To rant or not to rant…one man’s journey into all that is restless, irritable, and, discontent

Upon awakening this morning, I came to a rather disturbing realization, or rather, a few disturbing realization, that have fashioned my mind and my fingers to produce that which has eluded me here of late. First, it has been a fortnight or better since last I dazzled the world with the prose of a self-proclaimed maven of all that is written. Next came that most irritating fact of life I face every morning when I awaken; I hurt and must sit on the side of my bed until it stops hurting. This fine morn, it took the better part of an hour. If it had been a workday, I would have called out. I had not that luxury this Saturday morning. All I could do was hurt. Then there were my plans for the day, of which there were none. I intended to write a story about one of my colleagues and watch movies the rest of the day, figuring this would have been a noble road to pursue. Instead here I sit, still hurting a little, at the keyboard spitting venom from my fingers sans the benefit of even the first cup of coffee. Excuse me a moment…

All right, I have the coffee and it burnt my freaking mouth! I am incapable of doing much about it considering I am at home and not my local MacDonald’s. Well, if I could sue myself, the lawyer probably would not take the case because I am fat, and crazy.

A cigarette usually tastes good with that morning ambrosia with the lava like demeanor, except I am attempting to quit. Screw it. If I am going to bitch, I might as well get the full effect. Cough, cough, cough.

What I am really getting at this morning is an attempt to, once more; explain my relationship with the emotion of anger. I have always expressed my anger in a plethora of methods, most employing a high decibel bellowing. I have, over the years in recovery, cultivated some tools to deal with the more negative aspects of my ire. I have a therapist, and a whole horde of friends who are wise in the matters of life who offer suggestions, and kind words. I have my job, which has taught me the most. It is not acceptable to show anger in the manner I usually display it in the presence of children.

One of these tools is to list the things that anger me. Well, here it is: I have a kid at school that has discovered that there are “buttons” he can push which will elicit reactions and actions of a negative nature. I had to have him removed from class in order to prevent an unplanned trip to the orthodontist. It is summer and I have not yet received my summer school assignment. It is extra pay that I am counting on. I have to, and by have to, I mean that I volunteered to go back to school. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am already the largest depository of useless knowledge in the universe.

I have watched my candidate for President obtain the nomination, and watch his rival hold on, beyond hope, to the campaign until her colleagues in the Senate and Congress threatened her out of it. I am now stuck with the news media and there inane speculations of her viability as Vice-President. I fear that it will not happen and that the Republicans will get the opportunity to sodomize the country for another four or eight years.

Two weeks from today, I will be a senior citizen. My young friend, who I have written about, and I know all too much about the Super Hero universe for me to be an old man. I absolutely missed the appearance of Stan Lee in the Iron Man movie until the Kid told me about it. I thought the Indian Jones movie was great given the age of the lead actor. My aficionado status in this genre is at risk! Help! Help!

I am near rage over the problem I am having typing today. The fingers are simply not working, as I would like them. Numerous and frequent editing is necessary this morning. Well, why don’t you just edit when you are done? Because my typing is so terrible in combination with the memory problems I am have with my approaching age driven infirmities make it such that if I wait to edit, I won’t remember what the words were supposed to be.

I am irked that I have been writing this blog for three months and have received not one comment. It's a blog folks. You're supposed to complain about it or tell me how wonderful I am! Let's get with the program!

I called my sponsor, a wonderful man whose name simply spoken aloud is sufficient to calm me down, told me that it just might be in my nature to be angry. Amazingly, I did not get angry at this and actually felt a little better. He spoke of his grand daughter and her propensity towards rage. I felt humbled by the inference. I realized that the rest of the world does not deserve my bile. Well, at least not in person. (You chose to read this. I might have sent you the email, but you picked up the snake)

I did have some uncertainty as to the “Nature” thing and went to the omniscient Google to see what perspicacious acumen might be forthcoming. What I got was Aristotle.

“Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.”

This knowledge accomplished Aristotle’s probable purpose in even saying it. It confused the crap out of me. So much for the wise scribe. I think I will go watch the food channel. It makes more sense to learn how to barbecue then to bitch about self-driven, self-created bullshit. Peace.

Remembrance

It is Memorial Day and I take finger to keyboard in an effort to honor the day in some manner. On the other hand, perhaps it might be due to the fact that I have been able to write for a number of days now, and I do not wish to break a pattern. Either way, you opened it, so you get to live with it.

I have a number of things I would recollect that need telling (or retelling) and most of them would be true. True, that is, once you remove the artistic license I take from time to time. I could cajole into thinking something is important and in need of recall. I could totally make something up and you might never be the wiser. Well, today I choose to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I will not ask God’s help in this as the memory is not one I wish I ever gained, and it will not go away regardless of long effort and craving.

Being a veteran, it would be germane to speak of absent comrades and honor their service and bravery. Although I am not a combat veteran, I do have people I know who gave their lives for their country. My Uncle Buddy comes to mind. It is a stretch to believe that a man who drank himself to death died in service to his country, but that is another piece of work I have somewhere in my catalogue. I know the anguish of losing a loved one, and I remember them for their spirit and love.

I wish to speak of some other individuals who have passed on to the other side. Two in particular. Both are veterans and both died by their own hand. These men were members of the same twelve-step program I credit with saving my life. I met them both during a period in which my occupational life path led me to manage a halfway house for men in recovery from drugs and alcohol. I will not reveal their names as it would be a violation of the main precept of the program. Anonymity.

One was about my age, and the other much younger. One was a Vietnam Veteran and the other served in both Desert Shield, and Desert Storm. The older flew helicopters, and the younger was sailor assigned to shore duty in Kuwait. The older man suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the younger dealt with both Bipolar Disorder and was Borderline Personality Disorder. Each had great difficulty staying clean and suffered whenever they ingest any mind-altering, mood-altering substance. My pilot had the advanced stages of kidney and liver maladies associated with massive use of alcohol. My sailor was a crack addict.

The pilot never suffered the usual losses an addict might. He had kept a job all his life and maintained an average lifestyle. His wife divorced him and that proved to be the end of the road for him. He fell into the bottle and stayed there until he lost his job and had to move out of his house. He moved into the halfway house after a stay in the intensive care ward of the local hospital. The doctors gave him his death sentence, which he not only accepted but also looked forward to. Relief being the attitude he held.

I spent many hours with this man in an effort to aid him towards some peace in his life. All my best efforts went for naught. He incessantly harped on the idea that recovery held no attraction for him. All he was doing is waiting to die and get it over with. He found a job and worked feverishly until he had saved enough to get an apartment and three months bills. He moved out of the recovery house, sat in his apartment, and drank himself to death.

The younger man had spent most of his life in privilege. His family was one of the wealthiest in town. There were several multimillionaires within his lineage going back several generations. There was also the disease of addiction rampant in the current generation and the family wealth had dwindled as a result. There was a seeming prevalence in this particular gene pool toward a predilection for mental illness. The correlation between the dope and insanity has been suggested by many, but I do not have time for such a theoretical conversation, and fully believe any such dialogue is the ilk of research scientists and not for me. As one with the responsibility to aid those seeking help I do, strictly from experience, know that being crazy might be lessened through the ingestion of certain drugs. On the other side of the equation, the ingestion of certain drugs can certainly make someone crazy.

This man came in and out of the program many times during the time I knew him. He came to meetings and left to go get high. I found him on the side of the road, beaten and bloody, and discovered that after he got out of the hospital I took him to, he went straight back to the same neighborhood to get more drugs. He would get into relationships with women and leave them either pregnant of penniless as a direct result of his fanatical need to get crack cocaine. He went to jail, treatment, jail again, Christian camps, prison, and the halfway house where I resided.

He left again and I did not see him for quite some time. I showed up at a meeting one night and there he sat, weeping quietly. I sat down and spoke with him until the meeting began, and for several hours after. We renewed a bond and he asked me to be his sponsor. He told me that he had sold the baby he had with a girl who deserted him and the baby...for about twenty dollars of crack. The child died of pneumonia when the dope dealer left it behind a dumpster. The young man sat in my car distraught and consumed with remorse. I attempted to get him to a psych hospital and failed. A week later, he hung himself.

Both men wee intelligent, caring men when not drunk and high. The things they did when under the influence are terrible actions for a human being. I can see that some might say they got what they deserved. The older for the misery he gave his family, and the younger for the baby. I do not know. I am not, or would ever want to be, judge and jury for these men.

I do not really know what inspired this page. I know that these men came to my mind when I sat down at the keyboard. I know that each had demons within them. They also had worth. I know this from the time I spent with each. I believe all people need remembering…is that not what the day is about? Now some might say that it is for the men who fell in defense of our country. Some might also say that it is a day for heroes. Well both of these men fell trying to defend the world from…themselves. They also were both recipients of the Purple Heart, and the Bronze Star earned in combat. That tells me they deserve remembering. Peace.

Corpulent Obliteration

Surfing the cyber world one morning, as I am wont to do, I came upon some revelations of an odd sort. I have recently found a particular interest in current affairs, and voraciously search all that is new and interesting. I do this on the net as it allows generous access to the hordes of influences, both altruistic and cretinous. The news media has long held both my favor and my ire. Here of late, my ire has received all too much inspiration.

This morning I decided to see what health matters the population needs to focus attention on. Imagine my rather rotund personage being confronted with the knowledge that “Obesity contributes to global warming.” At least that is what Reuters reports from a source in London, England. According to the wise folks at the London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine being stout of body is causing global warming.

Now, given my recent indignation over being told I was “Not a candidate” for body donation, and the ensuing emotions I encountered and wrote on, this gave me particular foundation for this morning’s tirade. I immediately went to the nearest search engine to learn of the legitimacy of these seemingly ignorant and ill advised folks attempting to, once more, tell me that I am not good enough. Fortunately I have scholarly skills which outweigh (ha!) my propensity to slash an burn at the keyboard. The London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine is a well-respected organization in business over one hundred years enjoying wide recognition and success in dealing with public health issues. Most of what is known about tropical diseases has come from this institution, and hundreds of thousands of people have been treated with medicines and procedures developed by this organization. The only thing I can say after realizing who they were is…thank you.

“Obesity tied to risk of psychiatric disorders” so reports the University of Connecticut Health Center in Farmington. Another entity seemingly engaged in a war against fat people. Not as widely recognized as the earlier entity in this page, it still appears to be legitimate in appearance and motivation. Again, all I can say to this organization is…thank you.

My real gripe is the incredibly biased attitude that obesity is wrong. Yes, I know that psychiatric disorders are a part of being obese. I seek and receive treatment for this. Yes, I know that I am at risk for a plethora of maladies directly related to my size. I have some of these and treat them with the assistance of a paid medical professional. Yes, I know that my life span will be shortened by my fatness. I am also reasonably assured that all who live (not suffer) from obesity are cognizant of these factors. How can we not? It is all over the news. It is all over the television. Weight loss is now a business receiving billions of dollars in revenue.

I do not have any memory of being small. I have no frame of reference in my family, other then my dear sister, that there is any other way to be. I have been enamored of the process of eating for 55 years (almost) and can see no change in that posture. I have been surgically altered, given medication, counseled, dieted numerous times, exercised, encouraged, berated, generally made to feel inferior all my life, and still I am fat. This is not the “poor me” ranting of a fat guy that refuses to stop eating too much. This is the plain truth. I have been discriminated in employment, in the availability of services, and the ability to travel comfortably.

Global Warming? Well, show me the environmentally conscious choice there is in automobiles for persons over one hundred pounds. Morbidly obese is what it is called. Let me enlighten the reader here…I am not unwholesome, diseased, unhealthy, sick, sickly; tainted, corrupted, or vitiated as a result of my size. I am not causing global warming. I only own one car. I am not causing harm to the Penguins, or holding a blowtorch to the polar ice caps. There is no more water in the ocean when I go swimming then before, displacement occurs and I get sand in my suit. The only thing hot about it is the temperature outside that caused the feeling in me to go swimming in the first place.

What I would really like to know is why these famous health organizations are doing about the ten million people who die each year from treatable diseases? Why is the continent of Africa in a desperate and seemingly untenable situation over the number of people with AIDS? Why is the leading public health organization in the fight against tropical diseases not looking into the issue of starvation in the tropical regions? Do they think us fat people are eating all the food, and if we were not fat the rest of the world would not be hungry? It couldn’t possibly be that the world is addicted to crude oil? The discovery, production, and marketing of petroleum crude oil is the reason, if there is a reason, that the globe is getting warmer, not my propensity to indulge in fried chicken and Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia Ice Cream.

I am done for today. This is not finished. I will be back. Right now it is time for lunch…peace.

T3414

I awoke this morning, Saturday, with an idea. I will write today if it “Hair lips the Pope.” Not a particularly compassionate view on the gift the Good Lord gave me, or my wishes for the well-being of the reincarnation of St. Peter the Apostle in our times. I reside in a southern state that prides itself on rugged individualism and a plethora of guiding principles absent of any form of social propriety. Having escaped the stigma of being a “Yankee” through the near thirty-year tenure of my habitation within the borders of that which acknowledges naught but a singular celestial body as its symbol, I find myself embracing such platitudes when I am in need of better words to express my desires. All that is left of my New Yorkedness is a fondness for real pizza, a near maniacal devotion to the only true baseball team…the NY Yankees, and a fervent yearning for financial harm to be done the Steinbrenner clan for firing Joe Torre.

Having said all that, I find myself in a dualistic state. I desperately need to write given the length of time elapsed since last I bedazzled the universe with my prose, or, at least I perceive desperateness and might just be bedazzling myself and not my target audience. I further realize the reader might be saying or thinking at this moment that this fool should get to the freaking point and stop bullshitting. And they would be right.

Well, realistically, I need to get some words down and the other part of the duality I spoke of earlier is that my computer is making a garrulous noise as I type. I recently had the audacity to open the case of my chief link to the world outside to poke around in it. Not a bad thing per se, I do have some acumen within the realm of technology, but it has given me pause to be concerned. I want to post on this blog, and I also wish to work on a piece for my web page, and this amalgamation of 1’s and 0’s needs more attention then I wish to give it this wonderful morning. Additionally, my landlord has a crew of workers outside mowing lawns, weed eating, hammering nails and generally disrupting the literary mastermind sitting at his T3414 E-Machine computer with the scratchy throat. Discretion being the better part of valor, I believe I will go attend to the needs of life as it has apparently decided to inject itself on my poor old ass. Peace out.

Tirade del Amor

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Well, at least that is how Shakespeare put it. I do not really know what there is to love and whether it is feasible to find something to love in this world. I do know that as a feeling, love is the most disturbing of emotions. It has no rhyme or reason to exist in humankind, yet, it does. I read book upon book on the subject and stay in a quandary over what exactly this unsettling pursuit is supposed to be in my life.

I find it is much simpler to hate. For some raison d'être there is much more of this most negative manifestation in all we do in this world. There is war, and crime, and abuse, and prejudice, and intolerance, and disdain for all that is kind and true. How can one see the need for tenderness in the face of callous disregard for the very humanness we all share? The answer is fully plain. We live in a society programmed to do instead of feel. As an emotion, hate always drives some manner of action, and the deeds resulting are more interesting than those emerging out of benevolence and concern. Hate grows out of anger and anger grows out of indignation. And all of it grows out of fear.

As imperfect organisms, we tend to go embrace ideals familiar to us. In modern society our ideals are driven by external influence. We read a newspaper, or a magazine. We watch television. We go to the movies. We listen, read, perceive, and misinterpret, pretty much on a universal basis, that which is put before us. We have cable and satellite TV. We have hundred of channels to watch on numerous issues specifically designed to capture the attention of the viewing public. There are several levels of viewing possibilities. Local stations offer toned down language in programming to ensure a wholesome environment for our children, but only until nine or ten o'clock. Then the cable giants take over. There are horror movies, and martial arts movies, soft-core pornography, stand up comedy focusing on the vulgar and frighteningly graphic documentaries on the ills of society. We teach our children with these mediums of expression. We have MTV and reality shows displaying abrasive, abusive, pornographic, and intensely misanthropic content. There are sound bites and imagery flashed at us in millisecond blasts negating the ability for anyone to make any rationale decision as to their veracity. All we see is brought to us at the speed of light and we have little chance to discern true value.

We glorify the negative in the guise of rugged and determined individuality. We have series that glorify the life of organized criminals. We have contests where people submit to disgusting and revolting behavior in order to achieve monetary or professional gain. We teach biology to our children by allowing pornographic material school them in the process of reproduction. We glorify the deviancy of society while negating the positive.

Where is the Love Channel? Where is the Values Channel? Where is the show that teaches us that it is okay to display affection for one another? Not anywhere readily found. What we do have are afternoon talk shows parading solutions to societal ills hosted by would be, wannabe mavens of collective reform whose real intention, in my opinion, is hawking their latest help-yourself-by-buying-my-book-or-attending-a-seminar-that-costs-more-than-most-of-you-can-afford.

I could keep this tirade going if it were not for the weariness I have over the negative side of human existence. I marvel at the propensity for self-destruction we have, and question my own motives in putting these words on paper. I do so because I live in a country that, at least idyllically, allows me to speak that which bothers me, and that which enriches me. I started to investigate love, and I regressed into the easier side of the issue. I seek the feeling by searching for the action. I do not know that love is necessarily a definable action. I know with hate, there is a manifestation for the feeling, and we flaunt it regularly. I do not know if we illustrate love as well as we should. I think that we believe that we must do something with our hate, and little time in contemplation of what we will do with our love. I think the difference might be that hate, in our practice, demands engagement while love just requires sensation. Sensation occurs in humankind and does not have to be directly attributable to an outside influence. By this reasoning, the sensation of love needs no focal point and can be quite comforting. One can just love without reason and it can occur with little or no action. Hate requires a commitment to action in response to a perceived hostility or animosity toward someone or something. It entails work, and work is definitely an action. Love gives of itself, without much effort and is generous in what it gives. Hate takes all it can get its hands on, and is miserly in what it gives back. This, ostensibly, asks the question: do we seek generosity or parsimony? Generosity gets my vote.

The Wisdom of the Not Necessarily Accepted Masses

“Sally forth into the unknown, I say ye. For there are twists and turns the like you can never envisage within the confines of your low mentality. We are on the very precipice of enormous happenings which will transport mankind to either the gloriousness of Paradise or the malevolent nether regions of Hades.” I turned from the rack of tabloid magazines in the Wal-Mart Supercenter on the south side of town to find the origin of such ominous tidings. Before me stood a rather slight older gentleman wearing, of all things, a suit of green with a large western belt buckle flaunting an array of green stones in the shape of a shamrock, an equally dark green beret, and a pair of those plastic shoes someone is getting rich selling to people with the holes in them and an open back, also green. On his face, he wore a pronounced Van Dyke goatee surrounded with a several day-old growth of beard. Small reading glasses hanging low on his pointed nose, apparently secured to his face by a huge growth on the left side of his face. His eyes, also green, glistened with merriment that was, at the same time, unnatural in demeanor and mischievous in deportment.

“Excuse me?” served as my only reply.

“ Now boyo, I’d be knowing yer no’ that daft. You look at those tomes and with the know ‘n in you that there is some distress in their implication.” A impish broken-toothed grin came on his face.

My first reaction, after the surprise of his appearance was, one of quiet reservation. I have spent the larger portion of my life with a unique ability to attract people of questionable sanity. I share this trait with My Dear Sainted Mother. The family mission statement as passed to us was one that taught my sister and I that we should never meet a stranger. A favorite joke around the holiday tables is the idea that Mother Dear could get stranded on a deserted south sea island and the monkeys would find the words to begin a conversation.

My particular generational evolution of this questionably enviable character asset/defect is that people of debatable sanity seem to find me wherever I go. I can be a room with a thousand other individuals, all of which are in the room for the first time and having no or limited knowledge of events, two things are going to happen; first, someone is going to ask me what is going on, and second, the one person in the crowd that is most apparently suffering from an unhealthy state of mental health will be standing next to me talking as if we had been life long bosom buddies. My reaction is always one of quiet resignation. I listen and attempt to understand what I hear. I believe all persons are important, and it is not my bailiwick to decide whose opinion holds merit. I try to be kind to those I encounter. Simply because it is the right thing to do. Another behavior gleaned from my Dear Sainted Mother.

This person seemed to have information for me, that he thought held some import. I folded my hands behind my back so as to present a welcoming attitude of supplication. He looked me up and down, and asked me quite directly, “Why haven’t you donated to Barrack Obama’s campaign?” I found myself stunned by the question. I retreated to the cliché answer of not being able to afford such a donation. He then asked me how I could justify spending three dollars on a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ten or twelve times a month when I know that as a diabetic such consumption in detrimental to my health. He continued on to chastise for such a decision when my personal beliefs are that Senator Obama holds the key to the change we need in this country.

I did not question his words as they were true. I have become consumed with this election, and the future of our country. I write often of my dissatisfaction with the state of affairs, and have not taken the most sensible step. I have not declared my position to my own satisfaction. I am officially giving my endorsement to Senator Barack Obama for President of the United States.

Not that this is a monumentally important endorsement. I do not for one second believe that my opinion is of such significance as to change the balance in this election. I just thought that if a crazy guy in Wal-Mart can hold me accountable for the rights I imagine myself to be a champion of, then it might be prudent of me to take that needed step to at least have the courage of my convictions and open my big mouth where it might reach the greatest amount of people. I don’t know how wide this page is being distributed, but it is available. More than that would be nothing but making sure I show up to vote. I am not ready to give up my Cherry Garcia. Peace.

These days

These days I am trying to get through the end of the school year, write every day, and do something about the sunburn on my head. There is not much more to life these days. I am, these days, of a disposition to do none of the things that I find necessary for the betterment of mankind. I am not writing every day, school is not going to ever be over, and my sunburned head is my own fault. These days, I am pretty much screwed, blued, and tattooed.

My writing is haphazard at best. This disturbs me to no end. I am never going to be this generation’s answer to Stephen King, Mark Twain, or W.E.B. Griffin if I don’t get off my lazy ass and get to work. I laugh at these analogies my mind creates. I do not want to be Stephen King. I just want his money. Well, not his money per se, but a regular royalty check equal to or greater then those he receives. Unfortunately, his genre is not my type of writing. It scares the crap out of me. He is my favorite writer in that his prose comes alive in my mind as no other writers work. When I read his work, I can literally visualize the characters and monsters.

Mark Twain delights me and creates great bell laughs in me. This is something to see considering the girth of my stomach. Besides, I do not have that refined a sense of humor. I have no desire to spend the time Mr. Griffin spends in research, but I do devour his books as if they were potato chips.

I do want to get around to writing everyday, and not whine about my inability to do so. I know that the times I spend writing give me the greatest contentment and, as such, really should just shut up and write. It is not the keyboards fault that I have to live life in order to write. It is my fault if I do not share what is in me with the world. I am just getting over the thrill of my first for-pay publication. I am ready for the next step, and I want to define that step. I really would rather write what is there and worry later of what I should charge for it.

School is going just as it should. The students are alternately giving me a hard time, or cooperating totally depending on what is in their oft-times scrambled little heads. We have had some incidents that are quite disturbing and that always serve as harbingers of things not desired. One of our kids is in a particularly bad place and it has affected us all. Legal and moral issues prevent me from discussing this further, although I really want to shout over a large bull horn my rage and indignation. I do not get to do this, though…I am an adult and a professional. Man, it really sucks being me in this situation. I am, as you all know, a self deluded champion and crusader of the oppressed. I want to liken myself as the masked man riding into town of a great white horse and saving the universe from dastardly deeds performed by maniacal villains. In truth, I am just a guy that gets to hug a kid who feels bad about himself, and cry about his situation when no one is looking. Being me sucks, at this particular moment in history.

As to my sunburn. About a year and a half ago, I decided I had grown tired of combing my hair and shaved it off. I am not much of an outside person, and most of the time my head is cold. This is not an entirely unwanted state of affairs. Yesterday, I participated in my first school field trip as a teacher. We went to a rescued tiger sanctuary nearby. It never occurred to me that I needed a hat. I haven’t worn a hat for years. Not since I gave up the manual arts in employment and began my life as a great thinker, philosopher, teacher, and all around pain in the ass. Well, I walked around and had a grand old time. I ate lunch next to my young friend who is having a hard time. I shared my cookie with him, and spoke with the other students about how cool the tigers were. We all chose one who we wished we could take home. My young companion and I both wanted the largest one for ourselves. All 800 pounds of raw meat devouring, sleep-20-hours-a-day lazy ass cat. Kind of like having a houseful of teenagers. My friend said that he would have to quit school and get a job, and I realized that if I had that gargantuan feline to feed, I would probably lose the weight I complained about in an earlier post.

We left the location and went home early. I lay down to take a nap and woke up feeling terrible. My blood sugar was through the roof, and my body felt as if that big cat I favored had thrown me around in a similar fashion as the rag toy he played with while observing him in his cage. I looked in the mirror and attributed my red face to the blood sugar. I felt bad all night, and still felt that way once I got to work this morning. First thing, one of my kids told me that I was sunburned and it occurred to me that I had not had that particular malady in many years. I have a perpetually tanned left arm from when I drove a truck. The rest of my body is ghost white. I think I need to get out more, or at least buy one of those cool Alan Quartermain hats for when I venture into the jungle that is the entire world outside. Perhaps a little fresh air might do me some good. Perhaps it might prevent me from writing these depressing rants which probably serve as the chief reason I still take anti-depressant medication.

See? I told you it sucked being me right now. Not to worry…I go see my shrink tomorrow, and the next is a paid holiday. Things are looking up. Peace.

What-freaking-ever

Sitting at my desk at work today, I find myself wondering what to do. It is one of those don’t-do-a-damn-thing days. It is, at times, perplexing to me, this wonderful job I have. I love it so much, and really should not complain. I make the largest salary I have ever earned in my life. I only really work about 4 ½ to 5 hours a day. Somewhere around 172 days a year.

It is the day of one of the state mandated standardized tests. I am not an enthusiast of this particularly unscrupulous practice. My major issue is with any system of evaluation America’s schools are required to participate in. In my state, the amount of funding a school receives is directly relational to the school wide scores on these educational interruptions. I call them interruptions because that is exactly what they are. Take today, for instance. My small school only has thirty-three students. We tested approximately six. The rest got to play games or goof off while these six struggled through a math exam most probably not the correct grade level for them. Most of our students are either Special Ed, or behind in some manner. The younger children all have developmental impediments which limit their ability to succeed at such tests.

I remember the year they put together a State Committee to address this situation. At the time, there were no educators appointed to this community. Its population consisted of captains of local industry, a few preachers, and one billionaire. No teachers, or principals, or so much as a secretary for a school. The result of their committee work developed a Bottom Line for education which read like a Profit and Loss statement instead of a realistic paradigm for getting the children of our state to make better grades. In order to accomplish their lofty goals they, being better capitalists then educationalists, felt that money is the root of all that is good and fine and as such required schools to perform for them if they wanted money to buy books and other seemingly non-essential items for their schools. We would probably do better with teenage car washes and/or legions of organ grinders with monkeys to support our educational system.

What is it about America that views financial success as a harbinger of enhanced intelligence? Why do we believe that everything is a purchasable commodity?

I experienced something when I became a teacher. Kids want to learn. I have received that miracle a teacher receives when you say something and you can see the light go on in a student’s eye telling you that what they just saw, or heard, is something they will remember. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I feel valuable. I know that this value I feel is mine without effort. The very fact of my humanity gives me all that I need in order to know I am worthwhile. Seeing a child actually show amazement is such a gift. Watching them play video games is a disappointment. I realize that I am not going to grab their little hearts and minds by forcing them all to love classic literature as I do. I realize that the only thing I can really do to fend off this feeling of uselessness is to make sure that the only games available will be of some social importance, or educational at some level.

As to the standardized test...I guess I’ll just live with it. It is not like I am liable to be appointed to a state committee or anything. After all, I am educator. I’m also not rich. Go figure.

Expediency

I call this piece expediency out of frustration. I intended to write another work of a specific slice of my life for the web page I maintain, but this idea got in the way. It is quite simply, more expedient to write what is there and work more on what is to come. Motivation for what you are about to read has been brewing for quite some time. I have come to believe that reality television shows are naught but harbingers for the destruction and desecration of the collective mentality and verve of the universe.

I have cable television. I have extremely good cable television. Two hundred plus channels and a DVR to record shows when I am not even there. I can record two shows at one time. I can record two shows at one time while watching another. I can choose from many topics and styles of shows; murder mysteries, dramatic series, comedy, horror, cartoons, etc, etc, etc. It is a particular portion of my life that I hold near and dear.

I maintain my attachment to cable television for a number of reasons. Pay-per-view is cheaper then going to Blockbuster. Old movies bring loving nostalgic emotions up in me. News stories that anger or delight me, and additionally offer me inspiration for this blog. I enjoy the ability to view historic events as they happen, or have happened. Dramatic shows with messages that stimulate my spirit and lift my soul.

I use it as a tool to become a better teacher. I use it to entertain myself. I use it to educate myself. Moreover, and most significantly, I use it to guide my spirit. You see, I think of cable television as one of the spiritual experiences sought by myself and my fellow members of the Twelve Step program I attend. Exactly how that works is for another place…maybe.

The focal point of this morning’s tirade grew out of my daily sojourn into the communicative side of the cyber-world. My e-mail has been infested with announcements for reality shows. I realize that it is probably my own fault. I clicked on some link, or read something that released my email address to the universe. I have more then oneaddress and from time to time I must spend time unsubscribing to a profuse amount of organizations which desire to give me laptops, or show me the secret to unimaginable wealth or, my personal favorite, the desire of a whole host of wealthy Third World individuals who have passed on to the Great Reward with their last thought being that I deserve to be left what has now totaled to over 789, 000,000, 000,000, 000, 000,000, 000,000 dollars or British Pounds Sterling.

Well, I guess that is the cost of doing business in the Twenty First Century. What I truly take exception to is the idea that the Army of the Inane has invaded the center of my spiritual world. I went to that most hallowed of beings for guidance. That omniscient and benevolent divinity of the ethereal cosmos we call the Internet…Google. I typed in the words “How many Reality Television shows are there? Well, I will confess to some expertise as a researcher. I would not be worth mush as a teacher and writer had I not developed some acuity in that realm. I spent most of the time allotted this Saturday morning attempting to discover the answer to my simple question. I must have viewed over forty web sites before discovering that my answer must be a well-protected secret. I have visions of some clandestine entity overseeing the web, and protecting the genre. Visions of George Orwell and Aldous Huxley creep in, and I am not sure as to my safety. Perhaps I have committed an indiscretion of monumental consequence. I fear not the outcome of my quest. I think I need to come back to reality and stop bullshitting.

It appears that only one site has had the good graces to list the current reality shows. I highlighted them and clipped them into a document. The list was twelve pages long. I converted the document to a three-column affair and it was six pages. I started to count and lost the urge to be exact. Suffice it to say that there are over five hundred (500) shows that proclaim themselves as “real.” It has also been a genre for as long as there has been television. I remember Allen Funt’s “Candid Camera” from my childhood with some measure of good will. I had little choice at the time. I watched what my parents put on.

Now that I am the master of my own remote control, I feel encroached upon when I am offered a show where a famous (???) rock star occupies a mansion and proceeds to hold a contest on which scantily clad, overly made up, bimbos will have sex with him. What happened to the days when a rock star got his carnal pleasures honestly…after a concert when he is all sweaty and exhausted because the drugs he took to get him through the two-hour work day he and his buddies enjoy wore off.

Why do I have to watch people get aboriginal by eating slugs and rodents in the pursuit of fortune and fame? Does the ability to sleep on the ground and not bath for weeks at a time qualify someone for success? Well I did that when I served in the Army. I never got famous for it and, as I remember, I did it for the massive sum of $288.00 a month. We do pay the folks who guard our way of life so well, don’t we?

Who cares if your future husband is a redneck? If you are going to invite me to your wedding, at least let me come in person so I can meet you thrice married cousin with the twelve kids who is looking for another husband (payday?). Be real, for God’s sake, and tell me that you’re doing it because some Suit from a television production company offered to pay for the wedding cake. I can respect that. If you did that, I wouldn’t even have a problem if you wore white after getting caught on camera having an affair with the manager of the Dairy Queen… your boss.

I was a truck driver for almost two decades. The trucks I drove were supposed to look old and wore out. I drove the crap out of them in order to earn a living. I did not bother with my appearance that much. Like most truckers, I worked 70 to 100 hours a week. Very few people ever even saw me. Just the guy selling me diesel, and the waitress in the café that called me “darling” and made sure I had enough coffee and knew who had the best price on West Coast Turnarounds. Trick? Only myself when I engaged the services of whatever entrepreneurially gifted lady of the evening caught my eye.

I will confess to watching some of these shows. Hypocrisy? Big deal! There is a famous professional wrestler whose family is on one of these shows and I do watch, primarily because I am a fan. Hulkamania rules! A program featuring an old-timer from a famous Classic rock band who wore bizarre makeup and spit fire catches my eye from time to time, but only to see his significant other who is a former soft-core porn star who I have secretly always wanted to date.

My ire comes mostly from the fact that these shows are so numerous that it prevents Hollywood from producing better. It saddens me that my kids would rather watch “Bindi: The Jungle Girl” then read “Tarzan of the Apes.” I fail to see the relevant contribution to society of “Tommy Lee goes to college.” Why not watch “Great Performances” on PBS and see musicians who actually play music instead of being famous for having married, divorced, and made a sex video with that “Baywatch” chick with the large breasts?

Well…enough. I am tired of this page, and I don’t really think it did anyone any good, but it is what came out of my fingers this morning. Better that then watching “The Real Life of A Little Known Future Award Winning Novelist.” Peace

Particular Patriotism

I was performing my usual circumnavigation of that most hallowed and distinctively idiosyncratic lair of fiction…internet news…when I espied a composition of noteworthy merit. It was an announcement of the awarding of the Congressional Medal of Honor to a dead sailor. The young warrior had been a member of that most elite of combatants. He was a Navy Seal. Master-at-Arms 2nd Class (SEAL) Michael A. Monsoor, of Garden Grove, Calif. He was on a rooftop in Iraq and leapt on a hand grenade to shield his fellow SEAL’s from harm. He was 25 years old.

Now one must remember that I am an outspoken opponent of this, and any war. I fervently believe that killing is wrong, and have written a book (hopefully to be published at some point in time) detailing this standpoint. I believe our current President should be tried for no less then Criminally Negligent Homicide.

This young man deserved every tribute any of us can give, regardless of personal beliefs or feelings. I recognize true heroes and I am grateful the US government also recognizes such valor. The Congressional Medal of Honor is not issued flippantly. Much investigation goes into the selection, and the members of this small society within the larger society of armed force members are a special category unto themselves.

I had the privilege of serving with a Congressional Medal award winner. They are most definitely a breed apart. This gentleman I had the opportunity to meet was my Group Commander during my own tenure in the service. One day, as per orders from my First Sergeant, I lay underneath a 2 ½ton truck attempting to change the clutch. Not really my job, but sometimes, in the Army, one must do what one is told. As I lay under the truck, desecrating the English language with the most onerous of invectives, someone tapped my size thirteen and asked what I was doing. I looked to see who the annoyance might be only to find a silver eagle staring back at me. Being a private at the time and certainly no Beetle Bailey, I promptly got to my feet and saluted. I explained to him what I was attempting to accomplish. He queried me as to why I was performing a job that was not my responsibility as a truck driver. Not being as talented an orator I am today, my answer came out…“’Cause Top told me to.” He gave me this long stare. Anything more then five or six seconds is long time, in my opinion, and I believe he must have looked at me for about three thousand years. Well, at least it seemed that way. He was, after all, a freaking Colonel!

“What is the problem, Soldier?” I explained that the Good Lord had only made me with two hands instead of the required three. Not in that sarcastic and blasphemous manner, but the message got across. Another three thousand year stare. He reached up to the door to the cab and proceeded to lose his cap and field shirt. He told me to get back to work. He got on the ground and helped me finish the job!

Afterword, he walked with me to the mess hall where we ate lunch. He wanted to know about me, my family, and my hopes for the future. He did this type of thing with me whenever he saw me. He had a temporary duty assignment on the Czechoslovakian border and requested me as his driver. He told me of his life, and how he thought the medal was not really necessary because he was just doing his job. I would have followed him into the face of the Soviet Army, armed with naught but a water pistol.

I tell this story not to impress. Neither do I reflect in order to confirm the beliefs some might have of rampant hypocrisy. I say these things because I want to tell you what I believe patriotism is.

I think patriotism is a duty for all of people. Regardless of one’s political belief. As I begin this piece it is the anniversary of the day I pledged to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” I still hold myself bound by this oath. I interpret it somewhat differently today then in 1971, but I still hold myself accountable for its requirements. In 1971 defending the Constitution meant that I change a clutch in a deuce and a half. Today it is about defending the constitution by practicing the rights given me in that document. My feelings on the President and the administration fall under the category of “Enemies domestic.” My stance on “enemies foreign” is that I trust people such as Master-at-Arms 2nd Class (SEAL) Michael A. Monsoor to deal with those people who, whether I agree with or not on the amount of personal danger, wish to do me harm.

I have written, someplace, of my affection for the troops currently serving. Respect grown out of their demonstrated fidelity to all that is American, or all that is supposed to be American. That Navy Seal leaping on a grenade displayed total dedication to his oath by the giving of his life. The God I understand taught me that no greater love can be shown then this. What I take issue with, is the tripe vomited by our current administration on the necessity of murdering the citizens of Iraq, and endangering/sacrificing our beautiful and faithful service people. I would respect it more if they would just say what they mean. We are killing torturing, and maiming people in the pursuit of a greater-than-$100 a barrel-price tag-for- freaking-crude oil!!!!!

Now, as to the “particular” part of the patriotism I speak of. Master-at-Arms 2nd Class (SEAL) Michael A. Monsoor displayed, valiantly, his particular brand of patriotism. I am, sitting on my sorry ass complaining about a war I am not obliged to go and fight. That is my particular form of patriotism. I do not for the merest millisecond believe my fervor for America is remotely on a level of this fine young man. I do think it is, and will always be zealous and honest. You see, I think that patriotism is a privilege and a responsibility. I also think the expression of that patriotism is not definable by anyone other then the individual expressing it. I think that patriotism is exercising my right to complain of things I see the government doing that is in conflict with my sense of right and wrong. I think it is my choice in which end of the political spectrum I exist. I am a liberal. Arguably, an extreme liberal, but still a dyed-in-the-wool-liberal. I receive e-mails and see comments from the current administration that would suggest that the word “liberal” can be likened to that of a four-lettered word my parents would admonish me for using as a child. It is not four-letter word. It is a seven-letter word…The same amount of letters as “Patriot.”

Tirade Part Deux

Okay, I spent some time in an earlier posting speaking of the desire to turn this blog into a space for which to express my ire at the world. Then I went ahead and posted two touchy feely things. I have to admit that these pieces were meant for the website - http://www.freewebs.com/tlloydreilly/. I sometimes forget where I am. I am also at odds as to which person is writing at any given time. Is it the razor sharp future Rolling Stone columnist (someone needs to fill in the gap created when Hunter S. Thompson died) or the soft spoken kindly old man who loves life and lives in PollyAnnaland? Who knows, I think I am on the blog but maybe…

Anyhow, this is what is coming out of my fingers at this moment. I am perplexed and baffled. I recently visited the grave of My Dear Sainted Mother and came to a decision. I would not like my family and friends to come and visit a patch of land that holds what is left on my human remains. If you know me, then you know that I believe that when I am gone I will be somewhere else … hopefully writing about my new life.. I also do not need to take the Journey with the idea in my feeble brain that I left a bill for my funeral. While I know it is an inevitable part of life, I want my family and friends to be free to mourn or celebrate my life without someone handing them a bill on their way out the door. I have decided to donate my body to science.

That being said, I come to the reason for this particular tirade. I called a medical school associated with the university I attended and they turned me down!

Visions of worthlessness, and insignificance abounded in my head. I cycled through several emotions and almost threw things about my apartment. Why am I not worthy of having your medical students play Operation with my body? Here I am being all philanthropic and charitable, and they fucking tell me that I am not good enough!!! Fuckers!!!

The reason was that they do not accept cadavers from people who are obese. I have been obese all my life. I have attempted to lose weight and have, at times, lost a great deal of weight. The only way I could accomplish this was through surgery. It did not last. I am once more an extremely rotund man. I have a number of ailments, some associated with my obesity, and some not. My belief is that between the things that are wrong with me physically, and the disease of addiction I have, they might be able to find a way to relieve the world of these maladies.

Then again, what exactly is wrong with me? Is it that I am fat? Or, is it that society believes that obesity is wrong? It is a struggle I have fought all my life. I have had to compensate in many ways to get the places in life. I have been the brunt of fat jokes all my life. The first thing someone thinks about me is that I am fat. I have a great many talents other then the ability to consume mass quantities of food. I am not stupid, I am not some kind of monster, and I am not disgusting

Oh boo hoo, look at the fat man whining about his life. Well some svelte double-digit IQ is probably saying that right now. Fuck him/her. I have a new supervisor who, without my agreement, presented me on his first day at my campus with a diet plan. I get people all the time tell me I look good or ask the most enraging question one can ask an obese person…Have you lost weight? Is telling me that I look good real, or is it that they have a desire to say something nice as a replacement for what they really think? Who the fuck cares?

I am fully aware of the realities of my condition and the ensuing maladies associated with my weight. I do not want to be fat. For some reason I am not privy to, this is the way the Good Lord chose to make me. Who am I to doubt him? “Christians” accept that God made them in His image. Perhaps he also made me in his image. The world overly populated and most of those people are just like me to some extent. There is a whole bunch of us out there in need of compassion instead of judgment. Acceptance instead of derision. Tolerance instead of contempt. Love instead of hate.

I mean, society is told every day on television, in newspapers and magazines, and any other media I have neglected to mention, that if they get fat, they will fail at life. I am not a failure! Is it wrong to be larger then the next guy? I do not think right and wrong can be ascertained through by a person’s physical characteristic. If I were in a wheelchair, I would not face the same issues. I would face an entire different set of prejudices. There are opportunities for disabled people everywhere, but how many of those accommodations are in place for obese people? How would you like to get on an airplane or some other form of public transportation only to be informed that if you wanted to be comfortable you would need to purchase a second ticket…even though you are only one person? How would you like to attempt to quietly be charitable only to be told that your donation is not worthy enough?

I realize the fact that this blog is read mostly by my friends and family, who all accept and love me. I am simply putting words to my feelings on something that affects me every time I wake up. I am not looking for an answer to my dilemma, and will vehemently resist any seemingly altruistic “suggestion” on how I could feel better about myself. I do not want to receive any more diet plans from people who, while thinking they are being kind, are really being cruel.

Well, enough. I am finished for now. I wish no replies to this post, and will take any offered as an insult. Know that I love those who read me, regardless of whether you agree with me or not. I am sufficient just the way God made me. The best way I can close is to resort to one of the lesser used slogans in the Twelve Step Program I attend. “Love me where I am at, or leave me the fuck alone!!!”

The Kid Gets it All

I have a young gentleman in my life that has become precious to me. I met him a little over six years ago. We are both members of a Twelve Step Program and I have had the opportunity to spend much time with this “Kid” as I call him traveling hither and yon in our pursuit of the reclamation, and repossession of our sanity. We travel and spend nights sharing rooms in far-gone locales and eat, alternatively, great meals from restaurants and/or vending machines. It is a function of our friendship, and an integral part of our relationship.

We smoke too many cigarettes and fart…a lot. He tells me about his job at a retail game store. He talks to me of his marriage and his family. We spend many hours speaking of comic book heroes and villains. Films are a passion for both of us. We have found particular joy in the emerging super hero genre where Hollywood has found success. We talk about the different evolutions of story lines of the comic book characters we like. We both prefer the Dark side of Batman, and fervently believe that Superman is undeniably the baddest son-of-a-bitch around. I am soon to be 55 and he is 32.

Now what-in-the- hell are two grown men are doing still concerning themselves with such a childish past time? Well, I will tell you. Neither of us is even slightly convinced that growing up was the best thing to happen. As I have shared before, my entry into the world of the prose and poetry began with a comic book. These phantasmagorical realms developed by the likes of Bob Kane, Stan Lee, Siegel and Shuster, et al gave us a place to go when the world outside proved too much. Neither of these “Grown Men” have had easy lives. Our brains do not work right. We see things in different terms then most of the people we encounter and it is in our friendship where means, motive, and opportunity are exhibited through art and not as a tool for a District Attorney to have us committed to a mental health facility.

I have lived with this Kid (yes, he likes me calling him that) through several negative life occurrences. I lost my father a few years ago. He lost his stepfather a few years ago. He had the opportunity to live with the wonderful young woman I feel affection for as an adopted daughter, and experienced the headaches associated with loving that particular troubled child of the Great Spirit. We have laughed together and cried together. We have had times when neither cared to see the other. We have argued over his propensity to have his telephone turned off due to non-payment. I look back at those arguments and realize that my position and opinion proved tenuous given the number of times in this old farts life when I went without the miracle given us by Alexander Graham Bell for reasons of default.

I remember the time, soon after meeting, when he called me to inform me of a relapse. He had gone on a date and drank one beer. Now under normal circumstances this would not be a terrible business. I mean he was trying to get laid, just as a man in his twenties should be doing. The beer in and of itself held no real danger except in the fifty or a hundred that would have followed if not dealt with. We are members of a Twelve Step program that calls for complete abstinence from all mind-altering, mood-changing substances. This occurred quite soon after we met and not that far into recovery for him. I wondered and queried him on why he was so quick to come honest. He told me that the girl had pulled out a bag of my particular favorite mind-altering, mood-changing substance (you know, the one God gave us because it grows out of the earth). This freaked him out and he fled the scene leaving the young lady with her virtue intact. I am not sure, even with my rather effusive belief in the miracle of recovery, if I would have had the character to flee a scene such as that with only days clean. I never told him, even to this day, that he became one of my heroes that night.

I have watched him meet and fall in love with, a darling young woman, and stay faithful to that sweet girl. I see him maintain a loving relationship with his father who took him in when he needed a place to come to get clean. I see him maintain vigilant contact with his family in another state, and look past situations in which he would be completely justified in forsaking any relationship with them in the spirit of unconditional love and family fidelity.

We share the experience of losing a father and gaining a stepfather. This situation proved equally painful for both of us. I was completely abandoned by my father, and had difficulty with the man my Dear Sainted Mother chose to spend the rest of his life with. He had much difficulty with his stepfather. We were kindred souls long before we ever met. He found a way to release his disapproving mentality by realizing and accepting the good in his former nemesis. I did also.

His grace and decency taught me how to accept my stepfather for what he was…the man who wanted to be my father. That same grace and decency taught me how to grieve the man and I will always owe the Kid a debt of gratitude.

His father, another example of grace and decency in my life, became associated with a Twelve Step program for family members of people attending the program I hold near and dear. He has almost driven us crazy in trying to bring recovery into every area of our collective lives. He has done it because he loves his son that much that he willingly rearranged his life to facilitate the Kid’s life in recovery. It has become a rather humorous part of our lives talking about this shenanigan or that escapade in pursuit of a new way to live. He is addicted to fried chicken and thinks less of himself if he “relapses.” I find a rather evil pleasure in sending home pieces of fried chicken from places the Kid and I have dined. One particular place is now on his list of restaurants to patronize in his quest for cholesterol-laden poultry, He is vehement in his pursuit of an appropriate reason to travel the 90 miles it would take to eat there. I am sure he will succeed in his grand mission. I hope I get to go with him. He is a most assuredly as precious a man as is his child.

I am fortunate in having this friend. He is always there when I really need him, and he smoothes the way for me when we travel together. He is charming, and earnest. He is direct in his criticism of all that is evil. He is valiant in his beliefs and pursuit of a proper life. He is a champion of justice. All that is missing is the cape. God save the KID!!!!!

Captain Domesticado

It has been a while since my last sojourn into the world on the other side of a keyboard. I have been “busy” as one is wont to say. I, for some reason, have found it necessary to abandon my cockatiel the last several weekends and some week days to meander about and act as if I were some lame doppelganger for Jack Kerouac. (? I hope I spelled that correctly.) I’ve not wandered exceptionally far, and have no excuse for my absence from the keyboard other then sloth. As mentioned before, I possess two instruments with which to produce prose…one being portable.

I remember coming back from one my weekend outings and revealing to my traveling companion the feeling of emptiness that I had over not writing. He, a blessed young man who you will meet soon, told me that it seemed pretty dumb to complain given the suitcase full of technology I carry with me everywhere I go. So here it is…

I am sitting on the back porch to my sister’s house drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. I watch as my boyfriend-in-law (I’ve not had much luck with brother-in-laws so I choose to avoid that term) gets ready to mow the lawn. I realize that I will be run away from my comfortable perch in order to escape the noise. My sister’s back porch currently serves as my favorite place in the entire world. It is decorated with a plethora of odd pieces of metal art, produced by said boyfriend-in-law. Among many things he is an exceptionally talented artist and really should be doing it for a living, at least in my opinion.

He is an authentic character. He leads the pack in a sub-culture within our society which I call “South Austin Weird Guys.” They live in Austin Texas which has always been known for its eclectic demeanor. My belief is that Austin is where the hippies went when they seemingly disappeared, or turned into CPA’s or real estate salespeople.

Not that this gentlemen is in any way, shape, or form a flower child. Yes, he drives a Volkswagen and is environmentally conscious. However, his VW is painted in a black and gray camouflage and has a particular “assault vehicle” look to it. He grew up an army brat and spent several years in the defense of our country. He is the nicest man I know. He is the best thing that ever happened to our family. I will tell you that I love him very much, in spite of the fact that he is uncomfortable with male to male affection. That is not to say he is anti-anything, it is just that he was raised in a masculine German family. He works for a local industry which employs blind people who manufacture and distribute products to the government, and any one else that needs soap dispensers in their public bathroom. He is much loved at his job. He is much loved by my sister who, as her younger brother, can sometimes be a handful.

He is walking around the yard picking up twigs and rocks to ensure the lawn mower will operate properly. He has just turned down an invitation to lunch from me in order to mow the lawn. He always turns down opportunities to engage in what I would term “fun” opportunities in favor of working outside in his yard or in his garage/shop. It is not out of any level of anti socialism. It is just that his world is wide and rich, and just as big as the land he lives on. In the midst of all this, he answers the phone and drops everything to go fix a neighbors lawn mower. Not really a neighbor…he had to get in his borrowed car to get to this “Neighbors” house. Oh, did I not include the fact that he will do anything for anybody. Just because they need the help.

He is a fun loving man, and has many friends who come and hang with him in his mechanical sanctum. He likes guns and knives and beer. When I drove up yesterday, he had just finished replacing the engine in his VW Command Car. He love his car and when the engine went out, it was a major catastrophe in the family. Myself included. Anyway, it appeared he had finished and I asked him, jokingly, if we were going to test drive it. He said no, and remained rather cryptic for a few minutes as to what the problem was. Finally I asked him what it would take to get it going, thinking that I can maybe run him to the parts store or some other sort of mechanical support function. His answer turned out to be quite eloquent – “What would it take? For me to be more sober.”

I laughed at this, and went on about walking into the hose to greet my sister. I think of him often and have never foundd it distressing to do so. I came to a realization sitting on the porch this morning. He is one of my heroes. It is a good thing for people to have heroes…I recommend it to anyone. Given my like for him and his love of all things about the house, and my propensity to exist in the realm of the imaginary, I believe I must christen him “Captain Domesticado.” Truly a noble and valued warrior in the complex world of this writer. God Save Captain Domesticado.

Tirade Part 1

Love to Watch Her Strut

Listening to the radio in class today, an old Bob Seegar song played which reminded me of this exotic dancer I once believed would become my soul mate and the mother of my children. Once more, I encountered my mortality. Or should I say my delusions. My illusions of grandeur and desperate need for companionship at the time brought with it some realizations. First, that particular young lady was half my age and, as it turned out, was married to a Baptist Preacher. The quality time we spent together, combined with the illusion of male menopause made me feel quite satisfied with myself. Does anyone know the difference between male and female menopause? Simple…women get hot and cold flashes gain weight and grow mustaches while men get to drive sports cars and date twenty-something strippers.

The memory of her marital status (and yes, her beauty) combined with the reality check of my age brought me back to my senses this morning. With the fast approaching advent of senior citizenship, I find myself waxing philosophical more and more. I think of things I have done, and things I wish I could not remember. I earnestly love to write, and I find that once at the keyboard, I am partial to long meanderings into the psyche of this wannabee sage. Unfortunately, this blog is not the place to ramble and rant all willy-nilly without direction. I have a webpage (http://www.freewebs.com/tlloydreilly/) where I use to be able to write to my hearts content. Well, I filled that page up and they want money to go further.

This blog is new territory (terrorist?) for me. I need to learn this type of writing. I am going to do some research and work on what, exactly, I desire from this blog. I thought to just continue my unfettered meanderings when the web page ran out of room, and that does not seem to be the right approach. So…I think I will create a new “genus” in the uncultivated world of all that is “T. Lloyd Reilly.” The Tirade: posts that will be “usually of a censorious or denunciatory nature.” A diatribe of the written kind where I will attack, denounce, harangue, criticize, scold, seethe, and generally rage against whatever machine extracts my ire from the ethereal and incorporeal realm of the news media. I blame much of society’s ills on a vicious and perverted news machine that has little to do with reporting the news and much to do with income, and ratings.

So I guess I will just go ahead and resist my miserly ways and pay the stipend the website wishes and shoot arrows and throw rocks in this blog until they decide to make me pay. Later…

Vote for Joe Smith

Sitting at my almost comfortable chair, eating supper and watching television I experienced something yesterday of a decidedly profound nature. I heard the sounds of a Public Address system moving down the road. I brushed it off for a moment as being one of the kids from the dorm. I live directly across the street from a small college where they are forever making some kind of noise; Hip-hop from jam boxes, the school marching band traipsing about my street in practice, or the neighbor dude using some kind of construction power tool.

Public addresses occurred from time to time with the main noisemaker being a bull horn. This time the noise came from a pickup truck with large speakers mounted on its roof, facing both front and back, castigating about in an attempt to humiliate people to go and vote. The voice didn’t sound as if it cared who one voted for, just that the citizens should get off their dead asses and go exercise their constitutional rights.

I found it a humorous experience in that it reminded me of one of the best times in my life. One summer (13? 14?), I spent with my favorite aunt and uncle. I would, right after school, go to spend the summer with them. My Aunt Dotty would be my main companion. She was a wonderful lady with a somewhat alternative view on life. In today’s world of politically correct language, she would be accused of being a blond. She could and very often did amazingly odd things which were ofttimes the brunt of family jokes around the holiday table. Nothing mean spirited, or cruel ever came out of anyone’s mouth, and she always took the jibes with grace and would be a good sport and go along with the joviality.

The real pleasure in those summers came when my Uncle Buddy was at home…and sober. As I have explained in earlier writings he and my Grandfather were the main male influences in my life. (Well, there were others, but these two gentle men were my favorites) He worked as a tug boat captain and was off every other day. At times he would wake early and take me out with him as he ran errands. This always meant a stop at the “Gin Mill” down at the shopping center. “Gin Mill” was what bars were called in my family in the 1950’s and 1960’s. He would buy me a coke and himself a drink and play pool with me. He always said that he wasn’t really good at the game, but this always proved untrue. I watched him take hundreds of dollars from the denizen’s of that establishment over the course of the summer. I loved it, and still find comfort in “Gin Mills” despite the fact of my active participation in recovery.

That summer, my other uncle, Sonny, decided to take on the world of local politics and ran for city council. Uncle Buddy always did what Uncle Sonny told him to and dragged me to the local party committee meetings. Uncle Buddy had been a paratrooper in WWII while Uncle Sonny spent much of that conflict in a Prisoner of War camp. He told me that the war was tougher on Uncle Sonny then him, and that he felt guilty about it. Uncle Buddy confided in me quite a lot when we were together. It was a dual edged sword for me to hear. He chose me to explain his life in the military, and I got to learn about horror at an early age. But that is for the next page.

Uncle Buddy taught me many things. He was forever telling me about important skills that I would need to have when I go out into the cold cruel world. Paramount among these stood the art of spitting. Next came the trick of blowing smoke rings. Although he refused to let me smoke in front of him out of respect for my mother’s wishes, he was smart enough to know that I had already embarked on the journey to COPD or worse. He had mastered the talent to the point that he could blow a ring and shoot smaller rings through it. I am still trying to learn that one. Any way, he taught me how to sit in a car and be real cool. He would drape his wrist over the steering wheel and lean his elbow out the window ( this was years before automobile air conditioning and littering campaigns) and drive along flicking the ashes off his cigarette ashes with his pinky and spitting out the window. It was cooler than shit!

My Uncle Sonny’s campaign got started and Uncle Buddy and I would drive around the hamlet of Jackson, New Jersey and bellow out the windows “VOTE FOR JOE SMITH.” Every time we eyed one of the numerous signs we had put out for him, or just for the hell of it. We spent the summer actively campaigning for our candidate. Much the same as the old gentlemen in the pickup with the PA system that passed my house, we rebuked the citizenry who might mistakenly vote for the wrong candidate and jeered the name of all opponents. One gentleman from the other party, my uncle’s opponent, had a decidedly European sounding name…Perchanko. My Uncle Buddy told me that it sounded communist and that we were in charge of slurring his name. We would scream “Hey Perchanko, get out of the way you commie SOB,” and laugh outrageously at each other. While these things were not really what I would try to teach a kid today, I cherish the memory because I know in my heart and soul that, despite the smoking, drinking and cursing, I was loved and valued. Times change, but not love.

My Uncle Sonny won the election (chiefly due to our efforts Uncle Buddy said) and went on to be indicted for graft. Go figure. Regardless, I have always voted and will always vote. I will, also, respect the guy driving down the street telling me to get off my dead ass and go vote. Thank you Uncle Buddy, I love you.