It's Been a While...

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Those damn things have been keeping me very busy.

So how has it been shakin'? This winter has been a bitch hasn't it?! Sucks to be a hobo.

Coming home from the studio the other day, I passed one of our town's lovable urine scented hobos standing near the freeway entrance ramp with a tattered cardboard sign that read "truly homless hard worker any help needed god bless". Of course I drove by without even looking in my cup holder to see how much spare change I had. Fuck 'em. Coldest day of the goddam year and this asshole is standing on a street corner begging for spare change? Really?! I freeze my ass off everyday in an unheated art studio making art that no one buys so I can give what ever cash I have to some dirty hobo on a street corner? That shit wont fly in my book.

When I got home, I my hobo encounter got the old gears turning. I couldn't help but to think about what life choices we both made to place us where we where in life. You know, those specific points in our lives, when we make a simple decision and it irrevocably alters, for better or worse ,our journey through this mortal world.

For example, if I created enough art that people actually wanted to buy, I could have heat in the winter. Or, if the panhandling hobo had never tasted the sweet intoxicating nectar that is gin, he may have very well been a United States senator that help write a law that gives every voting American exactly what they want for the rest of their lives. The dude would have been a fucking king if he had never placed that clear glass bottle of gin to his lips. Well, shit happens.

That night, in front of a warm fire and with a fresh bottle of booze, I began to draw out a short list of things I have done that changed my life the most.

It's time to share my candy....

1: Loudly calling my son's Cub Scout den mother a "FUCKING CUNT" during a den meeting. Boy, there really is no coming back from that. The look in my son's eyes the next week when I had to tell him that we were not welcome in the Cub Scouts and that daddy had to give back his little kerchief and hat pretty much laid the foundation for his hatred for me during his pre-teen years.

2: Surrendering to peer pressure and trying that rope swing at Murray's Lake. The sunken log got the best of me that day. It's been over 30 years, five surgeries and I still can't maintain a full erection for more than four and a half minutes.

3: Proposing to my first wife at PF Chang's. Her fortune cookie that night said 'You will find disappointment in new adventures'. Eight months later, I found a used condom on the floor of our living room. It was one of those Magnum condoms for guys with really big wangs.

4: Not learning how to tell time. I know, it's stupid but true. Way back in like third grade we all took a class on how to read a clock. I just remember joking around the whole time with a group of really cool fourth graders at my table. I didn't learn a goddam thing and to this day I can only tell time from a digital clock.

5: The three separate times I used the phrase 'YOUR MAMA' to end what I thought was a harmless confrontation with an urban Detroit local after a Red Wings hockey game. You would have thought I had learned my lesson the first time I got my head kicked in. It took two more times for me to come to the conclusion that 'YOUR MAMA' is an 'inside your head' word.

Well, those are the first five I could think of. Let me know what yours are.

The Walk of Shame

"Everyone loved your work. Sorry we didn't sell anything" 

 And with a halfhearted "oh, that's OK, it really was a very strong show though", my 8 foot crated works of art and I were out the door.

The walk of shame consists of the last trip out of a gallery after taking down and packing up your unsold work. Sometimes, from behind a desk and without even trying to pretend standing up, the gallery agent (usually an unpaid intern) will throw you a "Do you need help with the door?".

"No, I got it. But thanks!"

There are varying degrees of shame. The easiest to take is the summer group show consisting of older flailing artists at the urban coffee house where absolutely no one questions you when you unhook your work from the wall and walk out on the last day of the show. The coffee house experience usually is followed with a promise to yourself to never ever show your art in a place that lacks even the most basic security AND that sells vegan sandwiches. The promises last about a year.

A group show at an established regional non-profit gallery can be a little more bitter, especially when your art is part of an annual fund raising silent auction. When that shit happens you almost want to call the joint and tell them to burn it in the alley rather than endure the walk. I mean, when I get invited to be a part of one of those shows, I usually try and give them something of quality that will appeal on a broad level and that has an attractive price point. That is why it fucking hurts when no one bids on it and I get the email to pick it up.

The bitterest pill is the solo show walk of shame where nothing sold, not even the goddamn prints. The whole afternoon consists of taking down, packing up every goddamn piece of art and walking out the door past other artists bringing their work in for the next show. I compare this experience to that time in high school when, by some random act of Christ, you and the hottest girl in school hook up. Yep, you know she has a 'history' and she is completely out of your league but you really think you are hot shit and can rock her world.  For exactly one month she giggles at your jokes, seems interested in the same music as you and makes out with you in your car. Then nearing the end of your month long 'relationship', the planets align, the heavens part and the opportunity to shank her becomes a firm reality. It the back seat of your car she and you are naked from the waist down and nothing can stop what is going to happen. Well, almost nothing. Maybe it was because you were nervous. Maybe you should have rubbed one out before the date; or maybe it was God having a big laugh at your expense. What ever the reason, your date is now yelling at you in the dark for 'getting that shit in her hair' and also ruining her new acid washed jeans that she just bought.

During the ride home, several quiet apologies are thrown up and allowed to drop without acknowledgement. The last words spoken by you is a quivering 'I'll talk to you tomorrow' addressed to her back as she is closing the passenger car door and almost running to her front door. You instantly know that whatever you had with her is now over, but you don't know how bad it is until Monday when you get back to school. She is now avoiding you in the hallways and when you do see her between classes leaning up against her locker flirting with other boys (athletic types) she whispers to them and they both look at you and laugh as you walk by. You never forget that feeling.

That feeling is the equivalent to the solo gallery show, nothing fucking sold, come pick up your shit, take all of the fucking show post cards too, walk of shame. While it may never get better, every walk of shame gets you further away from the first one.

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Ajax and Buckles

"Life is about the journey, not the destination"

My parole officer told me that during our first meeting and I never really understood it until the fucker pulled my parole because he thought I was drunk. I did two years in Jackson to figure out what he meant.

If you you have been following my blog, thank you. If this is your first visit, take your pants off because you are in for a treat. My last post I came clean about a dirty little secret that I have hidden since the mid seventies. I was forced to repeat the fourth grade because of my attraction to Bill Kennedy. I am not proud my failure, rather I felt that being held back made me the more well rounded man I am today.

Fourth grade, the second time around, was fun. While I was not the tallest kid in class, the extra year I had on everyone else gave me an air of wisdom that the other kids lacked. I found that I could influence the weak minded into doing things that entertained me. I once got all the boys in class to believe that if they all flushed all the liquid soap in all the johns at the same time, that the pipes would burst from all the bubbles. No, it didn't work and the school was without soap for a month, but is was kinda fun. Slowly though, the same two kids started to gravitate towards me during the school day.

Ajax was a lisping ginger headed boy who liked to tell dirty jokes that he learned from his babysitter. Ajax was not his real name and I have long forgotten what his real name was. Everyone called him Ajax because we had a teacher who took attendance by calling everyone's first initial and last name. A. Jacks. I thought it was a cool nickname. 

Buckles was a dirty little boy with greasy sandy hair. He was poor and dressed like it. Buckles was also a little stupid most of the time, but once in a while he would have a spark of brilliance that astounded Ajax and myself. Buckles got his nickname from his father. Well, his father gave him the REASON we called him buckles. Once in a while he would show up to school with a massive bruise on his back in the exact shape and outline of a man's work belt buckle. He always denied his dad beat him, but when I got Ajax to pretend he was gonna beat me with his belt, Buckles went completely batshit on us and started bawling 'No Daddy' or something. It took us an entire lunch hour to get him to stop trembling like some homo.

Because of our school system's complex busing route, neither of us ever met outside of school, even in the summer. Each one of us lived pretty far from each other and even with bikes it was a pretty far ride to their houses. But during the school year, Ajax, Buckles and I were like the Three Musketeers all through fourth and fifth grade. We were always on the same kickball team because we were chosen last and were always the first out during dodge-ball and the bench time allowed us to make fun of all the other kids who always seemed a little better or a little more popular. Good times. But, good times began to grow up around us. Elementary school evolved into Middle school and our friendships evolved too. 

Of all my school years, sixth grade had to have been my most awkward. I was already a year older than all the other kids and my body was not handling the flood of hormones very well. My face was like a large Domino with extra sauce, I had a weight problem that exacerbated my pungent body odor and when the wind blew I got an erection that made it impossible to sit for any period of time or walk normally at any pace. My friends were growing up too. 

Ajax had gotten very tall and was becoming quite a snappy dresser. In sixth grade, he was the only kid in the entire school who would regularly show up for class in a sport coat and wearing a perfectly polished pair of penny loafers. His red hair was always perfect too.He even had a little leather briefcase that at least once a week, a group of eighth grade boys would throw onto the school roof. For the most part though, Ajax was able to bypass the hideously disfiguring side effects of puberty.

Buckles was still greasy and poor. His mom left his dad and the beatings seemed to stop for good. Of the three of us, he was the only one who got free school lunches every day. I know this because he would sell me his pizza and chocolate milk every Thursday for a buck and a half. I have no idea what he was using the money for, it was certainly not to buy new clothes. Buckles was still wearing the same shirts from forth and fifth grade and some days he would even wear his older sisters hand me down My Little Pony shirts. Christ did he get his ass kicked by the eighth graders on those days.

The high flying days of glory we had spent locked in friendship during fourth and fifth grade had melted into lunch hours spent alone together in the middle school library drawing boobies and penises in all the history books. Some of the drawings were pretty good too. Ajax did this epic work of Hitler naked from the waist down in a History of War book, all in pen too. After four years of middle school, I don't think any book or magazine was left untouched in some way. Didja notice the FOUR years of middle school? The Plymouth Canton school system was a little over crowded and to lighten the student high school population, in sixth grade, they began a plan to move ninth grade back down to all the middle schools. We all would have to spend our freshman year in middle school.

On the surface we all bitched about it. But deep inside I knew that Ajax and Buckles felt the same way I did. In some small way, it was comforting to know that our youth was being detoured away from the adulthood of high school. Like a baby chick who purposely spends an extra day or two in it's egg, all warm and safe under it's mother. We would be able to share our library lunch hours together as good friends for one more year of school. 

Ninth grade came too quickly for my taste. The three musketeers rarely met for lunch anymore in the library. Buckles had began smoking cigarettes with a grizzly group of kids out behind the school utility shed. His hand me down My Little Pony shirts had been transformed by black spray painted stenciled band logos of DefLeppard and Iron Maiden. He had also began to smell of skunky marijuana. I know he was a valued friend, but it broke my heart to know he was getting involved with drugs. Besides, I had always thought Ajax would be the druggie.

If Buckles' turn towards drugs and rock n' roll saddened me, Ajax's transformation was like the surprise of a wet toilet seat. 

Ajax had thrown himself into the world of theater and dance. He had joined both the middle school's drama club and intramural dance squad and been elected leader of them both. His youthful sport coats and penny loafers had become black stretch pants and leg warmers. I was kind of proud of his hard work too. Yes, he did work hard. Yes, he sucked at both drama and dance. But, he worked really hard at them and he really liked what he was doing. I always regret never telling him how proud of him I was. I always gave him a pretty hard time about how much he sucked. Hell, Buckles started openly calling him a homo to his face because he thought he sucked so bad. We all used to just laugh though because we knew he couldn't be gay, not one of the musketeers.

We had all changed in some way and grown a little apart. About half was through the ninth grade we learned that the three of us would not be going to the same high schools. Buckles and I would be attending Plymouth Salem while Ajax would be attending the newer Plymouth Canton. Ninth grade would end up being the last year of The Three Musketeers. The three of us knew we would have to go out with a bang. 

The freshman dance was scheduled for the end of the school year and Buckles had a plan. He told Ajax and myself that he would provide the 'party' all we had to do was buy his ticket to the dance and get him a ride to the dance. We agreed and split the eight dollars between us and Ajax would have his 'uncle' provide transportation for them both. I told Buckles though that I didn't want any pot or drugs and he told not to worry. What ever Buckles had in mind, I was sure it was going to fucking rock.

The dance was held on a Friday night in the school gymnasium/cafeteria. The students were to end class, go home and get dressed and come back to school at 6:30. It's funny that for the entire two months I knew about the dance, it never occurred to me to ask a girl to the dance. I did have a crush on this one girl and during lunch hour even told her best friend that I liked her but when she ran back to tell her friend about my crush, they both pretended to gag, throw up and laugh. I had prepared myself that the warm touch of a woman would have to wait until high school or maybe college. So, I was going alone to the dance. I did ask Ajax and Buckles if they had planned on taking dates. Ajax told us that his 'uncle' did like him dating and Buckles remarked that he 'didn't need some bitch coming down on him'.

Friday came and when I got home from school my mother had laid out what I would be wearing to the dance. The tan three piece suit was my older brother's before he grew out of it and it had a certain Dance Fever feel to it with it's wide collars, three button vest and elephant bell bottom slacks. The disco slacks and jacket were a little tight but if I didn't sit I knew I would look pretty sharp. The cherry on top though was a thin black leather tie with piano keys printed on it that my mom had bought for me at the mall. She was so proud that she had picked it out all by her self and I was really touched. It looked like something someone would have worn on MTV. I thought I looked damn good as my mom snapped pictures of me standing in the driveway. 

My mother would be my ride to the school dance. She asked how late I would be and what time she should pick me up. Buckles grand party plan came to mind and I remember telling her that if I needed a ride that I would call her. She said 'Ok' and gave me a hug as I got out of the car. 

It was five minutes later that I realized I had no money for a phone call home.

The school was all lit up and the gymnasium/cafeteria looking like a goddam Rose Bowl Parade. There was paper flowers on the walls, bunting around the tables, streamers hanging from the ceiling and balloons on the dance floor. 

I was one of the first 20 or so kids to arrive at the dance, even the DJ had not shown up yet. Teachers we all had seen a few hours earlier in class were now all tarted up in cheap evening wear and prepping the snack tables. I remember leaving the gymnasium/cafeteria to get some fresh air and seeing the janitor in the boiler room. He was not tarted up and was still wearing the same overalls he had been wearing a few hours before. At the time, it made me sad that he was not invited to dress up for the dance.

I was outside standing near the open front doors of the school watching all the kids starting to file in. They all looked so cool. Some of them even had dates. They all looked so happy. Then I saw this red Pontiac Bonneville pull up. It was a fire engine red convertible with white leather seats and tan thin man was driving. He had Ray-Bans on and in the passenger seat was Ajax. Buckles was in the back seat. I saw him say something to Ajax as Buckles pushed the front seat forward and opened the door to get out. Ajax nodded at the tan thin driver, got out and closed the car door. 

Buckles was a mad man and immediately high fived me while Ajax proceeded to give me this mock slug across the chin and he complimented me on how sharp I looked. Before I could even say 'thanks', Buckles reminded us both about his party plan. He had what looked like a book bag with him under his jacket and told us to follow him. I looked Ajax in the eyes to try and get a read of what was planned but Ajax just winked and shrugged. So we followed Buckles to the rear of the school's utility shed.

"You guys are about to get fucked up!', Buckles announced as he produced a large glass bottle of red liquid and a clear Ziploc bag of what looked like tiny brown seeds.

"I took this from my mom's boyfriend", he huffed as he uncapped the bottle of grenadine took a gulp and handed it to Ajax.

"These are marigold seeds, eat these and it's like acid", he opened the Ziploc bag and thew a hand full of seeds into his mouth. 

Ajax took three large swallows of grenadine and handed me the bottle. It was my first taste of booze and it was sweet. I handed the bottle to Buckles as he gave Ajax and I a handful of marigold seeds. Ajax shot them into his mouth and began to chew. I followed. We all washed the seeds down with hearty swigs of grenadine. I remember trying to wrestle the bottle away from Buckles as he tried sucking the bottle dry. Our threesome of sin quickly degraded into a grassy wrestling match for the last drops of booze. We were fucking hammered.

We entered the dance floor like we owned the joint. I vaguely remember doing jumping jacks while the DJ played Staying Alive and seeing Buckles grope some girl in the corner. The lights and the music had become a part of me while I did my jumping jacks. 

Then I saw her.

It was my crush.

Even in my psychedelic haze, I could tell she didn't have a date. She was dancing alone. 

I didn't run, it was more of a hop to her side. In my hallucinating eyes I was now her date. No one would be dancing with her but me, whether she liked it or not. She did not like it. 

On the dance floor Mrs. Jacobson lightly tapped my shoulder and asked if I 'was ok?'. I told her that I was fine but she and Mr. Mendalson insisted that I needed to sit and take a little break. I sat for a little while but it was like there was battery acid in my veins. From my chair I could see Ajax and his drama friends play acting, I could see Buckles fingering some slut behind the DJ booth  in the dark and I could see my crush, the girl I lusted over, giggling and pointing at me with her girlfriends from the dance floor. It felt like the entire dance floor was pointing and laughing. 

When you know you are going to throw up, you know you are going to throw up. 

I knew I was going to throw up.

I bolted out of the gymnasium/cafeteria and tried my best to make it to the bathroom. I didn't. 

I made to just outside the boiler room where the school janitor was stationed. The pink broth that flew from my throat contained almost everything I had eaten that day. I could see the fish sticks I had for lunch, the pizza rolls I had while getting dressed for the dance and remnants of the marigold seeds I had swallowed an hour before.

"JESUS CHRIST", the janitor burped from his folding chair and card table in the boiler room. 

I was not about to let some fat fuck toilet cleaner harsh my buzz for puking in his pristine hallway, so I ran. I ran outside to the school utility shed. Ok, when you are puking, the world becomes entirely in focus. It's like the fucking Matrix, you can see everything. Heaving pints of pink vomit from my knees I could count every single cigarette butt on the ground. Under the wet dirt I could feel the difference between Pepsi Cola bottle caps and Coca-cola bottle caps. I could also fully understand that the black leather tie with piano keys printed on it that my mother had purchased for me was entirely ruined. From my chin to my waist, I had entirely ruined my suit.

I knew I couldn't go back into the dance, so I waited till I could see Ajax or Buckles come out. What seemed like eternity passed when I saw a fire red Pontiac convertible pull up. Ajax's uncle. My savior and ride home! I saw Ajax exit the school and enter that long sleek convertible. 

I ran up 'Can you give me a ride home?", I asked.

The tanned 'uncle' looked me up and down. I could tell that my muddied disco suit stained in pink vomit was not a good match for the Bonneville white leather interior. He looked at Ajax and slowly shook his head.

"Maybe you could catch a ride with Buckles, he is going home with that girl", Ajax added.

I nodded and they drove off. I waited in the shadows but never saw Buckles come out. I think he left early or something. 

Oh well. It was a long walk home. You could say it was a journey home that night. I grew up quite a bit during that walk home. About half way home, I made a promise to myself that I would work my hardest to do smart and successful things and not act stupid or do stupid things. Well that promise lasted about six weeks. But, it's the journey, not the destination. 

Every week I find myself kneeling and stained in my own vomit is a chance to promise myself that I will never allow myself to kneel in mud or walk home stained with my own vomit. Hell, I am doing better than both Ajax and Buckles (I'll tell their story another time). 

It's the journey, not the destination.

My Obsession

You are an obsession

I cannot sleep

I am your possession

Unopened at your feet

There's no balance

No equality

Be still I will not accept defeat

I will have you

Yes, I will have you

I will find a way and I will have you

Like a butterfly

A wild butterfly

I will collect you and capture you

If you know me personally and read my blog, you will know that every post I write opens a small tattered shoe-box and exposes a very old personal secret of my very own. This week will be no different.

I was forced to repeat the fourth grade at Fiegel Elementary. 

I am not proud of this part of my life and for the most part have hidden it from everyone close to me outside my own family. Hell, up until last month, even my wife of God knows how many years didn't know about it. When I did tell her about it she shrugged and then asked me if I was drunk again. Well, I was drunk. But that's another story.

So anyways. 

The summers of my youth were spent in front of a television. Being an overweight and socially inept youngster did not afford me a grand buffet of childhood friends. The warm light of the television would never laugh when you wet yourself at the Cub Scout weenie roast or throw a Dixie Cup of urine at you during a kickball game. Television never judged me or questioned my choices, it only quietly accepted me. 

Every summer weekday I awoke to the crazy antics of Popeye and Bluto. I would then spend a wonderful brunch with my neighbors on Sesame Street, the Count always was my favorite. I even had a kick-ass puppet of the Count. One Banana...Two Banana...Three Banana...

After brunch I would spend the afternoon with the man who made me the man I am today.

Mr. William 'Bill' Kennedy

Bill Kennedy had his own show on WKBD Channel 50. "Bill Kennedy At The Movies". They would run some old movie and after commercial breaks he would chat for a few minutes with aged B list stars or ingratiate his viewing fans with personal tales from 'Old Hollywood'. My God this guy was suave. I swear I  could smell his Old Spice aftershave wafting though my television's speakers and if ever there was a man who could be judged above all other men, it was Bill Kennedy. I know in my heart that I loved him and everything about him. NO NO NO, not in a sexual way. Christ, I was a pre-pre-teen and years away from even mere thought of my balls dropping. I loved him in the same way a soldier loves his commander or a player loves his coach. If Bill told me to fucking light myself on fire, I would have done it in a second and smiled the whole goddam time. Summer afternoons were spent learning how to be a man under the swaggering tutelage of my mentor, Bill Kennedy.

To this day, I can still replay classic episodes in my head. When Bill 'Unmasked' the Unknown Comic live on the air was epic. So was every time he played 'What Ever Happened To Baby Jane' because he always had great stories about both Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. In fact, I would bet my left nut that he banged them both.....at the same time. To this day, that is the one question I would ask him if given the chance, "Did you bang Bette Davis and Joan Crawford at the same time". I almost had the chance to ask him in person, believe it or not. I had read in the Free Press that Bill would be at the Tel-Twelve mall signing books or something and I made my mom take me. She took me to the mall after I cried a little, but what ever he was doing was all over by the time we got there. I still remember looking for his limousine in the mall parking lot feeling sure that I had just missed him and if he saw me waving he would stop and shake my hand. I sobbed on the ride home but stopped when I asked myself  'Would Bill Cry". No, Bill would not cry dammit.

Summers melted into autumn and soon school started. But, everyday I was without my Bill was a day without a hand guiding me towards manhood. I missed his charms. Then I found a way.

The first time I was kept home sick was the flu. I spent the day on the couch with a waste can beside me watching TV. For two days Bill's baritone voice and the smell of Vicks VapoRub was a soothing comfort between dry heaves into the tin basket. My return to school was not met with celebration. I needed Bill and believed in my heart that in some way he needed me.

For the first three months of fourth grade, I think I spent more time at home than at home than in front of a chalk board. There were tricks that I had learned. When playing with other kids who were sick didn't work, I started getting creative. Eating a raw egg that I had hid in the garage for two weeks earned me three days with Bill. Drinking a pint of warm spoiled milk earned me two days. A glass of wood grain alcohol got me two weeks home and a spot at the front of the classroom near the chalkboard when I got my eyesight back. I can even remember trying to break my own arm in an attempt to stay home with Bill. The days absent from school began to add up and I was neglecting the homework that was being sent home. Then came the day that I was kind of expecting. I was watching Bill when my mom came into my room (I was given a small 9 inch black and white TV of my own to watch) and snapped off the set. My first instinct was to scratch my mother's eyes out and howl to turn Bill back on, but the antifreeze I had drank had made me week as a kitten. Her red eyes let me know that she had been crying and I guessed it was the letter in her hand that caused her tears. In a soft trembling voice, she let me know that I was failing the fourth grade and that I would have to be held back. Next fall I would have to repeat the fourth grade. She hugged me for what seemed like an eternity then turned to leave. 

In a gravely voice learned from a master, I spoke.

"Turn the TV back on", I demanded from my sick bed 

The rest of the school year I pissed away fucking around in class. I knew I would have to do it all over again so why even try. Fourth grade ended and summer with Bill came and went. Soon, what should have been my first day of fifth grade was instead my second first day of fourth grade. The jig was up. If Bill taught me anything it was to buckle up when times get tough and get the job done. I didn't miss another day of school until 12th grade and that lice thing I had.

P.S. be sure not to miss part 2 "Bill, Me and my freshman homecoming dance". Coming soon!

Insert Title Here...

"A feast for the eye, a fabulous adventure for the heart and the spirit"
                                                                                                     
I thought someone said that about my art one time a couple of years ago, but when I confronted them to say thanks, they denied ever writing it and said I was a hack.

I wasn't disappointed, not at all. Disappointment for me is something that first ended in a warm sticky mess in under three minutes and is topped with a sobbing "Sorry for ruining your sweater". Disappointment must be savored like a bowl of Lucky Charms ruined by milk that has soured, you never forget the taste and learn to check dates before pouring another bowlful. I have always tried to learn from disappointment.

"Please Shower Before Entering Pool"

When you see this sign there is a spark of excitement. You think "Cool there is a pool here". The first time I ever got excited to read a sign that stated this was my entry onto the fifth floor at St. Mary's Hospital. It never occurred to me that it was highly unlikely that a small suburban hospital would have a pool on the fifth floor....

....or on the psych ward.

After three days I finally had the nerve to ask a fellow patient, "When do they open the pool?".
The girl laughed at me and told me that another patient put that sign up a month ago. She laughed and laughed while I savored my disappointment. Another valuable lesson learned. There are no pools in life's psych ward.

Is it possible to share one's disappointment?  The other day, a friend on Facebook posted how he is "SO ready to take the gloves off with Syria". That is a bold statement coming from someone who likes show tunes and sports a COEXIST bumper sticker on his Prius. When I read his bold post, I felt his disappointment that the man he openly loves and voted into office is going to have fellow humans killed. I'm sure his loud exclamation that he is a fighter and not a lover is his way of welcoming his disappointment in his leaders. While I did indeed feel his disappointment, it was a short and fleeting embrace that ended as soon as another friend posted a cool link to free porn.

Sharing disappointment is best left as a one way street. Always try and savor the disappointments of others and never share your own. The dude that wants to bomb Syria now looks like a bitter fucktard to everyone who tried to tell him that he would be disappointed in his life choices. If you ever get involved in something that disappoints you, bury it and bury it deep. Only unearth it for others to see when no harm can come from it. If you don't bury it, people will use it to cut your fucking throat.

The first time I learned not to share 'fresh' disappointment was during my early teens. I may have been 13 or 14 when I arrived uninvited and unexpected at a friend's house. Well, the kid lived in one of those 'co-op' apartments for poor families. Because of this, I always felt that I was better than him and made fun of his McGregor tennis shoes and Tuff Skin jeans from K-Mart.. I mean, come on, I was not poor as a child and thought his economic predicament was quite amusing.

Well, getting back to my story.

It was a warm afternoon near the end of a seemingly endless summer vacation and I knocked. Ray opened the door and I could tell he had been expecting someone else. He invited me in. Ray's mother worked afternoons and there was never a sitter to watch him and his slightly younger and very hot sister, so I wasn't that surprised to see her and 3 other teens in his living room smoking cigarettes. I had a big crush on her and she looked so fucking hot smoking a Newport in her tight blue nylon running shorts with white piping. She giggled and said "Hello, Topher". Ray then interrupted my dizzyingly hormonal buzz with a short statement, "There are some girls and guys coming over in a minute. We are gonna make out".

For exactly half a second, I could feel every hormone in my early teenaged body rush to my genitals.

Then came the crash.

"You can stick around, but you wont get any", Ray stated with a certain cold fact.

Ray could see my disappointment like a 500 watt halogen light bulb from three feet away.Through a hormone fueled haze, I remember telling him that I had to get home anyways for dinner. I swear I heard laughter as the door closed behind me.

A few weeks later middle school started I swear to God that Ray told everyone about that summer afternoon I was not invited to partake in my first teen-aged love fest. He got me back for every one of my "Your mom shops at Salvation Army" jokes. In his own way, Ray reminded me that I would never be welcome at the cool kid's table in the lunch room of life and that my disappointment in learning this fact tasted as sweet, to him, as free cotton candy at a county fair.

It took a couple of years for me to realize that my disappointment had fertilized the joy of others. I still roll that summer afternoon through my head trying to think of snappy comebacks to hide my own crushing disappointment. To this day, I use that day to help me maneuver through my constant and daily disappointments. That day is like a aged numbed scar from a dog bite that never healed right and reminds you to never pet strange dogs.

Remember, if life was never disappointing we would never be reminded to shower before entering the pool.