Bow to the King

Growing up a red-white-and-blue blooded American, I have always found the notion of kings and queens to be absurd, an antiquated notion that calls to mind an elitist caste system built upon the broken backs of the masses who lived in quiet desperation.

But last night I learned I was wrong. Cleveland, Ohio indeed has a king, and his name is LeBron James.

In my 25 years of suffering through hard-luck Cleveland sports, I have never seen a superstar the likes of him playing for us...usually they play against us, and beat us black and blue. Names like Jordan and Elway come to mind, names that make me cringe. Now, however, we finally have our Jordan, our Magic, our King.

Last night, he pulled off the greatest play I have ever seen: a falling away 23 foot 3-pointer that swished as time expired, saving Cleveland's season in dramatic fashion. It is as if the demons of Jordan's infamous shot have been exorcised 20 years later. I could hardly believe my eyes. This usually happens to us, not for us. Like most of Cleveland, I was ready to write off our chances, watching as my beloved team was finding creative ways to fall short. But LBJ changed that in a heartbeat, in a swish. The arena of battle erupted, and the town did with it.

Hometown heroes are rare these days, and Clevelanders are lucky to have theirs. It is like a medieval town getting behind its champion knight, fighting for the honor of that town. Except James is not just a knight, but a king, and he has brought much honor to our city. He is a champion whom you know will not let you lose, who will save the day in spectacular fashion. It may be just a game, but sometimes it sure feels like life.

Today, Cleveland rejoiced in the greatness of its King. May his reign be long and bring the city further glory.

The upside down smile

I am not afraid of the dark: it is where I live.

I was born with a chip on my shoulder. I was so wound up as a kid that my grandfather once quipped that I could start a fight in a room by myself. The authority figures (parents, teachers, etc) would frown upon me for being difficult, for not sitting still or behaving, for not being a "good boy." This was up until the age of 6, when I learned I could not beat them, so I might as well join them. I am a touchy, sensitive person, so I internalized the authority figure and became my own policeman, locking up the part of me I do not like in a cage. I threw away that key long ago, and am still imprisoned by my internal judge, jury, and executioner. I suppose I am not unique in this regard, but I'm the only me I know.

A life of self punishment has taken its toll, and I am sometimes bent and stooped by the pain I put myself through. The chip on my shoulder has become a boulder that squashes my soul. I sink into the pit of myself and cannot see the light. I think dark thoughts and obsess over the shameful past and fearful future. I recall the cocky kids and moralizing adults that made my childhood a living hell at times. I took their shit and made it my own. What else could I do? I was taught to turn the other cheek, to not say anything at all unless I said something nice, to be a doormat, a sheep, a nice guy who finishes last. I learned the wrong lessons in life and am still failing the test. These are my bad days.

But I have good days, too. The darkness can be overwhelming, but there are good things that save the day: good books or movies that make me forget myself, good exercise that helps me to build up myself, good friends and family that make me value myself, and my girlfriend Joy who helps me to love myself, who has taught me what love is. These are the lights in my darkness, the graces that save me, the only evidence that there is a God who gives a shit. They save me from myself and free me from my prison, if only for a little while. But that is enough.

Life can be a bitter pill to swallow, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. It is often this way because I have both chosen and been born to a diet of darkness. Yet I am sustained by the good things and people that make my life worth living. The sun shines through the stormy clouds because of these lights in my life. I owe them everything.

Life is too short to languish in prison. May I be set free by all that I love. May I walk in the fresh air of freedom and feel the warm sun on my face. May I set aside the darkness and live in the light of love.

I love you, Joy. Forever.

I know what love is.

I know what love is.

Love is 40 pounds and 40 inches.
Love is a hard worker working hard just to keep up.
Love is a leadfoot who drives you mad.
Love is the baker of the tastiest cakes.
Love is the finder of all oddities online.
Love is a smile that can light up a black night.
Love is a sense of silliness and nonsense.
Love is a punch in the pants and a knot in the knickers.
Love is "special" in every sense of the word.
Love is the sweet, gentle breeze of a kind soul.
Love is always there for you, every 24.
Love is the kiss you don't want to let go.
Love is the body you just want to hold.
Love is the mind that dances and plays.
Love is the soul that fits snugly with mine.

I know what love is.
And I'll never be the same again.

Cool with being uncool

I have been called many things in my life:

AmeriQuinn, MexiQuinn, Juvenile DelinQuinn, Dairy Quinn, Quinner the Winner, Mighty Quinn, Diesel, the Kissing Bandit....

I've been called everything in the book, except for one thing:

Cool.

No one has ever accused me of being cool. You know the "cool" table in high school? I wasn't even allowed in the same cafeteria. If the Fonz is cool, then I'm Richie Cunningham. If the North Pole is cool, then I'm the equator.

I guess that makes me hot.

Now, many people ask me what it takes to be as uncool as I am. Here are a few thoughts:

- Bury yourself in books: I have always preferred fantasy to reality, and getting involved with characters in a book rather than real people. I love a good story, and real life just isn't a very good story. I would rather be home reading than out partying.

- Steer clear of bars or parties: I have never had much tolerance for loud, stupid, strutting people, and bars are chock full of them, as are parties. The noise, crowds, posing, and posturing is just not my style. I'm not cool with it.

- Show your feelings: Sensitivity is key to being uncool. I happen to be an emotional, heart-on-your-sleeve guy who will react to bullshit if it's heaped on me. I have never had a poker face, and my skin gets pretty thin when people poke me.

So yes, I am not cool....but I'm cool with that. Being cool is overrated. It usually means being a douchebag. The "cool" kids in school were all douchebags, and they grew into cool, douchebag adults, full of themselves and full of shit.

Call me what you want, but one thing I have always prided myself on is not being a douchebag. I am too uncool for that.

Thank God.

Requiem for my Ride

Yes, I remember the last time I cried.
It was the day that my Myrtle had died.
I can't say that she's the best car I had
But I can say that she wasn't really that bad.
Even though this Saturn had no rings
She really and truly was my Miss Thing.
I used to ride her so good and so hard
But she never complained, 'cuz I was her bard.
Yes, it sometimes sounded like she cried and moaned
But it was done to let me know I wasn't alone.
She was never too hot to handle or too cold to hold.
She was always sweet to me, if truth be told.
But on that fateful day, all I could say was "damn!'
Because like George Michael she went and got Whammed.
Slammed into a car that was jealous of her.
And all I could do was moan after.
Because she was my girl and I was her guy.
And now it is time to say my goodbye.
Aw Myrtle, my car, my girl and my friend
How sad it was to see your life end.
Yet you will always be driving my mind and my heart.
Even if you can no longer manage to start.
So goodbye my honey, my dear, my sweet.
I guess it's time to start using my feet!

Rust in peace, Myrtle.

Turning in My Man Card

I am a woman trapped in a man's body.

At least, that is what one might think when comparing me with conventional notions of manhood. Consider the following:

- Cars: don't know a damn thing about them, don't give a damn about them.

- Handiness: I am better at breaking things than fixing them, and I do not have the patience or interest to learn any better.

- Action movies: if they don't have a point (e.g. The Fast & the Furious), then I'm not wasting my time or money watching them.

- Golf, Hunting, & Fishing: not the slightest interest in doing or talking about any of these things...would rather watch paint dry or get a root canal.

- Weightlifting: I lift, but I have no time for posers at the gym who grunt, flex, and sit on their asses all day while others are waiting for the equipment.

- Bars: Again, too many posers strutting their stuff and acting like total dickheads because they think it pleases the ladies.

In my defense, I do love mainstream sports and the outdoors; I hate shopping and utterly lack fashion sense; and I pee standing up. But that's not the point. The issue here is what constitutes manliness. Testosterone trips do not make one a man. They are for posers who mentally masturbate to their own wannabe manliness. A man is not a man because he is a meathead. A man is a man if he is comfortable with who he is, if he commands respect and treats others with the same. As Forrest Gump might say, manliness is as manliness does.

So spare me your sausage fests and your circle jerks, dudes, because if you're here to walk and talk tough, then I'm not your man.

Bad Day

My parents always told me if I didn't have something nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all. That is how I was raised - to be nice. But I don't feel nice today. I had a bad day, and the world can go somewhere else for something nice. Because it's my blog, and I don't give a flying fuck.

Yeah, everyone has bad days, so I'm not special. But I'm not having their bad days, I'm having mine, and I reserve my right to whine.

My bad days do not usually ensue from that which happens to me, but what happens in me. When my mind is full of shit, then I have a shitty day. Some days my mind drowns in a flood of negative thoughts about myself and my life: my job sucks, I suck, my life is destined to always suck, no one else's life sucks like mine sucks, etc. The thoughts flow like black bile, seeping like poison through my sick head, and I die inside. Then my brain rots with depression.

My whole life there's been something wrong with me. The doctors call it anxiety and depression, but what the hell do they know, they haven't fixed me yet. All the king's horses and all the king's men haven't put my Humpty Dumpty head back together again. I have always been apart, aloof, a lone wolf isolated by my rancid negativity that casts a wretched stench around me. I push everyone else away and wonder why I'm alone. I blast the angry tunes - Metallica, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam - and hate the world, myself most of all. I rage at the utter stupidity of it all, and laugh like a madman at the thought that things will ever get better.

The best part of it all is that, in the words of Shakespeare, it is all "sound and fury, signifying nothing." The root of negativity is nothing, a cancer of the mind, a consuming emptiness. It is truly much ado about nothing. That is what hurts the most, the absurdly meaninglessness of my existence.

So I choke on the "burnt out ends of smoky days," and wonder why the hell I wasted my life being nice. It has been said that "nice guys finish last." It's true. Being nice has gotten me nowhere, gotten me nothing. I lose while others win because I don't fight like I should. Instead, I piss and moan like I'm doing in this blog, and wait for a God who doesn't give a shit to fix everything for me.

I've swallowed my pride so long ago that I don't even remember how it tasted. All I taste is the rotten remains of my piss poor days....

Ah, you get the point. Some days I feel like the lost soul in the Muench painting: I could just scream. Some days are better than others, though, so hopefully tomorrow will be better.

The most satisfying word

I'm a word nerd. I enjoy good books, corny puns, and witty movie dialogue. At the risk of deluding myself with notions of grandeur, I like to think of myself as a writer, a wordsmith, a guy whose pen is mightier than William Wallace's sword.

I am indeed a man of many words, but few words satisfy me as much as one word: douchebag.

Douchebag is far from being an elegant word. It is, in fact, a term whose meaning I barely grasp. I know it has something to do with feminine hygiene, but since I have as little to do with feminine hygiene as possible, I cannot really picture what it is.

But that is not important. What is important is how "douchebag" is applied in popular usage. In this sense, I think everyone knows what a douchebag is, and why it feels so good to say.

So what does douchebag mean to the millions who utter it every day? Well, in my view, it refers to a person whose cocksure demeanor and arrogant attitude make him or her both maddenly irritating and laughably ridiculous. They are, in Top Gun terms, individuals whose egos write checks their bodies can't cash. They are full of themselves and think everyone else should be, too. And they could all use a good, sound thrashing.

Since that would be against the law, however, the next best thing is to call them what they are: douchebags.

Perhaps a few examples would shed some light on this satisfying word:

Derek Jeter - The shortstop for the New York Yankees prances around the bases with a look of pure smugness on his pretty-boy face. He simply oozes douchebag.

Ashton Kutcher - The party-boy actor wears a shit-eating grin that needs to be wiped off his foo-foo face. Even his fancy name screams "douchebag!"

George W. Bush - If ever there was a man who deserved the name, Bush is he. His seamless blend of arrogance and ignorance in addition to his "bring it on" bullshit has not only been the worst thing to happen to this country in decades, but it has earned him the status of Douchebag-in-chief. Hail to the chief.

In the end, a douchebag is simply someone I love to hate...and someone I love to name for what he is. So call a douchebag a douchebag, and enjoy it.

The Mad Hatter of March Madness

The NCAA tournament is the best thing in sports. Period. Nothing else comes close.

For one thing, every game matters. These kids have worked hard all year and it all comes down to one game. Every game could be their last. This is a far cry from, say, pro baseball, where 162 games means a single game counts for next to nothing, and at some point you just get sick of baseball...it's like watching paint dry 162 days out of the year.

For another, the tourney seems more driven by love than money. I say "seems" because yes, money is a huge part of college basketball. Yet, unlike pro sports, there is more to it than that. There are the coaches who are not merely managing egos, but molding young men and women. There are the players who will never make the NBA who are nonetheless playing their hearts out because each game could be their last game, ever. There are the fans who love the schools they went to, to whom the team colors signify an experience, not just a name.

Thirdly, there is the omnipresent prospect of David beating Goliath. Born and raised in an underdog city, I love to see the little guy win. In pro sports, alas, it seems the same teams win all the time - either they make the right moves, have all the money, or both. Moreover, multigame playoff series in pro sports (except for the NFL) mean the underdog has to do it more than once. In a one-and-done tournament system, however, David only needs one chance to beat Goliath. And it happens every year. What is March Madness known for if not for big bracket-busting upsets?

Finally, the NCAA has done a great job of making fans part of the fun by providing them with brackets to fill out and pick the winners. It creates natural buy-in and participation among fans. We watch the games with more interest, rooting for the teams we picked. And this is the only time when being wrong is still fun, because it means something unexpected happened...and the unexpected is the one thing we can expect from March Madness.

So I will be glued to the television for the next three weeks as the tourney plays itself out. I will be rooting for my Boston College Eagles and any Ohio team, and rooting against the pastel-wearing teams from the south or west coast...especially Duke, that bunch of rich, stuck up preppies who get all the calls. The Blue Devils are the Zach Morrises of the basketball world and they are, in the end, all that's wrong with March Madness.

The Irish are not just a bunch of leprechauns!

Today is St. Patrick's Day. If we follow the script, we are supposed to drink until our blood runs green and jig about like a bunch of leprechauns. Sounds fun, and it is, but it also is a bunch of blarney.

St. Patrick's Day is supposed to be an appreciation of all things Irish, yet we Americans have turned it into a big frat party. It's amateur hour over here in the States, and it paints the Irish in an unflattering hue. We seem to imply that their natural state is one of drunken foolishness, as if they were a horde of green-wearing wackos drowning in Guinness. We get taken with our own caricatures of them: Lucky and his Charms, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish mascot, etc. That's about as accurate as reducing Americans to flag-waving, gun-toting braggadocios....that is, there is some truth to it, there are some bad apples, but it's not the whole story. It is, in the end, an insulting reduction of who they really are.

With this in mind, we should still have fun, but I think we should do it a bit differently: take a deeper look at Irish culture. Listen to the music of an Irish artist like Makem & Clancy or U2. Read the poetry of an Irish poet like William Butler Yeats or Seamus Heaney, or the prose of an Irish writer like James Joyce. See a movie by an Irish filmaker like Neil Jordan or Jim Sheridan. Or go online and check out photos of Ireland - my Facebook profile has an album of photos I took on a 2004 bike trip up across Ireland.

Whatever you do, try to dig a bit deeper when you get your Irish on. Chances are, you'll like the pot of gold you find at the end of that rainbow.

Into The Twilight, by William Butler Yeats

OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,

Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;

Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,

Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is aways young,

Dew ever shining and twilight grey;

Though hope fall from you and love decay,

Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:

For there the mystical brotherhood

Of sun and moon and hollow and wood

And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,

And time and the world are ever in flight;

And love is less kind than the grey twilight,

And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

I'm going to hell, and I'm taking you with me

I have to blow off some steam, b/c I'm going to hell and I'm mad as hell.

Right now we're in the middle of Lent, a good time for good Catholics who like to flagellate themselves and others with the unremitting whips of guilt and unworthiness. It is a time when you're supposed to give things up, put on sackcloth, and confess your sins. All of this, of course, will save your soul. It's like magic - follow the recipe and you'll go to heaven.

Lately, however, this recipe has come to taste like a healthy heap of horseshit, and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I want to wake up from my churchy childhood, a nightmare of self-hatred, guilt, and letter-of-the law living that has sucked my life of real life. If you're good you go to heaven and if you're bad you go to hell is the mantra that has kept me from really being myself, being alive, and being happy. 12 years of Catholic school taught me how to be a good boy, not a real man; to do what they want not what I want; to obey rather than to dream.

I've known hell my whole life because of people trying to get me to heaven, and I'm done with all that bullshit.

So don't tell me about heaven and hell: you don't know a damn thing about it. Don't tell me about Jesus: you don't know a damn thing about him. Don't tell me about how to live, because you don't know a damn bit more about it than I. I don't care who you think you are: keep your afterlife, your Jesus, and your judgments to yourself - I'm sick to death of hearing about it, I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.

There, now that felt good!

Am I going to hell for writing this? Of course, because just about anything gets you there these days. So why bother worrying about it? Hell, I might as well enjoy the ride downhill. It sure beats the upward climb.

ps. I think Mick Jagger put it best: "You'll never make a saint of me!" Check out the song at http://tinyurl.com/6bq9ut.

Living up to your name

I would say you are hotter than a thousand suns.
But that's not enough: it's more like a thousand and one

I would call you a rose, but a rose is only pretty
Standing next to you, a rose looks downright shitty.

If you are a rose, as pink as the morning
I'll prick you then, because you make me thorny.

I would show you the moon, but I'd get arrested.
Yet you shine in the night like the lamp at my bedstead.

But what do I call you, the light of my life?
Without whom I would be buried in strife.
Without whom my heart would beat its last beat.
Without whom my hell I would very soon meet.

I'll call you your name, if it's all just the same.
It's a name that suits you, just like I do.
It's a name that you've earned, you for whom I have yearned.
In the end, it's the only thing I can call you, my friend.

Joy.

Forever Youngstown

Rust Belt. That is what they call the swath of onetime manufacturing hubs in the Midwest: Detroit, Cleveland, Akron, Pittsburgh. These cities certainly have an edge of rust to them, as once bustling city centers collect dust, dilapidation, and depression. Factories have closed, yet they still waste a lot of space, like big hulking tombstones bearing homage to bygone good years. People flee the cities for the suburbs, and who can blame them? So, while the Rust Belt burghs have tried hard to shake off the rust, it has been easier said than done.

Nowhere is that more apparent than Youngstown, Ohio, a former steel-producing giant that may be the buckle of the Rust Belt between Cleveland and Pittsburgh. This past weekend I walked about Youngstown for the first time in years, in town for the Cirque de Soleil, which took place at the Chevrolet Center. It felt like I walked into the Twilight Zone. It was a Saturday afternoon, and yet the downtown was deserted. Shops were closed, and the streets were bare. There may as well have been tumbleweed blowing among the ashen buildings and dead streets. I could have streaked the city pantless and nobody would have batted an eye...there was no one there to appreciate such art.

Actually, there were some art afficionados in town, but they were there for the Cirque de Soleil, as was I. So I left the eerie avenues of Youngstown behind and took in the circus. Wow, what an experience. It was as colorful as Youngstown was colorless, with leaping, wheeling, dancing bodies garbed in all the colors of the rainbow wowing the crowd to the accompaniment of surreal tunes. In my younger, stupider days, I used to belittle dancers as sissies and wussies. Ah, no more - any one of these performers could have kicked my ass...and looked good doing so. The tricks and stunts they pulled were tremendous, and my big mouth was open nearly the entire time. It was a sublime mindfuck that was definitely worth the trip.

So I left the circus arm in arm with my favorite clown, Joy, and we walked into the bored yawn that is Youngstown. Strange, but it didn't seem such a downer anymore. If it was dead, it was also at peace. And so were we, as we walked off into the gray night, visions of the circus dancing in our heads, whispering our silent farewells to the silent town, while the clowncars sped off to their next performance.

Paper Mache Manhood

I don't know any other way to say this, so I'll just say it: I love the Twilight saga. Yes, some might view it as a series of estrogen enhanced romances designed for teenage girls, and I have certainly taken my fair share of flak for reading it. But you know what? I still like it. It is great storytelling, the characters are compelling, and it is above all a fun read. I am going to read it all the way to the end, and anyone who has a problem with that can take a long walk off a short pier.

Now, one may well wonder if I am less of a man for feeling this way. Maybe I am, but that still begs the question of what makes a man a man. What is manliness? I used to be under the delusion that it was about being tough, strong, and bigger than the next guy. It was about winning, being cool, being a stud. It was about never showing weakness, sensitivity, or vulnerability.

As I learned a bit more about life, however, I learned one thing: this idea of manliness is a lie. It is, in fact, a damaging delusion dreamed up by a testosterone-addled society and pushed by pandering peddlers of pop culture. But it is, in the end, a bunch of bullshit.

We've all seen examples of this paper mache manhood - flexing, grunting posers in the weight room; gun-toting flag waving NRA sycophants; latte-swilling Blackberry toting white-collared wussies screaming with road rage; self-proclaimed studs strutting at the beach or at bars; smack-talking tools heroing it up in pickup games; and drunken fratboy fools spewing their ear-splitting stupidity at sports bars and sporting events. And, of course, let us not forget our smug, arrogant ex-president George Bush, whose brazen "bring it on" brainlessness put our country up shit creak without a paddle. These so called men are all full of themselves, and all full of shit.

Yeah, I have seen way too much of this bullshit, and even participated in it at times. But it's not me, and it's not what a man really is. Don't get me wrong, there is a place for machismo. Soldiers, cops, and fireman need a healthy dose of it to do what they do, and we'd all be in deep trouble if they didn't have it. They can get away with it because we need them to.

Anyone else, however, should give it up and just be themselves. Cry when you want to cry, read what you want to read and watch what you want to watch. Be who you are, not who they say you should be, not how they say you should be.

That, in the end, is what being a man, what being a human being, really is.

Cleveland Rocks!

A prophet is never accepted in his homeland, but that does not keep him from accepting his homeland....especially when no one else does.

I was born and raised in good ole' Cleveland, Ohio, and I find myself back there again after years of living away. Sort of a prodigal son come home welcomed into the sometimes loving, sometimes hateful embrace of my native land. Since graduating high school in '95, I wandered about like the Chosen People in the wilderness: Boston, Montana, Milwaukee, Ireland, Portland...and now back where I started. Who says you can't come home?

Now don't get me wrong - I do not have the rosiest of relationships with Cleveland. It wasn't until I left town that I began to appreciate it. While I was growing up here, things were different. I loathed my grade school and high school, the long dreary winters, the maddeningly inept sports teams (though I still rooted for them), and the general malaise of bitterness, inferiority, and defeatism that can permeate the city like the industrial pollution of its recent past. Suffice it to say that, when I was 18 and graduating high school I couldn't wait to get the bleep out of town. I was done with it.

Still, you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone, so when I was gone I came to enjoy my visits back to see family and friends. Plus, the legions of thickheaded Cleveland haters (e.g. snotty east coasters) got on my nerves and made me quick to defend my city.

So, for all these haters, and for all the lovers of the city that rocks, here are some of the things I love about Cleveland:

- My parents and legion of cousins, aunts, and uncles are all here, as are a few high school buddies. It is great to be with them again, though I do miss friends elsewhere.

- Lots of bang for the buck, low cost of living. For example, I pay $450/month for the upper half of a double house - two bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, living room, porch, garage.

- There are many nice parks and natural areas all over the greater Cleveland area.

- Lake Erie - if you've never lived by a Great Lake, you don't have a fricking clue how big and beautiful they can be.

- Great art and cultural institutions, all situated in a central location.

- Low traffic, easily-followed streets, and fairly friendly people....none of which could be said for Boston, NY, LA, and the other behemoth burghs that seem so full of themselves.

- My sports teams are here, so I get to watch them all the time...when I was away, I only saw them when they were on national tv, which was rare.

- LeBron James: we have the best basketball player on God's green earth...eat it NYC, LA, BOS!

- Casual style: you can wear jeans and T's anywhere you want out here and not get funny looks.

- My neighborhood, Shaker Square/Larchmere: I live within walking distance of several nice restaurants and coffee shops, a movie theater, a natural area, and the light rail.

All in all, it's a great place to live and raise a family. That does not mean I may not move again in the future: admittedly, I have a hard time staying in one spot for very long. Nonetheless, I have come to think Cleveland is one helluva town, no matter what sort of lousy press it gets from people who have only been there in passing, or not at all.

Yes, haters, Cleveland does rock. Oh, and by the way, our river caught fire 40 bleeping years ago...so get the bleep over it!

Sundays Bite

I have always hated Sundays. It is not that Sundays in themselves are bad, it's that they lead to days that are - Mondays. Mondays always promised something bad.

When I was a kid, it was school. I never liked school. Who did, really? School was a widget factory that manufactured well-behaved, productive contributors to society. It was a 12 year prison sentence for bad behavior as little children, during which we were rehabilitated to "fit in" to adult society. Plus, the inmates, the other kids, behaved like inmates, and I don't miss them.

As an adult, Monday means work, which is not much better than school, except you get paid for it. Just like school, I sit at a desk all day and do what they want me to do.

Therein lies the existential problem that confounds me: after doing what "they" have wanted me to do for so many years I have forgotten what I want to do. Right now, it feels like I do not want to do anything. I go through the motions five days per week, rest on the weekend, and do it again the next week. I suppose it is the luxury of a privileged society to be able to do what one wants, but it is hard not to want it for oneself. I would love to be one of those Pollyannish optimists who "loves what they do" and "look forward to going to work." I envy them, even as I want to smack the smiles off their faces. But I learned to "be a good boy" at school, so I keep my hands to myself.

When you spend your life learning how to be a good boy, what do you really learn? Nothing. You know how to behave, not how to live. You know how to be who others want you to be, not who you want to be. You develop a pretty cover to a book with nothing written on the pages.

I could go on, but it is beginning to sound like one big "blaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh." Funny, that's what it feels like, too.

What Jesus would do

I am endlessly amused by the good pious folk out there who want to tell me all about heaven, hell, and Jesus. Apparently, hell is a big barbecue at which our damned souls are the main course. Better yet, heaven is an eternity of choir practice and church service....yeah, my idea of paradise. And, to top it all off, Jesus will be there to separate the sheep from the goats...what he'll do with the humans, I have no idea. It sounds like he's only interested in domesticated species.

It tickles me to think that these people believe they have a damn clue what they're talking about. Never mind that the Bible says "eye has not seen, ear has not heard" what God has in store for us. Don't tell them that. They simply can't fill their collection baskets or collect their tithes if they don't give us a good scare and send us packing on a guilt trip.

Well, to hell with them, my guess is as good as theirs. So, in response to the bumper-sticker question "What would Jesus do?" I have ventured a top 10 list of guesses:

1. He would fall asleep during Billy Graham's sermon.
2. He would climb to the top of a mountain, shout "I hate you!" to all the people below, and then laugh hysterically.
3. He would walk across the ocean, find his way to the Vatican, and tell the Pope to stop leaving annoying messages on his voicemail.
4. He would appear down in Crawford, Texas, find our esteemed ex-pres, and smack him silly with a good, thick Bible.
5. He would go to Krispy Kreme and perform a multiplication of the donuts.
6. He would tell the crowds "This is my body.....now check out these guns!" before proceeding to flex his biceps and pecs.
7. He would drive on the wrong side of the road and smite anyone who honked at him.
8. He would change bottled water into wine, making it actually worth the price we pay for that crap.
9. He would finally get what he always wanted: the lead role in Jesus Christ Superstar.
10. He would rise into heaven upon the wings of angels...but not before flipping us all the bird.

Now this is a God I can get behind!