Back Again

I returned from my adventures as an evacuee early this morning. I think my favorite may have been the day my friend needed to get her car worked on at the Acura dealership and they gave us a TSX as the loaner car. I got to drive it all over the place and test drive it for about half the day. Fantastic. It, of course, was fully loaded, and had XM sattelite radio in it. I was not a big sattellite radio fan until after that day. Later I got to drive her TL around. I think I need an Acura soon.

Of course there were the obligatory nights out, drinks were consumed, someone tried to convince me that I should go home with them while her boyfriend sat outside, oblivious to it all. Of course there was dancing with incredibly fun folks and delicious meals were served. Blind dates were scheduled for me with all the cute girlfriends that aren't dating yet. However, all of this was merely a distraction from the other events occupying my attention.

There is just an insane amount of destruction around here. So many electric poles snapped, and there are trees and fences down throughout my complex. Trees just snapped or got pulled right up at their roots. I was lucky enough to not have any destruction and to get my power back already, but I know there are a ton of people out there that are no where near as lucky. I still have friends that I have been unable to locate since the storm. It's pretty crazy to drive through a city that has no working street lights. For awhile, there were 3 to 5 hour waits to get gas. The waits have gotten a little less, though, as more power has been restored. Fortunately, I decided to stock up on food before I returned so that I shouldn't have to leave my apartment for much this weekend.

So while I was away, I learned something. A Website is holding a contest for America's Hottest College Girl. I love that women are always willing to be seductive and trashy for a camera. I love that men are always suckers for it too. It's days like these I question why I ever went to law school instead of becoming a photographer.

I bought a journal. I think this should solve my ongoing problems with not being able to write everything I want here. I know that I hate my hand written journals because I flow better with a computer sitting in front of me, but I think that with this blog combined with my written journal, I should be able to do a halfway decent job. Even though my handwriting sucks.

An Imposter

You won't believe it, folks, but there is actually another blogger out there impersonating me! Can you believe that? Everyday I think I have seen all the tricks out there and then I go browsing through a comments section and I see that someone is commenting as me! No, they were not nefarious enough to go and steal my password or anything equally underhanded as that. Instead they merely post as me and link to my profile. However, no one but me would really be able to tell that it wasn't me.

I want to know who likes me enough to want to be me. I know I know. I really am an amazing person, and I'm sure there is just a line of people wrapping around the corner somewhere just to get a look at my devilish godlike and spectacular charm. It's a curse.

This really does sort of blow me away, though.

Unexpected Events

Friday night was ridiculous.

I ended up out with a friend at a local dining/drinking establishment, to watch the game, have some dinner, play some pool, and ponder how I ended up being misunderstood for the greater part of the afternoon. Margaritaville came to mind and I knew that by the end of it all, I would blame myself even though I really was not sure what I had done wrong. I have found that when dealing with the opposite sex, it's often best to choose your battles and this was one that I was more than willing to lose. A phone call or two later and things were magically resolved. Great. Rack 'em up.

One of the tables next to us was occupied by a pretty girl and a young guy with tattoos. He dropped a quarter on the table to reserve it for when my partner and I had finished. Cool. Somehow it then occurred to him that he should by my friend and I shots. Why? Why did he buy me shots? Not wanting to offend him, I took the shot. And then my partner willingly handed me hers as she didn't feel like drinking it. I knew things were about to go bad. I just wasn't aware of how bad.

It turns out the pretty girl works in a clinic counseling heroin addicts. Her boyfriend is a former crack addict, two time convicted felon (would have been three, but his attorney got him off - so almost three strikes), is wanted for murder, but he swears he didn't do it, and attempted murder (he admitted he did that). He has titanium rods in his mouth for reconstructive surgery because he assaulted an officer or two in his time, and has a history of resisting arrest. Look at the new friends I made, sweetie. I'm not sure she was pleased. I don't think I have had that much to drink in at least one year. If I hadn't encountered the mysterious stranger and his companion, I wouldn't have done it at all.

The next day I awoke, and only with a very mild hangover. Yeah yeah, I know, with skills like these I should be an alcoholic. If only I enjoyed it more, perhaps I would, but I pretty much got over that. We made breakfast, discussed numerous earth shattering topics like her overwhelming beauty, and prepared for our trip to Octoberfest. My friend tried to lure me with the beer, but I only had eyes for the sausage. We got a late start, she had a hair appointment, so off she went, with a promise to call me later so we could work out plans for the evening. This was the last time I saw her. I don't know where she is or if she's hurt, angry, or anything in-between. I contacted her family to let them know, and they are missing too. Perhaps she really was too good to be true.

Wilma, that attention starved whore, was clearly annoyed that I was wholly preoccupied with another woman, as she came barreling in at a full category higher than she was supposed to be. Off went my power. Down came the trees. A deluge of wind and rain ensued as I stared out and contemplated which event I would consider worse in retrospect. The disappearance of the woman of my dreams, or the absolute unfettered anger of another. As I really couldn't answer that question, I continued reading, and waited for daylight.

I now sit at my friend's house in a distant part of the state. She insisted that I come, and as she had electricity, food, hot water, and the warmth of friendship to offer, I was really in no position to say no.

This weekend has left me pretty displaced and disoriented, but alive nonetheless.

The Waiting Game

There's only one thing worse than impending doom, and that's waiting for said doom. All week, the eyes in my office have been focused on the Southern Atlantic and the Gulf as we ponder when will it hit and how bad will it be. Even before its arrival, the storm has affected lives, with some people unable to now sell their homes (buyer's cannot acquire insurance when a hurricane is imminent), surprise vacations have been thwarted, and getting gas just to get to work and grocery shopping for the week have required a more substantial amount of effort.

Waiting is often hard. Waiting for the results of a test, waiting for that phone call, waiting for dinner to be ready, waiting for Charlize Theron to realize that she actually belongs with me, etc. It's tough stuff. Fortunately, I have had sickness, work, and other people's blogs to occupy my day. Unfortunately, some of my favorites have been absent.

I also have been reading more of Augusten Burroughs. I have to say that Dry is quite different from Running With Scissors. I think I like the former more, but I'm also happy that I struggled my way through the latter as well. The writing style in this one seems different, and definitely not as disturbing to me as the second one.

And then when my blogging pals, books, and other various forms of entertainment could not keep me occupied, I always had the bizarre news stories. For example, did you know that in Oklahoma City this week a man who had worked out a plea bargain of 30 years in prison for shooting someone during the commission of a robbery. Well our evil genius robber, being a fully devoted Celtics fan, requested that his sentence be extended to 33 years, as Larry Bird's jersey number was 33. You can't make this stuff up, folks.

My weekend plans are up in the air as there was going to be a hurricane arriving here smack dab in the middle of it. I am supposed to go to a Halloween party next Saturday so I should probably go and find myself an outfit at some point soon, and I would like to cook something nice and yummy. I would also like to perhaps lose the soar throat, cough, and congestion as well, but I may just be asking for too much there. I hope you all have wonderful weekends.

A Tale of Two Blogs

Yes, it may have actually come to this.

I started a blog long ago in a galaxy far far away. In fact, it was a Livejournal, and almost no one, except my best friend, ever read it. At the time, I was wasting away in the lovely city of Naples (*BLECH*), and needed somewhere that I could vent my frustrations and unhappiness. My friend also felt that maybe I could somehow meet other similarly situated people in my area through this medium. I only really ever wrote one post and quit. I didn't really like the whole Livejournal format and I was not really sure what the hell I wanted to write.

Many moons later, I created the blog you see today. I suddenly had lots to write about and many things to say. I also really enjoyed Blogger's format and the freedom it afforded me. Additionally, anyone could join Blogger. (I believe, at the time, you had to pay for a Livejournal account.) I instantly met people too. None of them lived near me at all, but many of them were so very cool to read and had interesting things to share. It was almost like having daily columns that you like to read in the newspaper.

This past weekend, it seems a lot of my blogging buddies had tumultuous times. There were fights with family and loved ones. One person deleted their blog entirely, another person may have ended their relationship with their partner, and yet another came close. And these are just the items I know about. I, meanwhile, spent the weekend unsuccessfully fighting a miserable cold. Perhaps I truly got off easy on this one.

I try to never make important decisions while battling a fever. As such, I have made no final decisions as to what to do with this blog. However, what I may do is start two blogs. One will be a Livejournal, as it allows me to restrict who can view it, and the other would be a regular Blogger account, which would contain some of the details of my life. Seems like a rather ridiculous measure to take on some levels. However, it may be an ideal solution. I'll know better when I can hear and speak clearly again and my head doesn't feel like it's beneath three feet of water.

I hope most everyone else had pleasant and happy weekends.

Leave of Absence

Why haven't you posted?

Well I've been thinking about this a lot, actually. In fact, while I was feeling it, Stephanie was blogging about it. I'm not really sure what got her to the same point I was, but it was really interesting to read a post that expressed almost exactly what I was feeling.

I have been seriously considering ending my blog as of late. It's nice to be out there, I guess. However, it is concerning to me that a client or a colleague would stumble upon my blog and learn all sorts of intimate details about my life. It is also concerning to me that it may offend someone I know that sees something I write here. I'm really not sure what to do. As some of you may know, this is something I've been struggling with for several months now.

Varying Viewpoints

Perspective is an interesting thing. You could take thirty eye witnesses and they might all have seen something different. They, presumably, are not lying when they relate their personal accounts of what happened. The simple truth is that seeing something with your own eyes can sometimes be deceiving. Meanwhile, a person may be utterly convinced that their version of what happened is correct and be willing to defend it until their dying breath. At the end of the day, so many of the truths we cling to come down to perception.

It is always interesting to sit back and reflect on the person that we were and what urges and vices drove us during different periods of our life. Self-assessment, like sunlight on the parts of our lives that are rarely afforded any exposure to light, can be extremely beneficial, and at times chilling. Much like a climber that reaches some sort of climax, and stops to survey the distance he has transversed. He is now intimately familiar with so many aspects of the rock face that most would not notice. Now and again you arrive at really cool points in therapy and in life where you realize that you actually are not as far off as you perhaps initially presumed you might be, and that all the work that you have been doing to date was in fact not as insignificant as a pail of water on a raging forest fire.

What is more striking is how much of our view is shaped by our own powers of assessment and our own ability to be honest with ourselves about what happened. The person that denies for thirty years that abuse ever occurred will possibly be able to carry through their entire life with an entirely different slant on what is truth and what is reality than the person that is able to surpass their own denial. The funny part is that no matter what your perspective is, no matter what path you choose in climbing your mountain, it's always right, or at least it is to you.

These past weeks have been extremely eye opening to me about so many things from my past. Some things were just more reassessments or retracings of places I have already been, and some of it has been covering entirely new ground. Because of the possibility that some of the people that my realizations relate to may one day actually read this foolish thing, and they might find what I have to say to be offensive, I feel that I cannot really write here about the specifics. What I can say is that you can look back at entire segments of your life with a new found understanding as to what the hell you were doing. Of course your new perspective could be totally wrong, but when it makes so many parts of your life line up and make sense, you begin to trust that you have in fact found that missing piece to the puzzle.

Notes

When I stop loving jazz, I know something is wrong in my life. When the smooth sounds of Duke, Armstrong, and Marsalis do not provide relief, and Coltrane, Corea, and Davis only bring discomfort, I know things have gotten pretty bad. If the crooning of Harry, Ella, and Jane fail to placate and satiate my desires, it is indeed bleak. (Ok, it's really not that bad at all, and I'm just being dramatic, but it adds to the effect.)

I spent much of my youth abhorring jazz, and confining my music selections to the likes of Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Vivaldi, Brahms, Bach, etc. Jazz was something my mother would force me to listen to, often to lull me to sleep. I never understood what happiness or pleasure she derived from this odd musical form. The only jazz I liked was swing (and it's still my favorite). The rest was all a waste. Fortunately, the musicians and record industry did not listen to my admonishments, and continued to plug away for all those weird people out there that still liked this crazy thing we call jazz.

Music, in all of its forms, is such an interesting art form, and one to which I happily devoted a substantial portion of my youth. It has the power to influence moods and set the tone for an event, a drive, or an evening. However, one's mood can also effect the music that is selected. For example, I had a friend in school who would listen to Sarah McLaughlin when she was feeling sad. Others might play the theme to Rocky, or some other motivational type of music when they feel defeated. Irrespective of taste, the average person is likely to have more interaction with this art form than any other.

There are certain times in my life where particular musicians, songs, or styles simply cannot touch me. Times where I need to stay away from them because I'm not feeling it. The songs are not lifting me and the notes are not touching me. Fortunately, these times are short lived, and I always end up ... singin' with a swing.

Weekend Called on Account of Rain

The best part of my weekend was Friday night when I was at my friend's house. We started going through her volumes of pictures. Eventually, we got her yearbooks out, which she evidently annotates. I'd never seen (or created) an annotated yearbook, with "BFF" and "GFF" and markings as to who was who throughout a yearbook. Maybe this is because I am a boy. I have to say, however, that this adds so much to a yearbook after years. Even your friends who never attended your school can have fun piecing it all together. At one point, I asked my friend who this one girl in her yearbook was and she got all upset. Evidently, this was the girl that had been her best friend in high school, but who had destroyed that bond by fucking her boyfriend. Good times.

Eventually, more people showed up. The cast of characters included a young woman with huge breast impants and very low cut dress. I was warned going in - "Don't stare at her breasts." I tried to explain that it wouldn't be a problem, as I'm used to women with fake everything - I did live in Miami. "You don't understand. You will try not to look, but you cannot help it. I can't even help it and I'm a girl." She was right. The funny part was that they weren't even that great, but you just couldn't help it because they were almost falling out of the dress. You literally felt that if she turned the wrong way, they could spill out. She had even asked her fiancee as they left their house, "Is my nipple hanging out?"

I ended up passing out by about 11:30, and my friends kept drinking until 2. I just can't drink the way I used to anymore. There go my dreams of alcoholism.

I was supposed to go out on a yacht in Naples with another friend on Saturday, but as soon as I got to Naples, it started to pour. So I went home that night, spending some of my leftover weekend reading some more of Augusten Burrough's Running with Scissors. Wow. I don't think my childhood was anywhere near as messed up as his. I still cannot see the humor in most of his tales. They seem so depressing. Perhaps if they were fictional they could be charterised as funny, but as soon as I think of the fact that these things really happened to someone, it just boggles my mind.

I hope your weekend was drier than mine.