Cheated In the Game of Life

When does a man lose the urge to cheat? If someone would have asked me that question 10 years ago, I would have answered never. But lately I've pretty much lost the urge to even look at women (other than my own of course). The idea of breaking the ice with a stranger unnerves me. I have no interest in hearing the pointless stories that have been retold in bars and bedrooms and restaurants to the many men who endure them only hoping for what some consider the ultimate pay off-in the end, we mostly just want to fuck. But lately, I've have no interest in fucking strangers. No, lately I have no interest in the thought of fucking strangers.

It's never the fucking that ever matters, it's the thought of fucking that's the most interesting. The mere act, well, is sometimes better observed. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the act, but it means more on an ethereal level than I allow myself to admit. Reserved now best describes my position. But trust me, it's an acquired position-a path down which women have recklessly lead me. I would have opted to have ended up someplace else-but I'm here. I would like to have held onto those beliefs, you know the ones innocently believed at a time long ago. But those thoughts were unfairly tainted with wishful thinking and naivete. I look back on those early years and smile inside-how foolish was I? But I'm certain I'm not the only one. I'm sure many a man has found himself here and wondered how he allowed himself to become so deluded for so long.

I hear it in the voices of the young-and wonder if it would be fair to ruin what may otherwise be perceived as a happy ending. There is no happy ending-sorry. There's just a series of misadventures that continue until you either opt out on your own, or are relieved of duty by some unpredictable twist of fate. And in the rear view mirror, your past stares back at you and for a brief second you wonder if there's still a chance-a glimmer of hope for the future. Sure, you would have preferred a lifetime of bliss, but you'll settle for a decade, or half, or less. In the end we rise from the game table of life, count our blessings, and comfort ourselves with the handful of fond memories we walk away with. And we tell ourselves if we had the chance to do it all again, we wouldn't change a thing-but that's just what we tell ourselves knowing deep down inside we would change it all if someone would just give us the chance.

TPOKW?

Voices From Beyond

Someone very close to me sent me an email one day of a video. I watched the video, enjoyed it but delved deeper into the source. This brief explorative journey led me to TED. Now before you get all homophobic on me, let me explain...I am not a homosexual-TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design (www.ted.com). It was as though I'd stumbled into the minds of some of the most brilliant people on the planet. Some I'd heard of, but most I had not.

I don't mention it much, but I am an artist in my own right. It took me a long time to be able to first think those words, then say those words, and if my memory serves me correctly, this is the first time I've ever wrote those words in a public forum. Why? Because I rejected my artistry. Or better put, I tried to pimp my talent-but deep down inside, I knew I wasn't being true to myself, therefore it never really panned out. Yet, I continued to try to improve as a musician/songwriter/performer-and I still have a long way to go.

What does any of this have to do with TED? Well, this morning I checked my email and there was a video from TED featuring an author, Elizabeth Gilbert, whom I've never heard of. My normal reaction would be to click next, but I decided to honor her and listen to her presentation titled Burden of Genius. Ok, I have to confess something here-I had just finished watching a Southpark episode about rapper Kanye West who considers himself a genius. When I saw the title, it all kind of tied together in a bizarre kind of way. For those of you who have a spare 20 minutes, (which might encompass a great number of you in this jobless economy), take the time to glimpse into the mind of the creators of artistry and watch this video.

I have commentary that I would like to share with you which you may read now, but will make sense to you once you've watched the video.



Commentary
Elizabeth spoke of the origin of modern day genius and juxtaposed today's views with ancient Rome and Greece. I'm not going to offer my beliefs on those societies, but when she stated that during those periods people viewed creativity as voices from the gods or daemons (which, incidentally is the archaic spelling for the word demon), I could immediately relate. I've had fellow musicians ascribe the term genius to me and some of my work and I, in a masked fit of rage, reject the term. My experiences are entirely too limited, and my time in this physical body is too short for me to claim responsibility for that which passes through me. I don't know where the inspiration comes from but I do know it doesn't come from within me-it passes through me. Sometimes I capture it and record it, but most often I don't. I know firsthand the fear that it may never pass through me again-but then again, I'm aware of the fact that if I listen-really sit still and listen, they always speak to me.

There have been religious frauds who over time try to cast out demons. Why? In my most humble opinion, they don't want you talking directly to God, or the gods, or whatever divine spirit that may guide you-they just want you listening to them. I am not a religious person. I used to say I was agnostic, an ancient Greek term that supposedly means you are without knowledge of the existence of a God-but lately I'm beginning to reject the term. Not so much because I've found God, but more so because I really never lost God. And when say God, I don't mean a white-haired bearded dude who, for some odd reason, has been frozen as an old man for....ever, but God as in knowledge. I'm not going to try to explain it all here-it would require a more in-depth analysis, but my life mentor, who incidentally was the one who broke my ties with formal religious dogma, came to me one day and said that he could prove God's existence. When I asked him how, he simply said, "Everything man did not create, God did." As my younger bretheren would say, Marinate on that for a minute.

®

Waxing Philosophically and Dealing From the Bottom of the Deck (or what you write when you have nothing to say)

I can't quite remember the exact time or date I realized I was a man. Manhood was never something I felt I needed to seek-I figured it would find me when it was time. I do, however, remember when I realized no matter what, you couldn't take manhood away from me. I was thinking about doctors, lawyers, politicians-(you know, important men). I found myself feeling a little uneasy because I was none of the above. And then a voice came to me and said, They are no more a man than you are.

I guess what I realized is we shouldn't necessarily judge man by his achievements (said so eloquently by the world's greatest underachiever). I sometimes have to ask myself if it's just the concept of sour grapes I grasp to make myself feel better, but I know deep down inside that's not the case. Man is man-be he butcher or baker or candlestick maker. There was a time when a man was cool if he was the milk man, or a garbage man, or a shoe salesman. People actually used to support families with those careers. Now we mock the garbage man or a shoe salesman-and milk men, as far as I know, don't even exist anymore.

Achievement can be a tricky thing. For instance, you can ascend to the highest office in this country, and still fuck it up (I'm not pointing fingers or naming names...I'm just sayin'). I bet some of those presidents, at some point in their lives, wished they were just some average Joe (the plumber) that no one knew or gave two shits about. Which, in some ways, probably explains why I wallow joyously in my mediocrity-I don't need to climb to the mountain top to know that eventually I'll wish I was back at the bottom.

I was at the grocery store today and was having a conversation with the lady behind the deli counter about working from home (which I will begin doing as soon as I pack up all my shit and stop showing up at the office). She asked me if I thought it would make me lazy-my reply was, "Are you kidding-you don't get any lazier than me. After this comes death." I often mislead people in my attempts at humor and their gullibility is usually tied directly to their IQ, (suffice it to say the lady behind the deli counter really believes I'm lazy, which is fine by me).

I guess you can say I'm a closet overachiever. I love to push myself, but not too far and certainly not in front of a crowd. I hate when people say things like, "Oh, he's so talented at that." No I'm not-you could do it too if you weren't so wrapped up in meaningless activities (I'll have to remember that one the next time I say someone's talented). I guess I don't care for the attention and it's been that way as far back as I can remember. When I was about 4 years old I would always get compliments from the church ladies about my eyelashes. It was the most embarrassing part of the day for me (even more so than walking in front a room full of people putting money in a collection plate I had other plans for. It used to piss me off because my mom would hand me the dollar and I'd have it just long enough to walk up and put it in the plate-why couldn't she just do it herself, after all, she was usually right behind me with hers). But I digress-back to the church ladies. I got so tired of them with their cheek-pinching and their compliments one day I went home right after church, marched right into the bathroom, and cut my eyelashes off. My mom was livid! Needless to say, they grew back and the church ladies resumed their annoying behavior.

It took me a while to settle into the man that I am-and for now I'm comfortable. I've always done things my way-even when it appears I'm doing it someone else's. I make sure I inject a little bit of me in everything I do-it's the human equivalent to pissing on a fire hydrant. My female companions are usually unique in some way; toe-the-line types and I usually don't last long. I know I won't always be who I am now, but I when I look back, I'll understand who I was and hopefully that will explain who I'll become. One day I'll be an old man whose plumbing may or may not work; who may desire the young ladies but will be so repulsed by the difference between us the desire will seem ridiculous; whose accomplishments, although personal, may go unnoticed-but that's okay, I'm an audience of one and I really only need to please me.

Mike Tyson, (that philosophically intellectual pugilist), once said in an interview, "The only thing that matters in life is that dash on your tombstone-the one between the day you were born and the day you died and what you did in between". I thought that was pretty profound coming from a guy who gets hit in the head for a living. But it's true, that is all that matters. And sometimes it matters to others, but mostly it should matter to the person whose name tops the tombstone-and to those who loved them.

I don't know what they will say about me when I'm dead or how my loved ones will judge me. I guess I used to try to live my life in a way that allowed me to write my own eulogy, but what fun would that be? Why should those in attendance at my funeral be bored with my myopic view of myself? No, I think those who knew me should have their say-be it good, bad, or indifferent. And I hope that I've surrounded myself by those who'll be bold enough to give an honest account of who I was and what I stood for. For what it's worth, I did the best with the hand I was dealt. Life deals us all 5 cards from the deck. It matters not the face value of those cards-what matters most is how you play them. Winning hands come in all sorts of configurations. Ask yourself this question: could a pair beat a 3 of a kind? And the answer would be, it happens all the time.

TPOKW?