My First Book Review

You probably noticed that I haven't been writing a whole lot lately.

It's no coincidence, and yes, I'm still alive. I've just been busy. Besides doing some writing for Divorce 360 and my own blog, Single Dads (although that's been suffering recently - I need to go back to my roots), I've been hanging out with the four year old, working quite a bit, and now... reviewing books. As a member of the website LibraryThing (you'll see the widget over there on the side, there,) I signed up for the Early Reviewers program. It has its perks.

So, here's my first review - that I'm going to put with my first freelance paycheck stub and my first volunteer freelance letter. Be kind, because God knows that I have no idea what I'm doing.

Yet.

But all is falling into place. I think.


--


To say that I fancy myself a poet is not exactly accurate; somewhere in a trunk at home there is a folder with Lord only knows how many pieces of poetry that I wrote in the 80’s and 90’s, when things for me were much bleaker and introspective. I even had some success writing a poem that was published a very long time ago.

Therefore, I looked forward to reading How To Write A Suicide Note by Sherry Quan Lee, a multicultural woman writing about her grappling with suicide, growing up different, and finding herself. To say that I “liked” the series of “poems” (many of which read more like prose than poetry to me – that seems, in retrospect, apt) is not quite the correct word. This was a great series, but in some ways, was so emotional and passionate, that I actually had difficulty reading them. But then again, I’m often dramatic when it comes to topics of this nature.

This was a very good book that I would recommend to people interested in mental health issues, multiculturalism, self-help, poetry or real-life essays, and if you are a parent, read this and learn.

--

Let me know what you think. The curiosity is killing me.

Think, Parents!

A cautionary tale for parents, divorced or otherwise.

Yesterday, I was at the park with my daughter, Grace, her half-sister Noelle, and their mother.  It was a gorgeous day, and the playground was relatively close to the kids' school and two other schools, but when we arrived, there were no other children there.  We stuck close and let the kids play in the sand.

I scanned the area.  Nothing particular was out of whack; it was, quite simply, a very simple park, with playground, a port-a-potty (yuck!) and a large, fairly well restored plantation-looking house that I could only assume was some sort of neighborhood gathering place or clubhouse back in the day.

At about the time that I started explaining to Grace that the loud pecking that we heard on the house was simply a very loud woodpecker, I noticed one thing out of place.

One middle aged man in a lawn chair.  Sitting about a block away from us at the other edge of the park looking at nothing in particular.

My parental instincts made a loud buzzing sound.  It was very similar to the sound the inside of my head used to make when a good-looking woman was within some distance of my personal space, but I hadn't seen her yet.  I used to call it a Spider Sense, after the character.

While watching and playing with the kids, out of the corner of my eye I kept looking at this pudgy, middle aged man.

After a while of only having one other kid come to the playground, my ex and I watched as two children, then three, of about third grade or so came from the public school nearby and start playing... with the parents nowhere in sight.

We made plans to leave.  However, I wasn't planning on going anywhere with these kids on the playground, and some grown man across the park, who was still looking... wherever.

Finally, the man folded up his chair, after sitting in the park for what had to have been an hour and a half, packed it into his van (which I know sounds cliched, but it's true, it was a van) and drive away... after circling the park for a block. 

It wasn't until the van was out of sight until we finally picked up the kids and left.

People.

You might be a single parent.  You might be a couple of parents that both work.  I don't know what scenarios you might have.  However, the lesson here I think is a good one:  pick up your young children from school.  You never know who might be watching, and if that individual - who might have been no more than a person watching cars drive by in the park, mind you - had harmed your children because they were vulnerable and you were simply too busy to pick them up from school on a regular weekday... well, where would you be then?

Just a story with a happy ending.

Today.

What I Would Tell Myself If I Could Go Back In Time To 20

The other day, this topic came up, and my thoughts were just too juicy to pass up.  So I have decided to post a few thoughts here on the subject.

What I Would Tell Myself If I Could Go Back In Time To 20

- Do NOT always do what your friends want you to do. Most of the time, they mean well, but it's often a really bad idea.
Everyone likes to have friends.  Some friends will, unfortunately, COMPLETELY BURN YOU.  This might not be on purpose, but it happens... and happens a lot.  I personally can attribute some of the worst things I've ever done to the influence of some friend.

Remember this.

- Stay away from loose women. Trust me on this one.
Look, I'm a guy.  And when I was 20, my hormones were out of control.  But before you do something that you regret, think of these topics: STDs that last forever that won't kill you, dealing with crazy women, dealing with the crazy men that deal with those same crazy women, and really, if you want to have a baby, will that crazy woman teach them how to read?  Will they fix your dinner if you're hungry?  Or will they just be crazy?

You know the answer to those questions.

- If you ignore the loose women comment above, ALWAYS make sure that they are smarter than you are. If you are an average guy, this should be relatively easy.
Men are pretty dumb.  And there are an awful lot of crazy women out there.  But 7 times out of 10, even the crazy women will be smarter than you are.  Accept it and learn as much as you can.

- Avoid debt as much as humanly possible. You don't need a 32 inch TV.
Most debt is really stupid.  Read a book or go on a run.  Do something good with your life.  Most television is on the Internet somewhere anyway.

- Read a book a week.
See above.

- NO DAY BOURBON. Down this path lies madness.
Have you ever noticed exactly how much booze is on television?  Or the corner store?  Or the news?  Or ANYWHERE?
This is an attempt to control you - make you pliant to the world so that you don't notice the things you really want to do.  Don't fall for the hype.

- Tell the truth. This will require never doing things that you wouldn't want to read in your hometown newspaper the next day.
You don't have to be a saint.  You just have to be a decent person.  No one is perfect.

- No matter how wonderful your woman might be, always remember that someone else was there first, and was sick of her.
This will be useful to remember when you've screwed up for time no. 14 and you're pretty sure that you're about to be really yelled at badly.  You can be mad sometimes, and most of the time, it will still be OK. 

- Try to be humble.
This should be easy.  Women mostly love cats, who are tricky and kinda, you know, occasionally evil.  Men love dogs, who basically like steak and such.  If you to judge a person on the company that they keep, which pet is the most humble of the two?  Hint:  Egyptians used to worship cats. 

Dogs fetched stuff.

See what I mean?

- Pick your friends VERY carefully. People tend to get what they deserve.
My God, this is so important.  If you hang out with evil people, you'd be surprised at how quickly you start planning the demise of civilization as we know it, with you installed as the Ultimate Leader.

Good things rub off.  So do bad ones.

- Finally, when you start screwing up the rules above, FORGIVE yourself and move on.
You'd better do this and remember this rule, because you will screw up a lot.  Don't get too shocked and surprised when you do.  Being overly judgmental to yourself or others will definitely screw you up.

So there are a few things I'd go back in time and tell myself.

Back To Bringing The Goods

I took a pretty extended break from blogging for a little bit (my most significant break since, oh, 2004 or so) but after a vacation to SXSW, spending an increasing amount of time with my four-year old (that's about to go up too - more on that later) and trying to concentrate on work, I found the exact article to ease my way back into the writing gig when I saw this this little educational nugget about the public educational system, or lack of it.

WASHINGTON - Seventeen of the nation's 50 largest cities had high school graduation rates lower than 50 percent, with the lowest graduation rates reported in Detroit, Indianapolis and Cleveland, according to a report released Tuesday.

MSNBC gets the cite.

Let's see.  I live in Denver.  It's one of the most highly educated cities in the nation, I've heard somewhere.

Denver:  Denver County School District - 46.3 percent graduation rate.

43.6 percent graduation rate?

So I'm going to have to try to send my daughter to private schools for the rest of her days?

Public education.  My wallet.  I weep for them both.

Baby Needs A New Pair Of Shoes

Priorities. When it comes right down to it, I have only three of note: first is myself, then is my family, finally would be work and friends. Why does this single dad mention that?

This single dad mentions that because at the moment, the my inner space is a touch out of whack. If you were wondering why I haven't written as much lately, it's not because of writer's block; it's because item no. 3 from above has finally begun to intrude on my primary concerns. In short, I've been a very busy dad lately, meaning, yes, I'm working too much.

I would imagine that this is a common problem with parents generally, and possibly single dads - especially, ones that are highly motivated by the thoughts of their children' present and future - in particular. We must make money to pay for added responsibilities. Child support, alimony, clothes, health care… all of that costs money. Tack on other items like college planning, private schooling, and other optional items, and suddenly, it might never seem to be enough. So, if you're like me, then you must work, and work like a dog sometimes, to pay for it.

Lately, though, I have been noticing little warning signs: not writing as much as usual, not sleeping as well, appetite fairly suppressed, and I realized that work and life are out of balance. I started writing on this website because it was something that I enjoyed, and because I wanted to leave my daughter little reminders of how I was thinking when she was a baby. That's a me thing, and to shirk that in even the smallest thing means that am not looking out for myself. Hence, it's time to take a step back.

Goodbye, part time job. Oh, how so painfully well I knew ye. Guess I'll have to find some other way to drop a little extra in the college fund.

Come to think of it, I suppose that I just got my daughter a new pair of shoes last month, and they were pretty inexpensive.  I bet she'll make the rest of the year just fine.

Deadbeat Dads Drive Me Crazy

When you are a single parent, frustration is a constant companion, which is oddly enough why no single parent should be lonely for even a minute. Besides the usual complaints:

- your ex, and the mother/father to your children,

- money,

- the nagging feeling that you're doing something wrong as a parent

- money,

- seeing the job as a barrier to seeing your children,

- money,

- finding new companionship,

- the legal system,

- and money,

there are a host of other irritations. Some are much, much worse than others. I'm no exception to that particular mental state.

Lately, though, my biggest source of irritation is deadbeat dads - that is, those dads that have to pay child support for their children, sometimes with one woman, sometimes with several - and don't.

I realize that child support is expensive. I pay it myself. Apparently, though, a lot of fathers seem to believe that they DON'T have to pay it. The way that I see it, this just makes my job as a responsible father much, much harder.

Single mothers, when told that I am a single dad, look at me with guarded suspicion. The legal system looks at me sideways, because I could always just "leave" and leave my daughter high and dry… even if that's something I could never do. I am deemed to be possibly be not as good of a parent in part because of my testosterone level. The prejudice against fathers who want as much custody of their kids as possible is hard enough; add the stereotypical deadbeat dad into the emotional mix, and it creates an unfavorable position for me.

I'm a man working two jobs and a freelance position - none of which I necessarily do for my health. I participate in several community events and donate to several charities. My daughter has never been in any compromising position in my care, ever. I've never even just paid the minimum for child support for my daughter simply because I felt that I could afford a touch more - I give more when I can. I know child support is oppressive, Lord, do I know. I know that child support awards are unfair. I know that the system is bent against fathers. But so what? Work on changing the system if you like or if you can, but concentrate on helping the kids, first, because as dumb as the system might be, you still have your kids to worry about. Pay up, or negotiate.

In short, there's nothing that I can't stand more than a dad who can't, or won't, go out there and bust butt to make sure that their kids are being raised well when Dad isn't around.

Deadbeat dads of the world, get with the program, or get out of the middle of the road. You're slowing us down. And I promise, with my schedule, I definitely have someplace important to be.

One Of The Talks I Hope To Give My Daughter

…and I don't mean that one that you're probably thinking.

I devote a lot of time thinking about things that I'll tell my three year old daughter when she gets older, and lately, the topic that has crossed my mind quite a bit regards drugs. In our Paris, Lohan, Nicole, Britney crazed society, it probably doesn't take too much of a mental leap to figure out why.

But the key thing that has crossed my mind is this: most parents probably do not spend the brain power considering how to approach the subject of use and abuse of substances, controlled or otherwise, with their kids.

I don't want to be one of those parents, so after considering the question, I believe there might be a decent discussion out there on the subject. My proposal to answer the question "What would you say to your child about drugs?" is this:

"Honey, let me tell you something about drugs. I'm ashamed to say that I've ever taken them, but in the past I have. Really I have. But over time, I've come to some conclusions. Someday, someone that you think is attractive, perhaps someone that's rich, , or powerful, or that you admire, will offer you drugs. And you might be curious, and you might think that perhaps if you do what they do or offer, you'll be as attractive, rich, or powerful as they are."

"This is not the case. Those people that are rich or beautiful or whatever WILL NOT feel as good as you feel the next day after they have made the offer. You will be smarter than them for not following along with the crowd. You will not be panicked, you will not be depressed, you will not be ashamed, and they will be."

"I'm not saying that this will happen today, or even tomorrow, but eventually it will happen, and when it does, just try to remember what I'm saying right now, and don't do it."

I don't know if that is the smartest thing that I could say, and I have no idea if it would work, but I think those are very close to the words I'd utter.

And if that didn't work, I'd try again with something else.

In my humble opinion, that is what any Dad would do.

Freelance Blogging And Time

Freelancing.  What have I noticed?

 

- I'm tired a lot more, because I seem to work a lot more.  I don't sleep less but it seems that way.

- I think about blogging.  A LOT.  I used to think about it a lot before, now I think about writing when I get up and when I go to bed.  I find that interesting.

- Work blogging and random time blogging are a couple of different entities altogether.  It's one thing to think "I really need to do a post or I'll lose some readers."  It's completely different to think, "I really need to do a post, or I'm going to get lose this gig!"  These are totally different animals.  I've only been doing freelance for a few days and I can see that already.

- Time.  It seems that I never have enough.  And I like having time.

 

Therefore, I'm going to fall back on what I know.  One thing is organization, which I try my best to get better at daily.

The other thing is the Internet.

Ah, my old friend, the Internet.

 

And in my moment of need, the Internet comes through again in the form of a post by Lifehack.org: Freelance Blogging: Why You Should Schedule.

 

I can speak from personal experience, I work better with time constraints, and you probably do too. If I limit my working time to 4 hours, I'm betting I'll get all the work done. I'll find a way to.

If I don't make that distinction, my day is scattered and I'll find myself in front of the computer the whole day, doing the same amount of work.

It would seem that people write posts just for me.  Awash with power, suddenly I am.

 

Happy Birthday To Me

Yippie!

 

Actually, I'm typically very low key about birthdays.

But today is mine, and I'm definitely not low key.  Why?

 

I QUIT SMOKING.

 

All of the nicotine is out of my system.  The last cigarette that I had was Tuesday, and that was only one.  Therefore, it's all gone.  All that's left is beating the habit.

 

What method did I use?  Nothing.  Willpower.  Cold turkey.

 

Personally, I endorse this method, because lozenges, patches, shots, gum.... they all have nicotine.  That's the part that you have to break.  Ever wonder why cigarette companies are quick to endorse these quitting methods?  Well, I'm thinking that it's no coincidence.

 

So.

 

That was my birthday present to myself, and my daughter, this week.  I've tried to do it before, but for some reason, I think that this time it will stick.

 

I'll keep you updated.

Election Night In Denver

Oh my God.

 

I arrived at the voting center in Denver last night at 5:20pm.  The line to vote, by that time, had already stretched down the block, around the corner, and up the NEXT block.

 

I despaired.

 

People (I assume volunteers) were walking around the line, telling people that the line was very, very long (duh), but to NOT GET OUT OF LINE.  Everyone that was in line by 7:00pm would be able to vote.

 

I said to one of that there was no way in Hell I was getting out of line.

 

That was 5:30.

 

At about 5:45pm, people started walking around the line, handing out water, cookies, and donuts.  Bless those that brought the pizzas.  They kept us fed.

 

At about 6:15 or so, someone gave me a peanut butter sandwich.  I noticed, to my great shock, that this guy was making the sandwiches IN HIS HOUSE and bringing them out to voters.  Stunning.  Others were running down to the grocery store down the street to buy food to bring to us.  These people I cannot thank enough.

 

Voters were starting to mill about aimlessly.  People were angry.  Others were saying, quite vocally, "Stay in line!  Don't leave!"  It was, quite honestly, a remarkable show of unity on behalf of my neighborhood.  I was so proud, I almost cried.

 

However, at about 7, at the time that the polls were supposed to be closing, I started to lose hope.  One young woman in front of me was wearing heels.  She kept kneeling on the ground, trying to get some circulation back into her legs.  Her feet were starting to get tired.  She was losing steam, and I knew it.

 

She looked at me.

 

"Don't leave." I said.

 

"I won't.  I'm already invested." she remarked, with some thinly veiled frustration.

 

I left it at that.  We talked quite a bit more that night, but that really isn't pertinent to the story.

 

Right around that same time, a volunteer came around telling us that the Election Commission was giving out tickets at the end of the line, to make sure that they knew who the last person in line should be - who could be the last voter.

 

I remarked, "So.  Then, what you are saying, is that if anyone walks up to this line, and says that they want to vote, then I should close my eyes and kind of trip or something, and then open my eyes again, with them ahead of me."

 

"Yes." she said.

 

"Damn right I will."

 

At about 7:30, one man remarked to me that he thought this vote was rigged, anyway.  We were in the process of being disenfranchised, and we all knew it.  He said that this kind of line to vote for something was a violation of our civil rights, and that this bordered on criminal.

 

I know, I said, but nothing, even if someone called in a bomb threat, could get me out of this line.

 

At 8:00pm came my first thoughts of filing a class action lawsuit.

 

At about 8:20pm, in the middle of the Corona Presbyterian Church, I finally got my opportunity to vote.  I had already researched my votes.  I knew what I was voting for.  Voting took about five minutes.

 

I walked out of the voting booth, and an election official asked me if I wanted one of those "I Voted" stickers that they hand out every election.  Hell yes, I said, but I was too tired to snatch it from her with disdain like I had planned on, for many of those minutes in that insane, god-awful, 4000 person-plus line that was still three or so city blocks long.  At the back door, where I exited, a woman saw my sticker.

 

"Good for you!" she said.

"Yeah.  Good for me." I replied.

It was past 8:30pm.  I had voted.

 

But I had to fight like Hell to do it.

 

The system in Denver is broken.

 

That breaks democracy everywhere.

 

Tell your friends.  Tell your relatives.  Tell the world.  I know that I want the system fixed, and I'm going to do it - by complaining right here.  I live in the most population concentrated area of Colorado.  Yet, we had the LEAST amount of voting centers.  I don't want to say that it's a conspiracy.  But what else would you call it, really?

It's Halloween

Psst.

Want to hear a true story?

 

I was a teenager, living in the Denver suburbs with my parents and brother, many, many years ago.  We lived in a nice little place not far from where I now work.

 

One day, my mother was out doing something - no one can remember exactly what.  My dad, brother, and I were preparing to go out on a little excursion somewhere on a Saturday afternoon.  Nothing really remarkable was happening, unless you count the fact that all of us were together and it was a nice day.  It takes many years of seasoning to learn to appreciate how nice it is to have memories like that. 

 

But I digress.

 

Well, on this particular day, all of us men were preparing to leave the house - and being just a little silly, from what I can recall.  You know, just being guys.  I believe that I had pulled some dishes out of the dishwasher - they were not hot, as the dishes had been washed some time ago, and had put some away.  I specifically remember putting a clean glass on the counter relatively close to the sink.  But we were in a hurry.  My brother ran upstairs for some reason, while my dad went to the front door.  After a moment, I joined my dad at the front door, in the hallway, which was just adjacent to the kitchen, to wait for my brother to come down.

 

During the course of one's life, I believe that a person can look back on certain events, both large and small, and say without hesitation that sometimes very, very small things can have very, very important outcomes.  Sure, big decisions, like, for instance, where do I go to college, or should I take that job are big too.  But truly, sometimes the tiniest detail can have a stunningly important impact.  And in this case, the tiny little detail that probably changed my life in some fashion was that I had left the kitchen.

 

Why?

 

Because a few moments after I left the kitchen, everyone in the house heard an enormous BANG coming from the kitchen.  It was as if someone had been shot.  My father and I recoiled in shock.  My brother ran downstairs to see what had happened, and with some trepidation we all walked into the kitchen.

 

A glass, one that I had just touched, one that I had left on the counter just seconds before, had exploded.  Not cracked, exploded.  It was as if someone had put a tiny time bomb inside the glass.  The base was mostly intact.  However, the rest of the glass had disintegrated into a million tiny, sharp pieces of glass.  We found shards of glass behind the refrigerator, in the family room 20 feet away, all over the kitchen sink.  Glass was everywhere.  Many months later, I was still finding glass by the fireplace where my family watched television. 

 

What we did not find, however, was an explanation for what actually had happened. 

 

Nor have we ever.

 

The "Story of the Exploding Glass" is legendary in my family.  What I do know is that the glass was NOT hot, it was NOT cold in my house, I did not break the glass, and no one was in the room. 

 

But I do not know what made the glass explode, although we were all thankful that we weren't in the room when it happened.

 

This I do know, however.  There was some... feeling, that we had come shockingly close to witnessing something happen that was... unnatural.  Perhaps supernatural.  My brother, father and I still feel that to this day.

 

Was it someone or something trying to send a message?

 

Was it, like we have all whispered amongst ourselves for many years, a ghost?

 

Perhaps. 

Or perhaps not.

 

 

BOO!

 

Happy Halloween.

The Gift

Dear Mom:

 

This comes a bit late, because I spent most of my day with you yesterday.  However, I'm pretty confident that you'll read this soon.

 

I wanted to thank you for being such a great mom.  Sure, we've had disagreements.  I believe that every family does.  But the truth is that you are one of the best, most intellegent, most thoughtful, and best people that I know, period.  Without you, I wouldn't be... me.  I'd be someone else.  I'd probably be a lot darker, a lot more confused, and a little bit scarier. 

 

All of my friends think that you are one of the best people that they know. 

People like to hang out with my family largely because of you. 

 

I know that you're not perfect, and no one is, but I can definitely see the sacrifices that you made to make me who I am.  This was your gift to my brother and I, and we know it.  In fact, we know it more than we will ever tell you.

 

I love you, Mom, and will always appreciate you.  I can't say that enough.  You are my sister, my mother, my daughter's grandmother, and my friend, and I can't wait to see you again.

 

Thank you.  Happy Mother's Day.

 

I couldn't possibly be more sincere.

 

 

 

The First Communion

A story for you all.

 

Yesterday was Sunday.  Typically, Sundays are really not special.  You know, people go to church, people watch football, people goof around outside.  Some people sleep.  That's Sunday.

 

However, yesterday was special.  Why?  Because my ex-girlfriend's daughter had asked me to go to her first communion at her church, and I pledged that I would, in fact, go, for her sake.

 

I have no idea if any of you have been to a first communion.  I hadn't.  But it was very interesting.  The idea is that instead of deacons or whatnot, children (all about the same age) read the passages from the Bible.  Now, I must say, I am not a Biblical scholar by any stretch of the imagination.  However, I knew that these cute kids, all dressed up in their Sunday best, had little presentations that they had to give. 

 

Now, I had no idea where my ex's daughter was in this whole presentation, but I knew that she had to do something, because I had seen and heard her practice.  I knew she was kind of nervous.

 

Imagine my shock when right at the beginning of Mass, she was one of the first to read from the Bible!

 

Ok.  Here's something you should know.

 

When I first met my ex-girlfriend's daughter, she was not a good reader.  Diligently, as any father would, I would like to think, I worked with her.  Daily.  I bought educational videos.  I read phonics books to her, and lots and lots of Dr. Suess.  After a while, I could see her reading improving.  But not too long after that, her mother and I split up (after 2 plus years).

 

So, naturally I was shocked to see her up at the podium reading for the whole congregation.

 

I was so proud, I cried.

 

She will remember Sunday for the rest of her life, and I will too.  For the rest of my existence on this planet, I can look back on what she did on that podium, and be proud of myself, and of her.  Truly, I have accomplished something important.  Now I know exactly how my parents feel on certain days.

Beat Down

Ever took a really, really good beatin'?

 

From the police?

 

I have.  Here's the story.

 

Several years ago, I was working as a clerk in a law firm in Washington, D.C.  The Washington Redskins were going to the Super Bowl that year.

The city was excited.  Everyone was partying like it was... well, 1999 or something.  I know that you can forgive the Prince reference.

 

So, my roommates and I went to a friend's to attend a Super Bowl party in Georgetown.  All of my roomies and my roomies friends quickly went from completely sober, to mind-bendingly, stunningly, shockingly sloshed.  We were young, and the Redskins were winning.  But, as I recall, I was just as shockingly sober, as I didn't feel particularly well.

 

The game ended.  The 'Skins won.

 

On the streets of Washington, chaos ensued.

 

The world is full of tremendous parties.  I understand very few gatherings are like (former) New Orleans, or Rio, during Marti Gras.  I remember being in Mexico during Spring Break in 1989, and in some ways, I think that I *still* haven't recover from the massive throng of humanity.  And I know that everyone can think of other examples.

 

However, all that being said, those were NOTHING like the streets of Georgetown the day the the Washington Redskins won the Super Bowl.

 

The street were all roped off.  TV stations were on rooftops with cameras, which will be important later in the story.  There was almost a full-blown riot going on underneath this woman's ritzy Georgetown apartment.  So, naturally, she wanted to go down and join the revelry.

 

Of course, I volunteered to go down with her.  What can I say?  She was embarrassingly drunk, and completely attractive.  It was my duty.

 

Down we went.  It was an amazing sight, indeed, made even more amazing by the fact that we were in the thick of it.  The Washington D.C. police were out in force.  There weren't going to be cars on fire THIS year.  I had no problem with this.  Unfortunately, my female buddy wasn't so pleased with the showing of Washington's Finest, and said something to one of the officers.  This would be defined as Major Mistake No. 1, as she was almost immediately singled out and dragged over the rope partition in the middle of the street.

 

Major Mistake No. 2:  In response to the affront, I asked the officer for his badge number.  Three times.  Angrily.

 

You can guess the response.  Pulled over the rope partition, into the middle of the street, and the full-blown beating by at least two policemen commenced.

 

Time now for an important Public Service Announcement:  if you are being beaten in the middle of the streets by cops, BE SURE TO COVER YOUR HEAD.  I cannot stress how important this is.  I fought back, but I did cover my head as I laid there on the ground in the middle of M Street, being beaten to a pulp by two of the District's Finest (or Worst, as the case may be), and I strongly suspect this action saved me serious, serious injury.  As it was, though, was not good.  I was definitively and thoroughly beat up as I was dragged into a police car and accused of assaulting a police officer.  I told them, "Not only did you beat me in the street, and not only were there thousands of witnesses and TV cameras all over the place, but I work for a law firm.  I'm going to sue the hell out of you."

 

Several hours later, I was released. 

 

I went home, sat in the bathtub for an hour and plotted my revenge.

 

And the final response?

 

I went to my firm and made some inquiries.  They told me this, which I will never forget:

 

"You have no way of winning a case in this city, at this time, and if you try to file administrative actions with anyone against those cops, then the D.C. police department will harass you until the day you die.  Move out of the District and to Virginia or Maryland as soon as you possibly can."

 

So I moved.

 

But that has haunted me ever since.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Not Quite Fiction

I seem to have a lot a new readers lately.  Let me point you to a few of my more popular autobiographical stories.

 

The Commuter Affair

 

Free Couch

 

The Day That Changed Everything

 

One day, I will figure out how to put categories on my blog and you'll be able to gather specific types of posts from a click, and there will be much rejoicing.  Right now, Blogger doesn't support it.  Darn.

The Day That Changed Everything

No, I'm not talking about 9/11.

 

Think about this: if you distilled your life down to it's most basic parts, down to quite simple moments in time, could you come up with a single moment that your whole life changed?

 

I can.  It happened this way.

 

1991.  I was living in Phoenix.  It was very, very hot that year.  Not as hot as the previous year, but still HOT.  I recall that one day that I actually fried an egg on the sidewalk.

 

I was working as a sales associate for a major appliance rental center who I choose not to name.  Basically, what sales associate meant was "Repo Man".  It was NOT a fun job, by any stretch of the imagination.  However, it was close to my apartment, and it was my very first job out of college, so I figured that I would stick with it for a while.

 

So, on an extremely plain and regular Tuesday afternoon, I was driving the work truck to a location to go pick up a renter's VCR.  From what I recalled, this particular person hadn't made a payment on the VCR for three weeks.  Three weeks was like a magic number for my boss back then; three weeks late, either they pay or we would pick up our rental merchandise.  So off I went.

 

When I got to person's house, I knocked on the door.  Mr So and So, I said, I'm here to pick up the VCR.

 

The guy came to the door looking surly.  I knew that look and really wanted no part of it.  In my friendliest, but most professional voice, I asked him if he was aware that his payments on the VCR were three weeks late.

 

Yes, he replied, looking me directly in the eye.

 

I then explained that I'd have to pick up the VCR unless he intended to pay on it.  I was starting to feel a bit nervous, even though I had done this exact thing before.  I asked him where the VCR was at this time, because I need to pick it up.  "Ok," he responded, "I'll get it."

 

He left the room, and returned with VCR in hand. 

I thanked him, and told him to stop by the store if he wanted it back, then turned my back.  Then I heard an audible *click*.  Uh oh.

When I turned back around, there was a gun to my head.

 

Let me attempt to describe the feeling conveyed by being in a strange person's house looking at a gun.  First of all, you are quite aware that the encounter can go, uh, poorly.  My life most certainly did NOT flash before my eyes, which is a feeling that I now find a touch strange.  The experience actually was quite similar to the feeling one gets when they have veered off a two lane highway, heading straight for a semi-dense forest, then finding yourself doing a 720 across the highway doing 65 mph in the middle of the night during a full moon in the middle of Central Texas, nowhere close to a populated town that possibly could send someone to save your butt before the car explodes. 

We're talking pee-scared here.

 

But, since I'm talking to you now, I can tell you this: I talked this gentleman out of shooting me.  And he gave me $50 to pay for his back rent.

 

This encounter, however, gave me the courage to:

1.  Get back into my truck and drive to my place of employment.

2.  Drop off the $50, my store keys, and resign.

3.  Go home, call my landlord and break my lease.

4.  Call a friend in Washington D.C., tell her that I would be there in two weeks, and that I hoped that she had room.

 

That was the day that changed everything.  I left Phoenix and was in Washington by September.

Regrets

Sigh.  Well, last night was certainly not one of greatest sleeping nights ever.  Why?  Regrets.  So, time to make a list.  These are the biggies:

 

My greatest regrets?

1.  Ever starting smoking.  Good Lord, what a mistake.  I hope that I can quit before I have a heart attack.

2.  Not attending Cornell University when I had the chance.

3.  Law school.  30k completely and totally wasted.

 

Interestingly, I don't regret the way that the whole ex thing turned out.  She taught me a lot, actually.  I would have preferred that it worked, but some things are not to be, I suppose.  Being the parent of a half-time child is quite easily one of the most difficult things that I've ever done.  I caught myself calling the ex this morning to tell her that the baby got me up at like 5 in the morning this morning, and almost immediately I wished that I hadn't called.  But I was tired and grumpy and wanted to complain to someone.  She seemed available.

 

I suppose the thing to say here is this:  try your best to live your life with as few regrets as possible, because one day, week, month, or year, you won't be able to sleep, and regrets will be the reason.

 

 

Free Couch

Yesterday, my friend ringloss over at jaXed asked me a question that had an immediate impact that makes me want to tell you a little story.  It was:

"Hey... do you want two free couches?"

Now, I haven't accepted yet, and I might not.  But as I told him, I have a soft spot in my heart for a free couch.  Here is why.

 

Many years ago, I was still a relatively young buck just making his way in Capitol Hill.  That's Denver, not DC.  Honestly, I was a little dejected.  I was living in a studio apartment at the time, and quite recently, my brother had moved into my studio and I had returned from my very first vision quest in Arizona (and a successful vision quest it was, too, as I actually and honestly saved my first life.  But that's a story for another time).

But, anyway, I was working in what was honestly a dead-end job for a company that I truly detested.  I was poor.  I was taking buses everywhere I went, and I was...blah.  It sucked.  So, I was arriving home from work, and I was thinking about how my poor brother was, at that time, sleeping on this completely uncomfortable couch that I had in my lil' hovel.  Let's say that I was just not happy.  Then, as I walked through the alley to the studio apartment that I STILL couldn't afford, I saw something. 

It was a couch.  Just sitting there, outside the back entrance to my apartment building.  The couch looked... well, it looked clean.  I saw no rips, or tears on my preliminary inspection.  No place to hide drugs, no cat hairs, no anything.  It was just a decent looking couch.  And it had a sign on it.  The sign said:

FREE COUCH.

That was it.  Just like that.

I went upstairs and walked in the door and said.  "Hm.  Hey, (insert bro's name here), there's a couch out back with sign on it that says, 'FREE COUCH'."

"FREE COUCH?" he replied.  "Let's go look at it."

So we went.  It was a fine couch.  We took it and moved it into my apartment.

As it turns out, that one couch was the most comfortable couch in my home.  Great for the sleepin'.  And that couch followed us for three different apartments.  No matter where we went, and who we lived with, that was always the MOST comfortable couch in the house.  It saw me through two girlfriends and a sordid affair.  I won't even discuss the dates and others who sat, laid down, or slept on that couch.  I came to love the couch.

After having the couch for damn near six years, I had to move from another apartment, and I couldn't take the couch.

I was heartbroken.

When my friend and I were taking the couch out back of my basement apartment, he asked,"Hey, just want to throw this in the dumpster?"

No, I said.  I went back into my apartment and grabbed a Sharpie and a piece of notebook paper.  On that notebook paper, I wrote:

FREE COUCH.

Gently I taped that paper to my favorite couch, and we gingerly sat that couch next to the apartment building.  Then we left for an hour, because I was beside myself.

When we returned, the couch was gone.

I had paid it back, and that made me happier than I could have believed possible, at least, for that moment.  Not paid it forward, as I doubt that giving away a couch qualified as something big and important enough.  I suppose it was possible.

So, needless to say, I am soft, very soft, on the Free Couch. 

Thank you, Humanity, at least for another week.

 

 

 

 

 

The Commuter Affair

Everyone has youthful dalliances.

Two lifetimes ago or so, I lived in Washington, D.C., and I met this young woman at the law office where I worked.  She was quite the pretty thing, and me, having come off of one of the more ridiculous relationships of my life, was ripe for the rebound.  She was a legal assistant, and, as it turned out, she rode the same exact same Metro line that I did for a short distance every evening.  We became friends, I think, because I was relentless in my pursuit.  Only after a friendly happy hour did I discover that she was already engaged to someone else.  I had already lost.  

Somehow, though, along the way, I decided that I would give myself thirty days to change her mind, then I would move across the country and start my life over again from scratch.  I have no idea how I did this, but somehow I talked her into what I thought would be a tiny, tiny affair; I had thirty days to change her mind about her live-in boyfriend.  Tiny, because we could never really, truly be together, we figured.  I could never go to her house, she probably could never visit mine.  

Thus, a Commuter Affair.

Others of you our there have perhaps had these, and perhaps not.  But we would sit together on the Metro, speaking in hushed tones, laughing at one another's jokes, acting largely like a couple, missing our stops, looking longingly at luxury hotels along the way, and riding to the legendary End-Of-The-Line.  Then we'd double back, separate, and agree to meet, again, at the same place at the same time tomorrow.

But everything was sped up; after two weeks, the affair was taking other turns.  Quickly, things were getting more serious.  We had begun getting off and walking into those pricey hotels, not quite having the gumption to buy a room.  She had begun lying at home, saying that she had to work weekend, and instead we would sneak into Pentagon City or downtown and spend time together.  The Commuter Affair had gone Mainstream.

On 29th day, she came to my home for wine and dinner.  I was out of time, but her mind was not made up.  I was inconsolable.  I begged her to change her mind.

She left anyway.

The next day, I left Washington and haven't returned, unless you count a quick and miserable stop in Dulles Airport.  Later, I heard a rumor that she was at the bus stop just shortly after I left, but for me now that sounds too much like a Nora Ephron film.  Not that I dislike her stuff.

Personally, I don't count the layover at Dulles as a real visit back to The District, the location of my one, my only, Commuter Affair.  Why should I?

Dulles has no Metro Stop.