The Last Exit

Some roads seem to go on forever

Miles of highways and dirt roads

Waiting for that last exit

There have been times when the fuel has run low

And more often than not hatred has been the fuel

That keep the wheels rolling

It seemed essential at the time

But in the pool of reflection it seems like such a waste

I had great plans for a big bang

Had the kindling for a great fire for the final act

But I'm tired now, and numb

And I just want to fade away

Taking the reins of my life, to ride out on my own will

I'm hoping for joy, I'm hoping for relief

But deep inside it feels like my emotions are broken

I'll just move on, God willing

Pull off the highway, finally reaching the last exit

Without a second glance at the rearview mirror

An Hour Glass Full Of Air

This time of year I get restless. I start lowing my entertainment standards. I even started watching "The Voice," at least the auditions anyway. It wasn't even a harsh winter, but I'm as restless and antsy as I've ever been. It's like that uneasy feeling when you are being timed, glancing now an then at the remaining moments you have, that uneasy feeling of realizing you might not be able to accomplish a task. The funny thing is I got nothing on my plate. Yet time seems to run all the faster because of this. Maybe this is exactly the point. Warmer weather provide more opportunities to fill the day, a sense of accomplishment when the sun sets. But now, it's empty calendars and staring out the window. And work.

I recently read an article about a man who was trapped in his car for 6 weeks. His car had went off the road and was buried beneath a snow bank. Scientists said his body dropped it's temperature to use less energy and he went into hibernation for survival. I didn't even know that was possible. I think we should all try that once. I wonder if it would improve health, or even lengthen one's life. As long as one had the proper nutrition, I imagine it would. Who knows, maybe ten years from now there will be medically supervised hibernation clinics. I imagine it would eventually become popular with the upper class and Hollywood elite. Who else could afford to take off that much time off. Wouldn't it be great though, even just a week, to sleep away the last dismal days of winter away and awake to green grass and flowers. Birds singing. Longer days.

The last sunset on good times

All things that come to an end are not sad

well maybe a little

well sometimes a lot

but that isn't the moral of my point

but it is somewhere in between

like most things though the good out weights

the bad, and I'm thankful for the times shared

so I count my blessings, consider myself lucky

and reflect with happiness

even though melancholy is knocking at the door

Good Enough

So it’s just me and John Prine this evening

sharing company with Arnold Palmer and vodka

Yet if it rains anymore I think I’ll build a canoe

and paddle away from this place

Hibernation is good for the soul

but when you wake you’re starved near death

taking any little thing you can get

greedy hands and hungry eyes

Invest in what makes you happy

you’d be surprised to see most of it is free

or relatively cheap if your perspectives are in tune

I think I’ve come to peace that I may never get it right

but close is good enough now a days

my pedestal is not quite as tall

but there is no shame in that

I still have things I hold in high regards

things I still feel are pedestal worthy

it’s just easier to reach this way

easier to focus, less room for error

a finish line that is constantly in sight

Corktown Races 2011

I'm not sure what it was that appealed to me. Maybe I was looking for a sense of commodurty, or perhaps I thought I was cut out for physical activity, but nevertheless, I participated in my first 5K run in Corktown, Detroit this past Sunday. The race preceded the annual Saint Patrick's day parade, and all the runners gathered behind the starting gate in front of Detroit's old abandoned train station. At the front of the starting gate were the die hard runners, the lean seasoned athletes who were going to give it their all. They were all dressed in high tech breathable clothing and were downing protein shakes and energy drinks. Behind them were the rest of us, the casual joggers and Saint Patrick's Day themed dressed participants. There were dogs too, at least a dozen I counted that were dyed green. Each was leashed and ready to participated with the rest of us. As we all lined up at the starting line it was announced that the 2011 race was the largest turnout ever with over 6000 runners. I was somewhere in the middle of the sea of green that had managed to show up despite losing an hour of sleep the night before due to daylights savings time. Next to me was a tall Asian man who towered above the majority. He was dressed as a leprechaun, sporting a green jacket and top hat, and he wore a red beard that had more of a Texas style ZZ Top look that any Irishman I've ever saw. In front of me were a group of girls all wearing green fluffy tutus and green and white striped knee sock. It took me about two minutes to even reach the starting gate once the race started. As I made my way onto Michigan Avenue, I swung my arms, pumping the air, while my heart began burning in my "i'm not really prepared for this" chest. I remember the smell of BBQ as I passed Slows restaurant. I did my best to try and keep pace with the majority during the first half mile, but it wasn't long before my pace was reduced to speed walking. You can prepare in a gym all you want, but there is an extreme difference between running on a tread mill and running down the concrete streets of Detroit.

When I reached the first mile marker, I was happy to see the volunteers handing out cups of water on the side of the road. I carefully grabbed a cup as I passed and downed it in one gulp. On the curb I seen a runner limping back towards the starting line, his face wincing every time he placed weight on his injured foot. As I was coming up to Nemo's, the crowds on each side of the street suddenly started laughing and pointing. When I seen a green dog hunched over and doing his business in the middle of the street I laughed too. Holding the leash was a woman who's red face stuck out all the more among the passing flashes of green runners who skillfully avoided the dog, and the call of nature he left in the road. As we entered the city I managed to keep a decent pace, and was getting use to the feel of the terrain. As we came up to the recently renovated Westin Hotel I noticed a small group of people gathered outside the lobby, watching the long train of runners while waiting for the valet to pull up their cars. I wondered where they were from, and what they thought of the crazy Irish freak parade thats was holding up the quick return of their vehicles. A large inflatable marker was placed at the halfway point neat the heart of Campus Martious. I rounded the marker and noticed another runner hunched over on the curb, trying to walk off a charlie horse.

Just before the two mile marker, a crazy woman, maybe homeless, was screaming at the runners near a small stretch of porta potties. I couldn't make out what she was saying as she barked at the wave of green that rolled past her corner, but she had the look of someone who had been woken up against their will, which may have been the case. I slammed another water and laughed at the guy at the end of the volunteers who was holding out shots of Jameson. If it wasn't being offered in a shot glass that had seen god only knows how many lips that day, I would have accepted his generosity and ran as fast as I could afterwards just for the humorous spectacle it would have made for the crowds that were already several drinks into their celebrating. As I passed Nemo's for my second time I kept an eye out for any surprises that may have been left in the road by green canines. I paced myself before reaching Trumbull, and ran past the fenced vacant lot where Tiger Stadium once stood. The crowds were heavy near the Gaelic League and Corktown Tavern, and music could be heard from the tents that had been raised to accommodate the day's celebrations. I gave whatever I had left during the last stretch of the race. I managed to cross the finish line without hurting myself, or anyone else for that matter. My time: an impressive 40:46. There wasn't exactly a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but the self pride that provoked these Irish eyes to smiling afterwards was good enough for me.

Just Out Of Reach

This is the first short story I've written in five years. It involves the transitional gap between generations, and Detroit Tigers baseball. Please leave comments or critiques.

Just Out Of Reach

currently rewriting.

Were you here for the show?

It was a perfect fall evening in Detroit and I was headed down to see one of my favorite acts: The Raveonettes. As customary they were playing at the Magic Stick, and I left early to avoid the crowds and to get tickets before they sold out. I parked across from the Karmanos cancer center underneath a long row of sunflower yellow hard maples that were at the height of their autumn color. Understandable I was in a good mood. The Rave always put on a good show; A high intensity mix of modern rock with a 50's twist. Their name itself derived from a mash up of the Buddy Holly song "Rave On," and the girl group The Ronettes. As I was about to enter the Magic Stick a sign on the door caught my attention. "Tonights Raveonettes performance is cancelled." An immediate wave of disappointment washed my mood sour. I had been looking forward to the concert for weeks. I stood outside the door on the sidewalk for several minutes hoping to overhear an explanation. My attention turned when the door opened and a midget walked out with a distraught look on his face. He walked past me and I did a quick take of our proportions. His head only came up to my waist. I waited a few more minutes but when I turned to leave I found him a few feet behind me. "Were you here for the show," he asked. I told him I was. "Well isn't this just a kick in the balls," he spat out. For a second I had to compose myself. It isn't everyday I come across a midget spitting out vulgarities, but what really made me almost crack up was the imagery. A kick in the balls for me would be a kick in the face for him. I wished him a good night and walked back to my car. I waited till I was a good distance away before I allowed myself to laugh at the whole situation. A kick to my shins would have constituted a kick to his balls. I was still laughing when I finally got back to my car. Moral of the story. If you ever see a man walking across the sidewalks of Detroit and laughing to himself, there may be a very logical explanation.