About The Funk...

Observational Spittle from the mind of a man of color in his 40s, without the color added (most times). Come in, laugh, and you may learn something...

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Saturday, July 25, 2015

The 46th year

As another weekend too quickly reaches its midpoint, I am spending my last few hours in my mid 40's and begin the downslide into 50.

It’s been a quiet day, where my children actually subconsciously gave me an early bday present by not pissing me the hell off.

Believe me that was worth more than its weight in gold.

Watched a PPV of the WWE, and I was a little sad when they showed a brief glimpse of one of my (former) heroes, Terry “Hulk Hogan” Bollea.

It seems that all those prayers and vitamins didn’t include black people.  Was a major bummer to a pleasant evening with my dear spouse.

As I sat and watched the choreographed violence that is professional wrestling, I thought about a few things; i.e. what have I accomplished in my life at this point.

Well, the first thing I thought about was my mortality.  I know that is a morbid thought as one is approaching another birthday, but I had to be honest with myself.  I am at least 60lbs overweight, climbing the stairs requires an oxygen tank at times, I haven’t had a soda in 25 days yet my blood sugar sucks, and I could wear a training bra if my back wasn’t so wide across. 

Oh, I try not to smile because my once pearly whites look like it took a money shot from a banana.

I haven’t taken care of myself….this I do know.

On the flip side, I’ve written 4 fairly reviewed books in the last 3 years.  I have sold a total of 100 of them, but that isn’t the point.  I, one who has known he has quit on more things than Cubs fans and WS hopes, actually took some of the ideas in his head, put them to computer, and shared them with the world.

Not sure if I am going for #5, but at least if I drop dead tomorrow (not saying I want to or asking you to interfere, Satan) the 3 people who aren’t family who come to my funeral can say, “At least he can add ‘author’ to his epitaph.”

I’m a dad, which counts for something.  Sometimes I am not very good at it, since I have little patience and don’t tolerate disrespect well from human beings who depend on my wife and I for, well, EVERYTHING.  My marriage after 15 years is strong, but I wish that life hadn’t beat us down into such a routine we are like a CW network sitcom.

It’s weird, because in a lot of ways I put on a daily facade when I leave my home, cracking a joke, helping Erkel-like men to avoid my fate, amusing Caucasians even though I wonder if they actually like me for me, or as that funny black guy who doesn’t have a record.  While I know that last statement may make the few that read this uncomfortable, I am pretty sure I am not the only person of African descent that have thought that at least once.

Every day I get sad once, whether it is because of my lack of accomplishments, money, time, or hope in my personal life or looking at the news reports about another nut job shooting up a theater or another cop treating a black life like it is worthless.  Actually, I am saddened more that while my heart goes out to those innocent folks who just wanted to laugh at the very talented Amy S in a film, the media treats this as a bigger tragedy than when they dig up whatever dirt they can find on another black victim, as if they deserved their execution.

Anyway, as the summer of 2015 heads into its turn to head towards fall, I sit at my table, writing this and remembering the joy of sharing my thoughts or stories with the world, even if most of the world isn’t interested in what I have to say.  My birthday is the one day a year where I like to feel a little special, you know?  Forget about my troubles and just for a few hours feel the love that people would actually miss me if I wasn’t here.  That’s a pretty cool thing, really.  I guess I only wish that ever so often my phone would ring and besides one cousin someone would check in on me.  I wish that whenever I speak to my mother, who is quickly slipping into the abyss, it wasn’t a chore and a heartbreak.  I wish I could get home to see my parents while there is still time, but I know that I have to take care of my family first, and money isn’t something that comes easily to the Flagler’s of Indiana.  However, I also have a small smile on my face, because my 9 year old son with Down Syndrome and Autism gives me hugs all the time.  My preteen, who can be somewhat of a moody person, still gives me our special goodnight handshake that I’ve finally mastered.  My wife, ever so often, still thinks I’m cute.  My people in NYC actually wouldn’t mind seeing me again. 

So perhaps I do matter a little bit to a few.  So tomorrow I will enjoy my birthday with my wife and family, grab a piece of dead cow, and go back to work for 15 more days, hoping I can continue to find work until someone brings me on until I die.


…perhaps G. Eric Francis does have one book in him that will allow him to get a new car he needs, fix the gaps in his floor, set up a special needs fund for his sons, allow his wife to finally sleep, and finally get rid of the albatross that has weighed over his family since its inception. 

So I am in a mixed mood as the final hours of year 46 (someone told me that I am in my 46th year; I need to slap that person), hopeful but down, tired but not done, joking but afraid when I walk out the door.

Then again, God has kept me here this long.  Maybe I am not quite done yet.




1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Just keep on keeping on, this is how you are doing your best for your family.