:)
Really?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The Sockless Rich
The Sockless Rich
My wife and I made friends with a couple, the husband a decent well meaning man who perhaps pushes the threshold of parental discipline than I would like, and his bleach blonde slave to the treadmill social climbing counterpart. They don’t quite fit in, but they are desperate to. So we’ve been hanging out with them for the last year, and it has been nothing short of uncomfortable. But since we don’t fit in, we had something in common, or so we thought. Since my wife told her “friend” of our separation, she is understandably conflicted as to how to proceed. She has not returned my wife’s calls.
And I know why.
Married people see couples that separate become liberated in some way, they grow from the truth, and survive, and most importantly, thrive. The statistics prove me out. A stagnant marriage exists in the womb of denial. And unfortunately, no marriage is immune to stagnation; indeed, it is the nature of the beast. And make no mistake; marriage is a beast that will not stop until it has consumed truth. And so, the ones brave enough to sound the alarm, that there is indeed a fire, a fire ignited by contempt bred from familiarity and sustained by fear of change, and those couples who question the feasibility of marriage are pariahs , a threat to the status quo. Most who are married are unhappy, within the context of passion, change, growth, self renewal , and they all live in fear of admitting this, and when two married couples who related to each other in the fraud of marital bliss, and one of them jumps up out of the cocktail couch and shouts, No, there must be more! This truth becomes a virus, that is feared and reviled, and the couple that chooses the path of denial and mediocrity are terrified that this virus will infect them. Perhaps if a separation paid better and got us a table at L’Escale my wife would be worthy of support. But our separation and pursuit of personal growth and happiness threatens the robots, and so they make some beeping sounds, turn on their Jimmy Chow heels, and walk longingly towards the promise of more money, more house, a better blackberry , the new Audi , and an invitation to a proper country club where they can touch the hand of God, or, in their case, rub not elbows but ankles with the sockless rich.
My wife and I made friends with a couple, the husband a decent well meaning man who perhaps pushes the threshold of parental discipline than I would like, and his bleach blonde slave to the treadmill social climbing counterpart. They don’t quite fit in, but they are desperate to. So we’ve been hanging out with them for the last year, and it has been nothing short of uncomfortable. But since we don’t fit in, we had something in common, or so we thought. Since my wife told her “friend” of our separation, she is understandably conflicted as to how to proceed. She has not returned my wife’s calls.
And I know why.
Married people see couples that separate become liberated in some way, they grow from the truth, and survive, and most importantly, thrive. The statistics prove me out. A stagnant marriage exists in the womb of denial. And unfortunately, no marriage is immune to stagnation; indeed, it is the nature of the beast. And make no mistake; marriage is a beast that will not stop until it has consumed truth. And so, the ones brave enough to sound the alarm, that there is indeed a fire, a fire ignited by contempt bred from familiarity and sustained by fear of change, and those couples who question the feasibility of marriage are pariahs , a threat to the status quo. Most who are married are unhappy, within the context of passion, change, growth, self renewal , and they all live in fear of admitting this, and when two married couples who related to each other in the fraud of marital bliss, and one of them jumps up out of the cocktail couch and shouts, No, there must be more! This truth becomes a virus, that is feared and reviled, and the couple that chooses the path of denial and mediocrity are terrified that this virus will infect them. Perhaps if a separation paid better and got us a table at L’Escale my wife would be worthy of support. But our separation and pursuit of personal growth and happiness threatens the robots, and so they make some beeping sounds, turn on their Jimmy Chow heels, and walk longingly towards the promise of more money, more house, a better blackberry , the new Audi , and an invitation to a proper country club where they can touch the hand of God, or, in their case, rub not elbows but ankles with the sockless rich.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The lease I can do
It’s The Lease I Can Do
I woke up to sign the lease to rent a house for me to live in day. An auspicious day to say the least. My family will stay in Old Greenwich, which has become the lair of the rich hedge fund robots, the house my father built and the house I grew up in. Now, or should I say up to now, I was raising my son and daughter in the house my father raised his son and daughter in. Now I must move to a stranger’s house, a couple of exits away on I95. For the first time since I can remember, I will be completely alone. I hope I don’t kill anybody. I will still see my children, almost every day, as my production studio (I am in the music business, such as it has deteriorated into), and my studio is on the same property as my home. I mean her home. Their home. My father’s house. He built it from a kit from Sears, back in the forties, I think for about fourteen thousand, we “fixed it up” with borrowed money and it is now worth about two million. We’re in a very nice little area in New England, called Old Greenwich, although perhaps it should be called New Whitewich, because of the void, the perfect dearth of ethnic diversity. This is a hedge fund paradise. It’s where the white, and khaki, strive and thrive. I have socialized with many of these subjects, been forced to, because of my sons school related events. These are “men” that are shockingly devoid of personality, humor and light. This is a town, and we’ve all heard the cliché about epicurean Connecticut towns, but this is a town which whole heartedly deserves its reputation. This soulless “more is more” mentality has been cultivated to an art form. The tear downs, the Macmansions as they are called, the BMW’s, the convertible Lotus, the five hundred dollar loafers WITHOUT SOCKS, the combed side part, the bleach blonde bleached toothed fake tan fake breasts tennis playing social climbing “women”, who have no substance whatsoever, but believe that they are the cream of the crop, a crop I would consider rotten, this is the place I leave behind. The only problem is that my children are here, and I feel like I am feeding them to the lions, but the lions are wearing pink polo shirts, with the collar starched and raised, like a flag from a country of lost souls, and they wave the flag, and shout “I hate myself but money makes me good, my wife is a robot and I have lost all sense of what really makes a man, and I wear our uniform, which lets the others of my ilk easily identify me, because if I don’t fit in, than I am a gypsy, a pariah, a threat to the collective, and I for one, do not have the stomach to be Locutus.”
I woke up to sign the lease to rent a house for me to live in day. An auspicious day to say the least. My family will stay in Old Greenwich, which has become the lair of the rich hedge fund robots, the house my father built and the house I grew up in. Now, or should I say up to now, I was raising my son and daughter in the house my father raised his son and daughter in. Now I must move to a stranger’s house, a couple of exits away on I95. For the first time since I can remember, I will be completely alone. I hope I don’t kill anybody. I will still see my children, almost every day, as my production studio (I am in the music business, such as it has deteriorated into), and my studio is on the same property as my home. I mean her home. Their home. My father’s house. He built it from a kit from Sears, back in the forties, I think for about fourteen thousand, we “fixed it up” with borrowed money and it is now worth about two million. We’re in a very nice little area in New England, called Old Greenwich, although perhaps it should be called New Whitewich, because of the void, the perfect dearth of ethnic diversity. This is a hedge fund paradise. It’s where the white, and khaki, strive and thrive. I have socialized with many of these subjects, been forced to, because of my sons school related events. These are “men” that are shockingly devoid of personality, humor and light. This is a town, and we’ve all heard the cliché about epicurean Connecticut towns, but this is a town which whole heartedly deserves its reputation. This soulless “more is more” mentality has been cultivated to an art form. The tear downs, the Macmansions as they are called, the BMW’s, the convertible Lotus, the five hundred dollar loafers WITHOUT SOCKS, the combed side part, the bleach blonde bleached toothed fake tan fake breasts tennis playing social climbing “women”, who have no substance whatsoever, but believe that they are the cream of the crop, a crop I would consider rotten, this is the place I leave behind. The only problem is that my children are here, and I feel like I am feeding them to the lions, but the lions are wearing pink polo shirts, with the collar starched and raised, like a flag from a country of lost souls, and they wave the flag, and shout “I hate myself but money makes me good, my wife is a robot and I have lost all sense of what really makes a man, and I wear our uniform, which lets the others of my ilk easily identify me, because if I don’t fit in, than I am a gypsy, a pariah, a threat to the collective, and I for one, do not have the stomach to be Locutus.”
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Resurrection and Frogs
Resurrection?
My wife is a child of an alcoholic. Her mother would drink herself into a coma for months at a time. She was only ten when it started, and it never abated. Her dad couldn’t handle it and split. Till death do them part? He eventually drove himself into a ditch, spilled his brains all over the steering wheel, and she got a new liver paid for in cash and is now drinking it to death too.
But ironically that isn’t what is killing my wife’s mother; it’s the doomed dream of her dead husband no longer loving her. But he stopped loving her long before he was dead. But she was dead long before he stopped loving her.
So my wife has some issues.
I married her to save her. She needed to be healed, and in some way I did. And then I abandoned her just like her mother and father. I stopped adoring her, and it was too familiar a death for her to bear. So we died, but now, we know we died, and we’re no Jesus Christ, but we might just not be breathing, and if we’ve already buried the corpses, but they’re not really dead, then I wanna exhume us.
I want to kiss her one more time, and I want her forgiveness. And I want her to know that I am not her mother and I am not her father, and that I love her. Such as I am, I love her.
And then, when I let myself feel things of that ilk, it hits. Remember, she doesn’t love me.
Frogs
This is what I do best, gravitate to the sadness, because sadness is very strong, and of all of the feelings a creeping, crawling, grabbing, flailing, stabbing in air, shit to the fan throwing idiot can have, sadness is the best for art. And so if sadness is what I inadvertently choose, then what chance do I have for happiness? I don’t think I like it. It’s trite, and if you find happiness, and try to hold on to it, it will, there can be no doubt, die. Like keeping a frog in some little plexiglass series of chambers. I liken the frog and it’s false habitat to a relationship, eventually outgrowing the chambers, but not able to admit it, because of the fear of what might await them outside the plastic prison, and so accept it, and give up, and ultimately live for the sad little frog food that comes to them at the whim of the plastic tube God, or, the creator, whoever that is, whoever it is that has made us so afraid to leave our tubes and chambers, lined with little algae ridden pebbles and fetid cloudy water, our jobs our yards, and our lives, the only environment we ever knew, our homes, our marriages, our little prisons.
And so we wait for frog food. But it can’t compare to flies, grabbed in midair with free tongues. Do frogs get tired? Tired of trying to escape? Does one ever get tired of hoping things will get better? I’m tired. Sleeping dead tired.
My wife is a child of an alcoholic. Her mother would drink herself into a coma for months at a time. She was only ten when it started, and it never abated. Her dad couldn’t handle it and split. Till death do them part? He eventually drove himself into a ditch, spilled his brains all over the steering wheel, and she got a new liver paid for in cash and is now drinking it to death too.
But ironically that isn’t what is killing my wife’s mother; it’s the doomed dream of her dead husband no longer loving her. But he stopped loving her long before he was dead. But she was dead long before he stopped loving her.
So my wife has some issues.
I married her to save her. She needed to be healed, and in some way I did. And then I abandoned her just like her mother and father. I stopped adoring her, and it was too familiar a death for her to bear. So we died, but now, we know we died, and we’re no Jesus Christ, but we might just not be breathing, and if we’ve already buried the corpses, but they’re not really dead, then I wanna exhume us.
I want to kiss her one more time, and I want her forgiveness. And I want her to know that I am not her mother and I am not her father, and that I love her. Such as I am, I love her.
And then, when I let myself feel things of that ilk, it hits. Remember, she doesn’t love me.
Frogs
This is what I do best, gravitate to the sadness, because sadness is very strong, and of all of the feelings a creeping, crawling, grabbing, flailing, stabbing in air, shit to the fan throwing idiot can have, sadness is the best for art. And so if sadness is what I inadvertently choose, then what chance do I have for happiness? I don’t think I like it. It’s trite, and if you find happiness, and try to hold on to it, it will, there can be no doubt, die. Like keeping a frog in some little plexiglass series of chambers. I liken the frog and it’s false habitat to a relationship, eventually outgrowing the chambers, but not able to admit it, because of the fear of what might await them outside the plastic prison, and so accept it, and give up, and ultimately live for the sad little frog food that comes to them at the whim of the plastic tube God, or, the creator, whoever that is, whoever it is that has made us so afraid to leave our tubes and chambers, lined with little algae ridden pebbles and fetid cloudy water, our jobs our yards, and our lives, the only environment we ever knew, our homes, our marriages, our little prisons.
And so we wait for frog food. But it can’t compare to flies, grabbed in midair with free tongues. Do frogs get tired? Tired of trying to escape? Does one ever get tired of hoping things will get better? I’m tired. Sleeping dead tired.
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