Wait a minute

It's all about waiting. 

I've put it in writing for all to see.

Someone once said "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." I can see that. I can also see people walking about, smoking their cigarettes, sipping pops. Filling up gas cans, making small talk, setting their gum on the dashboard: everybody's getting ready. 

You see, no one's really "there" yet, but they're gonna be--Tolkien's "last deep breath before the plunge..."  A drama professor once said "great drama shows the highlights; no one wants to watch the in between moments". True. Even actors wait for their cues....and there it is: Life doesn't grind us, waiting does. 

Not everybody lives. Not everybody gains. Not everybody loses. Not everybody enjoys. Not everybody dreads, desires, cheats, assails, curses, prays or preys.  But everybody--and this is everybody--waits.

We wait for life to happen. We wait for love. We wait for sports matchups. We wait for justice, we wait for convergence, revelations, we wait for a diagnosis, we wait for Jesus. We wait to be born. 

I'm not going to the next logical thought here: you'll have to wait.

It carries the wisdom of verisimilitude. Doesn't matter what we wait for, or for how long. We're all stuck in that syrup-slow aquarium of anticipation, and it links our tired lives through its timeless tendrils of tedium. Stan Lee would be proud of that one!

Waiting drives us crazy. It endows the value of the main course. It's the Everything, But....

Every emotion exists in "wait", every adjective. Every quantity is calculated in "wait". 

"Wait" trumps everything but Time. Even for anything that happens, however the immediacy, there still exists an element of "wait". Waiting is the ultimate substance in the universe.

Great thinkers and apologists will suddenly sit up and try to be recognized. They'll no doubt slip on the dusty specs of knowledge and place their caps of academia here, and simply ask: "you've defined the condition, now what's the question...?"

Well, then, let's bring out the questions:

Can "wait" become a "do"? No, that's lame: I'm trying to energize a passive verb. 

Can "wait" be gussied-up? Glamorized? Made more enjoyable?  No, muzak's got that cornered.

Since it's ever-present, can "wait" be ignored like the cute 20-something with a brand new selfie?

It's something we all have to deal with, certainly, so can we choose to steal its power? Harness its intimidating presence? I'm not presumptuous enough to tame and make it my ally, much less my friend: waiting knows me all too well. But there might be hope in siphoning this relentless resource.

Waiting can work for us. Wait can wait on us. Make t-shirts: Ween Wait. We can willfully woo wait!

Love waiting. 

Fill it love, endow it with the energy of action. 

Any action. 

Never let a wait go to waste.

I'm Number One!

The other day, I was cutting holes in a plastic jar with a big blade.

That should be your story right there. An incidental element to a family story of arts and crafts. No controversy, and certainly no Ron Vigil-ness anywhere. Even with my good friends at work watching me--twirling the blade with an air of self-assuredness and sophistication--were not aware of the obvious accident to come. You should've seen me, though! My associate Sergio and the Sheriff's Deputy with him kept squinting, watching me pull and jerk through the brittle plastic, as I dropped in the occasional: "I'll be fine" and "this is almost done".

In fact, I was pretty much finished with my Sloppy Task (great band name, BTW) when the blade skipped out of a hard plastic groove and whispered through the webbing between my thumb and fore finger. Just like a samurai film, blood jumped onto the carpet, darted across a desk, and dribbled onto a collectible t-shirt that shouldn't have been lying underneath, from a nearby display case (guess who has that shirt now, kids!).

My friend the Sheriff's Deputy, whisked me off to the designated medical center to seek Workman's Comp Medical Attention, conveniently located on the other side of the city in Rush Hour traffic. This was after me sitting in the company office bloodily filling out corporate forms making sure I don't sue them over a cut I made to myself on the job. Awkward sentence? Yes, but the whole situation was awkward, thankyouverymuch! So Larry and I (the Sheriff's Deputy is Larry here, and will be mentioned from here on out as such designation) went searching for the designated medical center. We arrived after searching the surrounding neighborhoods--I did, however, find a couple locations for a possible future house, though--very nice, and affordable, I hear...

I must tell you, dear reader, this isn't about Poor Ronnie Gets A Cut And Tries To Explain The Universe. Well, we'll get to it--

Once I arrive at the place, I'm told I need to wait for someone to arrive so I could take a drug test, since the accident occurred while I was on the job. Fair enough, I thought, as I waited in the Trauma Room, regretting the fact I should've gone to the bathroom BEFORE I left work...

Long story short: doctor arrives, cut is cleaned out, preparations are made for stitches, here we go Ron!

Just then, a delicate smell of Under Arm and Dirty Clothes greets our nostrils, and a larger woman--apparently in a hurry--charges into the room, carrying three bags. No one shook hands, no one smiled, no one even knew her name even when she shoved a sweaty palm in my face: "I'm here to test you". Talk about an entrance. The doctor, bless his heart, sought solace in another room. You could tell he was a clean freak, and this chick was his mortal enemy, you could tell. Besides, he probably had to throw up down the hall. We exchanged desperate glances when he left, as if he told me he'll get me out of this cell in eight-to-ten years...

After a quick waft of Body Stank, she thrust forth an empty cup, and led me down the hall to the restroom. Good thing, because I really needed to go, this task would be completed soon, and she could go on her merry way, where she could go home and hopefully take a freaking shower.

Alright, dear reader, let's get something straight: I'm a heavier guy myself, and I don't take pleasure in ripping heavy people. But when you're challenging human proportion, you don't tend to the Pit Farms, and you have an "air" of self-importance, you're fair game.

"Fill it up as much as you can", she said, standing guard outside the bathroom door. This was going to be no problem, with no waiting, just a simple "here you go, have a nice day". Cup was filled, cup exchanged hands, now it's onto the final paperwork. As the doctor was still nowhere in sight of the Trauma Room, this lady started to rush to the end of her task. As I sat back down on the table, I noticed the room and its surroundings compress into a slow motion ballet. Paper forms gracefully folded onto themselves, breathing slowed uneasy sighs, and the Venti-Urine danced along the counter as a hurried elbow shoves it along. Here, time stopped.

She spilled the pee all over the counter, the floor, and down the front of her white dress. Never heard so many whispered f-bombs in all my life... scratch that, yes I have. I meant "f-bombs from someone other than myself". A large part in my heart was joyous--schadenfreude in its purest state! A lingering tiny voice in my heart was scared; I was on empty.

We might have to wait here longer, if I can't get something, if youknowwhatimean. Should've asked her if she accepted semen, I could've had that going in a minute! As the entire medical facility was out of water, I had to throw a couple cups of tap water down my gullet, and the messy clean up was underway. I really dreaded this lady to move around too much, because the air became less-and-less fresh. All the while, I'm doing kegel exercises to load the howitzer for another enemy bombardment. Talk about marking your territory: the room, the paperwork, the dress and the woman were mine! Sure there may have been body odor around, but I'm Number One!

Denoument--I squeezed out a bit of urine, and she did the test (why did she ask me to fill the cup in the first place?). As she left in a hurry, I heard a faint "it was nice to meet you, so sorry about the mess". The door closed. That was it? After all we'd been through together, this was all I receive? At least I left her with a couple creepy Ebay items.

Everything else from here on in was standard operating procedure: stitches and pleasant conversation were vollied, I made another appointment, I signed a couple autographs (it still feels so surreal), and we all said our goodbyes.

As Larry and I left the clinic to jump into his van, I began giggling to myself. A few minutes passed, we were sitting in Rush Hour, and it hits. We REALLY needed to hurry back: Wonnie had to go wee-wee.

Restless Soul Syndrome

Haven't been on here for a while now, mostly because what I had to say didn't amount to much--or what I had to say was surely going to get me kicked out of the Blogosphere.

I feel like I'm biding my time too much here. Enough. Okay, I'm gonna get right to it! Here goes...

I'm searching. I'm sad. I'm scared. I'm disappointed.

A few months back, a good friend from college killed himself by jumping from a prominent building here in Downtown Denver. His last post reminded me to have a great weekend, and "he'll see me soon", he hoped. His Facebook page is still creepily open. I had to de-friend him, as I felt a little voyeuristic and unwelcome. I mean, HE chose to leave the dinner party, right? So, who am I to suck up to the leftover emotions with his abandoned friends and family...

A few weeks later, a long-time business associate tried to kill himself with a massive overdose on Xanax. "Luckily", his wife discovered him lying on the floor and the paramedics performed their oft-overlooked job once again. After visiting with him a while recently, I still wonder when he'll try again. I really hope he does not before someone truly ministers to him.

Both men had the same empty smile, the same extreme succeses and failures in life, and me as a "friend". Here, I began to reflect on what I could have said or done, to quell their inner demons for a while longer, before they chose their methods of self-consolidations. I often look back and try to pinpoint the faulty living in my own battles, the missed opportunities in my associations, and I've discovered I have not been a good man. As I tumble into the midway point of my 40's, I presently know I don't have it all together. Let's get something clear, though: I have a reasonably successful career, I have a pretty good home with a loving son and dogs, and my spiritual walk is a consistent revelation of refreshment and joy.

I'm just not a good guy.

Just yesterday, I was texted by a lion-hearted guy at work who asked to have a few drinks with him. Earlier this week, the same guy called and asked me how my day was shaking out, as I didn't look happy at the time. All I did was tell him I was simply too busy to visit with him.

In business, I have people who want to work with me, and I forget to call them further.

I avoid eye contact in crowded places, I ignore neighbors, I despise my bosses, I avoid the mirror, and--most terribly of all--I friend and de-friend people on Facebook all the time, according to my misguided egotistical assumptions.

There are times where my wife and I try to work things out, and I put everything in the back of my mind, plowing into my work and aspirations.

Having noticed all these empirical truths from a purely pragmatic mechanism, I'm left, still with myself. Where does this discovery lead? What now? Do I really try to change? Do I re-schedule missed opportunities and appointments? Do I resolve to take different steps?

I took a quick look at my own writings--all counted on a single hand, with three chubby digits--and noticed the last entry was about a year ago. A lot has happened since, and I'm guilty.
Not that I'm some great prize among men, nor do I value my presence and information with a slight dramatic pause: I just don't share much.

It all probably goes back to Acting School, or even before. I liked being other people. I loved discovering everybody else's ticks, inner landscapes, and motives. Everyone else is more interesting, I think. To clarify, I'm not lashing myself, nor am I soliciting a response, but I have a firm grasp on my Inner-whatever. My life is lived almost entirely in my cranium. I love it in there. I'm selfish of my own perceptions, jokes, and criticisms.

One of the great joys in my life is among friends, where we can spar over opinions, thoughts and dreams. In those cases, I don't share as much as I should, because I might indulge my brain too much... you know how those people are at cocktail parties, speaking for hours, most notably about themselves. If I'm ever like the afore mentioned character, I've given orders to my friends to beat me with shovels, and whack me out in a field (that's the Chicago Way, after all!).

So, what I'm trying to get at is this: I want to be better. More outgoing... I don't think there was ever a time in my life where I DIDN'T try to hide. Being genuine should be a bigger priority for me.

I want to be a better friend...Goodness knows how you (and you know who you are, people) have lifted me up when I needed it, and I'm brutally contrite as a result. Thank you.

To the friends and family I have let down, forgive me. I will do what I can to be better.

To Jay--I want to be there for you, and you should let me know whatever it is that you need. Sorry for the poor writing, but I'm coming from the heart. I'd like to help or pray for you when I can.

And finally, to Kyle--I failed you. Fly away.

Koyaanisqatsi Redux

An old friend of mine brought up the fact this week marked the United States landing on the moon. He cloudily remembers his family noting this moment in his early childhood--many other friends chimed in, and a rash of memories mixed with dreams assaulted my heart.

I remember being in my sister's room--the television was just switched on, we had just arrived home from dinner. I remember "black and white" snowy puffy man walking in dirt.

We ran outside, looking at the sky. "There are people up there."

I was such a fan of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration--that old logo, with the red swoosh arching around the cosmos, like Kalel (Superman's Kryptonian name) vigilantly patrolling his blue home, stars glittering in the ecliptic.


Best patch of all time. It was a planet... it was a map... it was a badge... I knew we were going to live on the moon, with the great view of Earthrise on the horizon. Cancer was on the run, we were told, and flying cars were around the corner. I had posters of Neil Armstrong, the Apollo Capsules, moonscapes, and Edwin E. Aldrin, Jr.--the last name is only for you REAL fans....


Throughout the 70's, I was always looking at the sky. "Trek" only enhanced the experiences, with a healthy dose of "Space: 1999". After all, "Space: 1999" put our society on a bold timeline to meet this prophetic depiction on our saturday evening screens. "Star Wars" invaded my brain, but I knew at it's heart it was a science-less fable. George Lucas didn't really have a beat on reality or physics as we knew them. No, society will show the REALITY of a perfect "tomorroworld" (yeah, that's what I used to call it). I heard NASA was also developing a ship that would be a literal cosmic AIRPLANE that would effortlessly sail back and forth from the Earth to farthest reaches of the solar system--the Space Shuttle. Travelling outside our atmosphere was going to be a reality. The turn of the century was gonna be awesome!

I started to invent comic book contraptions and their schematics--I culled side views of the Baxter Building (Fantastic Four), wrote faux-formulas for the man-gliders (Nick Fury) and actually planned the timeline as if these gadgets were to be the true predecessors of the mega-technology promised us by the dreamers of the times. And, wouldn't it be awesome, if we actually found an equivalent substance to the power cosmic (Silver Surfer)?

Since I was young, I collected everything. Comics, toys, posters, records--my youth was awesome, because I couldn't wait to grow up in a beautiful future. A future of dreams! On weekend nights, I fantasized how long it would take to travel from tip of the Big Dipper to the tail on Draco. At least 303 years--don't ask me how, I just remember impulse power was the best way to go, and a tight-knit family would be the only solution for that kind of crew. By the late 70's, the first Space Shuttle received its name--Enterprise. I was in Heaven. I was convinced I would live the remainder of my years on another world.

As if on cue, I learned from a spoiled-brat on the playground (or was it football practice?), the Enterprise wasn't expected to travel in interstellar flight. Enterprise wouldn't even be active. It was a placation for the fans. It was one of the first times my love was demeaned by popular culture.

Time kind of got small for me--girls got prettier; the Space Shuttle program hit a few stalls; Captain Kirk looked a little older in "Star Trek--The Motion Picture" (still an awesome film, for me); "Alien" scarred my sci-fi brain with all the gore; my brothers fought with my dad a lot more; I listened more intently to family arguments; I lost track of The Avengers; Han Solo was abducted, and incased in carbonite. Pink Floyd's The Wall told me not to trust anyone, and I started to actively listen to that thinking.

A few years before, I read "The Lord Of The Rings," and kept reading it through the years. This was a different dream, not based in accomplishments or technology, but based in magic, and the fantastical. Add to the fact my friends and I discovered Dungeons and Dragons (1st Edition), and you have a teenage boy who was fed up with Man. Fantasy rode Ron through the 80's--Rush and Yes helped him travel inward, and growing up was a trip.

Needless to say, I grew up, got married, got a couple dogs, a couple degrees, and began to build a career. All this time, I looked sidelong at the calendars as the year 1999 settled into the present. That December 31st, in the waning hours of that sci-fi promise (the news, movies, the presidents, even other scientists told us 1999 was the Year Of Progress--for goodness' sake, there was a TV show SPACE: 199-freaking-9!!!). We had bills and earthly concerns, and, with a rushed tap of a champagne flute in a dark basement, I had to let childhood die. My wife had to retreat upstairs and go to sleep--the pregnancy was exhausting her. There were a couple of other times in my life where I felt as low in spirit... worst New Year's Eve ever.

Ten years later, my son Kalel will attend his first concert later in the summer--Rush at Red Rocks. We bought the uber-expensive tickets online, with the help of me selling some long-held collectibles (a couple old issues of Fantastic Four)... it's a fair trade, especially since I've amassed more issues at a better price, anyway. My wife and son will travel to see her father: an ex-NASA engineer, and will attend some space exploration displays and a "Star Wars" exhibit. By the time he leaves, though, I promised myself I'll guide him through his first dungeon with the Ranger character he created for the new Dungeons and Dragons (4th Edition). What a Lucky duck.







Thanks, Don


and Jeff and Mark...


and Laurie and Kal

A blank page or canvas--not my favorite.

An Idea makes--makes what, that's stupid.

Ideas are in the eye of the--I don't know where that one was going.

Ideas are like--too common.

How 'bout this; if you're looking for a feel-good view on Life, one that puts you in an immediate comfort zone, and tells you that whatever you think is gonna be okay, then I'm going to fail in your eyes. Miserably. Sadly. Justly.

Besides that, shame on you. You should be coming up with ways to accessorize yourself, without me giving you a chuck on the arm. Don't get me wrong, I'm actually climbing out of that smoldering crater known as Misanthropy. In fact, I'm starting to gain a little wisdom, if I do say so myself.

You see, ever since the early Nobles in the ancient times climbed from the dusty-mirrored showcase of their self-imagined delusion, they realized they had to get on with it--to re-mount the horse--re-start the motor--pull up their pantaloons--kick the dust off their feet. Indeed, it was time to get started, and the only way you do that, is to simply take a first step into the day.

This is what I'm learning to to with this blog-thing. You know, dear reader, I'm not here for me.

I'm here for--eeew! Too pat.

How 'bout this: I'm here for---us? Hmmm, too empathic.

I'm here for---wait a minute...

I'm here.

So let me know how to do better, be better, help me to navigate this Blogosphere better.

Here's to a very shaky start--but, isn't that supposed to be what unknown journeys are all about?

More later--