When I Was Born

When I was born, my parents wept. Not from joy but from horror.

It was January 1 and my father was pissed. "Christ, we lost out on a tax break for last year, and the little shit wasn't even the first born of the year. I got a sinking feeling that this one is a loser."

My mother: "I think you're right. Look at him, just look at him - he already gives off an aura of loser-ville."

My father: "And look at his head, it's pointed for Christ sake. I bet his brain is defective." The forceps squished my head as they dragged me out, and I think my parents were pissed that I obviously did not want to be born. They considered themselves to be model parents, a gift to me and not the other way around.

They were kind of cocky that way.

They did not know what to do with me. They asked the hospital staff if they could just leave me behind when they left. The nurse said "I definitely see why you would want to do that, but unfortunately we have no use for him either. He's gotta go."

My home life was a little weird right off the bat. They stuffed me in a shoe box which they placed in the oven so they would not have to look at me. A couple of times my mother started to pre-heat the oven before quickly remembering I was in there. The screams probably alerted her. Fortunately she reacted fairly quickly and got me out of there. I did not suffer too much damage, except to develop a healthy dislike of warm weather that lasts right up until today.

As I got older they engaged in reality training with me. They'd sit me down and say "Joe, you really suck. You're a loser and you're weak." When I cried, they told me they were not trying to hurt me, they were just trying to prepare me for life. Toughen me up. I was suspicious, but they were my parents. I'm sure they had my best interests at heart.

When I got my own room I quickly noticed that the door locked from the outside. The fact that they would leave me locked in there for three or four days at a time was what tipped me off. Then they would let me out and say "Oh, we're so sorry - we forgot that you were in there." I always thought I heard my mother snickering while my father said this, but she always kept her head turned away.

I would tell them I'm hungry. They would give me a rancid peace of meat and say "Here you go, you ungrateful little shit. Do you think food grows on trees?"

No utensils. I ate with my fingers and wiped clean on my bed sheet. Which would explain why my bed smelled like decomposing flesh. Which explains why I have suffered lifelong insomnia.

It is said one of the most critical stages of learning is from birth to five years old. The first five years of a child's development are crucial to their health and well being.

My parents did the best they could. I've had a lot of time to think about it. Been in prison for over thirty years now. Funny things is, it kind of feels natural.

The door locks from the outside, I'm still eating rancid meat, and the guards kindly remind me that I am a loser, I suck, and I'm weak. Doesn't phase me at all.

The only thing is, my parents have never visited me.

Maybe they forgot that I'm in here.

Sold a Story

Sold a story. Can you believe it? Kinda fun.

I wrote the damn thing on August 2, 2012. Thirteen years ago. It has gotten more attention than anything else I wrote. Because, I think, I just wrote it - let it flow, you know? Tapped directly into my diseased imagination and wrote something that surprised even me. 

I have tried to sell it over the years here and there, but I didn't put too much effort into it. Guess I prefer working menial, low-paying jobs to achieving massive literary success.

What?

You know how it goes....................shit, man I should really be doing this or that, it feeds my soul - it is who I really am etc etc. Hell, maybe if I put some effort into this I would not have a boss that I wanted to stretch out on the rack while I rubbed motor oil into his hair.

What?

Water under the bridge, baby. I sold it. To a publication in France - can you believe that? They paid me 100 euros up front and another 20 euros in royalties so far. Totals about $140.

Suddenly I love the French. As soon as Carol kicks me out, I'm gonna move over there, drink fine wine, wear a beret at a jaunty angle, hang out in cafes with the literati, and eat Boeuf Bourguignon.

The story is called The Brick House. I'm kind of proud of it. I like it.

The timing is perfect because I'm searching for a happy ending that will re-write my epitaph.

If my epitaph were written today, my corpse would rise up and sponge away the writing on my headstone in embarrassment and desperation, apologize to all those in attendance for my failures, grab the bottle of whiskey my friend Phil is hiding in the inside pocket of his jacket, take a healthy swig, and crawl back into my grave.

Listen, it makes me feel good. People in France are reading my story. 

Actually it's more than that. It's published on their website. But it's also available in kiosks that these people have all over the place. Including America. In universities, public libraries, airports, transportation hubs, retail centers, cafes, hospitals, schools. 

At least twenty or thirty states in this country. 300 dispensers around the world from Melbourne, Hong Kong, Paris, London and and and........................

They are trying to revive reading, so the  stories are available in places where people wait, or pass through, or have to be, or study, or eat, or buy stuff. I love this idea - people don't read anymore. I guess you choose a story, push a button, and it prints it out - they are all short stories designed to take up five minutes of your time or less. And they are free.

So that's it. I'm a published author. 

Put that on my gravestone.

A Handy Message, In Case You Need It

 "You're going to fry in the electric chair. Your flesh will burn and your toupee will ignite, and your caps will glow red, and your beard will smoke, and your contact lenses will melt into your eyeballs. And when you're dead, you'll go to hell and fry again."

John Corey to Fredric Tobin, in the book Plum Island

A Quote That Will Knock You On Your Ass

 "Memories, on speed, are like little children running in traffic, only there are not enough cars to hit them all. The past keeps intruding, even now."

From Bad Sex on Speed, by Jerry Stahl

Gratefulness? Really?

 "Be grateful for what you have (It's probably more than you think).........................

If you and your children are basically healthy - if, when you wake up in the morning, you can get out of bed - you should be grateful for that. If you have family and friends who love you, you should be grateful for that. Don't take these things for granted: They are the most important things in your life.

I'm not saying you should ignore your problems, or the problems of the wider world; I'm saying keep them in perspective. Don't let your happiness depend on the news, or the stock market, or office politics, or traffic. Don't let people who don't know you tell you how you should feel. Don't believe that the world is terrible, or wallow in outrage or victimhood, just because some politician or radio-talk-show host or college professor tells you to. Decide for yourself how your life is going, and when you make that calculation, start with the fundamentals: Are you walking around? Do you have people you love? Do they love you? Do you have enough to eat? A place to live?

If you have those things, you have a lot to be grateful for. If you also have laughter in your life, and music, maybe a nice sunset once in a while, you're blessed. Try to remember that the next time you're feeling stressed or unhappy. Things could be a lot worse."

From Lessons From Lucy, by Dave Barry

Dave Barry was in his seventies and wondering why he wasn't as happy as he felt he should be, so he looked to his dog Lucy, who was old as well. She was happy all the time, no matter what; she took everything in stride and kept being happy. If you have pets you understand. If you don't have pets, go crack yourself another beer.

He observed her in various situations, and came up with perspectives to apply to his own life. Cool stuff. Resonated with me because I am 71 and not feeling as happy as I should.

Bought a new house in 2023, Jackson was born in 2024, my life changed radically for the better in the last two years but, still, my brain finds ways to make me suffer. Silly, no? 

The stuff I quoted above is basic - nothing original or radical about it - but meaningful. Just before Dave was ready to publish his book, his daughter had a terrible health scare. She was just about to start college and suddenly she couldn't walk. She got through it and is walking, but it took lots of rehab, hard work and worry. Dave added one more chapter to the book describing the ordeal - the above quotes came from that chapter.

I always struggle with this grateful thing. Especially this year. I have been bouncing off the walls, wasting my life and happiness over stuff I can't control. Christ, man - I am 71 - no time to waste. I reined myself in quite a bit recently, but Dave's words gave me an additional kick in the ass.

Re-wiring my brain right now is as important to me as breathing. 

Change your mind, change your life.

I Don't Ask For Much

 All I ever truly wanted from life was that a hot dog diet got me shhhhhhhhhhredded.

Who We Really Are

 "No pain, no death, is more terrible to a wild creature than its fear of man. A red-throated diver, sodden and obscene with oil, able to move only its head, will push itself out from the sea-wall with its bill if you reach down to it as it floats like a log in the tide. A poisoned crow, gaping and helplessly floundering in the grass, bright yellow foam bubbling from its throat, will dash itself up again and again on to the descending wall of air, if you try to catch it. A rabbit, inflated and foul with myxomatosis, just a twitching pulse beating in a bladder of bones and fur, will feel the vibrations of your footstep and will look for you with bulging, sightless eyes. Then it will drag itself away into a bush, trembling with fear.

We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away."

From The Peregrine, by J.A. Baker