Grey skies reflect against the morning Chevrolet.
Pine trees whisper their sad "good byes".
Children cried in the 80's.
Lint on my coat.
Johnny Bench.
Of course it doesn't mean anything. It's a stupid beatnik poem I made up. Now you do one.
Leave it in the comments.
It’s a funny thing about guys.
We don’t talk about our “feelings” too much. Most guys, straight, bi, or gay never really get to express all the stuff that rolls around in their heads. And by ‘heads’ I mean the one north of the navel. We’re always allowed to talk about the one down south unless you’re in the workplace, and even then it’s alright as long as you’re with folks who aren’t uptight about that sort of thing. It’s like we aren’t allowed to express emotion unless it is of an aggressive nature. We are taught that it isn’t manly to express our thoughts or hurts or vulnerabilities. We aren’t allowed to cry. Crying is for girls and sissies. And you don’t want to be a sissy, do you?
We aren’t allowed to talk about romantic notions or get “in touch” with our softer sides. Make this mistake and you are suddenly labeled as a pansy, nancy boy, or at best just weak. Women have it better in this respect, I think. They can verbalize what’s eating at them and its okay. Healthy, in fact. But not us guys. What male hasn’t ever heard that “big boys don’t cry” or “be a man” or “suck it up you goddamned little faggot and quit your crying, little shit headed worthless piece of shit mama’s boy!” Okay, maybe that last one was just my father, but you get the idea. Hell, even my mother would scold me for being too girlish and effeminate. It was difficult at age seven to articulate to her that I preferred roosters to kittens. Think about that a while. You’ll get it.
No, guys just aren’t allowed to have feelings let alone talk about them in “group”. Unless, of course, you are an alcoholic and then it’s okay because it’s the booze talking and that doesn’t count. In fact, I tend to believe that there are probably more male alcoholics than female. Now, I don’t have any statistics on that, it’s just my opinion so please don’t berate me for that. I think guys are more prone to self medication to at least dull the pain because they can’t exorcize it in order to get rid of it.
So lately I’ve had a few of those “issues” that crop up in life from time to time. I, of course, think I have more than my fair share but that’s probably an exaggeration. I’m sure lots of guys go into a dark place in their lives and suddenly find that they just went deeper – but I wouldn’t know that for sure because we can’t talk about it! But my issues seem to be getting the better of me at the moment. That’s not a cry for help, by the way, it’s just a statement so please don’t make the offer to go out for coffee and a chat.
Recently, however, I did tell a buddy that I was in an uncomfortable place. In a round about way, I did sort of hint that I could really appreciate unloading some of that tension to a listening ear. Not asking for advice nor asking him to solve the problems – just to listen. Completely prepared to return the favor if ever needed. It was pretty clear that he was entirely uncomfortable with that. Figures. Again, our conditioning tells us that that is taboo. I apologized, as I frequently tend to do, and dropped it.
It’s a shame, really, that we can’t seem to get to a place where everybody feels free enough to just be human and recognize and express their fears and frustrations. Either that or he just couldn’t be bothered with another nancy boy crying over spilled milk.
I think I’ll go have a beer.
This is why I want need a swimming pool in my back yard. I LOATHE doing crunches!
Of course, then I'll need a pool boy too. I think Phelps would do nicely.
Here's something else to tide y'all over.
We all know it.
If you come visit me at work, this is pretty much how you'll find me, in my gleaming white laboratory coat and clip board.
As part of the landscaping committee for the new hospital addition, I planted three over sized flower pots by the main entrance and the lower level entrance to the Rehabilitation Department. I'm quite proud of them, actually. I think they turned out pretty good if I do say so myself. They match two sets of outdoor benches. It makes for a nice touch.
A fellow committee member looks on.
They tried to make me go to Rehab . . .
Ah, the Summer continues on. The familiar cycle is maintained. These lovely beauties, so delicate their blossom, reminds me of youthful Summers at my Gran's. In her old fashioned garden, each early Spring the ground would erupt with long shoots of moss green blades to soak up the sun. Within a couple of weeks, they would die back without producing any flowers. Then, each August, new blades would stretch out and up and these lovely papery pink blooms would appear. My Gran called them "ascension lilies" because it was if they came back to life for one last dazzling display of color. In vulgar parlance, they are called "naked ladies" because they aren't wearing a mantle of leaves.
No matter what you call them, I think they are gorgeous! I have them scattered all around in my garden, some hiding in over grown bushes. I love them, but also get a bit melancholy as they herald the beginning of the decline of Summer. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Curtis: "Hey, Mark, here's a film. You might like it. It's a musical."
Mark: "A musical?!? Who's in it??"
Curtis: "Dianna Ross."
Mark: "Oh, her. It's a musical, huh?"
Curtis: "Yes, a musical. You might like it."
Mark: "A musical?! What the hell do they have to happy about anyway?!?"
Curtis: "Uhhm, well, yeah, uuhhm, well okay then."
Mark: "Bloody musicals!"
Mark and I finally board the train with absolutely no help from the conductor other than the phrase, "keep to the right". That's good. I wouldn't want him to over exert himself. Poor guy, we know he's had a long day - the train is over three hours late!
Once we find our seats and settle in, I’m really feeling badly. I’ve not eaten yet today, and I have a bit of trouble keeping my blood sugar level in check. I’m hot, a bit irritable, dizzy, really out of sorts. I look over at Mark, my partner, he is scowling. “Oh come on”, I say, “at least this way we can sit back and watch the countryside go by. Well, actually, once you’ve seen one cornfield, you’ve pretty much seen them all. Mark is not amused.
There is a loud nasal toned lady a few seats back who is lecturing her niece about the upcoming plans to attend summer church camp (praise the Lord) in some little town in Illinois. I gave Mark a little wink, and he returned with a very cross look. Just then, a black baby across the aisle up two rows starts to get fussy. Great. There is a man in a dirty tee shirt walking past us with a bag of cheese doodles. The baby is screaming now. Even better. I don’t know which is worse – the ear piercing shrieks of an unhappy baby or the even unhappier mother yelling. “Shut yo’ mouf!”
Suddenly it dawns on me. Damn! What IS that smell? What is that funk? Oh, the man in the seat across from us has taken off his shoes. Sweet Mother of God – that smells like a locker room full of buffalo shit. Super. The baby’s mother is now making boobly sounds. “Wee! wee!, who’s da purty baby. You is, you is, wee!” Mark is not amused.
“Can I get you something to eat from the dinning car?” Mark says. “Oh yes, please. I think that would be good.” “What do you want?” “Well, I don’t really know – whatever – I’ll trust your judgment.” Well, do you want a ham and cheese or turkey? What if they don’t have turkey, how about chicken?” “I don’t care – whatever they have.” Mark rolls his eyes and walks up the aisle. He is not amused.
The conductor announces that the train will be stopping for an unscheduled inspection. I guess because of the bombings in London two years ago, trains in Missouri are still at level orange. Mark comes back with our late lunch. I get what appears to be salted ham left over from the Lewis and Clark expedition and Velveeta cheese on a stale roll. Mark got roast beef. Well, at least we think its roast beef. It might be shoe leather. I hear Mike talking a few rows back about an upcoming Renaissance Faire in O’Fallon, Missouri. God I’m glad he’s back there and not up here with us. This is turning out to be such a terrible experience that I begin to giggle. I think I’m going into hysterics. Mark is not amused and continues to chew his sandwich.
The Church lady a few rows back is now screaming into her mobile to Hertz Rent-a-Car to have something available for her in Washington, the next stop on the line. “I don’t care what you have, “she says, “just have it ready or else!” I think she might be loosing her religion. The train lurches forward as I finish the last bit of my salted sandwich. “Did you get anything to drink?” I ask. Mark just scowls. He is not amused.
There is a really hot guy and his girl friend just two seats up from us. He is obviously trying to choke her with his tongue. That, or muffle the smell of funky feet. I lean over to Mark and whisper that I think they might be fucking. Really! He is not amused.
Funny thing about babies, once one of them starts to cry, they all set in. Sort of like a chain reaction. Now everyone under the age of two on the train is fussy. Well, actually, we ALL are, regardless of age. As the train practically zooms down the tracks at 7 miles an hour, the Amtrak adventure continues. I can’t even feign interest in my magazine. I’m just that miserable.
The Church lady is giving sage advice to her niece about starting college in a few weeks. You guessed it, Bible College. At all costs, she must remember to keep close to the Lord and don’t let any of those smart-elec young men get the better of her. “It doesn’t matter”, the Church lady continues, “they all want the same thing so you keep your legs crossed and your nose in your Bible. The girl wears short shorts, a pony tail, has a bare midriff, and flip flops. I don’t think that is quite Bible College attire, but perhaps they’ve relaxed the rules a bit since I attended. (Yes, I did – that’s a completely different post)
The black baby is now being fed. Not baby food, but rather potato chips (Lays with Ridges, super sized) and French onion potato chip dip (EXTREEEME FRENCH ONION). Is it any wonder we are the fattest nation on the planet? And why would you feed that to your baby? It’s just not something one is used to seeing. Not even in France.
The train stops again, this time in front of the Missouri Meeschaum Corn Cob Pipe Factory. We must be having another unscheduled inspection. I tell Mark that I think I see a group of Mexicans behind the factory shucking. A fat girl with dirty red hair scowls at us while she passes. She is wearing short shorts, a pony tail, has a bare midriff, and flip flops. Behind her is a Goth girl who has died black hair. She wears a dog collar, a kilt, and flip flops. She looks both angst filled and bored at the same time.
As the train finally gets to a good speed, the gentle rocking of the car finally gets the better of me and I drift off to sleep. I woke up to realize that I had a stiffy and there were some odd stares from some of the other passengers. “Oh”, I said with a nervous chuckle, “must have dozed off. Did I say anything?” Another nervous chuckle. Mark is not amused.
I notice a smudge of hair oil on the window that is in the shape of a perfectly round circle. You can see the individual hair imprints. Seven girls walk by. They are all wearing short shorts, pony tails, have bare midriffs, and flip flops. It sounds like the Clydesdales. A plump man with a rosy face and white beard walks by us with what appears to be a corn dog and a Budweiser. He is smiling and has a twinkle in his eyes. Perhaps he is St. Nicholas. I recall a story about St. Nicholas from one of David Sedaris’ books. I chuckle out loud. Mark is not amused.
A fat kid in a dirty, white tee shirt and green John Deere cap walks by. He has a mass of something covered in Velveeta. You can see his pronounced breasts through the shirt. Nothing runs like a Deere.
There is a Pakistani man with an iPod in the front of the car. Everyone seems to be eyeing him with suspicion. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably as it is announced that we will have yet another unscheduled inspection. He puts his eyes to the floor as the black lady opens up a can of Pringles and I drift off to sleep once more.
I awake with a start. Mark is asleep, poor guy. It’s probably for the best. This way he won’t feel the pain so much. The man in front of me is whining to his mobile. I hate mobiles. “What?” “You didn’t get your check?” “Oh shit” “What are we going to do for money now?” “Oh shit” “I’m all tapped out until Wednesday”. “I’m on my way home now, but I’d really like to see the kids.” “No, course not – you had to eat, honey” “Oh shit” “I spose I’ll just have to walk – but I’ve got all this stuff to carry.” “Oh shit”
Sounds like a scam to me. I lean over to Mark who is awakened by the noise and say, “perhaps we should give him money.” He just scowls and closes his eyes. He is not amused.
Four 14 year old girls wearing short shorts, pony tails, bare midriffs, and flip flops walk by. They giggle incessantly. I try to open my passenger safety instructions from the seat pocket in front of me and realize that something has spilled on them and I cannot get the pages separated. There is a coffee stain on my fold down table. I wish I had a moist towlette. The black woman opens up a bag of Oreo cookies and a bottle of Hawaiian Fruit Punch. Two women in their 20’s walk by. They are wearing short shorts, pony tails, have bare midriffs, and flip flops. The black lady then takes out a bag of gumballs.
There is a rather good looking guy with a southern accent speaking lovingly to his daughter who boarded the train in Kirkwood. She must be all of 4 years old and asks about several buildings while we pass. The Arch, the Purina Co, the ‘lectric company, a warehouse, a White Castle (read that “whyate”). She wears short shorts, a pony tail, has a bare midriff, and flip flops.
I wonder. There is a lot of diversity on this train. All of us keeping to ourselves in our safe, little groups, many trying to fit in, all of us just trying to get where we’ve got to be. Perhaps, if we all were forced to slow down, pay attention to each other, and make the best of the ride; perhaps, we’d start to develop a bit of compassion for each other, a bit of understanding. Perhaps, then, we’d like each other a bit more and the world would be a better place.
Then again, we’d rather have taken the car.
