Pillow Killers

Any day now we're going to start bombing the good bejesus out of a bunch of people whom, at the end of the day, probably aren't all that much different from you or I. I don't exactly know how I should feel about all this--but if the truth be known, I'm not all that against it. (A position I've reached after painstaking consideration about things like mustard gas and how badly it would suck to die from it). Even though I realize that this war is going to be bad, and that it's possible that it might totally ruin everything, I'm not one of those celebrities who's going to hop up on a soap-box and protest. Actually I'm not one of those celebrities, at all. But I will say this:

The course of human events have a way of bringing about disagreeable circumstances. If you happen to be looking at the world from just the right angle, you'd swear it was chuck-full of jackasses. We all have bad days and the impulse to choke the living crap out of the occasional idiot, is something that none of us should be expected to help. That's just how it is. Step on our Blue Suede Shoes, and we're liable to get pissed.

However, along with joint-pain and a few mild symptoms of advancing grumpiness, my forty some odd years have also brought me one or two nuggets of wisdom. This month's nugget involves the advantages of laying low and avoiding enemies, grudges, hassles or hard feelings of any kind. It's a sound policy. Standing up for your convictions is one thing--but standing up for your opinions is one thing that makes you look like a dipshit. No one wants to listen to your opinions, any more than they want to smell your feet. Any time someone starts off a sentence with "In my opinion" what I actually hear is "Hey everybody--I'm a big pompous buffoon who's learned to talk!"

You can't avoid opinions--everything I've just said is technically an opinion. I just think the world would be a nicer place if we'd all keep the damn things to ourselves. And should you encounter someone who insists on sharing theirs with you--the best thing to do is just to agree with them. That's what I do. I'm an "opinion chameleon." No matter how asinine somebody's opinion might be--that's my opinion too. Yes Siree.

For example if someone tells me they liked the remake of Rollerball, I loved it myself. "Oh hey--one of the great films of all time." I chuckle along and mention that it looks like they've been working out. "Seriously how much weight have you lost?" I take no pleasure in argument and I've been known to go to incredible lengths to avoid any kind of unpleasant interaction. I'm what most Psychology Professors would classify as "a wuss." Which is not to say that I don't have a few lines drawn in the sand--particularly in the wee small hours of the night.

I think it's mostly true of all of us that we can get a little ugly when we're tossing and turning in our beds late at night. We've all lost our share of sleep mentally rehashing some stupid little situation--imagining it in a way that features us as the noble defender of truth and right. And "boy" do we have alot of terribly clever things to say about it all. Over and over we say these clever things. Yet, sadly with some people, all the level-headed logic in the world just doesn't seem to work, and under such circumstances we're forced to imagine bringing resolution to the matter with a seven iron. It says bad things about us, that even the golf club scenario is something that needs to be imagined more than once.

What's up with us late at night? We're monsters? At the very least we're going to pour sugar in a gas tank, but if sleep doesn't snatch us in time, we're soon wielding a softball bat or running someone down with riding mower. Fortunately all this insomnia-insanity gets blasted all to hell by the sound of an alarm clock, or we'd all be in prison.

Every bit as common as this type of hindsight fantasy is the tendency to rehearse situations in advance. The big confrontation to come--you know what I'm talking about. You've been wronged and, by God, you're gonna sort this crap out before it goes any damn further. And when the time comes--you'll be ready because you've gone over it all a hundred times.

And this isn't even the worst of it. Between the hours of 3 and 5 a certain savage desperation can descend and our twisted-pillow-psychosis intensifies beyond all control. At this point it's not uncommon to go ahead and just invent some kind of terrible scenario--just to see how we'll react. What if this happened? "I'll tell you what'll happen--I'll knock the bastard unconscious, take him out in the middle of nowhere, bury him up to his neck and leave him for the coyotes. The rotten son-of-a-bitch, anyway."

All this has come to mind because of a little problem I've been having with my new neighbors. I live in a quiet little townhouse community with an "association" that frowns upon any type of inappropriate behavior. When we first moved in it was hard-core. The Association Manual was a hundred page manifesto that set forth a minutely detailed breakdown of just exactly what you could and couldn't do Ôround these parts.' It superceded, federal, state, county, municipal and occasionally biblical law. And everybody was dead serious about it. For example, children were expressly forbidden (I had one with another on the way). When we moved in there was only one other family living there who had children and I didn't find this out until about a year later.

The dictator of the compound lived at the top of the street and he watched me like a hawk. And, dear readers, despite all that stuff I mentioned earlier about how I'm a peaceable gent, who steers clear of trouble, I'm afraid I was cast into the role of a rebel. I let my hair grow long, played it fast and loose with my reproductive functions and pretty much thumbed my nose at their silly fascist regime.

In keeping with our little lesson on civility, I should point out that I'm now paying dearly for my irreverent ways. My next door neighbor (a retired military man) became embittered when he was voted off the "association committee" and he swiftly made us all pay. Next thing you know he was gone and renting his place out to a handful of college dudes. At first, the fellas seemed like a harmless bunch of campus-monkeys, but it wasn't long before their natural indifference to the cherished ways of their neighbors became frightfully clear. Ladies and Gentlemen--the place has gone to hell in a handcart. Oh how I long for those days of tyranny and oppression. It all seems like a distant blissful dream, now.

Having once been an inconsiderate college twerp myself, I put up with quite a bit of anarchy. However, on one of the many, many nights when the fellas threw a noisy party, something happened--something that caused me to abandon my better nature altogether.

We had company over that evening, family spending the night, and about the time we'd all settled upstairs to bed down--there was a commotion at the front door. A hush fell upon the household as we listened intently. And then the door swung open and someone entered. This was an unwelcome, very drunk guest who stumbled in and started saying things like, "hey--what's this place, dude, check it out," about this time I reached the top of the stairs to find our visitor (a chinless little ski-hat wearing weasel) stumbling around my living room like he'd just been hit with a tranquilizer dart. "What in the fuggle dee hell is going on?"

I didn't get half-way down the stairs before my wife came thundering down on my heals and I'll say this--that little sonofabitch narrowly escaped a proper, neighborly beating. Side by side we gamely gave chase, but alas the kid was drunk but he was young, and besides I was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers my wife had given me for Valentines--hearts and horny little devil guys. Still this embarrassing state of undress wasn't enough to stop me from busting right through the front door of the frat house with a noggin full of hot blood, and a tightened right fist ready for the first jerk-off who looked at me wrong.

The collegiates were all apologies and lied that they didn't even know the guy. As my blood pressure ebbed back toward a more manageable level of insanity, I began to take notice of the bachelor pad. Good Lord--what the hell kind of weirdness was I living next door to? This was clearly a matter for health department or the FBI!