Have you ever unintentionally said the worst possible thing you could say to someone? I did that this week. It happened on Facebook (as these things do). I decided to comment on a lady's Facebook post with what I thought was a fairly witty riposte, but which turned out be hurtful, embarrassing and rude. Whoops!
This sort of thing happened all the time when I was married. I don't want to say she was oversensitive, but if you brushed by her in the hallway she'd very likely wake you up in the middle of the night raging like some sort of Japanese folk-demon.
Anyhoo, through that experience I learned how to temper my thoughts and direct myself toward the positive, even if a joke that came to me was too funny to stifle. God help you if you got caught stifling, though, because then she'd demand to know what you were thinking. Which, for a guy with ADD is a very hard question to answer. "Twelve different things, at least" is not an acceptable answer to give a woman looking for a fight. Anyways, after that marriage exploded I more or less learned to curb my most offensive thoughts before they came out of my mouth.
I know now how to be positive, and truly feel it. To file away potentially hurtful phrases quickly and without hesitation. Unless I'm in a horrible verbal confrontation, in which case I'm probably totally screwed. But in an ordinary back and forth between me and a lady, I more or less behave myself.
Which brings me to this week's controversy. An attractive lady comic messaged me the night of Halloween, for what purpose I can't quite figure. I try to keep it light, but as you may know from reading my previous posts, this is new for me. The old Jeff might have thrown a bunch of innuendo her way, trying craftily to work out some future sexy time scenario.
I didn't do that. I was cool on the text and bid adieu. The next day, however, Facebook opened the door to madness.
Said comic posted a cute picture of herself and two friends. Jeff, being the charming gentleman he is, said something nice about the picture and went along with his day. Later, checking in on his notifications, Jeff discovered someone had complimented this comic on her looks. She responded, saying something about not wearing makeup.
This is where Jeff made the critical error. Instead of walking gingerly away and letting these friends lightly banter, Jeff decided to make a joke. (insert scary organ sounds)
The joke essentially suggested that the comic was fishing for compliments. Something along the lines of "we all know you're pretty. Calm down."
You ever see that black and white video of the nuclear blast at Alamagordo blasting through buildings? That was the impact of this joke upon this situation. Here was a nice little thread involving friends and cute Halloween costumes, and suddenly the entire world was on fire.
I knew immediately what I had done. I'd suggested in a public forum that this woman was fishing for compliments. An accusation of that magnitude could not be ignored. I tried quickly to smooth things over but it was too late. I was in the shit.
I talked to a mutual friend later that day and learned that what I'd said was essentially a backhanded compliment. I hate those and so I genuinely felt sorry. What had begun as a simple joke lampooning a beautiful woman's insecurity had morphed into something much much darker.
I'm filing this fracas under the file heading "Nuclear Option", words or suggestions that will drive a woman into a semi-violent rage. The phrase "calm down" definitely belongs in that category. Any answer to the question "does this make me look fat?" that doesn't involve the words "no", "of course not" or "have you seen the remote?" And for the love of god, any suggestion that a woman is insecure or vain is definitely bad for your health.
I saw this attractive lady comic earlier tonight, ducked my head like a turtle, and slipped out the back door of the bar. I had planned to go up to her and apologize in person, but part of me was terrified to deal with it at all.
Honestly, I think being rejected and mistreated by so many women in the last few years has made it hard to face up to their anger and disappointment with me. I've had some seriously messed up things thrown my way and I think I'm a little shellshocked. Also, I want to be involved in this here comedy scene and the last thing I want is to look like a jackass in front of everyone.
Sometimes I just want to be able to speak up and point out when people are being ridiculous. But most people, it seems, don't want you to do that. Especially people who are used to adulation instead of lampooning. As a chronic receiver of lampoonage, sometimes I forget that other people aren't used to it. And therein lies the lesson: don't fuck with people who you don't know well. Because their response may surprise you.
To the attractive lady comic, I hope you can forgive my thoughtless words. And to all of you who may be tempted to sling your silly barbs whilly-nilly, take heed lest ye unleash the dogs of war. Maintaining a peaceful society demands politeness, or at the very least, caution.
You have been warned.
Well, Halloween turned out to be not so bad. We found someone to take my foundling kitty Otis, none of my friends got stabbed by drugged out zombies, and my parents left the house for awhile so i got to watch xfiles and eat candy on the couch.
Who am i kidding? It was pretty awful. I worked in the pouring ass rain, had to see nothing but adorable pictures of happy families in fun costumes, was terribly depressed, and got to ruminating about my ex wife and how she loved Halloween and always dressed us up in cool homemade costumes. And I also remembered the time I ran into a woman I'd dated briefly before I got back together with the ex wife, who let me know as she was leaving that she had an 11 year old son.
Why was that interaction upsetting, you ask? Because later that night I did the math and realized that it lined up with time she and I had gotten together.
Here's the thing. It's damn near impossible that it could have been my kid. I don't even remember any actual sex happening. Although my bipolar disorder and PTSD have occasionally triggered blackouts so it's conceivable in some weird universe. And this woman, one Amber Johnson of University Place (I'm putting her actual name here in case anyone knows her and could put me in contact) was the type to keep something like that a secret. I also know that she went looking for me at a coffee shop I used to frequent after I stopped going there.
So whats the takeaway? Number one, the Seahawks won a squeaker on Sunday, which is awesome. Number two, if i were to have a child it would completely take away the biological drive to propagate my genetic material, which would make my relationship struggles much less confusing. And number three, it would mean that somewhere out there is a thirteen year old half-version of me trying his best to overcome the challenge of growing up without a dad.
If I could talk to this invisible little guy, I'd tell him that I will do anything to make his life better; that I can't change the past but I can impact his future; and regardless of his mothers decision to keep his existence a secret, he matters to me and will have my complete support until the day I die.
No one should have to grow up without a father. My dad is one of the bravest, kindest, and most ethical people I've ever known. He loves his kids, takes great care of his wife, gives back to his community, and works hard to leave the world better than he found it. If I had one wish, it would be for world peace. If I had two wishes, the second would be that everyone have a good dad who teaches them the values of hard work, kindness, and commitment to improving society.
If you have a dad who loves you and treats you right, give him a hug and let him know he's important. If you don't, find a dude who you respect and thank him for impacting your life in a positive way. And if you don't have someone like that, share your story with people you love. Find some way to fill that dad-shaped hole in your heart in a way that doesn't involve addiction and self destructive behaviors. You owe it to yourself and to society to make the most of your life and not slip into despair. This world can be a nightmare sometimes, but it can also be a lot of fun.
Halloween is over finally, and I can breathe again.Ii got plenty of sleep, and someones supposed to come by today to pick up my old love seat and armchair (a wedding gift from my parents). I have some great friends and I'm alive, which I think is better than the alternative. And god willing I'll have my dad around for a good long time.
Take care of yourselves and love the good people in your lives, cause in the end that's what really matters. From everyone here at Everything is Awesome, we hope you had a great Halloween. Until next time, friends, we wish you good times. and many many more happy family moments.
In which Olympia standup Emily Bittrick and Tacoma legend Fred Bowski join Jefe to produce the first episode of Season Two of Everything is Awesome; multiple items are auctioned off to raise money for suicide prevention; a kickass comedy show takes place; the gang discuss a variety of issues; and Jeff complains about all sorts of things as his wont.
Closing tracks: Some sweet live jams from Tacoma's own Kaylene Anna Barber
Fuck Halloween. Don't care. I hate big
parties and I hate dressing up. The only
times Ive ever cared are when I was married and I thought my wife might be a little happier after enjoying her favorite holiday. Of course half the time she'd get too drunk and embarrass me, and the other half we'd fight about something and she'd shut down.
Now I'm single, and I have no interest in spending all night at some party or bar trying to have fun with a bunch of strangers.
Damn. Now I feel like an asshole. This blog was supposed to be mostly positive; an opportunity to let you all into the way I see the world. Instead I'm using this space to shit on your good time like some inveterate Facebooking jagoff.
Here's the thing: I dont have kids and I don't have a partner. Holidays without love just seem stupid to me. Chances are I'll be spending the night at my house finally uploading the episode I finished editing days ago. My parents will probably try to hang out with me, so at some point I'll likely go up to the shitty bar in my hometown and drink too much while eyeballing women I'll never even talk to, let alone make out with.
I really should erase this whole thing and start over. But I've been doing that for days and I just gotta get this out. A good comic killed herself this week, I'm gonna have to take my crazy cat back from the family that adopted him, I'm estranged from my brother which means I won't see his kids, and the woman I love is lost in the mists of mystery. I'm trying to give up chasing broke women and having no luck getting more comfortable in my own skin. And my show continues to sit there on my computer daring me to finish it.
Fuck Halloween. Fuck wishing I wasn't such a mess. Fuck your happiness and your happy family moments.
God, I'm being a dick. Get out there and have fun. Life is hard; enjoy yourself. Disregard my self-pity and get you some love.
Take care. And hopefully I'll have another of these uplifting rants up tomorrow.
It's been a weird week. A beloved local comic took her life. I had my first date in ages. I missed a few days of blog posts and felt bad about it. I put off uploading the first episode of Season Two and no one asked me what's up.
The biggest thing in my little world is probably that I'm trying my best to get over my ex. Shit was complicated. She was probably too self-involved to ever make me comfortable, but she's the best woman I've ever known. (sorry Mom)
Went to my first and second love addiction meetings and in the interim I had zero recovery. Planning dates, perusing the hot girls of Instagram and trying to angle at least one lady friend into something more exciting.
Last night I had my first date in God knows how long. It was great. Before that I had my first random parking lot makeout session in I don't know if ever. So on balance its been equal parts shameful, exhilarating and incredibly sad.
Speaking of sad things, how about suicide? Cuz that happened. A Seattle comic made the ultimate decision Sunday, ending her pain. That decision also broke the hearts of dozens of comics and everyone else whose lives she touched in her short time on Earth.
I didn't know her. Let me make that clear. The reason I've been around and talking is not because I want to pretend I'm a part of this story. I never got to see her. But you know what? I recognized in her comedy, her story and her impact on her colleagues and it blew me away.
In another community perhaps someone dying in this way wouldn't have had the same results. But the amount of love pouring out from the hearts of these hardened criminals has been amazing. So much love, you guys don't even know.
Comics make sense of life by skewering our preconceived notions and fucking with our sense of morality. They speak from the deepest places of pain and foolishness, and they make our lives better for it. Meredith was a star in the making, but more than that she was a human being, one of the best. And her friends have shown how amazing they are in this terrible time.
You may not have been hit directly by the pain of a sudden death. You may know nothing about suicide or why people make that decision, but you know loss. You know sadness. And you know grief. It sucks. No one should go through it. If this world was as great as we wish it was, no one would suffer, or go hungry. No wars would be fought, no minorities excluded. And women like Meredith would be our greatest seers. Love is the only answer to pain. So love yourselves. Love each other. And when someone you love is suddenly gone from this earth, let yourself grieve.
Comics show us that life has meaning. They tease out the situations that plague us, and bring something amazing out of it. Laughter heals. Laughter sustains. And laughter brings us all out of the darkness when we need it.
Someone wonderful has left this plane of existence, but I believe she is not gone. She lives on in the hearts of everyone who knew her. Suicide is a shitty thing, but it's a choice some of us make. Mental illness, existential sadness, PTSD and grief can take anyone at any time. Love the people around you. Don't be a dick. And when someone tells you they're hurting, be quick with the hugs. Let them cry on your shoulder.
That's what they're for.
Today I woke up with energy and purpose. Unfortunately I also woke up with the crafty voice of addiction in my bones.
Most people I talk to about this addiction have no clue what I'm talking about. To them, I imagine love takes many forms. For me there is only one: the Goddess and the Whore.
The Goddess and the Whore first entered my life in seventh grade. Before then, my first and second crushes (the brainy beauty and the sparkly redhead) were relatively chaste and even charming. I never spoke to the first and was friends with the second, and remained a friend to this day, though the crush has long since faded.
At a certain point in sixth or seventh grade, I discovered Playboy (Cady Cantrell, April '88). I was hooked. After that I began to see girls in a whole new light, as if under the clothes lay an exotic, erotic creature I could only worship from afar.
And then I discovered Penthouse. I lightly skimmed every issue in the staco until I found her. The one. She looked a bit like Stevie Nicks if Stevie Nicks happened to be 13 and in my science class. This girl (I'll call her the faerie princess) was immediately branded in my mind as a sexual being masquerading as a normal child.
From that day forward, two patterns emerged. On one side were the dreamgirls: your Karas and your Jennys, who I loved with all my heart; and on the other, the so-called secret sluts, who existed solely to fill my fantasies and drive my obsession.
As I grew older, I tried and failed to make things work with either category, in fact never even having a first date or a first kiss until I was nearly 18. Fantasy ruled, and the Goddess and the Whore grew stronger and stronger until I wasn't myself if I wasn't pursuing a powerful obsession that manifested as a woman or a girl who would alternately drive me to kissing and embracing to chasing and debasing.
I attended my first love addiction meeting this week, and fifteen minutes later I was pursuing a gorgeous hairstylist and watching a new live interest do standup. I messaged an old girlfriend the next day and began obsessively engaging the beautiful models of Instagram.
I return to the meeting next week and will have to admit that my self-control is weak, and these habits are overwhelming. I will have to be honest and tell them part of me wants to indulge my desires and beg for acceptance. And if I want to beat this obsession, I will have to renounce these habits I can only indulge when single, which I had planned to be for another 8 months or so.
I have a choice to make. And it won't be easy.
I've been on a blogging tear this last week. Today things have been a little weird. Setbacks and worries. Not depressed, just second-guessing my life choices to this point.
Big comedy show tonight. Maybe I'll have more to say later tonight. Almost done editing the Happy Homecoming episode with Fred and Emily. They'll be there tonight. So stoked!
Seattle. The Big City. Land of Big Dreams and Fly Ladies. Since I was a little kid I associated Seattle with fancy people, fast cars, giant skyscrapers and smooth fashions. Anytime we came here, I felt like I'd stepped through a glittering curtain into a magical kingdom.
Usually when we came to the city it was to do touristy stuff: Pike Place Market, Seattle Underground tours, Mariners games and big national acts. Saw my first real ballet here. First big musical (Phantom of the Opera). The aquarium. Woodland Park Zoo. The pier and the ferry dock. The Olde Spaghetti Factory. Red Robin. The Violent Femmes, Mudhoney, Hempfest and Bumbershoot. Brought my first girlfriend here for my first date ever (watched Clerks at that U District movie theater that's not there anymore). Pagliacci Pizza (yum).
When it came time for graduation I was excited to move to what I thought was the big city: Tacoma, Washington. Unfortunately all my friends from high school and community college had moved to the real big city: Seattle. I'd visit sometimes, try to fit in, but something about this place made me feel small and provincial. The coolness, the closed off faces, the so-called Seattle Freeze. And all the money, of which I had none.
My friends got jobs, graduated from college, moved around the country and disappeared into the all-encompassing scene that is Seattle. And I was living in the "Big City" wishing I had had the guts to take my talents to LA and make cartoons, my first great love.
Fast-forward 20 years. I'm divorced, single, gainfully employed, and lonely as hell. I have multiple creative pursuits, a few new friends, mostly in comedy, and a hankering to make a huge impact on the media landscape.
So why am I in Seattle? Went to my first 12 step meeting for love addiction. We don't have any for men in the South Sound so I had to drive up. Met a lot of cool people with similar stories to mine, and scored a few hot tips on how to start a new meeting back in the "Big City".
Which brings me to the present moment. Posted up at a table in Jai Tai, waiting for the beginning of one of Seattle's most legendary comedy open mics. Two of my favorite podcasters, Mike Coletta and Monica Nevi, cut their teeth in this room, so I'm excited to see what all the buzz is about. Met a cool comic named Ryan, only been doing standup for two months! He was a musician for ten years. He was always the "witty guy" in his friend group, and now he's the baby in a room full of old hands. It's always so awesome meeting people who love art and are committed to the craft of performance.
I'm coming back next week. Going to my meeting, then getting my hair cut at Seattle Barber (shout out to Cherise) and then open mic at Jai Tai.
Capitol Hill. Emerald City. Comedy. It's good to be a tourist. Maybe someday I'll be a local. Til then I shall cast my gritty Tacoma light upon the vast frozen unwashed of the true Big City. Until tomorrow, my friends. Good luck, and Goddess bless.
This is so exciting! Season Two of Everything is Awesome is here! Following our most epically long episode to date, Episode 38 will be out very soon. In this episode, long-time guest cohost Fred Bowski returns to the loveseat, along with friend of the show Emily Bittrick to open and close my awesome Happy Homecoming party. If I didn't already mention it in the blog, I had to move back in with my parents and it has been a humbling adjustment. Emily was kind enough to host the party and she was awesome. This woman is so funny and so skillful even though she's only been a standup for maybe a year. It was her first time hosting a full-on comedy show and she did great.
Of course, yours truly had to make it weird. Ever since my ex-wife left me for my sports buddy, I've been trying to lead a life I can be proud of, while still having a good time. It's meant that I've stumbled in and out of bad relationships, developed a solid writerly voice and written some pretty cool songs, but it's also meant that I've come into relatively close contact with beautiful young women I'm intensely attracted to. When I was married, I ignored these women, kept them on the edge of my peripheral vision, and if they tried to engage me in conversation I'd try to be as surfacey and boring as possible.
Now of course, I can't really do that. Partly because I want to help cultivate an environment around me where young artists can flourish and collaborate and be successful, but also (sadly) because I'm a lonely creepy old dude who just wants to be loved and make out with a pretty girl who he admires for her talent.
So at the party, when I'm supposed to be entertaining the guests, holding court, tidying up the last minutes of the silent auction, and generally making sure that the comics were happy with their experience, I'm out in a car with a young lady trying to soak in all her beauty and energy in a vain attempt to fill some dark pathetic hole in my childish soul.
Which brings me to the present moment. The podcast is rolling, my writing has never been as good, my confidence is building and I'm working the steps in recovery. But this love addiction thing still haunts me. I haven't been able to find a suitable meeting for this issue near Tacoma, which means I'll have to travel to Seattle to find a group. This also means that week to week I'll be going into the heart of a city that says to me "here are the fineass women you've been looking for". Don't get me wrong, Tacoma. Your women are plenty fine. But most of them won't date me, and the few that have have been, let's say...challenging, to say the least.
So now I'm fixin to go into the belly of the beast, knowing my twisted desire is the one thing holding me back from being healthy and successful. So in the middle of all this confusion walks one of the hottest, funniest and intimidating women I've ever met. And she responds to my text.
So like a jackass I throw caution to the wind, and even knowing that it's a mistake I ask her out anyway. Thankfully she declined, but in the nicest way possible, which was very good for my self-esteem. The next twelve hours or so were spent obsessing about how dumb I am for risking my sobriety in a vain attempt to seize a woman I have no business chasing. Seriously guys, I'm maybe a Tacoma 6, and this girl's at least a Seattle 8. She'd have to be criminally insane and homeless for me to even have a shot. And yet, I went for it anyway.
That's the curse of this stupid addiction. It clouds judgment, damages potential friendships, and restarts the cycle of guilt and shame everytime the wheel comes back around. If only I could wear some kind of goggles that make hot women invisible, maybe then I could live a decent life.
Of course then I'd have nothing to write about.
I figure I should get this one out before the Seahawks fail and make me angry. I'm already fuming over the ungrateful behavior of the woman I love. I've been paying for the whole phone bill, hoping that eventually we'll both have done enough healing to get back together, but now I know this whole relationship was built on a foundation of sand.
My whole life I've lamented the lack of gratitude I've received from all the friends I've helped with this or that, and now it's reached the boiling point. As a Libra, I'm loath to express anger but when I do, it's not pretty. I've learned over the last two years to channel my anger in a more measured way, but after months of trying to help the woman I love get her life together I've finally thrown up my hands, and used a few less than positive words in the process. I know she isn't intentionally cruel or manipulative, but the results are the same. I'm broke, and she doesn't seem to care.
Next stop? The AT&T store, to pay off this expensive phone and end our association once and for all. All that's left are a suitcase full of wistful memories and an expensive engagement ring that's never been worn. I can't possibly forget how much I love her, but I finally have to start trying.
Dammit. No matter how much you want something, or feel like you've earned it, it doesn't add up to nuthin. Tom Petty already told me; I was just too stubborn to believe it.
So now I drink, curse the Seahawks, and dream of a better life. Not much has changed.
Today I went to Seattle (specifically Ballard) to attend a 12 step speakers meeting. It was great. Potluck dinner, a fascinating talk by a British sex addict, and plenty of loving fellowship.
After that I visited a friend's place nearby and lost my shirt in quarter poker. Thankfully I brought two shirts so I wouldn't be naked. Josh (his real name) hosted an excellent poker party, and he and his fellow Ballard Boy Tim Mattonen made with the funny bigtime. I drank several Guinesses, smoked a cigarette (while on the patch - stay tuned for heart attack news) and played with their adorable scaredy-cat pooch, the Honorable Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
Highlights of the evening? Falling on my ass in a popazan chair not once but twice (thusly scaring the barky piss out of Ruth), and watching the scintillating yet fundamentally flawed 1998 reboot of Lost in Space (starring Matt LeBlanc of Friends fame). Now I'm chillaxin on the floor (chairs are too dangerous) and writing this blog post and trying not to fart loudly enough for the players to hear. This is how a Saturday night should be spent. Recovery never looked so good.
Tomorrow: house hunting in Tacoma and hopefully putting out another exciting episode of the world's greatest podcast. Everything is Awesome, indeed.
Keep being awesome!
I didn't think I'd get this one done today. I was wrecked after work. Not physically; I've had a really easy workday since coming off the overtime list. No, today I was plagued with depressive energy off and on, and by the time I got home I was essentially wrecked.
My bed demanded attention. But before I went out I texted a friend and asked her how she was doing. When you're in recovery, one of the best things you can do is reach out and talk to people you can trust.
At the same time, I made the possibly foolish decision to text The Love of My Life. I wanted to see if she truly never considered me or what I'm going through. The results weren't great.
But then my friend Kandie (not her real name) invited me to the hometown spot, and I got my ass out the bed and rolled Rusty into the car. Sunset Grill and old school homies.
Now Kandie, me and Chaos (not his real name) are chillin in the living room, listening to Stevie and talkin real deep.
Moral of the Story: say yes to last-minute invitations as often as possible. Magical things can happen.
I'm gonna go have a cigarette.
Today was one of those days you wish would hurry up and be over. Loneliness, loss, grief, sorrow, depression, self-pity, a whole smorgasbord of pathetic emotions. The kind of day you'd text your girlfriend and complain about. Except she's gone.
Going to a comedy show later. Hopefully some laughs will make the day decent overall.
Today's weather: early clouds with a few sunbreaks, 75% melancholy.
My folks left for a short trip as I was leaving for work and left all sorts of instructions and stuff in case they die. I slapped together a healthy (boring) lunch and left for work. While there I listened to my funny podcasts, but I couldn't seem to get into a good mood. It was like my laugher was broken. The guys from the Nerdist were on Doug Loves Movies and I remembered why I don't listen to that show. Doug seemed to be trying everything to make them seem interesting.
After work I had an existential crisis. My neighbor had let Rusty out so I didn't have to go back to the Harbor, but I didn't know what to do. I swung into a park near the bridge and tried to take a depressive nap. I realized pretty quickly that these difficult feelings were coming up because I wasn't doing anything to numb them.
I wasn't drinking, I stopped smoking, and most importantly, I wasn't chasing desperately after a woman. I miss Hilary every day, and it sucks not to be with her, but because I've made this choice to break my love addiction I have to learn how to deal with the inevitable consequences of that decision, without trying to get some other chick to make myself feel like a man.
Part of recovering from any addiction is forcing yourself to do things you don't want to do. I realized that my desire to go to sleep was my brain's way of running from my problems. I reached out to someone I trust (my dear friend and cohost Shakim Leckie), and just the simple act of reaching out helped me make my next move.
I went to the open mic at Reyna's in Parkland, figuring I'd eat, read Dune Messiah, and maybe see someone I know. While there, I did just that, but I also got to see Shakim do his thing, and even got a sneak peek at his newest masterpiece. I didn't talk much, and didn't stay past his set, but just forcing myself to go out and be around people was a good idea..
Things aren't perfect. Far from it. I'm still not over my lost love. In fact, I came across some old recordings we made back when we were planning our own podcast and it made me wistful for the good times. But hey, I'm not stupid. I know shit back then seemed great, but under the surface it was anything but. It just felt good to listen back to good times and hear the sounds of two bosom friends laughing and having a great time.
Love had potential then. I'd like to think it still does. But for me, at least for a little while, love will have to wait. I can listen to the old sounds without getting too sad because I know that at the time I believed it would be great. Hopefulness is a beautiful thing. Even if life sometimes tears at the edges, hope can remain intact.
So stay hopeful, my friends. We're all in this together. With luck, we'll find the person (or persons) who fits in the best possible way. Until then, I'm gonna keep laughing. And listening. Cause after all, that's what I do.
Keep being awesome!
You've got to be kidding me.
I'm trying everything I can do to fit into this new life inside my parents' house, yet still retain a certain level of autonomy that I may pursue life in the best possible way. This should not only be reflected in the decor and layout of my room but also in the sort of boundaries that will make for successful cohabitation.
These boundaries should include the relative privacy of the content aired on devices within the bedroom. Said individual's sanctum sanctorum as it were. Said individual's devices occasionally air some salacious material that can sound quite aggressive.
So when your son goes to every possible length to lower the sound or even run it through headphones, and thinks everything is squared away, he realizes the door to the hallway has been wide open the entire time.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
P.S. A family member seemed quite alarmed that I was sharing so much with the Internet. This person believed that future employment or dating success could be questioned by my disclosures. Whatever, Gramps. Put some pants on.
In this extra special bonus episode, Jeff and Erica Knapp get down to business, sharing their darkly personal stories of sexual abuse and the path of healing. They also share some personal work that touches on their struggles to deal with the aftermath of abuse.
Closing Song: "On the Riverside" - Fiver's Dream
Painting by Jake Bowkett - "Forest Riverside"
by Jeff Richardson
Well here we are. Day two of the epic adventure I'm calling Awesome Blog. Not a great title, but hey, I'm just getting started.
Let's see. Today I got up, took an epic bath, as I am wont to do on my days off, and read Dune, one of my favorite books. Once I finished, I sort of languidly lounged until the water got too cold and my cellphone alarm went off in the next room.
After that I did some other stuff. Who am I kidding? My life is pretty dull. However, I did get up and do some outside work with my dad moving summer furniture under the deck and then we went out to lunch at this fancy-ass place in downtown Gig Harbor.
Hoo boy. I don't make enough money to even pretend I belong in a place like that. Ten tables, a wall of wine, a wraparound outdoor seating area with a vast view of the Sound, the harbor, a lighthouse, and a bunch of mammoth richy-rich homes across the narrow sea.
The dude at the counter was nice. Walked us to our table, gave us our water, brought our menus, and blah blah blah. Behind me was a super foxy redhead and a kindly older lady talking about this and that. At this point you probably know I got problems with pretty ladies, and today was no exception. The music was real quiet, so of course I couldn't help but eavesdrop.
Two minutes in I realized this woman was not for me. Of course, I never could have afforded her anyway. Plus I was in a hoody and dirty sneakers, my daily uniform, which couldn't be helping my game. Not to mention my shaggy blond locks, which have needed a cut for months.
Here is the central problem with love addiction. When we're in the depths of our disease, we don't care what makes our attractions seem ridiculous. Even though this woman was clearly too young for me, out of my league, raised rich (which um, no thank you), and on top of all that, I'm looking like I stepped out of a college dorm room in the 1990s, I still thought I might have a shot.
Here's the really dumb part: even if I had had a chance at snagging this chick, what would I have gained? Some uptight fancy girl who'd think I'm charming for about five minutes, and then run screaming to the nearest yacht club once she realizes I'm an insane, foulmouthed, working-class musician with a history of failed relationships? Seriously. Dumb. But that's the headspace I've been occupying for the last twenty-six years.
See, when you fall in love at age thirteen to a girl you never even try to talk to because you're ashamed of your own shadow, you're not really building up the necessary skills to be successful at dating. And then when your wife leaves you for your sports buddy at age thirty-five, and the only women who will date you are either a) in their twenties, b) as crazy as you are, or c) completely diabolical and only after what little money you have left, you're not exactly in a stable position for long term domestic tranquility.
Maybe if I hadn't been abused at age twelve; maybe if my wife hadn't snared me and controlled me and isolated me for thirteen years; maybe if I hadn't stumbled from one dysfunctional relationship to the next in a vain attempt to find a surrogate for the kind of love and support I didn't receive in childhood, maybe then I might have had a chance to woo this fancy girl and get the kind of woman who could help me get my shit together and possibly get my business up and running and finally make something of my life. But then what? I'm stuck with a woman who I like more for her looks than her soul and I end up being just as lonely as I am now, only with more money.
Fuck that. I got a life to live, a career to build, and a desire to find the right woman for me who can show affection, laugh at my dumb jokes, and give me the business in a light-hearted way, the way I've always wanted someone to treat me but had none of the confidence or calmness to receive. Part of me hopes that The Love Of My Life will work on improving the way she handles problems and deals with anxiety, and comes out of her shell enough to show me a little affection when I really really need it, but the simple fact is she's probably never coming back and I'm just gonna have to accept it.
Improving myself may mean that I never find a woman who fits everything I'm looking for. Hell, maybe I'll find out I don't even like women that much and spend the rest of my life going to movies alone and reading my favorite book for the twenty-seventh time. But I hope like hell that I can get her, because goddammit, I've loved her all my life.
by Jeff Richardson
Blogging is hard. But it's something I used to do all the time. Long before I was a ridiculous funny guy, I was a writer. I wrote all kinds of crazy things: video game ideas, roleplaying campaigns, nerdy genre stories, half-baked novels, you name it.
And then I discovered blogging. It was 2005. The war in Iraq had been going nonstop for two blood-soaked years. The siege of Fallujah had begun and the country was on fire with sectarian violence. Meanwhile, back in the States, the anti-war movement was just starting to get on its feet. I'd seen the Kucinich campaign rise and fall, John Kerry taken out through dirty tricks and rigged voting machines, and Bush and Cheney tightening their hold on freedom here and abroad.
I'd believed that blogging was nothing more than boring journals of ordinary people talking about their cats. I was mistaken. I found several blogs using hyperlinks to connect words and phrases to other websites, including legitimate news sources. Suddenly I had a tool I could use to assist the anti-war effort. I'd taken part in numerous protests, and I was on the board of a volunteer group trying to raise awareness, but here was something I could do every day. As someone who'd been writing since he was five years old, this was an opportunity to flex those muscles and gain some level of notoriety in the process. A fun way to feed my narcissistic impulse, and maybe, just maybe, to change the world.
Now I'm back. This new blog is unlikely to stop any wars or help any left-wing politicians get elected, but with enough effort, and a little luck, perhaps it will feed my need to be heard. And, if I do it right, make a few thousand people see the world in a slightly different way.
And if I really nail it, maybe I can make a few of you snort PBR through your nose. A boy can dream, can't he?
In which the further adventures of Erica Knapp are chronicled and her husband takes part in the discussion; some interesting content is left on the cutting room floor; and lessons of the cult are explained.
Closing Song: "Six Swans" by Aaron Willsie
In which Jeff is introduced to fellow TBTL fan Erica Knapp and her brother Aaron; they discuss a multitude of issues relating to growing up as members of a cult; Jeff explains the gaps in pop culture they missed; Jeff describes his favorite Presidents and can't decide which is supreme; Aaron explains why sad things make him laugh; Erica's dog meets his end under suspicious circumstances; the love between a sweaty soccer star and their mom; and much more. Stay tuned for Part 2 in which Erica's husband Ryan expresses his undying love in a vain attempt to make Erica cry.
Closing Song: "Virtual Insanity" by Jamiroquai
In which Jeff and guest host Chris Wood interview the fabulously talented young comedian, Amber Sayman of Olympia, WA; Jeff regales the crew with his rendition of a U2 song; Shakim's absence is noted due to lack of dungeon maintenance; Marky Mark makes a disturbingly offensive appearance; Surgeon General Amber Sayman explains the dangers of tobacco; Chris and Amber debate having ladies as Rangers; Amber uses pretentiousness as an anxiety blanket; Amber pontificates on the nature of the patriarchy; Jeff's flows bring redness to Amber's cheeks; Jeff survives near-certain death on his mail route; Jeff's poetry is rejected by a local literary journal; Chris survives a terrible illness; Jeff orders Chris to return to Virginia;
Closing Song: "The Beat" - Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip
This episode was voted the 3rd best episode of Season One!
In which Olympia comedian Chase Roper visits Mailman Studios to discuss his epic journey into adulthood; guest host Marquis Carter reveals embarrassing family secrets; we learn of Chase's psychic mother and her strange "allergy"; Jeff reads another love poem; Chase's son reveals his appreciation for diarrhea; Marquis prepares to slam his fellow comics; and the boys discuss their various struggles with mental illness.
Songs in this episode:
"Four Walled World" - Temple of the Dog
"Barracuda" - Roger Fisher and the Human Tribe
In which guest cohost Fred Bowski, future legendary master, Esquire, joins Jefe to discuss the oncoming catastrophic devastation facing the Pacific Northwest; cybernetic government bike messengers; lahar sirens; the majesty of Michael McDonald; the spiritual implications of transgendered people; Fred's journey to fatherhood and not growing weed; Rent-a-goat; future childrearing dilemmas; pony lessons; hobbits, dwarves and wizards; long walks on the beach and wandering hands; the Art of Charm and Jeff's painful attempts at learning improv; and so much more.
Closing Song: "Magic Clap" - The Coup