The Greatest Lies Ever Told

Every Reason #8 Available Now!

2012-01-13T05:42:00.000-08:00

Get it HERE!

Every Reason #6

2011-06-17T08:35:00.000-07:00

Is now available!

http://www.etsy.com/listing/76159292/every-reason-number-6?ref=pr_shop

Every Reason #5

2011-03-23T07:30:00.000-07:00

A new issue of my zine "Every Reason" is now available on Etsy for a mere $2 postage paid.

Here's a link:
http://www.etsy.com/listing/70369365/every-reason-zine-number-5?ref=pr_shop

smoke if you got ‘em

2011-02-26T10:20:00.000-08:00

while corporate bullies
shake hands with cruel
children in designer suits
I type poems that drink
beer with me and listen
to punk rock at night

while new enemies are
designed, punished by poverty
I type poems that throw
rocks at tanks and burn
cities to the ground

while our sadness is rendered
despicable and the world becomes
a turd we can’t flush
this poem lights a smoke
choosing the rules it will obey
as some poor bastard
finds it in his heart to
pray for me

The Blessing/Moon Project auction for TKAB Foundation

2011-02-20T06:24:00.001-08:00

The Blessing currently has an charity aution happening to benefit The Keep A Breast Foundation. If got a few bucks, bid. If you don't, spread the word. I want this to be a success! Thanks!

Here's the link:

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=190503816614&ssPageName=STRK:MESELX:IT

Every Reason #4

2011-02-08T07:34:00.001-08:00

is now available. Two Dollars.

http://www.etsy.com/listing/67458019/every-reason-number-4

Sinner

2011-01-28T11:58:00.001-08:00

I have always been
fond of those
my father commanded
me to avoid

those who drink heavily
and fuck freely
who defile tradition and
never go to church

my father bitches
about the perverse,
and the unholy
and he declares
there is too much
sin in this world

but the world has been made
ugly by its normalcy
and there is no beauty,
no life at all, in the people
we are wished to be

because society demands
well behaved, obedient,
foolish servants
and nothing good
comes from that

so I will keep
on sinning.

The Future of Children

2011-01-14T13:21:00.000-08:00

while I sit at work all day
performing tasks both mundane and absurd
my daughter is at school or at home
or in the car or in a restaurant
and she is drawing or painting, singing or dancing
she is building or sculpting
inventing characters and places
designing costumes and sets
she is a doctor, a princess, a unicorn, a frog
and there is passion and purpose and laughter
in everything she does
while I sit at work all day
with the mundane and absurd
and the wad of what’s left of the world
after it has been decided we will not
be artists anymore
　

Every Reason #3

2010-12-01T06:28:00.001-08:00

My literary 'zine, Every Reason, has made it to issue #3. It's pretty damn good and super cheap!

You can get one here for $2 ppd. in the U.S. :
http://www.etsy.com/listing/62938264/every-reason-zine-number-3

Get it while it's still available!

Cruel Motherfuckers

2010-11-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

It was his wife’s mother
who fell to the floor
of the steak house that night
with heaven in her eyes

It was the first time
he had seen a person die this way
as painful pleas were selfishly ignored
by those seated around them

It was obscene to see others
continue to eat and talk and
do nothing at all
as a woman lay there neglected
dying right in front of them

It was a vulgar display of apathy
and it was the undisputed truth
that some people just won’t give a fuck
when your heart explodes

Sunday Morning

2010-10-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

my head suffers
from last night’s vice
as a selfish, arrogant sun
smashes my window
unwelcomed

desire and tradition
deliver my sins
to a beer can kitchen where

pouring coffee
seems dramatic and
ridiculous as I
prepare to hustle away
another morning of my life

trampling the purpose
of yet another champion
hangover

Buy this book

2010-10-22T06:42:00.000-07:00

Me and my friends are in it. It's better than the bible or the Watchtower.

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/sanctuary/13220478

Punk Show

2010-10-20T06:46:00.000-07:00

Punk Show

“One, Two, Fuck You!”

the music starts.

energy is released.

I smile.

I look over at my daughter,

her eyes are large

behind her dyed Black bangs

as her mind processes

what her eyes have

seen.

we move to the front,

where the sound is deafening,

and the transition is made

from spectator

to participant.

“This kicks ass!” my daughter shouts.

we both smile.

sweat is flung from

thrashing bodies as

lyrics are screamed

through a strained PA

this is honesty

slapping the face

of a greed driven world

we all grew so tired of

long ago.

the first band finishes

their set

and another band

sets up in

their place.

and my daughter and I

stand together

looking at all the beautiful creatures

the rest of society

has rejected.

“These are my people,”

I tell her,

“I feel comfortable here.”

“I do too,” she confesses.

“One, Two, Fuck You!”

this will continue

all night

long.

we look at each other

and smile.

The Longest Poem Ever Written About A Sinus Infection

2010-10-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

my whole body hurt
in a way I
didn’t think was
possible

it must have been
100 degrees that day
as I gasped for air
in a hot car
moving slowly to what
I hoped would be
some sort of end

I felt like I might
die
and there were moments
when I really wanted
to
as traffic locked me
into position

I couldn’t believe
how much I
hated
every car and
every person
ever made

and all I needed
was a place to breath
to sleep
to live a day when
the sun could be
a little kinder

and I continued moving
slowly
toward what
I hoped would be
some sort of
end

and in what seemed
like a million
hours
I was under
cool sheets
restlessly sleeping away
pain and delirium
and another day
I never wished
to relive

but sleep was
only a dirty trick

and I awoke to the sound
of a child that
was not my own

he was playing outside
and screaming a
stupid child scream
and my head exploded
I couldn’t believe
how much I
hated
every cell that
had divided to
make him

I got out of bed
and slowly walked
to the kitchen
for a glass
of water

my body still throbbed
it hurt to breath
to walk
to think
but I had
to do all
three

I drank the water
but remained
thirsty

and all I really wanted
was a sound
proof room
or something else
as equally
intangible

I again felt
as though
I might stop
living

and then
there were those
moments
where I thought
I had probably already
died

and my head
exploded
and I could not
believe
how much I hated
every second that
passed

but I continued moving
slowly
toward what
I hoped would be
some sort of
end

SLAVES

2010-10-20T06:21:00.001-07:00

we work such shitty jobs
so we can afford to get sick
and buy advertised drugs

some of us have never been broke
or broken a bone or been to
a punk rock show or out
of the town we were born in

we stay in loveless marriages
because we are too afraid
to leave or part with
our grand materialism

some of us have never had an orgasm
or had our hearts broken because

we hide ourselves from others
for fear of misunderstanding,
rejection or violence and

some of us lack empathy because
we still don’t know
who we are

we follow religious and political doctrines
because we are afraid to think for
or believe in ourselves and

some of us live in very tiny
obscenely safe worlds
fat with what we think will make us whole
where we sit very comfortably
in over sized chairs and

we call out, so that others might hear
and declare quite loudly
that we have been made
free.

Understanding One

2010-10-15T13:59:00.000-07:00

One drink
can quickly drag a man
down those 12 steps
it took so long
to crawl up

But one despicable love
can infect a man
with a furious sadness
so powerful
so consuming
he becomes alive
with a profound
incurable nothing

One job
can torture
and demolish a man
rendering him primal
like the shit eating grin
of a supervised war

And one reason
once discovered
is all we need
to explain
the mess we’ve made
of our lives

Because one chance is all
we are afforded
trusting nothing
was wasted
making god a clown

Every Reason #2

2010-09-28T06:13:00.000-07:00

Issue #2 of my 'zine is out now!

Get yours here:http://www.etsy.com/listing/57314017/every-reason-zine-number-2

Watch the making of it here:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ftCtaYQVmY

Part 2 is here:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQZNj9oLoAs&feature=related

There Are Better Ways To Die

2010-08-03T12:47:00.001-07:00

I told her, “I am so sick of working. I’m sick from it. I really just don’t want to do it anymore…”

“I know…,” she said.

“I just get so sick of thinking about this fucking house, and those fucking cars, and all this other bullshit. I don’t regret marrying you…or the girls, but if I were single again….I would work a part time or minimum wage job only when absolutely necessary and just travel. I wouldn’t own anything….not a house or a car or a fucking bank account. I just want a simple life….”

“……..”

“I never wanted shit to be like this,” I said. “At the end of the day, I ask myself why I’m killing myself like this, what’s it all for…?”

“For the girls….”

“I know, but I just hate the way I have to do it. Sometimes it seems it’s all for nothing….like I’m working for a past due mortgage on a house that’s falling apart. I just hate living this way…..all I do is work….I’m just so sick of it. It’s fucking depressing…”

“I know…”

“I hate being stressed out all the time. My mind is shot. I can never relax, you know? I just don’t want to do it anymore….”

I had to be up early the next morning, like every morning of every day I have lived for so long. I kissed her good night, told her I loved her, and went to sleep.

I woke up with that sick feeling I’ve become more and more familiar with, but still not used to. It’s a nausea and disgust brought on by exhaustion and stress. I prepared myself for the long day ahead as best I could. I poured a cup of coffee and considered calling in sick, but something in me prevented that from happening.

So I joined the rest of the herd on the highway that morning as we all made our way to our respective jobs. And I wished I could just keep driving out of this town, out of this world, out of this life. Because I knew I was about to be ripped to shreds.

Not Without You

2010-07-23T07:55:00.001-07:00

Here’s to all the single moms
that ride the bus everyday,
to their minimum wage jobs
with sad lives not worth living
who sacrifice themselves for
the sake of their children.

And here’s to the kids who can’t fit in,
who always get their ass beat
trying to find a way out
or just a place to belong.

Here’s to the murderous cat
playing with a ball of string.

And here’s to the man who lives on the street
with nothing in the world
but his dignity.

Here’s to all of those poets,
artists, punkers, thinkers and lovers
who give it all away for free.

And here’s to everyone
who has ever been told
they will never survive this way
and lived to extend a
middle finger.

Here’s to everyone
so consumed by life,
they want
to die.

I would not want
to live in this world
without you.

The Official "Every Reason" Press Release

2010-07-21T13:03:00.000-07:00

I started a ‘zine. It’s called “Every Reason”. It contains things I have written. I’m not a good enough writer to be published and I’m too cheap to publish anything myself, so think of this as my attempt at guiltless self promotion. If you like shitty poetry and stories about pissing on people, dying grandmothers, and work sickness, then this ‘zine is for you!

This is my 1st attempt at anything like this so some of the images got washed out and some of ‘zines are stapled badly. If you count the front and back cover, there are a total of 12 pages. Some of you have probably read everything this ‘zine contains and some of you probably didn’t even know I played around with words, but I felt the least I could do was to issue this official press release.

Because I’m not a capitalist pig, I will be making approx. 60 cents per issue sold. This money will be put into the making of “Every Reason #2”. It basically just covers the expense of paper, materials, and the time and effort involved in putting it all together. I figured I would keep making these ‘zines until I get one right. So yeah, the next issue will be better. Much better. It can’t get any worse. I know a bit more about it now.

If you are a resident of the Greater Chattanooga Area, you can find my ‘zine at the Leo Gallery on Frasier Ave. for a mere $1. I suggest buying from Leo because they’re really good people and they do cool stuff.

Here’s a link to Leo:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Chattanooga-TN/Leo-Handmade-Gallery/75669084053

If you live elsewhere, you can find my ‘zine at Etsy for a mere $2. This price includes shipping.

Here’s a link to Etsy:

http://www.etsy.com/listing/51990532/every-reason-number-1

If you don’t already have an Etsy account, you’ll have to spend a couple of minutes signing up, but it will be worth it. There are plenty of great home made items there that are much better than my shitty ‘zine.

Because the 1st issue is so small, you can read the whole thing in one sitting. I suggest taking it into the bathroom with you. You can read it while you do your business, and if after reading it you decide it’s the worst thing in the world, you can use it as toilet paper.

Okay, so there you have it. Your support is appreciated but certainly not demanded.

Peace,
Keith

We Get What We Deserve

2010-05-29T07:10:00.001-07:00

blind believers
salt my wounds with
forced tears of mercy

and they tell me
there’s a man above and
a beast below and
I am stuck somewhere
in between

these believers with their
fear drenched faith
warn me of an end
yet unseen

and I must choose
a place for my
soul bruised black
because tomorrow is
too late

and I tell them I’ve
gambled god’s grace
and I drank whiskey
with the devil
in my living room

and I have chosen
to believe in
Myself

and just like the
bird in the sky
and the worm in
the ground
we all have our
place

and none of us
deserve anything
better
than death

Master Bathroom

2010-05-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

I have brushed my teeth bloody
and I spit infection from my sinuses
into the sink, because
sleep didn’t heal me and
no remedy is offered for things
so incurable and stubborn and

the bathroom mirror reflects
an image of a young man worn
senseless by years of struggle
and mistake and I am reminded
of why there is always a noose
and bucket, a bridge high enough
to soar from, a gun loaded in
the drawer with one final bullet
just in case

my swollen eyes forced to close
from the weight of a heavy
life viewed in one continuous loop
so many times, so contagious, I am sick
with the sight of it and I beg god
for a sleep that lasts forever
because I am tired and
I am empty and

I am beginning to understand
why people murder their lovers
and burn their houses
to the ground and why the cockroach
will never die

(T)he problem with people

2010-05-11T15:37:00.001-07:00

there is something wrong with people
that I can not put my finger on
the way they treat each other and
the way they choose to live their lives

throughout history we have seen
tanks and bombs and soldiers and war
terror and turmoil brought on by
the greed and lust of evil men
tearing apart their victims as
they ask, “what’s wrong with these people?”

there is a voice in their head and
there is a ghost in their heart
threading imaginary string
through an invisible needle
trying to find a purpose for
these lives we keep quilting, and I
think there’s something wrong with them all

there is a man on the street who
tries to find something to eat as
thousands are spent at the malls and
there is no reason for this to
take place at all when we have the
talent and the resources to
tell them, “what you’re doing is wrong.”

trouble comes from finding some truth
through things we do not understand
transcending the abstract to make
terrible realities of
the value we place on ourselves

there is something wrong with people
that I have yet to discover
this thing might never be found, and
there might never be an answer
to the question, “could I be wrong?”

all for one

2010-04-30T13:02:00.000-07:00

I spend approximately
one hour each day
driving my car
to and from
my job

and for one hour
each day
I am truly alone

with all those remaining
hours that frame a day
laid to waste for the desire
of others

and the others are always
fighting for and devouring
the scraps of the day
I am unable to claim
as my own

all those hours not mine
simple sand poured through glass
given away for free
to no one and everyone
but me

I suffocate from this and
I feel claustrophobic and
I need that precious hour
to breath, to think, to get back
to that thing that makes
me whole and makes
us all feel human

but if time could be
bought and sold
bottled and stolen
I would still go on
wanting

because that goddamn drive
will never be long
enough

This Guy

2010-04-25T17:01:00.001-07:00

I knew this guy once
who would shoot bottle rockets
out of his car window
and he would drive
on the wrong side of
the road

he would work all day
and drink all night
screaming at his reflection
in the bathroom mirror

he gave his heart
to women who didn’t have one
and received no love,
no mercy, no trophy,
no remorse

he would dive head first
into mosh pits
only to return
bloody, torn, puking
and smiling

he drove his Volkswagen van
across the country
just so he could
pedal his bicycle
back home

he would beat up his cousin
for buying crack
so he could tell him
he loved him

he would spend all of his money
buying me beer
so he could tell me
about his life
and his sorrow
and he would not allow
me to hate him

he was all I have
never been
capable of being

and I never once
thought him to be
crazy.

Christian

2010-04-19T05:35:00.000-07:00

The problem with heroes is, what we perceive them to be is rarely consistent with what they actually are. We all fool ourselves into believing there is that amazing something that some possess, but others do not. But what we often fail to realize is, unless you are a sociopath or have a mental illness that compels you to murder innocent people, we all posses something amazing. The guy who sleeps on a park bench really isn’t very different than the guy who sleeps in a 3 million dollar home, but our perceptions deceive us, and we imagine a great difference that really just does not exist.

I got my first skateboard when I was 13 years old and it changed my life forever. Because of skateboarding, I became aware of graphic design, fashion, writing, music, and everything that art provides. This was the spring of 1987, and if you rode a skateboard in 1987, you were well aware of a man named Christian Hosoi.

Christian Hosoi was a pro skateboarder in the 80’s and early 90’s and he had an enormous persona to match anything he ever accomplished on a skateboard. I had a poster of him in my room doing a signature trick he invented called the “Christ Air”. I stared at that poster everyday, trying to figure out how it was even possible to achieve such a feat without dying. Christian became my hero. I wanted to fly around in the air like he did. But I couldn’t, and to this day, I never have. But he made me want to ride a skateboard every day of my life. And no one has ever inspired me in such a way since.

The problem with heroes is, when we start to elevate them to a level that is above the average human being, they start to believe that they really are above the average human being. They become something they aren’t. They become what we tell them they are. And then they begin living a life that isn’t genuine. And they start to believe all the bullshit we tell them, and then they start believing their own bullshit.

I wanted to be Christian Hosoi from age 13 to age 16. I didn’t want to emulate him, I didn’t want to dress like him, act like him, or skate like him, I wanted to BE him. But I couldn’t. I had to be me. During those years of my life, I didn’t like being me, because I was still trying to figure out who I was, and it took me all of my teen-hood and most of my adult life to figure that out. I was the complete opposite of my hero. He had it all and I had nothing. He could do no wrong, not in my eyes, and all I could do was try.

The problem with heroes is that sometimes heroes fall. And when they do, they fall hard. The pedestal we place them on gets pretty high sometimes, and Christian needed a parachute to fall from the one he was on, but he didn’t have one, and he fell flat on his face. He thought he would be on top forever, because everyone told him he would be, and he had absolutely no reason to believe otherwise. But his life changed, because skateboarding changed. And by the mid to late 90’s, his career was in the toilet and he was addicted to methamphetamine. In January of 2000, he was arrested for attempting to transport about a pound and a half of crystalmeth from Los Angeles to Honolulu. He was charged with trafficking with the intent to distribute and was sentenced to 10 years in jail, but only served 4.

I found out about all of this one day while flipping through Thrasher Magazine. I couldn’t believe it. Although he had pretty much gone underground and hadn’t had any coverage in years, I was still naïve enough to believe he was just taking a break, or injured, or something. And although I had given up heroes long ago, I was still saddened by his collapse. I followed his story as much as I could in the years that followed. I wanted my childhood hero to rise again. And he did.

While in prison, he found god and decided he would follow Christianity for the duration of his life. He started over and went back to being who he IS and not who we told him he WAS or who he thought we wanted him to BE. And that is a person I like.

The problem with heroes is they have a tendency to stay with you throughout your life.

Last Saturday, I actually had the pleasure of meeting my childhood hero. He was making an appearance at a skate park about an hour from my home. A close friend of mine was attending, and invited me to join him. I looked forward to this event all week.

Saturday came, and my friend and I found Christian in the pro shop of the skate park. He was signing autographs, boards, and t-shirts for kids young enough to be my own. Some of these kids were born while Christian was still in jail. Christian is a legend, and that‘s all they knew of him. And that’s all they really needed to know. And I knew it really didn’t matter as long as he might possibly inspire them the way he had me. I feel I still owe Christian a lot, and this is a debt I can never repay, so I can only pay this forward. If a kid needs a skateboard or just simply wants one, and I have some old decks lying around, I always offer them. And they always accept. And they always walk away happy. And this makes me happy too.

My friend had met Christian previously at a bowl contest somewhere and had apparently had a lengthy conversation with him that day. This day was no different, and as they reminisced, I patiently awaited my chance to speak.

The problem with heroes is, once they fall from their perch, they are just amazing people again with something to offer the rest of us. Sometimes they are just genuine people with courage, fear, addiction, style, wisdom, history, meaning and relevance. We all want to be heroes to some degree, because we want to be loved, and respected, and remembered for something others consider amazing. And when there is no pedestal, we are all on the same platform. We are human again, and we are allowed to make love, and sacrifices, and mistakes, and beauty without consequence.

Moments later, I introduced myself and Christian offered me his name as if I didn’t already know it. We shook hands and I asked him if I could get a photo with him. He said yes, as if I were asking him if he breathed air. I asked my friend to snap a photo with my phone’s camera. He did, but he didn’t save the photo. I asked Christian once more if I could get a photo with him, and of course he said yes. This time my friend saved it, but didn’t preview the image before doing so. I took my phone from my friend’s hand and viewed the photo he had taken. It was blurry. But I couldn’t ask Christian for another photo, and I couldn’t be upset with my friend for trying. They both did the best they could. And that’s all I could ask for.

I shook Christian’s hand again and said thanks. And he said, “god bless. “ I told him skateboarding needed him, but he knows that, and he knows he needs skateboarding too. We all do.

The problem with heroes is, there will come a time in our lives when we no longer need them.

After meeting Christian Hosoi last Saturday, my friend and I rode our skateboards together just like we have for the past 23 years of our lives. And it no longer mattered that Christian Hosoi rides a skateboard now, because Christian Hosoi rode a skateboard when it mattered most. And that’s why we were skating that day. And that’s why he will always matter.

And that’s why I am writing this now.

Won't Die When Tomorrow Comes

2010-04-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

It has been almost 4 years now since we began our descent into poverty. Yeah, this has been happening a lot lately, this poverty thing. This boat that we have been in, paddling down shit creek, is now millions strong. And it’s too full. And it’s going to sink. And we need to learn to swim, or build our own boat. Or maybe something else.

And I can’t believe we’ve made it this far, really.

We should be homeless by now, and although that dark day could come soon, we still aren’t. And this fact amazes me. Over the past 9 months or so, we have taken advantage of every social/human (socialist/commie) service we can contact, and there are a lot of them, and they do a lot of great things for a lot of people. And that includes me.

When the temperature outside was a consistent “freeze your balls off”, our power bill rose to almost $400. My home is all electric and our HVAC took a bit of a shit, and it landed right on us. The unit ran on AUX heat only, and my home was a consistent “I’m wearing 3 shirts, a jacket, and a beanie. And I’m still cold.” temperature of 66 degrees F when it was snowing outside. We took our power bill to an agency downtown and they paid it for us.

We told this same agency that our house sucks because we can’t afford to repair it. It’s slowly falling apart. It has been for almost 4 years. This agency told us we were approved for yet another government program. They will send someone to our house, asses what’s wrong with it, and take the necessary steps to make all those wrong things right.

Social Services of Chattanooga, with the “permission” of our mortgage company, will pay $600 of our past due mortgage to help us stay one step further away from foreclosure.

Chattanooga Neighborhood Enterprise is a non-profit organization mediating between us and our mortgage company. And they are fighting for us in a way that we can’t fight for ourselves.

My daughter, Madigan attends a “head start” preschool. My daughter, Loxley was just accepted into a performing and visual arts magnet (public) school.

We have used W.I.C. for the past 3 years.

Our parents have stepped up and bailed us out many times. And we can never repay them. And we can never be grateful enough.

The economy, the housing crisis, the job market, the never ending (despicable, torturous, unjustifiable, completely fucked up) lawsuit that will change our lives forever, the car repairs, the overwhelming medical and pharmaceutical bills for my daughter, my wife, and myself have really taken it’s toll on us.

I am of the working poor. And all the kindness of friends and family, and government and non-profit programs in the world can’t keep me afloat in this overcrowded boat forever. But I’m very glad they are here for me. Because no one else is. They can patch a few leaks, but eventually a new boat will have to be built. And I’ll have to build it. And it better be a damn good one. Because I don’t want to sink. But if I do, I will feel no shame. Because I will know that I did the best I could with what I had. And my family will love me still. And I will love them too. Because we are all a part of this together. And we are tough as fuck.

And we won’t die tomorrow.

Just so you know....

2010-03-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

..............my awesome beard, The Blessing, has a fan page on Facebook (look to the right) and it now has it's own merchandise. Click Here. These products make great additions to any Easter Basket (not really).

Have a blessed day,

Keith

One Good Thing That Happened This Week Was........

2010-02-27T14:40:00.000-08:00

...........I Got To Have Some Beers With My Friend, Tricia.

She is Adorable And She Gave Me Some Much Needed Smiles And Laughs.

She Is Just What I Needed.

Ritual

2010-02-09T09:14:00.000-08:00

I remove another beer
from the refrigerator
as a cold, flickering
light bulb
reminds me
I have done this
all too often
and I am
burning
it out.

The mouth is
cracked,
and the contents
poured
over retained memories
and unborn thoughts,
removing the pulse
from all things
real and abstract.

I have reverently observed
this sacred ritual
on so many nights
that have abandoned
so many
relentless days
and it is here
that peace is found
and solitude embraced.

I am unmoved,
unused,
and free.

And as life outside
struggles
to simply maintain
after all the tragedies
both immense and tiny,
and another beer is opened,
I will remain
just as I am:
uncaring.

Jesus Fish

2010-02-07T15:23:00.000-08:00

I had a fish once
who played
dead
until the day he
died.

He would float
upside down
at the top
of his bowl,
motionless,
fooling everyone
into believing
his breathing had
stopped.

My friends would visit
and witness this spectacle.

They would inform me
of my fish’s passing
and I would fill them in
on his well rehearsed joke.

He could do this
in such a convincing manner,
that there were even times
I almost believed it
myself.

There have been instances
in my own life
where I
could have been
or
should have been
dead,
but I was only playing
with a fragile toughness.
An inside joke
no one was allowed
in on.

I wasn’t as clever
as my fish though.
He could die
and come back
to life
on a daily
basis.

My fish had talent
and he was sure
to be remembered
and revered
on the day
of his death.

And then one day
my fish did
indeed die
and I didn’t believe it.

I found him
floating upside down
in his bowl,
motionless,
and his breathing
had stopped.

He had fooled me
one last time
and for once
the joke
wasn’t
funny.

Not quite as Disgusting as GG, but as close as I'll ever come.

2010-01-12T05:01:00.000-08:00

It’s tough being a kid. It’s especially tough being a small, scrawny kid in a small world of big kids. That was my reality as a child, being a weird little scrawny kid. Children bore easily, they need constant stimulation or else they might just lose interest and go find some trouble to get into. Boys do this a lot. Get bored and then in trouble, that is. When I was coming up, we didn’t have video games and computers to keep us inside all day long, we had to go outside to find our stimulation and our fair share of trouble. Although I never got into any real trouble as a kid, I got bored a lot and found as much trouble as I wanted. And I didn’t have to look too far for this trouble either, I had an older brother.

My brother is 21 months older than me, and when I was a kid, I really looked up to him. I wanted to be just like him, and when I was a toddler I bugged the shit out of this kid by following him around everywhere he went. He could always look over his shoulder to find me staring up at him in admiration. Hell, I even followed him to the bathroom to watch him take a piss. My mom credits my older brother with potty-training me. I don’t know if he really did or didn’t, because I was only 3 years old and I have no memory of such things, but I’m sure my mom would never lie to me about something like that, so I will accept her testimony.

When I was about 9 or 10 years old, I used to hang out with a kid that lived down the street from me named Jonathan. I thought Jonathan was a complete dork who liked to complain and whine a lot, but he was about the only kid around my same age that I could play with. He was a couple of years younger than me, so we didn’t always have the same interests, but like I said, I didn’t have a lot of potential friends at that time, so Jonathan was my neighborhood friend.

My older brother didn’t play with me and Jonathan, he was too old and too cool to hang with us, so he hung out with his friend Ritchie. Ritchie was a few months older or younger than my brother, I can’t remember which, but if I had to describe the Ritchie I knew back then, I’d describe him as a douche canoe that had some possible bonding issues with people and perhaps some possible issues with not being shown enough love as an infant or toddler. I would also describe him as a complete motherfucker. But as a child of 9 or 10 years old, I just thought he was mean because, although my brother picked on me a lot, Ritchie got down right brutal with me and I hated him for it. Ritchie wore glasses and his Red hair and freckles were deceiving at first look. He looked like a well behaved little nerdy kid, but in reality, he was a calculating bully, and I looked for every reason I could to make him suffer as he had made me suffer on a daily basis. I would get my revenge on my brother too, but I never wished him the suffering I wished upon Ritchie. After all, I wasn’t a monster; I was just a little kid who couldn’t adequately defend himself against these two bullies in my life.

One day my brother and his sadistic sidekick acquired some water guns and came in to my bedroom bragging about them. They thought their guns were awesome because they could shoot really far or something. I wasn’t impressed, so I probably talked shit about them and told them to leave. But because my adversaries thought they were all big and tough with their new water guns, they challenged me and Jonathan to a water gun battle. I didn’t have a water gun, but I figured Jonathan probably did, so I agreed and said "I’ll be right back!"

I ran down the street to Jonathan’s house as fast as I could and knocked on his door. Jonathan appeared, and as I was still catching my breath, I said “Hey,….get your water guns!"

"What? I don’t have any water guns! Why do we need water guns?"

I explained to Jonathan why we needed water guns and he still maintained that he had none.

"Let’s go look in your garage, maybe you have something in there we can use," I said.

We went to the garage and started looking around. Jonathan’s garage was mostly filled with junk. It was hard to know what to look for in there.
"You find anything yet?" I asked.

Jonathan would hold up something completely useless and say, "I found this!"

And I would tell him that item wouldn’t work and then say,” Keep looking!"

We looked for some time before we found what would eventually amount to the ultimate weapon my arsenal had ever seen. Sitting on a make-shift shelf next to a rusty coffee can of nails were 2 empty, clear spray bottles.

“Hey look! Can we use these?” I asked.

Jonathan didn’t know if we could or couldn’t use them, but he said, “Yeah.”

We took the spray bottles to the kitchen sink and filled them with water. I twisted the nozzles of the bottles from “mist” to “spray” and admired the distance that could be achieved with a single pump of the trigger. And then, something in me just snapped. Maybe I was just sick of being tortured by my brother and his evil friend or maybe the hatred and anger I had been suppressing had finally decided to surface, I don’t know, but what I do know is this: I turned to Jonathan and said, “Let’s piss in these bottles. Let’s shoot piss at them.”

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, this is beyond sick. This is some GG Allin shit! This is god awful! And yes, you are right, it is. I have no defense, but I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen and for better or worse, here’s what happened next.

I unscrewed the top of my spray bottle and went to the bathroom and filled my spray bottle full of yellow, stinky piss. I then left the bathroom and said to Jonathan,”Ok, go fill yours up.”

He did, and when he returned, his bottle was about half full. Jonathan’s piss was clear and I remember thinking that was a good thing. To the naked eye, the bottle appeared to be filled with water. Our adversaries would have no idea what they were about to get hit with.

Like a true leader of a revolution, I thought I better prepare my soldier for the events that were to take place as a result of our malicious attack.

I said to him,” You know we’ll get beat up for this, right? It’ll be worth it though. You take my brother and I’ll take Ritchie.”

We raced back to my house, and as we neared the front porch, Jonathan positioned himself in front with his bottle of clear, water(piss) and I followed closely with my bottle of Yellow stink. Sometimes Jonathan’s stupidity could be mistaken for courage, and on this day I thought him courageous.

“You ready?” I asked quietly.

“Ready.” Jonathan said.

We barged through the front door scanning the house in all directions for movement of any kind. As I turned the corner of the living room, I spotted my brother and Ritchie at the kitchen sink.

“There they are!” I said. They turned to face us with a startled gaze that said “Oh shit! We aren’t ready yet!”

My brother was the first to get hit. Jonathan had shot him in the center of his chest, marking his t-shirt with a wet spot. I was not concerned with the accuracy of my marksmanship though. I just went ballistic, shooting piss all over my brother and his friend. And then, sticking to my original agreement with Jonathan, I focused my attention on Ritchie. And in a matter of seconds, Ritchie’s clothes, hair, and glasses were completely soiled and stinking . Things were happening so fast that it took the enemy a while to figure out that they were just shooting water and we were shooting piss. Once the harsh reality of the situation really took hold, Ritchie’s mouth hung open in astonishment, and just like shooting water in the clown’s mouth at a carnival, my trigger finger worked overtime to produce a steady stream, keeping my aim on the hole at the bottom of Ritchie’s face. By now my brother had already overpowered Jonathan and was giving him a beat down right there on the kitchen floor. Jonathan was not a very good soldier. When confronted, he would always roll into a ball on the ground, covering his face. In situations like this, he would often times cry. This situation was no exception and he no longer looked courageous to me. As all this was happening, I was still trying to fill Ritchie's mouth full of my Yellow stank juice, and as I did, I began walking backwards out of the room. I fired off a few more shots before running back out of the house and throwing my weapon into the bushes outside. I couldn't risk Ritchie finding my piss bottle and making me drink my own piss. I would have deserved a taste of my own medicine in that way, but at the same time I knew I too would be crying in a matter of minutes.

I was a fast runner then and if I didn’t smoke a pack a day now, I still would be. But on this day, although I was fast, I wasn’t fast enough, and I knew I wouldn’t be against Ritchie. I knew what my fate was to be on this day. I managed to make it across the street into a neighbor’s yard before being tackled. I remember being tackled in such a way that my head hit the ground really hard. I saw stars at first, and then snapped bak to the reality of Ritchie’s fists swinging as he sat on top of me. I defended myself at first, but Ritchie was much bigger and much stronger. Not only could Ritchie hit hard, but he could also put you in a severe choke hold or make you honestly believe he was going to break your arm. He pulled no punches on this day and gave me all he had. He brought me to tears and before long I was begging him to stop in between gasps fo air.

After the beatings had ceased and Jonathan and I were released back into the neighbor hood, I met back up with my partner in crime to return his spray bottle. Seeing Jonathan sitting on the floor in front of the television that day, I could still see the fear in him and I understood that the events that took place that day would not soon be forgotten. After all, I remember this day still.

Although I’m sure the irony was completely lost on my brother, and can only be revealed now in retrospect, he was once my hero. But on this day, he was the enemy. He once potty trained me and I had repaid this deed by pissing on him and his friend in a fit of anger and revenge. Yes, this is as close as I have ever come to GG, and I know I will never be that close again.

Today my brother and I are friends. We have been friends for quite some time now, although we are only as close as we allow each other to be. But of course, if you’ve read all those words above, you know there was a period of time that we didn’t like each other very much at all. And looking back now, I am relieved to discover that I would never do such things to anyone ever again. Even if I hated them.

Coffee With Dad

2009-12-18T12:41:00.001-08:00

My dad called Monday and asked if we could meet up later this week to discuss “our issues”. I thought this was a fine idea so I agreed. I’m getting ahead of myself though, so let me start at the beginning. If you have been reading any of my posts here, you know the story. If you haven’t been reading my posts here, I should probably give you a little background on what’s happening. About a month ago I wrote my dad a letter explaining how all the bullshit I have endured from him since childhood has greatly affected my life, and how I viewed him as a stranger who doesn’t like me very much. In that letter I used words like fuck, motherfucker and cunt. I was brutally honest and wrote over 6,000 words. So now my dad wanted to sit down and discuss these issues in depth. We sat down in a coffee shop yesterday and began talking.

I didn’t really know what he would or wouldn’t say, but I was anxious to find out.

He thanked me for coming and said he was glad to see me. We started off by talking about work, family, etc. And when it was time to get serious, he pulled out a piece of paper with notes written on it so he wouldn’t forget anything. I sat and listened as my dad apologized for how he treated me as a child, a teen, and an adult. He told me how he was raised to be a Legalist Christian and held tight to that belief until about 10 years ago, when his belief began to feel empty to him. Apparently someone had given my dad a book a while back that told of Jesus’ love and compassion and this book opened his eyes and allowed him to see the bible differently. At this point he began attending a Baptist church, although he admitted it was still Pentecostal . My dad still took responsibility for what happened many years ago and wasn’t trying to make excuses for it, he was merely stating facts, but this was the only time I had ever heard him confess that his religion was a main factor in how badly I was treated growing up. This was a major step for him and for our relationship.

I continued to listen, nodding my head in agreement or adding a few words here and there as they pertained to the topic at hand. My dad kept talking and he apologized for his racism and let me know that he no longer feels that way towards people. He told me a story about having some of his family visit from out of town a while back. They all went to church one Sunday and a member of his family pointed out an interracial couple in the congregation and made a remark of disgust. My dad said, “Hey, those people are my friends!” He went on to explain how he had seen a PBS documentary on the civil rights movement years ago that had had a huge effect on him. It was as if a mirror had been placed in front of him and he could see who he really was for the first time. He realized he didn’t like the terrible man he had become. This too was a major step for him and a major step for our relationship. The more we talked, the more my respect grew for this man. Although I wished he had told me this years ago, I respected the fact that he had been transforming his thinking in a positive way. We decided it was completely stupid to inflict suffering on another human being or living thing. I told him about my homelessness activism and I told him I’ve been trying to spread awareness about human rights and particularly how it relates to gay marriage and gay rights in general. Our conversation then steered toward my step daughter, Loxley.

My dad told me that he loves Loxley, but can not condone her homosexuality. Ok, to me, that is like saying he doesn’t condone her. After all, that’s who she is. I am her father, so I love her unconditionally, but it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around my dad’s statement. Loxley was born that way. She was also born White. To me it’s like saying, “I don’t condone Loxley’s race, but I love her.” What? It’s also hard for me to understand how my dad can change his thinking on racism, but still hold on to bigotry such as this. Well, some things take time I guess.

Of course I spoke my mind. I said something like,” You believe homosexuality is wrong because it says so in a book. God says it’s an abomination, but it doesn’t say why, so we have to make up reasons to justify such a statement from a perfect deity. God also says that shellfish are an abomination and again, it doesn’t say why, so we have to make up these reasons for it. Is it because of spoiling? Is it because of disease? If so, then why does the bible not just come out and say don’t eat spoiled or diseased meat? You eat all manner of meat and you don’t consider that a sin against god, but if you were to support your granddaughter, that would be terrible? Why? I don’t get it.”

My dad said nothing. He just sat there.

We continued talking and I actually enjoyed being with my dad and finding out who he really is on a personal level. I felt like I was meeting him for the first time all over again. One thing that I found interesting is that my dad even began to look different. I guess this is all part of the healing process, the transformation in how I perceive this man. As the sun set and our wives called to see where we were, I realized we had been talking almost three hours. It was time to go. We said our good byes and decided that I would bring my daughter, Madigan for a visit on Saturday.

I learned a lot about my dad yesterday. And I learned that time really does heal. And that people really can change for the better. And that we can still be friends regardless of our individual beliefs. And to think I went all those years without a dad when all I really needed to do was just talk to him.

"We will live, we will love, we will work to change each other. We will spread, we will cover the earth, like air and water." -Desaparecidos

2009-12-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

I wrote a post a while back about being inspired (slapped in the face really hard) by the words of a woman named Kylyssa. You can see another post about that here.

Then, this morning I was referred to a post my friend Ray wrote . Ray's post is better than mine, but the sentiment is the same. Ok, do you see what is happening? I wrote something about how someone's words inspired me and then another person is inspired as well and then writes a post to inspire more people still.

See, we have the power to bring awareness and benifit the lives of others simply by writing words. Of course the words don't count too much without action, but you get the point (I hope). Since I'll probably never make any money writing words, this type of thing is payment.

And this payment is worth much more than money.

My Christmas Rant

2009-12-07T15:35:00.001-08:00

Christmas ain’t for me anymore, it’s a kid’s game, and this is how it has changed for me since my childhood.

When I was a child, the month of December was lived in anticipation of “The Best Day of the Year”. I loved Christmas. I loved listening to Christmas records on my family’s cabinet stereo as we decorated the Christmas tree. I loved eating cookies fresh out of the oven, and I loved getting Christmas cards in the mail. The season was full of wonder and magic. These moments were priceless. When Christmas morning came around, I loved opening my gifts, the toys and the games and the socks and underwear I got from my grandmother each year. We would eat a big breakfast, a big lunch, and a big dinner. We laughed and hugged and we were truly joyful for a whole day. It was as close as I would ever come to perfect bliss. I stayed a child for as long as I could, but innocence doesn’t last forever.

The magic had worn off by the time I neared teenhood. I could not believe in the spirit of Christmas like I had as a child. Christmas had become a chore; something to be endured. I had no Christ to believe in, no Santa to bring me toys, no desire to wake up early and run into the living room screaming. Christmas became something I didn’t want to have any part of. But I didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t up to me, majority rules.

As I grew into early adulthood, I became jaded and very cynical about Christmas and all the stupid rituals and traditions associated with it. I became one of those people my wife calls “An old Scrooge”.

It’s true, I do not like Christmas. I honestly wish the whole holiday would cease to exist. Why? Do I not wish peace and joy to all mankind? Do I not enjoy watching my children delight in opening their gifts on Christmas morning? Is it really all that bad? Yes, it really is that bad and no, I am not a heartless asshole. I really do enjoy seeing my children smile, laugh, and play. I really do wish all the peace, joy, and luck to every man woman and child alive. But, my reasons for utter disdain for this holiday are far reaching and you are about to read an awful rant.

First, there’s the money issue. It costs something (often a lot of money) to celebrate a holiday that revolves almost exclusively around Consumerism. We feel compelled to make a list and purchase disposable, material goods for each other in the name of tradition and folklore. We go further and further into debt to honor this tradition of “giving” on this “sacred” day of the year. We line up to “spend” because we have been made to believe we are “saving”. But the best way to “save” money is to not “spend” it at all. Yes, your children, friends, and family, upon opening the gifts you have purchased for them, certainly look and act as if they really are happy to receive such fine things. But are they? For how long? Did they know in advance what gift they were getting? Did this gift come from your heart or your bank account? Will this bring them true happiness? Was it worth it? Do you feel any better about yourself or was this done out of the desperation of expectancy? The best things in life really are free. Love, kindness, gratitude, empathy, and joy are priceless and to try to physically manifest such things into a product that can be bought, sold, and destroyed is not just wrong, it is sacrilege. This goes against what most people believe is the true meaning of Christmas to begin with. And it is all bullshit. But yet that is what most people do, which brings me to my next issue.

The religious issue or, more specifically, the Christian belief issue. The true meaning of Christmas (according to many) is the celebration of Jesus’ birth. It was a miracle! A virgin gave birth to a deity in human form and it was truly a gift from god. It was the gift of love. So according to the sacred myth, love is the true meaning of Christmas. The birth of Christ is to be celebrated, not Capitalism, not Consumerism, not reindeer on the lawn or Santa in the chimney. Again, love can not be bought, sold, stolen or destroyed in the way a product can. So who’s the better salesman, Santa or baby Jesus? If Jesus’ birth is the “reason for the season”, then why bring a tree into your house at all? Why let your children believe there is a Santa Clause at all? How is your love best expressed? Is it best expressed through disposable electronics from China? Is this what the wise men had in mind? Why not make a vow, in the name of Jesus, to give all the money you were going to spend on Christmas gifts to a trusted charity? Which do you think would have the biggest impact on someone’s life? Do you think Aunt Mary will appreciate the snowman sweater you gave her more than a child who has no place to sleep at night? What would Jesus do?

Call me an old Scrooge if you want, I don’t care. There are many people like me out there who just simply can not put on a happy face this time of year. Christmas is a very sad time for many of us. Maybe we lost a friend, spouse or relative at Christmas time. There are those who never had a happy childhood and Christmas brings back some very painful memories for them. There are many people out there who take their own life during this joyous season. They are too sad, and there aren’t enough pretty lights, or enough money, or enough of Christ’s love to get them through. They are just like me; they want something real, something tangible in this season of phonies. Sometimes we don’t get it.

My family and friends stopped exchanging gifts years ago, after our family’s size grew to a number that would make gift giving a $3,000.00 endeavor. Now my family’s gift giving revolves around my children only. My wife and I do not even exchange gifts with each other. After our children’s gifts are bought, there is no money left over for anything else. We avoid paying bills in order to provide for them. I am like you; I don’t want to let them down. And if you are like me, you don’t want them to feel cheated and it makes me wonder what kind of financial gymnastics my parents had to perform in order to buy my brother and I Christmas gifts. I know they had to make sacrifices for us and they probably didn’t always like Christmas either, but they never let me know it. My parents wanted me to be happy on Christmas day, so they sacrificed for my benefit, just as I am now for my own children.

Yes, I buy out of the desperation of expectancy. I am quite guilty of that. I become a faceless, soulless consumer and I hate it. But how do you tell your children that you think their most prized holiday is nothing but bullshit? How do you tell them that the only ones who really gain by this are the corporate whores of the retail industry? How do you tell them that even love has a dollar amount? How do you tell them that one day they will see, and they won’t like it either?

You don’t. You let them have that joy you lost so long ago when you were still their age. And you let them keep their innocence for as long as they can. Because you want them to be happy and to rob them of that would truly be a crime.

Ride

2009-11-30T09:32:00.000-08:00

My daughter rides
her bike
as I follow
behind her
cautiously.

She pedals faster
and
her long, blonde
hair
blows behind her
head like a
flag.

Her smile is
wide.

I want to be
her
on that
bike.

And I want to
feel
what she
feels
as she rides
away, swollen with
life.

And I remember
a time
when I was a
child
riding my bike
with my father
close
behind.

A time when I
did not fear
life
more than
I did
death.

Giving Thanks

2009-11-25T09:07:00.000-08:00

Yes, Thanksgiving occurs tomorrow. Has it been a whole year since the last time we all did this? Apparently it has. If you’ve known me a while, then you know I had a bad Thanksgiving day/weekend last year. So much so that I chose to not talk about it, write about it, or even think about it. I wasn’t thankful for anything. But if I use last year to gauge this year, I see many differences. Things have changed and a very short year has shown me this progress. Today I am thankful.

I am thankful for all of my wonderful, caring friends who have helped me out in so many ways. I am thankful for my beautiful family. I am thankful for my parents’ understanding. I am thankful for the doctors who have given me and my family so much needed care over the past year. I am thankful that I have a job and a home.

Since I do not worship a divine entity, I have only my fellow man to thank for his generosity and kindness. Seeing the good in man is not always easy. You have to look for it and if you do, you will find it. And you will be glad you went looking.

I will spend tomorrow with family and unlike last year, I think we will be happy together. This year we will be thankful for our lives and for each other and for the miracle of healing.

Happy Thanksgiving!

And I Wonder

2009-11-17T13:19:00.001-08:00

There are those who believe
that when I manage to do
a good deed, I am doing
god’s work. And I wonder,
why doesn’t god just do
this work himself.

And I wonder why he
gets to take credit for
my good deeds, but I have
to take responsibility
for my bad ones.

There are those who believe
that all good things come from
god and all bad things come
from man and sin and satan.

And I wonder why god
chooses to sit back and
quietly watch while we
suffer and plead for help
when it is within his power
to put a stop to all of this.

There are those who believe
that this is because god
is either not real or
that he really is that
selfish and that cruel and
that he will never be
a friend of mine.

Dad

2009-10-30T04:49:00.000-07:00

All those years of
never saying
all those words that we
kept praying
really made a difference
and a measurable distance
between us.

All those years of
expectance
I gave to you
without acceptance
of the debt
I paid with regret,
really left a hole
in the whole of how
things should have been.

All those years of hiding
the faith that I left sliding
along with all that shit
that spit me as I fell
further and further
away from you.

But all those years are yours now
and I only wish I knew how
to tell you just exactly
what all those years are good for.

One Of The Righteous

2009-10-23T08:19:00.000-07:00

The words you will read below in italics, although written by me, are not my thoughts. These are the thoughts (at least from what I have observed) of my neighbors, coworkers, city officials, or just about anyone who lives within a 30 mile radius of my rural landscape.

I am intolerant of those who are tolerant and I have no tolerance for many of the people I share this planet with. I am self righteous and judgmental of those who do not share my beliefs. It’s just no fun being wrong, and the word "zealot" accurately describes me.

Because I am so fixed in my convictions, when confronted with a point of view that differs from my own, I say to myself "If you believe that, you are a complete idiot!" And for that reason I only subject myself to the thoughts or opinions of those who can further propagate my worldview. This is because I don’t much like arguing, ‘cause you can’t argue with the truth, and I like a good sermon. I am of the converted, and we love to be preached to.

I know there are no victims in this world. I know that homosexuality is a choice; a bad one. There is only one true God and one true country. There is a very clear definition of right and wrong and it is defined in the Bible and the Constitution of the United States. This is the, infallible, undeniable Truth!

Although I have not personally interviewed every single person in my small society, I believe the opinions expressed above, as generalized as they are, are an accurate portrayal of the values of my community as a whole.

When I first set out to write the italicized section above, I wrote from my own point of view. And as I wrote, I started noticing something; I am in many ways all I claim to hate. I even asked myself "Why can’t more people think and behave the way I do?" Well, they do, in a sense. I am judgmental and self righteous. I have my own personal prejudices, my mind can only open so far before I will not tolerate certain people, and I don’t generally listen to the opinions of others if they differ from my own. It really is no fun being wrong, so I adamantly defend my beliefs in hopes to prove that I am right, not just to others, but to myself. And in that sense, I am very much like the people I criticize. We all feel as though we are right and we can justify any sort of bad behavior by falling back on our own individual idealism, despite its flaws. But for me, this goes much deeper than that.

It’s hard for some people to imagine what a southern town such as mine is really like. Unless you have lived in an environment such as this, you might never really understand it. It is like an alternate universe. I have strongly considered making a short documentary of my town with my home video camera and I still might.

This is the Bible belt, over populated by fundamentalist Christians. There are 12, yes, 12 churches in a 7 mile radius of my house. Bible history is taught at my daughter’s public middle school as an elective, and at the elementary school down the street, they have what is known as a "Prayer Walk" on designated Sunday afternoons. This is where members of the local churches, as well as school administration, walk through the halls of the school praying for the students, the school, etc. It is not at all uncommon to see restaurant marquees that read "Jesus loves you steak biscuit $.99". Where I work, before our weekly operations meetings start, we sit around the conference table, hold hands, and a prayer is said. I look down at my shoes. Christianity permeates every aspect of the lives of many of the rural folks where I live and work.

They eat it, sleep it, breathe it, and force it. Damn near everyone in my town goes to church 3 times a week. They always have. If you come out publicly and say that you do not believe in their god, they will act as if you just punched them in the face. It is not socially acceptable to not believe as the majority does and they have made me well aware of that fact.

Here is how the demographic breaks down for my town of Hixson, TN.
Total Population: 37,202
White Population: 34,622
Black Population: 1,137
Hispanic Population: 567
Asian Population: 764
Hawaiian Population: 10
Indian Population: 78
Male Population: 17,993
Female Population: 19,209
Median Age: 38.4
Median Age of Males: 37.4
Median Age of Females: 39.4

Yes, we have 10 Hawaiian people in my town. 10. As you can clearly see, the minorities are really a minority here. Most of the Black kids go to one school and I imagine the Hispanics and Asians do too, because I can’t find them at the school my daughter attends.

Although I have lived in this area for many years, I am still shocked at how much blatant racism and intolerance still exists here. This is still mostly the Old South. It is not uncommon to be standing in line somewhere and have the person standing in front of you turn around and tell you a "nigger joke" or a “gay joke” in which the gay person is referred to as “sissy” or “faggot” or “dike”. I never know how to react to this, so I don’t say anything. I ignore it and take the awkward silence and odd stares. This is coming from complete strangers. I take it personally though. I am not gay or Black, but I am very insulted by it as if I were a gay Black man. I have had people tell those jokes before or make racial comments to me as I stand next to them wearing a Miles Davis or James Brown t-shirt. They only notice the color of my skin and assume I share their same view of anyone who isn’t White or straight. I always come away thinking "What the fuck is wrong with you people!?"

Because I work in the inner city, a stones throw from a housing project with a bad reputation, I am constantly reminded by coworkers that the people who reside in those projects are nothing more than "crack head niggers" or if they are a woman, a "crack whore". I am told that "these people are lazy. They are a drain on the system." This is just a way to dehumanize someone else so they are easier to hate. Many of the people I work with think of the residents of this housing project, and African Americans in general as nothing more than animals. And these people are not animal lovers. They only see the color of their skin. I work in downtown Chattanooga, 30 miles from Hixson, but the ideals of the people are generally the same.

I had a conversation with a co-worker yesterday on the topic of racism, particularly how it relates to African Americans. My co-worker seems to think that the African American race is overly sensitive.

He said something like "They hate the White race for slavery. They hate me for something I didn’t even do! My grandfather didn’t even do it! They think everything they see is racism"

I replied with something like "Think about this. My father, my mother, my grandmothers and my grandfathers all played a part in segregation. It wasn’t that long ago that we had "colored" restrooms, water fountains, restaurants, etc. My family simply claims that they didn’t know any better and that’s just the way things were. That doesn’t make the shit right though and they all did know better, they just let it happen! I honestly think if that type of thing were happening now, I’d be calling people out on that shit! Oh wait, I do. I am now! We have no idea what it’s like to be Black, coming from a history like that."

My coworker replied with some shit like "And they don’t know what it’s like to be White. What’s your point? The White race has been enslaved too, but you don’t hear us bitching about it."

"We were never enslaved in this country!" I said. "How do you think it feels to know people of your race, your parents or grandparents, were treated like animals for obvious, arbitrary, disgusting reasons? They couldn’t drink out of the same water fountains because of the color of their skin. How fucked up is that? Segregation is another form of slavery. You and I have no idea what that can do to you as a person, but I know the effects aren’t good. To keep your dignity after something like that is no small feat. Of course there is resentment as a result of something like that, you and I harbor resentment for far, far less. I don’t think anyone is being overly sensitive about it."

And the conversation was left at that. My coworker is one out of the hundreds of thousands(if not millions) in the South who still think this way. They have learned nothing from the past. And they will continue to live with the same bigotries and hatreds that have dehumanized people for centuries.

Me, my wife, and our 2 daughters make up a unique group of people. When out in public, it is sometimes obvious to others that we just aren't like most people by comparison. I have just recently become aware of just how much we stand out from others in physical appearance alone. We look as though we all came from separate families, but for unknown reasons, we are out in public together performing mundane tasks. This is because, in my family, the expression of individuality is encouraged. By comparison, we are polar opposites of the vast majority of our community. We don’t go to church, our friends are made up of gay people, straight people, black people, white people, Christians, Jews, and Atheists. In terms of our beliefs and convictions, we are the minority. Of course, we are the minority by choice. But what choice do we have? Do we accept all the shit we’ve been handed from our ignorant ancestors without question? Do we stand by and continue the tradition of racism, sexism, and intolerance that is still thriving in our community today? We choose to follow our hearts and act accordingly. This behavior was not taught, but nourished by the knowledge that we are all human beings who, at the very least, deserve to be treated in a humane way.

Let me go back to where I started. Everyone thinks they are right, right? But we can’t all be right, so some of us have to be wrong. All of those words above are just an expression of my own self righteousness. I am obviously passing judgment on many people in my community because they are not like me, because I have found faults in how they choose to live their lives. And I don’t like them and I never will, because they are all wrong. And the only difference between me and them is:

I am right.

One Day

2009-10-14T13:42:00.001-07:00

There will come a day when I shake Death’s cold hand and thank him for waiting so long to come for me.

And I will say to him “I should have lived better. I can’t believe I did this to myself.”

And he will tell me there is no right or wrong and that it happens to the best of us and the worst of us too. He will tell me how he almost came for me many times in the past, but I always found a way to outsmart him.

“I lived the only way I knew how.” I will tell him. “I did the best I could.”

My life will flash before my eyes giving me clarity and a new understanding of what I was and what I now am as I prepare to breathe my last breath. All of those years of my life now reduced to never being able to say goodbye.

And Death will tell me that I have been saying goodbye since the day I was born. And he will say that he has been walking slowly toward me all along and that life is nothing more than the time it takes for him to finally encounter me again as I walk his path.

And I will ask Death “Where was all of this truth when I needed it?”

And he will tell me that I had enormous luck and a steady endurance, and I never needed truth.

Well, my luck and endurance will finally run out on this day and truth will be all I’m left with. And none of this will save me as I look Death in the face. And he will know this, but I will have no fear.

And I will ask Death “Where do I go from here? Is there an after life?”

And Death will tell me that I will simply go where I belong and that there is nothing more than that.

And that thought will bring me peace.

And I will say to him “I had a beautiful life, but I have endured long enough and I am ready to stop living now.” And I will give him all I have left.

And we will shake hands like old friends, finally closing the deal.

And I will close my eyes.

And I will go to that place where I belong.

And I will rest.

It really is that simple

2009-09-25T06:15:00.000-07:00

If you have been following the news lately, then you know that where I live, in the Southeastern region of the United States, we have endured weeks of rain and floods. Highways have been shut down and schools and businesses have been closed. Many homes and vehicles have been destroyed and at last count, 8 people have died as a result. This type of thing usually happens “somewhere else” to “someone else”, but this time it happened here where I live, to someone I know.

A woman I work with lost everything she had in a flood this week. I was completely shocked. This has never happened before to anyone I know. I live in a flood zone and although I saw some damage in my area, it seamed the people affected the most were people way outside the flood zones. It came so sudden and when most people realized what was about to happen, it was too late.

The woman I work with told me she got out of bed the morning of the flood and stepped into a puddle of water in her bedroom. She, along with her husband and 18 month old son escaped in a row boat and fled to her mother’s house. She lost her car and everything in her house. She showed me a picture of the house across the street from hers. Only the roof could be seen. She, like a lot of people affected by the floods, did not have flood insurance. She, like many others, will have to salvage what she can, leave the rest, and move on. I keep thinking, “What if that were me and my family?”

It is much easier to empathize with someone you see everyday. Their situation becomes real to us and it can be deeply felt, unlike reading a news story that we are far removed from. Jantar posted something on Sharp Quills recently

http://sharpquills.com/index.php?option=com_myblog&show=From-evergreen-apples-through-wars-and-famine-to-Austrian-torture-cellars-Do-we-really-need-to-kn.html&Itemid=13
and in that post he had this to say:

“Can we care about the accidental death of people we’ve never met and would never have met, unless and until they died in a way that made it newsworthy enough to write a short article about it? Should we care? In principle, I believe we should. As a human being one should not accept that millions of fellow human beings starve to death or get butchered by their own evil regimes or get blown up in senseless wars.

And yet, all of this remains mostly abstract, for most of the time.”

This is so true. Granted, the woman I work with did not die and her family is healthy and safe, but they have suffered and they will continue to suffer for quite some time. For them, things might never be the same again and assistance and aid are very limited. Although FEMA will help in some areas, Tennessee and Georgia simply don’t have the necessary funding for disaster relief, so for most people, they have to rely on friends, family and strangers to take care of their immediate needs.

At times like this, I take the needs of some one I know very personally. I feel great empathy for them and I want to help them in whatever way I can. I myself have needed help many times throughout my life and I’ve been fortunate enough receive it from a handful of caring souls. I believe we have a moral responsibility to each other. We should not allow others to suffer in the pursuit of our own self interest, especially when we have the means to make a difference in their lives. I don’t know how any one could argue that this is not just simply the right thing to do, yet we mostly don’t do it. And I include Me in the We here. I don’t think this comes strictly from apathy though. There are many factors involved. Sometimes we just need someone to come to us and say “Hey, man. This person could really use our help. Let’s see what we can do for them.” It can be as simple as that.

A company wide email was sent out saying ”I was hoping that some if not all of you might be able to help her out in her time of need. I know many of you may already know someone having the same trouble and are helping them and I am sure they appreciate it, but if you could help in any way…….” And that’s really all it took. We took care of one of our own and we will continue to until she no longer needs it. And this generosity isn’t killing us. And there is no sense of entitlement coming from the woman we are helping.

This is a very simple concept:

I observe someone suffering.

I have the means to end that suffering.

I act on what I know is right.

Someone’s life is improved.

It really is that simple.

The Ultimate Being

2009-09-18T05:28:00.000-07:00

There are these phases I go through where I withdraw from my tiny world and I just simply stop communicating with anyone outside of my immediate family. Part of this withdrawal is due to depression and just not having the desire to associate with anyone. And the rest is just a desire to escape without actually escaping. After a few weeks or so I always decide that I’ve had enough and I rejoin the outside world once more to find that it is exactly as I left it. Nothing ever changes much in my absence. It’s always as if time stops to let me hibernate and then restarts when I return. As if time was doing this as a favor to me.

I recently came out of one of these phases and returned once more to the world at large this past Saturday. I called my friend Thomas to see if he was skateboarding today. He didn’t answer. I sent him a text. He didn’t reply. Because I know Thomas well, I figured he had probably just drank too much the night before and couldn’t get out of bed. Another hour passed before I called him again. And yet another hour passed before my call was returned.

“You coming over?” Thomas sounded hung over.

I told him I was.

“Come over about 11:30 and bring those videos.” He said.

I agreed, hung up, and finished my coffee.

Some people never change, they don’t need to. Thomas and I grew up in the same neighborhood. We met when I was 13 years old. Thomas was a year younger and a grade below me in school so I only saw him around the neighborhood back in those days. We both started skateboarding the same week we met, and shortly after, discovered the beauty of punk rock together. We were still so innocent then. We were free and didn’t have to worry about jobs, money, bad women, politics, or all the other shit we would have to endure as we matured. Thomas and I became brothers, sharing the experience of permanent scars from skateboards and mosh pits. We were inseparable and remained inseparable for the next 19 years.

I arrived at Thomas’s house that morning at 11:45. A slender brunette was walking out the door as I was walking up the sidewalk.

“Nicole, this is my friend Keith.” Thomas said.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” I said as I walked past.

“Nice to meet you too.” Nicole said.

Nicole and Thomas talked on the porch as I walked to the living room and had a seat, placing a stack of DVDs on the coffee table. Thomas appeared moments later with a hung over grin on his face. I was greeted with, "What's up?! Good to see ya over here! How long has it been? Three months?"

"Good to be here! Two months!" I replied.

Thomas picked up the stack of DVDs from the coffee table. These were all punk rock bootlegs I had acquired since I had last seen him.

"Did you see Nicole's tits?" Thomas asked as he thumbed through the discs.

I told him I honestly hadn't noticed. He informed me they were nice and went on to tell me he was still drunk because he got home at 5:00 A.M. “Too many shots. Too many beers.” he said. I shook my head and laughed. He went on to say “Nicole’s a good girl. I dated her for a little bit about a year ago. She still stops by sometimes.” I knew what to expect from mornings like these and I knew we wouldn’t be leaving the house any time soon.

“Let’s cool out for a minute and let me sober up some.” He said as he rubbed his head and pressed play on the DVD remote. A minute later, Bad Brains could be seen on the Television screen.

I was living in Atlanta 9 years ago when Thomas convinced me to move back to Chattanooga. That way, we could hang out and skateboard together and be awesome. When we were together, we became singular. We referred to this phenomenon as “The Ultimate Being”. We effortlessly acted and reacted as one. As individuals, we are quite different though. I am passive and guarded and only slightly crazy, where as Thomas is aggressive, reckless and more than a little crazy. I have many times been jealous of his self confidence and lack of hesitation or fear, not just on a skateboard, but in all aspects of life. We balance each other out well, each feeding off the other. Every other week end, Thomas would drive from Chattanooga to Atlanta to see me. We would skate and drink and laugh hysterically at the absurdity of everything. “Quit your job and move back up here! You’ve been down there for 8 years! Quit being a little pussy and just do it!” was the statement that finally won me over.

I had just broken up with my live-in girlfriend at that time and I really didn’t have many options. I took Thomas’s words to heart and a few months later, he drove to Atlanta to help me move. Once I moved, he got me a job where he worked (the same job I have today) and Thomas and I lived together for 3 years until he bought a house and got a live-in girlfriend of his own that he later broke up with 5 years later.

Bad Brains were finishing their set as Thomas scarfed down the rest of his toast.

“Alright.” I said,” You ready?”

He was. “You want to just go down the street to the curbs? That’s about all I’m good for right now.”

I told him that sounded good to me. I’m still fresh off the disabled list. After hitting my head last year on Thomas’s backyard ramp, I was out of commission for almost 9 months with nerve damage; I’m still learning how to get my body to do what my mind tells it.

We climbed in Thomas’s truck and after stopping for water, we were headed to the curbs. Thomas likes to talk. And I don’t mind really, because I like to hear about what he’s been up to. I haven’t been around much in the last 3 years of our lives. I got married, had kids, and settled down. For the first time in my life, I had to take things seriously. Thomas stayed single and never slowed down a bit. In fact, he gained momentum. As we continued toward our destination, Thomas kept talking.

“I went out with this girl a while back. Her name is Mary. She is 22 and smoking hot! I mean Smoking hot!! The hottest girl I’ve ever been with! Anyway, she came over one night and afterwards, I was so hyped up I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up all night and wrote a short story. I wrote some drunken ass song lyrics too! It was great! And after that, I never saw her again. She was my muse for one night and that’s all I got. Then, a couple of days ago, she sent me a text message saying she was moving to LA to pursue a modeling career. She’s tall and thin, has a typical model body, but…….I don’t know……don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her. Hell, I want her to make it out there, I do, it’s just that she probably doesn’t stand a chance. There are a million people out there wanting to be models. They get out there and they get their hopes up and then they get crushed. The only work they end up getting is in porn or something.”

As we pull into the empty parking lot, Thomas pauses long enough to grab his board out of the back of the truck. I grab mine and begin stretching my legs.

“I hope Mary does make it big out in LA. That way I can say, ‘I had sex with the girl on the cover of that magazine!’ Ha ha!!” I laughed too and shook my head.

Since my daughter was born 3 years ago, I haven’t been keeping in touch with friends like I used to. And although I don’t regret minimizing my social life, guilt lingers still. Around the time I was stepping into the role of father, Thomas started his own business. It is thriving and it has taken him out of social circles as well. I miss my friends sometimes, my friend Thomas especially and as corny as it sounds, I know he’s missed me too. We were large parts of each other’s lives for so many years, but our lives have changed, and although we have grown up, we have not grown apart. Although our lifestyles are very different, we are now who we always will be, and we have always stayed true to that. Unlike most people, we knew our place in the world long ago. Thomas will probably never settle down with a good woman and have children, and if I’m lucky, I’ll never have to do it again. No matter how long I break form my everyday reality and hibernate, I know I can always come back and always be reminded who I am and where I came from. There will always be an “Ultimate Being” and a chance at youth once more; one more reason to live and laugh and love.

Thomas and I both struggled to stay on our boards that Saturday afternoon. We laughed and cheered each other on when balance or style was maintained. I remember skating with him a few years ago while he was still recovering from a torn ACL. I applauded his slow improvement just as he was applauding mine now. Neither of us even considering the option of life without skateboarding. It has become as natural to us as walking. It’s too deeply ingrained at this point to quit. Skateboarding isn’t about quitting and on this day, we were two grown men in our mid thirties skating curbs in an empty parking lot on a Saturday afternoon and we were 13 and we were 18 and we were 25 and we were 50. The year could have been 1987 or it could have been 2024, but it was 2009 and we were timeless.

How I'm Feeling Today

2009-07-22T07:48:00.001-07:00

The Blessing

2009-07-13T08:15:00.000-07:00

My hair really started thinning when I was 19 or 20 years old. Up until that point I had to comb around an awful cowlick I had inherited from someone somewhere. At this point in my life, my hair had become a nuisance. I couldn’t really style it, I couldn’t do anything with it really, so the decision was made to shave it all off.

I had never had a shaved head before and I was a little self conscious about how I was really going to look. I tried to grow my hair back and it grew back even thinner than it had started. You could see the classic horseshoe pattern baldness happening. I no longer had a hair do, so it was time to embrace the hair don’t. And so I did. I have now been shaving my head for 15 years. I’ve been told my head has a good shape for the hair don’t, but it wouldn’t matter anyway because I’m not going to use Rogain or wear a toupee. So, here I am with my bare head.

Soon after me and the hair don't became good friends, I started to experiment with various forms of facial hair. I figured if hair wouldn't grow on the top part of my face, then perhaps it would grow on the bottom part. I wore some stupid looking lamb chops for a while, but they were nothing much at all, hardly worth mentioning. They just didn't feel like they were a part of me, so I shaved them off. I decide to go with the Mr. Clean look, minus the muscles and shit.

I kept the Mr. Clean look for the better part of my life up until last year, when I woke up one day and knew, or rather felt, that I had been blessed. Many of you reading this might ask, "In what way, Keith, were you blessed?". Well the answer to that question is both simple and complex. I'm not so sure even I understand, but I'll try to explain.

One morning I woke up and realized I had what looked like the beginning of a very full, completely awesome beard. I had never tried to grow a full beard before and had always complained of severe itching before my facial hair could even grow to such a length. But this one particular morning, the morning of my blessing, I discovered I had not endured any itching or irritation at all during my metamorphosis. I was delighted. It was as if divine seeds had been planted on my chin and jaws. It was as if my head was turned upside down. I had a hair do once more.

A month or so passed and due to unfortunate circumstances, I was forced to shave my blessing. I was upset, but I knew deep down that the blessing was strong within me and when it returned, it would be better than ever. And so it came to pass. The lower part of my face was now a full mass of course, brownish-red glory. I began to feel a bit narcissistic, but I knew there was a purpose and a responsibility associated with such a blessing.

Just about any saint before the 18th century is hooded and bearded. Even some of the girls. One girl in particular named St. Wilgefortis. She had what was known as a "Miracle Beard". I too have been blessed with a miracle beard, but unlike St. Wilgefortis, I will not be crucified by my father for such a miracle to be bestowed upon me. Some of you who like to ask a lot of questions might be asking this question, "What are you saying, Keith? You think you're a saint?" Well, dear readers, that is not for me to decide. I have clearly been chosen by some higher power to bring delight and wonder to the people I encounter on my journey to enlightenment. This is something I am sure of.

When discussing my blessing with my dear wife Deana last week, certain disturbing details were brought to my attention. I told her that I had a plan for my blessing. I showed her the desired length and fullness I wished to achieve for it. "You can not grow that beard out that far! It is too bushy right now! You need to cut that thing!" Many saints throughout history have encountered such adversity, and I am no exception. My dear wife went on to explain, "You will have to give up sex if your beard gets any longer. I will not be having sex with you." She was underestimating the power and influence of such a blessing, but like any decent saint that has ever walked this earth, I forgave her for such remarks. What Deana failed to consider was that my blessing is also a blessing to all mankind. She failed to consider that not just her, but other women too, would want to have sex with me when my blessing reaches it's full potential. This is all part of the prophecy. Saints have often been tempted with such carnal desires, but I can not be tempted. I have been chosen and the proof is written all over my face.

As I write this now, I have a vision. It is a vision of awe that my blessing will one day inspire. Children will stop me on the street and ask to touch what I have been given. My gift will bring a smile to each face and will leave all that touch my blessing a heart that is full and warm. Strange women will beg to be with me and I will say unto them, "Not at this time my child. I have been chosen. I must fulfill the prophecy." They will gaze at me with respect and understanding. I can not be tempted. I will be looked upon by many men with admiration and envy and I will simply tell them this, "Brothers, do not feel ill toward me. I have been blessed and I must continue my journey. The prophecy must be fulfilled. Tell others what you have seen here and go in peace. I have spoken." Although my blessing is truly a gift, it also comes with great responsibility. It is up to me to bring peace and happiness to this mortal dwelling before it is too late. The prophecy must be fulfilled. I have been chosen and for that I am grateful. So, if you see me on the street, come to me. Greet me. Touch my blessing, let it work a miracle in your life, but please try to understand this isn't about me. This is much bigger than you or I. This is my blessing.

No Rules

2009-07-07T07:29:00.000-07:00

This is a true story. Well, some of it is true. Well, hardly any of this is true. This really never happened. The names have not been changed because I’m not creative enough to think up proper pseudonyms. Although this story takes place at work, this is not a story about work or working. This issue goes much deeper than that.

I was sitting at my desk last Thursday working diligently on my day’s tasks when Abby walked in. Abby works part time and she usually strolls in casually around noon. Last Thursday was no exception. The first thing I noticed as Abby walked past my desk was that she was wearing a Green t- shirt with lettering on the front that read “Enjoy Coke.” As I read those two words, I thought to myself, “Yeah, whatever. Don’t tell me what to enjoy.” I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like to be told what to do. I consider myself to be a unique individual who refuses to be pushed around by authority. A lone wolf, if you will. “No rules!” I always say. No rules. Lone wolves like myself don’t follow the herd or the rules of others. We make our own rules and those are the only rules we will obey. Since I am a rebel bad ass with no rules, quite naturally I was bothered by what I had read on Abby’s t-shirt. I took offense to it, but tried not to let it bother me. This would prove to be impossible.

I continued working diligently just as I always do, but I could not get the image of what I read out of my head. “Enjoy Coke” was all I could think about. Abby’s t-shirt wasn’t even the right color to be a Coke shirt. It was Green. Who did her t-shirt think it was to tell me what to do? I’m sure the Chattanooga Coca-Cola bottling company would not even endorse such a t-shirt, being the wrong color and all. Where did she even get that fucking t-shirt anyway? Probably a flea market somewhere.Abby works directly in front of my desk and every time I looked up, I saw her t-shirt saying, “Enjoy Coke”. It was beginning to be uncomfortable to even look away from my computer screen. I sat at my desk and stewed over this situation for quite some time. I knew I couldn’t work the rest of the day like this, so I decided I would have to say something to her about this matter.

“Abby, I don’t care what your t-shirt says, I’m not going to enjoy Coke. Ok? I don’t appreciate being told what to do by a t-shirt.”

“Yes you will, Keith. You will enjoy Coke......” Abby replied.

“Bull fuckin’ shit!” I interrupted. “I don’t get told what to do by you, by Chip (pointing to the dude sitting at a desk nearby), or by some stupid t-shirt you chose to wear up in here today!”

“You’ll do whatever my t-shirt tells you to do, Keith!” said Abby.I couldn’t believe what a bitch Abby was being about this whole thing. Why was she sticking up for her t-shirt like that? What power did it possess? I had many questions I needed answers to.

“I will not, Abby! I’m a renegade badass!”, I explained. “No rules!”

That dude Chip chimed in with, “It’s only a t-shirt....”

I told Chip to shut the fuck up.

“This doesn’t concern you, Chip! This is between me, Abby, and Abby’s stupid ass shirt!” I said.

Abby came back with some shit like,”Don’t call my shirt stupid!”

I did my best Abby imitation and said “Don’t call my shirt stupid!” in such a convincing manner, she thought she had said it twice. I told her once again that I will not be told what to do by her or a t-shirt. “Enjoy Coke”, her shirt kept saying.

“It’s merely a suggestion....” Chip said, butting in to a conversation that didn’t concern him.

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up, bitch!”

I went on to explain that “Enjoy Coke” was not a suggestion. It was a demand. Suggestions are made once, in a subtle way. I know a demand when I hear or read one, but I don’t listen to suggestions. No rules, I say!

“Who the fuck do you and your t-shirt think you are, Abby? It’s not even officially licenced is it, Abby?” I asked.

“Yes it is! And besides that, didn’t I see you drinking a can of Coke yesterday, Keith? I bet you enjoyed it too!”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I enjoyed, Abby!” I replied.

It was true, I had drunk a can of Coke the day before. It was hot outside and I did enjoy it a little, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. As a matter of fact, I had a can of Coke in the refrigerator just waiting for me to drink it. I had a point to make and I was about to make it.

“Hey, Abby! Watch this!” I said.

I got up from my desk, walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out the can of Coke. I walked back to my desk and sat down in my chair, cracking open the can.

“You see this, Abby?” I asked, holding up the can of Coke I was about to drink.

“Yeah, I see it! What are you going to do with that, Keith? Drink it?”

I sat and chugged the whole can of Coke right in front of her. I burped four times as loud as I could, crushed the can with my bear hands and threw in across the room. Chip walked over and picked it up and put it in a nearby trash can.

“See that shit, Abby! I didn’t enjoy that shit!” I said.

“Keith doesn’t enjoy anything........” Chip tried to say.

“Chip! Shut! The! Fuck! Up!” I exclaimed.

But Chip wouldn’t shut up. Instead, he said some shit like “It’s just a way of advertising. In today’s economy, Coke is at least employing people and..........”

Lucky for me, I got a phone call. I took that call and 15 minutes later, Chip could be heard saying,”.....and that’s why Capitalism works for all of us.”

I said, “Chip! Shut the fuck up! I’m serious! I didn’t enjoy that Coke, Abby. I enjoyed not enjoying it! Ya hear that? I did not enjoy that shit at all!!”

“Keith, I don’t care what you say or think you enjoy. This is stupid. I’m not talking to you anymore.” Abby said.

“Ha ha! You’re admitting defeat! You can’t fuck with me, Abby! No rules!” I said.

“Whatever.” Abby said. “Chip, what was that you were saying about a mixed economy?”

“Well....” said Chip, “I was saying....Keith, you might want to hear this too,....”

“Fuck you, Chip!” I said as I shot him a bird. “No rules, motherfucker! No rules! Don’t tell me what to enjoy!”

As the day dragged it’s ass to an end, I sat in silence, gloating at my awesome and brutal victory. Let this be a lesson to you all. You don’t have to be told what to do, what to enjoy, what to think, you only have to remember two words.

No Rules.

The Ice Cream Man

2009-05-22T13:27:00.001-07:00

The ice cream man is a big fucking deal around my house. Do your ears hang low? can be heard a mile away blasting from the truck’s loudspeaker putting children of all ages on alert, as if to say,” I’m coming, you know what to do!”.

My 3 year old daughter, Madigan knows what to do.

“Huhwy, Icreamau comin’!” she exclaims with impeded speech.

The music’s volume gradually increases as the van pretending to be a truck appears creeping up the street.

“Icreamau!! Icreamau!!” Madigan says, pointing and jumping in place with smiling excitement.

The music stops as the truck pulls to a stop 18” from us.

The ice cream man comes about 4 times a week and on the days he doesn’t come, Madigan suggests to me that he might be lost.

“Hi, Icreamau!”

At this time I intervene and negotiate the transaction between my child and the stranger in the ice cream van pretending to be a truck. This particular ice cream man always has some one riding shotgun to take the money and retrieve the chosen ice cream from the freezers in the back of the van. Sometimes it is a child approximately 12 years of age, probably his child. Sometimes it’s a woman approximately 36 years of age, probably his wife. The ice cream man is the driver and the brains behind this business, he never touches the money.

If we have enough money, I tell my daughter she can have the Sponge Bob ice cream for $2.50. If money is tight that day, I tell her she has to choose between the 4 ice cream pops on the dollar menu.

She makes her choice and I hand the appropriate amount of money to the person in the passenger seat and hand Madigan her chosen ice cream.

“Say thank you, Madigan.”

“tanku!” she says in her small voice.

Smiles are exchanged and the ice cream van slowly creeps toward another group of people further down the street. I sit with my daughter where grass meets road and I help her unwrap her day’s treasure. In seconds, Madigan has ice cream all over her face and she looks at me with a devilish grin as if she’s getting away with something and enjoying it greatly.

“Tony!! Icreamau!” she screams to the little boy down the street as ice cream juice trails down her face onto her hands and continues spreading up her arms.

Tony comes running with his mom behind him. There is a cul-de-sac at the end of our street, so if you missed the ice cream man the first time around, you can catch him on the rebound. And that’s just what Tony does.

On the ice cream man’s rebound is when I actually get to see him. The driver’s seat is now facing my side of the street and Madigan waves as he passes, saying “Bye, Icreamau!” The ice cream man smiles and waves back.

The ice cream man always looks the same. Always. He is a hefty man in his late thirties who can always be seen wearing sunglasses, even on overcast days. There is black stubble on his face that never seems to grow, as if it has already found its permanent length and home on the ice cream man’s jaws and chin. His dark hair is short and is a windblown mess. Yes, he looks like an alcoholic who can not keep a job that requires more of his hygiene or appearance. But no one complains. He doesn’t either. He must make a decent amount of money or this endeavor would not be worth his time or what little effort he has invested. He is timeless.

As far as Madigan is concerned, the ice cream man only exists when he is driving down our neighborhood street playing Do your ears hang low? He is not independent of his ice cream van pretending to be a truck. To Madigan, his name is Icreamau and his identity goes only that far. I will never ask the man his name because his name is not important to me and if I were to see him in line at the grocery store, I probably would not recognize him outside of his truck. He brings excitement and joy to my daughter as if he were among the ranks of Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy. He appears, spreads cheer, and then, just like that, he’s gone, but never lost.

As the sun begins to hide behind the mountains, Madigan and Tony sit at the edge of the grass eating their ice creams as they talk and giggle and delight over the fact that the ice cream man is a big fucking deal around my house.

Here it Comes

2009-05-22T09:31:00.000-07:00

Once again,
dread emerges
from behind swollen eyelids
and within a mind
scrambling to remember
what should not be forgotten
as my stomach tightens
and knots form.

Reluctance and defiance
slow my pace
as I bargain with my fate
to find the meaning
and the purpose
of this far too familiar
routine.

It is useless to resist
a Monday morning.

After all, this day will
occur with
or without me.
But my stubbornness
will only allow disdain
as a cold sun rises
delivering the despair of knowing
I will soon be facing a world
that does not like me
very much.

Sunday, March 1st 2009

2009-04-15T10:01:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with a hang over. The beer kept finding ways to convince my right hand to pour it into my body and over my liver when I got off work yesterday. My wife had found a sitter for the kids and had a friend over last night. They invited me to join them for dinner and drinks and since I rarely make public appearances, I gladly accepted. These two women didn’t seem to mind that I spoke too much, often without thinking. I was encouraged to continue drinking and speaking and once again my right hand fell under the spell of the magic beverage that had been placed in front of it. This ritual was repeated for the remainder of the night.

Going to work on a Sunday morning is something I’ve been doing more and more as of late. Going to work hung over on a Sunday morning is also something I’ve been doing more and more as of late. Into the Sentra, out of the driveway, on to the highway. Thirty-five minutes later I am sitting at my desk considering what I should do next.

I have recently discovered Tasha’s old talkshoe episodes. This has been a history lesson for me. I am discovering all that went on while I was away, or asleep, or just not paying attention. These episodes would be the background noise for my menial tasks on this hung over Sunday morning as I tried to force my brain to process information.

I listened intently to Tasha's soothing (yes, soothing. I find it soothing.), almost seductive (at times) voice and realized I had no idea what was being discussed. I heard familiar names spoken and heard the voices of others I had never heard before. "I don't remember that challenge." I said to myself. When you are the only person at the office on a hung over Sunday morning, you can talk to yourself and say whatever the hell you want. And so I did. "Who? Who are they talking about? Oh, oh ok."

I listened as Tasha took calls and sometimes no calls at all. The show must go on. I left my desk, walked downstairs and out the front door. I inhaled and exhaled all the chemicals a cigarette contains and repeated this until paper met filter. When I returned to my desk, Tasha was confessing her addiction to iced coffee. I don't think Triana drinks that stuff. I could be wrong. "I like my coffee hot." I said to myself. There was all of this activity going on back then that I had no knowledge of. There was talk of being on the T.I.B.U. side bar. I could not relate. I was lucky to be read by anyone at all, much less a large number of people. I was eating crackers and starting to feel better now. My head was clearing out and the episodes were now easier to follow. Some one was reading now. "Who is reading this ?" I asked Tasha. Tasha didn't answer. When the reading stopped, it was just two or three people talking. I sometimes felt as if I were eavesdropping on a private call. I felt naughty, but continued to listen. Sometimes the idle chatter was just as interesting as the readings themselves. I listened to the writers after dark, Tasha's Place, and the Typing Tigers. I was beginning to feel better by the minute. Big Dog and Tasha were the cure for my self inflicted illness this Sunday morning. But just like everything good and decent in this world, it all had to come to an end.

The day progressed and the volume had to be lowered to an inaudible level. The manager showed up, left, and then showed up once more. The room was now filled with explanations, solutions, methods, and improvements. There was no longer any room for Tasha. There was still much work to be done and I had to buckle down. The manager stayed to help me this time. He doesn't know anything about T.I.B.U., Tasha, Talkshoe, or many of the other "T" words that float around in my head. It was me and Mr. Manager now. I said goodbye to Tasha and focused my attention to the task at hand on this hung over Sunday morning, March 1st, 2009. And that was that.

http://www.talkshoe.com/talkshoe/web/talkCast.jsp?masterId=13893&cmd=tc

Madigan

2009-04-14T05:53:00.001-07:00

There are times when I am
down
when I can't find my way
up again
I can't seem to smile,
much less laugh
the heart
hardens
the soul lost

But at the sight of
her face
The sound of
her voice
my darkness is
removed and replaced
by a radiance
that beams purity
and innocence
and a beauty
that melts
my heart
and embraces
my soul

She saves me

She is my
life
love
laughter
and joy

She is part me
and yet
all of me
and more than I
could ever imagine
or even deserve

I love you,
Madigan

For My Opponent: Thoughts Outside The Courtroom

2009-04-03T07:50:00.000-07:00

There has been something

in you all along

that enables you

to favor deceit

over verity

prestige over

humility

faith over

logic

This is inherited

but not excused

You have divorced yourself from

responsibility

so you now rely on

self deception

to erase guilt

and heal the

conscience

You retain pride

in the absence of

integrity and self respect

I pity you

Justice is blind

until brought to market

where everything has a price

morality is vacant

and the soul trembles cold

still, salvation remains

The good Lord loves you

and he hath given you

His divine permission

to be a complete

motherfucker

But time will measure the length

of your regret

scales will measure the heaviness

of your loss

and I will be

grateful

every day of

the rest of

my life

that

I

am

not

you

Not A Good Time

2009-03-31T06:03:00.000-07:00

Now is not a good time to be me. Not that anyone would ever want to be me. I don't want to be you either, but if you could be anyone else at all, I wouldn't want to be me right now if I were you.

For as long as I can remember, I have found myself, time and again on all fours, somehow still maintaining progression. Crawling is not a rapid way to propel one's self forward, but it is movement all the same. Each time I find myself in such a fix, there always seems to be someone there to kick me. But I won't go down. I cover my face, I deflect blows, catch a foot from time to time, breaking a leg here and there. Being in such a position only warrants a stronger will to continue. This is my current plight, slowly crawling forward, fighting from the ground, refusing to be crushed under foot. And this foot is large and it's heavy, and now is not a good time to be me.

You have to crawl before you can walk. And with natural advancement comes maturity and if we're lucky, a little wisdom. I have almost grown accustomed to this predicament though. I used to be afraid, and fear would bring panic and panic would bring despair and all would seem hopeless. But I have since learned that fear ain't shit because eventually legs extend, the spine aligns, and feet produce steps. Courage pays off especially when it is not a good time to be me.

If I were a religious man, I would be inclined to believe that perhaps God is testing my faith, or that maybe God is punishing me for all my past sins, but I am not a believer of such things. Besides, God is probably busy helping one of His many followers find a job or perhaps He is assisting one of His disciples in spreading His word. He apparently has no time for me. No, He is out giving His sheep a reason to be just as vicious, superficial, vindictive, and judgmental as He is. He has made them in his image and with so many of them around, He too knows that this is not a good time to be me.

I am a betting man and life is a gamble. I lose more than I win, but the game has to be played anyway. So I play. I have never been a part of the majority, because I can't play the game the same as all the rest. I am just built different. I am a long shot, a sucker bet. Yeah, the odds are stacked and they are generally against me, but I do win on occasion and when I do, I stand tall and walk triumphantly in my own righteousness. But right now it appears I am losing. Perhaps I am living in a world in which I do not belong. Perhaps it's the majority, not me, who doesn't belong here. I'm still trying to figure that one out, but for now I can assure you that this really is not a good time to be me.

I, of all people, should know.

"The harder I work, the luckier I get." -Samuel Goldwyn

2009-03-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

While the rest of the country is wondering where all the jobs and all the money went as they struggle to feed their families, I am on my 19th consecutive day of work. And although my family is fed for the time being, I know how lucky I’ve been and still am to even be employed at all. Many people are not as fortunate and some will not find this fortune for quite some time.

“There are few ways in which a man can be more innocently employed than in getting money.”Samual Johnson

Somewhere along the way it appears I have shown my worth to those who place value on human deeds, because I will make more money this year than I have in any year previous, but money, just like poverty, does not buy happiness. There’s a lot it doesn’t buy. The things of the greatest value are not tangible products and the people of greatest value are more than merely consumers and laborers. Money can’t solve all the problems I have with living and if it could, what a small burden I would carry.

“When money is seen as a solution for every problem, money itself becomes the problem.”
Richard Needham

There comes a point, after many consecutive days of work, where sleep no longer heals the body, mind, or spirit and I must continue in this cycle damaged. Memories of last week can not be retrieved, the mind spits and sputters and my spirit has been broken for days now. I have work sickness. This is the trade off I have agreed to, if only in implication. Just like every other job, the worker puts in 15 miles and in return he receives 17 inches. I have no love for money, only a desire for what little it provides. I don’t require much. All I ask is to have a place to eat, sleep, and find enjoyment and peace for myself and family. If I can have more I will gladly accept it. If I have to live with less, I’ll accept that too.

“Men, for the sake of getting a living, forget to live.” Margaret Fuller

I try to define my job and not have it define me, because I want to be more than what I am as just a laborer for monetary gain. But right now I am more the role I play as worker than my true self. I have to act the part in a convincing manner for the benefit of both client and employer. More of my day is spent in character than in my own shell as the narrator you all know and love. But I still know who I am. And I’m not trading my soul just yet either, not for money.

“Work is the curse of the drinking classes.” Oscar Wilde

It seems the more consecutive hours, days, and weeks I work, the more consecutive cans of beer I drink. This doesn’t help with my lack of short term memory, but it helps in other invisible, inward ways. Every night as the moon is howling bright and as fatigue turns to exhaustion, I tell myself that I will write. And that the words that dance about in my head will find purpose, but just like the night before, they turn to cotton as my head becomes increasingly lightened and I am overcome by heavy eyelids. I can always manage to make a mess of the night. But there will be more work to do tomorrow, and more nights with howling moons to make messes of.

And the words will come back too, and once again sleep will heal what it can, and leave me with the rest.

Going home

2009-02-22T15:07:00.001-08:00

It was one of those days at work where I was asked to do the impossible. And I did, somehow. And the clients and co-workers ate away at me all day as if thirsty for blood. MY blood in particular. They wanted all that my heart pumped and the sweat from my pores. I managed to escape the day though, still in one piece, still in ownership of my tiny soul.

Turning the key of the Sentra, listening to the engine groan and struggle, I wondered if this would be the day I wouldn’t make it out of the empty parking lot. The sun was setting and I would soon be alone and stranded for a while until arrangements could be made for a ride. I thought of all the other cars I have owned in my life, how they too had left me in similar predicaments. How they all, at one point or another, gave up being cars. They were tired of being what they were, but it wasn’t up to them, they were my cars and I wished ignition and they had to continue being just as they were. And the Sentra this night became a car once more as if to say,"I’ll run tonight, but I can't promise you tomorrow."

I exhaled a sigh of relief and inhaled cigarette smoke as I pulled out of the dark parking lot. I stopped for beer at the gas station a block away. Some awful 70's pop song was playing over the loudspeaker as I walked from the car to the door of the food mart. I stood in line behind a man buying lottery tickets. The first awful song stopped and another equally awful pop song from the 70's now played. The man with all the luck in the world ahead of me finished his transaction and it was now my turn to give the clerk money. I gave him $6.88 and left the store with a tall six-pack of beer.

I left the Sentra running in place and since it hadn’t completely given up yet, I got in and made my way to the on ramp. I pull a can of beer from the bag and crack it’s mouth. I pour and swallow. I am no longer innocent. The sound of the road and the Sentra’s engine are all I hear before pushing play on the music player. Sharon Jones cries for me through the speakers so I don’t have to. I have worked a total of 11 hrs. today and I will be returning to work in another 11. I am as tired and in need of maintenance as this poor, 13 year old car I’m driving. Neither of us will die yet. "If you hang in there, buddy, I’ll promise to do the same." I say as if the Sentra can hear me. "I’ll get you fixed up when the money comes, ok?" The money doesn’t come though. It is spent as fast as I can make it. Sharon has stopped crying. She is happy now and my thoughts shift.

Is that a cop behind me? Nope. Pour and swallow. The Sentra’s gas light comes on to tell me it’s thirsty too. I reset the trip meter and the numbers reduce to zero. I have calculated a distance of 10 miles til empty by ignoring the Sentra’s pleas many times in the past. Just enough to get me home and back to the station in the morning. I will return tomorrow just as I came. Pour and swallow. How are the kids tonight? How is the wife? "I’ll be home soon." I say and press end.
Night falls fast and a full moon lights the sky. I see the same billboard every night. It encourages me to drink Coke. Pour and swallow. Sharon Jones just kicked a bad man out of her home. "Atta girl!" I say to her. "You deserve better!" The Sentra has 3 miles left in him till he dies of thirst. I light another cigarette. "Just get me home. Please." I say to him.

Tomorrow is yet another day. Possibility exists and the possibility that everything will go to shit just as expected, but we make our own luck and that’s exactly why I believe in it. Pour and swallow. I don’t even want to think about all the things I have to do tomorrow, but I do. There will be the same flesh eating zombies to deal with and I will have to put on quite a performance. I will do the impossible once more. Pour, swallow, pour, swallow. There is no reward in the job, just the means to feed the family.

The trip meter reads 9.02. One more mile left. The Sentra moves forward. He’s a titan and I’m proud of him! Sharon sings with her beautiful, powerful, wonderful voice. I finally pull into my gravel driveway. The house is illuminated by yellow light. I see the trash piled up begging to be taken out. "I’ll need to do that tomorrow." I say as I grab my bag of beer. Pour and swallow. I put my beer can into the trash can and tell it I’ll be back to push it up the driveway later. I walk to the front door of my house and open it.

"Daddy!!"

I am home.

My parents on my birthday 12-13-06

2009-02-02T07:27:00.000-08:00

12-13-06

Because it was my birthday yesterday, my dad came downtown where I work and took me out to lunch. He picked me up in the parking lot because I knew if he met me inside, we would never get back out the door. He has this bad habit of talking to people he does not know. I suggested we eat at restaurant called Veg Out. It's a country cookin’ meat and 3 place. Very good stuff.

During the short drive, he produced a birthday card with pigs on the front. It said," Ham it up on your birthday!" He thought it was a funny card to give to a vegetarian. He also gave me $40.00 cash to buy myself a gift. I will just use it for living expenses. Very nice of him all the same. I give myself an allowance every week for gas, food ( if I have to eat out), smokes, and beer if there is enough left over. The $40.00 will most likely buy beer I would otherwise not be able to afford. Yes, that’s a living expense. A few minutes later we arrive at the restaurant and my dad immediately starts talking to everyone he comes in contact with: the lady who takes orders, the guy in line behind us, the lady who rang us up. I will never understand what compels him to do this. We had a good conversation over lunch about his recent trip to Albania and other cultures.
He had never seen where I work, but he had been in the building when it was another company. I gave him the tour of the place and showed him my desk and let him talk, talk, talk to everyone. He introduced himself to anyone who would allow his introduction, told them he was my dad, told them it was my birthday. He met everyone from the owner to the pest control guy.
When it was time for him to leave, I walked outside, shook his hand, thanked him for everything and sent him on his way. He's a good guy sometimes, but he can be a little much. He just really loves to talk. I'm not much of a talker.

I left work a bit early and met my mom and step dad for their apartment complex Christmas party. It was held at a restaurant/bar that is part of the apts. They have many beers on tap and a full bar. I hooked up with my step dad in the parking lot and we went to the bar to wait on my mom and their friends. My mom joined us soon after and handed me a card that encouraged me to get "Beered and Cheered" . The card contained a check for $50.00. My mom said that maybe the check would help with food or diapers or whatever we needed. Of course it will and I thanked her much. She worries about me and my family so much. I know she loves us all and she wants us to be happy and comfortable, but she can go a bit overboard. She emails me 50 times a day. I have to tell her things are fine and I'm doing what I can.

We finally met their friends and ate. Their friends are a lesbian couple who live downstairs from them. They are both vegetarians and we talked vegies and photography. It was good to be in a social climate for awhile. The food was good and we finished our meals, said our good byes and I made my 10 minute drive home.

I walked through the door of my home at 7:30 and I started feeling old. I did my usual chores and child care rituals and played Sorry with my step daughter. She won. But it was a good day and I don’t have very many of those.

The First Four

2009-01-18T06:29:00.000-08:00

The 1st time I cracked my head open I was about 3 years old. My mother was a stay at home mom and I was under her supervision. For some reason, the top of the refrigerator was where she put a lot of things such as the crockpot. I guess I was thirsty that day and tried to pull the door open to get a drink. The door of the refrigerator stuck from time to time and when I pulled on the door handle it shook the whole refrigerator. You can probably guess what happened next, the crockpot fell and hit me on the top of the head. My head split open and out came the blood. My mom completely freaked the fuck out, as did I. Of course I don’t actually remember the event as it actually happened, but this is the story as it was told to me. Blood poured everywhere and I screamed along with my mom. I went to the hospital and got stitched up, but I don’t know how many stitches total. My mom still vividly remembers this incident and has apologized to me many times since, even though I forgave her a long time ago. The moral of this story is: Find another place to put the crockpot.

The 2nd time I cracked my head open was about 2 years later. My mom had gotten a job at this point and was no longer able to stay at home with me. She dropped me off at her friend's house while she went to work. I was to be in the company of her friend's son who was also 5 years old. I had no idea what was in store for me that day. All I remember is sitting in the kid's floor in his room playing with toys. I look over and he has a hard plastic Fisher Price television that would scroll different scenes to try to simulate a television. It was hard and heavy. So anyway, the little shit picks it up and hits me in the head for no reason. Again, my head splits, out comes the blood, I completely freak the fuck out once more. I ran into the kitchen to where his mom is and she just hands me a towel and says to her son," Be nice" or some stupid shit like that. The kid never got punished at all for his obvious lack of respect for anyone or anything. There was no hospital visit this day, but there sure as hell should have been. It really rang my bell. When my mom picked me up that day I said to my playmate," I hate you!", through my tears. My mom made me apologize to him for saying that after he cracked my head open with no remorse at all. I had a pink, purple, passionate hatred for that little mother fucker and I wanted everyone to know it. Again, thank's a lot mom. The moral of this story is: Don't put your child in the company of sadistic little shits. They could get their head cracked open.

The 3rd time I cracked my head open was the very next year. I was seeing a movie with my mom and brother. It was a matinee ( I don't know how to spell it), and the movie was some family/kid movie that probably sucked. I really don't even remember the movie but the family/kid movie was the type of movie my mom would take me to. Ok, when the movie was over I went to the restroom and my mom and brother waited for me out in the lobby. The theater had just mopped the floor and it was very wet. Being the awkward, sloppy kid that I was, I had just made it to the urinal when I slipped and hit my head just above my eye. This time the blood really poured out and I thought I was going to bleed to death. I started screaming and crying as the blood poured down my face and all over the floor. There was not an adult in sight, only small children. I remember one kid sitting on the toilet in one of the stalls with the stall door open. This little fucker actually had the nerve to tell me that he was a doctor and that he was going to help me. I remember wanting to tell this make believe doctor to please shut the fuck up while I bleed to death, but I cried instead. My brother came looking for me and opened the door and saw my condition and then he proceeded to freak the fuck out too. He ran and found my mom and said," Keith is in there bleeding everywhere!" In comes my mom and takes my shirt off and tells me to put it on my gushing wound. I got 5 stitches that day and I still have a scar above my right eye to remember it by. The little make believe doctor kid never did get up off the toilet to help. The moral of this story is: Use another restroom if the floor is wet. You could fall and crack your fuckin’ head open.

The 4th time I cracked my head open was when I was 25. I was skating a ledge (skateboarding, not that other shit) with some friends. The ledge had a ton of wax on it that it didn't need. The ledge was skateable without wax. I had been trying a trick and was getting very close to making it. On the one that did me in, my board shot out from under me while I was on the ledge and instead of my back foot catching me on the ledge, I slipped from all that fucking wax and landed on my head. I got scared when I knew my head had a gash in it. Again, I bled a lot and used my shirt to absorb the blood. My friends took me to the hospital and waited on me to receive treatment. While I was filling out the necessary paperwork with a towel to my head, I could see my friends sitting on a couch in the lobby watching "King of the Hill". They were both laughing out loud as I sat there bleeding. I shot them both birds and painful looks. I got 6 staples from that one and I now have an F- scar in the back of my head. As I was getting stapled, the doctor said," This will scar up pretty good, but it looks like you already have plenty anyway." "I know I do.", I replied. The moral of this story is: Don't wax anything that is perfectly skateable anyway (Mike).

I have put my body through a lot of abuse over the years. I am scared from head to toe, and all of my scars come with a story. Head injuries don’t really hurt much though. You go into shock and that helps numb everything. The head injury seems to be my most common of the injuries I’ve endured throughout my life for some reason.

Maybe that really is what’s wrong with me.

2009-01-11T06:32:00.001-08:00

I am once again sick. By sick I mean swollen, watery eyes, a nose that won’t stop running or begging to be blown and a head that either hurts or feels as though it contains a pillow. I have endured this condition many times in the past and it was almost exactly a month ago that I recovered form the last bout. I have my theories as to why I can’t stay healthy, but they are just that, theories. I have no proof and neither does anyone else who blindly offers their opinion of my health. "You know if you quit smoking, you wouldn’t always be sick." That could very well be the case, but I won’t know the difference until I actually quit smoking. I’m sure there are many contributors to my chronic illness and although I have identified some of these contributors, there are so many variables, I can not possibly offer myself a suitable cure. Without a cure at arm’s reach I am left with the challenge of endurance. My only option is to ride it out in misery. I feel as though I am going to die, without really knowing what creeping death feels like. Of course if this really is what death feels like, we all have nothing to fear. I have endured worse and so have you.

I am always in a perpetual state of recovery. 2008 was a terrible year for me and I would say that I’m glad it has passed, but that would imply all of my afflictions were a direct result of the numbered year. Therefore the calendar year is insignificant. I am not one who believes everything happens for a reason, at least not in terms of predestination. For instance, I hit my head and could barely walk for 3 months not because of the absence of a helmet, but because I landed too far down in the transition of the ramp. Had I been wearing a helmet, I still would have hit the transition in the same location. The absence of the helmet was not the cause of my incident, my poor judgement was. Everything that I have endured in the past 12 months I can only attribute to myself and a little bad luck. It takes us a whole lifetime to learn how to live and we only get one shot at it. Yes, we live and learn and continue until eventually something takes us out. Whatever it is that does finally bring my demise, I’m sure it will be a mixture of my poor judgement and a little bad luck, nothing more.

New Years resolutions are like empty promises to yourself, that’s why I never make them. I respect myself a little more than that. That is not to say that I am not above self deception, I just prefer to lie to myself in a more subtle manner. It has been 2009 now for 11 days and I don’t know what the next 12 months will bring, but I am prepared for the worst and hoping for the best. As I write this now with heavy, watery eyes, and tissue stuck up my nose, I know that I probably won’t die as a result of it. I’m sure I will live to face many challenges this year and every year that follows and I will endure just as always. A little good luck wouldn’t hurt though.

Your Head Will Collapse 3

2009-01-09T09:24:00.000-08:00

10-17-08

I went to Physical therapy on Wednesday and the PT girl, Hannah, told me she really couldn't do much for me until my MRI/EMG tests are done, which will happen next Wednesday. She did, however, tell me that she could hook me up with a prosthetics guy who could fit me for a brace. Yesterday I went back to get fitted. The whole purpose of the brace is to lift my foot so that I can walk halfway normal without destroying my leg and back from walking around with a dead foot all day. This is just to prevent any further damage, this will not solve my problem. He will call me when the brace is complete and I will meet him at PT and I will have my "Magic Foot". Hannah asked if I skateboarded and I told her I had been skating since I was 13. She was asking me about any other injuries I had and I told her that I had broken both bones in my left arm, broke my heal bone, and got the F- scar on the back of my head from having it stapled 6 times. She saw my shins and knees and asked if the large scar on my right leg was recent and I said no. I actually showed Hannah what happened to me and she was the only one who actually said,"Ooooh!" when she saw it. All in all, these people are very nice and helpful and needless to say, I am very eager to be able to walk properly again. It is so frustrating to not be able to feel my foot. It goes to sleep constantly and then I walk around until it tingles. When I was in Mexico walking 15 miles a day, I was crippled to the point that I was almost dragging my foot by the end of the day. My right leg and back were in so much pain that even the bud and booze were useless against my affliction. With all this being said, I am still very lucky. Going to PT is humbling. There are people younger than me in wheelchairs who have long since forgotten what it's like to even walk. I see those elderly people in there trying to salvage what's left of their bodies to keep on living a while longer and think ,"that'll be you one day, dude."

While I'm on the subject, it is weird to me how people react to my condition. When I tell people what happened and explain what's wrong with me, they look at me with such sad eyes. They show me pity actually. As if my whole life is now destroyed. They don't say much, it's just that look I keep getting. My dad, brother, mom, and friends call me up to see if anything has changed and I can hear their concern in their voices and I can tell what their faces look like on the other end. It's that same look I get from everyone. I really do appreciate everyone's concern, but the pity doesn't help. I can't use it. I mean, it's hard enough sometimes to not wallow in my own self pity and get all depressed about the slight possibility that there is nothing permanent that can be done about this. I will probably never be the same as I was. I am getting older and I don't heal as fast as I used to. My body is pretty fucked up in many ways. The doctors say things like "this is rare" and really, I seem to be the only one who is optimistic about it. After all, it's really all up to me to get back to the way I was before.

One more re-occurring topic is the whole ,"You're too old to be skateboarding" and "I hope you've learned your lesson" speeches. Of course these speeches come from people who have never been on a skateboard and have never in their whole life had anything at all that they were passionate about. Skateboarders don't say stupid shit like that. They understand. Have any of you ever done anything as much as possible for the last 21 years of your life? If you have, then you must have a damn good reason for it. Whatever that thing is that you have been doing for the last 21 years of your life obviously has some meaning to it, at least for you. It has become an important part of your life. It grows as you grow and it gives back to you, enhancing your existence in some way. It is a part of you. This is something I can understand fully. On the surface, skateboarding is a children's toy really. Let's not forget that. It's initial purpose is to be used for fun, and it is fun, a lot of fun, but it is more than that. For me and others like me, it is a (dare I say) a spiritual experience. It becomes as natural as walking or talking or breathing. As corny as this might sound, I can feel energy moving through me while skating. I told my friend recently that words just cheapen the whole experience because I don't have the vocabulary to describe something so complex, so I will stop now. Some things just have to be felt in order to be understood. To understand that is to understand that when I see someone I have not seen in years, and they ask me,

"Are you still skating?"

My answer to that question will always be

"YES."

Your Head Will Collapse Part 2

2009-01-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

10-08-08

How was Mexico? It kinda sucked more than anything. It was an adventure and not a vacation, but that counts for something too. The trip was so stressful because I can barely speak Spanish and I can’t even speak English well. I can say the usual phrases and ask for shit, but when it comes down to saying,” I need this piece of equipment right here, but I need to be sure that the blocks you have will fit. That’s all you have? Why is the block more expensive to rent than the equipment? I can’t use one without the other. Fuck! Why are you such a dick?” I just don’t have the vocabulary for it. I took 2 years of Spanish in school, but that was a long time ago. I am now in the process of learning the language better. I don’t want it to get the best of me.

I had a massive yard sale the day after I arrived in the U.S. That wore me out. It’s a lot of work for $125.00 , but the house is a bit less cluttered now.

I woke up yesterday morning and went to my step daughter’s school with the wife and kids so that I could yell at her principal. For some reason they allowed her to walk home Monday afternoon instead of letting her get on the bus like she was supposed to. My wife sent a note with her and they called one time to verify this. They never called any other number on the list, which is 6 names long. I was furious because it took her an hour and a half to walk it. She has difficulty walking anyway because she is severely “pigeon toed”. The doctors can’t really help her. She now has blisters and 2 fucked up ankles. The teachers and principal are all douche bags and it isn’t even legal to let her leave like that. She is 12 years old and doesn’t deserve to be treated like that by people she is supposed to trust. Fuck em’ all!

Work has been hectic too because I have to catch up on all the shit that went on while I was gone. I can never really relax.
I went to the neurologist yesterday. He watched the video and still framed the impact. He watched me walk and played with my foot, etc. He then wanted to see my spine. I went around the corner and got X-rayed. I don’t know the results of the X-rays yet. I will go in 3 weeks to get an MRI and an EMG. Meanwhile, I am going to start physical therapy as soon as they can get me in. I told the doctor that I couldn’t put up with this shit much longer because by the end of the day, I’m crippled. It’s fucking my whole life up. He said,”you need physical therapy so that you can skate again.” I said,”Hell yeah, doc!” He knows I’m not going to just quit.

Your Head Will Collapse And There's Nothing In It And You'll Ask Yourself, "Where Is My Mind?"

2009-01-09T09:09:00.000-08:00

9-23-08

Last Wednesday, I started noticing something was wrong with my right foot. It felt numb and would fall asleep regularly. The muscles in my legs had been sore up till that point and I suppose it just masked the numbness I was experiencing. I thought the numbness would eventually just leave and I’d be back to normal. By Friday, the numbness had not gone away and I realized I couldn’t tap my right foot. I could press the gas pedal of my car, but my foot refused to move the opposite way. I then examined it for swelling or bruising, and there was none of either. I could force my foot to move in any direction I wanted with no pain at all, but I couldn’t just move my foot in the up position. Because I live in a constant state of denial, I thought this too would just "go away" even though it had been many days.

Yesterday, I decided I should go to the doctor. I was getting worried and because I’m planning to go to Cancun soon, I thought I should probably get my foot checked out before I leave. I wouldn’t want to receive any medical care in Mexico if I don’t absolutely have to. So I made an appointment with my doctor who after an explanation of needing immediate attention scheduled me for 3:30 PM that same day. I told the doc what my problem was and he began playing with my feet. I have half a toenail on my left foot where I smashed it a while back and it is still trying to grow, my feet were sweaty and ugly and I needed to cut my toenails too. Yeah, I was embarrassed. He checked all of my reflexes and found that everything was just as it should be. He moved my right foot and ankle in the position it was supposed to move and found absolutely nothing wrong.

Then he said,” Have you had any head injuries lately?”.
(Ohhhh fuck, here it comes)

I told him I hit my head skateboarding a little over a week ago and asked him if he would like to see the video. He said he did not. Why would he not want to see the video? It was on my phone and it would be no problem to show him exactly what happened. I told him I had a bad head injury 10 years ago and I showed him my F scar in the back of my head. He actually seemed impressed that the scar indeed did look exactly like an F. Let’s face it, that shit is pretty impressive. Ok, he then told me that I certainly have something wrong upstairs (this time it was physical and not mental) and he wanted to scan my brain. I asked,” Can we do this now? I’m leaving for Cancun Wednesday, remember?”. He told me that we could and then said this:” If your brain is bleeding, you can not fly or leave the country.” I said,” well, yes, of course.” I was really thinking, (mother fucker!!!! I better not have to be hospitalized over that pussy ass slam!) He scheduled the Cat scan and I was out the door and into the imaging center in a matter of 15 minutes.

I like to call myself a tough mother fucker, but in reality I’m quite fragile. I have a very high tolerance for pain, but that doesn’t keep me from fucking myself up mentally or physically on a regular basis. Humans are built in a very durable manner, but we can also be killed very easily by the most absurd course of action. It is a bit ironic really. Unfortunate too.

I walk into the imaging center and show my I.D. and insurance card and then I talk to a lady at cubicle who is to process me. She asked all the usual questions and then, “Have you had any head injuries?” I said,” Yes, do you want to see what happened?” She didn’t want to see it either. I still can’t imagine why that would not be useful to anyone. We then discussed what constituted a concussion. You do not have to be knocked out apparently, but that’s all she could tell me about concussions. She really should know, shouldn’t she? I go get my Cat scan and I guess it was routine, I really don’t know because I’ve never had one until then. I asked the brain scanner lady when I would know the results (I was really wanting to get a copy of what my head and brain looked like, but didn’t ask for one) and she said she would get the results to my doctor and he would notify me. She said she didn’t see anything to be worried about though. It is now 8:33 A.M. ET and I still have not heard anything from my doctor. I must be ok, because if my brain were bleeding, I would have already been hospitalized. Maybe the scan showed that I have no brain in my head at all.

I am now paralyzed from just blow the ankle down. It’s a really weird feeling. I kept thinking last night as I was drinking way too much that I might stay like this for the rest of my life. I walk with a goofy looking limp and I can’t really run very well. Then, I started thinking, I could have just as easily fucked up the nerves that control my speech or my face, or my arms and legs, or my dick. It could be much worse. Doctors tell people all the time that they will never walk again and then those people end up running marathons.

Update: It is now 8:40 A.M. ET and the nurse just called to tell me the scan was negative and that I would now have to go to a neurologist. She couldn’t tell me when, but she would let me know. That is good news. Maybe that guy/or gal will want to see the video.