My New Single Drops

So anyways, it's been a few days. Where DOES the time go? Well, I've finally gotten all caught up on Supernatural(AWESOME SHOW) and have spent the last couple days cultivating an totally bitchin' mutton chops/mustache combo. Ah, the joys of facial hair ownership. Truly, one of life's sweetest pleasures. Oh, I've also been trying my damnedest to learn the uke. Sometimes, simple tasks like strumming a string in time can be absolutely daunting for me. If life was a movie, you'd see me furrowing my brow in vein, my nostrils shaking until a single trickle of blood flows from my nose. Well, after about 3 hours of practicing and writing, I managed to put together a little something for the site. It's not much, but believe me when I tell you that barring any focus altering medicine, this is the best I'm gonna' be able to do for now.



If you want to know the chords for this song, hoping to play it at home...?? WELL, FUCK OFF!!!

The truly great ones NEVER reveal their secrets.

Oh, and if my voice sounds a little strained, there's a reason for that. This took me an unprecedented 37 TAKES to get right!!

Curse my dumb brain.

Lyrics:
This is Matt
This is a C Chord
I turned on my camera
And I pressed record
The strumming's off
The fingering's awkard
And you can't rock
with only a C Chord

Everybody, come look
at me-chord
I just learned
to play a C Chord

Will rock n roll
fame be my reward?
probably not
with only a C Chord

Try to practice
but I get so bored
three weeks in
I'm still stuck on C chord

Music lessons,
I just can't afford
So I'll probably only
ever know
C....
C....
C.....
OMG!
CHORD!!

Thanks for your time.

She's Just Like Her dADHDy...

So anyways, my last blog detailed my absolute abhorrence at the trend of idealizing and romanticizing cold blooded killers and blood thirsty ghouls. I was all set to follow up on it with another monster themed post and WILL more than likely do just that in the near future. BUT... I've had a blast hanging out with my kid all weekend. Yeah, you know... The one who's trying to kill her old man. Since I did a blog all about her potentially psychotic tendencies, I figured I'd do a fun little one, celebrating my daughter for the unique, spunky and altogether hilarious individual that she is. Why, here's a clip of her enjoying nothing more than sending her Care Bear on seemingly never ending ride around our living room.



Yes, that's our Christmas tree still standing in the background. Some might argue that such a decoration should have been packed up MONTHS ago, but to them I say FIE and BE-DAMNED!!! It's Christmas ALL... YEAR... LONG at our place. Plus, uh... Liesi may have destroyed the box which we'd intended to store it in. Rest assured, it was a slow steady process. First it was a house. Then, after the ripped the top and bottom flaps off, it was a tunnel. Then when she's ripped it completely open it was either a mattress or an old school hip-hop break dancing mat. Then, ripped into a thousand little pieces, it was a puzzle. A puzzle that I didn't have the heart to tell her, would never be capable of being placed back together.

At this point all I can do is sit back, watch and wait for the eventual diagnosis that will either prove me wrong or confirm my worst fears.... Oh, and ramble. Growing up ADHD isn't easy by any stretch of the imagination. I remember how hard it was for me, cutting my teeth in prim and proper CT with the energy of not one boy, but at least seven. VCRs were taken apart, inspected and forgotten about until my father's screams of anguish over the loss of his home media center would awaken me at night. When I was about 11, I was shy and maladjusted. I'd often say the wrong thing at the wrong time and would often make up elaborate lies in order to impress both my peers and adults.

I'd often make up fantastical stories of the rollercoaster I had in my backyard. One time some kids went to check it out after school. When they called me on it, I told them that it had been repossessed because my Dad was being indicted for insider trading. I think that I had heard the phrase on TV once. Other lies included that my Mom had been on Wheel of Fortune. That my uncle worked at Sega and was developing a really cool X-Men video game. He didn't and he wasn't. My uncle's an alcoholic, failed meteorologist who, when visiting our house... Gets soused, goes downstairs, sits in the dark and listens to his weather radio. Presumably he'd cry during these sessions.

The next year, I got into theater. That untapped energy and rambunctiousness paid dividends when I was strutting my stuff on stage. With Liesi, I'd been considering enrolling her in a dance class when she got a bit older... And then, this video was shot. By me.



I've got a pretty bad headcold today, so pardon the Vader-like breathing.

I'm going to have to wait and hope that she'll develop rhythm over time. Oh, and get this!! This is actually the best of three vids I shot today. In this one, she actually keeps her clothes on. Maybe Laura wasn't that far off with her first name choice.

Anyways, all kids crave attention, but none more than ADHD children. Whereas, an unaffected 4 year old might need to talk to you every few minutes, may need praise when good work is done, ADHD children feel that need at nearly every moment of the day. Liesi's like that, a whirlwind of non stop energy that has no bounds. If I even so much as blink, I'll open my eyes and see a beautiful Diego Rivera-esqe mural painted on my wall. I love the kid, but she's VERY high maintenance. Still, I'm not one to judge.

It happened to me. Hell, I still feel the need for constant approval at 27, and will absolutely go nuclear if someone employs the ever dreaded "silent treatment" on me. It's even worse when people don't read my blogs... Hint, hint. My Dad would help sometimes by buying me an extremely elaborate modeling kit or a puzzle that he knew that I'd never be able to finish. It breaks down like this, kids.





Should I do like what my mom did and put that energy to use?? One summer, before she'd let me go out and swim in the pool, she pulled out a HUGE stack of store circulars... Some of which from stores that I'd never heard of! Some of which that I'm sure couldn't possibly exist! Anyways, long rambling story short, she sat me down at the dining room table and told young Matthew:

[Mom] In front of you are a three giant stacks of circulars, a pair of scissors and three empty cigar boxes... Beyond those grim objects is a refreshing dip in the swankiest above ground pool that your Father's salary as an Shipping Department Assistant Manager can afford. Manufactures, No Expiration Date, Mail-In Rebate... This is how you will sort them. You have until lunch to finish this task.

By lunch-time, I'd cut enough coupons and saved my Mom enough money that should she so chosen, she'd have been able to reduce Gaum's national debt three times over. Instead, we just saved a lot of money and were never for want of Van De Kamp's fish sticks. Oh, and also I got to go swimming. The point of this story is that, with an intricate task, and with our own comfort and happiness on the line, I was able to be a surprisingly productive members of society.

With the right encouragement, who knows what Liesi could grow up to be someday?

Dating Can Be A Pain In The Neck

So anyways, writing this blog as of late has been good for me. It's given me a sense of focus, which God knows I am in desperate need of. ADHD's no piI was a young man, I've realized that my interests or rather the number of my intcnic and definitely has its pitfalls, but it's not all bad. Ever since erests have often outnumbered those of my peers. Part of that's probably due to my compulsory need to communicate with others. Having a wider array of topics to bring up enables me to wedge myself into practically any conversation. One of my first loves and an interest that's stayed with me to this day?

Monsters.

God help me, ever since I was like, only seven years old, I've been obsessed with all things in the horror genre. Slasher movies, tales of demonic possession, cannibal hillbilly families jonesing for their next brunch, werewolves roaming the countryside taking a beat to howl at just the right moment, vampires. I've been around the block, my friends. I've found myself in malls, mapping out contingency plans in the event of a zombie apocalypse. I've made it a point to never dismiss a friend's household pet's unexplained growling at a wall as simple moodiness. I've toyed with the idea of having a Catholic priest bless my hands in preparation of an attack from a demonic entity. I decided against that last idea based only on the inefficiency of it all. There are some acts that I have a tendency to perform that would definitely, uh... "Un-sanctify" my hands.




The point is that I approach monster and horror flicks with the right attitude. That attitude being: "Monsters are bad." It's a simple theory really and one as old as time.

See, we as a people, whether or not we choose to admit it, love conflict. And over the course of the PC-ification and altogether castration of this country, we've been told that it's wrong to hate and to label. Now, I'm by no means condoning racism, not at all. In fact, I think that racists are small minded and petty people. If it were up to me, they'd all be placed in internment camps, fed gruel and eventually forced to march to their own deaths into chambers of unspeakable horror.

Uh, let me rephrase that....

What I'm trying to say is that struggles against a common foe breed camaraderie and acts of great bravery. Why do you think that wars and gang activity are so prevalent? It's a simple equation really. Us vs Them. It's the reason why we watch sports and scream obscenities at the other team until we're hoarse and red faced. It's the reason that we play cowboys and Indians as kids. The cathartic thrill of combat is deeply ingrained into our psyches as human beings. Of course, over time, we've been taught that such feelings are wrong. Indians had it rough and as it turns out, more than likely didn't scalp every blue eyed blond haired European that crossed their path. The Commies that James Bond fought during the cold war had families to provide for and were more often than not simply cogs in the machine of an oppressive regime.

Is there no one group totally deserving of a good ass-kicking???

MTV would erase you from the face of the earth if you even tried.

But, wait!!! "Monsters are bad", right?


Hell, I always thought so. When I'd watch as a kid, I'd never find myself identifying with the overly fopped-out bloodsucker that was trying to rip the damsel's throat out... No matter how cool his cape was. When hunters would open fire upon a hirsute wolfman, I never shook my fist at the television screen and muttered, "Those had better be tranq darts or I'm calling PETA..." Monsters are simple escapist fun. Like robots, nobody should bat an eye when a monster gets its just desserts. They're the last of the truly acceptable targets.

So, tell me this? How come, everywhere I go, I am forced to listen to the unbridled chatter of teenage girls as they express their love for Edward Cullen? Seriously? Yes, Vampires make girls swoon. Excuse me for saying this, but that idea strikes me as fundamentally stupid. I know that it's not necessarily a new concept either. For only the last few centuries, we've romanticized the hell out of the undead. Dracula by Bram Stoker, Lestat of Anne Rice fame... Hell, even Angel from BTVS. All killers, yet all able to evoke that sad puppydog face when called out on their bullshit. At least the folks that gave us Angel explained that he'd been an "en-souled" bloodsucker. Even though I hate the trope, I can see the appeal that vampires have for women.

Women like bad boys.

They like beautiful bad boys.

They like beautiful bad boys with great hair.

Maybe it's just jealousy, because try as I might, I'll probably never have that combination of bad, beauty and hair. Maybe, two out of three if I REALLY try... Like, maybe I head on down to Adam Broderick's and get the hot new look... And then maybe, just maybe I shoot my barber. So, what do I do? Well, I do what I do best. I try and point out the ridiculousness of lusting after not only a non-existent character type, but more importantly a non-existent traditionally EVIL character type.

Let's just for the sake of fun throw up some lines from everyone's favorite movie, shall we?

[Edward] You're like my own personal brand of heroin.

[Edward] I'm the world's most dangerous predator, Bella. Every thing about me invites you in. My voice, my face, even my smell. As if I would need any of that... as if you could out run me... as if you could fight me off. I'm designed to kill.

[Bella] I don't care.

[Edward] I've killed people before.

[Bella] It does not matter.

[Edward] I wanted to kill you at first. I've never wanted a human's blood so much, before.

[Bella] I trust you.

[Edward] Don't.


[Bella] How old are you?

[Edward] Seventeen.

[Bella] How long have you been seventeen?

[Edward] A while.

Ok, let's see if I've got this right... You're all dated up with this swell guy with oh so dreamy eyes that... Sometimes change color. That's cool, maybe he's got a really good visual insurance plan. He compares you, his love interest to Schedule 1 substance. Then he not only confesses to murders in the past but informs you of his ongoing desire to kill YOU. Then, it turns out that he's been lying about his age and probably MUCH older than you(Statutory rape, anyone?)... So, what does this all mean?

Check the hair... It's the only way to be sure!!!

For more on monsters from this moron monster, be sure to check out my blog tomorrow. Thanks for reading, folks.

Help!!! My Lesbian Haired Daughter is Trying To Kill Me!!!

So anyways, having kids is great. Especially when they do unauthorized modifications of their appearance. I bring this up because as you may have read in my last blog, Liesi went all Sweeney Todd on herself and fashioned herself a pretty sick style that was one part Mullet, one part mange and one part rooster (That red streak DID look pretty bitching, to be completely honest). So, what did Laura and I do? Well, like any good parents, we brought her to the local Supercuts where she could be the object of ridicule for a "trained beauty professional" working for minimum wage. After some gentle ribbing from the salon staffer, Liesi was in the chair and ready to get her trim.

And when it was all said and done, she didn't come out looking that bad.

In fact, it's a fairly popular look. The "Pixie" look's been around for years, or uh... So some of my friends who know the names of women's hairstyles tell me.




Unfortunately that haircut is often readily mistaken for another follicular trend with some rather unfortunate implications.



Just to make sure I'm covered on both ends, I've purchased ballerina slippers, Birkenstocks, tutus, flannel shirts, and DVD'S of both The "Nutcracker on Ice" AND the "Best of the WNBA". The look I got from the cashier at Walmart for this eclectic order was almost worth the exorbitant price of said goods.

But, God help me, I like the new look. It's short, it's spunky, it doesn't get into her mouth when she eats. But, the down side of it, is that now she looks almost completely like me when I was a child. And wouldn't you know it, her personality is already starting to turn that way too. On the car ride home, she regaled us with a twenty minute song about how much she loves the sunshine... It was pitch black at the time. She also keeps reminding me ad nauseum that her friends are coming to her birthday party this weekend. Her birthday is in July. And even though she may suspect that it's starting to creep me out, or maybe because of the fact, she keeps referencing that her brother is coming to visit.

A brother who doesn't exist.

A brother who couldn't exist.

Or can he???

It's weird. I know that she's just fucking with me, but every night I lock the door, and sleep with a cross under my pillow. Because if I've learned anything from horror movies, it's this; Whenever a kid references an imaginary playmate or a sibling that doesn't exist, it usually ends up being the ghost of some seriously mentally fucked up kid who wrecks the shit of pretty much every main cast member. Me? I'm not taking any chances. You'll find me most nights, cowering on my sofa, surrounded by a circle of salt, open bible in my hand and a watchful eye on any suspicious shadows.
Sometimes, I just think that she does things just to mess with me, just to see my reaction. And I know what you're going to say... I already know it. "But, Matt... She's just a kid. How could she possibly have the ability to reach into your brain, jumble around and pull out the nightmare fuel within?" I don't know HOW she does it. Most of the time, she's a perfectly sweet little angel. A pleasure to be around. Maybe a little rambunctious, but that's to be expected.

Recently, Laura's Mom bought Liesi a dollhouse. One of those nice wooden ones, where the furniture can all be swapped out and placed in any room. I'll usually sit down on the couch, read a book and casually glance over as Liesi will meticulously play for hours, arranging rooms and you know, really Feng Shui-ing the crap out of that place. One day, I crawled over to actually take a look. Immediately, I had to laugh. In the middle of the living room, the doll indicating the father was sitting down watching TV... On the toilet.

Now, even I had to marvel at her perception. Does this kid know me or what? Were it possible or even remotely socially acceptable, I'd have installed a commode in the middle of the living room years ago. Think about it... Cushioned seat... Pajamas with a backflap... Privacy cover... Bidet jets cleaning out your orifices with the help of a leprechaun armed with a squeegee... I mean, something like this....




Now, I'm not saying that the good Professor ever enslaved a tiny Irish midget to do his, uh, dirty work. But, I'm not arguing against it either. I don't know. I wasn't there. Thankfully, I was never there. Back to the point, as I looked around the mock living room, I noticed a definite lack of any sinks or water fixtures anywhere. This is the conversation that took place next:

[Liesi] Do you love it, Daddy?

[Me] It's nice, Liesi... But-

[Liesi] But, what?

[Me] But, the toilet? It shouldn't be here. It shouldn't be in the living room. It should be in the bathroom. You know what else should be in the bathroom? The sink. Instead it's in the attic. And the shower, now you and I both that it doesn't belong in the front hall. Other than that, great job. Can't wait till you design MY new house.

And I figured that THAT would be THAT. I went back to my book and let Liesi play until it was time for her bath, which in case you're wondering, took place in the bathroom. I also put her on the toilet and had her wash her hands in the sink. Guess what? One stop shopping, kid. All conveniently located in one room. And yeah, true to my form, I was a little cocky about it. But, I figured that she'd forget about it by the next morning. I mean, what kind of three year old bears a grudge over dollhouse decorating tips?

Oh, was I wrong.

The next day, sure as the sun rises in the east, Liesi was back at her dollhouse. I continued to read my book ("Good Omens" by Neil Gaiman and Terry Goodkind) as Liesi diligently went back to mocking everything that Good Homes and Gardens stands for. Finally, after twenty minutes of hard work, Liesi stood up, patted her hands on her dungaroos and proclaimed;

[Liesi] DONE!!! Come and see!!

I nodded politely, dogeared the page of my book that I was reading and crawled over. What I saw shocked and horrified me. It chilled me to the very core of my soul. Liesi had removed the stairs from the attic. She'd found tape and an old playing card and had BOARDED UP the only exit to the attic. Crouched over the sink in the attic was the Daddy doll. And I can't say for certain, but it looked like he had a pained look on his face. The look of a man damned for all time. My daughter... My precious three and a half year old baby... Had built an oubliette. For those not familiar with the term, an oubliette is what is known as a "forgotten place" in the history of French dungeonery. People would be boarded up and left to die. My daughter... My sweet, lesbian haired daughter, had condemned the Daddy doll to a slow, starving torturous death. When I asked her;

[Me] Why, Liesi? Why is Daddy in the dungeon?

She turned to me, no emotion visible on her face and simply stated.

[Liesi] Because he was bad.

Chills, people... Chills down my spine. I mean, where does a child even learn to do such a thing?




Yeah... She's MY kid, alright.

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes!!!

So anyways, last night whilst working on page 3 of my graphic blog, I realized that slowly but surely, the inclusion of my loving homage to Golden Age comics, "Into the Bleach" was quickly becoming a ratings bust.

Like Shakira's hips, pictures don't lie.

I guess my idea of a wise-cracking superhero that gains his powers by virtue of drinking a sentient bottle of bleach- then goes head to head with a racist bleach magnate known as The Kleansman is just too far edgy and ahead of its time. Either that or it's just really only funny to me. Rest assured, readers, Bleach is dead until I can find a way to retool and reinvent him in a way that not only "doesn't suck" but generates viewership for my "public" IE, the three or four of you that actually read my site. As you may or may not have noticed, I've got ads on my site now. Ads that generate revenue for me if you actually click on my blog. Yes, I've gone corporate. And yes, there are literally dozens of dollars to be made here.

And Bleachy, I love you, but you just aren't paying the bills.

So, now you're dead to me.

So, I think to myself... What DOES pay the bills? What DO people like? Well, sex sells. But, seeing as how I usually can't even give it away, it probably won't sell for me. Moody depressing blogs sell... If you're a hot young girl of an indeterminable age. Which I'm totally not. Babies sell...

Wait a minute...

I HAVE A BABY!!!

Although not a lot of current pictures of her.

This is Liesi. Laura wanted to name her Georgia Sapphire, but I informed her that as of this point, they don't make diapers in the G-String style. She was also disheartened to hear that I was profoundly against putting a pole in the middle of my infant daughter's crib. So, she begrudgingly settled on her second choice and forewent giving her a name that would pidgeonhole my young daughter into a career in exotic dancing.

At this moment, She's about three and a half years old and about 36 lbs of mind-numbing, teeth-rotting cute. And she's slowly but surely, wrecking the place up. The other day I sat her down in front of her favorite television show about a latch key kid that goes on dangerous adventures through the jungle, who can't remember simple directions, who talks to inanimate objects and whose only supervision is an emotionally fragile monkey who wears a red pair of boots. I left to go grab a quick shower and when I returned, Liesi had found a red marker and a pair of scissors.

As it stands, my baby girl, who up until this point had had gorgeous tresses of flaxxen blond hair now has a mullet. A mangy sort of thing with red streaks on one side. She looks like Cyndi Lauper just coming off a three day bender. And if I had the money, I'd buy a digital camera and post a hilarious side by side comparison.

But, Damn it!! People just aren't reading my BLOG!!!!

Right now, I can hear Liesi in the dining room. There's a steady piddling sound on the floor that I pray is from a sports bottle. And now it's stopped. Now I hear splashing. UGH.

And so, I leave you with this... A birthday card for my Ex's mother's birthday, using Liesi's image. I hope it goes over as well with you guys as it did with her.

Into The Bleach Issue # 2

Just as I promised, there's issue 2 of the Into The Bleach saga... Feel free to throw your thoughts up here... Or just to throw up. Either way, I'll be happy. In the next few days, we'll meet the rest of the cast of our first arc and discover just that the deal was with that talking bottle of bleach...

Into The Bleach: Issue # 1

Author's Note: Yes, it's a photo-shopped comic. But, the joy of this remains in fact that YOU, the reader get sweet, dual joy out of this executive decision;

1) With minimal work being put into the actual art, I'm sure to be able to put up daily posts.

2) If the story's good enough, I'll be able to shoot this with friends and acquaintances filling in for models. YOU could be a seldom read web comic superstar!! Imagine that level of relative obscurity...

Brand New Graphic Novel Launch!!!

So anyways, in the interest of doing so much more with this blog than simply haranguing my few readers with nothing but sob stories and hauntingly poignant anecdotes, I've decided to begin offering original content on the site. And so, starting tomorrow, I'll be doing a week's worth of my all new Superhero Crime Serial (maybe more depending on how well it does). Oh, yes, children... That's right. A daily page of a hot ongoing graphic novel, starring everyone's favorite Bottle Blond Belligerent... Venice Bleach!!! Oh?? What's that you say?? You've never heard of Venice Bleach?? Well, take a gander at this, true believers!!

Yes... That's the Bleacher on the cover. I hope to make this an origin story in all of 7 pages. The writing's gonna be pretty breezy and the plot may have holes large enough to drive a truck through. But, why not go ahead and read it?? PLEASE??? If not for me, do it for "Ol' Bleachy." If you had a comic, he'd totally read it.

The Day I Realized That I Wasn't a Mutant...

As I'm sure you've already guessed by my previous entry, recently I've come to the grips with the fact that my ADHD is spiraling wildly out of control. Now, this isn't the typical college kid, WEBMD-browsing self analysis that so readily in this country leads to overt prescription drug abuse. I've actually been diagnosed as a child with the disorder, took meds for a while and generally showed improvement. Hell, I was doing well enough that at the tender age of 12, that I was asked to take part in some oh so nifty standardized tests. The results of those tests? Your boy here was especially gifted in regards to the english language. At the time, I didn't think much of it. I mean, it's my first language after all. I SHOULD be able to speak and understand it with some degree of precision. A letter was sent home to my parents- A letter I still have to this day. I won't bore you with the semantics of what was printed, rather I will attempt to be as concise as possible... Which for me, I know... Sometimes a Herculean feat in and of itself.

Ahem. Here's the letter in a nutshell:








I may have embellished a bit on the last part.

So, I was stoked. I didn't get on too well with kids my own age, and often wondered why. Now, I knew. I was a super genius!! After years of being called dumb, having prescription pills rammed down my throat and being generally labeled a smelly, spazzy outcast by anyone wearing a slap bracelet(This were big at the time), I finally had something to feel good about. Plus, HELLO??? "School for Talented Youth"?? That was like one mental leap away from being the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters!! I knew it!!! All of my suspicions were totally right on the money. Yes, I... Matthew James... Was a mutant. Who knew what my super powers would be? Energy dispersion??? Energy absorption?? Something with energy. I mean, how else could you explain my inability to sit still and completely inhuman metabolism. And my unusual odor?? Bah, obviously a side effect of my latent mutant abilities.


Oh, God... I wondered what my outfit would look like! In the next few days, I drew up dozens of pages of concept art, each one more rococo than the last. One of the final drafts had a codpiece with a radioactive powered unicycle that would extend for quick getaways. Yes, I was young and idealistic, but naysayers be DAMNED. I'd have my Crotch-Rocket and the only way that anyone would take it from me would be if they pried it from my cold, dead hands. The thought of testicular radiation never entered my mind... Nor the thought that years later, the previous statements would sound incredibly filthy.


But, I digress... Constantly. The note was in my hands and the writing was on the wall. This kid was going places!!! My parents seemed slightly less enthused with the analysis. One night, while in bed, I found myself unable to sleep. Not an uncommon occurance, seeing as how my brain ALWAYS seems to be running. From my room downstairs, I heard my parents arguing. Again, not an uncommon occurance. But, the repeated use of my name drew me from my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles clad twin bed and to the foot of the steps. What I heard then, would set the course for many years of self loathing and internal doubt.

[Mom] Look, I think it's a wonderful idea. Matt doesn't seem to be able to pay attention at school as it stands. His teachers tell us that he's often bored and unattentive. Many have stated that they don't feel that he's being challenged enough.

[Dad] Ok, so he's too smart to do his work?? well, that's just great, Liz. Hey, I've got an idea... Why don't I call my boss, FIRST thing in the morning and tell him that I too am just too smart to do the job I've been assigned.
At this point, my Dad launched into what may have been a hilarious pantomime involving the house phone. I'll never know, because I was hiding just out of sight.

[Dad] "Hello, Schnitzel?(Amazingly the name of my Dad's boss. It explains a lot. Imagine if your boss's last name was Schnitzel.) Yeah, this is Jim. Yeah, I'm not going to be able to make it in tomorrow... Or any day for that matter. I'm just too damn smart for this job. It's just not 'mentally stimulating enough'. That's right... I'm calling in bored."
At this point, I assume he hung up and flashed my mom an especially smug face. It would definitely explain the labored sigh that escaped from her lips at this point.

[Mom] James... It's not like we'll even have to pay for this. It's pretty much been covered by the state.

[Dad] It's in Baltimore. I'd have to get up at like 4am on Monday just to drive him... Send him money for food. And then on Friday, I'd have to leave early just to pick him up from the train station... Also, the kid JUST can't pay attention!! I'll bet you the house, that the first time we put him on a train, we'll get a phone call from Phoenix, Arizona asking us to pick him up-

[Mom] But, James-

[Dad] NO!!!
There was a pause, and the sound of my Dad wearily walking to his room. Before, I heard him shut the door, the defeated and conflicted sound of my father's voice was heard once more.

[Dad] No... Liz, I love him and all... But, he's just not worth it.

And then the door to my father's room shut for the night, along with the door to my bright, shiny and spandex wearing future. Don't judge him harshly. I certainly don't anymore. My Dad is a good man. It took me years to realize it, but now it's ingrained in my mind. My mom, ever the altruist, chose to adopt children and open her home to foster kids whenever possible. It takes a certain kind of person to do that. My father, God bless him, never wanted it. He wanted to settle down, get married and have a few kids of his own. But, that's not to say that he didn't grow to love me in time. It's just that he never asked for me. His plan was always to travel the world when all of his kids were out of the house... And the second they were, My mom went and adopted me... And a few others.

I imagine that it's like an irritatingly long prison sentence... You keep your head down, stay out of trouble and do your time. Finally, your parole's up. You've got a meeting with the warden, everything's going fine and you're all set to ship off to Zihuatanejo, because your buddy Andy would never stop talking about the damn place, when suddenly-

[Warden] Oh... Yikes.

[Dad] What??? what yikes? Why yikes? HUH???

[Warden] It seems that your parole...??
And he pulls out a massive rubber stamp and bitchslaps my pops across the face with it.

[Warden] DENIED!!!!! Throw him in the hole!!!



A bit dramatic, but I think that it fits. So, I don't fault the old man. He drank, sure. Sometimes, when he'd come home, all he'd want to do was relax... Have a beer. Maybe hang out by the pool if the weather was nice. But, as he'd enter the house, Mom would fill his head with all of the terrible deeds that the son that he'd never asked for had perpetrated that day. And, well... Sometimes, things would get heated. Growing up, I always figured that my Dad was just this big, angry, selfish jerk. And now, as a father, I realize... My Dad was just tired. He was a prisoner for a crime that he'd never committed. In a way, we both were. I didn't ask to be born the way I was. I didn't ask to never be able to keep a coherent thought in my head... To not be able to pay attention when it's truly needed of me. I never asked to be unable to know what's socially expected of me.

You know, they say that you suffer from ADHD. But, it's not just the afflicted who suffer. It's everyone around you, whether they be your folks, your friends or just the readers of an interminably long blog.

The Epic Non-Beginning

So anyways, thanks to the gentle persuasion of a frequent poster on ADDforums.com(Spoiler Alert: I have ADHD), I've decided to once again dive headlong into the blogosphere. Only one problem remains; What should the topic of this first blog be? Myself? Too self-indulgent and thoroughly done to death. And I mean, like TOTALLY done to death. It's been such a huge problem for me, that it has both effectively alienated me from the general public and destroyed pretty much every single relationship I've ever had.

Casual acquaintances, not friends(I have like, one actual friend), will come to me, and expound upon their many problems. It's understandable. I have a kind face and honestly look like the kind of guy who generally gives a crap. That's not to say that I don't, cause I kind of do. I want to be there for people, I really do. But, I have this... I don't know... Let's just call it a monkey on my back- Or this compulsory need to be the center of attention.

Like, this girl... Cute girl... She'll be telling me this tragic story about her Pomeranian getting mangled in an escalator. And in my mind- in the part that's still sane, reasonable and lucid- I'll know what's required of me. I know what my role in this exchange is; "Sounding Board". I know that people have opinions and that they matter. I know that they deserve a chance to be heard. And what's even more painful is the knowledge that this cute girl is probably only opening up to me because she thinks that I can help her... No, not with any purported time traveling powers that will save her dog. Not with a gift certificate to www.puppyfind.com to replace the pooch. Not even with directions to a certain Pet Semetary that's been rumored to help in matters like this ... No, she just wants someone to sit there, commiserate and maybe offer a friendly bit of advice. And God help me, I want to so bad... Plus, did I mention that she's totally cute?? But, NO.... Instead of a Psalm, instead of a word of comfort or a good old non-sexual pat on the shoulder, I open my mouth and this comes out;

[Me] Yeah, I know how you feel. When I was like 12, my Dad came inside from the yard and said, "Hey, Matt. You know how your dog loves playing dead? Well... She won!"

And I hold for a laugh... A chuckle... A giggle... Annnnnnnddddd.... Nothing. She excuses herself politely and mentally crosses me off a list of folks that she's willing to ever talk to again. And all because I wanted a laugh. Well, guess what, Buster Brown? You've failed. You're not going to get a laugh. Not from her. Girls don't like it when you make jokes about dead dogs, spousal abuse or senior citizen incontinence. And that's a damn shame too, because for some strange reason, those very topics make me titter. But, surprise, surprise. This girl or the thousands like her don't titter quite so readily. And that's a real drag, because I bet you anything that she's got very nice titters. MUCH nicer than my man-titters. Huh, what?? Ugh, I hate myself for that joke.

The point is this... In these short 27 years, I've realized one simple and irrevocable truth; "I like attention. It makes me valid. If people laugh at things I say, then maybe I'm worth something." A lot of this goes back to my biological mother. She was... Hmmmmmm... Now, how can I phrase this delicately? A "Crackwhore?" Am I saying that right? She abandoned me to the state at age 4. Actually LITERALLY left me on the street. And over the years, as I'd lay awake at night, I'd wonder...

Why?

And so, I sought validation. I sought the spotlight. At all times. I wouldn't be abandoned. Cast aside. Forgotten. No siree, I was gonna' be seen AND heard. People would tell me stories, and rather than listening intently and processing the information, I'd silently scream. Like a dog pacing back and forth at his master's door ready for a walk, I'll hear my internal monologue... A quick, thunderous metronome of self-involvement.

My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?My turn?

And at that point, I'll interrupt with something stupid and lose another person willing to talk to me. I mean, how fundamentally sick is that? They're looking right at me... Giving me their undivided attention... And still, it's like it's just not enough. It's ludicrous. It's wrong. And guess what? It's been happening longer than I can remember. So, that gentle readers, is why I've got to think long and hard about the subject of my first blog. It's got to be something of great importance, social responsibility and- Hey.... Wait a minute...

Reading back on this...

SON OF A WHORE!!!!

Alright, next time. Next time, I'll come up with something relevant. Until then, people, keep those fingers crossed. I won't because I've got to type and doing so with crossed fingers is harder for me than ending a conversation... Or a long blog entry.