Still Hot

Larry just couldn’t cool off. It was a cool morning; less than 66 degrees, but Larry was still sweating. He’d tried a cool glass of milk but the sweat on his upper lip made it taste funny. He took a cold shower but as soon as he got out he started shivering from the heat. He’d stood naked in front of the air conditioner and cranked it up as high as it would go but his back side was still drenched in sweat. He took his temperature with a thermometer and it was normal. So it wasn’t a fever. He started to wonder if he was dying.

He fell back onto his bed hoping it would be cool, but it wasn’t. It seemed just as hot as everything else in his house. Larry could swear he could see the wavy heat lines coming off his body. His legs seemed heavy and his head felt like it weighed 200 pounds. He tried to clear his throat but it felt like his esophagus had been replaced with shards of glass and sand. He stood up and wavered as he felt another wave of heat course through his body.  He wiped his sweaty nose.

Larry’s phone started to ring and he went to answer it. It was his boss, wondering why he hadn’t come to work yet. They were all expecting his presentation on the Care Management account and Mr. Perkins was waiting. Larry tried to explain that he was too hot; that it was just too hot to worry about Mr. Perkins and the Care Management account. His boss didn’t seem to understand the words Larry was using because he just kept saying, “What?”

Larry hung up on him. He knew that he had probably just been fired. It was okay though; he didn’t much care for the job anyway. He went to his window and tried to see if there was any kind of cool morning breeze that would wash over him and provide some relief from this unyielding heat. There was none. There was only the constant drone of the world going to work. His hair was soaked with sweat. He started to feel like he was covered in ants, fire ants, and they were trying to eat their way across his naked skin.

He ran back to his shower as fast as his heavy legs could carry him and turned on the cold water again. He hopped in and could swear steam started coming off him as the cold water met his flesh. He thought there might have been a sizzling sound. There were no ants on him. The cold water provided a moment to clear his head.

“Hell”, he said out loud, “I died and went to hell”.

He then dismissed this idea since he was pretty sure hell wouldn’t have cold water readily available in the shower, although that was just Catholic hell. What if the Greeks were totally right about Hades? Maybe it was his curse to be forever uncomfortably hot.  Perhaps it was his punishment for being so lusty in life. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty to dismiss sweet Connie DiCastro that night after prom just because she was just a little overweight and not one of the “hot” girls. Maybe he was drinking too much coffee. Maybe he was putting too much Tabasco on everything. Maybe the sins of his mind were somehow made real and this was his enflamed curse.

Larry felt his grip on the world loosen. The cold water was now useless as he still felt his body was on fire. He thought the tub was filling with his sweat faster than the water rocketing out of the shower head. He threw open the shower curtain and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and screamed. 

Hard Days

Today I dressed in a very patriotic fashion. I’m very red, white and blue. I also remembered to wear my American Flag lapel pin. I do this because I do remember what happened 11 years ago so very clearly. In the few years I’ve been writing this blog I’ve written about September 11, 2001 several times. It’s just one of those things that will always be a part of me. I do what I can to remember and if that involves wearing something patriotic then I will do it.

I still get teary eyed thinking about that day. All the lives lost, that would be lost following the attacks, the years of war and terror that permeated the globe for so long. It’s hard not to feel sad about it all. I certainly wouldn’t compare my feelings of sadness to anyone directly affected by these tragedies. I didn’t know anyone personally in the towers or at the Pentagon or on board any of the planes. All the guys I knew that went to war all made it back safely too. So my sadness is tempered with a sense of gratefulness for the losses I didn’t have to experience.

Every generation has something tragic to mark the passage of time. The Kennedy assassinations, the Challenger accident, the first Trade Center bombing, Columbine, 9/11, earthquakes, hurricanes’, tornadoes, some manmade, some the result of nature, but there’s something to mark the time when we were one thing and in a few hours were changed forever into something new. When we looked in the mirror our reflection was a little different, perhaps more serious; perhaps with a sense of the fragility of our lives and of our time.

I complain about the tragedy of my life all the time but I like to think I do so with a sense of respect for those that have persevered and passed before me. I think that I complain because I know that they struggled to give me the opportunity to have the right to complain. I know that if they had imagined me, they would want more for me, for everyone. No life should be spent in a small cubicle being harped at my little Napoleons and Isabella’s. That seems to cheapen the blood spilled over the annuls of history.

Some days are harder than others, but today is especially hard for a lot of Americans. We went from a country about to focus on its domestic policies to one focused on kicking ass. American’s like kicking ass, we’re pretty damn good at it. I’m not saying that all American’s are war mongers but we do seem to enjoy a good fight. American soldiers are volunteers. There is no draft anymore. Our troops are men and women that put their lives on hold and dedicated themselves to the defense of their country. So citizens feel connected to them in an intangible way. We love them and do what we can to honor their sacrifice. There has been a lot of sacrifice.

11 years later and I still sometimes cringe when an airplane echoes overhead. The fear and vulnerability that day exposed is still with me. The bravery and courage and fortitude showed on that day by so many Americans still makes my chest swell and prideful tears tempt the corners of my eyes. The further we move into the future from that September day doesn’t dilute what I feel. What we all must feel. It’s only the generations after us that will have trouble connecting to it. The children born after 9/11/01 will not be able to grasp the significance of that day; much like I’ll never be able to fully grasp the emotions of 12/07/1941 and Pearl Harbor, or 11/22/1963 and JFK’s assassination.   They were all hard days.

I can only hope the hard days get less as the world matures and hard days fade into hard memories. 

Faster than Ever

Two o’clock in the morning

was dominated by the

rhythmic thudding of a neighbors

bed banging against some deeply

shared apartment wall.

I’m not sure if it was sex

or some kid rhythmically pounding

against the walls

to keep the doldrums of sleeplessness

at bay. It sure kept my sleep at

bay.

If it was sex, then that couple

should be named

Mr. & Mrs. Metronome. Either way,

it kept me awake for far too

long.

When I finally slept, it was fitful

and seemed dreamless. When I woke

I found mystery scratches and strange pains,

a twinge in the neck and an

out of breath feeling.

I realized it was Monday morning

and I felt a twist in my bowels. I felt

the stress of the day already mounting

itself firmly on my shoulders.

I looked in the bathroom mirror and

saw how worn out my face looked,

how many gray hairs were jutting out

of my head. They’re unruly and have a

path all of their own.

I took a breath and tried to steady

my will. I looked at the clock and

20 minutes had vanished in an instant

and I had nothing to show for it. 

Don’t Tell Me

A crumpled cringe came

over my face when I

heard about your good

news.

I felt a twitter in my heart

and my cheeks flushed

with bubbling blood while

a panicked sweat burst on

my forehead.

Of course I’m pleased,

how could I not be?

I am the most ecstatic

I’ve ever been.

You made coffee.

I couldn’t believe it.

You never make coffee.

It’s terrible, but you made it.

I’m proud you made the effort.

You didn’t make the coffee?

You’re in love?

I guess that’s good news too.  

For someone.  

So

who

made

the

coffee?

Investment

Nothing brings a frustrated tear to my eye faster than being micro-managed. I can’t stand it.  If there was a way to not have to deal with it I totally would. But life being what it is at this time I am forced to suffer under the cruel and microscopic management of my current employer. The more I am told what to do the more I become resistant. It’s the rebel in me. I cannot stand being told what to do, especially when I know what I’m supposed to be doing. It’s like telling the rain that it is not getting things wet enough.

It makes me wonder what I might have been involved with in my past lives. (If there are such things as past lives). There is a deeply rooted rebellious streak in me that I often struggle to keep under control. You say it’s blue, I say it’s azure. You say it’s nice out I say it might rain. You say things are pretty bad, I say they could be worse. There’s something of a contrarian in me. I do try to keep it under wraps though with a fun loving sunny disposition but underneath I’m a roiling, boiling crock pot (crack pot) of disgruntled rebels.

I didn’t make any investments in my future. I had simply assumed that life would happen whether I was prepared for it or not. I’ve been proven right so far but it certainly hasn’t paid off as well as I had foolishly imagined. I think I was still pretty optimistic in my 20’s. I was still vibrant and relevant and everything revolved around my demographic. It was the late 1990’s and everything seemed possible, so why bother to make any real investment. I was going to be an artist. Either a writer or an actor or a writing actor or an actor writer; it was all possible and any job I had was just that, a job. It wasn’t anything serious.

The dividends of that sort of thinking have not paid off and now I’m middle to late thirties and I’m being micro-managed by a nearly blind, bad typing Napoleon. So I rebel like a 20-something. I pout and I complain and put off dealing with this little Elba resident until I can calm down enough to complete the task as requested.  It takes a lot of my soul away. It adds to this feeling of being defeated and harnessed to a cart full of boulders, destined for the troll mines.

I’m told there’s always time to change. Change is what people do when they have money; or at least enough security to change their station in life. I’m broke and not so secure. I wouldn’t survive a month of unemployment. My life would certainly change then. This blog would change to a Minute with Homeless Michael in no time. No longer would there be stories about seeing pretty women on the train. They’d all be about that awesome piece of bread I found in the park that was unfortunately taken away by pigeons and my archenemy, squirrels.

I feel a certain amount of regret I wasted so much time dealing with micromanagers instead of doing things that could make my life better. Of course, what would I write about if my life was perfectly happy? How boring would that be? I’m sure reading my complaints about my crappy job aren’t all that entertaining either, but at least I get to write things about Troll mines and epic battles with bread stealing squirrels.

I’m still going to try though, to get out of the doldrums of this micromanaged life however. As Popeye famously stated, “I can stands what I can stands but I can’t stands no more”.

Is it wrong that I occasionally rooted for Bluto as well as Dr. Smith on Lost in Space? See, Rebel.

Struggle

This morning I’ve struggled against the tides of complete and utter blankness. This page has been covered in meaningless and empty words over and over again. I’ve been trying to find a story or a poem or even a clever anecdote to tell but this page has been mocking me all morning.

There’s nothing that comes to mind that can convey the right feeling or words today. I’m hot, I’m hungry, and I’m searching for something to sustain my soul. Instead I get a lot of phone calls and e-mails and mail and more e-mails and more phone calls and before you know it I’m drowning in a rolling sea of work. This is not what I want of course.

I’d always prefer to sit here and write about the amazing adventures of say… Arnold the Space Trucker. He’s a regular Joe chucking his way through the cosmos delivering and picking up all sorts of space related travel items. His only companion is the sparkling voice of Velma, the logistics manager at the Spaceco trucking company, over the communicator and she soothes Arnold’s bleeding heart.  

See, you’d read that. However, poor Arnold never got past the first paragraph because I couldn’t figure out why I should even care about Arnold. Maybe it was the name, maybe I should have called him Jet or Sven or maybe Brock. Maybe then he wouldn’t have seemed so pitiful. He would have been a hard case then. A tough, scarred up, gun toting Wildman with no rules but his own. Jet or Sven or Brock would go about loving gals in every space port and then leave them with his own special brand of birth control; murder.

Arnold on the other hand would have been a mopey, wide eyed romantic, carefully planning his next visit to Omega 12 to see Lurleen and maybe finally have the courage to tell her that he loved her, before that rotten Biff Brohanson arrives with his brand new Space Cadillac and whisks her away and then probably murders her, or something like that.

Yes, this page is a complete and total mockery of what I’d like to do every day. So any fine young, impressionable, beautiful women looking to get this served up every day, let me know. Oh yeah. Hot stuff here. Sizzling.

Uncluttered

There’s something to be said for a long holiday weekend spent mulling over the complexities of single life; most of that time spent in either a drunken aggravated stupor or laying on the couch trying to feel better about being in a drunken stupor so often. I have to say that thanks to some wise words I was able to get over some of the issues I’ve been having as of late involving the fairer sex.

I’ve been kind of a prick lately when it comes to my alleged moral justifications regarding the behavior of others and how it was making me feel. I was reminded that I should not judge other people so harshly. I was reminded that I cannot expect people to live a life by my rules. Everyone lives by their own moral code and what may seem immoral to me might not be for someone else. I can only hold myself to a certain standard and not others.

It was as if a great weight was lifted off my chest. While I might not agree with everything people may do or say with their lives it is not my place to judge them. It’s their life and I shouldn’t be so arrogant to think I know better. I do however, still have to watch out for my feelings and be upfront with things that do bother me. I can’t expect people to change based on my feelings but at least they’ll be aware and have the opportunity to make any changes they deem appropriate based on their own conscience.

I can’t make people change however and it’s wrong of me to want to do so. People are people and if I don’t like or agree with a person I can always choose to remove them from my life. That’s not to say I’ll abandon anyone who might have a contrary opinion to mine, I’m all for hearing a different opinion. But if there is a fundamental character flaw that I don’t like, I don’t have to subject myself to it. I have the ability to remove myself from that situation.

I have to refocus my energies on doing things that make me happy and not dwell on the things that make me sad or upset me. My mother is famous for saying that we have to choose to be happy and it can take a lot of effort. But in the end, it’s worth it.

I will have to stop wearing my heart on my sleeve so much and not get myself so deeply invested in my imagined, “could be’s” and “maybes”. I have to find a woman that is interested in the things I’m interested in and be willing to explore those possibilities with me. I have to hold off on imagining the wedding and our 2.5 kids playing in the yard.  That’s just setting myself up for depression and failure.

My mother suggested I try and find a lovely nurse who believes in me as writer and would be willing to support me as I stay at home and complete, "the great American novel". So any nurses out there willing to support a writer (fringe benefits include breakfasts, laundry completion, hugs, kisses and bed making) I'd be happy to meet you. 

I feel better than I have in a while. The dread of August has given way to the possibilities of September and I feel unfettered by broken hearted worry.