I went into the national celebration called Black Wednesday not realizing how much I needed a release. The release came in moments wrapped up in ironies. Real ironies, not the poetic moments people mistake for ironies. Then again, I hold off on that because I might get to the end of this thought and mistake my own poetic moments for irony.

I get claustrophobic which works out well because Black Wednesday (the night before Thanksgiving) is the busiest night of the year and most of the night is spent shoulder to shoulder with people at them there bars.

The more and more I wanted to look at the college girls walking through the door the more I felt like their older brother. It’s the stars in their eyes and their desire for the next five minutes that had me aging. We all go through those stages along our ways. Note to self: GET TO THE GYM MORE!

I listened to a band that spends much of their time sounding like chicks in their effort to play for chicks. This works out well because I’ve been listening to DB go on and on about how the mythical lore which made Rock n Roll “Rock n Roll” has all but completely sold out the Man that it rebelled so hard against. He supposed Marx could have been right: you put down a rebellion by paying off the leaders. Forgive him. He’s been listening and preparing his thoughts for Corporate Whoredom regarding Guns n Roses “Chinese Democracy.” DB’s concerned that perhaps the album was the last remaining hope for real music fans to hear quality music on radio stations again and that the only way Chinese Democracy would have given the music faithful hope would have been to remain but a hope and stay unpublished.

Anyway, while listening to The Unit play for chicks and enjoying them enough to where it feel ironic to the point of traitorous…

The Thriller Dance Contest

I realized that powerful music once named “Rock n Roll” then “Rock” might be circling back around. The reason “rock and roll” was “rock n roll” was for a simple reason. With that realization, my traitorous sensation started to subside. As a line from my favorite TV show, Sports Night, promptly put it:

“And in that moment, Dan was reminded once again of why he wanted to write in the first place. It’s for the same reason anybody does anything…to impress women.”
–Sports Night, “Dear, Louise” written by Aaron Sorkin

And while I listened from afar to the comical antics of The Unit, I felt better about the state of things. “Rock” might now have a fighting chance because there’s no more saviors to wait upon. DB disagrees. So it goes. I can’t wait to read his thoughts.

I continued to listen from farther and farther away because me, DB, Gag and Max commandeered the dart board in the back of the room, bought all the quarters the Franklin House cash register had, and hung out by ourselves in the back all night. I love filling up all the spaces on the dartboard with quarters: “NO ONE ELSE CAN PLAY.”

We threw and threw and threw and threw until the end of the evening came and DB, Max and I started to talk about upcoming posts for both the Whoredom and our own sites. Yes, I threw like crap or I would have mentioned how well I did. I don’t have the constitution of the others so I had to cut myself off and sober up so I could give the others a fair game by the end of the evening. I did spend time thinking about that as well.

It wasn’t until the next day – by the way, “Happy Thanksgiving” – that I realized I didn’t spend time about Book of Blues tthe night before. I didn’t think about how to publish a Book of Blues. I didn’t think about how my cousin’s going slower at reading it that I anticipated. I didn’t think about sequels. I didn’t think about the others that want to read it. I didn’t think about the others willing to give Book of Blues additional fresh eyes to look for edits – it’s print. It’ll take many eyes. I didn’t even think about being how far I’ve come to carve out a foothold as a copywriter from Chicago. I wasn’t looking at the blurry-eyed starlight of the future. I wasn’t measuring the shadows from the past. I was enjoying the moment for a change.

Well, sh#t. Maybe I’m a poet, too.

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“No. You’re a writer,” she supported.

It only took those 4 simple words said in a back alley Broad Ripple bar around 2:15 AM by a supportive lady with designer blue eyes to Brian Wilson me into an emotional cocoon for the following ten days. Barenaked Ladies summed up the agonizing experience in the song, “Brian Wilson,” from around 1992. Take a listen / view:

I’m strong and secure with myself until I remember that Book of Blues is still not published. I mean, how does she know I’m a writer? She hasn’t read a word I’ve thrown down. She’s just had a couple conversations with me. She knows I won’t drink too much. That in itself should give her an indication that I might not be any good.

The cocoon became accelerated even faster when I talked to my cousin a couple days later and, though he likes the book, he’s only on to chapter 2. Not his fault. He knows I’m getting impatient, but I didn’t get the instant gratification I needed.

The cocoon starts off simple, small – almost unnoticed: waking up in time to do the necessary things – work or school, writing / blogging, the other whatnots – and starting the day still feeling stuck in the tail end of REM sleep. Then finish the day’s activities before someone notices you exist, skip social activities or the auxiliary events such as going to the gym or watching prime time TV – because all the worthwhile shows can be seen online. Go to bed early, again, get the extra sleep to shake the sleepiness, and the circle continues.

It took me a year and a half after my time at Denominational University to diagnose this first sympton. This time, it took 4 days. I’m getting better. Once the symptom is diagnosed, the hard stuff begins.

For some, it’s fighting the drinking and smoking and carnal vices and the other La-la-LA-LA, Hey Judes, but for me, it’s comfort food and video games. Actually, it’s not even video games any more. Just overeating. Without thinking, I’m grabbing the extra donut at work and downing it before I’ve realized there was a donut. I’ll get more than enough food because I’m afraid of going through the day with less then a full stomach or with something in the bladder, afraid of the Sci-Fi channel B-movie worst case scenario happening to me in my high-risk environment of a table seat in a corporate office and not being fully prepared to handle it. Overeating forces hibernation, and the circle reforms.

Little stresses become big stresses, big meals look like little meals, hours turn into minutes and the world flies by at a bully pace. And I run and hide till I’m ready to draw a line in the sand, relearn my relationship to the world around me and live again. The days become struggles, but eventually the routine is back. It’s the haunting, mutated variation of being conscious of your own breathing and trying to breathe without thinking about it.

The good news was, while in a cocoon, ideas swirled around for the Book of Blues sequel. The title is solidified (a first), rhythms and story lines are forming. I don’t have a middle yet, but I didn’t last time either.

I’ve got a month before I go into exhile at Ft. Myers for the duration of the holidays. I dunno if the book of blues sequel will be diagramed by then – wouldn’t put it past me if it was- but I have a feeling quite a good chunk of the sequel will be written. In the mean time, I have to grind out days as a SEO Specialist / Copywriter in Chicago. I grind them with joy because living plan B (career) while I’m working on plan A (published) is still a great place. I just have to relearn it once in awhile.

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4 am samaritan in the spirit of book of blues

“So, maybe I did have beer goggles on,” my buddy, Bling, conceded as he crept into the passenger seat of my two-year-old Mustang at 4:30 AM a couple Saturday nights / Sunday mornings ago. “Still, they could have been worse.”

“Either way, we were 4 AM Samaritans,” I pointed out.

Bling nodded in agreement as he blew CO2 heat into his fingers which were still buzzing from the dueling devils of the 25 degree air temp and the cold steel that consumed our last few minutes in the Denny’s parking lot.

We rode off into the sunrise.

Somewhere along the slalom from Broad Ripple to Southport, around the luxury warehouse loft apartments in downtown Indianapolis where in the penthouse Bling once reigned (sorry for the moment in history, Bling), a dissident thought rattle through my thoughts – dissonance to the grove of the therapeutic drive. Despite this being my virgin trip to the revered Indianapolis playland of Broad Ripple, amidst the sites and sounds – from the local bars lined up like retail shops to the moonlight grillmasters skewering up steak munchies in the alleys, the thought that kept looping in my head was of a conversation I had with one of the people in our party just before we left for Dennys.

She asked me what I did for a living. Always with the tough questions.

I told her I was a copywriter (SEO Specialist / Copywriter for those who know what I do. Oh, wait, no. Let’s do it all SEO-like: SEO Specialist / Copywriter in Chicago, Illinois).

She’s like, “Oh, so you’re a writer,” as she took another sip of her martini.

“COPY writer,” I corrected.

“Oh, wow, I’m going for an English degree and then get a teaching certificate so I can have a job.”

I smiled and told her it sounded like good times. I told her that because it sounded like good times.

Her spotlight designer blue eyes roll back over to me and asked, “So, what have you written?”

I humbled, “I’ve written songs and poetry and psalms and sermons and business work. Last year, I finished writing a Book of Blues. It’s in editing.“

“Wow, so you are a writer,” she reaffirmed.

“Ehh,” I backed off, “Writers are usually those who don’t live enough or are published. I’m not at either point yet.”

“No. You’re a writer,” she supported. Unfortunately, when she said, “No. You’re a writer,” she unintentionally triggered off enough thoughts for me to confess…next time.

Story at hand: the designer blue-eyed lady’s last token harkened me back to a conversation I had 10 and a half years ago in the doorway of a motel room in Alamogordo, NM. I was getting cabin fever watching the rain drip over the edge of a canopy designed to catch sunlight only as my buddy – who inspired the character Soren in Book of Blues – caught up on his cigar. He blew smoke circles through the New Mexican monsoon – both halves of that half-inch of rain – past the sparsely filled parking lot and across the US Highway where was parked a semi trailer carrying boxed goods. I started to think about the truck driver of that semi trailer. Who was he? Why did he park there? Make his 500 mile max for the day? Tired? Vivarin not kick in yet? Still too sober – we were in New Mexico. I asked my friend, “Soren.”

“Let’s go talk to the truck driver.”

“Talk to him about what?” asked Soren, twinkle of curiosity sparkled in his eye.

“Everything. I mean, why is he there?”

“Who knows. Maybe he needs his rest?” considered Soren, stoking the fire.

“But I want to know. I want to write about it.”

“You are writing about it,” said Soren, watching his fire grow.

“What the hell do you mean?” I asked, befuddled.

“In here,” he said, pointing to his chest,”You don’t always need paper to write.”

As this memorable conversation came back to me and danced with the conversation I had with the designer blue-eyed lady, I happened back to the events of the last few minutes with Bling. His intention wasn’t to be a good samaritan; it was to get phone numbers. Then, he reconsidered. But in the end, despite what path got him there, he ended up where he was supposed to be that evening – being a Samaritan. “Not the destination but the journey that’s important” and all those Zenisms. I put that moral together with the designer blue-eyed lady pointing out who I am is not in relation to what I accommplish. And then I filled in Bling’s lesson and the designer blue-eyed lady’s moral with my friend “Soren” and his lesson in Alamogordo, pointing out that it’s not that I follow an accepted standard of craftsmenship, but that my spirit is applying the craft that makes me who I am.

These events rattled in my head for all three blocks before I came to a resolution, and the resolution allowed me to continue the slalom at a peaceful groove:

Some people say you are as how you are defined by your actions. Others say you are as your essence dictates. I don’t believe in either. I don’t have to. Perception is the only thing that suggests I have to believe in either a “defined by actions” or “defined by essense” philosophy and since Perception is just a diva who never wears the same outfit twice, then I abstain, courteously. I do pay a little more attention to the “defined by essence” philsophy because I find the real good people that way. But I do hope that those who use the “defined by action” theory to define those around them will find that I have done more than what my label “writer” suggests – if the “define by action” believers are using my harsh definition of “writer.” If they judge me so, they may take a read of Book of Blues, and so long as people read Book of Blues then I get what I want from that philosophical war because if I am defined by anything, I am defined by Book of Blues.

Sh*t. I guess that makes me a writer afterall. A revelation. I thank everyone for being where they were supposed to be, whether or not they intended to be there.

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