thoughts, and where they lead...

I want a moment with my ex like the ending of the first episode of “The Newsroom”. I know it’s not going to happen, but, I’d still like that moment.

“What are your plans for my Emily?” her uncle said to me in Colorado.

“I don’t have any plans for her. I’m just trying to be there for her,” was my answer.

He grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. “Just don’t hurt her,” he said.

“Never,” I said with a smile.

She never heard that conversation. I never told her about it.

And I hadn’t really thought about it until right now. Especially the ending part.

And now I wish I hadn’t thought about it at all.

I want so much to believe in the Hollywood ending. The epiphany will come. Even if it takes years. But life isn’t like that for most of us. We bounce into people’s lives and it works or it doesn’t. For whatever reason, some get it right the first time. Some get it right after 100 tries. Some never do.

I hope that I’m not one of the latter. I’d hate to think that really, she was the one, and I let her go. Or she let me go.

The old cliché that if you let someone go, if they come back blah, blah, blah.

Fuck that shit. And fuck the keep trying. Fuck it. It’s all lies. We all fuck each other over. Some can just deal with it better than others.

And fuck that. I don’t want to be so God damn bitter. But I am. And I only have myself to blame. And damn you The Darkness for making that phrase always be in Justin Hawkins’ voice. No matter what the context. Welcome to my fucked up mind.

But that holds true for it all. You are what you perceive. Your reality is only what you perceive it to be. It’s so damn simple, and I’d guess so damn true.

I was thinking of writing about my father’s Members Only jacket tonight. About maybe putting it one after he dies. But I don’t want to think about my dad being dead. As much as we’ve fucking hated each other over the years – and dammit, I think he’s hated me at times too – I still love that fucking drunk bastard. I still want so much to make him proud of me. And I know my time is limited on that front. His health is bad, but damn, he keeps drinking. He keeps being bitter about things. And every day I see how much like him I really am. No matter how much I tried not to be. It’s impossible. Yeah, I don’t berate the one’s I love like he did. But I hide from them as much. And nowadays, they run away when you do that. They don’t stick around.

I wonder often what would have happened if my mom had had the guts to leave. She should have. He was a fucking prick most of the time. At least what I remember. And I don’t remember much, so for it to have made that much of an impression, it must have been a lot.

I still want to incorporate my mom taking that fucking marlin off the wall, hauling it to the front door and chucking it into the bushes into a story one day. Into a screen play. I was on the stairs, peering down through the white wood railings that lead upstairs. Me, a confused and scared little kid wondering why my parents fought so damn much. I know now why. And I always tried to say I’d never do the same things my dad did. Switch jobs for a woman. Give up on my dreams for hers. But, you know what. I always did the exact same thing. Even when I thought I wasn’t. It’s a fucked up world out there. And we’re all a part of it. And no matter, I made the decisions I made. Which either directly or indirectly led to the demise of great things in my life. And as Justin Hawkins will keep singing in my head all night “I’ve only got myself to blame…”

I see it now too. I want so badly to move to Raleigh and just get a job digging ditches or mowing lawns. But, I don’t want to give up on the “life.” Not that the “life” has ever given anything back to me but a couple of plagues on my floor – yeah, I don’t hang them – and a lot of pain – laid off, unrespected, angst-ridden.

I guess that’s why all the old guys were all single. Or divorced in the business. The smart ones got out. The ones that wanted families and lives and happiness. The rest of us, we got old and crusty and bitter.

And our teeth fell out.

Not yet, though.

The white Lando Calrissian

“Wow,” I said out loud, kind of thinking saying wow is sort of dorkish, “I’ve never gotten into a fistfight over Star Wars before,” at once realizing that the rest of the statement made it all a moot point.

She looked at me and patted me on the head. It hurt a little. Not my pride. No, my head. It’s where the guy who insisted on telling me that “No, Return of the Jedi, was never actually called Revenge of the Jedi” had hit me on the noggin with his chair. It bled a lot. But in the end, he bled more. And he was wrong.

Thankfully, no one had a smartphone. It would have kept the whole thing from happening. It also would have kept me from meeting Rose.

She’d been sitting off in the distance while I was eating my pastrami sandwich. I’d driven 113 miles for this sandwich, so I was going to enjoy it. And while I was, indeed enjoying it, I noticed Rose sitting by herself in the booth next to the jukebox. She had long red hair, curly red hair, and deep blue eyes. She was wearing a Hunter S. Thompson t-shirt and a pair of oddly orange plaid shorts. I actually think I have a pair very similar to them. So, I decided to go up to her and talk about those orange plaid shirts.

It wasn’t normal for me to go up to strangers. Especially women. Except on the job. There, I talked to just about anyone. Even if in “real” life I’d never have the guts to do so. I’ve always thought that somewhere in my mind that’s why I became a journalist. Because it forced me to talk to people, and I wasn’t going to do it any other way. Unless they came up and talked to me. And how often does that happen to a guy like me? Not very often, I’ll settle on.

I finished my sandwich a little quicker than I would have liked, but I had a new goal. It was now I drove 113 miles for a chance to talk to this redheaded beauty. She couldn’t have been sent here by anyone other than God. Well, by fate, at least since I don’t really believe in God so much.

I took my final swig of lemonade – don’t drink carbonated sodas anymore – and walked up to her. I stood in front of her and stalled. My mind raced about. “This is not what you want to be doing,” I thought to myself. “She’s going to freak out. You’re some random dude with a shaved head and a long-ass goatee standing and staring at her.”

“Yes, you would freak me out if you did that,” she suddenly said without looking up from her book – “The complete history of Star Wars”.

“Did I say that out loud?” I asked.

“Yep, you sure did,” she said, putting her straw to her lips and sucking up a swig of Diet Coke. I’d noticed earlier what she was drinking when she got a refill.

“Whoops. Well, now you know why I don’t talk to strangers.”

“Did you just say that to the beat of Rick Springfield?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, but I did hear that in my head as I was saying it.”

“So did I,” she laughed. Good sign I thought. And I waited a second to make sure it was just a thought, not an utterance.

“May I sit down?” I asked.

“Only if you tell me exactly what you were originally planning on saying to me when you so awkwardly approached me,” she countered, taking another swig of Diet Coke, this time staring me down as she did.

“Well, I was sitting over there,” I pointed to the table I was at.

“And you were wolfing down that pastrami sandwich …” she said spinning her hands in the air as if to tell me to speed it up a bit. Kind of like Peyton Manning does when he’s trying to run through plays in the no-huddle.

“And I was wolfing down a fantastic pastrami sandwich that I drove 113 miles one-way to have, when I noticed your shorts. Well, I noticed you first, and then your shorts…”

“Just the shorts?” she interrupted coyly.

“Well, and your hair and eyes.”

“Nothing else?”

“And the Hunter S. Thompson shirt.”

“Nothing else?”

“Um, and you were drinking Diet Coke.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, that’s about it.”

“Continue then…” with the same waving arm motion.

“So, I thought, ‘Damn, I love those shorts. I have a pair just like them. This is a sign to at least go up to her…’”

“And make a bloody fool out of myself.”

“Yes, and make a bloody fool out of myself. And may I say, I love that you use bloody.”

“Why thank you,” you may sit down now.

We laughed and joked for another five minutes when Return/Revenge guy walked up.

“Hey Rose,” he said. “What are you doing with that guy?”

“Having some nice conversation, Charlie, that’s what I’m doing,” she replied angrily.

“I see,” he said, sizing me up. Charlie was about 5-foot-9 and weighed in at 225-230 pounds. None of it was muscle.

I looked at Rose, she looked back. Not showing her cards, I thought.

“You guys know each other well?” I asked.

“She’s my step sister,” Charlie said. I felt better. I looked at Rose for confirmation. I got none.

“Why are you talking to this clown,” he said, motioning at me. Obviously, this was not a brother-sister conversation.

“Because he’s sweet and charming and handsome. So, everything you aren’t,” she said. “Plus, he knows more about Star Wars than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I was a little shocked by that comment. We hadn’t mentioned a word of Star Wars in our talks, at least that I could remember. I hadn’t even mentioned the book she was reading. I looked at Charlie, and it dawned on me. He was dressed up like Lando Calrissian, blue shirt and all.

“No shit?” he said looking at me, then her, then me again.

“Yep,” she said. “I think you two should do a quiz off!”

I looked at her with desperate eyes. I knew a lot about Star Wars, but I didn’t know that much. Probably not as much as someone who dressed up like a pretty minor character in a popular eatery near the college.

“You’re on!” Charlie said, plopping down in the seat next to Rose. “And the loser has to eat whatever the winner wants out of her shoes!”

I found that a pretty odd request. I found Rose’s reaction to it, even more odd.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she screamed, taking off her shoe – a green Adidas running shoe that had seen better days.

She finally looked at me and winked.

“May the best man win,” she said.

Soon we were reeling off questions to each other. Each of us started off with what we thought were softball questions, and we were both right. The answers being Ewok and 1138. But the questions instantly got harder.

After 25 minutes, we’d both stayed perfect. That’s when I started to get bored. I wanted to talk to Rose, not some guy. And I let an easy one slide. “What was the original name of ‘Return of the Jedi?’” I asked.

Charlie snickered. “You think you can trick me?” he said. “Of course not! They never changed the name.”

“Ha!” I said. “It was Revenge of the Jedi. They even made posters that said it, sent them out, and had to recall them at the last minute.”

“Bull shit!” Charlie yelled.

“Nope. You lose jack,” I said, looking at Rose’s shoe.

Then a punch. It hit me square in the ear. It didn’t hurt as much as Brad Pitt made it seem like in “Fight Club.” But it did startle me. Enough to fall out of my chair. I got back up and threw a punch back, right into Charlie’s nose. It started to bleed. He lunged for me, but missed as I stepped aside. He grabbed a chair and leveled it right on my head. I fell in a heap. Blood everywhere.

I got up, staggering and kicked the fucker right in the balls. He fell. I kicked his face. He bled some more. I turned about and grabbed Rose’s shoe.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, breathing heavily.

“Second best idea you’ve had all day,” she said.

“And what was the first?”

“The urge to eat Pastrami,” she said.

I smiled and felt my teeth. One was chipped, I could feel it. I hadn’t chipped a tooth since I was in college. And that time I bit down on a spoon. Yep, the wild life.

We walked outside just in time to avoid the cops. A mall security guy had called them. Told them to look for a “Keifer Sutherland looking guy” and “a white Lando Calrissian.” The cops, obviously, weren’t in any hurry to arrive on this scene, so we walked right by them.

Ten minutes later, we were at a Tasty Freeze enjoying some more conversation and a couple of sundaes. I’d completely forgotten I had to be at work later that night.

IEDs vs. IUDs

IED vs. IUD


Damn. What a horrible place for my fucking car to finally break down. Not that there is a good place for smoke to come billowing out of the engine block of my 1988 Acura Legend coupe, well, in front of the Playboy Mansion when Hugh Hefner’s out at the urologist might count, but hell, this is about as bad as could be imagined.

Off in the distance I can hear it. The pop, pop, pop of machine gun fire.

“Damn Marines,” I think to myself. Or did I just say that out loud? Just as a fucking flashlight shines right into my face.

“Put up your hands!” a voice spews from the darkness. Spew, not speak. I hear the distinct sound of rounds slipping into chambers all around me.

“Put your mother fucking hands up!” another voice decides to spew.

I put my hands up.

Lights dance all around now. Not flashlights. But lights nonetheless. I’m guessing their attached to automatic rifles. Hell, they could be giant fireflies for all I care. All I do know is I’m fucked.

Ten minutes ago I was at work. A place that every day gets a little more awful. But I’d give my big toe to be back there right now. Hell, if this gets as bad as I think it could get, I’d give my entire left foot. Although my place-kicking days would be over then.

Finally, I see a face.

Damn, this guy can’t be more than 22 years old. And all the rest of these jar heads are looking at him to tell them what to do? Reminds me of a newsroom. Where there are too many under qualified, stupid reporters running around with pens in their hands and pads in their back pockets because they’d take less than minimum wage to do the job.

I remember when I was that kid. And now, I’m 40 years old making less than I did when I was 30. Why? Well, that’s a long story that I’ve told too many times.

Now, I’m standing on the side of North Carolina Highway 24. Seven miles from the office. Thirty-three from my beach house.

“Sir, why are you here?” the kid says, not spews.

“Huh?”

“Why are YOU here?” he repeats.

“My car broke down. You see that smoke? It’s not me barbequing.” I regret saying that before the ing leaves my mouth…

“Sir, you are on restricted territory. We could have shot you. Not questions asked.”

I think to myself for a second. I’m on the side of the road. A state road. Yes, surrounded by military installations. But, still a public highway.

“Um, isn’t this highway 24?”

“Sir, that is highway 24,” he says, pointing his rifle at the pavement. “This. This is restricted territory.” Now pointing at the median.

“Sorry to interrupt your war games.”

Oops.

“How did you know we were conducting war scenarios?” he asked with a crocked up eyebrow.

“Lucky, I guess…”

Yeah, lucky is the perfect word for it. I am nothing if not lucky. Hell, I haven’t had sex in over two years, so I can’t even get lucky. Although, I have had chances. Just haven’t pursued them. It’s really why I don’t complain about it. At least I don’t have the AIDs. Ha. The AIDs.

As I’m having this internal dialogue, I glance over at some of the other “soldiers” standing about. They’re dressed in those grey fatigues. Not the tan ones you see all the time now in news footage from the Gulf or Afghanistan. Certainly not the ones in M.A.S.H., for sure.

Soon I see that they are really preoccupied with my car. Looking at it wearily. Almost scared in their approach to it.

“Why did you park this thing here?” the kid in charged asks me.

“Well, the engine started smoking, and I pulled off the side of the road.”

“But why here? There is a gas station about a ½ click to the east.”

What the fuck does that mean, I think to myself. Click.

“Didn’t you hear the gun shots?”

“Uh, not until I pulled over,” I said. “My radio was pretty loud.”

All of the sudden another kid came running over.

“Sarge, there’s something fishy under the dashboard.”

“Why the fuck are you under my dashboard,” I asked almost instinctively.

“Why the fuck do you care? Got something to hide?”

Instantly, five guns are trained on me again.

“Shit, that’s an IED!” a guy with glasses yells out.

“Sir, is there a bomb in this car. I’ll ask you once, and once only,” kid asks, or really demands.

“Uh….Uh…”

I feel a sharp pain on my neck. One of those shitbirds just hit me with the butt of his rifle. I fall down.

I wake up in a hospital. My neck hurts. Bad.

A man in a really nice uniform comes in. He must be important.

“Mr. Jones, we are extremely sorry,” he says. “But you certainly understand my men did what they did.”

“Uh…Uh…No.”

“Well, they found a box, with wires running straight from the steering wheel area duct-taped inside the dashboard. A very suspicious thing, for sure.”

“Yeah, but why were they under my dashboard?”

“You were parked in a secure area,” the nice suit guy said.

“I was parked on the side of a state highway.”

“Well, son, you’re lucky to be alive. These men are well trained. And they took all the right steps. You? You were an asshole.”

He’s got me there. I am an asshole. I wasn’t just play acting.

“Whatever. I would like to see my boss.”

“We’ve already spoken to him. This WILL NOT be in the paper.”

After they left, my boss came in.

“We’ve got to keep this under wraps, Randy. We have a nice working relationship with the base right now. Can’t mess that up for you.”

I just stare at him. Wondering exactly when the journalist leapt out of his body? What year it was. What decade even.

I told him I needed sleep. Concussion and all.

As soon as he was gone, I reached for my phone. Called my buddy. He works for a TV station. Who would have thunk the TV station would get my story over a fish wrapper?