(Stephen Colbert sticker poem VII*)
I found two quarters and
two nickels on 8th Street
(sidewalk) yesterday. She’d
be so proud that I bothered
to stoop over to pick them
up. Madoc, on the other
hand, would probably have
found them before me. Or,
if by some odd chance he did
not find them first, he’d most
certainly need to know the date
in which each coin was minted…if
they were pennies, anyway. I wasn’t
hopping from interview to interview
when I found the coins. Not like I’m
doing today, when I learn I haven’t
quite enough money for a cheap lap-
top (you can get one for $100 these
days, I’ve just learned. One that
works. That’s cheaper than most
mobile phones, just for some con-
text or perspective.) Then I real-
ize that I can have $40 more if I
return the keyboard I just bought
here two weeks ago (I’m once
again at Best Buy), so it might
yet be possible for me to walk
home with my very own laptop,
the first one that I’ve owned
since my second night home-
less over twenty-one months
ago (a cold night when I slept
on the sidewalk a block down
from what was my apartment,
our apartment…. The problem
was I put the large piece of lug-
gage hastily packed full of what
I decided quickly were my most
important possessions, which
included several iPhones, my
laptop, a few of my favorite
clothes, a few bathroom sup-
plies, Coco the Loco, who was
a cat who for nine years had
never been my sole responsi-
bility, was never even my idea
to adopt in the first place be-
cause someone else beat me
to the punch shortly after
Sepia the Cat passed away.
All these were in my large
suitcase, along with some
completely random items from
the apartment – stuff I’d been
able to gather from the bulk
of all that was in there, one
third of which was not mine
but had been left there by
the deadbeat terror, another
third of which was mine or-
iginally and the last third be-
longed to me and the dead-
beat cumulatively – like Coco
the Loco – like the apartment
itself, the lease of which had
both our names, even though
I’d paid by far the larger share
of the rent and the rest of our
expenses for over five years
while the deadbeat eased his
way through college). And
of this disparity of items,
I’d been able to pack up and
get to the UHaul truck about
one third of the material
that resided in the apartment
with me, with us. And that
included only a portion of
what I had accumulated in
my 50 years of living, which
was perhaps a third of what
had been in the apartment,
before being assaulted by
the apartment manager
simply because, thanks to
the most extreme panic at-
tack I can recall, I said I
need to take a quick trek
to the emergency room.
As the manager, a guy for
whom I’d sung praises for
being the best, empathized
with his work, spent hours
talking with him about AC/DC
concerts, and who had gotten
intimate with some of the
stragglers who invariably
stayed with me during their
hard times (I am told some
of the advances were unwant-
ed, but cannot attest to the
veracity of that), had me in a
neck-hold lifting me up to the
roof of the cabin of the U-Haul
truck, refusing to let me take
the short 5 block trip to St.
Francis. At least until I
screamed “POLICE, POLICE,
POLICE…” at the top of my
lungs and lo and behold the
police very quickly arrived
and I was able to escape the
horror of being there excav-
ating the history of my life
what I had accumulated in
my 50 years of living, which
was perhaps a third of what
had been in the apartment,
before being assaulted by
the apartment manager
simply because, thanks to
the most extreme panic at-
tack I can recall, I said I
need to take a quick trek
to the emergency room.
As the manager, a guy for
whom I’d sung praises for
being the best, empathized
with his work, spent hours
talking with him about AC/DC
concerts, and who had gotten
intimate with some of the
stragglers who invariably
stayed with me during their
hard times (I am told some
of the advances were unwant-
ed, but cannot attest to the
veracity of that), had me in a
neck-hold lifting me up to the
roof of the cabin of the U-Haul
truck, refusing to let me take
the short 5 block trip to St.
Francis. At least until I
screamed “POLICE, POLICE,
POLICE…” at the top of my
lungs and lo and behold the
police very quickly arrived
and I was able to escape the
horror of being there excav-
ating the history of my life
while being bullied and beat
en. Once I was able to leave,
I pulled in to the St. Francis
parking lot until I stopped
hyperventilating, then drove in-
to the Sunset to sleep for the
night in the UHaul truck (where
I discovered the next morning
that I had a flat tire). Backing up
a bit, I’d only gotten about a
third of the material that was
in the apartment in which I’d
lived for 13 years, about a third
of which was mine in the first
place, but all of which I paid
to be stored for a year, only
to have it all auctioned off (My
entire poetry library! My every
journal! All of my photo books,
including those few I got from
my grandmother’s collection,
and the quilt my other grand-
mother made me, along with
the many items that had no-
thing whatsoever to do with
me, except that I had lived
for a decade with their right-
ful owner, their rightful resp-
onsibility. They’d just been
left for me to take care of.
And after a year of making
payments while homeless and
jobless to keep the items in
storage, I lost every item after
missing a couple of months’
payments, after which all of the
items were apparently taken and
auctioned off in some horribly im-
personal manner to the highest
bidders. But back at Best Buy, and
upon contemplating all too much of
this craziness that had led to me
needing or wanting badly or just
being here seeing it would be poss-
ible for me to finally get a new lap-
top, in a new age where they could
be had for cheaper than most mobile
phones, I became full of questions so
big I would never have thought they’d
exist, these big questions; they had not
even crossed my mind. So I called Mom
to ask her what she thought of the sit-
uation I was in, or perhaps it was a di-
lemma. I ask her what I should do, what
she thought about all of it, but her response
was a familiar lamentation about how she
feels so terrible that she can’t help me
financially. “Mom,” I say, “you just sent
me $50 for Christmas,” or I wouldn’t even
be considering what had, given the last
couple of years, been an outrageously
delightful dilemma. She does her curt
little chuckle and I then recount how my
week between Christmas and New Year’s
has been thus far, and began to feel almost
giddy about how much more pleasant it is,
despite all that I’m still currently living
through that is, well, sub-par. After this
final exchange (which is much more me
than her), I hang up happy to have gotten
the opportunity to listen to a few of her
complaints – who’s passed away, who’s
parking lot until I stopped
hyperventilating, then drove in-
to the Sunset to sleep for the
night in the UHaul truck (where
I discovered the next morning
that I had a flat tire). Backing up
a bit, I’d only gotten about a
third of the material that was
in the apartment in which I’d
lived for 13 years, about a third
of which was mine in the first
place, but all of which I paid
to be stored for a year, only
to have it all auctioned off (My
entire poetry library! My every
journal! All of my photo books,
including those few I got from
my grandmother’s collection,
and the quilt my other grand-
mother made me, along with
the many items that had no-
thing whatsoever to do with
me, except that I had lived
for a decade with their right-
ful owner, their rightful resp-
onsibility. They’d just been
left for me to take care of.
And after a year of making
payments while homeless and
jobless to keep the items in
storage, I lost every item after
missing a couple of months’
payments, after which all of the
items were apparently taken and
auctioned off in some horribly im-
personal manner to the highest
bidders. But back at Best Buy, and
upon contemplating all too much of
this craziness that had led to me
needing or wanting badly or just
being here seeing it would be poss-
ible for me to finally get a new lap-
top, in a new age where they could
be had for cheaper than most mobile
phones, I became full of questions so
big I would never have thought they’d
exist, these big questions; they had not
even crossed my mind. So I called Mom
to ask her what she thought of the sit-
uation I was in, or perhaps it was a di-
lemma. I ask her what I should do, what
she thought about all of it, but her response
was a familiar lamentation about how she
feels so terrible that she can’t help me
financially. “Mom,” I say, “you just sent
me $50 for Christmas,” or I wouldn’t even
be considering what had, given the last
couple of years, been an outrageously
delightful dilemma. She does her curt
little chuckle and I then recount how my
week between Christmas and New Year’s
has been thus far, and began to feel almost
giddy about how much more pleasant it is,
despite all that I’m still currently living
through that is, well, sub-par. After this
final exchange (which is much more me
than her), I hang up happy to have gotten
the opportunity to listen to a few of her
complaints – who’s passed away, who’s
in the hospital, etc. – and I chastise her
for not sending me any sweet treats from
the holidays this year (neither from Thanks-
giving nor Christmas, both of which al-
ways include the best, sweetest desserts
my family is capable of concocting – and
I’m serious, for the most part, having
hinted surely so much that she had to
know it was a serious request). But
this welcome and trite conversation
with Mom has opened me up to the
realization, more than ever, that even
though I’ve endured what has been five
years of horror, the past year finally saw
a tic upward rather than downward,
and remembering last year’s holidays
reveals how significant a difference the
present holiday season is, since it’s one
in which I remain mostly upbeat, positive,
motivated and even happy – a stark con
ways include the best, sweetest desserts
my family is capable of concocting – and
I’m serious, for the most part, having
hinted surely so much that she had to
know it was a serious request). But
this welcome and trite conversation
with Mom has opened me up to the
realization, more than ever, that even
though I’ve endured what has been five
years of horror, the past year finally saw
a tic upward rather than downward,
and remembering last year’s holidays
reveals how significant a difference the
present holiday season is, since it’s one
in which I remain mostly upbeat, positive,
motivated and even happy – a stark con
trast, it turns out, to my mother’s general
disposition, to her outlook on life, at least
as she so clearly presents it. It’s not the
only reason that I’m happy to have had
the conversation with her. It’s also that
there are so little conversations at all
these days; in my life. Whatever the
reason, it certainly lifted my spirits,
which weren’t horrible in the first place.
Perhaps part of it is a bit of a cocky relief
that my spirits, my generally positive outlook
(one which was almost impossible to find
during the four years previous, since the de-
parture of the deadbeat without even having
the balls to tell me anything about it to my
face, having to face the horror of the
truth on my own after he disappeared…and
well afterward), that my disposition was
formed substantially in rebellion to my
mother’s endless complaining and proud
pessimism. I suppose that the same could
be said of my aspiration to stay happy, al-
most to the point of hedonism; to generally
avoid any serious materialism; to refuse
to even feel or even attempt to under-
stand or relate to the concept of ven-
geance in any real way; and it primarily
explains the fact that I have remained a
staunch pacifist my entire life (as it has
existed thus far, in any case), never hav-
ing hit anyone – well, besides, as I have
often been told, my twin brothers, upon
coaxing, on more than one occasion,
my parents or one of my less aware
relatives into allowing me into the
boys’ playpen – some impulses are
apparently impossible to control.
These optimistic, pacifistic, happy,
hedonistic, non-vengeful, happy-go-
lucky impulses began, at first, it
seems to me, as nothing more than
cliché adolescent or teenage acts of
rebellion: those impulses which were
against authority, particularly those
of one’s parents or extended family.
I’m not perfect. I certainly compre-
hend that. But speaking with Mom
makes me happy. And today, it made
me very happy. Not in an “I’m so glad
I’m not like you” manner, either –
even though the story of my day
may come across in such a one-
dimensional manner. This feeling
reiterates for me that it’s enlightening
to be close to those who are unlike you.
I truly believe that. And, sure, it’s funny
that “unlike” might apply just as intensely
(if not more) to family members, to those
closest to you, as those from the opposite
end of the earth with whom you’ve not
even language in common. Family, like
perfect strangers from radically different
cultures, we have so much in common.
And boy, are we different. Way dif-
ferent. But, when you think about it,
as I am at the moment, we’re related
to each person on this planet. Imagine
the commonality, and what we might
learn from the differences. Mom
reminds me who I am every time
I have the joy of her presence,
be it face to face, flesh to flesh,
or, as it most often is these days,
ear to ear. Happy 75th birthday,
Mom, a couple of weeks early
(Dad would have been 75 today,
in fact). Here’s to as many more
conversations as you can withstand.
I love you for who you are and
for who I am and I always will.
*(the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
attention)
disposition, to her outlook on life, at least
as she so clearly presents it. It’s not the
only reason that I’m happy to have had
the conversation with her. It’s also that
there are so little conversations at all
these days; in my life. Whatever the
reason, it certainly lifted my spirits,
which weren’t horrible in the first place.
Perhaps part of it is a bit of a cocky relief
that my spirits, my generally positive outlook
(one which was almost impossible to find
during the four years previous, since the de-
parture of the deadbeat without even having
the balls to tell me anything about it to my
face, having to face the horror of the
truth on my own after he disappeared…and
well afterward), that my disposition was
formed substantially in rebellion to my
mother’s endless complaining and proud
pessimism. I suppose that the same could
be said of my aspiration to stay happy, al-
most to the point of hedonism; to generally
avoid any serious materialism; to refuse
to even feel or even attempt to under-
stand or relate to the concept of ven-
geance in any real way; and it primarily
explains the fact that I have remained a
staunch pacifist my entire life (as it has
existed thus far, in any case), never hav-
ing hit anyone – well, besides, as I have
often been told, my twin brothers, upon
coaxing, on more than one occasion,
my parents or one of my less aware
relatives into allowing me into the
boys’ playpen – some impulses are
apparently impossible to control.
These optimistic, pacifistic, happy,
hedonistic, non-vengeful, happy-go-
lucky impulses began, at first, it
seems to me, as nothing more than
cliché adolescent or teenage acts of
rebellion: those impulses which were
against authority, particularly those
of one’s parents or extended family.
I’m not perfect. I certainly compre-
hend that. But speaking with Mom
makes me happy. And today, it made
me very happy. Not in an “I’m so glad
I’m not like you” manner, either –
even though the story of my day
may come across in such a one-
dimensional manner. This feeling
reiterates for me that it’s enlightening
to be close to those who are unlike you.
I truly believe that. And, sure, it’s funny
that “unlike” might apply just as intensely
(if not more) to family members, to those
closest to you, as those from the opposite
end of the earth with whom you’ve not
even language in common. Family, like
perfect strangers from radically different
cultures, we have so much in common.
And boy, are we different. Way dif-
ferent. But, when you think about it,
as I am at the moment, we’re related
to each person on this planet. Imagine
the commonality, and what we might
learn from the differences. Mom
reminds me who I am every time
I have the joy of her presence,
be it face to face, flesh to flesh,
or, as it most often is these days,
ear to ear. Happy 75th birthday,
Mom, a couple of weeks early
(Dad would have been 75 today,
in fact). Here’s to as many more
conversations as you can withstand.
I love you for who you are and
for who I am and I always will.
*(the title of this poem is from a page from Stephen Colbert’s
I Am America And So Can You which has a set of “STICKERS,”
each with a phrase which he recommends using to show that
you are the “man in charge” or that “you’ve got it all under
control” – I assume to be used especially when the man-reader
actually has no clue, or simply isn’t interested or even paying
attention)
