I'm Trying...

The more the days wear on, the less patience and tact I have. Which is unusual for me, considering I've been more than diplomatic over my 27 (and if it's God's will, soon to be 28) years of living. But it gets old to be attacked, bullied, disrespected, degraded and ganged up on because I'm open about the b.s. I deal with on a day to day basis from women.

If it's one thing I really hate, it's being told how to feel. Last night's conversation with a good friend who I haven't seen in almost nine years didn't help matters either. Going back to my high school days, myself and three friends of mine gave ourselves the nickname of The Untouchables, kinda like our own version of professional wrestling's Four Horsemen.

Darius was Ric Flair, I was kinda/sorta Ole Anderson, Corey (the friend I spoke to last night) was Tully Blanchard and Matt was Arn Anderson. We went everywhere together, did a bunch of stuff together and were as tight as can be until Corey left Delaware for Minnesota to attend college and live with his mom a decade ago. (Jesus, time flies).

Anyway, he's married now with a three-year old daughter and he was so excited, talking about how rewarding family life was and while I was truly happy for him, it dawned on me that it will never be me. I'm too far gone. I'm pretty much sick and tired of women and the games they play, but of course being heterosexual, that leaves me pretty much assed out in terms of companionship.

And of course somehow, that's my fault. It's my fault that women are superficial and shallow, patently obsessed with a man's bank account, physique and facial features. It's my fault that since I don't measure up in those regards, women think it's cool to string me along in false friendships. It's my fault that anywhere I go, women look at me with distain or derision. It's all me. Whatever.

This post won't win me any popularity contests, but I should be used to that by now. I have feelings like any other normal human being, and for them to be hurt time and time again, I'm well within my rights to speak on what's bothering me and what's hurting me.

Like I said in a previous fed-up-with-people-throwing-shade-at-me post, when you put stuff out here on this vast network, you tend to get feedback, unsolicited or otherwise. But when somebody with their own bs tries to throw me under the bus and says I need therapy? That's a line that should have NEVER been crossed. You? Of all people? Bold, aren't we?

That said, it's sad that I have to find out this way that the only person I can truly depend on is myself. I mean other folks are good for sharing good conversation and laughs with, but when it comes to my personal life and struggles related to it, I'm better off fighting that battle alone and in silence. And that's my trust in humanity is largely shattered. People that you think care about you and your well-being, that should want you to really get better and find happiness, really don't care at all. Unless it's jokes and humor, which apparently I need to be 24/7 for people to even want to talk to me.

And I'm wrong for saying what's on my mind this blatantly, but holding it in would only make things worse. So if anybody's offended, I'm sorry, but when has anyone ever apologized to me?

It's Okay To Be You

When people ask me if I'm happy with myself, my standard reply has been anything but a yes or no answer.

"I know who I am."

Most people see through that and keep pressing me for the real answer they want, but I refuse to give answers I still come face to face with the fact that while I know who I am and what I am, I hate it because it doesn't make me popular with women. I think I'm starting to break out of that finally and it makes day to day life so much easier.

I've always viewed my physical appearance, my personality, my voice, my interests, etc., as being troublesome rather than something to be proud of and something to stand up for. I've let far too many outside opinions affect how I see myself (yeah, that's me - master of the obvious!). Now, I find myself not caring.

If I want to sing "You are the sunshine of my life," as it's playing in BJ's Wholesale club, then I will be singing along as I go down the cereal aisle. If I see a fly classic car at the gas station, I might chat up the owner and compliment the ride. If I want to watch the same 10-15 minutes of the Philadelphia Flyers' 40th anniversary DVD and skate around my living room with the broom as my hockey stick - yep, you guessed it - I'll do just that.

I think part of this awakening is I've grown tired of trying to fit everybody's perception of what I should be. I don't look at myself as being special because I tend to do this a little different from the norm, but I'm not going to let people get away with bashing me because of it. Then again, that's the part I need to master - who cares what everyone else thinks? I know who I am, and now I'm glad to be on the road to the point where I'll be able to say with conviction and happiness that I like who I am.

Because I'm a goofball of epic proportions...

Silly poetry about Softball Crush

Ode to women's softball diva

Hey chocolate girl in them tight softball pants
A brother wants to get closer so we can do the forbidden dance
When you went around second, that outstanding onion was switching so glorious
Almost had me cockeyed like the late great Notorious
You cover centerfield so nicely, snatching balls out of mid-air
I wonder if you can catch a good stroke from the back as I pull on your weave hair
Manager tells me your spoken for, but that can't stop me from dreamin'
You'll be yelling "go for home daddy" while that puddykitten is creamin'
I go to games you play when I don't even have to work.
Why? Well, that's just to watch you work.

Goodbyes Tug At The Heartstrings....

Michael Joseph Jackson knew how to put on a show in life and in death. Of course, his memorial service was held Tuesday in Los Angeles and in between varied work-related tasks, my eyes were glued to the screen as people from all walks of life, all levels of fame, all races/ethnicity, gender, whatever came to say goodbye to the King of Pop.

There were great speeches, like Al Sharpton's "Thank ya Michael," which included the realest of the real statements - "I want to say to his three kids, wasn't nothin strange about your daddy - It was strange what he had to deal with." And there was comedy, as basketball great/black business genius Magic Johnson shared a story about meeting with Mike to be in the "Remember The Time" video and while Magic tried to accomodate the host and order grilled chicken from the chef, the chef bought MJ a bucket of KFC.

There were performances of course, my favorite was John Mayer's phenomenal job playing Human Nature on guitar. Many people felt Usher's performance, including touching Mike's casket, was a bit overdone, but I'll give Usher the benefit of the doubt as he claims Michael as a HUGE influence on his life and career.

However, the most touching and poignant moment came at the service's conclusion when Michael's 11 year-old daughter, Paris Katherine, fought off incredible grief to step to the mic. As soon as I saw Janet let Paris step in front of her to get to the mic, my eyes started stinging and I said to myself "oh my God, the baby's going to speak..."

Three years ago tomorrow marks the day we buried my grandmother, the family patriarch, the cussword queen, the one who taught us all how to cook, the one who did her best to help raise her youngest daughter's two rambunctious kids as she went out into the world of social work to make a living for us. I remember when Grandma passed, July 4th and the day was just incredibly hollow. I just remember that feeling of loss, and even though she and I were close, I literally wanted nothing to do with the funeral.

In fact, my mom and a few cousins had a shouting match with me because I was so against being a pallbearer. I didn't even want my name mentioned as a devoted grandchild, because even though I was, I knew how my family tended to act, and in the wake of losing her, I didn't want to go to jail for curbstomping somebody. I eventually conceded to being a pallbearer, but we all went in the obit, unnamed, as special grandchildren. However, I had to say my goodbyes privately. I regret not asking to at least speak for a few minutes at her service now because even though she's still watching over me, and visits me in my dreams, I never got to tell the immediate world how much she meant to me.

...Paris got her opportunity, and as hurt and sad and fidgety as she was, she made the most of that opportunity. She let the world know that her daddy was the best daddy anyone could ever imagine and that she loved him so much. Lost in all of the drama of Mike's later years, people forgot that he did indeed raise three (at least on the surface) normal, well-adjusted everyday children. By the time she flung her little grief-stricken self into Auntie Janet's waiting arms, I was a teary-eyed mess.

Whether they are Michael Jackson's biological children is not up for debate, nor is the fact of who rallied around those kids. Those children, however they came to be, are card-carrying members of the Jackson family, and that's where they belong - with Mike's eight brothers and sisters and their loving grandmother (I refuse to even give Joe Jackson the time of day in this blog), not with Debbie Rowe, who only wants custody after Mike cut her simple self out of his will.

So with that said, it was a fitting send-off to a man who redefined music and entertainment, but did so with a broken, childhood-deprived heart. Wherever Mike's spirit is now, I hope he realizes how many lives he touched, how many people loved him, and how his wish to make the world a better place is coming true slowly but surely. Berry Gordy said it best, the King of Pop is no longer good enough. RIP to the Greatest Entertainer Who Ever Lived.

Just Another Thought

One thing about me is that if I see or feel something is wrong, I will speak up on it. I don't know any other way. It's been passed down from generation to generation - My grandfather (though I never met the man, he died eight years before I was born), his children (my mom included) and now me, we all tend to speak our minds and let the cards fall where they may. This particular blog is no different.

I preface this entry with that intro as a disclaimer: I'm a grown-ass man, dawg. Job, bills, stress, maybe even a gray hair, the whole nine. And while it is kinda goofy that I do have enough time to let things get to me as much as they do, that fact gives NO ONE the right to pile on with some foolishness. Then again, I also take responsibility for that, because quite frankly there are some folks you just canNOT and SHOULD NOT confide in. It's kinda like a crackhead going to a meth addict for tips on quitting cold turkey - makes no sense whatsoever.

I realize that while I still have some growing to do and that a lot of my troubles in life ( be they professional, personal and individual) I've brought on myself, there's no way I'm going to stand for people dragging my name through the mud or doing and saying dumb stuff to get a rise out of me. Now I realize the easiest way would be to follow the examples of Ghandi and Dr. King and just turn the other cheek, but folks have got me worked up to Huey/Stokely/George/Malcolm levels.

I am Chris. You saw the entry. I have my good and my bad, my ups and downs, my highs and lows, peaks and valleys, orgasms and one-hitter-quitters. That's what life is, nothing is perfect, and to quote Allen Iverson, "everything don't be peaches and cream all the time." Aware that I should be grateful and thankful for whatever little good is in my life right now, I still have every right to question why I get treated the way I do and why certain folks seem to think it's okay to pile on and kick me while I'm down.

If certain folks would think and analyze critically and not continue to push their bra-burning bullshit agenda, they would know that I never claimed to be a sweet and innocent cherub picking dandelions to give to the prettiest girl in school. I stopped claiming nice guy status at 21, it made no sense to me because I knew it wasn't true. I wasn't an evil individual, but I knew I'd have good and bad days and hellacious mood swings, so I embraced them. Yet and still, I know my good points, and they do outweigh the bad, even if it's by a scant margin.

Do I complain a lot? Hell yes, and will continue to do so as long as women continue to shove shit up my nostrils and try to convince me it's Twizzlers Pull N' Peel. I also know that it's going to take an extraordinary effort on my part to get this thing turned around, and I know it won't entail therapy like some anonymous douchebag has suggested. Oh yeah, you. From the same IP address in New York City. You commented on the blog I aired you out on. Anonymous as usual.

So here's your chance to introduce yourself to the world. State your name and why you feel it's important to try and embarrass and insult someone you don't even know by suggesting they be carted off to the looney bin. Oh yeah, that's right - you won't do that. It's much safer to have that yellow streak going up and down your back than owning up to your bold comments with a name and a reason.

For those who read my blog faithfully and comment faithfully, please don't think this is about you, because it's not. I realize that the majority of people and women I talk to are geuninely good folks with common sense who really care about me and if I can get things right and be happy. But for the few this post is directed to, you can take it how you want, doesn't matter to me. Just know that if and when I do break through and find happiness, it won't be any thanks to you.

Signed,

Not-so-nice-guy.