At Least They're Committed

It’s the season of Christmas, the celebration of Jesus’ birth even though he most likely was born in April. And with all the glitz and gluttony and the SUV commercials that imply that unless you buy your significant other a fancy vehicle you are not worthy of love, it’s difficult not to notice how many spectacularly dreadful people there are in the world.

It has me ponderin’, do these wretches realize they’re shitty? Do they think, “Heh, heh, heh, I’m a bad person but that’s OK because I’m better than other people” or are they just that oblivious?

Perhaps, as with spending quality time with family, taking that much-needed vacation and calling their mothers, these slobs do realize they should be kinder, more generous, or more engaged but believe they’ll have plenty of time to make up for it. Many times, they don’t. Plus, I have a sense that even if the selfish pricks live long enough to then attempt to rectify their shortcomings, they’ll still face the comeuppance of their past — because they knew at the time it was wrong.

Hmmm, is it AA, Promise Keepers or Selfish-Assholes Unite that encourages those who have inflicted injustice on others to seek out the injured and ask their forgiveness? Hilarious! It’s not going to make a difference, people! You did what you did and your ‘victims’ saying they forgive you doesn’t change that. For my part, I don’t need to forgive — if someone does something shitty to me it is on them, not me, and I just don’t need to be bothered by them anymore. Now, if they do it to my family, yeah, that’s another story.

It’s sort of like that bumper sticker from the ’70s (an ugly period of time, btw) that pompously said, “Christians aren’t perfect, they’re just forgiven.” I mean, damn, I can pretty much guarantee that the arrogant individuals behind those gems were in some way or another damned. But who knows, really. All I can do is surmise.

Yes, thank you very much, I am BLECHing-out (think Mad Magazine and Doonsbury) and it’s a darn good thing we’re nearing a break. It’s the end of the year, a great time to reflect on how not one blessed thing got resolved in 2023. Meanwhile attempting to hold onto hope for 2024 is like climbing a jagged slope with one leg. And it’s rough, I sort of know, because I currently only have one working leg and thus have been forced to resist the urge to re-conquer the Flatirons.

Ah, the final stretch to the new year! The annual opportunity to recall all the fuck-ups I made and how imperfect I am and how halt-screechingly stupid the world is and how I can’t seem to be able to do a damn thing about it. I wonder, does anyone ever look back and think, “Golly, what a swell year this has been! And look how much I have accomplished!” Nah. Only the arrogant and foolish, I suppose. And they’ll find out differently soon enough.

Thankfully, in addition to it being the season of excess, it’s also Nightmare Before Christmas time — a full two months of life-saving music. Well, one song by Danny Elfman in particular.

What have I done? What have I done?
How could I be so blind?
All is lost, where was I?
Spoiled all, spoiled all
Everything’s gone all wrong.

It’s not only because I injured my right leg two weeks ago and it doesn’t seem to be healing even a little bit. Or that my children aren’t any better off today than they were this time last year. Or that the unresolved conflict negatively radiating through our homes, across the globe and into the universe is neverending. Or that I finally got to the point where I can work from home at my mom’s to support her and give my brother and sis a break, but I can’t drive there.

AAAUUURGH!!! OK, I guess that’s a lot of it.

“Focus, TR, focus. The children are all right. That’s what matters, right? The house could fall all around and on top of you” (yes, please, literally, except being fucked over by my past ‘career’ means I now have sucky life insurance) “and as long as they’re OK, all is well, all is well.”

The toilets need to be upgraded, the garage doors must be replaced, the driveways (yes, two, I know just bear with me) and walkways around the house should be torn out and completely revisited . . . Sure, I know it never stops. And I know it never stops for anyone else, either. Except for rich people, of course, and that just means they have to find other, more elaborate and excruciating ways to screw up their lives and the lives of those around them.

“But you love it here, don’t you, TR?” Yes, I really love this house. “You’re doing your best, right TR?”

Yes, I honestly believe I am. Thanks, Gabriel, for that interjection. I was digressing. Yet, hold the phone I do have a point!

The Nightmare Before Christmas was released in 1993. That means for 30 years now, Poor Jack, the graveyard scene has been saving my life, reminding me that I’m not the only fuckup on this Earth and that my intentions have always, always been good — at least I truly believe they have. I watch that 2 minutes and 38 seconds again and again each year with an all-new cast of regrets fresh in mind and a silent scream in my throat. It’s as if it was written for me, which means it was written for the tens of millions of people like me.

But I never intended all this madness, never
And nobody really understood, well how could they?
That all I ever wanted was to bring them something great
Why does nothing ever turn out like it should?

And that’s when the dam breaks and the lip-quivering and shoulder-shaking sobs come out. And I cry for a good 10 minutes and the flood cuts a path into my thoughts allowing an inflow of the good things that have occurred and even deeds that I have done the past year.

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain,” Khalil Gibran.

I’ve arranged for the sunroom to be repaired, we’ve traveled to San Antonio and Atlantic City in support of one son, we’ve spent time with the grandsons weekly, our little girl is in a great mindset, the middle boy is thriving as an electrician and my youngest son is done with his training and home. I’m precisely where I need and want to be in my vocation, as opposed to the past decade-plus asking God why He placed me among pompous, self-impressed, ugly inside-and-out professionals who were so full of themselves and their visions of wealth, power and popularity that they never even realized their so-called subservients were mocking them.

Well, what the heck, I went and did my best
And my God I really tasted something swell, that’s right!
And for a moment, why, I even touched the sky!
And at least I left some stories they can tell . . .

I shake my head, I wipe my eyes and realize I’m going to just keep going. I don’t feel a lot better, but maybe a little and I know that I will feel better someday, some way. So yup, that’s Tripping Raul’s Lament for 2023. What’s next?

Thank you, Jack Skellington, thank you Danny Elfman . . . and thank you God for an, um, insightful, often hilarious and, let-us-pray, rectifying 2023. Time to celebrate the ‘reason for the season.’