I CAN’T LAST FOREVER

My Dear Fellow Blurters,

I can’t really explain why I haven’t been posting anything lately.  For some reason I just don’t have any impulse to do it anymore.  Could it be that gabbing with people in person is somehow fulfilling the same need that this blog used to fill? 

I don’t really know, but I figure I should give some kind of explanation.  When I began this whole thing I thought I’d have this feeling of anonymity that would allow me to blurt out what’s really on my mind and what’s really going on in my life.  But the fact is that once you create a written record of something you don’t really know that signing it “anonymous” is going to prevent anyone from connecting the dots and realizing that all those embarrassing things, thoughts, etc. trace back to you. 

In other words, I’m a paranoid fuck that actually thinks he’s important enough to have people out to get him.  This is leading me to block myself from writing about all sorts of stuff, which in turn has led me to loose interest in writing (for now). 

Sorry.  I’m really sorry.  I don’t know for sure if this will be my last post, but I do know that I just don’t feel the inspiration I used to have when I would zone out on my couch and subjects for a new post would pop into my head, sending me scurrying for my pen and notepaper, jotting down an outline that I’d be anxious to flesh out into a real post first thing the next day, in between trying to play master of the universe at work. 

God Damn, that was a long sentence!

Anyway, I really appreciate all you people who’ve come to visit me, and I will make an effort to keep reading your blogs.  I’ve got to admit that I’ve pretty much fallen in love with many of you, even though we’ve never even met in person.  It’s a little strange, but now I’m getting all emotional and weepy and shit  so I know it’s really time to wrap this up.

Again, I thank you sincerely.  Perhaps a sudden wind of change will come along and sweep me back into the blogging mindset again.  Until then, I send you my love.

With Regrets,

R.W.

HELP THYSELF

Ever since I was a teenager I’ve had a thing for self-help literature.  I guess if you’re not happy with yourself then the best thing to do is to look for some good advice. I sometimes wonder if I need a shrink, but the fact is that I’ve been acting as my own for years now.  My head is so filled with psychological ideas, beliefs and cliches that I’m feeling the need to dump them all out.  Right here, right now.  I’ll try to give them some semblance of order, but that won’t be easy.  

God, can we all bitch about our lives.  Bitch, bitch, bitch.  It’s so easy to do.  For my part, I’m often wracked by fears and insecurities.  There’s a side of me where I’m perpetually at war with myself.  There are times when I feel the weight of the world coming onto my shoulders and think “something heavy this way comes” (to paraphrase the title of a movie).  I ask myself why I’m so sad, and answer that only failure, humiliation, destruction and finally death are all that await me.  I tell myself that I’m doing all the wrong things and that they’ll be hell to pay for it.  I compound my problems by telling myself that no one wants to hear me talk about them and even if they did, nothing good could come out of it, so I should keep it all quiet. 

Then the fever breaks.     

I like to think that I do something to help myself out of the funk.  I start by looking at everything that’s good in my life and hanging onto those things.  I try to talk myself up, and tell myself to have faith that I am able to handle all the things that life throws at me and ultimately be successful.  After all, heaven is in your mind, so I pay attention to that ongoing conversation that we all have with ourselves and try to catch myself when I’m being overly negative.  Sometimes I simply force myself to act instead of think, and do things that will at least give me the feeling of being in control of my own destiny. 

One of the fringe benefits of being a Beavis and Butthead fan is that I have a CD called The Beavis and Butthead Experience.  On this CD is an obscure track by Nirvana called I Hate Myself and Want to Die.  This is a good, although extreme expression of how it can feel when you’re down.  I switch this around and say that I love myself and want to live. 

There are a few statements about the nature of life that ring true to me, and keeping them in mind has helped me.  Here they are:

Socrates may have said that the unexamined life is not worth living, but I say that the over-examined life is not worth living.  Don’t take things, or yourself, too seriously.  

You are what you do.  It’s our actions that define us more so than anything else.

Life is a series of choices.   

I remember a friend of mine taking a deep drag on his cigarette, turning to me and asking, out of nowhere, “What do you want out of life?”  It’s a good question.  And I’ve found that by asking myself hard questions like this I’ve helped myself become a happier person.  Ultimately, I just want to enjoy my life.  The good life for me is one where I get to do fun stuff, and occasionally even have a laugh.  That’s about all I’m asking.

Obviously I can’t go from high point to high point, and a life devoted to nothing but pleasure-seeking would be an empty one for me.  I like having responsibilities and work.  The love that my family and friends give me and that I try to return makes life worth living.  All I can do is continue to try over here.

DEATHWATCH

The first thing I do on my computer every morning is check the Wikipedia death notices.  What is my fucking problem? 

Actually, what I’m really hoping to find is that a musician from one of my favorite old bands has died.  This gives me an excuse to talk about that band.  You see, I’m a frustrated rock critic.  My secret embarrassing ambition used to be to write for Metal Hammer or Keerang or one of those other magazines.  Not Rolling Stone, though – I know I’m not anywhere near good enough for that. 

I remember looking at one of those heavy metal fanzines in England decades ago.  There was a picture of Deep Purple with an enraptured female fan writhing around on the stage with them naked.  The picture was taken at an angle that would have been considered pornographic in the U.S.  There was another picture of the Glastonbury festival, which is sort of an annual Woodstock-like concert/hippie fest, featuring a woman who also didn’t feel a need to wear any clothes.  This magazine is what inspired me to kinda, sorta start thinking about maybe trying to write concert or album reviews or something.

I never did.  But years later I posted a bunch of album reviews on Amazon.  I’d use highly original lines like “put this one in your pipe and smoke it”.   

So why don’t I just go ahead and talk about my favorite music, or start another blog devoted to it instead of morbidly waiting with baited breath for the deaths of people I have every reason to like?  I really don’t know.  But what I do know is that my daily ritual is a sick one, and I feel guilty about it. 

You don’t have to tell me it’s all right.

DRIFT AWAY

They’ve been playing it at the local ice cream parlor.  It’s a song I’ve heard before but could never quite place, and damn can I relate to it.  Finally I was listening for the first time to an album called My Sportin’ Life by John Kay (of Steppenwolf - the ones who did Born to be Wild) and there it was.  Now I know that the song is called Drift Away.  It was written by Mentor Williams and a guy named Dobie Gray did its most popular version, although its been covered by many:    

Day after day I’m more confused
So I look for the light in the pouring rain
You know that’s a game that I hate to lose
I’m feelin’ the strain, ain’t it a shame

Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away

Beginning to think that I’m wastin’ time
I don’t understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
I’m countin’ on you to carry me through

And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me
And when I’m feelin’ blue
The guitar’s comin’ through to soothe me
Thanks for the joy that you’ve given me
I want you to know I believe in your song
Rhythm and rhyme and harmony
You help me along makin’ me strong

It’s these kinds of discoveries that help get me through this life.

WHAT DOES THE “B” STAND FOR?

Stepping off the boat that took me across the Irish sea from England, I was met by a gruff customs man.  He wanted to know what I was planning on doing there.  These were the days when the IRA was active and there were far more “troubles” than there are now (although I hear things are heating up again, unfortunately).  I understood his concerns.  I also knew that my answers weren’t doing much to allay them.  “Oh, I’m just going to look around.  Travel.  You know… see all kinds of different stuff.”  My appearance didn’t help either.  I could have easily passed for a member of some sort of underground organization – wild hair all over the place, old clothes, unshaven - get the picture? 

Thinking up more invasive questions, he looked at my passport and paused for a moment.  “What does the “B” stand for?”, he asked, referring to my middle initial.  “Brendan”, I replied.  “Go ahead”, he said, and the little interview was over.

It was obvious what had happened.  He assumed that my Irish middle name meant that I have some Irish blood, or at least some real connection to Ireland in my background, and that I was there to try to get in touch with that part of my heritage. 

The truth is that other than my liking for Harp Lager and Thin Lizzy, I don’t have the slightest bit of Irishness in me.  I didn’t mind, though.  I’d been honest about my middle initial and wasn’t there to blow anything up. 

Happy St. Paddy’s Day!

WEEKEND UPDATE

This weekend was an eventful one.  I took my son to a huge model train show and was surprised by how much he enjoyed it.  I hung out in my beloved basement, played outside for a change, and did that recharging of the batteries thing that us working stiffs are sometimes allowed to have on selected Saturdays and Sundays. 

Being on the West side, I swung by my friend Gary’s house on the way back from the train show.  Gary’s marriage is dissolving before his eyes.  In fact, I’d have to say that it’s already dissolved, and this has finally, fully dawned on him.  He was in a terrible state – the worst I’ve ever seen him.  “I could have handled things differently”, he kept saying, morosely blaming himself. 

Years of work trying to get a business off the ground has so far yielded little, and his soon to be ex-wife hates him for it.  She has no use for a husband she has to support, and is thrilled that he’s moving out.  The last time she was happy with him was more than 10 years ago, back when he was earning enough so that she didn’t have to work.   She’s also an incredibly frigid woman.  She hasn’t so much as kissed him in 5 years – although she’s been happy to accept nightly backrubs.  Now she claims that her aches and pains have suddenly stopped. 

“I’m talking out of my ass here because I really don’t know what it’s like to go through what you’re going through”, I confessed after trying to give him advice and only coming up with a string of empty cliches.   I told him that I’m here for him and that he could call me any time, even at 2:00 in the morning, if he needed to talk. If he didn’t have friends coming over later I would have changed my plans and spent the night there with him.  It ended with a hug and an “I love you, man”. 

As much as I enjoyed the weekend, I’ve had better.  One of my best friends has been frozen out by the woman he’s loved for 20 years, because he doesn’t make enough money.  There’s something uniquely depressing about that.

THE GAY DANCE

Passing the audition for a supporting role in a play about professional wrestlers allowed me to meet a bunch of interesting people.  Jim was one of these people.  He had made an effort to befriend me, which I appreciated, and was a nice guy.  He was quiet, had a love of opera, and was gay.  One day I asked him if he was going to the 10% Society dance. 

I was just making conversation.  The 10% Society was the campus gay organization.  Its name was based on the belief that about 10% of people in society are gay (I think the proper term is gay, lesbian and transgender, or something like that).  He said he was interested but didn’t have anyone to go with.  I felt a little sorry for him and figured that since I had brought it up it was sort of like an invitation.  I didn’t have any hot date on that Saturday night so I told him I would go with him, at least to give him someone to show up with.  I wasn’t sure how long I would want to stay.  He understood.

I didn’t have any embarrassment about it because I knew where I stood, and mentioned my plans to anyone who wondered what I was up to.  That Saturday night I happened to be walking around with a group of guys I knew that didn’t have any idea where I was headed.  No one had cared to ask.  As we came close to the student union building I announced my plans.  “Well, it’s time for me to head to the gay dance”, I said matter-of-factly.  I’ve never had such a physical distance open up between me and a group of people so fast in my life.  In an instant, and without saying a word, they disappeared.     

I met Jim on the front steps.  He greeted me and we spoke a little, with me doing most of the talking, as usual.  We walked into the place and then stopped and looked around.  I was starting to get a little nervous so I headed to the bar and got us a round of drinks.  By the time I came back, he had already met some people he knew.  He introduced us and then went to dance.  I stood staring at the dance floor. 

There, right in center of everything, was a sight for sore eyes.  A dark-haired, mysterious woman was twirling around like a dervish.  Around and around, as though in a trance.  Her eyes caught mine and our gaze locked.  Her head would spin around along with her body and her eyes would come right back to mine, as though they handn’t moved at all.  I was mesmerized.  Time stood still.

Then a guy came up to me and introduced himself.  There were more people there interested in me than anywhere else I’d ever been.  Only I had no interest in them, save for the dancing woman.  Should I introduce myself to her?  I started feeling quite uncomfortable and figured she was probably only into girls anyway.  Besides, her energy had blown me away.  I said goodbye to Jim and left. 

Obviously, I was completely out of place there.  I felt a little weird about the whole thing afterwards, but it was certainly an experience to remember.

MY WORST NIGHTMARE

All my life I’ve been plagued by bad dreams.  Compared to some other people they aren’t that frightening – I’ve never had “night terrors” and haven’t woken up in a panic since I was a kid.  But there was one that I’ll always remember as my gold standard for nightmares. 

Back when I was around 12,  an aunt, uncle and a cousin all died in fairly close succession.  Attending these regular funerals naturally led me to think about death.  After peppering my Dad with questions about the afterlife, he said that people live on in the hearts of those who know them.  The night after my uncle’s funeral, I tried to communicate with him once last time before I fell asleep.  I imagined myself telling him that I would remember him and keep him alive within me. 

That night I had a dream that he had died in our basement.  He knew the exact moment his death would take place, and counted down the last few seconds of his life.  “Five, four, three, two, one”, he said, and then he died.  Only his body somehow became frozen in the act of counting down, and continued to speak these numbers even after he had died.  Over and over. 

My Dad and I had to bring his still-speaking corpse up the basement steps.  We were dragging him up the staircase when I lost my hold of his body.  It tumbled down the stairs and crashed into the concrete floor, still counting down, “Five, four, three, two, one…” 

The dream had been so real that when I woke up I was sure my uncle’s corpse was there, lying on my bottom bunk.  I managed to calm myself down and fall back to sleep, but for weeks I would wake up in the night thinking that a body was lying down there and wondering if it would grab me as I climbed down the latter.  Then I switched to sleeping on the bottom bed.

More important than my sleeping arrangement, I had to ask myself what the dream meant.  It was so powerful and real that I had to believe that I’d been sent a message.  I decided that the message was not to try to contact the dead, something that resonates with me to this day.

FLYBOYS

When I was a kid, nothing was more inspiring to me than stories about aerial combat.  I voraciously read every book in the school library about the two World Wars, and especially enjoyed anything that dealt with the aircraft of those times. 

While looking through a Scholastic books catalogue in the 4th grade, I saw one called Flying Aces of World War I.  I promptly begged my Mom to buy it for me, and she did.  These action packed tales of biplanes over the trenches fascinated me and I read the book countless times.  I’ve somehow managed to hold onto it over the years, and lately I’ve been reading it to my Son.

My Daughter has been reading the Harry Potter series, and when she finishes one of them we watch the movie of it together.  A couple of years ago, I saw a film called Flyboys that loosely tells the story of the Lafayette Escadrille, which was a volunteer unit of American pilots that flew for France during World War I.  It does an outstanding job of depicting the aerial combat of those times – an attack on a German observation balloon is a high point – and I thought we’d watch it together when we get done with the book. 

I’m not sure if my Son is deriving the same pleasure as I did from these tales of the Knights of the Air, but I figure it’s worth a try to introduce him to this subject.  He absolutely adores Star Wars, and the attacks on the Death Star bear some resemblance to fighter plane action so I don’t think I’m totally off base here.  In any event, I’ve been enjoying reading the book to him, and I’m looking forward to seeing the movie again.  But I’m a little reluctant to build a biplane model - all that rigging is a nighmare.  I’ll give it a try if he’s into it, though.

DICK DALE

I don’t get out much.  So when the rare opportunity comes around to have a good time, I’m all over it.  Afterwards I savor the memory.  One such occasion took place – what was it? – about 2 years ago now, I think.

My sister called me and said that Dick Dale was coming to town.  We had been talking about seeing him for a while, so it was something I knew had to happen.  Dick Dale is a pioneer and prime practicioner of surf music.  Just imagine a scene of someone riding the waves out in California and the guitar playing you’ll hear in your mind will sound like Dick Dale.  His sound had a brief revival thanks to being on the Pulp Fiction soundtrack back in the mid-90’s. 

The evening started out with a home cooked dinner at my sister’s place, followed by drinks.  Then we headed to the little venue where he was playing and – you guessed it – more drinks.  As much as my sister likes to keep a low profile, she has a magnetic effect on people and before I knew it we were chatting with a friendly couple that was out on a date.  I could tell that things weren’t going all that well for the guy because the woman was keeping a distinct distance from him.  They both worked together and were from out- of-state and on and on – we learned all about them.

When the concert began it became immediately apparent that Dick Dale is a master of his instrument.  Before the first song began, he was running up and down scales with an amazing fluidity.  This was a good show.  As the night went on and the drinks continued to flow, the random experiences and observations built up.  I worked my way right up to the edge of the stage and found myself in the middle of some hard-core fans.  Every time Dick Dale said something to the audience between songs they would chant, “We are the Dickheads!” in response.  One of these guys tapped me on the shoulder and made it clear that I was expected to chant along.  I raised my fist and repeated their phrase, surprising him with my enthusiasm. 

It went on from there:   stopping in front of a couple of girls and dancing along with them uninvited for a few seconds,  then moving on without saying a word;  the indescribably fucked-up dude that would plow his way through the audience leaving people glaring at him in his wake;  watching one of the roadies, who was a teenage girl, efficiently going about her business;  hearing the life story of a friend of a guy I’d just met; etc.   

After the show was over, Dick Dale sat at the edge of the stage and signed autographs.  Someone had shown up with a surf board for him to sign – something comically out of place for this town.  A drunk (and bra-less) woman lifted up her shirt and had him sign her breast.  I didn’t have anything for him to sign, but I shook his hand and said, “Thanks for playing – you delivered the goods.”  “Hey, I haven’t heard that one before”, he replied. 

It was a good thing I wasn’t driving and stayed with my sister that night.  I admit I was a tad inebriated by the time it was over.  But even after all this time I have no trouble remembering what a good night it was.