Sunday, February 26, 2012

Mama!

Mama!…Siana screams. She’s always attached to her mother, when she’s at home. They’re more like sisters, with one difference: Mama D. is the older one. The way she’s attached to her mother is special…to me.
I can tell her mother is a special person, and yet I’ve never met her…and am afraid to. She loves her daughter like a possession; a property not to be tinkered with. Yet, Siana has a mind of her own, and she does what she will; Yes, she has her own will.‘Mama, I’m on the phone!’, like that really matters. If Mama D. really wants something, daughter Siana will get off the phone soon, no matter what it is. They share everything. We went out last week to bingo at a local tavern and I’d rung up a tab I couldn’t cover. Thankfully, Siana covered what I could not. Mama D. knew about it the very next day. They share the same check register evidentially.
Being close to her mother is one of the endearing qualities I find in Siana. In fact, most of my other lovers have had mothers that have died. They’ve been close to them, yet they’ve died, mostly early in life; Much like my parents had. Come to think of it, Siana is the first girlfriend I’ve had since high school that has a living mother. The fact that they are close says something; I’m not quite sure what that is or if I should even think on it.
Mama and Siana were instrumental in getting me out of ‘that house’ that I’d lived in for one month and a year. This was the house I chose to live in because of Mark J.; Yes Father Mark. He went schizoid embolismic once he learned I’d been drinking. I caused me to find other housing. Mark has confronted me each time I try to retrieve property from the house. It amazes me how someone with six years of sobriety working all twelve steps can skip some. Or is that just one of the limitations in the twelve step program?
How can a man who has been imprisoned and on parole, like Father Mark, with a felony conviction for violent phone threats be in the AA system and still threaten people? He’s still violent. The person I chose to live with, Father Mark, was the person of change I wanted to learn from. If anyone could change from his past to five years of sobriety, that would be my model of change. Yet, one year later, he’s not changed at all; He’s just become sober…longer; Terrible model for sobriety.
My sponsor doesn’t want to hear about the past; just what I will do to change. He won’t be happy with my choice to drink every chance I can get. Neither will Siana; I owe her money. After moving to my own place, called from now on as HillPlace, I am in debt up to my eyeballs. I will crawl out of this debt eventually, slowly; but it will be at the grace of very many friends; I had to borrow money for butter yesterday.
Mama D. and Siana D. had given me life saving stuff for a new move-in. Tons of stuff. I felt Mama D. was there giving me a hand with her daughter’s boyfriend’s move-in. Either she cared that much for me or her care for her daughter’s new love carried over. Either way, it produce pots and pans, glasses and plates, toaster, coffee maker, and other move-in stuff. These were all of the things that one would need to move it to a new place. All were thought out…by who? I didn’t ask.
I think, and I rarely get this right, Siana somehow will let Mama know how deeply in love with me she is…with me. {baring the obvious trailing participle.}
My new place is of my own. It’s just North of the Twin Cities and in walking distance of work. I’m working and keeping a job. I’m not staying sober. I cannot say what my plan to stay sober will be.
Siana is the most wonderful woman that I’ve ever met. We will see if she puts up with me.



-- Without Wax

Monday, January 16, 2012

New Girlfriend

Just a quick post to introduce Siana D. as my new 25 year old girlfriend. She's in the recovery community, a co-worker, and very Facebook proficient. I challenged her to find this blog, so I thought I'd post a little of what's been going on lately.
I have been drinking lately; as late as last Friday The 13th of January. That did not preclude me from getting my one year medallion. I have to lie to my roommates and the community if I'm going to stay living here. More on that later.
I plan to post more often and try to stay sober.

-- Without Wax

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Blessed, not Dead

I have never been more sober in my life, yet I’ve only just received my three month medallion. One year ago, I stopped drinking for one month while I moved into Hunting Hotel. Before that, I was homeless in the dead of Winter in Minneapolis, Minnesota, jumping from treatment to homeless shelter to detox and back. Here is my story of what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now.

Having failed three treatment facilities in one year, I’d stayed drunk on money from plasma donation. It seemed like a good idea at the time; nothin’ better to do. I had a case of the pore me, pore me, pour me another drink. I drank to near blackout and stayed at the Indian detox facility in South Minneapolis for two to three days at a time, just long enough to dry out to supply my blood for plasma…a never ending cycle. On one of those occasions, I left there as a guest for the very last time. That was April 2nd, 2010.

On that day, a councilor convinced me to try the Hunting Hotel. He gave me the address and the name of the manager, Matthew. It took a half a day of waiting, but I got in. That night I slept on my own bed for the first time in years. Contrary to common understanding of sleeping in a novel place, I slept like a rock and woke refreshed. That’s odd too, because I had another stranger in my room; we shared a single room. From that day and for the next month, I abstained from alcohol.

Long story short; after that month, my roommate moved to Northern California, which gave me license to drink in my room, now that I was alone. I drank until September 13th, 2010.

On that day, I had decided to stay sober. It was not for any Earth shattering epiphany. It was simply due to me being tired of being tired all the time. It was not because of some revelation I’d read in the Big Book, a spiritual experience, or hitting bottom. This time I was simply tired of being tired…physically.

Then things started happening. My mind cleared and I started pursing things; things that would improve my quality of life. You have to understand; being at the Hunting Hotel allowed me to not think in survival mode all the time. It also allowed me to drink, albeit covertly. But, because I knew how not to get caught there, I had a choice whether to drink or not. There suddenly was no pressure either way. So, prospective employers started returning e-mails and calls. I had some interviews. One of which landed me a job I interviewed for back in April.

Before starting the CallCenter job, I had a brief seasonal job ringing bells for the Salvation Army. That gave me enough money to buy a decent wardrobe for my CallCenter job. I’ve held it ever since.

I had a one-day relapse on Christmas Eve after three and a half months of sobriety. But, I now have those three and a half months of sobriety back now. I’ll describe in detail that relapse in another post. I attend up to three AA meetings a month. I live in a house with an old sober friend. I feel serene.

Please post comments and I’ll update this blog more often, okay?


-- Without Wax

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Father Mark


The purest heart hangs by a thread.
Originally uploaded by Haribo's Photos


Familiar places reminding me of drink, like the back of the light rail car I’m currently riding in, sharing the odor of ganja. Police asking for my rail ticket, this time I have it to show. Its funny how this clean shaven white guy doesn’t even get a close examination of my ticket; it could’ve been invalid. Or maybe the cop is lazy, since he did nothing about the pot smelling punk. Minneapolis cops are like that.

Just last night I was waiting at the bus stop and had to walk away from the bench because two drunk black men were arguing loudly while their woman puked all over the bench; fairly standard for 11 o’clock at night at the corner of Franklyn and Nicollet. In the twenty minutes it took for the bus to arrive there passed no less than four of Minneapolis’s finest patrol cars without as much as a single glance at the disorder on display. Minneapolis cops are useless.

I’m drafting this on my Palm Tungsten e2 on the train as I return from my piss test, for a job instead of a PO. The thought of drinking in this trigger ridden place has, thankfully, not overcome me with tremendous desire to use. In two days, I’ll have as many months sober…but who’s counting? I wont mention it at my next AA meeting. Hell, I’ve already got so many one and two month medallions, I don’t need another, nor another acknowledgement. I’ll hold off until my third month sober. For the record, my sobriety date is September 13th, 2010.

Yes, I said job…finally; Two, actually. I start as a seasonal bell ringer for The Salvation Army this morning. Then, starting the first full week in December, I start full-time at The CallCenter (sorry I couldn’t come up with a more creative alias). I asked a lot of souls for their prayers, and God was listening.

I really shouldn’t have started this blog post so early in the morning. I’m pooping out. Speaking of which, I’m wondering why my poop was green and runny when I went to give my piss test? I couldn’t hold #2 in while filling the urine cup, so I let both fly and found green stool. I don’t feel sick, yet for some reason I’ve got the green runs. Maybe my bodies become eco-friendly.

The smell has vacated as the black dude stopped hitting on those two chicks and left. No wonder his eyes where so puffy and red.

I have called him Father Mark for the last five years; he finds it funny. I think Mark J. should be canonized, but instead received his five-year medallion a few days ago. He’s a good friend, not just an AA one, and has helped every new comer he’s encountered in one way or another. He’s helping me. We’re starting over from the beginning in the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. He’s moved to Roseville and, coincidentally, that is where my new job at The CallCenter is located. There’s an extra room available in his house and we’ve discussed me possibly moving in when and if this new job pans out.

He's back with his ganja smell. These young black girls he’s hitting on think it’s cool.

I’m listening to music for first time in a while instead of news. I’m doing a lot of things anew now that I’ve decided not to drink. I’m following God's will.

Darla V. called. I plan to see her Saturday night after work. Although I haven’t seen her since we lost the apartment in Saint Paul, I don’t believe she’s in a relationship. When I see her, I want to kiss her long and hard. We’ll probably meet at a bar, but I don’t think I’ll drink. I’ll keep you informed.

Teresa J. called too. She actually found me on Facebook. She’s an old college fling from back in early ‘80s. She still lives in Anaheim, CA, 1500 miles away. She’s a total nymphomaniac. More about her later.

If you keep up with my blog, you know my history with starting a new job. After settling in, I get comfortable, then drink. Eventually, I loose the job and home and property and mind. I’ll have to do thing differently this time.

I must satisfy my penurious need for job starting material (i.e. bus pass, work cloths, lunch money, etc.). This bell ringer job should put me in the black enough for business dress cloths.

I really must get to sleep now. I just want to conclude by saying I’ve been practicing YALO and FOG: Yet Another Learning Opportunity and to keep an eye out for Fucking Opportunities for Growth. Let the FOG roll in!

P.S. I need to update the look of this blog. And the photo has no connection what so ever to this blog…I just thought of heart when searching for an image.

Update: The Salvation Army had no work for rookie bell ringers on this first day. With nearly 140 candidates and only 24 available positions, only the veteran ringers were chosen. This left my roommate, Wayne R., and me without work. We were the only residents of the Hunting Hotel looking for this type of work. I believe the vast majority of candidates were residents of Sally, which means, since they already live there, will most likely not be dissuaded from showing up tomorrow. My only hope is that some discouraged candidates left early without signing in or turning in their badges; they’ll be picked last tomorrow. But it wasn’t a total loss.

In all honesty, I did start to feel resentments. These initiated from simply walking back into this building and seeing some of the old faces again. Sally did me wrong when I went to treatment there and some of the people I’ve run into still believe it’s my fault. But, I figure this is part of God’s plan for me; to take this resentment and deal with it in a health, more constructive way. I’ll let you know how that works out after I climb back down from the clock tower.

Besides a nutritious (second) breakfast, I had a few unexpected YALO moments. I ran into Rick D. from the Sober Barn and he asked me to call him later about an opportunity. This definitely smells of God’s will, so I’ll follow up on that. Rick is one of the drivers for Sally this morning. Although I’ve mentioned the Sober Barn before, I’ve never explained Rick’s part in it. Rick is an automotive repair man who dabbles in computers, but when I met him needed an extreme update on the latest improvements to computer technology. He’d been out of the loop for a while; serving time for check fraud in prison can do that. I taught him as much as I could about the computer network I’d established, pro bono, for the Sober Barn. Given that, he still disparaged me in the eyes of their management when I was kicked out. I was warned about his thieving, and experienced it first hand when picking up my computer. He’d already taken my monitor, keyboard and WiFi card. I’d gotten them back, but at the point of him questioning whether I actually owned them. Even though he’s got several years of sobriety, he’s not to be fully trusted. Rick will always make sure he’s on the winning side of any financial deal he’s involved it. But, I will call him nonetheless.

Wayne (roommate) turned me onto the fact that the pawn shop across from Sally doesn’t charge tax on pre-paid cell phone cards. Since I buy at least $50 cards at a time, this is a savings of $3.75; which is nothing to sneeze at, let me tell you.

Actually, by arriving on the first day, we already have an advantage over anyone who didn’t show up and stay for breakfast. Those who haven’t will be chosen last tomorrow, which should have 92 positions to fill and even more on Saturday.

But, by far the most wonderful thing that came of this trip to Sally was meeting the Bus Girl. I don’t even know her name, but as I sat behind her, she noticed me. Bus Girl has a petite figure, just under five feet tall, a size two with B-cup breasts, curly shoulder plus length dark brown hair, milk chocolate brown eyes, punctual dimples, and pouty lips. I watched as she pushed those lips around with her lip balm and found myself aroused; she knew I was watching. Perfect in every way, with the exception of a few facial blemishes that was more than made up for by the occasional beauty marks punctuated with perfect grammar.

She smiled at me several times, but said nothing. I tried desperately to think of some conversation starter, but was deterred by her age. She could’ve been any age, but her small ears told me she must be in her mid-twenties, far too young for me.

She got up at my stop, which surprised me. Still, I had nothing to say. All I could do was gawk at her tight spandex splattered buttocks and knee-high black boots. She’s so fine. I was polite, she smiled, we got off together…then went separate ways. I hope to see her again. When I was sufficiently distant from her, I turned and took in one more glance; pure beauty.



-- Without Wax

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Everyone's Idea of Love


Love Bond..
Originally uploaded by indori_vj
Everyone's Idea of Love

I don't think everyone's idea of love is identical. In fact, because of the blinding nature of love, I don’t think most couples even know how close each other’s ideas of love really are, even older couples. I know June W.’s and mine sure as hell were not the same.

For those new to this blog, June W. is my ex-wife. Keep up.

I’m pretty sure that June never really fell completely in love with any man; not her first husbinder, and definitely not with me. “Husbinder,” that was her term for them. I’m sure she’s never felt deep love; and never will.

You see, she’s never had someone leave her for another. That means that she’s historically always been the cheater; the manipulator. In fact, I think that is how June sees all her relationships: She’s the queen manipulator.

Because of my very first blog entry, on December 15th, 2005, http://sincerelysober.blogspot.com/2005/12/my-first-weblog-post.html, she has never forgiven me for being the first, and last, man to cheat on her; and I didn’t.

Back in September of 2005, the day I was released from jail for my DUI, I visited Kelly M. I consoled her on her loss of her last boyfriend, and knew her, Biblically. She drank wine, while I vowed to stay sober. I knew, even then, that alcohol was the root of my problems. I asked her if I could stay with her until I found a job.

She’d always been attracted to me. Kelly is extremely hot looking. She’s got breeder looks: 36DD breasts, wide hips, and a shapely body. She used to be
over-weight, but she’d started working out in anticipation of a new husband…any new husband. But, she’s definitely an air-head. She doesn’t follow politics, doesn’t have a passion for anything, and doesn’t seek out knowledge, for knowledge’s sake. I believe that her only real passion is having children; which, not to segway, is the reason she’s on June’s ten-most-easily-manipulated list.

But, see, I never cheated on June. Our divorce was final before I was ever released from jail in the fall of 2005. June has always had it in her head that Kelly and I had an affair while we were married. There was this one evening when June had left on a business trip for a week. I had told her that I was going to have Kelly over for a movie one night. Kelly and I had always had urges for each other, but never acted on them, not while I was married. But, we almost did that night. Kelly was acting a little weird after that night, and I’m sure June noticed, but it wasn’t because something happened. It’s most likely because Kelly wanted something to happen.

The night that Kelly and I slept together, the day I was released from jail, was the only time we’d had carnal relations. That was definitely a strange day to remember. She started drinking wine. She asked if I wanted to indulge, but I declined. I figured, booze got me here: I don’t need to drink any more

Then she became melancholy, talking about how her last boyfriend left her. I don’t remember his name, but for all intents and purposes, let’s just call him Tom. It was bad. Tom was teasing her about going back with his ex. She gave me the horrible details, which eventually ended with him going back to his ex; which she then left him for another younger guy. A story would cause tears in the eyes of the writers of “Days of Our Lives”.

Kelly then described, in detail, how she planned to attract Tom back into her life. Seduce him into believing she was deeply in love with him. Then, “drop him like a rock!” I was shocked when she said that, because I was totally buying the entire sincerity spiel. After she’d said that, she’d just finished one bottle of wine. She hesitated, only for a moment, before deciding to open a new bottle.

She kept crying and crying. I kept hugging her to console her. She gave great hugs. Breeders are always great huggers. Then she eventually looked up at me with those mascara-bled eyes and said, “Do you wanna fuck?”

I could not have imagined a more romantic query from such a beautiful woman. What didn’t happen was that my jaw didn’t drop (it was the Devil in me). I immediately got a hard-on and said, “Yes”. I guess it doesn’t take much to seduce me. Pathetic.

The odd thing about this entire encounter was that she insisted on have sex in her daughter’s room. She claimed that her bedroom was a mess – which if it was anything like the kitchen, was totally believable – but there still was that nagging idea in the back of my head. Her youngest daughter had confessed to me soda voce that her brother sleeps in the same bed as her mother. So, there was definitely something in there that she didn’t want me to see. I queered that we should do it in her daughter’s bedroom. “What if she came home?”, I asked. She convinced me that she was at a sleep-over. Still, fucking the MILF surrounded by pink stuffed animals was, to say the least, a little kinky.

But, the oddest part – and here’s the control part – was that half-way through the missionary position, she asks, “Are you cut?”

I’m totally ready to cum at this point, and then my mind asks, ‘What does she mean by cut?’ This is where my mind flashes back to that scene from “Animal House”. You know, where the guy gets the under-aged girl drunk, and into bed. After the first kiss, she passes out, totally nude. Now he’s contemplating doing her passed out. Just then, the Devil pops up on one shoulder, trying to convince him to take advantage of her. Then an Angel (which, coincidentally is her youngest daughter’s name) tries to convince him not to. I don’t need to explain the scenario; you can watch the movie…it’s funny. Eventually, the Angel wins and the Devil calls him a ‘homo’. But, I’m thinking the same thing. Two parts of my brain are working at the same time (they do that, ya know), the Devil and the Angel. The Angel is telling me, ‘Of course I haven’t had a vasectomy; June can’t conceive.’ The Devil is saying, ‘Circumcision? Of course I’ve been cut.’ But, the bottom line question was, ‘Why hasn’t Kelly, after three grown kids and being in her forties, hasn’t had her tubes tied?’

I didn’t think of the other alternative, like maybe having a child of my own wouldn’t be so bad. Or that I could simply cum to fight another day…with a condom. In the end, I told her, “You know that June has had a hysterectomy. I have no need to get cut.” I pulled out and we did things manually…I crying shame.

This whole scene was summed up in the song by Mountain, “Mississippi Queen”…if you know what I mean. Every time I hear that song, I am reminded of that night with Kelly M.

The facts of the matter are that:
June had never been cheated on,
We met by her cheating on her husband,
Me by cheating on my girlfriend, June’s sister-in-law, and,
That no matter what I told her, she will always feel that sleeping with Kelly – post-divorce – was cheating on her.

I’ve examined all of June’s relationships; family, friends, lovers: past and yours-truly. It has always been a matter of convenience and manipulation. June is the alpha-dog in every relationship. If she can’t find a way to be the alpha, she’ll make it so, or cut it off; blow it off, so to speak. June is the kind of person that has to be right, 98.2% of the time. She’s not the kind of person that likes to learn from her own mistakes.

As far as true love is concerned, I think she experienced it with me at some point in our marriage (I believe in our first year). But she now believes that at that point in time it was a farce. I fell in love with her because she showed me something that I longed for: family. My closest brother felt that need too. During that first year, and the year before we were married, family was important.

And it was good. Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Easter, I’d made sure that we celebrated them fully. I even pushed for the Renaissance fair: Over weight girls in push-up bras gleaming attraction from warriors. She was a definite shoe-in. June didn’t dig that scene. She wasn’t into role playing.

See, June didn’t marry me for love. She married me for health insurance. We were already living comfortably for three years together before we married. I had always been employed (up to that point). She felt it was her time to stop making money and experiment with (several) other self-employed experiments. Most of these experiments did not yield profit. But, being the manipulator, she held the purse-strings. I never really knew where the money was going. I knew she had a lot of debt: student loans, second mortgage, credit cards, etc. I came into the marriage now with debt, when before I had none. Attempt at discovery was always diverted to other things. I was the money-maker and had to describe in detail why I had to buy the computer upgrade that I needed. I’m a computer programmer. The computer that I eventually bought is the one I’m still using to document this post; that’s how old it is. For June, money is, and always will be, king. I got fucked in the divorce. That happens when you’re drunk constantly.

June married me for health insurance. She has always had a hard time working for a company and found in me, a Software Engineer, a stable husbinder that could provide the health insurance that she so desperately needed in order for her to pursue her dream of self-employment. Not necessarily paying down her debt, but one that supports her desires. What does she do today? She sells health insurance.

And, she’s into sex. We first met because of sex. I mean, we cheated on each other’s significant others (we couldn’t admit how we met in our wedding video) and on our relatives. That probably went by too fast for you to catch. We met through relatives. My girlfriend’s brother and wife visited one week. His wife is June. June and I hooked up. So, I slept with my girlfriend’s sister-in-law.

You know that time, in every relationship, where it’s asked: How many lovers have you had?

I was up to 14 and counting (having a hard time) when she stopped me. I was sure I was drying up on the last few counts (I was digging). I could name every one, because we had relationships. She bowed her head and said, “It’s more than 100.” Then she paused, “Do you still love me?” It was at that point that I had realized that she hadn’t really had a decent relationship with any of them. She’d never deeply loved any man. I wanted to be that man.

Okay, June is not the most attractive woman, physically. She can’t get small. She can’t loose her weight any more. She used to be able to when we first met, but not any more. She doesn’t have a striking face. She’s cute, and adorable, but not drop-dead gorgeous.

My first wife, Vennessa W., was hot. But, she didn’t even know it. Vennessa would wear anything I’d ask her to. She was my dress up doll, and everything worked on her. She had a tight little body and loved to show it off. We’d go out shopping so I could see her in so many other things. She liked to dress up, and I like to dress her up. The one thing about Vennessa was that if she thought I thought she looked sexy in it, she wanted to wear it. It’s that third level of awareness.

Vennessa had the kind of body, even for a woman ten years my senior, that everyone wanted to see, and she knew it. She was a voyeur. So, shopping for her was a joy, for both her and me. It actually didn’t matter what I bought for her. (Well, actually, I could say that it didn’t work for her and she’d believe it). She had the kind of body and face that anything would look good on. Different, but good…and difference was good.

Vennessa didn’t mind wearing chokers. June thought they were for dogs. June preferred pearls. I bought Vennessa lingerie, and she was happy. June was happy when I bought her a ring, before we were married.

This was a special ring. It was our promisary ring. We weren’t ready to get married just yet. But, I wanted to express my love for June, without any connection to marriage. So, I took her to a jeweler and chose a ring that I thought was the most beautiful of all rings. I chose it in front of her. I wanted to buy it to show her how beautiful I thought she was.

It had a blue sapphire in the middle surrounded by diamonds. This ring meant a replacement of the rings that we had exchanged in Las Vegas; one wonderful cheating event. Her finger never looked more beautiful (well, entire hand, really). It is an awesome looking ring and she wears it to this day more often than any other ring, even after the divorce. I don’t think she ever wears the diamond I bought her for our wedding any more. I think she thinks that because it was pre-wedding, that it has nothing to do with the love that was meant to be conveyed by the ring. June can easily separate the two.

As my drinking became more of a problem, her faking it became more noticeable. She started to complain about her relationships with everyone from close friends to close family members, ones we used to vacation with. She started even bitching about her cats, who I know she loved.

Then she stopped confiding in me. I was the problem now. Well, of course, by that time I was unemployed.

So, her eventual solution was a Wisconsin one: Build a bar, just like her brothers had.

My current idea of love is not too far off from what it was when I first fell in love. Okay, so I fall in love with women that have alterative motives. But, I’ve seen most of them. And they get old after time and become easily spotted.

I’m not fast on the uptake when it comes to relationships. It doesn’t mean that I’m socially stupid. I don’t know what it means. But, it means that when I get to know some one, I spend a little time with them.

Everything is relative. Everyone’s idea of love is relative to everyone else’s idea of love. In order to objectively describe anyone’s (much less everyone’s) idea of love, you must understand that it explodes! Some of my personal examples may explain how love can be exploited, desired, and even needed (heaven forbid).

People talk about levels of love…mostly women. But, in this case, June thinks like a man.

To this day, June W. keeps my same last name and has never considered ever marrying ever again. It’s not out of respect or loyalty. It’s because she’d tired of moving on. She’s more comfortable being honest about being a slut.


-- Without Wax

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Politically Naïve

I just watched "The Ghost Writer" for a second time, and it took me that second time to realize, what everyone else in the entire rational world knew, that Tony Blair was an American puppet.

I feel that I am one that follows politics fairly closely. I mean, I’m not a guru by any sense, but I am informed. I research candidates before I vote (more than I can say for some). I know where they stand and I know how it affects me.

I also understand what’s happening in this world. When the planes flew into the towers on 9/11, it did take me the second plane to connect it immediately to Osama bin Laden. But, because I’d been reading books on terrorism, Jihad, Islam, and so forth, I knew this was an al-Qaeda attack. And I knew, at that time, that Osama bin Laden was the leader of al-Qaeda.

When the 9/11 attacks occurred, I was just a few weeks away from accepting a very good job. Being depressed about the economy and my job status (I was a couple weeks short of ending my unemployment), I had many things to be worried about.

June W. and I slept in a lot those days. She was unemployed as well. We were living off my unemployment.

That day, we were laying in bed – not getting coffee – just lagging…trying to wake up. We normally get up at 7:00am CST, but we slept in. At :46 minutes past the hour, all hell broke loose.

We were watching our favorite morning show, “The Today Show”, with Katie Couric and Matt Lower, when all of the sudden they announce that a plane went into the North tower of the World Trade Center.

We knew then that many lives would be lost. We didn’t need coffee at that point. We both bolted up in our bed. We both felt, at that point, that it was merely an accident; a terrible one at that, but just an accident.

Of course, the current Today Show was interrupted. But, they were trying to get a camera on the building. I mean, they were just downtown, yards from the collision. And they assumed the best: meaning that Katie and Matt assumed it was a stray jet liner off course…just like we did.

Seventeen minutes later, the second jet hit the South tower. It was announced, not seen. But, I knew then what was going on.

June remembers me whispering too her in bed, “Osama bin Laden”. I covered my mouth, perched my lips, and started to cry. Because I knew that this was payback…and this was the start of it.

All of the sudden, I knew what was going on. We had suicide terrorists attacking the World Trade Center again, as they did in 1993. They were attacking America’s greatest city, New York. And they were willing to give their lives to do so. June didn’t understand that first part, not immediately. When she finally did, she couldn’t stop puking.

I just remember, after the second plane, calling up my neighbors and saying, “Turn on you TV!” “Which channel?”, they’d ask. With a choke in my throat answered, “any channel”…and hung up.

June and I were glued to the set for the next hours of horror as the Pentagon was attacked and the flight 93 passengers heroically brought down their plane in a Pennsylvania field (God bless their souls).

Then the towers did something that no one every thought would happen. They collapsed with thousands of souls crumbling with them. I didn’t believe it could happen. I didn’t want to believe it. I was naive. I guess because I wasn’t alone on that day that in thinking so, that, I don’t know: there must be a hole in humanity. To let thousands of innocent human lives just perish. I mean, we are definitely not talking about worriers. We are talking about regular people that go to work every day.

And we’re not talking about a nation that has declared unconditional war by an un-provoked attack, like on Peril Harbor. The nuclear bombings on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were a justified retaliatory attack. If they’d gone on indefinitely, then maybe they would be viewed more as revenge than retaliatory. But, if the attacks against our Navy fleets in the Pacific had continued, more American lives would have been sacrified. We had the bomb and we knew we had to use it. We figured out a way to fight back; a hard punch, so to speak. There should be no martyrism in the fact that we bombed the hell out of the people that unprovokley brought the US into the WWII era.

The whole world for me felt in flux. FAA travel was suspended. People in Hawaii were asking how they can get supplies? UPS’s answer: We’ll deliver buy ground. Hawaii’s like: “Really, you’re going to build a bridge?”

On 9/12, my perspective employer said that they had been attacked by a virus and that my employment would be delayed by a few weeks. Those few weeks were butting up against my last few days of unemployment insurance we’d had left. It ended up being that the timing was just about right. But, this only added to the explosive stress of that time.

You have no job. Planes aren’t flying. Possibly more attacks. All this time, I’m remembering the 1998 movie, “The Siege”. That movie was a Prophecy of what was to come. Even with stars like, Denzel Washington, Bruce Willis, and Annette Bening; it was a flop at the box-office. It lost money.

But, here’s the Hollywood paranoia effect: There were many terrorist movies in queue at the time of the 9/11 attacks. They all got pulled, for fear of, whatever: a reactionary response, I guess.

However, sales of video rentals and purchases of “The Siege” shot up days after the attacks. Personally, I think this was a good, healthy thing. “The Siege” is a very open minded depiction of what could really happen to a great city, like New York, when militaristic systems are put into place in an urban area.

Here’s the thing: I believe there’s something fucking up in Islamic culture. Like they lost some ground that we – Americans new to the stage – gained. I believe that we took the higher ground – in so many ways – that it perplexes Islamic culture. And we did it so fast.

Women should have the right to vote. Oh, duh, we didn’t think so 100 years ago. Yah, blacks…they should be in the back of the bus. Now we have a black president. Go figure. Allowing free speech; now there’s a concept…one that will get you ejected from power. Human rights have never been achieved fast than in the United States of America. We may not be the model, but we are the example.

I think that Nelson Mandela had conveyed the transition from a state that is biased to a state that can possibly be homogenous was possibly the most humane thing that has ever happened on this Earth. Watching “Invictus”, I understood how he could’ve (and I say ‘could’ve’ because this is a fictional re-enactment) accomplished that enormous task.

So, I think that I’m well trained in global politics. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gleamed the Osama bin Laden connection seconds after the second WTC attack. But then, compared to June, when I talked about tank attacks in the Gaza Strip, she was like, “Palestinian tanks?”.

My sad answer was, “Palestinians don’t have tanks.” She didn’t respond how I’d hope she’d respond. She just said, “Oh.” There’s a conflict you don’t want to get me started on.

What I loved about June W. was that she cared about these things…she just didn’t want to know about them…I mean she puked on 9/11. But, she doesn’t even try to search out this knowledge. She’s Midwestern. She’s an Isolationist. She thinks that by buying an Acer laptop, that’s made in America, that she’s buying American. Naive to the fact that 99.7% of all components in an Acer laptop are actually manufactured overseas. Okay, she’s not blonde, just Midwestern.

But, however how I don’t support total USA gung-ho attitude, I also don’t support the fact that there are still nations in this global economy that don’t support basic human rights. If we’re going to be global (and technology has really forced us to), then we have to agree on some basic human rights. In that sentence, that means there are a lot of rights that need to be righted.

Short list:
Females need the right to go to school.
People should have the right to speak their mind without incrimination.
…I’m sorry…I’m blowing it.

I’m not a leader. I just know basic human values. I mean, I can’t make an all-end, all-be, list of human rights. That’s why I live under a constitution. But, that constitution is the best (I believe) in the World.

There really isn’t any higher human constitution. No one has written one yet. Humans are complex. We are the highest order of animal on the planet of Earth; which is as far as we know. It doesn’t mean that we should take advantage of that fact. It means we should take responsibly for that fact (which we’ve really been lagging, lately).

Number One: We need to respect others that look and act different.
Number Two: We need to respect and understand how wild animals have an affect on our World.
Number Three: Accept the fact that we may be able to terribly affect the underlining nature of the food chain.
Number Four: Just be nice to nature. I know that may be hard for some of you corporate types, but think about it…1,2, and 3.

And remember, we humans are the only animals on this wonderful planet Earth that have the Devil inside us. We have the burden of choice. We can and should make the best choice. It’s time to make the best choice…because we’ve made the wrong choice for too many years. We will eventually pay the price, if we don’t.

I just didn’t think that a nation that has ruled the world before, such as England, would have a leader that was a puppet to any nation, especially not the USA. That’s backwards. I’ve spoken to English clients. They all insist – on The Fourth of July – that we’re not celebrating our independence, but that we’re still their colony; in a humors sense; like we’re children leaving the nest.

I guess, from anyone else’s perspective, that America is the puppet master. Well, at least from Roman Polanski’s
-- Without Wax

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Father's WWII Experience

Without Wax Inception is all about dreaming.
And sometimes, in order to understand it, you need to walk away from it.
,,,for a bit…

Anger clouds things…as it should.

Example: My Father died at an early age for me; I was 15. My mother abused us a lot while my father was away working over seas. We'd cry for him to return, and when he finally did, we showered him with praise and never told him of the atrocities that my mother had performed. She'd stopped doing them when he arrived.
It was like we were a whole family again.
When he died, she stopped the con. She never abused us after that.
After that point, I had dreams that he'd come home; and they were deep sleep dreams. When I woke up, I believed that he was there for several hours. In those hours of deception, I have to admit that I enjoyed them. We did things, in that dream state, that I know he wanted to do with me before he died.
When the sobriety of reality slowly set in, I realized that those dream states of my Father were wonderful and a gift. Robert was a great man, and everyone knew and acknowledged it. His death was untimely. He wasn't Ward Cleaver by any stretch, but he was someone I always looked up to.
He taught me math, knife sharpening, car repair, astrology, more math, chemical engineering, poker, plumbing, electrical systems, stereo systems, what not to do to a young lady, how to build an underwater camera housing from scratch, one that doesn't leak at depths (shuttle designers could take a clue from his O-ring design), how to take care of a very drunk sister, how NOT to rewire the house (he didn't like that much when I did that), politics, war, peace.
Robert fought in WWII at 16; he was a sailor. That's where he met my mother, a nurse. They were married and dedicated to each other for more that 30 years before he died. As far as I know, neither has ever been with anyone else their entire lives.
He was an engineer 2nd class in the Navy in WWII. He re-enlisted for the Korean war. He hold sever medals.
Despite his fight against Asians in both wars, he worked with them side-by-side as an oil refinery engineer over seas, and was very fond of their company. Even so, as to bring back many Asian pieced of artwork, some of which we couldn't quite understand (a wood carving of and old man caring a pig on his shoulders?)
But the two greatest things that he ever taught me were:
1. How to look up an answer. I was always asking him stupid questions like: why is the sky blue? Is the Sun a star? (Oh, that got me in trouble with my 1st grade teacher when I told her that the Sun WAS a star. I had to sit in the corner.) He would answer as best he could, but then lead me to the encyclopedias. He taught me how to FIND answers at a very young age.
2. How to be tolerant. I didn't even know, at that young age, that he was teaching me that. I'd always asked him about the war, especially WWII and against the Japs! In a round about way, the softened the subject, then took me to my first Japanese restaurant, where the taught me how to hold, and actually use, chop stick. And I'm not talking about those cheap bamboo Chinese chopsticks; I'm talking pointy, artistic, sharp Japanese chopsticks.
I remember the very polite Japanese waitress in bright red dress taking the time to help me learn how to hold shrimp tempura with just chopsticks; the thumb, index, middle fingers..."too much pressure", "relax, reset the chops". She and him tried over and over again, until I finally got it. All the time, I'm thinking, 'each wants to kill each other', you know, because they fought in the war. But, no; it was tolerance. It was one young Japanese girl trying to teach the next generation (me) their culture from the Father of a man that fought in a war against her ancestors. It was her way of being tolerant, too.
And the meal was awesome.