Saturday, December 7, 2013

Goodbye Jeff. Hello Jeff, Nice to Finally Meet You.

Today is day 25. I know because I downloaded an app to my iPhone. It was one of the first things that I did on the day that I made the conscious decision that I'd had my last drink of alcohol. You read that correctly and, yes, this is the blog written by Jeff Brunk. Now, stand up and collect yourself.

When I made this decision I wasn't hungover. I wasn't in trouble with anyone. I wasn't in jail.
All fair questions that I'm certain immediately come to one's  mind.
I opened my eyes that morning, looked at the ceiling and thought to myself, 'Well, that's enough of that" and that was that. In actuality, the decision to either cut back or cease the insanity had been swimming around, literally swimming around, in my head for quite a while. However, I'm an all or nothing, black and white personality and the decision between live or die, stop or go was to stop and live.

So, I raised up on an elbow, looked at Pam, and told her what I had decided. I didn't expect much. She'd heard it before. Who hasn't said those words at least once in their drinking history? But I was saying them in a relatively unfazed state of mind. Amazing, given the increasingly dreadful volume of wine that I was consuming each and every night. I never had hangovers. It was to that point.
That was twenty-five days ago.

In a bit, I'll expound on what I've learned about myself from this journey thus far. I'll be the first to admit that I'm no hero for making it a measly twenty five days when there are people who struggle a lifetime hour by hour. But, I can maybe shed some light on what it is like for a Bipolar, self-medicating man who suddenly cuts off a lifeline.

First, a little history..........

My initial experience with happy juice came when I was just a young Weeble.

I was in middle school and my family had just moved to Lexington, NC earlier that year. So, I must have been in sixth grade. Sometime during that winter or fall, I was dropped with some sort of illness, cold and fever. I don't remember much. I blame the loss of brain cells. That's my excuse from now on. Hell, I sometimes can't remember what day it is, but I do remember my mom coming to me with cough medicine. A special elixir, concocted from a special recipe handed down by the gods of Atlantis. It tasted like grape juice, but not as syrupy as NyQuil, and it put me out after making me all warm and fuzzy. I vaguely recall wanting to boogie to the Bee Gees. My mother appropriately called it the "Grape Ape."

Not long after recovering from this sickness, I ventured downstairs and found the 1970's-style unlocked, closeted minibar in which my mom, not Isis or one of the Atlantean gods, had devised this concoction. I found Welch's grape juice and vodka. I can't remember the brand vodka and I really didn't care. I just knew that I felt better, had slept well, and had been given another Grape Ape the next night to help me kick that devastating illness. After I recovered, that was it for Grape Apes and my experience with alcohol. At least, for the time being.

It wasn't until I was sixteen years old that I was reintroduced to the spirits. My first beer was heartily enjoyed with 'Pap' Woods and his cousin while we listened to Heatwave's "Groove Line" booming from the back of his cousin's pimped Pinto. I even remember the beer. Oh, the ice cold freshness of Busch, in the can, with the old-school pop-top. I think that between the three of us we shared a case. For a novice, four beers is enough to both bring about euphoria and a certain sense of regret. I wasn't thinking about any regret, I just knew that I liked the way that the bass line thumped a bit more in tune with my soul with every sip of ice cold nectar. I wanted a Pinto by the time we finished the case and I think I might have made an offer to buy Pap's cousin's car. Stranger things have since happened.

From that day forward, I honed my imbibing skills and I honed them fiercely. Back in the early 1980's beer was easy to get. It was like buying Mentos. My focus changed as I remembered the Grape Ape and what else must be out there. I became good friends with Everclear. Wild Turkey gobbled its way into my cup quite a few times. I was quite health conscious by this time. Only Diet Coke and the Turkey, please.  Of course, there were the two mainstays, vodka and Jim Beam. Yet, when out on the town, for mixing purposes, vodka was the rule.
It was the 80's. It was a time of abounding freedom and letting it all out there. And, for me, it was nearly an entire decade of full-fledged Bipolar mania. All of these were as easy to obtain in the early '80's as cocaine and Madonna wannabes.
Hell, I would make a cocktail from Everclear and Dr. Pepper. And to me, that mix tasted as good as a Five Guys milkshake. It tasted better after the second sip when my tongue, lips, guts and face were numb.

From there, I started hosting PJ parties. PJ is a mix of fruit and most any kind of alcohol, by the half gallon, juice and maybe some ice... all stirred with a stick for effect and served from a brand new 30-gallon Rubbermaid trash can. I was on my way and I was in the fast lane. By the way, it must be stirred with a stick and it must be served from a new, repeat NEW, trash can. Redneck rules. Oh yes, be sure to place the can on a hard surface that is impervious to stains. Word to the wise.

High school ended and away I went to art school where screwdrivers during class in one of those thermal cups with a lid were a must. Liquid inspiration, I would think to myself. To be fair, I did my best artwork and get my most outrageous artistic ideas with a less 'tight' mind. Little did I know that the alcohol was simply slowing down my thinking as a result of my disorder.

My buddy, Eric, and I would do our camera work in the darkroom but always have our own 'developer' with us. I swear, I have always done my best artwork when I am at another level... and I'll be honest, I'll call it dumbed-down. To be quite brutally honest, I have always used alcohol to lower myself to an understanding of most. Yeah, that sounds bad, but it's true and for many years it was motivation. I have always felt that I was here mentally, (hand raised) and most others were here, (hand lowered). I would drink to understand the thinking process of others. I'm not making that up. I know, that does sound haughty, but I'm not that way. I now know that I simply can't focus on one simple idea at a time. More on that later.

Alcohol has been a motivator, a courage-maker, a deal-breaker and a stupidifier for me as long as I can remember. Well, almost as long as I can remember.

Flash forward to my most manic moments of my life. It has landed me in jail, a few times. It has cost me the respect of my children. Not to mention their presence. I can't blame alcohol entirely, Bipolar disorder is the main culprit, but self-medicating with wine or vodka surely didn't help matters. Alcohol played a part in my vacation stay in the county mental health facility. It's alright, you can call it the nut house. It also landed me in the hospital on suicide watch a couple of times. I swear though, I didn't attempt anything stupid like that. I just have no 'off' switch. That's one of my faults. If it feels good, if I feel good, I want to feel better, and better, and better. Until, well... you get the idea.

You see, I've always felt the need to drink to escape the voices or the pain or something I couldn't quite understand or grasp if it wasn't just to have fun, as it was in the earlier days.
As my therapist and most books call it, it is 'self-medicating.' Most of us bipolar folk do it in one way or another. Count me amongst them. My problem is that I have no 'off' switch, as I mentioned.

I no longer drink wine. I no longer sell wine, which was my chosen career. Twenty five days ago, later that morning, I called my employer and quit my job. Like I said, I'm all or nothing. I knew that there was no way that I could do my job properly on a daily basis without drinking.

My brain will always be on the fritz. It'll always be two gerbils on a hamster wheel. But, for myself and especially those that love me and, for some reason, need me, I knew that I needed this change desperately. My health was deteriorating as I was sinking psychologically.

I have always been a spiritual person. I'm connected, more in a Buddhist way, to the Universe through Reiki and feeling and healing. I had lost that. I was drinking more and more. I was trying to escape something, but I don't know how many things I was running from.

What I do know is this: The most difficult thing about the last twenty five days has been getting reacquainted with myself and, this surprised me, finding something else to do. I have had to completely change my habits. When I say change habits I'm referring to changing what time I shower, where I sit at a certain time of day, what time I go to bed. It sounds silly but it isn't as easy as you might think it to be.

I was literally frightened at first. I truly thought that I had lost my humor and sense of self. Hey, look, I had been drinking for the last thirty-three years. I didn't drink every day but I didn't miss many days.
Here is a tidbit for you... the first night, I went to an AA meeting. I wanted to get an idea what it was about and to see if I belonged there. As it turns out, there were some great, accepting people there. I haven't been to another meeting, but I haven't craved a drink. I don't walk into a store or walk down the wine aisle in the supermarket and become tortured with cravings.
I do like the way I feel now and I like that I've lost poundage. Waking up earlier in the morning isn't that bad. I'm getting my 'funny' back.
Best of all, I'm gaining a newfound appreciation for myself and man oh man, am I ever gaining clarity of mind.

Robin Williams has always been one of my favorite comedians. When he was younger, back in the 80's he was out of control, always the improvisational genius. I still go to YouTube to watch his old routines from time to time. If you weren't aware, Robin Williams is also Bipolar. He's a textbook case.
Through the years, he has seen television success, movie success and movie flops. Personally, he's experienced the highs and lows that come with relationships, finances and life. But, he's survived and now has what I believe is one of the best and funniest shows on television in 'The Crazy Ones.'
Here's the thing... when he was at his craziest, he was drinking like a fish, doing coke, self-medicating. Yet, he succeeded. Eventually, the house of cards came crashing down and he had to say to himself, 'Enough.' But, he didn't lose his humor. His humor and his improvisational talent is still there and he's just as good as he ever was with one exception: his humor is smarter. It is not as fast and furious, but it is smart.

I like to liken my own life to his. Not that I've been famous in any way, shape or form but I've had so many different careers that I've mastered, then grew bored with. I've moved fast, I've crashed and burned. And now, I have said, 'enough.' It is time to listen to myself, use what I know, be who I know myself to be and be smart.

So now you know.
Tomorrow is Day 26. One day older, another day wiser. Pass the water, would ya?

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Too Personal, but what the Hell

"My rope doesn't have a square knot tied at its end."

"My rope is greased with KY Jelly. I could have said Vaseline, but KY Jelly is more my style. It's a slippery slide down that rope, but, by god, at least it's pleasant."

"It's when you get to the end and there's no foothold that there is a slight problem. Can anyone relate?"

"I climb and climb but with every hand over hand advance, my feet slip and I fall a few inches lower than where I started."

These are words taken from the Dead Sea Scrolls. It seems the Essenes not only had the same problems, but that KY Jelly is older than we once thought. It was first mentioned in the Book of Harold by Mary Magdalene. Hell, it was found in a clay jar in a cave.

"And so, by my slickness of thighs and coolness of nether regions, I shall bless this ointment. I shall call it Kumbah Ya. From hence forth it will be known as simply, KY."

That's my religious stupidity for the night. However, it might have happened that way and I'm sticking by it.

Here is my day to day, minute by minute update on the Big Man's plan for me: If there is a bearded man with an agenda, his agenda includes me as a pawn meant for severe punishment.

How many of you can relate to never getting a break? Never getting ahead in life, despite your best efforts? How many of you know that you are meant for something other than what you are doing.... or being more than what you are, but can't seem to reach that rung on the ladder?

I've been trying since an early age but no one understood me. That's ok.
I went to art school where I had to dumb myself down with substances in order to understand what the public wanted. So be it.

Now, the KY theory has jumped back into the picture. Kumbah Ya.

Don't take this personally, but humans are absolute idiots. Four fifths of the male population think that KY is a gay man's condom. I laugh at that.

I found this week that I've done everything I can in this lifetime. I've lived, I've loved, I've loved unconditionally. But I've never made an impact or made a difference in anyone's life.

That's a bitter pill to swallow. I gazed upon my medicine cabinet today and realized I'll be here a little longer. My doctors aren't idiots. But I also realized that I do more harm than good. Kumbah Ya.

My wife is not happy. That's my fault. I've brought stress upon her. I didn't know it, but how could I not? I'm a fucked up individual. I see trees as numbers and feel the changes in the atmosphere.

I love my bebe, more than anything, but she sure deserves a better, more stable life,

No amount of KY Jelly can do that. At least not in he long term.

So, I'll do what I do. On a daily basis that isn't a constant. But I'll try and make my wife the happiest person alive. Because she believes in me when I don't. And I believe in her when she isn't at her finest.

And on occasion, I'll scrounge for the KY,

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Yelps from the Closet: Tick Tock. It's 50 'til.

Yelps from the Closet: Tick Tock. It's 50 'til.: In just under three months I will turn the corner. I'll be able to wheel myself out into the darkness and scream into the night, "I...

Tick Tock. It's 50 'til.

In just under three months I will turn the corner. I'll be able to wheel myself out into the darkness and scream into the night, "I'm fifty years old! I beat the odds!"

No, more likely, I'll walk out into the darkness, grasp the deck railing, look up into the sky and think to myself, "Jeff, you're fifty years old. What have you done with your life? What have you accomplished? Who have you helped?" Then, I will look down at my feet to see where I'm standing and come to the realization that I've done nothing to better myself, anyone or this world and the regrets will come flooding through me. Again. Yet on this one upcoming night, it will hold much more signifigance.

There's nothing really different to what I think to myself now, except for the fifty years old part. Sure, you say that fifty is the new forty. Fifty isn't old. I agree. But reaching fifty with nothing to show for it is a bit of an eye-opener.

I'm stuck in a strange professional and mental life in which I have no control at the moment. Mostly because I'm stuck with a mind over which I have little to no control. I have lost all bearings so many times and for all intents and purposes and just want to be done with. I've done it all, it seems.
Let me make this crystal clear, this isn't about my marriage. I love my wife, I wouldn't change that. Where we live, yeah. In a heartbeat. I have no place to call my own and in that regard, I'm floating, lost in others worlds.
When it comes to careers and jobs, there's nothing left that doesn't require an advanced degree (which I find ridiculous) that I can pursue. Ask me not what I've done, but what I haven't done.

I am trapped within my mind. Wanting to do something more, something meaningful. And held captive by the worldly thoughts of needing to work to bring in the moolah, the money. To be 'normal' and part of society. On the other hand, I resent that thought and avoid it whether I realize it or not. The things that one does that are meaningful rarely bring in the money. They 'normal' things make sure you get the latest fashions and maybe ensure that you drive a nice car but I won't die buried in a nice car although I do have my Nat Nast shirt picked out for the big trip to the otherworld.

If you haven't read my blog posts, let me fill you in on something. Money is a necessary evil but it isn't a means to happiness. Nothing in this world is free. Thank you 'free' enterprise. Ironic, isn't it? Especially when nothing on this planet had a dollar value attached to it upon creation. I don't recall anywhere every hearing or reading, "and on the ninth day, god created pennies.... and they multiplied and were fruitful."

Yet, I have to stay where I am. To prove a point, I suppose. I don't necessarily like that. Damn if it's not me or I'm on another path mentally. It's back to pretending. Pretending to be happy. Pretending that every little success is a great victory. When really, I don't give a shit. Why should I care when I'm no more important to the ones who ultimately financially benefit from my efforts than the next meal I scrounge for from Arby's? I'll be questioned over that comment. That's not what I meant, honey. Don't take everything personally.

But, I'll press on. I'll be a happy little camper. Until it's very apparent that I'm on another path and this camper took the road less traveled. That, of course, could happen next year, next month or tomorrow. I do what my mind tells me and what my mind tells me is usually tied to my instincts.

Maybe twenty good years remain in my bag of tricks. I read an article that stated that those with my special form of thinking... you know, the, psst, bipolar thing,... tend to live an average of 20 years less than 'normal' people. Usually, the reason for the truncated life expectancy is due to suicide. But, I'm no longer prone to that mindset. Although sure, I go to bed at night occasionally hoping to not wake up the next morning. But I made promises to people that I intend to keep. I'll push the limits, that's my nature, but I'll not do that stupid selfish type thing.

Twenty good years, give or take, to hopefully accomplish a few things. It's a bizarre feeling to look at life in that perspective until you look at your last twenty years and how quickly it passed.
I'm not being morose, I'm being realistic and pragmatic. I know that I have a lot to offer. I also have a lot of shoes. Size 9 and 9.5. If you want 'em, let me know and I'll add you in my will.

So what does twenty years hold? What about next year? Where will I be and what will I be doing? There are plenty of people who have that all mapped out. Good for them, suckers. Life doesn't work that way. And if they happen to trudge from day to day with the same routine, the same thing over and over and look at it with a sense of regret, we aren't that different. Except for one small thing. They choose their unhappiness and their adherence to a future that they feel they can't change.

I trudge from day to day with a mind that never stops seeing the unlimited options but can't seem to grasp any of them. Too much swimming around up there and too many opinions.

Fifty. Just under two months. Tick tock. Go ahead and think it's no big deal. Just don't tell it to me, or anyone who still has dreams.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Roll On, Rollercoaster

Let me start this blog with what I feel should be the Bipolar National Anthem:

The Bipolar life. I've embraced it for the most part. It's been good to me with the exception of causing me to lose everything. Kids. Money. Self respect and sense of worth.

All negatives have positives though. I gained my sense of self. My sanity. I learned what unconditional love really is. Hell, I learned what love really is. I re-gained a relationship with my parents and sister after many years. Something that I'll forever look at myself in the mirror, and after cringing, tell my brain, "Thank You," since it gave me quality time with my dad before he passed.

My earliest memory of depression is as a young child, in elementary school. I have no idea why I was depressed. At that age there is no reason to be depressed unless you've eaten your last crayon. Yet, I remember sitting on the stoop (it's a small porch, for you rich folks), and my dad comes out and sits beside me, stares straight ahead, puts his hand on my shoulder and simply says, "You seem sort of blue."
That's all I remember. The rest of my memories are mania-driven which may have been depression-inspired. That same day, I may have not jumped the ditch on my bike and it pissed me off when my friend was able to do it and so, it sent me into a downward spiral. I don't know.

Everyday is a rollercoaster ride. Some days, it's all uphill. Others, it's a series of ups and downs like the Scooby-Doo rollercoaster at Carowinds theme park. Up, down, right, right, sudden left and a short dip under a makeshift mountain. Then, up a little mountain then around a curve, another curve, then down a steep hill and up a short incline before a short straightaway.

You've just ridden the Scooby Doo rollercoaster at Carowinds. Save your money, you know what it's like. But, know that in my mind that ride is constantly taking on new riders nearly twenty-four hours a day.

Maybe you understand. Most likely, you have no clue. My goal in life is to provide those clues to those who do not understand the ones like me.
You see, I belong to an elite club. Einstein, Michaelangelo, Da Vinci, Newton, Hemingway, Van Gogh. All Bipolar. The list is impressive. The rollercoaster may have even been conceived by Da Vinci, who knows?

Their rollercoasters took them to greatness when it slowed to a stop. Mine is still taking a turn but there are great things on the horizon. And if not? Well, I've done great things in the past.... so I've been told.

Life is a ride of some sort. Short and fast or slow and steady. Neither is bad as long as the life has meant something to not you, the one living it, but to at least one who knew you and at least one who didn't.

So I end this blog with the song that will take me from this world one day. And I encourage you to listen to the words and take them to heart. Despite your rollercoaster, life is a lovely cruise.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

War: Why Can't We Be Friends?

"Let's be friends."
"I'm your friend."

Here's an elaboration of the word: "Good Friend"

A six-letter word, Friend. When you add 'Good' to the mix you add a four-letter word.
Let me give the official definition of the word, Friend. I've not referred to official-ness often, so be aware that this shit I'm writing now is serious. Really, I'm not messing around. Grab your crotch and head bounce.


1. a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
2. a person who gives assistance; patron; supporter: friends of the Boston Symphony.
3. a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile: Who goes there? Friend or foe?
4. a member of the same nation, party, etc.
5. ( initial capital letter ) a member of the Religious Society of Friends; a Quaker.

Are you getting this? First off, let's scratch number 5 off of the list. Unless you are a Quaker or member of the RSF (as I call my homies) we can put this one aside. I'll have my oatmeal tomorrow morning and do an in-air fist-bump to my Quaker buds.

Number 4? There are no friends within the same party or nation or nations' parties. The recent government shutdown was evidence of that. Unless it's a real party. That is different.  I'm pretty sure that 'pubs and 'dems would pass a bottle of Beam and sing to Skynyrd if given the chance. That is how government should be run anyway. Old school. Then, even the Tea Party is on board. God bless America, fuck the rest. I jest, of course.

Number 3 - We're gaining ground on what a friend is supposed to be and where I'm going with this.
 - 'a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile: Who goes there? Friend or foe?' - now we are going somewhere.

Friend or Foe? A person who is on good terms with another and not hostile. But for how long? A moment? A day? A year or a lifetime? And how do you know and what do you look for in a Foe? A foe is easier to spot. A curly mustache and a sinister laugh. Conical breasts and cold sores. Although that foe was easily beaten (thank you, pharmaceuticals). This is where my story is starting to formulate ... stay patient, it'll be good.

Number 2 - A person who gives assistance or a supporter. Like a giver to the Boston Symphony.

I love music but I'm not sure that I'd give assistance to the bassoon player if he needed his diaper changed. Let's face it, those guys and gals are talented but a few of them are a bit aged and 'Oops I Crapped My Pants' is not so funny of an SNL skit to some of them as it used to be.
However, the symphony isn't my point. Being a supporter is my point. One who stands behind you and supports your ideas and ideals because of a bond. Whether built over years or days, usually you know it when it is genuine, right? RIGHT? This is the most common type of friendship that people consider 'close.' I don't have any scientific data to prove it but it sure as shit makes sense to me. This is where most people get fooled, bamboozled and screwed. Sometimes all in one night.

Number One. - FRIEND: a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

The most elusive of things. Cupacabra, Bigfoot and Yeti are more elusive and true friends. What makes them so difficult to find is the last two words in the definition: personal regard.

Here's my idea.. True friends are as elusive as the Chupacabra. You'll see one, maybe two in your lifetime. But..... well..... Join me, if you will, on a journey through a friendship example of my own.

I've always been a man, or boy when I was younger, unto my own. I have never wanted nor needed friends. No, let me take that back. I have never wanted to have anyone to tie me down in a friendship that I could never be an equal in the friendship. I'm not a 'join you by the fire' kind of guy.  The reason for that is that although I will be the first one there when you need help, I'm not the one that's going to be there every Friday night. This is why the guys in my Cul-de-Sac looked down upon me anywhere I went for years. I hated that shit. That isn't friendship.
But, I did have one friend. For several years we were close. We shared a lot and we went though much. He was and is a good man. I last saw him at my dad's funeral. It was the first time I'd seen him in maybe, oh, ten years. Yet, the friendship was there. Despite a few changes.... his hair, my belly and our ages... And then there were the philosophical changes. He became super-Christian. I turned from super-Christian to the darkside. Not really, I just embraced my spirituality differently.

We went from being 1980's whoremongers to 2013 'who the Hell are you?'ers.' Yet, when we saw each other, it was if a day from 1985, 1992... whenever the last time we saw or talked to each other, the friendship hasn't lapsed. He was my friend. Still is.

That is my only lifetime true friend. If he's reading, he knows who he is. He probably doesn't read my blog because it'll lead him to Hell, but just in case, Tom, love ya man.

Despite differences, a friend will stand by you and support you. If they say they will, then don't, they have nothing but their own best interests at heart and really put you back at a number 5. Hello, Quaker.

I have one other friend who meets this criteria. I married her two years ago. My second wife, my best friend. I'll spare you those mushy yada yada semantics. Just know that friends like this don't happen all that often.

"Where are you going with this, Jeff?," you ask.

I'll tell ya this. I thought I had a good friend a few weeks ago. I was fooled. I let my guard down, which I don't do that often.
As a result, I had to look at myself and who I am first and foremost. Then, I picked the shit out of the faults of myself then my supposed friend. I found I wasn't perfect but my friend wasn't a Number 1 or a Number 2 either. Hell, she barely made Number 4.

How can we be blindsided so easily? Easy. We need validation. That's why I carry a stamp in my car. I validate myself everyday. I'm good to go, everywhere I go. Validated.

Quite possibly this is why I never let anyone get close to me. Everyone is a disappointment, or, most everyone, when it comes to true friendship.
I might put off some of you with this as you read these words. Sorry about that. You should feel the same way. But I'll tell you this, If I've ever called you a friend, I meant it. Crank it up. If I ever told ya I loved ya, that's me putting myself out there.

Bottom line though.... as a friend, I'm always open to being a Quaker, ever a #2 or willing to be a number one if you don't come back and catheter me in the future.


Saturday, October 19, 2013

Real-time God Conversations.

"I like ya, but I don't love ya." Sayeth the lord.

"Ye shalt have to endure pain, heartache, frustration and anger in order to know the meaning of thy being..."

And BubbaCephus looked quizzically at his TV.

'Huh?' "well, I'll be a runned-over roadkill," BubbaCephus exclaimed.
"I ain't goin' to no more poles.. polls.. whatever.. to vote for no more people who ain't smart. Now, where's my Copenhagen dippin' snuff?"

And the lord dost sayeth unto BubbaCephus, "Hey, my creation.. tho' I scraped you and the rest of North and South Carolina from the barrel and tho' you are the urinal cake in the makeup of my creation, I shalt try to explain something to you."

And BubbaCephus, hearing this, said, "Huh? Speak English, dammit. This is 'merica."

And the lord shaketh his big head at BubbaCephus.
"What am I to do with my creation?" he exclaimed in a booming voice.

And Beelzebub snickered... "I did okay... hehehehe... what a stupid fuckin' thing you did giving a brain to humans."

BubbaCephus heard what Beelzebub muttered and said, "Huh? Is that you, Pat Robertson? Or anint' you my hero, Pastor Phelps?"

Upon hearing the reaction to Beelzebub's comment, thy lord decideth to speak directly to BubbaCephus through numbers. So, on a given Sunday in October, the lord placed a message. NASCAR is a God-given message-giving entity....

And BubbaCephus, seeing the 28 car trailing the 13 car which was rubbing the 6 car found a message in the decals

"Well I'll be a deer-guttin' somebeetch," said BubbaC... "Cialis can put the Midas brakes on life's problems if you use Castrol. I get it now! Thank you Jeezus!"

With this revelation, the BubbaCephus found that, despite his 3-wheeled trailer being stuck in a corner lot, he could go anywhere if he only looked for the signs... or, decals, in his case.

And with this revelation in the undeveloped world of his creation, the source god did saieth, "Jesus, if BubbaCephus can get a message through corporate advertising then so can the world's great governments. Especially that insignificant piss-ant of a creation country that has those fools that bow every Sunday morning and then watch midget porn after lunch."

........................ fast forward ..... BubbaCephus is now a state senator from South Carolina.

And god saieth, "Mother mary, somebeetch. What'd I do?"

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Hi Y'all... my wife will spare your lives now.

We all have things that scare us. For me, it is spiders, Others hate heights or commitment.'

There really isn't a difference between your fear of commitment and my fear  of eight-legged bastards.

Let us take this a step further down the line. The fear of not having control or leadership. That's a big fuckin' problem, that fear.

This week has one of fearful experiences. Politics aside.
You see, I'm married to one of those 'essential' workers who had to work while not being paid. She couldn't take a sick day, not that she was sick, or she'd lose any money for leave.
Basically, my wife was held hostage by a terrorist organization led by Osama bin Ted Cruz and his cohorts and I had to deal with the fear of death each day at home.

Stress is an ugly bitch. It's like Phyllis Diller on a bad day without makeup and no sense of humor. Add undue stress to a woman in an already stressful job, the ugly intensifies. Then, bring that stress and ugliness home to a guy, oh, say me, who is doing everything possible to avoid added stress in order to stay out of jail, and you have a volatile mix of Crazy and fuckin' nuts.

Thanks to the great source in the heavens that saw fit to screw with the twisted minds of out lawmakers and put my wife back on payroll. And not just my wife... the hundreds of thousands of others who were feeling the same stress. My thoughts are with the spouses and families of those who had to look at this government shutdown ball of crap through a set of eyes in an entirely different way than those who now question their worth to the 'company' they work for.

My wife, she has twenty-five years of tenure. She may have well been a lackey in the mailroom on her first day. And, what am I able to say to her? Nothing. It's her entire life. The fucktards with no regard for others have struck a chord within the government sector and it's a B flat.
This will not happen again.

I hate spiders. Detest them. They make my skin crawl and the fact that, on average, a human swallows nine spiders in a lifetime freaks me out.
But, I'll boil spiders and eat them as soup rather than feel the fear I had when my wife was working, unpaid... slave labor... through this debacle.

I'll put her in a cage match with Boehner, Ted Cruz, Mitch McConnell and Obama any day. And I'll bet the ugly and stupid will come out bloody and bruised. My wife is neither ugly or stupid.
I'll also put her in a tub of pudding with Sarah Palin. But that's for another reason and I still think my wife would win. But, I'd pay any amount to see that bout.

Fear. An unreasonable reaction to a perceived situation in which you do have some control.

America. The epitome of Fear.
My wife. The freakin' Terminator. She'll be back.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Russia, I Love You Guys.

Dosvedanya, Comrades,

I use the Slavic, no, Russian wording because for some reason, unknown to me, Russians read this blog. Not only do they read my blog, they read it so often that they rank just below the U.S. in readership.

It's a bit of a mystery to me why this is. But, Holy Kremlin, I'm down with that. If my ramblings and rants made during times of mania and depression appeal to the ones who wear hats with earflaps, I'm groovy with it.

Actually, if my words help anyone, anywhere, I'm down with it. I just find it interesting that Russians find my writings read-worthy. I'm not complaining, no, no, no! I love all of my readers, whether they agree with me or not. My fingers are my voice and my voice is universal. I can't type in Mandarin or China would be better represented, although I do have readers in China.

I'm just a short, slightly disturbed survivor of bipolar disorder here in Bumfuck, Virginia, writing about things that annoy me and humor me. Hell, I make shit up sometimes when it comes to news stories. Inanity is my forte. However, the human experience is universal.

Jesus, or der haysoos de christos, as the Germans call him, once said, "How'd I get all this shit thrust upon me, big daddy?" Moments later, he had his answer and now has the coolest piercings ever given. Hand it to the Romans. I'll catch shit for that comment, but I thought it was funny. Think about it for a second and tell me you didn't smirk.

This world has become intolerable in many ways. Wars here, wars there. Corrupt politicians, greed.... and we haven't yet left the United States and it's need for dominance. The U.S. seems to think it has the biggest dick in a locker room full of porn stars. Nah, the U.S. is the midget porn actor on the world's porn channel. We have the smallest dick with the biggest debt in the world. This is our country, a laughing stock.

And now, a know-nothing party that has nothing at all to do with Tea, has been snookered by big business into shutting our country's government down solely for reasons of pride and prejudice. America is now a laughing stock. Our government held hostage by a few who do not like a few laws. The corporations are winning. Of course, with my resume, I could get a job within one of those corporations.... possibly be a bicycle runner or the guy who says 'Huh?' at every Monday team meeting.

I'm not American. I'm not a citizen. Neither are you. You're an employee who doesn't realize who pays your salary, when they want to. No wonder the Russians love my blog. I'm the epitome of the typical American. Sane in a crazy way. I'm no different than they are in their feelings about their government. The only difference is, their government shows up for work tomorrow. Of course, if they don't they're shot, but nevertheless....

I used to go to a Methodist church as a kid. In Sunday school, we'd read a little story then take some crayons, color a picture of a smiling Jesus or other revered figure, then cut the figure out and take it home to remember what we learned in that little class. Personally, I liked the projects where we had to glue things together... it made my day far more tolerable.... but this was a lesson.

No glue and no crayons, just words. Not even a book of stories. That's what our 'trusted' politicians use today. Words. And people believe what they hear and they love a charming smile. Apparently, some people like orange-skinned Speakers of he House too.

Bless ya, Russia. Thank you for harboring Snowden. Apparently, you're not the bad guys that Rocky IV made you out to be. And, if you have a topic you want me to tackle, name it.

Just know, I'm not good with snow and cold. But, I do dig vodka.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Yelps from the Closet: It's All Smart to Me. Really. No, REALLY.

Yelps from the Closet: It's All Smart to Me. Really. No, REALLY.: I promised myself that I wouldn't write about politics or the inanity of the Republican party, the stupidity of the Tea Party or the mis...

It's All Smart to Me. Really. No, REALLY.

I promised myself that I wouldn't write about politics or the inanity of the Republican party, the stupidity of the Tea Party or the misguided funding of the Obama Healthcare law. All of which are ridiculous in their own right.

So, keeping true to my word, I will not elaborate on the politics or the inanity of the Republican party, the stupidity of the Tea Party or the misguided funding of the Obama Healthcare law. All of which are ridiculous in their own right.

Instead, there has been something gnawing at my brain like a gerbil chewing on a sunflower seed. Bling. Car bling. Today, I saw a car with eyelashes. Fucking eyelashes. Sure, it, was a SmartCar, but it looked like an idiot car. It looked like a whore car that you'd see at a garage late at night after one too many quarts of oil. In that case, that Smart Car would look good. It would look like a midget with big tits and soft hands.

But this isn't a car-driven world where that type thing is normal for most people. A few, yes, but they have their own web pages and they are quite disturbing.

On the road, cruising eastbound at 55mph, eyelashes flapping, a '67 Vette passes going westbound looks over and sees those eyes with those flappy lashes. That crisp, '67 Vette smirks and without a sputter says "pfffffyt....Smart, my ass, three-pronged whore."

Today, on a SmartCar I saw a decal that said 'Actual Size'. I have that same decal on my penis. I own a Harley that seats two people, has two saddlebags and a rear rack. So do most Smart Cars, except the saddlebags and rear rack come in the two front seats. Why? Why, oh why do people find these bastardizations of automobiles worthy of purchase?

Smart Cars aren't smart. They are death traps. You can't can't see them until they're under you. They should be made with small crucifixes as hood ornaments. Face it, have you ever seen anyone under 250 pounds driving one of these cars? They're not smart. A Volkswagen bus from the 60's is smarter. And cooler. You can light AND smoke a joint in a Volkswagen bus. In a Smart Car you can maybe fit a joint in the glove compartment. Even then, you have to light it with the positive and negative charges from your battery. Peace Out, dude.

And then, the *gulp* stick figure family.  Let me gather myself......

What possesses you people to begin a family of sick stick figures on your window that includes dogs, cats, horses, pigs, mothers-in-law and other inherited family? I'm curious because I see it everywhere. It's as if the family stick figure is a symbol of solidarity.

Riddle me this. What if you're single? Or divorced? Or, better yet, like me, what if your kids disowned you. What kind of stick figures do you have on your rear window then? For me, in my case, two stick figure kids with their arms held high behind them, hand in a stop sign motion with me, my stick figure, standing there with 'WTF' over his head.

C'mon lets get creative with these things. Forget soccer balls and doggies and kitty cats and the nuclear family. Let's make stick figure window decals for the real world. How about a pregnant daughter stick figure? A strung out son stick figure? And while we're at it, forget the whole mini-van thing. Let's put these things on '69 Camaros and old Impalas. Station wagons and conversion vans with shag carpet.

This brings me to one more thing. The dudes who wear fingerless driving gloves. Not just any fingerless driving gloves, but mesh fingerless driving gloves.
Just this week, on my way to church (yeah, right), a dude in a Mustang passed me on the right doing, oh, 80, in a 60 zone. His Mustang wasn't just any Mustang, it was a piece of shit Mustang. BUT, this dude had on mesh driving gloves and his hair was quite coiffed. Who wears driving gloves? I'll tell you who wears driving gloves.... Formula 1 racers, NASCAR drivers and rich fuckers who tool around in Maybachs and Lamborghinis on the weekends for fun. Not some douchebag in a 2003 Mustang.
However, I'm sure that with his gloves and Members Only jacket, he's quite the eye candy at the local AC Moore Craft Store.

These are just a few of my favorite things. Like in the Sound of Music.

Smart Cars.
Dumbasses in driving gloves.
Stick figures.

This is our world.
This is How I see it.

My dog looks at me in strange ways with his paws outstretched as if he wants to help.
I think he knows what I know.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Meeting Adjourned

"Meeting adjourned! Now, who's up for drinks and calamari at Capital Grille? Show of hands!"

Awkward pause......

"Ok, I count 17 on the left and.... 48.... uh, 50, 53, 54, 55 on the right. Capital Grille at 5pm. All in favor say "Yay!"

..... 'yeah, 'yay'.

"I didn't hear anyone! We just passed landmark legislation to shut down government and overwhelm our President! So, Capital Grille at 5! All in favor say 'Yay!'

... 'yay!'

"Okay then! The first round of Bloody Bama's and Oyster Rockefellers are on me! Let's Party! We're done here, fellas! We just saved America and the dumb bastards don't even know it! We are GODS!"

And so it was today as sequestration began. Republicans rejoiced as they rejoiced in their victory for the people of America. Although the people of America were not even on their minds, the sequester began for the ones hoping that the government would run out of money simply to prove a point.... a point meant to show a President that his solution to a problem that he inherited and has been trying rectify with the means at his disposal isn't good enough for the ones with their own agendas.

Solution: Shut it all down and make many more live unlivable.

It's now that I wish Abraham Lincoln and George Washington and Thomas Jefferson were around to up a boot up the asses of these government officials. It's about time for another civil war, for different reasons, this time to overthrow the dipshits in control of this country. I've seen better bartering at swap meets.

Yet tonight, there are oysters being slurped in congratulatory style. High fives being slapped over martinis and I'm sure a Cosmo or two. One or two are popping Viagra or Cialis in anticipation of a night of debauchery with their mistress or a hooker that we pay for with tax money while tomorrow the pink slips that are being printed tonight are making their way to offices nationwide.

No more National Parks for the tourists either. Sorry, guys. I'm glad I saw Gettysburg last week.

You blow donkey dicks, Congress. I disown you, much like my children disown me. Run to your banks and corporations who love you and fund you. Sooner or later, they'll be all you have because the millions of Americans you lie to will wake up, and your sorry asses will be here, with us, cowering for money from the very ones you cower to.

Bastards. Enjoy your Oysters.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Just Like Mom

The double buzz. The silent text. I had one tonight at 11:15pm. I've had 'em before but they're usually either from my bebe, Pam, or from one of my customers.

In this case, I'm no longer working for the same company so I know it isn't one of my customers. Pam is home and in the shower. So, unless she has taken her phone into the shower and needs a bar of soap or 'special service', I know it isn't her.

I glance at my phone and see that it my mom. Now, my mom never texts me after 9pm. That's usually when she falls asleep watching either the Food Network or HSN. But not tonight. Tonight, she is chatty. The conversation starts off normally... asking if I have one of the statues that I brought from the house when we packed everything before she moved into her new digs.

"Yes," I say.

She'd like to have it. I'd make a nice complement to the other statue she has. Okie doke.

Then, I asked, "Why are you awake at this hour? I thought you were asleep by 10pm every night?"

Never ask your parents this question. Only ask your children this question.

I was then asked a series of questions regarding jobs, money, life and happiness. I could elaborate on my answers, her questions and our banter, but I won't.

But, I will elaborate on this one thing that came from the discussion. My mom told me that she wished that she could work again. It would make her feel good to know she had something to contribute.

This hit me hard. Not because she needs to work but because she feels she needs to work to contribute. I've heard her say that others tell her she should be a comedienne. She makes people laugh. That is contributing. I told her that I just want to make people smile, I could care less about teamwork and money. It's about people and heart.

That is what my mother has and she doesn't even realize that she has it. I'll take texts at 3am from my mom every night if she wants to send them.

I like being a little crazy knowing that a little of that lunacy comes from her. She's the most unwitting genius I've ever known. My next job won't be a job. It'll be an adventure. Just like all the rest have been. I'll learn, I'll master and I'll move on. And hopefully, I'll make someone smile and laugh.

Just like my mom.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

My Helmet

My zeppelin rusted. And my helmet has a hole in the brim that causes the sun to shine in my eyes every day at 2:37pm every single day. Every single fucking day.

I will not complain, no matter the rust or brightness of the sun. Not everyone has a zeppelin. The rust can be taken away with a bit of care, a bit of steel wool and oil. The helmet, well, the hole remains and the sun will remain always.

I can repair the helmet but it is an antique, a relic from a time when then sun likely shone down upon the eyes of the wearer at 2:37pm every single day. Every single fucking day. So through that hole my eyes are his eyes and but for a moment I see what he saw, or so I can imagine.

History is what we hold in our hands. And in what we hold in our hands we can grasp as our future.

Or so I can imagine. Every single day.

Friday, September 20, 2013

Howling at the Moon

Ah, life. The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be. I'm talkin' about life. I feel I have to clarify due to the fact that a certain wonderful woman will be reading this and will undoubtedly come to me asking is she's the 'old, gray mare' if I do not clarify otherwise.

I was backtracking through some of my past writings here on this blog. I have to say, there is some damn good writing, some crap writing, some things I do not really remember writing, and quite a few things I regret writing.
I started this blog not as a public forum but as a place for me to put my inner self out. I began this in a very weird and funky time in my enigmatic and funky life. A lot has changed. I can't believe how many people have read my ramblings, rants and innermost thoughts, fears and actions. Whether I've been right or wrong, people continue to read. Thank you, by the way. I hope my faults and fuck ups help somebody.

Anyway, back to life. I sat outside tonight and stared transfixed at a full Harvest moon. A big, bright full moon. I thought about stripping naked and running wild through the woods, killing chipmunks, wiping my ass with oak leaves and using crickets for earplugs but decided instead to play Dice with Friends on my iPhone. while reflecting upon life as the frogs burped close by.

Here I am, just four months from the half-century mark. That's age fifty for the slow people. There was a time when I would piss and moan about getting old. Hell, I probably did that today and I'll probably do that tomorrow. But, I realized that I'm thankful for a few things too. Not only did I realize this thankfulness, I realized this thankfulness as I was 'watering' the lower vegetation from the front porch. It dawned on me that, although I'm no longer the good-looking man of my youth, the thin man of several years ago, I still have a few things.

Sure, I may not have my 28 waistline anymore. But, I have salt and pepper hair. It's distinguished.
And yes, I lost my Hummer, my money my house, my kids, my first Harley, my pride and my sense of self to an extended bout of bipolar mania and subsequent divorce. Through fire steel is forged.

But yet, I'm thankful at 49 and 7/8 for these things:

1 - I have a great head of hair. A little thinning on top at the back, but overall, it's fuckin' great.
2 - I still have a great pee stream. My prostate is still in good working condition.
3 - I have bipolar disorder. That means I get prescriptions for my meds. Nyah, Nyah Nyah.
4 - Back hair. It's a backup plan for that thinning spot.
5 - Wisdom - Still workin' on this one.......

6 - Pam.

Number 6 and number 2 are pretty special. Number 3 goes without saying. I'll catch Hell for that comment. But, Pam knows me and she'll agree. I'll catch Hell for that comment too.

As I looked at that moon, howled, scratched my nuts and pulled my pants back on, I reflected on these thoughts. I can't believe I'm looking at the big 5-0. Literally, I can't believe it. I shouldn't be here, I should be floating in someone's photo as an orb on an episode of 'Ghost Hunters'.

Shhhh... Did you hear that? ..... footsteps......  Nah, just me, I gotta pee again.

Friday, September 13, 2013

The Westboro Baptist Church Vs. The Calendar

Yesterday was September 11, 2013. Yesterday also marked twelve years since the tragedy of the 9/11 attacks in New York, Washington, DC and the horrific crash in Pennsylvania.

But, leave it to Westboro. Fast Five Freddy and the Funky Bunch of the Westboro Baptist Church decided to picket. It seems reasonable that the haters of humanity and all things having to do with harmony would picket on a day of remembrance of a day of sorrow caused by hatred.

But no, not this time. Fred and Marge, citing America's adoption of gay rights, homosexual marriage, BOGO sales at JC Penney during the Christmas season and their everlasting qualms with Clarence Thomas and his 'Pepsi Can, pubic hair' controversy' rallied the Westboro congregation. All eighty-nine or so members who could get time off from their jobs at Target, Wal-Mart and Chik-fil-A gathered with mis-spelled signs in Yonkers, NY, to protest the 9/11 memorial activities in New York City.

However, while the group's reasons for picketing in Yonkers (three members showed up in Harlem) is not known, what is even more perplexing is the reasoning for the picketing.

According to Marge Phelps, "We are showing our disdain for continued celebration... nay, almost a holiday, on a day ... lets call it September 11, that God smote a country full of fags. So, really, we are picketing the calendar, We are picketing the Gregorian Calendar."

Yes, you read that correctly.

Fred Phelps added, "The Gregorian Calendar was developed by  Pope Gregory, a Christian, who was a Catholic. You know them Catholics. They like them little boys and they're sinners. I know that the Calendar was meant to put Easter, God Bless Easter, where it is every year.... and we like it where it is 'cause it's perfect in Spring.... But other than that, the Gregorian Calendar is a sham! It's full of the devil's lies! Except for Christmas."

FOX News caught up with an unidentified member of the WBC as he shouted, "Ain't No Way You Gonna Make My Day!" The woman, known only as 'Tammy', stated that she wouldn't buy another calendar with September on it if it had an '11' on it.

"It ain't right" she said. "Why do we gotta remember God hates this country because of the fags every year? Damn, Jesus oughtta kill everybody now and get it over with"

So as we move further into September and closer towards Halloween when the crazies come out of the closets, let us keep in mind the Gregorian Calendar and the Westboro Baptist Church and try to distinguish who are the crazies and why Marge and Freddie are so fag-driven. I'm betting there's a pubic hair or two between their teeth.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

I'm Not Joey, Ross or Chandler

Everybody apparently needs at least one friend.

I've lived my entire life without that belief. I've been a man unto myself as long as I can remember.

Sure, I had friends as a kid. All kids have friends that you hang around with, do stupid shit with. I had those friends. I also had those friends throughout my high school years. But, none of them were close friends. None were those life-long, close to the heart friends that you see in the movies. You know, the friends like Billy Crystal has in 'City Slickers' or the group of friends that you see on TV a la 'Friends' or the 'Big Chill' or more recently, 'Grown Ups'.

That shit doesn't happen. it isn't real. Sure, it'd be nice. It'd be funny and it'd be ideal. But it just doesn't happen. The friends I had as a kid grew up and moved on, as did I. We didn't reunite and relive our 5th grade youth. God forbid.

No, as a matter of fact, I have avoided close friendships throughout my life. With the weird exception of marriage.

This has served me well for the majority of my life. I have never been one of those guys who gathered around the barbeque grill and talked about the workweek or met at the bar and talked sports.
I have never had a close friend that I've carried throughout my life.
Sure, I do have friends that I consider close. Friends that that know me better than anyone else. But, there is no one, repeat, no one, that knows me intimately. Not even my first wife, who was married to me for almost twenty years, knew me intimately. And, by intimately, I mean as a close, personal friend.

There is only one person now that I've allowed to get inside that perimeter. And, I'm cautious about allowing her to get too far inside. It's not because I have anything to hide, it's because I'm wary that she'll be like a small deer approaching fauna and suddenly see a chupacabra poke its' head up and scare her away.

Friends are never there when I need them. Whether it's because it's too late or I'm a nuisance. So, I just don't need them as much as they don't need me. There are exceptions, however. Thank you, Karre, Elisabeth, Paul, Debbie. Just to name a few. There are those that listen. Those that listen are friends. Sometimes that's all that's needed. I don't need feedback all of the time.

Friends, near and far, are more important than I thought possible. I'm a burden to most, annoying to many and disappointing to those who used to love me. But maybe, just maybe, I have a friend out there who I can help in some way.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Nineteen To Two For Forever

My first ride on the Himalaya ride at the county fair lasted roughly nineteen years.

I can still hear the distorted voice coming from the speaker shouting, "Do ya wanna go faster?" ... "I CAN'T HEAR YOU.... DO YA WANNA GO FASTER?"..... I can hear it over and over again...
The ride would get faster, and faster... my grip getting tighter on the bar, oh, let's call it 'reality', as I slid farther and farther away from the edge of where I started the ride.

Then, the ride would slow down..... mercifully. I would shimmy back to where I was sitting when I started the ride and all was well. And then... it happened.

The damned Himalaya ride stopped completely and with a gentle jolt, began a backwards motion.

Slowly, at first, then faster. And then, the distorted voice, screaming, "Do ya wanna go faster?".... "DO YA WANNA GO FASTER?" ... Now the voice was accompanied by a siren....

And this went on for nineteen years.

This was my first marriage. No, this was my first marriage on steroids with a bipolar mind.

I'm now two days away from the two-year anniversary of my marriage to my soulmate, my second wife, Pamela, Pam, muh bebe. And, there are no sirens, no Himalaya rides.
And although we had our rollercoaster rides early in our relationship, the majority of those rides have been dismantled. What remains may be a 'Scooby Doo' kiddy coaster or a 'Small World' Disney cruise on a hot day.

We do not have the perfect marriage. How could we? She married me. But we have each other. I have loved her from the very moment I first saw her. And, despite what many think, I've loved her in lives past. She is my joy.

It took nineteen years to realize what I needed in my life and who I needed in my life to make those things happen. She would say the same. What is funny, in a strange way, is that my ex-wife would say the same for herself. I'm happy for her, despite all of our past cutthroat jibes and hate-filled diatribe.

Two years. I never thought I'd marry again. I never thought I'd live this long, to be honest, given my propensity for dumbass decisions. But, I've changed myself and my decision-making based upon my love for and promises made to this one woman. I'm almost.. *gulp* domesticated.

Or maybe I'm just older. Or wiser. Hell, I'm forty-nine in age now and almost twenty-six mentally. I'm growing up. Soon, I'll buy shoes with laces and start going to church.


Sunday, August 11, 2013

Curious George Grows Up.. Part 1

George was a always curious sort. He liked to travel and meet people from faraway lands. This caused George to have many experiences both good and bad and as a result also allowed George to make many new friends in clinics, detention centers and hospitals around the world.

One day, when leaving a clinic in Bangkok after receiving a special injection for 'love prevention', George decided he would leave Thailand with his new friend, curiously named Georgette, whom he had met the night before, and head back to America, a faraway land he hadn't seen for years.

So, George traveled back to the hotel with Georgette, who strangely had lumps in places that George thought curious, although Georgette wasn't very put off by the fact that George was a simian, or monkey, for the layman amongst us.

Little did Georgette know that her...uh...his... uh... her.... the hat was a magnet. It had been many years for George.


George had been searching twenty seven years for the Man in the Yellow Hat. Ever since the rainy day in Belgium when two buxom women approached the Man in the Yellow Hat and dragged him into a building with a flashing neon sign. When the Man exited, the Yellow Hat was gone. And so was his whimsical smile. All that remained was a bug-eyed look of 'What have I been doing with a fuckin' monkey all these years?' and "Why am I in this stupid hat?'

After that, despite George's underarm scratches and chirping, jumping up and down and cheerful demeanor, The Man in the Yellow Hat who No longer wore a Yellow Hat simply walked away. George then watched as the Yellow Man stopped a rather lovely lady, spoke a few words to her, they walked into a bar and then he disappeared forever.


The plane touched down at LaGuardia without incident although for some reason the plane was put in a holding pattern for over an hour while officials cleared with US customs and Border Patrol as well as Homeland Security Officials the fact that there was a talking monkey on board with a transgendered female companion. Once it was determined that it was George, the beloved monkey from their youth, who had simply grown to appreciate sexual variety, they were allowed to land without further delay.

It was total chaos when George and Georgette deplaned. No one had seen George for so long. No longer was George the only curious one. A naked monkey with grey stubble sporting a beautiful Thai woman, though lumpy in places women usually aren't lumpy, tends to draw the eye away from the usual celebrity striding down the concourse. Justin Bieber went unnoticed even more so than usual this day.

Yet, in the corner, sat a man. A man in a faded yellow slicker, wearing a Fedora and flip flops.  Unshaven, bloodshot eyes, a smirk on his face and holding a book.

........ to be continued.........

Friday, August 9, 2013

Dumb Little Thought

I read these quotes from noteable authors, historians and philosophers posted on sites like Facebook all of the time stating the same thing... "Write from the heart, write from your feelings, write from where you are, who you are... don't try to placate others feelings by sacrificing your own". Basically. 

If you've read my blog, this is what I do. 

I don't know how to placate. Placate sounds like a dental condition. I think I'm physically and mentally incapable of placating. That's not to say that I can't relate to others and their feelings but placating is basically sucking up, giving in and surrendering. 

I see it every day. I used to do it and I felt sick. Then, I'd see others do it and I'd feel sorry for them. Next, I'd see it and I'd feel sorry for them and I'd get a bit angry. 

It's progressed. Now, I speak out. 

"Why are you living your life, sacrificing your feelings for this person, who has no control over you, and, is obviously a dick?"

I love laughing at life. People are a riot. Myself included. We're all dumb, clueless cogs in a machine in which we didn't make yet we try like hell to control. 
We haven't a chance to control anything except whether we hit the lid or not when we pee and it doesn't matter if you're male or female. 

There once was a very wise man. 

No one knows exactly who he was. But there was one. 

And there will be another. Maybe it's me. 

Or you. Or if your female, a wise woman. 

In that case, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please. 

Friday, July 26, 2013

Life is A Laugh Riot.

I'm gonna be brutally honest. Ha! Like I haven't already done that here before. But I'm gonna do it again.

Why? Because I feel the need to do so. This is my forum. I use this as my forum to express myself. I sometimes forget that I really talk to myself here and occasionally other people might read what I write. I tend to piss people off at times when I write here. But, whatever. Yeah, that sounds juvenile to say. But, pffft.

This is my place. My closet. Look over there. That's my broom next to the select-a-size Bounty. My closet is filled with screams of joy and terror but, by god, it's my closet. So, I'm gonna do it again.

Everything is funny. Well, maybe not funny, but everything has elements of humor. There isn't a time limit. When someone dies, or if there is a tragedy, there is no set period of time before you can say "Ok, let's make a joke".

I was a little kid, maybe six years old when my uncle died by an accidental gunshot wound. He was messing around with his dad's service revolver. He and a friend playing Russian Roulette as kids not knowing that the revolver was loaded. In a moment, the kid I most revered was gone. I remember standing by his casket at the funeral home making jokes. That's how I dealt with the pain. Well, that and pulling out my hair.

But mostly by making jokes. And I've always seen humor in everything. People don't always understand that. "How can you laugh at a time like this?" "What a horrible joke in a time like this"

No. There is never a bad time for humor. Laughter is what keeps us alive. Humor is vital for survival because too much seriousness will kill us like a cancer eating at our soul. I'd equate that to something eating at our livers but that's hitting too close to home and we all have our demons. I like my demons. Mine are named Jimmy and Urethra..

This week on Facebook I lost a friend from high school, for the second time, because he has no sense of humor. He takes life seriously. I was him once. I know where he is, I understand him. But I pity him. He sacrifices himself and his own sense of worth for what he feels others value his worth to be in business. A joke on his Facebook page was enough to drop me as a friend.

The world will spin. Life will continue. Shit happens. And, I will be a smartass. Some things will never change. I feel a bit of remorse for those who can't loosen the sphincter muscle enough to chuckle and be themselves. There's a long road ahead. And there are a lot of assholes like me with wits and smartass remarks who don't give a shit to deal with.

I, for one, enjoy the repartee..... the banter. What I do not enjoy is the quick exit of the weak, humorless sheeple.

Live life. Life is a bitch, it's hard, and rough and relentless. Laugh at it. Make jokes and laugh I it's face. You'll make your way through it.

Unless you're the guy I'm talking about (Joel).


Monday, July 22, 2013

You Can Call Him Al

Al Sharpton. A portly man. One might say a man built for the ladies lacking sight.
Albert. Not to be confused with Bill Cosby's "Fat Albert" although given a few years, and a few grey hairs, the two might mesh.

Al Sharpton was born in a cave in Kentucky. His mother, unknown, and his father, unknown, each grabbed his head in tandem and pulled for approximately seventeen hours before young Al breached the birth canal. As legend has it, when Al's head first breached the birth canal and he took his first breath outside of the womb, he didn't cry.

Proud parents, Frank and Lillian, recall that young Al's first words were "werdeblacpeplat"...
"It was amazing.. who could imagine a child talking at birth?" ... Said Frank

From them on, Al was meant to ask the same questions. Despite the circumstances. Al was determined to comb his hair, which was unusually fine, and play a card that had no Jack.

Then, On a day like no other, a ray of light shone down upon Al. It was a ray of light shining through the clouds. Ray had a couple of Long Island Iced Teas that day, but, fuck, he swore it was God. Suddenly, He became, the Reverend Al Sharpton. And he had a holy shit strand of silver hair running through his hair.

Now, this shit got serious for Al. Not just Al, but for the world. Well, not the world, just the gullible world. Well, not the gullible world, just the gullible, stupid, uneducated world.

So, Al now is a celebrity. Whatever That means. He's a black man with an opinion. Like I'm a white  man with an opinion.

Al Sharpton has been a boil on the backside of race relations as long as the Klan as been making hoods,
Why must we continue to listen to this racist, bigoted ass?

He's Archie Bunker without the humor.   Plus, he's an idiot.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Coming Clean, With a Bit of Peroxide.

The formation of this writing has been a long time in the making. Not necessarily the formation of the words, the syntax (as if I really pay attention to that sort of thing) or the arrangement of the paragraphs, so to speak.
But, the timing of my soul's readiness to put to paper the thoughts and deep seeded emotions that have plagued me for several years now.

Many of you that have read and followed my travails know that I use humor to deal with pain, stress, anger and every raw emotion known to each of us. It is my defense mechanism. Hell, it is a defense mechanism for each of us. I simply use it for everything. I tend to take it too far sometimes. I hear about it, believe me. I especially use sarcasm and humor when I'm hurt and angry. And scared.

The last two years have been especially difficult for me. Most would never know because I hide it well. I don't write about the fear. I don't write about the hurt as much as I should. I express my hurt and pain through my writing using jokes and I have directed those jokes and that anger towards the ones I saw as ones causing my pain. Namely, my children.

I'm not going to make excuses. But let me elaborate. In the past four to five years, In addition to the whole Bipolar mania, jail stays, mental wards, suicide watches, divorce, bankruptcy, loss of family and selling all of my remaining possessions, I also nearly lost my mother, twice and did lose my father. Not easy for a man who is a donkey on the edge to begin with.

So I write. It's hard for me to verbalize what is inside but it is much easier to put finger to keys.

When I was highly manic, I did some very bad things. I said some terrible things to my children and my ex-wife. I was bat-shit crazy enough to provoke Navy Seals to fights. I called my own 14-year-old son a pussy for not wanting to hold my new survival knife. I was not a good dad that day. I wasn't myself.
I still have my moments, I always will. This brain of mine is highly sensitive and very attuned to influences. But it is always going to hold a little bit of 'crazy' deep down inside.

But, I love my children, and I regret each and every day the things that I've said and written that have hurt them and driven them farther from me. I just hope that they know I am not ever going to be a 'normal' dad. But, that is not such a bad thing. I do understand things that most people can't comprehend and I 'feel' things that seem impossible to regular people.

Although I have written some pretty awful things in my past blogs about my ex-wife, it was at a time that I was angry. Angry at the situation. Angry at her, angry at myself. Unsure of where life was headed. There were a plethora (my favorite word) of emotions in those blogs. But, although my ex and I are not the best of friends, we are amicable. We can talk. We do not hate each other. I wish her the best in life with her new husband, I really do.

Since those bad times, I've overcome quite a bit. Through the worst of times, I've found myself. I've discovered unconditional love. I've found a woman who loves me despite the many faults that I bring to the table and I often question her sanity as a result. I'm sure she questions her sanity for staying with me at times as well. But, through it all, she stays, and she understands that despite all of the struggles, I'm a good person with a good heart full of love and understanding who makes mistakes. In other words, I'm human. When I was manic, I wasn't human. I was invincible. At least in my eyes.

I wish my son and daughter the best in life. I just wish that they could see me as I am. A person with feelings, emotions and hurts, fears and uncertainties like everyone else but dealing with those with a mind that never stops. A mind that can't stand quiet. I'm not invincible. I bleed. Too frequently (damn age). And my knees hurt. But my mind works ok, most of the time.

This blog is for you Anna. It's not an apology. It's what you make of it. Read it and click 'delete' if you want. But, I hope you'll understand, I just told the world things I've never told anyone.

Ball's in your court.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Pot, Meet Kettle.

Every single day. Single meaning one. One meaning, well, uno.

It happens. It happens to me. It happens to you. It happens to everyone that you know, most likely, whether they admit it or not.

Yes, it.

The big IT. I period. T period.

You know what I mean. I probably happened to you today like it happened to me today. The look, the comment. Worse yet, the silence.

You know what I mean. You spend hours or days or longer putting forth heartfelt blood, sweat and tears towards something that matters. Or, you simply speak your mind on a subject you're passionate about to someone you admire.

And, to your dismay, you receive no response or hit brick walls or dispassionate ears.

The Big I. T.

But, this doesn't matter. You see, the ones who can't or won't hear are the ones who don't matter. Only you and your thoughts and ideas matter. Because only your thoughts and ideas are the ones that can make a difference and change the world.

Screw the ones you think are important. They're not important. No more so than you are. Their dicks aren't any larger than yours. Their boobs don't have nipples capable of feeding more than two kids at a time....

Your craziest idea might be the one idea that could help millions of people. Or, it might make hundreds laugh. Don't hold it inside. Never let anyone tell you who you aren't.

The Big I.T.


Tell yourself who you are. Not who you aren't.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Day at the Market

There was this dude... Boozi...he was a badass. He was one bad mutha.

Damn, this guy would go into grocery stores and stroll through the soup aisle just looking for a fight if there was no cream of broccoli remaining on the shelf. I'm telling ya, this was a bad dude.
He wore faded jeans from Kohl's, an 'Underdog' tee from Target and really nice boots. He was the epitome of a badass.

Until this day......... This one day. It was a Tuesday.

Boozi showed up in full regalia. Aisle 9. Nuts and Crackers. It was coupon day and coincidentally, senior day. The aisle was full.

Boozi rounded the corner with his cart. Filled with taco shells and bacon, he barely noticed the motorized cart of Ira, the regular Jewish shopper in Aisle 9, there to snatch up his Matzo crackers. It was a meeting of two worlds. Two religion. It was as if the Big Bang happened twice.

But, there will be no dialog between Boozi and Ira here. You can imagine Ira, his cart, his cane, his sense of self, and Boozi.... his badass self.... and what was said.

Way to go Ira.

Read Between the Lines

It's been like this my entire life, it seems.

I'm a jokester. Funny, funny, ha, ha. I always have been. I laugh because I have to laugh. It sounds silly.

I think it was because I was born with only one kidney. I always wanted to play football, basketball, hit people.... I've always been aggressive... but I was never allowed to play contact sports as a child...

"You'll hurt your kidney..."
"You'll end up an invalid...."
"You'll die....."

So.... I receded. I listened to what I was told from an early age. Nevermind that this one kidney has withstood over thirty years of hard living that equates to a lifetime of NFL hits and I'm still kickin'.... I listened from an early age. I listened to those who thought they knew best but didn't know at all.

Life is funny that way. Ha ha.

I grew up shorter than the other kids. Then, I gained weight. So, I was fatter than the other kids. I was never popular. I was never taken seriously. So, I learned humor. I learner that in order to survive, you must laugh and make others laugh. So, I found humor. Not for others really, but for myself. It was, and is, my survival mechanism.

Oddly enough, I find myself in the same situation today. No one takes me seriously. Although I have an unusually high IQ, great ideas, a sense of humor, warm heart at times, ... there are people I work for and work with and those I know who see me as chaff. I pity them. Their worlds are so small.

My world....... Beaches.. nothing but beaches and clear waters lapping the shores of pristine sands where tradewinds blow the palms and paradise surrounds you ... Yeah, I chuckle as my shorts fill up with sand in the surf....

One day, someone will take me seriously and not regret it. The thing is, so far, no one has taken me seriously. And those who haven't, have regretted it.

The clock is ticking.

Friday, June 14, 2013

A Different Father's Day

So here we are. Wow, it's been nearly a month since I've put fingers to keys, so to speak.

I've felt the need to put my thoughts on this screen many a time within the past thirty or so days. Much has transpired. But for some reason or another, I haven't. I was tired, weak excuse. I was distracted by Candy Crush Saga, probable excuse. I was in trouble for over-imbibing, there ya go.

In any case, a lot has happened. My mind has been a whirlwind of emotion and continues to be so. Damn, life just can't let up, can it? It just can't give in for a day. And now, we are just three days away from Father's Day. Father's Day, the 2nd rate holiday as far as family holidays go. Even Hallmark seems to have looked at Father's Day and said, "Oops, oh shit, sperm came from somewhere... we'd better make a card."

Not that I'll get one of those cards. I don't really care at this point. My kids don't know the love they're missing out on. Their loss. What I do miss is shopping for a card for my dad. This is the first Father's Day I'll not be able to call him. Or text him. Or just listen to those awkward pauses on the phone.

But I'll always remember one thing. That one last time. That one last image of him standing there standing in front of his house and waving goodbye as I backed away to drive home last Thanksgiving. The last time I saw him. I remember his smiling.

I try to remember that it took me about thirty years to start to appreciate my dad's knowledge. I was young and stupid as opposed to now, when I'm older, a bit wiser but still stupid. And, I try my best to apply this bit of knowledge to my own kids and hope that they can appreciate that knowledge sooner than later. The difference is, I never discounted my dad's love. I always knew that my dad loved me. And, I always loved my dad. He wasn't a saint. He had a temper. He had his moments of irrationality.
None of us are perfect. But, he loved me unconditionally, and I knew it.

So, this Sunday, it will be like any other Sunday. I'll not receive a phone call from my children. They have a 'new' dad. A dad who gives them things. They'll give a nice card to him, smile, and go about their day, forgetting about the love of a parent that never goes away, despite death, divorce or circumstance. Maybe go out to lunch, whatever.

And, I'll not make a phone call for the first time in years. But I'll think about it. Many times. Then, I'll see my dad waving goodbye in front of the house, smiling.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Lemons and Roses

Weird how it works.

Life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
Life gives you roses. You smell the roses.

The roses die and they smell like shit and you have to pick up the petals.

That's real life. Roses.

Life is beautiful. It turns ugly, dies on ya, pieces of it die, fall off, stink, you pick those pieces up, throw 'em away, remember that smell which is bittersweet, and move on.

Fuck those lemons. They just grow moldy and rot. That's not life. That's death. You forget those parts.

Life is a Rose. If you don't like roses, life is a Petunia, or a dandelion. Whatever your choice might be.

For me, I'd love to look at life as being a rose. I look at my wonderful wife, my soulshine, my yin to my yang as my rose. As a matter of being, her surname, Roesner, means Rose. She is my Rose.


Leave it to me...  yes, there is a yet... despite my soulmate being a Rose, the most beautiful flower, the most sought after bud.... don't let me go there,.... she is my epitome of perfection.

But, that's just me. And that's all I really care about. She's the woman that has shown mw unconditional love when no one else would. I still stand in unbelief somedays.

Consider this... my own children, now 22 and 19 years old refuse to accept me as I am. My ex-family excommuicated me when I became an embarassment to the family, even after over 20 years.

I will say this.. my ex-wife, who I have pursued previously, has mellowed and we have come to find a common ground. I wish her well. I really do. We started off well, we just ended bad. We maded good kids. They just don't know it. They also don't know they have a dad that loves them.

Enough of the emotional shit.

I don't like to tear up.


Kids are Rose petals. They fall off and smell like shit. You want to sweep them off the porch or the floor of the sunroom and forget them. But you can't forget how they made you feel when they first opened their buds and you smelled that aroma of spring.

My kids want nothing to do with me but the smell of a rose bloom reminds me of them. So does any blooming flower. Hell, if that makes me any less of a man, I'll take it.

I miss my kids, I'm disappointed in my kids. I love my kids.

But sometimes it's not easy loving those who don't love you.

Friday, February 15, 2013



It had been an alright day. Given the circumstances. Day four of 'vacation' spent at my mom and dad's home. Well, now my mom's home now that my dad has unexpectedly gone away. Day four of foraging through my dad's clothing, his career, his hobbies, his seventy-three years of life. It was Valentine's Day. I cooked a good meal for Pam and my mom. Hey, it's what a guy does.

And, within that foraging, I find memories of my own. I'm forty-nine years old now. That's a lot of memories.

In addition, my wife, Pam, and I are helping my mom prepare to move into an assisted-living facility. It's going to be good for her. They have bingo and an ice cream bar. For me, personally, it's a lot to absorb. I'm rewinding memories of my life with both parents in multiple homes, visualizing my mom in an assisted-living facility and donating my deceased dad's clothing to Goodwill after going through each and every item of his clothing. By the way, let's not forget that stability isn't my best friend and I tend to keep my emotions and feelings bottled up like a shaken bottle of Dom Perrignon.


My mom said, "I'm not going to wear my C-Pap mask tonight. I'm congested. It hurts my nose."

I said, "Yes you are. If I have to wear one, so do you. They're all uncomfortable. I didn't come here to wake up one morning to find you didn't wake up because you were uncomfortable."

My mom's response..... "So, it's all about you....."


And suddenly, the week has no real meaning. I'm just here to babysit dogs.
I'm racked with guilt, yet again, as I have been for years.

Really? It's all about me? Because I want you to wake up tomorrow morning? What have I said or dont to cause you to believe that I am so shallow and conceited that I think everything is about me?

And, as my mother, where did this come from so suddenly? I mean, this was completely out of left field.

I don't have a lot to work with. I mean, I've done many things, granted. I've been places, had a couple of kids, I guess. I have a wonderful wife now. But overall, in the grand scheme of things, I ain't all that. So, why the 'it's all about you' diss?

Nothing is about me.



Words are worth a thousand memories.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

A Rare Excerpt From The Westboro Baptist Church

The following is an excerpt taken from a Westboro Baptist Church addendum to the Living Bible that they supposedly live by on a daily basis.

......... and it was said, "thou will do as thou is told.".... so, it was done that way. .... "when Monitaqa did not do as told, she was made to feel as if she was less than worthy than the other women, and forced to have her tongue pierced and forked and made to live amongst the other women of the flock who often laughed and sang at night as if possessed...."

.........and it was implied, "thou shalt revere a certain way of thinking based upon a certain way of thinking that a certain group of people have been thinking over a vast number of years that is also based upon a teaching that was supposedly handed down by me, your God and leader, the chosen one, way back in a time of sandals and togas....." .... "and man shall follow one man who will know everything. And this man will say all of the right things, know all of the right words and be worthy of respect because of his place in the community.".......

........ and it was implored, "thy God requires each of his followers to donate at least, AT LEAST. ten percent of his or her weekly salary (daily is preferred) to go towards 'the cause'. As a result of the Great Implosion, your Lord lost a great deal of his monetary universal investments and requires each of his remaining creations to contribute towards their survival. *The contribution of funds in no way guarantees the survival of natural disasters such as hurricanes, floods, volcanic eruptions, global warming, earthquake or sudden shifts in magnetic polarity.....

....... and Jesus, being who he thought he was, admired Fred Phelps, knowing that one day Fred would descend upon the earth to free mankind of its sins of humanity. So, Jesus, being humble, says that he claimed the seat in heaven next to God knowing fully well that Fred is the being that smacked his galactic paws together and created the Universe. Knowing that Fred, spelled backwards, Derf, is the Source of universal energy that powers each and every atom in this great and colossal creation. .....

......... and..... "Wednesday shalt be KFC night at the covered-dish 'Mommy's Night Out' in the Phelp's  Family Recreational Hall. Potato Bowls are appreciated. Tots are forgiven. .... "So let it be written, so let it be done."

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Life can be Harsch. But Harsch Was Good.

I scoff at most of society's views of self awareness. It is amusing how even the smallest slight of tongue can offend. This is a generation of the entitiled, the politically-correct. Heaven forbid someone utter a word that might hurt another's feelings.

Let me relate to you how I overcame the entire 'hurt feelings' phenomenon. It is also how I learned how to overcome and accept criticism, grow as a human being, become a better artist and mutter 'fuck you' under my breath.

I was in college studying graphic arts. At the time, way back in 1983, there were very few schools that offered comprehensive graphic arts programs. I had to choose between going to the Rochester Institute of Technology in New York or staying in North Carolina and going to Randolph Technical College. Let's just say, RTC was close to home. Whether I made the right decision or not I'll never know. But, the decision I made made me into who I am.....

Wait. Perhaps I should think about this for a moment .

In any case, enter Henry Harsch, the lead instructor of the Graphics program. A frenetic man with a lazy eye, glowing talent, crazy beard and passion for constructive criticism.

Without going into detail about 'ol Harsch, I learned from him the value of not taking oneself too seriously. Each week we would be given assignments.... life drawings, perspective drawings, mock advertisements, whatever. And, each week, we would pin our assignments to a board in the classroom for both student critique and the ever-dreaded 'Harsh critique'. Peer critique is easy. No one wants to crack on a friend's work too bad. We're all friends. Besides, inevitably, somebody wants to get laid by someone else in the class.... but the Harsh Critique..... that was another story.

From the back of the room strode Henry. Head cocked to the side, eyeing the dynamics of the piece of art pinned to the wall.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?" "The perspective is off!" "This has been done a million times!" "No originality!" "Why did you even decide to come to this program? Did you know that we have auto body classes?"

And the worst? The absolute worst? What sticks with me the most, what made me into a stronger person, although this never happened to me, was seeing him walk to the board, grab someone's work, their long hours, and throw it to the floor, stomp on it with both feet, twist on it like he was Chubby Checker until it was a mangled piece of shredded wheat.

That type of criticism will either make you or break you. Seeing that type of criticism will either piss you off or make you appreciate that there is no perfection, not in anyone, neither the critic nor the receiver of the criticism. Yet, the lesson learned is that life's a hard bitch of a thing.

It's a lesson lost on most of today's society. Oddly enough, in one of my first 'real' jobs, I sold penny stocks for a fly-by-night firm. Do you know how many penny stocks that you have to sell to make a buck? Guess why I don't sell penny stocks and haven't since 1987? Yet, I learned humility selling penny stocks. How? Funny thing.... The manager of the office where I worked looked like a Lou Ferrigno wannabe who drove a pretty sweet 'Vette and sat in his office pruning his eyebrows and brushing his hair most of the day. Yet, every now and then, someone would hit it big in the bullpen and get a decent sale. This is where the humility came in because it happened to me a couple of times.

Woohoo! A sale! Cue the 'Rocky' theme and jump up on the desk in the middle of the bullpen. Pumping the fists as if youv'e just climbed the steps to the art museum in Philadelphia, youve just won the lottery, and won the admiration of your peers while looking like the biggest freaking fool on the planet.

So, in one fell swoop, I've given you humiliation, embarrassment, growth, appreciation, self-awareness and the not so blatant mention that it's good to explore life and avenues that might not fit you but may just interest you.

Life might shit on you from time to time but it's gonna rain eventually and when it does, just stand outside naked and start over. And never take a Harsch too seriously.