The Alpha Male's Burden

Quotes from one of my new favorite authors, PhilaLawer:

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Twenty six is a rotten year. You're not an adult by any stretch, but you're way past college jackass. None of the things you really want to say, think or do are acceptable. Every day's another exercise in suffocating what you'd been for the last decade. For some it works; for others it's futile - the live wire of adrenaline you lived on since Junior High can't be unplugged, boxed and stuffed on a shelf. The current in your head builds, relentless, voracious, demanding to be fed. It pitches tantrums while you sit silent, staring at off-white walls and monitors, the low hum of florescent bulbs hissing through your ears. Adjusting's futile; it's too clinical, antiseptic, mechanized - the photographic negative of everything your body's craving. The mind rolls to where you ought to be... On a speedboat rolling through a jungle river, taking notes for a National Geographic article on Nigerian warlords... Driving cross-country in a beaten up Volvo, warm air in your face, stealing a drag from the cigarette of an impossibly built brunette in the passenger seat... Sipping a Heineken and eating crackers, watching the buildings disappear under the wing of a plane to Anywhere But Here. That Ben Harper tune's on repeat in your head... "I believe there's a better way..." Flight, movement, some sort of juice - blessed stimulation of any kind. Is that too much to ask?


Millions of people everywhere sit in cubicles all day, demons clawing up and sliding down and down the half-pipe walls of their skulls, tortured adrenaline junkies trapped by the same thing that had Harris, Martin and me by the balls - short term cash flow. For most of us, the money comes when you're least able to use it the way it ought to be... Twenty years of cash when the old lady's tits are at her knees and you're too tired to fuck anyway. Florida. Golf. A car with heated seats. Then the Big Sleep. The only cure for the pain of twenty six is pussy. A woman's as necessary as water. You don't have to love her. You don't even have to like her. But you need her there, under you, above you, in front of you, grounding the live wire of adrenaline and testosterone. When you're young, losing your mind in an office and not getting any action, you're an unpinned grenade. There's really no reason to live and you don't give a shit about anything. People say college is the chapter in your life where you build the stories you cringe recalling 20 years later. Twenty six and involuntarily celibate kills college... and nearly kills you.


The male doesn't age as we think. In fact, he doesn't age at all. He assimilates, placates and slows, accepts the reality around him and plays what he's told to play. But just a little bit deeper, a scratch below the mask, he's eighteen-to-thirty forever, and every now and again, in the right combination of circumstances, with the right mix of triggers or enticements, that selfish, single minded monkey will break out and escape the cage. And flowing from his greed, gluttony or vice, or a combination of the three at once, a trail of damage will follow. But he'll never be directly blamed. It'll all be collateral damage, the sort of thing that happens when you lock the animal down too tightly, rob him of natural releases.

- PhilaLawer

American Heroes

I saw a back doctor today. I'm taking 3 weeks off from the beach to rehab my back and I was looking for someone to give me a cortisone injection to expedite the healing process. In the waiting room I find myself talking to a fella about my age. He was clearly in extreme agony. Walking and talking was very hard for him.

Turns out he was a commercial diver. His coworker got caught under a mudslide at 200 feet below surface. With a 3000 psi steel tube jet on one shoulder and his partners hand in the other he struggled for 40 minutes under water. Eventually he saved him. However, his back was screwed. He had twisted vertebrae and muscle tear / separation along his back.

The surprise was that this had happened in the Gulf of Mexico about 6 weeks ago and his first Dr. visit was last Friday here in Washington. He had spent the last 6 weeks in complete agony getting bounced around and dicked every which way by the insurance companies.

It's really sad. In the movies when the hero does something like this we just assume that once the ordeal is over he will get the best care possible from the rest of humanity. It's just a given. He risked life and limb to save another human. Can't you hear the emotional background music? ... But not here in good old US of A.

I spent more time today discussing insurance information and payment details than talking about my back. I easily filled out over 20 forms. Why? Just to have a few milliliters of liquid injected into my back. The whole thing could have took 20 minutes. But it took a hour on the phone and 3 in the Dr. office to make it happen.

Dave, my fellow patient. You're a good man. I hope you get the care you deserve and recover soon.

P.S. The Dr. I saw today DID turn out to be excellent and far more thorough and concerned than just about any I have seen so far.

P.P.S. One bright side note to all this injury drama ... They attached a heart monitor to my hand for the injection. They basically treated it like surgery. Anyway, the machine kept freaking out and sounding this annoying alarm. The nurse said it's because my heart rate is so low the machine thinks I'm dying. I'd even had a cup of coffee at work before I went in. She said that most patients are between 70 and 90. A few drop below 60 and NEVER below 50. I craned my neck around and checked out the machine. 45 bpm. I guess all that cardio at the gym in lieu of the beach is paying off. I'll be slow when I get back and I probably won't be able to jump very high. But it's good to know I can run slowly and not jump high all day long thanks to my conditioning.

Troy Duncan

"Anyone feel like rolling with my boy Troy? He's driving solo."

Garrett was leaning his spiky blond head in through Marty's passenger window. I could smell the gum on his breath and cologne on his collar.

Like most 20 somethings in the 90's we were all a little baked and self-conscious; easily comforted by being around those we knew were as screwed up and neurotic as ourselves. The thought of leaving the friendly confines of Marty's Mustang and jumping in a car with a stranger put an abrupt end to our laughter, all of us considering if we really felt like taking a chance on a new character in our current state.

"Sure, I'll go." I said.

"I may not have your movie-star good looks but damnit I'm confident and charismatic." was probably what I was thinking sub-consciously. I figured I could leave Marty and the boys in his ride and meet this new "Troy" character. After all, he can't be too bad if he's meeting up with us to go to a rave.

I hop in the convertible VW and instantly feel the warm glow of one the oldest souls I've ever come across. Troy's inner peace was palpable and I knew we were already friends before I even had a chance to shake his hand or return his smile.

"We're stopping off at DJ's." Garrett said as he smiled and rubbed Troy's brillo head. "Keep an eye on this guy. Make sure he doesn't get lost."

"OK Snoop" I tease him back for needlessly carrying a gun to a rave.

We start chatting on the drive down, mostly covering topics only boys in their early 20's talk about as well as subjects of a more spiritual nature. Like my father, I can read people in seconds. I knew right away that we were cut from the same cloth. We'd be friends forever.

"Have you ever been truly euphoric?"

"I think so."

"I'm truly euphoric right now."

The evening was epic as all raves were in those days as we danced, explored people, and travelled the cosmos. Man could he dance.

This was my introduction to Troy Duncan. One of the most unique and coolest cats I've ever had the pleasure to call my friend. To say that Troy was "Cool" would be a tragically generic understatement. He had deep, true blue, jazz musician confidence as if he was surfing the wave of life - effortlessly carving turns and limping along to the beat of his own built-in I-Pod.

No matter where he was living, I always felt welcome to crash at his pad. I once even brought along 8 other rowdy boys when he and Luke were living in Chelan and they graciously housed us all with no complaints. Another time Matt and I brought the Jens over and crashed at the Duncan mobile home with Kelly and Dave Bartosh.

I remember sitting at Chelan park, basking in the warm summer sun, watching Troy and Luke run their jetski business, and feeling envious of the joy-filled peaceful life he was living.

I remember sitting in the King County Prison visitors room and watching Troy's mother cry as she pressed her palm against the glass, against his palm on the other side, feeling helpless as I held the food and books the guards would not let me give him.

I remember opening night at his club, SuperHighway, fully decorated with his own paintings and artwork. The proud smile on his face. The paintings looked different in a public venue. No longer the pencil sketches I used to flip through in his loft; They were real.

I remember skiing at Chrystal Mountain, catching flicks at the Egyptian, dancing at the Naft, driving to Chelan, Marty's bachelor party, endless nights lost in infinity. It is in these adventures and roller-coaster rides, as you peel away the husks of life, that a man's true character is revealed. You get to size him up and find out if he's truly the warrior he projects. You find out if he's someone you'd want in the foxhole with you. In the jungle. Across the ring.

Know this: He was made of granite.

He had his dark days. Sometimes we'd spend an entire day together and he'd only say a few words. On days like this I could really see the tortured artist living in his soul. Living, struggling, creating, destroying. I didn't care. Comfortable silence is something only true friends can enjoy.

I ran into him at Mo's a few months before Riley was born. I unloaded about how hard it's been living with a pregnant woman. A recent father himself, he expertly broke down how women's minds work when they're pregnant and offered advice on how to deal with them. Man was he good with the ladies.

"A pregnant woman is liquid because she flows. She carves arcs and curves in the vessel she forms. She is moved by the moon."

Later on, after Max was born, we compared notes on fatherhood over a beer at Mr. Lucky's.

"I’m not going to give you any advice."

"What? I just had my 2nd kid and things are getting crazy around the house. I look to you for some Troyism, and you tell me you got nothin'?"

"You are going to get advice from so many people, so take the advice they give you, nod politely, thank them, think about it, and then make your own decision."

The frequency of my interactions with friends has gone down as fatherhood has claimed larger portions of my time and my friendship with Troy was just another casualty as I went from seeing him every week, to every month, to maybe once every few months, and perhaps only a couple of times a year since 2006.

Troy had a good life. He had his ups and downs like the rest of us. At times he had this Andy Warholesque syndrome which made him brilliant and erratic at the same time. Great art comes from great suffering. Through it all, he managed to touch many lives and make the world a happier place floating on his art and his music.

I remember his words ... "It is what it is" ... "Let it go" ... "Pay attention" ... "be true" ... "Be True" ... "BE TRUE"

...

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.

And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.

And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game.
Tired of trying to make a name.

"Tomorrow" I say "I will call on Troy
and let him know that he's still my boy".
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner, yet miles away,
a call from Luke, "Troy died today."
And that's what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

- C Towne

Randomize

Maxo Radio and Maxo Life Project now have the ability to play music randomly instead of in the same order. It took me a while to dig into it but a good night sleep and strong cup of coffee finally prevailed.

Viva La Musica !!!

Stickin' It To The Man

I had back to back traffic hearings yesterday and today. Both tickets were issued at the same exact stop sign in my sleepy neighborhood. Both cases were dismissed but for different reasons. I actually had to duke it out with a real prosecutor (first time in over 30 hearings) in the 2nd one. My friends think I should get legal insurance for $17 a month and not worry about traffic tickets. Maybe some day I will but right now beating these chicken-shit bastards at their own game feels better than sex.

I had the first case dismissed due to untimely discovery (IRLJ 3.1). For the 2nd one the discovery motion was denied due to slightly varying circumstances and I didn't even bother with plan B because it wouldn't have worked with a real prosecutor present. So I fell back on plan C and actually showed them photos of the intersection, the curved cross-street, the big bush in the corner, and the stop sign and stop line that are yards apart. All of which combined into a BS story that even Max would not have believed but somehow it worked and I got the case dropped.

Although I probably fight and beat anywhere from 2 or 3 tickets a year for the past 15 years I have not actually had to testify and convince the judge I was innocent since college. I usually just make a motion for dismissal and get the case dropped due to some technicality which is only slightly lamer than the technicality that landed me in court in the first place.

It all feels like a cowardly game of chess for idiots. I get a ticket for something ridiculous like rolling through a stop sign at 5 miles per hour and then go to court and get the case dropped because some piece of paper was filed or sent out 2 days late. In the meantime, the cops time, my time, and the tax payers money goes down the poop chute.

Anyhick, the intense level of police activity around this tired, low-traffic intersection is only due to the fact the sheriff lives down the street. I hate cops. A good friend of mine, real sweet kid from college, became a cop and had a nervous breakdown after 6 months. He was just too nice. I don't know how I'd ever reconcile getting close to one in real life. I usually ignore or minimize the conversation with the 1/2 dozen cops in my gym. The news is rampant with stories of police abuse on a daily basis and that's only the 0.01% of the incidents that are lucky enough to get captured on camera and reported by the media.

Anyway, I'm rambling. In summary, cops suck, traffic law is for morons, and I rock. ArdAtak OUT !