[ 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

     Back at the end of 80’s, when my hair was halfway down my back and I was playing in a Thrash Metal band (we said it was Power Metal — but let’s be honest), I was having a great time.  All 5′9, around 170 pounds of me could walk up on stage and play any instrument that needed to be played — of course, that was limited to guitar, bass and drums at the time.  My voice was a solid octave and a half deeper than what it is now.  I could sing bass and baritone like nobody’s business, with booming volume that would rattle our drummers cymbals even before the mic was turned on.

     Off-stage was a different story.  Nobody could understand a damn thing I said back then, as my voice was so deep that it simply faded off into the background, only to be heard by animals, those odd people who get sick before an impending earthquake, and people who were so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal.

     We traveled around quite a bit, and just had a good time with it.  We made enough money to keep ourselves in cigarettes, food, alcohol, hotel rooms and gas for the truck and van, and pretty much the only thing we had to worry about was how we were going to be treated when we got to our next stop.  In most places, people were pretty cool, but there were certainly a few towns where there might’ve been six whole teeth in the lynch mob walking towards us at the gas station or restaurant we’d stopped at.
     One night in particular, we’d driven out of Jacksonville, North Carolina driving towards Virginia Beach.  Instead of taking the interstate like a normal human being, Michael led us through every curve of US17, through rural North Carolina at 2AM.  “It’ll be easier!” he assured us on the walkie-talkie.
     Of course, if you’ve ever seen the movie This is Spinal Tap, you know it never is.

     Around 3AM, in heavy fog in the middle of nowhere, the van had flat tire.  We all pulled to the side of the road, and all five of our long-haired, dumb-punk asses got out to watch, assist, smoke cigarettes and generally complain.  Dave and Jeremy, instead of holding the flashlights where Michael could see what he was doing, began having a lightsaber duel with the flashlights in the fog.  I had one of my typical “bad feelings” that I used to get, and started urging everyone to get serious so we could get back on the road.
     “Man, chill out!” Dave urged.  “It’ll be fine!”
     Shortly after he said it, we heard a noise that sounded like a pack of wild indians.
     “What the Hell was that?” Michael asked, just before banging his knuckles on the concrete due to a slightly stripped lug nut.
     “Probably some birds or something,” Chris said, completely uninterested as he held the third flashlight where Michael could see.
     Then we heard it again, along with a mechanical noise that sounded exactly like a clutch-slipping on a big, red truck with a gun rack in the back window.  From behind us, down the road, the lights kept getting closer, and the whooping and hollering got louder and louder.
     “Oh, shit, Michael!” I exclaimed.  “Hurry the f$&* up, man!”
     Without a word, Michael furiously pulled off the damaged tire and handed it to Chris, who quickly replaced it with another from the back of the van.
     The whooping got louder and louder, the lights closer.
     We all stood silent, watching, waiting.  We were all nervous.

     As Michael was tightening the first lug nut, they were on us.  It was, in fact, a big, old, beat up, red-and-primer truck, three people in the front and three standing in the bed holding on to the top of the cab screaming like a bunch of wild indians.  They passed us silently, all of them peering at us like they’d never seen human beings before.
     We all breathed a sigh of relief until we looked ahead, and saw the truck put on its break lights — and started backing up.
     “Michael, hurry up, dude!” Dave exclaimed.
     In a fever, he quickly finger-tightened the remaining nuts and began spinning the speed wrench as fast as he could.
     We all stood around Michael as they pulled up, still silent, still looking straight at us with looks of disbelief on their faces.  The three in the back of the truck jumped out, shirtless with overalls, and the passenger door of their truck swung wide with a loud creak.
     “Ya’ll ain’ frum ‘roun’ heeyah, ah ya?” said the biggest one, who looked like he could’ve picked the van up without the jack.
     “Uhhh, no sir,” I stammered.  “We’re driving through on the way to Virginia Beach.”
     He looked back at his five friends, quietly at first, then turned back around shaking his head as they all began to snicker.  “Ya’ll shu’ got lawng hayur!” he said.  They all began to laugh.
     We blinked back at them, holding our implements of destruction close.  My knife was ready to flip from my pocket and Michael held the speed wrench as Dave, Chris and Jeremy clutched their Maglights.
     “Ya’ll in a bayund?” he asked.
     “Yes, sir, we are,” I told him.
     “Wail,” he started, turning around to look at his friends, grinning and snickering a bit.  “Why dincha jus’ say so?  Sheeyit!”
     They all laughed.
     “Yawnt any help with’at tar?” another asked.
     Relief!

     We stood around and talked for a few minutes with them.  They were cool people, out drinking a bit and “raisin’ some hail!”  They offered some assistance getting everything back in the van, asked if we liked Metallica or Megadeth better, and even tossed us all a beer right there on the side of the road.
     Eventually, after having a beer with ‘em and acting like idiots for a while, we offered our thanks, said our goodbyes, got our mini-caravan back togther and continued on to Virginia Beach.

     It was funny… There we were, with our long hair, worrying about people judging us for it all the time.  When six people in a beat-up truck drove by in the middle of rural North Carolina, we were doing the same damn thing.

     Good people are getting harder and harder to come by these days. 

     I mean, hey, they didn’t even have a problem hearing my deep voice.

     Just goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover… 

     Even the ones who are so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal. 

     What the Wildcat and I had going as, “Hey, come down for the weekend!” has turned into “Hey, come down for a week, and get the second weekend for free!”  Driving alone back to Knoxville is getting more and more difficult.

     I didn’t pull out the camera much this past week or so, although, we still did plenty. Friday before last, we hung out at Buffalo Wild Wings and had a blast, thanks in no small part to good company … and lots of beer.

     Eventually, Zacque showed up, although it was fifteen short minutes after Mushy left. We headed over to Baileys where we attempted to hook him up with several interested waitresses.
     “I have a date at 9PM, ya assholes!”
     “Go, Zacque! Have another beer…”
     No arm-twisting required. *snicker*

     Saturday, we took a trip through my favorite place in the world (I’m not telling where!  Nyah nyah nyah!) checking out the scenery and history.
     Since we’d both enjoyed travelling around where her family had grown up the week before, it was natural to return the favor.  We even walked through a few graveyards while trading crazy-family stories.
     Sometimes, even if you’re not close with your family, there are places you can go and still feel close to your roots.

     Later that night, we ended up hanging out with a friend listening to a musician, and had an amusing conversation.
     “How old is she?” she asked.
     “Ahhh, 28,” I replied.  “Why?”
     “She’s so sweet,” she smilled.  “I thought maybe I should introduce her to one of my sons.  She’s so sweet, so I thought she was younger.”
     “Yeah, she’s good like that,” I smiled back, thinking how great it was that she approved of my friends as much as they approved of her.
     “Hmm,” she mumbled.  “And how old is Zacque?”
     “Why, you want to introduce him to one of your sons?”
     Uproariously laughter ensued.

     So nice to be with someone who shares my sick, twisted sense of humor.

     The rest of the week was much the same.  Sunday we were out again.
     ”You know,” she says.  “You really do flirt a lot…”
     My head went, ‘Was I…? Did I…? Errr… Oh, shit, here it comes… ‘
     “…and it’s fine to window shop, as long as you don’t pull your credit card out,” she continued.  She smiled, and gave me a big hug and a kiss.
     That was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever heard. 

     She’s meeting the people I consider family and loving ‘em, customers, friends I’ve known for years, and proving to be every bit as adaptable as I am.
     She’s just as comfortable walking through ticks and briars to find someplace neither of us have ever been, sitting in a Five Star restaurant with wine and too much silverware, going for a swim in a secluded mountain stream, having a conversation with an important client, or knocking back beer and fried food at a football party.

     I was joking around with a friend last year, and said, “Ya know, the kind of woman I need is the one who’ll check me for ticks, and say, ‘Ooh, there’s one! Lemme get him!’ and will actually do it…”
     And hearing, “Die, you damn thing!” after that is just icing on the cake.

     But it’s definitely more fun to check each other for ticks when you don’t actually have any…

     So for a little over a month, my Kentucky Wildcat and I have been hanging out every weekend — and sporadic weekdays — spending a lot of time together and having a blast.  Last weekend, however, we had to skip our normal routine due to the craziness of every day life; I was hard at work until Sunday afternoon with a large-scale server consolidation, and couldn’t quit babysitting it all long enough to have any semblance of “normal.”
     When I finished late Sunday afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore.  “Since next weekend is Labor Day weekend, whatcha feel like doing for a week?  I mean, I have to work, still, but we’ll have plenty of time to spend together if ya wanna…”
     Fortunately, she’s as spontaneous as I am…

     Without complaint, she sat idly by with me the entire week as I answered phones, fixed remote servers and did some on-sites.  The on-sites were the best: she chatted with customers while I fixed their problems, which took a lot of pressure off of me as I tried to get things done quickly yet precisely.

     Tuesday, for instance, a customer asked her if she liked baseball and handed her two tickets the next-to-the-last Smokie’s game.  We had a blast, neither of us having been to see a baseball game in years.
     Of course, the opposition team, the Chattanooga Lookouts, totally sucked.  Their fast pitcher had his speed down pat, but just couldn’t hit a strike-zone.  The most amusing part of the game came when said Lookouts pitcher messed up during Colvin’s bat in the second inning… He hit the catcher square in the nuts at full speed:

     The next pitch, Colvin had to jump out of the way to keep from being hit, himself.  The catcher was a little more reluctant to rely on his cup against his teammate’s 90mph onslaught:

     After three Balls, two fouls and no strikes, Colvin finally knocked a good midfield, but was taken out at first base.

      Thursday, after a Blount County onsite, we ended up heading to Cades Cove.  “I’ve never seen a wild bear!” she told me.
     “Oh, don’t worry — I’ll find ya one!” I assured her.  I wondered whether or not I’d overpromised, because quite honestly, seeing a bear around here is a special treat.  Still, I kept in mind that I’ve been lucky as far as bear sightings go, even managing to catch photos of them during the snowy mid-winter when everyone tells me, “They’re hibernating now!”
     The heavy afternoon rain didn’t let up until we were halfway through the park, but we still managed to see plenty of foraging wildlife.
     She was amazed at the size of the wild turkeys here:

     But the best was yet to come.
     Just before the turn-off to go to the old Abram’s Falls trail, there were two bucks hidden in the high grass to our left, unafraid even as close as fifteen feet away:

     This 10-pointer probably would’ve field-dressed at around 150 pounds —a prize deer for Cades Cove.  More amazing is that even at the end of August, he hadn’t bothered to rub the velvet from his antlers — nor had his much smaller friend, an 80-pound spike.
     We turned into the road to the Abram’s Falls trail, and noticed tons of butterfles stealing nectar from the local foliage:

     We continued around the loop, walked through the old town (the mill was open!), and spotted a young doe just behind the General Store.  She seemed relatively uninterested in the people milling about, even as she stretched to eat the tender leaves of the rain-soaked maple above her.
     As we left, we noticed another large group of deer in the field behind the restrooms.  They were impossible to count, as some would lie down as others stood up to graze.

     Continuing towards the park exit, past the homesteads, I pulled to the right and asked her to take a look to her right.  Amazed, she turned to see a teenaged bear walking directly towards the car:

     The photo was taken as he rounded a log, less then six feet from our open window.  He continued towards the car, turning around the front and walking to the other side of the road.  We watched him for nearly fifteen minutes as he foraged.  Really cool.  :-)

     Finally, only a few hundred feet from the park exit, we had to stop for the wild turkeys in the road… Six of the largest wild turkeys I’ve ever seen, and I’ve definitely seen some whoppers over the years.  But these — my God! — were taller than the front of the car, and flapped their wings in disgust as we pulled close.
     Finally, they walked to the right, out of our way.  Just before I was able to pull past them, they darted quickly back across the road into the forest to our left.  From only a few feet away, we watched and photographed them.  Note their size compared to the fifty-foot trees next to them — we’re talking monster turkeys:

     Sunday night, we just had to go to Boomsday, especially given that I found us an unobstructed vantage point on the Calhoun’s balcony.  Nothing better than up-close-and-personal, ya know?

     Just before they started, I told her these were for her:

     [ Awww, isn't that sweet?  Thpft!  ] 

     Later Sunday night, we went to watch a band and met up with a few more friends.  (We hung out with several through the week, and had a great time.)

     On Monday, we reluctantly took the trip to take her back home.
     We stopped at the old Frostee Freeze Drive-In in Tazewell for lunch.  Hadn’t been there in maybe twenty-five years, and place is just as good as ever!

     When we got to Cumberland Gap, I thought, “Hey, wanna go hike through Cudjo’s Cave?”  Unfortunately, after we hiked nearly a mile through the nasty, post-rain heat and humidity, we found that that cave had been closed to the public for some time and renamed “Gap Cave.”  Fortunately, we were able to stand at the lower entrance to cool off.  The strong wind rushing out of the cave mouth stayed around 55 degrees — nothing beats natural air-conditioning!
     Along the trail, we found several fossils in iron-laden limestone, several large pieces of chert, obsidian and flint, and a couple bits of micah & quartz encrusted pumice.  Discounting the limestone, it actually seemed a bit odd to find volcanic rocks up there, but they definitely made us smile. 

     As we left, we drove through the town of Cumberland Gap.  It’s funny how we’d both grown up so close to it all of our lives, and never been.  It’s an idyllic small town.
     Although the layout is a bit more “general store” than “pharmacy,” Fuson’s Drug Store, started in 1921, still exists in all its Ice-Cream-and-Soda-Shop glory.  Want a Chocolate Coke or a Strawberry Malt?  Head on up… Good stuff.

     We spent the rest of yesterday driving around through history, enjoying our last bit of time together before next weekend.  We visited the place where she grew up, and talked back and forth about different things we enjoyed when we were kids.

     It was a hard ride back to Knoxville without her.

     I woke this morning missing the Hell out of her, so after a while, I gave her a call.  ”Hey, how about this weekend, I pick ya up on Thursday, instead?” I asked.
     “How about Wednesday?” she laughed.
     “Hmmm… Tuesday?”
     “Why don’t ya just come up now?”

     Life is good. 

     We both realize that there’s not a damn thing wrong with being impulsive, spontaneous, opening up and enjoying what life has to offer.  Seriously … what’s the point of growing up if you can’t enjoy it?

     Oh yeah … The best Labor Day ever.