inherently different

Archive for March, 2005

My mouth was full of pennies. Copper fell from my mouth in pregnant drops, each splash a work of art on concrete. A Pollack study in red. My eyesight was failing, but I could still see them. Laughing. Drinking cheap whiskey from paper cups. Mixed with whatever it is privileged kids drink on Friday nights during football games. They really should have killed me, it would have been much less painful for everyone involved.

It took almost three months to heal. I became restless waiting. I’m not very good at waiting. Already the principal and both deans had been at me, alone and in pairs, picking apart my story. They asked their questions, but I’ve years practicing ignorance.

"No, sir. I didn’t see them. No, I have no idea who they were or what they wanted. Yes, sir, you’ll have no trouble from me on school grounds."

I’m not a good liar, but most adults never like to think what kids are capable of when they put their minds to it. I had a four part plan. That there were four people responsible for three broken ribs, a broken nose, two black eyes, a broken hand, and the hairline fracture along the zygomatic bone of my left eye was just a coincidence. Bad news travels in threes, but like airlines, revenge apparently doesn’t like empty seats.

Lucky number one folded the moment he turned and saw me standing at his side at the arcade. He begged. This wasn’t surprising. I knew they all would, thats what cowards do. Unfortunately, compassion was one of many emotions that had long since absconded along with my innocence. I stopped when he passed out. That, at least, was something.

The second took a little longer. Luckily I wasn’t on a schedule. Time was on my side. Sometimes a plan falls together and he fell into my lap. Movie theaters are dark and not watching where you put your ass can be hazardous. Over quickly, word spread then. There could be little doubt what was coming and who it was coming for.

The third was ready for me. A two by four can lay waste to healed ribs. In the end it wasn’t enough though. Without someone to hold my arms behind my back while he beat me senseless, he folded rather quickly. I didn’t care. Like the merchant of venice, I took my pound of flesh, no more, no less.

The fourth was the hardest and the one I wanted more than Oprah wants cake. Took the rest of the school year. He was just trying to lay low. He knew it was just a matter of time and every day that I left him untouched was one day closer to getting away with it. I made promises, but promises are made to be broken aren’t they? I caught him alone in the bathroom. My friends closed off the exits to prevent anyone from interrupting us.

His family moved that summer after he got out of the hospital. I hear he drank out of a straw for six months since his jaw had been wired shut. I had to work painting the school bathrooms all that summer to pay off the cost of replacing the porcelin urinal I had damaged. The piece that broke off is still somewhere in the attic of my father’s house.

No one ever made me taste pennies again.

I’m a pretty easy going fella. Laugh if you must… I’ll wait.

I’m easy going, but that doesn’t mean I’m tolerant. What I mean is that I won’t readily accept being treated like shit if you’re suffering from a nervous breakdown, pre-menstrual syndrome, post-partum depression, scurvy, irritable bowel syndrome, shingles, or calcium deficiency. In most instances my complete disregard for your comfort doesn’t really impact anyone, even if you’re the one afflicted. The one way it might is if you ask to visit me here on Maui and expect me to wait upon you hand and foot.

All I ask of my guests in exchange for a place to crash while they visit the valley isle is that they realize that the sun isn’t the only heavenly body that refuses to rise and set according to their schedule. Oprah will refuse a second helping of cake before I shake my ass according to your commands.

We’ve had a few guests visit and only once has someone broken the rules. Aside from suffering from a lack of consideration, this particular guest wore out there welcome in a little over 72 hours by being so incredibly self-centered that I spent the last 36 hours of her stay locked in my room or at the local starbucks. I had to pull a pseudo disappearing act otherwise I would have gone postal and told her all the things someone should tell her. Things like:

1. You’re alone for a reason.
2. Love doesn’t occur in a vaccum.
3. You need professional help.
4. No one likes a whiner.
5. I can see why your last boyfriend became an alcoholic.

I stick my neck out a long way for my friends. They’ve earned it. The only time I won’t bend over backwards for a friend is when they prove to me that don’t know what being a friend is all about. Knowing when to shut your piehole and listen as well as when to open your mouth and offer advice. When to ask for help and when to strike out on your own. When to not spill a cup of water on a $1800 laptop computer… er, I digress.

I’m not sure about the Red Queen, I don’t speak for her, but as far as I’m concerned, the last guest is no longer allowed to breath the same air as I do. Next time, the gloves are off.

I often wonder why people succumb so easily to the drive to preserve life. Even in cases when the life isn’t their own to save. By now just about everyone not in a coma has read or heard about the fight being waged by Terri Schiavo’s parents to keep what is left of their daughter alive. I won’t get into the fact that Terri has the mental capacity of a bowl of pudding, nor will I bore you with the legal wranglings that have tied up the courts for years. I could point the irony that a man who is responsible for killing more civilians that Osama bin Laden since the 9/11 terrorist attacks is trying to save the life of one who wouldn”t even vote for him if she had the chance. Or I could condemn the self-serving interests of the fanatical Christians who believe they know what Terri wants. But I won’t.

I will bore you with my thoughts on the right to die issue though.

Before Terri Schiavo suffered brain damage in 1990, she was pretty. While many of the right-to-life zealots argue that she would want to live, they fail to recognize that medical experts believed her heart stopped briefly from a chemical imbalance brought on by an eating disorder. So poisoned was her self-perception that when she looked in the mirror, the face and body that stared back wasn’t attractive to her. I wonder what Terri would say if she did awaken and saw how her vanity ravaged her face and body over the last 15 years. No one knows, but I can imagine she’d look in the mirror, then look at her parents and tell them to mind their own fucking business.

Everyone has a right to live free. So important is this right that it is part of the bedrock that built this nation. But what of our right to die? Without a living will, Terri’s fate is left to people who have their own motivations, their own hopes, and fears. It is unfortunate that Terri’s parents are so passionately connected to their daughter that they refuse to let her go. Just one more example of how passion without understanding is a dangerous thing.

A cold wind swoops down off the mountain, like a seagull feeding from the open ocean, taking small bites from the skin not covered by my thin jacket. There is nothing that can be done about it, and I can’t even say I would if I could. It’s part of the user fee. Pain, or at least discomfort, is currency on a journey like this. If broken bones are dollar bills, surely the wind and cold are the nickels and dimes.

My father used to tell me that the destination is the least important part of a journey. He also used to say that no matter where you go, there you are. In addition to being the king of non sequiters, he is still my benchmark when it comes to telling tales.

I go off alone often enough to know the dangers of what I’m doing today. This mountain is familiar though. The canyons and ridges greet me with wide arms, like old friends. It is a climb I often made with my father, first at his side, then on his back when the incline became to steep. The first time was when I was six and he was the strongest man I knew.

Though his grasp no longer folds over my hand like a magician palming a coin, he is still a giant in my eyes. He is older, wiser maybe, but not the Hercules of my youth. Like a Renaissance masterpiece buried under layers of paint added later by lesser artists, the strength is still there, hidden under the grey hair and loose skin. Knowing that fills me with a false belief that he’ll live forever.

At the top I look out over time and space. The green carpet stretches back a few hundred miles and a dozen or more years. After that first climb we’d come here, sometimes with his buddies, sometimes alone together. He’d tell me stories as we climbed, partly to pass the time, partly to keep me from thinking about how tired I was becoming. He was good at that too, keeping me from noticing when something was unpleasant.

He’d title his little stories: Gus & the Giant, Gus & the Pirates, Gus & the Bear. It was always Gus and something or other. What his titles lacked in imagination, his stories more than made up for it. Fascinating tales of adventure, sacrifice, and conquest one and all.

The worst of situations, the lowest humiliations, could all be endured with one of these tales occupying my mind while the world swirled around me. Imagination is a painkiller. Like any drug though, imagination isn’t free.

I start back down the mountain, darkness chasing the sun toward the horizon. Mentally I count the nickels, dimes and dollars that have paid for my imagination. It’s my way of passing the time. My way of not thinking about how tired I’ve become.

The pale light from the window above my bed tried valiantly to banish the shadows that filled the corners of the room, but never quite succeeded. I didn’t mind the shadows much. It gave me a place to hide. I learned to love the shadows in my room, especially when there were strangers in my house. Each time someone I didn’t know came calling, it sent little shockwaves of fear down my spine.

I was always sure that I would be sent away to live with another family at any time. When new people invaded my immediate environment, I was pretty confident they were discussing terms for my purchase. If money exchanged hands, I was out the door and down the street faster than you can say rent-to-own. As you can imagine, even the 16 year old kid who delivered our newspaper would send me screaming down the street.

Friends of my father would often stop by our house while he was at work. They’d chat with mother about the weather, the price of gas, the latest Charger game, but I was always sure they were talking about me.

“No, he doesn’t wet the bed, but he tends to wait until he’s dancing before he’ll go. He’ll probably grow up to be fruit,” I imagined she told interested parties. I hoped this information would turn them off, willing them down the street where the O’Tooles and their 17 children lived. Surely a better bargain could be found among the towheaded children.

Once, on a shopping trip to FedMart (the 70s answer to WalMart), my mother drove away while I was still in the store, standing in the waiting line for an ICEE. It would have been much easier to believe my mother’s contention that she had simply forgotten me if my brothers hadn’t been in the back of our brown 1964 Ford Falcon screaming my name as she drove away.

Another time, my brothers and I were left in the car while my mother went shopping at the grocery store. We waited in that parking lot for about three hours, any number of scenarios of abandonment discussed and discarded in turn by my brothers and I. My father finally picked us all up and brought us home without my mother. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I found out my mother had been arrested for attempting to shoplift a roast she had stuffed up her dress.

This isn’t a pity party. I don’t mind that my mother was nuttier than a squirrel’s digestive tract. Hard as it is to believe, these experiences formed my sense of humor, my strength of character, and my understanding of right and wrong. They also helped me develop as a writer. The stories I could tell you… and through this blog, I will.

It starts with a tickle somewhere in the back of my mind. The colors dim, the sounds soften, my eyes glaze over. I know it’s coming, but I’ve long since accepted that nothing can be done.

“What kind of language is that?” asks a large woman with Jackie O sunglasses and a sundress. She looks like Jabba the Hut in drag.

Not this conversation again. I wonder how people can stand to be trapped inside their own skulls if this kind of thinking dominates.

“It’s Hawaiian. This being Hawaii and all, you should expect to hear native languages.” I say, only mildly annoyed at this point.

“Well, they should learn to speak English. This is America, not Polynesia or Samoa.” Jabba the Hut replies.

The tickle becomes a scratch. Insistent. Begging relief.

“Can you speak any Polynesian languages?” I ask for no other reason than to set my next comment up.

She looks at me. Confusion crosses her face like a cloud on an otherwise sunny day.

“What?” she asks.

Wait for it.

“I don’t need to speak any foreign languages,” she squeals as the first light of understanding dawns on her enormous face.

“How does it feel to be dumber than a Pacific Islander?”

Today will be a good day I decide.

The the rolling layers of fat that protect the poor fellow with the receding hairline and gently sloping forehead can no longer be preceded by the word “baby.” The fat, like the man sporting it, is quite old.

I stare at the guy who in turn stares back at me. I scratch my head and the guy across the room follows my lead. It takes me a minute to realize that the guy isn’t some unknown loser… hell, it’s me, reflected on the mirrored surface of the window.

It’s 3 PM and I’m in the Starbucks on South Kihei Road. The bane of socially conscious whiners who value commitment to a cause over consistency of production, Starbucks often gets a bad rap from people. I like it and pity those who find fault with its success. Today though, I’m not here to argue the merits of a perfectly made latte, but to write two articles for MSN. My trusty laptop, SpongeBob, is performing double-duty: Typewriter and Jukebox.

Quite frankly, I can’t write without music playing, but more importantly, I have the hardest time making connections with people who aren’t passionate about music. Well, let me rephrase that. I have a difficult time finding common ground with people who listen to crap. While I can appreciate the vocal range of Christina Aguilera, the marketing behind Britney Spears, and the lunchbox sex appeal of pre-packaged bands like N’Sync, I don’t consider their output to be music. Background noise maybe, but music? No.

I won’t fault you for liking that crap, but I won’t respect you if the preponderance of album collection consists of bubble gum pop. A few mistakes here and there are ok. Even my vast music collection has ‘em: Poison, Escape Club, Fine Young Cannibals, Janet Jackson, etc), but those mistakes are few and far between. The easiest way I know to avoid buying into something that is crap is to stick to the classics: Stones, Who, Elvis, U2, Journey… er, scratch that last one. Of course, playing it safe means you’re less likely to discover music that is worthwhile.

I digress. Music is an essential component to my ability to truthfully observe the world around me. I don’t need it to make sense of what I see, but it does inspire me to accurately interpret and share it. Whether I’m writing an article about pursuing a MBA for my publisher or a blog post for the Monkey Diaries about the failures of my mother as a primary care giver, chances are there is music gave it life, clarified my message, and ultimately, produced whatever value the piece has.

I honestly can’t write without music. I’ve tried and usually fail. A few days ago, feeling melancholy and slightly down after a discussion about my mother, I wrote the previous post under the influence of Working Hour by Tears for Fears. This missive is being directed under the direction of Bucket by Kings of Leon, specifically the lyrics, “eighteen balding star.” Granted, eighteen was twenty-one years and 100 lbs ago, but there was a time when my fellow students and teachers predicted great things from me. Sadly, none of those things came true, atleast not yet. If I ever do write something worthy of praise, you can be sure you’ll read it long before anyone else does… consider that my gift to you for putting up with me.

So, here’s to the music we love and the greatness it inspires. What are you listening to?

There was light dancing on the ceiling that fine February morning. I stayed in bed watching it flash there like the bellies of fish schooling in the deep ocean of the blue bedroom I shared with my younger brother. The day held promise for many reasons, the least of which was that it was the 21st and I was now officially eight. The day held promise mostly because today I would not forget.

Eight is a magical age for kids. At eight kids begin to remember events in greater detail and in a logical, coherent manner. They begin to marry acts to consequences and understand that there are worse things to fear than what’s behind the closet door.

For me, the greatest danger was probably already awake and down the hall, in the kitchen making breakfast. That February morning, my birthday, I promised myself as I always did upon waking, that today I would avoid the mistakes of yesterday, and do everything right. I wouldn’t spill my milk. I wouldn’t forget my lunch. I wouldn’t forget to say I love you on my way out the door. I wouldn’t get into trouble in school. In my house, for the three years before that day, making those mistakes was punishable by spasms of extreme violence. Today though, I would not forget.

I got up quietly, careful not to wake my three year old brother, still sleeping, one thumb planted firmly in his mouth. I watched him sleep as I put on the shirt, slacks, sweater and dress shoes that made up the formal uniform of St. Pius the Tenth. The resentment that welled up inside my chest wasn’t unusual. I felt that way often when I saw the love showered on my younger brother. That I could expect the feeling the way someone expects the sun to rise the next morning made me ache in a way that confused me. I was eight afterall, and no eight year old should have to contend with feelings of resentment. It was the first day of my life that I can, to this day, remember with perfect clarity.

Like a thief, I stole my way into the bathroom. I scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth, and flattened my hair as best I could. I knew unruly hairs would be ripped out like weeds falling to the diligence of a farmer in a garden row. Sometimes great handfuls of the weeds would be snatched out at once, but that only happened when I forgot something important. Today, I would not forget.

I made my way into the kitchen and sat at the table with a look that wasn’t too cheerful, casting my eyes down and away. Careful not to look to proudly, not too observantly for my own good. These things I knew to do. Today, I would not forget.

I ate what was placed before me. I didn’t spill my milk. I didn’t speak with my mouth full. I asked to be excused before I rose from the table. Today, I would not forget.

I went to school that morning. I listened, concentrated, and avoided the problems that would cause the nuns to send me home with a note. Notes from the nuns were not welcome at home. At recess, when my friends played in the dirt, I stood on the macadam of the playground, watching them with envy. My heavy desire to join them easily outweighed by the knowledge of what can happen when you come home with dirty knees or grime on your white collared shirt. Today I was eight, and I would not forget.

When I got home, my aunt surprised me with a small bag of candy, chocolate covered raisins, my favorite. I ate a few of them, savoring the sticky sweetness, wanting to draw it out as long as I could. I closed the bag, wanting to save them for later, and put the bag on top of my dresser in my room. I went back out to the livingroom forgetting something important, but I remembered a few minutes later. No harm done, I tell myself, as I walked back to set wrong things right.

Raisins littered the ground, surrounding my younger brother like an army setting siege to an ivory castle, his mouth covered in a dark mask of chocolate. I snatched the bag from his pudgy fingers wondering how he had managed to pull them down. He was a good climber when he wanted to be, something I had forgotten. He was also a good screamer when he wanted to be. This is also something I had forgotten. Forgetting was something that wasn’t allowed back then.

There are much worse things than the monsters that wait in the closets of children chasing dreams in the dead of night. Some of those things walk in the light of day. One of those things, my mother in fact, came rushing into the room I shared with my brother to remind me what happens when you forget.

I promised myself that night, as I cried myself to sleep, that tomorrow I wouldn’t forget. Tomorrow I would remember everything. Thirty one years later, I still haven’t forgotten.

Sometimes I stay up late at night, like tonight, wondering if I ever will.

Throughout my life, I’ve had much stronger relationships with women than I have had with men. I mean, my friends have almost all been women with the exception of one or two instances. At no time has that fact really been an issue. Until now.

Since I’ve moved to Maui I have yet to forge any friendships beyond the casual with males. All my friends, the few that live here on Maui with me, are female. That might be the reason for my most recent posts bemoaning a lack of testosterone (and politcally incorrectedness).

Today the Red Queen’s cousin (and my former boss) is coming to town. While this just means one more woman will be in orbit around me, I look forward to her visit since she’s the type of woman who can go from pointing out a dainty flowered print on a dress one moment then say something that would make a sailor blush the next. You have to appreciate a renaissance woman who can wear many hats.

Even still, I’m going bugshit without some kind of consistent male interaction. The other day I found myself admiring a woman’s hairstyle (as opposed to her other obvious endowments). I think the words “that’s really cute” even came out of my mouth, but I wouldn’t admit it outside of this blog. While I’m not worried that I’ll be wearing a sarong and going by the name of alice before long, I do miss watching football or talking baseball with my buddies (hell, I’d settle for discussing NASCAR or the pro bowling circuit although neither is really a sport). Or running down to the pub for a few pints and having discussions that are best had in pubs with guys with colorful nicknames like Hack, Trip, Bone & Gator.

I’m sure many of you are saying, “Well E! Just go out and meet a few guys!”

I’m not very social to begin with, but coupled with the fact that I work from home means that a social gathering after work includes mostly inanimate objects (and the toaster and microwave are always fighting about whether Manchester United is better with or without David Beckham). The problem becomes rather insurrmountable since none of the girls I know here have boyfriends except my girlfriend who, rumor has it, is dating a real prick. I’m beginning to daydream about getting a job working on a golf course (or garbage truck, septic tanker, gay porn set, etc) just so that I can have conversations that don’t include references to cute tops and bottoms (all though, come to think of it, a gay porn set wouldn’t solve my problem afterall).

Does anyone else out there ever worry about whether our civilization is becoming too homogenized? This prevailing question infiltrates my daily existence.

Over the last ten years, we have become a society that deems everything offensive. Gone are the days when you could joke around about ethnicity or sexuality without disturbing someone’s increasingly fragile sensitivities. I believe that the more civilized our world becomes, the less I find I like being part of it.

From my perspective, it seems humankind is striving toward eliminating dissenting thought and promoting a hive mentality without much to offer the individual. The world is now filled with politically correct automatons who preach that we shouldn’t do this and shouldn’t say that. All that this has really done, rather than making the world a nicer place to live, is create a society of busy-bodies and weaklings!

What has happened to the freedom to express oneself, to stand by your convictions and live life the way you see fit so long as it doesn’t bring physical harm to another? Are we so out of touch with living that we fear the damage possible through every action, no matter how trivial, and apologize beforehand? We make excuses daily for not being tough, strong, or conservative and yet we refuse to take responsibility for our actions as individuals because it’s easier to blame society.

Worse yet is the decline of MAN as an institution. It seems to me, being a man is a truly dying art. Sensitivity and a propensity toward over-emotional, non-physical outbursts are becoming the defacto measure of the 21st century male. I know three hetero-sexual males that tune in to watch SEX IN THE CITY in syndication and sit among a big circle of bitter women commiserating about the trials and tribulations of dating! Are you kidding me? Where’s the testosterone? Where’s the beer stained wife-beater tee shirts? Maybe I’m the only one bothered? Do I need to get in touch with my sensitive side? Kill me now if this is future of the human race.