So, today I examine the fine line between stupidity and being neighborly which I have so sadly and much to my chagrin, fell that I have crossed. Perhaps this neighbor is on the up and up, there is about a 3% chance that this is the case. Our constant hope in the goodness of human nature tends to get darkened this time of year, what with all the Black Friday antics involving security beat downs and pepper spraying consumers. I have lived in this area for many years and this is the very first time a ‘neighbor’ has asked me for money. No cup of sugar, no rogue ingredient for a Holiday Goose, just a straight cut to the chase supposed middle class version of the bus ride to Pontiac story so many of us have heard time after time. Is it possible to live in a modern world and harbor any sort of trust for goodness in others. I will get the money back, of this I have not doubt for I am planning on an adult version of the somewhat tenacious paper boy in “Better Off Dead”. The question remains, why is it that I feel shitty about helping someone who appears to have a fallen on difficult times? Yet don’t feel compelled in the slightest to hand a bum a bit of spare change. Does the borrower feel shitty about dropping her drama at her neighbor’s door? Have sensationalized news stories affected the way we interact with strangers? In this time of occupation, civil unrest and rampant capitalism, have traditional, societal moral codes been done away with completely? Have we de-evolved into a societal equivalent of a back alley dog fight?

The neighbor just paid me back by the way. But the distrust lingers, like the name of some C list actor in a movie that you have to look up on IMDB.

We have multiple forms of winning offered to us these days. If you don’t care for Football(any kind, including Aussie Rules), there is Basketball, Hockey, and Baseball to contend with. Something for everyone. Does the fact that we watch others fighting it out to be number one in their particular field make us losers? Observing vs participating? Are athletes revered for their skills, that they possess or the fact that they have a great job that everyone wants but few have the skill for. Not unlike actors and actresses – everyone wants to be special, to have something other people want, to ‘win’. Does winning make existence on this planet take on more meaning than was originally intended?Is religion merely another form of ‘winning’? Just a passive aggressive one, saying ‘ok, in this life maybe I didn’t get everything I wanted, but in the next one, well, the next one is going to be great’.

What about human nature makes us want to win? As a highly competitive person, I have never really sat back to question why being the best is so important to me. Instead, I have spent hours wondering why I am not, and punishing myself for it and inflicting my own impossible standards on people that could never live up to them. That being said, other people would probably view it differently. I am walking around feeling like I’ve lost, when really I should be questioning why I have had it so easy. By visual definition, is the man in the business suit with the expensive car the ‘winner’ whilst the bum on the street the ‘loser’? I mean sure, material goods are great, having a nice house, a nice car and nice clothing – all fine, but it doesn’t necessarily make you a nicer person. Most super wealthy people I know are insecure and use their money to insulate themselves from the realities of this world. On the flip side,  the ‘losers’ of this world those with nothing in the matter of material goods, don’t pay taxes, don’t have mortgages and could care less about taking a shit in your backyard. Granted, no one starts out the day excitedly shouting I want to be ‘homeless because it is awesome’. But speaking to the individual and perhaps the notion that freedom could be a form of winning – which person has more freedom? Winning  these days really just means insulating yourself from the losers and it is never, ever enough. Until you can sort out the inner referee (who this month will wear pink because fighting breast cancer means Winning!).

People want to classify themselves as something. Our time here seems destined to be defined by something. We desperately cling to the ideas that we are special, that we are winners, while the rest of the world doesn’t understand. Perhaps the basic ‘we’re number 1′ chant should be reserved not for over payed athlete praise, but for the daily mantra spent whilst looking in the mirror picking out the flaws that didn’t seem to exist yesterday, or did, but they have just gotten larger. As a former cheerleader, be it merely Junior Varsity (loser), I am very familiar with the blind support of a team, of the butterflies associated with winning, almost winning, and the despair of losing. The cyclical build up of desire, anticipation, along with the ultimate result, either the elation of winning which lends itself for a desire of more winning, or the sadness of losing, which usually involves a few shots, perhaps a hangover, but ultimately really doesn’t affect anything at all. If Michigan State beats Michigan, it does little to wash away the fact that I pissed away my education on easy classes and schedules that didn’t involve getting up before 10am.  My choice of university does little to negate the fact that I have always known I would birth the Anti-Christ. Though as i get older (Losing!) perhaps that is not my designated purpose.

Having started this a week earlier, and now finishing it when both the Tigers and the Lions have lost, does it really change anything? There is going to be another game, several if you include hockey season, where there are winners and losers. Sure Oprah retired, but now she is just giving life classes on her network. Nothing ever really stops. There are new hopes just as there are always going to be disappointments. It’s exhausting. Much like this entry has become. I don’t have the answer, but it is probably likely that I am going to buy a scratch off lottery ticket on my way to work today. Maybe, just maybe I will win something.

Crowds – I hate crowds. People are idiots, when idiots gather it becomes a giant teeming cesspool of bad decisions based on peer pressure and alcohol consumption. Therefore my primary fear of crowds is the fear of being trampled to death because you are the first in line to see the Who, and others behind you get over excited at the possibility of the doors opening and then, the melee ensues, leaving you just another inconvenient hill to trudge over for some 70′s acid rocker who needed to get in to buy a t-shirt before all the good ones were gone. Granted with most of the Who dead, this fear is not as prevalent as it was in my childhood. Or say you are in the front row at Roskilde, and you just want to see Royskopp? But then, some rigging guy who isn’t insured and hasn’t distributed the lighting and sound load properly miscalculates and the stage, lighting and speakers come crashing down. I don’t like electronic music enough to die for it. There are no electronic music martyrs out there. Think about it. While to many my primary fear of crowds may actually seem a tad irrational, I haven’t even skimmed the surface of that one. The irrational fear starts by being in Europe on the street when a sea of soccer hooligans rape their way through what was once a nice shopping district and  you happen to be in their path because all you wanted to do is look at some Camper shoes. So comes the tidal wave of pillage, thereby turning a fine vacation moment into a tragic event. I lived in Chicago when the Bulls were on their winning streak, I know the power of the ignorant fan. Like a human tsunami they wash the streets destroying all in their path. What about the running of the bulls? I mean that is the worst crowd of all? Drunks waiting to be gored by a bull? Who is the genius in that group that is totally sure he can make it?  As for the possible foul play aspect of crowds – let us all look back to Tailhook shall we? Groping, anal pillaging and the like.  It is safer to stay indoors with a shot gun at all times.  The likely result of crowds is an unbearable vulnerability due to a gross invasion of personal space (I am talking American 2 foot boundary here, not 8 inch European close talking boundary). Unpleasant, say no more.

Second on the fear list today is 80′s juggernaut drug that just won’t die – Cocaine. My primary fear of cocaine is a Len Bias style heart attack, ushering in an untimely death. Irrational fear of cocaine includes a crippling addiction, followed by a downward life spiral into the abyss, and eventual prostitution. Not unlike the tragic movie lives of Marion in Requiem for a Dream, or Julian in Less than Zero. Naturally this route also leads to an untimely death, just with more sores.   As for the possible foul play scenario – what could be more unpleasant than a blown out nasal cavity followed by a lifetime of sinus trouble, or a series of bad dating decisions based on a desire to stay high.  Most likely result – ingratiating megalomania, serious gurning and plaque riddled breath. This fear unlike the other has a slightly possible upside – weight loss. What is one to do?

Oh, so much fear, so little time.

The story starts with noon cresting, as I alert my comrade to the fact that brunch must be gotten. I am ready to be waited on and enjoy a delightful meal out. Granted I can already tell that things could go either way as a workman who is supposed to be fixing something up on the place next door keeps walking on my porch gabbing on his cell phone trying my door handle. He knocks, I answer with a terse, ‘can I help you?’ to which he realizes finally that he has the wrong place. Stunning being that he had already been in the place next door and then went back out to his car. Still, I feel bad about what I perceive to be a bit bitchy and make an effort to try to be nicer. Fact is, I don’t like motherfuckers knocking on my door. The only exceptions to this rule are friends, and the UPS man bringing me presents. Otherwise you best stay away from the door. Selling something? Die. Putting supermarket flyers on my porch? I will kill you with my mind. Jehovah Witnesses? Skull punch. My postal carrier can clearly feel the animosity emanating from my home as she opts to bring mail only upon occasion. Still, this post isn’t about what is behind the door, it’s about getting some fucking egg whites for breakfast. Sadly, the suburbs have egg whites down. Maybe that is where I have gotten so spoiled. Competitive environments breed customer service and choice. Non-competitive environments breed mediocrity and uninspired menu items.

The story continues, I opt for a walk downtown to a local eatery that just got lauded in the Detroit based ‘society’ magazine Hour. It received high ratings for it’s brunch fare so the likelihood of egg whites loomed. If they do brunch well, then it is likely they do special orders. In retrospect it was a foolish notion, almost as foolish as the mohawk on the waitress dropping menus at the table when I arrived. I am willing to wave bad fashion choices in the event of impending good food experiences but if I am honest it set me on edge. It was already starting to look less likely that I would have the joyful brunch experience that I so longed for. A quick scan of the menu revealed that adhering to the food combo diet would be challenging at best. So it was up to calorie counting to lead the way. I asked 1-800-Mohawk if they did egg whites, she replied that it was far too busy and the cook’s would be really pissed if she even asked. Little do outsiders know, that servers all over Detroit are hostage to the whims of militant cooks, this I know. In the same respect, I did not give a shit about the whys, I knew that once again I was to be denied. Normally I would suck it up and find something to like about the menu. Today, I had enough. The cautiously suppressed rage within started to simmer. A witch’s brew if ever there was one. Maybe it was the denial of egg whites, maybe it was the ridiculous hair (we are talking King’s Road in the 80′s mohawk here), it was probably the tables full of bright young things all about me that was the final nail in the coffin. I was confused, were we in Manhattan? Who are all these people and where did they come from, to fill up a generally mellow restaurant with their ‘cast of Friends’ Sunday AM dreams? Well dressed, clean, good teeth…is this the New Detroit I have been hearing so much about? Needless to say, by the time Running Bear got back to the table to take our order the best I could do was order nothing and not cry in front of my friends in despair. We jokingly started singing ‘all I wanted was a Pepsi and she wouldn’t give it to me, all I wanted was a Pepsi…’. Young Wes Studi didn’t care that I wasn’t ordering and why would she, she was punk.  I hung for a bit, but my plans foiled I began to wonder if perhaps there was somewhere else out there that would be able to deliver. I knew on my walk home I would pass the Westin, far be it from any big city hotel dining room to deny the weary traveler an egg white omelet. I excused myself when the food arrived to go in search of something, anything that could silent my inner rage.  I passed the Westin harboring no desire to go into a hotel lobby if I couldn’t then head to my room and order room service, and kept going. Admittedly the thought of a coney sans bun had crossed by mind earlier when going by Lafayette, but I wasn’t drunk so  I pressed on. Then I came upon the MGM Grand, surely they would have breakfast options, no doubt allowing frequent gamblers the choice of lower cholesterol. Maybe they even had a breakfast buffet..I will never know, I didn’t go in, the idea of the one armed bandit stealing 10 hard earned dollars far too tempting. Finally, I neared the Lager House, I had heard tales of brunch, but they seemed like folklore. Was it just a mirage in the desert that was my food quest.  The sign said open, I went for it.  As I walked in I put my cards on the table ‘do you do egg whites?’ I asked. ‘Not really, but we can probably work something out’ was the response. I looked at the menu, simple, but interesting. Working something out, was something I could indeed work with. A response to acknowledge that maybe I was a dick, but it wasn’t a deal breaker, like so many great dating relationships start, so too would my quest for food end.  Vegan Biscuits and Gravy – fitting no diet plan, turned out to be the best move of the day.I snapped a picture and texted my friends with it, as they were enjoying their lobster laced breakfast fare. So be it. Only after gazing upon the photo later did I notice the plate sitting directly above a guitar pick with a smiley face on it. Normally smiley faces piss me off, but sated, I let it slide.

Post meal I continued to walk, not knowing why, but thinking maybe I would get a coffee. The quest for eggs had been  met with none, but still, I felt compelled to walk.  As I headed up Michigan Ave, I happened to look down on the sidewalk and there it was. Amidst litter, general rubbish and the like, lay a lonely Tarot Card. Clearly, I was meant to pick it up, for otherwise, why would it be there in my path?  I did, but what I saw was unsettling. There on the card was an X, and a man lying on his stomach with many swords in his back.  If this was a sign, surely it could not be a good one. That is why I have stayed clear of the Tarot, say what you will about the Death card meaning change, it could also mean death the biggest change of all. My walk took are far too much meaning at this point. What was to be a simple Sunday off became a look into the future, or perhaps a warning.

When I got home, I looked up this card and found out it was the Ten of Swords. When I picked it up, was it right side up? upside down? Actually it was kind of slanted, but definitely right side up, hence no reversed fortune or meaning. The description could be condensed into the following: “there is a general feeling of pain, loss and misfortune. However, despite these ominous images there are positive aspects to this card. The sea before which the body lies is still and calm and the sun is rising in the distance beyond the mountains, indicating that the darkness will soon be dispelled. Thus each new beginning must come from an end, and with every defeat are sown the seeds of victory.”

Whatever did this mean? Was it something as simple as my quest for eggs? Or was the meaning much deeper? Is there something better around the corner, that is not lacto-ovo based, but some sort of life change. Is the worst indeed behind me, or will I soon be laying face down with several knives in my back? No doubt from some cook who hates making egg white omelets.

I went sailing last month to address that fear. It was the first time I had been in a sailboat since college and there was really no reason to even possess any expectation as such, for my sailing class went fine. If I recall I got a 4.0. So what was so ominous about it now? Ah, let me count the reasons, the first being an untimely death at sea. There are so many ways – from overturned boat to freighter path, to simply being the man, in man overboard. Never mind all the horrible news articles of fluke things that have happened to people just out for an afternoon sail. One being the story I heard about the Mediterranean boaters out for a picnic cruise who all decided to swim post lunch, none having the upper body strength to pull themselves back onto the boat. All perished. Perhaps this wouldn’t be my fate, though my upper body strength is questionable, but in the world of ‘it could happen’ this leaves me with a sense of gnawing fear. Let’s not even discuss articles about sudden squalls capsizing boats everywhere, with the Coast Guard being forced to do a scuba search for the bodies. You can’t drown on your couch, well at least not in the watery grave way. One can most certainly drown in the existential ennui that comes with ‘Keeping up with the Khardashians’, but you don’t have to be fished from the lake. All that fear for just one activity, however crippling was met head on when I went night sailing. I attempted to go with the flow, opting for the second glass of wine, but as the night wore on I couldn’t help but put on a life jacket, just because I wasn’t going to be the one that was going to die. I also was able to hone my lookout skills as being the only one sober enough to point out that the lights in the distance were indeed a small freighter, which as luck would have it was coming towards the even larger freighter that everyone else was able to see, as we sailed slowly towards them, our Captain attempting to fix our lights so that we would be visible. Yes we survived, and it was a moderately pleasant experience which may deaden my fear a smidge the next time, but that will come into contact with my fear of pushing my luck. There are no winners here.

After sailing I opted to compile a sumptuous list of fears, rational or otherwise. It seems that the majority of my fears could be deemed completely irrational. Go figure.  The list is long, so I’ve condensed some of the fears to the activity, the primary fear, the irrational fear, the possible foul play and the most likely result. I present the cases now, if only I possessed the skills to draft some sort of flow chart I know they could ultimately all be interlaced together.

The first activity I present: Camping – the primary fear -  where pray does one go to the bathroom, say you eat something bad, or worse yet, there are others around? the irrational fear – sadistic serial killers that comb the woods for their next human skin vest. Possible foul play – bears, big angry bears, and I am not talking about the fun, gay, bearded kind. Most likely result – too much time spent with self, then others and the presence of an acoustic guitar and a sophomoric rendition of Classic Girl by Janes Addiction, followed by uncomfortable sleeping conditions and the unpleasantness of the out of doors that our soft American existence has kept us from. (Can you believe they don’t even put screens on their windows in Europe? That’s insane!)

Motorcycles: the primary fear – death, or a closed head injury. Irrational fear – being crushed or dragged to death by a semi-truck, or worse yet, a minivan. Possible foul play – a muffler burn, or bad dating decision based on fear. Most likely result – unbearable vulnerability to the elements.

Snakes: the primary fear – you happen on a poisonous snake, it coils and bites you. You die. Irrational fear – a den or pit of snakes, or worse yet, you are sitting at a bus stop in the Australian Outback on a hot summer day, and some guy starts his truck not knowing a King Snake has coiled itself underneath, as he starts to drive the stunned snake is flung through the air and lands on you,  just quietly waiting for a bus. Several bites later, there you are dead, surrounded by members of Midnight Oil. (I actually heard about this happening by the way, except for the Midnight Oil addition, because it is probably hard to get all the members of Midnight Oil in the same place these days). Snakes have more than one irrational fear, what if one comes up through the toilet, or the drain in the tub? Shit like this happens in the southwest I swear.  Possible foul play – someone loses their ‘pet’ boa and it crawls into the walls. Years later, or months later, it crawls out looking for food, and you look down and there it is. Most likely result – a garter snake slithers near you, or over your foot and you are momentarily freaked out.

Cars – oh cars, what fiery death machines. Primary fear – an auto accident, which of course is fatal. Never mind the embarrassment of the media reports that you were texting, and or met your demise singing ‘It’s a Sin’ by the Pet Shop Boys at the top of your lungs while forgetting to signal a lane change and getting careened by seven Crotch Rockets in the midst of a late night drag race. Irrational fear – hitting a buck, whose antlers come through the windshield and stab you in your cold, cold heart. Possible foul play – a fender bender with an imploding air bag whose resin makes you a TSA suspect the next day when you have to fly somewhere. Most likely result – you get a speeding ticket, which means points on your license and impending financial distress.

I have only just begun to list the many fears harbored in my troubled mind, there are far too many for just one blog entry, so I will stop, if only temporarily, so that I may compile more at my leisure. Which could be stolen from me at any time through some sort of unjust prison sentence. Until then, I vow to begin to address these fears, slowly but surely, perhaps one a month. With sailing down, and survived, who knows what could be next. One thing I know, is that with all these possible scenarios already thought out, I am ready, which means, while I might be nuts, I will survive. Because I am prepared people, I am prepared.

The store wasn’t crowded and I tended to the phone business in just a couple of minutes prior to heading back. The return walk was fraught with a myriad of obstacles befitting the dullest of video games. Cross several streets as there is no direct route, pass by several construction workers holding breath, walk around dumptruck, and proceed to sand trap where a block of side walk used to be. I felt like Mario in the resting phase of an early version of Donkey Kong. The sand trap got me, as it also felt like being back on the beach. Two cities reminisced about in one walk. Jackpot. I continued up Michigan all the way to Astro for liquid reward. Sometimes when I walk in that place I feel like I am someplace all together different that the city in which I live. Today was one of those days, as I looked around at the people in there, working furiously on lap tops, or engrossed in conversation. Who are all these people? Do they actually live in the vicinity? Or traverse down from the suburbs to be part of the latest and greatest, a huge Detroit past time. I swear some where far to polished and attractive to be from the midwest. The stench of LA is upon us, there can be no turning back now.

It was decided my friend and I would go out foraging for food today, and that we would go on our bikes. I don’t think I rode my bike last summer, as the joy of bike riding has been replaced by the fear of a closed head injury. I lived in a time of no helmets, and while it is I suppose a foolish way to go, I am an animal, it is all I know. I wasn’t wearing a helmet when I came careening off the pedestrian bridge on my bike and smashed into another small town rider heading up to the bridge. Instead I took a gravel slide, full of cuts and scrapes, whined a little about it, and got back on and headed home. In Detroit however, you just don’t know what the drivers are going to do. For the most part they seem aware, but it’s the 2% that just don’t give a fuck that worry me. I dig the new bike culture and often give a hearty Huzzah! to bikers I see pedaling their way around town, year round. I do this from the comfort of my car, where it is fully in my power to destroy them.  So today, I took a leap of faith, it was time to get back on the bike.

Naturally, the flag had to go  up prior to leaving, despite it not yet being noon and me not having a flag pole that would enable the obligatory half mast stars and stripes until noon, when it is raised to the top. I feel however, that a flag on Memorial Day is better than no flag at all, so allowed this one discrepancy to slide. Then I headed off on the somewhat deserted streets to meet my friend and forage for food. Thankfully Honest John’s was open for business, and egg whites were gloriously obtained. After we opted for a bikeabout and cruised past the normally mellow Old Miami. It was shocking to see a ridiculously long line outside the Miami and hear the thumping dance music emanate from the back yard. There were all kinds of crusties in line, and it got me thinking about what drives one to attend an electronic music festival? I mean, as I mentioned before I do love to dance, though I seldom do it any longer feeling a fraud. And yes, my love of electronic music has set me apart from my Detroit Garage crew. But putting the two together into a social event with a thousand of your friends seems altogether terrifying. I guess I did not get the Ibiza gene. It was tragically left out of my DNA, and replaced with the insidious Bergen (I suppose it could be construed as either Norway, or Ingmar, and both a relatively similar) gene. Rave culture perplexes me. I get the the idea of the music affecting one, and even could go as far to say that I believe trance music could be used for mind control, but I don’t get the wanting to be around a lot of sweaty groping people, gurning, tripping and generally smelling bad. It’s about as appealing as an invitation to be detained at Guantanamo.  For the rest of my holiday, I muddled around in my head what possesses people to go to electronic music festivals? Having been to thousands of rock shows in my lifetime, and a fair share of them in the electronic vein, it isn’t as if I have no understanding of this subculture. Is it solely for the Pagan ritual of the dance? Is it for the sex?  Is it actually fun? I don’t have the answer here, merely the questions. Likewise, what is appealing about the Downtown Hoedown?

Perhaps this summer I will take to exploring these things and reintroducing myself to the large crowd. It is highly unlikely as it is yet another gloriously sunny day and I sit inside at my keyboard, not unlike a German Electronic music artist. Slowly composing my words of wonder as to what makes all these folks tick. Perhaps it is I who is the oddity, the non joiner, the misanthrope.

It wasn’t always that way. When I was young, I always assumed that California would be where I would live, because that is where all the actors and actresses lived, all the important folk in the line of work I wanted to pursue. My dreams were lofty, and I vowed to be different from all the folks in the small town I grew up in, a town I never really felt was my home. Perhaps it is because I was taught that I was different. My parents never really seemed to be a part of any identifiable group aside from being Christian and they passed that on to me. Choosing it as a religion meant to set yourself apart from others because there were things you could not do, you were not allowed to go the way of the feral small town child bedding anyone with a Camaro and drinking Boone’s Farm from a bottle. It was expected that I would remain on the path, whatever that path was. Good grades, good manners and a general respect of society was a must, discipline and work ethic always examples set by my parents. As I slowly became the family’s version of Switzerland, I learned that making sure everyone else was happy was a lot easier than worrying about whether or not I was. It was expected I would go to college and so I did, though I didn’t know how I could become the next Molly Ringwald in college.  College was the beginning of a new frontier of sorts, and while I learned to love the nightlife there, it presented me with a duality that would take me far in work life. Figuring out who you really are, juxtaposed with trying to make sure you are who your parents want you to be. This came to a head one spring day my senior year, when I, the budding young filmmaker pitched an opportunity I had to my parents over dinner. My favorite professor had also been Sam Raimi’s professor and it seemed there was a possibility that there would be some miscellaneous crew position available if I were to go out to Los Angeles for a few months. I was savvy enough to realize this is how you got your opportunities and an actual ‘foot in the door’ however sketchy was better than nothing at all. It would delay my graduation by three months, meaning summer school. I wouldn’t be the perfect child by graduating college in exactly four years as my parents desired. I had my plan, requesting the cosigning of a loan to enable me enough money to get out, find a place to live (not evening thinking about a car) and wow some production company with my ability to have the foresight to get both Red Vines and Twizzlers when sent on a snack run. Dinner did not go well. The pitch being shot down by a cold refusal. No, I was not going to go to Los Angeles, it was not up for debate. You see, my sister had moved there, and subsequently moved off the path of parental expectations and that was not to be for me. At the time, it was more than just a no. It was as if everything I wanted to be was abhorrent to my parents and if I wanted them to love me, I better suck it up and live the quiet life. I had a definitive goal, but in my mind that goal had to change, because that goal was not acceptable. At that young age I lacked the chutzpah to say ‘fuck it, I am going anyway’, and do my best impression of Axl Rose at the beginning of the ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ video. Small town girl gets off bus in Los Angeles, and ends up dancing at the Cat Club and OD’ing with Nikki Sixx. Instead I graduated on time and drank myself silly every Tuesday night, whilst brooding to the likes of New Order and the Smiths at the local ‘alternative’ club. I no longer had a plan.

I could go on for ages about the next years of my life, but who can remember all that crap. Suffice to say I lived out my Generation X potential in a series of rent earning jobs in Chicago, a city I randomly moved to after running into a college friend getting off a bus who had a room to spare. While in Chicago I longed to move other places, Seattle, Minneapolis, but never Los Angeles. Music scenes made places appealing in the 90′s. Job wise, I never really found anything that I had a passion for, and while I would make each job entertaining in it’s own right, they were just jobs. When I moved to Detroit, I suppose I found a career, production, but it still just felt like a job. Something that I needed to do to make money,  Curiously it was the same vocation that I had hoped to embark on in my younger days, just a more legitimate branch. Corporate production, business theater as it were. It was soul sucking and passionless, but lucrative. Occasionally I would lament my missed opportunity back in the days of dreams and ideals and wonder what my life would have been like had I had the guts to just go. From time to time I would bring this up with my parents whenever there was a discussion about why I hated my job, or trying to figure out what I wanted to do. I would remind them that they said no.

As I boarded my plane to return to Detroit from LA on this last trip, there in first class (a place I am no longer allowed due to my lack of frequent travel and yes this may spawn a reflection on air travel entry) sat Sam Raimi.  I wandered back to my middle seat in coach, I thought about that original opportunity all those years ago. How many times had I wondered if my life would have turned out differently if I had the balls just to go to LA sans parental blessing? It could have gone horribly awry, it could have gone magnificently. I will never know because I was incapable at the time of taking that kind of risk. My mother has always told me that everything happens for a reason, and while that does not explain acts of senseless violence, it does tend to make me over analytical at times like these. It got me thinking about everything that has happened in the past couple of years. Leaving LA, quitting my career for a job to help me figure out what I want to do, trimming the fat on friendships that have ceased to be friendly. It has taken ages to get to a point where I am ready to jump. To take a risk, to figure out what the dream is and go for it. While Raimi was probably just flying home, to me it was a sign to let it all go. Lamenting missed opportunity isn’t living.  The what could of been needs to be replaced with the what is and what is still to be. And for the first time in a long time, I am looking forward to whatever it is, not backward to whatever it wasn’t.

I am preparing to travel back to the place of my torment, not my psychological torment, but my physical torment, California. It has been two years since I filled up the Honda with what I could carry, selling or giving away the rest of the contents of my second home, the beach shack by the sea. I still miss that majestic sectional sofa I procured on Craigslist, nine feet by six feet, down filled, with only specks of yellow in spots where the previous owner allegedly got in a mustard fight with her boyfriend. I hope the young mother that was getting her first apartment off the streets is enjoying that sofa today, on Mother’s Day, and isn’t filling her arm with a load of dope. I would like to believe that the sofa is happy in it’s now two year old home. It wouldn’t have liked Michigan, not enough sun. I do not fly very often anymore, so naturally I am filled with the fear that accompanied me on every flight back in the day, but was dampened by regularity. When you do something all the time, you are less afraid of it, like riding a bike, or banging. But flying, now that I am no longer a member of a special club of assholes known as Elite by the airline, will be treacherous. Middle seats on four hour flights abound, and nothing says commoner like a middle seat. Thankfully I still retain a Valium from my earlier frequent flying days to handle that special kind of anxiety that only extreme lack of control can provide. Flying in a middle seat, well forget about it, I will need several. The holder of the coveted aisle seat will regret their choice when I am finished with them, or I have not done my job. I vow to get up no less than seven times to use the bathroom, shoving my ass in their face each time.

Flying makes me morose and instead of looking forward to a vacation, I work to see whether my ‘house is in order’ a spiritual term my father has always used about those who are prepared or unprepared to leave their human life. Sweet reminders punctuated dinners, the same way someone else’s dad might say, ‘turn on the tiger game’. I don’t think I am alone in the slow panic that takes over the mind prior to flying. Most meet it head on with a cocktail, but sadly I have been brainwashed by fashion magazines and adhere to the model’s rules of flying, all water, no caffeine. It does little to help the anxiety, and little to make the middle seat a pleasant place to be, what with flyer’s diamond hammered out on either side. Each time the plane lands a heavy sigh of relief escapes, only to be replaced by the treachery of getting behind the wheel of a rental car, or in the backseat of a wayward cab. To live means to risk dying, and right now that overwhelms me. Is thinking about death on a daily basis normal? Or have I been conditioned to question my every move and it’s impact on my future? It seems this blog is leading far to deeply into a territory which no one can provide answer to, compounded by the fact I am too tired to go out and get a cocktail to deaden the heat of the lake of fire. Such is the treachery of Sunday nights. Next Sunday night I will be in a hotel somewhere, no doubt obsessing about hotels and murder rates, all the while getting geared up for the flight home, middle seat. Questions, still unanswered.

Oh, Rihanna. Whatever did they do to you down in the Bahamas? My own experience in the Bahamas was somewhat unsavory in the early days of my event production career. While the locale was glorious at first, I do recall telling the woman at the American Airlines counter that ‘I didn’t care what it cost to get the hell out of her country’. Now, it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge, in this case an overnight load in by the laziest island people to ever live juxtaposed with a glimpse of extreme poverty and a dash of the “Atlantis” resort, which while being lovely had an air of us vs them over other parts of the island. Whilst swimming in the beautiful clear water one could only imagine the drug trade going on just minutes away via boat to the other sections of the island. Something was unspokenly amiss and perhaps that is what I find a disconnect in Rihanna’s lyrical content. This is what doesn’t resonate, a few years back she’s immersed in the media frenzy surrounding her getting beat up by then boyfriend Chris Brown. I have no idea whether that is fact or fiction or merely media frenzy, my confusion lies in the victimization of that event vs the lyrical content of her latest hit S&M. I mean, unfortunately she may be a bit of a role model to tweens everywhere, so at some point maybe your love of latex and a gimp mask could go on a B-side? Granted I didn’t know that I was singing an ode to leather daddies back in the days of “Macho Man”, but they were simpler times. I wouldn’t learn about that until that dreaded day I walked into Little Jim’s to meet my roommate for an afternoon cocktail. By that time I was of drinking age, so the horror of some sort of leather daddy van rape that met my eyes from the porno on the tv was instantly quelled by the knocking back of several cocktails. A juice box isn’t gonna quite do that for the kids, and the last thing we need on the playgrounds of America are a bunch of whip toting bullies. I have some lyric suggestions for you – perhaps how green the grass is when it gets a proper amount of rain? Or taxidermy? Or how good neighbors take out their garbage and put it in the proper trash can?

I had to change the station, and thankfully Neil Young was on another station, belting out a little “Hey Hey My My”. Far more suitable lyrics for the tweens, as it will get them thinking. And what we need is thinking tweens, since they will be the ones in power when I am an elderly. The last thing I am going to want to endure is some elderbeating because my brain no longer works fast and they have some residual Rihanna lyrics in the back of their head as their impetus. I wish I could say I would move to Europe, but since they are responsible for all that troubling Euro Pop  it’s looking like Prince Edward Island at this point.