Death, Dollar Value, and the Nicest Way to Show Someone You Care

Life is non-sustainable, at least at this level. Death is our ultimate goal as living creatures. We have but a moment to engrave our personalities on the people and experiences we leave behind and then we are gone. To where, no one knows. All the banter is nothing but conjecture, so, suffice to say that, for this realm of being, this is it, folks. Use it or lose it.

For some of us, our legacy will be our children. For others, the legacy will be the fruits of their labors; artistic endeavors, fortunes, debts... We are all complex and finite and expiring.

I threw my back out after helping a friend move this last weekend. (No one else heeded her request. Fuckers. It's ok, at least I was there to help. But for the last two days I have been paying the price. Just goes to show you, no good deed goes unpunished.) If Mt. Vesuvius erupted at this moment I would not be able to carry myself to safety, much less anyone else. Talk about vulnerability... Makes me very nervous being helpless.

And helpless is exactly how I feel when I see so many people close to me in failing health lately.

My mother's father (yes, in opposition to popular opinion I was not hatched) died, finally, last month of throat cancer. I had a horrible indifference towards him regarding my mother that I'd rather not go into at this time. But having to deal with his dying and not having even an inkling of a relationship with him for the last 10 years was torture enough. See ya...

My father's mother, my favorite grandmother, has basically been sent home to die. They removed 75 % or her stomach two weeks ago and it was riddled with cancer. Sorry, nothing we can do. Next...

Another friend has contracted some mysterious liver disease that may or may not be life threatening. She will have to undergo intensive exploratory biopsies all the while raising her three children alone. I think I saw that one on Lifetime...

Another friend, after suffering from severe migraine headaches for years, was finally diagnosed with a brain tumor (thank God not malignant) and is having it removed in a couple of weeks unless a chemical alternative can be formulated. Happens all the time...

Plus my Euro-trash ex is suffering from some unknown liver/blood condition (Thank God I've tested clean. Thanks for asking.) Whatever...

These are not nameless faceless statics, these are people who have or have at one time had a piece of my heart, whom I think about on a daily basis. They have names and faces and lives and mortgages and dreams and desires that I know all about... They are the only tie I have to my concept of humanity. And they are quitely being taken down by mysterious ailments that appear out of nowhere. Like so many other people... Like there's something in the water...

Maybe there is.

Have you heard of the plague running rampant that causes horrible skin welts, black sweat, and has a curious symptom of having colored fibers growing out of the victim's skin? You should really get that thing looked at...

It's right out of an episode of X-files. Loved that show...

I'm a little tired of being reminded of my mortality every turn I take. And getting taken down by a government-hatched bug last week and now by a kink in a tiny nerve ending... I see that we humans, as a stellar organism, are so fucking fragile. How we get up and fight our battles day after day I'll never understand. And for what?

What is my motivation??

I guess it carries over into my personal life. Why get attached when nothing ever lasts? Why give yourself completely when someone will spit all your love and caring back into your face like you are nothing?

Because we are our own emotional terrorists, and as in any terrorism, the moment we allow a threat to change our nature, the battle against us has been won. We will have been manipulated into reacting to a stimulus, made to flinch. And I am tired of flinching. I will not let some fucked up, bad-actress, little piece of Euro-trash keep me from ever allowing myself to be happy again with someone else. I deserve happiness. And regardless of whether it looks like I think it should or not, I will know when happiness is standing in front of me. I will feel the heat of its gaze slicing into my soul, stirring my desires, feeding my hunger...and I will be satiated.

In the course of our everyday lives we get glimpses of radiance, moments of pure joy with another seeking individual... But that must not be confused with the true goal. And if the goal is not to find our soul mate (if indeed something like that does exist), then what are we searching for? Companionship? That is rare enough for a feral creature like me. Security? There is no such thing. Everything can be wiped out from under all of us in a heartbeat. Just ask the Katrina survivors... Is it just a momentary rest from seaching, finding just one person who is like a beacon in the water that we can just rest against before continuing the never-ending quest..?

I'd like to think there are a number of possible combinations for each of us in life. There is not just ONE PERSON like there is not ONE GOD or ONE WAY TO MAKE TOLLHOUSE COOKIES or ONE WAY TO PAINT A PICTURE or ONE WAY TO MAKE LOVE or... (I think you get my meaning.) There are probably four people in the world we each could choose to be with and reach a level of happiness we've never dreamed possible. There are also a greater number of lesser entities whom we could live with comfortably and be relatively happy. We make our choices based upon information we have gathered, times the number of disappointments, divided by our fear and cynicism. We take the score for all contestants and compare the sum. The highest result wins us. It is a number we decide we can live with.

Now, whether or not our choices actually work is a different subject entirely. But at least we're not afraid to get outside our boundaries and attempt a connection. Fear is what keeps us docile, fear of making the wrong decision, fear of choosing the wrong person. Yes, some decisions are decidedly better than others based on a huge cross-reference of accumulated data, but listen when I say that there are no wrong decisions. The only wrong decision is the one you only half make. To commit oneself, to have total faith in one's decision is to manifest applied energy to create something new that you believe in with your whole heart. There is no wrong in that.

(Unless you happen to be Charles Manson.)

But here we come to the returning X factor: all men are NOT created equal. One man's heart may be strong enough move mountains, another man's heart can barely get through the morning paper. Therefore, results may vary.

I remember being so depressed in my mid-twenties that I finally took the Bacchanal indulgence in that one tell-tale rite of passage for all true self-absorbed drama queens; attempted suicide. Yes, I joined the legion of quirky, frightened, insecure, ex-neo-hippy-yupsters who have allowed themselves to get so far off their meds that they have actually tried to take their own lives. Now, not to glorify the emotional bottom-out that precedes a desperate cry for help like attempting to take one's own life, but I personally think, in its purist form, it's an experience that everyone should have to go through by a certain age. Like France does with the military. It would force an appreciation for life and the delicacy of living it onto your soul like nobody's business.

Or you would die. Then where would you be? Exactly...

I think the same thing about waiting tables. It should be mandatory that every registered voter in America should have to spend one year waiting tables. Believe me, a lot of attitude problems in this country would disappear.

But the act of almost killing myself made me appreciate the simple act of living. Yes, I fed the dark side of my personality with the ritualizing rhetoric and all the twelve-step conclusions you could shake a sober stick at. But it made me feel somehow venerated after the ordeal, anointed by the salt of my own tears. In a lesser person, it would have meant the end of innocence. In me, it reinstated my hunger for it. For purity. For non-fucked-upness.

Being a bachelor is an interesting feat in and of itself. Not that I'm one to expend actual energy trying to sustain that status, it has, however, remained that way for a myriad of reasons and has colored my life in its own misty shade of blue for the last 40 years. But now, when I behold all the compatriots in my personal life as well as so many I have had the good fortune to be introduced to on these digital pages 'knee deep' in the formation of another life that has sprung from theirs... It's enough to make a compassionate and integrous man question his motives... and his desires. Being a bit on the fringe of the family and marriage thing I am cautious to open my mouth sometimes and probably am not completely welcome to do so in certain company. However, I just have to say, for someone like me, who's heart is like the ashes of a once raging inferno, I envy you all who have had the courage to make such a commitment to yourselves to have children... It is a wondrous sight that I, very much the star-sailor, have never had the fortune to cast his eyes upon. Kudos and much compassion to each and every one of you.

It is not something I may ever do. I am too afraid to subject my offspring to this fucked-up circus of a life we live. So I have refrained. But I have always thought I'd be a great surrogate father...

Quit laughing. I would be. Hell, people like me should have children. There wouldn't be so many mongoloids running around. Because my children would trap them and eat them.

I love children. Such pliant fingers... (Oh, wait, that's Hellraiser...) I mean... Such pliant minds... I love the concept of putting your thoughts and ideas into the head of a little person. It's like getting a new computer; programming it, telling it what to do in whatever situations... Yeah, one growing, consuming, totally draining, fallible computer that wrecks the car and talks back... (On second thought, maybe it IS a bad business plan... But that's for another time...)

No, really, most children take to me immediately. Probably because I'm one of them in many respects. I think they are so incredibly intelligent, if they had the gifts of communication and discernment we adults wouldn't stand a chance.

Speaking of children, have any of you ever dated one? (And by child I don't mean pedophilic, underage sickness, just younger.) The good rule is ten years or more constitutes a child. Unless you're 50 or over. Then if the person doesn't have their shit together by the time they're 40, it's no one's fault but theirs...

(Ah, on second thought, maybe I should shut my fucking mouth...)

Young lovers are mostly good stock; healthy, appreciative, well-meaning, curious, exuberant... And on the Cordova scale exuberance actually holds more weight than looks or brains. Especially in if it's strictly sex. So many times we are out late at night and work up an appetite. We stroll up to the garcon and say,

"Yes, I'll have the young brunette, rare, with a side of exuberance..."

But really what you should say is,

"I think I'll have an entree portion of exuberance and a side of young brunette. Rare."

So much tastier... And a better dollar value.

But it's different for women. Young men might be in great shape, hungry, motivated, and constantly horny but so is my friend's Jack Russell Terrier and I wouldn't fuck him with your dick- (er, ah, pussy) (Not my particular bent)

But here's the skinny, girls, from me to you:

Men shouldn't be trusted until they're well into their 30's. Because until then the only voice they listen to is the little voice inside their heads. Their dick heads. Not that that in and of itself is a crime, but they lack the motivation and sincerity to reciprocate your affections. Attention Deficit Disorder of the glands. And every sensualist knows that the true seat of personal pleasure lies in the ability to please your partner. And though as Americans we live in the worst of all possibly worlds when it comes to sexual freedom, some of us are able to cross into the barrier of sexual awareness, stay away from criminal perversion, and allow ourselves and our lovers to live the lives of sensualists. But that's the nature of a thinking man who thinks with his...head.

And in all honesty, ladies... it never changes. Not really. Its focus might not always be on you, but the song, ad infinitum, to one extent or another, always remains the same.

Of course, in relationships, though familiarity may breed the deepest contempt, it also allows for certain joyful liberties to be taken. At least with people like us (yes, I will even include myself in this truest of blanket statements), you know where we're coming from.

We are the boyfriends who are always grabbing your ass when we open the door for you. We are the ones staring at your tits when you are telling us about your day. We daydream about putting our cocks in your face when you are relaying a particularly hurtful email from your mother... When you're gone we go through your panty drawers and sniff our favorites in hopes a trace of pheromone resides in the string of the thong. We sneak in and watch while you shower early in the morning before work. We drag you into dark alcoves and drop to our knees to pull your panties down and take you in our mouths while no one's looking at your office party. We are nurturing, dependable, and ambitious. We are constant. You can set your clocks to us. We're charming, but we're not exactly nice. We don't have to be; we're honest. Overly nice people are hiding something. John Wayne Gacy was nice. John Wilkes Booth was nice. The Uni-bomber was nice. You don't have to worry about hidden agendas or dangerous stalker episodes from us... You know exactly what to expect: We want to fuck you. All the time. End of story.

Now, personally, I can't think of a nicer way to tell someone you care.

We don't want your friends, we don't want you to want your friends, we don't want the preppy waitress from lunch nor the quiet bank teller nor the smoking-hot Absolute girl at the bar giving out free liquor. We want you. On all fours. Eight hours out of ten.

But youngsters don't understand the delicacies of sustaining a relationship of that intensity.

Fast food.

Living nostalgia.

Humble pie or bitter fruit.

Young women can be swept along in the game, but young men cannot take the wheel. Not really.

The penis is a double-edged sword. Indeed...

But, really, why all of this banter on such a solomn day?

Because this is my reality. It is what I know. I was not one of the unfortunate thousands to be directly touched by the catastrophy of 9/11. But I am human. I feel pain. I have those I love who have gone. I have others I long for. I have dependants and obligations and self-imposed miseries that mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. My world is fragile and insignificant to everyone else on the planet. Except me. And we are all the same in that respect. And though we are reminded how we should embrace the collective pain, we should also remember to handle our own pain and not stuff it down with concerns for things outside of our own lives. There are factors surrounding 9/11 that are inconcievable to many of you. And therefore, to you, they do not exist. Because there is nothing more important to you than your life and those in it. The government tells you it's protecting you. And why shouldn't you trust your own government? It only has your best interest in mind. You might as well question your own motives... Why should truth ruin our requiem? Why should such a horrible event clear our vision when it can cloud everything but our collective sense of revenge? And whether we are gazing out of hanger doors with thousands or mearly peeking outside our front windows we see the same thing. We feel the same pangs of fear, we hold the same resentments, cherish the same desires... and we are vulnerable.

Perception...it is our reality.

And we embrace it.


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