Breathing is All the Inspiration I Need

Last night, I had the good fortune of breaking bread with one of my longest online acquaintances.

Do you know how CATHARTIC it is to mention blogger names in a conversation and the other person knows what the hell you're talking about? Eclectic and I mixed it up over buckets of alcohol, including a couple of three-olive martini nightcaps. I had to fight off no fewer than a half-dozen men who are obviously enamored with the woman and remain a. somewhat witty and b. functionally coherent. I don't remember much of how it turned out, except that I felt like Big Man on Campus because she was with ME, and could have continued long into the night had I not had a speech to prepare for in a few hours.

The small group of 400 turned into a 700+ crowd, and although I've spoken to larger groups and adore public speaking, it still took me aback.

It was a brutally busy week, so I did not have time to stop by many sites and flame you all as I had hoped. I think I only managed 1 or 2 comments the whole week, including this nonsense at Heather's site:

"totally unrelated, but i always thought that if i were to start a band i would name it 'The Whom.' Because then when people asked, 'Do you play for The Who?,' I could always answer, 'I think you mean to ask, 'Do I play for The WHOM?'."

Anyway, I'm sure no one is interested in the speeches I periodically give to my beloved AmeriCorps, but here is what I said today.

Shari, all I can say is it's a good thing you, I and Steve Perry do not live in the same town. I'm afraid it would turn out as tragic as the lyrics of Foolish Heart.

* * *

A Speech

Don Wise, who I feel like I've known for years and years, and who has graciously asked me so many times if I might be willing to participate in these AmeriCorps events, which, while I've never admitted before is one of the truly great honors I've experienced, having served as a Member to be given the opportunity to give back, asked me if I might also be willing at this Serves Institute to say a few words of final inspiration, and my first thoughts were, my God Don are you trying to get fired? Have you heard some of the things that I've said? Have you not seen the members walking out of my sessions in tears? How many consultants have you actually seen burned in effigy? But by then the medications kicked in and I was once again able to think rationally and answer his request with a resounding "YES I"LL BE THERE JUST NAME THE PLACE AND WHATEVER YOU DO DISREGARD THE PHOTOS IN THE POST OFFICE THAT LOOK LIKE ME." After all, big hair and glasses is a common look these days.

Apparently.

Work with me, people.

Besides, we should trust in Don’s wisdom. There’s a reason his nickname is Don Wise. Or is that his real name? I wonder what he’s hiding? Sadly, we may never know. But one thing I do know is that whatever his real name is, he asked me to say something inspiring, and last night over martinis, I started to think of what I might say in 4 hours , and I figured I might recycle some previous speech, because after all this is the Pac NW, and we're all about recycling ad nauseam, which kind of reminds me of how birds feed their young, though it is the rabbits who are the true masters at recycling, since they eat their food twice, and that's a good lesson that you can sometimes take recycling just a step too far and not even close to an excuse for allowing your children to put rabbit droppings in their mouth.

Lesson. Learned.

Still, I was all set to simply repeat the speech I gave at the AmeriCorps launch in Seattle, but apparently a couple of you were at that event, so instead of boring you with a repeat performance, I thought I might simply use the speech I gave two years ago, but apparently a bunch of you were at that Launch as well, and then I was like Don, my god, don't these people know they're allowed to eventually leave AmeriCorps, or is this some sort of Amway scheme, and he was like, why do you think I've asked you to motivate them.

Actually, he didn't really say that, but he did try to sell me some shampoo/toilet cleanser that I'd never heard of. And it tasted it good, too.

But the more I thought about it, AmeriCorps is sort of like a Pyramid scheme, you know, if you do things right. After all, what is a pyramid scheme except a way to fool others to do the work necessary to give you the lifestyle you so desperately desire? And the life you desperately desire looks like this: equal opportunities for all men and women irrespective of their backgrounds, quality education for all children regardless of their economic, physical or ethnic status, a clean environment, neighborhoods that care for residents, safe streets, consideration, thoughtfulness, understanding. This is the lifestyle you seek, and it's not something you can accomplish on your own. So you spend one year of your life trying to set an example for dozens, perhaps hundreds, sometimes thousands of other people who will carry out the work you've started. Who will eventually give you the life you want for yourself, for your family, for your friends.

That's a pyramid scheme, people. So be selfish and hoodwink as many fools into giving back to your community as you can. I hear there's a sucker born every minute.

That would make an awesome slogan for a pacifier company, by the way.

Okay, so many of you stopped me in the hallways in the last few days and thanked me for speaking about Barry Manilow and Journey at the Seattle Launch, and I haven't even gotten there yet, but don't stop believing, it's coming

But first I want to get back to this notion that in your final few months of service, you truly can leave your thumbprint on the credit side of the checkbook, evidence that you really did make a sacrifice for the betterment of society, an example of wholesome goodness that not even the best breakfast cereals can match, a shiny, obnoxious instance of righteousness that you can shove in your kid's face when he shows up with a mail-order bride he somehow acquired through his myspace account.

Okay, who am I kidding, we might as well speak about Journey and Barry Manilow now, cause I'm sure I've lost half of you, already. My god, Don, I'm so sorry. Or as the bloggers say, So PERIOD Very PERIOD Sorry PERIOD. WTF.

And you know what freaks me out more than anything about AmeriCorps members? It's not that they're willing to work full time for the same wages NEWSIES used to make before Black Tuesday, it's that they KNOW who Barry Manilow is! I've spent 10 years grooming and individualizing my gray hairs so that I can hang out respectfully with your supervisors and you blow all my preconceived notions out of the water by reciting word for word the lyrics to Mandy and Copacabana.

So I cornered a young fellow in the hall and he explained it thusly, 'AmeriCorps members know about Barry Manilow because he was featured on a television show called American Idol where amateur singers compete for national recognition, and I said, no, that’s Star Search, and he looked at me funny, and that’s kind of when he realized the last time I turned on a television set, MacGyver was the number one show, and I realized that slowly, but surely, I am drifting away from the youth of today, but when he started to point out there must be a generation gap between us, I wanted to argue that I’m not really that old, but by then it was time for my afternoon nap, and I hadn’t even taken my Metamucil.

And honestly, this isn't a speech about motivation, it's a plea of desperation, because I have children, and I so very badly want to walk the streets of my country at night and feel safe and feel proud and that means that I rely upon you for that to happen. I am the original progenitor of this pyramid scheme, and you are my investment. In your life, how many times have you had someone on their knees looking UP into your eyes for hope rather than trying to dictate where your path should lead, because I say this in all seriousness and humility, I'm am very selfishly relying upon each of you to make my world a better place. How many times have you had a supervisor or parental figure candidly admit that their hope lies in you? Because that's what I'm doing. As motivation, I imagine this might backfire, but all of you inspire me. All of you give me hope. This is a lesson that I have learned.

And I so very much love to share this lesson, because I was blessed as a child to have learned that those generations behind us often have as much to teach as we thought they might have to learn. Seeing the absolute brilliance of children sharing toys on the playground. Experiencing the fact that a child's close-up view of the world might just be simple enough to allow us to reach truth and meaning. Realizing that all of us have much to learn from each other, how dare I try to motivate you, you darling, darling people. I now count this among my earliest lessons, a nascent lesson, right behind 'squeezing is an inappropriate way to get someone's attention' and 'drinking from the pickle jar is only allowed when all the pickles are gone.'

It's a good lesson, nonetheless.

All of you are very much like children to me, that sense of innocent hope. Whether you are 18 or 80, you prove to me that in spite of all the commercial slogans I've heard, failure is a perfectly acceptable option, but giving up is not. All of you have faced hurdles in the past 9 months of service, but none of you have quit, because you know that no one likes a quitter. Except when it comes to smoking. Or you know, heavy drinking. Or anything you might call a vice. Well not ADvice. Advice is the only good vice. And I'm completely out. Sorry.

Okay focus Brandon, you're supposed to motivate them, not frighten them.

And don’t say that last part out loud.

Rest assured people, most of you will not turn into me.

But honestly, most of you have already turned into pretty good people.
I say this not only because not one of you has turned me over to the proper authorities.

I say this mostly because in those few instances when I've seen you in my sessions, in the hallways, yes, even in the processing room of the county jail, I've seen a reflection in your eyes of what once made me feel good about myself: that I held onto the childhood innocence that once impelled me to share my toys with the other kids in the sandbox, that now impels me to share my lessons with you, and that will one day impel me to share your story with my own children. I may have been awful at geometry, but I can assure you, that this is one pyramid that has come full circle. Thank you all for your commitment, you crazy, innocent people. Enjoy your last few months of service.

Isaiah 19:9

We sit around the commons assigning nicknames to the passersby.
Bubbles she says, and laughs.
I point out a Cornfed and a T-Bone.
Chocobunny.
What the hell does that mean?
A girl walks by wearing a t-shirt that reads chocobunny.
The Man.
Stan or Dan?
Fran.
As in Francis or Frances?
As in Butch.
She pulls out a hairbrush at that moment, bristles.
Those who work with combed flax will despair,
The weavers of fine linen will lose hope.
That I would cover her in voile from head to toe to keep her.
Charlie.
That’s not a proper nickname.
You are my Charlie.
Who was he? I ask.
A boy who used to brush my hair.

Shall We Play a Game?

Tomorrow I head for parts better left unknown for a business trip not to exceed four (4) days. And of course, you know what that means…

ANONYMOUS SNARK

Normally, I’m obtuse enough to mention where I’m headed, which means my rival bloggers are able to ascertain that it is ME dumping HATE and FILTH into their comment boxes. But not tomorrow. Emboldened by the protection of an unrecognized and as-of-yet-unblocked IP, I will visit those bloggers that annoy the living hell out of me and release such flameage as to result in nothing short of THIS.

So tomorrow through Thursday, from a town YOU CANNOT BE SURE I’M LOCATED, please imagine me in my boxers in some hotel room behind a computer screen reading from a sheet of paper that says the following:

DRINK EVERY TIME…

1. A BLOGGER THREATENS TO BAN YOUR IP
2. SOMEONE WRITES ‘DON’T FEED THE TROLL’
3. A BLOGGER THREATENS TO ‘TURN OFF COMMENTS’
4. A BLOGGER REMINDS YOU THAT THIS IS HIS/HER SITE
5. SOMEONE AGREES WITH THE TROLL OR AT LEAST THE TROLL’S RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH
6. SOMEONE SUGGESTS, ‘IF YOU DON’T LIKE THIS SITE WHY DON’T YOU LEAVE?’
7. SOMEONE BEMOANS THE COWARDICE OF ANONYMOUS COMMENTATORS
8. SOMEONE SUGGESTS THE TROLL IS COMPENSATING FOR A PENILE DEFICIENCY
9. SOMEONE RECOMMENDS SIMPLY IGNORING THE TROLL BECAUSE YOU’RE ONLY REACTING HOW HE WANTS
10. SOMEONE WRITES, ‘HEY, THIS ANONYMOUS TROLL HAS THE SAME GRAVATAR AS THAT ONE CHILD MORON. WTF?’

Hmmm. I may need to pilfer a few bottles of activated charcoal from the fire station for all the liquor that I will soon be consuming in the fine city of _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ , _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _.

Acts 2:13

In typically lo-sensitive fashion, that's how I shot off a message to a listserv I have frequented since 1997, a forum that had recently begun discussing faith based federal funding, and in an attempt to be funny I blasphemed the lord, and lo, there was offense and I was e-smoted and burned by flame.

I honestly don't intend to offend, and every time someone publicly points out my faults, I'm the loudest with the Amens from the peanut gallery, cause my faults they are fruitful and multiplied. But nowadays, turning the other cheek leads to accusations of demagoguery. I'm no victim. I've worked hard for all my criticisms.

Instead, I decided I would make a reasoned appeal that a little harmless humor can often be the bread broken between friend and foe, and my faith, while fractured and roadburned, remains almost superstitious in its determination. So I chose to reference a biblical passage that might make my point for me, in the words of elders, inspired from above.

/logs on to biblegateway.com

/performs search for 'humor'

"Sorry. No results found for "humor" in Keyword Search."

Fuck.

/performs search for 'joke'

"Sorry. No results found for "joke" in Keyword Search."

Good God, I thought. Do the characters in the Bible never laugh?

/Job 5:22: "You will laugh at destruction and famine."

I could do famine jokes. And destruction, well, there's endless material there. My dad always said the world was a funny place, right before he destroyed our lives. I didn't know he was quoting the Good Book.

In the end, however, I decided against carrying on with the discussion, and allowed the complaint to stand. After all, the Bible's a big book, and I would no doubt fall victim to an even more appropriate counterargument, that might, perhaps, hit a little too close to home.

/Acts 2:13: Some, however, made fun of them and said, "They have had too much wine."

A Retraction

Apology accepted, Captain Needa.

Apparently there were several errors of fact in my last post, as pointed out by my beloved wife. One, James Blunt is not only not gay but he also is the furthest opposite of gay except during those times when Alex prefers to fantasize about him going all Heathen on Jake. Second, Alex would not leave me for James Blunt. In fact, she’s taking me with her because apparently they need me to respond to Mr. Blunt’s fan mail since I spend all day on the blog anyway and am mildly funny when depressed and vice-versa.

Second, I would not in fact 'get over her leaving' and what I meant to say was:

‘Alex eez vonderful vife, vith many crealities (?) and that I am big caca head.’

That’s what I meant to say.

Second, I’m not actually allowed to use the Dyson.

Finally, and this is important,

‘James Vlunt is vay cooler than stoopid Steve Perry.’

I may not be posting for a while, people.

My Buttercup

Over the weekend it was determined that, given the opportunity, Alex would leave me for James Blunt.

The irony, of course, being that last month I bought her a ticket to see Mr. Blunt in concert come April 3rd.

I know this sounds crass and heartless, being that we just celebrated our 11th anniversary, but I’ll get over her leaving.

I sort of already have someone lined up.

Yes, I will be formalizing my relationship with our new Dyson.

Reenactment 1

/cue the ducks

Neighbor: I saw that you got a Dyson! Which model did you buy?
Me: The Succubus.
Neighbor: Huh?
Me: I take my leave, good sir.
/closes curtains

For those of you uninitiated, let me just say that in fact or fiction the only device with anywhere near the sucking power of my Dyson is Count Rugen’s Machine in Princess Bride, and then only set to full throttle. In fact, I accidentally lifted the Dyson while it was running and the sound was frighteningly similar to a drunken semi driver running roughshod over the rumble strips along Interstate 5 at 75 miles per hour.

RAAHRRRAHRRRAHRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Reenactment 2

/cue the ducks

/Alex barges in to find me alone with the Dyson

Alex: You truly love each other, and so might have been truly happy. Not vun couple in century has dees chance, no matter vut zee storybooks say. And so I theenk no man in century vill suffer as greatly as you vill.

/Alex switches on the Dyson

Brandon: NOT TO FIFTY!

/But it’s too late. I lie motionless, my oats sown all over the room, a dervish grin the only sign I once knew happiness.

My last word sounds very much like ‘Buttercup…’

Of course, I only died in the FIGURATIVE and not LITERAL sense of the word. In fact, I’m actually re-energized. Revibrant, you might say, if that were an actual word. And I’m fast at work on a list of special attachments I will be sending to the design team at Dyson HQ.

Your move, Blunty.

This Day of Steel

Don't look down is what you say to someone afraid of great heights, a ploy to keep those fears in the back of your mind, its furthest reaches, behind childhood memories only occasionally brought from storage, perhaps by mistake or accidental trigger. I have allowed my curiosity for old boxes to keep me from my tasks-at-hand, spending far too much time with those lost reminiscences, turning over packages that should remain forgotten. The threat of digging too deep, uncovering a day of near drowning, a night of violence, a morning of shame, I come across an older fear, and wind up looking down.

Don't look back is what you say to someone afraid of great regrets, a strategy for repressing the thought of harsh words, and unfair reproaches. Even more than the fear of heights, the fear of regret the provenance of the past. Dwelling in memory, turning over nights without apologies, mornings without forgiveness, days of anesthesia. I wonder why I would have committed these acts, and wind up looking back.

Don't look ahead is what you say to someone afraid of great loss, but every year on this occasion, this anniversary of steel, I manage to imagine the color of the coming sky, remembering that not all animals see the sunset in hues of red and orange, and wonder how I might survive transformed into one of these creatures, blinded. It is the fear of losing your hand that keeps me from delving into the future for all but one day a year. Today is that day. Today the heights, the regrets and the loss will be put back into storage. Today, we look ahead.

Stress Test

For years, Brandon's colleagues mocked him for walking around the office with a flashlight. But now that he was hopelessly trapped beneath the rubble of One Main Place, his only thoughts were, 'Who's laughing now?'

I post every day. Really, I do. When I don’t, it means that something is wrong. It means that either stress has started to crack through the armor, or my belief system is somehow crumbling. Since I haven’t posted since Monday, it probably means BOTH.

/cue the ducks

I like standing up to the challenge of stress. I even used to have a practiced reply to the following interview question:

'How do you deal with stress?' (I FUCKING LOVE THAT QUESTION, BY THE WAY)

Before I was a former ex-volunteer EMT/Firefighter (FEVEMTF), I looked at stress in different ways. Sometimes, it was appropriate to deal with stress through laughter, such as when a family's house burned down. And other times, decor called for a more meditative response, such as the time when the Journey reunion with Steve Perry fell apart.

But these days, I feel like I primarily deal with stress in one of two ways: malt liquor or fortified wine.

Interviewer: How do you deal with stress?

Me: I basically down as many Steel Reserves as I can between the closing bell and 6pm.

Interviewer: And then you're able to go about your normal job duties?

Me: You'll probably start to notice a lot of missing office supplies and my internet traffic pointed at Monster.com and Craig’s List’s ‘Missed Connections.’

Interviewer: Well, I think businesses these days are used to replenishing pens and legal pads...

Me: Computers, office chairs, faucet fixtures. I've gotten really good at siphoning gasoline from the company car. Black gold, they call it.

Interviewer: Have you ever been fired from a position?

Me: I'm grateful for the work that Employee Assistance counselors do. Pure magic.

Interviewer: You really shouldn’t smoke in here.

Me: This a union shop?

/fade to ducks

In short, I have, much like Hi in Raising Arizona finding himself driving past convenient stores, found myself perusing the Help Wanted ads of late.

Of course, I also ACTUALLY STOP at the convenient stores. But with 22 ounces of malt liquor costing less than one dollar, there’s really no reason to put a panty on my head and hold the joint up.

/scene 2

This morning before I left for work, Tristan asked me what my favorite dinosaur was.

Me: Uh, the pleiosaur?

Tristan: Pleiosaurs weren’t dinosaurs.

Me: Pfft. what do you know? You're seven. Of course they were. Don’t make me turn this car around (ed. note – We aren’t actually in a car. We’re in the kitchen.).

Brainiac: No. Dinosaurs were land-based. They didn't fly or swim in the water.

ME: WTF ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! DO NOT DECONSTRUCT MY HISTORY, YOU LITTLE SHIT! I WAS WATCHING ‘LAND OF THE LOST’ BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN A TWINKLE IN YOUR MOTHER’S EYE.

(ed. note – In fact, I was watching 'Land of the Lost' before his MOTHER was even a twinkle in HER mother's eye. mmmm. barely legal...)

But sure enough, after some thorough wikipedia e-search, I found that neither pleiosaurs nor pterosaurs were actually dinosaurs. For fuck’s sake, I sure as hell didn’t need that shock to my system on a day when I was already stressed out by the heady smell of gasoline on my lapel. Bitter memories give birth to Thursdays.

So in revenge, when my son asked me why George Washington was called the Father of our Country, I told him it was because he had six separate child support payments each month as I walked out the door.

One deconstruction deserves another.

Ready?

A few years ago, my friends at my old office decided to jump on the Ready.gov fake captioning bandwagon. Yes, this has all been done before, but you can never be TOO ready.

Or can you?!?

/cue sinister music

/and the ducks


Yeah, in case of nuclear radiation, stand behind a single sheet of drywall. You should be fine.


Bitch slap anyone who runs towards the exit.


People basically respond in either one of two ways to Kevin Federline's music.


Out of curiosity, I offered myself to the handsome stranger, but when he was done, I was overwhelmed by shame.


Pfft. You can pretty much outwalk a chemical attack.


Running parallel to the contaminated area seems like a good idea. Because parallel lines never cross?


March 10, 2003 (AP) - The FDA today announced it has banned the new 'Flaming Ass Gordita' at thousands of Taco Bell restaurants nationwide.


Thirsty for something new and refreshing! Try Ocean Wave's Totally Rad Cran-Fish! (This message brought to you by the Florida Citrus Association)


Unmatched storage is a crime.


Scrub if you want, but God still saw what you did.


Brokeback Mountain was an even bigger hit in Switzerland.


Painting your apartment during an attack is a good way to defeat the terrorists.


Terrorists make ninjas cry.


If you’re not here, I don’t know what to tell you.


Gamma rays are known to cause drastic increases in size. If you can’t fit through the entrance SMASH PUNY DOOR! GAAHHHRRR!


Now’s probably a good time to sell that condo on Main and Broadway.


You could probably drive around it.


Alice doesn’t live here anymore.


Hmmm? Anthrax in a can? Genius!


If you hear an explosion, hide beneath that card table you've been using as a desk. That'll protect you.


Test for freshness by sniffing three fabric softeners at a time.


The part where he falls is the funniest.


Try to stand in the radiation field for 5 minutes and 13 seconds. Cause then you’ll have beat the record.

perfectives

Work hard, play hard, live hard. In my formative years the fairy tales told quickly and on liquored, fading breath, presented such an appealing hope; the linear recipe for life. Study, work, raise a family. The straight line to heaven.

Mr. Sebaugh holds up a ball bearing. “Perfect sphere,” he says, and waits. When we sit mute and tired, me in the back still wet from the gym shower, he says, “Not even close.”

He explains that this seemingly flawless circle, if expanded to the size of the Earth, would be in fact so imperfect that its tallest bumps would rise higher than Mt. Everest. I think he was trying to say that perfection is cold.

Sad to say, I didn’t pass physics.

I sailed through forensics, however, understanding how to speak in front of judges, my words deemed superior to the girl standing next to me. Chalk it up to imaginary conversations with others played out in my head throughout the waking, lonely hours of my schooling. Practice makes perfect sense.

“Are you really going on this call?” she asks, hurt and incredulous, me picking up my clothes off the floor. “You can’t seriously be going on this call.”

I’ve suddenly lost the ability to speak to the friend I always wanted.

It’s a wildland fire. The summers here surprise me with their lack of rain, humidity. Endless rain for 9 months, and a tinder box July. We drive into the forest, dropping water on renegade embers, until reaching an escarpment at the edge of the Deschutes. “Chock it up,” he says, and I throw the wood blocks underneath the tires. We fan out among the trees with shovels and Pulaskis, the fire barely more than a threat. We meet at the midpoint of our secant line, the center of our perfect circle a tree.

“Jesus,” she says. “How did they miss this one?”

It’s a cedar, 4 or 5 men in breadth. Like a thumb among arm hairs, a giant in this forest of replanted firs.

“How old do you think it is?”

“Gotta be at least 300 years.”

We imagine its history in different ways. My fantasy is that this old tree simply disappeared from the eyes of the loggers. Two centuries of unremarkability perfected to the point of invisibility.

I sneak back into the house, and pass by her, unnoticed. We’ve become dedomesticates, agnostic in our affection. She wonders at the excitement that’s missing, the danger of the flames from years ago. The peril that lies patiently in the past.

But rest assured in 10 years you'll want everything you’ve lost of late.

Lessons

Hands down dumbest most ignorass stupid thing I remember hearing growing up: 'Stop your crying or I'll give you something to cry about.'

I mean, obviously I already HAD something to cry about. Duh.

Or else, you know, I wouldn't have been crying.

Why is it that the biggest a-holes in the world don’t want to let a kid cry? You TOTALLY know they did them some crying when they was little.

Every now and then I like to make a big joke out of using all those lines I remember with my own kids, ‘BECAUSE I SAID SO,’ ‘DON’T MAKE ME TURN THIS CAR AROUND,’ and my personal favorite, ‘YOU’RE NOT EVEN MY KID YOU LITTLE BASTARD, SO GO F*@% YOURSELF!’

Of course, since I don't beat my kids, those lines wouldn't work for me anyway. I mean, they don’t even flinch when I lift the beer bottle over my head. In fact, this is pretty much how it would go:

/cue the ducks

Tristan crying. Not just crying but bawling. More than likely because Naya got a bigger donut and eats it verrrry slowly.

Brandon: Tristan, please stop crying. If you'd chew your food, you know, you wouldn't have to watch everyone else enjoy what we call TASTE.

Tristan: BUT IT'S NOT FAIIRRR! WAAAAHHHH!

Brandon: STOP YOUR CRYING OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!

Tristan: Like what?

Brandon: Eh. I dunno. Herpes?

Alex: Brandon!

Brandon: Well, not from ME!

Tristan: What's herpes?

Or:

Brandon: TRISTAN, STOP YOUR CRYING OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!

Tristan: Like what?

Brandon: Alex, hand me that newspaper! Hey, crybaby, do you see these crime rates!?! Huh, do you!? And do you see this little article about property rates?!? Huh, do ya? And WTF W/ TEH GOOGLE STOCK!?! WHAT KIND OF INTERNET GIANT ACCIDENTALLY POSTS REVENUE FORECASTS ON ITS OWN WEBSITE?!? I mean, what's the world coming to? WAAAHHHH!

Tristan: Mom, why is daddy crying?





Or quite simply:

Brandon: TRISTAN, STOP YOUR CRYING OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT!

Tristan: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Alex: Dees phrase eez magical, honey! He stopped cryeeng before zee vords even left your mouth.


THE END


Whew! Thank the sweet Lord I don’t say anything stupid like they did back then!


/cue the ducks

Final Day of Happiness Regimen

Today is the final day of my happiness regimen, and according to the agenda, I must invest time in family and friendships, and that means being nice, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the internest, it’s that being nice is bad for blog business. People hate nice weblogs. In fact, they hate the nice ones so much that they usually start flame wars in the comments boxes, which almost always causes the blogger to get defensive and act evil in kind, which is great for traffic, and pretty much good for nothing else.

I’M SO READY FOR THIS.

Friendships

Sadly, I’m one of the worst friends in the world. And I make friends with great difficulty. I break attachments with seemingly no emotion whatsoever. I have a feeling that it boils down to how I reacted to being a military brat, always moving just as friendships were established. Our parents, perhaps in an attempt to make things easier on us, never allowed us to say good-bye, or to continue contact afterwards, for that matter. Whereas the other kids would have going away parties, we got stern warnings to get in the van and shut up. Friendships became poor investments. Out of all the people I attended school with, from elementary all the way through college, I have contact with absolutely no one. The last time I spoke with someone from my high school was 10 years ago.

So for my final assignment on Happiness, Day Seven, I have to say it’s difficult to invest in something that’s just not there.

Well, there is the internest, I suppose.

And what’s crazy about this is that the people who make nice with me here have such a wide array of views. And no matter what crazy shit I say, the internest always seems to forgive me. And in turn, I show my appreciation by pretty much endorsing whatever ridiculous nonsense comes out of the internest’s collective mouth! And the more I like you, the more enthusiastic I’m likely to be in supporting your insanity. If for instance, you think it’s perfectly logical to send 12-year olds to the electric chair and you get the following reaction from me, ‘Fucking A! Fry the little bastards!,’ you know I’m crazy about you.

You should totally try that to gauge my affection. Tell me something completely moronic. Tell me that every man should have intercourse with a feral cat at least once. If I REEEALLY like you, I’ll see your cat and raise you a kitten.

‘Cause that’s how I roll.

(you know, for my friend/s, in case that wasn’t clear).

Family

Ah, well now with family it’s different, because growing up, we WEREN’T ALLOWED TO SAY GOOD-BYE TO OUR OWN FAMILY. They pretty much threw us in with the other boxes and took us with them, regardless of our desire to go. More than once I had the following fantasy:

Father: I don’t think Brandon is worth our investment any more.
Mother: Well, I suppose we could leave him here with $10 and a can of soup.
Father: Now that would be an INVESTMENT.
Mother: Leave him here with nothing?
Father: Sounds good.
Brandon: YAYYY!

Well, it was a LITTLE more intricate than that. But suffice it to say that I am the world’s worst family person with one exception. To my great surprise I turned into Ward Cleaver once we had children. Even though I’m constantly drunk, I lavish affection onto my kids, bringing them gifts at every turn, playing video games with the boy, RARELY swearing in front of the girl and doing my best not to lock them in the boat when I’m hungover.

Okay, maybe Ward Cleaver isn’t the best analogy, but you see where I’m going.

Still, I am surprised at how affectionate I am with Alex and the kids. It’s a bit depressing imagining how much better I might have been for them under different circumstances. I understand that there are things I should be doing, things I occasionally see other parents doing for their kids, husbands for their wives. I’ve invested everything into them, though ‘everything’ wound up being not much more than the change in my pocket.

But the investment has paid dividends. And even though we put most of those proceeds back into trust, tonight I believe we’ll share the profits. I can’t think of any better way to wrap up a difficult, weeklong regimen.

Pizza and a round of Sorry!

Results:

For Day Seven, I Invested Time and Energy into Friendships and Family.

Do I feel a little happier?

They should slice me up and feed me to manic-depressives.

Tomorrow:

I get to go back to being unhappy and productive.

Day Six of the Happiness

Positive thinking. Oh, the power. To transport you from your ruts and valleys into erstwhile teens and twenties.

I do know this. I understand that by practice, you can attain perfection. Tell yourself enough times that you’re happy, and your bliss will blind oncoming traffic, leaving a wake of MVAs in your rearview.

Day 6 is illusion, and I feel Like God. Have created happiness. Tomorrow, I’ll rest. And ignore the little creatures I’ve left alone on the surface, who call out my name as they make each other unhappy, to please me. I’m not listening. I’m imagining perfection.

---

4:45 a.m. (yes, THAT a.m.)

I keep reminding myself to speak positively (inner voice, only). I am funny. I am fast. I have a liver that was built to last. I am clever. I am hot. There ain’t a lot that I ain’t got. Ha! But after so many years of the self-deprecatory act, I’ve found that self-affirmation feels funny. Still, I choose to follow this regime to the end, and I need to be committed.

Noon

After 7 hours of affirmative thoughts, something strange has happened. I’m not any happier, but I feel really conceited, and it’s gotten to the point that I’m wondering where my entourage is. Aren’t people as hot as I am usually followed around by mindless groupies? I’m sure of it. When I say out loud that I need to make a phone call, I expect no fewer than seven extended hands each holding an available cell phone. With unlimited minutes. Must. Think. More. Positively.

12:15

I’m positive I would like some more jalapeno poppers.

3:00 p.m.

Why am I still working? I’m better than this. You know, work. I’m above mortal roles.

4:00 p.m.

Have stopped clicking on daily stream of sexual desire spam. I really don’t need that stuff. I’m potent, now. In fact, that should be my new web URL : www.impotentnow.com

9:30 p.m.

Positive thinking only REALLY works when everyone else participates. What good does it do me to keep telling myself how hot I am if not one person will expose their garanimals to me? This happiness regime is evil.

11:00 p.m.

I am half-asleep at my desk, the alcohol so much more potent now that I’ve gone a day without. I remember positivity, and how it paves the path to heaven, and how heaven surprises. It’s a hotel in a walled city, and each day brings new adventure and exploration, and the exploration of each other dwarfs the miles of undiscovered paths outside. We explore each other in this heaven, this positive perfection, not realizing that heaven has its faults. When you die, you say farewell to sleep as you once knew it. There is no rest here, just fitful periods of inactivity in the dark, where you experience the highs and lows of change in temperature and humidity while you wait for light to peek through the curtains. And begin your day again. There is good here, and what is good is wonderful. My positive thoughts transport me to this place with you.

Results:

For Day Six, I Practiced Positive Thinking.

Do I feel a little happier?

I feel tired.

Tomorrow:

Invest time and energy into friendships and family.

Day Five of My Happiness Regime/Routine

Prologue

Smurf cannot be used as a verb. Noun, adjective or adverb, only. That’s why blog is not a good analogy.

Blog can be a verb.

Wow, this blog really blogs blogtastically.

Bloggy?

You blog your blog it does.

---

Scene from Day Four

I'm standing in the kitchen holding a glass.

Vut are you dreenking?

A bloggy mary.

Vut eez een eet?

Club soda, red grenadine and table wine. You know, pretty much the only things we had left.

You shouldn't dreenk so much.

I know.

Vell, you certainly have your vice.

Yeah. ADvice.

---

For Day Five, I have faithfully lived by the mantra take care of your health. This primarily means I have given up on 90% of my morning ritual. No third cup of coffee. No alcohol. No cigarette butts. No rodeo hooker at the horse ranch on my way to work. No hateful thoughts.

Avoiding hateful thoughts has been the most difficult. I regret that I have made no plans to visit Mt. Rushmore because it would feel good to cancel those reservations. Black Hills Gold is just tacky. I’ve already given up packaged beef for other, more selfish reasons. Forced birthing works just fine for the cattle industry. Maybe I can add ‘hold down this here leg’ to my exercise routine. 20 reps. For my health.

My health is more important to me now more than ever before, because if I die today, I am afraid that Heaven will be like they say, and there’s nothing worse than ‘I Told You Sos’ meted out by Televangelists on one side of the street and Harem Chiefs on the other. Gah. I need time to prepare if either of these extremes comes to pass in the next life.

Most of all, I need time to prepare for the ‘You make me sad’ lecture.

I’d prefer not to burn in Heaven, people. And I hope if you see me running in the shadows from the authorities, you’ll take me in and hide me in your cellar for just one evening. I promise not to make any noise. I never have. In fact, I’ve got the epitaph pre-engraved:

Here lies one of the quietest of boys.
Truly. He really never made that much noise.

---
Did I mention that I didn’t drink any liquor today? It could explain the strange hallucinations I’ve been seeing in the world. And for dinner I had vegetable soup and diet cola. And I have exercised, working abdominal and chest muscles. I rode the stationary bike at the 6th highest tension for 30 minutes, while listening to Chapter 5 of the Prince of Tides in audiobook format.

I have not acted so healthily in such a long, long time.

As a child, I climbed a pecan tree in the front yard to build up my upper body. And I ran away to strengthen my legs. And I listened to what people told me, to exercise my mind.

I am sad that I can no longer do any of these things.

Results:

For Day Five, I Took Care of My Health.

Do I feel a little happier?

I feel heartbroken and desperately in need of a drink.

Tomorrow:

Practice positive thinking.

Day Four of My Happiness Regime

If nothing else, perhaps I’ll find that my near-sightedness will help me see all of life’s small pleasures, laid out before me, all within my grasp, though a few, to be fair, protected by barbs and thorns and poisonous leaves. I am grateful today for how the colors free, how spring’s bouquet adds depth to the light, still low in the sky, not for the promise, but for what’s already arrived, forsythia and heath, to be enjoyed alone. And lilac buds, comically fierce, like little girls dressed in full battle gear.

What I’m saying is that before I even began this regimen of happiness, I knew dividends would be paid on Day 4. I could exist smiling among men of riches because I have always appreciated the smallness of life, from tiny quartz pebbles that still line the mud puddle in front of my grandmother’s house to stolen kisses, the one crime for which one could never find an impartial jury.

Keep your mansions, your helipads and paella etiquette, all I want is an emotional odyssey, monumental heartache and the possibility of losing everything I hold dear.

At the window, I watch him lying in the grass, having found his wood chip, his acorn and his cat’s eye marble. All he needs now, he says, is the elusive 4-leaf clover. He’s playing alone, talking to himself, occasionally scratches his head. Instead of going out to join him, I take another sip from my glass and wonder, selfishly, if anyone ever stood by the door and watched me silently at that age. I want to pour out the liquor, and tell him about quitsies and keepsies. That the first three leaves are for hope, faith and love. That I live among a kingdom of tiny princes and maidens.

Results:

For Day Four, I woke up early enough to catch the morning’s light on my south-side garden to snap shots of a few small things that bring me great happiness. And for awhile, I was as happy as I’ve been in weeks.

Do I feel a little happier?

I’m not yet sold on the regimen, but neither am I complaining.

Tomorrow:

Take care of your health.

Day Three of My Happiness Routine

How unfortunate that I suddenly find myself living in a world befallen with bloodletting and despair, and yet cannot name my enemies. Any wrongs committed against me were so long ago as to have fallen outside the statute of limitations, rendering dubious any forgiveness I might offer. Their debt to society long since paid. I regret this is the case, because from what I know of forgiveness, the act itself is transformative, resulting in some sort of runner’s high or smoky mountain fever or flagrante delicto.

And yet even with the incentive of a cheap fix, I came up against the stubbornness of the blank page when I sat down to list my enemies, those who conspire against me and my aims, which, while admittedly few, hold dear, ink-permanent places within my Day Planner.

My Enemies:
1. Substance.
2. Myself
3. Yellow Jackets
4.
5.

You’ll notice only one of these is an actual person. And I abuse Substance far more than Substance abuses me, so much so that it is I who graciously offers the following apology: Forgive me, poison elixirs which draw me out of myself, giving me courage to write and wrack and scar my body.

I forgive the countless yellow jackets which have laid their venom upon me and my family.

Apparently, all that’s left is to forgive myself. I am my own worst enemy, as the saying goes. But before I forgive myself, I suddenly remember another saying, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. This, of course, is linguistic trickery at its finest, because obviously the enemy of your enemy is you. So all this really means is that you are your own friend. These two sayings, therefore, cannot live together in the same paragraph, because they have opposite meanings and in the process of canceling each other out would appear blank on the screen.

I was able to get around this by actually posting the above text in white.

Results:

For Day Three, I’ve listed 3 enemies, and was frustrated in my attempts to forgive them all. And as I’ve proven, it is impossible to forgive myself.

Do I feel a little happier?

I think ee cummings sums it up nicely:

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive.

Tomorrow:

Notice Life’s Small Pleasures

Day Two of My Happiness Regime

I’ll address the state of my happiness up front and admit I’m far from bliss, even farther than I could walk in a 7-day journey, and I’m soon to find myself awake and barely sober in well-worn party clothes on the bathroom floor firmly entrenched among the tiles of Day Three. But regimens often seem harder than they really are in the beginning, much as love feels more intense than it really is right before you move in.

So hope remains, etc.

My task for the day is:

Random Acts of Kindness

I probably should have planned better. I am familiar with good deeds. Though I do not talk of my years of volunteering for the fire department in those terms, I do recognize that I saved a life here and there, and that I made some small indentation upon the chrome surface of worldwide hatred. It would still fuck you up mightily if it were to run you over. I should have cut a fuel line.

So I started the morning trying to imagine how I could be kind, randomly. Then I looked up ‘random’ and understood the inherent fault with this particular REGIMEN OF HAPPINESS.

How can it be random if it falls specifically on Day 2?

My ATTEMPTS at (random) kindness bordered so close to comical that several were actually held for questioning, while others were given free flight lessons in Florida. In both Craig’s List and Technorati, I performed searches for ‘in need of’ and ‘in desperate need of,’ and mostly found personal ads with guys offering angle shots of their cocks and other shots short of right angles of any sort.

It reminded me of those few times when following an emergency call, I wound up helping a sick or injured person utterly undeserving of any help whatsoever, and subsequently felt dirty, and I know you think I’m being facetious, but I talk to God, and I can tell you that before helping each of these people, His exact words were , ‘Your call, Rogers. Either way.’

Amen.

Nevertheless, I did randomly strike up a deal with kindness throughout the day, but it is not in my nature to talk about my good deeds. Please believe me, however, when I say that one of those kind acts made me as happy as I could possibly be. And another almost nearly so.

One thing I did do (past tense of the phrase I hate most in the world – ‘do do’) was to finally give up on meat. I saw some PETA (YES, THAT PETA) film, and it caused me to waste all my good deedliness on our porcine brethren. My good deed is that I’m giving up meat. Honestly, I gave up pork a while back, and beef to a lesser extent, and only RARELY eat endangered species such as cougar or spotted owl, and then ONLY NOT TO CREATE AN UNCOMFORTABLE SCENE.

Rest assured I would never risk my internet traffic by taking bacon away from anyone, or making people feel guilty, but I really, really like pigs. I didn’t like watching them being shot by a bunch of ignoramous rednecks. And believe me, if booze could only be manufactured from slaughtering animal babies I would be the first in line to jam the skull saw into the partially birthed foetuses.

Yes, I also made a donation to PETA. I’ll be honest. I NEVER in a million years thought I would turn over my funds to PETA. But I’m trying to attain happiness. I’m willing to do almost nothing.

Results

For Day Two, I’ve performed ‘random’ acts of kindness, that were not random, and debatably kind.

Do I feel a little happier?

Well, kind of. But I didn’t control for external variables, namely 1.5 liters of Carlo Rossi Blush.

Tomorrow:

Forgive your enemies.

Day One of My Happiness Regime

Today, being Day One of my visit to the Newfound Land of Happiness, I feel a preface is in order. More than happiness, I believe in baLANce, and for me balance means the law of averages keeping you safely entrenched among the excluded middle. A perpetually happy life is no life at all. I know that for every blissful moment, and I’ve had them, moments where I could not support the weight of my own head how full my thoughts were of sitting in warm water against soft skin, there must be an equal and opposite reaction. What part of the roller-coaster do you enjoy the most? The height of absolute fear, holding on to all that’s dear, flung to the edges of your limits? Or those brief moments suspended at the top, knowing what has transpired and what is to come? Anticipation and memory are my drugs of choice. Uppers and downers.

I never take painkillers without a whole lot of bourbon.

List of Things for which I'm Grateful

The easy answers, of course, would be my wife, my children, my liver, but no one ever (insert appropriate and intelligent analogy here) by doing things the easy way. Instead, I tried to recall obscurities that led to some bit of memorable contentedness.

But for the record, the things for which I am most grateful are my wife, my son, my daughter and my liver.

1. Beat boxing. A couple of years back, Alex and I were having some argument or another, and I beat boxed the national anthem. SHE WAS IN TEARS. I am grateful for those moments when inanity and silliness and levity and a good beat can break the fever of impending doom.

2. Suet. I'm a little obsessed with attracting birds to my backyard, and that's not just some sick metaphor. And the Oregon Juncos, the Steller’s Jays, the Spotted Towhees, and the Varied Thrushes really go crazy for the stuff. I am grateful to rendered fat, which more than likely contains one of your pets.

3. Watusi Cattle. Every morning I drive to work by some guy's house. The man is a loon. He has turned his yard into a Watusi Cattle museum. Every morning the solitary bull with massive horns comes out and grazes. I love watching the heads of the drivers in front of me, rubbernecking and mouthing the words to WTF. I am grateful for life’s little non-violent quirks.

4. Forsythia. It’s the first flower to bloom this year. I am grateful for yellow blossoms.

5. Courtesy phones. Helena wrote a post that reminded me of a time before cell phones when good-byes weren’t so easily corrected. In those days, the happiness of a three-day fling could easily be balanced out by an absolute and devastating and permanent parting.

We are both very young in this memory, never an excuse, but always a qualifier. She drops me off at the airport, and I know that I cannot call her again. Or see her. Or lay on my back in the grass with her head on my chest by the lake when the heat gives way to the damp Midwest night. I’m not any good at this, so she puts my fingertips around the handles of my luggage and walks quickly to her car and drives away. She merges into traffic before I take my first step towards the attendant waiting curbside.

At the gate I think I hear my name. And again. The tinny, static-filled sound of my name. I stand up and look around. There is a white phone attached to a pylon near the newsstand. I pick up the phone and when the operator answers, she asks my name and transfers me to another line.

She has pulled over apparently, unable to make it home. I can picture her crying at some gas station, trying to take the edge of the hangover off the sudden drop in dopamine. She’s like a story in a foreign anthology, the slight differences between our cultures enough to seek translation in the pages of a dictionary.

'hi.'

'you paged me.'

'i know.'

We really don’t say too much.

But even now, all these years later, I always listen closely to the airport intercom.

I’m grateful for second-chance farewells.

Results

For Day One, I’ve listed 5 things for which I’m grateful.

Do I feel a little happier?

No. Not really. But sometimes the truth is like a second chance. (Dar Williams, ‘After All’)

Tomorrow:

Random Acts of Kindness

I Am (Soon-to-Be) Happy

I was talking with someone (fine, myself) the other day over wine (fine, Colt 45s) about happiness (porn). And he said he had seen something on the internest about the keys to happiness, so I did a google search and discovered that someone at the University of California at Riverside had discovered a secret recipe, seven steps which would lead towards a more satisfying and meaningful existence.

So I'm on it, even though this is how the conversation ended: 'I don't WANT to be happy, goddammit! I like having shit to write about!'

Meh. I'm sure I'll mess it up anyway and wind up unhappy and equally productive (I wrote roughly 10,000 words in February on my blog. Good God, WHAT A WASTE OF WRITING.).

Here is the 7-day plan, in case anyone else out there wants to get happy with me:
Day 1. List of things for which you're grateful
Day 2. Random Acts of Kindness
Day 3. Forgive your enemies
Day 4. Notice life's small pleasures
Day 5. Take care of your health
Day 6. Practice positive thinking
Day 7. Invest time and energy into friendships and family.

So I suppose the first step is to list all those things for which I'm grateful. But I'll put that off til tomorrow, cause right now all I can think of is booze. BOOZE MAKES ME HAPPY. I have a feeling that's not an acceptable answer.

Tomorrow is Day 1. The next day is Day 2. Etc.

Tomorrow I will list those things for which I’m grateful. Off the top of my head, I’m grateful that my brakes don’t make a funny noise. I’m sure I can come up with something else.

In the meantime, back to talking with my friend about porn over malt liquor. I’ll be damned. It’s working.

I feel a little happier already.

Damn.

* UPDATE *

I like the following: Apple, Origami and Web 2.0.