A few months back I started keeping track of where my podcast listeners are geographically located.
Hold up privacy nuts: this is only for my nefarious and amusement purposes. I’m not selling anybody’s locale data.
So anyways, doing what you do when you’re me, I mapped them out last night and am now sharing said map with you. I do enjoy seeing how wide spread my listeners are. I was also interested to learn that there are a few Facebook employees listening in various states across the U.S.
Now then… if this is the first you’ve heard of my podcast don’t worry, you’re not too late. Open up your nearest podcast app and plug “tcr diaries podcast” into the search bar. If your app doesn’t have a search bar then it sucks. Get a different one.
If you have Amazon’s Alexa at home it’s even easier! Say to her, “Alexa play the tcr diaries podcast” and boom, you’re done.
I’ve been working on my magazine pretty much since I got up, trying to get the July issue all done and off to the printer. Sometimes the pages and layouts just spill onto my screen effortlessly. It’ll sound kinda corny but when I do my best creative work it feels like the cosmos is directing me. That whatever I’m doing just comes out all on it’s own.
Same goes with writing or whatever, too. They’re not my words, they come from somewhere else. It’s like being funny. Everybody knows that we’re not funny when we’re trying to be.
So if I force shit, it just never works. I end up frustrated and hating it. I need to let go and let the cosmic river take me where it sees fit.
Anyways, I’d earmarked today to get this latest issue finished. I was plenty social yesterday and Maggie’s with her mom and I got nothing else going on. I just wanted to be alone and channel my expressive side. Plus, I needed to make things a priority now and then or I won’t get them done. And I had early 80s music on and everything. The B-52s.
But the last 4-5 pages weren’t coming together. I was pushing crap around, rearranging content, deleting shit. Forcing my artistic hand and nothing was working.
And then a thought came to me that wasn’t my own. Because I’m selfish and my best ideas are never mine.
I messaged Sara:
I don’t know if Hope is still with you or what your plans are until this evening, but if you wanted to hangout for an hour or two or whatever my magazine stuff can always wait.
We set up plans for a couple of hours later and then, because I got out of me and what I wanted, put someone else before all that, the stars aligned and everything fell into place. Those last pages of the magazine came together with little effort and little time. The universe spirit moved my hands to paint for me.
Okay, that was definitely corny but it’s true. When I be my best self, the best things happen to me. My magazine is more or less done and I get to see a beautiful girl.
It’ll be when you notice that the someone who you’ve spent years of your life with is now gone. You’ve already grieved in the months since they left and now it’s been a few years and then you realize again, for no apparent reason, that they no longer live in the home you once shared.
And you’ll think about all those moments you let slip away when you could’ve held her hand but instead chose to be grumpy because he didn’t do the laundry that one time.
Wherein fate is for people who have given up, part 3 of 3.
I’m going to jump right in because this story is already long enough in my head. And it’s taken far too long to write. I’ve grown weary of fate and all that it doesn’t have to offer. I’m ready for closure.
So there’s this lady I kinda work with, helping with a project of hers. I get the feeling she got a few dysfunctional nuances about her. Most likely some anger management issues stoked by a little low self-esteem.
My heart goes out to her every now and then, when I see her socially wobbling. My own self-esteem has been a struggle for more of my life than I’d like to admit. So sometimes I want to give her a shoulder to lean on until she can find her balance. Watching people wrestle with and within themselves is heartbreaking.
Toward the end of my drinking it was like treading water. Never going anywhere, not having any fun, just struggling to do the bare minimum to stay afloat. A soggy, pathetic, emotional mess.
I was well past my reckless youth, going out and getting into trouble, wrecking cars, being thrown in jail. Well past the padded room I chased an orderly out of with a safety pin. It was just me, the liquor, and myself. Paddling in a sea of cold air in a dark, damp basement.
I’m going to mix and match reality and imagination. Analogies and metaphors. Because that’s what you do when you’re me.
So this past weekend I pulled into the gas station to get some supplies. It’s the weekend and it’s sunny so the gas station is plum full of cars. I pull up close to the building in an empty spot. It wasn’t an official parking spot but gas stations are free-for-alls when they’re busy. One guy had even parked right in front of entrance to the gas station so whatever.
I go in and get my supplies, wait in line for 10 minutes while Aunt Loretta picks out her Powerball numbers. My favorite thing.
Also, before I say anymore, don’t make this about you. Because it’s not.
I come back out, get in my truck, and am getting ready to leave when a guy, a big dude, tries to squeeze in between my truck and the gas station. Of course he could’ve easily walked around on the other side but no, he chose to squeeze through the narrow corridor between my truck and the station.
There wasn’t even a sidewalk there for crying out loud. Well, there was but nobody could walk on it with the ice machine, firewood, stacks of blue washer fluids taking all the walkway real estate.
So I’m sitting there close enough to literally touch him as he shimmies by. About a foot past my driver side window he starts shaking his head in what I can only assume to be judgmental disbelief that I had the ABSOLUTE NERVE to park where I did.
Shit like that gets on my nerves like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t do well when people judge me for situations they put themselves in to begin with. Like I’m somehow at fault because he couldnt squeeze his 600 pound life through the two foot gap I left.
So then I yell out in all of my spiritual glory, “FUCK YOU” loud enough for anybody within a 10 block radius to hear.
He doesn’t turn around but instead continues toward the gas station door.
And then I realize that wasn’t another of my finest moments.
PS- I want to stress that I see this as something along the lines of me going into the Big and Tall stores and then shaking my head because nothing on the racks is in my size.
Rivers want to roll downhill. You can put a dam up and stop their flow but their destination won’t change. They all dump into the sea. And eventually your dam will give out and then you or somebody else will build another dam but yet, still the river flows downhill. With all man’s technological marvel, water is what it is.
That’s abstract and non-personal but also a good pre-game show.
Because then there was that one time we were leaving a neighborhood Christmas party. As I’m walking down the sidewalk with family in tow, I slipped and fell on a patch of ice. I saw it coming like a slow motion horror flick. Time slowed to a near stand still and the whole audience screamed, “don’t go down there!!” But then I kept going toward certain doom anyway and gravity did its thing.