Flaming Turkey and the Honey Bombs

Today: Thanksgiving, 2009. I just put the turkey in the oven and feel inspired to offer up a moment of silence. My thoughts are wandering...

Thanksgiving day, 2008.

It was a beautiful day, the sun producing glaring reflections on the crisp snow. As usual, my awareness of daylight came gradually as Blix sat staring at my face, occasionally whining his pleas for me to get my ass out of bed and take him outside to pee. Only a quick and disoriented walk around the block with the dog stands between me and a large cup of dark coffee. Or a pot.

Honey, I had decided, would be a healthier alternative to processed sugar, and a quick spin in the microwave would warm my honey bear very nicely. I thought.

Well, warm it nicely it did. Too much so, as a matter of fact. Granted, setting the microwave to cook on high for ten minutes with the intent of stopping it after ten seconds is not a good idea when one has an obnoxious four month old puppy who is hell bent on making himself the center of attention no matter what. The sizzled-whirling sound reminded me of those loud ground flower firework things that dance nervously around the arsonist. In a flash I threw open the microwave door and, to my amazement, saw the honey bear, blown up like a puffer fish, spinning furiously. Seconds later the small yellow cap went flying, never to be found again. Molten honey splattered across three walls of my recently cleaned dining room, leaving out only the space of a torso and two arms. That honey, flung angrily from the honey bear puffer fish, landed painfully on my skin.

Needless to say, I was awake after that.

Strangely, I've forgotten what Blix did to demand such a diversion from my coffee preparation. Karma came knocking on his doggy door, however, when a couple hours later he ran directly into the glass patio door. Evidently, I cleaned it extraordinarily well after the honey bomb explosion; spotless enough that he couldn't see what separated him from the outside world he loved so much. Indeed, I laughed out loud. My roommate? He laughed so hard I think he wet himself. The greatest guffaw, however, was yet to come.

I've been known to bake a delicious turkey: Thanksgiving, 2008, despite the molten honey and yelping dog, was going to present another beautiful bird. To prevent unsavory dryness I used a roasting bag. Butter, fresh herbs and lots of garlic were smeared all over the skin. Instructions followed to the letter. Two hours later: smoke! Smoke, billowing out of my oven. And, a flaming turkey!

What the instructions failed to warn me is that if the bag comes in contact with the element, it will ignite, and consequently ignite the butter or oil or skin of one's Thanksgiving centerpiece.

I was shocked, bewildered, didn't know what to do, but, in the end, we ate it anyway. Never have I laughed more on Thanksgiving. Seems very appropriate, actually, given that I feel grateful for laughter; Extremely grateful because I believe it heals me. So, here it is, Thanksgiving, 2009, and the turkey is baking, flame-free, in the oven, in a roasting bag. This year I carefully tucked in the excess bag-baggage before baking, and, it's looking beautiful.

Now, I doubt Thanksgiving would feel right without some weirdness, without laughter. That in mind...I think this meal will be eaten on the hard-wood floor, picnic style. But, here, in these few moments of silence, I thank God, the Great Spirit, the Creator, the Buddha nature that binds us, for laughter: brief little moments of healing nirvana.

And, that's all I'm going to say about that.

To Fatigue: Thank You

This is, in fact, a tribute to fatigue.

Anyone who has abused stimulants and then discontinued their use knows what I'm talking about: fatigue, complete exhaustion. It was during one of these phases that I fell asleep standing in line at the grocery store and sitting in a booth at Carl's Jr., producing a distinct pool of saliva on the table for passersby to admire. Sometimes I needed 18 hours of sleep a day before returning to a more normal sleep pattern. Indeed, this kind of fatigue is unlike any other I've experienced.

So, crazy as it may sound, I want to honor that feeling. Celebrate fatigue. Why?
That's simple: To more profoundly and vibrantly experience the sensation of energy. In other words, I'm celebrating contrast, the demonstrator of what I really want in my life.

Here is a small list of contrasts that I feel particularly grateful for today:

1. Pimples on my 41 year old face. Zits! What's up with that? Shouldn't I be too old for these unsightly blemishes? And, here's the funny part: they're huge; not the pin-sized, easy to pop variety. Rather, great big ones that unexpectedly talk to me when I stare at them in the mirror too long.

However, When all the squeezing and applications of Clean and Clear are done, I'm so happy to have my face back. Good bye third eye, that's actually located on my chin. Or, even better, no more kidney bean sized pimple on the tip of my nose resulting in that red nosed reindeer look that startles unsuspecting persons.

2. Conversations with guys who I find ridiculously sexy and, consequently, I get nervous and sound like a total fucking retard. (That word is not PC in this context, but, I really don't know of another word that better fits.) Usually these events coincide with sleep deprivation, excessive self-criticism or trying too hard to impress. Whatever the reason, I know it's happening by that peculiar look on his face; the one that says, boldly, "what the hell are you talking about?"

It is moments like this when I appreciate the awareness that generally I engage with good-looking men just as I do with any other: relatively articulate, soft-spoken, somewhat nerdy, intelligent.

3. Bad sex.
Need I really say more? Actually, yes. I must say this: nothing motivates me more to appreciate good sex than those times when it is not. You know, those times when, no matter how hard you try; no matter how much preparation goes into the experience, it just turns out, oh...I don't know, shitty. It really sucks when sex-- the thing I hope will bring me closer to this guy--leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth. No clever metaphor comes to mind for the worst of all: erectile dysfunction. Not being to get it up it such a bummer, you know?

But, here is where I pause to experience gratitude for bad sex. Without it good sex, the kind where you just know--I mean really know you're properly prepared--would become boring. Seriously, without bad sex, an erect penis would eventually become and irritant. Want ads would read "Gay white man seeks same. Flacid cock a plus."


And, there are many others; probably enough to keep me engaged for a few hours. Hell, that much writing would tire me out. Which brings me back to fatigue, to which I say: Thanks, and happy celebration of fatigue day!

Now...I'm going to go take a nap.

Let Go, My Ego.

I'm a pretty swell guy.

I'm also pretty good-looking, have an inviting sense of humor, and understand social and ethical codes of conduct well enough to know when and how to ignore them most effectively. I love a good political mud-slinging, especially when it justifiably exposes the unfathomable short-sightedness of the "conservative agenda."

A short list of my talents goes like this: creating art, fathering, cooking and baking, writing, day-dreaming and making fun (in the most loving way possible) of people when they have no idea I'm doing it.

Yes, sir...I'm pretty damn cool.

In fact, I am so confident in my coolness, so mindful of my magnificence, that often times I allow my ego to step-up as manager of my life, while I go off on some cognitive tangent or something. And, on top of my ego's to-do list: demonstrate and/or prove Shawn's coolness over and over and over again.

But, it's also ego that tells me I'm not good enough, smart enough, handsome enough or endowed with a big enough dick. Inferior and helpless. In other words it tells me I'm not OK.

Nothing new. I know. I've written about the crazy struggle between feeling inferior and feeling uniquely and supremely cooler-than that my ego often incites. Bookstore shelves are replete with information written by well known gurus, and,as if that weren't enough, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Oprah Winfrey tackles the beast in one variation or another.

The bigger problem for me is this: ego tells me I can, and should, keep secrets, or withhold important information from important people. Ironically, for years I've taken pride in my transparency, or at least the idea of it. In fact, I've made the statement "My life is an open book" and posted blogs detailing very intimate moments in my past. Yet, certain things go unsaid still. Ego convinces me that I'm "doing the right thing," or "taking the higher road," or "fostering health and balance in the environment's Eco-system," when I keep certain truths about me secret from the people I care about the most.

Mainly I refer to this: I do not want my kids to know if and/or when I get high. They've been hurt so deeply by my drug addiction that surely the more noble approach, ego argues, is to "protect" them.

Protect them. Protect them.

Pain settles in my stomach as I sit here looking at those words. Shawn the father, the man, wants to protects them, yet, a higher consciousness reminds me that the time to protect them was years ago. The trauma is done. Clinging to the idea that I now have the ability, dare I say even the right, to protect them is nothing more than egos baffling tricks. Like a hungry mouse in a relentless maze, ego has kept me on a perpetual hunt for redemption. Use a self-defeating behavior to mend the pain of self-defeating behaviors done a long time ago? Seems kind of silly now. But, not so much when I remind myself of what sits at the top of my ego's to-do list: demonstrate and/or prove Shawn's coolness over and over and over again.

And besides, my kids know authenticity when they see it. Don't they deserve that?