Little Fish, Big River, Bigger City

I awake and notice that the sun is up. Waaaay up. Noon up. I'm not one to sleep alot but all this guy stuff, this lone wolf life, this rampage of inherent freedom while LoLo is out of town is tiring stuff. I just slept 10 hours instead of my normal 4-6 hours. I've skipped the gym and marathon training for the last three day, rebel that I am. Now it's time to get down to brass tacks though.

My sink is full of dirty dishes. Okay, that's an understatement...my kitchen is full of dirty dishes. Okay, okay...understatment number two...my entire apartment has a layer of dirty dishes from front door to back door. Where there aren't dishes, there are dirty clothes, jackets, junk mail, shoes and dog hair. "I gotta clean," I think. Oh, but wait, I've got work to do first.

I fire up the computer and start working on my book. I rewrite portions of the Introduction and Chapters 1-3. "Oh wait, I've got to eat!" I make myself a sliced turkey balogna sandwich on whole wheat and chase it down with fresh coffee in an attempt to erase the taste of sour milk I just tossed back. While trying not to retch, I check the date on the milk...February 27th. I look inside the plastic jug and see a strange glob of brown sourness floating like a mini version of the iceberg that took down the Titanic. I've done this before and I know I'll live so I move on.

I make a couple of online chess moves against my good friend Tom and set about my day. I decide to check out the rest of the fridge. I should have been a scientist because I'm growing all kinds of things in there...gooey carrots, sprouting broccoli and the greenest vanilla yogurt I've ever seen. (Just in time for St. Paddy's Day?)

Luckily, the remaining lite beers are unaffected but it's only 4 p.m. and still too early to imbibe the last 24 ounces of "be a man" that is sitting in the fridge door. I start picking up clothes all over the place and find that even though I just did laundry yesterday, I've got more than a hamper full left to go. I count the hours until I pick up LoLo from the airport. There's still time...

I hit my desk and pay the two parking tickets I've picked up this week and then I hit the Post Office to mail them off with a pile of other correspondence to friends. I now have a path from my door to my desk and from my desk to the back door. As more and more things come off the floor and make it to their respective homes within my home, I notice that the floor has sprouted grass, bark and other tree particles courtesy of AxL's in and out meanderings. I vacuum, I recycle, I take out the garbage, I scrub the dishes until the drying rack is full.

I run across my "to do" list of things to fix on said girlfriend's car before she returns. If there is one thing guys are good for it's fixing stuff and I can't screw up this opportunity to shine. I head to the carwash then to Jiffy Lube. Jiffy Lube is closed so I head to Kragen Auto Parts for taillights. I buy some bulbs but it's too dark now to put them in since I can't figure out how to get the taillight casing off. Save that until morning. I enter my door and tackle the rest of the dishes. I dirty more as I make chicken, frozen spinach and brown rice. I'm almost in control. I've still got 2/3 of that cheap Merlot which is on its way to becoming vinegar if I don't down it...I wash a wine glass so I have something proper to fill.

I carry out an empty file cabinet and other unwanted items to Sarge and fill his stern to the brim ready for a trip to Goodwill tomorrow. Aaaah, more room to walk. I make my bed even though it doesn't have sheets yet. I'm sleeping between throw blankets for now. I'm not so good at choosing matching colors so I'll save buying sheets for another day. The bed looks fine if the comforter is thrown over the top to hide the throws underneath.

I unwittingly pick up "Kon Tiki" the book I'm almost done with. I'm right at the gripping part where after floating across the Pacific on a log raft, six men are starting to arrive at Polynesia. I read far too long before snapping out of it. It's 9 p.m. and I'm down to just 19 hours before I need to head to the airport with flowers on the car seat. I make a list and then I make coffee. I pour the Merlot down the sink as I figure caffeine will help me reach the finish line better than wine.

I'm going to have to stay up late and get up early and clean like the wind to pull this off. If there's one thing about being a guy that is difficult, it's being a guy while also trying to be a guy that doesn't repulse women by living in a slovenly state. It's hard...we're expected to be cavemen capable of fixing taillights and at the same time be neat and orderly and clean smelling with fresh towels on our bathroom racks.

I think back to my bike ride and the tiny yellow dry bags of pure self-containment that were my world for two months. It was all so easy then. It was okay to be covered with mud, grease and road grime. I was a warrior battling the elements across thousands of miles. I'm good at that as it only requires some physical effort and mental numbness. Being worthy of a female's affections is a whole different ball game with different rules that go entirely against the nature of the American Male.

It's 9:50 and things are looking okay. I can see my floor which has had nature removed from it. My dish rack has the last of the porcelain debacle drying on it and the last of my paperwork is sitting neatly in my "in basket" on my desk. I feel relieved and relaxed knowing I'll make it with plenty of time to spare. So now what? OOOOOOH! I have yet to make it to "Tears Of The Sun" starring Bruce Willis which is touted as his best film since "Die Hard!" And so I close up the programs running on my computer and put away the vacuum. I put on a clean sweater and retrieve my keys from their resting place. I tuck the Merlot bottle under my arm to deposit into the recycling bin on my way to Sarge and the final evening of "freedom to do what I please." I can almost taste the popcorn and I can almost hear the words of praise that LoLo will exclaim tomorrow when she sees spotless my humble abode is. I take one look back at my sparkling apartment before turning off the light and closing the door. I smile and think, "perhaps being a single guy isn't all that great." From here on out, I'll keep up with the dishes and laundry and I'll be at the gym every morning by 6 a.m. I'll pretend it's all easy.

"CLICK" the lights go out and I'm off for some senseless entertainment that only exploding special movie effects can render. One thing is for sure, the next time I have a week alone, I'll edit out the typical guy stuff because I found I just end up back where I started after all the popcorn has been eaten and the lights come on. Happiness lies not in what we sloppily become when there is no one around to care. Happiness seems to exist when we are on top of our game, being what we are capable of being when we have someone in our life who makes it worthwhile to go the extra mile it takes to have our act together. Now, if only I could teach the dog to put the dishes away after he's licked them off...

Tonight I walked steadfastly through my neighborhood as a "guy on the loose" since my girlfriend is in Hershey, PA sucking back hot cocoa de menthe's and chocolate martinis until Thursday. I've been trying to suck the marrow out of "guyness" since she left last Thursday but it's all got me wondering if there is really that much to it. I'm reminded of the Seinfeld episode where George wants to sit around in his underwear and eat cheese by the brick.

So, what do I do for excitement when I'm all on my own? It turns out, not much. I went wild and had sushi twice since the aforementioned girlfriend doesn't eat fish. I also downed a few lite beers over the weekend since I'm supposedly in marathon training and don't need the extra calories for the scheduled 26.2 miles in June. I bought a cheap Merlot but even that failed to give me that caveman feeling of neanderthalic strength that comes bounding out from my inherent freedom. I went totally ape and played online chess with one of my best friends who shall remain nameless to save the embarassment of being snowed in at his mother-in-law's several states to over toward the "midwest." (I guess life could be worse.)

Luckily, my friend Tasha Lindbergh, direct descendent of THE Charles Lindbergh was here over the weekend to keep me distracted for awhile. We discussed cool stuff like mosaics and tile for about 48 hours while I gave her the grand SF tour. Eventually, she escaped to the airport and left my sorry persona to its own devices yet again. Bored with crappy work stuff and unable to write on my book any further due to my creative genius being on vacation for the evening, I decided to go and see a "guy flick." I was all set to drive down the road and catch "Tears Of The Sun" with Bruce Willis leading a troup of special forces through mounds of action packed special effects. Then I got sidetracked.

I found a chocolate bar I hadn't eaten, which I followed up with Corn Chex for dessert. I paid a parking ticket. I took out my recycling. I swore at the memory of the maintenance guy who spent the early afternoon telling me he was fixing my leaky plumbing when I discovered that it was actually leaking worse hours later. I flossed my teeth then ate some moldy brown rice that tasted fine with loads of pepper after being fried in half a cup of olive oil. I talked to AxL the dog who got up and walked away. I played guitar but I suck so I had to stop to save the last thread of sanity that holds me in place at the moment. I cleaned out a four drawer file cabinet just for fun and giggles. I was going to hit a strip club after buying a cigar and drinking whiskey but I actually don't like any of the above so that plan was trashed.

Instead, I updated missing air miles from one of my mileage accounts and I folded my laundry, making sure my socks all pointed the same direction in the drawer. Winnie the Pooh caught my eye (yes, the same stuffed bear that I dragged across the United States of America by belting his chubbiness onto a bicycle trailer). He sits jammed between a stereo speaker and a cheap Costco cd/radio/cassette combo now. He begged me to stop being a boring twit. He begged me for an adventure. I took him outside and stuck him in the crook of a tree for the night. That will teach him to mock me. Alas, I mock myself and the blandiose (yes, that's MY word) character I am on this Monday night.

I pull a used sheet of Bounce off of my back that has been impishly following me around since I left the laundromat two hours ago. It may as well have had "Kick Me!" written on it. Whoa...wait a minute! Did I just say "Kick?" My thoughts drift back to riding through New Mexico where I happened across "Border Patrolman Lou" who urged me onward by saying "Kick That Mule!" Yea...that's it! I'm still me, I'm still a raging, red-blooded American with a penchant for the dangerous life of adventure and flirtations with death and disaster around every curve!

(yaaawwwnnnn!) Time for bed and the sweet dreams of adrenalin that fill my slumberous thoughts when I snooze. The dawn of a new day will soon pounce upon my puffy morning eyes like the black panther of death attacking an overweight, domesticated rabbit hobbled by arthritic legs helplessly tied to an apple tree in the Garden Of Opportunity. To escape, I'll need to gnaw through the poly-blend string of frayed yarn that holds me in place.

Tune in tomorrow for the exciting concluzzzion...zzz-zzz-zzz...

Rewind to March fifth and my thirty-eighth birthday celebration...I wake up to LoLo's pre-dawn phone call to hit the gym where I work out extra hard to prove I've still got some spunk in me. After the gym, I hit Sbux for a Venti Mocha as my super-high bedhead hair reaches for a perfect blue sky out the top of my "Life Is Good" sunvisor wrapped around my skull like a blue badge of courage as I face growing older one more time.

I stop by LoLo's apartment to the delightful breakfast she took the time to prepare for me while she got ready for work. We finish, she heads to work and I head home and get cracking on being productive in some manner by reading and writing as much as I can. Lunchtime arrives and I'm off to pick up LoLo to hit Johnnie Rockets where I eat way too much: a Route 66 burger with added bacon and onion rings and a vanilla shake.

Next it's off to get AxL some "Frosty Paws" doggie ice cream treats which he simply loves. We drop off LoLo back at work and drive to Nordstrom Rack to do a little bday shopping for my fine self. I buy three pair of $34 shoes, one for running, one for running errands and one for running through my days with a tad more style than old hiking boots. Then it's off to the Guitar Center for a new set of strings for my Fender Stratocaster and some headphones to plug into my amp to relieve my neighborhood from the sounds of my fingers fighting the frets ala screaming tomcat style.

I live on the edge by not putting money in the parking meters and God smiles on me by letting me slide by without a ticket. Life on the edge is so rewarding sometimes, even on a low level of risk. I head home with my bday treasures and do a bit more "workish" type stuff before showering and getting ready for a birthday night on the town. Oh yea...we are going to go to SUSHI at Mas Sake, one of my favorite places simply because it's LOUD. LoLo was kind enough to invite her friends out which luckily proved to be the saving grace because my friends were all unavailable on a school night.

Sushi was wonderful as sake-bombs went down and the tab went up with our spirits. After dinner, mint-chip ice cream cake arrived in flames from the kitchen as somewhat less than 38 candles burned brightly. We downed the cake in about 2.4 minutes and hit the road in search of a welcoming bar deserving our warmed up troupe of 7 strong. We landed at aptly named "Comet Club" where the life changing fun began.

Somehow, between the 7th and 8th shot of some alcholic stuff, someone took it upon themselves to start naming everyone: I became "SPIKE ROBERTS!"

My old boring life suddenly soared (yea, like a COMET) to a whole new level of enjoyment. The cool thing about taking on a new persona via something so simple as adopting a new name is that it's like having fresh clay to sculpt a whole new life, end to end. "Spike" is an invincible jet setter. He's confident, assured and ultra-cool-content. He's surrounded by an amazing cast of stellar friends. His girlfriend, Ginger Everglade is a beautiful, leather jacket wearing bombshell. His other friends, Chas Henderson, Sylvia Livingston, Nelly Stephenson and Helena "Cookie" St. Germain are all successful leaders in their respective fields. Spike took the liberty of renaming a few of his friends who weren't in attendance to accept their new identities: Tasha Lindbergh, Pico Johnson and Anthony "Pooch" Inverness.

Fast forward a couple of days to the weekend. Tasha has flown into town and Pico has made the drive to the city from his lair down south. Pooch is back from Palm Springs via Italy and we're all raring to go. Unfortunately, Ginger Everglade is out of town but we hold our own without her somehow. Ace Wasabi is our sushi restaurant of choice on a fine saturday and the four of us whoop it up as we are the new darlings of the city. After signing some autographed black and whites for the wall, we head out to "The Matrix" bar for drinks and meaningful conversation amidst people lacking names as cool as ours. Pico goes spicy and gets into a verbal brawl with a snotty female bartender! Go Pico, GO! But alas, once the manager recognizes that it's none other than THE Pico Johnson, drinks are on the house.

Another fine Spike Roberts' signature evening comes to a close as his crew drifts down sidewalks that turn to velvet under their priveleged shoes. Spike revs up his high end sports car that purrs like a big game cat on the prowl. Spike Roberts lives the good life, you see. Spike rocks. Spike lives a cut above. Spike lives the kind of life you only see in the movies. Spike likes sushi. Spike rules. Oh wait a minute...the phone is ringing...........okay, Spike is back...that was Michael Jordan calling to see if Spike is available for golf next week at Pebble Beach. Spike always shoots below par at Pebble Beach so he accepts.

Spike is tired and has to go now. Spike needs to look over the plans for his latest multi-billion dollar project before getting his beauty sleep...not that he needs any. Tell you what though, as a small token of his appreciation for reading this, Spike Roberts is going to give you his secret formula for success which is not sold in any store...be who you want to be. Yep, it's that simple. Shed your old discontent self, pick up a new flashy name and be that jet setter you've always dreamed of being. Easy? Wonderfully so. Fun? Heck yea. Why? Because life is too dang short for just one personality...just ask Spike...better yet, see his hit movie coming soon to a theater near you. You'll both be glad you did.