Crash Course

In love is out of control.

Be A Man

A man that acts without innocence is a man that has lost his intimacy.

Back Pain

My hand on her back, cupping my fingers on her shoulder and then sliding slowly downward. This is a condescending motion for me. It began with the way my father touched my mother. It was a way of feeling bad about a situation but continuing it. It was unfair and unjust and the other has no idea what it all means other than an endearing motion. I have always wanted to be truthful and when I touch this way, I know beyond my pitiful consciousness exactly what I'm doing. I am feeling sorry for her with each stroke, hurting her as my empathy draws me closer. It is as far as I can reach out to her within my deficient means.. it's as little as I can offer. I keep her away at arm's length. The back always remains strong and I wonder what I am doing here.

Oil Crisis

Who doesn't have a cheap friend? Like a real, downright cheap pal. It becomes an art form watching them operate: calculating and always precise, mouthing numbers as they attempt to add and subtract their portion of the bill in their heads...

He always comes prepared to dinner. He breaks a 20 before arriving. He has all types of permutations to make exact change.

This particular friend of mine strikes some memories on the issue. He was the thrifty sort that upon a purchase of a meal surpassing 8 dollars, I could only imagine his banking fraud department telephoning him immediately inquiring if there were any strange behaviors concerning his banking activity. He uses phrases such as, "what's the damage?" when he owes less than 5 dollars to the collective pot. I have never seen him splurge for a drink with his meal; he'll order water for everyone, being certain to clarify that it should not be bottled water.

This was a learned behavior. His father was the master; simply the best at the game. His old man amassed a considerable fortune during his life and discovered the perfect means to horde it all. During a period of time when the mother was not in the best health, his old man won a free flight across the Atlantic. She was expressing her desires to travel the world. I remember our friend being asked, "so how did your mother like the trip?" He returned a puzzling stare and replied, "My father only won one ticket.."

So, the war in the middle east may have began right here. Black gold.. and it was a fight to the end.. the end of the tank: the gas tank. The father and son shared the rights to drive the family's prized possession: the '92 Honda. Alright, the story did take place about 5 years ago, so adjust the time frame. Nonetheless, it became a game between the father and the son, to use the car and return it with the least amount of gasoline possible.

You can see the anticipation on my friend's face on a cold winter morning.. waiting to see what the Price-is-Right wheel falls on when the engine starts. Sure enough, the orange light flickers, and two smirks form within this frigid car. We both know the game. The needle shoots forward as our eyes follow its rise to glory, then sink back down to reality.. empty. He shakes his head in anger of being left with no gas yet again. Yet, it wasn't clear if he was shaking his head in homage to the perfected method of a master thriftsman. "I'll get him for this.." he mumbles...

Winter. Stuck at 8 am, lips chattering, fingers stiffening, toes unable to move. Heat would we asking too much.. I'd have to jettison my books to drop the extra weight in exchange for a little bit of heat. I assure you, the favor will be returned. Barely making it to a gas station driving under 25 miles per hour, we had a line up of cars behind us that reassembled a presidential convoy. The gas station was an oasis after a dangerous, depraved journey.

"Fill 'er up 4 dollars worth," was the usual command to the attendant.. but this time we only had self-serve. He had to take a morning bathroom brake, so I was in charge of pumping the petrol. He said, "'till 4, then shut it down!" as he made his way to the men's room.

I jammed the pump in, and turned my back to cover from the wickedly cold wind. I let that baby rip, passing 4 dollars in the first 30 seconds.. I saw the numbers shooting higher and higher and I thought of the electronic billboard markers in NYC that are tracking the US national debt: ..8..9..10.. the numbers were rolling in slow motion, it was a montage, filled with numbers past and present. He came around the corner and saw the pump still going strong, and knew there was no way the 4 dollar limit could be sustained. "Yowzers!.. what's going on?? Stop it! Only 4! Only 4, no more!"

"I thought you said fourteen.."

"I said 4!"

The gas pump stopped at $12.57. We both looked down in shame. He was furious, I could just tell as he reached in to his pocket. Then I heard a snicker which turned into a raving laugh. "What?"

He looked at me with a memorable grin, "I took my father's gas card by mistake! It's on him!"

I suppose there are only losers in this story. Actually, as an update, the 92 Honda needed servicing in the near future from this episode (let me tell you how long it took them to make the decision to have the car serviced). The car was soon to be laid to rest. "The mechanic told us the car is completely rusted. The gas tank never had more than 1/8 of gas for the past 8 years, so it rusted inside out."

This is the way some live their lives. When I have the energy, remind me to tell you about their septic tank issues. Good grief.

thou shall not envy..

I was privy to a strange, out of context conversation as I exited the elevator late tonight.

A portly man, with a British accent spoke to an older Indian woman while accompanying her to the garbage shoot in the hallway. He turned to her and stated,

“.. and then he made the most unpleasant comment about my rottweiler being better endowed than myself.”

Ground control

Have you every thought that we are just a smaller versions of ourselves trapped in our heads, in one big control room. Moving levers and pushing buttons to move arms, wrists, legs and toes. We hide behind our eyes like the accountant hides behind his glasses. It's hard to truly know what someone is feeling or thinking behind all of our layers. When we drown, the same motions are made to grab oxygen as the flow of the gears shifting about to fend off frustration, up there, all alone, in the control room.

Drugstore Cowgirl

One of my better friends is courting a girl that needn't be courted. I have never met her but his stories are absurd. First, she was disappointed that she did not have the time to pop some percasetts nor dilaudid before seeing a movie.. or as a last resort, sneak in a bottle of Jack.

She asked him to attend a fund raiser for the victims of the Katrina hurricane. She told him that there would be lots of finger foods and an open bar for 40 bucks a head. Probably, the classiest part of her proposition would probably have been the part when she told him that she usually has to safety-pin a note to her sweater before attending an open bar. The note would contain writings of her address so someone, anyone, can wheel barrel her home when she gets influenced by overwhelming alcoholic toxins.

I asked him how he felt about this. To my surprise, he answered that he thought it is good for two reasons. One, is that she will be more “available” when she gets trashed.. and two, now he will finally know where she lives.

Maybe cupid drank some 80 proof.

Trust Walking

Do you work with any older guys, the ones who have been called "dinosaurs" for devoting most of their life to just one cause or organization, thrown around the ringer for many years as they approach retirement? You know, the ones that wait for anyone that will listen to them, always hiding around the corner of the office with a cup of coffee and a snide remark concerning upper management. The ones that tell you the same story over again from time to time, not only telling their stories, but reliving them as they speak.

I remember two years ago, I was in our cafeteria with such a coworker, who has a surprisingly wonderful sense of humor for someone having been divorced, having battled through substance abuse and now clinging on to his job amidst rumors of being next on the list to be let go. He over-rationalizes his work day's accomplishments to combat the mounting small talk of his lack of productiveness and initiative.

Back then, he spoke to me about not being able to trust anyone in this world but yourself. "People cheat you, people screw you over, people leave you in the cold, people change on you, people die before you.. the only one you can truly count on and trust is yourself." I remember how I nodded to the beat of his words to keep his aging engine alive during a cold, bleak winter afternoon, although I really wish I could express my disagreement to his words.

I had lunch with this fellow again this afternoon, as we were both in training at a ridiculously distant location. He repeated this story to me again, and this time, it was a cool late summer day, and again I nodded to the beat of his words, but this time to keep my engine alive. I really wish I could express how much I agreed with his words.

There's someone for everyone..

Taken from a website, listing interesting classified ads..

Yesterday:

You looked ravenous at the McDonald's on my corner. I was scavenging in the trash for leftovers when our eyes met; then I saw a half-eaten McNugget. Glanced up and you were gone. Dessert? Meet me at the corner of Sixth and Vine.

Checkpoint Charlie

We decided to go out one day, out to a social environment. I was among 2 other males, all in our late 20's, so the three of us inherently appeared to crave women. In fact, at that time, we all simply wanted to do something typical, like going to a bar. I hadn't been out in almost a year, but when we did go out, we usually frequent working class establishments. This time we were in a different city (Halifax), just looking for a place to unwind and relax, kick back, and try a local beer and pretend that we knew the difference. All the places within our vision had that corporate TGI Fridays look, with the formula mahogany tables and Old English fonts.. not the sawdust we were accustomed to frequenting.

As expected, we were stopped immediately at the door by a bouncer, who began to inspect us like a male chimp does when a female chimp is introduced to the cage. I peered into the establishment, and as I figured, the place was missing something.. customers. Anyway, back to checkpoint charlie.. he asked for our identification and we all took out our driver's licenses.

He began asking simple questions like our names, what state we lived in, and any other clever questions he could infer from a New York State driver's license. Then he began to stare at my friend's license in particular. It must have been close to a minute. I wonder which word was giving him difficulty..? Meanwhile, three girls walked in, right past us without the spot check.

I realized what was occurring.. the bouncer was staring at my friend's picture on his driver's ID. It was taken when his hair was quite long, down to his shoulder blades. It was objectively a terrible look. He looked like his older sister wearing a wig. Currently, his hair is quite short. The bouncer turned to him and said, "Is this really you?"

"Yup," said my pal while casually nodding his head.

"Okay, just doesn't look like you. Do you have a sis-"

He quickly interjected, "It was taken a while ago.. I know, I know.. the hair."

The bouncer looked again at the picture with a sour look on his face, "How old are you?"

"According to my ID, I'm a dirty old man."

We all began to snicker, even the bouncer. We thought that would help us through. We actually wound up getting refused on account of my attire. I was wearing camouflage pants. Somehow this was against the dress code. Needless to say, Navy crew members were all around the city that weekend. This was the third time in my life that I was refused entrance due to my attire. When will I ever learn that in order to best supply my funds to an establishment, I must conform to the image that is needed to milk the rest of the suckers. A half an hour wasted being interrogated and we couldn't get into an empty bar. Typical. Just typical.