Blah

I’m still feeling absolutely wiped, despite spending the weekend in a sort of convalescence. I’ve only begun to believe that I am on the mend as my usual level of pain has started to return. That was the wonderful part of the weekend (if one can count feeling horrible and coughing up a lung or two as wonderful): my legs and back were pain-free, and I only had to worry about fever and mucous production. Now I just have a lingering headache, a cough that won’t go quietly into the night, and that familiar stabbing pain that punctuates my every step. Aside from all of that, though, I’m feeling pretty good. Well, good enough to try and put in a day at the Home Office. I’ve told myself that I won’t turn off the cable news until I’ve written my blog entry for the day, and all the nonsense on my television is only making this headache worse, so I had better get to it.

It makes me want to rule the world with an iron fist. I’m tired of seeing all the slick, pretested messages and the conscious tomfoolery of those in power who seek out prosperity for themselves and their own, while hanging the rest of us out to dry. I’m tired of watching the parade of the worst of humanity, and listening to the inane judgments of anchors trying to fill a slow news day. I mean, I laid out my plan for the betterment of all mankind several times on this very blog, yet apparently no one has been reading it. Either that, or they simply aren’t paying that much attention. If we could all just sit down with one another and talk, we might discover that we have more in common with our polar opposites than we might have imagined. I know this to be true because I am a bleeding-heart liberal, and my family is made up of war hawks and 1% apologists. And yet, when you put to rest the tired rhetoric and talking points, it turns out that we actually feel quite similarly about several key issues. It’s when each side gets lost in their own political code words that the walls are raised and communication fails.

Current events are bleeding into my brain, and the headache has just put in a Jacuzzi. I said it in 2008, and now that the 2016 Presidential Campaign is apparently underway, I’ll say it again: I do not want a Clinton/Bush rematch. I will not vote for Hillary Clinton. I will not vote for Jeb Bush. It’s bad enough that we’re stuck with a two-party system, I cannot even tolerate the notion that we could be stuck in a two-family system. And given enough time, it’s easy enough for two families to become one, and therein lies the road to empire. Worst case scenario? Sure. I mean, it’s not like there are any other parallels in this country to the Roman Empire. I read an opinion piece while I was still on The Island, blaming the fall of the American Empire on our fading values, as in, the secularization of the country. That seems to be the go-to answer these days: everything would be all right if it weren’t for those godless heathens. Maybe I’m just being over-sensitive, as I am not actually in possession of a hearth.

But I’m not going down that rabbit-hole today. It’s easy to fall back into dystopian fantasies when surround by hopelessness of today. But things are bad enough without inventing things to fear. At least, that’s what I scream at Fox News every time it happens to be on my television. But that idea of a Bush/Clinton dynasty keeps percolating in the deepest reaches of my brain, and it makes me worried by its utter plausibility. And that’s just the sideshow meant to distract me: that line of reasoning is turning sharply away from where from where my attention should be, which is the rising oligarchy which seems no longer content to remain hidden in the shadows. When money can buy power, and power controls the frame of the debate, it sometimes seems hopeless to the single voices of the common men and women. Hold on, let me get my tinfoil. Sorry, I had to pop a baked potato in the oven.

I apologize if I seem a little all over the place today. I’m still feeling pretty blah, and I just can’t seem to find a rhythm to sink myself into. My wife just informed me that Spring Cleaning is coming early this year, as we’re going to excavate our bedroom, just to see if there is still, in fact, a floor. The downside to moderate prosperity has been the accumulation of things, and with my wife and I sharing a room with the Minkey, it’s not that surprising that we’ve begun running out of space. Well, actually, we’ve been out of space for quite awhile, but as my wife and I were working opposite shifts, it wasn’t necessarily as apparent. I guess that means the clock is ticking for me to find a source of steady income. When the adult kids and our grandson move out, we’ll have all the space of which we have been dreaming these past few years living as a giant family. I look forward to just how empty this nest of ours will appear, though missing out on my grandson will take some getting used to.

But with a daughter on the way, our grown-up kids are aware that we simply cannot fit the lot of us in the same two-bedroom apartment that can’t even fit those of us who are crammed in here at the moment. I wonder if my grandson will realize just how lucky he has been to see his grandparents every day, to spend time with them and enjoy the benefits of a multi-generational familial experience. I hope that we will be lucky enough to spoil our coming princess, and that she will choose to seek us out, just as her brother has done. Okay, maybe leg room isn’t everything. I know we can’t keep living like we have been, but when I get down to the things which I will miss, I find the face of my precious little toddler in a gigantic grin as he plays and runs around the living room chasing after (and being chased by) his uncle David. I wish I had a few million dollars, so that I could set us up in a nice couple of houses next to one another, where we could live nearby, but no longer beneath the same roof.

-Tex

Losing Cohesion

I’ve broken my new cardinal rule, and am typing this to all of you while snugly in pajama pants. Some illness has descended upon my household, and I’m amazed that I got as far as my computer, to be honest. I miss the days back when I had health insurance (not that I could have gone in on a Saturday (well, maybe when I had Kaiser). You may recall that on Wednesday, I had to cut my ramble short to pick my (not sick) son up from school. He had some sniffles which could easily have been attributable to a case of allergies, as most of the rest of us were suffering similarly, to various degrees. But on Thursday, when I got another call not even an hour into class, and went to get the Minkey, he said that he was fine, and he didn’t even have a fever. My wife felt, as did I, that something stupid was transpiring, so I took my son to the clinic to see if someone there could see him.

Yes, she is the one responsible for teaching him English.
Yes, she is the one responsible for teaching him English.

Mind you, I did give him “syrup” that morning, but it was the kind for allergies, not fever, as his temperature was fine. So we got to the clinic after a twenty-minute walk, and were welcomed by a waiting room full of sick and streaming-boogered children. Offered the chance to get in line behind a couple other patients in case something opened up, or taking an appointment a little over four hours later, I took the guaranteed option. I didn’t want to spend any more time than I actually had to around people who were actually infirm. David and I got some food, and headed home to kill the time before we had to get back to the clinic.

I was still a little tired, as even a couple of months in, having my wife home in the evenings is still taking some getting used to. And David was literally bouncing off the walls, not usually a sign that someone is currently ill (in that sort of way). So we waited. My wife joined us just before the time came that we needed to leave again, and we spent a moment speaking ill of the school which my son has the misfortune to attend. But then our time was up, and we walked back to see David’s Doctor. This time the waiting room was more sparsely populated, but still it looked fairly virulent. Who knows what little bags of disease had decided to gum upon? It seemed that my allergies were getting a bit worse, but anytime I’m stuck in that much heavily processed air, I tend to feel a bit dried out.

His doctor saw us within half an hour, and the first thing out of her mouth was to ask if our son had written that note. She said a sniffle and an occasional cough were nothing much to worry about, and if it was a virus, based on his symptoms, it was likely to have passed. She gave a prescription for a couple of things to treat his symptoms, and wrote a note stating that he was not contagious, and shouldn’t be sent home on that flimsy pretext on the morrow. We thanked the doctor, and then promptly wasted the next two hours in Walgreen’s, trying to fill two simple prescriptions. At that point, all I really wanted to do was go and get some sleep, but I attributed that to all the vegetation we had passed, and that I had not been sleeping well for weeks. That evening I felt horrible, but the Minkey still seemed fine, so I set my alarm for the next morning, and prepared myself for the worst.

When we woke up, I noticed that David, for the first time since last week, was rocking another fever, and I could barely see straight. I looked once more at the Doctor’s Note, then crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. I told David to stop getting dressed, and get curled back up in bed.

And then I watched as the internet exploded in grief for Leonard Nimoy, and despite being the biggest Trekkie that I know, I couldn’t make it the five feet to my laptop to write anything worth reading.

As for David and I this morning, I wouldn’t recommend a visit. I am doubled over in pain, and David’s nose is gurgling. I just hope that he’s better by Monday, because I think another trip to see his Doctor might actually kill us.

Sorry to make this such a short entry, but I desperately need to return to bed. Thank you to everyone who made this my most-read week ever! I may take tomorrow off, depending on how I feel, but we’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime, have a great day, and enjoy your weekend!

-Tex

After Dark: A Blast From The Past, Part Three

Welcome to the third chapter in this sprawling saga. When we last parted, I had officially discovered that I was going to be a father, and decided to cope with it the best way that I knew how: Poetry. Now we’ll fast forward a couple of months, and welcome in 2007, wherein the fetus has a name for either gender, and I get a little philosophical:

General Mayhem and Confusion

January 23rd, 2007

7:33 p.m.

Sorry it’s been so long since the last installment in the continuing adventures of The Batmart. This one isn’t going to be fantastic… Just need to start getting myself in the habit of writing again. It’s been too long… I think it’s getting to be time to put down some things… you know… for posterity.

I’ll be 30 in less than three years, assuming I don’t bite it before December. I don’t think I’m prepared to cope with that. Maybe even less than I was able to cope with 25.

I need to make time to start writing again. That’s my only hope out of where I’m at now. I have no other skills, save maybe photography. I gambled everything years ago on that talent, and as the years go by, I see I may have been shortsighted in my approach. Not about my gift, but rather about the time it would take to come to fruition, and about how long I’d have to stick around (not entirely the same point), and all of the other things that have popped up along the way. It never mattered to me that I was fucking myself over financially, putting myself in ill social standing, or at odds with the law. I was supposed to be dead by now. And the Bi-Polar Bears haven’t helped. It’s not that I see things in Black and White, but rather all of the extreme shades in between.

Now I have the feeling like I’ll be around for fucking ever, and like my great grandfather, outlive my savings and my ability to contribute anything to anybody. Of course, he had to live into his golden years, whereas the previous statement is self-applicable even today, aside from the “for fucking ever” part, obviously.

Now that I’m arriving at a point in my life where my word would be a useful thing to have in the financial world, I find I’ve no ability to use it- they all took their chances years ago, and even when I tried my best amidst my second chance, I still managed to fuck it all up again.

And so my only hope is to do what I do best- do what I was born for, stop sitting on my ass, and molding away in job for which I am ill-suited. And even then, might I not become like so many of greats- impoverished until my poor health and chronic misery consume me, only to have my redemption come years after my passing, when all the world might shudder at loss of one they would have never known, but for the volumes of sad and lonely photographs and stories, songs and poetry discovered by someone cleaning out wherever I had lain them.

And I wonder, would David William or Jennivee Isabel even care?

Or would they think of me forever as the failure that condemned them?

I forgot just how cheery a gentleman I used to be. The reason I included the whole post was to show that I’ve been saying I needed to be writing for almost half the time that I have actually wanted to be a writer. Also, how sad is it that I haven’t uploaded any new photographs in years? And now that I’ve got so much backlog, I don’t know that I’ll ever get it done. Suddenly, the amount of things I should be doing with my days of leisure are drastically increasing.

Out Here We Is Stoned… Immaculate

January 27th, 2007

2:50 a.m.

…I’m feeling pretty good right now. I still can’t feel the demon monkey dancing, but maybe my hands are trying to keep me from freaking the hell out.

My mom is coming down at the end of February. And again when the demon monkey arrives. ***THOSE OF YOU WHO KNOW OF THE DEMON MONKEY AND WHAT IT IS, PLEASE DO NOT COMMENT UPON IT IN THIS FORUM AS THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO READ THIS, THAT, FOR NECESSARY REASONS, CANNOT KNOW YET***

“I’ll always be a Word Man. Better than a Bird Man.” [-Jim Morrison]

Biiiiiiiiiird! Maaaaaaaaaan!………… [-Birdman]

Oh, having to keep the knowledge of my love child a secret from the world (or at least, my co-workers at McDonald’s). It took the longest time for me to actually feel my son moving around inside of my girlfriend. When I finally did, I can’t say that it made things better. There are certain things that Sea Monkeys should never be able to do. Just saying.

Greeting Card I’d Like To See

February 2nd, 2007

10:14 p.m.

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
I knocked up your daughter…

That’s it. I’m really sorry.

By February, it appears that my usual sense of humor had returned. I had been trying to figure out what I would say if I ever met my girlfriend’s father (who totally looks like a Mexican Sean Connery!).

The refund from dispute went to card #5973,

March 2nd, 2007

10:28 p.m.

…It reminded me of a walk Dave and I took one night stumbling drunkenly back in Emeryville after leaving [Fuddrucker’s].

Although, to be fair, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen blood gushing like that. It took months for the drops to wash out of the sidewalk.

I’m not going to give any other context.

Shut The Hell Up

March 27th, 2007

11:44 a.m.

Like some of my other friends, I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series in anticipation of the release of the final book. I am on the 5th, now, at the part when Harry receives the “badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book” from Sirius.

Shortly before 9/11 I left my hometown and moved into the city (not the city proper, mind you, but still…). Every time I spoke to my mother or grandmother, they told me to make sure I called my great grandmother. And on the rare occasions I would come over for a visit, would, they would ask if I had gone to see her. I did. A couple times.
Here’s the thing: She was born in 1912. By the time I was born, she was already a senior citizen. But I never really saw her like that. She always had so much energy, so much life, that we all sort of seemed to take her existence for granted. Or at least I did. But by the time I had moved away, her age had begun to creep up upon her, or rather, overtake her exponentially for all those timeless years. She had begun to look and act old.
Maybe it was due to my youth, even as obsessed with death as it had been, but I became unable to be near her. Here I was, caught up firmly in the prime of my youth, and there she was, quickly fading into twilight. It offended my very nature to be near her- not for lack of love, no, she was someone I will always hold most dear, but something physical, as if my body was unable to face its own demise by fading- and so I did my best to avoid her, never really believing she’d be gone.
And so it was that in the summer of ’02, she finally sickened beyond cure and passed away. The day it happed, I was off [redacted, because this is a family blog]
Every year as far back as I could remember, we had had a family Fish Fry. All the cousins in the area getting together and eating and drinking an generally being a kind-of redneck-close-knit family.
That year it was a wake. Most of my Gram’s kids had quit smoking, but the smell from my own, enticed them to come over, and breathe in the 2nd hand comfort.

    I remember at the funeral, looking at her face. It was the exact same except for the utter lack of resemblance to her at all.

And even knowing all of this, how much I wish I could have taken the time to just stop by and say hello- what tears me up inside is that I still don’t know of what we might have spoken.

Once in a while, the loss of my great-grandmother still hits me like the day I lost her, and I am reduced to blubbering while my wife and son look on in concern. I touched on this is the days leading up to my trip to Washington in December, but I’d forgotten a few things that I had remembered when the event was still closer to me.

 

Welcome to the Batmart (we’ve got fun and games)

April 7th, 2007

11:03 p.m.

It’s funny how “content” sneaks up on you. Not, complacent- content. Like knowing you’re doing the right thing, even though it makes absolutely no sense at the time.

I wasn’t quite happy yet, but a feeling of serenity had descended upon me, like succumbing to the inevitable. I was still about two and a half months out from fatherhood, and it looks like I was handling it with a modicum of grace.

A turning point

June 22nd, 2007

9:08 p.m.

So that moment has arrived once again where the feast has been laid before me and I must but choose a course upon which to dine. Each with its own flavor and temptation, and yet some, [much] easier to digest when I was younger and less ulcer-ridden. That’s not actually a sentence. At least not a good one. I hate double entendres.
I am faced with a career in hospitality, which, for those of you who know me and must realize, as do I, is not compatible with my curmudgeoncy. I have more responsibilities arriving soon, though, to his credit, he seems reluctant to join my company. And I know in my heart that my dreams are reaching out to me in some kind of death grasp, shouting “…Now or never!” Or maybe it’s just Dave.
More now than ever, I am confident in my ability, but as equally unsure as to how I will display it. No one …reads poetry anymore. Did they ever? I mean, by choice? I have a book within me that I know that I must write, if I am to ever write anything original again, and yet I know to write it I must throw myself into the past and relive the [things] I barely made it through the first time. And to do this I have to take the time to… I don’t know… 

How am I supposed to throw away a career I hate which right now is paying ALL the bills, and gives me health insurance, to launch myself, sink or swim onto a path which all odds tell me I cannot follow to the Happily Ever After? I can’t f*** up anymore. I passed by my chance for one last Do-Over, and now it’s forever.
The cost of following my passions is also a monetary concern, beyond the bills. I need a camera. Time. I need time. A pause button. All of this…  makes me miss the days when [redacted because this is a family blog] was my daily goal, when I could just allow my depression to consume me and treat with disregard the machinations of my life.

I…

Wow, have I really been that broken of a record? It’s kind of sad that it took me seven and a half years to do anything about it. As you can all see, that was dated five days before the birth of my son. I wonder what happens next?
She’s Having Contractions
June 27th, 2007
11:43 a.m.
She’s having contractions. More News as available.

-Batmart

The Monkey Has Arrived
June 29th, 2007
9:15 p.m.
He was born Wednesday night at 8:10, weighing in at 11lbs, 14oz, 22 inches.

I’ll have pictures later.

For now, I must sleep.

I wasn’t being overly dramatic: I hadn’t actually gotten more than a few hours of sleep since the morning of the 27th, and I was running on fumes. Flor wasn’t really doing that much better. So we have gone through the (hidden) courtship of my wife, and her subsequent pregnancy, and come out the other side. Thank you for joining me on this journey. I’ll end us now on a message to myself from November, 2006:
The End Of Days
November 13, 2006
8:39 p.m.
As the sun goes down upon one moment in my life, the cold winter begins within the next. The leaves are falling from the tree of my youth, and things are growing in the darkness which I have long feared would come. “She’s a in John Hurt way.”

“Oh Jeffrey….”

After Dark: A Blast From The Past Presents: “I hate Comcast”

As a little #throwbackthursday treat for everyone, I’ve got a bonus Blast From The Past to get you ready for the sentimental stuff coming up this evening. With no further ado, I present the following Epic Rant to you in its original glory. The language is a little salty, so if you’re offended by that sort of thing, I invite you to read something else.

I hate Comcast

May 5th, 2007

6:28 p.m.

Comcastic is a dirty word.

I thought I had difficulty finding quality employees in my line of work.Turns out I having a harder time finding a single quality employee of the monopolistic cable provider. Such bullshit!

Here’s the deal: I ordered MLB Extra Innings on the 25th of April. The 25th! As you may be able to discern from the date, this story will not end well. I also ordered an upgrade to a DVR receiver so that I can actually watch the games I am paying $160 for. Somehow, I mananged to get MLS! Who the fuck wants to watch American fucking soccer? If I really have a craving to watch the futbol, I will watch it on a spanish language station, where, even though I don’t yet understand the entitre commentary, am still able to feel like the commentators A) give a shit about the sport (GOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLGOLG)
and 2) know what they are talking about (although I could be wrong, they do say Gol like 500 times after anyone scores).

Still with me? Ordered Baseball. Part way into the season. Anyone offer any kind of pro-rated discount for El Mateo? Fuck no! What did I get? Fucking Soccer! I called and explained the situation monosyllabically to the “Customer Care Executive”, and was told that I would not be charged for the soccer, but because I had a work order for the fucking boxes (I also ordered a dvr receiver for the bedroom (no, I don’t know why, either!)), I couldn’t get Extra Innings until after the installation tech had arrived.

Fast forward to Thursday, May 3rd, sometime between 8am and midnight. Tech arrives and tells me that he only has 1 box! How fucking hard is it to count? I mean, if we were dealing with more complex math, such as, oh, multiplication or division, I might be more forgiving. But it was addition. All that was required was the ability to fucking count to 2. Two! One. Two. How fucking hard is that? And then I had to fucking install the box myself, because the douchebag decided that he would try to call around to see if he could scavenge me another one. Due to the fact that I have made a fairly vitriolic paragraph concerning this, I have full confidence that you can fucking figure out the conclusion to this visit.

So dude left. Fine. Whatever. I called Comcast again. I want my MLB now, please. Okay? Everything’s okay? Yes? It’s gone through? Cool. Just wait a few minutes for the authorization do register in the boxes? Okay. Oh, by the way, I noticed that you’re raping us monthly now, so I think I’ll pick up Triple Play Platinum (we ordered Digital Platinum when we first got service. They gave us the Latino Completo package! What the fuck? It’s like having short bus cable with all SAP at no additional charge (for an additional fucking charge!). Okay? Okay. Telephone guy will be here on Monday? Cool. When will we have our new channels (which we should have had in the fucking first place) and Extra Innings? A few minutes? Okay, thanks.

An hour later, with no more channels than I’d had before, I called again, was on hold for a total of 25 minutes, transfered to 3 different people, was offered 4 completely insincere apologies, and told the phone that they would be installing would be comped for all the trouble. And when will I have access to the fucking channels I have ordered? Within the hour. Sometimes there are delays, so at the latest, tomorrow morning. Fine. Whatever. Fuck it. No more baseball. Have to get up early. Bullshit!

I get home from work yesterday at 6pm. Can you guess what service package I had access to when I got home?

I knew you could.

I tried calling comcast 6 times, each time on hold for a minimum of 15 minutes. I went to the online chat support. Talked to this fucking “Hey Guys! Wait for me!” asshole. Said he would reset the signal and all would be good again in the land of angry Scotsman. I was booted from the chat when the reset happened, and amazingly enough, that was the most productive result of that conversation. I tried Comcast by phone again 2 more times, waiting for only 10 minutes per call this time. Finally I got back into the chat support room again. Oops, I’m here for your internet support, let me transfer you. So then I talk to another guy, explain the whole fucking thing. He says the reason I (STILL!) don’t have MLB is- get this-  because I have a work order for MONDAY! I tell him fuck all that. Give me my channels, I can deal without a home phone for awhile longer. He says he will transfer me to Phone services and explain the whole problem to new guy before he logs out of the room. So I wait, and a new tech enters the conversation.

I explain briefly to him what I have been going through. Would you care to know what he told me? I think you know where this is going…. I’m sorry. YOU NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE IN CABLE SUPPORT. But wait! I try to type in time, my fingers curling into fists as I am gorilla pounding the keyboard in frustration. And then I get another tech. So I fucking rip into this guy. I’m pissed. At this point, I have spent over 3 hours trying to deal with this bullshit, and now will get around 6 hours of sleep before I have to go to work.

Turns out this new guy is actually the one who transferred me to Phone services, but I still rip into him. He lets me vent, which amazes and calms me, and explains that somehow Comcast has clusterfucked the whole thing. If I want MLB and my subscription upgrade, I will have to cancel the monday work order and reschedule. Fine. Will I have all my channels after that? Tonight?

Yes he says. Fine. Cancel. Good. Dandy. Just fucking do it. And don’t fucking transfer me. Just take care of it. So he goes to fucking investigate how to go about unclustering the FUCK, and tells me: He can’t cancel/reschedule the work order, I have to call the local phone support line. Sorry.

He gives me the number and I am fairly sure that there is actually nothing more he can do. So I let him go.

I open my phone. I dial the number. Put the phone to my ear. Enter the 10 digit number (including area code) where I have, or would like to have service. I press 1 for english. I press 1 for problem with my service. I press one for Cable.  I listen to some bullshit recorded message that has absolutely nothing to do with me, and so do not push 5. I hear shitty recorded Muzak. I am told that comcast is constantly seeking to improve its service and am offered a chance to particpate in a brief survey following my coversation. I decline, and do not press 1. I wait for 10 more minutes.

I call again, diverging from my previous path only in that I press three for home telephone service. I still hear the recorded message, Muzak, and survey offer. I hang up after another 10 minutes.

I now have less than 5 hours to sleep. I still do not have MLB. I still do not have the premium package I have ordered. I DO still have access to MLS, although there are no games.

Here’s what I don’t get: I’ve had service since September (or October). I have a credit card ON FILE. I make auto payments with it. I WANT TO GIVE THEM MY MONEY IN EXCHANGE FOR THEM FLIPPING A FUCKING SWITCH OR PRESSING A FUCKING BUTTON (OR LESS LIKELY, THOUGH I’M SURE STILL POSSIBLE, PULLING A LEVER), AND LETTING THE FLOW OF SHIT I WANT TO WATCH COME BARRELING TOWARD ME!

And the worst part part about all of this is that AT&T is worse!

Comcastic! Fuck that shit!

Happiness is…

… an ice-cold 20 ounce can of Red Bull as I’m sitting down to write my blog. If they made it in a 40, I’d be even happier. 378 mg of caffeine in a single sitting? Where do I sign up? Personally, I think they should make a really fancy Red Bull and have it in a champagne bottle. I’d pop the cork, and pour a glass, and sip it like the rich folk do. Of course, the rich folk have no need of mortal remedies such as Red Bull, when it would be much easier to send their manservants out to procure some cocaine. I don’t think that I’d want to get myself dependent on that upper, but I’d sure as hell love to have a manservant, so that I could call him Warner. And now I have admitted my familiarity with a certain film, and shall drop the subject entirely.

I was worried when I sat down and powered on the laptop that I wouldn’t have anything to write about, due to my general feeling of contentedness. This consciousness runs on piss and vinegar, and a happy outlook can ruin all of that. My back feels ridiculously better after having spent the night sleeping on the floor, and I suppose that I am not awake enough to notice the weariness of my legs. My wife is at work, so I am left all of this time to actually miss her, as opposed to when we are together, and feel obligated to find something we can fight about. I’ve told her that if she would simply accept that I am right instead of waiting six months and then trying to convince me of my own idea, we would probably get along fantastically. I am aware that I can either be right, or I can be happy, but it’s not my fault reality so often agrees with me, and I have to say that there is a certain joy in being right. That being said, it is a fleeting victory.

And occasionally, my wife will gain the upper hand, and I will back the losing horse. In those rare instances, I try to do my best to offer up my concession, and then wash the feeling of my error away with another subject. I hate it when she’s right, because it gives her ammunition toward her argument that I am not always so. And then the next six months are agony as I await the opportunity to fight back the temptation to say that I told her so. I figure myself the brains of our operation, not because I am smarter than her (though I have devoted far more time to ridiculous thought experiments than she), but because she is, in fact, far superior in almost every other way. I honestly have no idea how she does it. Sometimes, as I lay awake at night and ponder stupid things, I wonder if I should try and sneak a sample of her blood from her to try to develop some sort of super soldier serum. I’m not saying that she’s Captain America (which would be hilarious), but that she is the standard to which Cap holds himself (you know, if comic book characters were aware of non-celebrities living in the real world).

Years ago, I found out where my limitations were, and put up hazard lights so that I’d know when I was approaching them. I’m not as young as I once was, and working an 80 hour week is simply out of the question for me. I sacrificed my body years ago, both in work and play, and now I must be mindful of stresses throughout the day. That’s one of the reasons why I got into management (the other is because I absolutely cannot stand working for people who are in almost every way, my inferior (and to clarify: I mean in terms of dedication, problem-solving, intuition, etc…)): I know how much my body can tolerate, and I need to make enough with a single full-time job to make ends meet. When I’m at work, I’m not the type to lock himself in the office and do whatever it is that pompous bosses do; I stay on the floor and in the flow until my body cannot take it any longer, and then I wait until the rush has died, and then I go to smoke.

My wife has no limits. At least, that’s what she’s told me on several occasions as she’s hobbling around the apartment, taking care of things that could probably wait another day (instead of resting, which is for weaklings). There is a sort of justified arrogance that comes from naturally birthing a twelve pound baby. I mean, she had an epidural, but there was no surgery involved. I have spent no small amount of time trying to imagine the sheer scale of pain involved in bringing my son into this world (which is probably less than keeping him in this world, but as that is spread out over a lifetime, it doesn’t hit you all at once), and even taking into account the pain numbing drugs injected into one’s spine, I don’t believe that I would stand a chance. My mental illness has prepared me to face down imaginary demons, and I keep in practice by frequently belittling myself while I watch the world spin by (and then berate myself for that), but when it comes to pain on that sheer scale, I can’t even pretend that I am in the same league as my wife. She could get shot, and she wouldn’t even acknowledge it until she had nothing else to do. It seems that I have married Teddy Roosevelt.

I may be right about almost everything, but she very well might be right about the bigger picture. I need her far more than I can believe that she might possibly need me (and not just because she’s the sole breadwinner at the moment). And yet she stays by my side and endures. I am not an easy man to live with. I wouldn’t have checked myself into a facility a fortnight of years ago if I was all kittens and rainbows. I am a pain in the ass, and usually right, and a far poorer victor than vanquished. And yet my wife has stood by my side for all of these years (and not just for the paperwork, because I think that an expired snail would have made things happen sooner than me), at times looking like she wanted nothing so much as to just slap the smirk from my face, and yet she remained. I guess it could be that she doesn’t believe that our son stands a chance if she leaves us, but I honestly think that she’s just better than me, and that notion perplexes and confounds me. Not her superiority, which I have grudgingly accepted, but the thought that she knows something that I do not.

I could tell you all the reasons why I stay (and it would be a manageable list, as over the past three months I seem to have mentioned quite a few already), but I have no idea why it is that she remains. I’m not the prettiest, nor the nicest, nor someone tolerable on most occasions, but my wife is with me all the same. It makes me a little nervous, to be honest. Like I’m not seeing something obvious, something right in front of me. Happiness, perhaps?

-Tex

And come back this evening for part three of A Blast From The Past: Memories of MySpace. Part One is here, and Part Two can be read here.

Pandering

One of these days I’m going to have to bust out something in Spanish or British (I’m well-versed in the extra “u” and lorries) to accommodate my new readers. I’d love to do something in Norwegian, but aside from an expression or two which I don’t know how to spell, I’m really not conversant (My great-grandmother is turning in her grave). Thank the makers for translation programs. One of these days, I need to read my blog on my wife’s phone to see how the interwebz are doing in their translations of my work. Of course, the collected knowledge of the internet probably has a better vocabulary than I do, but nowhere near my sense of style. Someday I’d like to transfer my consciousness to the very core of the internet, so that my overwhelming snark and acerbic wit can color all of human knowledge. Like if you search for Edgar Guest, your computer or smartphone or neural integration just shuts down and refuses to let you play with others. Ah, a boy can dream, can’t he? Okay, enough pandering, on to the shameless self-promotion:

And while I’m covering things that aren’t entirely relevant to what I’ll be writing about today, I’d like to take a moment to encourage you to “like” my professional page on Facebook, Tex Batmart- Writer, and follow me on Twitter: @texbatmart. They’re not much, but I’m sort of attached to them. In the coming weeks, I’m going to try spending a little more time on both, attempting to build my readership in case the day ever comes that I decide to write something that I can hope to feed my family with (by selling, of course. I wish it was as simple as throwing words down the throats of my family to fill their bellies and keep them healthy). Over the course of these past few months, I’ve seen the number of my readers grow, and though you are all still part of a very exclusive group, at least the word is spreading. It’s probably for the best that almost no one was reading the nonsense that I was putting out in December, just groping around in the dark, trying to remember how to write. And as the year progresses, I hope to continue improving (and entertaining), and make it worth your while to come and give me a visit. Thank you!

So I’ve been trying to think of some sort of project I want to get funded on Kickstarter. I mean, I know what I want to do, but I can’t think of any of the PBS Pledge Drive type gifts to offer to the kind and decent men and women who are good enough to subsidize me. I’d offer an evening spent in my company while I prepare one of the three things that I can cook really well, but I don’t know if I’d be willing to dip into the Fund money to shell out for a plane ticket. I just need to find a couple of wealthy patrons in the Bay Area who like to visit small apartments in the East Bay and throw money at the poor. I’m okay with pity. As a matter of fact, I’d rather be awed for my magnificence, but I’ll take what I can get. I’ve finally gotten into a rhythm I can work with, and having to find a legitimate source of income is going to throw everything into disarray. Heck, I’m almost at the point where I can sit down and think about writing things outside of this blog, and though that may not seem all that impressive, for me it’s kind of huge.

Last week (or maybe it was the week before), I started on piece that had nothing to do with anything that I had planned on writing. For the first time in years, the words just dripped from my fingertips, and as I helped the characters to dance, I found myself genuinely interested in discovering where the story might be headed. I don’t know how far I’ll get in this, as I haven’t been sticking with it (and yes, I am aware that I need to write things that exist outside of this website if I intend to someday be financially independent), and I don’t know if it will pan out. But it felt really good to just set the stage and let things happen as the may.

Part of my problem, I believe, is that I really don’t have a dedicated area which is respected as off-limits to everyone who isn’t me trying to write. That includes my son, and wife, and the me that is catching up on T.V. shows that I recorded back when I was working and now need to watch to free up my D.V.R. Since I’ve come to learn how to write in the morning hours, when no one else is up, I may have to push this blog back a little further in the day, and start off with a couple of hours on whatever fiction I’ve got going. Mind you, that would involve taking positive and intelligent steps toward building a better future, so I can guarantee that I’ll even try it. But hey, at least I’ve given it some thought, and I’m not too obese yet to be unable to pat myself on the back.

It’s kind of weird: when I was younger, I literally couldn’t shut up for all the ideas that were jockeying to get out of my head. I had so much that I wanted to tell the world, and I had the energy of youth to propel me. Now, I think, I’ve got better things to say, but almost two decades of compromise and waiting for the future have made me a little gun-shy. I talked a little about it yesterday, when I mentioned my abject terror at the very concept of speaking to another person on the telephone. I’m so caught up in worrying about all the stupid things that I never seem to get around to trying. I mean, the worst thing that someone could do is to say that they didn’t like what I had written, and tell all of their friends that I was some sort of pretentious hack. Okay. That might actually crush me. I was hoping to allay my fears by holding silly outcomes up to ridicule, but that one seems genuinely plausible.

And I’m not fishing for compliments. Sure, everyone likes to hear nice things about themselves, but I’m just trying to save a couple bucks on therapy by cutting out the middleman and asking myself directly what I think.

*  *  *

I got a call from my son’s school informing me that he is sick, and wants to come home. I’ve just gone and picked him up, and he does, in fact, look Epically Pathetic. I’ve laid him down in bed, and he’s been kind enough to let me finish typing up this column before starting in on what programs he’d like to have wash over him as he lays curled up in a vegetating state (as opposed to a vegetative state, which would be entirely more worrisome). I hate this part about being a dad. I just want to know that he’s okay, so we can get back to our regularly scheduled fights over who is the Alpha Male (hint: under my roof, it’s still me. And, strictly speaking, his twenty-six year old (or is he older?) brother-in-law is next in line for the job, should I become incapacitated. Don’t get me wrong: I’m always down with quiet time. But I hate to see my little Minkey suffer, and wish him a speedy recovery.

Tomorrow evening, I’ll be posting the third installment of Blast From The Past, my After Dark series featuring the very best of my old blog on MySpace. This next chapter will pick up where the last one left off (with a possible flashback to an earlier post or two), and carry on until the birth of David William. Also, at some point I’ll be writing up a review of the weekly comic book series, Injustice: Gods Among Us (and yes, I know that it was created to hype up the fighting game of the same name, but that in no way diminishes just how awesome it has become). I’ll also be reviewing Doctor Who: Legacy and probably something else, when I get the chance.

For my new readers, The After Dark series are usually posted between 5 and 8 p.m., Pacific. I don’t really have a schedule for what days I will be posting them, aside from Blast From The Past, which I’ve been doing as an homage to #throwbackthursday. If you want to catch up on that series, the first chapter is here and the second is here. I hope you all have a wonderful Wednesday, and I look forward to seeing you all back here tomorrow.

Same Batmart Time, Same Batmart Channel

-Tex

Everything’s Coming Up Wrenches

So, our friends over at lappingthecouch.uk have done us one better in the quest to make mental illness more understandable to everyone. I’d say how irritated that made me, but the author is a friend of mine whom I’ve not seen in roughly a decade and a half, and also, her post was amazingly well written. I just hate it when anyone is more articulate than me. I’m including the link to her post “Sunday was not a fun day” so that you guys can go and check it out. It’s worth the time. Go. Do it. I’ll wait here. Back? Cool.

I’m not going to write a counterpoint, going in-depth about Bi-Polar, as that would take away some of your attention from what she had to say. Also, a while ago, I posted “The Midnight Hour”, which, despite being eighteen years old, is still a fairly accurate, if metaphorical, take on my illness. Some day I may have to sit down and dole out some examples, but I’ll tell you right now that I probably won’t do justice to the swings of mania, as to me, they just seem like I’ve finally gotten back to normal. But, again, that’s not why I’m plugging Tiffany’s blog. Maybe someday in the future when we’re both writer-types with massive egos we can totally start an international feud (Actually, that sounds like a lot of fun, and a great way to spend the summer!), but for now I will just say that I think the writing is excellent, and I’m enjoying reading what she’s got to say.

But the thing about her blog, is that it actually serves a purpose. She wants to not only have a record of her goals, a written self-proclamation of all which she might hope to (reasonably) accomplish, but wants to offer up a human face to problems that others may also have come to endure. That is one of the most important things to remember, not just if you’re suffering from a mental malady, but as a human being in general: You are not alone. As we grow more interconnected with the world through the use of information technology, we substitute digital interactions for face to face time with actual people. More and more gets taken out of context as the nuance of language is rapidly being lost, and people are letting basic social niceties fall into disuse, as the implied anonymity of the internet divests the user of any sense of repercussion, and encourages less filtering of one’s behavior. This leads to more truth, I believe, hidden among the teenaged bravado, as even in one’s fantasies do his prejudices shine. But it also robs of us of our evolved ability to actually function in the real world.

I use Facebook, and before that, I was rocking MySpace. I don’t know that I’ve made more than a couple of friends on social media, but the point for me was to stay in touch with people I had once known, and allow myself moments of nostalgia. But now if I want to see how someone is doing, I just scan through their posts to make sure they’re still around. I can’t actually remember the last time when I called someone up just to shoot the breeze, outside of my family or Bad Leon. As for meeting up with folks and doing the whole hanging out in person thing? I think it was the wedding which my wife and I attended in mid-November. I’m not going to be too tough on myself for that one, though, as making friends is hard, and I’m separated from both of my best friends by hundreds of miles and a couple states. And even if I do make a friend, it’s not like I’ll really make the time for them. I mean, sure, at the beginning of the friendship, I’ll stop doing something else, and this new buddy and I will be practically inseparable. But then I will come to notice that I’ve been letting other things go to pasture, and soon enough this new friend will join the pile of old friends whom I have discarded in a pile over in the corner. Note: I do not actually have a pile of people in the corner. This was a metaphor.

Okay, I might not be the poster boy for social interaction. Still, I must admit that when I’ve spent some time in the company of people whom I don’t entirely despise, I come back feeling better for the effort. The echoes bouncing around this head of mine hit a little softer when there’s someone there to cushion the blow.

Looking back at everything I’ve written today, I realize that I allowed myself to drift off the topic I had originally planned to tackle: Making goals. I am horrible at laying out a plan as I have most likely shared with you too many times too count. I like to be prepared for every eventuality, but only in a general sense. I think the one thing that Tiffany is doing which I could never do (besides being a good spouse to her significant other), is letting other people in on my secret hopes and dreams. I can lay out a grand plan with broad strokes and hype it up with obfuscation and bravado, but I’m terrified to share the simple steps I’m too paralyzed by fear to take. You may have noticed I use humor, or indignation, or humorous indignation, to get at what I’m trying to say. I developed this writing for a reason. Inside my head, I’m a drastically different person than the meatbag which is typing.

In here, I’m all confidence and swagger, the master of my domain. But put me in a room with anybody else, and all I can think of is, “What if I’m wrong? What if I sound stupid? What if they laugh at me?” It’s easier to handle a sudden chortle if that was your intention. To lay yourself out bare before the world and receive back only ridicule? Hence the snarky outrage.

“What if they laugh at me?” Since I was old enough to shave (you know, like 12-13), I’ve been professing to the world that I don’t care what other people think, all the while checking their reactions to see if they think my outburst somehow made me cooler. Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, I can honestly say that I’m less concerned with what other people believe about me, and more worried with what they believe about almost anything else. I’m bald. I’m fat. I’m not entirely sure why anyone has ever bedded me, but they’ve all said it was because I’ve made them laugh (which causes me to worry that they’re all using the same euphemism to belittle my- well, you get the idea). I’ve almost accepted who I am. At least, I’ve realized that I’m too stubborn to really change. And yet… And yet the notion that someone might single me out for ridicule chills my very blood. I’m going to share something ridiculous with all of you:

I cannot make phone calls to people I don’t know. Just can’t. No cold calls for Tex Batmart. My brain just freaks out any time I have to speak to someone that I haven’t met. I used to think this only applied to when I used to call up girls in high school (let me reiterate that I was also in high school when I was calling high school girls), and the fear seemed justified, as not only could they reject me, but they could mock me to their friends, ensuring that no one would ever want to be my girlfriend. Even worse, her father could pick up the phone, and demand to know who I was and where I lived and what my intentions with his daughter were. Fear just seemed like the most appropriate response. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had the fortune to be liberated from the need to speak my girlfriends’ fathers, but now the terror encompasses every other telephonic interaction. Thank god for online ordering, or I’d never get a pizza delivered. And online bill payment? The best thing since Betty White. I seriously have to work myself up into a lather (of anger- it’s not like I’m phoning from the shower) just to call up Comcast and ask them why I can’t watch BBC America. I apologize to the Customer Service reps at Amazon on the rare occasions that I’ve had to call them! And don’t make me tell you what happens when my wife passes me the phone when she’s chatting with her mother.

I know that there is literally nothing that the people on the other end of the line can do to me. I mean, they can hang up, or if they become abusive, I can. All they can say is “no.” So why am I terrified every time the phone rings from a number that I don’t know? No, seriously tell me. I let every number with which I am unfamiliar go to voice mail. And half the time I hold the phone away from my ear like I’m afraid of the recording! It may seem like I am making light of the suffering of others, using a ridiculous example to garner laughs. And that is why I don’t share my inner feelings with other people. Look how much rambling on it took to get to the root of it. Seriously, scroll up! And this is why I’m drawing attention to my friend, Tiffany’s blog, Transformation in Progress: from caterpillar to butterfly… I hope. With a courage that I cannot hope to emulate, she just jumped right in and laid it on the table. No filler. No hedging. No dissembling. She wrote about what she felt she needed to in the hopes that writing it would lessen its hold on her, and maybe help someone else who didn’t know where to turn.

Thank you, Tiffany. You’ve reminded me of all that I have yet to do. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, and I hope that I might borrow a little of your courage, from time to time.

-Tex

Also,  in case you are wondering about the title, it comes from an experience in high school. I was directing a play for Drama class, and at a rehearsal, Fed had to sit in and read for one of my actors. One of the lines was about using roses for inspiration, but Fed decided to substitute wrenches. I could have told this story better, but I might want to save it for a later post.

Audible Sigh (In The Face Of Exceptionalism)

Have you ever bent over for something and then been abruptly brought to a complete stop? I’m not talking about contortionism, where the body is bent in shapes unknown to the geometric sciences, but like reaching down to grab something off the floor when you’re sitting in your office chair. Or knowing that if you have a bowl of cereal and take aspirin for your legs in the same day, you might as well just grab a Sharpie and scrawl “Occupied” on the bathroom door, because that’s where you’ll be spending the majority of your evening and the better part of tomorrow. I mean, I knew going in that I wasn’t preparing for longevity, but I really didn’t think that everything would start going out so soon. I was kind of hoping for my body to shut down a little more dramatically, rather than this piecemeal approach of stuff just not working right anymore. For instance, just after typing that last sentence, I stretched a little bit to really work into a morning yawn, and now it feels like I have a molten ice pick stabbing quickly in and out of that general area between my shoulder blades. And the best part? Sometimes, when I yawn, something happens to my jaw, and I’m stuck there with the lower part of my face hanging diagonally from the rest because looking like I’m attempting to mock someone who has suffered some sort of brain injury is apparently the only expression that I am allowed which will exempt me from a rolling cranial agony.

 My Physical Therapist (back when I had that sweet, sweet, pre-tax Health Insurance) said that she thought it was all the stress which I seemed to be carrying around that was causing my discomfort. That my muscles were held in perpetual tension, and the slightest move could throw the whole thing (the thing in this case being my entire musculoskeletal system) out of whack. I remember our first couple of sessions together, when she would feel the knots in my legs and back, and keep insisting that I relax, only to have me fire back that I was, in fact, relaxing, and that if she would like me to continue to do so, she might reconsider harping on about it. On a side note: a few years ago, my wife saw that I was in some distress, and insisted on giving me a massage. It felt wonderful (but then again, intimate moments with the one you love are usually bound to do that, and there are few things more intimate than leaving yourself completely vulnerable to another, and letting them near your spinal column. Or, if you’re me, taking your shirt off in front of another. I don’t like that I have boobs now), but as soon as she managed to work out the first knot, my back began collapsing back into itself, as if my spine were held straight like a suspension bridge.

Of course, my doctor didn’t want to prescribe me muscle relaxants, referring to them as “rum and Coke in a pill”, and instead prescribing me a series of medications that not only failed to take away my pain, but began causing psychological issues as well. Instead of following the therapist’s recommendation, and listening to his patient that the only thing that’s ever worked for my Bi-Polar is regular, plain-old, no kickbacks lithium, he decided to keep trying to kill two birds with an increasingly expensive collections of “just one stone.” He eventually referred me to a pain specialist, but by that point, I’d already put myself slightly into debt, and couldn’t afford the “Specialist Visit” or the take the time off of from my job, as apparently this guy was only seeing patients during the times I had to be at work. As for the psych consult: my insurance kept dragging their feet and refusing to cover a visit with the guy who came to the clinic that I was already going to. I could understand, I suppose, if I was begging Valium, or something equally pernicious (Dear God! We can’t allow people to consume anything that might actually make them feel better! Say, Bob, pass me a Scotch?), but the only thing I needed to go along with a regimen of lithium was series of blood draws to make sure that I wasn’t building up to a level of toxicity. But again, I’ve found it almost impossible to get the meds that work for me, because you can’t get more generic than an element and there’s nothing in it for the Healthcare Industry/Big Pharma if I take it instead of one of their new wonder drugs. You know the ones. The brand new antidepressants whose side effects include suicidal thoughts (not to mention that lithium is an anti-manic, and works to keep the depression away by tempering the mania, and thereby staving off the inevitable burnout).

I admit that in my younger years, I might have been inclined toward a more debauched approach to my pain management. Of course, the majority of the pain which I experienced throughout my adolescence was of a more philosophical nature. But now I’d like to have a life where I could be pain-free, and do the things I dreamed of doing when I still had a range of motion. I know that losing weight and exercising will address most of what I am suffering from, but it’s hard to put yourself upon that road when it’s hard to even get out of your bed. The weight of not only the world is hanging down upon my bones, and I don’t want to get to the point where Jerry Springer has to cut me out of my apartment. But when walking to the store is an enhanced interrogation of my joints, I am less likely to get even the most basic of my daily recommended calisthenics.

There is no money to be made in making people well. Why, in this world where everything has a price tag, would you look to cure an ill for just one payment, when you could manage a condition, and get your monthly paycheck? I realize my Marx is showing, but since when does medicine, at its core, have anything to do with dollars? Jonas Salk could have bought an island if he’d wanted, but he chose instead to give it all away. Do no harm, their oath decrees, but let’s haggle over the semantics. People with terminal diseases are made to endure their months (or years) of hell, because we’d rather dope them up and keep them high, than actually end their pain. But if you might need something to help you keep on living, if your head’s not quite ready for life’s guillotine, then, sorry, lad, you’re on your own. Even worse is the trend to find a new chemical combination which has no practical application, and then to hurry off in search of some plausibly unknown condition which this new drug now magically can treat. I’d say the very state of medicine is sickening to me, but I’m uninsured, and I’m not sure I can afford it.

So what is the answer? I have absolutely no clue how to get us from where we are to where I think we should be. When society would rather that that suffering keep on doing so, it’s hard to frame the benefits of universal health. I wonder what would happen if we stopped shouting about our exceptionalism, and actually did something to show it. I wonder what would happen if we made it a point to offer a real education of all of our citizens, not just the ones who can afford to pay. I’m curious to know if people would work harder if their bellies were full of healthy foods, and had access to a doctor outside of an E.R. There is the myth of the Rugged Individual, who built this country by himself with nothing more than his bare hands. Never mind that a society is not just a group of individuals all working for his own enrichment. The point, it seems to me, is that we have come together to be more than we might be apart. To do things with one another than cannot be done alone. There are seven billion people on this Earth of ours, and the vast majority of them are no better off than they might have been centuries ago.

Set an example, America. You think the world hates you because of your smorgasbord of liberty? Yeah, I’m not usually put out with the rich guy because of all the advantages he has, but by the fact that for him to have them, I must be deprived of something. We have the wisdom and the capabilities to feed the entire world, and instead we send them bombs and drones and wonder why they’re not our friends. Maybe they won’t do the things we’d rather that they do, not toe the party line that we’ve laid down in the sand. And I’m sure that someday an evil will arise that the world will be forced to band together to defeat. But maybe we could try to stop shooting first, and then questioning the corpses. We have eradicated diseases, put men on the moon, split the very atom, and we allow people in this country and throughout the world to starve? To die of curable illnesses? To remain ignorant and powerless until they have no alternative but to ally themselves with someone with charisma and self-interest, engage in banal acts of atrocity, simply because wasting away is something that they’d rather never do?

We have a choice. We can remain ignorant bullies and keep threatening the third world countries with “democracy”, as that’s been working really well for the past sixty years or so, or we can elevate the conversation and insist on helping those who might not otherwise be able to help themselves. It will mean sacrificing for the meekest of the Earth, for those with nothing left to lose. But surely a Christian nation could do no less. And the flow of riches to those whom rags might be a godsend will ease the burden of the wealthy as they gaze upon the camel attempting to thread the needle.

-Tex

The Devil Wears Pajama Pants

Hooray for being back to my semi-regular schedule! This past week has let me sleep in entirely too much (something I don’t think I’ve ever worried about saying), and by the time I woke up at the crack of noon, I just didn’t have the will to fend off my precious boy and get down to business. Part of that, I think, is that because I knew I wouldn’t be able to start any job while I had to spend the whole week with my son (and the fact that he was too sick for us to really go out anywhere), something in my brain decided that the week was already shot, so why bother? The best I managed to accomplish was hastily thrown on pajama pants and the same T-shirt I’d been wearing the day before. It has been said that one should dress for the job he wants, not the one he has, but I wasn’t dressing for either. I know that my life’s ambition is to live out an existence free from the tyranny of pants, but there are children living in the apartment with me, and as the year is steadily spinning by, I am reminded of a quote most frequently attributed to Mark Twain in regard to the area in which I live, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” This quote may have been debunked, but the sentiment holds true nonetheless.

Last week I read a wonderful article by Kate Bracy about the necessity of actually dressing like you want to get anything but lounging done throughout the day. I’d never really thought about it before, but it has hung around enough in my mind that I was inspired to put on my pants and sit down at my laptop to write this. Since coming back to California, I have been taking my son to school almost every day, and that involves dressing in such a manner as to avoid the judgment of others, calls to the authorities, and frostbitten portions of my anatomy. By the time I got back home, I would usually be caffeinated enough to pound out my thoughts in an occasionally humorous format, and toy with the notion of trying to get a nap in before I had to go back to the school to pick the Minkey up. This past week, with nothing urgent to occur before three o’clock in the afternoon, all sense of urgency was gone, and with it, decorum and my annoyingly consistent work ethic. I fell into the trap that I frequently complain to my wife about: no one was taking this writing thing seriously, and this time, I couldn’t even claim the moral high ground.

To be fair, last night I was battered by a brutal case of insomnia, and only managed to steal about seven and a half winks (based on a standard conversion rate of forty winks to a full night’s sleep, or five winks an hour) before I snapped wide awake again with heartburn and leg pain. I’ve tried reading (the problem with that is that I actually like to read, and will casually neglect sleep just to finish the next chapter (or ten, if I’m rereading Jim Butcher), listening to music (and say, this album that I haven’t listened to in ages is really good!), listening to audiobooks (since no one here will read me a bedtime story), and finally succumbing to the demon of conflagratory addictions, with a cigarette or three. Amazingly, nothing has done the trick, and it’s my sincere hope that I can keep it together until my wife gets back this afternoon. I know that she’ll be tired, but there were plenty of times when I had to jump into Dad Mode after a long day at work (with a 3 hour commute) because she was exhausted on her day off. But honestly, it’s not really the same thing, as my wife takes care of so many things with just a quiet determination, never seeking out the praise which she so richly deserves, whereas I am fairly pleased with myself if I manage to get out of bed.

The main difference between us on housework, however, is in the nature of how we react to the multiplication of filth due mostly to those also living with us. The apartment could be cleaned from top to bottom, floors swept and mopped, dishes done and put away, garbage and recycling dumped outside into their proper bins, and within a couple of hours, the whole place looks trashed again, with our kitchen sink overflowing with more dishes than it seems reasonable for so few people to have used, and the floors appear worse than before they were cleaned, as the spots of white linoleum stand out in greater contrast to the spilled drinks and tracked in fruit snacks. I am the sort of person who will do the cleaning, and wash the dishes… within reason. If the sink is empty when I go to bed, and I wake up to find a pot, two pans, five plates, a small (complete) set of flatware, and six cups in there in the morning, my first reaction is that the people who made such a production the evening before (cooking a meal for only themselves), are capable of taking care of their mess. I enter the living room in the morning to find barely touched cups of juice on the table, and an array of plates with half-eaten food, offered up like some sort of invocation to the Gods of the Cucarachas.

And so I believe that the only way to teach our adult children that they need to take care of this themselves is to refuse to do anything until either of them lifts a finger. I am a guy, and Chaos is my element of choice. I could wait out just about anybody while the world around me fell to pieces. I’m sure I could outlast the grownup kids. But this will never happen, because my wife doesn’t have the will to let everything go all to hell. “Think of the children,” she’ll plead to me in Spanish, referring to our son and grandson. And she’s right, of course, but I still think we’re doing our daughter and her boyfriend a disservice by bailing them out of the sty which they’ve created, instead of allowing them to develop that instinct for preservation for themselves. That being said, I know myself, and I must be careful not to throw too many stones. I don’t know. I think the reason I’d like to win the lottery (more than fancy houses and never having to work again) is to be able to ensure that my wife will never again be forced to worry about the cleanliness of where she’s living.

Somehow I got from the necessity of pants to singing the praises of my wife. I’m not surprised, for there are many praises I have yet to sing, but I do find it fascinating just how much better of a person my wife is in comparison with me. Hers is the irresistible force, mine, the immovable object. O.C.D. versus Apathy. All bets are off on this one.

-Tex

I’m Back!

I think my big mistake has been letting the nonsense of the outside world filter in. This morning, I was reading about one of the red states which has decided that we don’t need to teach anything to our students other than”America, Fuck Yeah!” Not that this should come as any surprise. I’ve been told by people who were alive at the time that the internment of the Japanese Americans during World War II “was for their own good.” Wow. Again, a truly telling sentiment. Instead of trying to strive for exceptionalism in the face of our baser desires, we cling on to the notion that the history written by the victors is the only story worth knowing. The irony, of course, is that the same people who derided communist nations and dictatorial regimes for controlling the only information which might reach their citizens are now trying to control and limit the information which reaches the ears of their own constituents. I don’t know, maybe if we outlaw knowledge, kids will finally seek it out because it is taboo. Hell, let’s declare a War on Education, and drive up test scores by secret cabals of students huddled around contraband textbooks from the coasts.

Yes, I know, my rant is suffering from a painfully liberal bias. It’s just that sometimes I get overwhelmingly frustrated with otherwise intelligent people doing abhorrent things. Take the issue of gay marriage. There is opinion that a religious union is the only definition of marriage, and therefore cannot be applied to homosexuals. But, as a consolation prize, the gays could totally have civil unions. I then asked if, by this definition, my wife and I were married. I was told, of course. I then pointed out that, not only were we married in a civil ceremony, but I am an atheist. How is it right that the religious protection of marriage is okay with someone who wants to get rid of religion to make the world a better place, but won’t consider two Christians who happen to possess similar genitalia? It’s easy to deny a right to someone if you don’t consider them a real person, and have never had that right denied to yourself. But I’ve gotten just a little bit off topic.

There are those who believe that to admit that this country has condoned such shameful acts is to somehow lessen the value of the American spirit. This is and has always been, at its best, a country of ideals. In reality we, as citizens of this nation, have failed at least as often as we have succeeded, but what made this country great was our forefathers standing right back up again and forcing themselves to do it better. This country was born on the backs of genocide and slavery, and that is a lot to overcome. And it’s no good to mention that slavery was the status quo among the colonizing nations of the day, or mention that the Spanish took their genocide to a multicontinental level. We are not going to find redemption in the fact that other people were simply worse. Like a home that’s rapidly approaching spring cleaning, the task of knowing where to start is often overwhelming, but to do nothing will accomplish just the same. We cannot fix, nor rewrite the past, but we can learn from it, and do our best to make sure that it can never happen again.

Let’s go back to the example I mentioned earlier: The internment of the Japanese Americans during World War II. Despite their innocence, it probably was safer for them to be anywhere else. But locking up a group of people just because you cannot control your other citizens’ idiocy and mob mentality is not what you should be focusing on. There is a certain shame in locking up a group of people just because you think it’s necessary to hate the country of their origin. What can we do to make it up to those who suffered this indignity? Absolutely nothing, other than to ensure that it never again may come to pass, and not sweep this chapter under the rug of patriotism.

When the Native Americans were rounded up, killed off, deposited upon land we decided that we didn’t need, and then moved again when we changed our minds, stripped of their languages and cultures, that was okay, because of manifest destiny. This continent was ours, and, by God, we were going to tame it. And whom did we decide to use to do the taming? Another group of people we felt must be inferior because they weren’t European. Religion was also used in the justification of slavery, as some ideas are apparently too good to need to change over the course of millennia. We took those people from their lands and brought them here as property. We destroyed families and cultures and destabilized a continent on our way to do the same to another one. There is no way that we can undo the sins the men and women of our nation committed in the name of whatever they used to justify their actions. My guess is the Holy Sound of the British Pound (and later, the Almighty Dollar).

So what can we do to make it right? What can we do try and put right what once went wrong (I called Scott Bakula, but it turns out he’s busy)? Let’s start by trying to figure out how to level the playing field so that it’s not any harder to get ahead in life just based upon the color of your skin or the construction of your reproductive organs. We could have the most prosperous land in all the world, if only we could learn to lift up one another. And why stop at this country, when we are but a small part of a global species? I know that it’s easier to do what you must just to get by, but maybe if we could all get together and put our head together, we could use the genius of our species and figure out how to change the rules of life and steer it away from being a zero sum game. But the only way to do that is to set aside our seeming desire for the comfort of ignorance and face the hard truths that none of us is perfect. And the only way to do that is to open up our avenues for education, not shut down everything that makes us question everything, and ourselves as well.

-Tex

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