All of us xangans, if the truth is told, want someone to read our posts. This is often accomplished by being either thoughtful, provocative, or finding that magic topic that everyone loves talking about. Combine any or all of these three and you are virtually guaranteed success and lots of those valuable e-props, which can be exchanged for valuable gifts and prizes.

So far, I've written a non-populist blog. However, with my ear to the ground, I've discovered a topic that many people talk and write about. This doesn't guarantee that anyone will want to hear what I have to say on this topic, but I have experience and success in my favor. That should carry some weight.

I have a feeling that this treatise will be long and wordy, so I'll try and divide it up into digestible portions.  What I'm hoping for as I look forward to this, rather than lots of footprints, comments, recs or those valuable e-props, is that someone out there may find a helpful point of view. This is especially true for you guys out there that are still looking over into that gaping, bottomless abyss that is marriage.

So, if interested, look for it in the coming weeks. Thanks for stopping by.

Life is full of contrasts, isn't it. Like in a black and white photograph, contrast gives depth to our lives. If everything  fell within a narrow range of normalcy, life would be boring. We wouldn't know good from evil, beauty from ugliness, sweet from sour. Life would be just a whole lot of gray.

Having just written about my paternal grandfather, I feel compelled to mention a word or two about my maternal grandfather. This isn't because of their likeness, but because of the contrast they brought into my life.

He was a perverse man. I'll refrain from graphic details here, if you don't mind, in order to both show respect and to keep this tale within tolerable limits. Suffice to say that he lived his life in a way that did not made me proud to be his grandson nor leave me with any memories that are worth recounting. In my mother's youth, he had been cruel to her and had done some things which were bad enough that I've been compelled to hold my tongue here. He continued in this vein into my pre-teen and teen years. On occasion, I crossed into this lurid shadow, and it wasn't a pleasant place to be.

I remember that he was, most of the time, a loner. He, too, tended a garden, but that was about the only thing my grandfathers had in common.

When I was a teenager, he did the one out-of-character thing I recall  in his relationship with me. He gave me a Japanese bayonet. It was old and beaten and bore marks of abuse itself--wounds from a bench grinder. This was the only thing I remember him ever giving me.

In his latter days, as he laid up in a hospital bed, himself also succumbing to cancer, my mother spent many hours by his side. It would be only hours, days later that he would step into eternity. Few words passed between them. Mom seized a moment when he was conscious and had his wits.

"Dad: I just want you to know that I forgive you."

Though I don't know the details, or whether there were other words spoken or tears or hugs, she told me that he responded:

"I'm sorry."

In the light of all my mother's flaws, her forgiving this dark-hearted man at the end of his wasted life will be what forever defines her in my eyes. She endured dark times, both of and not of her own creation, yet held no bitterness against this man who orchestrated many of those dark times. This also gave me a small portion of respect for my grandfather, who carried the weight of his sins for most of his 70-plus years. Here at the end, when a man's heart can be at its hardest, he made his amends, even if only in his own passive way.

Not long after this encounter with Mom, he slipped the surly bonds of this earth. I'm not curious to know what passed between him and his Creator at the throne. I have no evidence to show that it would have been a favorable encounter.

To an extent, we are who we are because of the people we've known. Whether we use people as an example or an example to avoid, they can influence us in small, unknowable ways. In this, my grandfathers were both examples to me.

There was a knock at the door. I, finding myself busy at editing my latest mediocre xanga post, didn't want to answer the door, but I did.

"Who is it?"

"It's me: Your Past. Can I come in?"

"No. Not tonight. I'm busy. Tell you what: let me call you next week. OK?" I had no plans to open the door, now knowing who was there.

Without a response, Past left. My put-off was a transparent and open rejection of his dropping in unannounced. Since it still succeeded in getting rid of my unpleasant "guest", I was pleased . 

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I tell my friends today that I don't really have "glory days" to relive, as my life has gradually gotten better. Looking back isn't always a pleasant prospect.

We all have unpleasant memories of earlier years. I certainly do. My parents had a rocky relationship as I was growing up, separated repeatedly, each departure holding the threat of divorce. I don't know all the dark secrets, but part of my coming-of-age was realizing that my mother was adulterous. Over the years, I came to realize that there was more than one such indiscretion. Goodbye, childhood. So long, innocence.  Welcome to the world of grown-ups, where the reckless actions of people can hurt others more keenly than blade or bullet.

To understand my mother, I had to understand her past. The sorrows she endured in her formative years made mine seem pale. The stories of her trials ultimately reached me through my wife, my mother finding it easier to confide these dark secrets to her rather than to me or my brother. I can forgive that. The past doesn’t excuse the future, though. It may explain it, but we all make choices. At any moment, one decision can change the direction of our lives, either leading us toward sunnier climes or down darker paths, lined with more regret, sorrow and despair. She made her choices and, for the rest of her life,  struggled along in a darkness that she herself had created.

 Bitterness was always right there, waiting to sink its teeth into my neck. There were struggles he and I had, and I’m ashamed to admit that he got the best of me from time to time. Ultimately, I emerged the victor. I chose to break the cycle. I turned toward those sunnier climes to soak up some rays. Break out the shades!

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 Sometimes, when Past drops in unannounced and I’m not creative enough or quick enough to keep him at bay, he barges in and quickly monopolizes the conversation, preferring the most unpleasant topics. Why is it that this fellow doesn’t have a happy tale to tell?

 “Let’s talk about your failures, shall we?”

 “Let’s not. How about those Cowboys?” I feign interest in shallow sports talk, something that those who know me immediately recognize as a ploy.

 He persists in his tale-telling, bringing up moral failures, embarrassing moments, and any other event that showcases my human frailties in HD. He continues to talk, unfazed at how we are trying to ignore him.

 We? Oh, yes. Sorry. There is another friend in the room. I usually prefer his company, but we don’t spend as much time together as I would like. I’m often wrapped up in my own plans and find myself too busy to hang with him.

 “You don’t have to listen to him,” my friend says of Past, my not-friend. I agree.

 Interrupting Past, who hasn’t shut up since he came in, I get a surprised glance.

 “Past: you have to leave.” He starts up again, hitting the speed bump without slowing.

 “Now!” I show him to the door. When he’s on the other side, I close the door and throw the bolt.

 Things are quiet. My friend and I can talk now. He is a soft-spoken fellow, never one to shout above a loudmouth like Past. I’m always glad to have these conversations. Just being around him makes me realize how much better life is now. All those things Past talked about tonight? They are far away—as far as the east is from the west. They only bother me when he brings them up.

We talk. About good times. About the future.

Given that xangans are universally poor-mannered buffoons (myself included), and given that Bongo5's Stream of Consciousness Soiree is a family-friendly blog, I have been forced to adopt rules of conduct in the same way as many other high-traffic xanga weblogs. If you folks only knew how to behave, this wouldn't be an issue. Here are the rules:

1. No eating while viewing my weblog - It is generally impolite to eat when talking, or to talk with your mouth full, so it logically fits that it is also wrong to browse online conversations with your mouth full. The only exception to this rule is that you may eat if you bring enough for everyone else.
2. No usage of the F-Bomb - Usage of Bombs A-E are acceptable. Also, please refrain from the usage of scatological terminology, unless you are using it in a scientific sense, actually referring to scat. Example: "Gee whiz! I stepped in some raccoon scat!"
3. No reading of my weblog if all you are wearing is your drawers - I don't even want to think of people reading my page in nothing but their skivvies. I'll make an exception if: a) it is really, really hot in your domicile; b) you are trying to get ready for work/school and couldn't put off reading my page for another minute; or c) all of  your clothes are dirty and you are in the process of washing them all at once. Otherwise, please dress properly.
4. No reading my weblog if you have recently eaten liver - I don't like liver, nor any other cooked or uncooked viscera. I firmly believe it is not good for human consumption. Also, it would be logically inconsistent if I permitted my readers to consume liver as I also headed a worldwide campaign to rid the world of liver. I'll give you one week after liver consumption to detox, then you can come back.
5. Do not read my weblog while bouncing back and forth between xanga, Facebook, a chat window or any other page. - I want your undivided attention so you can pick up the delicate nuance of each word used, each phrase turned, each masterfully crafted paragraph. When you're through reading, feel free to exit, log onto your Facebook account and tell your friends what you've been eating (unless you've been eating liver).  

There. I think that will do for now.

BTW, this is what I do when I can't think of anything that can remain cohesive for more than two paragraphs.

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Went and saw The Book of Eli the other night. Denzel is one of my favorites, even when he's hamstrung with an imperfect screenplay like this one. Gary Oldman was ultra-slimy, and Michael Gambon and Frances de la Tour were phenomenal in their little roles. This shows that good actors and good acting can rise to the top of a near-poor movie and make it worth seeing on their merits alone.

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Heard a news story the other day on NPR. It told about a C-130 that hauled lots of precious cargo to the relief effort in Haiti, primarily consisting of three commodities: water, food and Hillary Clinton. The same story also told of other military planes hauling Americans back to US soil. They interviewed some American missionaries who were flying back. "Thank God!," one said. "I just want to get home and take a hot shower." This struck me as incongruous that a missionary would abandon ship at the moment when the people of Haiti really needed help.

I know lots of missionaries. Really. They are neither perfect nor saintly people. They are normal--normal from a Christian standard, I should say. So I suppose it's normal that when the going gets tough for some missionaries they get on the first military transport home. The really funny thing is that while they are abandoning Haiti, other Americans are swarming in. Heck, Brian Williams, NBC Nightly News anchor, was on the ground in Haiti within 24 hours of the earthquake. Time Magazine has about 10,000 photographers in country. Also, forgive me if it seems I'm broad-brushing missionaries in general. I'm certain there are many more missionaries that have remained in Haiti than have left Haiti. Those are the people I'm praying for. I pray that the Lord would bless their work more than whatever it is that all of the Brian Williamses and Time photographers are doing. The people of Haiti need more than relief. They need hope, too.

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Two events of late have shown me just how much I'm disconnected from pop culture: elgaberino's Top Ten of the Decade Fest and the Golden Globes last night. In perusing list after list of xangans' favorite music, I would find myself saying, "Who's that?" or "Did they just make that up to appear extra-hip or what?" Also, last night I realized just how much TV I've missed over the last few years. I've never seen Big Love (the premise sort of creeps me out, plus it's on HBO, which I don't have). I've never seen Gossip Girl, nor did I have a clue as to who Chace Crawford was until skittlesruletheworld met him in a pool hall in Dallas and told me who he was. I did go see Avatar, and I did watch Season One of Mad Men, but that just doesn't seem to close the gap. I suppose that my life, my schedule, and my priorities at present cannot support such a cutting edge knowledge of pop culture. I'll have to be content to exist on the fringes, dipping my finger in every now and then for a taste of what everyone else is saying is"Yum, yum!".