The Start Of Something...Maybe

The Merger.

By the time of the merger John Prescott had fallen in love, or whatever was close to it, with Margot Frieche'. He had fallen in love though it was only a guess, he had fallen in love though his family hated her almost as much as they did him, he had fallen in love in spite of himself. What a horrible thing. He had never forgiven the French altogether and Margot was so undeniably French. She ate pastries in tiny bites and sipped wine with vigor and smoked cigarettes so thin that the vice seemed pointless. Besides, he was now dependent. He had to watch her and be infatuated and spend money on the silly things that women liked and be happy to do so. It seemed to him that love or being in love, was something close to insanity.

But there he was, stuck in the mud, stuck with her. It turned out John Prescott was the only heterosexual man in county or country that was disappointed with an exotic knockout.

The day the merger began he was shopping for a night dress which Margot was set to wear to a dinner party with his family. It didn't really matter that the Prescott idea of a dinner party was toast or cereal to soak up the booze or booze to drown the toast or cereal.

She was eager to turn their image of her. She had never been anything but loved, adored, admired and wanted so badly for them to be enamored with her. John could have helped and explained that dress sense meant nothing in the Prescott good book. But he wanted to be rid of her and wasn't under his own power, so he had to let bad things happen.

Margot examined every dress in the store; holding them up to her bosom and pivoting. Then she examined them again, and again, excluding one or two with each rotation. He watched this routine and wondered what the fascination was to him, yet he couldn't deny there was one. All else that had excited him could be logically explained, yet this couldn't.

'Oooh dis one' she said with luster.

'Alright' he deadpanned.

The thing was a deep purple that did nothing for her or anyone. He painted the underside of his boat the same colour and was glad he didn't have to look at it. It was awful but he didn't know what made women look good; she was the only one that had ever looked good to him.

'That's four hundred and eighty-nine dollars' said the wide eyed woman behind the bench.

Prescott looked at her like she'd given him a life sentence. He never thought in dollars and cents, people who did were fools. Rather, currency was just the yard stick to improve his practicality or provide the tools to facilitate ones own self-sufficiency. It was a chain that began in a mans hands and ended when his dependency was at a minimum. There at the counter a decent rifle was being traded for a cloth sack and he would rally against it.

'No, that is ridiculous' he said.

'What is?' Margot laughed.

'The price, I won't pay it'

'Oooh....too late' she laughed again.

Prescott was standing outside the store holding the bag and the receipt. He had jumped an important pocket of time and thought this as clear a sign as any that love was dangerous. She was elated and sang in French until a thin cigarette occupied her lips.

She sang all the way to dinner, messes of words rounded off and smeared together. He maxed out the volume of a Christian country music station trying to drown it, but on she sang with defiance. She was overdressed; the purple sack, blood red lipstick, hair pulled into a modest behive beneath a tiara, long dinner gloves and the smell of perfume at war with that of stale tobacco. She reminded him of Audrey Hepburn and how he had never cared for her.

He was in sharp contrast; a contained mess of flannelette  

A Small Piece of Insignificant Garbage

 It took more motivation than it should have to write this. Just this. This small piece of insignificant garbage that's sole purpose is getting words down as I have some small shred of esteem when I do. I am sick of being the drama queen, really sick, but my head isn't right and I have less motivation to fix it than I did to begin this strenuous piece of insignificant garbage.

I find myself repeating Brandos bit from Along The Waterfront ; 'I coulda been a contender'. Great line and I believe I could have, shit maybe still can. But not while my head is wrong and I have no willingness to fix it. It is not a willingness not to be better, to feel better. I want that more than anything, but that mountain doesn't seem worth crossing.

I am increasingly skeptical of therapy and that initial push is the hardest fucking thing. Its coming into me and out of me in strange ways- clinical depression, anxiety, whatever. I feel sorry for people to extreme levels over something they probably don't and I am having weird crying spells in the car. I am losing control of myself and I don't know how to get back hold of it. Trying hard to crawl out of a hole but the bottom is dropping, all the time dropping.

But its when you don't even try to crawl that you let it in, you let it get you. And once it has you, its a bitter marriage of convenience. It might be the worst possible feeling, but trying to fight it in vain might be worse. Besides it all you're used up and the worst of the worst is you don't know what to do about anything. Except maybe tap out a small piece of insignificant garbage.

Note From the Needy Desk 1:20 A.M

I shouldn't talk about the plights of women. One, I am not sufficiently educated in the subject, two, I am sufficiently educated enough to know my problems don't measure up and three, I am a man after all and everything is considered. But more and more I identify with the housewife of the 1950's. Or, more correctly, the prospective housewife of the 1950's.

I could call myself desperate or hopeless or unlovable but that's a code for 'hopeless and or cowardly at talking to women'. My big problem (or one of the bigger ones) is that I am afraid. As a bastard child of the 21^st century I only want one thing, but every girl everywhere knows I only want one thing. Truth is, I want more than one thing and , even less I want one other thing, one thing that is not the prime objective. My trouble is, even being chatty gets dangerously close to being sleazy, something I never want to be seen as. Nice guys finish last, but weak guys die before the end...

Note From The Forever-Alone Desk.

I remember a good friend told me:

'I was content to be alone forever until I met her'.

What a revelation! It got me thinking. The words 'alone' and 'forever' put together can be daunting. But his attitude was nonchalant, which led me to think of it in a nonchalant way. I had never considered loneliness to be a positive. If everything has a positive and a negative aspect, which is something I believe, then loneliness should be no different.

The problem was I spent too much time letting my lack of companionship define me where the surplus of myself should provide definition. To some I will always be a pathetic or hopeless person because I lack the other half to my supposed whole. But I counter that with my own assertion that if I needed to be whole as society deems fit, I would find myself a woman for my usual neurosis of doing what is 'O.K' in the eyes of others. The fact that my laziness overwhelms that tells me that I too am content to be alone forever. And that is one of the few aspects of myself I am ok with.

Note From The Namer Desk, Freezing Sunday 7:23 PM.

It is an often quoted piece of Shakespeare, or Bill as I like to call him (friendly, familiar), that there is, to paraphrase, fuck all in a name. Substance is the thing and the label you put on it is fairly unimportant.

I have not historically been a big fan of my own name, for a few different reasons.

    For one, there aren't many good things named after 'Toms'. You have Doubting Thomas who was a skeptical shit-head, Peeping Tom the pervert, Tomcats are horny cats and of course TomBoys (or as I like to call them, lesbians in Embryo form). Tom was Jerrys antagonist, Tom Cruise is plain terrible (or maybe 'Fancy Terrible') and Tom Green is an awful piece of human garbage.

   If we ignore the non-ignorable (Morello, Hanks and Waits) it seems like Tom has pretty bad connotations. History is littered with Toms who were complete dicks and thats just part of it. Thomas is no better and may be infinitely worse. I always think people are pissed off when they use it, also it seems kinda soft. As I mentioned in my last post, there was a time I thought Jason was the winning name to have, though I have changed my tune some. And heres why....

It Sounds Cool When Said With An Accent

My Polish (and crazy, though not in a sunglass-wearing-rocking-out-on-electric guitar kinda way, in a sad way) Grandfather likes to call me by my full name. Though with his accent and spelling (Tomasz) it seems a lot cooler. It makes me feel like a mountain man, working steadily through a series of more ambitious wood-working projects while readying for the winter that the townsfolk got word to me late of. A guy can dream.

  My Greek boss has a similar pronunciation but his makes me feel like a Disco King with flares and enormous sideburns. Sort of like an Australian John Travolta with a gun. Point is, its got a nice rhythm and sound when said with an accent.

Its Short and Simple.

I never, ever, have trouble fitting my name on the display computer when I go bowling. Just one of the many advantages to having a short name. (Full Disclosure, I have had trouble doing that, but its usually because I like to make my name 'Terrance', Terrance just seems like a better bowler). No-one ever has to ask how to spell it, or if it is with any other letter. I did once go through another 'fashionable' period where I spelled it with an 'H', as in 'Thom'. People called me 'Thom' (like Thong) and I regret it with ever fibre of my being, but for the most part I have never had to explain its detailed letter pattern.

I also am glad I got out of the womb in the nick of time, before the trend of naming people after where they were conceived or born, or the parents favourite flower, or the quality they most hope the child to have (I would be 'Wallang' or 'Tulip' or 'Adequacy' if these were the case). I have a normal name and that is enjoyable.

It is After a Grandparent.

While I am no proponent of naming a child after you, it is nice to shout out to your ancestry through your children. My name comes from my Paternal Grandmothers father, and thats kinda cool. A tall guy who loved horses (which means we are both tall guys). I don't know why, but I like that. Carrying it on and such. It is a further guard against the names of today becoming further entrenched in irony or eccentricities. Something simple, a mans name....

It Sounds Like It Could Be On A Street Sign (Or Menu).

I have always wanted something named after me. Not a human child, star or library. But maybe a small street or sandwich (which would definitely feature the unlikely friendship of egg and chilli flakes, also a lot of salami) and with a simple name like mine it doesn't seem impossible. Why not enjoy an open faced Tom while cruising down Tom Boulevard (also the name of my upcoming R&B album/seniors clothing line). I have also considered putting out a line of cocktail hot-dog buns to go with cocktail frankfurts, Toms Thumbs, anyone?

It can take time to learn to live with your name. While Jason still has its appeal to me I have been gradually getting used to being in The Tom Club (I have said too much). Now its time to reach peace with my middle names, which is another story for another day.

NP.

Note From The Trendsetters Desk: 2:54 A.M, Warm Saturday.

I remember when I was seven years old, there was nothing in the world then that I wanted more than glasses and braces. Did I need them? Not in the slightest. At the time my teeth were straight and inexplicably healthy, my eyesight was a gentlemanly 20-20 with perfect clock-reading abilities and no need for large-text books nor engorged buttons on my telephone (not that I had a telephone, children with mobiles wasn't a thing).

       No, I thought they looked cool. In what was perhaps the start of a long line of questionable fashion role models, people with braces or glasses (especially those captain-of-the-football team level awesome folks with both), struck me as pretty badass. Of course the canon of popular culture and common opinion has proven that it was the opposite of cool or badass.

Still, it is interesting to me that this was my first inclination of what was cool and, even then, it had nothing to do with what everyone else felt was fashionable. Now we have widespread hipster culture where glasses provide an image that harks back to Ginsberg or John Lennon, but then hipsters weren't a thing either.

       Thinking back, I think I thought that brain-power was real-power. In my earliest years people who seemed smart seemed tough or ahead of the curb. A high intelligence seemed the thing to envy rather than a high level of muscle tone or athletic prowess (something admittedly I now envy).

      Though not all of my fashion aspirations were so noble or impressively moral. The valleys were as great and numerous as the peaks. For example, for at least an entire year I wished my name was Jason.             I have no explanation for it, except that it sounded cool. Much cooler than 'Tom'. Jason's seemed to be winners, the same way smart guys with glasses and braces did. Team Jason seemed to be the only team worth being on and for a good while I was pissed off at my mother for damning my life by not putting me on that team.

       A year or two later I spent 18 months fully exploring my 'bright-orange camouflage fishing vest' phase, a phase that didn't end (or even go) well, except that it did end.

      Then I spent a good few years delving into insanely loose, silver jeans and nothing else. It seemed the height of pride and prowess and though people told me different in no uncertain terms, it was one of those unfortunate experiences that you can't understand until you organically grow out of it.

      Fashion is a funny thing and my history with it will never be held up as exemplary of high-taste or medium-taste or even taste. I was bold (stupid) and regret all of it. I don't know that my choices are much better now, but I am going for as timeless a look as I can muster without being even near the crest of that ever-breaking style wave.

NP.

ON HOW TO BALANCE YOUR SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITIES.

One of the major perils of being in a relationship is surrendering some or all of you're former life. It is unavoidable, there are only so many hours in a day.

If handled well those close to you will get equal face time (or at least feel like they are), if handled poorly, you are likely to isolate those who used to mean a lot to you.

It is not to say you can possibly spend as many hours talking nonsense with your mates, you shouldn't want to. Of course, a healthy relationship survives on spending time with your significant other, but a healthy friendship survives on the same.

One theory that is notable in this issue is the independent/co-dependent theory. Everyone is living multiple lives most of the time. You are:

• The 'you' only you know.
• The 'you' your family knows (maybe additionally different with different family members, I.e different to your mother than you are to an uncle)
• The 'you' your friends know.
• The 'you' you are at work.
• The 'you' your wife, husband, girl or boyfriend know.

These are all aspects of one cohesive unit. They have to be, you can't be totally alien between any two of these groups. Often its more a case of what you omit or what you say or how you say it. A sexual encounter may be a crude or exciting event as you explain it to your friends or a sign of hopeless love and commitment when explained to your mother.

While these groups can and do co-exist, they all vie for a piece of your time- one on one. In some sense they all need it. You don't bring your wife to work with you, nor do you invite your boss to share your marital bed.

Frequently these other groups get put on standby for your infatuation with the other . You both had lives before you got together and those lives will still be there if you break up. The people around you shouldn't be put on standby while you schmooze with each other.

Nor should you deprive yourself of time away from your girlfriend or boyfriend. Alone time is important, social time is important. Not just important, but equally important as that with your lover.

No-one wants to feel second best or like someone is taking you away from them and the challenge is in maintaining their value, for them and you. You need the life you have with your partner and the one you have away from them.

Just because you had the good fortune of finding someone, from a platonic lover to a soul mate, doesn't mean you should be any less responsible for your other responsibilities.