Tuesday, June 17, 2003

Had a surreal experience on the drive home. Some kid was somehow making bubbles the size of grapefruits and they were blowing out across the road. I drove through a cloud of these bubbles. It was sort of neat in a way. reminded me of a Disney ride or some such.

Friday, June 13, 2003

Well, 12:30 AM and here I sit as usual. It's a very strange, confused way to live. Can't sleep at night, feel like hell in the morning. There's no compelling reason to go to bed. She actually marks down her available nights on the calendar. There were two this week, but she was too tired both nights. The next week is marked off limits on the calendar, then she goes away for another week and a half, to arrive home right in time for another week or so of off-limits. So I'm basically screwed (well, not screwed) for the next month. And she wonders why I don't bother to go upstairs when she does.

Tuesday, June 10, 2003

I'm not really sure what just happened. Why it came crashing down out of the blue like that. I only know that running to the bathroom at work and crying isn't going to enhance my reputation as a big, tough former Special Forces guy. Christ. I've gotten over plenty before. I've gotten over a woman or two. But I just can't, can't get over her. It's killing me, but I just can't. Christ. I have to go again.

Monday, June 09, 2003

Baseball and Being a “Nice Guy”

There are a couple of essays here, but I’ll just lay it all down once as a single incoherent jumble of thoughts.

I’m told I’m a “nice guy”. Ok... That and a couple of bucks will get me a cup of coffee. By itself, the only thing being a nice guy has ever gotten me is kicked in the balls.

Jesus, what a baseball season. Not to mince words (not that I ever do), but damn, our team was wretched. There was individual talent on the team, but it was squandered in the interest of constantly starting and playing guys who just were not up to it. Yesterday, the last freaking game of the year, and the manager admits to me that he starts and plays some of the guys (as opposed to keeping them on the bench and substituting them in for the last inning or so of the game) simply because their fathers give him a hard time if he doesn’t. See? Back to the “nice guy” thing again. I back off and let the manager do his job, and my kid subs all season despite that fact that he’s a far better player than some of the starters.

Then there are stupid fans. The official team whiner got hit by a throw as he slid into third. Rather than gut it out for a couple of seconds and hold onto the bag, he decides to launch into histrionics (as is his wont) and rolls around. Needless to say, the third baseman tagged the base and he was out. Well, one of the mothers (her ex is a pretty cool guy, I think I now know why he’s her “ex”) starts screaming at the umpire. I listened for a few then finally turned and snapped at her that the runner was out, the call was correct. Some guy with her, looked like her father but who knows, yells sat me and tells me to shut up. Told the tough guy if he felt froggy to jump on over. He declined. The tough guys always do.

I’ve gotten way too mellow over the last eight or ten years. Everyone likes me now. They all think that I’m a nice guy. Ten years ago people loved me or hated me. Mostly hated, but at least there was passion one-way or the other. Now I’m just “a nice guy”.

This is hyperbole, of course, but this is what being a “nice guy” amounts to:

“Wow, Jim, you’re such a nice guy. I really like you. Why don’t you come over to my place tonight?……………….That way you can baby-sit my Chihuahua while my boyfriend and I go upstairs and fuck like minks”.

Nice guys truly do finish last.

Friday, June 06, 2003

Just maybe there’s some truth to it.

I was at Little League practice, hanging out with a couple of other fathers (the few that actually show up) and inevitably the talk turned to kids these days. It was maintained, and I agreed, that they just don’t have the heart that we did. They don’t care as much, they don’t play as hard…all that.

But then I had to wonder. Our fathers said the same thing about us, and theirs said it about them. Maybe it’s just perception. Well, right on cue onto the field walks one of the more worthless members of the team and he proceeds to go to the bench and just hang out. He watched for a while, then when one of the guys fouled a ball off the field he retrieved it and picked the stitching out of it for a while. I finally asked if he was going to get on the field with the rest of his team. “No,” he said, “I just had an hour of batting practice and pitching lessons and I’m just too tired”.

Maybe the fathers were right after all.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

I used to think that I was capable of being a callous bastard. I've revised that opinion. I'm not so bad after all. I'm getting lessons from a real master now. But look out, I'm a quick learner...