Elevator Music

LOAD.


Head: What are you blubbering about?
Heart: I'm not. I'm....fine.
Head: You have snot dripping from your nose to your chin. That's not a good look for you.
Heart: I don't want to talk about it.
Head: Oh, come on, you are always telling me to open up...here's your chance...It's okay...I won't make fun of you or judge. You can trust me.
Heart: Really?
Head: I'm still here...
Heart: Okay... I was listening to the radio, and that song came on..and, I don't know, I just...I started thinking about her...and I just couldn't help it...that was "our song"...and then this huge wave of emotion washed over me.
Head: Yeah, I see that....A huge wave of...snot. I think I get it, though.
Heart: You do? Really?
Head: Totally. I totally get it. I get why you are crying. You are...A Vagina... I bet it was a Dan Fogelberg song...Stop listening to "Light FM" before you grow tits, and start hosting Scentsy parties.
Balls: Seriously...How many months until football season?
Heart: You Fucking Savages.


WASH.


I can't help it, but I look at my watch every time I hear it.
It starts with the first syncopated guitar riff, an introduction to the man and his mood. It's a strange sound for a rock guitarist, it's older somehow, classic, timeless. Then comes the lyric, the let-me-set-the-stage exposition that pulls you right into some love-struck Romeo's story. He's laying it bare: His hopes, his dreams, his love. He's in that place where every emotion is raw, fully realized, and complete. He's singing about a girl. The singer drives into the rhyme, feeling every sharp pang. There's something in his voice that is visceral, an incantation, a drawing in of kindred spirits. "Do you know this pain?", he seems to ask me, knowing that the pounding rhythm of the six-string is painting the picture even more than the words. Ah, but the lyrics...They are the book of a life that didn't pan out, a deal that went bad, a love affair that had no place or time to blossom.
I get sucked in. I make connections to my own life, my own experience, my own Juliet. I sing the chorus like I wrote it, a jilted lover trying to find the magic words to bring her back to that place, that somewhere. I feel every stabbing betrayal again, and I invent new ones to keep the story fresh. We are angry, he an I, a pair of love-busted street buskers hustling songs in the dark because we crapped out in the biggest game of our lives, and there she goes, living her life without us.
Yet, while I am railing on about pretty strangers taking my place, he's on to something bigger.
He's reconciled the pain, and replaced it with forgiveness, a wisdom that is granted only to those fortunate enough to bet it all on love, only to have it blow up in their face. She's long gone now, maybe an acquaintance at best, maybe just a phone number in his wallet, but once, she cried when they made love, an explosion in his heart that was bigger than any act of betrayal.
"There's a place for us, (I know you know this song)," he says, and I do, like the stars above, I know every note, and every twisted, cathartic lesson. I just listen as he reminds me that there is a place for us; Somewhere.
I can't help it, but I look at my watch every time I hear it.



RINSE.



I'm sitting at my desk waiting for Rajiv, or whatever his name is, to come back on the line. He's there in the background, I can hear him typing and can see the cursor start to move. I know that his name is not Bill, as he introduced himself, and his Midwestern American dialect tapes are not having the desired effect. He is attempting to debug my Facebook-virus-infected computer, and he is taking his sweet time. I assume it's taking so long because there is a ten second latency in the chat window as my responses are travelling all the way to India, or Bangladesh, or perhaps even Pakistan. I am not surprised when he types a request: "May I put you on hold?" Sure thing, I say, I'm enjoying my day off from making money. There's a click, then several pops as the phone system places me in the hold queue. I'm in the land of nothing, stuck on the phone.
Several seconds pass, then the music starts. At first, I don't recognize the tune, it is hidden in the gentle instrumental arrangement. There is a flute, and a harp, and some muted strings, but the dead give aways are the continuously rising lyrical passages, and the mysterious, yet inviting playing of the lute. It makes sense to me that the song has been Muzak'd, it is a beautiful, popular, and a ubiquitous part of Western culture. I imagine the Muzak guys back at the studio, jumping at the chance to rearrange the "Greatest Rock and Roll Song of All Time". The harpist is really cooking, the flautist blowing pure notes as the approaching climatic solo pass begins to take shape. The lute player channels all of the pent-up aggressive energy of the lute gods as he launches into a staggering, incendiary solo. Always rising to this climactic moment, the culmination of seven or eight minutes of build up, I sing the words while being driven by the pounding beat of the hammered dulcimer:

"And as we wind on down the road,
Our shadows taller than our soul
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last
When all is one and one is all, yeah
To be a rock and not to roll."

And then Bill-Rajiv has fixed my com-puter....



SPIN.


I was talking to my friend Kurt the other day about the power of music. He thought it would be really cool if we got to have a personal soundtrack to accompany us around in our daily lives, a track list of songs that we could have playing in our heads that would color the way we thought, or felt, or behaved.
I liked his idea, but when I started thinking about it, I determined that I already had a soundtrack. It consists of songs that were playing when I actually experienced life, and when I hear them today, I am propelled back to that moment, and I get to feel those emotions all over again. Some of them are hard to listen to, they are reminders of dark times that haven't been placed in the "I'm done with all of that" pile. Songs like Wasted Time by The Eagles, with it's brutal truths are just too much sometimes, and they are respected, yet avoided, unless public crying becomes acceptable. There are a few untouchables, the ones to be avoided lest we cause a scene.
There are some songs that will send me into a reverie before the first measure is complete. The intro starts and I am there, in that place, my mind instantly detailing the scene. Bob Marley's Is This Love? reminds me of a too-small bed, in a too-small house with strangely rounded walls. On occasion, I am transported back to a lonely bike ride on a barren road in Alaska, just me, the bears in the distance, a bald eagle flying overhead, while the Grateful Dead play Sugar Magnolia. If you have somehow missed that, you should try it. Peace will come to you.
One day, hopefully many years from now, I can have some kid press a button on an antique eight-track player, and I'll cross over to the other side while Pink Floyd's The Great Gig In the Sky accompanies me across the water. That would suit me just fine, but go ahead and crank it, just in case.

Brokedown Palace

"Mama, Mama, many worlds I've come since I first left home"
Hunter/Garcia (Grateful Dead)
 

LOAD.

Head: Fine. Let's get on with it. Where are we now?

Heart: What? Really? Now you want to know?

Head: Call it an inventory.

Heart: Well, all right then...Good News or Bad News First?

Head: Bad. Then Good.

Heart: Well....It ain't pretty....Does the word "shambles" mean anything to you?...Your talent for self-destruction is epic. It's Charlie Sheen-esque, without the hookers...The phrase "steaming hot mess" applies here...I'm thinking you have gone a little Cukoo for Cocoa-Puffs...You're operating the heavy machinery without checking the warning labels.

Head: I'm listening, barely. Go on, you're on a roll.

Heart: Look, I feel you, I really do...but you have got to stop digging. You are standing in a hole shovelling dirt as fast as you can, and you think you are making progress, but you are just getting deeper and deeper. Keep digging and you won't be able to climb out. Put the shovel down and get out of the hole.

Head: That's a metaphor, right?....Yeah....okay, I hear you...What about the Good?

Heart: The Good is that someone might be reading this right now and they get it.



WASH.



A good bank robber always has a plan.
He visualizes the event and prepares for several contingencies. He makes stylistic choices very early in his planning to determine whether to go in "heavy" or "light", usually discarding the aggressive, gun-waving, "everyone on the ground" tactic as dangerous and fool-hardy. He respects the idea of an armed citizenry and the legality of concealed carry laws.
He prefers the skillful approach of a quiet, nonchalant note pass that takes panic out of the equation and relies on the banks' training manual that teaches its tellers a professional and composed acquiescence. He knows the F.B.I. statistics suggest that the overwhelming number of violent robberies end up with convictions, and conversely, the note-pass robbers get away with their actions an equally overwhelming amount of the time. He counts on police and Federal investigators having a routine reaction to the event, treating it as casually as a report of check-washing, or car theft. He counts on that, too, as he has prepared his get-away by providing himself a mechanically sound, late-model sedan of a non-descript make and color, with switched out licence plates.
He further prepares himself, by choosing clothing that is loose, comfortable, and without brand identification. He prefers a simple ball-cap and sunglasses, and latex examination gloves. He prepares a simple, direct note that indicates that he is armed, and instructs the teller to place only the cash from her drawer on the counter where he can see it. He ensures that he doesn't receive an exploding paint marker, then places the cash in a small bank bag that he carries in with him.
During the event, he remains calm, scanning the lobby for threats, yet keeping his focus on the teller. As soon as the cash is in the bag, he turns and quickly exits the bank, goes directly to the get-away car that has been left running, and smoothly enters the traffic flow, travelling at least a quarter of a mile to a residential neighborhood where he has parked his personal vehicle on the street. Removing his ball cap, and glasses, he drives away with a modest amount of cash, a few thousand dollars at the most, and is confident that he will not be caught. He has skillfully made a simple withdrawal from the F.D.I.C. It is a no muss, no fuss operation. He compares the overall risk of the event to visiting an A.T.M. machine at night.

The bad bank robber seems to dwell on the details in his planning.
He prepares himself before the event by checking in to a Motel 6 near the interstate crossing. There he will go over all the scenarios in which to perpetrate the perfect crime, his goal being a tidy haul that will ensure long-term financial stability. He is particular in his clothing choices. He settles on layers of clothing that will facilitate a quick change in his appearance: A trench coat over a sweater, that is worn over a t-shirt, and wind-pants over shorts. Sneakers are chosen in case of the need to run away on foot, gloves are to be worn, as well as a knit stocking cap. He acknowledges that he is sweating, but attributes it to the excitement of the event.
He decides a note-pass is ideal and decides to eliminate a step by writing the note on the back of a McDonald's bag which has been designated to carry out the loot. He writes the note with his left hand to fool the hand-writing experts, yet forgets that he will keep the note with him, as it is also the bag.
His get-away car is his own, as he has no idea how to hot-wire a car. He drives around the area hotels looking for a similar make and model, and when he finds it, surreptitiously removes the license plate. He hesitates momentarily, then dismisses the concern that he may ruin someones vacation the next day, and deftly attaches the Florida plates onto the S.U.V. with Texas inspection stickers. He can't hot wire a car, but he is surgical with a screwdriver.
On the way to the bank in his nearly invisible vehicle with the power steering leak, slippy transmission, and corroded battery terminals, he runs through "The Plan". He will walk in, go to the table where you fill out your deposit, quickly scan the room for armed security, and proceed directly to the teller. He will hand her the McDonald's bag with the note written on the bag with a Sharpie marker that is now a sea of black ink floating in french fry grease, tap on the counter once to get her attention, then tap on his breast pocket adamantly to indicate the presence of a gun which is actually a pair of rolled up socks. He will leave with the money quickly, taking a moment in the parking lot to dig for his key fob, pressing the auto-lock button several times before it's run-down battery triggers the lock. He quickly makes a note to keep his door unlocked. He reminds himself that he is to drive to the mall, where he will park, change out the plates, and drive to the motel to monitor the news coverage.
Outside of the bank, he takes a moment to compose himself, wipe the copious amount of sweat from his brow, and screw his courage to the sticking point. The moment of truth arrives as he walks as casually as possible into the lobby and is immediately greeted by the Loan Guy, the Popcorn Lady, and not one, but three smiling and available tellers, all eager to give world-class customer service.
He asks quietly, "Where's the ATM?"



RINSE.



It's three a.m and the phone rings again
Taxi man is calling, am I gettin' in?
Start the meter, I say, I need more time
You should go on, you say, and you'll be fine   
I don't like leaving but I've got no choice
You don't like my face, and can't stand my voice

 I know I can't stay here another night
'Cuz all we have is broke, all we do is fight
We never got to where we could have been
Money's long gone, all our dreams were cashed in
I lost you when you asked and I just lied
I pawned my car for a late night cab ride

Ain't slept a wink since we moved up in here
Not enough air, we were smothered by fear
They say that two can live as cheap as one
But it's harder to talk, than it is to run
We rolled some dice that were loaded to lose
I'm short ten bucks, got those Yellow Cab blues



SPIN.


In Shakespeare's comedies the "mistakes of a night" usually wind up with a happy resolution. It's a bumpy path along the way, our heroes often losing their reputations, their fortunes, and their gender identity before the inevitable denouement. The ending plot device always results in lovers reunited, order restored, promises kept, and a marriage celebration. Everyone goes home happy and laughing at "what fools these mortals be".

In Shakespeare's tragedies, grave errors in judgement by the protagonist serve as the catalyst for a cascade of events that result in nothing less than the death of most of the main characters. Every tear shed in Capulet's tomb is set in motion by a poor choice to crash a party; Before Lear can howl away in rage at the storm, he must act the fool and cast out the wrong daughter. There is very little these characters can do to stem the tide of the first deadly mistake, and often rail against the fates that they themselves created.

Late in his life, Shakespeare's Tragi-comedic masterpieces were moral-filled plays that dwelled not on the mistakes that were made, the injustices endured, or the losses suffered, but contained instructive messages of hope for humanity. Perhaps it was his advancing age, or his own vital experience that qualified him to speak about reconciliation, about forgiveness, and redemption. These concepts are not freely given out in these difficult plays. They are earned by the characters through the endurance of the trial by fire. It is impossible for Prospero even with "all his arts" to become the total man, unless he gets to the point where he can forgive the ones who banished him. He has to completely own his own transgressions of the past and free himself from the pain that he endured and caused. There are no happy endings in these last plays, but rather a humane understanding and acceptance of their "parts performed in this wide gap of time since we were dissevered."

Shakespeare has plenty of lessons. For me, it has always been the individual quotes that served to broaden my vocabulary, if not my perspective. Some universal truths can be gleaned from the old texts, golden nuggets to be used in conversation, a witty zinger thrown in to spice up the dialogue such as "First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers". But for all of the hours invested in reading Shakepeare, I missed something very basic. Lost to me among the great one-liners and familiar scenes, is that the entire canon as a whole shows a course of a life, a man first interested in folly and fun, then dealing with decisions and consequences, then eventually coming to a place where he is in full control of his arts. It took Shakespeare his entire adult life to finally write about the most human of concepts, forgiveness.
If you bother to look for them, Shakespeare has plenty of lessons.

The Continental Divide

Heart: You're really going through with it?

Head: I don't see any reason not to.

Heart: Even though it's a creative piece, it's bound to piss people off. You could really anger somebody.

Head: Hopefully, I will. I think that's the point.

Balls: Welcome to the party, Poindexter.



Load.



I've had enough, and I won't take another bite. I just can't stand all of the naked, unadulterated bullshit that passes for broadcast journalism these days. Large media outlets that are run by even larger corporations, which are driven by the demand for profit, cannot be counted on to tell the simple, unvarnished truth. What we once relied upon, the people we trusted because they didn't come with a price, are long gone. They have been replaced by entertainers, and spokes-models. Our watchdogs of the past, legit newsmen like Walter Cronkite, and David Brinkley, have been replaced by house organs, churning out harsh notes that only serve the constant demand for ratings rather than the public welfare.

The American version of the Fourth Estate is particularly specious as each outlet wraps itself in its dogma and openly criticizes the other network's programming as "rumor mills" and "claptrap". What the producers of this brand of network news rely upon is our fear. They force us to choose sides, to make the other idea wrong so that we can be right. During the first Gulf War, the fledgling cable network CNN offered unprecedented access to the news as it happened. You saw on your television what was happening as it happened, with very little commentary. Fast forward nearly twenty years, and you see the news as the production team creates it. The crawl underneath the talking head subliminally screams outrageous lies, based not on factual reporting, but attributed to "sources", while bubble-head foments on "striking visuals", most of which are presented out of context, quite often using stock footage, and for the most part, just dead wrong.

This is why I am forced to read several newspapers a day, and although I appreciate the talent of the many columnists, reporters, and editors that I follow, I lament the loss of an objective voice on television, who quite confidently and with out a hint of snark, would sign off his air shift with "and that's the way it is."



Wash.



April 18.

My name is Tim, and I refuse to apologize for my views.

If you don't understand that, I won't convince you.

I don't feel obligated to explain myself, but because you asked, I'll try and shed some light on my activism.

You see, I consider myself a patriot. I believe that America is the greatest country in the world, her ideals are worth fighting for. America was founded by brave men who rejected tyranny. They fought, bled, and died to establish a free country that upheld strong moral convictions. They believed, like I believe, that the Government should be of the people, by the people, and for the people.

Now we are engaged in a cold civil war. The house is divided. Our government represses it's citizenry under the yoke of taxation, without the slightest hint of representation. Taxes are a joke. Regardless what a political candidate promises, taxes go up. More taxes are always the answer to government mismanagement. They mess up. We suffer. The Federal Government spends our money on a never-ending battery of social programs that benefit the deadbeats, the welfare queens, illegal immigrants, and criminals.

Many of us have stood up in vocal protest against this tyranny. We are ridiculed for being outspoken. We are dismissed as ignorant hillbillies. We are called racists. We are shouted down.

Yet some of us are willing to stand in the face of this oppression and refuse to be tread upon. We organize in militias, exercising our constitutional right to keep arms, and we are called gun freaks. We adamantly oppose our jobs being shipped overseas or given to cheaper illegal workers and we are branded xenophobes.

"Phobes". That's what we are reduced to. I oppose the idea of two gay guys getting married and I'm demonized with the tag "Homophobic".

So be it.

I am tired of my rights being trampled on. I won't give up my guns without a fight, and I can assure you there will be a hell of a fight if you come for them. I don't care if you think I'm not "politically correct". That term is just a control device anyway, a liberal media yoke that I refuse to wear.

Here's the deal: I won't sit quietly by and watch a socialist government take away my hard earned money, property, rights, and freedoms. Like our forefathers, the founders and framers, I will stand, and fight. Come and Take it.

Our country, this America, was created by men of conviction, strong men who bravely organized the Boston Tea Party and other acts of defiance knowing that they would be charged with sedition, and would likely pay for it with their lives. These True Americans were willing to pay the ultimate cost even as they fired the first shot in a great uprising. They believed as I believe.

Tomorrow, I will park a rented Ryder truck filled with fertilizer and racing fuel in front of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, and calmly strike the first blow in a shooting war between men of action and the oppressive government which seeks to stamp us out.


My name is Tim, and I refuse to apologize for my views.



Rinse.

The seminal 1960's protest song "For What It's Worth" has aged in a way that is quite interesting, and apropos to this moment. The lyric by Steven Stills and performed by Buffalo Springfield was practically a marching tune for the counter-culture movement, which was basically anyone who didn't identify with middle-aged, middle-class America. The song is a warning of sorts: Protest at your own peril, because the change you seek won't come easily. Most listeners catch on to the viewpoint of the writer immediately: He's a spectator/observer/uncommited participant in some protest du jour. What is strikingly apparent is that something has gone awry. The peaceful protest has run up against armed resistance from a police or military presence, and the men with guns over there are "telling me I got to beware."

He speaks directly to the youthful protester, the voice of caution: "It's time we stop, children, What's that sound? Everybody look what's going down."

Screaming? Taunts? Gunshots? Teargas Canisters popping? The tearing of our national fabric? In the ensuing chaos, perhaps at the police line, or in the park in preparation to march into a confrontation, he makes an appeal for reason: "Battle lines being drawn, nobody's right if everybody's wrong."

The enormity and gravity of the situation is described: "What a field day for the heat. A thousand people in the street. Singin' songs, and carrying signs mostly sayin' hooray for our side." Amidst the noise, and clamor, and passionate protest, a moment of clarity is revealed by the writer: "Paranoia strikes deep. Into your heart it will creep. It starts when you're always afraid, you step out of line, the Man come and take you away."

Today, Steven Stills is probably as far away from that moment as he can get, because for all the screaming, and gnashing of teeth, for all the pain that was inflicted and received, it wasn't the physical resistance that brought about the change that he and his generation sought. It was the willingness to open a dialogue, to listen to and speak plainly with their parents about their concerns that turned the tide. After all the freaking out and threats, and taunts, and violence, it was simple cooperation.

Stop, children, what's that sound? Everybody look what's goin' down.

Spin.

He voted for Nixon. Twice.

He wasn't crazy about the Beatles.

He never really had a Sixties. More like Two fifties and a Seventies.

He worked for one company practically his whole life.

He quit smoking cold turkey and ate bran muffins because he was afraid of dying.

He took care of his lawn, and was respectful to his neighbors.

He wrote a book.

He valued being a decent, honest, open-minded person over education and opinion.

He taught me to read. I sat on his lap as he scanned through the newspaper, every night, just after Cronkite signed off.

He likes Johnny Cash...and Willie Nelson.

I guess he's not so bad after all, but I definitely don't understand the Nixon thing.

Pants On Fire

Voice of Authority: You were given a citation for operating a limousine with an expired permit. Would you like to tell me what happened?
Head: Ugh, yeah...sure...I normally drive in Dallas, see...and I work part time out here, and ugh, well, I keep my permits in this sleeve, and since I'm not out here very often and it's in this sleeve, I didn't check it very often and that's why it was expired...because I didn't check it very often.
Heart: Dude, way to cover...stammer much?
Voice of Authority: (looking down at the officer's statement) Hmm...The officer stated that you told her that you "couldn't afford all the renewal fees because of the economy."
Head: Ugh, well, I may have said that...at the time.
Heart: Busted!!!
Voice of Authority: Mr. Hystad, I don't like being told what people think I want to hear. Nevertheless, since you've paid your renewal fees, and passed your TSA threat assessment and drug screen, I'm going to issue you your permit. Please try to remember to renew on time, since this stuff wastes your time, but more importantly, MY time...take this to the clerk and get your picture taken. (points to door)
Heart: (Sniffing) I think someone needs a diaper change...you really "Stuck it to The Man".
Head: Fooled 'em again, didn't I?
Heart: Wipe off the Flop Sweat before you take our picture.

Load.

I'm sitting in my dad's old office waiting to be interviewed for a job I don't understand by a guy I barely remember from a company picnic ten years prior. I'm two years out of college and the most reliable source of income I've had in the past year is "plasma donor urgently needed". I have just found out that I am going to be a father and I have less than five bucks in my pocket. My old man has arranged an interview for me for an entry-level position that sounds reasonable. I find myself looking through the slightly cracked venetian blinds to covertly scan the main room for clues as to what the hell these people do. The phones aren't ringing, the desks are neat and orderly, and it looks like the only movement in the room is coming from the older guy in the corner who, based on the constant shifting in his chair, appears to have a bad case of hemorrhoids. Catching my reflection in the window, I notice that I look like hammered dog shit. My hair is too long and hanging over my sport coat collar. I'm sporting a Jesus beard from the show that closed a month before. The piece of crap shirt that I've had since I was fifteen is wrinkled and the collar is too tight, and I've obviously had to suck it in to get the top button done. I manage a smile in the glass, and then a frown as I'm not convinced.

"Tim! Great to see you, thanks for waiting." The voice is booming, and startles me.
Looking up, I see the man I now remember as being the office kiss-ass. Now, The Boss.
"Thank you for seeing me, Steve, I'm really glad to be here." He accepts my handshake and I give him a solid two-pump look-in-the eye number with the bicep-shoulder grasp, just like dad taught me.
Releasing my grip, he pops into his office chair and grabs my resume, leans back and studies it.
Briefly.
"Tough finding work with a theatre degree?" he asks, well knowing.
"Yes sir, that's why I'm here. I need a career-type job, with an opportunity to learn and grow, and the security of good benefits." It's exactly how I rehearsed it, a carbon copy of what my dad said to say, and a fine way to cut to the chase.
We review my thin resume for a while, as I answer the inevitable questions about gaps between jobs, and why I'm interested in the company.
He blinks and says nothing.
I blink and realize I should say something.
"I will be perfectly honest, Steve. I know next to nothing about the insurance business. I never gave it two thoughts growing up. It frankly seemed a little pointless, like selling air...except my dad worked very hard at it, did well with the company, and managed to take care of his family...six kids, and half of us with college degrees."
He smiles for a moment before a darkness creeps in around his face.
"Tim, now I'll be honest with you..Yours isn't the worst resume I've ever seen, but there's no way that I'm going to hire you and I'll tell you why...Your dad was "outspoken"...that is to say, that he was a huge pain in the ass to everyone, up and down the ladder. None of us in here that worked under him felt like he gave us anything...He was cold, and for an insurance man, that's a recipe for disaster...and he ruffled feathers...he almost messed it up for all of us."
"Did you know that? Did you know that he almost got us all fired before he retired?"
He is glaring at me.
"No, sir. No. I did not know that." I respond quietly. The interview is over, it is dead in the water.
"I guess I'll take it down the road, then... I have a couple of interviews later." I lie.
He slides the resume across his desk and I take it carefully in my hand knowing that I have only one copy.
"How's your mom, Tim?" He asks, catching me off guard.
"She's fine. Getting along...You know how it is."
"Your dad sure did her dirty." He is smiling now. Contempt for me and smug self-satisfaction mingling across his face. He is enjoying this. "The judge put it on him pretty good, though."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure he did." I stand, and hesitate, debating whether or not to throw my chair through the window.
"Thanks for seeing me, I'll show myself out."
Just as I pass the threshold of his office he calles out to me: "No hard feelings, Tim...and good luck with that acting thing."
I take a deep breath, smile, and calmly walk past the row of cubicles to the exit, all the while extending my arm and middle finger to the officious little prick who desperately deserves it.

A few hours later, I call my dad to thank him for setting up the interview, and yes, I thought the interview went well, but they are looking for people with Business degrees.

Wash.

How easy it is to lie.
I should know.
I'm quite adept at it.
I've been lying to myself for years.
I think it's fear that causes it.
I lie to protect myself from the truth.
I enjoy the bubble-wrap of a lie.
I don't have to feel reality.
I'm comfy in my lies.
I won't stand naked in the light.
I'd rather lie.

How hard it is to tell the truth.
I should know.

Rinse.

The photos were my idea. Spawned from the backwater recesses of my perverse sense of humor, the very idea was hysterically funny to us AT THE TIME. The basic premise was that our boss, Mr. Jackson, was having a not-so-discreet affair with one of our co-workers, a much younger woman named Stacy, and was getting away with it. Mr. Jackson was not a bad guy, just kind of a tool, an annoying but harmless pencil-pusher. Stacy, while attractive and talented, was a little bitchy, and didn't exactly hide the affair. One night, after a few drinks, we got started laughing about Stacy "doing" Mr. Jackson...Action, Jackson! Action Jackson and Stacy Doll! The next thing you know we were running drunkenly down the aisles at Kaybee Toys, putting all sorts of stuffed animals and action figures into various Kama Sutra positions, and a camera was produced, and our minds went THERE...Action Jackson and Stacy in flagrante delicto, caught on tape, proof for all to see...we also did a GI Joe and Ken rodeo scene, a Betsy Wetsy...you get the picture.
High hilarity.
Until the shit-storm blew in.
You see, apparently it was a bad idea to post these pictures all over the office. On Monday, one of us was called before the big boss, and was terminated immediately. Made to clean out her desk, and given the perp walk with security at her side, she exited the building without a look over her shoulder. I was terrified. She was a fixture in the company, the glue to the whole damn thing. If they could fire her, they could throw me out the window. I was nothing to them. I shot a glance across the room at our third, and she was as white as a sheet. In silent accord, we both returned to our desks, waiting for the call to come, thinking about what we would lose, trying to come up with some kind of defense if the accusation came. It never did. Our friend took all of the punishment, all of the pain, all of the condemnation.
Months later, the bill arrived.
Some strange things happened in those weeks afterward. Our friend, who suffered all of the wrath of a stirred up hornets nest, was re-hired. She had some good friends in H. R. and corporate, and because she apologized to Mr. Jackson and Stacy, she was brought back, properly on probation, but fully in the swing. The third retreated. She practically went into hiding, got very involved with a boyfriend, and quietly moved on to the next company.
For me, things got a little complicated.
Every day, from the time of her firing, and for a long time even after I saw her get promoted, I felt a terrible guilt, knowing that if I had only stood up and said something, the punishment would not have been so hard on her. Of course, that was a rationalization: We both would have been fired. Twice as much loss.
Twice as much loss, but nowhere near as much guilt. I have much gratitude to my brave friend for protecting us, but years later, I can't help but think that I would have rather stood up in front of the man and crowed, "Come on! It was just a little Action, Jackson!"

Spin.

I'm sitting in the cockpit of a million dollar helicopter with the latest in advanced technology which includes a high resolution targeting camera. I'm hovering at altitude, high above the fray, with my gun sights squarely on the suspected insurgents. They seem agitated enough, and there are reports coming in over the headset of men armed with rocket launchers and AK-47's. The field of fire is clear, and I am on the trigger of a .50 caliber flex gun, capable of massive instantaneous damage. I'm very worried about the two men who appear to be toting weapons but they are not aiming at me. I radio in that "I see five to seven men with AK's". In the corner of my vision field I see another man peering around the corner and apparently aiming something at me. I have the clearance to fire, and I open up.
After a moment, I scan the scene. Dead bodies, men down, and no one targeting me, or firing at me. I radio in what happened. I describe the scene. One survivor, and he's crawling. I hover with my sight trained on the wounded man. A van pulls up, and three men hurry over to the wounded man and quickly lift him and begin moving him to the van. I radio in "they are picking up the wounded and all of the weapons." A moment later, my partner in the other helicopter opens up on the van, killing the three men, finishing off the wounded man, and seriously wounding the two children who are in the front seat.
The story is reported that among the dead are two photojournalists from Reuters. The story is buried as there is no proof. Until now.

Behold, the power of a lie.

Grace

LOAD.



Head: I'm struggling with this, you know.

Heart: Of course you are. Quit trying to control everything and maybe you might get there... Eventually.

Head: Why is this so hard? I'm an open-minded person.

Heart: Just...open your.... Why don't you try quitting saying "No". You do realize that you are constantly doing that, don't you? You are always seperating the good from the bad. Quit trying to refine everything all the time. Maybe there really is beauty in ugly things. The oyster...the pearl?

Head: I fucking hate seafood.

Heart: This isn't about Red Lobster, dumbass. It's about finding a way to be happy without trying to be. It's about letting it come to you rather than continually chasing it. It's about stopping and saying to yourself, "that carrot on that string is not worth it, and I'm not doing this any longer."

Head: I fucking hate carrots.

Heart: And they hate you, pal, they hate you.



WASH.




I count my blessings that I was even able to be involved in the production. I got to watch something amazing happen from backstage, just behind the curtains. My role was insignificant, a one-scene only part where I played a "juvie" in lock-up, a future sexual predator who gets kicked in the nuts for his bad behavior. The scene served the play, and wasn't much of a showcase for my talent, but was a critical construct that helped the audience make strong connections to the main character. It also allowed me hours in the wings to sit and watch and learn.
You'll pardon me if my memory misfires, as it was over 20 years ago, but I can never forget how two young women, just girls really, not yet 21, transform into very powerful beings; Displaying courage in the face of a demanding director, the success of the play resting squarely on their shoulders, they took The Risk, and jumped into the darkness.
In the Spring of 1988, the production at the Greer in Santa Fe was Marsha Norman's Getting Out, a heavy-duty play about a woman released from years of incarceration. Cast as the ex-con Arlene was Shawna Gillenwater, a delicate slip of a girl who suffered from terrible shyness and a lack of confidence in her abilities. Cast as Arlie, the younger version of Arlene who exists only in her memories, was Sara Fernandez-K, a little ball of fury onstage, full of energy and outward trust in her skills, but doubting her impact, not yet at peace with her artistry.
The play was well-cast by the director Phil Chapman, and he was extremely engaged from the outset, creating a poisonous environment for Arlie, a succession of psychologically and sexually abusive episodes that pulled no punches. She was victimized by her environment, a real-life statistic. Yet we see Arlie endure. Then we see Arlene try to reconcile the abuse, make her way out of it, while dealing with new but familiar treacheries. The play is not gentle. It is hard, and filled with the worst elements that our world has to offer. These young actresses, with the ensemble around them challenging them, prodding them, pressing them to the edge, created a beautiful thing out of the ugliest of scripts. It's a story about fighting for your life against all odds. It is a story of perseverence, and protecting the innocent person inside us.
Sara and Shawna are my friends, and have been for years, even after an extended absence. They both deeply understand something about transformation. Shawna still battles self-doubt sometimes, and the old shyness, but has a quality about her that is nothing short of stillness. It is a remarkable change from the girl I knew who was terrified of being exposed to the prying eyes of an audience, and she has built a life that reflects the tranquility and acceptance that was absent then. She surrounds herself with beauty and peace. In fact, she sells it in her shop that she owns on Canyon Road. Sara is still a fireball. Her identity is all activism and positive healing energy. She has walked down a path that requires a bravery unknown to me, a path of endurance in the face of tremendous obstacles, but with that passion and intensity that I first admired the day she cussed someone out first in Spanish, then in Hungarian, just for effect.
Arlie and Arlene. Really, really, great casting.


RINSE.




[Two Case-Workers standing at a work table that is covered with blueprints, various photographs, post-it notes, yellow legal pads, and empty coffee cups. Smoke from long-ashed cigarettes burning in the ashtrays hangs in the air above them, while the single over-head worklight burns steadily. They are obviously at a moment of stress, and on deadline. The Boss is hovering, watching, waiting, and expecting results.]
Michael: We need to run the history again. There are significant breakdowns in the life span. Too many periods of lost direction...a huge gap in consciousness from 26 to 30 and again from 39 to 42. Causal relationships?
Angela: It's not drugs, and his alcohol consumption isn't out of hand...Honest opinion? I don't think he mourns properly. The marriage failings. His mother. The Girl.
Micheal: We've established the alcoholism in the root-family. He had years to process it, and was adjusted to intox at 11...This isn't a story about drunks... Mourning...Maybe....What's the six-month timeline?
Angela: The Gift was given at the end of August, it roused him from the Sleep for a few months, but he lapsed again in December, probably loneliness, and single-malt scotch... Two short periods of Clarity, followed by Stasis. He's definitely floating...He's making personal connections easily enough, but intimacy is fleeting, followed by over-analyzing, and Retreat.
Michael: What's working for him?
Angela: His creative mind is firing at a very high level. He's seeing things in an active dream state, and he is able to project his emotions into his ideas. It's the healthiest the mechanism has been since he was 20.
Michael: His Emo-Intel is peaking. A breakout possible?
Angela: That would be ideal, but there's the Fear...He's made an entire lifetime of holding onto the edge of the pool. He gets in the water, but he doesn't really swim.
Micheal: I concur...He was dosed with a half unit of The Gift after the funeral...That was a PTSD case, yes?
Angela: Very bad scene at the hospital. Strong negative imagery, feeling of helplessness, disconnected emotional response, followed by memory repression....A recurring nightmare in which he was performing CPR while her family watched...pretty ugly stuff...I recommended at the time that we wipe that one from his program, but it was thought that it might be useful later, a Vivid Dream.
Michael: I typically don't proscribe cleaning the hard drive. Really, I never...way too dangerous, especially for artists. Besides, he's battling. He is processing. Does he have a Support System in place?
Angela: It's not the root-family. He's off the reservation and has been for years. He's made a series of significant connections online. Re-connects from high school and college. Actually, it's very healthy in my estimation. They are Feeler/Thinkers, a lot of artists in his circle, some pretty serious people, and overall, a strong community. He's active, and receives It from them.
Michael: Okay, I think it's time to shake it up a bit. Based on your analysis, I think we have to get him into the water, let him sink, then wake him up under water.
Angela: The Drowning Man?
Michael: Make the water ice cold... I'm thinking: Alaska...man overboard...have him aspirate a half a cup of sea water, and then release him. I want to see him kicking for survival...He needs to pull himself out of the water, coughing and choking and fighting for air...If he does this, then give him a full dose of The Gift, and open his mind while your at it. I want him writing about it...it would benefit him if he was writing for someone, maybe a theatre group...let's get him involved in something...just make a decision, I'm sure it will be fine...and Angie, whatever you do, don't let him Retreat.
Angela: Okay, I'm on it...you want me to write it up?
Michael: No thanks, I've got this one...I'm on my way upstairs now. He's been waiting.


SPIN.




When I was about fourteen years old, there was a car accident very near my parents house. A young driver in a pickup truck was cut off by another vehicle that failed to yield. The driver was inexperienced, and swerved hard to avoid colliding with the other car, jumped the curb, and ran the front of his truck into a brick wall. His passenger was killed instantly. She was his girlfriend. I remember two things very clearly about that night: First, the sound of the truck hitting the brick wall was so loud, it sounded like someone slamming our garage door down, and second, the way the boy, who was barely older than I was, made a sound like all of the air escaping his lungs at once.
When I was about twenty-five, I was driving with my son through a school zone and noticed a motorcycle was down in the road. A police officer was kneeling over a young man who had smashed head first into a passing car. The officer was trying to shield the man's body from the views of the children who were staring at the scene from the school windows. I remember two things very clearly about that day: First, the large pool of blood that had built up on the road, and second, the pained expression of the officer as he was battling the stiff wind that kept blowing up the flimsy blue tarp, and exposing the horrible accident to the children less than a hundred feet away.
A month ago, while I was driving in the limo, barely moving because of some traffic snarl just ahead of me, I found myself cursing the idiot driver who wasn't paying attention and causing me to be late to my appointment. As I finally made my way past the back-up, I realized that a pedestrian was laying on the train tracks. A very small woman was laying on the ground, her body twisted by the unnatural violence that she encountered when she walked into the path of the train. A young woman from one of the cars was kneeling over her and praying a rosary. I remember two things very clearly from that day: First, the terrible wave of guilt I had for cursing the driver that caused the accident, and second, the beautiful expression of the young woman who was praying, her face radiating such pure love and compassion for her fellow traveller.

Boldly Going.

Heart: I've got something to say. I want to put some words together, express myself...
Head: Something creative? That's good. Something to keep you focused.
Heart: That's what I was thinking...I used to write fairly well...A "blog"...I could post a blog!
Head: Your punctuation stinks. You are human run-on sentence. It's called a "gerund"...Are you sure about that, sparky?
Heart: Go fuck yourself, Einstein.

Load.
I've reached a crossroads, and I'm listening to the wind. If you see me looking around, you might think to yourself; "That guy needs a GPS. He's surely lost and needs direction." Except, I don't feel lost at all. I am quite certain I have no idea where this place is, and I am just fine standing here on this spot. That's where I am. On this spot. Somewhere back a few years and miles ago, I ditched the map in favor of wandering, and letting the world come to me. It hasn't always been easy out here on the edge, I've had times where I've had to lighten my load along the way; I took on some weight, dragged an anchor, and had to cut ties. Big dreams were slowly discarded as encumbrances that were too heavy, too unwieldy, and completely unnecessary on my path. I traded some dreams for some experiences, you might say. The pack on my back is full of stories, and I'm listening to the wind.

Wash.

I was once described by my old friend John Orr as "a Sage clothed in the raiment of a comedian." I have to blushingly admit that I really dig the image, because even though it's a little florid and archetypical, referencing the fool Touchstone, he sort of hit the nail on the head on a part of my personality that I have come to understand and trust. Shakespeare's fool in As You Like It, is a court jester, a dichotomy of wisdom and folly, a chuckle-head. Touchstone is supremely self-aware: "The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool." I get that. I have that awareness of myself, with all of my pseudo-intellectualism in balance with actual useful wit. Like Touchstone, I'm a cynical observer of the human comedy, offering up sardonic little zingers, a sort of hit-and-run style of comedy; Think: A less-fey, more-bitter Noel Coward. I practice it on Facebook and a million text messages to my friends. Like Touchstone, I don't really care if it's funny or not, you throw it out and see how the world reacts, a little like throwing a flash-bang grenade into a room...you toss and watch the comedy unfold. I've been criticised by friends and frienemies as a person who doesn't have a filter. That's true. I discarded it. It got me into trouble. My filter was someone else's idea of what's proper and good and "courtly".

Rinse.

I haven't looked at a Playboy in years. Once, the line of demarcation between total boyhood innocence and furious pubescent machinations in the back of the closet, the old boy was the conduit into the world of Sin and Skin. Back in the day, young men of a certain age could gaze upon Miss September or The Girls of the Pac-Ten with reverential awe and appreciation for the female form that was akin to ogling Venus before her arms fell off. This was the stuff that caused men to jump into a thousand ships for THAT FACE. We all knew where dad hid his copies, (under the mattress, his side of the bed) or our older brothers (top shelf, back left of the closet) and would "beat" a hasty retreat when we were left alone in the house, back to the closet or maybe the bathroom. The covers were glossy, and they had that hidden icon that you had to search for, like a pervy "Where's Waldo". The magazine smelled good, like a very expensive perfume. The cover girl promised something unusual and exotic. Inside, near the front, the pages teased you with a table of contents, some risque comics, and some stereo equipment advice. The good stuff was towards the back. Slowly scanning those pages, we looked and leered and imagined. The payoff was always there. Tits. Big Ones. Really, Really Big Ones. These were not found in my neighborhood. These were special tits: not my sisters' tits, or my neighbors' tits. These tits were bigger than my Oklahoma, a clarion call, something like Hamlet telling his old buddy, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Playboy had it's moment with me, and I surely took a few moments with Miss September in all her backlit glory. Seduced by something I couldn't possibly understand, at a crossroads even then, I boldly went where no man went before. How in the hell was I supposed to know that pages could get stuck together?

Spin.

I go in dirty, I come out clean. I walk in over-loaded, socks and skivvies spilling everywhere, a pocketful of couch cushion quarters causing a noticeable bulge in my front pocket, and as a matter of fact, I am glad to see you. I pick out my turf: Four sturdy single-washers with an adjacent folding table, near the magazine rack filled with The Greensheet, The Apartment Guide, and FW Weeklys. On a good day, there may be the best reading material of all: very strange religious tracts from a group that calls themselves "The Inspired Body of Christ". I like the illustrations, especially the depiction of The Devil. He looks a little like Simon from American Idol. Turning my attention to the sorting process, I remember that I forgot the pre-treater. The collars of my white shirts will have to be scrubbed by hand. I check my jeans pockets and turn out my socks, and debate tossing out the Worlds Oldest T-Shirt. Not this time. I may lose an inch or two in my chest and be able to wear the Red Shazam outside of the house. It will be VINTAGE and people will pay twenty bucks for a shirt like that. Suckers. I notice in the corner that Su is there, folding someone's clothes, and she really stinks at it. The t.v.'s in each corner are blaring Sabado Gigante, which is strange because it's a very insignificant Friday. Quarters in, soap and rinse in, and Hot or Cold? Cop a squat, take a breath, and listen... Spanish. Viet Namese, Incoherant Rambling of the Old Drunk Guy...Su laughing, Baby-Talking the occupant of the car seat, washers agitating, water lines pressuring up, a burned-out ball-bearing squealing. Metronomic tumbling of twenty driers laced with the thump-thud of someone's tennis shoes being burned to a crisp. Time passing. I glance at my machines. Two done, two finishing. I track down a cart and do the turn, one after another, and step out to cool off. Twenty minutes later, and after a quick "how's everything" chat with Su, and a few moments checking out Sorta Hot-Mom before remembering not to ask out laundromat girls on account of they're too poor to afford a washer...my driers are chiming and I'm furiously folding. Meticulous, straight-line folds. Just like my ex-wife taught me. I load my basket and notice that it looks like it's lighter than when I came in, yet it's all there, everything orderly and neatly stacked. One last look in the driers for the disappearing sock trick, and I'm out the door with a wave at Su and a wink at Sorta Hot. I go in dirty, and I come out clean.