Man Danglers

Running a bit late today, and maybe that is a good thing. I thought I was going to riff on seeing some dorkstick painting snow... serriously, our tax money at work; however, it occurred to me that it would have sounded hollow coming from me.

You think this is true mostly because my heart and mind wouldn't be in it. I had one of those conversations that a person has that at the time seem meandering and relatively without consequence.

I am famous for my philosophizing, my incessant need to question and examine. Hell, one of my better friendships is based on doing this when I probably should have been working. It got to the point where the boss actually would say something about us philosophizing in the hallways.

The point is, I am never happy with the surface of something, and rarely happy with an sort of lack of discussion on something.

This conversation was about something I have no right to discuss in any way. Love.

It's one of those topics that everyone has an opinion on, and some even get rich of their ridiculous notions.

Gear not intrepid reader, this is not about love, and I am never ever going to get rich off of my minuscule understanding of life's great prize.

This actually started me thinking about something. Mostly, why the hell am I not feeling the goodness of the love. This led me to think in the physical realm for a short period of time, but then I realised, hey some people love pugs, so beauty is not really a factor.

So is it that I am not a man?

Yeah I know, where did that come from, right? Sometimes it is better not to ask how my brain gets somewhere, lest we get sucked in to a vortex of nutbariness. In this case we should probably just say, in order to be in love, and be loved, you kinda gotta be a grown up. Kids get caught up in other emotions, lust, anger, jealousy and other things Yoda disapproves of.

A man can move beyond these things. A man has the knowledge and the wisdom. The temperment to utilize these things, and the strength to not back down from them.

In many ways, I am still a boy. In many ways I am still that scared little boy under the park bench waiting for someone to kill me. I recently had the chance to discuss the stages of development as theorized by Eikson. These stages discuss how someone learns and moves on to the next stage of life. The important part therapeutically speaking of his idea is that when one does not pass through the stage properly, they become stuck in life and cannot truly grow and mature.

I bring this up because I am wondering if I am really a man, and what really makes a man anyway.

I talked of strength, and to be sure, strength is not my problem...or is it. I am a very powerfully built human being. A gift I suppose that has helped me survive in many instances that surely should have destroyed me. But what use does that strength have? I can no longer use it to make money, so it kind of becomes useless.

True strength though is about strength of character, self discipline and the ability to beat yourself up when necessary.

I think this is the strength that any of my so called father figures failed to impart to me. Oh sure, I am stubborn, and that provides a certain amount of strength. If I say, something is going to be some way or another, then that is simply the way it is going to be for me. It's how I kicked drugs. I merely said, nah this is not how I am going to be any more. And for the most part, it was, and is that way.

What I was never taught though, what my Miyagi's never got through to me, or in some cases never bothered to impart in any way, was self discipline to attain things.

I have the appropriate sensibilities about woman, and proper behaviour, but I lack the stickwithitness that many find so sexy.

Mostly this has been about a lack of motivation. Never having the foresight to see the value in anything allows me the freedom to act like a child. This is not what being a man is all about.

Taking action when action is needed is easy. I am the type of protector and giver that will save and protect you from anything if I want to, but it is the fact that I can never promise the world that keeps me from doing anything proactive.

Think of it this way, Christians act nice because they are going to heaven. Tell them that God's plan for them is eternal suffering because he loves them is not gonna get you many god botherers.

Telling a man, if he man's up he is going to get what he wants, and most men will nose up to that old grindstone. Not me.

You can promise me the world if I just do this that or the other thing, and I will say to you, sounds great, give me a taste to prove you are telling the truth. I lack all faith. We could examine all of the broken promises in my life that has led me to this belief structure, but this is not about that. This is about me complaining about not having what I want.

On a certain level, this is about me wondering what a man has to do.

I never had that instruction. I never saw what a true man is. I only saw what not to do. What does a man do when he lacks all context for how to go about this life thing as a true man.

Like every other shlub out there, I want the American dream. The beautiful home, where the beautiful wife sits with me and stares out the window at the beautiful scenery. Don't know how to get it, wouldn't know what to do once I got it.

I guess what I am saying then is, like most of you, I don't have a clue. Life's instruction manual appears to be written in Sanskrit or Chinese, or Spanish, or some language only the crazy people are confident in knowing how to read....yeah I am looking at you charlie sheen, after all you are winning!

Since I don't have the answers, here is what I offer.

Adventure.

Come with me and explore this vast world with me. Learn with me. Try things, taste new things, ttry different ways and see what works and what doesn't/

I can't promise it will be easy. I can't promise it won't hurt sometimes.

I can promise it will be exciting. I can promise that it will be a learning experience full of new sights, sounds, smells and sensations.

It won't be predictable, but life shouldn't be. Life shouldn't be lived in routine. If it is, you aren't trying.

Live to live with me, and stop living to die.

The Longest Line

I think I need to start this off with a piece of great music.




So, I found myself in a weird situation today, having to stand in a line to check in at a social services office for a meeting.

Now, anyone who knows me will understand that I try not to be judgemental. I am not foolish enough to think that I am not, but at least give it full faith and effort. I try to see everyone as valuable, and everyone as being important in their own way.

Having said that, there are a few people I could do with out, and all three of them were in line with me today.

The first is dudebroh wanna be outsider fat boy sludge poser guy. Ok so the thing about this guy is that he is not really anything that he wants to be, and he doesn't exactly know that. He is white, but wears his bright shiny new ball cap (bright blue for those playing at home) tilted to the side. He wears his jorts clean, and his sports jersey fresh out of the wash. He is too out of shape to do atheletics, and to weird looking to do coeds. He isn't exactly funny or interesting, nor is he bright or dumb. This guy is just not any thing specific that he wants to be and he pushes through it any way.

The next type of person is angry white boy from the suburbs. He wears designer hoodies, shaves his goatee sharply and wears large designer jeans.

He works out a lot so he is in shape and he eats well so he is never really hungry. He knows he is god's gift to the world because his beleaguered mother tells him so because he baby can't do wrong.

The final person is daddy's little crack whore. You see, I know what makes a true crack whore, a true street demon chick. This girl doesn't have that. This girl was not abused or neglected; in fact, the exact opposite is true. she was spoiled. She got everything she wanted and never learned what it was to consider anyone else.

So first guy shall be called moose, second guy fred durst and third.....let's call her... Samantha. This one looked like a Samantha.

Ok so I walk in and some random person is at the front of the line then fred durst, then me. At the reception desk is Moose.

Moose leaves and walks by, sees fred durst and stops. He begins a complicated greeting ritual that involves hand gestures, slurred speech and nicknames like brah and homie.

They begin discussing how they can stay in contact as Samantha and her friend come up behind me. Moose sees Samantha and smiles and says some version of greeting young lady, it is a pleasure to see you again. At least this is what my douche to english dictionary tells me he said.

Then Samantha notices fred durst, and the game changes. It is clear to me she has had the sex with fred. She touches his arm and does the pouty face and puts herself between moose and fred.

Moose attempts some ham handed attempts to reenter the conversation and get between sam and fred but he quickly leaves without his digits, and presumably to cry.

At this point Samantha appears to be probing why fred durst never called him back even after she let him kick in the screen door.

The recpetionist called him over and he came forward, so did samantha because she wanted him to like her.

She walked halfway to the counter, then just stood there, in front of me. He friend decided this was the perfect oppurtunity to jump the line and proceeded to stand next to her girlfriend, who had just come from the courthouse where she was pretty sure she was just going to have to pay a fine.

Then it came that awkward time where the receptionist had to call someone forward. She wasn't sure who to call since I was in line and this other girl was in front of me. but off to the side.

Samantha begin to move forward. She was too slow, and I was much louder. I jumped in front of her with a giant smile and said hello to the receptionist and told her why I was there.

Samantha gave me a dirty look.

I wish I could have explained to her what happened. Explain to her that her complete lack of interest in anyone other than her is what caused her to be in the postion she is in.

Her complete lack of humility and mistreatment of others is what caused me to decide to treat her poorly.

Maybe if she had valued me, or valued moose...poor moose.

Sometimes you have to be mean ton be kind.

Light and Fluffy

So, I decided that I didn't want to put presure on myself today and actually write more on the piecework fiction project.

This wasd a horrible decision that appears to have backfired tremendously. Turns out, the presure to do something worth reading is much greater than the presure to write something cohesive.

I was chatting with a crazy person, which is of course never recomended, but I figured it would be ok because I am a bit crazy so it couldn't be all bad.

Well, I mentioned I had to figure out what to write about. Her fabulous and overwhelmingly useful suggestion? Something light and fluffy.

What does that even mean? Does that mean I should write about a miniature fat dude who is crazy? No wait, that's who she thinks I am. Ok maybe she meant....oh who I am kidding. I have no freaking idea what she meant.

I don't think I am built that way. I am just not light and fluffy. I want to be, but even the stuff I joke around about are actual issues we are trying to deal with in this world.

I would like to be the kind of person who can just let his mind wander, and wonder. The kind of person who can go to the same job, screw in the same bolt day in and day out. Come home to the same caserole every night. Fall a sleep during the news.

I just can't do this, I am not that person. I need more.... stimulating experiences.

Like a scientist I want to observe and experience everything this life has to offer, not just the monotony of a servile existance.

I cannot do light and fluffy because I refuse to believe that this world is light and fluffy. I refuse to believe that all existance is that frigging boring. There has to be more.

I know there are people who can watch CSI Pawtucket, but it ain't me.

I know there are people who can watch TMZ, it ain't me.

I know there are people who can do what they're told and fall in line. It ain't me.

I think this life would be easier if I could do this sort of thing, but I have never done anything the easy way. Not once have I chosen the easy path.

I chose the streets. I chose anger and hatred.

I chose unrequited love,

Some might say it is about suffering, about choosing to punish myself for being weak or distorted thinking about not being worthy. Many a psychiatrist or psychologist will tell you that if you are told you are worthless long enough you will believe. It becomes self fullfilling prophecy, but that is crap.

I choose the tough road because I think I am worth it, because I want big things, great things. I want these things that are out of my reach.

So often in this life it is about the chase, the high is in the yearning for the achievement. Once you get there you can enjoy it all the more.

It is the reason I will never give up, I will never back down from anything.

Some people have to deal with this in a way I wouldn`t wish on them, but it is the way it is.

I am not light and fluffy, just big and hard....ok that sounded sexual, but it wasn`t.

I have a dream to shoot for now, and I am trying my ass off, but should I fail, that`s ok, I can always fall back on being one of the masses, enjoying my pavlum.

Humanity Lost pt 2

Outside the house a black mustang pulls up to the curb. It positions itself right in front of the SWAT vehicle, whose flashing red and blue lights cascade off the mustang's polished shiny black surface, reflecting outward and bathing the entire block in undulating light.

From inside the mustang comes the sound of muffled grunge music.

Moments after stopping, the driver's side door opens; and as a result, the music, now blaring, adds to the confusion of the street scene by adding to the cacophony of noise that some might find annoying, but to the residents of Freedom City mostly find comforting.

Booted feet, leading to jeaned legs hit the ground. Unwinding from the mustang comes the windbreakered, athletic frame of Ryan Carrick.

His brown hair hidden underneath a baseball cap, while the brim seems to hide his piercing blue eyes. The look on his face is passive as he surveys the scene. His eyes momentarily lock on a shadow accros the street, but his interest quickly reverts back to the issue at hand.

Slowly, but with determination he makes his way to the front door. He notices the exact spot the ram hit the door, can see the shatter points on the frame where the hinges lost their battle with kinetic energy.

As he hit the threshold he smiles; because, despite the loud noises coming from the street, his hearing picks up the conversation coming from inside the house.

"Ok Bree, SID is here, just shut yer mouth and let me do the talking."

Carrick moves in to the house proper, surbeying everything, taking in every detail with his hyper attuned sense. He misses nothing. It is probably what makes him so good at what he does. His sense are incredibly sharp. He can hear subtle changes in tone, see small cracks in plaster from the other side of a room, smell the difference between a street bum and an undercover cop, and feel the thread count in his sheets. He never really talks about how sharp his sense of taste is, but it might be the only thing about his senses that are not sharp, judging by the gas station food diet he mostly consumes.

As he steps in to the kitchen his smile broadens. He notices how the SWAT team surrounds their own, creating a barrier of meat, muscle and black lycra and kevlar.

"Relax Sargeant, I am not from the clean shoot team. This is one of my witnesses." His voice is flat and unemotional as he gestures to the mound of dead flesh on the floor.

"Oh it's you Carrick. Glad to see ya." This from one of the veterans of the team who had been at more than a few of Carrick's crime scenes.

Carrick begins to scan the scene for evidence of what happened. He can see the slightly ajar back door. A small scuff mark on the kitchen floor where Breana's Boot dragged. He notices thespot on the kitchen table where a small amount of gun powder had rested when it's parent firearm had been rested there.

He also can smell the blood from the other room.

Carrick looks up from his search to find the shooter. "tell me happened." His deepish voice seemed passive, but caring. It has just a hint of his Irish ancestery in it, and puts many at ease.

Breana looks to her sergeant for an answer as to what to do.

"It;s Ok officer, I want tell if you don't/ This time he gives off a playful bent.

Carrick's reputation as a straight shooter preceeds him, and Breana's sergeant nods at her.

"Well, looks like the hump here got it in his head his family was doing something wrong, so he butcheredd them." Her voice is still a bit shaky, a quality that is not lost on Carrick. "Then he went to the store for some beer. That's when we got the call."

"That I already know officer. What I really want to know right now is what you see here."

Breana is confused at first, but then realises this is just an exercise. He wants her to babble at him as he looks at the scene. He just wants an extra pair of eyes.

She begins to actually take stock of the mound of former man on the floor.

"Well, he smells pretty bad." She doesn't know what he wants to hear from her.

"Yeah, happens when they stop looking after their cyber. The parts around where the metal meats the flesh start to kind of rot and get infected."

She can see the dead man had a cybernetic left arm begining just below the sholder. "Looks like he has a metal arm. Looks cheap."

"Yep. It's military issue, you can tell from the servo motors." Ryan is squatting beside the dead man tilting his head from side to side. "That's not the only thing."

"huh?" What is this guy's problem? Having just killed someone, Breana was in no mood for chit chat.

"Look closer at the left eye. It's a fake. Notice how it is still expanding and contracting with the light." Carrick looks up at Breana to see how she processes this information.

"That isn't military, they never replace eyes." She was feeling a bit more comfortable now that she could add to the conversation form a place of knowledge.

"True. Plus," he waves an arm to indicate the entire house, "judging by this place, not something in his price range. Curious..."

Breana says nothing and just lets the Special Investigator trail off in to thought. It gives her a moment to herself so she can process her own feelings about what has happened.

It is the first time she has ever killed. She never wanted to kill anyone, even though she took a job with the SWAT team. She curses her own gifts. She is quiet, stealthy and ctlike, perfect bringer of death. She is also small and compact. Perfect bringer of death. She is young and resilient. Perfect bringer of death.

She was forced in to this life because of forces beyond her control, but she regrets nothing. This man is...was a killer. A family anhilator, one of the worst sort.

She did what she had to do. She did what her training allowed her to do with efficiency and with a cold heart.

She did... her internal justification is cut short by a commotion at the front of the house. A new party has joined the scene.

Looking up at the same time she sees what Carrick sees, or at least some of what he sees.

Two men in suits flashing badges. The men come even closer waving their credentials in everyone's face, stopping in front of Breana. Carrick stands to his full 6 foot two inches, and looks at the newcomers dispassionately.

"Reynolds, FBI." This matter of fact, and rather bold statement comes from the larger of the two new arrivals. He is staring past Breana at the carcass. "This our crime scene now, I want everyone out."

Carrick doesn't move.

"Did none of youse hear my partner, he said out." The smaller man has a thick Freedom City accent, born of irish blue collar ancestery. Not like Carrick's though. Less refined, and with more bravado. Like the sound of a trunpet that isn't wuite in tune, but blares away anyway hoping you won't notice.

Carrick shifts his weight from side to side several times as if unsure of how he wants to proceed. Finally he rocks back on his heels then plants his feet. "Actually, this is my scene, and I think I'm going to keep it. I have grown fond of it."

The larger one, Reynolds sneers. "You can have the scene, we're just here for the body."

So Far Away

I have spent most of the day day dreaming with my favourite dreamer. And it was good.

We bandied about theories on what makes appropriate semi formal dinner ware, and we dicussed beach front property. It was good.

We bargained for decor, and divied up imaginary rooms. It was good.

We even discusseed what it would take to live the dream. It was bad.

As with so many things in life, this dream involved chasing tiny pieces of green paper around until we caught enough of them. I sometimes wonder what life would be like if we didn't have to do this, didn't have to whore ourselves out.

I also wonder why it is some people have so damn much of it when the rest of us have so damn little.

It annoys me that society deems what Alex Rodriguez does is more valuable than what I do. And not even by a small margin. Think of it this way, A-Fraud makes approximately 1103 times what I did at my highest paying job. It angers me a bit that this dude has millions of dollars while people starve. I think until we manage to reconcile that every life has value, and that paying stupid money to people to do stupid things is not progress.

Think of it this way. Charlie Sheen has so much FU money that he can melt down and never have to worry about it. He can piss off and alienate every one on the planet, but who cares, the guys great greta great grandchildren never have to work a day in their lives.

This is all just sour grapes because I see how far away my dream is, how tiny of a speck on the horizon it is. I am seperated from it by an ocean and a desert, and I have no boat and no camel.

I think though I might as well work towards it. Work harder than I have ever worked in my life, because if something is worthwhile, and if it is truly great, then it must be worth fighting for, and worth working my ass off for.

So I guess this is me tossing my hat over the wall, dropping the gauntlet, pissing on the electric fence. This is me saying come hell or high water, by December 2012 I am going to be in Florida. I am going to have the dream, and if my favourite dreamer wants to meet me there, so be it.

Is this a good thing?

humanity lost pt 1

Breana is crawling on her belly, she does that a lot for some reasson. She is inside the house now and she keys her mic twice to let her team know she is in positions.

She is in the kitchen. Breanna can tell from all of the stainless steal and dirty dishes in the sink.

In front of her, on the other side of the kitchen island stands a tall dishevelled man. He is ranting and raving; yelling at the top of his lungs about how he was going to kill all his enemies, and other lunatic rantings.

The man is tall, well over six feet. He is also strong, with a stocky build. His hair is long and matted, clinging to his face through the natural adhesiveness of sweat. The man has clearly not shaved in days, and from the smell, showered either.

Patiently Breanna lays there on the cold linoleum tiling of the kitchen floor awaiting the go signal from her Sergeant. It will come she tells herself as she levels the tridium site of her P-90 at the crazy man's head.

She has to wait for the breach team to enter. Her job was forward recon. She is the first one in to ever dangerous situation in Freedom City, and she is porepared to take action.

To this point she has never had to unload her weapon, but that will not be a state she will be in for long.

Softly over her earpiece receiver unit she hears her sergeants gruff voice anounce the go signal. Moments later she hears loud voices screaming at the front of the house. Her breach team has busted down the door, and the shotgunners are busting through.

Breana's brain began to move at lightening speed. She has almost zero time to make a decision about what to do about her psycho target. He is turning towards the front door. Still not a threat. He is raising his weapon, a very very large pistol. Still not a threat. He is pointing towards her teamates.

Breana exhales and slowly depresses the trigger. Three rounds burst forth from her assualt rifle. All three find a home inside the skull of her target. With a loud crash, he plummets to the earth, slack and without life.

In a loud voice Breana reports the situation to her team. "Clear!"

The next few minutes of her life are lived in almost a bodiless haze. She safes her ewapon and stands to her full 5'6" height. Between her and the sack of dead organs and unflowing blood rests the island of safety and detachment. It provides her no real clear view of the consequences of her decision.

She can hear the shouts of her teammates as they clear the rest of the house. She also hears the shocking call from another room. This one is a call for support and witnesses.

Breana is still in a sort of shock as she rounds the island to see her handy work. There on his back lies a former man. Before she can comprehend what it is she has done here, her boss Sergeant Porcetti is at her side, turning her away.

"You need to see what he did." Always knowing what his team needs, Porcetti realises that this youngster must learn what she did in terms of justice, not in terms of manliness.

Porcetti takes her arm gently but firmly, and guides her down the hall to a small bedroom.

The scene there is chaotic to say the least. The room was most likely originally painted in a soft blue, but that is hard to discern at this moment due to all the red smears and splashes all of everything.

In the center of the room there are three bodies. Two very small and a the thirdstretched out acroos the others in a fruitless attempt at motherly protection.

Once he sees understanding croos Breana's face, the sergeant returns her to the kitchen. He begins placating any guilt she might have with tough guy platitudes. She is a hero. The saviour of her team.

From the front door they both hear O'day. "Shit, SID is here. How the hell did thye get here so damn fast."

SID is the special Investigations arm of the Freedom City Police force, they are the ones who investigate police shootings.

Boom Goes the Dynamite

I have to admit that I almost want to watch to and a half men. I say this because ChaSheen appears to be having the most epic donward spiral in the history of meltdowns.

The guy is like a god to me...and him.

On a certain level I wish I could melt down like him. Just completely obliterate my world, say the most insane things and still have millions of dollars and pornstars to bring me iced tea.

My hope would be that the show is as entertaining as what is going on with the man. I am told that generall speaking this new character he is playing in real life is a lot like the television character... just to a higher degree.

I find it comforting that he, like me, is living louder than he is playing on tv. I wish I could be even louder.

Not in a crazy way so much as in just a living large way. I don''t ant this to be another I have a dream post, those are annoying even to me; but, I do want to get something off my chest.

Over the last 24 hours I have been thinking about what I want out of this whole blog/internet presence thing.

I have always had that feeling like I do not belong, like my life is somehow not what it could have or should have been. I have felt like there was something more.

Like thousands of douchenozzles on the internet, I am always saying I could make better shos than they are churning out of hollyood. I am alays impuning the skills and intellect of others, but I am still sitting here typing away on a cheep laptop with no real ambition.

I thought I was going to start this blog thing and get some bullshit local fame, maybe publish a book, get a few people interested.

It never occured to me that no one ould be interested in what I had to say. It has been almost a year or so since I started this project and I am no further a head.

I know some of it has to do with my side trip down pathetic lane and a meander over to manic depressive boulevard.

That being said, I thought I could accomplish more.

I got off track somewhere and stopped posting fiction... you kno, the stuff I was supposed to be doing all along. This was supposed to be a place to showcase my talents. Instead it became an open journal to hich I poured my lack luster ramblings. This has to change.

It is one thing to feel like there is more to this life than just merely marking time, it is another to stand up and shout from the rooftops that I am here world, take me serious.

I ant more than I have. I ant more than I deserve sometimes, and we all know I want what I can't have, but alas there must be someway for me to get a little piece of my pie.

I need to take this more seriously.

To that end, I am going to write.

I am going to write something every day, no matter what it is, or how much effort it takes. It may be crap, or it may be genius, but frankly it seems hypocritical for me to criticize while not actually doing anything.

So here we go again. A serious attempt.

I am going to write, and I am going to submit. I am going to attempt to get my stuff out there. I am getting to old to wait, so I think it is time to get off the pot and get this party started.

Hang on folks, because we just got to the crazy part of the ride.

I am either going to flame out like Charlie or I am going to Rise Above it like a Pheonix.

Wish me luck and tell all your friends!