So many people complicate it.
Or insist that it’s a control issue.
When done maturely, both people decide what’s right and important for each of them. Each has free will and choice.
Love, X
Category Archives: Health
{Some Of} Bobby Dean’s Rules For Fighting
NSFW due to a wild mix of subject matter and personal commentary…
My brother Mike died without fulfilling my desire that he write a book. He absorbed the false honor narrative of some of my family members. He was a big man, my brother. I took these rules from conversations that Mike and I had on the phone when he was winding down. I’ve shared pieces of them before. My brother Mike had an interesting life. He was a great writer. We both recognized that between the two of us, we might be able to capture the horror, dark humor, and insights that we experienced. Of all the things that piss me off about the way he went out, it’s that he didn’t have enough clarity to see that he should pull up and find a way to live a few more years. Had he chosen to find a way, the resulting book we would have written would have been an irreverent mixture of Pat Conroy and Stephen King.
I’m paraphrasing my dad: “You’re going to get punched in the f mouth. There’s no doubt about it.”
My brother Mike saw a few fights that I didn’t. While I did witness my dad getting his ass whipped, Mike saw a few more of these than I did. Dad had whiskey courage. He read a few too many Westerns and got the wrong lesson out of most of the movies.
Take them for what you will. My dad was a walking contradiction. I despise a lot of what he did. But I understand it a hell of a lot better as I get older.
Rules:
If you’re going to drink in a bar, you’re going to need to be deaf or have a thick skull.
If your buddy is getting his ass whipped, you have to get your ass whipped too.
If someone threatens you… There are no rules, no warning. Do not think about it. Start hitting.
If someone says they’re going to whip your ass, don’t wait for them to prove it.
If they’re close enough to hit you, hit them first. Don’t stop hitting until they’re down.
The most dangerous man is never the loudest.
Don’t punch them more than you need to. But if they are intent on killing you, don’t walk away when they’re on the ground.
If they dress like a dandy, they will not want to get dirty. If they wear a tight shirt, it’s a sure sign that their muscles are for show. Except if they have dirty, scruffed-up boots. You don’t mess around with people who work hard for a living.
Nuts, throat, nose. If those don’t work, bite anything that gets near your mouth.
There’s no such thing as fighting dirty. If they are coming for you, everything in the room is fair game.
If you deserve to get punched, let them hit you in the face. If they attempt to give you more than what you’ve got coming, remind them that you’re a dirty bastard.
Once you’re done fighting, men have a drink. If you can’t have a drink with a man you just fought with, you’re not worth the hat that sits on your head.
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Dad tried to make a man out of me. Whatever that means. He had his demons. A great deal of his alleged teaching resulted in me choosing the opposite. I never could get my head around that kind of violence. But if you ask me if I understand it, the answer is yes. Especially so when the universe fails or when people fail to honor the fact that violence should never be out of proportion to what caused it. Dad scrambled my brains a few times, but one thing that came out of it was that I learned that many fights come out of nowhere. And a few people who should have scared me didn’t. That’s a part of the Bobby Dean legacy that fills me with contradiction.
I’m forgetting a few of his rules. Despite some of the negative things I have to say about him, he surprised my brother and me many times with how he phrased things. I sometimes forget that he was smart. I would snarkily mention that he often failed to incorporate his intelligence into his behavior. But I’m tired of getting hit by a bolt of hypocritical lightning.
I’ve confessed before that my brother and I actively thought about killing my dad more than once. I’m not proud of it. But if Dad had survived a few more years, he would have appreciated the dark humor of this truth a lot more. Mike realized when we got older that it probably would have been me who would have done it because I experienced and witnessed a lot more of the violence. When my brother Mike got older, Dad looked at him much differently. Mike would have hurled him through the kitchen window like firewood.
Knowing them both, I am 100% certain that one of them would have pulled out the whiskey bottle and poured the other a shot.
They were the kind of men I did not aspire to become. Whatever dark streak ran through them has luckily remained mostly dormant in me. I’d love to have the devilish prankster spirit. I wouldn’t tie someone to a hunting camp tree stump and light it, but I would enjoy making someone think it could happen. There is a fine line between lunacy and free-spiritedness.
I’m sharing this because it’s supposed to be a tip of the hat. It’s not an accusation. The history is there, written as fact in my mind. One of the crazy lessons of ambivalence is that you can witness a tornado but fall in love with how the lightning looks across the sky. Life can be appreciated similarly, even if you would rather flip the light switch off for some moments.
Love, X
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The Missing
I’ve reminded many people about this because it infects many relationships. Pay attention to what your person says they want or need. They’ll repeat it – until one day, they go silent. That silence equals danger.
Love, X
Conversion
A personal post…
Some days, there are so many triggers I feel like I’m at a gun show. I wish I had the capacity and audacity to consistently see the truth in my reflection. It’s one thing to intellectually know that the past is a shadow behind you in the mirror and another to nod at it and give it the finger. It’s true that the past is our shadow. That’s all it is. A phantom and needless stone that we carry in our pocket instead of putting it down. I often think of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I know each day often gives us the miracle of a new attitude if we simply decide it. People are going to carry in their heads an image of you that no longer exists. Fighting it is idiocy. If you can accept that is truth, you should be able to accept that swatting away the shadow in your head is equally possible. I think a lot about my sister because her scenario highlights the hypocrisy I practice. All she can do is stay on the new path and let time do the rest. I call myself a hypocrite because I catch myself judging her against the backdrop of her previous life. It’s a natural and normal reaction but one that serves no one. The optimistic people among us know that radical change is possible. The practical side of us nods towards the idea that we know it’s not likely in many cases. We’re all going to fall down in the mud. It really does boil down to whether we will wipe it off and keep going. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t listen, hear, or see someone managing to salvage their life or sanity. Some days are the opposite scenario. The same circumstances turn one person into a cynic and another a saint. All we need is Rocky music playing in the background when these things happen.
X
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Stillness
After doing what I had to do in order to do what I want to do, aka work, and doing a blizzard of chores… I could not resist the call of the creek. I followed one of the little tributaries until I was certain I would break my neck doing so. Even though it’s 80 plus, the water is a bit chilly and my feet started feeling as cold as a senator’s heart. I could not quite make it to a tree with at least two dozen huge crows in it. It sounded like a management meeting wherein everyone was arguing about what color the cover sheet should be for the new TPS reports. Light breeze, the sound of the water cascading, and would-be managers cawing crazily in the overhead canopies of the trees. Maybe because it’s been a while since I’ve walked down the middle of the stream beds… It’s hard to simultaneously bear a grudge against the workday while experiencing such a familiar feeling. I tried hard to find something to gripe about. But the water cascading kept telling me to be quiet and be still. If you’re not prone to overthinking, you might not understand the imposed stillness.
X
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Not Me!
Someone asked me if I was the one writing the political messages on the sidewalks. No. I don’t see anything wrong with it. It washes off. My sidewalk antics are always shenanigans. If I were to ever write anything controversial, I would sign it. It’s part of the reason my Facebook posts and other accounts are public. You either enjoy a good combination of wacko and introspection, or you don’t. In this day, trying to sway someone’s political opinions is exactly like attempting to microwave your own head. With just about the same results.
Love, X
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Regret
Yesterday morning, I watched an older lady painfully collect her bags from the EZ Mart counter. When I left, I rolled down my window and offered her a ride. I could see the look of distrust in her eyes. She said thank you and immediately turned away. She struggled with the bags as she walked.
Today as I left the worst convenience store in the history of mankind, another older lady seemed to be talking to me from a distance as I drove away. Because my car has ancient roller windows (even though it’s a 21 model), I leaned toward the passenger side and rolled down my window. She asked me if I could give her a ride. Honestly, assuming she wanted a ride to a nearby location, I had time. It’s rare for me to hesitate. But something about her seemed off. I told her I could not. She smiled and said thank you. And then she added that she loved my purple glasses. Something about her saying something nice and adding a smile after she realized I wasn’t going to give her a ride banged a gong in my head. I’ve given plenty of rides to questionable people if I’m alone because the risk is only to me. Or them, if you know me well enough.
Love, X
PS The picture is unrelated to my story. I took it Saturday. My cat was rolling around under the tree debris as if it were catnip. He’s on lockdown again after yesterday’s shenanigans.
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The Pandora’s Conundrum Of Privacy vs. Secrecy
A version of this was seen by a LOT of people.
I deviated from what I knew to be true once – and I paid the price.
Love, X
Snobbery
Snobbery
I’ve irritated some people in my life. Especially those who are arrogant or irritating about the culinary world we experience subjectively. Pineapple on pizza. Ketchup on steak. How meat should be cooked. Whether painted-on eyebrows look strange. I grew up listening to my Mom say, “You don’t know what’s good.” She could eat some things that the vultures would shriek and fly away from. My Dad forced me to eat some nasty stuff; I can laugh about it now. But a part of me laughs and rejoices because I now know he was among the worst to fail to appreciate all the kinds of foods in the world.
There is no right and wrong regarding what you eat or what you like. It doesn’t work that way. And, of course, everyone knows this. For some, the idea of eating fish eggs or oysters, aka snotshells, is as repulsive as watching a 6-year-old pick his nose and then salt and pepper it.
Whether you like your steak bleeding or burned to a crisp, it lies with each person to decide what they like. I watch people argue and criticize what other people eat. The ones criticizing tend to eat some of the most outlandish and nasty stuff on the planet. My brother Mike liked to dip. He’d mock people’s food choices relentlessly. He didn’t take it kindly when I pointed out that it looked like he had let a raccoon poop inside his lip.
If you want to put chocolate pudding on prime rib, fire away.
If you like fresh jalapeños on vanilla ice cream, pile them on there.
And if you like head cheese or liver and onions, I will gladly watch you smile and burp appreciatively as you consume it. Don’t get me started on raw celery, aka The Devil’s Anus.
But if I’m eating burned popcorn or a steak so well done that the fire department is about to come in and you make snide remarks… you’re going to find head cheese or pineapple pizza under your pillow later that night.
Everything about what we like and dislike is subjective.
There are no rules.
We can’t even agree that ties are a stupid anachronism that should be discarded. Or that shrimp are the cockroaches of the sea. But we can mock someone eating fried bologna as we gleefully munch on foie gras as if our choice is superior to theirs.
If you like to eat literal cockroaches, you’re in luck. In my world, I’m going to be fascinated by anything that I consider unusual. But I’m also going to bite my tongue because I embrace the difference in taste that we all experience.
I’m judging you if you judge others for what they put in their mouth. You better check your pillow if I hear you doing it.
It is the lowest form of mockery to mock or attempt to humiliate someone for what they eat or how they enjoy eating it. This is doubly true if you do so in front of other people while they are doing it. I don’t tell you that your pants make you look like one of the mentioned symptoms in a WebMD article; the least you can do is bite your tongue.
“Hunger does not need a cookbook.” – X
“In matters culinary, there is no greater arrogance than objecting to what someone chooses to eat or how they season it, sauce it, or flavor it. I’ve yet to meet anyone who isn’t an idiot with their food, and the feeling is undoubtedly reciprocal.” – X
Love, X
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Caution For My Canadian Friends
Social media can be deceptive. Even convicted rapists can you use it as if everyone in the world doesn’t know their past. When you’re aware that people can remain at large in society after being found guilty of heinous behavior, it makes you cynical and paranoid. Most of us would be more comfortable being surrounded by people who’ve robbed banks. It’s not targeted and does not engage the primal fear of helplessness that personal crime does.
Eric Osborne’s blitheness on social media can’t be chalked up to obliviousness. By the point multiple people have accused you of criminal behavior, most people’s veneer of innocence dissipates. This is doubly true if you are convicted of such behavior, as is the case of our Canadian friend Eric Osborne. What creates frustration for his victims is that he’s engaging with the world, one which is largely unaware of his path of endangering women.
What’s different in the Canadian criminal system is that even victims can be subject to an injurious and nonsensical publication ban. This hinders a victim’s right to expression – a hindrance not placed upon the accused. People who have been subject to stalking, harassment, or physical harm can’t talk about the person who committed the acts. This endangers those who are exposed to the person accused of such crimes.
Eric Osborne uses his social media and internet presence to obfuscate how he has terrorized women. It’s no longer a question of opinion or he-said-she-said. Either he’s delusional and detached from the reality that he’s experienced in the criminal justice system, or he Is something else entirely. The woman who experienced him at his worst has several names for this kind of man. “Convicted” carries more weight than “accused.” That he pled guilty to charges relating to violence against women should be more than ample grounds for the Canadian justice system to act accordingly.
Southern Justice, unfortunately, isn’t an approved export.
The ongoing frustration is that he’s out of incarceration temporarily. His presence among us in free society presents of clear and present danger to those he has victimized. He’s out on a technical appeal, even though he pled guilty to similar charges against several other women. This type of insanity is part of the reason why victims become doubly victimized; first by their perpetrator and secondly by the system that allegedly protects them.
One of his very recent posts refers to people gossiping about him. I’m curious as to whether he counts the crown or the prosecution as guilty of gossip. Technically they did gossip when they arrested and then incarcerated him for crimes against women.
I will leave it to all of those curious to Google Eric Osborne and research it for themselves. He resides in Canada. It shouldn’t be difficult for anyone to find a trail of how he’s behaved and whose lives he ruined. Don’t forget to include marital and divorce records if you take a dive. Search for blogs and archives that might make mention of him.
People like him thrive in secrecy. Canada should bow its head in shame at forcing women to remain silent at any point in their experiences. And another prolonged bow for exposing its citizenry to someone who has clearly demonstrated that he’s not yet fit to be roaming the streets among civilized people. Eric is highly intelligent and adept at hiding in plain sight; this chameleon identity is what made him so successful when he chose to victimize women.
X
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P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 