Rush

If I was given one more conversation, what would I say?

Sometimes, always after midnight, I escape into the hypothetical.  I suppose I'm too busy.  I suppose my defense mechanisms work late into the day.  I suppose it hurts more than I care to admit but less than I wish to imagine.

See you tomorrow! 

I fucking lied.  He made a liar out of me. 


I remember my first kiss; the first kiss with someone I loved.  Her name is inconsequential. 

I fucking lied again.  Her name was.  Her name is significant.  Just like her blue eyes.  Just like her flawless face. 

Talk to you soon!

I swear I never mean to lie.  I swear I mean what I say.

I miss that rush.  When she called, they weren't butterflies.  They were airplanes.  Swimming in my gut.  Oh, but when I saw her, I swear, time stood still.  Like it does after midnight.

I'm drowning in the hypothetical because I will never know.  Sometimes, I would rather be judged by intentions and not results. 

I'm not afraid to say I love you.  At least, not anymore. 
I'm not afraid of your affection.  It's easy to admit when that affection is no longer to be had.

Ghosts are never friendly.  It's a creation in our own minds.  Probably to help us cope with the reality of our last words.


I saw him on a Friday.  Good Friday, I suppose.  But for him, Easter never came.  He never rose again.

If I had one more conversation, would I beg him not to go?  I suppose he carried my cross for those decades that I knew him.  I suppose this is what I deserve.


She told me I was beautiful.  A fucking liar, she never was.  Her compassion was her essence and her smile was no disguise.  I found comfort on her face.  I discovered love the day she left.

If I had one more conversation, would I beg her not to go?  I suppose she died for my sins.  I suppose we shall meet again.

I miss the rush that's been replaced by the mundane.  And those faces I can no longer paint.  And I miss those words that were never said but were understood underneath the surface.  And I miss his trembling hands and I ache for her timid voice.

And I rush throughout the day; waiting for midnight to arrive.  Just so I can go swimming in the hypothetical and rush back into their lives.  As if, anything I wish for can ever be relived.  As if, anything I could undo would ever be done differently.

I suppose if I had one more conversation, I would beg them not to go.

Sweep the Leg, Johnny

I haven't really put much thought into this overused word "bullying" until recently.  Maybe, it's because I perceive that word as some bullet proof vest people strap on when words, any words, are thrown in their direction. 

Maybe, I haven't taken bullying as seriously as some because it's become the crutch for the thin skinned; a new excuse to shield us from any negativity that may or may not reveal us for who we are. 

Maybe, I haven't taken the word "bullying" in the manner that I should because I've played the role of bully more often than I have the victim.

It's easy to be desensitized to awful things like war or rape or mere bullying when one's own experience in these things is limited to secondhand information.

Sometimes, a little reminder in these so-called awful things goes a long way in changing one's own perspective.

For me, that reminder was last week as I watched The Karate Kid for the estimated 50th time in my life

We all know the story:  An awkward young Italian kid with a New Jersey accent moves to California with his mother.   Suddenly, he finds himself to be slightly out of place in a high school filled with priveleged kids who view anyone outside of California as lower class citizens.

Over time, Daniel Larusso, becomes a target for abuse by a bunch of karate obsessed "cool" kids.  With the assistance of Mr. Miyagi, Daniel then learns the craft that is being used against him. 

Fast forward to the end of the movie and we have Daniel in a karate tournament against his tormentors.  From those final minutes, we learn the phrase "Sweep the Leg, Johnny"; which basically is an order from the "cool" kid's Sensai to follow his unconventional rule of "no mercy".

Then the movie ends in predictable fashion.  The bullies lose.  The "victim" earns his respect and is shown in a heroic light.



I suppose I could take the lessons from this formulaic movie and come to some conclusion that bullies suck and nobody should ever be picked on but I'm not quite ready to accept that notion.

I'm not prepared to come to terms with today's definition of bullying because the world is not as black and white or innocent as it once was.

We live in a world where bullying is the norm. 

We bully third world countries with drones.  We only choose to bully those countries unable to defend themselves against us.  Here we are with stockpiles of nuclear and chemical weapons yet we choose to attack those countries who may or may not have the same capabilities as us in the future.  Imagine if  the Karate Kid wasn't allowed to learn karate but instead had to take his daily beatings from the obsessed "cool" karate kids without the means to defend himself. 

It's the same principle.

Even our politicians bully us in order to bully those less fortunate countries.  They use unfair and excessive taxes to drain our paychecks to pay for the bullying they do onto those poor nations.

They bully us by trying to remove our right to bear arms while they themselves are arming other nations.  Why do the bullies in Washington want to keep her masses from being able to defend themselves? 

We live in a world where we bully the unborn.  Regardless if you recognize an unborn baby as viable life, we have built a culture where we deem some lives more valuable than others.

Hell, we even bully our own Creator by kicking him out of the classroom and now under this current administration, we are bullying Him out of the military.  Godless bullies in Washington are bullying our first amendment rights to bully the Creator many of us believe in.

Walmart and other big businesses have bullied small business into extinction so much so that the new internet tax that is being considered by the Washington bullies will but certainly expand that bullying into a permanent monopoly.

Who do you think is lobbying for an internet tax?  Its the big business bullies.

We bully the environment.  Overfishing, the polluting of our skies, the needless slaughter of certain species; all in the name of our own insatiable appetites.  We are bullying the planet.

Each of us are bullies regardless if we admit it. 

The left bullies the right.  The right bullies the left. 

We are bullies on the freeway when we weave in and out of traffic; cutting people off just because we want to make it to work two minutes sooner.  

We bully telemarketers when they call us at dinner time even though they are simply doing their job and trying to put food on their own tables.

When Facebook deletes an account for bullying, they turn around and bully us back.  They demand photo ID for the simple reactivation of our own accounts.  We place our trust in this social network machine and they turn around and sell our information to the big business bullies so those bullies can punch us in the gut with excessive advertising and the theft of our own personal information.

All this talk about bullying and people using that word as a shield is nothing short of hypocritical. 

My favorite scene in The Karate Kid is at the very end after Johnny Lawrence sweeps Daniel's leg and Daniel is declared the winner.  It's the snapshot of Johnny wearing a remorseful expression on his face and empathy over rides his conditioned cruelty.

I wish the world worked that way.

I wish bullying was a rare occurrence where at the end of the day, being victimized is short lived and everyone gets along. 

I also wish people would stop crying bully every time they feel cornered because all it does is desensitize us to those people, born and unborn, those countries, those citizens and those who are no longer living who have been genuinely bullied.

Bullying has always been around.  It's as American as apple pie.

It's as American as The Karate Kid.

Drowning Man

They say, "A drowning man will clutch at a straw".


It's a simple idiom meaning that when hope seems dim; in an act of self-preservation, we will do anything possible to save ourselves.


We live in interesting times.

The economy is shaky.  As a result, anxiety is at an all time high. Parents are worried about their children. Spouses are turning on each other.  Relationships are falling apart.  Church members are abandoning their faith.  Children have lost that innocent sense of security they deserve.


We are drowning.


Everyday, the government releases new statistics in hopes of raising our collective morale.  The economy is improving.  The worse is behind us.  Hope and change has arrived.

Those are words.  They are statistics.

Tell those words to the single mother of two who has fallen behind on her rent as her landlord hands her an eviction notice.  Give those statistics to her children as they sit in their classrooms worried if they will have a home at the end of the day.


In an act of complete desperation, she clutches for a straw.  She turns to her online friends and says, "help". And we, with the utmost empathy, collectively reply, "I am sorry."


She's drowning.


Everywhere I look, I see faces barely able to keep their heads above water as their hands are outstretched in hopes of being saved.


I see a young independent woman struggling to prove she can make it on her own.  She quietly is drowning because asking for help is not her style.


I see a lonely older woman, with years of worry tattooed on her face, working three jobs just to pay her rent.  She has no husband or family to turn to; so she asks for help in the most passively aggressive way she knows how.  Guilt is the straw she clutches for.


I see two people madly in love with each other but the stress of their daily lives has put their fairy tale love story on hold.


And together they drown.  They drown without each other.  They drown with each other.


It's scary out there.


There is not a more lonelier feeling than that of a drowning man.


I feel the waves crashing above my head.  I feel the hopelessness caused by events out of our own hands.  I sense the hurt late at night when those I love are alone with their thoughts.


Nobody deserves to drown alone.
Nobody deserves our blind eye.


If you claim to love someone, don't let them drown.  Just because they say nothing, do not assume all is well.


We live in interesting times.


We need each other more than ever.  We should be coming together and fighting these unfortunate times together.


We should be swimming together; not drowning apart.

"You don't drown by falling in the water, you drown by staying there".


It is our fault if anyone we love ever drowns.


I believe that.


As a man who has witnessed the ultimate drowning of a few people, I will go to my grave believing I could have done more to save them.


I am riddled with guilt, at times.


And I am okay with that.  Without that sense of responsibility, I would not be as willing to try and save those still in my life.


A drowning man will clutch at a straw...


and he will drown every time.

Damaged Goods

The first time I ever heard those two words was on a lonely Friday evening sitting in rehab with my then best friend.

It was he, some chain smoking coke addict and me.  Just the three of us, sitting in a smoke filled room.  As far as I knew, I wasn't an addict.  As far as I knew, I was the normal one out of the three of us.

So, I sat there and just listened.

My then best friend and this chain smoking coke addict spent an hour exchanging sad tales of loneliness and despair.

I just sat there and listened.  I was the normal one.

"My parents want nothing to do with me.  My husband left me months ago." 

There was something so desperate in her words.  It wasn't those two sentences that resonated with hopelessness.  It was how she said it.

That chain smoking coke addict was about to get to the core of her self-loathing.

I held my head down the whole time.  I was the normal one.  My then best friend stared her straight into the eyes and just listened to her intently.  I tried to look distracted.  I was the normal one.

And then she said it.

She said two words I understood:

Damaged Goods.

"I am damaged goods."  She said it loud and clear.  And my head perked up.  She got my attention.  She was now speaking in terms that this normal one could understand.

Damaged goods.

Damn, did I know that feeling.  I wanted to tell her how I felt like damaged goods as a child.  How abnormal I felt as opposed to the other kids.  I wanted to tell her how damaged I felt that very moment because I was always different than my peers.

I wanted to say, "Darling, we are all damaged goods."

I wanted to retell the story of a dear friend who started having sex at 13.  It wasn't her fault that an 18 year old man was stronger than her.  I wanted to tell the chain smoking coke addict about the dear friend who lost her virginity at the age of 13 and decided that since her virginity was gone, there was no need to say "no" to all the boys that came next.

But I wanted to tell that chain smoking coke addict that my dear friend is now happily married with 2 children of her own.  I wanted to say so much about how we perceive ourselves is always more dangerous than how others see us.

I wanted to tell her that she isn't damaged goods; at least, not any more damaged than the rest of us.

I had so many words in my head.  I said nothing.  I was the normal one on that day.

So, I sat there as she kept speaking.

I couldn't tell you what she said next because the room was echoing with those words:  Damaged Goods.

And I looked around that rehab center.  I was surrounded by damaged goods... people who considered themselves damaged beyond repair.  And I looked at my then best friend and a light went off in my head...

"This man, I affectionately look up to, thinks he is damaged goods.  How can the best friend I've ever known think such a thing?"

A year later, my then best friend was laid to rest.

In the overcrowded church filled with people of all ages and colors, I kept thinking, "God, if he could only see this now.  God, if he only knew his impact, how much he was loved, how many he inspired...."

The man who considered himself damaged goods inspired all of us... the normal ones.

Sometimes, I revert back to those thoughts I had as a child.  The thoughts where I believed I was damaged goods.  I get these ideas that I am only loved on the condition of how perfect I am.

It's funny how hard we are on ourselves.  It's funny how we think we are damaged because our resume includes a divorce or a past riddled with ghosts or a closet filled with skeletons.  It's funny how we question why anyone would dare love us.

And it's not funny.

It's not funny because it's the idea of being damaged goods that leads some to an early grave.  It's the self-loathing that halts progress in its footsteps. 

It's the label of damaged goods we give ourselves that prevents us from seeing that there is an array of other damaged goods waiting to accept us and love us for the flawed beings we are. 

The first time I ever heard that term was on a lonely Friday evening sitting in rehab with my then best friend.

It was also the same night I realized that we only become damaged goods when we believe we are damaged goods.

When the I love yous stop

When the I love yous stop, what do you do?

I was looking for a job and then I found a job.  Heaven knows I'm miserable now.
Two lovers entwined, pass me by.  And heaven knows I'm miserable now.

I can relate to those words from Morrissey. 

I suppose there were two types of people during my younger days:  those who listened to The Smiths and those who listened to everything else.  It's fascinating to me that with each self-perceived crisis, I am regurgitating the same old songs from those past self-perceived dramatic moments.

When the I love yous stop, what do I do?

Those ASPCA commercials with Sarah Mclachlan's voice reverberating in the background make me a little more sad.  "Those poor, lonely dogs", I think to myself but the truth is it's all about me.  We are incapable of empathy unless we can relate.  Anything else is disingenuous.  Anything else is worthy of contempt.

Misery loves company?  No, misery loves nothing.  Misery is a lonely number like one.

When the I love yous stop, I find myself picking up a new addiction.  Like that rehab center where I wandered the halls covered in the stench of cigarette smoke.  Like those casinos where thick fog of cigarette smoke clouds the views of all the screaming women because they just won a small fortune.  The irony flows through my veins as I never learned how to smoke but I seek refuge in a mass of fellow addicts.

When the I love yous stop, I walk quickly past every mirror in my house.  I make myself sick.  My worth was cloaked in someone else's approval.  I can't look at my face for fear of recognizing why the I love yous stopped.

Every cloud has a silver lining?  No, every silver lining has a cloud. 

When the I love yous stop, I envy the celebrity.  I worship the martyr.  I fall into the arms of the sandman. 
When the I love yous stop, I dream of better days.  And maybe I weep a little more for those that are gone.  And maybe I pray a little less and consume the lies being whispered in my ear, a little more. 

When the I love yous stop, I find I love you easier to say.  I find kindness easier to implement and compassion a little less vague.

I suppose I take certain things for granted.  Like my life.  Our lives. 

I suppose those three words shouldn't be an expectation.  I suppose we are all floating on treacherous waves being circled by sharks.  And that safety boat is merely an illusion.  And that branch we clutch for to save us from drowning is simply a piece of straw.  And that desperate need to be loved is as necessary as food.  Or oxygen.  Or water.

When the I love yous stop, I find myself loving you more.