Wednesday, January 1st, 2014

I’m not exactly a ball of delight and mirth. So, it wasn’t easy finding a place to make my stand last night with complete strangers at a bar or restaurant on New Year’s Eve. I tried to be kind and affable, with little in the way of real benefit. In fact, as I sat on my bar stool fussing over the pack of cigarettes I had in my pocket, a couple wished me a happy New Year. More genially than others in the establishment, I returned the greeting only to have them stare at their drinks immediately afterward. It was like instant withdrawal. No conversation, nothing.

 WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!

This is exactly why I can’t connect. This insular behavior is driving me crazy. If it isn’t arrogance, it’s apathy. After a beer and four squad cars (not a drink, mind you) later, I decided it was a fruitless effort to stick around ’til midnight. I went home to a finger of whiskey and A.C. Slater hosting the New Year’s Eve countdown. He asked a rather well-endowed woman what her resolution was for 2014, and she said “spend more time with my husband.” Now, that sounds like something appropriately trite to say when asked, but if you think about it, it’s 11:59 on New Year’s Eve… where the Hell is he now?! He’s not on the platform with you.

I’ve been working at the office today, as there is no one to visit. Either they’re busy, out-of-town, with family, moved, or sick. There’s also the possibility they’re trying to avoid me, but I try not to think about that. The biggest disappointment today is the most valuable commitment I have is to my job. I’m working on the last of the tax reporting, and hope my early efforts will cushion the time blow when I’m having my year end audit.

Side Note: My morning’s status update was “A happy new year? Yes, make it happen.” No more than a couple of hours later I see George Takei post something very similar. Yeah, that’s right. I’m on the cutting edge of Hallmark wisdom!

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Sunday, December 8th, 2013

Snow is not my enemy. I may have an aversion to the powdery, white precipitation but no real disdain. Ice, however, is my sworn nemesis as it makes the land slick with a Devilish sheen. Its only purpose is to frustrate any plans to leave the house, as my habitual affliction of cabin fever flares up like a match head. I do get lonely, and in such a frigid territory as the fields, Winter only makes it worse. The Christmas season doubly so. With my tongue-possibly-placed-in-my-cheek, there was a suggestion of a bottle of Jack Daniels and circus acrobatics on an overpass Christmas Day.

Much to my dismay, I only drive 300 feet to notice the freezing drizzle making command of my vehicle uncertain. Like a sensible person, I return to the house. I’ve heard two dispatches for emergency vehicles in the last hour. Some aren’t so sensible. Falcor skated in an unannounced Ice Capades of terror and sadness, as I creep home only being out for a mere five minutes. Tonight could have been the night I fell into a hilarious romantic comedy with the person others always say I would find. Frankly, if you know the name and the whereabouts of this woman, I demand you stop holding out on me. This isn’t the Price is Right; I’m not playing Cliffhangers again.

All wasn’t totally lost, as I kept busy with interior maintenance. Most of the day’s activities included the dismantling of the remnants of a finished basement, which had outlived its useful life several decades ago. Some basements were made for fun; mine was not. Utility basements should not be pushed into an awful career choice such as host or entertainer. It can only lead to the metaphorical unemployment line. Stand-up philosopher. Brilliant!

As for my writing, well, this is the first time in a week I’ve tried to put anything down. My blog is fancied a journal of sorts, as I peck away at something constructive, but I do want to write something a little more accessible. From my end, it’s to wonder how I relate to the rest of the world. The best I could ever deduce is to write fiction, as cliche as that sounds. What else does a single guy in the middle of a soulless land have to offer? However, ideas don’t always come to me in the vivid form I enjoy. That is to say they arrive from some ethereal plane in which I often think, “that would be fantastic!” Mood, life, and people often buffet me and consume my thoughts for days on end. That is where nothing gets done. I can definitely see why people enjoy muses.

Forget the dime, anyone spare a thought? Ha!

End of November

The end of the month comes so quickly anymore. It was just Thanksgiving two days ago. The Christmas tree is being put up in sections. Most of the work is done, except for the bulbs. I have to stop frequently, not because of physical exhaustion, but that of mental. I want it up, for better or worse. There is a large debate on whether I should string up the bushes in the front yard. It’ll only be a matter of weeks before I take them down anyway.

Another friend is engaged as of last Tuesday. I’m happy for them both, or as much as a detached third-party can be. There’s something I’m lacking to truly feel the vicarious warmth of others sharing milestone moments. It’s hard to explain, but the emptiness suggests I wasn’t built to be warm… or aware of relationships, I suppose. There’s a part of me that says “you will feel it, when you find it.” That’s not helping.

It has been hard writing stories as of late. There has been a lot of emotional tumult and thought over the past few weeks. Sometimes, I wonder about my existence too much. From what I’ve experienced and what I’ve heard, people are way too quick to give flimsy advice when I discuss it. There is never anything quick and dirty that will help someone out of a hole. There may be an element of customization missing, and above all teamwork. Some people just need to put the money where their mouths are.

With all the rumination of my faults, I’ve come to a startling conclusion. I hesitate to write much further on it, as it gets very personal. I can also see it being too honest for polite company. You’re all polite company, correct? Sure, you are. However, I will say the revelation has had quite the helping hand in my concerns about life. I had to learn all this the hard way.

America… my country.

…and crown thy good with brotherhood…

Today is the Fourth of July holiday. It’s a time for many Americans to cook out on the grill, watch fireworks, and eat snow cones. People will sit on patios with coolers of beer, listing to music, and talking about their friends and family while basking in the glory that is this nation. Being the pensive person I am, it’s a time for me to fly to the stars and see the big picture. What have we done? Was it worth it?

It is not inappropriate to remember what was done to attain this chunk of dirt. For better or worse, we pried land away from its original inhabitants. Settlers we not the bread-breaking pilgrims depicted in grade school. There was mayhem and murder on the lips of people hungry for fortune. They were willing to do anything, and convinced themselves of anything, to get it. In the end, it worked.

I cannot say I’m a proponent of reparations. What’s done is done. We can’t bring back the dead, as they are truly the ones that deserved the fair shake. Giving concessions to descendants for generations old atrocities is like throwing a twenty at a prostitute after beating the life out of her. That’s not helpful. This land has been settled for quite some time, and now by people who had nothing to do with it. Ripping property away from others isn’t the solution. Two wrongs don’t make a right.

Well, then what? I understand there are others wrought with guilt for something in which they played no part. Their conscience nags them for no better reason than to delight in anxiety. Perhaps there’s a different approach? How about socializing with them? Maybe treating them like something other than a victim? This guilt needs to go. It was out of our control.

I’m open about being hard on my country and its citizens. It’s like the drill sergeant that picks on a certain cadet. They see the potential. They see the possibilities. They also see what it takes to get them to that destination. It’s a hard road, but the goal is appropriate. We have fought so much to establish freedom for the masses. Why aren’t we fighting to make it a more cohesive nation? Stability? Cooperation? Are there too many tag-alongs to prevent us from moving forward? God damn it, America, you’re better than that.

America is no longer an expanding country. At this stage in the game, “expansion” is replaced with “imperialism.” There’s a subtle difference, even if people are willing to ignore it. It seems to me many don’t think about it, and would rather be busy with their own personal agenda. As an established land, we need to focus on what has formed. I know I make it sound like we’ve recently acquired the Pacific states, but think about it. How many times do you hear people using terms like “German-American,” “Italian-American,” “Irish-American,” and so on. Personally, I hear it all the time. It’s like we’re not a sovereign nation.

The reason behind these cutesy little labels is simple. By doing so, we’re able to feed our egos via differentiation and create a special little club for belonging. There are two problems with this. First, no other country considers you their citizen when you are born here, and secondly, you’re romanticizing about a country your ancestors left. How many native born Americans of German descent have the first clue what it means to be German? There are plenty around here in Hooterville, and I can tell you the answer is little if any.

Everything’s a war these days: drugs, terrorism, economic class, race, etc. It’s like putting on another jersey and playing for a team within a team. We’re all on the same team. Some time or another, it has to be acknowledged the guy down the street is your countryman. It has to. Otherwise, our tacit in-fighting will hold us back from economic and social progress. We will continue to make minute distinctions between one another and not relate in a larger sense. “I’m not going to help him. He’s one of them.”

We are all Americans. Let’s celebrate as one.

…and remember, Ira Hamilton Hayes of the Pima Tribe was one of the six in this statue.

Peanut Brittle Family

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and accordingly, there were several meditative posts on people’s fathers. I had to think long and hard if I wanted to post anything on the subject. On a life’s scale, it could be far worse. He could be absent, unavailable, incapacitated with drink or other drugs, in jail, physically abusive, deceased, but he is not. He can be very hard to handle at times, though. I was concerned yesterday evening would be such a case. My muscles were tight and on stand by for the typical family meltdown, but I put on my best happy face and tried to make the best of it.

We made it off a rocky week. My father thinks acting like an ass to upset me is wildly amusing. Maybe private-time me would only be irritated, but to be difficult during business hours is unacceptable. Dragging feet or pretending to drag feet and being obstinate is out of the question. Saying afterwards, “I’m only joking,” is not enough. In fact, I’ve never found apologies meaningful. It’s true they may be sincere and valuable to the speaker, but I don’t find meaning in them. If you would like to apologize, help me out.

Sunday I made it out with only having my meal ruined, and when compared to other times in my life, I’ll take what I can get. My family set out for Port Columbus Int’l (CMH) to pick up my sister. She’s 38, but takes to driving in larger cities like cats do to baths. Something I take pride in is being able to drive, fly, or otherwise commute on my own. Independence has been my bride for years, and I have loved her as tenderly as I ever could love a woman. It makes me grouchy when I get whiffs of fecklessness in my peers. In turn, I get very sore with myself if I find it in me.

Being the considerate, I drove most of the trip. Being it Father’s Day, we decided to have dinner at Schmidt’s Sausage Haus. As a gift, I paid for the four of us. I thought it better than a stupid gift card to a home improvement store. Maybe I was mistaken?

After the arrival at CMH, spirits were rather high. While we waited for the Frontier gorillas to mash the luggage a bit more, I was entertaining myself by riding up and down the escalators like a simpleton. My sister had her little escapade in Pennsylvania, and was being pleasant. My parents seemed happy. We tried to take our luck to the restaurant and ride the fumes out through the night.

Here’s where it started to unravel. With my mother a might peckish, she became irritable. The 45 minute wait was not well received by her, but I was firmly against going to something like Bucca Di Beppo.  We patiently waited, and I decided to anesthetize myself with a 22 oz. beer. Not only did it do the trick, it made me louder. I was told to keep it down more than once by my mother.

After seated, we headed for the dinner buffet. I generally dislike buffets for the clientele it attracts, but will always make an exception for this place. Filling a couple of plates with delightful food, such as bratwurst and German potato salad, I overhear the light squawking of my mother about two pans being empty. Tuning out the first-world problem I went to the red cabbage.

By the time I reached my table, I witnessed the tail end of a “discussion” between my mother and the server. It wasn’t an amiable discussion either. From what I gather, my mother said something about food not being available and assume the server said  it wasn’t her problem in a round about way. In truth, it wasn’t. Those trays are the problem of the line cooks in back. They are the ones to be nagged. She was less than impressed and entered her icy, withdrawn, silent treatment mode with the waitress. Things got ugly after the server left. When we were alone, she turned to me and said, “don’t you dare tip her.”

She couldn’t have struck me harder if she used a monkey wrench. What balls she had telling the person buying her dinner how to pay for a meal. I am her son, yes, but this damn near broke my heart. My willingness to eschew the small irritations of having a good meal for the family went disregarded. My parents are the type of people to stiff the help, if they got a bug up their ass. I am not. I am firmly not. My father chimed in with, “she’s not getting any money from me.” Does anyone truly pay attention in my family? I was… uh… I was picking up the tab for this, Dad.

We made more small talk. All the while, I began to plot. I plotted on how to get them out of the building in order to pay for the meal. The more I thought, the less I tasted my dinner. What a waste. I finally settled on trying to pay at the cash register. A few minutes passed, and I thought we were out in the clear.

My sister, in the stupidest move of the night, unexpectedly cut in with “I wonder at what point she realized she was screwed.” In a very, very hurt fury by now I kicked the leg of her chair and barked, “eat your food!” The usual heavy blanket of silence fell upon the table. A fuse was lit, and I waited for the explosion. My father started in with his usual old man bitching with, “this wasn’t a good idea.” Fuck you. Fuck all of you miserable assholes. My insides were torn apart. I wanted to be anywhere but there at that point.

Looking at my phone, I found out how much time had passed between our seating and our departure: 30 minutes. 30 minutes. That’s how much time I was given for a family dinner, on my dime, and with nothing but pissy attitudes with it. Everyone was so cross, I couldn’t finish my second beer. It had to be left behind to get these assholes on the road. Fortunately for me, I was feeling some of the beer and it didn’t hurt as much.

I got everyone out of the building to the best of my ability and found the server. With my speech a little on heavy side, I explained to the young waitress I didn’t care what was said, but it really pissed my mother off. It was also stated there was a healthy tip with my payment, because I don’t believe in stiffing people. Ever. Not being able to process English, the girl tried to tell me her side of the story. I ignored her. What part of “I don’t care what happened” do you not understand? Take the fucking grace, dipshit.

On the way home, I kept everything to myself. That’s my only recourse. Do not add fuel. Be courteous. Be brief. I wanted to escape in the worst way. Reflecting in a bar that night, the problem came to light. I’m not an adult in their eyes. I’m nothing but the small boy with the He-Man figures. I’m their little boy… to control, dismiss, and scold. I may never have an adult dinner with my parents for as long as they live, and that’s painful.