Thursday, August 14, 2014

If I Could Hand Out Medals...

You know how a fireman or a police officer save someone's life, and the saved person writes to that fireman or police officer every month or year to be thankful?

This is my letter:

Cam and Ridley, you save my life every fucking day. In my mind, you've surpassed five-star generals, because you two are the reason I keep getting up.

Jared, I know tonight we hit that point tonight where we both won't admit we were feeling what we were feeling, but yes, you have saved my life. You are the epitome of the word "friend," and you make it virtually impossible for anyone else to even use that word with me without bringing up expectations they can't possibly meet.

Tammy, Shane, Justin, Scott, only Distance and Time prevent you from occupying the same status, and you all bridge gaps to reduce that distance and time to nothing.

I thank you all for saving my life. Plain and simple. Were I in a position to hand out Congressional Medals of Honor, you all deserve them.

I hope that I somehow measure up to the example you all set for me.


Darth Sardonic

Wednesday, August 06, 2014


I just need to get this off my chest:

When you break up with me, and tell me you want to still be "friends" because I'm "so awesome" and you don't want to lose that, I immediately think, "If I'm so awesome but you're still breaking up with me, what does that say about you?"

I also think that it is shady that you comment on and like my FB posts more now than you did when we were going out. Odd.

And my real friends hang out with me. In person. And text me. And reply with normal conversations when I text, rather than "LMAO!" and a series of colons and end paretheses and capital P's.

So I instantly know that one of two things is afoot when you break up with me:  a.) you want to keep tabs on me, perhaps to see how hard I take it, how much I miss you, how quickly I date again and what the new girl looks like, or b.) if your new life plan sans me doesn't work out as you had imagined, you can always hit me back up.

As always, this is the safe place for me to vent what might otherwise be hurtful thoughts.

I feel better now.

Sunday, August 03, 2014

We Are Groot

Friday, my work load was light, and I played hookie from the office to take the boys to see Guardians of the Galaxy.

It was a beautiful afternoon, and the kids were in high spirits, and so was I. I timed the arrival at the theater perfect to grab our popcorn and snacks, a decent seat, and get settled in just as the previews started.

I have never read the comic book from whence came the movie, but I had read a few reviews that insinuated this was not your usual superhero fare. The "heroes" in the story are flawed, angsty, neurotic characters who find themselves, initially unwittingly, thrown together as a team, and then choose to do the right thing and pit themselves against one who would completely destroy a planet.

No need for spoiler alert there, non-existent readers, I have not shared anything you wouldn't have gathered from the previews.

What neither you, nor I, could've gathered from any previous source, is how much I would've been emotionally affected by Groot, a member of the group who, at my best guess, is basically a sentient tree.

Groot spends the entire movie communicating every sentiment, concern, worry, and argument with the phrase:  "I am Groot!" He is skillfully translated by his on-going bosom friend, Rocket, a bounty-hunting raccoon.

Fast forward to the moment when everything is at a critical mass, and our new-found friends find themselves in a dire situation that they are unlikely to survive. Groot builds a thick, flowering, leafy ball of protection around our motley crew, comprised of numerous parts of himself. A sort of ent-ish force field. Rocket says, "But you'll die!"

To which Groot replies the line that will stab me straight to the heart, and render all my faculties for the prevention of sobbing tears ineffectual:  "WE are Groot!"

I have always thought of myself as a misfit, not really fitting in anywhere except the groups I build around myself; fellow misfits with whom I have rapport. Until my two sons came into my life. This always has been, and always will be, the place where I best fit. Father to these two rascals who remind me constantly that I do, in fact, still have a heart.

How fitting then that Cam should look over, notice my tears in the dark of the theater, and reach up to touch my cheek. Upon discovering the wetness thereof, he took my hand, and held it while I sobbed for the beauty of  a universe in which a shrub can learn the importance of life, and the belonging of a family, and a misplaced misanthrope can be blessed with his perfect compliments in the form of two handsome young men.

Darth Sardonic