Articles on Clothing

I’m educated. I read. I have plenty of time. I’m unemployed. I’ve reached a point where my education does not fill the needs of the current market. So I spend my time reading about people who do.

Recently I read a CNN.com article about a college student in Brazil. Students can’t do anything these days. Mary couldn’t bring her lamb, and Geisy Arruda couldn’t wear her little pink dress to school. Mary made the children laugh and play (which was against the rules) and Geisy brought catcalls, heckles, and viral video (also not allowed).

To me, this is odd. A culture that celebrates Carnaval with as much abandon as Tiger Woods at a women’s retreat, admonishes a girl for wearing something suggestive? Did her thong clash with school colors? No. Brazil likes their parties in the street, and their modesty behind closed doors. They’re a Catholic culture.

That’s not a joke. I mean it. Maybe I’m culturally insensitive, but I found Geisy pretty in pink. So has the YouTube culture. People hit her video snippets and sightings hundreds of thousands of times daily. If only I had that kind of stamina. The public favorite is the clip where police escort her from campus as students insult her in Spanish.

How does Robby white-boy know they’re insulting her? Because that’s the only Spanish I speak. That and the pitchforks and torches imply nonverbal content as well. Yup, my deductive education at work.

Geisy’s formal education ended—at least for a few weeks. For every offended student screaming whore (in Spanish of course) there was another revolutionary screaming, “Woo hoo!” (mostly men). A public uprising of Brazilian blue-collars with Internet access demanded to see more Geisy. The school relented and welcomed her back into the fold, even though you couldn’t see any folds on her clothing.

This isn’t the end of the Geisy’s afterschool special. The publicity storm turned her into a Brazilian Octo-Mom (publicity-wise, not brood-wise. Geisy is quick to admit that she’s single and enjoying it. That’s hard to do with young goslings waddling behind you. Ask Kate.). Geisy and her pink dress appear in magazines, newspapers, and TV shows as part of daily Brazilian culture.

She’s making more money because she was kicked out of school than she could have in her chosen career: a travel professional. She’s spending her money to increase her market exposure and branding. Geisy has undergone 4 different surgeries for cosmetic enhancement.

This begs the question: Do the clothes make the woman, or did the woman make the clothes? It also makes me embrace the pink dress decision for my last interview. I am so hired.

Sources:

http://www.cnn.com/video/?/video/world/2010/04/29/romo.brazil.pink.dress.celeb.cnn

http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/americas/11/10/brazil.short.dress/index.html

Ups & Downs

“Always wear clean underwear.”

It’s a standard mom mantra. I know my mom said it to me. She also sewed in my name and address. I would always be covered and clean in case of amnesia.

I always assumed she did both, in case I was in an accident. I mean the sew thing, that was just so they knew where to drop off the crumpled body, right? Then again, if that were the case, wouldn’t it have made better sense to sew in the address of the closest hospital?

The clean thing, that never made sense. If I’m in an accident where somebody needs to see my underwear, I assure you: my underwear won’t be clean--no matter how fresh it was when I left the house.

So why all this over theorizing about underwear?

Mine malfunctioned today. And not in a sexy Janet Jackson kinda way.

Yup. This story starts, like so many others: down a long convoluted path of back-story. See, nothing starts in the now. It always starts somewhere else. Life, like underwear has history, and to convey either to you, I need to go back.

We’re going back to last year. That’s when I stopped working out. I could blame so many things: my book, the Pirate Queen, my job-search, and yeah, even my underwear, but they weren’t the real problem. They were just excuses. The real problem was a problem of priority. Working out just did not make the priority list.

So this year I found bunching underwear enough to keep me from closing my jeans. I realized it was time to get back in the race. I’d had a nice hiatus, but all things need to move forward. This time what needed to move forward was my fat butt.

So I started working the “Couch Potato to 5K” program. It’s a simple system that builds you up to a 5K over 9 weeks. I hate running, but I’ve found it one of the best starter workouts. It’s like I need to get my body fit enough to start working out. Then I can move to other activities; I need to walk before I can run—so to speak.

This plan has you run 3 days a week, with a mix of walk and run that takes you about 30 minutes. That includes warm up. When starting anything in life, limited expectations can help you exceed your goals. It helps makes the days that make you go, “I don’t wanna,” more bearable. I find the less “I don’t wanna” resistance I start with, the more I wanna later.

Today’s walk/run was the same all week: 2 alternating 90-second run/walks followed by 2 3-minute run/walks. The second 3-minute run is kinda tough, but like any anything else, experience will make it easier.

Except today. Today’s experience was in humiliation.

Today I threw on my shirt and shorts, started my ipod and paced down the road. The first 1/3 of the mile is warm up. I felt good and active, and ready to take on the world. I was down at the end of the block, adrenaline pumping, arms swaying, legs movin’.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

That’s the iPod telling me to run. So I ran. See Rob run? Within 15 seconds, see Rob’s underwear sliding down his butt. I

’d love to tell you that this happened because I’d lost so much weight that my underwear couldn’t keep up, but no. It was just the elastic that had given up. I blame mom. When she sews my name, it weakens the elastic.

Whoever’s fault it was, I could feel the wide band creep over my butt hump like an eclipse creeping down the moon. My only safeguard was that my shorts had a better support team. They stayed up.

Now I’m grabbing my butt. Not because I like the warm plush feel, but because I’m trying to shimmy my boxers up without stopping my run. I started this run; I plan on completing it. About a minute into the run, I’ve got Mick Jagger chicken arms yanking up the limp waistbands as high as it’ll go.

Some guy passes me in a truck and slows. He’s watching me in the rearview. I think he was trying to figure out why I was giving myself a wedgie.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

It was walk time. My underwear liked the walking better. It could keep up with that kind of exercise. I continued to walk, wondering of how I could keep them from falling during the next run. 3-minutes is a long time to support yourself by your butt-crack.

I decided to do nothing. I’d let it ride, so to speak. What the heck? My shorts weren’t falling, how far could the underwear go?

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The next run started.

If there’s one thing I should have learned, it’s that underwear is a lot like life. When things are going wrong, you can’t afford to play ostrich and burry your head in the hole.

Uhm…yeah, anyway…No, you can’t do that.

As soon as I started running, the boxers eclipsed the moon again. It might have kept it to a waxing gibbous if I had Velcro on the back of my underwear. At least then the strip would stop at the butt hair .

Without Velcro, It kept going. Within 15 seconds, I’m running with underwear piled into the back of my shorts. I’m running like a toddler with a poo filled Pamper, and that’s not the worst.

The worst is that the underwear keeps moving.

The legs holes jostle around my pumping thighs, making my underwear drop further down my legs, hampering my ability to run. Now with the seam in the crotch, the underwear isn’t going far, but it is going far enough.

Gasping, I look down. On my right thigh sits Cartman and on my left sits Kenny: my cartoon angel and devil making themselves visible. It’s like my South Park underwear is talking to me.

“What are you running for, fat ass?”

“MMMMWrrrrwwrrwwwmmmm!”

Forty-five seconds into the first three minutes of my run, and I’ve got insulting cartoons on my thighs, and bunching undies inhibiting my run.

What do I do? The Cartman leg wants me to turn around. I’m not sure what the Kenny leg wants. He’s unintelligible. I don’t want to give up though. I stagger through the rest of the three minutes, and slow to a walk.

Now I lift my underwear again. Passing a yard sale, I make a quick search for underwear. Nothing. I walk on.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

This beep doesn’t mean it’s time to run again. This beep is letting me know that I’m half way: It’s just as far to turn around, as it is to move ahead. Sorry, Cartman thigh. I’m pushing on.

This is like so many other things in life. It’s Rob operating procedure. I’d love to tell you about all the times I’ve taken the easy path, but like half my blogs, those are pure fiction. The reality is, I stumble through life with my underwear around my thighs way too often. It doesn’t matter if it’s work, relationships, He-Man or South Park; my underwear always tangles me up.

I wish I had some great answer for making it through. I don’t. Today, I sucked up the last legs of the run and made it home with more embarrassment. In life I do the same thing. I plow through.

The plowing is easier with my faith. I mean I’ve got God to get me through, I know that eventually I’ll be able to stop and pull up my underwear. Sure, I know. It’s an imperfect metaphor, but it’s what I’ve got.

I’ve got an imperfect life, but I’m plowing through. And if I ever get lost, I’ve got my name in the back of my underwear. I’ll figure out where I belong.

This Is Not a Blogpost.

This is not a blogpost.

If you’re reading this, you’re the most loyal reader I know.

Everybody say, “Awww.”

I’m waiting.

Still waiting.

Come on now…Thank you.

Don’t read anything into that. Things are much the same as my last post. In fact, that’s why I’m not posting now.

“Why don’t you write blogs anymore?” So asks the Pirate Queen. She’s still the same ol’ PQ.

“Cuz I’m trying to finish my book and find I job.” Same ol’ Rob too--always so much on my plate. I would not make a good Oliver Twist.

“Please sir, can I have some more?”

“Shut up, chubby.”

“Hey! I don’t like to be called chubby!”

“Then don’t call me sir. Now get off of me, I’m not in the mood anymore.”

Yup, things are the same between the PQ and I. We’re still multiple moons orbiting a gas giant trying to figure out what’s solid between us. We draw the weekends. We repel the weekdays. We’re doing everything to keep from freefalling, molten nuggets descending towards unknown horrors.

“Please sir, can I have—Ow! Crap! I say! I’ve just been hit with a pair of molten nuggets!”

Yeah, leave it to me to stick my nuggets in a Dickens’ novel. OK, back to 2010: Rob’s space odyssey. In this odyssey, Odysseus will be played by Rob, the role of Penelope belongs to The Pirate Queen. Careful, the literary reference satellites are falling like so much space junk.

Last weekend, our intrepid satellites were at Living Spaces looking at furniture. This was our second revolution there. The first passing came before Christmas. She’d asked to see my sofa as a pyre of Yule cheer.

I understand. Some relationships suffer when you’re dating. Some guys give up their pets. Some guys give up their best friends. I have to let go of my couch. I think it’s an acceptable trade.

She also hates the space she calls my “man cave.” It’s the office off the back of the house. After the divorce, I spent so much time working there that all activates that didn’t require a sink, a toilet, a bed or a lawnmower migrated there as well. Ok, sometimes the lawnmower came too, but that’s another story.

“Please sir, may I—AHHHH!”

Anyway, the man cave holds all things most satellites keep in their living room. My living room holds echoes. It’s been empty since MyEx left. The Queen hates the echo room. She hate’s the echoless cave. She hates the couch.

There is something she doesn’t hate. She doesn’t hate the luge. That’s our one-man, one-woman snuggle position for watching TV. She lies in front, and I support her from the rear. It’s our tandem snuggle. It’s silly; it’s stupid; it’s part of our orbit.

Last time we looked at furniture, we found this thing called an “Astro Snuggle Chair.” Aww, yeah. It’s bigger than a chair-and-a-half, but smaller than a love seat, so it doesn’t require a real commitment. It’s really comfortable, with good back support and, as the name states, it’s perfect for snuggling.

It sucks for luging.

That’s alright. We all make sacrifices. I figured it was my turn. I’m getting a decent tax refund. So, I thought, “Why not?”

OK dear readers, thank you for the list of reasons why not. I’ll file them appropriately in the “I know, I know” file. Yes I know. I’m jobless. I know I’m already risking foreclosure. I know there’s no reason to buy a piece of furniture that I may have to pay so I can have it removed if I go. You know what reason I give for being such a fool?

It would make the Pirate Queen feel more at home.

I love her. I want to synchronize our orbits. Don’t panic. We’re not marrying. We’re not moving in together. It’s just that she’s helped me clean my backyard. When you share a disposable bag, a saw, a shovel, and a hoe, you’re already sharing plenty.

That’s why I wanted a snuggle chair. I wanted to put it in the living room, and maybe work a TV into the mix. I wanted to make the outer space our space.

So while at Living Spaces, I mentioned my plan.

“What do you think?”

“A Snuggler won’t go there.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too small.”

“OK, so what would?”

The Queen moved to a comfy white leather sofa, and got a little defensive about why the Snuggler wouldn’t fit. She turned red and flustered as she explained things like, “It’s just my opinion,” and “it’s not my house, but…”

I wasn’t worried. I wanted her opinion. If the Snuggler didn’t fit, we must not sit. Maybe we could find something else that did. So I said, “Angel, it’s OK. I’m just trying to find something that would make you more comfortable in my space. I like sharing it with you.”

That little astro-tidbit smacked the PQ out of orbit.

That red color she had before? It washed away. I lost her against the white leather like a waning ghost.

“Baby?” I asked.

She reappeared, this time, greener than before. After a few moments she wobbled to her feet, but things had shifted.

Ever since, things have been out of kilter. This weekend she’s revolving in her apartment, alone. It’s nothing. It’s nothing new. Nothing in our orbit has ever been stable, but it always recovers.

The problem is, I’m a stable orbit kinda guy. I was married for 10 years. Marriage is a manmade satellite: you work together, expending fuel to maintain orbit until everything is gone, and then you plummet to Earth in a fireball of blame.

This orbit is more like an ADD kid with a hula-hoop. It throws my universe for a loop. The things I’m good at become the things I’m bad at as the gravity of insecurity pulls me down.

One of the effects is that this week I’ve done a lot of writing. I just wish it were on my novel. Every time I try to focus on my book I see the waning Sofa Queen.

So what have I written? I’ve written over 20 job applications, most out of state. If I can’t find stability in my state, maybe I can land somewhere secure. Maybe I can find a new orbit, one that belongs to me. I Know I can survive on my own. I’m not Oliver Twist.

And this is not a blogpost.

Reading Baggage

Some read futures in tealeaves; I read the future in baggage.

“I’m leaving!”

“Yeah, I guess the packed suitcase told me that.”

We learn things from each other. Go ahead try it. Say “hi” to someone; see what they do.

I’m waiting.

Do it.

C’mon…

Thanks.

Now you’ve not only learned how they respond, you’ve also learned how persistent I am. Still, easy, right? You barely had to participate.

Some lessons aren’t that easy. Some lessons require you become involved.

“Don’t touch—you’ll lose your hand”

That not only teaches us not to stick our hand in the table saw, but it also teaches us things not to do in front of a girlfriend’s father. Unfortunately, it’s a lesson few learn without experimentation.

Call me stumpy.

The more we deal with other people, the more we have to be careful what we learn. Not all lessons made from our choices are good lessons; too many harsh lessons leave us jaded. I’ve seen it in my own life. Jading not only erodes our hearts, it also hurts the innocent, sometimes jading them.

Things people teach us affect our relationships with them and others. Their lessons can also leave us questioning our future. Some people call these lessons “baggage.”

The pirate queen and I are sifting through our luggage. It’s a phase. It usually comes just after you trust somebody enough to say, “I love you,” but before somebody starts unloading baggage into drawers. Ok, sometimes that’s not the order, but in our case it’s one of the lessons we’ve both picked up. See, we both came with full sets of luggage; we both have pasts rich with lessons. It’s part of our relationship: We trade baggage, and see if they match.

“Abandonment issues, mine.”

“Ok, lack of trust, that’s mine.”

“They look ok together, plus they’re both hard-sided too…”

We were camping last weekend. While lying in the bed, staring at the stars, she said, “It’s weird sleeping on this side of the bed.” I read that as a sign to switch sides. Not because I thought she had an insurmountable urge to be right, but because I had an overwhelming desire to be left. It was a moment of levity. Levity and cold breezy nights rarely go well together.

We read the constellations differently. By moving, I’d shifted the blankets, removing any warmth from our bed.

“I don’t need to switch sides. I don’t know who in your past made that important, but I’m not that way.”

Eh…wha? Pirate baggage comes with cannon balls.

I got my levity in her baggage and it didn’t go very good together. I could have confronted her on the issue, but confrontation is in my baggage. Besides, screaming at each other from across the tent while our underwear froze to our bodies seemed a counter productive addition to anybody’s duffle of joy.

Oh, and she had the car keys…

What lesson did we learn there? I don’t know. I learned to be careful. I learned there’s a red flag, but I don’t know where it rests. Further investigation will tell me, but am I ready to search? Right now I know that The Pirate Queen has a jack-in-the-box in her luggage, and that’s all I need to know.

Is that right?

Here’s the other thing: maybe it’s not. Maybe I’m just looking at her baggage through a zippered flap in mine. That’s the trick about dating again after a divorce. You just don’t know what’s real and what’s filtered baggage.

“And I’m just been getting started!”

She’s been asking questions of monogamy lately. That means she’s asking questions, but which ones? Yeah, I know, “monogamy,” but monogamy is a slippery fish and has many interpretations. My baggage has a poor interpretation of this question, and yes, my baggage talks.

“I want you to leave.”

There’s another problem between us. I’ve encountered this before, and it scares me most of all. Our hurts have left us questioning ourselves. One person pulls away, and the other responds. It’s a learned response. More frequently, she’s the puller. It hurts, but I know it’s part of her healing process.

Or is it? Reading baggage is like spy work. You don’t know anything but are required to interpret everything. That means reading baggage is as accurate as reading tealeaves, or playing Go Fish.

“Do you have any Queens?”

Ok, maybe it is more like that…

Still, each time she pulls away, I grow a little more used to it. . This pattern falls into my previous lessons: I know if that continues I’ll put it in my baggage until I pack up and go. I don’t want that.

I have a secret. I love her. Shhh. Oh, it’s ok, you can tell her. She knows, but sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t stop reminding myself. The baggage sorting isn’t easy, and it’s not for the meek, and when is it time to trade a handful of red flags for a white one?

The reality is it’s a choice that we all make. My answer may not be right for you, and it’s possible it’s not even right for her, but it’s one I have to make and live with. The real trick is that life is simple, but our baggage complicates things. Our answers are never easy when reading the future in baggage because our baggage is grounded in the past.

And yet that’s the thing about baggage: we can’t unload anybody else’s baggage for them. No matter how much I’d love to wrap The Pirate Queen in my arms and kiss her baggage away; I can’t. If I choose to stick around, all I can do is put my own baggage down, hold her hand and ask, “Where do you want this?”

That’s nearly impossible when reading my future through my own baggage, but I’m trying.

It’s time.

Pampers and Thongs

“I’m gonna go do my nails. You gonna be alright?” The Pirate Queen bounces out the door, purse in hand, thongs on feet. This is one last check-in, before she goes and pampers herself. Yes, thongs and pampers, quite the sexy image. We like to spice things up.

“I’m good, thanks for asking though. Enjoy.” Yeah, I know, it’s not the most romantic thing I could have said. Romance is like wine, and I still haven’t worked out what goes well with thongs and pampers. Rushing to the door, grabbing her in my arms and taking her in the doorway might be a little much. Besides, she gets complaints from her neighbors after I leave.

Knock-Knock!

“Yes?”

“Hi, it’s me again. From across the hall? Could you tell your boyfriend to leave his clothes on? The white light reflecting from the hall light, off his body actually turns the peephole into a laser. This is the second bird we’ve replaced this month. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes of course.”

“Good, now where can I get me a nice thong-pamper ensemble like that?

So, I decide to lay low. I recline in the couch and wave as she goes. She’ll be gone for a bit. It gives me a chance to relax and reflect.

We’ve been “together” since earlier this year, and she’s been in California for a month. It’s a good time for a reflection. It’s time to take a look at where we stand.

It’s funny, we’ll call each other all the special names, and yeah, we’ve even admitted to loving each other, but neither of us seem to be able to say the words “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” I can only speak for myself, but I will say that it has nothing to do with the level of affection. I really do love this woman.

On the other hand, to identify what woman with trite terms I identified the schoolgirl ingénues of my life seems like an insult. The Pirate Queen isn’t a girlfriend. She’s a woman, who is very dear to me. Sure, I still carry her books, and play with her Barbies, but it’s different now. I stand in a place of reverence. I respect her.

Today in the car, she pointed out the window, “Look! Those are pretty dresses. Oh, wait! They’re wedding dresses. I’m sorry.”

Nope. We don’t stand there either.

We are in a place where we enjoy each other’s company. Last night we went to the observatory. It’s in the same park as the Greek Theater. The theater was running a weekend long Prog-rockers extravaganza. Prog rockers are creature that I had thought was all but extinct. They’re not. They’re like ants. They hide underground with their Rush and Genesis CDs until there’s a musical event, and then they all scurry out from the walls. I felt insulted because I wasn’t invited to this one. I had left my Rush CDs at home.

The park was full. Between the Prog-ants and people looking for the local fires, the rangers had closed off several roads. In fact, there was only one road to the observatory. Trust me, we tried several other roads to get there.

“This one dead ends.”
“I see that.”

“What does the map say?”

“It says that it doesn’t know where we are. Neither do I.”

“But you’re a local!”

“Only by proximity. The last time I was here almost 15 years ago.”

“Fine! I’m going back.”

“Uhm according to the guy with the gun and the Sheriff uniform that’s all you can do.”

I tried using the maps on my cell phone, but it’s amazing how close you can be to Los Angeles and still lose cell service. It’s one of those moments that define a relationship.

Define ours as flexible. We did well through the twisting roads of our afternoon, and although we arrived at the observatory in late evening, we also arrived in good spirits, and most importantly, we arrived together.

We had a good time looking at the stars, and the burning hillside. It was nice to share these experiences with someone. After going through a divorce, I wasn’t sure if I’d do that again. I’m old and ornery. That’s not something many people are looking for.

The Pirate Queen is a list-a-holic. She says it gets her kicked out of parties.

“Yes, three! Three wonderful bottles of Tequila!”

We both have our plusses and our minuses. The best thing so far, has been that we’re both comfortable enough with ourselves. I love that about her. I love that I can disagree, and she’s ok. She may not change her mind, but she’s happy with who I am too.

It’s why I’m sitting on her couch typing as she get her nails done. It’s two adults feeling comfortable enough to spend time together or away from each other. Whether it’s on a couch in shorts and a T, or if it’s in the doorway with pampers and thongs, we’re happy around each other. That’s the best reflection of them all.

I’d tell you more, but she’s home. Call me silly, but I’d rather spend time with her. She’s pampered up and ready to go.

His Story.

History never repeats. That’s what my old CDs say. According to the internet, if I don’t remember my past, I’m doomed to repeat it. It also says that if I don’t send some imprisoned diplomat all my money, drunken dwarves in lederhosen will overpower him and make him sing cabaret. I dunno. It sounds like the internet lies, or maybe the diplomat should give in and sell tickets; he obviously could use the money.

Aldus Huxley didn’t need the money. He spoke about history too. He said, “Nothing changes, yet everything is completely different.” He also wrote the “Doors of Perception,” and “Brave New World,” Showing that mescaline and optimism don’t mix.

Divorce and happiness don’t mix either. I mean you can have both, just not at the same time. Try it. It doesn’t work. And yeah, I would argue that it doesn’t matter which side of the slamming door you’re on, there’s no party on either face, and if there is, it’s only a celebration for their new friend, denial.

No, divorce sucks all around. Sometimes it’s a necessary evil. Nobody deserves to continue with an adulterous or abusive spouse, and yet the decision to leave usually comes on slow deliberate cat feet. Yeah, it’s like the fog, that way. Or maybe it’s Smurfs. I always get those two confused. My point is: to make somebody part of your history is never easy.

Yesterday, I read through my old blogs. The original ones. I looked at the old pains and conversations that flicked from the tips of my fingers. I can’t believe I actually sifted through a box of pictures back then. Wow, there are internet sites dedicated to people who love that kind of pain with their history. They usually cost money though. My blog is always free, and you get to watch…

ANYWAY. I wondered. Is there any difference between going back to my old blogs, and going back through my old pictures then? Either way, aren’t I just prodding old pains? Wouldn’t that be like watching a “Dude Where’s My Car” marathon?

Try it; go back to my old blogs. Read them. See? Isn’t that painful? Would you do that twice? I mean it’s painful for you for different reasons (think “the guy who brought you the Strawberry Shortcake’s Beach Blanket Sharkfest—“Wow! He ate her like she was made of, Oh, that does explain why she bloated in the water,”--now brings you blogs of joy and happiness), but that kind of pain never changes, it’s just completely different.

So why would I do it? I guess it’s like running for the first time on an ankle you’ve sprained weeks ago: I did it to see if I could. I did it to see if I was healed. I did it to see if there were signs of history repeating.

See, I’m in a new relationship now. I don’t want history to repeat. Oh, I mean I’m totally ok with the falling in love part. That’s fine. But I just didn’t like the way the first story ended. I want to move on. If history repeats, then why bother? I read my old blogs; why would I want to feel like that again?

I read the old blogs to see if there were a clue, a reason, an answer.

There wasn’t.

The problem is, that blogs and history are all biased by perception. There will never be real answers unless I had them to begin with. If I had all the answers, I probably wouldn’t be divorced.

So does that mean I’m doomed to repeat? I don’t know. After two years of blogging, I still don’t have all the answers, but I’d rather face my future, than quiver in my past. Right now, in my present, I have a Pirate Queen. I wouldn’t trade that for any history. Whether it’s that of an anonymous blogger, or the never changing Aldus Huxley.

The Ringing in My Ears.

I've learned a lot. It's true. I know everything about divorce--or at least everything that I want to know. The rest, yeah. You can keep that knowledge fruit, it doesn't taste nearly as sweet as the serpentine brochure claims.

Selective knowledge? Is that something we can aspire to? Is it something we should aspire to? If actions lead to knowledge, shouldn't we rush right one and slip our fingers into the 220v sockets of learning?

The landscape is littered with those who've tried. All you have to do is roll over the bodies to see the burn marks. For me, sometimes a little jolt is enough. Sometimes I can learn through other's lightning strike eureka moments.

"Ok, Ron, thunderstorm golfing, wasn't a good idea. I'll just take the penalty strokes now and meet you in the clubhouse. You win. Ron?"

If knowledge is power, there are enough people who've been shocked with enough power to light Los Angeles with the glow of bathtub toasters. Luckily they all live there. In marriage and divorce, some knowledge is good, but if you have to learn from experience, then not all knowledge is beneficial. Some knowledge is best taken on faith. Ask Adam and Eve.

Unfortunately Knowledge isn't the same thing as wisdom. Webster's describes wisdom as acquired knowledge, but I would argue that it's more than acquired, it's the ability to use it. A knowledgeable person can know that their house is on fire, but it's the wise man who stands out front and sells tickets. Trust me. I was wise in my divorce: I sold tickets.

But that's only one instance where wisdom paid off. There are other instances where it's hard to know how to be wise. Sometimes morality muddies things up. Moral calls can be the toughest to make.

I had to make a moral call. I didn't know that it was a moral call when I made it, but that's how things of knowledge, wisdom, and morality happen. They call; you answer. My call was a friend of mine. We'll call him Ro-…Ro-…Ro- Yerboat. Naw, lets just call him Daphne.

"Hey Rob, it's me, Daphne."

"Hey Daph, wassup?"

"I need a favor."

"What favor?"
"I need you to cover for me."

Suddenly my spider sense is tingling. Spider sense isn't knowledge, wisdom, or morality, but it does let me know when I'm gonna get squashed.

It seems that Daphne has been chatting with somebody online, and it's starting to get serious. This wouldn't be a problem, if Daphne weren't married.

"Nothing has happened yet, I swear. I just want you to cover for me, should my husband Shaggy see the excess of chats."

What do I do? Here is a eureka moral quandary, and I can hear the thunder. I know that the word "yet" is very dangerous. It would be wise to just hang up, because Shaggy is a kickboxer, and has big friends like Scooby and Velma. Me, I'm a writer. That ""pen mightier than…?" It's crap. It's something a writer wrote to make the taste of his own blood taste better. I know I don't like the taste, and I don't know what was said in these chats.

"What do you mean you like my wife's kitty? We don't own a cat!"

"Yes, but she does play poker. There was a lot at stake, and I lost."

Still Daphne is a good friend. I've know Daphne for years, and she's driven her mystery van through many of my dark and story nights--more than my other friend, Snoopy. So do I cover for Daphne, even though she's ignoring wisdom to gain the power of knowledge--and hindsight, or do I tell her no, and explain the rumble that she hears in the distance is her own ruin?

I believe that we make our way through life clanging the triangle of our heart. Sometimes we ring the beat to the side of wisdom, sometimes knowledge, or sometimes morality. Then there are the times where we miss altogether. That doesn't stop us from marching along, but it does make our tone hollow and empty, and all anybody hears is the silence of lack. That silence changes everything.

This is my moment of selective knowledge. I haven't lived what she's going through, but I have seen others. How do I do the select the best answer?

It's strange, I've found myself in a situation where there's no mystery. I know what's wise and what's smart, and I know Susan What I don't know is how to be the best friend. All I can do is pick my side and march. I balance my triangle in my hand and I start to ring, "Well, Daphne…"