Where I Get It From

It's been a while since I talked about my fractured relationship with my dad who's been dead close to a decade, and I don't think anyone has been clamoring for the return my father (and, God, that works on so so many levels).  It was...suggested...a while ago by a friend who reads this blog that I stop kvetching about my old man's being a prick; pretty much everyone had a lousy relationship with their father, especially artists.  I'd go a step further and say no one gets along with their dads except bullies, bores, and P. Scott Cunningham (a man who gets his own special classification).  You reach at point, or rather you should reach a point, where you accept this is who you are, for better or worse, and not that it precludes lifelong quests for self-awareness, but you really have to stop acting like Steve Bushemi in The Wedding Singer:

I get that.  But a few things have happened this week that bring the subject of how I got here back to the forefront.  Yes, my father and I still don't get along; we haven't spoken in years (and, in part, I am willing to chalk a lot of that up to the whole "he's dead" angle); yet, I spend every Monday afternoon with my shrink (yes, I still go. Shocking.  Apparently I still have "anger management" issues).  I like my doc. Goofy little old guy who reminds me an awful lot of the character I created in the my noir novel, the Book Formerly Known As The Lone Palm, WAKE THE UNDERTAKER (seriously, how much cooler and kick-ass a title is that?  Thank you, Jimmy!), the ex-newspaper reporter, Tulane Church.  Of course in this scenario, with Church as the mentor figure, I'd have to be the wounded, broken hearted, once-upon-a-time singer, who is now jacked up, embittered, and battling addiction, Colin Specter.  And clearly that is where the analogy falls apart.  I'm still singing. I'd worry about calling my doctor "goofy little old guy," except that every time when I go to my appointment and mention this blog, he'll say, "What's your blog's address again?"  So I know he won't read it.  We've been doing this same routine for six months.  Lately, I've switched it up.  Now whenever I start talking about the blog, I'll say, "Want that address again, Doc?"  And he'll laugh.  Then write it down again. I think he's helping me.  As he pointed out the other day, it's been weeks since I thought I had cancer.

We aren't talking about the doc today, either.  What's been on my mind is two-fold. One, Justine has been repeating the old Hillary catchphrase of late, how it "takes a village to raise a child."  Meaning she doesn't think she and I can do it alone, and wants, I don't know, my third cousin twice removed to play a bigger part in Holden's musical education.  I understand where she's coming from.  Justine was helped raised by various uncles, aunts, grandparents, etc.  I was too.  My grandmother had a big hand in bringing up my brother, sister, and I.  Like in Justine's case, I think it had a lot to do with having younger, less established parents, and so the load had to be shouldered somehow.  It sucks because Holden doesn't have grandparents (at least from my side) because they are not here anymore.  But on the flip side, he's got two firmly entrenched, financially (if one of them is not entirely emotionally) stable, responsible caretakers who are at stages in their lives where they can devote a great deal of attention in seeing the boy grow up right (meaning, as a Yankee fan who plays baseball [i.e., not soccer], and who never ever ever listens to Lady Gaga or watches one second of reality TV, or so help me, God).

But it's all good, yo.  Because even if I am hit by a bus, I have to believe God will put people in my son's life, like he did for me with Jim Petersen (awww).  Actually, most of the times Petersen is sort of a cockbreath, but I love the man and he's been the closest thing to a father I've ever had.  If you missed my earlier posts about how I met Petersen, here you go (http://tinyurl.com/3rsbjya).

I'm not feeling all mushy this morning, and I woke up late (because the wife let me sleep in for a change, so I am behind the 8 ball), and I need to get a moving and start blasting my pecs, because today is writing day and I am trying to see if I can finish a piece for the guys over at Swill and Sean Craven (http://seancraven.blogspot.com/2011/08/stone-1.html).  I bring up Petersen because we had an interesting exchange last night (following the cocksucking Yankees' failure to come back against the pitiful A's, which I place squarely on the shoulders of Mark Texiera, the most overrated player in baseball.  The guy never gets a hit when it matters, making A-fuck, circa '05 - '08 seem clutch.  And for my Red Sox friends who don't think I ever give them props: A. Gonz is ten times the player Tex is).

We were talking about Petersen's upcoming trip with his son to Baltimore to see the Yanks play.  This Friday.  Which is when the hurricane is supposed to hit.  A few days after the freak earthquake.

"See"? Petersen said.  "I bought these fucking tickets months ago, and this is what I get.  A goddamn earthquake and hurricane.  This is why I never want to leave the house anymore.  My wife doesn't understand.  But I'd rather just stay indoors, with my own shit, my own things, and not have to deal with any of it.  Nothing good happens when I leave the house."

The apple doesn't fall far from the Community Center big chair...

Now let's close with a little "Boy Named Sue"as I wipe the tender tear from eye...