More

Give me more
I need a paragraph
not a sentence
I need a sentence
not a word
I need some verbs
and no more nouns
I'll take an exclamation point
over a period
I'm not asking for literature

Give me more
you have a monopoly on my heart
I need your signature on the bottom line
I don't need collateral
or your ID
Just a promise you'll try your best
Late payments will sometimes happen
I do not repossess that which I give away
I'm not asking for your independence

If you hear me
please respond
An empty room does not cure my stage fright
My pulpit is at eye level
so I never speak down to you
If you notice me in yellow
do not say you are color blind
And if I happen to be cloaked in black
Please give me more

Give me more
As if you knew my expiration date
I am not soured milk
There is no placenta on my hands
yet
Give me more
As if your seldom spoken words were true
I'll trade you my poetic license
for your silence
I'm not asking for your pride

When I project myself
onto those walls
those walls you spent your life building high
Please cross our unburned bridge
to pay attention
Let me tear it down
brick by brick
And let's rebuild together

Give me more
I will give you most
It is not a battle of wits
or a battle of wills
I raise my white flag
If that's what you want

Just give me more.

Mistress

*written in 2008*

everybody's whore is in love again
the kind of love, you can not make
with a little dash of sugar
just call me cake

i'm holding my phone so tight
ring, ring for me

when this caged bird has its panic attacks
i sing, i sing so poorly

i'm just a puppet
please pull my strings
with a little tug
i'll have one of my mood swings

you're holding the needle so tight
inject, inject me

when this addict has his withdrawals
i just might kick your face in
respectfully

everyone's jesus is on the cross again
the kind of sacrifice i do willingly
that little dash of sugar
is killing me

i'm holding my phone so tight
ring, ring for me

when i answer
sing, sing for me

with a dash of sugar comes a shot of adrenaline
everyone's whore is in love again 

Minus One

*written in 2008 in my head while driving home from work*

                                 I was thinking about this world
                                 without you
                                 Six Billion Minus One

                                 Like the summer
                                 without the sun
                                 I was thinking of you
                                 Minus One

                                I was thinking of the future
                                without you
                                Endless possibilities Minus One

                                Like a math equation
                                without a sum
                                Without you,
                                the answer is Minus One
                                I was thinking of a miracle
                                without you
                                Blind faith Minus One

                                Like a father
                                without his son
                                His memories,
                                Minus One

                                I was walking a winding road
                                talking to myself
                                Like the summer
                                without the sun
                                I felt so empty
                                Minus One

                                I was thinking of a symphony
                                without you
                                An imperfect harmony
                                Minus One
                                I was asking too many questions
                               Where did I go wrong
                               Who have I become

                                I was thinking of this world
                                without you
                                Six Billion Minus One
                                 I could cry
                                I could laugh

                               Thinking of my life
                                without you

                               Minus One half

Crazy Mom Stories Part I

One day, I will write a book about my mom and all the crazy things she's done.  But I will wait until she's long gone.

She's about as funny as Bob Saget and her shame filter is non-existent.  In other words, she's not funny and what most of us consider embarrassing, she considers it high art.

She's one of those women you love to hear stores about but not one of those women you want to have a starring role in one of her stories.

For example, a few years ago, mom decided to have a garage sale at my house.  Her reasoning was that my neighborhood had more old people.  Despite the fact she lived in a 65 and older community, she thought my neighborhood was more conducive for bargain shoppers.

It's important that I mention I had no say in her decision.  It was when I came home from work on a Friday to find my garage filled with her belongings.  The garage sale was the next morning.

With no say in the matter nor did my opinion matter to her, I decided to sleep in that Saturday.  My hope was to wake up and find that her garage sale was over.

I woke up at around noon, stumbled into my living room and peaked outside.  Yep, the garage sale was over.  Mom was gone.  The annoying garage sale groupies were nowhere to be found.  All was back to normal.

But then I realized something....

MY DINING ROOM LOOKED DIFFERENT.

It was missing its dining room table.

Mom decided to sell MY table.   

Angrily, I called her.  "Where's my damn table?" 

"I sold it.  You never ate dinner on it, anyway," she replied without remorse.


Mom is always looking for new ways to make money or save money.

This Christmas, another bright idea entered my mom's crazy head.

She decided to have a Christmas dinner for some of her elderly widowed friends.  After slightly over cooking the Butterball turkey and eating most of it, she decided to seek a refund from Costco.

The day after Christmas, she proudly walked up to the refund department and showed them her receipt.  "I would like a full refund on the turkey I bought here.  It was dry and didn't taste right."

The Costco employee politely told her they needed to see the evidence before issuing a refund.

Mom returned to her home, grabbed what little turkey she had left, threw it in a ziploc bag and headed back to Costco.

Now, I wasn't there but I can imagine how the conversation went.

"Maam, you bought a 20 pound turkey and you're trying to return barely enough turkey to make one sandwich for a full refund.  How do you expect us to justify this?"

"I don't expect you to justify anything but I do expect a full refund."  And then, I'm sure she argued long enough to annoy Costco to the point of giving her a refund just to shut her up.

That's how she operates.  This is how her crazy mind works. 

One day, I will write a book about her but it will be after she's gone so she doesn't sue me for book earnings. 

A New Year

I don't subscribe to this belief that life is merely a series of meaningless accidents or coincidences.  Nope.  Rather, it's a tapestry of events that culminate in an exquisite, sublime plan.

I made it into the newspaper as a kid. 

Age 5, as the ice cream truck made its way down our street, the temptation was too much.  

Quarter in hand, I ran out the front door; ready to reward myself.  As I hastily ran across the street to meet the ice cream man, a white van ran me over.

A trip in an ambulance ensued.


Here we are.  At the end of another year.  I suppose nothing of significance defined this year for me.  My health is fine.  No one I loved, died.  I didn't gain weight or lose hair.  I didn't buy any large ticket items.  Nope.  It was an ordinary year.

Each morning as I shower, I relive the same scene over and over.  I grab the wet bar of soap, my mind wanders into the plans for the day, I squeeze the bar of soap too hard and it slips out of my hand.


I realize that it's a metaphor for my life.  I tend to squeeze too hard when it comes to those I love. 


We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip.  That one line from the Verve Pipe from years ago still plays in my head.  I suppose it's a warning.  Take risks.  Let go.  Don't be so calculating. 

I'm ending this year still madly in love.  With her.  I still get chills when I hear her voice. 

Everyone has stories of unrequited love, dwindling passions, misplaced priorities and uncounted blessings.  I suppose the new year is viewed as a new beginning for some.  Maybe, a new opportunity for rebirth or just a do over.

Personally, I don't want a do over.  There isn't a damn thing I would change.  Certainly, I miss those friends I held onto so tightly that they slipped out of my life.  And yes, I still ache for the loved ones whose lives ended well before their proverbial expiration dates.  But since I believe life is a myriad of tragedies and miracles for a reason, I suppose I've come to terms with balance. 


At the age of five, I was hit by a white van while chasing the ice cream truck.  As I laid in my hospital bed with a fractured arm and various scrapes, the doctor repeatedly told me, I was lucky to be alive.

My reward for such luck was....

A bowl of ice cream.

Life is a tapestry of events that culminate into an exquisite, sublime plan.  Anyone who tells you differently, fails to see the beauty in irony.  But most importantly, fails to see the irony in beauty.

In 2 days, it will be a new year.

Thank God.

The Christmas Stapler

I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It's not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.- Charlie Brown's Christmas.
 

The moment I realized Santa did not exist was the exact moment when I realized how much my mom loved me. 

Really, nothing epitomizes love more than putting someone's happiness or joy above your own need for recognition.

All those years I spent thinking Santa was the kindest man alive; turns out those thoughts belonged to her. 

Mom has never been affectionate.  I love you isn't in her vocabulary.  She was raised in an abusive home. 

Her childhood Christmases were an illusion.  Her stepmother made sure their house was decorated with lights and a manger scene every December.  But it was for the neighbors.  For the mere sake of creating the perception that mom and her family were festive.  Even the Christmas tree they had was simply nothing more than a large house plant for friends and other family to admire.  There weren't presents underneath.  It was just a tree with ornaments and an angel on top.

Her home was not a house of love.

When God dreamed up this idea of creating people in His own image, He did a miraculous thing.  He gave women the maternal instinct.  No matter how a woman is raised or the cruelty inflicted upon her, when she has kids, she will protect them and love them.  At all costs.

Mom may not say she loves me.  She may never tell me she is proud of me.  But I have childhood Christmas memories that prove she does and is.


I hold onto that this time of year.

Around the age of nine, I really wanted to repay my mom for all the presents she ever bought me.  I was starting to realize that Christmas really never fit into the budget but she always found a way to squeeze a few things in.

A few days before Christmas as she was at work, I rummaged through her desk.  Buried underneath some papers was a stapler.  Because I have always desperately sought approval from her, really from everyone, I thought it would be a great Christmas present.

I grabbed her own stapler; wrapped it in newspaper and put it under our humble Christmas tree.

I was proud to be finally giving her a gift instead of the usual handmade Christmas cards.  Sure, it was her own stapler but it never occurred to me she would recognize it.

That rush of giving was quite intoxicating; which led me to buying her my first Christmas gift.  A bottle of Charlie perfume.  Collecting aluminum cans and washing the neighbor's car in the middle of winter allowed nine year old me to pay for it.

Mom was getting TWO presents from me.  I had never felt more proud and excited.

Christmas morning came.  I wanted her to open my presents first. 

First, she opened the perfume. 
And then, the stapler.

Mom loved the perfume.  She immediately sprayed some on; just to show me she loved it.

Then came time for the stapler.  I swear a tear, maybe a few, swelled in her eyes. 

"How did you know I needed a stapler?" 

I don't really remember my answer but I was damn proud of myself.  That maternal instinct must have kicked in because all she did was talk about how thoughtful it was.  It was the best present she ever received she told me repeatedly.

The idea that the stapler I stole from her meant more to her than the $10 bottle of perfume I bought her with my own money fascinated me at the time.  Little did I know, she was teaching me a lesson.  Maybe, she didn't know it, either.



A few years ago, I helped her pack up some boxes so she could store things at my house.  As we were going through some old relics and assorted items she had collected through the years, I stumbled upon that stapler.

"I can't believe you still have this", I curiously stated.

"Of course I do.  It's the stapler you took from me and then gave back to me as a Christmas present.  How could I ever lose the most thoughtful present I have ever received?", she stated without a single ounce of sarcasm.  She meant it.

I suppose presents come and go.  They are short lived; used and then discarded at a later date for something better.  But those things that come from the heart wrapped in good intentions and selflessness never perish.

Mom will never say she loves me.

She doesn't have to.

And I don't have to tell her, either.

There's a stapler from 1981 that says it better than either of us.

The Better Half

The Titanic was sinking.  There were enough life boats to accommodate about half the passengers. 

So, half were left to drown.

Half were saved.

The better half, according to the movie.  The wealthy and powerful.  The elite.

I watched the movie last night.  Maybe, it was the fourth time I've seen it but it was definitely the first time, I enjoyed it.

It's an ironic movie depicting an ironic tragic event IF you realize it's just a three hour metaphor.


In the last 20 years, we've had a few tragic events.  The oklahoma city bombing, 9/11, Columbine, Hurricane Katrina, the BP Oil Spill and the recent Sandy Hook shooting.

All of these events were immediately followed by....

FEAR.

Knee jerk reactions.

The passengers of the Titanic immediately begged for solutions.  Who did they beg to?  The better half sitting in their life boats.


"They hate us for our freedoms", President Bush quipped.  Immediately, our freedoms were handed over.

Hello Patriot Act.  Goodbye 4th Amendment.
Hello NDAA.  Goodbye 5th Amendment.

Our constitution was written by the better half but these weren't men who saved themselves as their ship was sinking.  These were men who grabbed muskets and fought battles against tyranny.  It was their first hand knowledge of the dangers of tyranny that resulted in our Bill of Rights.

The better half back then truly were better.  It's because they used their power and influence to save US.  You and me.  And those before us and those who come after US.

In 2018, 15,000 drones will be patrolling our skies; watching us. 

The better half has a new pair of binoculars so they can keep an eye on us from the safety of their life boats.

It's for our own good, they say.


Freedom is dangerous.  It's a fact.  But I will counter that argument with another fact: an unchecked government is more dangerous.  The ashes of history prove that.

Do I want to live in a country where only the cops and government have guns?

 

You tell me.

Right now, we are being told that the current administration is looking into ways to curb gun violence.  The better half, the wealthy who have armed bodyguards by their side at all times, are looking for ways to ensure you and I can't protect our families.  From them.  From anyone.

They will protect us.  From their life boats.

After a few weeks of sound bites, we will be told that no freedom loving American needs a semi-automatic weapon.  The masses will find common sense in that misleading statement. 

They will tell us that the 2nd amendment didn't intend for us to have heavy weaponry. 

Of course, the first amendment never mentioned the internet in regards to freedom of speech.  But don't worry, the better half will be using that argument later.

The Hegelian Principle:
1.  Govt creates a crisis
2.  The masses react with anger and outrage.  FEAR.
3.  The masses then demand a solution to the crisis.
4.  Govt swoops in with a solution to the very crisis they created.

It's how the better half governs.


Our constitution is on life support.

It's up to us to revive it.

You and me.

The better half.

Beyond Words

Life isn't fair.

Says who?

What makes anyone believe we deserve good fortune?  Or complete happiness?  Where do these entitlement issues derive from?  Who decides the definition of fair?


I have my own thumbprint.   

So do you.

It's all mine.  Never to be replicated again.  Nobody has or ever will have my thumbprint.

I am unique.

So are you.


Yesterday was a bad day.  Ask those 20 parents in Connecticut.

Everyday is a bad day.  For someone.


I spoke to a friend yesterday.  Very briefly.

"Just heard from a close friend.  Her 6 year old was killed today."  That's what she told me.
"I'm sorry."  It's all I ever say when confronted with tragic news.
"Beyond words," she responded.

Conversation was over.

Beyond words. 
She's exactly right.  People talk too much.  Especially, after bad news. 

So, you wear your heart on your sleeve.  So, what?  Shut up. 
Compassion, empathy, whatever we call it.  It's not unique to mankind.  It's expected.  It's inborn. 

Unless, you are the man gunning down children in a supposed sterile environment like an elementary school.  But he is uncommon.  He doesn't represent humanity.  

But he has his own thumbprint. 

Like you.  Like me.

Broken crayons.  On a blood soaked canvas.  Yellow suns blackened.  Mommy and daddy, smiles gone.  Stick figures come to life.

Small town USA, awake. 

Christmas is coming.  Wrapped presents now cause a stir.  A dilemma.  Do they return them?  Do they save them as a reminder of what should have been?

Guns.  Security.  More laws.
Everyone has an opinion. 
Nobody has a solution.  Because there isn't one.

In a school where God is no longer allowed, huddled teachers cried His name.

America, land of the free and home of the brave. 
Freedom is dangerous.  Bravery is its best defense.

Let's put a name and a face to the tragedy.  Let's make it come to life.  Beyond words.

Victoria hid her students in cabinets and closets as the gunshots echoed in the hallways.  When the gunman entered her classroom, she told him the children were in the gymnasium.  He callously shot and killed her.  Then, off he went.

Children saved at her expense.

She had a black lab named Roxie.  She loved flamingos and the Yankees.

She had her own thumbprint.

She was more than that.

Beyond words.

Slightly drunk Bad Boys Rant‏

Just a quick semi-drunk rant...

So, tonight I had a conversation with someone about how women like bad boys.  It's one of those topics everyone has discussed at some point.  Either, some dudes will say they can never get the pretty girl because she is only interested in the bad boys or some dudes just use the "nice guys finish last" excuse.

So, after a few beers, it dawned on me how stupid this argument is....

Back in the early 90's, there was this tennis player that sounded like a chick when he talked but he had a mullet.  He was dubbed "the bad boy of tennis".  His name was Andre Agassi.

First of all, his name is Andre.  Never in the history of bad boys has there been an Andre.  But let's ignore that stupid fact.

I always wondered how anyone could be called "the bad boy of tennis".  It's like saying some gay dude performing in Rent is the "bad boy of Broadway".  You play TENNIS, Andre.  You're not a bad boy.

But still I wondered why he got this dubious title.

After long consideration, I concluded it could only be the mullet.  It certainly wasn't because of his dating life.  He dated and/or married Brooke Shields for God's sake. She was a virgin until she was like 35.  He certainly wasn't a bad boy just because he had his ear pierced.  My middle aged mail man has his pierced.  Maybe, my mailman is the bad boy of mailmen.  I don't actually know.

Anyway, there really was nothing "bad" about Mr. Agassi, yet he had this stupid title of being a bad boy.

So, this whole notion that women like bad boys is all based on a loose definition of "bad".

Hell, Michael Jackson sang a song called "Bad".  Yeah, he was quite intimidating.

Andre Agassi did these commercials back in the early 90's for Canon.  The slogan was "Image is Everything".  It was intended to play on his bad boy image.  A tennis star with a bad haircut and an earring was synonymous with "rebel".  Tennis is supposed to be a gentleman's sport and he wasn't quite the image you would expect to see on the grass courts of Wimbledon.

So, somehow this automatically made him a bad boy.  Women supposedly flocked to him because of this image.  I am pretty certain if you had drained his bank account and took away his fame, women would not have considered him a bad boy.

But that's beside the point.

Okay, so, where I think this whole stupid debate about bad boys and women being attracted to them is flawed is in our definition of what  a bad boy is.

My roommate, for example, tells me she only dates bad boys that ride Harleys.  She is under the impression that anyone that owns a Harley is a bad boy.  I think a Harley is just a slightly elevated version of a ten speed which means that bikers are only slightly more "bad" than Mormons.

A motorcycle does not make a bad boy.

Fonzi rode a motorcycle.  Have you seen him now?  He's more mild tempered than Mr. Rogers ever was.
Gary Busey rode a motorcycle.  He got in a wreck and is now slightly retarded.  He was never a bad boy.

Harleys create a false image.  If I drive a low rider, it doesn't make me a Mexican gangsta.  It makes me a white guy driving a stupid looking car.  This holds true when it comes to riding a Harley.  It's just a damn means of transportation.  Nothing less.  Nothing more.

Look at the "bad boys"  of pop culture.  Luke Perry in 90210; just because he had sideburns and had abandonment issues.  Donnie Wahlburg, with his scowl on his face and bad facial hair, was the bad boy of New Kids on the Block.  Seriously, a dude in a boy band was called a bad boy.  That's like saying the fat kid that sings tenor in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir is the bad boy of church music just because he looks angry half the time.

Other bad boys of pop culture.... Fonzi; a 5'5 Jewish man that was dating high school girls on Happy Days was a bad boy just because he wore a leather jacket and rode a motorcycle.  Nick on Family Ties just because he said "Yo Mallory" all the time.

The list goes on.  We've been programmed to label men "bad boys" if they meet certain criteria.

And this is where I think we are wrong.  I do not believe women seek bad boys.  I believe they seek what they've been programmed to believe a bad boy is.

If women really liked true bad boys, they would be dating the likes of Mike Tyson.  Here's a man that bit a dude's ear off once.  Or they would be masturbating to old speeches from Hitler.  No one is more of a bad boy than Adolph.

And finally, everyone's favorite bad boy would be every woman's dream:  O.J. Simpson.

A dude who killed two people and got away with it.  Plus, he played football.

Now, that's a real bad boy.

Okay, this is just a theory and I'm slightly drunk like a bad ass.


Am I wrong?

Would you really be afraid of Fonzi if he wanted to fight you?

Do women really like bad boys or do they like who the rest of us perceive as bad based on a false premise?

Is writing the smartest blog in history make me the "bad boy of blogging on Facebook"?

How come men don't like bad girls or do they?

Uninvited.

Christmas 2002: 
Everyone knew it was his last Christmas.  Thirty two years old.  Still young.  Nowhere near his prime.
Immortal?  Not as I once saw him.
Elevated in my eyes?  Sadly, no longer.
Loved?  Absolutely.

A few weeks earlier, the doctor warned him.  "Drink ever again and this will be your last Christmas.  No more birthdays.  Drink ever again, you won't survive."

I always say I can't talk about it.  But I always do.  In bits and pieces.  Because I feel guilty.  I feel anger.  I feel human.

I'm not good at being human.  Nor was he.

He was larger than life.  Ask anyone. 

I never did tell him.  Nor did I tell his family.  But they saved my life.  They welcomed me as if I was one of their own.  He was my brother.  Sometimes, even my dad.  Always, my best friend.

I don't think I ever mentioned any of that to him.  I'm sure he knew.  Maybe, not. 

He was the loneliest person I have ever known.  Loved, admired, idolized, imitated and lonely.

Christmas Day, I came over uninvited.  No big deal.  They welcomed me as one of their own.  I walked into their home.  He was in his room.

I have no idea what we did that night.  What words were said.

But I remember how he looked.  I recall his warmth. 

I will never forget wanting to cry....
because I knew this was his last Christmas.

Christmas 2003:
Fuck it.  It was the worst Christmas of my life.

He left this world three months before.  Two weeks before his 33rd birthday, to be exact. 

His doctor was right. 

It really wasn't about me that day.  It was about them.  The living.  His family.

I should have called.  Maybe, showed up uninvited.  I was one of their own.  They would have have welcomed me, as always.

Thank God I had a dog that day.  I had to cry to someone; someone who wouldn't tell anyone.  He never cried and he would have punched me if he knew I did.  If he was still with us, of course.


Christmas 2012:
I still think about him all of the time.  So many things I would tell him.  So many things I would do over.  I would have done better.  I know it.

At 17, I was a little awkward.  I had no specific social circle that suited me.  He welcomed me into his.  He demanded we be friends and friends, we became.

Great friends.  Almost inseparable.

He invited me into his life which resulted in me becoming a part of his family.  Family was what I had always craved. 

He invited me to share the best 15 years of my life with him and them.  And everyone he knew.

I never felt unwelcome. 

I could walk into wherever he lived uninvited.

He was never unloved or unappreciated.  I don't think I ever told him.  I am sure he knew.

Maybe, not.

Some people come into our lives and change us for the better.  And then they're gone.

Merry Christmas, old friend.

Dear Santa, You're fat

                                                         He asked for his dad to come home.

A few years ago, Christmas Eve, the two grandkids of my next door neighbor were sitting on the curb in front of grandma's house.

"Why are you two out here so late on Christmas Eve?", I asked.


"We are waiting for Santa's sleigh to fly over the city?", they each replied.

So, I sat down next to them.  In complete silence, we just stared straight into the sky for what felt like hours.

Every airplane, every falling star, any object in the sky that night potentially was Santa.  For a few minutes, I forgot my age.  I lost sight of the reality of Old Saint Nick.  As they oohed and awed at anything bright in that sky, I joined in their excitement.  I believed again.

Maybe, it was a mere twenty minutes we sat there.  It felt like hours.

Grandma opened her screen door and gently asked the kids to come inside.  They jumped up, waved goodbye to me and skipped to the house.

As I headed back into my home, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned around.  It was the grandson.

"Sir, are you leaving milk and cookies out for Santa, too?", he asked.

"I will if you will", I replied.

"No wonder he's so fat", the precocious kid stated; as if he was setting me up for his great punchline.

"Indeed, son".  Then I headed back into my warn house.

It was a typical Christmas Eve for me.  Alone, some sappy Christmas movie on TV and an inner debate whether I should buy a ham or just make cheeseburgers for my Christmas meal the next day.

I was feeling a little sorry for myself.  It's what I tend to do on holidays.

As I laid in my bed that night, I couldn't stop thinking about those minutes I spent on that curb with those kids.  I was fascinated with the fact that for one brief moment, I believed again.  I considered how contagious Christmas really is; how children can remind us of those simple joys in life.

It was a much needed reality check.

Christmas came and went. 

A few days later as I was setting the trash can on the curb, the grandma next door approached me.

She handed me a paper plate with carefully wrapped Christmas cookies.  Appreciative of her kindness, I thanked her. 

"You know, Zach and Ali spent Christmas with me this year.  Their father is in the military and currently overseas.  And as you know, I lost my husband, Roger, earlier in the summer.  If this is my last Christmas, I am thankful to God that I was able to spend it with them."

That was her story.  Those were her words. 

I really had nothing to say so I simply thanked her for the cookies and told her I was happy she had a great holiday.

A few months later, Lois passed away. 


My mom has this old box of all my childhood memories. A lock of hair from my first haircut.  My report cards.  My creative writing assignments.  Pictures.  And maybe my favorite thing, a letter I wrote to Santa when I was probably around eight years old.

Dear Santa,

My mommy works a lot and is never home.  She's tired.  Can you bring her money and can I have an Air Jammer Road Rammer?

your friend.

Mom saved it because she loved the part where I wanted her to have money so she could be home with me more.


Be it kids or a widowed grandmother or simply anyone any age in between, Christmas is about family and loved ones. 

Nothing less.

Nothing more.

Anti Social Networks

Let's be honest for a minute:  Social networks were created by the anti-social for the anti-social.

Just the term social network itself is an oxymoron.  If most of us were social, we wouldn't spend so much time on a social network. 

In fact, most of our behaviors online do not even mimic our behaviors offline.  Back in the days of Myspace, it was not uncommon for people to beg others to comment their pictures.  But in real life, no one would dare walk up to strangers and ask them to comment their face or tell them they are pretty,

Here on Facebook or even on Twitter, we share the most mundane aspects of our lives.  Who hasn't posted a picture of their dinner?  Who hasn't stopped what they are doing to let everyone know, via a status, that they have a headache? 

These are all things we don't do away from our computers.  I certainly have never called a friend and asked him to come over and look at my bowl of spaghetti I made for dinner.   And when I have a headache, the last thing I want to do, is talk about it. 

But here online, our lives are dictated by self-imposed narratives, photo ops and soundbites.

I am sure most women who have been online long enough have been subjected to the random penis picture from some unknown man.  Offline, if a man opens up his trench coat and flashes a woman, he is committing a crime.  Online, it's simply shrugged off as an expected occurrence.

Social networks are anything but social.

It's an oxymoron.

Social networks have just about replaced conversation with memes.   Rather than debate someone using intelligence on political matters, we use memes.  Often times, we don't even fact check the image we use to do our debating.

Now, we have a whole generation of self-described inspirational gurus who post incessant cliches, quotes and glitter infested adages.  It's as if kindness or acts of compassion have been reduced to the posting of other people's words on these anti-social networks.

People have found a lazy method of finding self-satisfaction without leaving their self-imposed bubbles. 

Imagine if Mother Theresa abandoned her good works and simply spent her time posting memes on Facebook.  She'd be as ordinary as the rest of us.

It seems to me that anti-social networks have caused us to lose the ability to rely on original thought.  They have bred a whole network of people who lack self-awareness and even delve into some shallow existence where an oxymoron is mistaken for wisdom.

A land where tiny women believe they are fierce and tough while large men believe they are soft with hearts of gold.

A place where insomnia is mistaken as an attribute of intelligence while bloggers believe they inherently deserve to be heard.

Anti social networks have caused the quiet reserved types to feel emboldened where voicing an opinion is incorrectly believed to be courageous. 

A place where being a humanitarian is as simple as posting an anti child abuse picture on your page which in reality is about as meaningful as drinking from a milk carton with a missing child on it.

Anti social networks have caused us to be calculated in our compassion all for the sake of a false perception by an audience filled with strangers.

These places manifest the self-serving needs of well intentioned people because ordinary people are given an opportunity to feel extraordinary in a virtual world not defined by cities, streets and pavement.


It seems to me that anti social networks are better suited for cynics like myself because in the real world, it is us who keep things real.

Trying too hard

If I was a car salesman with my own office, my desk would be cluttered with things you'd expect to find: a calculator, car brochures, pens and notepads.  I wouldn't stop there.  I'd have pictures of my girlfriend, maybe my mom and most importantly a coffee mug that read, "World's Greatest Dad."

I do have a beautiful girlfriend and a mom but the kids... well, they don't exist, yet.

I suppose creating this perception that I have kids and that I am the world's greatest dad could be considered a lie but, in sales, perception can be the difference between a mediocre paycheck and a large commission.

I am fascinated with the perceptions we create, the perceptions people have of us and the realities behind who each of us are.

Probably the most common thought that goes through my head when I judgmentally observe people around here is, "you're trying too hard".

When I first joined Facebook, admittedly, I felt out of place.  I felt unaccomplished, a disappointment and maybe,a little sorry for myself.  Everyone I knew from my past was happily married or had kids.  Each and every person I had ever considered close seemed to all be living the perfect life.

I suppose on a social network, painting a picture of our reality via sound bites and photo ops is going to lean more towards the positive aspects of our lives.   And if the positives are few, I suppose we may exaggerate those that do exist.

It's creating a perception.

In my head, I pretty much have everyone categorized around here.  One side of the spectrum are the freaks with their genital pictures and lame pick up lines.  Then, with the other extreme, we have the inspirational crowd; those who do nothing but regurgitate positivity and post unicorn pictures.  In between, we have the cat crowd, the always sick crowd, the TMI people, the angry political types, and then those I actually feel a sense of loyalty with.

Regardless of my opinion on individuals, I think most of us try too hard; including myself.

I do not believe the creepy people on here are necessarily creepy offline.  I, also, do not believe the angelic, saintly types with their sparkly unicorn pics and worn out Maya Angelou quotes are necessarily good people offline.


It's not to say that some aren't consistent in character in both existences.

I do believe that there is very little difference between the positivity people and the freaks.   Overkill is overkill.  Constantly talking about your fetishes and how horny you are is really no different than the endless postings of cats jumping on rainbows with some cliche about smiling more and loving everyone.

It's just a perception,  For some, it's living vicariously through the persona we have invented for ourselves online; to be who we wish we really were.  For others, it's a chance to be noticed and feel important or extraordinary..

I don't really know 90% of my friends list but I can give an adjective about each person on it.  Odds are, I will be wrong in my perception of each of them.

The internet has bred a whole generation of narcissists.  We saw it on myspace.   When our blogs ranked, we felt a sense of celebrity.  The positivity people and the poets believed they were healing the world with one cliche after another. Original thought was now defined by rephrasing someone else's original thought and then feeling proud of ourselves for being so clever and deep.

I don't really know if I have a point other than, I don't think any of us really know each other.  I think, most of us are so self-absorbed and worried about being perceived a certain way, we lose sight on the reality of who we are.  I think we lose a piece of our self every time we log in here.

One day, I will start every morning; drinking coffee from a mug that reads "worlds greatest dad" but the best part is it won't be sitting on my desk at work.

It will be left at home on my kitchen counter next to my kid's lunches.

Trickle Down

We were friends for 15 straight years. Then, there was seven years of nothing.  Complete silence.

I was certain he was fine.  In the back of my mind, I wondered if he was finally happy.  He has an infectious laugh.  A laugh I had truly missed.

One day.
Out of the blue.
He called.  He reentered my life.

Just like that, that conversation seemed like we were finishing a conversation we had minutes earlier.  But the truth is, it was a new conversation seven years later.

It's hard to explain.

Unless you've lost a friend that you truly never lost, you can't understand.

Some people are meant to be a part of your life for a moment.  Others, they remain with you forever.

He was that forever friend; regardless how often we spoke or speak.

I am glad I answered the phone that day.

He called because he was drunk.  The truth is, he was lonely.  He missed me.  He missed the good old days.  Actually, he missed his friends.  All of us.

We spoke for 6 hours that night.  Then, everyday from that day forward until he met his soon to be wife.  It was to be a relationship I helped form.  When he asked for her hand in marriage, my fingerprints were all over their vows. 

I take a lot of pride in that.

I know he was glad he picked up the phone that day.

The miracle of that one simple phone call was written in the Book of Life centuries ago.  I believe that.

Because of him and that phone call, it led me to the woman I now refer to as the love of my life.

It was a trickle down effect.  He knew someone who knew someone and that someone introduced me to someone.  Then that someone and I fell in love.

I could talk about all the hurdles we have jumped, the mountains we have climbed or I could talk about the sweet taste of her lips.  I could mention my moments of despair and the new gray that sprouted in between my dark Elvis like hair.  I could write how I learned the true meaning of anxiety and the real definition of being heartbroken.  I could toss out cliches that seem to never bring comfort when you are believing you are destined to always be alone. 

I could talk about how the last four years have been the best years of my life despite everything we have gone through.

I could talk for days about how that one simple phone call from a lost friend led me to the only woman I have ever loved.

I am glad I chose to be his friend in 1985.

He was a large kid for his age.  Hell, he was a large kid for any age.  But that laugh... it was so infectious.  How could I not make friends with a fat, awkward kid with a laugh like that?

I didn't know at the time that 25 years later he was going to be responsible for introducing me to her. 

Maybe, if I had, I would have been a better friend.  And maybe, we would still be talking today.

I miss him.

I am thankful to him for her.

I am glad I answered my phone that day....

Four years ago.

Larger than Life

"My donuts!  My donuts!"

Picture this:  A nearly 300 pound, 15 year old kid riding his bike with no hands while carrying a box filled with donuts.  Suddenly, he loses balance and crashes into a pile of rocks.  Bloodied and bruised, he emerges from the sea of boulders; limps to the twisted heap of metal once known as his bicycle and exclaims, "my donuts, my donuts!"

That is how I was introduced to the best friend I have ever known.  He was the fat kid more concerned with his donuts than the blood running down his arms and legs or his broken bicycle.

1985 was a great year.  It's the year, I met him.


I think about him all the time. 

We don't talk anymore.  I will take the blame.  I suppose, I say too much, express too many opinions, judge too often and sabotage too many good things.

Last night, his sister in law posted his picture online.  There he was; a little gray, overweight but still larger than life.

Larger than life.  That's him.

I suppose we all have that friend.  The indescribable, quirky friend whom we credit with so many of our own accomplishments and attributes. 

The last time we spoke was two years ago.  We spoke for hours.  Nothing changed.  Our bond is/was unbreakable.

He is the man responsible indirectly for me meeting the love of the life.  I am the man indirectly responsible for his marriage. 

In the annals of my life, it will be written that he was my best friend. 

I think sometimes we throw that term around carelessly.  We crown certain people our best friend when, in reality, they are merely our favorite friend.  In this case, he is/was the BEST friend I have ever had.

I could speak about him for days.  His laugh.  His kindness.  His compassion. 

His love.

We don't talk anymore.  It's a long and complicated story.

I saw him last night.  If pictures accurately tell a story, then he looks well.  Happy. Still in love.

I suppose that's all I really need to know.

20 Seconds

Sometimes, when we are talking, I don't hear a damn thing she says.  It's her voice.  It's the sweetest sound in the world. 

We've had some close calls.  A long break up.  Ridiculous fights.  Insane insecurities.  Health scares.

Her, coming to her senses.


I knew within 20 seconds of meeting her that she was the one.  I also knew that she was going to have to choose me.  Women like her, men like me, don't choose.  They choose us.

I'd like to say I deserve her.  I don't.

Things like this aren't stated in a moment of weakness or during some self-pitied epiphany.  It isn't said so others will bury me in praise or complimentary toasts. 

It's stated because it is a fact.  I don't deserve her.  I doubt anyone does.

My twenty seconds of making an eternal impression were clumsy. 

I don't remember one damn thing I said to her.  I hoped to avoid eye contact because I knew I would start feeling self-conscious like she was staring at some wayward nose hair or blemish on my skin.  I had hoped that she could overlook any imperfections and see something in me that I've never seen myself.

A woman like her shouldn't be talking to a man like me.

But she did.  She clung to every word.  She nodded.  She smiled.  She even touched my arm.

I remember those things.

I swear I am the luckiest man alive.  I don't deserve to be.

I suppose you'd have to know her to get it.


My whole life I've had a blue print of the perfect woman in my mind.  Sundresses, flip flops, pony tails, green eyes, a smile like no other...

If I am an architect, then her creator far exceeded my plans.  He took my vague dream and built a monument.

I suppose you'd have to see her to get it.


She had a root canal done today.  In the midst of her drug induced haze, she told me she loved me.  For some reason, I couldn't swallow.  It caught me off guard.  It's her voice.  It's the sweetest sound in the world.

I suppose you'd have to talk with her to get it.

In my alone time, I watch a lot of movies.  Last night, the movie I watched, made this declaration, "You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it."

It really resonated with me.  Unbeknownst to me at the time I met her, I had my twenty seconds of courage. 

These connections we make in life are miracles.  They aren't handed to us.  We don't even earn them, either.  They just happen.

God knows I don't deserve her.

In the final scene of the specific movie I watched last night, the main character meets her.

In his twenty seconds of courage, he asks, "Why would an amazing woman like you even talk to someone like me?"

Her response, "Why not?"

I suppose you'd have to be in love to get this. 

A Long Day

It's been a long day. 

Birds singing in the morning.  Coffee brewing in the kitchen. 

The lap top warming up as I did the same in the shower; ready to embark on an ordinary day.

Dried myself off, sat in my chair, preparing myself for my regular routine. 

And the long day began.

Heard some troubling news about someone I barely knew.  A stranger in my computer, hours before, had lost his life.  A friend of a friend of another friend is quite upset.  Humanity sinks in as I drink from my coffee cup.  Ho hum, it happens every day, I tell myself as I find myself a little despondent.

Something about those connections we make here online with people we've never met.  It's funny.  It's sad.  It's another long day.

It's been a long year.

New Years resolutions get longer each year.  Broken a lot sooner as I grow older.

I love you, my love, can't wait until we're married.  Maybe, we won't have babies but if you want another cat, I will not debate you.

Summer rolls in, I need a vacation from me.  I pack my bags and send them on a trip.  I never go anywhere without my ego.

She says she's not feeling too well, even worse than usual.  Worry sets it in, even more so than before.  Doctor says she'll be fine... God willing.

Christmas is coming.  She's everything I want.  It's funny.  It's sad.  It's another long year.

It's been a long decade.

Sat across from a friend in an ordinary booth at a rather tame restaurant.  His hands were shaking as his speech was slurred.  Three hours that night, doing what we do best.  Talking. 

The last three hours, I would ever see him again. 

I've seen a ghost, a shell of a man, walk away in the distance as my heart told me, I wouldn't see him again.   And my heart was right.

Ten years of yearning; wishing I had those hours back.  It's funny.  It's sad.  It's been a long decade.

It's been a long life.

So many friends.  So many faces.  So many memories. 

If I had grandparents, this would be the time, I'd ask for old war stories, to see their old wounds.  This would be the time, Id' drink lemonade on the porch, rock in a chair and marvel as they spoke.

But I'll settle for my neighbor who no longer remembers his name.  His face, specifically, his eyes; tell me everything I need to know.

It's embarrassing, my generation, as I think of his.  It's funny.  It's sad. 

And the long day comes to an end.  A day filled with reflection, some regrets and reminiscence.  Alone with some thoughts, my telephone rang.  An unfamiliar phone number from a familiar area code.

So, I answer my phone, curiosity at bay. 

It's an old friend from a decade ago.

As soon as I recognized his voice, I, immediately, with joy, said, "It's been a long time."

It's funny.  It's sad.

How time flies.

Nice guys finish last... my ass

I want to put to rest this misnomer that "nice guys finish last".  Once and for all.

So, a friend of mine breaks up with this dude.  Step by step, he follows the exact same trends all dudes do when broken up with:  He tells her he will change.  Then, he claims he read some self-help books and now understands what he did wrong.  Then, he starts texting her with some really ridiculous lyrics to lame love songs.  Then, he buys her flowers.  But like the douche he is, he hand delvers them to her work; giving off the impression that he is so sweet.  But we all know hand delivered flowers are a man's way to give off the perception he is sweet.  It's a man's way to put the spotlight on himself instead of the woman that he is "apologizing" to or trying to win over.  Hand delivered flowers are a transparent way to get a woman's co-workers pity and praise.  It's manipulation.

After the flowers, he began the non-stop emails and texts with WORDS of desperation.

"The pain is unbearable."
"I will die without you."

The emotional blackmailing begins.

I know this well because I've done it before.

So, this dude keeps texting, calling and emailing constantly.  He keeps begging for another chance.  He becomes even more clingy than when they were together.  He has become a borderline stalker.

So, this friend, starts to worry.  I decide to message him and explain to him why she broke up.  I explained that she broke up because she simply is not romantically interested in him.  After two months of dating, she realized he is not for her.  It was that simple.

I explained that no words or lame poetry or hand delivered flowers have the power to make her be in love with him.

Then, I warned him to back off and that he was in danger of losing her friendship.  I told him that he had become creepy and that she was beginning to resent him.

He then replied to me with the same things most guys say when they are dumped:  "I am tired of being a nice guy.  Women just hate nice guys.  We always finish last."

It's a myth.  Nice guys do not finish last.  Women do want nice guys.

The problem men who use this phrase have is they either do not know the definition of nice or they are giving themselves way too much credit.

Nice guys do not call themselves nice guys.  If you have to tell others you are a nice guy,  you are not a nice guy.  Note to single women:  If you are ever on a dating site or are talking to a man and he tells you that he is the guy next door type and is just a regular nice guy, RUN.

Run as fast as you can.

Genuine nice guys will be nice with their actions; they will not be trying to convince you through words they are nice.

Men who claim to be misunderstood are arrogantly belittling those who deemed them as "not their type" or decided they were not "datable".

"The woman doesn't want to be with me anymore?  Well, she obviously is retarded or she just doesn't get me", says the man with the highly misguided opinion of himself.

Women do want nice regular next door type guys.  They want genuine nice guys.  Just because a woman dumps us, it doesn't automatically mean we were too nice.  Clingy does not mean nice.  Needy does not mean nice.  Writing her ridiculous poetry does not equate to being nice.  Because you part your hair to the side or have pictures of yourself with your dog does not mean you are the guy next door type, either.  Just because you can recite a Michael Buble song does not mean you are a regular nice guy.

Being a nice guy, the type women want, means we listen to her.  We put their needs above our own.  It means we keep our egos in check.

Women are a lot simpler than we think.  Make them laugh.  Through action, show them you love them.  And listen to them... really listen to them.

Nice guys never finish last.

Douches do.