Having My Back

My boss is fond of saying she's "got my back." She says this often, so often in fact I have to wonder just who she's got my back from. Are there people with knives out coming for me? Does the 12th floor (where the brass is) hate me and she is my protector?

I finally asked one day when she said this for the 1000th time just what she meant. Turns out that no one in my current place of employment is out to get me or doesn't like me, she was referring to how some of my old colleagues in my old life had bad mouthed me to her. Whatever. If there is one thing I've tried to really remember over the past 2 years it's that what other people think of me is none of my business.

That said, I want to tell a story about a guy who did have my back. When I was a little kid in Detroit, I went to public schools. I lived in the city so do the math. I never had any problems. Little kids, at least back then, are kids really. We're too young to start making judgements based on skin color or appearance. I was one of a handful of white kids in my class. I also had longer than usual hair for a first grader that for some reason fascinated many of the black girls in my class. They used to love to play with it.

Anyway, while there may have been racial harmony at Hampton Elementary School (since renamed), that doesn't mean there was harmony. We actually had gangs and at lunch or after school we'd have fights, throw rocks, all sorts of stuff.

My best friend in those days was Todd. His father played defensive tackle for the Detroit Lions. No shit. Now this was the 70s long before huge contracts, mansions, etc. so he lived in the same neighborhood I did.

One day Todd got detention. I don't know what for. All I knew was that this meant I'd be vulnerable on the playground after school. Sure enough, after school this bigger kid grabbed me and started throwing me around and taking great glee that I was alone.

This goes on for what seems like an eternity but was probably only five minutes or so when out of the corner of my eye I see Todd running across the playground. I warned my attacker (I can't remember his name) of this and he laughed and said, "nice try but that fool is in detention."

About fifteen seconds later Todd came flying in and tackled the guy who was jumping me. Freed at last, I turned around and also jumped on the guy and we pummeled him. Yeah, it was two-on-one but the playground knows no rules.

It's funny. My brother once told me how I used to come home talking about all these fights at school and everyone thought I had some vivid imagination until one day I came home with my shirt torn and a bloody lip or something talking about what an awesome battle we'd had on the playground that day. They all just stared with their mouths wide open.

I tell this little story as a salute to Todd. Someone who knew what it meant to really have someone's back.

Not Exactly The Stuff Of Philip Marlowe

I'm living in Los Angeles. I'd just come home from Lucky Seven's one of my favorite haunts on Vine between Hollywood and Sunset where they ignored the smoking ban and the bartender not only liked Bukowski and Fante, but also played Charles Brown. I was in heaven. It was a typical night. I drank a bunch of beers at home and then headed to the bar where I sat around for several hours drinking, smoking, writing in my notebook and reading a book, all in the lame attempt that some hot girl would find this absurd bullshit act appealing. It always worked in the movies but, as usual, I went home alone.

Once I got home, it had really started to rain. I called one of the services I used and placed an order. I then kept drinking and smoking waiting for my gun for hire. A half-hour goes by, no one has shown. Now this was before dry goods became part of my plan so if help doesn't get there soon, I'm falling asleep. After another half-hour and no girl. I call another agency and place an order. I figure the first one was a no-show. It happens.

About thirty minutes later there is a knock on the door. I open it expecting number two, but fuck it's number one. She's all apologetic about the delay, etc. well, I figure maybe I can pull this off. I take her upstairs, do what has to be done while the whole time I'm thinking please don't let me hear that doorbell, please, please, please.

We finish up and are back in the living room settling up (you know you're a regular when they wait until they leave to collect the $$) when the dreaded bell rings. Fuuccckkk!!!!

She looks at me. I shrug. I go to the door and yes, there is another slinky girl there. I invite her in and immediately walk her into the kitchen. I then tell her that my neighbor popped over and she's just leaving and I'll be right back. I'm not sure if she buys it, but I really don't care and head back to the living room.

I go back into the living room and the first girl looks at me with big eyes and says: "You ordered another girl?" I said, "no, that's just my neighbor, her phone is out." I don't think she bought it, but since she had her cash she was good to go.

Once she was gone I then had to take the one in the kitchen upstairs to the bedroom for another hour. I don't think she believed the first one was a neighbor either. The Lesson? If you're going to order a second, make sure you cancel the first.

Man I had a killer apartment then.

Are You?

Want to make you real
Need to get you out of my head and into my life
Have to do more than stare at you
From across a crowded room

Can't bring myself to actually say what I want
Can't bring myself to feel worth it
Can't bring myself to show you
Just what you've got...on me

It's not the way I'm used to doing things
Direct and straight
I maneuver and manipulate by trade
that's how us frightened types do it

I'm picturing you now, alone in that crowded room
Staring at your keyboard waiting for the words to come
Are you blocked like me?
Are you scared like me?

The shrinks can't get us
And the words aren't saving us
When you go home later will you think about that walk down Broadway?
Or am I off the screen as soon as the elevator door closed?

I sit here typing this stuff up without even looking back
I don't try to make it rhyme
And I don't know what I'm saying
Or where this is taking me

I boast of no form and format
Never wanted to learn the rules
Rules aren't what it's about I say
It's about cutting yourself open and pouring it out

Yeah, that sounds cool but it's just another cop out
If you can't master the little things, your big things will fall
Some can go their own way
I can't, I won't make it.

I've had some question my sanity
What the hell is this you're putting out there, they ask?
It's just what runs through my brain
And if I have to put a lid on that then it won't matter what rules I follow and ignore
This is my way out, and it isn't always pretty and clean
But neither am I

Schnook

One of my biggest adjustments in my not so new job is how fucking quiet it is here. Seriously, my phone rings maybe three times a day unless things get really jamming. I need noise, I need action. If it is quiet, my head goes places and then my brain says don't go there and takes me into even worse places under the guise that this diversion is a good thing when really it's a bad thing.

I'm used to getting my emails returned pronto. I'm used to my calls being taken. I know, false expectation, false pride, out-of-whack ego. I get it. I'm not the big swinging dick at the powerful paper anymore. I'm just some event planner who is usually calling for a favor. In other words, to borrow from Henry Hill, "I gotta live the rest of my life like a schnook."

Which is why I need to get a real life.

One More...

One more in the books
Still around, much to my surprise
For awhile I was doing my best to be somewhere else about now
But then I realized going was easy

Still got some hair on my head
Manage to at least please myself
No kids around me yet
But I don't feel dead

Didn't know how to do this for so long
Still figuring it out, day by day
There's no short cuts, no way out
And I don't have a problem with that anymore

I used to think it was easy
Numb myself to the point of no return
Took pride in destroying myself
Now I know that was a sellout

One more in the books
It's almost 11 and I'm the only one here
But I'm not alone
And never will be again

W4M

So Rambler's been doing a little Internet dating. I know, you all assume I have a harem at home, but sadly that is not the case. Anyway, while I'll hardly be the first to do this, I thought I'd share some amusing observations from my month or so online.

Smoking is now apparently worse than being a crack addict or molester. I see scores of women on the site I'm on who have no problem with big drinkers or drug users, but smoking? No, never. Now Rambler quit his smokes last year, in fact it'll be a year tomorrow. I'm glad I did although I do miss my old lover (see "To The Curb") at times. Still, I'm just envisioning the conversation if I hadn't quit that and other stuff.

Girl: OK, so what do you like to do for fun.
Me: I get high, drink a lot and sit in my apartment for days looking at Internet porn.
Girl: Cool. You don't smoke do you?
Me: Uh, well occasionally I have a Marlboro.
Girl: Click.

I also love the folks who say they are light social drinkers yet every photo of themselves is either in a bar or holding a drink at home and one of the five things they can't live without is usually vodka or red wine. Uh, if one of five things say you can't live life without is booze, you might be more than a "light social drinker."

There are also those who reply "rather not say" to the drink, drug, smoke question. Guess what, if you'd rather not say, than you probably do so just own that shit.

Now anyone who reads my stuff here can probably figure out that besides the cigarettes, I also put down the booze, etc. a while back as well. And I say in my ad that I don't drink at all, don't smoke at all. This may explain why I don't get as many responses as I'd like when I respond to ads. At least that's what I tell myself because, really, who could resist my looks and abundant charm? Then again, perhaps listing "American Psycho" as my favorite book isn't a selling point. Joke.

I don't go after the folks who say they are "very social drinkers" because I've decided that if "light social drinker" means "I get bombed four nights a week" then "very social drinker" means "there's a room at Smithers with my name on it." BTW, I did the exact same shit a few years ago. I don't care what others do (short from getting material for this post, of course). I just know that it'd be a waste of time for me to pursue someone who found "Sideways" to be a spiritually uplifting movie.

Enough of that and on to some other tidbits. Some post ten pictures and make you guess which one is most accurate. I don't want to spend a lot of time determining whether the shot of you in the the Huey Lewis t-shirt is older than the one with you in the Strokes shirt or if you just are flexing your ironic hipster muscle.

Others go a little overboard in what they're looking for in a man. "I want someone who can go rock climbing, run a marathon and look great in tux all in the same day." Yeah, if I see Jack Bauer on this site, I'll send him your way.

I'm going to keep doing this shit (I paid through April) and who knows, maybe something will come of it. I don't regret it, but it is a little like high school and trying to get the pretty girl to notice me. At least the pretty girl in the picture.

Oh, and really I am 6'4 and hung like a horse. Well, at least the latter part is true.

Pain for Freedom

That must be quite a hole you have to fill
The way you keep putting stuff in you
Trying to numb whatever won't leave
Confusing your pain for freedom

Can't really watch you anymore
Torn between wanting to hug you
And put you out of your misery
Confusing your pain for freedom

You spread yourself thin
You spread yourself wide
You think your on the edge
Confusing your pain for freedom

Those folks cheering you on
just gawkers on a highway
don't care how low you go
They don't know your pain from freedom

Think you're a jezebel, but you're really just a pity
Underneath that spunk and funk you let them dump on you
Beyond the booze and blow filling your veins
Confusing your pain for freedom

You spread yourself thin
You spread yourself wide
You say, `come on, take me on'
But you just don't know your pain from freedom

Want to pull you away
Before they find you in alley
Those guys you let inside
Will turn you out in a second

You say you've got the mouth
You say you're in control
But you've spread yourself around
And now you can't feel anymore

Couldn't surrender your pain for freedom
Won't have to worry about you anymore
Just didn't know your freedom was your pain
Your escape was your cell

I'm Just Saying

Anyone else notice how much better Eli Manning started playing after Shockey got hurt?

Anderson Park

A memory came back to me this evening. When I was a kid living in Montclair in the 70s I used to collect bottle caps. There's this brook that runs through Montclair along the railroad tracks. It's pretty cool, actually. I used to go to Anderson Park and go down by brook because that's where all the older kids hung out at night and got drunk. Then during the day I'd go there and cap collect. I'd grab dozens of them and also play with the empty bottles and my hands would end up smelling like stale day-old beer.

I loved that smell. I also loved the idea of hanging in the park and drinking. I never got a chance to do that as we moved out of Jersey before I hit high school. But there was something about those empties by the brook in between the park and the tracks that just enticed me. Of course, if I went back to Anderson Park it would turn out they weren't really woods, just shrubbery. But in my mind, they were woods.

Every few years some kid would get run over by a train. Usually they got caught on the trestle bridge and got stuck and, well you can figure out the rest. I used to joke that every few years some kid had to be sacrificed to the train gods.

I still sometimes wish I could see how my life would've been different if we hadn't left Montclair for D.C. Maybe nothing would've been different, maybe everything. I do know that if I'd stayed I would have ended up in those woods chugging beers on school nights and man that would've been fun. It sure would've beaten being at home.

Last Stop

Coming up from the 96th Street Station
I'm missing Fowad, I'm missing Happy Burger
My neighborhood's going
And the snow is getting ready to come

The 1-2-3 still aren't running right
Every weekend I see those idiots staring down the express track
Even though there's no light staring back
And I just roll my eyes in silent contempt

I know we're clean now
I know it's supposed to be better
Yet I walk down these streets
And I don't feel a soul anymore

Walk past the Duane Reed, past the HSBC
There's another Subway and a cellphone place
If there was a bar left to drink in..
But the last one got taken over by a Dunkin Donuts

And the streets get more crowded.
We keep building up, not out
Platforms get more jammed every day
And yet it seems everything that made it has gone away

Snow coming down
Almost makes me forget what's underneath
But when it melts away
It melts away

And the people don't seem to know or care
If you weren't here then, you don't know now
We look like anytown USA and that's our selling point
What was once the last stand against, is now the first stop for

All This Way

She leans back at the end of the bar
Surveys all that's around
Grabs a smoke and brings it to her mouth
Just one drag to keep the flies away

Can't go home
And there's no answer here
Music keeps playing
But nothing comes through clear

Flying down the freeway
Past La Cienega , Past La Brea
Take the 10 to the end
Looking for that moment.

The Box

Want to do 100 pushups
Want to run three laps around the reservoir
Need to take five cold showers
Punch myself to sleep

One of those nights again
Battling the beast within
Man the relief it would bring
But tomorrow where would I be?

Just feel that skin pierce
Just to feel that rush of euphoric relaxation
To escape myself and that voice that shouts

I can taste it, push it away
I can smell it, push it away
I can feel it, push it away

Want to ride it until it breaks
Want to ride it until it bleeds
Want to ride it until I crack
Want to ride it and not come back

But I know what happens
And I know it is what you want
It's the gift you say I deserve
It's the box that'll take me out

The 6:01

Trapped in a moving cage without bars
Tempted to pounce at all that is around me
Polished nails and stiletto heels
tease me and raise my blood

With each passing moment
Eyes dart everywhere
Like a crackhead needing a hit
I'm sweating through my skin

A time bomb in the making
feeling completely invisible
Brush against me, like a match to a fuse
And watch me explode

I fear that feeling
With every layer of red on your lips
It's all in my head
Pushing down on everything else

I need to break this box
I need to run from myself
Back to my real cage
Before I break my restraint
And take you all down with me

Cautious Man

My fortune cookie says, "you are cautious in showing your true self to others." That sounds about right. Cautious is a word that keeps coming up for me. I often say that I'm shy in person. My shrink disagrees and counters that I'm really just cautious.

I'm beginning to see the point because once I start talking, I don't stop. But it does take me a long time to trust. In fact, I'm not sure how often I have had that feeling of absolute trust. Of course, this explains a lot. Don't know how far back to trace the roots. Was it when my mother was hospitalized for awhile when I was very young so key bonding time was lost?

Was it when my oldest brother did his disappearing act?

Or was it just something that came from being in my family? My brothers, I'm pretty sure, all have the same issue. Probably why none of us are all that close.

I hope one day this fear of trusting is lifted or at least eases a little bit. It's a crappy way to live. It's very self-defeating.

You say trust me
I say prove it
you say trust me
I say prove it it

You say trust me
I say I can't
You say trust me
I say I want to..

I want to trust
I want to feel
I want to believe
I want to be real

I want to reach out
I want to fall
Knowing you'll catch me
And I'd have it all

I want to trust
I want to feel
I want to believe
I want to be real

I want your love
I want to take it
I want to give it
I don't want to fake it.

I want to trust.

Blue Coyote

I've added a new peep. Blue Coyote is a good friend, a hottie (I can say that now) and a very expressive delicate soul. Like me, she hopes doing this will get her committed to her poetry and writing and less caught up in the day-to-day bullshit that we go through to eat and sleep. Unlike me, she has real drive and isn't quite so jaded...yet. Good luck.

What The Heck Did I Google To Get This Spam??

"Raunchy slutty hotties enjoy anal in the cattle-shed." That's what was in my spam filter today. I just want to know what search led to that. Did I type in "anal sluts" and "bovine?" Did my search for a take out rib joint get cross-referenced with my search slutty hotties? And just who is Byron Jefferson, the lad so gracious to send me this important message? I'm really afraid to open this one. I am getting hungry though.

Looks like "The Wire" But Sure Doesn't Sound Like "The Wire"

Not going to go on about how good The Wire is or how real the newsroom stuff has been. Truthfully, the newsroom stuff has been hard to watch and certainly plays a small part in my lack of enthusiasm for returning to my former profession. Yes, even covering something as trivial as the entertainment business is not without its annoyances including know-it-all editors, backstabbing colleagues and brain numbing assignments.

But anyway, this isn't about that. It's about how weak Steve Earle's version of "Way Down in the Hole" is during the opening credits. I know Earle is a great bluesman and I do enjoy his role on the show, that's why I'm so bummed about his take on the opening theme. After great openings by The Five Blind Boys of Alabama and DoMaJe and others, it's a shame that the last season will be marred by Earle's lame version. It's kind of like going to see Springsteen and the final encore is "Mary Queen of Arkansas."

Well, that's my take anyway.

Spicy Wings And An Urban Legend

Watching an ad for KFC's new spicy wings (come on, feel the excitement) and I'm reminded of a story everyone says happened at their college. It's the old, guy eats spicy wings or chips and particularly hot salsa then later finds himself getting intimate with a woman and, having not washed hands before engaging in heavy petting, you can figure the rest out.

Just want to know if this ever really happened.

Thunderfingers

While in LA, I swiped a DVD of Thunderfingers from a friend's desk at the place I used to work. He won't mind. In fact, if I didn't know any better I'm pretty sure he left it there knowing I'd be snooping at his desk.

It's a documentary about John Entwistle, late great bassist of The Who. I am slightly obsessed with the Ox. Who knew that the statue that played on stage was a wild man off of it? Well, obviously anyone who hung around the band knew it. He blew through money...literally. Booze, blow and broads. My kind of guy. I too used to want to go after a night with a stripper and the other two Bs. Not anymore. At least for now.

Anyway, the film also had some interviews with his last girfriend who ended up overdosing on coke a few years after Entwistle died. She was a real mess in this tape. Too bad. She seemed like a sweet girl but that rock & roll groupie life takes a hell of a toll if you don't know when to quit.

Here is a clip to remind everyone else why this guy mattered.

Sixth Street!!!

Back from L.A. Fun place to cruise around in a convertible for a day but still not sure I see myself living there again. It is so quiet there at night. I forgot that pretty much every city except New York is quiet at night. And I'm not sure I'm ready for all that quiet.

Of course, I was not out there to talk about relocating. It was a job interview, but the job is in NY. The company is HQ'd in LA.

So lets get to it. Right now at this moment I don't see myself returning to my past. It doesn't feel right in my gut. Plus one editor who I don't even know trying to give me a man hug was kind of a turn off. I was like "dude, what are you doing?"

I don't think they can pay what I'm looking for anyway and while that doesn't matter if I am into the gig, if I'm not it is just a resentment waiting to happen. As I've said before, I want to move towards something, not away from something.

Of course, all this can change on Monday when some new shitstorm arises at work. Actually, I don't think that'll really be the case. I think I need to keep looking and searching but also do my job--what a radical idea.

Seriously, there are worse places to be while I figure out what's next.

Oh The Humanity

OK, sometimes Rambler has to revisit topics and subjects and admit that on second thought, perhaps I was off base. A few weeks ago I ranted about Juno, and while I still stand by some my complaints, a rewatching of Heathers has me reconsidering many of my criticisms. I saw Heathers when it came out and I was a young man in them days and none of the dialogue struck me as over-the-top for high school kids back then. I guess I'm just getting old.

Still, Winona Ryder is a lot hotter than Ellen Page.

I know, what's that got do with anything. Nothing, Winona just reminds me of my own high school love.

I See The Sun Behind Me

And the world below don't look so big at all...

Always have The Kinks "This Time Tomorrow" running through my mind anytime I fly. OK, a quick one. Off to LA in a few hours to see what's up. Just have to remember that I don't have to resolve anything now and just listen and be firm with what I want and need.

Of course, then I'll turn into Albert Brooks when he's negotiating with his boss in "Defending Your Life." l won't take less than 80K. I can offer you sixty. I'll take it!

Mama, Don't Let Your Boys Grow Up To Be Event Planners

I reminded today of Mickey Rourke's great line in Body Heat when he tells the William Hurt character "anytime you try a decent crime, you got 50 ways you can fuck up. If you think of 25 of them you're a genius. And you ain't no genius."

The same rule applies to event planning. And I ain't no genius either.

F... Me Gently With A Chainsaw

Don't know why, but that line from Heathers is crying out to me today. For every idiotic thing I read, hear, and think about, that is the comeback from my brain. It kind of reminds me of a Passover Sedar when we say Dayanu over and over again (It would have been enough) during the service.

Dr. Phil visits Brittney Spears. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

Jerry Seinfeld's annoying wife sued for "allegedly" ripping off a cookbook. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

Roger Clemens on 60 Minutes. Fuck me gently..., hell you get the idea.

So just try it for today and see how it works. And rent Heathers, it makes Mean Girls look like High School Musical.

Tighter Lids

No, this isn't some new gross plastic surgery trend I'm writing about. Just wondering if anyone else has noticed that Starbucks seems to have changed the types of lids they use. Normally, tight and snug are good things, but these lids are a bitch to seal all the way around and one has to be careful not to spill coffee all over themselves while insuring that the lid is in fact on.

I may be wrong but the lids look a little smaller. Probably some sort of environmental thing that some geek pushed after deciding that if you shaved 1/8 of a millimeter off the lids, you'd reduce litter by .02% over 20 years.

Yeah, sooo jaded. But shit, I just want to be able to seal my coffee without worrying about it shooting out all over me.

I could start a Starbucks Watch blog but I have a hunch I've been beaten to that turf several dozen times over.

And yeah I know that I shouldn't even be going to Starbucks. We've already discussed that one and I conceded my contradictions. And I'm still not sold on the crunchy granola either.

But Will I Still Get To Read Tom Shales?

One of the many downsides to gazing at online adult entertainment (i.e. Internet porn) is the spam that gets sent out and the more clever ways these companies come up with to try to get their crap through the email filters. There is probably a great tech story in all this. Obviously the software of some of these companies is sophisticated enough to put in addresses and senders that almost make it seem legitimate. I'm sure that they somehow do manage to penetrate (ha ha, he said "penetrate") at least some portion of email accounts just to gauge how best to do this, but perhaps I'm giving them too much credit.

Anyway, this is a long way of saying that today in my email was a note from Katherine Graham offering me "bigtits picture - Busty ho teasin cock..." and other goodies. Frankly, I'd have been happy with some Washington Post stock.

To Sir With Love

In a few weeks I start yet another experiment--teaching. Yes, the Rambler will be passing on his knowledge to the younger generation. No, this won't be about how to best procure adult entertainment in a strange town or why gatorade really works wonders when your crashing.

Instead I will be teaching a media class at a small college. I have no idea why I agreed to do this--certainly not for the $$ as it only pays about two grand. It's only 12 classes and I used to always think about being a teacher. Of course, I wanted to be Gabe Kaplan and return to my D.C. public school as a history teacher. Alas, the "Welcome Back Kotter" dream faded pretty fast after college.

The guy who was teaching before has already warned me that these kids aren't so much freshmen as they are in the 13th grade. But the reason I chose to do this is that it is nonetheless a chance to try something new and have new experiences. If I do everything I've always done, I'll get what I always got. Yeah, I know, you're all tired with how I drop these little pearls into everything. But I need the reminder.

While I'd like to think I'll be some inspirational professor a la Sidney Poitier, I think the more accurate depiction will probably be Nick Nolte in "Teachers."

I'm told the rules have tightened a little bit and sleeping with students is actually now kind of discouraged. I thought in college there was a don't ask-don't tell policy. Oh well. It doesn't really matter. I didn't sleep with any students while I was in college so why start now?

They Left It All On The Field

Yeah, that's a cliche, but fuck it. Redskins did the best they could, almost took it. No shame with how they played although blowing the 30-yard field goal was certainly a crusher. Oh well, heck a month ago no one was even thinking post season so good for the Skins.

Otherwise, uneventful Saturday. Got a VERY short haircut. I'm at that stage where the shorter the cut, the more hair I have--it's the less is more approach. I'm almost over the blow off from the girl, had to realize that even though I know there wasn't really a future there it still stings, especially when it seems to come out of left field. If anything, I needed the dating practice and now I have to find a new lab rat for experimentation.

On the career front, headed out to LA next week to see if the past is in my future. They say in my world that we will not regret the past, but they don't say anything about going back to work in it. Ha, kidding. But still, I really need to figure out if this is a good opportunity to get back to something I used to love or am I just making a defensive move and basically getting back with an ex because I'm worried there's nothing else on the horizon? All food for thought.

Was going to end this with a riff on masturbation and how guys do it or don't do it and why the idea of, uh, climaxing on myself without some sort of a buffer zone kind of grosses me out. Like I said, I was going to get into this as part of my desire to just lay it out there, but I guess I'm not ready to talk about masturbation, orgasms and whether to use a paper towel or not.

Maybe next time.

Please Don't Go Any Higher

Listening to Courtney Love. She used to be cool. I even like Malibu and Celebrity Skin. Had the perfect voice of desperation and pain. But she got too plastic and ruined what was real and beautiful.

Same thing with Axl. For two people who made a big deal about hating each other, they were exactly alike. Both had something real and raw and wrecked it. They would've been a perfect couple back in the day.

Yes, I was into Guns. Anyone who doesn't get a chill from the first note of Sweet Child O' Mine doesn't have a pulse. And Dead Horse still hits me in the face 16 years later.

OK, before I sound like the angry old man again, I do like the new Marah CD.

To Thine Own Self Be True

Like a cable network trying to figure out what demographic to cater to, I struggle with this fucking blog. Half the time I fear I'm becoming the Lifetime channel for men. Then sometimes I try to go a little Spike and worry about chasing off the few female readers I have--some of whom I know, some of whom I don't. Some, by the way, is a weird word to use when we're talking about a number that is in single digits.

I'm trying to find a voice and figure out what to do with it and part of that is acknowledging who I am, which is basically a guy who used to be on the road to ending up like Jonathan Fuerst (look it up, I'm too tired to explain) and for now isn't. That said, I'm also a guy who watches too much porn, has a bit of mean streak, and when I'm not all caught up in "feelings aren't facts" mode, just likes to bitch about shit. It's a way to blow off steam, nothing more.

I think that guy needs to come out more. The guy who can talk to you for twenty minutes about the subtle differences between You Porn and Megarotica. I'm the guy who always takes the conversation one line further than it should have gone. Why am I running from him?

So with that in mind, I'm going to try to bring a little more of me into this instead of it trying to be what I think the perception of me is or what I want the perception of me is. Screw it, I'm a 42 year-old never been married guy with a lot of bad habits, a little bit of charm, a cynical attitude and problems with relationships and family...except for my cats. There are worse lots in life.

Who I Am Is Not What I Think

Over the holidays I was playing Rock Band or Rock Star, one of those video games that has replaced actually learning how to play an instrument.

Anyway, I was doing the singing while my nephew, niece and sister-in-law were playing guitar, drums, bass, etc. I do not have a good singing voice and actually have never liked the sound of my own voice, but someone needed to sing. Interestingly, I would score higher when I just sang using my natural voice than when I would try to sound all raspy and emulate Springsteen or try to sound all tough. There's a lesson in this of course and that is to stop pretending to be something other than me.

I'm not some super dark loner.
I'm not Humphrey Bogart meets Bukowski meets Keith Moon meets whomever.
I'm just a guy with a pretty sharp wit and a lot of nervous energy trying to figure out who the hell I am and what I'm here for.
And as soon as I stop trying to be something else the better off I'll be.

It was a very telling moment. Perhaps I'm better off being me. At least for my sake.

Oh, and happy new year.