Sitting on the hard Christian pew in the front row of Saint Joseph’s Church, I idly listen as the pipe organ fills the stained glass chamber with the sound of Ave Maria. The beauty of the melody is occasionally punctuated by the echoes of a cough or a child’s desperate whine. The organ stops and the room is consumed by a ponderous silence; the silence of a funeral is louder than that of any other decibel—it is the deafening sound of stillness.
It’s hard to say how many times any of us may have lived or died, but today, eternity surges through this space like static electricity during a thunderstorm, death teaches us about the impermanence of all things—-a million days or a million years, mortality will never empty my pocketful of soul.
The priest droned on in a thick accent, perhaps Indian or some foreign place from the far east—-his fouled up mispronunciations make the ancient stories from the bible even more esoteric. The messages within these texts I’ve heard hundreds of times. At different stages of my life I’ve interpreted them differently, isn’t that the way of any true art. For me, faith is an art, something that grows and changes as it finds new ways to connect with me in a place beyond my limited five senses. I‘m not a biblical purest or fundamentalist, I am a spiritual personalist—I believe God speaks to us all in his own personal language of love. I hear him in the wilderness, others may feel his presence on a commuter bus, God finds a way to adapt to our idiosyncrasies.
Ironically, things become so twisted when we force God to conform to our personal needs and demands—-oh the horrors perpetrated in his many names. I prefer the belief that we are created in the image of God, rather than God created in our self serving image. Such a subtle yet profound change of outcomes when choosing between these two conflicting points of view. My puny prayers are composed out of a humble desire for there to be less of me and more of God in this broken world.
I’ve never had much of a grasp on God, religion or spirituality, but in the peacefulness of this moment I’m absorbed by a sweet serenity. In the presence of the sacred statues, symbols and the mumblings of holy prayers I’m filled with a sense of communion to all things. I suppose this sublime feeling may also be evoked from Gregorian Chants, Hindu Mantras or Zen Koans, we are all reduced to the simplicity of oneness in the presence of God.
“If Jesus were alive today, the last thing he’d be is a Christian.”
The sentiment communicated in the above quote may be applied to all prophets and spiritual leaders who have been merchandized, propaganda-sized, materialized, cauterized, convicted and tried, dehumanized, demoralized, rectified, deep-fried, electrified, televised, commercialized and apostatized—–
Wanted—A buddy/pal/partner—or a BFFN (best friend for now)
I don’t care about your political views, religious beliefs, tax bracket, sexual orientation, profession, race, gender, visual appearance (picture not required) physical condition (disabilities are a plus) IQ, marital status, your merits or accomplishments, educational background, your favorite sports, interests or nationality——
ONE STRICT REQUIREMENT:YOU MUST BE OLD, VERY OLD, IN-FACT—–THE OLDER THE BETTER!
The following traits, suggestions and activities are not mandatory, but preferred:
You must not be computer, iPad or smart phone savvy. Preferably, modern technology leaves you hankering back to the good ole days when shaking hands, looking someone in the eye and sharing time and thoughts were a valued pastime (prior to the advent of multitasking and trying to do a bunch of meaningless bullshit at once). Please do not confuse emailing, Facebook postings, texting and voice mailing with the art of communication. Yes, it’s an art, not an exercise in technical maneuvering. Communication requires a commitment of time, patience and compassion—-as does companionship.
I don’t want to have sex with you. At this stage of the game I don’t even like looking at my own naked body in the mirror. I don’t mind hugs or holding hands regardless of your gender–tenderness is good.
I am attracted to anarchist, recluses, eccentric’s and those possessing a sense of rugged individualism—-in other words, I prefer those who are off the social grid e.g. “I wouldn’t belong to a club that would have me as a member” Will Rodgers.
If you express your political and spiritual beliefs by displaying them on bumper-stickers, please do not apply. If you believe the world is flat and that global warming is a farce, you need not apply (I will not suffer a fool).
I don’t care if you are vegan or prefer a super-sized McDonald’s meal, but—being a fan of ice cream and all things sweet is a huge plus.
Must enjoy taking slow inconsequential walks while idly commenting about the weather and other such insignificant topics. After all these years, watching the seasons change is still a divine experience worth observing and discussing.
Must possess a silly, ridiculous and absurd sense of humor. This includes busting out in spontaneous giggles (best reserved for solemn occasions such as funerals, medical waiting rooms and fine dinning venues). Immaturity, lack of social etiquette and refusing to act age appropriate is a total bonus—-at this stage of the game, who gives a rats ass what anyone else might think of you. Must possess the capacity to laugh at oneself and be comfortable in your own wrinkled, saggy, age spotted skin.
Must not be afraid of silence. Especially while watching children play or when enjoying a sunrise or sunset.
Preferably you enjoy petting cats, dogs or any other animal that understands unconditional love—-oh yeah, this may include feeding birds.
Wearing clothing that is colorful, out of style and mismatched is much approved and appreciated. This includes, wild hats, large print moo moo’s, suspenders, onesie’s, bow-ties, snuggies, overalls, fancy shaw’s, jumpsuits, afghans, scarfs, sequins, cat-eye glasses, squealing hearing aids and all things comfortable, expressive and fun.
Music, music and more music. Turn off the depressing 24 hr news and all the crap that passes for entertainment on the TV. Shut out all the clutter and noise that fills this manic modern world. There is nothing better than spinning an old vinyl record from back in the day. Better yet, breakout the piano and the tambourine and start singing and dancing your ass off. It’s great exercise and nourishes one’s soul.
After a long walk a group nap is always an enjoyable activity of choice—BYOB—Bring your own blanket.
Feel the sun on your face, walk in the rain, catch a snowflake on your tongue. No matter the season, there are always new and interesting things to do. Life is never boring, there are only boring people.
Aging requires that we all become more Zen like. God has a funny way of teaching us these simple lessons. The key tenet of Buddha’s teachings is this “Attachment leads to suffering”. Aging demands that we let go of everything——when you get old, you need less and less material crap. A game of dominos with a friend or a Sunday drive to visit family is more treasured than winning the lottery.
No need for fancy cars, boats or planes (can’t operate them anymore and there is no place you really need to go) no reason to own a big house (to much to keep up and no one to share it with) no storage sheds, garages or spare bedrooms full of possessions (just a bunch of crap to dust and worry about losing) no job title or profession (don’t have that to hang your identify on now (it’s just you hiding beneath wrinkled skin and brittle bones) no more vanity (can’t make it on outward appearance, fashion or putting on airs, its all about letting that little inward light shine) no need for pridefulness (age will humble your ass, and force you to realize that you were never as important, smart or pretty as you once thought you were).
You no longer have anything to win or lose, nothing to conceal, to protect, to defend, to covet, to prove, to own, to desire, to lust after, to judge or hate, to atone for, to forgive, to worship, or to define————– and in this state of mind you will discover an all-consuming peace.
You will learn to accept and enjoy living in the present moment. This is mainly due to the fact that your long term and short-term memory is shot to hell—-your entire past is a blank slate. The future is at best tenuous, you’re surprised and pleased to have woken up this morning to find yourself currently alive and still breathing—your future is a mirage. All you have is this precious fleeting moment.
Companionship is based on how you are being treated—right now. You have no grudges, no obligations or biases; in fact, you have no memory of the faces and names of past friends and lovers. Every one you meet, even old friends, once again become new friends. If someone is being kind to you, then you will respond with kindness or visa versa. And, at some point you won’t even remember your own name, or your own face in mirror. Finally, with no motives, hidden agendas or selfish intentions, you are now free to love yourself and all others unconditionally.
If this request for friendship connects with you, I would love the opportunity to make your acquaintance. I can be found most afternoons sitting on a bench at Kiva Beach. I’ll be the guy wearing plaid shorts, stripe shirt, a white bucket hat (Gilligan style) with black socks and brown sandals—-
I can often be heard whistling a little tune that goes like this——
“Row, row, row your boat—Gently down the stream—Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—–Life is but a dream”. Ain’t that the truth.
Sometimes being alive is good enough. Breathing, walking, thinking, feeling—–waking to color, to sound, an awareness that I’m unexplainably here, a pulse circulating blood, air filling these lungs—-one more glorious morning—-(I mumble to myself) “how accommodating—-another day tailored to fit”—–I know such a statement must sound arrogant and self centered, but I take this life very personally. Maybe that’s being a success, just knowing that out of thin air we all walk this earth. This thing called gravity stubbornly holding all this shit together, only God could think up something so unimaginable as this. Gravity—like the grace of God holding us together. Planets circling suns, a black-hole in the center of our Milky Way Galaxy swallowing entire solar-systems whole, in one bite—– and then they too, are once again gone, into thin air—-hurled beyond this limited version of time and space—-everything spinning, tumbling, upside-down and caterwauling into eternity—-I feel your smile, and for that moment we’re eternal, twin evanescent souls dipped in heavens ebony well.
Come with me down to that old cemetery where on September nights we use to walk your dog, as this was the closest thing we had to a park beneath those tired Denver skies. After all, cemeteries are nothing more than parks for the un-living being re-remembered—no street lamps burning here, just the spine of the Milky Way bending over us. I’d watch your dog as he stared intensely into the blackness. I swear that he could see them frolicking and dancing about—free from the gravity of these earthly woes. The neighborhood is windy and dark—-the tree limbs moan and creek—- a damp fog crawls its way across the pointlessness of this American suburb—- there must be a God, cause even the stanchest atheist needs something to fill this landscape of loneliness. The bland rows of stucco track homes suck the life out of everyone and everything. There is no staving off Autumn now, even the hell-hounds in the distance howl in defiance of September’s grievous demands. The moon tags along, watching over my shoulder, reminding me that he too is a child of gravity.
I wish I were back home in California where the sound of waves pounding against the rocky Pacific coastline would put my jangly nerves at ease.
Life is a living thing that moves through us, from us and back into us, it’s everywhere yet inappreciable—-imperceptible. Hold on to it with all your might as it will roll over you, past you—– and then leave you in the park with the rest of the un-living, dancing to a choir whose voices only they can hear. No drug or drink can compare to being awake and walking out into the thin air. It is sustained by wonder, blind-faith and the gravity of grace. Everything collapses and then folds in on itself, where it leads from here, no-one knows for sure. So for now, we’re supposed to grow old.
One last time let’s hold hands and walk together under those big ole cemetery tress. We’ll kick a path through the dead dry leaves as the branches maliciously sway against the change of seasons.
Craziness, madness the big crack up is a disease of bad thinking. My latest drinking escapade has left me with two options in regards to what it says about me and the rest of the world as a whole. Either I drink too much or the rest of the world is too sober. I wish it were the latter, but at night when there are no distractions and I am stuck with only myself to consort with, it’s then that the line of insomnia creeps ever closer towards lunacy. In the shadows of a 3:00 am quarter moon, there is no backtracking, no sidestepping, no skipping through the spotlight of truth. At this hour, when the music stops and there is no chair to be found, I find that there is no place to go but inward. The voices in my head mock my foolishness, they scoff at my big plans, calling them nothing more than pipe-dreams, they let the air escape from my inflated thoughts of becoming a better person. To have flaws is to be human, to be flawed is to be broken. Isn’t it strange—-that the things you think may save you, may very well kill you, and those things that you think will kill you, may very well save you. I appreciate the words written by Bukowski, “Find what you love and let it kill you.” I’d rather die of fatigue chasing my loves, than blindly sleepwalk into oblivion.
My heart flexes with a contraction and then spasms outward like the legs of a startled bullfrog. Am I having a heart attack, is this how a massive aneurysm feels as it bursts within my chest? My body is suddenly glazed over in a cold sweat. My mood flips from a sullen depression where nothing seems to matter, to an all-encompassing sense of dire anxiety and a fear of losing my foot hold on the slippery rocks of consciousness. God please absolve me of all my sins, save me, don’t take me now, not here, not all alone in these loveless sweat soaked bed sheets. Where does that piteous sun go when I need it most?
Sometimes I just get plain sick and tired of everybody and everything; myself included. I swear—-nothing is ever good enough for anyone anyways, especially for someone with such a ruptured sense of wellbeing as me. I’m forever over-thinking things, over-feeling things and over-analyzing everything. People say, think like a buddhist and live in the present moment, but that’s so fucking clichéd and trite. I can’t keep pinching myself saying, “Now is now—-Now is now”. I need my past as an anchor to prevent me from being set adrift and left at the mercy of the currents. And, I need the future as my lighthouse to guide me through the fog keeping me clear of the treacherous rocks. I pop in and out of the present moment as it suits me. I prefer to fondle that illusive “now” in-between my daydreams and fantasies. Occasionally I catch a fleeting glimpses of that camouflaged illusion ironically known as reality. I prefer to say, “What is, is.” That way I can choose to surrender to it, or to do battle with it. “What is, is”, can be expressed as a statement or a question. The seeds of wisdom or madness always germinate within a question.
I’m better off alone. That way I don’t piss people off, or more honestly, they don’t piss me off. How is it, that everyone is so fucking calm, boring and self-assured. They plod along through life as if they’re going to live forever, as if the planet isn’t dying due to their own personal selfish excesses and abuses. They idly stare at the T.V. news as if they’re somehow exempt from all the calamity and misfortune that descends upon “those other poor souls”.
Life is not tidy, clean or simple—-it’s a madhouse, an asylum filled with desperate people running around seeking some form of refuge. Refuge means different things to different people. It might be a religious creed, a bottle of whiskey, a cause to defend, a love to possess, a dream to fulfill, a profit to be made——these concessions make up the tiny pieces of hope and faith strewn behind us, a trail of stale breadcrumbs to guide us back home. Beware of those thieving black-crows of time—as they steal away our paths, leaving each of us standing alone in the wilderness asking “What is—is???”
Tonight I’m drinking with Fitzgerald, Bukowski and Kerouac, those fuckers sure could spin a tale and drink like a school of drowning fish. I invited Hemingway to drop by, but he was busy playing nursemaid to a typewriter and polishing his guns. It’s just as well he couldn’t make it, as guns and alcohol make dangerous bedfellows. Although, spilling ink can be equally as painful as spilling blood.
These fellas had so many foibles and bad habits that it would be hypocritical for them to say a bad word about anybody else, that’s why I hangout with them, cause they don’t come at me sideways with their God-speak, patriotic-mumbo jumbo or self-righteous, sanctimonious finger wagging. The whole lot of them are serial liars and dexterous sinners. Ya see, writers don’t really lie, they just kind of bend the truth a bit—-and as for being sinners, a life without sin possesses no sustaining storyline. If ya don’t believe me, just ask God about his favorite protagonist—the devil. We all need our devils and our Gods to test our balance as we wobble across life’s tightrope. One misstep and you could end up in jail, or worse yet, a Mormon or a new-age vegan.
In the corner of the dark dank bar Waits meanders about the piano keys playing a melancholy jazz riff on an old battered upright piano. His whisker stubbled face is silhouetted in a smokey blue light, the derby on his head cocked forward and a cigarette dangles from his perturbing lips. A cat named Bird stares blankly into space as he lifts a shiny alto to his mouth. His improvisations are a soured marriage between black blues and leftover notes that fumble their way into dissonance—more or less a drunken lullaby. Vincent sits at a table near the musicians. He makes his childlike sketches and occasionally looks up at the band to lend them his ear (so to speak). The duo plays forlorn melodies that we slowly get sauced to, as we indulge our miseries, such is the sad yet beautiful futility of recounting a long-lost love-affair or friendships now withered and gone by the wayside. Most love affairs are doomed from the get-go, but friendships are all we really have to sustain us, someone to catch us should we fall. I miss my friends.
I only see my old pals now at weddings or funerals. I once unsuccessfully attempted to organize a Mens Retreat. I called a few of the old gang and emailed a couple of others. Most of them never got back to me and those that did offered up some slipshod excuses about how they were predisposed. They awkwardly mumbled on about work responsibilities, family responsibilities, money responsibilities and other middle-age obligations. This may sound crazy, but I miss my once young irresponsible friends—what they lacked in maturity they more than made up for in temerity.
To much time alone can cause a man to substitute regret for nostalgia. What is, “is”—- what ain’t—- “ain’t”—-and what never-was— “ain’t never gonna be”. Everybody changes, some for the better, others for the worse. Shockingly, some of my old buddies have even thrown their lot in with the right-wing conservatives—-go figure? I do my best to remember the good-times—And I’m fortunate to have absorbed so many fond memories.
I’m reminded of one of my old favorite tunes by Simon and Garfunkel, “Bookends”.
Time it was and what a time it was it was,
A time of innocence a time of confidences.
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you
Unexpectedly, Twain, Steinbeck, Armstrong and Columbus drop by. They’re all excited about heading out west to explore some uncharted territories. They claim to have some rough draft maps and charts they got from a couple of fellas named Lewis and Clark. They came by to ask if we might like to throw in with them. We all looked at one another with that singular writers eye. Most stories don’t come to you, on the contrary, you have to seek them out. Ah yes, only through adventure do we discover new worlds and in the process come to better know what we’re made of. The decision is unanimous, we’ll all head out west come first dawn.
To often adventure is perceived as a young man’s game. But I say, attitude will always trump age. Adventure demands an odd mixture of risk, courage, stamina and as some might see it—-a shit load of irresponsibility. George Mallory expressed it so concisely when asked, “Why climb Everest?” George responded, “Because it’s there.” Now isn’t that a Goddamn foolish and irresponsible reason for doing anything—-”Because it’s there?” But as for me, those three words sparkle with a stark and eloquent truth, to evolve and grow the heart must be pierced with a curiosity to see what’s over that next horizon.
What I love about adventurers, artists and writers is how they peer at the world through the eyes of a child. They never seem to lose that youthful sense of wonder and imagination. They may come off as brash, irresponsible and even a bit mad, but perhaps that’s why they aren’t afraid to perform without a net—–. So Adios mi amigos, I’m off to see what lies out west. Hey, why don’t you saddle up and come on along as well.
This piece is dedicated to my life long brothers—Steve, Django, Mike, Chris, Pat, Danny and Norm.
From a God’s eye view it all must seem so silly. Lines drawn separating one person or place from another, borders, boundaries, the yours and mine of desire and regret—the willing, the wasted, the reluctant and those forgetting that we all end up old, ugly and woeful, but hey, ugly ain’t so bad once you accept that at best we’re all sideshow attractions in a traveling freak-show in this two-bit carnival life. Oddballs, freaks and outcasts have always been my companions of choice—-so if you’re still my pal, buddy or sweetheart, then yeah, I’m talking bout you buster. We all have our own personal measure of beauty, but baby you give me that sweetest ache deep in my chest, just like that feeling I get when I awake to a clear snow-covered mountain morning. You make growing old not such a bad prospect when I know I have you as my mirrored companion—-you pump collagen into this weary heart of mine. I’ll always follow you down.
Everybody’s scuttling about to secure their share of food and shelter, maybe even love scraps or its ghostly shadow locked within ones own pleading soul. Down here, it’s a macro playhouse of clogged freeways, early morning skyscrapers blooming above the yellowish haze, the broken, the woebegone, those lucky few with the taste of a new kiss still on their damp lips, old creepy guys in shiny new cars, commuters waiting on meaningless buses taking them to meaningless jobs, lonely guys on desolate Nevada desert roads seeking something just over that next ridge, plain Jane looking girls clutching romance novels with their ragged dog-eared dreams, a dog pissing on someones perfectly manicured rose garden, mountain thunderstorms, salty sea scented beaches, coconut smelling sun tanned bitches, grimy unshaven bums on skid row, blue birds on telephone wires joyfully singing above a gated community, breached levee’s drowning someones hard-earned promise land, someones first breath, another’s last—-uh-hum? Mister, most are gonna lie to ya, but not me—no sir!
All the wise ones, like the giggling Dali Lama, chubby Buddha, rabble rousing Jesus wear that same smug lil grin. They’re like a pack of good ole boys sharing some private inside joke. They know the jokes on us as we do our twisted dance with Maya. I feel my time slipping away, what will you do with your time here. I do know this, that regardless of my foolish carrying on’s, I’m a lucky guy, to be chosen, to be alive, to be wandering this blue spinning sphere—-a temporary oasis for those trapped by space and time, a far-flung and forgotten Eden set against a backdrop of flickering lights and mumbled prayers. I try not to forget this within each dissolving moment. I stare up at the night sky and I can’t tell the satellites from twinkling stars, but they’re all oh so pretty—and I wonder what becomes of my satellite wishes?
A good friend of mine recently went to prison. I hate to say it, but this news came as no huge surprise. You see, he had always lived his life behind one wall or another—–a wall of alcohol and drugs (until he got help and quit) a wall of pretension and success (until he lost his business and money) a wall of arrogance and deceit (until his fraud was exposed) a wall of emotional insulation (until he was filleted and spiritually gutted). In jail there are no walls between you and yourself, the only walls there are the ones keeping the rest of the world out. The prisoner and his keeper are forced to coexist—-hope—like pardons, float just out of reach.
Sometimes when I consider this life, I see each of its participants living out their existence where “they need to be”—-please don’t misinterpret this as meaning “where they may want themselves to be”. Perhaps its arrogant of me to say such a thing, who am I to know what another may or may not want or need? I am arrogant. Arrogance comes with the territory of being a writer. A writer is the last unwitting peddler of authenticity for all crumbling cultures. To be a good writer, you need to have something to offer, something new and interesting to say, a revelation to shine a light upon. As for me and my writings, I intend to confound the smart asses, frustrate the conventionalist and piss off the righteous. Cause, if I mix the colors just right, I might create a picture that becomes a window for another to peer through. I always wonder the same thing about others, “Tell me what you see—what you feel?”
I loved a girl once. And maybe she loved me back, these things are illusive and subjective—or more than likely, I’m just plain hard to love. Love melts in your mouth not your hands, and it’s very difficult to see whats going on inside another’s mouth, let alone within their heart. M&Ms lie, they all look different, but they all taste the same. She took me to her home, a place where she kept her clothes, slept, stocked her cupboards and fridge, where she dreamt her dreams, hid her tears, bathed, put on her make up and stored her smiles. I tried once to live with her, but my stuff cluttered up her neat organizational scheme of things. I left before the walls she was constructing became to high for me to scale.
There’s a place in the High Sierra’s known as Desolation Wilderness, what a mystic and daunting land. A place of stark granite walls, gnarled pines and hidden alpine lakes, a place where one can either lose themselves or become re-aquatinted with what was meant to be. It is here that I sort out my devils from my angels and decide who is the lion and whom is the lion tamer. The lion cage is where I go to discover what comprises the alchemy of my soul. And I will tell you this, it takes a lot of courage to put my head inside that lions mouth.
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Lets share a cigarette baby, there is something sexy about having you partake in my bad habits, why? I don’t know, does it matter? Lets drink a couple bottles of wine and we can say things that we make up along the way, just little thoughts about this or that, it doesn’t really matter. We can stumble down some dark small town streets or take our clothes off and stand in the sun on some vacant summer beach, like the one that runs across from the railroad tracks out highway one north between SF and Santa Cruz. But maybe you got better things to do these day, I sure as hell don’t. Do you got any new tunes on your iPod that you can turn me on to? We always like the same artists, the odd ones no one else has ever heard of. Pass me that cigarette again baby—-where’s that cork screw? I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow, but fuck it, tomorrow is another fabled world away, put your coat on and I’ll tie these unruly shoes of mine and we’ll go outside and walk around, stumble about and I’ll tackle you and bring you down to the earth next to me. And we’ll laugh at this life with its promised death and we’ll pretend today is our last day, maybe it is, who knows, who cares, cause sweetness, right now it don’t matter. Why do people die, they get taken away from us, I don’t like that, I hate that. But you’re alive today with me. Lets go get high and then eat cinnamon graham crackers with sweet Nutella chocolate spread all over them. And then, I’ll make you-up stories as we lay in one another’s arms staring up at the ceiling and we’ll see all these undreamed-of-things tumbling from my mind, hanging right there within the emptiness above us, as if they were real, as if they belonged only to you and me—–cause imagination and fantasy is the spell that once cast, holds love together. Come on darlin, come on along with me and we’ll just keep goin on like this. That wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?
My lap top indicates I’m flying at 536 miles per hour at a hight of 39,239 feet. This is over 6 miles above the earth. Even though I’ve flown many times and the aerodynamics’ of flight has been explained to me in great detail on Wikipedia, I still find it hard to grasp the unrealness of it all. Animal shaped clouds drift by offering me a grin and a wink, several aisles over a baby wails, experienced flyers snooze, everyone is somewhere between “here and there”—ain’t life funny that way.
To forget how to fly at this altitude, to lose ones faith in formulas and physics would send this metal contraption plummeting nose first towards the brown wrinkled rug looking mountains below. I feel a sense of powerlessness as a wave of panic serge’s through my sweaty body. Physics is only numbers, numbers can’t keep a plane from dropping out of the sky like a rock—at this moment, at least for me, it’s magic and faith holding this metal tube in a state of flight. The fusel-lodge shutters as we pass through another set of turbulent winds and thermals. The jet engines drone on in the background as I throw back my third ginger-ale and Jack. I eat my stale pretzels and ask God to have mercy on my undeserving wicked soul—–the fear of impending doom brings out the dormant God in us all.
The air in the cabin is stale and smells and tastes as if it has been inhaled and exhaled by everyone on the plane five times over. I sit squeezed in my chair next to a middle aged guy who has commandeered control of our common armrest forcing me to tuck my elbow uncomfortably into my ribcage. Why am I always seated next to these infidel foreigners who have no appreciation or understanding of the American, Christian, democratic way of life. I’d love to challenge him to recite the pledge of Allegiance or ask him to spout-off a few bible quotes by heart. If he failed (which I know he would) I’d take great pleasure in confiscating his “forged” passport. I’m growing more angry by the moment, his wheezing breath, his mere presence beside me is unbearably annoying. I stare at him out of the corner of my eye to size him up. “Yeah, I think I could kick his scrawny imperialistic ass.” I fight back the urge to slam my left elbow into his right arm and rightfully claim dominion over my armrest. Or—-better yet, I could open a magazine and in the process covertly “accidentally” yet firmly nudge his arm out of my territory. As I consider my available tactics and strategies the stewardess comes by and leans into our hellish tangle of arms, legs, drop-down trays, newspapers and laptops to whisper something in my insurgents—I mean, neighbors ear.
The stewardess gives him a hug and I immediately seize the opportunity to claim the vacated space. What a freaking idiot to be so easily distracted and in the process expose his vulnerability. The stewardess isn’t even all that pretty, the poor fool probably never gets laid and is some kind of androgens eunuch. As for that bitch—I mean stewardess, she’s nothing but a glorified snack-bar attendant. I smugly settle back in my chair and relish my hard-won victory.
The alcohol has filled my bladder causing me extreme discomfort as I fight back the need to relive myself. I’m sure, that as soon as I vacate my seat I will lose the hard-won ground I’d so valiantly conquered. I decide that the situation is not worth pissing my pants over, so I brashly force my way out to the center aisle (without excusing myself) and head for the lavatory at the tail of the plane.
As I exit the restroom I come face to face with the stewardess who solemnly asks, “Would you mind taking this heating pad and pillow to your neighbor?” With a knee jerk reflex I respond in a voice of intolerance, “Can’t he get his own Goddamn pillow and hot pad.” She takes a deep breath and in an even voice responds, “Your neighbor, John—he has a shunt in his right arm. Once every week he flies to the Denver Medical Center to provide bone marrow treatments to his nine-year old son. His right arm gets sore, so the heat and pillow is just a small courtesy to try and help him feel more comfortable. It appears that its too much trouble for you, so just forget it.” I look down at her name tag and respond, “Ah—oh”—well—–uh-um–Cathy, well of course not, it’s no trouble at all. Now give me that pillow please.” My forehead breaks out in beads of sweat, I apologize to her and then turn to make that long trek back to my seat. The jet jumbles about and I stumble sideways. I wish this piece of shit plane would fall out of the sky and crash so I wouldn’t have to face this stranger, this guy named John, the person to whom I’ve invested so much hate. . . A sense of shame pulses from my temples, traveling down my throat and settling at the pit of my twisting stomach.
I’ve been trying to become a better person, but so easily and so often, I forget how to do the right thing. The briefness of being alive, the cruelty of nature, the unexplainable unfairness of life, the uncertainty of losing those closest to us, the inevitability of disease, calamity, misfortune and death, all this should teach us to be kinder to one another—to be accepting and forgiving, but it doesn’t. We pull and push at each other, we slash and tear at one another—-I have so much to learn and such a long way to go, and so little time to get there.
I take my seat and hand over the pillow and heating pad. “The stewardess Cathy, she wanted you to have this.” He shakes his head, “I told her not to make a fuss. She’s ridiculous, but she’s such a great spirit.” I ask about his arm but he skirts the issue and says its nothing. I’m tempted to inquire about his son but I get the feeling that this is sacred territory reserved for those who know and understand such a heartache. We fill our time with such mundane topics as the weather, smart phone apps and our musical tastes. He pulls up pictures of his family on his laptop. There is one of his son decked out in a blue and white little league uniform. He’s on one knee smiling with a bat slung over his shoulder. I’m a writer and pride myself in being observant and compassionate, but apparently I’m neither. It is only now that I detect the worrisome lines on his face and a sadness hiding deep his eyes.
The captain comes over the intercom telling us that the temperature in Denver is seventy-seven degrees and that the wind is blowing from the northwest at 15 mph. With the muted enthusiasm of a fast food attendant, he announces that in approximately eighteen minutes we will be touching down in Denver. To me, these words are proclaiming a miracle, we’re almost there. We’ve flown one-third of the way across the country without stalling and succumbing to the effects of gravity.
I look out my window at a patch quilt of green parks, subdivisions with backyard pools, golden fields and a skyline on a hazy horizon. With my finger against the window I trace along the path of a toy-sized road, its purpose and destination is a mystery to me. Down there, life is forcing itself over roads, across rivers, filling up water-towers, absorbing countryside, suburbs and cities—occupying space, falling through time, desperately moving its way through, over and inside everyone and everything that stands in its way. Down there, thousands of people carry on with their lives, their purpose and destination is a mystery to me—-so many people I’ll never know, so many things I’ll never understand. Where is god in all this? God isn’t, knowing. God isn’t, not knowing. God is in the wonder—ah yes, the enigmatic and elusive wonder of it all.
I want to say something inspirational or encouraging to John, but he doesn’t know that I’m aware of his dire predicament. I have no words for the secret revelations surfacing in me—so I sit dumbfounded lost in the sorrow of this solemn moment.
The wheels thump down on the runway, everyone lurches forward and there is a loud skidding sound of brakes being applied as the engines make a roaring sound. We taxi our way towards the terminal. Suddenly everyone is on their feet pulling down their carry-on luggage. John turns around, “Hey can you do me a favor?” “Sure, anything. What do ya need?” He hands me an envelope, “If I try to give this to Cathy I know she’ll refuse it. She’s a volunteer for the Wounded Warrior Program. They raise funds to help returning Vets. Ya know, for things like housing, counseling and medical needs. Could ya please give her this card and envelope.” He hesitates and then leans into me, “Her husbands a Vet. He was hurt really bad over there and is now confined to a facility where he receives around the clock care.” I nod to John and offer up a stern grimace to convey my empathy. Yeah right—-I’m suddenly Mr. Empathetic.
When you come to understand that God uniquely, personally, unequivocally and eternally loves you, that’s when it becomes easier to be compassionate—-and it also becomes less threatening to forgive all and give yourself to others—conversely it becomes more difficult to be selfish and unkind—who wants to disappoint God—–not me. It’s required a huge leap of faith to get to this place, but these divine convictions are what allow planes to defy gravity and mere mortals to let Gods love flow through them—-and then to be passed on to all others.
It’s not important my point of departure or my final destination, it’s the things I do between “here and there” that define me.
Everything these days is either awesome or amazing— Ironically, these two terms themselves are vastly overrated and overused. The truth is, a lot of the things celebrated in our modern culture as awesome and amazing are at best mediocre. Many of the things that now fill our mental and emotional voids are the same things that diminish our humanity and elevate our gullibility. Pop culture at first glance appears accepting and liberating, but a closer inspection reveals a culture that defaults to a herd like mentality. This state of clone-ly-ness requires its participants to surrender their individuality in exchange for being uniquely trendy (an intentional oxymoron). To illustrate this point I’ve listed 27 things that are overrated.
Hammocks, They are as comfortable as napping on a tightrope. Designed more for a cat who lands on its feet rather than a middle aged fat man who is better suited for a stable Lazy-Boy recliner (Disclaimer: You must weigh at least 200 pounds, be over 50 and drowsy and/or drunk to ride this chair).
Cigars, Foul tobacco that smells like rancid rat droppings sprinkled over a burning tire that is then wrapped in rotten seaweed that falls apart in your mouth. Anyone within 100 yards of the smoke will need to burn their clothes because it is impossible to washout the stench.
Partying, Basically, hanging out with people you don’t know, spending money you don’t have, doing things you won’t remember. The next morning you wake up feeling as stupid as Charlie Sheen (Females may substitute, Lindsay Lohan) and looking as haggard as Keith Richards (Females may substitute Beetle Juice or The Joker) .
Bob Dylan, The only thing worse than his singing voice is his harmonica playing.
Lawns, The process of spending excessive amounts of money and endless hours manicuring a crop that bares no fruit. The only person allowed to walk on it is you, and only when it is being mowed in mid-August when and the thermometer hits triple digits. Furthermore, fescue is the one thing your entire family is allergic too, leaving everyone hacking, sneezing and coughing like patients locked away in a TB ward. Mid September arrives and you helplessly watch as it turns yellow and goes dormant for the next eight months.
Video Games, No one except your spaz friends, who have no life, give a flip that you’ve reached the 48th level and are now knighted in the game Slayer. If you’re over fourteen years old and spend the majority of your time living in a virtual world, then you’re a loser! Wake up, leave your bedroom and carpe diem before you end up living in your mothers unfinished basement with a severe case of carpel tunnel syndrome.
Designer Pet Foods, If you are buying dog food that is glutton free or formulated for an animal that is lactose intolerant, then you’re a certified animal kook. Remember this: a dogs favorite treats include rotten roadkill, cat-shit, puke and garbage. All that foolish money you’ve wasted on gourmet dog food, would’ve been better spent on meals for starving children in third world countries.
Twenty-Four Hour TV News, Walter Cronkite reported all the daily events that occurred around the world in one hour. Today misery and mayhem is entertainment, the more grisly the story, the higher the TV ratings. We incessantly feed our souls a toxic diet of murders, rapes, wars, earthquakes, terrorist plots, bombings, serial killers, corruption, child abuse, kidnapping, famine, mass killings and all things inhumane and horrid. It’s an industry that breeds fear and apathy while desensitizing us to violence and cruelty. We’re a culture that grooms its children to accept monsters as normal and consider kindness a weakness.
Award Shows, Watching famous people congratulate each other, their hairdresser, clothes-designer, publicist, God, and their Mother (Prioritized in that order) for their hard-earned success.
Opera, large girthed men and women screaming (singing) at you in a language you don’t understand, about things you can’t relate to.
Rap music, outlandishly dressed men and women (singing) screaming at you in a language you don’t understand, about things you can’t relate to.
Ballet, Gay men in tights shaking their package in front of bulimic women as they warble about on their toes.
Abstract Art, Shit no one really likes nor understands, but rich people buy for investment purposes and to make them feel cultured.
Things labeled organic, I have one word for that “Tofu”. I rest my case.
Tattoos, Skin covered in graffiti. It once was a way that bikers, cons and sailors could assert their stupidity. But now, it’s a way middle class people can assert their stupidity. Something is just plain wrong about hordes of people going to a chic tattoo parlor and allowing an “ex-con” looking dude to permanently scrawl drawings on their body. Common themes, snakes, skulls, butterflies and the names of people whom in the future you will no longer love (You can pawn a wedding ring, but a tattoo is truly a lifetime commitment!).
Micro brews, Over priced beers with fancy labels and clever names that taste like cat piss.
Classic Rock Radio Stations I have no need to hear songs like “Give me Three Steps” “Play That Funky Music White Boy” or any of the KC and the Sunshine song catalogue ever, ever, ever again! Its Lawrence Welk for baby boomers.
Drug Commercials, I don’t want to hear an announcer in a calm reassuring voice itemize the side effects of their prescription drugs e.g. “anal leakage”, “suicidal tendencies”, “erections lasting longer than four hours” (with my daughter in the same room) “rashes”, irritability” and “fits of insanity brought on by false promises of miracle cures from snake oil”.
Insurance Commercials, Any company that uses a duck, lizard, pig or a dingbat named Flow to promote their product cannot be taken seriously or trusted.
The salaries of pro athletes, movie stars and musicians. They are spoiled assholes that are overpaid and overrated.
Shows about rich people’s problems, Talk shows dedicated to mindless discussions regarding the hardships of famous people, including such intriguing topics as, addictions, eating disorders, troubled relationships, arrests, rehab treatments, diets, sex lives, political views and spiritual advice etc…. Please see #19 . I DON’T FREAKIN CARE!
The virtues of Social Networking. The statistical breakdown of internet usage, 60% porn, 8% Facebook postings detailing crap about people’s lives you don’t give a rats ass about, 5% buying crap you don’t need, 5% selling you crap you don’t need, 5% illegally down loading songs and movies, 5% spam, 5% betting on sports, 2% playing Sudoku when you should be working, 2% research, 2% education, 1% advancing the betterment of mankind.
Reality TV Those two words are an oxymoron. SORRY, BUT TV IS NOT REALITY!!!
TV, Brief moments of shitty commercials interrupted by briefer moments of shitty-er programing.
Super Churches, Rock star preachers with big goofy smiles wearing way to much hair gel selling their books, tapes and DVD’s extolling the virtues of giving and servanthood—-tax free. In God we trust, but if he wants to purchase a “Sharing is Caring” T shirt, he too must provide two forms of ID and have a valid credit card. His out-of-state check will not be accepted—-City—“Heaven”—Address—“Cloud Nine”—State—“Of Grace” (Yeah right). Act now, operators and soul scalpers are standing by!
Medical marijuana dispensaries. Marijuana will relieve pain, but so does Jack Daniels. What do you call a whiskey medical treatment dispensary? An all night liquor store.
Starbucks, Where else can you spend $4.00 for a bitter coffee after waiting in line for thirty minutes with a bunch of snobs while listening to soulless smooth jazz. And then having a seat in their pretentious bistro among all the WI FI wired patrons as they silently interact with their iPhones, laptops and other electronic gadgets.
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Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 