*I knew

*Ya did done good

*We interupt the regulary scheduled reality to brin...

*I'm set until summer

*...why I don't write

*Agnostic no more

*What you're feeling are pangs of guilt


*Get into orbit

*What a prankster

1. I ask you to do one effing thing
2. Did you?
3. The socks betray him
4. There will be none of that
5. Leave notes in his shirt pocket
6. Trained in the gentle art
7. Put me in coach
8. Our species may, in fact, survive
9.Swarm Swarm
10.During the wooing
11.BUT not private enough
12.The bottomless appetite
13.The first time we forget
14.This is a nice litmus test
15.To get the ball rolling
16.She invited you back to her place for coffee
17.Mary Magdalene or Eva Braun
18.It will only smell and make you queasy

   Thursday, April 14, 2005

Sometimes I am wrong

A real man never hits a woman.
It is that simple.
No confusion, no discussion, no debate.
Real men don’t hit women.
If you like, get this tattooed anywhere on your arm and you will never need to laser it off later.

Somehow I had this image of him being Ethan from the Searchers. He was the Quiet Man, the Duke, the guy who is content to sit by himself at the end of the bar. A man, his Bud and his thoughts who only spoke if required and stayed in his stool unless an injustice arose that needed correcting.

He is a regular at Scooby’s. I play poker with him. Mr. Fire Fighter Man (he really is a fire fighter) stands like a six and a half foot burlap sack of coffee stuffed so tight you can set it on end without it falling over; square and solid.

With the occasional sheepish grin and simple words, he won me over months ago. I liked the guy. Somehow I had the image that he was the gentle giant that needed a deep moral violation in his midst to rise up and take action.

Somehow I thought I read the screenplay of his life and cast him as the noble hero that pulled kittens from burning apartments.

Last night I discovered that the screenplay given to me had been edited. Someone cut out some key scenes and characters; one of which being his loud-mouthed drunk bitch of a sister from out of town and Mr. FFM’s apparent ignorance of a certain RULES.

Drunk Bitch Sister, her friend and Mr. Fire Fighter Man came into Scooby’s last night trashed. It seemed like such a cozy scene. His sister was visiting, he missed her and let himself release in celebration. He had a grin and a genuine “I miss you” in his eyes every time he hugged her.

Some of the regulars at Scooby’s are USDA Angus Grade-A pieces of shit. They are people with dim futures and no promise for the advancement of the species.

Scooby’s is a haven. Here everyone gets a beer and a smile. You act nice and treat the other regulars like friends and your failings as a person are ignored. We are all equal here and you only pay for three out of four of your beers.

One of the regulars (Mr. No Future) sized like Mr. FFM comes up to the bar leaving his circle of friends at one of the booths.

“Miss Smile, I need 2 beers and three shots of Yeager”

Drunk bitch sister leaks out an inept and hazed seductive line sounding more Dudley than Demi Moore…

“Hey big man, buy me and my girl a shot”

With a friendly smile and a chuckle, Mr. No Future turns and faces her, “I’m here with my girlfriend and I doubt she would be real happy if I bought two girls at the bar shots.”

“Where is your girlfriend?”

Mr. NF calls over the girl who deserves a boyfriend with a future.

“Honey, meet… I’m sorry; I didn’t get your names”

Fire Fighter Man is sitting on the other side of his drunk bitch sister. He is half-eyed and silent but still sporting the happy-fucked-up grin.

Bitch Drunk pokes a finger in the girlfriend’s shoulder, “This is why you’re not buying us a shot? Fuck you and your little whore”

I was only half-listening as I watched the basball game playing on the TV but somehow instinct kicked in. I turned just in time to deflect the rocks glass so it hit my shoulder instead of shattering on my forehead.

The air changes in a bar when violence is on the brink of eruption. Most people can just feel it coming… we all have that sixth–things are about to get ugly-sense.

Drunk bitch was not aiming the glass at me. In her numb state she overshot Mr. NF and I was next in line.

Fire Fighter Man, time to take your Bitch Sister home... party's over.

No Future’s girlfriend, still feeling the finger poked in her shoulder, gives a deserved push to Drunk Bitch, “What the FUCK was THAT for?”

Then it happened.

My image was shattered.

My typically good judgment of character was about to take a beating.

Fire Fighter Man stood up and walked over. Once front of the girl measuring under 110 and five-feet tall that pushed his sister, he cocked back a fist and let it rip.

She flew up and back three yards and landing on her back.

He hit her; made a fist and hit her. He hit her the same way he would hit Mr. No Future a second later.

All hell broke loose.

We all saw it unfolding and this is our house. We don’t all have to like each other; here we are family and you, sir, just broke one of the unsaid codes. Nobody fights in here, let alone hits a woman.

As if cued from off stage, I grabbed Miss W by the arm and got her as far from the fray as possible. Priority one covered and secured, I turned and went into the madness.

I am not a brawler and I abhor violence but this was not cool.

No Future grabs a beer bottle and rears it back ready to swing. I grab his wrist and stopped the thrust. It was easy to slip the wet bottle from his grip.

Over his shoulder I see No Future’s booth clear… his back-up is coming to escalate the situation.

Miss Smile yells for her husband, Mr. Cooler, who was already there, his radar went off when mine did. Cooler gets between the primaries; I flank and hold back No Future’s cavalry before they close the distance between the booth and the fray.

As all bar fights do, things stopped, started, stopped and started again. The men were restrained only to have the women go at it until other regulars deputized themselves and jumped in and locked them down as well.

Peace finally came once Fire Fighter Man and his insane escorts were tossed from the place.

I sat back down, lifting my stool from the floor. Miss W came back from the safe zone sat next to me. I took a swig of my beer and shook my head.

Damn it that sucked. I thought I knew the guy but there was no mistaking it. He stood up calmly walked over and hit her. In one swing he gave her and my typically good judge of people a shiner.

You’re fired, Fire Fighter Man. Give me your Real Man membership card.

You don’t hit women - even if they push your sister.
It is that simple.
No confusion, no discussion, no debate.
If you like, get this tattooed anywhere on your arm and you will never need to laser it off later.

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