A Year Of Milestones or Resolution Time, Resolution Time

                I’m not much of a New Year’s Eve guy, mostly because I haven’t had a lot of success on the last night of the year.   I did the party thing in my younger days of course, but those evenings generally ended up with my face investigating the inner workings of a toilet or lying next to a woman, trying to hide a raging Charlie Horse after having my pass freshly rejected.  I saw Poison and Warrant once (Don’t judge, it was the 80’s), but that ended with a former roommate (who tragically shed his mortal coil this year) attempting to balance on a spike strip, falling the wrong direction, and slicing his foot like Uma Thurman taking out one of the 88 Keys in Kill Bill.

One year my wife Charger Gal was sucked into this vortex of sucktitude as we went to San Diego for her first Charger game.  The result:  Her favorite player, Drew Brees, had his shoulder decimated, leading to his leaving for New Orleans where he now challenges Jesus and the creator of Gumbo for most popular person in the history of Louisiana. The Chargers were crushed by the rival Denver Broncos, and Charger Gal became deathly ill.  Now we end the year with our own personal tribute to gluttony:  In-N-Out Burgers and an extra-large bottle of white wine.  (You know you’re jealous).  We also do our own little year in review with one another.  (We try to include our dog B Is Love in the proceedings, but the cheeseburger she gets from In-N-Out zonks her out by 9:30.)   

We also talk about our resolutions for the year ahead.  It’s a significant year for us:  We both turn 40 (Don’t quite look it but feel every bit of it), celebrate our 10 year wedding anniversary (Unless I screw up on a monolithic level, which has been known to happen more than I want to admit), and 5 years of B Is Love being a part of our lives.  Such a significant year requires significant resolutions and based on my impeccable track record on resolutions, I have no doubt that at least one of the following has a better than average chance of mostly coming to pass.

Lose 30 Pounds – I know, I know, the oldest resolution there is.  You know why?  Because most of us are fat!  I’m telling ya though, if I accomplish this task, my 1-10 rating shots straight up to 6.

Sell A Screenplay – One thing about certain goals; you get to keep listing them until they come to pass.  Springsteen once asked “Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true or is it something worse?” This sounds depressing as Hell so I think I’ll just keep dreaming this dream until it does, in fact, come true.

Get A Gig Blogging – Be it freelance or teaming up with a site full time, this is the brass ring for 2011.  I’ve really enjoyed writing for this World Wide Web thing and look forward to doing more of it in the coming year. 

That’s the list.  I’ll aim to be as observational as Seinfeld, as anti-establishment as Carlin, and as confessional as Pryor with the thoughts and words ahead.   And yes, I did just compare myself to three of the greatest comics of all time.  One must dare to believe they can fly like an eagle in order to soar above the crowd.

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Eviscerating The Christmas Shoes or Making A Sad Song Happy

                I was driving with my wife Charger Gal the other day, listening and singing along to the Christmas tunes on the radio (Yes, we’re saps like that).   Over the speakers of my car began a song that was unfamiliar to my ears, but made my wife explode in the excited proclamation “You gotta hear this song.  It makes me cry every time.”  I myself never get excited by the prospect of being driven to tears, but I respect my beloved’s opinion and listened intently. 

                The song in question was The Christmas Shoes, the tale of a narrator who’s standing in line, not feeling terribly in the holiday spirit until a scruffily attired young boy armed only with a gaggle of pennies explains to the cashier and the narrator that he only wishes to buy a pair of shoes for his gravely ill mother before she meets Jesus tonight.  The narrator is so moved by the child’s plight that he pays for the shoes, thus renewing to himself the true meaning of Christmas.  The song ends, and I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit to having a golf ball sized lump in my throat, but I also possess a comedian like need to take the piss out of any situation so I snarkily stated:  “And then the kid get to the hospital and finds out his mother is dead.”

                To say this comment did not go over well with Charger Gal is equivalent to saying Noah guided his ark through a rough patch of inclement weather.   But the Gods of retribution had it in for me this day, for as we came home and began flipping channels, Charger Gal discovered the TV movie based on the song was just starting (A Hallmark film starring 80’s teen heartthrob Rob Lowe.  Talk about sticking it in and breaking it off on a guy.)  Charger Gal proceeded to watch the 2 hour flick (Yes, they stretched a 4 minute song into a 2 hour film) and ended up so emotionally drained it took two hours and multiple glasses of wine to return her to some semblance of normalcy.

                Now call me kooky, but I have this crazy desire to be HAPPY during the holidays.  And between the song, the movie, and the post traumatic sadness disorder, that’s 4 plus hours of my life with my wife I’m not getting back. That is unacceptable and thus I must respond.  So, for husbands who must endure a morose spouse, for people who wish their Christmas to not be interrupted of its’ Merry, and for the overall greater good, I must now go Ivan Drago and break The Christmas Shoes.

                Let’s start with the real villain of this song…the kids’ father.  The song states that the boys’ clothes are worn and old and he is dirty from head to toe.  How about a shower and a new shirt dad? And if, as the little boy states, the mommy doesn’t have much time and could very well meet Jesus tonight, why is the dad letting the kid go out and buy shoes?  Shouldn’t the kid be by his mom’s bedside?  Way to go dad!   And just how old is this little bastard?  Apparently he’s not old enough to understand that a crap load of pennies can’t buy you a pair of shoes even at Payless.  Of course if the father was worth anything, maybe he’d give his kid the money before letting him go out and setting him up for failure?  Seriously, isn’t this neglectful Neanderthal due a visit from child services?

                Let’s talk about the title object.  Does mommy really need a new pair of shoes?  By all accounts it doesn’t seem like she’ll be doing much walking with the precious time she has left.  Oh, so now you’re on me to leave the family alone?  Fine…how about this scumbag behind the counter?  The little boy tells his tale of woe, the one that moves our narrator to shell out the big bucks for the titular footwear, and the cashier is so unmoved that he/she might as well respond with a W.C. Fields “Go away kid, ya bother me” retort.  Now you’re probably thinking “At least he can’t say anything to the narrator. Not our bastion of giving and understanding to the true meaning of Christmas.”  THINK AGAIN!  Are we sure his gesture of kindness isn’t really the ultimate sucker act from one big ruse?  I read Oliver Twist, I know how this works.  (Ok, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch. But it’s December, one can’t help but have Dickens on the mind.  Ooof, that didn’t come out right.)

                Do you smell that?  It’s the stench of retribution.  I look over at Charger Gal; her mood is much lighter, as if a defense mechanism against ever feeling moved by this piece of music again has been implanted Inception style.  Something tells me she’s not the only one.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

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The 12 Songs of Christmas or Music Not To Slit Your Wrist To

                As is customary this time of year, the music of the season infiltrates our lives in every capacity we can think of:  Commercials feature people with an over/under of 74 ½ teeth displaying fake smiles and a piss poor ability to lip sync.  Elevators and department store sound systems take songs that are at best barely tolerable and turn them into mindless musak massacred pieces of soulless synthetic slop.  Now contrary to the programming of this years’ holiday specific channels, there are holiday songs that exist not sung by the cast of Glee.  So in honor of the 12 days of Christmas that represent the homestretch of this season of receiving cleverly disguised as one of giving, I present my personal mix tape of 12 quality Christmas songs for your enjoyment. (Note for the Twihards:  A mix tape is a series of songs with a similar theme that is presented to another person, usually in CD or cassette tape form.  Back in the day, this was generally utilized by nerdy soulful types to express affection for females, who usually responded to such gestures with as much appreciation as New Yorkers to a 9/11 joke.  Not that I’d know about such things.)   Thus without further ado…

                12.  BAND AID “Do They Know Its Christmas” – The song from Europe that makes you feel guilty about any success you have in life by a super group of rich musicians. It always gets a listen for hearing which participants still resonate (Bono, rocking the mullet in the video), which you forgot about (Paul Young, also rocking the mullet), and which left you scratching your head (JT from Kool and the Gang?).  Still, I always find myself singing “Feed them” by the end, which in turn makes me think of Sam Kinison’s iconic Ethiopia bit (NOTHING GROWS OUT HERE!  NOTHING’S GONNA GROW OUT HERE!)

                11. THE PRETENDERS “2000 Miles” – I find that the older I get, the more I appreciate the soothing hard worn wisdom of Chrissy Hynde’s voice and lyrics.  The song is an ode to those who are away during the holidays, thus making it a perfect tribute for the men and women fighting for our country.  This opening back to back lament of heartache also underscores the fact that there are SOOOOO many sad songs written about Christmas.  Why do we call it the most wonderful time of the year again?

                10. RUN-DMC “Christmas In Hollis” – Now we’re getting hip and happy.  I remember as a teenager that Music Television (Despite all evidence to the contrary, the M in MTV does stand for music) would use this song as a frequent bumper during the holidays  and why not? It’s such a great jam that will get your head bopping in no time.  Plus, your mind can’t help but harken back to the beginning of Die Hard (And why doesn’t that film get brought up in the discussion of great Christmas films? Nothing says Christmas like Bruce Willis, bare feet, and broken glass.)

                9. Bing Crosby and David Bowie “The Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth” – Here’s the 70’s in a nutshell:  In the Christmas special this song appeared on, Bowie was whiter than the phony snow on set, and it’s the most normal he had looked up to that point in his career.  He also proceeded to blow Crosby, only considered to be the greatest American voice until Sinatra came along, completely out of the water in a one-sided display only equaled years later during the Axl Rose-Tom Petty Free Fallin’ duet.  Bonus:  You Tube the pre song banter between the two.  Military fathers and gay sons aren’t this awkward.

                8.  Relient K “The 12 Days Of Christmas” – And you thought there wouldn’t be any sort of modern music on this list?  The group that answers the question “What would Blink 182 sound like if they were a Christian band?” gives this timeless tale some fresh sounds and asks questions we’ve all thought. (What’s a partridge and what’s a pear tree? /I don’t know so please don’t ask me.)

                7.  Michael Bolton “Our Love Is Like A Holiday” – Yup, Michael Bolton.  The song crystallizes what I imagine musicians who just want to get home for the holidays feel and has a soft, romantic vibe.  (And no, it has nothing to do with the fact that I was once a courier who shared an elevator and hung out in a lobby in Universal City with Bolton at his pinnacle and he couldn’t have been a nicer guy.  Nothing at all.) 

                6.  Harry Connick Jr. “Must’ve Been Ol’ Santa Claus” – There’s no doubt in my mind this song was recorded in New Orleans.  The jazz vibe just oozes through this tune about a kid who gets to hang with Santa during his annual sleigh ride.  I have no tap dance ability whatsoever, but it doesn’t mean Harry and his gang don’t make me want to try. (No matter how scuffed up the floor below me may become.)

                5.  CHUCK BERRY “Run, Run Rudolph” – There have been countless remakes of this song, but none did it better than the Godfather of the Guitar.  The thing that always stands out is just how clean the solos sound.  So many modern day guitar gods use their tricks of the trade, but Berry always just let the instrument do the talking. (Probably because he had no choice.)  Plus his voice, never technically proficient, is perfect for the playful nature of the tune.

                4. BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” – There are countless live recordings of The Boss, but this is the song that completely captures what it is like to see E Street Live.  Bruce telling the fans a story that doesn’t quite resonate, but is entertaining nonetheless;  The band taking any song put before them and jamming in unison like they’ve been playing it 100 times a day for 20 years;  the uncontrollable joy that manifests itself in the laughter on stage and the smile on your face.  That personifies Christmas more than any number of “Ho, Ho, Ho”’s bellowed by the Big Man.

                3. THE EAGLES “Please Come Home For Christmas” – Don Henley’s voice has always been a contradiction: soothing beauty swirled with cantankerous admonishment, all hiding the vulnerable pain underneath.  That makes it perfect for a tune about a guy marveling in the joys of others around him while asking for his loved ones’ return with more than a hint of edginess. There hasn’t been such a reluctant romantic since Lloyd Dobler held up the boom box in Say Anything.  

                2. U2 Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) – It’s not Christmas time until the tree is up, Linus has given his spotlight speech on the birth, and I’ve been caught air drumming in the car to the beginning of this infectious two minutes and twenty-one seconds.  Bono is in prime voice (and still rocking the mullet) and you’ve never heard a song sound so vibrant when its subject matter is so sad. (AGAIN with the sad stuff!)

                1. NAT KING COLE “The Christmas Song” – The Gold Standard.  Despite Spielberg’s attempt to stamp it with tragic overtones in Catch Me If You Can because he can’t get over the fact his parents divorced and he didn’t have a perfect existence (Yeah Stevie, you’re a real ‘effin party of one on that front.), it remains THE song to pour some wine, turn out all the lights except for the tree, curl up on the couch with your wife on one side and your dog on other, and listen to utter cool wrapped in a singular velvety voice.  And that I do know something about.

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The Things We Think But Do Not Say or I Love You Stupid!

Dependent upon your love for film in general, or more specifically the words of Cameron Crowe, you will recognize the first half of the title above as the name of Jerry Maguire's Mission Statement.  A magnum opus that gets him fired but unexpectedly kicks off his gratifying journey of rewarding self discovery.  When most people think of a phrase of this sort, they usually associate it with negative connotations such as the aspects of a friend or loved ones’ physical features or mental prowess normally reserved for ridicule and disdain.

I see it a bit different. (Kevin Smith is hardly the only person capable of having a view askew.)  I see The Things We Think But Do Not Say as representative of our fear from expressing the deep affection we feel for one another.  Think about it for a moment; How often do you hear a person extol the virtues of another with unbridled enthusiasm?  Now think about how often the person they are exalting is in the room when they do it.

Society exhibits this “He’s a wonderful human being, but don’t tell him I said that.” mentality for a multitude of reasons, almost all of which trace back to the analogous theme of fear.  We have become so emotionally fearful in modern day America that if FDR proclaimed the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, a great majority of people would respond by suggesting he attempt to have intercourse with his fecal matter. (People in denial tend to be angry like that.)  We fear potential rejection or ridicule when vulnerably looking someone we care for in the eye and telling them what they mean to us because the possibility exists that the reply will be crickets chirping, thus leaving us feeling like a comic who can't get the laugh due to something in their delivery and is now powerless to prevent himself from sweating beneath white hot lights.  Conversely, we can tell other people anything and everything about a person we care for, liberated of any potential denial or humiliation and thus free to trip the night fantastic as we wax poetic over the virtues of someone who has carved out a niche in our hearts. 

You may be getting the vibe that this subject is limited to only the most romantic of situations, but allow me to break into my best Lee Corso impression and state in one singular word “Notsofastmyfriend”.  Not only is that not the case, but I would daresay this happens infinitely more often when the subject is friendship.  Put yourself to the test:  How many friends have you said "I love you" to directly?  Now how many of those same friends have you spoken of in rapturous tones to others and stated, sometimes in so many words, "I love them to death."   This is the point where you say to yourself in a rationalizing tone: "They know. They have to know after everything we've been through."  Take it from someone who early on in life thought he had to always maintain an even strain and learned this lesson the hard way:  Sometimes people just want and need to be told what they mean to you as if they have the IQ of Forrest Gump.  Even a person possessing the most outwardly confident of personality has internal doubt and insecurity that gnaws away at them ever so slightly, waiting for someone to make like Bill Murray at the end of Lost In Translation and deliver a whispering vow of eternal solidarity only they can hear.

Don’t think about style points for they matter not. You don’t need to deliver a Shakespearian sonnet nor do you need to be as melodramatic as a typical character on Grey’s Anatomy.  One of the most heartfelt moments of my life was when my younger brother Excrement looked at me during a New Year’s Eve party and simply said “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”  It still makes me smile to this day (Yes, I know nicknaming my younger brother Excrement ruins the emotional punch.  What can I tell ya?  He loves the more common vernacular for the word.  Nobody said true feeling was perfect.)

So take a word from someone who speaks the truth:  Look a friend in the eye and speak to them like you would if they weren't in the room.  You won’t be disappointed and may even be surprised by the heartfelt nature of their reaction.  As for the warmth that will course through your own veins from speaking in such candid tones, that won’t exactly suck either.  And to those of you who have come away from this vignette with the observation its nothing more than a self-absorbed plea for the people closest to me to do some expressing of their own… what do you want Sigmund, a cigar? (Sometimes they really are just cigars ya know.)

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Why Starbucks Can Suck It or This Tastes Like Coconut

                If you’ve read my blog, you know that I have a major bug up my backside about Starbucks, evidenced by my incessant need to state in a Tourette’s like rant that they can suck it whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Friends say I sound like a jilted lover when I talk about Coffee Megalopolis.  (I don’t know why they always have to take their side.  Where’s their loyalty?)  It wasn’t always this way between us; there was a time where Starbucks and I were thick as Butch and Sundance…and given how things turned out, it makes sense I’d use an analogy of two guys who ended up riddled with more bullets than Sonny Corleone.

We were introduced by my wife Charger Gal.  I’d never given the Java conglomerate with the green lettering a second glance before she led me through their doors.  As she ordered with the glossed over expression of a Stepford Wife, I explained that I wasn’t a hot drink kind of guy.  That’s when she said the words that would alter my life:  “They have Frappuccinos.” This ice blended concoction intrigued me enough to give it a shot.  And thus I was introduced to what became my signature drink:  A Venti Mocha Frappuccino Light, extra-blended, no whipped cream. (I refuse to say the words “No Whip”.  I may act like a douchebag at times, but I have no desire to be so intentional about it.)   

I suddenly found myself utilizing Starbucks and their 1,457,692 locations for everything:  Meeting with friends, getting out of the house for a walk with Charger Gal and our dog B Is Love, sitting alone to write and people watch.  How commonplace did it become to see me with this chilled goodness in my hand as the years passed?  Try a hundred dollar a month habit.  I would deal with any size line or any level of behind the counter incompetence and do so while looking like a smile ridden victim of Nicholson’s Joker in Tim Burton’s Batman.  This devotion culminated in a friend of mine giving me a personalized gift card that spelled out my exact order for any fresh faced barista who dared alter the magic elixir.  Little did I know that the ultimate sabotage would come directly from the Willy Wonka of Morning Joe.

One day I walked into the Starbucks near work and was regaled with the pronouncement that Frappucinos were now created to customers exact specifications.  I didn’t quite get what was so new about this, seeing as how my gift card already performed this task quite satisfactorily.  I was told that Coffee Megalopolis no longer delivered pre-packaged Frappuccino mix and that these drinks would now be made from scratch by the workers.  Now they say you should trust your gut and I have an above average amount of gut to trust, thus my being a big time subscriber to the “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” adage should have set my Spidey sense into overdrive.  But addiction is a monster and mine needed to be assuaged.  I ordered my drink, retrieved it from the counter, and headed to work before taking my first sip of the new Frappuccino.

IT. WAS. DREADFUL.  It was an abhorrent assault on the taste buds that could only have been previously utilized by Jack Bauer to torture terrorists in CTU.  This could not be.  It must have been a mistake, a misfire of epic proportion.  So I returned later that week and ordered again…and again, my sense of taste was overtaken by a tart bitterness that must resemble semi-sweet chocolate mixed with castor oil.  Maybe it was just this Starbucks that was chockfull of incompetence.  I began scouring the local stores near my home.  One after another, each made my drink from scratch as I waited with frantic anticipation.  One after another, each drink was worse than the last, culminating with asking Charger Gal to take a taste (a passive aggressive attempt at retribution for introducing me to such heartache no doubt).  Charger Gal’s response was twofold:  That the drink tasted like coconut and it was time for us to make like LeBron and take our talents to Coffee Bean.

Coffee Bean is an admirable substitute.  The drinks are solid and the local store is a fine place to hang with Charger Gal and B Is Love while reading the paper on a Sunday morning.  There are some drawbacks:  the drinks are a bit more expensive, the baristas have a habit of adding whipped cream no matter how many times I request it not be (Leading me to theorize that every Coffee Bean barista regardless of gender possesses a food fetish behind closed doors), and they charge tax if you enjoy your drink in their facility.  How a coffee house executed what the current political administration cannot is beyond my comprehension, but hey, that’s life.

As for Coffee Megalopolis, I drive by its stores on occasion…which is to say every 45 flippin’ seconds.  I still can’t understand why it had to forsake me in such a way and I continue to harbor a virulent vitriol that I unleash whenever afforded the opportunity. But in those moments where it’s just me and my deepest thoughts, I hope that the day comes when they return to their pre-packaged mixture of ice blended delight. 

 I still have the card, just in case.

Talk Religion To Me or Every Worship Has Its Thorn

I don’t know… but I know that I don’t know. – Lloyd Dobler   

                That line of dialogue, as stated by the protagonist of the seminal 80’s teen flick Say Anything, pretty much sums up my thoughts on religion.  By nature, I have a tendency to be decisive on my points of view, but I have always vacillated with regards to religious conviction.  The spiritual side of me has seen the power of faith literally save lives right before my eyes. The pragmatist in me is as cynical as Han Solo with regards to accepting a theology that there’s one all-powerful Force controlling everything.  This skepticism is brought to the forefront in December;  a month meant to celebrate the birth of the most famous only child in history via our gratitude and appreciation of one another in the fellowship of humanity… assuming we can squeeze in such sentiments between excursions to indulge our worship at the altar of consumerism.  (Please note:  As you probably just surmised, I’m going Tom Skerritt in Top Gun on this subject: Tough but fair.  You’ve been warned.)

                It is this type of hypocrisy that sends the scales in my religious perspective tipping downward.  My mind shifts into overdrive, recalling that while love should be the overriding emotion brought about by worship, NOTHING has caused more death in any lifetime than religion.  Think I’m wrong?   I’m not a Biblical scholar, but I’ve read the good book enough to know that any literal adaptation of its contents would be rated R for graphic violence.  Need something cemented in human history?  Try The Crusades, The 30 Years War, or the founding of a country based on the desperate need of its inhabitants to live in a place that separated church from state. (That would be America for those of you who became confused during the attempted Bush-Palin 21^st century rewrite.)  Need something more recent?  How about an attempted genocide in Auschwitz designed to eradicate an entire people from the planet?  Still need something closer to home?  Try a tragic September morning in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania. Face it gang, death in the name of thy creator dwarfs the casualty totals racked up by plagues and pandemics combined.

                 Speaking of creators, why are there so many?  God, Allah, Bhagwaan, Elohim, Jehovah, L. Ron Hubbard.  Is there an Omnipotent Hall Of Justice where they all convene to preside over their followers?  Oh, I forgot, the majority of followers are steadfast in the belief that their creator is the only creator and anybody who doesn’t think that will pay a price in the name of said creator, thus returning us to the death by religion theory that started us down this slippery slope.  Let’s move on.

And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own. – Billy Joel 

                The sentiments of the Piano Man bring up another point of contention:  Why do the most outspoken of followers feel the overwhelming need to dictate how I worship the Lord?(And why do they always seem to do it in front of a camera while collecting money on his behalf?)  What happened to the notion of showing your respect and love for your Lord in your own way?   People I have encountered in my life who are amongst the kindest, sincerest, and most comfortable in their own skin are those whose devotion is their own; you would see examples of it in their workspace or home, but never would it be extravagant nor would they attempt to press their personal beliefs upon you.  Why does it seem that so few followers find this acceptable?  Should I ever succeed enough in life to have my own James Lipton Inside The Actors Studio moment that culminates with the over enunciation of the question “If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?”  I’m very secure in what the answer will be:  "Just because nobody else understood how you worshipped me doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate it."

Sadly, this does not prevent those claiming to be of supremely devout faith from stating in no uncertain terms that anything done to God’s dissatisfaction (i.e. THEIR dissatisfaction) will result in eternal damnation.  Last I checked we were made in God’s image; have you met a one of us that’s perfect?  Me neither.  What’s more, if you subscribe to the notion that you must be of a right mind 24/7/365 or risk permanent exile from the Promised Land, then the case can rationally be made that  selfless atheists must be the most decent people on the planet.  Their actions are dictated by an earnest desire to do what’s right rather than borne from dread of repercussions they might receive on the other side.  That’s not to say the non-religious aren’t capable of such rigidity themselves.  It’s always been ironic to me that John Lennon wrote the lyric “And no religion too”, but broke up the greatest band in history by exhibiting the same “I won’t like you if you don’t do exactly what I want exactly when I want it” sentiments associated with the religious types he condemned in those very words (Come on fellow Beatle freaks, make like Darth to Luke in Empire and search your feelings, you know it be true.)

In the end, for all the ambivalence I feel and all the rational thoughts that would state otherwise, I want to believe.  Maybe it’s just a grown up fairy tale told to console ourselves amid the surplus of pain and hardship we must endure walking our prospective paths.  Maybe I just need something to explain why a song I haven’t thought of in years magically comes on my radio or when my belief in self crosses the line into over confidence I always seem to trip over my own feet and knock myself back down to Earth.  Maybe I just need to feel there’s something after death besides being a lifetime buffet for earthworms.  Or maybe…just maybe…when I’m deep inside my head, asking for protection of the people who mean the most to me and hoping that the goals I’ve set for myself aren’t as unattainable as everyone tells me they are, there’s a voice that will answer:

                Life Is A Mystery. Everyone Must Stand Alone. I hear you call my name...and it feels like home.

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