James dear, you're not right in the head

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 16

2012-01-09T07:10:00.000-05:00

The spirits of the dead do not act the way we expect them to. In fact, with the millenia of folklore, centuries of faiths, decades of Hollywood glamor, and years of personal discussion, there has never been anything in my path that tells me different than the obvious: People are electric energy and once the person dies, the energy continues to pulse until it is either absorbed or it's dissipated.

The idea that Jeb or someone like my father lurked about in perpetual ghostlyisms was absurd to me. Both men were of the type who would become easily bored which fueled there insistence to try/do/see new and exciting things whenever possible.More than a month has past since Jeb passed away and now I walk away from a round table discussion about a man most people didn't know at all, and yet it was his genius to make each person believe that they alone know him the best out of everyone else. I certainly could relate to that warmth.

There is much that can be wrapped in a name after one has lived a few years. Romeo and Juliet were but children, and with limited steps on the planet the idea of "name" is one that bore no importance. Yes, a rose will still smell as sweet, but getting a dozen long stemmed "hammered piles of dog shit" delivered to your office would not come with the same elated anticipation one would have as someone receiving a dozen "roses." The name of "Scot" was something I could not get used to, and yet everyone only knew him by "Scot." Finally, here in front of me were people who knew him by the moniker that I was familiar with and that I could use/refer to openly without having to think about what term was appropriate for the setting. One thing Jeb was intent on, it was keeping Jeb in a very specific container and very few were to open in and glimpse the reality of the confined air. Knowing the true name of Scot was the first of many fingers which would eventually burst the seal and keep Jeb from having his most prized possession from existing: control.

I sit in my car for a bit before I decide to drive. It's late. "Late." It was such a foreign concept to me for so long. but since attaining a job with regular office hours I have suddenly found myself in a neuter sense of production and in order to produce well, I must get to bed at a 'decent' hour. They were organized people, 'good old boys' in a way. Their experience was limited but they seemed to know what they were doing. They provided a good product, although the packaging was in desperate need of touching up. This is where I came in and I feel that as the bridge over the canyon between creator and end user, it was my responsibility to show up on time, and not looking like I drank my sorrow the night before... whether or not I actually did.

The eyes that looked back at me earlier in the evening were hungry children anxious for a taste of the meat I had hidden in my heart. I had recently been through an awful ordeal where no information was given to me and yet I was expected to make some sort of leap into a colorful Willy Wonka 'Chocolate Mixing Room' without any means of leveraged foot stability. It was like having a child and keeping him good all year by saying "Santa knows when you've been naughty and you've been nice." Christmas morning comes and the brightly lit tree stands guard over a mountain of gifts all wrapped in reflective paper shining with hope and anticipation of everything that is good in the world... even if it's hammered dog shit. Upon unwrapping the gifts the child forgets everything around him... until the parent says, "there is no Santa Clause. He is a fabricated lie," and then walks out the door... never to return. The child's mind at that moment is now flooded with emotion and confusion. What? Was this all a lie? Why would someone lie like that? Where did the gifts come frrom? The streaming list is endless. And with no answers given, the emotion begins to be the only reality the child can understand.

This confusion and lack of information can be traumatically dramatic and destructively dismantling. Every avenue is scoped at, looked over, analyzed, and noted - only to go back over later when not enough information has been given to provide a suitable answer to the never ending pounding in the head that spells the letters "w-h-y" in slow rhythmic repetition. The child confused about Christmas, or the adult confused about their childhood friend. It's the same fucking process... and every person writing me emails seems to be projecting the entire cycle from their fingers, through the tubular depths of the internet until it gets projected onto my eyes. I haven't really known the lack of closure on this level. I can empathize based off smaller instances. I become overwhelmed at their feelings.

I became underwhelmed with my own feelings.

The former high schoolers were gathered and without being rude or anxious, they fired off questions, none of which would compare to the overwhelming first question on everyone's mind: "So what happened?"

These were good people. GOOD people. I had been wavering in my belief that such people even existed anymore. Surrounded by the hedonistic community that thrived on the "live for today" mentality that comes with the realization that self-preservation is only as good as you're alive... and 'survival' as it stands is the bare minimum of our movement, something we were getting weary of. We no longer wanted to just survive... we wanted to LIVE and we wanted to live fabulously. This was not just for ourselves - we would lend a hand to anyone who asked.

The concept of good was something I had to think about when trying to explain Jeb's life to people who first had to be caught up to what life is like before attempting to put our placement in it. Their confused eyes burned in me. I was so unmotivated. I found myself in such a unique position... a cat in Egypt times or a key between worlds. I what I knew. They knew what they wanted. Now it was time to link the two.

But how?

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 15

2011-11-22T07:48:00.002-05:00

What do I write?

FUCK.

See, this is why I need him here. This is why I need you here, you fucking fuck fuck. Out of the two of us I certainly had the ability to be more diplomatic and tactful, but there are times when I just don't want to be. Or maybe I want to be, but Jeb's insanity gave me a launching pad for which to start the process and without such a kick-start, I am worthless. Plus, I am in mourning and these... emails... come from all over the world and have steadily filled my inbox until I can ignore them no longer. Everyone wants answers to very difficult questions and they are all looking at me like I'm some sort of a Jeb prophet... and the damn blinking underscore is mocking me with rhythmic consistency like some sort of silent Chinese... cursor torture.

So, what do I write?

FUCK.

Despite the insane fun and glamorous sophistication that comes with alcoholism, there is also a remotely hidden down side of dependence during times of stress. At a certain point, the wind change becomes a 'time of stress'. In the weeks following Jeb's death I found myself with a new job to occupy my time as freelance was more of a "as needed" money source for the situation at the time. That time had passed. I know myself... and I need structure. The job was nice enough - they are NOT ready for me, however - the real me... the Excel spreadsheet noting the amount of children born, their cost, and the savings this country would glean should Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal" be implemented with non-English speaking households ME. That me was going to stay silent for a while. My most reluctant apprehension has to do with those in charge and their complete lack of understanding when it comes to human emotion. "I'm attending a memorial service for my best friend" was met with blank stares and large question marks that inflated over their heads. Still, they were nice, they were sweet, and they were giving me a steady job.

Curving the alcohol was coming at a most trying time, emotionally. I had been in a mood for a while as Jeb's family was invited down for the bar's memorial service, but like Christmas just a few months prior they found the trip too difficult to make in such short notice. It was probably a good thing as the memorial service was for the DJ, not the kid who called his mother by her first name starting in 7th grade. The emotion of straddling between the Jeb and the Scot worlds was finally starting to balance. The memorial as it stood was all about Scot. I felt a little lonely as there were only three people that I knew that could discuss Jeb.

Also in my bag of emotions was the curious case of what to do with the ashes. I had stomped my feet quite forcefully that the most appropriate action would be for Brian to take them and fly to Scotland to dump them... ANYWHERE... under the 'cover of darkness'.

I thought the situation, the man,, the 'grumpy' DJ who faded into the shadows, the person who kept everyone at arm's length, the son who kept everyone in the dark, and the very private NO ONE KNOWS WHAT I'M UP TO character that he felt comfortable being deemed it applicable to just have the ashes... disappear without fuss or discussion. The country where he took his DJ name seemed like the perfect place.

"There's this great place overlooking Edinburgh..."

"No, not Edinburgh."

"You said, 'anywhere,'"

"Anywhere but Edinburgh."

The family, of course, did not see things my way. They thought Scotland was a great idea. Brian conveys the message that we are all going to wait one year and everyone can go as one big happy clan... to Scotland... to distribute ashes... together. I personally had this golden thread of "kept away in life, keep away at death" mentality, but we are dealing with Jeb and his influence on people was dynamically thin but compoundly strong and resilient. I had learned right away to never doubt the little influences you have on people... it can change their life forever. And, well... we are talking about FAMILY.

Not drinking as much sucked balls. I was spinning more and more and mostly into my own self induced pity party. I can't help but wonder how much less Jesus would have complained while nailed to the cross if the sponge had been soaked with Jack Daniels instead of vinegar. If one can't drink while feeling sorry for oneself, what point is there in drinking at all? It was a clash of process verses sentimentality, necessity verses fluff.

Then the tide shifted. With the blog post of my eulogy to Jeb, there came a trickle of inquiries. Very slow, as if a few marbles were placed onto a suspended paper towel. Unbeknown to me there actually exists people who still communicate with their high school classmates, even after decades have past. Rod Serling would be needed to reveal the next part: They actually still communicate... on a regular basis. Because they LIKE TO.

So my mind was blown, and a few marbles turned into a river of weights and soon the volume of inquiries buried my tiny fragments of brain matter under the curious wonderment and long lost-parachutes which had suddenly deflated with an grand exhalation. They were looking at me to solve the riddle and bring the story back home. And here I sit, staring at the screen... blank.

The first person I have in my email is not the first person who found out, I read. Traci Googled Jeb's name and my website came up. Traci told Jen who's email I am currently staring at. Jen told Hillary, Hillary told Antonio, Antonio told his brothers, and the wildfire spread like a manic disease. But a cute disease. A Franklin Mint disease that comes wrapped in silk paper with a pastel pattern and and a note with just one word attached written in crimson calligraphy: "Love."

As varied as the people asking questions were the questions themselves, and this is what has me dumbfounded. We have the extremely religious angle hoping that Jeb found God before his passing. We had the touchy-feely all encompassing spiritual blanket of warmth and soft gooy chocolate chip cookies. We had the cut-to-the-chase no nonsense emails. We also had a variety of inaccurate information that seemed to pepper the river coming into my inbox. And who is this "JEN"? She seems to be cheery ringleader of the group. I have to keep my eye on her for fear I may be attacked with streamers and bundt cakes.

It's very difficult for me to concentrate. I shut off the monitor. I lay on the couch. I look at the window. Nothing. This is (was) Jeb's couch.

I go to my darkened room. I lay on my futon. I look at the ceiling. Nothing. The only avoidance more prevalent than alcohol is sleep.

I go outside. I smoke a cigarette. I look at the neighbors doing their thing. Life does go on. Regardless of this moment, the world spins. I think back to my grand old philosophy which got me up off my ass to lose weight, reestablish my career, and eventually leave a harmfully dependent relationship - Life, as it turns out, is not about me.

I was such a perfectionist, such a 'clipboard-o-fun' guy. People had to act/behave/do/say things according to MY way or else they were deemed "NEGATIVE ENERGY" and avoided and sometimes chastised. I am a planner, and if things didn't go according to my continually flawless plans then I would throw a well-justified fit and sabotage any progress so as to make a grander point. I trained those around me to sugarcoat, tip-toe, and cater to my infinite wisdom and subsequent demands. Well, yes, everything did go smoothly and without upset (of course... because I'm fucking BRILLIANT), but I was single handedly making my world, and the world of everyone who came into my orbit, all about ME. As lovely as this is (and it was lovely... let's not lie), one's world gets disrupted by things out of one's control. Say, for example... the death of your father who was being kept alive far past the point a thinking person would consider 'humane'. Or the memorial service of this father set in a religion you had been excommunicated from - the same religion that whispered and murmured when you visited at the hospital. The decision to skip the memorial service so that people can focus on the man who had passed away and not on his disfellowshipped son with tattoos and piercings was my only selfish indignation, but there again a decision based off circumstances outside my control. Or the fact that the ashes of this father were buried in direct opposition to his wishes.

Yeah. At some point, you have to let go. I had to let go. All the arguing and bitching, complaining and sabotaging doesn't do shit outside the world one creates. You release an immeasurable amount of energy and lay on the ground streaming in anger barely able to open your eyes... and the World will look at you... and without the slightest disruption in the rolling clouds... MOVES RIGHT ALONG.

I spent so much time creating the perfect world I failed to see the Darwinian necessity of adaptation in order to survive. I was going to physically complain myself to death, and take however many people with me just to prove my point. Whether things are perfect or not, the earth spins, the wind journeys, and the sun gives life. Our existence isn't perfect but our ability to adjust is key since we live in a society with fellow human beings, all neighbors, trying to place one foot in front of the other the best way they can, just like we are trying to do. We are not living in an isolated island... and for such, learning how to interact on a basic level, and our ability to use it properly to learn and grow is what life is all about, it's what makes living exciting and our individual lives ceases to become microscopic and begins to be grand.

The world, as it turns out, is not about me.

I smile at my incredibly insightful pondering. If only the lay people could understand such reasoning. No time to explain... I have writing to do.

I extinguish the cigarette and sit back down at my desk. I turn the monitor back on. I will sulk later, before bed, maybe. I will allot some time. I will even have a drink to compound layers of horror that I am suffering because I AM A UNIQUE AND BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY and what I'm going through NO ONE ELSE KNOWS BUT ME. And that is all good and well. But right now... is NOT the time for me. Right now, there are people that are far more lost than I, have far more questions than I, and who have far fewer paths to closure as I. There were good-hearted people who did not need confusion and distance, they need facts, and strength.

I am a person who needs closure. Without it, I spin like a helicopter without a functional tail blade spinning. It is my duty, no... my honor to help where I can. This world, right now, is not about me... it's about THEM.

I smile. In all my tears I cannot remember smiling this much. I think for a second. There is too much, we should meet in person. And with that, I start typing:

" Jen:

I'm emailing you since you are the socially responsible one and i trust you to convey this over to the others however you deem fit, and because i can really only write this once... and i trust you with it...."

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 14

2011-11-21T05:14:00.001-05:00

The confusion that follows through the coming weeks was not like anything I had experienced before. I lay on my futon mattress staring up at the brushed textured ceiling and feel void of emotion, feeling, hope. I do not feel bad or depressed about such, just... void.

When Brian made the second of the life-changing phone calls, it was after Eeyore's Birthday Party. I had already said my last 'good bye' the day before, although it was tragically pointless and empty. Jeb had been moved out to the lake for his final 3 weeks on this earth, and by the time I saw him his body had began to systematically shut down. He was nothing more than an all-encompasing star trapped inside a paper-thin shell twitching randomly from the nerves' obvious desentagration, something I had unfortunately seen before. Jeb's mom, Eileen desperately tried to read into his movements, motions, responses, and reactions. It was a tragic attempt to avoid the enevitable obviousness which I had seen with my own mother just a few years before. Sad. Understandable, but still sad.

I walked away with nothing. My "goodbye", if I had one, was the six months prior where we drank ourselves silly every evening. I had nothing more to say. I had nothing more to take in.

It is 4:05 in the morning. I cannot sleep from sheer exhaustion. I've cried as much as I could. My brain, in a tragic flaw of geneology will not stop spinning about the loss... The world's loss. And yet... FUCK THE WORLD. It's MY fucking loss. And yes, I wanted to scream until I was hoarse with anger. But it wasn't in me. It isn't there. 4:09 am and I have no movement other than a steady stream of tears trickling down the side of my face.

My nature, as it seems, is to put so many hopes and aspirations on the cute pleasantries in a Pollyannaeque gift box, and then weep when such expectations are lost to the violent winds of reality. This was not the case as the reality was firmly established and there was no future past Jeb's death. The lack of knowledge has always been my worst enemy and now, fully filled with exact specifics, I am able to breathe... I am able to smile at the memories. I am able to move on.

But not just now.

The memorial service was the "real", and when the mountainous amount if coke I inhaled had worn off, I was left with my body, no longer shaking, no lingering pins poking into the back of my eye. I was able to feel.

And here is where that finds me, 4:12 and alone. The apartment silent with my own whimpering. My heart so heavy it beats with a thud. I don't want this pain to end as it is the feeling of respect and honor. It is the feeling of influence, presence... Love.

4:14am. The steam from my eyes runs steady still.

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 13

2011-11-19T11:24:00.000-05:00

The amount that my body is shaking was something I had never experienced before. I had never been so cold or wrapped in the world of drugs to an extent where a come down was so violent that my body would shake outside of it's own reality like I was going through at this very moment. Ed holds me close as Margie continues to read my words about the man who cause this backyard gathering. A gathering of people who did not even know Jeb's real name.

I can't see the point of sobriety without someone special to share it with. I cannot see the point of good drugs without someone to indulge in the wicked hype. Without laughter, all is void anyway. Jeb was my sobriety that was wrapped in severe alcoholism. It was 6 months of drinking and while he had plunged into every sort of Hospice wonder that was offered, I had to remain steady in order to drive him home, put him to bed, or take him to the hospital if need be. It was now all over... and now I get to think about me.

Me.

I had drugs available, but the only person I wanted to share them with had died. Sobriety could continue, but the amount of alcohol and the cloud of coke that bellowed up seemed impossible to ignore. Why would I want to avoid this indulgence anyway? I spent 6 months in the "REAL" and the now. I don't want the real and now. I don't want to be here with this memorial service, have my words spoken by a stranger, being held so tightly that standing up was s default. I want to collapse. I want to fall down. I want to dive into a world of white and brown and let my brain have a vacation... so that for once it was not the driving force pulling the cart of circumstances but rather in the back seat being driven around on some sort of leisurely psychotic tour. I want a vacation that allows my senses to play.

I wasn't giving up. I was the mysterious 'man in black' that showed up in August and suddenly their crabby, scruffy DJ was secluded away, laughing, joking, and being... HUMAN. Now I stand in a backyard memorial service where everyone was going to use this death as an excuse for drinking, snorting, going fully naked and dive into the pool of sorrows. I didn't want any of this. I didn't see the point in any of this.

I didn't need an excuse. Frankly, there was no excuse. I just wanted to breathe. I NEED to breathe. There is a yellow sun above my head that hurt and with a blue pulsing inside of me I just wanted to curl up with whatever external chemicals I could get my hands on and give my brain a fucking rest. My reality is so loud and now it had come to a screeching halt. It was as if the first wave of a tsunami had completed it's run and the debris-filled waves of the after had caught up. It was overwhelming and devastating and I had nothing to grasp onto in order to steady myself. The helpless feeling of the finality is only trumped by the uncontrolled realization that there is no finality.

What point is there in sobriety without someone to share it with? I am lonelier than I had been in all my years of being out. It was invigorating to the regular person, but it was exhausting and deflating to me and I was in need of a break. My brain needed a break. The blue inside me was pulsing at an increasing rate. What the fuck was in the box? I don't know. I don't want to know.

I want to know but I don't want to know RIGHT NOW. At this moment it is more important to breathe and to sustain life than to understand and exhale the final bit of life.

Time to heal. Time to acknowledge. Time to simply be. We are human after all. We have progressed faster in our mental and emotional evolution than our physical bodies could possibly keep up with, so there is nothing that states that we can mentally and emotionally handle such speedy evolution with our brain wiring being hundreds of years behind.

I want out... just of a moment, a minute, a second even. My brain needs rest.

This damn shaking. I can't stop shaking. Through the smiles and tears... is no one seeing this vibration. This is me in reality - it's called collapse. And I did so.

Blue. So much blue light. What was in the box?

WHAT IS IN THE BOX?

2011-11-16T09:57:00.002-05:00

Chapter Next

2011-11-04T23:09:00.000-04:00

Walking in the snow is treacherous and annoying. Maybe the treachery stems from the birth of this annoyance in wading through the thick powdery ice, but I am not able to make the discernible difference because whatever I'm doing at this moments, it sucks. The oddity of the crash comes like a betrayal of a lover, the absence of hope for the first time in many years settling on a series of bubble wrapped questions which were always there, but packed away enough so that any bouncing doubt was reflected, and the questioning suspicions were left untouched, snug, and quiet... until you get slapped in the head by a cow.

Or at least we think it's a cow. The wreckage behind us was crackling obnoxiously like a spoiled infant, bright orange with its furious violence but now seems like a simmering beast still asleep from these few hundred yards away. Jeb seems like he knew where he is going. I do not. My instructions stopped at the train. The train, it seems, stopped (or didn't quite stop) on... what I'm still guessing is a cow.

I hear the intense collision of metal and fire with brief flashbacks, still feeling the inertia of the train car turning. In wild hits I can still see the ground scraping across the window and my body falling towards it as Jeb's hand reaches around and grabs me like octopus would grab a leaf floating by. The toss, the movement, the jolt, the inability to know direction, up, down, falling, being thrown is all being hurled at your brain to process - all the while the idea of survival, landing, steadying yourself, steadying those around you, and trying to figure out what exactly to steady yourself to... and from what, dominates your eyesight. Now, walking in the cold snow... the frigid night adventure being shaped by the howling wind carving blue curves into the terrain, I sense my brain has caught up with the body. It would seem that "bullet time" only means your see and think at super speed, it doesn't mean your body can react or recover during the same time allotment. And mine is protesting with a grand voice.

Jeb not only seems to regained his agility, he also seems to have infused himself with determination which I have never seen before. We are walking into the 'north of Canada' tundra, the nowhere, the cold nothingness... the very terrain that create legends, folklore, and monster stories.

The wreckage is silent now... a faint glow in the distance. No sound. The light from it's death is now but a blink and the night and its reality takes over. Jeb drops to his knees. The ice beneath his legs begin to melt... and with it, the gravity that we had avoided in walking on iced are now grasps us. And it pulls us. We drop.

We fall a short while, my eyes closed the entire time. I open them. We are ... light.

*****

BETRAYED? comes bellowing out of somewhere... I'm not sure where, it's just in my head and it fucking echos like it's a blowhorn on crack and is powerful enough to burst my eardrum from withing. My chest seems weak with the pressure.

I was standing on a glassy floor with a sea of... water? under it's structure reflecting the light from above which is... stars? and lighting the... court? or palace from which I now stood, alone among gold columns, black space, universal celestial everything, and a throne. A light of great strength stood beside Jeb, both are wrapped in white garments, although Jeb covered in a white bedsheet looks pretty comical, but I fear this may not be one of those times to start lightening the situation with jokes. This is, however, one of those times to be indignant.

"Yes, 'betrayed.' I feel that as my information was limited and I was put in danger without my knowledge." I take a few steps forward and stand with my right foot out because according to 6th grade Drama, this will give my presentation and the scene an increased sense of purpose. I'm sure knowing what the purpose was would help as well, but I didn't have that information. I'm just working with what I have.

YOU WERE NOT IN ANY DANGER. I WAS MAKING SURE OF THAT. Dammit if that fucking voice didn't make my balls itch. Who is that and what the hell does this have to do with Jeb?

I CONTROL EVERYTHING. YOU LACK FAITH IN WHAT YOU DO NOT KNOW. YOU FEAR THAT WHICH CAN HARM YOU. YOUR CAUTIOUSNESS IS A GREAT STRENGTH, BUT IT PREVENTS YOU FROM MOVING FORWARD. YOU EXPECT TOO MUCH, AND WHAT YOU ARE GIVEN RECEIVES LITTLE APPRECIATION.

God is a douche. "Yes, well... that is called 'being human.' We live, we learn from our mistakes, we learn from examples, and we walk forward adjusting ourselves according to what we know because SOMEONE won't give us any new information... we have to create it on our own both as individuals and as a society. So yes, if I finally feel like I'm receiving a... job... a mission of some sort to bring my best friend here, I expect some support. When the train we board hits a cow..."

IT HIT A MOOSE.

"... a moose and derails, I now have the pressure of getting Jeb here, plus the insane amount of questions yet unanswered, and now the flashback feeling of being tossed about in a train wreck. I don't want to face death like that while trying to do something this important."

ONLY ABOUT ONE THOUSAND HUMANS DIE IN TRAIN WRECKS IN ANY OF YOUR YEARS...

"THAT is NOT the point! The point is that you are forgetting the emotional aspect of this. I can only handle so much."

I BELIEVE YOU ARE CAPABLE OF MUCH MORE...

"Yeah, great. I know you believe that, but you're not the one living it. I am. So I'm glad you THINK I can do more, but frankly, I don't WANT to do more. I have enough, thanks. And with one of these 'issues', my best friend is involved. I don't care how much you think I can handle... but I think it's respectful to dedicate a fair, legitimate amount of focused emotion on someone who has been my brother for over a decade without also having to deal with a fucking train wreck."

I KNOW YOU ARE UPSET. YOUR JOURNEY IS OVER NOW.

"An apology would be nice."

I DO NOT APOLOGIZE, NOR WILL YOU EVER ASK ME OF THAT AGAIN.

"What, you can listen to Moses but you can't listen to me?"

LEAVE MOSES OUT OF THIS. THAT WAS A DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCE.

"I don't see the difference."

YOU ARE A COCKY MOTHERFUCKER. I DO NOT HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU AT ALL. HOWEVER, ON THE COUNT THAT I WAS NOT PAYING ATTENTION AND DID NOT SEE THE MOOSE, I WILL LET YOU STAND AS YOU ARE.

"What? Not paying attention? So how the fuck do you think I can handle more of anything in my life? What? Was there some rapper that needed help with the chorus of his upcoming album? An actress needing help to cry on cure maybe?"

IN TRUTH, I HELP NO ONE SO POINTLESS. I GET THANKED FOR HELPING, IN REALITY THEY SHOULD THANK ME FOR NOT PAYING CLOSER ATTENTION.

For the first time, I see god's image in me. I see my image in god. I see my mind, thinking, talking, feeling, breathing. So much cynicism and yet it wasn't bitterness that fuels me, it's the need to answer silly questions. God had made his point.

I HAD NO INTENTION OF A POCKET OF SINGLE CELL SEA MONKEYS GROW INTO SELF ABSORBED MACHINES WITH COGNITIVE THOUGHT, AND NOW WE HAVE THIS PLANET OF HUMANS THAT DEMAND EVERYTHING BE HANDED TO THEM SO EASILY. YOU NOW MAKE SUCH DEMANDS. STOP. YOUR UNSELFISH LOYALTY HAS PROVEN ITSELF BEYOND YOUR OWN KNOWLEDGE. IT BRINGS ME GREAT HONOR AND PLEASURE. YOUR EFFORTS ARE APPRECIATED AND NOTED.

"Even if I don't technically believe in you?"

I WISH MORE PEOPLE DIDN'T BELIEVE IN ME. THOSE THAT DO TEND TO MAKE IMPOSSIBLE REQUESTS OF LITTLE LOGIC. IT IS RATHER ANNOYING. THINGS WERE MUCH QUIETER WHEN HUMANS DIDN'T SPEAK AND JUST ROVED AROUND THE PLAINS OF WHAT YOU NOW CALL 'AFRICA' TRYING TO EAT, SHIT, AND FUCK. NOW, YOU HAVE HOPE, EXPECTATIONS, AND FEELINGS THAT IF PRICKED CAUSES A TEMPER TANTRUM THAT CREATE MORE CHAINS FOR YOU THAN ANYTHING I WOULD EVER DEMAND.

"With little information, the human mind tries to fill in the blanks. The end result is not always pleasant. It is the beginning of most religions."

DREADFUL CONCEPT BASED OFF COINCIDENCE. I WILL ALLOW YOU TWO A CHANCE TO SAY YOUR 'FAREWELLS'.

Jeb looks at me with horror. I am emotionless. What? say our 'farewells'? "I'm leaving Jeb here?"

YES. YOUR JOB IS NOW COMPLETE. YOU HAVE BROUGHT HIM TO MY SIDE. I NEED JEB HERE WITH ME.

"No! Why the hell would you need a 'sea monkey' by your side? You don't need shit from any of us!"

I'VE JUST ABOUT HAD IT, YOU LITTLE SHIT. I'M NOT THAT UNDERSTANDING OF HUMAN NATURE. THIS KIND OF THING NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. IT IS NICE TO HAVE REASSURANCE SOMETIMES.

"I brought him here to be healed."

AND SO HE HAS BEEN.

With the words of the Almighty echoing across the glassy floor, the box in my back pack begins to float. A blue light rises out of it and starts to pulse with a hum that is calming and nauseating in unison. At the same time, a red light began to steadily glow and grow out of Jeb's chest and pull itself from the core of the pale young man. The ball becomes fully formed outside the body before it jets off into a circle. It hits me square in the back of the head and I fall onto the glassy floor... aching, annoyed at yet another level. Pissed. I did not see where the ball of light went. I am just very glad it was out of Jeb. The floating box falls to the ground. It is empty. The sea beneath the glassy floor gives up a planet. It is Earth. I look back up.

"It's okay, James. I can do this."

"But Jeb, I was expecting to help you so we could... you know... live."

"I got that. But this seems interesting too. I'm not going to fight it if this has to be done."

"No! I cannot... live without you in my world. Your humor and slanted perverseness... I'm not ready... for this to all go away."

Jeb looked scared for a moment. "I know. I'm not either. This is all very, hurtful and final."

"I hate finality."

"And I hate seeing you suffer."

"I am hardly suffering. I would rather be in a world where you are traumatizing children than in a world where I'm comfortable but you do not exist."

I CAN ARRANGE FOR SUCH...

Jeb and I looked at god and together said, "Do you mind??"

JUST SAYING.

Jeb was in tears and he looked at me. "Stop being such a pain in the ass. This is a good thing. Go and live your life now. It's okay."

Something about his permission made the entire scene SO much worse now. "I don't want to. I'm good at being a pain... and my life as it is needs you in it. I cannot breathe without knowing there is at least one person on the planet I never have to explain myself to... or argue with... or will back me up in a bar fight even when they know I'm wrong. You are not just my brother, you are my oxygen."

"I know what you're feeling... I'm the other half here too, you know? You have not only provided me with years of laughter, but understanding... comprehension, and balance. James, without you my life goes so haphazard. But if it's going to happen, I'd rather it happen here. You have taken care of me and that eats me up that you're not able to go and be...YOU - the creative asshole that fucks with people's minds. And that I'm going to miss the most. I know this hurts, but I can do this... I know you can do it. So... let's do it."

"No. I'm not ready for this..."

I cannot form full sentences. I'm shaking violently with "no" running through my head. I feel a warm wind and when I look up and I am dressed in black, standing in the back yard of a house off West Gate Blvd. with 50 other people, mostly guys, standing in a half circle... almost all in tears. A woman trying hard not to break down is holding up a piece of paper... MY piece of paper. She is reading about "Scot Free" to the crowd. Those are MY words about 'Scot Free'. I cannot stop shaking.

I cannot stop shaking.

I had more to say to him. I had so much more to say...

I cannot stop shaking.

chapter xi

2011-10-08T22:22:00.000-04:00

Train rides are not as sexy as they once were. Or I should say that they are not as sexy as I perceive they once were. I had never been on a train until this trip, heading up north from Chicago O'Hare and cutting right through the middle of Ol' Canada. It was going to be a long ride, but this is what the big man had planned and I was in no position to argue at this point.

The stark sharp repetitive childlike clanging of metal against metal mixed with the ever-so-slight rocking motion gives me the infuriating honor of traveling in a perpetual limbo. Neither were consistent enough to be drowned into the background and lull me to sleep. Neither were annoying enough for me to justify the use of my safety comfort net (aka a hydro and Jack Daniels). There I sat, my body slightly jiggling, my breath weighted by the discomfort dryness of the thinning air, and slightly confused since although I could not sleep, I seem to have just woken up. I blink a few times and look around the pantry-size room... or rather a pantry that for this leg of the trip we will call our "room"... however long this trip is going to last. At this point, the clarity of the situation has lost all lenses and I'm am about as clueless to point and direction as the guest of god who I was escorting.

Speaking of. I realize the new philosophizer which has now taken upon himself to become a gay Jesus of sorts. He hasn't really healed the sick or raised the dead, but he has made many in mainstream religion very uncomfortable. I feel that this is Jesus' true gift to the world: rebellious liberalism. That and booze. It's a 50/50 as to what takes top spot. Honestly, if there was a constant flow of high-grad wine instantly created from any water source, rebellious liberalism is pretty much an inevitability. Jeb however was not providing booze as he was consuming it... and he was only healing the mentally sick and raising the emotionally dead.

It's dark outside, and the cold emotionless plexiglass windows have screened us from whatever mysteries lay beyond the unstable movement of the cars as we travel with the energy of an unknown engine dragging us behind. Hollow tension seen to well up, but seemed to be dispersed upon my focus. I'm searching, stretching, scratching with the tips of my fingernails for some sort of right or left path. Both directions are as empty as looking straight out the window as all information is blocked by a blackness that is only seen in the frightened white of the frost.

I leave the closet/room/bunk/confinement (it's a "deluxe" we were told) and look around the abandoned hallway for any sign of non-steel-formed life. As there is none. The grey on gray colors of the black trimmed interior seem to only spell the obvious sterilistic presence of a trip with no tell tale telling of what is to be at the end of the track. I do the only thing logical when faced with such an unknown situation: I head for the bar.

In the low wattage public transport sense of "day" with overcast windows and an odd openness of 1974 comfort in the transportation arts sits "Jesus of Austin" across from a woman who is near tears. Jeb is laid back in the opposite bench seat, hand on his forehead beaconing is most atrocious "Oh my god you fucking woman, I'm going to hit you with the first cast iron skillet I can get my hands on... see this? This is me scoping a path to the kitchen" look. I've seen it often, I've only described it once.

He then puts his hand up as he collected himself and looks her squarely in the eye with a stern but smiling look of concern, comfort, scolding, and relief all at the same time. The woman's eyes seem to soften as she then wants to absorb everything this stranger has to offer.

"You say you're looking for someone, who promised never to part... Someone to close his eyes for you, someone to close his heart... Someone to die for you and more..." She was absorbing every syllable, even though the words were not his own. The woman weakened in the last sentence and yet somehow seem validated.

There was a bang. Not just a bang but a movement of earth that shook the car to the core while throwing out an lung-crushing sound that I have never experienced before... and as violent as the moment was, nothing had moved, and nothing had changed. For a second or two, I had thought it was all imaginary. It was the microwaves and air pressure of a full rock concert in the eye of a hurricane and we all felt it at once with the sound of metal being raped. But yet, there was nothing in my eyesight that justified such a phenomenon. I was instantly panicked. The woman was frozen in fear as she halfway looked around the car.

Jeb lowered his head in sadness and a light came from outside. Not a light as it was a flash of evil dressed in orange light and angry thunder. Something happened outside. We were confused and still. The car was still. The air was still. The liquid in our drinks were still. The earth shifted twenty feet to the right... whether those dependent on its stability moved or not.

Fuck.

Another flash ends the scene.

chapter x

2011-08-23T08:59:00.000-04:00

There was something about the man sitting beside me that gave the the warm fuzzy Hollywood flashback I really didn't feel like filming, but was going to happen anyway, or as much as the budget would allow so I might as well make it fabulous.

CUT

A grainy afternoon where the sun's heat beats through the large living room window of the old Victorian plantation home sitting aatop the wide plains of Texas. Jeb sits on the chaise lounge in a pretty yellow sun dress waving an accordion fan at his face, sweating profusely without let-up.

JEBBORAH
My dear lawd, Jamesy. I do declare this heat is something of a burden. I fear my presoiration might be compromising the integrity of my freshly set curls.

James is sitting at the piano playing a very basic musak type melody with not real structure. Dressed like an over-inflated oil tycoon and large mustache, James shoots the arrogance around the room in pride.

JAMES
Stop your complaining, woman! This home has given you the fine stature to afford those curls, that pretty dress you're wearing, and the vaginal reconstructive surgery that saved our marriage.

JEBBORAH
But the humidity is simply impossible to deal with while still trying to achieve some of the more lofty levels of proper society, like you promised.

JAMES
Oh Jebborah. That was something I just said so you wouldn't worry. No body would accept a white Tiwanese whore and a raging crystal meth addict into proper society. No Ma'am. Best we can to is turn an addition into a profitable business, run through your whorehouse.

JEBBORAH
Now we can afford everything they have!

JAMES
And more. Dammit babe, no other woman, real or fake could afford that body you have. Your tits and vag are as tight as an 8 year old boy.

JEBBORAH
Sir, I do declare yourself out of place (giggle).

JAMES
Well let me put myself IN place.

James pulls out his hands with his fingers set in the 'gun' position and starts firing into the air. Jebborah laughs with delight as...

"That is the stupidest thing you've created since that musical you wrote about being ripped from the love of your life while working at the world headquarters of Jehovah's Witnesses."

"I was traumatized."

"You were hopeful."

"Hope is just self-traumatization which has yet to be realized."

"At some point, you will have to break free from the 'tortured artist' persona. If for no other reason but to gain the perspective from the rest of us."

"Jeb, you are the king of self torture."

"...Rest of THEM. Sorry."

"And stop getting into my head."

"You're in mine all the time!"

"That's to keep an eye on you."

"The ultimate in tortured artistry."

I smiled a bit at the reality of the cycle. "Poetic. Isn't it?"

"I always found you the most talented at the asylum."

"Thank you. I appreciate every single one of my fans. Especially those that put me in the asylum."

"And why am I the woman?"

"You look much better in a pretty yellow sundress than I do. I'm lumpy. I need layers."

"You're not lumpy. And I have nothing going on. I'm just... flat."

"And the clothes will hang on you like a custom fit hanger, just like the designer's vision."

"You're calling me an anorexic model?"

"I'm saying you're a canvas on which to paint while I am more of a... mural. A mural on a multi-curved surface."

"You're terrible, mural."

We both giggle a little as the plane unexpectedly dropped altitude. I close my eyes for a bit not knowing I am gripping my notepad a bit harder than usual as my streaming ticker in my head repeats in constant flow "stabilize, please stabilize" over and over. The recycled air being blown into my face offers little comfort to my slowly flushing face. I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes to a darkened cabin of people in various poses of suspension who seem to be oblivious to the unsettling event which just occurred. For a moment they all seem as if they were dead. I look over at what seems to be a rather amused Jeb.

I smile. No further conversation is needed. My creativity has taken a melancholic melodramatic dive to malevolent default of cheese and fluff. I close my notebook in frustration, but the honesty in me realizes that art in any form is a free-form energy with is either guided with precision or left raw and unadulterated. Different people with this energy handle it different ways, but the end of many years of dependency on our successful flow of this energy culminates in the passive allowance resting at the bottom of the line chart most commonly referred to as 'the path of least resistance'. We then cease being 'artist' and begin being 'coma'. Awake. Eyes open and blinking repeatedly telling stories and conflict of a timely and purposeful nature, but coma nonetheless. Coma in a white, stable, sterile box from which the mind can wonder... but not too far.

I don't know if I am at that stage or not. This trip has taken over my life and for a person who loves travel I find myself in a floating space between honor and duty - between the joy of serving and the weight of providing. It's a rather common cycle in the human existence. It is just one I had never really faced before.

"And so the tortured artist continues his quest... sword in hand, dagger in chest."

"Jeb! I said stay out of my head!"

"I can't. I have to keep an eye on you."

I smile at his green to silver changing eyes and drop my head in appreciation. It was neither honor or duty. In fact, I'm not taking a journey at all. I'm just simply stepping out of my box. The fact is I was following. And, well... I'm not going to pass up a good adventure, am I?

The plane begins to shake with mild turbulence. I don't really notice as a warm blanket covers my outer soul confining it to a pen long enough for me to relax and drift off to sleep.

I like sleep. I like smiling. Together, contentment becomes personified.

Contentment. There's the point...

chapter ix

2011-08-04T22:49:00.001-04:00

I had forgotten what the wintery crispness of the Atlanta night sky smelled like. It seemed like decades since I last step foot into the city of eternal slithering spirals where people are lost in the hyper abyss simply by trying to avoid their avoidances. The few stars that are visible look pale with fatigue in their short-strawed job to represent the night sky to the millions of drunken wanderers wading through their own egos, too self-absorbed to even notice the empty vacuum that hovered above their water-logged inebriation, much less the hard working few that seemed to penetrate through the city's light polution. I could hear them... the fools. The night air is so sharp the the skin, it makes me smile at the cool texture even though my skin was warm from the anger which had been heating up my core from the moment my cocaine chariot returned to Hartsfield-Jackson.

I let out another puff from the Kamel Red Lights which I have faithfully smoked for eleven years, mostly as a sense of relevance or maybe honor to the man a few floors up who introduced me to them on drunken evening in the back bar of the Forum. It ceased being an addiction and has grown into it's own memory, created from the blood of my soul carried off to be cradled in the smokey depths of my lungs and exhaled as a prayer to the night sky in a desperate attempt to make amends with the clock's hands. As the stillness takes over my muscles and freezes time, the stringy white drift floats away, being pulled to shreds until nothing remains - each molecule separated from it's neighbor until the community of prayer becomes but one atheistic blank.

I could have stayed there for hours listening to the familiar sounds of the evening beginning to take form throughout Atlanta, as the faint sounds of Sherman still cursing the city from beyond the ashes. The automatic doors open behind me and the stale medicinal pungent cleanliness graces each of my shoulders before finally encroaching on my nose and eyes.

"He's awake," I am told.

"Finally. It's been three days."

Ideally the concept of Jeb making any trip would involve his traveling... then sitting. Anything less would bore him to the point of agitation and annoyance. Anything more would exhaust him to the the point of collapse, and a demonstration of such had been playing out over the past days. This information is common knowledge for me, Jeb, the heath care professionals, etc. This information was not known to Jeb's family. Thus the trip in itself was going to be an extensive lesson in recovery, but adding the additional "oh, what we should do is _____," mixed equally with, "You need to visit with _____" or "Let's call _____ and see if they can stop by."

Jeb didn't want a reunion. He didn't want to take aunts and uncles, cousins with the half-cocked question on their face beaconing with confusion and wondering (sometimes aloud), "What the hell's the matter wit yuu?" The people were nice, the energy was positive and upbeat, and the laughter and sharing was wholeheartedly comforting in its simplicity. There were smiles, but they were not Jeb's smiles. My own assumption as I put out my cigarette is that this was another case where the outward display and attention of the mother far outweighed the necessity and limitations of the son. And in this case, it almost killed him... prematurely. I laugh a little to myself. Such a harsh assessment only comes with having a mother with such a strong overcoat of attention whoredom. I beg to be wrong.

The yellowed tile of Emory reminded me of something... I couldn't put my finger on it. It was a good memory, I knew that much, but the details are sliding around the freshly waxed floors. Just then the frame of the picture began to solidify in my mind, I was opening the door and entering into Jeb's room.

His third straight day of 104 degree fever and night sweats which looked more like a faulty sprinkler system than it did a body trying to expunge itself of toxins. Jeb won't look at me in the eye. I only look at Jeb in the eye. He gives one look to me directly before occupying his eyes with the mundane once again.

I keep my mouth shut. Now is not the time. However, that's not to say that my passive-aggressive statements given with odd inflections did not have a perfect home in the stale air of the hospital room.

"Did you have a nice visit with your family?"

"Yes. I got a chance to see a lot more of my family, actually. Everyone seemed to show up. It was good to see everyone."

"Good to hear. I'm sure that exactly what you needed at this time."

"It just wore me out a little, that's all."

"I know. We certainly can't expect everyone to stop their party to pay attention to when you, their guest, needs a break or some quiet time. That would be... ludicrous."

The third trip around the hospital bed to fluff pillows is met with Jeb's hand. He grabs the pillow and fluffs it himself. "I'm glad I went. I just wished I would have been more specific."

I know when to stop. This is the time to stop. I look at his fuzzy heavy head drifting down like a balloon slowly losing its helium and just pause. I give Jeb a smile and crinkle my nose. It has been more recently where 'it's just a fucking shame' type of scenarios seem to come from the ground, and Jeb wants to be comforted, but not by me. I provided him with a very specific, boundless comfort, but it's not all inclusive. A decade ago I would strive to be everything for everyone. Now, over 10 years since this amazingly arrogant freaktard walked into my life, I have learned how to maneuver around his emotional unsteadiness properly. In this case, let him sulk, and he will be back in two minutes flat. Whatever happens, DON'T SAY A FUCKING WORD.

And so I don't.

It's still 24 hours and a tanker truck full of liquids later before we are allowed to walk from beneath the stone keystones and ride in the same cocaine chariot back to the airport. I sit staring at the window at the cityscape, so different from when I was last here... so many new buildings. This is my own emotional unsteadiness. I get this way with boyfriends as well - where I get so angry, upset, and rigid, that after a while I am exhausted of all energy and become distant, tired, and almost in tears. Jeb doesn't say a word. In three minutes (it takes me a little longer), I am back on track.

I take the heavy case from my backpack and I set it on Jeb's lap. The driver keeps his eye on what I am doing. Jeb holds it for a moment. He puts his head down on it and uses it like a pillow in his lap. The stiffness of the 'new car air' is broken by our honesty, our legitimacy, and our smiles. I close my eyes for a bit just to breathe in the freshness. I open them to Jeb's arms extending the case to me. I kiss his forehead and return the case to the backpack.

I point outside. I make a face. Jeb makes a face. I perform a pantomime involving human childbirth and gangsta rap. We snicker.

The blanch skin that once sat there looking like it was barely able to do it's job started to get blood flowing back into the layers. His glassy eyes brightened and his facial muscles began to move and stretch as if given new life. The energy began to build and the star sitting in the back seat no longer felt as if it was on a pointless journey for which it was being drug behind. It now felt like it was on a mission, and it was pulling straight ahead in all its glimmering fusion.

It sometimes feels good to go blind for a bit.

chapter viii

2011-07-29T02:21:00.000-04:00

"Eileen... EILEEN!" I'm walking, I'm talking, I'm chewing on the side of my cheek in annoyed aggrivation. Crazy people. There are some entities in this world which seem to take joy out of making their association a full time job for everyone else. I already had a full time job and this woman will not land as my second job. Her son, however... different story.

"Eileen, that seems most traumatic for Sharon... Karen, sorry. Can we PLEASE get back to your son here? Jeb. Is it possible for you to please make the trip down here and pick him up at the airport so he can spend some time with you, and the family?"

Her response seems like nothing more than a series of beeps and burps. I can not take anything this space cadet is signalling - we simply do not speak the same binary. As Jeb and I walk through the terminal, we pass the aquarium where men and women float about, drifting as if in a daze... a haze, a fog of smog which somehow still appears cleaner than the Atlanta air outside the confines of this grey building of this airport. I shift my backpack at the sight and switch the phone to the other ear. No one seems happy in their bubble. Everyone should be happy when they're swimming. Atlanta, so fucking backwards, even their water people look like dried bacon.

"Eileen, he could take a car up to you, all expenses are paid for, but it would be nice if you, his father, sis, and the boys could come here and pick him up. Then you can go out in Atlanta to some place nice. I'm just saying. How often do you see your son?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but with everything so shrouded in secrecy it was no wonder the disbelief of the disengaged were dismissing me in this disenfranchised distortment of avoidance. Jeb wanted to see his family. His family had some idea what was going on. Nobody wanted to say what was happening. I felt like I was playing Pictionary at the School for the Blind. "It's a twelve hour layover, Eileen! All he wants to do is see all of you. It would mean so much to him."

This argument would have been better made if Jeb were not at this very moment walking around to people (children included) in desperation asking with all his heart, "I've lost him... have you seen him? I really need him. I NEED to FIND him. I'm looking for Jesus. Have you found him? Because I need him. I need the LOVE of Jesus DEEP inside me..."

I really miss my first job. Really I do.

The woman on the line was being impossible. True to form I hung up the phone in frustrated anguish and self inflated arrogance, to a certain extent. In looking up from my vibrating annoyance, I see Jeb waving from the airport bar, pointing at two shots of Tuaca. Really? At this hour? Whatever hour it was. It's so pleasent that the rules of alcoholism are tossed aside for air travel. And really, if you can't find the love of Jesus at the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, shots of Tuaca are honestly the next best thing.

"Your mother is being difficult."

"There is little proof Eileen is actually my mother."

"Whoever the woman was who attacked your middle school bully with a tire iron is, THAT person is difficult and..." down the shot, "the only proof I need of possible genealogy is how that specific irksome characteristic seems to have been passed down to the gentleman who stands before me."

"She's not coming, is she?"

"No, Jeb. Your family as a whole couldn't make the time to come get you."

"That sucks."

"What do you expect? You have told them nothing of this trip. You haven't told them why or how... you have kept them at a distance most of your life. To ask them to drive two hours to pick you up from the airport at the last minute is a little demanding, even for you."

In an overly dramatic sense of blocking, I take my pack and walk off into an empty sitting area nearby. Jeb follows shortly. "They should act out of faith, you know. They should just here the call and just come."

"I think that only works if you give faith out first."

"I know, but still... there is something about heading the call of their son that says 'don't ask questions, just move', you know?"

"Yes... but their son didn't call. A strange person with cryptic information about their son's demands called. It's different, and not very understandable. I agree with you, honestly. But I don't know what you expected their response to be considering the presentation."

The sudden freeze in banter feels like water in the lungs... dirty raw filth sluged in liquid which had been seeping in slowly throughout this journey and suddenly it ruptured a membrane and attacked our respiratory system with the agility of an oversize gorilla collapsing from a tree. We want to cry. Somewhere I'm thinking we need to cry. But there seems so little point in it, so we just sit, staring. Shoulder to shoulder we look blankly into knowhere realizing that reality rarely wreaks of such reason, and yet we are silenced in it's decibels.

"I can't leave you here by yourself, Jeb."

"Where is God's given fuck are you going?"

"While in Atlanta, I have some unfinished business to attend to."

"What's his name?"

"I'm hoping I will remember that by the time I get to the bar."

Jeb would sometimes smile proudly at me when statements like that popped from my lips, like Dr. Frankenstein pleased with his creation and how well it was learning. I don't think I was "learning" as much as letting a lot of stuff out - hidden, deep rooted synapses silenced by Styrofoam covered bibles and prayers made of bubble wrap. Jeb created nothing, but he seemed to uncover the layers one by one and with each revelation came a new expression of delight and wonder from the stone statue of his public persona... and this reserved giddy would show itself in only one, slightly crooked, ever mischievous half smile. And right now... I needed to get out of this fucking airport.

Back on the phone I order a car for Jeb and another for myself. By the time we trekked from Concourse E to the baggage claim, both vehicles where waiting. I guess it pays to have friends in high places.

Both Lincoln Town Cars were of this year and pearl white. Maybe if we had friends in high places with better taste, this story would go better. But I am not one to complain. Jeb and I look at each other, and without a word we grab our noses and sniff in real deep. Neither driver seemed to take the joke with any relevance. We again look at each other like two school children giggling at nothing and approach the cars with humility.

I walk up to the driver taking Jeb to his family. "You are taking him east to..."

"Instructions and directions have already been forwarded," I was interrupted by the very tall, large semi-truck of a man in a pristine silver pinstripe suite. I desperately want to ask if he was Optimus Prime. Jeb shook his head 'no'. I refrain.

I took a case out of my backpack and handed it to the driver. "He cannot stay apart from this for too long..."

"Instructions are for you to keep it with you."

"But..."

"Thank you, Sir. Please proceed to your own vehicle."

I return the case to my backpack and did as instructed. I look back at Jeb getting into the Town Car and see him in proportion which I do not often get a chance to experience since we are so often in our own world. In the reality of the physical air molecules around us, Jeb looked weak and small compared to the large leather seats of the COCAINE CHARIOT (as we would later call the vehicles). His tired body seemed to hold in the bones of a screaming man and the emotions of a monk silenced by a code no one knows but himself. The door closes to shut him, his thoughts, and his reality away and I am left out by myself... as we all are. I wished at that moment that Jeb was of this world. It would make this job so much easier.

I turn to my own ride and gird myself for my own venture. I was off to see a man about a horse... cock. Not that he knew what to do with it. Still... some things need to be done for the properness of humanity and I owned his person a great deal. Such is my opportunity. Such I shall do.

The cars pull away and Jeb's vehicle disappears. I look for my phone to text him but I seem to have misplaced it.

"It is up here, Sir," says my driver. "No texting while in the vehicle."

Not my money. Not my rules. I nod in acceptance and start humming the theme to "Shaft." My driver is not amused.

Chapter vii

2011-07-26T22:10:00.002-04:00

I wake up to a splitting headache to a black ceiling illuminated only by a sliver of red-yellow light drawn across the ceiling and down the wall as if to say "look down". The idea perhaps birthed earlier in the trip when arriving at this post-modern aristocracy where large arrow lead here, larger arrows lead there, and everything leads to the bed. It was like sleeping in a brown marshmallow crosswalk.

Still, I did as instructed and followed the line to see the clumps of... people? animals? items of clothing we will perhaps steal for ourselves? Most likely the latter. HOPEFULLY the latter.

What disturbs me most about my current situation is my lack of memory about how many people are in the room, what drugs they might be recovering from, where my best friend is located, and what day is it. We are suppose leave on Saturday. Right? Maybe. I need internet.

I reach over the warm body next to me and grab the last cigarette in the mangled box and instinctively pulled a lighter out of my pocket at the same time. And obviously I slept in my clothes. Good to know. I lit the cigarette and briefly revealed the disgruntled remains of an orgiastic tempest from the streets of... from the alleys of... from over the skyline of...

... Amsterdam, I think. ... from across the canals of Amsterdam and into room 217 of this muted road sign quagmire of a trendy hotel set off Rembrandt Square. I'm pretty sure my best friend is laying face down in the next bed with a person... scratch that, with people - muscular people draped across him like horses who have passed out from exhaustion after crossing the desert, even after consuming the contents of the mini bar for nourishment. The bill of that will not be disclosed.

Efforts to rouse Jeb went unrewarded. "Go the fuck back to sleep, it's still dark" was the recording I reached. We were on a deadline and I could not be so easily dismissed. This is not going according to plan. But then again, being in Amsterdam seemed to be a slight bit off plan itself. As a hungover plus American ecstatic about passing out in Amsterdam and not waking up in metal cuffs bound to the wall or lethargic in a bathtub filled with ice, I was trading such exhalation for anxiousness to get to our destination... the exact time and location of which eludes me at the moment. As does my pants.

"Jeb, if we don't leave now, we're going to miss our flight and be stuck here for another 24 hours."

Pause. Head lift. "And the problem with that is...?"

"The problem is that we don't have the time for this. You made an agreement and I have to get you to your place on time instead of hopping flights to have orgies in... Amsterdam, I think." I'm still not sure. But never let uncertainty stand in the way of a good oratic moment.

"You think 'Amsterdam' or you think 'orgies'?"

"Both. Neither. Okay, I'm not sure. I'm pretty sure about the orgies. I'm only so/so about the Amsterdam part."

"And what made you think we might be in Amsterdam?"

I reluctantly ashed my cigarette and pointed to the man in my bed. "I'm pretty sure that's my dealer from the last time I was here."

"Oh my. He is cute. Can I blow him while he's sleeping?"

"Clothes. NOW."

Jeb tossed a pillow hard to the unknown naked guy in the bed from which I was raised, not yet sure if I should be proud or ashamed of the person that still could not easily be seen. "Hey!" Jeb proclaimed unusually loud for a small hotel or an American football game. "What city are we in?"

The curly blonde cutie (I am proud) turned over and laughed out "U bent in Amsterdam! Kleine stad, geweldig hart en een zee van pik en patter!"

I shook my head, "I don't even know what that means. I just got 'Amsterdam'."

"Well, I certainly understood the 'dick' part..." He giggled. He then started to look about, as if there was something to be observed in the near black cube we were in. "Where is the cocaine?" he asked very nonchalantly.

I couldn't help myself. "The cocaine in this country is both a shame and an embarrassment. I can't even believe this is acceptable to you."

Jeb was less indignant. "Okay. Well, I for one could use a little coke."

"No! Come on." Pause. "CLOTHES!"

Briskly walking through Schiphol Airport didn't seem to help matters. I was lost and confused, and I had Jeb lagging behind doing his Jim Morrison impression, "Lighten up, Man... you just need to do a little acid."

"No. We tried that. We ended up closing down Central Station for 3 hours, a pimp has a bounty on your head, and a bunch of old Romanians think I'm Pablo Montero. No, we are not doing any more acid."

I put out my cigarette as I heard the Dutch men in tight grey slacks run up behind us screaming how there is no smoking in the airport. "Watch your step" came drifting from above the large yellow fingers displaying gate numbers, none of which were ours. This was becoming a pain.

It took several more discussions with "Jim" and a stern talking to by security before we were allowed to board a plane to nowhere going everywhere and running an hour late.

"Jamesy, there is no real reason to stress. You are way to serious. Learn to relax."

"I will relax once we are on the ground to where we are on the ground in _________ and once all the tests come back negative."

"Negative..." Jeb trailed off outside the window to a place of white clouds and sun. "Those were the days." His inflection smelled of a lukewarm off brand vodka. I didn't have any response. I keep busy so I am not burdened with the efforts of a genuine response, just a sarcastic quip which will distract everyone enough to allow me to internally collect myself to continue the conversation. This was a pattern of mine, and it worked with everyone in the world except one person.

"I like that shirt. I don't remember you having that."

"Oh this?" I giggled to myself. "I found it on the floor. It fit so well, you know?"

"I put what was left of the coke in your back pocket."

"What?! God dammit!"

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 6

2011-01-04T17:35:00.001-05:00

Blogpost January 1, 2008:

Drunk it Forward

There came a point at the end of the night where a Bar Girl I knew was throwing up down my back, a shirtless twink boy was toweling off my leg, and a drunk queen forcefully pushed me aside to flirt with the Straight Boy who I was talking to that I thought to myself, “You know, James… you’re getting a little old for this shit.”

Maybe I am. As I got the door for my friend who was carrying Bar Girl out into the cold from the crowed venue like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard, and somewhere between hopping on the back of a fire truck and riding it for half a block (it wasn't my idea) and packing Bar Girl into Straight Boy’s car… I had somewhat of an epiphany. Bartender, Bar Girl, and Straight Boy are all at or under 21. I have some 12 years of this behavior on them. That was me just 10 years ago (or so *ahem*). Is this all really considered “fun”?

Yes. Yes it was sort of fun. I chatted all night with Straight Boy, who managed to attach himself to me for safety reasons. He was so tall I barely came up to his shoulders, he was gorgeous as hell, built, and sported an adorable set of loveable round lips which curved to make a perfect smile. Of course, I was more interested in his internal beauty as he was actually quite intelligent and engaging. Bar Girl and I had met a few times before at this particular bar. She brought Straight Boy as a "date" even though they were not dating at the time. Of course, every time Bar Girl and I ran into each other, we had a fantastically raunchy time, so it was no wonder that she had talked about me to Straight Boy before dragging him to the New Year's Eve Party at a gay bar. It explained why he was rather excited to meet me. It was rather funny being attached to the one guy everybody wanted, as many queens would stand next to him and “accidentally” back into him. This went on in one variation or another throughout the night until it became late and the cruising became more aggressive and belligerent.

I got my New Year’s kiss from Bartender, which was sweet gentle kiss on the lips… very cute but way too brief. Bar Girl seemed a little disappointed it wasn’t more of a make out session (not as disappointed as I was, honey - and why do straight girls always want to see gay guys make out anyway?). Straight Boy got a hug at midnight since he was handling his alcohol very well (unfortunately). Still, at the end of the night, he managed to toss me his business card before taking Bar Girl home. Of course, I LOST IT… but if we’re going to be technical about the situation I can very much announce that I DID get his number.

Before she went downhill and started throwing chunks, Bar Girl was looking fierce from head to toe. Honestly, she has never looked better. There was one point where she was lying in the arms of my friend outside on the sidewalk, unconscious with vomit sticking to the side of her mouth where I thought, “Damn… this girl looks good.” It’s true, she did. The same could not be said of the middle-age woman in a similar situation across the street.

So I really can’t complain too much. I saw some old friends that I hadn’t seen in 10 years, and I have aged MUCH better. I was finally able to fit into my Salvage t-shirt that I bought over a year ago when I began my weight loss venture. I was so happy about that, and it was actually a very good look considering that I had to take off my outer shirt due to it smelling like vodka and stomach acid. And despite the vomit, at one point in the night I DID have a shirtless twink rubbing up and down my leg.

I can’t help but reflect… hanging around the CHILDREN and all… was I this bad when I was their age? Yes. Yes I was. In fact, I know I was much worse. All I can say is “Come talk to me when you’re stuck in the back stairwell of a bar tripping on acid and thinking that the movie Brazil is happening for real outside in the alley.” Until then, they’re just amateurs. So when it comes to this new generation, I will gladly hold their hair back, help carry them out of a bar, and pack them into a car of a hot straight guy at the end of the night. I think it’s quite necessary for us, the older generation, to “drunk if forward” to these younger kids. That’s all I thought about as I looked at Bar Girl with her lifeless head lying comatose, the drool bubbling from her lips, the skirt hiked up, tattered hair, and one heel tossed aside and realized that used to me (though she had much nicer shoes, I must say).

Bartender offered me a ride home, and I stupidly refused. I thought it best he get home as he looked like he was run over by a steamroller. I made it home, alone, but still laughing at the insanity of the night. It was wildly fun, incredibly immature, and a complete irreplaceable experience. I was seriously having my doubts about going out for New Years, and I’m glad Bartender convinced me otherwise. I owe him a big “thank you” for that. Via e-mail, I'm glad to report that the absolutely beautiful Straight Boy made it through the night in one piece and via text message I hear that the enchanting Bar Girl is recovering nicely. I have to mention my friends, my kick ass friends… who took care of “the situation” better than I did, and was still able to laugh about it when it was all over. I really do have the best friends in the world.

Now, I don’t know WHAT this says about what 2008 is going to be……

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 5

2010-12-15T22:40:00.000-05:00

It was a frigid afternoon in December when I called Hunter to meet me before his happy hour shift at the bar. For weeks I had been watching Jeb trying to work and the conundrum was that I was okay with his killing himself with alcohol, but I was not okay with his killing himself with alcohol AND work. One or the other, but not both. The amount of time it took him to get ready to work was growing little by little, but the recovery time upon returning home was increasing at an alarming rate.

Out of nowhere, Jeb decided to skip the morphine for a few days. That was disastrous on two levels. Physically he was unable to perform simple functions as easy. He wasn’t able to eat as the pain in his digestive system had returned with full vengeance. His back, legs, chest, and head all throbbed to different rhythms of torture at the same time.

Psychologically, the withdrawal was much more devastating. The morphine was successfully clouding the mind enough to provide a warm blanket which shielded the full reality of the daily steps leading to a very obvious eventuality. As I tend to be an extremely sensitive empathic person, I was able to go day by day without reading too many emotional waves beaconing from Jeb’s head. The most that I read came from Jeb’s frustration with himself or his failing strength (i.e. having me open a bottle or a package for him). This waveless calm disappeared in the absence of morphine. One afternoon of reading childhood ramblings, Jeb stopped reading and just stared at the sheet of paper before him.

This was not some ‘brief moment’ in passing or a glimmer of a faint presence. No. This was a full on hammer hitting, “Oh my god, I’m going to die very very soon,” epiphany that struck him with the swiftness of a moon-sized asteroid, and beamed from his head and hit me like an army of trumpets blowing in unison directly in front of my face.

It wasn’t like this was new information. Jeb avoided anything to make himself well. He never took any medication. His reasons varied depending on who he was talking to or what mind-fuck he wanted to play at the time, but his internal reason was he simply didn’t want to. Whenever he became ill or went to the hospital, he never took care of his body long enough for him to fully recover before diving head-first into his drinking/spinning life. So it wasn’t as if any of this was a surprise. Had he never taken the morphine, this bitch-slap would never have happened. But after a few weeks of happy pillow pleasure, any realization came as a surprisingly harsh blow. I suggested we get out of the house. The bar even. Anything.

Jeb went back on the morphine.

It was in that window that I had a chance to see all sides of my friend at once. He was a living Cubist painting with repetitive views showing different sides and different views showing the same side. It was all there: the worry, fear, frustration, the strength and fragility, the anger even. It was a lot to digest.

Hunter had gotten to the point where he could read me rather well. He reached the coffee house across the street from the bar and immediately greeted me with a hug. “You don’t look so good,” he said. “What’s going on?”

Straight to the point. I proceeded to ask how things were going with Jeb at work. I wanted to know if all the effort Jeb was going through was worth it. Was his work reflecting his condition?

“He’s doing fine. I haven’t noticed any change in his work… and you know I’m paying attention.”

“Ok. But what about everyone else at work? Are people noticing anything?”

“James, it’s a gay bar. Unless someone shirtless and ripped or wearing feathers, nobody really notices anything other than themselves.”

“Good point.”

“What’s this really about? Is Jeb getting bad off at home?”

THAT… was not the question to ask. The magic button was pushed and at that moment I went from the little Dutch boy holding his finger in a dam to the first victim of a major barrier collapse. I was crushed under the weight of the very sea I was trying to restrain.

Hunter found someone to cover his shift and we spent the evening talking, eating, and downing a few pints. Spinning was killing Jeb. But spinning was also his esophagus. The musical knowledge stored in his head was encyclopedic in function. I had regularly been downloading the newest songs from around the globe, each one with five to ten versions, and he would listen to each and every one… only to experiment with, and joyfully display the new beats, rhythms, and remixes to the Austin gay public.

I had never said a word about how Jeb lived. I left that up to Brian who did a better job of playing ‘bad cop’ to my ‘quiet enabling cop’. But there was a point where I had to admit that Jeb was not living the best last months he could possibly be living.

In a manner of odd synchronization, Jeb was across the street at the same time I was demonstrating my ‘turning into Jello’ routine at the coffee house. He was talking to his boss about possible options should he not be able to continue working a full week’s schedule.

The next day Jeb and I sat down for dinner and he presented me with the decision that was facing him. I answered off the top of my head.

“What the hell? Are you fucking kidding me?” I practically yelled in my best angry housewife tone of voice. “This has been horrific for me to watch. Granted, it’s not near as horrific as actually living through it… but still, that’s not the point. I’m watching you run yourself into the ground, literally, and for what? You live here, I feed you… what little you eat, you have no real expenses. You cannot be doing… THIS… to yourself. You don’t have all the time in the world, you know. I don’t understand why you want to spend it being miserable.”

To say that my ranting surprised Jeb would be a gross understatement. He looked blank. It was like I had just told him I was flying to Brazil for a sex-change operation so I could be a headlining Kylie Minogue impersonator in a bar outside Quebec City. He gave me the perfect “This is not what I was expecting… and I do not know how to respond to this” face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Jeb, it’s not your place to apologize. This is your life, you can do whatever the fuck you want. I’m just along for the ride. If this is what you want, I will gladly shut up. I just think that you could be experiencing a much better life then what you have right now. Seventy-five percent of your life is spent getting ready or recovering from your work at the bar. I just want to know that this is worth it to you.”

It was a clouded dream set in a snow globe… held under water. We hadn’t been that emotionally honest and still in a long while, so there was an uncomfortable stagnate air in the apartment for a long beat.

“I want to watch something funny tonight.” With that, Jeb broke the thick awkward honesty spell which had gripped the room.

I’m not sure how much time had passed, but Jeb put in his notice and December 15^th was to be his last official day although he would still be spinning once a month and special events. He walked out of the office… and we had a shot. I remember that evening well because in walked an older white gentleman with his younger Mexican boyfriend. The older man was all about Mexicans, Mexican food, Mexican culture, Mexican behavior and somehow this entitled him to Mexican jokes because he was fucking a Mexican boyfriend. I’m not sure how the conversation started but next thing I know I blurt out loudly, “Oh for fuck’s sake. The only reason Carlos Mancia has a job is because Dave Chappelle didn’t show up for work one day.”

And it digressed from there. Jeb closed his eyes in laughter, shook his head, and placed his forehead on the bartop. Eventually the couple had to be escorted out. It was a good night.

In general, the bar’s reaction to Jeb’s retirement was mixed at best. Again, the reality of Jeb’s situation was well cloaked. Few knew what was really going on. These few took the time to get to know me, and they knew this day was coming. For everyone else, it was a surprise, but a chance to show some appreciation. And so the people were left to celebrate their beloved DJ… and celebrate they did.

There were two parties in a short amount of time. I remember neither of them. The Christmas party was one evening. That was… something. All I remember margaritas and tacos. I met Hunter’s girlfriend for the first time. She was… hot. My reaction to Hunter was, “Dude, now I know you’re gay. Even I would fuck her.”

December 15^th was the party of Jeb’s lifetime. DJ Scot Free was given a sendoff like none other. Shots and cupcakes. Then shots that tasted like cupcakes. I don’t remember much of that evening other than it was AWESOME. Jeb was giving free reign over the music for the entire evening. I thought he did an amazing job… however, those less inebriated informed us that Jeb let the music stop three times over the course of the night.

From that night, I have a busted head light in my truck. I’ve never asked how. I never wanted to know how. To this day, the light still works… so I have never had the cover fixed. There is something metaphoric about a light being broken yet completely functional.

It was a week to forget, and forget we did. With everyone wrapped in joy, it was a series of smiles that made everything in this crazy story buried in the ground while we were toasting in the clouds. It was self-destruction at its best, but this path of disintegration came with laughter, love, appreciation, and obscenities. It was everything Jeb stood for. I was lucky just to be standing near this flawed but brilliant headlight.

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 4

2010-11-25T12:11:00.000-05:00

I’m not going to shy away from my rampant drug use over the years. And I will use the word “use” and not “abuse” because abusing drugs is simply a waste of good drugs. The reality is that I didn’t start drinking until I was 21, and didn’t do a single drug until I was 23. So by the time any of the fun stuff entered my life and I was mentally able to handle some adventure, but i was tethered to a weekday routine that I would stick to since I had bills to pay and a job I loved. I didn’t want to be a junkie… my life on a daily bases was pretty good, I had nothing I really wanted to escape from. That was my salvation.

However…

… in my first year out in Austin I was a mess. Alcohol was always my worst drug, but my best friend at the time, Conrad, had taught me everything else I needed to know. He was a nerdy geek who was brilliant and experimental, a combination which would later lead to his own demise the very next year. I was not so anxious to trumpet in this path, so I took everything rather slow. But whatever condition I came home in Jeb was always there with the appropriate remedy and to listen to the laughter. This was me… this was my “wild phase”. I was released from the religious chains that had held me for 23 years and finally I could just… DO. Of course, the worry wart that I was, “doing” was often layered over with the “well, let’s be careful about this, we have to be at work on Monday” voice of an adult omnipresent mother. I was a good person to party with on day one. By day two I was a buzz kill. “If we are going to be doing good drugs, we might as well do something productive.”

And to this day, my bathrooms have never been as spotless.

But it was more than just a wild man let loose for two days. I was trying to find my balance between the strong arm of the religious gluttons with bellies stuffed with guilt and hate and the ‘everything goes’ freedom of the hedonistic orgy of a gay Dionysus. It was not a very easy middle ground to achieve and through that year I stumbled many times, but recovery and balance was only due to another who had taken his journey years before.

Jeb was experienced in everything, and for that I looked up to him as we both garnered creative inspiration from whatever drugs we did. We would sit and tell stories to each other for hours. Mine were days old, if that. His were years old. The comfort is that we made the same mistakes, and found the same humor in many of the same circumstances. This provided a bases of trust that… to this day… is difficult to achieve without years of honest conversation. Jeb liked what I did with my inspiration creatively, and sometimes when he got home from work he would sneak into my room and see what new painting I thought up after a night of psychedelic mayhem.

For the years spanning my exit from Austin until my move back, I would visit and check on my friend. Inevitably we would do a little acid and talk for 12 hours straight. We would lie on the couch and laugh, we would take out the folding chairs and sit in the back yard staring at the stars until the sun decided to wake. Our favorite late night past time was watching infomercials and buckling over until we were hoarse with laughter.

One would think that two mental patients of this caliber under the same roof would make for a messy living situation at the asylum, but it oddly did not. In fact, the opposite was true. We worked as a balance for each other. While I was a raging mess, Jeb was always the calm caretaker and vice versa.

With this trust established, time brought various information about Jeb. Thanksgiving 1998 was approaching and it was at that time I learned of the absolute disgust for the holiday that Jeb held. I’m sure somewhere in our history he revealed the origin of this but as of not I cannot recall the specifics due to everything I just wrote at the beginning of this chapter. I was not going to be deterred by his negativity. This was going to be my first Thanksgiving as Jehovah’s Witnesses do not celebrate the holiday and as a newly orphaned gay male, I was going to do it as if Martha Stewart herself was presenting it to the Queen.

Jeb was amused at my venture. In fact, with most things regarding me Jeb would sit back and watch as if to say, “I just kinda want to see where this is going.” I think that was the true beauty of our relationship… we simply amused each other. For the actual Thanksgiving Day, Jeb and Brian went to visit relatives. I cooked an unnecessarily large turkey, stuffing, artichoke dip, mashed potatoes, green beans, and an assortment of other forgotten side dishes and desserts… all from scratch, and all for myself.

If you are thinking that is a lot of food for one person… well, so was everyone else at the time. I finally broke down and invited various employees from Midtowne Spa to come by and partake in my expansive spread. One by one they would drop by the house to literally ‘dine and dash’ as they were still working and only on their lunch break. This also meant that with each visitor I become more and more drunk as I was the only person consuming wine. Anthony was the first to taste my palatable masterpiece, so he witnessed my first ceremonial ‘cutting of the turkey’. I stood over my conquered feat with a large knife in hand looking like a serial killer with my blue spiked hair, eyeliner, and chipped black fingernail polish smiling from ear to ear. I was mad with accomplishment.

“Do you remember my first Thanksgiving?” I asked Jeb one day in 2007 as the holiday was approaching once again.

“I remember the artichoke dip,” he laughed.

It is true, upon their return home the day after Thanksgiving, Jeb tasted everything but the turkey and finally settled into the artichoke dip. First he used bread, then various vegetables, and finally just shoveled it in his mouth with a spoon… and then his fingers. It was damn good dip.

I was trying my hardest to remember what Jeb did for Thanksgiving 2007, but I cannot remember the specifics. That was a theme of Jeb’s: “I’m going to do what I fucking want by myself. Talk to you later.” For anyone who knows Jeb who may have unanswered questions about why he did this or that, just repeat that phrase to yourself. Jeb’s skin was made of iron, and rarely could anyone break him of his path or guilt him into doing something he didn’t want to do. He did not do turkey. I’m pretty sure he spent the evening DJing at the bar. At that time he was rarely anywhere else but between the DJ booth or my living room floor.

The days between Halloween and Thanksgiving were pretty routine for us. The morphine was settling in nicely after two immediate increases. Years before Jeb had given up pot. On occasion he would use cocaine as a helper to his non-existent energy levels. By the time he entered Hospice, he was pretty much clean except for alcohol, although a few Hospice helpers suggested to perhaps maybe think about if he wanted to conceivably consider the idea of possibly partaking in minimal pot use to help with everything he had wrong, including nausea and appetite. Jeb never did.

Once the morphine balanced out, Jeb became a new man. He was able to eat solid food, his drinking was less manic, and he was able to move about like a human being instead of like an ape who had a dagger stuck into his side. His Staph infection was under control, his temperature regulated, and his thinking was clearer. For the first time in years, I was comfortable with him driving.

That lasted for about three weeks. Then there was a turn. It wasn’t anything drastic or surprising, but a subtle fog creeping in from the periphery. Jeb would sleep longer hours, it took more effort for him to get ready for work. His night sweats returned little by little. In general, his body began to show signs of failing again. This time may have been a swifter and gentler decline, but it was a decline nonetheless and it was happening before my eyes.

A few weeks before Thanksgiving Jeb had started a cathartic cleansing of his life. Trash bags filled with clothes and boxes filled with papers began to flood my living room. We would sit and he would show me every item of clothing that had a story to it. He would shuffle through papers and pull out an old essay with the enthusiasm of a child getting the perfect Christmas present.

“Okay! Listen to this!” He would then read some off-the-wall insanity that was hilarious to me, but probably frustrated whichever small-town-in-Texas teacher who had to grade such a creative work of art. Genius or mad man? It really could go either way if you didn’t know Jeb. It was if he came out of the womb on LSD and as a person of similar mindset, I could appreciate the little Seuss-esque worlds he created.

As suddenly as they arrived, the bags of stories and the boxes of forgotten memories would disappear. In some ways I felt guilty for not stealing some of these writings or not trying to preserve the creative oddities, but at the same time I wasn’t thinking about me or Jeb’s future as Jeb had no future… there was only the now, and the Jeb now would be irritated at me trying to take something of his. In fact, I think that was one of Jeb’s greatest gifts to me: “Here, you are a warped mind… let’s share.” And then it was gone. It was his version of Jimi Hendrix burning the guitar on stage, but for an audience of just me and all I have left is the memory of the scene, the emotion of the room, and the smile it left behind.

I had abandoned drugs years before when my father passed away. Again, I did drugs because they are fun, not out of depression or escape and my father’s passing had me depressed for a long time. For the record, Jeb never shared any of his morphine – I never asked and he never offered. As his body began to fail more and more, I found it hard just took keep a monotone conversation going. Hunter, the happy hour bartender at the bar who worked while Jeb DJed became a fueling station for me. His nerdy cuteness and twisted mind made him a perfect source of positive energy for me to siphon from while I was watching Jeb’s deterioration. He was also one of the four people that Jeb actually liked and appreciated – so the three of us spent our happy hours together, sometimes joined by Anthony who would round out the group.

Thanksgiving was finally upon us. I had two dinners planned. The first was Thanksgiving Day with Jeb’s ex Brian and his partner Ed at their house by the lake. It was a place where Jeb would go to mentally recover as its scenery was spectacular and the wine was always flowing. It was also the place we had discussed as the last place Jeb would like to move to when the time came. The dinner was small and quiet, and conversation was mainly about Jeb and his condition. The next day there were loads of Christmas decorations to go up and tons of leftovers to be eaten.

The second Thanksgiving was on Sunday with Anthony and his partner Dan since Anthony had to work on Thanksgiving. On Sunday I left Brian and Ed’s and stopped by the house to prep myself for the next meal. Jeb was fast asleep in his bed. I took off and thought nothing of it. The meal was a bountiful dinner with plenty of laughter. I made it home stuffed and in a good mood. I realized that I had consumed more food in 4 days then Jeb has in the past year.

I came home to find Jeb still sleeping, sweating, and running a very high temperature as his forehead felt like it was on fire. I wasn’t scared at first. I had seen him bad, but not this bad and I had absolutely no clue exactly how long he had been asleep. He wouldn’t wake up, and halfway in my trying to rouse him I realize that for some reason I didn’t want him to wake up. His body obviously needed to be still.

Monday came and he was still asleep. I sat on the floor next to him and grabbed his hand and stared at him for what seemed like hours. I didn’t know what to think. The only thought that kept surfacing through the muddy pool was “is this it?” It would be the first of many of those moments. Questions would then light up and spin around my head like flies on fire, impossible to swat away, then disappear, only to have the one question stand alone in the emptiness… “is this it?”

Jeb eventually woke up while I was watching television. Thank goodness.

“You need to eat something.”

“I’m fine, I’m just thirsty.”

Those two lines of dialogue will be repeated many times over the next few months.

For this evening, I was relieved and thought a mild celebratory meal was in order. I retrieved steak fingers from Dairy Queen. Jeb wanted to know if they still tasted like he remembered. They did not. In reality, nothing really tasted the same to him anymore.

I changed the sheets of his bed and he went back to bed. I called the Hospice nurse once he was out and told her what happened. She informed me that this may be happening more and more, and I was to let her know when it happens again… as it will happen again.

Jeb slept until Tuesday happy hour. It took him two hours to get ready for work.

Things were changing, we could both tell it. Nether wanted to talk about it. We were both uncharacteristically frightened and unsure how to digest it properly. We would figure it out on our own, separately before any communal thoughts were released into the air. To talk about it would be admittance, and neither of us wanted to admit the obvious: the tide had officially changed for the worse.

Jeb took off to work and left me in the living room, staring at the closed door. Here I was celebrating Thanksgiving, and the one thing I’m truly thankful for was right here. I wasn’t thankful, I was honored. At that moment, the honest moment of loss began to nestle in and become comfortable in the middle part of my brain. This was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon.

I gave a big smile to myself. The reality was sad… but this is Jeb, and I was having my very own ‘I just kinda want to see where this is going’ episode.

“Well,” I said to myself, “I guess it’s time to get this show on the road.”

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 3

2010-10-31T23:59:00.002-04:00

Driving into Austin with the U-Haul dragging my truck was torturous on its own, but adding Austin’s typical traffic behavior compounded the danger. Tim had made arrangements to stay at the La Quinta at 35 and Oltorf which, as anyone who knows the area can testify, was somewhat of an adventurous decision. All the crack and loose prostitutes we wanted were readily available. If I could to YouTube the hooker/pimp fights we witnessed, I would be world famous by now.

As Tim was a traveling rep, he had amassed a large number of La Quinta points enabling us to stay as long as we needed until we found an appropriate place to live. The first few days we drove around the areas of town I liked. At this point, Tim had agreed to stay with me, so we were searching for rental homes with a yard for the dog. We found a few we liked, but nothing that really grabbed us. In the midst of our search Tim’s mind started to go in wild directions, to the point it started to concern me. His thoughts of talking to angels and reading hidden messages inside of spam email was somewhat of an issue over the last two years, but in the recent months it was becoming more and more prevalent. The move to Fort Lauderdale was purely based off a letter someone sent him encouraging him to “come down and see our facility.” By the time Austin came into the picture, I was worried about his safety and the safety of our dog, Jordan.

It wasn’t more than a week and Tim announced he was leaving. I was in shock. I had not found a place to live, I hadn’t even seen Jeb as of yet. We have just started looking and I had barely $2,000.00 to my name, and less than $1,500.00 in credit. I was… not a happy person. This also meant a week’s worth of searching was wasted as I now had to look for apartments, not homes. But, as I thought about Tim’s decision more I was actually relieved. It was my dependency issues that kept me in question. The actuality is that Tim needed to go back to his parents as originally planned and I needed to put one foot in front of the other and act like an independent adult.

I purchased a storage unit and unloaded all my stuff which was conveniently placed last in the U-Haul for this very reason. Now, looking back, this should have been the second most liberating celebration of my adult life (the first being outed by Aaron), but at the time I was feeling abandoned and confused… alone to be a grown up when I was such an adolescent emotionally. I knew what I needed but what I wanted was a dovetail to this new life, not be tossed out and ditched… again. The decision wasn’t OURS… it was HIS, and I was left to work around him once again.

Within 2 days of his decision, Tim was gone. I sat in the Oltorf La Quinta, listening to the sounds of arguing bums and sirens, not able to move. I cried. I cried a lot. There was such a relief and helplessness at the same time. I wasn’t really prepared for any of this, but the reality is that I have gone through much worse the first time I came to Austin nine years prior, and I knew that I could go through it again. I had more money, more resources, and more connections. This can be done.

A week went by and I found a place off Riverside. It was cheap, near downtown, and it was a two bedroom in my price range. They didn’t mind my lack of credit and the complex itself, though nestled on the border of the ghetto, was actually a quiet community. I turned the second bedroom into my office where I can work my freelance drafting job. It was the only furniture I had, so the living room and dining area was void of furniture. I sold my MacBook Pro (an acquisition during one of Tim’s spins) and I had enough money to live off of until I could establish steady clients for which to work for.

I went over to Oil Can Harry’s, the bar where Jeb was a DJ, and over the next few weeks, Jeb and I established a routine of seeing each other. Jeb had just moved into his own apartment on south Lamar, but he started spending more and more time with me at my place, which was the unspoken point. I borrowed an air mattress from the third member of our original trio, Anthony, and Jeb would sleep in my empty living room. We would drink, and laugh. Jeb wasn’t too keen on seeing any of his workmates seeing him laugh as he had successfully masked his failing health with a “grouchy old man” persona. So in ‘public’ we kept our conversation minimal, but privately we were a very different pair.

Jeb’s health had, in fact, taken a sharp decline south. He was skinnier than usual, his face sunk in, his bright brownish eyes with green had settled into an unknown dark, stale color. He looked like pain and tired personified. The first few weeks involved him drinking Ensure and alcohol. He wasn’t eating at all as his stomach was revolting every time he tried to take in a meal and the torture of swallowing was too much for him to handle.. The only nutrients he could ingest were from liquids and alcohol could numb his digestive system enough for him to take something more milky and thick like the Ensure. It wasn’t long before I was talking with Brian and thanking him, as his assessment of Jeb’s condition was pretty damn accurate.

The moral dilemma I had on my mind was of a Kevorkianesque scenario. The problem was that Jeb wasn’t my friend… he was my brother. After being excommunicated from my bloodline, I had worked to acquire my own family and Jeb was part of that. Jeb was going to do things Jeb’s way and there was no turning from that. I could either be the protagonist or the enabler – and I didn’t really have any other choice.

There is a two month time frame which I’m not going to write about. The discussions, laughter, bickering, and drunken discussions of life and death were memories very personal and intimate in nature (and, let’s be honest… between the two of us talk quickly became very disturbing in nature, much to our delight). I don’t feel this is an appropriate platform to reveal information. I will say that after a very scary trip to the hospital after a night he was working, Jeb finally agreed to a hospice program and on October 31, 2007, the appropriate evening of Halloween, Jeb turned in his paperwork and received an onslaught of odd and uncomfortably worded brochures. We laughed for hours until we were practically hyperventilating.

Seriously, someone needs to re-write those brochures for the not-98-years-old elderly grandparent stuck in the corner of the room with nothing more than adult diapers and a “Reader’s Digest” to sooth their pain. The first paragraph we read was basically written as if to say, “So, you just found out you’re going to die in six months… STEP 1…”

This milestone reached, this flatness at the summit, this weight that had been removed from Jeb’s shoulders had put him in a smile. I agreed with his decision… even if I didn’t I would have lied, but Jeb and I always had similar views, so he picked a good person to take along for the ride. The ride, as it so happened, started that very night at Austin’s Enchanted Forest for their haunted trail Halloween party and show. Granted, we watched the show and by the time we went through the “haunted” trail the witch was snorting coke in the gingerbread house, the mad doctor’s acid had kicked in, and the ghost in the tree was engaged in a political conversation with the leaves… it was more of a DARE haunted trail than anything else and we were sober, but we still had a blast. Jeb stopped all drug use because his body couldn’t physically handle anything other than liquid alcohol and he wasn’t sure how his upcoming morphine prescription was going to affect his life. I was Jeb’s chauffer for the night, so I refrained myself (unfortunately). That night, we saw some fantastic entertainment both on stage and in the audience. We left a few hours later as Jeb was in too much pain to continue.

Upon walking out we run into a bartender friend named Hunter who was in his early 20’s at the time. Jeb and I looked at each other and our eyes lit up instantly as we knew he was going to be our first victim without our having to say a single word.

After some small chit-chat about Hunter’s nipples (it was a cold night and he was shirtless), Jeb blurts out, “So, I just found out I’m going to die in six months.”

My cue. “It’s true. And if you need, we have some lovely brochures back at the apartment for you to read.”

“We also have Jack Daniels.”

“Which, I know it sounds strange… but you probably need the Jack more just to read the brochures. They are way more difficult to digest then the ‘six month to die’ thing.”

Hunter’s face was frozen. His eyes darted back and forth between us trying to comprehend what is being told to him while simultaneously trying to not forget his fire dancing steps he was about to perform on stage moments later. Jeb and I cracked up laughing and Jeb promptly explained that he has entered Hospice care, and nothing more. Yes, the brochure did say 6 months, but people have lasted years on Hospice.

Hunter deflated like a balloon. He could smile. He was one of the few people that knew that Jeb was sick although no one really knew the laundry list of aliments that were attacking the body and no one realized it would be so bad that a 34-year-old would need to enter Hospice. Once Hunter balanced out and was able to laugh, we decided to let him be to his fire dance.

Before leaving he looked at us both and said, “You two are going to be doing a lot of this kind of shit, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” we both replied.

And over the next few months, we did. None of us knew that evening that Jeb REALLY only had six more months.

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 2

2010-10-11T21:21:00.000-04:00

When I first moved to Austin in the late 90’s, I was freshly thrown out of the closet like 300 pound muscled bouncer tossing out a 120 pound drunk from the only bar in town. It was swift but messy, larger than life, and my heart was broken, and the ‘love of my life’ was mentally collapsing and blamed me for ruining his life. I had been living a purposefully gay sexual life since about 16, but it was all under the radar as I was an active member of the Jehovah’s Witness religion where homosexuality is viewed as a sin.

It was described to me that homosexuality was like alcoholism: it may be something genetic and something a person has to continually work at to control, but it doesn’t make it healthy nor does it make socially responsible to practice in the eyes of God. Love the sinner, hate the sin. Homosexuality was a ‘gross sin’. Since a children it was ingrained in us that ‘men who lie with men’ were an abomination and will be part of those that would be tossed into the lake of fire (this means the second death, as Jehovah’s Witnesses do not believe in Hell).

It is then understandable that fucking one’s same-sex roommate at the world headquarters of Jehovah’s Witnesses is also frowned upon. It wasn’t that we were in love (per se) or that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together, it was that we had fun. We were constantly laughing and enjoying each other’s conversation. It was one long talk that never ended, and when the day closed, we felt safe, comfortable, and at peace with each other. It was honestly something I had never felt before.

The tendon in my right knee was detached in a horseplay incident with another friend which will forever teach me to never listen to the words, “Hold still. I want to try something,” again. Instead of trying to heal me, the infirmary of the Jehovah’s Witness compound gave me physical therapy and Vicodin. Oddly, my knee did not get any better – although my addiction to Vicodin was.

Already people had been looking at Aaron and I like a couple. This bothered many of those in charge and Aaron was basically told that he could either move out into his own room, or go back home. He moved out, and it was torturous for me. I was stuck in my room with guy who would take off his shoes and socks, rub his feet, and then eat a slice of pizza. Since the knee was not getting better, and the power of prayer seemed to have failed me, I decided to go back to my parents home who were now living outside Corpus Christi.

Upon my leaving the world headquarters, Aaron began to disintegrate at an alarming rate. Eventually, he had to admit that we were sexual for most of the time that we were living in the ranks as volunteers (or “Bethellites”) at the World Headquarters of Jehovah’s Witnesses. This was cause for excommunication (or “disfellowshipping” in JW jargon). As I was back home in a small congregation, my process was kept small. Aaron was still in New York and had to go through the process on a level I will never be able to comprehend.

The process was… humiliating. A group of 12 or so men, including my father, sat around a circle in the library of the Kingdom Hall and asked the intimate details about our sex life and what we did and when. The letter that was sent from the elders in New York was 17 pages of scandalous charges that included everything from my conspiracy to lead the younger teenagers of the congregation astray to the predatory practice of exchanging alcohol for sex. In reality, I didn’t like the teenagers of the congregation and the only person I had sex with was Aaron.

I never admitted to having sex, but I did admit that I was gay and made it clear that once I walk away, I will walk away for good. And I did. An announcement was made the following week to the entire congregation that I had been disfellowshipped. Aaron was not so lucky. His announcement was made to the entire World Headquarters in the three branches of the United States and the Canadian Headquarters. The Sunday after the announcement, my parents went to a visiting congregation out of town. I took the opportunity to pack everything I could into my hatchback and ran away. I left a note telling my over-controlling and now manic parents that this was something I had to do as an adult – and as parents, they needed to let go and allow me to find my own way.

I had $500.00, my computer, my cell phone, and the number of a guy named Dale who I met one time while playing cards a month before at a friend’s house. Dale was also a Jehovah’s Witness but not a very strong one, so I thought I would be safe for a while until I had enough money to get my own apartment. When one is excommunicated from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, there is a cutting off completely. Growing up the only friends I had were JW’s and the only family I knew were JW’s. When I left, every friend and family member that I knew from birth to age 23 was gone.

Feeling betrayed by my best friend, my family gone, my friends gone, and going through a wicked Vicodin withdrawal made for a chaotic trip to the Live Music Capital of the World. When I arrived, I collapsed. Dale gave me a key, and the couch became my new home. I thought it would be a great time to learn about the gay life. I thought this could best be accomplished if I applied for a job at a gay gathering spot, so I picked someplace that I was already familiar with from my closet days in Houston – Midtowne Spa… a gay male bathhouse. I also figured that I could use a little humility as well since being part of any exclusive religion tends to make one grow a rather voluminous sense of superiority. I needed to go down a few notches.

I decided to ‘retire’ from my normal computer drafting career and applied for a cleaning job and was hired the next day. I was ‘trained’ at the job and let loose on the night shift. About a week into the job there was a staff meeting, of sorts. Basically they were getting the place ready for a holiday and then entire building needed to be cleaned (and I will use the term “clean” loosely). JW’s do not celebrate any holidays, including birthdays. So the concept of getting ready for a holiday weekend was not only foreign to me, I was in conflict over whether or not I SHOULD participate. I was trying to learn and act “normal” at the same time. So I arrived and started scrubbing away wherever I was told to scrub. The manager at the time, Bob, elbows me and lifts his eyes to outside. There stood Jeb with his shirt off, water hose in one hand, broom in the other scrubbing the deck of the outside hot tub area.

I looked back to Bob and asked, “What?”

He just gave his eyebrows a few little lifts and smiled and walked away.

I looked back over to Jeb. I didn’t see what Bob was looking at. Jeb was a skinny white boy with puffs of hair coming out two sides of his head… the top and the chin. His baggy green cargo shorts were old and entirely way too big, so the belt bunched up around the waist. His hair had no style, his skin looked rough, and he was imprinted with this permanent “I don’t give a fuck” look on his face. Frankly, I didn’t find him attractive at all.

An hour or so past and everyone was finally gathered inside. Jeb had his shirt back on. I was beside him and told him, “Awe. Why’d you do that? Bob was enjoying you having your shirt off.”

“Bob enjoys anyone under 25 who’s hairless and skinny with their shirt off.”

“You’re not completely hairless. You have… this,” I waved my finger at his chin, “whatever this is going on.”

“You don’t like my chin strap?”

“Oh, you’re fine, just keep your shirt off and no one will even notice.”

Jeb gave out a laugh.

Once all the chores were accomplished we all clocked out (it was an actual time clock punch card that we used at the time). Jeb and I continued to talk after working. He had a job listing from the Austin Chronicle for an adult bookstore that was offering $14.00 an hour. He wanted to know if I wanted in. An adult bookstore? The peddlers of smut and sin? I know it might be tough to understand but to me that was so many notches below my moral standard than working at a bathhouse. I was only out a few weeks, and this “worldly” environment where sex is commonplace was difficult for me to digest in a short amount of time. But, seeing as the adult book store was offering $3.00 more than what I was currently making, I went ahead and shelved those moral notches and jumped at the chance. We hopped into his Jeb’s Jeep, and drove off.

It didn’t really hit me at the time, but Jeb was my first gay friend I made while venturing into my new, religious-free and out of the closet life. We started talking about everything. Mostly we were laughing about the world, and Jeb immediately connected to my sarcastic punches and absurd, over-the-top ideas which I usually presented, not as real ideas, but as concepts used as shock value. Jeb loved shocked value. We started our conversation on that afternoon… and didn't stop for a decade.

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 1

2010-10-01T09:34:00.000-04:00

To write this story with any accuracy I would have to attach drops of LSD to the corners of the pages and require the reader to lick at every page turn. I would like to say that is was a ‘dark stormy night’ upon hearing the news bleak news, but it was South Florida and it was sunny and bright. Annoyingly sunny. Always bright. Fucking sun, drying everyone’s brain.

There had always been something called a “trump card” since my 2001 visit to my proclaimed home of Austin, Texas. Jeb and his boyfriend at the time, Brian, sat me down and announced that Jeb had HIV. I was shocked, hurt, confused… not really confused… everyone in the room was a whore – not even going to try to cover that up. But I was confused since Jeb was always proclaiming safe sex when I first met him. How things could have changed to the point of his sitting me down and telling me he had HIV? That was roaring through my head as every other world out of his mouth faded into a sound similar to that of an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Between the moments of forgetting to breathe my ears feeling like they were filled with fluid, I could hear how everything presented in a variety of upbeat phrases. Everyone around the coffee table knew that ‘James the Worrier’ would live up to his name.

As Brian and Jeb retired to bed, I stepped outside for a cigarette, and stayed out there for two hours in tears – sometimes sucking on a cigarette, sometimes sucking on the bottle of Jack Daniels. It wasn’t the HIV that pulsated through me, it was the fact that I knew Jeb… and Jeb would be Jeb and this is all going to end with a lot of pride and stubbornness. I was overrun with future projections that I couldn’t seem to grasp – vacant pictures of Jeb’s arrogant antics plastered across my vision to the point where I could not emotionally hold it together anymore. So upon the wood and steel park bench on the small front porch of 1416 Yorkshire, I wept.

I did the one thing a coward could always be trusted to do: I ran. My boyfriend had just moved to Melbourne Beach, Florida. A few days earlier we had gone our separate ways after a heated break up after he fucked the #1 person on our “if you’re going to mess around, don’t touch these people” list. Still, he went above and beyond to win me back. In a matter of days he was going to come pick me up and we were going to drive my car back to Florida. But not before he admitted he fucked a drug dealer there. I still went, although the drive back was pretty quiet. Ahh, the wonderful warmth of an unhealthy relationship you can’t get rid of!

To this day I’m not sure why I made that decision, but the folding out of that guilt will be shown in the coming chapters.

From Melbourne Beach Tim and I moved to Fort Lauderdale, but not after I took a small stay back in Austin to check on Jeb some 5 years after his announcement. His health was declining rapidly. He avoided me at all cost. My best friend in the whole world, my brother, my second half… was not avoiding me. When I did see him, his hands were shaking, his thoughts disoriented, and “aloof” is the only word I can come up with to describe his contribution to the conversation. Once again, I left back to the boyfriend… but for only one year. But this was going to be a very important year. I lost over a hundred pounds, stopped drinking (as much), and started to get my finances in order. I was not going to run away again. I was preparing myself for battle.

Then the phone call. The phone call from Brian, now Jeb’s ex who was with another partner. I took it in the bathroom for privacy, staring at the hideous ‘always dirty’ tile my boyfriend insisted on getting in his increasing delusional state. Concern about his rapidly failing mental health was only trumped by Jeb’s health. According to the phone call, my trump was coming into play. Brian speculated about a year.

Denial was on the forefront of my head. Brian can be dramatic, maybe he was drunk. Yes. That’s what it is. But inside I knew it to be a false judgment. Brian was clear, articulate, and pinpoint. Brian is NEVER clear, articulate or pinpoint! My doubts of the messenger was slapped with the reality of my own eyes my last stay in Austin. James, you saw for yourself. It’s been almost a year later. What do you think a constantly smoking alcoholic with HIV looks like a year later? In my heart, I knew Brian would not call me if he didn’t know what he was talking about.

I called Jeb. Jeb and I never talked on the phone. We would email every once in a while. Mostly I would write on the blog and he would read. He would read everything. He would make his friends read everything. He didn’t have to give any feedback; the process had provided me a refreshing link to my friend for years. For some reason, Jeb answered his phone. We talked for a few awkward ‘we never do this what do we talk about’ minutes. When the subject of his health came up, he simply stated, “I’m absolutely fine. Don’t worry about me. You just enjoy Florida.”

OH MY GOD, HE’S ON HIS DEATHBED.

It’s difficult in the dating world when you know your lover, the one you view as a soul mate, holds another non-sexual relationship on a higher cloud then the one on which you are placed. I think that was one of the initial reasons I stayed with Tim so long. He understood and fully accepted and supported my love for Jeb. Of course, Tim was also a habitual cheating bastard who could get me to do anything he wanted… but that’s not the point. I’m not here to say bad things about Tim.

Fucking cheating asshole. I’ve written volumes of poetry castrating his manipulative selfishness.

I walked out of the bathroom after what seemed like hours and looked at Tim on the couch and said, “I’m moving back to Austin.”

During this time I was writing more, I was losing the weight, I was buying clothes that didn’t contain elastic or the color black, and I was making more friends albeit via the internet. I took a trip to Amsterdam, New York twice, and started to read more. My blog became more news oriented and I tried my best to capture more wit and humor rather than depressive sarcasm and draining depression. At this point, the James of today was starting form from a scared overweight paranoid basket-case with no ego or self worth. The timing was impeccable.

Tim wasn’t going to let me go alone. We made arrangements to sell the house. This was way before the housing bust, but the working class area that he had moved to made it difficult to sell the home as the price jumped to the point where it almost exceeded anyone who was actually ‘working class’. Tim was collecting credit cards like Tic-Tac’s and I couldn’t figure out where so much money was coming from with him hardly doing his job. In Melbourne Beach, he was gone 3 days out of the week as he was a customer service rep for a mailing company. But in Fort Lauderdale he was home all the time. Still, he had cash, and we managed to go to concerts, Broadway touring shows and eat out constantly. The money for this move was not in question. Tim’s mind certainly was. I finally convinced him to come with me to Austin, but if I’m not comfortable, then he needed to go back home to his parents.

The day we sold the house was a great day for me, as it was for the Central American immigrant family who signed with an adjustable interest rate mortgage. Who knows how many foreclosures that house has been through since then. But, we finally had a moving schedule and I was able to get everything packed up in a matter of days. A month after selling, we packed up the U-Haul, my truck to the hitch, and drove to Austin, Texas.

Turn the Page

2010-09-24T00:25:00.000-04:00

It has been an amazing few weeks. Some good. Some bad. Some real bad. Some has been spontaneously refreshing. I met some new people, one of them has been an amazing help... and yet morbidly I await for him to screw me over because I'm used to people who pop into my life at the perfect time to eventually fuck it up. Whether or not that happens, I have stepped out of my negative expectations and have realized the benefits of going with the current energy rather than going against it. In whole, it is key to furthering oneself for the 'long haul'. However, alone this philosophy has no boundaries and no real direction. In fact, unless you are a dandelion seed, it makes little sense for humans.

We do need some structure, and we need some boundaries. We need some areas where we limit ourselves or else we fall under every other self-indulgent world power that has collapsed from it's own fat belly in the history of "civilized" man. With that, I'm putting some restrictions on myself. I'm going to finish this painting by Christmas... even if I'm not in the "creative mode" there are still some non-creative aspects to it that I can be working on rather then going out and spending all this money I don't have.

The second is going to be a year long process - and it's going to start and end with my birthday, October 1st. It is something that I've been wanting to do for a long time. Once again this blog is going to shift in nature. Over the next year, my opinions and views of the world will be left to Twitter, but this blog is going to be somewhat of a journal, a chronicle... I'm not sure how to handle some aspects of it, but everyone please remember this is from my mind...

It will be raw. It will be hurtful. I will actually cause some people to hate me. There will be more information to handle in one sitting, so I feel stringing it out over a year would be a better presentation. Also, there is a certain poetic symmetry to how this blog is the best medium for the job.

Please stay tuned. There is a lot to cover before October 1, 2011.

Best Advice This Week:

2010-08-19T13:50:00.000-04:00

I opened up a email today that ended with the following paragraphs. I thought it was brilliant and should be shared.

Try not to get old or put if off as long as you can and do these things:

Don't smoke or cut down to under a pack a week (I know a woman in her 90's who told me she has smoked two cigs a day for 70 years. She still walks to town every day.)

Avoid situations and people that cause you stress

Avoid Fox News.....every one hour you watch Glen Beck reduces you life expectancy by 2 days

Eat your fruit and vegetables

Light drinking is ok but excess will fuck your life and make you old early

Exercise regularly

Ejaculate several times a week, preferably with a friend

If you stand naked, relax your stomach muscles and can't see the head of your dick you either have an extremely small dick or you have a weight problem. Whichever it is, deal with it

Peace.

Apathetic Dichotomy

2010-08-08T09:34:00.000-04:00

There seems to be a strange disease snaking it's way through the hearts of people. I guess I'm seeing it more with the younger generation under me, but it's found regardless of sex, race, sexual orientation, or age.

People need to be loved. We need to be wanted and appreciated. From this a remarkable energy is created and it gives life to boundless non-tangibles like hope while also serving as a launching pad for art, music, etc. The "disease" starts with the self-absorption that comes when one seeks this out like a drug. Yes, it is addictive, but it's appreciation is only found in it's moderation. Otherwise energies become skewed, focus is lost, and people get hurt.

The tragedy come with uttering that last sentence... and then getting the response of "so what?" One can recognize the problem, one can admit the problem, but to never have the desire to correct the problem is what drives me particularly insane. It is almost as if apathy, one of the worst traits of humankind, has now become a bedfellow for common selfishness. I have the exact opposite problem. I'm a people pleaser who thinks TOO MUCH about those around me. Reality check states that it is actually the same exact problem: I like the attention from being dependable and needed.

To make matters worse, I'm damn good at it. In times of crises I can organize and compartmentalize easily and quickly in order to accomplish a resolution. But the drawback is that when nobody is in crises, nobody pays attention and the side effects of that absence is sickening to the stomach. It feels like after having a party week where you're drinking a lot for a few days straight. A party week recently happened and had been wonderful for the exception of one annoyingly selfish vortex that almost took down the entire party. Fortunately, recovery was possible and the last night of the party was filled with smiles and resolution. But that last night I had three drinks spaced over two hours. But the next morning I remember feeling... odd. My body has gotten used to the drinking and morning hangover, but then I felt... NOT hungover, but not going at full speed either. In fact, I was barely going in first gear.

I don't know how to solve the problem. I wanted to feel different - less funky and more specific. This shitty mixed with ambivalence was killing me. Generally, drinking vodka at eight in the morning is frowned upon, but the thought crosses my mind just so that I can move in SOME direction. I need to eat, but I wasn't hungry and nothing in the house sounded good. Nothing out of the house sounded good. I'm sitting down to write, JUST to figure this out. It is only then that it hits me, I'm suffering from a general withdrawl.

The feeling was not foreign to me. There is a time frame, a space, after you realize that someone (spouse, friend, or job maybe) is just using you because you allow them to... they don't need you or love you... and they have to be hard-pressed just to say they appreciate your existence. Then they try to use you some more and you finally say "NO MORE." They say, "No sweat off my back. I will just find someone else." And they do.

The feelings that follow are fucked up. You are happy you are finally free from the chains, but deep down you're still kind of thinking you miss being shackled. You are glad to have the time, but now you don't know what to do with it... nor do you want to do anything with it. You are glad to have the peace for self reflection, but you miss the noise... you miss the drama... you miss the attention. And you don't know what to do in order to be 'less funky and more specific'.

I will count myself as a person with a problem, but I don't think I have the disease. The reason is because I do care. I want to care. I want to analyze and make myself better. I want to be better for myself, my friends, and the world around me. The situation is one thing, but caring about the direction the situation puts you in is far, far more important. From that caring comes effort and movement.

But this is what makes us human. I'm not trying to proclaim that we should be jointly exhaustive in our feelings. On the contrary it's the rainbow of emotions that give us life, and this odd 'half-hangover' feeling is one of them. But as I'm getting older, the world is becoming clearer. I'm more comfortable with myself and my emotions. But I can also see the world around me growing more apathetic and careless. This is where I'm caught, between the "if you can't beat them, join them" path of least resistance and this over sensitive feeling of being crushed to death under the weight of the world's inability to look up from the ground. Billions of people only focused on themselves will lead to inevitable self-destruction but I refuse to stand among them. I'm not sure how, but I just am not going down like that. Maybe that makes me odd or stupid, but hey, the blog is called what it is for a reason.

The 3rd or 5th or 8th Coming...

2010-07-20T18:36:00.000-04:00

I know it's been a while since I've written anything. I have been promising a lot of things of recent, and I'm trying my best to deliver. The latest is an impossible task of 2D drafting a travel trailer that in nothing but curves. As many know, at my age if it's money verses time, I'm going to go with time.

There is a lot to talk about... mostly my past 6-week hiatus where the concept of personal responsibility was beaten into my head with a sledge hammer. Trust only those who have earned it. I also have my impending war with the foulest of all creatures: the gay hipster (Yes! I like U2... FUCK YOU!). I have been trying to figure out where this animosity comes from, because it's really quite violent. Every time I see them I just want to shave them and scream "You're not man enough for facial hair! Go back to your mother and return your penis you stupid pussy boy!" while beating them with a raw steak.

Why? Why would I want to do this? What have gay hipsters ever done to me besides scowl at everything I love with their dark beady judgmental eyes? LOTS of people judge everything I do. What makes these spineless Le Miz-haired sock-phobic prisses so horrific so as to ignite such violence in me? I don't know, but if the gladiator games ever come back, they should be the first to be tossed in.

In the past 6 weeks I've learned a lot about myself. Where I was at 18 or 19 and being gay in an anti-gay religion and now has been a trip. But mostly I learned that with experience come complacency... and that is one of the aspects of my life I'm needing to correct. So with that I will write again. As always, I have lots to say! :-)

I hope everyone has a great week. I'm headed off to Dallas in a few days!

Stonewall Uprising

2010-06-18T08:33:00.002-04:00

Playdates Here

Tagged Goodness (real)

2010-05-23T12:08:00.004-04:00

Hi, I've stumbled upon your account and I find you very goodlooking. My name is Justin and I want to let you know that you're on my guest list for my next party. I organize something a little bit similar to a swinger's party.

So if you're thinking of coming seend me an email at justinpark84 @gmail.com (without spaces) and I'll try personally to convince you to come. I'll send you some pictures and videos from the other parties I've been, to help you decide if you are interested in attending my party.

Kisses,

Justin

P.S. Don't write me here because I'm being flooded with like 200 messages a day use my email address instead.

Personal Inventory of Arrogance

2010-05-10T09:28:00.003-04:00

I had an Yank acquaintance say something along the lines of 'a good friend would come if you called them from jail, but a best friend would already be at the police station.' I have had a lot of opportunities over the years to try to prove myself as a good friend. I have sat waiting for the bureaucracy of both city and county jails, I have given people money, a free place to stay, dragged people to the hospital against their will, fed people, even helped people die. And amazingly, this all sometimes shocks people. I don't know why. I get the "You didn't have to do that," and I didn't have to put on pants this morning either but thank God I did.

The real reason I like helping... the reason that is in my heart, takes a little time to explain.

I don't have a family to speak of. Throughout this journey of life I've had to create my own family. I'm not helping someone go through Hospice, I'm standing by my brother. I'm not taking and sitting with someone at the hospital, I'm caring for my mother. These decisions might be inconvenient to some are a no brainer to me. I couldn't go through life knowing that I could help, but walked away to leave the closest people to me there by themselves. I believe that is what is considered a 'sin of omission.'

As per my tendency, I over analyze things, but no subject goes through the wringer more than myself. So let's talk about the 'family' I did have. I was raised in one of the most self righteous and arrogant environments which justified constant condemnation and self promotion under the blanket guise of "humble service to God." Whenever one is set in a religion of this sort, the playback in their head is "I have the answer and I should share this because I care about all of God's creations." The reality of their words and actions present "I have the only path to life and you don't... I'm going to live and you're going to die unless you admit I'm right and your wrong."

For me, a child in public school, that arrogance transcended the religion itself. "No, I can't play with you after school because I'm better than you. I'm going to live and you're going to die because you don't know God the right way which means you worship Satan. I don't play with people who worship Satan... they will steal my toys." I know it sounds stupid, but it was very real in my head. Blood family members who were not of our religion were never associated with. To this day I have (I think) 10 or 11 aunts and uncles who I don't know, and if they passed me on the street I would never recognize them. My mom recently told me that my Aunt Whoever was sick and my only reaction was, "... And?" I don't who who this person is.

For 23 years I was a participatory member of the 'Truth-bearing' elite. One of the biggest challenges I faced upon walking away was my own arrogance. To uproot it completely is almost impossible. Even after some 12 years, I still can display incredible levels of 'douche-baggery' that most people find horrifying. My best counter-action is to keep my mouth shut, but as most people know, that doesn't always happen. So I have tried my hardest to make amends for the years of judgements and scowling that inflicted onto the world. So much negative energy is out there on the loose because I in all my superiority, thought I was better than everyone else... and everyone needed to know it. There have been more undeserving people that have been sliced in half with Samurai-like precision by my tongue than I could ever count.

Let's face it, I'm still an ass, I'm still a douche, and I still say some of the most awful sentences many people will ever hear in their lives. But I am aware... I am awake... and so I make an effort. I do not always succeed, but I do try.

One thing that is important to me is balance and fairness. I hate the phrase "life's not fair.' No, life is fair. That is why it's called "survival of the fittest" and not "survival of everything because everyone's a winner!" It's people who are not fair. It's selfishness, greed, and self-righteousness that make the playing field uneven and shitty. I don't want to be in that group.

Maybe this is some cliche comic book hero story of trying to make amends for past wrongs by doing good today. Yes, let's get an entire society dependently addicted to thier perpetual good deeds because they have issues with self-forgiveness. Now that's arrogant.

I have forgiven myself for my past misdeeds. Nothing I do today will ever correct the stupidity of the past. But what I can do is add more positive energy to the world. I look at it as more of an unbalancing act. I want to give out more than I consume, I want to do more positive than negative, I want to help more than harm... And I want to be more trustworthy than haphazard. I like it when people laugh. I think people are at their most honest when they laugh.

Again, I don't always succeed. Just in the past few months I still fluctuate from the incredibly kind to the incredibly obtuse... But nothing has been out of meanness, harmfulness, or purposeful arrogance. It's a constant struggle, and it will be for the rest of my life. I just don't have it in me to harm another human being without being aggressively attacked. That particularly mean arrogance has been depleted.

So when people thank me for whatever reason, yes... I love it. I love being thanked. It tells me that a positive energy has been released, and the next opportunity that person has, they're going to help someone else. It may just be the once... and that's okay. It's something. It's something decent. So each and every time, I thank the person back. Helping someone only works if it's appreciated. Appreciation gives way to more positive actions. It's a constant 2-way street.

I'm not going to judge or look down on anyone who doesn't take a personal inventory on how much positive/negative goes in and out of their being. It is my personal opinion that everyone should. I know that I check myself constantly. I can't tell you how I'm doing, you will have to ask those that know me for the end result, I don't know what they would say other than my extreme duality on the kindness spectrum. I would hope they see me doing more good than harm, but I don't know. When it is all said and done, when it all is finished, I want everyone to say that the world was a better place with me in it.

What would your friends say about you? What would your friends say about you if they thought you would never hear their response?

Successfully Installed!!!

2010-04-14T15:23:00.001-04:00

A special thank you to Super A for transportation and installation assistance.

... screw you and your damn iphone ...

Done!

2010-04-12T00:09:00.001-04:00

... screw you and your damn iphone ...

Getting there!

2010-04-10T23:56:00.000-04:00

... screw you and your damn iphone ...

Sympathy Whores

2010-04-10T01:20:00.002-04:00

When my father was dying, there was a moment where we knew it was going to end... the proverbial "point of no return." There was a definitive marker where he looked up at me, smiled a half smile, and said point blank with a wrinkle of the nose, "I think I'm ready to go."

I smiled and said what I normally say when faced with this situation, "So what do you need me to do?"

There was nothing I could do. My mother was in control of everything. It was her word that was considered law. The only problem? My mother could not let go. She refused to give my father morphine as that would mean he was going die... and according to my mother, she knew better - "he wasn't really ready to go," she said. There was still an opportunity for him to recover from his entire body being blanketed in cancer. She wouldn't allow him to have pain killers since they contained steroids which makes the cancer grow faster. Chemo and radiation were out as he was in too weak of a state due to the delay caused by whatever homoeopathic treatment they were trying at the time. Don't get me wrong, the homoeopathy worked... until a certain point, and the cancer returned in full force.

I am not my mother. We have a lot of similar traits, but I am not her. She thrives off sympathy... she needs attention in order to breathe. Other people's acceptance of her pain is oxygen to her. With out it, she would choke... and no greater gift could be given to such a needy individual than a husband diagnosed with cancer. This one disease provided her with 7 years of luscious sympathetic goodness.

The main issue I had with her was that once we were past the point of no return, my mother couldn't let go. Hospice was not called no matter how hard the doctors suggested it, dad was not made comfortable, and matters did not come to a close. Instead, my dad was kept alive longer than he should have been, to a level that I considered inhumane.

My last visit to his bedside was horrific at best. A large, strong man with green eyes and a comforting smile was a comatose Crypt Keeper from "Tales from the Crypt" attached to machines to make him breathe. He looked like a morbid Jim Henson creation, leathery flesh draped loosely over his visible skeleton. Why? Why was this allowed to progress to this extent?

Upset, angered, disgusted, and horrified, I gave a few choice words to my mother and left. There was no point in me being there. My dad was gone. I knew it, he knew it, the doctors knew it... the only people who didn't know it was my mother and her group of religious flunkies that were still praying for a speedy recovery. God decided not to answer those prayers.

"The plug" was finally pulled after my mother wanted my unconscious dad to go into surgery to remove one of however many tumours that riddled his body. Things "went wrong" and his lung was punctured. There was no turning back. Keep him alive in a coma or pull the plug. My brother finally stepped in and said 'no more' to this madness. To this day I don't know if what "went wrong" was on purpose or accident, but either way I was very glad it happened.

I am different than many people. I do accept death. I know people who want to die on their own terms, and I know people who want someone to stand beside them and not question their every move. I can pull the plug, I have no problem with that. I have no problem with appropriate assisted suicide or helping someone down their final path without question, worry, or argument.

Years later, this belief... or set of principles if you will, was put to the test with my best friend Jeb. Of all the people he had at his disposal, he knew that I would stand with him and help without question, worry, or argument... and that is exactly what I did. While others were trying to heal, I was trying to comfort. He put an incredible amount of faith in me, and for that I put my personal opinions aside and worked off his timeframe, his wishes, and stood beside with him in his world. There wasn't even a question about it. This again came up a year and a half later with Betty.

In all this, I noticed how different I was from my mother. During this portion of the timeline, one should never think of themselves because it simply is not appropriate. At the end of this, I was able to continue breathing, they would not. I would continue to see my next birthday, they would not. I would see future concerts, raves, movies, plays, and meet new people... they would not. So it seemed that I could just shut up and help for this time being, and later I could cope with the pain... "later" being a luxury that my father, Jeb, Betty, whoever did not have.

I do relate this with a slight sense of pride, or maybe it's respectful honor. There is no sympathy that I ever wanted from anyone. We did what needed to be done, and that was that. The day Jeb finally accepted Hospice care was Halloween day. We read through the information folder, laughed at the way it was written ("So, you just found out you're going to die in 6 months... Welcome! Step 1..."), and then got drunk at the Enchanted Forest with all the other Austin freaks. It was a remarkably comforting evening. Betty was simpler. Just sitting next to her for long hours reading the New Yorker was all the comfort she needed. She would mostly sleep, but when she woke up and saw me there, she would beam a smile that I will never forget. Pure beauty.

My mother (and subsequently Betty's brother) for some reason, felt she had a monopoly on pain from dad's death. No one knew her pain. No matter what the circumstance, there was always the "BUT I JUST LOST MY HUSBAND" and the world would stop and say, "awe." From that point, she was on the top of the sympathy list. She was in the streets proclaiming her pain so that everyone knew, she was the one suffering most in the room. She was valedictorian of Victimology 101.

I am not like that. I imploded quietly... to myself... in private. I will drag one or two people along as a crutch, but outside my walls I do not display anything... it's just not appropriate. It took some time, but after a few months I am able to lift my head and smile on my own. Recovery is not easy, but as long as I can have it in sight, I can make it a reality.

We all know a sympathy whore... someone who thrives off sorrow - someone who insists on keeping wounds open for no other reason but to garner fortified emotion on which to feed even some 5 or 6 years later. To me, it's disgusting and reprehensible. I think it's shameful to use the dead for your own personal gain. And it doesn't stop there. After the death it seems these amazing and profound revelations: "well THIS is more of who they were" or "THAT is what they would want." Is it? Or are you using their inability to speak for themselves as an opportunity for their own agenda? Some of the things my mother would suggest were so out of left field, I would actually ask, "Really? Did you even MEET dad?" Dad wanted his ashes to be spread over a specific location outside Houston. My mother decided that what dad REALLY wanted was his ashes to be in an urn and buried at her feet in a pre-paid burial plot she owned in San Antonio.

I have a low tolerance for these types of people... the sympathy whores. Their enter life is based around other people acknowledging thier pain and they are nothing but a fire that is never able to be quenched. Real mourning is done from the inside, not displayed on the outside for the world to get a reaction or a communal hug. I do not talk with my mother much because her cup will never be filled. No matter what the conversation, she will always emotionally drain me of every drop I have.

We are all human beings on this planet. We all live, we all die. There is no avoiding this. How we handle it all is our own journey. I choose to stand apart from sympathy whores - I just don't have enough to give - actually, no ONE person will have enough to give. Since it's a pointless exercise, I step back. I, for my part, choose to take the respectful, humane path.

We all live. We all die. The only thing that I hope for in my life is that I give out more than I take in. :-)

And the halfway point is here...

2010-04-07T23:45:00.001-04:00

...screw you and your damn iphone...

Back to the Drawing Board

2010-04-07T00:00:00.000-04:00

...screw you and your damn iphone...

Back to the Texas

2010-04-05T16:31:00.002-04:00

There is an amazing anxiety that takes place when flying out of a small airport. There is a mixture of simple people with simpler businessmen converging into one room for a chance to dash out into the runway and hop onto a flying sardene can with no oil.

I ate lunch at, by far, the whitest place I have ever eaten.   The Mexican waiters were wearing designer jeans.   I saw two people, one man and another woman, who actually had polos with sweaters draped over the shoulders and tied around the neck. This is where 'the ladies who lunch' actually lunch.

I can't wait to get into the sky. I'm a nervous flyer but for some reason the stagnant is not acceptable - the stuffy air is making it difficult to breathe and the dense crowd of people is causing a mini-sweat attack. I am uncomfortable and my baggage makes more uncomfortable.   What is worse... I look it.   Yet, no matter who we are and or the scars we sport, they never seem to compare to the evolutionary scars of the earth only visible from the sky.

Friends as one's only family is the only life for some and yet an impossible concept for others. I again endure a barrage of "family is family", and a confused look as I explain how some families disowned their children and we are not in communication with each other.   The idea that someone, anyone, would drive/fly/move/spend money of any kind to stand next to a person who is not a blood relative is considered absurdity.

I was able to visit one such family member.   The lost cousin wasn't able to be seen... that will have to wait until another time. Maybe when he is ready to make more of an effort without holding their hand.

I'm not anxious to get back to work... I'm just anxious to have a routine.   It was a wonderful trip filled with amazing people. I learned a lot, saw a lot, and felt busy the entire time. It was a good busy.   I knew I was helping.
It's time to board now.   Back to whatever I have waiting - an empty apartment with endless quiet. I think I want more focus in my life.   I think I feel a "two year plan" coming on.   LOL.

Details to follow. Or not... hahaha!

...screw you and your damn iphone...

Grandma is Trying to Kill You

2010-04-01T14:11:00.001-04:00

Exactly how many times have I bitched about people on a plane who bring nothing to do for hours. Look at me... I'm being productive (at least in my own head).

I had a discussion with my boss about racial profiling. He was surprised that I had the rather right-slanted view that there is racial profiling and there is statistical probability. He desperately tried to convince me that sweet old white grandma could just as well hold a bomb in her needlepoint as a seemingly disgruntled looking young Middle Eastern man with a one-way ticket paid with cash and carrying no luggage could hide a bomb on his person.

I had a pretty good argument... until now that I'm actually sitting next to a sweet old white grandma doing needlepoint and all I can think is, "Terrorist!" I know that at any moment, she's going to charge the cockpit and take out the flight crew using nothing more than her hidden brute strength, a 2" needle and royal blue thread. How the hell did they let that needle on the plane? Total inside job. The McGyver of terrorists always needs a little help.

Come to find out, the ball of yarn was actually a bomb... a tragedy that could have been prevented if just one of the hundreds of people she passed would have just noticed that needlepoint doesn't require yarn. The terrorists are once again using our own ignorance against us.

Sweet redemption! I notice the needlepoint is a Christmas decoration. Ha! Your cover is blown, bitch. Everyone knows Christmas is in December. You just fucked up.

And with innocent McChildren on the plane, with all their... noise and banging. Oh, the banging. And endless questions. And the mom, teaching the next generation consumerism and indulgence like they are cute Sesame Street characters.

And Mr. Sexy von Douche behind me ready for whatever pissing contest comes his way. He look that crazy gay guy Dick from the movie "Rules of Attraction"... and yes I do want to jump on the bed with him in our underwear, bit I'm about to duct tape his mouth to the toilet so his words can have a decent place to land.

Too much more of all of this and I'm thinking I should follow Jesus's words to lend a hand to help our elders.

See?? It's this Stockholm syndrome shit that terrorists feed off of! I should take her out before she attacks, shouldn't I? It's a strategic preemptive strike. I would be considered a hero. People will cheer. I will get laid by 72 people who know what they're doing. This is a very good idea.

Fucking grandma is about to go down for God, country, and getting laid.....

...screw you and your damn iphone...

Up in the Air

2010-04-01T09:27:00.001-04:00

Zach, if you are reading this, thank you for you amazing words, but you didn't leave an email address to contact you. I would love to chat with you more.

It's travel time again meaning that life has forcibly slowed enough to allow me to write... or I should say "think". This week has been emotionally traumatic which is a light way of putting it.

Personally: You know how one takes in a wild animal who is wounded... then takes care of it until it starts to become domesticated... so you have to return it to the wild... and you have to be mean to it so it will leave?? Think of the last 20 minutes of "Harry and the Hendersons". Come to find out, that's a lot easier said than done. It's effective, but somehow Harry still comes back to visit, you know? Eventually the wild and the domestic will balance, I feel... but just not now. I can see it getting there though, and the positive progression I was hoping for is starting to independently emerge. For some it takes a slap.... for others medication. If I'm lucky, I will see someone this weekend who needed both.

Progress should be rewarded.

Financial: I am officially a home owner. I'm suppose to have this warm fuzzy feeling, but I don't. Mostly I just feel relief. The process of applying for a home loan is so... intrusive and bloody. It's impossible to know which shoes are dropping, or should I say which shoes are being thrown at you by a laser-guided shoe launcher (check the Lockheed/Martin website, I'm sure they make them) at random intervals up until the day of closing. And even after closing there are STILL issues that can fuck things up.

When it was all over... and the three, whatever, weeks of sheer bullshit hoop-jumping was over, and my loan officer finally said the words, "That's it, there's no more. Congratulations James, you are officially a home owner," I broke down. The weight of the past weeks was just lifted... the pain, the worry, the questioning, the doubting... oh the endless doubting. I just wept... I wept and giggled like never before. Honest emotion at its best.

The loan officer, David Goldberg was nothing short of a God-send (I'm going to guess the God of the old testament). He was patient, funny, explained everything in detail, gay-friendly, and just pure magnificence. Honestly, his email signature, far more professional than mine (see below) states that the best complement he can receive is a referral. Well, I'm referring him. I will give his contact info to anyone and everyone. He said flat out, "I will treat all your friends and family the same way I treated you." Awesome.

Professional: I'm losing my mind. It's nothing new. It's the same two buildings from back in November and December. The outside engineer that I work with has been so complementary of me. To explain a tweet a while back, the outside engineer wrote a really nice email to my bosses, copying me. He stated it was a pleasure working with me and he was impressed with how professional I was. That is where my reply to my bosses came in: "See that? I'm fucking professional, bitches! Suck my titties!"

It hasn't been easy keeping all his jobs straight. Tuesday I spent 20 minutes working on one building before I realized it was the wrong building. The work has been "fun" as novelty of it hasn't worn off yet. I have never drawn these sort of structural elements before in my 17 year history of AutoCAD drafting. So my brain is occupied on something new. Don't get me wrong, I am working hard... I had enough overtime this past pay period to have 1 day of this trip "free", thus not using my vacation days.

It's been a long time since I've seen a sunrise from an airplane. Come to think of it, its been a long time since I've seen any sunrise. I really should absorb this moment...

Well that didn't take long.

Before takeoff the. flight attendant said, "In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device." I think what she meant to say was 'in the unlikely event of a SUCCESSFUL water landing, THEN your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device."

I'm flying to Chicago, so I doubt this is much of an issue.

See if you can spot the whorehouse

2010-03-30T23:39:00.001-04:00

...screw you and your damn iphone...

Project "You Signed me up for What?"

2010-03-30T20:38:00.001-04:00

...screw you and your damn iphone...

Project "Biting off More Than I Can Chew"

2010-03-30T20:30:00.000-04:00

...screw you and your damn iphone...

OK Cupid's Dating Persona Test Results

2010-03-24T08:41:00.000-04:00

The Gentleman

Deliberate Gentle Love Master (DGLM)

Steady & mature. You are The Gentleman.

For anyone looking for an even-keeled, considerate lover, you’re their man. You’re sophisticated. You know what you want both in a relationship and outside of it. You have a substantial romantic side, and you’re experienced enough sexually to handle yourself in that arena, too. Your future relationships will be long-lasting; you’re classic “marrying material,” a prize in the eyes of many.

It’s possible that behind it all, you’re a bit of a male slut. Your best friends know that in relationships you’re fundamentally sex-driven. You’re a safe, reliable guy, who does get laid. In a lot of ways, you’re like a well-worn, comfortable pair of socks. Did you ever jack off into one of those? All the time.

Your ideal mate is NOT a nut-job. He is giving and loving, like you, but also experienced

Oscars - Part 2

2010-03-02T08:36:00.001-05:00

AN EDUCATION
This movie was cute and horrendous at the same time. It's about a young girl of 16/17 who falls for the charms of an older man, Peter Sarsgaard looking older than usual. Dominic Cooper, however, looks as lickably dashing as ever.

So this movie was very well made, and subtle in it's progression, but it was still aggravating in it's subject. The parents were annoying in their ignorance but also there was extreme tension every time the parents were on camera as we anxiously waited for Afred Molina to break from his British accent. The main girl, Jenny, play excellently by Carey Mulligan, was unrelateable to me... and I found her 'adultness' absurd, but it fit in the context as she was running with a much older crowd. There are moments where her youth would break through... and I found those moments surprisingly comforting.

It is called "An Education" because women in this time were not expected to be secularly successful. Jenny gives up one education (secular) to pursue another (social) which delights her parents. It's a strange archaic celebration of women only needing to service their man. In this series of events, Jenny gets quite a life lesson, as does her blindly aloof parents.

The funniest thing about this movie? Dominic Cooper's character, Danny, is basically a thief, but he also makes his living by moving black people into neighbourhoods to scare the elderly people - who then sell their valuable houses for nearly nothing just to move quickly.

Great film... a little slow and foreign for me, but the craftsmanship of the movie cannot be denied. Half of you will find it smart and witty, half of you will find it boring and pointless. It's "The English Patient" meets "Lolita".

THE HURT LOCKER
Amazingly enough, Hollywood can be artistically brilliant and completely fuck things up beyond all repair... and this particular genius/FUBAR crosses right over the head of "The Hurt Locker" - a simple tale about a reckless bomb squad team leader who is good at what he does, but annoys everyone else by not following protocol.

First, the good things: It was a well made, perfectly executed film. The cinematography is completely worthy of an Oscar (too bad it's going to asshole ex-husband for "Avatar")... and everything from Jeremy Renner's performance to Ralph Fiennes five seconds on screen were completely cohesive and tight, raw and captivating. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what a well made war movie should look like.

Now the bad things: It's complete shit. I could tell right away that there are many things wrong with the portrayal of the United States Army and how missions are accomplished - and I'm an idiot. Fucking people in the Army is as close as I've been to combat operations. Come to find out, those who are actual Iraq veterans feel this movie is absurd and frustrating. The level of inaccuracies makes me wonder what kind of research took place... if any research was done at all. The uniforms in the film were not available at the time the movie takes place, a team would never split up to cover more ground, and no one goes on a mission without communication gear. FUBAR.

So here is where the conflict of I, the viewer, takes a seat. It is an excellent portrayal of the human aspect, of emotion and interaction. It is amazing. But the technical aspects are a complete mess and sacrificed for the sake of art... which is completely acceptable - but disrespectful towards those who were actually involved in this war. I have no answer for this. I think it's brilliant art, but not at the expense of our troops. If this story were to be told in a different time with a fictional war, I don't think anyone would have a problem... but apparently there are some very loud voices that are offended by this movie. I get why... I understand.

I don't know where I stand. Half of me says, "It's just a movie... let the art be art," and the other half of me says, "Who the fuck would make an Iraq movie and not get the details right?"

INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS
Jewtastic fun on a gore-filled trail looking for 'Nassee scalps'. Two plots to kill Adolf Hitler intertwine... hilarity, bloodshed, and a lot of shots of feet ensue. Christopher Waltz is amazing in this... he is just beautifully ruthless with a touch of insanity to add a little extra turn of the knife. Maybe an Oscar for him because this was an unplayable part and he made it a stunning achievement in a captivating performance.

This movie is a collection of various old wartime movie styles. Mostly, Tarantino has perfected the Hitchcockian method of holding tension throughout the scene and making minor adjustments along the way to ensure such tension is not too tight or too loose. The cinematography was painstakingly perfect.

This movie is just fun. It's atrocious and fun. You get on at the beginning and you just go for a ride that is so out of this world, you laugh at everything. The attention to detail is not without mention - so much beauty in the little things... a cigarette case, a shoe, a table cloth, everything was detailed. Brad Pitt gave his best performance since "12 Monkeys". His accent and character was so humorous, I found myself laughing at times even though he hadn't said anything. His facial expressions did most of the work. I loved this movie. Love love loved it.

PRECIOUS: BASED ON THE NOVEL 'PUSH' BY SAPPHIRE
Besides the unfortunately long title of the movie, this story is shockingly harsh. It's a rawness that surpasses any other movie this year. It's a story of a large black girl pregnant with her second child (by her father), and her struggle to get an education and a life free of her abusive mother.

So you start on this journey of "oh what a shame" and you are thrown o bunch of shit... and then thrown more shit... and then MORE shit... and finally Mariah Carey has to come in and put her foot down and you can't take any more... but more shit is yet to come - then things start to look up... and the movie ends.

There is no doubt that this is a well made film. Even if it was just the 5 movies on the nominated list, it would still be in the Best Picture category. It was moving and touching and the story moved along at a very good pace giving you little time to absorb the tragedy unfolding before you. Gabourey Sidibe came out of nowhere and gave a performance that will have you going "wow". The character she plays is so different than who she is as a person. I hope Hollywood hasn't had their fill of robust black women (Jennifer Hudson) and gives Gabourey the Oscar because I was truely blown away. Mo'Nique, still sporting the fucked up name, is just a massive force in this movie. It's not melodramatic like in a Neil Simon or Tennessee Williams sort of way... it's melodramatic in an in-your-face fuck-you-over sort of way.

It's an amazing film. It's a look into a life I have never known but knew existed. It's an incredible tale that ends with an up... but only after you've delved into the darkest down imaginable. It really took my breath away. Great film... and it's the excellent acting and potent story that keeps this film going. Awesome.

Austin March Against Hate 2010

2010-02-27T19:56:00.001-05:00

I don't have much comment on this. I was moved, awed, and humbled. So many gay and straight friends and family showed up I could not help but tear up at the massive turn out. I walk out of Oil Can's into a massive sea of people I was not expecting. I text my friend inside with, "Dude... get your ass out here now."

Upon breaking into the sunlight and the crowd dominating 4th street, he almost began to cry. We never thought this many people would come... we never thought that this many people CARED.

3 blocks. It was three blocks between the Oil Can Harry's and Austin City Hall. It was in those three blocks that two of our brothers were attacked and beaten. 3 blocks.

Thank you, Austin. Thank you so much for this amazing gift of support. And thank you for all in the LGBT community who got off their asses and gave their voice in a thunderous proclamation: "You mess with one of us, you mess with ALL of us."

Thank you so much. I feel so small because I do not have a bigger voice so as to shout aloud my appreciation, my inspiration... my PRIDE.

It was in these three blocks that Matt and Emmanuel were attacked.

Oscars - Part 1

2010-02-23T00:40:00.002-05:00

Do you have any clue how difficult it is to give Oscar reviews to TEN movies? Do any of you bitches feel like sitting and reading my diatribe for each movie?

Don't answer that.

First off, "Avatar" is going to win everything - so let's just get that out of the way right now. Go to whatever gay office/school/bar pool you are participating in and mark "Avatar" for everything... including stuff it's not nominated for. Best Foreign Language film is going to "Avatar" since part of the film was in the language of the Na'vi. Trust me, Germany is totally going to fight it because "The White Ribbon" was a masterful feat... but the Oscar is going to "Avatar".

If you haven't seen the James Cameron behemoth then you are a sad, lonely person with no friends. Stop reading this blog - it will only make you more depressed.

AVATAR
This lovely left-wing tree-hugging pinko commie propaganda vehicle with AMAZING visuals is a movie being used to trick our young children into thinking that the environment is more important than profit - thus setting our young children up for extreme failure in the future. The story raped from "Pocahontas" and "Fern Gully"... "Wall Street"... etc. The military goon was cartoonish at times, but I didn't mind since there needed to be some antagonistic element that pushed past the simplistic "that's a lot of cheddar" company owner.

We are so used to alien invasion stories, we never think about what happens if we as humans are the actual invaders. Regardless of it's agenda, it is correct in displaying how the greed of humans evolves. It is a morally correct movie... make no mistake about that. But apparently when morality vs. capitalism, the right thing to do is spoken from the left side of the aisle.

Technically this movie is impossible to describe. I went to go see it (for the fourth time) last week and STILL the theater was packed full. Hollywood loves this movie; it loves the technology of this movie; it loves the idea that James Cameron has brought back the "theater experience" and delayed the slow decay of the movie theater industry. In this recession, record money was made and movie technology was thrown forward. Yeah. He's getting all kinds of gold even though he spent enough money to solve AIDS, cancer, and civilian space travel in the making of this movie. Yes, he's getting a lot of gold.

THE BLIND SIDE
The cute and heartwarming (true) story of Michael Oher (offensive tackle for the Baltimore Ravens... it's a football thing for those of you that don't know). There this poor black kid gets rescued by these gutsy white folk and fed, showered, and powdered and set out to be displayed as the best offensive tackle person of something something.

Anyway, the movie is pleasant, even if you don't know football. it's a gentle story without a lot of twists or tension. Even so, the movie is very well made and has a ton of heart... especially for folks in the south where football is a religion. I liked it a lot, I doubt there are many people who wouldn't like it. Sandra Bullock was good as the spunky southern white woman with a smart mouth but a heart of gold. Anyone north of the Mason-Dixon line will find her nauseating. Anyone south of the Mason-Dixon line will find her an inspiring hero. She won't win because everyone in Hollywood would consider it a caricature (as most spunky southern women with a smart mouth and a heart of gold are), but she was good enough to be nominated and I think it's well deserved... mainly because her ass looked fantastic on the poster.

Tim McGraw is still hot.

DISTRICT 9
Defunct spaceship comes to a halt above Johannesburg... the world goes nuts because white people live there. The aliens are put in tent cities. Hilarity ensues.

I thought the movie was brilliant. In fact, it's one of my top five favorite movies of the year (slots 1-4 are fill with "Avatar" - see above). It was somewhat original in it's concept. It wasn't an alien invasion, it was an alien "Oops. We sort of just got stuck here" story. The first 15 minutes of the story was completely annoying - but also necessary - and after watching the movie for the second time I cannot come up with a better way to reveal all the information needed (and the foreshadowing thrown in) any better than what was presented.

Sharlto Copley who plays Wikus van de Merwe was fucking brilliant. I will say that again... he was fucking brilliant. The progression is character takes is such an odd, not readily relateable journey and yet he sells it and we believe the entire movie just based off of his annoyance, heartbreak, fear, realization, and heroics. He sold the movie and he sold himself. He was nothing short of amazing - and I love to see more of him (outside his casting into the movie version of "The A-Team").

The movie has a raw feel to it, sometimes it dives into the grotesque, but overall it was just a well made film about humanity on a global level vs. humanity on an individual level. The critique or mirror, however you choose to label it, can easily be applied to any human culture's response to something we do not understand and the bureaucracy that prevents us from making steps forward in understanding it. It was "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" meets "Teen Wolf."

Good movie. Loved it. Could have done without the fingernail scenes. That gave me nightmares for days...

______________________________________________

So more will come later. I will review James Cameron's ex-wife's view on risk-taking in the next edition.

SMACK! Toyota, You know I love you, SMACK! Why You Make Me Do This? SMACK!

2010-02-06T14:44:00.001-05:00

I'm at war with Toyota. Oddly, this has nothing to do with the recent recalls. I've been having a problem with my 2003 Tacoma truck which I bought 6 years ago. I went in for a specific used truck that I priced off the internet and ended up test driving the new models. Well, the salesman just stood there silent, and I did all the work. 500 signatures later I was driving off the lot with a new truck.

Toyota had a recall a few years ago due to the Tacoma ruck frames developing excessive rust in areas of high salt content (i.e. up north where the snow-covered streets). I lived on the beach for a few years, so my frame has such rust...

... the frame is crumbling...

These pictures were taken last year. This year I popped my head under the truck and saw how things looked now. This is what I saw:

According to the Toyota letter they sent me, they will replace or buy back the vehicle only if there is signs of perforation. I do not have that. But according to the mechanic who inspected it, the majority of my rust is in the front of the vehicle, which is odd since most of what they have seen has been in the back of the truck where the frame is thinner. Though I may not have any perforations in the frame, the frame itself could be weakened by the rust and the design of the engine housing could fail if I were ever in a head-on collision.

Panic!

Not only that, the rust is everywhere. "Pretty soon everything is going to fail. My guess is your a/c will be first," the guy told me sympathetically.

So, what was I to do? I was told to call Toyota Corporate as the nature of my problem did not fall under the official recall.

I called Mama Toyota. Mama Toyota was not going to have any of this bullshit. Get the thing inspected by the dealer. If there were no rust holes in the frame, there was no problem. Period. And so that ended that.

A year goes by and indeed my truck is acting a little strange... nothing bad, just... slow. So methinks it's time for a new car. So what are my options?

Option 1:
Sell the truck as is for the estimated price of 9 thousand bucks. Don't tell the new owner anything. Walk away with the money.

Option 2:
Try and get Toyota to buy back the truck as it is a liability to their company. Should I get in a wreck and the safety design on the frame fails, they could be in a world of sue.

Option 3:
Trade it in for another Toyota and see if Toyota will give me a decent price for it.

Option 1 is completely out of the question. There is nothing in my moral fibre that says that I could live the rest of my life with that on my conscience. I'm just not that kind of person. Sorry.

Option 2 was the most preferable. What I really wanted was for Toyota to say, "Here's your eight grand!" in which case I would turn around and give four grand back to them and buy a new vehicle (yes, I would buy Toyota even with their petal problems... I even have stock in the company, but we won't talk about how atrocious that's doing right now...).

So with eight grand I would use half for a new vehicle and the other half to pay off my credit cards. I would have a new vehicle, Toyota will have a liability off the streets, and the company gets however many more thousands of dollars out of me over the course of the next 5 years. It's a win-win all around!

Last year I called Toyota, and wrote a letter. The letter was good, but JoJo Bean in all his glory made it professional and it almost sounded like I was a real adult using complete sentences and big dollar words (voluminous rhetoric, if you will).

Toyota wrote back with two words: "Fuck. You."

Actually they didn't write back at all. When I called they told me that my truck did not fall under the parameters of the "frame rust perforation warranty enhancement". I was promptly told by Momma Toyota that it was NOT a recall (even though it was all over the inspection documents from Local Baby Toyota). There were so many legal issues that they were trying to dance around, and it was understandable because if they said anything wrong at all, it would get them into a world of trouble.

So that took about 6 months and I got no where with that. So there is the last option.

I took my 2003 Toyota Tacoma Extend-Cab with only 47,000 miles and near perfect interior to Champion Toyota. The nice guy took the keys and said, "You are not going to get the Kelly Blue Book value, you know that, right?"

Yes. I knew that. just get me as close to it as you can. He took my keys and they inspected the car. He came back. They would buy the truck or trade it in for the same price: $4,000.00 tops.

Seriously?

"Sir, that rust is really bad. We won't be able to do anything with it... use it for parts at most."

I slammed my head on the wall three times hoping that I would wake up from the this spinning corporate nightmare.

"Maybe you can call Corporate Toyota and see if they can help you out."

AHHHH!

So, as a Toyota consumer, and out of no fault of my own, I am now in possession of a valueless vehicle. I cannot sell it. I cannot get my money back. I cannot trade it in. I'm stuck.

Against my better judgement, I called Momma Toyota again.

"I see you had a case open last year. That case has been closed."

"Yes, but now I want to trade it in and it's completely valueless. They will only give me 4,000 bucks because the truck is in such bad shape... out of no fault of my own."

"Oh. That sounds awful."

If I could have thrown the phone hard enough to reach that woman and smack her upside the head, I would have.

So Kevin somebody is going to give me a call back because he's my case worker and he is familiar with my situation.

"Kevin, the man I talked to last year?"

"Yes sir."

The guy I got in a yelling match called a corporate whore more interested in saving money than saving lives?

So. This should go well.......

**UPDATE**

Kevin started right away with "I remember speaking to you last May." Great. Kevin was far more aggressive and pointed this time. Toyota's official stance is that They do not own the truck - I do. They are not responsible for it's condition - I am. If the truck is covered with rust, then there is nothing they can do about it... unless there are perforations in the frame (holds not originally intended to be there). In which case they will replace the frame.

I flat out told Kevin that I am looking to just trade the truck in... nothing more. I was informed that Toyota (Manufacturer) was not in the business or buying or trading in vehicles. The condition of the truck is not their responsibility (unless there are perforations).

There was nothing else to say. That is the end of the conversation. I asked him if he thought this was right. "What I feel is not important here, I am the spokesman for Toyota and this is their position."

Of course.

Fibre-Reinforced Polymer!

2010-01-28T17:58:00.003-05:00

So a while back I was sharing my intimate association with FRP (fibre-reinforced polymer) that is applied to concrete to strengthen it, repair it, or make it blast resistant. I was working on this stuff for two months straight... and I was even having dreams about it.

So in case you wanted to know what it looked like, here it is:

Looks pretty harmless for being the source of my nightmares. So the area of concrete is prepped and cleaned before an adhesive is applied. This 6" strip (in this case) would go on next. A final resin is layered on top of that. The end result is concrete that is made considerably stronger - all from tiny little interlocking fibres.

Long Live Elvis

2010-01-14T09:50:00.004-05:00

If you were to go to Chuy's here in Austin, you will fine something on the menu called "The Elvis Presley Memorial Combo." I've always wanted to order it, but usually I was distracted by something less complicated. Sunday was different. I was slightly hung over, ambivalent, and more concerned with the company than the food. So today was the day I was going to order the signature "The Elvis Presley Memorial Combo" plate.

It is basically three enchiladas (beef, Ranchero cheese, and chicken tomatillo) with rice and beans. It is a true celebration of gluttony that only the King himself could appreciate... as nothing less diverse in flavors or smaller in portions could ever deserve to hold the name of "Elvis."

And here it was, presented to me in all it's glory:

As an added bonus, the smaller, dainty side plate was added, dubbed "the Priscilla." On it came a taco and questo "wings" (tortilla chips).

I'm going to admit right now that I didn't finish it all. It was gluttonous and overindulgent, cheesy and absolutely delicious.

If I were to make one suggestion: The enchilada plate should be presented rotated 180 degrees from what is seen in the picture. I know it doesn't make much 'eating' sense, but it would look more like a crown when placed in front of the customer... you know... for "the King".

I know this is more of a benign post, but I realized how much I love Austin, and I would like to share some of my favorite firsts (not Dominican Joe). I have been to Chuy's a few times (check out get the Texas Margaritas during happy hour), but I've never had this particular novelty item. And since I have been in a much better mood these days, I figured I should start doing more... and sharing more.

Here's my first step... trading in mental illness for clogged arteries.

LOVE IT. Why? Because it's called "living"!

Week in Progress

2010-01-12T00:38:00.004-05:00

So the first week has come and gone... and I have to say that I am indeed doing remarkably better. I am getting to bed at a decent time, I am not drinking as much – which is great and horrific at the same time. So here is the deal with alcohol:

I can drink... and drink... and drink some more, and nothing happens. I don't get drunk. But after some time my body stops and says “Hey dude, you're like completely filled with alcohol...” and then it all hits me at once. It is after this point that things tend to get hazy. I do crazy things... like purchasing Windows 7 and installed it.

But I have not cooked anything, so I think my lesson on that has been learned.

Work has been easier. There were a few panic situations, and there are a few clients that my bosses sometimes choose the “ignore them and they will go away” method of coping, and though I find it irritating and disrespectful, I for my part am ahead of the curve at the moment... so I'm really happy with that.

There have been a few things that I have been avoiding regarding Betty... the removal of her numbers from my contact list and her email address from my gmail to start with. Somehow watching the ball drop in Times Square was hard as well. But there was one other issue that I never mentioned that currently has my medicated mind occupied.

Before I left New York, Betty's brother, in his absurd way of trying to “help” (if you can call it that) was insistent that I take something from the apartment to remember Betty by. We went back and forth for at least an hour (or half a bottle of wine, depending on how you want to time it) because it was something I didn't feel right doing. Finally, because he was becoming drunk and belligerent I went to the half empty liquor cabinet and took a shot glass. It seemed appropriate at the time and it shut him up.

I feel deeply guilty about this. It sits there in my room, staring at me – a reminder of my participation of pillaging a dying woman's apartment for my own sentimental gain. It was wrong to take. It was selfish. I thought it was a terrible idea then and I think it's even more of a terrible idea now. Yes, I will eventually get over it, but the fact is that right now I'm truly bothered by my actions and I would do anything to reverse that decision.

Things with the ex seem to be okay. He wrote me a nice email for the holidays. Yes, his moving on to the next boyfriend so quickly was very hurtful, but at least now I can understand how two people... neither of who are able to move locations really do not need to be stringing each other along in a relationship that will never happen. Still, it was somehow the closest I've ever felt towards someone romantically, and we both agree we should remain friends... we need to be friends. But there was a piece of his email that stated, “ive been meaning to write you, i just havent had any idea of what to say.”

And I totally understood that. There are many times I've wanted to write him too, but what could we possibly say to each other? We spent 8 months every day talking, texting, emailing and Skyping. We know EVERYTHING about the other person... even a lot of really embarrassing shit. And not to go backwards to the “just friends” stage... how does one do that? It's an odd circumstance, but I think I'm ready to bite the bullet and take the situation head on. I cannot sulk forever. I'm paying good money for pills so I don't have to.

On the work front, I finally told the bosses that there is nothing on this planet that anyone could offer me that was worth me working 12 hours a day every day. Nothing. It was a little shocking because they are still young enough to think “more money equals more spending” and I have crossed over to the “quality time equals better health” view. I'm not die hard on this view, mind you. Just having 2 months of it has crossed the line.

So many of my 'panic' situations have been calmed, even helped in the past week. When looked at logically they are rather mundane. But this is a slow process for me, and I'm doing it mostly alone. Hopefully it is something that I can be proud of in a few months.

I have to say, as I have mentioned many times before, that I love the smell of Austin in the cold winter. It's like the smell of sharp leather. It's just so comfortable to me. I had forgotten how much it makes me smile. It is time for bed... I have to stay on schedule – Doctor's orders.

Thank you, everybody!

First Day Back

2010-01-04T18:14:00.001-05:00

The basic normal black clouds which run through the corners of our mind like hot and cold currents of brainwaves is unsettling familiar to us all. Here travels both secret hopes and loves, and unexplained fear and paranoia. When the these clouds cover the sky completely however, it is time to get some help.

My consciousness... was like the little bunny at the greyhound race... stuck on a metal track in one direction desperately trying to stay ahead of the shadowy canine demons running at full speed behind him, and always ending back at the same exact place he started. In the past two days I have been relieved of most of those shadows, the current running more lukewarm... tepid. But there are hiccups still. I was out hanging with Super A and Cam, making sure that I can interact in social settings like normal. They were test runs... because I really wanted to be normal for work.

"How was your break?"

"Oh... fine. Just spent tons of money on a lot of things I didn't need... had nervous breakdown, lost my mind, alienated my best friends, and freaked out everyone else to the point I needed to be medicated. Happy New Year!" Nobody at work needs that trauma.

So far I have been sleeping soundly for the first time in years - and it's been wonderful... until Sunday night. I was awake all night. So in the morning between the medication and the fact that I was fucking tired, I had a resurfacing of an old friend I hadn't seen in years: Mr. Cracked-Out of his Gourd. It's that moment where you are so freakishly tired but you're jittery enough to swim across the Atlantic at the same time, and your brain sits there and says "I'm just gonna sit my ass down right here until you decide which direction you want to go...".

Oddly, though, I was still able to focus, laugh, and after a while I got into a groove and I really managed to accomplish a lot. So, my first day back at work seemed to go over well. Later in the afternoon I had a little bit of a headache... and occasionally I'm slightly dizzy. But this is nothing - nothing I can't put up with considering that I am now able to just stand and enjoy a shower... feeling the water and not thinking about every single event of the past/present/future at the same time. It's wonderful to sit in a vehicle and pay attention to traffic while rocking out to the radio and not thinking about every real situation turned into a fantasy scenario to the point of actually blanking out. It's a terrible feeling when the mind comes into focus behind the eyeballs and you realize "Wow, I don't remember driving the past 5 miles. How did I get here?"

I stopped biting my nails. BIG accomplishment.

So on my first day back, I think I'm doing okay and I finished everything I was suppose to do. Because of my current nervous nervous twitching/narcolepsy condition I think I'm going to refrain from taking any more medication for the rest of the evening. Gotta know the limits.

Now it's time to tackle the fourth worst decision of my life - buying and installing Windows 7 Pro. ('cuz I've just got TONS of money to throw around...). CapitalOne called me because they were concerned "You're spending money like you actually have some to spend!" I know. I know.

The guy asked if I allowed a credit transaction to Microsoft. "Yes", I said. "That was for Windows 7... Worst decision I've made this year."

"Oh, it's not that bad... " and then he proceeded to tell me about all the lovely features it comes with.

Well that's fine if you have a new computer... mine is not... and the damn thing keeps crashing and restarting randomly (it never goes longer than 10 minutes). I though I finally got it fixed by getting rid of the video driver... then the Logitech webcam popped in with "new hardware successfully installed". Five minutes later the computer crashed and rebooted.

Good Times.

And yes, I know I should ditch it all together, but I spent the damn money so I might as well use it to it's fullest. It's nice for the ten minutes it runs.

Wish me luck!

(I am also taking donations... if you would like like to donate to the "Stupid Dumb Ass Needs to Stay Sedated" fund, please let me know. I accept PayPal.)

New Decade, New Meds

2010-01-01T19:42:00.007-05:00

Exactly one decade ago I had returned to Austin to visit for their big lighting/firework/drunken "Millennium Party". I was staying with my friend Maxx (the one I have lost and found twice since that night). We had a great shopping spree on New Year’s Eve - I bought Superman underwear which lasted me eight years until the mysteriously cremated into red and blue dust in the dryer one day.

New Year's Eve we partied like... well... it was 1999. Mainly we stayed at The Forum, the most popular gay bar for druggies, drunkards, and low-life’s - so we had gotten our tickets early. Maxx and I drank... and drank a lot. Every drink was "Okay, THIS is the last beer of the millennium!" (five minutes later) "Okay, so THIS is REALLY the last beer of the millennium!". That was orgied with "So this is the last Jager shot of the millennium!" (10 minutes later) "Okay, I know we shouldn't but come on... it's going to be the LAST Jager shot of the millennium!"

Midnight. Champagne. Cheers. Kiss from a radio DJ named Taren.

Back at the bar.

"Hey guys! Can you believe?? This is the FIRST Jager shot of the new millennium!"

I remember a lot of the "lasts", but hardly any of the "firsts". I do remember Maxx calling out everything: The first beer. The first kiss. The first fondling from a stranger. the first pee… all of the new millennium. History was being made by the minute. No planes fell out of the sky and the world didn't blow up… so needless to say I found it all slightly anti-climatic.

Ten years later I have made it back to Austin permanently. I’m very happy to release the failed journey’s of the past decade. Moving away from Austin was the best and worst decision of my life. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without that move. I would probably be a hippie. I hate hippies.

2009 has been particularly… weighty. The last part of the year was interrupted with a major, heart-wrenching breakup, followed by the surprise death of Betty. That ‘under a month’ two/for was... a lot. My birthday (35) a week later was a difficult milestone as it’s a turning point in a man’s life – and newly single and freshly contemplating my own mortality wasn’t a good way to start my next trip around the sun. Halloween still has some weight on me because of Jeb. Thanksgiving was a blessing, but you can ask B & E, I would spend hours in the darkened basement just laying there… blank. My mind numbly racing, if that makes sense. I couldn’t stop it, so I just laid in the dark and let it spin for hours and hours.

November and December had the following schedule for me:

    7:00 am – wake up
    7:15 am – shower
    7:58 am – head to work
    8:04 am – work
    12:00 pm – lunch
    1:00 pm – work
    3:00 pm – Red Bull (sugar free)
    8:45 pm – finish up work
    9:00 pm – head home
    9:30 pm – wine
    10:00 pm – Facebook
    10:30 pm – sleep (kinda)

     Repeat

I worked weekends as well. When I wasn’t working, I was crashed on the couch unable to move, think, or sleep. It was living in a void. The schedule above varied from time to time since I had Super A and Cam pulling me in two directions. On Monday Cam and I had Monday Martinis (8:00 pm). On Tuesdays Super A and I have poker (9:00 pm). Thursdays Cam and I had the strip off (12:00 am).

I know what you’re saying “Why in fuck’s fuck don’t you tell everyone that you just can’t do it?”

I did. But the reality of it that both Cam and Super A are part of my person and I need them a lot more than they need me. With work dominating 10 to 12 hours of my day, every day, it’s nice to just… hang out, have a drink, and watch people take their clothes off. It’s not like I was sleeping much anyway. It was all the human contact I had.

Come December I had an offer from JoJo Bean to go visit him in Orlando. I found a flight that I could afford and booked it. I didn’t even know what I bought until the day before Christmas Eve. Yes, it was December 23rd before I checked my flight information, went clothes shopping, bought a carry on, and washed a load of laundry. At 6:00 pm I had to go back to the office to re-send some files.

I almost got in two wrecks on the way to the airport. Freak out. I parked in what (I would later find out) was the “Short-Term Parking” - $10.00 a day.

The trip to Orlando, as you might have figured out via Facebook, was wonderful… and a great break. I was a little bit at odds with Super A before the trip because he was vocally against this trip of mine. He and Jojo Bean are friends (this is how we met in the first place) and he did not like the idea of two friends hooking up.

We weren’t “hooking up” – we were just two people who had nothing going on for Christmas. Jojo Bean was a superb host and since we have similar OCD-ish quarks, it was very easy for me to relax - genuinely relax.

BUT there was a slight issue that I was too dense to observe and didn’t put together until I returned home: my gracious host was a bit distant and reserved around me as he was under the impression that I was looking to him as a possible boyfriend/love/soulmate. Some of this might have been from our normal flirty banter, but Super A had earlier given JoJo Bean a “Don’t hurt James” speech – since I’m normally a romantic, lovey-dovey guy whose heart tends to get crushed really easily.

I was not looking for love. A fuck? Maybe. Well, what I’m saying is that JoJo Bean is cute, and the offer would have been nice. But I was not looking for a boyfriend. Is anything that I have written above scream out with a Liz Lemon inflection “… And now all I need is Mr. Right and I will have it all!”? As of the time of my boarding the plane, I was sweaty and my hands were shaking. I had to drink my Sprite with two hands. I was looking for a kiss, a hug, crash time on the couch, and the alarm clock to be thrown out the window. I stumbled into Orlando with only two words “please help.”

This was to be my rehab. I just wanted to have an arm around me until the world stopped spinning. It was selfish, yes… but it was my only beacon that I had for the past 6 months... and that misconception really hurt me for some reason… like way deep down. I think it’s because I think of JoJo Bean as a really amazing person – and he will make someone an amazing husband - I didn't realize how much until this trip. I would totally like to audition for the role, but I think we have all learned a lesson on long distance relationships.

And… it’s Florida.

Yeah.

So moving on: Back in LaLa Land, my “slightly at odds” level of Super A has been increased to “Pyro Diablo Hot Sauce”. I’m angry at his interference, but angrier at me at not being observant enough to see what was going on, why, and curve some of the stuff I was saying. And the more I explain this to… whoever… the crazier I sound. Seriously… it’s awful. It sounds pretty nuts now. Sunday evening my mind can't focus, it's in constant "spin" mode. It will not shut up and I get more and more angry. I sleep for 3 hours, tops.

At work: I’m alone at the office for the week. I try and calm down. I write everyone nice letters like a crazy person. The first building from before the break had major corrections – go back and revise. I beat myself up over the lack of observance with my drawing. I really dislike poor drafting. The San Antonio International Airport is due by Wednesday – But I’m not getting the drawings until Tuesday. All day Monday I start back on 168 pages of drawings for the first military building. I zone out several times and realize that I need to go back and correct my "sleep drafting" I JUST did. I just couldn't think.

Have you ever lost your mind? Like really lost it? It’s frightening. It’s like your body is turning into a million lead marbles and dropping one at a time, but in increasing speed until it’s a steady constant stream heavy falling balls coming from nowhere and dropping in constant motion, and yet… you feel completely frozen. I have had enough of this... I had shit to do, so I made an appointment with the doctor for the next day.

Tuesday I get the drawings for the airport. I look at them. They are dog piss anyway, but I understand nothing. I want to understand it but I can’t. I can’t breathe. Panic. I lay my head down on my desk again. One boss comes in. He had nothing better to do so he thought he would stop by and see how I was doing. Thank the lord. He explained the obvious to me.

Oh. I know this. I’ve done this before. WTF? Why was I panicking? Because I’ve lost my mind and that’s what people who lose their mind do.

The afternoon takes me to the doctor. I walk into the doctor’s office. And the conversation goes EXACTLY like this:

“Doctor, I would like to know if Wellbutrin is right for me.”

“Well, let’s give it a try!”

So that was easy. I was back at work in under an hour.

My panic attacks were not major. I didn’t need Xanax or anything. I just wanted my brain back and I wanted it on a leash. Now, I had been drinking for well over a month straight. I know it’s bad. Saturday JoJo Bean and I did not drink. That was my first non-drinking night. Sunday I had a few beers. Monday I had nothing. Tuesday I had nothing. The instructions that came with the pills say “do not drink alcohol”… so I figured all was good since I had stopped. However the instructions ALSO say “do not immediately stop drinking alcohol before starting this medication.”

Confused? So am I. By Thursday morning I had figured out why. Every painful everything from the past decade was compounded into a little ball. And that ball was implanted in my forehead. After some violent tense vibration, it explodes.

So I had a few beers… and went to sleep. Today I started the increase in dosage a day ahead of schedule.

Everything is fine.

Actually, everything is not fine… I’ve created an awful mess with several of my friends, but emotionally I’m able to function well. I’m still a bit fragile, which is why I stayed in last night. But when I woke up this morning, while the world is recovering from their communal hangovers, I’m smiling. This is my first day that my brain hasn’t been bothering me. I’m able to clean. I’m able to WRITE (can you tell?)

This new year, new decade, new direction is… hopeful. Yes I hate the fact that I’m part of the Medicated America. I think if I had time to digest each tragedy individually, and my work was less of an issue, slept decent hours, took 30 minutes to exercise rather than go out to poker or strip night that none of this craziness would have happened. Or maybe I would just delay the inevitable. Who knows… but this really is a new year for me. I’m happy at the potential (but not too happy!).

It’s Friday night, and I’m going to get out of the house for a bit. I will keep you updated on the progress.

Talk to you later. Thank you for listening!!

Christmas

2009-12-25T10:58:00.002-05:00

I didn't grow up with Christmas. The religion of my childhood prevented a lot of celebration. Since coming out and leaving that restricted lifestyle, I have been greatly interested in specific family traditions... and every family has thier own spin on this worldwide religious holy day.

It's not that the holiday is even meaningful anymore. More and more people no longer believe in Jesus... and if they do they certainly don't act like it. Yes it' s more commercial than religeous, but in a free capitalistic society that every strong right-wing religion is preaching for, what was everyone expecting? It's just the natural flow of social evolution where indulgence is celebrated. The iconic image of such evolution is grandma getting her leopard print Snuggie.

And there's the random political jab for the day. Happy birthday Baby Jesus.

On the other side of this are those of us without families... or those of us whose families have abandoned us. Christmas is a celebration of each other, friendship, and love. We gift and dine... not out of obligation or mandate but out of choice. We give because we want to. We host because we can. To be invited is an honor and to receive is a surprise blessing.

This year I have been surprised, honored, and blessed... and I feel such without religious affiliation or family obligation. It's the truest form of love... most honest form of honor... well and it's just a whole lot of freaking fun.

Enough of this deep thought shit. I got a see a man about a turkey. Thank you to everyone who made my holiday memorable and magnificent. Hope everyone else has a great day as well!

Install According to Plan or Kathy Griffin Will Die

2009-12-22T23:40:00.005-05:00

I have been working non-stop on a project. It’s major, and I can’t discuss the details because it involves a branch of our military.

But the basic idea is that we are renovating two very large buildings with this amazing product that is known as FRP or Fiber Reinforced Polymer and if you want the basic idea of what this all entails, there is a cute video explaining why everything in the world including newborn children should be bathed in the stuff found here.

So geeky me is really getting into this. But what our company has been hired to do is the shop drawings for these two buildings. This means that instead of the design drawings that are a simple 5 or 6 page packet that says “something like this needs to go here and here”, we were hired to come up with the 165 page packet (per building) that says “This particular individual 6 inch FRP strip goes specifically HERE. Move it and everyone dies when the building fails and the terrorists win.”

So each floor is 25,000 square feet and divided into eight sheets, and there are four phases of application for each floor, plus details and notes. And yours truly is drawing it all for both buildings. So for the past *however long* I have been looking at these 6, 8, 12, and 16 inch strips in a crisscross pattern and trying to figure out what strips go where around what new additions the owners are planning – including elevators, ductwork, and plumbing (yeah, they are overhauling these buildings). Oh yeah… I’m also coordinating air conditioning and plumbing.

This is where the 12 hour work days and weekends come from. I don’t have time to do laundry, so I went to buy new clothes. Unfortunately this did not include underwear. I have been doing my truck maintenance, shopping, and everything else related to life on my lunch break. If I can’t do it in the hour, I’m not doing it. Hence, my trip to the DMV has been last on my list.

Last night, moving these little strips back and forth and overlapping them perfectly got to me in my dreams.

I was poised with what could easily be called my gayest dream ever. I was backstage at the Oscars where a group of guys from the local performing arts college were going to perform a tribute to musical theater when Kathy Griffin walks in. Seriously. I don’t know what my subconscious is telling me other than stop listening to Led Zeppelin and Nine Inch Nails while working.

There was a really cute guy and we were flirting. He and his friends were warming up by doing some Broadway numbers. Everyone was laughing. Kathy Griffin is dressed to kill. She starts talking to people all around backstage. The guy I liked winks at me and I smile back. The non-verbal banter goes back and forth. Meanwhile, I am amazed at how good Kathy Griffin looks in person… I mean she really looks good. As I’m paying attention to her the guy says something and I respond with “huh?”

“It’s ‘New York, New York!’

“What is?”

“The song I was singing you! And you said, ‘huh?’ to me. What gay man doesn’t know ‘New York, New York’?”

I thought that was so sweet he upped the flirting to singing. Love him. “Yes, of course. ‘New York, New York’ by Frank Sinatra.”

He made a squishy face that was just so adorable. I don’t know who he is but I have to find him. “It’s by Liza Minnelli!”

“Yeah, but that’s not actually Broadway song, is it?”

“It’s Liza Minnelli!” he streaked in a high pitched voice. I stared blankly at him while he returned the ‘WTF’ look. Finally he said, “Oh my god, Ross. Hang up the phone.” And he turned to storm off.

“Wait! If you are talking about ‘New York, New York’ from On the Town, then that would be Broadway!”

I don’t know where all this shit is coming from. Maybe it’s some sort of withdrawal from not seeing a musical the last time I was in New York.

Anyway, as the guy’s foot slipped. It slipped on a strip of FRP. And then his other foot slipped on another piece of FRP. Suddenly there was panic as strips of FRP started surfacing through the concrete.

“That FRP was one inch off!” I called out. People started to scream and run about because everyone apparently knew what that meant. But it became more clear as strips started coming off the walls and the building started to crumble.

Kathy Griffin yells out “I can’t die in these earrings! They’re borrowed!”

Everything comes crumbling down in chunks of concrete and fiber strips and I wake up.

So to all the contractors out there who install this very precious material: Please install according to my plans or Kathy Griffin will die in her borrowed earrings and I will miss out on make-up sex with the love of my life. If it was my faulty drawings… I’m in the clear. It went through the eyes of three engineers and… well… it’s not my name and seal on the plans.

So tonight when I got home I finally got one load of laundry done. It was mostly the clothes I had just bought. Still forgot the underwear.

Damn.

Dominican Joe

2009-11-25T10:55:00.001-05:00

I walked into Dominican Joe and ordered my normal latte and the lovely young woman behind the counter asks: "Do you want that with soy or dairy?"

And I said, "Dairy would be fine." Why? Because it would be. I really don’t care. It’s early and I need caffeine because I was up all night… reading scripture or whatever – she doesn’t know me. Coffee tears up my stomach. I need lots and lots of milk in my coffee or else my stomach will riot.

And she looks at me with a snide look as if saying 'are you fucking kidding me?' and asks again, "dairy?"

"Yes. Dairy."

Then she calls to the girl making the drink, "One latte… with DAIRY."

"Not soy?"

"Not soy. DAIRY."

"Oooookay" said the girl making the drink, horrified that she had to touch the unhealthy juices mechanically extracted from the tit of a nameless bovine pumped full of hormones.

And when she was done whipping it up, she delivers the drink to the counter and called out "One latte... with DAIRY." and everyone at the coffee house looks at me. It was the coffeehouse equivalent of the "price check on condoms" scenario. Yes, I am a horrible person. Now give me my fucking crack.

And this is the third time this has happened.

Bitches.

I would stop going if their coffee wasn’t so damn good.

It's the Thanksgiving holiday and I will be GONE GONE GONE and I can't wait to step away from the computer and relax. I hope everyone has an excellent holiday.

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Websites

2009-11-15T00:29:00.004-05:00

I’m looking for love, people.

But I don’t have a lot of time.

What is a single male on the go suppose to do? Fortunately, like everything else in life, whenever we don’t have the time to put millions of years of evolutionary traits to use by hunting or gathering for ourselves, we now have the ability to go online and have it done for us!

I took a look at two of these sites. I avoided match.com since more people use that for a hook up than anything else, I was avoiding eHarmony for their long standing (recently recanted) anti-gay stance, and I was going to avoid most of the gay hook up sites as you can actively announce on every line of your profile about trying to find a long term relationship only and people will honestly respond with “I am too! We should discuss it in person. Come on over tonight! Bring lube.” And seriously speaking, all of us know of at least one instance where in the throws of passion your partner is still proclaiming how they ‘never does this’ and he’s ‘only looking for Mr. Right.’

Chemistry.com was an odd start. The love of my life is just a few clicks away and all for free. By “a few clicks” it means about 50 questions starting with how your hand is shaped (seriously) to my views of politics and children. This is all very basic information. None of this is really difficult stuff, but with only four choices (“strongly agree”, “somewhat agree”, “somewhat disagree”, and “strongly disagree”) it seemed so basic. So for the statement “I would be annoyed if my partner makes jokes while I am in a bad mood” there was no “I would stab them in the eye with a fork” option, and I found this limiting.

There were a few times “games” which were more perception exercises found in I.Q. tests. I’m not sure what the point is other than to make sure you’re not connected to someone extremely warped in reality. The fact of the matter is, I wouldn’t mind being in a single income relationship and be the breadwinner as long as my partner passed an I.Q. test. I was all for this. There were only two of these eye illusion questions, so I was disappointed. I couldn’t help but think that since I was looking for a gay relationship that this idea of “make the two boxes match width” and “make the two logs match length” exercises didn’t have something to do with one’s perception of one's own penis length. No AOL inches allowed. I approved.

Everyone on Chemistry.com is divided into four categories based off your answers. Explorers are spontaneous, creative and open-minded. Directors are decisive, focused and independent. Negotiators are imaginative, empathic and nurturing. Builders are social, loyal and dependable.

So with each person you look at you get a big dot telling you what they are. I’m a Negotiator which means I’m weak and I try to make everyone happy. Not a good way to start finding the man of my dreams. Nowhere on my criteria list was there a listing stating my perfect man needs to be basket case looking for a father figure thus eliminating my normal 'path of least resistance'.

The end result of Chemistry.com was a list of matches given to you. There are no searches, there were no opportunities to convince strikingly hot guys that you are the only one for them. You were given a list… and that was it. Period.

I had one of 6 people who matched my criteria – and I had to give an answer right away with “yes, definitely”, “maybe later”, or “no, thanks” (such polite rejection). Upon saying “no” you had to give a reason from a pull-down menu. Why didn’t I want #1? Because he’s fat. I’m already conscious about my own weight. With me AND him in the bed there would be little room for the important things like pillows or air. I don't feel like testing the structural integrity of a 'free-with purchase' bed frame, but this was not a pull-down menu option. Why not #2? Because he’s 250 miles away and with gas prices it was actually cheaper for me to hire an escort on a weekly bases. #3? He’s a camping, fishing, hunting, landscaping, jock. I am none of these things. #4? Stocky guy who loves dancing. *Sigh* #5? He ws lookn 4 a bf but used txt abbr all thru his profile & I thot that ws f'n tacky. #6 was a possibility - someone gay and fresh from the army = never a dull moment, so I clicked “yes, definitely” and I was taken to a page which told me that I needed to subscribe.

Subscribe? The man of my dreams was suppose to be free, but instead the basic plan ($49.95 a month) was offered so that I could take advantage of all the useful tools of Chemistry.com… like actually communicating with the man of my dreams. I could get a 3 month pan for $33.32 a month. That’s $99.96! This is a recession - I don't have that kind of money! Finding love IS so hard these days.

So I decided to try True.com. Again, the constant questions with a four part deciphering process. This time it was more thorough with their questioning, and I liked their analysis of how humans work. When I was done with one questionnaire, there was more. The one amazing thing about the series of tests is that each one came with a report. With all the “Interest” questions came an “Interest Report”. What am I?

YOU’RE A KEEPER!
Overall, you’re a Keeper, with a little bit of Detective and Entertainer thrown in. Keepers lean toward activities with structure and boundaries. At home, Keepers like planting a garden or landscaping their yard. Parties are planned to the last detail and whipping up a gourmet meal is second nature to Keepers like you. In sports, you probably prefer rule-based games, like golf or bowling.

What a nice way of saying that I’m an anal retentive party planner. I’m Colin Cowie without the Oprah. I know I'm a keeper - this is not new information to me And can someone give me a list of NON-rule-based games? Is there any sport that doesn't have any rules at all? Even Jello-wrestling has rules.

What about the “Personality Report”?

YOU’RE A TOUR GUIDE!
Tour Guides make excellent leaders: always prepared, efficient and well-informed, and naturally charismatic with a strong ethical compass. You always do your homework and your eagle eyes hardly ever overlook even the tiniest detail. Not suspicious by nature, Tour Guides are friendly, assertive, and love when personal efforts are accomplished and applauded. No wonder people look up to you!

This makes the anal retentive detailed-oriented asshole sound like a good thing. I don’t have a stick up my ass, I’m specifically adventurous! At least I don’t hide who I am, since according to my “Communication Report” I’m pretty good at talking:

YOU'RE A CONVERSATIONALIST!
As a Conversationalist, you’re always in demand! Since you’re a pro at both talking and listening, people are drawn to you for friendships and relationships. You find it easy to have an open dialogue with others and have charisma to spare, which makes people feel at ease. Although you easily put yourself in others’ shoes, you have no trouble sticking up for yourself without being offensive.

Every teacher I’ve ever had from kindergarten to 7th grade could tell you this as it was marked every six weeks on my report card – although it was put in a more pithy phrase: “talks excessively during class.”

I will let those of you who know me absorb the “without being offensive” part.

I was little taken aback by the “Romance Report”.

YOU’RE A FLIRT!
Flirts tend to love the intimacy of falling in love. When a new love comes along, you use your whole heart to start wooing. Flirts love to surprise their partners with sentimental gifts, and they love to get them, too. You easily get swept up in the romance of a relationship — what’s more fun than falling love? At the same time, Flirts look to see if a partner is invested in the relationship before getting too emotionally involved. Once they do, though, watch out – it’s head over heels romance!

I do fall in love easily, but I do have protective barriers. The times I’ve ACTUALLY fallen in love are limited to three times… because when it gets to that point, I really do go all in. I am a romantic at heart, so I get this “sweeping off the feet” crap, but I don’t know that I would label persons like myself as “Flirts” as I would “Morons who wear their hearts on their sleeves” – at least that’s how I feel most of the time. Yes, I can be conversationally sexual, but I certainly don’t flirt in the way that normal outgoing people think of flirting.

Let’s talk sex. My “Sex Report”:

YOU'RE A STIMULATOR!
Stimulators show an academic appreciation for a wide spectrum of sexual practices. You're happy to be the one to get the party started, but usually in fairly conventional ways. You tend to stay away from more provocative sex, but you're open-minded about trying new techniques when the time is right. Stimulators find their best partners in other Stimulators, but they also work well with Traditionalists and Pleasers.

The internet website set to find the man of my dreams has dubbed me a pervert follower. It goes further:

TRUE's science says:

Stimulators like to incorporate play into their sex lives (toys, light spanking, mirrors), usually after discussing it with their partner first.
Many Stimulators will start foreplay while their partner is still asleep — what a great way to wake up!
The wildest of Stimulators may have tried some playful bondage or light S&M.
Stimulators sometimes like to get back to nature by finding a secluded spot for passion outdoors.
Many Stimulators love to be an audience for a striptease by their partner.
Sexy movies, books or websites help you get turned on. Some Stimulators even star in their own hot home movies.
You probably use orgasm to help you fall asleep from time to time.

So anyone out there should take comfort in the fact that I will completely take your feelings into consideration before strapping your ass to a freshly-scrubbed St. Andrew’s cross and beating you senseless with a newly-sterilized dildo. It’s because I’ve got a big heart.

The “matches” that True.com sets me up with are… depressing. The first was “Blake”, a 19 year old from Nowhere, Texas with a ridiculous 8 pack and pouty lips that that are screaming for molestation. He’s looking for someone in my age range… WHO IS MUSCULAR OR SLENDER. Aren't we all?

Forget the idea that in all aspects we are 97% compatible, the harsh reality is that hot muscle boys want to fuck other hot muscle boys. And yes, I already know we would probably be compatible because I’m ALWAYS compatible with the hot guy, being their best friend at times, but I’m never sexually attractive or considered long term relationship material. Please. You can’t fool me on that one. I have a 11 year history on that.

I online “winked” at him anyway because I would be a post-apocalyptic zombie not to.

I get a wink from O. C. Boy from California who is… porn quality cute. Seriously. I didn’t think people like this existed in the real world – I thought they all grazed in a field outside Studio City, California and were occasionally brought into the WB network to remind the rest of us that there are still two different species of human beings. He is seeking 18-22 year olds who doesn't drink or smoke, and is within 20 miles from him. I am NONE of these things. We are so not compatible that instead of a little green circle with a white check, I get a little red circle with a white check stating. “Just on the basics alone, he and you are challenging together.” But, all the other “reports” say we are good (green dots) and say things like “excellent chemistry” and “exciting couple” and “stimulating conversations.” How did this person even see my profile?

“TJ” is adorable from the word ‘go’, and needs to be spread over ice cream and eaten slowly with a fine port. His smile alone could be the main cause of global warming. He’s looking for athletic/muscular men living 50 miles from his upstate New York town. How do I respond to this? Yes, we are 100% compatible, but again the economy comes into play over the romantic “love concurs all” phrase (a level of level of delusion usually reserved for animated Disney blockbusters).

18 year old Matt from Washington… no.

And this is just day one. And it’s only going to go to day three because to keep True.com around it will be for two more days at it is also $49.99 for a one month subscription or $99.99 for three months.

Is it worth it? Fifty bucks a month for a computer to whittle down the prospects for you? Is this considered efficient or streamlined? Is this really the love of the present/future? Are all the ideas of trying to find that perfect connection organically moved to the inorganic world of online algorithms and Java script?

When video dating came of age, it was considered a “screening” process for the next logical step – actual dating. But everything is done online these days… including romance. You don’t send a dozen roses anymore, you send a Facebook gift. You don’t write handwritten letters of endearment, you send online e-cards. You don’t pick up the person for a date and make flirty comments and gestures all night while watching them blush, instead you Skype. Sex via Yahoo Messenger isn’t sex… it’s frustrated communal masturbation.

I think I was expecting gayer questions. If they were to ask "Did you openly cry when Christopher didn't make it to fashion week?" you would know that they are up on fashion AND very sensitive in nature.

If they were to ask "What did you think of Rihanna's mermaid tornado dress at the Glamour Magazine's Women of the Year Awards?" you would know that they are into pop culture AND can appreciate the beauty of hideous couture.

If they were to ask "During the Bush administration, did you think that Ari Fleischer would look hot in a baseball cap and street lighting?" then you would know that they are politically in tune AND where political beliefs stand in their life... while cruising the parks.

I was hoping for something more... personal. Instead, it was all very methodical and boring, very surface....

But maybe that’s just me. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for or where I’m going to find it, and that’s a shame because the last of the True.com tests is the “Commitment” questionnaire which gave me this “Commitment Report”:

YOU’RE A GREAT CATCH!
As a Great Catch, you’re just made to be in a committed relationship! Great Catches want to find their one special someone, and they actively look until they find that person. When they do, settling in is easy! You love the comfort and contentedness of being part of a couple. You love the idea of having that one person to share your days with – it makes you feel fulfilled! Great Catches are ready to go the distance to make the relationship thrive. When problems arise, they tend to dive in right away to repair them. They know that even the best twosomes can hit a bump now and then, but those hiccups can be overcome with some effort and time. For Great Catches, the rewards are worth the work. With this in mind, Great Catches are ready to commit for a lifetime!

Maybe I am. But what will that get me these days?

And can I get it with less than $49.95 a month?

Promises Promises

2009-11-02T21:30:00.002-05:00

I promise that I will update this blog again soon. There has been a lot to write about and a lot flying around, I think for the moment that it has been a bizarre few months, and not just for me. Every person I've talked to here and abroad has had some strangeness grab them by the throat.

In the meantime, today was a particularly taxing day and I will not go into detail about it, but I am keeping my eyes alert because how these next few weeks play out will determine so much about the rest of my life - namely, do I go back to school or am I content with being a vocational worker at my age.

My opinions, however, have not dissipated, and for that I assure everyone that I will be posting more of them in the coming days.

Thanks so much for your patience!

U2 - Dallas

2009-10-13T21:09:00.002-04:00

History of this Blog - Full Circle

2009-10-09T20:28:00.004-04:00

I first started this obsessively arrogant trend called “blogging” back in the late part of 2002. I was about to move from a thriving metropolis to a place far removed from the civilization I was used to - the city life, the lights, the dancing, the food. I was heading to a place called Melbourne Beach, Florida. There was absolutely nothing around but water and alcoholism. My neighbor just two doors over was a fantastic woman of spirit named Betty. She was only there a few months out of the year, but every day she was there, we had fun.

I had left Austin in the late 90’s and in 2001 on a trip back my friend Jeb shocked me with his announcement of having HIV. I tried to make it back to Austin at least once a year, but that didn’t always happen. When I did make it, Jeb and I would talk 10, 12, 14 hours straight about everything and nothing. Most of what we were discussing was “catch up”, relaying information that we would the laugh at hysterically.

Jeb was neither a caller or a writer. I never received phone calls for chat time and I would receive an email about once every 6 months, if that. So, in order to remain connected, I started this blog so that I can relate whatever absurdity that came to mind and he can log on to the internet and read what’s going on in my life. The first couple of entries were absurd – meaningless and mindless. I was a stating nothing in monotone format and all hopes of documenting my move online was left abandoned. Basically I sucked.

I gave a pause and tried to understand what my problem was. The problem was that I wasn’t focused nor did I really care. I had no passion and I was moving to an area where there is nothing to do but drink. I was going to be in the middle of nowhere with Jack Daniels and monotony. My life was boring.

So in late 2003, after my birthday, I relaunched the blog under a different name and look. I would post wild absurdities I found on the internet, and post email responses to AIDS activists arguing on behalf of crystal meth. I also decided to take more smaller trips, one of which was to the National Religious Broadcaster’s Convention in which “The Passion of the Christ” was being presented for the first time. The rather long story of the convention and the review of the movie was one of Jeb’s favorite reads, and he showed it to everyone, sometimes annoyingly so (I later heard).

There were other postings of conversations on a plane trip talking with a Mormon and my rebuttal against the logic of his religion. I blogged more legitimate opinions such as needing to revolutionize the gay community.

I was eventually making my way back to Texas and my rants became more “my view of current events” - and a lot had to do with the writer’s strike leaving me without “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart” – so I created my own. By this time I was back in Austin, and Jeb was staying over at my apartment much of the time, and spending more time sleeping than being awake. So while he was sleeping I would write my current events posts and throw in some funny pictures, and when he woke up he would read them on his own time. He really loved the funny pictures... and the funny picture comments.

Throughout 2007 and the first part of 2008 there were many many blog posts of this nature, each more opinionated than the one before. I started to encompass a freer way of writing, trying to grasp the nature of what was going on in my head and putting it down “on paper” while trying to convey sarcasm, absurdity, and cynicism. Yes, my brain is rather vulgar and bitchy, and that came in full force.

Enter the wonderful wit of Hunter Prendergast – a charming young man who also knew Jeb well. He had a fantastic mind and every time I talked with him I just wanted to crawl into the folds of his brain and play water guns while thrashing to the Dropkick Murphy’s… or play chess (really it could go either way with that kid). He got me out of the house and I was able to write about my trip to a stripper club and his remarkably and charmingly hilarious wedding.

Jeb passed away some three weeks later and with that came the obituary of a lifetime. That one blog post changed my life in the same way Jeb himself did over 10 years before. It became a beacon for anyone Google searching this remarkable character. People from all over the world commented. I received emails from his high school friends, each more honest and pure as the next. I made friends with his Navy pals who are characters in their own ranks… heartfelt and true from every fiber of their body. Over the next year I was taken on a journey through Jeb’s life through stories, laughter, and several bucket loads of tears.

More than that, I was horrified that good, decent Christian folk were reading some of the most atrocious and vile script ever written out on the internet for everyone to see… complete with penis pictures and all. Scared, I decided to leave it all alone, as I was told to by every decent Christian folk who I feel turned off the computer and immediately turned to prayer on my behalf (thank you all).

The end result was a new collection of friends which I keep in contact with. They are amazing and strong… and when they are weak, I am now part of their arsenal, their safety net, a friend. I couldn’t be more proud to write that. Even though I was with Jeb though the discussion of Hospice care, his accepting it, and everything that came afterward, the final death took a hold of me and I went into a sustained depression… and a lack of writing during that time reflected that. Eventually, everything came back to “normal” and as things calmed down, I returned to my homo-sex-liberal-commie stance on life made easier and funnier by the tense presidential election. And afterward I was right there proudly proclaiming Jesus as a Socialist hippie worthy of imitation. I’m not a provocateur, I’m just a social engineer.

But little did I know that history, a year and a half later after Jeb, would repeat itself with Betty who originally called the idea of the blog ‘silly’ and ‘a cry for help’ (I never disagreed with those sentiments – lol). It had been about 2 years since I’ve visited face to face with Betty. I felt guilt, annoyance, and basic sorrow for letting her, my “family”, slip by so long without physically being in front of her. We still talked every month… and we still chatted about the stock market and Broadway.

This trip was originally going to be a bigger deal for me and the guy I was interested in – he was going to take up the weekends and Betty and another friend were going to share me during the week. Betty was going to be my home base for the trip as she was the most important. My boyfriend (now ex) had some things go on in his own life and several weeks before the trip he broke the relationship off. Upset but coping, I then made the trip focus around Betty. I was happy with this turn of events because in recent conversations, Betty’s voice seemed to be showing more and more signs of strain. I called often and we chatted about everything we were going to do on this trip. I was excited once again.

My trip was to be from Thursday September 10th to Monday September 21st. Odd days, I know, but at the time of arrangement my ex could only get off for the weekends. Betty called me on Tuesday September 8th and asked when I was coming in as she needed help going to the hospital. Shaking and mortified I explained that I would not be up to New York for another two days.

And that brings us to Part 1.

My mind is actually a blur regarding the week. I have to go back and re-read my own posts just to remember what happened. It was stressful and irritating. I was worried and horrified that the type of Betty-James banter only lasted the one evening of my arrival and, as noted below, the rest of the journey was played out in a very different stage than what was anticipated.

I had no choice but to write. But I was not writing as I would before – I was writing mobile, panicked, and on the fly for the first time… raw emotion and vulgar exclamations spilling forth like a busted fire hydrant spilling onto the blog, across the internet, and drenching anyone who clicked on www.dawster.blogspot.com. I had never been that connected to the world before. My normal filters were not in place for this.

I realize that, as a mobile online diary, this aggravation was promptly and accurately displayed, but as literature it was more of an emotional abomination. I certainly wished I was back in the old days with pen and paper, editing my fouled sharp tongue to create a reading that exhibited my point without resorting to harsh spouts of vulgarity and slander. I certainly am not going to apologize for what I was thinking since it was as real as I presented it, but I can apologize for displaying it on the fly where anyone, everyone can read it immediately.

Insomuch as a close group of people keep tabs on me, this information seemed to have spread, mainly among those who were slighted by Betty’s kin into believing he was the only one feeding her or worried about her health or longevity. They were not. Neither was Betty ‘completely out of it’ and unresponsive to people. She knew and saw everything going on around her. The insanity of what I was facing with Betty herself, and her end of life scenario, was familiar as Jeb had taught me very well. But to comprehend watching a woman I loved so dearly be bombarded with the disrespect of those who think biological “family” equals trumping the true nature of this woman’s lifestyle was a little much for me to bare and I wrote… and I wrote harshly.

I had no clue this information would be circulated to a larger audience. I didn’t think that some the kindest, sweetest, most pure-hearted people would be reading such ruthless unbridled crudeness that my little fingers were typing on my BlackBerry. And with that came connections of people who were apparently given a very disillusioned version of the events as they really were.

I write. I write what I see. No one has ever claimed that I live in reality. I won’t even claim that I live in reality. But when such shocking behavior is presented, I have no choice but to relay what was happening to my friend.

My loyalty has been, and always will be, with Betty. She has saved me too many times for me to stand aside and let anyone attack her. My thoughts are only with her and the people she enjoyed, loved, and yes… drank with. She was such a character and I was proud to describe her as such. Those that loved her as she was can relate to my frustration – and those that were alienated from her and her lifestyle are doomed to be appalled by what I have presented.

I have nothing that I apologize for other than I could have presented everything in a more literarily, digestible fashion. I could have been more proper and sensitive to the situation at hand. I can only think of the first day her brother arrived and looked at the cousins of Betty’s late husband. He took me aside and said “Why are they here? They cannot make decisions, they are [her husband’s] relatives, not her own blood…”

In 2009, “family” isn’t strictly biological. And in cases such as I, where one has been excommunicated from their family for being honest, “family” isn’t biological at all. “Family” is now a termed that is earned – and it’s earned over time. We had several non-blood relations to Betty stating what we know she would want (as we knew her), and our only concern was for our Queen of Manhattan to exit this world graciously and with dignity. On the other side of the table we had arrogant biological relations to Betty trying to trump logic on the basis of birth and more concerned with the liquor cabinet and her checkbook and ending every evening prowling the telephone lines as sympathy vampires telling everyone to stay away from the grand prize when, in fact, Betty would have loved nothing more than to see her true family – the ones she chose. It was very difficult to witness.

So with that, I will leave this blog for a spell. I’m still on Twitter (for better or for worse). But for whatever reason, I felt the need to explain the full circle of this blog, how it came about, and how it has progressed through the years and how two very important people in my life played a part in this online diary.

For the future… well, hopefully my writing will improve, and the adventures will be less draining.

Thank you for reading.

Power Down

2009-09-30T16:48:00.005-04:00

As though I wasn't already questioning the ethics of blogging a dear friend's ultimate demise, but I also went a step farther and exposed the hypocritical antics of their alcoholic family members. Yes, it's been all very fun.

But the fact remains that Betty was one of the most influential women in my life, no... she most certainly the most influential woman of my adult life (besides Oprah, but that's only because of those damn Moveable Feast Brownies...).

Since most of this progression and irritation has been so public, I think it only appropriate that I take a step back for a bit and think about this entire event privately. After all, the mourning and recovery process will take me along a deeply cut canyon - and through a path that was the exact antithesis of what I was expecting 2 months ago when Betty and I were planning this trip. It's shocking. As if death were not enough to absorb, the lack of respect and of decency of some people made my stomach boil.

So, like with Jeb last year, I'm going to find it best to step away from everything that's happened and breathe. This is a lot to absorb for me. Thank you for your patience.

I will return... probably sooner than you think! Until then......

**Power Down**

The Queen of Manhattan has Died

2009-09-28T20:20:00.002-04:00

I don't have much else to say about the matter at this time.

The Woman at Lounge

2009-09-24T20:24:00.004-04:00

This is the first time in a while that I have the opportunity to write on a computer - listening to the rhythm of the keyboard clicking and warmed with monitor light in darkness of the damp cold air. Ever since this fiasco of a situation with Betty had started (The September 10th posting until now) I have been hunched over my much-hated dearly-loved BlackBerry frantically typing out the scenario at play with shaking fingers making the already impossible keypad buttons something of a reality show contest.

Now I'm a little more relaxed, but greatly still annoyed. Betty's brother on my last evening kept talking about how I needed a reward and how I should be greatly rewarded for everything I've done. That was rather fucked up in my opinion. I already garnished the reward. The "reward" was everything before and leading up to this point. The reward was years of friendship. One doesn't spend days with a loved one in the hospital for a reward, one does it because they WANT TO (or at least that is the idea). Honest friendship is one of the most backward scenarios known to me - we receive all the benefits first, and then we pay the painful price (via a falling out, death, marriage to an insane bitch, whatever).

He also kept wanting me to take some of packed stuff. "What can I ship you?" Really? Ship me all of Betty's stock holdings... that's what you can ship me. He also kept telling over and over, "Please, take something of Betty's to keep as a memory - did you want these wine glasses or some of her kitchen decorations or something else from the apartment?" I don't want something FROM her apartment... I want the ACTUAL APARTMENT... and her furs. I'm listening to this night after night and it's all so absurdly rude to me. Betty is not dead yet. She will be soon, but there was nothing in me that says it's time to start rummaging through the woman's house taking mementos and selfishly hording her trinkets before she even makes it home from the hospital so she can pass away in a stripped down and plundered Upper West Side apartment. That whole idea did not sit with me well.

I could not afford to stay any longer... so it was with a heavy heart that I left Betty in the hands of this:

I stepped out to Betty's balcony and absorbed the city view for the last time. I flew home and Super A got me to my truck where I drug my tired bones to my apartment... my simple, ordinary apartment with the crack dealing neighbors and the college graduate drunks... and collapsed once I reached the bed. I didn't bother unpacking (still haven't).

The next day I tried to give Betty's brother a call. His wife picked up the phone. She was in hysterics. "[Betty's brother] cannot take any calls. He had completely neglected his health! He has not been eating and he hasn't been drinking... water," (she clarified). I'm shocked (not really). I went to the grocery store twice for him. He has food (real food) in the refrigerator and I left tons of caviar in the fridge and four lobster tails (still good) in the freezer. I had arranged all of Betty's papers and financials for him, and separated everything that had to do with the Florida condo. The apartment and all her bills are automatic. All he had to do was to go down to the nearest Bank of America (one block over), and take his Power of Attorney, and he will be granted the keys to the kingdom. Then he can get Betty out of the hospital and into her apartment.

This was too much for him, apparently with me gone he had binge drank and I was calling on the day after. The wife had to pay for everything out of her own credit card. Barbara (the lawyer) has the Health Proxy... and she had a fight with the brother and his wife all day because for some reason (with the help of family that Betty didn't much care for), he thought it was a better idea to put Betty in a Hospice hospital in the Bronx - and that was what he was pushing for.

OH MY FUCKING GAWD. And there the phrase pops up again. After some strong words, Barbara made her choice and the ball was rolling and Betty was moved back to her apartment and her view. The wife sent out a newsletter to everyone that said:

Dear friends and family,

I wanted you all to know that Betty was moved out of the hospital yesterday. All of the nursing staff and equipment are in place to give her wonderful care at home. In addition to nursing care, she has hospice benefits, which means that a doctor can visit her if she needs palliative care if that should become necessary. Her doctor lives in Betty's building, so there will be no worries there!

When she came home last night, she was so happy to be out of the hospital! Her favorite thing to do has always been to look at the New York skyline!

[the Brother] was much relieved to have made the decision to bring her home. He is no longer stressed and is busy trying to help the nurses establish a routine for her care.

When I spoke to the nurse and [the Brother] this morning, they said she was exhausted and needed her sleep. So I think it would be good for all of us to follow the medical advice to let her get her rest and hold off phone calls until she gets her energy back. Knowing Betty, that won't be long!

Love,
[the Wife]

First, I have to mention that Betty does not have a view of the New York skyline. She has a view of the Hudson.

Second, one does not going into Hospice care to get their strength back. In fact, that's the OPPOSITE effect of Hospice care. Betty's liver is non-functioning. Once morphine is administered, the entire process should take a short amount of time until she passes. Meanwhile, that whole condescending paragraph was just... awful.

And lastly, in case you didn't catch it, the brother did not make ANY decision to take Betty back to her apartment as it wasn't his desire nor his decision to make. This was all Barbara - awesome awesome Barbara.

I am relieved that my dear friend is finally where she has always wanted to be in her final days. What I am now concerned about is how awake she is and if she is lonely. I had gathered up her jewelry and credit cards, bank statements and check books... and originally placed them in a safe place but who knows what is going on over there and what her dimwitted brother is trying to do or failing to accomplish.

He has already admitted that he would not pack up her life. He's just going to walk away and let the apartment people deal with everything. This is... horrifically shameful at best (although the woman was a pack rat and her closets will toss you out the 15th floor window if not opened correctly). There is no regard for appropriateness in him. He has so many years of resentment and yet he can't seem to say "I can't do this, I don't respect her enough. Here's X amount of dollars. Someone take care of this." All he wants to do is drink and avoid. I already told everyone up there, all they have to do is cash out one of her Wachovia Securities accounts, one of the small ones, and they have just bought themselves their very own Mexican... me! I know that the brother will not go for it. It's actually in his best interest NOT to have me around Betty. Methinks he wants me far away and, to be frankly honest, I don't think Betty would last long enough for the entire process anyway.

The sad thing is that I would go and help her (while alive or after) without any question in my head and completely without payment. Betty meant so much to me. I have her lying there with no one (to speak of), and having all of her possessions just dumped somewhere... nowhere. Well, I don't think she deserves that.

In a moment of soap opera goodness, we were all discussing the possibility that Betty's will may have been changed from leaving everything to her brother and in fact may have left everything to everyone else in her life since she has become incredibly close with her late husband's relatives, or maybe she left it all to charity. So maybe the brother found it and destroyed it upon finding out that he did not inherit everything!!

Okay, none of that is true, but it would be a juicy twist, no? I'm writing the whole concept into the book, so there's a spoiler for you.

LOVE IT.

Landing

2009-09-22T08:02:00.002-04:00

The plane has finally touched down and I'm on my way to my crack-laden apartment complex. Both flights were pretty rough, but this particular flight housed six young douchebags in training all of whom appeared to be Wall Street investors from the 1980's who committed suicide in the 1990's and reincarnated as these late-teen variations of Patrick Bateman ("American Psycho"). In one particular rough patch I thought, "You know what? I'm willing to sacrifice my life to make sure these six wannabes will no longer grace this planet with their irritating smirks."

And I was. For the first time I was able to ride through turbulence without worry as I was so emotionally drained. I made it home and broke open the Scotch (the good stuff) and just stared at the window. No water view. No dormitory activity. All I have are white blinds. Betty's apartment bares no window coverings. My window coverings never open.

I knew that the next morning I would have to endure the two bosses with their "How was the vacation" questions... and usually I would be okay with it, but neither has the emotional maturity or the ability to empathize when it comes to situations of watching a parent die, or a best friend, or a surrogate mother (even if she was more Lucille Bluth than my real mother's June Cleaver). Like Betty's brother's ineptness toward processing difficult information in panic circumstances, so to they seem to just shut down and run away. After all, they are the bosses and we are the nobody workers. They just wanted to short answer, not to be emotionally invested.

I have a lot to catch up on... bills mainly. Betty's life was automatic. Bills were paid automatically, everything was delivered... whole her life was unstoppable...

... until it stopped.

Alcoholic Fail

2009-09-21T12:48:00.002-04:00

It is my last day here. I will be leaving late this afternoon. I want to see Betty but visiting hours start at 11:00a. I forgot this and left the apartment at 9:30a and was stopped at the front. The soonest this visitor can get in would be able to get in is 10:30a.

I went back to the apartment to just rest and pack and I found Betty's brother with a glass of wine in his hands and an open wine bottle from the night before uncorked.

Every single night he opens up Betty's liquor cabinet and thinks about what he wants to drink - it's different every night. Last night it was martinis then wine. The night before was gin and tonic than wine. Friday night was the Baily's... etc. He gets stone drunk and passes out on the couch... snoring loudly and keeping me up as I sleep in the living room. And no matter how many times I do the knee-tap "Hey, if you want to go on to bed you can" all he does is wake up and go "no I'm fine, we're having fun" then he passes back out.

Today I was able to get into the hospital early. I sat with Betty until she fell asleep. She was able to answer yes/no questions and convey simple sentences, but by enlarge she was out of it. Mostly she just looks tired and annoyed.

I received a text then a call from Barbara (the lawyer friend). I informed her of my reservation with Betty's brother and examples of his complete lack competence. Barbara is on the ball.

I came back to the apartment to find Betty's brother dressed, which was a pleasant improvement from how I previously left him. He had moved the wine bottle into bedroom, however. But I'm a nobody with nothing and I get nothing in the will (something I ways knew) but Betty as my friend was always there for me and I wish I could be there for her for a longer period of time.

There is a lot of work ahead for someone... Just not me. I could do it, but I haven't opened my "end of life cleaner-upper" business although I have a feeling that I could make a ton of money in the NYC.

We'll see what happens. Time to travel.

Part Whatever - The Path Down Sometimes Goes Up

2009-09-19T23:33:00.001-04:00

It's the final days of my trip and I finally got down to see the ex. I'm not going to write about it much other than it went really well and now we both can walk away in peace and fuming of garlic. It was really sweet but extremely sad. As of now I am just not going to find a more perfect match for me mentally or with my occasional bouts of OCD but I have to allow him to go through is issues and respectfully step aside.

I trained back happier but completely at a loss. I hiked from Penn Station to 42nd Street and walked about. Suzette called from the hospital, "James, where are you? Come quick... Betty is completely awake."

I jolted up 8th as fast as I could (though less fast than taking a cab, I suppose). Betty was, in fact, totally awake. She was still not all there, as she would have moments of confusion, but by in large this was Betty from Sunday or Monday. Boy it was good to have her back. The brother got the Power of Attorney signed (for better or for worse) and by the time I had arrived in the late afternoon he was home for a nap.

I sat with Betty, as for some reason she was anxious to get rid of Suzette. I retold her the past two days and she was just amazed at the tale I was relaying. Yes, Betty, this is fucking serious and you scared the shit out of us. I sat and read my book that I had bought back when I realized I couldn't read the New York Times without rolling my eyes at 15 times per article.

Betty seemed happy to see me, but she also seemed overall annoyed. Her brother showed up with a bottle of French chocolate liqueur to celebrate. He opened it (I was surprised it was still sealed as the man has finished off the Chivas Regal, another bottle of scotch and the Baily's since being here). Last night he fell asleep with the glass of Baily's in his hand while watching "Monk". Regardless, he brought the drinks and they toasted. Betty had one sip, and later another. No more.

Yes, I find it suspect but I probably would have done the same thing and say, 'Hey! Thanks for signing over everything you own... now what's the fastest way to get you into that coma??".

Everyone is breathing easier now, and she reminded everyone that no matter what, she wanted to go home. Got it. But for anyone who has gone through this knows that this is not a good sign. Jeb would sleep for 3 days and then wake up like everything was okay. In the days before his passing he would be it of it, then snap awake. The same with my father before slipping into a coma. Betty seems to be following the same cycle. Her liver and kidney's are not functioning at all. Toxins are not being filtered out and there is no cleansing process in place. If the one drink tonight doesn't kill her, the morphine on Tuesday will.

Point being, there is no real progress with Betty. She is awake, but out of it. She will not survive long. It has never been my lot in life to be next to a person when they finally die - only to help them along the path to their destination. I will leave on Monday. Betty will pass soon after. Such is my life.

The Princess and the Pauper

2009-09-18T21:17:00.003-04:00

OH MY FUCKING GAWD. The phrase has been repeated in my mind like a constant ticker crawl at the bottom of a 24 hour news show. This has to be my most frustrating day ever... second if you count my father's ashes debacle (who is now currently buried at my mother's "feet" when she eventually passes away). But to watch a simple man from the south try to grasp the levity of the situation at hand and spin out of control makes me physically ill even writing this.

Betty was a certain TYPE of person. This TYPE of person is well known to the friends closest to her. Family members want to claim some sort of domination over turf, but the fact remains that if they wanted to include family with weighty decisions, they would have been included. He wasn't. When he found out the people from Florida were witnessed to important papers, he almost was offended.

There this shoots... display of inadequacy and ineptness that is spinning in circles as this brother is yelling on the phone "I can't take this anymore!". His disdain for Betty's dead husband is spilling over to some of the nicest people I have ever met, his adamant repetition of "those are her husband's cousins... not Betty's" was understandable on his arrival, but at this point it borderlines on rude.

He has become his own (and yes, I'm going to use the offensive phrase) Chinese gossip circle. Every time he repeats a story he changes so much. Even at this moment he is rehashing the awful behavior of a drunk Betty and her husband while on the phone, sipping on Baily's on the rocks.

AND FRONT OF ME. This is my friend, for fuck's sake.

Betty liked her husband's cousins, and in recent years she has been hanging around them... And everybody loves her. She has been the epitome of diplomacy to those she was not raised with - friends with history... But not too much history.

Betty's brother is not equipped to hand any of this. He has no clue how to handle matters of estate finance. This is a man who was getting frustrated with his wife because he can't change his Circle of Friends on his cell phone.

The inability to grasp the situation and take control of it is so far beyond this red-faced drunk running about going "what? what? what?" And I want to just slap him upside his head and scream, "Get a hold of yourself. It's not that hard!"

Super A text me today and asked if I needed anything. I wrote back, "Get me the fuck out of here now." The brother is so angry at Betty and her husband collectively, he's very spiritual in her death and passing, and he's very reasonable in all areas of humanity, but when it comes to all the shit that is flying around with legalities and bank accounts his incompetence just oozes out.

His final words to me when he left the hospital was "I can't deal with this. Why don't I just let the state handle her estate?"

My jaw dropped. If he can't handle it, I will. But I am a nobody... and I have no say in the matter.

So that leaves me with nothing.

Starting the Vacation

2009-09-18T01:13:00.002-04:00

There is something cliche about sitting in a New York diner listening to Tom Petty pumped over the greasy mess covered in melted cheese that sits like a cholesterol-clogging god before me. Physically it is completely unhealthy, but mentally it is comforting enough to warrant a half smile.

The morning saw Betty bouncing in and out of consciousness as she explored every stop on the alertness spectrum. It has been... quite agonizing and boring. I can now say that, after reading the entire Sunday New York Times, that there is not one section that isn't filled with it's own over-inflated self-indulgent ego. One could use the common vernacular of "douchebaggery" if one were inclined to be so vulgar.

Betty's brother is not the most decisive of characters. It took a call from Suzette in the late night hour of a very kind way of saying "get your fucking ass up here and do something" before he says "Well, do you think I should fly up there and do something?".

Betty's neighbor is the emergency contact. I discussed the situation with her and I also said that I'm keeping conversation about all of this private. I'm not going to spill information about Hospice to EVERYONE (*ahem*). Unfortunately such ethical judgments was not shared by the housekeeper who was hearing everything.

The housekeeper called Reba, Reba called Mary Ann, and next thing you know I'm spending all morning on the phone talking to all of Betty's friends and family from back in the day and now I can't stop talking like an Irishman from the Bronx. It don't make no sense.

At the hospital, the doctor came in. Betty slips in and out of the conversation. Now that Betty's next of kin is arriving, the ball can be put into motion to get Betty home with 24 hour health care. She is looking to discharge Betty Friday afternoon.

As of now, I have a lot less guilt about adventures in the city as Betty no longer knows if I'm there or not. With the brother here I could possibly move about more. I certainly won't be spending my evenings staring at the Hudson. Although it seems as if Betty might be.

From the second he fumbled out onto 60th street from a cab (a cab... I offered to get him a town car but he was confused as to what that mean) I could tell that Betty's brother is not Betty. He's the anti-Betty... The Alpha is definitely Betty and the brother is... Not that. So the poor man is bombarded with an entire medical history while we are snaking through the bowels of the building, trying to understand end-of-life care options while dodging traffic, and trying to grasp the terms "power of attorney" and "proxy" and it all drains out the backside of his brain once he sees how bad off Betty really is.

Betty was elated to see her brother which was fantastic because honestly, it could have gone either way with that one. Trust me, we couldn't call that one.

The evening was hectic and Betty's brother is... Inept. This complicates issues when someone as fabulous as Betty puts the end of their life in the hands of a person as uninspiring as her brother. There were several times in the course of death panel #2 where Betty's brother would say or ask something and the social worker would look at me and I could hear her thick New York accented thought bubble exclaim, "Are you fawkin kidding me with this?"

The event was a mess, but back at the apartment after Chinese food and scotch, Betty's brother proceeded to bitch about Betty's drinking, scotch on the rocks in hand. He didn't get Betty's lifestyle, or even that her life had style. He didn't get the drinks and the parties, social airs and fake smiles. He was a simpler man who just wanted a nice home and a family and he is no match for the force of Betty. And Betty didn't seem to get the unraveled boredom of the typical American family. Betty loves New York, the brother couldn't get it fast enough and now he has been living in a small town in the Carolinas where his wife's yoga instruction is considered "exotic."

Getting drunk with him was exactly like getting drunk with Betty... he gets loud and boisterous and starts telling funny stories of the past hilarities. I have to say it's not the first time I've been a bad influence on this family. One time Betty missed her flight because she and I got drunk the night before.

But he's starting to wrap his head around everything...including the finances because Betty has a lot of money. He went through the personal items which had some clues about the whereabouts of the will (still missing). He's a very good man, but he is way in over his head and I think he just realized that.

He also took a bottle of whiskey to bed with him just in case he woke up during the night. Sigh.

Sent from my mutha fk'n BlackBerry beeatch

James dear, you're not right in the head

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 16

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 15

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 14

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 13

WHAT IS IN THE BOX?

Chapter Next

chapter xi

chapter x

chapter ix

chapter viii

Chapter vii

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 6

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 5

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 4

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 3

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 2

THE CHAUFFEUR - Chapter 1

Turn the Page

Best Advice This Week:

Apathetic Dichotomy

The 3rd or 5th or 8th Coming...

Stonewall Uprising

Tagged Goodness (real)

Personal Inventory of Arrogance

Successfully Installed!!!

Done!

Getting there!

Sympathy Whores

And the halfway point is here...

Back to the Drawing Board

Back to the Texas

Grandma is Trying to Kill You

Up in the Air

See if you can spot the whorehouse

Project "You Signed me up for What?"

Project "Biting off More Than I Can Chew"

OK Cupid's Dating Persona Test Results

Oscars - Part 2

Austin March Against Hate 2010

Oscars - Part 1

*SMACK!* Toyota, You know I love you, *SMACK!* Why You Make Me Do This? *SMACK!*

Fibre-Reinforced Polymer!

Long Live Elvis

Week in Progress

First Day Back

New Decade, New Meds

Christmas

Install According to Plan or Kathy Griffin Will Die

Dominican Joe

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Websites

Promises Promises

U2 - Dallas

History of this Blog - Full Circle

**Power Down**

The Queen of Manhattan has Died

The Woman at Lounge

Landing

Alcoholic Fail

Part Whatever - The Path Down Sometimes Goes Up

The Princess and the Pauper

Starting the Vacation

SMACK! Toyota, You know I love you, SMACK! Why You Make Me Do This? SMACK!

Power Down