deep scars

There are scars we all have that will be with us until the day we die. They're not always visible and more often than not they don't even have a corporeal incarnation (both words are worth quite a bit in Scrabble ... as is quite for that matter because Q is worth a lot all by itself and U is another point heavy feller).

Some nights I don't get to sleep. I close my eyes, lay down as comfortably as I can manage and pray through wet eye-lashes for sleep to take me but for dreams to stay away. And there is something so pathetic about that in my mind. The wish for sleep but the fear of what it may bring is a terrible conflict on many levels. But the subconscious mind is where the deepest scars reside.

The silent mind fills the darkness with images of happiness or terror without a care as to how you will react to it. So we wander into frightening places unable to turn around or to rouse ourselves when things go awry.

Worse yet is where you reach a point that the dreams of things that go bump in the night hold no terror as awful as that of a dream of sunshine and smiles. The dream itself, of course, is wonderful. What is terrible is that feeling when the rousing mind see's through the looking glass and remembers that the euphoria is not real and the reality of the moments is so pale and bleak that the memory of that shining moment leaves your heart cold, freezing your heart to the core.

That terror, that your dreams will give you a momentary flash of happiness only to let it dash as the real world peeks through the clouds of your mind. The shock of the reality being so painful that the fear robs you or respite from the world.

How deep is that scar and will it ever heal?

If I ever have a night where sleep holds no terror, I'll let you know.

Sometimes the origin of those scars rear their heads where you least expect. Like the watered eyes of a young man who carries burdens so much like those you carried in your youth.

Smoke Rings

Blowing smoke rings always makes me think of my father. He is the one that first taught me to blow them when I was a kid.

While I carried a lot of resentment toward him for most of my life, I have a lot of really nice memories with him. Blowing smoke rings is one of them, although that also has some weirdness to it as well.

The rings I blow these days are of the smoke from cigars … Not necessarily fine cigars but they’re not the King James stoggies favored by my grandfather. Back when I was learning, the rings were significantly more intoxicating but it was the act of creating the rings and laughing at them that I remember most.

Rick was my father but he wasn’t there for much of my life. I share a lot of the responsibility for that rift as my anger and resentment was pretty significant and he respected my wishes when I told him I didn’t want to hear from him. Part of it might have been fear, although from what I hear, he didn’t have a lot of that.

I guess sometimes the apple and the tree may drift apart but remain much alike.

I remember Rick and my uncle Rodney saving sparrow chicks when their parents had died. The nest was in my grandparents’ car port and the pair took the young birds into the house to care for them.

That was around the same time that skateboarding was becoming big and my father and Rodney boarded a lot. They taught me and my brother to as well but we three didn't hold a candle to Rodney. He still surfs and sooner or later, I’ll have to join him on some waves to try and learn to myself. Maybe there is some peace for me to find on the water, I know most of the people with opinions I trust feel that the sea is where God share’s his greatest sense of peace in this world.

I’ve no memories of my father on a surf board but he took us fishing more than once. One time I remember specifically. I hurt my foot taking a catfish off of a hook. When I got the shoe and sock off, the sock was no longer white but crimson with my blood. At six, that will freak you the heck out. But Rick made me laugh. He was good at that.

Later at a pier, he hooked a puffer fish and it fell onto the planks as he unhooked it. I nudged it through a hole in the pier with my foot and watched it drop to the water below.
“You won’t regret this,” Rick said in a falsetto voice. “I’m a magic fish and you’ll catch a lot of fish to eat for setting me free.”

We all laughed.

Just as a matter of record, we didn't catch much on that outing but one of the few fish that was caught was hooked by my brother Shad. As Rick tried to get it off the hook, a gust of wind took his cap from his head dropping it into the water. He stared at it for a few moments and said, "Man, I'm going to miss that hat. It had my favorite earring on it."

Maybe I inherited that ability to make others laugh, but I’ve never been as relaxed with myself as he.
I’ve been told of his coolness under the pressure that you only get staring at the wrong end of a gun and remembered similar reactions from myself. But I’ve never had that general ease that he displayed to the world around him. And it was genuine.

Rick is not the older fellow inside a time and illness ravaged body that I saw a year before his death. It’s the comfortably swaggering youth that walked over to me and my cousin Rodney at Six Shooter Junction with a soda. Back when he was still daddy and not Rick.

Daddy is the guy I would visit at my grandparents’ house every weekend and we’d watch TV, skateboard or some other thing. The relaxed guy that smiled all the time, genuinely smiled.

How often do you see that these days? Often there is a sense of irony behind a smile these days. Sometimes it’s just plain cruelty. But the fact is, some folks genuinely smile and you can’t help but think of it for days to come.

If you’re lucky, you meet a person or two that shares such a smile often, and you find your mind wandering to it when the weight of the world’s cynicism is dragging you down. It’s like an oasis for your mind.

Daddy was that guy.

Rick was the guy that disappeared for several years. The guy I resented.

I received an e-mail from him about a year after I had started working at the local newspaper. In it, he said, among other things, that he’d had a hard life and that it had made him a hard man. I knew then and know now that there was a lot of truth in that statement, but the cliche delivery of that line somehow offended me. I remember my immediate response was to think, "Really, well I've lived an angry life and am a very angry man."

I knew then I had to work on that and make sure that my kids didn’t think of me as some angry father in years to come. I have to leave this world sometime and I wanted to make sure that my kids had happy memories of me.

The truth is, I don’t know how they’ll think of me. As the guy that took them fishing, the guy that would stop in mid-hike to take 20 photos of a butterfly so that I got one that I liked, as the guy that fixed things, the guy that worked all the time, the guy that made pancakes or the guy that got mad.

I hope they’ll think of me as the guy that loved them unconditionally. Beyond that, I don’t really know what else I need them to remember.

My step-father Justo Ybarra Jr. gave me that. In a lot of ways, he’ll always be my dad. Before him, there was Rick. And I do remember that love from my childhood, for the most part..

But absence didn’t make my heart grow fonder. If anything it hardened it toward Rick. When he called one Easter Sunday, almost 20 years ago, he asked if I wanted him back in my life and I said, “No.” And he respected that.

When I went back out, my family was quiet and uneasy watching me. They could all see the anger burning in my chest though I tried to hide it. But I couldn’t form even a fake smile.

It was Justo who pulled me aside, walked with me to the front of the house and asked me what the phone call was about.

I told him about it and he quietly leaned against the car and listened as I told him. When I stopped after I said that Rick asked if I wanted him back in my life, he gave me a moment then asked, “And what did you say.”

He listened to my answer and then he said, “Look, I don’t know how you feel, no one does. But at the end of the day he’s still your father. You may be ok with that when all is said and done, but he’s not going to live forever. When that door is finally closed forever, you don’t want to have any regrets about it.

“You may never want to talk to him, or you may wake up one morning and wish that you could, either way, if he is gone, there will be no turning back. It’s not my business, but you should give it some thought.”

Justo had passed away when I learned that my paternal great uncle Abel Toscano had died. I have memories of being less than two-years old in the front yard of my great-grandmother’s house as uncle Abel is gave me pony rides on the back of one of her pet boxers. He had stepped in and tried to help my parents work things out when we were living upstairs at the corner of Washington and 1st street and their marriage was falling apart. And had given us rides to church when their marriage was ultimately broken.

We all knew that I would see Rick at that funeral and I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do. I knew I couldn't ignore him; I would forgive him or attack him and I had no idea which. So, I prayed.

I don’t pray for myself as a rule, but I did pray for strength and I don’t know if I was praying for the strength to tear the man in half or the strength to forgive. It’s likely that I’ll never really know.
But when Rick walked past me, at that funeral home, it wasn’t God that I heard in my head. It was Justo.

“At the end of the day he’s still your father.”

I’ve always figured that Shad had turned him away all those years out of respect for me and my decision to keep him out of my life, but I don't truly know. But I felt that, if I wanted nothing to do with the man, Shad would have nothing to do with him either. Even if I could live with that door being shut forever, I couldn’t shut it to Shad. And Justo was right.

So I walked to the break room when Rick was pouring himself some coffee. I could see that he saw me walk into the room in his peripheral vision and was making an effort not to look at me. I could see his hands shaking as he stirred his coffee.

“We’ve both made mistakes,” I said. “Let’s just try again.”

As I was saying that, my brother and sister had come to realize that I wasn’t in the room and had rushed out to find me, worried what they would find. They found me hugging Rick.

We all hugged and spoke a while. We promised to keep in touch but didn’t do much of that. In the end, I do regret much of the lost time. I don’t know how different my life would have been had I said yes that Easter. I don’t know that I could have found that forgiveness in myself then. But we had that one last hug before we went our separate ways.

My uncles and aunts have told me how often Rick spoke of me and my siblings. My new-found siblings were a joy to meet and I hope to speak with them again soon and much more often. I also hope to meet my siblings across the Atlantic one day. At the end of the day, we each had Rick as our father.

He has been gone now for over a year and the door shutting still echoes.

I smoke cigars on occasion, and every time I do, I can’t resist trying a few smoke rings. Sometimes the wind is fast and the rings blow apart as quickly as they form. Sometimes they stick around for a while. But just like us, those rings all fade away, leaving behind memories of their brief visit.

This is a little more rough than I normally leave things, but I don't know that I really want to edit it much. Smoking that cigar the other night, I just tried to figure out how I would explain the man and my rift from him. I don't think this does so, but it touches on some of the points that seem important to me.

skipping tea

The name is a silly reference to a Douglas Adams book that I always felt sounded like the title to a melodrama. I chose it because I had no other idea what to put in the title position.

I don't use this blog often as I don't actually have anyone read it so I think I may maintain it just to know that this block in the sidewalk is here for me to take a piece of chalk to when I feel the need.

But I don't know what that need is in particular. Today it is simply the need to speak of my depression.

Not a whole lot so say about it though. I've been aware of this darkness hovering over my soul for quite a while now. On occasion I'll hold it up to the light to take a closer look but have never really come to the root of the tangled mess.

My marriage ended five years ago and I've still not had even a single date. There's a strand.
I'm not especially happy at my current job, although it's still much better than the job I left. Still a strand.
The apartment I was looking forward to moving into will not be available after all. Another strand.
No apartment in that complex is available. Another.
The lease on my current place runs out at the end of the month. And another.
Unexpected expenses suddenly reared their head while I'm in an ill position to handle such a hit.
And another.

The breakup does not precede my depression, I'm actually unaware of anything that does. There have been times of joy, of course, but the tangle has ever hovered. I know I felt it in elementary and believe I see it's shadow in my earliest memories. It's definitely there in a memory from when I'm 2.

Currently, I've been focused on my present state. I live in a 3 bed, 2 bath townhouse apartment and will be moving to something smaller, that much is certain. And I feel, yet again, diminished.

Not long ago, I was working in a position I enjoyed and doing a job that I loved. I hated a great deal of the politics and such, but the job itself, that I loved. I was married with 4 children. Now I'm a single, middle-aged guy with no dating experience, with a job I enjoy less, which pays only about 3/4 what my previous job did. My ex is in a serious relationship and I ... well, like I said before, I've not even managed a date.

Most people I think of as friends have moved away or I've just lost touch as they still work at the aforementioned previous job. And truly, there are only about 2 still there that I considered friends. One has enough to deal with without having to deal with me and the other seems to have cut ties altogether. So every night, unless I talk to someone on the phone, my mouth only opens for sustenance after work. Were I not in so dark a place, I would likely relish such quiet. But instead I'm left lonely.

I haven't even an idea why I'm bothering to speak of it now. Maybe the silence is echoing a bit too loudly today. It keeps me from sleep and leaves my chest feeling empty, food flavorless and has come to leech my energy and strength.

Maybe I'm feeling so profoundly alone that even the sound of chalk virtually scrapping across the sidewalk is preferable to the echo in the wee hours of the morning. When I should be sleeping, but cant find my way to that twilight realm.

Maybe it just seemed a good idea at the time.

Cheater

I'll admit it, I cheat on this blog.

I've often written long blogs that I've placed on my MySpace site and not posted here. Worse, I'm a bit of a blog whore. I blog for my workplace.

I know, I know. You're shocked and appalled, but at least my work blog is about something I love. Cartoons and comics. You can find it here if you wish too, or you can not bother. Either way, I'll still respect you in the morning.

I'd not posted anything in some time, for various reasons, but found myself with a little spare time last night and decided to let everyone know that I was back and that a new Wonder Woman cartoon is coming out on DVD in March.

This morning, I came in to find that a fellow, who will go unnamed unless you check the blog, posted this:
I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND THE APPEAL OF ALL THIS COMIC STUFF TO ADULTS. IT SEEMS SO SILLY, SUCH A WASTE OF MONEY, SO JUVENILE, SO IMMATURE. WHY NOT SPEND THE MONEY ON BOOK, ART OR MUSIC LESSONS?

Yes, it was in all caps in it's original posting.

It struck me as odd on multiple levels, not the least of which is that my blog doesn't spontaneously leap onto your screen. You actually have to seek the darned thing out. So he'd sought it out and unleashed this mild venom.

I though, initially, not to post the comment. I thought it seemed a silly place for such a poorly written comment. Ultimately, I decided that this fellows opinion could be considered valid and he was not vulgar in his language. So I posted it along with this response:
Actually, I spend a great deal more on books and art supplies, since I produce art myself. My music career was a wash as I was sent back to beginner band after the first year.
Still, I would not balk at any of the activities suggested without trying them out first. And really, if someone decides that comics aren’t for them, I have no problem with that.

In fact, I lent a copy of a comic that I greatly enjoyed to a friend She gave it an honest try but decided that the medium wasn’t for her. That didn’t mean that I treasured her friendship any less. And I greatly enjoy her view on various art mediums including visual art, film, music and especially literature. She’s the one who recommended the book Geek Love as well as The Women of Brewster’s Place and I’m extremely thankful to have read those books.
That said, there is still room for comic books and I’d dare to guess that many naysayers have no experience outside of the kiddie books they remember from yesteryear.

Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight is one of the most gritty and stunning stories ever put to paper. I’d say that Kingdom Come, written by Mark Waid and painstakingly painted panel by panel by the incomparable Alex Ross is a masterpiece of word and sequential art.

Still, paintings of soup cans seem silly and a waste to some, as do some books, movies and music. So to each their own.

For myself, I’ll take it all. Sequential storytelling by artists who can produce beautiful pieces on a tight deadline. Moving tunes by audio artists from Mozart to Bowie to Gnarlz Barkley. Cinematic masterpieces like Citizen Kane and Blazing Saddles. I can’t imagine closing myself to any form of art.

But to each their own.

I don't know if the fellow will bother to read it, but I felt I had to say it. Silly though it may be, I've tried to allow myself an open mind in all things. Tasting dishes I thought I'd not enjoy, reading books in genres I thought I would not enjoy and trying techniques in arts in virtually any form available to me.

I guess, in the end, this fellow didn't understand my personal enjoyment. But that won't stop me from reading my comics and allowing myself to believe that a man can fly. To imagine that a teen can take the lesson of power equaling responsibility to heart. Or imagine a child fashioned of clay could grow to be an Amazon princess blessed with divinity, beauty and above all, compassion.

And I'll read as voraciously as I did when I first developed my love of the written word. A love that stemmed from reading the words of a fellow who dreamed of writing the great American novel. A native of New York born to Romanian-born Jewish immigrants who hid his family name of Stanley Martin Lieber under the nom de plume, Stan Lee.

That first Spider-Man comic soon led me to read The Old Man and the Sea and To Kill a Mockingbird before my age reached the double digits. And draws me to read still today.

Of course, Mr. Lee's loquacious nature and affinity for alliteration are with me still. Which is probably why I allowed this post to go this long.

Swimingly

When I was first hired at the paper I work for now, part of the reason was that they were about to launch an entertainment supplement in tabloid form.

Well, that, in and of itself, isn't much of a reason. But, the tab was to launch in 2 weeks and there was no design save for a logo that no one liked. And so I was now gainfully employed.

Actually, doubly so as they wanted me to start immediately and I had an obligation of two weeks at my first job ... Oh, and I was a full-time student supporting my family as well. So, y'know, no pressure.

Shortly after being hired we made plans for the future issues. One thing that came up was a swimsuit issue.

For myself, I could have cared less. I had so much going on and the need to make sure that the mag was done better than about 3 pre-existing magazines in the market. My hands were somewhat full.

But when I was given the photos and designed the pages, even female coworkers were gathering around my desk freaking out at how they liked it. (In those days, this happened to me pretty regularly as most of the stuff at the paper was designed pretty old school.) And the issue flew of the racks.

I was actually a little impressed as I didn't think I'd done so good a job and had been pretty unimpressed by the photos. They were almost great but didn't quite make it over that ridge. I was impressed by a pair of sisters that had modeled for the issue. Beautiful is easy to find, models are harder.

For anyone that doesn't believe that modeling is an art form, try grabbing a good looking person and take their photo. Chances are they are diminished in the image. Talented shooters can still get a beautiful photo but models can make an image much more. The ability to show ease and confidence as well as project emotion and tell a story with one's form and face. It's pretty tough.

The next year the section editor, myself and the mag's editor were planning out the issues when the SE noticed that there was no plan for a swimsuit issue. The editor said that he thought it was more hassle than it was worth but we were still getting feedback from it so I volunteered to organize it.

I had no idea how much work that would entail but the editor had gotten the suits from stores the year before so I contacted the same stores and a few more and managed to get us some suits. They just gave me whatever they wanted to so I had little control. But I did manage to get suits costing from $20 to $250. We used the same location as the year before, but I had an idea of the images I wanted leading to an organized crop of images.

Though I was given no budget (the models all worked TFP) I'd managed to get the two sisters to return, D had become more confident in the passed year and her sister helped her in posing. Another model joined us that year as well and Cindy was pushed as the cover photo. I didn't particularly like the photo as the photographer hadn't accounted for the lighting filtering through canopy of the tree she was under and what the yellow of the suit would do to her skin, giving her a bit of a sickly color. I tried to fix it but I don't think I did a good enough job. Still, I'm proud of the final product.

The issue got more buzz than the first and got no angry letters from conservative readers, as had the first. (The first angry letter was from someone upset that I'd put the tease to the story about the Christian singing group 'Out of Eden' next to the models breast. If you look at the photo, there were two places I could have put the tease and stand by my choice.

I noticed that we didn't have accessories in the first two issues and decided that that had to change. So still having no budget, I put in a couple of hundred dollars on various hats, sandals and jewelry. Nothing very expensive, but I wanted to make certain that an overall feel was created.

Wanting a more urban look, I arranged to shoot the next issue in the storage area of a local building. The sisters and Cindy returned as did a new model and one from the original issue. I also managed to find a male model. Juber was great and funny and confident. Women get a bum wrap about being body conscious but try asking a guy to pose in a swimsuit sometime.

The shoot was actually pretty fun as the models were all laughing. Knowing that I was going to be pretty busy but would want some things being set up so as to move quickly, I had a friend come and help arrange mini sets within the area.

The shoot was actually fun until the mag editor came by. Being a photographer, he'd been shooting something himself that day. I wasn't the one to say that he detracted from the shoot actually but a pair of the models, my friend and model's mother asked what was going on with him there. He'd been at the shoots the previous years but that year it was just odd. Maybe it was that he showed up partly into the shoot when there was already a comfort level crated. I'm not sure and I've wondered about it over the years. One thing that did steal a lot of the feel, I found later, was that he and the photographer were chatting and thought themselves unheard when they made some - I'll say - unprofessional remarks about one of the models. I don't know exactly what was said as her cousin relayed it as the reason that she chose not to participate the next year.

I was pretty ashamed that had happened so I sought out the SE who let me know the mag ed never had to know the location or be on set from there on out. That came to a head the next year when in an open meeting he angerly said that I'd not told him where the shoot was. The SE said, firmly but not agressively, "Everyone that needs to know about it does."

The photographer arranged to have a pair of new models come and I brought both male models we'd used before as well as the E and D and Cindy.

I wanted another urban but definitely a fun feel so I wanted to shoot on a roof downtown. We had some honkers, but other than being told "no stilhettos" there were no problem.

I'd actually not planned for any stilhettos as I'd wanted to create a fun feel reasoning that we're supposed to be showing these suits off, not the models and if you see people having fun, the clothes look more appealing. The other change was that I was getting the suits straight from the manufacturers. They were a little trepidatious but said it was OK for me to get the suits wet, something we'd not been allowed to do in the past. Still, I was not suppossed to let them get in a pool only splash and such. So I went with water guns.

The idea was for it to just be a fun setting, as if we were all just on the roof playing around.

This is probably my favorite issue for the level of fun that the shoot was. As no parents were going to be at the shoot, I had my (now ex-) wife come as well. I felt this would put the new models a bit at ease since I wasn't about to do anything stupid in front of my wife. I'd bought hats, water guns and other accessories but had also made plans to take everyone to dinner after as well.

The photog was still trying to get glamour shots and if I turned my back on him, he would have one of the two new girls posing for glamor shots. One of them smuggled some heals onto the roof despite my specifically telling her to leave them behind. Remember stilhettos were specifically not allowed. I asked her to set them aside and got angry when she snuck them out again.

No idea why she was so adversarial but she kept pulling aside the other new model and dripping poison in her ear as well. The other new model, Berta, lookes beautiful and had a great smile. She didn't like one of the suits but wore it anyway and didn't show any displeasure at it. I wound up using one of her photos as the main photo for the center spread and found out later that the other model had been telling her that I had my favorites already picked out and that none of the two's photos would make it in.

I used them both actually but the other one choose to leave early and took Berta with her so there wasn't a lot of shots of them. Still, Berta realized that I was professional and that saved me the next year.


I wrote a swimsuit fashion story for that issue and we also ran the Spring Break story on the bottom of the page. On the jump page I ran a pic of E as the main image. I added a lot more bricks and ran other photos and the story in a section that looked like it had been knocked out. The photo had been set up as a traditional pretty girl laying on a wall shot, but I handed E a watergun and told her to look like she planned to use it. The expression was fantastic and she shot me almost immediatly after the shutter clicked.

E had started working for a major swimsuit manufacturer and was not going to be allowed to shoot with us that year. I'd asked her to come along because I liked having her on set. She always laughed freely and constantly offered constructive critiques. I've never seen her offer advise to a model wher the photo didn't come out 10-times better for it. Fortunately, the specifics of why she could't model were that she couldn't be photographed in anyone elses designs. As the manufacturere never returned any of my calls or e-mails we were stuck. Until she pointed out to her boss that she'd recently bought three suits from them for her honeymoon trip. So we sidestepped the issue by having her wear only those outfits.

E's sister D is also stunning and professional and fun on a shoot. Cindy impressed me by showing up and looking fantastic despite having the flu. She didn't want to let us down and the photos were fantastic. She is always professional and funny. And all three ofthe models impressed me with their willingness to try something and then add to it.

The boys were funny too. Richard was quiet but smart and funny and Juber was much louder but also funny and sharp. I think everyone there got to hear him joke about his being thankful of getting a Brazillian when he gamingly donned the bannana hammocks (as he called them).

My editors didn't let me use any of the photos of him in the speedo style suit but I still argue that good for the goose should have applied and women's suits are no less revealing. Still, the photos are some of my favorites and I used a pair to do something of a 007 spoof. Or at least it's one in my head.

The next year, the sisters were unavailable, the boys were unavailable and Cindy had become a band teacher at a local Jr. high so modeling in a swimsuit issue could have been a problem. So I really had no models. A friend of my sisters, B, said she'd do it and I managed to find Berta from the year before but didn't hold out much hope when I called her. That's when I learned what she'd been told and came to learn was false the year before. She promised to check her schedule and would call me the next day.

That night she called me to let me know that she and pointed out that she had some friends that were models and some wanted to be in the issue as well. She e-mailed me photos and confirmed who could do the shoots. She really saved me that year as I'd had only a single inexperienced model and I now had 5 with experience as well.

I arranged the suits and now that the manufacturers had seen the issue from the previous year, they let me get the suits wet allowing that the girls could even dive into the water's at the local beach, South Padre Island. I also arranged a primary shoot at a local hotel where we were allowed to use the pools and grounds.

The next weekend we went to take photos at the beach and most of the models were actually booked so there was just B, Berta and her friend Mari who was very professional and because of her skills, provided me with the first shoot where I had a makeup and hair artist. She also switched up the way she tied one of the suits making it work even better than the standard over the shoulder's style. We shot most of the day with the three until B had to leave and the rest of the ladies joined us for night shooting and brought along another model with curly locks.

It's always fun to be on a set where everyone gets along and to watch the girls swarm around the new model (I always take model release forms to shoots fortunately) and help choose the best suits for her and giving her advise was one of the sweetest moments I think I've experienced. One of the ladies had her heart set on one suit but thought her new friend Naria would look great in it so she deferred the suit to Naria. I remembered that selflessness when designing the pages making sure that the two jump pages included images that showcased her legs (her favorite feature) and added the splashing out of the water to the double truck. I would have used the photos of the suits either way, but selflessness should never be unrewarded.

It was one of the most fun shoots I've ever been at and on the drive home I felt a warm feeling when I realized the shooter had deferred to me throughout the day and the previous shoot as well. (He'd fought me tooth and nail to make sure the images were glam until that year. He actually told me later that he'd realized I would make his pix look great no matter what so he'd stopped worrying.) I'd managed to pull off a pair of professional and wonderfully fun shoots.

As usual I let the models keep the accessories that they wanted and provided each of them with a CD of their efforts as well.

The mag was cancelled later that year but the swimsuit issues still stand as bright spots in my carreer. I was able to organize them from knowing nothing about doing such. I also think I improved the issue every year, the last year the section editor, whom I've a great deal of respect for, said that he was surprised by my story as I had been pretty rough when he'd started there three years previously. He said my story felt like an AP fashion story. He'd only added a pair of commas and a paragraph break.

While I've been told by the SE, the previous SE and many others at the paper that I was doing 90% of the work on the mag, I was never allowed to just take it over except for the swimsuit issues. And, while my name was never in the editor slot, I was always the one congratulated for it by co-workers. Which is another great feeling.

People assume that I liked the swimsuit issue because I got to work with photos of beautiful women. The truth is, I think I did a great job on it. Not because it was photos of beautiful women, but because it did what it was suppossed to, and I knew I was responsible for every inch. And others did too.

sheesh

Having a weak moment in a series of them of late.

Just have a sense of loneliness these days. The friends that I spent time with, there were only two, are pretty unavailable of late. One is actually my ex, but her boyfriend has moved back to the area, so she spends most time with him. The other is married and he and his wife have met a couple that they're spending a lot of time with. Both of these things are great, by the way, and I'm happy for their fortunes.

I too find myself thinking that I'd like to be part of a couple, but that requires another person (preferably with their consent, heh) and I've not found anyone interested. I meet people all the time, but find that I'm pretty much instantly looked upon as a friend, and that's where I stay.

This isn't a new phenomena either. Back in Jr. high (that's what we used to call middle school boys and girls) I would ask girls to dances or somesuch and would get the refrain, "I'm sorry, I don't think of you that way. I just think of you as a friend." It's just one of those things that happens to guys that are pretty nice I suppose.

I don't know how often you ladies (I'm taking a big leap in the idea that, should anyone read this, there may be a double X-chomosome packer among them) have had to deal with this or have delivered this line, but I'll explain why this is one of the more painful things a guy can hear.

First, there is the fact that this is a rejection. That, in and of itself, is a painful thing to deal with. But added to that is the "consolation prize" of being a friend. How many people went home with the Family Feud home edition to look on it sitting on it's shelf and feel the bite of defeat. It's the same with rejection. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying your friendships aren't hugely valuable, they are. What I'm saying is that it is no consolation while you're telling us about the guy that is lucky enough to be in the position we had wished for ourselves just a short time back. We hate him with a passion by the way, through no fault of his own.

The other thing about the "friends" bite is the venom of knowing that this means we are not exactly men in your eyes. We are some neutered thing, not to be thought of for romantic love.

Just consider how painful it is to be emotionally castrated with a hot, dull rock. That's something along the lines of the feeling of knowing that you do have the Y-chromosome, but are not thought of as a man.

Oh, I know, this seems a harsh way of putting it. I must be exaggerating. Really though, it's much more like putting it poetically. The raw emotion is similar to such an event, though, as it's emotional, many a man is adept at hiding it - boys don't cry and all that crap.

That said, I do still put the poetic/proverbial nads on the chopping block from time to time. More often than not, I find myself emotionally grasping my nethers and weeping in a fetal position while saying, "No problem, I understand." The smile must be in place and there is the need to reassure that the person isn't hurting you. It's not really their fault after all. They really are trying to be nice. Right?

A week or two later I'll probably be helping them shop, I've a pretty good eye after all. As I said, friendships are valuable. True friendships are rare and while suffering through the peeling of the scab is rough, I've not enough friends to cast aside the opportunity to make a true one. ... who does?

So I find myself sitting in a silent room, typing this silly tome which probably sounds like I'm borderline suicidal. I'm not by the way, the two of you can relax.

I'm just hoping for an e-mail from the latest person for whom I've let my guard down, with a time and date to meet for coffee. And taking those short bracing breaths before the rock falls.

That kid

You'll probably get pissed early on with this entry (the two of the 6-billion plus on the planet that actually read it I mean) but bear with me for a bit.

I occasionally have an internal debate as to whether to vote or not. In recent years, not voting has started to gain some footing.

The push to not bother is largely based on two points.

Point number one is largely based on the comedy of George Carlin. His argument was based on the idea that, by abstaining from the system, he reserved the right to complain. If I vote for the guy who wins and he turns out to be a tool, as they almost invariably do, I put him in office; it's my fault. If I vote for a loser, it's my fault for not doing more. So abstaining from the voting process, the fault lies on you voters. That'll probably be down to the two that read this by the coming presidential election.

So I can complain based on the idea that you (yes you two again) did this to me.

Thin argument?

Yep.

Point number two plays well into the cynicism that I often wrap myself in.

I'm going to wander off on a tangent here so feel free to wander off for popcorn or to go to the restroom. The words will be here when you get back.



*insert elevator music here*



When I was a kid, I believed. I still want to. God's love and the idea that everything would work out was something that could be wrapped up tight about you, a down comforter to keep you toasty as you waited for the cocoa to be done.

It's a ratty sheet at this point, so I tend to turn to the itchy but somewhat comforting warmth of cynicism.

Cynicism works so well with point two because it's based on the fact that there is no one to vote for.

Re-read that, both of you, please.

I find that more often than not, I'm trying to decide on a new or old devil. And inertia dictates that nature abhors change. So we stick to a guy the person we all know and have known all our lives. We keep him in office even though he's that kid.

You know which kid I'm talking about. The one in class that always asked questions. The one that didn't quite get the fundamental concept that the teacher was trying to impart so they kept asking questions. As the year wore on you started to realize they weren't trying for clarity, they were trying to memorize portions of what was being said. Nuggets of information to regurgitate during the tests. That kid that did well enough to keep from flunking, only because they'd be punished for doing so. That kid whom you initially felt sorry for, but as the year wore on; you started to resent them.

You yearned for the opportunity to learn more but that kid created significant intellectual drag. How could you move on to the theoretical when you couldn't achieve the lift to move beyond the fundamental? So somewhere, deep inside you resented that kid.

At the beginning of the year you'd hand that kid the milk when they couldn't reach it. You lent that kid pencil and paper when they were short. You helped that kid.

Towards the end of the year you realized that, when asked, you'd hand that kid the milk while rolling your eyes. You no longer had paper and pencil to share with that kid, unless grudgingly. And the more the year rolled on the more you realized you were doing this and you resented being this person that is angry at that kid for his shortcomings.

By the end of the year, you just wanted to get away from that kid.

So here we are, just a few weeks from the end of a presidential term. That kid has had the run of the playground. And you have a chance to take the ball bin back for the kids that want to learn. Here's your chance.

But who to give control of the bin too? There's the rub.

Most of the students who are vying for that control are just like that kid. Maybe they haven't been in your class all year, but you can tell them by now. Their shoes are shiny up front but tarnished behind. They care what you think of them coming, but not once they've moved beyond you. And in politics, the playground is filled with that kid and his clones.

We try to see the good kid inside. The sweet fellow that we handed the milk too, shared supplies with, maybe even gave up the after school soda for, to lend them lunch money. We want that kid, the one we loved and cared about. The one we wanted to succeed. That's the kid we want to give control of the bin too.

But politics is filled with that kid instead. So we don't vote for that kid from our class. But we still vote for that kid from some other class, because that's all there is to choose from.

We hope and pray that the kid we wanted to help, that we wanted to share our things with and take care of wins.

Don't you want the kid they were to succeed?

Don't you want to vote for that precious little angel?

And that's where we all fuck up. That precious little angel isn't the one to vote for. He's that kid in gestation.

Why vote for that kid in the hopes that he isn't that kid. The one who should be getting the vote is you. The you from the beginning of the year. The you that held out your hand to the less fortunate. To the less gifted. To the kid you knew was going to hold you back.

That's who I want to vote for.

Vote FOR.

When's the last time you did that?

I want to vote for you.

You, who sheltered the less fortunate.

You, who cares about others.

You, who seeks knowledge with an unquenchable thirst.

I want to vote for YOU.

But you won't run.

I don't blame you. I won't either.

It takes someone flawless in this day and age to run. Or a wish to be torn apart for the slightest of indescretions. The flaws that make you human make you undesireable here.
Or, it takes, a gifted liar.

Or that kid, surrounded by those who can do the lying for them.

There's no one to vote for. That's' argument number two.

It's a really good one too. But it doesn't stop me from dropping my marble in the jar. Not yet.

Because I still want to believe. It's the only argument that I can still hang on to. Not belief. A wish for it.

So I'll see you in line in November.

Because I want to believe.