people like you

For every made up memory to fill in the blanks of our history
For all the exaggerated energy wasted on trying to solve this mystery
In between your photographs of trickery
Behind that veil of secrecy
For everything, we did and did not go through
People like me don't let go of people like you

From promises of forever
to highly unlikely
Eventually to never
People like you usually never love people like me

It comes and it goes
I'm okay and no, I'm not
It's for the best, I suppose
Before I left, I was an afterthought
But I'm okay and I'm really not
depending on the variable

For every word, you clung to
Every laugh I forced out of you
Each tear I never knew about
In between, my lack of empathy
My demands of martyrdom cloaked in cruelty
For everything, I did and did not put you through
People like me don't deserve people like you

From wedding bells and babies
to possibilities and maybes
People like me shouldn't be loved by people like you

For everything, I will never again get to verbalize
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Birthday
Congratulations, I am proud of you
She has your smile and your eyes

In between, the bitterness of butterflies
Despite, the lack of compromise
And all the promises we failed to finalize
All the times, you were unfairly scrutinized
From my lips to God's ears above

People like you are easy to love.

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.