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.