Okay, so I took the poll off of my blog. It seemed that most of the world logged in to place their votes. At least 0.000000001% of the world's population, at any rate, give or take a fraction of a person, and for that I am thankful.
As I sit back, basking in the radiance of my polling success, I have to ask myself, "What is it exactly that I do to keep from going insane?' Well, that's what I'm here to tell you. Ready?
Get a hobby. Yes, that's the key to not going insane. Really. There are some auxiliaries to hobbies, like not lying to your wife and eating well, which we will discuss later, but first we must cover the topic of hobbies briefly before moving on.
A hobby can be anything from knitting to spacing out in the woods. I prefer the latter, of course, and don't get to participate in that hobby as much as I would like, yet try to do it as much as possible. We take what we can get. Other hobbies include, hiking, weight-lifting (don't recommend, unless you have exhausted all other hobby ideas), sailing, model-building, studying the history of guerilla-warfare tactics in Central America...you get the idea.
After you establish this new hobby as a necessary and regular part of your life, go ahead and be wild and maybe take on a new hobby. Who knows, some day you might be eighty years-old with a schedule of hobbies so extensive that you have to hire an art student to come help you finish writing that last song about the time you floated down the Mississippi, playing bluegrass, with the circus clown and the three-legged dog you found on the side of the road. So, pull on your boots and gitter dun, as they say in North Florida.
Okay, so now we can cover some auxiliaries to hobbies, in regards to maintaining sanity. I mentioned not lying to your wife (or husband), which I feel the benefits are self-explanatory. Same with eating right. So, do those along with your hobby and you are well on your way to maintaining what sanity you have left.
Another auxiliary to a bright, shining hobby is being one's self, at all times. Try being an asshole, no matter the cost, if you must. Now, here me out. Being an asshole, if that's the only genuine expression you can muster, until of course you are alienated by the human race, is an important method to not going insane. At some point, however, you will alienate the whole human race, at which time you have to soften your disposition so that you can build new relationships from the ground up. What you will be left with is nothing but a solid foundation. I say this because if you tell people how you feel and that you are miserable about the economy and the systematic destruction of beauty in our world, then they will know where you truly stand, get freaked out and bail. As a result, once you finally get desperate enough to lighten up, you will not have amassed a population of shallow robots who would rather sell you out than talk about real things that they experience and that you experience, helping each other maintaining a real grasp on reality once and for all. You will have something solid.
.
Hobbies, honesty, health (alliteration aside), genuineness and stability are all good. The greatest of these all are hobbies. So fare ye well and take on that hobby today. Who knows? You could be the next curling champion of the world.
Until next time and peace and love to all!
Your compadre,
Pablo Vida
Friday, October 15, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Hurling Rock
I am sitting here today in Denver, Colorado, in the Northern Hemisphere, watching the rain fall, as we spin on a rock which is hurling through space, within a solar system, within a galaxy, within a universe. One would think that a reality that outlandish and surreal might prevent us from overly concerning ourselves with the seeming triteness of personal conflict, politics and American Idol, as they stand impish in comparison to the profundity of such a dangerous reality. Right? But then I say that and soon realize that we wouldn't be human if we were not to become bored with profound realities quickly, soon turn jaded and then go on to feverishly search for the "latest and greatest" trend or product that has more than likely been created a million times over in the past, within some other misguided and twisted culture.
We have experienced over a couple thousand years of earthly stability, arguably since 687 BC, (outside of those who have experienced natural disaster in acute, specific regions around the globe) and the collective conscience has forgotten what a global natural disaster might look like. I think we can all imagine, but who wants to? We have more important things to do here on earth. For instance, I am looking for a job and grappling with my faith. What could be more important than those two pressing issues here in the twenty-first century? "Nothing really," you might find yourself saying out loud right now, and I assure that you are not alone in your contemplation, as you sit in front of the computer wearing your slippers and pajamas, so you shouldn't feel alone and you should be happy.
A lot of people are out of jobs and losing their homes and becoming disenfranchised with the way our goverment is systematically bending us over the proverbial wood pile, and I am no different. I sit here wondering exactly what one person can do to make a differenece. Some people tell me to vote, that every vote counts dang golly, and that you gotta get out there to make your vote count, dang it. So, vote, vote, vote. Sure, I think, but then I wonder who in the hell to vote for. Everybody in our political system works for the blood-thirsty money-grabbers who run everything and own everything, and for whom everything is never enough. Does a slave have real rights just because he thinks he does? I don't think so, and that pisses me off to no end. But what can a guy do but to enjoy life as much as possible, pay the piper and keep his mouth shut so that he doesn't end up dead or forever discredited? That's the million dollar question.
I say, learn more about sports. Live them, read about them, watch them and incessantly talk about the people who play sports as if you know them personally, and as if you have them over daily for coffee and cake. That seems to be the only thing of concern in American cities anymore. Sports and the people who play them. Get to know all of the players, their histories, about their sex lives and find out their blood-types too, and maybe you'll have a chance at connecting with someone here before some rogue comet comes out of the distant future or past and takes us out once and for all. Remember, we live on a rock that is hurling through space. Are we going to make it? What is the ultimate fate of humanity? Stop it! And turn on the TV. Celebrity Re-Hab is on and Dennis Rodman looks like he was just exhumed from the grave, and he wants a damned drink right now, for shit's sake. Reality. Taste it and savor the flavor.
Honestly though, if we have at least one person with whom we can connect, we are doing pretty well. Find that person, talk about the big picture, maybe even tell them about your fears and concerns, and who knows, you might not lose your mind this year. That's my New Year's resolution, (a little late, sure, but okay...) to not lose my mind this year. The beautiful thing is that outside of not losing my mind, I can do about anything that I would like. Who knows? I might even come up with some way to defend ourselves against the imminent disaster that so threatens all of us here on the planet that is known for its impeccable taste in food, fun and fast cars. If we are wiped off of the face of the earth, will it really hurt? I don't think so. Really, I just want to be able to live life here without going insane. So, cheerio to all of you and make sure to not look down or sideways or up, lest you fall off of the planet and fall through our infinite universe until you become ragged with wind burn, subsequently going nuts. That's what we are trying not to do here. Amen.
We have experienced over a couple thousand years of earthly stability, arguably since 687 BC, (outside of those who have experienced natural disaster in acute, specific regions around the globe) and the collective conscience has forgotten what a global natural disaster might look like. I think we can all imagine, but who wants to? We have more important things to do here on earth. For instance, I am looking for a job and grappling with my faith. What could be more important than those two pressing issues here in the twenty-first century? "Nothing really," you might find yourself saying out loud right now, and I assure that you are not alone in your contemplation, as you sit in front of the computer wearing your slippers and pajamas, so you shouldn't feel alone and you should be happy.
A lot of people are out of jobs and losing their homes and becoming disenfranchised with the way our goverment is systematically bending us over the proverbial wood pile, and I am no different. I sit here wondering exactly what one person can do to make a differenece. Some people tell me to vote, that every vote counts dang golly, and that you gotta get out there to make your vote count, dang it. So, vote, vote, vote. Sure, I think, but then I wonder who in the hell to vote for. Everybody in our political system works for the blood-thirsty money-grabbers who run everything and own everything, and for whom everything is never enough. Does a slave have real rights just because he thinks he does? I don't think so, and that pisses me off to no end. But what can a guy do but to enjoy life as much as possible, pay the piper and keep his mouth shut so that he doesn't end up dead or forever discredited? That's the million dollar question.
I say, learn more about sports. Live them, read about them, watch them and incessantly talk about the people who play sports as if you know them personally, and as if you have them over daily for coffee and cake. That seems to be the only thing of concern in American cities anymore. Sports and the people who play them. Get to know all of the players, their histories, about their sex lives and find out their blood-types too, and maybe you'll have a chance at connecting with someone here before some rogue comet comes out of the distant future or past and takes us out once and for all. Remember, we live on a rock that is hurling through space. Are we going to make it? What is the ultimate fate of humanity? Stop it! And turn on the TV. Celebrity Re-Hab is on and Dennis Rodman looks like he was just exhumed from the grave, and he wants a damned drink right now, for shit's sake. Reality. Taste it and savor the flavor.
Honestly though, if we have at least one person with whom we can connect, we are doing pretty well. Find that person, talk about the big picture, maybe even tell them about your fears and concerns, and who knows, you might not lose your mind this year. That's my New Year's resolution, (a little late, sure, but okay...) to not lose my mind this year. The beautiful thing is that outside of not losing my mind, I can do about anything that I would like. Who knows? I might even come up with some way to defend ourselves against the imminent disaster that so threatens all of us here on the planet that is known for its impeccable taste in food, fun and fast cars. If we are wiped off of the face of the earth, will it really hurt? I don't think so. Really, I just want to be able to live life here without going insane. So, cheerio to all of you and make sure to not look down or sideways or up, lest you fall off of the planet and fall through our infinite universe until you become ragged with wind burn, subsequently going nuts. That's what we are trying not to do here. Amen.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Artisticated
Hello to all, and to all a warm greeting.
I went to the Art Walk here in Denver, Colorado last Friday, and I must admit that I had a really good time. I went with a girl I used to work with and her husband. I didn't know what to expect, since she had never personally presented with a rash of pretentiousness, and I don't think of myself as pretentious, yet I sometimes feel that those whom I meet from under the art rock are, well, maybe a little self-important sometimes, and that things could potentially be awkward, to say the least, at an art-related event.
To my comfort, there were many regular-Joes like myself. Sarah, her husband and I had a nice time perusing the paintings, the sculptures and various other art forms that evening. I didn't but a couple times feel uncomfortable, yet I simply chalked that up to my own self-absorption and general malaise in dealing with humanity at times. There were some things that truly inspired me, and then there were constructs or paintings that simply made me laugh, as others made me nauseous, and some indifferent, just the same.
I felt gay and joyous that no one really gave me a hard time for not wearing a fish-net wife-beater and a feather boa, accompanied with tight pink shorts and white thigh-high boots, or that by no means did I feel ridiculed or labeled unviable for not having ever owned a bottle of Andy Warhol's bottled sweat. Like I said, the crowd was mixed and down-to-earth, the athmosphere friendly and casual.
There were a couple studios where small groups of people, showcased artists I'm assuming, sat around in an organized, planned, randomness in the middle of a room, taking up good walking space, awaiting the return of Michelangelo for the immortal rendering of their respective likenesses. I wanted to go ask if I could get into the sculpture or painting, maybe strike a pose, but felt reluctant not wearing tight, black clothing, and left well-enough alone, as I passed on through.
The truly uplifting, random spaces of various galleries stood in stark contrast to the more austere layouts, lending a dynamic crucible by which we wandered around in for the whole evening. I honestly felt like a child caught up in a labyrinth of color and texture and sound, the mystery and newness of it all, and didn't want to leave the area, until I got hungry and restless, that is, which always seems inevitable. I got a free coffee and a pretzel, and we went about our way.
I have to say that the people were the highlight of the event, as they prove to be at most events where people congregate. Of course, the obligatory loner-crazy-guy came up to me to talk about the nude photograph I stood in front of right then. I felt relieved that he didn't sweat all over me, or breath on me too much, and as a result, felt obligated to make a couple remarks about the photograph, simply to be sociable. I have to rely on humor most of the time, because I don't really know much about art, or the canon of art I should say, and I don't want to get beat up by a band of homosexual nihilists who are fed up with straight, square guys crashing their orgies of aesthetics. Nevertheless, the guy wasn't mean like that, yet I think he just wanted gay sex, and I felt like our discourse in photography probably wouldn't evolve into a life-long friendship afterall. This is not because of his desire for man-love, per se, but because of the fact that I just felt like the cheap village slut being eyeballed and drooled all over, and that is it. I said good-bye, and we went to the next gallery.
We went from one gallery to the next, talking and catching up on some of the people at work and life in general. I couldn't really tell if my friends were having a good time or not, but decided that I would simply stay in the moment and have as good a time as possible, regardless of their lack of titilation. I did feel awkward, nevertheless, being the fatal entertainer and people-pleaser, and wanted to start dancing or clapping or turn Hare Krishna, to instigate a shift in mood. Then, just as I about peeled the skin off of my body, a guy who looked like a mix between a Zulu king and a German mountain climber walked into the room and stood before a giant ball of metal, staring as if the key to life were somehow embedded therein. He circled around the ball of metal numerous times, rubbing his chin all the while, and stopped and stared over and over. We had a good laugh, and I felt refreshed at the same time. Here was a guy who came down from heaven to make me laugh. I love the randomness of life and the people who make it up.
Sarah got tired and wanted to go home shortly after our run-in with the Edelweiss spear-chucker. On the way back to the house, we ran across a group of aliens/A Clockwork Orange cast members/escaped mental patients who were all clustered on the sidewalk, painting and smoking, oblivious to our passing by. This little group made my evening, and I felt as if I could see the night through a whole new perspective, and we walked on back to the house and my friends left.
I reccommend anyone who is in Denver for First Fridays to partake in the Art Walk. The hours are supposedly from 5:30-9pm, but people seemingly stay open much later if they are feeling it. Get some culture, some free food and beverages and some great stories. Sometimes art can keep people from going insane, so they say, and at that I say farewell.
I went to the Art Walk here in Denver, Colorado last Friday, and I must admit that I had a really good time. I went with a girl I used to work with and her husband. I didn't know what to expect, since she had never personally presented with a rash of pretentiousness, and I don't think of myself as pretentious, yet I sometimes feel that those whom I meet from under the art rock are, well, maybe a little self-important sometimes, and that things could potentially be awkward, to say the least, at an art-related event.
To my comfort, there were many regular-Joes like myself. Sarah, her husband and I had a nice time perusing the paintings, the sculptures and various other art forms that evening. I didn't but a couple times feel uncomfortable, yet I simply chalked that up to my own self-absorption and general malaise in dealing with humanity at times. There were some things that truly inspired me, and then there were constructs or paintings that simply made me laugh, as others made me nauseous, and some indifferent, just the same.
I felt gay and joyous that no one really gave me a hard time for not wearing a fish-net wife-beater and a feather boa, accompanied with tight pink shorts and white thigh-high boots, or that by no means did I feel ridiculed or labeled unviable for not having ever owned a bottle of Andy Warhol's bottled sweat. Like I said, the crowd was mixed and down-to-earth, the athmosphere friendly and casual.
There were a couple studios where small groups of people, showcased artists I'm assuming, sat around in an organized, planned, randomness in the middle of a room, taking up good walking space, awaiting the return of Michelangelo for the immortal rendering of their respective likenesses. I wanted to go ask if I could get into the sculpture or painting, maybe strike a pose, but felt reluctant not wearing tight, black clothing, and left well-enough alone, as I passed on through.
The truly uplifting, random spaces of various galleries stood in stark contrast to the more austere layouts, lending a dynamic crucible by which we wandered around in for the whole evening. I honestly felt like a child caught up in a labyrinth of color and texture and sound, the mystery and newness of it all, and didn't want to leave the area, until I got hungry and restless, that is, which always seems inevitable. I got a free coffee and a pretzel, and we went about our way.
I have to say that the people were the highlight of the event, as they prove to be at most events where people congregate. Of course, the obligatory loner-crazy-guy came up to me to talk about the nude photograph I stood in front of right then. I felt relieved that he didn't sweat all over me, or breath on me too much, and as a result, felt obligated to make a couple remarks about the photograph, simply to be sociable. I have to rely on humor most of the time, because I don't really know much about art, or the canon of art I should say, and I don't want to get beat up by a band of homosexual nihilists who are fed up with straight, square guys crashing their orgies of aesthetics. Nevertheless, the guy wasn't mean like that, yet I think he just wanted gay sex, and I felt like our discourse in photography probably wouldn't evolve into a life-long friendship afterall. This is not because of his desire for man-love, per se, but because of the fact that I just felt like the cheap village slut being eyeballed and drooled all over, and that is it. I said good-bye, and we went to the next gallery.
We went from one gallery to the next, talking and catching up on some of the people at work and life in general. I couldn't really tell if my friends were having a good time or not, but decided that I would simply stay in the moment and have as good a time as possible, regardless of their lack of titilation. I did feel awkward, nevertheless, being the fatal entertainer and people-pleaser, and wanted to start dancing or clapping or turn Hare Krishna, to instigate a shift in mood. Then, just as I about peeled the skin off of my body, a guy who looked like a mix between a Zulu king and a German mountain climber walked into the room and stood before a giant ball of metal, staring as if the key to life were somehow embedded therein. He circled around the ball of metal numerous times, rubbing his chin all the while, and stopped and stared over and over. We had a good laugh, and I felt refreshed at the same time. Here was a guy who came down from heaven to make me laugh. I love the randomness of life and the people who make it up.
Sarah got tired and wanted to go home shortly after our run-in with the Edelweiss spear-chucker. On the way back to the house, we ran across a group of aliens/A Clockwork Orange cast members/escaped mental patients who were all clustered on the sidewalk, painting and smoking, oblivious to our passing by. This little group made my evening, and I felt as if I could see the night through a whole new perspective, and we walked on back to the house and my friends left.
I reccommend anyone who is in Denver for First Fridays to partake in the Art Walk. The hours are supposedly from 5:30-9pm, but people seemingly stay open much later if they are feeling it. Get some culture, some free food and beverages and some great stories. Sometimes art can keep people from going insane, so they say, and at that I say farewell.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Stairwell
A few weeks ago, I was running down the stairs to get back to the lab, so that I could leave on time to have a wonderful afternoon with one of my daughters. One floor up from where I planned to exit the stairwell, I was held up by a herd of doctors that were on their way to a conference or lunch or any number of possible places to discuss things that doctors discuss together. Attempting to be friendly, I said hello to the the lot of them, yet didn't get much in response. Actually, the tallest of the group, the obvious Alpha of the Alphas, gave me a little incredulous puff of air between his teeth and lips and a smirk, suggesting that I would be better off greeting someone of my own species, and then they all looked at each other laughing at the unlikliness of the whole thing, and walked down the stairs, forcing me to the wall with their momentum and otherwise inconsiderate gait. They were guys about my age. I thought that maybe they had a right to treat the "help" in such a cruel and thankless way for a second, and then I promptly woke up and realized that we are all trapped on this planet and it doesn't really help much when we create these divisions amongst ourselves, destroying ourselves, when we have international bankers who want to enslave us all, who are the real enemy to freedom and love and happiness, and that I should shrug it off and go about my business.
Well, that may be the case, but it doesn't really help the assault on self-esteem due to being confronted by outright prejudice and inconsideration. I wanted to trip the last one of the guys so that he could bowl over all of the other robots below him, sending the whole gaggle of goons down the stairs, so that I could have a good laugh and possibly experience the immediate gratification and fleeting relief of revenge. Nevertheless, I went on my way, told a co-worker about the incident and we had a good laugh at the absurdity of the matter, carrying on throughout the day, relishing the love of our families and the good that comes from life, as a result of attempting to continuously focus on the good in life.
So, remember, you are not insane for feeling like running over the rude and the nasty little nabobs out there with your car. You might, however, be insane if you think that being treated like a schmuck and a door mat is right or justifiable. I will try to give someone like that doctor a hug next time. Maybe even a wet Willy if I am feeling particularly surly that day. Keep up the good fight, and remember, we are all insane to the degree that we let sociopaths tell us that what we are doing is good as long as it caters to their agenda. Amen.
Well, that may be the case, but it doesn't really help the assault on self-esteem due to being confronted by outright prejudice and inconsideration. I wanted to trip the last one of the guys so that he could bowl over all of the other robots below him, sending the whole gaggle of goons down the stairs, so that I could have a good laugh and possibly experience the immediate gratification and fleeting relief of revenge. Nevertheless, I went on my way, told a co-worker about the incident and we had a good laugh at the absurdity of the matter, carrying on throughout the day, relishing the love of our families and the good that comes from life, as a result of attempting to continuously focus on the good in life.
So, remember, you are not insane for feeling like running over the rude and the nasty little nabobs out there with your car. You might, however, be insane if you think that being treated like a schmuck and a door mat is right or justifiable. I will try to give someone like that doctor a hug next time. Maybe even a wet Willy if I am feeling particularly surly that day. Keep up the good fight, and remember, we are all insane to the degree that we let sociopaths tell us that what we are doing is good as long as it caters to their agenda. Amen.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
AA Meeting
I saw a guy today whom I've seen a million times, but whom I had never spoken with before. I am one of those people who can see a person once and remember them forever. I see them a couple times, and hey, I should know them right? That's coming from an introvert, might I add, which compounds the tortuous reality that dwells within me. I say torturous because, like I said, I am an introvert, but also because of my tendency to prefer introspection over outgoingness, I often botch my attempts at being friendly to those whom I would like to get to know better.
I walk over to the guy and introduce myself. He looks at me like I just made out with his wife, leaving me hanging, as he rubs his chin in disapproval. Leaves me hanging, dammit! I went out of my way to introduce myself, because I had caught him staring at me many times over the past weeks, yet was shot down right on site.
"Whatcha sellin'?" he says, after rubbing his fat chin for a couple seconds.
I wanted to say that I was selling his birthright to Satan and that he couldn't do a damned thing about it and that maybe he should lose a few pounds, but held my tongue instead, because that is what we are supposed to do in AA. Restraint of pen and tongue, they say. I stepped back and put my hands in my pockets, totally at a loss, not knowing what to do with myself like an obsolete tool, and then just turned and went back to my seat.
I sat there for a minute, but noticed that the guy kept staring at me, rubbing his chin like a goombah. I wanted to leave the meeting, but thought that I couldn't let this rat fink run me off without giving him a good battle of the wits first, so I dug in and decided that I would not be the first to leave.
I finally could bear the weight of his stare no longer, and had to give him a little wave. He looked at me, still rubbing his chin, and then slowly and casually flipped me the bird, as if I had told him he were a shameless douche bag or something. I felt as if someone had slipped LSD in my drink at this point, but continued to look at the guy as if the whole thing was agreeable, and as if I didn't feel nauseous and scared about humanity in general, and then he turned to the guy next to him and that was the last time we looked at each other for the rest of the night.
I went home and pondered yet another interaction which has contributed to my general concern about my interpersonal relationships on this planet.
Why me? I said, but then realized that I help others from going insane by allowing them to heap their malaise and discontent upon my head, as if I were some sort of mule of misfortune, and as a result serve the greater good by being an emotional masochist right here and now.
So, the moral to the story is, if someone dishes unwarranted nastiness out upon you, don't grab the nearest tire iron and work them over like Idi Amin would his closest advisors, but smile and then promptly bitch about it to the nearest person you can. After all, we are here to help each other not go insane. And for that, I am mighty grateful. See you next time.
I walk over to the guy and introduce myself. He looks at me like I just made out with his wife, leaving me hanging, as he rubs his chin in disapproval. Leaves me hanging, dammit! I went out of my way to introduce myself, because I had caught him staring at me many times over the past weeks, yet was shot down right on site.
"Whatcha sellin'?" he says, after rubbing his fat chin for a couple seconds.
I wanted to say that I was selling his birthright to Satan and that he couldn't do a damned thing about it and that maybe he should lose a few pounds, but held my tongue instead, because that is what we are supposed to do in AA. Restraint of pen and tongue, they say. I stepped back and put my hands in my pockets, totally at a loss, not knowing what to do with myself like an obsolete tool, and then just turned and went back to my seat.
I sat there for a minute, but noticed that the guy kept staring at me, rubbing his chin like a goombah. I wanted to leave the meeting, but thought that I couldn't let this rat fink run me off without giving him a good battle of the wits first, so I dug in and decided that I would not be the first to leave.
I finally could bear the weight of his stare no longer, and had to give him a little wave. He looked at me, still rubbing his chin, and then slowly and casually flipped me the bird, as if I had told him he were a shameless douche bag or something. I felt as if someone had slipped LSD in my drink at this point, but continued to look at the guy as if the whole thing was agreeable, and as if I didn't feel nauseous and scared about humanity in general, and then he turned to the guy next to him and that was the last time we looked at each other for the rest of the night.
I went home and pondered yet another interaction which has contributed to my general concern about my interpersonal relationships on this planet.
Why me? I said, but then realized that I help others from going insane by allowing them to heap their malaise and discontent upon my head, as if I were some sort of mule of misfortune, and as a result serve the greater good by being an emotional masochist right here and now.
So, the moral to the story is, if someone dishes unwarranted nastiness out upon you, don't grab the nearest tire iron and work them over like Idi Amin would his closest advisors, but smile and then promptly bitch about it to the nearest person you can. After all, we are here to help each other not go insane. And for that, I am mighty grateful. See you next time.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Cigar Shop
So, I went to the cigar shop last night to have a smoke and to hopefully have a friendly chat with one of the few guys whom I have connected with in this whole, wide world. I picked out a nice J. Fuego 777, cut it, lit up and found my friendly acquaintance sitting in one of the more intimate areas of the shop, where one can watch television, play dominoes or simply relax. He had been out of town for a couple weeks, so it felt good, almost like Grandma's house back in the day, to see him sitting there, having a smoke himself, and casually glancing up now and again to see who might be strolling in next.
I sat down and we talked for a few seconds. The travels were good, he said, the reason for the visit unfortunate, yet all was well, and he was glad to be back in town. After catching up, a guy who I often see, but whom I have never talked with, came into the room and sat between my friend and I. Here we were, the three of us, sitting in the lounge, all enjoying some fine Dominican and Nicaraguan tobacco, when a nice couple comes into the room and sits down on one of the couches. They pull a bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey from their bags and pour themselves drinks, offering us one by way of a nod and a smile.
"No thanks," I said.
"I'm good," my friend says, sipping on his own glass of Cognac.
My friend introduces everyone to everyone else, a couple more people come into the room and the greetings and salutations take place again, until finally everyone is introduced except for the guy whom I've never spoken with and myself.
The next thing I know, Tiger is on the television and the room goes silent. Tiger Woods, sans Nike ball cap, with big, moist eyes and his heart-warming, written speech to the world filling the room. News in America that relentless, twisted case of deja vu. You know, that reel which America has seen over a million times already, yet which continues to ooze out of the television one more time to tell us that Tiger is a damned slut, and that he needs to repent by making calculated, written, emotionless speeches, showing us all that he is weak and needs to go to Sex Addicts Anonymous, and that he's naughty and all of that stuff.
"He's just a human-being!" the guy whom I've never spoken with says.
The room begins to bubble with pockets of talk, here and there over the whiskey and cigar smoke, as I look at the television screen trying to ignore the guy with the seeming case of Tourette syndrome sitting right next to me. My friend looks over at me, and then at the guy whom I've never spoken with, and then back to me.
"Paul. This is John," my friend says to me.
"Hey John," I said, offering my hand for that automatic handshake I've learned so well over the years.
"Kick a man down just because he's rich and famous," John says, staring at me like some 1930's B-film mind-reader, leaving my hand dangling, as if I was the spirit of Hearst incarnate himself, coming back from the dead to rake the muck on Tiger just to piss him off.
I looked at the guy and then back at the television. Everyone else in the room having their own little conversations, as John taps me on the arm and says, "Don't you care?"
"I really don't care about what Tiger does. That's between he and his wife."
"He's a human-being," John says, emphatically shaping his mouth to fit around the words human-being like he was trying to blow imaginary bubbles.
No shit? Really? I think to myself, but can only stare numbly at my newest acquaintance, wondering why chance had become so cruel to me all of a sudden.
My friend, the guy whom I came to speak with, not the outspoken defender of humanity John, looks at me and smiles. A set-up, you bastard, I think, but can only smile back, and subsequently continue to act interested in the television.
"Tiger needs to apologize," someone in the room says.
"They're raking him over the coals," John says. "They're bastards, everyone of them."
"He signed up for ridicule and incessant pestering and defamation by becoming a superstar," I say. "He should've known they'd slaughter him for being stupid."
"People should love him," John says. "It's not fair that they treat him like that."
I was really at a loss here, a grown man just figuring out that life wasn't fair, as we all sat around the television, the room alive with conversation now, as my friend sat over in the corner laughing to himself, me nearly cramping inside with the whole mess.
"You have to tell people privately when they are screwing up," John says to me, grabbing my forearm now, emphatic as a preacher on meth, as I try to pretend that my life had not ended up in this bleak, dark hole of some alter reality.
"I agree," I said.
"You don't understand," John says.
"I think I do, really, John."
John is now staring at me, white spittle around his mouth, like some frothily emotional girlfriend, who just wants me to love her, dammit, and who is so damned frustrated by the fact that I am so obtuse and insensitive and stupid and all of that, but after a couple frightful seconds, I realize that he's not a girlfriend, and I almost burst into tears or laughter or both simultaneously, as he turns deeper shades of red with each passing second.
I can't really do anything at this point, but speak my mind as honestly and clearly as possible, not really caring about the outcome of the situation, and letting the chips fall as they may, as they say.
John listens intently as I give my defense in relation to my lack of concern over the treatment of Tiger Woods in the media. He leans in my direction, painfully it looks like, as he bores holes through me with his intense, longing expression that personifies real, genuine care and empathy, and the most ironic thing in the world happens next. I mean, I spoke from the heart here, and he seemed to respond to that very well. He instantly wanted to be buddies for the very first time in our short conversation, and so we talked about politics and religion and anything else that would allow us to teeter on the edge of utter social destruction for the last few minutes before he had to leave for work.
My friend told me later that he always wanted to see how we would get along. Thanks, buddy, I thought. And that was that. I got to finish my cigar, met some good guys and John went on his way, fighting the good fight.
I just want to say to my friend Sarah that I understand when you say that crazy people tend to pick you out of a crowd, and want to talk to you. Me too, now that I realize it. Keep the faith, and remember, this is where you can come to learn how not to go insane. Laughter is the key, I say. Amen.
I sat down and we talked for a few seconds. The travels were good, he said, the reason for the visit unfortunate, yet all was well, and he was glad to be back in town. After catching up, a guy who I often see, but whom I have never talked with, came into the room and sat between my friend and I. Here we were, the three of us, sitting in the lounge, all enjoying some fine Dominican and Nicaraguan tobacco, when a nice couple comes into the room and sits down on one of the couches. They pull a bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey from their bags and pour themselves drinks, offering us one by way of a nod and a smile.
"No thanks," I said.
"I'm good," my friend says, sipping on his own glass of Cognac.
My friend introduces everyone to everyone else, a couple more people come into the room and the greetings and salutations take place again, until finally everyone is introduced except for the guy whom I've never spoken with and myself.
The next thing I know, Tiger is on the television and the room goes silent. Tiger Woods, sans Nike ball cap, with big, moist eyes and his heart-warming, written speech to the world filling the room. News in America that relentless, twisted case of deja vu. You know, that reel which America has seen over a million times already, yet which continues to ooze out of the television one more time to tell us that Tiger is a damned slut, and that he needs to repent by making calculated, written, emotionless speeches, showing us all that he is weak and needs to go to Sex Addicts Anonymous, and that he's naughty and all of that stuff.
"He's just a human-being!" the guy whom I've never spoken with says.
The room begins to bubble with pockets of talk, here and there over the whiskey and cigar smoke, as I look at the television screen trying to ignore the guy with the seeming case of Tourette syndrome sitting right next to me. My friend looks over at me, and then at the guy whom I've never spoken with, and then back to me.
"Paul. This is John," my friend says to me.
"Hey John," I said, offering my hand for that automatic handshake I've learned so well over the years.
"Kick a man down just because he's rich and famous," John says, staring at me like some 1930's B-film mind-reader, leaving my hand dangling, as if I was the spirit of Hearst incarnate himself, coming back from the dead to rake the muck on Tiger just to piss him off.
I looked at the guy and then back at the television. Everyone else in the room having their own little conversations, as John taps me on the arm and says, "Don't you care?"
"I really don't care about what Tiger does. That's between he and his wife."
"He's a human-being," John says, emphatically shaping his mouth to fit around the words human-being like he was trying to blow imaginary bubbles.
No shit? Really? I think to myself, but can only stare numbly at my newest acquaintance, wondering why chance had become so cruel to me all of a sudden.
My friend, the guy whom I came to speak with, not the outspoken defender of humanity John, looks at me and smiles. A set-up, you bastard, I think, but can only smile back, and subsequently continue to act interested in the television.
"Tiger needs to apologize," someone in the room says.
"They're raking him over the coals," John says. "They're bastards, everyone of them."
"He signed up for ridicule and incessant pestering and defamation by becoming a superstar," I say. "He should've known they'd slaughter him for being stupid."
"People should love him," John says. "It's not fair that they treat him like that."
I was really at a loss here, a grown man just figuring out that life wasn't fair, as we all sat around the television, the room alive with conversation now, as my friend sat over in the corner laughing to himself, me nearly cramping inside with the whole mess.
"You have to tell people privately when they are screwing up," John says to me, grabbing my forearm now, emphatic as a preacher on meth, as I try to pretend that my life had not ended up in this bleak, dark hole of some alter reality.
"I agree," I said.
"You don't understand," John says.
"I think I do, really, John."
John is now staring at me, white spittle around his mouth, like some frothily emotional girlfriend, who just wants me to love her, dammit, and who is so damned frustrated by the fact that I am so obtuse and insensitive and stupid and all of that, but after a couple frightful seconds, I realize that he's not a girlfriend, and I almost burst into tears or laughter or both simultaneously, as he turns deeper shades of red with each passing second.
I can't really do anything at this point, but speak my mind as honestly and clearly as possible, not really caring about the outcome of the situation, and letting the chips fall as they may, as they say.
John listens intently as I give my defense in relation to my lack of concern over the treatment of Tiger Woods in the media. He leans in my direction, painfully it looks like, as he bores holes through me with his intense, longing expression that personifies real, genuine care and empathy, and the most ironic thing in the world happens next. I mean, I spoke from the heart here, and he seemed to respond to that very well. He instantly wanted to be buddies for the very first time in our short conversation, and so we talked about politics and religion and anything else that would allow us to teeter on the edge of utter social destruction for the last few minutes before he had to leave for work.
My friend told me later that he always wanted to see how we would get along. Thanks, buddy, I thought. And that was that. I got to finish my cigar, met some good guys and John went on his way, fighting the good fight.
I just want to say to my friend Sarah that I understand when you say that crazy people tend to pick you out of a crowd, and want to talk to you. Me too, now that I realize it. Keep the faith, and remember, this is where you can come to learn how not to go insane. Laughter is the key, I say. Amen.
Our purpose
This is a blog for all of those out there who often say "hello" to passers-by who look directly at them, yet who get nothing but dirty looks in response to their greetings. This is a place where we strive to alleviate the confusion and otherwise disorientation that this may breed in one's mind. I am very excited and anxious to learn how to not go insane in dealing with the aloofness toward and disregard for others that some people seem to foster. We will laugh, we will cry, but most importantly, we will not go insane by exposing and eradicating the jerks in our midst.
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