Trivial pursuit…

I’m one of those people who watches Jeopardy….plays trivia….reads books about the 5 people who died having sex and how George Washington ordered a man out of his boat because the fatass was making it sink. I like to do crossword puzzles in bed and listen to obscure soundtracks, versus, B98.5 radio. I’m a dork. The way I look makes me a closet dork, though.

When I play trivia, it gives me the satisfaction of a gay man admitting he is so. This is the way I have always been. I noticed it when I was eight or so, reading my slightly ghetto version of Encyclopedia Brittanica for shits and giggles. The stuff you learn there, is amazing. Besides, I’ve watched Jeopardy since I was a tiny kid. I see no reason to stop now, just because I grew breasts.

I like who and what I am. I enjoy the fact that I know some pretty random shit. It happens, over the course of a lifetime. It has taught me a great deal about myself and about those around me. I notice that what I remember, as it is relevant to me, is not the same as what others recall. And, vice-versa. We are given certain perspective reasoning as a way of ensuring that we must come together to understand others. We are, all of us, collective, yet separate.

In other words, every point of view is a new way of looking at yourself/life/the world (or Universe).

Well, here I am…

…sitting on a deck in the damn Southeastern heat, hoping someone reads this stuff, if only for the justification of my torture. The lengths I go to, to find a semi-quiet, quasi-distracting, pleasant atmosphere devoid of Stewie-type demands for “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama…” well, you know the rest. It used to be one of my ringtones when she was still little, before she could actually say the word. Now, I think if that was my ringtone, I’d throw my fucking phone through a window.

It’s not that I don’t love my daughter. I do. I just need a break every now and again. It’s bad enough that I feel guilty every single instance I take my time folding clothes at the laundromat, just to be gone a couple minutes longer. When I leave the house, I hug her about forty-seven times. I hate to leave…but it’s better for our relationship sometimes. Even as young as she still is, it’s hard to get along with her sometimes. I can imagine how rough it was for my own Dad, raising four of us by himself, with only me to babysit. And he just couldn’t trust anyone else with us, for fear of an unseemly situation.

I, too, trust very few people with my baby. Her Dad, my Dad, my Mom. That’s about it. I trust her paternal Grandma, but she’s all the way in South Carolina. That makes it harder for me to ever get out and about on my own. I miss her when she’s not with me. I love the way she talks, with all the animation of a Disney character on a wicked sugar-high. It makes me laugh just to see her smile her coy, little grin. She told her first joke when she was just barely a year old, for goodness’ sake. When there’s a difficult day, though, it quickly becomes impossible for our two thunderous personalities not to clash.

My daughter’s so stubborn, the expression should be changed. With her replacing the mule. You could sit there and tell a mule who didn’t want to move, “Damn you! You’re as stubborn as a Kyra!”

And yes, I do. I absolutely love my daughter.

On turning 30…

I honestly didn’t think I’d be this depressed about it. I mourned the day I turned twenty-five. Something about being a grown-up just struck me as sad. I never wanted to grow up although, I suppose, I’d already been forced into premature adulthood by my parents, anyhow. By not being the Mom and Dad they should have been, they ensured that I would step in, for  them. Making it official, however, on my twenty-fifth really sucked.

I don’t think it’s quite the same, this year. I think that I merely hoped to have accomplished so much more. So, it’s not as tough that I am a grown-up, as much as it bothers me that I’m now a grown-up who has done very little with her life. In fact, if it weren’t for my daughter, I would count myself an adult who’d done nothing with her life. Quite luckily, and not only for that reason, I have her.

As much as she keeps me young, I feel my life slipping away, unseen. Publication is still a distant dream on a dwindling horizon and all I have done is to have made an amazing little person. Then again, maybe that’s all I am supposed to have done. Perhaps she is all I am here for, and that is all I can ask for, to do well by her. In that case, I would be considered, so far, a wonderful success story.

Don’t you like American Music?

Forgive me for my line larceny, but the Femmes are one of my favorite bands and this is one of the best tunes they sing. For all the half-hearted fans out there, they also sing ‘Blister In The Sun’. I had a great discussion (with a young person; no less!) about real music the other day. It seems as though lyrics are disappearing to be replaced by a single mantra, repeated incessantly and a tired, old beat you can (at best) jiggle or gyrate to. I miss the more innocent days of poets strumming out a tune for all of us to fall in love with and never tire of, no matter how scratchy the record becomes from overuse.

Chuck Berry’s ‘My Ding-A-Ling comes to mind. It’s one of the cutest little songs I have ever heard and he plays it with such an air of little boy’s innuendo that it makes me feel like a kid again. Now we have wardrobe malfunctions and raunchy “lyrics” who feel more like sentences from Penthouse Forum. I have been known to blame ‘American Idol’ almost exclusively for the abattoir of art and originality in American music, but it’s not all their fault. I also blame a generation that can’t wait for things, feels a constant need for instant gratification, and hopes for nothing more in life, than the fleeting infamy of being some sort of Jersey Shore reality “star”. They are the worst brand of impatient and ignorant, these facebooking, sexting, nose in a smart phone attached to a head up their ass, kids.

I occasionally see a glimmer of hope, but they are few and far between. Keep your kids off drugs…yeah, sure. But also remember to keep your kids off TV and facebook. Talk to them, every now and again. Pay attention to the people who will one day be running a world forgotten. Keep us from our Idiocracy outlined fate.