Adventures at Barnes & Nobles

I am enjoying my time at B&N. And I'm absorbing people again. Taking in all their habits, and flaws, and quirks, and patterns. It's how I navigate--by understanding the human landscape so that I can manuever my way through it. (My own landscape--well, that's a horse of a different color)

There are at least a half a dozen customers in the B&N cafe that were regulars back when I used to work there on the first go 'round. Creatures of habit. And I tell you, they come and sit for hours. Nightly. It saves them LOTS of money, not having to buy all that material they read.

But it makes me realize that I'm not alone in my propensity to isolate myself. These folks aren't at the cafe with partners--they are alone. They dig into a book and that's all she wrote until their coffee runs out.

And then, there are the employees. Another half-dozen quiet people who have been working at the store for years.

Asperger's Disorder, I tell you! George claimed that he and his son had it, but they were embarassingly shameless and pushy. These quiet folk at B&N are more like my style of Asperger's. (Style as in preference. I'm still debating whether I have it or not.) These B&N type of folk are the folks I would be glad to number myself among.

On Life And Death

Last night I did my first additional hours of work at B&N. It was fine. No complaints at all. It is in New Jersey, but is still only 15 miles away from my NYC apartment, so my get-home time at 11:45 landed me in the neighborhood in fifteen minutes. Especially at that hour of the night. So I'll be keeping the job and am looking forward to the additional weekly paychecks.

Additionally, I went to the gym between my day job and my new night job, and I'm not feeling any physical repercussions today. So hooray for my nearly-43 year old body.

And speaking of my body, I was thinking of my toxic friend again. Last night at 1:30AM I got a call from him, and a message was left--but there were no words. So one of two things happened. 1) He read this blog and was highly bothered, and called me, but decided against it when it was time to leave a message. Or 2) His phone dialed mine by accident. I mention him and my body in the same paragraph because part of his call to me on Sunday included a rant at me about the food I was eating when our gaming group was together on Saturday and additionally, he wanted to know what I had eaten that Sunday before his call. It went like this; "What's the matter with you, huh? What's wrong with you? *waiting to hear my response* Don't you know that stuff is poison? You're going to wind up as a statistic."

This is his style of caring. Aggressive. I'm not receptive to that personality style. I didn't understand that there was caring going on there until much later. (What is it now, 3 days ago?) Instead, all he made me do was get defensive. So yeah. I'm obviously attracted to bossy, verbally-abusive people but my relationships with them inevitably wind up broken. This is a pattern set up for me by my caretakers (read: parents) from way long ago.

I suppose I'll call Mr. Toxic later to find out why my phone rang last night, and I also suppose I'll still be friends with him if that's what he wants, but I also have to tell him what I've been feeling lately. I need to give him the information he needs to either use on my behalf, or to scorn me with. The same way I do when I blog. I love the encouragement --absolutely need it, in fact-- but I know I'm also opening myself up to some ridicule, some aggression, some impatience, and a liberal sprinkling of intolerance. And I can accept that.

And on death; I think when people have a good amount of life under their belts, and opportunities to learn how to cope with loss, then they can handle death better. I'm not one of those people. The fact is simple--I've been experiencing loss from the age of six--or less. Loss of innocence. Loss of security. Loss of love. So now for me, experiencing loss is like taking a drug. My physical body actually takes a blow. And I know this is common--I'm sure of it. This is what crying is--a physical reaction to emotions. But it takes longer for me to recover. It's real and it's just awful.

My therapist helped me understand this thing when I talk to her about my fears and stumbling blocks about relationships. She does it so easily, too! She just uses one or two sentences to remind me of my own past experiences, and boom! I recognize the origins of why I feel what I feel (see Loss; One paragraph above).

My challenge is to find ways to cope. Blogging is definitely one of those ways. Some of the heaviness--the thickness in my chest and the preoccupation in my head--actually does get managable after I've typed out what I'm feeling. So I'm going to go ahead and keep on doing that. And when the mood around here gets heavy, you can know (as we like to say in the 'hood) "I'm just going through some thangs!"

I value your patience and concern. It feels a lot like love.

So that's alright then.

It Still Hurts

I finally clicked on my own link and went to Mike Wieringo's website. I only got as far as his brother and best friend's addresses.

It just keeps shaking me up. Everything they said is true. Life is short and we need to take advantage of all the opportunities we have to love one another now.

But I'm getting so terrified that more people that I love will be taken away too. If Mike Wieringo can be snatched away from his cat, and his brother, and his best friend, then what is keeping My Hero in my life? Or My Friend The Doctor? And everyone else I need?

This is why there is religion. We need something to give us hope beyond this material loss of life, energy, and love. We live through our connection to one another. When those connections are severed, we lose a little bit of our own lives too. That just hurts so much.

And I'm not equipped well to feel secure about death. Death and me have a bad track record.

Out of everyone left that I know and love, I want to be the next one to go. Because I don't want to live without any single one of them.

I just don't.

Toxic

I've spoken about this friend of mine before, and I need to vent about him again.

To anyone else, I would suggest they excise the following type of person from their life;

Everything is "bad" with this guy. He sees the wrong in everyone and everything. He bullies us in his friend-group, slings insults, and struts around with his knuckles dragging. He constantly compares his fitness against our chubbiness, his meager one inch height difference above mine, his fighting abilities, his this and his that. It's like he lives his entire life in competition with everyone, and he always has to be the best. Once when we were gaming, I was about to make a decision that would adversely affect his PC, and he threatened to leave. I lost a LOT of respect for him that night.

But you might ask why I hadn't lost any respect for him before that night if everything I described has been his modus operandi? Well, mancrush, that's why. I admired him for his masculinity and his strong personality. But now I'm just seeing his qualities as toxic. My mancrush on him died a while ago.

So throughtout the day, he rang my phone three times, leaving a message once, so he could 'commiserate' some bad news with me. The bad news did not pertain to him, it pertained to My Hero. Something was promised to My Hero and the result fell pitifully short of what everyone who cared had expected. Fortunately, I already knew how far short of the mark the promise would fall, because we were dealing with an unreliable source to begin with. So I had not been looking forward to the promise anyway. But the sci fi community is up in arms about it.

Now let me clarify. This friend in question doesn't even like My Hero. Despite everything that he knows about me, and my relationship with My Hero, he refuses to even try. He doesn't respect my opinions about My Hero, nor trust my judgment about My Hero. He just refuses to accept My Hero because His Hero didn't win.

So why did he try to reach me three times today to tell me what an awful deal My Hero got, and how he feels bad for him? Because he is drawn to bad news like flies are drawn to steaming piles, that's why. And because he wanted to gloat under the disguise of commiseration. And because he's toxic and unhappy.

But My Hero? The movie wasn't the prize for him. The love of people who care for him and support his dream to do good in the world--that's the real prize. Go check him out at his convention appearances and he'll show you for himself how much he appreciates you.

Too bad my toxic friend can't see that. But given his nature, he wouldn't anyway. Sad. This friend actually used to be one of my heroes.

There's A Little Black Spot On The Sun Today ...

I did my best! I did my best! Yay, Dane Cook--etching himself forever in the minds of millions whenever they're ready for a good cry. Well, Dane and a bunch of others are crowding around right now, waiting for me to let one go.

I was doing well, really, but the closer I get to my 76-hour work week (starts on Monday) and the more I think about Mike Wieringo's death, the more I feel like having a little meltdown. In less than two months, I'll lose the glamour of being "The Answer To Life, The Universe, and Everything." In other words, I'll be 43. Is there a sexy way to present the number 43? Can I pretend that 43 is the new 23? The new 33?

Mike Wieringo was to me what I might be to some of you. I never met him, but I read his blog. He was a great artist who took comments to his blog and responded at times--but he'd get like 40+ responses at times. He also posted the sketches he would make at the start of his day, which he used to get his juices flowing so he could accomplish his page goals for that day. But he took the time to blog his thoughts as well. Sometimes he would talk about his brother. Sometimes he would talk about his dog or his car. Or an animal he rescued in the road. But sometimes he would talk about how much time he spent at the drawing table, as opposed to out to dinner on a date. He didn't go on and on, like I do, but it might be one little sentence fragment, or a few inserts in a verbal interview. I just felt so much like him--a creator in our 40's, alone in our rooms--talking to the world, but not really a part of it.

That's why I go out to the #1 Train for no reason. I sometimes have to literally pick myself up by the scruff of the neck and thrust myself out of the house. I go, sit on the train, and watch people as I travel downtown. I felt like I had a major breakthru when I spoke to the acquaintance the one time, and the old guy the other week. But then I go up to the steps of the Karaoke bar ... and I freeze. There's a wall there that no one but me and Mike Wieringo can see.

I don't want to die in a year, a month, and two weeks, alone at home, never having done these things. I want Mike Wieringo to come back and have the chance to break out of these self-imposed walls, and then tell me how he did it. Or I want to be able to write him a letter and tell him some of the things I do to get out of the house. I cared for his struggle. It was mine.

I didn't mean to claim high drama and relapse back into the moan-and-groan, but the one line keeps going through my mind as I imagine Mike Wieringo's death and the fears his absence conjures up inside of me right now. Then when I looked up the lyrics that follow the one line, I couldn't help but admit that they apply.
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Well, this just in ... one of the quality people on the planet just swung by and gave of themselves to help me out. It wasn't money. It was time. And concern. And encouragement. And insight. I'm not quite as lonely anymore. Nor as scared.

Heroes exist for a reason.

So that's alright then.

Rest In Peace, Mike Wieringo. Your struggle is over, and while you were here, you enhanced the lives of millions much the way flowers and rainbows do. You gave our world a little bit more color.

GzaaaAAHHHH!!

Nothing really. I just have a case of the Blue Tuesdays. Which is a lot like the Blue Mondays except it's a day late and about $25,000.00 short.

I still have to get my cat out of George's house. I offered the cat to a known cat-lover at work who is currently mulling it over. She lost her 10-year old cat a few weeks ago, so she's a little cat-shy, but she's also catless right now.

I call my cat "cat" because I can't really do this if I consider the cat as a person. Because I can't abandon a person. But I abandoned my cat.

I suck.

Hopefully this woman will take my cat.

Anyway, it's cold and rainy and dark-ish. That's kind of depressing. And next week, I'll be working 76 hours a week for an unknown amount of time. That's kind of depressing too. I didn't watch Dane Cook this morning either. So no laughies there. I'll be going to my therapist in about a half-hour, so that's alright then. But I don't have any money to give her today, so I'll have to ask her to let me pay 2x next time.

I'm in no mood to work with my clients, today, either. I don't want to hear their problems, which mostly consists of not tolerating their roommates due to their own organic brain problems. So it's just a matter of finding compromise to impose on their situation, since I won't be able to reason with them to change their thinking. They're developmentally disabled, you see. Back in the day, they were broadly categorized as just "retarded". But I like political correctness, and I have no problem skipping that label. And when I'm feeling better, I do believe they can change their thinking. Even if they can't, I'd still believe they can. And sometimes ... they do.

But this morning? Fuhgedaboutit. This is a sick day just waiting to happen.

Would a significant other change this? Help me get through it better? Or add one more thing for me to fret about today?

Hmm. I guess a GOOD significant other would be nice. Someone to cuddle my blues away ...

Dane Cookology

I did some more surfing and found an evolution of sorts. Sometimes I just love me so much.

First of all--Dane Cook when he was young and very Jim Carreyesque. This may have been why I missed his rise. I have had enough Jim carrey to last me several of his OWN lifetimes. And remember when I thought the way Dane Cook spoke was a dealing with a possible speech impediment? Welllll ... pay close attention to the early Mr. Cook.


Now here's Dane halfway to the stud he has become today. He's taken more command of the stage in this next one. and his voice is halfway to the more gruff, crisp sound in the current Dane. The cause? Cigarettes? The world wants to KNOW, Dane! Oh, and remember when I suspected the boy has moves? How awesome am I?


But I am most happy with this version of Dane, circa 2003, I believe? This was the special that introduced me to him. Now that I've seen his older self, I find he's less animated these days. (Too many ciggies, Dane?) and his Boston accent is really on fire! I though he was Canadian when I first heard him. There's nary a trace of it in the previous samples, if you'll notice. But what I like the best about all the performances? The man is not afraid to scream. Maybe THAT'S what changed his voice!! Every dude out there now--AAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I have watched this one every morning so far. The thing that sends me out of the house laughing like a fool is at the very end-- "... auuuHUHHheee stole the beads ... -aaaiieeeee stole the beads ... gyaaaaahhh!!"