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.