On Memories in the #AgeofCorona

Memories. We all have them. Defined in my old, Oxford Dictionary–AKA The Big, Silver Book That You Can Bludgeon Someone With that has sat on my desk since… College? High School? I wish I knew–as “mental faculty by which things are recalled; store of things remembered; recollection, remembrance” et cetera et cetera. Memories. We all have them. Some more than others. Often times I wish mine weren’t so prevalent. And tonight? Tonight a whole slew of them came rushing at me like an out of control freight train, or a big, silver book swung at you by a Major League Fireballer that throws somewhere between 98-102 MPH. And finally… FINALLY after weeks of silence and quarantine the old gears started turning again. And here I am. Here we are friends, family and oft times casual readers. So? Let’s get schazzy.

Tonight, Cara and #NatNatBoo wanted to play Uno Attack. For those unfamiliar with this game it’s basically Uno on ‘roids. Instead of drawing a card or cards you push a button on a simple machine, and said machine coughs out none, one, two or as many as 10 cards at you which you then have to corral. You can’t control it. It’s totally random. So if you don’t like cards flying at your face at around 25 MPH it’s not the game for you. But I digress. For some reason, my 10 year old, some times preteen wanted us all to play with stuffed animals. She ran to her room and grabbed her stuffed dolphin Winter, an old, yellowing owl that #NatNatBoo used to chew on when she was teething and? And. My old teddy bear Ixo Facto. Not Ipso. Ixo. Ixo has taken up residence in Cara’s room for years and for some reason, she broke it out tonight. And BAM. Memories. A whole sh*t-ton of them.

Those of you, reading this that are not familiar with the story of Ixo Facto be grateful. It’s a long and sordid tale that I will not get into tonight. All you need to know is that Ixo was gifted to me by someone a very long time ago… Someone who meant a great deal to me for… God. Ages. Sunrises and sunsets beyond end. Said person has not been a part of my life for decades but memories? They’re a bitch, folks. And they have a way of coming back when you don’t expect them. As soon as Cara handed him to me I staggered from a landslide of them. Total f*cking recall of a younger version of me… A guy who wore fedoras and black trenchcoats, smoked clove cigarettes and wrote poetry. A beardless version of the guy I see in the mirror every day with less gray hair and a sparkle in his eyes. Life has dimmed that a bit. It’s receded my hairline a smidgen and given me crows feet if I squint too hard. But he’s there. Always there. Like memories. They never fade.

We want them to. We work awful hard to push them way, WAY back into our subconscious. We bury them under obligation; trying to balance home schooling our kids in this #AgeofCorona while fulfilling our work from home (WFH) responsibilities, paying our bills and the like. As a writer, blessed (or cursed, I leave that for you to decide) with one heck of a photographic memory, it’s a constant struggle for me. I’ve fought my memories for the longest time, intent to occasionally fictionalize them in the pages of a novel or an oft times unfinished story. Because Writer Frank and Working Frank are two completely different entities. One dreams while the other puts food on the table. Is there a way to reconcile the two? I wish I knew. But it feels like one has success at the expense of the other, and the balance that I strive for daily gets thrown out of whack. I’ve wished and prayed for many things over the course of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. I’ve been fortunate to have many of those wishes come true and many of my prayers answered. But that balance? That reconciliation of the Artist with the Provider? It alludes me to this day. So what do I do? Where do I go from here?

That my peeps is the question that plagues my mind this unseasonably cold and quarantined Tuesday at the tail end of April, 2020. Maybe I need to stop fighting. Maybe I simply need to pick a path and take it. The road less travelled, or the one that’s worn from overuse? There’s a life down both paths. A good one I think. Full of love and success and in the end? Peace. But I am only one man in millions and one man cannot forge two, seperate destinies. There is only one for each of us. Yes, I believe in fate. I further believe that there comes a point in your life when you need to make a choice. And that really is the crux of Frost’s problem. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I? I took the one less travelled by. And that has made all the difference.” Do I follow in his footsteps and… For lack of a better phrase “give it a whirl?” Or do I stick with what I know? Play it safe like I always have and trudge, ever onward into the future?

I have no idea. Ain’t that a bitch? Not exactly a poetic and Frost-like summation of my current state of mind, but hey: That’s a part of who I am, as well. Fedoras have given way to comb-backs and black trenchcoats to button down Oxfords. Clove cigarettes… Heck, cigarettes in general have been replaced by a Juul. My once-clean shaven face is covered by a thickening and graying quarantine beard. The memories of who I was, while ever-present occasionally take a back seat to the knowledge of who I am. Frank Marsh, Business Development Consultant. Don’t get me wrong… I like what I do. I actually LOVE it and feel incredibly blessed to be where I am, professionally at this time, especially when so many others out there are struggling. If you’re reading this and you are, please know that I think of you often, and would give anything to make it all go away. But I can’t. All I can do is pray for you and hope against hope that this bizarre, “new normal” that we’re all living in right now is the precursor to something awesome. Now and always, I say booyakasha. Respect. We WILL get through this. And I promise you that when we do, I’ll fire up my non-existent grill (working on it) and have you all over for Superburgers. We’ll drink, and hug (not necessarily in that order), reminisce about where we’ve been and talk at length about where we are going.

Which brings me back to Ixo. And memories. Memories are a reminder of who we were. They are a part of who we are and to deny them their place in our respective lives is near-sighted. I apologize if you don’t agree with that. But I’ve gotten in the habit of veering away from opinion over the last few years and that one? It’s mine and expressed. If you’d rather forget then by all means do so. I’ll never think less of you because of it. Had Ixo never come into my life I don’t know where I’d be. Not here. Probably someplace very, VERY different. But Ixo and his story taught me a valuable lesson. He and his tale taught me how to love. And the lessons? They hurt for a very long time. And occasionally? They still do. But portions of life are steeped in pain, folks. I’ll never dwell on them… I stopped doing that a long time ago. But I’ll always acknowledge them when they return and then? God willing, my gears will start turning and I’ll write about ’em. ‘Cause that’s what Frank Marsh does.

And with that? This rambling piece of #CoronaQuarantine induced Mental Flatulence draws to a close. Out go the usual thank yous. To my minions Cara and #NatNatBoo for a spirited and incomplete game of Uno Attack earlier tonight (we’ll be resuming post-home school and work tomorrow). To Heather, whom I love, who has been texting me for the last 45 minutes or so and is likely wondering what the f*ck I’m up to. Now you know sweetie. Thanks for your patience. To everyone who is reading this right now… Friends, family and oft times casual readers, thank you. God bless you, keep you and watch over you in the days and weeks ahead, as we continue to navigate our… for the most part shared “new normal” in the hope that maybe, just maybe our days staring out our windows at the world as it slowly, slogs by will soon come to an end. And finally? A bit of a departure. A long overdue thank you. For Ixo Facto. For the story behind him and the person that inspired it. Inspired me. Maybe the first. Hopefully not the last. Booyakasha. RESPECT.


What Christmas Means to Me, the 2019 Edition


Incidentally, I’ve kept that pic under wraps for a few months now. Funny story: It was taken, along with a ton of others on a blustery Sunday when my minions, me, Heather and her boys spent a few hours at the Philadelphia Art Museum by the “Official Art Museum Photographer” who–for the price of $3.00–basically gave me an impromptu photo shoot. It was going to be my Christmas Card this year but I opted not to send one out. Now? I am sharing it with you. All of you. Even the ones that don’t want to see it. Happy Holidays from the Swarthmore, PA Chapter of the Marsh Family!

In the interest of full transparency, I should tell you now friends, family and oft times casual readers that this is not my first attempt at a holiday rumination. This is actually attempt number three. The previous two–both entitled “2019: A Retrospective”–were convoluted, filled with neuroses and downright boring. Basically my infamous Dennis Rodman post from a few years ago, but with a Christmas/New Years spin. I have no way of knowing if this effort is going to be any more successful than they were, and judging from how tired I am today and the fact that I woke up this fine, chilly Christmas Eve morning with a sniffle and a cough that seems to be getting progressively worse and worse with each, passing minute I’m not optimistic and the only thing I can tell you with surety is that’s it’s likely not going to be long. Still? In the immortal words of Freddie Mercury/Queen and countless other entertainers over the years, “the show must go on” and this show? Trainwreck or not, It always goes on. For 44 plus years so? So. Let’s get schazzy, peeps.

First off? Happy Christmas Eve guys and gals that celebrate, and Happy Holidays to anyone that doesn’t. I hope you are all reading this, nestled snug in your respective beds with visions of sugar plums dancing in your heads. Unrelated to sugar plums and sleep–some things I’ve lacked in abundance this holiday season–I was driving into work this morning (staffing never stops, y’all; I’ll probably be getting phone calls and emails tomorrow) and Carrie Underwood’s version of “Do You Hear What I Hear” came on the radio. In a completely unrelated turn of events, it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks, or a five ton pile of candy canes, dropped on my head from a height high enough to daze me, but not high enough to kill me that there was only one thing I had to write today. One rumination. One little piece of Mental Flatulence that in no way, shape or form relates to Dennis Rodman. Thank God for that, right?

I’ve made no secret that 2019 has… let’s just say had it’s moments. Not by any stretch of the imagination all bad, but bad enough at points to make me reconsider my motto of never giving up and just throwing my hands up in the air, saying “f*ck it Dude” and going bowling. Booyakasha, Lebowski. Respect. What I will say is that no matter how bad I think or thought I had it in 2019, other folks on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence had and have it worse, and I think that we the people inadvertently lose sight of that at this time of year. I don’t think it’s intentional. Heck no. But we get so caught up in the grind that is the season we’re tis’ing that we lose sight of it. I am fortunate to have a roof over my head and food in belly, even if said food is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and said roof appears to be a bit leaky. I’m fortunate to have heat and lights, water and WIFI. But others aren’t, and I wish there was a way that I could do more.

I tried this year. Really, I did. Despite what has at points been a challenging stretch of time, I made an effort because in a life that has been, for the most part over the last couple of decades pretty stable both financially and mentally (though some that know me and are reading this right now could and likely would argue the latter), this year I discovered what it felt like to struggle. Again, both financially and mentally. Maybe this is TMI, maybe not but f*ck it Dudes and Dudettes, it needs to be written so I’m bagging bowling and writing it. You’re welcome to look away if you desire.

To anyone that’s struggled in the past, if I didn’t understand it before, guess what? I do now. I was always sympathetic, but sympathetic in the way that someone is when they see others having trouble while all their bills are paid and they have Christmas presents for their kids. I felt your pain, but I didn’t really feel it the way you did and maybe still do until this past year, i.e. the year that was. 2019. Back in 2016 I wrote about taking a barb-wire wrapped baseball bat to the year that was. This year? I’d like to hit the year that was with a tactical nuke. For all the good that came out of it–and there was good; sh*t, there’s always good, even in the darkest of times–it needs to die a quick and preferably painful death, though I’ll settle for a merciful one if that’s my only option. “Am I not merciful? Am I not MERCIFUL?!?!”

I didn’t survive 2019 without scars, and I didn’t do it alone. To everyone that has helped me over the course of the year that was, thank you. I’d mention names… I’d “booyakasha respect” the sh*t out of you all but in the interest of time, and the fact that I’ll be heading out to pick up the minions in a little bit I’m just going to leave it as a blanket thank you and move on. If I can ever pay it forward… if you ever need the same, please let me know and I’ll support you in whatever capacity I can/you require.

You know guys and gals, I was on LinkedIn this morning–as I generally am, multiple times daily while working–and I saw someone that had posted about where they were 20 years ago and where they are now. Twenty years ago: A single mother who used EBT benefits to purchase cereal and candy for her kids for Christmas morning because it was all she could afford and she wanted her kids to have something under the tree to open. I grew up with that. I had my Charlie Brown Christmas Trees and Campbell’s Creamed Chicken in place of a turkey or a ham dinner with all the ‘fixins a number of times as a kid.

But now? That same single mother is the owner of her own company. And I see that too. I feel it. Single Dadhood and by association Single Momhood is a pain in the a**, and despite what one or two have told me, I don’t think that I’ve conquered it. In 2019? I conquered diddly squat, AKA jack, AKA sh*t. But despite that, I look at that single mother from 20 years ago and I think to myself self? I can conquer it. I can do this. Because pulling myself up by my bootstraps is in my DNA. And despite the fact that the year that was didn’t turn out the way I thought it was going to on New Years Eve 2018/New Years Morning 2019–by roughly noon that day it had already gone sideways–2020 can be and will be better. And 2021 will be better than 2020. And so on and so forth until such time as I, too, can look back on all that I went through this year with a smile and ruminate on it and where I ended up. Maybe laugh a little, as well. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

I believe that. And I wish that for any and everyone that has struggled and is struggling right now. That’s all I want for Christmas, friends, family and oft times casual readers, alias guys and gals, alias my endlessly awesome folken. I’ve really lost interest in anything material at this point unless it’s something that supports my caffeine addiction. I wish that all the Dudes and Dudettes that had or are presently having the kind of year that makes them want to nuke it with a ballistics missile find a little peace and security over the next few days and weeks. And I hope and wish that your 2020 is a better time filled with happiness, new beginnings, love, friendship and family, not to mention bowling, zero mention of Dennis Rodman or Charlie Brown Christmas Trees and Campbell’s Creamed Chicken and a healthy dose of “the show going on.” This show? It will go on, trainwreck or not.

So raise a glass of your favorite holiday cordial and toast with me. Here’s to the year that was and what lies ahead. Year 45 of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of the same. 2020, y’all. Cheers. And Happy Holidays from your ol’ buddy Frank, alias El Autoro, alias the Madchronicler, alias the Patriarch of the Swarthmore, PA Chapter of the Marsh Family!

What Thanksgiving Means to Me, the 2019 Edition

Greetings and salutations friends, family and oft times casual readers. It is I, your ol’ pal the Madchronicler, back for another go ’round at my yearly, Thanksgiving rumination. Surprisingly, these little “What Thanksgiving Means to Me” compositions are a few of my most read, and had I realized that back in 2016 and 2017 (the only, two years since I started Random Musings that I didn’t write one), I would have made it a point to come up with something, however trite and uninteresting it ended up being. Moving forward, I will not make that mistake again. Whether you consider my pledge to never miss a Thanksgiving rumination hereafter a curse or a blessing is your prerogative. I won’t question it. To you, I’ll simply say “Happy Thanksgiving! enjoy gorging yourself on turkey, family and football.” To everyone else? I’ll say the same, and in the semi-immortal words of my former alter ego, El Autoro, “let’s get schazzy.”

I’ll not lie: This year has been and remains a bit of a bizarre one. It’s been a roller coaster, filled with ups and downs, lefts and rights, unexpected U-Turns and the occasional Jug Handle. Every good has been tempered by something bad and for the first time, arguably ever, one balances out the other. My life… my world has become a perpetual, albeit subjective Yin and Yang. The Dark Side and the Light. It’s been years since I’ve smiled this much, but it’s been years since I’ve cried this much, as well. Even last year–when my marriage was winding down–I was less emotional than I am now. In light of that and the last 11 plus months, what am I thankful for this year? I think I’ll start there and see what develops.

I’m thankful for the usual litany of things that most of us are thankful for: Family, friends, relatively good health, a steady paycheck et al.. I’m thankful for food in my refrigerator and a roof over mine and my minions’ heads. I’m thankful for my minions. I’m thankful for Heather, our relationship and for how she supports me regardless of my mood. Booyakasha, Sweetie. Respect. Insert huggy and kissy emoticon HERE. I’m thankful for the gifts that the almighty gave me which led me to publish my second novel this year which, I should add, is still available on Amazon, Barnes Noble et al.. And it only costs $0.99! Links to buy can be found HERE. And that, guys and gals, is the only shameless plug I will include in this little piece of Mental Flatulence.

Most importantly? I’m thankful that I still get to wake up every morning (although it does take me a bit longer to roll out of bed these days than it used to) and embrace my life less extraordinary. Forty four plus years on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Damn. A couple hundred years ago I would have been considered a senior citizen. That term bespeaks age. Wisdom. Whereas the term “Middle Aged” sounds depressing as f*ck. “Life, man. Life.” But I digress.

In “life, man, life,” one must temper the good with the bad/the light with the dark and not allow oneself to despair. And this year has been filled with moments that made me want to crawl up, fetal, into a little corner and just give up. I’m not thankful for those moments, but I’ve allowed myself them ’cause as people always tell me, you’re human and you should have them. No one is invincible. Even Superman has a weakness. These moments? They usually happen in private. I’ve become… somewhat guarded and it takes a lot to get me to open up about anything. But despite an overwhelming urge to give up at points, I never did. I never will. And that’s something else I’m thankful for this year: The capacity to forge, ever onward despite the universe seemingly screaming at me to tap out. I don’t know if it’s folly or not, folken, but it’s who I am. I guess it’s who I’ve always been. And I won’t belabor your eyes or minds with that at this time because I’ve already gone there in the past within the electronic pages of this blog. It makes me no greater a human being than any of you reading this and anyone else on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence that isn’t. Just… me. El Autoro. The Madchronicler. Frank f*cking Marsh.

Frank f*cking Marsh has learned a lot this year. Is it possible to mature, even at the ripe old/young (depending on your perspective) age of 44? Apparently it is because I have. There’s zero point in denying that. There came a point, sometime in my early 30s when I became a dad for the first time and I thought, “that’s it! I’m done!” And for a while, I was. But “life, man, life” has a funny way of inserting it’s long, pointy and highly annoying gnome-like nose in your business and guess what? It did. And guess what else? I’m thankful that it did. I’m grateful for the opportunity to change and evolve, even now because once upon a time, I grew complacent. And I got burned. Never again, y’all. Add that on as an addendum to my earlier, Thanksgiving pledge and “lock it in” for the forthcoming days, weeks, months and years. And if you’re reading this and know me as more than just an occasional read (mi familia y hermanos y hermanas; you know who you are), do me a favor? Remind me of it if I ever falter in my resolve. Booyakasha, folken. Respect.

They say that the first year post… anything is the toughest. I’m not going to generalize and say that it’s just the first year post-a marriage or a relationship because there’s so. Much. More. Maybe it’s the first year post-a job you’ve been working in for decades. Maybe it’s the first year post-retirement. The first year post-losing your companion, human or animal (’cause in the end, that’s what we all are, is it not? Animals). Your first year post-Cancer or your first year, God forbid with it. I could go on and on and on even further, but I’m pretty confident that you get the point. Change is never easy. And not everyone adapts to it well. Me? I guess I’ve grown relatively used to it at this juncture but it’s still not simple. I’ll be the first denizen of this, or any reality to tell you that, as I mentioned earlier, I’ve had my moments of despair not just over the course of the last year, but over the course of my life, as well. Someone recently proposed that I may suffer from a spot of depression. I don’t know if I do or I don’t. I think I just grow attached to things. I “fall” easily. And do you know what? I’m thankful for that, as well.

So that begs the question: Is there anything I’m not grateful for? Survey says? I guess not. My life is what I’ve made it, for good and bad/light and dark. Your life is what you’ve made it, as well. So? You can either accept responsibility for it, or not. I won’t judge you either way. “When you think about it, we’re all different people, all through our lives and that’s okay. That’s good. You’ve got to keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be.” And I, like the good Doctor (Who?) Will never forget that. Not one iota. We never stop evolving, friends, family and oft times casual readers. And that?

You guessed it. That’s something I’m thankful for, as well. Most importantly though? I’m thankful for you. Yes, you. All you folken that have been reading my various ruminations for decades. If you keep coming back for more I vow to you that I’ll keep writing. Always.

And with that? I’ll send you on your ways to enjoy your respective holidays. A very Happy Thanksgiving to everyone on this, or any side of the proverbial wormhole of existence from your ol’ pal El Autoro, alias the Madchronicler…

Alias Frank f*cking Marsh. Winky emoticon. Smiley face. See you next year.

An October Retrospective

So today would have been my 14th Wedding Anniversary. I guess that technically, it still is. At least until such time as things are finalized. It’s been… Quite a year. I think back on where I was LAST October 15th, and I compare that to where I am now. It’s been a year of change. Some good, some REALLY good, some bad and thankfully, not much that has been REALLY bad. Last year, as I was preparing to embark on this new adventure (if you can even call it that), i.e. the life of a Single Dad or as I like to call it, “Single Dadhood,” a lot of people told me that Year One is the hardest. Those people? They were right, and while I don’t really have a point of comparison yet–ask me for that next October–I feel comfortable saying that it HAS been rough. Despite the good–a new job, a new relationship etc.–I’m probably more tired now than I was last year at this time.

Do I regret it? No. Not at all. I pride myself on living my life regret free and while an argument or two can and HAS been made about how I handled… A lot, without going into specifics? I regret nothing. I’ve thought long and hard about it friends, family and oft times casual readers. And like Robert Downey Jr./Tony Stark/Iron Man said in “Avengers: Endgame,” regret is toxic. Better to accept the choices you made, learn from them and move forward, content in the knowledge that you have learned from all of them and their results, good OR bad.

So where does that leave me, this sun-speckled and Fall-like day in mid-October, 2019? That’s a damn good question, and one that I do not have a complete answer for at this time. I could bull sh*t you… Could tell you what you want to hear like I used to back in college (majoring in English is the equivalent of majoring in bull sh*t), but I can’t. I won’t. I’ll only tell you that there are days when I’m happy, and days when I’m not. There are nights that I welcome and embrace the peace that comes with solitude, and there are nights when I miss my kids, and curse the silence that falls over my house after I say “goodnight” to my girlfriend. I miss the life that existed before. I remember how utterly perfect that day in 2005 was–so similar to this one–and how amazing the years that followed were, even after they weren’t.

Change, like Thanos, is inevitable, guys and gals. If nothing ever changed we’d never learn… Never be able to move forward. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. That doesn’t mean that just because you’re in a better place and you KNOW you’re in a better place, despite the struggles that you face sometimes that you’re 100% happy, 100% of the time. That may sound like me, being repetitive and maybe it is, but it’s true, and it bears repeating.

I said to a friend at work today that the best way to not get divorced is to not get married. True? Yes. But I wouldn’t trade my once-marriage for anything. Not the kids that came from it, nor the memories made, nor my decision to stick it out for as long as I did and TRY. If you love someone, folks, and you’re considering a future with them, or you’re IN a future with them, never give up unless you have no recourse left. Always try. And IF the day comes when you look in a mirror and say to yourself, “I can’t do this anymore” and you know in your heart-of-hearts–deep down in those places you don’t like to talk about at parties–that you really can’t? Then THEN and only then will the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence give you permission to move on. When that happens? Do so. And understand that you’re going to f*ck up along the way. But learn from your f*ck ups and try not to make the same mistake more than once. Or twice. But no more than three times, everyone. That is unforgivable.

All that said? A few “thank you’s” before I end this little piece of mental flatulence and get back to my day. To Nicole, my once-pharmacy intern turned wife turned co-parent of our minions, thank you. Thank you for our life together. I’m sorry it didn’t work out… Really, I am. But I hope you’re in a better place now. I know that I am.

Thank you to my… to OUR minions for adjusting so well over the last year plus to your new life. Your resiliency continues to amaze me and I look forward to the day when you can both read this, and see in black and white how important you are to me and your mother. That doesn’t mean you’re getting an iPhone 11 for Christmas this year, but hopefully my words and undying love are gift enough. Don’t worry, girls. You’ll still get stuff. Cross my heart and hope to NOT die, at least not for a while.

Thank you to “Avengers: Endgame” for being a kick a** and take names culmination of a decade of obsessively watching Marvel movies and TV shows. Why? Just because. This puppy has not one but TWO “A: E” references in it. The MCU is a pop culture phenomenon and whether you believe it’s going to continue at the level it has for the last 10 plus years or the quality is going to drop-off, you cannot deny the impact it has had on society and culture. Plus, it validates life long Geeks like me and the sh*t we read as kids and, consequently, STILL read from time to time.

And last but certainly not least, thank you to YOU. Yes, you. You know who you are. Thank you for standing beside me through all the changes I have gone through and continue to go through now. Thank you for your love and support. Thank you for teaching me that gluten free food is actually pretty good if made right (something which I have not yet mastered but hopefully, eventually will). Thank you for seeing what I see when we look at the stars together and being a part of my past, present AND future. If you had told me a little over a year ago that I would feel the way I feel about you now, someone I have known for over 30 years, I would have looked at you askance and said, “DAFUQ?” But now? I wouldn’t want it or us any other way. Thank you, Heather. There. I said it, kiddo. Now it’s social media official. Winky emoticon. Smiley face and… that little heart, kissy face thing, too.

That’s all I’ve got, folks. Booyakasha. Respect. And good night.


“I’m Looking Over, a Four Leaf Clover…

“…that I overlooked beFORE!”

So begins a classic, Irish tune that’s about as well known as… well? Most classic Irish tunes. Like “Danny Boy” and “The Unicorn Song,” it has a distinctly Irish feel to it and as many of you reading this know (and a few maybe don’t), I am… somewhat Irish. I’m not sure about HOW much Irish I am because I’ve never had my DNA tested. My guesstimate is somewhere between 50-65% based on a number of factors, including how I look and what my parents and relatives are. So… we’ll just go with SOMEWHAT Irish and leave it at that.

Still? I was raised Irish by my Irish loving Mother, and songs like the two, above mentioned ones and the one that doubles as the title of this blog entry/piece of Mental Flatulence are not only a part of my heritage, but a part of my life, growing up as a pear-shaped little outcast turned less-pear-shaped Staffing Coordinator/writer/self-published author. And a few moments ago, I went outside because I needed some air. And low and behold! What did I see when I looked down but a f*cking four leaf clover. I sh*t you not, friends, for you are and always have been my favorite turds. Insert groan HERE.

To be honest? I haven’t seen a four leaf clover in years. I can’t remember the last time I did, only that I did, and it was… not exactly a life-altering experience, but a pretty cool one. I remember that I was a kid when it last happened. I used to sit on my lawn in J-Town, looking through every, individual blade of grass, weed AND standard, three leaf clover to see if maybe, JUST MAYBE I could get lucky and find one. And the one time that I did, I remember calling excitedly for my Mom, and being answered with silence. That’s not a knock on Mom. She was likely doing something in the house, or napping after a long couple of shifts at the multiple jobs she was working. I remember that when the initial excitement at having found one wore off, I did what you’re supposed to do when you find a four leaf clover. I made a wish. And were you to ask me what that wish was now I’d likely look at you askance and say, “DAFUQ?” JFC, guys and gals, that was probably 35 years ago. I can barely remember what I did last week.

So a few moments ago? When I discovered ANOTHER one after decades of looking, both actively, with my kids or by myself I did what I did back then. I closed my eyes, sang the song in my head, and made a wish. The song, in case you’re curious, goes like this:

I’m looking over, a four leaf clover
That I overlooked before
One leaf is sunshine, the second is rain
Third is the roses, that grow in the lane

No need explaining, the one remaining
Is somebody I adore
I’m looking over, a four leaf clover
That I overlooked before! 

It goes on like that for a couple of verses, and ends as it began. In truth? It’s not exactly a lyrical masterpiece. Most Irish tunes aren’t. They’re meant to be sung along to, oft times drunkenly, or to get you up and dancing. This isn’t a critical interpretation of an Irish Folk Song. Nor is it about a mutated strain of a weed that grows in one of every 10,000 or so other “clovers” that, if you’re not paying attention, you’ll likely miss. What matters here is not the plant/weed, nor the song, but the practice of wishing. And the wish that I made.

For reasons that I will not go into at this time, I cannot divulge the exact content of my wish and how I phrased it, but in my mind? I think it was a pretty good f*cking wish. Life has been… a bit of a grind lately. I’ve spent a lot of my “free time” exhausted. Not only have I been relatively active but emotionally? I’m tapped out, folks. What the pundits don’t tell you is that life changes? They’re pretty gosh darned tiring. And over the course of the last 12 plus months, I’ve gone through a ton.  They say that “that which does not kill you only makes you stronger.” Well? I’m still standing Elton John, but I feel like I’ve gone 13 Rounds with Ivan Drago and am holding on to consciousness for my life and for THE GLORY OF THE GOOD OLE’ U S OF A…

Um… yeah. Not really. Outdated Cold War Cinema reference aside, my point is that I’ve barely had a chance to stop and smell the clovers–the three, four or rare FIVE leaf ones–since before this time, last year. Even writing has become a bit of a chore despite the fact that I’ve published a novel, and it seems like I’ve posted both here, and over on the Endworld site with a lot more frequency this year and in the latter part of last than I have in a while. Maybe that’s a bit of age, catching up with me, or maybe it’s simply that I don’t WANT to publicize what’s going on with me, internally as much as I used to. But again, that’s not what this little blog entry/piece of Mental Flatulence is about. It’s about continuing to look for the elusive, four leaf clovers among the tens of thousands of regular three leaf ones. It’s about finding one, every 35 years or so, closing your eyes and wishing. Those wishes? In my case, they’re not about becoming rich and famous because quite frankly? I don’t want that. Part of life is having to struggle a bit and I wouldn’t want to sacrifice that because the struggle? It keeps me on my edge. Kind of like caffeine, but without the nasty side effects and increased risk of cardiac arrest. I never wanted and don’t want to be a “kept man.” No. My wishes are generally simpler… a LOT simpler than that. And I still make them and always will. Because?

Because I HAVE to. Because today? When I closed my eyes and sang the song for the first time in 35 years or so and made my wish, I saw myself as I was back in those days when we all lived in J-Town and no one lived anyplace else. I saw myself sitting there on my lawn, cross-legged in my too-short shorts and ripped Ocean Pacific t-shirt, pouring over every green “thing” on my lawn, looking for a four leaf clover. And I realized in that very moment that I still am and will ALWAYS BE that little, pear-shaped outcast turned whatever I am these days (a genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist I am NOT). For the first time in a long time, I embraced him because I recall all that HE overcame and for the first time in a long time, I felt my exhaustion fade a bit. My head stopped pounding and I felt… not great. But okay. Because I know that I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. We ALL can.

So? If you’re currently struggling, folks–and I’m sure a few of you reading this are–here’s my message: Don’t give up. No matter how tired you get or how hard things are, look back over the course of your life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence and remember all that you’ve overcome too date. Remember, and in remembering understand that you’ve done it before and you CAN do it again. And you will. Don’t give up. Look over a four leaf clover. And if you can’t find one? Here you go:


Understand that one leaf represents the sun, one the rain, one the roses growing on Maple Street, on the side of the road in J-Town or on your own, little community lane and make that fourth f*cking leaf whatever you want it to be. Be it fame and fortune, someone you adore, genius, billionaire playboy philanthropy or something else entirely. Make your wish. And sing along with your old buddy the Madchronicler.