Larry In The Burbs

2006-09-22T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm having an identity crisis. Help me, please.

2006-09-20T07:50:00.000-07:00

I think I'm fat again.

2006-07-04T19:05:00.000-07:00

I've taken the neighbors to be hostile enemy combatants by the way they're lobbing an aerial bombardment in my direction. Their bombs are exploding feet above my peaceful hut under the oak tree and I wait anxiously enough for the straw to catch flame from an errant ember.
It's no longer North versus South like last year, but neighbor versus neighbor, brother against brother. Thinking my life to be in danger I went to the house and grabbed my Remington shotgun and pointed it at the neighbor lighting the fuse of another missile. Little did he know my gun was loaded with blanks but when he heard the report and saw the sparks he jumped like he took the double ought in the chest. After rubbing his hands across his body several times and found out his skin was still in tact, he actually had the balls to call the police on me.
Hey, pal, the next time they won't be blanks.

2006-06-16T22:59:00.000-07:00

Hmmph. Almost forgot about this thing here. I guess everyone else did too. Things change -- and that's good. For instance, I haven't drank gin in almost a year. Say hello to some good rum and for the cold days tasty Scotch. Yum! St. Peter knocked on my door not too long ago and gave me a bottle. I was skepticle at first but let him in after he answered several questions in a satisfactory manner. I still can't believe he survived being run over and found his way home. I shall try harder next time. Whatever, nobody knows what the hell I'm talking about anyway. I could say anything I want like I shit in Jay's pillow case and he still slept through the night and woke up with the worst case of dragon breath. Better yet, he blamed the pillow case incident on the cat. That's one big fucking cat, killer, but how else could one explain such an atrocity.
Eat shit. Hit the hay.
Larry

2006-04-07T23:53:00.000-07:00

When the one woman who was your writing mentor -- the one who encouraged you and made you want to write -- dies unexpectadly, too young and not on her terms, are you expected to write something about it? Do your feelings really matter any more? Your thoughts? My words mean nothing right now, and perhaps they never will. But that does not make me upset -- just thankful I had the chance to create a voice with the support and depth of someone who meant something. That's enough for me.

Larry

2006-01-08T00:56:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time and I don't care. Only when the planets align correctly can I discuss my thoughts properly and now is the moment. I can only handle so much of the Catholic religion and its proper, respectful properties before I have to pick up the computer and look like I'm busy with important work to avoid the intense, deep discourse evolving in my living room right this minute.
Unfortunately, this is real, I can't conjur this from my horribly miscued imagination -- even with or without a bottle of gin sitting on the table in front of us. I've given up. My head is spinning from the evil of something and I'm squirming with the discomforts of being loaded off of rum and trying to make sense of all this religious conversation that makes as much sense as putting a V8 in a chevette. I can't take much more -- bed is the only thing I can deal with at this point. Someone will be puking in the bushes -- but it won't be me. I'll be in bed listening with comfortable ears, laughing dearly at their ignorance and intolerance. Holy crap. I hope I don't die in the process.

2005-11-26T02:20:00.000-08:00

St. Peter showed up on my doorstep drunk last. I asked where in the hell he's been the past two weeks, and he couldn't tell me. Apparently, he hitchhiked home - at least to the Mississippi River for what I can tell - and walked the rest of the way here.
He mentioned stopping at someone's house for Thanksgiving, but the in-laws ignored him and he stole their Scotch and drank it under a pine tree until the sun went down. It was the moon, he said, that kept him warm, and this theory puzzled me. I explained to the drunk St. Peter that the moon only reflects, not radiate, and he created a horrible scene by throwing stones and a chair at me and called me a heathen because I told all his friends he was a liar. He soon apologized for the emotional outburst and admitted it was the Scotch which got him through the cold November afternoon and evening.
I thought it best to forgive and asked him what happened to the Freightliner and St. Peter looked at me in a very perplexed manner. He had no idea what I was talking about and it was obvious the old truck we stole from the neighbor was a gonner. I'll come up with an excuse for the neighbor later about the whereabouts of his truck.
Truly, I'm just happy the guardian of the pearly gate is home. He said there's good in the world, just not at my house - probably because I wouldn't poor the bastard another drink. I asked St. Peter where is this good? He said, "Everywhere but here, you stingy sonofabitch."
"No shit, Jack," I returned, "there's good everywhere? Prove it."
Of course, he couldn't. St. Peter just said I'd have to take his word for it. And I probably will. After all, he's The Lord's No. 1 man and he would never lie to me.

2005-11-12T01:30:00.000-08:00

I've taken to this lonely night by reading over other people's blogs. It's hard to explain what I've witnessed to this point except there are some extremely weird, depressed, and sad people out there. I wonder if a person who happens upon my blog thinks the same. Perhaps they would just think I'm some kind of alcoholic who abuses gin in excess and belittles himself for the sake of enjoyment and entertainment. In fact, I'm not an alcoholic; I don't go to meetings. Furthermore, I don't soak myself in gin. I haven't done that in quite some time. I am proud to say that I have switched to rum, rather expensive rum I might add, and enjoy every drop. It makes me feel like I'm sitting on a boat, gunkholed off some island no one has ever heard of. I like rum if for only that reason. Sugar cane is much easier on the system compared to the juniper berry. Don't get me wrong, gin is my friend - always will be - but rum kind of feels like the girlfriend's best friend staying the night. The girlfriend is on her best behavior to make a good impression and deep down, there's the slightest hope something really weird will happen after they both drink a little too much red wine. That's the closest I can get in describing rum. And with that, I prove to all who ever wondered: Yes, I may just possibly in the slightest way have a drinking problem because when it comes down to it, booze is a wonderful diversion from writing something half serious and drinking is definitely an oasis to the crap I deal with on a daily basis.
If my life were a basket of peaches, I doubt I would ever sip anything. Well, I'd probably drink something just to get rid of the boredom. But in my current set-up, I drink to the thought of boredom and having nothing serious to contemplate. I think I should go to the meeting.
Moving on - back to blogs - I get the feeling there are a bunch of sad, lonely people out there wishing they had some guy or girl to cling to as the night wears on deeper, darker, and colder. I'm here to say, even with a girl to hold on to, one might find himself sitting on the couch, peering at Charlize Theron getting naked in the bathtub, wishing - just once - his old lady would discover her inner passion and want to wear a hat and tie - and nothing more - into the bathroom as you bathe. Hell, I'd take something other than flannel pajamas in the big bed right now.
Right, blogs. It feels like people are really sad and will do anything to let people know who they are. All they want is to stand out. Their lives are as mundane as my writing is senseless. Who cares about it all? Nobody, really. Nobody cares about them. Nobody cares about me. Don't laugh, nobody cares about you. All anyone cares about is themselves and until that changes, blogs will pop up by the truckload and mean absolutely nothing except to one. They're horrible writers and even worse storytellers. Their lives are boring, just like yours or mine, but they think - for reasons Christ himself can't even figure out - they are special. Therefore, they publish the exact time they feed the fish, put shoes on the baby and fill the lawnmower up with gas before deciding it's actually cheaper to give the neighbor kid ten bucks to plow through the grass instead.
Everyone thinks they have a story and are eager to tell it. It's too bad they can't realize that everyone really does have a story and wants to tell it, but by having that story they are just like everyone they are trying to distance themselves from. It's a horrible, horrible cycle, I tell ya. They'd be better off puking in the bushes and calling it a night rather than attempting to make a statement and stand apart from the pack. Damn fools. No one gets ahead. Go ahead, try and make a blog that stands distant from all others and you will quickly find there's a million others just like yours. There is no getting away. There is no answer. There is no individuality. There is no hope. You will never stand out because we won't let you. Just save your sanity and go to bed.

2005-11-09T12:29:00.000-08:00

Wouldn't it figure we'd blow a tire because of a silly little jack some kid left behind just before I nearly ran over him. I kept kicking the mule but the flapping rubber became excrutiatingly loud, so loud that St. Peter shoved his fingers deep into his ears and eventually started crying. He was so embarrassed, he started slugging me with his staff and gave me a great gash above my eye. The blood started to gush down my fase and it eventually blinded me causing our truck to plow into a tour bus full of elderlies coming back from some gambling trip in Branson, Missouri.
I kept the peddle to the floor all the while my hands were flailing around the wheel because I couldn't see from all the blood and St. Peter started smacking me in the back of the head, telling me to get a hold of my self and I said something like, "No time for that, Padre."
I heard a loud pounding noise come from the front of the truck and I thought the big diesel had thrown a rod. I knew we were in for it if that was the case. I listened a little longer and I heard St. Peter mumble, "Oh, I'm sorry my son, but it's not your time yet." I felt comfort in those words, thinking I may just walk away from this debacle I have put not only myself in, but the Lord's No. 1 man as well. "Sure, Father, we'll be fine."
"What? Are you high?" St. Peter asked inquisitively, "I'm talking to that poor soul."
I wiped the blood from my eyes long enough to see St. Peter pointing out the front window. I followed his finger, my vision slightly blurred and moving in slow motion, and saw a 70-something-year-old man pounding on the windshield. I was slightly amazed at the man's vitality and gumption when he realized he finally had my attention and flipped me the bird.
"So, does this mean the motor's fine, Padre?" I asked St. Peter.
"Yep, but you're burning in hell," the robed man said. "And I'm thinking of using my staff as the stake by cramming it up your ..."
I had heard enough and waived good bye to the somebody's grandpa clinging to the hood of the Freightliner. I quickly kicked open the door and flopped to the hard pavement below, and there was a horrible squish sound like a fish being slammed to the sidewalk. I laid there for a few minutes, and figured St. Peter might be turning the truck around to run me over.
"Poor fool," I mumbled to my self, "he doesn't even know how to change a tire. Hell, I wonder if he knows how to drive? Oh well."
With my sympathy pouring out to St. Peter, I was relieved that Grammar class had ended. Scarred? Yes. Beaten? Most definitely. Stake in my butt? Thank the Lord, no.

2005-11-04T11:46:00.000-08:00

Hold on tight Pete, it could get a little weird
It feels like I just walked up to Satan himself and kicked him below the belt and while he was down, I ran to hide under St. Peter’s robe. The best part is, when the Devil came looking for me, I poked my middle finger at him and giggled with infinite delight for St. Peter was doing the same.
Will I get away with all my sins? Who knows. I’ll worry about that Monday morning. But between now and then, I’m going to jump up into the cab of that big Freightliner idling across the street, wrap the diesel tight and when the state police set up a road block to try and stop me, I’ll just pull my hat down tight and bust on through it.
I’ll try to come up with a way to keep Satan and the state militia off my heels on Monday when Monday feels more relevant. Until that moment comes, St. Peter’s riding shotgun, he's stuck his dancing Virgin Mary doll on the dash and we’re going to burn hard until we run out of gas.
Don't bother praying for salvation, just get out of the way.

2005-10-27T23:14:00.000-07:00

I feel as if I should write something in case an important person were to happen upon this and wonder if he or she should contact me for some sort of job. Aw hell, who am I kidding? I'm still alive and I just have to remind myself of that sometimes.
And yes, Oprah, I think the world feels as if she's self destructing because of global warming and thanks for putting half the households in the modernized world into a panic by stating such words. Furthermore, having Leonardo DiCaprio on to discuss this impending doom is a wonderful and strategic pre-emptive step before the world spins itself into a pretzel, tossing us all to the moon. I hope he was good in the Green Room.
Crap, Next time I suppose I should just stab myself in my leg with a pencil.

2005-09-10T12:01:00.000-07:00

I watched the little chipmunk scurry up the big elm tree in the front yard. He caught my attention only because he was making a bunch of noise in the dead leaves that already have started to collect around the trunk. The rustling must have startled him because he stopped and took a couple quick peaks around to see if any predators caught the sound waves and were zeroing in on him. Believing he went unnoticed, the two blonde stripes down his back signaled he was going vertical and he quickly clawed his way up the bark, spiraling in his ascent.
By this time, I had already named him Chuck, if only I could speak of him later to anyone who cared if anything of great significance happened. I always do this, a bizarre tic of mine, and most of the time I do this, the names go unremembered like the moment.
Today was an exception though. My eyes seemed to lock onto his and Chuck paused another moment before continuing his climb to what must have been dizzying heights to such a small animal, maybe thirty feet or so. He switched from the thinning trunk to a branch that came up short in his expectations and Chuck found another with a death-defying leap. I was torn between thinking his brain was far more developed than any human can imagine since his jump was precise, exact and, most of all, complete and believing Chuck's mind was completely scrambled and feeble for making such a hop.
As a human, I would have calculated the jump for minutes, if not longer, rushing all consequences through my mind before doing something so assinine. But then again, I don't climb trees for food and Chuck was the loner at this near-infinite buffet of elm leaves and still-born buds. Smart little chipmunk, I thought, if only I could be so brave to go where no one else dared to go, I could be king of the hill and eat at my own private, un-ending buffet for all the world to look up at me and wonder just how I did it.
I would have been satisfied with my uninterrupted lunch but Chuck seemed to have grown bored and climbed to the smallest twigs on the outer-most reaches of the branch. His weight was flexing the wood heavily and Chuck looked uneasy and decided to leap, this time apparently pausing too long to calculate the effort it would take to make the distance. Before he could launch, the little twig gave way and Chuck made a silent, accelerating descent to the grass below, his trip ending in an ever-so-faint thud as the earth stopped him cold.
I sat bewildered for a few moments, not quite believing what I just witnessed. I've never watched a chimpmunk climb a tree and the first time I did, I watched a chimpmunk fall from a tree, ending his life tragically, needlessly, for he had everything a creature could want: solitude, freedom and food. I would have been happy with that, but then again, I don't climb trees.
Woefully, I grabbed the flat shovel normally reserved for gravel-moving projects out of the garage in back and scooped Chuck up unceremoniously. His body was stiff, legs extending like he was bracing for impact. Chuck's eyes were closed and that bothered me most for he saw the fear of his quickly impending demise and wished not to witness it in the same manner as I. Poor little Chuck, so brave in his moment of greed, didn't deserve to fall to his death. A more true end to his life would have been in the talons of the hawk that was circling high above at the same time he ascended the big elm in my front yard. Instead, gravity grabbed hold first and Chuck's life ended with equality, just like all life on all the planet.
If he only realized, like his brothers and sisters have already, there's plenty of tomatoes, lettuce and zuchini in the garden in back, but no, Chuck wanted that rareified air high above for all to look in astonishment at what he accomplished and have the world to himself. Now Chuck has nothing.

2005-09-04T00:06:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of starting my own project, Big Dull Stuff. It's my last gasp at being famous and keeping the slightest grip on who I used to be. The only hold back right now is I can't kick high enough behind me to bang the base drum strapped to my back. But the cymbal work between my knees is absolutely stellar.

2005-09-01T17:27:00.000-07:00

No, I am not done, but I haven't the energy to create, destroy or settle to the bottom. Dad almost died, but now he's better. School started and I'm up to my teeth in a shit swirl of words, and let us not mention the stress of paying $3.25 a gallon when I drive the 25 miles each way to DeKalb and back every day. No, I am not done but wishing I was.
To combat and offset the ever-climbing costs of every-day life, I've had to shift my focus from God-awful, cheap gin to exponentially worse, cheap beer. Swilling pee would be tastier, and I often wonder if it would deliver the same buzz. A standing theory of mine is if one drinks a bucket of beer and drinks the pee generated by such debauchery, one could catch a buzz, especially if the liver has given up after beaten repeatedly by the equivalent of a baseball bat. Where my talent in disgusting thought excels, my willingness to follow through fails and I am not willing to willingly attempt to prove my theory true, or, perhaps, false. Plus, I've been taking heat from the major beer companies who are madly afraid my theory is correct and would cut into their business exponentially. So I'm looking for a buyout from them and that would pay for the gas that would keep me in college so I can one day reach a point in my life where I don't have to drink my own beer-tinged pee to make a living.
Good Lord, somebody should spray Holy water on me.

2005-08-06T23:14:00.000-07:00

It's a sad day when your best option is to put your own feelings away, ignore the pain that haunts you, the voices screaming loudly in each ear that all is wrong, you are wrong, you can't see the future but you can certainly disseminate here and now. I try to ignore those voices, the screaming, because they look out for none but one, and sometimes I think they may be even a little too screwed up, too far gone, to even worry about. I ignore those thoughts because they are nothing more than turning the knife that is stuck deeply beneath the shoulder blades, the thoughts that everyone else was right and you finally realize you are wrong. I don't like thinking that because no one knew my plans, no one knows if I came up horribly short and exceeded my most wildest dreams. I can't tell anyone because I never thought further ahead than now. I never planned. I never wanted. I only reacted. And being a reactionary gets you far until everyone else realizes you are a fake and then you are back at zero, standing still before step one.
I don't like standing still, but when all of a sudden you try to put a plan together, life moves slower, yet it screams by unabashed, and you can only hope to hold on by your fingertips, thinking some moment, some hour very soon, it all settles like the seventh day and you can take a redeeming breath and live life. Standing still implies death and dead is what I feel a good portion of the time, only because time moves so slowly, I can see no progress. I like progress, it is nothing more than hope and now, hope, therefore progress, is all I have.
Is this the rock bottome everyone has warned me about? I certainly hope not for it is deeper than a nightmare where the only way out is waking up, and I'm afraid what that might mean now. I don't want to wake up. I refuse to wake up for when I do, I will realize all of this is real and I have hit the bottom, staring gazingly above me, wondering how all the others manage to make it to a better place. Rock bottom is Hell incarnate and the Devil just poked me, sneering as I whined once more from the pain I can't stop. I want to slug him but I don't have the guts. If I did, I wouldn't be here. I'd be up there, looking down trying desperately to pull the ones I love from the abyss. But I know that's nothing but a dream as well, I haven't the power, the knowledge, to help anyone when I certainly can't help myself. And I watch as I sleep, tossing and turning, wanting so desperately to wake up and shed myself of the horrible thoughts pictured in my mind but I know if I did, the reality would be so horrible, I could only wish to have my eyes closed again thinking it was a horrible nightmare with an ending instead of a daunting unknown.
I feel this everyday. I witness all around me growing or dying but I stay the same, and I want that. I want to grow or die. I want to move. I want something other than what I have but I have no way of dealing with it. I can't just make a decision. It's not that easy. I don't care if someone else thinks it is, it's not. Decisions take a conscious effort and I have been unconcious forever. This isn't real, at least I hope not, for I would have failed from the very beginning and I have a hard time thinking everyday that I am a failure. But deep down I believe I have. That's what kills me. I think of better but believe the worse and no matter how hard I try, the cycle never ends. I'm nothing more than a dog chasing its tale hoping my heart explodes before everyone watching me thinks I'm a fool.
Negative energy lurks around everyone corner and it never smiles. There is nothing positive with negative. It goes against Mother Nature herself, an opposite reaction for every action. Negative is unforgiving, and today is negative. Tomorrow is negative. I just want to wake up and take that chance, that yesterday was negative but today, well, we'll have to wait and see. That's a start and a start is something. Anything is something and today I'll take something, anything, as long as it is better than nothing with yesterday.
I used to want to be the best, at what, I haven't a clue, but I wanted to be the best at something, just to prove to all those who once told me I wouldn't only be nothing, but worse yet, just average. For even the worse stand out much like the best and therefore are worth something. But my biggest fear is being average, just like the man living next door -- average, already forgotten before they are even known. That's my nightmare.
Make me the worse on my best try but you'll get a smile even when I fail and every person who said they knew it would happen is proven right, but at least they got to see me burn in a huge ball of flame, radiating warmth and light much like the sun. But they would never know that feeling because none would ever take the chance to standout as the center of the universe. The ones who do what they do, successful or not, are like planets, revolving around the one who sustains life, and the only way to be that one person, I find, is to take a chance and burn brightly whether it is pass or fail. And if they laugh at you, take pleasure knowing they are nothing more than a sack of rocks tumbling at your direction, helplessly, unknowingly, for they know no other track and haven't the power to break it. Power is waking up and not caring if it was real or a simple nightmare. Power is nothing more than living another day to live another day. Power is the unconscious where all the noises around you that have no meaning fade into the forever where your reality gets its chance to dig its roots and grow fruit.
Anymore, I pay very little to the conscious where reality rarely survives and put my belief in thoughts burried by everyone else, given up and fruitless, knowing the only way I make a difference is to believe my thoughts are my thoughts, although judged, are the best for me because that is what I tell myself needs to be done, not what others believe should happen with the soul purpose of them telling me they knew best. No one knows best except for myself and myself rules this universe that consists of none but me. My universe is shallow but deeper than comprehension to all men. My only wish is that no one tried to guess its meaning but left it for me to live. It's not an important universe, don't get me wrong, but it's mine and nobody could ever understand it because my thoughts are closed to all human thinking. My nightmares are my demons but my dreams are angels that closely guard me and give me life when all others have damned me and left me for dead.

2005-08-02T13:37:00.000-07:00

It's another one of those days where if it weren't for the umbrella over the patio table, I would be sitting in a corner of the basement, getting as far away from the sun as possible. There's absolutely no breeze and the smoke from my cigar is choking me as it merely wafts in my face, waiting to be inhaled again. It helps very little to wave my hands swiftly in front of me, trying to chase the fumes from nostrils. The movement only makes me look like a mental patient, and I haven't given up on the day entirely, at least not yet.
The girlfriend's parents are back from a month of sailing. Liz's dad was anxious to get back to work on the house, which means he was anxious to get back into harassing me and pushing every single one of my buttons until I was forced to the kitchen and my secret stash and pour a glass to fend off his evilness. Confrontation was inevitable, I knew it the second his truck pulled up, and I only wanted a cushy safety net below before I jumped off the cliff.
I made first contact, walking out the front door and onto the porch where he was working on landscaping the front yard with heavy stone that I stacked neatly to the side. He looked at me and I looked at him and the old man asdked for help.
"Sorry, I'm getting my hair cut in a couple of hours," I replied. "I can't get sweaty."
He stared some more and started laughing. Apparently he thought it was a joke, which I thought was absolutely hysterical because it wasn't meant to be. I was scheduled for a hair cut and no, I didn't want to shower to relieve myself of greasy hair before I go. He then faked a back pain lifting this one hundred pound piece of earth and I hopped down to make sure he wasn't dieing. Before I knew it, I was carrying the piece of stone and the bastard was laughing. It was right then and there I realized I loved the guy. The man was playing me a fool and I accepted the starring role and was enjoying it. There's a certain charm to that guy, he reminds me a lot of , well, me. He's a smartass, a hardass, and truly a warm and loving guy. I just sometimes forget that about him as well as myself. Our only difference is, I don't act like a hardass with my friends, but that's my mistake thinking he is my friend. I learned in those few minutes I should treat my girlfriend's dad the way I did the first time we met, like complete strangers but quickly best of friends.
"Hey, it looks like you've lost some weight," the old man said. "You're looking good."
"Quit hitting on me weirdo," I replied, "you should know I don't go that way by now."
He flashed a brilliant but quick smile before pointing to where the next stone needed to go. "I need that one here with those other two," he continued, pointing to the bend that was going to make a retaining wall in front of the porch.
"Yeah, well, I need my tuition paid for, too," I added selfishly, not even thinking of what could come about next. "But that's not going to happen any time soon."
Liz's dad gave me another quick smile and I began to think a month away from the crap daily life delivers is a good thing.
"All you have to do is ask," he said.
"Ask what?" I questioned.
"Ask for help," the old man added. "A strong man is weak when he doesn't know the right time to ask for help."
Profound words from a man I thought to be as shallow as a mud puddle these days.

2005-08-02T11:02:00.000-07:00

I decided to hit Google and see if my blog came up or not and, of course, I got bored with the idea long before I was recognized. My attention turned instead to checking out the competition, scrolling through blogs with authors named "Larry Andersen." (It's very important to note the "e" in the last name instead of an "o.") I figured only one of us could be famous because of our blog and be featured on some silly television morning news broadcast and receive our fifteen minutes and millions of dollars. I clicked on, well, Larry Andersen, who hails from somewhere in the godforsaken state of Colorado.
Obviously, I've never met the man -- never even talked to him -- so I don't want to judge. But Holy God Almighty is this guy boring. His latest entry was pictures he took with his camera phone while in Hawaii and most of them weren't even focused on cool stuff like half-naked women and the sort but on a fish pond in someone's back yard. That's not quite the path I would have taken to get the attention of all the world, but then again, his blog appeared on Google and mine didn't. As far as I can tell, he's in the lead to be the first famous Larry Andersen and I'm nowhere even near the pack. And if he is the leader, every Larry Andersen on this planet should be ashamed of themselves, myself included, of course.
My blog was meant for nothing more than for me to gain notariety and fame and damnit, that's what I fully intead to receive! Therefore I am changing my name to Adolf Jordan Gacy Andersen and my blog will reflect such. Now I just need a publicist. Take that Larry Andersen!

2005-07-30T23:30:00.000-07:00

Strangest thing happened to me just recently. I found myself with an empty bottle of gin. This was most distressing since I seem to have lopped off my finger tip while slicing a lime. The hell of it is, the lime wasn't even headed for my drink. I beat around the kitchen and the rest of the house looking for my secret stash until I realized there was a bottle in the trunk of my car -- just in case of a break down, I'm sure. To be honest, I can't exactly remember why I put the bottle in the trunk, but all I cared about it was there. The only problem was, there wasn't a bottle of gin, but in stead, there was a large glass bottle with no label. I took a couple whiffs trying to figure out the toxic substance and figured the only way to truely know what I was about to ingest was, well, ingest it. I screwed the cap off and the slug burned like a lit match going down my throat. I stood my ground and hoped to God I wouldn't be headed for the hospital for drinking kerosene instead a simple sewing of a finger tip.
Consciousness still abound, I took another sip and another and very soon I could no longer feel my severed finger or my legs or my lips or my bruised skull from hitting a low-hung sprinkler pipe in a bar. I was numb and damn it, I knew exactly what this putrid crap was. It was some stellar rum I snuck back from the islands several months ago. This was emergency rum, good stuff for bad times and here I was, the wet bar dry as a bone and my finger spurting blood a couple hours after its encounter with the knife.
I had lost enough blood, I'm guessing, to get loaded on a single bottle of Bud, and already I've dropped three large swigs of this high-octane, beast of a booze, and the world was suddenly spinning backwards. All my problems of my recent past disappeared and my new problems were chasing the old ones down in a hurry. I was happy, quiet, relaxed, but not content. I decided to start writing, but instead of in familiar places with orthodox methods, I was scribbling on walls, windows and mirrors with blood. At least this is the story being told to me by the police. As far as they can tell, the last scribbling of mine was, "Help me find my finger," scrawled across the brand-new stainless steel refridgerator.
Apparently I was asking for help but that doesn't seem to be my style. I don't know what my style is, really, but laying in a hospital bed for a few hours isn't it. The doctors gave me blood, set me up with a counselor but failed to put my finger back together -- only because they couldn't find the rest of it.
"I swear I left it on the counter," I remember saying vaguely. Their collective heads shook in disbelief and I felt guilt for I think the first time in my life. The strongly urged me to seek counseling and told them I would if it got me out of the place that much quicker.
So here I sit, my left middle finger wrapped tight and still thumping most of the time. I type with only my right hand and pray I don't have to take the bandages off and see the horribleness I did to myself cutting a lime for someone else's drink. At least I learned from this debacle, that if someone wants a lime in their drink for some silly reason, they're more than welcome to cut it and squeeze it in. More importantly, if life gets a little too twisted a little too quickly, go to the nearest MD you know and plug yourself into an IV. It's amazing how quickly one can recover. And if you lose some of your finger, bite the disgusting bullet and toss it in the freezer. Somehow, that's where mine was found and I don't remember putting it there. There's an angel flying around somewhere for me, carrying a bottle of distilled sugar cane and extra flesh. God bless you and don't hit the brakes. I think it's time to pass out for the second time today.

2005-07-29T15:30:00.000-07:00

The over-produced music could be heard from a distance, but I paid no attention to it. I hear things that normally aren't there and not hear things that are obvious to the deaf. When I was told the ice cream man was coming, I looked in amazement. First, how did she know he was turning the corner? And second, why do I really care?
"So, there's plenty in the freezer," I said.
"Well, I thought you'd want to give him shit like last time," the girlfriend answered.
To be honest, I couldn't remember what she was really talking about until I got the word-by-word transcript read back to me. Foggy moments that I filed in the "Non Too Important" file were quickly retrieved and my memory began a slow and arduous comeback.
"Oh, yeah!" I screamed out loud, beginning to laugh hysterically.
I did give the Ice Cream Man some horrible punishment but I also remember him smiling greatly, knowing his life wasn't the only one on Earth doomed to merely exist but rot a horrible death on anonymity. He actually backed the truck up to speak with me, a conversation that lasted something like three or four minutes.
"Would you like an ice cream cone or popsicle?" the Ice Cream Man asked?
"Oh no," I said, sitting in a chair on the lawn, "I was admiring your persistance."
The man of Mexican discent stopped the truck and backed up, hoping to make a sale on an otherwise hopeless day.
"You made me fat, you bastard!" I screamed at the driver, reverting back to a childhood long ago. He kept smiling, and I thought that was what he believed his job was, until I realized he couldn't speak a lick of English except, the basics like vanilla, chocolate or popsicle.
In truth, I didn't think the illiterate illegal could hear me but when I saw him stop and throw the ice cream truck in reverse, I knew I had some explaining to do. Yes, it is true I used to chase this guy's compadres down and all but force him to give me the goods, but he had no idea who I am and what I once was up to. None of that mattered now except for my embarassment which is so evident since I didn't buy a single thing from him this time. I only I could bring him back and tell him I want a Red White and Blue Bullet, a Dreamsicle, and a Snowcone, just like the old days. We may be friends then, instead of arch-enemies on the wrong side of the curb.
Please come back, Ice Cream Man, please come back.

2005-07-24T22:57:00.000-07:00

Nobody knows me; nobody knows who I am. I am but a transient in this place; I don't live here. I'm just passing through. I will make my small mark upon the wall here and get back on the road.

The situation's rough. A good buddy is having a hard time with shit and I don't know what to say. Lance Armstrong is all over the TV. The man is two years older than me; he's got countless millions and the guy is fucking Sheryl Crow. I can't even think of anything to say to make a good friend feel better. And when I leave this place, I will still be just a nobody, just a fake, just a hack. Gin-and-tonics are small comfort.

At least the Cubs won one.

It's still hotter than a bastard and it's almost 11:00 at night. By the time this is posted it will be after 11:00 and it will still be hotter than a bastard. Is there relief in sight? Alcohol. Yeah, I guess there is.

Have you ever heard of a bar in the city of Chicago called the Matchbox? If you haven't, allow me to lay some description on you. Its claim to fame is that it is the smallest bar in the city, and I can vouch for that. Do NOT go into this bar if you weigh more than 400 pounds, because you will NOT make it out alive. The bar has a little bit of a taper to it as you move toward the back, and I MEAN THIS LITERALLY--when you are sitting at the bar near the back and you lean backwards, your back is up against the rear wall.

Was there any point to that little aside? No. Is there any point to me writing a post on someone else's blog? Nein. Is there any point to anything? MMMMMMaybe.

Did you know that Donald Duck's middle name is Fauntleroy?

Did you know that Saturn (the planet, not the car company) is less dense than water? So, if you had a basin big enough to hold Saturn, it would float?

Did you know that humans have over 300 bones when we're born, but 206 when we die?

Did you know that Niagra Falls moves backwards at a rate equivalent to 7 miles every 10,000 years?

Did you know that Winston Churchill had no navel? (Yes, he was born with one, but lost it due to a botched appendectomy.)

Did you know that the streets of Washington, D.C. are arranged to form a) a pentacle and b) the Masonic symbol of the compass and square?

Did you know that it takes four supercharged Buick Stage II 455 V-8's to start the engines in the SR-71 Blackbird?

Did you know that Volvo built a car in the mid-80's that was capable of getting 90 mpg on one gallon of deisel?

Did you know that the human jaw is capable of exerting forces of up to 200 pounds on the molars?

Did you know that the West Coast gets half and inch closer to Japan every year?

Did you know that the Himalayas were created by India crashing into Asia?

Did you know that there is a light bulb in a San Francisco fire department (I think it's in San Francisco) that has been burning continuously since 1906?

Well, now you do.

2005-07-24T19:06:00.000-07:00

Brief random thoughts:
The heat is unbearable. I'm drinking extra to keep refreshed. Saw a so-so movie in the theater today. Spent too much money for it. Paying even more money for the worse movie ever known to man on cable, yet I can't stop watching it. I want to puke the acting is so bad, I only hope the actors didn't take themselves so seriously. My last night of freedom. About to start on my third cigar today. Friends coming over in a bit, at least they say. We'll see after last night's debacle. Commercial is almost over. Be back on tonight to drop serious thoughts down on paper. Can't wait for the Dukes of Hazzard to hit the big screen. Maybe I'll just wait to rent it. I've learned from today's mishap. Holy God, it's after 7 p.m. already.

Best wishes on getting through the night,
Larry

2005-07-24T00:34:00.000-07:00

Never in my life would I have thought my friends treat me with such disrespect and leave me in a horrible, desperate situation. I even offered all the booze they could drink and air-conditioning in such incredible heat and humidity and yet, they have shrunk to the size of gnats and snuck through the cracks in the floor, nowhere to be found.
That's OK, I guess, more for me to drink, and less body heat to raise the electric bill because the poor little AC is overtaxed, thanks to my fat carcass that refuses to cool down in such sweltering madness. If only my brain could slow down, I'm confident my body could cool down, but now, I'm streaking across the stratoshpere faster than the sun rises and sets and my body can not keep up with the taxing properties of such physics.
The clean air I have come accustomed to in the suburbs has turned to sultry, putrid, muggy, dirty particles that have been recycled thousands of times to where it can barely sustain life. I walk outside to check on the tomatoe plants in the glorious moonlight, and there is fog with a temperature of 83 degrees. It's an insult to everything except those wonderfully delicious tomatoes, which crave this type of weather as long as I pull the bills out of my wallet and water then with the hose. I just witnessed one of those shiny red bastards that must weigh three pounds. I want to eat it, if only to teach it a lesson to not love such horrible weather such as this.
In fact, anyone who loves weather like this should be dragged behind a 1967 Vista Cruiser station wagon down a gravel road. No human can survive in such weather and frankly, no human should have to try to either. I'm sending a letter to my local congressman, telling him if weather like this continues, he's going to be defeated in the up-coming election for sure. The idiot probably has no idea how true that statement is and how much power I truly hold. I can stop an entire city by running naked down Main Street, it's true, just read the paper, and I think I could stop the country if I only put my mind to it. I could probably accomplish that mission by hopping on a suburban train wearing nothing but my boots and a back pack. I bet that gets CNN and MSNBC on my side. Of course my lawyer is going to want more money but I think he needs to work harder anyway, he's getting too fat.
Look at me, the heat has already gone to my head. That's why I scheduled friends to come over but they stood me up. They are no better than any broad I know. Bastards, they know who they are.
Don't worry coming over here now, morons, the booze is gone! Hear me! It's all gone! I drank it. That's right, I bought it and consumed, knowing damn well tomorrow I can go out and by more. Yet, all of you are the wimps who fear the heat and humidity and the bugs larger than Volkswagens to help and support a dear friend in dire need of love and attention. All of you should be ashamed of yourselves!
At least one or two of you have called in to check and see if I'm still OK. I still was until my friends abandoned me too. All of you can eat piles of dog crap! If you were on fire, I wouldn't pay a homeless man to pee on you! That's how worthless you all are.
I'll just sit here in my air-conditioned house, watching soft-core porn on cable, pretending I'm on a desert island, secluded from all the stupid people who make life not worth living. I hope your brain fries like an egg on concrete and you're left drooling on yourself the rest of your life. And if you should escape, I'll make sure your brain is scrambled. I've got lawyers working on the details right now.

2005-07-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

Those thoughts were yesterday, today is a gorgeously gloomy, rainy one and I am enjoying every drop. I hate the sun when it refuses to disappear for a while. It's so boring, never changes, and ironically, everything dies.
My soul died too, but thanks to this sweet concoction I call sanity in firm grasp, life is clipping along at a steady pace. I can also thank the nicotine patch, something I haven't worn in the past couple of days, bringing me back to the brink of civilization. Why I quit smoking, I could never tell you, it was something, I guess, I felt needed to be done. I did it, two months strong now, and curse every damn day for it. But years down the road hopefully I will recognize the significance of the moment.
Speaking of realizing the significance of the moment, without the lady around, I slept in well past 9 a.m. and felt no reprocussions of crap needing to be done around the house. I am fast realizing she may be on vacation in some fancy place but I have a wonderful vacation happening right here. I've been walking around the house naked (for those of you who know me, I'm really, really sorry for that comment and residual picture) and I didn't even wash the breakfast dishes, which I ate at 10:30 this morning. Come noon time, instead of making some bland sandwich, I instead went to Taco Bell and brought it home to eat on the porch, followed by a wonderful cigar and a couple of cocktails. I'm even planning to toss a whole chicken on the grill with a buddy or two tonight and we can get drunk on this soon-to-be-famous porch and pass out in the lawn with no one screaming at us but the neighbors. Hot damn, single life is fun, even though I'm not really, but this weekend sure as hell feels like it.
To tell the truth, I want the old lady gone from the house one weekend out of every month, just so I can go back and be the man I know I am and want to be. I don't care about cleaning (until, of course, the hour she's scheduled to be back), and I don't care about eating healthy or not drinking before five in the afternoon. My space equals my rules, and baby, I'm ruling the roost now.
I'm jabbing a flag in the ground for every man who is caught between the right thing and the thing his ol' woman wants him to be doing. This is our peak, 3 S. 12th, land claimed for glorious freedom and all things men should be doing on the weekend.
Tomorrow, I plan to have some friends over and throw some steaks on the grill and smoke cigars while wearing bath robes. Is it wrong? Oh, I really don't think so.

2005-07-22T13:39:00.000-07:00

She just left for four days and cares nothing about my feelings. I feel like I've been left behind and abandoned, but that's OK as long as one of us is enjoying beautiful weather and having fun.
If no one sticks up for me, why should I stick up for anyone? Truth is, I don't care about anyone anymore, except myself. Come four days, I may be long gone. That doesn't make me feel happy either, but what else is there?
I'm tired of worrying about everything that doesn't matter instead of focusing on what does -- and that's me and my own future. I've put that on hold and that was my first mistake. Seems I've got a starting point.

2005-07-21T15:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I posted a story that I took down a couple hours later only because I wrote it in a state of mind that shouldn't become public. I'm having a tough time in my life, with my dad being diagnosed with cancer and my girlfriend dangling by the strings her dad pulls on a daily basis. Some of the things I wrote, I didn't want people reading, not that anybody really reads this, but I want nobody thinking that my girlfriend is a bad person or treats me like crap. It's quite the opposite. She's stuck in the middle of everything tossed at her and sometimes the stress overwhelms her and she takes it out on me.
I finally got fed up with this yesterday and her dirty looks, and my quietness finally erupted into a conversation that lasted some six hours or so. I guess we needed this much time to talk because it's the most time we've spent together alone in Lord knows how long.
This isn't one of those isolated moments, for this has been going on for maybe two, three months by now. It's tiresome and I'm fed up. But lo and behold, the problem doesn't stem with me and my girlfriend, it's all about her parents. One, in particular is rather controlling, and unfortunately is my girlfriend's boss, putting her in the midst of this horrible battle between what she wants and what she should do. However, I want to punch the dad in the gut. He's one of those arrogant guys who thinks the only right way is his way and what anybody thinks is wrong because he didn't come up with it.
We got along fine until one day I decided to ask him his daughter's hand in marriage when I got a resilient, "NO." I was taken back quite a bit, but was told I'm too fat, I smoke too much and I have no future and he doesn't want his daughter trapped with those problems the rest of her life. I told him to lick my ass and what he told me was completely improper, wrong and selfish and he's just upset he would no longer have cheap labor to deal with. Of course, he didn't like me talking back to him and the situation got very ugly and if it weren't for my repsect for human life, I may have put the sonofabitch in the hospital. But life isn't worth such crap.
It all came to a point early yesterday when my girlfriend was invited to an outting and I wasn't. It hurt and I can't understand why I would be treated with such disrespect. But then again, we're talking about a man who bad mouths his friends to others and then goes drinking with them later in the day.
To be honest, I really want to do with a person like that anyway. I only hope my girlfriend can overcome such horrendous family members when I refuse to give any more support after receiving none for the past year. It's a desperate situation, that calls for desperate measures, but I certainly hope my thoughts and actions will pull the right people in the right direction.

2005-07-18T01:02:00.000-07:00

Holy leaping Christ, there I am! How did this happen? Where did this come from? How do I get this off my Blog, for the love of Christ himself!

Very seldom do I get the chance to drink booze that comes from a glass bottle.
Truly a rare, yet nonetheless appreciated luxury. Hand in hand with such a gift is the fact that it's after 1:00 in the morning, yet the atmosphere is redolent of somewhere more like the deep south than the Rust Belt. As I speak, it is still 80 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, the stars are more than visible despite the brightly lit front porch and my bike is busily puking oil onto the sidewalk.

Where did this oil-puking son-of-a-bitch come from and how the hell did it get on my lawn! It may have something to do with the tall skinny guy passed out in my lilac bushes. Heads will roll, I tell you! This will not go unnoticed!

The evening is inspirational, the gin and tonic is flowing freely and there are still 12 cigarettes left in the pack I purchased not two hours ago. Ah, summertime.
Yet, at this point I am praying for snow for I am a fat man, nonetheless, and the heat wears me down like an oil-less motor and soon I will seize in hopes the right lubrication finds me and restores me to the proper specifications. What those proper specifications are, I haven't a clue, only it's pretty damn far from this point in time. Althought, I get the true feeling one more of these strange concoctions -- a FINE TASTING gin and tonic -- will give me all the lubrication I could ever possibly want to make it through the night. It makes me wish I were one of the rich and fabuluous, like a private school teacher, so I could, myself, buy gin in a glass bottle, instead of the cheap stuff that comes in plastic with a handle and scrambles the brain like a needless egg on a summer sidewalk. Do I need help? Damn right! The keyboard and screen are out of focus.

I've spoken at length about the unforeseen virtues of the camera phone. Now is the time, I suspect, to explore at length these virtues. Is it possible to catch the bright blue glow of a righteous fart on such a device? Just how detailed would a hairy ball-sack appear at such a low resolution? Does the fact that I've ingested four extremely strong gin-and-tonics preclude my ablility to ride a wheelie for three city blocks? Would the camera phone be capable of recording such shenanigans? Should we be thanking the Great Magnet for the luxury of contemplating such minutiae? And what would the cops think? One must consider that there is a retired cop--an extremely cool retired cop, true, but a cop nonetheless--living next door. Is it worth the gamble? The gin and tonics, in a collective chorus, say yes.

Did I say extrememly strong? Holy Christ, it must have been a moment of weakness. In fact, this is all a joke. I've been chugging water as a science project, but making myself think they were extremely strong gin and tonics. You must have seen straight through my sadistic plot, truely believing that a couple stiff drinks would send more over the bow, painting a picture of drunken debauchery and lunacy in the moment. BUT OH NO! It's just an act. In fact, I am all put together, never more solid, and thinking pleasant thoughts of heaven as I race merrily toward the morning, wishing upon another sunrise, never cursing its sadistic brightness. That would not be me. That's not my style. I welcome change, a new beginning, hence I am enjoying this mystery drink with cubed ice instead of cracked. It's risks like that I must take to appreciate the knowledge I have gained in such a tumultuous life and am that much further along because of it. However, let's not mention this is not mere tobacco in my pipe. I think this experiment may be askew a bit, but I say, "Fuck it," roll on and let's see if this locomotive jumps the tracks.

With this in mind, where will this rambling, screeching torpedo take us? Contemplating my Bjarne briar pipe, at present wafting the sweet aroma of Georgian Creme tobacco over the railing of my front porch, I wonder if a similar effect could be garnered from harvesting leaves from the oak tree in my front yard, pulverizing them to a fine moist pulp in the mortar and pestle and smoking them. Would I derive as much pleasure from such an act as I would from moseying on down to the Bull and Bear, an illustrious tobacconist where my buddy Charlie (the aforementioned retired police officer) now has gainful employ, and sashaying on out through the door with a fresh pouch of China Black? How about if had my buddy fire up my Oldsmobile and rev the engine until the limiter kicks in while I crouch behind it and snork up the exhaust fumes like a junkie? Where would that take us? What's the score here? What's next? Is it running naked through the streets of St. Charles while screaming like a fiend? Is it jumping into the car and trekking south to Tiajuana? Is it blasting through the border into Canada, loading up a trunkful of Prilosec and hauling ass back to the states with visions of vast profits coursing through the cerebral cortex? Is it another gin and tonic? I think the lattermost sounds most appealing, as it requires the least effort. Well, after waxing vengeful upon the spider who bestowed upon my neck this boil which appears, in profile, to strongly resemble Ethel Murman.

As of yet, I could not quite grasp exactly the one who my boil best resembled, but Ethel Murman, I never would have guessed. She was a friend of mine once, before her tragic end. She is the one who taught me that a moth who lands in an outlandishly strong drink in the middle of the night will learn a hard lesson and rest a decaying afterlife on the freshly painted boards of a front porch in the midst of suburbia. I really wish I could have saved the poor bastard but no matter how much I screamed and yelled, the idiot dove in, no idea the grave danger he was entering. We've all been there, thinking we know best, and walked away wishing we still knew less than we do at the moment. And yes, crushed leaves from a mightly oak delivers one helluva buzz, one so strong I wish I could keep it a secret and sell it to all the high school kids. I could be a millionaire, if it were not for my conscious which constantly screams, "One day all the world will know how fat and stupid you truly are, and that your boobs are bigger than most girls at the age of 16." Certainly, my man boobs are something of a bragging right, but are nothing in comparison to jumping into a bottle of tanqueray and swallowing every drop and possessing the true grit, spirit and balls to resurface knowing whole heartily that life will be a complete shit sandwich in a matter of hours. It's something truly amazing, pure joy converting itself into agony the one split moment you aren't watching.

And that, my friends, is the true rub. The rub nub, if you will permit me a small bon mot. As I sit here, on my front porch, smoking my pipe, fighting the gin-spins, cursing the worthless bastard of a moth who decided to commit hara kiri by dive-bombing my drink, I'm perfectly content. What will happen in a few hours? Will five gin-and-tonics preclude my ability to pilot a bellowing, oil burning beast through the darkened streets of suburbia without attracting the attention of the local constabulary? Will I make it home without cracking up? Will I be found in the gutter in Cleveland, lying next to an empty bottle of Four Roses and a strange device resembling a meat thermometer constructed entirely of Styrofoam? What will my parents think? What will my cat think? What will this do to my plans to run for State Representative in 2012? At this time, the only thing to do is piss over the railing and hope my girlfriend doesn't see the spider tracks in the morning.

I keep writing in hopes the deluisions of grandeur land me in the eyes of being cool when I know I will never be cool, I will only be me. I am perfectly OK with that, not fine mind you, since fine would lend an assumption that I was happy with the preclusion, but OK with, because I am OK with me. I could give two shits about you and what you perhaps thought of me since I can not theoritically, practically or just plain come through my cable modem and whip the living shit out of you. So your thoughts are mine and my thoughts are protected by my copyright. Jesus Christ, I sound like a mean drunk and I should probably write that. Since we are being honest with each other, I should lend my voice in saying a bottle and a half of gin leaves you to the point of not only praying that God himself take you in a bolt of lightning but leaves a bottle of Tums as a gift. One may never realize the importance of the words I have spoken just now until that horrible day where you may find yourself sitting on the porch next to me, vowing suicide is better than pain. Of course, I'll try to talk you out of it, but listening your gut implode upon itself, I may just agree with you and let you die. I guess it depends if you are actually the one who brought the glass bottle of gin with or simply pulled it out of my "Secret Reserve Cabinet," and sold it to me "As New." If that were the case, then I feel no guilt letting you know, that your glass was poisend with a horrible excuse for tonic (Liquid Drano) instead of Schwepes. Now you know the dire need for Tums. Let me just say, they are of no help for you, you are dieing a horrible death and only your God can turn this tide. Please, don't puke over the railing in front of me, crawl down to the lilacs on the side of the house, it shall save lives in the long run. Boy, oh boy, I feel like a true, red-blooded alcoholic for I am still conscious and should not be. This can come from only practice and practice does indeed make perfect. And here is proof there actually is a God, for I have run out of ice cubes or else I would be passed out on the lawn too. That would be hard to explain in the morning, mind you, because my pants fit very loose and probably would be around my ankles before I fell unconcious. And the cops around here have very little sympathy and sense of humor. Therefore, I preach, I am headed off to bed, in hopes the world is not spinning in reverse or I shall be perched over the railing again. And at that point, God, I take back everything I said that you may have interpreted as blasphemus, wrong and hedonistic, for you and your dad knows I am neither of the three. Peace be with you and I really hope I speak with you tomorrow. God help me. And please -- to the painters tomorrow, if the garbage can smells funny, I had little confidence knowing I could make it up the stairs to the bathroom. Sorry, again, and your paycheck will be duely noted. I feel sick and embarrassed, and to bed I go, dreaming of death before morning. Kisses and crosses, I should probably go to mass tomorrow, even if it is Monday. I only hope I do not erupt in flames. Sincerely -- uh, I forgot who the fuck I am. Shit! I may be in trouble tomorrow.

2005-07-14T23:15:00.000-07:00

It has just occurred to me that Gus is enjoying year one plus six months with me. For the occassion, I bought a little plant to sit next to the bowl. He seems to like it, which freaks the living daylights out of me only because I can connect to that damn fish better than most humans. I've met dogs who wish they had half the personality that slimy little bastard has. Liz, my girlfriend, said when she brought him home for me, that the thing would last maybe a month, tops, so don't bother buying an expensive bowl. Of course Gus has been moved three times, dropped on the kitchen floor twice, starved for weeks on end, damn near swallowed by a cat (who, coincidentally is now dead -- and no, I didn't do it) and seen me walk around the house naked probably at least a dozen times. That alone should have killed it, but the little SOB is still twirling about his boring little digs, laughing under his breath at me. Bastard. Sometimes when I look at him and he looks at me, I wonder if we're thinking the same thing, "Christ, quit tapping on the damn glass!"
Someone's always watching me and it is now, at the great age of thirty, starting to bug me. I want to be left alone, that's all. The only moment I get to myself these days is during my Morning Constitutional that takes place in the bathroom. But even this morning I was walked in on, startling me to the point where I could not finish and haven't felt right since. Ironically, there was a point in my life when everyone around me felt so distant. There was a huge loss and I tried so hard to fill that void but everyone could sense they could never fill it and decided it was best to leave me alone to fend for myself and pull up before crashing into the hillside. Thankfully that happened before I erupted into a huge ball of flames, and I am thankful for all the smart people who circled me, watching from a distance, and realized I just needed to get a grip on my own.
However, these days, new people in my life see a different person than all my best friends know. These people want to know how I scored a beautiful girl who is deeply in love me, or what it was like playing with Buddy Guy -- or God-forbid I actually was on stage with the Rolling Stones one night. And I can't actually believe I allowed myself to talk or write about that, only because I have no interest in letting people know of my past, but somehow people just find out. I don't talk about it much. I don't find it interesting. It was a job and I am one lucky son of a bitch. Others look at it like I'm some sort of royalty, as if I'm special. I like to tell them I'm just a simple country boy who got three of the biggest breaks in life and then decided to toss them in the ditch because all of a sudden, my life wasn't special anymore. I was living for so many people because they refused to take any chance and do only what they were told was the right thing to do -- not what they wanted to do. I knew when my life was completely empty what I wanted, and the tragic loss I suffered was the one thing that allowed everything since to happen. And it's amazing how people constantly want to hear your story -- my story -- for inspiration and hope -- because they some how think they can never do all the things they want to do in life.
What's great is, Liz had no idea I was a muscian for more than a month when we first started dating. She just thought I was heading out of town for business and would be back in a week or two, and she was completely fine with that. I wasn't. I wanted her to know. I wanted to be so completely honest with her, but I was afraid to let her in closer than anyone else. When I finally came clean, this was the first moment I realized this was the only girl for me. She said something on the order of, "You're still coming home to me tonight, right?"
"Yes, of course," I said.
"You're still in love with me, right?"
"Yes, of course," I said.
"You aren't seeing any other girls or having sex with any other girls, men, animals or pieces of rubber, right?"
"Uh, you just freaked me out, but you're the only one, baby."
"You entertain and I get people drunk," Liz added. "But if I find out -- and I will -- that you lied to me once more, you get to make your own breakfast, lunch and dinner and eat them by yourself as well."
"Yes, of course."
That's when Gus came home. Liz brought him home for his calming effect on the soul, a reminder that effortlessly swimming in a fishbowl can be good if the graffiti on the rock anchored on the bottom is worth reading over and over. Besides, she said she wouldn't feed him and I would have to make sure the poor little guy stayed satisfied.
In a way, I guess one could say I quit playing music for a girl, and it's true. I realized early on there was only one person I wanted peering into my bowl every day and her crystal-blue eyes made life worth it. I could have cared less about the thousands of people who thought I was cool because I wore cowboy boots or had a pompadour or my tattooes were so rockabilly or this or that. Who cares? I had my fun and at the perfect time, I realized there are more important things in life than being a star. I want to be the planet that sustains life and won't burn out.
I guess this is just a continuation of another entry from a couple days ago. And as Liz put it while reading over my shoulder, I still must hold some feeling about being that single fish in the tiny bowl where everyone is staring because I have now written about it two days. I haven't talked about it twice in almost two years before now.
Sure, I miss looking through the glass and seeing all the peering eyes focused on me, only because then I knew someone was going to have to clean up my shit after me just like I do for Gus. And when the day is done, there is no better revenge.

2005-07-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

Good music is something I've been trying to avoid for the past year and a half only because I knew if I heard it, I could avoid it no longer. It's a long story, and it's about my nap time, so I'll try to dwell as deep as I can in as few words as possible.
The past five years of my life were lived like it was a dream, yet they were as brutal as the fiery depths of hell. I played a kid's toy (as most would perceive), a harmonica, for a living on some of the biggest stages with some of the biggest names, in blues for what it's worth, and I had one hell of a time doing it. But between those big stages with those big names, were small stages on my own (with my own band) or with other guys who were struggling like myself. I worked to the point of exhaustion and the money was far less than worth it. Music, which once felt like a vacation, all of a sudden was a job I hoped would come out at least around the minimum wage scale. It's not a way to live, to be honest, and I knew one of two things were about to happen -- I quit or I die. Now, I'm not talking career death, but THE END, el fin, that's it, shake hands with the maker and pray he doesn't kick your butt to the curb. At the good ol' age of 28, that's something you really don't want to deal with, so I didn't, and hopped out.
Music was the only thing I thought mattered to me. It was the one thing I was THE BEST at, so confident I was, I would let anyone play harmonica with my band on a set only to put them to shame after two songs. Unfortunately, I saw it as a competition and not as the brotherhood it should be, but all musicians struggle so hard for so little, it's hard to be generous and trustworthy. That sounds so horrible reading it over, but deep down I know it's true. Then I met Liz, my wonderful girl who I plan to marry within the next couple years, and she changed my whole perspective. All of a sudden, music wasn't the only thing I had. She read over some columns I wrote for newspapers back in the day along with some of the stories I was working on when my time ran out, and encouraged me to get back to my true roots. Hell, she said, go back to college and become a teacher and show the youth of America what is great about the written word.
"Besides," she said, "Then you'll have all summer to write, play music or sail the world. Not a bad gig, baby."
After thinking about it for, oh, ten seconds or so, I knew that's the path meant for me. Sure it would be a struggle, working and going to school while trying to live a normal life, but to be honest, anything was better than the life I was living. Plus, there was hope, a true future. And I grabbed it and refused to look back.
That was until this past weekend when we were looking for something to do on Sunday and I heard Bob Dylan was playing with Willie Nelson in near-by Schaumburg. Tickets were still available at fifty bucks a pop, but who could resist two legends both of us have never seen before.
This show was THE FIRST show I've witnessed since retiring (quitting) from music a year and a half ago. I've been afraid to see good music because I know what good music does to a person and I wanted to forget that. I want the good memories of my past so I can relive them in my mind when I feel it necessary, and block the numerous horrible ones I relay to friends and family. But when the opening act, Greencard (yes, I listened to them) hit the stage, I remembered exactly why I started playing music professionally twelve years ago. The smiles on their young faces and the energy they put down was inspiring. I wanted to sing every lyric with them all though I never heard of them before. I wanted to be on stage with them, blowing through my harps, although I've never really played country and bluegrass in my life. I wanted to be them. I wanted to relive my youth. This is what I've avoided for so long, getting sucked back into this horrible world of struggling for so little, but that's what life is all about. I did something so few people in this world could do and I gave it up in hopes of something better. That "better" is not there if your heart isn't.
"I can tell you miss this horribly," Liz said to me yesterday through the first song of the opening band. "I miss it too."
It was hard to admit something I've been avoiding for so long. But how much longer can a man ignore his one true love that isn't standing or laying next to him in the flesh. I only wanted better for myself and the family I one day will have but if I'm not happy with what is transpiring in my life, how will my family know true happiness?
When Willie Nelson came on stage first, he was all smiles. He broke into "Whiskey River," and continued to play every song you would ever want to hear. Bob Dylan was much more down to business. His band wore the same shirts and pants and even the old man himself was smiles once in a while, which I understand is a rareity. I sang more songs Sunday than I've sang my entire life. What a wonderful experience to be thirty feet away from the two best songwriters this country has ever known. Although I've never met them, it makes me smile, thinking I once was their brother.

2005-07-06T22:36:00.000-07:00

Kids, it started early today. Not only did I stand around the fabric and sewing department at the Super Wal-Mart for more than two hours today so the little lady could conjur up ideas for curtains in the living room, but it started as a simple trip to Jewel for two lousy limes. Then, when I get home, I get an e-mail from my little sister where she's chugging a beer while sitting on the edge of a hotel tub that's chocked full of beer, wine, tequila, vodka and rum. I think I can even see a blender plugged in next to the bathroom sink. Goodness, sounds like college. But she's a freakin' doctor! What the hell? Just two days she called me to vent about a gun-shot patient she received in the ER who died with her hands in his chest. And now she's posing while throwing back beer after beer in some cheap hotel in Lake George, NY. What next, she'll be making out with the ceremonial donkey at some bachelor party?
"It's about time she lets loose and has some fun," my lovely lady said.
"Yeah, she could have gone to the Super Wal-Mart and began knitting me a sweater," I returned. "But no, she's probably hosted some horrible gang-bang in her hotel room where the pictures will end up on the Internet and I'll end up in jail because ever single man involved will be found dead, one by one."
"You're over reacting," my girlfriend said.
"And you're not reacting enough," I said. "My sister is giving up her career to be some drunken whore and sending me the pictures."
OK, so maybe I am over reacting, but when something comes along like this, what am I supposed to do. Sure, I can threaten all I want to send the pictures to Dad, but he's never been on a computer let alone knows how to download these things with any sort of efficiency. Hell, he still thinks we attend mass twice a week and go to confessional every day.
Furthermore, he doesn't even know I'm not Catholic anymore. I tried explaining it to him in baseball terms in hopes he would understand.
"Dad, I've been released," I said. "I'm a free agent now. I'm holding out for the best offer."
He didn't flinch.
"I thought you quit playing baseball when you tore your shoulder up?" He asked.
"This isn't about baseball, Pops," I added. "This is more serious. This is about God and eternity."
"Sounds like baseball to me," he said.
As you may tell, the talk didn't go too well. I didn't have the heart to tell him three different people called me a Heathen in the same day yet I haven't felt closer to God in my life. The old man would have dropped dead there, leaving me to deal with my sister and her alcoholism. Sorry, little sis, but I'm the only alcoholic in this family.
And I'm thinking, that's exactly what's hitting the poor girl. All through her life, it's been about hard work, studying and getting to this plateau above everyone else, where I just wanted to survive with a smile on my face. But now, I think, the stress is catching up with her and she's letting loose of everything important because that's what I tried to teach her through the years. The one thing important to me is being an alcoholic and I hold up well in my profession, some even say I'm near the top.
In all honesty, I was just trying to tell her not to forget about me when I had no place to go so I didn't have to live under a bridge. I didn't mean for her to go nuts. I did that for her, mind you, for the sole purpose of her taking care of me one day, whether it free room and board or health care pro bono. Doesn't matter, the family has to pitch in.
Toss all jokes aside, I worry about both my sisters all the time. One, she's as our mom was and even tougher than me, so I don't worry so much about her. My sister who's a doctor, she's a little shakier, more high strung, influenced easier only because her street smarts aren't as developed. I worry about them every day, something I never did when I was younger and now I'm kicking myself in the head for it. I can't wait to call my sister with the picture tomorrow and tell her how disappointed I am. She's better than that. She's better than me. There's no need to try and get my attention now.
And if it's some guy's attention she's trying to grab, I can guarantee you I'll be there early the next morning to let him know it's not nice to take advantage of sweet, smart, innocent Midwestern girl, because there's always some big brother watching from the shadows, waiting to crack a skull.
Best of luck, lil' sis, and drink plenty of water tonight. You see, I've still got more brains where it counts.

2005-07-05T22:47:00.000-07:00

It's all too quiet here now. There is absolute silence, and for me, that's worse than jets taking off and landing over my head. I want to stand up and scream at the top of my lungs, "I know you're listening, you bastards!" The suburbs aren't too exciting come this time of night and if it weren't for a police officer living across the alley, I'd probably be raising hell right now. Instead, I'm perched in this stupid chair I built from scratch with my own two hands because I was so damned bored.
Sometimes, my girlfriend will come out here and sit with me. She'll drink a glass of wine, smoke cigarettes and tell me what I should be writing. But right now, she won't stop yapping, which takes care of that total silence bit I was just talking about. It's not annoying -- not yet -- because I'm getting pretty good at pretending to be listening. I can get by with hearing only every sixth or seventh word or so, just enough to get a gist of the conversation without investing too much effort. I get the feeling, though, sometimes she catches on to me and starts throwing crap in like, "Buy me a diamond ring," and the world comes to a screaching halt.
Good Lord, why must we talk like that? She thinks it's funny. She won't think that way much longer when I buy her the damn thing and the next day say something like, "Hey! Woman, get in the kitchen and fry me some chicken or else I'm taking it back!" After a scene like that, I'd probably be staring in the toilet the next couple weeks, trying to get my money back. Besides, all the neighbors think we're married, and after them, what else is there to worry about?
Even though I complain, sometimes she can come up with some rather outlandish ideas that I love to listen to. Just a little bit ago, she sat here trying to figure out who she could set up with a good friend of mine. She went through a list of girls, apparently starting with the best and working southward. Every time she spouted a name, I would cringe even deeper, thinking I haven't too many friends and if he gets set up with anyone of these broads, there will be nobody sitting on my side of the isle when the big day comes.
Why do we feel we need to set our single friends up anyway? Hell, I'd pay anything to be single right now -- ewww, that didn't come out right. I liked being single. All guys like being single. It leaves options open for us. When a girl hits on me during a night out, I already know that path is overgrown and if I decide to trek that way anyway, I'll get shot, stabbed, cooked or run over by a farm implement. However, if I was unattached -- well, first of all, I wouldn't be in the suburbs. Second, I wouldn't be writing at 11 p.m. I'd be out, scouring the neighborhood with what's left over, hoping some poor girl was just drunk enough to not see how truly ugly I am and just smart enough to know she wasn't welcome in my apartment after 9 a.m. the next morning. That is the true beauty of the city, you can meet a girl and kick her out and never worry about seeing her ever again. That's security.
My situation, the one I always thought was security, is anything but, because I have to be on my toes and best behavior constantly or else I'll have to cook my own dinner, which may be the worse punishment right behind shoveling cat poop from the litter box into the garbage.
Anyway, this is not about my relationship -- or belief -- for that matter, rather about my friend's absence of a relationship and how my girlfriend thinks it's her place in life to make sure he doesn't die a lonely man. Hey! No one set us up. I had to cup my nuts and hold my breath to ask her out, why does this guy get a free pass?
Then I started thinking, for every time this guy has screwed with me, I can return the favor ten fold. I got that idea when my girlfriend was talking about a girl in her office who subscribes to some on-line dating site. No big deal, but the farther we went with the discussion, the more I understood why this girl resorted to on-line dating. The mental picture I made for myself was less than pleasant. In fact, it was downright torrid. The only reason I bring this up is because my dear little girlfriend thinks this friend of hers would be a decent match for my good friend.
"What? Are you high?" I asked her.
"Why? Do you not think those two would hit it off?" my girlfriend replied.
"I wouldn't let my dog hump her," I returned.
"You never met her, how can you say that?" was her answer.
"You're in sales and yet, no matter how hard you tried, I want to send a letter of apology and condolences to her parents," I said. "Don't come near me -- or my friends -- with your voodoo and idealogic mania. My buddy is perfectly happy being single."
"He's gay isn't he," my girlfriend said, after resting her voice for a few moments.
"NO, HE'S NOT GAY! But he won't screw the ugliest dog on the block because she lifts her ass in the air!" I returned. "You may have ruined my life, but that gives you no right, nor reason, to ruin his. Let it be."
With that, the air died to a dead calm and again, you could hear mosquitoes laying eggs in the puddle in the back yard. At last, peace and quiet, exactly what I needed at this exact moment.

2005-07-04T22:11:00.000-07:00

Incredibly, I've just hopped through all the hoops it takes to get this bastard rolling and now I'm sitting here, staring at a blank page with absolutely nothing to write about. That's how boring life is to me, which is why there are always a minimum of two bottles of gin sitting in the kitchen at any given time. Without the juniper berry, I would have been dead long ago but at least now I'm killing myself ever so slowly with a nerve toxin. When you take a step back, it seems like an honorable trade and therefore, I trudge through the doldrums with my best friend, Mr. Tanqueray, fingers crossed, and hope for the best. This situation transcends life for me. It's almost like an analogy on a college entrance exam where the problem reads: I can't write without gin but I like to write equals ...? The obvious answer is: I like gin.
Hopefully that's as simple to understand as it is to write it. I like gin only because I have to. That's how I get my writing done. I guess another analogy could be: I need gin to write plus gin will kill you equals ...? And again, the obvios answer would be, writing is killing me. Great, this could be last publishing ever, and I have nothing to write about except how much of a drunk I am. I certainly hope my mother doesn't find this somehow and forces me into rehab or I'll lose my millions in inheritance. I just wanted to write that, how untrue it is, only to make myself feel important and powerful if only for a matter of seconds. Reality is, mom's dead and we're dirt poor. However, if my girlfriend finds that out, there's even more trouble on the horizon, so perhaps I should be hoping she's the one who doesn't find this.
I can hear it now: "So, if you're dirt poor, who's sailboat have we been using the past year?"
"Great question honey, thankfully, we haven't met him yet."
"You untruthful son of a bitch!"
"Well, at least we haven't been caught."
What she doesn't know is, it takes great intelligence and even greater guts to steal someone's sailboat for an afternoon joyride. What I'm realizing now is, I'm an incredible idiot for returning the damn thing. It's possible I'm not as smart as I once thought.
And another thing is, what, is she going to leave me for this crap? What does she have to complain about, she's got to go sailing on the most beautiful days in the most beautiful city for free. The way I see it is, she should love me even more. Who cares, as a great man once said, all energy flows according to the whims of the great magnet, what a fool I'd be to defy it.
I can't remember exactly why I wanted to create this forum. That's another problem with gin. My short term memory is crap, not to mention my liver feels like a bowling ball. It must have had something to do with the fireworks exploding around me as a moment of paranoia led me to believe we were being attacked in this stuffy suburban town.
I was standing over the railing of my front porch looking for signs of troops, yelling to the neighbors, "Look out, Naperville decided their going to take us over." Nobody seemed to be in a panic so I relaxed a little too, thankfully, since I now realize it was all staged, a reenactment of an event some 230 years ago. Funny, us celebrating defeating the British by attempting to blow up our own towns. Makes me wonder if someday, the Iraqi's will do the same. Wait a second, they already are. Anyway, no politics here, not this blog, at least until the government tries to overthrow my kingdom then maybe I'll mention something about the tyranny of evil and the crap that comes along with thinking we're right and everyone else is wrong.
No, this is just to stretch my fingers and to distract me from the huge explosions overhead, hoping they don't burn down my newly rebuilt house. And here's also hoping the guy who owns a forty foot sailboat in Monroe harbor doesn't find all the porno magazines and Cheeto bags I left on his boat this past Friday. Well, if he does, it can only make life more interesting.