“…..
At last, there were two bright glowing orange lights in the middle of that evening. I wanted to say something intelligent, something that would make me look better to this beautiful stranger, and so I said nothing. Impressed, she spit out a few meaningless words about the weather, and how it was supposed to be colder. I agreed, even though I didn’t fully remember. We ran through the rest of the usual small talk obligatory questions, and by the time I was comfortable enough to almost profess love, she flicked her cigarette into the wind, said thank you, and disappeared. I felt another rip inside of my heart. Another opportunity gone.

I returned completely unfocused to my cigar, but off track I felt like going back inside. I’m not a chaser by nature, I’m an avoider. I successfully avoided her, but now was willing to listen to arguments for chasing. In the some odd years outside with my cigar I haven’t followed anyone inside. Inside was chaos. The drunk, the ignorant, the sober, the even more ignorant. One after the other they place story upon story on top of one another until they are nothing but whatever the last guest to leave would find under his coat on the bed. They are all heavy and without substance.

Laziness and pessimissim tried to swallow my new found desire to walk inside, but three gill thumping ice cubes convince me otherwise. I’m not much of an organizer. I usually am doing while others are planning, but this time I need a plan. Walking with gusto into where I retreated from won’t work. On the way in, as if they are trying too hard to sway the nonsense away from themselves and onto anybody else, the guard announces arrival. A hearty ,“Where have you been?” or a pathetic buddy sounding, “There he is!” awaits.

The drums sound and the cacophony of musically in tune conversation grinds to a halt for a sad sulking man in an uncomfortable but works perfectly in situations like these jacket. They, with fire in their eyes, accuse and incriminate, they judge themselves innocent of everything, but hang on to their trust of no one like it’s their last breath. Devils lean forward to poke and prod a reason from the newly-arrived’s chapped lips. With promises of membership and future material soul purchasing gifts, they hang cocktail napkins off to the side of their glass to hide the contents, and swirl half-melted ice cubes into each other.

Five feet from the door I stop to watch the cardboard characters move to and fro excitedly. Suddenly, off to the left, I recognize a shape that I wasn’t chasing. She isn’t cardboard and so she catches me. I was right before. She is beautiful. Her half-smile is beautiful and it hides even more beautiful behind it. I want to turn away, but I don’t. I want to go inside, but I don’t. With the sweet relief that can only come when somebody makes the decision you are afraid to make, outside steps the shape that I wasn’t chasing, and again my matches are called into service.

I don’t drink Scotch, but that’s my secret. Tonight I do, because she does. Her thin womanly pour reaches out as if trying to thinly coat the almost breathless ice cubes. She brings them back to life, and as far as favors go we’re even.

…..”

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We have an office in London. It’s quite a departure from the usually mundane northern suburbs of Chicago office that I’m used to. I’m pretty sure the building was once something that somebody wrote a story about. Now it’s housing for busy people doing busy things. The building was beautiful in a way that my architecturely-minded brother would appreciate. Me, I notice but move on quickly.

There’s nothing like a ten-minute power walk past millenium old castles to remind you that you’re out of shape. Physically, as well as mentally.  I huffed and puffed and made it, barely.  There was no time to take pictures. No time to collect my thoughts. After all, we were on our way to work. I wasn’t laying down enough proverbial bread crumbs, and that turned into a mistake only a sore thumb could appreciate.

Just an hour into work (sitting, doing nothing actually,) I realized a dire need to return to the hotel. A small bathroom in a small office is no place to get completely comfortable. In a strange land, amongst strangers who will no doubt judge you violently in your absence, you must exercise discretion. Simply put, this wasn’t the place for number two.

Enlisting a friend who was also in need of the hotel for a much better, but not so dire, reason, we set out on what can only be labeled as “The Great London Umbrella Debacle.”  I’m a titler. I title incidents for the sake of remembering  them. Not that this such incident is forgettable, it’s just that much better with a title.

Four steps into a courtyard that housed the architecturely-beautiful office building, we were introduced to a bout of stereotypical English weather. Rain, wind, no sun, lots of people moving quickly, and two sore thumbs in need of umbrellas. Thankfully, a little shop nearby was setup for just the occasion of preying upon tourists that hadn’t enough respect for Mum Nature.

Four steps from the shop, my colleague’s T-shaped umbrella was violently converted into a familiar and never-not-funny Y-shape. I have the innocent and immature glee of a six-year-old, (psychological defense mechanism?) and at this very moment I was rapt with enough of that glee as to force upon me an unstoppable and uncontrollable giggle fit.

This giggle fit was soon worsened by my careless neglect for my own T-shaped umbrella. Somehow, I managed to turn that T into a combination Y and L shape. A bastard letter that is unrecognized by my keyboard, and symbolically represents “wet P.J.”

Ill-equipped and navigationally challenged, we pressed on. Not accounting for the maniacal construction of streets paved over paths worn out by horses, we were slowly, and wetly, moving more to the right than was necessary. Thankfully, somebody thought to place our hotel against the river Thames, and very close to the unmistakable Tower Bridge. This would help us come to the conservative estimate of being two miles further than we should’ve been.

I’m not a walker, so my disappointment was fierce. As was my impending doomful situation. On an unwritten, and for purposes of this writing alone, list, shitting my pants ranks as the number one thing I don’t want to ever do again. (Yes, again. I was in the third grade and am far removed from the memories of being hosed down by my grandmother in the backyard. Laugh it up, because that’s the only value to me adding this.)

As with most stories that are drawn out of little-to-no substance, this ending comes swiftly, suddenly, and much like the way you expected it. We followed the mighty Thames up to and into our hotel, thus ending any and all concerns of involuntary underwear desecration.

Lessons were learned, laughs were large, two umbrellas were thrown away, and a taxi was hailed for the return trip.

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 ”Temperate temperance is best; intemperate temperance injures the cause of temperance. ” – Mark Twain

   Moving forward is nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other. Something we’ve been doing ever since we wobbled to a stance in diapers. To some it’s a roadblock, and to others it’s a stepping stone. Both groups are right, because moving forward will mean whatever you want it to mean.

    I took a long much needed break from staying out all night and barely remembering how I got home, to just sit and soak in what the other options I had were. Boo to anyone who uses the analogy of going out for ice cream with friends instead of to the bar, because it’s fake. It’s as fake as a well-framed certificate from an online therapy class. One does not lower their inhibitions through ice cream. So goes the old sleeping a normal schedule argument. That line only leaves a few more hours to ponder what the hell is wrong with you.

     Putting one foot in front of the other, I asked if I could borrow a raggedy looking book hidden under a stack of self-help magazines. It was an out, and it worked. It was also an excuse to come back the following week. If anything, I am not a thief and so by taking that book, I was forcing myself to return.

     Pretty much everything I told her up until that point was a lie, so saying that the book was good and I was pleasantly surprised by it didn’t take too much effort. I sat in an uncomfortable I don’t want to be here position, and she sat scribbling something on a notepad. When the phone rang, she asked for my permission to answer it, which I thought was funny because I was glad to take a break.

     Curiosity took over and I couldn’t help but peek under the cardboard cover to her steno pad. After all, it was about me. Even though I was forced to be there, and likewise, I suppose, she was forced to be there, both of us really didn’t care. I almost killed myself, and she couldn’t figure out a nine letter word for capricious.

    She caught me looking and acted as if I had discovered a horrible secret of hers. I really mean acted. I told her to get over it. I couldn’t blame her. I was tired of listening to my own lies as well. I was more jealous than anything. I knew the word was impulsive, and so I told her. I told her that I was slowly killing myself with alcohol, and that I didn’t mind it. I told her that I couldn’t remember the last night that I didn’t have a drink. I told her that everything that I had said previously was a lie, and that I didn’t read her book. I told her that I was uncomfortable, and then I almost cried.

     I sat there, lighter, and a little more comfortable. She was still the whole time I ranted. Finally, just long enough to let me catch my breath and stop the tears, and right before I was going to tell her to go to hell, she closed her steno pad, threw it on the coffee table, and said “let’s begin.”

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There is a certain arrogance associated with writers. A thick chip permanently rests atop their left shoulder and blocks their view every time they try to look back. This need to convince other people of things, and inflate thoughts until they explode all over is a disease. Writers are forever stumbling off into the night in search of what to write next and sometimes they never return.

Type A writer’s syndrome is the search for acceptance. It is the search for proof that your words form crisp sentences and understandable paragraphs. A quest to do more than the next person. Type A’s usually design the book cover before they even have an idea of what their words will sound like. They organize, they edit, they rinse and repeat. They work hard at selecting their words and then work harder to get somebody to read them. These people have come to the writing for a reason. Popularity is usually a good excuse. Inside of a thesaurus next to popularity, you’ll find acceptance.

Type B writer’s syndrome is the insanity of writing. The afflicted must sort out words jumbled together inside of an idea. There are long words, short words, pretty words, ugly words, and the best of all words, the make believe words. Whenever a conversation happens, type B’s try to correct the sentences spoken to them. Type B’s wake up in the middle of the night to write something down on an envelope stamped final notice that only they will understand in the morning. The words have found this person. They shake the writer violently and yell for them to be used. They possess the afflicted and seep out through their fingertips. Type B’s have never tried to write. They just do. Other people waste their time trying to paint Type B’s as geniuses and, in return, they find out that there’s a fine line between genius and insanity.

For both types, a blank piece of paper has never existed. There are potential words already visible to him or her. Type A’s will color the words so that they’re seen by everybody. Type B’s will unscramble the words so that they can get on with their own day. Whether the words are chasing you, or you are chasing the words, your day will be consumed by writing. It will become a set of experiences drawn together to find the perfect word, then another set of experiences to place that word into the perfect sentence, and so on, and so forth.

There are a great many afflictions that the world would be healthier without, but a great many more that should be championed. Before you even pick up a pen or sit down at a keyboard to insult this great sport of an existence, take the time to understand what those people who stand on the stage where you wish to be standing go through. Prepare yourself for an introduction to your new self for which there is no known cure. For someone to traipse into something, and declare accomplishment without suffering is just plain ignorance, and last I checked ignorance is more than three hundred pages away from arrogance.

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I’m not going to get really wordy here. In fact, it’s not really a blog but rather an advertisement. I’m simply trying to use all available avenues of advertisement to drum up awareness and donations for the month of Movember.

Before I get into all that though, I’ll quickly apologize for this site being a mess and not really functioning as it was supposed to. I haven’t put my all into this and it shows. Life gets in the way of things and for me any distraction is a big distraction. I’m doing good though. No problems, just laziness. As for how things are with me they’re good. How are you?

Now, onto the Movember stuff. Movember is a clever combination of “Mo”, which is slang for mustache, and November, which is long for Nov. Basically, somebody came up with the idea to try and raise awareness for men’s health issues by growing mustaches for a whole month. A friend told me about this worldwide mustache growing phenomenon, and seeing as my Grandfather and Father both had prostate cancer, I threw reckless abandon toward my face and agreed to let the stubble stay.

So, I’m kindly asking that you head on over to  my Movember page and either donate a few bucks, join in on the efforts or at the very least send good vibes my way.

Thanks in advance and God Bless.

Click here to visit my Movember page!

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