Pass the Tissues

Every time I blow my nose into

a tissue, I check the tissue for

blood or brains.

 

I know it sounds gross and

icky, but you do gross stuff too,

so don’t judge.

 

I check for blood or brains

out of some irrational fear

that blood or brains WILL be there.

 

I’m not sure what I would do

if there were some brains on

my tissue.

 

Blood is actually sort of

normal and happens from

time to time, as long as it’s just a bit.

 

I mean, if massive amounts of

blood just started leaking from my

nostrils, I’m not sure what I would do.

 

I’d probably stand up and make one of

those, “Ack”, noises and then and

start the bloody nose protocol.

 

But brains, what if I blew my brains

out through my nose, like some

pre- mummification process?

 

Would I be lobotomized and start

drooling on myself? What part of

the brain could I blow out?

 

Would I know if my brains were on

the tissue? Like could I identify a chunk

of my brain?

 

Would we wave to each other?

“See ya,” said brain chunk.

“Bye brain chunk,” I’ll say.

 

Sometimes I’m terrified of

blowing my nose.

 

 

---- This is the 900^th blog posting on A Minute with Michael by the way. Cheers.  ----

 

 

Time Making Time, Making Time

                It seems from man’s earliest beginnings we have been obsessed with time; perhaps to be more accurate, the passage of time. It’s part of the very foundations of burgeoning humanity, this compulsion to monitor the passing time. If you look at the history of human life on this planet there are giant monuments scattered all over the globe to make observations of time.

                Stonehenge is a giant Solstice clock, the Aztecs and Mayans made calendars, the Egyptians used the Nile to monitor time, sundials were made and celestial charts studied and poured over, the natural world was observed so carefully by our ancestors they were able to map stars and planets, tidal forecasts and even the weather. They did this all because of their obsession with time.

                They dealt with time in a very different way that we do. Time for them wasn’t limited to a fancy face on the wall with Mickey Mouse ticking away the seconds. It was as much a part of their daily lives as breathing. Timing was certainly, everything. I would like to think time was so valued because of its relative briefness. I think our forbearers understood that time was limited and they dedicated their entire lives to the understanding of time. They studied it relentlessly, if you had the luxury of doing so of course. The peasant in the field only knew that God turned the sun off to make the night. So he could go to bed and to rise when God mercifully made the sun reappear in the sky so the farmer could again toil in the mud and feces fields. But I pick on the Dark Ages, and deservedly so I think.  

                Yet there was an educated class that marveled at the passage of time and was simultaneously fascinated and horrified. They were so amazed by it that they could motivate God Kings, Lords, Tribal leaders, what have you, to mobilize their entire population into the construction of monuments and monoliths, or temples with highly accurate sun windows to mark Equinoxes or important dates of the year. Their desire to capture time, to hold it and control it was enough to change whole cultures, to move people from place to place, to war, to peace, to exploration.    

                Time is cruel and beautiful. It is a complete mystery, yet the fabric on which our entire lives unfold. Time is worth the obsession it garners. I’m more obsessed with time only because I feel like mine is getting shorter. I’m sure I have a pretty solid 30 or 40 years left in me and what with medical science doing all kinds of stuff, I’m sure I’ll be Johnny Live-A-Lot.  I’m still fascinated with it though. I’m more aware of the impermanence of our lives along this long flowing fabric and I understand the desires of our elders to create giant structures in honor and in the study of time.

                It can drive a person insane to consider all the facets of time. Time is the mother of us all and the end of us all. Time makes us both important and completely irrelevant. Time boosts our potential and then tears it down. Time is looked forward to and simultaneously regretted. Time embarrasses us and rewards us. It makes tragedy bearable and humor possible. It makes us heroes and villains.

                Time is insanity put to music. We’re all forced to dance to it, all in different rhythms. What monuments will we build? Will we ever be above time, timeless, as it were? Or is it true that beauty has to be temporary in order for it to have value?  I guess, in the most cliché was possible, only time will tell.

Fibbing, Fickle & Fraudulent February

February is a dangerous month.

It reminds me of that terrible
drunk at the bar. The one who
drinks until his kidneys fail while
simultaneously professing how
much he loves you and how much
you mean to him one minute,
then turning on you to take a
swing at your face with a pint
glass the next minute.

February is that former boxing

champion, the one that showed
so much heart in the ring, who you
rooted for without even knowing
that much about boxing, but there was
just something about him that made
you think that, “Yeah, he deserves
his shot at the title.”
Only to discover he murdered his
pregnant wife over drugs and money
a month after winning his belt.

February has a muscular body,

spent a lot of time at the gym,
can’t wear tee-shirts that fit or always
have their arms exposed to exhibit their
mastery over their muscle. Their dedication
to sculpting themselves is admirable, it’s
too bad they’re as intelligent as a bag of
wet grass and have the moral compass of
a Bonobo monkey.

February is the double, the two faces,

the frown behind the smile, the tears of
a laugh and the hug to stab you in the back.
A handshake with fingers crossed on the deal
of a lifetime. February is dangerous and
should be looked at with wide, open eyes.
You never know what it’ll do next.
It might make it so you can't figure out
an appropriate ending to this poem
that seemingly started out so well,
but then sort of meandered into the well
of my own February bitterness.
Damn you February!
Got me again!

Flocks

                The flock of pigeons swirled and looped over the street. They careened in wild arcs down toward the traffic signals before magically, almost other-worldly, veering out of the way of the traffic light pole. The flock was large, perhaps 20 to 30 pigeons all swooping around the sky together over the intersection of Cantor and Rake. Sandy was in her car staring up at the free winging birds. The morning commute had already been ridiculous and she’d barely moved in ten minutes. She envied the bird’s freedom. She marveled at their coordinated flying. It was amazing they were able to collectively swoop and dive and climb as one coherent group. She wished the cars on the street in front of her could move the same way. Or even better than that, she wished she could fly.

                Traffic inched forward and a taxi cab honked. Nobody’s car moved more than a few inches. Sandy sighed and looked back up at the birds looping wildly in the morning sky. It was a gray morning, overcast and dreary, the pigeons were diving silhouettes; dark ballet dancers swirling over-head to some music Sandy couldn’t hear.

               Sandy’s motivation for another day answering phones and pretending to be sympathetic to the general public’s desire to vomit their sob stories at her was fraying. She had hoped the job answering phones at the call center would lead to something better, or at least hold her over until her real career got going, but it was stagnating fairly quickly. It seemed every day was very much like the next or the day before or the day before that. There was little variation or satisfaction for her. She felt her career dreams, whatever they were, slipping away into nothingness. A career she really wasn’t sure she wanted to have anyway. Her art history degree was as useless as an art history degree at a chili cook-off. Sure she knew about Jasper Johns, but where did she see herself in five years, and how do you even make chili?

The pigeons continued to dance in the sky. Sandy did wish she could fly. She’d never have to worry about being late to work again because of traffic. She laughed at that idea. The thought of using the amazing gift of flight just so she could get to work on time was such a waste. How ridiculous would it be to swoop in through the lobby and settle at her desk and pick up a ringing phone? It was dumb. She’d quit the job as soon as she could take flight and begin a tour of the world. She’d have no need to save up for airline fares or Uber cars or taxis or anything like that. She could just shoot up into the air and cut through the sky like a super-heroine.

Traffic began to pull forward and the cars started to get up to the posted speed of 30 MPH before quickly braking again because a semi-truck needed to make a left turn and block three lanes of oncoming traffic to do so. Sandy looked back toward the sky in her rear view mirror but she couldn’t see the pigeons flying about anymore. She wondered where they went after their aeronautical acrobatics. She tapped her steering wheel with her thumbs and looked at the dashboard clock. She had five minutes to get to work on time and 25 minutes left of driving still. She cringed and swore under hear breath. It never seemed to matter what time she left home, there was always some stupid thing in the road that made her late. She felt cursed.

She saw the birds again. They were cruising in fast from the west. The pigeons rolled close to the ground and then shot up toward the sky in a large feathery group. She doubted any human pilot, with the best technology available could ever master such a flight move. It was so effortless looking for the birds. Sandy felt admiration and a little jealousy. She was jealous of the birds. She was jealous of their ability to fly with such grace and ease and yet, here she was, part of the most dominate animal class on the planet, sitting in her used car in unmoving traffic to get to a boring job. It was right to be jealous.

The semi-truck made its long turn and traffic again started to move forward. Sandy took a quick look up at the sky again but had lost sight of the birds. A little white Honda tried to cut Sandy off, but she wasn’t having it and blocked him from merging from the right. He’d have to wait his turn like the rest of them. It was the only fair thing to do. He honked. Sandy ignored him. She stared straight forward at the road.

“There are no rules for birds,” she said to herself.

Traffic pulled forward and Sandy went with them in a unscripted collective flow of humanity.

Unsolicited Advice

The man said I should

do the thing that makes

me most happy and I’d

never work a day in my

life.

 

I didn’t know that man

and had no reason to trust

him. He was mysterious and

faceless, without form, airy.

A stranger. 

What did he know anyway?

He was just going around giving

bizarre advice to strangers, as if it

were his calling, his work,

his job. 

A mystery man doling out

motivations for happiness

like some mystic from the East,

a gypsy, a genie, a fortune cookie,

a liar.

I’ve no evidence what he said

is even remotely true, not for

the likes of me. Middle class,

damaged, mild, addictive,

stifled, bored.  

If the thing that makes you happy

provides no income, no food, no

shelter, no love, no place to sleep,

then the mystery man’s advice is

a trap and a path to ruin.

There are no universal rules to

happiness. There’s no slogan formula

to achieve happiness. There’s no measure

for happiness. No magic phrase from a

mysterious man. 

Just the choice.

Day by day.

Hour by hour.

Minute by minute.

Poem by poem.

John Denver Didn't Sing About It

“Holy Cats,” shouted Terry.

               The road swerved and curved in front of Terry’s car like a drunk stumbling home from a bar at two o’clock in the morning. The darkness swallowing the road didn’t make it any better.

“Who designed this road? it’s a mess,” said Terry.

The road was in fact, designed after an old Indian trail through a dense forested area. It was then adopted by the settlers in the area who used it as a wagon route to and from the center of town to sell their goods, like candles and beef and Okra. It simply got wider, paved, re-paved and made a historical landmark. Terry didn’t know any of that. He was on a business trip from Cincinnati and this winding Virginia road was something out of a nightmare for him.

Terry slowed his rented Buick and turned on the high beams. He had a little trouble finding them at first. He thought rental cars should have more obvious buttons for stuff like window wipers and high beams. It was dumb to struggle in the dark interior for the right button, knob or switch. He longed for the days of standardization. The road was greatly illuminated but still a winding mess of switchbacks, hairpin turns, one lane and dips. The posted speed limit was 70 MPH and that seemed insane to Terry. He didn’t think a Dale Earnhardt or Mario Andretti could navigate these roads at that speed.

The Buick crested a high hill and then began a steep decline on the opposite side. Terry had his foot hovering over the brake, just waiting for some pick-up truck or giant deer to come bursting out of the surrounding forests. He had a terrible feeling that his trip to Virginia to sell industrial rubber flanges would be his death. He started to re-evaluate his life as the Buick neared a sharp turn right as the road leveled out. Terry steered the car toward the right and then had to quickly cut left as the road made a surprise direction change along a curve toward a valley of what looked like giant walls of reddish yellow bedrock rising on each side.

“Dear God, is this murder road,” questioned Terry.

He looked down at the GPS screen on the dashboard which had fallen silent, still just indicating he had 17.8 miles to go until his destination. Terry missed her voice suddenly. The radio had faded out almost as soon as he embarked on this road. It was just static or some low wattage Bible beating preacher prattling on about the end of days and the coming of the four horsemen. It was too much for Terry so he had turned the radio off. So it was just the GPS voice and he, until the GPS didn’t have anything to say, except for the occasional “recalculating”.

The road took another sharp right into a very long curve. A curve that seemed to hold for far longer than any Terry had previously experienced. He looked at the compass on the GPS and it went from North, to East, to South, to West and then back to North, all through his long curve. Terry felt as if he had just gone in a complete circle without any change in elevation or anything. It was a strange feeling. The road straightened out and the car’s high beams reflected off the high bedrock walls of the valley. Terry thought it was more of a canyon than a valley. Terry looked at the GPS screen; 18.3 miles to go.

“What the hell,” said Terry, “how did this just get longer?”

Terry felt the car start to rise up another hill and he slowed down. He didn’t want to shoot over the top of the hill and fly off into a river or wind up in the rear of some semi-trailer like something out of the Blues Brothers.  He drove the Buick up to the top of the long hill. Terry half expected to see Sherpa's guiding a climbing expedition party up a mountain side with the height of this hill. He reached the acme of the hill and the car angled down, like a roller coaster car at the front. Terry felt his testicles suck up into his body out of a primitive fear response. The car’s nose dipped down like a barrel going over some waterfall with some 1920’s type daredevil sitting on it. Terry yelled.

“Oh My God!”

             The car shot down the steep decline and Terry held the steering wheel with both hands. He had his foot on the brake as he tried to control the speed of his decent.  The car resisted any attempt to slow it down.

“Turn left in 200 feet,” said the GPS.

             “You’re God damn kidding me,” yelled Terry.

The descent never seemed to end, a mysterious tissue box fell forward from some undisclosed rear part of the Buick and Terry’s briefcase on the passenger seat slipped to the car’s floor. Terry gripped the steering wheel with white knuckled fear and adrenaline.  His teeth were clenched together as the yellow dividing line in the road sped past reminding Terry of some Warp Speed image from a Sci-Fi film.

“In 100 feet, turn left,” said the GPS.

             “What? How the hell…,” said Terry.

Terry was staring at the speedometer. He had his foot on the brake but he was still going 85 miles an hour, almost straight down. He couldn’t imagine coming to a stop and making a left turn. He started to press hard on the brake, pushing it to the floor. The Buick resisted and started to buck and skid unlike anything Terry had ever seen a car do.

“Make a Left turn on Primrose,” said the GPS.

             “How,” shouted Terry.

The road dipped and flattened and the Buick came to a tire screeching stop. The brakes came to life and the Buick skidded and swerved on the level ground. The screeching tires and groaning brakes echoed through the darkness.  Terry’s nose came inches from smashing into the steering wheel. The car ticked and rattled. The high beams flickered and then normalized. A single yellow caution traffic signal hung silently over the intersection where the hill ended and the road opened up again. It hung over the Buick like a warning. An ironic warning.

Terry leaned back in his seat. He looked up at the yellow traffic light. He looked at the cross road and flicked on the left turn signal. He turned left onto Primrose.

“You have arrived at your destination on the left,” said the GPS.

Terry looked out his window to see the flickering neon of the Motel Six.

“Son of a….,” said Terry.

Swipe Me

                I’m one of those guys that resorted to internet-based dating. I know it’s hard to believe that an incredible charmer like me had to resort to such methods to meet someone. Yet, it had to happen. I’ve been “on-line dating” for several years now and let me tell you, it’s failed; failed almost as badly as the old “meeting a girl in person” tactic.

                 I only bring this up now since several women I know have also started internet dating very recently and have already had a whole bunch of dates or meaningful contacts with guys who seem very sweet and almost amazingly earnest.  In some cases these women have had their profile up on one of these dating sites for less than a day before striking up a conversation, talking on the phone and then meeting up for a date with some guy. I mean, they’re not all winners. Some of the guys are downright ass hats. But from what I’ve been able to tell, these women, are pretty happy with their immediate results on these sites. The regular sites mind you, not the “hook-up” sites.

                 I’ve been on-line dating for over three years and I’ve had one date. One. A single, one time meeting, with a woman whom seemed to forget she was going on a date since she chose to show up in what amounted to work-out clothes, but somehow, worse. I, of course, being a sophisticated gentleman about town dressed it up, even wore a sport coat. Needless to say there wasn’t a second meet-up.  I don’t think I can legally call it a “date”.

                My profile on several prominent dating sites is funny, engaging, cute and positive. My photos are all of me, and show the various sides of my personality. There’s no shirtless macho pics, no “bro-time” pictures, no cats, dogs, tattoos, beards, cars, wads of cash, or adventure photos of me punching Godzilla with a Great White Shark. It’s just me, mostly wearing cardigan sweaters, looking sweet and attentive, and smiling my usual Irish wry smile.  I’m not overweight. I’m not Edward James Olmos. I look young, despite my age. I’m amazingly average. What they used to call, steadfast.

Yet my inboxes are empty. If I do get a message, it’s from a woman in China or the Philippines. If a woman does show interest I usually discover the profile of theirs is a fake, a duplicate or a down right catfish pretty quickly. I think what’s even worse is the messages I send to women I find appealing, attractive or even mildly interesting and I get no reply of any kind. I don’t even get a polite, “Thanks for your message but I’m into Safari Guides who wrestle Rhinos. Thanks!”  I could deal with that rejection far better than the nothingness I get in reply to my usually well thought out initial contact message.

It’s getting to the point of insanity; really, the doing the same thing over again and expecting different results.  I carefully seek out women I think are pretty, intelligent, likely passionate about their beliefs, funny, and thoughtful. They usually live fairly near-by too.  I hear nothing from them. Messages after messages to engaging and apparently intelligent women go constantly unheeded.  But CHineseTitty5000 has no problem sending me a, “Hi”, message from Hong Kong.  Her profile pictures will include her crushing a camel and stabbing a Whale through the heart. (Maybe I should start a long distance relationship with ChineseTitty5000?)

It just makes me a little bummed out for my gender and those like me trying to navigate this life and just hoping to meet that someone who compliments them just enough that every day doesn’t feel the same, or at least provides some comfort in light of the terror the world can throw. We want a counterpart to help each other remember what’s good, what fun is, and what’s important. That’s what I think we want.

I’m not looking for a supermodel. I’m not looking for a rocket scientist. Although a supermodel rocket scientist would be pretty kick-ass though I have to admit. (I’d probably always be way back on the list for her, 1. rockets, 2. modeling, 3-8. puppies and skiing, 9. Michael.) I am looking for normal. Normal in the sense that they have a good head on their shoulders, nice hair, good health, a sense of the absurd and of humor, moral, a little sarcastic, a little home-body-ish but not afraid to travel if the whim hits them. They don’t mind nights in or very casual nights out. I’m not a big traveler. I’ll admit it. I’d rather drive than fly. I just hate baggage and airports so much. You wouldn’t believe the number of single women out there that list, traveling the World, as their main objective.  Even if they have photos of themselves in Africa, petting a tiger while hugging an orphaned African child, they still are like, “let’s go traveling!” And all I can think is, “Shut-up, Not everyone has the financial security to gallivant all over the damn world and ski in Switzerland one week and then poke Indians in the eye with Slim-Jims the next”.  

As you can see I’m a little touched by the frustration internet-dating has wrought. The rejection on a mass, computerized scale is daunting. It’s a real blow to one’s self esteem, often. So you say to yourself, “Self, I’m off the websites, I’m going to see where the ladies hang out and I’m going to meet one!” So you put your App away, your laptop is closed and you venture off into the night and go to bars filled with dudes all looking for that one girl who is there without her boyfriend, sisters, book club, hiking group, breast-cancer support sessions, bachelorette party, drunken mean Goth friend, and who is generally amiable to speaking with a normal guy. She’s not there though. She’s at home, curled up watching Netflix and drinking white wine wondering why there aren’t any nice guys on-line tonight.

I’m tired. I’m so very tired of banging my head against the walls of trying to find a date that shares my ideals of intimacy, of romance, of mutual respect, acceptance and appreciation of high fashion. I mean, I like a woman that can crush a nice pair of heels and appropriate outfit; does that make me a bad person? No. I just know what I like.

I’ve tried to be what women want me to be. In the past I’ve made efforts to mold myself into someone I wasn’t necessarily intended to be and eventually the real me oozed out and wasn’t able to fit into the mold crafted for me. I know now that was a mistake and I’ve learned from it. I’ve been back to me for a long, lonely, time now.  Frankly, dating should be the furthest thing from my mind; I’ve got to get some financial security before I can go a-courtin’ effectively and with the intention of having something long-term. (Unless I meet that woman that wants to support my “art”. Wink-Wink).

Yet I’m still taunted by the main point of this piece, internet dating is Hell. Internet-dating, like all computerized dating, is too fast, too brief, too emotionless, and too swipe related. It’s almost impossible for the nice guys, the nice men, the nice graying haired, rapidly aging guys to rise above the superfluous profiles of Bro-Johnson and his ripped abs, classic Monte Carlo and Lake House for use in the summer, where his dad has a boat and the parties are Kick-ass! I mean, really, I should have my own Lake House and boat where my parties are kick ass at my age, but I don’t so, meh.

I guess I just needed to vent about the terrors of internet dating, for guys, for me. Women are mostly in the driver’s seat when it comes to whom they’ll decide to connect with on any particular dating site and much like the real world I just have to have a little more patience that she’s out there, just waiting to swipe right on my charming profile pic. I just have to accept it for a while longer, at least until I die alone, in a puddle of my own (Fill in the blank) __________.

Just kidding, don’t despair. Your favorite writer will be fine, Stephen King is happily married. And I think I’ll be okay too, eventually. Every once in a while we need to shake the “Lonelies” out from our fingers and re-adjust. Now, to get back to my bachelor pad and sit around in my underwear and watch TV, eat crap, and go to bed. Woo-Hoo life is spicy!