Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Who's Afraid Of. . .
My daughter
died today. Or maybe yesterday. It is difficult to tell, since I found her in
the morning. She could have died the night before today and her body’s reality
only realized today. She could have died right before I walked into her room to
try to wake her up, thinking she had slept in, missing her alarm, and in any
case was late for our weekly breakfast routine.
I knew
something was wrong when I finished two cups off coffee and the entire opinion
page of the local newspaper without her coming down, slightly ragged and still
sleepy, for waffles and the Arts and Entertainment section.
I never
allowed her coffee. And now I wish her all the coffee in the house just to wake
her up.
She was
sixteen today, about to turn seventeen. She had told me the night before that
she had plans to go to the movies and hang out with friends until our mutually
agreed upon curfew. She had told me “I won’t do anything stupid, Dad…So don’t
worry!” over dinner, but dying seems to be an incredibly stupid thing to do.
I didn’t
know what to do upon finding her there, a body barely covered by the off-white sheets
that would make her a ghost in the hallways of the house.
I called my
ex-wife, thinking she should be the first to know, who subsequently cried,
cursed, and hung up the phone.
Needless to
say, she was of no help at all.
I called
911 next, knowing that, her being dead, it wasn’t technically an emergency.
There were still other people out there in need who were still capable of life,
if given the chance.
I felt a
certain weight of the 1 while pressing it twice.
It felt
entirely self-centered, as if my concern was the number one priority in the
world.
My daughter
hated me, and I always felt it.
She had let
me know that the mutual custody her mother and I had of her was by no means her
own choice – she would have preferred sole custody, but was far too young at
the time of our divorce to voice such an opinion – that each and every
interaction with her was fraught with hatred and withering glances throughout
the house.
The older
she got, the more I tried to interact with her as an adult. She relented, albeit
with a certain degree of dismissal, and found that the best way to connect with
her was over the morning breakfast-newspaper routine.
We would
routinely disagree over the Opinion pages, but found that our aesthetic
similarities were enough to tentatively bond over.
Surprisingly
or not, we both adored Edward Albee.
I had tried
to move her in the direction of similar aesthetics, the history of where his
work came from, the philosophy and politics for which he was known. She hated
that fact, thinking, I think, that I was being condescending to her own
interests.
I quickly
gave up, knowing that knowledge is entirely lost on teenagers.
The last
time that she arrived, or will arrive, at my place she declared:
“What a
dump.”
I hate to
think that is where she thought her body belonged.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
Father & Son On the Subway
A chain becomes a path becomes a trap becomes a home. Slop boys inherit
and hold the hands of the inheritable like inheritance. Why fight? only smile.
Rattles below as something done – as movement keeps things moving forward – the
inevitable decline of movement towards fragmentation and inheritance blues. In
the short sense, there’s a lot there to bare. The mirror looking into itself
and proud of its ability to reflect, to respond to – to let the original image
be more than remainder. A justifiable difference of tops on stilts and split
backwards – deep like tackle – fishing for a better bet between. For now, a
soft stub of nature pummeling toward the mechanical soon, with an ink pen stuck
in the neck, by way of reminder, of holding on.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
The Perils of Being a Nice Guy
1.
The Nice
Guy notes things of importance, said by other people, only to later realize
those things didn’t really matter, as they inform him later they were just
making small-talk and don’t remember the initial conversation’s details anyway.
2.
The word
“pussy” and its synonyms have no positive effect for the male gender, and is
especially harmful for the Nice Guy. It is, traditionally, something to own,
not be.
3.
Once a mind
has been made up, persuading assholes otherwise is an idiot’s errand. The Nice
Guy is better off buying a friend a cookie.
4.
The Nice
Guy has no concrete philosophy of his own. If he did, the adjective itself
would be entirely inappropriate, therefore causing the Nice Guy to lose his desired
status.
5.
The
adjective nice has no true meaning, being inherently a subjective word.
“Pleasant, agreeable, etc.” could mean any number of things depending on the
subject. A person could be pleasant, and yet not totally agreeable, therefore
rendering the word “nice” contradictory.
What is
“nice” to one person could be the opposite to another. The paradox of the Nice
Guy is that he attempts to be all things to all people. This is such an
impossibility, it is no wonder that the Nice Guy is actively treated like the
cipher he is.
6.
Emotional
outbursts by the Nice Guy, while necessary to counter the inherent emotional
difficulties of presenting himself as such for extended periods of time, will
be limited to moments alone, sitting by candlelight, listening to treacly pop
ballads and consuming, ever-so-slightly, too much red wine, purchased for the
price of $7 (approximately).
7.
The Nice
Guy’s self-perceived advantage will always be taken.
8.
Many an
asshole will try to pass themselves off as a Nice Guy, simply by offering up
examples of superficial “niceness” such as giving to charity, supporting local
causes, opening the doors for dates. This, again, puts the Nice Guy in an
eternal disadvantage: he loses claim to
the nomenclature while losing the sheer meaning he has built.
(Similarly,
there are many urban men who will consider themselves “theatre fags” even
though they have never sucked a cock and will only attend performances that
have a status element in even getting a ticket.)
9.
The last
refuge of the Nice Guy is passive-aggression. It is often the only weapon at
his disposal and will use it indiscriminately.
10.
The Nice
Guy will often have little trouble procuring romantic entanglements, which tend
to last anywhere between 2 weeks to a few years (often of the “off and on”
variety) often involving sexual relations that no partner could be content
with, the amount of attention being paid to them.
This
creates a one-sided situation, making those on the receiving end feel irrelevant,
like a body at best, like a bowl of cold spaghetti in a child’s haunted house,
barely passing for brains at worst.
11.
The age-old
cliché of “Nice Guys Finish Last”, while filled with a general timbre of
weakness and pity, a warning for what not
to be, at least can be considered true by some in the workplace, where the
idiom has its roots, especially for those organizations where gender roles are
rigidly adhered to.
“Nice Guys
are Paid Less” could be considered more relevant and true.
In all
actuality, nobody ever “finishes” what they do – i.e. live a productive life –
otherwise it would be clear that the notion of “finishing last” would be the
goal for everyone.
12.
The Nice
Guy will often be levied the criticism of not having a spark. While sparks themselves can create out-of-control fires that
require assistance in putting out, they also cause the fire that is so much a
force of life.
Such a
double-edged sword is like a traditional gamble in Vegas: sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.
The Nice
Guy goes to Vegas to visit Hoover Dam, swim in a pool, and maybe see Barry
Manilow.
13.
door·mat [dawr-mat, dohr-]
noun
1.
A mat, usually placed before a door or other entrance, for people arriving to
wipe their shoes on before entering.
2.
A person
who is the habitual object of abuse or humiliation by another.
