Not my scene

So it’s Rodeo Weekend this weekend. I walked down to the corner store to get a Cup O’Noodles and passed by the only bar in town. Someone was singing House of the Rising sun over the din of garbled voices of a hundred people talking all at once. Honestly, the bar scene makes my skin crawl. But I couldn’t help but wonder if there isn’t something wrong with me.

I went to the bar plenty of times when I was in college. I was a regular at a place called the Smiling Moose. The waitresses knew me and all of my friends. We closed the place down about four nights a week, usually after an evening shift at the computer lab where I was working. My shift would end at 10pm and it was off to the Moose for a couple pints, some nachos, and good conversations with friends. It was a neighborhood bar vibe with only a few nights a year when the place was super packed. St. Patrick’s and Graduation. It was a college town. Even then it wasn’t all that crazy.

The last girl I dated took me to her bar when I went to visit her up in Wyoming. That place was like the Stockman here in town with the exception it was about five times bigger and shoulder to shoulder with people. Here’s the difference between a place like the Moose and a place like the Dollar or the Stockman. In the Moose, it was just people hanging out. We would visit over beers and watch the World’s Strongest Man contest on the TVs. We would say goodnight and drive home. The Dollar and the Stockman are a whole other critter. Big white cowboy hats, pie-plate sized belt buckles, and girls in tight jeans with big glittery crosses on the back pockets. Because nothing says you love Jesus like getting railed in somebody’s king cab.

At those kinds of bars it’s a fucking mess. People just shouting at each other’s faces to be heard, drunk as shit, bumping into each other, huge lines for the toilets, puke all over the floors. Everyone on the verge of fighting or fucking. Some jackass always gets mean drunk and gives you that smirk before trying to talk shit to you, trying to prove he’s the biggest asshole in the bar. I’m nearly deaf anyway when it comes to crowds. Years of playing the drums in a band fried any ability to discern what some Bud Lite Badass is trying to say to me over another verse of Tennessee Whiskey done by a local band.

I would rather stay and home and demolish my liver for a fraction the price and no threat of getting curb stomped by some dildo and his five buddies.

I really tried to fit in that night, but she had her world, and I had mine. Maybe that’s why she said she wasn’t feeling it and began to distance herself. Her world still hinges on going out to the bar and getting wasted every other week. And I guess mine isn’t nearly as exciting. I binge-watched Umbrella Academy this weekend. I threw the squirrels and the tennis balls for Penny. I wrote.

I dated a professor for a while who liked going to the bars and flirting with the cowboys herself. She actually called me anti-social because I didn’t like going to bars. Maybe I just didn’t like watching her get hit on across the room, pretending I didn’t exist. I did used to hang out with a friend of mine at a bar sometimes and we would fake our way through swing dancing and karaoke but those were always her haunts and dive bars are a lot like the Moose. Even then, neither of us got hammered. She would flirt with guys and all of her other friends and me would say “Do you not see the red flags?”

Maybe I just grew up? Does that make me boring? I don’t know.

I mean I’ve done the 1940s Ball and met interesting people, danced with beautiful women, and am very social in that kind of venue. I missed the Ball this year because of other plans and I didn’t have the heart to bump into my former gf. I met her there three years ago, watching people swing dance. I think it would have hurt too much to see her, knowing that there is a lot of water under that bridge, and as much as I might have wanted to meet her again, our worlds are very much out of alignment right now. If she couldn’t stay then, she sure as hell wouldn’t want to now with where I’m living and what I’m trying to make happen.

Somehow there is a lot of difference between dancing and drinks and good conversations and the meat market of a cowboy bar packed to the gills with drunken assholes. Like I said, I would rather drink at home by myself. It’s a lot cheaper, and I don’t have to wonder how many guys have ploughed the girl I’m with. It’s safer too. I’m not on the road. I can take a piss without having to stand in line. I can finish my drink and go to bed.

Sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me. Maybe Professor Girl was right. I’m “antisocial.” I guess I just never had any use for the drama of the bar scene. Too many of my friends come back with stories about getting drugged, or going home with some douche lagoon, or watching someone get their teeth kicked out. And always the fucking guys throwing darts at women’s butts, like some kind of troglodite foreplay. Does that make me anti-social?

I sure as hell hope so.

Maybe I’ve just hit that point in my life where peace is the most valuable thing a man can have. I have found enough trouble in my life without ever having to look for it. I guess it’s just not my scene.

Not that I’m looking for a relationship anymore, but I do remember quiet nights sitting around the fire pit, listening to good music, smoking cigars, and drinking beer or whiskey or wine. Making out for a few hours and then going to bed. Curled up next to the one I loved. Simple things.

Beats the hell out of having a shouting conversation with some drunk I don’t even know, having to breathe that cloyingly sweet tobacco breath while you wonder what is taking your date so long to get back with the beers. Not my thing I guess.

I prefer a clean, well lighted place.

Simplicity and Meaning

I’ve thought a lot about what I would want in a relationship. When we start out in life, we have no idea what to look for, and then as we get older, we begin to get a good idea. We set up expectations. Sometimes we get crazy expectations which would make it nearly impossible for anyone to fit the bill.

Young men often say they want someone who is a size four or under, they have to have a certain hair color, eye color, blah blah blah. Like any good plan, everyone has one until they get punched in the mouth. To quote Iron Mike Tyson.

I’ve boiled my list down to a few mandatory things, which I’ll share here.

  • Must be a good kisser
  • Must enjoy kitchen dancing (music optional)
  • Must be kind to animals
  • Not rude to servers and waitstaff
  • Must love to laugh (especially at themselves)
  • Must have their shit together

That last one is the kicker isn’t it?

Lately I’ve been trying to get my shit together even more. Some days I’m good at it, and others not so much. I recently started reading Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. I got halfway through it in one sitting. If you are unfamiliar with the book, it tells the story of Viktor Frankl, who was a psychotherapist in Austria during the 1930s until he was rounded up with millions of other Jews and sent to death camps during WWII.

During his time in Auschwitz and Dachau (and other camps), Frankl made observations that sometimes the healthier people who were brought into the camps–bigger, stronger, better fed, etc.–were dying, whereas he, a doctor doing hard labor, was still alive. He attributes much of it to simply having a reason to live. The attrocities he saw on a daily basis became commonplace and after awhile all empathy was robbed of them. They fell to nearly animalistic impulses. But he held onto the belief that as long as he found meaning in his life, he could continue. Sometimes he held conversations in his head with his wife, whom he had no knowledge of being alive or dead. Some found meaning in art, which some still did as they continued the slog towards starvation and disease. A big one Frankl attributed to his survival was love. Whether it was love for the outdoors and a beautiful sunset, or the thoughts of his wife, or the love of his work. The man actually wrote notes for his books on scraps of paper while he was in the camps.

When people are exposed to stress and trauma over a long period of time, they become desensitized to awful things. They become cold. I have thought about that in my own struggles recently with my children, with court. I haven’t spoken about it much here, but the papers have all been signed. The loss of common sense in the whole thing. The disregard for logic or fairness…it’s enough to drive you crazy. It’s certainly enough to make you lose hope. My children are all gone now. Lost to parental alienation, and the courts facilitated this. It isn’t right. Remember what Mike Tyson said? I’ve lived that. I can see nothing but a hard life for all of my kids.

It was Father’s Day and not a single phone call or text. That was also done to hurt me (did it? Not really. I tend to agree with the Stoics on this one). They cannot go outside of their mother’s authoritarian control. Her only purpose is to cause pain in others, because they have to pay for her own demons, which she never dealt with. Showing love or compassion for me is forbidden. Believe me when I say I’ve been there and lived through it. Sometimes it’s just easier to do what she says unless you want to get hurt.

I started reading Frankl because of that situation. Because of the guilt associated with losing all meaning in your life. As a father–really any parent–our identity is tied to being able to provide for and protect our children. When our lawmakers take that fundamental right away from us, it is dehumanizing. We run the risk of losing hope. June is Men’s Mental Health month. A huge number of divorced dads commit suicide every year because of this system. A lot of dads turn to the bottle or drugs to cope. Really to numb that feeling inside that says they are unworthy of being on this planet. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve dabbled in it.

I keep hearing that “One day your kids will come around.” No. They won’t. There is no rule out there saying they ever will. No crystal ball predicting this. Sometimes, people are just lost to you. That is a harsh reality. Ask any parent of a drug addict or any parent whose child walked to school and never came home. Or any parent who sat in front of a doctor and heard the words “It’s too soon to tell, but we are going to run some more tests…” Telling someone otherwise gives them false hope, and over time, according to Frankl, that “reprieve” will cut you just as deep as the trauma. So, please, don’t tell me they will come around. You don’t know that. Nobody knows that.

You come to a point where you have to admit to yourself you did everything you could.

So, I’ve decided to look for meaning in other ways. I have my Work. I have my writing. I have my memories of good people who walked with me for a while. Many of them are gone, but I still carry that piece of them with me. That piece that I loved. Like Frankl, I have conversations with these old ghosts sometimes. At least the part of them who held my hand and told me I was worthy of love. I have dreams and goals. I have the rest of my life to live and I refuse to let myself die on my feet doing meaningless, unfulfilling toil, just because I am not allowed to live for anything other than children who have been indoctrinated to hate me. But, whether their mother likes it or not, I will always be their dad.

I have the work of getting my shit together too, because the door swings both ways. I have a lot of trauma to work through. I don’t expect a partner to fix me, anymore than I would want to fix her. Getting your shit together means addressing the damage of the past and finding meaning in your life. Allowing yourself to love yourself and others. And seeking purpose. Meaning.

Today, I spent time with my dad on Father’s Day. We had good conversations. He made lunch and dinner. We aren’t very much alike, but time shared with him had meaning because these opportunities won’t last forever.

Having your shit together is a thin line on the horizon. It implies having done the work to no longer hurt yourself or others. It speaks to self-worth and boundaries. It probably means you are forgiving of yourself when you mess up and own your mistakes. And sometimes it means you can even harden your heart and walk away if you have to. It means you choose Peace over Drama. And you stop bleeding on others who didn’t cut you. It means honesty. It means allowing yourself to feel safe and asking good questions. It means tearing down walls and having better boundaries instead.

It’s also a pretty big red or green flag for those who work hard to get their shit together.

I hope I can find someone who fits this bill one day. Like many things in life, there are no guarantees. But I really do miss some great kissing and kitchen dancing. Until then, I will continue to find meaning. Fulfillment. Joy. Life goes on.

A blessedly short memory

It’s funny how in the span of just one month, this place has gone from snow-covered mountains to summer. Today, the wind is blowing hard, but unlike a few days ago, the wind isn’t hot. It’s chilly, coming out of the upper atmosphere. I cannot complain since it keeps the mosquitoes away. The little bastards cannot fly in this wind.

After several months of bitter cold, we have entered mosquito season. We had nearly a month without them because of the snow. And the frogs. From the beginning of May, even with snow on the ground, you could hear the frogs out there in the night, singing. Where there are frogs, there are mosquito larvae being eaten. Once the singing slowed down, the mosquitoes got thick again.

The nice thing about how we remember things is that our short memories keep us sane. In the dead of winter, you don’t remember the keening whine and sting of mosquitoes buzzing your face. In the summer, you don’t remember how your toes ache and then go numb driving in -40 degree weather. Yet somehow we trade one for the other over and over.

I don’t mind living up here in the mountains with our two seasons: winter and mosquitoes. I lived through this for so many years that it makes sense to me. I remember living in the Front Range of Colorado, suburbia, cities, that strange climate that brings triple digit heat waves for months in the summer and in the winter only a few snow storms (if any at all). I have seen mosquitoes in January while walking with the kids along the Poudre River trail. That just didn’t seem fair. It wasn’t like it was a proper winter. No snow. No sledding. Just everything being brown and chilly. Leafless trees and cold wind. From November until May. Then that hot, oppressive summer air, humid. Humming with the buzzing of cicadas in their treetops. June bugs latching onto your face at night. And yes, those blood sucking bastard mosquitoes too. Can’t leave them out. The worst was the yellowjackets.

And that heat that got into everything, even when you had air conditioning you could feel it somehow.

I don’t mind being here. The wind blows. We have bugs. But we have secluded mountain trails that are absent scads of hikers and their dogs and squawking kids. When you hike here, there’s no repeated “On your left” which could mean your certain doom if you don’t heed the warnings. Sure, there are bears. And mountain lions. But even Boulder has those. The moose leave you alone if you give them wide berth.

Today it was cool and windy. I grilled food drop chicken on the free Weber grill I got a few weekends ago. I made mashed potatoes and salad with food drop stuff too. The world is not in a good place right now, and our “leaders” are using misdirection and keeping the fuckery going instead of actually fixing it. Before long, I won’t even be able to afford to leave town. Gas just hit $5 a gallon here, and that is a minimum of 4 gallons just to get to the next town.

I might as well get settled in and get some writing done.

Grilled chicken with fully loaded mashed potatoes and baby spinach/greens salad. Lavender balsamic honey dijon salad dressed made from scratch.