I Talk to Cats

Conventional wisdom and the easy way out, would be to write a column about New Years.  I could reflect on the past year, or write about the changes I'm making next year.  I hate conventional wisdom, because it's fucking conventional.  I despise conventional anything.  2014 was the best year of my freaking life, in case you were wondering. I also don't plan on making any resolutions for next year.  Approaching the New Year, my plan is the same as always; be more me, be authentic, have fun. 

I'm at that age in a man's life, where a man starts to think about getting old.  There are signs of aging, present in my everyday life.  Just today, my life partner ordered a juicing apparatus.  I'm sadly a little excited about this purchase.  (One click Amazon purchasing is the devil by the way.)  I had oatmeal for breakfast.  I talked to the benefits people at work about my life insurance and about increasing my withholding for my retirement account.  I was in my pajamas at 8:00 PM.  I'm already wondering if I can stay awake until midnight tomorrow.  All of these things scream that I'm not a youngin' anymore. 

We have all heard people say "If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself."  In my case, this is an immensely accurate statement.  My Mother cried when she called to wish me a happy 30th birthday a few years back.  She cried because she didn't think I would live to see 30.  I understood her sentiments. 

Once I reached the age of 30, I figured that I might like to keep sucking air for another 30 years.  I lost 110 pounds.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I have belonged to a health and fitness club for the last five years and have worked out semi-regularly (there have been a few months long breaks in that time) since.  I started to pay attention to what I was putting into my body.  I still eat funfetti cake (when my life partner is willing to share the cake that I bake for her) but I try to not eat the whole fucking cake, by myself, in two days.  We (the life partner) and I, often go for walks in the park.  I look forward to these walks.  She and I plan our coming days around our workout schedules.  I sometimes find myself wondering if I'm consuming enough fiber. 

Yesterday, my 18 year old step-son asked me what my plans were for the evening.  I told him I planned to work on my novel and read.  He commented that my life didn't sound very exciting.  When I was 18, I wouldn't have found my life that exciting either.  An evening spent working on my writing, reading a book, is a great evening these days.  I get to spend a lot of evenings this way. 

The frosting on the cake (homemade frosting on the funfetti cake that I baked this week, in case you were wondering) is that I frequently catch myself talking to our cats.  I'm hoping this is more a sign of maturity and not a sign of senility. 

I'm not going to apologize for my un-exciting evenings.  I almost died a few times to get to this point in life.  If I don't become a famous writer and make a butt-load of money, Merril-Lynch says I can retire comfortably at 63 years of age.  I wonder if they factored in that my life partner has access to one click buying on Amazon? 

Happy New Year's. 

Fuck Writer's Block

I recently struggled through a two or three week period of writer's block.  It was the most severe drought that I've experienced in the past two years.  I write nearly every day.  Typically I write poetry.  During the writer's block, I still tried to write, but I couldn't.  At least I couldn't write at a level that is acceptable to my standards. 

I once went through a 10 year stretch of life, without writing much of anything.  I had all but abandoned the idea of ever becoming a writer.  As life went on, the ups went up and the downs went down.  I found myself searching for a purpose, something that would define who I am as a human.  Whenever I would chase that search, following it all around the dark crevices of my heart, I always came back to one thing; writing.  A couple of years ago, I finally said "fuck it," and started writing again.  It was different writing in my mid 30's than it was when I wrote in my early 20's.  As a younger man, I wrote dreaming of fortune and fame.  I was going to write commercially appealing books and stories that would be bought up by the masses.  I was going to be John Grisham, Nicholas Sparks, Stephen King.  Never was there a thought of being me, finding my own niche in the literature world.  That's the difference today.

Today, I only write because I want to.  I only write because being a writer is what I've always wanted to be.  I may never be published.  I may never earn a single paycheck from anything that I've written.  People may not like my work.  None of this matters.  It only matters that I find personal fulfillment in putting words on paper.  After all, the guy who paints in his basement on weekends, is an artist, just as rightfully so as Picasso was an artist.  An artist makes art.  A writer writes. 

So struggling through the recent writer's block, I found myself more encouraged to write than ever.  I found it interesting that my lack of writing during those few weeks, affected my attitude a great deal.  When I don't write, when I can't write, it is difficult for me to be happy.  This realization reinforced my desire to write. 

Many people have asked me over the years, "what is a smart guy like you doing working in a factory?"  or "what is a guy who writes like that doing working here?"  The answers to these questions are complex, but are always answered as such; because working in a factory provides me just enough freedom to do whatever the fuck I want to do, when I'm not at work.  What I want to do is travel.  I want to write.  I want to spend as much time as possible with my lover, and I don't want her or I,  to have to worry about keeping the lights on while we are spending that time together.  I want to enjoy the freedom to do what I want, while providing for my children at the same time.  Working in a factory allows all of those things to happen.  It also provides me the freedom to write whatever I want, whenever I want.  I don't have to write things that I think people will pay money to read, because I already make enough money to live the life I want. 

All of that being said, I'm currently working on a novel.  I'm going to write novels and I have every intention of getting those motherfuckers published.  My name will be known around the country.  My books will be stocked in libraries from Palo Alto, CA to Schenectady, NY.  Some day, the same magazines that I long to be published in now, will harass my literary agent to schedule interviews with me.  Find that hard to believe?  I used to as well.  But I have the advantage of owning one of the most stubborn work ethics known to man.  I won't stop writing, no matter the effort it takes to get there. 

The writer's block has passed.  I'm back to writing most days.  Seventy hour work weeks in a factory be damned.  I'll come home and write late into the night anyway.  If I don't, it's difficult to be happy and being happy is the most important goal in life. 

How a Grinch Survives the Holidays

The Merriam-Webster dictionary app on my iPhone 5c tells me that a Grinch is an unpleasant person who spoils other people's fun or enjoyment.  I don't intend to be a Grinch, but I truly dislike the holiday season.  It is a time, full of faux cheer and happiness, and the one thing I despise the most in life is anything that is not authentic.  Let's face it, everything about the holidays is fake.

Santa Claus is not real.  Yet parents go to great lengths to keep this reality from their children.  Apparently it is acceptable for your children to believe, that there is a creepy fat man constantly spying on them and monitoring their behavior.  If he feels that your behavior meets his standards, he will magically fly around the world in a sled pulled by reindeer that have super powers and bring you beautifully wrapped presents that he leaves underneath the fake tree your parents put up in your living room.  It's the world's worst fairy tale.  I hate fairy tales. 

People are so wrapped up in buying people things for Christmas, that they set up special savings accounts, just for the purpose of splurging on Christmas gifts.  How warped is that?  The whole holiday season has become nothing more than a huge commercial monstrosity.  Retailers are banking on the fact that you'll spend a large amount of your income on buying worthless shit between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Christmas spending is closely monitored by financial experts and is used as an indicator to the health of our economy.  Let that sink in for a moment.  Experts base the health of our nation's economy on how much money you spend at Christmas time!

Then there is the "remember the reason for the season" and the "keep Christ in Christmas" group.  This group annoys me the most during the holidays, mostly because they are a bunch of self-righteous, highly sensitive, religious nit-wits.  You want to celebrate the birth of Christ in December?  I'm cool with that.  I'm not cool with you demanding that every other American celebrate it with you.  Stop being sensitive twats.  It's glaringly obvious, that a majority of Americans believe the reason for the season is to keep our economy afloat by buying cheap plastic toys assembled in China.  You are fighting a losing battle.  Retailers will outspend you a million dollars to one, to convince everyone that it is more important to attend Black Friday sales than midnight masses. 

Once we move past Christmas and get to New Year's, we find another batch of phoniness.  The same people that spent a fortune on Christmas presents, will spend another small fortune on booze in an effort to forget how fake they were a week ago.  They'll get hammered on expensive champagne in an effort to celebrate their crummy year and to welcome in what promises to be their best year ever.  I secretly suspect that most of them know that every new year will be nearly identical to the last, They'll make out cute little lists about all of the things that they resolve to change and do better in the new year, knowing full well that the list will long be forgotten before the end of January.  Stop lying to yourself.  You're not going to go to the gym for more than a few weeks.  Don't waste your money on that new membership.  You're not going to save more money, except maybe in your Christmas account.  You're not going to be a better husband, because you secretly hate your life and it's impossible to be a better husband when you don't really like your wife all that much. 

Fuck.  If we could just drop all of the bull shit and be more honest with ourselves, this Grinch could start enjoying the holidays. 

Yes.  I will buy my kids Christmas presents.  No, I won't go into debt to do so.  Yes, I enjoy the paid days off of work, time spent with friends and loved ones.  There are things that I like about the holidays, like big fancy dinners full of good food.  College football bowl games.  Rockettes line dancing in short skirts exposing a lot of leg.  But by and large, I hate almost everything about Christmas and most of the people who like it. 

Bah Humbug to you and yours.  Thanks for keeping our economy afloat.  Tell the fat man in the red suit that I said to fuck off.  I work enough overtime to be able to afford to buy my own shit anyway. 

A cunty life

An innocuous 1980's movie plays on the television.  The cats (Buk-cat-ski and Hunter S. Tomcat) are lounging about the room.  There is a heavy smell of sage and patchouli.  The fan blows.  The fan always blows in our bedroom, largely because the noise it makes, masks the noises that I make, that annoy her.  My breathing is a fine example of one of those noises.  She once said, "You do a few things that annoy me, like breathing."  Just moments ago, I pointed out that she had somehow managed to smear eye makeup on her forehead, at which point she proceeded to purposefully smear the eye makeup all over the rest of her face.  She is currently sitting next to me on the bed, the hood of her hoodie up over her head, because she is cold, even though the heat is set to 85 fucking degrees. 

We have both officially hit the wall that we always hit every evening.  It happens around 8 or 8:30 pm every night.  We get to that point and turn into cunts, the both of us.  It probably has to do something with the fact that we both get up around 4AM every morning.  We both work full time jobs, jobs that each carry their own brand of stressors. 

I had started writing this weekly column a little earlier in the evening, but I scrapped it because I despised the uninspired words that I wrote.  I opted to read instead.  I was reading through South of No North, a collection of short stories by Charles Bukowski.  I'm going through a several day long period of not being able to write and usually Buk can spur something out of me. 

"I thought you were writing." She asked me.

"I was, but I hated it, so I stopped." 

"What day are you going to post your weekly column? She asked.

"It was today.  I was working on it, but I stopped."
"You have to write it every week if it's going to be a weekly column." She pointed out the obvious.
"Is it going to be a bi-weekly column?"

"You can't fucking fire me.  You don't own the blog." I pointed out. 

Truthfully, I was laying there reading, considering writing about what was currently going on.  I was thinking about writing about her walking around the room burning sage, to ward off negative energy.  I was thinking about writing about her telling me about a link she found online, that advertised 148 documentaries to change your life.  She declined downloading the list, because it was too much pressure, not changing your life, but feeling like you had to watch 148 documentaries.  I was thinking about writing about these nightly conditions in which I strive to be a writer.  She thinks our life is boring, but I love every goddamn, crazy, fucking moment of it. 

You see, this is how we basically live every evening.  We come home from our respective jobs.  We eat good food.  Good Lord, do we eat good food.  We relax.  We read books.  I try to write most nights.  I work on the novel I'm trying to write.  I write and edit poetry.  I type words for this sad little column.  Then we hit the wall and all bets are off.  Sometimes hitting the imaginary wall means that we spend the evening in silence.  Sometimes it means that we get cranky, then realize that we are cranky and start laughing at our idiocy.  Sometimes we hit the wall and we just get plain stupid, slap-happy and comical.  Those are the best nights.  When we are both sharp with the wit and one-liners and comebacks.  Those are the nights when we could probably hold our own in a really good sitcom. 

Regardless, this is the bane of the blue collar writer's existence.  Trying to find enough brain power and discipline to still write after being awake for 16 or 17 hours, 10 of which I've worked, on my feet, on a concrete floor, building a Jeep every 54 seconds.  Trying to find inspiration, while holding my own in an old fashioned game of snaps.  (In case you are unaware, snaps is a game that we played in the hood, a game in which two participants would take turns verbally jabbing at each other.)  It is hard to focus on writing when you are involved with a game of snaps with a quick witted, smart mouthed woman. 

So fuck it.  You want a fucking weekly column?  One that is written every week?  Here it is.  Me sitting on the bed, a crazy 80's movie playing.  Her sitting next to me smoking, playing with her cell phone and providing commentary from the fucking movie.  It's a crazy, sage filled, kitty loving, comeback flying, makeup smearing, the heat is up too fucking high, cookie eating, cigarette smoking, cunty life.... and I love every fucking moment of it.  It is not mundane and one thing this angry writer can not tolerate is fucking mundane. 

Who I Am

A writer friend suggested that I write a weekly column, to help my writing career.  I selected the title Notes of an Angry Man as a tribute to Charles Bukowski.  Buk had a weekly column in an underground Los Angeles newspaper that he called Notes of a Dirty Old Man. 

This is the inaugural installment of my weekly column.  I don't really have a plan for how the column will progress.  I don't really like planning.  I suppose my intention is to write about me a little bit, perhaps about what it's like to be a blue collar writer, an amateur poet, an uncompromising curmudgeon.  I hope you find it entertaining.  Mostly I hope that it helps my writing develop and gain a following. 

With that; Who I Am

I am an angry man.  It used to baffle me when people would randomly comment that I was angry.  It has taken me a lot of years to accept my anger, use it to some benefit and not try to hide it.  We live in a world that encourages us, teaches us, to not be angry.  The world we live in strives to teach us a lot of things, actually.  I find most of these teachings to be full of shit.  Anger is a normal emotion.  Everyone experiences it.  If they don't, it's because they are too simple to experience it, or on too many mood stabilizing medications. 

I have spent a lot of years, doing a lot of things, to attempt to be someone other than who I am.  I realized when I was a teenager that I did not believe in a traditional sense of God.  Yet I spent many years, visiting many churches, studying religion, in an effort to be a better human.  I tried to fit in with others for a long time.  I dressed like I was supposed to dress.  I got married.  I worked jobs.  I was social.  All of these things created more internal anger.  There is an old adage that says "To thine own self be true."  The problem with that adage, is that I didn't know the truth.  The truth, that it was better to be angry and authentic, than to be fake.  I almost called my weekly column Unapologetically Human, because that is what I've learned to be.  I'm human.  I'm unique from other humans and when I try to hide, or fix that uniqueness, it causes discontentment. 

Let me give it to you raw, hard and dirty.  Let's not sugar coat anything.  No fake smiles pasted on our faces.  Life often sucks.  It's hard.  Let's not hide from that fact.  There is no need to read self help books on how to deal with life.  We are all perfectly flawed.  Some of us are a little broken.  We are weird, magically weird.  Be weird.  Celebrate the things that make you different from everyone else.  Just be you.  I'll be over here, angrily writing, striving to find a niche in the writing world. 

Notes of an Angry Man.  I'm not always a peace lovin' Buddhist, and that is often what sets me apart.