A Friend In Need...

When my life fell to shit around me, and I was too lost in the questioning why, the one guy who was really there to help me pick up the pieces and figure out where their new place would be was Jay (not his real name). Two or three times a week, Jay was 'round my tiny cell-block apartment, helping me hang pictures, taking my mind off of things, telling me to quit overthinking shit, and when he noticed I was drinking my evenings away, offering other solutions.

There was no kidding one evening where Jay brought over his acoustic bass, a bunch of sketch pads and pens and pencils, a big CD binder full of his movies, and I can't even tell you what all else to keep me occupied for a time without the added enhancer of alcohol.

A few months later, while I was alone, and feeling low, I watched Reign Over Me. An amazing movie, Adam Sandler's best ever. Something clicked in me in the course of the movie, and I realized that Jay was my Don Cheadle. The guy who was always there to stop me from being self destructive.

And because I am at the point in my life, O my beloved non-existent reader (only because Google says you are, mind you) where I say what I mean without worrying too much about how it will be taken, I tell Jay, "You are my Don Cheadle."

And because his is, in fact, my Don Cheadle, he knows what I am talking about.

There's been a few situations, as you can imagine, where reminding him in public that he is my Don Cheadle might come across as gay. And I feel bad. Cause the dude is just making sure I am ok, and shouldn't be thought of as homosexual as a result. He's just my best friend. (Which brings up a topic to be addressed in a post for another time, O my beloveds.)

So I see an advertisement for the latest Iron Man movie, and I get reminded that Don Cheadle plays Robert Downey Jr's sidekick.

So I tell him, as we walk down the beach, that I have a new meaning for Don Cheadle:  Iron Man's sidekick (not, btw, that Jay is a sidekick by any means, and also I am so fucking far removed from anything remotely resembling a superhero that the idea is completely absurd!), and fuck me gently with a chainsaw if Jay doesn't turn to me and casually say:

"I'm Ok with the Reign Over Me Don Cheadle reference."

I pray that all of you who stumble across this bit of shit tangled in the world wide web are as lucky with your friends as I am.

Thanks for playing along,

Darth Sardonic

PS-I want all my exes to quit fucking telling me how proud of me they are.  You know who's proud of me? Me!! That's fucking who's proud. You guys are just hangers on! Maybe someday I will see myself clear to explain what has happened and where all this vitriol comes from, but don't hold your breath O my droogs and only friends.

razorblade security blanket

I gather the sharp shattered bits of my life, broken like a mirror, about me like a blanket of thistles and glass shards. I cuddle up close in it, wrap it tight around me, the nicks and nips of the sharp edges the facsimile of a life I once knew but had cast aside for the shiny plastic existence I was offered.
I take my blanket of self-doubt and self-loathing with me to the beach. In the dark of the late night the ocean is a hungry mouth that wishes to feed on the leftovers of the me that once was. I smile.
I can swim out until my arms give out or the sharks eat me. Considering the lateness of the hour and the day of the week and the lack of interest in what part of my life is falling to pieces on the tile of my tiny dirty apartment, it will be two days before anyone notices I am gone. The idea of already being gone before anyone would even notice the departure makes me smile further.
I walk to the lapping ravenous waves. My toes are ice-cold in the bite of the water. I look up at the sky with  bitter blood-red tears, swallow up the stars in the onrush of the surf of my sobbing, laugh in a gulp.
And turn to walk home.

I wish...

I wish I was an astronaut, so when you missed me, you'd at least know I was flying over you, looking down. I wish I was a superhero, so when I was gone, you'd could at least be proud of what I was doing. I wish I was a dog, I'd faithfully be at your side all the time. I wish I was an angel, and I would ever and always watch over you, and tuck you safely into bed at night, and kiss you whisper quiet on your forehead.

Deep in the cell of my heart I really want to go...

some part of the scrawny, gawky kid who hated himself and never fit in still lingers within me, and that fucker has a knack for doing and saying the wrong thing.

this should, i spose, be a happy post about my graduation from community college with an associates of science in drafting design. and it is. but it's funny how whatever i write is colored by the mood i am in at the time. so it will seem a little incongruous when i say i am feeling a bit like a failure.

now, come back and talk to me tomorrow. all will be well, i will have cast off this funk caused by lack of sleep (i used to be permanently exhausted due to the kids not sleeping and now i am permanently exhausted because after i do what i have to do, i do what i want to do and there just isn't enough hours in the day.)

so, back to my graduation. i thought my grades in more recent times would be more than sufficient to bring up my cumulative gpa to graduate with honors. i had an abysmally poor showing at my first year of college, where i barely went to class let alone read or study. well, apparently how i do the math and how they do the math are not the same and i came in just below the "with honors" cut off.

small matter. i was still excited (in my ben stein kinda way) to be graduating, and proud of myself (in my self-deprecating manner) of my accomplishments. it felt good to walk across that stage in my robe and mortarboard, tassel tickling my ear. it's taken me an incredibly long time to sort of "come into my own" so to speak, and my graduation ceremony was a sort of culmination. and i got to have my wonderful, lovely wife (who told me i was the hottest guy up there) and my two boys (who cheered and kept shooting me thumbs up or double index finger pistol shots combined with winks) there, and that was at least as important as getting the diploma in the first place.

i am looking for jobs, but the prospect looks bleak around the area, so further into summer i may look for a job on base that is unrelated to my actual degree but that would at least afford me a paycheck. can't be too picky these days, can we?

i don't know what to say about the tiny misfit riding along inside me. i'm never gonna be fully rid of that guy. and i couldn't be, or i would cease to be me. i wish i could suppress him more. but then, again, i would cease to be me. as i said, this too shall pass, let's focus on my graduation.

darth sardonic

life is unfair

sometimes i think it is unfair how deeply i feel these things. perhaps i should've never had kids. perhaps i should've never fallen so deeply in love. perhaps i should've never kidded myself about my own worth in this vast universe. perhaps i should've listened, and accepted these dark moments that well up in my life.

now, allow me, o beloved non-existent readers; allow me to wallow. if you've been listening to this discordant little note in the great symphony of the world wide web for any length of time, you know the bend in the corner is coming soon.

and no, because some of you will worry, nothing is wrong between me and the wife.

but i am feeling the stresses of my life, o my beloveds, my droogs and only friends, o thou ptitsas and malchicks who keep coming back here and tolerating my incessant whining.

the oldest, apparently, is too smart for school. he can't be fucking bothered. schoolwork gets in the way of more important things (i.e. video games, drawing, writing stories, and building lego creations that are mind-boggling in their detail.) and while all those things in and of themselves are also amazing and have their place, i have to sit across the table from a surly, glowering nine-year-old and explain to him that if things don't change, he will be repeating the third grade, and then watch him shrug like it's no big deal.

and after futilely fighting that battle, i get to drag myself, exhausted and sapped of energy, to my own classes where i was promised several hours to work on a project to find out the teacher changed her mind, and in fact, i will indeed be going back to the school for most of tomorrow to get the project where i want it to be.

it is time. it is time for the overwhelming sense of failure to bear down on me like a stone might weigh upon a swimmer's back. i will flounder. i will sink. i will accept my fate.

perhaps i don't deserve these gifts. perhaps i am not one to the task. perhaps i never was.

and i have always secretly held that when the drowning man accepts his fate, he reaches an enlightenment beyond our ken; a simple peace and glory in knowing that he will in fact die at the bottom of the ocean with lungs full of water. and he will smile as it happens.

but you know what? i also believe in some supreme spin doctor who is turning this universe on its axis. and i believe that that motherfucker, for whatever reason that is beyond my ability to comprehend, that bastard believes in me. that son of a bitch gave me all these goddamn gifts in the first place.

and i don't fucking believe in going down without a fight. ok, maybe the sinking swimmer reaches some fucking enlightenment. good for him. i am just too fucking thick for that shit. i am the dumb cunt who will fight it till the very last breath is ripped from my lungs and then spend the first few weeks in heaven bitching about it.

fuck these tears that course my cheeks. a means to an end, nothing less. and i am not drowning, i just need the sun to shine again, i just need to feel that this momentary lapse is over and i am standing upright and tall again.

life is unfair. that might be the whole fucking point. and i don't have anything i have without being the luckiest dumb twat who ever walked the face of this whole green marble in all its history. westley said it best, in the princess bride: "life's not fair, highness. anyone who says differently is selling something."

a few more hours of listening to codeine, and crying, and i will have sorted which parts of the stone belong to me, and which parts i need not carry, and i will kick strongly to the surface, and exuberantly shout: "look at the pretty rock i found at the bottom of the ocean!"

thanks again, o thou, the long-suffering, for allowing me to get there on my own.

darth sardonic

...and elderlies are like children

i have often held the view that overexposure to my mom gets to be frustrating.

so when my wife said she was going to fly my mom out for christmas/new years for five weeks, i said, "oooookay." with my eyes wide and a certain lack of confidence.

my wife was going to be gone for a week of that time, early in the visit. now, o thou beloved non-existent readers who have repeatedly returned to watch the decay of this tiny rotting carcass in the woods of the world wide web will know that i never do well when my wife is gone. it isn't as bad as it was the four summer months that she was away to parts east. i learned alot during that time. i give myself a routine, a purpose for each day. but i still spend however long she is gone generally exhausted, and mildly hungover.

the point is, when my wife is gone, i have a routine, and it works for me.

having my mom there completely messed up my routine, and i spent the days while she was gone trying to figure out how to keep my mom entertained.

the five weeks slid rapidly down from there.

in many ways, my mom is like one of the kids. she waits to pounce on something you say so that she can interject with a story she is dying to tell that really has nothing to do with the original conversation in the first place. matter of fact, much like the kids, she is barely listening to what you say, except to find that moment when she can talk about something wants to talk about.

my mom has long eaten her meals and told stories at the same time. everyone does this. but my mom, in a neat and gross twist, rather than saying a sentence and waiting to tell more until she has chewed her food, or at least tucking partially-chewed food into her cheek and hiding her mouth while talking, my mom will chew and talk, and move the food around her mouth. i learned a long time ago to be looking elsewhere when we eat and she is talking. however, that doesn't stop whoever is across from her from occasionally getting pelted with bits of chewed food.

my mom doesn't know how to eat at home. what i mean by that is, if she is hungry, she immediately thinks, "let's go out." i had met my weight goal of 195 (and surpassed it actually) and then frequent meals out gave me ten pounds back.

i like to drink. this comes as no surprise to anyone who has read a couple of these posts. my mom enjoys being on vacation with us, because she will have a kahlua and cream or two every night. but as a couple weeks go by, my mom start making little digs about how much i drink. now, i wait until the kids are in bed. on weeknights i might have a couple. one day, i am getting a nasty cold, and skip the nightcap. since i wasn't making myself one, i forgot to ask mom if she would like one. a few minutes later, i hear, "you're not drinking tonight?" in an expectant kind of way, as if to say, "i want a drink." you can't have it both ways, mom. i either drink or i don't drink.

despite the fact i clean every day, she seems to think i live in squalor. pointing out that i need to clean this, or pick up that, or put those away. usually while i am already busy doing about ten other things. one day while i was making lunch for the kids, for instance, and trying to bus the kitchen at the same time.

but the big one is when she starts involving herself in how we raise the kids. no. 1 had a very bad day at school. he acted out. several times. then he was acting out at home when he should've been writing out the punishment paragraphs that he scribbled all over earlier at school. he's scribbling on them again. he is blaming anyone and everyone else rather than taking the blame for his own actions. i have calmly, collectedly, and with a bit of wit and humor (thanks, dad), tried to rectify the situation, tried to get no. 1 to understand the consequences of his actions, and he simple wasn't having it. what am i left with? well, from experience i know that the only thing that is going to get no. 1 to break through his funk is a solid display of dominance. and yes, when i do it, the wiseacre part of my brain runs a picture of two wild birds, their feathers flared in an attempt to look bigger than they are. and that is almost exactly what it is: i get in no. 1's face, i yell at him loudly, my chest is out, my arms are back. it is almost surgically effective.

but behind me i hear my mom, "honey, i think maybe you need to go upstairs for a moment."

no. no. what i need to do is impress on my oldest that things don't always go his way, and that choosing to act out against others when they don't is the wrong choice. and the only way to do that is to step into the bastard dad role. i am not hitting the boy, or touching him in any way. i am not calling him names. and i have already tried the calm, loving approach, and it failed miserably. i tried it a few times. i am left with the dad whose eyes flash lasers, whose voice booms like thunder, and who is clearly not allowing any leeway for goofing off, acting out, or in any other way defying what he is saying right now. i sure as fuck don't need my mom diving in mid-tirade to call me out like i am still the age my oldest is now.

my display is effective with the boy, and he does his homework calmly. he is relaxed. he turns his day around, finally. and i tersely and succinctly explain to my mother that i was never not in control at any point the entire time.

which didn't stop her from butting in again a few other times.

i love my mom. and despite the scathing nature of this post, i still will. i always will. and i accept her shortcomings, and as a result, try to stay away from her enough so they don't become the kind of issue that they did this last visit.

thanks for letting me vent here, which is sometimes the only place i can get it off my chest without hurting feelings that don't deserve to be hurt.

darth sardonic

lucidity has its price

if one strives to truly be self-aware, then life; and everything in it, is a highly complex thing.

the human mind simply cannot accept and process the sheer magnitude of the gray scale that then presents itself. boundaries must be drawn for the sake of sanity.

not everything can be forgiven; not everything can be despised; not everything can be loved; not everything can be remembered.

there are different versions of the truth; and one is no less true than another.

sometimes i choose to leave the glass empty on the counter.

i can be benevolent and magnanimous and in the very next breath vitriolic and selfish.

why did the gods bless us with the ability to see an array of colors if we are supposed to look at everything in either dark black or stark white?

this is not a missive; this is not a manifesto. this is not an answer; this is not a question.

this simply is.

lying through my teeth...

it's not really a lie. but it isn't the whole truth.

life is a rollercoaster, with its ups and downs; its highs and lows. the only sure thing is that the biggest highs are precedent to the massive lows.

not that lows are always bad. in fact, in a rollercoaster, the lows are the part that gives us the greatest exhiliration, ripping the screams from our mouths, tossing us into loopty loops and twists and turns that cause us to laugh out loud. the highs lure us into the complacency that make the lows twice as exciting. or twice as agonizing.

to say that my wife and i are perpetually happy isn't really a lie. but it isn't the whole truth.

sometimes our relationship is one of complacency. the day to day takes hold, the classes, the job, the doctor's appointments for the boys, homework and parent/teacher conferences. this is not unhappiness, it is mundanity. it is life.

to confuse my analogy a bit, i consider these the lows in the rollercoaster of our existence together; my wife and me.

these lows generally coincide with highs in another part of my life. in this case, the band, big dumb animal. in the somewhere near 8 original songs we have mastered and perfected. in the hours spent with s the drummer and s the guitarist in the garage drinking and playing through our setlist and laughing and the euphoria that follows a rollicking rock song performed to perfection when three distinct individuals read each other's signals exactly and the song thrums to its climax in such a way that makes the heart beat faster and the fist pump involuntarily, ending in a steady hum of that final guitar chord that wrapped everything up so magnificently.

even the momentary lows of a pourly-performed song are their own version of highs, punctuated with humorous and harmless ribbing: "i fucked that one up." "yes, yes you did. have another gin and tonic, lush."

and without instruments in our hands, these highs are continued in conversations only found amongst those select few who are truly kindred spirits that fate or god or the universe has inexorably pulled together to be present in each other's lives at this time.

and this is how guitarist s and i found ourselves having a drunken conversation at a cuban sandwich joint in downtown ybor city on a random tuesday night as we waited for it to be time to watch roger waters perform his legendary "wall" concert.

this is how s told me he had been talking to this old friend of his for some time, how he felt connected to her, and she to him, which was really saying something considering what they had both been through individually prior to the moment they began talking again. and he isn't just whistling dixie. i can't speak for her, but personally, i have watched s battle with himself over the loss of his wife to another man, the woman he expected to be with forever. the woman he would pine over (until this sainted friend reentered his life) and with whom he would share custody of his daughter, the apple of his perhaps tainted eye. i know how huge this confession is. i know how hard; how tentative and unsure and yet needing-to-be-there-so-badly it all is for guitarist s. i also know how much i have moved into his inner circle of closest friends as he shyly, watching closely for my reaction, admits they sleep together--

"till our phone batteries die."

in the back of my head, i hear the death knell. not of my dearest friend and kindred spirit, s. but of something that i selfishly think of as all mine, even though it involves two other individuals.

the woman who has made s believe in love again is some 3000 miles away, in arizona.

and i know that big dumb animal is terminal.

what i didn't know is that the doctors would give it such little time.

it's been months since we have met in my garage with drinks and a plan for wowing audiences. life for one or another always gets in the way. we were on the verge of playing our first gig of all originals complete the three of us on our own instruments in front of a real (and not culled from friends and acquaintances) audience.

but chances seem good that s will be in arizona, perhaps for good, the end of this month.

this low in big dumb animal's rollercoaster coincides with the high; the rekindled spark, i think is the popular phrase, between my wife and i.

when s breaks the news, i am all for it. through our many and varied (and often inebriated and uncensored) conversations, i know this is something he must do. and i want him to. and i am always a proponent of love.

i tell him, "dude, this is your fucking happiness. if you don't play this hand out, you will regret it the rest of your life."

it's not really a lie. but it isn't the whole truth.

because i am happy for him, and i really want him to go, and see where this fork of his road takes him. but in the same breath, this fork takes him away from me. and i wrestle between the selfish desire to have this friend who actually gets so many aspects of myself that no one else would, and whom i get in kind be truly happy, and the selfishness of having him here, and available, and in my garage helping me see through the boring patches of my own life with a placebo excitement that can be derived from a small group of like-minded individuals playing music together in a way that most bands only dream of.

i pass a couple days being sad to the point of tears on the inside, and smiling on the outside.

until my wife asks me about something seemingly innocuous. at ten thirty at night. as we lay in the dark bedroom, my fingers against the skin she feels is "too fat" but which my body only registers as electric and smooth and pleasurable and i laughingly say a sentence that is light and airy. that leads to a comment about s' impending move. that leads to a half-hour discussion of how happy i am for him and at the same time so unhappy for myselfish self.

it's not really a lie. but it isn't the whole truth.

and she laughs when i say that i would be lying through my teeth if i didn't say that it just plain sucks ass that he is moving, for me. but she also knows it's the truth when i say that i am happy as can be for s.

and in that simple unplanned spontaneous shared conversation when both of us should've by rights been sleeping, i worked out my issues with the demise of something that was beautiful and as ephemeral as the final big plummet/loopty loop/twisting spiral that precedes the braking, clicking entrance back into the terminal of the rollercoaster, followed by the laughing, adrenaline-fueled conversations of the individual experiences that brought the different riders to that spot at that moment.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

and o thou beloved non-existent readers, thou stalwart though silent few who continue supporting me even as i myself only pass by this rusty nail in the sandlot of the world wide web on occasions when i am seeking answers only i can give, should you seek to see big dumb animal at the height of their career, performing their greatest hits as if there were no tomorrow, ask me how, and i will point you in the right direction.

epilogue, epitaph, epithet

ultimately, i am a big fucking asshole.

the car formerly known as the interceptor now resides at a junkyard. n my neighbor was right. (though he was completely sorry, refused to say "i told you so" (despite me saying he could, as i was man enough to take it) and said he says that stuff and then hopes for the best because he knows i love the car.)

but let's be honest, o thou droogs and only friends, the beloved non-existent readers who have truly (apparently) become non-existent, when the shop called, the repair was much more expensive than expected, and would take four times as long as expected, and hey you know what? i like to think i am man enough to admit when i have had it; when my number is up.

going car shopping tomorrow, and no, i will not be looking at lincolns.

and furthermore, a simple little tagline: i'm a dick. well, sometimes. i try not to be, but like every other fucking homo sapien on the planet, i have my moments. i try to own em when i cotton to it. so this is your opportunity to say "fuck you, darth, ya cunt!"

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

sometimes the smallest things...

it really is the little things, o beloved non-existent readers.

it's the "fuck this, i've had it!" escapism drive down i-95 at speeds in excess of 70 mph in the interceptor with rainer maria emoting "you just can't turn me on and off" and the sun shining through the window and the ac blowing ice cold.

it's the pleat in a pair of my dressy pants and the looks i draw as i walk to my class (hey, i'm happily married, i aint dead! everyone still wants to feel sexy, right?) to knock the kiosk presentation i have been unduly stressed about out of the fucking park like a grand slam homerun that wins the pennant.

it's the final project for autocad 3d that won't be easy but won't really be hard either and for which i have already picked my subject.

it's the friend of mine from my pictorial drafting class that says, "you wanna do the final project as a team?" which i do. and while the teams have to do more work total than the individuals, if you divide it evenly between two people, it ends up being less than you would have to do if you did the project alone. we will be designing a bar/club for the international space station, since he wanted to do a bar, and i wanted to continue with my space theme.

these tiny things become the real life equivalents of a sit down on a hard stool and a bag of ice for my bruised face, and i know that i will be ready to step back into the ring at the bell and take a few more hits.

and what is funny is i used a line from rainer maria's song "catastrophe" for my post about being on the ropes, when in reality i should've used something from this song by them:

southpaw, by rainer maria

Cracked knuckles, and my fists
are bandaged up for the fight.
Am I ready?
There's the bell.
How many rounds can I go?
And how can soften the blows?
Can I avoid them altogether?

But my heart isn't in this.
I'm supposed to be a seasoned fighter.
It feels like my first hit.
(and it hurts like...)
I didn't see this coming anyway.
(yeah, it hurts like hell)

So don't tell the crowd...

Black eyes, black threads, and bandages for the fight.
Who are the odds on,
me or him?
How many tricks do I know?
And how can I soften the blows?
Or can I avoid them altogether?

But my heart isn't in this.
I'm supposed to be a seasoned fighter.
It feel like my first hit.
(and it hurts like...)
I didn't see this coming anyway.
(yeah, it hurts like hell)

So don't tell the crowd,
but I'm gonna let my guard down.
You're the only one now.

My heart isn't in this.
I'm supposed to be a seasoned fighter.
(I'll let you take me)
It feel like my first hit,
and it hurts like hell.
(I'll let you take me)
Black eyes, black threads, and bandages.
(I'll let you take me)
It feels like my first hit,
and it hurts like hell.
(I'll let you take me)
My heart isn't in this.
I'm supposed to be a seasoned fighter.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

Catastrophe keeps us together.

i am on the ropes.

a few years back i posted about how i never quit fighting though i am low, and bleeding, and hanging onto a turnbuckle for dear life.

and i am reminding myself of having said that. over and over. because, o dear beloved non-existent readers, who so lovingly commiserate with me time after time after motherfucking time and still keep cheering from the cheap seats; shouting: "get back up! keep going! you can do it!" i am reminding myself that i have said this because i am on the ropes, and i really want to toss up my hands, toss in the towel, wave the white flag and sink onto the bloodstained canvas for a very long nap.

i want to piss it all away into a mud of self-loathing and self-pity and wallow like a fat pig.

needless to say, it's been a rough couple of weeks.

i kinda don't want to dwell on the why too much. suffice to say, in the past week i have: taken my car to the shop for the third time in a month, thought i was done with my kiosk project in pictorial drafting only to find out today that the teacher failed to let us know clearly that there was still more to do, ordered a new cell phone after i washed my old one with the jeans the cats used as a litter box one morning, and showed no. 1 pictures of homeless people so that he might start getting prepared for the career his current attitude is setting him up for.

that's the cliff notes.

i am exhausted. i've lost count of the rounds i have gone, let alone the jabs and uppercuts that have landed soundly. i am reeling, punch drunk and dreaming of being normal drunk instead. i can't remember the last thing the coach said as he slathered me with vaseline and spread medication on my swelling eyes and nose.

i don't quit fighting.

i also remember a time when a very tiny darth sat in a very tiny room at a very tiny ronald mcdonald house and begged a very large god to take a very tiny break on a very tiny family and its very tiny newest member in particular.

i was punch drunk then, too. i was seeing double. i was stumbling around trying to avoid any more blows, cause i knew another one would lay me out.

i was begging for the bell like i'm begging for the bell now.

i won't stop fighting. i won't. but a nice sit on a hard stool, a swig of cold water, a bloody spit in a bucket, shouted advice from a grouchy old cuss with a stogie jutting from his gob; these might be in order.

i'm hanging in there, o my droogs and only friends, but i'm tellin ya, one more solid punch and i am going backwards through the air, my hair whipping sweat, like brad pitt's character in snatch to lay flat out on the boards, watching from a watery metaphor below as my opponent kicks me repeatedly in the ribs.

hey, god? can we ring the bell, just for a bit, please?

darth sardonic

...with fingers crossed for everything you do

i had been bugging dr d for weeks. ever since i noticed the twin "vw" (as in volkswagen) buttons he had on his corkboard in his office.

"you've got two, n my corkboard in x-ray is barren."

incessantly, almost on a daily basis. man, dr d was a laid-back guy who managed to put up with a lot of shit from me.

time passed. i bugged him occasionally about the buttons, but it never really was a big deal.

eventually, i forgot about it.

then i was having one of those days. the days when it's the little things that kill. when the morning starts off with something stupid and annoying, and then moronic coworkers exacerbate the situation, and then you get a short lunch because someone else was lazy, and an unusual amount of extra patients come in and you are the one expected to get them all situated. the kind of day where i joke about ropes or razor blades. the kind of day where my eyes sag.

by three in the afternoon, i feel the unshed tears of aggravation and frustration fighting their burning way to the surface, and i go to hide out in the x-ray exposure room. this room was perfect for this purpose, as it had a regular door instead of the revolving door most x-ray rooms have. so i can shut the door, lock it, turn off the light, and anyone that might need me would have to knock so as not to unexpectedly expose x-ray film to light and render any films i might've taken useless and subsequently face my justified wrath. and after the knock, i can say "gimme five minutes" and make sure i have washed the tears away and look normal when i come back out.

i shut the door slowly. flick the lightswitch down. sit in the beat up discarded computer chair that serves as my office chair (this little five by eight room being the closest i have ever come to my own office in my entire air force career, and i get to share it with two developing machines, a counter where i keep extra films and cleaning supplies, and a sink).

i cry. i let all the frustration out in little streams down my cheeks. i hang my head and see teardops falling, glinting red in the subdued exposure room lights.

i do what needs to be done, and decide i better clean up before someone realizes i have been in here with the door shut for awhile.

as i rinse my face in the sink, i look up. on the bottom of my corkboard, oddly-colored in the red lights, a single "vw" pin is tacked into place.

i cry more, but not from frustration this time.

the other day, when i hit the cat, as i was still feeling wracked with grief and guilt, i got a text from j, my buddy from autocad classes:

what kind of coffee u want? at panera

it seems that invariably when i feel lowest, some show of support and love appears unexpected.

truly, i am one of the luckiest motherfuckers ever to tread.

darth sardonic

Sing for the children shooting the children sing

shit, o my beloved non-existent readers, happy shit soon i promise.

another song; don't watch this and "swim" back to back without a shitload of tissues nearby:

"Sing" (dresden dolls)

There is this thing that's like touching except you don't touch
Back in the day it just went without saying at all
All the world's history gradually dying of shock
There is thing that's like talking except you don't talk
You sing
You sing

Sing for the bartender sing for the janitor sing
Sing for the cameras sing for the animals sing
Sing for the children shooting the children sing
Sing for the teachers who told you that you couldn't sing
Just sing

There is thing keeping everyone's lungs and lips locked
It is called fear and it's seeing a great renaissance
After the show you can not sing wherever you want
But for now lets all pretend that we're gonna get bombed
So sing

Sing cause its obvious sing for the astronauts sing
Sing for the president sing for the terrorists sing
Sing for the soccer team sing for the janjaweed sing
Sing for the kid with the phone who refuses to sing
Just sing

Life is no cabaret
We don't care what you say
We're inviting you anyway
You motherfuckers you'll sing someday...

You just keep me hanging on...

there are moments, o my beloveds, my tried and trues, my droogs and only friends, o thou faithful who keep stumbling back to this sodden, neglected little spitwad on the world wide web; when the wife is in l.a. for work, and the content of gin and dry vermouth in my blood is overshadowed by the ability of the extra cocktail onion to absorb it; when mark renton is dying on the screen to the dulcet strains of the velvet underground's "perfect day"; there are moments, o my beloved non-existent readers, when i aproximate what might be a rock bottom, and the tears swell, and in this moment of anguish and emptiness i free myself from the shackles of the cares of the day, and i put myself in god's hands, and my eyes open up like broken faucets and all the demons poor out of me like a wash of the soul in a backyard tub, and i am pinned to a line to dry in the sun.

i wish only the best and most beautiful for all of you out there.

oh, and better news and laughter tomorrow, my friends, si o si, come hell or high water.

darth sardonic

* the doorbell rings.

"shit, fuck." i curse, palming the tears out of my sockets with the heels of my hands, encouraging my face into a facsimile of something that belies a bawling, woe-is-me session seated lonely in front of the computer.

i believe in god, o my beloved non-existents. cause at 9 o'clock at night on a wednesday, in the dark, there on my porch, are some friends i haven't talked to nearly all summer.

and cause god knows i am a stupid cunt, and won't reach a hand out to pull myself out of my funk.

so he drops the perfect distraction on me at the very fucking instant i needed it. and now, instead of trainspotting, i find myself watching fanboys and every trace of that "rock bottom" i was empathetically touching a moment ago is all gone, and renton has gone off to die on someone else's tv for the evening, and i can honestly text back to my wonderful wife:

"yeah baby i am ok actually"

and you were here with me the whole time.

thanks*

get bent

in the time between the scratch of the flint against the steel and the crackle of the first drag of acrid smoke, the weatherman announces there is a 70 percent chance it will rain punches.

like salmon, fighting the current to fuck then die, we clog highways and byways.

a team of experts has spent months working in a lab to create chaos. destruction is for sale, and if you can't afford it, your doctor can prescribe you pills so you no longer care.

which costs more, books or bombs?

we once needed clothing, a roof over our head, and the crops to grow. we now need cars and phones and laptops; a pill to keep us awake, another pill to put us to sleep, and a third pill to deaden the hard edges in between.

do our fits of melancholy coincide with the death of someone that touched our lives but with whom we have lost contact?

a man picks a fight at a bar so the other patron will hit him, and he can again feel human contact.

god is watching us, but only when "american idol" is a repeat.

darth sardonic

running late and hitting all the red lights

today at the doctor's office, the easy listening station played green day's "i walk alone." i am getting old. i feel disconnected from the things that are important to me. awash.

i want more coffee, more sleep, more money, more time. i want answers, and i want them now.

the time to stop global warming, the time to take action, the time to reverse the effects was 50 years ago. i hate to be the one to tell us, but we're fucked. on the flip side, how do we know this isn't the natural order of things? centuries ago, the earth went through a massive ice age. prior to that, the climate was more tropical in areas that are now more temperate. noah wylie battles to save the polar bears. did anyone battle to save the mastodon? diplodicus? the saber toothed tiger? fuck the polar bear, they can't handle the heat, it wasn't mean to be.

and maybe that will be curtains for us as well. maybe that is as it should be. we've been doing a bang-up job of fucking shit up on this little marble on the massive game of onesies for several millenia, and maybe our time is past.

i hate being the bastard dad. i fucking hate having my hand forced. i deplore that despicable, cold-hearted cocksucker motherfucker that is brought to the surface when the nice dad, the easy-going fella, gets sick of being walked all over. i would drown that cunt in alcohol, bury him under a mountain of legos; but the truth is, sometimes i need him. pass me another gin n tonic...?

twenty-something fucking years later, and the truth is; the arguments, the questions, the concerns, the battles: they're all the same. some recurring cycle. a skipping record. a cd player set to random repeat. is there no running from it? no escaping it? do these concerns ever resolve? or is it like clothing styles? wait long enough, everyone will have forgotten, and we will spring them anew on the general public like we had some magical original idea.

this too shall pass.

darth sardonic

so much to tell...

i have an oddly out-of-place desire to cry.

the month of december is busy. busy with so many comings and goings and battles between the things i want to do and the things i have to do.

rest in peace, bettie page.

my wife and i were discussing her death, and it occured to me that so many of my personal icons have passed in the very course of my own life: salvador dali, allen ginsburg, kurt cobain, george carlin, johnny carson, william s. burroughs, joey ramone, and now bettie page.

not only did she open up a new dimension through her erotic pictures, but she did it with a certain naivete that makes her stand out from all the other pin-up girls of the time. and even later in life, when she became a devout christian, and left the life of posing for kinky photos behind, she never felt bad for that aspect and time in her life.

my guitarist, s, is getting out of the air force, and going to kuwait as a contractor for a year. he leaves in a couple weeks. so we got the band together in my garage (my drumset is, for all intents and purposes, now complete) and spent hours jamming, the music flowing out of us and molding and melding and intertwining like some magical incantation. my wife later said she thought it was wonderful how one of us could start off with something and the rest would just join in and for the next five minutes or so we would create something so true and real and amazing. s is easily the most talented guitarist i have ever had the privilege of jamming with. and he is leaving. not only is he leaving, he is probably moving to arizona after he gets back to the states.

we stayed up to the wee hours drinking and laughing and talking about chuck palahniuk, david lynch, salvador dali, story ideas we have both had, music, life.

lord knows, i am going to miss him terribly. and while we will still have a band, i just don't think it is going to be quite the same.

i go in tomorrow to get surgery on my ear. i am sure all will go well and i will be able to hear just fine.

a few minutes ago, all the cove members were out trimming the fronds of the palm trees in our yard, while i was on the phone with jdot rdot who is going through some shit and needed a listening ear. i am surrounded by good friends and family, people for whom i have so much love, and who, strangely enough, reciprocate.

i am off soon to pick my mom up at the airport, and the holidays promise to be a beautiful and wonderful and spirited time.

and yet i just can't seem to shake this feeling of melancholy...

darth sardonic

Place a curse on the hearse we're driving...

Cut the brake lines, end up dying

soon i will get to find out which one of the less-than-stellar choices gets to fuck up my life for the next four years.

we had a union meeting today, the subject of which was johnny-come-lately, the new assistant superintendant. lo and behold, corners were cut, rules were bent, protocols were skipped, and comme ce, comme ca, o my beloved non-existant readers, o thou patient and long-suffering hepcats and kittens, it is likely that johnny c. l. will soon find himself back to being a flunky lawnmower man like the rest of us. (we're actually hoping he will get frustrated and quit, because he has proven himself to be a roundmouth and untrustworthy, as well as never having bothered to learn to properly use much of equipment we utilize on a daily basis, and therefore making him a danger to himself and others) as for the boss (recipient of implied bj's and arrogant prick, as well as clearly perpetrator of cronyism), at the very least he will get reprimanded and hopefully knocked off his high horse. it is even possible he could find himself shitcanned. which wouldn't bother any of us (except johnny c. l. perhaps) in the least. the superintendant, who we all dig, and who we figure has found himself uncomfortably lodged betwixt igneous and hardpan in this situation, will escape unscathed.

no. 2 recently had eye surgery to correct a strabismus (opthalmologist-speak for lazy eye), and it was a smashing success. i could see a notable difference the very first time he opened his eyes, and now that the bruising is gone, he looks rather dashing.

i myself will be going in soon for a same-day surgery to fix the hearing in my left ear. yours truly, your humble narrator, has had a fairly significant hearing loss in his left ear for as long as he can remember. since we work for the military around noisy machinery all day, they require regular hearing checks. this led to me being referred to see what can be done. turns out, the bones in my inner ear aren't functioning properly, and a little snip, snap, paste, n duct tape, and i will be able to hear again. at least a 90% chance of success. i am excited, and trying to imagine what it is going to be like to not say, "huh? what?" all the time.

no. 1 is getting assessed for adhd. like he has so much trouble focusing in school that it is actually causing him to fall behind. his teacher is quick to reiterate over and over that he is not dumb, or lacking in any kind of mental capacity. he is just so rambunctious and unable to concentrate. so he will probably be on meds to help settle him a bit.

i just feel, lately anyhow, that we get one thing out of the way (no. 2's eye) and something new and equally, or even more, aggravating pops up. can i just get a year or two where things just get better, without having to trade some other thing in?

anyhow, i wasn't really necessarily headed anywhere with all this, just getting the latest out there to keep you, the beloved non-existants, the alphas and omegas, abreast of the current events in the sardonic household.

darth sardonic

You spit-shined my corroded halo,

Then left it to decay.

sometimes when i say, "i don't want to be here" i don't just mean the place i am in, but this whole fucking planet.

i get a burning urge to scream, punch someone, break something expensive, kick an endangered (and preferably cute) animal, burn a rainforest to the ground, press THE button.

as luck would have it (and this is the big reason i believe in higher powers), i was tasked to do things today that allowed me to listen to my ipod loud enough to be annoying to anyone who might get close, by myself, with the sun beating on my back and the sweat in my eyes.

i can ride my bike with no handlebars...

and:

we rise together, we rise together, we rise together.

back soon when i ain't such an ass, o my beloved non-existant readers.

darth sardonic

a day no balloons would die...

i left that last post up way too long. sorry. but ty to one and all for the support and comiseration (not really sure how to spell that--obviously), and to dj for offering to share her contacts.

i had a nasty dream this morning that no. 1 dove into a deep, fast, roiling river fully clothed (and with a very heavy coat on) while i was carrying no. 2 and before i could convince him it would be a bad idea. and there i was stuck, watching him swirl away and torn; do i leave one here to get the other? in the dream, in the end, i went back to where we were staying (across the street from the river) and woke up my drunk neighbors to get their help. by then, no. 1 was coming down the street towards me. i woke up before i could unleash all my fear and anger on him to never do that again.

this dream left me feeling... hollow, scared, frustrated, and a bit depressed. this is my mortal fear, to be placed into a position where, due to the actions of one child, i am forced to put both children into less-than-savory conditions. or worse, choose.

the me in my dream was so panicy and angry and upset he was actually standing on the banks of the river with no. 2 in hand, dancing from foot to foot, crying, and shouting obscenities at the disappearing boy.

i pray to the gods that tolerate us that i never find myself in this position. i think i might immediately qualify for the looney bin (or at least once my kids are safe. i think i would actually remain semi calm until i had taken care of my kids, and then, well, then all bets are off!)

friday, we took the boys out to a nearby restaraunt that caters to families and children. ate wonderful dinners, had too much ice cream sundaes, and left with a balloon each for the boys.

"now, let mommy and daddy hold these balloons, cause if you let them go, they will float away and we will never get them back, ok?"

"k, daddy." no. 1 says, dancing along and smiling, happy as a clam.

"oh my god!" my wife says a moment later.

the balloon i am holding is floating away. the ribbon tied to the plastic keeper had come loose, and the balloon is rising over the palm trees while i still firmly grip the cheap white ribbon intended to keep it grounded.

i apologize profusely. and feel horrible. and am mad at the same time at the unlucky position i have been forced into by circumstances beyond my control. naturally, it looks like i just didn't care, and allowed the balloon to float away minutes after saying i should hold it to prevent that very same thing from happening.

no. 1 fights bravely, but by the time he is in the car, he is bawling. my wife goes back inside to get another balloon.

she brings it back, and hands it to no. 1. he is smiling through his tears, and thanking mommy profusely, and waving it grandly in the air when BAM!

it pops.

he is crying again. and we are unable to do anything to console him, except convince no. 2 (who says, "here, no. 1, you pay wif my b'loon.") to share his.

we decide to stop off and walk along the mostly-empty beach before going home. no. 1 and no. 2 share the balloon, happy again, and pleased at the prospect of a walk along the ocean.

we park, and take our shoes off to cut down on the amount of sand getting tracked everywhere. i open the back of the vehicle to toss no. 2's shoes in, but he is dawdling getting them off.

"darth! darth!" my wife shouts at me.

"what?" i ask and look up in time to see the horrified look on no. 1's face, the angry look on my wife's, and then pan quickly to see the third balloon arcing gracefully over a stoplight, its ribbon trailing behind it like an errant kite tail, hellbent for parts unknown.

it had floated itself free through the back hatch i left open to toss the shoes into.

an overwhelming wave of uselessness and ineffectuality slams me like a hapless swimmer getting buffeted by a riptide. no. 1 is standing there, biting his lip, eyes full of new tears. no. 2 is pointing and jumping up and down: "the b'loon! the b'loon!" the wife looks disgusted.

and for a moment, i am alone in the universe, futile, worthless, battered, tired, kicked in the face by fate, too exhausted to even raise my hands to the heavens and shout out: "why?" i have let everyone down. i have failed. i have fucked everything up, and regardless of how much i try, how much progress i make, i always will fuck everything up.

after some introspective time walking the empty sand, and after my sons' short term memory softens the edges of the balloon incident, i self-deprecatingly quip, "i guess god didn't want us to have balloons tonight. just wasn't meant to be."

my wife laughs, but i still feel that tiny, ice-cold hollow in my chest.

darth sardonic

o my beloved non-existants. originally the balloon story was intended to have a comic turn, and make everyone laugh. strange how sharing about my dream completely changed the mood of where i was going with the post. i often find that blogging (and writing in general)does this on me: i may intend to start out one way, but my writing is a very organic thing, and often "gets away from me" and becomes something i hadn't originally intended. is that to say that i didn't really feel the things i wrote about the balloon incident until today, in light of the dream i had this morning, and the mood it left me in? no. no, i really did feel like i had fucked things up. but things still ended up happy and overall not gloomy and even a bit humerous after. all those bits got left out in the wake of the mood i woke up in, and started this post in. and i am sorry, really, cause it appears between the last post and this post that i find myself in some sort of depressive downward spiral. which is actually not the case, simply two (three) seperate incidents that have combined themselves to appear as if i am sitting here after two weeks of being low with razors against my arms crying out "why me? why me?" worry not, o fair non-existant readers, this is simply not the case.