It seems like I’m the only person who still knows what happened a year ago.  Someone else made some rather half-hearted apologies about it, and claimed to have lied so much about the incident that it couldn’t be reversed.  Meanwhile, I’ve taken the brunt of those lies and accusations, and even had those lies used as further evidence for more things that never happened.
     It truly sucks to watch someone you care about devolve into paranoia and mania because of past trauma.  It’s even harder to watch them drink themselves into oblivion, effectively brainwashing themselves into believing their own bullshit because they’re too weak to stand up and say, “Hey, I have a problem, and I need some help.”  Sure, I’ve self-medicated the same way myself at times, but I’ve also known enough to realize when I needed help — and sought it out and taken it.

     So, suffice it to say, I’m more than a little down today.

     And my shoulder is killing me.

     Last week, I threw it out pretty bad.  I kept eating Ibuprofen, putting FlexAll on it to try and deal with it.  But by Friday, it was so bad that I had to go to the doctor.  I dreaded the Cortisone shot as much as I might dread a catheter, because they always hurt like Hell.
     This time was worse.  The shot was easy in and of itself, but filling an already inflamed joint with a thick paste adds tremendous pressure where you’re already feeling it.  That’s usually tolerable, except in this case, the entire bottom of my arm went cold and numb, and the fire shooting through my arm’s nerve tunnels had me pretty damn close to tears.
     “Keep your mind off it,” I kept thinking on the way to get my prescription filled.  I gave Mushy a random call, knowing he’d gone through a worse bout of it last year with his shoulder.  Didn’t work.  “Horror stories.  Fuck.”

     And then, of course, came time to deal with the idiot Pharmacy techs who can’t read, “ALLERGIC TO ACETAMINOPHEN” on a prescription.  Nor did they have the brains to figure out the milligrams for a one-size-fits-all drug.  Nor did they have the social skills to treat me like anything less than an addict, even going so far as to say, “This doesn’t look like a real prescription.”
     The third pharmacy, of course, was the charm — but not before going back to the doctor’s office to get them to fill out the prescription form properly and call in the medication to the pharmacy of their choice, who also missed, “ALLERGIC TO ACETAMINOPHEN,” as did the third after having that one called in by the second pharmacy.

     I finally got the drugs I needed.

     And I logged in here after an extended absence to find a rather overwhelming amount of spam.

     “Are tose numbers even close to right?“  I can’t even tell.  Since the spam filter only shows twenty per page, the page numbers I can click to are also in expoential notation … all thanks spambots, page scrapers, content theives, and Southeast Kentucky Rednecks, thanks to the bullshit in the first part of this post…

     Some days, I just shouldn’t bother.

“I’m gonna bar-b-que your ass in molasses!!!!”

Sorry – I removed the video as embedding wasn’t allowed.

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnRwQjTYfGI)

     “Hey, you should come over Wednesday night.  Plenty of food!”
     “So, what, you’re havin’ a party?”
     “Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that, but lots of food, a few friends, drinks…”

     Yeah, I remember those days… I’ll bet Mr. McCaughan does, too…

     Just a “few friends,” indeed…

     Then the next morning, you’re trying to figure out who shat in the cat’s litter box and why all the deck furniture is in the trees.  The VW Microbus sitting in the den can never be easily explained.

     Exasperated due to many futile attempts, I’d usually just scream, “Those damn raccoons!”

     I mean, what the hell was I supposed to say?

     It’s not like anyone ever actually believed me when it was so clearly the work of Sebastian Cabot and his evil horde of winged monkies…

     Damn evil hordes of winged monkies!

     [ It never happened, but we wanted it to.  Her Mom got sick, people protested, there was drama.  And finally, she started back at her Job on February 4th, and that was the end of that.  On the 3rd, she told me, "No job is worth losing you, Mark."  It was left unfinished... I moved there, and what we have now is a bad end of history... Yet, I still feel exactly the same way. ]

     It’s Friday, January 18th, 2008 at approximately 10:30AM EST … and the Wildcat and I are making our last trip back to Kentucky where I leave her and come back home alone.

     The last six months feel like forever, yet they have gone by so quickly at the same time. 
     Apart, thoughts are consumed with things we’ve done, things we’ll do.  Together, we’re consumed in each other.  When we stumble, we hold on tighter.  When we’re down, we lift each other up.

     Every experience I’ve ever had prepared me for the moment that I met her.  Every bit of agony made me appreciate her that much more.

     On New Years Eve, at thirty seconds to midnight, I stooped on one knee and asked for her hand, the hand that I knew would hold mine for the rest of our lives.  With a resounding “Yes!” and a ring set on her finger, we entered the New Year with a kiss and a promise.

     And now, it’s time that promise was realized.

     I’ve lost my job.  My things.  My car.  My home.  My family.  My sanity.

     My Wildcat… She taught me how to Love, how to be open…

     And then … what it feels like to truly fear.

     I can have all all I want in the world, but it will never matter without her.

     Because now I’ve lost her, too.

     And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.  No amount of compromise, bending over backwards, psychiatry, psychology or anything else can fix this.  She’s made up her mind: “Goodbye, Mark.”

     And still, I am completely and totally in love with her.  There is no compromise, there’s no less love, there’s no anger, just …. fear.

     Now my biggest fear is realized.

     I lost her.

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZrddP5A4WY)

     And I just want to sleep and not wake up again.

     Friends come and go.

     Enemies accumulate.

     Work is different.

     We move around.

     But then …

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZrddP5A4WY)

     I put that together for my Wildcat …

     Our memories for Valentine’s Day.

     Not a damn thing has changed.

     Maybe the only thing that hasn’t…

Note: Music Copyright © Blue October. All Photos Copyright © 2007-2008 Mark Steel.

     One of the things I’ve noticed when reconnecting with so many people from my distant past is that, in many cases, there’s a damn good reason they were in the past to begin with.

     The mid- to late-80’s in Knoxville’s historic Old City were rife with what can only be termed as “Neo-Artsy-Gothic” kids hanging out and causing themselves no end of grief.  Actually, that movement didn’t really stop until around ‘94, and by that time a huge percentage of them — like 1 in 3 — had either killed themselves or ended up in jail.  Sometimes their crimes were violent, but they usually revolved around someone getting busted for selling drugs.  When that happened, all the little Wannabe Punks would all act like The Establishment was Keeping Them Down, but then turn right around and squeal like little pigs to the very Machine that they’d raged against before.
     Put simply … they were a bunch of Asshats.

     I used to try and take care of some of them, because I was a little more responsible.  I helped them find places to live, helped them get jobs, tried to keep them out of trouble with cops, and try to cope with whatever the Hell it was that was tormenting them so.
     Eventually, with the biggest majority of them, I realized that was a lost cause.  They wanted their lives to be tragic, and made every effort to bring on the tragedy.  The more grandiose and overly dramatic, the better!

     It’s weird to see a lot of them, now fifteen to twenty years later, and they’re exactly the same.  They somehow have jobs, more money, and they’re still every bit as tragic. 

     I met two of them today at a job interview.  Yep … a couple of wannabe punks who emulated Morrissey and Peter Murphy back then, and they haven’t changed much.  Their attitudes still suck, their social skills haven’t improved, and they’re still wankers.  Forty-somethings, never married, still popping pills, cutting on themselves, getting tattoos, getting arrested every other month because they never learned to shut the Hell up and try being nice to people for a change.

     As I walked out after the interview — which they thought was impressive, and I fit the job perfectly — I heard them talking to one another as I scheduled another interview with the receptionist.
     “Man, he was so much cooler when he had long hair!” said Peter Murphy.
     “Yeah, he’s like all responsible and shit, and apparently has been for a long time.  F$#* him!” replied Morrissey.

     Big difference in me now and then.  I’m nice to people, and a lot of good comes of it.  I tried to be nice to people back then, too, but in all honestly, people didn’t take to it well for various reasons.  I didn’t realize there were many nice people in Knoxville until I cut off the hair…

     And … Back then, I was a lot higher strung that I am now.  I kicked those guys’ sorry asses — on multiple occasions — for looking at me sideways.

     And, somehow, those losers thought that was cool… *shakes head*

     I could have turned and said, “Yeah, ya know what the difference is between you guys then and now?  You used to try and emulate semi-cool, somewhat artistic people.  Now you’re just a couple of washed-up, middle-aged Asshats.”
     Instead, I walked out laughing…  Especially when it hit me that since they’re in their forties and still acting like that, they more likely resemble a couple of Chris Crockers.

     But I have to wonder how on earth Asshats like that could possibly be of any value to their company… They certainly didn’t know anything about what they were interviewing me for…

     “Dude, you’re like Forrest Gump,” someone told me a few years ago.  “You should write a book!”
     It’s funny… For all my devil-may-care, seat-of-my-pants adventures — all the while incessantly telling people to “Quit planning and do it” — writing it all down was the one thing I never did.  I’ve always toyed with the idea, and even written a few chapters here and there, but never decided to go all out and do it.

     Mushy, on the other hand, did.

     Unfortunately, the plan is also to close up shop at Mushy’s Moochings, which, in a word, blows.  I love that blog, as it reminds me of why I decided to move back to East Tennessee — Mushy presents his various adventures and misadventures, and still manages to come off as “down to earth,” “good people.”  The best thing, of course, is that when you know him, you find that he actually is that person, and someone I’m proud to call a friend.

     Buy the book.  And while you’re at it, be sure and check out his work of fiction, as well.

     And, of course, check out his R-Rated humor blog, The Silverbacks.

     Congrats, Mushy.

     There’s something that’s bothered me for a long, long time, and it’s changed my behavior a little.

     If I walk up to a door to open it, I glance around to see if anyone else is close.  If they are, I hold it open for them.  It’s a simple thing, that most people don’t do at all any more.

     Some people are semi-thankful, but can’t really be bothered to do much more than nod or half-grunt a, “Thanks,” before continuing to walk blindly around not paying attention to anyone else around them.

     Occasionally, you get one of the uber-Feminists who will rip you a new butt for holding her door open.  She’s perfectly capable of doing it herself, and what a chauvanistic piece of — *BONK!* — as the door hits her in the face, because she’s too busy complaining to note that you let it go and walked away… at which point, you’re demoted to misogynist, and… *rolls eyes*  I always wonder how those types react when they see me hold the door for the guy at the next door…

     Unfortunately, most people these days are asshats and don’t care that I hold the door for them, at all.  Why, no!  I should be privileged for having held their door!  I’m not a antisocial (I’m really not), but stuff like that is exactly why I think the vast majority of people should get bent.

     Needless to say, it is due to the above three classes of people that I don’t stop, hold the door, and wait for people to go through ahead of me.  Bloody hell, half of the population are so brash and rude that they will jump right on through while I’m holding open for my lady, who I really wanted to walk in with…
     Thus, I’m very good about holding it behind me.  And, if I accidentally drop it as someone’s coming, I even go so far as to apologize to them.
     Weird, eh?

     But today, as I walked up to the door to a store, I noticed an elderly woman with a very young teenager approaching.  Ignoring my usual instincts, I stopped, grabbed the door, held it open, and said, “After you!” as I ushered them inside.
     The two looked me right in the eyes, and with large, genuine smiles, said, “Oh, thank you!” in unison.
     Genuine thanks?!  That’s so rare!  I couldn’t help but say something, and when I opened my mouth, “My pleasure!” came tumbling out.
     Again, more smiles.  As they walked on into the store arm-in-arm, they leaned and whispered to one another, patted the others’ arms as they went.

     Simply amazing.

     Nostalgic, even, remember how people used to act when you did some random act of kindness…

     Back in the day, I was rather artistic — literature, art and music for the most part — but somewhere along the line, I realized that my form of Literature wasn’t for the masses.  The Art that I created could be sold or not based simply on how I named it.  My Music was destined to be devoured by greedy, leg-breaking asshats who’d make it unaffordable.  There was always a business angle to discourage me.

     A bit of cartooning proved to be humorous, but not socially acceptable.  Back in high school, my Art teacher looked upon those doodles with great disdain.  She’d often ban me from the class because she knew what I was going to draw before I’d finished the first few strokes.
     “I won’t have that filth in my classroom!” she’d scream.
     “It’s not filth, it’s…”
     “Get out, get out, GET OUT!”
     No amount of explaining could convince her otherwise.

     While it turned me away from Art for some time, it was all for the good.  Ingenuity became the outlet for my creativity, and I avoided the life of a starving artist.
     Besides, I still have the odd spurt of creativity that I can do something cool with.  *grin*

     So, Mrs. Cooper, this video’s for you. 

(Video: http://youtube.com/watch?v=apP29XeK1o4)

Tip: Bluepaintred – I’ll get back to my regular reads soon enough