T-Shirts

Who wants a free T-shirt that says: I want to impress family, friends, and random strangers. Come on now, be honest. Raise your hand. What? No takers? I got small, medium, extra medium, large and larger. It’s a giveaway,and you can wear another shirt on top, because who cares?

Then there’s the Anything you can do, I can do better, T-shirt. Despite being a good fit for most folks, I bet it’s going to prove equally unpopular. I also wager that I don’t have to worry about optional wording, like: With one hand tied behind my back.

A favorite T-Shirt of mine says: I work my ass off for nothing.. Unsuccessful artists and inventors, mimes, puppeteers, and other nut-jobs and outcasts of all sorts keep this item on back order. It makes me wonder. Is failure why I’m unpopular? Here I thought it was my age, my lack of money, or my terrible attitude. Whatever, the lower decks are flooded this lovely morn on the Titanic and life sucks. All we have is each other. But what if we don’t like each other? The truth is a map and a trap—another hot-selling T-shirt. I should put it into production, make a million, and buy something ludicrous. Then there’s the one T-shirt that everybody can wear. A one size fits all number. A T-shirt that proclaims: I’m not perfect, but I’m never wrong.
 
You may know a person practicing the scales to get better on a musical instrument, or building up their strength to climb a mountain, or swim a marathon. Some activity to get them through days and nights without love, liquor, or sufficient entertainment. You may think that person is crazy. They may be. (Passionate nuts often turn the corner on sanity, especially if crazy looks like a haven.)

I say this, because I spent years in my cave writing a novel, and now as I stumble out into the day, shade my eyes, and feel sorry for myself—- because no one extended me support. No, that’s not true, because I did receive financial support in the form of reduced rent and a begrudged acceptance of financial disappointments. Anyhow, as I rewrote my book, from time to uncertain time, I could have used a pat on the back, a morale boost of some kind. (Too bad I’m not double-jointed, as I could have patted myself on the back. Just remember, it’s bad form to whine. Especially, if you got a reason to get your lucky ass out of bed.)

I used to earn a pittance from various disgusting jobs. In this bizarre world, where the worse the work, the less it pays—and visa-versa—-would I have survived on my own? Would art have substituted for love? All I know is that: Breaking down can be the hardest thing. Hey, there’s another T-shirt. Or how about: People make me crazy, but no-people make me crazier. (Go rake some leaves, kiddo, and try not to get all weepy.)

I figure most people write me off as a harmless fool, and once people go to the trouble of putting you in a box, they expect you to stay there. People like to think that they’ve got reality by the tail. They like to think that they know all about life. Consequently, they need the world to align with their ideas of what’s what. And if the world doesn’t co-operate, if people get a notion that doesn’t make sense, well it’s a contradiction, and contradictions are denied.

As my time on earth draws to a close. I hope I’m not be reassigned anywhere there’s people. They’ve been so disappointing. Maybe that’s their fault. Or maybe it’s mine. Then again, maybe no one’s to blame. All I ever wanted was to share a few laughs, and make people love me. But I turned into a cave dweller, and got cozy with words. (Evidently, I need to believe that I excel at something.) 

But what if there is no reassignment? What if this is all there is? Life—the great experiment. But to be dead—is that as blissful as ignorance? (Every child has to grow up, and they say the Buddha didn’t want to be reborn—not in heaven, even. How uninspiring is that?) I don’t know about you, but I’ don’t want to be nothing forever. No wonder people deny so-called reality. I
mean, everybody knows that life is temporary. But precious few of us live that way. People like to think that they’re important. that what they do matters, but love, and friendship are everything. But love and friendship depend on edits—-polished versions of who we are,—-and letting other people have their way. All I know is that silence is usually safe. So, in and out of my cave, I tend to say nothing. (Some might call that noble, but II call it chicken.)

My mother used to tell me that I was a bad boy. She didn’t know that children were not to be spoken to that way. (Where’s Dr. Spock when you need him?) I mean, is it logical to care how I fare in the Nice Person Competition? (I was better, or worse, or somewhere in the middle, and the winner got a ribbon and a yum-yum cake. The ribbon wasn’t edible.)

Many people believe that the world is what they say it is. But whether a rambling monologue is characterized as a conversation, a discussion, or a talk, it’s still a monologue. But facts matter not to people in love with their own voice. Their words shape reality—-they think.Their perceptions and their actions are infallible—they think.

Millions blame our government for the Corona Virus. (But not wonderful me. And the epidemic clearly didn’t do the economy any favors, and It took almost a year before a vaccine was available. Those facts didn’t change any opinions. (Grocery stores, and other retailers raised their prices , because of the virus, but failed to lower them again in later, healthier times.)

Meanwhile, it appears that the rich are extremely superficial. And they may have a house in Aspen that no one lives in, and a couple of condos in Dubai. Meanwhile, they’re eyeing a 16-room apartment in Paris. The rich make and spend lots of money. (Maybe you heard?) Also, the rich feel superior.(They have more money, and mostly, they hide their boredom better than we do.) But they secretly worry that their wealth might disappear. And their looks, their status—they want to be liked for who they really are. Like me for who I really am is a catchy T-Shirt—-whoever you really are.

You can insult some people, and you’re likely to get away with it, as long as you don’t insult their persona, their prop, I call it. By prop, I mean, how they want the world to see them—-a spruced up version of who they really are. For example, I had a friend who kept beer in his garage that he never drank—-beer for show, in other words. The bottles were prominently displayed, because beer-drinking is the essence of a regular guy, and the man had long ago applied for said status. My friend abstained, so as not to unravel, I suppose. But If he had said, I don’t drink, that would have worked for me. (His personal choice is not my biz—-obviously.) (I probably try to fool people sometimes in ways that no one really gives a shit about, as well, like using profanity, or ending a sentence with a preposition.)

At first, I believed that my friend wanted to help me get discovered—whee, here I am, over here Then I realized that what my erstwhile pal really wanted was to introduce me at parties, and if I became somebody, hopefully, I would name him at the podium, as Ir I brandished my trophy. (But toxic me, there I go, getting harsh again.)

Anyway, one sad day, I hurt Mr. Beer-In-The-Garage’s feelings. Supposedly, his feelings aren’t readily accessible, because he’s a regular guy. (His blood is red, and likely he can kill.) I wasn’t trying to bruise his emotions, but I spoke the truth, and that was foolish. (The truth is dangerous. It can make people lethal. Anyhow,I believed that our relationship might benefit from some disagreeable honesty. So, I blithely and foolishly opined that my friend’s art, while accomplished, wasn’t original.Naturally, my ex-friend didn’t say that he was offended, or that I’d hurt his feelings. Instead, he slandered me to protect his persona. I imagine that he used a rehearsed preamble with other people—-words to the effect that he hated to talk behind my back, but it would be un-neighborly not to warn people that my word was no good. Of course, it’’s all conjecture on my part, but people that used to smile at me would greet my grandson and my dog and ignore me. If I was regarded, at all, it was as if I was a pile pf dog-poo that they’ had stepped in with their waffle-bottoms.

I speculate that my ex-friend believed that I had broken a promise. But it never happened. I kept my word, though the timing of events was misleading. (I appreciated that Mister X had asked permission to emulate a certain artistic technique of mine, Subsequent research revealed that the technique already existed, but I couldn’t forgive the back-stabbing. That I was regarded poorly by mutual acquaintances used to depress me. Now I don’t worry about it. (Though it may not be true, I think that I was slandered.)

Then there’s The Incident. (Warning: I’m getting things off my chest. Explaining how I became unpopular.) Anyway, once upon a younger time, a relative hit on me: “How come you don’t like me?” the relative said. “What are you talking about?” I replied. “I like you fine.” “Then how come you never touch me?” the relative said, as if her words were trumps. In hindsight, I do wish my reaction had been more tactful. That I’d kept my cool and shown some grace. I should have said that I was honored, but we’re family, so no can do—something to that effect, something other than getting shocked and outraged.

Years later, I was falsely accused by the relative. A story was told that cast me in a villainous light. Anyhow, said relative is no more. A gentleman, therefore, I’m not. But soon I will be no more, as well. In the meantime, I am now a disciple of the Truth, so I tell my side of things here in what seems like safety—-events, as I recall them.
 
Then someone lied to my best friend. Someone, who had been pals for a long time with my friend. Someone, who sent my friend , “War and Peace,” texts in the middle of the night. My best friend texted back the requested professional advice. An old’-friend’s fee was reached. But nothing of their agreement was put in writing. There wasn’t even a handshake. The legal advice was worth thousands of dollars, even at a discount. But it hinged on a verbal agreement. It was a matter of trust.

Then one day, the someone in question called my friend to say that, regretfully, they were unable to honor their end of the bargain. A disappointing profit was cited. But adult toys were displayed, as agreed-upon payments were not made. My friend still pretends to like the formerly-trusted “someone,” but I had acquired some wolf tickets. By that. I mean that I no longer liked somebody for my friend’s sake. So. I became despised, in turn. (And the world turns. Or so it goes, as a (dead) writer used to say.)

There’s other stories I could mention, stories that ended badly. Everybody has stories of how people deceived them. (I promise that I’m nearly done.) Anyhow, this story involves someone who used to matter to me,. We walked towards a free concert. And (I hope that it’s wrong—--the old saying about how a person can be judged by the friends that they keep, for I have none now) Anyhow, someone-who-used-to-matter-to-me asked me if I was feeling badly. My reply was a nod and a one- word affirmative., (It'’s fair to say, that, although I’m not the cheerleader type, I’m not usually a downer.. Anyhow, a touch of understanding, an unoriginal, but heartfelt, I’m-sorry-you-don’t-feel-okay, would have meant a lot just then. Failing that, silence would have sufficed. But a ripe load of snark was dumped on a day made fragile by mortality.He’d “heard” that I was learning Buddhism, but he had decided that Buddhism didn’t make any sense. (And, if I talk about this elsewhere, sue me.)

Anyhow, I didn’t say that I had outgrown his religion too, but I kept quiet. Despite our many differences, he laughed at my jokes.. He thought I was funny, and I thought he was intelligent, but my staring despairingly into the void had made him more competitive than usual. He didn’t like coming in second at anything. Except being depressed. So, his responses were confused (“’m feeling more depressed than you ,” was all he could say,, and his unsympathetic responses were hurtful. We didn’t know what to make of each other, and we exchanged wary looks, I used to be that competitive too.. But. nowadays, I hide behind humor. I let other people get angry, competitive, or drunk. Let other people jabber their brains out, using whatever defensive mechanism creates a tangent. (Because the Titanic is sinking, and as we deny the icy sea that surrounds us,, the savage truth lifts its snout and snorts.
 
Anyway, with tombstones in my eyes, I turned my back on my competitive friend—literally turned my back. What an asshole, right? At the time, it felt like that I didn’t feel like I had a choice. Such was my mind-set. I mean, excuse the histrionics, but I was too busy surviving to make nice, and Mr. Snarky was too competitive to be a friend in need.

The month before I had allowed Mr. Snarky a few idle death threats. One night we double-dated with our wives, and the next day I sat in the sun to text the guy. I anticipated some fun repartee, but to my surprise, I received death threats. To say the threats were unexpected would be a gross understatement. Evidently, though,the guy felt threatened. I replayed our time at the restaurant, but no infractions came to mind. And neither of our ever-vigilant wives had scolded me. I hadn’t gotten out of line, I figured, yet the man was clearly upset. He alluded to an invincible TV attorney, who would help him get away with murder—-mine. My last friend on earth wasn’t joking, and I wasn’t laughing. I should have asked why he was so mad. In lieu of which, I eventually, developed an unflattering theory.

But my nature is to blame myself. Meanwhile, the deck is tilting higher, the ship is breaking in two, and we’re all going crazy. Well, I’d obviously said something, and my “friend” had taken whatever I’d said the wrong way, and now it was festering. I realized again, that trying to get a laugh is risky, especially if people think that their persona is being threatened.

But I have to mention Jean—his wife. Even though we were growing apart after she married Mr. Snarky, Jean was an old friend. Had it been anybody else, I would have cancelled our plans to see the free concert, made some excuse and faced down my blues in private. Anyhow, I often wear my feelings on my sleeve, and Jean asked me if I felt sad.
         “Guess so,” I managed.
         “Oh, honey, Jean gloated, as if I deserved her scorn. As if I was alone on the Titanic. I resented her tone, but Mr. Snarky had rescued her from loneliness, and now she was cosigning her husband’s disapproval—a good, little wife. We had been pals for 25 years, but Jean was choosing sides. She had to throw me under the bus. Being her own woman vs. loneliness was no contest. Besides, money was involved.

Well, time for one last T-shirt. I’m thinking:of going with: Don’t count on righteous shoulder bumps. That might be politically incorrect, though. Mr. Shoulder Bump and I were buds for over a decade, . Sometimes he was the only one laughing when I told a joke. I used to love the guy. Now I just like him, but what does it matter? We’re all stepping off soon—-him. you, me.

Another old friend warned Mr. Shoulder Bump about me. (I wasn’t privy to what was said. Nor will I be.) But, suddenly, I was regarded like an enemy, not a close friend.

The worst thing about being slandered is that nobody gives you a day in court. You’re starring in a Kafka novel, and the reason you’re being judged remains unknown—take your best guess. (No one has ever come to me and said: So-And-So is talking stink about you, saying this and that.) No one gives you a chance to defend yourself, possibly because to do so would rat out the guy stabbing you in the back. In this particular instance, the back-stabbber had sex with my main squeeze. (My main squeeze told me so, and I think Mr. Shoulder Bump knew about it.) Bottom line,: I didn’t love either guy anymore. How could I?. If I had told either of them my feelings were hurt, would it have made a difference?