Sometimes

Sometimes I wish
I could see myself me as others see me
Would I like what I found?
Would I be surprised, or ashamed?

Sometimes I don’t want to be me
Wish I could move to a brand new place
Start over
Where nobody knows me

Sometimes I feel alone in a crowd
Sometimes I feel smothered
Sometimes I really try
Sometimes I don’t have the energy

Sometimes I feel like the boy who never grew up
Sometimes I feel like an old broken down man
Sometimes I wonder why I was given so much
Sometimes I wish I had a little more

Sometimes my heart hurts
Sometimes believe it or not
I still think of her
But it’s not the same

Sometimes I turn to the Bible
Sometimes I turn to pills
Sometimes I want to stop the world
I never asked to be on this ride anyway

Sometimes I think about leaving
Would anyone miss me, really?
No wife, no kids
Sometimes that scares me

Sometimes I can’t sleep at night
Sometimes I don’t sleep alone
Sometimes I stay out late
Sometimes I stay out of sight

Sometimes I’m scared
Of living
Of dying
Of alone
Of together
Of marriage
Of divorce
Of forever
And never

Sometimes I’m scared
Of everything

Sometimes
I don’t make sense

“I feel so broke up. I wanna go home…”

Revelations from the bachelor

Monday night has become my TV night. Or perhaps more accurately, TV hour. I typically order a pizza (and CinnaStix) and watch 24. For sixty minutes, I sit completely entranced by the television. Like Heather O’Rourke in Poltergeist. Taking breaks only during commercials to run upstairs and see if anyone has IM’d me or commented on my blog.

I enjoy simple things like that. It’s something I look forward to each week. I enjoy being able to pop in a Seinfeld DVD and watch a couple of episodes anytime. Sitting in my underwear while “reading” the Reds games online. Staying out until 3:30 in the morning if I want to, like I did this past Saturday night. Or sitting up until 1 AM watching UFO specials on History Channel or A&E.

Although invariably that freaks me out. And if I go downstairs I constantly check the time to be sure I didn’t suddenly lose five minutes during an abduction that I wouldn’t remember anyway. And as I’m coming back upstairs, I run up the last few steps so that whatever might be downstairs can’t catch me.

Sometimes I worry that I’m too used to this. Living alone. Being single. Dealing four hands of Texas Hold ‘Em on my bed and playing them all myself. I think about it more and more as I get older. I enjoy being a bachelor. Honestly, I probably enjoy it more now than I did five years ago. That scares me a little. Am I so used to this that I could never get used to anything else?

Saturday, I talked to a friend who said she was flying to Orlando this week. And to Vegas next month. She made a remark about being single and taking advantage of it. I concurred. Saturday night, I found out a friend of a friend was getting a divorce. Scary stuff.

So I think I might stay here awhile longer.

Then I think back to… Walking in the park. Playing on the swings. Throwing frisbee. Laughing. Talking. Blue eyes. Road trip. Looking over and seeing she’s fallen asleep. Having someone to put my arms around. Every day. Every night.

Then I think I could get used to that.

Besides, four-handed one-person Texas Hold ‘Em isn’t that fun. I wonder if she’d let me watch A&E.

“These are the days that make up the lifetimes. These are the clothes that I wear. And this is the only thing I wanted more than anything…”

Revelations from the bachelor

Monday night has become my TV night. Or perhaps more accurately, TV hour. I typically order a pizza (and CinnaStix) and watch 24. For sixty minutes, I sit completely entranced by the television. Like Heather O’Rourke in Poltergeist. Taking breaks only during commercials to run upstairs and see if anyone has IM’d me or commented on my blog.

I enjoy simple things like that. It’s something I look forward to each week. I enjoy being able to pop in a Seinfeld DVD and watch a couple of episodes anytime. Sitting in my underwear while “reading” the Reds games online. Staying out until 3:30 in the morning if I want to, like I did this past Saturday night. Or sitting up until 1 AM watching UFO specials on History Channel or A&E.

Although invariably that freaks me out. And if I go downstairs I constantly check the time to be sure I didn’t suddenly lose five minutes during an abduction that I wouldn’t remember anyway. And as I’m coming back upstairs, I run up the last few steps so that whatever might be downstairs can’t catch me.

Sometimes I worry that I’m too used to this. Living alone. Being single. Dealing four hands of Texas Hold ‘Em on my bed and playing them all myself. I think about it more and more as I get older. I enjoy being a bachelor. Honestly, I probably enjoy it more now than I did five years ago. That scares me a little. Am I so used to this that I could never get used to anything else?

Saturday, I talked to a friend who said she was flying to Orlando this week. And to Vegas next month. She made a remark about being single and taking advantage of it. I concurred. Saturday night, I found out a friend of a friend was getting a divorce. Scary stuff.

So I think I might stay here awhile longer.

Then I think back to… Walking in the park. Playing on the swings. Throwing frisbee. Laughing. Talking. Blue eyes. Road trip. Looking over and seeing she’s fallen asleep. Having someone to put my arms around. Every day. Every night.

Then I think I could get used to that.

Besides, four-handed one-person Texas Hold ‘Em isn’t that fun. I wonder if she’d let me watch A&E.

“These are the days that make up the lifetimes. These are the clothes that I wear. And this is the only thing I wanted more than anything…”

The price of confrontation

Many people have asked me how it feels to have won a game of Weboggle. Well, the only thing on Earth I can think to compare it to would be how Woody Harrelson’s character, Billy Hoyle, felt when he finally dunked in White Men Can’t Jump. I can’t believe it happened. And even though I’ll keep trying, I know it probably isn’t ever going to happen again. Other times it just makes me feel like this.

Here’s a little thing I came across the other day. What’s Your Smurf Name? What do you think my smurf name is? Go ahead, take a guess.

My smurf name is, quite fittingly, Heterosexual Smurf! As oxymoronish as that might sound. Can you believe it? Now I’m not the most introspective person on the planet, but if I were to describe myself, that’d be a good place to start. It was too perfect not to share. Other guesses that would have been accepted include Bachelor Smurf, Germophobic Smurf, Blogger Smurf, and Non-Confrontational Smurf. And that is where today’s story finds us. The non-confrontational bachelor gets short-changed.

I was at a drive-in restaurant yesterday, which shall remain anonymous, but whose name rhymes with tonic. My order of a cheeseburger, tator tots, and coconut creme pie shake came to $5.56. I chose to pay by the old fashioned method of cash. Greenbacks. Jack. Filthy lucre, if you will.

So when the carhop arrived with my food, I handed her a watermarked photo of my good friend Andrew Jackson, aka Old Hickory. In return, she gives me a ten, three ones, and some change…

Having been short-changed a dollar, I pondered my next move. I recalculated in my head to make sure I had figured correctly. I had. What should I do? It’s only a dollar. Obviously it’s not a financial hardship issue but the principle of the thing. I sit there for a moment, hoping she’ll realize her “mistake” and run back out with my money. She doesn’t.

Checking for a receipt, I find none. Very shrewd. Maybe she had this planned all along. Maybe this is a scam she pulls on everyone. Two hundred cars a day, a dollar a car. She’d be pulling tips that would make a Hooters waitress jealous. Not that I know anything about that, nor have I ever contributed to the financial well-being of a Hooters waitress and/or her children.

Oddly, BE had called me just a couple of days before and told me she was shorted $14 at a fast food place. I encouraged her to go back. She did and they had the money set aside waiting for her. The other thing is, if the carhop had given me back too much change, I would have pushed the button and given back the money, no doubt. But somehow its different when I’m the one being shorted.

So there I sit. Can I really do this? Can I really push that button for one dollar? Of course not! I’m non-confrontational Bone. So I let it go. I probably wouldn’t have said anything if it had been ten dollars or twenty dollars. Just as long as I don’t have to face that scene and confront anyone and take the chance that they might not like me.

So what do I do? There are six trillion people in the world. I can’t just let all of them go around shorting me a dollar. That could significantly cut into my Hooters children’s college fund.

It’s one of those seemingly insignificant situations in life for which there are no rules or instructions or manuals. What do you do? Do you go back for one dollar? What about two? Or five? Or ten? Where do you draw the line?

It’s these little everyday distractions in life that keep me from being productive. And working on my bladder system. For oil tankers.

“Go with the flow. It is said, if you can’t move to this then you probably are dead…”

Friday Flashback: Friends & Doughnuts

This is one of my very early posts, as you can probably tell. It is the first time I can remember writing a story on my blog, rather than just blogging daily events and thoughts. And for that reason, will always be special to me. This was originally posted December 9th, 2003:

When I was younger, maybe eight or ten years ago, I had a good friend. I don’t remember exactly how she and I became friends, but we did. The earliest memories I have is playing cards in the afternoons with her and usually a couple of other people. Then somehow, eventually, it was just her and me. Those were my favorite times. We had some of the best conversations, about anything and everything. I guess that went on for a few weeks. Looking back, it seems like it went on much longer.

At some point, we stopped playing cards. We got into the routine of going to Krispy Kreme, because we both loved their doughnuts. We’d have a doughnut or two, drink a coke, and chat. Every Saturday, we’d meet at Krispy Kreme.

One odd thing about our relationship was that this was the only time we ever saw each other. Every Saturday. And that was it. Anyway, I didn’t think as much about it then as I do now. I guess that went on for several months. Again, it seems like it went on for years.

One Saturday, I showed up and Krispy Kreme was closed. I peeked inside and saw a lady, and knocked on the window until she came to the door. I asked why they were closed. She said they were going out of business. The store was old. It wasn’t the best part of town. Made sense. I turned and walked toward my car. It did not seem like such a significant event then as it does now, looking back.

I saw my friend’s car pulling into the parking lot. I told her what the lady inside had told me, and that I guess we would have to end our Saturday meetings. Her face turned sad. And suddenly, I felt as sad as she looked.

There was a period of a few seconds where we just kind of stood there, looking at each other, then looking off. Speechless. We were parked right next to each other, and after a few seconds we both opened our doors. Before she got in her car, she said, “You know, I love doughnuts. But doughnuts aren’t the reason I loved coming here.”

I don’t remember if I said goodbye. I don’t know if I even acknowledged what she said, or if I responded. I don’t remember. I know that I only saw her a handful of times after that day. I saw her at a ball game maybe a year or two later. I think we said “Hi.” I think. For sure, we never shared the closeness we shared for those few months when I was younger. Last I heard she had gotten engaged, but I never heard or saw if she got married.

It seems that once the bond of closeness between two people is broken, it can never be repaired. At least not fully. No matter how much time and effort you might put into repairing it, I do not think it ever becomes as strong as the original bond. Maybe there are exceptions. I hope so. Not only do the right two people have to come together, but they must do so at the right time.

It’s funny how certain people don’t seem all that important until you lose them. Funny how certain events which seem so insignificant at the time can leave you with so many “what ifs” and “if onlys” years later. Funny how certain things which did not seem important when you were younger, seem very important when you get older. Maybe funny is not the right word at all.

I have driven past the site where that doughnut shop used to be hundreds of times since they closed it down. It’s a parking lot now. So many times I have wished I could go in and have just one more doughnut. Then I always remember. Doughnuts aren’t the reason I loved coming here.

“Try not to think about what might have been, cos that was then. And we have taken different roads…”

Be a sweetie…

My mentor continues to achieve greater fame. She was interviewed recenly for articles in the Christian Science Monitor and Newsday. Congratulations, Pia. Meanwhile, I’ve been gaining my own kind of fame:

Mission accomplished. Back to base, Joe! Now on with today’s post…

I used to have a little plaque that hung in the bathroom which said on it, “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” Actually, I think I still have it. Probably boxed up somewhere. When my aunt lived in a house with a pool out back, there was a sign by the pool that said, “I don’t swim in your toilet, so please don’t pee in my pool.” Well, I never swam in her toilet…

The fact is, sometimes we do sprinkle. And by we, I mean men. This is one of many reasons I never sit on public toilets. I don’t know what I would do if I were a woman. Probably develop some sort of awkward bow-legged hover method.

Think of it as an 11-setting spray nozzle over which we have no control. The majority of the time, it’s on stream or jet. But occasionally and without any warning, it switches over completely on its own to shower, or mist, or soaker. Or worst of all, split-stream.

The split-stream is a somewhat rare phenomenon. For me, anyway. And let’s face it, that’s all I have to go on. I’m the only test subject being interviewed for this article. You can’t predict the split-stream. It may be preventable, but happens so rarely that no one has done enough research to know for sure how.

There are two streams, both going different directions. As any man knows, it’s impossible or at least deathly painful to stop the disemboguing once it starts. So that leaves us with but one option. Pick a stream and go with it. And try to get one out of two into the vitreous receptacle. That’s the best we can do. We’re only human.

Ladies, that’s why we occasionally pee on the toilet seat. Well, that and the fact that lifting the seat every single time we go just seems unreasonable and entirely too strenuous.

I’m not even supposed to be telling you any of this. This is all top secret male behavioral information. But I figure if I share something with you, perhaps someday you will return the favor.

And that day is today. Why do you always go to the restroom together?

“He sings the songs that remind him of the good times. He sings the songs that remind him of the better times…”

I see boggle boards

(With apologies to Haley Joel Osment, who by the way, turned 18 last week. Just in case you were feeling really young lately.)

This should be illegal. It has engulfed my life. And consumes all my free time. As of this past Friday anyway. I was up until 2 AM Sunday morning indulging in my newfound obsession. When I should be writing, I’m boggling instead.

They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well, I have a problem. I am completely addicted. I liken it to opium, not that I would know. Like right now, for instance. I cannot wait to finish this post so that I can go and play some more. Thanks, Xinh.

It has somehow melded with my OCD so that I lie awake in bed at night seeing letters in my head. And trying to make words from them. I have trouble paying attention when people are talking to me now. Also because of the letters in my head. I wish I was exaggerating. I now know that previously meaningless three-letter combinations such as a-n-a, a-i-n, and l-e-s are accepted as actual words.

It is my goal in life, dare I say my destiny, to finish #1 on the 4X4 board. Just once. My best finish so far is 3rd place. Twice. But I think I can do it. If I quit my job, completely ignore my friends, and dedicate any time that I’m not playing to studying the OED.

So my advice to you? Don’t click on it. Don’t go there. Trust me. But if you do, look me up. I go by Bone, not unlike here. And if you don’t see me, wait. I’ll be there. Sooner than later.

For now, I must go. Destiny calls. I see boggle boards. And I’m afraid Bruce Willis can’t help me now.

Hmm… Willis? Sil… sill… lis… ill… will… ills… wills…

“I’ve got too much time on my hands. It’s ticking away with my sanity…”

Friday Flashback: Slow Down

Let’s actually try to do one of these on a Friday. This was originally posted (less a couple of edits) May 1, 2005:

One of the sad things about life to me is seeing my parents get older. There is not really one specific event or moment to which I could point. It is more of a gradual thing, I think. One day I just woke up and saw it, and wondered where in the world all the time had gone.

My sister and Mom went to Nashville shopping this past week. I was talking to my sister on the phone that night and she said something I had thought to myself several times before. “Mom is getting old.” I believe my response was something to the effect of, “Yeah, I know.”

I know that my parents are not old old. They both turn 56 this year. Then I think about people who have already lost one or both parents, or people who never even knew one or both parents. And I think, “Who am I to be sad?”

But I guess we all go thru different situations at different times. I just see differences in my parents now and from ten and fifteen years ago. And I know that is completely natural and to be expected. But it still makes me a little bit sad.

When I think about it, it makes me miss family vacations of long ago. Mom and Dad taking me to little league baseball games. Playing football or basketball in the backyard. I miss being outside and hearing Mom or Dad call me in for supper. With the whole family sitting around the table. I suppose that anything you look back on fondly, and then realize it will never be again, makes you a little bit sad.

When you are young, you think that things will last forever. Or maybe it is that you do not yet have a complete concept of time. All you are concerned about is today. And everything that is here today you just take for granted will be here tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on.

And when you are young, you do not really have a care in the world to amount to anything. Your parents can seemingly do anything, take care of any problem. They seem invincible. Then one day there’s that instant when you realize they can’t protect you from everything. They won’t always be there. There are some problems they can’t fix. Another bit of innocence is stolen by the real world.

You realize that they are only human. As they get older, that only becomes clearer. Perhaps it is not just my parents getting older that makes me sad. Perhaps it is more than that. A longing for a past that always seems better now than it seemed way back then.

So what do you do? What do I do? I guess the obvious answer is to spend more time with the ones we love. Cherish each moment we have together. We never know when someone we care about will be taken away. I know that is so cliched, but I think it is very good advice.

I think back to so many weekend nights when I was young and my parents and I would go out to eat. Many times on the way home, I would sit in the back seat and look out the back window up at the moon and the stars and the clouds.

And I would always be a little sad. I would beg for us to go by and see one of my aunts or uncles. Something, anything, so that we could stay out a little longer. I never wanted the evening to end.

And now, all these years later, I guess I still don’t.

“What I’d give to have back all those long afternoons, I wasted being bored…”

Thunderless Rain

She’s like thunderless rain
Pouring over me
An outdoor cafe
In some European city

She’s a gondola in Venice
A cable car in Frisco
Everywhere I’ve been
And all I’ve yet to do

She’s my favorite song
Played over and over again
And sitting on the beach
Toes buried in the sand

She’s a long afternoon nap
And staying up all night
The sound of snow falling
On a silent moonlit eve

She’s a three day weekend
Sleeping in till noon
She’s sewn into my heart
She’s all my favorite things

I open my arms
Close my eyes
Look up to the sky
And long to feel
Thunderless rain

“Summer days. Winter snow. She’s all things to behold…”

Show your patronage?

Elaine: “Jer, do you see where this is going?”
Jerry: “Being really clean and happy?”

The past several days have been a bit exhausting and full of more firsts for our laconic blogger.

There was my first time to throw a frisbee into a frolf basket. Bystanders equated the experience to seeing a young Michael Jordan score his first basket. Or a still fully-cropped eight-year-old Gallagher smashing a grape with his spoon at the family dinner table.

There was also my first time walking on Beale Street. And at dinner Friday night, another first. Involving the restroom. Not surprisingly. As some of you know already, I have very specific procedures and rules when it comes to public restroom etiquette. I write about things I know and things that are important to me. Seinfeld and going to the bathroom properly seem to be high on that list.

As soon as we were seated at dinner, I excused myself to the men’s room in order to relieve an impending urethral requirement which had been steadily building over the past hour. (Buying the Gin Blossoms CD before Tower Records closed had taken precedence over everything else.)

I entered to find an extremely small area. Straight ahead there was a sink. Just to the left of the sink there was a single urinal, separated from the sink by only a small partition, which extended out about eighteen inches from the wall. Directly to the left of the door was a stall.

Two guys were standing in front of the sink as I entered. The room was so small that I had to say “Excuse me” in order to squeeze by them and get to my porcelain oasis. They were talking, which constitutes a direct violation of the male restroom code already. However, as it was a small area, the noise allowed me a bit of a buffer. Sometimes it’s hard to go if someone is standing right there and everything is quiet.

So as I disburdened, I could hear that one guy was asking the other about the best places to go and what stayed open late. The asker left and I flushed. As I turned to the sink, the askee said, “How you doing?” He had a squeeze bottle full of something pink, which I took to be soap, that he was holding as if to offer it to my hands. Suddenly it dawned on me that he worked here.

This is the first time I’ve ever encountered a… what do you call these people who work in the restrooms and offer you towels and such? Matrons? Except this was a guy. So does that make him a… patron? I guess. Anyway, this was my first experience such a person.

I quickly followed procedure holding out my hands in a very Allstate-like fashion. He squirted some soap on them, and already had the faucet running. It was a very good temperature. Not too hot, but warm. I was impressed. Then offered me a towel, which I accepted.

As I turned to exit, he said, “Can I interest you in a mint, or maybe a cigar?” Whoa, whoa, whoa! A mint? From the bathroom? And not even a nice large luxurious bathroom. But a one urinal-one stall bathroom. I guess he doesn’t know me very well. I won’t even chew gum when I go into my own bathroom, for fear that the germs will infiltrate my mouth. I’m not about to take a mint which has been basking for who knows how long in this germ incubator.

So I say no thanks. And at the same time I see a box full of money sitting on a shelf behind him. Oh, I’m supposed to tip? I offered a “All I have is a twenty.” Which was true. To which he responded, “I have change if you need it.” What do you tip a patron? I had no idea. So I tipped two bucks.

We had dinner while listening to a blues band. Afterward, I wanted–needed–to wash my hands after the slab of slightly-too-salty ribs we had devoured. But I didn’t want to go back to the bathroom and face the patron again. I wasn’t going to tip him twice in one night. But I didn’t want to go in and not tip him either.

He kept leaving the bathroom every so often. For a break, I guess. I thought of planning my handwashing trip for when he was gone. But he was never gone more than a couple of minutes. I probably should have gone back in. I could picture a very Larry David-like moment occurring if I had.

I’m all for people making money anyway they can. But an attendant, in a cafe/bar, in a bathroom with two receptacles? That’s a bit much. So I decided to just ask sign our waitress for some wetnaps, which I determined involves holding your hands up head-high, wrists touching, and wiggling all your fingers in the air. She obliged, and we left.

And don’t get me started on the germ havens that are public toothpick dispensers.

Another topic for another day.

“Saw the ghost of Elvis on Union Avenue. Followed him up to the gates of Graceland and watched him walk right thru…”