Silly Goose and the Story of Self-Care

                

Everyone loves a pretty picture. 

                I have a little story I like to tell people when I compare my life before anxiety meds and life afterwards. To illustrate, I have to explain what it was like inside my brain for about 39 years or so.  
               Every time I had a spare moment, I would shit on myself.  Loser, too poor, too immature, too ugly, too dumb, untalented, fat, cockeyed, worthless piece of garbage.  I am not exaggerating.  My thoughts were almost always negative, and they were only periodically interrupted by my kids and their laughter, my wife and her company, or some friends and their conversation.  But when it was over, darkness and insignificance.  
               After the pills kicked in, I could feel those thought loosen their grip.  That’s what it is.  You don’t get happy. Your sadness loses strength.  Day after day, as the chemicals that support your positive emotions have a chance to be felt, you understand what it is like to feel joy. Like when you’re a kid and you see a big open field.  You just run through it because it’s there.  And you’re a kid.  And nothing inside you is telling you to feel one way or another about it.
               There was this time where I was doing my job.  I travel around Oregon, taking photos of homes for insurance companies. Easy stuff. I also do technical sketches of the homes, so while I’m there, I need a pen to help make notes.  I realized, while I was in the backyard of a home in Beaverton, that I left my pen in my car.  And, I swear to all that is holy, I said the following phrase out loud to myself:
               “You forgot your pen, you silly goose.”
               Silly goose?  Silly goose?  I never in my life had ever said that phrase.  I don't think it ever crossed my mind!  But there I was, on a cloudy spring day, calling myself a silly goose.  I stopped in my tracks.  I couldn't believe it.  I laughed to myself a little.  I was embarrassed, like someone heard me release an embarrassing fart.
                 Dumbshit. Dum-dum. Idiot. That’s what I was used to.  Silly goose had replaced all of those. I did not realize it at the time, but I was learning to practice self-care.
                 Not sure what self-care is?  That might be because you've instinctively been practicing it your entire life.  You have engaged in activities that affect your physical or mental health in a positive way.  Exercise. A good diet, but knowing when to have a treat. Spending time doing what you want instead of what you need to, or what you think others want you to do. Free time.  Sleep.  Rest.  Positive interior dialogue. There are countless ways to engage in self-care, but for me it was nearly impossible.  I was (and am) a people pleaser who always put others ahead of me.  I never thought my time had any value.  Until the meds.  
                  I learned to give myself a break.  People read that type of thing and they may think that I am stressing laziness or to not strive for things.  I’m not.  (I mean, sort of, but that’s an entirely different issue.) I just mean that you have to regard YOU as a priority in your life, as well as your family, friends, community, and work.  There is a balance.  I was ridiculously off balance for a very long time.
                 So, now I try little things to make me feel better about...being me.
                 I like nerdy things so I surround myself with them.  It’s a reminder that I did a little something for me.  My Star Wars mug.  My framed Spider-Man comic book. I like to see the books I’ve bought for my enjoyment; I prefer they are visible on a shelf. I take walks with podcasts or music of my choosing. I do cookouts in the summer.  I watch football when the season rolls around. I take time when I’m working to grab a few photos for myself.
                 I try to remember to work out, and I hope to get better at it. I communicate with my family. I want to really know them and what is happening to them. I feel better when I’m connected.  I keep in touch with old friends and I like to be there for them.
               I also like alone time.  I’ve recently enjoyed just sitting in my house when it’s silent, with no screens on or music or anything, for short stretches of time.  Just breathing and reflecting. I don’t know why I  enjoy this so much but I’m certain it has something to do with understanding my brain a little better.
               It is part of being me.

I Have Mental Illness - Part 2 (Age of Ultron)

I wrote a post in 2014 about ‘coming out’ as a person with mental illness. I reposted it a couple of times, and I’m still happy with it.  Truthfully, I should have just updated it every year.  It’s no knock on the original, but it should be noted that this is a process that will go on until the day I die.  It’s okay to be reminded that you still have this problem and that you not only have made significant strides, but you still have work to do.

I still have mental illness.  I still am medicated and I check in with talk therapy when I need it and when I can afford it.  That equates to about four to six sessions at the beginning of the year.  (Despite daily doses of vitamin D, I still feel it the most with the days are shortest.) That is my regimen at this point.  I also check in with a podcast called Mental Illness Happy Hour which reminds me that I’m not alone in this process. That is the most important ingredient to all of this.  You have to fight the feeling of being alone.  In my daily life, I am quite alone.  I work alone and my wife works inconsistent hours.  I have a lot of ‘me’ time.  That’s not always a good thing.

Trying to pinpoint my remaining issues is a full-time job. Loneliness and my lack of friends is a big one.  Connection to the human race is very important, but I have yet to figure out how to comfortably work my way in. What I’ve learned is that ‘making friends’ is impossible.  That is just something that happens rarely in life, like double rainbows and finding something to watch on Netflix. I should be open to the experience.  It could happen. But as the years go on I realize there aren’t as many opportunities.  As I was told when I was younger, I have a lot to say.  I crave people to ‘say it all’ to.  I also like to know when I’m full of shit.  I can only get that with the company of others and listening to what they have to say. I have not been able to either accept the futility of this situation or how to successfully solve the problem.

I mentioned in the previous post about the scene of Yasgur’s farm after Woodstock.  Just a post-apocalyptic wasteland full of trampled grass, mud, and trash. That is what your mind is after you begin treatment. You look back on your actions and reactions to everything life threw at you and discover how mental illness influenced all of your moves.  But now you know the virus that causes the glitch, but you still have a life full of those trained reactions.  You have the muscle memory of a person with depression or anxiety.  You know now how to think better, but that does not directly equate to doing better.  That is the other half of all of this.  Doing better.

One of my deep, deep issues is my feeling of being invisible. I know where it comes from.  That mystery has been solved. But now what do I do?  I am genuinely surprised when anyone, even close friends…even my kids…remembers anything I have said or done.  I have a genuine sense of surprise.  They listened to me?  They remember that?  I am brutally honest here.  I can’t believe that I have made an impression on anyone in forty-five years.  That is the cost of feeling invisible.  I believe no one has any interest in my life or anything I have to say.  If you compliment me, I doubt your sincerity. When I feel like I’m being ignored, I feel that it’s an attack.  If someone cuts me off in conversation, what I had to say must be worthless. My wife will walk around during a chat to go change clothes or get a drink, and I feel like a little kid abandoned in a department store.

Now take those underlying, everyday feelings and apply that to your ability to promote yourself.  I’m a writer.  I write fun books I want people to read.  The only way to make that happen is to promote yourself and tell strangers that your work is good and worth their time and money.  This may shock you, but that is a tall order for me.  The avenues are there.  It’s a steep climb for anyone who writes.  But to me, it is like climbing Everest with a sofa on your back.  Barefoot.  With a broken arm. And there is a Kodiak bear on the sofa. With a litter of cubs.

It’s hard.

I guess I can write whatever I feel like in here.  There are dozens of thoughts I have about this subject but today responsibility is on my mind.  When someone says they struggle with mental illness, I infer that there is a fight in progress.  They have an eating disorder.  They are coping with trauma.  They are trying to find the right meds for their depression.  What I mean is, I hope this means there is a battle between the condition and the person trying to overcome it. Using mental illness as an excuse just pisses me off.  It is a reason, not an excuse.  I have sympathy for those of you who have not admitted it to themselves or figured out how to seek help. I’m not talking about them.  It’s that small segment that has legitimate issues, but instead of engaging in a treatment or a healthy way to cope, they use it as an excuse for flaky, or just shitty behavior. They have decided to make it the world’s problem to deal with. That doesn’t help you or the rest of us with the perception of a condition that can’t be seen.  You are either a whiny child or an asshole.

Triggers exist.  They are a real thing.  However, the world doesn’t care. It’s your responsibility to deal with them as they come. I don’t believe in trigger warnings.  I don’t believe any college should cite them at the beginning of a lecture, or any writer should cite them at the beginning of an article. One of mine is high winds.  Should I ask nature to cut the crap during storm season?  Your issues are your business.  If you are an adult, you learn to cope.  That is your job.  If we are people with a shred of basic humanity, our job is to recognize your struggle and respect your progress.  We all have our own shit.  We can’t arrange the world around you to fit your needs.  Unless you are a rich celebrity.  The again, we all know how mentally fit those people are.

I could prattle on forever.  There are so many dumb opinions I’d like to unleash upon the world.  Maybe I’ll break them up and write about them later.  (Remember, as noted above, I am shocked you’ve made it this far.) I wanted to update my echo chamber on my journey. I wanted to reaffirm that all of this is indeed real and ongoing. I wanted to make sure that you know that you are not alone.  Whether you have mental illness or are trying to understand it, there are millions just like you. 

Why I Love Ready Player One

Only a few spoilers ahead.  I’d be a terrible book reviewer. My instinct is to be as subjective as possible and write about how stories make me feel.)

               I read Ready Player One at the very beginning of 2013. Within eight months, I had written the first novel I wasn’t ashamed to show other humans. This happens to me a lot.  Something will inspire me and then I am off to the races creatively.  Most of the time the feeling fades and I go back to wondering what I should do with my spare time in this stupid world. But not with this book.  It hit me so squarely in the jaw that I continue to write in the hope that more than four people will read what I have to offer.

               To begin, I don't know if Ready Player One is even a good book.  I think it is.  In fact I think it’s fantastic, but because it hit so many emotional buttons it’s difficult to truly be objective.  But I don’t care. (See the above bit about inspiring the novel writing.)  It is certainly a fun book, and since it’s going to be a movie, there were enough people who thought as I do.

               There are a few reasons I’ve read this sucker three times.  The story is unique and fun; Ernest Clines kept the tone very light even though the setting is a dystopian American landscape.  The conceit of the story is escapism.  The world is hooked into a VR system called OASIS where all enjoyable human contact occurs. It’s where you go to learn and meet people and get away from poverty and fear.  You can customize your avatar and travel to far off worlds and do and see things that would be impossible in the real world.  As the creator of this world reiterates throughout the book: The real world kinda always sucks.

               My therapist told me that he read this book and immediately thought of me.  Damn straight, you did, I thought to myself.  There is so much of me and my sensibilities wrapped up in this book, it would be ridiculous to list all of the details.  Its also a book about the 1980’s; that sad, shitty, plastic, dumb decade during which I had to grow up. Most things invented or promoted in the eighties are worth forgetting.  However, there were small introductions into the culture that were the impetus of stuff we embrace today.  Computers. Video games. Role-playing games. Early internet access. But the most accurate detail for me was referential-based conversation and humor.

               We were the generations that memorized shit.  We quoted movies, TV shows and music.  We knew movies by heart because they were repeated on TV thousands of time.  Boomers didn’t. Millennials have so much to choose from.  Gen X had (and still has) a secondary shorthand that came directly from Saturday morning cartoons, japanimation, Monty Python and SNL, commercials, movies with Chevy Chase and Bill Murray, early sci-fi movies like The Last Starfighter, Dune, Krull, The Ice Pirates and dozens more.  We used quotes from this media to identify each other like we were members of a club.  A club of kids with too much exposure to TV.  One of those guys was Ernest Cline.

               Forget that Parzival, the protagonist, creates a spaceship in the OASIS and calls it the Vonnegut, the first author I ever binged and remains a huge influence on my writing.  Forget that the creator of the OASIS, the fictional Steve Jobs of this book that takes place in the 2040’s, was born the same month and year as me. Forget the bulk of the action in the third act takes place in Oregon, where I live now.

This book is for us.  This one is for me and mine.

I heard is called a futuristic Willy Wonka, and that is apt.  The plot is a treasure hunt and it follows the lives of young people. I would say it’s a Harry Potter for Gen X.  It has the feel of a young adult book but it is read by adults. It is geared toward me.  I’ve read reviews and comments that take a huge dump on this book and cite the simplified plot and obvious nods to nostalgia.

To them I say: GOOD.

First of all, nostalgia is a spice to be used lightly in life. You can’t escape it entirely. It shouldn’t be demonized in all its forms.  Just don't roll around in it all the time.  Second, the lack of the cultural foothold my generation has is frankly upsetting. We are sandwiched between two giant generations.  The one proceeding gobbled up all the airspace well into their forties, and the succeeding one moves faster than anyone can possibly keep up. We didn’t have a large window of opportunity to make more of a cultural impact.  So, if a few of us want to reminisce about Atari 2600’s and Rush lyrics, it doesn’t bother me one bit.

It’s a book written by someone influenced by film and TV as much as sci-fi lit.  Maybe more.  That’s okay.  Have you seen how many books are out there? There’s plenty of room for the literary equivalent of popcorn fare. It is incredibly visual and the pacing is closer to a movie than a drawn out plot of a science-based thriller. I think that caught my attention, too.  Modern audiences are savvy when it comes to “fun” genres like sci-fi. I like the idea of smart, but fun reads.

This book has hope.  I avoid a lot of dystopian fare because of the lack of hope.  It has hope, fun, charm, and a refreshing innocence.  If you weren’t born between 1965 and 1985 or so, I’m not sure you will get as much out of Ready Player One as I did.  But because of how it really touched me and made my past seem somehow more significant, I guess I really don’t care.

The Artistic Call To Arms

Stuff like this.

So, things are pretty wack-ass ridiculous right now, huh?

What do we do?  How do we combat this feeling of helplessness? In the face of insanity, hatred, stupidity, cruelty and shameless greed, how do we move on without shivering in fear or losing our proverbial shit on a daily basis?

We do. That’s it.

We do what we can when we can.  It sounds simple because it is.  This too shall pass.  We have endured a lot and you must understand that with any progressive shift comes a backlash. We have ebbs and flows. It is part of how humanity works.  Don’t mistake all of this darkness for regression.  It’s closer to a temper tantrum than a trip down a scary path. Let’s show some goddamned backbone and resist like all the signs say.  

I would also like to address the artists out there. I call myself a writer and I’m happy that I’m getting better at it. My job is to keep writing.  Painters paint and musicians record and perform.  Why is this important?  Art can influence but it accomplished this through making connections.  You and I have an ever so slight connection right now.  As you read this.  You could hate it or love or be indifferent, be we have made a connection. In a time like this, when we argue over matters for which we have almost no control, the only thing left is each other.

If you make art, your ass better be working.  We need to communicate on levels outside of just politics and social reform. We need books and movies, we need sculpture and street art and music and handmade cuisine.  We are the keepers of beauty in this world. We create those things that people look to when they need a reminder of what getting out of bed every morning is really for.

Why?  Because, despite what journalists may think, art is how ideas are communicated.  The news reports the facts, which is important.  But art transforms. Do you think the progress made in gay rights in the last ten years had to do with marches and blustery speeches or Will and Grace?  I’m willing to bet that sitcom did more than any opinion column or piece of legislation. Every racist hunk of trash out there has a song on his Spotify playlist that traces back to American black culture.  If not, his diet does.  Do we even realize how intertwined American cuisine is with the American experience, and therefore is a product of countless cultures? Get Out was an important movie a social statement, but the future Black Panther superhero movie could be just as important.

We’re all so tired of bullshit and lies and feigned ignorance.  We want the truth.  Where does the truth come from?  Well...us.  Tell the truth through your art.  

This is all a ‘first day of school’ type of lesson, but maybe we need a refresher.  This is when we are needed.  This is how we hold hands and try to make sense of everything.  This is how we combat fear.  It’s not just a distraction.  It’s a safe place to reflect.  It’s a playground.  It’s also how new ideas are born. Maybe it will ignite a renaissance.  The art of resistance and fear, and remind the world how important it is to go through this awkward and dumb life together instead of apart.  

If you’re not the creative type, or this sounds like a bunch of hippie nonsense, do what you do. Talk to people.  Engage.  Talking isn’t fighting, just like talking is the opposite of war.  Be heard and listen to others.  We can’t all change the world but we can make our own worlds a little less shitty.

You. (Prose for the People Pleasers)

 You.

I wonder if you’re happy.  I wonder if you are having fun.  I wonder if there is something I can do to brighten your day. Or give you hope.  I love giving you surprises.

Do you like this music? Where do you want to go to dinner? Do you want the last cupcake?

I walked with you.  I carried you. I asked you if you were okay.

I made you three hundred mixtapes.  300. That’s twenty-five days or so of my life I spent in an effort to make a mixtape and give it away. To you.  Get this:  I was real sick when I was 13.  I had to stay home from school.  For some reason, I was into making word search puzzles.  Not doing them. Making them. By hand. I made about a dozen to give to you one day.  They’re still in an old box.  It was never the right time.  I wrote poems for you.  I talked to you on the phone for hours.

  I celebrated Christmas for you.  I wrapped gifts and kept traditions going because I believed you needed them. I remembered your birthday.

And damn, do I love to make you laugh.  I would write down bits and jokes and references for the next time I would see you. It seems like my purpose on Earth is to entertain you.  I memorized jokes by other comedians and movie lines for you. I created material to keep you laughing.

 I organized get-togethers for you. I hosted you and worried more about whether or not you were having a good time, rather than having one myself.  I cheered you up.  I made you feel welcome.

I cooked for you and cleaned for you.  I wrote hundreds of thousands of words for you.  I went to college for you. I was there when things were terrible and you needed someone.  I was there when you were lonely. I was there when you wanted to give up.  I taught you everything I know.  I listened to everything you had to say.

I made it easy on you.  I let you get away with a lot. I allowed you to use me for a while.

I picked you up and drove you around. I helped you move.  I put in a good word for you.  I did your laundry. I made peace with you.  I swallowed my pride for you. I tried to be the bigger man and kept my mouth shut for you.

I stayed in touch with you.  I hid my jealousy and my frustration from you. Most of the time, I would rather keep you happy than be honest with myself. (Which, in turn, is being dishonest with you.)

You’ve never asked for any of these things, yet you’ve been foremost in my thoughts as long as I can remember.

I Go To Powell's For Fun

Powell's Beaverton

I have to make a confession.  I am boring.  I mean, really, really boring. There could be a dozen essays written on this topic, about my socialization, money, working for yourself, and life as a married middle-aged white dude with no immediate peer group. Although that would all be true and fascinating, the truth is, I am a bore.

If three new friends showed up at my door tonight and asked me to go hang out with them, but I had to come up with the idea, they would spin 180 degrees and walk away.  The only thing I know how to do is talk.  However, I don’t drink.  Turns out most people don't like to talk unless they have access to drinky-drinks. Oops.

So, today I decided to take a personal day.  Working for yourself has its advantages, but one drawback is that you work nearly every day.  I wanted a day away from my work responsibilities.  I wanted time to do what I want.  I wanted a Me day.

I am now discovering I don't know what the hell to do with a Me day.

I decided to swallow judgment and do what I normally do.  I go to the local bookstore.  Powell’s is a bookstore in Portland, but it has a satellite location in Beaverton, which is closer to me.  Powell’s has a huge selection and it carries used books shelved next to the new copies.  If you are in the mood for an old paperback, you might find one for under five bucks. I love the place. I went a little apeshit the first summer we moved here.  I needed to fill my time for a few months while I was looking for a job. I sort of bought...a lot of books.

I hopped in my car and drove in the rainy March afternoon past Nike World Headquarters in Beaverton to the same parking spot behind the store.  The stores in that mall range from near-dying to dead, except for a Starbucks and a Cold Stone Creamery.  I pass all that and walk through the wide open entrance to Powell’s.  There are always sales books on display, alongside the celebration of a special month, like Native American authors, Women in Science or Banned Books.  

Did I mention I stopped for an Americano with cream?  Okay.  I did that, too.

In years past, I gravitated toward my favorite authors of the moment.  It used to be Vonnegut, then I read all of that.  I liked to see what Michael Chabon was up to, Christopher Moore, Chuck Palahniuk...maybe see if there were some Stephen King’s I skipped over.  Lately, I’ve been meandering through aisles, particularly in the science fiction section.  The books I am writing are in that genre, and I have really only sampled it here and there.

Now I have to share my secret fantasy.  I want to be published. I want to be published and have books on these shelves, right here, at Powell’s.  My Powell’s.  Where no one knows me or notices me at all.  Still, it would be a thrill.  I take a picture of where they would be in the sci-fi section if they were published today. Somewhere due south of the George R.R. Martin section.

The book Good Omen by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett catches my eye.  I have tried Gaiman before, and although he is 100% awesome, I have trouble finishing.  Pratchett is a legend who died in 2015.  He’s someone I should know something about. I’m iffy with Gaiman, but apparently, I give authors regarded as the best three strikes.  I gave Hemingway three strikes, but he went down swinging.  I decide that Good Omen will be my book today, but I want to browse a little more.  My coffee is still drinkably hot after all.

There is a display for women authors toward the front of the store.  I know I need to expand, but breaking into a new author is tough.  It’s something I should ask about.  Yes. That is it.  A perfect question to ask a Powell’s employee. “I’m into sci-fi, oddball comedy, etc. Can you recommend a female author?”

About this time is when you may wonder why this isn’t happening at the library.  One, I don't browse at the library. I only go when I have something in mind.  Two, I grew up in a house where we had a total of five books on display.  I have this need to live in a house full of books.  Practicality be damned.

I see another David Sedaris book on sale.  Meh.  I see Joe Hill has something on sale.  He’s Stephen King’s son, and I feel like that’s not branching out like I should be. There is a huge graphic novel and comic section against the wall, but I don’t have that kind of money.

People walk past and I say nothing.  I set my coffee on a shelf to leaf through a copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.  I’ve heard some things, but the book is an 800-page beast.  Maybe another time.

At some point, I’m happy with just one and that’s really all I can spend that day. (So goes most of my days off.)  I go back for the Gaiman/Pratchett book and take it up to the counter.  I remember my question about women authors and approach.  I slide the book over to the Powell’s employee, who greets me with a smile.

“That’ll be seven ninety-nine,” she says.

I hand her a ten-dollar bill.

The cash register opens. “That’s nine and ten,” she says. She hands me the change. “Need a bag?”

“No thanks,” I say.

Then I go home and write this friggin’ thing.

To Be Seen (Am I Wearing an Invisibility Cloak?)

Happy Christmas, Harry.

Today, I wrote this:

There should be an established term for whatever this is.  I feel it is integral to every thinking person or anyone who would care to do so, that they have moments like these in which they declare to themselves and anyone who would care, exactly who they are. I think it could be akin to a ‘shout from the rooftops’, but that lacks an intimacy I think is important. This is not political.  This is not religious or spiritual. But it is personal.  This is me, at my deepset  core and my most superficial and trivial.  It is not meant to make me look smart, cool, or interesting.  In fact, the opposite is likely.

I wrote that in just a few minutes.  I had intended to go very long, with a list of things I believe in: opinions, witty thoughts, and shitty things that happened to me.  I dealt with another pile of family horseshit yesterday that bummed me out. I wanted to channel some of my rage runoff and write it all down.  But what really happened was I finished there, and was out of steam.  The steam comprised of that rage coupled with something else.  It is a familiar undercurrent of my life; so much so that I’ve written about it in blog form before, and it permeates my fiction work, too.

One of my best personal essays was about my lifelong craving for attention.  It’s here.  I like it because I was able to refrain from being 100% abstract the entire time.  It is part of who I am, and since I am anonymous outside of my friends and family, you probably know me in some way.  I need to be seen and heard.  Just like you.  However, just like people come to terms with their weight or net worth, or outlook on life, I still have not come to terms with this.  I crave it daily.  It is visceral; it is laced with emotions that are difficult to untangle.  

I’m 44. By the end of this year, I'll have three kids in college.  The business I run by myself had a great year last year.  I’ve been married for 22 years and defied the odds of getting married so young.  I'm pretty happy.  I’m writing better with every attempt, and I’m more concerned with the final product.  I’ve gone to the doctor and received my necessary medications. I keep up with exercise.  Despite the chaotic social climate, I cling to optimism.  I’m not religious, but I believe in being thankful. But I still need someone to hear me.  

If I am in a grocery store and someone backs into me while looking at carrots in the produce section, I take it personally.  That’s how deep it runs. Am I invisible?  Do I even matter at all?  God forbid that happens on a busy street.  Holy crap, I  may actually be invisible to these people.  No one sees me!

Part of my job is to visit homes during the day.  My interaction with the homeowners, if they are there, is usually only ten or twenty seconds.  It doesn’t have to be.  I am so used to not being heard that I assume the other party has absolutely no desire to acknowledge me at all.  After I tell them why I’m there or “I’m the guy that takes the photos”, I turn on my heel and get to work.  Often while the homeowner is speaking.  Over the years, Why is no one seeing me has evolved to No one wants to see me. Yuck.

I talked to my therapist about this and I think we’ve discovered that no amount of attention would fix me.  It is something I have to do.  It is a gift I have to give myself that will help with this problem.  Trouble is, I don't know what that is.  He also belongs to that group of people who don't understand my love affair with stand-up comedy.  I don't pursue it anymore, but if I had to do it, I still would.  That is attention, alright.  But I control it.  It’s also impressive to people, which opens the door to being seen.  But follow the lives of comedians and you will see that the purest joy of their lives is being onstage.  Everything else is a struggle; including, sometimes, the feeling of not being seen.

The only thing left is acceptance.  It doesn’t really help my problem at all, but I can at least come to terms with it.  It’s part of me.  It is one of my defects.  I can decrease the shame and all the nastiness that comes along with it. That’s all I’ve come up with so far.  Other than writing in blogs, putting novels together in hopes people will read them and enjoy them, going on Facebook, texting funny jokes, keeping in touch with the people close in my life... Anything to not feel invisible.

In an effort to appease that side of me, the one that wrote the opening paragraph, I will write the following list of inane truths about me.  It is a mishmash of non-sequiturs, opinions, likes and dislikes, and bullshit, that are unrelated.  Other than the fact they are completely true, and complete written by me.

*I think celery is terrible and completely useless.  I enjoy everything about the tomato except the tomato in raw form.  Artichokes, kale, and grits are nasty. I hate the heat and I love the cold, however, I love sunshine.  Oregon has taught me to enjoy all the seasons.  Oregon is better than where you live.

I still firmly believe that the television show Seinfeld is the most overrated thing in our culture in the past thirty years.  I have not watched Saturday Night Live regularly in over twenty years.  Andre Braugher may be my favorite actor and I kinda wish he was in everything.  Two guys arguing about sports is dumb.  Putting it on TV or the radio is dumber.  

My favorite TV dad is Victor Garber’s role on Alias.  I was a good substitute teacher but it killed me to do it.  I should have pursued a writing degree.  I believe in experts and elites.  My opinion about things of which I have no experience or education are meaningless to everyone except me. And that’s a good thing.

There is only one animal worthy of being a house pet and that is a dog.  Of all the other creatures in the world, the best remaining choice is a cat. I hate snakes.  I always root for the good guys.  I am fine with a sad ending but it better be good. I like Marvel better than DC, but Batman is superior. I can’t go more than ten days without some form of fried chicken.  If so, I feel as if something is missing in my life.  All forms of pizza are great; it’s friggin’ pizza.  I quit drinking soda.

I have absolutely no idea how Kevin Nealon has a career.  Most stand up comedian specials are flat and generic. Beloved is the most intense and brutally honest book I have ever read, with Rabbit, Run a close second. Tea does nothing for me. I love American football.  All other sports are secondary.  I have learned to appreciate soccer on the Olympic level.  I prefer ham and eggs to bacon and eggs.  

I thought Captain America was stupid until I watch the movies and read the comics.  Most of the things I love in my life I once shit on.  It is a terrible habit acquired by my parents who are very fearful people.  My father is a textbook narcissist and needs therapy. I can’t talk to him anymore. My mother tries very hard and I appreciate it. I can talk to her. I have a very large extended family spread out on two continents and they have no idea what I’m like or who I am.  I used to hate being alone when the house was silent, but know I enjoy it...for short periods of time.  

I don’t care to watch serious movies or read serious books anymore. Making people laugh is my one true gift. I want a tattoo or two.  I occasionally miss Disney World. Reality TV and wrestling are shit, even ironically. I collect coffee mugs.  I want to visit London.  If reincarnation exists, I used to live in New England.  Racists bum me out.  I take Zoloft.  I secretly want to be a famous author. I miss loving music. I love brunettes and didn’t realize it until I was about forty.

The Pacific coastline is beautiful but I don’t really care about the ocean. I define myself by my role as a parent.  That is most likely how I judge you. I’ve really only met about 2 or 3 assholes since I moved out here. People here are sweeter than on the east coast.  But they drive like 99-year old grandmas. I pronounce my last name with a “cure” sound in the middle. Jim is a plain, boring name.  But it goes well with my last name.  My wife has flawless skin.  My kids are beautiful and smarter than me.  All corn sucks unless it’s on the cob.

And, I still need to be seen and heard.*