Aurora Avenue North
I want to see the Aurora Borealis before I die. It is basically the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and that was in a photograph. I couldn’t imagine seeing it in person. I do not want to know or understand anything about it either. I want to see it and love it like people did 500 years ago. I don’t want it to be explainable. I see it as silent music in the sky and that is all I want to see. The Aurora Borealis is my Santa Claus. Let me leave my milk and cookies, and let me see them gone in the morning. Usually, I want to explain the excitement and mystery out of everything. Religion, for example, is something I explained away. I suppose the Aurora Borealis is my god. I just want to believe. And I’m not talking about that stupid Aurora Australis; fuck that thing. That is all.
Let’s see where this takes us
Upon starting this exploration into my past I decided to not clutter it with current ramblings. Well, sometimes I just don’t feel like telling stories. I’m listening to The Black Keys and feel myself slipping into a state of delirium being that it is three in the morning and I won’t be off work for another 12.5 hours. Writing really helps to pass the time, so suck it.
Lately, I have felt the need to revisit where America came from. I feel completely disconnected from the Earth. 100 years seems like a long time. We have made advancements in the past century that we have never seen in history. It would be haphazard to believe that we could continue this upward direction without some form of collapse. That’s why I feel it is necessary to revisit the basics in life. I don’t need to know how to make my own food today, but what about tomorrow? If peak oil is a true threat, which makes complete sense, then there wouldn’t be trucks to bring my food. If there were trucks it would likely be outside of my means to afford it. Consider it some form of insurance policy in the form of knowledge. Call me weird, but don’t call me for food if I’m right.
On a different note, I have been living in a party town for far too long. It’s making me (more) lazy and irresponsible than ever. I love it, but it’s taking me down. Every night cannot be a party. It’s convenient, fun, and comfortable, but not healthy, not for me. The thing I fear the most is losing the companionship and familiar faces I am now used to. And traffic. I haven’t spent more than $40 on gas in the past year or so, and it feels great. On the other hand, I miss road trips and adventures out of my little city. I’ll figure all that out in time.
Also, I’d like to eat healthier. I love vegetables, but I never know what to do with them. I was raised on hamburger helper and a can of green beans. I’ve never eaten a leek. Needless to say, changes are around the corner, and in probably more aspects of my life than I am comfortable with. I really like the rut I’ve carved, but it is missing something.
This wasn’t as much fun as I anticipated. Thanks a lot subconscious.
Goats and ho’s
I was around the age of twelve when my mother met someone at a small homeschool convention. It was less of a convention and more of a “let’s reserve a room at the library and try to figure out how we are going to teach our children when we never graduated from high school” convention. She met a family that had a child in 4-H. They had a couple of goats, and it reinforced responsibility, socialization, and was a great career move because, once out of school I could work as a farm hand. I was on board. Goats are fucking cute. We began the research like anyone would before buying an odd pet. Books were bought and I was loving it. The day came where we went to some old lady’s house who had some baby goats (kids) for sale in the local Little Nickel (or paper Craigslist for you youngin’s). Of course, goats are social animals so you must buy more than one. Awesome! We brought them home and everything was right in the world. I had no friends, so it was a perfect happenstance. I reluctantly say this at risk of sounding sad, as I hear most these stories end with an awwww. Poor kid. Whatever. My goats were my friends. Sadie was my favorite. A black Alpine with white saddles painted on her. She grew quite a bit of an attitude with age and wouldn’t let anyone but me touch her. At the fair, I got many bad looks from parents with grabby kids. It always made me laugh. I’m getting too ahead of myself. I signed up, or whatever, for 4-H and it was cool. It’s where I developed some of my first crushes. I’m still a sucker for chicks in Wranglers who like George Strait and can sweep poop with a smile. I was pretty bad ass at 4-H. I’m talking round robin champ, all state goat judging winner, and the list goes on. I had boxes of ribbons that I recently threw out with the exception of some memorable ones. I don’t remember much about 4-H other than take care of animals, and when the fair came to town it was on. Bring it. Oh yeah, it was like that. There are pictures out there that are comical. First off, I was a fatty. I’m talking like 250lbs, and I carried it all from the waist, up. For goat showing, you had to wear all white (because you can bleach the shit off of yourself). I had my mother make me a vast to hide my bitch tits and spilling gut since I had to tuck my shirt in. I looked pretty dapper. It was all about grace and showmanship I learned. No bouncing, free arm extended at a comfortable and ridiculous angle, and correct control of your goat’s necklace. I’m sure this is also why I kicked ass at marching at boot camp too. Whatever, this was all fun for me because it actually did teach me a helluvalot about life, especially about how it fucking sucks sometimes. I liked it still, but it spiralled out of fucking control. My mother was still very active in helping out as having goats as pets is pretty extreme. There was also open-class competition. This is where it began. In open-class, you can make money. My mother loves money. I was awesome at it. You do the math. A couple of goats turned into a fuckload of goats turns into me artificially inseminating a goat. I’ve been trying to ignore all the possible goat-fucker jokes I will likely get for this post. Well, fuck you. I’ve heard it all my life, and it still makes me laugh too. Yeah, I did it. It was actually pretty cool and was successful. I’m talking about artificial insemination. I wanted to be a vet. Anyway, to win big at open-class you must have a good line of goats. This is where it got expensive and not that much fun. Initiate dream blur vision…. At the peak, I, capital I, took care of 23 goats, 22 sheep, 5 pigs, 1 jersey steer, 20ish ducks, 100ish chickens, 2 pheasants, 2 rabbits, 2 dogs, and a handfull of cats. I may be missing some, but you probably get the point. I had to milk about 5 goats two or three times a day. Feed twice a day. It was ridiculous. Responsibility or sweat shop? I can’t tell you how many goats I’ve seen born. That’s pretty much about it. It killed me, but I still loved it. It was just too overwhelming. I learned a lot about life for sure. In the end, my mother did alright on this one.
I was milking Sadie one morning and left her alone for a second while I did something. I had a radio in the barn and she bit through the cord sending her into a cartoon version of herself being shocked look. I freaked and tried yanking the live cord from her mouth. Stupid. Then I ran for the extension cord and unplugged it. She lived, but I almost killed myself trying to save a goat. That would have been a weird eulogy. I also saw a bunch of nasty crap I’d rather not share on the Internet, but you can ask in person.
I’m kind of rushed because I’m leaving work in a few minutes, so I guess that’s it, for now. I was homeschooled.
Hold me close in my tiny bathroom
I was young and it was my first real time on my own; I had just joined to Coast Guard and graduated from boot camp. Living in California for the first time was something made of magic. Unicorns and glitter. It was great, but I was alone. All I had were my work friends which was great; they were like family. Irrelevant. Basically, I was lonely. So when I purchased a cell phone, I was pleasantly shocked when a woman called me out of the blue. Is Tyrone there? This is Tyrone. I don’t know what made me take on the identity of Tyrone, but it just felt right. I needed someone to talk to. I had no car and was in a strange place. I’m not making excuses for identity theft, but if she was so dumb that she couldn’t tell I wasn’t Tyrone… After a couple of days I gave up the lie. You know this isn’t really Tyrone right? Yeah. We talked about dumb shit and I tried to get her to send me a picture. I received the picture in the mail and opened it around all my buddies. It was a glamour shot. The crappy ones that you get at a mall with the neon crap in the background. I thought to myself, this is a joke. This is obviously not her, but rather a test to see if I like her for her, or it was just a physical thing. I won’t leave you in suspense. It was her. It was awful. She was of African descent, somewhere around 200lbs, had eyes that bulged from her skull and looked in slightly different directions, and had a waddle when she walked. Much like a penguin, which I now adore. She was nice, but it was too easy. She practically begged for my company. That was a new experience for me and I didn’t know if I liked it or not. I don’t. If you want me, be unavailable. I pretty much avoided any face-to-face contact with her until I discovered the art of getting shit-faced. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but it involved Miller high-life, Jack Johnson, Kelly Slater surfing game, and a Domino’s pizza. I was living in a small studio on the beach. I had sand in my front yard. It was amazing. And I’m paying more now for a shitty studio in Seattle. FML. So I was drunk and she called. What was I supposed to do? She brought a friend for my friend, and we made out in my tiny bathroom. I tend to kiss a lot of people in the bathroom. Ben Rothlisberger’s cousin… bathroom. Girl at Jack in the Box… bathroom (that one may be worth telling one day). Either way, I made horrible decisions. I didn’t regret it, but I wouldn’t do it again. Until I got drunk. We were having a party at my neighbor’s garage/apartment, and I got my first lesson in drunk dialing. She hopped in a cab and came over. I was being sneaky about it and just disappeared. Since I was only twenty steps away, someone was bound to knock on my door. I was dumb enough to answer. Surprisingly enough, I do remember answering the door completely naked and feeling bad as my friends laughed at the site of this woman in my bed. It was a studio. There was nowhere to hide. In an unrelated story, I super-glued an Alf bobble head to the hood of a large SUV. It was in the beginning stages of the whole climate change movement. It was justified. Oh! Her name. When I was Tyrone, she called herself Lexus. I believed this for a while, but ultimately, years later, found her name to be Kayshawn when she requested my friendship on MySpace. I declined. I wish I saved the picture.
It’s good to have goals
When I was a kid, I had an image of my life as ordinary as possible. It had the average wife with the average kids, and it even had the average white picket fence surrounding the average house. The goal of my life was adequacy. I didn’t want anything extraordinary or too crazy. I wanted to bicker with my wife and just lead a normal life. Fast forward to my life today… This is fucking boring. I attained my goal, only not as ideal as it may have seemed in my dreams. I’m young, divorced, and most of all average. The only thing you really need to know about me is that I am extraordinarily adequate. No, I do not have the wife, picket fence, beige sedan that I once dreamed of, but I do have the crumbles and memories of what I once dreamed. Oh joy. So what now? Do I go completely insane snorting coke off of drunken hookers and buy shiny guns? Do I become some sort of lonely introvert that snarls at kids and sniffs every item at the grocery store that I buy like I’m smelling my dear wife for the first time? I think not, but I am going to shake things up a bit. I’m going to try and figure out who I am, and find what will set me apart from the loser down the street with his stone encased two car garage and 2-year-old golden retriever. I fully expect to be dead in two years anyway, so what do I have to lose? Dignity, maybe. Money, for sure. What I’m looking to gain is experience, stories, and a whole lot of regrets. Average has gotten me nowhere. Where I’m going to turn is… super average. Not super average, but rather Super… average.
First step; ditch the two-story house and buy a bitchin’ studio downtown in the hippest bar district I can find. My landlord was a frickin’ douche bag anyway. Plus, I don’t need the constant reminder of my broken hand when I punched the stud in the wall. Step two; buy a badass old car.
I wrote this about 2 years ago, and it is shocking how much of that came true. Bucket List!
Bird Turd
I remember feeling the cold blued metal of the Russian made handgun and the weight it carried in my hand. I couldn’t have been more than 16. I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to kill myself, but I had to be sure. I wanted to see how it felt. This is the closest I’ve ever got to taking my own life. 16 is a terrible time, and a terrible time to leave guns bought for protection to be unlocked and easy to obtain. Never trust the hormones of a teenager with a pistol alone. It was a test of my character as I chose to simply bathe in my pain and sorrow. Stephanie was her name. We met on some AOL Internet chat room. I probably asked her, A/S/L? This was when you had to have a scanner to get a picture on the Internet. I agreed to meet her at a movie. I think it was Waterboy and my mom came with of course. She said she would be wearing a Dallas Cowboy’s bomber jacket. She was actually the one that walked in and I said, “Oh god, I hope that’s not her”. I walked out in shock before she saw me, then walked back in because of guilt and shame. I was young, and this was before I lost my shame. She was my first kiss. Her mouth was cold as we listened to Marilyn Manson outside my Grandma’s house on Christmas eve. She was my first breakup, my second breakup, my third, fourth, fifth, sixth…. Honestly I do not remember how many times I let her do that to me or why. The funny part, we only dated for a couple months, and I probably saw her a total of 4 times. I was just happy to finally have found someone that “loved” me. I had no one else; no one to distract me from constantly analyzing and thinking. The thoughts were the worst. The only thing that made me happy was anticipating the next time I would see her. That first kiss was inevitably my last with her (Years later I was told it could have been my first blow job by someone that knew her [and that her nickname in school was bird turd]). This should have been the first clue that I needed love and the validation that it brings. On this day I gave birth to my very own child named co-dependency. During this time, I was not allowed to go hang out with friends. I had church for my socialization. When I was allowed to hang out with a friend, it was always under the close eye of my mother, and it was usually with only one person at a time. This is a pattern that has always stuck with me even as an adult. This is how my obsession grows and I become infused with that person. I feel comfortable, and I expect the same level of commitment from that person. All we need is right here right now. Because I didn’t have faith that I would see the person again or be able to be with them on an even semi-regular basis; I clung tightly to the moment. I didn’t fear the consequences because I was certain that it wouldn’t last. My mother would find something wrong with them or see them as a threat to me and eventually forbid me from seeing them. This was easy for her because we lived miles from any resemblance of a town. I suppose this is why I allowed Stephanie to break up with me so many times. It was all I had.
Lists!
10 Things I Have Learned in the Last 12 Years Concerning Life and Love
1. Do not attempt to impress unless you are prepared to impress forever
2. It is not about what you win; it is about what you are given
3. Cut those close to you with a sharp and swift blade. It heals faster.
4. Living single is necessary; do this as early as possible
5. Being agreeable will make people like you, but only for awhile
6. Feelings are personal and unique to each individual. There may be no logic involved; they are still valid
7. Life is not about who or what you have, but rather who and what you are
8. Being a man is the toughest and most rewarding job
9. Caring for someone means caring for yourself first
10. Never fear the truth because the truth is all there is
An idle Tuesday in 2008
Today I thought I was suffering from a heart attack. I had all the symptoms that I had been trained to see in other people; the feeling of heartburn, the racing heart, the stabbing short pains in the chest or more off to the side of the chest. I even made myself believe my arms were going numb, but I later remembered that was a sign of stroke and the symptoms quickly went away as fast as they came. I thought to myself; am I giving myself a heart attack? Is that possible? I even tried to over analyze my symptoms with the goal of trying to enhance them. I tried to give myself a heart attack. If that’s not a cry for help; I don’t know what is. The symptoms went away within ten minutes but the heartburn remains. I suppose that wasn’t the big one.
Clevland Rocks
Oh my god. That’s Drew Carey. He’s coming into the bar?
It isn’t uncommon for him to be around, but when he walked into this bar I had to do something. I don’t know what it is about me, but when I see a celebrity, I will always talk to them. I believe they call it having no shame. So here he comes in all his disappointingly thinner than the Drew Carey Show glory. I just walked in and his cab pulls up. A friend said, “That’s Drew Carey!” shocking, I know. She was trying to tell my other drunk friend that has no filter on his mouth. Don’t tell him! He will do something stupid! Drew and two very out of place suits stand right in front of the bar where I was headed. I stood behind drew waiting for them to order or get the fork out. The words just came out. Drew, would you mind moving so I can get a drink? I’m super thirsty. He chuckled and then moved because he knew what was good for him. I got my drink and lifted it up while congratulating him on the Sounders winning the open cup. He left. I got drunk. The end.
