The Love Poem I Can’t Seem to Write (Songs for My Tribe)

The Love Poem I Can’t Seem to Write (Songs for My Tribe)
06/29/2017, Deon Mumple

It’s still not good enough, I’ve written the same poem four times now.
I keep trying to say it just right, keep trying, but I don’t really know how.
How do you say this thing, this feeling? What are the right words?
I don’t want to say the same sounds I know you’ve already heard.

It didn’t turn out those times before, when your hope needed fulfilled
And those last two times, when you swore, no more, after the dream was killed
I don’t want to be that way,  I want to be different, and never see you hurt
But I know the times I’ve failed before, don’t trust me,  trust me, you’ll get burned

I’ve written this poem five times now, just trying to say it right
I want to make the promises and keep them, so we always win the fight
I want to be superhuman, and be heroic, but at the same time, be real,
But I don’t feel real; I’m up and down without flying, can’t even control how I feel.

I’ve written this poem six times now, and it’s never going to be perfect
The same as I know about you and me, but I’m not, and you’re not, and we’re not.
I’m afraid, you’re afraid, it’s not going to work, but I hope you’ll give it a shot.
Like this poem, I’m trying to write it right, and keep on writing it wrong,
Me versus verses that don’t have choruses, and a form that’s far from correct
Sometimes even the best composers build a bridge to write a decent love song.

I’ve written this poem seven times, this is the last time, then I’m through.
It may never be exactly right, about like trying on the wrong sized shoe,
But if a hope is just deferred but somehow I know it was meant to come true,
Maybe mixed up words will make the longing fulfilled, so I can win and keep you.

Motivation, Emotional Drain, Science, and Music Therapy.


Here comes the rain.  Again.  Annie Lennox and her instrumentation both sound like rain falling.  Today the rain came again with thunder and lightning, scared the dog, made me worry about power surges, and sapped my motivation.  I have to force myself, because things don’t get done on their own.

Mrs M is doing laundry, brainstorming about meal plans for next week, and she’ll go shopping later.  I took out the trash, in the rain.  I’m still a bit damp.  I set up the dishwasher and turned it on, and just put away the clean dishes I washed this morning.  There are always dirty dishes, no matter how hard I look for the last one.  Three or four show up right after the water is out of the sink.  I have a list of things to do today, and it’s because I want them done.

I want to break out my instrument and practice; it’s been a while since I’ve done that.  But that would be recreation and therapy, not “work.”  Mrs M reminds me that clothes don’t fold or hang themselves, while I’m mustering the energy to face the rest of the dishes.  Why that tone of voice drains me, I do not know.

I want to clean, sweep and mop the floor with bleach.  I want to do some work for work that I didn’t feel motivated to do at work.  I brought the thing home with me to possibly do stuff.

I also want to do nothing, curl up with the dog and take a nap.

But he needs to go for a walk soon.

This is why I like music playing loudly when I have stuff to do:  because the other noises de-motivate me while, they think, “encouraging” me.  By guilt.  I want to listen to something that’s not  the other noises, to shut out the other voices, but I don’t know what it is.  I know it isn’t running water or rain or “words of encouragement.”  I don’t want to think about this past week.  Failure and depression, added to depression.

My daughter was watching Bill Nye “save the world” today and he talked about science, medicine, homeopathy, and bullshit.  He talked about sound therapy, and the girl he sent to get a treatment said honestly she went in an unbeliever, endured treatment a skeptic, and left not feeling any better.  But what if it’s about your faith, which he would call “the placebo effect?”  What if it’s not the right sound, so she didn’t feel any better?

I’m going to see if some good music motivates me.  Fuck you and your lack of faith, Mr. Nye.  You’re not going to save the fucking world with science.  You can’t even save yourself, let alone help me.  Although, if you’re free, I have vacuuming that needs to be done.  I’ve got stuff to do, and I’m going to try to stay focused and motivated and shut out all the discouraging, draining noises.

We’ll see if it’s a victory.  We’ll see if I find the  right sound.

I’ll let you know.

What music motivates you?

A Song for Chris

I want to cry, don’t want to cry,
Fuck you, death, Why don’t YOU just die
I’m tired of grief, and time, the thief
I want to kill death, watch it die.

I sit trained like a dog, to wait
For food, my own death, festering hate
Afraid to walk outside the gate
A rabid temple, a sacred fate.

I’d scream to find a higher truth,
Louder than love.  We’re caged, in pain,
We waste away so much of youth,
In saddest days we can’t explain.

The garden’s sounds frighten my soul
Loud and confusing, silent toll,
No sleep, justice is misaligned-
I find a dream, and miss the goal.

I want to cry; I wanted more
Than cloudy feelings, sad and sore.
If life were ever not unfair
In this life we’d settle the score

But we just die, and there we lie
Until we crumble, rot or fry
It’s not the way I would decide
What I want: I want to cry,

I want all my lost treasures back
So many people I’ve lost track,
Nearly forgot my broken heart-
I want it healed, and not attacked,

Black days to go the fuck away,
Starve death until it’s dead and lean,
and Rage Against the Death Machine.
Don’t want to cry.  I want to cry.

R.I.P. Chris Cornell, 07/20/1964-05/17/2017

Thirty Seconds

Thirty minutes becomes thirty seconds in just a few blinks of the eye,
Thirty seconds, a shadow beckons; we can’t hide from time, but we lie,
Makeup, plastic surgery, thirty thrice wrinkles, all covered, and we still die

Thirtyseconds, a fraction of fractions, a miniscule piece of a pie,
Thirtyseconds, blurred musical motion, I can hear it, but not count that high,
A bite, a taste, a tiny tease. I want much more of both, please!  Can I try?

Thirty seconds and only one winner; after first place all others are not,
Thirtyseconds, three and one eighth percents.  Math in a poem?  Why not?
How much of a fifth is a thirtysecond? I’d give that problem …a shot.

Defending Myself

Self realization.  It takes me a while to figure out some things.  I’m not saying that I’m dull-witted all the time, it’s just that about certain things I take a while to figure out.  Fixing certain things takes a while too.  But I solidified something in my mind this past weekend.  I’ll warn the sensible readers who like actual talent to stay away, because this shit is going to ramble on like Led Zeppelin.  (Sorry, to at least one reader who doesn’t like the music, but for some reason keeps reading. You know who you are, and I love you.)

I’m not sure what to do with the information, or if the realization will actually bring any change.  (in large denominations of currency, he jokes)  But it’s information, it’s logical, and I do plan to point out the trend when I observe it, for the purpose of letting people know how I feel.  When it’s not a huge risk, or when I decide it’s something really really important.

What I’ve learned is that when I do things, when I say things, when I cook things, whatever it is, and I’m not even sure if it’s random or if it’s a trend to observe, but for some reason Mrs M is pushing the buttons and making me defend myself verbally.  She asks a question about cooking, I give the answer I know is right, and she questions it.  Yesterday it was Greek cooking.  She wanted to know how to give chicken a uniquely Greek flavor, and I told her that Greek cooking would add a surprise- cinnamon and nutmeg and marjoram for a trace of sweetness- to a spartan Italian mix (garlic, salt, pepper, oregano, thyme, onion).  Damned if she didn’t reject the suggestion and then bitch that something was missing.  Well, if you didn’t want my suggestion, why the fuck did you ask?  What’s missing from the tzatziki sauce?  Well, um, plain yogurt where you used sour cream, more lemon, and you totally left out garlic.  Not essential but it does add something.  Same with my dear daughter and her music and the rest of her education.  Why the fuck do you ask for help and then tell me how I can’t be right and you’ll just do it on your own?

My dear daughter has learned that sometimes I’m right, even though she’s hit that sixteen and opinionated as a fucking 89 year old stage.  Two years ago, she didn’t listen to anything I said, rejected my offer to help her with a piece of music, and we play the same instrument.  It’s just that I’ve played the same pieces before, maybe 35 years before her, I still practice, and I know technical things.  She similarly rejected my help with math.  So, two years ago she went to the music contest and got a bronze medal.  I’ve been working on this one.  Last year I fought with her but insisted on coaching, by making her listen to me play and add instruction, and she got a gold.  So this year, she picked a contest piece and under duress of too many other things going on in her life, accepted my help- with practicing, technique, understanding the history, tempo, style and ornamentation of the piece.  And guess what?  She got a gold medal.  But, I felt pretty good when she got out of the performance room and then went to find out her scores, because I damn well knew it was a gold medal.

We have somewhat differing opinions about social issues, but basically we want people to do good and we want people to get help when they need it.  Here, I’m proud of her for pushing back.  I’d rather she have strong, and self-educated, opinions she can back up with research data than be a zombie idiot sheep who follows whatever the herd does and says whatever is popular.  While I am still concerned that the press tells people what and how to think, I’m proud of her for researching multiple sides of a question before making up her mind-that I’m wrong.  HA!  It’s fine, honey, be right and prove I’m wrong.  But in 30 to  years, I’ll be right about this too.

My kids’ taste in music is fucking awesome.  I don’t like all of it, but I’m really happy it’s an eclectic mix and not all the same bubblegum bullshit the rest of the herd is listening to. Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve listened to, and, I confess, enjoyed, my share of bubblegum music.  But mostly I liked classical, what they now call “easy listening” like James Taylor and Jim Croce, and a lot of classic rock and early metal.  But bubblegum, sure.  Girl bands. Girl lead singers, I confess, it’s a trend I still follow.  Madonna.  Did you SEE the cheesy movie they made out of Dick Tracy?  But I bought the soundtrack.  That is still awesome music.  J. Lo.  Mmmhmm, her ex is an idiot.  And while we’re on the subject of idiot ex-es, why the fuck did Mr. Mariah Carey let THAT jewel slip through his fingers?  Um…no.  Not Jewel.  She didn’t do anything for me at all. When I was very young, there was this gem, resurrected by Shrek as a testament to its’ lasting popularity:

and then there was this:

Oh, whatever.  Wordpress, or my laptop, is tinkering with the links so I don’t know what the fuck you’ll be seeing when you read this.  (Both of you.)  When I was older the good bubblegum was Brittany Spears, PCD, Spice Girls (if only for Scary Spice, she is still worth the whole rest of the band), and Christina.  Girl bands.  Girl singers.  All right, enough rambling on about that.

Not all the time, but a lot of the damned time, I feel like quitting.  The fight isn’t worth the cost.  I hurt myself, I hurt other people, I fight to keep on trying at life and work and family and marriage and church and friends and emails and housework and writing.

Lately all my writing is on stolen time, and I have to not take it very often, or life makes me give it back or puts me through more bullshit until I surrender.

If I could change something that sounds like something that could be changed, it would be the whole self-defense thing.

The one person that I should be able to trust NOT to attack me is the person who does it the “best.”  But she questions me on time management, on focus to tasks, on cooking, and is never quite satisfied with anything I do.  It’s not fair.  I don’t want to feel the need to defend myself from the one person on the earth I should never have to be defensive around.  The family learns this. She got it from my in-laws, and her children got it from her, so yeah, I have to sometimes defend myself around them too.  It’s not fair, and yes, I would love some cheese with my whine.  Got any extra sharp cheddar?   The other day I made dinner and they all started in with the criticisms, and I think it shocked them into silence when I softly retorted to my teen children that “If you want it different, or better, you can cook it your damned selves.”  And I left the kitchen.

I don’t want to defend myself at work either.  I want a job that doesn’t harness me on the basis of fear, but rather, on the basis of reward.  I want a boss that doesn’t harass me to exert and display her power over me on the basis of intimidation, wanting to keep me under her control, but a boss that sets me free to work hard and succeed.  And gives me tools that work to help me succeed instead of crippling me with shitty tools that don’t work like they should, and telling me that I need to not be upset or disappointed because if they work the third or fourth time I try to make them do what they’re supposed to do the first time, they’re “working.”  For fucks sake, if your hammer handle is broken you buy a new fucking hammer.

I don’t want to defend myself against random people.  Don’t fucking call me, you asshole telemarketers.  My long distance service is better than yours in the long run, no matter how free yours is in the short run.  Plus, don’t you realize I hate change AND ringing phones?!  Don’t ring my doorbell, traveling salesmen/women, unless you’re bringing girl scout cookies or boy scout popcorn, which I could take or leave because that’s what MY kids are selling.  I don’t want a $50,000 vacuum cleaner even if you vacuum my carpets and show me it’s really worth every penny.  Fuck off.  You know who you are.  You were suckered into a sales job by a deceptive classified ad, and you have to do the fucking presentations and then you pray someone buys that shit because your life now depends on it.  I don’t want to name any names or confess to anything in my bitter past, but I answered the ad and attended days of allegedly paid training and they didn’t confess it was fucking door-to-door fucking VACUUM cleaner sales until the fourth FUCKING day.  And the name rhymes with, um, “Derby.”  And doesn’t start with “DE.”  “Let him (or her) who has ears to hear understand,” it started with the exact same first two letters of the precise thing I wanted to do to the people who wrote the advertisement and led the training, for suckers to quit their day jobs to answer, and desperate people to sign up because they’re desperate.  I don’t want to ever have to carry sacks of shit.  They need to be put down.  I mean every kind of sack of shit, including those who lie around; “let him (or her) who has ears to hear understand.”

And thank fuck there aren’t any trolls on this thing who bother to read my blog and know how to push the buttons.  Thank fuck I’ve been sensible enough to decide who can follow and comment and I can decide  from the list of things to do with trolls:

D  o not allow them to post their bullshit comments;
A  llow them to post their bullshit comments just to show how stupid they are;
E  mail the sender and tell them to fuck off and report it to WordPress;
M  odify the comment before posting so they sound even dumber than their
O  riginal comment was, and make everyone see what a worthless shit they are;
N  icely respond to all the mean shit, and agree that their point was more valid than mine
S  end them a fucking love poem, or eroticism, or traumatize them with something
like a picture of a cute cat, or a dog, or a bag of burning shit, every day so they
realize it’s pointless and they fuck off on their own accord.  “Bite me… gently…”

Ooh, look, it’s a fucking ACROSTIC!  Who knew?!  Oh, and, sorry for the turn-on if you get turned on reading such things.  I can’t help myself, this devout and very married introvert is a steamy, sexy devil dog with a dirty mind, ready lips, and talented, strong hands, just dripping with … oh, sorry, there I go again.

I’m going to find a beverage since it’s Friday night, and see if nature changes its’ course.  It’s a hot day in fucking FEBRUARY, so if that nature changes course, maybe OTHER natures will change and start giving me what I want.  Hope you all have a great weekend, and I hope the universe, God, and your life and family and significant others all love you the way you want to be loved, without bitching about it, for the sole purpose of making you happy because they love you.  I may find three beverages, which is an extra one.  It’ll help me if I have to accept the seemingly inevitable outcome of THAT wish for myself.  But I want YOU to get everything you want.

Top 10 Explanations for High Functioning Deon

Ohh, yeah, if you can’t be manic and optimistic, pretend like fuck and eventually you’ll still be depressed and angry.  So it goes that yesterday I pretended to not be depressed.  I pretended I was fine and got dressed and got into my car and drove pretending not to be afraid of the other drivers.  I was less afraid than usual because I wasn’t leaving in the middle of rush hour, but I knew that since I couldn’t find my fucking cell phone until 5 minutes later than I needed it to be there on time, I’d be a little late.  I failed to pretend when the nonexistent traffic ground to a halt and then proceeded to mosey when I knew I was already late to get to the doctor’s office, but the other drivers either couldn’t hear or pretended not to hear.  I don’t like car horns, so I don’t use my own unless the rage is particularly bad, and yesterday it wasn’t.

I boldly got out of my car and smiled at some other poor schmuck and his kid in the parking lot, because why add my stress to their stress.  I held the door for them, because if I’m already 3 minutes late, who gives a fuck about being 1 more minute late? I pretended with the receptionist when she told me that my appointment was a half a fucking hour and 5 minutes ago, and she would have to reschedule.  I pretended to be OK leaving the office knowing I’d have to come back and might be late for work, and expressed my gratitude I could get it out of the way today and not wait a few more weeks.  I’ve been fine I guess without medication, my acting chops have proven invaluable at work pretending I accepted the new bullshit they shoved at me in the form of moving me to the ass end of the schedule without a pay grade bump.  Because having less money than I need is better than having NO money at all.

I went back and endured a little less traffic at 10, and pretended  with the receptionist again, acting as normal as I felt normal might act.  I pretended for the doctor, because why should he worry about me when there are far worse cases he could invest his time with.  I mean, someone who’s dying isn’t as bad off as someone who only feels like shit in his mind.  That shit was real shit when I got home, and it was nothing but stress, so it’s a good thing he didn’t get a sample of that.  It’s normally a whole lot more regular and a whole lot less displaying evidence of my stress level, so I was peaking yesterday morning because after I went before going to the doctor the first time, I went again after going to the doctor the second time.

Side effects of the medications cause me to lose weight, which is great, and add to that I have a new best friend to take on frequent and regular walks around the neighborhood, and add to that the stress of recent changes has, in small ways, affected my appetite.  So I’m not really eating lunch on the regular.  I eat dinner and then I might have some toast and I might add butter or peanut butter, as a late snack.  Yesterday I added a banana because if I didn’t eat it we’d need two more bananas in an aging condition to make banana bread, and frankly I was too tired to bake, and I felt like eating it wouldn’t make me nauseous.  No, I was nauseous before and after the doctors appointments, but not last night.  And I buttered that toast before I added peanut butter and that banana.  Elvis much?  I didn’t grill it, so maybe it’s not as buttery and artery clogging.

With my weight loss, my blood pressure has dropped into a quite normal and healthy range, and my stressed out pulse didn’t freak out the nurse practitioner.  I’m reporting some good news, people, can you believe it?  My resting pulse is at this weight probably normally 60, with the meds pushing it down into the 50s.  I’ve lost 5 more pounds, and I’m now closer to 200 than I am to 250, which feels nice and looks great… so why isn’t Mrs M climbing me like a softly barked, very solid sequoia?  Well, maybe I only look great if you don’t look too close…  There’s still the matter of the scruffy beard, which only hurts when I shave.  I get a razor rash, and I’m allergic to the shit you’re supposed to use to treat that.  And I get nicks, which seem like they’ll never stop bleeding (Waaahhh, would I like some cheese with that whine?) .  I’ll compensate by pretending I have the energy and motivation to clean, which is just fucking sexy if one isn’t taking one for granted and presuming the ambition exists.  I might be even more ambitious and sexy if there was an actual, erm… reward, for my efforts.  I push because shit’s gotta get done and who’s going to do it?

It worked out fine.  I kept my mouth shut; I didn’t bitch about anything.  I didn’t tell him about the stress at work, or the issues of my very beautiful, but allegedly pre-menopausal wife and her lack of a normal sex drive.  I can accept her age, but the drive has been in the same gear for almost our whole marriage.  And frankly, as gears go, there’s never been enough grind.  I compensate for her lack, by wanting sex about twice a day, in one glorious form or another.  And she compensates by saying “no,” which I want to respect.  “I said too much; I said enough.  I thought that I heard you laughing.” (fucking earworm!  REM?!

Maybe the earworms are trying to tell me to sleep.  AC/DC or Led Zeppelin to the rescue!)

Anyway, the doctor,  bless his heart, bought my act and re-prescribed meds I’ve been out of for a month, compensating for some of them with alternative substances (mostly coffee or herbal tea and liquor and vitamins, including hefty doses of vitamin D) and wishes for regular and frequent therapeutic, relaxing, stress relieving, full-body massage.  He’s a new guy I had never seen before who’s probably been there the whole time I’ve been a patient, while we were on different schedules.  It’s a medical group, and they all treat all the patients, although I do have a primary care provider who is a member of the group, I haven’t seen him in more than a year as our schedules haven’t been compatible.  So I saw this new guy and pretended I was OK with meeting another stranger, AND, he brought a tagalong, some kind of intern or something, to observe.  Anyway, I went to the drug dealer and got the scripts, and took a very late dose.  Did I sleep or did I stay awake to write this?  Did I mention insomnia if I take it too late?

Did I mention ADD and cyclothymia under a depressive tidal wave full of tree trunks and cars and busses and street signs and broken glass and suppressed emotions and other shit?  And did I mention I haven’t taken my meds in a month?  It’s a wonder I’ve written ONCE in the past month, but no, you’ve had to endure the torment probably 3 or 4 times, and twice yesterday.  FFS, Deon, shut the hell up!

Now that I mention that whole ADD thing, allow me to pretend to focus on the point of this blog entry… well, best I can pretend to focus.

Top 10 Explanations for High Functioning Deon

I don’t know if there are 10.  Maybe there are 35.  Maybe there are three or four.  But hey, I’ll brainstorm and see what kind of shit the dredges bring to the surface.

10.  Terror.  As much as I’d like to lie and tell everyone how brave and courageous I am, I am more like the cowardly lion before he discovered his heart.  As I said, I’m a briliant actor.  And “If I were the king of the fore-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-st!” …Nevermind.  Suffice it to say I identified with him and I know all the words to his song.  High functioning Deon is caused by terror.  I’m afraid if I don’t fight, the world around me will go to shit FASTER.  Oh, it’s going to shit, there’s no stopping that, but if I quit functioning and shut down as often as I wanted to, I’m afraid over time my house would become more of a hovel featuring both filth AND squalor, my boss would fire me, my wife would divorce me, my children would disrespect me even more, my house and car would be repossessed, (and I own the damn car!) all my teeth would break and I’d get a slow and painful infucktion that wouldn’t ever actually kill me but would torture me for a long, long time,  and all of my “friends” in the real world outside of this blog would express their disappointment and shun me with the promise to stop if I repented.  Please, shun me and don’t stop.  That last one isn’t a fear so much as “a consummation devoutly to be wished.”  And for fuck’s sake, if you’re not going to shun me, then give me motivational cash and gift certificates to your favorite steak house and burger places and to the various low-rent stores you’d never go to yourself, preferring to call the guy or visit classy retail establishments.  Suggestions I might use could be the local home improvement place, for wood and paint and plumbing and tools and other house-type items, the local convenience store with everything from groceries to clothes to greeting cards to bedding and furniture and new tires, the local auto repair shop so I can get my shock absorbers replaced, …the list of practical places goes on and on.

9.  Promises.  When I was young and hadn’t experienced much of life yet, I was much more full of hope than I am now.  I made certain promises to certain people.  When I make promises I like to keep them, and it drives me because if all I have that’s good is my word, then when I give you my word I will keep my promise or die trying.  I may do a half-assed job of whatever it is, especially if I’m exhausted, but I’m going to take a crack at fulfilling the letter of the promise.  If I care about the person I’ve made the promise to, I’ll strive for the spirit of the promise, which usually is better quality work than just doing exactly what I say I’ll do.

8. Compulsivity.  OK, at the risk of personal disclosure (what the fuck is a blog for if not for that, Deon?), I suffer from fits of compulsivity.  If I start cleaning it, I have to finish it, but thank God that only applies to whatever surface or area I’ve decided to clean.  It frustrates me if I don’t have time to finish, or if I finish only to look the next day and my wife or kids have messed it up all over again.  I did the microwave two days ago and I keep wiping it out.  Since I’m home and heating my caffeinated beverages I’ll invest an extra two minutes and wipe off whatever exploded in there.  The kids’ bathroom is next because I noticed the sink is disgusting and I am not picturing either of them cleaning it.  I cleaned the downstairs bathroom sink today, and it was just the sink, but it’s clean and shiny and it made me happier after the Doctor-induced panic.  Which brings us to the next explanation:

7. Caffeine.  So,  you all DO know lots of chemical compounds or molecules that end in -ine are stimulants, right? Caffeine, nicotine, cocaine, Amphetamine…  Well, prior to being actually diagnosed officially with ADD, and still today, my drug of choice is caffeine.  Coffee, tea, chocolate… I used to drink caffeinated sodas, but I don’t want all the sugar.  But it’s helpful, it fuels the concentration.  I love the flavor of a good coffee or tea.  I drink them plain, no sugar, no cream.  All I want is the caffeine molecules, and the water doesn’t hurt.  Ritalin isn’t like those, aka MethylPhenidate.  It is a stimulant, but it’s synthesized, since 1944, and it doesn’t act like a normal stimulant.  I bet if I did take ritalin, I’d be one of the rare ones that gets more depressed.  It’s a known potential side effect.  Concerta is a brand of the same but it gives my daughter hallucinations.  I don’t want to see scary things that aren’t there, since things that ARE are scary enough.  The more natural, the better.  Caffeine may technically be a “high,” but it’s natural enough to keep drinkers high functioning, including me.  Now…where did I put my coffee cup?  Coffee keeps me moving, even though my motion often seems to me to be more backward than forward.  I don’t have any bathroom difficulties, with or without caffeine.  But WITH caffeine, I spend less time contemplating how murder might make the world a better place.

6. Rage.  The list wouldn’t be complete without my rage.  Rage gives adrenaline better than fear.  There are different kinds of rage, as there are different kinds of fear.  Fear of disappointing Mrs M motivates me slightly less than being in a frustrated fit of rage at whatever button she pushed that really pissed me off.  Don’t you fucking ever dare tell her that.  I’m not sure if there’s an upper limit, a threshold I shouldn’t be pushed over.  She hasn’t reached it yet, as her body is very much alive and amazing, but if you informed her that rage worked better than fear of disappointment, she’d piss me off all the time just to get whatever shit she wanted done, done.  You don’t understand.  She’s not physically abusive, not really verbally abusive, just, she knows how to push my buttons in the worst possible ways if she wants to.  I dread her verbal jousting more than her disappointed huffing sigh.  Rage motivates me to go to work at this fucking cess pool where they abuse me mentally and fiscally, because it’s not as strong as my fear of being unemployed, and motivates me to work hard.  The company may not show their appreciation but I value my name enough to take the best care of the clients that I can, see also, #9.

5.  Hope.  Or Depression.  I’m not sure which is stronger.  Hope.  I know, it’s adorably naive, isn’t it?  But really.  I can and do have hope for eternity, but the more depressed I get the less hope I hold out for the here and now.  So either my hope, or my depression, which feeds into my feelings of rage against society, fuels my perseverance.  When I’m feeling particularly hopeful is when I can do something that makes a difference and helps someone, even if it’s something small.  When I’m depressed, usually from watching the daily news Mrs M insists on having on in the morning, it just makes me depressed, less hopeful, and more angry at our so-called “civilization.”  I mean, for fucks sake, what the fuck is WRONG with everyone?  Idiot “sociologists” try to persuade me that crime is justified when there is an absence of hope.  I call that theory “interesting bullshit.”  Sorry, but there is no excuse for crime and violence and vandalism.  There are people in dire circumstances and they’re not out rioting or looting or mugging or destroying shit that doesn’t belong to them.  They’re on your local street corner holding signs asking for your spare change.  Give them something, even if you don’t have much.  Give them your lunch and go without for one day.  If you ate yesterday and got your coffee this morning, and you’re going to eat tonight, c’mon.  But yeah, crime and violence and vandalism, looting, robbery and rape aren’t symptoms of hopelessness.  They just make me mad.  They make me wish I was a superhero able to stop the criminals.  Crimes against children make me the most angry.  Pay your fucking child support, or you’re a thief and a child abuser, you stupid fucks.  That is NOT how you love your kid(s), dear deadbeat dick donors.  You should  be paying extra, to make sure YOUR KIDS are well taken care of. But instead you treat your own kid like shit and withhold the care you should be providing  because you want to stick it to your ex; do you not fucking care about your own fucking KID(s), you abusive, stupid, ASS HOLE?  Treat them at LEAST to the court required support, and THEN pretend you’re “Disney Dad” when it’s your turn to “have custody,” which is court-appointed doublespeak for “taking direct care of your child(ren) without their mother’s help” which, when you were together was probably “you letting her do everything without your help.”

I keep trying, I keep working, I keep on setting the best example I’m able to set, even with the emotional difficulties I have.  The rage and depression, and the hope that my example will make a difference eventually, or might make a difference now, keeps me trying to move forward even when life is pushing back hard.  See also #1.

4.  Music.  Music is an alternative wave that I ride for those temporary escapes from the focus on how tired I am.  It also is a channel of weirdly loose focus, that allows me to keep working on whatever chore it is.  Sometimes the lyrics remind me of profound truth, see “Get Back, Honky Cat,” and sometimes the lyrics don’t quite ring true enough so I tend not to gravitate toward those songs when I want to work.  But the profound truth of ALL of my labor is that I can handle it, and the reward of looking back at the successfully finished task is often enough encouragement.  Dishes can get discouraging, but the gleam after washing…  Bathrooms can be bad, but look after the scrubbing bubbles are wiped away.  The floors can be filthy, but look after I vacuum, or sweep and then mop!  I like a little bleach.  See also, this motivational musical number:

I figure there are two options:  Either brooms and mops, bleach and soap, or high explosives.  So far, the former are still working for me.

3.  Brilliant acting chops.  It’s quite possible that my forced enthusiasm is nothing more than a brilliant act, and I may just be so brilliant at it that I fool myself.  I pretend so well that I care about the dirty house, I can actually fool myself into vacuuming, emptying the lint trap in the dryer, mopping, wiping, dealing with the sorting act and deciding what’s trash and what’s treasure, chasing the paper, washing, drying and putting away laundry, etc.  Mrs M has been brilliantly handling the bills since she fought me for the checkbook many years ago.  She doesn’t fight fair.  Those eyes…  Those curves…  Still hot after more than 20 years.  When I say I love my family, that’s not an act,  …roughly 96% of the time.  Don’t hurt any of them or you’ll find out I love them to death, literally, and I don’t mean their death, or my death…  So I’ve learned to act like a French maid.  …I need one of those sexy French Maid costumes, but for a guy.  You ladies can keep your thigh-high stockings with the seams up the back, and garters.  I don’t think Mrs M will mind, presuming it’s masculine enough.  I can’t wear high heels.  They don’t look good on me and I fall over.  And I can’t wear the girly stuff, but something minimal with a soft, black, Stetson with the option of either a black ribbon around the crown, or a black leather strap, depending on my mood, pleated white silk tuxedo front and cuffs, and maybe black silk boxers, and black lace-up combat boots…  I don’t guess I could wear that in front of the kids.  They act all grossed out if I smile at Mrs M across the dinner table.

2. Alcohol.  Would be necessary if I actually ever tried to carry off the French maid bullshit above.  But it was a funny image, now, wasn’t it?  Alcohol keeps me in a high-functioning range when life is shit and I need a little medicinal relaxational motivational beverage at the end of a hard day.  It makes me more relaxed and less stressed out and better able to carry on conversations with family AND less focused on the effort of completing tasks.  Combine that with magical, motivational music, and I am good to do more housework.  Holy shit, what I need is a job that lets me drink something other than tea and coffee sometimes.  Tonight, probably The Rolling Stones.  Because, “Start Me Up.”  Yesterday, if I remember that long ago, it was Aerosmith.  But I like the older stuff.

1.  Warrior Mentality – My sense of manhood.  Life is a fight to the death.  We all eventually lose.  But I’m just going to describe my heart here.  I don’t give a shit if you want to throw your inner feminine side out there, guys.  I just don’t give a shit.  And I also don’t give a shit if you want to grow a pair, ladies.  In MY personal inner being, lurks a warrior spirit, and life IS a fight to the death, and I don’t intend to lose until I’m dead.  Like the song goes, “Don’t try to push your luck, just get out of my way.”

There I go. Is it 8 PM yet? It’s Friday, Hallelujah. Maybe the song should be back in pajamas. That’s my armor, folks. All Ephesians 6 says to do is “stand firm.” I got that covered. In pajamas. And all I’m saying is my inner warrior is in a fight to the death with life. All those things I hate? I want to fix it. And if I can’t fix something because I don’t have enough training, so be it. If I can’t fix something because I don’t have enough money, again, so be it. But if I can fix it, or TRY to fix it and do a decent job, it’s worth the fight, I say, even as I bitch about how hard life makes something that should be easy and simple. Fixing a ceiling fan, or something that makes me climb a dreaded ladder, sure, I have panic, but I know I can do it if I climb. And then, of course, the damned screws always fall or refuse to thread correctly. Fixing a leaking sink, sure I can do it, but not if it’s broken and refuses to go back together correctly, and of course, there’s always grossness in the pipes to clean out and then they leak because the grime was holding hands and keeping the water on the inside. Household labors nearly ALWAYS take more time, more effort, more training, and more money than I walked in wanting to invest. Or, they frustratingly fall apart and require re-doing, which always makes me just shout for joy, or, they break to a point where calling the guy” is required, which costs WAY too much. I mean, fucking car repairs, really?! The guy is always tsk!-ing and telling me how I need this and that or the car will die in the middle of the highway and get me killed, and how he wouldn’t drive it like it is if he were me. But fuck you, mechanic, yes you fucking would, because if I were you I’d be charging $75 an hour labor and then shop and parts fees, and if you were me you wouldn’t be able to afford that shit.

I knew a lady once whose plumbing always fell apart on the holidays. Seriously, her hot water heater held up until Thanksgiving day, and then blew water all over her house. Her sink blew up on Christmas, I was waiting for the toilet to explode on the fucking fourth of July. And me? I once saved a “simple” plumbing thing until the holiday only to ultimately call the guy (I waited until the next day) to put it right. I HATE house repair projects especially when they go to shit, which is like down to 40% of the time because I’ve learned not to try a percentage of things I don’t really know shit about, and I know I’d do a shit job if I tried it on my own and then have to call the guy, which means paying for parts at least once and then probably twice, AND paying whatever hourly bullshit the guy can get away with depending on if it’s a holiday.  AND, in my own defense (STOP FUCKING LAUGHING!  …Oh, go ahead, knock yourself out.  Please.  Laugh harder, you’re still breathing and conscious.) In my own defense, over the last 20 something years, Mrs M has bullied me into a rage sufficient to learn how to fix a lot of shit.  Lighting fixtures, fans, vacuum cleaners, some plumbing, although I still have a dread fear of the water leaking or dripping, and I once rebuilt a damned shelf 4 times because she had too much shit stored up on them.  Shut up!! I was building it correctly, it just wasn’t strong enough to hold the weight.

0.  A sense of moral obligation.  I don’t see a lot of this in the real world.  This is why guys get what they want from a girl and then leave the girl to carry the responsibility all by themselves.  HIV/AIDS.  Herpes.  Gonorrhea.  Syphilis.  Scabies.  Babies.  Rabies.  Oh wait.  It’s a poem, a rap, with a catchy street beat:

STDs, you know they come in all sorts,
Viruses, bacteria, bugs or maybe warts, (that’s attractive!)
Chancroid, PID, gonorrhea,
pubic lice, scabies, chlamydia, (now, interactive!)
Trichomoniasis, HIV, and HPV,
Molluscum contagiosum, and hepatitis B, (It’s in your blood!)
Don’t be rash…, choose wisely, as the buyer,
Get yours today, they’re spreading like fire! (You’re leaking crud!)

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew.  Committed monogamy is not a sexually transmitted disease.  Thank God I’m married.

You don’t see a lot of this because it’s not being advertised a lot.  The world, the media, your idiot peers, the advertisers, your favorite television shows, all glamorize how wonderful it is doing the dirty deed, as often as you can, any time you can, with anyone you want who wants you back.  Or front.  Or top.  Or bottom.  Yep, it’s great.  Shop around, bop around, hop around, they never show you the consequences unless it’s maudlin and you’re supposed to feel sympathetic to the um…innocent? victim?

The one thing that should never be advertised without a painful, flesh (not chemical) castration, behavior modification, lobotomy, and aversion therapy, is rape.  Rapists should be treated as harshly as possible, not get their name broadcast on the news (Hey, look friends!! I’m FAMOUS!!)  or worse, told they’ll likely never get caught.  In 2013 the estimate was that only 34.8% of assaults were reported, and it used to be even less.  In 2011 the estimate was that only 6.66 out of every 100 rapists were ever brought to any kind of justice, which by law might be some sort of fine, or might be a season of imprisonment.  So, the estimate is that 93 out of every 100 rapists get off and face no consequences whatsoever.  And that, readers, is fucked up.  I swear I didn’t make up the 6.66, which is fucking diabolical.  And this page, for some reason under the label… which I couldn’t make funny if I WANTED  to but for fucks’ sake, no pun intended, someone tried, it shows that the average jail time even if you ARE convicted of sexual assault, is  about 66 months.  That’s right kids!  Put someone through the trauma, and then the post trauma-tic stress of having to relive your unwanted attack, your damnable defiling of their private, personal, holiest of holy, sacred temple, whenever your innocent victim’s now traumatized brain puts them through it again, not to mention making it next to impossible to trust anyone in a romantic relationship ever again, not to mention causing difficulty with intimacy if they DO try, and then, after you’ve put your victim through that shit, if you’re one of the unlucky 6.66% that actually gets caught, charged, and fucking convicted of doing it, you MIGHT serve 5 and a half damned years and then you’re free to try again and see if you’re luckier the next time.  THAT is why I am in favor of drastic sentences and punishments for rapists, even though for some reason they won’t put a rapist to death, not even a person who rapes a child.

If the FBI is  reading my blog and my browsing history I think it’s hilarious because I just looked for information about what kind of plants grow best over a buried dead body.  I didn’t find any, which is disappointing.  We planted flower bulbs over both of our guinea pigs which died of old age, which is disappointing because they only live 8 or so years at the maximum, and ours lived that long and then just quit.  The flowers grow every year around Easter, which is just after when both died, which is a beautiful reminder that we loved the guinea pigs.

I looked it up not actually planning anything, just thinking that if victims and their families who actually love the truly innocent victims ever decided to handle the situation in a way that feels more just than fucking 6.66%, it might be nice to plant something to remind them when they walk by the hidden grave, known only by justice… I mean just us…, that the world has one less monster walking around free. If they are allowed to roam free, they are 93.34% likely to hurt another person and fucking get away with it.  Worthless animals that hurt people for their own sadistic pleasure need to be put down.<br/> <a href=”; style=”font-size: 9px; color: #ddd;” title=”Listen to on”></a>”>Funny thing, right after I wrote the thing about the FBI, my whole internet crashed for 15 minutes

I did NOT start this blog with the purpose of ranting about rapists, but there it is.  Rage as a motivator.  I’m switching to Channel #2 in just a short while, but I wanted to write about having a strict moral code.  The world needs people who set high moral standards, and also needs those same people to be gracious when others don’t measure up to their personal holiness.  I listened to some jackass talking about how he posted some shit on someone’s social media about how the guy needed to be a higher class of guy if he wanted to attract a higher class of girl.  And he said some more shit about how he wasn’t trying to pass judgement.  Then what the fuck WERE you trying to do, because it sounded like you suck.  I mean suc…ceeded at exactly that.

I DO have a relatively strict moral code and I DO strive for it, despite failing all the damned time.  And I’ve learned there’s a good reason for my failures, although they suck.  I mean there’s at least one good reason.  I have learned more about extending grace,  because I am so very aware how much I need it for myself.  If you are holier than thou, you don’t need grace and you love to flaunt your perfection and look down your snoot at the poor helpless sinners asking them why they don’t “just” be a higher class of godliness.  Pious fucker.

The world doesn’t need more judgement.  Judgement’s coming, don’t get me wrong.  But we Christ-followers don’t need to be the ones to bring it.  No, what the world needs is more grace, more forgiveness, more honest, Christ-like love. “Neither do I condemn you.  Go and sin no more.” Or how about “God have mercy on ME, a sinner!” ?  I may never go home after praying feeling fully justified, and maybe that’s a good thing.  It keeps my heart in a place where I can encourage people, because we’re all the same.  Instead of offering no hope, and only judgement, Christ followers need to understand how to do something very important.  But some are so holy they don’t need it themselves, so they forget how to offer it.  “It” is mercy.  If we offer it, Christ followers, to those who need it, the world will believe us when we say Christ gives it away.

The book of Hosea is a fascinating story, God commanded the prophet Hosea to make his own LIFE, a picture of how God loves people in spite of everything they do, so it’s fitting that Jesus quoted it.  Hosea 6:6.  Matthew 9 is full of example after example of how Christ followers should NOT ACT.  Jesus is being loving and kind and forgiving, and the holier than thou set are being all judgemental and looking down their noses at JESUS, for Christ’s sake, (hahaha) thinking they’re better than JESUS.  And he quotes Hosea in the middle, saying, not in my exact words, “No, you religious freaks, that’s not how you love people.  You love people by learning this:”

 Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. 13 But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”

Jesus loves you, but you have to know you need his love and mercy before you can really understand it and receive it.  If you don’t need it because you’re already perfect (in your own eyes), then fuck off.  If you desperately need it like I do because you know you’re SO far from perfect it’s completely hopeless and depressing, then you’re ready for it, and not only that, after you’ve accepted it, you’re ready to share it.  As long as you don’t become one of those tight-assed religious freaks who forgets how they used to act and uses their newfound lifestyle as an excuse to not help others, not love others, and pass judgement without mercy.

-1.  Mercy.  Mercy motivates me.  I need it.  But it’s beyond just need.  I’m starving to death for it.  I’m desperate.  And the desperation motivates me to express mercy, and acceptance, and forgiveness, and grace, which are the very heart of Jesus, in my very imperfect way. I am sorry for failing to share more often and more clearly, but this is where i am.  And as much as I hate everyone, God compels me to tell you that He loves you.  And as much as I hate it, I’m supposed to show you.  This is me showing you, even if my own heart says you’re a complete ass hole and I don’t want to.
So yeah, I’m “high functioning” despite all of the shit life dishes out, despite my boss, my budget, my bitching, my brood.  I have to be.  I also want to be, even when I don’t want to be.  So that’s what I’ve decided to be.  I’ll keep trying harder, even on days when I don’t want to get out of bed.  And there are lots of them.  I still push myself and go do what I have to do, motivated by one of the above, to keep going.

-2.  Maybe it’s really not me.  Maybe it IS my choice, but maybe not entirely.  Maybe it’s Something Else.  

Balanced Reading Habits

I think I have pretty balanced reading habits, diverse interests, and a mostly open mind with a childlike fascination with everything life has to offer.  That may be a bold claim but I think I can defend it pretty well. I can hear you now:  So, Deon, how do you know the blogs you follow are a good mix?

“Welcome to the jungle we’ve got fun and games
We got everything you want honey, we know the names
We are the people that can find whatever you may need
If you got the money honey we got your disease.”

(thanks, MetroLyrics)

Here are my top 10 diseases. I mean reasons why I think my blog reading is fairly balanced.  (If you hate the musical choices of the day, no one says you have to click them to listen to them, but I enjoyed them all and I’m not apologizing.  And whatever your opinion of the band and their relationship dynamics, I’m not writing about that shit.  If you want to cover that, go for it.)  Without further adieu, here are my

Top 10 Reasons I Believe My Reading Selections are Balanced

10-a balanced diet blog is juxtaposed against a few foodie blogs and they’re not afraid to grab the butter and sugar and bacon.  All food is beautiful to me.  Keep those coming. I also follow at least one alcohol blog, maybe I need one on sobriety…(see #2?)  Food and drink may be the closest thing I know next to paradise.  Mix in a little music and you’ve got the perfect storm.

9- an exercise and health food blog is right next to a blog extolling the virtues of laziness and junk food. You may hate junk food and laziness like some people hate banjos, accordians and bagpipes, but I like all of these things,

and this is MY blog, so if you’re reading it, a) it’s not all like this and b) you’re reading it and c) maybe you can read to the end of this list because trust me: after I’ve played bluegrass and bagpipes, especially if you hate those, how bad can it get?
8-I can read from Republicans about how bad Democrats are and then vice versa, and then about the other parties.  Or, I can swipe past those.  Because sometimes it’s more balanced to just ignore those.

7-men’s issues and then women’s issues and then relationship  and issues
6-and then about a varied and diverse set of perspectives on love

5.5-family life, single life, divorced life, married life, stuff about raising kids and why people shouldn’t tell other people how they ought to live their lives or raise their kids (to “Be a Pepper”: I’m an asshole, he’s just stupid, she’s an idjet, we’re all clueless, shouldn’t you all just shut your fucking holes?) Oh. I mean, um, …this:

5-poetry blogs!  They stand alone; I just like them
4.5-blogs with pictures of animals including pets. I like your cats and pythons and guinea pigs and llamas and dogs. Honestly, I’d be jealous if I didn’t have allergies.
4-science and technology blogs, they’re just cool
3-original sci-fi and fantasy (running out of numbers for my list of only 10), and even a blog about books the writer enjoyed reading (or hated) and why they were good (or awful).

2.5-well-researched blogs by medical professionals and others by those who live under their influence, or the influence of what the medical professionals say to take two of and [don’t] call me in the morning.”

2-Religious perspectives, including Christian ones even.  Just know that my perspective is as valid as the next person.  I reserve the right (or left, perhaps) to skip those too.  Also be aware that if I don’t skip it and you’re pushing a “biblical” perspective, I reserve the right to present an alternate “biblical” perspective.  Some of these are insightful and interesting, but I’ll leave that to the readers’ judgement. I think we all think we’re knocking on heaven’s door, I just think many of us are at the wrong address and don’t realize it.

1-People who think they’re mentally healthy tell me why and how I should “just” be mentally healthy and happy, and people who think they’re crazy, or who have people in their lives who tell them they’re crazy, remind me that I’m sane, and I think they’re more normal and sane than “normal” and “sane” people are. If I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t have anything.

All of the blogs I read may influence my future writing, so just be careful out there.  You may be putting bullets into my head’s cannon, roses in my guns, or guns in my roses.  Whatever it is, it may come back toward you, or someone you know.

I’m grateful for all of you because most of the time I run out of time before I can get to reading any “news.” Thank you all so much for that.

OH. I also like music, and music blogs, not that you’d ever notice that.  Also, I said I wouldn’t apologize, and if you don’t like it, I’m sorry.

I’m done writing my list. But Don’t cry!  Remember, Nothing lasts forever.


Music as a Coping Mechanism

When I was younger there was a guy whose songs sometimes really resonated in my heart, and I really never gave any thought to it.  You know, we like music for different reasons. The lyrics, the rhythm, the dynamics, the melody, the chord structures, the vocal quality, the emotion.  The memories it evokes.  These things catch a song in your head, sometimes they come back to haunt you as earworms, and sometimes they play overhead at your home improvement or grocery store.  I heard the songs and really liked them back then.  I’m a station flipper, so if it doesn’t hit me or I’m not interested, I move on.  There’s a clean feeling to the music, a kind of precision, or neatness, and yet the emotion of the lyrics is anything but tidy.

I think that’s why I liked the songs.  They reflected the present reality, and gave me a little hope in spite of circumstances.  At the time I didn’t realize I was riding emotional waves.  Thank GOD I know now so I have told my kids about it.  But back then I was just a victim of it and I didn’t know anything about it.  I have learned a few coping mechanisms, but they don’t fix everything.  They help me not murder people.

I like music.  My daughter does come by interrupting my music with hers, but I usually acquiesce.  My son hasn’t caught on to that magic yet

Unwanted noise is such an irritant.  Interruptions, irritant.  Nagging, irritant. Feeling a lack of accomplishment plus hopelessness because of interruptions and distractions, irritant. Getting underpaid for the experience and being told I’m not worth paying more, there’s a reason to commit murder if I ever knew one. It probably won’t come to that. I have coffee. I’m just having an irritated day, so whenever I get an uninterrupted break I’m going to sit through both of these two songs.  And try to sneak in a third.  I wish I could use speakers and just listen, but in the office, others can hear and so I can’t blast Metallica at 11 out of 10 volume.  That’s why I said “unwanted” noise.  The woman gossipping and carrying on about her personal business and her family dramas.  Is there one of these in every office?  I hope Mrs. M isn’t that person in hers.  Honey, start a blog and shut the fuck up, we have work to do and nobody here cares about anything but work, unless it’s free food or drinks or a reason to take an extra break.  And, as you spend so much time chatting up your neighbors how is it you still have time to do your job?  If you have time for all that, can I get your job and let you have mine because I don’t have the leisure or your cash flow.  The man sneezing ridiculously loudly instead of fucking stifling it.  He’s the one who tells everyone to keep the volume down.  Fuck the Flying Spaghetti Monster, buy a box of tissues and some allergy meds and shut YOUR fucking unnecessary noise down, Mr I’ve-got-a-fucking-tree-in-my-eye-here-let-me-help-you-with-your-speck.  Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you choose how to sneeze, and you can go loud or soft and still get it out?  Interruptions, the stupid required login protocols repeating every fucking thirty minutes, 8 hours a day, that’s 16 times I have to  log back in because the thing shuts itself off WHILE I’M WORKING ON IT, WITH CLIENTS.  And then there are the servers that randomly decide to fuck up.  Needless to say, any time I have to contact I.T., I’ve got a chip on my shoulder they will NEVER understand because I don’t have time to discuss it.  I tried, and management didn’t care enough to fix the little things that irritate everyone but represent a minor crisis, 16 times a day, for me. Monthly password updates for all the platforms I have to use. And emails. I have enough emails, can I please opt out of hearing about what’s on the overpriced and undersized lunch menu, and whoever the fuck is getting promotions, because it isn’t me?

I’ve said all this realizing my tree is this blog, but for some reason I justify myself writing it.  Sorry, everyone.

I’ve never met Howard Jones.  That would be neat.  (Do I sound just a tiny bit like a fangirl to you?) As an adult, with present knowledge, I would ask if he is bipolar or knows someone who is. Or if he has depression.  Maybe it’s just he’s brilliant musically and his co-writer has the experience.  Or maybe it’s both of them.  These lyrics, I can’t escape he’s talking about depression even though the music has all of those catchy elements that make it likeable and distracting.  Maybe the distraction is what my brain held on to when I wasn’t really paying attention to the lyrics.  And maybe the lyrics taught me something about the circumstances, my emotional states, and life in general.

How do you write lyrics like this? They’re brilliant. This is why I’m a fan of so many of you poets, and why I sometimes have a go at it myself.

Why is it so clean sounding to me? Maybe it was just a consequence of being from the just-barely-techno musical production style of the day. Consider this:

And, in keeping with the random nature of my ramblings, thank God for chocolate.  These Twix bars are medicinal, I swear.

If you liked these two as much as I enjoyed his whole catalogue, look up Howard Jones’ discography, and give a listen.  “Throw off your mental chains.” That one, I opine, it’s not great for actually practical, useful, instructional content, but God, it’s a lovely thought.  So much great music.  Back in the day, I bought his CDs.  I imagine you can get the songs on the modern digital venues still.

When you feel like “Things can only get better,” maybe you’re right.  Which gave me something to hope for, something to look forward to on my unseen wave.  Music just helps me cope with it, and looking back it always has.  As for now, I thought I was coming out of this funk, but as it turns out, not yet.  Maybe my emotional waveforms are more complex than a simple up and down.

Maybe it’s more like a roller coaster.

Oh, that’ll take you back, if you’re older.  If you’re too young, like me (wink, wink!),  to remember it on your IPods and computers, (SHUT UuUP!) let the music take you back anyway.  I may not have confessed it, but the more musically savvy of you may already be picking up on a trend: I like trumpets. Brass in general. Right there at the beginning of Things Can Only Get Better, right there at the beginning of Love Roller Coaster, just, yes. And I can’t play a single wind or brass instrument, the tragedy. I REALLY like musical solos and interludes, YES. I’m a fan of some music by the group Yes, too.

If you didn’t see through my darkness, seeing it’s pretty thick sometimes, here’s a Flashlight to help.

Hm. No horns AT ALL.  I know how to fix that.  Scottish funk:

Pick Up the Pieces.  Sometimes that’s all you can do when life breaks.  Oh, you think I’m kidding about them being Scottish?  Not kidding.  That funk was fueled by haggis.


Instead of haggis, can I have some more chocolate?  Here, have some yourself.  I brought extra.

“Don’t Do Anything Drastic.”

I watched the Oscars last night just to see how the whole #OscarsSoWhite would pan out, hosted by Chris Rock.  He did a brilliant job, to a point.  A joke is funny a couple of times, but after I reached saturation, which happened too quick, (about 5 jokes was all I could take)  I was done.  So I already had a chip on my shoulder when the comedians did their little stupid bits inserting themselves into nominated movies.  It went on, and on, and on.  I’m sure the Academy got the message.

I’ve been told not to do anything drastic, unless I’ve thought it through.  So I haven’t deleted this blog or all my emails all at once or other drastic things with potential negative consequences.  But I’ve thought this one through and I did something drastic because I felt I was right.


When I finally started a Twitter account, I was following someone for a while, having been a fan of her work for lo these 30 years.  And then the Oscars happened and then her heart was revealed.  Maybe it was the chip already residing on my shoulder when I was done with hearing, ad infinitum, ad absurdum, that the Academy didn’t care about any actors unless they were white.  I think even the presenters were done with the angry jabs and the laughter and the tension, by the time the nomination for Best Original Song came up.  And then there was this:

Even in sexual assault performance art – damn

This tweet of course followed the piece the lovely Lady Gaga did in support of victims of rape, “Til it Happens to You.”  It upset me a lot, so today, after I considered it, I stopped following Jody.  Jody is showing me a lack of positive focus despite her morning tweet today,
2h2 hours ago

Wishing everyone a positive and great start to the week✨

For those without the interest to stay awake until after midnight to find out if Leo finally won, you can check them out for yourselves here:

I’m upset and I stopped following Jody on twitter, although I still like her music.

I’m upset.  Because all we as a society are doing is perpetuating the hatred.  And we just had another cop shooting another unarmed couple.  Fucking stop the hatred already.  Fucking stop the violence.  Fucking stop killing innocent people.  While we’re at it, can we stop the outright war, too?  Fucking IDIOTS.  These idiots, by and large, presume they have the right to do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, and they need to be stopped.  By any means necessary.

It’s true, you can quote me, I’ve said it before, “I hate everybody,” but it’s a literary device.  It’s called a fucking “joke” (usually).  So if you hate me for that, fuck you and fuck the people who taught you to hate people.  Racism, elitism, sexism, all the -isms have to be taught.  Most of the time, I hate everybody because I want to be left alone.  But hating people just for the sake of hating them, treating people like shit just because you want to and you can, or maybe even because you like to treat people like shit, is not civilized.  It’s barbaric, and that kind of person (sorry, maybe it’s a logical stretch for you but not for me) needs to be slaughtered like an animal, because they’re no better if they claim to not know better.  And it’s probably too late for their younglings, too.

We’ve known since  at least 1947, but probably a thousand or 5 earlier than that, that hatred has to be taught.  Well, 1949 if you count the opening on Broadway and 1958 (which is still almost sixty fucking years ago) if you count the movie based on the book and the musical:

Tales of the South Pacific by James Michener was sanitized for Broadway and for the movie “South Pacific,” by Rogers and Hammerstein.  James, Rogers and Hammerstein tried very hard to teach what should be an easy lesson.  When you plop kids into a daycare and they play, they understand the rules and they basically get along until someone wants to be selfish, and then all hell breaks loose.  There’s biting, hitting, kicking, crying, and yelling until an adult intervenes and reminds the two they have to behave like friends.  But until and unless the selfish child acts the ass, everybody gets along nicely.  I’ve seen it.  They learn hatred unless they are taught how to love first.

Sorry if you’re offended that my choice of music features white vocalists, not sorry, I love Mandy Patinkin so fuck you if you don’t like him because he’s white.  While you’re hating me, since I so love music, why don’t you suggest a song with a similar message by a singer of another color.  I bet I like the alternative.

It’s really a tragedy that in the modern era we have to live in fear of people who hate us for who we are, who want all our stuff, or want us dead or poor, or who just like to ruin our stuff, if we have any, or who hoard all the stuff and make life impossible for us unless we enslave ourselves to them.  It’s a real tragedy that while love covers a multitude of sins, very few people know how to do that.  It’s easier to just hate, isn’t it?  I don’t mind reading what you have to say if you’re logical and you’ve turned the other cheek and only gotten stung twice, or more, but without logic or reason, I can’t hack it.

It’s not too late Jody.  I still love your music.  I still care that your soul can be lost or saved.  It’s up to you to decide whether to perpetuate the hate, or to decide to love, and then to teach those who will follow you.  I won’t be taught to hate because I’m fucking stubborn, and I’m on a mission.

To the Academy, I sure hope you got the message.  We want inclusivity, we want you to show the love we have for brilliant actors like Kevin Hart, Halle Berry, Morgan Freeman, brilliant movies like Straight Outta Compton, and the unknown brilliant actors and movies we should have seen and might have missed because movies cost so much to attend, and the popcorn costs the same as gold, per ounce.  We shouldn’t need a “blacktors” category just to tell them.  Share the wealth.  Don’t hate.  Hate is bad.  We normal people like actors of any and all races if they’re talented, and there are a number of talented actors and actresses out there who should have at least been given a nomination and a shot at an award, and didn’t get that shot.

To the still-beautiful Ms. Watley, not that she gives half a shit whether one out of 91,600 followers doesn’t follow her tweets any more, I understand the anger– not saying I understand your experience, but I get the anger.  It’s justified, to a point.  But I hope you can find the grace to say something appropriate and perhaps even apologize to Stefani (Lady Gaga).  Your comment was rude to her and dismissive and disrespectful of her message.  You took out your anger on an innocent victim, who was only trying to share a message of hope and strength and love after trauma.  I’m sorry I reacted to your remarks with a chip on my shoulder, set up after multiple jabs and inappropriate remarks already made by other people, stacked up on each other to only further the message of hatred.  If there’s something to be hated, it’s hatred.  Not each other.  Everything else is a lie from the Devil.

Please make it right.  And when you do, I’ll delight to follow and admire you again.  But I can’t follow you if your heart is full of misdirected hate that splashes out like acid and hurts people who don’t deserve that treatment.  Like Lady Gaga. I wonder how she felt if she read the little snip, especially if she’s a fan.


1/1/2016 Attitude Adjustment Again, and Adam Ant

Fuck.  Last night sucked, I was reflecting again.  Remind me not to do that, it just fucks with my emotions and makes me want to cry.  I should get tattoos, that would be an acceptable form of self-harm that’s artistic and might satisfy my craving for those seasons when I’m being fucking reflective.  It puts me in a shitty state, and while I looked back at the poem I wrote and it’s not “bad,” by my own standards, it should have a trigger warning on it, and it’s not really anything I’d call “good.”

I figured it’s the first, and I should adjust my attitude by NOT self-reflecting.  And then I figured I should blog to relax, so if you’re reading this, first, I’m deeply sorry, and second, thank you.  And alliterating my A’s seemed like a good idea too.

I’m still surfing and have moved on to the awesome solo sax and cool intro to “Urgent” by Foreigner, but when I started surfing…

I started surfing music and fell on something.  I watched a documentary about Stuart Goddard, whom I have appreciated since my mid-teens.  He’s been dealing with bipolar disorder since his childhood.  I only remember my first major depressive episode when I was maybe 15.  But there were probably milder depressive episodes earlier.  Tell me again, do traumatic experiences have a bearing on the beginnings of bipolar, or in my case cyclothymia?  to continue my alliterative trend, I sure as shit had my share of traumas.

You probably know about Stuart.  Stuart has the alias Adam Ant.

He’s fucking awesome.  He’s fucking BADASS!  I’m straight as an arrow, but that man is BEAUTIFUL.  And he survives.  This gives me hope.

I love everything about him.  The makeup.  The clothes.  The emotional swings.  The music.  I want to write songs, buy quirky clothes that suit me, and front a nouveau punk band.

Fuck yeah.

Just call me “Mister Charming Snake.”