A Moment of Weakness

My apologies, my dear, but I am weak.

It taunts me, you see. It says "You do not have me yet, and you may never have me."

And I think, "But I have so much else."

It still persists, "But you do not have ME."

And I think, "But I do not want you." But I am only lying to myself. I am only passing deceit to my synapses in an attempt to stave off this terrible craving for more. To have some semblance of control on my impulses. Some... peace. But it never comes for men like me, you see. And every new disadvantage brings more turmoil and struggle and it makes it so impossible to just wait and let what may happen, happen.

I'm a man of action. I've never been the type to stand idle and try to let life happen to me. I hope you understand now, why I have to buy a Playstation 3.

A Student of Life

One of my favorite idea in life is the concept of consequence.

It's the reason you get up at the same time everyday and trudge to work. It's the reason you take your kids to band concerts and football practice. It's the reason that you don't rob a bank. Or the reason that you've thought of, but haven't gotten a tattoo.

It's also the reason that movies and now games have found a mass, endearing appeal. The idea that what is done is done, and what may come, will come is terrifying to many people. The idea that one can live on, without consequence, vicariously thru an electronic avatar certainly appeals to me, and must appeal to millions of other people who have always wanted to be the wheelman in a quick heist, or cause a mass media hysteria by waging war on a police force or government agency (a la Grand Theft Auto).

And regardless of the amount of damage you do, or whatever mutilation to your avatar may occur, you can always press reset, or save and load, or simply turn off whatever implement of entertainment you've chosen to release your consciousness to. Although, simply playing games and ignoring the other aspects of your life lead to another set of consequences altogether. I'm of course speaking of a couple of World of Warcraft addicts that everyone knows at least one of.

If you're like my wife, however, a small expected explosion still creates a massive heart palpitation, much less unexpected gun fire... screaming... or even screeching tires have sent her to a near death shock state. This interests me because I am a polar opposite. Unexpected gunfire and explosions are something I expect out of my chosen medias. This becomes even more interesting to me because of our life experiences, and the sequence of events that, regardless of definition, have resulted in our marriage.

There are people who believe that all events fall in to some serendipitous category and that "God has a plan" and all that. But I've never found myself comfortable with that notion. The idea that God has a plan for you, seems a bit selfish. The idea that God has a plan for all 6.5+ billion people on this planet seems ridiculous to me. It's easy to say God has a plan when you've been as fortunate as most of us have. People die, we fall on hard times, addictions, a lack of love in one's life. It's interesting what people act out on. It's depressing that these days people are murdered for so little.

I don't make a lot of money, but I'm willing to balance a set of consequences in order to obtain more by contracting myself to a longer term commitment. Or even to manipulate the circumstances so that I can afford more with the minuscule amount that I make. But I'm certainly fortunate enough that I don't have to depend on welfare, or disability. Or that every third person I know doesn't have AIDs. Or that we don't have to burn clothes for heat.

I guess... what I'm trying to say is, why can't I ever remember to eat leftovers?

Rumors of a Visceral Demeanor

My mother would have you believe that she's good at bargaining.

And she'd be right, if she was talking about jewelry. I had the opportunity to witness her approach first hand. She was looking at a display necklace once, and had inquired about the price. She looked at the merchant, an insinuated look of received malice passed her eyes and immediately he dropped the price by 50 buck.

Of course, this story would be more impressive if it were a 50 dollar necklace, but it still wasn't a bad catch, she knew a bad deal when she could see one, and she knew how to pick up on it. I think she paid 120 dollars, but I could be absolutely wrong about that. Not that I want to misrepresent her abilities.

I never abused this property of her existence, holding the idea that she could one day provide a benefit to my then dire financial situation. I kept this secret in a manner that you could liken to Bruce Wayne's secret shame for having been Batman... or any man would hide erectile dysfunction. I knew that I could only bring this ability out for a special situation, and that every abuse of it could only poison future results.

And I knew I had found the Chimera to unleash my secret Beleraphon upon when I had first laid eyes upon the 06 Honda Civic LX. Honda has a policy of hand picking the dealers that pedal their cars to the public, but the Trip Hawkins dealership that I had the unfortunate experience of dealing with maintained that they do not negotiate their prices. At this moment, my epiphany had relieved my financial concerns and I quickly calculated exactly how much it would cost me per month to own this car.

The sum, a bit princely for me, so I set to work on a plan for how much it would take to bring this astronomical payment down to a manageable level; namely, to sell my then current car, a 2002 Fort Taurus SES with less than 48,000 miles on it. If I could obtain a reasonable 7,000 dollars for the sale, I could certainly bring the payment down to under 300 a month. Car in hand, mother in tow, title in purse, I journeyed to the dealership, determined to make this deal work. We sat down at the table and made a graph of numbers that vaguely resembled the life I wished that I could afford.

"That seems a little high to me," I ventured.

"Well, if you could provide a down payment, we could lower the loan amount." The answer I had expected to hear.

"I'd like to trade my car, then."

"If you look at this paperwork, you'll see that the car is worth-" My brain shut down.

What was she saying? This, the only negotiating platform for trading a worthless Taurus for my prized Civic, this document of research on the worth of my unwanted vehicle lay flat on the desk. A trump card, a left bower, if you will, in this euchre game of negotiation played well to early to be useful, immediately trumped by the owner of the right bower... in this case, the dealership.

"We'll have to look at what the car is worth." I was too embarrassed to go on. This line, immediately negating all the research work I had done, had sealed my negotiation's fate.

Ultimately, to skip the rest of the boring part of the story, they had offered me 4 grand for my mule. I had declined and moved down to the Walser Mazda dealership, who at the time, could not provide a Civic (as no Walser dealer sold Honda cars). They had offered me a tidy 6 for the same mule, though that put me a thousand short of my goal payment.

I redacted a new plan and regrouped, vowing that I would strike once again at the heart of my villain. And I did, if you were paying attention, there were pictures a few posts ago.

The Hawkins dealership had since been sold to the Walser Corporation.

We purchased a Civic EX, instead of an LX (a nice upgrade, it was actually about 20,500 equipped MSRP).

And somehow... I received 5,000 dollars for my SES, a thousand more than the dealership in the very same coordinates had insulted me with a year previously.

All of this combined, we have a nicer, newer car, all for under 300 a month.

As a side note: I probably would not have gotten married as quickly had I purchased that car at that time. Take that as you will. Also of interest to me, the car insurance rates are more than 66% cheaper this year, than the year previous, thanks largely to the responsible generation 8 civic drivers representing the last year model.

Now, if only I could find that used car manager from last year, so I can kick him in the yambag...

Then I think I'd thank him.

He Ain't Heavy

After I turned 5 and before I was about 9, if you had ever asked me if I had any siblings, I'd have said, "Yeah, one."

He was the product of my father's previous marriage to a woman who I could make no fair judgment of except to say that she is the mother of my half-brother's. He, therefore, was literally, my brother from another mother, completely destroying the clever nuances of the expression the first time I had heard it, around 2nd grade.

My father explained to me, one quiet hot summer (for some reason, the ocean makes everything hotter or colder), that the reason he had to mail a portion of his salary ever month to Costa Rica (his home country) from my native Connecticut (where we were then located) was that I had a brother preceding me. This was astounding to me, the thought that before me someone else existed.

I would say that it wasn't fair for my brother, the way he grew up. I had a lot of advantages growing up that he'd certainly missed out on. Again, I can't make a judgment on his mother, but I have two great parents, many financial advantages, and a much more structured life than he'd had.

I'm not sure what had prompted it, but in the next year, my half-brother was going to live with us.

I'd be lying to you (and really, why would I lie to you?) if I told you something asinine like, "I was really looking forward to having him around." It was more like, "I wonder how he intends to get in my way." I was a spoiled child. I can only blame my parents, but how do you know what to do until you do?

The apartment we had taken residence in has been made mention of before in this blog, but a short summary. I lived in the 3rd floor apartment in a ghetto of Connecticut. The apartment existed in a converted house. The house: a massive 3 story, 4 deck house with a rear entry for the rear two units on the first and second floor and top unit. The front of the house was converted for entry to the remaining two units. Each doorway was secured by a keypad, though, because of the paranoid nature of the landlord (he owned a security company), each keypad had a different code, though the numbers 9, 5, and 1 had been worn off from use.

In it's day, the house had been massive.

In our time, that apartment still had seemed massive. 3 total bedrooms, each larger than 10 x 10, a conjoined living room, dining room, entrance. The entrance contained 3 doors, and wooden floors (great for sock-skating). One led to our massive deck, one led to the stairwell (where we had hidden the key under the pulled up rug), the last led to our antiquated bathroom.

In the bathroom, on the left, lined first with a tub, with a shower and a toilet, divided by a wall. the right hand side, only slightly less interesting contained a closet (closest to the door) containing from the bottom to the top, towels, medicine, first aid supplies, shampoo and other toiletries, and cleaning supplies. Then, on the very top shelf, approximately 10 years of Playboy. Next to this closet, a standalone porcelain sink, medicine cabinet (containing other pharmaceuticals like eye drops and the Costa Rican equivalent of "Vicks Vapor Rub": Zepol (it's Lopez backwards). Next to that, a towel rack, and a hamper. The bathroom always radiated a yellow hue, most likely from the old tiles.

The room next to the bathroom, around a small corner, was infuriatingly, the kitchen. A hole in the wall, though still sizable. It lacked counter space, but made up for this with the small table we had placed there (though it was black and did not match the off-white cabinets or off-yellow walls.

My brother, much older and much cooler than I (although his English suffered a bit) moved quietly in to my room, displacing my brother to live in the "play room". living with my brother, around mostly to spend time with my father was like living with a friend. We shared no special relationship, told the same dirty jokes we told to friends, played Nintendo together, watched TV together and even convinced my parents to get this fisher price basketball set (about half size) from which we learned how to throw the tiny ball (about 1/4 size) from the end of our driveway (some 50 feet) in to the hoop (this is an important life lesson for me later in life, but not in this post). The last time I had visited, approximately 5 years ago, that damned hoop was still there, though the jumble of cars no longer aloud for the previously mentioned fun.

Kind of a tangent, I know, but it's important to develop character.

I had finally grown tall enough by the start of the school year that I could reach the top shelf of the bathroom closet, enabling me to soak up knowledge of the female anatomy that had previously gone undiscovered (though I had played "doctor" with a friend growing up, her anatomy wasn't quiet as... developed as was the anatomy now revealed to me thru the fruits of Hugh Hefner's enterprises).

Part of my whole concocted scheme (I was a genius then, too) was that I could never replace the magazines in any order other than the order they originated in. Believing I was on the sly, however, I never considered the possibility that my newly represented half-brother could possibly have been looking at these magazines as well; I was under the mistaken believe that this treasure had been limited to my exposure and that of its proprietor.

It's Christmas Eve that year, and though we were never a religious family, we always made Christmas a big deal. All of our friends whose family was located far and away always made sure to come to our house for the Christmas feast. In our living room, though there was barely space for the 3 seat couch and love seat, we squeezed in a Christmas Tree, heavily decorated, to displace the single seat to the corner, faced away from the hole in the wall containing our 27" console tv.

I had sat in this seat, not long after relieving myself in the bathroom (I failed to mention that the dividing wall between the entry way and living room was only a half-height wall). With the gameboy, which I had acquired because it was the thing to have (I told you I was spoiled), I pearched, burning alkaline to the tune of Super Mario Land. My half-brother lay on the 3 seat couch, watching a show I don't recall, my other brother, in his room, watching Barney.

My father, who's patronly duties had concluded prior to the evening entertainment, retires himself to the bathroom, and immediately bursts back thru the door.

"Who's been looking at my magazines?"

My half-brother and I looked at each other, terrified of what this had meant. My only thought, "Confess, and your death may be quick and painless." A lump, which had quickly developed in my throat, prevented this action.

"Isn't anyone going to say something?"

My half-brother chimed in at this critical moment. "I did, I'm sorry."

My father, tamed by my half-brother's confession, morose with the concept of getting angry at the son he had see only a handful of times before could say only this: "Well, these magazines are not the way to learn about women. We'll talk about this later."

That moment will forever define the importance of my half-brother in my life. Now, if you were to ever ask me if I had any siblings, "Yes," I would answer, "I have one and a half." But only because he didn't live under my roof. In every other way, he would be simply: my brother.

UPDATE: I have this post as the previous post and reposted it because someone used some clever html to thread jack my comments. Because of this, I'm disabling anonymous commenting. To whomever it was that did that: I know it's hard to get your quote up on the QDB popular list, but in the long term, who gives a flying fuck if you do? It's an alias for fuck's sake. And it wasn't even a good quote. Stop being a dick, and my blog is nowhere near popular enough for you to earn votes for that.

Hot Pursuit

The great thing about running away from strippers, they're always wearing heels. If they get to a car though... well.. forget it.

I was working an overnight at a gas station nearby the King of Diamonds. The station was a larger sized hole-in-the-wall operation, though things look much nicer now. Kind of a neighborhood Kwik Trip, if you will, though at a noon, it's all construction workers. The people that come in after 10pm, they're a different shade of gray, if you know what I'm saying. Some smell of pot, some reek of alcohol, some look crazy and some are completely normal customers who just happened to stop in at the later hours.

It's about 2 in the morning, and I'm cleaning up shop. The floor is perpetually dirty, which is an irritation as far as I'm concerned, because I love a clean floor. I recall wondering to myself why they won't just re-tile the damned thing. The tile was at least 30 years old, and as it started an even off white color, years of wear had revealed to me that people are, in fact, sheep.

Generally, you don't sit in front of the register during the later hours (1 to 4), generally, you set a bell on the door... or lock the door, and perform your duties (you have to lock when working in the cooler). Again, it's about 2, but I've completed my duties, and I'm sitting down, reading a magazine. They sold dirty magazines there, lots of them, it's a popular trucker destination. But I wasn't reading a dirty magazine. Nope, not that I wouldn't have interest, I was 18. The reasoning was simple.

Nothing quite as embarrassing as reading playboy behind the counter of a gas station when a woman walks in. Any guy will look at it and say "Hey, did you read the part about the new (insert device here)" or "Did you see this months spread?" Any woman ignores the magazine... and that makes it... worse somehow. I'd rather be told it was deplorable. Anyway, the point is I'm not reading a porn, but it's a moot point anyhow.

Around 2 am, you get no end of drunk drivers. Some of them are smart enough to stay in the car, others are dumb enough to come inside. It was a good time for cops to be around, and there was a standing offer for a free cup of coffee/cappuccino for anyone that wanted to do a little drunk enforcement. There were no cops around that night.

Some guys have a lot of luck. Some with money, some with women, some with family, or health. The guy this story is about didn't seem to have much of any of this going on. This guy, drunk, cops a feel on a few of the girls, then tries to solicit sex, because you could get away with that at a few other clubs - at least, that's how the girls told it. He gets kicked out, but on his way out, he tells every girl he sees that he thinks she's a filthy whore, and that they'd be sorry (again, that's how they told it).

So this guy - I'll reiterate, he's drunk - drives down to the station, crossing to the handicap spot, and much to his dismay, a white cavalier with no less than 4 strippers pulls up in to an actual parking spot. He gets out of the car, trying to make it in to the station, but they catch him at the door. It doesn't take much bring him down his corpulent ass to the ground, as drunk as he was. Then they roll him farther in to the parking lot, away from the door.

Then they start kicking his ass.

I can't explain to you the sheer awesomeness of watching 4 women with stiletto heels kicking the shit out of this drunk, fat, balding guy. It was like watching a movie, I was in shock.

I knew a couple of the girls - they like to buy cigarettes before and after the shifts - so I ask "What's going on?"

"He touched me and called me a whore."

While normally I like to stay out of these matters, and leave them for the police, I know when my gut tells me something, that I should listen. Before this, I have to explain that everyone lies. It's a universal truth of the human condition. You do it, I do it, they do it, he did it. Everyone, there are no exceptions. But I thought about it for a minute.

Why would 4 strippers chase a drunk driver to a gas station to beat him up?

Not because he's drunk, because they're looking after their own. If it was something as simple as him being dirty, they could have found a bouncer (Jake was the bouncer at the King of Diamonds and used to work the midnights at that station. Ironically, strippers in and out of the station all night was how he got the job.) and had him do the job.

I decided for myself that I thought he was guilty. That and his cries of "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it" really didn't do much to fortify his innocence. So I let the beating go on for about 10 minutes. Then I called the cops.

The girls left, and the guy, too drunk to stand and too hurt to crawl, sprawled himself on the no parking zone of the front entrance. A beached whale who missed his opportunity to cede back in to the ocean. When the cops arrived, I gave my statement. He gave his. And he went to jail, for DWI, public intoxication, and also was ticked for parking in a handicap zone. When I was asked for a description of the girls, I couldn't say much.

"I dunno... there were four of them... I didn't think to get their plates. 3 Blondes... one looked like a redhead, but they were probably wigs, right? About 6'0" - but could have been 5'8", I saw some big heels. Big breasts."

"Anything else you could give us."

"Sorry, Sergeant, it all happened so fast."