Judgement Days

I'm not sure, but I think all the decades of avoiding looking at the evidence--pictures, writing, etc.--of my life are partly due my lack of acceptance of my failures, and maybe even my victories.  Just didn't want the truth, whatever it was.

I still find it hard to be happy that I am as I am, in some ways.  But much of that is not any more in my control than the size of my toes.  Even though certain things can't be helped, there is still the capability to compensate and improvise.  It is probably some kind of moral obligation, but I haven't reasoned that out yet.

Doesn't mean you go to hell for letting your glitches rule, but you do get to live a bit of it.  Those who compensate well seem quite happy.  Those who look in the mirror and are thrown into an endless WTF? loop tend to wonder why they are where they are and why they are not more productive.  That loop is very tough to break.

I discovered a number of letters, written to various members of my family.  Must have been in stuff my mother had.  They cast some clarity on a few things.  Nothing huge, but a shock of sorts.  It elevated my already high opinion of my brother.  And of my mother.  It placed my father in a great position should he ever wanted to prove his own -either insanity or insensitivity combined with extreme self centeredness.

The letters I wrote scream of a very lost 19 year old.  I never realized though, that at that early age being alone was a prominent theme in my writing.  I had friends but not really.  Either I chose the wrong friends for awhile there, or I had no real friends.  End result is the same.  Wrong friends aren't friends.

I do just that sometimes now.  I figured that out.

When grownups throw a party with more scheming shallow drama, a general lack of ability to hold their liquor, a less inspiring bands than we did in high school---outside of official school policy and rules, and outside of their supervision--it is a boring, maddening scene,

Our events were 100% pulled off by clubs of about 30 15 to 18 year old ne'er do wells.  I actually hated being a member, but I handled getting some great events put together.  I liked that, plus some girls vied for a date to some of those things.  I was too dumb to work it well to my advantage though.  I had a better chance getting a date if I pretended to be someone else.  Except when I had a girl friend.  Maybe that is why 11th grade was my favorite.  Same girl the whole year.

The last one was on Viscaya's courtyard--open bar, Bahamian bar tender, two bands so there was never a long break.   It was one friend's connections that got us that venue.  I got two bands because the one year I didn't manage things the band did not show.  I believe it was due to Dion S's incompetence.

I took no chances on that Viscaya thing.  It was a big end of the year party.  My prom.  I didn't go to the regular prom.  Too far out of the loop already.  Anyway this thing was formal, and we sold tickets to selected people and had roughly a hundred people.  At least.

I seriously doubt that Coral Gables High or Southwest or Killian or even Palmetto have ever seen a party like that.  No fights, to my knowledge, and the only trouble maker was my date.  I couldn't handle drunks even when I was drinking.   Sort of like the laziest guy in the room ranting about having no tolerance for laziness, telling others to get up and do something.

Here's a tip for those planning a big hooplah event.  Line up someone you really want to be with to accompany you.  Nothing worse than putting on a great project and being stuck with Lillie Lushyeller.
She wasn't that bad.  I think the brothers and her catholicism intimidated me at the time.  It's all coming back.

See what unpacking is doing?  I do not exaggerate when I say decades of neglect.  It doesn't hurt to look at it and deal with it now.  Easy to toss out what isn't relevant to what I need, have space for or want.  And I have to have a reasonably good reason for wanting.

You know, that stupid lush lady hurt my feelings.  No way I can totally explain the night of the fighting Mexican potato, the she-devil, the banshee and the zombie.  Doesn't sound so bad until you realize that your goal on this particular mission is to get along with them and avoid violence.  Now, it is not so easy.  Rules of engagement change the game.

some of the above refers to the previous post which is probably just a different shade of vague
i won't tell you where we got the money--not completely.  We sold things at the swap meet quite a lot.  I created the grab bag special.  We'd just put a selection of trinkets in a paper bag and sell it for a dollar, but they couldn't see what was in it.

They were happy with it and the grab bag special was a good seller.  We always included something worthwhile.  I have to say, some of the swap meet experiences may have been my happiest in high school.  And  I haven't thought of it for many years.  Just this minute.  I never allowed myself to dwell on it long enough to realize I enjoyed it, and was a crazy little businessman at times.  Holy smoke.

That girl-up-the-hill surprised me.  Not in a good way.  Crumby surprises just don't work.