26.2

I'm that Tired Guy, lost amidst a maelstrom of emotions, swept away by sorrow, mourning the loss, the hurt, the anguish.  I'm that Tired Guy, feeling empty, drowning in bewilderment, wondering what and why and who.

From nbcnews.com: "Two bombs exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon on Monday, killing two people, including an 8-year-old. At least 100 injures have been reported."

Today's chilling events mar what should have been, what had been for decades, a day of merriment, leisure, a day off from the daily grind, an early Red Sox game and ultimately the challenge of The Race, of arduous training, carrying the hope that maybe, somehow, runners placing one foot in front of the other, along a circuitous route, amidst cheering fans exhorting perseverance and encouragement, to Heartbreak Hill and beyond culminating in...

Horror.

Suffering.

Tragedy.

I am saddened nearly beyond words.  To wrap my mind around this...so soon following the horrific events of Newtown still very fresh and raw.

Tonight's sandwich is more for me than it is for you.

Living in the Deep South for the last nineteen years I will always consider myself a son of Massachusetts.  In years past I would sigh wistfully at this time of year...Patriots Day...and fondly remember wandering down to the Dairy Queen on the corner of Chestnut and Union in Ashland. 

Some days it rained, others it was bitter cold and yet more often than not the day dawned bright and beautiful.  On those particular days the sky was a brilliant azure tapestry sprinkled with an occasional white puffy cloud.  For me the dappled Spring sunlight heralded the end to Winter's grasp, melting thoughts of long, chilly, frozen, snowy, gloomy days in favor of colorful blooms, fresh loamy scents and the excitement of seeing sun dresses, short skirts and long legs.

Everyone came out for this.  After the starting point in Hopkinton, the town of Ashland was second in a long line of communities through which the Marathon would run.  I'd run around with friends or hang close with my mother and brother.  I'd even wander the streets alone, secure in the sense of fellowship the other Ashlanders and I shared, never worrying whether I was too far from home or concerned that some ne'er-do-well would lurk nearby to do me ill.

(My how those times have changed!)

From time to time there was also a small flea market hawking various and sundries.  Junk to one and treasure for another, the market held mysteries aplenty.  Knowing I was an avid, if inept, tennis aficionado my mother would purchase for me tennis balls from one of the vendors and scrawl the word "Flea" on each one.

But the main event was watching the sea of humanity, thousands strong, roll along the main drag in droves, each one bearing a unique paper sigil demarcating their proud membership as one of the Marathon Anointed.  I'd stand in awe as man, woman, child, wheelchair-bound, in costumes, covered in sweat and grime and yet all bearing the same look of determination: by hell or high water I will finish this race.

It didn't matter the marathon was a grueling twenty-six miles long.  It didn't matter whether they were in shape to run the whole thing or in part. 

What counted was their heart, their inner runner, the voice that shouted defiance to the Heavens "Dammit I can do this!". 

And whether it was their first marathon or their last, they were on the road, one foot in front of the other, pushing forward never back, eyes downcast, upward or inward yet the fire burning brightly.

I'm reminded of twenty six words:

Tenacity
Ability
Perseverance
Focus
Stubbornness
Endurance
Dedication
Doggedness
Moxiness
Pluck
Resolution
Spunk
Indefatigable
Drive
Grit
Guts
Diligence
Effort
Strength
Industry
Decisiveness
Study
Integrity
Honor
Loyalty
Love

To be sure there are more, but that's what these marathoners have always demonstrated to me. 

And I truly hope that's one thing that will also arise from today's tragic events.

Regardless of our politics President Obama may have said it best in his speech that I wish to echo here to all those near and far affected by today's events: "Boston is a tough and resilient town; so are its people.  I'm supremely confident that Bostonians will pull together, take care of each other and move forward as one proud city.  And as they do, the American people will be with them every single step of the way."

You're damn right Sir.

G'night folks.

The Geometry of Mr. D.

I'm that Tired Guy, the one drinking water with no lemon.  I'm that Tired Guy, collaborating, vacillating, hallucinating, communicating, excavating, fabricating, emulating, reinstating, equivocating, aggravating, liberating, reinstating, deviating, mediating, wri...ting.

[Cue the "Brooks Was Here" track from the excellent film The Shawshank Redemption.  I'm in one of THOSE moods tonight.]

On February 10th, 2013 Peter U. DeCenzo passed away peacefully in his Hudson, MA home at the age of 87.  Born Pietro Umberto DiCenzo, he was a graduate of Marlborough High School, served in the U.S. Navy and obtained a Bachelors degree in Education from the College of the Holy Cross in 1951.  Although a successful salesman of both insurance and real estate, "he eventually pursued his true calling, mathematics, and went on to teach math at Ashland High School until his retirement." (Source: Worcester Telegram & Gazette from February 10 to February 12, 2013)

Some of you reading tonight's offering have no idea who this man was, his history, his legacy other than this snippet. 

Others might gaze at the above statement, consider it a moment or two and offer a silent prayer to the surviving members of his family.  Maybe you'll nod thoughtfully as images of polygons appear in your minds, the properties of shapes and relative positions of figures running quadrilaterally (which isn't a word) or fractally (also, not a real word). 

Or maybe your eyes narrow at a memory or two and the strong emotions the man's name engendered, so long lying dusty and dormant. 

Or perhaps a slight curve to the lips, a quiet chuckle and a few soft, sing-song, unintelligible words or sounds uttered to no one in particular.

My view of Mr. DeCenzo was three parts Archimedes, five parts Ralph Kramden and a bellyful of Pythagoras.  I'm sure some of you reading this have other comparisons, and I gladly welcome your memories - good, bad and congruent.

For now though I thought I'd share one particular memory I have of this man.  Oh it's a fuzzy memory, to be sure.  I possess such clarity at times, recalling so many vivid details of places and people long past.

But tonight?

We shall see.

I believe it was the 9th Grade.  I humbly apologize if this detail is wrong.  It feels right though.

For a young, skinny, pimply-faced, glasses-wearing, gangly, insecure, nobody nerd like myself who was an avid reader, writer, creator and fantasizer of light saber duels, dungeons, dragons and the occasional red-head the prospect of attending Math class was extremely daunting.  Add the hyperbolic knot of Geometry and a teacher I had never encountered before, well let's just say trepidation was just too tame a descriptor for the jarring sense of in-over-my-head-ness I experienced that fateful morning.

The desks were neatly aligned in four columns (or maybe five), at about five (or maybe four) desks deep.  Did we sit in alphabetical order by last name, or had we randomly chosen our seats?  I honestly don't remember.  However I do recall not sitting in the front, nor in the back, but somewhere in the middle, like some projective geometry.

(Perhaps my friend Wayne - or any mathematical genius for that matter, or someone a helluva lot smarter than me - just read this and will chastise me properly for my foolish attempts at mathematical tomfoolery.  Regardless, ever forward, never backward I plod!)

We stared in apprehensive silence across the way at the very large, intimidating, glowering, brooding, purse-lipped, thick-browed, bespectacled man with a shock of whitish hair wearing a faded red cardigan.  He perched upon an old swivel chair barely containing his massive girth, the struggling metal struts and plastic pieces nearly crushed and bent yet miraculously refusing to break.  Behind him the chalkboard was empty...or maybe it had his name scrawled upon it...or perhaps a shape or three. 

But it was the teacher who demanded our complete and utter attention.

When he finally spoke, his baritone was harsh, inflexible, slightly thick and heavy.  His eyes raked the seated students sending a clear message: this was MY classroom, and for the next sum of minutes our lives, our attention, our minds, EVERYTHING, belonged to him.

You're damn right I was scared.  I had endured plenty of yelling, intimidation, negativity and thoughtless stupidity in my own home on a daily basis.  My step father was quite adept at dishing out all of those things and more.  I didn't need it at school, and especially not from a teacher.

Math was my nemesis.  I was already behind the proverbial eight-ball.  So sitting in this classroom nearly shitting my pants because this behemoth wanted to take a piss on all of us was precisely what I didn't need. 

But then something interesting happened.

Mr. DeCenzo asked us all a singular question, one I still remember to this day (although the specific question may have faded with age), something I've chewed on for a long, long while.

"What is your most valuable possession?" he asked cryptically, surely antagonistically, and quite certainly pointedly.

Mr. DeCenzo posed that question to each one of us, and demanded an answer.  Up and down the rows the students responded, the answers typical to young teenagers - our families, loved ones, dogs, cats, comic book collections, health, education, money, Carl Yastrzemski rookie cards.

And to each response Mr. DeCenzo would grunt or sneer, daring the next student to come up with something more profound or equally inane.

Hell we were in ninth grade so would you expect anything less from us?

Which was precisely his game.

Once the round of answers ended, Mr. DeCenzo leaned forward, his chair creaking and groaning in abject protest.  Eyes glistening brightly a slow smile crawled across his ruddy face.

"You're all wrong," he gloated, knowing we would all fail.  He paused, studying all of us with a deep, penetrating stare.

And then he said gruffly, "Your most valuable possession is your time."

He let that sink home.

"It's mine too.  So don't waste any of it."

And then class began in earnest.

Love him or hate him, Mr. DeCenzo was a great teacher.  I ended up with a C in Geometry, and I wore it like a Pyrrhic badge.  As for the man himself, he mellowed out as time wore on (isn't it ironic Alannis?), or perhaps the intimidation was merely a tactic to get us to buy into his philosophy.  He eventually became "Mr. D." to me (and most others), and I remembered him fondly thereafter as the man who hummed and dithered rather than the mathematical tyrant I dreaded to see each morning.

Had it occurred to me how important his question was perhaps I would have pressed him for his take on the answer.  Then again, I was a teenager with a fledgling sense of self-awareness focused upon Atari, the latest Spider-Man comic, why no girls liked me beyond the "friend zone" and the now, and had little time (another irony?) for Jack Handy's thoughts.

As of today I'm 42 years old, married, laden with crazy children and still pondering the answer to that question, as well as why girls (sorry, women) don't like me (except my dogs).  Ok I kid about that...Mrs. Tired Guy does like me...some times more than others...

I've blogged in this space about time travel, cherishing the now, understanding who you are and why you are and what you are and how you are and because this is this and that is that, and tossing out a nugget of nonsense shrink-wrapped in a song lyric and maybe a funny quip about a movie or three.

Perhaps I've explored that question too much, or maybe I need to keep at it, worrying at Occam's Razor because the explanation with the fewest assumptions isn't exactly the right recipe for disaster.

Do I truly possess time, or does time possess me?  Churchill was right, of course.  It's Russia all over again...complete with the gift-wrapped riddle full of gooey chocolate conundrums.

Maybe I'll chew on that sandwich some more another day.

But for now I wish to extend my deepest condolences (albeit belated since I'm only typing this nearly three weeks after his passing) to the DeCenzo Family.  I am certain he will be missed.

And with that I thank you Mr. D., truly thank you, for helping an insecure, nice, shy, friendly and quirky Jewish kid from Ashland, Massachusetts acquire the radius of wisdom, the circumference of understanding, and an area of knowing I continually ponder to this very day.

After all, the universe IS curved.

G'night folks.

The Tao of the M&M

I'm that Tired Guy, the one fast-forwarding the past so the future has something to keep it occupied.  I'm that Tired Guy proposing old ideas to new friends who are content to smile and nod and pretend they understand.

The Tired Guy's got himself a new gig.  Ok well it's actually a month old and since I haven't written anything in this space in awhile I suppose I owe my five loyal fans a sincere apology.

Sorry gang.

The ideas percolate, the mind is willing but the body is fat and lethargic and full of too many carbs to get the words right.  But exercising the brain would burn some of that malaise and tonight is THE night.

I think.

Chocolate.

The word generates images of all manner of oral fixations not the least of which involve cartoon characters masticated by real life models.

Mmmmm...mastication...it sounds so *dirty*.

You know I never
I  never seen you look so good
You never act the way you should
But I like it
And I know you like it too
The way that I want you
I gotta have you
Oh yes, I do

But I'm not here to talk about my predilections.

No sir.  That's a different kind of bias.

No tonight I'll touch briefly on real M&Ms.

Magic and memory.

Recently The New Boss (not to be confused with The Boss aka Mrs. Tired Guy) pointed out something incredibly simple yet decidedly, epically profound.

(Have I mentioned I love my new gig?)

We had a discussion regarding one of the pillars of epic science fantasy - Star Wars.

Now I won't go into my deep, abiding love / hate relationship with this particular universe.  Instead I'll provide some color to keep things straight.

One of my Favorite Movies of All Time (tm), a film that will always fall within The Pantheon of Awesomeness (tm), and shall remain a part of The Top Five (tm) is The Empire Strikes Back.  For various and sundry reasons I adore this film, from standing in a long line with my brother and father somewhere around Boston to catch it, the emotions it engendered as a rabid fan at age 10 (and still to this day at age 29...ok 39...ok post-40), the music, the dialogue, the story, the toys, the mythos, the ethos, the Athos, Porthos and Aramis, pretty much THE WHOLE DAMN MOVIE BEFORE IT WAS RUINED BY THAT IDIOT LUCAS WITH HIS STUPID NEED TO SELF-FLAGELLATE THE WHOLE DAMN...breathe Tired Guy....breathe....BREATHE....

Ok, you get the idea.

Anyway I mentioned to The New Boss that I do not recognize Episodes I - III (::vomit::) as part of the Star Wars phenomena and possess a modicum of hope (help me Obi-wan!) the Corporation Formerly Known As The Company Not Engaged In Monopolizing Comic Book Characters or Pirates and Was Previously More Beloved For Its Children Only Content will somehow develop stand-alone films that can somehow surpass the wretched crap foisted upon us by The Previous Owner of A Once Beloved Franchise That Died In 1999, The Year Episode I Was Released.

The New Boss graced me with his customary infectious big grin and commented simply on the fact his kids loved Episodes I - III.

Biting back the bile bursting from my belly (GAWD I LOVE ALLITERATION!!!) I tried very hard not to launch into a two-hour tirade of how bad those films were.  Instead (and wisely because, after all, this is The New Boss and I kinda need to remain employed) I listened intently to what he said next.

"It's like The Lord of the Rings movies for me (Editor's Note: I despise those movies too but for different reasons).  I took my kids to see The Hobbit and we all LOVED it!  My daughter thinks it's the greatest movie ever made!"

I almost fainted.  Swallowing my resolve I listened quietly, arms clasped tightly, white-knuckled fingers digging bloody tracks into my flesh.

He must've noticed because with a twinkle in his eye he then said, "The point is you love the original Star Wars films and I happen to love The Lord of the Rings trilogy.  These movies are like M&Ms.  You love M&Ms because they're chocolate.  It doesn't matter what color the shell is...it's still chocolate.  So even if you don't like Episodes I - III it's still Star Wars man.  When the new film comes out, you'll go see it, you'll either love it or hate it.  But you'll go see it.  Because it's Star Wars."

I exhaled.

And then I laughed.

He was right.

In our office one of the assistants has a bowl constantly brimming with M&Ms.  Everyone wanders by at some point and grabs a few.  Oh sure it's fattening and chocolate and we pretend to watch our waistlines as if they'll shrink by force of will alone, but the truth is we love M&Ms.  They could produce any color, coat the shell with it, cover the chocolate inside and we'd eat them.

Consumerism at its best?

Commercialism at its finest?

Chocolate degeneration at its worst?

Who knows?

But if you like chocolate, then you've probably downed a a couple zillion of these suckers throughout your lifetime.

Is it an addiction?

Probably.

You can't be saved
Oblivion is all you crave
If there's some left for you
You don't mind if you do

Star Wars is my M&M.  It encapsulates a world of magic and memory for me.  It reminds me of my youth, before computers, smart phones, 3-D televisions and video game consoles.  We used our imagination to play games.  We role-played Luke Skywalker or Han Solo in our back yards.  We built Hoth Ice Stations in the snow, collected as many Stormtroopers as we could to make it look like our Imperial forces could crush any Rebellion, and begged our parents for the Millennium Falcon at holiday time.  We bought the t-shirts, devoured any new novel or comic book, foamed at the mouth when any hint of a new film was rumored in Hollywood.

It was the 80s man.  The decade of decadence.  And as a kid with a huge imagination and a hunger for all things science fiction and high fantasy I devoured it all.

It was magic.

Somethin's at the edge of your mind
You don't know what it is
Somethin' you were hopin' to find
But you're not sure what it is
Then you hear the music
And it all comes crystal clear
The music does the talkin'
Says the things you want to hear

The New Boss reminded me about all that.

Sure I despise Episodes I - III, mostly because of my abject disappointment with the films themselves, the wooden caricatures also known as actors subjected to Lucas' poor direction and the overall sense the magic I felt as a boy was lost or misplaced.

But I still went to the theater.

The Magic Kingdom now has a chance to redeem things, or perhaps (more appropriately) re-invigorate a flagging franchise. 

Am I looking for a return of that old feeling of whimsical charm and excitement?

The little kid deep inside of me hopes so.

Sadly as an older and (hopefully) wiser man I'm a bit more realistic.

Or is that fatalistic?

Instead, what I'm really looking forward to is watching my kids create adventures of their own within the fantastical world of moving pictures, books, music and (dare I admit it) video games.  That's one of the perks of being a dad.  You get to watch your kids grow up and develop a taste of their own.

And if it turns out they share the same interests as me, well that's just the cherry on top.

Kinda like finding a golden M&M.

And I'm all right with that.

G'night folks.

Wide Awake Asleep At The Wheel

I'm that Tired Guy, the one staring at his reflection in the mirror wondering where the gray starts, the baldness ends and a wry smile framing it all.  I'm that Tired Guy, exhausted from yet another battle with the Ides of Corporate America, weary yet stolid, looking to scribe something worthwhile, memorable, humorous or at the very least SOMETHING.

Yesterday I arrived at Chez Tired Guy in time to see both of Mrs. Tired Guy's kids playing with a large battered cardboard box.  Mini Tired Guy was coloring one box flap with a variety of crayons while Crazy-Haired Little Tired Guy sat proudly inside the box, making ecstatic gurgling noises and smiling as if he had discovered the secret of fire.

"What are you guys doing?" I asked curiously.

Mini Tired Guy grinned at me.  "We're making a spaceship!" he stated happily.

"YEAH!" crowed Crazy-Haired Little Tired Guy enthusiastically.

And there it was.

My heart swelled up larger than the Grinch's from That-Pagan-Holiday-Story-By-The-Lyrically-Gifted-Rhyming-Guy.  I had been so fixated upon lofty production goals, TPS reports, the pitfalls of inane corporate intrigue and the melancholia of the everyday working man's world I had once again forgotten the rest of me.   

It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me the workin' man,
They call me the workin' man 

Gone was the day's accumulated work detritus, snuffed out so suddenly and utterly by the sheer awesomeness of that moment.  I stood there catching my breath, eyes welling with tears.  It was as if I had been struck in the noggin by a heavy mallet.  My tunnel work focus evaporated leaving me drained, relieved and so very, very tired.

Imagine that...me...tired.

Precisely.

Both boys were flexing their creative muscles, and their quintessential innocence had brought me back from that awful place I like to call "The Doldrums".

The Doldrums?

Glad you asked!

Think of it as an imposing black fortress with vast, unassailable walls, massive, forbidding towers and a rusted portcullis barring your escape.

Or consider it as an endless expanse of listless ocean without a hint of a breeze, which is one literal translation, but then put yourself on a small dinghy in the middle of it without any sense of where to go, what to do and how to travel somewhere, anywhere else.

And you know its impact on your very soul, how it molds and twists, drags and drains, a crushing weight accompanied by a dull, monotonous and nearly endless array of "have to do's" and "how to do's" and "when to do's" coupled with triplicate copies of every email you sent for the past twenty-two years.  

Put simply if you find yourself in The Doldrums and ever wondered how you got there just think back on that first moment when you wanted to take a vacation, raise a family, or order a sandwich and realized it cost money.  Lots and lots of money.

(No I'm not railing against capitalism here.  Or about thievery.  Or how much I detest sporting teams from New York.

Just hear me out ok?)

Some even consider it a game of sorts, where winning is everything and losers are discarded chaff, ridiculed or ignored.

Play, play the game tonight
Can you tell me if it's wrong or right
Is it worth the time
Is it worth the price
Do you see yourself in the white spotlight
Then play the game tonight

Most focused upon their career, job, occupation, salt mines, coal mines, gold mines and land mines.

You're probably there right now as you chew on my latest sandwich.  And maybe this one doesn't sit so well with you. 

Or does it?

If this is all-to-familiar to you go ahead and nod vigorously.

You wake up at precisely 5:45 AM, swat the alarm like a mosquito, roll out the same side of the bed, blindly questing feet discovering overturned slippers, staggering wearily past sleeping dogs, cats and dust bunnies until the vanity materializes into a hazy half-view.  Gripping the faux finish with both hands you shake your head in a vain attempt to sweep an unkempt mop of wispy strands away from sleep-encrusted eyes only to realize the amount of time it takes to make you pretty is probably not worth all the effort if anyone really cared. Which some do, some don't and half the time is more than fifty-one percent willpower and ninety-nine percent a realization you can't wear THOSE shoes with THAT outfit and be considered trendy.  And you still haven't combed the dreadlocks, shaved, showered, brushed a single tooth or contemplated the forty-five (and counting!) push-ups you swore you'd do if your flabby gut would just stay out of the damn way.

Mirror in the bathroom recompense
For all my crimes of self-defense
Cures you whisper make no sense
Drift gently into mental illness

Working stiffs collecting a paycheck, hoping to gather enough shekels and pay the monkey grinder to keep the doors open another night, staving off the specter of financial ruin on the one hand, and the looming omnipresence of bar mitzvahs, braces, car payments, sweet sixteens, college tuition, rehearsal dinners, retirement and the occasional bail money.

Necessity is a mother all right Mr. Franklin.  She's a mother with about eight screaming mouths to feed and not enough arms to hug them all. 

I want the things I want because I want them.

You dig?

And I'm certainly not alone out there.  You know who you are.

Creatures of habit.

Soldiers of routine.

Thankfully my boys reminded me once again how I easily fell victim to The Doldrums.  I spend an inordinate amount of energy focused upon attaining that brass ring.  I get in early, I work late, I work from home, I check my blackberry when I'm on vacation.  I can't seem to help it.  It's my own damn fault.

It's like I was driving along the same route I always take home from work, eyes scanning the road yet my mind was fixated upon assignments and deadlines.  Quite honestly I'm wide awake asleep at the wheel.

You know your paint by number life 
Doesn't excite you
It's a watercolor world
That you're livin' in
And when you close your eyes at night
You're wonderin' just where you've been

Success is a narcotic, perhaps the worst kind.  Once you've tasted from the cup you want more and more.  Bonus plans, raises, incentives, extra credits, back slaps and the occasional 'atta boy.

"Look over here!" cries the pointy-bearded little man hopping up and down wildly at the podium. 

Behind him is a crimson curtain billowing with possibilities.  His dark eyes gleam with mischief.

Performing on a stool
We've a sight to make you drool
Seven virgins and a mule
Keep it cool, keep it cool
We would like it to be known
The exhibits that were shown
Were exclusively our own
All our own, all our own

Resistance is futile.

Or is it?

I know I've written in this space many times before about losing my creative touch, failing to appreciate the simpler things, reminiscing upon bygone days and feeling decidedly (un)whimsical.

And maybe you're tired of reading about it.

But constant reminders only transmogrify into nagging when guilt overrides common sense.

(Yeah, I just used "transmogrify" in a sentence.  Pretty cool eh?)

Or in my case, when my kids' precious precociousness smacks me between the eyes as powerful as ordering the Code Red.

I can handle that truth.

G'night folks.

Love and Sandwiches

I'm that Tired Guy, the one listening to the sound of rolling thunder in the distance, deep, powerful, a profound resonance lingering at the edge of hearing even after its passed.  I'm that Tired Guy fixated on the past and focused on the future, forgetful of the present and wondering where the hell I left my keys for the umpteenth time.

How appropriate is it I have some Morrison playing.  Bear witness to some beautiful poetry my peeps, because Jim swallowed a muse whole.

Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house we're born
Into this world we're thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out alone
Riders on the storm

Dig it. 

I know you can.

I will maintain until I'm blue in the face the greatest decade of music will always be the '80s.  That said failing to respect where we came from would be tantamount to me becoming a Yankees fan.  The Doors didn't just orchestrate the melodies.  These guys embodied the powerful sounds, the vivid images, the soulful anthems of a generation who would ultimately shape those to come.

But enough about you, let's talk about me.

I'm in a rambling mood tonight.  Sometimes I like chips with my sandwich, and sometimes I want pickles.  Wheat, baguette, hoagie, Wonder, whatever as long as the sandwich has the right collection of ingredients it's all about the substance without the blather.  Mustard and mayonnaise be damned!

At the end the day it's really about true love.

"Sonny, true love is the greatest thing in the world, except for a nice MLT - mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich where the mutton is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe...they're so perky, I love that."

And now for a shocking reveal - I've been married three times.

::insert explosions, manic thematic sequences and probably an '80s montage for my friend Wayne::

I've discussed some of the pain and anguish in this space previously but I think it's high time I did a shout out to the very few lucky souls who found their better yang and continue to waltz toward the inevitable happily ever after.

Oh you know who you are.  Staring deep into the adoring eyes of your other and lapping up the platitudes and pleasantries like kittens and fresh milk.  Should I cue the St. Elmo's Fire love track?  We walk fingers entwined, my head upon her shoulder, a lone tear streaking her perfectly rouged cheek, an idyllic seascape spread before us with softly crashing waves, purpling skies as the sun sets in the distance and the end credits roll.

Those summer nights when we were young
We bragged of things we'd never done
We were dreamers, only dreamers
And in our haste, to grow too soon
We left our innocence on Desert Moon
We were dreamers, only dreamers
On Desert Moooooooooooooooooooooooooon

No, I'm not that cynical.  And I do like that song (it's playing on my iTunes right now) quite a bit.

Believe it or not I really am a romantic.  Of course Mrs. Tired Guy would calmly describe me as more of a drama queen...but that's a topic for a different blog entry. 

Tonight?

Tonight we feast upon...love. 

Well for a little while.

I love my dogs, I love my job, I love my family, I love vanilla soft-serve ice cream, I love the sound of breaking glass, I love gladiator movies (more "like" than "love"), I love fried whole-bellied clams and fries at Harry's, I love singing really loud, I love lying on my bed listening to movie soundtracks, I love crying when Andy and Bonnie open the box of toys, I love screaming in agony when my Sox, Patriots, Celtics and Bruins lose (ok...maybe not that), I love the first bite of a freshly-made pizza, I love it when a plan comes together and I certainly love chuckling when my kids laugh or say something funny, silly, witty, extraordinary (a daily occurrence).

I love a lot of things, too many to recount here.  And so do you.

Let's face it folks, love is relative.  It's not rocket science or the culmination of an epic quest to vanquish the villain and save the prince. 

(Prince?  Yeah because women are as strong, if not more so than a male lead when placed in the right movie with the right director and the right script.  I'm looking at you Ripley, the Bride, Ouiser and M'Lynn, Thelma and Louise.  But I digress.)

No love is unique.  It's perception and perspective.  The visceral quickening of your heartbeat when she shows up unannounced with a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye meant for you and you alone.  The up-swell of pride and the light and the joy and that sense of accomplishment when you accept that high school or college diploma.  The calming encouragement, strong hands lifting you back on your feet as the aches and pain and embarrassment fades.

Even shaking hands that can barely hold the scissors as you clumsily cut the cord.

It's about belief, conviction, honesty, sharing, caring, writing, reading, watching, acting, wiping runny noses and letting go of the bicycle so he can ride it on his own. 

It's about sobbing and laughing, winking and smiling, comforting hugs and soft words telling you everything will be all right.

Love is stability, solidarity and partnership, faith and devotion.

Love is about letting go, growing up, growing old, gaining wisdom and losing teeth, stomping in frustration and caterwauling to the universe that life sucks, isn't fair, isn't right and bad things still happen to good people.

Love is saying hello, waving goodbye and accepting another regardless of skin color, sexual orientation or college affiliation.

Love is watching football with my dad and my brother and my grandfather on a lazy autumn Sunday afternoon.

Love is knowing a broken heart can heal even when things seem bleak and gray and full of nothing. 

Love is all around you.  Yeah.
Love is knockin' outside your door
Waitin' for you is this love made just for two
Keep an open heart and you'll find love again, I know

It's about texting "Luvewes and our boys" each and every single morning without fail.

And it's absolutely about twice hearing that first singular cry of indignation, need, hunger, fear and discomfort each time in the delivery room knowing our lives have been changed forever.

Maybe Crash said it best.

"Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap.  I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.  I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astro-turf and the designated hitter.  I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."

Yep.

G'night folks.

I Am Eye (am I)

I'm that Tired Guy, the one sitting in front of the computer screen wearing little more than boxer shorts and a white t-shirt.  I'm that Tired Guy clinging to the one brain cell left in my cerebral cortex like a castaway upon a shard of wood in the midst of a turbulent sea.

My eye is the beholder.

So is yours.

And his.

And hers.

And theirs.

What I see I know, I think, I feel, I ascribe, prescribe, analyze and criticize.  Aristotleans will tell you to ignore your senses, seek the golden mean and pass the dutchie pon the left hand side.  Foucault has his pendulum, Occam (well William) has his razor and Scooby has his Doo.  Left is right and right is wrong, democrats feed republicans the beefsteak of economic calamity or the makings of a politically incorrect atomic bomb and Michael Stipe's rally cry includes a birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean...BOOM!

Still, is there really a plan?  Geddy says so... 

All is for the best
Believe in what we're told
Blind man in the market
Buying what we're sold
Believe in what we're told
Until our final breath
While our loving Watchmaker
Loves us all to death

(Well ok, not really.  The musical outcry from RUSH pokes a fine hole or three through organized religion since we really are just mindless, blindfolded sheep anyway right?)

Who cares about a plan.  Aren't we all in it for the parting gifts anyway?  Because it's about what's next, not what's now.

In my eye I viewed death one way, and then quite suddenly, my life changed for both the worse...and then the much better.  At that point I and my eye saw eye-to-eye, for once agreeing, but only after some serious stuff went down when I failed to see what was right before my eyes.

(The eyes do have it.)

Let's get serious.

When my mother lost her battle with cancer in 1994 I obsessed about death day and night.  I wondered when I would die, how it would happen, would I be remembered for being a good man, a bad husband, a horrible underwriter or just a creative fool with lots of talent and no focus.  It frightened me so much I would wake up in the middle of the night bathed in a cold sweat imagining the shade of my mother was present in the room, eyes full of a deep sadness, of dreams unrealized and lost hopes.

My insides clenched, my mind whirled and while my peer group of twenty-somethings dreamed of becoming wealthier thirty-somethings I was wondering if the cancer would come calling earlier than most.  Teeth grinding, shoulders hunched, head hanging low and confidence weak I sloughed through each day beneath a dark miasma of my own making. 

I have a tale to tell
Sometimes it gets so hard to hide it well
I was not ready for the fall
Too blind to see the writing on the wall

I found some solace in the imaginative and creative.  Back then I was an avid gamer, Dungeons and Dragons to be specific, and spent my Saturday evenings with a small knot of similar malcontents hacking, slashing, spouting and shouting pithy epithets that would make even the most Shakespearean soul proud...or at the very least imitate some poor man's pulpy method acting.

But the specter of death was always present, hiding behind the curtain, ready to pounce. 

Life
Is full of surprises
It advertises
Nothing
Nothing

This lasted for years.  I tried to rationalize my fear, intellectually arguing the real issue was my mother had died far too young, but I still had plenty of time.  My depression was insidious though and while I could hide from it for a time at work or in a role-playing game it wormed its way into my heart and mind so completely I almost believed it was my fate to fall down those stairs fairly soon. 

Sadly my marriage to the first Mrs. Tired Guy didn't help matters much.  Something was always wrong between bitter arguments at home, or simply sullen silence.  I lived alone in a house of two.  She was going one way, I another and the twain never met again.  Two strangers living under the same roof, spiraling away from one another, our so-called unshakable matrimonial bond unraveling inexorably, lost, lonely, loathsome and distinctly crushing.  And how blind I was to it all, refusing to see the end until it hit me between the eyes that fateful February night when my world fell apart. 

Afraid of feeling nothing
No bees or butterflies
My head is full of voices
And my house is full of lies

I've mentioned before in this space how I stared into that yawning abyss and contemplated the unthinkable.  I cobbled together my fleeing sense of self and remembered there was more to me than just me, and stepped away in time.  Thank goodness for boneless barbecue ribs and fried rice!

What I failed to mention was the other piece to that story, something just as integral to the life I've lived since, and the realization there was so much left to do.

My obsession with death wasn't about my mother dying young at all.

It was about the impending death of my marriage.

My subconscious was clearly trying to show me what everyone else around me had clearly seen for years.

Back in February the first Mrs. Tired Guy had announced, "I'm not in love with you anymore.  Our marriage is a lie."

She was right, of course.

And while it took a few weeks for it to finally settle in, that awful truth crystallized, clarified and cauterized my wayward vision.  Gone was the constant anxiety, the dizzying worry something bad was coming around the bend ready to wreck my world.

I could finally see clearly again.

The shade of my mom would finally find rest.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

G'night folks.

When Are You Going?

I'm that Tired Guy, the one who daydreams in technicolor and speaks in black and white. I'm that Tired Guy, wavering between the past and the present like a butterfly caught in a languid summer breeze.

Time to babble on.

Lately I've been making egg salad sandwiches for work lunches. I blend some yellow mustard with pepper and light mayo and mix it with a bunch of hard-boiled eggs to a fine consistency. Add two pieces of challah bread (not toasted), sometimes a small slab of mozzarella or swiss and then I'm right as rain.

Most days it's just a lunch.

Most days.

But once in awhile it's the whisper of a memory tugging at my consciousness, something only glimpsed from an oblong angle as if trying to remember a flat plane of glass reflecting a four dimensional rainbow.

In reality it's time travel.

For time is nothing without reality (or is that reversed?), although a world without end is both timeless and limitless...otherwise it wouldn't have an end right?  But it does have a beginning.

Egg Shen said it best.

"See? That was nothing. But that's how it always begins. Very small."

(More egg salad.)

I believe in time travel.  It's not just possible, it's probable!  And it happens every day, in every corner, during smoke breaks, in bored meetings (in board rooms, no less!), under the sheets, in the shower, on the pot (smoking or otherwise), driving, flying, training, boating, slipping, sliding and the nearer your destination the more you just slip, slide and...off you go!

No laws of physics to break, no paradoxes to right (or wrong), no bathroom slip ups and flux capacitors and quite frankly neither relative dimensions or space have much to do with it.  Besides I never really thought much of my relatives having to do with space other than occupying it, blowing air and adding their nuances to the cosmic miasma.  But I do think well of my relatives, worry not!
 
Again, the babble on.

I'm on an egg roll tonight!

(Yep, the egg again.  I promise, I'll get to a point eventually.)

So how do you get there?  Or, maybe more appropriately, how do you get when?

Everybody does it differently.  You just have to be in the right spot.

If you want me, you can find me
Left of center, off of the strip
In the outskirts, in the fringes
In the corner, out of the grip

And the spot is relative (damn those cousins!) because we're not just talking about physical locality with longitudes and platitudes, filibusters and ghost busters or lips like sugar.  Oh no.  It's about bending pretzels, drinking zen, bubbling mirth, channeling chicken soup (with rice!) and justifying your love.  It's those spaces in between, the small moments that are so long you almost wish you were here but really you're there because you can be in both places at once, gliding, fading, finding, winding and shifting into a higher platform that no iPhone app could possibly contain.

Time travel is about knowing your story, and remembering everyone and everywhere and everything you might have been, or still could be. 

And you never have to be alone, unless you want to, and whenever you go to wherever it lies it's a fact whoever is there is whatever you brought with you. 

"Your weapons, you will not need them." 

Failure is only as permanent as you allow it to gnaw on your memory's bones.  The good news is you still grow from it all the same.  Remember wisdom comes from experience be it good, bad, indifferent or just a one-night stand gone awry.  Just try to leave your cash at home for the next time.

Any failure in that cave is YOUR perception, YOUR reflection of events both marred and crystallized a million fold to such an excruciating clarity you never really know exactly what happened, only what you thought transpired behind the veil of youth and inexperience and dime store wisdom.  And believe me drinking DOESN'T help.

Are you looking for answers
To questions under the stars?
Well, if along the way
You are grown weary
You can rest with me until
A brighter day and you're okay

But you know what?  I'll always be there for you, with the good and that bad and those indifference. 

That's what friends do. 

It's what we are. 

It's why we're here.

For you.

Did I reveal any secrets tonight?  Have I uncovered the mysteries of a universe dwarfed by the people in it?

Honestly, probably not because I'm about as wise as you were yesterday, and a day late to boot.

But one thing I do know, and that's this: time travel exists, and it's possible.

How do I know?

Because I just looked in on my two sons sleeping peacefully and I smiled that special smile all parents share.

See?  Such a small thing, which is how things start anyway.

And that's all I need.

G'night folks.