Seriously, now.

The Hole in the Screen would very much like to be fed.  So would my son, so would by bank, so would my loins and so would my soul.  The Hole in the Screen can wait.

Ive been doing alot of thinking lately about signs -- as in "meaning" and the spooky angel sounds that accompany them -- and the investment in them.   My faith, belief, hope, and contemplation of the weather, the music on the radio, the good luck charm and the signals from the Universe is increasing as the stress increases.  It occurs to me that everyday people do the same thing and call it "prayer" or reliance upon the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or whatever the opiate is that Marx was so very right about.  I even acknowledge the irony of deriding the opiate users even as I put down the pipe of my own making.  I'd write about that.

I've been wondering what I'm going to do about my Schmoo, my six-going-on 25 Mini-Me, as she grows more and more aware of the nuance of the world around her.  She and I have a connection that I don't think she has with anyone else.  I feel a need to warn her about the world -- right now it is divided into the good guys and bad guys and they are easy to spot.  She wants to live her life as fast as she can.  She is too much like her father.  Tonight, as I was attempting to think about the possibility of sleeping one day in the not too terribly distant if I'm lucky future, I was thinking that my message to her should not be one of warning at all.  Instead, it came to me in a moment of unusual clarity, that the message should simply be to slow down, shut up, and listen to the world.  And I would write about that, too.

I've been thinking alot about what it means to grow up.  I am, right now, a full-on, complete grown-up.  I am 40 years old.  I own a business that, if things go as planned and continue in the direction they are headed, will make me wealthy and powerful.  For much of the time that I've been building what I've been building, I've been seeing it as a game.  I have come to realize lately that it isn't a game, of course, but the kind of thing that grown ups actually do when they get the chance.  I am, in short, not playing grown-up -- I am a grown-up.  And I would write about that.

I've been hoping there would be a moment to discuss the value in determination, dedication and strength in the face of adversity.  I have been wanting to snip Lieutenant Dan's jeremiad against God while strapped to the mast for my own, make it my own, and announce to anyone and everyone "IS THAT ALL YOU GOT, YOU FECKLESS THUG?"  (Yes, I borrowed from West Wing.)  I have been thinking about the last mile of the marathon and what goes through a runner's head.  I've been musing about the struggle and the value of it.  I've been manufacturing Ben Franklin-esque proverbs about being tested, purified and triumphant over the obstacles.  I've been wanting to write about all of it.

I've been burdened by the knowledge that my adorable son is not going to have the same father and same experience as my daughters.  I am already acknowledging that I see my relationship with him completely differently -- precisely because he is a boy.  I don't know what to make of it.  I have all the pieces, all of the elements, all the constituent parts of the puzzle but do not have any clue how to put it together.   I have no idea how to raise a son.  I am terrified I will do it wrong.  I worry that I'm already fucking it up.  And I would write for days about that.

But mostly, in fact, I've been wanting to empty my head of all of these things and a thousand more.  I can see forever, I can see today and everyone in it, I can see the path through the wreckage and I can see the pattern in the newsprint.  I can see beyond, into, over, around and completely through.  I can feel it, touch it, taste it, and fuck the everlasting hell out of it.  I am completely awake with it all.

And it is almost too much.  Almost.

One day I'll write it.

Current Mood: exhausted

Once upon a time the earth was solid and gas.  Water appeared, and began to cover the earth.  The water evaporated and fell again as rain, filling up pockets with lakes, and oceans, and rivers, and glaciers.  Water gave life, which became sentient, then self-aware.  Life used the water, bent it to the will of the user, and became a tool.  The tool became destructive as the uses overflowed and drowned the life and the things created and flowed to the sea, where it evaporated and moved again to cover the earth.

A writer was commissioned to describe the cycle, to describe the appearance, the use, the destruction and the power of the water.  "It is too big, there is too much to say.  How can I possibly tell the story of the most basic thing in our lives, in our human experience?"  The reply was quite simple:  "Describe it the same way it got here:  a drop at a time."
 
And so it is, Nathan, that I offer you this first bucket from the flood of thoughts that has engulfed me since you appeared in my life a scant 6 days ago.  I cannot tell you at one sitting what it means to be born in a time of both war and hope; in a climate of hardship and opportunity; in a family that is untraditional yet complete; to parents both flawed and perfectly suited for you and each other.   I will not be able to explain what it means to expect everything to go wrong and find that nothing has.  There is no way to really show you how complex this world is and will become, though the path through it is quite simple. 

I can only offer you a moment at a time.  Drop by drop, bucket by bucket.  One day you'll read this, perhaps as your own son is sleeping comfortably next to his own giant stuffed bulldog, and connect with the idea that being a father is scary, thrilling, wonderful, awe-inspiring, and exhausting at the same time. 

One day you may just understand why a father gifted with words cannot tame the torrent of thoughts that flow when I look at you sleeping.  But you can begin by understanding this:  I cannot tame the river, either, but I know that it is made of only one, basic component multiplied over and over in a nearly infinite repetition. 

Thus I will end this introduction to our continuing conversation with recognition of the essential component of our lives together: I love you, son, and that will be the basis for everything I will ever say to you, do to you, give to you, take from you, and pass along to you. 

Now you will understand why I have had this part of this song in my head for approximately six straight days:

But of all God's miracles great and small
The most miraculous one of all
Is the one I thought could never be
God has given you to me.

--Daddy
 

Current Mood: determined

Holly posted it on the LJ, but we're gonna have a son. 

A son. 

A boy. 

A snotnose breaker-of-things who will love the smelly and messy and the joy of discovering new and different ways to break things, blow things up, and taunt Mr. Reaper. 

A thing that I understand what it is but have no idea how to raise.

I am Abu el Banat.  Father of Daughters.

I understand girls, you see.  I get how to do that. 

But boys?  Oh, man.  This is gonna be completely relearning.  Or learning for the first time.  Or something like that.

Still, I will soon no longer be Abu el Banat.  But that's okay.  I'll stall have the two most beautiful banats ever.  And a boy who will test things about me I didn't expect to get tested. 

I gotta say, it's hella coo in that roller-coastery way that I live.  WHEEEEEE!

--Seriously

FYI, this is from the Fifth Season of West Wing from the famously-bedaughtered President Bartlet:

Current Mood: jubilant

If the American people continue to fall for the most absurd, lying, fucked-up and cynical bullshit ever proffered by any presidential campaign in the history of this country, then I hope the recession lasts a decade, that the Bill of Rights is repealed, that every fucking one of you gets wiretapped and accused of terrorism, and that gas hits 10 dollars a gallon.  Because you fucking sheep fucking deserve what you fucking get.  You are being led to slaughter by a brilliant and evil genius.  You people fucking deserve to die.  Yes, I meant that.  If you're that fucking stupid, the you people should be removed from the fucking gene pool.

I say "you" people, because I will be gone.  You think I'm kidding?  Don't fucking test me.

I cannot comprehend how fucking stupid the American people can be.  This country is, and deserves to be, the laughingstock of the world.   My god, you fucking idiots.  Really?

You have 50-odd days.  I'd like to believe that somewhere, somehow, this country would figure out that the snake oil salesman isn't just selling snake oil -- he's selling Evil Juice. 

Whatever.  You get what you deserve.  Suck it.

--Seriously (pissed off and packing)

Current Mood: pissed off

Things I want to believe and have a hard time mustering evidence for:

1.  That the American people are not so stupid as to be duped by Sarah Palin.

2.  That tough times don't last.

3.  My own optimistic bullshit about believing and trusting and leaping on faith.

4.  That this time, somehow, it will be different.

On a related topic, if Obama and Biden do not win on November 4th, I am gone.  You can find me by following the trail of smoke from everything I'm burning down on my way to Canada.  You think I'm kidding?

Tell me why I'm wrong to worry about any of the foregoing and I'll put down the molotov cocktails...

--Seriously

I was quite zenny peaceful Friday.  Giddy, even, almost.  Even as things were falling the fuck apart around me.  Like, seriously, Humpty Dumpty-esque apart.

But I was zenny.  Butterflies landed on my fingertips and the air was fragrant with the succulent smell of rainbows and kittens.

Not to last, apparently, not to last.  The Humpty-yolk spilt all over my shoes, and with nary a horse or a man to even give reparation a chance, I was left to essentially sit and contemplate the muck.

The spiral began, and continued.  And continued.

_________________________

Sunday was very difficult.  I was a coiled emotional spring, and even though having my girls around usually helps to at least distract me from the mess of my life, this time it did not.  In fact, my children sprung the spring by doing the kid things that they do, usually involving open rebellion, and the ensuing melee.  My oldest was at the center.

I lost it.  I began to cry, sitting right there on my younger daughter's toddler bed.  I knew I had to pull it together, but I couldn't do it.  I could merely put my face in my hands and try to remain silent and hope they did not notice -- a hope that was itself Humpty-esque in that they were both in the room with me.  I could never tell them how badly I had failed or what was going on to cause Daddy to begin weeping.  It had nothing to do with them.

And it had everything to do with them, too.

My oldest daughter is me without the perspective born of experience.  She is Pauly In The Raw.  She is utterly convinced of her importance and her value to the world, and has not yet had the spirit-breaking experiences that jarringly demonstrate the modest place in the hierarchy of the world that she occupies.  She is therefore completely self-obsessed.  She is also absurdly expressive, with the emotional ability to express herself like a grown woman at times, completely fearless at laying her soul bare, and therefore -- much like I was for 30 something years -- not much at listening to life's lessons that do not bear immediate consequences.  She wears her heart on her sleeve and wants everyone to understand how significant that sleeve is.

Messages take a long time to get through to me, as a general rule.  (The cow-patty story as metaphor for those of you who've been around for a while.)  If you hit me with a 2x4, I'll respond.  If you tell me that a 2x4 is coming, I'll dismiss it until it is in transit to my face.  This is how I have always learned.  And this is how she learns.  This is a recipe for disaster.

My point to describing my Schmoo is simply this:  I see the best in me and the worst in me in her.  At a time like yesterday, when I'm broken (and broke), beaten and struggling to maintain adulthood, she does not grasp it.  She does not truly "get" that something very strange is happening to Daddy right in front of her eyes.  She only got it when she looked me in the eye, heard my wavering but bravely firm voice, tell her that I love her more than anything in the world and my job is to raise her to be an adult that does not make the mistakes I make.  She knew then, and only then, that something was different.  Dad was "vulnerable," even if she couldn't find the word.

And the point of the Schmoo story itself is only this, too:  as hard as it is, as much as I want to quit, as tired as I am, as depressed as I am, and as worthless as I've become in every single way, I still have at least one job to do that no one can do it for me.   I have to protect her from herself, because she will take each step I've ever taken, each path I've looked down and eschewed or followed, and each maddening dance on the tightrope.  She will never see the 2x4 coming, and I at least have to prepare her for that.  Then again, it probably does not matter, as it never mattered to me, either.

But I cannot quit the task.  Talking to her yesterday reminded me how badly I am needed as the grownup, even as I have failed in so many ways of being the grownup she needs.

____________________________________

You'll note that I've only mentioned by baby girl daughter once.  That's because she does not insert herself into life's flow the way her sister does.  She does not consume all of the oxygen in the room just because it is there, and she prefers to watch, wait, and act and say only when it matters to her.  My youngest daughter is authentic.  Her sister will exaggerate, dramatize, and play the part if it suits her, but my youngest has no such interests.  She just is who she is and that's fine with her however it is.  

Which is why, at the end of the day, it took my baby girl to start to slow the spiral a little.  As I sat on the edge of her bed, face in my hands, eyes covered, she gently and with a look of concern but determination removed my hands from my eyes, one at a time.  She didn't say a word, she just looked at my face.  

Then the leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and gave me the genuine hug that only a toddler can give.

She knew, it mattered to her, and she wanted to help.  Good call, Bean.  Good call.

________________

I went to bed last night somewhat at peace, in part because my bride and gestating partner insisted that we go to an arcade and kill shit for a while.  My wife loves and supports me.  My children love and, in their way, support me.   

No one can take those things away.

So it can't be that bad.

--Seriously

 It's interesting to me that earlier this week, when I was just about ready to drop out, quit, give the world the big ol' Heisman (not in a permanent, no longer breathing way -- relax), and pull out a big ass bag of "aw, fuck it"  and plop down on the comfy couch of don'tgiveafuck when I decided to write instead.  And when I did, I felt better.  Nothing changed, of course.  But it wasn't nothing.

So I'm writing again today to stave off a rash of "jeebus fuckin' christ, I'm done" before it spreads to the nether-regions of my psyche, keeping me from making the JV squad of the Keep On Truckin' Team and Stubborn U.

Somebody brilliant said today that "As long as you've fallen overboard, might as well swim like hell."  Wow, that fucker is smart.  I love him.

And that, dear bloggies, is precisely the medicine I need to keep on going.

--Seriously

p.s. all metaphors used in this post are the exclusive property of pneumococcus bacilli, as permitted through a grant of otherwise completely useless Levoquin, who is solely irresponsible for its content. 

Current Mood: amused

I used to write.  I wrote without awareness.

I stopped writing.  My silence overcame me and numbed me.

I started writing again, and it overcame me, ravenous from the years of suppression and aggressively poised to make up for lost time.  It grabbed me by the shoulders, forced itself on me and infected everything I saw and thought, felt and hoped, feared and embraced.  It changed me and made me aware.

I saw things.  I got it.  I thought it was over.

I stopped writing again.

When the writing stopped, the awareness did not.  It remained there, looking up at me as if a resultant child born from a chance tryst while on vacation in Provence -- so exotic, so unreal and yet so undeniably present.

I am haunted now by it.  Its presence is reframing my reference.  And I do not know what to do with it anymore.

I worry that I have, for most of my life, addressed adversity and challenges while on autopilot, using whatever midichlorians that constructed my determinative DNA to glide past danger, through trouble, and emerge remarkably unscathed and somewhat bewildered by the fuss of others when it was over.  I have been, as I have said, an exceedingly lucky man.  I had no idea.

Pitchers lose their control of their curveball.  David Duval was the No. 2 golfer in the world until he developed a slice he could not straighten.  Mackey Sasser lost a career as a catcher because he got it into his head that he could not throw back to the pitcher.

When you see what you cannot unsee, you cannot unsee what you must see.

I have my awareness to deal with now.  I look around me at what is happening, what has already happened, and what promises to come, and I am painfully, deeply, and soberly aware.  That bastard child of my epic journey to the sea of consciousness has robbed me of the daredevil that kept me safe.

I freeze now on the tightrope where I once used to dance.

I don't like it, and I want to quit.

But I am writing. It's not nothing.

--Seriously.

Current Mood: scared

We interrupt this blog silence for a message to you white, blue-collar employees in Indiana and North Carolina who are considering voting for Hillary:

As a member of the latte-sipping, educated elite, I would like to say that if you are dumb enough to believe that the Wellesley/Yale educated $109 millionaire who lives in Chappaqua and has not pumped her own gas for 20 years is a COMMON WOMAN WHO GETS YOU, then you are too fucking stupid to share the same oxygen as the rest of us, and you do not deserve to vote. 

Thank you.  

--Seriously

P.S. As long as I'm here, I'll say it in print what I said about 100,000 times in the past two weeks:  Fuck you, Pennsylvania cocksuckers.  Dead. To. Me. Forever.

Current Mood: aggravated

{Yes, I've been busy, and yes, I've neglected the blog. No, I haven't left. Yes, I am sorry. No, I can't promise to be better. That having been said, though, I cannot NOT share this.

Longtime or even recent readers of the blog (such as it is) know that  I have bemoaned the lack of a statesman in our country for some time.

I am now supporting Barack Obama.  It is difficult at times to say why, other than to say he is who I think we have been needing in this country.

And then I read the following from Toni Morrison.  She nailed it.  I can't improve on it.  So I will just post it.}

Current Mood: hopeful

I didn't think that there was much more to learn about her. I had known her forever when I met her, and the details around the edges came into focus rather quickly. Oh sure, there were the particularized and idiosyncratic stories of lives and loves and the Peanuts dance at frat swaps and the inability to say no to shiny objects. There was the way she refuses to eat bell peppers or potatoes that do anything other than crackle or crunch. These were quirks, you see, and that's what happens when you finally reach the set and start fiddling with the contrast and tint to perfect the picture. I expected that.

It was the big things. I had a handle on them, you see, because I knew her. She was me, I was thee, and we were we from the start. What more could there be to it than that?

I did not know the depth and the richness of this amazing heart, and while I was overwhelmed at the tip of the ice, I am at times awestruck by the depth and beauty of the berg. Sometimes you have to spend a while immersed to really grasp the scale of it.

I recently discovered that, while I thought that I knew her heart well, I did not know how fiercely protective she is of everything that is hers and that she loves. Not just her possessions (woe betide whichever member of The Stupid that crashes into Glory), but the things in her life. Her home, her independence, her money, her sanity. Her friends, her husband, her furry family. The trappings of her life and all that makes her who and what she is.

My youngest turned three on Thursday a week ago, which, for those of you without a calendar handy, was December 27. On this day, proximal to Christmas as it is, my baby girl is annually scheduled to have an anticlimactic day. On this particular day of 2007, she was slated to ride in a car for eight hours with her 5 year old sister, me and this woman I love.

My baby girl had cake for breakfast, and got a couple new presents, of course. But that is where the problems began, for my oldest -- a force of nature that casts a long shadow over her little sister just be being in the same orb -- wanted to play with the new toys, and to make the decisions (natch), and to be the force-of-nature-big-sister that she is.

It is one thing to dominate the landscape. It is another to refuse to allow someone else to be Queen (er, Princess) for a Day.

Conflict ensued, and a good time was not had by any.

Looking back on it, I realized that at the root of it all was the fiercely protective instinct of this woman that I love. She has known these children for about 18 months, and yet she has stepped in and committed to them, and them to her, as deeply as if she bore them. This woman I love was determined that my littlest one would have Her Own Special Day. While that was thwarted, I reflected on the ferocity of her protection of the littlest one, and the conflict that came out of it when she was opposed (unsuccessfully for the most part) by the force of nature.

To some, I suppose, this is not a revelation. This is what parents do. True. Even so, there is something deeper there that I discovered about this woman, for she chose to take on this role, chose to embrace it, and has chosen to apply her heart to it. In watching recent events unfold, my eyes saw something in her that I had sensed but never fully understood.

I have long said that she is the strongest woman that I've ever known, but I never quite tapped into the source of her strength. I've called it stubbornness, I've called it competitiveness, I've called it simply a refusal to submit. But those are symptoms, not the cause. Those are hallmarks, not the source. Just like her fierce determination to give the little one her Own Special Day, those traits all arise from a common spring.

This woman loves fiercely.

She loves her husband, her family, her life, her things, her self, and her world fiercely. She refuses to be beaten by anything because she has an image to protect. She refuses to budge on things big and small because she knows she is right and standing her ground protects who she is as a solitary soul.

She is her own Arthur defending her own Camelot with an Excalibur of her own making. All that she has, all that she loves, and all that she is are safe as a result. I stand in awe of her.

It has been a while since I have written about her. At the start of a New Year with her, it seems right to acknowledge just how much more there is to learn.

--Seriously

Current Mood: thoughtful

So here I am, cruising the InterWebs, and I find this story about women who talk too much being unattractive or some shit like that.

Umm.

Yeah.

No.

Not my experience, to say the very least.

--Seriously

This is an actual exchange of text messages this morning while I was dropping The Schmoo and The Bean off at school.

Me:  Chaka Khan and Bruce Bruce will be playing at the Civic Center.

She:  What's a Bruce Bruce?

Me:  Seriously.

She:  It's a Bruce now with 100% more Bruce!

Me:   I was thinking Bruce-flavored Bruce.

She:  Chaka Khan with a side order of double Bruce!

Me:  Bruce imported from Bruce.

She:  Maybe it's siamese twins. . . 

It's just one of those things, y'all that reminds me how great it is to be her spousal-type substance.

--Seriously

If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'll make an introduction by quoting an introduction of note:

"The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose vis-Ã -vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V"

Regardless of whether you now scratch your head or not, please watch this and pay close attention to the speech....particularly at :57 seconds in...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TLD3Z6sJWA

"For while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power.  Words are for the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of a truth.  And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there?"

Remember, remember, the 5th of November....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XV_LbzcqWP4

--Seriously

Current Mood: pensive
Current Music: 1812 Overture, of course

On this blog (and the other one way back when) I've posted many many things about epochal periods in my life.  There's the "seven years ago I quit drinking" theme....there's the "two years ago my prior marriage hit a tree" saga...and so on and so on....lots of epochs in my life.

There's one I haven't really mentioned.  I don't mention it probably because I am able to talk about my failures in every other area but this one.  This is the one that hurts me the most.  But here's your basics:

1.  A little more than six years ago I was a hotshot associate, and a Boy Wonder, don'tcha know.  Life was great.

2.  I got stabbed in the back, though I probably fell on the knife a bit, too.  But a major life advancement that was expected (and warranted) did not happen.

3.  The next year, I had fully recovered.  Then Lucy took the football away again and I muttered "Good grief" lying on my back in the dust.

4.  The next two years were alot like purgatory, and just as much fun.  New venue, new opportunities, but the same tune.  Ah, a theme emerges.

5.  I lost my mind for a year.

6.  I spent a year recovering from losing my mind.

7.  And now, here I am, fully recovered and demonstrably so, and I'm in the same boat I ever was.  I'm closer to shore, no doubt about it, but I'm still in the same fucking boat.

Today is a truly horrific day, and was starting out as the Most Horrible Day Ever -- a title I do not bestow lightly.  For the reigning Most Horrible Day Ever, see item number 1, September 20, 2001.  Some of you who know me think I'm this majorly successful, highly accomplished guy.  Fuck that.  I'm marking time.  Stuck.  Sorta.

We don't always understand our path, now do we?  I don't understand my path, either.  I assume I am on one.  I know I am not standing still, that I am continuing to walk it.  I hate it right now.  But it is what it is and I'm going to have to trust that it leads me somewhere I am meant to be.

Why do you tell you this?  Because the past six years of my life have been miserable from a professional standpoint, for me and my standards, and I am about to burst with a combination of rage and misery at the thought.  Some of it is my fault.  Some of it is not.  None of it is acceptable.  

So I think that writing it might help.  Acknowledging that I understand the path and that the path leads somewhere if I just keep walking is just about the only thing that fucking keeps me from ascending a clocktower or going destructive.

I need some peace, peeps.  I am REALLY in need of some peace.  And a good, long cry -- when I have the time.

--Seriously

I am having a bad day.  Or, rather, a bad night (brought on by lack of sleep) that has continued into a bad day.  It is a generalized yuckiness and a cloud over my outlook.  Even my outlook is literally looking at clouds out my window.  I'm mildly irritable, mildly depressed, overly tired, and rationally weak.  I can hear in the back of my mind the things that I say to people when THEY are in this position, and I hear myself telling myself that this, too, passes.  

I don't mean to make it sound like I'm homicidal or about to go all Falling Down on someone.  But I'm, instead, in the throes of full-on "meh."  It's almost worse than rage, because at least rage is active.  Meh is as passive as it gets.  I hate passive, particularly when I'm the one passing.

But I digress, as Marti would say.

The point here is that I recognize a pattern having been broken in my life, and that is good.  The pattern?  To seek a pacifier -- a soother.  Long ago, I would seek a beer.  Less long ago, I would seek something, er, more decadent.  Currently, my desire often goes toward indulgent food choices--this is why they call it comfort food in the first instance.  The gist of the nub of the crux of the gravamen, though,  is that my desire to SOOTHE what was bothering me was an impulse I would dive straight into.

With the help of my Dr. Bob, I identified the urge.  Then I identified where it came from -- a desire for control.  Most of the time that I perceive a need to soothe, it is because I do not feel a measure of control over my life.  Thus, I would soothe in a way that demonstrated that, BY GOD, I am in fucking control here, you bastids.  

And that, people, is just a stupid, stupid thing.  I know that there are things I cannot control. I know that into every life a little rain must fall.  I know that a "misty rain" is bound to happen (and I hate mist the most).  In short, I know that I must sometimes "embrace the suck."  

This truth is what I learned from my wife, and is likely to stand as the most important thing she's ever told me.  It is why I love her -- she knows things and knows how to reach right through me and flip the right switch.

I conclude with that thought, then.  That I am in a shitty mood and I will embrace it.  A shitty mood is better than no mood, for it means that I am alive, and have a wife, two girls, and a wealth of blessings to count if I just breathe.  I will embrace this suck, and wait for it to pass.

I don't need no pacifier anymore.  I am a grownup.

--Seriously

Current Mood: moody

The prior post (which I commend to your reading) comes from by right-brained self.  This one comes from my left-brained self.  

At least, I think it is.  Schadenfreude HAS to be a logical, left-brained thing, right? 

Oh, Santa baby, I for DAMN sure know what I want for Christmas:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071001/ap_on_el_pr/conservatives_third_party

Apparently, the Religious Right (see prior posts ad nauseum for my views on them) is considering a third-party presidential candidacy.  They're just so upset that they have not had their hate, er, um, values beaten, er, um, enacted into edicts, er, um, legislation.  They cannot abide the idea of a Rudy Guiliani standard bearer (personally I don't know how an empty suit can hold a flagpole, but whatever).  

So they're thinking of putting up a third candidate.

Please?  Oh, really, please?  PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE WITH WHIP CREAM ON TOP?  

I am practically bouncing around with giddiness over the prospect.

Here's my favorite quote from the story:  

"Conservatives have been treated like a mistress as long as any of us can remember," Viguerie said. "They'll have lots of private meetings with us, tell us how much they appreciate it and how much they value us, but if you see me on the street please don't speak with me."   

My hand to heaven, I think he actually said that without irony.  Of course, mistress implies opposite sex, and that may actually be a strange concept to them....but I digress.

I say to the Morally Righteous, GET THEE THENCE AND COMMENCE TO BOILING THOSE BUNNIES!  Get all Fatal Attraction-y on your party, hell yes!  You show them who's boss!  Take you for granted, will they?  Let's just see who's waiting by the polling place for that midnight booty-call!  Your butterfly ballots and your fraudulent charges of voter fraud aren't the possessions of anyone but you, and if you want to blow someone else's horn, by God, go do it!

I have some further suggestions for your platform, now that you're singing the "My Heart Belongs To Me" anthem, too, girlfriend.  In addition to banning abortion, same sex marriage, stem cell research, flag burning, and Kwanzaa and CNN, why don't y'all be FOR something?  Umm....let's see...you're in FAVOR of....

Oh, pshaw!  There's time to think about being actually FOR something later.  Right now, sister, you've got yourself a whole new world out there, freed from that dysfunctional relationship with those ungrateful Republicans.  No more tears, enough is enough, and you will survive, baby!  

Because you won't let the Republicans fuck you over anymore.  Now you're the one who's going to fuck over the Republicans.  Go on and get it on with someone else, publicly, hell yeah!  That'll show em....just make sure you're on the ballot in Ohio, Florida, Michican, Wisconin, Colorado, Virginia, Tennessee....I'd even offer you a celebratory condom but I wouldn't dare offend you...

--Seriously

This isn't going to be a long and thoughtful post of the ilk I used to write when I was the blogger formerly known as Seriously.  But it could be.  That's because of these two stories:

1.  http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071001/ap_on_fe_st/odd_vows_in_a_bottle

2.  http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070930/ap_on_fe_st/odd_demolition_derby_proposal 

It seems to me that here you have a spectrum, of sorts.  In one, you have the story of a marriage of two who had largely given up, who put their vows in a bottle and cast them to the waves.  They were picked up by a woman who had been married on the beach across the water 28 years to the day earlier.  The Incurable Romantic in me gets teary-eyed at the notion.

In the other, you have a guy proposing by painting the proposal on a car going into a demolition derby.  The marriage is literally breaking up before it began, methinks.  Anyone want to check back in within 5 years?

These two events metaphorically speak to the spectrum of the way people view marriages and proposals, and the general "thing-ness" that is lasting love.  (This is where I would normally go off for a while, btw, but I won't.)  Even in our own lives, we "get it" to varying degrees as we mature, I think.  Some of us (ahem) go 'round thrice before finding it.  But even those who go once, it seems, are destined to have several "marriages" from the beginning to the end, hopefully crossing the spectrum from the fiery red to end at the royal purple.

I suppose, in the end, the message is simply this:  It's all a journey, people.  Life is, love is, and if you aren't growing you're dying.  It is better to be together, intact, in the bottle and on your way to something magical than to be targeted by heavy forces that want to leave you alone and crumpled metal heap in the dirt while rednecks cheer wildly.

When I'm right, I'm right.  And I'm right.

--Seriously

I have said it before, and I'll say it again, but I am not like other men.  I've even said that I'm half-a-woman, and am not ashamed to say it.  I am routinely embarassed by my brethren, and I don't think like them.

I pause to note here that my lovely bride will come to my defense should anyone take this as an implication of diminished masculinity on my part.  Masculinity and personality is different from the way the mind processess things.  When it comes to relationships with the fairer sex, I am now and have always been more inclined to see things her way than in the standard knuckle-dragging neanderthalic manner of men.

I was starkly reminded of this today, when I saw this:

http://health.yahoo.com/experts/menlovesex/64404/do-men-believe-in-love-at-first-sight

I'll just give you the "headlines" from this and those of you who really know me will just quietly nod and say "yep."

Men Want: Covert Actions
They Don't Want: Overt Ones

Men Want: Mystery
They Don't Want: Full Disclosure

Men Want: Implication
They Don't Want: Conversation  

In fact, this one is so good, I'll actually give you what it says here:

There's one time men like getting The Talk. At halftime. In the locker room. By their coaches. Otherwise, men just don't take very well to man-up speeches and lectures-especially when it comes to a declaration of love and commitment. The Commitment Talk doesn't stoke the spark; it pulls the plug on it.

You can convey your feelings - and help him feel the same way - without having to broach the subject through the always awkward "where is this going" talk. How? Show you're into him by getting him involved a little bit in your future.

Invite him on a day trip next weekend, book tickets in advance for a concert or play, or ask him on a hiking trip with friends for next month. By thinking ahead and involving him in your plans, you show that you're devoted enough to invest time in him - without having to make it feel like union negotiations.

My response: Whaaaaa?

and finally,
Men Want: Smoke Signals
They Don't Want: Billboards

Look, people, I'm not going to tell you I don't have my typical-male moments.  I'm not professing to be "better" than anyone or anything (at least on this subject, that is).  But I just had to share this because, good GAWD y'all, this entire article could not be farther from describing me as a man -- though if I were a chick I'd be pretty well described.

Sigh.  

--Seriously

p.s. -- The companion piece to this is "Five Way to Make Sure Your Man Stays Committed" or some such.  I stopped reading because it didn't include blowjobs, which, as we all know, is the greatest fidelity-tool ever.

Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Chris de Burgh's Flying Colours Album

 Some things just beg to be blogged.

1.  Pants Off Dance Off -- Anyone seen this?  If so, and if you've watched for more than 2.5 minutes, please remove yourself from my Friend's list.  Not that I have an issue with stripping, as most of you know, but that I have a thing against morons.  People, it is likely to be this show that they point to in 200 years when they say "The warning signs were there.  America, once proud, aired a show of such irredeemingly poor value that it could no longer, in good conscience, be deemed great.  The tired, poor, huddled masses fled from her sight upon learning what programming was available in this once great land."

2.  Stu -- Met Stu and Bride.  Stu and Bride are awesome.  It's hard to describe it better than that.

3.  The Con -- Holly's High Holy Hollyday, Dragon*Con was this weekend.  It was an opportunity to meet Stu and Bride for me, but for her it was an opportunity to dress exceedingly sluttily, scam drinks from nerds whose eyes popped out when they saw her, and to kiss two other really hot girls.  I have the photos.  Hell to the yeah.  I win.

4.  Roiling -- Roiling is a very underused word, largely because few things actually roil.  However, today and for the past three days, that has been the appropriate word for my abdomen-and-below.  Roiling.  Fire of Brazil has done me wrong.  I have not eaten anything meaningful other than chicken soup that my hot wife heated for me in four days.  I have lost 7 pounds the hard way.   I am in hell, afraid to eat, but unable to stand it much longer.  Fuck you, Fire of Brazil.  And your pansy-assed rainforests, too.

5.  Glory -- The new car is named Glory.  My daughters are fascinated with her.  My ex wife is nonplussed (I actually think she's plussed (minused, actually), but she's not going into it).  And I'm driving her until my car comes back from shop again.

The end.  Miss you all.  Pardon me while I go roil some more...

--Seriously