The Big Squeeze

My youngest son loves hugs and so do I. I mean, who doesn’t love a good hug. I’m not talking about those fake things that you give to people you haven’t seen in a long time, but the squeeze you so hard to me kind that says everything you never could. The kind of hug that bares your soul and is nothing but pure, unconditional love. The hug that says I love you, I need you; you are the most important thing in the world to me. Everybody needs and deserves a hug like that, even an old bastard like me. A big squeeze, as the little guy calls them, is one of the best things in life. I am a spontaneous hug monster, when it comes to my kids and you never know when I’m going to pounce. No matter how good, or bad I might feel, there’s nothing like a big squeeze, to make me feel a whole lot better.

My two youngest sons still love hugs, but at thirteen, my oldest is way too cool for that kind of stuff. He let me know. Apparently, he’s a man now. He actually said that with a straight face and to my credit, I didn’t laugh and piss him off. It’s kind of strange, but since the divorce the boys and I are closer than we have ever been and we communicate amazingly well. I am quite the keeper of secrets. Oh, my… the horrible and terrible secrets of nine year old boys… I think we communicate so well, because I treat them with respect, speak to them as the little adults that they are and actually listen to them, when they have something to say. I must confess, I didn’t always do all of that, but I’m learning. This fatherhood stuff is nothing more than some huge, bizarre and freakish experiment, except that you’re experimenting with lives, so don’t screw up too hard, or too often. To be honest I don’t know how or why it all works, but it works and that’s all that matters.

It was a Sunday and it was getting close to the time for us to leave Philly and head back to Baltimore. Son #1 and I had been talking earlier and he had opened up to me; I knew he was hurting. The divorce has hit him the hardest and I know that he really misses me. The shame is that the children are condemned to pay for the sins of the parents. Nobody wins in a divorce, not the children, anyway. My oldest and I have always had a very special and close relationship. I lost sight of it, for a time, but I’ve regained my vision. Now that special relationship is shared by all four of us and that’s just the way we like it.
I’m their father, not their friend, but there’s so much more to it than that.

While we were chatting, I asked him a few questions and explained to him that I asked the first set of questions, because I’m his father and I needed the information to help me do my job more effectively. I further explained that I asked the second set of questions, because I love him and needed that information, because I cared. He answered my questions and then he told me that he thought I was the best father ever.

“You’re far from perfect,” he told me, “But you do your best. I love you, Dad.”

Three simple sentences. Thirteen words. I could never have imagined that so little could mean so much. I could have died fat and happy, right then and there. I was beaming. Never had I received higher praise, not even when someone calls me an asshole.

As we were getting ready to leave, I ambushed all three boys, with spontaneous hugs. The little one squeezed me harder and harder, as if he never wanted to let go. The medium one was the same way and I squeezed him back, my heart dropping through my chest. When I pounced on the big one, however, he tried to push me away. Too cool for hugs, remember? No way. Never let the moment pass you by, never let it get away. I hugged him even harder and whispered in his ear, “Don’t fight it. I can see how much you need this. I love you, buddy; it’s okay. I love you and that’s all that matters.”

He fought against it a little more, quite half-heartedly and then his hands dropped to his sides. That was okay; I hugged him even harder.

Suddenly, it was as if a dam had broken and he threw his arms around me and hugged me back, as hard as he could.

“I love you, Dad,” he said and that was when the tears started. He was unleashing a flood of emotion that was of biblical proportion and I stood as solid as a mountain as I let it wash over me.

“I told you that you needed this, buddy. It’s okay, everything will be alright,” I told him. “I love you, too.”

We hugged each other a little bit longer and then he got his emotions under control. Shortly afterward, we finished loading the car and we began our journey. None of the boys wanted to leave. It’s not that they didn’t want to go home; they love their mother and their home, in West Virginia. They just wanted to be with their dad. I didn’t want them to leave, either, for when they leave, my heart goes with them and then it’s a long, cold and lonely drive home, to a place that isn’t really home; a place where the echoes of laughter and tiny footsteps have faded.

We made our way down to Baltimore, where we met up with my ex-wife, said our goodbyes and I began the long journey home, dreading the emptiness that would greet me.

There’s actually a point, to this story. No matter how hard someone tries to push you away, don’t let them. Don’t give up and don’t give in. Fight harder. Pour your heart and soul into it; those are your strengths, use them. Break through and be prepared to catch them, when they break. Lend them your strength, fill their heart with your love and NEVER, ever let go. We only get one chance at life; learn to live it well, never miss an opportunity to let someone know how much you love them, to find forgiveness, or help to bear a burden. It’s never too late, until it is.

I had thought this story was finished and except for some minor editing, was “in the bag”, but then something else happened that I thought should be included.

My children came to visit, over Spring Break. As soon as we got here, my oldest son asked if he could speak to me privately and we went back to my bedroom, for a few quick words. When we got there, he turned to face me and looked over my shoulders to see if anyone was looking and then he threw his arms around me and hugged me as hard as he could. I was pleasantly stunned.

“I love you, Dad,” he said, “and I’ve missed you. I’m not hugging you, because I just farted, or anything.”

Sigh… I’ll take what I can get…

Don't Hiss Yourself

Courage, valor, bravery; whatever you want to call it, is such a strange commodity. For most people, I think, it’s instinctual; you just react, there’s no time to think. For other folks, courage is a willful act. I’ve also heard it said that a hero is nothing but a coward who screwed up and ran the wrong way.
What defines a courageous act? My father strapped a B-17 around himself and flew bombing missions over Nazi Germany, at a time when the Luftwaffe was swatting down American bombers as if it were nothing more than a turkey shoot. My father’s final mission was over Stuttgart, Germany, in August of 1943. Only two planes returned to their base in Chelveston, England, that day. Two planes. Out of an entire squadron. My father’s plane, Rigor Mortis went down in flames that day and after two years of war. my father's luck had finally run out. With only seconds to spare, he was thrown from the plane, just a few heartbeats before it disintegrated. Gravely wounded, only he and one other crewmember made it to the ground alive. Captured and hospitalized, he managed to escape from Germany and made his way back to England, where he was awarded a shit ton of medals. That took some serious balls.
My brother volunteered for Viet Nam at a time when duty, honor and country were concepts that most of the country seemed to have forgotten. That also took some seriously big balls. He got himself a bunch of little trinkets, too.
My friend Paul, a federal law enforcement officer and Afghanistan vet, found himself in the middle of the OK Corral, while on a shopping trip at a local mall. While he engaged the shooter, his young daughter B, took his even younger daughter into the Sprint store and calmly dialed 911. What Paul did took guts, but if you ask me, it was just fucking crazy, but that girl has more balls and brains than most of the guys I know.
As for me, when I was younger, I used to question my own courage, but it’s been tested, numerous times and I’m proud to say that I’ve always done the right thing, every time. I’m not claiming to have done anything special, or extraordinary, just the same thing anyone else would have done, in the same situation. Sometimes, what I’ve done was instinctual and others were more of an “Oh shit, I guess I’ve got to do something” kind of thing. That’s when you have time to get scared and the pucker factor comes into play. Don’t know what the pucker factor is? The pucker factor is how tightly your sphincter contracts, in direct relation to your level of fear. In other words, it’s how tightly your asshole slams shut when you’re scared shitless, so to speak. The combination of fear and pucker factor might even cause you to lose your courage, even if it’s only for a moment.
Like everyone else, I get frightened, but I can work through my fear and get the job done. However, there are two things that can get me to freeze up; spiders and snakes. I don’t like spiders and snakes. Sorry, they just completely freak me the fuck out. Spiders don’t bother me as much, anymore. Hopefully. Snakes, however, are a different story.
And so we begin…
It was an amazing spring, that year. The birds had returned, en masse and the mountain had exploded with its usual color, vibrancy and splendor. There’s nothing like a deep breath of pure mountain air, mixed with the bouquet of spring. It was magnificent. There was an overabundance of life that year and we were having lots of close encounters with the local wildlife. Our favorite discovery was when we found that a robin had built a nest in a basket on our front door and the eggs had just hatched, bringing three new chicks into the world. We were all so excited and would watch from the window as the mother fed her babies.
I don’t remember where Medusa and the kids were, that evening. Maybe they were at church, or her mom’s, or wherethefuckever; it doesn’t matter. They were headed home and this story is about me and that’s what matters. Oh, look, I’m an arrogant prick, today. Big surprise.
Anyway, I had to let the dog out. When you live in the country, you pretty much let your dog run off and do doggy shit. You know, stuff like visiting their little doggy friends, tear up some trash, chase smaller animals, piss off the neighbors, get a little doggy action, poop; whatever the hell it is that dogs do when people aren’t looking. Our Cleo was a sweet and happy girl that just loved to run through the forest and never missed a chance to go outside and play.

I opened up the front door and There It Was. It, in this instance, was a ginormous black snake that was trying to slither its way up the front door so that it could snack on some baby robins. It had to be at least fifteen feet long (Ladies, any time a man tells you length, be sure to divide by 3). The head of this monstrosity (it was as big as my fat ass and it had eyes the size of dinner plates) was hovering around the height of my crotch. No bueno.

We locked eyes. Fuck me. In that moment, as I looked into those bottomless black depths, I felt my asshole crank up to Pucker Factor 10. A cold shiver of fear ran down my spine. Cleo, upon seeing the snake, turned tail and ran like hell, her nails skittering across the hallway tiles, leaving me to face the, cue Samuel L. Jackson, “Motherfucking snake,” alone. Pffft… man’s best friend, my ass. And that’s when IT happened. That mutant monstrosity of a snake dropped its gaze to my crotch and opened its mouth, exposing row upon row of razor sharp teeth. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking that black snakes don’t grow to fifteen feet long and have row upon row of razor sharp teeth, but you didn’t see this mutant ninja motherfucker with its x-ray vision and I just fucking knew that bastard could see my balls through my pants and was now thinking of starting off with an egg appetizer. Holy Mother of God! It was going to bite my fucking balls! And so I did what any rational human being would do, I shrieked like a twelve year old girl and I slammed the door shut. All safe and sound, right? End of story, right? Not exactly. Remember, Medusa and the kids were due home, any second. You may also remember that I mentioned  that whole “Oh shit, I guess I’ve got to do something,” shit. Unfortunately, this was one of those moments. I couldn’t take the chance that the snake would be gone, by the time that my (ex)wife and kids returned. Hell, it could eat the ex, get food poisoning and die, for all I cared, but the boys were a different story; I mostly liked them.
I set off in search of a weapon, for this, the death match of the century. Looking around, I saw nothing handy and decided to check the laundry room. As I passed by the living room, I noticed Cleo cowering in the corner.
Jealous and wishing I could do the same, I told her, “Thanks, for all the help.”
She whimpered. Coward that she was, it’s still painfully obvious that she was the smarter one in the house that day.
I ransacked the laundry room, finding all sorts of useless things. Laundry detergent and lint weren’t going to be very useful. That was when I noticed my very own Excalibur. Okay, maybe it was just one of those aluminum rods that hold ceiling tiles in place, but in my mind, it was a mighty sword. I should have made myself a tinfoil helmet and shield to protect me, too. Steeling myself as best as I could, I strode forth to do battle with the venomous viper, hoping all the while that it had slithered off, but no, when I opened the door, that greedy bastard was still there. Say it again, Sammy, “Motherfucker!”
Well, I told that sonofabitch to get the hell off of my porch, but did he listen? Noooo.
I tried to be all nice and shit and does he show any appreciation? Nope. Instead he tries to strike me. Motherfucker! That bitch just tried to bite me. Oh no, you didn’t!
I took a swing with the rod and connected with the snake; the rod bent and part of the snake went flying. After a second, the snake struck again, this time biting the rod. Oh, hell no. It was on like Donkey Kong and probably looked every bit as farcical, but I now had a wild snake up my ass (so to speak) and with a battle cry of, “No balls for you!” I charged the snake, smacking the shit out of it. It tried to strike back, biting the rod, every time, but thankfully, it didn’t bite my rod, if you know what I mean. I chased that fucker all around the porch and let me tell you, it wasn’t a very big porch and I’m very, very clumsy. I probably did more damage to myself and the porch than I did to the snake. I was as relentless as a fucking honey badger, though and just as crazy. Honey Badger don’t fucking care.
`
The snake retreated and began to look for a way out. I smacked it a few more times, but then it finally found a hole in the porch and escaped. My ego swelled, with my extreme manliness and I patted myself on the back, for a duel well fought and like a triumphant gladiator returning victorious after a match, I entered the house to the imaginary roar of the imaginary crowd in my head.
After Medusa got home, I told her the story of my battle with the ginormous rattlesnake. That’s right, I said rattlesnake. Look, it could have been a rattlesnake and by saying that it was, it took some of the sting out of admitting to the shrieking like a twelve year old girl part of the story. I don’t know why, but for some reason, she didn’t believe that it was a rattlesnake, or that it was fifteen feet long, or that it had row upon row of razor sharp teeth, dripping venom and how it tried to eat my balls. You’d think she’d at least be grateful that I had saved their lives, but nope, not even a beej, much less a thank you. Ungrateful bitch.

If you enjoyed this story, or if you hated it, please leave me a comment and let me know. Comments, suggestions and criticism are always welcome. Thanks! - Steve

Like this story? Try this one:

Secret Recipe

Kristallnacht

This is a work in progress, so I’m not really counting it as a post. It is meant to be an epic poem about the holocaust and will eventually be set up as an immersive multimedia performance art experience. It is being posted here and will be edited over and over again, with many more parts being added. The third piece that is on here now, will be moved further back in the composition. I need to lose myself into the period for a few days, for inspiration. I’d like you to be able to view the creative process with me. The first poem was written many years ago, but lost to the vagaries of time. It is reconstructed here (the only four lines that I can remember; the first and last two), but the original was much more powerful and moving. You’ll also notice that the writing style differs from the other writing styles you have seen, so far. I blame it all on the voices. No, not really, but sometimes they have some really cool ideas. No, not really. The best way that I can describe my mind is for you to envision galaxies colliding. It never stops. Ever. As always, comments, criticism and insults are always welcomed. If you like it, please let me know. If you hate it, let me know that, too. Thanks. – Steve

New - 


I Saviour (change title - using this one for another sequence)

II Kristallnacht

You ask me, child, if I remember
I remember, I remember, I remember
Hobnails on the cobblestones
And the strutting marionettes
Torches in the night
Shattered glass
Spilled across the sidewalks like stars across the sky
A million points of light
Shouted commands and muted whimpers of fear
Beatings and blood
A mitzvah for the host, this brutal, ritual bath
Running, screaming, shots in the night
Tears and horrible, inhuman laughter
Boots on the stairs and a pounding at the door
Hide the children!
The wood cracks, splinters and breaks apart
“Raus, raus!”
Too late! Too late!
Too soon, our voices join this choir of the damned
And the world burned around us
Collapsing in upon me
And those who speak no more.
You ask me, child, if I remember
How could I ever forget?


III Six Points of Yellow

A star of yellow cloth
A patch upon my clothing
A stain upon my soul
They hunt, they come in packs
Wolves, they are
They strike without warning
“Juden,” they call
“Halt,” they command
They descend upon you
They feed their madness
Sometimes, they hurl words
The easier pain to bear
But most times those words are weighted
With fists, brick and stone
“Am I not one of you,” I cry
They laugh, “You are nothing like us.”
The blows rain down
No, I am nothing like them
I have become nothing
Perhaps something less

IV The Vanishing

V Boxcar

The baby never stops crying
A sardine has more room
And smells so much better
The press allows for no movement
The baby never stops crying
I don’t know how many days have passed
The baby never stops crying
I am thirsty, there is no water
I am hungry, there is no food
I have soiled myself, there is no shame
Just the endless standing
The baby never stops crying
Did I fall asleep? Am I still awake?
Please, let it be a dream
The baby grows quiet; she will cry no more
The grandfather next to me is the next to go
And still he stands
Lord, help us. God of my fathers, hear our pleas
How many more?
The endless miles clack by
We are less than cattle

VI The Arrival

VII Savior (change title?)

"God will help us," we cried
"God will protect us," we prayed
Surely, God would not abandon us

As I watched as my wife and children being led away
I knew there would be no savior
God would do nothing

He has abandoned us
And I have abandoned him

VIII Arbeit Macht Frei

IX Angels of Mercy, Angels of Death

X Garden of Stones

Contemplate if you will
Depthless silence that envelopes you
Much like a greatcoat
Sullen and black as pitch
Like the ash that drifts upon the wind

I tread softly through the mourning mist
To tend this garden of stones
I hear the echo of whispers and soft, ancient wind songs
Songs... and memories; a bitter requiem for the spirits
A prayer that dies and lay unspoken

The killing fields grow strong and vibrant
Serene, yet deathly still
Over far horizon, so endless and emerald green
Sustained by the tears of children that never blossomed
And the long dead flesh of man

I have come to seek your spirit
I have come to ease my soul
And for a moment much too brief
I feel your presence that slips through the mist
Here... in this garden of stones

Did I rouse you from your dreams of eternal night?

XI Kaddish

English translation follows.

Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba.

B'alma di v'ra chirutei,
v'yamlich malchutei,
b'chayeichon uv'yomeichon
uv'chayei d'chol beit Yisrael,
baagala uviz'man kariv. V'im'ru: Amen.
Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach
l'alam ul'almei almaya.
Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpaar
v'yitromam v'yitnasei,
v'yit'hadar v'yitaleh v'yit'halal
sh'mei d'kud'sha b'rich hu,
l'eila min kol birchata v'shirata,
tushb'chata v'nechemata,
daamiran b'alma. V'imru: Amen.
Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya,
v'chayim aleinu v'al kol Yisrael.
V'imru: Amen.
Oseh shalom bimromav,
Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu,
v'al kol Yisrael. V'imru: Amen.

Exalted and hallowed be God's great name
in the world which God created, according to plan.
May God's majesty be revealed in the days of our lifetime
and the life of all Israel -- speedily, imminently, to which we say Amen.
Blessed be God's great name to all eternity.
Blessed, praised, honored, exalted, extolled, glorified, adored, and lauded
be the name of the Holy Blessed One, beyond all earthly words and songs of blessing,
praise, and comfort. To which we say Amen.
May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and all Israel,
to which we say Amen.
May the One who creates harmony on high, bring peace to us and to all Israel.
To which we say Amen.

You're Only Bae Twice a/k/a The Return of Kodilla

Yet another unexpected text message pops up on my phone. I don’t know who this guy Michael is, that used to have my current phone number, but it’s getting pretty old, getting his texts, calls and pics. Evidently, he has a lot of service issues with DirecTV (big surprise) and is always on the verge of having his electricity turned off. Oh, and Michael? You need to pay your car insurance, too. I don’t know why he doesn’t have enough money to pay his bills. From most of the texts that I’ve read, Michael must have sold enough drugs to supply half of Philly, but I guess you can’t sell dope if you don’t pay your phone bill. Plus, I’ve had this number for about eight months now, so I’m assuming that these people that keep texting me aren’t exactly MENSA members, either. I’m also assuming that Darwin will work his magic, before too long…

Let’s get back to the story.

This text pops up on my phone:

Incoming Text: its kody aka k rock

Okay. And? The only people I know with an aka in their names probably like to do fun and romantic things like take long walks, appreciate sunsets, love puppies and  enjoy a good prison gang rape. Come to think of it, I don’t know anyone with an aka, in their name. And shouldn’t it be a/k/a, anyway?

Irritated Me: So Fucking what?

Like I said, I’m getting a little pissy about this stuff.

kody aka k rock: Huh

kody aka k rock: Figured you would want to know 

Figured that I’d want to know what? That you’re a dumbass? I think I already won the fucking prize for that.

Okay, I’ll be nicer to Mr. k rock Me: Whoever you’re looking for, this isn’t theory phone [number] anymore

Okay, I’ll be nicer to Mr. k rock Me: Their

kody aka k rock: Stop playkn babe

Stop playkn babe. Could it be? Holy shit! kody aka k rock must be Kodilla! I’m going to play it so smooth this time that I’ll be seeing titties in minutes. I’ve got a plan. I’m so fucking cool.

Smooth Me: Maybe if you send me a pic, I might remember you better

kody aka k rock: Ok ok hold on

Score! It was that easy! It only took seconds and I am laughing my ass off. As usual, my smooth moves, slick words and suave demeanor have conquered another woman. I mean, I can’t rely on my rugged good looks, alone.

Time passes and no pic. I guess Kodilla was just too shy, to send that pic, after all. No boobies, for me.
Sheesh, you’d think that after letting a guy give her a pearl necklace, she’d give up the goods, but noooo…

But the very next day (I feel like little bunny fucking foo foo, right here), a pic pops up in my notifications. I’m thinking that it’s the ex, sending me a pic of the little one doing something cute and adorable. It’s cute and adorable, because it’s my kid. If it were your kid, it would be fucking annoying.. So, I open it up and it’s from kody aka k rock and it’s not quite what I’m expecting. I’ve been cheated! There’s no Kodilla. There’s no titties. There’s nothing but some butt ugly dude, making a strange face and sticking his tongue out.

Insert pic of butt ugly dude here.

Let me tell you, my life is just an endless series of WTF? moments. I don’t know about you, but I sure could lead a much less interesting life. Really. I don’t know who, or what I assraped in a previous life, but I’ve surely paid my debt by now. Was I Stalin? No! So, back the fuck off, Karma, you bitch. I had a plan and shit and you and Mr. Murphy came along and assfucked me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckitty fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I just wanted to see some tits. Was that too much to ask?

No Titties For Me, Me: Dude, I’ve never seen you before in my life

kody aka k rock: ctfu up I know my boyy just told me I had his number wrong

Another thing that pissed me off was that I had to look up ctfu, using Urban Dictionary and that made me feel old. Cracking the fuck up. That’s stupid.

kody aka k rock: can I get a picture back?

Okay, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m a guy and he still wants my pic.Yeah, no. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m just not into guys. It’s fine if you are, it’s just not for me. Women do get my blood flowing and I’m a pretty big fan of tits. Is that so wrong? Besides, I’m not that kind of whore. So, no dude, you can’t get a picture back. I don’t send pics of myself to anyone, for any reason, not even shirtless selfies in front of the bathroom mirror. The best you can hope for is a badly drawn stick figure.

In my mind, I thought, “Drat! Foiled again!” Or at least something to that effect. I’ll guarantee you that there was an “F” word of some sort, in there. I never sent a pic. I never answered back. The conversation ended there.

New rule, people, so pay attention. No one is allowed to message me, without first sending me a pic of female human breasts. Nice ones. Firm. Like melons. No exceptions.

Well, that’s the end, right there. No moral, no tidy ending. No titties, either.  
That’s the way life works, sometimes. Nothing more than Karma biting me in the ass. If you need to draw any conclusions from this meaningless story, if you need something to carry away and warm the cockles of your heart, take this – I Like Tits. Bodacious Ta-Ta’s. How’s that for a deeper meaning, motherfucker?

Catching Up

Welcome, or welcome back, to my own little corner of creation. I’ve been away for awhile, for far too long, but I’m back with a bang. I’ve been writing like crazy and have been writing in a much less formal style. My last few posts have been humorous and I have a few more of those to come; my life is just too surreal, but you can expect more of those stories that tug at your heartstrings, too. I’m also trying to use less commas. I’ve been hiding from the Grammar Gestapo. Now that warmer weather is here (except for the week of my vacation, which starts tomorrow), I’ll be out exploring with my camera, seeking abandonment, beauty and decay. My photography and my writing have really changed over time, so you can expect to see both blogs start filling up.

If you haven’t been here before, take a look around and have a few laughs. There’s all kinds of stuff hidden within these pages. Some of it is pretty decent stuff, according to some of you and I think some of it is pure crap. Having said that, expect to see some major spring cleaning going on, around here. A lot of older posts will be disappearing. All of the stories will be left alone. I’d like to concentrate more on my writing, but all of the other stuff will soon be gone. I have a photo blog and a Facebook page (www.faceboof.com/phatography) for photography, but I still may post the occasional photo or two, here as well.

About those stories… I’ve already posted four new stories, I’m about to post this missive and I have two more stories written and ready to post. Beyond that, I’m in the middle of writing another story and I have started a list of story ideas and that helps me to remember what I’d like to write about. So far, it has helped with my writer’s block, which can sometimes be extreme.

I almost forgot. There’s one last thing, about all of that. I don’t know if you’ve read the story “They Call Me Bae,” but it turns out that there’s more to the Kodilla story than I thought. Did I finally get to see the titties? Stay tuned.

Changes

Turn to face the strange
Ch- ch- changes
~David Bowie

As for me, well, there have been a lot of changes in my life, most for the better and some, for the worse.

Some dreams end so that others may begin. My marriage of fifteen years ended last year. It sucked. Shit happens. Our children have paid the price for it.

What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been

I moved to Philadelphia, with pit stops in Westampton, NJ and New Hope, PA, along the way. It’s different, living in a city. It’s strange, delightful and sometimes disturbing. I loved the small town life and the people that I met and became close to, over the years that I spent in West Virginia. So many memories were made there, memories that I will always cherish and carry with me, no matter where I go. That stage of my life is over, now, although I do miss the quiet, sometimes.

New things to deal with: increased crime, insane motorists and endless traffic. Crazy, rude people. Waiting inline, higher prices, the crush and the rush, rush, rush.

New things to discover: Philadelphia is the story of the United States; you can’t escape history here and who would want to? Philadelphia has a long, proud history. Also waiting to be discovered are abandoned factories, arsenals, hidden airfields, gold mines, and so much more. The Jersey Shore is always close by and New York City is just a short drive away.

Food Paradise – There is so much great food here, it seems that every ethnicity is represented. The supermarkets are full of all sorts of upscale and international foods. The produce markets are incredible. There is a little Russian market down the street that carries fresh rabbit. Yum! Sorry, Thumper, but you’re just too tasty. China Town has some of the best restaurants that have the most amazing food and the most atrocious service imaginable. I would gladly endure medieval tortures, for those Asian delights. The best Italian food in the country is in this region, the pizza and breads are great. It seems like there are bakeries on every corner and let’s not forget the legendary foods that Philly made famous, cheesesteaks, soft pretzels and wudder ice. I’ve been in Foodie Heaven, since I got here. My biggest complaint is that I can’t seem to find a restaurant that serves Coca~Cola products. Pepsi sucks. Oh, and what’s with this “hoagie” shit? It’s a sub, dude, plain and simple. That’s a horrible name for a sammich.

You’ve Got to Kiss a lot of Frogs

I started dating again, last August and it’s been quite an eye opener, in so many ways, providing quite an insight into the human condition. I’ve met some really wonderful ladies and some really interesting ones. And I mean interesting as in shit’s about to get crazy. This has taken me on quite a number of adventures and misadventures. You’ll be reading about some of those adventures and misadventures in the days and weeks to come.

That’s all for now, so buckle your safety belts, keep your ass inside the vehicle and hold on for your life; it’s going to be quite a ride.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled insanity.

Cheers,

Steve

The Hitcher

It was a cold, wet and stormy night. The wind was whipping the snow and rain all about; the night was dark and visibility was low. I had just left work, it was around two am and I was anxious to get home. Just after turning onto the highway, I saw what appeared to be a fairly young girl huddled against the bus stop sign, with her thumb out, trying to catch a ride. Being the good, kind and gentle soul that I am and feeling sympathy for anyone caught out so late in this weather, I pulled over. Well, she didn’t seem to notice me, so I backed up a bit. Still nothing. I hit the horn; she noticed. She came up to the car and I noticed she was wearing a hooded puffy coat, looking like a half-drowned Stay Puft marshmallow girl. I unlocked the door and she got in the car, water pouring from her in small streams. The poor kid was soaked. I asked her where she was headed and she starts to speak. My first thought was that she was retarded, but then I realize that she’s just really, really stupid and has a speech impediment. She tells me that she needs a ride to the Budget Inn, which is quite a distance, being all of maybe two blocks away from where we are. I have to admit that I felt a little disgusted that this idiot didn’t have the fortitude to walk two blocks, had the stupidity to stand there in the rain instead of hauling ass back to her motel and that she had the audacity to hitch her lazy ass a ride. Whatever. I’m feeling magnanimous, so let’s go. We drove off and that’s when the hammer fell.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, with my being such a stud and all. You’d even be right, sort of… Yes, indeed, because with me, there always has to be that ‘sort of’ moment. Where life just slips into the surreal.

“I was looking to pick someone up,” she blurts out. “Would you like to come back to my room with me?”

I almost slammed on the fucking brakes, right there. Not exactly sure that my brain had processed her words correctly, I blurted back a shocked, “Wait. What?”

Every guy’s fantasy, right? Pick up the hot young chick on the side of the road and bone her, right? Not exactly. I looked at her plump, stupid looking face, huddled in her puffy coat and all I could think about was the Pillsbury Doughboy. I don’t know about you, but personally, I’ve never had a hankering for the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Once again, I stammered, “What?”

“Do you want to come back to my room, with me?” she repeated. “I need money, to pay for my room.”

GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. I am such a fucking moron. It all made sense now, but looking back, you’ll have to excuse me for being ignorant of the etiquette for bus stop hookers. Blame it on too much clean living.

“Ummm… No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m not into that whole thing and I really don’t have any money.”

“Not even for five dollars?” she counter-offered. “I’ll suck you dry, for five dollars.”

Really? A five dollar hooker? GTFO! They haven’t been around since the time of Moses and I should know; I was there. While the bargain basement price of five dollars only made it that much more tempting, somehow, I managed to restrain myself.

“No, thanks,” I said, as we pulled up to her motel, “I’m going to have to pass. It’s late and I need to go home.”

“Can you help me with five dollars?” she pleaded.

Maybe I should have felt bad for her and given her a few bucks, I mean, I can occasionally feel sympathy for other human beings, but this wasn’t Doughboy’s lucky night. I was pretty tapped out, myself and was trying to get my own rent money together. And, I’m pretty much a dick. Let’s not ignore that three hundred pound gorilla in the room.

“I really can’t, I said, “My own rent is due in a few days and I’m scrambling to get it paid on time. Sorry,”

With that, she got out of the car and I watched her waddle her way into the motel lobby. The ungrateful bitch didn’t even thank me, for the ride, but, as they say, “Service is its own reward.”

As I drove off into the storm tossed night, I thought about missed opportunity and I shuddered. Remember kids, no good deed goes unpunished.

The Rules

Most parents, I think, want to provide their children to the best of their abilities, giving their progeny all that they can. For one group of parents, this seems to entail the giving of material things; cars, clothes, money, etc. For another group of parents it could be more emotionally, or faith bound; love, wisdom, morality, etc. A third group of parents would be a combination of the first two groups in that they try to teach a balance between the first two approaches. A fourth group are the parents who believe their children should learn and earn their own way, in this world. Finally, there is a fifth group of parents, the neglectful ones, those who are unfit to parent; human refuse, the abusers, addicts and alcoholics. One very popular way of providing a head start for children is a college education savings fund. This is a wonderful idea and a noble concept. My ex-wife and I started something similar, for our children; we just call it something different. This Fund for Understanding, Caring and Kindness, or FUCK, as I like to call it, will provide funding for the years of intensive therapy that our children will need, by the time we are finished with them. It’s a cold, cruel world out there and I want to prepare my children. In one of the most competitive and bleakest job markets in living memory, I want them to have the ability to adapt and overcome any and all obstacles. I’ve come up with a formula to help them gain a competitive edge in the cutthroat corporate world, or perhaps a path of enlightenment towards an outside of the box type of career. Alternative employment, maybe entrepreneurship; sometimes you just have to make your own opportunities.
My children are all very intelligent. I know that every parent says that, but mine truly are and they make me so proud. One of the first sentences that all three of my children learned to say was, “Mommy fell, it was an accident.” And they would say it with such glee! It just warmed my heart, let me tell you. While I thought this was pretty hysterical, my ex-wife failed to see the humor in this. It’s not like I would have actually pushed her down the stairs, but hey, accidents do happen and you should always have your story straight.
It is in this spirit, that my children and I have developed certain rules to live by. Nine little rules to follow. Think of it as a nine step program, a guide, or an outline. It doesn’t just apply to being an assassin, remember, teach your children to think outside of the box; they could use these rules to also become a drug kingpin, serial killer, union/community organizer, lawyer or even a U.S. Congressman. That’s right, the sky’s the limit!

THE RULES

#1 Be prepared. Always dig the hole first. Digging a hole isn’t illegal and it’s usually not that suspicious. However, digging a hole with a body next to you might raise a few eyebrows.

#2 Always have an alibi. Again, be prepared. Work this out in advance. Remember, always keep your story simple and straight.

#3 No witnesses. Ever. Always dig that hole a little deeper. You know, just in case.

#4 If you have someone else do the work for you, you’ll have to get rid of them, too. No loose ends.

#5 If you have a secret and you tell someone, it’s not a secret, anymore. Don’t trust anyone with your secrets. If you spill your guts to someone, you’ll need to get rid of them.

Rule #6 is my favorite. This rule was the brainchild of one of my children. I’m so proud! 

#6 Fire makes DNA go DNAway.

#7 Don’t get caught.

#8 If you do get caught, never admit to anything. Do not answer any questions. No one there is your friend. There is only one person who can help you and it’s not God.

#9 Always ask for an attorney. The attorney is the only one you talk to. If you can, get a good Jewish lawyer. They rock! Come to think of it, Johnny Cochrane really kicked some ass, with the whole OJ thing. “If the glove does not fit…” Indeed. The Chewbacca defense was brilliant, as well. So, black lawyers are cool, too. If I haven’t offended your particular ethnic group and you’d like me to, please explain why someone of your ethnicity would make a great attorney. I breathlessly await your reply.

Demented? Well, maybe a little, but they’re still words to live by. Remember, there is always an alternative approach, so teach your children to think outside of the box; it opens up worlds of opportunities for them. My middle son wants to be a research scientist, in order to invent the zombie virus. He might even do great things for mankind, before he destroys it, perhaps something like Soylent Green. And to think that the zombie apocalypse could happen within my lifetime. How exciting!

Don’t judge me. I’m just fucking with you.

Unsinkable

Unsinkable

What might be considered an injustice by some, might be construed by others as justice served. Take, for example, the release of the Lockerbie Bomber, condemned throughout the West as a mass murderer and yet, hailed throughout Libya and the region, as a hero, upon his return there. Or perhaps, the election of Barack Obama, over John McCain and Obama’s successful re-election bid, when he trumped Mitt Romney. Some US citizens see Obama’s victories as a vehicle, for hope and change, while others see it as a betrayal of American ideals. Justice and injustice… tricky concepts, indeed. However, there is no greater injustice in this world, no, in this life, than a self-righteous, “I told you so.”

The day had started innocently enough; three old friends and their children, gathering together for some fun times; or so it seemed. My wife (now ex-wife) and I were catching up with our old friend, Scott, whom we hadn’t seen in quite some time. All of our lives had changed drastically, since we’d last seen each other. Scott was now a single father, with a son and a daughter that we had never met. Likewise, Medusa, my (ex)wife and I had brought two little boys into the world. We had made plans to renew acquaintances and to let the children play. Our target was Orr’s, a local farm market that specialized in pick your own strawberries. This activity would provide a chance for the children to burn off some energy, while the adults caught up on the intervening years. The day had dawned, bright and beautiful; a truly perfect Spring day that seemed to cloud over a bit, as we pulled up to the farm, only to see a large sign that read, “Closed on Sundays.”

Like a gaggle of geese, the children were honking and hollering; crying and screaming. Evidently, I had ruined their young lives beyond any sort of redemption and they would need years and years of therapy, to recover from the traumatizing incident. I thought of the horrors of PTSD, in ones so young, but, to be honest, my children will probably need years and years of therapy, by the time I’m done with them, anyway, so I wasn’t too worried about it. While the world was quickly coming to an end, we adults were tossing suggestions back and forth like hot potatoes. I knew deep down, that only I could come up with the master plan, to save the day. And I did. That was when I hit upon the idea of going to Back Creek. It would be fun, it was conveniently close, and best of all… it was free, which appealed to me the most, because I’m such a cheap bastard; after all, I’ve been known to squeeze a nickel until the buffalo is gasping for air. Knowing genius when they see it, everyone agreed this was a wonderful idea and we were soon on our way, Scott and his family following close behind.

When we arrived at the creek, we hopped out of our vehicles and gathered up all of the paraphernalia that you need when you travel past your driveway with children; all of the blankets and towels, bandages and tape, potions and lotions and another fifty pounds of combat gear that you load upon yourself like a pack mule. I looked up for just a moment and that was when I saw them. “Them,” being the two pickup trucks that were racing each other through the creek. I must have had quite a muse that day, as inspiration suddenly struck again. My Jeep Grand Cherokee was much larger than either of the trucks and we all know that bigger is better; the creek was incredibly low that year and I could now fulfill my lifelong ambition of being a macho, rugged guy and go four wheeling in my Jeep. It was one of those redneck, “Y’all wanna’ see something really cool,” moments. In retrospect, that alone should have been warning enough, but it wasn’t.. I announced my intentions to my (ex)wife, who gave me one of those looks that are generally reserved for the certifiably insane and while I hadn’t realized that the color on her face could actually occur in nature. For a moment, she seemed too angry to speak, but somehow she managed to splutter out the words, “Absolutely not!” It may even have been a little stronger than that. I argued my point; I had seen, with my own eyes, the two  trucks as they raced down the creek. The water was so low, there was, maybe, a one in a million chance of something going wrong. Medusa said something about, “I’ve lived here all of my life…” and that was when I pressed the mute button, while she kept prattling on about whatever she was prattling on about. While Medusa’s lips continued to move soundlessly, my mind was already in the creek, racing through the rocks with a giant rooster tail of water flying behind me. Sensing that I now had the intellect of a rock, my (ex)wife elected to walk down to the small gravel island that served as a beach and picnic area, children in tow, while Scott and I drove the Jeep down.

I stomped down on the accelerator and the Jeep took off, diving into th water, spinning and sliding; just tearing it up for a few minutes while we drove the few hundred yards down to the beach. Several times that day, I took the Jeep back into the creek, splashing through the water like a child in control of an oversized Tonka truck.. I had so much fun and laughed so hard; I loved every second of it. The children loved being able to ride through the creek with me, while I drove like a maniac. After a while, even Medusa broke down and went for a ride, trying her best not to smile, lest it split her face in half. All too soon, it seemed, fun time was over and it was time to leave.

Everyone and everything was wedged into the Jeep like a canned sardine for the trip back to shore. As we drove back into the creek, I made sure to drive a little wildly, for the benefit of the children, who were screaming up a storm in the back seat and the hatch. I turned to drive up the bank where we entered the creek, the tires churning up the water behind us, when suddenly, there was a sickeningly sharp lurch downward and to the left as the Jeep dropped into a deep hole and then the engine sputtered and died, with a sickly, watery gurgle. I couldn’t try to restart the Jeep, it would only suck more water into the engine. Not that it mattered anyway, everything was dead. I had taken the seeds of that one in a million chance of something going wrong and I had harvested a bumper crop of trouble.

I looked at my (ex)wife and I swear that I could literally see the top of her head explode and visualize the steam flying out of her ears. I think, in retrospect, that she may have been just a little bit angry with me. “I told you not to drive in the creek,” she fumed, “I told you there were hidden holes and sure enough, you’ve managed to find one!” Hidden holes? What hidden holes? She had never said anything about hidden holes, to me. It was then that comprehension dawned upon me, enlightening me with an epiphany, of sorts. Perhaps she had said something while I was daydreaming and had tuned out the sound of her voice. I really hate that feeling that I get, when I realize that I’m wrong and there was no way that I was going to open my mouth to try to defend myself. How on Earth was I going to get myself out of this mess? Being the genius that I am, I quickly surmised that the quickest way out would be to open the door and get out of the Jeep, which I did.

As half of the creek cascaded into the Jeep, I jumped out and found myself deeper in the creek than the Jeep was. I climbed out of the hole that I was in and walked around the Jeep, appraising the situation. Ironically, the depth of the water on the passenger side of the Jeep was only ankle deep. I thought that Scott and I could just push the Jeep up onto the bank; it was only a few feet. Well, we pushed and we pushed and then we pushed some more, all to no avail. Medusa joined in and still nothing. To add insult to injury, I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I slipped and fell, falling face first, into the water. While I might not have been stuck, the Jeep certainly was; it wasn’t going anywhere, without help. We, meaning I, had to come up with a different plan.

It worked out that Scott would take me home to get our other vehicle and then he and I would return to the creek to retrieve everyone else. We stopped at my mechanic’s shop (it was on the way) to ask him to tow the Jeep back to his garage and to see if it was salvageable. Of course, I had to explain the whole story to the mechanic, while he looked at me, the entire time, in total bewilderment, as if he had never seen a bigger idiot in his entire life. I’m sure my (ex)wife would have concurred. He looked at me and said, “Don’t you know there’s hidden holes in that creek?” After everyone in the shop finished laughing at me (I’m pretty sure that even his mangy old dog was giggling), Scott dropped me off at my house and I drove our other SUV back to the creek to pick up my family. When I arrived back at the creek, there was a new surprise awaiting me; the Jeep was now out of the water and on the opposite bank! My wife quickly explained that a Good Samaritan had come along and winched the Jeep over to the other side. This was quite a mixed blessing; the vehicle was now out of the water (good thing) and the engine could dry out. However, I would now look like an even bigger idiot, because I couldn’t even accurately describe where the Jeep was located!

The drive home was made in a stony silence; Medusa just kept shaking her head. It wasn’t until after we arrived home that the “I told you so” demon escaped from the bottle. The day had become a loaded shotgun and Medusa let loose with both barrels. What could I say in my defense? Nothing, that’s what. I had done something incredibly stupid, so I just stood there and took the barrage. I hadn’t listened to my (ex)wife, who, impossibly, for the first time in her life, was actually correct about something. I was angry, too; seething inside, but there was not a word that I could say. I just prayed that the Jeep was repairable; it was her vehicle, after all.

The next day, our mechanic called to inform me of the damage. Other than having to replace the spark plugs and change the sir filter, we had been lucky. And everything else was fine. There was no sign of water in the oil or in the gas tank and I thanked my lucky stars that all was well and the cost was minimal. Well, minimal when compared to the cost of buying a new Jeep. Two hundred dollars had just gone flying out the window and I knew that I would hear about that too, once I told my (ex)wife. I knew that I would have another large plate of crow to eat that evening (Please note that crow tastes nothing like chicken) and I did. It was only marginally wose than the year before, when I sank the Jeep in the mud, up to the driver’s side window and on an angle as well, when I took the Jeep four wheeling in the same area, but that’s another story.

In hindsight, I should have listened to my (ex)wife, instead of daydreaming. She’s lived in this area for most of her life, while at the time, I was still a semi-recent transplant to West Virginia and the whole farm living is the life for me, thing. I should have listened, but of course, I knew better. My (ex)wife had many long years in which to smugly lord this incident over me and I firmly believe to this day, that there is no greater injustice in this life than an “I told you so”.

They Call Me Bae

     
In the random insanity that is my life, many strange things happen. I don’t know if this is due to divine retribution, karma, or just random chance, but I don’t ever remember having ass raped a nun. If nothing else, life sure is interesting. Take, for example, a text message that I received the other night:

Incoming Text: Hey bae

Now, I know you are desperately wondering, as was I, what exactly, and I mean what the fuck, exactly, is a bae? Is it a typo? Is it slang? Does it mean babe? Is it just ignorance, shining through? Whatever. It doesn’t need to be that fucking deep.

Anyway, not recognizing the number, I respond back with a cool and suave:

Me: Who is this?

Incoming Text: You know who this is 

Actually, no, I don’t know who this is. This is why I’m asking. Allow me to explain, so that you may be enlightened.

Me: I just got this phone and you’re not in my contacts, so no, I don’t (know who you are).

Incoming Text: Remember u tittie fucked me ba 

Okay, this is something that I am 100% certain, that I would remember, unless… Maybe, it’s like sleepwalking, but with an added bonus (there is that whole sleep titty fucking phenomenon). Face it, though; you just can’t forget a spectacular pair of tits, even more so, a pair that you’ve just jewelry shopped, all over. I was even beginning to wonder if it was anyone that I knew, trying to screw with me, but no one with that area code had my number and none of the senior citizens that I know are still awake, at that hour. So, smooth as silk, I replied:

     Gentleman Me: I’m sure I would be able to remember that, but I don’t think I am the person you are looking for. This is my new phone and number. I just moved to Philly.

See? I’m all about being a gentleman and shit.

Incoming Text: What’s your first name?

Dumbass Me: Steve

Incoming Text: Ohhhh well hi Steve

Dumbass Me: Lmao. Hi.

Incoming Text: Steve what?

Incoming Text: ?

Giant Dumbass Me: Actually told her my last name.

I know, I know; what the hell was I thinking. Hey, it was late, I was tired and quite obviously, I wasn’t thinking. Look, evolution has provided men with two brains. Unfortunately, we only have enough blood, to run one at a time.

Incoming Text: You want to see my tits maybe they will refresh your memory

Old Pervert Me: Okay

Look, I’m just trying to be helpful, here. If a woman can’t fight the urge to show me her breasts, who am I, to try and stop her? Free tits is free tits. Sorry. It just is.

Incoming Text: Send me a pic of your face first.

Not Wanting to end up on To Catch a Predator Me: How old are you?

Send her a pic of my face? That, was so not going to happen. There are enough photos of me in compromising positions, with dwarves and llamas, than I care to admit. I have no further comment.

Incoming Text: 19

Not a Total Pervert Me: I am old enough to be your dad, lol.

Incoming Text: And you?
  Yeah? Well how old?

So Much for Seeing Some Titties Me: I am 48

Incoming Text: Sooo?

GTFO Me: Lmao

Incoming Text: idc

Seriously? This 19 year old girl/child/baby, just told me that she doesn’t care that I am almost 30 years older, than she is. I’m trying to do the right thing here, but if you’re going to shove them in my face, I’m going to motorboat them.
ADDED BONUS! She could be a hooker, or a crackhead, but then again, that would be so 90’s. Is retro still cool?

Time to Shut This Down Me: What’s your name?

Incoming Text: Kodilla

Kodilla? WTF? Seriously? I can’t even begin to guess at what her parents might have been aiming for, with that one. Godzilla? Gorilla? Mozilla? That shit is completely made up. Who does that, to a child? I’m officially in the Twilight Zone, at this point.

Model Citizen Me: I’m sure your tits are spectacular.

Let me know, if you get the reference.

The next thing that I was going to type was a thanks, but no thanks line. As much as I’m flattered at the thought of some dumbass kid wanting to show me her boobs, but two in the hand, certainly isn’t the same as one in the bush. Besides, it just made me feel creepy, like the guy in the white panel van that always promised me free candy. You can fool me five or six times, but that’s not a candy bar, mister.

Beating the Odds

     Another one for the only me file…

So, I’m on my way to work today; it’s a beautiful Spring day. I’ve got the windows halfway down, the moonroof is open, and the stereo is cranked way, way up. We’re talking Spinal Tap loud, right here.

     I’m cruising along, I’ve got my groove on, when an object comes into my peripheral vision, ricochets off my window (it made a very loud “plink”) and this little, piece of shit rock strikes my face, directly under my right eye. WTF? No. Seriously. I don’t know if it’s God, the Devil, Karma, the Universe, Flying Spaghetti Monster, or whatthefuckever. I didn’t do anything to warrant special attention and I’ve been behaving. Pretty much. So… WHAT THE FUCK?`

     Now, I do have to admit that I was lucky, if you can call getting hit in the face with a rock, lucky. If that rock had hit me, just a little bit higher, I’m sure that my right eye would not be in its happy place, right now. Plus, that little zinger sure did hurt like a son of a bitch.

     The odds of something like this happening have to be astronomical. I mean, the truck that kicked up the rock at that angle, the placement of my car, the amount of space that my window was down, blah, blah, blah. Everything had to be just right, or wrong, in order for that rock to hit me. I mean, the odds of that happening to someone would have to be a billion to one,or something like that. The odds of that happening to me? Pretty fucking good, evidently…