I Also Grew Up With These Three Guys

With the release of the book, I’ve been looking back on my fandom of the Beastie Boys since I was fourteen. The book is separated into essays and stories, so I’m inclined to imitate that form.

I had no idea what I liked or what I was supposed to like in 1986.  All the music was shitty or from the previous generation.  I hadn’t stumbled through anyone’s collections yet and found the good stuff.  At our home, we had nothing.  I had maybe ten cassette tapes including Billy Joel and the Back to the Future soundtrack.  My brother and I shared a room in a tiny apartment and we listened to the radio on his mini boombox/portable radio that sat perched on a stool between our beds. I actually remember hearing “Fight for Your Right” for the first time.  It was loud, obnoxious, and funny.  I thought it was so damn funny.  I have to assume that’s what drew me in.

By the time “No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn” came out, everyone knew who they were.  My friend Eric bought a tape and made a copy for me on a blank from Kmart.  Licensed to Ill on Side A, Raising Hell by Run DMC on Side B.  And after I got that tape, that is all we listened to.  I’m not exaggerating.  We would walk to school with our little knock-off Walkmans and listen to one side, flip it over, listen to that all the way through, then back again.  It was new, it was rap, and it was for us.  I loved it.  It is and will remain the only thing I gave a shit about in junior high school.

One thing needs to be mentioned.  People from every sphere loved this thing.  (The white kids, anyway.)  The jocks, the surfers, skaters, rich kids, the metalheads.  Even a few girls.  That never happened.  All the groups in school had assigned music, and it was rare that those genres overlapped.

As for the legacy of that very obnoxious album, I must admit I didn’t understand irony or anything tongue-in-cheek.  I thought they were having fun, and I spent zero time analyzing the lyrics.  The band would later regret a lot of the dumb shit on this record, and it is embarrassing, but if it took that bawdiness to stick out as something other than Phil Collins or whatever Ratt was up to, I sincerely do not care.

The album faded around the end of 1987 or so when hairspray metal was in its glory.  That, and west coast rap was coming along to completely splinter hip hop into a thousand sub-genres.  I turned to classic rock and eventually alternative or indie rock, because I’m white and that’s what you did.  Like everyone else in America, I began to forget about the Beastie Boys.

I read a Rolling Stone magazine in 1989 and I found a rave review for their second album, Paul’s Boutique.  (Wait, what?  They’re still together?  How?)  That same week on a late-night vide collection on MTV I saw the funky video to ‘Shadrach’.  I didn’t know what the hell was happening.  My brother had segued into NWA, Geto Boys, and whoever rode that first wave of west coast, but I didn’t give a shit about that stuff.  It wasn’t funny.  It wasn’t fun to me.  This was fun.  I bought the cassette (still no CD player at this time) and I remember it was blue.  Again, I took it on my walks.  I listened to it so many times it’s embarrassing.  I couldn’t believe ‘She’s Crafty’ became this.  It was layered and dense and had a million samples and drops.  It remains to this day my favorite record.  Period.

Check Your Head and Ill Communication arrived just when the wave of new pop music changed everything.  Now alternative music was on TV and the radio, and you couldn’t ignore hip hop anymore.  It was everywhere.  The Beastie Boys weren’t some novelty from the 80’s, they were a legit band that seemed to be the only group playing instruments, rapping and changing it up on every record.  Someone more eloquent than I said that they weren’t the best rappers or rock musicians, but they did it like no one else.

If you know anything about this group, you know they weren’t exactly prolific.  After 1994, you got records in 1998, 2004 and 2011.  There was an instrumental record in there, but I don’t count that.  My only regret is that they didn’t hit the studio more.  I understand that they weren’t those types of guys, but…you know…

I have to talk about the one and only time I saw them live.  In October of 2004, they performed at the St. Pete. Times Forum in Tampa, FL.  My brother Matt and I bought tickets and come hell or high water we were going to make this show.  The day of the show, I didn’t have a car to drive to Tampa from Orlando.  My car was in the shop.  Matt was to drive.  Then his car crapped out. I began to lose my mind.  I knew this would be my only chance. (My previous opportunity dashed by a canceled Lollapalooza gig.) This was life, and life was a steaming pile of shit that wouldn’t let me have this one thing. Luckily, Matt borrowed a car from his ex and we made it on time.  It was awesome. It was everything I wanted, and we were close to the stage. I knew every word to every damn song.  First song ‘Egg Man’, last song ‘Sabotage’.  That’s how you wrap a fuckin’ show.

I still have that tour shirt.  I only wear it about once a year.

My kids knew who the Beastie Boys were before pre-school. (Just the cleaner tracks.)  Almost about every mix I ever made for anyone had at least one Beasties song.  I snuck an instrumental onto my wedding reception mix.

From collecting tapes to records to CD’s to MP3’s, I’ve been a fan of music since high school. My thirst for new stuff has faded, but I still have everything on a rotating playlist in my life.  Here is where I disclose this unbelievable fact:  I have not gone a week from the day I bought that Pauls’ Boutique cassette that I have not listened to something by the Beastie Boys.  That’s around 1500 weeks. Even when I tired of one album, I put something from another in a mix tape or a CD or a playlist by them. Their unique embrace of fun and humor and sweetness and stupidity has been a backdrop for so long, I don’t know what life would be like without it.

Why Can’t You See It?

Three snowflakes in Portland.

Can’t you see it? Why can’t you see it?

I think I saw it for the first time when I was too young to understand. It wasn’t until I went to college, or at least paid attention in high school, that I understood.

You’re always on the wrong side.  After all these years of dwelling on it, I can only assume you are fundamentally afraid of nearly everything. You are afraid of the other, for starters.  Anyone who does not look and act exactly like you. That is the big one.  Instead of figuring out ways to not be afraid, to learn about the other and understand that the differences are minor at best, you are easily manipulated by those who understand fear.  You don’t want difference.  You want the same.  You want those who are different to disappear, regardless of what they have to offer.

You would rather be frightened than change your mind.  You would rather be scared than learn.

Symbolism is so very important to you.  Not the meaning behind the symbol, but the symbol itself.  You will cry bloody murder over a symbol regardless of the severity of the transgression.  Do you not value humanity more than its symbols?  You like bite-size aphorisms.  Bumper stickers and slogans. Is it that you don’t like to say more than that or that do you not have much to say? You crave toughness rather than skill.  You praise image over substance.  You are swayed by strength rather than virtue.

For three decades I have heard the word ‘values’ when you speak.  By itself, it’s an empty word.  I don’t know that values you speak of.  If they are so important, list them.  Detail them.  Hard work?  Sacrifice?  Love, honor, respect?  Do you not believe we all value these things?  Maybe you would if you didn’t avoid us.

You value the wealthy.  You believe they are your betters and you secretly believe you will be one of them one day. I have news for you.  You won’t.  Here’s more news.  A lot of us believe we will be wealthy one day.  It’s a salve for everyone who has to work for a living. Our only difference may be that we believe in the concept of ‘enough’.  It seems to be another thing you fear. 

On the topic of fear:  We don’t fear you.  Fear is your deal, we know.  But you aren’t feared.  Sorry.  Most of the time, you are pitied when you vote for the people who refuse to serve you and believe in their scapegoating tactics time and time again.  The top states where you congregate also lead the country in endless cycles of poverty and discord; the highest rates of high school dropouts, infant mortality, joblessness, teen pregnancy, drug addiction. But somehow, the people that govern you blame others who live far away. They are taking your money and aren’t working for it.  It’s always someone else’s fault.  It’s never you, the people who refuse to change.

I am supposed to be fair.  I am supposed to accept the flaws of both sides.  However, I’m not a judge nor a jury.  I also know that human beings need charts and labels to better understand things.  We think there is this two-sided divide, each side with different ideas on how to run the ship.  I’ve thought that way my entire adult life, too.  But maybe that’s just a way in which we simplify things.  Maybe the two groups aren’t mirror images of one another or two sides of the same coin.  Maybe one side is just…wrong.  Not morally wrong, but incorrect.  Your ideas don’t work, or your ideas no longer are valid.  Maybe you don’t know what you believe.  Maybe there is a side with ideas that work better.

A modern side and an antiquated side?  A thinking side and a frightened side?  A side that plans for the future and one that is only concerned with now? A side that thinks of the whole and a side that thinks of only part of the whole?

I don’t want to be fair right now.  I know who to blame for this crap. 

It’s in our skulls; in our genetic code.  I understand.  It would be easier to fell a tree by screaming at it. We can neither truly understand you or change your mind.  The difference is, we accept that. (For the most part.) We believe in a society where everyone can live.  We’ll argue and push and shove, but there is a place for everyone here.  Do you guys believe that?  Is that something you believe?  Because it doesn’t seem like it.  It seems like you want everyone who isn’t like you shipped away somewhere.

 I may believe in socialized medicine, but I believe in it for all of us. Even you guys. I believe in good schools for everyone’s kids. Even your kids. I believe in a fair justice system for everyone. For you, too.

It’s funny how these things resolve themselves.  An institution is stripped down because we no longer feel we need it.  After time has passed, we understand why the it was constructed in the first place. Maybe we needed to see the system up close with all its strengths and weaknesses. That’s the best way to rebuild.

 There is no real answer.  I think we all know that.  The only answer is the thing we’ve ignored for a couple of years.  Civility.  It’s what your grandmothers taught you.  Politeness.  Manners.  Being an adult.  All those things keep us connected and the wheels spinning.  Since we can’t agree on everything we adhere to a social contract.  The contract can be amended, but it has to be observed.

If not, then…this shit for the rest of our lives.

Don’t Knock Me Down A Peg

            There is a funky trait out there in the world.  I want to think it’s an old school, mostly harmless practice that was used for a benign purpose many generations ago. However, it has morphed into a method to infect others with low self-esteem.  The people who use it probably don’t even realize it is an extension of their low esteem or self-loathing. But I can tell you this, it does not do anyone any good at all.  Ever.

             I guess it could be called humility enforcement.  Colloquially, we know it as knocking someone down a peg, or keeping someone in their place, or prohibiting someone from getting too ‘big for their britches’. 

             It’s a load of horseshit.

             Now, I understand why it exists, and why a person might think they need to use it against someone they love.  Boasting and prideful people can be annoying.  I get it.  It is kind of annoying.  To keep someone from getting full of themselves, you try to not heap overt praise on something they’ve accomplished. You temper your congratulations, sometimes to the point of ignoring it completely.  It’s all to keep the person from becoming, let’s face it, an insufferable asshole.  Nobody likes assholes.

             But we need to examine the process a little.  What you might not understand is that you are trying to help someone, and you aren’t at all.  You, in fact, might be the asshole.

             If a person excels or reaches a goal, they look to the people in their life for recognition of that goal.  Isn’t this what we all do? We try and try over and over to accomplish something and we want that wonderful feeling to be worth all the effort and sacrifice?  Do you think achieving that feels good when someone you love diminishes or ignores it?  You’re part of the reason the person wanted to change something in their life, and you don’t want to show up at the finish line?  What do you think that does to the motivation of achieving goals in the future?  You are taking a part of the incentive away from them.

             Also, and this is the detail for which you should pay the closest attention, you probably aren’t trying to keep them humble.  You say that’s your motivation.  I bet it’s not.  I bet you feel like shit about yourself. I bet are envious or so full of self-loathing or an emptiness inside of you that you cannot witness success in the people of your life because it reminds you of your shortcomings.   The sad part is, as we get older, this becomes clearer and clearer every time you try. Most of us can see right through it.

             I know I don’t need any help in this area.  I can’t go an hour in my day without shitting on myself or telling myself that I’m not worthy.  I’m trying to quiet this voice every minute of my life, I don’t need outside help.  I don’t need another person echoing the monster in my head telling me I’m not good enough.

             There is another reason this practice isn’t necessary.  We’re all alive in this dumb world.  Doesn’t life present you with enough to keep you from getting too full of yourself? Crappy bosses, faceless corporations, the economy, sexism, racism, ageism, morons with authority, nepotism…you know…the world!  My point is, losing a piece of your humility for a while isn’t a serious problem.  I’m not sure our egos need to be kept in check as much as some of us may think. If someone in your life is riding high, why not let them?  I’m sure life is waiting around a corner ready to kick them in the crotch sooner or later. Just realize that life is a long road filled with some smooth stretches interrupted by potholes.  Go ahead and feel cool every once in a while.

             The alternative creates distance.  It is a lack of love.  It creates conditions to receive love, which is never cool.  Love is taking the person as they are at that moment.  You also describing what the person truly deserves in this world.  And even if you love this person with everything you got, you are not in control of those limits.  Be on their team.  Good teams are hard to come by.

Black History Matters

            I tried for three years to write this one blog entry.  No lie.  I have a version of it sitting in my file that still hasn’t been shown to the internet in any way.  Why? Because I am afraid of looking like a racist or a dummy.  (And they are often the same, really.)  It is very important to me that I express this view, but we are in a time of frayed nerves and I just don’t know how it will be received.  I can only be honest.  I can only speak what I believe to be true.

             I love black America.  Sincerely.

             My central point in my previous attempts was to say that what we know as black America and white America are inexorably linked. They are not one and the same, but each one is affected and influenced by the other.  I also believe that white America, as a whole, does not understand that.  My guess is that those die-hard racists believe that if African Americans never existed in this country, we would be doing just fine.  We would be the same without them.  That’s not only racist but uninformed and incorrect. The cultural impact is undeniable and overwhelming when it is examined closely.

             But that shit is boring to write about.  I may be one-hundred percent correct in this observation, but nobody gives a shit. Not really.  My blogs aren’t journalism or academic theories.  They are personal essays.  If I don’t have a stake that affects me, I don’t bother.

             I don’t have some pop-love for black music and fashion like a lot of suburban white kids.  You know those guys, the ones who look like Zac Efron and talk like Kendrick Lamar. It’s not just that, anyway.  I’ve had a love for history since I was little, and one of the many earth-shattering revelations that happened during my college education was that the entirety of black history in America has barely been researched or published.  Black America began in 1619 and we really don’t know shit.  Put it this way:  For every day since the Civil War, there has been one book written about that subject.  Seriously. Conversely, how much do we really know about Harriet Tubman or George Washington Carver, who are mentioned every February during Black History Month? You know the names, but you really don’t know jack about them at all.

             When I was considering a life as a historian, I wanted to take that route. A Ph.D. in Black History. It was not only a wide-open area of exploration, it was also fascinating to me that we have this unbelievably rich, terrible, and fascinating story of America, and there are glaring omissions that are so important to the whole. But kids need diapers, so I had to get jobs that actually paid money.

             When I was a kid, my hero was George Carlin.  I wanted to speak and write and do comedy.  His heroes were all the black kids who he grew up with in New York.  He wanted to be friends with them and talk like them and sing like them.  He made a wonderful observation about black America that rings true for a lot of us white people:  The people that have been traditionally the least free in our culture, are the freest with their bodies and their language.  Protestant white America is stiff, let’s face it. Reserved, restrained. There is something about the rhythms and tenor of our black friends and neighbors that a lot of us find appealing.  I guess the same goes for a lot of cultural subsets.  I’ve heard the same thing said about Italians, Greeks, Mexican, Eastern Europeans.  Black America is the foundation of what America finds cool.

             I longed to have the rhythm and self-confidence of Richard Pryor onstage.  I don’t know where that comes from; I don’t know what hole I have that needs to be filled and we’ll never know truly what Pryor’s confidence was really like.  But it was just…fucking cool. Just like at the origin of every American musical art form you’ll find a small set of black musicians.  I can’t speak for jazz, because I’m a blues guy, but the inherent pain and longing of blues-based anything is so central to the American experience I can’t imagine this country without it. You take the pain and suffering of a life and turn it into beauty.  Hip hop began the exact same way.  Reagan’s America had no jobs and no future, so another permutation of music developed on the streets as a reaction.  Not just to protest, but as a reminder that we still have to live through this shit, so let’s have a little fun while we do it.

             Here’s the part where I go wrong.  Here’s the part where I fuck it up because I try to summarize in a nice paragraph.  It’s how I write, so why would this piece be any different?  Because it is.  We all know where we are now.  Economically, educationally.  Police shootings.  White nationalists.  It’s wrong.  It’s unfair.  It’s also my white filter.  I would have to assume that this stuff is business as usual for black America.  It’s shocking to white people because it’s getting 24-hour news coverage.  I know.  I wish I had a damn solution.  I guess education is a solution.  More of it.  Also, it needs to be of a higher quality.  But that is easy to say.  It also takes a hell of a lot of time.

             Maybe, and this is a long shot, but maybe if everyone who felt like I do wrote about it.  Or spoke up.  Not to CNN or in front of Congress, but just…aloud.  Understand that we don’t have to establish bonds between us but recognize that they are already there.  We acknowledge that there are frightened racists out there and that there will always be some, but they are a fraction of us.  Talk about how much black America has impacted your life, made it better, made it more fun, made it more delicious. (Damn, I forgot to write about soul food.) You don’t have to mention MLK or Malcolm X or A. Philip Randolph. (Look him up.)  Talk about all your black teachers and doctors and that cool manager you had when you used to work at the video store.  Share your stories.  Or just talk about your friends or your girlfriend or your neighbor who didn’t complain when you played your Metallica too loud on the weekend.  That’s the everyday stuff.  Those are the things that matter.

             In an effort to come to some kind of conclusion: I really hate Black History Month. I understand why it was created, but its time has passed.  Black history is part of American history, whether all the stories have been told or not. The books need to be rewritten; not to delete but to include.  Our history is complex.  We can’t be afraid to tell the truth for fear of our traditional views changing.  It happened.  It’s time we deal with it. I don’t know the answers, but inclusion and recognition of millions of American lives in the story of America is a pretty good start.

I Have A Very Particular Set of Skills

             Okay…one skill.

             Don’t you wish you had a superpower? My favorite superhero has always been Spider-Man for a number of reasons.  One of them was the webs and wall-crawling.  I mean, flying would be the coolest, but something about spider powers seems closer to reality, as if they could actually happen.  But we live in this world where we don’t get anything that cool.  If you want a special ability or skill you have to work and train and practice.  Getting bitten by a radioactive critter would be so much easier.

             I have above average memory and I am adept at organizing my thoughts.  It’s basically what you need to write, so there’s a lot of practice involved.  My eyes are shitty and I still need to lose weight, so there’s not much there to work with.

             But sometime in the last year, I stumbled upon my unique skill. 

             I have the uncanny ability to recall where, when, and with whom I have ever seen a movie. If you throw a movie at me that I’ve seen in the last 30 years, I can tell you where I saw it and who I sat next to.  If I didn’t see it in the theater, I know that, too.  There are few caveats.  So far, I’m at about 98% accuracy.  The names of the theaters have faded from memory (I blame this on recognizing my skill so late in life) but in my mind’s eye I can describe it to you; plus give you a few other movies I have seen there.

             I saw Gremlins while on a trip to Syracuse with my aunt and brother. I saw WarGames in Colorado with my uncle.  I saw Return of the Jedi with my parents and my brother in Fashion Square in Orlando, at an afternoon showing.

             I saw Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure twice in one day with my friend Eric.  I saw Ghostbusters with Sam.  I saw War of the Worlds with Jo and her family in Lincoln City, Oregon.  I saw The Black Hole, Herbie Goes Bananas and Smokey and the Bandit II at a drive-in in Orlando off OBT.

             The first movie I saw with my wife was Barton Fink.  We were just friends.  We hated it. We would later see Philadelphia, where I cried like a baby. The shittiest movie I ever saw in theaters was Inspector Gadget.  I saw it with my son Nick. His first movie was the re-release of Star Wars Ep 4.  He fell asleep in my lap.

             It is a skill which is of no use to anyone.  Not even me.  But it is very real.

             I tried to reason it out.  I know that smell is the closest sense to memory, and that sense is very strong in my skull.  I don’t even have to put the memory into context. If a smell takes me back somewhere, I’m there instantly.   I don’t know why trips to the movie theater make such a stamp.  I can assume seeing favorites like Star Wars or Back to the Future, or a movie you saw on a first date (Scrooged, 1988) would make an impression on anyone.  But why do I remember seeing They Live with my friend Eric so clearly?

             The last movie I saw before 9/11 was Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back with my friend Andy.

             I skipped classes in community college to see GoodFellas with my old friend Todd.

             Amy and I laughed our asses off when we saw the original Hangover.  It was also when I saw my first red band trailer. There was a guy three rows ahead that didn’t laugh.  He said ‘that’s hilarious’ over and over.

             Maybe I could have been a brilliant pianist.  A surgeon.  A world-renowned scholar.  But sadly, no. I do know that Teen Wolf was the first movie I saw on my own.

             Go ahead.  Test me.  Ask me in the comments section.  I swear I’ll have something for you.  

Attention Starved – My Boo-Boo

I just had hernia surgery. It was the first surgery I’ve had in my adult life and the first time I’ve had to spend that much time in a hospital-type facility.  I was home the same day, and I knew I was going to be laid up for at least a week from work, and recovery was going to take at least a month.  I knew I was going to ask for a lot of help for a while because I can’t pick anything up for risk of strain on the incision.  As far as surgeries go, it was cut and dry.  For me, it was a bigger deal.

The truth is, I was looking forward to it.

Granted, I have a job where I do not have prescribed holiday or vacation days and I end up working all the time.  The surgery demanded I be at home for at least one week, and even though I would be in pain, I didn’t have to think about work for a little while. But that’s not the reason I was looking forward to it.  I knew I was going to get attention.  My wife would have to take care of me.  I would be special for a few days.  My loved ones would show their concern.  I wouldn’t have to poke and prod for a few days to get attention; I would be getting it automatically for a while.  I’m still in a little pain, and I’m still happy I had the surgery.

As I stated before, I grew up attention-starved.  I didn’t get anywhere near what my brain required, so, I’ve been trying to fill that cup ever since.  I’m forty-seven years old.  I still haven’t filled it.  I know, deep down in my gut, that it will never be filled.  I am, and will remain, a guy who always needs attention.  It’s a little sad, but there it is.

Do you know I still get excited for Christmas morning? I switched years ago from enjoying the giving more than the getting.  (That may sound ludicrous to some, but once you’ve made the switch, you understand.)  Still, every year, a tiny little voice inside my head is waiting for a surprise.  If you knew my wife, you would know how ridiculous that is. She’s not a Christmas person and I run the holidays around here.   All Christmas gift giving runs through me.  There simply are very few surprises. But occasionally, I get one.  That’s enough to keep that little voice going year after year.  A surprise is a dopamine shot to the attention-starved.

Someone thought of me.

I remember a few years back, when all the kids were still home, I had a birthday.  My birthday is often the same day as Father’s Day, so I get a combined deal which is okay by me. Well, the entire day came and went, and I didn’t get anything from anyone.  Not a ‘Happy Birthday’, or a hug or an I.O.U. ‘Because I’m broke’.  A lot of people in that position would be just fine.  I’m attention-starved.  This was like a punch in the gut. I also learned in my life that playing the martyr is a gigantic waste of time and energy, so I spoke up in front of my wife and children.  I was pissed.  I made it very clear that we live in a house that acknowledges holidays and birthdays, and these gestures are important.  I honestly didn’t care if they agreed with me or not.  I wasn’t going without my yearly dose of Father’s Day attention again, especially since I’m not a shitbag father.

My attention diet is so lean now.  We are all on phones so much that it’s tough for me to get enough.  I use my phone to extend beyond my personal space to grab attention.  I might get some with a text or a Facebook post.  I might get a little with this blog. I also know that I have learned that I enjoy private time with no attention.  Life has trained me to open and close those doors as needed, and that is a relief.  At least there is some rest.  The truth is, I have to accept it and stop judging myself about the whole thing. (The answer to a lot of my problems.)  I’m that guy.  I need attention from you and I’m willing to take the bare minimum at this point.  I use it as energy and then I go out and find some more. It’s a little depressing and it’s also a little funny, too. Like me. 

The Life of a Goof

             I am a goof.

             I have settled on that term.  It encapsulates my personality more precisely than any other word.  It is who I am and who I will be.  I will walk this earth until my dying day a goof. 

A secret I have kept for a few decades now is that I’m still seventeen or so years old.  I’ve married, had three kids, a couple of homes, and a bunch of dumb jobs.  I’ve gained weight and lost hair. I’ve moved to Oregon.  But I’m still seventeen.  I still really don’t know anything else than being a goof.  I’m sorry. It’s not a choice, I promise.

A goof is not a serious person.  I will never own a successful business or make adult contacts.  I will never be a boss. I will never do lunch with prospective clients.  You would be stupid to try to go into business with me.  Come on. I’m a goof. 

I’m not admitting that I’m immature.  No.  I have been seeking wisdom in this world ever since I cracked a book.  I learn, mature, change, adapt.  I grow and I think and I grow some more.  I have priorities and I stick to them.  But I’m a goof.  No denying it.

What is a goof?  Remember those priorities?  I only have a few.  The rest of the potential priorities of life mean next to nothing to me.  I just don’t think about them at all.  I have the important things figured out and the rest is a giant pile of who gives a shit. I have fantasies about mattering to more than the few people in my life, but they’re fantasies.  I don’t mind entertaining them because they don’t get in the way.  I don’t have the traditional American white guy ego.  I’m a goof.  I have no urge to compete, stake my claim or make my mark.  I only need to prove things to myself and I have nothing to prove.  Why?  I’d rather watch Avengers again or write this blog.

             Goofs need to goof.  It’s how we get along in the world.  I don’t know if there are more type of goofs out there, but I know how I operate.  The pain, suffering, terror, anxiety, and uncertainty of this world are met with goofiness.  It’s not that I don’t understand the severity of these things, it’s that I was built to absorb ALL OF IT. I can’t.  If I do, I can’t be a husband, father, family member, or friend.  I don’t know what I would be.  Probably a quivering pile of tears and poop that huddled in a corner all day.  If it’s the choice between that, and no adult male will ever take me seriously, I’ll take the latter.

             I make jokes. I do this spur of the moment.  I break the tension and relax people.  I will text or call someone if I have something funny for them.  I have to.  I must goof. I write books and write these blogs.  I have to.  I’ll never make a lot of money.  I will never earn critical respect or accolades.  I’m too busy being a goof.  The only way I will ever be successful is if someone catches sight of my goofiness and figures out a way to turn it into a paycheck.  That’s it.  The religious must pray, the industrious must work, the goofs must goof.  We all have our roles.

             I’m responsible.  I work, I pay the bills, I’m learning how to better take care of myself. I’m not ‘goofing off’ or ‘goofing around’.  Those terms are for amateurs.  No, I live this shit.  I’m going to miss out on a lot of things in the adult world because of being a goof.  It’s a sacrifice.  There is a price I will pay.  But there is something to be said about sticking to what you believe in about yourself.  What is that something? I don’t know.  Probably something goofy.