The Lonely

            Sometimes I find it important to write a piece not just for myself but with the other lonely hearts out there in the world on my mind. I sometimes see the isolation and loneliness in the words and deeds of a lot of the people I know and it makes me want to help. I can’t always be there for them, but I hope that I can provide some literary encouragement that they will take to heart because then they’ll know they aren’t so alone.

            I have a few friends that find themselves in the same club I seem to be the President and lifetime member of. I call it the Lonely Hearts Club. We are perpetually finding the wrong people to date or are inconceivably dateless, even though we’re pretty darn good people. A few of us turn to alcohol to try and diffuse the intolerability of our situations but that normally back-fires because we end up drunk and moaning on our respective couches at 4:30 in the morning wondering what forest witch cursed us with these lonely hearts. Damn Forest witches. It’s a very vicious cycle and it only makes us feel worse.

            A few of us have crazy high standards and are waiting for the right person, the exact right person, to come along and sweep us off our feet and assure us that everything will be awesome from now on. We simply refuse to lower those standards and we continue to wait for Mr. or Ms. Right, like a fat kid in the winter, staring through a frost covered window, waiting for the ice cream truck. It’s never going to come.

            Some of us have become jaded by the terrible on-line dating world in which even the most desirable person we talk with is probably a 69 year old Russian man who’s trying to kill time while acting as a security guard at the white sex slave trafficking depot. His screen name is PrettyBabeBangs69. He’s also a forest witch.

            It baffles me at times why some of the members of the Lonely Hearts Club just don’t get together and end each others soloist misery. I know some combinations wouldn’t work for certain, some people’s personalities aren’t compatible within the Club, but that doesn’t hold true for every member. I know that within the confines of the Club there is bound to be a good match. A lasting, fun, intelligent, compassionate, caring, loving even, match of two people that just can’t seem to get their collective crap together enough to acknowledge each other, or at least for one to acknowledge the other.

            So we roll on, struggling on the long Sunday nights, watching TV alone on those suffering couches. We bare the questions from family and friends about if we’re dating anyone with a strong reluctant smile. We can only say the customary and accepted, “Not right now, but I’m looking,” and then excuse ourselves so we can get another beer. It’s rough. I know it better than most. (Having been President of the Lonely Hearts Club for the last 5 ½ years)

            I can only say that I don’t know what will happen, but I have faith that something will. For all of the lonely hearts out there, struggling with the mundane, wishing for someone in their lives to make it less of a struggle, I know it’ll get better. A partner is out there somewhere, sometimes right under our noses. We might just have to take a second to look down, wipe away the coke, look under the beer bottle, wave off the cigarette smoke, and see a beautiful pair of eyes looking right at us, longing for everything we have to offer. Because we do have a lot to offer. I’ll swear to it until they find my bloated lonely corpse in a puddle of my own bodily fluids in an IHOP bathroom.

            Forest Witch probably killed me. 

A Party in Red

A youthful explosion of
excitement pouring into the
city in celebration of the
accomplishments of
others.

They're our momentary
heroes in the excellence of
the minute. We honor them,
praise them for doing the
things most of the masses
only wish they could do.

The cheering, adoration and
applause is deafening. The
smiling faces and pats on the
back are ceasless today.

There's no stopping the
unbridled joy associated with
the Indian Head.

A cup, a trophy, a symbol,
a city. Pride swelling through
broad shouldered shirts.

Chicago celebrates.

All of Me

            Lenny turned his satellite radio up louder to hear Frank Sinatra croon his way through All of Me. He loved that song. It didn’t matter that it was 9:30 in the morning and the streets were bustling with sweaty business people. It was a stifling humid day and the sidewalks were filled with the miserable masses. Lenny had his car windows rolled down anyway, cranking the super tunes of the 1940’s, hoping that in some small way he could bring a little relief to the melting mobs as he rolled by.

            At a stop light he saw a tall blonde haired woman wearing a very light sundress, one of man’s best inventions, crossing in front of his car. The way she was backlit from the still rising sun he could see the curves of her body through the thin dress. He felt his heart flutter as she continued to step in high heels across the street and up onto the sidewalk. Lenny noticed the gawking of every other man on the street. It was clear that Venus or Aphrodite had returned to Earth.

            Lenny flicked his turn signal on and turned right to follow this blonde woman in the light, practically white, sundress. It wasn’t something he would normally do. He wasn’t the type to go chasing after a woman on a crowded summer street. He normally would let her pass by, enter his memory, and let her go on about her life in the arms of some other, more deserving man. Maybe a man with a penthouse apartment in New York or a beach house along the New England coast and he’d whisk her away there to camp on the beach in white sweaters and all the other crap Lenny remembered from Polo ads.

            The goddess of ancient myth continued to walk confidently in her white high heels along the street, seemingly immune to the stares and gawking and ogling of the men she walked past. Her hair was slightly curly in the summer humidity and it bounced playfully with each of her measured steps. Lenny pulled over into the first available parking spot, legal or not, and hopped out of his car just a few feet away from where this Earthly visitor was about to walk. He had no idea what he was going to do or what he was going to say. He was just compelled to act.

            She started to get closer and Lenny pretended to look for a parking meter and tried to blend in with the marching workhorses of the business set. She got closer and Lenny could see her face, her soft, perfectly proportioned face; round in the right spots, no angular masculine jaw, no sharp edges to her nose of cheekbones, a nearly perfect face for an angel. She was six feet away and Lenny knew what he had to do.  It was bold, it was crazy, but it just might work.

            Lenny spun around in front of this woman with flourish and dropped to one knee in front of her. She stopped and put her hand up to her heart as if she was startled. Lenny winked at her and started singing with all his heart.

            “All of me. Why not take all of me. Can’t you see, I’m no good without you. Take my lips, I want to lose them. Take my arms I’ll never use them…,” sang Lenny.

            The Earthly vision of beauty in a sundress smiled at Lenny and giggled a little bit but kept walking. Lenny rose from his knee and started walking slightly next to her and behind her.

           

            “You’re good-byes left me with eyes that cried. How can I get a along without you,” continued Lenny.

            Lenny was pouring it on as best as he could, making a complete fool of himself on the hot sidewalk. The woman finally turned and faced him and Lenny’s heart jumped and he nearly lost the tune.

            “You know, you took the part, that once was my heart, so why not, take all of me,” finished Lenny.

            A few passer-bys applauded his aplomb and he took a little bow, all while looking at the object of his recent affection. She smiled at him.

            “My name is Eva,” she said, “that was quite a performance.”

            “You should see the encore,” said Lenny.

            “Oh I should,” Eva said slyly.

            “Absolutely. I’d be happy to buy you a cool lemonade and tell you all about it,” said Lenny.

           

            Eva bit her lip as she thought about it and it sent Lenny’s heart racing. He continued to smile at her and tried to exude as much confidence as he could. She smiled and nodded.

            “I’d like to hear how it ends,” said Eva.

            “Me too actually”, said Lenny.

            Lenny extended an arm and she turned with him toward a near-by coffee shop which just happened to serve iced drinks. Lenny looked back toward his car and saw a cop writing him a parking ticket and placing it on the window. He didn’t care. 

Rousted

The mortar between the bricks

of my apartment building

must have felt

the four o’clock AM wave of

doom that shattered the skies

overhead.

A booming crackle so momentous

it seemed the pillars of heaven

were collapsing to Earth.

I was startled awake by the

explosion in the sky as it

worked its way through the spine

of my apartment.

Rattling windows,

cracking ceilings, shuddering

shelves.

I thought something, a monster,

Cthulhu, or a fallen Saint had

ripped through the veil of this

universe and was now on a

collision course with humanity.

It would be dire. There’d be few

survivors. Humanity had seen its

last days and they weren’t even

that interesting.

My sleeping brain came to

recognize the familiar pings and

pelts of heavy raindrops

drumming the exposed portion

of my air conditioner.    

There was nothing coming to

tear this world asunder. It was

angels bowling. God taking off his

shoes and dropping them to the

floor. Merely thunder shattering

my slumber.

I drifted back to sleep, calmed

by the percussion of rain battering

my air conditioner. Relaxed in the

bosom of my bed.

I dreamed. 

Con-rage-ulations

            Last night the Chicago Blackhawks won the 2013 Stanley Cup in spectacular fashion. Two amazing come from behind goals in the waning 17 seconds of a hard fought game pushed the Blackhawks to their second Stanley Cup in four years. The city of Chicago erupted with joy and revelers spilled out onto nearly every street. Fireworks exploded and car horns blared up and down the numerous city blocks. The parties raged on for hours and into the wee morning. It must have been something.

            I really don’t know though because I denied myself the joys of participating in the excitement by staying home and watching the game on my TV in my living room. I chose being a responsible adult over being a championship crazy partier. I hate that I even had to make that choice. I really, really hate it.

            I know that if I had gone out and bathed in the reflected glory of a championship team, a team that plays with all it’s heart and epitomizes the never quit spirit of Chicago, I would likely have had too much to drink. Probably a few too many shots of whiskey as well and today would have been miserable. If I was even able to wake up on time to get to work. I hate work, but I hate missing it more; especially when I call in with a case of the brown bottle flu. I feel like a loser then.

            I get judged by family and friends when I call into work. I get the, “tsk, tsk, tsk’s” and the wagging of an index finger in my face. Along with the, “You’re going to get fired if you keep that up”, lecture I’ve heard an honest billion times. I hate that lecture and that judgment. It makes me very angry to be told, again and again, about how I screwed up. I need my job, I’m fully aware of it. I can’t afford to be without it. I totally understand that. I don’t need to be told over and over by people about it. It makes me really unhappy with my life that people feel the need to remind me.

            So, out of fear more than responsibility, I stayed in last night and went to bed a little after 11:00 pm. I could still hear the revelers along busy Irving Park road whooping it up. I was drifting off to dreamland with a simmering anger in my chest that I was in bed. It was as if I was grounded for something stupid like forgetting to hand in a spelling assignment in grammar school and my punishment was not being allowed to attend the big game. I was missing out on something pretty cool, all because I had to be awake and ready for a job and a career I despise. The failure of logic burned inside of me and made its way into my dreams. Angry and sad dreams.

            I don’t often get to do the things that bring me happiness because of my fear of losing my job. If I actually did the things that made me happy, that honestly made me feel awesome about me, I’d have lost my job years ago. I’d probably be living in a cardboard box on the sidewalk and peeing in jars and on anything else really. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be happy about that either though.

            The real problem is two-fold, going out last night would have had problems with this morning and I’d hate that. Staying in last night was boring and aggravating, but I’m on time and awake for the job I hate. I’m not sure how to find a happy medium. I don’t even know where to begin. I’m getting too old for the adversity of pursuing one’s dreams entails, plus I’m not even sure what those pursuits would involve since I still have no idea what it is I want to do with my life.

            It’s too bad that there aren’t motivating coaches in life like there are in hockey; a gray-hair, mustache sporting, confident coach pointing out the directions and explaining the strategies for success in life. Then again, I’m so anti-authority I’d probably quit just because he tried to tell me what to do.

            Either way, I’m a proud Chicagoan and proud of my team for bringing home Lord Stanley’s Cup. Now to get my own Lord Michael’s Cup of shitty office coffee. 

Weekly

The alarm clock on my

dresser is the death knell

of “weekend me” and the

resurrection of “weekday

me”.

Weekend me is fun and lazy

and carefree. Sleeps late in bed

or on the couch, no one really

cares. Spends too much

money on frivolity and laughs

like a maniac for hours.

Weekday me is sad, morose,

annoyed and grumpy. I have

to go to bed early and get up,

early. I have to try very hard

to find my smile.

I’ve never been a weekday

person. I’d prefer to stay a

weekend guy. That guy has

fun and adventures and could

actually spend time on doing

things that have meaning, in a

soul searching sort of way.

Weekday guy would prefer

to just not start sweating when

the bus is running a few minutes

behind schedule. Weekday guy hates

you. He hates everybody. He’s mean

and if he were an old man he’d swat at

you with his cane and curse at

you in some “Old Country” language.

Weekend me, he puts on a

Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and

disappears for four and a half days while

Weekday me limps about town cursing

the very nature of the universe; frowning at

smiles and furrowing his brow with

disapproval.

A grump of the highest degree.

All hail the return of weekend me. 

Randomness of Sleeplessness

            The real trouble with not getting enough sleep for me is the crazy half sentences that start to form in my head. For instance, as I was walking toward my train station this morning I saw a very short woman holding a very long umbrella. The umbrella was almost as tall as this woman. I thought to myself that I should write about this woman and her umbrella. Perhaps she is a Third World Mary Poppins bringing spoonfuls of water purification tables to the underprivileged children with song. Then I thought that was sort of dumb and probably a little insensitive to my large Third World fan base. So I tried to empty it from my head.

            But Third World Mary Poppins is still lingering in the back of my mind, singing a ballad, on a Spanish guitar. “Sólo una cucharada del azúcar ayuda a la medicina a bajar.”

Which just makes me chuckle.

            I moved on in my thoughts to my family’s ability for mimicry. My mother, sister and I are adept at picking up accents and the speech patterns of others. When we speak with someone with a Southern accent, we cannot help but to start speaking the way they do. I think we all can copy a British, Irish, Cockney, Indian, Michael Caine, French, Polish, and German accents. (Dare is such a fing as a Michael Caine accent). We pick up the nuances of the speech and replicate it. It’s quite a gift we’re all blessed with. However, our actual use of a foreign language is very limited. I think we all took Spanish in High School, but retained very little of it.

            My thoughts then turned to my own sleepiness. I started thinking about Sleepy of the Seven Dwarves. I almost wrote something about him today. But due to my more than usual tired nature I couldn’t really come up with anything interesting to say about him. Other than I really can relate to the poor guy. I feel very tired today and could easily doze off in my cubicle mine shaft. But his issue was far more serious. I mean, he clearly had an illness that the Dwarf Miner’s Union clearly wasn’t able to diagnose or provide proper medical care for. I wonder what the Dwarf Miner’s Union dues were. Was there a mobbed up Dwarf Mibner’s Union President? A Jimmy Hoffa type Dwarf pulling the strings of puppet dwarf union leadership?

            On a personal note, I must say that the sudden death of James Gandolfini at 51 years old from a heart attack was very sad this week. As an actor I thought he was phenomenal and as a person he seemed to embody someone who really loved their craft. As far as I’ve heard in the news, he was a very nice and pretty regular guy. His presence will be missed. Luckily we have a library of his work from the Sopranos to his early work in True Romance to sate our appetite for heavy nose breathing. 

            It seems like it’s time for another cup of coffee to try and ward off the sleepiness that is teasing the edges of my brain. I hope I get a second wind soon and straighten out my… my…. (Sneeze, sneeze, sneeze)… oh, excuse me. Sleepy sneezes.