Want

Desire is a peculiar thing. It sort of creeps up on you and starts laying eggs in your brain like so many spiders crawling all over you in your sleep. I have these moments of desire, more often than I like to admit in polite conversation. It doesn’t take much these days. Perhaps a quick flutter of the eye lashes from a pretty girl or a friendly girlish smile and all of a sudden I feel an increase in my delicate libido.

It’s a very strange thing to be a human being and fight these urges of raw sexuality. Common sense society dictates that I not go around trying to put my penis in every hot woman I see, but as I write this last blog of 2012 I’m compelled to feel, for lack of a better term, horny.

It’s those wonderful tights women wear, and their make-up and their shape and their softness and their hair and their hands and their voice and their smiles and nods and gentle manner. I’m a sucker for it all. I want it all.  

It’s seems a bit cheeky and crude to describe my desire in this way. But for me, it’s rather par for the course. Any woman that actually knows me, I mean really knows me, will read this and shake her head and say, “Yup, that’s Michael. He’s a total horn dog”. It’s no shock to them how very invigorated I am about love making. I’m quite expressive about my desire for some level of sensitivity…and coitus.

Desire makes men do silly things. In fact, I think we are genetically engineered to be complete and total asses about the whole thing. Sex, we just want it. Actually, I don’t think sexual preference has anything to do with it. I know a few homosexuals that have more sex than is to be believed. Seriously. I mean, damn. But it’s so much more than “just sex” for me.

I can’t seem to shake the thought of breathlessly kissing a woman as our hands move over each others bodies. I so enjoy kissing and feeling a woman close against me. There is something about how our hearts beat fast and the blood rushing about, flooding the brain with irrational thought and increased expectations. A crazy, pulse quickening roller coaster of intensity as each of us pulls in closer, as close as we can possibly be, touching and feeling and wanting.

This feeling is great if you have someone to share it with. It’s awesome to share a mutual desire. It is not so great when you’re single. It’s cruel and evil and leads us to sending text messages to ex-girlfriends and random women that you just met. It leads to ogling and leering and laughing at terrible jokes from other lonely men when there is a pretty woman around.  It makes us look silly and completely undesirable.

Therein lays the rub. When desire comes calling on the single man he becomes a ravenous beast of a thing. All he (I) can think about is holding that special woman in his (my) arms and kissing her and hugging her and letting his (my) hands explore every square inch of her body.

Rent due?

“What’s Rent?”

 Electric bill?

“What’s electricity? The only electricity is what’s going on here between me and my lady”.

Fire alarm going off?

“Damn right it is”.

That’s all we (me) can think about when kissing a beautiful woman. It’s so basic. Desire, want, it has me all discombobulated at times. It makes me write crazy final 2012 blogs that my mother will likely read and say, “I’ve raised a pervert”. Well, you haven’t Mom. It’s perfectly natural for a man of my age to be completely obsessed with lady parts. At least I respect women enough to want them so badly. 

It’s more than just basic coitus though. There is a component of wanting to be wanted that plays into it. It’s great to kiss a woman but if she’s not all that happy to kiss you back then the whole project is just a waste and really should be put back on the drafting table for re-examination by the staff. Maybe there needs to be an atrium. That’s why desire is so tricky. It’s okay to want someone in an intimate way. It’s cruelty when they don’t want you back. I think I should coin the term, “unrequited intimacy”.

This is not to say that I think we should violate the rules of a moral and Victorian society regarding sexuality. There’s a code of behavior that goes with wanting someone, or at least I believe there is, and it’s just not done to go about being a complete beast about it all. But with the New Year approaching and that stroke of midnight nearing, all I can think about it having a woman with me to kiss and hold as we sing Auld Lang Sine.

This is just honesty; it’s real and far more common than most people will admit. I’m not hung up on keeping it to myself and I see no reason not to write about it. People may complain that I write about this sort of thing too often, but to them I say, it is what it is. I am who I am. It’s real emotion and thought and yes, even desire and I’m not afraid of it. You shouldn’t be either.

I hope you have that special someone in mind for that New Years kiss. I’ve had an interesting 2012, I hope 2013 will be better.

Now…who wants to make out with me tonight?

She’s Remembered

She’s there in my head,

this woman I remember,

always teasing me with

her wry smile and sexual

charms. She makes me

laugh. She’s intense.

She’s what I remember her to

be, but it’s not her. It’s not her

at all. The real her won’t even

say hello to me, so all I have

is an incomplete fantasy of a

memory, that in all reality

wasn’t perfect, but it seemed

to mean something

more.

But because she’s in there,

so ever present in my memory,

I’m constantly running in

circles trying to let the real life

version know that I care, and I’m sorry

and if I could do it again I would.

And I would do it differently.

I would have fought.

I would have said,

“Don’t Go”.

The real her however, doesn’t

even notice I’m sure. She hardly

bats a lovely eye at my flailing

arms in the sea of time that’s

flooded in between us.

Now my pleading looks like

desperation and the antics of

an aging, silly man.

So my memory of her is all I have.

It’s very little comfort at night when

the cold wind blows in from that

hole in the air conditioner screen

that the squirrels chewed

that I covered with duct tape.
 

But I have the memory

nonetheless and as much as

I want her to want me,

to be with me

and make new memories

I have to face the fact

that it was short

and small and

in the end

hardly worth it at

all.

I lie. It was worth it.

And the memories are

better than having

nothing.

My memory makes me

miss her. My heart growing

ever fonder.

Made it

Howard stepped out of his end of the world bunker. He saw his breath in the bitter winter cold. He stepped forward carefully; unsure of what mutated hell spawn might be lying in wait to suck the precious marrow from his bones. The snow crunched under his boots and cut through the silence. He now felt entirely justified for all his precautions and getting into the bunker before December 21^st. He realized that he and his family had missed Christmas, but it was worth it to survive. He wondered about all those poor fools that didn’t prepare. He bet monsters were wearing their skins.

He moved slowly toward his house. He wished he had worn a warmer coat against this cold, but since the house looked pretty intact he might get lucky and find his good winter coat; if the house hadn’t already been ransacked by thieves or nuclear mutants. He moved toward the back door and checked the doorknob. It was still locked, just as he had left it. He fished his keys out of his pocket and slowly slid them into the lock and turned it. He tried to be extra quiet so as not to disturb anything that might have warped in from another dimension once the world ended. You could never really know what might have happened. There could be trans-dimensional beings now living in his house as part of an invading force bent on using the Earth’s resources for their own vile purpose.

Howard shoved open the back door to his house. He ducked to the side and then slowly peeked inside. It was still just as they had left it. In fact, he could swear the heat was on. Which would be really weird considering the likely decimation of the power grid and natural gas service. He stepped inside his house and did a quick scan with his pocket Electromagnetic detector, as well as his Geiger counter. Everything checked out as normal. Perhaps there was a Rapture and there was no invasion or natural disaster.

He stepped into the dining room from the kitchen and checked the thermostat. It was still set at sixty-eight degrees and operating just fine. He started to get a bad feeling. A noise came from behind him. He realized he had left the back door to the house open and anything could now be sneaking in the house set on eating his flesh as a sacrifice to the new demonic god.  He turned quickly, his heart pounding, cursing himself for being so careless after all his preparations.

“Howard”, said Howard’s wife, Jean, “You stupid ass. Nothing happened! Nothing!”

“I haven’t finished checking the house, take the kids back to the bunker”, said Howard.

“No, you moron. Shelly has her cell phone and just talked to her friend Kathy, who said everything is fine. Then I called Mrs. Barker who said the world didn’t end”, yelled Jean.

“But the radio signals that cut out in the bunker?”

“The batteries died”, said Jean, “And because of your stupid bunker we couldn’t get any kind of cell signal, ass”.

Howard stood in the dining room as his wife ushered his daughter Shelly and his young son Matt inside the house. She pushed passed him and took the children upstairs. He could hear her go to the master bathroom and slam the door behind her. He stood. Wondering what could have happened. How could he have been so wrong?  He heard the toilet flush upstairs and now felt terrible for making his wife pee in a bottle for six days.  Howard went to the back door and closed it. He put down the electromagnet detector and the Geiger counter on the kitchen table. He went to the refrigerator, and then remembered he put all the food in the bunker. He stood in front of the refrigerator, still cold and running, and started to cry.

He’d told his boss at the shoe factory to go screw himself and told off all the people he thought were losers. I bet they were all having a great laugh now. He stood, stuck in the endless loop of his embarrassment, without moving a muscle. He barely heard Jean tell him that she and the kids were going upstate to her mothers. He barely heard her slam the door behind her and the car start and drive off.

When he was finally able to move he staggered back out to the bunker. He found some freeze dried soup on the heavily stocked shelf and went back into the house. A warm bowl of soup would be nice. Then perhaps a quick bath, a shave and then, oblivion.

Doomed

So here it is The Mayan Apocalypse; the horror, the horror of it all. Dear God there’s just terror and incredible awfulness everywhere. Some woman on the train today actually moved her bag so I could sit down. It was crazy town for certain. I’m sure she was simply filled with such abject fear that it seemed the only rational thing to do. I can’t believe that she did it out of her own good will or some sort of desire for peace on Earth.

Those crafty Mayans sure were right. This end of the world with a whimper is quite amazing and so incredibly accurate. First we get a big freeze and the next thing you know there will be snow blanketing the whole Earth. All we will be able to do is string lights together on the front of our homes in order to guide us through the blinding snow that will eventually come.

It will get so bad that some people will resort to roasting chestnuts over an open fire and the children will hear stories of the villainous Jack Frost who will nip at their noses in the dark cold night. People will be dressed up like Eskimos and we will need sleigh bells, for our one horse open sleighs.

Snow will be glistening, bells will be ringing, it will truly be anarchy. I am just so impressed with those Mayans. They really knew a thing or two about how it was all going to down. All from just watching the stars and the planets and discussions with their ruler K'inich Ahkal Mo' Nahb Claus.

I suppose one good thing about this Apocalypse is how close we’ll get to our families. We’ll need each other through these dark and daunting times. We’ll have to share a lot of things but in our recognition of their support we might be inclined to give them a gift or two. Perhaps an item we had to fight for with the other clans of families out scavenging for the scraps of our once great civilization. Maybe an iTunes gift card.

I can’t imagine how those Mayans could have predicted this winter wonderland of damnation. It’s an amazing compliment to their long vanished society. So accurate, right down to the spreading of cheer amongst men and women, you know, to keep their spirits up as we tremble down the path of inevitable destruction.

It is an organized Apocalypse though. I get to leave work early so I can tend to the needs of the people and get some last minute provisions. I certainly hope the throngs of the desperate aren’t too bad over the next coming days. I’m sure there will be some mild panic as doomsday settles in, by the fire, and eats cookies.

Those Mayans, making us all look like fools for doubting them.

Merry Christmas!

500

This is it.
I got it in before
those dastardly
Mayans determine
our end.

It's 500.
A nice hard number.
Half a grand.
Made of words
and emotion
and fantasy.

500 pieces of myself
put on a page for
you to read.

So I'm keeping this
500th short.

Thanks for reading.
I appreciate it.
I look forward to
where this will go
next.

How to Become What You Hate

1. Drink – It’s important to ply yourself with alcohol. It makes you feel better for a while but then worse, but then allows you to say “screw it” and do something stupid anyway. It’s also important to surround yourself at the bar with people that enjoy your misery as much as you do. Even better if their situation is slightly worse than yours. Do shots.

2. Stalk – Now that you’ve filled your gut with booze it’s time to start sending text messages to ex-girlfriends or women you’ve dated. You need to let them know how much you miss them and how silly you were and how stupid you feel now. Be confident that your 2:00 am texts will be appreciated. Then realize after you’ve sent them that you’re an idiot and no one appreciates a two am text message. Realize that you’ve become a stalker and that’s just creepy. But continue pining over them for months, years, maybe even decades, but never let them forget about you. Because they'll come around eventually. 

3. Talk about things that no one cares about - Consider all the things you know, don’t talk about those things. Talk about the most innocuous crap you can think of. Something you read in the paper that you really didn’t care about when you read but are using now to fill in the silences. Keep talking no matter what because no one will ever think you’re full of shit if they can’t stop you from talking.

4. Don’t join in – Remember that you are an individual and there’s no one that can tell you what to do, even if that thing is quite possibly the most fun thing ever. You’re independent and a loner. Loners are cool.

5. Describe how lonely you are in great detail – Remind people you know how pitiful you are by constantly complaining about how lonely you are. However, do not take any responsibility for being lonely. Clearly others do not realize how awesome you are and it’s their fault for not wanting to hang around you.

6. Use modesty as a cover for your narcissism – Practice accepting compliments but remember inside that you deserve them. 

7. Refuse to change – Use phrases like, “I’m too old to change”, or, “That’s just not something I like”, to get out of trying new things.

8. Let your imagination control your desires – Have a single conversation with a woman but in your mind imagine your entire relationship all the way through dating, marriage, kids, house, retirement and death, before she’s finished her sentence. Then be upset when she rejects you.

9. Blame people – Remember it isn’t you, it’s them. Clearly there’s something wrong with them. Crazy jerks.

10. Quit – When things get hard, quit. It’s not worth your valuable time to continue trying at something you’re just going to fail at anyway. So don’t bother. Someone else will do it. Probably better than you too.

11. Be judgmental – No one can match your superior morality or impeccable logic. So remember that everyone’s actions are subject to speculation and ridicule. Yours aren’t.

12. Lust – So what if it’s a mortal sin, if you stare at them long enough, eventually they’ll figure out how awesome you are.

13. Pity yourself – Do nothing to make yourself feel better. It’s important to continue acting like a teenage Goth kid in everything you do. Remember that everything absolutely sucks and will never get any better. Until you die.

14. Tell people you’re real – Lie to people about how real you are. Reaffirm how totally honest you are by not telling people how you feel, because feelings are for women and children with boo-boos.

15. Never actually be intimate – Never, ever, let someone actually know anything about you. You’ll just get hurt and besides, they were probably a slut who’ll just talk about you to the next guy and have a good laugh over what a sissy you really are.

16. Offer nothing – Say you’re Buddhist and not into material things or being the pebble that disturbs the pond, but really it means you just have nothing to offer because you’re too afraid to do anything.

17. Sit – Sit a lot in front of your TV. It’s really your only true friend.

By following these simple steps you’ll be on your way becoming everything you say you hated.

P.S. Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t; maybe it’s better to just try to be someone that is productive and ambitious. I’m trying to learn from it. Maybe this is the first step of many.

Coffee, Cream & the End

Too much cream in my coffee,

not enough coffee in my cream.

In three days the world is

supposed to end and I’m

thinking about French Vanilla.

I like my morning coffee and

if the world is soon to end,

I’d really like to enjoy at least

a few good morning cups.

Without the powdered creamer.

The Mayans had coffee that much

is clear. They didn’t exactly use

it like we do. There’s some evidence

they used it in enemas for religious

purposes. That’ll wake you up.

Rectum? Damn near killed ‘em.

If the world does decide to end

on Friday, if our lease is up and

renovations are needed to clean

up the mess we made, then so

be it.

I’ll try to enjoy my coffee and

make due with the cream while

fire erupts from giant fissures

under my feet. I’ll try not to

scream or beg for mercy.

I may shed a tear for the loves I had

and the loves unrequited. I may

regret no smiling children of my

own, but find relief they weren’t

here to see the end.

I’ll wish for one sweeter kiss.

I’ll consider that last screw.

I’ll think of all this wasted

paper with a sense of loss.

I’ll try not to wish for just one

more cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Maybe I’ll just have tea. 

Time to Feel Small, then Brave

There are certain moments in the world that remind us of how small our actual problems are. To quote Bogey from Casablanca, “it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”. Truer words were never said. That and, “Dear God, it’s got my face!”

It’s true in the face of deep tragedy our simple, selfish problems don’t really mean a whole heck of a lot. I’m aching for a woman to love, I have to go Christmas shopping among the throngs of other Christmas shoppers, I have to pay bills, save money, figure out why my knee hurts when I walk, go to work, be bored, spend too much on booze and of course, complain. In light of recent national events, I feel like a prick.

It’s in our nature however to be focused on our own lives and try to survive as best we can. It often takes a moment of true horror and terror to remind us of the delicate foundations our selfish behaviors are based on. Our problems, our issues, our minor complaints pale in comparison, but yet, in six months, most of us will have moved on and will be planning how to spend those first warm days of summer. I’m sure I’ll be pining over some woman I met on the internet who seemed interested but then faded very quickly because I said something about liking dusk too much. Or pining over the girl that got away. One of the two I’m sure.

It will happen though. We’ll heal and move on. We have no other choice. It is our evolutionary ability to adapt that allows us to continue. If we simply collapsed at the first tragedy we never would have moved off the African savannah after that saber-tooth tiger attack got Uncle Gak. (Poor Uncle Gak. He good. Make fire.)

 Once the tears are cried and the flowers have wilted and the last Facebook post has been made, we will have to face the harsh and uncomfortable reality that action must be taken. Logical action based on realistic goals and tangible targets. I don’t think all guns should be destroyed. I don’t believe all mental patients are dangerous. I do think that a gun in the hands of the incompetent is dangerous however. Incompetence, ignorance and a simple lack of compassion for the people that live with us on this planet needs to be addressed.

It has always been my opinion that bravery, courage and the thing that makes men and women heroes is their ability to use their words rather than just drawing a gun and shooting at the, “bad guys”. The heroes work to reform through awareness and a dedication to a world that is less violent. Bravery is not found behind the barrel of a weapon, but in the willingness to charge forward knowing that what you’re doing is for the greater good and you are willing to lay your life on the line to achieve it, even if you never get to see it. There are only a few situations in my memory that I can say where the hero was the guy with the gun. (And those just might be movies).

So it’s time to stop feeling small and start feeling brave, time to support those that need the means and tools to eradicate incompetence, ignorance and encourage compassion and the sense that we’re all in this together. 

A Spell

“Yes. You’re very pretty and I do like you”, he said.

“That’s good, thanks”, she said.

“I just wanted to tell you because it was on my mind”, he said.

“Um-hm”, she said.

Conrad put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.

“So… are we going out tonight”, asked Conrad.

“Hm? What”, she asked.

“What are we doing tonight”, asked Conrad.

“I’m going out with my friends”, she said.

Conrad watched her as she sat on the couch and continued texting with whomever she was texting. He sighed. He’d been so lonely for so long and now he’d met Sandra, who apparently couldn't give a damn about what he wanted. Still, it was better than being alone all the time.

“The girls? That’s nice”, said Conrad.

“Yeah, Marilyn has new shoes that she wants to show off”, said Sandra.

“New shoes. That’s certainly a reason to go out”, said Conrad.

“What”, asked Sandra.

“Nothing”, said Conrad.

Conrad hadn’t had a girlfriend in five years and now he was with this very beautiful woman. The woman he always thought he wanted but now, he could barely stand to look at her. She was a knockout and he could barely stand going to bars with her because she was the object of every other man’s masturbatory fantasy. He had to take it though. He was under her spell. The thought of spending one more day, one more minute alone in his apartment was as close to a death sentence as he could imagine. So if she showed the modicum of interest in him, he was overjoyed.

“Would you please get me a glass of juice”, asked Sandra.

Conrad’s heart leaped a bit as her eyes met his. Her eyes were impeccable pools of luminescent blue green. He could swear that he could see that she liked him too in those eyes.

“Of course. Orange juice o.k.”, asked Conrad.

“I guess, if that’s all you have. I’d prefer pomegranate if you had it”, she said.

“Oh, well, all I have is orange”, said Conrad.

“I said that’d be fine”, she said.

Sandra looked back at her phone and started texting again.

Conrad went to the kitchen and thought about how lonely he used to be and how miserably happy he was now. He’ll have to figure out where to get pomegranate juice though.

Chatterboxes

This morning my train ride

to work was quite vocal.

It was the most conversation

I’ve heard on a morning commute.

There was a lot of excitement

in people’s voices.

Jabber, Jabber

Christmas.

Jabber, Jabber

Law School.

Jabber, Jabber

Just a flu.

Jibber.

It was ceaseless for the

whole long ride. Waves

of different conversations

washing through the train

car like a day at the

beach.

There was a notable

optimism in the tone of

their voices, which again,

seemed very odd on a train

ride into work on a chilly

but sunny Thursday.

Rumble, Rumble

Express train.

Rumble, Rumble

Michigan Avenue

Rumble, Rumble

Physical Therapy

Ramble.

I wondered what the

tone would be later after

they’re all so exhausted

after I long day downtown.

Contented silence, perhaps?

All wrapped in red and green

bows, waiting to be placed

under a suburban Christmas tree. 

Ah One and a Two, Ah One Two, One Two

“There’s a terrible thing that creeps and crawls along the floors of my mind that’s making me wish I lived in, like New Mexico, or even Old Mexico”, said Carl.

Carl put his guitar down against the amp in John’s garage and then sat down in one of the crummy folding chairs that served as the “break area”. Carl lit a cigarette and then took a long sip from his Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy. John stood with his bass around his neck watching Carl.

“I’m saying man that I’m struggling with something and the way I imagine it is this slimy, creepy, crawly thing that’s squirming it’s way across the wood floor hallways of my mind”, said Carl.

“Dude, that sounds awesome”, smiled John.

Dave put his drum sticks down and put his head in his hands and sighed deeply.

“What’s your problem Dave”, asked Carl.

Dave looked up from the drum kit.

“Nothing man. It’s just every week we do this. You pretend to be some rock star after three beers, like some damn Jim Morrison wannabe and then John ends up driving you home and explaining to Carrie why you’re just getting home at four on a Wednesday night. All I want to do is jam for a while. I’m just tired of it”, said Dave.

John turned to him and scowled.

“Carl is the heart of this band man. Without him we wouldn't even be here man”, said John.

“This band? This band? Open your stupid eyes John, we’re in our mid-thirties, Carl’s married with a kid, I’m engaged. We’re not a band. We’re middle aged guys trying to jam in your freaking garage”, groaned Dave.

“That’s not true. If we really practiced, like more than one night a week we could really be good and I’m sure Gail could get us a gig at Sud’s and then…boom, record deal”, said John.

“You’re delusional”, said Dave.

John looked over to Carl who had slumped down in the folding chair. His cigarette was burning down un-smoked between his fingers.

“Carl man, help me out. We can make it can’t we? Hasn't that always been your dream for us? To make it as a band so we can all quit our crappy jobs and loveless relationships for hot sex with groupies and all the booze we can drink”, pleaded John.

Carl woke from his dozy state.

“Yeah man, all the way”, Carl slurred.

“See, this is a freaking joke. I only come because Kathy won’t let me play drums in our garage after ten o'clock so I gotta come here. But you know what, I think I’m done”, said Dave.

“What? C’mon dude. It’s only like, quarter to twelve”, said John.

“No man, forget it”, said Dave.

Dave grabbed his drumsticks and his coat and stormed out the garage side door.

“Dave man, c’mon. We've barely practiced”, called John.

John heard Dave’s car start and pull out of the drive way. He looked at Carl who was again slumping down in the folding chair. John looked down at the concrete floor of his garage. He unplugged his bass and sat in the folding chair next to Carl's. 

“I want to know what was slithering in your imagination Carl”, said John.

Carl snored. 

Treading

The iceberg fell away

from the larger ice mass

and into the cold dark sea.

There was a tremendous splash

as the block dipped below the

water and then bobbed

triumphantly back to the surface.

It was a long time coming for

this iceberg to be born, now free

to roam the seas as it saw fit,

to drift with the currents and

see what was just beyond the

horizons. 

It drifted further out to sea, seeing

the original land mass getting smaller

in the distance while the vastness of

the oceans got wider. It wasn’t long

before the iceberg found itself

alone in the slowly moving current.

The iceberg flowed with the waters to and fro,

its fortunes promised by the wind and tide.

It bobbed and moved through choppy

waters and calm glassy seas. Occasionally

spying a whale or dolphins breaking the

surface to catch their breath, but never to say

hi.

The sun shaped the iceberg over the years

and it became a hard, craggy place where

life could not find purchase. It stayed barren

and adrift in a sea of inconsolable callousness.

Nothing visited, nothing stayed. The iceberg

was too cold and hard and meandering

mindlessly through the rough seas.

A lonely, frozen berg of ice forever

adrift.

Growing

Reggie hadn’t clipped his fingernails in a long while. It had probably been almost two months since he last cut them and now they were obnoxiously long. He was starting to consider the length of his fingernails and an indicator as to the extent his heartbroken laziness had now extended. He was just too sad to cut his own fingernails.

She’d left him three months ago after some silly fight about the size of a certain actresses’ breasts and how he thought they were nice breasts to which she got angry at him for not thinking about her breasts. Or at least that was what Reggie thought the argument was about. He didn’t mean to say that he thought that actress had nice breasts; he thought that he was agreeing with her that they were indeed nice. Sadly, it was a trap that he walked right into.

So after hours of arguing about every little thing, where he put his shoes, why she couldn’t put her toothbrush in a certain spot in the holder, why he always wanted to stay in on Friday nights, on and on for hours until she finally said that she’d had enough of his unmotivated butt and she left. She went to her friend’s house and then at some point during the following week she came back, picked up her things, tossed her key on the dining room table and walked out. Reggie hadn’t seen or heard from her since.

So he hadn’t moved much from the couch they had bought together. He just sat or lay on it just watching TV and occasionally going to the convenience store near-by to get excessive amounts of junk food and cigarettes. At least he could work from home, so for a few hours at least he was able to take his mind off the whole thing. But once he was done the fact that she was really gone would creep back into his mind. He knew it was so typical. So break-up boring, but he was compelled to sit and wonder why that actress with the nice breasts ever even had to come on the TV. If that commercial had never come on would his girlfriend still be with him? Would she still be pestering him about when they were going to plan their summer vacation to South America? Why did the universe seem to function in this way? There didn’t seem to be anything random about it.

Reggie looked at his ever growing fingernails and remembered that he’d heard once that the fingernails continue to grow even after a person is dead. He certainly felt dead. He looked it too. When he did manage to motivate himself to take a shower he’d look at himself in the mirror. He didn’t see the youthful go getter that had initially swept Carolyn off her feet. He saw the ragged body of a man beat down by the stresses of the world and the emotional devastation of his strict upbringing.  He looked like the pale corpse of a man that had once lived but had passed too soon.

He’d talk to himself about his state. He’d insist that he wasn’t being lazy, but he was in mourning for the loss of his true love, the death of his love; his true emotional passing into heartbroken oblivion. He’d say these things to himself and wonder why of all the things he’d had to go through in his life, this was the most painful. 

Reggie reached up and scratched his nose.

“Ow”, he shouted.

His long finger nail had cut him. He touched his nose and looked at his finger and saw the thin line of blood. He got off the couch and went to the bathroom mirror and saw the slice on the right side of his nose. A small cut, slowly oozing blood. Reggie looked at his reflection in the mirror and sighed. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked for the nail clippers.

There it is Again

The word “pangs” is a good word. I think it sounds like what it is. It’s a short, sharp pain or a sudden, intense and usually a distressing feeling. Heart Pangs, or for us drinkers out there, liver pangs. For me, this morning it was desire pangs.

It was so palpable and pang worthy this morning to see the Friday casual clothing choices so many lovely women made this morning. The tight fitting stretch pants or tight jeans tucked into boots for this chilly winter day. There’s something about that outfit I find very appealing. PANG! And it hit me, the desire pangs.

It’s a cruel feeling I think, especially when one is as single as me. Although I started thinking about if I had a girlfriend and I saw these women in these desirable outfits. Would I still feel this pang or would my mind think about my girlfriend wearing a similar outfit. Of course the woman I would date would no doubt already have the boots and tight pants as part of her regular wardrobe rotation. So would my mind think about her in that outfit or would my mind wander and linger over all the varieties of women wearing the same thing.

I’ve been single for so long I just wasn’t sure. I would like to think that if I indeed have a girlfriend I wouldn’t be bothered with desire pangs for other girls and their sexy outfits. I’m a very loyal and decent boyfriend. I’ve never cheated and I’ve always considered myself to be impeccably decent. I would like to think that if I was happy with the woman I was with the pangs of my single man’s heart would have dimmed with thoughts of simply holding my girl’s hand after a long day of work.

Goodness I’m sweet. Ick.

I will admit that as I was trying to get to sleep last night I was thinking about how much I would like to be found. I’m constantly on the look-out for Mrs. A Minute With Michael but it’s exhausting. So I was thinking I’d like it if she found me.

Well, again, this is pretty much a re-hash of my usual and boring single guy complaints so I’ll cut it short here. I’ll get out to get a few drinks tonight and try not to let myself feel too alone.

Also, as a side note and unrelated completely, today is Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day. So don’t forget. 

Tribute to the Dedication of the Memory of the Poem that I Wanted to Write But Didn’t

It started out okay.

There were words about the

dryness of my hands and lips.

There were words about the

temperature of my heart as it

beat longingly in my chest.

There were words about the

scruffiness of the stubble on my

chin and grinding and gnashing of

my teeth as I slept while my

dreams worried about being a

lonely guy forever.

There was flowery language

about the soft shape of a

woman’s face and the curves of

her body. There was even a

pregnant

pause

to solidify my deep and

meaningful desire to stop

this solo and single game.

I wrote about booze and

how the drink always keeps

me up too late, sitting on my

couch wondering where I went

wrong and why I went wrong and

how come I do the things I do

when there’s so much else I could

do.

Which led me to think of a poem of

such power, such magnitude, such

importance to the advancement

of the human species, to the understanding

of the human heart and mind. It was

beautiful and stirring and it would have

made the Devil cry tears of gold and rattled

the pillars of heaven.

It would define the laughter of

children and redefine what it

meant to deeply and honestly

love someone.

Then I fell asleep.

And it was gone.

Inspired

“What should I write about today”, I asked.

“Boobs”, she texted back.

I thought about it for a moment and responded that her wish was my command.

“I was joking”, she responded.

“I know”, I said, “but it’s happening now”.

So boobs, breasts, mammary glands, fun bags, tits, tatas, a rack, melons, gazongas, boobies, titties, pillows and of course, knockers.

I like the female form; I’m a fan of breasts. I’ve always been a leg man for sure but it’s always complimented by a pair of fine breasts. The shape of a woman is important to me in the most superficial way possible. It seems shallow to say that, however, evolution has designed me to select mates that will best carry my seed and have the best likelihood of survival based on physical features. So I’m engineered to find certain aspects of the female form appealing. That includes a nice pair of breasts.

I remember the first breasts I saw as a very young man at the barber shop. I had accidentally grabbed a Penthouse magazine off the magazine shelf. I was probably five or six years old and my father and my barber watched with hilarious fascination as my expression turned from mild curiosity to complete and utter shock. I can still see them laughing their asses off as I fumbled with the excessive sexuality of this magazine.  Those S.O.B.’s.

It did however put me on the path to enjoying the beauty of the female form. It may seem funny to sexualize breasts so very much. I mean they perform such a necessary function for child rearing but seem to have an aura of mystery about them as well. When women show just the right amount of cleavage the world suddenly becomes their oyster and men their playthings. Free drinks, sure! Appetizer? Sure! Hail you a cab? Absolutely! Love me forever? Where are you going baby?

Helen of Troy may have had a face that launched a thousand ships, but it was her likely beautiful rack that thousands of men died for. Men are funny when if comes to the admiration of the breast. We try very hard not to look when the situation requires us not to and I will admit that at times it’s incredibly difficult. Especially with some of the fine business attire some women wear. I do my best to show women the proper respect, however, we men are cads and we will look at your breasts. We’ll curiously wonder what they look like unrestrained by the various support garments they hide beneath, what they feel like and if touching them would actually be pleasurable for her.

It seems so crazy that one sex’s body part (parts I suppose) has such incredible power over another sex. I never see woman checking out a guys reproductive organs during a conversation. I don’t think I’ve ever said to a woman, “My eyes are up here”, mid-conversation.  (I have no expectation that I ever will really).

I don’t want this to be construed as anything perverted. I’m merely stating that the female form is beautiful and deserves appreciation. It’s really no wonder some of the greatest works of art feature the female body prominently. The female body is a marvel and deserving of the admiration us men laud over wonderful, wonderful boobs. 

Smoke Break

Brian waited for Carol in the lobby by the bellhop station. He and Carol always had their smoke breaks at 10:15 every morning for the last two years. It was the highlight of Brian’s day really. He was completely in love with her, although he hadn’t told her.

Brian loved her frosty blue eyes, her dark brown hair and her dimples. She had the most adorable dimples and it made Brian blush to think about how much he wished he could kiss them every time she smiled. She had pretty lips too. Brian wasn’t really a fan of women that had no upper lip or showed too much gum when they smiled. Brian liked when Carol smiled, it was in his estimation, the perfect smile.

It was 10:18 and it was the latest Carol had been since they started smoking together. Brian really wasn’t much of a smoker until the day Carol asked him if he’d like to join her for one. He jumped at the chance because it meant he could get to know her better instead of pining away at her from afar. They worked together at the front desk of the hotel for a while before she got promoted to the reservations office a floor above. So the only time Brian could see her now was on their smoke break.

There were a few occasions where the company crew, Jerry, Laura, Jim, Dennis, Dave, Mary and Kathy, with Brian and Carol, would go out after work to the hotel bar and tie it on. Brian liked having drinks with Carol; she was so lively and fun and always had an interesting story to tell. She recently told a story about her dog that ate a plastic shopping bag and somehow didn’t digest it so when the dog crapped it out, it got stuck in mostly bag form so her dog was running around with a plastic bag hanging out of its ass. She told the story so well and Brian really couldn’t duplicate it but it was still very funny. She had a beautiful laugh.

Brian checked his cell phone for the time and it was 10:22 now. They only had until 10:30 to get their cigarette break in so he was starting to get worried. Since being in the reservations office she had gotten a lot busier and maybe she was stuck on the phone or something. Brian considered going to smoke without her but he was compelled to stay. He never wanted her to think that he ditched her.

Finally the elevator opened and Carol came out. She looked upset and Brian went to her.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine”, said Carol wiping her nose.

“What happened”, asked Brian.

“Let’s go outside”, she said.

They went out to the driveway under the large Intercontinental Hotel awning and lit their cigarettes. Carol took a long drag and exhaled dramatically. Brian looked at her, with as much love as he could, hoping that she would see it in his eyes and know that he would always be there for her.

“My effing boyfriend is a dick”, said Carol.

“Oh, what did Roger do now”, said Brian.

Carol had told Brian all about her boyfriend Roger since they had started smoking together. They were always on again and off again. There was always something. Brian knew that Roger was a complete asshole and would never treat Carol the way he wanted like to treat her. He hated Roger, but he was too polite to do anything more than listen to Carol talk about him.

“He promised to take me to the basketball game tomorrow, but now he backed out saying he has to work late, but I know that’s bull because he never has to work late when it’s something he wants to do, like go to his stupid brother’s bar every stupid night”, said Carol as she aggressively flicked the ashes from her smoldering cigarette.

Brian nodded and thought about how awesome it would be to go to a basketball game with Carol, maybe hold her hand.

“He’s just a selfish jerk and I think we should really break up this time. I mean, he makes all these promises but he never goes through with them and then he say’s he’ll make it up to me. I mean, sometimes he does make it up to me, like the time we went to Miami, but that was almost like, too little, too late”, said Carol.

“You did stay with him after that though”, said Brian.

“I know”, said Carol.

Carol took another long pull from her cigarette and then snubbed it out in the ashtray. Brian was still smoking his.

“I have to get back upstairs. I spent the last hour fighting with Roger and got no work done. I’ll see you later”, said Carol and she turned and went back into the hotel.

Brian said that he’d see her later and continued smoking. He watched her go back to the elevator and wondered if she saw how much he loved her in his eyes and gentle listening face.

The Realizations of Age

After my birthday, I was laying in bed considering how very I lucky I am to have such wonderful family and friends and how fortunate I am that we can all laugh so well together. Laughter is the glue that binds all humanity and the closest expression of love I think we know.  Then, as that initial joyfulness wore off, I became slightly more aware of my new age bracket. I couldn't help but think how curious it was that I have made it this far. Considering the fact that I almost choked to death on my own lunch today. (Seriously, I almost choked on a damn burrito tortilla. Missed me this time El Bandito).

Time, as they say, is fleeting. And for the most part I'm quite inclined to agree with them. I've seen the majority of my life flash before me like a Nigerian in a marathon and I've only been able to clap briefly on the sidelines as he cruised by me, barefoot. That's like, four seconds of clapping for my own life as it ran by me. I'm not even sure if he'll win.

I've never been bothered by my own mortality. I'm fully aware of the fact that someday I will die. That's never bothered me at all. What worries me is not leaving anything worthwhile behind. I'd hate to just be a minor speck of dirt on the muddy sole of the universe's shoes scraped off with a cosmic stick and flung into some black hole trash can. I'd like to be remembered.

I'm not saying I want fame or even infamy. I just don't want to be forgotten. My quest for some level of immortality seems to have started. Now I just need to find the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea and then the cup of Christ and then choose wisely. Yes, an Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade joke.  Seriously though I would like to make my mark in some way. I would rather be a chapter in history than a footnote. I wouldn't mind a statue either if we're being honest.

You see, here's the rub though, I haven't done anything to deserve being etched into the social memory. I haven't made any kind of mark or even a chip into the granite of history. I'm not special. Or at least, not special enough to step out from the shadows of populated obscurity and really be something. I mean, I've eaten my fair share of burritos without choking, wait... scratch that.

I guess the older we get, the more the world changes beneath our feet, we begin to wonder what our legacy will be. Will I get a statute or will I ever meet the right girl and have children with her, thus securing my legacy and at least a little generational immortality? Is it possible that someday, long after I'm gone, I'll be re-born because some curious high schooler finds my old book of poetry and starts passing it around among his friends, like I did with so many long gone poets? Would that be enough immortality? I don't know because I'll be dead. Curses.

I look at my friends however, those friends that have a few years on me, maybe ten or even twenty and they are still discovering things about themselves, their relationships and what they want out of their lives. It gives me hope that while I am getting older (and statue-less for the time being) I'll probably be okay. Well, unless the crippling loneliness gets to me. But even then I suppose there's still time. There's always time. Until there's none and usually by then it's too late anyway.

That's the paradox of aging I suppose, once you sort of figure it all out, you can't do much with it because your bones are half dust and your eyesight has deteriorated to the point of near blindness. I wonder if that's why I see so many older people with a wry smile on their faces. I wonder if they sit, quietly, listening and watching all the while thinking, "Suckers", before chuckling to themselves, remembering the burrito that almost killed them.

Swaddled

“What is that bright light? Why is it so hot in here? Sheesh”, I thought. I had just entered the world. It was December 1976 and I found myself in a hospital incubator.

“Doesn’t that beat all”, I thought, “Here I am, just minutes into this new world and I’m away from that lady that drank all that Coca-Cola. And I’m hot.”

I tried to say something about how uncomfortable I was in this little oven but all that came out were annoying screaming peals. It seemed I had lost the ability to talk or at least the ability to make myself understood. Perhaps these people were stupid and my level of communication had surpassed their comprehension. Yes, that certainly had to be it. I mean, come on, I’m just trying to explain that it’s very warm in here and I’d like to see that Coca-Cola lady.

I’m not sure how I knew what the year was; I’m guessing it was based on the clothing trends of the time. That and all the brown and rust colored furniture. I couldn’t wait to upchuck on that stuff. Although, I’m not sure anyone would notice. I tried to stand up and get my bearings but it seemed my legs wouldn’t cooperate with me. I seemed to be wrapped very tightly in some blankets. I tried to kick at them but they would not loosen. I tried again to express my discomfort but my pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears. Clearly these animals were too primitive to get me.

“Not even a damn magazine to read”, I thought. I tried to scan the room around me, to see if there were any signs or indications as to where I was, or even who I was. I did find a small blue index card above my head; however it seemed I had also lost the ability to read for some reason. That was just frustrating.

I had nothing to do but look worried. I was able to get my arms up and I could see that they were quite small. This was also frustrating as I wasn’t sure how anyone could accomplish anything with such small arms and hands. I could make a fist however, so I shook it as hard as I could to try and get some attention. It was the wrong attention though because a giant monster with a camera for a face loomed over me and snapped the first picture of me. I did my best to convey a look of quiet dignity, but I fear I might have just resembled a cranky old man.

“Great, a mug shot already”, I thought. I must have committed some crime. Some heinous act to be in this swaddled position. “Curses”, I thought.

A lady in white entered the room. She lifted me from the incubator and I felt myself rising up to a great height. This was intolerable. I tried to fight her but my flailing was calmed with a soothing voice and some nice patting on the back. I was placed in a rolling jail cell complete with thick bars and I was moved through a busy and noisy hallway.  I was reminded of some southern spiritual as I rolled along, sweet chariot, and then I wasn’t quite sure how or why I was reminded of a southern spiritual song. What’s a song?

I was wheeled into a smaller room and I heard a familiar sound. It was that Coca-Cola lady’s voice. I recognized it instantly. She was very happy to see me and I must be honest, it was nice to see her too. She told me that she was my mother and that my name was Michael.

“Michael”, I thought, “I can get used to that.”

I fell asleep quite quickly and happily. 

What if there’s no Chimney?

Zuzu poked at the dry savannah with a stick. A little cloud of reddish dirt was swept up in the hot air and blown out toward the edges of her village. The drought was bad this year and the ground was parched. Zuzu shooed a cloud of flies away and continued poking at the dry Earth. She was feeling sad after hearing the Christian missionary teacher talk about someone named Santa.

She was with the other eight year old girls by the church earlier that day. They were making friendship bracelets like Miss Karen had shown them in art class. She was also waiting for her little brother who was in class with Miss Nancy. It was her job to make sure her bother went to class twice a week. She decided to peek in through the door to see how much longer they would be, she still had chores to do at home. That was when she heard Miss Nancy mention how this Santa man would bring presents to all the world’s children if they were good. Miss Nancy was talking to the six year olds, telling them that if they followed God’s word and were good or did good deeds then Santa would put their name on the nice list and come December 25^th, they would have presents from Santa. But if they were naughty and did bad things in the eyes of God, then Santa would not bring them anything but a black rock.

This was a revelation. This Santa man could know if children all over the world were being good or bad and had the power to bring presents or not. Apparently this Santa man lived up north and rode some thing called a sleigh and was magic. Zuzu didn’t know what a sleigh was but she imagined it was something like the chariots she had seen painted on her father’s ceremonial shield. It was simply too good to be believed.

She quickly told the other girls what she had just overheard and they laughed at her. The other girls had heard of this Santa man and they had never seen him before. It was just another story the missionaries told to scare the children. Zuzu wanted to believe though. She was so good, taking care of her brother and cleaning for her mother and getting food for her ailing father. She was a very good girl and she was certain she would be on the nice list that Miss Nancy had described.

When her brother got out of class she asked him what else Miss Nancy had told them about the Santa man. Adame said the Santa man would come during the night when everyone was asleep and come down the chimney and put toys made by little elf monsters under a tree that was growing inside the house. She asked if Adame was sure about that since they had neither a chimney nor a tree growing in the house. Adame said that was Miss Nancy had told his class.

Zuzu walked her brother home without asking anymore about the Santa man. She thought she would ask her mother why they never heard of this before and why they didn’t have a chimney or a tree in the house. When they got home though her mother was too busy making dinner and couldn’t be bothered with Zuzu’s silly questions. She had water to fetch from the pump and that line would be long.

Zuzu continued poking at the dirt with a stick while waiting for her turn at the water pump. She was trying not to be upset about the Santa man. Why hadn’t he visited them before? Why wasn’t she on the nice list? Why was she just hearing about this? She sat there for a long while until her father came along looking for her.

“What is taking so long with the water”, asked Zuzu’s father.

“There is a line”, she replied.

Zuzu’s father looked over at the pump and there was no line. He looked back at Zuzu as she sat on the ground, still poking at the dirt. He sat down next to her and asked her if she was alright.

“Yes father”, she said with a slight sniffle.

“Adame told us of his day in class today”, said her father.

Zuzu shrugged and wiped her nose on her arm.

“I had heard of the Santa Claus too”, said her father.

Zuzu looked up at her father and met his sparkling eyes. His eyes were always so bright, twinkling in the late dusky sun.

“I was about Adame’s age when the missionaries told us about the magical Santa Claus and Christmas. A day to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ with gifts from a jolly fat white man”, said Zuzu’s father.

“Why haven’t we seen the Santa man? Why has he never been to visit us”, asked Zuzu.

Zuzu’s father took a deep breath and put his arm around his small daughter and pulled her closer.

“The world is a very large place. There are many people that live on the world and they all believe in things that cannot be seen with the eye. We believe that your ancestors fought the great lion and tamed the wild dog but none of us were there to see it. It is a legend that gives us strength in the present to carry on and do the best we can with what we have”, said Zuzu’s father.  

Zuzu looked at her father, not understanding what he was trying to say. He cleared his throat and continued.

“This Santa, he is legend. He was made to encourage people to be nice and good in honor of Jesus’ birthday. You are a good girl and you do not need a fat white man to bring you presents to prove it. You’re mama and I love you very much and you and your brother were the best presents we could have ever received. No jolly fat white man brought you to us”, he said.

Zuzu looked at her father and dropped the stick to the ground, threw her arms around his neck and hugged him

“Now, let’s get the water before your mama gets mad”, smiled her father.

Okay Christmas

I'm concerned for Christmas this year. This time of amity and peace on Earth and goodwill seems to have been brushed aside in favor of ringing cash registers instead of sleigh bells. I like giving and getting presents but the madness has seemed to reach ever higher peaks. The appearance of Christmas music and decorations before the Thanksgiving turkey leftovers are even finished has me miffed.

I understand the wanting to get a jump on holiday shopping, but does it have to be so commercialized? I can barely watch TV due to the intensity of Christmas advertising smearing its way across the screen. I like Christmas things, like lights and cozy fireplace mantles strung with jaunty stockings and a little garland. I like a good Nativity scene and maybe a little caroling, but not until December at least. And then, only for two weeks before the actual event.

I'm no fool and I am aware of the storied history of the Commercialization of Christmas. Heck, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is not a beloved children's classic but a marketing ploy by Montgomery Ward from 1939. (Although it may be beloved) So there's been no shortage of using Christmas to sell things. It's just this current marketing blitz that is getting to me. It seems it's impossible to go less than two minutes without seeing something Christmas related.

Work has not made it any easier as they have now switched from the smooth jazz overhead to 24 hours of Christmas music. It's enough to make a man want to take a hostage. I had a job many years ago where some of the employees and I started a revolution to escape the constant barrage of Christmas music. We were swiftly defeated and told to leave the radio alone. It was a sad day. The constant music makes enjoying the holiday very difficult. Even though today appears to be the first full day of Christmas music, I'm already sick of Cindy Lauper explaining to me why it feels like Christmas, even though I seriously do not feel like it's Christmas at all. A rhythmic guitar solo hardly ever makes me feel like Christmas.

I've also been very jaded by the numerous Christmas miracle movies I've seen throughout my life. The last minute perfect gift, the realization that greatest gift of all is family or that Santa is in fact, real and will help me get that book published because of my unfailing belief that all men are indeed capable of good deeds.  It often makes me wonder when my Christmas miracle will arrive. I think at this point, my Christmas miracle would be meeting a girl that wants to hang around with me at least through the New Years Eve kiss and maybe longer.

So everybody take it easy regarding Christmas and remember that ultimately, it is about loving each other, even when there's no room at the Inn and we have to sleep in the barn just so we can be present for the Roman census.

The Colder Heart

Charlie shivered in his unmarked police car and checked his watch. The crime scene guys were running late. He chalked it up to the poor winter weather. Winter had set in faster that most wanted to believe. Everyone knew that it was coming but no one really wanted it to come. Winter is like that really annoying guy you just have to invite to parties just because he was your mother’s best friend’s kid that you’ve just known all your life but honestly can’t stand. He double dips in the salsa and tells stories about his dry scalp medicine. He has moments of brilliance and is good for an occasional laugh but is usually about as charming as a mallet to the head.

A light frost was covering the ground and Charlie dreaded getting out of the car to stalk around the body of the poor guy that seemed to have met his untimely end in this dead end alley. It was cold and blustery, a hard silvery gray sky blocking out any sunshine. Charlie had eight other cases on his desk at the moment that also needed his attention and sitting in his car wasn’t exactly the best use of his time. He checked his watch again and sighed. A light snow started to float down.

The crime scene van finally pulled up into the alley behind Charlie and the techs got out. Charlie put his hat on and stepped out of his car.

“Took you guys long enough”, said Charlie.

“Sorry, we couldn’t find this alley and traffic was just terrible”, said one of the Techs.

“What have we got here”, asked the other.

Charlie looked over at the body on the hard alley ground. He didn’t want to imagine the gruesomeness of this guy’s death. It was something he was very good at however. He was amazingly cursed at imagining the particular details of a person’s demise. It came to him like a series of still photos. He could see the deceased, once alive, standing hearty and hale involved in what looked to be a physical dispute. One that turned incredibly violent.

“Let me show you”, said Charlie.

The techs moved over toward the body, careful to watch their steps so as to not disturb any part of the scene. Charlie moved slightly behind them describing what details they had so far, but they hadn’t moved the body yet because of the weather. They didn’t want any evidence that might have landed under the body to get lost to the cold winter wind or this freshly falling snow.

They began their examination of the scene, taking photos and documenting every inch around the body. Then they got to the body itself. By then, Charlie’s partner Nathan had returned with hot coffee from the donut shop and his usual morbid sense of humor.

“How long is it going to take to defrost this stiff”, asked Nathan.

Charlie just gave him a short but intense stare and that quieted Nathan. Nathan looked away toward the street and Charlie returned his attention to the techs as they started to turn the body over.

“I can’t believe it; this guy is frozen to the alley. He’s stuck”, said one tech.

The two techs pulled and shoved the body until he finally came loose with a crunch and fell over onto its back. The techs recoiled and slipped slightly on the frosty ground. Charlie stepped forward to get a better look. The body’s chest was frozen solid with hardened blood. The clothes were shredded and his chest cavity was wide open, but frozen solid. The rib cage looked like it had been torn open. The lungs were gone and it looked like the heart was missing.

“Did it just tear out when you flipped it”, asked Nathan to the cowering techs.

“No, it’s just not there”, said Charlie.

Snow started to fall thicker and faster. 

Things I’m Thankful For

With Thanksgiving set for tomorrow I decided I should try and describe the things I am thankful for. First and foremost I am thankful for an understanding employer who has wished me nothing but the best regarding my recent dental difficulties. I was terribly nervous they would come down on me for taking so much time off just a little over 30 days within their employ. They have been really great about it and I appreciate it.

Secondly, I am thankful for a great dentist who fit me in quickly and took care of me and will continue to take care of me. I know these two things seem a bit odd to be number one and two on my thankful list but considering the incredible pain and discomfort I have been in the last few days my appreciation for them runs quite deep.

Thirdly I am thankful for my mother and sister. They both expressed the appropriate amount of familial care. I know they would have done anything for me if I had asked and I love them for it. I truly appreciate them. I’m nearly 36 years old and there’s still something quite comforting about a mother’s voice while one is in pain.

I’m of course thankful for my friends who reached out to me and offered me encouragement and wishes of well being while I’ve been dealing with this discomfort. It’s really very nice of them. None of their well wishes included a back rub or some heavy cuddling, but that’s not what friendship is all about.

Damn it.

(Clearly, only women friends reached out to me personally).

Thanks ladies. You’re the best.

I am also thankful for this gift of writing. It’s the thing I know best and love most and I consider it an honor to write these pieces on a near daily basis. Although, I’m often quite surprised by which pieces do get a reaction and which don’t. Either way, I am happy to write and very thankful I have the time and ability. Or at least what I consider to be the ability.

I’m thankful for catharsis. This recent incident with my rotting, disgusting teeth has given me a great deal of pause and time to think about the way I take care of myself. I realized that I drink too much Coca-Cola and that isn’t healthy. I also realized that too much whiskey is dangerous for your health, as is the heroic amounts of beer I tend to drink. Thinking that drinking a 12 pack on a Friday and Saturday night is somehow acceptable behavior and would have no ill effects to my overall health is completely absurd. There is always a cost and this time it was just my teeth. My consumption will have to be tempered considerably.

I’m thankful for this tooth incident oddly enough. It’s given me the courage and determination to try and stop smoking for good this time. I do enjoy smoking a lot and it’ll be tough to stop but for the sake of my continued health I just think it’s time. It’s the birthday present I’ll give myself. I’ll just have to find new excuses to remove myself from boring and ridiculous conversations or situations.

So it seems I’m thankful for quite a bit this Thanksgiving. I hope that you have the opportunity to figure out what you’re thankful for without the excruciating pain of a giant abscess on your upper gum and the discovery of a dead tooth. I wish you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving. 

For my overseas readers (if any) I'm sure your familiar with the American Thanksgiving tradition. But if you'd like to know more please see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thanksgiving 

Our Bodies Try to Murder Us

Over the weekend a major revolt occurred in my body. Specifically in my mouth as half of my teeth simply decided that they no longer wished to be part of the whole, chewing and smiling thing. Instead they wanted to cause me pain. Immobilizing pain to which I was regulated to my couch yesterday. My teeth throbbed and pulsed with each heartbeat and there was no relief. I brush, I floss, I see the dentist, and yet genetics still wins out and my teeth will win their painful revolution.

I’m on so much Ibuprofen that I can barely feel a thing. My head is cloudy and I’m sleepy. I’m hungry because I can’t chew. I haven’t had anything but mashed potatoes yesterday afternoon. It’s hell. But I do have an emergency dentist appointment set for tomorrow morning so hopefully I can regain some mouth related dignity. I’m sure there will be drilling and blood and stern looks from my dentist. But I don’t seem to have any choice in the matter. Through the magic of genetics, my whole family, mother’s side and father’s side all have cursed teeth. I’m lucky I don’t have a tooth growing through my damn cheek.

I’m sure the Whiskey doesn’t help. I think I’ll have to quit whiskey. Saddest of all though is I’ll probably have to quit drinking Coca-Cola. A drink I’ve loved since my first sip. I drink way too much of it on a daily basis and I’m sure its sugary hell completely contributed to the rapid decline of the state of my teeth. I do love it so. 

Yesterday was probably the first day is years that I didn’t have a Coca-Cola. It wasn’t all that hard to not have one considering the immense pain I was constantly in. Right now in fact I’m having a black coffee to avoid any possibility of sugar. It’s terrible. I do like my sugar. It is odd because I don’t eat any sugary snacks, save the occasional chocolate chip cookie, or even more rarely, cheesecake. I don’t eat candy bars or suck on candy snacks. So I always found my rapid tooth decay rather baffling.

I’m in my cubicle, counting the hours until I’m in that dentist’s chair, looking for the sweet relief a dentist can provide. It would happen right before the eating-est holiday of the year too. I’ll be lucky if I have the tooth capacity to have some corn and cranberries. I might end up with a turkey smoothie or perhaps some stuffing soup.

I think it’s pretty clear that my body is trying to kill me. I’ve got bad teeth, gout, broken toes and fingers, cysts, bad eye sight, and chronic bronchitis. I’m pretty surprised I don’t have diabetes or jaundice. I’m Frankenstein’s Monster without the having to have died and be reassembled. I’m a mess. 

Luckily though, it seems the majority of my ailments are fixable. Or at least fixable enough that I can cease the constant throbbing pain in my mouth. Time for more pills. 

The Desire Disease

I want to reach out to her,
to touch her, physically
and emotionally. I want
her fingers to linger
on my arm for just a
while longer than would
normally be appropriate.

I want to taste her kiss
and feel her body up
against mine as we stand
in a doorway on a rainy
summer night.

I want to listen to her
voice as she tells me about
the time she was in
college and they got into
so much trouble for that thing
they did with shaving cream.

I want her to tell me
that everything will be
alright and I want it to
be true.

I want her to count the
minutes till she can see me
again.
I want her to be real.

It's desire. Burning within,
making these long days
even longer than they should
be.

It's cliche to sit sadly at the
window and look out at a world
so in love and not feel a part of it.
Reality won't convince anyone to
do anything they don't think is
right and no matter my desires,
neither can I.

It's fun to try though.

It’s Sometimes So Unreal

There are mornings in this life that can leave one baffled about the peculiar nature of the universe and why it’s constantly trying to destroy us. I had a rough night, tossing and turning in my bed. I was frustrated with thoughts of my future and embarrassed by things in my past and it prevented me from getting any decent sleep. Plus, the unregulated radiators in my apartment seem to feel that Sahara hot is the appropriate setting for the evenings. I’ve got my pan of water on one radiator to try and cut some of the dryness but frankly that looks so prehistoric. I may have to invest in a humidifier.

But back to the universe trying to destroy us; it seems that in physics, positive and negative forces are constantly smashing into each other essentially creating the fabric of time as it is destroyed and re-made every single nanosecond. Among this beyond microscopic universe is how we perceive time and reality, and it just tries to screw us.

I woke up a little late this morning, which as my loyal readers know, is a terrible curse for me. I sleep like the dead wish they could sleep. I hear nothing, two alarm clocks and nothing. I live just off a very busy street with trucks and fire engines constantly rattling and wailing by, and I don’t hear a thing. The universe thinks it’s hilarious to speed time up in the mornings so when I do finally wake up I have precious little time to get myself together and get out the door so I can make it to my train on time. I often think I can hear the universe laughing at me. 

As I rush through my “S’s” (shit, shave, shower) I make bumbling mistakes that the universe thinks is mildly amusing. I somehow turn into Jerry Lewis and I fumble with the water temperature in the shower, my towel, and then my shoes won’t cooperate while getting dressed, then I have to hunt for my keys, or change for the bus, or forget that I wanted to charge my phone. Perhaps the universe is French.

This morning I rushed through my progressions still wondering why it takes three whole minutes to put my shoes on. I mean, three minutes, why does it take three minutes? From putting socks on till tying up the laces takes three minutes? Why does the universe think that’s funny? I suppose if I were watching from the comfort of the vastness of space, I might think it was funny too. I’m sure I make some incredibly funny faces.

In my haste however, it seems I forgot my work key card somewhere on my dining room table. This is quite rare for me because I don’t lose things like that. I never lose lighters or pens. I still have an expired gift card in my wallet for some reason. When I got to work and went to slide my card through the little card reader, my card was not to be found. This sent me into a panic because, as I said, I don’t lose these types of things. I could have sworn I heard childlike chuckling from somewhere as I searched through my wallet. The universe had managed to find a new way to screw me over and it was having a great time with it.

So as I finally sit in my cubicle, still steaming about my missing key card, I wonder about the unreality of reality. Nothing I write seems all that far fetched in comparison to the crazy things that can happen to the average person on any given average day. In the individual scheme of things, the minor transgressions and practical jokes of the universe seem monumental, but when compared to the mass of humanity, it’s very petty and small.

Still, I’m pretty annoyed at the universe right now. Although the universe keeps reminding me, much like Family Circus the universe is always “Not Me”, and I can’t blame the universe for not sleeping well, waking up late, forgetting my key card and keeping me perpetually single. Which I find evermore annoying.

The universe has seemed very unreal to me lately. As I ride the train and the bus or in this cubicle; I feel so disconnected to the people around me. I sit in my apartment at night and the loneliness of the universe seems to sneak in through the nooks and crannies of my drafty windows. I’m distracted by reality and its gravity but detached from it, as if it wasn't really there at all.  It's like when you look into the eyes of a cat. You're not sure if the cat is actually looking back at you or just through you and thinking about ways to make you misplace things. 

Whaling

Call me Michael. It wasn't education that I sought but rather to live. I wanted to suck the very marrow out of the bones of life and slather myself in experience. I was hoping to make my mark in the history books like Lord Nelson, maybe lose an eye or an arm in the heat of some raging sea battle versus pirates or criminals or maybe the French.

It just so happened that I fell in with a right surly lot on the whaling vessel the S.S. Insurance Adjuster. It was populated with a mean and odorous crew of thieves and beggars. There was a giant tattooed woman named Girlguay that carried a giant ivory spear and if you so much as brought her flowers and tried to ask her out for a spot of tea she’d run you through and leave your bloated bleeding corpse to bake in the New England sunshine. She had a bone through her nose and her face was tattooed in insurance acronyms. Her growl was as fierce as any thunderclap in the sky overhead. It’s rumored she was cannibal, which only makes her more attractive.

Upon my arrival aboard the S.S. Insurance Adjuster I was met by the young chief mate, Deniedbuck. He is a righteous man of worthy build, but yet somehow always suspicious of everyone. He was instrumental in my education aboard this whaling vessel and if it weren’t for his tutelage I surely would have perished.  He is the voice of reason and sensibility among the raging torrents of greedy self entitlement that fills the very waters we sail. It was he who introduced me to the Captain.

The Captain was Mehab. He was quick to tell their purpose and to assign me my whaling skiff. He was of deep voice and unbridled, seething hate for one particular whale. His eyes were twitchy and scanned me up and down. He was a curious man in his stovepipe hat and thick black bearded chin. He told me we were setting sail after a particular whale. A whale named Roger Cock.

It took all my metal not to laugh out loud when I heard the Captain mention his name. Apparently he was a very vicious and devious claimant, who had stolen the Captain’s right leg and replaced it with an elm tree branch while the Captain was napping. It was the Captain’s only motivation for this journey.  I began to wonder if this marrow sucking voyage would just suck.

We left harbor and set out for the Sea of Chicago intent on a course for the damnation of us all. I had stowed my meager gear below and was on deck when the madness began with the Cook and the second mate, Stubby. It seems they were engaged in a spirited debate regarding the statute of limitations of deep resentment and hatred toward the elusive whale claimants. I chimed in with a hopeful note of sympathy for these beleaguered sea creatures only to be rebuked and shamed for having any compassion at all.

 “You’re weak and small”, said Stubby.

“I’m just optimistic, that doesn't make me weak”, I said.

“Swab the deck you scurvy sea dog”, said Stubby.

It was then we heard that familiar call from the crow’s nest.

“Whale! I see its breaching claimant’s back! Whale!”

The sailors scattered to their skiffs, harpoons at the ready and launched from the S.S. Insurance Adjuster, hell bent on the end of Roger Cock. The Captain himself, in his luscious hate, was the first to launch after the beast as it dove and surfaced across the monochromatic waters.

“…to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee,”, called the Captain as he lined up his harpoon at the groaning and complaining beast.

The Captain hurled his harpoon, only too late to realize the rope it was attached was wrapped around his good leg. The harpoon stuck in the beast and as it dove, pulled the Captain from his skiff and into the cold, deadly waters. The beast, now enraged, filed a complaint with the Department of Insurance and completely obliterated the S.S. Insurance Adjuster. I was lucky to survive when the ship was capsized and it was only through my love of words was I able to survive to now tell this tale.

“On this day in 1851, Harper & Brothers in New York published Moby-Dick, by Herman Melville. The book flopped, and it was many years before the book was recognized as an American classic.” – This Day in History – The History Channel.