Tell Everybody You Know

Those of you that grew up with me, probably remember my house as one that always had people in it. It really didn’t matter if Mom was home or not. Our friends had the run of the place and, all in all, things went pretty well. David and I each had numerous people that might be over at any given time and whether either of us was home, it was no big deal. I’d come home after work and the only folks there would be a couple friends of either David or I. One of David’s friends that was there more than most was Steve Liebow. He was a couple years older than me and, up until he started hanging around the house, I’d never heard of him.

Steve was one of David’s friends that I truly didn’t mind being around. It wasn’t like we would be great friends but he understood my humor and always “got the joke” without taking offense. We could go off on some abstract subject and he’d get just as crude and disgusting as I would and, odd as it sounds, we kind of formed a bond doing stuff like that.

One night, for reasons neither of us would ever remember, we started talking about gross words. I mentioned that the way the letter g was printed made the word egg the most disgusting looking word in the English language. We used the word egg in every possible way; laughing like fools the entire time. We must have stayed at that Kitchen table until three in the morning laughing ourselves to tears with the stuff we came up with.

I had a room in the Basement at the time and eventually went to bed. Steve decided to go to the store, buy a few dozen eggs and proceeded to put large Paper towels around my room all held up with all these eggs. He had written, on the paper towel, in large letters of Magic Marker, “ TOP OF THE MORNING TO YOU EGG”. We both laughed for days and have called each other by the name “Egg” ever since.

Steve died this morning and, as usual, these kinds of things make us all remember. I wasn’t that close to Steve. I never even set foot in the famous Van. He was one of the guys at the house. I think those that remember being there throughout the years will agree when I say we were all like a big family. Not a very close family but we all cared for each other, never had fights there and just plain felt a comfort being there. Well, I guess that makes Steve kinda like a Brother. The more I think of it, I think we all felt that way. We had a certain comfort there, all of us. It was a place where friends came by and just relaxed. You couldn’t really do that at too many of our houses back then.

Steve used to walk around the house in his unmentionables, playing his bass guitar and making up lyrics as he went. Those that knew him will surely smile thinking of him singing the song “Rock n Roll Soul, playing the bass line to the "Tell everybody you know" part" and substituting the words "Tell everybody you know, you know STEVE LIEBOW".


Go ahead, tell everybody you know, I know I will.

The Funkiest Band In The Land Part 2

Went to a concert a few weeks ago, J. Geils at Pine Knob. A couple years ago I saw them at a theater in Detroit and wrote a piece about the show. This is not your typical rock n roll band. I can honestly say there are no other groups that do what they do, play the type of music they play and have a relationship with Detroit like they have.

This is, what can be described as, a White, Funk, Rock Band. The music is, how can I describe it, funky, energetic and most of all, just plain fun. They first started something like 40 years ago and, with a few breaks in between, have been together ever since.

I’ve seen the band, in concert, a number of times and have always enjoyed the show. Seeing them in Detroit is completely different than when I saw them in San Diego. The last time I wrote about them I spoke of how Detroit is like a second home to them. It’s not just me saying it; the band has made it clear on numerous occasions that Detroit literally fed the band in their salad days. A two or three night sellout was not uncommon while they couldn’t even sell out one day in most parts of the country.

So, I went to the show and, as expected, the place was jammed. Yes, they played all their hits and yes, the crowd loved them. I, on the other hand, felt a little sad. I knew that this would be the last time I would ever see them live. I say that because, and I know this sounds weird, besides the fact that the members of the band are all in there 60’s; I noticed something that night that made me think this way. I couldn’t help but feel, that on many of the songs they played, they were just “mailing it in”.

Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying here, they were fun and everyone was on there feet cheering like mad. It’s just that they didn’t seem to be working as hard as they normally do. On numerous songs, Peter Wolf, the lead singer, basically just spoke the words instead of actually singing them. The music was just as powerful as usual but Wolf, normally the highlight of any of their concerts, seemed tired. The show itself was still good and, like I said earlier, the crowd loved it. It just wasn’t what I expected.
I did notice something that made me happy though. I saw the real power of music and what it can do to someone.

I’ve written about how much Peter Wolf means to the band and what an incredible front man he is. On this night I really saw what he feels. Let me explain. I truly saw the music move the man. There is no way that he could plan some of the moves he does. I could actually see the music running through the man and how his body moved in these strange ways, simply moved by the music coursing through his veins. Even though he wasn’t as dynamic as he normally is, I saw what could be called a love affair happening right before my eyes. It was so obvious how much he loved this music. Just the same can be said about the music loving him. The two seemed to be meant for each other and watching the music and Wolf interact with each other was truly a treat.

So, for me, the concert wasn’t the great show I was hoping for. I did however, once again, appreciate rock n roll for, not only what it is, but also what it does to the soul. Peter Wolf embodies what it does; he is almost its messenger, if you will. That’s something I’ll always remember and hope those that were there remember too.

The Luckster

Just got back from the Vet’s, had to put Lucky down. There is no question that the time had come and I did what was right for her. The Vet said that she’d probably had a stroke and it had paralyzed the back half of her body. I had known for a month or so that she wasn’t going to be around much longer and when I heard her crying while just laying on the floor, well, the decision was made for me. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel any pain. She was my friend and I’d never want to see my friend in pain.

I was fortunate to have her in my life for over 12 years. She was already over a year old when she came to live with us so you have to figure she was near 14 when her time came. 12 years is a long time and memories are many.

I remember when we caught her laying down on her stomach with her entire face in her food dish eating her dinner. It was then that we all knew she was a true member of the family. There was also the time that Shelly put a dog door into the sliding glass door out to the backyard. Lucky was so confused; she didn’t have a clue what it was. Shelly had to crawl through it while calling her name in order for Lucky to understand that through that door was the backyard. There are so many more great memories, as we all have about our furry friends, that it would take another 12 years to repeat them all.

She was such a gentle soul and I think that was her greatest trait. She never barked, never had a problem with any other animal and absolutely adored people. All she ever wanted out of life was to be loved and everyone that knew her would comment on how sweet she was. It was always a pleasure having people meet her. She wasn’t a jumper and would just want to be near anyone new. This was truly a case of, just knowing her was to love her.

I will miss her terribly, as I already do. I’ll miss her crying to me every time I would start to peel myself a Banana and me ending up just giving it to her. I’ll miss telling her to put her “Kepi” (sp) down and her coming from wherever in the house she was to put her face on my lap. I’ll miss the way she would lay down by putting her head on the floor and letting her body just drop behind it. Oh, I’ll miss so many things about her but most of all I just miss her being here.

I used to ask her if we were good friends and she would always give a little yelp to let me know we were. We really were. She was my friend and she was my family. I am so grateful for the years we spent together. I have been talking to friends about her and have said that it seemed everyone knew her. Even if you hadn’t met her, you knew her by how much a part of my life she was. I feel a little odd still carrying on about her after a few days but, honestly, I really don’t care. She was my Dog and, as cliché’ as this sounds, my best friend. I can’t imagine what I would have done after the divorce if she hadn’t been with me.

I keep looking up for her and expecting her to walk into the room to ask for something. I feel a little sad when that happens. On the other hand, I hope I feel her presence for years to come.

Hmm...

So, doing all this over analyzing that I continually do to myself, I find all kinds of things to beat myself up about. On the other hand, especially lately, there have been a few things that make me wonder if there might be a thing or two about me that that I should look into. My friends have always made me feel liked but that, and I don’t mean to downplay these relationships in any way, is what friends are for. Granted, I’ve attained a whole bunch more friends than I ever thought I’d have, and it’s wonderful just knowing they’re around.

The thing that’s been messing with my constant attempts at self-loathing is coming from total strangers. I work with the public. I see and speak to, on average, 200 people or so a day. Many of these are customers that come in to the store two or three times a week and when you see someone that often, well, you develop a relationship with them. I’ve been doing the customer service thing for years and, dare I say this, I’m really, really good at it. I’ll put my ability to deal with people up against anyone. Wait a minute, did I just admit to something good about me? Hmmm, feels a little odd. Anyway…

The other day, as I was running a register, a couple women came through and I just started playing with them. We were all three making comments about being up so early and how much we’d rather be on a beach somewhere. I said a few things that made them laugh, nothing unusual as I usually can make customers smile and laugh in a situation that doesn’t normally foster that kind of behavior. Anyway, as they were leaving and I was thanking them for their business and the two of them were laughing about something I said, one of them turned back towards me and said, “ Thanks for making our day”. I gave my standard response of, “I’m here all week, try the Veal” and they laughed some more and went along their way as I started playing with the next in line. On my way home I started thinking about what she said and other instances came to mind of total strangers, usually customers, saying that kind of thing to me. It turns out, it happens quite a bit.

Thinking about it has made me think that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been mistaken about myself. I might be a little more likable and worthwhile than I’ve ever given myself credit for. Boy, that’s kinda scary isn’t it? I’ve never paid attention to the comments from customers before. I mean, I’m just playing with them, they know that, surely they’re just playing with me too. They most certainly couldn’t be serious when they say things that are complimentary towards me, could they? Well, could they? I’m constantly being asked, by these total strangers, if I’m up to being fixed up with a friend of theirs. I, of course, just laugh it off to them and get past the question as quickly as possible. I had a woman I slightly recognized come in the store the other day with a few of her friends. As she saw me she told the group, “This is the guy I was telling you about”. I made that kind of impression on this person? That’s pretty cool. Again, maybe I’ve been wrong.

I’ve actually been feeling kind of good about myself for the last few days. Actually having a little self-confidence. I still have my demons but, seriously, the last few days I’ve been actually contemplating accepting one of these offers of being fixed up with someone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll be jumping into this overnight, it’ll take a little time, but I actually feel a little closer to breaking down a wall that’s been around for almost five decades than I’ve ever felt.

Maybe I’ve been wrong, that’s something to think about.

Trying To Deal

Since my last post, I’ve kind of found myself in an almost funk, if that’s the right way to say it. I’ve always known the story but have always set it up as just an incident in my life that really didn’t matter. Something like a schoolyard fight that would be forgotten or placed so far back in my memories that I’d only cruise by it in my thoughts every once in a while.

I’m not sure what, in the last few months, has brought it back into the forefront of my thoughts. Sometime before Christmas I started hearing his voice. I’ve heard it a number of times over the years but this was different. It was much louder, much closer and much more consistent. I started waking up in the morning hearing it. I’d hear it throughout the day. I was always able to shove it aside in the past but this time, I just couldn’t shake it. I knew that he couldn’t harm me, or anyone else for that matter, yet still felt a fear. I keep finding myself right back where I was all those years ago.

Writing about it had to happen. It’s how I deal with everything in my life and this was quickly becoming something major. I’ve talked to a few people about the feelings that enveloped me while writing it and how I was able to finally admit to myself how much of an impact on my life this incident had. This is the first time I can remember placing blame on someone else for something so wrong with me. What I’m finding a bit difficult is that I actually find myself feeling guilty about pushing the blame onto someone else. Questioning how I’ve been unable to “get over” something that took place almost four decades ago. I know that there are so many others that have been through much worse and I truly marvel at their abilities to have gotten past it. They are much stronger than I, that’s for sure.

The problem I’m having now is the fight within myself over whether I was right in bringing it up at all. Since bringing it out into the open, I’m finding myself much closer to it than I’ve been in years. It’s a major topic of conversation in my head. I’m finding the smallest things in my everyday life have a way of reminding me of it. I just hear the voice on a regular basis lately. I know I’ll be seeing someone to talk to about it soon, my benefits just came through from work, and hopefully that’ll help me keep things in perspective. Until then though, all I can do is do all I can, if you know what I mean.

I Was 12

A 12 year old boy is put on a Greyhound bus to go visit a relative less than 100 miles away. While on this bus, events happen that, looking back some 38 years, seem to have had a major influence on this boys life. What happened on that bus has happened to thousands upon thousands of kids throughout time. The issue with this particular time is that this boy is me.

To say a sexual molestation took place would, to most people, be an untruth. To a 12-year-old child, it certainly wasn’t something he’d admit to even if it were. To a 50-year-old adult, looking back over all that time, I still have trouble figuring out how to label it. Nothing physically happened, aside from a hand consistently being placed on my knee. It was the words being spoken that still echo inside my head to this very day. If there’s such a thing as verbal molestation, well, I guess this might be the definition.

Being asked if I’d like this done to me, or how about that? Me, in a voice weakened by fear and drowning in tears, saying no to each query. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d say, over and over again. “Why don’t you let me just…?” Me, again unable to get the words out, for a complete lack of air in my lungs. I was 12 years old, you Bastard, 12 years old.

Over the years I’ve told a few people this story and I’m always reassured that it wasn’t my fault. Logically I know that. I also know that I didn’t have to sit in the window seat on a nearly empty bus, but that’s what 12 year olds do. I could have screamed and yelled. Maybe not. I don’t think my voice could have been heard by anyone, outside of my head.

I remember his face. I remember every line, every bump. I remember how his mustache had a bit more color on one side than the other. I remember how one eyelid was a little more closed than the other. I remember his dirty fingernails as his hand kept finding my knee as the verbal assault went on for what seemed like months to a 12 year old child.

I was chatting with a friend the other day about this and she asked if I still look for him. I couldn’t really answer. I’m absolutely convinced, even after all these years, that I’d recognize him. I’d like to think that I’d find him and hurt him somehow but we all know that I wouldn’t confront him in any way. He scared me like nothing has ever scared me before or since. After 38 years, he still has a hold on me on some level. He won. I fear intimacy. Every Shrink I’ve talked to about this has put a direct link to the two. Is it any wonder that holding hands is probably my favorite thing in the world? That’s what 12 year olds do. I was 12 years old once and because of this man, in many parts of my life, I still am. I was only 12 years old.

I Get Letters

Doing this writing thing has, to say the least, allowed both friends and total strangers to see a part of me that they would never show others. In writing I’m not afraid to show the face we all hide from others. It also helps me while out in public. I can be alone in my thoughts and most people know that I’m fine. In most instances folks are concerned when someone is very quiet or detached in a group. There was a time in my life when I was always being asked if I was “ok” or if everything was alright. If there was something wrong, those that knew me best would know what was going on and I always found that remarkably comforting.

Another positive side of my writing is the allowance of trust that friends along with total strangers have bestowed upon me. This side effect is probably the one thing I’m most proud of when it comes to this. I couldn’t even count the number of emails I receive, mostly from people I don’t know, telling me their deepest, darkest secrets mostly relating to whatever my latest post was. I sometimes feel as though my email box has become some type of a confessional to many. I almost feel like a voyeur while reading these notes admitting the darkest secrets of ones life.

The subject matter ranges from petty crimes to things much more serious. I’ve had notes telling me of a transgression against a sibling over 30 years in the past. Most of these are just a way for the writer to get something off their chest. I never respond to these notes, I have no intention of becoming a “Dear Abby” or anything like that. I have, in some instances, sent a note asking if I could include their tale in a blog and if they agree, I sometimes have.

I will say this though: I have never written anything about anyone’s issues told to me in confidence. I think most of the writers of these notes understand that and that’s a good feeling to have. It’s one thing to be believed in by those that know me, and I value that dearly. It’s something totally different to have that same trust placed by total strangers. Total strangers to me at least. I sometimes get the feeling that these strangers know me a little better than I’m willing to admit.

Hey Nineteen

I went to a local haircutting place to get the old noggin shaved. Seriously, I must be the easiest haircut they get in a day. I just walk in and ask for a number one blade all the way around. Anyway, I go in and some little Pixie that couldn’t have weighed more than 17 lbs. with 13 shades of hair has me sit in her chair and starts to wrap my neck with that tissue they use.

It’s at this point that I’m always asked if I really want to use a number one blade. They ask if I realize how tight to the scalp it’ll make my hair. Have you seen my hair? Do I look like I worry about how tight to the scalp it is?

Once the buzzing begins, for reasons I’ve never understood, whoever is doing the buzzing starts doing their “get personal with the customer” gig. I prefer the no questions cut but I understand that they want to give me that personal experience. Every once in a while there may be a decent conversation that ensues but yesterday I was in the chair while someone who may, on a good day, pass for 18 tried to converse with me.

This is the part that got to me. Truly, there was nothing that this young woman and I could have talked about, in the time allotted that would interest either of us. It occurred to me that I’m fully one generation older than this girl. Talking politics didn’t seem to be something that would get us anywhere and I didn’t care enough to ask her about who she was dating. We each made a feeble attempt at conversation as I just waited for the cut to end.

Something that I’m well conversed in is music. As I was sitting there I thought about bringing up the subject. How could this young woman know about the music I listened to? How could I know anything about the bands she enjoyed? I had to giggle inside as a song started playing in my head. “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan started ringing very true to me. I’m getting old.

“Hey nineteen, that’s Aretha Franklin.
She don’t remember the Queen of Soul”

Ahhh, to be young again…

Part Two

I feel like I need to explain myself a bit after my last post. Not because I owe anyone an explanation but I just feel I need to clarify, you know, make things I said a little clearer.

When I say I’m afraid of being like my Father I’m only trying to compare Apples to Apples. I know there are many differences between us. Believe me, I thank my stars every day for that. What I see as so similar is our emotional retardation. His inability to accept others’ love and affection is something I don’t think anyone can say isn’t something I also suffer from. The difference is, and this is something I kind of admire about him, is his ability to at least fake it. Actually, he would know exactly what I’m talking about.

Something I’ve truly strived for and, I believe I’ve succeeded at, is in most of my relationships with people I try to let them know how important they are to me. You guys know what you mean to me. I’ve written ad-nauseum about that very subject on so many occasions that I sometimes get the feeling you’ve got to be kinda sick of it. That’s something he’s never even attempted.

Where I feel I’ve failed miserably is in allowing the reciprocation of those feelings to enter my reality. I’ve always written about how much I want to feel love and though so many of you are constantly trying to reassure me of said love, I just, I don’t know, find it hard to fathom. Yeah, I know, that all comes back to one loving themselves and that’s the real thing that I need to work on.

See, there’s another similarity between us. And, once again, I admire his ability to fake it. That’s really the one and only trait I wish I could carry on from him. I know, deep inside, that I’m not the fraud I fear so much and I truly believe you all when you tell me the same. For that, I will always be grateful to each and every one of you.

He's So Empty

I can’t believe how angry I am at him right now. I’ve never been one to blame any of my problems on anyone but me. Looking at him this weekend, at times, filled me with a rage I haven’t felt before. Actually, I really didn’t feel it until I woke up this morning and knew I needed to get in the car to leave.

I’ve written a number of times about my fears of becoming like him and I realize that nobody thinks we’re anything alike. While seeing him though, it was so obvious to me how similar we are. The purest difference between us is that I’m ashamed of these traits while throughout his life he wore them as a badge of honor.

Every single quality he believes he has are the same things I abhor about myself. He spent his marriage to my Mother basically ignoring her. I was very close to the same with Shelly. We Kids always talked about how empty he was inside. How, in reality he could never have a real relationship with anyone simply because he was incapable of loving anyone. Over the last few years I’ve overcompensated so much that I practically beg for it and when presented the opportunity shut myself down so much that it seems I have no interest. I’m so afraid of the whole thing and twice as ashamed for feeling that way.

The people that like him have no idea what he’s really like simply because he has no ability to let anyone in. I’m so afraid that what you all see in me is the same act that he’s been putting on for as long as anyone can remember. It’s always show time for him and I can’t help but wonder, obviously with different personalities, if I’m just as big of a fraud as he is. I’m always questioning if I’m just putting on this open, sensitive act to ensure that I’ll always have people around.

I know, we’re all broken in one way or another. I can’t help but think that my cracks are a direct result of him. When I first saw him yesterday, as he had no idea I was coming, his first words to me were. “Oh, I thought I was gonna have a good day”. Of course, my being as plastic as he, we both laughed. I used to call him Daddy as a small child and I’m so ashamed of that. I’ve been yelling at myself all day during the drive home and I literally feel pain and exhaustion just from the whole head game. I didn’t deserve that from him. None of us did. Excuse my language but, fuck you Dad. FUCK you Dad. FUCK YOU DAD!!!

Things Just Seem To Work Out

I’ve always had this, feeling I guess, that no matter what situation or life happenstance I’m in, things would just work out. It’s funny when I think about it. I mean, I don’t set myself up in these situations or anything, but even in my worst of times I think, ok, whatever happens, happens and I’ll still wake up in the morning and I’ll go on. I often wonder how much of an effect this has had on the direction I’ve taken throughout my now 50 years.

I think my lack of drive or ambition has probably been hit the hardest because of this “condition” or whatever it might be called. Not going to school never bothered me, simply because I just figured my life would work out. Not working hard to develop a real career, same thing. My marriage was kind of like the same thing too. I knew what I had to do to make it work, I just figured I didn’t have to worry about it cuz things would just work out. Even when I knew we were getting divorced, I just went along my merry way, knowing things were just going to work out.

I still, even though I find myself in places I know I shouldn’t be in, feel like it’s gonna be ok. I know when I’m down and hating everything around, I’m really not too worried about things. I mean, just because I’m down doesn’t mean I have this thought of impending doom. I’m not like that character in the old carton Gulliver’s Travels.

Lately, seeing what and where I am, I’m starting to think more and more about things. I know that this feeling I’ve carried forever can also be attributed to laziness. I just don’t want to work that hard to accomplish things. Even realizing that, I still figure I’ll be alright. The problem, to me at least, is that I’m now finding there are things in life I have to work for and I’m not sure I have the skill set to do them. It’s like this: I know that I can have the things I want so badly but in order to get there I have to turn a switch on the wall. The issue is the switch is very high up and I can’t find the ladder. I sometimes think the ladder has yet to be invented, like it’s waiting for me to invent it. The problem is, I don’t know how. Even with these thoughts, I know what I should do, that’s never been a question, I still have this feeling that it’ll all work out.

Whatever

Driving around the other day, I hopped on the freeway and just let the road guide me. As I was moving along at a decent pace, I saw an accident occur. I saw one car move over and slam into another at around 70 miles per hour. I dialed 911 from my cell almost as soon as I saw it and was told that the Police and Ambulance were already on their way. This next part is gonna sound really strange and please, trust me on this, I’m ok. As I kept going I couldn’t help well, not wishing, but almost feeling jealous that it wasn’t me that got hit. Not that I want to get hurt or that I have some kind of death wish, I just, I don’t know, I’m just ready.

Those that know me well understand that this is nothing new. I’ve always been quite open on my feelings of life and death. My biggest complaint about dying has never been death itself, it’s the pain involved with it. While driving that day I couldn’t help thinking how misunderstood this feeling of mine is.

I was talking to a friend the other day about it and she thought I should see someone to talk to about it. I told her I was and she said that I should change Therapists because if I was still thinking this way then she wasn’t doing her job. I find this logic ludicrous. I’ve always thought that a Therapists job was to help one understand their feelings and thoughts not change them. I’ve seen numerous Shrinks over the years and have never hidden my thoughts on the subject. Obviously, they’ve never felt I was in any kind of danger or I would have been committed years ago. Again, anyone that knows me understands that I’m in no danger of hurting myself.

It’s almost like wishful thinking. No, that’s not right either. I’ve always used the word ambivalent when talking about the possibility of dying. I guess I can also use the same word for living. I don’t hate life. I don’t love life. It’s just there. I wake up, ok. I go to work, ok. But I’m just as ok with the idea of not doing those things. I know I’ll get notes and comments’ telling me how wonderful life is and, for those that say it, I’m sure it is. But I’ll also get notes from those that tell me they agree with me and that they’ve never wanted to be a part of life. That’s where the misunderstanding comes in. I don’t feel that way. I just feel like I’m ok either way. I don’t hate living yet I also don’t hate the thought of not living. I think it might be the lazy way to look at it. Whatever…

Ticking Away

Turning 50 in a few days. I’m not really sure how I feel about that. There are the obvious self-asked questions: How much longer might I live? What have I done with my life? Why haven’t I done this or that? I suppose everyone asks these questions throughout their lives. More so, I guess, the older we get. I’m gonna try to not rehash all the regrets I have about the things I’ve done again, I’ve done that here before. I just find it interesting how unlike a 50 year old I, and many others of my generation feel and act.

I’m always talking to people about how much younger we are at this age than our parents were. My Dad moved out of the house when he was 40. I can’t think of anyone around that didn’t think of him as an old man at the time. I’m quite sure his generation felt the same about his parents and my kids feel the same about me. Still, I can’t imagine my parents listening to the music I listen to or liking the things I do. I often wonder what the thoughts of my parents was and is as it compares to mine, not just at this age, but throughout their lives.

I’m not naïve enough to pretend that my likes, dislikes, fears and all the other stuff in my head is so different to anyone else’s but I do wonder how others deal with it better or worse than I do. I know there are very few that allow others so deep into their lives as I have chosen to do. I know I’m quite different than most in that aspect of life. The idea that I’m different than most when it comes to that sometimes gives me pause. I know people must get tired of it and for that I feel bad. I guess it comes down to the idea of me being who I am, take it or leave it, I’ve found, especially over the last couple of years, that this ridiculously large amount of people I’m fortunate to call friends not only allow it but have somehow seemed to embrace this aspect of my life. For that, I am eternally grateful.

I was chatting with a friend last night and I mentioned that there’s a comfort in being a freak and knowing it. It makes things easier for me to know I don’t have to put on a face that, for me at least, is such hard work while out and about. I realize that there are many out there that think I’m full of it and must think I’m faking it when I say the things I do when I’m writing. I simply can’t afford to think about. In the words of the world famous sailor, Popeye, “I am what I am”. I’ve often said that I’m not comfortable in my own skin and I’ve found a way to find a spot in my head to get as comfy as possible with what I have. Am I happy with who I am? No, not even close. Be that as it may be, I still wake up each day and fog the mirror and I’m told that means it’s a good day.

There’s a lyric from a Pink Floyd song that goes, “Another day older and one day closer to death”. I don’t look forward to death so don’t think I’m on the verge of hurting myself or anything like that. I “get” that lyric though. That’s pretty much how I’ve looked at things for as long as I can remember. Thinking that way has obviously shaped the way I am when it comes to being so open about my thoughts and feelings. Man that sounds so morose. It’s not meant to be, but that brings it back to the comfort in knowing myself thing I mentioned earlier. I do like that about myself. I’ve had these thoughts for so long that there’s comfort in knowing where they are and how to get there when I need to. It’s a lot like coming home after work and slipping into my chair. For those that know me well, you know what I mean.

So Happy Birthday to me in a few days. I think I’m ok with it. If not, I’ll just do some searching inside to find the most comfortable way to deal with it and park myself there for a while. Maybe light up a stogie, have a glass of wine and talk to myself for a while. Yeah, there’s comfort there.

It Really Is A Small World

I have this program on my computer that tells me where people are when they get onto my blog. It’s a pretty nice tool and I always like to see the interesting places that people are from that read my stuff. I’ve seen readers from all over the United States, Canada and all over Europe. There are consistent visitors from Moscow, Taiwan and Brazil. One of my favorite things about the blog is the idea that people all over the world have the ability to read it.

The other day I saw that someone had left a comment on a piece called, “Logic, Don’t Look Here”. I opened up the locator program and saw that someone from Tehran, Iran had been on the blog at around the time the comment was left. I thought that was pretty cool. As I was looking at the program, the reader from Tehran came on again. I always like when someone from the same area comes back. I always hope it’s the same person and that they liked what they read and wanted to see more.

A couple minutes after noticing the visitor coming back, I got a message on Facebook. Clicking on it, I saw it was from someone with an Arabic name and nobody I knew. The message asked if I was the writer of the blog and I responded that yes, I was. Within minutes I had a friend request on Facebook from this same person. It kind of took me aback for a second and I decided to take a couple days to think about it.

I’ve thought a lot about the request and, I must admit, I don’t think there has been a minute that I considered accepting the request. There are a couple of reasons for not accepting. The first, and I’m not proud of it, is the idea that someone from a part of the world that is considered an enemy of the United States wants into my circle of friends. That sounds horrible, I know. We all have our prejudices and this has shown me one of mine. Like I said, I’m not proud of it but, it is what it is.

The second, and more important reason, is much more basic. I simply don’t know the person. I am incredibly flattered that there are people out there that have no idea who I am that read and enjoy my writing. The idea that I may have tapped into someone’s feelings with something I’ve written makes me feel wonderful. It also gives me a sort of self-validation on my own feelings. That being said, there is a line that appears that I’m simply not willing to cross.

Though I am very open about myself in the blog, there is still a feeling of anonymity once it’s published. My friends that read it understand me and who and what I am in real life compared to the writer. These friends are people that I’ve chosen to have in my life. Those readers that don’t know me have their own opinions about who I am without knowing me personally. I have always said there is a difference between the person that writes and the person many of you know. The person that you really know wants you to know him. That’s what friends are. My Facebook friends are either people that I personally know or those that, over the years, I’ve developed a real relationship with. Anonymous readers of the blog are not. It’s nothing personal, and I’m flattered by the attention I’ve received from these unknown readers. Still, like I mentioned earlier, there’s a line that I feel shouldn’t be crossed. I like that the line is there, it gives me a sense of safety in my head. Those that know me understand that completely and that’s what makes them my friends.

The New Kid In Town

I have smoked a decent amount of “Pot” in my life. That’s Marijuana, for those not hip on my vocabulary. I smoked it more as a teen and gradually slowed down the older I got. I always enjoyed the buzz and it was never anything that people could say was making me act all crazy and out of control. That last part is and always has been very important to me. While living in San Diego I would smoke a joint on the way to work and nobody could ever tell. If I mentioned it to someone, they’d be surprised because they could never tell. Why do it then? Well, I just enjoyed it. It gave me a decent buzz and I could go along my normal actions and it was never a big deal.

When I got married I slowed down quite a bit simply because I didn’t want to spend the money on it as I now had a family to help support. I would still smoke a bit when I was out with friends but never at home. Honestly, I think I bought some once the entire time I was married. After moving to Florida I bought some once. It was a rather large amount and being that I smoked so little at a time, I kept it in my cigar humidor and it lasted for what seemed like a year. What I’m trying to say here is that I don’t smoke very often anymore. I just don’t want to spend the money on it. I’ll still take a hit off a joint once in a while but there’s also plenty of times that, while in the company of some that are smoking, I’ll just pass. I still like the buzz but it just takes a little to hit me and, of course, I’m able to stay in control of myself throughout.

Well, there’s this new “herb” being passed around these days and it’s completely legal. It’s called Salvia and it’s gaining in popularity. I don’t know very much about it but a couple friends have tried it. Their descriptions of the high are quite entertaining. It makes me actually curious about it. I’ve never dropped Acid or done any other types of hallucinogens and one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed smoking pot is because I can stay in control while smoking it. That doesn’t seem to be possible here.

There are instructions that come with the product and one of the “suggestions” is to not smoke it alone. You should have someone with you to watch over you as you go on this “journey”. That right there is what stops me from ever trying it. I am such a freak about staying in control and never letting anyone see me out of said control that the very thought scares me to death. That fear is one of the main reasons I never get drunk. The very idea of losing control sends a chill throughout my body. There are maybe two people in my life that I would trust enough to allow them to see me that way but once I’d come down from this trip I don’t think I could look them in the eye again. It’s like they would know something too personal about me and I’m way too guarded for that.

I think this is one of those instances where my being such a freak is a good thing. This stuff can’t do you any good and maybe my being so afraid for someone to see me like that is one of those signs from above telling me I’m doing the right thing by not touching the stuff. I’m still curious though.