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Welcome to the 28th (free!) “Dear Lucky Agent” Contest on the GLA blog. This is a FREE recurring…

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From an unsuccessful ad I placed a couple of years ago on a well-known dating site...  

Dr. Dale seeks Dr. Girlfriend

No, I’m not a real doctor.  I don’t even play one on TV

. 

I’m a man with a split soul.  On one side, I work in computers. Most importantly, I like to fix things; all things.  If you have a broken thingy – fixing it makes all the positive gears in me go ‘round. However, I have discovered that try as I might, I cannot fix people.  Therefore, if you are broken I cannot fix you. We shall move on.

The other side is creative.  I am a performer, play guitar, a little piano and sing.  I’ve been in music since I was a little kid. I like to write.  I write songs.  I’ve written a complete novel (memoir), which I’m actively trying to get published. I love photography, art, and travel. 

If I haven’t lost you yet: “So, what kind of things do you want in a relationship?” she said, and did not stay for an answer. 

What I ultimately desire is… well, everything:  Angel’s singing, mountains moving, making out in on a rainy street in Paris in the springtime.  I deserve that.  Don’t you?

In the meantime – what I’d like is to find someone to get to know.  Someone to hang with, go to movies, and share experiences.  Perhaps someone to travel with to destinations both inane and far-flung.  Someone to play “tourist” with and spend the day doing the Wisconsin Dells.  Someone to hike on the trails.  Someone to play board games and cheat at cards. 

Someone to stay in and watch a movie with buttery-soaked popcorn. 

What I am not looking for:

A friend.  It is an oft-used phrase here: “Friend’s first.” I am not on a dating site to find a friend.  I think that mostly means, “I’m not here for sex.”  I get that.  But to be brutally honest, my bar for friendships is considerably higher than finding a first date. I value my friendships much.  And principles such as trust and courage are earned over long periods of time, not on the internet.

A Sex toy. Yeah, I’ve already been to the circus, thanks. Though I am hoping at some point, if we become acquainted, and we really like each other, we could get to that. I seem to recall it was rather enjoyable, and I think I was fairly good at it.  Though that last part is purely conjecture.

Motorcycle Rider.  Sure, I love motorcycles. No, I don’t own one.  Maybe someday, I will.  Until then, please move on.

Drama.  I’ve managed to construct a fairly quiet life, with as little drama as possible.  I realize this is life, and all of us come with baggage, issues and problems.  Yet, I would appreciate that most of the dramatics are found in the books I am writing and not in my relationships. 

I know it is a lot to take in and take on.  But we are not kids anymore. Life is complicated, and so is love (or at least the pursuit of love).  But the risks could be so much worth the rewards.  I’ve made a pretty big step by putting this out there.  

If you are at all interested, why not take a step too?  It might be nothing, or it might be everything.  Or it might be something in between.  I hope to hear from you.

The absolute absurdity of it all. You could say this little “nugget” is truly my “Life in a nutshell”… The next time someone tells you there’s a plan to all this… “there’s a reason for everything…” tell them Dale say... BAH, HUMBUG!

Personally, I blame that verbose, oversold wanna-be “novelist” Nicolas Sparks for giving us ridiculous sentiment like this. Give them this little story, because maybe… just maybe, life is about as arbitrary as it gets….

On the way home today, as I’m leaving my usual parking spot in front of my work, I’m happily enjoying the prospect of doffing my Walmart brand necktie and thinking about making a nice chopped salad and seeing how that buffalo ranch and chicken might taste… along with a couple of cold, Cerveceria Modelo Mexico-s. (Trump wall or no wall).

As I round the corner from Iowa avenue to Vine Street, I hear this terrible screeching sound… like someone spinning their tires around a corner. I quickly stopped at the stop sign, and looked all around me, expecting some hot rod to flame out around me (well, it was near the High School, and one expects things like that occasionally). But, there was no one. No one in front, behind or on either side of me. I continue to make my right-hand turn….and that earsplitting screech came back.

I realized with horror the sound was coming from what sounded like under my hood. Immediately I thought the worst! My engine had just blown up! Um… no. There were no “imminent engine failure” lights (A “feature” of BMW’s I found. Apparently, rich folk like to know when they engines’ burn up…). I stopped, and everything seemed normal. Gas, had gas…. Flux Capacitator… um, fluxing.

I turned the wheel, and I heard the faint squeak, and I knew that it was 1. Me. And 2. Related to the wheels. Great! It’s probably some power steering belt. (Adding up the cost for a mini-Cooper Serpentine belt, minus the national debt, plus the square root of pi = ah, crap! I’m broke!) I decided the best course of action is to not stop the car, and continue driving as long as the car will move… and try to get home.

However, as I’m driving… I revise my self-diagnosis. It appears the problem must be related to the tires, or the breaks, as the squawking appears only when the car is in motion. It does get worse when turning corners. Ah-hah! I think, it is the breaks! It sounds like when your disc brakes are at the end of life, and give you that little warning “squeak.” But, this was no squeak. This was a definite squawk.. Possibly more like a squeal!

Calculating how much new front disc brakes on a mini will cost… I sadly think my last reserves of savings soon to be depleted. Possibly, I could find someone local to fix breaks. However, there were few, if any local mechanics that are willing to change the oil on my jalopy… how would the break thing go? (Replaying several scenes from the movie “Doc Hollywood.”)

As I pull into my usual parking spot in front of my apartment, I decide I will take a hard look at the front wheels. It seemed the sound was definitely coming from the driver side front… and was fully expecting to see smoke, or possibly calipers dangling from under the car.

Why the picture of the walnut? This is what I found lodged in the right, front disc break of the tire. Seems some squirrel decided this would be a great place to hide his prized walnut, while awaiting the winter solstice. The entire unearthly sound was caused by a walnut, lodged between the tire and the brake, and was rubbing against the disc as the tire was rotating.

After prying the nut with a long screwdriver, it was freed from its mechanical prison. Hoping no damage was done to the breaks, I took the car for a drive and observed no ill effects.

Problem solved. Deep breath! And I had a very, very long laugh.

A Pocket Full Of Lonesome.   The Pre-Extended Play (EP) CD of the Project:  The Whole Shebang! 

The CD consists of these song:

Intro-Motif

Bang on Those Things

Midlife Crisis

Could be Scary

I Need a Drink

Left her in La Valle

Put ‘er there

They Call me Lonesome…

Driving to Vegas. 

The first song is called “Intro-Motif” as I believe all epic journeys should have an introduction.  I would like to think of this project as just that, a journey.  A Motif is by dictionary definition:  (noun) A recurring subject, theme, idea, etc., especially in a literary, artistic, or musical work.

Here, the motif is a song called “My Checkered Past… having the time of my life.”  I imagine this song as two lovers, aged and sitting on the porch arguing about he having to go off…and leaving her alone… to do the thing that he loves;  In this case, of course, playing music.  However, you could assign this story to almost any good story. 

I think of the movie, Casablanca… where the battered and weary, cynical character of Rick (Bogart) in that moment when he finally gives away his heart… and go off to fight the evil Nazis, and leaves his one true love behind to the man that loves her (that she does not), so that he can finally do that thing that makes him a true citizen of the world. 

Well, the theme here is about someone that is world-weary… heartbroken in so many ways… still finds the will to fight on, in spite of his flaws, to be the person he was meant to be.  I love that sort of story, more than nearly any other…  

"come on home, she says…

You’re too old to play,

But I’m having the time of my life.

Life is a tragedy, Love is a fantasy,

But I’m having the time of my life.

The world’s growing colder,

And I’m getting older,

I have no other choice…. 

A time of my life… “

The song to be featured on the CD, The Whole Shebang, will include the entire song… which will be the longest of them all.  It will have the intro (from here)…  a short piano interlude, and then a really hard… and heavy guitar Jam…  Finally, the Latin-inspired finality of the song.  I think this will be my favorite of the project…  I finally get to create an entire musical movement.  At least, that’s my fervent hope!

The next six songs will be essentially the same on the final project.  There might be the entire “scary” intro included, which is a good two-minutes and forty-five seconds long… and frankly, it kinda really scared me.  Don’t listen to it in the dark and alone… it really will give you the creeps…  (Hint, it features the words: Radioactive sodium Isotopes from a scared radio announcer). 

This part: Pocketful of Lonesome represents some of the older songs in my catalog… written around the period of 2000-2013 (or earlier).  Most of these songs are well established, and edited over a long period of time.  Some have been through several alterations.  The Bang those things song, for example, was much different, and included a few naughty phone messages from lady friends… which had nothing to do with banging on drums. 

The song “Could be Scary” was a song I re-did from the age of a band called “Prophet” from the 1979-81 years of my life.  The words were written by Kenny Lange (then, the drummer for the band), and the music I wrote.  I always wanted to re-imagine the song and add my own touches to it, and decided to just go ahead and record it.  This one is my favorite, sonically, on the project.

I included the acoustic version of “I need a drink,” which was originally done on the Checkered Past release in 1998.  I changed around some of the words, and made the arrangement my own.  This one without the drums…  but, I did keep the funky bass lines… added a harmonica, and what I hoped sounded like a blues-dobro-ish slide guitar.  It is about drinking, after all. 

Left her in La Valle, is based on a true story.  There really is a town called La Valle, Wisconsin.  Quaint small town along a beautiful bicycle trail… and a nice little wayside called “The Trail Break”  which has (and I swear this is true), the best thin-style pizza on the planet. 

The song “Put ‘er There” is a re-do of a song I had written for a movie-project for Ka-tet films of Madison, WI.  The movie short was called “One Night Only.” The movie was written by my favorite bard, and good friend, Scott Rawson.  

I included the songs “They call me Lonesome…”  from  my other CD release done in 2003.  I re-mixed the song and decided to include it here.

Also the same for the last song… a musical called “Driving to Vegas.”  I wrote the song not long after some very good friends and I took a long road trip to Las Vegas for nothing more than fun and adventure. 

I included an intro to this song which is very special to me.  The intro will be separate on final project…as the song will be re-done too. 

The intro was recorded sometime in the winter of 1975, at a talent contest held at the Sauk City (Wisconsin) High School gymnasium.  I was 16 years old at the time.  I sang a song, solo, by Ringo Starr called “It don’t Come Easy.”  And another musician friend of mine’s mother (unknown to me at the time) recorded the whole show.  Many, many years later, I received a cassette tape in the mail right around Christmas.  No return address.  I played the tape, and the entire show, including the intro was caught on a crude, bad-sounding personal tape machine. 

I still have the tape… I cleaned up the audio as best I could, and decided to include it here.  The musician friend of mine that so thoughtfully sent me the present died of a heart attack before I got a chance to thank him. 

Newer Stuff:

The 2^nd half of the project will be newer songs… perhaps not as developed as the first ones.  It seems like these songs will be much darker and more cynical than the first batch.  I think this is due to my perception of the world becoming darker…and myself become older.  And less willing to change… 

There are a few exceptions, I hope.  One song I’m working on is actually about a sex toy.  Yes, I went there.  It’s called “The Little Red Rocket.” And I have a pretty catchy chorus already…  I have not noted it on the “planned project.”  But I like the concept and the music so much (very much rockin’) that I might have to include it.  I’m hoping I can employ a lady friend of mine to supply some much needed vocals on the chorus.

Same for a song I’ve been working for years..  at the request of a friend of mine.  She reminded me there are no good rock songs about “Debby”   So, I’ve been steadily working on a rockabilly-style song called “Lil’ Debby” (after the desert, of course). 

The song “Ipso Facto Recoil” started out as an instrumental… but I put a fairly Armageddon-like story behind it… and a happy guitar lick, immediately becomes a scary song.  It’s a story about a possible Presidential Candidate that decides he wants to end the world… 

Ipso Facto, stupid mutha-f***ers,

Push the button and the sky. Turns. Red.

Ispo Facto, call it Armageddon,  

Kiss your babys, you’ll be better off dead.

And also, I’m working on a song called “The 3^rd day of my sobriety.”  Which is about a man that decides he’s going to battle his addiction.  He makes it to six months before…  well, I’ll let you figure that out.  Dark, indeed.

(Being Single Sucks!)  


Okay.. so, no... I'm glad that you said a big NO to going out with me.. even if it was to a minor type date..(nice dinner and maybe a movie)  and I thank you for at least being honest.  And not like most of the women I've contacted here... that tell me we will meet up... and then make excuses at the last moment. 

Here's the thing.  I'm not really attracted to you, either.  I'm really looking for a "little people" kind of woman.  Someone under 4 foot and 11 inches tall...  sort of a circus-freak kind of girl.  And especially, if she's been involved in, like.. the adult film industry..  Yeah, that's what I'm looking for.  

And, sorry to say.. that is not you.  So, we are all good. 

I hope you find the guy you're looking for.. and meanwhile, we shall continue onward...  

The Greatest Lies:  2016 edition.

I’m from the Government.  I’m here to help.

We will work in a bipartisan manner. 

I did not have sex with that woman. 

I promise I’ll pull out.

We did not plagiarize that speech!  

Crappy T-shirts:

Oh, Lord. Help me… I have become the OLD MAN BACHELOR. I’ve recently noticed I very much enjoy my old, hole-ly, quickly-disintegrating “work out T-shirts.” I’ve discovered this while doing laundry. I have more crappy workout shirts than I do the requisite Polo and golf variety that more becomes my age. – Let’s face it, when you step lightly over 50-something, those Iron Maiden tour shirts that look brand new are a definite scream for intervention.Still, I’d like to think I’m still a step or two away from when they write my name in the collar, so that leaves little in choice of home-casual attire.

As long as I’m not wading out in public (Good heavens, like that would make any difference amongst the hoi polloi and Donald Trump supporters), I slip on my old Wisconsin T-shirt I once absconded from my then-GF, Melinda (Sorry Mel, it’s about all I have left to remember you by) and I feel great! There’s little left of the shirt, really… in fact, it sort of reads: W con n, now.

That shirt, my old 505 blue jeans, a turntable full of scratchy Glen Miller songs, a laptop full of words I’m assembling in some sort of order I’d like to someday call “A Novel,” and a glass of tart orange juice, picks me up on a cloudy, soupy rainy Saturday morning.

This is 1st draft excerpt from the introduction to my proposed Novel (Working title) 

I am dead. 

The “books” from this novel so far are: 

Sunday afternoons with Death (Intro) 

Missed Deadline

That time when I died

A time of Faust and Roses

Sunday afternoon with death.

Death and taxes. Inescapable. Formidable. Regrettable.

Death. It’s going to happen to all of us. There is no escape. Everyone we know. Our families. Our friends. Ourselves. We will all one day die. Pass from this plane of existence. (as it says in the Bible: “Sleep with Kings”) So, why can we not talk about it? Why can’t we lift the darkened vale just a bit to peer underneath?

Sometimes I think I should have been an undertaker.  “Undertaker,” now there’s an odd word, if ever.  Well, the reason I think I should have been one is my odd, nearly morbid….not obsession….more like, fascination (and that isn’t quite right, either) with the big D.  Anyone that has a real obsession with death should probably get some sort of help through a professional.  No, for me it’s that death, in all his personas and I have been….and not quite the word…. “acquaintances” since I was very young. 

Let’s get this part out of the way, right now.  No, I’m not a Wikken, Warlock or Satanist….or anything “ist.” I don’t sit around with skulls in my living room.  I’m not agnostic, nor atheist.  I’m a devoted follower of God and the Bible.  I believe that Jesus Christ is my savoir.  To me, it’s the only thing that makes sense, in a topic that has no sense.

I believe in heaven and hell…. However, that last part is a little tricky… and maybe we’ll get to that later.  Before anyone climbs on my back about any of this.. These are my beliefs.  They don’t require you to believe as I do, or even agree.  I’m just making a statement here, so as you know where I am coming from, religiously. 

Okay, where was I? Oh, yah…  young boy: 

My mutual acquaintances with death began at a very early age. I remember I was very young, but I think at least 9 or 10. My bedroom was just off from our kitchen area downstairs. I awoke to my father making terrible retching sounds in the other room. I rose from my warm bed and put on my rabbit slippers and shuffled into the kitchen.

There I saw my father bent over the sink and throwing up into the chrome kitchen sink. I can still hear the terrible sounds he made. He looked over and saw me looking at him (probably with wide saucer-eyes… because in them he was like Superman, Spiderman, Batman and Albert Einstein all wrapped into one) and he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Yes, men back then used those.

He spoke in a groggy voice that I shouldn’t be up and should get back to bed. I told him I was scared. He wiped his mouth again and I remember he smiled at me and then took me back to my bedroom and tucked me back into bed.

I asked him if he was going to die. “No, I’m not going to die. Well, someday I will. But not for a very very long time.”

That night I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking my dad was going to die and leave me with my mother. You see my time with my dad was always short but nice. He was always doing stuff… fixing things; televisions, radios, the car in the back yard, the roof on the garage. But he was always away working. As you can tell, my dad was my favorite.

As things turned out he did die only a few years after this. I was 13.

And that year (my year of “death” as I called it, but it may have been more than one year) was a cruel one for sure. I had found our pet cat dead and frozen solid in our garage one of those cold winter mornings. My dog was run over by a truck while chasing me as I was crossing the busy main street in Reedsburg. And my pet hamster finally gave up the ghost after spinning in his wheel for 3 long (screeching) years.

After my dad, there was my Grandmother. Sweetest, gentlest, cooking-est, little Swedish lady you would have ever known. Then of course Danny. The very first close friend caught it coming home from a party in Loganville.  We were barely 16. He and another friend of mine hit the end of a bridge abutment on hilly highway 23 and nearly split the truck he was driving in half.  My other friend lived, but Danny did not.  I miss Danny even after all these years. 

Then it seems as if life sailed along, with me mostly involved in me. School.  Music. Guitars. Girls.  Marriage.  My son was born and then everything was all about him…and diapers… and formula…and babysitters….and toys…. And Christmas… 

We were all too busy growing up to worry about such life and death matters.  And it Seemed to me, that part passed by so fast.  As the old folks (such as myself) like to say, "in the wink of an eye."  

Then, invariably….  Death came knocking again. This time stronger. Closer. More insistent. Like an old wolf at the door, “I have left thee alone as thee hast wished… but now I must do my work.”

First there was Cindi… best friend of my wife (and if I were to be honest, one of mine too) lost in Mississippi, reportedly the victim of crime. I never could find out what happened to her. Then it was friends of friends. Then their parents. A car accident here. A little cancer there….

(To be continued) 

Hogsback trail and Vampire Valley -The Curious Disappearance of Jeremy Morton

Reader: I was not a man that believed in ghost stories.  I was what you might call “true unbeliever.”  Even when I was a kid, sitting around the campfire with my two older brothers and younger sister as they tried their best to scare me.  When they told me about the by-now overdone bloody hook hung from the handle of the passenger-side door story, I just laughed at them. 

I never thought much about UFO’s, ghosts, the supernatural, or anything the goes bump in the night.  For me, a straight as an arrow Police recruit, the only malevolence I ever saw was in the heart of evil men.  That is, before I spent the last two years digging into a supposed closed case of Jeremy Morton.  It was four years ago, and two before I took over the reins of the Reeseville, Indiana police department that he had disappeared. 

I'm sure you heard about it at the time.  It was in all the papers.  We even had the television people come down to visit us for a spell.  

This is the entire text, handwritten and found on a park bench two years ago.  

To whom it may concern,   

It’s been one long, strange trip from here to there and back here again. 

As I sit on the park bench, I’m staring straight ahead to the entrance of the bike trail.  There’s a large wooden sign right next to me.  It has arrows on it: This way to the Business District, this way to the municipal pool and camping; that way to Hogsback state trail.

I watch as a young couple disappears into the trees that overhang the trail.  Blissfully they peddle off on a sunny Sunday afternoon.  I sigh.

I have yet to work up the courage to ride that trail again.  I can’t even bring myself to ride a bike yet.  The Doctors tell me I have to be careful, you know?  Brain injury and all.  I haven’t yet, but right now I’m trying to get everything scribbled in this old notebook.   It’s like trying to remember the dream you had last night before it all fades away. Though the dream was so real, it dwindles more and more with time.  But this was no dream.  I still say it was real.  I know it was real. 

But I’m also thinking of her, the love of my life…. lives; Clarissa Saunders Morton. But I have to make sure I have this down on paper before I completely lose it.  When we first met she said “Say my name again: It’s Clarissa.” 

Her name sounded like warm summer rain drops splashing against a window pane.  I close my eyes for a moment.  

Sorry.

I don’t care what the Doctors here in 2017 say.  I know in my heart that I had lived with Clarissa for thirty five joyful years.  She was my wife. We raised a family, two boys.  We kept a farm and raised chickens and cows.  We cultivated wheat and corn.  We had horses and loved to dance together at the carriage Inn which was just across the field from our home.  The year was 1887. 

Songwriting: 2016.  

Lyrics for "Shut the Fug Up"

One night as I was driving home from a show

I heard an infomercial on my radio

They introduced a product so sublime

It could be the remedy cure for all humankind

Simply apply lib-er-ally to the base of the mouth

And try as you might, well…nothin’ comes out

Blessed silence in a cup..

It’s a creation we all like to call… Shut the Fug- up!

(Chorus)

Well, you open up your mouth and all that stuff falls out

About everything and nothing you know about

You’re a truth manipulator

And a real people hater,

And I just wanna shut you out

So I found this new concoction,

A BS kind of toxin

Blessed silence in a cup..

So, sit back.  Relax.

I’ll pour you a nice tall glass

of…

Shut the Fug- up! 

Politicians will have to hold up signs….

And whiners will only drink wine

When all Rap music will just be music

This medicinal drink can be therapeutic

In order to say the words, you just have to sing

And that telephone just rings and rings and rings and rings….  

Blessed silence in a cup….

Hello?  Oh, hell no!

Shut the F-ug up. 

Chorus:

Where arguments are no longer melodramatic

And all Talk radio would be just static

Let’s hear it for the strong, silent type

Like a modern superhero, without all the hype

When you speak about your worldly views

That pie hole opens. it’s a form of abuse

Blessed silence in a cup….

You can say what you like like,

Just shut the F-ug up. 

Chorus: 

Chasing Jane.  

Too many Jerks in the Sea: 

This chapter is dedicated to all the jerks in the world.  Now, there are as many jerks out there as there are people.  There are political jerks, financial jerks, dangerous jerks, school jerks, work jerks and that total jerk that has been on your tailpipe since you’ve turned on this road.  Since there is not enough space in the world to cover all the jerks, we will just concern ourselves to the most malicious, salacious, and underhanded of all the jerks; those that affect your love relationship. 

There are both men and women jerks, of course.  Being a jerk is an equal opportunity employer.  There are women jerks, to be sure.  However, in my life, I have observed men as jerks much more than women, so we are going to concentrate on them. There seems to be a consensus that when it comes to jerk-dom, men are easily of greater quantity and eminence.   

The comparative jerk and the beautiful woman:

It was a hot summer afternoon and the band I was playing for “The Nighthawks,” was just finishing a rousing set of solid dance hits.  We were setup on the sun deck of Jolly Bob’s Tiki Beach Saloon on the Northern shore of Lake Wassapamani.  The sun was in my eyes during the whole set, which necessitated the need for my darkest sunglasses. 

Now, some guys can pull off that “I’m cool” look in dark glasses, Congo shorts, and a sweaty Hawaiian shirt.  Not me.  Since my middle age has hit me rather hard, I look more the balloon artist rather than a rock star.  Still, it really didn’t matter because I had it made in the shade.  I had my little band, and we were pretty good.  I also had a good job during the week, which made playing in my band even more of a treat.  But best of all, I had Glinda.  Even her name was poetry.

I know you could ask yourself what a beautiful woman like Glinda is doing with an overfed, losing his hair insurance actuary.  I know I ask myself that every day, and I’m grateful for the answer; because she loves me.  No small feat, for sure.  Even my bachelor friends cannot believe I was dating Glinda. 

She was nearly six-foot tall.  She had willowy, dark hair, long, shapely legs, and a body most men would die just to gaze at from afar.  More than that, she had the darkest, most soulful eyes any human should be allowed and not be from another plane of existence.  Even on our first date, I took one look in her eyes, and I fell dead hot in love with the girl.  Everyone has told me since that I am a lucky man. 

“She’s not…. Well, she’s not anything like the women you normally go out with,” declared the drummer, after leering at her ample charms while also wearing dark sunglasses. 

There is, to paraphrase Frank Zappa, “the crux of the biscuit.”  I have a suspicion that sometimes a woman can be too beautiful.  

There has to be some beauty quotient equality that exist somewhere.  If there is too much beautiful on one side of a relationship, it can spell trouble.  Terms like, “trophy wife” and other unpleasant assumptions are assigned the happy couple. 

“Is she really going out with him,” (Elvis Costello) is playing somewhere in the background. 

The set was over and I was just putting my guitar back on its stand.  I was thinking about finding Glinda and asking if we could have an adult (read nearly naked) swim after the show.  This is explains my stupid smile on my face as I saw Glinda ply her way through the crowd to talk to me.  Unfortunately, I saw that she also had a tag-along.  In slow motion, my gaze switched from her smiling face to that of her companion.  He was even taller than she was, anorexic-skinny, and with nearly the exact same length, color and texture of her hair.  He was perhaps, the most handsome man I had ever seen.  I noticed she had her arm in his, as she was escorting him to me.

“Hi honey,” she said as she leaned over to kiss me with a peck on the lips, “This is my new friend, Chad.  He plays in a band too.”

“Oh, hello there,” Mr. Awesome extends his hand for a shake.  I shake his hand, and notice his grip is formidable. 

He says, “I really love your Gibson guitar.  I play a Fender, myself.”  Even worse!  The guy has a British-sounding accent!  Real or fake?  I have no idea.

“Chad’s here from England for a vacation, and just loves you guys!  He’s been going on and on how talented you all are.  It thought you should meet!” 

Just then, one of her girlfriends grabbed her from behind and wanted her to accompany to the ladies room. 

Within seconds after Glinda was out of earshot, Chad put his hand on my shoulder and spoke into my right ear, “I feel sort of bad for her.  She’s much too good for the likes of you.” Pat. Pat. He patted me like an old friend.

Thinking I misheard his remark, “Huh?” 

“I said, that I think Glinda is wonderful, and she would be better off with me, old sport.” 

Old sport? Yeah, like he had ever read the Great Gatsby.  I just stood there, dumbfounded.

He continued, “I’m going to find a way to take your girl away from you, and you can go back to your pathetic little hornswoggle group.  She’s one sweet piece, and before the night is out, I’m going to make love to your hot, little woman.” 

With that, he took his right hand and placed it on the middle of my back, and then with his left hand patted my stomach, “Ohhh, say.  A little bit of tubby you got going on there, don’t you?” 

I thought the whole thing was a joke, until I looked up in his face, and noticed his very menacing smile.  He meant every word he said.  I took one-step back in amazement.  I was about to say something, when Glinda came back smiling with two drinks in her hands for this Chad character and me.

“So, you boys are talking shop, I’m sure.. but I’m going to introduce Chad to the rest of the guys if that’s okay with you, babe?”  She hands me a cup filled with gin, and then one to Chad.  Never taking my eyes off from the tall worm, I nodded, not even saying a word.  Before I knew it, they walked off into the crowd.

We had to start the next set before I got much of a chance to talk to Glinda.  She handed me another cup of gin, kissed me, and then headed back to her seat where Mr. wonderful awaited.  I could see them sitting there.  For the next grueling fourteen songs, I stared eagle-eyed, to where the new couple sat on top of a picnic table.  They sat close to each other, talking, laughing, and drinking.  They seems like they were as old friends sharing secrets and touching arms, shoulders and legs.  Occasionally, 

Glinda would catch my eye and nod at me with that sweet smile I know so well. 

Honestly, I was so jealous, I could barely contain myself.  Yet, all I did was continue to play my guitar, barely concentrating on my music.  I stood there and stared at the two having a wonderful time without me.  It was almost like being in prison.  Worse yet, being in prison where I got to watch though a peep hole, the indiscretions of the love of my life.  It was torture. 

At the end of the show, thankfully, Chad was nowhere to be found.  At some point, the little turd exited the scene.  Glinda came up to me at the end of the show and gave me a big, long slow kiss. 

I was not impressed.  I pulled away from her, looked at her in her beautiful eyes, and I accusingly asked, “So, where’s your new boyfriend?”

At first, she thought I was kidding.  It was evident I was not.   

Well, needless to say that we did not have a nice swim after the show.  We fought our first real fight.  

And it was ugly.  All the way home, it was an awful representation of humans at their worst.  I dropped her off at her apartment.  She did not kiss me goodnight.  I was almost glad.

It took two days before we talked again on the phone.  

Eventually, we made amends.  But… 

It was only a first fight, yet once that membrane of respect is broken; it’s very had to get back.  I accused her.  She accused me.  From there, the fights and the jealousy just accelerated.  

Towards the end, there was nothing either of us would be afraid to accuse each other of terrible indiscretions.  We fought more than we made love.  Eventually, it felt as if both of us were squeezing the life from each other.

Eventually, she packed up all her belongings and moved back with parents somewhere in Arizona. 

I know you’re thinking, she must have eventually hooked up with Chad the rock star jerk from (maybe) England, just to spite me.  That never happened.  She was never interested him, other than he was from another country, and like her boyfriend, played music in a band.  Her intentions were never anything but pure.

Many years later, I must admit I stalked her once on Facebook (oh, come on.. I know you have too.. don’t be so innocent with me!)  and noticed that man she lived with for a short while did have a resemblance to that Chad person.  She lived with a tall, thin, longhaired guy for a while that looked like that Chad.  However, she moved away (no forwarding address) after that guy abused her. 

What a terrible missed opportunity for both of us.

Now, in this story, it’s obvious the jerk here is this Chad.  But, the truth of the matter is, the biggest jerk was completely, awfully, terribly, most regretfully, yours truly. 

I began to realize, there are jerks everywhere.  Unfortunately, you cannot change that… other than something illegal or immoral (thinking duct tape, shovel, and tarp)..  it’s unavoidable.  What’s more important is how you handle them is your response to the many jerks in life.

I missed a naked swim with one of the most beautiful woman I had ever known.  And eventually, missed her completely, all because I did not believe in her.  And that, my friends.. makes me the biggest jerk, ever.