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,, 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.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

Deja Vu

Why was it that I needed to log out, view this movie -- find this movie in my database -- and log about it.

I found a woman dead, just like her. She was pretty, just like her. Only she was hanged. But she had a pretty face, just like the movie.

That's where things change. She committed suicide. Our victim hanged herself.

It was one of my first, non-accident, victims. I had to write it up. That means that I had to find out the underlining cause of death. I had to run down the doctor and have him sign a "cause of death". That's difficult. The family got involved. It took days. The fact was that she was involved with drugs and wanted to die. The Dr. knew it, but, because of legal reasons, it was difficult to write out the death certificate. Doctors don't usually like to sign off on those type of things.

But, she was beautiful...or was. I'm sure she was, before her neck got stretched out. When a person hangs themselves for a long period of time, their collar bones tend to push through. Well, it makes them look...less human.

But, her face still was beautiful. Like the girl in Deja Vu. She was still...well, me. And that was the most difficult part. I picked her up from the sheriff's department and brought her back to the morgue.

I closed her eyes.

Then, the mortician asked all the young guys to leave the room. That was weird. She was naked, but dead. That was the only time I've ever been told to leave a naked body.

It made me feel weird that the mortician said that, but I obliged. But, I knew...I knew him. He has a very strong respect for the dead. And this woman, although her choice of death was not one he respected, needed the respect of the dead, even more so.

He put her to rest.

Seeing a beautiful woman like that take her own life makes me think...I can't come to any conclusions.

I'm sorry, I just can't.

Why I searched out Deja Vu in my archives, I don't know. There has to be some connection...I'm not sure what?

-- Without Wax

A rest on the road

And old database engineer. How can someone like him, or me, find a job, in these times. I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to sell myself.

Actually, I've never really been good at selling myself.
I love photography. And I love this photo.

I love computers. I've always done self-study. I've always been bad at trusting teachers; I've always questioned them...I wish I hadn't.

I wish I had John R. Clark as my constant teacher. He was so smart and knew everything about everything, and if the didn't, he'd just know he didn't, and know who to ask about it. He was from Harvard.

All my friends in college looked up to him. If he didn't know an answer, there was a reason...and a person you could ask about it.

I mean, he knew everything...everything! He knew that our computers, our mainframes, would be replace by PC; so be bought the latest compatible, the Compac.

I did the same, but a cheaper one, The Leading Edge. Well, I couldn't afford much else. He knew that.

He helped me get some jobs at the college.

After my dad died, I thought of him as a father...a distant one though.

He took me in.

He taught me, first, Pascal, the first programming language that was structured. Then Prolog, the first of these artificial intelligence language...that was cool.

Then he taught me APL! APL is the language of symbols. He taught me that thinking in symbols is the way that humans think.

APL is simple. Once you think in symbols, everything else is a problems of space, memory space, I guess.

I mean APL is the best programming language ever. Everything is ether a number (a scalar), or an array.

If it's an array, than it must be an array of some dimension.
...and so forth.
So, in APL, there are no limits on dimensions.

You can play with dimensions as deep as your computer's limits provide.

...and then solve the problem.

But, that's the whole thing. You're problem isn't working within any computer's's working withing the problem's limits.

That's why APL is the ultimate problem solving language.
...and that's why John R. Clark wanted me to work on it.

-- Without Wax

Friday, September 03, 2010


Originally uploaded by Kingdafy
I just informed the CIA of a link to al-Quida, I think.
The way this guy talked about it, I knew. He knew about bombs. And he talked about it to his "followers". I mean, he really talked about it.

So, I let the CIA know about it.

But, I really don't think that it will stop any more bombings.

This photo is of the largest ICBM the US has ever built.
It has MIRV capillaries. That means, that when it launches, eight more little devices will find their own targets. It's like spreading WWIII all over the globe.

I can't say any more.

-- Without Wax

Thursday, September 02, 2010

Chapter 0(zero): June W.

first love
Originally uploaded by julia magdalena

This is the story of how June W. fell in love with Without Wax, how it built, and how it fell apart. The reason being that getting this all off my chest will allow me to move on.

June W. was a beautiful woman, if not large, when I first met her. I didn’t notice her much after that. Except, when I went to drive her to the airport with her husband. I’d mentioned (not thinking at the time) that I’d never seen my car not be able to accelerate as fast before. It got a chuckle. But, in reality, I’d never had heavier people in my car, all at the same time…including myself.

Let me back track. There are two things going on at this time. I’m trying to loose weight, as is June. Jacqueline O. was my girlfriend at the time, and was gaining weight. This is her MO, (modus operandi). She looses weight, finds a mate, finds a guy, then digs in; in other words, gets fat.

June W. was Jacqueline O.’s sister-in-law. Married just two years, she fell in love with Wax. She did when visiting her husband’s brother in California, me. Why she fell out of love with her current husband, I will never know (for sure)…but she did.

June W. fell out of love with Robert C., the man she’d been married to for only two years. I believe it was at a pivotal point when Jacky and I were making out in the hot tub. It got very passionate. Many family members had seen it. Reactions differed.

June said it! She said, later on, that [she’d], “never seen a more passionate expression of love.”

Robert C.: “I’ve never seen a vulgar display of sex!”

Robert had told the entire family of the incident. He embarrassed his own sister. It’s almost like he embarrassed her into marrying me to his own sister…seriously.

Sidebar: Robert had no clue what it took to seduce a woman. And the fact that he didn’t, pissed off his own wife, June. The fact that she knew it, pissed her off…and the divorce ensued.

Because of that incident, Robert eventually embarrassed Jacky into being somewhat of a prude. He told the entire family. She changed after that. It was like she’d felt like having sex was like prostituting herself. Robert had changed our relationship. Jacky now felt like she was being used.

It was because of Robert’s exclamation that a man shouldn’t display such passion of a woman that June fell in love with me. She saw the wrong and wanted to right it…and got some nooky on the side. She started, for the first time in her life, to hold hands (holding hands in public, she was not right, it was wrong).
It was on that day, in the hot tub, with Jacky and Robert’s statement, that June fell in love with me. On that day, she had decided that she’d have me, one way or another.

She'd fallen in love with him.

Without Wax

Sunday, August 29, 2010

From White to Black

Black History

Wow, that’s a heavy story.
And here, I’m telling it; a white guy one quarter Indian. So, you the fuck…I’ll tell it.

Black (okay, I’m going to say black, meaning African American, Okay; PC People?, Jesus fucking Christ; Oh I just pissed of the Christens.)

Now that I’ve pissed off most of America, let me state this one thing.

Black women have the hardest time in America…and they know it.
Let’s state the facts: Blacks are a down trodden minority. Women are the worst of that minority. They end up raising the young gangster boys without fathers. And, if they don’t, they’re just nasty.

Want to dispute this? Have you ever seen two black girls on a bus? They think they own it and break all the rules. Young black girls know they are the bottom feeders and will rebel.

Black mothers are much different then black girls. Black mothers have weathered most of this stupid racist shit. Depending on their age, they may have experienced terrible atrocities. Older black women can be mean. But, younger black girls will be bitches.

Let me explain. Both ladies have felt betrayed. But, not in the same way.

Do the math: Blacks are shorted, women have been shorted…Duh, Black Women are on the short fucking end of the stick…and they know it.

It’s the biggest fucking elephant in the room.

Older black women have it worse. They’ve seen Jim-Crow, weathered that shit, and seen their men treated like animals…they’ve seen that shit.
Both older women…well; okay. Have you ever told an older black lady, not to do something? It will never happen. They’ve been there and done that.

Have you ever told young black girls not to eat on a bus? They are too proud. They wont listen to you. For some reason, young black girls think they can break all the fucking rules. If you try to slap them down, they’ll only fight back. And they’re wrong, but they’ll never think they’re wrong…never.

Like her mother said (in The Karate Kid), “Dre, pick up your jacket!” Never, fucking ever, cross a black mother. We’re talking about the strongest women in the world. Black mothers are the epitome of the angry south. You never cross an angry black mother…ever.

This is the mess that we’ve made.

-- Without Wax

Memories of old

"There was a time."
I love that opening line from "Lucky Number Sleiven"!
Old typewriters. That's my old school. Only they didn't even have letters on the keys...they were blank...yes, BLANK.
The only way you know what each meant was to look up at the pull-down. There was your only reference to where each key was placed. You had to imagine each key's placement.
It was a way to teach you how to type without looking at anything else but the source material. You can't look at the keys or the paper. You had to look at the source, type it, correct it, and do it without backspacing.

This was my early learning. And I still retain it.

I can easily take a piece of paper, hand written or typed, and just type it out at 60 WPM...spelling and grammar corrected.

And because of that training, I think that way. When I write a story, a blog post, or an e-mail; I think in typing. It's an early gift.

In fact, when I started my first UNIX programming job, I had to work with international keyboards. I had to program on their keyboards, when things got harry. Many times the keyboards swapped keys, like 'Y' for 'Z', and shit like that. But, being so young and flexible, I could easily compensate. I don't think I can do that now. However, I still maintain my 60 WPM speed.

And again, it's because of the early training. I learned how to type without looking at anything. It became learned early on in me. My hands have never failed. I've never experienced anything even close to carpal tunnel.

I think...and the words just come out. If I had to write something on paper, I don't know if I could do it. It's not that I don't know how to spell and need a computer to help me. I can type faster with correct spelling than anyone can really just type. I type at 60 WPM spelling corrected!

And I can't find a job.

I fucking hate that. I'm talented. I've got an IQ of 221. I can build a computer from scratch. I know motherboards, memory speeds, hardware compatibility, how to repair ANY computer.

And I can't land a job.

It's like every employer is scared of me. And I'll take any little job. I've had interviews, but no one calls back.

It's not like I have a criminal history. There's no problem there.

It's that I do not have a history of supporting myself. In this recession, employers are only interested in people that have not had a problem supporting themselves. The rest be damned.

Their looking for the finest...and they wont find it in me.

I need a job. I'm talented. And I'll do anything.

I just need a job.


-- Without Wax

Friday, August 27, 2010

So much more than worthless

That's exactly how I feel. I just let down a good friend by drinking my ass off. And he knew it. He let someone else fix his problem.
He knew I could do it, better, cheaper, faster, cleaner, ...
He just knew I was to drunk too do it.

And then I found my ex-wife. She was not to found of me.

So, this day is much like this photo.

Actually, this photo makes me feel like...well like a way I've felt sometimes.

A sad girl I once cheered up....for a bit; but then, when reality set in...she got sucks!

Big Black Cow

Black Cow
Originally uploaded by drew_073
If you've ever grown up with two big sisters, that loved Steely Dan, ..and drank, you'll know what I mean. Otherwise, watch the next posts for details.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Need Degration

Originally uploaded by Flying Hatchets
If a woman's need is faster than a man's ability to fill it, he is screwed.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Big Lens, Small Flowers

I took this photo a long time ago. I had just recovered it from my old hard drive.

I wish I still had that old camera.

-- Without Wax

Tuesday, August 03, 2010

Sunset Huntington Beach Pier

Growing up with the sun enlarging as it nears the shore, glowing orange as it sizzles into the Pacific Ocean, is a birthright for Orange County children. There were so many romantic scenes that I shared with young girls when I was young…and had no idea what to do with them. Imagine that: I was just a shy young photographer of, what, 14 young years of age, blue eyes, brown hair, attracting little girls my own age. Neither of us knew what to do. We just played around in the sand, waited until the sun set;…then got kicked off the beach for being accused of what we didn’t even know what to do.

There were so many girls I just laid with on top of life guard towers; I guess they were waiting for me to do something, make the first advance. I had no idea what to do. I was scared. I’d always been scared, of doing something with a girl I didn’t love.

The real truth is that I had no idea what love really was. More on that later.

I’d always loved the way the sun set in the Pacific. When I took astronomy in college, I’d done so to learn how we came to be. I learned that as the sun sets, light from the sun does a few things that makes it weaker…or different.

Sunlight that falls directly downward from the equator is the strongest, because of two reasons: One, any light that projects from an angle has a measured amount of decrease; Two, when light travels through the atmosphere it is filtered and weakened.

This second part can be explained like slicing an orange. If you slice an orange at its center, the peal is the smallest. But, if you slice it near it’s ends, the distance of the peal is deeper. Compare that to the amount of atmosphere light would have to travel to reach the surface of the Earth. The more air light travels through, the weaker it gets; and the more colored it gets.

This is how photographers find their color. It is so beautiful to see the Sun travel through the atmosphere. It goes from white, to yellow, to orange, to red, to dead…and people just pause to watch it.

I got pissed off, as a junior in high school student, when my leading photos didn’t make it to the yearbook cover. The cover was a generic shot of the Huntington Beach pier at sunset. What a common shot (I thought).

Fast forward to the day when I took June W. to San Diego shore, to let her experience a Pacific sunset. This is what I told her:

I had my camera. I told her that when the sun sets in the West, it happens very fast and that, if you want to catch it, you have to pay attention.

I said, “Watch the people, the couples, as they approach the shore. Just before the sun touches the waters, they will all pause, turn towards the sunset…and then just watch…”

And as they did, so did she. It took me back; It totally reminded me of that one time I was with this little young blonde 14 y/o on a lifeguard station. She was entranced. June was entranced. I saw a glow in her that I’d not seen since…well, since childhood.

Okay, well then, when June and I were on our honeymoon (years later), we’d gone up to the Upper Peninsula, on Lake Superior. It’s way North, so the sun sets much slower. When I’d first saw it set; that orange sun, I’d just had to get a photo of it. I’d had a few drinks and wasn’t thinking straight when it came to gathering the right equipment. It took me three trips to get all the right lens and equipment. But, because we were so north, the sun takes much longer to set, so it was in my favor.

Anyway, so I’ve got my 35mm camera, tripod, lens, and everything, and I’m set. So, I’m going to get the most romantic sunset on Lake Superior. And as I do that, a family approaches: mother, father, son, two daughters…one of which walk up to me.

She’s sixteen, has a T-shirt, “Lansing, Michigan”…and she has the same gaze. I’m sitting here firing off my photos as fast as I can before the sun sets, and she approaches me. Without looking at me, she says, “I’ve never seen a sunset.”

And that point, I realized that Lansing is land-locked…and she’s not looking away from the Sun. And I thought, ‘This is what June’s first sunset was like.’ This is her Pacific sunset, so to speak. This is her virgin sunset.

It was at that point that I realized that I should never take any image for granted.

I’ve thought about it a lot since then. I’d like to go back to college for photography. I’ve done a lot of self-studying on my own. There are a lot of dimensions to photography.

Photography was my first love. Computers were my second love.

And I just don’t want to not do what I love…I can’t.

-- Without Wax

Saturday, July 31, 2010

First Horse Ride

Have you ever ridden a horse? Horses are an amazing animal. They have evolved with humans and are on the cusp of domestication. There are wild horses, tamed, broken, and stallions. They're strong, huge, muscular, fast animals...and they are our friends. I don't believe we would've gotten to the point this society is without them.

And yet, there are people afraid of them; and I'm going to get racist here. Inner city blacks are afraid of horses; deathly afraid. I went through treatment with these thugs that would shoot you as much as look at you and they could not walk up to a horse. They cried and begged not to be near the horse.

Okay, let me explain the situation. Part of our alcohol treatment was equestrian. We were tasked to lead horses around to accomplish some menial task; I psychological test, sort of get your mind out of the way and do what's in front of you. All the inner city black guys couldn't fucking walk up to the horse. I swear, their shorts got brown. They were excused. To this day, I do not understand the connection.

However, in Mexico, I rode my first horse...and it was amazing. This was before Alison M. and I were married. We were on vacation in Puerto Vallarta. There was a boating trip to some remote area that we found interesting. I don't remember the name of it, but it was remote. Although being part of the mainland, you had to get to it by was that remote. I didn't even realize how remote it was until I took flight.

I was drunk (go figure) and chose to para-sail. They strapped me up and hooked me to a rope connected to a small boat. Before I knew it, I was yanked up 100 feet above the ocean, and climbing. The salt-air was blowing in my face and all fear of heights had instantly gone away...I was too high to care. Then, I looked around, and found the beauty of Mexico. The sky was clear; I could see for miles. I'm not talk a few miles...I'm talking all of them. I mean I could see the curvature of the Earth. It was so cool.

And then a calm came over me...all fear of heights gone. And I started to look around. I look back towards the shore...and all I saw, for miles and miles, was trees...beautiful fucking trees. And then I knew why we had to take a boat trip here. There's just no other way to get here.

Then I look down. Twenty dolphins swimming just under me, in clear blue water. And they were directly below me weird is that? It was so sweeet! I'll never forget that experience.

So, I landed and Alison chickened out. But, we then rode up the the falls.

We have to ride horses up to these falls. They are on cliffs and are very dangerous. Alison rode a donkey and rode a horse. Before we mounted, she notices the fucking three foot long dong on this mule...I've never seen a dick so long. I guess he was in heat.

I'm getting off my story. The man that gave me the horse told me he is, "a little wild". So, I used all my readings about horses to try to control him...which was little: squeeze the leg, pull the rains, talk to it. He didn't listen. I feared for my life. We walked up those cliffs near far drop offs. I gave my fear over to his ability to navigate those cliffs. He knew what he was doing; I'm sure he'd done it a dozen times before.

It was the ride down that was fun. I think he sensed that I was a control freak. When we finally got to the clearing, I'd squeezed my legs against his chest, whipped his rains, and yelled, "Charge!". It was like what he was waiting for all day long. That fucking bronco heaved up and started to run. I've never felt so much muscle between my legs (and I'm saying that in a gay sense.)

But, I remembered my training. Be in sync with the horse. So, as his ups and downs came, I adjusted...and we rode. I'm not talking just riding, he wanted to run fast. So we ran fast, and I just leaned into it. And I kept calling, "Yah, yah", and he fucking took off like a rocket. It was like him and I were one.

I can understand why people own horses...they're beautiful animals.

I wish I was back on that beach. Those people live so much simpler lives than us. They're happy.

I miss that beach.

-- Without Wax

Friday, July 30, 2010

Without Wax

Originally uploaded by Incognita Nom de Plume
Sincerely Sober/Without Wax I will explain later.
I have so many things spinning around in my head; I just want to get them out.
First of all, I want to thank those who have added supportive comments.
Spinning is one way of gaining control. You can spin out of control, yes. However, early in WWI flying dog-fights, pilots learned that when their plane was spiraling downward, trying to turn out of the spiral failed. But, turning into the spiral took them out of the death spiral. It's counter intuitive, like jumping into an incoming wave. Many young beginner swimmers run away from a crashing wave at a beach. But, surfers know that if you run towards the wave and dive right into the base of the wave, you'll end up popping up on the high end of the wave, just behind it...instead of getting clobbered by it.

I need to learn when it is appropriate to drink and when it is not. I blame not having parents, I really do. Dad died at 15 (my age); mom died then too. Can you image, all of the sudden, not have any parental guidance at 15? Add to that, I'd just gotten to know my dad (that's another long story). I have to become my own dad now.

Without Wax is taken from the Dan Brown novel: Digital Fortress. It is the Spanish translation of sincere. Breaking it down, cere is the Spanish word for wax. Sin is "without". Sin was translated to san; I forget how. It is close to sans serif, the type font. Serifs are those extra parts on a letter in a fonts that add style. Sans serif is technically, without extras. So, fonts like Arial, are simple, without extras. But, Without Wax means much more. It's about being honest.

Side note: Without Wax/Sincere was mentioned obscurely in Dan Brown's last novel, The Lost Symbol. Evidently, Robert Langdon (the main character in that series {The DeVinci Code}) had read an obscure reference in a 'boring novel' by some unknown author (his character's author, of course) to the connection between the word sincere and without wax. That's how he solved that pyramid puzzle; boiling the wax and all. All right, you'd have to read both novels to get it. Anyway...and by the way, you'll notice my blog predates the Lost Symbol novel, so the term Without Wax gains a little bit more notoriety.

When sculptures cut marble into beautiful works of art they sometimes make mistakes. They'd chip off a little bit more than they'd intended. Since wax was the same color as marble, they'd often cover up their flaws with wax. The end product would look exactly as one would know the difference, except the artist.

A sincere sculpture is one without wax.

In being anonymous with my telling of when I'm sober and when I'm drinking, I'm still not violating my oath to readers. I can say anything here because of that. I can be myself, yet I cannot be identified. That has it's pluses and minuses. This is my most visited website, but I can't use it to spring-board off of, because it would identify me.

I am drinking as I write this. I've planned this weekend to drink out some anger. There's nothing better than drink AT someone (yah, that'll show them).

But, I have to tell you; I initially wrote this blog as a way to write letters to June W. I really didn't even realize that until after the first year of doing so. And when she found this blog, she printed ever page of it. I'd thought that was it; she'd fallen back in love with me!

What a putz! She'd just become yet another cougar with a hot tub.

But, I like this place. I get to say anything I want, whatever comes to mind, without hurting anyone or myself (I always use aliases of real people in my life). The gossip you read is of real people, but always disconnected from their real names.

Next: How to find a woman that accepts my current life style. Either that or write a crime novel.

-- Without Wax

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

4th Step

Fourth Step

After a week of sobriety, I thought about doing the fourth step. I can’t, I just can’t. It is too deep of a well to explore. I’ll never get out of it sane. And no fifth step will ever convince me that these regrets will magically disappear.

I know this journey is supposed to produce a better human being. And I know that I’ve been a pretty selfish being; sometimes human (well, half-human). The root of my character defects is that I am selfish. That is the one thing that June W. and I still have in common. It’s probably what attracted us to each other. I know, pretty sad.

I don’t want to be selfish any more. Yet, I have little to give. Everything is gone. I am working on the selfish flaw; I have been for the last five years. June could see that. That first time we got together after I’d been sober for nine months, I could see the feelings inside her. She was envious that I had a break from the rat-race to re-evaluate myself. I think she could see that I’d lost the lust for greed; that was something we had in common. That was a drive that took our careers in so many wrong directions.

But, she saw so many more changes in my character. She at least saw that I’d become a different person, hopefully better. I think I have become a better person over the last five years, although my bank statement would beg to differ.

I can say this for sure: I clearly know right from wrong. I know how I got into this mess. I know the steps it takes to mess up. And I know that sharing those lessons honestly with my next friend, lover, co-worker, or boss; will clearly end that relationship. That’s where the anonymous part comes in.

Remember my first wife, Alison M. She was a known alcoholic, and yet I still married her. I thought I could fix her...silly me. I should say ignorant. Because, when an enabler, like me, marries an addict, he has no idea what he’s getting himself into. What I’m talking about here is I used to be on the other side of the fence. I used to be the one surrounded by addicts. I was the social drinker. I mean I tried several drugs, but none really tripped my trigger.

Then I met Alison. It was a typical pub-crawl night where my brother, Robert J., and I would go to a club that hosted older ladies. It was called The Hop in Huntington Beach, CA, owned by the Righteous Brothers. It was late in the evening when I asked Alison to dance. She responded very suspiciously. “What, you don’t want to dance with those other young blondes?”, she said. I convinced her that I really was attracted to her. I could tell she was in a pissed mood. How much so, I’d only learn later.

That night, Alison was like a mustang I had to break, to tame...and I did. I seduced her. She drove me home. We fell into the pool. Our cloths fell off. We made hot passionate love. And when she woke up, she had a smile on her face. She was a different person than the woman I’d asked to dance the night before.

I never really understood the Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde effect that happens with sever alcoholics; like Alison, and later, me. What I found out later, through deduction, that Alison was in her frenzy stage of drinking that night she went to the bar. When we fell into the pool (okay, I pushed her on purpose), I discovered that she was only wearing a small top and skirt; no underwear (I drew a line, in the water, up her leg to find her panties only to discover there were none; talk about arousal). She was cruising; and acting crazy.

This is what happened: Alison was pissed about something (it really doesn’t matter with us alcoholics; it’s just another excuse to drink). She got home from work, decided that the day was shot, so why not open up the red wine and indulge. She deserved it after the crap the military gave her that day (She worked for McDonald-Douglas). Then against her sober judgment, she split off wearing little, to her favorite dance bar. She probably didn’t even think about changing.

She was attracted to me when she saw me dancing with other ladies. But, at the same time, she was pissed that she wasn’t initially asked to dance. Her anger grew. When I finally got around to asking her to dance, she thought she was last-call. That’s why the angry greeting.

Back then, when I was 25, I knew; I just knew I could kick any habit. I’d already kicked a few (meth and coke). They took a toll on me. I saw in Alison a woman that I could “fix”. Engineers are all about fixing things, right? So, I agreed to fix Alison.

We got married in Las Vegas. We told no one.

As a husband, I learned early that it is very important to get home early (not to work late) to monitor her drinking habits. At that time in my career, I worked late. I worked until the problem was solved; typical engineer stuff. But, if I didn’t get home before Alison started drinking, she would switch into the Mr. Hyde mode. She’d get paranoid, hyper, angry and crazy. It would take all my effort to calm her down enough to feed her dinner. It was a stress: I must get home before she starts drinking.

And the next day, she wouldn’t remember a thing; total black out. She’d be chipper as a bird.

The funniest thing is that I never saw any of this behavior in me. I did everything that Alison did and more before I ever really got A.A. Talk about denial. And I was worse. Even when I talked about denial, I was in denial.

So, I know how people view alcoholism: in stages; stages of denial, really. No one really wants to fall in love with an alcoholic. No one wants to hire an alcoholic. And no one wants to admit that the person they fell in love with is an alcoholic. That’s why they call it anonymous.

What I’m trying to say is that no one above your sanity level will understand the depths of danger below until they’ve experienced it. But, by then, of course, it’s too late.

-- Without Wax

P.S. Has anyone figured out why I sign Without Wax?

Sunday, July 11, 2010

The Fiction

When a man falls in love with a woman, there is fiction involved. She thinks of him as a provider. He thinks of her has as a very small warm place to be.

When this falls apart, they start to lie.

This happened with June W. and I.

She was gorgeous. I had blue eyes. We thought, we had the fiction, that we could make it together forever.

The economy proved us wrong.

She thought that my knowledge of technology would save us. I drank it to death.

Then the lies start.

I lied about the drinking and she lied about her skills.

I know how to program computers, I just don’t know what she can do.

I know my skills. I don’t know her skills. And she doesn’t want anyone else to know them.

And because she is so stupid, she’ll never really know how much I really love her. And I’m so fucking tired of loving her. I’m tired of writing about her. I wish she didn’t exist.

When she meant a lot to me, she didn’t even really realize what that meant to me.

I don’t think she really has moral value to any man anymore. I hate to say it, but it must be true.

I hate to say it, but she's not as smart as I thought she was. I must be more stupid. And I wish I had never met June W., because I've never fallen so dangerously and deeply in love ever in my life.

-- Without Wax

Saturday, July 03, 2010

No Two People

Originally uploaded by Jillian.Xenia
No two people want the same thing at the same time ever in life. Life is short, so we accept their differences, for a while. If you adore a feature of her for too long, it becomes a liability. And if you ever bring up a flaw, you’re dead.

This is the philosophy I’ve derived with women. You have to become careful around them. They want to be known as attractive, but not hit on; especially in the work place. They want to know that they can always fall back on human recourse when a man that she is not attracted to is hitting on her.

So, if you’re not the perfect man, you’re either celibate or a stalker. Put it this way: People that desire fun sex have a hard time hooking up. If you desire sex on a normal basis, you’ll see the opportunity everywhere around you. If that person you desire doesn’t…well then you’re in trouble.

How do you put that in check?
And then if you ever get deeply passionate, you’re sunk.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Fear of Addiction

People fear addiction. That is the reason why no one will talk to me. I get it. I should pretend like I don’t have one. President Obama has one, but it doesn’t change other’s lives, or doesn’t have the potential to.

They fear addiction. Friends and loved ones do. They get scared…scared away. They get scared for so many reasons. Maybe because they see in you what they could be.

But then, there is the reasoning that they shouldn’t put up with that crap. With their own crap. That they should just take it.

Just take it. Yah, that would be cool.

Let’s dispel all the mistakes we’ve made into a boiling pot of anger. Let’s just it simper for a bit…let it cool.

After all this cooling, there will always be a growing uncomfortably. We will never survive this. We will always be the underclass.

Seeing my old friend taught me something. It taught me that HE will never want to be associated with US. Because, he’s scared…I think.

Is this fear more important that real friendship? Can we break the beerier of sober life?

Without Wax

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Burning Bridges

Originally uploaded by defekto
You’ll never really know the bridges you’ve burnt until you look back; retrospect, they call it. We have a limited time on this fragile Earth. Friends are important, very important. You are not a genius. You won’t ever be able to discover who will be you’re most trusted friends. But, old friends, they have value.

Larry C., a software engineer (just like me)…has endeared me with the most entertaining drunk stories that, I’ve labeled them: the Larry Stories.

I’ve just found out that Larry has moved to the Twin Cities. We had a little pub crawl. And all was forgiven…or so I thought.

What he did one night caused us to not trust him ever again. We came to visit in Reno, NV. We stayed at his place. Then he disappeared. What had happened was that he fell {drunk} in love with a beautiful lady and totally had forgotten that he was hosting us at his place. All our trip property was in his apartment. We had to leave the next day. I could deal with it, but my girlfriend couldn’t.

I could deal with it because I know the nature of Larry. But, he just left us. No keys, no plan, and more importantly, no luggage. He knew we had to leave, yet he left us.

I tracked him down. I knew, from the local taverns that he visited, where he might be. Jacqueline was worried. I found him. I had expressed to him how upset she was to him. He was a man I had put our trust in…and then she got scared…because his dick got hard.

I had set myself to not trust him again…then he called. I was still pissed about the fact that he really didn’t understand how scared Jacky was. I felt, when he called, that maybe…just maybe he might have known how scared Jacky was, but I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. I’d told him, “no”.

Time passed, and I’d never heard from him again. Then, we found each other on Facebook. He’d remembered the damage he’d done to our relationship. We met over beer and had forgiven and put away the mistakes of the past.

We talked and drank and looked at beautiful young ladies at bars, just like old times; but it really wasn’t. I’m divorced; he’s got a daughter, a house, more than I can have. It was unbalanced.

His ex-wife said he shouldn’t see me again.

He gave me an e-mail saying that we can’t see each other again.

I’m like: Wow: what the fuck?

He called me and said that she apologized: that she should have never forced that decision upon him. Then he called back and said he felt like a jerk.

Frankly, he was, but I cannot help but think that he was a pussy jerk. Come on! His ex-wife has now decisions about friends he’s known 20 years ago?

So, now he hasn’t changed. He can easily burn bridges has fast as I could. But, I no longer find value in burning bridges. I should teach him not to. And take respect that he hasn’t, over 20 years, learned that lesson.

I must teach Larry how not to burn bridges. That’s a job; that’s a big job. Okay, I’ll do it.

Next step.

-- Without Wax

Friday, June 04, 2010

May 27 2007 Strawberry Rhubard Stuffed French Toast @ The Coffee Pot in Kenosha, Wisconsin


There are times when I feel so close to June. She knows how to cook, and she knows how to reach any man through his stomach. I love her; I really do.

-- Without Wax

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

June's Bar

I don’t think I've ever really knew how much we loved each other. Everything I loved about June W. was everything I lacked: family, stability, credit, home, friends and pets. I just watched “Crazy Heart” with Jeff “The Dude” Bridges and saw myself in every scene. Especially when he did a face-plant on the bed just before telling his friend he’s done drinking.

I wish I could say that I’m done drinking after watching that movie, but I am writing this drunk.

June did everything for me. She made me so happy. The only thing that she didn’t do was the only thing she couldn’t do: give me a child. (That is another story.)

But I’ve learned something about her being away from her. She really missed her drinking partner. As much as she tried to handle the end of our marriage with me trying desperately to stay sober, she could not be happy with a sober husband. She needed someone who could drink with her.

The more we’d learned about each other, the less honest we’d become. We both created our own set of denial: mine not accepting being an alcoholic and her’s not being married to one. She became the ultimate denial supporter.

She didn’t want to admit that she married an alcoholic, even though she saw all of the signs beforehand. She wanted to present a stable drinker to her Wisconsin heavy drinking family. It’s like she almost had something to prove. She had finally met a man that can hold a job and drink at the same time.

Once it became one or the other, she no longer was interested in me. June had fallen out of love. Her best friend could no longer drink with her.

So, what did she do? She divorced me and built a bar, in the living room (well, just off it.)

I have never loved anyone in my life more than her, June. And I can’t get over her. I told her that I will always change. I changed into a sober man. She became disinterested. I turned to the bottle. I really didn’t know where else to go. I still don’t.

Her family saw how crazy we were for each other. I fell in love with them; they’re good people. I don’t have much in the way of family. I miss family. I really don’t have any now.

And I loved June like no other man has loved a woman. When we were together, it was like glue. Just being in the same bed made me stroke her legs with mine, rub her aching muscles, pop in her dislocated spinal vertebrae. June was the kind of woman that would take time in a morning shower for a personal scrub down, no matter what her schedule.
She liked the way I took care of things in the morning, like setting the Boss for random jazz music as an alarm clock, making the coffee, feeding the cats and clearing their box; that simple stuff. I always made sure she had a good start for the day.
She loved when I sang to her in Spanish, barely naked.

I miss doing that.

We’re all getting older. That kind of fun probably wont ever happen for us.

But, she meant a change for us. At that time, we needed it. We were cheaters.

Being married meant we’d bean done with cheating, or so we thought.

This is not the kind of relationship you want to describe to your family.

This is the kind of bar that her family dreamed of, in-house, laminate, sweet lighting, European in nature, but Wisconsin in root. Thankfully she created more of the former than the latter.

It was supposed to be a place that you can just come in, play dice, talk local, bitch about work, that type of vent. That’s all she wanted. Nothing worse.

Photos were collected, and posted. She’d married a photographer, yet she never posted photos of him. She only posted photos of friends that were more drunk than her. I noticed that. It was tasteful, as tasteful as party can be. But, thought was there.

June W. is not the ultimate party girl. She’s holding out; for someone. Not me, that’s for sure. We’ve done that dance.

I love June. I will always love her. I can tell you in detail why I will always love June, but that is not important to her nor I, nor anyone else. I just know that I must let that love lie and die. If you’re a drunk, you’d know why.

Sincerely Yours,

-- Without Wax

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

My Friend, Alcohol

I really must describe my relationship with alcohol, at this time in my life. But first, must say something about this beautiful photograph of Antelope Canyon taken by Paul Rutowski. I was searching for a photograph that would visually describe the post I am about to pen, and although it has nothing to do with alcohol, I felt the need to share this awesome work of art. However, I could make a case for it:

This image describes the rift alcohol builds between the success of my life and the need to escape the reality of the lack there of.

How was that? Pretty lame, I know. Sounds like a drunk wrote it. Anyway, it’s good to know there are beautiful places like that on Earth.

Onto the subject at hand. Alcohol does for me what nothing else in my life right now can do: It relieves my anxiety. It can stop me from thinking about every problem I have in my life; although most of them can be attributed to alcohol. Today, I don’t feel the need to drink, to get drunk. But, because I know that won’t always be the case, I have chosen this particular GRH housing facility, the Hunting Hotel. And I’m going to be sincerely honest about this. The rule is that if you choose to drink and stay here, you will be kicked out. However, you don’t have to stay here every night. Bing! The light bulb illuminates.

There’s nothing to say that I must stay sober to live here. Because of this, I don’t feel pressured to stay sober. That is one major monkey off my back. When you’re surrounded by residents, staff, security guards, priests, AA members, doctors, and volunteers all praying, inquiring, prodding, and asking how many sober days you have, it’s enough to drive a man to cocktails. These people don’t feel the need to be casual about inquiring into your current relationship with alcohol; they feel it is their right. They feel the need to twelfth-step you to death, in the name of their own recovery.

You wanna help? Help me with the thirteenth step. I haven’t gotten laid in so long, my right hand is growing blisters.

At the Hunting Hotel, if you choose to drink, don’t come home. It’s as simple as that. I don’t have to come home every night, just once every 18 days. If I do get drunk, there are several places in downtown Minneapolis I can go. There’s the Tramp Pad downtown I can crash for the evening, or the detox facility if I need several days to sober up. I can even rent a hotel room, if I save up enough cash. The place I cannot go when drunk is home. (I never had this option when married to June W.; more on that in another post.) I can leave all my property at home – my wallet, backpack, anything of value – grab a few bucks for booze and a bus token, and I don’t have to worry about loosing my shirt when I inevitably black out from too much fun.

I’d like to elaborate on this part of leaving everything at home. When you’re homeless, you have very little in the way of storage choices. Most of what you value is on your back. Getting plastered risks all you own, yet we drunks still risk it. I have lost so much property from these drunken binges.

Once, I blacked out and ended up in Indian detox facility. When they took my property, they put my valuables – wallet, ID, social security card, Palm Pilot, cell phone, MP3 player, bus cards, money, etc. – in a little Tupperware container. Before they could store it in their safe, another drunk walk by and stole it. It happens all the time, from what the director has told me. I was devastated. Not having ID and social security card makes it impossible to get a job, amongst other things. Not having a home means you can’t just have them mail you a new ID either. But loosing my organizer was the worst. The Palm Pilot had my entire life in it (it’s like a smart phone without the phone). It had all my contacts, documents, financials, notes, appointments, applications, etc. The financial compensation I received from Indian detox was not nearly enough for me to replace all that was lost. It was yet another reason to drink, hard.

Let me make myself crystal clear about something. My history of loss in my life (friends, wives, jobs, property, reputation, etc.) has never been a major deterrent to drinking. Alcohol does for me something that at times I feel I need: relief from anxiety. I don’t have a friend in the world that can do that for me. My ex-wife, June W., used to, but she changed after marriage.

I don’t mind that it’s a one-way relationship. I buy my friend, alcohol. I let her in. She changes my outlook on life and I calm down. I stop worrying about everything I should be doing right now, which is everything. She says, “Don’t worry about everything at once, because you can’t solves most of them today anyway. Let me in and you can become that other person.” By the next morning, the other person usually finds a way to screw up another part of my life. But again, I now don’t have to worry about it so much.

Hunting Hotel does not require you to be part of Alcoholics Anonymous nor attend meetings. Some meetings have gone bad for me and have attributed to yet another relapse, from time to time. I’m no longer in treatment and am off paper (I’ve completed my DUI probation), so I have no AA meeting requirements. They do require you do drop on request (take a drug piss test and breathalyzer). I don’t do drugs, so that’s not an issue.

Mandatory AA meetings can be a burden to a recovering alcoholic, like myself. If you’re there because you want to be there, it’s not so obvious. But if you bring an AA card, everyone knows you’re required to be there, and you’re treated differently. They call it ‘court ordered’, but it’s not always. You could be in treatment for alcohol and/or drugs that requires a signed AA card. AAs have strong opinions about treatment vs. Alcoholics Anonymous, and they let you know that. And some AAs fairly new in the program like to compare their progress to yours, like it’s going to help the newcomer. It’s my experience that people like that wont stop that behavior until their first relapse. It’s only afterwards, when you see that sincere humility on their face, that you can sense that they know the meaning of the word ‘progress’. Again, more pressure.

There are times when the last thing I need is an AA meeting. I definitely have too much resentment against the folks at the Sober Barn to return there anytime sooner than I’m ready. I know of predictably healthy meetings, one of which in uptown I think I’ll attend tonight. One thing I really do not want to do is talk about how many fucking days I have sober. The next person who asks will get the living shit choked out of a verbal way. No, seriously; I need to think of a clever misdirecting comeback to that question. I know, “The day after tomorrow, I will have two more days sober than I do today. How many will you have?”

If it becomes so fucking important that I must get drunk, I’ll simply head home beforehand and drop off anything of value, except what needed for the night, and head out. It is because I have this option that I don’t feel the need to drink alcohol today.

-- Without Wax