They Say It's Your Birthday

I'm that Tired Guy pondering the mysteries of the average, multiplying the co-efficient times the constant and concluding there truly are only a handful of movie sequels that are better than the original. I'm that Tired Guy expostulating the postulates while simultaneously disproving the existence of preexistence post mortem, ad infinitum, ad nauseam.

Or in other words, my birthday is right around the corner.

It falls right before the New Year, almost as an afterthought. Most folks are still recovering from those grueling holiday festivities saving their strength for the last mad dash to get everything done before the digits change.

And I wouldn't be the Tired Guy if I let this particular birthday go by without comment. It's a turning point, when I say farewell to yet another decade of triumphs and regrets, hopes revived and dreams crushed, love lost and most assuredly found and the occasional good belly laugh. This decade I have undergone so many changes marked notably by hair loss, weight gain, three different jobs, more hair loss and did I mention hair loss?

I hitched a ride with a vending machine repair man
He says he's been down this road more than twice
He was high on intellectualism
I've never been there but the brochure looks nice
Jump in, let's go
Lay back, enjoy the show
Everybody gets high, everybody gets low,
These are the days when anything goes

Oh and that little part about being married three times.

(You didn't know that? Yeah, little ole me...married three times. Who woulda thunk it?)

So here I am ready to celebrate the big 3-0.

[Silence]

How about 35?

No? Sheesh, tough crowd tonight.

Would you believe 39?

[Crickets chirping]

Ok fine, we all know which one it is.

I mean, it's just a number right?

RIGHT?????

To many age becomes an engaging and almost ritualistic comparison of accomplishments versus failures. Periodically you dust off the vast "to do" list with an expectation you really will get to it just as soon as you have more time, finish up that other pesky project, pay off debt, change jobs, find a bigger house, propose to your high school sweetheart, put your kids through college, write a novel, paint the fence, sand the floor, breathe in through nose, out through mouth and so forth.

Hurry up and wait, almost like rush hour traffic.

Eventually you'll get there.

But what or where is "there"? Is it a mile marker pandered to millions by Hallmark reminding us all to lather our loved ones with sappy yet endearing epithets?

(To be fair even I'm not that cynical. I love buying funny cards for friends and family.)

Is "there" measured in a mind-boggling array of accumulated toys and other worthless junk cluttering every closet and garage corner? Some bumper stickers even challenge the reader to a duel implying there is a finish line, a winner and a loser for the greater materialist. If you don't have the latest and greatest then you're merely swimming with the minnows.

On the other hand financial planners peddle "there" as the culmination of years of careful allocation, penny-pinching, scrimping and saving. Apparently it's a number you can carry around like luggage, and if you're real lucky your significant other has a matching set. Oh don't worry about that little blip called a recession. Your 401k will get back to where it was...someday.

Dollars and sense, none of which I have in great supply.

Money
It's a crime
Share it fairly
But don't take a slice of my pie
Money
So they say
Is the root of all evil today
But if you ask for a raise
It's no surprise that they're giving none away

I think we can all agree "there" is a state-of-mind. You're soaking in a tub overlooking an idyllic seascape with your significant other in a similar tub holding your hand as the sun sets. Dim the lights and cue the music. Just make sure nothing lasts for more than three hours or you better call someone...anyone.

Or more realistically "there" is where the kids are shrieking, the dogs are barking, outstanding bills to pay, diapers to change, repairs to make, dinner to prep, baths to draw, homework to do. Taxi service to soccer practice, homeward bound from band practice, reserve the birthday place, hit the mall, host the slumber party, wash the laundry, clean the clutter, wash the laundry again, roll your eyes, take a deep breath, sigh heavily and do it again.

You offer hugs, encouragement, criticism, lectures, wisdom, humor, smiles, songs, angst-ridden tales of youth and the occasional kick in the pants. A quick glance in the mirror reveals laugh lines chasing worry lines, gray hair, some paunch and a wry smile. At some point the noise you hear on the radio is the same crap your parents warned you about, reality television killed the sitcom star, and your kids' closet contains more designer names than your own.

Confusion never stops
Closing walls and ticking clocks
Gonna come back and take you home
I could not stop but you now know, singin'
Come out upon my seas,
Curse missed opportunities
Am I a part of the cure
Or am I part of the disease, singin'

Then one day you wake up and the diapers are all gone, the rooms are clean, the house is quiet and you're not sure whether to cheer or cry.

Almost on reflex you ask "How did I get here?" and the sudden realization hits you "there" became "here".

Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

(Sorry Alanis but not this time either.)

Forty is right around the corner. I can almost taste it. But it was such a long, arduous journey. Twists and turns, peaks and valleys and a few smelly rest-stops to break it all up.

But your thoughts will soon be wanderin'
The way they always do
When you're ridin' sixteen hours
And there's nothin' much to do
And you don't feel much like ridin'
You just wish the trip were through.

If I had to choose one word to describe the first forty years of my life?

Eventful.

But you know what? I think that's a very good thing. Too often we wonder about the might-have-beens and dwell too long on the should-have-dones. I've done my share of that - just read this blog and you'll get a taste!

That said the my emphasis falls on the end of the word. My life has been full. Like you I have experienced success and failure, joy and sorrow, victory and defeat. I'm poor yet rich, stressed yet happy, mired in worry yet strong in faith. I'm not empty and I don't feel like I've missed out while the rest of the world grew up around me and, at times, passed me by.

Well, not like I used to at any rate.

I credit my wife and my boys for that and a burgeoning realization, an acceptance the paths we chose in our youth paved the road we're on now.

As for age, I think Chiun summed it up best: "For an apricot, yes. For a head of lettuce, even more so. But for a mountain I am not even begun in years. However, for a man I am just right."

I'm at the beginning of the new adventure.

I don't know if I'll ever get "there".

But I do know the meter is still running and that's fine by me.

Leave A Tender Moment Alone

I'm that Tired Guy sitting in front of a twenty-two inch screen on a Sunday evening with a yen to write something, anything. I'm that Tired Guy, the one who isn't afraid to admit how young and gullible he was back in the day.

Here's a funny memory.

It was the Fall of 1987 and Sixteen Year Old Me was a senior at Ashland High School. My uncle had invited me to go with him to watch the Patriots / Dolphins in Foxboro. I remember it was a very muggy September afternoon and we got drenched by multiple rainfalls sitting on the uncomfortable metal benches of good ole Sullivan Stadium.

I'm also pretty sure the Patriots lost.

They did a lot of that during those years.

After the game my uncle dropped water-logged Sixteen Year Old Me off at home probably thankful I was no longer dripping all over his leather seats. My mother and step father weren't home and my brother Doug was now a freshman living at Bentley College. This meant I had to take our family yellow lab / german shepherd mix Gibson Erhardt von Krastog (or Gibby, for short) out for a walk.

Off we careened down Sunset Road, skinny Sixteen Year Old Me clinging to the leash while Gibby dragged me up the hill and down the hill.

(Oh and for the record Sixteen Year Old Me was probably 110 pounds soaking wet. But I digress.)

Finally he found a good spot to do his business. Normally I'd yank on the leash and he'd resist a bit before allowing me to steer him home, but this time he had found something interesting on the ground and was gleefully ignoring my insistent tugging. He snuffled around for a bit, digging with his front paws and scattering dirt and fallen leaves all about.

Just as I approached he leaped away as an angry swarm of yellow jackets burst upwards from the hole he had dug.

Moments later Sixteen Year Old Me felt a burning sensation on my behind and immediately burst into motion.

That's right folks, Sixteen Year Old Me got stung in the but-tocks.

I'm not afraid to say Sixteen Year Old Me ran like a girl. Heck, I know some girls who were a helluva lot faster than me back in the day. In fact, they're probably still faster than me. And smarter too, but that's a tale for another time.

Off we ran up the hill and down the hill until we reached home. I flung off Gibby's leash, gave him a dog biscuit and then in set mind-numbing panic.

You see, my mother was allergic to bee stings. She once stepped on a dead bee (or hornet, I don't recall which) and had to be taken to Framingham Union Hospital.

And Sixteen Year Old Me honestly wasn't sure if I was allergic too.

Unfortunately no one was home so my fear grew exponentially (even though at the time I didn't exhibit any signs of having an allergic reaction). When we panic it's quite easy to forget our rational side and give in to that little boy or girl hiding deep inside all of us.

And if you've ever listened to my wife you'd know I can be a drama queen.

So Sixteen Year Old Me did the only thing I could think of at the time.

I called my friend Alyssa.

Y'see Alyssa worked at a hospital (or medical center, I don't remember which) and Sixteen Year Old Me figured she'd know about this kind of thing. She was smart, she wanted to be a nurse, and well Sixteen Year Old Me didn't have many options at the time.

The following is a vague and error-filled recreation from the dregs of my Tired Guy Memory (tm) of that fateful phone conversation which would forever shape my understanding of the scary world in which we live:

"Ummm...hi...Alyssa? Are you...ummm...busy? Oh, yeah, how are you?"

Yeah, I was THAT suave. Just a great conversationalist.

Still am. Just ask the wife.

"Hi Peter. Are you ok?"

She had this quiet, calm voice. Perfect for a nurse (even if she hadn't graduated high school yet, so I was feeling pretty good).

"Ummm...yeah...well I need your help. I got stung by a bee and I don't know if I'm allergic."

I could sense my time was running out. The burning was AWFUL. And there was PAIN too. And ITCHING.

Oh and did I mention the Awful Melodramatic Impending Sense of Doom (tm) that flew all over my frazzled thoughts like a swarm of bees that had been unearthed by a curious dog on a muggy September day.

You get the idea.

"That's not good."

No, no it wasn't.

Didn't she realize the ENORMITY of this situation? But then I recalled she was a nurse (or rather someone who worked at a hospital or medical center...I really don't remember) and that meant she had to remain calm even during the worst emergencies.

And clearly my phone call was one of those Code Reds or Blues or whatever they're called.

I needed help.

Stat.

"Yeah."

Good comeback by me. Remember, suave.

"And...?"

Nice leading question. Like I said, she was smart.

"Oh yeah, umm...so what do I do now?"

There had been a slight pause, and Sixteen Year Old Me knew Alyssa was poring over the dozens of medical texts at her immediate disposal. Because everyone knew nurses sat next to all manner of Useful Medical Stuff so they could read them during the rare down times in between emergencies.

"It'll be ok Peter," Alyssa had instructed. She had been so calm, professional. "You need to find meat tenderizer. It will help with the swelling."

Sixteen Year Old Me paused.

"Meat tenderizer? You mean like the thing you use to smack meat to flatten it?"

Sixteen Year Old Me was dubious.

"Yes, that's right. Meat tenderizer."

She had said it so deadpan that Sixteen Year Old Me took it for the gospel it surely was.

"Ummm...ok...let me look for it."

Sixteen Year Old Me had desperately ransacked one of the drawers that held all manner of cooking implements, from pokers and things with pointy ends, to spoons and stirring thingies that were used to, well, stir stuff.

Finally I had found the object of my search - a gleaming metal mallet with a square furrowed head to evenly distribute the tenderizing. Relief washed over Sixteen Year Old Me like a man lost in the desert who miraculously discovers a lush oasis.

"Found it! So you want me to use this on the bee sting?"

"That's right."

"And I'm supposed to hit the bee sting with this thing?"

Sixteen Year Old Me stared at the metal mallet clutched in a white-knuckled fist.

"Yes."

Oh she had been so calm!

"Well ok then, here goes."

And so Sixteen Year Old Me pulled down my pants and struck my ass several times with that metal mallet.

Yep.

Needless to say, it didn't work but the bee sting certainly hurt a helluva lot worse than before.

And that's when light dawned on Sixteen Year Old Me.

Well that, and the soft laughter on the other end of the phone.

"I can't believe you told me to smack my ass with a meat tenderizer!"

More laughter.

"You meant the powder, didn't you."

Even more laughter.

"I guess I'm not allergic to bee stings after all."

Nope.

"Are you going to be ok Peter?"

How sweet.

"Yeah, I'll live. See you tomorrow at school."

A stifled giggle.

"Oh Alyssa, do me a favor and don't tell anyone about this ok?"

I still don't think "mortified" is a strong enough word for how Sixteen Year Old Me felt on that fateful day.

"Sure Peter. I'm glad you're ok. See you tomorrow."

Sixteen Year Old Me hung up the phone and then gathered up my wits, my pants and my dignity.

Nothing ever came of that bee sting.

To be fair I haven't been stung by a bee since (thank goodness).

But if I ever do, Thirty-Nine Year Old Me knows exactly where that powder is in the pantry.

As for the other so-called remedy, let's just say I'd prefer to leave that tender moment alone.

G'night folks.

Demented And Sad But Social

I'm that Tired Guy the one who has been in absentia for far too long, at least according to the three people who actually follow this blog. I'm that Tired Guy so full of 80s angst right now but tragically no John Hughes around anymore who could direct the perfect film about it all.

Back in the day we had some core story-lines. There was the geek (or was that "dweeb"?) who desperately wanted to hang with the so-called "cool crowd". We had the troubled outsider pining away for the cute girl far above his own social status. Then there was the alternative girl struggling to maintain her place in the universe yet swayed by the pretty smile of the rich boy. Some wanted to be just one of the guys, earn a spot on the Greek Council, create the perfect girl, ski the K-12, celebrate a birthday, even collect butterflies and play football. Boomboxes had so much more meaning then.

And all my instincts
They return
And the grand facade
So soon will burn
Without a noise
Without my pride
I reach out from the inside

And always our intrepid hero (or heroine) endured faithful yet hapless side-kicks, convoluted schemes, weird science, wonder joints, unconventionally conventional wisdom, music, hilarity and mayhem and finally acceptance that only the 80s cinematic visionaries could reproduce.

So where am I going with this?

Pining for yesterday is wasted effort. Fond reminiscing is not. Of course most days we all live in the real world...unless you're a Tired Guy like me.

Let me explain. No it would take too long. Let me sum up.

Perception is not solely limited to four years wandering the hallowed halls of Ashland High School. I would be naive to suggest otherwise. However, regardless whether you were a card-carrying member of some breakfast club or simply found yourself on the outside looking in, the seminal time of high school shaped a portion of who you are today.

(Right now I'm a rhombus. Back then, a square. No surprise right? But I digress.)

Some embraced their burgeoning sense of self-realization during that time using it as a solid foundation to achieve success in the subsequent phases of their lives. From college and grad school to the workplace and building a family (or blazing a trail of broken hearts) your identity might have been drawn upon the experiences of high school angst giving you purpose. At the very least you had an entire decade of pithy, eloquent, somewhat sentimental, carefree and downright humorous quotable movies to prop you up and remind you the world could still be an ok place. You knew the lyrics to every song, could visualize every scene as if you had just watched it yesterday and figured everyone else embraced them the same way you did.

Eighties - I'm living in the eighties
Eighties - I have to push, I have to struggle
Eighties - get out of my way, I'm not for sale no more
Eighties - let's kamikaze 'til we get there

And maybe, just maybe, everyone in your age bracket finally grew up and matured, accepting the social and cultural strata of high school had ended spawning a new era of equality and wholesome goodness.

Not likely.

Unfortunately cliques will always remain cliques, especially in today's business world. Your boss likes you, tolerates you, or wants to find a way to get rid of you. The corporate machine has favorites and grinds into gristle the perceived failures. Nepotism does exist, and in some places thrives. Smart people are dumb outside of their element (which is probably true for most people but hear me out) while intellectual ingrates somehow command respect, dollars, luxury cars, titles, offices, executive assistants for their executive assistants and a continually growing sickly morass of "haves" and "who cares" versus "have nots" and "so whats".

Whether you work in Dilbert's cubicle farm, owe allegiance to the Michael Scotts of the world or just do enough to keep your office space and red stapler safe from the unwashed managerial caricatures of the 80s and today, ultimately keeping your soul intact is a daily challenge.

Now I've got a terminal daydream
Something that you'll never know
I keep it right here in my backpack, mon
And take it wherever I go

With brown-nosing an ever-evolving art form, false acceptance is sad reality. The morons who annoyed you back in high school now wear designer suits and earn more money than you do. They drive nicer cars, have bigger homes, sport trophy wives and have perfectly white teeth.

Why is that?

Oh many reasons.

Maybe they're smarter than you with a greater appetite to succeed at any cost. They probably know how to play the good ole boy game like a bridge grand master. They're certainly better at golf, landing the tough sale, typing comprehensive spreadsheets (or having someone do it for them), saying nothing of substance at meetings and can drink more than anyone you know. They offer oily smiles, fake handshakes, their eyes bear curtains and if you often find yourself wondering where you stand then it's already too late. For some reason they think you envy them, want to be like them, do the things they do, hobnob with the beautiful people. They are the standard by which everyone else, in business or in life, should be measured.

Still looking for that blue jean, baby queen
Prettiest girl I've ever seen
See her shake on the movie screen
Jimmy Dean
James Dean
Rock on

Almost like an 80s movie.

Believe it or not, I have never wanted to be them.

But I have wanted to be like them.

(See what I did there?)

I'm not ashamed to admit I've wanted to be popular. Or date the untouchable, unreachable girl who made your legs turn to jelly whenever she flashed those baby blues. Who doesn't want to be the wise heirophant doling out pearls of wit and witticism to a captive audience clinging to your every nuance? Or be the go-to guy in the office when the boss needs the best of the best to step up and take the lead?

So please, please, please
Let me, let me, let me
Let me get what I want
This time

We've all been that 80s down-on-your-luck hero (or heroine) at some point in our lives. The feelings never truly fade. You want acceptance. You want to be liked, appreciated, respected. Success breeds opportunity and who doesn't want to excel at their job, in their social arena, in a sport, at their craft? That's why Nike's run of "Be like Mike" was so successful. Put yourself in those shoes for just a little while and brush against greatness. But at the end of the day, I'm not like them.

I think that somehow
Somewhere inside of us
We must be similar
If not the same
So I continue
To be wanting you
Left of center
Against the grain

The problem is I don't want to pay the price for sacrificing what I think is right, what is noble or what is good to achieve those results. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not some morally upright individual looking down from my thousand foot perch and showering the world with holier-than-thou epithets one might find in fortune cookies or the local left wing website.

Maybe it's because I chose not to conform a long time ago. Oh I'm such the rebel! But honestly I don't think anyone would classify me as alternative or non-conforming.

More like staid, consistent, nice.

Dull.

That said when non-conformity becomes chic, alternative also grows dull. The whole point of non-conformity is difference, uniqueness, an intriguing sense you are following a separate path rife with adventure, danger or at the very least something new to experience. Or simply what you are doing is the right thing for you and you alone.

I know the preceding passages sound bitter and are full of logical holes. Believe me, I know.

And at the end of the day, that's how I've been feeling lately. Sadly it hurts a lot.

Sometimes the sandwiches are tasty concoctions of quality meats, cheeses and the right kind of bread. Other times, well, even the Tired Guy gets tired and has to let off a little steam.

But I remain ever the optimist. This too shall pass, and I draw inspiration from a bevy of low budget whimsical larks whose messages and music remind me to this day it's ok to wish for something, but always remember who you are, where you're going and who is along for the ride.

The films from the decade of decadence still hold a charm that resonates with our generation. The music from that time is a reminder we all carry our own anthem with us. Whether you considered yourself alternative or popular, the one constant as we grow older is people can change their hair, their clothes, their musical taste, their eye liner or their politics but they cannot change who they are inside.

Don't you try and pretend
It's my beginning
We'll win in the end
I won't harm you
Or touch your defenses
Vanity, insecurity

And if that's not enough there's the simple fact John Hughes originally wanted Billy Idol to sing the quintessential song from his most quintessential movie (I've actually heard this version and it's terrible in comparison). Billy couldn't get it done in time so Mr. Hughes found another band.

And the rest was history.

How cool is that?

G'night folks.

Where Do These Stairs Go?

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who wonders each morning if today is the day. I'm that Tired Guy pondering life's mysteries like a teenage girl examines prom dresses. Some are sheer and sexy, but mom won't let you wear it. Others are frilly and flowery, but not showing enough leg puts you in the category of Joan Cusack wearing the neck brace while trying to drink from the water bubbler. Oh sure you have the handy doily to mop up the excess water dripping unceremoniously down your face, but who values substance over style these days anyway?

Sometimes I think I'm an anachronism, just like that Debbie chick in the song from the place.

You know the one, right?

Debbie just hit the wall
She never had it all
One Prozac a day
Husband's a CPA
Her dreams went out the door
When she turned 24.
Only been with one man
What happened to her plan?

But then I realized the world grew up around me and I refused to hop on board. Because it's easier to enjoy the past while struggling with the present. Memories are safe places because we can remember things as we'd like them to have been, and not necessarily for what they were. They're choreographed, the colors are brighter, the moments more poignant.

As for the future, what's that really anyway? Is it seven figures plastered to a 401k that you laboriously and painstakingly kept alive through turbulent economic times? Do you really carry that number around with you like matching luggage as the commercial suggests?

Big money got a heavy hand
Big money take control
Big money got a mean streak
Big money got no soul

Maybe I am on board except I'm chillin' in steerage with Jack waiting for my Rose. Or was that the other way around?

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

Why? You see I don't subscribe to the thought it was her parents keeping her down. They knew the truth. All that rock and roll, drinking, cavorting, lasciviousness. They were the custodians of the all-powerful trust fund. They suffered her living under their roof. She had to be protected. Her future, her prospects, their reputation, all of these things and more needed safeguarding. From the world? Maybe. From that good for nothing, hip-gyrating Johnny Castle? Possibly. From herself? More likely.

Yet Baby allowed herself to be stuck in that corner. It was all part of her very calculated and diabolical plan whose end result would always be an ensemble dancing number to a song sounding more in line with the 80s than the 60s. She fought against The Man by defying what proper civility of 1963 required.

'Cause I've had the time of my life
And I've searched through every open door
'Til I found the truth
And I owe it all to you

You can't tell me she didn't know what she was doing. And all of you nodding right now, please turn to page 23 of the hymnal.

She refused to let life pass her by.

Can you blame her?

Last night the missus and I watched Pixar's Up, a wonderful yarn about an elderly widower and a young, overeager Wilderness Explorer flying to South America in search of...so many different things.

As the film unfolds in 96 minutes of color and clarity, I couldn't help but think it was a mirror reflecting all those fractured pieces of myself I often wondered about on a daily basis, and sometimes even scribbled here.

Simply put, Pixar's imagination goes far beyond mere animation. They delve into the heart and soul of what makes us human.

"My name is Dug. I have just met you, and I love you."

Too often I stare out the window of my office wondering about where I should be, what I could be doing, and a host of dangling "what if's". The proverbial square peg in a round hole. Whether it's complacency or some trick of the mind rationalizing any which way most of us allow ourselves to remain trapped, suffocated or cornered. And by the time light dawns on Plymouth Rock, you look in the mirror and realize it's now 2010 and the 80s are starting to sound like the oldies.

Call me a relic
Call me what you will
Say I'm old-fashioned
Say I'm over the hill
Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock 'n roll

The truth is, we all let life pass us by at some point, to some degree. The trick is making certain you keep together who you are no matter how curvy or pot-holed the road might be. I've said it in this space before and I'll say it again: cherish your family, find strength in their love for they have such utmost faith in you that nothing, and I mean nothing, can stop you from achieving anything.

We all have an Adventure Book, just like Ellie. And in it there's a chapter entitled "Things To Do".

So here's some advice that I myself need to follow just as much as the next Tired Guy: Fill that chapter up people. Fill it with images of your successes, no matter how slight. Engage your imagination and seek adventure, whether it's on your own, with a loved one, a gathering of friends or in the company of strangers. Strive toward those goals, you know the ones that have lain dormant and covered in dust for far too long. Start a family, renew your vows, finish a scrapbook (or start one!) and take the first step away from complacency and head to the light Carol Ann! Exercise that creativity, plan a journey, change careers, ask that pretty girl (or cute guy) out on a date.

If you want to change your direction
If your time of life is at hand
Well don’t be the rule be the exception
A good way to start is to stand
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking cross the floor
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking out the door

Maybe even work on a novel that's been percolating in your brain for more than 25 years.

I promise, you won't regret it.

Cross my heart.

G'night folks.

On The Turning Away

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one generally caught somewhere between reality and madness, typically between the hours of 6 AM and 10 PM (that's Eastern Standard for our European friends...or 10210 Mongo Time for Hawkmen and Arborians).

Yeah, I like sci fi. Sue me.

As usual, I'm contemplative and restless. Oh and tired, always tired.

With some soothing Floyd in my background, I decided to hop on and craft something.

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away?

Why?

Call this one a dedication to my most favorite red head from Ashland. Methinks she needs a pick-me-up. And somehow I think reading my blathering might actually help.

So away I go...

There was a time about ten years ago when I contemplated the unthinkable. It was more a view on the edge of the abyss than an actual attempt to end it all. My wife (first one folks, she was the practice dummy...no wait, that was me...) had just left me, told me our marriage was a lie, she was no longer in love with me, hadn't felt that for years and it was time to move on. My life was spiraling away, I had lost my job (I worked for her parents...they told me I had to leave...go figure?), I lived a bajillion miles away from the only family I had and the world was pretty damn bleak.

It was a Friday. I remember it well. I had decided I wanted to watch a sci fi show called Farscape, and my stomach kept complaining if I didn't fill it up there would be hell to pay later. And who watches new shows running on empty anyway right?

Naturally I thought about chinese food. It doesn't cure the common cold, it wasn't a Stephen Hawkins' solution to some esoteric scientific something-or-other, but it was the remedy I sought nonetheless.

Besides, who in their right mind passes up tasty boneless spareribs and fried rice?

Yeah, all you vegetables and health food nuts go stand in some other line. I'm talking clogging-the-arteries tastiness!

Anyway, there I am driving along Davis Road in my reliable blue Toyota Corolla when all the loneliness, despair, anguish, fear, disgust, embarrassment and downright shame hit me.

I had failed.

The dream was over.

No wife. No possibility of children. No career. No prospects.

No dreams.

Nothing.

It may sound absurd...but don’t be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed...but won’t you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me

And so I stood upon the edge of the abyss and stared down that horrible black hole with only darkness glaring sullenly back at me. Driving, heedless of the speed limit, of the curves and waves in the road, the roar of the car's engine muffled as if I stood dozens of feet away, lost and fading.

The end really was near.

I remember in a very clinical, detached way that this was probably what depressed people felt like as if boxed in and suffocating from an invisible weight crushing their will to live. I remember distinctly that I could make that choice, easily, effortlessly, calmly, logically.

No more problems.

No more tears.

No more heartache.

No more me.

If I ran away, I'd never have the strength
To go very far
How could they hear the beating of my heart
Will it grow cold
The secret that I hide, will I grow old
How would they hear
When would they learn
How would they know

And then I blinked.

It's a funny thing really. Robert Frost talks about the path less traveled, but I think most people forget which road they're even on most days anyway. We're so caught up in what we have to do, how much money we make, the debt we're in, the pointless toys we amass, the loves we've lost, the decisions we should have made. Friends lost and friends found, and always the memories to help assuage some of the agony...at least for a little while.

But when faced with a real decision, how quickly we either lose or gain clarity. In that one instance, the paths present themselves and as rational beings we can make the most irrational of decisions for all the right reasons that went dead wrong. That which does not kill us makes us stronger, forged in the flames of failure or success, for better or worse.

Somewhere deep inside of me, buried beneath the pain and tears I found my core, that indelible part of me whose essence was wrapped up in the memories of a loving mother, a father's advice, a brother's quiet steadfastness, the warm smile of a close friend, the camaraderie of laughter, and ultimately, the soulful gaze of moist brown eyes of my greatest companion, a black labrador retriever of such surpassing compassion that I will forever be in her debt.

My dog Jasmine. She loved me, without reservation or hesitation and asked nothing in return. You cannot truly appreciate unconditional love unless you have a dog (or a cat I suppose, but my experience is limited there). And the surprisingly simple depth and breadth of that power can be so all encompassing, so invigorating, that quite honestly for me it was the splash of cold water I needed.

And so I grappled with my demons, hurled them down and walked away from the edge.

The first step is always the hardest.

Thankfully I realized then I didn't have to do it alone.

At the end of the day, we all have the inner strength to overcome any obstacles. To those of you feeling sad and downtrodden, hear me out:

You are NOT alone.

Coming up close
Everything sounds like
Welcome home, come home
And oh by the way
Don't you know that I could make
A dream that's barely half awake come true
I wanted to say
But anything I could have said
I felt somehow that you already knew

Cherish your friends and family. Feel again the good times by listening to the songs that inspired you. Read those passages from favorite books whose message still resonates with you to this day. Gaze upon old photos of images bright with color and context. Dig deep inside yourself and find that kernel of optimism, the core that makes YOU you.

And remember at the end of the day before you turn out all the lights even the smallest of friends can have the greatest impact of all.

G'night folks.