Dairy of a Madman

Like a hero I’ve always seen you even though I would never say
And through the years, the laughter and the tears,
it’s you who were strong in the right and the wrong -
a tribute to the world that blood is thicker than water.
-Steve Vai, Brother

This is James, although you might find it easier to refer to him as The Dairy Queen. I do. I’m not entirely sure why that is, but it makes me chuckle, and I think it might you, as well.

I have other pictures of him that are probably horrifically embarrassing. For twenty dollars, I’ll send them to you. Copies, of course. They say a picture is worth a thousand dollars, and I’ve got bills to pay, baby. Continue reading “He Ain’t Heavy. He’s My Brother. But one day he will be huge.”

Today’s reading is from the Book of St. Raustus - chapter 10, verses 1 through 8:

1. Yea, and the Lord God said unto His followers:
2. “Want not ye for change, nor excitement, nor tales of action and intrigue featuring cameo appearances by Matt Damon.”
3. And the people looked to Him, and knew it was Good.
4. And the Lord spake again, this time with Thund’rous Might:
5. “Love thy fellow man; treat him with the same Kindness and Respect that you would show any of My children.
6. “Love also thine enemy, for the lessons you learn from him are Good and True. Without the enemy, there is no plot, and a life without plot leads to Art Films.”
7. And a whisper spread through the crowd, as they nodded as one in agreement.
8. “But move silently, like the Ninja. Garb yourself in robes of fleece, for they clothe you in silence and warmth.”

In today’s trying, ever-changing times, we might find it difficult to find our way through the world. It’s hard to keep a smile on your lips in the face of terrorism, in the face of liberals pushing their “facts” and “knowledge” at your from every direction, in the face of the presumably legal young amateur model looking up at you from the trunk of the stolen car, a tiny glistening tear in her eye. But carry these words of Faith with you, and your days can be filled with the Love and Grace and sanctity of the universe.

Amen.

A special note to all new members: fried chicken and Martha Parson’s famous macaroni and cheese will be served ’round back of the barn immediately following today’s final hymn, “How Great Thou Art (In Bed)”.

…. oh, stop. We’re just kiddin’. FRIENDS, right? Ross, Chandler? Jennifer Aniston? Yeah, that show got some laughs ’round the confessional here, indeedy.

Febuary 16, 2006. Not so much infamy, as a serious case of ennui. More changes coming, but this is the worst of it. Thoughts? Comments? Random punchlines to jokes?

At the age of 12, in the woods behind Indian Springs School south of Birmingham, Alabama, I smoked my first cigarette. It was not bad, as I remember it — obviously it wasn’t too terrible, as I kept on going.

That’s 22 years of smoking, folks, a full two-thirds of my life. Most of the past 16 have been at about two packs a day. I’m not even about to add up the number of actual cigarettes smoked, or the cost. Doesn’t matter anymore, because I’m through. Yesterday, I smoked 6 cigarettes, versus my usual 40. Continue reading “Death comes sweeping down the hallway”

I don’t know if you guys ever take the time to browse through the links I’ve provided for you over on the right, but you should. I’ve painstakingly poured over every single blog in existence on the Interweb, and sorted through all the poorly written, unfunny, and ethically and logically challenged conservative blogs — I’ve swum through shit to find you the pearls.

For instance, Clublife, Boobs… and Dooce are all really well written, and a nice cross section of life and writers from across the States. Falling Sky is similar, and also provides the international flavor around here. Mona and Trix (of Bated Breath) keep the temperature warm in the winter and steamy in the summer. Wade’s got a real talent for words for a guy who has never left Birmingham (don’t fall for his stories — he’s actually a brain in a jar, connected to a word processor and a wireless network card). Warren Ellis is the best writer ever.* And Something Positive is always late (sorry, Randy).

And the newest addition to the herd: Blog of Unfathomable Profundity. The best review I’ve heard so far: “I don’t get it.” But frankly, I think you should visit it, if you’re not afraid of laughing so hard you pee a little. Drennen�s words strike at the core of all that is good and humorous in the world, particularly in his tales of unrepentant pedophilia, and the blackface galleries he sometimes features� There are those who say the running commentary by the profoundly retarded eight year old girl is unnecessary, but in the hands of a master like Drennen, unnecessary is the new 30� Highly recommended by the amputee prostitute who hangs out in front of my apartment building.

*Oh, except for Stephen King and Chuck Pahlaniuk. And Neil Gaiman’s pretty good, so I should probably include him. Oh, and Cait Kiernan, while I’m thinking of it. Clive Barker, of course. You know who else is pretty good is Mick Foley, the wrestler. Yeah, he’s got some talent there. And Steve Martin, too. Jon Stewart is fucking funny, as is Al Franken. But Ellis is good, too.

I hate having that gut feeling that something has shifted away from me, but then questioning whether that feeling is legitimate since being bipolar and not sleeping enough makes that even worse but sometimes insidiously so that you think maybe you’re being affected but then again maybe not, but then the gut kicks in again and you start feeling like an absolute moron for not picking up the signs but you can’t really get confirmation because hey, maybe you’re just being paranoid thanks to a minor dip in the moodswing but then if you keep going forward as though nothing is wrong, things really aren’t going to do anything other than decline further…

Sorry. But a tiny voice in my head wanted all of you to come in for a bit.

This, too, shall pass.

The fuck out, that is.

I am certain that this is what they call “viral video.” And who needs a cure?

http://onegoodmove.org/1gm/1gmarchive/2006/02/cheneys_got_a_g.html

* Yes, damn it. I’m breaking down and using a pseudonym for one of my friends. It’s out of respect for her privacy, which I refuse to show for the other people in my life. That should tell you something right there.

I can’t remember the context, but I’m sitting at the bar and hear Bree call me a motormouth — tells one of the regulars that I haven’t shut up all day. I laugh, of course. For some reason, everything she says makes me smile. I think that it’s her voice, that slightly accented cashmere softness that is so often followed by the most perfect laugh anyone ever imagined. How can I not smile?

That laugh is one of my favorite things in life. You ever had a friend or maybe been really attracted to someone, but then the laugh that comes out of their throat is like an after-school special without the benefit of bourbon, that thing that you sit through wondering when the torture will end? Och, I have. But Bree — god, her laughter makes up for every nails-on-chalkboard giggle I’ve ever put up with in my life.

It puts me at ease, her laugh, her smile. Everything about her, really. And as funny as the motormouth comment is — most people that know me will say I’m withdrawn, reasonably quiet outside of controlled bursts of extroversion — it hits me that yeah, it’s true. I probably have talked her ear off this day. It certainly fits with the three hour phone call records that I’ve set with her.

There’s a lot about Bree that makes it feel okay to just relax, not think, and just be me.

Right now, she’s laughing, by the way. It was the “not thinking” comment that made her laugh. But as much as it seems against my nature to not think and just be, somehow it works out that way.

Bree is captivating. She’s physically stunning. I don’t want to mislead anyone here; she’s not a supermodel. But she’s got a look that you could never accurately capture without an artist’s touch and paints on canvas. That’s a lot of what made my jaw drop the first time I saw her: she’s very real, and very unique. She’s got curves, and imperfections and flaws, just like the rest of us. But she doesn’t hide those things, at least not with an obsessive vengeance like so many other women I’ve known; it’s as though she draws attention to all the sexy things about her by not hiding anything at all. She’s beautiful, I think, because of her flaws, not in spite of them. Her eyes are at times penetrating and intense, at others distant and dreaming, but always the color of dusk. She’s soft without being lazy or weak. She moves with purpose but always with grace and ease. And I can always come full circle to her smile…

She’s a good person, there for both friends and family with an ear or even much needed words. She has, in many, many ways, got her life together, but she’s not predictable or dull, and that’s inspiring to someone who has spent too much time wandering off course. She’s moving forward, and seems to know where she’s headed (and if not, she hides it well). And she seems totally okay with getting there whenever, no real rush.

It strikes me here and now that as much as I might know about Bree, I know very little. I look forward to learning more about her, to learning from her, and to laughing with her. In a perfect world, things would blossom and develop into a life-long love affair, one that I think would be meant for storybooks and moviescreens. But even if that perfect world never comes around, I’m an incredibly lucky person, to have her as a friend, and even luckier to have connected with her across the miles.

This is the closest I could come to a Valentine’s Day wish for someone, and I think I remember someone saying that they’ve never really had a good Valentine’s romance… I hope yours is wonderful and filled with laughs, Bree.

Fortunately for all of you, I’m wide awake in America at 4:30 AM. That’s unfortunate for me, by the way, but hey — this isn’t about me. It’s about a long drive on a Sunday in February of 2006.

The road from Birmingham to Chicago is really an easy drive, especially in a car with cruise control. Set your car to 80 or 85 (mileage may vary, as they say) and just go. There’s not a lot of traffic, if you pick your time wisely — I hit rush hour bullshit on the way out of Birmingham on Thursday afternoon at four, and Chicago at 3 PM is busier than I would have thought, but that was it for busy roads.

For the most part, it’s a really pleasant drive. The spaces between Birmingham, Nashville, Louisville, and Indinanapolis are long enough to relax without getting too hypnotized. Sadly, this does leave the final stretch, from Indianapolis to Chicago (about 150 miles between city and Skyway) — and as either beginning or end of a journey, not a road you particularly want to be endlessly driving. At least, that’s what it feels like.

Thursday’s drive was beyond mindless, punctuated by a single stop for fuel in Louisville and a little ice on the road in Gary, Indiana, just before the changeover to toll roads in Illinois. At that point, I was so excited about returning to Chicago that it didn’t matter, and I picked the right music (Devin Townsend’s Terria) to carry me into the home stretch. It was a little unnerving, hitting the roads that potentially held black ice patches — after driving 8 hours, it would have been what Alanis Morissette would call ironic (translation: not really) to wreck just outside of my destination. But I made it okay, and Bree’s directions were spot on.

The road home, of course, would not be so easy — though somehow, faster. The weather conditions were nearly unbearable: I drove through four states, from snow to rain to snowy rain through country music and finally into a few flurries as far south as twenty miles from home. There were a few moments of whiteout driving in Indiana, not so bad except for the moron driving about 100 mph through the non-existent visibility. It wasn’t until I hit the Tennessee / Kentucky border that I felt genuinely endangered, though — I had somehow let it slip my mind that 95% of southern drivers are incapable of driving in even the most remotely winter-like conditions. From the state line into Nashville, the roads were a mess — no salt + enough snow to cover the asphalt * drivers in awe of nature = accident waiting to happen. Fortunately, the few close calls that I saw or experienced remained just that, and I finally hit the mountains of southern Tennessee, cruising at a cozy 90 mph.

Total time: 8:45:00, give or take something.

The best part of the drive was the area on the midst of dull, rolling Indiana. Snow covered the ground, white as far as the eye could see, and the moon was cresting the horizon in the east, a brilliant eye of yellow-orange greeting the evening. The trees didn’t hold the snow as well as those in Kentucky and Tennessee, but it was still a beautiful sight, the entire land lit up with reflective natural radiance.

It’s unfortunate that those who get the good snow are so accustomed to the sight (and perhaps even irritated by it) as to be unimpressed. The beauty of winter is truly something to be respected and appreciated, no matter where you live or how inconvenient it may prove to be.

Love. It’s just like hate, but somebody gets candy.

-Jim Benton, it’s happy bunny Love Bites

I rarely sign on to my instant messenger, but I found myself one phone call short of the evening that I had in mind, and so fired up Trillian to see who was out there. My buddy list is fairly short, actually, so I figured that I would be closing that window fairly immediately and starting this little post about thirty minutes ago. Oops - but not oops. I got to catch up with an ex that I haven’t spoken to in about a year, and while the sentiment was nice, the poor girl just got unceremoniously dumped about a week ago.

“What kind of an asshole breaks up with his girlfriend just before Valentine’s Day?” asked the guy who told his wife of his desire for a divorce on February 7, 2003. But don’t worry; the irony wasn’t lost on me. Not at all.

There is a part of me that hates Valentine’s Day. That part of me has spent the last three Valentine’s alone. That part of me is the bipolar part that isn’t swayed by my fancy attempts at logic and reason, and likes to convince the other parts of me that alone is forever and ever, amen, will the congregation stand and hum a depressing dirge of their choosing, please? That part of me sees the assholes of the world with any girl they want, and the really truly good people like his friends single and wishing otherwise.

But part of me likes it, because the ever-presence of romance and love (no matter how market-driven) forces me to stare that bastard in the face and talk sense.

I’m okay with being alone. Came here alone, will leave alone, and can handle some time in-between that way if need be. But don’t get my posturing wrong: there are times when I hate it. I see the old people shufflng down the strip malls, smiling at each other. I see the young people in the park holding hands. And that place inside of me that I’m holding open for that someone special aches — really, physically hurts. No one in their right mind is really okay with being alone; that’s part of being human, I think.

I’m also, for the record, not nearly as cynical as I come across. In fact, I’m the ultimate romantic, in that I will always and have never let go of the idea that there is still love out there in the world for me, and for every one, no matter how undeserving (or deserving, as the case may be). Hope burns eternal over here in this largely sleepless head and heart of mine, and I’m glad; perhaps if I let that go, I might have an easier time of it. But those stumbles and sharp-edged moments of hurt are almost always preceded by such a wonderful feeling of promise, and it’s a fair price to pay, I think — pain that passes and heals for a few days or weeks or months of a glowing, invulnerable longing.

Maybe it never happens for me again except in those short bursts. Perhaps I’m the star quarterback who made a greedy, critical mistake in the most important moment of the most important game of his life, and that one shot at immortality has passed, and all that’s left for him is winning the company picnic pick-up game against the accounting department of his car dealership. That’s not a pleasant thought, on any level, but while I’m not really okay with it, per se, I can live with it. Because I have loved a lot, and sometimes even well, and at least a few times been loved in return, and that’s more than some people ever know.

I’m very fortunate on days like this to have the option of looking back with fondness on my past as well as looking to the future. Freddie Mercury once sang that one year of love is better than a lifetime alone, and I won’t argue with him. No one should. The feeling of being in love, whether it’s that first meeting of the eyes in the cold of a doorway or falling asleep next to your wife of thirty five years in front of the television — nothing can top that. Not winning the World Series, or closing the biggest business deal of your career, or solving the mysteries of the atom.

Those of you with someone, remember that the candies and flowers and diamonds and fancy dinners really don’t matter at the end of it all. It’s the thought and effort behind it, how much of themselves your lover is willing to give to you, be it money or time or thought. And as you’re kissing them, waking up next to them or falling asleep in thier warmth, spare a thought for those of us not so lucky.

And for those of you in my shoes, lost in between the moments, don’t let it get you down. Don’t focus on being alone, except for how much more it will make you appreciate what is coming your way. Think back on lost loves, and smile, because you had it all, once, if only for just a moment, and if you want, you can stretch that joy out as long as you need, because it’s everything and infinite. Be ready: it may be coming back at you at any minute, but don’t give up hope if it’s not. Even the false promise of togetherness can hold something if you’re willing to see it.

“And most important, realize that when you do find lifelong love, it probably won’t be because you were looking for it. You’ll probably just accidentally step in it.”

-Jim Benton, it’s happy bunny Love Bites