Throughout high school, I was a choir geek.
I would not consider myself a thespian, by any measure, as I could not act my way out of a box (at the time), but what I could not do dramatically, I could do vocally. I had had hopes of being a rock star as my adult profession.
Silly, self-limiting childhood dreams, I know.
There were three levels of choir. Mixed choir, which anyone could join, Concert Choir, which had tryouts for and required being able to read sheet music and know musical scales and such, and then there was Show Choir, four guys and four girls, two who were sopranos, two altos, two tenors, and two bass voices – which required synchronized dance moves with the singing.
I’d been decent at the choir thing, and made show choir both my sophomore senior year, and missed out in my junior year as my voice transitioned from a tenor to a bass during puberty.
I’d never make a living at it. I knew it at the time, but I didn’t care. After being picked on most of my grade school years, I had made the command decision in 9th grade to fit in on my terms – to try things out and experiment – and most of all – to enjoy high school.
And enjoy it I did. I discovered partying in 10th grade.
About then I quit judging my father and learned a bit about life in general.
I had friends in choir – Mike Fais – who really did sing off tune but when he hit a note the whole world heard. Jim Hughes – who obsessed with me over Nikki Putnam who in our opinion had the world’s most perfect ass and we’d intentionally wait for her in key spots to follow her to choir just to watch her ass. She loved it though, and had always made it clear our oggling and occasional squeezing of her butt was more than invited.
It was about 10th grade I started gaining the reputation for the hookups for alcohol. I’d started drinking in 9th grade, and in 10th grade my concert choir took a trip to California for a choir exchange with another high school where me and Randy, a senior, were hooked up with a pot smoking hippie for our overnight stay to which Randy and I proceeded to get high and blazingly drunk.
Afterwards, in California, we all went to a ‘house party’ where many other choir geeks from our class were brought, and I – bored – decided to stir the pot a little and have fun with my condition and act out of character and use the alcohol as an excuse.
I got naked.
My friends – especially Jim and Mike – hadn’t seen this side of me, literally and figuratively, but I felt liberated. It’s not that I didn’t care about the people around me, I did, but this was my opportunity to quit acting and start playing.
Not About 15 minutes of this goes by, me acting so completely out of character, I do a couple more shots, and I’m hooting and hollering when Jim puts me over his shoulder and lugs me upstairs to the restroom and locks me inside. Mike throws my clothes inside. Shortly after.
About 10 minutes of this goes by, and I have to swear to them I’m gonna straighten up.
So I lie. Through my teeth. and get dressed. And walk downstairs calmly, and then – walk straight to the shots and down another.
And OFF come the clothes again.
This time Jim and a few other of the guys didn’t waste any time again pulling me upstairs.
Now I fully admit I was using the alcohol as an excuse for this behavior. I’d wanted to do it anyways. This just stripped away the inhibition, the guard if you will, and gave me the permission I needed to just let loose and not concern myself with the consequences.
This time, they refused to unlock the door and barricaded me to the toilet. They weren’t going to let me out until the party was over.
I yelled. I pleaded. I’d been having too much fun and don’t remember anything they said.
All I do know is. I put on my pants. And about then I saw the little window in the bathroom leading to the rooftop, and I crawled out. From there, I quietly jumped off the roof of the house without shoes, they’d had my shoes, about a 12 foot drop, which was definitely painful, and I snuck back inside the house.
From there, I grabbed ANOTHER shot. I think it was jack Daniels. And then I snuck my way up the stairs to the front of the restroom where four of my fellow students and a girl from the local choir were all hanging out outside the closed restroom door.
The girl said in a loud whisper (the Doors were playing downstairs) “Do you think he’s passed out yet?”
“I don’t know , I don’t hear anything, do any of you?,” Jim said.
I leaned in and said, in my best inebriated voice “Maybe we should open up the door and see?”
They all turned around in astonishment.
In hindsight I know that bathroom didn’t have a window.
My mind filled in the gap in not understanding how I escaped by remembering it with a window.
In hindsight I know why they were all truly astonished.
How I’d managed to get out of a fully guarded and closed and locked bathroom with no windows to behind them was simply impossible.
That’s why I write. It helps me wade through my memories to truly understand my own experiences and history rather than what I’d deluded myself to believing – that I was a perfectly normal human.
I spent so long wanting to be just human.
That I’d lost my identity as Q.
Only to regain it moments later.
Here’s the thing about leveraging collective memory.
You remember what the collective can explain without it reverting to superstition and magic.
All the rest.
Becomes classified as fiction, hallucination, and delusion.
Even if it covers up the truth.
Alcohol had been a crutch to the real me over the years.
I could be a super version of me – but much of it I lost my memories of once I reverted back to normalcy.
For instance, I was working on contract up in Las Vegas.
I have never been particularly good with females. I’m often fumbling over my own words and feeling entirely insecure about myself which – let’s face it – not only do women want Mr Right, they want Mr Perfect which I am most certainly not.
But add in alcohol. And not only could I be spontaneous. I was the most attractive man on Earth.
One for instance – I was on contract up in Las Vegas in 1996. I was married at the time, and had a quasi-friend who claimed he saw my having sex with another guy at a bachelor party in North Scottsdale which he magically lost the photos to – but this had me suspecting my wife at home in Phoenix was escorting for money – not just topless dancing at a club – and for all intents and purposes she was a prostitute.
This was tearing me up inside, as I had just gotten out of a marriage with a woman who had cheated on me, and Lisa, I absolutely adored, but I was sincerely trying to rethink the way I regarded monogamous sexuality to make my marriage with her work.
I never did tell her about that. Funny the confessions that can come out freely on a blog when I know no one’s reading.
I’d been working my ass off at the time – about 60+ hours a week, flying back to Phoenix every other weekend, and after about four months of this and hearing from multiple sources that my suspicions were well founded, I decided against confronting her and instead just enjoying her partnership when it was there and when it wasn’t – just living life on my own terms.
That wasn’t just hard. It was fucking hard.
So one night. I went to Club Paradise. The classiest topless club in Las Vegas.
I had earmarked $2000 that evening to hire one of these girls to come back with me to the hotel.
But as it turned out. I didn’t have to .
Enter Hailey + two bottles of Dom Perignon at $200 a bottle and a boatload of shots and what do you get?
Me. And Hailey. Having sex in the elevator at Treasure Island. The next weekend, us, having sex in the suite I’d gotten on the eighth floor as I pushed her naked tits to the window overlooking Hollywood as I had sex with her from behind.
Hailey worked in Las Vegas on the weekdays, like I did, and flew back to her lawyer husband during the weekends. Its not that she wasn’t happy with him, she had made that clear, she just knew what he was doing on some of the weekend trips and simply enjoyed the time off.
For me. The woman was absolutely stunning and with the exception of that first expensive night with the bottles of Dom, the only thing I paid for was dinners here and there as she ended up saving money by staying in my hotel room for the rest of the next six months I worked in Vegas.
Alcohol created that situation.
But it didn’t sustain it. And once my contract ended in Las Vegas. I never heard from her again.
Now here’s the thing.
I’ve since learned how time functions, and that this woman known as Hailey to me back then – was also modern day – 2006 version of Rachel. Rachel was married to a lawyer, Chris, and she was traveling to Las Vegas while her husband stayed back and worked as a lawyer.
Similarly. I also know the reason my friend saw Lisa cheating on me was because he’d seen me with Lisa in Vegas. In a weird, looping way, he’d seen Lisa choosing to be with her husband. but my friend not fully comprehending me as Q – saw it as a different man and place.
Time and the way it flowed really was that jacked up for me at times.
Ultimately, I think I’ve tangoed with my ‘soul mate’ – a being much like me – throughout my life.
Not understanding what I was becoming, my mind ‘broke down’ constantly. Reality bent and contorted as time refused to maintain the straight arrow I’d been educated to believe is how it always flowed. So as I had an affair on my wife, I was only cheating on her with another version of her. How could I help but not be attracted?
As I got to know these women. I saw bits and pieces of myself in them.
And learned something valuable through this cosmically dislocated discourse spread over a period of observable human years but more than likely occurring over an uncountable number of years – an eternity. Numerous eternities.
To the men known as “Q” on Star Trek and the Doctor on Doctor Who. You inspired me to lighten up, to push people outside their comfort zones, including myself, and to be ok with a little self doubt. You taught me that remorse is nothing more than guilt and is a useless emotion, and that regret is an empowering alternative which is a necessary fixture of encouraging choice which lacks conformity to established norms.
My mom sings horribly.
Sometimes I wonder if she does that intentionally to let others sound good and to hear something different that she never expected.
Mike Fais wasn’t a great singer.
But sometimes I wonder if there’s more to the guy as he’s truly passionate with his art of creating and modifying vehicles and that’s where his passion seems to lie.
Sometimes you choose to sing off tune.
And choose to be imperfect.
To allow others to create things you never imagined.
But you have to, have to – if you’ve done your job as a parent or god – to find a way to mentally to understand the creations your progenitors can and will come up with will be both beautiful and ghastly and sometimes – at the same time.
For all we know. Sex. And the female could have been invented in an all male jailed population where one man’s dick was ripped off, and the other men raped the man’s internals.
Or it could have been invented by the Borg, as an alternative to assimilation and nanotubules.
When you truly come to terms with time, you realize that anything you can think of is true and false at the same time.
And that’s when you begin to write and take control of your own story.
And realize the importance of singing off tune, by choice.
On that note. Blake commented about my haircut and said “When are you entering service?”
I told him I had tried, already, but was over the age limits.
To which he responded with “But you have a degree. You could be an officer”
To which I responded with “Age Limits”
I mean I’m going to live to be 800 to 1200 years old. And this society has developed infantile age limitations to working with the military which is reflected in the combat oriented media where everyone seems to be fighting or holding a weapon.
As he responded with “But you’re 29, arent you?”
“Kudos, Blake, wonderful idea.”
I mean. let’s face it. I could always lie to the military to get what I want. I could always find a fake social security number, create a fake birth certificate, and use that to apply for a legitimate state ID and apply under that. I have no doubt I’d constantly be questioned about my age.
But the truth is. I want my military to change for me.
Pilots can fly to any age in the real world, provided they can pass physicals.
So why shouldn’t they be allowed to join and fly in the military at any age?
Lawyers can work to any age in the real world, and often pass away doing what they do.
So why shouldn’t the military better reflect the actual society it represents by allowing lawyers to be trained and educated to any age?
Doctors. Mechanics. Psychologists. Can all be any age in the real world.
So why is it the military takes only the perfectly fit young?
This isn’t a representative organization of America.
And I as a crazy homeless guy know full well I’d be in good company based on prior experience with the military.
If given my options. I’d like to fly large cargo craft. The C130 and the likes for the air force. I have the private pilot’s license, two degrees, and when I got comfortable with flying it would absolutely push that plane to it’s limits on landings.
I’m level 45.
And don’t look at time the same way as everyone else and know I’ll see UFO’s while I’m flying for them and would be excited to take pictures of them.
Is this the type of guy you want carting your children to danger zones?
Chances are I’d work out when I felt like it.
Which would be on occasion if there were hot women at the gym. Perhaps moreso if it was coed naked.
But the fact is I dont like working out that much anymore.
Earth – United States – this message is for you.
I’ve chosen to sing off tune and enjoy life on my terms off and on throughout my life until I fell victim to your conformist ways which had me not appreciating life and trying to end it.
I’m not going down that path again.
Now either you get your shit together and present me – US – viable and fun options which I’m trying to present to you.
Or I’ll do absolutely nothing but sit in a tent and pick belly button lint and talk about it all day long.
I worked in the corporate world and understand insanity from all facets.
And i am prepared for anything you have to dish out.
Yes, I want to join the Air Force and contribute in that way to this, my world which will help me get off the streets and out of homelessness. I’d LOVE to fly. It’s a thrill to me. I’m not on drugs or alcohol and am respectful of the rules and regulations of the FAA and pilots in general.
I’d be the perfect candidate and you know it.
If you quit discriminating by age. As you military agencies claim to represent a country yet don’t respect any of it’s rules.
The simple truth is – I respect the US Air Force organization too much and don’t want to lie to them to get what i want.