The Season of Irony

I long for fireworks during the onset of July.  Not for the reasons you think.

I wandered aimlessly in a park; amazed at a family of ducks.  What perfect order of beauty.  What family was meant to be.  Mother duck seemed to smile as she counted the heads of each of her children.  I tossed a lone piece of bread in hopes for her approval.

I long for the colors that paint the sky in early July.  Not for the reasons you think.

I asked myself a question as the family of ducks passed me by:  "Where is the patriarch?  Why is Father Duck never to be seen?"
  

On certain days of summer, I felt like I was God.  Like when I was a kid; burning ants with a magnifying glass.  Like sleeping in past noon with no worries on my shoulders.  Like tossing a piece of bread at the happy family of ducks.

I long for lazy days.  Not for the reasons you might think.

If only walls could talk, secrets would not exist.  If only walls weren't built, summer would never end.



I long for endless winters huddled next to burning embers.  Not for the reasons you think.


I could find a friend in a snowman with a corncob pipe dangling from his mouth.  What a perfect snapshot of wisdom.  What a friendly face to see. 

I could find a friend in a snowman; even a father on restless days.  I told him all my secrets.   I begged him not to leave.

The creation of my own hands had this look of nonchalance.  Not to be confused with indifference.  Like the father I never knew, he would soon melt away.

I long for winter's endless possibilities.  Not for the reasons you might think.

On certain days of winter, I never build a fire.  There's something about the cold that makes me feel alive.  There's something chilling in the air.  I prefer the beauty in the bleak. 

But not for reasons you might think.


If only walls could talk, secrets would not exist.  If only walls weren't built, winter would never come.

He stole my heart the day he stole my bed

There's this moment, a one defining moment, in the lives of those who own a dog.  This moment, not only changes the life of the person who owns a dog, but it ultimately will determine who owns who.

It's been nearly a decade since I had to say goodbye to my black lab, Buddy, of nine years.  Like all life altering experiences and remarkable fixtures that come and go into our lives, I remember just about every detail of my life with Buddy.

Deciding to get a dog is one of the most important life changing decisions, we, as people, will ever make.  It's a decision that is not only rewarding but it literally is one of the few things in this life that will leave an indelible imprint in our lives and hearts forever.

Who doesn't remember their first dog?  Who can't talk about a past dog without a smile beaming across their face?  Who hasn't wept the day they had to say goodbye to that lifelong friend?

Dogs are amazing.  They fill our lives with joy.  They can bring meaning to an empty life.  They teach us how to love; to unconditionally love.  A simple greeting from a wag of their tail has the power to change our mood; to put things into perspective and to simply make us want to be better people.

Dogs change lives.  If you haven't owned a dog, you haven't lived.


Today, I had one of those flashbacks of Buddy.  Maybe, it was the early evening thunderstorm that threw me into some whirlwind of nostalgia. 

But there I was laying in bed.  Alone.  And for some reason, I just started to laugh.


I don't know if I made a mistake.  It was one of those decisions I made because frankly, you have to be heartless to say "no" to a puppy when he looks at you with those big, sad eyes.

There I was, years ago, just laying in bed.  Thunder echoing throughout my house.  Rain beating down on my rooftop.  Buddy was my new friend.  Our nine year journey together was just beginning.

I'll admit I just wanted to slowly fade into sleep as the thunderstorm of that evening was passing through.  I couldn't.  Buddy was sitting at the side of the bed; just staring at me. 

"Go lay down", I sternly stated.

Buddy whimpered and just sat there staring.  But it was his next move that would inevitably change the course of our relationship and ultimately my life.

He placed his small chin onto my bed.  Then he lifted up his tiny paw in a feeble attempt to jump onto my bed.  Buddy was politely asking if he could sleep in bed with me.

How could I say 'no'?  Those soft, big, brown eyes were politely begging for comfort.  He was choosing me as his refuge. 

Everything would be okay in his world, if I just simply let him onto my bed with me.  That's what he was telling me.

So, I gave in.  I have a heart.  

That night Buddy slept right next to me with his head on my pillow.  That angry thunderstorm quickly melted into a beautiful song.  Everything was okay now in Buddy's world.

Little did I know at the time that the decision I made that night was a nine year decision.

That one special occasion of offering my bed as a place of safety for him turned into a nightly event. 

Dogs quickly become entitled. 

Over the next decade, I never owned a bed.  I simply rented it from Buddy. 

When I came home from work, if he wasn't asleep in my bathtub, he was asleep on my bed.

 

At night, when I crawled into bed, he would jump in with me.  And he got to choose which side of the bed was his.  Even worse, he chose how much of the bed was his.

If I dared push him to the side, he would growl at me.  If I used my angry voice, his angry voice was even louder.

Each night was the same.  I would let Buddy lay down next to me with hopes that once he fell asleep, I could nudge him to the side and recapture what is mine.  But it never took long for me to realize that I would have to wait until the next night to try again.

 

Once he was comfortable in my bed, he would decide to get even more comfortable by laying on his back with his four legs spread out.  

On a few occasions, I would get the courage to remind him who was boss.  I would take back my bed and push him onto the floor..  But of course, we know what would happen next....

Buddy would sit at the side of my bed and place his chin onto my bed.  Then, he would place his paw on my pillow as a feeble attempt to jump in with me.

How could I say 'no'?  Those soft, big, brown eyes were politely asking for one more chance. 

And he got his second chance.

This cycle was repeated his entire life. 

I may have endured many restless and sleepless nights but looking back, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Lukewarm Last Supper

The water is hot
then the water is cold
and I feel so dirty

I'm so beautiful today
and so ugly tomorrow
and I feel so unworthy

The water is hot
then the water is cold
and I feel so dirty

Lies Lies Lies
my new master
If karma is the queen of the opera
I'm stealing the scene
like a lucky bastard

I find it sick and twisted
and on the holiest of nights
somewhat masochistic

c'est la vie
my nitrous oxide
your jokes aren't funny anymore

I'm your chicken soup
your patron saint
I'm your convenience store

Sweet Jesus once fell in love
with a young girl from Bethlehem
he was hated by the masses
so he died for them

Sweet Jesus returned three days later
the young girl was not impressed

all Jesus could say was...
they crucified me but only you can hurt me

The water is hot
then the water is cold
and I feel so dirty

Scarecrow

I could get a lot accomplished in the driving rain.  Like clearing my mind.  Like escaping my secrets.

There's something about that road; just me in my car on that poorly lit road. 
There's something about playing that radio with a specific song on repeat.

I get a lot accomplished when I find myself alone.  Like remembering how it was.  Like dreaming how it will be.

Nobody said it was easy.
No one ever said it would be so hard.

And I'm stuck on those two phrases. 

I've always wondered why when we are feeling down, we choose music that holds us down.  You'll never find Shiny Happy People on the playlist of the lonely. 

The devil is called the prince of the air.  When negative energy such as sadness fills this vacuum; it is he we feed. 

I was sitting in church; buried in a sea of crucifixes.  At 15, it's the last place, I wanted to be.  And it occurred to me, at that moment, how that sweet symbol of salvation is lost as it dangles on the necks of the self-righteous.  If the woman I love was bludgeoned to death with a hammer, would I wear some shiny piece of silver in the shape of a hammer to remember her suffering?

These are the thoughts that I accomplish in the driving rain.

On that poorly lit road, I always come to the same conclusion.  I conclude we are masochistic at best and sadists at heart.  Like a herd of cattle, we will trample each other at the mere rumor of danger. 

Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio?  A nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

I was shirtless and barefoot behind the wheel.  Like a drunk captain of her own ship.  But I had a destination in mind.  It was the perfect moment to tell her I love her. 

There's something about our spirit when our defenses are down.  There's something about leaving our pride in the backseat when we have nothing to lose.

It doesn't mean much.
It doesn't mean anything at all.

I can find clarity in the driving rain.  I come alive off that beaten path. 

There's this field across from my old home; governed by a makeshift scarecrow.  And it's funny to me.  He just stands there;  all day, all night.  And sometimes, I find myself in that neighborhood hoping for one last glimpse of the ghost that left us on a gloomy night in September.

And I swear that scarecrow is telling me something.  Those dead eyes see straight through me.  If the moon casts its shadow just perfectly as I sit in my car, I will wave at that scarecrow.  And I know, it's an exercise in futility but sometimes, friends are the ones who never talk.  Or judge.  


And strangely, I empathize with him.  How lonely he must be.  He exists merely to manifest fear. 

I don't want to be a scarecrow.  I don't want to manifest fear or give into the fear emanating from a world of scarecrows.

I could get a lot accomplished in the driving rain. 

Like being cleansed from all this filth.

Like clearing my mind.

There's something about that poorly lit road.  Where my Creator shows me the world with a new set of eyes.  Where the prince of the air chokes on his own bile.

And I find clarity, at last.
And a tear rolls down my cheek.

And the scarecrow waves back. 

Rush

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

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

See you tomorrow! 

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


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

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

Talk to you soon!

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Sweep the Leg, Johnny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

We live in a world where bullying is the norm. 

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

It's the same principle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Each of us are bullies regardless if we admit it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish the world worked that way.

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

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

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

It's as American as The Karate Kid.

Drowning Man

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


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


We live in interesting times.

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


We are drowning.


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

Those are words.  They are statistics.

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


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


She's drowning.


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


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


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


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


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


It's scary out there.


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


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


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


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


We live in interesting times.


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


We should be swimming together; not drowning apart.

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


It is our fault if anyone we love ever drowns.


I believe that.


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


I am riddled with guilt, at times.


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


A drowning man will clutch at a straw...


and he will drown every time.