Here's to You, 2010

Just rambling off some thanks and stuff.

• Adam - for the spur-of-the-moment inspiration to buy airfare to Australia (also need to thank American Express Travel for that one... wow, what an awesome service).
• Adam G. - for putting me on the lists to watch movies at the AMPAS theaters... even though I never show up.
• Andy and Nicole - for letting me crash in Dallas... and the copious rounds of ammunition.
• Carrie - for the So You Think You Can Dance gig.
• Dan and Kaity - for the furniture... even though I had to drive Laurel Canyon overloaded... twice.
• Dan and Zoe - for the extended-stay.
• Dasan - for the emergency assistance... even though it didn't work. Can we say Worst. Bank. Ever?
• Erik and Kurt - for letting me crash in Vegas... twice.
• Gerard - for reminding me to check the AAD on the parachute. That could've been an oopsie.
• Helen - for the cookbook, a gorgeous daughter, and just being awesome.
• Helen, Katelyn, Pete, Terry - for having patience.
• Ivan - for the HBO gig.
• J and Brea - for hanging on to my shit longer than you had to.
• Jessica - for the boxes of Goody's and BC's. I'm pretty sure you broke some laws shipping that much medication.
• Jonathan (among others) - for the Amazing Race gig... and the line on the guest house.
• Johnny O. - for introducing me to Hugo's Tacos.
• Jordan - for the emergency assistance... remind me not to pay bills from a mobile phone while on a bumpy road.
• Jose - for the Albuquerque offer.
• Kay and Sagremor - for clearing out the rats... but those fucking squirrels are getting out of hand.
• Krys - for agreeing to take 10thDoM off of my hands.
• The Parents
• Pete - for finally pulling your weight as a game designer.
• Sono - for the extended stay, even though I want to kill you for abandoning my dogs.
• Starbuck - for being disturbingly loyal. Who'd have known?
• Steve - for predicting, in 2004, exactly where I'd be living in 2010... right down to the intersection.
• Studio City - for putting an awesome park at the end of my street.
• Terry - for the best appliance I've ever owned: my coffee grinder. And the offer to take the dogs.
• Tom and Helen - for some kick-ass collaborations.
• Tori - for the Birmingham offer.

I'm sure I forgot people. Feel free to berate me for doing so.

So Cruel; C'est la Vie

*Read while listening... it's kinda cool.

We crossed the line
Who pushed who over?

"Take my hand."

"No."

"You'll fall."

"I will if I take your hand."

It was then he learned that broken trust shall not be mended.

It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me

"On the right! Engage right!"

The squad shifts, trying to save what's left from the ambush. He's certain he issued the wrong orders.

It was then he learned that any action is better than none at all.

We're cut adrift
We're still floating

"I should've been there, you know?"

"You can't save the world, man."

"I don't want to save the world. I want my friends back."

"You can't save the world, man."

I'm only hanging on
To watch you go down
My love

"Do you even love me?"

"No."

"Did you ever?"

"Does it matter?"

I disappeared in you
You disappeared from me

"I can't see."

"Calm down, bro. Just some blood in your eyes."

"I can't see."

"Calm down. I'm right here."

It was then he learned the true value of a shoulder to lean on.

I gave you everything you ever wanted
It wasn't what you wanted

"Don't you just, you know, want to be happy?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"Then why don't you smile?"

"I haven't earned it yet."

The men who love you, you hate the most
They pass right through you like a ghost

"Shit, dude. She's fucking beautiful."

"I know."

"Then what's the problem?"

"That's what bothers me."

It was then he learned when to walk away.

They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
Baby, you're nowhere

"I'm not saying you should. But I'm not saying you shouldn't."

"I don't play vague, yo."

"Neither do I."

"That's specific, then?"

You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel

"Stay on my six. Follow me out."

"I'm scared, Sergeant."

"It's cool. I've already shit my pants. On three, okay?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

Desperation is a tender trap
It gets you every time

"You've never seen a woman that just took your breath away?"

"Sure, I guess. That scares you?"

"Yeah, that scares me."

"Life ain't worth living if you're not afraid."

It was then he learned the value of a cliché.

You put your lips to her lips
To stop the lie

"I think you're a coward."

"Never said I wasn't."

"You're a walking contradiction."

"Never said I wasn't."

Her skin is pale like God's only dove
Screams like an angel for your love

"I'm not sure I'm cut out for this."

"None of us are. We just pretend to like it."

"Do you like it?"

"Fuck no, it's terrifying. But what a fucking rush."

It was then he learned he was meant to be a paratrooper.

Then she makes you watch her from above
And you need her like a drug

"If I leave, I'm not coming back."

"I'm counting on it."

"You never loved me, did you?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel

"You're obsessed."

"I know, I know. I'll get over it."

"When?"

"When the time is right."

It was then he decided to shoot for the stars.

She wears my love like a see-through dress
Her lips say one thing
Her movements something else

"I was a dick to him the last time I saw him."

"He forgives you, man. Don't let it get to you."

"I know, but... fuck, dude."

"We've all been there."

Oh love, like a screaming flower
Love, dying every hour

"Why didn't you answer the phone?"

"Kinda tired of your shit."

"I needed you."

"No, you didn't."

You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire

"You've fallen in love with an impression."

"That impression has been better for me than reality."

"You say that now, but you're gonna be disappointed."

"I'm already disappointed. Might as well enjoy the view."

Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut

"What are you running from? Nobody's pushing you."

"I'm not running from anything."

"Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit."

"I'm gonna go now."

It was then he realized he was running.

Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot

"Help me. Please."

"I've got you. Hang on."

"I can't feel my legs."

"Hang on."

You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel

"I don't know what to do. I don't even care."

"Yeah, well, you'll never change."

"Scary, isn't it?"

"Not really. Just remember, it's all so fucking hilarious."

To stay with you I'd be a fool
Sweet heart, you're so cruel

"Wherever you go, there you are."

"That's my line."

"I'm stealing it. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't. I'll be back."

It was then he found his smile.

Welcoming Predictions

Things I'm likely to be called within the next few days: dick, chook, sugar, dick, darling, honey, dick, funny boy, impudent pup, dick.

Things I'm predicting will be said in conversation within the next few days:

• "You're whingeing." "No, you're whingeing." 
• "How do you keep falling out of your chair?" "Fuck if I know." 
• "Shit. I'm out of Chardy." "Sucks for you. I've got plenty of Merlot. Nyer."
• "Your Pandora is too loud." "You're just jealous." 
• "Why are you being a deek?" "You know how they say there's no such thing as a stupid question?  It's not true."
• "Your cat just opened your cabinet again." "Yeah, it's kind of his thing."
• "I'm not that drunk. Why?" "Your face is smashed up against the camera."
• "No, didn't get slapped. All I saw were lazy gypsies." "You were probably being polite. Be yourself next time."
• "I am not racist." "Make some fucking beads!"
• "How ya going?" "G'day, g'day, g'day."
• "Your accent sucks." "Make some fucking beads!"
• "I did tell you she farts like a trooper, right?" "Just adds to the charm."
• "It's just a big rock." "So's your whole country."
• "Don't corrupt my boy." "His mother beat me to it."
• "No, I didn't get you anything. You owe me money, deek." "No beads for you, then." 
• "Yes, I'm sore, and I don't want to hear about how I had a year to prepare." "You had a year to prepare."
• "You're whingeing." "Yeah? So?"

Welcome home.

Bon Voyage, You Lovely Aussies!

On the other side of the world, a good friend of mine is embarking on her dream vacation. I know this because she's reminded me of it constantly over the past few months. Sometimes I think she forgets that I already knew (because she's absent-minded like that), but mostly I think she's just rubbing it in (because she's mean like that).

And not only did she rub it in (my last real vacation was in... oh, shit... 2007?), she provided shopping updates for all of the essentials she'd need for the trip. Like traveling pants and bras (which she got cheap... on sale... I'm just sayin'). Personally, I'm one for simply throwing stuff in a tote and hopping on a plane, train, ship, or whatever. However, she decided to explain how such an attitude doesn't apply towards women.

The following is an excerpt from a real conversation: "All you need is a pair of boxers and nobody cares whether they have 'Swamp Thing' or 'Calvin Klein' on them. Women have to have something practical and comfortable but also glamorous. Not easy. Especially if you are, er, well-endowed."

Do you see the vanity involved with this person? Oh, it's all fine and dandy to point out that, sure, women have different undergarment requirements than men... but then she just had to subtly point out that she is, er, well-endowed. If I were female, I'd claim she was just rubbing it in. But I'm not, and I'm quite happy with the relative size of my man-boobs. So... nyer.

Where she is successful in rubbing something in is the fact that her uber-gorgeous daughter is accompanying her on this trip. Only, she's far more clever handling that particular subject. Devious, in fact.

So, let's go over the list (she loves lists): Absent-minded? Check. Mean? Check. Vain? Check. Devious? Check. (She's also rude, but we can talk about that another day). That I love her to death is beside the point.

Anyway, I hope she kisses the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle, I hope she gets slapped in the face by a gypsy, I hope her traveling pants don't fall apart, and I hope locals take pity on her understanding of their language and just break down and berate her in English.

Au revoir and bon voyage, you lovely Aussies!

The Nostalgia

*Readers (who actually read) and have good memories might remember some of these lines from an earlier piece (Calm; Stay). Much of what I knock out starts in multiple forms and I wanted to see how different I could make something that previously turned into something else.

She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.

A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.

The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.

***

Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.

***

Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.

It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.

"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.

He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.

In-Love-In-Law

"You ready?" It is a rhetorical question, though one whose answer is not known, since there is no answer. Actually, there are several answers. All correct. All incorrect. This is simply a situation in which only the future will reveal what should've been said.

Peter winks upon Keith's nervous nod, then laughs when Keith nervously shakes his head. Peter's been married twice already - his third fiancée is sitting somewhere in the pews - and knows the answer doesn't even matter. All can be changed later. Reverted, converted, subverted... what have you. But this is Keith's first time as a groom. And he's about to crap his pants (figuratively, of course).

"Don't sweat it," Peter consoles, though it's already too late. Keith feels like he's swimming, his body an overwhelming source of humidity in a desert so dry. "I freak out every time." There's another wink, though even Peter realizes that his statement will probably just make it worse. After all, Keith believes that his "one, true" is in a dressing room across the church. There shouldn't be another time.

Still, Keith finds it extremely difficult to maintain his cool. Point of fact is that he's already lost it. He worries that some of his reasons for getting married might not be... completely appropriate. It's a secret he holds that is dangerously close to breaking free. So close, there's no point in trying to keep it anymore.

"I'm in love with my Mother-in-Law."

Peter gags.

***

"No, no, it's not like that," Keith stammers, trying to rectify the confusion he caused.

Peter stares at his best friend through squinted eyes. His brow is ruffled. This is just completely unexpected. And, like, totally wrong. "What's it like, then?"

Keith takes a breath. He really doesn't know how to explain it. He's not in love with his Mother-in-Law (or, rather, the woman who will become his Mother-in-Law in about an hour), it's just that...

"I sort of..."

"You fuck her? Please tell me you didn't fuck her."

"Dude! No." It's Keith's turn to be flabbergasted, though he probably should've expected the question. His Mother-in-Law, Susan, isn't unattractive, and were it not for her daughter, none of his friends would've questioned Keith bedding the older woman.

"You let her watch you fuck Catherine?"

That one, no reasonable person would expect. Although, for some reason, the memory of a porn movie watched while in college flashes through Keith's mind. Peter's, too.

"What the Hell is wrong you? Let me finish!"

Peter sits forcibly down on a small chair and almost immediately falls off. He quickly regains his composure, pulls his tuxedo coat straight, then crosses his right leg over his left knee. It is both a mock and quite sincere indication that Peter would love the whole story.

***

"So, hold on, one sec," Peter's trying very hard not to laugh. "You knew Susan for a year before you met Catherine, and that's what's fucking you up? That's it? Really? Come on, Keith."

"You don't think that's weird at all?"

"What? No, why the fuck would it be?" Peter is honestly beside himself. Of all the stupid things... "You sure you didn't sleep with her?"

"I swear."

Peter smiles; he can't resist. "And you're sure you didn't let her watch you pound her daughter?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Pete. We're in a church."

As Keith and, indeed, Catherine were both agnostic, Pete finds himself again being unable to resist. "You'll get used to it."

There's a loud knock on the door. It's time.

***

Peter finishes the toast. The ceremony went down without a hitch - which resulted in a deep, slow, and relieved exhalation from Peter immediately following the "I dos" - and the reception is proceeding nicely. His speech to Keith (and Catherine) brought uproarious laughter and more than a few tears and sobs. Peter's built for the limelight, no matter how small and subjectively important. He winks at his own fiancée, Amanda, and almost finds himself unable to resist another temptation.

But he holds his tongue. Sure, it would be funny (to independent observers only, of course), but Keith genuinely loves and is genuinely in love with Catherine, so to say anything would be ridiculously rude... and unforgivably disloyal. Peter is Keith's best friend, after all.

And besides, given that Peter's about to embark on his third marriage, he muses for a moment that perhaps Keith did it the right way. Instead of picking the bride and hoping for a great mother-in-law, maybe - next time - he should try it the other way around.

F-ing Up

Type. Type. Type some more. Something will pop up in my brain, I'm sure of it. It's not working yet, but that's sort of the point, isn't it? Yet. An implication of an eventuality. But. Maybe not. Where's my cell phone? I need to call my friend. The neurotic one who enjoys fucking her own life up. She claims she doesn't, but I know she does. She keeps doing it, even though she has a good idea of what the outcome will be. Hell, she writes about what the outcome will be, but she does it anyway. She knows what her "yets" will be... implications of her own eventualities.

"What are you doing?" I ask, genuinely pleased to be speaking to her. I know she'll make me laugh, inadvertently or not. She gets mad at me sometimes for it, but is it my fault she's neurotic? Hell, no, so I'm gonna laugh away if the opportunity presents itself.

"Fucking my life up."

Okay, she didn't really say that, but I heard it anyway. Here's what she really says: "Packing. I'm going on a trip and have way too much to do."

"Are you fucking your life up?"

Hah! No, I didn't really ask that, but I should have. She'll invariably respond with a resounding "no," but then almost immediately tell me a story of some dude who's treating her badly, or how she's treating the dude badly, or how she's flat broke but really enjoys her new kitchen cabinets that replaced her old cabinets that were just fine.

"Where are you going?" Yes, that is the real question that came out of my mouth.

"Somewhere to fuck my life up."

All right... I'll stop. "A seminar," she answers.

"Of how not to fuck your life up?" Sorry... couldn't resist. "For work?"

"Yep. Laura's taking the kids this weekend." She has three kids. Two are wonderful, but one's a bit of a retard. Not like disabled retard, but stupid retard. I mentioned that to her once. She thought I was joking. I wasn't.

"She gonna help fuck their lives up?" Wow... I guess it's true. I AM a dick. "That's cool. Where's the husband?" Husband, boyfriend, some dude. Don't ask. I'm not telling this story for detail or enlightenment, I'm just bored.

I hear her other phone ring. "Oops," she starts, "that's Laura. Can I call you back?"

"Nah," I reply. "I'm going to write a bit."

"Okay. Talk to you soon."

With that, there's a click and another click. And with that, I return to my computer and stare at a blinking cursor on a white screen. I need something to write about. Hmm...

I watch as my fingers type, F-ing Up.

Type. Type. Type some more. Something will pop up in my brain, I'm sure of it.

Through Subsequent Lives

"Where's your family?" he asks, wondering why he's the only person present. It's a bit of a rhetorical question, as he knows her well enough to already know. Family, to her, is little more than a convenient excuse of forcing friends. And she didn't like forced friends. Friends were earned through experience, not given by blood. That's not to say that family couldn't be or aren't friends - her brother was one of her best friends before he died - it's just to say that she views family as somewhat of a cheat when it pertains to friendship.

She smiles, mostly to herself, subtly aware that the question is meant more to break the silence than anything else. The two have been friends for so long, they no longer need to answer questions, nor even finish sentences.

"How are you?" This question, too, is rhetorical, for he knows she doesn't have much longer. But etiquette seems to mandate that it be asked. Doing so embarrasses him a little; he hates the obvious. So does she, for that matter.

"I'm dying. How are you?"

***

They met during her third semester of college, the beginning of what she calls her "second life." Her "first life" was the one her family dictated she lived. Choices, in large part, were not hers. Where she lived during her first life, for instance, was never where she felt she wanted to be. She simply lived there because her parents did. Taking piano lessons was also not her idea, though she very much appreciated taking them later in life. She did not, however, ever learn to appreciate church. In another life, perhaps her second one, she may have, but as she approached the end of her first life, she realized that church was a choice made for her... and she much preferred to find her own way.

Even her first year of college happened at a school her father made her go to, his alma mater, which is what prompted her transfer.

"Second life, eh?" She remembers him asking that during their first conversation. At the time, she was overly proud of her revelation of "first life, second life" that she usually brought it up within the first few minutes of meeting someone new. As far as she was concerned, everyone she encountered in her second life was entitled to know that she was a different person than she was just a few months ago... even if they had never met her before. Eventually, the pride of epiphany waned a bit, but she continued to hold the occasion very dear in memory.

"Yeah, my second life. Have you started yours yet?" She smiled, not having meant the slight offense that he  had taken.

"You could say I'm on my third," he responded, somewhat annoyed but still enamored by the unconventionally beautiful - and pleasant - girl who wasn't yet old enough to drink. He smiled back, not having meant the slight offense that she had taken.

He explained that he, too, attempted to distance himself from his family and his childhood. The attempt took him into the military, and the military showed him another world. There were regrets, of course, but also experiences which revealed him that everything in the world - existence, in fact - was to be appreciated.

"What about death?" she asked, a play at Devil's Advocate. His response, which to her was a clever surprise, opened the door to their lifelong companionship.

"Aren't you on your second life?"

***

"Is there a life after this one?"

He tries to stifle a laugh, but fails. Such a question, coming from her, borders on the ridiculous. She frowns, eliciting his kiss on her forehead.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. To be honest, I don't really care."

This time, he frowns. He grabs her hand, rubbing her thumb and forefinger gently. "Bullshit. There's always something right around the corner."

They both smile. Such a statement was blunt truth when it came to the intersections of their lives. Despite having done nearly everything and been nearly everywhere together, they had only had sex a handful of times; usually after a night of too much drinking or too much tragedy. Tragedy fucks, she liked to call them. And, despite being together through thick and thin, they both married other people a few years after college.

Her husband was a medical student she met when she was obtaining her own doctorate. She wanted her friend to be her "Man of Honor," but her fiancé vehemently refused it. In order to obviate the controversy, her friend arranged to be "unable to attend." She knew then that the marriage would end in divorce, and it did. After she filed for the separation she learned that she was pregnant. It was her friend, not her husband, who was there when she aborted the baby. There would be no tragedy fuck.

He married an actress from a local theatre company. He had eloped and his friend, not wanting to return the favor of not showing up for a wedding, flew in to be one of the witnesses. He and his wife seemed happy, but a car accident took her from him less than a year after they were married. The events surrounding the crash created controversy and his wife's family blamed the incident on him. His friend again flew in to offer support, though her husband - she was still married at the time - demanded that she stay home.

There were jokes of third lives and fourth lives, of course, and the two even mulled marrying each other, but neither really liked the idea. Their friendship was, so far, enough to make them closer than any two other people they knew, and there was no need for a legal document to signify their love for each other. Besides, they adored the idea of not having to answer to anybody whenever random thought or emotion took either of them on a spur of the moment adventure.

Still, as she lies there, she knows she's lying to herself. If there were ever a man to call her husband, she knew it was him. Looking back, it's the only regret she really has. She considers telling him that, but the very fact that he's here lets her know that he already knows... and feels the same way. She feels a sense of euphoria, partially from her body shutting itself down, but mostly from the realization that her one true friend will be with her the moment she enters her next life.

She closes her eyes, too tired to keep them open. Or perhaps because she simply doesn't want to anymore. "Do me one last favor."

He nods, mostly to himself, subtly aware that she's no longer looking at him. "Sure. Anything."

"Be there for me."

"I will."

Just Another Case of Blah

Can't write anything. How typical. So it's time to disguise random and fleeting thoughts as something profound, which they most certainly are not. There was a schedule when the Atlantic Coast was abandoned, but a couple of dogs decided to delay things by going sightseeing without telling their owner. He didn't panic, but he was certainly upset and more than a little worried. Was about to give up, too, when they decided to come back. A 94-hour foray to who knows where, and they didn't think they did anything wrong? Ah, well... at least the fat one lost some weight. The little bastard.

There was a book to read when Dallas was reached, but, again, that was delayed when the dogs took off. Good thing an old college friend took her family to Disney World and left her house empty. Good thing, too, that she's not too mad at how she got pissed off the other day. Then again, she did leave the house a bit of a mess. Hah. Ah, well... just desserts in every meal, no?

And then the cats ran off. But at least they came back the next day. Cats and strange places don't mix well, or maybe they do and cats are really more loyal than dogs. There's a guy in Massachusetts who would debate that, and his wife says he secretly loves cats, but he keeps a mean face about them. Perhaps too much has been stated.

Anyway, the book has been read and must now be analyzed. But what a chore that is. Better to watch a bunch of movies with a guy that was in the Army, too. Talk about old times, complain about present times, wax poetic about new times, hope against hope about future times. Something like that. Suddenly the cross-country trip seems more trouble that it's worth, especially seeing as how the ultimate destination should be right back in the Eastern Time Zone. A rat hole known as Fort Benning. Then again, there are those lazier than others, and Benning might never be seen again, save on an episode of Ramsay's The F Word.

Funny how TV works.

Maybe time just needs to be taken to breathe... and listen to a little music.

The Face in the Water is Not Mine

Remember the saying? The one about the flapping butterfly starting a hurricane a world away? It's hard not to appreciate so poetic a philosophical sentiment, but it's clearly full of shit. The one about ripples in a pond, though... that one's pretty accurate.

I can't recall the exact way Zen describes it, but it basically amounts to humanity being a pond, and the actions of individuals creating ripples. Ripples that traverse the width and breadth of that small body of water that is the world, affecting others along the way. Of course, we'll never see the distant changes we may cause, but they're there. A bad mood leading to words of anger leads to someone else's sad mood leading to tears, and so on.

And those are just the ripples we can see. Never mind the undercurrents.

I am not, by nature, overly sympathetic to humanity as a whole, but I do understand that everyone is connected somehow. That we are all six degrees apart is no simple drinking game. Or maybe it is, should one be drinking from the pond. I also tend to be overly sympathetic to friends in need, or friends who think they're in need. I've been rock bottom myself, both emotionally and pragmatically, and it's a shitty place to be... even if you're head is still above the water.

For whatever reason, and even I'm at a loss to fully comprehend why, I've been a "go to" guy since early in my Army career. And not just for technical or occupational reasons, but for emotional reasons, as well. Strangely, I usually found myself needing some sort of support from others, but people would still come to me for the simplest of things. The most complex, too, including things that I quite plainly had no experience with whatsoever. But, they came, called, whatever. And I was there. Even if I didn't really care, but don't tell anyone that.

Today, a rather odd thing happened. One of my readers confessed that a blog I wrote helped this person's relationship. I don't think there was any real danger of this relationship breaking up, but it was admitted that they were in a sort of a rut. Honestly, it never occurred to me that my writing had an effect on anybody, much less friends of mine. Sure, I've written things in order to try to cheer people up (see "Other People's Fires"), but they never seem to work. And, to be honest, such pieces were probably only written so I could make myself seem more important than I actually am.

Then again, maybe it's because my writing waxes poetic a little too much, and people take to that. I used to be able to write a fairly sterile piece, but lately I haven't felt like it. Hell, I haven't felt like it ever, probably. There's always some sort of anger, melancholy, false hope, etc. poking its oft-dishonest head into my work. I've been called melodramatic, despicable, crazy, stupid, inane, insane, arrogant, narcissistic, and foolish because of my writing, and while there's certainly some truth to those adjectives, I am most certainly not my writing.

That stated, this is not to claim that pieces of me aren't in my writing, and it's fairly obvious that I've been uncharacteristically "open and honest" in some recent works, but I do try to write in another pond, so to speak. Or, at least, I think I do. Perhaps my lack of sympathy in persona finds its way through fingertips into the gentle tapping of letters on a keyboard. More likely, perhaps I'm just full of shit.

Who really knows? The possibility remains that none of this is for me to decide. There's a point in writing when a piece begins to belong to its readers and no longer its author. Maybe that's what's happening here, maybe not. All I know is I'm staring at ripples distorting the reflection of a stranger.

Other People's Fires

Life is a dance, a game, a fucking tragedy to laugh, a comedy to cry, an out of control fire waiting for a single drop of rain. Losing is part of living, so elbow it in the neck when someone else does a better rumba. The music hasn't stopped, it's just that the bridge sucks... don't fret, the refrain is coming soon. It takes two to tango; grab your enemy, spin them around. Chances are, they're going to smile, too. Grins make it easier to knock out teeth.

Move your piece. Wait for the counter-move. If you don't want to play your past, don't wonder if your future is cheating. Relax. Don't be judgmental, she's seen it all before and just needs to get away for a while. Life's been rough, and you're not the first person she's seen freak out over a bad batch of drugs. Losing it on purpose is sometimes the best strategy. So what if Boardwalk is out of reach... you have Park Place. Let the asshole come and get it. He'll just wind up thrown into a table.

Cancer's a blow to behold, but life ain't over yet. Your brother's brothers are with you. There's a joke hidden in there somewhere, but who cares where? Six-feet under? We'll all be there eventually, and many are already. You'll never see them again, but memory works in wonderful ways. White trucks are always on the road and this eclipse is temporary. The choreographed motion of body will make you remember a friend long gone. Be brave for the both of you. Ever play chicken with a coward? The look on his face is priceless as you drive safely by.

Solve the problem of getting laid off by getting laid. Your clutch exploded on the way south, but at least you can kick it. Someone's lying on her back, unable to move, but she's going to be fine. The husband can't hang on to you and probably doesn't want to, so what? It was all too stifling anyway. Go find some room to breathe. The mountains offer fresh air, even if your criminal record just got a bit dirtier. Clean the wound in your knee and know you've made someone smile. Smirk at the liar hiding behind a woman because he's afraid and unaware that you've no problem with taking them both down.

Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? Going solo makes it harder to turn the water on. Take it from someone whose castle is already cinders, things can be great without. Plenty of fish in the sea, and if you don't like the ocean, move to another. Throw your hands up and scream at the storm. Shed the tears; no one can see them out here. You're all wet, but so is everybody else... we're waiting to help put out the fire.

Ask, and we're there. Always.

An Age of Friends

His coffee didn't taste good to him tonight. Nor, for that matter, did his cigarette. It's as if decades of his old reliables had eroded any pleasures his pleasures had afforded him. But he didn't mind. He knew the time was coming. And, so, he wrapped himself up in his ragged Army blanket, barely noticing the pain in his chest, and returned his attention to trying to keep warm in front of the roaring fire.

His memories wandered as the flames ebbed and the embers cooled. Family would have been on his mind, but he had none to speak of. Instead, he remembered his friends. His ages of friends.

When he was a little boy growing up in a San Diego suburb, he remembered that all he had to do to see most of his friends was walk a few hundred feet west or east, down a few houses on his block, and ring a doorbell. Sometimes a mother or a sister who he would feel attracted to would answer the door, and his shy little voice would ask, "Can he come out and play?"

Occasionally the question would be answered with a seemingly heartless "no," usually on Sundays when one of his overly religious friends had to read from something referred to as "the Good Book" or some such nonsense. His agnostic upbringing couldn't discern the concept, so he would continue down the street and ring another doorbell.

Usually, though, the answer would be yes, and he and his friend or friends would revel in a game of street ball (either baseball or football, both of which often resulted in broken living room windows or dismembered rearview windows from an unluckily parked car) or mock costumes consisting of blankets for capes and last year's Halloween masks in an imaginary world of superheroes.

Later on in life, through high school, college, and the military, he remembered that hanging out with friends required a bit more effort. Plans had to made, times had to be coordinated, and walking places was generally out of the question. Everybody had to drive, since everybody lived in different parts of the city. Being friends with neighbors was in the process of becoming an afterthought, and camaraderie seemed to belong in the realm of the workplace or the classroom. Back then, though, he didn't even notice. It just seemed natural.

Despite being older and more "free," hanging out with friends was more limited. Occasional movies, more than occasional drinks, and frequent loud, crowded, yet ultimately boring parties rounded out his repetoire. Sometimes he and his friends would get more creative and actually go away somewhere for a while... perhaps a camping trip, or an overseas adventure, maybe a skydive or a scuba dive or two... or both.

Still later in life, his friends were even farther away from him, as most moved away, or back home, or to one of those countries they might have visited during the overseas adventures. Neighbors once again became "friends" of sorts, but only because his mobility was becoming more and more hampered. Acquaintances, more likely, as he knew who his real friends were. Those men and women he grew up with, when friends were made without prejudices, and those men and women he served with, when friends were made in spite of prejudices. Everyone else, it seemed to him, were just faces in the crowd. Touched and gone, as it were.

Walking was definitely out of the question this time, as was driving... at least most of the time. Usually, seeing a friend involved a few hundred dollars and an uncomfortable plane ride. He went through a period of time in which he avoided them, under the auspices of saving a little cash, but when the destinations starting becoming funerals... well, he had too much respect for his friends not to go.

He remembered how he used to love hopping into an airplane, either on his way somewhere exotic or new, or on a one-way trip to a drop zone. Now, he hated them. Airplanes merely became a symbol of seeing a friend that one last time... only the friend wouldn't remember him coming, or even know he was there, laying the flower on the casket, throwing the dirt into the freshly filled grave. His tears went unnoticed... so much so that he soon quit shedding them altogether.

The fire had died long ago. The coffee long cold. The cigarette burned to ash down to the filter.

He remained there, curled up in his chair, underneath his blanket. His face seemed peaceful, serene, and had a hint of a smile.

A smile one only has when with friends... forever.

First Full Week Back in Wilmington: Some Notes

Well, it's official. Yesterday marked my first full completed week back in lovely Wilmington, North Carolina. I actually officially moved back May 19, but I had to return to Fayetteville and didn't actually stay here until May 21.

Anyway, some notes...

Wilmington's film industry seems to be no better off than when I first left it. Three projects, almost all wrapped. No available film jobs. Nuts.

The humidity is killing me.

I had to split up my three dogs. It sucks. They're sad. So am I.

I've been sick for the better part of a week. What a way to celebrate returning to an awesome beach town.

A bunch of "friends" have yet to return phone calls or emails. Thanks, guys.

Another friend told me to never contact her again. Still confused about that one. I'm not sure if she found out about my "adventures" in Latin America or not. ;)

I quit smoking on May 26. For those who didn't know, I started again on May 5, when I stopped in Dallas for two days and stayed with the guy who taught me how to smoke in the first place.

It's very weird shopping in my old Food Lion and eating at my old Subway. Can't explain it. It's just weird.

My laptop is painfully outdated, and despite my best efforts to upgrade the hardware/software, it really doesn't invite me to use it... hence, the few blogs and complete lack of other significant writing.

I cut all of my long hair off. I officially look like a soldier once again (even though I never looked like a soldier when I actually was a soldier).

My cats are pissed that I haven't let them outside yet.

I have no idea how the Padres are doing, and have no clue how the Chargers are progressing with their off-season. Also, I don't even know if the Ducks won the Stanley Cup. In fact, I'm not even aware that sporting events are occuring right now.

I hurt my foot, my hip, and my elbow doing pratfalls for a buddy's video project on Saturday. He showed me a rought cut, and my pain didn't even make it on the trailer. I feel used.

I taught my dog how to jump in and out of my room window, primarily because I'm too lazy to walk him around back.

Finally, despite feeling so out of place and mostly being bored with nothing to do, I feel great and am loving it.

Shoot me a line, people. Let's hang out.

If This Is Goodbye...

The world is bigger than any one person, but at the same time, it isn't. Our perceptions and perspectives define how this crazy planet and its events unfold before our lives. Everything that happens, and I do mean everything, is completely and unequivocally subjective. From our wars, to our World Championships, to even our weather. It's all subjective.

To him, Iraq and Afghanistan represent the ultimate in America's attempt at "saving the world." To her, Iraq and Afghanistan represent an exercise in futility. To me, it's all just a fucking waste of money and people.

To him, the Saint Louis Cardinals winning the World Series represents a return to form for a long and storied franchise. To her, well, she doesn't care. To me, it just means that San Diego Padres weren't the best team in the league this year.

To him, snow is a great change of pace, a chance to test out the four-wheel drive and his underdeveloped survival skills he learned in the Boy Scouts. To her, the snow is a distraction, a sign that tanning on the beach is months away. To me, it's just a reminder that I'm not where I want to be.

2006 was a year of polarization. A lot of great events occurred, as every year, but the theme this year just seemed to be one of dividing. From the illegal immigrant issue to a political party falling apart because of a cabinet member. Wars, taxes, and the omnipresent stalwarts of religion and politics. We're further from being one nation, one world, than we've ever been. Traditional alliances, from countries to corporations, all seemed to break apart this year. And, in an appropriate twist, large pieces of the polar ice caps decided to break off. All in 2006.

On a smaller scale (well, to everyone but me, that is), my life also polarized. I've written about what happened to me enough, and I'd really like to move beyond it, so I'll spare you the details here. But, the point remains... my life was split, irrevocably. My family, even though I am physically closer to them than I have been since 1995, is further from me than ever before. There are one or two that I have actually become closer to, but my family, as a whole, is less and less a family, and more and more a group of strangers that I share a blood type with.

There was, admittedly, one bright spot for me in 2006. And it's as subjective a bright spot as something can get. No one in my life, including the bright spot itself, sees itself as a bright spot for me. But I do, and right now, that's all that matters. I'm terrified that it's going to disappear from me in 2007, and that's going to break my heart, but I don't really see a storybook ending to anything that involves me anymore. Life is essentially a wind, and we go where it takes us. Even if it's a dark place.

This past year was also the year I realized that mortality is a fact, and that it's waiting for all of us. Several friends were killed this year. Several heroes, too. People I'll never see again, or ever have a chance to meet. Gone. The ones whom nature took were the lucky ones. The others, well, they were braver men than I.

I was angry this year, of that there is no doubt. Angry, and full of hate. Along with realization of mortality, however, I also realized that hate is a very heavy emotion, one that I can not sustain for long. Neither can sustain, nor want to. I've been trying to bury hatchets, sometimes successfully, sometimes less so, but I've been trying. I needed 2007 to be the year I could cut my ties to my past. Unfortunately, thanks to some long-term issues, I know already that I will not be able to.

Ultimately, I don't know what 2007 holds for me, for us. Such is the irony of our existence... the ability to change the world, but the lack of foresight to do it. I don't know if I'll be around at the end of 2007, I will never again assume that I'll live through anything, and I don't know if you'll be around, either. I hope so, but hope only gets us so far.

So, if this is goodbye... goodbye, and thank you for everything I owe you thanks for. Maybe in a year I'll say goodbye to you again.

Merry Christmas, Really

Well, it's another late night forced upon me by my foot injury. And, as usual, I have nothing better to do than to write something. Strangely, I feel good right now. A simmering calm in a storm where everything else has gone wrong. Maybe it's because it's Christmas, or maybe it's the empty glasses and bottles cluttering my desk in front of me. Either way, the end is worth the means.

No rant from me tonight, I promise. I just want to say, plainly and sincerely, Merry Christmas to all of you. Some of you got my blanket email I sent out a while ago, and I apologize for the cheesiness of that, but I'm too lazy to send out cards. Even if I weren't, I probably wouldn't send out cards anyway, but that's beside the point.

Merry Christmas. To all of my Army buddies, to all of my military friends, come home safely next year. To all of my film industry friends and acquaintances, Happy Hanukkah (I know you're all Jewish, or pretend to be... bet you wish you had my last name, don't you?). To my family, I know I'm not the closest of sons, brothers, uncles, or relatives in general, but know that a part of me misses all of you. To my friends who don't fit into one of the above categories, sucks to be you. Just kidding...

Seriously, Merry Christmas, and may you all enjoy this soon-to-be fleeting euphoria that I'm feeling right now.

Oh, and if some of you are worried that I'm turning into an inexorable sap, don't be... I'll be back to normal in 2007.

Random Givings of Thanks

Personally, I think that Thanksgiving is a painfully and obviously arbitrary holiday, but whatever...

Some things to give thanks and not-so-much-thanks for this year:

Thanks to my friends who helped me get through a shit time in my life.

Not-so-much-thanks for the person who single-handedly put me there (not that I hold a grudge... anymore).

Thanks to the idiots who are making the "Global War on Terrorism" a de facto screw up.

Thanks to the NFL for putting a third game on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanks to Kay and Sagremor, my two cats who have actually stuck around.

Not-so-much-thanks to the asshole "retiree" CEOs who give themselves $400 million pensions while the rest of America struggles to make ends meet.

Thanks to John Kerry for informing me that I was in the Army because I got bad grades in school. I was under the impression that I held a sense of duty that many no longer hold.

Thanks to my muse for putting me back in a writer's mindset.

Thanks to my dogs for putting up with my lack of attention giving... that'll change soon, I promise.

Thanks to my sister for editing my writings for spelling and grammar at no charge.

Thanks to PH for lending me a shitload of money (five figures, seriously) to keep my head above water.

Not-so-much-thanks to Chevrolet for making the third-door latch on S-10s an easily broken piece of shit.

Thanks to the screenwriters of Casino Royale for making James Bond cool again.

Thanks to Martin Scorsese for making back-to-back films that truly inspired me.

Not-so-much-thanks to George Lucas for refusing to remaster the prints of the original Star Wars trilogy for DVD.

Thanks to the paratroopers who have entered my life, but will never be able to enter it again thanks to a really fucked up war. You guys were the best.

Thanks to the filmmakers who brought work my way at the exact moment my career seemed to dead-end.

Not-so-much-thanks to the man who had me arrested because he lost a fight that HE started.

Thanks to the networks for fielding the best television programming on the air since, well, the day I was born.

And last, but certainly not least, thanks to the people who are trying to make sure that 2007 will be that "Best Year" that 2006 should have been.

Waking Up

2006, for those of you who follow what I do and where I go, was supposed to be the best year of my life. Well, those who follow know that 2006, quite clearly, has not been. In fact, along with 2000 and 1989, it's been the worst. 2000 and 1989, however, have the advantage of only partially sucking, while 2006 has been a bane pretty much since New Year's Day.

Like all things, though, there is a silver lining to this crappy-ass year... I've learned a lot about a lot, especially myself. I can now recognize, without fail, the type of woman I will wind up with. That, in and of itself, is something to smile about... in this year not worth smiling about.

I've learned plenty of other things about myself, too. I know that I am more proud of having been a soldier than proud of having been anything else in my life, or ever being in the future. I know that the military truly does create the best friends a person can have. College friends don't come anywhere near close, and childhood friends are more an obligation similar to family than they are true friendship. I know that I have never, not once, been truly in love in my life. I thought I have, and I've definitely been lustful over women, but I've never been in love. Not really. But I do know who I'm looking for, and like I said, that's something.

A bad thing I've learned is where my temper comes from, and why it comes. Most of my friends can attest to the frightening nature of a "pissed off Jeff," but I think I've finally got that fucker under control. Well, maybe not totally, but at least I know where it lives, and, like the woman, that's something.

The one 100% positive claim to fame that 2006 will have, however, is that my writing has finally become writing, instead of a collection of thoughts followed by the rapid motion of typing fingers. What I write is finally becoming alive. My writing is finally, like the rest of me, waking up. That's no claim to the quality of it, just a claim to the honesty of it. My words are, after 28 years, ringing true... and hopefully, after 28 years, so am I.

It takes a long time to get here... admittedly, a lot of people probably do it much more quickly than I, but I'm here now, and the view, while currently obscured, is a good one.

Where Everything Is

At the end of August I posted a blog entitled "Where Am I Going?" In that blog, I described a conflict in my life that was slowly coming to a head. At the time of its writing, that conflict was everything in my life. Literally everything. The obstacle to my success, the reason for my failure, the unexpected detour away from happiness... all that philosophical crap. Physically, it was the reason for my financial mess. Add all that together... let's just say that I was a tad bit angry.

But... some positives came out of it, as well. And everything, while still not where I want it to be, is finally falling together again... finally rebuilding my path that I've seemed destined to follow since, well, forever. That, in and of itself, is enough for me to smile about. But there's more.

I'm writing again. Those of you who read this crappy blog at least semi-regularly know that I've had a hard time (if not impossible time) trying to write... not just these blogs, but stories, ideas, even poetry and music. All of that is back, or at least coming back. I'm currently working on the best set of lyrics I've ever put to paper... now I just need a song to go with it. My piano is back out of its box... placed there in the first place thanks to a forced depression and an uncharacteristic desire to destroy all that was musical in my life. Script treatments are starting to flow again. I finally have a strong enough inspiration to write again.

I am, despite having been a paratrooper for almost seven years, in the best shape of my life. I've recently lost 30 pounds... my endurance and strength have increased (a little, anyway), and I'm even working on my flexibility. To be honest, my new-found exercise discipline stemmed from moving to SoCal, was reinforced by realizing that I was fat in Wilmington (thanks, Kim... those pictures scarred me for life), and emphasized by the strange fact that exercising until I hurt actually calms me down. Just for some perspective, I've been doing yoga, too, and I find that straight-up exercise keeps me much, much calmer. So much for meditation...

I even finally starting working again. Now, this wouldn't have been an issue had a certain someone not stolen so much money from me, but I've come to realize that keeping busy feels good somehow. Sure, I'm not in the film industry at the moment, and I'm not making as much money as I used to, but the very act of doing something semi-productive keeps my mind off of more serious things.

Why the sudden jump in spirits? Well... like I said before... I have an inspiration. Actually, I have a few inspirations. The most important inspiration I have is, suprisingly (but shouldn't be), me. Ever since I left home after high school, I've been in direct control of my life and nearly everything that happens to it. Me. Reacting, acting, and otherwise contributing to what I want to do and where I want to be. Earlier this year, I lost that control... quite completely, in fact. Not only did I lose that control, I lost the desire to regain it... and that, people, is not a good thing for anybody. But now, that control is returning. Slowly, but surely... and I'm finally in the position again to return it to myself.

So, yeah, I'm the most important inspiration I have. I don't think many people can actually claim that, but right now, I feel that I can. That being said, I needed a catalyst to get to where I'm at... I needed a catalyst to point out how beautiful everything really is. She has a name, this catalyst... she's beautiful, intelligent, sweet, and altogether wonderful. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend, but she's serving her purpose for me regardless. In the Army, everyone has something they fight for, no matter how subtle... and even though I met her after I left the military, she's what I fought for... and what I now fight for again.

There are more inspirations, but the last one I'm going to mention here are those friends of mine who provided me with the necessary means to sustain myself when I was down. I won't name names, but they know who they are... the two friends who took turns paying my bills for me... the friend who refinanced my high-interest credit cards... the friend who, at no cost to me, gathered the information I needed to pursue legal action against the person that almost destroyed me... the friends who put up with my self-deprecating crap until I, myself, got sick of it... and the friend, my catalyst, who clearly wants to tell me to go away, but won't because she knows I was in a depressed state and is too kind and loving a person to do something like that anyway.

These inspirations, these friends, are everything that I have (along with my pets, of course). Not only that, these inspirations, these friends, are everything that I need... and everything that I really want. All else is icing on the cake of my new life. These inspirations, these friends, are in my head and in my heart.

And that, people, is where everything is.

Sincerely and lovingly,
Jeff

Writer's Mood

I'm a writer. Well, I'm trying to be a writer. My ability and output are nowhere near the levels they need to be in order for me to pay the bills with writing, but I write nonetheless. So I guess I'm an amateur writer.

Over the years, I've learned both through my own experience as well as being taught that there is no such thing as writer's block. A writer can write regardless. It might be crap, but a writer writes anyway. However, over the years, I've also learned that there is such thing as a writer's mood. And a writer's mood is an odd thing. Pervasive and evasive at the same time, it requires some sort of a balance to be fully implemented. Not a delicate balance, mind you, but a balance.

As most of you can tell by the hack writing of the previous two paragraphs, I am currently NOT in a writer's mood. And here's a list why:

1. I'm pissed off. A writer's mood doesn't require one to be happy. In fact, a writer can be a little pissed off and be writing. Only a writer just can't be as pissed off as I am. Those of you that know me best know exactly why I'm pissed off, so I'll save everyone else the trouble of reading something so trivially stupid.

2. I'm stressed out. Now, I'm not talking about the good "eustress," I'm talking about the oh-so-in-your-face fuck-all stress known as "distress." I'm distressed. Writers actually need to be distressed a bit in order to be effective, but in my case... thanks to the same reason that I'm pissed off... I'm extremely distressed.

3. I'm bored. What? Wait, I'm a writer. I should just be able to write while I'm bored, thereby alleviating the boredom. Yeah, well, that'd be nice, but it doesn't fucking work that way.

4. I'm single. I need a muse, ladies. Any takers? The nearest woman who I know absolutely 100% fits the muse bill is in North Carolina, and that's just a bit far away from California (I'm actually in Nevada at the moment, but that's beside the point).

5. One of my cats died. This is, surprisingly, unrelated to my being pissed and distressed. Arthur, my beautiful, all-grey (with a small patch of white on his chest) domestic short-hair went somewhere to die. He had been sick for a while, and by the time I found out which cat was leaving the messes, Arthur had run away somewhere to die alone, in peace. I hate that cats do that. Okay, now it's a reason that I'm distressed.

Anyway, there is much more that belongs on this list, but I'm going to sleep on it. In the meantime, I hope you don't enjoy this blog entry, because I know it sucks.

I'd like to say "thank you" to everyone I know that kicks ass and provides good times and conversations. I'd also like to say "fuck you" to everyone I know that sucks ass and is too stupid to provide a good time or conversation. And yes, both of each type of person can be found on my friend's list. Why? Well, because I like to have a reference photo when I'm making fun of those people.

I'm sure my friend's list will disappear by the end of the week now... and I really don't care. Maybe the irony will put me in a writer's mood.

"Friends"

The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines a friend as: "one attached to another by affection or esteem."

I, however, have a slightly different definition: "one that's there when needed or wanted."

Now, I may not be the best friend ever, but nobody can claim that I don't try. If someone needs a favor, I'll do what I can... if someone needs money, Ill lend it (or even give it) if I have some... if someone needs someone to lean on, I'm leaned on.

But... not everybody I know feels that way, and while I realize that this is purely subjective, that really pisses me off. I hear all the excuses all the time... "Im too busy" seems to be the popular one. BULL SHIT.

NOBODY is ever THAT busy. Sorry, just doesn't happen. As someone who worked on two separate degrees while working part-time AND getting ready to deploy to a foreign country, I am positive that being "too busy" doesn't happen. Yes, there are undoubtedly times in our lives in which we are overwhelmed, but they don't last... even when the entire world was fighting a war in the 40s, people had time for each other... and you expect me to believe that YOU'RE TOO FUCKING BUSY? Fuck you...

When someone you haven't seen in years is in town, you MAKE TIME. When a friend of yours needs some help, you MAKE TIME. When a hot, could-be-a model-actress walks into your bedroom and takes off her clothes, you MAKE TIME. Um... disregard that last one.

Another thing... when you say you're going to do something for someone, be it a favor, or a job, or even something trivial, DO IT. Don't delay, procrastinate, make excuses... just FUCKING DO IT. Or, at the very least, if you can't, TELL THEM "I CAN'T." Telling a friend "no" is much better than leading a friend on for days, weeks, years.

Example:

"John, can you contact Mary and get her to endorse this for me? It would really help me out."

"No."

And everybody fucking hates "fake friends."

Well, whatever... even I know that I'm no longer making any kind of sense, so I'll just shut up now. But those who know, know what I'm talking about.

"Okay, thanks anyway."

Even though that sucks, its much better than:

"John, can you contact Mary and get her to endorse this for me? It would really help me out."

"Sure."

TWO WEEKS LATER

"John, did you get a hold of Mary?"

"Not yet, I've been busy."

"John, I need that endorsed or I'll lose my promotion."

"I'll get on it."

TWO WEEKS LATER

"John... Mary?"

"Why the fuck cant you talk about something else?"

Don't laugh... that's actually happened to me...

...Several times...

Anyway, my point is that friends are only friends when they're LOYAL to each other. A lot of people hide behind the concepts of loyalty, but they're anything but. Hell, I've even got a "friend" on MySpace that pretends to preach loyalty, but won't give you the time of day unless in need of something from you... The irony is even furthered by the fact that this person has NEVER been loyal in a relationship. This is representative of a phenomenon more commonly known as "fake friends."