http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/ The Secret Log of Captain Forehead en-us Nucleus CMS v3.64 © Weblog http://backend.userland.com/rss http://www.captainforehead.com/journal//nucleus/nucleus2.gif http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/ http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=131 The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=131 Thu, 3 May 2012 12:06:04 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=130
It was one of those days where the sun was lost behind a crowd of rolling gray clouds and the air was heavy with a cold dampness. The kind of day found uplifting for those suffering from too much sun or mania. Alas, it was a change of some sort, and not long on demands, useful for one being in a funk well described by the dark and foreboding clouds.

Having traveled most of the way to my destination, taking shortcuts through areas of town where the small, white commercial vehicle stood out for its newness — it was 5 years old — and cleanliness, I came upon a scene that called for me to take a role more active than spectator. A young man appearing near adult age was riding his bike along the side of the road, soaked from head to toe as if he made it his duty to sponge the wet from the air around him. Approaching the corner, the young man paused next to a sketchy van then continued to the corner where I sat behind the stop sign.

Out of what seemed to be the decent thing to do in a most humblingly indecent day, I rolled down the window to speak to Junior and offer him a ride to his destination in dry comfort (Yes, this is an offense for which I could be terminated, but should that impede a man from being decent?)

“Toss your bike in back and hop in.”

The young man immediately accepted the offer. He grunted upon entering the vehicle, avoiding eye contact. His shoes stuck out because they were flashy, new and expensive, a far different descriptors than what would be used for his clothes.

“Where can I take you?”

He pointed to an apartment complex across the street, then continued to rub his hands together to warm. How fortunate, the good deed did not require much of a detour.

“Where?” I asked upon entering the complex.

“Just drive around it a few times,” he requested.

I drove, not sure what Junior wished to avoid, hoping the refuge of the vehicle would give him a few minutes of comfort.

After a couple laps with him nervously looking behind us too frequently, he said, “You’ve been around, you know how this works. Cash up-front.”

It was worse than imagined. The fidgety kid was selling drugs.

“No thank you,” I rebuffed with politeness.

“Huh? What the fuh...”

There was a short pause in the conversation that felt long and awkward as I continued to drive around the complex. As the one trying to do a good deed, it was upon me to put him at ease. “Don’t worry about it, I have had people close to me in my life who were heavily involved in drugs, so I’m not going to say anything. You are safe. Though I would suggest another path, but you will need to make that choice.”

That was as far as my confession would go with the impressionable young lad. It was time to get him to his destination.

“Drugs? What you talkin’ ‘bout?” he asked sharply.

It now appeared the kid was backtracking, trying to disavow his request for a cash transaction. He had to be scared. I had to be moving along.

“Where would you like me to drop you off, so you don’t have to catch some nasty illness and need a chicken soup drip to recover?” I said with polite intent.

“You for reals? This ain’t what you wantin’? For reals?”

No need for a hurtful rejection of the peddler. Offering a generous smile, an affirmative nod was given.

“Jus’ drop me off where you pick me up. This is embarassin’. People gonna be laughin’ when they listen to this.”

Offering a wet young man a ride home and declining his offer to engage in a drug transaction, this is what people find funny? Perhaps he should not share the story. I seem to have lost my ability to be decent as me, let alone he of thee.

Returning to where the good-samaritan excursion began, the young man opened the door and gave a strange look, face askew.

“You for reals?”

Not having a clue as to what he was asking, I answered as politely as the ending scenario would allow. “I think we were having two different conversations. I’m not sure either knew what the other was talking about.”

“You got that right, pops. They gonna be laughin’ at me for this one,” he answered, removing his cap, shaking his head and chuckling as he exited the vehicle.

He closed the door and pulled his bike from the back. I began to slowly drive away, watching him go to the side of the van and begin an animated conversation...looking older, somehow.


The measure of a man should not consider how his acts are received but what acts he takes, and when a man takes steps to be decent, can that be anything but...decent?

Still, what was so funny...?]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=130 Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:35:24 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=128

*...and it's gone.

Some things are meant to last for only that special moment. (If you ask nicely, there may be one left...perhaps a gift exchange.)]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=128 Fri, 20 Apr 2012 11:40:50 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=127
The question caused shivers. Why does she care? The truth is she does not, she just wants us to share our lives. I should be polite. “Breathed.”

“Okay. Well, a woman came by asking for you. She was really pretty.”

“That’s nice.”

“Don’t you want to know what she said?”

How to state my indifference... I shrug the giant gentle shoulders helping to carry the good of the world.

“Well, aren’t you in a mood.”

Shoulders shrug.

“You aren’t going to get a little somethin’-somethin’ treating me like that.”

Shrug.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine. I am going to carry a boulder up that hill on the trail behind your house.”

“Uhm...okay, but why?”

“The vessel of the mind must be prepared to protect the mind.”

“You’re weird.”

Why am I living here?! Candy is meant to be eaten, savored in moderation, not retained.

Without further word, the small abode was left and the shrugging shoulders of indifference did not return until exhaustion had spent the body hours later.

Read.

Sleep.

Early rise and the pressing of the coffee bean behind the cloak of an apron. The day was boring, ordinary, as any on a slow suffering path of suicide.

“Having a good day?” Heshe asked.

Shrug.

“Well that beeeeauuuutiful woman over there at that table wants to talk with you when you get your next break, sour puss.”

At a small table sat an unusually attractive woman — unusual because there was nothing fake or forced about her beauty, she was simply one of nature’s perfections, an amends for the grotesque, ugly offerings nature seems to spew so freely. It was time for a break.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetie. You know I’m here for you,” Heshe offered, batting the mascaraed eyes.

“Thanks.”

Sitting at the small table, nothing was offered in speech. I had not sought her, so wanted nothing from her but to become drunk in her beauty. I had to make adjustments while sitting in my seat to make allowance for the firm, growing desire.

“Hi,” she offered, smiling, after a long silence.

No shrug, but a generous smile of desire.

“Well, we...a friend of mine, of yours, wants to talk with you, but he did not want to come in here. He thought it would be bad for you.”

“Who?”

“He told me to tell you to come, that he has your money.”

Friend? Money? Sounds like a trap. “Is he here?”

“Tell me when you want to go and I will take you to him. After work today? Tomorrow? Next week?”

“Now.”

“Right now? Are you off?”

“Taking a break. Is he nearby?”

“Down the street a little, then just around the corner.”

“Let’s go.”

The view with pleasant palpitations from behind was nearly as perfect as it was from the front.

After a few minute walk with a fetching view, she led me into a sandwich shop under construction.

“A lot of TI going on here.”

“TI?” she asked.

“Tenant improvement.”

“Oh, yeah. Should be done soon. The sooner the better.”

“Looks good.”

“Let me see if he’s in back.”

Before she could go to find the man who sought my presence, he stepped from in back. I recognized him immediately.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Shaking his hand and sharing a smile, I replied, “Looks good. This is what you did with your money?”

“This and 5 more. I’m all in. Either it works or it doesn’t.”

“Better be a pretty special sandwich.”

“Sandwich, salad, baked goods, we’ll have it all. Here, try this. We were testing these in back.”

It was an excellent and delightful consumptive experience. “Wow, surprisingly good.”

“I see you met my new friend.”

“Yes. Beautiful. Regardless, can’t be worse than the last.”

“I’m telling you, people do not understand. She is absolutely beautiful, but it is her warmth and charm that caught me. I’ve had beauty that was really hideous, and this one is more beautiful inside than out.”

“Hard to believe, that’s quite a high standard.”

He laughed. She blushed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you, but I wanted to give you the money I promised.”

“You don’t have to, I don’t need it. I didn’t do it for the money.”

“Nor did I do it for the money. I was happy I was able to get a crack at that asshole manager of yours. I never imagined your company would be so quick to pay up such a ridiculous amount of money to shut me up and get ownership of that video of him ‘beating’ me.”

We both chuckled.

“Fate was generous that day.”

“Yes, it was, but if it were not for you the day would have never happened. I figured we would split it, but I don’t want your name on anything showing I paid you, so I will pay all the taxes in my name, etcetera. So you can get half of your half as cash. I have it and can bring it to you. It’s in my safe at home. It’s way too much to keep around here.”

“Thank you,” I offered with mixed emotions.

“You don’t seem excited? Do you know how much this is? You can quit your job. I would have thought...”

“Sorry. I have been saving my checks, getting nowhere, telling myself I want my compound back, but now I am not sure. If you give me that money, I may buy a compound and anchor myself. I... Just now, in this instant, I know I don’t want that right now.”

“I understand. I can hold if for you until you’re ready?”

“That sandwich was excellent.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re opening 6 of these places?”

“To start.”

“Why not 10?”

“Can only leverage so much.”

“Taking investors?”

“Uh...”

“Well?”

“I, uh... I mean...”

“Will my share buy me a 20% interest?”

“Absolutely, but I could lose everything.”

“Well, then I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with the money.”

“I’m going to make you a rich man.”

“I believe you, but I don’t know that I want that either.”

He laughed. She smiled. I shrugged.

The two of us drew up a contract, his luscious lipped lover and a construction worker were witnesses. I now owned 20% of a sandwich empire, and did not care it disappeared tomorrow.

“I have to get back to work.”

“Why don’t you quit? Come to work for me...for yourself...with the company you own with me?”

“I am a silent partner. I know enough about myself to know I conquer or I submit, vanish...vanish or vanquish...that should be my motto. I wish to submit, to be subservient to your dream. If I were to become involved, I would feel the need to conquer and own your dream, just because it is who I am. I trust you. I submit to you. And now I must submit to those who demand freshly crushed roasted coffee beans.”

“But... If you can do it there you can do it here?”

“No, I don’t own or manage or worry about the coffee house. I am there to crush beans and make a mediocre cup of coffee that satisfies the over-considering palettes of a bunch of group thinkers. These people don’t know a good cup of coffee until they all agree it is a good cup, even if it is swill...and it often is. I am just a bean crusher there, learning a bit about humility...”

“I see.”

“Yeah, but I expect I will be leaving there soon.”

“And...?”

“Don’t know, but I must go. Thank you and good luck.”

“Okay. Don’t forget your copy of the contract. And don’t worry, I’ll have a lawyer make this legal legit right away, in case I become involved with another black widow.”

“Good luck.”

“Thank you. I will do my best to make you rich.”

“There are many things I desire in life, and I must admit that being rich monetarily is not amongst them. It sounds, feels burdensome.”

“That, I don’t understand, so I will try anyway. And who knows, by the time I do it, you may be ready.”



Oh, I’ll be ready, but for what I do not know.

Money. If it was the key to happiness, man would pursue it instead of sweet candiliciousness, and men pursue sweet, sticky, moist candy using every cent they acquire...always looking for one more taste of deliciousness.

Money.

How boring.

Yet I return to my menial job, obviously for something more than nothing?

There is no joy in absolute poverty.


]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=127 Thu, 12 Apr 2012 15:41:15 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=126
Arriving at the location of my simple rented room, a squad car from the local cleaning authority was parked halfway in the street and the driveway with flashing lights spraying away. Standing back to survey the disconcerting scene, I noticed that my roommates were packing their belongings into their vehicles and their friends’ vehicles. It did not appear to be a crime scene. It seemed the most direct answer would come from addressing the source of the instructed chaos.

Approaching the officer, who was leaning casually against the car chatting with the pert perfectly physiqued and pocked faced Patrice, a simple question was presented: “What’s going on here?”

“Do you live here?” he demanded, his demeanor turning from hopefully flirtatious to badass behind a badge.

Based upon the tone, a chuckle was in order as answer.

“Well?” he immediately demanded, placing his palms on a couple of the shooting weapons attached to his waist.

Another chuckle was the answer, which was presumed to be a less escalating response than, “What, you’re going to shoot me?”

“He’s fine. Leave him alone, he just rents a room,” she giggled to Officer Quickdraw, who saw his magnanimous gesture of civility as a moment closer to Patrice’s crotch — he did not know Patrice.

“If she says you’re good. But you better get your stuff out of there, the house will be sealed in about an hour.”

“Eviction?”

“The bank says you’re trespassing, squatting.”

“Jimmy has a lease,” Patrice interrupted.

“Either way, you guys are out.”

There was little doubt Jimmy had papers, but there was also little doubt that the papers were bogus. Jimmy was squatting and collecting rent from the rest of us. Profitable gig. We suspected this was coming, the rumors having been in the air for some time.

“I’ll be out in 15,” the doer of decency informed Officer Quickdraw

“Can I use your phone?” I asked Patrice.

“Sure.”

Having made a call and returned the phone to Patrice, I considered telling the officer that he smelled so perfectly like an officer, but advised the voice inside the menacing mind to move along. We needed to move out.

Standing about the simple room referred to as home, I wondered where all of life’s clutter had come from. I came with one small bag consisting of a work apron and a change of clothes...and some reading material. Now there is a room full of stuff. Pillows, sheets, mattresses, piles of reading material, clothes for every occasion, pencils, pens, cups, souvenirs and a whole lot of nothing. And this stuff is necessary why?

The sum of who one is exists within, absent the accoutrements we use to help the world define our presentation. The comforts of a fine mattress and superior sheets are enjoyable, but unnecessary to be present and purposeful in any moment. Accepting an upgrade from the plastic bag used to move into the room to a superior quality canvas bag, I stuffed everything figured important into the bag; picked up a couple of the better printed materials; grabbed the cash stash and a favorite pen and turned to head out the door, knowing that if I looked or scanned the room again I would find something that could not be left behind.

As she drove me to her house, some things had to be straightened out. A bed and room were not a necessity.

“I appreciate the kind generosity of your offering to allow me to reside next you and your moist chewy goodness.”

“What did you... I don’t mind, you’ve already been here.”

“No, I am not moving in with you.”

“But...”

“If that is a problem, let me out here. I will be staying with you for a short period. If the opportunity presents itself, we will engage in things that shame us and shape our memory with incredible ecstasy, but I am not moving in, I am staying with you for a short period of time.”

“How long?”

“I could leave at any moment.”

“Whatever.”

“So you’re okay with this?”

“Does it make a difference?”

There was nothing left to say. I was semitransparent again, wondering if being a transient was not a better way to go. Of course, the chewy, sticky, moistness of this soft treat could not be fully enjoyed when being a transient, and enjoying tasty treats makes life’s bitterness worth enduring.

The urges are growing. What to do to savor this treat...to extract all of the tastiness...
]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=126 Thu, 12 Jan 2012 12:01:13 -0800 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=125
“Gross,” a woman of known character shouts from behind her oversized sunglasses.

A true statement it was, and being once a gentleman who considered himself of noblized character, I felt it was appropriate to return her conversation starter with uplifting support: “Your perkiness gives that tube top a structure of peachy firmness that brings a heretofore unknown refinement of ample curve integrity to elasticized cotton construction.”

“Ewwwwww, gross,” she replied, hurrying away, clearly offended by the unforgettable oversized green mass moving in the street's gutter.

It really was a disgusting example of the assault taking place against my personage. There is great expectation that this assault will be survived, but not without receiving a serious pummeling by the translucent form of a venal viral nature. Alas, there can be no doubt these virulent creatures hiding in plain sight due to their microsity have set their purpose on thriving at my expense — in other words, killing me. And by what standing do they make such a judgement on my livelihood?!

A lump in my throat tells me another ball of stifling, choking phlegm is growing aggressively and needs to be purged. Loud guttural sounds set things moving. Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Psssstoooo!!! A green alien flies from my mouth and hits the curb. Sweat is running down my skin, which is strange because the flesh seems dry, cold, clammy. Fatigue is taking me down. I need rest.

To my left, reflecting the sun's rays was a bench for public transit. Around the corner to my right sat a similar bench, shaded by a building. Rest was needed, and it is difficult to rest while under assault from the sun's relentless rays. I manage to place my achy carrion bone bag on the shaded bench. Much to my surprise, my mind quit and sleep enveloped. The conscious mind is not necessary for the battle within to take place — conscious is an insignificant burden. I was out.

Do not know how long I was recovering on the bench, but the sun had begun its descent shortly before my respite and was near completing its journey as I returned to the shared world. I felt much better. To my surprise, I was no longer sitting on the bench but slumped over on my side in a fecal position. Apparently my body has a mind of its own, a parallel ownership of which my conscious is a minority owner.

Slowly, I right my resting body to a sitting position and listen to the loud, infringing noises of the street. How poor must my shape be that I sleep so solidly in these conditions. Yet I am tired enough still that I consider leaning to my side and returning to sleep.

“You okay?” a youthful man asks, looking at me with concern.

“Just a little down.”

“You sure? That gash looks pretty bad. You're still bleeding pretty bad...and...uh...and you're...uh...you're not that clean so that might get infected.”

Bleeding? Gash? Not clean? I recall my eyes throbbing, but that was from the congestion, that was what I felt earlier. Suddenly there is awareness of another throbbing, more pronounced, in the center of a shining example of a forehead. Then there was awareness that liquid was running down the face and dripping off the tip of the nose. I look down and see blood. After wiping the tip of the nose, my hand is streaked with fresh blood. I am bleeding, and from what the kind stranger has imparted it is from a gash in the middle of a magical throbbing head.

“What happened?” I asked curiously of the considerate youthful one.

“I...I don't know. Don't you know?”

“No. I had a dream some people were yelling at me, shouting insolent socioeconomic invectives and calling me a disease ridden bum while chasing me down the street, throwing things at me, but it was just a dream. I have been on this bench for hours.”

“You need to get that taken care of.”

The young man helps me up. I cough, send him a viral foe as thanks for his help, and in that instant I remember, I know who gave me this foe, indifferent to I as good or evil. A young woman of exceptional skin quality coughed on me when she asked me for directions — a query I could not satisfy. This bug expanded from assaulting me to this kind, youthful man. This thing does not care if the nature of the human assaulted is good or evil, simply that it is a living human it can try and ravage. From the thoughtless viruses point of view, we are all evil and worthy of being struck down without judgement or consideration of any kind. The assault is fate's roll of the dice.

“I'm going to take you to the urgent care center.”

“No, but thank you. I know this is a lot to ask, but if I buy some glue will you glue my wound closed? I'll buy some gloves so you don't have to touch my special blood.”

“Special? Well...” the man began, clearly uncomfortable.

“Please? I am a man, just like you, who needs 5 minutes of intimate help to patch a wound received upon the battlefield of life.”

“The battlefield of life? How can I say no to that? Yes,” he acceded.

Once the gentleman agreed to help this simple wounded soul, though still fatigued by the assault within, I knew I would be better. I would get better because it is not yet my time, because I am needed by others, even if it is to make them heroes by my apparent need for them. I am not alone; no matter how much it may feel that way at times; no matter how much I may wish it were that way at times. I am never alone. None of us are. And that is the way it must be.

Updated: Imagine the surprise when sometime later I read a half dozen souls in the neighborhood succumbed to these fatiguing symptoms. The hand of fate is at times fickle and feckless, yet always divining.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=125 Tue, 4 Oct 2011 08:18:21 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=124
It is better to be prepared for battle and not have to fight than to head toward battle hoping for peace while unwilling to surrender. Tell yourself the truth: I am going to battle. I will battle. Good will stand against evil. I want the battle.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=124 Wed, 28 Sep 2011 08:13:57 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=123
Entering the establishment encased in glass to entice consumer's weak impulses, I spot the smartly dressed man behind the counter and offer a proper greeting. “Hi,” I grunt, nodding.

“Good day,” the gentleman countered courteously in a thickly accented voice, clearly groomed in a far off land where his thick, kempt beard is probably quite the rage. He offered no smile, his serious glare watching the store inside and out.

Along the back wall I find an overabundance of beverages from which to select. Water is the proper choice, but since some of the other beverages — many of the other beverages — are less expensive and nothing more than water enhanced or damaged, the decision was made to buy something different, something that allows for manufactured, unnatural sweet false satisfaction to pour out of a bottle.

Let's see...caffeine...no...mocha...frosty...punch...soda...no, carbonation kills...lemonade...blends...juice...juiced...no...no...no...beer...no, thank you...malt...disgusting...wine cooler...why...water is simple, but too expensive...water with vitamins is cheaper than plain water...no...water with spirit?...what is this stuff... After a mere 23 minutes of hearing the ring of the bell as customers came and went, I made a decision: I take the bottle of banana colada flavored, vitamin enhanced liquid (water?) to the counter.

“You are quite the decisive one, I see. It is good you made up your mind, or I would have to start assessing you rent,” the clerk circle smirked as he rung up my purchase. Before he could push the total button, he froze and watched a troop of young adults enter his establishment.

“Uhhhmmmmmm...,” I exhorted loudly, trying to guide his attention to the finishing of our financial transaction.

“Shhh. Wait. Don't move. Don't say anything. This happened to my uncle. It will be over in a minute. There are too many to try and stop.”

Turning for a quick glance at his view, I stared, dumbfounded. The young legally not-children were scurrying about the store, grabbing merchandise in quick, desperate snatches. It must be the rush of the day. “Don't you want to finish ringing me up so you can get to them?”

The man behind the beard smiled, chuckled, and finished our transaction.

“Thank you, come again.”

“You're...” I began, stopping as one of the legally not-children grabbed the juice and headed for the door. Justice began to course my veins, calling for action...but acting against mass stupidity seems so...stupid.

“Let him go,” the cashier ordered quietly. “You can have another when they leave. They're almost done and I don't want a fight in my store. It will only worsen the situation.”

Done? Done what, choosing their candy bar, beer and bag of chips? Then, as if in sync, without a single non-child queuing up behind me, they left the store as quickly as they entered.

“What the...?” I purged aloud, mesmerized by the absurdity of the large scale petty crime perpetrated by pathetics. (An admission of failure to act must be accepted. Done. But what would acting against such a wave of ugliness look like? If one man battles against ignorance en masse, is that not...ignorant?) Mesmerizing; such a petty display of profound and penetrating ignorance.

“Those ingrates! This is what that Evers boy died for? You would flounder in your avocation of finding a sesquipedalian amongst such an aggregation of addlebrains.”

“I only speak English,” the voice inside spoke too proudly.

“Perhaps in a destitute manner,” the foreigner replied in whisper. “Do those individuals realize they were all recorded on camera?” he shouted, wagging his extended finger at what was. “There is an image on the door requiring no ability to read to comprehend. Where are the police?! There are cameras on the exterior of the building! Or are they simply adroit criminals having no fear of the consequences of your lamentable system of redress?”

Looking down and accepting the disheveled attire as mine without need for change, I ask simply, “Redress? Why?”

“Those are all criminals! Did you not observe?They each secreted a few items, appropriating them without compensation! You are a witness to this despicable insult, this criminal enterprise, this assault upon civilized society!”

Witness? That's a problem. “Listen, I need to leave. I am going to take another bottle of the juice I paid for and go?”

Scoffing, he replied, “If there is one left, go ahead, I have everything recorded. The police should be here already. Go! Take it and go, if there is even one left.”

The drink of my desire having not been close to the alcohol meant that all of the bottles were left. I picked up a fresh bottle and headed for the exit. “Sorry for the trouble, and thank you for your generosity.”

“Go! Go! And tell those people to stay out of my store. I don't want any trouble. YOU need to fix your country! You can't let people think that is okay. Even in my poor country people are more civilized than your lazy underclass. Lazy, all of you!”

It was I who knew it was time to expedite my exit as he seemed to be becoming angry at moi for a troop of trolling nincompoops. Alas, they are fellow citizenry and he is a foreigner here to better his life. But how do you explain the idea that in this land we will give people a better life than they would ever consider working for, as effort is not required or expected any longer in this once dreaming of greatness land. How do you explain that as a country we have stolen ambition from so many by giving them so little...and allowing them to take a tiny bit. How do you explain that his robbery is an inconvenient truth we ignore? How can you explain this to a man with such a simple understanding of the English language?

I walk away. The police drive past me toward the store as I meander down the street. I am sure I walk past a group of the trolling troop. “That was stupid,” I suggest. They reply, but if it was English...no, it could not have been English, I did not understand a word...and I thought the bearded clerk's English was bad. Am I a foreigner? Am I in a foreign land? Am I...this banana colada stuff is flavorfail, but the body needs hydration. Next time I am going to buy water, or maybe I should carry one of those backpack bladders, or maybe I can return to my homeland where one can find potable water from a drinking fountain and people speak English.

I do not know where I am, but as I look around I realize it does not matter. Where I am is a place we all pretend does not exist, so how could I be here...
]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=123 Sun, 28 Aug 2011 08:56:10 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=122
'War Can Be Over!', the bumper sticker dramatically proclaimed in bold, bright yellow lettering, but there was small print underneath. A caveat, to be sure, so judgment of truth would have to wait.

'IF YOU WANT IT TO BE', the small print spelled out, not readily readable as we nearly collided with the small wanna-SUV. Quick judgment caused a rash condemnation to be spewed upon other motored minions — even the just get tired and cranky, but it was a stupid statement, just as inappropriately made in black and white as the small text on the bumper sticker.

After entertaining and belittling banter, I offered to fellow passengers a more thoughtful perspective: “Technically, the cowardly man's bumper sticker is correct. War is over when you decide to surrender, and for many that is not only a decision, it is a way of life. So, yes, war is over if you want it to be, you just have to be willing to surrender. What a non-existence. What a victim's paradise.”

There should be a disclaimer for many who profess their belief in the end of war. When others fight war and you reap the securing benefits of the warriors as you stand behind their strength means you support war. If you are truly against war, stand on the side that is to be slaughtered, stand on the side of evil and profess your stance on war — yes, we know, you'll have an epiphany, and your great cowardice will surprise no one except yourself and others of moronic ilk.

When man speaks, his words only have meaning if they reflect his actions. Too often, men speak to disguise their actions. The truth of one is in his actions...always.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=122 Fri, 24 Jun 2011 09:34:52 -0700 http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=121
Still in tight underwear of cradling comfort in the house of playacting manners, I wandered to the kitchen to make a sandwich of significance — turkey, cheese, spicy sprouts, wasabi mayo, stacked on a nut bread. Fresh awesomeness filling a hungry gut. After taking the first bite, mild mannered Marcus entered the kitchen filled with bipolar excitement. His excitement was not of my doing, so I took another bite of the stacked spicy feast.

“Are you comin'?” Marcus asked.

“Coming?” I replied, taking another teeth tear of deliciousness.

“We're playing volleyball at Jake's boss' house. The same place we played a couple of weeks ago. You had fun. You should come. This time we have to follow the rules of the IWVA, though.”

“Huh?” I enquired.

“I think it's the International Water Volleyball Association or something. I don't know, just come.”

Another bite, giving the satisfied mind time to consider. It was fun, and a good workout, but there were some real tools there...and the dynamics. Jake's boss was the worst player there, but he corrected and criticized everyone else's play — no one had a single unkind word, correction or critique to pass his way because it was his house and he was the boss man...and, lest we forget, they were polite young men. A couple of his friends, an albino named Jiminy and a redneck named Tucker, also had critique to offer, always bitter and nasty. Marcus and his peers took the abuse with a smile on their faces, just glad to be invited...they had a great time. It was fun.

I nodded my head in acceptance, swallowing spicy dancing goodness.

“Great! It's gonna be a blast.”

“Are the tools going to be there?”

The assumption was that Marcus would reply by saying, “Who?”, but instead he answered, “It's their thing, they're always there. But it'll still be fun!”

Yeah, a good time by all with a few dull tools to make the effort slightly more dangerous.

Wearing a pair of tattered board shorts I found on the side of the road one night, I rode over with Marcus and a few of his buddies to Boss' house. I will admit to a dash of envy, as he had enough of a layout to have a volleyball court, though not quite a compound of Captainesque proportions, while I lived in a rented room of what I was beginning to believe was a stolen house. There is a reason envy is a cardinal sin, and not in any lifetime would I wish to be the man to whom all of this belongs — sin dismissed, resolve accepted.

Trying to find the fulcrum of a universe of older never-athletes past their prime and younger athletes having fun, I tuned out most everything and played. It was a blast! A dive here; a dive there; a great save; an ugly miss. A great save my by “get out of your wheelchair” and an ugly miss met with “If you'd just line up in the right place” commentary by the guys of decay who have never tasted the bitter pain of hard fought narrow victory and the sour savor of defeat. In contrast, the youngsters, all athletes, had nothing but “Oh yeah!”, “GO!”, “Dive!”, “Damn...”, “Almost” and “Nap time is over.” They were having fun, as they, like most in a pick-up game without consequence, were there for the fun of sport.

Time flew as most of us enjoyed stretching our muscles and mouths while sharing beer, snacks and stories of...nothing, except for those guys who took the whole thing so damn seriously. Even while we were sitting around talking and drinking during a piss rest, they were talking about how bad this person was and that person was. For the most part, it was an immature child-man named Tucker, who Boss and Jiminy followed for fear his bitter tongue would be turned on them, much like the cowardly kids who befriend a bully on the schoolyard because they were too afraid to stand on their own. But this was all about the game, and most of us were having a really good time...until...well...

Innocently, I turned to one of the young guys and asked, “Where's the tall guy with the long hair who was here last time?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders to answer that he did not know, but his eyes deceived him as he looked toward Boss and Tucker with fear in his non-wandering eye. It was at that moment that the wall of peace gave way. For my own enjoyment, I had dismissed evil as nothing more than an immature pseudo-man we could all ignore, but truth slapped me hard with a wet sting. I went to sit next to Boss, Jiminy and Tucker.

Jiminy and Tucker left to urinate, so I took the opportunity to ask Boss about the missing young man.

“He sucked. Did you see how tall he was? He should have been better. He wasn't any fun, couldn't take a kidding, and he sucked!”

“And you're soooooo good?” I asked instinctively, to my surprise and his.

“Well...”

“It must take a lot of fun out of the game for you, since no one 'teases' you guys.”

He gave me a startled, blank stare, as if he had believed no one commented on his game because of his olympian abilities.

“I guess I need to fix that for you so you have more fun,” I offered, standing to leave. “I'm your huckleberry.”

Walking off to the side to be alone and take in the scenery, I think about how much fun I have playing, and the banter of the young athletes, and I know I will probably never be back to play after I do what I must. I then spot the rock where I last remember seeing the tall young man whose spirit they broke, sitting alone. I now know he was just out of college and moved here from across the country. He had only been here for a month and this was one of his first outings. Some of the guys he worked with enjoyed the game and thought he would have a good time. I remember him sitting on the rock, quiet, thinking, and now know he was in pain from the hyper-critique of Boss, Tucker and Jiminy, but predominantly Tucker. I saw it. I ignored it. I hold myself accountable. It is better to be alone than to excuse the company evil.

Play resumes. I am on the team of Tucker and Boss. For obvious reasons, I am acutely aware of what is transpiring. Tucker senses something is threatening, the change in energy forms, but Boss' critique is on par — the kind of on par measured by the same trio when they beat a small, dimpled ball with a stick. Boss makes a couple of mistakes. I look to Tucker and ask for any critique. Nothing. Boss misses again.

“Tucker, anything?”

He looks at me, expressionless, the blank testing the depths of his thought process.

“I feel bad for you. There is no one to critique your mistakes which really cheats you out of all the fun,” I tell Boss.

After the third round of similar conversations, Boss sees the point. “I get what you're saying,” he reluctantly states. His critique is ended.

Tucker, the true purveyor of evil, is trying to use the mirror I have offered in kindness, but he cannot squelch his true nature for long.

After a loss, he tells us, his teammates, “I have an idea, but I'm afraid you guys are too stupid to get it.”

A couple of us smirk. We know we have to do his stupid plan, for our enjoyment of his ignorance.

One behind another, we line up five in a row down the middle of the court. Tucker is on one side of the line and Boss is on the other. To the surprise of no one except Tucker, we begin getting crushed immediately, and laugh our arses off.

“Whose idea was this?”

“Brilliant. Brilllliant.”

“Tucker, you just want to squeeze into this line and have one of us rub up against you, huh?”

“This is stupid. What do you do for a living?”

The comments were relentless, merciless, all having fun at the fool's idea. I quietly smiled at Tucker, needing to say nothing, his bitter character fermented. Everyone agreed to spread out to a traditional lineup and get back in the game. Of course Tucker could not refrain from saying how his idiocy did not work because of the ignorance of his teammates.

Unable to come back and win, we walked off the court laughing at a hard fought game that started out as a display of foolishness, but all-in-all it was fun had by most with the surreptitiously shared benefit of crowding out evil.

“That was fun,” I said to Tucker as we walked.

“I never knew anyone could be dumber than my wife, but watching you play. I knew you guys were too stupid to do it.”

“Never seen anything dumber?”

“Nope.”

“Tucker, I can't believe you don't have any mirrors in your house,” I chuckled.

What is amazing is how people who spend their time being mean, nasty and hyper-critical are least able to suffer the same treatment. He paused, fully wrapping his mind around the simple retort and paled.

“I guess not,” he answered meekly and shied away.

We played for a couple more hours. Boss and Tucker were very quiet, somewhat limp and lifeless, being unable to target others unmolested. Jiminy picked up on the new tone and adapted, as did Boss, eventually, for the most part. It was Tucker, the little bully who put on a dour face while broken within.

He may have been able to hide it from the others, but the man of tiny character was crying inside, blubbering tears of fear, for he did not know how to be anyone other than the mean mouthed pseudo-man pretending to be big. He could hide it from others, but I could taste Tucker's tears.

Undoubtedly, I will not be invited back, it is the only way they can regain their dynamics, because I cannot let the nastiness slide. What they fail to understand is that good, like evil, is contagious. Those who have put up with the three infected see there is another way, know decency is an option.

I would rather be alone than in the company of evil, especially when evil is pretending it is otherwise. And to battle such impotent evil is such a wasted effort...but if called to play again, in the name of what is right...

Most are decent, generous and quiet, wishing to avoid evil and battle no one. Most people just want to get through the day. A few people are evil's nasty minions because they found it helps them hide the worthlessness from which they are constructed and harbor within. A few people are doers of good, those who would like to enjoy the day but are unwilling, no, unable to ignore the bitter rain spewed by evil. The battle between good and evil will never end, and though it is easier for one to turn evil, by nature, the strong of man is good.

Good will always win because good is simply embracing the righteousness of truth...and because evil is ugly...Tucker ugly.]]> The Next Chapter http://www.captainforehead.com/journal/index.php?itemid=121 Wed, 9 Feb 2011 12:13:31 -0800