Warm Nights and Cool People.

"Hey, it's me, Rob, I'm running late."

"No problem we figured on that."

Wha? My reputation precedes me? Am I that late that my tardiness got far enough ahead of me to warn others? I check the clock in the car. 6:00 I should be there now. Well, at least I see how they already figured I'd be late.

It's a dinner party. A couple in my Bible study group invited a few of us over for drinks and food. I'm not sure how I got on the short list, but I'm not going to play dentist to the gift horse baring hors d'oeuvre trays. Nay! Nay! I tell you.

I am going to be late though. When I arrive, nobody seems to mind. Whew, timeliness is one of my least endearing traits. If they can see past that then maybe I can fit in.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Sure what do you have."

My host starts a drink list longer than the credit roll at the end of a Michael Bay film. He's in the middle of the alphabetized by region and hop-grade "beers" list when I stop him, "I'll have that amber thing you mentioned before your daughter fell asleep."

"Coming right up."

I used to be part of a host team like this. Oh, we didn't have quit the drink list, but it wasn't for lack of trying. We had a full bar, sodas, and at least one decent beer on hand. Now I've got the fermented remains, and half eaten mescal worms. It's fine though. I don't have people over, and I don't do more than pick at the carcass anyway. For me, it works.

For my hosts, they've got everything covered. I do a quick head count: there are six of us. If I were the Sesame Street Count, I'd give a laugh, a light flicker, and acknowledge the two married couples and two single guys. I'm not, I'm one single guy. (One, one single guy. Hahaha!) At least I know this isn't a set up. Oh Lord, I hope it's not…

It's not. Carl, the other single guy, He's coming out of a long relationship, sans marriage. Everybody's sympathetic. So am I. I don't really know Carl or the girl. I know they're probably better off, but that doesn't make a break up suck any less. He's got a good head on his shoulders. And it looks like she let him keep it. He's recovered well.

There's lots of joking, and spaghetti sauce flows almost as fast as the wine. If we could wrap the evening up in 30 seconds, we'd be an Olive Garden spot. Carl and non-host married guy, we'll call him Mr. Perkins, are exchanging hunting anecdotes like war scars. I don't know much about guns or war scars but that doesn't stop me from joining in, although when the guys got to "jerking pigs" I had to feign ignorance. Mrs. Perkins pretends she's never heard this before. Mr. Perkins is a lucky guy.

Dessert was good. I'm not sure what it was, but there were strawberries, cake, and some other sweet fluff I couldn't identify. My Hanzel and Gretel senses were tingling with sugar fits.

"Mmmm! This haus is gut! Here try some of the outhaus!"

"Mmmm! Outhaus!

Yeah, I dined with Midwestern Germans. It's ok, They dined with a Southwestern Scot. I'm sure we'll all live.

Over a bottle of port the married couples pack together and start barking questions.

"So what are you looking for in a woman?"

"What sets you apart from the herd?"

Carl and I did our best to dodge verbal water balloons. Ok, dodge may be a strong word. It's more like jumping up and down shouting "Hit me! Hit me!" while looking disinterested. But Carl and I were at our best. He whipped out a head shot with a bio summary embossed in Ariel on the back. I threw out my old demo tape.

"Come to where the flavor is…come to Debbie country…"

Yeah after show and tell we were threatened with long legged glamazon girls from Mars. Ohhh! Scary.

"Please Briar-Fox, don't throw me in that briar patch!"

When the night settled in, the bellies were full, and the shadows were long. A hush fell on the table. He picked himself up, wiped spaghetti from his brow and promised to never do it again. I know, crappy joke, but what do you want? I'd been drinking.

So the hush fell, and people leaned in towards the candlelight glow.

"Tell us." They whispered.

"I don't know…"

"Come on! We're adults, we're not afraid."

"Well…if it's a ghost story you want, then huddle together and I'll tell you." There were smiles and nods and couples leaned closer."

"I call this story MyUnwife."

"AAAHHHH!"

"It's ok. Hear me now as I unravel a tale of darkness. I offer it as a warning. Arr! Huddle together me chil'rens, an' I'll tell a tale more vile than the Ya Ya Sisterhood!"

"AAHHH!"

"Hey! I liked that movie…"

Nobody knew who said the last line. It might have been the hush. A wind blew through the room and the lights flickered and died. Carl sat alone unable to understand the horror before him. The sillhoette shadow couples knew. They huddled tight the black. They held hands whispering vows to never park alone on deserted roads and to always guard against the hook handed murderer of marriages.

"Aye…"

The evening ended. I, the ancient mariner had warned of the follies of men and women where love pride were concerned. I hope they listened. I hope the stay on the path, because nobody likes to see an urban legend come true.

It was a great night. I haven't been out like that since the divorce. Ok, I did a writers group Christmas, and one Church group social, but those were too close. I was too numb. The bandages were still on and I hadn't assimilated back into society yet. I was an amputee with phantom pains and mental morphine. Last night I was Rob, having fun with friends.

See, as crazy as it sounds, I think I was afraid I lost that. When I was married, MyUnwife and I didn't do much, but whatever we did, we did together. We were each other's social network. When I moved here for her, I gave up my old network. When she left, I was left with nothing but my wits to rebuild. Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a meal. Teach a man to make friends, and he'll never go hungry.

It's good to remember how to do that. I think I need to do that more often.

Greensleeves Vs. Green Jeans

Yard work. I hate it. Some kids hate spinach I hate trowels. I'll take the spinach any day. I'm just calling a spade a spade. And don't bother telling me it takes the trowel to get the spinach, thank you very much. You may be right, but some other Mr. Green Jeans can wield the spade of life. Me, I'll grab the $3.99 bag at the grocery store. Yard work already included.

So what if spinach growers tried to poison me last year? What's life without experimenting with the unknown? At least that's the new salad farm slogan. MyUnwife used to say the same thing.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't make me more excited about yard work. I don't think there's really any part of the yard work I like.

Weeding? Yeah, right.

Mowing? Guess again.

Pruning? Well that's just torture weeding now isn't it?

"I'll ask you again, is it safe?"

"Uw ughoh uh…"

Sounds fun, but somebody plays Sir Laurence. Somebody plays young Dustin. Most of my plants have barbs. They prick their parts. I bleed for my art. You can guess who plays who. I hate pruning too.

Watering? Sure that's cool, I have an automatic sprinkler that takes care of everything. I sit inside and watch the rainbows. Yeah, I like watering.

I'd love to tell you that before MyUnwife left she did all the yard work. She didn't. So when she left I didn't really notice when I stood in the yard with a broken sprinkler raining down on my head. Nothing changed there.

Women in the yard place? It happens! I've read blogs from women who did all that stuff. I've asked myself where were they when I was looking last time? Probably in the yard where I couldn't see them. I found a woman in an apartment.

"Every rose has it's thorn."

Yeah, that's right. Gardening humor. That's why I didn't look for who, but my Lady Greenthumbs.

Now as an interesting side note (which knowing me, will devour the rest of this post), I had to look up Greensleeves to pull that together. I'm apparently not hip on my medieval music. When I clicked on the page, a new window blossomed as well for "hornymatches.com." There they showed several photos of several women they thought shared several of my interests.

I think the page name sells what interests they were supposed to share. Still, I'm not sure why they were attached to the music page. None of them had green sleeves. None of them had any sleeves or anything to hang sleeves from for that matter. Oh I take that back, the girl with the reindeer nose had antlers too. I could have hung sleeves from therewith care. I have no idea where here stockings were hung...

None of the girls had trowels either, so I don't think they were gardeners. Pink-E1989 said she liked it outdoors, but I'm not sure if mowing was what she meant. Then again, maybe it was. In fact their bios didn't say much at all. Yeah, I looked. I'm a guy, I read my pop-ups for the articles.

In that way it's kind of like meeting real people. You meet people in context to your environment. If I saw Pink-E1989 in a quantum physics class I wouldn't recognize her. (What? It could happen! You're just as likely to see me in that class as you are to see Pink-E1989!) I'd see Pink-E1989 only in whatever context she exposed herself.

When we click people, we never know what will pop up. It's only through talking and listening that we learn about the people we're with. I have a good friend who went through a divorce a few years ago. He said, "I should have seen this coming!" Maybe yes, maybe no. Some links you never see until you click on them. He'd never clicked on the "she'll run off with my best friend link." He didn't think to try.

I clicked on Pink-E1989. I wanted to see her gardening skills. That linked to another side of Pink-E1989 I hadn't expected. She wanted money. She charged more than the Reuben E. who left his card on my screen door this morning. Maybe her services are special.

I closed the windows. I'll handle my own yard. I still haven't found that woman who loves to clean house and do yard work. I guess it's another one of those "not the goal, but the process" things. In my process I continue to do my own yard work. It's ok. When you look at my yard you won't think, "There's a guy who doesn't like doing his yard." You might think "There's a guy who doesn't know what to do with his yard," but that's a different problem, and that's all part of the process that comes with practice. For now I'll get lots of that.

Mr. Smith Goes to Divorceland.

Did you read that thing on Will Smith? Somebody was asking about how he kept his marriage going and he said, "Divorce is not an option." Really? How cool is that? "Not an option." That must be a luxury of the first class rich. The rest of us riding in coach get a bag of fuzzy peanuts and divorce.

"Thanks for flying! Come again!"

"Uhm I didn't want the divorce, can I have the fish instead?"

"Sorry, here, have a complimentary floatation device, and thanks for flying!"

Not an option. How do I sign up for that? I would have loved to tell MyUnwife that.

"Sorry, not an option."

"Ok."

"Really? That's it?"

"Yeah, I can be a widow instead."

"Ok…wait--widow?"

Yeah, the divorce card was definitely in our marriage membership package. I do know what Will is saying though, and in principle I agree. It's like the self destruct button in the movies. It takes 4 people with lanyards and keycards willing to agree that killing everybody left is the best option.

Oh there's always the one guy with the key card glued to his fingers. He's ready to give up the ship if the mess hall spaghetti is a little sticky. There's always that other guy though to keep balance. You know, that guy who's his polar opposite. Aliens could be popping out of chests faster than Tribbles in toasters and he's still going "No, I think there's a chance we can live through this."

I guess that guy in today's blog is played by Will Smith. Boy is he going to be disappointed when he sees his paycheck for that job. Yeah, I'm glad I don't post my address. I saw him in I am Legend, He'd squash me. Squash me yes, divorce me, no.

Me, I'm somewhere in the middle. I can't say that divorce is not an option, because I've obviously signed paperwork to the contrary. And it's really great if I drew a line in the sand and said "Never again!" I'd look real cool, like some kind of marital red-rover hero, but really I'm just a guy, and no matter what I say, it could happen again.

Oh don't get me wrong. I'm not putting the divorce cart before the marriage horse and carriage. I'd just like some better assurances than digging my feet in the ground while 50 stampeding rhinos barrel down on me.

"Divorce is not an option."

It may work for Will Smith, but I need something more. What can I do? I can't ask a girl to marry me and then go into a long dogmatic diatribe about my feelings on divorce.

"I need to know that if an alien pops out of my chest you won't push the button."

"What?"

See? I'll come off crazed! Yeah, I suppose I am, but still, if divorce is going to be an option I'd like to know that it's not going to look like some juicy fruit dangling from a forbidden tree. I need to know that this won't happen again.

Ok, everybody back to your fuzzy peanuts.

Organized Chaos

Organized chaos. That's my life. Go ahead, cut and paste. Put it on your Rob collage in bold letters in some really cool gothic font: "Organized Chaos." Yeah, it's cool, I know you have the collage. Everybody does. I'm this year's Cheryl Tiegs

Hey! Why are you laughing? It's not that funny! Fine. Whatever.

Ok, did you catch your breath? You ok now? Good. Here's a little Rob-nitch for you. A glimpse into the inner oddity of the pent-up blogger. Organized Chaos. If Pigpen kept his dust color coded and labeled, that would be me. Well except for the dust part. Today's dust will be played by absolute chaos.

It's not just the chaos I create either, it's all chaos. I attract chaos like a chaos magnet. Ask MyUnwife. It's just the way of things. That’s how two days in Las Vegas turned into a week and how a trip to my friends house turned into three hour tour.

A three hour tour…

Go ahead, say these 3 little words to her and watch her twitch like a vibrator with fresh batteries, "Look, 215 south."

It's who I am. I'm fine with it, and most people who get to know me either flee or sign up for the ride, because I'm not stingy with my chaos, I'm the Disorder Santa Clause tossing brightly wrapped boxes of cheer wherever I go. Do you have an office that seems too stuffy? I'm here to save the day! I'll make it a warren of sub-cubie giggling by morning break. I come with papers, and they're not just for peeing. I am a certified AOC: agent of chaos.

Why do I bring this up? Interestingly enough, not for the chaos part. I bring it up for the Organized part. I'm part AOC, part OCD, all ROB. See even in chaos everything has it's place. In my writers group, I come in I joke, I distract, but I know my writers. I know what they're working on, I know their weaknesses, I know their strengths. I also know that if there's any chaos to be dished out with a helping of Neapolitan, I'm the one to do it. Control. Even chaos has it's place.

That's why I think I'm feeling a little rabid right now. I've joined a Bible study that meets on non-writers' Wednesdays. It's a great way to meet new people. Join a group. Find something that interests you, or a way to learn more about the people around you, and dive in. Bible study. You can get more organized than that.

Yeah you could. You could put a tweeker in a concrete mixer with twenty toothpick dioramas and you'd still have more organization than my Wednesday Bible study. We're supposed to have a pot luck: Nobody knows what anybody's bringing. The leader of the group said, "I'm going to email you guys the study so you can do it ahead of time." Nobody has the study. I show up to events and people are strewn about like a Barbie in a blender party.

GAAAAAHHH!

The sky is falling! The sky if falling!

I don't know what to do! My OCD circuits are fried and smoking and my chaos side is blowing the smoke around like a Xanadu roller rink! I repeat, "GAAAAAHHH!" It's like I join a Bible study, and God is trying to teach me about control and how little I have.

"This is your brain. This is your brain without control…"

"But God, I just went through a divorce!"

"And You still didn't learn this lesson…"

Sigh, fine. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what I'm doing. My universe is in disarray. I do know this though: Somewhere Karmic order had been restored. Somewhere the world is beautiful butterflies and dancing unicorns. Somewhere MyUnWife laughs like a giddy schoolgirl, for the mighty Robby is freaking out.

Right backatcha babe, "Look, 215 south."

Rob Researches the Notebook

"...He resembled a buff Ryan Gosling (The Notebook movie)..."

I never know what to do with these cryptic emails. Archeologists at least get picture writings, I get allusions to writing geese. Ryan Gosling? Notebook? The words look English, but the dialect is foreign. Girl-speak? Yeah, I didn't understand the remedial grammar during 7 years of marriage, how can I decode super spy electronic encoded messages?

"The trash looks full."

"oh, I'll get to that later."

"That's not what I asked, my love."

"Ok, I'm just going to finish up this letter to my dad."

"Sweetie, was I being unclear?"

"Crystal darling. I'm on it now."

Yeah, I gave MyUnwife a Rob to English dictionary for her birthday, but she refused to use it. Now I'm wondering if I should mass produce the thing, because people think that The Notebook is a good Rob reference point.

It's funny where men and women choose to map the conversational thumbtacks. I don't even think we use the same board. Guys are busy swinging string from tack to tack growing relational trees, While women wrap cat's cradle because it looks nice. And yet if you ask either side, it all makes perfect sense. The woman who'd emailed me wanted to tie Ryan Gosling in silk strands. But I've got nothing. Where does young Gosling fall on the guy scale?

"Nose of Stalone?"

"No."

"Eyes of Schwarzenegger?"

"No."

"Bruce Willis Hairline?"

"uh-"

"Acting prowess of Van Damme?"

"What?"

"You say he's a man, right?"

Yeah, no help. I looked him up: Remember the Titans. "Oh Him!" See? Two different languages.

When you're in a relationship, movies are one of those areas where you try to find a common ground early. If you succeed, then you stand a chance. MyUnwife bore a marriage length grudge after watching MI:2.

"It was an accident! I was weak!"

"Well I hope you had a good time!"

I didn't. I didn't like it any more than she did, but that didn't stop her from holding it over my head. Especially come Brokeback Mountain time. Even so, it took 3 rum and rums to get me into that theater.

"Just relax, you'll like it."

I didn't. I felt dirty. I'm not a homophobe I swear. Ok maybe I am, just a little. I think it was that time outside of Rocky Horror When Dr. Frank-N-Furter grabbed my chest. I was young; it scarred me.

"Dude, you ok?'

"…"

"I was joking--trying to get a rise."

"…"

Somebody help! I think he's stopped breathing! Mouth to mouth!"

"AHHH!"

Still, that wasn't why I didn't like the Brokeback film. I didn't find the relationship real. Jake could have been Maggie, and I still wouldn't have believed it. Speaking of Maggie, that was one film we did agree on: Secretary. MyUnwife liked the hidden themes, I liked the hidden sex. Or was it the other way around? Anyway you like it, we liked it. That was a fun film for everyone.

"Mommy, what are we watching?"

"A movie Rob recommended."

Yeah, I wouldn't recommend that. You can trust me. When I was younger, I spent 2 years recommending movies to couples. I worked in a video/music store. One of my favorite parts of the job was counseling couples on films. Showing them how to compromise and grow together over love stories with a little action, or little stories with love action. I had tons of regular customers.

"What should we watch this week, Rob?"

"Step into my office…"

I wonder what they'd do now. I've proven I can't communicate with the fairer gender. Still, as a member of the furrier gender I think it's about shaving once and a while. That, and moving forward--that's probably more relevant than shaving here. It's about not giving up. If I make a translation error, or mis-string free association relationship trees, I unwind, and try to tie things together more coherently. The Notebook? It's a love story about a couple that weaves the course of their lives. Despite life's hurdles that separate them, the couple is drawn to each other and realize their destiny is intertwined. I can get behind a story like that.

Oh, and Ryan Gosling? In the movie he plays the part of the great white shark.

"Come on into the water!"

Yeah, I'm still a guy.

Memorial.

Memorial Day. A day reserved to remember. Last year I wrote, "For those who have come before, and those who serve in the future, thank you, and may God bless and keep you." I think that sums it up.

This memorial day also serves as another reminder: I've been writing this blog for over a year. It's evolved and shifted over that time, but most things do. Hey, If 1 monkey in 1000 is gonna type out Shakespeare, He's gotta evolve a little. This monkey isn't Shakespeare, and he really isn't much different than the other 999 bloggers flingin' Pooh out there, he's just a chimp trying to grow up.

"Christopher Robin! Help!"

So what have I learned in one year? Divorce sucks. Yeah, I think I could have skipped the experiential evidence. A simple footnote accompanying a picture of William crying on the courthouse steps. I'd have believed that, I swear.

Sob, sob, "I'm just a Bill…"

Yeah, if you didn't see that coming you haven't been blog-reading the whole year. One thing hasn't evolved: the humor. I'm still playing shadow puppets to the Schoolhouse Rock crowd. At least I didn't play with the Preamble to the Constitution. "In order to form a more perfect union?" Heh, yeah….

One year later, older? Yeah. Wiser? I hope so. I'd hate to go through all that just to do it again. If I wanted that kind of pain, I'd watch "Just Shoot Me" reruns. One shot through was plenty enough, thank you.

What about you? Have you learned anything? No, not about you--I don't care about that--ME! We're talking about me? Shesh, everything always has to be always about you...What have you learned about me? Maybe it's something I missed. I'm taking notes.

Some people say I'm self-centered. I don't see that. Some people say I'm bitter. No, not that either. Sarcastic? Ok, now you're just talking to put yourself in front of the thought train. Keep it up, I'll tie your high horse to the tracks; see how you like that action! Whatever!

I know I've done a lot of healing over the year. Some of the early posts were really kind of sad and frantic. That monkey blogger was hunting and pecking at any nit picking his wits. That was back when MyUnwife was still MyWife and she was still here physically.

Now, I'm better. I've had time to set some distance between me and that blogger. I've grown as all people do, and my wounds have healed. Oh I still have a nervous tick, but nothing to talk about.

So what's next? I don't know. The divorce finalizes in July. After that, who knows. I don't but I can say that that doesn't bother me anymore. Not knowing used to drive me crazier than a Rick Astley song. ("Never gonna give you up?" Yeah, whatever monkey-boy.) Now, it's part of the challenge. I'm doing well now, that's what matters.

And maybe that's what you can take away from this memorial day: If this idiot can pull out of the divorce nose-dive, there's hope for the real smart people not blogging time in the monkey barrel. Live. You're more than what you were before, remember that.

"Alas Curious George, I knew him, Horatio.

A monkey of infinite jest.

Curiosity kills more than the cat,

And not only beauty kills the beast.

Ugly guy with a gun slays monkey well too."

-Yellow Monkey Number Five.

Friday Night: a Musing.

"Valliant Warriors don't like to be called cute."

"Well I think they're cute when sometimes they kiss the girl."

Score one for the little girl. She and mom are sitting at the table next to me. I've just offered them my other chair; dad is retrieving coffee. I think they just came from Narnia. Although maybe this is a subplot thing from What Happens in Vegas. Hee-hee, subplot. I think they'd have settled for a plot period...

"Well this valliant warrior was a mouse. The only girls he could kiss are human girls. I don't think they'd like that."

Mom's got a point. Narnia is a bit behind, they're not up on interracial romance. Narnia still doesn't listen to Elvis either. They're a little behind. Still, it's an interesting image to pass along to an 8 year old girl.

I sip my coffee and move my pen around the paper like I'm writing. I'm not. I'm researching. I'm listening.

"Well I thought he was cute."

"Not in that way, I hope."

"What way?

Yeah, Mom, what way? How are you going to explain what you don't want your daughter doing with valiant warrior types of mice or men variety? I don't know why I'm enthralled. I don't have kids. They're minds fascinate me though. Their ability to free associate is incredible.

"The kiss way."

"Amber kisses her mouse."

"Amber's going to kiss a few toads too."

"Eww. No."

Nice one Mom. The reference is just outside, and instilling that mice are the gateway critters is a sinister touch. Narnia remains safe for children. Dad appears with coffee and juice. Today is special. Today is the little girl's birthday. They toast.

"To a happy birthday!"

"Cheers!"

I like these little family vignettes. Maybe that's why I come back to the same bookstore/coffee shop every Friday night. Well the cute barista doesn't make the decision difficult. I walk in, go up to the counter and she says, "Your usual, Rob?" My usual? She remembers me well enough to know my usual.

Oh, the Rob thing? That's tattooed on my arm. You can't miss it, it's right below the heart dangling from my sleeve. Oh, the heart? Lord now, That's not mine, I keep mine buried underneath mountains of flesh. The one on my sleeve is there for show. I took it from a valiant mouse warrior. He was kissing the girls--made them cry. I couldn't have that.

"I'm done. Does anybody else want to go look at books with me?" That's the little girl. The young bunny of energy has already hopped out of the chair and is bounding away to some far away land. She's in a hurry to see the books before the store closes.

"I'm late! I'm late!"

Mom smiles swigs her coffee and chases behind. Dad finishes his coffee. He'll need it later.

Sometimes I wonder about being a dad. Would I be any good? I think I would, but sometimes what sounds good on paper never works out in real life. Look at my marriage certificate. Ok, sorry that was just a cheap shot. After the $1 espresso shot, I need a cheap shot. I also need to shake these jitters. My pen hand scrawls uncontrollably like a spiritual conduit. Maybe it can divine a way to the bathroom. I'm gonna need one soon.

This is my Friday night. It's different from the ones I planned when I was younger. It's different than the ones I planned during my marriage--funny how plans change. Still, I like my Fridays. I belly up to the coffee bar, and the tender coffee-tender flirts and smiles. Sure, she flirts with every patron, but for four bucks and the time it takes to make a cup of coffee, I own her world.

This may not be everybody's Friday night, but it's mine. I like it. See the girl sitting behind me? She's in here every Friday too. We never talk, but we do acknowledge each other. She sneezes, I say "God bless you." I spill my coffee on her, she says, "Ow! Fuck you!" Yeah, we're close. She gets upset easily. Her name's Amber. I hear she's kissed a lot of toads.

Long Live Life.

"What do you think of the new Coldplay song, 'Viva la Vida?'"

"You know I hate Coldplay right?"

"So Do I, I was just wondering what you thought."

Everybody asks me these things. It's not really because I'm the almighty music Oz or anything, I just listen to a lot of music and I have an opinion. Oh, and I'm not afraid to share it. The opinion. The RIAA would like to remind you that sharing music is illegal. I would never share music. Copyright=copy wrong. And when it comes to blogging documented confessions, I'll stick to the divorce variety.

So now that the RIAA is Googling me right now, lets talk about opinion. What are my credentials? I listen to music. The end. That's all it takes to have an opinion. Does that make me an expert? No, still, people gather like I'm sonic Socrates.

Sometimes I wish they wouldn't. I know what happened to Socrates, and he said he knew nothing. I know something, I don't want to end up like that. It is kinda cool though: knowing that musicians will start pounding on my door at any minute makes me feel important.

"Please Mr. Blogwriter, tell BuffyMusic918 that our music is good. We need her sales."

Bwa-ha-ha! I am influential beyond my means!

People used to ask me about movies and stuff too. I've got nothing there. I'm too poor to do the movie thing. By the time I've seen a film, it's already appeared on TNT. If you haven't formed your own opinion by then, you never will.

Actually I do kinda like the new Coldplay song, but don't tell anyone. I think it's contrived and calculated to be a "hit" but it works for me. I thought about putting it on the blog, but then I caught a lyric about once ruling the world and now Windexing porn booths, or something like that. What the hell? Doesn't anybody write happy songs anymore? Where's Sinatra and "My Way?" Sid Viscious remade that and did it his way. He also Oded on drugs. Another original touch I don't think Sinatra thought of first, but then again, that was his way.

My way seems to be copying sad lyrics and commiserating. I looked through all my lyric titles (if you're not on descarteslemming.blogspot.com you have no idea what I'm talking about. Then again that's right up the Rob leitmotif alley isn't it?) None of those are happy themes. Where are my happy songs? I mean, here I sit at the brink of a new beginning, I should be enthralled.

ZIPPITY-FREAKIN-DOO-DA!

It's all about perspective. Remember when you were in your early thirties and moved out of your mom's basement? Remember the scary elation you felt because you were on your own? You were Loner-man!

Remember when you were going through a divorce and moved out on your wife's basement? Remember the scary depression you felt because you were on your own? You were lonely-man

Same event, you've gone from super pathetic to simply pathetic without the aid of Kryptonite. I say "you' like I have no experience, no opinion. Trust me, on this subject I am an expert. Well the divorce thing. My mom never had a basement.

MyUnwife never felt that way. She was practically giddy at the move out experience. I remember her joy at buying new toys and finding all the ways that she'd thrive on her own. It's like she'd shifted from teed wife to teen daughter before my eyes. I remember her Christmas joy. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being bitter. I don't blame MyUnwife. It wasn't personal, she just wanted out of the house because I was there. Oh, wait, maybe that was personal.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. It's all just coffee grounds for divorce. We filter the end result we want and throw away the remainder . It's perspective. From retrospective perspective, I was an idiot. I spent months after she left filtering everything through reused ground beans expecting new flavors.

"this is what it was like when we were married…"

No wonder life was only a watered down version of what it was before. Why does anybody ask my opinion at all, I'm just living through the past. Ok, fine. I'm done.

It's a new life, a new Rob. First step, I try to make the lyric links more upbeat.

"Viva la Vida?" I kind of like it.

Coldplay? I still think they suck.

Say Hello

Somebody's out there. No, not the crazed stalker in the blue Monte Carlo drinking Jack and eating Reubens. Oh sure, she's out there. She's been out there for weeks. She's harmless though. Just approach her slowly, palm extended. Let her sniff you, and she'll lap water from your hand. Pet her if you like.

No, I don't know who this somebody is, this somebody is on my peripheral; I can't see them. How can I tell they're there? My spider-sense is tingling. It probably means nothing more than a black widow in my sandwich. I should check my sandwich before I eat it.

Nope nothing.

I get these feelings. It's sort of like somebody reading over my shoulder. Maybe it's because my barista smiled extra sweetly today; maybe it's because my coffee was free. Maybe it's the looming thunderstorm. Wherever it is, it's electric ozone and it smells like somebody is out there--a peripheral person. Not a person who hangs out on the outside, just somebody out of view, but just for now.

There's a big difference between the two. It's kind of like the high school girl in my writers' group. She announced last night that the boy she's had a crush on for the past 8 months already has a boyfriend.

Wow. I guess when you're a young miss you miss certain signs. I think if you have too much in common with a boy that's a sign.

"Isn't Jared Leto cute?"

"I'd do him."

Ok, maybe that's a little graphic, but you get my point. What's worse, is that's not even the real problem. If she'd come out to this guy earlier, she could have avoided pining 8 months for a guy who was never going to share anything more than her lipstick. Then she could track down her real hunka-hunka burning love.

We all make those mistakes when we're young. When I was in high school, everybody was peripheral. I don't think I see anybody from high school anymore. See? They're all people who refuse to step into view. They could have avoided that mistake if they'd tried.

When I was in college, I met a French-Canadian girl online. I lived in Milwaukee. Neither of us ever saw the sun, so we had a lot in common. We'd send each other poems and stories we'd written, but we never evolved. I think she was afraid of getting sideswiped so she hung back. It's like 2 people dangling from a cliff, all she had to do was reach out. Nobody did. We both fell away.

Before I started dating MyUnwife, there was another Milwaukee girl. We were friends; we went on one date. She was long, sweet, and pretty, but short on esteem. She assumed she had nothing special to offer, so guys who dated her were only after one thing: her crystal skull. Oh, sorry wrong thing, wrong girl. Keep this girl, move lower than the skull. That’s what guys were after.

When we went out she expected I wanted the same thing. She spent the evening guarded and setting traps. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a guy who loves a good crystal skull, but that wasn't why I went out with her. I went out with her because she was sweet. I'm a guy. I'm simple. I can only have one thing on my mind.

To me the evening was a failure. To her it was something new, and yet it turned out to be the same. I might have gone out on a second date but I was blindsided from my peripheral: I met MyUnwife. She stepped out of the blind spot and said, "hello."

Screech! "Ahh! Hey!"

But no matter what I say, at least she stepped out and stepped up. That was always one quality I admired in her. Still, I think it's easy to see why I might be a little twitchy about my peripheral. I was looking at the skirts on the outskirts and they weren't even there. My distraction got me smacked by the one I should have seen coming.

It's kind of like driving to a 4 way stop and everybody sits waiting for somebody to take the right of way. Finally you get pissed and go--at the same time one other person goes. You'll never remember the other 2 cars that slinked away, but you'll remember the blue Monte Carlo and the guy laying on your windshield. He was the pedestrian neither of you saw. Now he's the pedestrian pinned to your windshield like a bug. the woman in the Monte Carlo takes a swig and stares at you.

That's the problem with peripheral people: You never see them until it's too late. And normally you never see them at all. It's a shame. You could have offered something. I try not to be peripheral. I'm the guy barreling right down the middle of the road. Ask MyUnwife. Her favorite in the car word was:

"OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod!" tapping to the beat of the imaginary brake, always with her eyes closed! She always closed her eyes as a passenger. I never got that…

Anyway, my peripheral person isn't that kind of peripheral, at least I hope not, or we'll never meet. They're just out of view for now. I'd like to see them though--to know that they're real. Because with my imagination, it's possible I'm imagining the whole thing, and taking you along for the ride.

Stepping out of the peripheral is about taking risks. Everybody should try stepping out of the peripheral this week. Step in front of somebody. Stop their car if you have to. Give them a smile, Give them a hug.

Take the risk.

Say "Hello."

Stagnant Goat Head.

"-One goat head lodged in your shoe can trigger a completely new infestation."

Wha?

That was a commercial on one of my radio stations for work.

Goat head…in my shoe…infestation?

I went back and listened again. Yep, that's what they said. I'm not sure how I get a goat head in my shoe without tramping obliviously through a satanic ritual, but OK. Maybe I'm too busy avoiding all the rams blood, I dunno.

"Excuse me, did I get your goat?"

"Stop him! He's stolen The Gruff!"

The whole experiences sounds gruff. Improbable too, I have a ritual-o-phobia. Gathering people here today to join in anything gives me goose head bumps. Now I have to worry about an infestation of goat heads? Or does one goat infest my head with goat herd? Stupid goats are harder to comb out than lice! What the hell?

Goat head infestation….

I tried to continue working but it was too late. They were chewing and braying at my mind.

Why do I have to worry about this?

"Meheheh!"

Fine! I pulled up Google and asked them why I need to worry about goat heads.

"Because Rob, Goat head is a toxic weed."

Bam! I've been smacked in the head with a Keanu Reeves brick, "No…Way!"

"Way."

You probably know all about this, but I didn't. Goat heads were new to me. Apparently the weed is a serious sheep scourge. Yep, sheep eat the weed; the weed poisons the sheep; Sheep goes to heaven. That's why you have to separate the sheep from the goat heads.

"Holy Cow!"

"Yep, it kills them too. Just not as plentifully."

"No…Way!"

"Way!"

I had no idea. I also found out that if you get one of these goat head things in your shoe it stabs you in the foot, and causes an itchy lesion.

"Itchy spot on my foot, what is your name?"

"I am lesion for we are rashy."

Yeah, sorry, apparently this goat head thing is worse than anyone imagined. The mere thought causes brain spurs. I now have something to fear. That's great. I know, you're probably out there going, "Rob, I can't believe you've never heard of this thing!" Either that or "Rob, I can't believe you're making me hear about this thing!"

I haven't, and I am. I am sorry though. I'm sheltered. Blame MyUnwife. I'm even worse now that she isn't around to shake things up. Sure say what you will, Lord knows I do, but with her around I had external input. Right now Rob is stagnating in his own juices.

Oh sure, I watch TV, but it doesn't watch back. I can't blame it, I'm not that exciting, but there's only so much Rob can flourish without an interchange of ideas.

MyUnwife added a strange balance to that. She drove to this fantasy land she called "the office." There she intermingled with other people and stuff. She told me characters like Dilbert are real there.

"No…Way!"

"Way."

Living with her was like having a foreign exchange student to poke and prod (so to speak). Now I live alone and can only poke and prod myself so often. I force myself to go out and mingle with foreign bodies, but strangers frown on the whole poke/prod activity. The best I can hope for is that they pass on idea weeds like goat heads that barb my skull and dangle over my ear like a spiky wind chime. It's these things that keep me from stagnating.

Living alone it's more effort, but I have to try. It's how I continue to grow and change.

"No…Way!"

"Way!"

The Earl of Zen

My name is Rob. You probably got that from the other blog entries. If you're at D360, the blue nameplate beneath peachy headless avatar man was probably a dead giveaway. Well, not so dead, but you get the idea. So why am I stating the obvious? It's an homage to a TV show that ended last week.

What? I've paid taxes, tolls and "the price" I can pay homage once and a while--or is that once in a while? I mean, is it one once over the course of one while, or is it one once. plus one while? I'm just asking, and while we're on the topic, how long is a while? I never could get a straight answer from my mom on that one.

"When can I go outside?"

"In a while."

"Is that a once, in a while, or will that be several occurrences over the same while, Mom?"

"What?"

"Nevermind, you're part of a blog flashback, you wouldn't get it…"

I think it's safe to say there are several things my parents just didn't understand about me. MyUnwife too, but I pay them enough homage, this is about a TV show.

My Name is Earl. Did you watch it? It was great because it drove through moral quandaries that splashed mud in all our lives and makes us laugh at the messes we've caused. I don't know about you, but I see a little me in all the characters, even Randy the slow brother.

Earls taught me about a lot of things though, bagging groceries, approaching a one legged girl, and how to jump for Joy. Last week it taught me about marriage and divorce.

"Somebody help! My hooker stopped breathing!"

Ok, that wasn't part of the marriage lesson, but it set the mood. See, Earl got married to Alyssa Milano--yeah, train wreck, thy name is Earl. Some fruit is purely ornamental, and should never be eaten. It's ok, it's a lesson we all need to learn.

Earl thought that they'd been united by Karma, but found out through several misadventures that maybe that wasn't it at all. He even reaches wisdom we all have encountered from time to time: "That’s all marriage is, Accepting all the annoying crap your partner makes you put up with."

Preach on Brother Earl!

In the end there's a "happy" divorce where Alyssa sets Earl free. Now this was one of the few things I found unbelievable about the whole episode. No not the "happy" thing. It happens. Some people just realize they don't belong together, and that the universe will be a happier place if they don't unite. C'mon, you saw that Star Trek episode didn't you? Matter man meets anti matter man? My gosh! What did you waste your education on?

Shesh!

Anyway, she pulls out this divorce paperwork for Earl to sign and it's like two pages. Two pages? Come on! You mean to tell me a whole set of studio folk and nobody knows what a ream of divorce papers looks like? (yeah, that's the only way divorce papers are served: in a ream. Sorry, my bitter is showing…) now that is incredible! I've seen parental permission slips longer than the slip she handed him to sign.

Still, if you could get past the slip, you watched Earl and Alyssa move on. It was a simple slip out of love, out of love. I hate to see anybody go. MyUnwife, Earl, anybody. Still in some cases it has to happen. Maybe it's something we've done, maybe it's something we'll never understand, but all roads eventually lead to goodbye. Some are sad, some are happy, but each has an end. I know, deep huh? That's the last lesson Earl taught me.