A Passivity to Burn: An Arson Story

Brian’s dad had some other, real, job; but mostly all he talked about was the work he did in his shop. 

The shop that we now had to burn to the ground.  

“Nobody can ever know what happened here, ” Brain said with almost eerie excitement. 

How could they. Fire consumes all. And since Brian’s dad obviously worked with exotic woods, antique furniture, oil stains and bottles that smelled like nail polish, the place wouldn’t last a minute.  



“It has to look like an accident. Dad figures out everything.”

“I don’t know, Brian--couldn’t we just admit we knocked over the grandfather clock…couldn’t we say we saw some cat chase a rat...”

“No, it’s always locked. This morning the padlock didn’t latch. He left in a hurry. No way an animal could get in here.  We have to make this look like his mistake.”

“Brian, I think you’re overreacting. I mean, what’s the worst he would do, it’s not like he’d spank you…you’re 14-years-old. I could work off some time; I liked wood-shop in 7th grade...it’s not the worst thing that…”

“Shut-up Elliot. You don’t know my dad. He…he loves this shop more than he loves me. More than my mom. I hate this shop. He collects old damaged furniture from his clients and then spends years rebuilding it all. He’s been working on that stupid medieval clock for three F***ing years! It’s his favorite project. It’s worth like 10,000 dollars! I HATE THAT CLOCK AND I HATE THIS SHOP!”—his voice was trembling.  “You can leave if you want--you’re only partially at fault--but I’m finishing this.”

It wasn’t guilt that made me finish the job with Brian, rather loyalty and pity. I owed it to Brian. We would be even, and then go our own ways. Loved or not, Brian was beyond me.   

We had grown apart for years. I had relied on Brian’s protective, instinctual anger. In fourth grade he punched Johnny Falwell in the ear when Johnny called me a “faggot.” As a “late bloomer” (as my parents called me), I needed Brian’s brawn to keep me safe in our redneck school. He played nice for adults, yet there was a darkness in Brian that scared me. 

The petty vandalism of the last few years should've warned me of today's felony. Had Brian not lived a two-minute bike ride away, our divorce would’ve happened sooner. 

But in all those years I was always curious about that shop building. So, of course, I followed Brian inside.  


I looked down at the nearly empty Jet canvas bag and the mess of sawdust. Sawdust that was also on me. Evidence. No matter what, I would have to shower and wash my clothes. I had agreed to stand behind the stuffed dust collecting bag and absorb the blows as Brian had pretended to be some MMA fighter. Stupid.

I should’ve said no.  But he was already in the middle of a roundhouse kick which dislodged the bag from its base and pushed me backwards, clutching onto the silly leaking bag as I crashed into the grandfather clock. It was not graceful.

The grandfather fell like an old man. It shattered into glass and springs and coils and splinters and debris. The case was mostly intact, but the innards burst out and scampered under table saws and other machinery. A slow rain of sawdust and horror settled over the room. 

Brian's criminal brain instantly kicked in. 

His father had left a router plugged into an extension cord on a workbench near the dust-collector. Brian grabbed a shop rag and some mineral oil and soaked it thoroughly. He then pulled the extension cord apart just a little and placed it over the rag.

Nothing happened. 

So Brian used a match. Instantly the rag was aflame. Soon the sawdust would catch, then the clock, then the room.

We quickly exited the building, closed the door, and snapped shut the lock -- just as we heard Brian’s dad pull up in his Jeep Wrangler. 

He had seen us exit the building, but Brian awkwardly asked, “I…I thought you worked today?”

“I did, but the cops just declared the case arson. Nothing for me to pursue. I’ll just fax the insurance company, and my investigation is done." 

An insurance adjuster? 

"What're you boys up to?" 

A devious flame flickered over the shop windows and answered for us.  

I turned, and passively watched my innocence burn away.  

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This is my second entry to a group called YeahWrite.me, which gives prompts to writers/bloggers who then critique each other's stories. This fiction assignment was based off the line: "Nobody could ever know what happened here," which inspired me with its use of passive voice. I always wanted to write a story in passive voice to prove it can be an interesting medium (despite my teacher training against it); and wanted to use a passive character to facilitate the action.  I also had to incorporate an aspect of the song Counting Stars by OneRepublic.   Oh, and it had to be under 750 words (not my favorite aspect. I cut over 150 words from the original).  

Freeloading Roommates and Dumpster Pizza--Just Another Bachelor Story

I basically lived with every character of Portlandia at one time.  One
guy, Jimmie, found some really neat items while dumpster diving.  

I'm tired, and overworked, and I'm sorry there hasn't been a real post on here in a over a week. This is an excerpt late in my novel. It is fiction, but it is based on real events. In my late teens and early twenties I lived with a constantly rotating stream of Christian roommates that numbered about 7. All of them were insane in some capacity. This is about a guy Dave who never officially lived with us, but made himself at home anyway.  (I'm not going to introduce all the other characters because...I'm tired).

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Multiply this times 4, and you have our old garage. 

I saw the beat up truck parked on Happy Lane, but that didn’t mean much in our house.  Increasingly, there was always cars, specifically Asian imported cars, parked around our house, getting operated on in our garage by do-it-yourself surgeons. They wandered from the operating table with black hands holding parts with dangling hoses and wires seeking second opinions of equally uniformed med students. Our second bathroom became their scrubbing in room, leaving smears of grease on the doorknob, sink handle and flusher.  Living in a car wasteland had grown beyond annoying, but I figured, just because I hate cars, and would rather pay to get my oil changed than do it myself, didn’t give me the right to try and stop their hobby.  I call it a hobby, because the Glossnears, John and Greg, had invested all kinds of money into parts and tools, and had already blown up a few engines.  They called it “tuning.”  But when “tuning” a guitar string the idea is to make it vibrate in key, not break, so I suggested they purchase some malpractice insurance.

Push this off the Oregon coast highway and let it sit in
salt water for a year and you have Dave's Dodge.  

So when I parked next to the 1988 Dodge Dakota, my initial thought was, “why would anyone invest any money into this vehicle at all…it looks like it would be better suited for modern art than transportation.” Then the smell hit me.  Something was dead in this vehicle and it needed more than cosmetic surgery, it needed a mortician. 

As I walked in the front door, I saw Jimmie playing with a pit bull with a spiked collar.  “Please tell me you didn’t pull that dog out of the Scamp’s pet store dumpster.”

“No, this is Helmet, it’s Dave’s dog, isn’t he cute?” Jimmie said giggling like a kid on Christmas day as the dog happily licked his face.  

“Helmet?  Like Hell-Mutt?  Or after the horrible metal band that druggies wore T-shirts of in my high school?” I asked, not really wanting an answer other than why there was a dangerous dog in my house.

“His name is Helmet, because it looks like he’s wearing a helmet…see how his fur is black around his chin, like a facemask,”  said the guy sitting on the couch that we never sat on. 

“I take it you are Dave?  Is that your truck out there, it doesn’t smell so good?”  I replied to the potential Dave.

“Yeah, I just lost the tranny out in front of your house.  Actually I lost reverse somewhere around Montana, and 4^th gear hasn’t worked right for a couple of days, but it just grinded to a halt right out here, and Jimmie helped me push it to your curb.”

“So were you like, trying to make it home and hoping the truck would hold out or something?”  I asked logically.

“Oh, no.  I was just driving around.  I’m from Ohio, and I wanted to drive across the nation with my dog.”

"Oh, of course," I said sarcastically, "Well, you have money, right?  You can fix it and get on your way?”

“Nope.  Left home with $35.00 and spent that on gas the first day.  Been bumming food and stuff from people all the way here.  Worked a couple of odd jobs, raked some leaves, helped a guy clean his gutters, just enough for gas. Figured I’d get a job here in Ugene, {he meant Eugene, but everybody from out of the area always over-pronounces the ‘U’} Jimmie said I could stay here until I could get it fixed.”

“Wait, what?” I shifted my head in obvious annoyance towards Jimmie  “Jimmie, we already have seven guys living here, in a four-bedroom house…we don’t need another roommate, especially one who doesn’t have a job, and we can’t have a dog in the house, it specifically says so in the lease?” my irritation at the idea of ANOTHER roommate was clearly implied.   

7 roomates, innumeral guests at odd hours,
why not add a dog with a propensity to bite?

“Well, technically, I’m not on the lease, neither is Danny or Hank.  And it isn’t a question of “need,” we have everything we need, but Dave needs a place to stay temporarily until he can get on his way again.  Isn’t this what Jesus said we should do, help those in need?” Jimmie asked very innocently.

“Don’t go quoting Jesus in this.  Jesus didn’t have a parable of the guy who ran away from Ohio, stole  the family pit-bull, and tried to make it cross-country in a truck that shouldn't have made it to Illinois…at least the Prodigal Son had his entire inheritance to waste before he returned home…I’m sorry, Dave, but we know nothing about you…you seem alright, even if you are sitting on the couch that nobody sits on, but we don’t have room for you right now,”  I thought I was speaking for the other four absent roommates in this rant. 

“That’s cool, man, I was just going to take the canopy off my truck, set it in the grass and sleep under it for a while--with Helmet, of course.” Dave answered matter-of-factly. 

I had noticed that the truck payload was full of junk, so sleeping in the back wasn’t possible…but who lets a vagabond sleep under a canopy in their front yard?  “I don’t know…we’re going to have to have a house meeting about it.  If the landlords ever came by they would kick us to the curb.”  I wanted to wash my hands of it.  I was hoping Greg would come home and exude some over 40-year-old adult rationale on the situation, but he wasn’t coming home for at least a week or so.  Instead, angrily,  I went to my room and read most of a novel for class and typed a paper on the old computer now in my room.  It was the first homework I had done in weeks, I really was stretched in too many directions.

About three hours later, bedtime to most human beings, I was interrupted by a knock on my door, and an almost immediate opening of my door.  It was Dave. “Hey man, house meeting. We’re having a house meeting. Everyone’s here.”

I really wanted to say to him that this wasn’t his house and he can’t call a house meeting in a house that isn’t his. Logistics and legalities seemed lost on the Lost. 

I walked into the living room and everyone was eating Little Caesar’s pizza, someone had saved me a piece of cheese and a pepperoni, and lots of crusts.  My stereo was playing some God-forsaken music praising God through grunts, primal screams and what sounded like instruments, but more closely resembled the muffled cries of the condemned in hell.

“Can we turn that off? 

It was turned down low. Ben, Danny, Jimmie, John and Dave were all crowded onto the two major couches. Someone had even started a fire in the fireplace, which I didn’t even know worked. It was the most we had looked like a family in the entire six months we had been there. The only seat left over was on the couch nobody sat on, instead I pulled a dining room table chair into the room and grabbed a slice of pizza. 

“So we’re gathered here to vote on the issue of letting me stay in the front lawn until I can fix my truck, are we ready to have a vote?” 

“We can’t have a vote without my Dad or Hank. Plus if this is all formal and stuff, shouldn’t we hear some testimony or evidence or something,” John said almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. He was after all, a junior in high school, even if we treated him like a college kid like we all were. 

It might look diseased, but only your colon can tell
you if, in fact, it is diseased.  

“Well, okay:  I’m Dave, you’re eating my pizza, and I started the fire. I cleaned the engine grease out of the small bathroom today, and I want to stay here for a couple of weeks. Are we ready to vote?  I vote in favor.” 

“You can’t vote Dave, this vote is all about whether you get in the house or not.  And we’re not ready to vote. Plus, how’d you pay for this pizza, I thought you said you were broke?” I implored.

“The President gets to vote for himself, I think I should be able to vote in this scenario. And I didn’t pay for those pizzas, they were given to me cause they couldn't sell them at the end of the day...they're old.” 

I dropped the piece that was in my hand, and felt suddenly sick at the idea of dumpster pizza.  “Dave, you’re clearly not the President, so you don't get a vote..."  

Dave failed the vote, but he still stayed in the front lawn for three weeks until we mustered the courage to really kick him out. He called about 40 house meetings, ate everything in my freezer, and basically lived in our living room for all the daylight hours. Jesus should've had a parable about Dave, the Freeloader.

And there should be a Child Protective Services for dogs that have to live with humans like Dave.  

Forget Straight A's, I Want My Kids to Have Sensibility

My little daughter, Lily, had her heart broken this Friday. No, not by a boy; she's eight. She still thinks boys are disgusting (an observation I dutifully reinforce).  Sadly, her best friend, also named Lily, moved three hours away. I didn't go to the going away party (my wife is much better at those type gatherings) so I didn't do much of the 'on the battlefield' grief consoling; but when my Lily got home, she was such a blubbering mess that she crawled into my arms and wept uncontrollably for what seemed like eternity.

Tonya Harding never transitioned
out of 7th grade.  

As a human being, my instincts were to comfort her and tell her it will be all better. People have this thing about being uncomfortable around crying and wanting to make it stop. I couldn't handle teaching 7th graders because they were always crying. Crying when somebody called them fat, crying when their pencil wasn't sharp enough, crying when "today's date" was wrong on the top of my whiteboard. 7th graders grip on reality is pretty sad, and many of the "criers" of my past 7th grade class are now the outcast and "at-risk" kids in my 10th grade classes (yes, I do teach many of the same kids 3 years later). Why has being emotional become synonymous with craziness?

I wanted my daughter to stop crying. But crying---grief---is normal. Grief is good. I'm okay happy my daughter cares for someone so much that it breaks her heart when they've gone away. I'm glad she loves so deeply that feelings are sometimes uncontrollable. Some day, when the situation is bigger or smaller, she will have experience with which to gauge her emotions. As parents we are always teaching our children what the appropriate reaction to disappointment and/or victory is. Sometimes my daughter can be overly dramatic, but this was not a performance, this was genuine heartache. I'm raising an empathetic human being. And the empathetic human being is an endangered species.

And that's just after reading the
back cover!  

I've experienced a Nicholas Sparks novel of heartache and disappointment in my thirty-four years.  I've always tried to make myself a well-rounded person, and I've mostly succeeded only in the physical aspect of that goal; but whatever character strengths I have, it's because life was never cherry-coated for me. I switched schools five times and moved homes even more. I've loved and lost all over the West Coast, and all before the interconnectivity of social media. Most of those friends are just distant memories.

There were tears shed on a few occasions. My parents have repeated how guilty they feel about all the moves, but they are guilty of nothing. They did what was best for the family. And you know what, I became resilient. I made friends faster. I got funnier. My discernment for jerks, trouble-makers, and drama-queens, got better. I learned to stop being a cry-baby, and learned to use emotions when appropriate. I learned who I was apart from the crowd.

I hate enlightened dogs.  They're just
dyslexic animals with a God complex.  

Knowing yourself is such an important part of the journey. I fear for those who refused to cry growing up. I mourn for those that weren't allowed to cry. I fear for those so protected from heartache/pain that they have no criterion on which to judge emotions. I'm scared for those who only know victory and trophies, and never felt the pain of defeat. Many are so ill-prepared for their first breakup, that it becomes a very public (sometimes via social media) breakdown.

I'm afraid because we keep trying to do all this bullsh!t to make the world happy-go-lucky. We keep trying to PC our language so that nobody is ever offended. We tell every person that they are special so much that nobody seems that special anymore. We've made bullying the most offensive word in the educational system, and yet it seems that kids, if anything, are more mean spirited than ever before.  We  tell kids to keep their hands to themselves, and "no hitting--ever," and yet this generation is in LOVE with physical violence. We've built a holographic world that isn't based on the harsh realities of pain, disillusionment, and loss, and they've seen right through it.

The youth have rebelled against our pacified, vitamin-filled, helmet-wearing, peace-loving illusionary world. And empathy? Feeling and understanding the pain of someone other than yourself? That seems like the least important skill in the modern American world of individual testing and talent based acumen.  But you know what? A friend or family member that will listen and cry with you after a terrible ordeal? That's a beautiful trait to have. It may not lead to ivy league schools or fortune 500 jobs, but it will lead to something much more important: Real human interconnectivity.

My little girl has a heart. She has beautiful compassion for the hurting, and I couldn't be more proud. This nation could learn a lot from "the mouths of babes." (7th graders aren't considered babes anymore, are they?)

Matthew 5:1-12

The Message (MSG)   You’re Blessed (the Beatitudes) 

5 ^1-2 When Jesus saw his ministry drawing huge crowds, he climbed a hillside. Those who were apprenticed to him, the committed, climbed with him. Arriving at a quiet place, he sat down and taught his climbing companions. This is what he said:

³ “You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and his rule.
⁴ “You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
⁵ “You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are—no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought.
⁶ “You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God. He’s food and drink in the best meal you’ll ever eat.
⁷ “You’re blessed when you care. At the moment of being ‘care-full,’ you find yourselves cared for.
⁸ “You’re blessed when you get your inside world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
⁹ “You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family.
¹⁰ “You’re blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom.
^11-12 “Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don’t like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble.

                                                         

A great video on the difference between empathy and sympathy 

Doc, Tell Me the Truth, Why do You Hate Me?

Metaphorically, this looks about right.  

My doctor and I have an interesting relationship.  As in, he loathes me.  Every couple of months I reschedule for another half hour of verbal abuse from his delightful Indo-American accent, and yet I feel a strange sense of loyalty to the man.  Perhaps this is that weird psychological disorder that battered women feel--deep down, I think, he really loves me.  Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome.

"Chris, you are perhaps, my worst patient," he said last time, after realizing I had gained two pounds over the holidays.

"Really?"  I asked incredulously. "I'm your only patient who added some holiday cheer around the mid-section?"

"Not just that, Chris, you don't respect my time. I give you a medication and you don't take it, you are a waste of my time.  Why should I still treat you if you don't follow my advice?"

"I took all the medication except one!"  "It was $75.00 for a month of pills?"  I defended my decision to not fill the prescription based on the fact that it wasn't a life threatening issue, and because I hadn't had a problem related to that malady in at least three years.

"Not life threatening?  How do you know it isn't {long Latin word here}? Why did you stop taking the other medicine I gave you?"

I suddenly was trying to memorize the Latin word he said to go home and look up on WebMD.  "Oh, well, it made me really light headed, I almost fainted a few times.  Then my heart would race really fast.  I looked it up online, and there were all kinds of complaints, so..."

"Chris, do you have a medical degree?" "No, well I do, and let me tell you that the internet is full of quacks and people who will die of easily curable diseases and maladies."  "I have another patient who is your age who refuses to take my advice and he had a stroke.  I don't like visiting patients in the ER who have strokes because they refuse to take medication. If you have a problem with a medicine, come to the office and we will change it. Because if you want to refuse my help, and have a stroke, that's fine, but I don't want to have the obligation to visit you in the hospital."

It's funny. This man has the power to say almost anything he wants to me, because he's ultimately trying to "save my life."  And I can respect that.  Not many people are basically honest, let alone brutally honest, anymore.

"Is he this honest with his staff? I asked the medical transcriptionist who is always frantically typing information into a computer during my "visits."

"Yes, you always know where you stand with Dr. ___________."  She said flatly, with a little pent-up hostility.

"I'm sure." I replied with a funny laugh.  "Although, it's probably nicer than never knowing what your boss thinks of you, like most of us feel..."

Another idea I had to scrap because
somebody else beat me to it. 

I honestly wish my doctor had editorial skills, because it would be nice to have an honest opinion on whether or not I should still be seeking publishing.  "Hey, Doc, what do you think of my novel, do you think I should continue to pursue this path?"

"Chris, you overuse commas, your symbolism is obvious, your dialogue forced, characters unbelievable, and your prose looks like it was translated from Turkish by a first year Japanese student.  I wouldn't publish this unless you replaced every word with a different and better word, and then put someone else's more attractive name on the cover.  The only thing I liked was the ending, and that's because it was finally over.  I realize that this Word document is probably only like a megabyte on your computer, but I think it is one megabyte that your hard drive could desperately use for more important files, like spam email, a few viruses, or three .gif files of guys getting hit in the crotch with baseballs."

Surely, I jest. I don't really want to hear that. But some actual honesty, good or bad, would be nice; and I'm not sure anyone, besides my doctor, still diagnoses honest reality anymore.

Why Don't My Friends Support My Stuff?

Was that a vague enough title?  It was intentional, as I mean to say a few different things with this post. My good friend called me an a$$ today and hung up on me, and it hurt my feelings.  (I didn't even know I had feelings anymore).  Anyways, I was about ready to get defensive and yell all these nasty things I didn't mean, before I realized I was/am an a$$.

I think, metaphorically, that I've spewed venom on a few friends.
I should've done a "friendship," instead of a "fatality."  

You see, I was joking, or rather lampooning his place of business, a retail store.  Those of you who don't follow my blog, my last six entries have been about my eight years of retail experience...most of which left me with a sulfuric taste in my mouth.   I guess some of the brimstone of my past infected my words towards his place of work, and he got offended.  I've always tried to tell him, and others, that you are bigger than what you do for a living, but then I remembered how I sometimes feel:  That nobody gives a hoot in hell about what I'm trying to do either.

We, as Americans do a piss poor job of supporting each other.  Through break-ups, through crisis, through pain, even through triumphs, it's hard to get out there and throw unfettered support to our loved ones.  Because we are busy.  Because we are tired.  Because it's not our thing.  Because somebody else could do a better job helping them in that field.

It's exhausting coming home and raising a zebra and
watching Parks and Recreation.  I just don't have time
to check out your promotional things, as I don't have
a DVR or a good zebra trainer I can rely on! 

And those are all stupid excuses.  We all suck.  I'll start with myself.  Or rather how I've felt when I don't get that support.

I wonder why of all my close friends, it is only the fringe group, people I rarely interact with in real life, who are really supportive of my attempts at getting published?  I know a lot of other artists who feel the same way.  I have support of many people, don't get me wrong.  I'm grateful for the comments, the likes, the links, the positive words said on our rare encounters:  it keeps me motivated.  But I also wonder why some of the people I love the most haven't said anything?

1.  Do they not know how much I need their feedback?
2.  Do they honestly think I suck, (as I've thought a few times about other people's talents) and don't have the heart to tell me?
3.  If they think I'm good, do they think that eventually the talent scouts will find me, and so their efforts aren't important.  (again, I've felt this way about many talented people, who never got paid).
4.  Are they tired of my endless self-promotion, and want me to just be Chris, the guy they once knew who wasn't asking for favors?
5.  Are they just too busy trying to get by to actually try to help someone else out?
6.  Is my writing just not their thing?  (Why are so many intelligent men so abhorrent to reading?).

I can always fall back on my creepy "Shinning" face and
Angry Birds Star Wars career.  I am currently #1291,
better than 99.98% of the world.  That is rare talent, folks. 

These are just a few of my thoughts when I'm having a pity party.  I don't feel this way very often.  In fact, I hate the fact that I have to promote myself to people.  Audiences, though, don't just show up.  I wish they did.  I wish I knew the exact person to showcase my skills in front of to get it noticed so that I didn't have to constantly berate my friends with announcements that I'm still trying to climb the ladder.  I'm sure it's annoying.  In fact, I know it's annoying, because it was once bothersome to me, when other people have asked me to support their thing.

I have the blessing/curse of knowing a number of enormously talented people.  My family alone could write/sing/act/direct/play/paint-construct the set of a Broadway worthy play or start an arts oriented school. You might think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. They're all that good.  Between my sisters, mother, father, brother (and bros-in-laws) and wife are thousands of awards for talents and gifts.

And I've done a horrible job supporting them in theirs.  Sure, I attended a concert or two.  Yet I balked at the full price of a CD, or commissioned a painting at "family prices."  I didn't have time to attend the huge orchestral symphony that my brother-in-law wrote and directed at the University of Oregon for his graduation ceremony.  How many people get that opportunity?  And my sisters are so good at singing and playing instruments, but instead of praising them endlessly, I've said things like, "well it's good, but I'm kind of tired of ukuleles and female vocalists."  I'm serious.  What kind of a jerk says things like this? A guy who thought numbers 1-6 from above.  I thought that my family and/or friends were so good at their thing that they didn't need the support of another audience member.

Susan Boyle: A rare talent over looks winner.  

But that's exactly what they needed.  Numbers.  We all need numbers.  We all need people who will jump on our bandwagons and support us until we get noticed or get fired or exhausted or humiliated or totally beat.  And if that happens, we need to be there to say uplifting things, instead of the lampooning or saying overly critical crap I learned to do in college towards anything art-worthy.  Why have we allowed no talent face-models to get all the glory in this world, when our neighbor or brother or classmate is immensely more skilled or worthy?  Simple:  they (the beautiful people) have numbers and the person you know doesn't.  Their numbers are better audience members, and throw their money unquestioning at stupid merchandise, while you sit back and say, "yeah, but this still needs a little more refining...maybe in a few years when it's all polished up, I'll buy a CD, or book, or artwork, or use your services, etc."

I'd rather have no audience than that background guy as
a fan.  I hope he doesn't represent how I've been as a
supporter of other's works.  

So before you start being an A$$ towards someone, like I have been guilty of too many times to remember, maybe we all should sit back and think, "if I was in their shoes, what would they want their friends to say or do." It would probably be, "can you just be supportive; life's hard enough without you guys mocking my life choices."

-----------------------------------------

Before you accuse me of trying to milk guilt- ridden complements, please know that this was not the intention of this piece.  I'm a big boy.  I'm wrong often. I might be deluding myself with how good I think I am. I'd rather hear that critique, then keep attempting to do something I'm only kind of good at.  We all need a little Simon Cowell criticism at times.  Some of us, though, like myself, need to act a little more like Paula Abdul (without the drunkenness), and start really saying and doing nice things for other people.  Even if their thing, isn't my thing, they still need my support.

Phone Phobia Makes Me a Bad Friend.

Filthy, fat, Hobbitses, not coming to
my Precious's surprise party.  

I should have been a hobbit.  Really.  Not like a J.R. Tolkien hobbit, but like the guys who disappear from society and live in the forest and commune with nature and never have to interact with human beings.  It's infinitely easier to explain to a tree why you missed its 127th birthday, then why you missed your buddy's Super Bowl party.  I like people (most of the time) and I like parties and events, I just find, that when push comes to shove, I'd rather be sitting at home in the comfort of my recliner than in someone else's metal folding chair.

Remember the Tampico challenge?  Drink a
whole gallon in an hour without throwing up. 

And that makes me a crappy friend.  I'm sorry guys.  I wish I was more comfortable at your parties milling around with people whom I've met before but don't remember their names.  I enjoy food, but not when I'm eating appetizers on flimsy paper plates while standing up, and hoping nobody will bump into me causing me to splatter my *Tampico drink all over their furniture.  This usually never happens.  But I fear it may, someday.  And this fear, of nearly total strangers talking about the weather, and of spilling high fructose corn syrupy drinks onto old furniture, keeps me from ever enjoying my time at your house.  It's probably a disorder. 

Dude, it's just a pencil chair, I don't
know what your problem is; it's
perfectly comfortable.  

Thankfully, I don't have any friends with the uber white carpeting, and next to nothing is permitted in their house; from shoes to children to pet hair from your home.  "Oh, sorry, Chris, could I have you use this pet lint brush before coming inside, I have a high intolerance to pet dander."  To which I wish I could respond: "oh yeah, sure, but I might warn you that I have a high intolerance to anal retentiveness, so you might just send me home right now."  I'm not even sure why neat freaks invite people over to their house, other than to make the rest of us feel worse about our messy situations.  I'm not sure those type people are any better at friendship than I am. 

As bad as I am at friendship, I'm trying to change.  I'm getting older and my active years are wasting away.  There will be a time when I might not be able to swing 18 holes of golf, or sit in an uncomfortable chair for longer than 20 minutes, and that scares me.  I don't want to be anti-social.  I don't want to be the old man sitting in my bark-o-lounger cussing at Judge Judy, and ignoring the doorbell.

"...and the neckline will swoop in
a V-neck, but not too revealing...
are you still there?  Oh, and the
moon is sooo large tonight, you
should check it out!"  

And I think I've discovered my problem.  I have a phone phobia.  I hate phones.  I hate my cell phone.  I hate the ringing and the talking and the thinking of things to say and the trying to end the call so I can get back to doing the nothing I was doing before the phone call started.  This is my issue, not yours.  Most of the time, the communication isn't that bad.  But after 10 minutes, I start to panic.  The phone drops from my ear.  I start talking into it like a microphone.  Or I lay on the couch with it placed on my forehead, while I zone out with simple answers like "Yep," or "Uh huh" and the other person realizes I suck and they end the call.

I've tracked down where this disorder originated.  It was high school.  It was talking to girlfriends with their never ending problems and emotional breakdowns, and constant needs for reassuring and complements; and the listening, oh god, how I tired of their blabbering.  I like talking, conversation, even arguing when it is needed, but pointless chit-chat about the day, the weather, homework you're working on, or what design you want your homecoming dress to look like? Make it stop.  I DON'T CARE!  But I did back then.  I wanted to be a good boyfriend.  I should've just said, "Uh, sounds like you have stuff to work out, give me a call when you want to make out or something..." But I wasn't that kind of guy, so I sat and listened, and the constant whining noise damaged me in my core.  And I learned to hate the phone.  I wonder how telemarketers remain sane?

"Okay, I'll look at the...Holy Moses, the Moon is invading our atmosphere!"

But those days are long gone.  My wife recognizes my hatred of the phone and she keeps our digital conversations to a bare minimum.  It's one of our love languages.  Phone limitation love.  My family, as well, jokes about my phone disorder.  I often hear comments like, "Well, I'm hanging up now, cause I can tell the phone is on your forehead."  Yeah it is.  Even though nobody is blathering away about mundane events that have no life bearing anymore, I still treat the phone like it is only one minute away from another conversation about how large the moon looks tonight, and that scares me.  I don't care how large the moon looks.  I care about real things.  And real conversations.  And they don't happen on the phone.  They happen in real life, except when real life is huge gatherings with partial strangers with *Sunny Delight drinks, and ten babies crying in the other room.

I guess what I'm saying is, I'm ready to take a chance again.  Ready to take my cell phone off mute, and ready to actually dial numbers and make plans to actually hang out, and go to Barry Manilow concerts.  I don't want to be a hobbit or a couch curmudgeon.  I want to be a real person, with real friends, that hang out and eat and drink and be merry.  And that can't happen on the internet, or on the phone, or at huge social parties, but only one-on-one.  So give me a call.  Or I'll give you a call.  Just try and keep the conversation under 10 minutes as old habits die hard.  And hopefully, you can forgive me for being the social pariah I turned myself into, and I'll forgive you for spilling *Hi-C on my rug ten years ago, when I last had a party at my house. 

*All drink names have been changed to protect the identity of the innocent.