Black in America

I've been watching ‘Black in America’ and now I know... that being a misplaced Smokey mountain Hillbilly, raised in California without a father in the home, almost makes me Black. I like to grab my crotch and tell people I'm part black, but that's a joke of course… I'm part Donkey.
Of course I'm really watching ‘Black in America’ because, ‘How ya' going to know?’
Nobody looks at me like I'm black. They look at me like I'm ugly. All you handsome, pretty people might not know what I'm talking about, but ya' know… when you pull up next to that hot girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and even if she ain't good looking, she got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on, so she thinks she is.... and anyway, inevitably I'll pull up and I'll be looking to see who is in the car next to me.... and whoosh, that girl will damn near break her neck twisting it around to look the other way. I want to jump out and yell, ‘Hey! I wasn't even looking' for a girl with her hair washed’.
But anyway, they always turn their head. Which is like looking at you like you’re ugly. If they don't turn their head, they ain't pretty enough for me. Good thing too. Ya' know, the male ego can make anything reality.

Reminds me of the joke:
I go out. I try to meet women. The first line is always different ‘Hi, how are you. You look nice.” Ya' know, something like that. But the second line is always the same, “Hey Bitch! I’m talking to you!”

People look at me like I'm poor too, sometimes. That just means I'm fooling the one's not paying attention the other part of the time. And of course, in the dice game of what really counts, and blessings you can't sell, I am as rich as my ignorance allows me to be. Which takes me back to being looked at like you're poor...ya' know, if you wear blue plaid shorts and the blue doesn't match the blue in the flowered Hawaiian shirt you're wearing, and your green safarii hat doesn't match your grey cross training shoes, people look at you like your poor. Like you ain't got a clue. Like you’re too poor to know about white teeth and vaginal odor, and wouldn't know how to appreciate a girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on. Too poor my ass, I'd pay to appreciate it.
I get other looks sometimes. The ‘whoa, you’re too loud’ look is common. I'd be exhausted if I concentrated on whispering all the time.
I get the ‘oh, he’s bald’ look a lot too. Ya' know when you're meeting that hot girl for the first time, and she's got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and you smile at her, and she's watching your every move. You can feel her radar on you, and then... you take your hat off.... it’s like the power went off. Your blip disappeared. It's like your face became twice as long and everything else became half its appropriate size.
Sometimes, I get that perplexed look, too. Ya’ know, like, I was talking to this attractive woman at this party that my friend was invited to and, I knew she was looking for a man because she was there… and her hair was washed and she had that shiny lipstick on. And I hadn't had a shower for three days so I was manly. Also I hadn't taken my hat off... all that said I figured that I was in the running. So I just told her, “I'll give ya' a try-out.” She said, “huh?” I said, “Well honey, I can't guarantee you'll make the team, but I'll give ya' a try-out.” She looked confused walking away.
Then you meet a woman who, for whatever dysfunctional reasons of her own, likes you, falls in love with you. And you don't know how to act.... back to being ‘Black in America.’ Lack of a good ‘male role model’ in any young man's life is a serious problem, regardless of his race.
It is an inherited problem too. My sons inherited a father who didn't know how to act sometimes. I just knew how I wanted them to act. What I knew from experience, Tom Sawyer and the Hobbit. Make sense?
And I misspelled safari above because Hawaii has two eyes and so do fish. I didn't say this was going to be easy. You figure it out because I'm working on a new campaign to bring bald, ugly, crude, old men back into mainstream American life where we can be treated handsomely. See, I'm going to call it ‘Bald in America’ and I want Soledad O'Brien to do the interview because I think I could be comfortable with her.... she seems so understanding, and I'm always getting a look...

You Reap What You Sow

You reap what you sow. Is there anyone that knows this better than a reformed drug addict? Being one, and seeing the harvest from what began as recreational methamphetamine use, and eventually evolved into a full blown addiction, I can honestly understand why so many addicts sober up and then relapse into their old habits. The damn guilt of failing my sons is enough to make me want to pull the trigger. Being a drug addict at least you're alive, although some addicts, without doubt, would be better off dead. Now as I look back and think how irresponsible I was, how selfish, how unfair I was to be so self-centered, I realize the worst; I can never make the lost love or time up to the ones I love. Never. If I spend the rest of my life trying, never. Time cannot be reused, whatever love I give them now, I give them now. It is not the love I could have given them then.
The remorse is brutal. Brutal is the proper word: The remorse is beating the life out of me, spiritually, mentally, physically. There is no where to hide from yourself. Unless of course it's
in the drug world, but I never "hid" in the drug world. One doesn't realize they're hiding until the game is over and they can't find their life, or what they thought was their life. While I was hiding in my mind, reality changed. After the party, reformed, I look around for the wonderful life I once had. The reality is my life has failed. The wonderful life is gone, I have no love. The love lost leaves me empty, lonely, heartbroken. Losing the love of my sons is especially depressing. Despite the fact I raised them, and shared some part of life with them daily, in the end they felt abandoned and ignored. The brutal part is not the Love they now Don't feel for me, (you reap what you sow) but the guilt I feel for not giving them every ounce of love every moment they were needing it, wanting it and I should have been delivering. That is the brutal part: thinking that my sons looked to me for love and and felt ignored. I love my sons. Always.It brings tears to my eyes writing these words. If time could be reused I would chain them to me to ensure our closeness.

Wisdom

Fifteen years ago I was 36 years old. You boys were 10 and 12. Now you are young men. The last fifteen years in your lives were the beginning. Looking back there are so many benchmarks, so many changes. Time is indexed and in retrospect those will be the years that passed slowest. So hang onto your hats, young men, because the train picks up speed from this point and it doesn't slow down for awhile. When you look back it turns to a blur. If you add any king of substance abuse, it disappears completely. Remember that, and this; Every moment killed in boredom, drunkenness and/or drug abuse... when you're on the 'other side of the mountain' you'll want it back.
That is a pseudo apology for not always being my best, not being compassionate or attentive enough at times, and giving too many of the precious moments away. The precious moments being the ones when you were boys. That I feel so guilty about.
I'm older now. And you boys are men. You both rarely have time for me. I guess you reap what you sow, but it seems to me I gave more then this. I wouldn't have tried at all if I would have known that for all my efforts I'd be shown no gratitude or love. I guess what I'm trying to say is: Although I tried to be young and one of the boys when you were growing up, as you reached manhood, I was forced to grow up too. My investments were paying no dividends. Another failed marriage, no love or respect from my sons, sold the family home, and I limped out of town depressed, heartbroken, and confused. Not to mention fifty years old and a net worth of $34,000. I had to grow up. I was terrified I had over extended my refusal to grow up AND didn't have the resources to make up for my recklessness.
I live a quiet life alone now. I go days in the southern Oregon mountains without speaking to other people. There is no bathroom, or kitchen. No excitement. Nothing artificial. Just reflection, remorse, understanding of the past, looking to the future, and hopefully wisdom applied. I am forced to be serious and responsible. I love you boys despite yourselves, so why can't I be loved, despite myself? I take no credit for your accomplishments but don't I get a cut of love for being there and trying? Don't all of you carry some of me with you every day?
I love you boys.