Random Acts of Awesome

There is a very sweet, very foolish young John Denver lookalike sitting in the lounge car right now, guitar in hand, singing folksy music with a reedy voice and a hopeful grin. Surrounded by extremely cranky senior citizens running on little to no sleep and waiting for the dining car to open a glad hour later than originally announced. Blue haired grandmothers and be-sweatered grandfathers who would normally pinch this boys cheek and smile indulgently are glaring at him with teeth literally bared. And he just looks down at his hand written music and ardently serenades them.

I'm trying it again. It's been a little while since I've actively pursued multiple dates. I've had some awesome ones with great people. But for the most part, my life has been pretty stranger free. I've been focusing too much on home, on comfort and stability. On Trevor, honestly, and my comfort and ease with him. Friendship is a wonderful thing. It is. And friendship with someone who is your lover, even more wonderful. But it's not passion. It's not need, and growth, and frenetic, frantic desire. It's a soft, nurturing rain. And, oh, how I've missed thunderstorms. But I've been comfortable, fat and content and lazy. To get the ball rolling, I posted an ad on Craigslist. It's a pretty good one, apparently, because I've got three dates out of it. All with what seem to be really interesting people. This is the ad: Howdy, Craigslist world. It's been a while. I've been busy, life has been hectic, it's not you it's me, ...

Oh, Neil Diamond. Is there any situation you haven't written a song for?? I've been in a good mood lately. Consistently good, that is. I'm always in a good mood for at least a day or 4 a week. But somehow, I rarely end up writing when I'm in a good mood. Or if I do, it's in a social media form, where I'll get feedback and interaction. Apparently, my blog is my private, angsty little basement. BUT NO MORE! I'm hyper. I've been going to the gym twice a day for almost a full week. Ok, I've been going to the gym at least once a day for a full week. I think I've only actually gone twice in one day... twice. It's hard. I'm lazy, and a total hedonist. I've gotten to the point where the gym truly is fun, and I love how it makes me feel after. But it's not as much fun as so many other things in my life. Like sex, or food, or sitting in my backyard with friends, smoking a hookah and drinking a strawberry lemonade with vodka and mint....

This is the story of how I met Kenny Rogers illegitimate son and got serenaded. Sit back, son, and enjoy. I was sitting outside my favorite taproom this afternoon, enjoying a beer and a cigar with my brother. I had pulled out my 5 red dice and 1 black, in preparation for a rousing game of 10,000, which my brother had never played before and which I was looking forward to winning. It was a chilly afternoon, cloudy and promising rain but never delivering. A man walked up to us, and I'm going to be honest, at first I assumed he was homeless and panhandling. But, upon closer inspection, I realized he may well have been homeless, but he wasn't panhandling. Instead, he was leering. I felt like asking him for a dollar. I caught his eye, and he gave me an unabashed, completely shameless grin and a wink. There is something timelessly charming about a white haired, scruffy white bearded homeless looking guy being shameless. Or is that just me? So, being charmed, when he asked to sit ...

I love roadtrips that are defined by music. This one started yesterday morning, soaked in sunshine, with Journey on the radio and interpretive dance, laughter and excitement. And it ends under a midnight marble, black furred silhouettes stark against the skyline, Tom Waits on the radio, sung along to off key while staring out the window, sunburnt and morose.

Dreams, I think, are stories that our unconscious mind has somehow plucked from the ether. I have this wonderful mental image of stories existing whole and into themselves, strings of fancy, dancing motes of light and knowledge, traveling, always moving, vibrating their way through the universe. So many stories, each particle, each wave of physical reality, traveling with a seed, a single kernel attached. An idea. Maybe these stories that travel our universe were created by life, because they're certainly shaped by it. Do dreamers on other worlds close their eyes and find their own landscapes, already crafted for them, ready to be populated by the characters their entire world has helped to shape? I love my dreams. I wake up sometimes, and just lie there, remembering the story I was privileged enough to become an avatar for, even for such a short period of time. Not a very good avatar, sadly. I think the authors of the world, the truly great and the truly terrible, are people w...

I'm reading a book called Pieta right now, by George Klein. I'm sitting in Baileys, just after work, nursing a beer that is half barleywine, half heaven. Well, ok, I'm actually typing RIGHT now. But only because of this book. I hate it when I have these thoughts, thoughts I want to remember later, but I'm too busy reading the book that inspired these thoughts to write them down. I'm going to try and write and read at the same time. We'll see if this works. He writes about the great question posed by Albert Camus (a man I've trained myself not to like, due to years of religious references). "Is life worth living?". Yes or no. My heart responds with yes. But the way he writes about the darkness... the ravens black wings, the black pool waiting at the edge of your sight, the knowledge of Nothingness that pervades every beautiful thing. I relate to those, deeply. So, light, or dark? I see both. These words. These simple symbols on a white page....