Sadistic Claus

As a kid, I couldn't figure out if Santa had a hearing problem or was just some sadistic old man that liked to disappoint kids.  Every Christmas, I would ask for one thing and then Christmas morning would come and I would receive a slightly different version of what I asked for.  By slightly different, I mean, slightly cheaper. 

For example, if I asked Santa for a G.I. Joe, I would get a Salvation Army Steve.  If I asked for a football, I would get a frisbee.  If I asked for a puppy, there would be new Hush Puppies underwear under our Christmas tree.

It was like Santa wanted to fulfill my Christmas wishes but also wanted to satisfy his own sick twisted need to disappoint kids.  But I got older and a little smarter.  So, I would aim higher.  I would tell Santa I want a motorcycle.  Then Christmas would come and instead, I got a bike.  The very thing I really wanted.  The older I got, I learned how to win the battle of wits against that old sadistic man from the North Pole.

Toys back then were 10% plastic and 90% imagination.  There really was no difference between a GI Joe or a Salvation Army Steve except price.  It all came down to the child and how he used his imagination with that toy.  That is something I never realized until I became much older.


This Christmas, I really only wanted one thing; maybe two:  A phone call and a three word sentence.  Instead, I got the Salvation Army Steve of phone calls:  Text messages.  Sure, I was disappointed.  Text messages are so impersonal especially on such a personal holiday like Christmas. 

So, for a few hours, I quietly wallowed in my own disappointment and reflected on why Santa, once again, has resorted to low balling my Christmas requests.  It dawned on me, that here we are in the age of technology and information and today's toys not only cause a disconnect between people but they suck all the creativity out of us. 

I used to love going to the mailbox on Christmas and getting physical Christmas cards.  Now, it's all about e-cards and Christmas wishes on our Facebook pages.  Or just some impersonal text message.  When I was a kid and I couldn't afford buying presents, I would either steal something from my mom, wrap it up and give it back to her Christmas morning.  Or I would just make her something like a drawing that said "I love you" or some ridiculous painted rock.  I would get creative because I wanted her to know how much I care.  Now, it's all about gift cards.  Nothing is more lazy and less creative than handing cash to a store and in return, they give you a prepaid plastic card for the recipient to turn around and do their own Christmas shopping.  Hell, you can buy gift cards for someone without even leaving your house. 

We have become so disconnected with each other and I don't even think people realize it.  We are either so fat and lazy in our love for another or simply so self-absorbed, we don't even recognize who we've become.

I think the best Christmases, the ones that are always remembered, are not the ones where we get the GI Joes we asked for or the fancy new iphone we begged Santa for.  The best Christmases are always the thoughtful ones; the ones where we are treated as someone important and significant, where gifts are simple but heartfelt, where people put pride and laziness to the side and either pick up the telephone or make something creative instead of relying on the easy way out that technology has afforded us. 

But I also believe the best Christmases are the ones where disappointment is realized to be nothing but one man's selfish wants triumphing over just simply being thankful.  The best Christmases are being content when you are given a Salvation Army Steve and thanking that person simply for making an effort.

I had a shitty Christmas.  But it was my fault.  Christmas isn't about focusing on ourselves.  It's about other people.  It's what we give not what we get. 

As far as Santa goes, I suppose he has his reasons for not meeting my humble demands.  Next Christmas, I will ask for something bigger like a knock on my door.   And like always, Santa will low ball me and I just may get that phone call instead. 

And if I don't, I'll be happy with whatever that sadistic old man finds me worthy of.

Roger

Roger is a nimble man.  As nimble as any 93 year old man can be. 

His refusal to ever see a doctor is understood.  His wife, twenty years before, went to her doctor with a back ache.  A diagnosis of cancer and a week later, Roger buried her.  On the mantle above his favorite resting chair, her face illuminates his living room.  You can't walk anywhere in his humble home without seeing her smile. 

Roger does everything with a smile.  I suppose photographed smiles can be contagious.

Roger has lived a remarkable life.  Still does.  He sticks to this routine.  A shopping trip to Whole Foods on Monday, church on Sunday and the rest of the week, he reads.  His television is only turned on for specific sporting events.  Roger has his favorite teams. 

Recently, Roger received a letter from the IRS to inform him he was being audited.  During World War II, as he fought for our country, the department of defense overpaid him $30 a month for about 18 months.  Seventy years later, our government now wants $3000 from him.  Roger thinks it's funny. 

That's how Roger is... he smiles in the face of everything.

Roger is a simple man.  His favorite food is jello. If you sit down to have a conservation with him, his favorite subject will be YOU.  Roger has lived a remarkable life yet considers his life, his stories, his lessons, and his values to be ordinary.  

Roger has this rare ability to make one feel important.  If you are fortunate enough to speak with him, he will stare you straight into your eyes and ask you many questions.  Roger is a caring man.  As genuine as one can be.

"What would you like to do today, Sir?" 

"Let's go to the mall". he gleefully replied.

"But, its Christmas time.  The mall will be crowded.  There will be traffic.  People aren't as jolly as you'd think this time of year at the mall."

"Let's go to the mall", he repeated.

So, we went.

Roger is a nimble man.  As nimble as any 93 year old man can be.

Upon entering this overcrowded retail structure, Roger led the way.

"Where would you like to go first?"

"Sears", he gleefully replied.

Roger is a nimble man except when it comes to escalators.  Who hasn't almost missed a step on one of those moving staircases?  Roger fell to one knee, picked himself up gracefully and he smiled.  It's Christmas at the mall so nobody even noticed.  I doubt that thought even crossed his mind.

Roger lives alone.  His kids, half a country away and years removed from conversation.  Roger still speaks of them with love.

Upon entering this archaic establishment commonly known as Sears, Roger walked at his own pace towards the men's clothing section.   Fumbling through the tie rack, he settled on one particular tie that seemed to suit his taste. 

As he handed the cashier the tie and $30, he demanded that this young woman keep the change.  Smiling, she replied, "Sir, would you like me to wrap this for you?"  Roger smiled back and nodded no.

The ride back to his home was nothing but the peaceful sound of an older man humming along with Christmas carols that played so slightly in the background.

Who would dare break out into idle chatter when a nimble man like Roger is lost in Christmas song?

Upon arrival to his humble home, Roger smiled and he handed me the tie.  "Merry Christmas, Son".  Then like an old cowboy from a western, he faded off into the distance.

This Christmas, Roger will be getting the best gift I can think of: 

Jello.

Roger is a good man.  As good as any man can be. 

Cliched Sympathy

It's just a dog.

Tell that to the friend who won't vacuum her house for fear of erasing every last remnant of her best friend.    Say it to those who come home to nothing but a wag of a tail.  Tell those kids, those elderly patients; anyone stuck in a sick ward. that a lick to the face is merely instinct.  Convince them that a kiss from a dog means absolutely nothing. 

She doesn't deserve you.

Tell me again about this plentiful sea of other fish.  Go ahead use cliches if it makes YOU feel better.  If comfort is found in shitty little phrases, let us hurt.  Sometimes, saying nothing is okay.  But look, I suppose this plentiful sea of other fish sounds pretty good during those moments of lonely introspection.  But if you've ever seen a school of fish, they all look the same.  They all move the same.  They all swim the same.  They are all the same.  So, forgive me, for not being willing to settle for the ordinary.  But I don't listen to cliches and I don't speak in cliches because I have other fish to fry.

You only live once.

Quite clever, my friend.  Balls to the walls, is that what you're saying?  Because it seems to me, if we only live once, then reckless abandon seems really unwise.  But hey, that's me, Mr. Calculated and Cautious.  I suppose time is winding down.  And I suppose, a wasted minute is a minute never recovered.  But I don't believe we only live once.  I believe how we conduct our lives now is accounted for in the next life.  And in the next life, there are no do-overs.

Life isn't fair.

Says who?  Where do these entitlement issues come from?  Who's to say we don't deserve suffering? 

How beautiful that rainbow is, I heard you say as minutes before you complained about the rain and dark skies.  How can we recognize beauty if we've never seen the ugly?  Life provides balance and nothing says fairness more than balance.  So, I ask you, Is life really unfair or are our expectations unfair?

She's in a better place.

This isn't about her.  This is about me.  The one left behind.  How does her destination make a difference that I and them have to wake up each day knowing we won't see or speak to her again?  Tell me, what comfort there is in the knowledge that someone else is now bathing in her warmth and her love.  Explain to me how that better place makes this place more bearable without her.  She may be in a better place but please, tell me something relevant or tell me nothing at all.

I am sorry.

Thank you.

Just like Everyone Else

I don't blame her or he
for wanting to be
like everyone else
our wants, the same
her, he and even myself

I asked the boy who he wanted to be
he looked around then pointed at me

"Why, my son?  Who do you see?"

He coyly smiled, "you are so happy".

"but son, sometimes
smiles are just a disguise"

Quick to agree, he replied
"they are beautiful lies."



I asked my father in a dream of some sort
"if you could could go back, would you choose to abort?"

"LOOK, MY SON, I AM TO BLAME", was his angry retort.

So, I wandered in sleep wondering who I've become
Am I his father or am I his my son?
It was one of those moments where I wish I was them
those people with fathers; not forgotten by one



I asked the queen who sits on my throne
"why did you choose me over being alone?"

"LOOK, MY LOVE, IT MAY NOT BE PRACTICAL
BUT WHEN I AM WITH YOU, IT'S ALL SO MAGICAL"

I considered her words as carefully as could be
and thought to myself, "somewhere, someone wishes they were me."



I asked my God to explain free will
the silence was deafening
as the world stood still.

"LOOK MY SON, NOT EVERYONE WILL BELIEVE
IT'S UP TO YOU, TO DENY OR RECEIVE"

I considered His words knowing I had nothing to lose
and needlessly wondering if He knew what I was going to choose.

And I made my choice with nary a pause
forgetting for a moment all of my flaws



Sometimes when I'm down
and down on myself
I recognize this cloak in self-covered lies
burying the truth in a brilliant disguise
as we are busy wishing we were just like everyone else.

Dead Letter Post Office

Dear Writers Block, where are you when I need you most?  Shut me up before I am shut out.  And if I should shut down, don't shut the door on my dreams.  Oh Writer's Block, where are you when I need you most?  Stop whispering indifference into my ear.

Should I come to terms that those words will never again be said?  Like I did at ten.  Are they being withheld for a king's ransom?  Say something before I say too much.


Here's a pen.  A piece of paper.  A cup of  coffee.  A cigarette.
Dear Diary, are we over yet?


Should I come to terms that the best of us has come and gone?  Dear Temporary Insanity, please plead the fifth.  It was just a sip from the devil's cup.  Dear Conscience, I'm not giving up.  Say something before I say too much.


Here's a mirror.  A hair brush.  Makeup.  And your drug of choice.
Say hello to the one you love.  Dear Writer's Block, where are you when I need you most?  Stop me before I start.


Remember what I put you through?  Remember that I remember, too.  Dear Rewritten Past, I no longer believe in your version of you.  Say something remotely true.  Then, rewritten past, we can start anew.

Should I come to terms that it was all a momentary lapse of reasoning?  Dear Unanswered Questions, silence is neither friend nor foe.  Dear Apathy, you're a better friend than indifference.  Say something before I say too much.


Here's a telephone and a gentle nudge.
Dear Priorities, how did you lose my number?  Your insignificant other taps his toes.  And he waits.  And he waits.  Dear Writer's Block, where are you when I need you most?   

Dear Conscience, I've packed your bags so you can take a vacation.  Dear Ambition, please come home.  Should I come to terms that empathetic whispers are only heard by a few?  Dear Empathetic Screams, tell me this isn't true. 

Dear Unrequited Love, you aren't as bad as I once believed.  Those days were much safer.  Much calmer.  Less anxiety.  Dear Unused Medication, when did you become temptation proof?  Dear Masochistic Me, take one pill.  Comfortably numb or uncomfortably alive, Dear Masochistic Me, never change.


Here's a scalpel.  A band aid.  And a napkin for you.
Dear Beautiful You, how does my heart taste? 


Dear Writer's Black, where are you when I need you most?  Say something before I say too much.  And if I say too much, stop me before I am too late.  Dear Writers Block, never censor me. 

Should I come to terms that this is me?  Dear Abandonment Issues, don't leave me now.  We've come so far together.  Dear Neurosis, stop chewing your nails.  Should you come to terms that this is me, Dear Writers Block, you will no longer be needed.

Dear Writers Block, where are you when I need you most?  Say something if I should say too much.

What Christmas is about

No matter where I go in this city, I pass by those places that have a significant meaning in my life.  There's the library where I had my first real kiss.  The apartment where I first got laid.  The park where we all got drunk together for the very first time.  The house I grew up in.  The school where I met the greatest friends a man could have.  The neighborhood where best friends die.

Late last night, as a means to deal with my difficult time of falling asleep, I decided to take a light jog through my neighborhood.   I always know Christmas is around the corner by the chill in the air.  More so, the obvious signs of Christmas are everywhere; the Christmas lights hanging on the exterior of my neighbor's houses, the plastic Baby Jesus' and manger scenes neatly arranged in front yards and of course, the mere commercialism that inundates every aspect of our lives.

On my street, there is only one house that bares no reminders of Christmas.  At 2:00 a.m., with the surrounding homes all flickering in Christmas glory, this one house could be easily missed.  The darkness, maybe the personified loneliness, in an undecorated home this time of year should lend itself to some provocative questions. 

Back in the neighborhood where best friends die, I knew what Christmas was all about.  There's something to be said about another family that considers you one of their own.  There's a certain ambiance and perspective celebrating Christmas with a real family.  There isn't a greater feeling in the world than seeing your name written on a stocking as it hangs over the fireplace when your name was written by someone unrelated to you.  Christmas is about belonging.  Forget the presents, the materialism, the commercialism.  Forget everything about Christmas except that simple basic human need of belonging.

After my light jog last night, I stood in front of that undecorated house and thought about whomever may live inside.  Was it just an elderly person that is now alone in the world because he or she has survived the hands of time while his or her loved ones did not?  Or was it a forgotten son or daughter?  Maybe, it was just a family that simply chooses not to adorn their home in Christmas lights.  Really, I was probably thinking too much into the reasons behind this one naked house on a street where every house was flickering in Christmas glory. 

Like that neighborhood where best friends die and in that house where I was welcomed as one of their own, this Christmas will be a first for many without someone else; someone else that celebrated this holiday with them the year before.  For them, I imagine they will go through the same routine of hanging a Christmas stocking over the fireplace with that person's name thoughtfully written despite that person's absence. 

It's Christmas.  The time of year we reminisce with loved ones.  The time of year we remember those we once spent this holiday with and more importantly, the one time of year, we make certain those we love know they belong. 

As I stood outside that lonely unlit house last night, I remembered those past Christmases that felt like Christmas.  Those years as a child where mom did her best to make sure there were no empty spaces under our little humble Christmas tree.  Those years in that neighborhood where best friends die, another family treated me as their own.  And all those Christmases in between.

Then, I walked into my house and promised this would be the year, I hang up some Christmas lights.  Because sometimes, even unlit lonely houses want to flicker in Christmas glory so they feel like they belong.

Wake Me

Wake me up when the audition is over.  Are we more than friends or friends no more?  Say it's a role of a lifetime yet seems to be a lifetime away.  Wake me up when your mind is made.

It was an easy transition from nothing to you.  There was no audition to put me through.  Say it was my smile or my boyish charm.  I replay those days in my head and still can't recall how I got you. 

Wake me up when the war is over.   Tell her, I am coming home.  It's raining bullets and so much hate.  They, like me and me, like them.  Wake me up so I can escape.

Why God must I believe in You?  It would be much easier to deny all this.  But somewhere, someone speaks the truth.  It was an easy transition from nothing to You.  I'm in no condition to deny what is true.

Back at home, it's raining fear; a manifestation of sorts.  She counts the days for my arrival.  Wake me up when she's finally in my arms.

Do you love me or just the man you thought I could be?  Was it just an idea or something tangible?  Pull out my heart, I will feed it to anyone.  I'm just a man and you're a cannibal.  Wake me up when dinner is served.

I can have my way with you.  Anytime, anywhere.  If it was yesterday. 

You hang onto my every word.  Every missed call, each and every lie.  Say what you are thinking now.  If I could read minds, I'd hear what I don't want to hear.  Wake me up yesterday.

Where did I go wrong?  Was I just an experiment?  Certain words should never be hard to say.  Pride should never get in the way.  It was an easy transition from alone to lonely; easier than it should be.   Every martyr has his crucifixion and I've been hanging past day three.  Wake me up on a more joyous holiday.

Wake me up when this movie is over.  Preferably, at happily every after.  Nothing ever makes sense until the credits roll.  Why God am I the leading actor of a silent film?  It would be much easier to speak what's on my mind.  Say that there will be a happy ending and I'll admit I'm not so good at pretending. Because that is all that acting is.

Wake me up when the audition is done.  I'll pull out my heart and feed it to anyone. 

But it's you and only you...

Don't wake me up if we are through.

Black Saturday in Rome

There I was sitting in my office.  Just outside my slightly open door, I could hear the whimper of a co-worker.  She was one of three women that worked in our predominantly male office.

Curiously, I walked past her cubicle to get a glimpse of where these mournful cries were coming from.  Because it seemed appropriate and I tend to be a little awkward when someone I casually know is in tears, I didn't say anything.  I just gave a half smile and waited for the office gossip to trickle down to me.

It didn't take long.  Soon, the whole office was abuzz with grief.  The three office women were shaking their collective heads and asking God why.  The men, well, each of them had a story to tell. 

Everyone, each of a varying degree, was in shock.  Some, inconsolable.  Others, simply a little sad.

This was six years ago:  the day Heath Ledger died.

It seemed odd at the time.  It was the first time I can remember watching people mourn over the death of someone they did not know.  I have no memory of Elvis dying or Marilyn Monroe.  Sure, I remember the day Princess Diana was killed but she was English and those Brits seem to hero worship everyone. 

In 1981, I was nine years old laying in a hospital bed after a major surgery; a surgery that guaranteed I would live past puberty.  Those three weeks in the hospital were spent reading my first book, Where the Red Fern Grows and watching TV,   I only remember one thing on that TV during those weeks in that hospital bed; it was the Princess Diana/Prince Charles wedding.

This was before the internet.  This was before we had 300 channels to choose from. This was before Facebook. We were spoon fed our entertainment from three channels.  Nine year olds don't like weddings and certainly, cartoons are the only acceptable programming on TV at that age.  So, imagine, there I was; a little boy, stuck in bed watching an all day wedding of two people I had never heard of. 

It made no sense to me.

Thirty something years later, I get it.

So, tonight, word spread like wildfire across the internet and social networks that another good looking celebrity died.  The reactions were predictable.  The same reactions I witnessed six years ago when Heath Ledger passed on.  Tears, shock; women, gay men lamenting the loss of a famous good looking guy.  Straight men feeling like one of us just lost his life. 

That's the thing about humans; we personalize everything.  We empathize with those we relate to and we mourn over the loss of those we either want to be with or those we see ourselves being similar to.  It's about us; not them.

Talent is an aphrodisiac but I think hero worship goes much deeper than that.  I believe we are all born with an innate desire to find God.  Some of us fill that void with money or materialism.  Some of us chase God in human form and we call them celebrities.  All you have to do is rewind to the 1960's when women would faint at the mere presence of the Beatles.  All you have to do is post an opinion on any celebrity, movie or TV show on Facebook and a conversation or a heated debate will ensue.

The Romans knew how to distract the public from their wars and corruption.  It was Bread and Circus.  The gladiators were the celebrities.  If we the people have food on our table and entertainment to distract us, everything else will pale in comparison.

When word spread that Paul Walker died today, I headed over to MSN to verify the news.  Not surprisingly, it was the first news story listed.  In small print, there was a blurb about the one sided Iranian Nuke Deal we caved in on.  The rest of the articles were either celebrity related or accounts of Black Friday. 

So, here I was, a little affected by the death of someone I only know because of the job he had.  By all accounts, he was a good guy; charitable and down to earth.  That said, it only mattered to me because, as a man with a healthy ego, I saw myself in him.  For some reason, we believe we know these people and it's all based on characters they play in movies.

As I scrolled the stream of Facebook, in between the boastful claims of good deals from yesterday, were countless people discussing the death of someone who quite frankly, acted in a lot of terrible movies.  If I was nine years old again, I would probably believe Paul Walker was someone important like the President or Bugs Bunny or Prince Charles.

Here is one of my friends claiming to be "devastated". 

I get it but if the death of a celebrity can devastate someone, what happens to that person when a family member dies?  I can't even think of a word more extreme than "devastated". 

It was just a few weeks ago, I read an article about some hurricane "devastating" the Phillippines.  I'm not picking on this friend but either we have lost all perspective in this world or we have limited vocabularies.  I tend to believe it's the first option.

I imagine the last days of Rome were quite similar to where we are today.  People shortening a family holiday like Thanksgiving in order to set up camp outside some Walmart.  Then when those doors open the following morning, pushing and shoving everyone who dares get in their way just to save a few dollars on some possession that may or may not be given on Christmas to one of those family members that was just abandoned the night before.   Blood thirsty crowds chanting ME ME ME as they reach towards the shelves for some tangible item.   And then the next day, grieving the death of some celebrity while not thinking twice about their fellow men and women they shoved to the ground the day before inside that Walmart. 

I imagine Rome wasn't this bad.

I understand why we react the way we do when pretty people die.  I get why we seem to care more about materialism and celebrity than those things that truly matter.

I was nine years old in a hospital bed recovering from a major surgery that guaranteed me life past puberty when I first realized this world has lost all perspective.