Comedian Brain

I blame this guy.

Everyone who knows me knows that my dream when I was a kid was to be a comedian.  This is not an essay about that.  Long story short - the life of a comedian would have ruined me.  I love to be funny, so I wrote at home near my wife and kids. That about sums it up.

However, I toyed with idea of doing it for fun on and off for a couple of decades.  This was a bad idea.  It’s not really something you do half-assed,a nd as a means to reach out and meet people, it is a dead end.  For me anyway.  In January of 2013, I did my last open mic in a little bar in Portland.  I felt as if I was 100 years older than everyone there, and I couldn’t relate to a damn thing.  But I was cool about it.  I went home and wrote some shit, for sure.

After some therapy and too much reflection I discovered that it was the writing that I truly loved.  I loved the ideas, the creating, the process of piecing together thoughts for stories, people, theories, anything, really. For that, all I needed was a keyboard or a notebook.  

There was a problem though. With the idea of doing comedy in the back of my head so long, I developed Comedian Brain.  I thought, spoke and reacted to the world as if I was a comedian.  I sifted through the events of my life, finding bits that would form jokes for an act that would never be heard.  My wife and kids enjoyed them, my friends were there for a lot of them, and I was usually the goofy one in the workplace.   Now, I’d like to point out I wasn’t Michael from The Office.  I was merely funny when we needed it.  I use humor as a stress reliever and a way to suss out new ideas and awkwardness.  I didn’t think I was a star.  But I knew I was funny and I knew how to read a crowd.

None of this helped me do anything.  There was no byproduct of Comedian Brain that helped me make friendships, get a job or a raise, or solve any of the world’s problems. I learned to not take anything seriously.  I did develop an objective mind; but only so much as to not fully participate in life.  I was a sideline reporter.  Not a player.  

But I was funny.

Now, I create mental lists for this stand-up routine to no one, and there are so many unique and/or completely hackey observations that find their way in there.

Here’s one.  It is something I saw on this thing called TV, which is the way a lot of us used to get information. There is a long history of analyzing our society by the products offered in this things called commercials, which was the entire reason TV was invented. I have found another one that blew my mind, and continues to frustrate me.

The site is called UNTUCKit.com. The commercial features a handsome guy walking a city street.  He, in voice-over, tells the viewer about the importance of a person finding their passion.  His passion?  To create a shirt that looks great untucked.

Move over Van Gogh, this guy has redefined passion.

He also explained that it’s easy to say but difficult to accomplish.  The first time I saw this I said: “What the fuck?”.  The second time, well, I said the same thing, but I also made sure to look at the actual product.  The man was wearing one of the shirts and...I don’t want to give the wrong impression...THE SHIRT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE ANY OTHER UNTUCKED SHIRT IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE.

There is the thing.  And then, there is the reaction. You see, the Comedian Brain does not easily allow for: “Hey, good for him!” or “To each his own” or “People are suckers, and he found a way to fleece them.”

No, the Comedian Brain wants to be in the room when they were talking about the initial idea. It wants to see where ‘passion’ came into all of this.  Did they shoot any other ideas down?  Removable collars?  Buttons with your favorite sports team logo? A built-in snack pocket?

I hope this man didn’t first have a passion for ending suffering in Sudan or ending food poverty around the world.  Did he wake up one day and look in the mirror and say “Fuck the world, this shirt looks like shit!  Let’s subtract a quarter-inch of fabric from the bottom and open five stores around the world!”

Also, I don’t care what the truth is.  It matters not.  This isn’t about untucked shirts sold to people with money to burn.  It’s about what it means, if anything, to our lives.  It’s a statement about consumerism and marketing and all of that.  The Comedian Brain is not a journalist.  It editorializes.

You see how that could kill my conversations?

The Comedian Brain does successfully aid in one process.  What I am doing, right now.  It’s helped me sort out the world, good or bad, and it now a part of the beehive inside of my head. I write this, like I did so many years ago, to entertain others. It is my lot in life, and it will be the only thing I’m ever good at.

This Stranger’s Comments May Have Changed Everything For Me

In honor of the guy who called me on my shit.

I was facing my latest crisis again.  It’s not dire, and I’m lucky to have it.  I want to know what I am going to do once the kids are gone and I have to just be me.  The plan was to write and write and write and hopefully something would come from it.  This year was tough on my writing and I didn't get much done.  I fell out of love with my current story, and I’ve just been bummed for a while.

A few days ago, I thought about the books I have finished, and I may have a kernel of an idea for a third.  There.  Maybe that’s something. It couldn’t be just a third installment, though.  I had to approach it in a different way, or else I would end up right back where I started. The modern method to get attention for your genre book is to have a series.  Take the series and shop it around to interested publishers.  Fine. I will go through that process.  I never gave it a real shot, and it will be a new and challenging endeavor.

But I should go back and hone the first two books.  And, I need to really nail the third one.  I don’t have a full idea yet, but I need to have something substantial before I make any moves.

You may be wondering “Why not make sure they are 100% honed before putting them out there in the first place?”

Now we’re getting to it.

I don’t know.  I don’t understand my need to rush.  I don’t understand my impulses that make me feel like I’m constantly under the gun.  It is a sickness that attempts to ruin everything I do.  

So I had that in mind.  Then, this morning, I just happened to look at my books on Amazon and they were were reviewed by someone with the username “Colorado Cruiser”.  I know nothing about this person, but he (assuming its a ‘he’) read my books.  He wanted to give the first one a 4.5 out of 5 stars, and regarded as a good book.  But he actually gave it a 2 out of 5, because there were too many typos.  He did the same for the second one. He also pointed out that the fourth word of the very first sentence was misspelled.  I laughed my ass off.  

I immediately commented on the review and thanked him.  I promised a much cleaner copy in the future.
It's what I needed to hear at the exact time I needed to hear it.

What a nice thing to say!  He gave it what it deserved, but wanted to give it 4.5 stars.  And, I might add, he went ahead and read the second one! If I hadn’t been laughing so damn hard I would have been quite ashamed about putting out a sloppy copy of my book.  I appreciate the hell out of that guy.  

Editors cost money.  I have to save up.  I can’t trust myself to do it.  It’s as simple as that. It will take more work, but I will get it right.

However, I still have mental some shit to work through.

First of all, patience and confidence.  I created this story of of thin air.  I’m in charge, and that’s the way it is supposed to be. It will take time to get it just right.  That is normal and I have to accept it. Two, it is a cool and different story, and I am contributing something new to the genre. People will even suffer through my terrible typos to read it. That means there is something there.

Somehow, in some way, my desperate need for attention creeps in at every turn.  I want people to like me and think I’m funny and cool, and that is still a giant mountain I am still climbing. But, this is a book.  I have every intention of getting it out there for the world to see. But, I don’t need people to pat me on the back. I’m not writing for that (most of the time).  I write...well...for a shitload of reasons. I have to supply my own coal for this fire.  There is a very, very good chance this book will not take off and be a success, even in the e-book world.  That is cool.  I’ll keep trying.  I’m in it for the ideas, anyway. (That is a topic for another blog.)

So feel free to read the sloppy copies if you want, but new version will replace them eventually.  (Links on the right of this blog.)

Finally, it is a gift from mother nature or humanity or the universe when someone calls you on your shit.  Take it, embrace it, and don’t forget it.  You never know what will become of it.

One Thing Only, Please.

Groovy, baby.

My college experience didn't start until I had a newborn baby. Because of money, aid and schedules it took me six years to get through community college and another two in a university to get my B.A. It was tough, and I'm proud of that accomplishment. I worked full or mostly full time the entire eight years. After that, I've had several different jobs in different fields, but I would always wonder: “What am I supposed to be doing?” I wasn't particularly good at anything, and an academic degree outside of academia isn't worth much.

I tried computer stuff. It didn't stick. In fact, I hate computer stuff. Truly. I thought about going back for a master's degree, technical writing, becoming a baker, opening a food business with my wife, and a few other things in there that never went anywhere. All of those ideas were hatched, researched, written about and pondered when I had a full time job. At the same time I began to write. I did it in spurts. I go on a tear for months, then I would set it down for months. I wrote journals, poetry, a script or two, and the beginnings of about eight or nine novels. All after work. All in my spare time. (Okay, sometimes I would write at work.)

I just sat down to dig into my third book. I came up with the idea about a year ago, but this year has been busy. I'm an independent contractor, and my workload doubled in March. It was good for the bank account, but writing took a backseat. I just didn't have the time or energy.

But things are waning a bit and I want to be a little more disciplined with my schedule. I have to work in more exercise and home chores, etc. I have an hour a day put aside to write. I’m sitting here during my allotted writing time and I find myself drifting.

The story idea isn't as fresh and I don’t have the initial burst of energy you have to ride until the book becomes real work. It's not writer's block. It's writer's fatigue.

I believe I'm just pining for a life of Just One Thing.

Since those first classes in 1994 or so, I have basically had two jobs my entire adult life. If you include being a parent, (which you should) I've had three. There was always some job where I was mostly miserable that paid some bills, being a Dad, and...the next thing. I've always wondered what it would be like to go to work, come home, and that's it. Nothing but free time.

It’s something that is taken for granted.  You work hard all day and then you...do the thing you want to do. I love to write.  I really do.  But when it’s not there, it’s not there.  Writers in general know they have to keep at it every day and there are no excuses for not writing.  Keep pounding away until it works. There’s some guilt that nags at me, but that’s the nature of the beast. Every minute not writing is...a minute not writing.  I just imagine there may be a few things in life I’ve missed because I’ve been in my own self-imposed night school for over two decades.

At the very least, I could read more.

It’s ego.  It has to be. I have a bug in my ear hat I should be doing more. The problem is, I’ve never quite accepted that part of our culture that demands one’s life be filled with achievement after achievement. It’s not laziness.  I just accepted something else early in my life. Life is infinite, but human life is finite.  Our brains can’t conceive of the vastness of creation and so, to just get by, we assign ourselves chores and goals to not lose our marbles while we stare at the abyss.  I don’t believe we are born “with work to do”.

My daughter and I have regular conversations, and a few weeks ago she was worried about her lack of motivation and excitement for the next big adventure (college) in her life.  After a while, we boiled it down.  She is smart enough to see our culture for what it is, and questioned: “Is this it?  Really?  You go to school, get a job, pay bills, retire, then die?”

I explained that those things are only what is expected of you.  But you truly can shape your own life, and think of it in any way you wish.  Life is bigger than the United States, capitalism, democracy, and the Earth itself. (I mean, without life, Earth would be like...Venus or something.)

We feel the need to do more to make the most out of our lives.  It’s the what we have a bit of a problem with.  That is the question that whispers in my ear.  I’m not motivated by more money in my retirement account, or a professional status.  Both of those things are cool, and I like cool stuff. But I know me.  I would still have the nagging in my brain. All the work is done, I have a nice home some money in the bank.  I have the bills paid and my insurance is up to date. But still… What is that other thing I need to do?

What is that thing?  

Things You Can Do To Avoid Coverage Of That Guy

Seriously.  I've read like a million of these. 

 Words cannot begin to describe how much I detest campaign coverage, particularly of this year’s Republican candidate. The Douche Who Shall Not Be Named is plastered on the TV screen constantly and invades my eaholes seemingly every minute of every day.  We thankfully only have 50 or so more days to go until no one takes his calls anymore. While my wife is a news junkie, I must avoid such things to preserve my sanity and keep my anxiety from exploding all over the living room walls.

Here’s what I’ve been doing.  Also, here are a few things you can do while you avoid the din of modern discourse.

Reading.  I’d like to say I’ve been reading all the time, but it’s just not true. But I have read two books by Peter Clines, which I enjoyed and I reread the completely different author Ernest Cline’s Ready Player One again. I  finished The Passage trilogy by Justin Cronin, and sampled a few offerings by John Scalzi, David Wong and Hugh Howey. For the most part, I’ve we been reading comics on my Kindle.  I’m a noob, so I’m still sorting through seventy years of superheroes and I’m finding out all the good stuff I’ve missed out on.

Never in a billion years would I thought I would enjoy Captain America.  But I do.  The “boy scout” heroes always appeal to me.  I read Iron Fist, Hulk, Wolverine, Daredevil, X-Men, Avengers, Deadpool, Batman, Justice League and a few Spider-Man titles.  I am learning so much about plot construction that I plan to rip off in the future.  I also read Y:The Last Man, which was incredible.  It needs to be a show, not a movie. There are countless stories to sift through, and I’m glad I have comic nerd friends with endless lists of recommendations.

TV.  Of course I watch TV.  I won’t list every show I watch, (although Mr. Robot lives up to the hype).  The popular belief now is that there are too many shows out there, which is what I call a non-problem. The more shows, the better chance of good shows that are worth a damn.

Internet.  Well, it’s there. I don’t get into videos and clips and all of that shit, but I do find myself scrolling through Wikipedia for a trivia fix on a regular basis.

There’s outside.  I live in such a pretty place, but I also have a job where I am out of the house half the day, driving through the countryside half of that time.  I love it, especially this time of year, but I don’t feel as guilty letting some pretty days slip away.  My cup runneth over with natural beauty, and that is another non-problem.

Here’s some things you can do, (and I should follow suit):

If you miss actual news, you can scan the internet in a few short minutes to find legitimate sites for news organizations that report actual news and have some semblance of actual journalism.  (Start with Europe.)  You could also read historical biographies or watch appropriate documentaries.  You’re still somewhat in touch, but no one is screaming in your face.

Conversation with a fellow human being.  This is is tough for me, but that’s no excuse.  Talk about anything other than politics or religion.  Those used to be the two subjects withheld from daily conversation, out of a sign of respect for the other person.  There are a billlion things out there to talk about.  Football. Gardening.  Swedish Fish Oreos and why that’s a thing.

Here’s one:  Turn off the electronics and  just watch your pets run around. It’s quite silly how entertaining that can be.

Create something.  Honestly, I never believe it when people say they have no time. We all have time, we just use it for other things.  Instead of being passive, we can be active.  Build, write, play music and record, draw, paint...whatever.  No it's not for money or for public view.  It might be just for you, but I will invoke one of my favorite motivational phrases: “What the hell else are you doing?”

Almost anything is a better alternative to...him.  We are under no obligation to watch all of this stupid coverage.  It doesn’t make me any less of a citizen or an adult or an intellectual person to avoid the minutiae.  I don’t need to formulate an opinion on everything that ever happens, and there aren’t two sides to every story.  Some stories have one side only, and others have dozens of complicated sides that won’t be solved in two or three lifetimes.

In my adulthood,I’ve had a difficult time sorting out the things with which I need to be concerned. Anxiety does that to you. I think our language fails us when it comes to the word “care”.  We need to expand the definition of things that are truly meaningful to us and things that we care about...in a more abstract sense.  I care about my family my friends and my fellow man, but it’s a different kind of care for who is running what public office for the next term. My empathy has a far reach, but I don’t need it measured and judged.Yeah, so it will be over soon.

Until then, I will continue to peruse the works of Ed Brubaker. Look him up.

Judgey, or "Oh No! I'M the A**hole?!?!"

It took him five seasons to figure it out.

I actually went into the world recently and attended some writer's meetings. It's low-key. You read aloud what you're working on and then the rest of the group critiques it. There are enough people to make a consensus and there are also enough to get a few different perspectives. There are thousands of these groups all over. I never set foot in one of these environments because of fear and a healthy does of social anxiety. But my writing was in a bit of a stall, so I gave it a try.

The feedback was genuine and insightful. Te people there are real writers; in that they care deeply about writing, despite the amount of talent, experience or ideas they have themselves. They are attentive listeners and they give pertinent advice from a place of true support.

Except for one guy. There's this one guy who has so little experience listening to the work of others he rarely pays attention for a minute or two without losing focus. He's pretty negative, and if the work is outside of his comfort zone or field of experience he drifts into daydreams.

Yes, that asshole is me.

I'm the weak link in the group. I will have to work so hard to truly be present for everyone else. It is so difficult for me to listen attentively. It's harder than the act of completing a novel. I can blame a version of adult ADD or that I'm woefully out of practice. Those things could play a role. But I know the reason.

I am judgmental as hell.

It's my shittiest trait. It's brought me nothing but pain and suffering my entire life and it dangles off my body like a partially severed limb; something I've tried to saw off but it still clings to me by gnarled bone and sinew. It's fear. Of course it's fear. Fear is the reason for all the bullshit that happens in the world. Overcoming it is our job as humans. My fear manifested itself as judgment; either by sarcastic nitpicking or disparaging remarks about things I don't understand. I've seen it for what it is and it sickens me. It is so unseemly and gross.

One of the worst aspects of being judgey is that its as obvious as a boil on your nose. When you shit on something for no reason, everyone in the room knows you are expressing your fear of not knowing out loud. You could just shut the hell up and say nothing, but no...that's not what judgey people do. You compare it to something. You belittle it. You question its validity. You roll your eyes or fold your arms or give it a dismissive remark.

It's impolite. It's small. It's unattractive. It's a downer. It reveals a lot about you.

I grew up with it. There can be dozens of reasons for why it exists, but I always come back to fear. At least it didn't manifest itself in raw anger at the unknown. No, my burden is sniveling on the sidelines, while the brave or those without one thousand hang-ups go out there and try and experience and sample life.

Why stick your neck out? Why get in the game? Why care at all?

Because that is what I wanted to do all along.

TO BE SELF AWARE IS THE DEMARCATION BETWEEN LIVING IN A CONSTANT BLUR AND HAVING TRUE CLARITY. That sentiment is something I've wanted to say, to myself and everyone I meet. The reason I have a chance to improve is that I looked in the mirror and realized I was the asshole. Me. In this situation, I was the one that had to change. Mature. Work. It didn't me to feel these feelings because they were pure. This was the truth.

So I found another area in which I have to grow. One day, I won't be the asshole, and that is because I realized that I am the asshole today. 

On Wallowing

I'm finding that people prefer pictures to 1000 words.

Here’s the deal.

I’ve droned on and on about depression and anxiety.  Anyone who cares about the state of mental health in America knows it lacks real understanding, funding and research.  It is pivotal to human civilization that we understand how our brains work.  However, on a personal level, all I really have to understand is myself.  It’s the only change I have any genuine control over, and by nature of being human, I am a work in progress.

What is talked about even less then depression and mental health problems is the tendency to wallow in one’s issues.  It is a sensitive topic; something a lot of people would misinterpret as whining, but I think I have a shot of explaining myself. I am guilty of wallowing in my issues. I think way, way too much. I’ve been doing this since I was about sixteen or so.  Bored with life, I would lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling.  In my head, I was asking myself questions, interpreting the actions of others, judging, daydreaming, and a host of other activities that occur within the boundaries of my head.  In reality, I was just lying there. An observer would see a kid lying on his aging comforter in the bedroom of a tiny apartment with his hands tucked behind his head, silent. 

I wasn’t doing anything at all.

That’s the evil behind wallowing.  You convince yourself that thinking and analyzing and worrying are actions, but they’re not.  They are just thoughts; ones which you’ve probably dwelled upon dozens of times before.  It’s like watching reruns in your head.

Aren’t you just tired of your problems?  Aren’t you just tired of the effort it takes to separate them from yourself?  You aren’t the sum total of your thoughts. They are just repeating synapses in your brain. They are just one stupid part of you that gets on your nerves on a daily basis. Your thoughts can be real dicks sometimes.

I’m a thinking person.  I know this about myself.  I’m not knocking the practice for most of humanity. But thinking about your mental health problems is a lot like bringing work home with you.  There are things you can do about it and things you can’t.  Your only job is to sort them.  There is work to be done.  Thoughts you can’t do anything about are to be accepted.  And the thoughts you can do something about, should cease to be thoughts. They need to become actions.  Decisions. Changes.  

It sounds easy, but we all know that this could mean a lot of ground to cover.  Especially if you’re not used to accepting or acting on anything.

I say all of this as one who still wallows.  Not as much, but to me there is no acceptable level of wallowing.  I have the day off today. I slated this as a non-work day.  An off day.  A day to do what I wanted.  Well, that was my mistake (a common one, at that). Wallowers freeze when faced with time alone.  Indecision kicks in.  Should I catch on work anyway?  Should I chill out and read?  Should I do more exercise?  Get more yard work done?  There’s also this bed over here that serves as prime real estate for good ol’ fashioned wallowin’…

When you are healthier and you sort your thoughts, this isn’t such a big problem.  You don’t second guess every move you make because you have strong decision-making muscles already in place.  But if you are just thinking about the same problems over and over again, life itself becomes immeasurably more complicated.

There is another path.  Do.  Yeah, that’s the answer.  We are discovering more that the key to happiness is to engage in activities in which you lose yourself.  You block out the rest of the world and concentrate on a single task, whatever it is. Why do we crave this? Because during those precious minutes (or hours if we’re lucky), we’re NOT THINKING ABOUT ANYTHING.            

We can’t let our problems paralyze us.  Depression zaps your willingness to do things. Whatever strength you can muster to just do something: Work, clean, play guitar, walk your dog, talk to your friends, help somebody out with…well, anything at all. It’s easy to say, I know.  But like anything, it takes practice to get better. We have to spend time away from our issues.  They will be there once we are done.  The hope is we might find some insight in experiences outside of our skulls.

 I’d like to think that writing this is an action.  Technically, it could be construed as wallowing about wallowing, but I did type all of this shit.  That counts.  Plus, I got it out of my system.  Don’t agree?  Then you write something, smart-ass!

Why Dudes Don't Like Me (And Why Alphas Don't Like My Dog)

Really...who could hate this guy?

            I took my dog to the dog park a few years ago.  He’s been back since, once or twice, but the truth is, he hates it.  It’s a lovely little park in Hillsboro, named in honor of a fire department dog named Hondo. It’s fenced so that you can let your dog walk without a leash and mingle with the other dogs. Donovan, our black Lab, ran into the fenced area and was so excited to see all the people and their pets. (Donz is a bit of a spazz.) He was almost immediately spotted by a group of five or six dogs or so.  As a pack, they chased Donovan to one corner of the park. They barked, and I could see that not only were the dogs pissed at Donovan’s brazen entrance into the park, but my dog has rolled onto his back.  He was submissive.  We and the other pet owners had to pull the pack off of him. He was fine, but I knew he would never be the alpha and it would never be in his nature to challenge the alpha.

            We returned to the same park a month or two later, and Donovan never left our side. We sat on a bench and he hid underneath.  Poor dude.  He’s a people-dog. 

            I thought of this incident last year while in therapy.  I actually spent a few minutes talking about it.  The similarity to my personality was worth examining.  You see, it is my assertion that guys hate me.  Guys. Dudes. Men with ample testosterone.  I have a lifetime of examples to back this up, all starting when I was a little boy.  It’s not such an obvious distinction, either.  It’s not that I didn’t share the same hobbies and interests with dudes.  Sometimes I did.  But often I would get a glare, a vibe or a shitty comment from a dude when I was in his presence.  He smelled something on me.  Just like the dog pack smelled on Donovan.  I was low on the totem pole.  I’m not a challenger, and I’m not the leader.  There are only two categories left.  Female, or non-entity.

            The sense is that I disgust them. I don’t belong there. I’m not a jerk or an asshole.  I’m just...not worth their time. Luckily, I don’t spend a lot of time in their proximity.

            I can’t help this.  There isn’t a way around it.  It’s trapped in our lizard brains.  It’s the same archaic stimulus that tells you that someone is strong or sexy or creepy.  It’s a feeling.  I can’t say anything to convince you that I’m not submissive.  To a dude, all my attempts are just squeals and buzzes.

            However, to many women, I don’t get that reaction.  The same vibe is interpreted differently.  I am a safe man to be around.  It must be a whiff of something not unlike estrogen.  I’m a good guy, a good father, a responsible guy.  Women confide in me more often than men. And the men who confide in me are more or less like me.  There have been a few women who have given me similar looks as dudes.  My guess is that they subconsciously know I ‘m not the type of man they are attracted to and thereby I’m not a likely suitor.  This goes on a few levels deep of course.  In reality, they’re cool.  (I’ve learned it’s not a good idea to speculate what women are thinking about. I’m not that dumb.)

            Regardless, my ego wants to emulate the alphas in different ways. Even though I know the reality…I still have a brain that dreams big. I want to write heroic stories and be cool in front of everyone and have a big personality. I daydream about being bigger than life.  Then and only then will the alphas understand my true greatness!  But then my daydreaming is over.  I slink back to my home.  It’s comfy and cool.  Time to read another novel about time travel.

            My therapist said that these members of societies all have their roles to play.  Behaviorists have studied pack animals and these scenarios occur with every generation.  The fighters, the leaders, the hunters, and the nurturers all contribute to the whole.  Although I believe a human being can rise above his station, there is something about their brain wiring that always knows what kind of person he really is, deep down.

            Donovan and I stay behind.  We aren’t fighters.  Others are designed for confrontation and slaying the enemy. Not us.  We hang back. I think and write and raise my kids and read and learn and create and watch superhero movies.  Donovan…well, he sleeps and eats.  And steals my spot on the damn couch. 

The Day I Almost Punched an Old Man in the Face

This is what fighting is, right?

            If you are offended by salty language, you have officially been warned.  Because I’m letting it fly.

            I must give a brief explanation of job before I begin.  I am an independent contractor that takes photos of homes for insurance companies.  There is a bunch of boring construction terms involved, but half the day is driving around the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and the other half is computer, form, sketching stuff. I like it.  I make my own schedule and it gives me time to write.  There is only one downfall. I have to occasionally deal with assholes.

            It’s very rare.  I would say 1 out of 200 visits to homes have any type of negative interaction.  That’s a good ratio. Mostly I show up, nobody’s home.  I take photos and measurements of the areas I’m allowed to go, then I split. Easy.  That is essentially all you need to know.

            Also, this post isn’t about a story of a possible fight, it is about something that occurred in my brain.  It is a new development.  It is something that could only have experienced though therapy and anti-anxiety medication. 

             I arrived at a home in a rural area.  I knocked on the front door.  No one was there.  The home was not fenced, so I could do my thing.  I prepared to take my photos. An old man, corn-fed, in his sixties or so, shouted at me from about fifty feet away.  I figured it was a neighbor.  The other option was that the home was on the same property as the old man’s home.  Turned out, that’s exactly the situation.

            I said to the guy “Is this so-and-so address?” He did not answer me.  He continued toward me, beet-faced, shouting incoherently about notifications, and what I can’t do, and I don’t know what.  Normally, if there is a misunderstanding, I explain who I am to the homeowner and what I’m doing there, and the person says: “Oh, my mistake. I knew you were coming.”

            But this crusty ol’ bastard still approached me and something different happened inside.  Previously, altercations meant my flight instincts kicked in.  My heart rate went berserk, I lost the ability to communicate clearly, and then I felt like a pile of dogshit half an hour later. This time, I was much cooler.  I felt the adrenaline kick in, but it was maintained.  I was floating on top of the wave, rather than being buried by it.

            For a split second, I was ready to take a swing at this festering shitbag. He was too close, with anger that was all his own.  I was speaking in my softest voice. Suddenly, a feeling popped up out of nowhere.  I didn’t have the urge to run.  I wanted to beat the piss out of this grizzled old fuck.  But I wouldn’t.  I don’t take swings.  I don’t have to.  Plus, I need to keep this gig to pay the bills.

Instead, I broke his tirade by saying “Is this your house?”  It wasn’t twenty-first century, corporate friendly, Wal-Mart greeting in tone. It wasn’t receptionist at HR, clerk at the bank, all sugar-coated and empty. It was condescending.  I was cutting him off, because I wanted to get the hell out of there. It was 99% because the money’s not good enough to deal with country-fried pricks, and I’d like to think that the other 1% was because I wanted to pop this guy right in his dumb fuckin’ face. After he told me he owned the home, I got in my car and left without another word. (Okay, I said “Have a good day.” Doesn’t sound as cool, though.)

Remember, I’m not overjoyed by the violent intent, of which I had complete control. I don’t want to fight anyone.  It was the glimmer of self-value. I was happy that I walked away from this stupid situation doing exactly what I wanted to do. In the old days, my gut would make me slink away, feeling like I was at fault.  Now, there was something else in my body that told me that I didn’t have to put up with this shit.

            The moral is just that. Don’t put up with unnecessary shit. Say something or leave.  On your way home, you can imagine how you would have fought your way out of it. 

Sympathy: Redux

Insert snarky comment here.

            It started when David Bowie died.  Then Alan Rickman, Garry Shandling, and most recently, Prince. Wait, no, it began long before that.  Robin Williams. Maybe MCA. Jesus, maybe when George Carlin died in 2008? Kurt Vonnegut? Chris Farley, Phil Hartmann? Okay, well, at least we have a pattern.

            I never met any one of these people. Neither did you.  And if you did, it was a fleeting glance in public or maybe as an audience member.  I felt something when they died.  Not as much as when my grandmother died, but more then when I heard Nancy Reagan died. No offense to the former first lady, but truthfully I didn’t give a shit about her. 

            Is that cruel?  No.  Not really.  But it is my point.

            Something about these people touched us, even though we weren’t family or friends.  It was an artistic connection between artist and observer. It was through the mysterious impact of laughter. Or, as in the case with Prince, we have memories of our own lives tied with their work.  I own Purple Rain. That’s it. I always meant to buy 1999, but I never got around to it. I always thought of him as someone cool and there were dozens of singles I thought were awesome, but he didn’t crack my top 20 favorite musicians.  However, Prince was the 1980’s.  He and Madonna split the 1980’s by being everywhere all the time with new songs, new looks, and shitty movies.  You can’t explain the time in which I grew up without a Prince song in there, somewhere.

            So when he died I felt gut-punched.  I respected Bowie just as much, but I didn’t grow up with him. The image of Prince is permanently stamped in my brain; with all his weirdo clothes and his band of freaks backing him up.  I felt a loss of where I came from. Like having your old school torn down. (Which also happened, by the by.)

            The point?  This mass display of loss and grief, no matter how great or small, is a good thing.  Tears, swearing, dedications, memorials…it is all a good thing.  All of it.  It is something we need at our very core.  The benefits are innumerable.  My particular favorite is that these outpourings of emotion bring us together.  Even for a few days. 

            What grinds my soul like a pestle to mortar are the people who balk at these feelings.  They accuse others of piggybacking on a tragedy to get attention.  These cold, callus people question the so-called love or fandom of those of us feeling a sense of loss.  My retort to these heartless assholes would be one word: So?

            Who gives a shit whether someone is vicariously feeling something through a distant tragedy?  Why do you care?  Maybe these people need a release?  Maybe the tragedy brings something up inside them that you don’t see because you are hollowed-out husk of a human being.  The rest of us are overwhelmed, scared and sensitive people who desperately search for those few, beautiful, true moments in our lives that aren’t about bills and bullshit.

            Sometimes, I am so thankful that I wear my emotions on my sleeve.  I cry at movies.  Certain songs still give me goosebumps.  I get excited for things. Loud. Passionate. Goofy.  I makes me feel alive and awake.  It’s worth it to have to mourn the passing of some of the people that inspired or entertained me.  They left a mark on me and I don’t want to forget it.  

Attention Starved (Or, How I Failed Driver's Ed)

Lighten up, Francis.

I’ve told this story a dozen times in my life and everyone reacts in the same way. “How the hell can you fail Driver’s Ed?” I wish it was a simple answer, and one that was much funnier than what I’m about to lay down. 

I took Driver’s Ed in tenth grade.  In a half-year class, we would split between ridiculously easy and redundant classwork and driving cars in a parking lot.  Passing the class meant you would receive your Florida driver license, and all you would need is to go to the DMV and have a crappy picture taken. Everyone did it, and I took the class assuming I would do the same.  I aced the classwork, but when it came to going out to make sudden stop maneuvers and parallel parking, I froze.  I sat and watched as everyone else took turns slowly learning how to drive in leased Oldsmobiles.

The teachers were coaches first and foremost, and when I just sat to the side when it was time for practice, they just ignored me. I refused to go and they allowed me to do so. Day after day. For weeks.  When the semester was over, they gave me the failing grade I deserved.

Why didn’t I drive?  I was petrified.  Why didn’t anyone offer to help?  I don’t know.  I was fifteen and scared of everything.  I wasn’t just afraid of cars, I was afraid of adults, other kids, school, the world…  But it didn’t matter.  I did the same thing in my Chemistry class.  I remember a hand-written progress report to this day.  After an “F” was circled for my grade, it read: “Reads novels in class.”  He was right.  I was in my Stephen King phase.  It, to be specific.

So, what did my parents say when they saw my grade?  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.  They said nothing because they never saw my grades. They never saw them because they never asked for them. My brother and I grew up in an environment where we weren’t exactly the focus of the household goings-on.  Sometimes, I believe, we weren’t even an afterthought.

But this isn’t about bashing my parents. It’s about attention.  I needed it and I never got it.  We like to believe as adults that there is a way we can suck it up and just own the shortcomings of our upbringing.  There is a strength is realizing what you lacked and then moving on with your own life as you see fit.  I’m on board with that.  But, there are a few wrinkles to that process.  The primary one is that if your ability to own your problems in itself was affected by the events of your past.  It’s like conducting brain surgery on yourself. (No, it’s not…terrible simile.)

When I was thirteen, a few years before my ill-fated Driver’s Ed class, in the snowy confines of Upstate New York, I was sledding with my cousins.  My brother and I spent the afternoon riding on snowmobiles, dragging behind them and having a good time.  When we were about ready to pack it in, I remember sitting at the bottom of a small incline in my aunt and uncle’s back forty.  I was alone; everyone else was heading inside.  For some reason, I feigned an injury.  I think I may have rolled my ankle, but I wanted to pretend that it was more severe. I wanted to wait right there until someone noticed I was gone.  Eventually, my cousin came back and gave me a ride on the snowmobile.  I think of that moment all of the time.  I wanted so desperately for someone to miss me.

When you need attention and you don’t get it, it is like you are a non-person.  You think of yourself as invisible and not worthy of anyone’s time.  If you take up someone’s time, you constantly feel as if you are intruding.  You don’t belong there because you don’t belong anywhere.

 I failed Driver’s Ed because I was anxious, and I accepted that no one helping me through it was how things should be. I was used to being unnoticed.  I look back and I’m pissed at those asshole football coaches disguised as teachers, but I mostly have a melancholy feeling. I was sitting there, alone. So many hours wasted feeling like a pile of dog poop.  For no reason at all.

If you’ve met me, it doesn’t take long to figure out I’ve lived a long life of attention- grabbing.  I loved comedy and comedians, I like to perform, I like to be funny and tell stories and be open and silly.  That’s not the entirety of me, but it’s a sizable chunk. I also married someone who requires almost no attention, leaving me to own the room, in a sense.  I might not need the attention like I used to, but it is so ingrained in my personality that I don’t know how I would separate it from myself.  Sooner or later, I guess we do become our defense mechanisms.

I hate projecting my issues on the world, but I have to think there are millions of people who would be convinced to make better choices if they just have someone listening to them. It’s not a universal cure; but just imagine if more people felt noticed, appreciated, heard.  This, in particular, kills me when I think of it because it is so easy to fix.  It doesn’t need congressional approval or a budget.  It’s a people thing. It can be accomplished for free.  Reach out to those who have a hard time doing so.  Communicate.  Listen.  These are all basic actions that we could all benefit from.

The following summer, I took Driver’s Ed and got an A.  I believe the way I got through it the second time was to think to myself: Failing Driver’s Ed is stupid.  Let’s not do that again.