At the End of the Day…

This morning you woke up earlier than you hoped because you had to pee.  You wish you hadn’t had anything to drink the night before so closed to bedtime because this ALWAYS happens.  You let your dog(s) or cats(s) outside so they could do the same and then you went back to bed to try and get another 45 minutes of sleep before getting up to shower and get ready for work.

That didn’t work out so well, because, shit, you’re already wide awake and the sun is shining through the window and there is no hope of falling asleep again.  You go pour yourself a bowl of cereal and tell the dogs to stop begging and get lost while you watch the news in your living room.  You shower, gaze at the gray chest hair that has mysteriously appeared overnight (or if you’re a female, you’ve noticed how your breasts are sagging just a bit more than they did yesterday).  There is always something to lament over.

If you have a job, you go to work and work to keep your job so that you can afford the odd outing to a Chinese buffet or maybe adding the sports package to your satellite tv plan so you can see the Cowboys game that no one else cares about but you.  If you don’t have a job, you going out looking for one between having a coffee and going to the food bank to feed yourself or your family.

When you get home, there’s another episode of “Law and Order” to watch (if you’re over 55) or “The Walking Dead” if you’re under 30.    Those in between are probably surfing the internet for porn and quickly alt-tab when their significant others walk into the room.

By this point in the day I hope you’ve let the dogs outside to pee again.  Maybe you’ve thrown the ball 23 times to the other end of the yard so they can bring it back to you.

You come inside and make yourself a meal that in no way aids in the lowering of your cholesterol level, but, damn it, it was satisfying.  The dogs beg because their $79 per 35lb bag of kibble is never enough.

After the dogs or your kids settle down for the night, you succumb to your guilty pleasure of watching yet another show about the zombie apocalypse or a reality show about morbidly obese women who hoard so much that her family has to sleep in their utility closet.

You put your pajamas on (your “pajam-bams”), take your final dump on the can while reading email on your smart phone.  Maybe a round of “angry birds” before wiping and then brushing your teeth.

You walk past your kid’s room (if you have any) and tell them to turn off the radio because damn it, they have a test tomorrow.  The dogs get to go out one last time for a final pee.  You dread tomorrow because it’s not friday.  Gas prices are high and it’s time to fill the tank.  The credit card bills are due.  You get your test results back from the doctor.  You’ll find out that a 16 year old broke his neck snowboarding.

Two men got married to each other today, and you never knew it.  You didn’t get their names.  Two women got married to each other today, and you never knew it.  Never got their names, either.  And yet, your life continues.

Everything I mentioned above happens to everyone, gay or straight, almost every single day.

How about that?

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Out and About at 41

The slow evolution of Dave took a giant leap last week when my mother cornered me at the dining room table (shortly after John left to take a walk) “Do you have anything you want to talk about?”

“Um, not really…?”  I immediately think to myself ‘here we go’ and start suppressing the butterflies in my stomach with a swallow of single malt whiskey.

“I just thought I’d get you to confirm or deny one way or the other that you and John are a couple.”

Wow, what? Did she really say that?  That and dad is sitting at the table, too.  Awkward conversations between the three of us are not exactly par for the course. I put them right up there with how many times George W. Bush has stumped Stephen Hawkings on a question regarding quantum physics.

I asked them if this information wasn’t already old news; seeing as how we’ve lived in the same dwellings for close to 13 years now. “It’s just something people end up getting out in the open,” she says.   “C’mon, you know we’re two very liberal people,” Dad says.

I made the point that I didn’t ever want to be the center of attention and never wanted this to be a cause for being treated differently.  It was enough, I said, that I treated myself differently while we lived in the bigot-Mecca known as Winchester, Virginia throughout my high school years.  The 80’s and 90’s were not (and probably still aren’t) a pleasant place to be where the “N” word and the “F”(aggot) word were used like 50 cent/gallon gas by teenagers who just got their paychecks.  I made sure not to impose blame upon them.  It was my fault for not trusting them to be comfortable enough around them to be myself.

I always thought actions spoke louder than words; I still don’t talk very much.  I’m not a big fan of engaging in conversation.  I suppose some people need to hear things as at least an acknowledgement that their opinions mean something to you and that concealing things like this make it harder for them to get to know you (even if they are family).

I turned 41 today.  Better late than never, I suppose.  Not everything needs to make sense, except for the things we can control.  Chief Dan George once said “I shall endeavor to persevere.”  I’m going to endeavor to live, not exist.  That much I can control.

Live with who I am, or exist elsewhere.

Thanks, mom & dad.

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With No Audience

there is no reason to write.

signing off.

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If you could go back in time and relive one day of your life, which would you choose?

The day I walked with the bases loaded to win the 10-11 yr old baseball championship game.  I would have swung the bat and gone yard.


The day I wrecked my knee playing football when I was 16, a.k.a. the day my life ended.  Ya, I want that one back.


October 31, 1998.  But, I’ll never tell you why.

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Labor-ed Day Weekend

First of all, I spell it “labor”, not “labour”.  I know, I’m in Canada now.  But I refuse to accept theatre or “being in hospital”.  Whatever happened to going to THE hospital?


Friday I closed up shop looking forward to the three day weekend ahead; not that there was something amazing planned.  Just being not at the store was enough.  I had planned with someone to go see a movie friday night since John was going to be off doing something else.  It never happened and it became readily apparent I was “stood up” by this friend of mine.  I sat at home and watched a few Gunsmoke episodes on Youtube between going out and throwing the ball around for the dog.  Bummer.

Saturday we went up to Huntsville to have lunch with a friend and his wife and 2 year old son.  When Hokie wasn’t begging for the burgers we ate (sorry mom), she was off swimming after ducks in the lake that met the backyard.  Kevin’s (our friend) cousins were up from Minnesota (they live in Michelle Bachmann’s district, right next door to Mr. Bachmann’s pray-the-gay-away clinic) with their 2 infants.  Kevin’s son sat in the sandbox for most of the afternoon, pouring sand in his hair like our cat bathes himself.  He also made a game of being afraid of Hokie; whenever she got to within 10 feet of him, he’d run to his mother and jump into her arms with half-assed crying.

On the way home I get a text from friend #1 from Friday night:  “Can I borrow the car”?  The excuse was pretty bad, enough to make both of us immediately suspicious of the  motives and to make John downright angry (something about protecting my gullibility).

I found out later on that the reason he wanted to borrow my car was to apologize for the movie screw-up.

Sunday John and I went to Barrie to re-vamp our wardrobes.  John managed to spend more on 1 pair of jeans than I spent on like 4 articles of clothing (call me cheap?).  I must have witnessed three or four instances of why I’m glad I’m not a teenager anymore:  the mother yelling at son to hurry up and just pick out some clothes and “no one will care what you look like,” and the son standing there, arms crossed, looking an angry guard at a Nazi deathcamp.   On the way home, Steve, our contractor, invited us to stop by for some beers.  The movie re-do had been cancelled again, due to son-mother argument (probably about clothes), so I continued to drink the free beer that continued to be handed to me.  I think I had a conversation with a native Indian; but I recall an incident where Steve got pissed at a woman because he thought she was being rude if John and I were gay.  After explaining that the Pope doesn’t care being called Catholic, tensions eased and Steve passed out in the nether-regions of his 400sq foot apartment; nicely renovated, I might add.

As happens when I’ve had a few too many to drink, I decide to call friend #1’s mother to give him a break and let him go to the movie after all.  Unfortunately, this involved walking to go get him from work and I was in no shape to drive.  My footsteps going up the street from the apartment to our store probably resembled a lie-detector test readout..not exactly a straight line.

After walking all the way, we had a good discussion about how to treat your friends, etc. (I have a customer who actually says “etcetera”, annoyingly at the end of most every sentence he speaks).  The movie didn’t happen, but he drove my car back to his place (after picking John up, who also did the same jagged walk down the street).

The next around noon he drives it back but says we can’t go out to lunch afterall since his dad wanted him to go help pick up a few loads of firewood.  The car was cleaner than it’s been since the day I got it.  I was instructed to never let Hokie ride on the leather again.

I offered to help with the firewood.  Four hours later we arrived back at their place and they fed me dinner.  Friend #1’s sister made me a most excellent strawberry/banana crepe, with chocolate syrup, maple syrup, whip cream and ice cream on the side.

Previous blog probably proven wrong by everything mentioned above.

One of my better weekends.


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How We Cope

Some of us have the support of their family and dozens of friends; the useful ones of which call on a daily or weekly basis expressing genuine concern, not making the contact out of guilt..but then, how are we to know their motives?  Overthinking it can send one to an early grave.

Some of us use a bottle of booze or pills.  It blurs the reality that can be as unsettling as watching a bag of puppies floating down a raging river, when you have no ability to swim or to call for help.  How I came up with that imagery, I have no idea.

The rest of us fall into a routine and pretend nothing happens that is of consequence.  The next day will come and the next will, too.  Sooner or later, the time that passes without anything coming of it will slam on it’s brakes and you’ll rear-end it, and you’ll have to take notice.  Then time will march on, and you’ll wonder where it went.  Unfortunately, misused time can’t be found on page 235 of some book, or under a rock, or at a bar or in a bottle.  Too many of us keep looking in the same places.

I’ve had to come to grips with the fact that not everyone sees me in the center of their universe.  I don’t matter to most people; maybe in some small way I’ve made some contribution to their betterment, but I’ll never know.  The ones that express gratitude are the life long friends that few of us can be lucky enough to claim.  I’ve dwelled on trying to be everyone’s life long friend; tried to matter to everyone.  It can’t happen.

Some have measured their life’s worth on how much wealth they’ve acquired, how much land they’ve conquered, how many women they’ve bedded, or how big the house they live in is.

I don’t have but one degree.  I have a modest house, and a small business.  I never got to play professional baseball.  I was never aggressive enough to do as much as my parents did.  A lot can be said for those who grew up with nothing and did it on their own versus those who had it handed to them.

I just want to be able to sleep at night knowing there is someone out there who thinks my being around did them some good.

Give me a call, let’s go see a movie.  I’ll buy.

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There Must Be More

I started off the day with an elderly couple stating they “didn’t want the computer they bought a month and half ago anymore”.  They had dropped it off the other day because things were running slowly; email wasn’t happening, solitaire took 83 seconds to open, et al.  Is “et al” even appropriate there?  Who knows.   After explaining I didn’t sell them the computer as a joke or to be an asshole, I said I wasn’t going to refund them, even if Sarah Palin managed to explain quantum physics in a paragraph or less.  It was a bad hard drive, I explain, and yes, it does happen from time to time.  It doesn’t mean I’m a serial rapist.

Our co-op student didn’t show up today; the past two days this week he was over an hour late.  I suppose he’s anxious to get on with his life, seeing as how he graduates from high school in three days and therefore his commitment to us as a co-op student doesn’t matter much.  It’s not like he’s going to fail.  Needless to say, today was extravagantly busy and John was out on service calls all day.  I walked an never-ending circle around the room, clicking here and there; removing viruses, scanning for bad sectors on a hard drive, installing windows.  I’m not curing cancer, or even hitting a game winning home run in the world series.  Here, buy some ink for $30 that I paid $24 for.  I’m a hero!  I paid $1 for this network cable, but for YOU, it’s  $6.99.

The other night we lost a softball game that we were leading 15-3 going into the last inning.  Our outfield turned into a group of Helen Keller wannabees and the circus was something to behold.  Not to exclude myself from the blame; afterall, I was selfish and continued to hit for the fences.  Three times I hit the ball to the left field fence, only to have their only decent player catch them all…once with the bases loaded.  Maybe if I had hit it on the ground a time or two one of their own Helen Kellers or Christopher Reeves (post horse accident) would have misplayed it and we would have won.

Years ago before I blew out my knee I wasn’t too bad a ballplayer.  Unfortunately it’s how I’ve gauged my worth in life.  I didn’t end up doing it as a career, so I was miserable.  As a kid listening to his heroes win games on the radio, I assumed it would be what I’d do for a living.  Hitting the game-winning world series home run; having 50,000 fans cheer you on.  I didn’t give myself a chance to be interested in anything else.  When I was 27, just before I moved to Canada, I struck out a guy who played A-ball for the Orioles.  Just another schmo who didn’t make it (although much further than me).  Why is that the highlight of my life?

I came home and threw the ball around for the dog, and then watched some television.  I woke up today and did the same, after doing the 500 calorie workout on the treadmill.  What for?  To prolong the inevitable?  So I can sell ink and hard drives for a longer period of time?  Hey, my cholesterol level is lower therefore I’ll be around long enough to sell you this amazing new usb flash drive! Won’t that be incredible.

When people say “there must be more”..what are they referring to?  I wish I knew, because I’d chase after it.  I run like shit now with this fucked up left knee of mine.  I have for the past 24 years.  But when I play ball, I run faster.  When the game is over, then what?  If I knew what I was chasing after, I would run harder.

I wish I had an idea.


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