Things I Do For Love

Dumb things I do for love.

I saw her ad in the newsletter and responded with an email.

I said I wanted to meet, sort of look her over, but I already knew.

I told a friend and he tried to talk me out of moving on her.

He said she wasn't worth it, that I was already set, but I wouldn't listen.

Who can listen when love's involved?

Who can stop themselves when the promise of bliss is just a moment away?

Beretta 686 White Onyx, 28 Gauge.

In the worst of times, love is what we need, even if we can't afford it.

And so I took her home.

I know what's good for us.

I Have Pants On Too

If you spend your time with the same type of folks I do, and your Slim Jim can't be split open with your teeth, or you can't open the infernal heat-sealed packet your earplugs are in, and you happen to ask, "Got a knife?" everyone within earshot will start digging in their pockets to get you a blade. Thrust upon you will be hands filled with Gerbers, Bucks, and maybe an old school Schrade--all eager to help--along with the standard, "Got my pants on?"

That's just the way it is. I got a few friends, but not many, who carry "tactical" knives for gutting the folks that try to do them harm. They carry a whole different kind of blade. Mean and nasty things I've never heard of, things that you could breast out a turkey or goose with, but probably ain't much good opening a can of beans when you leave your P-38 at home.


My favorite is the "Tanto bladed weapon" that guys brag on. I ain't got one, but every time I hear the word I think of the Lone Ranger's sidekick and the word "Tonto" ("silly" in Castellano) which is what any fetish is to me, even when the lust involves "tactical weapons for close quarters combat". What's the old adage? Never bring your knife to a gunfight?


Sure sure, the devotees will tell you, "I can close twenty-one feet with a knife and slit your throat in half a second!" And they might be right, or not. It might be, that if I see you standing there with a knife in your hand seven yards away, I might just go on and produce a handgun on the off chance that you actually do want to slit my throat--you wouldn't be the first person to think of it I reckon.


Another thing to remember about good old boys and their knives is this: if you're handed an open folding-knife, you had best return it the same way--for reasons I'm not sure of. A friendly dressing down by a buddy set me straight on that. It would be like bumming someone's last cigarette I suppose. It just isn't done, even though I was taught by my quasi-yankee (from Missouri) dad that safety is smart, and folders get closed before changing hands, and fixed-blades get handed back handle first.


Me, I can't keep a knife. Knives are one of the small things that the Universe will not let me own for more than six months. And all the knives I buy (or "borrow" from Brian) are hunting knives--from the diminutive "butthole knife" to the whopper chopper camp knife--or fishing knives which are handy for filleting the meat right off of the annoying rest of the fish.


The most likely to disappear are the little folders with the clip on the side for attaching to the inside of your pocket making the knife a cinch to gall the view screen of your phone into a scarred and unusable wreck...or the back of your hand as you reach for change. My Glock never cut my hand, never even tried, though I carry it elsewhere than my pocket--somewhere not quite in my underwear, but not quite inside a holster either.


Well I didn't mean to digress and start poking fun at knife-toting folks, I just had a thought. The times I've needed a knife and had to get one from someone else makes the phrase, "I've always relied on the kindness of strangers," a way of life for me. But maybe that's part of the "why" I hang out with the folks I do. If I can't get that Brownell's box open, I know someone who can...and if "someone who can" needs some crown molding run or needs a half-inch drill with a sixteen inch long, 3/4" auger bit, I'm their boy.


In the meantime, I'll keep buying the crappy new Chinese Schrades because they remind me of the knives I cut my teeth on as a young man. And I'll keep looking for old, used American-made hunting knives because back in the day, they made them with some magical fancy steel that would actually hold an edge in the face of hide and hair that doesn't seem to exist nowadays. And when they get gone, I'll fret until someone helps me out.

The Chinese attempt to reproduce the Old Timer from my youth that was lost in a woods.

Cheating Death (Or Why Pools Are So Fricking Dangerous)

A quick word on cheating death:


As a parent, now, I've come to the realization that my sole purpose for being here is to protect the offspring I helped create (or took to raise as my own). In the genetic sense, of course as a Male of the species, I want my DNA to keep on keeping on. And no, that's not the everlasting life Jesus promised (if I gave up all my money and/or stuffed a camel through the eye of a needle), but close enough for Mother Earth.


And now, looking back, I've realized that a few times I, or my partner in seeding the earth with frenetic and genetic splices, have actually had opportunity to literally save the kids' lives. And when that happens, I call it cheating death. I've had a few close calls myself, but only once has someone reached down and pulled me out of a catch-basin by my hair...


The boy was into T-Ball though I'm not sure why--more proof that he was adopted I reckon. After a season of games, the coach, a man who must love the game, threw a little get together at his home which featured a pool. When we arrived, we walked around the back of the house following all the child-like noises we heard and Jaime and I stepped to the side of the pool. Jaime, who's never even seen a pool, looks down and immediately steps, just steps, into the water without a moment of hesitation! Fully dressed, and *bloop*, he's gone.


For half a second--my mouth drops open--I stand in disbelief watching him go down. Being a four year old Guatemalan, there ain't many places where the pool water ain't gonna be over his head. I drop the things in my hand and drop to my knees and shove my arm into the water and reach for the boy. He's so far down, and still dropping, that all I can grab is his hair, so I do, and I pull.


I get him out and he chuckles and the rest of the time that we're all there, things are as right as rain--I doubt if anyone else even noticed the "drama" that had unfolded right under my nose--his mom did! At the time I didn't think anything of it, but now, looking back, I feel like a hero, like I snatched him from the jaws of death. The sad news is, the heroics there were cancelled out by my almost killing him years before.


That involved a belt tied around his two-year old waist and then slinging him around the room. It's all fun and games until his sneakers lost their grip on the floor and he BONKED his head on the 1970's porno-esque hearth that was featured prominently in the rental house-by-the-lake. See, back then he didn't really get my political humour (ie fart jokes and potty mouth), so I had to use slapstick to keep him laughing. And the lesson I took was no more belt slinging Jaime around unless we were outside.


So the balance was reset--I almost kill him, then years later, I snatch him back from the brink. And it remained so until I almost killed us both in 2007, but that's another story.


Now, the daughter, the first born, though younger than the boy (I still smile when me and Lisa were the only parents at Lamaze class laughing at people putting diapers on immobile, lifeless dolls. I kept saying, "You better learn how to hold him down with your leg while you unfold that diaper, Bro!") has her own tale. I brought her back from the severed garden's gate at a friend's pool as well.


Being in the water first, I was an inadvertent lure to my daughter as she tip-toed neck deep in the water towards me. What she didn't know, was that the pool, like all good backyard pools, is divided between "deep" and "shallow" ends by the slippery sloping floor. I watched as she went from placid to panic as her feet slid, dragging her with them and under water. The thing I realize, when I saw the fear in her eyes, and heard the gurgling, choking attempts at breath, is that it only takes a second to be in real trouble, even under the best of circumstances.


And I had to watch it all from about 15 feet away--the longest 15 feet of terrible walk/swim-stroking I've ever had to cover. Upon arrival, I hoisted her up and held her to me and it was over after a few coughs and snotty bubbles. Like Jaime before her, I held a tiny person that I'd taken on as such a part of my life, that to fail either of them as a father at this level would have been devastating. I've been ever so slightly touched by others' lives where there was no panicked, parental grasp to help a young child ensnared in a pool.


Our panache for water born suicide might just run in the family. I recall being a young fifth or sixth grader--okay, perhaps I don't recall all that much--wading in a giant mud puddle after a summer storm at one of my sister's swim meets. The water was mid-calf deep, so when some half-witted dumbass (the worst kind) warned me to be careful, that "the water's deep," I didn't think much of it. Had they said, "Be careful, there's an uncovered catch-basin hidden in the muddy, murky water that your about to step into." I might have heeded the warning.


As it was, I took a step, and quickly disappeared. I found out first hand what it's like to lose all orientation in the world: no time...sights...up...down...light...just dark. All that was left was fear and the sounds of the water in my ears and the cavitation of flailing arms. Until a hand wrapped itself in my hair and pulled me up and out. And not surprising, there was my dad, the man who had taken me on to raise doing what most parents only do metaphorically, but right then at that moment, he had literally saved my life.


Sure, he wouldn't hug me; he didn't want to get wet. And no, we didn't leave to get me some dry clothes; it was my sister's swim meet dammit! But he had set a precedent that sadly, my kids and I were destined to repeat.


I could go on, and I will, but only if you want me to.