Is It Tomorrow Yet...

New Year's approaches, and despite the overwhelming knowledge that many of the things I hoped, loved, and desired have become as empty as the magnums that will litter celebratory tables at midnight, I wish the best for myself and all my friends and family. Tonight I will drink a toast to the heart and lips that wish I was there. 

 

Digging My Own Grave

I smoke, drink, and love women.  These things are dangerous to your health, and should all have warning labels.  Only two of them do.

When I have a cigarette, I am not sharing the nervousness and disease every other smoker has ever had.  My pathology is my own.  A hacking cough is all the physicality it demands.  The knowledge I always have something in my face that doesn't ask I pay more attention to it or threaten to go home to 'mother', provides my release.  Pall Mall has never hurt my feelings, only damaged my heart.

I love to drink.  I like being dizzy and ditsy and pretty for no reason.  My beer listens to what I say, and when I empty it of sweet ale, the bottle doesn't bitch about how I was satisfied first.  I don't feel ashamed to express my gratitude with a vociferous belch and a nap after the deal is done.  My last beer never nags me about my next drink.  Most importantly, I can revel in the fact that not using a coaster just feels better and more natural.  The 'tall boy' is my only reason for a pregnant pause.

The Women I have known have one thing in common.  No matter the mix of desire and ice that gave them their flavours, they satisfied a thirst.  Many men in this fast food world believe everything has a price and is equally replaceable.  Like a cigarette, one brand is the same as another.  Blue and Canadian are virtually indistinguishable.  Women are blonds, brunettes and redheads.  Some are long and lean, some are big and busty.  In my life I have left an obvious trail of all three.  There is one subtle difference.  Even if I did think of women as garbage, I know, for a fact, I would recycle and compost.

DaBuoy

The Real McCoy

I was watching a late night infomercial, (sadly, not the one with women's undergarments) when someone asked me if I was being my authentic self.  Of course I was, wasn't I?

All my life I have done what I was told.  I learned all my lessons, and stayed the course.  I went to church AND synagogue.  I am a genuine dyed in the wool, home-spun, boy next door.   My entire demeanour breathes wholesome rascal.  I was a Boy Scout.  How could I be anything else?

I admit I am prone to having my train of thought wander off  track and veer into the occasional drunken rant.  From time to time I have let the windmills of my mind grind the grain of my distemper into a flour of angst and scorn.  After that I usually get baked and sup upon the bitter sweet breads of my imaginings.

Am I being authentic, or cranky?

What if it is more than just crankiness?  What if I am a curmudgeon?  Could it be I am one property away from berating the presence of children and their caterwauling?  The smell of lavender, mothballs and cardigans begins to fill my senses.  I need a 'step in tub', and a 'snuggie'.  Why is it so DAMN cold in here?

Perhaps a pleasant blended drink to placate the jangle of my underdone nerves.  The rattle of the Christmas claptrap has my festive balls on edge.  I need a hobby.

Just sayin'...

All I know for sure is I need to stop the hurt that aches in my heart.  Mostly it is gas, but it could be an indicator of an underlying condition.  I might have acute angina.  Please don't stare.  It makes people uncomfortable.

It is another day, and so far nobody died.  Wait, let me check my pulse first...

DaBuoy