Shut Up, Brain!

At my core, I’m not really a naturally happy person. I’m a worrier by nature. There’s something inherently messed up in my psyche that makes me overthink EVERYTHING. It’s not like I’m down all the time or anything – I do have fun, and I do have light hearted times. But if there’s not a good reason to worry about something and be pessimistic, then my traitorous little subconscious will invent a reason and push it to the foreground of my mental landscape.

Oddly enough, I’m pretty introverted, yet I still care a lot how friends/family/significant others think of me. I don’t really care what other people think. Again, an odd thing is that I seek company and solitude equally. I need my alone time, but also need time with “my people”. Not just any people – my usual opinion is that most of them can piss off.

That worrier thing. It’s had the best of me for a while now. For the last year and a half or so, there have been precious few times that I felt relaxed. Sadly, for most of that time, relaxation required either a long, solo motorcycle ride or the consumption of alcohol. After giving it some thought, I now understand the Zen idea of meditation through an activity. Zen uses things like archery or martial arts; losing yourself in the concentration of the activity. I think some of us achieve the same thing with motorcycles. So, that helps. And when I can’t ride, well – alcohol helps to make those worrying voices in my head shut the fuck up.

Sometimes I feel like I’m being pulled in so many directions, all at once. So many obligations. Too many. It’s like I went to a buffet and overloaded my plate, taking more than I can possibly eat, yet I’m not willing or able to put any of it back, so here I sit. At the table. Over-fucking-whelmed.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve never succeeded at much of anything; everything has been a failure or at most, a “just got by”. Work? Ha! Fail. Relationships? Same, but I’m trying so hard to learn from my mistakes. I think I’m making new ones, but at least I’ve learned to communicate more, so hopefully that’ll help. Parenthood? I feel like I’m an okay father. I think I’ve done the best I could, given the circumstances. I may be wrong about that, but I hope not. I guarantee it’s not for lack of love for my kids. It seems like sometimes the only thing in my life I’ve actually done well at is being a Gypsy. That’s a member of Gypsy Motorcycle Club, not the ethnicity. When I was younger, that was fine, but it doesn’t necessarily help with being a parent, and unlike the MCs on TV and in the movies, it doesn’t pay a salary. With the amount of time I’ve had to work lately, and with what I’m looking at in the future, I don’t know how well I’ll be able to continue performing my duties as an International officer with Gypsy, either.

It feels like all these things: job, second job, debt that I can’t afford to pay, child, other child, club, relationship, living expenses, goals for the future, concerns about family (Mom recently passed, Dad’s not getting younger, an aunt is fighting cancer)…. it’s like each of these things has its own voice, and each one is calling out for my attention, all at once. I have a crowd of concerns inside my head, and each member of that crowd wants me to pay attention to it, NOW! Now, remember I said at the beginning that I’m an introvert. I’m an introvert with a crowd of needy voices all yammering at once.

Inside.

My.

Head.

See why I’m not relaxed most of the time? See why that worrier voice in my head gets so loud? Also, I used to write fairly regularly. I was active on three different social media networks. Now, I only regularly use Facebook, and then it’s usually just sharing stuff others have posted. I think this is the first real thing I’ve been able to write since I wrote about my Mom’s passing.

I don’t know what my purpose here is. I don’t know that there’s a point to any of what I’ve just written. I only know that for the first time in many months, I was inspired to write, and that inspiration didn’t disappear when I sat down at the keyboard. Maybe this will break the seal, so to speak, and I’ll get back to writing more often. Or maybe it’s a one time thing. Who knows?

Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment. Or not. Like I said: I’m an introvert, and I’m really doing this for me.

My Mom

Eugenia Rea Whisenant Cadenhead was born on September 4, 1943. She left us on February 16, 2014, and our world is a bit sadder, colder and darker for her absence. Seventy years, five months, and twelve days she lived in this world.  I know she lived a full life, but for us in her family, she could have outlived us all and it wouldn’t have been long enough.

She loved Jesus, her family, reading, and butterflies, in that order. Well, depending on how good the current book was. I’m joking, of course.

She was a giving person. Always thinking of others. When we were younger, we got cards for all different occasions. And I mean ALL different occasions, not just Christmas and Easter – Valentine’s Day, St Patrick’s Day, Halloween, the Fourth of July. If they had ever marketed Arbor Day cards, we would’ve gotten those, too. She continued the tradition with her grandchildren. Usually with a dollar bill or a check tucked into the card. I thought it was kind of silly when I was younger (in a good way, but still kind of corny), but you know what? You absolutely knew that she was always thinking about you and that she loved you. She mailed birthday cards to almost everyone she knew. I think Hallmark’s stock value probably dropped severely when she discovered that she could download and print her own greeting cards.

Also, speaking of holidays, she didn’t just decorate for Christmas and Halloween. She didn’t go all out, but I remember lots of little holiday themed candles and things around the house for those minor holidays. She liked to do fun little things to brighten our days. I didn’t realize it then – I just thought that’s how it was with everybody. As with so much in life, we really only truly appreciate a lot of stuff in retrospect.

Do I need to mention the butterflies? Man, Mom loved them. I don’t think she had any jewelry other than her engagement and wedding rings that didn’t have butterflies on it. Almost all her clothing had butterflies on it or in the pattern. The wallpaper, kitchen towels, bathroom towels, refrigerator magnets, coffee mugs, wall hangings. For her, there was no such thing as too many butterflies. Dad used to say if all the butterflies in the house suddenly came to life, the house would just fly away. I used to kid her and tell her she had bugs on her shirt. She loved those bugs, though. My brother and I both have a tattoo of a butterfly on a music note – the butterfly represents her, and the note is for my Dad.

She was pretty much a wallflower, not saying a whole lot, not usually drawing attention to herself. Dad did most of the talking. That’s not a criticism of either of them; it’s just their personalities. It would be easy, if you didn’t know her, to mistake her for a pushover. You’d be wrong. She wasn’t quick to anger, but if you ever made her mad… well, trust me. There was no room for doubt. She had a stubborn streak a mile wide, and believe me: you didn’t win an argument with her. One time I made a sarcastic remark to her, just kidding around, while she happened to be watering the houseplants. She turned around, held the pitcher of water over my head, and gave me a look that dared me to keep going. I told her she wouldn’t do it. I knew better -I knew she wouldn’t. I was standing on fairly new carpet that I knew she’d never allow to get wet – we weren’t even allowed to have drinks in the living room. Did I say I knew better? Yeah, I was wrong. The carpet got a little damp, but my head sure was soaked.

Speaking of stubborn, there really isn’t much that’s a strong as a mother’s love. Bless her heart  - I know I put that love to the test a few times in my life, but she never gave up on me, even during times I was ready to give up on myself.

Mom, with my Baby Girl, her fourth grandchild.

There’s obviously a lot more I could say, but we’ll leave it at this. She was a loving, caring mother, wife, sister, daughter, aunt, grandmother, cousin and friend to so many. She loved and celebrated life in ways that I’m only now, in retrospect, noticing. She was, and is, so loved, and she leaves a great big hole in our hearts.

Mom's final resting place.

Gray Awareness Ribbon for brain cancer. Mom lasted about five weeks after diagnosis. Glioblastoma is an ugly, ugly word.

I love you, Mom.

Fuck Cancer

It’s just a word. One simple word; six letters, two syllables. But an ocean of depth underneath.

Mom.
Brain.
Tumor.
Stage four.

Nononononono!!!!!! Those words don’t belong together.

God.

Dammit!!
 
Stop saying them like that.

Glioblastoma. Longer word. More depth of meaning, or at least more specific meaning.


What do you do? What do I do?

My mother, the woman who gave me life and life lessons, is now going through the toughest fight of her life. This is one lesson she forgot to teach me. Maybe it can’t be taught.  I guess we all have to learn this one on our own.

She’s not doing so well, at least not today, and the thousand miles of ground that separates me from her is almost unbearable right now. It’s not the end, though. She has fight in her. I know, because she comes from a couple of lines of stubborn, mule-headed folks. Both of her parents were stubborn, and her grandfather... well, let’s just say that the word “stubborn” is a pale word to describe that man. Yeah, Mom has some good, fighting blood in her. Still, I wish I could jump in this fight and throw some punches, too. Maybe I could hold off the enemy while she gets away safely.

I wish it were that easy. I’d take a bullet for her, but fate won’t let me take this on.



Fuck cancer.

2013, Rest In Pieces

I'm not under the illusion that there's some mystic force separating  one year from the next. Years only exist because humanity feels a need to measure and label things. So in reality, today is just the day after yesterday, and the fact that the year changed probably doesn't actually mean a damn thing.

However, as a member of humanity who has grown up in a culture observing the passing of these years, I still mentally divide time up that way, so I do see a new portion of measured time in front of me. And, I really, really hope it's a better one than the last twelve months have been.

Sure, there were a few high spots - if it were all dismal, I might not have survived.

The highest of the high spots was spending Father's Day with my Dad. We started talking about it and realized that once I left for the Navy, and then wound up in Texas afterward, he and I had never been together on Father's Day again. So, this was the first time since 1987. Plus, I got to spend it with both of my own kids, and consequently, he was with two of his grandchildren.

Another high spot was being invited to be a part time (and mostly unpaid) writer for the websites YouMotorcycle and BikerMetric. I've kind of always wanted to write about bikes, so this is way cool. Thanks, Adrian.

However, the other major plot points of 2013:

• I lost my job of fifteen years. I didn't love it every day, but I did love the time I had there, and I truly thought I'd work for Barnes & Noble until I retired or died.
• I lost my significant other. One more relationship ended.
• I got what I thought would be a dream job, only to discover that sometimes working at your hobby can turn what was once your passion into a chore.
• My ex moved back to Atlanta, taking Baby Girl with her, and putting me in the position of having to choose which child to live near. That was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, and sometimes I still feel like I'm reeling from it.
• Two deaths that hit close to home. A three year old child of close friends, and also a close friend/brother.
• I'd made progress in paying off credit debt, but lost ground on that due to the financial problems of being under- and un-employed most of the year.

So, while I've celebrated the coming of the New Year annually for many years, this is the first time that I really felt like I was celebrating the death of the old year.

2013, GTFO

Here's to 2014: may it better for me, and a good year for all of you.

Holiday Boycott Thoughts

I see a lot of people posting various memes on social media about not shopping on Thanksgiving or Black Friday, because "everybody deserves a holiday". That's a great sentiment. But I propose a bit more thought be put into it.

If you stop there, you're just doing it halfway. If you won't shop at Sear's, Macy's or Wal Mart because those people deserve their holiday, I hope you don't plan on watching football, either. For every over-paid athlete on the field, how many food vendors, parking lot attendants, janitors, security guards and maintenance people are working that day? Isn't it a bit hypocritical to support the NFL making people work on a holiday while protesting retail stores doing the same thing?

Boycott the NFL on Thanksgiving weekend! College football, too, while we're at it.

Religious Discrimination or Racial Discrimination In Disguise?

I just find it odd that when a rogue, extremist Muslim group killed around 3,000 people, now mainstream America hates all Muslims, and doesn’t trust any of them, even those who have been in this country for generations, even those who have served in the military.

Yet, tens of thousands of children around the world have been molested by priests of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.That’s tens, if not dozens  of times more lives ruined than those killed on 9-11. Sure, you could say at least they weren’t killed. But their lives were wrecked, and they were left emotionally and psychologically scarred. Not by an extremist group, either; this is as mainstream Christian as you can get. Not only have these priests for the most part not been disciplined by the church, in most cases the Vatican pays for their legal defense, and even helps them flee the countries they live in if necessary. Again, not a splinter group, not rogues, not “extremists” - mainstream Catholic priests, supported by the Vatican. Bear in mind that if you’re Catholic, and you tithe, you’ve contributed to the legal defense of child molesters. Think about that for a minute.


Anyway, people get irate about Muslims wanting to build a mosque pretty much anywhere, but don’t give it a second thought when they see a priest. (Personally, I don’t want my kids around a priest, and I’d be tempted to organize a protest against proposed construction of a Catholic church near a daycare center or elementary school.)

Why is that? I think a lot of it is because people fear what is different. They’re comfortable with Christianity and white people. They’ve gotten used to being around Hispanic, black and Asian people. Arabs are still “foreign” in a lot of folks’ eyes. It’s easier to hate what’s different. If they acknowledge just how embedded child molestation is in the priesthood, they’d be forced to reexamine their own beliefs and their own Christianity. But they don’t want to be seen as racists, so they focus their rhetoric on Muslims, not Arabs.

Of course, I could write an entire post about the atrocities that are committed and shrugged off in the name of Islam, too, but at the moment, I’m just pointing out the hypocrisy.

I’ll leave you with a Christian scripture to ponder:
Matthew 7:5:

Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye: and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brothers eye.

Miley Cyrus and The MTV Awards Fiasco

You know, I actually feel kind of bad for her. Watch her face and her movements. There’s no grace, no fluidity, no confidence. It’s like she got pushed into doing that…. that....

well, whatever the hell that was.

Seriously. Her face looks like she’s concentrating more than necessary for something that should’ve been well rehearsed. Like it was a last minute change, or something she wasn’t comfortable with.
And the dancing. It looks very jerky. Not at all skilled or planned. Again; unrehearsed.

I can’t help but wonder if it was something that somebody pressured her into doing, going for ratings and following the idea that scandal is good, because “there’s no such thing as bad press”.

And if she did do it intentionally, then I feel sorry for her that she really thought it was necessary for her career or that she’s just become that addicted to attention.

I see yet another child star headed for drug addiction and where-are-they-now jokes.

It’s easy to bash, but remember - all these people are just that. People.

Back In The Game

It's been a long time since I posted anything.


To be honest, my mind and motivation have been kind of lost for months. I started the year off dealing with both breaking up with Baby Mama and losing my job of fifteen years.

She and I finally had to admit to ourselves that, while sometimes opposites may attract, they don't necessarily live in harmony happily ever after.

The store I worked for was closed by the company due to a breakdown in lease renegotiation, and there were no open positions anywhere in the district for full timers, so the whole management team was left swinging in the breeze. Well, that's kind of harsh. They actually did provide us with a very generous severance package (and I'm not saying that sarcastically).

So, at the end of January, I found myself unemployed, moving out of the house where my Baby Girl lived, and wondering what the hell was next.

I started what I thought was going to be a dream job. I've ridden for well over twenty years, so working at a motorcycle dealership should be an awesome gig, huh? Maybe for some people. Whatever your passion is; motorcycles, cooking, photography, whatever, be very careful and think it through very well before making a living at it. There's more than even odds that you'll just wind up turning your former passion into your daily grind. Some can make it work, and work well. I'd say the vast majority don't. Then, on top of that, my sales weren't up to par, so they let me go a couple of months ago, and I had to job hunt again.

Then, Baby Mama decided she needed to move from Austin back to Atlanta. She has her reasons, and I know they're valid, but that doesn't make it easier for me to accept that I now have two children who live 1,000 miles apart. I respect her reasons, and I understand them, but there's still a part of me that wants to be fucking pissed off and to resent her. I don't; but still...

So, anyway, it's been a hell of a year for me. My inspiration to write left, and even at times when I felt inspired, I just didn't have the motivation to do it. But now it's come back. I don't know how often I'll write, but
I'm.
Going.
To.
Write.

A couple of bright spots:

Baby Mama and I both have iPhones - thank God for Face Time. I get to talk to Baby Girl face to face.



I just started working at one of the companies I really wanted to get with. A big corporation with competitive pay and good benefits, and they're national, so when the Boy Child graduates from high school in a few years, I can move to Georgia to be near Baby Girl, and it will just be a transfer with the same company, instead of starting the job search all over.


I've been invited to occasionally contribute to a couple of websites. It doesn't pay, but it's inspired me to start writing again, plus I know that my stuff will be read by more people than the small number who follow my personal blogs. Check out www.youmotorcycle.com and bikerMetric.


So, yeah. I'm back. And I'm still not always right, but I'm still always pretty damn close. And when you're dealing with horseshoes and hand grenades, close counts, y'all.

I Wonder...

...if anyone missed me here?

I’ve been too tired, burned out, and over-worked to write the last few months. The hours were too long at the dealership, and the commissions were too little. I did learn a lesson, though. A couple, actually. One: I am NOT cut out for commission sales. I need a predictable income; I need to know that if I show up and do my job, that my income isn’t based on how charming I was or on the whims of customers. Two: Be wary of turning your passion into your work. Your passion risks becoming just a fucking job. Luckily I got out before motorcycles lost their attraction for me.


Yes, I was let go from the dealership Saturday night. I totally understand. They knew I was looking for another job, and even though I tried to do my best, I’m sure my efforts weren’t really 100%. My numbers just weren’t there. No hard feelings toward me from them, or from me toward them. Business is business, right? The boss was telling me he hated having to do it, that it sucked, etc. I told him I’d been in his spot before (I was in retail management for over a decade), and I completely understood.



Anyhow, if anyone did notice my absence, know that I’m back. I have some posts in mind.


Also, I’ve been invited to write occasional posts for publication on www.youmotorcycle.com and www.bikermetric.com. I should have my first pieces ready sometime this week, so keep an eye on those sites. I’m also going to try to motivate myself to work on my other blog more regularly now: http://twowheeledobsession.blogspot.com/

So You Want To Date My Daughter?

(sent to me by a friend via Facebook)

If you pull into my driveway and honk you’d better be delivering a package, because you’re sure not picking anything up.

Remove your hat when entering my humble abode. I may think you have something terrible under it and will do my best to exterminate it quickly, efficiently, and fatally.

You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter’s body, I will remove them.

I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don’t take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist. I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilizing a “barrier method” of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is “early.”

I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don’t you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which features chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me. Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy outside of Chu Lai. When my Agent Orange or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home.

As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car.

There is no need for you to come inside.

The camouflaged face at the window is mine.

Our Letter To The American People

Our Letter To The American People

Dental Prosthesis

It’s been an odd afternoon and evening.

I had teeth added, then hair removed.

The haircut is inconsequential, really. The teeth are the important part. Over the last two decades, my teeth have been steadily degenerating. Decaying, abscessing, hurting, being pulled, and in some cases falling out on their own. Luckily, only one of the ones missing was visible, and only if I smiled really big.

Last year, I began the process of repair and damage control. I had a filling done and several stubs of molars removed. Just when it was time to start the fitting process for partial plates, I found out my dental insurance had paid out the maximum for the year. So I’ve been chewing without the aid of molars for a year now. Apparently, through my employer, I have really great medical insurance, but very mediocre dental insurance. Which is part of the reason I’d put off dental care for so long. A lot has been paid out of pocket, but it’s become necessary. At any rate, I’m getting it finished now.

After several “fitting” sessions, I brought my new teeth home with me today. I love the fact that I’m going to (eventually) chew normally again, and that I’ll look somewhat “normal”. Well, as normal as I get, anyway. I understand that it’s going to feel odd, because I’ve gone years with most of those teeth missing, and now it feels like there’s something in my mouth. I understand that’s going to make me talk funny for a couple of days. (Please: hold all the Daffy Duck jokes….)


Here’s the odd thing: when I chew with my teeth, I can feel the pressure. I know teeth don’t have sensation, but maybe it’s vibration or pressure transferred to the root nerve or something. The artificial teeth, however, are totally freaking weird. They push down on the food and there’s just this odd, disjointed pressure on the gums. It’s a completely different feeling from “normal” tooth sensation. It’s kind of how I imagine it feels to walk on a prosthesis. You wouldn’t have normal sensory input from the foot, ankle, calf, and knee. You’d just feel pressure on the bottom of what’s left of your leg, and that’s how you’d know weight had been transferred to your artificial foot.

Only in my case, food gets trapped under my prosthesis.

Odd, disjointed, detached from my food. Yeah, this is going to take some getting used to……






(Please don’t misconstrue my analogy of the prosthetic leg to mean that I think losing teeth is ANYWHERE NEAR losing a leg. It’s just a literary comparison to illustrate my initial impression; not a belief that they’re equal in any way.)