The Wait...

I used to love cocaine. I dabbled in gateway drugs, but not for long. Pot was a daily habit from day one, but coke brought me out of my shell. The real Bryan surfaced without fear of reprisal socialized with others, even girls. But I ended up on the seedy side, smoked all my worldly possessions (and some other people's possessions) until I ended up in rehab, then eventually prison. But none of it compared to the waiting. Any recovering addict will tell you that the waiting is the hardest part, worse than coming down. So I've assembled a montage of moments in my life where The Wait has caused me to gray prematurely:

The earliest I can trace back my hatred of The Wait is Christmas. At least two full months of build up for one day of reckoning. It was especially trying for me because the more presents I got, the more I thought Mom loved me. (See post Presents=Love for details).

I spent a total of nine years drinking and drugging. In that time were countless instances where The Wait took its toll.

The Wait almost destroyed me the day my lawyer told me the Assistant Attorney General wanted to put me in a line up. I panicked because I was guilty and another charge of armed robbery easily doubled any time I was already looking at.
All I could think about was the fact that in every movie, the perpetrator was always number five, so my mantra became, 'Don't be five. Don't be five.' The day of the line up, they handed me my number, 5, and I took it to the jury box where I was told to stand with five cops and a homeless guy they plucked off the street ten minutes prior to the victim's arrival. I was sunk. I figured my only choice was to capsize and confess in front of everyone. But my grandmother put up her house to pay my lawyer ten grand and I wasn't about to waste her life savings.
When the moment of truth arrived, the cameras switched on, and everyone was in place, they announced that the victim was coming in. The Wait ground time down to a slow, steady vibration that rattled my head. While I waited for it to crumble, questions begged: Should I look straight ahead, or make eye contact with the victim? Was it too obvious to look around at my counterparts to see what they were doing? Was that nose pick a signal from my lawyer telling me to look more innocent?
I decided to copy number 6 and look straight ahead, like a cop. They brought in the victim. I remembered his face, having stuck a gun into it a year prior. He walked down the line, stopped between me and 6, then scurried out of the courtroom.
That's it. Thank you all for coming. We have some lovely parting gifts for you. I'm going to prison now. Good night.
But The Wait had other plans, another pass through. Was this a good sign? During the second walk, the victim stopped again, between me and 6.
When all was said and done, The Wait made me sit in the court cafeteria until my lawyer came and told me the victim was unable to identify anyone in the line up. As a joke, he gave number 6 his card.

Prison is tantamount to being The Wait's bitch for three years. Want to know what it's like? Here's an easy way to find out: Lock yourself in your bathroom for three years. You can come out once a day, for an hour, but only if it's in the company of rapists, murderers, and drug dealers (This might not be much different than Thanksgiving for most of you). Every other day make sure someone comes in and strip searches you, don't forget the bend and spread. Every meal should be served stale, cold, or leave your wondering why the small breasted carcass that was baked and presented to you as dinner coincides with the shortage of pigeons in and around the yard.

The Wait serves only one other force in the universe and that's Cancer. They go hand in hand. Once we accepted Mom's diagnosis and consequent death sentence all that was left was The Wait. Sounds morbid, perhaps a bit cynical, but there is a gift in Cancer. The Wait allowed me to tell her everything I needed to, and she me.

The Wait still tests my patience. The puppy won't be here until June 12th. Four agents have my manuscript and none have gotten back to me. I've spent my life waiting. And when each episode of waiting ends, another begins, until I realized, I do it to myself.

Maybe The Wait is trying to teach me a lesson.

STOP WAITING...

Dog Whisperer For A Day

You can't deny that you love him. I do. I admire anyone that cracks a code, looks beyond the naked eye, and can interpret subconscious desires. It is awe inspiring. Something I aspire to. Cesar Milan, AKA The Dog Whisperer, may be the second coming of Christ, here to balance the dogs because we humans are a lost cause. Maybe Jesus had it wrong the first time around. Besides, any species that walks behind another picking up its droppings is clearly not in control. So who’s mastering who?

I wish I could bring Cesar to work with me to balance the pack of trainers that run aimlessly around BSC, me included. I think he would agree that our current pack leader, an English bulldog, has been given power he doesn't understand. He is what Cesar would call: Insecure Dominant, the type that ends up squashed under the wheel of a car, either hit because of overexcitement or because he was pushed; no one cares to ascertain which.

Marykay is best described as a Yorkie. Submissive, almost to her detriment, but not because she's weak; she lacks confidence. When she breaks out of her shell she'll topple any sized Alpha male and assume leadership of the entire pack.

Alex is the resident, oversexed, Rottweiler. Once he grabs hold of your leg, it's best to just let him finish, otherwise you'll have one cranky Rottie on your hands and that's everyone’s problem.

Chad is a Lab. Loyal, highly intelligent, seemingly balanced, but periodically gets into his bag of dog food and eats the whole thing.

Pete is a pit bull who Cesar would call a red zone case, too aggressive to train. For the good of the pack we'd have to put poor Pete down before he kills us all.

Cori’s one of those unique hybrids with the intelligence of a Border Collie and the drive of a Husky. But the duality makes her chase her tail incessantly. Even after she catches it, she'll try again, expecting a different result.

Angelica is an Afghan, bred for show. A hopeless flirt, she devastates the pack with her glare that says, "Sniff it if you want, but mount me and I'll end you."

Tim is a Duck that doesn’t know he’s not a dog. The pack accepts him as one of its own but only because it’s our nature, and in times of famine, we’ll look to young Tim for sustenance.

And me, I’m best described as an old mutt, one of those dogs that gets himself into trouble if I'm not exercised enough. I’ve done serious pound time and new tricks seem to evade this old dog. This post is a perfect example.

Maybe I should get in line behind Pete.

Dog Day Afternoon

Take a second.

Look at her.

Ask yourself:

Self,

What in the world would prevent you from bringing that face home?

Only my desire to eat it just to obtain its power.

That's our potential dog. Someone I'll take anywhere from two seconds to three months to name. Like the time it took me twenty nine days to come up with the name of my favorite cat. We brought him home. He slept. Mom wanted to call him Snoozy. I balked. He had white paws. The name Mittens was kicked around till it rolled near my feet and I kicked it out the door. I told everyone to leave it alone. He'd reveal who he was in due time. This particular feline had an affinity for waking out of a sound sleep and dashing off into any given direction. Zoom? Mom asked, frustrated but aware of how stubborn I can be. One day he snapped to, bolted toward the kitchen, and forgot his claws were no match for linoleum. Headfirst into the cabinet his name was finally revealed: Dizzy.

Of course there were surnames: Dizzy Machismo (Diz Machiz for short), Dizzle, Cutesie Wootsie Dizzy Whizzie. The list went on.

I've always wanted a dog but now, in the face of the most stability I've ever known, I cower in the face of a decsion with long lasting ramifications. It's like Rachel says, "You always do this whenever you're faced with something big to decide." She's right.

I am neurotic to the point to paralyzation. Too many what-ifs to consider. Most notably: What if I fail? What if I ever look at that adorable little face and consider it a nuisance? There's never a good enough time or a good enough place.

I have a tattoo. A wolf howling. I got it because it was always a dream of Mom's and mine to see wolves in their natural habitiat. Mom wrote in her diary that she regretted never doing it before cancer took her. I got the tattoo to remind me that life is too short to wait. To date I've seen that nature show with all the wolves but not my dream. Time is ticking.

Maybe I should get a dog.

Nature vs Nurture

Can’t say that I liked him at first, wasn’t his fault really, dudes just don’t typically like other dudes. Besides he was an alpha male, so am I, sometimes, when Rachel allows it. Plus, he’s all fucked up. A neurological disorder has rendered him walking as if he was hit by a car, recently, maybe daily. Rachel calls it a mild gait disturbance. Yeah, like I only have a slight case of neurotic.

In actuality, he has hereditary spastic paraplegia. I’m not sure what that means, but it looks like his upper and lower torso are in a race, and the upper is winning. It instantly makes me feel bad for him. Then I feel bad for feeling bad. Then I feel grateful. Then I feel tiny because two days ago I felt bad about myself for a tenth of a second. Until I realize, I’m not him.

But Gary and I share the same affliction. His was genetic. Mine was environmental. We’re both survivors. Maybe that’s why I perceived a clash where there was none. He’s hard to get to know, but in a shy unassuming way. I’m hard to get to know because arm’s length is close enough, unless you’re a hot chick.

Last night we all went out to a bar, a hole in the wall pub with barely enough room to move. While walking out he inadvertently bumped into a chucklehead that took his instability as provocation. I saw his face, ready to say something smug to Gary. My fists clenched. I’d have punched him square in the neck without thinking twice if he spoke (I'm sure Gary would have had he seen it too). That’s how I know I like him now. He’s loyal to a fault, and braver than I’ll ever be.

Say hi to Gary.