cliche alert

Election time. RNC last night, next week DNC.

I want to post more political things, but I am sick and tired of that sinking feeling I get when I post something on Facebook and log off, knowing that someone is going to engage me in a heated discussion on a controversial topic when I log back on. It makes me wish I never even posted anything in the first place.

Don't get me wrong: I still have enough piss and vinegar in me for any conversation or debate you can name. I'm just sick and tired of doing it. Because venting my spleen is not a sign of happiness. It's a sign of angry-ness, and although I will probably always be a little angry and not 100% happy, I do have control over it.

Right? Right.


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Living in the Midwest is like going back in time ten or fifteen years: pot is not legally available at a dispensary down the corner (in fact, even liquor stores are closed on Sunday); food prices (and wages) are ridiculously low, as is the cost of living; and there are at least twelve churches within five miles of my home in every direction.

The liberals and lefties out here are a lot more diligent and less tolerant of conservative thought. That's because in Los Angeles most political types are wannabes and poseurs, whereas out here you have to back up your words if you really mean them. In California there are conservative pockets, yes, but it's mostly a liberal paradise; a person can rant all day long about taboo subjects and never have to face the music or deal with the consequences of their words. This is not exactly the Bible Belt (Indiana is located right above it) but it was once a stronghold of the KKK in the years after WWI. Conservatism and Republicanism run rampant here. If you want to have that magical conversation about religion or politics in the bar, make sure you have your peeps with you.

All of my peeps are back home, so I pretty much keep my mouth shut. Fortunately, Indiana has a lot of liberals, so I do get the chance to exchange ideas with people on the same page. And yet it's not the same, plus I'm no spring chicken-- I have a wife and a kid to think about, so (to use yet one more cliche than I already have) I try not to write checks with my mouth that my body can't cash.

In other words, I'm not trying to get tied to a monster truck and dragged around town just because I like Obama. Call me a coward if you want, but these days I only engage in battles if it looks like it's gonna be a fair fight.


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Of course, I like taking the piss out of both sides of the spectrum, so I pick fights with liberals too. But what I'm finding out here in Indianapolis is that, while there is room for a middle ground, it's more black-and-white than being back home. Whereas back in L.A. I can talk shit about Democrats who are just as bad as Republicans, out here it is more of a mystification. People don't always get the fact that I am firmly to the left on everything. What I always felt was a willingness to self-criticize is perceived out here, I feel, to be some sort of political/ethical self-hatred.

I always felt that the Left's greatest attribute was their ability to examine themselves less subjectively than the Right, but lately that's all been changing. The GOP has had to reflect upon themselves a lot, if only because they are struggling to find a common ground upon which to mount their attacks at the incumbent. But the Dems have become more subjective and less open to (Cliche Alert) taking the plank out of their own eye before taking others to task over that tiny mote. Is this the result of taking back the White House after 8 years of George W. Bush?

I don't know. I mean, I DO know, but I'm not going to get into that anymore. Sick and tired, remember? Such a drain to log onto Facebook and see all these comments waiting for me. Maybe that's why I am spending less time on FB and trying to make more time for the blog: no one is forced to read this, but if I post something in my News Feed or (worse) write a Note and forward it to people, I am not only being invasive but I'm kind of asking for it.


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I'm glad that at least I work with a lot of people who are politically on the Left, or at least have enough of a sense of humor to laugh about their conservative beliefs (if they have any at all). Like everyone else who works, I spend a lot of time with my co-workers so it's important to like them as people. I don't think I could hack it in this city if I had to work at Chick-Fil-A, for example. But who's to say that the people who have to work at a place like Chick-Fil-A aren't nice? Some of them might even be Democrats. Or gay. Or gay Democrats. This economy sucks, people have to get jobs where they can find them.

Is it betraying a principle if a gay person works at Chick-Fil-A? Most would argue that it is. But if that gay person has a domestic partner and an adopted child and they need cash, is it wrong then? Or is it a necessary evil? We've all had to work for an evil corporation at one point or another-- do we ever get absolved of that, even if we go onto more humane employers? Will working at a used bookstore wash my hands of the stink left over from my time at Clear Channel?

Is it wrong for me to eat a Chick-Fil-A sandwich even though I support gay marriage? Was it wrong of me to criticize the gay movement's mishandling of the "No on Prop. 8" campaign in California in 2008? Is there a satisfactory answer to any of these questions, one that will sate everybody's lust for judgment?

I guess the answer to all of these is: depends on where you live. There's a Chick-Fil-A in Santa Clarita, just north of Los Angeles. It's been there for a little over a year. I don't know if there was a huge show of support out there on August 1st. I'm sure that even if there was, it paled in comparison to out here, where there are more Chick-Fil-A's than I can stomach (pardon the pun).

Personally, I think their food is a little bland, but my son loves their playground area. But then again, what does he care? His best friends are the neighbor kids who are being raised by a lesbian couple. Given a choice between hanging out with his best buddies or a chicken sandwich, I know what my son would choose: he'd choose his friends, because that would make him the happiest... and that's what it's all about, in the long run.

Right? Right.


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Last year I only blogged four times, and all of them came in the Fall.

So what was I doing last year in the first half that wasn't blog-worthy?

I had gone back to Los Angeles. The move to the Midwest occurred in December of 2010 but I was having trouble finding a job out here. If I'd stuck it out I probably would've been hired at my current job in February of 2011, but we were living with my mother-in-law and she's retired, gets a pension check and the money was tight.

I had to take care of unfinished business: We left my truck and half of our belongings in Albuquerque, New Mexico after one of the tire pegs on my truck broke. I also had to pay off some tickets in L.A. and grab some things we didn't take with us. But the clincher was when my cousin said there was a job opportunity that was paying well.

With the help of family in Denver, Colorado, I was able to get to New Mexico, fix my truck, drive it back to L.A., apply for the job with my cousin's company, and work my ass off until I had enough money to bring my wife and son back to the West Coast.

But I was going to have to be apart from my wife and son for at least six months.


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I stayed at the house where my grandparents lived, but the house was already filled to capacity. After my grandparents' passed away my aunt and her family took over the house, plus my aunt and some of my cousins were staying there as well. There was room for me in the garage. My dad converted a section of it into a small bedroom the size of a jail cell.

I had to do this because I could not afford rent. I was sending the majority of my weekly pay to my wife and keeping only enough money for gas and food. I crashed on a lot of couches as well. Many of my friends who tried to help me out couldn't understand how I was making so much money and yet sometimes had to sleep in my truck or rent a crappy motel room for the night.

Meanwhile, I got the job with my cousin's company: Bank Of America. Foreclosure Department. As if my situation wasn't depressing enough... but it was money, and I hadn't worked in almost two years. That job kept me afloat and got me through a rough time.

And during that time I began to realize that, while I was back home where I was raised and came of age, my real family was living in Indianapolis, braving the worst winter in recent memory without me.


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I saved up enough money to fly out to Indianapolis for Easter. When I called my wife to tell her that soon we'd be coming back to L.A., she told me she didn't want to come back. Things were going good for her out in the Midwest. She was working in her field, something she couldn't do in L.A. Our son was making friends and going to a good daycare, and they were on the verge of getting into a nice apartment thanks to the money I was sending.

While this made me feel a little bit sick, I also knew that my family was happy. The only thing that would make it perfect would be for me to be there.

I remember the morning after my flight arrived. I hadn't seen my son when I got in because he was asleep. My jet lag caused me to wake up extra early, and I hid behind the couch when our little man woke up and walked into my mother-in-law's living room to watch cartoons.

When he saw me, it was a look I will never forget: a mix of incomprehension and familiarity. He didn't know who I was, and yet he knew exactly who I was, and he was trying to figure it out. It took him ten minutes to warm up to me, but when he did it was as if I'd never left.

That Easter was special, and when it was time for me to go back to L.A. I took a walk with Little Man in the park and talked to him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. But I'll be back." I don't believe in talking down to children, just talk to them straight up and they'll understand.

Little Man lowered his head. He was not happy about it.

"Hey, listen to me," I said to him. "You have to be brave, for your mama. Take care of her. You're the man until I come back. But I will be back. You have to be strong, OK?"

He nodded his head. He didn't cry or whimper or anything. We just enjoyed our time together for as long as we had it.

The next day at the airport, he was so happy, so chipper. I was the one who couldn't hold back my emotions, but my son made me so proud.


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Six months turned into seven, then eight. But I was now ready to drive from Los Angeles to Indianapolis, with a stop in Denver to recharge with my uncle who had so graciously helped me to get back out to L.A. in the first place.

It would take me five days.

As I drove, I started to manifest symptoms of high blood sugar and diabetes. It runs in my family, and I was overweight with a bad diet. My eyesight became blurry and I had to stop almost every hour to urinate. But I soldiered on.

I think I could've made the trip in three days had I not stopped so much, but it was better to take my time. Soon I would be back with my wife and my son, for good. No more having to send me money from afar, or relying on photographs and video text messages to keep my memory alive for my son. I would not have to miss any more moments with my family.

On August 15th, 2011, I entered the Indianapolis city limits. I was in the home stretch, as they say.

By that time, my wife had moved into the new apartment. It was there that I drove, and when I entered our new home I heard Bob Dylan playing, and I saw my wife and son, and I hugged them and kissed them, and I swore that I would never leave them again.

The year anniversary of that trip back to Indy just passed, and it fills me with a strange sorrow and a complex joy. I can't believe I went through all that. There were some lonesome nights out there, to be sure.

And I wonder if I really had to do all of that, just to end up here. I mean, I think I could've found work if we'd just held out a bit longer. But then again, if we'd been the types to hold on just a little bit longer, we would have never moved out of L.A. to begin with-- we would've just stayed put until that Bank Of America gig came along.

We all did what we had to do. And I suspect that somehow we are better off for it, as a family. My son will never remember that for eight months I was away, and even I have forgotten how long it seemed I was out there until now. My wife is embarking on the career she always wanted, and I am a working stiff once again.

As for how I feel about the city of Indianapolis, that's another blog entry. But suffice it to say, I'll endure anything if it means making things better for my family. And I am not just saying that-- I can back it up.

Happy Birthday to The Hamburglar. Robble robble robble.

I'm getting that Authorial Vibe again. What I refer to as That Writerly Urge.

I don't have a whole lot to say right now. That is, I have nothing special to report. My life is surprisingly normal. My wife is great, my son is great, my job is great... no complaints here.

I am feeling the need to write again. But this time, my need to be creative is motivated by something other than loneliness and a desire for attention.

Yes, I can admit it now: the crux of my writing in the past was informed by low self-esteem and a paucity for genuine love in my life.

Wait a minute: I was copping to that even back in the day! A cursory glance through my archives proves this. EVERY post was some lovelorn lament or a bitter screed against some perceived threat against my well-being.

I used to get mad when people had nothing to say. I used to get mad when people didn't leave comments on my page. I used to write every day, several times a day.

And now look at me. Sporadic posts, no one reading my scarcely updated entries, and not a whole lot to impart in terms of content.

What happened to me?

Oh yeah, that's right. I became happy.


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Misery is not a prerequisite to creativity. I know this. But I used to think I had to be tortured, whether by myself or by others, in order to create.

I realize now that, while confronting personal demons can result in spectacular bursts of creativity, it is not a prerequisite by any means.

After all, isn't the pursuit of creativity the same thing as pursuing personal happiness? Wasn't it my goal to be satisfied with what I had accomplished through my dalliances in writing, music and art?

The truth is, I am proud of the things I undertook. I am proud of the works I created, even if they never went beyond my own personal circle of friends and associates. But when I look back and see the pain I was in, that kind of makes me shutter.

It's sad. It's so obvious now that I was not happy. And that marred my work.

I'm glad to be writing from a healthier perspective, that's for sure.


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So I perused the Archives and found this post from December 2004. Rather than link it, I am going to simply cut-and-paste the relevant section of the post.

I think it speaks volumes about my state-of-mind back then. But it also serves as a forward reminder, in a way. It's almost as if I anticipated the day when I'd be slacking in the blog department and needed to send myself a wake-up call for posterity.

That makes me seem prescient as all hell, but what is art if not bordering on the clairvoyant every now and then?

So here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

And I'll be writing more later. You can bet on it.


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POST FROM DECEMBER 2004

Don't turn your back on the blog. One day, you're gonna need it on your side. But will the blog be there for you when you need it most? Not if you keep mistreating it.

Show some love and respect to your blog. Make at least one post, even if it's two lines, six words, and five syllables long.

If you don't do it for yourself, then do it for me.

Okay?

Hell, I don't have anything to say today, and I'm swamped with work, but I still manage.

I always manage...

Stop browsing for junk online. Stop ordering from Amazon. Stop frequenting gossip forums and porn sites.

All I'm asking you to do is make one fucking entry.

Just one.

If you really are in it for the love, then write one word.

That's all.

OK, gotta go-- I have a life too, you know.


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