Battles with Oneself, Or, How Unmarried Guys Listen to No One But Themselves.

Two months ago I was at the dentist...surprise! It wasn't a new problem, just a crown that had fallen off that had lasted 20 years, which is a nice long time for a crown to last. The dentist thinks he can reshape the tooth and glue the crown back on. Great, this is what I wanted to hear.

But, as the dentist was drilling away, he stops. He then tells me he's drilling sooo close to the pulp chamber that the heat created by the drill bit might, might bake the tiny nerves and blood vessels in there. If so, the tooth will die. In order to re-cement the crown on, he HAS to shape the tooth by getting real close to that inner sanctum that keeps the tooth alive.

“I want to try it Ron, there's a 50/50 chance this will work.” So I agree and tell him to press on and he fixes it up nice. No problems!

Two months later... “Get me in! This tooth is screaming hot and my face is starting to swell up!” I'm nearly begging now.

I get in, right at 7AM, he X rays it and shows me how the pulp chamber did indeed die and how it's flowing down the root canal, settling down to the tips of the roots.

“That's what you're feeling. Your body knows there's necrotic tissue in there and is trying to clear it out. I bet there’s a lot of pressure in there now. Ah, it's too bad, I wanted to save that tooth too.”

So did I.

He made an appointment for an oral surgeon to get it out. But, lo and behold, the pain stopped a day later and I thought, “Hey, why lose this tooth now? I'll just keep ahold of it, use it for as long as I can.”

Well, that worked for about a month when it flamed up again, this time worse.

I didn't go back to my original dentist because I knew I'd get chastized for NOT taking care of it when I should have. Also, my plan of using the tooth “as long as I can” would be met with “Yeah...you can use it, but it's going to go eventually...you will LOSE. And all the while nursing a whomping toothache.” 

So, I didn't go back to my dentist but made my own appointment for the oral surgeon I was suppose to see a month earlier. The problem is that they're booked solid for a week.

“No! No I tell myself. I'm not giving into this! I can wait a week! I'm not caving in and running back to the primary dentist to write a script for Amoxicillin. I can tolerate this pain! I can tolerate the sharp ZING each time I eat a string of linguine!” Or so I try to convince myself.

I did well. I tolerated it. I patted myself on the back for being able to keep up with the pain. “It'll toughen me, like I used to ignore pain when younger.” I tell myself this. I grapple with my body's own immune system to see who will win. I won for four days before I broke down like a little girl and ran back.

My primary dentist was cool about it all. He said he wished I had come in earlier to get the script. No fuss or muss from him. The shot to my silly pride came from his dental assistant, Sue, who I’ve known now for 20 years.

“You know Ron...We try REAL hard here to get our patients to cooperate with Dr's orders and advice. You've could've avoided all that misery had you just called us sooner. “Yeah, I know” I am admitting defeat. “No, really...You think there's a reward for putting up with that pain? God...you men! She trailed off after sticking me with that barb.

Men like to think of themselves as independent, powerful, capable, competent and can managed to “fix anything.” It's what we do. It's how we're raised. But, I had this MOM there tear me down in seconds with her VERY correct appraisal of my silly stubbornness of not giving in and seeking help.

Driving back home, my brain chirps in; “Hey Ron...she's RIGHT you know!” I answer back, “Yeah...she was. But she managed to crush me in seconds!

“Of course she did, haven't you noticed by now that women can reduce men to a pulp at times? Even at your age? Hell, you NEEDED that!”

Pride. Stubbornness. A belief in, “I'm Right and Everyone Else is Wrong.” I'm not married and all it took was a dental assistant, a woman I don't live with, to pound some common sense into my head.

I'm BETER Than You Are!!!

I can ride by homes with paint peeling off them, the lawn full of two foot high weeds and see five unattended dirty kids fighting each other on it. My middle class snootiness can come out and I think to myself, “Ugh...you people actually live like this?”

And I do suppose, if Bill Gates rode by my house he'd say to his chauffeur, “My Dear God, Jeeves...would you look at that...do they actually live like this?” I can see myself, picking lint out of my belly button as he rides by in his Bentley.

Feeling smug is great huh? You can pass judgment on all who seem below you.

I've said before that I can sometimes really make a horrifically bad, first impression if the cards are right, and I don't have to try too hard either. I chalk that up to my spastic uncoordinated nature at times. I walk into walls, trip on lines in the sidewalk and generally do things too fast to be able to do them safely. Ask around, others will back me up. Always on the go I can be.

My brother, was ga ga over this one woman who was more sympathetic than attracted to him (due to his sickness) for about two years. I never met her as she rarely came over to the house and if so, I was out at work or the like. But one day, we met.

That late morning I was working on my car, doing the exhaust actually. My mechanic's garb was a too small, filthy Army Field jacket. I kept it because canvas is a great material to work in, you can abuse the hell out of it and NEVER bother to wash it. The pants I wore were my “I Don't Care What Happens to These Jeans” which were torn (some holes in the 'right' places) and spotted with grease, anti-freeze and what not. My sneakers were of the same category.

I had to leave for the auto parts store to get a reducing coupling to mate some exhaust pipe together and I come back, crawl under the car and start the work anew. As I do this, I whack my forehead on some protruding bolt and start to piss blood down my face. Ah well, par for the course for me. I held the blood back till it clotted and continued to work. I then find out I need a newer cutting wheel for my drill and have to go in and downstairs to get one.

I didn't know that my brother's flame, Angela, had come over. I went into the house, my face caked with dried blood, my hair sticking all around and in my possibly very odorous of stink clothing.

“Oh, Angela, this is my brother Ron, I've talked about him before.” Ken says.

“Hi Angela!” I say.

She stared at me. She stared at me with that “What the fuck just walked into this house” look. It wasn't hard to miss that reaction on her face. Did I care? Nope, I had other things to do and downstairs I went to get the cutting wheel.

As I came back up they were chatting away. Well, my brother continued to chat away but she shut right as I passed them to the kitchen door, again with that “I have met you and you stand convicted!” look.

It looked like Angela and I weren't going to be the greatest of friends.

As time passed, we'd meet each other on occasion, she was coolish to me and I knew she had harbored few romantic feelings for my brother. It was obvious to me but not him.

Flash forward six months:

One day I was visiting my brother in the hospital and as I walked into the room, I stopped. I saw Angela there, holding his hand while he lay there oblivious to the world, zonked to shit on morphine. I stepped back some and watched this scene. I saw her face and it was one of pain, sadness. It was real. I stood there perhaps 90 seconds and realized she did have some feelings for the guy. I then noisily walked into the room and she got up and hugged me. Wow.

Without saying it, we both lowered our walls some, got to know one another a bit better and realized we both weren't that bad after all.

Duh!!!!!!!

If there is one thing that really gets under my skin are confident idiots. You've run into them. They can't help but offer you their opinion on subjects they know little about. Not only that, they get fully insulted if you don't agree with them or their supposed abilities.

I don't “suffer fools gladly.” I try not to but if I'm within earshot of some Einstein hosing everyone down with his opinion, I'll have to step in.

So I hear this fool who probably doesn't make more than $30,000 a year bitching that Social Security ought to be privatized, as well as taxes being cut for the rich.

“It's a Ponzi scheme! It's going under! It's running out of money!” he spews on.

I have to get involved in this one I tell myself.

“You want to see it privatized? I say?

“Yeah, I think the gov't ought to give the people their money back and let them handle it as they see best! The gov't doesn't know what it's doing!”

“What if it happened tomorrow? What would you do with your SS money?” I ask.

“Well, I'd invest it! I'd make a good return on it!

“You would?” I ask incredulously

“Yeah, I could pick my own stocks, or hire some firm to do it for me!”

So, it's time to crush this dullard. “You know how to evaluate stocks? What's a PE ratio?”

Not a peep.

“What is “front running, sub-pennying, high frequency trading?” I ask

Again nothing.

I ask, “Do you know why the word “Muppet” and “fiduciary responsibility” are paired together in high finance?”

All I get is a stare.

“Muppets,” I tell him, “were Goldman Sachs description of their high net worth clients who they'd routinely screw. You know what that means? It means the people who hired Goldman to manage their money were being ripped off by the very bankers they entrusted. Goldman would advise these clients to go long on a stock they knew was going down. The bank then would short their own client's stock moves to make a profit. And, it's totally legal.”

Again, the dullard stares at me.

“You honestly think you can outwit, out-trade financial houses like Goldman and any other major bank that deals with stocks?” I ask. You can guess his answer.

Now it's time to switch over to taxation.

“Do you know what a tax haven jurisdiction means, where they're located?”

So he's getting pissed off as I bury him with his own ignorance.

“Do YOU know what that is? I bet you just say these things!” he bellows back.

I reply, “ScotiaBank, Cayman Islands Division.”

“So? What about it? He snaps.

“I applied to them. Did you know I had to come up with a minimum of $100,000 before they'd even talk to me? Guess what. You want to see the rejection letter? IT'S IN MY CAR!”

“Tax haven banks...are for the very rich, not you, not me...the rich. You ok with that? You just fine that a US citizen can create a shell corporation and trade US stocks w/o paying any capital gains taxes? Did you also know, that an IRS court ordered subpoena, to open up your tax haven account, can be completely BLOWN OFF by the nation that hosts your tax haven bank? The IRS can subpoena your account in the Caymans, and the Cayman gov't can tell the IRS to fuck off. The IRS will have no evidence to prosecute you in Federal court!"

"Bain Capital, Mitt's Bain...has 138 sub-companies in the Caymans.  You find that a bit odd that this one company has so much invested in a small Caribbean island? They didn't create these companies because the tanning is wonderful there!"

I go on...

“Yeah, you just trust the rich, business..they won't pork you good...you just believe in them and hand over your assets."

Silence.

I stopped. If I went any further I'd blow an artery or get punched out. Either way, there was no use trying to convince this guy that he, and most of us, cannot compete against the NGO's banks and major players who have better access to finance than we will ever have.

You know what I DON'T do as a matter of course? I don't pontificate on brain surgery. Why? I don't know a damn thing about it! But, how many people do you come across who will?

It's Not a Pig Sty, It's "Lived In"

Ok, I won't codify someone's shortcomings to paper. That would be cruel though it would make for some fun writing with the things I saw people play out in front of me last night. Instead I'll codify my Mom's imperfections. They say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead since they can't answer the allegation. Ah, to hell with that!

In doing this, I'll be skewering myself as I'm just as guilty of the same crime.

My Mom's idea of housecleaning was to vacuum once a month! Windows? Bah! Let the rain wash the outside panes. Inside panes? Bah! Twice a year if that. Self cleaning ovens were a Godsend to her. She tossed out all her Easy Off cans into the garbage when Sears dropped off our new range that had that self cleaning feature.

The laundry was done, but there would be piles of unfolded, un-put-away clothing on the living room couch. A lot of mornings as a kid I'd pick through just what I wanted to wear to school that morning. Magazines, old newspapers were saved till they formed a small hill in the corner of the kitchen.

On the days she did clean, it was combat style. Somehow she'd get the motivation to attack it all and try to defeat this amount of work that had piled up for the past few weeks. I learned to stay the hell away from her as she'd get pissed off and accuse us kids of being the cause of the mess. Well, that was partly true, but not totally!

 My Mom wasn't too keen on the June Cleaver style of housekeeping. She found it distasteful and did it when it became apparent it HAD to be done.

Our house wasn't a shambles but it was cluttered. I never really knew this was a problem until I started visiting some other kid's homes. I'd wonder, why the hell is Don's house like a museum? There's nothing out! No screwdrivers, scissors, toys, shoes, shirts, books or cameras lying on a table. Did they own anything? Are they poor? Also, at Don's house, his Mom ordered us to remove our shoes before we made a second step into her home. I thought that incredibly insulting. “Huh...You think the soles of my shoes are covered in filth do ya?” I'd think.

Don's room was astonishing. All toys, books and what nots were placed on shelves and some toys were jauntily facing each other like Hummel figurines. His bed was made. The closet in his room wasn't stuffed and about to burst like a dam.

This was one weird house I thought to myself. You'd be afraid to touch anything as it did look like a museum.

Don's Mom must be a neat freak. That had to be it. A deep seated psychological disorder that she never managed to face. What other reason could there be?

Yeah, but then I discovered other homes of the kids I knew were in various states of orderliness that made our home look like a confetti party was held there. I began to realize that it wasn't them...it was US that was a bit off the track when it came to Better Homes and Gardens.

Now, how do you think I keep my house as of today? To the left of me is an old love seat that is really a shelf. On it are my old work shoes, a dog leash, a good pile of books, manila folders containing last years whatevers. Behind me in the nook thing meant to display Fine China are; more books, headphones, DVDs, a jar of change I keep filling up, an empty cordless phone box, a camera and what seems to be an empty plastic bag from Target's (there might be something in it still?).

When do I clean? Easy, I'll get the motivation to attack it all and be pissy about doing it too. Yes, I guilt myself into doing it as it gets to the point of “having to be done.” Gee, sounds like someone I knew a many years ago.

There now, this story didn't point the many faults of other people I witness on a day to day basis. I graciously fell on my own sword. I have chalked up points to lessen my time in Purgatory. The next story I'll cash in some of those assets and really DUMP on someone!

I'll Tell it in Chinese...Perhaps They Won't Notice...

Stories, stories, stories. If only I could tell them. I'm sure tact would be the right decision to make, no?

Other people's drama. Other people's public failures. Other people's lives on display for all to see but to commit it to written words would be like writing a Bill of Affidavit for a Grand Jury.

My own drama for Sunday? It consists of. “Do I invest in REITS or do I vacuum the house tomorrow?” Stay tuned. If I can mask a story, I'll tell it.

I Watch Everything

Here's what you can do with a bike you cannot do with a car. You can see and hear everything around you. In your car you have your a/c, radio, cell phone and you're doing at least 25mph. You miss everything that's going on on either side of you.

Now on a bike, you might get it up to 20 mph if you're pushing it w/o blowing your heart out. Also, you see and hear everything as you pass everyone and everyone's house.

So, what have I found tooting around Pawtucket and Seekonk? I find nice homes and rather shitty ones. By nice I mean “kept up.” By shitty...well..guess.

Tonight I rode by some three decker tenement house with the sound of a shrieking kid inside. Ok fine, all kids shriek at that age but I suppose the large thump sound and even higher shrieking that followed ain't part of the playtime. Passing by another house I could cleanly hear, “Goddammit! Joshua! Get your fuckin' ass in here!!” That was followed by a “I don' wanna...!” I was out of range by then to understand what the kid's screaming then became.

This was funny. I was approaching a red light with one car stopped at it. As I got closer I could hear a couple in it SCREECHING at one another over God.Knows.What. Ah...love. The light turns green and the guy in it just guns the engine slamming his beloved into her seat.

It's not all bad you know. I just found some glaring examples of what goes on in my general neighborhood that I didn't know about prior to getting this bike.

On the flip side I saw a Dad, teaching his little girl how to ride a bike w/o the training wheels. He was following her, barely touching her back as her legs pumped away saying to her, “I won't let go! I won't let go! I won't let go!” Good, one parent I saw tonight building confidence in his child till the day he can let go of her and let her ride on her own.

I pass a few teen couples most nights, who are out for a walk. I go by them, looking overheated, spent and with my sweaty hair sticking up oddly. They however smell wonderful. I can be hit with her/his cologne/perfume about 20 feet before I approach them. They never notice me. Why should they, they've built a world of their own that's a hell of a lot nicer than the one around them.

As the sun sets, I see that bluish glow from houses I pass as people settle into a night of TV watching. Or, you see the neighbors out, talking. A few homes I pass are those of master gardeners. Their lawns, beds and bushes look like they belong at golf course. Even at night I see a few who will get that last hour in of gardening before going in.

I then can finally go home and see my home for what it is in comparison. Lawn cut? Check. Beds weeded? Check. Lights on. No. No one's home. Loud as fuck German Shepherd inside? Check.

In a few minutes, music will be drifting out of my windows. Passerby’s may see a shirtless guy making a dog run back and forth from living room to den chasing a tennis ball. Later on, my house will be the only one of two on this street with lights on at 12AM. This guy's up late some may say. Yes he is! He's watching Letterman.

Gold Digging: Like a Hooker, Just Smarter

“I don't do head games. I hate them. How can you have a relationship when the other is screwing with your mind? She tells me.

I've known her just long enough to know she's a Zen Master at head games, as evidenced by her subtle, conniving moves. Your inexperienced ones come off as coarse and blunt, way to green to play the game which requires a certain touch; and you can dismiss them as rookies. However, the adept ones, the ones who are as sly as a snake, are harder to tease out of their holes. If they had a Gold Medal for being sly, she'd win it.

In some ways I admire these girls. Or rather, their hideous talents. I can appreciate a talent whether if be used for good or ill.  When I see it displayed and I quietly measure up my ability to take it on, there are times I discover my own abilities at the that game are woefully inadequate to meet hers. I'd be dead meat. I'll stand down against that.

My comment to the guys, about girls like this, in a sing-song voice is: “Watch it, she's dangeroussss!”

But, like a lot of men, the allure and the attraction of a cute face, a lithe body will intoxicate and cloud our reason and suck us in.

I watched as D. was being sucked in by some girl I met over at rollerway a few months earlier. It had taken me some time to learn the reality about her. I had to first shake off that “high” I had about her first before I could figure her out finally.

I sat there, watching his face and could see it. Hook, line and sinker. He bit the bait and was being reeled in. The girl had no other interest in him except to play her game, hone her skills and much like a cat, play with the mouse for a while before she killed it.

“Yes, you'll do for the week or two, as I am bored and am waiting for better prospects to amble by.” I read her face too. I recognized the look. I was one of the many mice she toyed with and learned.

In time, he found out there was no prospect there to work on or develop. On occasion, he would feel himself being egged on by his own feelings again that were en-flamed by the newer bait she would entice him with. I thought in time D, you'll get sick of this game, like I did.

*****

What was weirdly gratifying to me, and surprising at the same time, was to hear this girl bemoan to me the way she was poorly treated by an ex and how he lied to her face. I sat there, without throwing any of her selfsame crimes she commits into her face and listened like I can always do.

“How can he do it! I trusted him! He said it was over with that girl..and he WENT BACK!”

“Really?” is what I said. I sat there, watching her act gut shot and knowing, just knowing she had NO clue as to the same insult she'd given a dozen other guys in her past.

“Why her? Why does he like her more than me? I'm not ugly!” she went on.

“"Oh yes you are!" I thought. “Your ugly as sin on the inside! You're selfish, immature and have no problem stepping on others feet as rush to claim what you think is yours. MINE! MINE! MINE!” She was your basic spoiled brat.

I also knew, there was no way of her growing out of that. It's a personality trait she's learned long ago and probably a profitable one from time to time. The problem is that eventually, the persistent selfishness is found out. Any love intoxicated guy will find that pretty repulsive in enough time and move on. Or, she comes across some guy who is even better at conspiring and uses her like a Shake 'n' Bake bag.

“No one cries louder than a thief who has been robbed” the old saying goes. This girl sure could cry FOUL when she was sorely used.

Too.fucking.bad.

I've said before, people are like computer programs, they repeat the same instructions over and over again w/o being aware of it. So will she. Uh oh...probably so won't I if I don't wise up.

I've always loved Little Feat's Dixie Chicken song. I hear it and it reminds me of those times when female artist played me like a violin.

I seen the bright lights of Memphis
And the Commodore Hotel
And it was there beneath the streetlamp
Where I met a southern belle
Well she took me to the river
Where she cast her spell
And it was 'neath that Memphis moonlight
She sang this song so well
“If you'll be my Dixie chicken...
I'll be your Tennessee lamb
And we can walk together
Down in Dixie land

It's been a year since she ran away
Guess that guitar player sure could play
She always liked to sing along
He was always handy with a song
Then one night in the lobby
Of the Commodore Hotel
I by chance met a bartender
Who said he knew her well
And as he handed me a drink
He began to hum a song
And ALL the boys there at the bar
Began to sing along
“If you'll be my Dixie chicken...
I'll be your Tennessee lamb
And we can walk together
Down in Dixie land