you the sexiest poem ever by one of the oddest, and dare I say favorite, humans ever. Mr. Vaughn  Bode:

Who could it have been that I feeled up
On wiley last Wednesday,
Just a day before thirsty Thursday the first?

I can remember the sky water was all rained out
down to the ground in splashy cocoa puddles...
I was just stompin, squashin' home...
Slippin, sliden, decidin' if I can ever find
a pretty piece of pink pussy to do again...

All a sudden, in front, right there,
rooted smack into my very next puddle,
Stood the biggest best box girl
I ever did saw with my tawny sea blue orbs!
I combed up my lashes 'cause I don't got no hair
and I snuck from behind her like a nimble stalking, bare...

"Hiya," I goes groovy-loud
and flings my grab round her big pink leg...
I thumb testily at her super-best hair...

Agosh, the big box girl showered surprise
but moved just da way to show me
no hurt and no noggin lumps
for my copper brash grabs...
So I grabbed dis and dat and stuck at things, too,
as we standed last Wednesday like a puddle of two... 

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Retired from the Ring

Dearest Readers of this tiny outpost of the universe,

I suppose that shame should fill me for being a bystander in my own life lately, but in all honesty, I do not. However, a few weeks ago I did something that I probably shouldn't have but did so anyway.  I got back in the ring.

When I was growing up, there is nothing I wanted to do more than be an Olympic boxer. I didn't have any care to be a pro. I had no aspirations to make millions only to later to be shaky and brain dead. I wanted to fight and  win gold at the Olympics.

This all started in 76 when Sugar Ray Leonard was a kid and had a picture of his baby mama taped to his sock.  As a 5-year-old, that carries a lot of weight, even if you don't understand the significance at the time.  Only as I get older to I realize the heightened emotions for him at that moment.

Then there was Rocky.  Saw it 7 times at the theater.  Knowing full well that he would never win, I kept going back.  To me, there was always hope. That's what being in the ring to me means.  Hope. No matter how much someone outweighs you, has a longer reach, hits harder, you have hope that with one well-placed, tactical hit, you can win.

So that brings me to a few weeks ago.  I am in reasonably good shape for a man who is probably past middle aged.  (by years).  I found a charity fight night at a local establishment and entered.  Pitted against a guy 15 years my junior, I became hesitant.  Then I told myself, "What's the worst that could happen? I die? Doubtful."

This was the nastiest place ever, and I've been in some really bad places. See previous posts.  We were given "corner men" whom I am pretty sure only got the title because they were wearing a tee shirt that said so.  The crowd was drunken and raucous and in short, I was afraid.

When the bell rung for the opening round, my "manager" whom I had only met 5 minutes earlier told me to "knock his dick in the dirt".  Thanks, coach.  I'll forego the blow by blow of round one, but he decidedly beat me like a drum. The only problem is, he was a knockout puncher.  He was looking to showboat by landing a big finisher.  He wanted to YouTube me.

After water and a minute rest, I came to a realization.  I don't like most people, and those I don't like should be beaten like cattle in 300 BC.  Fuck this guy.  He didn't help his situation by dancing around between rounds and peacocking for the nasty people in this nasty bar, but winners got a free tab for the night, so light this fucker up,right?

When the bell rang he said, "It's over, dude".  My thought was "Yes it prick". He danced around, showboating mostly.  He occasionally jabbed me and it hurt.  God did it hurt dearest reader.  And then I saw the opening in his armor.  When he jabbed with his left, he slightly dropped his right.

When I was a kid, I almost lost my left arm due to a severe break.  I am extremely right-hand dominant.  My left arm is half the size of my right.  So he jabbed me in the forehead with his left, I feigned a right, jabbed the opening with my very weak left, but it was enough to back him off and then it was church.  I beat the shit out of that kid from then on.  Suffice to say, I did not pay a bar tab that night.

I'll never step into the ring again.  Just wanted to know that I could still do it.  I did.

Be safe, sleep well, be good to each other, and let's be safe out there.

As always,

Monday, June 2, 2014

Loneliness Bites

Dearest Readers,

Sometimes it's difficult to understand one's place in the world.  At times, loneliness cuts to the bone.  You do the things you are supposed to do, live a (moderately) clean life, love your fellow man, and in the end? You end up alone watching reruns of cop shows at 10 PM. Fortunately, most of the people I care about and for have someone with them tonight, or at least they have someone in their lives who care for them.  For that I am thankful.  As the Mick and I always said, we don't go home until we know everyone else is on the way home.  Night bus in Trafalgar Square. Drunk on the moon.

So I guess I am sitting here writing to you feeling bad for myself, but knowing the whole time I am the author of my own fate (or as the Irish would say "The otter of my own fat" not my line.  Stolen from Laura Kightlinger, one of the funniest stand ups ever).  I don;t know what this is. It's not a Dumpdate, it's not a standard post, it's just a lonely person in the universe who's so tired of being lonely.

There will be no updates of bigfoot today, no photos of meals cooked, no music discovered, nor book reviews of novels read.  I just really feel adrift tonight and needed to get it out.

As always,
Your humblest of servants,

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Ghosts of the Past

Dearest Readers,
It should have been a glorious North Texas day.  Crystal blue skies, about 75 degrees for the high, a light wind.  When I woke up that morning, something didn't feel right.  One of those moments when you just know the clown is going to pop out of the box.

I was doing my normal husbandly duties.  Grocery shopping, bottle of wine for dinner, etc.  I reached into the glove compartment of the car (does anyone actually put gloves in there?) and then shit came unraveled.

You see, when you find a motel receipt in the car, you get curious.  When you get curious, you start looking.  Unfortunately what you find is not pleasant.  Nothing about that day seemed right from the beginning. I don't know why I am writing this other than to say that I can write about it now.  Pain is something we all go through, and mine is now better or worse than anyone else's.  I guess I just needed to say it aloud and let it be what it the past.

Be good to each other and let's be safe out there.

As always,

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Happy Birthday

Dearest Readers,

Sometimes I find it very difficult to separate myself from the everyday feelings that all of us have.  I don't mean to say that I am special, we all feel that, provided we aren't sociopaths.  I've had to make myself take stock in a number of things today.

My father turns closer to 70 tomorrow.  That hurts.  After losing my mom, the thought that my dad could be gone one day truly kills me.  I honestly don't know how I will react.There is a saying that moments should be treasured, that you should hold them close so that you will never forget them.  So in honor of my father's 68th birthday, I give you the top 5 memories of my dad.  I love you, Pop.  Happy Birthday.

5.  His old green Plymouth.  It had a huge scratch down the windshield.  Looking back on things it was because my parents couldn't afford to buy new wiper blades for it.  I loved that car.  It was a 70's archaeological dig. There were whole collections of National Geographic, a set of golf clubs, and many other random items (no, my dad hates golf, even funnier), But I will never forget that scar. When I asked him one day about it picking me up after school (I was probably 4) he told me it was when he was driving to pick me up after school, but on the way was attacked by a T-Rex.  The scratch was from its claws.  I held on to that story until, sadly, the car was towed away.

My favorite day in that car, with it's swamp-cooler AC under the dash, was when he picked me up after school at the sitter in a driving rainstorm with no wipers or seat belts, and took me to meet my mom at the movie theater to see "The Revenge of the Pink Panther".  Sellers was, and is, my favorite comic actor.  Even then, I knew I had a connection.  The Warlord always encouraged it. I never laughed so hard at a movie.  Thanks, Dad.

That might not be the right Panther movie, but I lost the box set in the divorce and am loathe to look it up since I am on a writing roll.

4.  The first time I saw my dad do a back flip off a diving board.  I was about 5 or 6, I think.  To me, his heels scraped the sky that day.  It was at a San Antonio motel.  Which brings me to number 3.

3.  At the San Antonio zoo.  There was the most beautiful person I think that I have in my memory.  That's likely not true since I was about 4 on that vacation.  She was a zoo keeper for large cats. Long blond hair and a slightly upturned nose, bright white teeth and a baby leopard.

Dad walked up, spoke to her, and the next thing I knew I was sitting in a pen with a newborn leopard.  I know that the cat never bit or scratched me. I also realize that there is much more first person than than third person in this post. Thanks, Dr. Freud.  I played with a baby carnivorous cat for a good 10 minutes before I was pulled away.  Always wondered if the cat remembered that day.

2.  The 1st day we went to the river bottoms.  Must have been '75.  He drove me into the middle of nowhere; it was swamp-like back then.  So much later it would be a make-out spot, but I digress.  We went to the edge of the river and there were probably 20 guys dad knew shooting into flotsam and jetsam in the river.  We shot all manner of garbage that day. I remember being patted on the head for good luck or just because I was my dad's kid. Doesn't matter; I walked up the slope that day feeling bigger than all the heroes he ever read about to me.

1.  The days of the birth of each of my brothers. I've never seen a person so happy.  Sure there were and still are hard times.  But, Dad, you raised at least three honorable sons.  I'd like to think I helped with that, but it was under the guidance of mom...and YOU.

I could probably go another 25, but it's late.  Hold on to what you have left, dearest reader.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Your humblest of servants,

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Figuring this Out

Dearest Readers,

January 14 has been a difficult time for me for some number of years (7 to be precise).  I was sitting in a shitty part of southern California in an anonymous long-term hotel watching a Chargers team blow yet another playoff game when my phone started going off.  It was MLK weekend and I had Monday off. Not sure why that made any difference, but I was sad, angry about being away from the former BQoM, away from the greatest cat in the history of domestication, depressed about what I was doing, but the phone kept ringing.  So I answered when my brother's name popped up.

BKoM:  Hey, what's going on?
Brother:  Um, Mom died about 10 minutes ago.
BKoM:  What?! This shit isn't funny.  Fuck you.
Bro:  I'm not kidding. I'm sorry man, she's gone (he is openly sobbing now).
Bro:  I'm sorry, but they thought you would take it better from me than anyone else.
BKoM:  Bullshit, you are lying. (putting foot through TV).
Bro:  you know I would never joke about something like this.
BKoM:  What am i supposed to do?
Bro: Never.  Just come home.

Well, there was an ice storm in the home town that weekend, so no flights going in or out.  I finally made it home a day later after spending the night at the airport on a cot. I don't remember the funeral all that well, other than holding my cousin tightly and telling him to love his mom every day, because "you don't ever want to do this fucking shit. it hurts".

Today is 7 years since I lost my mom.  It's also 7 years since i did about $1200 worth of damage to a SoCal hotel room.  To this day I am left with anger and frustration.  All the things to say, and, more importantly, all the things left unsaid.

Sorry, Mom.  I hope I make you proud.  I miss you daily and love you more than you ever knew.  I hope you are better off now than when you were here.

I hate this day.

As always,