Alex’s Rants

I’m trying to continue biking but the daylight is not cooperating. It gets dark fast. When I started riding it was a chilly 48 degrees, with plenty of daylight. The daylight didn’t last, before I had been 10 miles it was lights out, or lights on, in my case just the back light because alas I have no front light. I should invest in a front light. The main problem though is not with  seeing the road, because even as it’s getting dark there is usually some twilight or moonlight to help find the white stripe, it’s the bright lights of oncoming traffic. Often when motorists get a glimpse of someone in the road they resort to their bright lights to help them see what it is. This of course is horribly blinding. Wouldn’t you think that people would understand that if bright lights disorient oncoming vehicles that it would have the same effect on a bicyclist? They don’t think that. Several times I was challenged to see the road, my expletive laced outbursts at a few of them proved effective, although given the highly effective sound-proofing of the modern automobile it’s debatable whether they dimmed their lights because of hearing me or a dose of common sense hit them.

When I’m not blinded by oncoming traffic and having trouble seeing the road I rather enjoy riding at night, especially when the moon is out. The miles seem to fly by faster because I am so focused on staying on the road that I don’t notice the churning of my pedals. Time is relative after all. The lack of visuals also has the effect of enhancing other senses. I hear more sounds, whether animal life or the approach of distant cars, well before I glimpse headlights. I notice more smells. The smell of the leaves falling, the sweet maples in particular. The smell of the occasional fireplace or woodstove that someone has fired up in anticipation of colder days to come. I think about lighting a fire myself when I return home, but I rarely do because by then I’m tired and just want to eat and go to bed. I notice the stars and the moon, if it’s out.  I notice the ubiquitous blue glow of the tv sets, entertaining the masses. What did people do before tv? When I got home tonight I made 14 jars of jam. I love making jam.

I realized while riding tonight that it’s something like a metaphor for my life, and likely most peoples lives, because I’m not so unique. As the wise King Solomon wrote, “There is nothing new under the sun.” When riding at night you have a general idea where you are going, you can see the outline of the road but you miss a lot of details. Then an oncoming vehicle with its bright lights blinds you for a moment, and disorients you. On another occasion I was flying down a hill near my house, at 25-30 mph, and momentarily passed in the shade of trees along the road and could not tell where the road was. It was terrifying for a moment, but also invigorating. You know you are alive when you need to find where the road is! I’ve never bungee jumped but I’m guessing there are some similarities. This is all like living though. Most of the time I have a degree of clarity where I am headed, but there are moments when I feel totally lost. At those times I feel most alive but it’s a little frightening too. I wonder if getting a head light for my bike will be progress, or I’ll miss out on some of the wonder of riding at night, and of life itself. Deep meanings and philosophical mumbo-jumbo aside, it would likely help me avoid the potholes and ditches! Now that I’m thinking about it, this might be like life too. What is my headlight for life? I need to think about this further, but right now I need some sleep.

It’s been a strange weekend. I was scheduled to visit Whistler, British Columbia, this coming week for a conference, until I ran afoul of the Canadian Customs again. Trouble began 2 weeks ago when I attempted to cross the border late at night to visit a prospective client, New Brunswick Power. It was a slow night and since I have a new passport I asked for a stamp. Little did I know the trouble I was about to bring down upon myself. The officer didn’t just stamp my passport but took it upon herself to run a background check which turned up an arrest 3 years ago for a traffic violation, “Disobeying an officer”. (More on that whole story another time…)

As it turns out, any arrest in the States can be grounds for denied entry for a minimum of 10 years or life, depending on the severity of the charge. Mine was the 10 year variety. Despite my pleadings, when you “fight the law, the law wins”, so I was denied entry. I returned the next day when they were busier and a different officer was on duty and wisely held my tongue asking for a stamp and was waved through. No problem, or so I thought.

Leaving on Friday for Whistler was a trying day. First of all my kids were with me all week so I was tired. I had come down with a cold a few days before so was feeling under the weather to boot. Somehow, mostly by force of will, I was a crazy man at work in the morning getting ready so I could have extra time to squeeze a much needed bike ride in. I did get the hour long ride in and it was therapeutic but it put me behind so I had to race to get to Boston to be able to check in 60 minutes prior to departure. I made the check-in and flight ok (to Houston, then connection to Vancouver), then a beautiful Hungarian woman sat next to me in the middle seat (I had the aisle). It seemed my luck was improving. I started chatting with her and we hit it off. She was very funny and her accent reminded me of Vicka, the Ukrainian woman I had dated some years ago. It was not a bad remembrance. She had come to America on a work intern program for an educational research company here in NH, had only been in the States for 5 months, with another 7 to go. We talked about Hungary, her work, my life growing up with 2 immigrant parents. She was often communicating with a Daddy Warbucks type in the row beside us, he was in the middle seat of the row. Soon it became apparent that they were a couple, as unlikely as it seemed. Regardless I continued chatting with her and Mr. Warbucks was obviously perturbed about the situation which I found rather humorous.

As we are getting up to disembark after landing in Houston I gave “Vicky” my card and suggested she send me an email when she got back from her trip, which consisted of visiting San Antonio for a few days of vacation, then attending a meeting with fellow interns in New Orleans. I could sense Daddy Warbucks (he really did look like him, bald head and all) blood pressure rising, culminating in his barking to everyone as we are disembarking the plane, “Will you people hurry up, we have a plane to catch!” They had over an hour for their connection though so they were in little danger of missing their flight from Houston to San Antonio. I was tempted to offer a smart-ass response to his outbursts but thought better of it. My suspicions about him and Vicky were confirmed when seeing them in the terminal, hand-in-hand, but it still looked really odd. Daddy Warbucks and his beautiful Hungarian girlfriend. It will be interesting to see if she emails me. If Daddy Warbucks has anything to say about it, I’m guessing not.

Flight to Vancouver was long, I tried to sleep as it was getting late, we got in 3AM EST, midnight Vancouver time. Between kids, poor sleep the night before, cold and fitful airplane sleep, felt like zombie. The customs agent at the immigration kiosk asked me a lot of questions and was not happy about seeing my new passport with no stamps in it. I got the X in red so I knew that wasn’t good, danger Will, further screening ahead. I had a sinking feeling the gig was up. Sure enough, after I got my bags I was waved to the “further inspection” area. I explained to the agent my trip, gave her a bunch of papers regarding my trip and then had to sit while she went back to her office. She wasn’t interested in my bags at all, which is never a good sign. Some 20 minutes later she came back and asked me, “So tell me what happened a couple of weeks ago the last time you tried to enter Canada?” The gig was definitely up now. Of course I tried to explain, yes I was denied entry due to an arrest, I was provided information on “rehabilitation” but I didn’t have time to contact the consulate. Definitely the wrong tack. A better tack might have been running for the door when she turned around.

I had to explain the situation all over again, but it was obvious it was going nowhere. An officer had already made a decision about me and she wasn’t going to contradict it. I had the option of filing for a hearing in the morning but that was not recommended as I didn’t have any supporting documentation and apparently once you file for a hearing and are denied it becomes even more difficult to obtain “rehabilitation”. This is likely a story to avoid having a hearing organized. They just want you to go home. They were kind enough to let me leave (while confiscating my passport) for the airport hotel since I already had a reservation, but I had to report at 9am to be escorted home on the first available flight. By now it was about 2AM Vancouver time, or 5AM EST.

Of course being on EST meant I could sleep about 3 hours anyway, so I got up early and headed downstairs (the hotel is right in the airport above the check-in counters). Continental was really great for a change. The 7:55 back to Houston was full but they booked me on US Airways at 7:44, which would get me into Boston at 8PM, about 3 hours earlier than the Continental option. They even arranged to have my bags paid for. I’m Elite on Continental so don’t pay any baggage charges. Next problem would be getting my passport back. The customs office didn’t open until 7, so I headed over there and after much waiting they finally decided to come to the desk at about 7:15, leaving me less than 30 minutes to get my passport, get my boarding passes, go through security, US customs and make my plane.

I found out though, it’s very handy handing 2 customs officers escort you through check-in, security, customs. You really fly through when you’ve got 2 heavies standing next to you! We cut in front of every line there was, partly I’m sure because I was cutting into the officers coffee time. The sideways glances from everyone were priceless. I looked like a criminal with my escort. The US Customs was the best. The officer looked at my passport, looked at the officers, asked me, “Are they with you?” to which I nodded and he just waved me through. No questions asked. I guess as long as you have a US Passport, US immigration will take you back, no questions asked! I joked with the Canadian officers asking how much it would cost to have them accompany me wherever I went, as it really beat waiting in lines. Not surprisingly their response was “Sir, our services are not for sale.” It was a fucking joke people! No sense of humor.

So much for Canada. My frame of mind was not good though, especially once I got on the plane. Not only would we be a no-show at the conference but it had cost about $5K to pay for booth space, hotel, plane tickets. Down the proverbial drain. I have my moments of serious self-doubt, this was definitely one of them. I was really tired as well, especially on the second flight from Phoenix to Boston (first was Vancouver – Phoenix). It seemed to never end. Oh I made jokes with people around me, had an interesting conversation with a doctor who sat next to me from Harvard Medical School, but it was all a charade. Inside I was very unsettled. To top it all off, when I got home I found all the lights on and a strange truck in the drive. I enter the house to find the tv on very loud with a movie playing. I was preparing myself to do battle with some squatter, but as it turns out it was my daughter and a couple of guy friends of hers. She was laying in a chair with one of them, with a blanket over them. I entered the living room and asked, What is going on? S* gets up slowly (apparently she was sleeping) and brings me into the kitchen. She explains that they were supposed to go to the movies but everything they wanted to see was rated R so they “decided” to just come here and watch a movie here. No phone call to her mom to let her know, no phone to me asking if that was alright. This only furthered my angst.

In general it’s been a frustrating time in my life recently. My daughter gave me Crank to read, which I finished on the plane from Vancouver to Phoenix. It’s a compelling story about a girl addicted to crank and the changes in herself, her friends, her family, her life, that follow from a drug addiction. It was disturbing to say the least, for several reasons. First of all, it reminded me of some of the challenges that my daughter has been facing. Is she having opportunity for drugs harder than pot or alcohol? Is she having sex and risking pregnancy? Like the girl in Crank, you can have caring parents attempting talking to you but ultimately she’ll reveal what she wants. She has gotten into trouble this summer with pot and alcohol, what am I doing wrong as a parent? Second, and related, it reminded me of myself, except without the drugs. Usually I feel OK with life but I have my moments when everything feels upside down. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where my kids are headed and they concern me. I don’t know where my business is going, it seems after 12 years we should be more successful, yet it eludes me. I don’t know where I’m going. S* is already going to be out of the house in 2 years, my plan for several years has been to sell the house when that happens and buy land nearby for building. Do I really want to do that though? It’s a lot of work to build a home. When exactly am I supposed to do this? It would be nice to have some help financially to make this happen but that depends on me developing a successful relationship and I don’t know where my relationships are going. I want a relationship, or at least a part of me does, but when I’m in them I feel trapped, suffocated, repressed and ultimately unhappy. I resist the controls that women inevitably work to place on my being, my time, my space. I don’t demand much from women I’ve dated, why do they feel they have rights to me? Basically I can’t stand the way that women behave, which is not a good recipe for having a successful relationship with one.

Also I’ve been reading Violence, a book that explores why people engage in violent behavior. It can be summed up very succinctly, what you can’t express in words, we express in actions. If we are feeling inner conflict of some variety and we can’t express this with words, then we’ll express it in actions. In particular, if the inner conflict involves feelings of inferiority or shame, and we can’t express this in words with those who care and will be supportive, then we’ll express it with violent actions. I am loathe to talk about my feelings and resent others who do. I should say I have a certain tolerance for it, but it’s pretty thin. This is one of my big challenges with women, they like to talk about their challenges and problems, but I don’t really want to listen, just as I wouldn’t want to listen to my own problems. I definitely have a capacity of uncaring, unfeeling and violent actions and no doubt this is related to my unresolved, unexpressed, inner conflicts. The concepts were very revealing, both in explaining the state of the world, particularly life here in the States, which was the focus of book as America is by far the most violent developed nation on the planet, but more significantly to explain my inner workings. Put simply, its obvious that my reluctance to express myself contributes to my intolerance of others who do and ultimately my inability to sustain a meaningful relationship with a woman, who by and large are more inclined and able to express themselves. It’s a conundrum.

The power of words is undeniable, as my own experience testifies. After returning home late Saturday night (more like early Sunday morning) I spoke with D* about the situation, one of my employees, and also two other good friends of mine. Of course I expressed my frustration but after making the rounds of conversation the situation seemed rather comical. The situation hasn’t changed however, I still was booted out of Canada and the booth is still empty in Whistler, but my disposition has changed. What was very recently a disaster of epic proportions for which I felt rage and anguish welling up within me now just seems like just another chapter in an interesting life.

I suppose like anything, there is a bright side. It really sucks that we spent close to $5K on a conference that we won’t be attending, and this after sending out a newsletter inviting all the attendees to visit our booth. We don’t have $5K to spend right now but it won’t bankrupt us, or at least I hope not. Whistler is supposedly a beautiful place, one which I likely won’t be visiting again anytime soon, and this after paying airfare and hotel for the week. I also caught my daughter behaving in further irresponsible ways for which she’ll be punished for (grounding most likely) and which will hopefully help her to learn, but time will tell on that count. I do have the week here at home now to get some things done at work and at home, to rest, to prepare for having my kids this coming weekend. I did save on parking.

Last night I torched another oversize pile of brush and wood, mostly piled up from my pine tree felling escapades from this past winter. I love bonfires. It’s highly therapeutic for me to exert myself clearing the woods of brush and wood, piling it and then burning it. Once the fire is going I am wont to stand leaning on my shovel or sitting in a chair just watching the flames lick their way around the pile to finally engulf it entirely, shooting embers into the air which then drift lazily skyward. It’s mesmerizing. What must that moment have been like when man (or woman) finally learned to produce fire on demand? A transformational moment I believe, if the stirring in my soul that I feel from the heat of the fire is any indication. Our primal instincts are deep waters.

I was sweating profusely hauling the brush up to the fire, even though the rain was falling steadily and there was a chill in the air. The exertion warmed me. It feels good to work hard. There is a Zen proverb that says “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” The point is that exerting ourselves physically is good for our souls, whether on the path to higher learning, or having achieved it. I enjoy my day job and find satisfaction and success in certain aspects of the problem solving in the ethereal world of computers, but it’s nothing compared to how I feel after a hard days work in the outdoors. The feeling is fleeting when working with virtual success, the feeling that accompanies exercising our bodies lasts well into the night, as we lay in comfort in our beds and the sleep that follows quickly. How do you replicate that staring at a computer all day?

The real beauty of working our bodies is the exercise that it also affords our mind. While working we have time to contemplate our lives, our successes and failures, our goals. We have time to think about the future of our children and how to contribute to society in more meaningful ways. We can stop and admire the handiwork of evolution, the smells, sights and sounds. Farmers are said to be some of the most introspective and thoughtful people, because they can spend good parts of their day engaged in such thought. Computers and other electronic gadgetry have the tendency to confiscate our mind and distract us from thinking in meaningful ways. What would the world be like if we agreed to only use computers for the most necessary tasks? I’m posting this writing to an electronic forum so perhaps I contradict myself to some extent. Then again, when have I claimed to not lead a contradictory life? I suppose its human nature to hold in our mind ideals which in practice are difficult to enforce. It’s a sort of double-standard which we all fall prey too, to some extent or another. Perhaps this is true enlightenment, the power to live the life that we envision in our mind. I can see the picture clearly, in the flames rapidly consuming the evidence of all my hard work. Today little remains of the large pile except some charred and smoking remnants of the larger pieces, and a pile of coals, but I’m already thinking about my next fire.

The sky was dark and foreboding during my bike ride, like my mood. Actually my mood was fine but it sounded cool to write that. This would be a great line to open a book I’m probably never going to write. I need to be positive. This is a great line to open a book that I just might write assuming I can find a topic and table of contents for a subject of interest to more than one person in the universe. That’s better. I suppose if I was a true writer I would just write and to hell with everything else. The sky was dark and foreboding. I love the sky when it is this way. It’s strange – I also love the sky when it’s bright and sunny out. All the in-between skies I could do without. This may say something about my moods. I like to be either dark and foreboding or sunny and cheery. I don’t like indecision. I don’t quite feel cheery. It seems I was feeling cheery until I started writing about the dark and foreboding sky. I like the sky as such because it portends rain. Now I’m sitting in bed getting ready to “saw the wood” as they say and I can hear the rain pattering on my sunlight. I find the sound of the rain very comforting. If I lived in the Pacific Northwest I would find myself very happy I think. I’m digressing.

I did almost get killed, or at least maimed, by a truck on the road. My good friend S* has a policy of riding on the wrong side of the road. He wants to see the whites in the eyes of the inattentive driver who kills him. Better than just having the vehicle come up behind you to take you to the next realm which no doubt is full of virgins, 72 to be exact. That’s his theory and he’s sticking to it. So I’ve been trying it out. I have to say it is a bit disconcerting to see the cars coming at you. The drivers get wiggy too. In this case a truck was following a car while I was on the wrong side of the road. The car moved over in passing, the truck did not. His mirror whacked me on my shoulder. I saw it coming though and turned my shoulder down just in time so it was a glancing blow. It was still loud though, and hurt. I doubt I broke anything, mirror or shoulder. I wish I had broken his mirror though. I shouldn’t think such negative energy thoughts but sometimes I have a hard time helping myself. I’m not so sure about this riding theory of my friend.

I had a long interesting conversation with my friend R* this afternoon. I’ve been questioning my “energy” as of late. It’s an interesting concept – the idea that we attract or repel people based on the energy that we project. If it’s good energy we attract positive and good people who have similar energy, if it’s bad energy, we attract negative and not so good people. I’m not sure what the definition of “good” and “bad” is in this context. I suppose it has to do with their connection to humanity, whether they are contributing in meaningful ways to humanity, or are simply consumers of others energy. I don’t particularly contribute in meaningful ways to humanity so perhaps this puts me in the “bad” grouping. However it reminds me of a famous line (ok it wasn’t that famous) by David Lee Roth, “I don’t feel tardy”.

He attempted to explain to me that there is a higher consciousness that we can attain where we are connected with the energy of our being, we are aware of it, can feel it, can use it to understand how it is affecting and answering the challenges we face in living. In other words using our energy to understand our path, to understand the answers to the various vexing problems we face. He believes he can answer any question about his life. I also met a woman recently while on a business trip who is a “healer”, one who can presumably help others with these challenges. It has gotten me thinking about my life and my inabilities to connect on higher plains. I do think that I incline towards the “physical man” that the Apostle Paul described, as opposed to the “spiritual man”. The physical man believes in what he can see, it’s a rational process or awareness of ourselves and of life based on what we see. The spiritual man can believe in things he doesn’t see and is aware of themselves and of life based on his instincts, his irrational thought if you will. At least that’s what I understood from the conversation.

I do have trouble with this concept and I’m sure this also explains the struggles I have in other areas of my life, my family, my relationships, my career. I’ve enjoyed a moderate degree of success with all – but nothing approaching genuine satisfaction and peace. I’m adept at resolving challenges that are immediate and obvious, but not so well equipped for those that require more sensitivity and foresight, or intuition, regarding what my higher plane of consciousness is speaking. It all sounds like gibberish at some point, but on the other hand it seems my present tools are not helping me reach satisfying resolution of these dilemmas. I suppose everyone is in this same predicament, and having varying degrees or success or failure. So what differentiates those that are highly successful with those highly unsuccessful? I’m not sure yet but I’m working on it. Check back tomorrow for the answer! Ok, that was wishful thinking, but I’m not dead yet! In the meantime I’ll listen to the gentle patter of the rain as it lulls me to sweet sleep.

I always become very melancholic when I’m flying, except when I’m with my kids. Maybe it’s the loneliness. You would think being on a plane full of people that you wouldn’t be lonely, but the opposite is true. I feel lonelier when surrounded by many unknowns. I’ve heard it remarked that a city of 10 million people can be the loneliest place on earth. There is truth to this. I believe it’s due to the lack of intimacy and the uncomfortableness of being with people you don’t know. We are all alone, even when with someone we think we know, but surrounded by people we don’t know seems to exaggerate these feelings. Ironically, as I write, I’m sitting next to some jolly fat French woman, right off the plane from Paris, playing Solitaire on her computer. We are both headed to Orlando, her for God-knows-what, me for a conference in Cocoa Beach. I should stare at her computer to see if she is winning. The other reason for loneliness amongst many strangers seems due to the fact that when exposed to large numbers of people inevitably this includes many undesirables, or poorly mannered ones anyway. I’ve been to NYC. We develop protection mechanisms against these people, inevitably that gets applied to those we could have a meaningful relationship with. Why do you think people in the country are so friendly?

I wonder too if my melancholy is due to having a moment while flying to reflect on my life, where I am, where I’m going. I can’t really do much else, well apart from working on my computer which I’m bored with after about an hour. I can’t distract myself by surfing the web as there is no Internet in the air, at least not yet. Soon I’m sure it will be ubiquitous. I would rather be at home that’s for sure, with my kids. It was my weekend with them but I had to leave on a Saturday to attend a conference. I don’t really enjoy conferences. I put on a good face but they are tedious. They cost a lot of money and I doubt their efficacy in developing work opportunities. Seem a big waste of time and money. I pass the time while flying listening to music and reading. That and napping, take your pick. I’ve already had my nap, read some of Joseph Conrads Victory, now just music, and the computer of course. This may be the first Joseph Conrad book I’ve read, I’m really enjoying it. The main character is a lonely man, a well-mannered Swede, living on an island in the far-east of the Pacific Ocean. I identify with him. I also identify with Joseph Conrad. I love writing, granted I’m no expert and probably never will be. There is something thoroughly compelling in the ability to articulate a story that is an invention of your mind, especially when that invention has to do with people and who they are and their struggles through life. To be a great writer you have to be a great student of people, an observer. I wonder if this explains the difficulty many writers, and artists as well, in sustaining relationships. It’s as if the study of humanity doesn’t stop with people that are unknown, but extends to those we know as well.

I’m listening to Annie Lennox, Medusa. I haven’t listened to this album in a while. It reminds me of being younger. I’m always fascinated how music has the ability to transport us in time. The Musical Time Machine. Music connects us with our past in some manner, but the connection is obscure in many cases. Our memory appears to be music driven, or perhaps it’s sound driven. My evolutionary outlook on humanity does explain this – we primarily used sound and sight to help us find our way, to find food, to avoid danger. These capabilities remain entrenched in our genes, but have taken different forms.

It’s a thin line between love and hate

It’s a thin line between love and hate

It’s a thin line between love and hate

It’s 5 o’clock in the morning, and you’re just getting in

I knock upon the door, a voice sweet and low says, Who is it?

She opens up the door and she lets you in

And never once does she say, where have you been?

She says, hold it, are you hungry, did you eat yet, let me hang up your coat now

And all the time she’s smiling, never raises her voice

It’s 5 o-clock in the morning

And you don’t give it a second thought

It’s a thin line between love and hate

It’s a thin line between love and hate

Sweetest woman in the world, can be the meanest woman in the world

If you make her be that way

She might be holding something in, is really gotta hurt you, one of these fine days.

There you are in the hospital badger

There you are in the hospital, bandaged from foot to head

In a state of shock that much from being dead,

You didn’t think your woman could do something like that to you

You didn’t think she got the nerve

Accidents speak louder than words

Louder than words

Louder than words

Louder than words

Come on baby baby you don’t give a damn about me

Come on baby, baby you don’t really care about me

Come on baby baby you don’t give a damn about me

Come on baby, baby you don’t really care about me

Frenchie is now playing Mah-Jonng.

Last night in Florida, why not go to the hotel karaoke bar? Gives me a chance to watch people do foolish things, typically with the aid of some liquid courage. I like watching people. I feel like I’m not in the room, but of course I am. Seems I could use some Jack too. Florida bars are very smoky – must be the only State in the Union left that allows smoking in bars. Everyone of course is smoking. Who would be in the bar if they didn’t allow smoking?

I like to size up the crowd when I enter, scope everyone out, except for the lurkers, and find a likely place to sit, preferably in the back out of the way. The bar was pretty well stocked, so I chose a table in the back. The MC appeared to be sighing in-between songs, he was about 55 with graying/balding head. He had been in the business too long I reckon, just didn’t have the same enthusiasm as his younger days. How can you maintain it? You see the same crowd every time. Nobody can sing, but with some alcohol everyone thinks they can. They still can’t though but that doesn’t stop everyone from clapping. I may be a kill-joy. He was wearing a black nylon button down with a martini glass on the back. Definitely appropriate attire. I need to get me one of those shirts.

“Colleen”, the 300lb. barkeep remembers my double-Jack, straight-up, and reaches for the bottle as soon as I step up to the counter. I had been in late a couple of nights ago. Pretty good memory I say. She is jolly, but then again most fat people I’ve met are jolly. Can’t look good, so might as well be happy about it all. I admire that on some level, although her knees are probably wishing she would stop eating for a few months. She’ll get a new set at some point. Out with the old, in with the new! I left her an extra dollar for remembering my drink, you should always reward a job well done.

I tucked myself against the back wall to listen to the show, such as it was. The old geezers were the best, singing their 50’s hits. I only vaguely recalled a few of them. “Stan” and his GFE escort sat in front of me. She was about 25, he about 65 and 60-70 pounds overweight. She looked pretty fine, decked out in a sequined black dress with long straight hair that she was flipping around her head constantly and brushing regularly. She was very attentive, putting her hands around him, kissing him, rubbing his head. He was reciprocating and quite excitedly. GFE was twitching about a lot and glancing at me regularly, maybe scoping out her next date, tomorrow night comes fast, no pun intended. She even sang a song for Stan, and despite getting applauded vigorously couldn’t hold a note for the life of her. Closing applause was not so vigorous. She did wish Stan a Happy Birthday at the end, which the MC took as an invite for everyone to give Stan a happy birthday. He was good sport about it. GFE went to the bathroom about every 10 minutes, probably to refill her nostrils with the blow that the advance got her. He was getting a nice birthday present, I’m guessing a reward from himself. Oh, to be Stan! Actually I don’t really want to be Stan. GFE did demonstrate to Stan her exceptionally long tongue. Did that come naturally or as a result of some surgical enhancement?

An older Aussie couple at the bra was chatting it up with a local bloke who was having trouble talking in complete sentences, I’m thinking the beverages were working their magic. After an hour or so the Aussie bloke was patting him on the arm, they were friends. Familiarity comes easily, soon to be followed by the contempt. That’s just an old saying, doesn’t always have to be true. “Will” came in, another local that I met the other night, a black dude from California. I asked him how he found himself in Florida. “Divorce” he said. I didn’t ask for details but I should have, might have been an interesting story. He knew the Aussies new best friend. Meanwhile the table of sideways hat wearing punks was taking turns trying to sing various hip-hop songs. They didn’t get much applause especially from the older dudes. Not too many older women though, they were either gone or thought better of joining their men. This has to be one of the great prerogatives of getting old – if you don’t want to do it you don’t have to. Something to look forward to. Another couple in their 40’s seem to be finding romantic inspiration in the smoke filled poorly entertained Larry the Lizard lounge. She wasn’t too bad looking, but he looked like Squiggy with glasses. She was more into it then he, but I didn’t see him complaining. He might be getting lucky tonight. We can’t all be lucky, but we can be alive!

For lack of a better term, “Big Hair” comes in and glances sideways at me a couple of times. She had way too much belly hanging over her Capri jeans for me to return the favor. Better to remain cool and act like I didn’t notice – something bad could happen if I slipped up. I’ve been here before a few times – fortunately I didn’t slip up. She got her drink and went outside after a bit. One nice thing about Florida – except for a couple of months the nights are nice and well suited to chilling out out-of-doors. I would like to figure out how to spend more time in Florida, especially in the winter.

After 2 double-Jacks I still didn’t want to sing so I figured it was time to head out. I have sung karaoke before, but it seems it took 3 double-Jacks. Besides, I have to get up in the morning to fly home again, home again. I like leaving home, but I like returning even more. The Jack costs a lot less too, and nobody will pressure me to sing Karaoke, unless I want to. Nobody else will be home, I just might do it.

S* and a friend of hers wanted to go shopping at the mall. Not my favorite pastime but then again I heard Circuit City was having killer deals thanks to going out of business. Killer deals when a business is closing must be the ultimate put-down for a retail business. Buy at great prices now that we’ve decided we can’t compete, get ‘em while they’re hot! A salesman is turning in his grave as we speak. I’ve never quite understood that expression. What does turning in your grave have to do with anything? First of all – they are dead so can’t really turn anywhere, unless they are on a rotisserie. I’ve never seen that accessory on a casket. Who would get the unenviable job of putting the corpses on the skewer? I suppose like everything else you’d get used to it. It reminds me of a “field trip” I participated in as a youngster, when perhaps 12 or 13. Through the church I knew a man who worked at Dartmouth College, as a night watchman or some such job involving staying up all night and not doing very much. He worked in, or at least had keys to, the medical school basement which is where they operated on cadavers. He thought it would be cool to take me for a tour of the facility. I’m not quite sure what he was thinking and it’s hard to think someone would do this today, especially for someone they don’t know very well. The room was quite large and organized in a grid with 10 or 12 platforms on which the cadavers lay. They were preserved and covered in thin plastic so it was plain to see who and what was underneath. I still remember the macabre expressions on many of their faces, and the smell of the place. It was death personified. Of course they were all old people, who else donates their body to be dismantled? Younger people just don’t think about it, or are repulsed by the idea of it. I suspect being old you’ve spent so much time in your body that you just don’t care anymore what happens to it when you die – why not let some pimply kids take ‘em apart? The bodies were in various stages of being taken apart. Each cadaver had on top of it a plastic bag full of varying numbers and types of organs. This was obviously part of the dismantling process. Examination revealed some had joints and other body parts splayed apart like the block of an engine being rebuilt. Forgot about losing their teeth, these people had lost their knuckles, joints, eye balls, scalps and a vital organ or two! Martha have you see my liver? The things you remember as a kid. This memory may explain my heightened sense of mortality and somewhat morose vision of the universe. I’m morose? It’s like I don’t know myself anymore! On second thought – let’s scratch the morosity (I know – not a word) and stick to “heightened sense of mortality”, doesn’t sound so depressive.

Are you seeing the connection to the death of Circuit City? The brain does work in mysterious ways, the way it connects thoughts and memories. I read an article recently arguing that we need a new definition for the brain. It is commonly thought of as a “massively parallel processor” but in reality this doesn’t really explain how the brain works. Turns out to be a poor analogy. This is why we have yet to develop a computer that even remotely resembles the brain. It is able to process information in ways that defy such a simple explanation. It reminds me of a recent article I read providing examples of how the brain can “read” when only the first and last letters of the written words are correct. The middle letters can be all jumbled yet most people can still read it. Now that I’m thinking about it – I think this was a spam txt making the rounds. Does that count as an “article”? A computer would fail at this so hopelessly, unless it was programmed specifically for this task, that it’s laughable. Of course the brain IS doing a lot of things simultaneously, such as my ability to think and type at the same time, but the analogy falls apart when you consider the interconnectedness of the different parts. The brain is more like a massively interconnected web of functions and memories, the paths of which defy simple explanation. Even more challenging, it is able to continually redefine itself, for example a memory recalled becomes more easily recalled in the future. It is constantly constructing new links between thoughts and memories. Some have likened it to the World Wide Web but even that is such a simple model it isn’t very helpful. We also have many instinctual capabilities that defy simple explanation. In other words our ability to react without thinking, for example dodging or catching a ball that is thrown at us. We don’t think about it – we just do it. Try that Mr. Supercomputer!

We made it to the mall and divested ourselves of the girls. They had important trips to the clothing and accessory stores, N* and I needed to hit Circuit City and get some good deals on who knows what because I couldn’t really think of anything I needed. It’s the American Way. I recently bought my big-ass tv from Circuit City, in fact I was a little fearful at seeing the deal I could have gotten had I waited a month. A time delayed buyers remorse if you will. This also is the American Way. The American Way revolves around the psychology of consumer spending, 70% of our GDP is consumer spending. China appears to be approximately 48%. Winding our way through Bon-Ton to get to Circuit City I saw some killer deals on clothes, 70% off the already sale prices. I made a mental note. Once inside Circuit City it was quickly apparent we weren’t getting any killer deals today, the line for the 2 registers snaked to one side of the store and halfway back to the other side. Can you believe we weren’t the only ones looking for Demise Deals? Yes I just coined the term, look for it to be in common usage soon! I hate waiting in line. We wandered around, sure enough the tv I bought was about $300 cheaper. Oh what a month would have bought me! We came upon the leather bound sofa equipped viewing “room”, vacated no doubt by all the shoppers waiting in line. The Adam Sandler movie 50 First Dates had just started, what better way to spend shopping than by watching a movie! N* and I settled comfortably into the chairs, between us was a table with the top about to fall off. It seemed the right place for such broken furniture, if broken furniture can convey greater meaning, which of course it can! Halfway through a fat older woman asked to sit down, she looked and sounded like she had enough killer deal shopping. I said ok, but that invited her big ass to push me off the love seat sized sofa. Welcome to America! She also appeared to be half deaf and asked us to turn the volume up. I’m half deaf too so I couldn’t argue with that. Fortunately she didn’t stay long.

The movie is one of Sandlers better ones, although it is seriously sappy. It’s about a woman whose memory got broken by a car accident, she wakes up every day not remembering anything from the previous day. How do you date someone like that? Adam figured out a way but the movie doesn’t have the predictable Completely Happy Ending (not that one, the OTHER one!) which makes it more compelling. They get married, have a daughter and go sailing the world studying walruses (yes it could happen) but she still wakes up every morning not remembering much of the previous day. She watches a movie about her life every morning to remember she has a family and it closes with her holding her daughter and crying, which I’m guessing she probably does every morning because she would have forgotten that she did that the previous morning. Oh the conundrum! I liked the movie though, sappiness and unrealistic premise and all. I felt teary in fact. I can be a sentimental boob at times which is always strange for me. I may have been tired, I get emotional when I’m tired.

Just as the movie was ending and I was wiping my tears (I’m exaggerating a little for effect) Savannah called looking for us. It seems the excursion had neared its Happy Ending. Dad we are waiting at Old Navy. Where are you? We are watching a movie in Circuit City. Watching a movie? I thought you wanted to go shopping? I remembered the Bon-Ton, on our way back out I bought two $60 shirts for a total of $23. I don’t really need any shirts but I needed them more than I needed some electronics which I couldn’t even recollect anyway. N* really liked the movie too, he is a funny kid. Sappy sentimental movies register with him too. He drives me crazy but I think that’s largely because he is such a chip off the old block. Looking at ourselves in the mirror seems to lead to unpleasant feelings. I’m too tough on myself that’s for sure, and I’m too tough on N*. He remarked afterwards that this was the best shopping trip he had ever been on. I agreed completely. Sad in a way to see Circuit City go bye-bye, number 2 retailer in this country and 34,000 jobs, *poof* goned (you’ll see that expression in common usage soon too). America needs to re-tool though, and the death of some retailers seems a good place to start, assuming of course that it is a start. Time, as always, will tell. It is the end of the world as we know it, or at least for Circuit City, but I feel fine.

I love my kids but sometimes they drive me crazy. The trip might not be long and arduous to start with, so I suppose it’s not fair to blame my insanity entirely on them.  Where does it all come from, the insanity that is? We live in a crazy world, a world of bizarre irrationalities, we care so much about global warming yet the real threats to humanity such as the 20,000 nuclear weapons pointed every which way seem to escape our notice. Where did things go wrong? To believe the Bible, which I don’t, it began with THE WOMAN, and her beguiling lure of Adam into depravity. I suspect Eve was simply hot and Adam, having been created at some distant undisclosed point in the past, was horny. He just may not have known it at the time. Out of the pool they went, and the rest is history as they say. Mankind is still recovering from these transgressions, both getting kicked out of the pool and pining after the hot women. Personally, I can’t claim much enlightenment.

Every time I go into the bathroom the hand towel is on the floor. How many times have I asked my kids to make sure it gets hung up? The stars will sooner stop rising in the evening than they’ll remember to hang it up. How many times have I reminded them to brush their teeth in the morning? More times than Constantinople was invaded by the Turks, only to have them decide they liked the place and stayed. How many times have I suggested that when using the last of the toilet paper on the roll that they reach into the drawers directly in front of them to replace the roll with a new one? Have I ever seen this done? I will see the roll taken out and placed in some handy location, the shelf next to the toilet, on the back of the toilet, but not the roll. The leaves will sooner stop falling from the trees come fall before the roll is replaced when empty.

It’s like asking a cat to follow rules of the house, or participate in controlled ways. They are above such trivialities and mundanities (yes that’s a word – I think) as the rest of animal-kind are burdened with. They won’t even chase a mouse if their mood doesn’t suit them quite right. They’ll come and visit you – if they want to, if not you can just continue to stand there like a fool using whatever call you think works, which can run the gamut from whistles, generic “here kitty kitty kitty”, to their actual names. I know every cat knows their actual name, but isn’t it a sign of subservience to acknowledge it to your “owner”? No cat is subservient to their “owner”, as you can’t “own” a cat, you can only house them temporarily, until they get tired of the food you are providing them and they move out to be with more accommodating neighbors, or they die. I had a cat up until a year ago or so, Nema was her name. She was a good cat and the epitome of cat-like behavior. She also had a habit of turning on your hand while you were petting her, she would be purring contentedly and then in a flash turn and bite and claw it ferociously. She had a look in her eye when she did this, something like (if you can believe my cat interpretation skills) “Yeah, I was enjoying your affection, but now I’ve decided to have some fun with you and pretend your hand is a pork chop, not that I like pork chops, but if I did and I was eating one this is exactly what I would do.” It was a sad day when I had to put her down because she could barely walk, was passing blood and in obvious distress. She looked up at me and pled with me to end her pain, which I did. I miss Nema. In her stead I have 3 kids which behave remarkably similarly. Immune to my pleadings, responsive to my affection but in their own ways, and only with me temporarily, or at least until the food holds out.

Then again my kids always have a way of redeeming themselves. Before leaving for Manitoba my son N* came outside in the dark to give me a hug and say goodbye. It wasn’t even 6am. I heard his door open and wasn’t sure what he was doing, I thought the truck starting might have woken up. What are you doing up? Dad, I set the alarm so I could say goodbye to you! I hugged him and kissed him and told him I loved him. The towels, teeth and toilet paper suddenly didn’t seem that important. My daughter will always come into my bedroom and kiss me goodnight if I forget to come in and say goodnight to her. My other son made me a Fathers Day card, a stencil, that said “I love you Dad. I wish you could live forever.” How can I care about the mundane when my kids see such a larger picture of what is important. If someone wants you to live forever does it really matter whether the toilet paper holder has the roll on it? If someone wants to say goodnight does it really matter whether shoes have always been taken off before going into the house? I can learn something from my children, that’s why I love them so much and can’t imagine what my life, and who I would be, without them. I also need to get another cat.

I’m with my kids and we are visiting the Goshen Ocean. This is pond that was created by the US Army Corps of Engineers on a minor tributary of the Sugar River, in Goshen NH. It’s memorable because it caused quite a stir in the town at the time when I was growing. The Corps seized the land with eminent domain and we were very good friends with the Pertuccios, who owned a large chunk of property in Goshen and the proposed “Goshen Ocean” would bisect their property in an ugly fashion. The government being what it is, the Army no less, of course got their way, and the Pertuccios got their pittance for their bisected property.

In the dream I’m explaining these details to my kids. I’ve brought my canoe and we are now paddling across the pond. I’m on the lookout for a trail, this would be the trail that I rode on with the husband Pertuccio, I can’t remember his first name of. He had an old Wiley jeep and had made a road through/around his property, this included building his own bridge across the brook that has since disappeared into the pond. Interestingly I’m telling my kids in the dream about our adventures traveling their property, bouncing up and down in the jeep, and even describing the size of the boulders we traversed in the jeep. The boulders were trial sized, impossible to traverse in a jeep, but nonetheless we did. It is a dream after all, certain liberties are acceptable under the circumstances. In actuality we NEVER got to take our ride in the jeep – but I always wanted to badly. I traversed those boulders, and the trail, vicariously in my dream. I also always wanted to go shooting at the Pertuccios and my Dad at one point promised to do this but this never materialized either. This is my Dad, long on words, short on actions. He never once came through with his promises for us. Do I sound like I haven’t gotten over it? I hope not! Hey, I’m not dead yet!

We see several paths around the “ocean” but I can’t remember which is the right one. In real life the trail exited the brook into a wooded property, in my dream it’s something like an open field with worn paths that were each once roads of some sort, like wagon ruts. We pick one that looks promising and disembark from the canoe. We start walking up the path, in leads over a wooded hill, through some pucker brush then another pond appears. Interestingly this pond looks like Rand Pond, which we grew up on. There are small cabins and docks around the pond. There is a recreation cabin that looks just like the one on Rand Pond. Occasionally my brother and I would walk down to the recreation cabin at the campground on Rand Pond. I don’t think we were allowed there as it was intended for the guests of the campground, once when we told our Dad where we had gone he got quite upset and forbid us from going there ever again. That didn’t stop us though, but it seems with the fear of our father that we possessed we weren’t quite as enthusiastic after that, more like fearful. Plus they often didn’t have any ping-pong balls around for the tables, and it’s tough to play ping-pong without a ball. There was a machine that dispensed them but it took 2 quarters and we didn’t usually have any money. Same problem.

Inside the room is a ping-pong table, my Dad and a woman. The woman appears to be about my age and actually resembles T*, my cousin on my Dad’s side of the family. I have one cousin on each side of my family – that’s it. They both have the same name. I’m not sure what that means. I have a small family? Sometimes it seems too big. The woman is attractive and in the dream I’m attracted to her. She has an Eastern European accent. I think about how long it’s been since I’ve been on a date and how I miss being with a woman. In reality I do indeed miss being with a woman, but it seems mostly I just miss the sex. She is wearing a grey sweater with blue jeans. Unfortunately she appears to have some kind of relationship with my Dad – the nature of which is not clear. I start chatting with her, making small talk. We talk about the ping-pong table. She agrees to meet me for ice cream the next night. In the dream though I become repulsed thinking about having sex with a woman that has had sex with my father. Fortunately I think that is normal to be repulsed by such a thought. I can’t say all of my dreams feature normal human behavior, we’ll make an exception in this case.

Night before last I broke up with R*, assuming that 2 dates qualifies for “break-up” status. I think it does. We definitely got pretty close given the limited time together. Don’t forget phone and email! She is a sweet girl and a part of me feels bad about it – even now. It had to happen though. I’ve got no time for project women, and so far all the women I’ve met are projects. I could have an attitude problem as most women seem to have some degree of “project” to them, so do I accept the “project” or not? To say “Not” means I’m alone, which coincidentally is where I find myself! Yes I understand, not really a coincidence!

Breaking up is hard to do. I want a relationship to work and every woman has the potential for something better, but I develop a feeling early on where a relationship is going to go, then events that transpire have a way of proving my feelings right. I’ve realized one important lesson – women that contact me, as R* did, are somewhat desperate. They need something in their lives and they don’t have enough other interests to be “engaged” sufficiently so they don’t have time for such perusing. Maybe this is somewhat cynical, but it seems true. What, me cynical? It’s like I don’t know myself anymore! Speaking of which, I need to write more humor. I do think about things in funny ways, but for some reason my writing is overwhelmingly negative. I can be funny, believe me! Ah, who am I kidding?

Getting back to breaking up. Breaking up is hard mostly because of guilt. You feel bad having invested time and energy into a possibility and don’t want to disappoint the other person. I’ve also learned that sex should be put off as long as possible, this confuses the emotions and makes the guilt trip more severe. R* made it relatively easy though. We hadn’t had sex. I already had some doubts brewing about our future when she sends me a text at 11PM on a night before a business trip, which she knew I was going on, asking me to call, only for me to find out she wanted to labor the topic of her “abusive” first husband and her inability to deal with the fact that while they are no longer married that he is still the father of 2 of her children and God Forbid he should want to see them a few times a year. I tried to offer my point-of-view which was a big mistake, it got turned around into a statement by her that “I don’t understand victim mentality”. That’s right, I only grew up with an emotionally and mentally abusive father, but what do I know about “victims”? I’m a man also, but that also doesn’t qualify me for much in this department. I do understand though the connection that a father feels for his children, whether he is a good father or not, and the challenge it is for women that have been mistreated by their one-time husband to separate their feelings to allow them contact with their children. So many women extend their feelings regarding their childrens father and are unable to separate their children from themselves. The result of course is that their children miss out on the experience of knowing their fathers, for better or worse. Even a bad father, unless the child is in obvious harms way, deserves to have the opportunity for a relationship with their children.

But hey, what do I understand? As if to put the final nail in the coffin that I was already pretty much finished assembling the next day she sends me a “chain” text message as follows:

“Find a guy that calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him. Who will stay awake just to watch you sleep. Wait for the guy who kisses your forehead. Who wants to show you off to the world when you are in your sweats. Who holds your hand in front of his friends. Wait for one who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares about you and how lucky he is to have you. Wait for the one who turns to his friends and says “That’s her.” If you open this you have to forward it to 10 people or you will have bad luck in love for the rest of your life!!!”

Seriously, who comes up with this shit? First of all, THAT MAN DOESN’T EXIST! Why is this so hard for women to understand? Second of all, if they REALLY want such a man then they really should spend their time working on BEING this type of woman. How many women are like this? NOT MANY. Many women are rather self-absorbed and self-centered. This isn’t to say men aren’t either, but men are much less capable of hiding their inadequacies. Many women can pretend very convincingly to be someone else, and then expect to find the man who will be so good to them. If I needed further convincing of my feelings about R*, well that did the trick! I am obviously not up to being her man, because to be her man would mean being a 10x better person than her. What kind of relationship is that? Get a reasonable view of yourself and your limitations, then you’ll have basis for finding someone who reasonably meets your expectations.

I wrote her back, “it seems u hv me confused wth smone else-I’ll try to call tom nite”. The phone call the next night was short and sweet, well not literally sweet, figuratively we’ll say. I could tell from her pensive tone when she answered the phone and during the introductory chit-chat that she was expecting the “train has reached the end-of-the-line” conversation. I suggested that our scheduled date for a few nights hence was not a good idea, and in general, while I had a good time with her so far, I didn’t feel it was a good idea to see each other further. She asked for an explanation to which I explained that she deserved a great guy, and I wasn’t such a guy. She disagreed with me, but I assured her that she didn’t know me very well and I really wasn’t a nice man. This is true of course, but what I really meant by this is that she has so many issues that it WOULD take a much better man than myself to co-exist peacefully with her. After 2 dates and a few phone calls I could already feel my patience for her defeatist, sexist, ex-bashing, take no responsibility attitude, plummeting faster than Little Boy on his way to toast Hiroshima. Poor Japs. She wanted an explanation but I kindly explained I didn’t have good experience with such, after all why ruin the possibility of friendship by explaining everything? What is there to explain anyway? Didn’t work out, keep on truckin’, life goes on.