Rbutler Knows

I have from a very reliable source that rbutler was very bad last Saturday night. Actually the word I heard was...evil. Who knows what debaucheries can be birthed by the side of Virginia Avenue at two and fifteen past the witching hour? Is he a late blooming graffitti artist trying his first hand at spray painting the pains of growing up short in a town full of tall bullies ? Did he stop to pick up the litter from a Varsity combo meal, and look toward the camera of the moon with a tear in his eye ? Could be..but not likely. Some would say, rbutler drank too much expresso at Apre, and stopped on the side of the road to catch up on a bit of pulp fiction. After all, it is not a strange thing for rbutler to see the dawn. If the Oxford bookstore was still open, one could surely say, he was just coming home after spending several hours purusing the magazine section for already opened copies of Juggs and the Rand McNally, "Complete Dirt Roads of Georgia" map collection. This things could have all been true, but there is one problem...they are not. Whether the details of rbutlers midnight ride will ever see the light of day, well your guess is as good as mine. I only know, there was more than the wind howling last Saturday night. You may have heard it, as you lay asleep, safe in your bed. You may have told yourself it was just the rain hitting the top of your neighbors old tool shed. Or maybe it was a tree branch, blown by the wind and scratching against one of your windows with it's long fingers. In the dark hours, you will tell yourself anything to get through the night.

What evil lurkes in the hearts of men...
Rbutler knows.

The gift of baggage

Somethings just make me mad. Whatever situation trips that wire...starts a process. The old blood flow picks up pace, intellect shuts down, and some primitive survival instinct becomes the driver of my vehicle. All normal, healthy people get mad...but not like me. I must have been a puffer fish in another life because I try to blow myself up bigger than the next guy. Being bigger is all I can think about...scare the fucker away, cause really I don't want to deal with them. Not only does being angry put someone else in charge of my machinery, it makes me sick mentally and physically. Once I was on the job with my father (who removes trees) and he had the crew running chainsaws in the dark, trying to finish up a job. It was dangerous as hell, and I told him so. We ended up slinging branches at one another in the dark.. As I searched my lexicon for a suitable curse word( my favorite word "fuckstick" was on standby ), my stomach cramped like the alien was in there, and I fell to the ground. This however only provided a good opportunity for my father to get a lick in and tell me to load the fucking truck or my ass would be hurting too.
Anger is something that I have so much of , but I can't let it out like a normal person. I go from laid back, happy go lucky GS3, to a hair's on fire, and ass is a catching maniac. There is no middle ground for me. I am like David Banner holding in the Hulk, but instead of the hulk I have Mr. Furious from the mystery men. All anger and no power. What am I going to do ? Get in a fight, go to jail, get sued ? I don't want to do any of those things. I can't even argue because the logical part of my brain is not accessible anymore. A big dumb monster is driving my train.

Me wanna kill you
Choke you good

So, since killing is illegal in most counties in Georgia, I just bit my tongue, put my hands in my pockets and try to shutdown the process before it snowballs. Don't get me wrong, I am not a violent person, ...but it has been part of my training. Threats were not just empty at my house they were followed by a flexible piece of leather reality.

Don't get dirty, I''ll beat your ass
Eat your dinner, or 'll beat your ass
Do what I say or I'll bear your ass
If you don't like me beating your ass, then I am gonna beat your ass
Go get me something to beat your ass

It is easy to understand how I assumed that in order to solve your problems you need to beat some ass. There was one problem though. I was and am all fluff. A bear, yeah sure. But a teddy. So I go through life, taking more shit than a little bit and swallowing another gulp of all american rage. Don't worry, you won't read about me going postal at work, or target shooting college students from the top of a tower. I'll just drink another beer, eat another bag of potato chips and have that heart attack I am looking forward too. Everyone will say:

Did you hear ?
GS3 got so mad , he blew up his own heart !
Man, I saw that coming
Me, too

If there is a good way of being angry, I don't know about it. I guess anger is there to protect us and is like some danger detector waiting to go off. My anger must think a monster is after me, because it wants to be real big. I have come to the conclusion that I have been (and am) a victim of terrorism by my parents. Here is the webster definition of terrorism:

the systematic use of terror especially as a means to restrain or dominate by force

My parents in order to discipline me felt they had to put me in "a state of intense fear" to control me. I was just a little guy, and they were so big. No wonder I want to puff myself up. Only now, they are no longer in my life and I still do it. Why can't I ditch this baggage?

Sisters-in-law Finis

Gone. All Gone. The sisters-in-law are all gone. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly...relax. Ahhhh... So now comes the aftermath.

wife: "Did you eat all the popcorn?"
me: "No....wasn't me."

wife, later: "I can't find the fig newts or the vanilla wafers, do you know where they are?"
me: "I didn't eat them, but I think I know who did."

wife, even later: "I won't be mad, but I just want to know, did you eat up all the peanut butter?"
me: "Nope, not me."

daughter: "Daddy, I want some teddy bears." (in reference to teddy graham cookies)
me: "Well I'm looking for them, I can't find them. Where are they? Hey, I think Colleen ate them all."
daughter: "Colleen ate my teddy bears!" (in a very sad two-year-old voice)

dauther, later to my wife: "Mommy, Colleen ate all my teddy bears!"

So, each day that passes we notice more and more food that has completely disappeared. And I don't mean the apples or bananas we keep on the counter...I don't mean the Special K, or the broccoli or lettuce or squash. I mean the junk food...stuff I forgot we even had but my pregnant wife knew about.

But on the plus side, I can now go into any room in my house at any time I want, and have no fear of getting assigned some task or having someone start telling me about a black and white movie they saw on the late show in 1983. Gone are the days of slinking silently from place to place, hoping to stay unnoticed...gone are the days of hearing footsteps, and doors opening, and having to run and hide in the deep recesses that only I know of.

After all, the back of a man's closet hiding behind the clothes with the lights off is his castle.

Midlife Beginning

I have been realizing that I am not comfortable in my own skin. Not only am I not comfortable being me during normally awkward moments like meeting a new person, going for a job interview or having a big-assed Brazilian stripper grind those two tanned hams right into your meat and two veggies, but I am even uncomfortable when I am alone. I noticed this phenomenon just the other day. Both of my classes had been cancelled at GSU and I decided to stop at a certain Atlanta entertainment broker to wash away another fruitless day programming. As I sat there adjusting my allergy reddened eyes to the darkness, I managed to flag down a particularly non-attentive waitress and order one of America’s favorite watered down beers.

“I wonder if that Brazilian girl with the overstuffed collagen lips is here tonight”
“I don’t see RButlers Connie, either”
“Maybe that blonde girl with the harsh bangs and thick Eastern European accent will stop by and mooch a drink off of me”

All of these thoughts and more trickled over my work weary brain as I waited on that five dollar beer. Then the wiggling commenced. Not like a worm but a movement more akin to nervous agitation. I rubbed my eyes. I let out long deep breaths. I massaged the back of my neck. I bobbed my knee up and down like there was some invisible kid riding it playing horsey. When my six dollar beer (well I have to tip) finally arrived I drank it like it was the antidote and I was snake bit. It did not help. Five more beers and thirty dollars later, I could feel the tension in my back start to ease up, just a little. It was then that I realized that I was in bad shape. At my best estimation, I guessed that it would take over a month of drinking and big booty watching to come down to what most folks call normal. Life has a way of knocking folks out of kilter.

I am tired. I feel like the needle on my fuel gauge has been stuck in the red for years and my body has been sucking up all kinds of trash into my engine just to keep me running. I feel all puffed up like Lon Chaney Jr. after a few drinks. At least I am heading for my mid life crisis at the correct time. Although I could have swore I had a previous one at twenty-five. You know to call it a midlife crisis, is not really accurate. It should be called a midlife moment of clarity. A brief period to let the smoke of work and domestic life settle down and allow you to look at the picture you have painted yourself in. Maybe you need a little more red or a little less green. Or maybe you need a new canvas and a set of watercolors. Like I said, midlife crisis does not really capture the sentiment that I am looking for…How about a midlife beginning?