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.