How I wonder why I even try

I realize that most of these posts now haven’t been all that humorous. Unfortunately, the moroseness continues. I don’t recall if I mentioned this before but I have Crohn’s Disease. Tomorrow, I have my third surgery related to its complications. Now, I realize that I’m pretty lucky. Of my three, two (including this one) would be considered minor. There have been a lot of people with Crohn’s that need two hands to count the procedures they’ve had. They probably have more to live for.

Ever since my diagnosis, I have tried to maintain a level head and even keel. I remember my doctor calling and telling me my treatment options. He remarked that he was surprised at how well I was taking the news, that my road to remission was a long term commitment. I asked him what good would crying and throwing a fit do. I thought at the time that this must be a sign of maturity but what if it was resigning myself to this fate. Perhaps it didn’t matter to me if I recovered or not.

I wonder now if all of what I have had to endure these last five or more years wasn’t my desire to get better but rather what was expected of me. Don’t get me wrong, suffering is not something I’m keen on doing. But the fact that I don’t even know for sure when I was diagnosed should tell you what little importance I place on this whole thing.

Why am I even trying to get better? What actually matters to me? I could probably answer the second question that but the answer would likely only make further elusive the answer to the first. I don’t really have any reason to persevere. If I let myself go, I’d probably be missed but not too greatly. I’ve left no impact on the world nor even an individual. I’m exactly the kind of person easily forgotten. This isn’t self-loathing, it’s cold pragmatism.

What will happen is, tomorrow, my procedure will go uneventfully and then I’ll go home to wallow for the next two days. I’ll put on my strong face and play the gutsy part of someone overcoming. Underneath the mask, I’ll be wondering if the grief, pain, and discomfort that will go along with the recovery is worth it. The answer will be probably not. After all, what’s the point of clawing just to hang on to something that doesn’t exist? Why fight so hard for a future when there’s nothing to look forward to? For fuck’s sake, Donald Trump could be the next president and Jesse Eisenberg is Lex Luthor. Who wants to live in a world like that?

How they really do come in 3’s (or how Ziggy played guitar)

What a tough couple of weeks it has been? We’ve lost one of the progenitors of heavy metal and one of the greatest talents in rock& roll history. In between the passings of these two titans of music, I lost my grandfather. Sorry that this blog has become synonymous with death but that’s what gets me inspired these days.

I was on my home from work last Sunday when I received a text from my aunt that the family was told to say their goodbyes to my 93 year-old grandfather, as he only had  “hours to live”. This was a surprise but hardly the biggest one possible. While I cannot discount the pain that my family feels, I did not really know him that well. Therefore, the blow didn’t strike me as devastatingly as it, perhaps, should have.

I hadn’t seen him in about decade until I started making regular trips to Florida to visit my father’s side of the family. It had been a big longer than that since my father died, less than 12 hours before my maternal grandmother’s passing. The experience of that day has largely numbed me to grief. That coupled with the fact that my grandfather’s Alzheimer’s was advanced, to say the least, made his death easier to compartmentalize. All of the Sunday dinners at the grandparents’ home in Itasca were as distant a memory as my grandfather’s memories of me. The last few times I spoke with him, he never acknowledged me by name but was nonetheless happy for the conversation. Likewise.

With that in mind, I must admit to a twinge of guilt. On my way to work this past Monday, I heard the news of David Bowie’s passing. That struck a chord with me like a sledgehammer against an anvil. I was 16 when I became a massive fan of Bowie and his take on industrial music with the Outside album. Bowie was part of the tapestry of my youth ever since the film Labyrinth. But Outside made me want to explore his catalog in greater detail. I feel like there were some good albums in there and some really not good albums. That’s my opinion and the man’s passing doesn’t change that view. The fact is that no one is perfect, as talented as they might be. But in that search, I came across what I still hold as my 2nd favorite album of all-time, the first being fairly embarrassing.

The Rise of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was full of theatrics and amazing songs. It was a Rocky Horror precursor and the gateway that got me to the Berlin records with Iggy Pop, just a few more added benefits to its existence. The only track that isn’t absolutely perfect is “It Ain’t Easy”, the only song not written by Bowie on the record. It’s an album that gives me great comfort in its ability to inspire so many different emotions. It’s a slice of life with an extraterrestrial twist. It also deals heavily with death and endings, in general. My favorite song on it has always been “Soul Love”. Every line sticks out to me despite my not believing in souls or God or anything. I’ve always taken it as love being something that happens to you or is inflicted upon you, not something you choose for yourself.

That’s rather the way it is with family, isn’t it? You’re supposed to love them, you don’t choose to. And now, at 36, I am left with one parent and one grandparent. Both are strong and amazing women but the family I actually like seems to be shrinking while the one I can’t stand grows like a plague. I’m grateful for all the time I spent with my grandfather in recent years, even though he may have had no inkling as to who I was some of the time. I wish I could have been at his service to hear some stories that I didn’t get to hear from him, 50 or so times. I just hope that I made his time on Earth better when I was there just as Ziggy did for me.

How sometimes laughter is not the best medicine

Robin Williams hung himself this last week. That’s a very surreal sentence to write. Substitute anyone’s name there, anyone from reality, and the effect is the same. The act itself is not done as a mere flirtation with death. This is something done with purpose after much deliberation and likely other less successful attempts. More sad than the finality of it all was my reaction to the news, which was that his son had gone the same way…in a movie.

In the last film of his that I really enjoyed, Williams played an aspiring writer and teacher and father of a little prick obsessed with sex and making everyone’s life a bit more hellacious. World’s Greatest Dad, directed by Bobcat Goldthwait (yep, him), is a film where the son accidentally strangles himself during auto-erotic asphyxiation. Not wanting this to be the way his son died, the Robin Williams character stages the scene to look as though he just hung himself…with a belt. He even goes so far as to write a suicide note.

It begins: “To all those I hate, I don’t know why I’m writing this. You never cared about what l thought or felt while I was alive. Besides you’re all too shallow to comprehend the pain I feel.”

The note is leaked throughout the son’s school and affects the student body and teachers in a profound way. It ends up becoming a national phenomenon, earning the Williams character fame and wealth as it becomes published. The father’s own pride eventually gets in the way as he wants the world to know that they were his words, not his horrible son’s, that they are so moved by. The world seeks not to embrace him but turns on him as a result.

This brings me to the truly horrible internet trolls that attacked Zelda Williams, Robin’s daughter. I wish I felt the death of my father as deeply as Zelda obviously does. But, unlike her, I didn’t love my father. I barely knew him. How people can be so low as to begrudge a young woman the chance to grieve her own father is beyond me. The whole “coward” argument of suicide is just some outdated macho bullshit that neanderthals say to, oh, I don’t know why they say it. Honestly, I have to imagine that thoughts of suicide are not uncommon. I know I’ve felt it on numerous occasions. Its allure is strong the harder things get, the heavier they weigh on your chest and, eventually, it just feels like it’s all caving in.

I can’t answer why Robin Williams would do it anymore than why I haven’t. I’d like to think, for me, it’s because of words similar to those in the film’s note. I admit to having a good deal of hate in my heart. I honestly believe it’s what gets me out of bed most days. That those that ruined my life don’t get to be the end of it. I need to know that my life continues on my own terms. Granted, there’s always the runaway bus or lightning strike to finish me off. Maybe Williams felt the same way.

The truth is that everyone’s threshold for the sheer amount of bullshit they are willing to take is unique. No one reacts to things the same. If someone judges their situation as hopelessly beyond insufferable, they are totally within their right to say enough is enough. Then again, people also want to condemn those that want to be taken off of life support when they have no quality of life left. Dr. Jack Kevorkian spent over eight years in jail because he believed that people should have the freedom to stop suffering from physical ailments.

This isn’t meant to be some diatribe but it’s been simmering in my head for the better part of the week. IT was something I shrugged off initially but it just kept gnawing at me. Gene Simmons, a Grade A pile of shit, went on a rant of his own about people with depression and that they should all just kill themselves. Well, Gene, not everyone can survive on nothing outside the basest desires of blowjobs and money hoarding. I had won tickets to see Def Leppard and KISS, so I went (it was two days ago). I want to say that I walked out after Def Leppard because I simply disagree with the Demon tongue’s comments and not just the fact that KISS is terrible.

It took a while to realize that the loss of Robin Williams actually meant something to me. When I was a kid I liked some dumb stuff. But two of those were not Mork & Mindy and the cartoon Popeye. When they made the Popeye movie and Williams was the title character, it was the first time I understood the concept of actors. There was a connection. Mork is still Mork but he can also be Popeye. I’m sure this would have happened soon anyway after seeing Paul Reubens as Pee Wee Herman and then Pinocchio. But Williams was the gateway.

Very few people die and it makes no impact. It’s the one way we know that we ever lived at all. I’m not sad but it does feel like there’s a small whole in the world. A whole that can still be filled however any individual feels they want to. While Williams was a gifted comedian, I like a more diverse Robin. Beyond just telling jokes, he could be a powerful and riveting performer. In lesser hands, Rainbow Randolph from Death to Smoochy is single-faceted. Williams played the part with depth and complexity. His performance was vulgar and vicious, yet vulnerable and, yes, funny. Though later in life, he seemed to always want to give us the run-on sentence spewing spastic lunatic because that’s what he felt we wanted. All I really want to do now is something I’ll never get the chance to: give the man a hug and tell him ad nauseum, “It’s not your fault.”

How people try to shit where I eat

Since when does suggesting a movie constitute flirting? According to my friend Holly, it’s when I do it to a semi-attractive female student. What she fails to realize is that attraction has little or nothing to do with it. I just appreciate good cinema.

Maybe it didn’t start off entirely innocently. Granted, the women in question was an incoming student at the college I work at and she had impossibly long legs. Of course I noticed, you couldn’t miss them. She was like a gazelle…and I was the lion? Damned jungle metaphors. The point is that I’m not blind but I know enough not to be overt or make any sort of inappropriate comments or advances (past lessons learned).

I don’t remember how the conversation began but it came around to the awesomeness of Kevin Spacey. People always talk about American Beauty as his real tour de force performance. He did win an Oscar for The Usual Suspects and Se7en might not have had the impact it did had it not been for his portrayal as John Doe. However, I am going to point to my favorite Spacey role, that of —— in Swimming With Sharks. The student mentioned how much she liked Horrible Bosses and I said if she liked watching Spacey belittle an underling, she needed to check out Swimming With Sharks. This is a totally reasonable recommendation to make seeing as we were talking about Spacey. There was no one left in the line so it wasn’t like we were holding up business. She and I haven’t exchanged more than 10 words since her first day so the whole thing was benign. Shut up, Holly.

On the other side of it, I had a different female student give me a Valentine. At first I thought it was just a piece of candy with some innocuous little note that everyone gets, like grade school. It was a small packet of those red Starburst, a.k.a. the good flavors. Nothing says love like sucking a lemon-flavored turd square. I go open the candy when I notice a blue Post-it attached. It says something to the effect of wanting to get to know me and her phone number. Ugh. I decided against eating the candy since I was not about to accept the sentiment.

I had heard this student, on numerous occasions and against my will, talking on the phone about her foster kids and the like. Admirable to be sure, but I am not jumping at the chance to get involved in that mess. Holly just said I’m no fun as a result of that comment. If foster kids are fun, this would have been a barrel of monkeys. This was more like a barrel of monkeys flinging poop at each other. That’s not my idea of fun.

Students are here for ten months and I had no idea how many more this student still had at the school. I dreaded having to deal with this nonsense over the weekend, Valentine’s Day coming on a Friday this year. I was grateful for a three day weekend so that there was one less day to have to talk about this. But I was lucky. That student only had one week left of school before she was done and we never had to talk about it. She and I are probably both glad she waited as long as she did.

Sometimes, work finds me elsewhere. A couple of years ago, I tried a new doctor’s office because the general practitioner I had prescribed Metamucil for every ailment. Fucking idiot, that guy. I went into this new office and I recognized one of the medical assistants as a former student from the school I work at. Like Carl the janitor in The Breakfast Club, I am the eyes and ears of this institution. People have conversations that I really don’t want to hear at huge volumes so I can’t avoid them. There is a connection in my mind between this school, the drama I hear, and the drama on the daytime talk shows that the school advertises on. It’s all one in the same for me. Therefore, when it infringes on my life away from work, I flee. That medical assistant may be the best one ever but I won’t know because for all I know, she was one of the many that complained daily about her baby daddy in shouted expletives. That office is closed to me for life now.

I can’t even go to the Walgreens around the corner from me, within walking distance. This is an immense inconvenience for me but I do it because the irritation far outweighs the convenience. My last trip to the pharmacy, I saw two former students. Mind you, unlike the medical assistants that I see every day, I generally only see pharmacy tech students on their first day and never again. But not these two jamokes. I went to pick up my prescription (one of many) and the guy at the counter asks, “Aren’t you from [the school]?”. “Yeah,” I respond, not wanting to go any further with that. “Hey [other guy], it’s the guy from the school!” he says to other guy. I didn’t realize I was such a celebrity that my mere presence warrants a “hey-look-it’s” deal. This is likely the only time in my life that I will know how Miley Cyrus feels, not that I’m going to ride a wrecking ball naked or anything. Probably not, anyway. Doesn’t this violate HEPA? You can’t just go around a pharmacy pointing and yelling “he’s over here”, can you? Beatlemania in the pharmacy!

In seven years of working at this school, I have become friendly with exactly one person and that was in year one. She was cute, she gave me her Facebook info, and we became “friends”. She went into the military and after a couple of years, I was eventually unfriended or lost or whatever happens when you don’t really know someone. It wasn’t anything I said directly to her as I didn’t really say much to her at all. It very well could have been something I posted on my wall, seeing as I write some tasteless shit sometimes. Really, it’s true. And I’m okay with that. I don’t need nor want my full-time work to encroach on my spare time. So to the next student that bats her eyelashes or whatever, it’s not you, it’s not me, it’s my work. I leave it where it is, where it can’t touch me.

How holiday gift giving is fucking exhausting

It’s been a while. Don’t worry. I’m still retarded.

Within the confines of my own family, I have informed them that Christmas (as it pertains to me) is cancelled. I don’t want anything. Don’t get me anything. Don’t expect anything. Let’s just try to enjoy each other’s company. A more achievable feat would be to not kill each other.

My part-time job has rendered me unable to get through this holiday season entirely unscathed. We have a fucking secret Santa. Santa is not real. That’s no secret. I normally scoff at these arbitrary customs but everyone else on staff is participating, which would make me more than just the solitary outcast that I already am. I’d be the cheap fucking bastard on top of it. The cap has been set at $15. Luckily for me, I found a kick ass gift for my recipient already, so I’m fucking done. I have already won secret Santa. To be fair, I guess the person that gives receives the best gift is the real winner.

If I was still hunting down gifts like a chump, the Rolling Stone guide would be of whatever the antithesis of help would be. Total credit for this post idea goes to Drew Magary of Deadspin.

Readers of my other blog, Hannibal Collector (cheap pop), know I am a music fan. I pity any fool that has to try to find a gift for someone like me from this sorry ass list.

First off, these are headphones. You put them over your ears and sound comes out. The cheapest ones listed on here are the Jabra Revo Wireless, retailing at $250! There are described as “on-ear headphones [that] sync with any Bluetooth-enabled device for wireless streaming. Soft memory foam cups massage the ears, and a free audio-enhancing app lets you fine-tune the sound levels.” These had better massage my ears, back, feet, and anus for $250. I can spend that money on a woman whispering warmly in my ear, tits in my face, with a finger up my ass for that kind of dough. Not that I’m into that.

If that’s not good enough, there are the $1000 Sennheiser IE 800 earbuds. I thought this was a made-up brand from The Sims. “Sure, they cost as much as a monthly mortgage payment, but these earbuds live up to their” – I stopped reading there because if your choice is between your mortgage payment and some earbuds and you choose the latter, how in the hell are you going to listen to anything? Are you going to plug them into somebody’s laptop at Starbucks while you hold your change cup?
I like books. Hell, I love books. I’ve worked in bookstores for the better part of the last 15 years. I really like music biographies. These, however, are kinda bullshit. The one on the left is a book by Ralph Steadman, who you may know as the artist from the Hunter S. Thompson books. He’s great and all, but $200 for a book is downright stupid. They’re only pushing that item because ol’ Ralph is a Rolling Stone contributor. Nice that they’re helping their guy but anyone who buys this should have their mescaline levels tested.

That is not the worst one, though. Former Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman is selling a scrapbook for $250. Now, this was a guy who, at the age of 47, dated a 13 year-old. He later married her (when she finally turned legal) but that doesn’t make it any less creepy. Anything this miscreant may have in a scrapbook is likely something I don’t want to see.

Who doesn’t like a cool T-shirt? Not you? Get the fuck outta here. These come from something called Deer Dana: “Smart, witty and distinctive hand-illustrated shirts featuring cool people from Basquiat to Lil Wayne.” So, when do the cool people come in? Pictured here are Rick Ross and what appears to be Zombie Andrew W.K. Make me a mummified Miley Cyrus and I’ll give you your $60 and a festive dick kick free of charge.

Prints of “killer classic-rock photos” from the Morrison Hotel Gallery for $600. Don’t get a washed up rock DJ to write your copy, kids. That’s a free piece of advice. This might be worth it if it was a signed print by Frank Miller from his Daredevil days or Dark Knight Returns or even Sin City. Instead we get a picture of Bob Dylan smoking and ignoring Paul Phifer. Deal. Here’s the same damned thing but from Rock Paper Photo and for $400 less. Let me think. [Gives Morrison Hotel Gallery the finger]I absolutely adore vinyl. It is my preferred media form for music. Even if I were filthy stinking rich, I’d still have to draw the line at $6500 for a turntable. Doesn’t that just make your skin crawl? “The turntable of the gods: Audiophile company McIntosh introduces a near-perfect model that’s like a Maybach for your LPs.” Even heavy-duty Apple products cost less than this. McIntosh, my ass. What the fuck is a Maybach? Stop trying to fool me into buying your fancy items by trying to make me feel inadequate. Next!

These are actually kinda cool. I must say that I would have never come up with hoodies dedicated to Yo! MTV Raps. Furthermore, I never would have dreamed of retailing them at $70. I’m in the wrong business. Anyone want to Kickstart a business selling Re-Run Berets?

No fucking clue. These are supposed to be Bluetooth stereos but all I see is Lego. This next item is $380. And guess what’s not included. The fucking guitar. It’s a case from BoWoo that is “protective, yet never uncomfortable to carry”. I guess money in the wallet is too uncomfortable to carry.

This guide also goes on to recommend XBox One and Playstation 4. Way to go out on a limb there, shitheads. Kids like video games. Dad wants tools and fishing gear. Mom just wants everyone to get along. Oh, just blow me, Rolling Stone.

How this happened, whatever it was

This is a different sort of a nothing post. But it is on a kind of nothing blog, so I guess that’s okay. Back when I worked for Crooks-A-Million, I was a manager and could actually get along with the rest of the employees, with the exception of the Cheez It eating, newspaper reading, lazy pile of monkey shit General (Mills) Manager, “Lynne”. Kind of like Lynne Belvedere but without being remotely funny. More on that, likely, another time.

Before Lynne, we had a fantastic manager, Jennifer. I will forever be grateful to Jennifer for pulling me out of the hellhole that was Target and giving me a chance. We also had a couple of seasonal people who were college students, “Kenny” (if he saw this, he’d laugh his ass off at the fake name) and “Sally”. Kenny was a fucking riot. We would constantly mess with fellow employees. I was his manager and this probably wasn’t the best example to set but fuck those guys if they can’t get the joke. Sally was once the Lilac Princess, kind of like the “Miss Lombard”. Walking dead clerk, “Hans”, (I’m cracking myself up with these names now) used to say that was the reason she “like to wear pink”. Jesus Christ, Hans. I realize you’re a smelly foreigner but lilacs are purple, you moron. He also, more than once, claimed to be known as “the big forehand”.

Sally was a very sweet girl, cute as a button. She’s the kind of girl who if you had impure thoughts about, you were truly depraved. She was nice and agreeable and totally not my type. It should be clear to readers that I am looking for someone with the killer instinct to crush me emotionally. Sally seemed to be the furthest thing from that, so she was not remotely on my radar. Never once did I consider that I might be on hers.

Once, our former manager-in-training, “Coral”, had hinted that Sally was smitten with me but I wrote that off, like I did with a lot of what Coral said. If it wasn’t about the Blackhawks, I wasn’t sure that I could respect her authority on subject. There was the time when we Sally and I were both sitting in the stock room. I was sitting at the manager’s desk, doing some sort of computer work. She was eating lunch at my desk, a good ten feet away. All of a sudden, she apologized. “For what?” I replied.

“I burped.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“So? It’s fine.”

“It’s not ladylike.”

I assured her that I didn’t think of her as any less of a lady due to the fact that everyone should be allowed to burp if they need to, not that she even had audibly. This exchange always did strike me as a bit weird but I always wrote it off to princess standard etiquette.

The next year Sally, was wanting to come back to work during the holidays. As Jennifer (who could blame her) had moved on, so did Lynne from our past seasonal workers. I had tried to set aside some hours for Sally and at least one other seasonal worker but while I was on vacation at the end of October, Lynne decided to hire some real mental defectives instead.

One night, Sally came in when myself and two other employees, “Alice” and “Shirley”, were re-working the History section. The idiots at the Alabama home office could never send us enough Civil War books and we needed to make more room. I think this was the closest the South has ever come to actually winning. It was super busy in the store as it was around Christmas and we had to move fast, thus why there were three of us. Lo and behold, Sally comes in to say hi while her long-time boyfriend was in a different store in the shopping center. There are your regular pleasantries when Alice and Shirley are called to the front to help customers.

The conversation suddenly shifted as Sally’s disposition changed a bit. We were talking about me and my non-existent love life and other such things. Shirley came back and resumed work in the section but doesn’t join in the talking. She just goes about her business. The conversation continues like this until Sally announces that she is engaged to her boyfriend and she stares at me. It’s the kind of stare that you want to look away from but can’t. I have this feeling that she wants me to say something but I can’t figure out what the hell it is.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Shirley glancing over. She senses it too. I tell Sally, “congratulations” and it was like letting air out of a balloon. Sally, quickly and gracefully, extricates herself from the section, then our store, and then our lives. I have never seen her in person again.

Immediately after Sally is out of earshot, I turn to Shirley and asked, “That was weird, right?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything but, yeah, it really was.”

“It was like she wanted me to say something.”

“Yep.”

“What was she hoping for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she likes you.”

“Telling me she’s getting married isn’t the most effective way to do that.” [sidebar: it’s been proven in earlier posts that this is precisely the most effective way to attract me]

“Maybe she wants you tell her not to.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say dismissively.

Who knows? Maybe I’m wrong. That would also make Shirley wrong, however. What this proves is that even when I’m right, I’m wrong. I didn’t do anything about then because I dismissed the very possibility. The reason I wasn’t all that into Sally was that I knew that she was too good for me. And not just that, I mean that she would have been good to me, good for me. That kind of person doesn’t get involved with me. I wouldn’t know what to do if one did.

Is it weird that I occasionally think about this and wonder what would have happened if I would have acted the way I suspected that she wanted? Part of me wants to talk to her and find out if Shirley and I were right. In spite of that, I hope she’s happy. There would have been no guarantee of me making her happy. She was a good person and I only wish her the best.

How I should have been Michael Vick and listened to Bobby ‘the Brain’ Heenan

My friend of the last 25 years (then only 13 years) had his 22nd birthday at John Barleycorn in Chicago. You wouldn’t catch me dead there, these days. I was, to put it lightly, a big drinker at that time. I should really not be alive after all of what I’ve imbibed. I don’t drink anymore because of health reasons but I hadn’t really done much of it in the last six or seven years regardless. However, twelve years ago, it was not an unfamiliar sight to see me glued to the floor somewhere, passed out.

I have never been much of a fashionista (fashionisto in man terms?), as anyone can attest to. This is mostly due to the fact that I don’t care how I dress. Clothes are just a necessary evil. It matters a whole lot more what is comfortable than what looks good. Because of this, in junior high, I wore sweat pants all the time. I guess I did project an air of giving up but I was comfy. In high school, I wore t-shirts and jeans. The sweats were tired. All this time later, I will still wear sweat pants when I just don’t give a shit. I also still wear t-shirts and jeans every chance I get. I wish my job accommodated such fashion sense. Who in the fuck coined the term “business casual” anyway? Those two words do not go together unless you’re a prostitute.

For this party, I took it up a notch. I spent some money on my club gear. The jeans stayed but the shirt had to be special. I dropped $75, not on a club shirt or whatever bros where, but on a football jersey. What’s worse is that, in ten years time, I couldn’t wear it outdoors anymore. This wasn’t because it no longer fit but because of person’s jersey it was. I paid for a home Atlanta Falcons #7, the team’s rookie quarterback, Michael Vick. You may recall that Vick had some issues with the law and animal rights groups a while back. Twelve years ago, he was the next big thing.

Outfit taken care of, we head out to the bar. I immediately set out to get fucked up, as I was apt to do. The rest of the night is generally a blur. But what I do remember is this.

There was a young brunette woman that approached me within the first half an hour I was there. I was already plastered as I had likely gone straight to shots. She asks me, “Are you, Vick?” I then proceeded to tell her who Michael Vick was, probably mentioning the article I had recently read about him in which I learned that he was ambidextrous and could throw the ball 60 plus yards with either arm. Bless her, even drunk herself, she sat and nodded, waiting for me to finish so that she could steer the conversation toward something less superfluous.

It is at that point that a buddy of mine comes over and gets, literally, between us. Now, this is not a guy who is some kind of scavenger who purposely came over and got up in my Kool-Aid. He’s awkward like me and takes the subject to something else entirely. I’m fairly certain it was foreign policy of some kind. I was incredulously incensed regardless. Eventually, the girl’s friends wrangled her back to their group, leaving me to try and talk Bosnia or whatever with my friend. I kept a watchful eye on this one that got away the rest of the night.

After a couple of hours of something that might pass for dancing on my part, and even more drinking, I saw her approach me once more. She said that she was leaving but she had some advice for me in future social gambits. “When a girl asks you if you’re Vick, you say ‘yes’,”. While that isn’t exactly good advice anymore, it taught me something. Lie. It reminds me of the old saying from master philosopher and professional wrestling valet, Bobby ‘the Brain’ Heenan.

“Win if you can, lose if you must. But always cheat.”

Somehow, I think I can even botch that.

How germophobia ruined naughty time

I’d like to thank one of my old Crown cronies, Tony, for the term “naughty time”. Tony was a true goombah. He always talked about having “naughty time” with his girlfriend. I’m glad he felt so comfortable with me that he could discuss that with me.

There was the one story about “Debbie” that I wanted to keep until now. I realize that the four-part origin story (did anyone catch the Batman: Year One references in the titles?) probably wasn’t that entertaining. It was, however, necessary (I thought) that readers understood how deeply I loved Debbie and the lengths I was willing to go for her. I was 20 years old and wanted to marry her after only three months. I’m 34 now and marriage seems like the dumbest fucking thing I could ever do. But, it isn’t. That’s the subject of today’s post.

During the whirlwind with Debbie, there was a truly golden opportunity that I still kick myself about. Forget about the Riot Fest weekend pass from the initial post, this was like burning a winning lottery ticket. We were at “Lizzie” and her mother’s apartment. Two scummier people I did not know. I mean physically scummy. They were nauseating to be around. Lizzie’s sister “Maggie” was alright as a person but I can think of anywhere I would have rather been. Debbie had given me a haircut there once and the only thing that kept my focus away from the grossness of this place was the fact that Debbie was practically on my lap as I just stared at her.

On this occasion, Debbie and the two sisters were going to Zero Gravity, a shitty dance club for people too young to drink. When asked if I wanted to go, I could have just told the truth and said that I couldn’t because I had to work in the morning. Nope. “Fuck no. That place is retarded,” is what I actually said. I probably could have handled that better but I’ve always been acerbic at inopportune moments. The harpies had already started up the “let’s get Debbie laid” chants. Where’s a wrecking ball when you need it? Debbie assured me she was just going to dance. She could dance (professionally even, ugh), that much was certain. I could just sit back and watch her dance, really, but I did have to work in the morning at my stupid menial retail job.

The sister-bitches wanted me to leave so they could get ready and I was more than happy to oblige. But before I left, Debbie made me a counter-offer. She was going to take a shower and wanted me to join her. Based on everything you’ve read from me on this blog, you can probably see where this is going. Have you gotten over my stupidity enough to read on? If so…I will tell you what was going through my mind. It’s true that nothing should have gone through my mind. But the nasty of the resident family did factor in. Also, with them right outside the door? That made me a bit nervous. I should have jumped at the chance to flip them the bird for their rooting against me. But I didn’t. Why? Have we met? I’m the Social Retard.

My last words on the subject: “Rain check?”. This was met a face that can only be described as bewildered.

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me? I know that I blamed Debbie for my greater problems in the “Genesis” posts but clearly the architecture for retarded was already in place. Maybe this is really the first sign that everything was going to crumble. She did looked pretty shocked that I acted like this offer was a price cut on Tide. This was someone who I was in love with for two years and she just asked me to shower with her, with her fucking yenta friends as our captive audience. Fucking hell, Nancy Boy had just shown up too. I could have rubbed it in his stupid face too. What did I ever do to deserve the inability to act in my own best interests? Never before nor since have I been offered a singular event that I have wanted to capitalize on more than that and I ask for a rain check. Part of me wants to just end this entire fucking blog right here. This is clearly the apex of social retardation. Look no further. I have the crown and it’s a bejeweled dunce cap. If I could ever surpass this level of idiocy, I owe it to myself to commit suicide. In fact, if I do, please put me out of my misery.

Genesis Part 4: A Friend in need (asks too much)

This was not sitting well with me at all. I feel my stomach in flames thinking about it now. I decided to hell with this, I was done. This especially sucked since I had bought a (to be kind) modest engagement ring (alright it was a piece of crap). I had felt her slipping away and I didn’t want to lose her.

My oldest friend was over (by the way, I hate writing like this but I didn’t want to drag them back into my pit of despair) and we were going to do something when I get the call. By now, my buddy had to have been used to this because I was always dropping whatever I was doing for her.

Debbie had gotten into a fight with her friends and wanted me to come up there and get her. I still didn’t have a valid license and I had even gone one further and gotten another speeding ticket on the suspended license. Thankfully, my friend didn’t make me beg. I didn’t even have to ask.

The plan was this: We were going to get to the hotel (which one escapes me, I thought it had a rodent in the name but that doesn’t seem to currently exist), find Debbie, and I was going to propose in the Dells. Simple, straightforward, I was going to get this done.

We drive all the way down to the hotel. My friend stays in the car and I go in. Who do I see in the lobby? Nancy Boy. He’s wondering what I’m doing here. I’m wondering why I haven’t smashed his face upon seeing it. I call Debbie, she doesn’t answer. Nancy Boy says he has no idea where she is. She had an argument with her friend and she ran off. I got the room number she had and called the room. Nothing. I didn’t know what to do. Why wasn’t she answering her phone? How did she expect me to find her? I even had the guy at the desk page her! I came to the conclusion that this was just one of her bullshit tests to see how far she could push me. Congrats, Debs, you win again. I’m the dope. Thanks for playing.

I go back out to the parking lot and we make the long drive home. I don’t hear from her for three more days.

When that finally happens, suddenly it’s my fault that I couldn’t find her. She thought it was the best course of action to hide in a different room without her phone, which she had left behind. She says she took a cab all the way back. Where did she get that money, I wonder. You’d think this was the end but, no, there’s still one bit left. I apologize.

As the summer was coming to an end, Debbie wanted to go back to school. She asked if I wanted to go live with her on campus and I told her that I had my job and I couldn’t leave. This was, in retrospect, a fucking idiotic reason, one of all too many. This is the kind of thing I say now to avoid any potential happiness. That being said, I don’t believe that she ever had any intention of going away with me. Nancy was already in the picture, only I didn’t know it yet.

The only thing I could think of to do was to propose to her. So, I did. She was dropping me off at home and I didn’t really see a better time. It so classy. I went into the house quick, put the box in a paper bag, and came out. Debbie was standing at the end of the driveway. I got down on one knee (in shorts! on concrete!), pulled the box out of the bag, and asked her to marry me. She didn’t answer right away, she needed to think. I said that was okay. I was just relieved to get it out. There really was no other thing I could think of to do at that point. Part of me thought it was just a formality. She had already given me the ring she had given Cletus. In retrospect, it was more likely that she just didn’t want to have anything to do with it anymore.

I did start to get impatient. She was going off to school (two hours away, but still) and I needed to know. She left without answering. I badgered for quite a while until she finally relented over the phone and said yes. I was fucking elated. I wanted to go to Japan and get married on New Year’s Eve of that year as 2000 rolled in. Fuck you, Y2K, I was going to make this work for me. The long and the short of it is I didn’t talk to her again for two more years. By then, she was married to someone else and had a baby.

I had a different job then, one I hated, but I pretty much hated everything by that point. I used to drive past her parents’ house since it was (kinda) on my way home. I saw someone in the driveway bending over into the backseat of the car. I’d know that ass anywhere. My heart started to race and I knew I had to get home. I called a friend to come pick me up because I didn’t feel in a good place. I listened to Eminem’s “Kim” about 30 times in a row and my head was spinning. I grabbed Cletus’s ring with the intent of throwing it into her face and telling her off, once and for all.

I have my friend park down the street because I don’t want him to be responsible for anything that I might do. I get to the driveway and I see her. Debbie looks the same. She sees me and speaks first. She is so painfully pleasant just as she was rumbling down those stairs two years earlier. I realize then that any revenge fantasy I have just feels hollow. I try to give her the ring back but, as expected, she doesn’t want it. She brings over her infant daughter and asks if I want to hold her. I did not, so I declined. That felt like a dagger in my heart. This is what I wanted for us. Worse than that, the kid clearly likes me. She’d probably just screw me over eventually too. I went there to give Debbie her comeuppance and ended up letting her take another piece of me. Not to worry, I still had a piece to lose. After all, I would, in an hour’s time.

My grandmother, the woman who had raised me, had just been admitted into the hospital. I was going to visit her. It was there that I found out that she had inoperable esophageal cancer. In one afternoon, I permanently lost the two most important women in my life, my past and my future. My friend was having a party that night, so we went shopping for supplies. I didn’t speak from the time I left the hospital until the next morning. My only supply was a bottle of Jim Beam which I nearly polished off that night. I’d always thought of myself as a fighter. This was the first time that I truly felt defeated.

The postscript here is that I ultimately blame myself for all of this. I remember asking Debbie once what she expected when she called me out of the blue that day. Did she really think I could go see her after she told me she was engaged? “I thought you were going to say, ‘fuck off, bitch'”. I don’t buy that. I think she counted on me going out there that day. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if I had told her to fuck off. I could have never even called her back in the first place. Maybe there was some other poor schmuck next in line. I was just the first fish to bite.

She got to move on, get married, have three kids and pretend I never happened. I’m just someone she stepped on along the way. I actually tried to e-mail her eight years ago to ask her why she did what she did. I had to do it through Classmates.com of all things. Here is that e-mail’s contents:

“I doubt this will mean even matter to you but I wanted to clear my conscience. I’m not sitting here hoping that you’ll get this and we’ll be best friends. That would be nice, but I don’t see it happening. I just wanted to say that I loved you with all my heart and I wish things could have been different. I spent a lot of time hating you and now I see what a waste that is. Even if you don’t care, I forgive you for leaving and a part of me misses you and how you made me feel. It would be nice to hear from you if just to see how you’re doing. But if not, I understand. I just needed to cleanse my soul, so to speak.”

Her response:

“How have you been? I hope your doing good. I have been real busy since school let out. I am currently married and have 2 children. My gosh, they are beautiful! I cant believe how life has changed. Ive changed and Im sure you have to. So, enough about me…what about you? Did you go to college? Work? Girlfriends? Kids? Family? How is your grandma doing? I know we have been through alot and I want you to know I didnt forget anything that we all have done together. It sure was a blast while it lasted. The reason I left was because it was time for me to move on and find myself. I was headed down the wrong path and I needed to take a different route. Ya know? I hope you understand. I never meant to hurt you or anyone else. So if I did, I apologize. Even though we dont talk I still consider you one of my best friends in school. And I mean that whether you think Im kidding or not. Currently in my life, I am a fitness model. Its hard to keep up the body when gravity keeps pulling me down. Ha! But Ive been busy with working out. Its fun and keeps my stress levels low. My daughters are 5 years old and 1.5 years old. My nephew was born on my birthday a couple of days ago. He’s such a doll. I am so excited im finally an auntie. Any kids in your family? Well I hope everything is going your way and life has nothing but the best to offer you. Take care of yourself and it was good to hear from you.”

I’ll let you dear folks talk about that amongst yourselves.

There are plenty of “shoulda” moments littered in this saga. Maybe I “shoulda” left it be after my angry voice mail. I definitely never should have told her that I loved her. That was the moment that I lost all power and control of anything, and I think she knew it. The sad fact is that I talk about giving away the power and there were all these times I could have ended things but I didn’t. The truth is that the choice was never mine. The heart wants what it wants and that makes it an unreliable organ.

It is because of this experience that I don’t feel like people are worth my time. It doesn’t matter that it’s been 14 years or if I managed a Church’s Chicken. I tell myself that romantic relationships aren’t worth the hassle. I’m ever waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everything has a subtext that I can’t decode. I don’t trust my instincts. I won’t let anyone get too close ever again. I won’t let myself be the fool again. I can’t. Writing this caused me to relive it all and I can feel that it still affects me. It angers me that I could ever be so naive. Knowing the cause of my social degradation doesn’t lead to some epiphany. It just reinforces my belief that my heart can’t be trusted, the little piece of shit.

Related articles

• Genesis of the Social Retard Part 1: Who I am, how I came to be (thesocialretard.wordpress.com)
• Genesis Part 2: War is surrendered (thesocialretard.wordpress.com)
• Genesis Part 3: Black Lines (thesocialretard.wordpress.com)

Genesis Part 3: Black Lines

It was weeks until I talked to Debbie again. I was extremely worried about her. I became so preoccupied with her that I got two speeding tickets within 5 days of each other. I just wasn’t even paying attention to what I was doing anymore. My license got suspended and I had to beg for rides to work.

On the Debbie front, I would call and she would hang up on me. I figured that was it. Her little flirtation with leaving Cletus was over and she didn’t need me anymore. A week or so after the last hang-up, she finally calls and gives me hell over making her go back to him, saying she hates me and she left “because he beat” her and the like. Obviously, guilt washes over to the point that I’m drowning in it. I tell her how sorry I am and how could I have known and what can I do to make it up to her. She finally agrees to meet me.

A friend of mine and I are hanging out in his car at the time and we go meet Debbie and some friends of hers in the parking lot of a strip mall in Downers Grove. I don’t remember the conversation specifically but things seemed to be patched up.

Now, the prologue and the conclusion are the most important parts of this story. The journey is generally everything in a saga but I feel like the beginning end tell most of the tale. The rest are just indicative moments.

Strangely enough, some of the most important moments of our time together involve pizzerias. The first time I told Debbie that I loved her was out in front of this place.

It may have been called something else back then but it was sitting in front of this building. She told me a few days later as I was dropping her off at her friend’s place. I know that it’s silly but I sort of blush thinking about it. Even in spite of everything that happened later, I like to believe that she truly loved me at some point, even if it might be easier to stomach knowing she didn’t.

We were watching TV when a commercial for a tattoo parlor came on. I mentioned that I had been thinking of getting one. She already had one on her arm so she thought it was a good idea. Debbie said that I should get her name tattooed on me. This was maybe the only time that I ever actually said no to her. We went to this joint:

In 1999, it was illegal to get a tattoo when you were under 21 in Illinois without parental permission. Well, that was not going to happen. This wasn’t the first choice of places to go but they were the first not to ask for ID. I didn’t have a valid one at this point anyway. Thankfully, Debbie drove me to work and picked me up. What she did in the middle of the day was largely a mystery except for when some weird crisis I could do nothing about would cause her to call me when at work and rile me up. Anyhow, I drew something simple, all outlines, and had that done. One of these days, I might get it filled in.

We even got a cat. I hate cats. I’m allergic to cats. When we went to the pet store, she saw one she liked and reached in the cage for it. It recoiled. I put my hand in and it came right to me. That should have given me pause (paws?). When asked what a good name would be, I said Gizmo like the mogwai from Gremlins. I figured it looked cute but could turn into a horrible beast at any time. Strangely enough, she liked the name. We took to calling it “Gizz” for short (pronounced “Jizz”). The cat ended up having cancer or something. It lived for as long as she was with me, thanks to who knows much money I spent saving its pathetic life.

She had a hard time getting a job and considered exotic dancing. She wanted to see if I would help her get breast implants so she could make more money doing that. I was definitely the jealous type and was not about to let a bunch of filth pigs ogle the woman I loved. Debbie thought it would be okay if I was her personal security. I could make sure nothing out-of-bounds would happen. She ended up doing it for a couple of weekends against my protests. I really don’t know why I bothered saying anything. Ever. I guess I wanted to at least pretend I had a say in anything.

There was always a dark underbelly to our relationship. We fought a lot, about some dumb things but also some important things (like the dancing). The fact that Debbie lived with some older guy friend of hers was also a point of contention. He worked at Nancy’s Pizzeria, we called him “Nancy Boy” as a result. She maintained that nothing was going on and I wanted to believe her, so I fooled myself into doing just that. It was around that time that I found out I had hypertension. I was so stressed out all the time that I lived off of mostly Maalox and cigarettes for months. That is, when I wasn’t drinking myself into oblivion.

We were at a family reunion barbecue of a guy that I didn’t really get along with in school but was her friend’s boyfriend. We were the only white people there so that was funny. I never wanted Debbie to drink or anything because I was worried about her partying history. There was actually a rumor of her overdosing in the two years we didn’t talk which was never really disputed. She kept grabbing beers and shots from tables and I would instantly take them from her hand and drink them, tossing the cups to the ground. I was wasted pretty fast but I had a mission. Meanwhile, the family wondered where all their booze was going. We took off under the guise of getting some more, never mind that this wasn’t possible as we were underage.

There was actually a time when she started an argument with me over my work phone and the line went dead on her end. I used to have to sort it all out right then and there. I did and still do hate to dwell on things. I’d rather we fix it or break it the whole way. I kept trying to call her back but it kept going to voice mail. I called back and left a pretty horrible message about how she didn’t care about me at all. I was just convenient and foolish enough to put up with her crap, doing whatever she asks. I was done coming around to pick up the pieces. I had my own life to repair. It hurt like hell but I really believed the things I was saying. After a few hours, her friend “Maggie” called and asked, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Me? She’s the one who…I can hear crying hysterically in the background. In spite of everything (and of what people might think of me), that is not the sound I ever want to cause, much less to someone I love. That’s the crux of it right there. For me to love, I have to go all in. Unfortunately, that can lead to madness. It certainly did in this case.

There were any number of deplorable things I could blame Debbie for and they would all be deserved. She schemed and extracted a few grand from me as well as friends that tried to help me out (something I cannot even today forgive myself for), she cheated on me with Nancy Boy. But there is one story that kind of encapsulates all the transgressions in one. I admit that I am not entirely blameless but I also think I did better than anyone else could have. Why? Because I truly wanted to. She was a burden but she was my burden. I had asked for this but had I asked for this?

There is a bit of silver lining to this story as I know who my true friends are. For this alone, I need not ever wonder about the loyalty of my oldest friend. We still hang out all the time and I know I can always depend on him. Before I get too far ahead, my other best friend that I had originally talked to about going to visit her had helped me track Debbie down as she had left town and wasn’t answering her phone. My friend called “Maggie”, who wasn’t answering my calls, and found out that she, this friend, and Nancy Boy went to Wisconsin Dells.

Related articles

• Genesis of the Social Retard Part 1: Who I am, how I came to be (thesocialretard.wordpress.com)
• Genesis Part 2: War is surrendered (thesocialretard.wordpress.com)