Everyone loves Betty

My current guilty pleasure is vintage game shows.   Prior to this obsession, it was Johnny Carson reruns.  It's fairly typical of me to get fixated on one thing for a period of time and then move on to something else.

I suppose when we begin to feel a little less immortal, it's not obscenely abnormal to start looking in the rear view mirror.

One day, I am reminiscing with an old friend about high school graduation and this little irritating thing called math enters my mind.   When I graduated in 89, my mom was the same age I am now, I told her.  Makes sense.  My kids just graduated and I am your age, this friend replied.

Thanks to the internet, we are given the opportunity to read about ghosts.   It's just a collective word to describe all these "celebrities" I watch on these game shows.  One by one as they appear on these game shows, I google them.  

Charles Nelson Riley.  Dead.
Gene Rayburn.  Dead.
Richard Dawson.  Dead.
Brett Somers.  Dead.

And so on...

Morbid, I suppose but all these people seemed so likeable back then.  Filled with life.  Funny.  Creative.  Approachable.

Just when this little eye twitch sets in with this new knowledge that no one lives forever, Betty White appears on game show after game show.  Google says shes alive!   Of course, I knew that but I had to make sure.

Last night, my game show curiosity/obsession took a new turn.  I watched two long documentaries.  One was about Michael Larson, the man who outsmarted CBS and Press your Luck.  He figured out the patterns on the No Whammies board and walked away with $110,000.  Back in the early 80s, no one ever won more that $30,000 on a game show.  Larson was a con artist who spent months watching Press your Luck and figuring out where the Whammies would not hit the board and when.

The second documentary was about Charles Ingram.  He was an English army major who cheated on Who wants to be a Millionaire.  Ten years ago, his wife and a friend sat in the audience and would obnoxiously and loudly cough when the right answer was given out of the mulitple choices of each question.   Worst cheater in history.  He ended up winning $1 million and then getting 20 months in jail.  Of course, he never got paid.

Most of the game shows are cliche.  Everyone is super corny and jumps up and down incessantly.   For fear of being censored, sex is called making whoopie or the cringe inducing making love.  Sexual innuendo is avoided.   It's like watching the Brady Bunch on Prozac.

Really, the only unsavory part of these game shows is Richard Dawson's need to make out with women, girls, or anyone with a vagina.  Most over-rated "celebrity" in history.  Unfunny, pretentious and a little creepy.

So, I'm watching a celebrity episode of Family Feud and there's Betty White again.   She was on every game show possible back then.  Mr. Dawson leans in, makes out with her and she discusses some animal charity she will be donating any winnings to if her team wins.

God, she's the sweetest woman alive, I am thinking.  But what's with the hair?  She's had the same haircut since the 50s.  That's unheard of with women.  It's like imagining a woman owning only one pair of shoes her whole adult life.   I become fixated on this for a few minutes.

Maybe, that's why everyone loves Betty.  She's consistent. 

There's something to be said about consistency.  Being approachable, funny, friendly, kind; they're all noble traits.  And rare.  All of these ghosts seem to be genuinely drawn to her.  SHE'S GONNA OUTLIVE ALL OF YOU, I shout silently.

As I am about to become bored with my evening menu of game shows, Match Game comes on.  There's this little old lady contestant named Mildred who appears.  Mildred?  What's with all these terrible names women born prior to 1950 are given?  I become fixated on names and how they seem to always match the person with it.  I think of every crush I've ever had since I was 13 and there are no Mildreds or Barbaras or Loises or Helens.  

Match Game ends with Mildred winning $500.  The little old lady is beside herself.  I suppose that was a lot of money in 1978.  She's attempting to jump up and down while clapping like a seal.  Her joy is infectious.

And then...

Betty White, with the same haircut as Mildred but probably 30 years younger, rises from her celebrity seat, jogs over to Mildred and hugs her. 

It was genuine joy for another person.

Google says she's 94 years old.  Fifty years from now or 12 more presidential elections, I'll be the age she is now.

I'm getting a new haircut.

Stupid Kids and Magic

Nothing about this makes sense.   Of all the malls in the world, why would he choose this one?  How does he have time to do this all day with Christmas so close?  Where are his reindeer?  How did he get here? 

I had so many questions and as usual, adults always give a one word answer that is intended to wrap up all of life's mysteries with a neatly tied bow.

Magic, she said. 

Faith, he replied.

These answers were easier to digest, I suppose, than the storks response mom gave when I asked where babies came from years earlier.   Come to think of it, storks was the first time I was introduced to the oversimplification adults provide when kids present them with the natural curiosity within us.

I stood in line with all the other kids for two hours so I could tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas and more importantly, get my picture taken with him.   For an eight year old, having your picture taken with Santa is akin to adults on social media who take selfies with any given celebrity they happen to run into around town.   Celebrity worship begins at an early age.

The only thing I really remember about my two hours of standing in line for the one and only time I ever met Santa was the stupidity of most kids.   Want to know if your kid is smart?  If he questions everything.  Intelligence can be measured by the number of whys one asks.  

Critical thinking skills aren't as common as they should be.  Don't believe me?  We now have people begging the government to stop "fake news".   Just think about that for a minute.  Instead of just using your own critical thinking skills and your own ability to research things, people would rather have a corrupt and dishonest institution called government simply tell them what is real and what is not.

But I digress...

Okay, so maybe, I was a little snob as a kid.  As an only child of a single mother constantly showered with compliments from adults who were overcompensating because of the perceived "tragic" upbringing I was "enduring", I was led to believe I was smarter and better looking than all the other kids.

I stood in line that Saturday to meet Santa as mom roamed the mall.  Kids my age, screaming at the mere sight of Santa.  One might think Tiffany or some boy band was at the mall that day due to the noise these Santa fans were making.

"Hey, how did Santa get here from the North Pole?  How does he visit so many stores and malls in one day?", I asked this girl in front of me.

"Magic", she replied.

"But when does he sleep?  He's everywhere... Every mall, store, on TV and still has to go to every house in one week.  Don't old people have to be in bed by 6:00 (after wheel of fortune)?" 

"He's magical", she repeated.

I was getting nowhere.  I was surrounded by stupid kids who could only answer my well thought out questions with one word.

Eventually, it was my turn to sit on Santa's lap.

Santa asked me my name.  His nicotine stained teeth and Marlboro breath was more than I could handle. 

"Should you really be smoking when you have so much to do in the next week?   You're gonna get asthma like me." 

Santa pretty much ignored my line of questioning.  

What do you want for Christmas, young boy?

An Air Jammer Road Rammer, please.

He then promised to do his best.  My Santa selfie was taken by one of his helpers and I was sent on my way.

One week later, Christmas was here.  There were so many presents for me.  Single moms of an only child tend to spoil that kid.  Maybe, its out of guilt.  I don't know.

Underwear.  A clip on tie.  T-Shirts.  A new King James Bible with my name engraved inside.  Everything a boy doesn't want for Christmas was there for me.

Before I could throw my entitled tantrum, mom handed me one last present.

Santa wanted me to give this to you last.  Here you go, son.

And there it was... My Air Jammer Road Rammer.

Magic.

Indeed.

Talk to Myself

Talking to myself so I won't forget.  With a cup of coffee and a cigarette.  When midnight strikes, so does its regret.  And nothing good happens when the moon is set.

I am someone you used to know.  Maybe love.  Not too long ago.  Me, the self righteous Romeo.  Where art thou my Juliet?  

And the elevator only goes to the basement.  And everyone driving is drunk.  And the drugs don't work as well as they used to.  And all those familiar faces are no longer young.   And the phone never rings.  And standards and particulars become anyone.  And time can't finish running its course fast enough.  Talking to myself so I don't self-destruct.

And the mustard seed has been crushed.  And neurosis is the new normal.  And the drugs don't work as well as I had hoped.   And goodbye should never be this informal.   And all the familiar faces have become a blur.  And the invitations read, Come as you were.  Talking to myself becomes literature.

And I've become immune to the placebo effect.   And nurturing becomes neglect.  And a shower seems so pointless.  And the drugs only delay the trainwreck.  And my time machine seems outdated.  And the caffeine only makes me aggravated.  And history saves face by being manipulated.  Talking to myself so I don't become automated.

And the last day of summer breeds remorse.  And if I could sow the seeds of the hypothetical, you know I would, of course.  And all that's left is parity.  And all  the faces are cloaked in familarity.  And we scream in solidarity; only to realize talking to one's self is therapy. 

And heaven knows it's going to be a long cold winter. 

And all the marrow of life has been drained.

First, comes chaos.  Then, comes change.

Then hope replaces regret.

Conversations over a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

Last Day of Summer

Like when a man cries as he reads the obituary of the father he never met.   Is it some arbritrary reaction or an ordinary reflex?  Those easy to remember are harder to forget.  Some things are obvious.  Everything else is cliche.  Nothing more than a smile as a display of regret.  But I pray no one has to suffer on the last day of summer.

My life was better with you in it.  I never imagined it otherwise; even for a minute.  I loved you before I knew you.  God damnit, hallejuah.  

Like the smartest child in the room.  He asks why incessantly.  Intelligence is nothing but curiosity.  So, why God?  Why me?  Some people worship a dyslexic deity.  My God, hes almighty.  So, I'll wait my turn and grab a number.  It's always the last day of summer.

Time doesn't exist.  Clocks do.  That's the paradox in missing you. 

I look down.  Then I look up.  It's a year later.   I was just about to call you, says the procrastinator.  Some things never change.  Everything else is chaos.  I find it peculiar to be forgotten.  Like strangers caught in an awkward moment.   But I pause... it's only the last day of summer.

Like when a man wants to change and not be whom he has become.  He holds out his heart; ready to feed it to anyone.  Some things are sacred.  Everything else is taboo.   So, we count our blessings in anger.   God damnit, hallejuah.

And it's best to realize that we never will get younger.   It's always the last day of summer.

Maybe

Now, maybe.  I'm not meant to know.   Now, maybe.  We arent supposed to let it go.  Maybe someday.  And maybe.  We only make one mistake.  And maybe, it's when we say hello.  And maybe, someday.  I will learn to just say no.   Maybe, someday.  I'll turn around before I introduce me.  Truly maybe.  I'll take the literal a little less loosely.  And maybe, someday.  I'll refrain from I told you so.

Now, maybe.  I was never heard I didn't listen.  And maybe, I became a burden; an indecision.  Maybe, someday, I will learn.  Now, maybe,  your letters, words and pictures.  Burn.  And maybe, courage is keeping things you should not.  Maybe someday.  You'll reaffirm I'm not the one you forgot.   And maybe, someday.  I'll refrain from It's someone else's turn.

Now maybe.  There's ambiguity in your silence.  And maybe, I'm not meant to know.  And maybe, love is for kings and tyrants.  Maybe someday.  I'll have my own throne.  Now maybe, we are truly all alone.  Truly maybe.  I never knew.  Maybe, we can say the kingdom we overthrew was beyond our latitude.  And maybe someday, I will refrain from I love you.

Now maybe.  We are never meant to know.  And maybe, courage is never letting go.   And maybe, we only make one mistake.  It happens at hello.  Maybe someday.  I won't regret how I walked away.  Now, maybe. 

The Mall

I've been boycotting Walmart for years.  I can't specifically say why.  Personally, it just seems to be the embodiment of everything wrong with us:  convenience, mass produce, greed and sloth BUT I can't even say that's why I refuse to step foot in there. 

Years ago, when the internet was just chat rooms and telling strangers how big your penis is, a friend met some girl online.  She wasn't exactly the beauty queen she described herself to him.  When he picked her up, being the douchebag he kind of was, was disappointed.  So, he took her to Walmart, bought her a hotdog and left her there.

That was my introduction to Walmart.  It was right down the street and I was oblivious to its existance. 


A story on the news tonight here in Arizona stated that Metrocenter will be closing soon.  For a few decades, this was the biggest mall here.  It's located in a blight part of Phoenix and famously, is known for Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure being filmed there.  Beethoven played the piano in a music store in that mall.  Socrates got a thrill out of the escalator.  Ghangis Khan defeated some mannequins in the sporting goods store.  That mall has some historic significance, I suppose.

I've only been there once.  I don't remember anything about it except getting lost.   Despite it being larger than any mall I've been in, it was common for me to get lost in malls or forget where I parked.


As a kid, I grew up near Los Arcos Mall.  In the summer, I would walk four miles in 115 degree heat just to play this Intellivision video Baseball game.   My friends had an Atari.  I walked miles uphill in the heat to play one in Sears at the Mall.  I also spent time in the arcade playing Centipede and PacMan.  

Los Arcos Mall was my introduction to the most social place in Anywhere, USA. 

I got older and Fast Times at Ridgemont High inspired me to become a mallrat.  The mall was the 1980's version of Facebook.  Friends, debate, the opposite sex, people watching... it was the epitome of the mall experience minus the cynicism we strut around social networks with. 

You might believe the internet created the boldness we see in men who send random pictures of their genitals to unsuspecting women but blame the mall.  Men in trenchcoats flashing women was the original dick picture.  Difference being:  that was illegal and sending your penis via a computer is not.


Fiesta Mall is where most of my mall memories reside.  I recall the dollar movies we would see.  Or the baffled look on my face when I thumbed through the cassette tapes in Sam Goodys and wondered why they were $5 more expensive than Tower Records across the street.   I can still see that poster of Stryper hanging in that store and turning to a friend and saying, "Christian heavy metal is such a retarded idea".

I have way too many mall memories to even list or without sounding cliche.  

The very last time, I went to Fiesta Mall, a few of us were stoned.  I spent $20 on a silver cross necklace for my short lived jewelry phase and probably another $20 at the food court.   And of course, I would be remiss if I didn't mention we forgot where we parked and literally spent 2 hours (which included a ride on a security cop's golf cart) trying to find the car.

I avoid the mall now.  It's not a boycott like my refusal to shop at Walmart.  It's more of a I hate shopping and I'm too old for this shit thing... but man, the mall is so nostalgic to me.  Some of my best memories of being younger involve that place.

Malls are dying in America.  Who wants to walk around crowded places when you can shop online?  Who wants to look at girls when you can scroll through your preferred social network and see many more?


Last night's news story on Metrocenter ended with this tidbit:   A Walmart Supercenter is being built on the grounds of Metrocenter. 

And now I have a reason to boycott Walmart.

The Ellipsis

Just for the sake of perspective, thirteen years ago, the number one movie was Finding Nemo.  The number one album was from Outkast.  Remember that song Heyya?  I know you don't or wouldn't if you were still here.  2003, okay, 2003 and the recent years leading up to it, were a blur to you.  It's okay.  The 90s are a blur to me.

I don't laugh anymore. 

At some point in the 90s, you stumbled out of the house and started rambling on about some new show called Friends.  It's hillarious, you said.  So, I watched it with you.  It was the first or second season and to be honest, it was awful.  It grew on me over time because well, the writing got better.  Ross got rid of that fucking monkey. 

We used to make fun of you for living in the past.  Fuck, you were 33 years old.  Why couldn't you wait until your mid-forties to relive those glory days?  Like me.  Now.

I think about that all the time... 
this notion that you shouldn't look back or talk about how it once was. 

It's bullshit.  I was 13 years old talking about how life was better when I was 12.  It's okay to look back and reminisce or even dwell in your past.  Lo siento, mi amigo for the jokes.  You know Al Bundy always talked about his 4 touchdowns against Polk HIgh.  It's supposed to be a big punchline on that sitcom.  Be proud of your achievements, your experiences, your good times... You most certainly were.  

The problem is you had so many more waiting ahead for you BUT here we are 13 years later filling in the blanks for you...

It all seems like a lifetime ago.  Another life.  Not mine.  It's as if I am just retelling a movie I've watched a hundred times.  I don't laugh anymore at all those punchlines.  Now, I am just relying on a laugh track from some old sitcom...

We get older and those comedies we once lived turn into sad movies. 

We used to love with intensity.  Now, it's just a dull thud.  What was drama then is now just an ellipsis.  Everything ended with a period.  Should have stuck with the ellipsis, my friend.  You'd still be here.  I am sure of it.

Thirteen years ago, the inevitable came to be.  Little Mike yelled your name at your funeral.  If there was a dry eye in that church prior to his cry, they weren't dry anymore.   That's pretty much all I remember about that year....  Little Mike's scream echoing in the packed sanctuary.

Man, you were loved.  Still are.

The ellipsis exists for a reason.  It's my favorite punctuation mark...

Because we all should have favorites of everything.

Late Night Drive

It was an aimless midnight drive.  Mixed CD playing loudly.  The light rain drops hitting my windshield.  Boys don't cry but we do.

Random thoughts in and out, in and out of my head.  Like when Shakira sings in spanish, she sounds like Cher.  Or why does no one realize that Christine Brinkley was stalking Clark in Vacation?  Literally.    I was desperately trying to focus on meaningless things. 


I set out on this haphazard journey to be alone with my thoughts.  The introvert's way of taking a vacation... from himself.


I thought about my longing for family and it led me to remember the ducks in the park.  Mama duck leading her baby ducks in an organized straight fashion.  But...  But there is never a father duck around.   And I found a certain appreciation for these single mother ducks trying to raise her ten babies. 

The rain started to fall harder but parallel to the sky.  Like bullets aiming for me inside the safety of my car.  It really hurts how you treat me.  I wish I wore a shirt before leaving the house.  The harder the rain fell, the more somber my thoughts became.  Boys don't cry but we do.

We've got nothing in common.  Nothing to talk about.  She might appreciate my Shakira/Cher connection and my absentee father duck observation. 

It's been months and I swear... I swear, its like we never met. 

I was driving in an upper middle class neighborhood.  Gated communities.  Orange trees.  Basketball hoops in driveways.  I was longing for something.   I would die to just talk about the weather with her.  I'm not even wearing shoes, I realized.   Boys don't cry but we do.

We picked out our kid's names.  Thank God I never tattooed her name on my arm like I once considered.  

Before becoming too glum, the random meaningless thoughts flooded back.   Hey, thats Jake Gyllenhall as Billy Crystal's 9 year old son in City Slickers.  I saw that movie when I was twenty.  Mitchie the Kidd is 39 suffering from a mid life crisis.  I get it, Mitch.  Twenty fucking years later and I get it.  But the difference between Mitch and myself is I wont do a cattle drive. 

The rain has let up some.  Visibility is better.  Clarity is not.  Boys don't cry but we do.

I guess it's time to go home.  At that very moment, I thought of my new celebrity crush, an obscure poker player, liberal, highly intelligent but remarkably absurd, former lawyer, Yale graduate 32 year old woman.  I felt like some 13 year old in 1988 knowing every little detail of Kirk Cameron's life straight from the pages of Tiger Beat magazine.    This is different, though.  Maybe, not.

I dont have a twitter account but I follow her on twitter.  I'm her Christine Brinkley, I suppose.  She tweets:

Aheimveh (n.): the sensation of longing for home when there is no such place

Sounds jewish.  I can't find that word online anywhere.  But the definition sticks with me as I drive home.  Still longing for something.  Someone.  I'd be happy to just discuss this rain or tomorrow's weather.  She forgot about me. 

Boys don't cry but we do.

Best Days Ahead

Hanging on my tie rack in the dark corner of my closet is Buddy's old leash.  Sure, he's been gone well over a decade.  I am not even sure why I still have it.  I don't recall consciously telling myself not to discard it.  It's just one of those tangible items that seems almost sacriligious to throw away. 

I guess there's a thin line between being a hoarder and simply, being sentimental.   Sentimental may not even be the right word here.  It's human to hang on to things that once served a purpose but no longer do.

This leash was once bright red.  Now, it's tattered and the faded red is almost dirty brown colored.  It's just a leash, I tell myself.  Bittersweet, certainly.  

Buddy did a lot of things that could melt the coldest of hearts or brighten the darkest of days.  Be it, resting his head at the foot of my bed with sad eyes; hoping I let him jump up and sleep with me... only, to then selfishly take over the whole bed.  Or be it, how he patiently sat at my feet as I ate dinner; looking down on the floor waiting for something to fall from my plate.   Maybe, of all those heartwarming habits my once vibrant black lab had was when he wanted to take a walk.  He would grab the leash from the back of the chair with his mouth and carry it over to me.   Even if I tried to ignore him, he would simply follow me around; leash in mouth.  Always and I mean, always... I relented.  Buddy got his walk.

This leash is also the very one I used to lead him into the vet's office one last time.  Bittersweet, as I said.

This piece of rope has no monetary value and I wouldn't sell it for any price.  And I can't even understand my own reasoning behind this.  I don't want to let it go. 


I have 25 texts saved on my phone.  Each loving and affectionate from whom I can only consider the love of my life.  The last one was saved in 2013.  We endured well beyond that.   Someone once told me what isn't nurtured will not grow.  And that person was right yet I cling to 2013 and before when loving words came much easier.  I can't delete those messages.  I won't delete them.  Next time, I buy a new phone, those will be transferred.   Silly?  Probably.

This whole notion that we need to stop dwelling in the past doesn't set well with me.  Never has.

I've been watching old Johnny Carson shows lately.  A week ago, I watched an old episode of Johnny where one of his guests was some unknown kid.  Johnny listened to the kid talk about his hopes and dreams.  Then told him, your best days are ahead.   I thought about that.  It resonated with me because we throw that phrase out carelessly to younger people.

Eventually, ahead becomes now.  I think we forget that.  Sometimes ahead is really at that moment.  There are no guarantees that life gets better just because we grow older.  I suppose it's all relative anyway. 

I preferred the days of summer as a kid.  Sleep in.  Watch cartoons.  Go outside and play.  And then count down to school starting at the end of August.   I would call those days better than any day since I had to have a job and schooling was over. 

I preferred high school.  Everyone was awkward.  We loved with intensity.  Everything was dramatic.  Nothing grew stale.  We believed in forever.

No one throws out their yearbooks.  Or childhood photo albums.  No one wants to forget their past.  The past was better.  Different.  Easier.  Relatively, speaking.


I've had the same email account since 1999.  It was created for me by a friend that has long left us.  He was fascinated by this new world called the internet.  We, his friends, jokingly would tell him, the internet is for pedophiles and fags.  His self-confidence never wavering; embraced what took us years to accept as the new normal.  God bless him.  He would love the evolution of the internet if he was still around.

This email account has become a landfill of spam and naked pictures of Anna Kournikova links.  It's frustrating to navigate and find emails I need because having an email account that is 17 years old means every Nigerian Prince and corporation now has me on file to message. 

My point, albeit I am taking the long way of getting there, is my email account feels like the last living thing I have to remember that old best friend.   He excitedly made that hotmail account for me.   How can I just stop using it?

There's a thin line between being a hoarder and being sentimental, I guess.

Someday, I'll get a new dog.  And a new leash.

Someday, I will fall in love again.  And I will be writing about the love of my life right here.

Someday.

Our best days are always ahead. 

 

The Casino Experience

So, for the last two nights, due to the exterminator fumigating my home, I stayed at a local indian casino hotel until the chemicals dissipated.   

Because of my problem in the past with gambling, I do not gamble now (excluding rare trips to vegas but that doesn't count).  If possible, I stay away from casinos.  In this case, I considered this casino hotel stay to be a much deserved mini vacation while resisting the temptation to just spend "a few dollars gambling". As I have learned, when I tell myself I'll only spend a little bit of money, I always end up at the ATM over and over again.   

So, long story short... I did not gamble.  I did, however, walk around the casino floor and observe people who are how I used to be and other types of people.  I suppose it's like being the only sober guy at a party and witnessing the behaviors of drunk people.

From first glance, I realized that casinos are made up of the same people you see at Walmart:   Older people, people too large to fit into the tiny stool in front of their slot machine, people who obviously live paycheck to paycheck and probably shouldn't be there and of course, people with addictive personalities such as myself.

From this "sober's" guy point of view, these are some of my observations:

1.  The "I'm way too poor to be at a casino" lady:   As I was walking around, I heard a loud screech.  It was a woman screaming with joy.   My inclination was to be jealous because I can recall the adrenaline rushes I used to get when I hit jackpots.

So, I locate the scream and find this lady.  She is frantically searching her purse for her iphone.  She finds it and immediately begins taking selfies next to her "big win".  I am sure she is somewhere on Facebook right now and one of those pictures is now her profile one.  People were congratulating her.  

Unfortunately, my phone was charging up in the room so I was unable to take a picture of this overly jubilant woman and her "big win".  Her machine had all matching symbols.  I leaned in; pretending to be happy for her and asked, "how much did you win?".   She replied, "$25".   She was playing some penny slot machine. 

My only thought as I walked away from this waste of time was Look, if winning $25 makes you act worse than one of those excited people on the Price is Right when Bob Barker calls their name, you are too poor to be at a casino.

2.  Contrastly, later that night, I observed the "I'm way too rich to be at a casino" guy. 

As I walked around the casino floor, I looked for slot machines with flashing lights or sirens.  That usually indicates a jackpot assuming you don't hear the "I'm too poor to be at a casino" lady screaming over $20.

I noticed a particular machine flashing in the corner but there was no screaming and there was no crowd gathered around the middle aged guy in a suit playing.  I looked at his machine and he won $12,000 on a dollar machine.  I congratulated him and mentioned he didn't seem too excited.  His response was something about only being $5000 ahead from where he was when he walked in the door.  Once again, I walked away thinking Look, if you don't get excited over winning $12,000 or if you have enough money to lose $7000 before winning, you shouldn't be at an indian casino.  Go to vegas.  Buy a yacht.  Spend it elsewhere. 

I'm not a very enthusisastic person but when I won $10K in 1999 on a slot machine, even I smiled.  Hell, I even high fived a stranger and I hate high fives. 

I saw a few larger people spending more time trying to balance themselves on their tiny stools than actually playing.  Half the people were nervously smoking which makes sense along with the large people since addictions tend to come in threes or that's what I was told back in my gambling days.   I haven't figured out my other 2 addictions yet excluding writing stupid shit like this, facebooking, being annoyed at the slightest things and a few other things I won't mention.

Speaking of me, I will mention some of the behaviors I had back in my compulsive gambling days:

1.  Spend a weekend in a chair guy.  I sat at the same slot machine for almost 72 hours one weekend.  I won, lost, won jackpot, lost it all and kept on playing.  I didn't want to leave.  I spent the whole time asking myself what my goal was since I hit everything possible on that machine.

2.  The Let me rationalize this with bad math guy:   One time in vegas, I put $10 in a nickel machine.  Two hours later, I cashed out at $1000.  Ten minutes after that, I lost it all on roulette.  I spent all weekend telling myself, "I only lost $10".  NO, I LOST $1000.  IF AT ONE POINT, YOU HAVE $1000 IN YOUR HAND AND 10 MINUTES LATER, YOU DONT; IT MEANS YOU LOST $1000. 

I realize that I was habitually the Bad Math Guy until the very last time I went gambling.

Dec. 24th, 2010:  I won $3000 twice (that's $6000) on the same machine.  I only spent $200.  I left with nothing.  I was sick to my stomach as I had been many times before when I walked away with nothing after having a lot.   As I was driving home, I tried to convince myself that I only lost $200 and it was worth the fun.  Reality sunk in that I indeed lost $6000 and that was when I decided to quit forever (excluding Vegas because that doesn't count).

Lastly, there is one other type of person I have encountered at casinos and its probably the funniest moment ever.

1.  The NRA guy.

Years ago, I was sitting at some machine and I heard a loud crashing sound.  I look over my shoulder and some old guy is out cold on the floor.  He had a heart attack, crashed out of his stool, his bucket of quarters spilled everywhere.  The medics, who are always on scene at casinos because of all the old people, rushed to his assistance.  They pounded his chest, gave him oxygen and had the stretcher out. 

THEN A MIRACLE HAPPENED!   The old guy jumped to his seat and started playing his slot machine again.  The medics kept saying, "Sir, we need to get you to the hospital.  We think you had a heart attack".  The old man yells, "THIS IS MY MACHINE.  I WANT TO FUCKING PLAY.  GET AWAY FROM ME".  And I guess, by law, the medics cant force anyone to go to the hospital so they left.  He played for 2 more hours before leaving angrily.

He's the NRA guy because I kept waiting for him to tell the medics, "you'll have to pry this slot machine from my cold dead hands".

Anyway, the last 2 nights were relaxing yet slightly boring.  Ironically, I played a facebook slot machine game in my room for a little while until the hotel's wi-fi started to act up.

At least, I didn't lose any money or win and then lose it all or worse yet, scream because I won $25. 

Just a Dream

That's me on a cloud
Up high; away from the crowd.
I think I see you laughing
I think you're finally happy

That's me caught in a light sneeze
stuck in the forest without trees
where the trees do not have leaves
I think I see you picking forbidden fruit
Tip toeing in a gentle breeze
I think I see you squirming
I think your loins are burning
As I go in for a drink
down on my knees

That's me outside your door
out of excuses and apologies
I think I hear you sighing
I think I hear you crying

That's me in a happy ending
knives are twisting and spoons are bending
I think I see you looking up
as I am ascending
Only to see me drop
As our story undergoes some amending
That's me in another predictable ending

That's you on the cloud
Up high; away from the crowd
Angels only come once around

I think I heard us laughing
I think I heard us sing

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream.

dear you

dear you,
its me
once your future.  now your history.
i wish i had your ability
to keep busy
makes it easy for you to forget me
ironic
the dead horse is twitching and i'm holding a stick
standing here
still taking swings
for you, dear

deluded in familarity
familar with its disparity
the elephant in the room is waving its trunk
if you ignore it
all thats left is clarity
albeit, empty
but dear you,
deserve much more
than my hyperbole

in case you wonder
how i am
irony comes around again
sleepless not dreamless
this transition; not seamless
the juxtaposition
is what i want doesn't want me
never did; wholeheartedly
ironic
the dead horse is twiching.  i'm holding a stick
standing here
taking swings
for you, dear

dear you
its me
my misery
misses your company
and the dead horse is twitching.  i'm walking away
from the irony

but i'll be right here
quietly,
for you, dear.

1999

Dec. 31st, 1999

Probably the last party I ever attended.  Late twenties and I am looking around at "kids" in their early twenties.  Felt a little awkard.... kinda like that college guy who returns to his old high school and attends football games; checking out the new batch of high school girls while telling stories of his glory days on that field.   That guy always believes he is being revered; blissfully unaware how pathetic he seems to the others.  My self awareness was not lost on that moment.

Johnny was throwing his annual New Years Eve party.  Kegs, red cups, shots, one fat guy with his shirt off for no reason, girls constantly checking themselves in their tiny mirrors and a long line to the one bathroom in that house.

Typical party.... except we were mere hours from 2000.  Y2K.  Planes were supposed to drop from the sky that night.  Computers were going to explode.  The end of the world, some said.

Every time I watch a rerun of Saved by the Bell or Full House or really, any show from the 80s and 90s, there's always one episode where someone throws a party.  Those parties always have people dancing.  I've been to hundreds of parties; not once I have seen anyone dance.  Well, except, that last night of 1999.  One drunk girl bouncing around between the house plant in the corner of the living room and the keg right in the center.

She had long legs, no ass and curly hair.  Probably the only girl who stood alone at midnight with her lips puckered and guys just passing her by.   Drunk girls are annoying.  It's the one truth that stands the test of time.

I was in a stoned haze and combined with being an overthinker, all I could dwell on was the realization that the party was over.  Circle of friends fracture.  Adulthood kicks in.  And frankly, at some point, you become the awkward old guy at 27 surrounded by 21 year olds. 

My eyes were fixated on that long legged, no ass, curly haired girl.  What is she dancing to?  The room is so loud.  Smoke filled the air and the stench of vomit and beer engulfed all my senses.  But for a brief second, it seemed the party stopped and everyone was frozen in place.... Like when Mork strangely shows up on Happy Days and freezes The Fonz.   During that split second of complete silence and collective paralysis, I could hear Prince playing on the stereo across the room.

Life is just a party and parties weren't meant to last.  So, I'm gonna party like it's 1999.

I may have attempted to dance for a split second.  Why the hell not?  The party was over, man.  I was already the awkard old guy.  The pot and alcohol reduced any shame involved.  And not to mention, everyone was frozen just long enough for me to be courageous.

Prince was an enigma.  Weird.  A diva.  But he was never a punchline like many before and after him are.  That's quite a legacy in itself.

Everyone keeps saying that this year we've had an unusual amount of significant celebrity deaths.  We say that every year.  We are just older and those we admired when we were younger are also older.   We are simply witnessing ourselves age through the inevitable conclusion of those we once considered immortal.

It was a hell of a party that night.

And Prince got me to dance.   

Rumination

I never made that call.

One day turned into one week.  Then, a month passed.

As soon as I recognized my own foolishness, it had been months. 

I had a dream that my father got down on one knee so he could speak to seven year old me at eye level.  Then he sternly said, "Son, pride makes cowards out of men."  Then, he left my mom.  And me.  I'm just a boy.  Way too young to hate, I thought.  But I do and did. 

I woke up in a cold sweat.  Started thinking about defense mechanisms we all have.  Like humor.  Or pride. Or isolation.  Grabbed my phone; prepared to make that call.  But it was 2:00 a.m. and God knows she would just be angry.  Angrier, I mean.  So, I said tomorrow.

Months pass.  Then years. 

I admit, every time, my phone rings or I get a text, I nervously hope it's her while at the same time, I am scared it's her and hope it's not.  I suppose uncomfortable confrontation isn't my thing. 

But I miss her. 

She consumes my every thought.  No matter how hard I try to forget, I can't.  I sleep more just to avoid thinking of her but then she invades my dreams.   And for some reason, my dad shows up.  And it becomes this nocturnal battle in my head between love and hate.  And love wins everytime but he keeps returning. 

I still won't make that call.

She deserves better. 

I fast forward a few years.  Still thinking of her.  Wondering who the lucky guy is.  Hoping she found peace.  Self preservation now just an after thought.  Wishing nothing but absolute calm and joy for her.  But the thought of another man touching her is torture.  And I still love her more than ever but I, for once, do the unselfish thing.  Let her go.

I never make that call.

I miss her voice.  Her laugh. Her rare but potent affection.  Her angst.  Anger.  Her frustration.  Her disappointment.  Her love. 

Focus on the bad focus on the bad Focus on the bad  focus on the bad, I recite over and over.  And, I can't remember any.  I recall complaining about the bad but the specifics have evaporated into a neurotic need to not feel guilty.  I find myself looking for inspiation from those who have faced greater loss.  Something tangible.   And nothing works.

So, I choose to make the call.  Because life is too short.  And love, real love, is hard to find.  And because pride makes cowards out of men.  And because there are no heroes left.

I almost make that call.

It feels too late.

Point of no return.

And maybe, someday, she will call me and say thank you.  Because she found who I could never be.

Or just maybe, I will call her and find her number has changed.  And I will smile quietly in the loneliness of her absense and think, that's my girl.

And I'll be so proud of her.

Cold Turkey

The hardest thing I've ever done is quit cold turkey.

It's something I would never recommend.


Buddy was my black lab for nine years.  I don't remember many details between the day I picked him up at the pound as a puppy and his final day as a sick, gray bearded older dog. 

I recall the joy he and I both shared on his first car ride with me away from that cold prison-like structure where many good dogs wait on death row.  And of course, holding his warm paw in my hand as his soft brown eyes closed forever in the back room of that veternarian's office still lingers with me. 

Everything in between is a blur.  Sure, I recall little things like his unbridled enthusiasm at the sound of my jingling car keys.  Or how excited he was at the end of each day when I walked through the door.  Or his ridiculous embarrasment of taking a shit in front of me.  Buddy was funny, quirky and unlike all other dogs. 

The best thing about dogs is how they make us feel important.  Needed.  Wanted.  They satisfy the God complex in some of us.  They nurture those of us who have always felt slightly inadequate.  Despite being unable to speak, we don't need them to say I love you because they spend every minute of everyday proving they do. 

Dogs are merciful.  They forget when we've done them wrong but more importantly, they forgive.

The end of dog's life is also merciful.  We are usually given an opportunity to prepare ourselves, as much as we can, for their final breath. 

It was me who made the appointment to end Buddy's life.  It was me that gave him his last car ride for that final visit to his doctor.  It was me who chose to show him the same mercy he had provided for me over his nine short years by putting him to sleep to end his suffering.    And it was me that held his paw as his life ended.  Yet, in true dog spirit, it was Buddy that licked my hand seconds before his heart stopped beating.

That's mercy.  Grace.  Love. 


I lost a best friend over a decade ago.  None of us were shown mercy.  He went to bed one night and never woke up.  I suppose it was inevitable but devastating, nonetheless.  Addiction has a predictable outcome.  Usually. 

I watched this man try.  He really did try.  Rehab.  Cold turkey.  More rehab.  Faith.  Friends.   But he never did surrender his pride.  I suppose that's normal as well as his downfall.

Like my nine years with Buddy, my twenty three years with that best friend are a blur.  I remember little things and every once in awhile in the quiet moments of my life, an old memory resurfaces.  And of course, my heart sinks just a little lower.

There's this degree of anger I hold for him.  His early exit from life leaves all of us he left behind feeling incomplete.  No final words.  Not one more chance to shake some sense into him.  No more judging or mocking him in his weak moments.  Just one more time of asking ourselves will he make it? wasn't afforded to us.

He just went to bed and never woke up.

Unintended Cruelty.  Such is life.  Lose a child, a parent or a friend.  It's cruel.  Especially, when it's unexpected. 

This whole idiomatic expression cold turkey doesn't just relate to addictions like nicotine or alcohol or any other vice.  It can relate to people.  Quitting someone you love or once loved should never be an option.  There's enough unintended cruelty in our lives to add intentional suffering to it.

Dogs never quit us.  We all know stories of people quitting on their dogs but dogs, in their mindless loyalty and unconditional love, don't even consider quitting on us.  They can't get enough of us.  Ever.

There's something to be said in that.

Menace 2 Sobriety

This menacing feeling that you hate me
It's been gnawing away at me lately
Been trying so long to escape me
now that youre there, did you get where you wanted to go safely?
And I guess deep down inside, I knew we were crazy
I had hoped on all levels, we would end humanely
Stuck in my head is what could have been so strangely
Now that I'm here, it's clear why you stopped communicating
And I guess over time, the resentment kept accumulating
I'm entrenched in a moment of deliberating
Yet, I can't shake this menacing feeling you're celebrating
I never became complacent or lazy
Just wanted reassurance I wasn't being hasty
Your silence was louder than bombs but less ambiguous
Cover my face with these sweaty palms as I consider the possibility you hate me

This menacing feeling that you'll never miss me
It's feasting on me as I try to keep busy
Been trying so long to get you to notice me
that I've been chasing my tail  and now I am dizzy
This menacing feeling resurfaces of your apathy
As the ice queen smiles so callously
It's gnawing away at me mercilessly
and I quietly come to grips you'll never miss me

This menacing feeling there is nobody
For me is deafening

This menacing feeling is overwhelmingly

unsettling.

Best Laid Plans

The best laid plans of mice and men. 
Where I'm going is where I've been. 
Take my time to deliberate.  We're belligerent, once again.
Somewhere between bitterness and sadness
lies the void of emptiness and its vastness. 

Took my time waiting for a sign.  Anything from you.  Now, we stand at an impasse. 
Rest in peace, you and I. 
Our epitaph. 

It would have been nice to be seen as an equal. 
The first time is always better than the sequel. 
Best laid plans, the pipe dreams of people.
It would have been nice to be of some importance. 
The maladies, migraines and misfortunes.
Proudly, they could have been my crown of thorns. 
Best laid plans often need perfect storms.

Someone new is still not you. 
Something beautiful should not grow stale. 
If the destination is futile, we should not set sail.
All parts being equal.  The first voyage is always better than the sequel.
Best laid plans are for drowning people.

A spoonful of hope and a dash of empathy.  Out of kindness.  Not necessity.
Love is simple.  Not a recipe.
One man's envy is another man's cancer.
Neither come with a remedy.

And here I go, once again.
Missing you and what could have been.
Best laid plans of mice and men.

Anne

It was only a fall.

As we become older, everything becomes magnified.  Light noise sounds like thunder.  Music playing next door sounds like a Metallica concert.  A bruise becomes a hemorrhage.  Mere stiffness of our joints become so debilitating that walking is an arduous chore.  And a simple fall turns into a catalclysmic collapse.

The aging process is not kind.

There's a reason doctors hestitate to perform surgery on the elderly.  Probably the same reason we don't take newborns skiing. 

I envy those who know or knew their grandparents.  The opportunity to absorb the wisdom of past generations is something I seek.  To revel in the quiet knowledge of a future us is a glimpse we should all pursue. 

I live vicariously through those who tell wonderful stories of their grandparents and I soak in every second I can when I meet someone in that age group because my own grandparents did not find me worthy of meeting them or wanting to know me.


We're always looking up.  As elementary students, we idolize the high school kids.  In high school, we look for validation from those in college.  In college, we thirst for adulthood and the pitfalls and blessings that come with it:  bills, our own family, responsibility.   Then, when we reach that level of "success" or satsifaction, we look to the elderly for wisdom and guidance. 

Once we reach that elderly stage of life, I suppose we simply rewind and bathe in memories as the tepid waters of loneliness engulf us.


Every Saturday for the last three years, mom has worked for Anne.  She cleans her house, gives her showers, and goes to Perkins with her for lunch.

"I'll have the BLT', Anne routinely tells the waitress.

Mom finds that funny.  Menus were never invented for the old. 

Anne is eighty eight years old.  She uses a walker to get around.  If you stare at her long enough, you see the beautiful twenty three year old woman she once was.  If you stare even longer, you see the beautiful eighty eight woman she now is.

Every Saturday night, my mom returns to her own home full of joy.  Probably the only day of the week, she is.  "God, I love Anne.  Something about her is infectious.  That woman, I can't explain it", mom stops mid-thought.... "Anne is something else". 

I don't have many conversations with my mom.  Never have.  The dynamics of our relationship are unusual.  Bring up Anne and mom makes up for all the years of idle talk.  Something about Anne illuminates my mom. 


Five days ago, Anne had plans to spend the day with her daughter and grandkids.  It was a rare Saturday where my mom was not needed.

Early that morning, Anne steps outside, without her walker or cane, to water her modest flower bed.  She finds a certain tranquility in that simple event. 

A slight twist of her ankle and she crumbled to the ground.  Fortunately, a neighbor happened to see her out of the corner of his window and called 911. 

Anne was rushed to the E.R.   "Broken hip and internal bleeding", the doctor tells her daughter.  "Surgery is necessary but risky".  Anne's only daughter implores the doctor to save her.

Five days later.... today... mom receives the phone call she knows all too well.  In typical cyclical fashion, I receive the phone call from her that I know all too well.

"Complications from surgery", mom says as her voice cracks.

"It was just a fall". 

"Anne always spoke kindly about me to others.  Not only did she recommend me to her friends and fellow church members for work but she spoke kindly about me.  Anne always told me I was a good person.  The only person who has ever consistently complimented me or told me I was worth something and that includes my parents.... your grandparents", mom added in a hushed voice.

Then she sighed.


Look, I can be moved over trivial things like TV shows or movies or those emotionally manipulative late night infomercials from St. Jude's Hospital... but when it comes to those rare moments when my own mother breaks her stoic almost robotic disposition and cries, it's profoundly different.  Heartbreaking, really.

Maybe, when we are older and life has slowed down.... When we have stopped looking ahead and up.... Maybe, that is when we recognize the good in others.  Maybe, that is when we say those things we forgot to say prior. 

I don't know why we wait so long. 


Anne will be missed. 

I wish I had known her. 

A Noble Lie

It's been two years since you loved me
Half smiled and said, you know I always will
One year since you picked up your phone
Three months without your period
Wistfully smiling, suspicion and an overactive imagination cross paths
That choice would be so smart
Just like you
beautiful, too
Yesterday, you were so busy
and it'll be another day before I stop waiting
Maybe more

It's been thirteen years since you promised
Lowered your eyes to the ground and said, I am not leaving
Ten days before your birthday since you laughed at me from beyond and said,
By the way, I am a goddamned liar
Yesterday, I forgave you
and it'll be another day before I really mean it.
Maybe more.

It's been one year when you locked your affection in a safe
Shrugged your shoulders and said, Self preservation, I am sorry
Three months, cancer free
And thirty two years since my eyes were opened
Yesterday, I prayed for you
and it'll be another day before those prayers will be answered
Maybe more

It's been too long since I left this place
Thirteen years to be exact
Twelve hours from midnight to noon
When the ghosts come out to play
Cocked my head with curiosity and said, I am angry
Yesterday, I stopped believing in things I cannot see
and it'll be another day before I ask to be forgiven
Maybe more.

Untold Stories: Short List

I am wondering right now how you will feel the very second you see the title of this....

Are you excited knowing you're about to read something intended for you?  Are you nervous?  Or will you simply just shrug your shoulders and prepare yourself to tell me in the most humblest of ways, that you're simply ordinary?

It is now two years later since the first time I wrote an Untold Story for you.  Truth be told, it has just been ME talking about ME, as WE all do, in hopes YOU know that once upon a time, YOU impacted ME more than YOU ever knew. 


Every one of us has a short list of people who have impacted us more than anyone else we've encountered between the day we were born until our final breath.  For some, that list will include an old school teacher or a pastor or a neighbor or just a friend.  That short list will always include at least one person who came into our lives at the perfect moment and then in a blink of an eye, was gone.

Life is lightening quick.  If we leave this planet and find ourselves on just one person's short list, that is a life well lived.  You are on my short list and that is why these Untold Stories began two years ago. 

We rarely get an opportunity to rewind the clock and tell those who disappeared from our lives as quickly as they entered it, what they meant to us then.  I was afforded this moment when I found you in this new world we call the internet.


Last time I ever heard your voice, I was laying on a stranger's bed with a cordless phone to my ear.  I was a little drunk but it was necessary to calm those butterflies I had when you spoke.  Funny thing is I am still nervous to talk to you even though, we just infrequently send messages to each other on Facebook and my feelings for you have long dissipated.  I suppose when anybody is elevated to our personal short list, it's expected that a sense of awe will overcome us.  That short list will never include somebody ordinary.

And ordinary, you are not nor ever were.

I still remember your phone number including the area code. Impressive, maybe but that's a reflection of you and not my long term memory skills.

When we hung up, I had a feeling that was it... you were now gone from my life for good.  I figured I would spend the coming years or decades longing for you and wondering what if... I suppose on a few drunken nights, I did just that.  But truth be told, it was rare.

I will tell you what I wondered all those years after our last phone call... I wondered if you were happy.  I hoped you had found a good man.  Started a family of your own.  I hoped you escaped wasting years as I did just having "fun".  I wondered if you had a dog.  I thought of your sister and parents.  I was curious what movies you liked, what music you listened to.  I often prayed that loneliness would never catch you in her desperate grasp.  I thought of you with nothing but pure hopes and dreams for you. 

The burden of being on one's short list is we never disappoint as if it's possible.  That short list contains names that are forever protected by a wall of absolution. 

We all have a short list but as we grow older, we rarely get to revisit those names without mentioning them in past tense.  I am one of the fortunate ones who is afforded this platform and your ears to remind you of your significance in my life even though, that significance was cemented decades ago.

I still think of you with big bangs and a denim skirt but now surrounded by a loving family with all the blessings you have always deserved. 

Being on my short list and being able to tell you this now is my blessing.


I've got so many stories I will never get to share with you and I am sure you've got plenty more for me.

Bowie

Where were you when you heard David Bowie died?
On Facebook, I'll say.  Reading the news.

My heart dropped.  This rarely happens.  I can only name three of his songs.  One probably doesn't count since its a Christmas song with Bing Crosby.   
Zero impact on my life.  Zero memories can be traced to him.  Still, my heart dropped.  This rarely happens when it involves someone from his world.

I've got a sick feeling in my stomach over this.  Dark clouds forming.  Sadness, I can't pinpoint.  And I become fascinated by this.  Jesus, I hope he found You.  There are no atheists in foxholes.  I didn't even know his belief system.  It's just what went through my mind.

Bowie had a birthday on Friday.  Same day, released a new album and a music video.  Some weird shit, I am guessing.  Two days later, gone.   And my heart sank.

Maybe, I was projecting.  A realization I am older.  Mom is his age. One month apart, to be exact.  Still, I am affected.  Can't put my finger on why.

People are crying.  LOL.  Just like they do when anyone famous dies.  Obscure or Iconic.  There's always someone crying.  This time, I listen.  Why are they crying for him?  What makes him different?  Meanwhile, my heart feels heavier than normal.

To get over someone, turn them into literature.  It's my best advice for anyone grieving.  So, I take my own advice and attempt to write about someone I know very little about or ever really cared much for.  I'd say indifferent, really. 

I'm getting nowhere. 

Still, my heart is heavier than normal. 

So, I push myself to find the source of this sadness.  I watch his last music video; one, intentionally released to coincide with his death.  A gift to his fans, his publicist states.

And I am haunted by what I see and hear   It is now forever cemented into my psyche.  And my heart sinks a little lower. 

Didn't know he had cancer.  Seems no one did.  And I find humility in that revelation.  In a world of self-importance where narcissism is the norm, he resisted what most could not but what was well deserved.  No farewell tour.  No adulating fans soaking him in sympathy.  And I find that to be graceful.


And I just stop writing. 

The Price

Hangover.  Not sober.  Pray to God for a do over.
The price we pay to make memories.

Passed on down through the centuries, the same old regrets and miseries.  God forbid, we forget our histories.  Forgive me as I ad lib my liberties.  But there she is, slightly out of reach.  My soulmate beneath a broken heart and nosebleeds.  God knows my intentions before they become apologies.
The price I pay to avoid memories.

Somebody's mother, down on her knees.  Clutching for a straw as she drowns in tragedy.  GOD, GIVE ME MY CHILD BACK, she pleads.  Stuck between faith and futility.  Take my rose colored glasses and sympathies.  Jump rope, pig tails, sugar and spice. 
The price she paid to make memories.

Sociopathic tendencies disguised as neurotic jealousies.  I reserve the right to vocalize my inadequacies.  And there she is, slightly out of reach.  Should have been me during her pregnancies.  Wasting time and energies focusing on lost destinies.
The price we pay to make memories.

Somebody's legacy drowns in sobriety.  A best friend, a source of guilt and anxiety.  There he is, slightly out of reach.  One day here, then gone so quietly.  God knows we tried so valiantly.  And we tell ourselves, it wasn't done in vain.  In the process of trying to save others, we lose our identities.
It's the price we pay to make memories.

There is no hurt without remedies.  No music without melodies.  No heaven without hell, metaphorically.
And here I am, slightly out of reach.  Hungover.  Sober, perpetually.  From now until eternity.

The price we pay to make memories.