A letter to the president (For Justin)

Dear President Obama,

                I did not vote for you in the last presidential election. I must be honest with you when I tell you that should you run for re-election against Sarah Palin, I will not vote for you again. There’s just something about her old fashioned, down to earth, no nonsense approach to politics that I can’t deny. During every debate I could almost see the down –home honesty swell within her with every rise and fall of her shapely chest. I hope you will look past politics. Also, despite your not having been born an American citizen, I’m sure you want the same things I do for this, our land of opportunity. Or, as your people would call it, “El Norte.”

 It is with growing concern that I write you this letter. I pray it does not fall on deaf ears. By the time Ms. Palin (God Bless her soul and her very healthy body) takes the oath of office, it may be too late.  The threat is imminent. I have seen the enemy, and he is my neighbor.  Let me explain:

My wife and I moved to Alabama just over a year ago. North Alabama was continuing to grow despite what the Democrats had done to the economy during the Bush administration and we looked forward to the life we would live amongst the simple folk native to the region. I still remember the excitement that was roused in us as my wife Beth and I discussed the various merits of “country livin’”.

We chose a home close to an elementary school because it would be convenient for our two children, Chadwick and Pretoria. We had adopted Pretoria when she was just an infant. When the man from the adoption agency told us she was from Barbados, we decided to name her Pretoria. With her tribal homeland being such a terrifying and severe place, we feared she may never go back. With her traditional African name, she would always feel that part of her homeland was with her. Coincidentally, a friend of ours informed us recently that this is where those who speak American got the word “Pretty.” Small world, huh?

But, I digress. I could talk for days about our diverse family. It’s my neighbor I am concerned about. For that matter, it is the Afro American community in general.  (Strange, a people would choose to be named after a hairstyle. But who am I to judge?)

I’ve always been considerate to my neighbors. When Beth and I moved into the neighborhood, we took great effort to hang sheets between our moving van and our garage.  The last thing I would want to do is flaunt our expensive electronics and luxurious Ikea furniture in front of him. No doubt, he is poor and cannot afford such luxuries. When he offered to help I informed him that we were not from here and had no interest in enslaving people of color. Also, our five disc cd changer was sitting out in plain sight and I did not wish to tempt him. Things seemed to be going along just fine - For a while at least.

One day I saw Chadwick standing at the front door. He was talking to someone and I approached to see that it was our Neighbor. “Justin” he called himself. This was, no doubt, his gang name. He started to point out towards the road and, no doubt, spin an exaggerated tale devised to induce me into giving him money. I have no time for such things and he hadn’t gotten past “Hey, I just wanted to let you know….” When I cut him off saying “Hey, soul brother, I know times are hard but you to learn how to fish. You dig?” He shook his head. I supposed that he hadn’t gotten this kind of tough love before. He began to walk away and when he turned to look at me his face was quizzical. His puzzled look led me to think what I said had hit home.  I felt pretty good about our exchange until I came outside later to discover that he had broken into my car, released the emergency break and let it drift into the road. To make matters worse, he and some of his friends (gang members, no doubt) were gathered around it trying to pull the hood right off of my car! I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain that a high performance, 4cylinder, Honda accord engine would fetch a pretty penny on the black market. They were wresting it with such force that the car was actually being driven back up into my driveway! “Hey! Check yourself before you wreck yourself!” I yelled from my barely cracked front door. Adding “This is NOT ‘The Ghetto’! You can’t just take other people’s things! Do I have to call the police?” They shrugged and walked off, shaking their heads as they walked back to “Justin’s” house.  They also used one of their gang signs.

I have become quite familiar with it. They will take their hand and raise it in the air, extending all of their fingers. Sometimes, they mix it up by menacingly moving it back and forth.  Occasionally, it will be accompanied by a mocking smile. This I have deemed “The five Jive” as I’m sure that they must belong to a gang that contains the number 5, like “The 5 digit mafia” Or “The 5 street clique”. This hand sign so much resembles the common wave that you have to be vigilant to catch it. Where as you or I might wave by extending our rigid hand out at a 45 degree angle as far as we can and standing stiffly, this one is loose, relaxed, and menacing.

The theft attempts did not stop there. One day I came home to find him trying to steal our trash can. When I caught him, red handed, and confronted him about it he said “I was just trying to help. You forgot to take it to the curb. It’s trash day.” Shocked by his strange logic, I said “Help? You call this help? Stealing? What? You think you’re going to teach me a lesson.” Once again, the shrug, the head shaking, the “five jive.”

Another time, he stole my wife’s wedding ring. He must have gotten nervous because we found it a few days later on our bedside table. The thought of him wandering through our house chilled me to the bone. Not to mention the fact that he had gotten past our security system comprised of motion detectors, light sensors, sound sensors and video cameras. He must have had help with the camera systems, which recorded nothing.

It wasn’t until last month that I realized how dangerous this situation was becoming. Apparently, his gang had decided to have a “gang party”. The chosen location for this event? You guessed it – Brother Justin’s house. I came home after a golf game one Saturday night to find his yard and porch full of violent gangsters, accompanied by their “hoes”. I estimate that they numbered at least 200. (The police report, erroneously, indicated only 45. The party had grown so large that it had spilled over into my driveway and lawn. My once serene lawn had become tarnished with the presence of gang members doing various violent, sexually charged “Hip Hopping” dances. As I approached, many of the troublemakers threw their hands in the air to do the “five jive”, Smiling gleefully at the implied threat to me and my family.

Once I spotted “Justin” amongst the violent throng, I called him over and yelled at him through a crack in my window. Normally, I would not yell, but the music was so loud it made it near impossible to hear myself think. “Why won’t you people leave us alone? We are good people. These things are scary!” I screamed desperately. He said something about “hamburgers” and “good time”. It was fairly obvious that “hamburgers” was just a code word for “crack cocaine” and “good time” was just his way of saying he would like to sleep with my wife. (She’s blonde. This must certainly seem exotic to him.) I couldn’t make out everything he said, but the meaning was obvious.

It wasn’t until I laid on my horn that the crowed began menacingly working their way back into my neighbor’s yard. I hurriedly pulled my car up through the driveway and onto the lawn. Knowing that I had a small window, I pulled the car as close to the front door as I could get it. I was horrified to see little Pretoria moving rhythmically to the violent beats of the gangster music from next door.  Chadwick was also doing little movements in an attempt to dance. Putting my fears aside, I scooped up my two children and along with my wife, ran inside.

From the safety of my house, I phoned the local police department. When the operator answered, I told her about the violent gathering next door and she said she was sending someone over. I watched with anticipation through a part in my curtains.

I was relieved when a police car arrived. It had been less than five minutes since I called. I cannot put to words the overwhelming sense of pride I felt when the police officer stepped from his car and stood before the angry throng. He wasn’t in uniform and he wasn’t armed, no doubt aware of the fact that the sight of a badge or a gun might incite them into frenzy. He looked like a brave, white knight as he approached the group without hesitation. He was willing to lay down his life if it meant he might have a chance of reasoning with them. What happened next shattered my hope, my world came crashing down around me.

After a brief conversation, he smiled and laughed heartily. Everyone was laughing. They were overcome with it. The police officer and the gang were all one in their merriment. He then began dancing and after a short time went into the house. Picturing him shooting marijuana into his veins, my heart cried out for the world. He came out shortly afterward with a plate of what looked to be food. It could have been a plate of guns, it was hard to see. He, the public servant, was one of them.

I called back to the police department and attempted to warn them of the infiltration. The operator informed me that he had reported back saying that everything was ok. When I told her that he was one of them she said he had simply stopped by to check it out on his way home. Seeing that his shift was over, he took them up on the offer to join them and that is was not any sort of violation. “you need to lighten up.” She said.

I just hung up the phone. The corruption was deep. “The five finger mafia” was in cahoots with the police department. I know not how deep the corruption goes, but it seems widespread. What’s worse – it is everywhere now.

Drive through my town and you will see people of all creeds and colors throwing up their hands at each other in the all-too-familiar “five jive.” They have even incorporated the Muslims, no doubt due to their mutual hatred of freedom and happiness. Everywhere I turn I see the gang members laughing, gang-signing, dancing and smiling. They flaunt their power in the faces of honest people.

Whatever happened to this world? I used to see whites and blacks getting along peacefully. But these are not the kind gentle blacks I remember from such documentaries as “Driving Miss Daisy” or “Fried Green Tomatoes”. They are hateful and angry and they are ON THE MOVE.

I know that despite your being a communist, you want the same things I do - A nicer, cleaner America where everyone is law-abiding and friendly. Or in prison. I dream of An America where we are united against our common enemy; the gays. Of course, They will cease to be an issue once they are wiped out by HIV. The gay plague is God’s answer to a life of sin. The lesbians can stay. They aren’t sinning very much.

I beseech you, my fellow American, my ebony commander, you who are so well spoken – ACT QUICKLY! Time is short.

Yours Truly,

Robert Dobbs

I dedicate this letter to my Neighbor. Yes, his name is Justin. For those of you who do not know him, I will tell you that he is not someone you might describe as being “Legendary” or “Destined for Greatness”. Those of you who do know him will probably just agree. You might agree too much.  I can say that he is a person I relate very much to. And, in my opinion, he is at the very least, a very good person.

 I often curse him because my futile attempts at having “one more smoke” are complete failures that result in my sitting on the front porch of my house talking to him for the next 4 to 6 hours. Our conversations range from silly to deeply meaningful. An outside observer might witness something that resembles the Q & A section after a lecture given by an author visiting from another country. Here’s an excerpt:

Justin: “Yes, the man sitting on his front porch in his boxer briefs has a question?”

Me: “Yes, sir. First of all, thank you for coming today.”

Justin: “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

Me: “Sir, while I now it is not an area of specialization for you, I understand that you are well versed in Hip Hop and Rap music.”

Justin: “Well, of course. While it is not the entirety of our musical vocabulary, it does play a large part in our culture.”

Me: “I was hoping that you might explain the cultural significance of ‘Gin and Juice’.”

Justin: “Ah, yes. You are of course referring to the song of the same name by the artist ‘Snoop Dogg’. It is simply a mixed alcoholic beverage consisting of some combination of gin and fruit juice.”

Me: “Ah, I see. Now, is it necessary to drink it while smoking ‘indo’? Furthermore, why does the artist choose this time to contemplate financial matters?”

Justin: “Well, Mr. Dogg is simply drawing for his listener a mental image of someone who has achieved financial success and is celebrating it while relaxing with a delicious beverage and some marijuana. Gin and Juice is really no different than, say, iced tea. It can be enjoyed in many situations.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Justin: “My pleasure. The gentlemen who has stepped outside for a smoke halfway through shaving, do you have a question?”

Me: “Yes sir, I do. Please excuse my half beard.”

Justin: “Not at all.”

Me: “Why do black people not play Hockey?”

Justin: “An excellent question. I cannot speak for everyone, but I would guess it is largely due to the fact that it is a sport played on ice. My people tend toward more temperate climes and are, thusly, not prone to engage in activities centered around snow and ice. Also, we have developed a dislike for being chased by white people with sticks.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Justin: “I have time for one more question. Yes, the gentleman that has been sitting on his porch for the last two hours playing solitaire on his cell phone, do you have a question.”

Me: “Yeah, what’s the deal with spinners?”

Justin: “I have no clue. I suppose it is a matter of one’s personal taste.”

That same outside observer may witness us talking only to walk away thinking “Did those guys just spend two hours discussing the way they say words with the letter “r” in them?”  (I am physically incapable of pronouncing “gangsta” without making it sound ridiculous. Ever want to see me strain? Ask me about my favorite ‘Lil’ Troy’ song.)

You may also find us discussing recent hardships or tough decisions. I have nothing funny or entertaining to say about those exchanges.

I used to make it a point to disclose to a black person, usually within the first three sentences, that I was “sympathetic to their plight.” I would say something that basically equated to “So, how about that oppression suffered at the hands of the white devil?” I guess I expected, at minimum, a knowing nod that said “You feel my people’s pain. Thank you, my white friend.” In a more dramatic scenario that same person might run towards the nearest phone and start calling all of his friends saying “Hey man, you gotta check this out. I just met a white dude that gets it! He really gets it! Finally!”

It’s the kind of activity that comes naturally to those who are extremely self-righteous. It’s also pretty fucked up. At best, it makes for boring conversation. It’s pretty lame and I feel a twinge of shame in admitting it.

Through our various conversations, Justin has taught me that true acceptance means accepting everyone - even those you don’t agree with. Racism doesn’t make a person any more than race does. We are creatures of our environment and we all have a different idea of what is right and wrong. The best thing I can do for my fellow man is to be myself and have a good time. The worst thing I can do is judge others. The possibility that I might be guilty of the same crime I am accusing them of is too great.

There are some words I will share with you. They were delivered in passing but the impact they had on me continues to be profound. I have to come to make it one of the tenets that defines my logic and understanding. Because it is true that it is not a single fault or feature that makes us who we are. Justin, when you spoke the following words you opened my eyes a little wider. For that, you have my gratitude.

“I am black. More importantly, I am Justin.”

Keep talking like that and no one will hear you.

The meat of my statement can be found by scrolling down to the part starting with “Summing It Up”. Everything before that is really unnecessary.

I need to clarify something. Those who read my last post may have appreciated it as something akin to “let’s all get along”. No, “all of us getting along” is not something I believe in. Not, at least, in the sense that we will someday think alike or even appreciate the feelings of others.

I discuss religion a lot and used to tell people quite often that while I may not necessarily agree with them, I appreciated their point of view.  You could say there’s some truth to that. I honestly believe that to really appreciate someone’s point of view, it is necessary to agree with them.  I just believe that, try as we might, it is not within our capabilities to fully immerse ourselves in someone else’s world.

Within my dialogues with others I have never heard anything that swayed my religious views, or lack thereof. People have said to me things such as “But without Jesus Christ as your savior, you will not get into heaven.” I have no intention of proving or disproving the preceding statement. It just serves as a good example that I can build my point around. It’s something I’ve heard a lot and, thusly, have considered a lot.

Now, I have never believed in heaven, hell, god or his son being sent to earth. I feel very concrete on that. My world is a world without these things. It always has been. Therefore, the preceding statement means little to me. Conversely, I can only imagine that the person telling me this has lived a life where they thanked God for successes and sought his wisdom when things took a turn for the worse. I imagine for them that they see the Bible’s teachings in everyday life and are thankful for the insight, wisdom and comfort provided by the words of those who God spoke through. I imagine that the Christian lives in a world with these things. Things that have always been. This is that Christian’s real world.

I ask that you please not try to pick apart who is right or wrong here. That is not what this is about.

What this is about is me picturing my friend Jason telling me I’m wrong. He is a Christian and a damn fine individual and I’m picturing myself trying with all of my being to verbally BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM. You might ask “Why?”. Because to tell someone that the way they see the world is “incorrect” is, quite simply, a huge FUCK UP. (I’m actually mad now. Going to smoke.)

Ok, I’m better. The point I’m trying to make is that we should mind how we approach each other. Religion is an easy example because it’s something people tend to be solid on. The way we see the world is not a thing that is easily swayed. Jason and I will probably not change our take on this topic unless something incredibly dramatic and profound happens or Jason starts to see reality for what it is. J (that was me getting back at you for the thing I imagined the imaginary you saying to me. you asshole.)

Summing it up:

1.      1.  Political dialogue in the United States is typically little more than mental masturbation. I say the way I feel 10 different ways and you will do the same. Typically, we will manage to insult each other in the process.  More than likely this will be intentional. We try to undermine people in an attempt to get them to agree with us.

2.      2.  Listening to someone for ten minutes before saying that you have a single feeling to the contrary will get you further than having spent than ten minutes explaining your own thoughts.

3.       3. Asking questions regarding someone’s thoughts creates a dialogue. It is important to avoid waiting for an opportunity to disprove someone. That is not dialogue. That is boxing. You are simply waiting for a chance to land a clean blow.

4.      4.  Never, ever, ever expect to change someone’s mind. To do so is to invite disappointment and corrupt everything you say with your own agenda. Try to say how you feel about the given topic and no more. If you have any chance of getting someone to see something your way, this is how to do it.

5.       5. Be receptive to the idea that something might make sense to you.  There have been times where I found out that something I agreed with simply because my political party had chosen such and such side, was unfair. I was playing party politics. I LOATHE party politics.

6.      6. If you find that neither of you will be swayed, start talking about compromise. A statement such as “I hear what you’re saying and you make valid points but I still feel that “x” is important. There has to be something we can do. We can’t do nothing.” Only a completely irrational individual is unwilling to compromise. These people can sit at the far ends of the left and the right and start getting ignored instead of getting air time.

THE 6 STEPS ABOVE ARE NOT ABOUT “GETTING ALONG”. THIS IS A TACTICAL MANEUVER.

We need to stop regarding our fellow Americans as our enemies. Personally, I am more afraid of the growing number of people in this country that have become disenfranchised. The society we want, the values we find and, most important, the “better world” we envision is a world found in the middle. If a given side has power and uses that power to force others into their world view, it will be undone when the other side inevitably regains it. This is about as progressive as a swing set. So. Do you like to hear yourself talk, or do you want what you say to mean something?

Sweet! A discussion on politics! Finally!

A friend of mine pointed me to a disc golf website forum where a Canadian man was foolish enough to mention Public healthcare. The original post was something like: "We have public healthcare in Canada. I say go for it." The gloves came off and the punches started getting thrown. It's the type of inflammatory back and forth we have grown accustomed to on the internet. I finally got to say something I was planning on saving for this blog.

One point I forgot to bring up here. Apparently, people are being told they are racists because they do not support President Obama. I haven't seen it in action but it is really offfensive. It's just like when I was told that my not supporting the war meant I do not support our troops. It's terrible that we are willing to make such accusations against those that we do not agree with.

Here's the post:

Looks like we've opened a can of worms, haven't we? I know Jeff in real life and he's a good guy. I've learned a lot from him and would vouch for him any day. He, quite simply, is one of the best people I know. I also know Jeff is extremely hot-headed. He just has this incredible hulk side in him. Someone says healthcare and he says "Hulk get mad." Killswitch. Click.


What is happening here is something he and I have talked about a lot: How we debate. I have grown frustrated with the way Americans approach each other and others. We can't seem to talk about these things as though we weren't suddenly witnessing the opening moments of a football game or monster truck rally.


When Boom Boom makes his original post, it sounds to me like "Oh, you're considering eating at that restaurant? I've eaten there, it's great." Someone who doubts this assertion might say "Very good, but I'm concerned about the calories the cake contains." An even more skeptical person might say "Yes, but did you look at the ingredients? They put puppies in that cake. Only the sweetest puppies." Instead, the response to "Here's my experience." Is "What are you? Stupid? Are you a bad person?"


What's worse is that Boom Boom is relating a personal experience or even a collective experience that he, no doubt, has discussed with other Canadians. The response to this personal experience is "What you say is wrong because I am convinced of it." Words like "socialist agenda" and "Marxist" and "nazi" start getting thrown around. They have become a tool used as an attempt to make people feel wrong in supporting the things they do. The real meaning behind these words is cheapened in the process.


Now, I'm not saying I disagree with Jeff, or TwoPutt or any of the others. I also have concerns with the healthcare bill. Namely, that it is so big. It's too much to take into consideration for a single bill. The equivalent of starting a new garden by pulling all of the grass in your back yard up without any consideration for what it will cost, how much effort it will take and what you intend to do with that cost and effort now that you have this wonderful dirt canvass.


Now, I went to art school and hung out in coffee shops. I have come here from a "liberal" crowd. When George W. Bush sent us to war we felt disenfranchised and we lashed out using the same abrasive rhetoric we see coming from the "conservative" crowd. "This person I have deemed as 'bad' is ruining our country and his supporters are unknowingly engaged in our downfall because they are blind to the facts." These statements are usually supported by statistics, eye-witness accounts and historical data. If you put the time into it, you can usually find statistics, eye-witness accounts and historical figures that debunk all of these claims.


Now, I live in Alabama and work for the United States Army. This crowd is slightly different and I have gotten to witness the other end of it. Now I'm the bad guy. Now I don't know what I'm talking about. Then you realize that the people saying this aren't "Blind to the facts" or "uncaring" or, least of all, "stupid". I've really had to rethink my math. I'm not saying that I agree with everyone. I'm saying that I haven't met anyone that seems to be pushing an "evil master plan." The only people I have met have been real people with real concerns for the welfare of their friend, their family and their country. Good. People.


We have to get away from the devices we use in place of the possibility that we may empathize with someone who disagrees with us. This is the only way toward progress. Our current methods result to little more than an intellectual ego trip. "I am going to insult you into submission. Those who are undecided will see that I am stronger. Those who agree with me will be reinforced by the strong words and the loud voice. Those who disagree will be ashamed. Look at my fury. Look how outrageous it makes me." It simply does not work.


Our politicians can continue to fail in taking any sort of real action on our behalf. All they have to do is get elected. All they have to do to get elected is say what they want us to hear. When they get in office, decisions will typically continue to be made according to what party has the most people. We will go nowhere or worse. The lines will certainly grow more divided. Who knows.


This isn't me saying we have to all agree. This is me saying that there is such a thing as compromise and this is how it's done.


I say all of this as someone full of flaws. I have committed every wrong you see above and worse. Much, much, worse. Listen carefully: I am not excluding myself when I say "we".

The Epic, Part Two: When Irish Eyes are Telling you it's over

I feel I should point out that this is leading somewhere. I read through the first part of this and tried to look at it as though I was someone else and thought to myself “Great, you worked at a Mexican restaurant.” Wooptie-fricken-doo.  No, this road has a destination. A destination that, if all goes according to plan, will be very disappointing.

Moving on….

I am not good at timelines. The plot points of my history always tend to be muddled and unorganized. I might think to myself “When I was thirteen, or was I twenty five? Yes, when I was twenty five I pooped my pants at a strip club. No, I was thirteen. That’s right.”

To avoid saying something in error I will use a vague term here:

SOMETIME around the time I began working at the tex-mex place I had gone through a breakup. The breakup hadn’t started then, it had started a long time before. It had just become official around this time.

We probably should have broken up a long time before. I think she tried to, but I was afraid and fought desperately to keep the kicks coming on this dead horse. My efforts resulted in a half-year of two decent people repeating a very tired routine. It was like hanging out in a Laundromat for six months with a person you were only mildly acquainted with.

Kathryn and I met through a mutual friend and we really got off to a good start. I can’t say what she liked about me, but I can say I was better looking then. I can, however, list a few reasons I liked her:

1.      1.  She seemed to like me. This is always a good start.

2.       2. She was thoughtful and had an intellectual mind. I think I might be incapable of thinking someone is more intelligent than me but if you ask an outside source they might say she was. But what do they know?

3.       3. She was the quintessential Irish-Catholic-American girl in my eyes. She was fair and had freckles and I always added silent parts to her dialogue; Things a leprechaun might say. She would say “I have to pick up smokes.” And I would hear “Begorra! I have to pick up smokes.”

4.       4. While I can’t say she was an “accomplished” musician, I can say she was good at it and I can certainly say she was better than me.  She was always very diplomatic about it. After listening to one of my original “pieces” hammered out on a keyboard she might say “Oh honey, that was beautiful. I never would have thought to play ‘Lean On Me’ backwards.” With both of my index fingers still resting on the keys like a freeze-frame of someone playing “chopsticks” I would say “Oh. Yes. Well, I wanted to play around with [insert music term here] and see what developed.” “Yeah, that’s the ticket.” I was thinking. I would justify my artistic expression to myself as something akin to Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans. I am picturing myself on stage before a packed concert hall unknowingly playing "Lean on Me" backwards......

5.       5. She listened to Jazz. It’s always been a music I can’t truly relate to. I’ve always assumed it was due to a lack of musical sophistication and her ability to enjoy it seemed exotic. I faked enjoying Jazz the same way I faked believing that prayer had any effect on the world. (Don’t be offended here. I didn’t DECIDE to feel this way, I just do. Also, I do not believe that my thoughts have any effect on what is real or right, so pray. By all means, pray.)

I’m pretty good at pointing out other people’s flaws when I am feeling judgmental but I don’t do it much when recalling previous relationships.  I can forgive even the most egregious offenses thinking that we are all trying hard to figure ourselves out. Kathryn committed no such offense.  As a matter of fact she tried hard to improve my life and, after a brief effort, I fought tooth and nail against such efforts. She’s the one that pushed for me to get my GED and start college. She tutored me and encouraged me. When we both started putting on weight, she started exercising and pushed me to do so. My reactions to attempts to motivate me to ride a bike or do sit-ups or stand up or at least sit in an upright position were reacted to much in the same manner that you might see young children reacting in wal-mart. Picture a grown man pouting and kicking his feet while his well-meaning girlfriend attempted to strap a bicycle helmet to his head. “I don’t WANT to ride the bike. I want a TRANSFORMER!” I was a man-child and she was bravely entering adulthood. She was thinking grad school and I was thinking “Let’s get high and play video games!”- Bad timing. I blame my inability to understand jazz.

The breakup had happened a while back and making it official just felt more like relief than loss.

The world I came into was a dull, gray and hopeless world. I imagine it’s what the creators of early rockets and flight vehicles felt like. Months spent designing a thing that, when it came time to test it, just flared up and dropped lazily to the ground. No explosion. No excitement. Just a failure and no budget to go back to the drawing board with. I was left with the feeling that I had wasted a lot of time and missed a lot of opportunities to have fun. It might have been different if I could say I was TRYING to improve the relationship. But that would imply some sort of effort. I was just waiting for something to happen automagically.

I robotically moved through my days.

BEGIN SYSTEM STARTUP

 ALERT: THE SYTEM HAS RECOVERED FROM A SERIOUS ERROR. THE PROCESS “WAKE UP FOR WORK ON TIME” HAS CAUSED A PAGE FAULT IN “DAY.” THE SYSTEM IS NOW CREATING AN EXCUSE AND INITIATING THE PROGRAM “GO TO WORK.”

WARNING: A PROCESS IS CAUSING THE SYSTEM TO RUN SLOWLY. THE PROCESS “HANGOVER” IS IN USE BY THE SYSTEM AND CANNOT BE TERMINATED.

EVENT: THE PROGRAM “GO TO WORK” HAS COMPLETED.

EVENT: RUN PROGRAM “DO JOB. HATE JOB.”

WARNING: THIS PROGRAM REQUIRES AT LEAST 512KB of COMPETENCE. THE PROGRAM WILL CONTINUE TO RUN BUT SOME FEATURES WILL BE DISABLED. YOU SHOULD UPGRADE YOUR SYSTEM.

WARNING: A THREAT HAS BEEN DETECTED. THE PROGRAM “MANAGEMENT” HAS MADE CHANGES TO SOME SYSTEM FILES. THE FILE “MODICUM OF HAPPINESS” WAS CORRUPTED AND COULD NOT BE RECOVERED.

EVENT: THE PROGRAM “WORK” HAS COMPLETED AND GENERATED THE FOLLOWING REPORT:

8 tables waited on

36 errors were encountered in this process

24 dollars in tips were generated during this process

End report.

EVENT: RUNNING SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE. PLEASE STAND BY….

Cigarettes purchased…

“GO TO BAR ALONE” completed….

“SPEND DAYS WAGES ON HALF-PRICE JACK DANIELS” completed….

The system is now stumbling home…..

“JACK DANIELS.INI” HAS CAUSED AN ERROR IN “STOMACH.DLL” BEGINNING PAGE DUMP…….

En error report has been created…

The error report was moved to the recycle bin…

The error report has been deleted…

THIS PROCESS IS SCHEDULED TO RUN AGAIN IN 4 HOURS

THE SYSTEM IS SHUTTING DOWN…..

It sounds pathetic, but it was a decision I made. I DECIDED to do this. Not all times in life are “good” times. They don’t have to be. I realize this now. People offered help and I rejected it. It was a chosen solitude. I need this to be perfectly clear:

I WANTED THIS.

To be continued……

The Epic, Part One: Tex Mex

For a brief time while I lived in New Orleans I was a waiter in a Tex-Mex restaurant. It was the sort of corporate affair that lived in a world of bright teal, baby blue and various other combinations that might immediately bring to mind the word "Pueblo". (Say it to yourself. Pueblo. Feels good, doesn't it? It's a pleasant word.) It was garbage in terms of authenticity. I'll save you the trouble of having to read a bad analogy about authenticity. Just understand that the place was very un-authentic. We'll call the restaurant "El cuero". The corporation that owned it gave it a name that must have been the Spanish equivalent to to "Zingers!" or Chuckles!".

El cuero had to have been part of a corporation because the general manager was the type of person you might find described in the dictionary under "Bitchopotomus” or "Bitch Mite". Either of these creatures may be defined as the sort of heartless shell left over when you take a middle-aged woman and beat the hopefulness and happiness out of her with a club comprised of a material made from a lifetime of disappointment, bad relationships, missed opportunities, hard lessons and alcohol. Her species is native to corporate climes. I don't feel the word "thrive" is appropriate, but I can only imagine her and her lot are strengthened by the unnaturally harsh environment only a corporation or an abusive marriage could provide. Kind of the same way crying children and sweet, lovable, cookie-making, afghan-wearing grannies are used to fuel reality television.

It is important to note that it is not common for me to use terms that imply gender, race, religious affiliation, etc. Using common terms like bitch often imply that whatever fault you are pointing out is due to some other characteristic, such as a person’s being female. If a white male is an rude, we call him an asshole. If a white female is rude, we call her a bitch, thus implying that her being rude was because she was female. I’m sure you can think of some other examples of this type of behavior. I’m making an exception in this case. My GM had a way of being rude, dismissive or any other activity that may make you want to call someone a name while at the same time giving you a look that assured you, without any trace of doubt, that she knew you had a small penis.

It was in her eyes. It was a whisper. It was something written on the inside of a matchbook and silently laid next to you at a bar. you have a small penis. “How long does it take to pour iced tea?” you have a small penis. “Why can’t you seem to get a single dish completely clean?” you have a small penis. “Tuck in your shirt and zip up your pants, your small penis is hanging out.” you have a small penis. I would often see a freshly chastised waiter or cook subconsciously cover his groin as she goose-stepped her way to a new victim. It’s not the type of feeling men tend to leave other men with, thus the gender specific insult.

Women were spared this rather specific assault. They actually endured something much worse. Women were forced to accept another thought: “I was once like you. You will become me.”

Seriously, that bitch was an asshole.

Actually, she wasn’t that bad and she isn’t someone who occupies a great space in my memory. She is only an example, a caricature of several people I have met who shared this programming. For all of the bad things I have to say about her, she probably just needed to get laid and cry about it for a month or two. A mild nervous breakdown might have served as a….i can’t think of the word. Rather than fake it I will write a description of the term in capital letters and you can imagine a robot saying it. Someone who figures out what I’m looking for can report it to me and feel superior.

A mild nervous breakdown might have served as a “ACTION THAT HAS THE EFFECT OF RELIEVING SOMEONE OF AN EMOTIONAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL OR PHYSICAL BURDEN. “

That’s all I really have to say about my old boss. The story will take another direction from here. I feel it is important to leave you with a few more details about my experience at the tex-mex joint:

1.      We served at least five different sauces. They were all identified as part of an entrée, and customers were encouraged to specify if they would enjoy a different sauce than the one we had planned to put on their food. There’s nothing special about this detail until you consider the fact that the sauces were not intuitively named. They had hipster names such as “El Ranchero!” or “El Jefe!” and regardless of your native language; they did not in any way indicate what a given sauce might taste like. Having hailed from the bible belt, I knew only two sauces; Nacho cheese and gravy. I had no need for other sauces. I liked my two sauces and my country boy palette felt no need to venture. When the occasional over-achiever of a patron would ask what a given sauce tasted like, I would pause, avoid eye contact and say “ummm……..Brown?...........Light brown?”

2.      I made very little money because I was a terrible waiter. Of the many skills one might desire in a competent waiter, I lacked the most essential ones; the ability to multi-task and the ability to lie to someone’s face. I had no moral objection to blaming the kitchen staff for someone’s food not having arrived in an hour and a half. I just sucked at the actual blaming part. Picturing this from a customer’s perspective I see a waiter delivering what is to be my fifth glass of tea when it appears that he is suddenly startled. He pauses, his eyes search frantically for something, maybe an exit. He rushes to the computer where orders are entered and after a pause, his shoulders slump. He disappears into the kitchen. My friends and I discuss what might be wrong and he re-emerges momentarily trailing a woman that makes smiling look angry. She apologizes on his behalf and departs. As he starts to take our order saying “Sorry, I thought you guys had left.” I notice that he is timid and keeps self-consciously crossing his legs.

3.      I worked with a man called “G”. He was a black man of medium height that possessed the type of build that suggested he was born and raised to punch body parts off of people. It was a known fact that he had killed at least three people and gotten away with at least two of the murders. He was both friendly and intimidating. He was patient and understanding and seemed to enjoy my company. I found this entertaining as I was the only white guy there who didn’t try to act black when talking to him. He was my favorite person there; he was also the one I trusted the most. He seemed like someone who had learned from his mistakes and valued honesty. Also, as evidenced by a wound to his right leg just above the kneecap, he is still the only person I’ve ever known that has actually been hit by a falling bullet. In the private little world I have created for my mind to live in, having known G fully qualifies me to make a rap album or, if need be, show some foolish young buck “How I roll.”

4.      Lastly, due to the fact that this was technically the second restaurant I worked at that had been inspired by Mexican food, I felt fully qualified to relate to Hispanic people. This despite the fact that I never worked with , or even served food to, a Hispanic person in either establishment.

Note: One of my followers (Awesome. Followers. Awesome.) reminded me of something. I actually walked out of this job on 9/11/01. Like everyone else, I had my face glued to a television watching the footage loop when my manager prodded me to get back to work. I honestly don't think she was being insensitive. I think she felt that it was important that we continue to do our jobs and not dwell when dwelling does no good. I turned in my apron and proudly walked out.



More to come...

The beginning.....

I need to make it known that I do not like "blogs". Or, that is to say, I do not like the term "blog". I suppose the activity is quite rewarding for some and I cannot count myself out of the masses that think they may have a new thought here and there that will make the world implode in on itself should the profundity of my genius ever be known.

It's the term I really don't care for. It occupies a place in my mind where hipster office guy terms linger. Those unnecessary abbreviations like "sitch" instead of situation. Or "mish" instead of mission. People tend to pepper bastard terms like these into conversations that end in "ciao". The type of conversation (convo) you have with people whose every action seems to be dedicated to showing you how easy-going and successful they are. I would say "Far be it from me to judge them", but that wouldn't be true. I will judge them. Harshly. Then I will copy them.

I openly admit to being a constant hypocrite. My blog title is derived from a Walt Whitman quote; "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then. I contradict myself. I am great. I contain multitudes." I like the quote for several reasons. It's true, for one. Not just as it pertains to myself, but to everyone. I believe everyone is a hypocrite at some point. I just consider my acknowlegement of my individual hypocrisy a defining characteristict that makes me better than most people. I like the hint at humility. Humility is, in my opinion, one of the best qualities a person can possess. Secondly, it contains the word "great". And lastly, the use of the quote might give someone the impression that i've read Walt Whitman's books, which I haven't. Google is up on the tab directly above this post, but for honesty's sake I admit that I am only 90% certain that Walt Whitman is even a writer.

I've been tinkering with the idea to start a web journal (a like this more than "blog") after listening to several David Sedaris books on Audio tape. I wanted to have a place where I might put my thoughts and share them. If you're reading this, please remember that I am an idiot because I say so. I will make mistakes. I will say dumb things. It's ok if I make you mad. I'm fine with that.