bleckblog: musings of a community college english teacher

Okay, I got back from my celebrity gig being interviewed about bicycling on local cable 5, the city's channel where they also draw rave reviews broadcasting city council sessions. At least Rachel and Tobias watched and had kind things to say. I don't feel I did that well, and I stumbled some on a couple of questions when my mind went blank, but that's the way it goes with live! television. This was my second time, at least, doing a show of this sort. Couple that with two sessions on Comcast Local Edition and I've got a lot of airtime under my belt. Oh yeah, and the J.P. Patches show as a kid, with my sister's Brownies group I think it was. Five times on television, in Seattle, Spokane and Las Vegas. A star is born, not. Anyway, here's a couple thousand more words of the not so great American novel. I broke the 44,000 word barrier, leaving me only 6,000 words to get done tomorrow. It's do-able, but it won't be easy.

Dad, or should it be L------, or something else, something a little less endearing than either of those. Something profane. Something hurtful. But all that I can capture right now is Joe Cocker singing “my baby, she wrote me a letter.” But I didn’t get a letter, and I don’t have a baby, not the type he’s talking about, Joe Cocker. No. No letter. No baby. No father it seems as well.

It’s hard to know how to start, where to begin, even what to think right now. I’m starting to think in some ways that B----- hasn’t been that far off about you in the things he’s said, but I couldn’t see those things until now. Maybe he’s been right about me as well, about how I’ve been sucked into the emotional and manipulative black hole that you are. Or maybe I’m seeing them now because I want to, because I don’t want to see things in some other muted, obscured light. I just wish I knew.

So, where do I start. Never in my wildest, dankest dreams did I ever expect to walk in on my father and find him screwing my girlfriend. Maybe she wasn’t my girlfriend anymore, but on the surface she was, superficially. We visited the house together, as a couple. You’d think that would count for something. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. My father with my girlfriend. This is the sort of thing I’d expect to see in some trashy soap opera, maybe on a talk show, Jerry Springer when he was as outrageous as could be, trying to start a fight. What would we do on the Jerry Springer show? Would we talk calmly about things? Would we cry, hug and make up? Maybe throw chairs. It would have to be me throwing the chairs. There’s no reason for you to be that angry, unless I can think of something to say to make you angry, maybe tell mom, but it won’t be news to her, not that much. News because of how you met your latest and greatest, news because she was with me, but not news because this is hardly the first time you’ve cheated on mom. But it is the first time you’ve cheated on me, that I know. So what would happen?

I guess one of us would be out there talking with Jerry, maybe with others in similar situations. Would it be a panel of fathers who screw their kids partners? Or kids whose parents screwed their partners, boyfriends or girlfriends. Either one would make for good ratings, a good sweeps week show. About the only thing that might make it more attractive to the audience is if it was fathers hitting on boyfriends, or mothers hitting on girlfriends. Certainly the lesbian angle would play better. There could be a kiss or two on screen from those who formed some sort of real bond, but not between the men. Viewers can handle women kissing, but not men. Not on day time television. But that doesn’t matter; that’s just for the ratings.

What matters is how we would act. Would I throw a tantrum, a chair, both? Would I curse you up and down, pull my hair out, scream, sob, get down on my knees and beg for an answer, for some understanding. Is that what I’m doing now with this letter? Maybe that is what I’m doing now in writing this. Truth be told, I’m writing this because I’m at Justin’s and he won’t let me leave until I finish this, until I get it all down on paper. He gave me a legal pad and a pen, made some coffee and told me to start writing. I’m not sure how long ago that was. I’ve already written to Portia. I haven’t sent anything off yet, and don’t even know if I will. The same is true of this letter. I’m writing it but don’t know if I’ll send it. Maybe I will, maybe I’ll send it to mom so she can know, or maybe I’ll just put it away somewhere, somewhere I can find it when I need to remind myself how things can be, or maybe in the future it will be something to look back on and laugh about, but not now. I don’t know that I’m too confused, or angry or hurt to laugh at this point. Maybe I’m too stunned, too blown away. But Justin is making me write this and he won’t let me leave until I’ve exhausted myself, gotten it all out. Like I said, I wrote Portia already and that took some time.

Justin says so far I’m in denial about how fucked up all of this is, but I’m not sure. It’s humiliating, that’s for sure. That just came to me. I’m angry because I was, and am, humiliated. That makes me want to humiliate in return. How could I humiliate you? I’d have to give that some thought? I guess I could sleep with mother, but that seems to make you the victim, and I don’t know if that would serve as revenge. It doesn’t seem like it would. I could get a tattoo, a heart with a knife through it and the words, in a ribbon, a scroll I guess, and script, saying “my dad fucked my girl, really, he did” or something like that, but that might get in the way of things later on. It might be something I regret, though it would probably be a conversation starter, and get me lots of sympathy. But then people would start thinking, man, what’s his problem if his girl chooses his father over him? If the women are thinkers, they’ll think through the sympathy angle, and if they aren’t that smart, I can’t imagine anymore than a sport fuck for a relationship, not even fuck buddies. No, a tattoo wouldn’t be a good idea, not one that makes it too clear.

Maybe I could tell mom, or shout it from rooftops, or put it up on a billboard, but I’d be shaming myself in the bargain. People would probably be asking “What sort of kid does that to his father?” They should be asking “what sort of father does that to his kid?” That would be the question. So, what sort of father does do this to his kid? Can you tell me that? Maybe if I knew that, that would be good enough. I would at least get to understand, to see it from your view. What sort of man screws his son’s girlfriend? How would Freud answer that? Sometimes a fuck is just a fuck? But is this fuck a noun or a verb? A thing or an action? Freud isn’t providing the easy answer on this one. But that could be the answer, sometimes a fuck is just a fuck. A fucker is just a fucker. That’s why the fucker does what he does, because he’s a fucker. Maybe that’s all that needs to be known. And that’s what the focus of the Jerry Springer discussion could be—when is a fucker not a fucker? Or, once a fucker, always a fucker? Can one escape their inner fucker? How fucked up can a fucker get? How fucked up is up? Just how much?

So, you can see that I have questions, plenty of questions. And no answers. None. None whatsoever. I guess that’s the way it is sometimes. In fact, I know that’s the way it is sometimes. But an answer just came to me as I was writing this down. Something just clicked. I need to not be part of you, at least in as much as I can. I need to be me, for better or worse. It’s like I need to divorce you and marry myself, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, and whatever else gets said as a wedding vow. I need to be me, rise or fall on my own merits, not because you propped me up or pushed me along. No, I need to fail on my own terms now.

Seems Justin is kinda smart. He could have told me fuck all and I would have blown him off at this point. He could have told me you were a prick, and I might have believed it, if only for awhile. Or he might have told me to chill, to let things blow over. I might have listened to that too. Hell, maybe if you would have told me these things I would have listened. But now I know different. Justin’s making me write these things made me see for myself. Yeah, you’re a prick. It would be hard to deny that given what happened today, and god knows how many other days. But until I put the words together myself, without any direct prompting, because I just put down what I was thinking, that brought me to understand how things are, how you are, how I need to be, and how things have to be from now on. So, maybe today isn’t so bad after all. I have more truth in my life now than I did this morning. Whoever said “the truth will out” was right. The truth is out. And while it’s cliché, it’s setting me free as well. The truth is setting me free. When I started writing this, I never thought I’d say what I’m about to say, but thank you. Thank you for finally setting me free.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do now, or next. I do know that I’m going to have to find a way for myself. That’s the silver lining in all of this mess, my finding my own way.

Roddy

Mom,

I’m sorry but I had to leave for home unexpectedly. Something came up that I’d rather not explain at this point. Maybe dad can tell you about it, but right now, I’ve got to get back to town to take care of a few things. It’s not an emergency, but it’s very important that I get back right away. Portia will be following me home in a day or two, I suspect. You’ll need to ask her how she wants to handle things. She doesn’t know I’m leaving, that I’ve left, at least I didn’t tell her directly that’s what I am doing, but I think she knows just the same. She can fill you in on that as well. Anyway, sorry that I had to run. We’ll talk soon I know. Happy New Year and thanks for the wonderful time over the holidays.

Much love, Roddy

Roddy? Sorry I missed you and have to leave a message. Your father said he didn’t know why you had to run off so quickly, and neither did Portia. I don’t like you leaving her behind like that, just running off and abandoning her. We haven’t yet decided how she’s going to get home. I might have your father drive her home since he has some business out that way and the car needs to be dropped off at the dealer in town. She seemed reluctant to do that. She’s such a nice girl, not wanting to put us out, to inconvenience us. I hope you appreciate that in her. Anyway, when we get some plans together we’ll let you know. Call me when you can. I love you. Drive safe.

--Grace? It’s B----

--Hi. I knew it was you. I could tell.

--You could tell? How? My voice when I spoke?

--Duuuh. Caller ID on the phone. Plus I just set a special ring for you. It’s different than the other rings. But the voice is nice; it’s mostly always nice.

--Great, so I can never sneak up on you with a phone call. No more surprises in that way.

--Right, no surprises, not like that anyway. Still, just because I know it’s you before I hear you voice, I like that. There’s nothing wrong with it. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

--Sure, I see. So, now, why did I call?

--Like I’m supposed to know? Please. But there’s one thing. Did you hear from your father? Maybe Alexis or Roddy, any of them yet?

--No, I haven’t heard from them. I don’t expect to either.

--I know you don’t expect to, but I just wondered if maybe one of them called, to say Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Holidays, something like that.

--Maybe Drop Dead would be more along the way they do things. But no, nothing. Nothing expected or unexpected. The great mystery that is their love for me remains, or doesn’t. I don’t really know. Why do you ask anyway?

--I don’t know. It just seems they could be decent to you over the holidays, not focusing so much on Roddy and his life and him.

--It’s a lost cause worrying about that.

--I know, it seems that way anyway, but it just doesn’t seem right.

--That’s because it isn’t right. How can you blow off your child and pretend it’s right? Maybe you can do that with brothers and sisters because the only thing you have holding you together is y our parents. But even with me, with Roddy, we only had my father. And he hated my mother and I don’t care for Roddy’s mother all that much one way or the other. She just is, nothing more. I guess I’m supposed to love her in some way, to appreciate how she tried to take over after Marion’s death, tried to be more of a mother, but I’m grown now and don’t want a new mother. But they don’t see that sort of thing. Oh, shit. See how you’ve got me going on this crap. Is that why you called me.

--I didn’t call you. You called me.

--Oh, yeah. Right. I did, didn’t I.

--Uh-huh. You did.

--Shit, and now I forget why.

--Nice.

--Yeah, wait. No. Fuck. I can’t remember. Well, I’ll be back in a bit. Maybe in 20 minutes. Wait, that’s why I called, to tell you I was on my way, that I’d be there in about 20 minutes, but back then it was about 30 minutes, at the outside. So, I’ll see you soon.

--Okay. See you soon. Be safe. Love you.

--Love you too. Bye.

30 December Dishin’ and Bitchin’ blog entry

The shit hit the fan. That’s about the only way to put it. My friend P-car had her shit hit the fan. There’s so much of it, and it’s scattered so far and wide, it’s hard to know where to start. Some times when I write I wonder what I’ll say, if I have anything to say, but this time it’s like there’s so much to say that I don’t know where to start. Even starting at the beginning is too much. But I guess that’s what I’ll try.

For starters, she and her boyfriend are on the skids. She got caught in the act, in flagrante delicto, while the crime was blazing. I think I like the English better, while the crime was blazing. Yeah, she got caught with her pants down, and someone’s penis in her pussy, to put it pretty damn crudely. And she got caught by the boyfriend. While the crime was blazing. So what does she do? It’s pretty crazy what she does, that’s what. At first, though, nothing. What can she do but pull up her pants, assuming she could dampen the fire enough to do that Sometimes I wonder about that girl, about why we remain friends. She’s good fodder if nothing else, at least she has been, but that’s for another time.

As I was saying, at first, she did nothing. But he came back. He originally caught them with the criminal fires blazing because he forgot his cell phone and came back for it. Keep this in mind the next time you need to check up on someone. Leave your cell phone behind, leave, and come back a short while later when least expected. I don’t think he did this on purpose, but it’s got that plausible deniability factor. Who wouldn’t come back for a cell phone and what could be more innocent? It won’t work over and over, unless you are pretty forgetful or stupid, or the person you’re checking up on is stupid, but once or twice, unless you are a chronic forgetter, you can get away with it. But her boyfriend. I think he really forgot it. He didn’t have a clue, not about the way things really were. And he ended up getting burned just as badly as anyone when he came in among the blazing of the crime. I love that phrase. I’m going to have to use it more often. But I still don’t know if I prefer the English or the Italian.