Sunday, June 17, 2012
Yelps from the Closet: A Day For the Ball-Scratchers
Yelps from the Closet: A Day For the Ball-Scratchers: Greetings. It is 2:15am on Sunday, June 17, 2012. It is officially the 'holiday' regarded as Father's Day. For all of the men reading this w...
A Day For the Ball-Scratchers
Greetings. It is 2:15am on Sunday, June 17, 2012. It is officially the 'holiday' regarded as Father's Day. For all of the men reading this who are fathers, dads or otherwise have offspring roaming the earth as a result of a moment of passion resulting in a gutteral 'Uuuuughhh, shit baby!', this day is for you.
As anyone who has followed my ramblings here knows, I'm a father. Of course, depending on who you ask, the term father is all relative. But, nonetheless, I have two children. Whether I'm loved or hated isn't the issue. The idea is that despite any and all circumstances, hard feelings, mistakes, disrespect, more mistakes, harsh words, harsher writings, disassociation... all of the above and probably more .... I still love my children unconditionally. And, my friends, that is not always easy for a father to do. Nor is it any easier for a child of a less-than-perfect father.
Mother's Day is a no-brainer. Hell, here is a person that went through enormous agony to bring into the world another human being, fully knowing that the very human being that emerged from her loins covered in mayonnaise, connected by a rope and wrinkled beyond recognition would one day do everything in his or her power to belittle, overpower and relish in the joy of her very existence being brought to it's knees over the keys to a car or a need for $20 for a visit to Subway.
But, Father's Day.... father's day .... daddy day ... a day devoted to a man who's contribution to a child's beginning of life consisted of a contorted face, stiff back and a muffled ''uuuuuggghhhh...errrggghhh".... while the swimmers were released to invade and bring forth life to an otherwise happy and content dozen or so Eggland's Best... a day which is mostly overlooked and relegated to a card from the growing swimmers, or their fountain (mom) and the opportunity to sit before the television, hand upon crotch, beer within reach and a bit of quiet which is really not what the father wants at all.
Stop me if I'm off base. Better yet, don't stop me. Because this isn't a blasting or 'woe is me' blog about my relationship with my own children. What happens with them now or in the future is anyone's guess and I'm a bit fatigued with the guessing part of the equation. This isn't about me, or them, in the least.
This is about a single man who is the epitome of fatherhood and an example of a father, a man, a husband, a friend, a human being that I can only dare dream to be or become.
This is about my own father. Sure, growing up there were plenty of times that I either resented, feared or was even embarrassed by him. Go figure, a kid embarassed by a father. Who woulda thought?
But now, now as an adult, as I look at the man that he is, I recognize that his imperfections were what made him perfect. My appreciation of his imperfectections were tempered by his love for me, no matter what stupid things I did and said.
Was he the perfect dad? No. Is he the perfect father? No. Is there a perfect father? No. Is he the and was he the perfect father to me despite his imperfections as they related to my own? Absolutely. An imperative yes.
I have watched over the last several years as he has humbled himself tremendously to care for his wife, my mother, as she has endured surgery after surgery. He has washed her feet. He has helped her dress herself. He has sat tirelessly at her bedside as she labored for her own life in the hospital. But at no time did he ever become less of a father to me or my sister. He was always there for us just as he has always been there for us, despite his own circumstances.
This is something I've failed to do myself and I'm ashamed to admit it. However, I'm also proud to recognize that my father, Rollis Gene Brunk, is the man I one day hope to be for my own kids, my wife, my grandkids and any and all pets (including a possible turtle, who knows?) in the future.
Sure, he drifts off to sleep while watching Fox News. Who doesn't? But he drifts off to sleep content with himself ans somewhere, deep down inside his soul, he knows he's done a good job as a father, despite my mistakes, ideals and everything else that makes me, me.
Unconditional love. That is what Father's Day means to me. Thank you Dad. I love you, respect you and will always remember that one day many, many years ago when I sat upon the porch of our small house in Winston-Salem, feeling depressed, and you sat beside me, placed your hand on my shoulder and said, "so, why are you feeling blue?"
Happy Fathers Day.
As anyone who has followed my ramblings here knows, I'm a father. Of course, depending on who you ask, the term father is all relative. But, nonetheless, I have two children. Whether I'm loved or hated isn't the issue. The idea is that despite any and all circumstances, hard feelings, mistakes, disrespect, more mistakes, harsh words, harsher writings, disassociation... all of the above and probably more .... I still love my children unconditionally. And, my friends, that is not always easy for a father to do. Nor is it any easier for a child of a less-than-perfect father.
Mother's Day is a no-brainer. Hell, here is a person that went through enormous agony to bring into the world another human being, fully knowing that the very human being that emerged from her loins covered in mayonnaise, connected by a rope and wrinkled beyond recognition would one day do everything in his or her power to belittle, overpower and relish in the joy of her very existence being brought to it's knees over the keys to a car or a need for $20 for a visit to Subway.
But, Father's Day.... father's day .... daddy day ... a day devoted to a man who's contribution to a child's beginning of life consisted of a contorted face, stiff back and a muffled ''uuuuuggghhhh...errrggghhh".... while the swimmers were released to invade and bring forth life to an otherwise happy and content dozen or so Eggland's Best... a day which is mostly overlooked and relegated to a card from the growing swimmers, or their fountain (mom) and the opportunity to sit before the television, hand upon crotch, beer within reach and a bit of quiet which is really not what the father wants at all.
Stop me if I'm off base. Better yet, don't stop me. Because this isn't a blasting or 'woe is me' blog about my relationship with my own children. What happens with them now or in the future is anyone's guess and I'm a bit fatigued with the guessing part of the equation. This isn't about me, or them, in the least.
This is about a single man who is the epitome of fatherhood and an example of a father, a man, a husband, a friend, a human being that I can only dare dream to be or become.
This is about my own father. Sure, growing up there were plenty of times that I either resented, feared or was even embarrassed by him. Go figure, a kid embarassed by a father. Who woulda thought?
But now, now as an adult, as I look at the man that he is, I recognize that his imperfections were what made him perfect. My appreciation of his imperfectections were tempered by his love for me, no matter what stupid things I did and said.
Was he the perfect dad? No. Is he the perfect father? No. Is there a perfect father? No. Is he the and was he the perfect father to me despite his imperfections as they related to my own? Absolutely. An imperative yes.
I have watched over the last several years as he has humbled himself tremendously to care for his wife, my mother, as she has endured surgery after surgery. He has washed her feet. He has helped her dress herself. He has sat tirelessly at her bedside as she labored for her own life in the hospital. But at no time did he ever become less of a father to me or my sister. He was always there for us just as he has always been there for us, despite his own circumstances.
This is something I've failed to do myself and I'm ashamed to admit it. However, I'm also proud to recognize that my father, Rollis Gene Brunk, is the man I one day hope to be for my own kids, my wife, my grandkids and any and all pets (including a possible turtle, who knows?) in the future.
Sure, he drifts off to sleep while watching Fox News. Who doesn't? But he drifts off to sleep content with himself ans somewhere, deep down inside his soul, he knows he's done a good job as a father, despite my mistakes, ideals and everything else that makes me, me.
Unconditional love. That is what Father's Day means to me. Thank you Dad. I love you, respect you and will always remember that one day many, many years ago when I sat upon the porch of our small house in Winston-Salem, feeling depressed, and you sat beside me, placed your hand on my shoulder and said, "so, why are you feeling blue?"
Happy Fathers Day.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
What a Day, Eh?
"What? C'mon! Are you a pussy?"
The words are etched into my brain. Not because I was berated myself but because I actually uttered these words to my then fourteen-year-old son as I proudly brandished my newly purchased 16-inch Bowie knife.
"C'mon, just hold it. It's cool!"
But it was the sentence before that remains etched into his brain as the defining characteristic of the father he didn't know anymore.
I often write, joke and bandy about the condition rambling around in my head. Bi-Polar, Manic-depression, whatever you want to call it. I usually try to justify each and every past action in my life that resulted in consequences that haunt me based upon my condition. Sure, I still have no clue why I was tossed out of one establishment, punched a wall and to this day have a broken finger. I understand that high doses of anti-depressants mixed with alcohol can have a quite humbling effect in the morning when you wake up on the floor of a jail cell in a bright orange suit and some dude staring at you like the next meal.
But, there is only one instance that replays in my mind as the one in which I lost my best friend, my best buddy, my son. "What? C'mon! Are you a pussy?"
Today I went, alone, to my son's high school graduation ceremony. He had no idea that I was there or was even going to be there. In fact, I labored over the idea of going at all. My son has no interest in me, in having a relationship with me or at the very least returning a text. In my eyes, my son, my former best friend, hates me with a passion... a passion fueled by both a condition he doesn't understand (nor do I, entirely), and a former family that views me as a hindrance.
As I sat in the auditorium, just three rows behind my former wife, her family, my daughter and newcomers to the brood, I didn't feel anger or resentment. Even I was shocked at that revelation. What I felt was remorse at alienating a boy without having any idea that I'd even done so.
I read emails each day from people who also suffer from bi-polar disorder and I get angry at the 'poor pitiful me' 'boo-hoo' attitudes that most bring to a wide audience. Know what? Grow a pair and deal with it. I understand it's difficult. Most days, I regret at least one thing I've said or done during the day. Depression is as defeating as mania is elating. The difference is that mania brings on the 'I'm invincible, I can do, say or act as I please... damn the consequences' mindset. This is where I was when I uttered "What? C'mon! Are you a pussy?" to my son.
I can't take the words back. Nor can I take back the tear I shed when his name was called and he crossed the stage to be handed his diploma. For the first fourteen years of his life, I helped mold him into the man he is today. And even the sentence I uttered some four years ago that is etched into his brain has made him stronger in some way, even at the expense of our relationship. But, I can't help but wonder where we would be if my mouth, mind and actions didn't succumb to the mania within me.
Congratulations on your graduation, Avery. I hope that one day you'll see that I'm not the monster I'm portrayed to be by others and that a brief moment in time, be it days, weeks or months, doesn't erase the bond that you and I once shared and hopefully will one day regain.
You're my best buddy. I'm always here for you. No matter what. Love ya, man.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Holy War, Batman!
It was an inevitablility. In what has been described as the new 'Holy War', the unesteemed Reverend Fred (Fab Freddy) Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church has declared, through seemingly unscrupulous, yet devoutly Christian attorneys, a lawsuit against North Carolina espouser of 'biblical troofs' Chuck (Gimme Da Bucks) Worley due to the Reverend Worley's recent anti-gay sermons and suggestions that gays and lesbians should be fenced and forced to die off due to the inability to reproduce.
"This is unacceptable!", exclaimed Phelps. "It is obvious that Chuck has drawn inspiration from the Westboro congregation and my own messages of hatred for those our God hates. I first had the inspiration to not only build a camp for degenerates to slowly expire from this life but to also place a bounty, or 'Soul Exchange Fee', if you will, on anyone supporting the degenerate lifestyle. What Chuck has done is usurp my ideas, put my devoted congregation in a position of demotion in the eyes of our loving, yet judgemental Lord, and therefor reduce the income of Westboro Baptist Church by hundreds if not tens of hard-earned dollars."
"It is due to this travesty of hypocrisy within our belief system that we are announcing a multi-thousand dollar lawsuit against the Reverend Worley and his backwoods, idea-stealing congregation. In lieu of potential losses that will undoubtedly cancel both the Westboro and Worley congregational covered-dish meals of KFC and green beans for a period of weeks, I challenge Chucky to come forth and proclaim his disregard for God's plan to allow Westboro Baptist Church lead the crusade to eradicate idiocy and religious cruelty from our society."
In response, Pastor Worley denounced Phelp's lawsuit and derogatory comments while telling news outlets that he had been contemplating the idea of fencing in homosexuals since first watching Schindler's List several years ago. Declining to comment on Phelp's allegations, Worley simply threw his head back, raised his arms to the side and began swaying in Axl Rose fashion while chanting in a low, muffled voice a song that vaguely resembled 'It's Raining Men'.
In what will surely be viewed by most as a Godly war between loving, accepting pastors and congregants, this promises to become an ugly example of religious intolerance, which is quite rare and never experienced due to the Universal Love and Acceptance policies that each religion is sworn to uphold.
In the meantime, Pastor Worley today announced that the local 84 Lumber Supply outley has rolls of chickenwire on sale for $1.36 per square yard.
Amen.
"This is unacceptable!", exclaimed Phelps. "It is obvious that Chuck has drawn inspiration from the Westboro congregation and my own messages of hatred for those our God hates. I first had the inspiration to not only build a camp for degenerates to slowly expire from this life but to also place a bounty, or 'Soul Exchange Fee', if you will, on anyone supporting the degenerate lifestyle. What Chuck has done is usurp my ideas, put my devoted congregation in a position of demotion in the eyes of our loving, yet judgemental Lord, and therefor reduce the income of Westboro Baptist Church by hundreds if not tens of hard-earned dollars."
"It is due to this travesty of hypocrisy within our belief system that we are announcing a multi-thousand dollar lawsuit against the Reverend Worley and his backwoods, idea-stealing congregation. In lieu of potential losses that will undoubtedly cancel both the Westboro and Worley congregational covered-dish meals of KFC and green beans for a period of weeks, I challenge Chucky to come forth and proclaim his disregard for God's plan to allow Westboro Baptist Church lead the crusade to eradicate idiocy and religious cruelty from our society."
In response, Pastor Worley denounced Phelp's lawsuit and derogatory comments while telling news outlets that he had been contemplating the idea of fencing in homosexuals since first watching Schindler's List several years ago. Declining to comment on Phelp's allegations, Worley simply threw his head back, raised his arms to the side and began swaying in Axl Rose fashion while chanting in a low, muffled voice a song that vaguely resembled 'It's Raining Men'.
In what will surely be viewed by most as a Godly war between loving, accepting pastors and congregants, this promises to become an ugly example of religious intolerance, which is quite rare and never experienced due to the Universal Love and Acceptance policies that each religion is sworn to uphold.
In the meantime, Pastor Worley today announced that the local 84 Lumber Supply outley has rolls of chickenwire on sale for $1.36 per square yard.
Amen.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Bucket
You have one whether you want to admit it or not. So do I.
A bucket list. A wish list of things you want to see, do, accomplish or experience before you close your eyes for the final time.
For me, I never knew I had a list until I turned a certain age. Granted, I'm not old, despite how I sometimes feel and look with my salt and pepper hair. But, I can remember back to my teens and twenties and remember ideas and dreams that now haunt me due to either my lack of intestinal fortitude or lack of funds.
Back then it didn't matter. At forty-eight plus, it tends to be a dumbell. Thoughts hang over me like a stripper's tits during a lap dance. Should I touch those thoughts or not? Will those thoughts be realized or simply be wishes unfulfilled?
The bucket list. It's a novel idea which has inspired movies, books, videos and countless middle-aged men, Where to go? What to do? Where to do what I want to do?
I'd never really thought much about it until I realized that a few years back I'd crossed off a bucket list item that I'd never considered a bucket list item. I paid over $2000, yes, two thousand dollars, for front row tickets, dead-center, to a Jimmy Buffet concert. Most will say that I was out of my mind to do that. To those, I say 'duh'. You must not know me at all.
But, to others who know my love for beach living and the life of a soul of a sailor, it's understood.
The beginning of my bucket list. I didn't even know it. I never even saw the Bucket List movie despite my love of Morgan Freeman and that 'Jack' guy. Face it, most of us never even knew what a bucket list was until that movie was released. Most of our lists were comprised of inane things such as fame, fortune, cars and status. Who the fuck ever thought that a dream consisted of visiting Peru's Macchu Piccu ruins to reclaim an ideal or identity?
Uh, me.
It's on my list. So is visiting a city somewhere in the very center of the United States where nothing grows but corn and tornadoes solely because I want to see who can live in such a place. I want to live on a beach in a thatched-roofed home where my bed is a two-person hammock so that Pam and I can watch the sunset every night while swaying to the breeze and listening to the breakers.
My list has me seeing myself telling any and every boss, superior or supervisor I might have that I'm far more qualified to be in their position than they might be. I'm close to that one.
My list includes making my wife laugh or smile every day, at least once, for the rest of my life, or hers, whichever comes first.
My list takes me to a place far away where I can be who I am, despite my faults and inconsistencies. Be it on this earth or beyond.
I suppose that despite what I may say or do, this old-ass body and mid doesn't really have a bucket. It's more of a pail. I've done a lot that most will never do and experienced a great deal that most will never care to experience. Yet, I do have dreams. As we all should, no matter our circumstances.
My bucket has a hole in it. I've let many things I wanted to do drip from the bottom not even knowing they were there. Thank god (small 'g') for duct tape. The hole is still there but the tape holds fast... for now.
Next on the bucket list is to simply be normal. No small task. But, a worthy drop in the bucket.
A bucket list. A wish list of things you want to see, do, accomplish or experience before you close your eyes for the final time.
For me, I never knew I had a list until I turned a certain age. Granted, I'm not old, despite how I sometimes feel and look with my salt and pepper hair. But, I can remember back to my teens and twenties and remember ideas and dreams that now haunt me due to either my lack of intestinal fortitude or lack of funds.
Back then it didn't matter. At forty-eight plus, it tends to be a dumbell. Thoughts hang over me like a stripper's tits during a lap dance. Should I touch those thoughts or not? Will those thoughts be realized or simply be wishes unfulfilled?
The bucket list. It's a novel idea which has inspired movies, books, videos and countless middle-aged men, Where to go? What to do? Where to do what I want to do?
I'd never really thought much about it until I realized that a few years back I'd crossed off a bucket list item that I'd never considered a bucket list item. I paid over $2000, yes, two thousand dollars, for front row tickets, dead-center, to a Jimmy Buffet concert. Most will say that I was out of my mind to do that. To those, I say 'duh'. You must not know me at all.
But, to others who know my love for beach living and the life of a soul of a sailor, it's understood.
The beginning of my bucket list. I didn't even know it. I never even saw the Bucket List movie despite my love of Morgan Freeman and that 'Jack' guy. Face it, most of us never even knew what a bucket list was until that movie was released. Most of our lists were comprised of inane things such as fame, fortune, cars and status. Who the fuck ever thought that a dream consisted of visiting Peru's Macchu Piccu ruins to reclaim an ideal or identity?
Uh, me.
It's on my list. So is visiting a city somewhere in the very center of the United States where nothing grows but corn and tornadoes solely because I want to see who can live in such a place. I want to live on a beach in a thatched-roofed home where my bed is a two-person hammock so that Pam and I can watch the sunset every night while swaying to the breeze and listening to the breakers.
My list has me seeing myself telling any and every boss, superior or supervisor I might have that I'm far more qualified to be in their position than they might be. I'm close to that one.
My list includes making my wife laugh or smile every day, at least once, for the rest of my life, or hers, whichever comes first.
My list takes me to a place far away where I can be who I am, despite my faults and inconsistencies. Be it on this earth or beyond.
I suppose that despite what I may say or do, this old-ass body and mid doesn't really have a bucket. It's more of a pail. I've done a lot that most will never do and experienced a great deal that most will never care to experience. Yet, I do have dreams. As we all should, no matter our circumstances.
My bucket has a hole in it. I've let many things I wanted to do drip from the bottom not even knowing they were there. Thank god (small 'g') for duct tape. The hole is still there but the tape holds fast... for now.
Next on the bucket list is to simply be normal. No small task. But, a worthy drop in the bucket.
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