A friend of mine passed away last month.

And while there’s plenty of humor about dying and being dead, I thought I’d take a short stab at writing something less sophomoric that my usual nonsense. Not a full seven-inches-in-stab, like the murderer in the song Blood on the Dance Floor. Michael Jackson wrote some dark lyrics. But boy could he move like the wind. Anyway, I’m drifting. Back to the topic at hand – my friend’s death.

The deceased is named Bill Flynn. I met him in an AA meeting seven years ago. After the lead (the main speaker), the meeting opened up to comments from the peanut gallery. Bill said something like, “Once you’re sober the real work begins. Like figuring out why you needed to escape through drugs and alcohol in the first place.” Bill had been sober for 25 years by the time I met him.

A year into knowing Bill he invited me to a group he had just created that met on Wednesdays. It had nothing to do with addiction and anyone was welcome to attend. The idea was that you could bring in your truth – something you were struggling with in life, and there would be processes to help you overcome the obstacle. He didn’t call it a support group because, well support isn’t always necessary. All sorts of people attended. Once a woman came and revealed, “My step-father raped me and now he’s dead and I’m angry about it because he was never punished.” So, Bill would set up a scenario where she could confront the memory of her father and get angry. Another woman  cried because she said she didn’t think she any man could ever find her attractive. Turns out her mother wasn’t complimentary about her robust physique as a child. It takes time to unpack that kind of damage, and she kept showing up and doing the work. Three years later she announced she had met a man and they started dating. A year after that they got married. All of us went to the wedding. That’s the kind of group it was. People worked through stuff.

In 2013 Bill announced he was leaving the group. He had taught us how to do the facilitations and his goal was always to resign as soon as everyone became competent at helping each other. I stepped in and became the defacto leader.

What I’d like to do is share a few of Bill’s most important teachings. They have helped me immensely and I find myself quoting Bill more than any other person in my life. I even referenced him in my sister’s wedding speech last fall where I was the officiant. So in no particular order here’s some of my favorite Bill Flynn wisdom.

The hardest thing in the world to do is tell the truth. – Bill Flynn

No, we’re not talking about lying to the police about how 70 lbs of illegal bath salts found their way into your trunk. If that ever happens, go ahead and lie. You’re kind of screwed regardless. Telling the truth is about telling the whole truth. The ugly truth. The dark truths about yourself that even you don’t want to acknowledge. Because if someone saw ALL the ugliest parts of you, they’d run screaming, right?

Let’s say your best friend suffers a miscarriage and you feel no sadness for her. Maybe you’re even a little happy she’s suffering because she flaked on dinner plans a few weeks before. Try admitting that to yourself. Then, imagine telling someone. That ain’t easy. Or maybe you’re about to get married and you know your future bride is the wrong partner but the wedding is a week away. Bill never suggested you should tell the truth at all times. It’s impractical and, in many cases, downright stupid. His point was that it’s hard to be honest.

We once had a guy named Jason come into the group who had been molested by a relative. He had never told anyone. He couldn’t reveal this to his girlfriend because he was afraid she would see him as broken. He couldn’t be there for her sexually because of the trauma. He couldn’t focus and was in and out of college and jobs. When we heard his story, by the end, everyone was crying. Except Jason. He looked stunned. His biggest fear was that we would see him the way he saw himself. We all have fears about revealing the hard stuff. The irony is, by revealing your truth people fall in love with you. Which leads me to another Bill maxim.

The only way to build intimacy is through sharing vulnerability. – Bill Flynn

When I first started in therapy years ago, my shrink asked if I had any close guy friends and I said I did. She asked if I ever talked with them about my own issues. I laughed and said, “Guys don’t do that.” She laughed back and said, “No, D.J. – guys do that. YOU don’t do that.” I was terrified that I would burden my friends with my problems, or that they’d see me as damaged. And then, they would want to leave and I’d lose the friendship. What Bill taught me was that if you have the courage to tell the truth (see above), your friends will bond tighter to you. And by sharing yourself you’ve created the space to allow them to share their own stuff. As soon as I started talking about my fears, they immediately shared their own struggles. I couldn’t believe my successful and happy friends had troubles just like me. Plus, by knowing someone’s struggles, you can better support them. In short, it’s how you become a better friend. Bill never said this directly, but the bottom line was if you don’t want to be lonely, have the courage to share all of you with people you trust.

All roads lead back to mom and dad. – Bill Flynn

Bill was convinced that most of our problems as adults are because our parents screwed up. Now, this is a difficult concept for some to get on-board with, especially if you like your parents. If your folks were obvious shitheads, this is a no-brainer. But what if they paid for your college, told you they loved you, and tried their very best to make sure you had everything you needed? Can you really say that you have low self-esteem because dad traveled too much for work and missed important events in your youth? Yes. You can say that. Bill taught about the difference between blame and telling the truth. He would say, “Our parents did the best they could. And it wasn’t enough.” Then he would pause and say, “…and it’s okay.” It’s a massive disservice when we make excuses for others’ bad behavior. It’s okay to acknowledge their imperfections and the resulting ripples in your psyche. That’s not blame. That’s just the truth. And speaking of acknowledging the truth…

You cannot forgive someone until you hold them accountable. – Bill Flynn

So, back to our previous example of a jetsetting, absent father. You’re a thirty year old woman and don’t trust men because you never got Dad’s affection or attention. Your relationships are suffering because of the damage your father did to you as a child. Did he mean to screw you up? Probably not. But it happened. Your dad did other wonderful things, so it’s okay to praise him in your mind for the good. It’s also okay to condemn the bad. People are complicated and imperfect. But, how do you hold Dad accountable? Actually, you already did. By telling the truth to yourself. Dad did some things perfect, some things just okay, and some things that crippled your mental health. That’s not blame. That’s honesty and accountability. It happens in the mind. And once you hold that person accountable, it opens up the ability to forgive. In fact, it often happens automatically. It’s a cool trick that I was never taught in school. I was too busy taking stupid classes like civics.

Anger is the best way to protect a boundary. – Bill Flynn

Anger is a healthy emotion. But it scares us. I know I’m not entirely comfortable with my own. Growing up anger is condemned and shamed. In reality, anger is just a feeling that naturally arises from the body and mind. And it’s a damned good tool to have in case anyone tries to violate a boundary. Bill used to say, “If you can’t get angry, you’ll be fucked because some time in life you’ll need it and it might just save your life.” If you’ve ever had to protect someone physically, you know how important anger is to summon. It’s the only thing bullies understand. If you want to defeat a bully, defend your boundary. Anger protects us.

The healthiest relationships are in which two people are free to leave. – Bill Flynn

I just had someone end a relationship with me. It was the most painful experience of my life, moreso than even my divorce. However, the reality is that you cannot control someone’s decisions. You fight like hell for them, and you give them all of your love, but ultimately you honor their choice to leave. And if you “can’t live without them”, well maybe it’s time to pick up a book on co-dependence. Of course you can live without them. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t care whether someone stays or goes. You will care. It will level you when someone disappears from your life. It’s loss and it’s supposed to hurt. Or as Bill used to say, “It’s the risk of love. And it’s worth it even if they leave.”

Bill’s Favorite Poem

I could write a dozen more Bill expressions, but the reality is I’m no biographer. And most people don’t have interest in this kind of stuff. But Bill did. I do. And hundreds of other people who were helped by him. the reality is that I’m a healthier person because of some of the stuff Bill taught me. I’m a better person, too.

I’ll wrap up with Bill’s favorite poem. I’ve read maybe seven poems in my life and the only one I remember is “To the Virgins, To Make Use of Time” by Herrick. Probably because I was a virgin when I read it. Anyway, Bill said this sanskrit poem out loud so many times, I damn near have it memorized. It perfectly sums up what he was all about.

Look To This Day

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn.

– Kalidasa

Okay, fisticuffs are an exaggeration. I haven’t ever participated in a true, punch-throwing fight. Once in my youth I jumped on top of a guy who was trying to hurt a co-worker of mine and I tried to choke him out. It was fifteen years ago and seemed like the best option at that moment. After the incident (which lasted ten seconds) my co-worker said, “I’ve never seen anyone use a strangle move before.” I must have appropriated that technique from all of the 1980s buddy cop movies I watched as a child. I haven’t been in a fight before or since.

While I am capable of getting charged with anger, I don’t let other people bug me to the point where I need to separate their nose from their face. It’s too much energy. Also, I don’t want to know what the inside of a bail bondsman’s office looks like. I’m guessing stained shag carpeting with a heavy stench of stale Merits.

To prove of how cool under pressure I maintain, I offer this anecdote. Just yesterday while driving to the vet I looked over and a guy was flipping me the bird. Instinct took over and I belly laughed. I don’t know why he was upset since I drive like an old lady, but somehow I had offended his sensibilities. My laughing agitated him and he intensified the speed of his finger-wagging. This made me laugh harder.

But I did find myself ruffled this past Friday at the orthopedic office.

For the first time in my 39 years I have a body ache. Somehow I made it this far in life without a broken bone or dislocated rotator cuff. I’ve never had back pain, tennis elbow or shin splints.

When I’m at the gym and the trainer has me doing the ultra-manly standing squats and lunges, every so often my left knee hurts. It’s uncommon but when it comes I have to stop the exercise. Since I pay good money for health insurance, I booked a consultation with a knee specialist. My personal trainer, no joke, suggested it was all in my head and not real. I didn’t get upset with him because he’s kind of a dummy. He suggested, “Maybe you got a placebo going on. You know, in your head.” I didn’t have the heart to correct him on the definition of “placebo.”

At the orthopedic’s office, before the exam room, a technician was assigned to check my height, weight, and blood pressure. I had to stand on a scale and a measurement thing lowered onto to my head.

Okay, you’re 5’11”.

Wait, did you say 5’11”?

Yes.

Oh, that’s wrong. I’m 6’2″.

That’s not what the scale says. [Points to screen] 5’11”.

Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you, but I’m 6’2″.

Do you want to have the machine test you again?

Sure, unless it is going to show 5’11”. Because then we’ll be right back here and I’ll be telling you I’m 6’2″.

[Points again at screen]

Okay, let’s give the machine another chance at doing its only job. [I step back on scale]

Oh, you’re 6’1″.

No, I’m 6’2″, actually just a few millimeters shy of 6’3″, but in the interest of compromise I’ll go with 6’1″.

[Blank stare]

—

Next he tested blood pressure and I scored a 190/94. That’s high and I’ve never in my life measured anything outside of normal range. It’s possible this was an accurate reading since I was reeling from the height debate I had just lost. I learned that when someone challenges a fact about myself, I do not handle it well. I would bet that my frustration notched up the blood pressure reading a few points. I’m not sure what scam the tech thought I was attempting to pull. I’ve heard women tell me that men lie about their height on dating profile websites, so maybe he thought I was gay and flirting? If I was into orthopedic-male-height-and-weight-techs-with-scary-tattoos-behind-their-right-ear, maybe he’d have a point.

Later in the exam room I joked with the doctors about what happened. I made it a point to make it seem funny because I didn’t want to get the tech in trouble or make him look incompetent to his bosses. I mean, he is incompetent, but everyone needs to earn a living. But I also didn’t want the chart to be wrong. I mentioned that since the machine was off on my height, maybe my blood pressure reading wasn’t accurate either.

They remeasured the blood pressure and this time it was a perfect 180/20. Regarding my pain it turns out I have something called Runner’s Knee. This would be a badge of honor if I placed in Ironman competitions. It’s less cool since I run only three miles on a treadmill twice a week. It’s fixable, however. I have to strengthen a few muscles around the knee and even a tiny muscle in my rear end. They scheduled me for some PT sessions where I can learn the exercises and bring them back to my trainer.

Later that day at the gym I attempted to tell my trainer about the meeting with the doctors. I believe he was offended because he cut me off with, “I could have told you all that. I’ve been training you a year, so I know what is going on with you.” It’s an odd choice to get defensive over getting some x-rays and talking to a doctor, but again, he’s dopey. Maybe he felt I was blaming him or something – which is insane because I never blame him. My trainer got fired a few years ago for threatening to beat up a client in the gym. Then, he filed a suit against the gym and they gave him his job back. This is not rumor or exaggeration. This is the exact story he told me on our second ever training session. Since then I have been very careful to agree with everything he says.

“Yeah, I know you know more than those doctors, but I just wanted to make get the x-ray, make sure I didn’t have arthritis. Or the placebo.”

photo credit: TRX Personal Trainer via photopin (license)

(this was written last night, by the way)

When I woke up I felt my normal happy self. But soon, everything changed.

I had an early situation which warranted some anger. Basically a work thing popped up unexpectedly that had me thinking I was being attacked by a certain employee. I lost my cool but took five minutes to calm down before acting. I sent a polite but firm email and received a nasty one back. The coworker called me immediately after and we worked it out over the next fifteen minutes. I still had slight residual anger but I felt better. I have 100% confidence it will get resolved.

I also spent a few hours in traffic today due to a snowfall, but normally that wouldn’t bother me. A mild annoyance. Sure I only went a total of sixteen miles, but I have Sirius/XM and can just zone out listening to the comedy stations.

For some reason, though, the cars next to mine bothered me. I fantasized about smashing into many of them. And I never have road rage.

The air temperature which normally has little effect on me was chilling to my core. I hated the snow and sludge under my boots. I was cold outside, and hot in the car.

I found myself criticizing thoughts that popped into my head. Other people’s decisions, my own mistakes, music that came on the radio. Nothing was good. I was uncomfortable.

I even did a thirty minute meditation which, during that time, removed the negativity. As soon as I popped back to life all the darkest thoughts were there waiting for me.

My girlfriend and I attended a Mac and Cheese contest later in the day. This is one of those events where twenty people compete with unique recipes. I was excited to go. All the food tasted just “okay” to me. I know my mood was affecting my ability to enjoy taste.

We then went to an NBA game – third row tickets. Both of us hadn’t seen the Bulls play in over ten years. This was supposed to be an exciting event.

Thankfully I popped my ADD med right before the game started and the mild euphoria side-effect did kick in for most of the game. But after the final buzzer I was slammed back into my dark reality.

Just a few minutes ago, back home, my girlfriend bumped her knee hard into the coffee table. We were on hold with her internet customer service at the time, and I just stared at her blankly while she moaned in pain. I knew I should be feeling sympathy for her, but it wasn’t showing up.

Since I’ve been so negative all day, I’ve also had self-judgment about these thoughts and behaviors.

I’ve been critical of myself that, in theory, this should be a great day! I have a loving woman who supports me, I’m healthy and can pay the bills, and I’m lucky to get invited to food events and basketball games. There’s plenty to be thankful for and not anything that we’d all agree was worthy of my reactions.

The darkness felt physical, as if I had no control over it psychologically. Women go through hormonal changes every month that affect their mood without consent. Maybe something like that was going on with me. This was weird.

Since there’s nothing tangible that is looming over my head, I suspect all of these feelings will be gone by morning. I don’t generally wake up with sadness, fear, or anger. I like the mornings and often dance a little on the way from the bed to the bathroom.

My girlfriend put it succinctly. “You’re having a bad day.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense.”

She shrugged. To her, having a bad day is acceptable even when there’s no logic to support the feelings.

As a guy I want to figure things out. Did I do something goofy nutritionally? Did the no-sunlight thing make this happen? Would working out have fixed it? If I would have done psychological exercises, could this have turned me around? I have no answers.

It’s now the end of the night and I’m exhausted. It’s tough being such an asshole all day.

Going to wake up tomorrow and feel better and never know why this happened.

photo credit: country_boy_shane via photopin cc

• ChateauDeStarvo  – Make cat vomit funny.

I actually have a cat vomit story from when I was wee. Goddamn do I love alliteration! Anyway, I was forced to take piano lessons from an old bat named Mrs. Mayhew. My sister and I alternated which meant that for her 30 minutes I would keep myself busy by looking around Mrs. Mayhew’s home. She had, like all old people, a shitload of National Geographic magazines. I found one of the floor which had what appeared to be a 3D volcano on the cover. It was a huge mound of brown hardened glop. Impressed I thought, “Man, this magazine really does some cool stuff!” I reached over the top of the volcano and touched the inside. Smushy. When it was my turn for the lesson I told Mrs. Mayhew how I found the issue with the model volcano on the cover. She looked puzzled, went over to where I was playing and gasped. Yep, the cat had barfed on the magazine cover. Right next to the cover story – on volcanos.

• Mindy Fausey  – 10 Things You Can Do Without

I’ll give you five.

1. Popcorn Jelly Bellies, Circus Peanuts, and Candy Corn.
2. The word “retarded” being used by the non-retarded to mean “stupid” – that’s not what it means.
3. The expression “It is what it is” being used to soften the real emotion someone is feeling, which is usually “FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!”
4. People in 2013 who still flip through tv channels by pushing the up and down buttons on the remote.
5. The one guy in the office who refuses to say, “Bless you!” when you sneeze – yes, we get it. You’re a passive aggressive dick.

• Malfiliault  – Butt trivia

I will tell you some things about my own fanny. First, I always layer toilet seats when I am anywhere my at my own home, even though logic dictates that picking up a disease from a seat is nearly impossible. Second, I have a scar on right cheek from when  I fell through a glass table. Third, when I was 23 I asked two models in California to watch me walk away and evaluate how hot my ass looked in jeans. Lastly, I’m not one of those people that when they get up from a chair leaves the seat all hot. That really fouls me out when you sit on someone’s previous 100 degree butt.

• MrsDitter  –  How to bounce back after getting flamed on the interwebnet thingy

In real life the only way to handle bullies is to step up and defend yourself. Since bullies are cowards, this almost always works. But online, bullies are anonymous. When I get a nasty comment, I usually just apologize. I’ve learned that this usually reverses the direction of the anger. Since I don’t care what anonymous people feel about me, for a goof, I will say, “You’re right! I never thought of that before! I’m sorry for upsetting you.” It sounds like I’m being a huge pussy, but it’s really fun to try to win over someone who hates you. You’ll find that they’ll nearly always apologize back. Assholes are so predictable. It’s fun to screw with their mind.

• MollyKerrActor  – A  gay man tricks a hetero guy into having sex by pretending to be a transexual and then they fall in love and live happily

I think our definitions of sex are very different. Let’s just stop there.

• MargaGoGo  –  Squirrels. I’d like you to write about squirrels

I’ve already talked about how black squirrels freak me out. Sometimes, when I’m at my parents’ home in Peoria, I run at squirrels in the backyard just to see them take off and leap onto tree trunks. At thirty-seven, this still makes me giggle. I know squirrels survive winters, but I have no idea where they live. I guess inside of trees. They seem to be pretty cool with chipmunks, too. You ever actually seen an owl? Just shooting from the cuff here, people.

• WhiskeyIsh  –  Write for me a story about being not lower- or middle- or upper-class, but no-class. Bonus points for both funny and sad.

I’m going to attempt to accomplish this in the fewest number of words possible.

John dutch-ovened his wife on their 30th anniversary. No other gifts were provided.

• BethyLou10  –  The worst sound in the world.

This is a good one since I am ultrasensitive to acoustics. Certain frequencies will induce anxiety, nausea, joy, and anger in me. I’m not exaggerating. When my sister’s boyfriend, a fast-talking Queens native, speaks, I get a little dizzy. My mom can laugh and hit a note that pierces my ears. Most likely this is Sensory Processing Disorder at play. But many noises that bother others don’t bug me. For example, nails on a chalkboard or snoring.  I can fall asleep to a baby screaming.  So, my scale is calibrated a little differently than most. The sound that would make me dry-heave, however, I’ve been fortunate enough to never experience directly. I believe it’s called a queef.

And, to end on a low note, I’m going to do something rare – post a link to a video I love. It’s the amazing Stace Hole doing, well, she’s doing what she does. Enjoy.

My ex-wife just got married. I was made aware of this because my veterinarian emailed my ex-wife who forwarded it to me. This is a little complicated. Explanation necessary, D.J.!

Christina and I divorced over two and half years ago. I still contact her every once in a while. We’re perfectly friendly and sometimes I need advice on pet stuff. She, too, is a vet. Well, my dog is due for a dental. This is a relatively routine procedure but when I called the animal hospital yesterday, the vet tech had expressed interest in giving her a catheter for anesthesia. My dog is very sensitive to shots and has become sick in the past for this kind of thing. My ex has instructed me to call her before any procedure to give the go-ahead. I’m glad she’s available as she’s a great doctor.

So, every now and then I call and talk about the dog or the cat. Our conversations are brief and amiable. We joke around for a minute and then get to business. I phoned her a few weeks ago because the government cut us a big check for seemingly no reason. We couldn’t figure it out, but were thrilled to get the cash. So, we have nice chats. Every so often one of us comes up with a joke about the pets and calls or texts it over. That’s the stuff we do.

In the year following the divorce, I worked through my anger and sadness. It was suggested to me at the time that I take the year off of dating. I should point out that it was my ex’s decision to leave the marriage. This was shocking and difficult for me to process, as it would be for anyone. So, I took my time. Learned how to be alone.

After a year I was over the divorce and became involved in a relationship. It ended last fall due to distance. Oh, and the fact that she sort of didn’t like me. Not a great quality for a long-term partner. Now, I’m back in the mix and dating up a storm. Just last week I hit seven dates in seven days. Was hilarious. And exhausting.

Anway, back to my ex-wife.

So I called her yesterday and after the business about the dog’s teeth she asked, “So, what’s going on?” She has never, in all our talks, expressed interest in my personal life. It’s always been business, a quick joke, and then off the phone. I just said, “Nothing much,” and hung up the phone as quick as possible. I’m not interested in telling her about my dating marathon.

Then this morning I get an email where she had messaged the vet who’s going to take care of Meepers during the dental. She told him the procedure she wanted him to do. He replied and agreed, but at the end also said, “Congrats on the nuptials!”

Did she accidentally forget to delete that line before sending to me or did she do it on purpose in a fucked-up, passive aggressive way? Or maybe she just didn’t give a shit. Who knows? Well, after Googling “nuptials” I learned it meant she got married.

Here’s the part that pissed me off. She still uses my last name. To this day. Now, I don’t quite understand this plan. She was a Johnson for thirty-two years. Decent last name. Marries me for two years, and then leaves. Keeps the name. Weird, but whatever. Then marries a new dude. Still keeps the name. Double weird.

And yes, I can understand that “Paris” is kind of a neat last name. But to keep it after a failed marriage and then a new one is really bizarre. I can only hope that her new husband’s name is “Feltersnatch.” Then it would make sense.

So, today I’ve been sad and angry. Sad that my ex-wife has moved on. It’s natural to be a little depressed. Mad because she didn’t have the courage to tell me the night before on the phone. I suspect it’s because she knew I would say, “Finally – you’re getting rid of my name!”

“Um… about that…”

photo credit: Anirudh Koul via photopin cc

I recently crossed over the five thousand mark in comments on they blog. I would say 99% are positive/funny responses to posts I’ve written. Once in awhile I invoke someone’s ire.

This particular reader yelled at me in a private email writing that I am a crazed narcissist and with all the hurt I cause my girlfriend I need to remember that I’m the lucky one to have her in my life. One of my comedy heroes, Marc Maron, has a response to a women whenever one starts passing judgement from the audience and interrupting his set. He’s a fantastic comic and talks openly about all his challenges. I try to do the same thing here. Anyway, his response is to look at the woman with compassion and then say, “I’m really sorry for what he did to you.” It’s one of the greatest power-move  dismissals ever.

It’s true, of course. Whenever we are bothered by someone else’s behavior there is something within us and about us that is bothered. Usually it’s a reflection to something you’re going through yourself. Since most of my readers are women who are married with children, every so often I get a, “You should be ashamed of the way you treat your girlfriend!” Well, first of all, the blog wouldn’t be that interesting if I simply wrote, “Today I sent Jessica flowers! (which I do, by the way) She really appreciated it!” It’s hard to make something like that engaging. Talking more about the wounds I have myself or have inflicted upon others is more interesting to me. So, I’m sure I can come off like a dick now and then.

But when I receive a negative comment I go through a few stages. My first response is anger and I want to fire back a short reply reducing the person to tears. I am really good at this, by the way. Just ask my exes. However, hurting people in this way really isn’t a fulfilling strategy since I then feel shame an hour later. So, I let the anger pass and then I realize, “Hey, in a really crazy way this person cares about me. She wouldn’t bother to write this if she didn’t give a shit.” That allows me to feel good about them even though I didn’t love their message. Lastly, I get sad because I know she was probably triggered by something I said that hit close to home. We’re all wired up for projection and denial and mostly we just react to the outside world on what is happening internally we can’t face. So, the sadness comes when I think that maybe her home life is similar to what she hates in my writing.

What I do love, though, is honesty. I try to create a safe place for myself here where I can share openly. I have boundaries, of course. For example I have never shared about the time I went into Brooks Brothers and put on five suits at the same time and walked out tipping my cap to the salesman saying, “Nothing for me today, good sir!” Hey, cashmere single-breasted sports coats are like $800. Ballers don’t pay.

I will encourage you to continue to respond honestly. If you hate something I say or do, first go f yourself. Then, please write it and submit. I’ll work through my anger and sadness. Since I have such low self-esteem I eventually get to a place where I go, “Hey, haters still read!” Plus, if you met me in person, you’d love me. I’m that amazing. For real. Just ask around.

And with that I believe I have finally put this  narcissistic  silliness to rest.

This will be my first speaking event where I address bloggers. I’m grateful to have been asked and over the past few months have tried to create a worthwhile presentation/discussion for attendees. My topic is about taking risks with your writing and trusting in your abilities.

When I was at BlogHer I was in a half-day seminar with thirty women. During one exercise we lined up on spectrum where one end represented “confusion” and the other end “clarity.” We were asked where we believe we are with our blog content. I just assumed everyone was confident about their writing and so I made my way over to the “clarity” side. Well, it was just me and two other women. The rest of the group was at the “confusion” side.

I felt like an egotistical dick. Who was I to feel confident about my crap? But I did feel confident – not egotistical, but comfortable. I’m not a good writer. I know this. I need to learn more about writing. But, I am clear about what I want this blog to be, and I feel damned competent.  My blog has always been about three things – humor, honesty, and vulnerability. While it started out as humor-only site I quickly realized I was not going to be able to hit joke  home runs  every day. I needed to expand my offering if I was to create any regular content. Jokes take too long to perfectly craft.  Over time I started to add in stuff (non-funny, mostly) about my day.

When I started experimenting with non-funny content, I was in the middle of a divorce. I had many feelings, mostly sadness and anger, that were  constant.  I wrote about these experiences. Even though I would pepper each post with jokes, it was primarily a confessional of what was going on in my life.

Growing up I thought if I was funny people would think I was cool. And yes, if you’re funny, people like you. Girls will dig you. But I thought if I shared my pain and sadness and anger, you’d see I was a big screw up and run away. Ironically, making a lot of jokes will almost guarantee that people will not feel close to you. I have best friends with whom I never shared anything  substantive. It took a lot of years to face pain that I’ve avoided myself. By learning how to courageously tell my loved ones about my struggle, they have felt closer to me and we have connected at a deeper level. The same has happened with my readers. So now when I write I always start with one question.

Do I have the courage today to write about what’s really going on?

Then, a second question.

What is really going on?

I realized the other day that I never have written about fear. I rant constantly about anger, sadness and shame, but never about fear. And the truth is that I’m terrified of many things. Scared that my girlfriend will leave me (like my wife did). Scared that I won’t ever make the money I want to make at my day job (or get fired). Scared that my readers will leave over time.

Fear is the hardest thing for me to address. Ironically, fear is a deep, connecting experiences. When I have exposed my shadows, this has done more to increase readership than the dad dick stories I’ve penned. I am insanely proud of those stories, by the way. I do have a mom vagina story that I need to write, too, but it’s not about my mom’s vagina. It’s about vagina advice my mother gave me. Oh yes. It’s good.

When I address everyone this Friday, even though I’m doing twenty-five minutes, I can really sum it up in two sentences.

Write the truth like you wouldn’t notice if your entire audience left. And, if they do leave, keep writing as a new audience will funnel in for the second show.

photo credit: Garrett Crawford via photopin cc

So, this loser police officer decided to take my driver’s license and write me up a moving violation (the same that you would get if you blew through a red light in a car). As he drove away I wished ill upon his children. Smallpox, if I remember correctly. When I arrived to work upon hearing the story everyone laughed at me.

I figured there had to be something wrong about him taking my license. I found this online commuter forum and asked the bikers. As it turned out Chicago had, a few months back, made some law that said bicyclists had to obey the same traffic laws as motorists.

Since I have a perfect driving record I decided to go before the judge. I had never been before a judge and I have to admit, I was pretty excited.

At traffic court they congo-lined me up with a group I titled The  Who’s Who of Societal Delinquents. Lots of great neck tats and not many suits. We were told that the judge would read our infraction aloud and he’d rule on the matter. You were not allowed to speak unless spoken to.  There was one douche in the line who brought an attorney. He thought he was so cool. Me and the neck tats pointed and laughed at this puta madre.

If I forgot to mention, there were a lot of Mexicans in the group.

The process interested me. As each person went before the judge he never looked up from his papers once. He ruled, and you were dismissed. It would all happen within twenty seconds.

I was fifteenth in line. I know this because I counted and watched fourteen people all get ruled “guilty.” Then, it was my turn.

He started reading the citation…

Mr. Paris drove through a red light on a bicycle. Wait… A bicycle?

For the very first time since he had entered the room he looked up from the desk. He broke character and smiled. I could tell he wanted to laugh. But, being a judge, he couldn’t.

It was also clear he saw something he didn’t like on the paper.

Is the arresting officer here today?

Turns out he was. The cop was sitting just to the right of where I was in front of the judge. They all look the same to me, so I didn’t even notice him. In fact, with the first fourteen cases before me the judge had asked the same question. No officers were present.

One of Chicago’s finest stood and addressed the judge.

Uh, yes, judge. I’m here. Well… it seems I put the wrong infraction number on the ticket.

Oh… okay. Um… What do you want to do?

It was our mistake and…

Should I just give him back his license?

We no longer wish to pursue to matter, judge.

—

The judge looked me in the eye and again flashed a tiny smile. He handed me my license and I turned around to walk out. But before I made even one step, I said to the officer, “Wow – thank you! Thank you very much!” It was a subtle f-you and I wanted to anger him by suggesting that he was consciously doing me a favor. Then, I walked out. Triumphant.

I’m sure that I was the envy of the rest of the bozos.

What I assumed happened was that somebody who looks at tickets written by cops found the error and summoned the officer. Since he screwed up they probably told him to get his ass to court before I made a big stink about their mistake. Of course I had no idea they had goofed. It never occurred to me to check the violation number.

I’d love to say that I learned my lesson and have never blew through a red light again. But I did the very next day after I got my license back. I’ve been biking to work now for four years and I’ve never had a close call. 95% of my ride is along the lake on a designated path. I don’t like biking in the street and only do so when there’s no other route. I wear a helmet and all that nonsense.

So, that’s the conclusion. I fought the law. I won.

My record is clean and the city just sent me a “ten years without a ticket” sticker thing for the back of my license. I threw it away. I’m way too cool for that nonsense.

Sadly, still riding high from the ticket victory three years ago. I’m invincible!

A few weeks back I ordered this generic tail light from China. It came equipped with lasers that let everyone know I mean business. I haven’t yet turned it on because I don’t know that ground effects is the best look for me.

Her ex-husband is causing emotional distress. They have a child and she’s unable to completely break from him. He’s not a bad guy but has a number of issues that he hasn’t  responsibly addressed.

Anyway, I’ve been through divorce and while mine was amicable, it was still devastating.

I was chatting with her a bit last night. She was very angry as a the ex had said something unkind that rattled her cage. Well, beyond rattled. She was ready to kill. Instead of talking her down, I encouraged her to stay with the anger.

Anger, in my opinion, needs to be processed. Which means it’s useful to express it in a safe environment. Since the ex-husband was probably trying to bait her into a fight, calling him up and screaming, “You scoundrel!” is not a great move.

[note: expression cleaned up for Miss Rojita’s sixth grade class who is studying “Modern Digital American Humor” this week and chose my blog.]

Wow. I can’t lie to you folks. There is no Miss Rojita. Well, there might be, but I don’t know if she teaches, and most likely even if she did, I doubt my blog made her recommended reading list. Her students are probably learning about periods reading Judy Blue.

I like the word “scoundrel.”

I encouraged my friend to imagine that I was her ex-husband and to say to me what was inside of her. She, via instant message, immediately started typing aggressive and intense, angry thoughts. They were rough and cutting. I could tell that he deserved it. She ranted about everything she hated in this guy. It was brutal.

After a few minutes she started to change her tone. Some kindness emerged as she acknowledge his good qualities. She became very sad and her tone was appreciative of the years he was a good partner. I didn’t touch my keyboard throughout the entire process. Not one word. She processed it on her own.

Afterwards she was exhausted and blue. I wanted to cheer her up.

She had started an anonymous blog to discuss some of the pain of divorce. Even though the blog was only days old, she complained that she only had four Twitter followers (I being one). So, I went online and did something fun. I bought her 22k Twitter followers.

About halfway through today she IMd me excitedly. She saw her follower count and knew it was my doing. She’s no moron. But to those of us with four followers, having 22k followers, even fake, is damned exciting. It only cost me five bucks.

I personally have 28k Twitter followers, and I also had purchased my first 3500. I wanted people to think I was a big shot. I outed myself  because it was an insecure and embarrassing move and I needed to own it. I’ve earned the rest fair and square, of course.

Even though this was a fake gift to her, it provided a minor distraction from an otherwise unpleasant life event. Sure, she still only has four real followers, but when she sees the large number, she laughs.

Make sure you have one person in your life that can make you laugh when you’re down. Then, treat them real nice.

Tonight, however, I’d like to go deeper.

I was talking to a friend recently about my theory that people who click the “non-crushed” ice button on their refrigerators have horrible self-esteem. First off, if you don’t like chewing on ice you’ve obviously never chewed on ice. It’s delectable. It’s not subjective, as ice has no flavor. And you like chewing, right? You do it all day. Now, you might not like chewing on canned tuna or Whoppers (both are terrible), but even if you do, I can’t use that to judge your psychological well-being. I believe you just have shitty taste and your buds are really whacked out of alignment. But you’re not nuts, necessarily.

Since ice hasn’t a taste, what I do know is if you aren’t chomping away you don’t enjoy having fun. Chewing ice is the milk’s bananas!

Okay, I’m not going to Google that, but for a second I thought I just made that up. It seems unlikely, and I probably heard it watching a newsie at the Bijou back in ’47. But, if I did just invent that phrase I’ll expect it up on UrbanDictionary with proper citation.

Hang on, bozos! I just made a statement that was over-generalized. Chewing ice in all its forms is not worthwhile. Ice that comes out of those plastic blue trays in your freezer are NOT to be chewed upon. They’re too big, too solid, and you end up playing Russian Roulette with your molars. It’s not smart or fun.

Same thing with the longer, cylindrical ones that come out of automatic ice makers. The “non-crushed” ice. These you can chew without chipping a cuspid, but again, it’s a little too intense. It’s not comfortable or relaxing. You’re nearing the edge of sanity. Sure you can let them melt down a little in your Fresca, but then your drink tastes watery.

Crushed is the only way to go. Fill up a tumbler of whiskey, load it with crushed ice, and chomp away while getting slammed. I don’t drink anymore, and I can’t remember if people order whiskey with crushed ice, but they goddamn well should. If you appreciate this style of ice as much as I do, part of the beauty is that each piece is unique. It’s like a snowflake without a tool to view the design of a snowflake.

Crushed ice is simply fun. It’s a free thrill with no calories.

So, my friend mentioned above heard this insane rant with no logic, sound reasoning, or empirical evidence and said, “Yeah, but crushed ice fails next to those little balls of ice.”

Hold the phone! Stop printing! We have a new exclusive!

She was right. Holy farts was she right! I had forgotten about the tiny balls of ice.

Not that slushie ice crap – that stuff sucks and we all know it. No, the little balls of ice you used to see at various snack shops. They have a texture that compresses in when you chew on it. It’s the most satisfying ice experience you can have, bar none. To be able to push ice into itself as it melts – well, it’s giving me goosebumps right now. I’m not joshing.

Just did some research, they range from 2-5k bucks. Ice pelletes are not easy to make apparently, and that’s a bummer because to spend that kind of money on an ice machine, while worth it in my book, is not a sound financial decision for me at this point. It reminds me of my friend’s dad growing up. “Sure we can afford a Ferarri, we’d just have to live in it.”

Tomorrow I’m going to see if I can find a local joint here in Chicago that serves drinks with ice pellets. I will try to take pictures if I can stop shaking with nervous excitement. I can’t believe you just read this whole ridiculous post. Truly.

photo credit: Seven Morris via photo pin cc