Recharged?

I am back to work after the weekend and a surprisingly entertaining Memorial Day. I still was filled with foreboding and dread about coming back to work but at least I’m not in my 400 degree apartment.

It gets exceedingly warm in my third floor apartment. I have two air conditioners, one in the dining room and one in the bedroom. They do a pretty sufficient job of keeping the place cool. But I just can’t bring myself to turn it on in May. Something doesn’t seem quite right about that. At least we start June tomorrow and the dilemma will have solved itself. (Might even solve itself tonight)

I wasn’t really ready to come back to work though. I would have liked to enjoy a little more time off, but we must do these things. We must. Wow, writing that right there just really depressed me.  But I’ll resist the temptation to wallow in my own self-pity today. I’ll save that for another time.  Today is all about getting back to basics and taking care of business. No matter how creatively humiliating it is.

I’ve almost stopped sweating from my long walk from the train station to the office. I’m starting to wonder if I should keep some spare tee-shirts in my desk drawer here at work. Of course the last thing I need is extra laundry to lug around downtown. Although I think there’s a dry cleaner in the building. But I’m not too sure about that though, “Hey, dry cleaning lady. Here’s a bundle of sweaty tee-shirts for you, thanks”.

I’d feel bad for her. Even though I’m sure she gets much worse from some people downtown. Still, I don’t feel like it’s her responsibility. It's my fault for being a sweat monster. (I actually don't understand the sweating, I am not exactly overweight or in too terrible of shape, yet, I'm a fountain of persperation. How sexy am I?) 

I’m merely delaying the inevitable today. I should really start working on a few of the things on my list for today, but I really don’t want to. I’d like to go down to the meat locker or cooler and finally cool off. That’s what I’d like to do right now.  I’m not complaining about the heat mind you. I don’t care that it’s 90 degrees out already. I’m glad it’s warm out finally. I do complain about my circumstances and consequences surrounding the increased temperature though.  I think I’ll go find some cool marble to lie on and a block of ice to stuff down my pants. Now that’s a great way to recharge.

Sound Check

Is this thing on? (pat, pat, pat) Testing… testing…

So I got on the elevator this morning with a young woman. She was looking down at her phone, texting or sexting or something and after I pressed the button for the 7^th floor she looked at me and said, “Please press six for me”.  I stopped and said, “What?”. I really thought she had said something else; something pretty obvious and inappropriate for an elevator, unless you’re in a Vegas hotel. But I really thought she said it. Once I figured out what she actually said I did as she asked and then mentioned the fact that I REALLY thought she said something else. She seemed moderately amused and then got off the elevator at her floor and I was left alone with my thought.

Hello? (thud) I know you’re out there…. I can hear you breathing through your mouth. Stop that, it’s gross.

As I walk through the world I do my best to avoid stepping on people’s spit on the sidewalk. People. Please. Stop spitting on the sidewalk. It’s disgusting. If you must spit, please spit in the street. I don’t want to step in your bodily fluids. Ever. You’re not a baseball player.

In sporting news, the Chicago Bulls were eliminated from the playoffs by the dreaded Miami Heat. It was a pretty good series and many Bothans died. (Sorry, I needed a Star Wars reference there for some reason.)

Most importantly, it’s Memorial Day weekend. I think we should all spend part of this time watching at least one John Wayne war movie and maybe one Tom Hanks war movie/series. But more importantly, it’s to honor those that lost their lives for The United States of America. America’s first war on terror was in 1805 against the pirate forces of Tripoli during the first Barbary War. It was the first recorded battle the United States fought overseas.  So maybe try to remember that one whilst you get your grill started and yell at the kids to stop throwing rocks at that bee’s nest.  

(Rim shot)

In closing, in the words of Jackie Moon, “Everybody love everybody”. Especially me. Love me damn it.

Erased

It’s been a tough Thursday so far. I’ve definitely had trouble starting a piece for today. Every word that has appeared on this blank page hasn’t felt right. It’s a visceral thing; writing. It has to feel right on the page before I let anybody read it.  So up till now, nothing has felt quite right. In fact, it looked like poop on the page. So I’ve erased and started again and erased again, over and over.

I’ve gone back and forth on the issue of how really personal to get in these articles. I feel there should be a balance between journalism and creativity, but I limit much about what I am really feeling. Sure I express my opinions and thoughts, but I think I’ve maintained some subtle separation from subjective emotionalism.  I don’t want these articles to wind up sounding too much like the ravings of an emotionally unstable teenager, just an emotionally unstable mid-thirty year old. That’s a hard line to walk.

But what’s the point of writing if you’re not going to be emotionally invested. So here goes, my biggest emotional issue in my life right now is my lack of real companionship. And by that I mean; I want a damn girlfriend. I want someone to want me. I’m lonely. (Whew, that was tough to get out) I know I’ve said it before in other articles but it’s getting pretty obscene lately. I forget what I was watching on TV last night, some stupid mattress commercial and couples were talking about how they sleep and I found myself being jealous. Even though I’m sure they were all just actors and were playing “couple” parts, but they were effective.  That’s what I mean by obscene, a mattress commercial made me feel like a lonely loser.

It may sound like I have a co-dependency issue here, as if I have to define myself by the female company I keep, but it’s not that. I’m looking for someone to compliment me and whom I compliment as well. And I’m really picky. Picky to the point that I start to wonder if I’ve become so emotionally reserved I’m not even sure I’m capable of supporting an emotional relationship. I’d like to try of course.

I should erase this whole thing I think. It sounds so desperate and needy; so wimpy, to be honest. I would rather exude a manly swagger and confidence in the “wanting a relationship” arena. But I haven’t been all that successful in the past few… years. I’m still not exactly sure what my last girlfriend saw in me to stick around for as long as she did.  So confidence wanes a bit.

In my humble and modest opinion, I’m a catch. Educated, employed, creative, funny, well groomed, Irish good looks (or as I’ve been called “cute”), and I’m pretty fun to be around. (How’s that for confidence. Blam!) So what does a guy like that have to do to find something real with a woman that hopefully has all the same attributes?

Maybe this all stems from what I’ve been told is the next logical step in my “growing-up”. All the years of Catholic school and the examples of those around me; maybe I’ve been conditioned with this need for companionship? A ying for my yang, if you will. I’m not exactly the on-line dating type and I certainly don’t go to the dance clubs to shake my ass off in some peculiar mammalian mating ritual. I’m not a peacock. So what’s an average Michael like me to do?   I should probably erase this and write about Detective Thursday and the Summer murder mystery.

Row, row, row your boat….

Rain spattered the windshield as Wednesday frantically swerved her way through traffic. She was so late this morning and she knew her short, pug faced boss would be standing by her desk when she finally walked in. He would stand there, tapping his foot and point to his wrist watch whenever Wednesday showed up late.  She’d mumble some excuse and take her seat in her cube and start working right away. She didn’t like her job that much. It wasn’t what she really wanted to do, but she had responsibilities and what choice did she have.

Damn, another red light. Some mornings it really seemed as if there were cosmic forces aligned against her. Everything that could go awry goes awry. Wednesday drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and willed the light to be short. She was already 20 minutes late and still had another 20 minutes to get there. The light stayed red.

It wasn’t really her fault, directly. She supposed it was indirectly her fault by the choices she made, but she was deeply affected by the choices of others. She had stayed out a little late at the bar with her stupid boyfriend. He was all into some basketball game and barely spoke to her so she just kept drinking. She started with a few white wines and then moved onto a cucumber martini and then followed that up with a shot of whiskey. Scott hardly gave her any mind. She even wore that white top that is sort of sheer in the front. It’s kind of a prude shirt but she felt pretty in it. She thought Scott might take his eyes off the TV for at least a minute to admire it, but he barely said hi when she walked in. Not even a cursory glance at her breasts.  He was actually wiping nacho cheese off his chin when she went in for the hello kiss. Why did she always date such inconsiderate losers?

The light finally turned green and Wednesday floored it. Her tires spun on the slick street and she thought she might lose control. She let off the gas to let the car get some grip and then gassed again and started in the right direction. She was mad for a second. She was already blaming Scott for almost making her crash right then. He was on her mind too much.  He was nice on their first date but since then he’s been all about him and his buddies or some ex-girlfriend or when he used to work at the stock exchange and all the coke they used to do. He swore he didn’t do that anymore but Wednesday wondered sometimes. He just made her feel wanted sometimes and that’s what she needed she guessed.

After the basketball game Wednesday was pretty drunk. She hadn’t eaten anything for dinner, other than a few crackers, before meeting Scott. She told Scott she had to leave because she didn’t want to be late for work and sarcastically thanked him for the “great night”. He started to pull all that, “Oh, baby. I’m sorry, blah, blah, blah”, bull crap and Wednesday fell for it. Next thing she knew they went back to her house where he had emotionless sex with her. She was there, but she didn’t really give a crap about it. Scott just got what he wanted and then fell asleep, and snored. Wednesday was up for another hour wondering how hard she’d have to hold a pillow over Scott’s face so he’d stop. She woke up and Scott was still snoring away and her hang over let her know immediately she was going to be late for work.

A thunder clap exploded overhead and Wednesday jumped a bit. She was just pulling her car into the parking lot when a lightning bolt streaked from the sky and struck the ground directly in front of her and knocked one of the light posts off its base. Wednesday slammed on her breaks and slid to a stop just as the post hit the ground just inches from her hood. Sparks spewed up from the metal casing hitting the asphalt lot.  Maybe the universe just didn’t want her to go to work. Maybe it was telling her that this was not the life she was supposed to be leading.

She put her car in reverse and turned around. She left the parking lot. She left work. She left Scott in her bed. She left.

Nature’s Rapture

I’m not one to look for conspiracies or try to stir up too much trouble, but I do think it’s somewhat curious that just after the whole alleged Rapture rig-a-ma-role; the worst tornado since 1947 smashed through Joplin, MO. Instead of just humans being bodily brought up to heaven, debris and just about everything imaginable were sucked up into a hellish vortex of spinning fury only to be spit out into the atmosphere and dropped to the ground in twisted masses. It was a terrible, real tragedy and my heart really goes out to all those that lost, everything. I am however, quite less sympathetic about the failed Rapture.

Now came word that Mr. Camping, (just as I knew he would) said that his math was just a bit off and the Rapture has been rescheduled for October 21, 2011. He allegedly told his faithful radio listeners that God is merciful and decided to hold off on the Rapture for five months. I’m not sure why; perhaps there was a booking error at the Heavenly Holiday Inn.

I wish this Camping fellow would just shut the hell up and face some of the real tragedies facing the human populace. If he was really concerned for all men’s souls, perhaps he’d encourage his radio listeners to get more involved in creating solutions to the worlds ills instead of selfishly preparing for another, “Rapture”.  But he didn’t, he said (direct quote) "I don't have any responsibility. I'm only teaching the Bible. I'm telling ... this is what the Bible says. I don't have spiritual rule over anybody ... except my wife as the head of the household."  His poor wife.

The tornadoes, airstrikes on Libya by NATO, Volcanic ash closing in from an Icelandic eruption to effect European air traffic again, sex slavery rings in Thailand, these are all real things happening right now in the world. Whether God is coming to judge our misdeeds seems somewhat trivial in the face of this reality. Perhaps the Rapture should not be one of Earthly consequence, but a Heavenly wake up call to take better care of each other and of the world itself.

Perhaps the biblical references to the rapture is more of a metaphor for humans taking the burdens of others onto their shoulders, pitching in to help those that can’t help themselves and lifting the less fortunate up. Self-sacrifice of biblical proportions may be the rapture described, but misinterpreted. This is entirely possible since by the time the “Word of God” was translated into English, it had gone through many, many incarnations. Aramaic, Greek, Roman, Hebrew, Latin, on and on. Who’s to say it was translated correctly?

Ultimately, the Rapture didn’t happen, but natural tragedies do occur every day and we should heed those warnings.  I say we roll up our sleeves and help out, rather than bury our heads in the sand till October. When nothing biblical will happen, but I bet you there’ll be a natural event that does, Mrs. Camping will file for divorce because she’s tired of all the God commanded blow-jobs.

Groovy? Shut-up.

CNN is a wealth of information. I give you, 'You Light Up My Life' composer kills self, police say. I’m sure we all remember that slightly sad, slightly hokey love song from 1977.   Joseph Brooks was 73 years old when he claimed his own life this past Sunday. Unfortunately it doesn’t appear there was too much light in his life. He was facing charges on 11 alleged rapes and sexual assaults.

It also appears that his son was charged with the murder of his own ex-girlfriend in January of this year. So I guess I can skip the horrible jokes that are rolling around in my head. That would just be bad taste. Debby Boone recorded “You Light Up My Life” for a movie and the song won Joseph Brooks an Oscar, a Golden Globe and a Grammy. 

I’m not sure about anyone else but it always seems to me that those people that achieved some level of stardom in the 1970’s always seem to end up in pretty dire straits. Jeff Conaway of “Taxi” and “Grease” hasn’t been doing well for quite a long time and is now in a coma due to pneumonia and a blood infection. The original reports of an OD may not have been accurate. But still, he’s had a really rough go of it. 

A part of me almost pities the 1970’s. I’m sure the decade has its defenders and having only been alive and somewhat aware for half of them I’m sure I’m not the best to characterize them appropriately. But I can comment on what I have seen and that’s, what the hell were you people thinking? I cringe every time I see something from the Seventies. I blame the hippies of the 1960’s that screwed the Seventies up so badly. Free love and dope turned into a house in the suburbs, white flight and BMW’s in the driveway. It became a polyester nightmare imagination of what the 1950’s had been, but would never be again. I’m also a little ashamed of the early 80’s. I hated corduroy pants.

Heck, sometimes I am ashamed of the present day. But I’m Irish and feel shame about most things as a rule. “I shouldn’t have enjoyed that so much”, is a common Irish sentiment. But I can honestly say that I am glad I wasn’t fully aware of the full groovyiness of the 1970’s. I was able to come to maturity in the far more rational 1990’s. Wait, I almost forgot about the Seventies resurgence of the 1990’s. Yeah, that was dumb. I am glad; however, it brought the sundress back for ladies. God bless the sun dress.

The 90’s had their obvious flaws as well and I’m sure any children I have will look back at them and cringe. “How did you survive without a cell phone, iPad, iPod, iBrain?” I guess I’ll have to then tell them all about the rotary phone and three channel TV.

I suppose I will also have to try and explain why so many of the late Seventies celebrities ended up so badly, of course, I really have no idea why that is. Maybe it was the big bow ties or all the tight pants or maybe all the drugs and long hair. (Looking at you Crystal Gale)

Ultimately, there is no way to explain certain parts of history. Things just happen I suppose, I’m just glad they haven’t happened to me while wearing brown corduroy bell bottom pants.

Rapture wha?

Apparently, there is a very big biblical event to occur tomorrow. The religious radio host, Harold Camping, (do you bring s’mores to his house when you visit?) has predicted with as much surety a nut can muster that tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. God will call the faithful bodily up to heaven in preparation for the end of days. That’s right, bodily. You will allegedly be lifted out of your clothes and be taken, naked, up into the clouds to join God’s kingdom.

Mr. Camping did predict this event before, in 1994 he said Judgment Day was upon us, but amazingly, he was incorrect. He wasn’t using the same calculator Jesus used so there were some minor mathematical errors. But this time he’s super-duper sure. Duper.

I am somewhat of a lapsed Catholic but I still consider myself a person of faith. I think it’s perfectly logical and reasonable to question most of the information contained in the bible. After all it’s a book translated from several languages, oral histories and stuff that the authors didn’t actually witness with their own eyes. So there maybe might could be a few errors or omissions. Maybe; if it’s all literal though, we’re toast.

I do find those end of days followers pretty interesting though. They have a deep and serious devotion to their cause and are beyond sure it’s going to happen. I don’t know what it’s like to even be sure of the shoes I’m wearing. Do they look right with these pants? So maybe I do envy their passion a bit. Oh crap! Envy, that’s one of the Seven Deadly sins. I’ll never be raptured now.  Back to hard drugs I guess.

I can’t believe that God, who spent billions of years creating the universe and Earth (4000 years to the literalists) would decide that those he made in his own image are done. Just done.  That we’ve gone as far as we can and are just wicked now and have to be disposed of like so much snotty Kleenex. Put the fork in us. I find it hard to believe those would be the actions of a loving God. I suppose when I get raptured I’ll be able to ask him. If I get raptured that is.

I think Sunday will come though. I think we’ve got a long way to go as a people and quite possible as people of faith. Plus I’ll be damned if I’m just dropping all my clothes in the street. I really don’t want to go to heaven naked, unless I’m really drunk. Which I plan on being.

As a side note, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102757/ , yeah, The Rapture staring Mimi Rogers and David “I’m having sex with it right now” Duchovny.  (That’s what it says on his business cards, serious)