Father's WWII Experience

Galveston Texas on Pelican Island Seawolf Park the US Navy Gato class submarine USS Cavalla SS 244 museum 2010 vintage World War II Historic WWII Military ship vessel War Machine
Originally uploaded by mrchriscornwell

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.

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 her...in 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, alive...to 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

A rest on the road
Originally uploaded by Powerhouse Museum Collection

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 limits...it'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

CIA

IMG_1935
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

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

From White to Black

greetings from planet black rock
Originally uploaded by sgoralnick

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

Memories of old / Memorias de antaño
Originally uploaded by victor_nuno

"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.


Sincerely,


-- Without Wax

So much more than worthless

So much more than worthless
Originally uploaded by Raining Purple

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 sadder....it 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.

Need Degration

Fisherman
Originally uploaded by Flying Hatchets

If a woman's need is faster than a man's ability to fill it, he is screwed.

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

Sunset Huntington Beach Pier

Sunset Huntington Beach Pier
Originally uploaded by Tan Man

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

First Horse Ride

Sunset : horse Latitudes
Originally uploaded by The Family Dog

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 boat...it 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 too...how 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

Without Wax

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 expected...no 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

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?

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

No Two People

drowning
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.

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

Burning Bridges

OLD BEER
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

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

May 27 2007 Strawberry Rhubard Stuffed French Toast @ The Coffee Pot in Kenosha, Wisconsin
Originally uploaded by cal222

Perfect.


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