It’s the eve of my seven year wedding anniversary. I’m 52, and just popped a muscle relaxer (I’ve felt it coming on in my lower back for days). She’s 35, and spent all weekend pulling strings on a priceless logistical nightmare gone awry. She hates it when her crews get stranded; that’s the kind of boss she is. She’ll lose sleep to make sure they can get their own. Where did I find her?
Somehow, between work and projects, we managed to schedule some snuggle time that wouldn’t happen otherwise on the actual day of days itself. We get it; the world doesn’t stop spinning on an anniversary. If this were any other relationship from my past (ones in which my partners were raised by a long line of television viewers), then this would be the “be-all/end-all” episode of Full House or Family Matters.
The societal norm, written by storytellers for dramatic purposes, is that you’re supposed to reschedule the planet’s rotation for anniversaries and such. I’m not saying all my past partners were stupid, some of them were brilliant, and you can’t choose how you were raised. American societal norms in regard to relationships are based on fictional plot devices. I myself couldn’t fathom a childhood without a television. Where in the hell was I supposed to find my heroes? A library?
Damn writers.
My wife comes from a long line of academics, and this, my friends, has been an eye opening seven years for a guy like me. Television was available, but an afterthought in their homes. She saw her first horror film by my hands, and she was twenty-eight years old. I broke her off nice and proper; The Shining. Say what you will about King’s disagreements, but Jack is the epitome of fear in that movie. Now, she’s a pro, with a One Wish Willow on her work desk.
I said it before and I’ll say it again: no one thought we’d make it; not even us.
It was an experiment from the moment it sparked; unorthodox, raising eyebrows wherever we went. I have to say, though; it was quite normal in the fine art and horror worlds, and that’s who we were when we signed on to this gig. All good things must come to an end but, this time, it wasn’t my marriage.
I could’ve stayed and worked on the first one, but I was no longer in love.
I could’ve turned a blind eye to the second, but she was no longer in love with me.
I could’ve turned a blind eye to the third, but the scent of crazier shenanigans tickled my chin and carried me away like an apple pie on a cartoon window sill. Alcohol is a mother f*cker when you lose control. I lost control.
I’m five years sober now. Me and mine took off running, got gob smacked back by the pandemic, somehow managed to reassemble the pieces at the most inopportune time, and came out stronger – yet changed – on the other side.
Screw it; I’m tired of avoiding em–dashes because some Tok Tok cuck started an AI rumor. I love em–dashes.
It wasn’t easy; others lobbed wrenches into our already warped machine throughout. We’ve been sued by Dallas royalty, and old vendettas make for strange bed fellows when met with technology at the post office. Then there was the Starving Zoe/Six Flags/cancel-culture ordeal. Not to mention day-to-day family life with its chores, jobs, schools, home work, karate lessons, PTA, grocery shopping, politics, protesting, and attempting to stay relevant with minimal social media in a social media overrun society. I’m failing miserably, and I don’t care. I’m having a good time.
Let’s not forget: I was a part of a few failed businesses as well, and resigned from both the newspaper and the production company. Book conventions are an afterthought now. It was what it was until it wasn’t. I miss my readers, but we can still do all of those things from a distance, if I so deserve such attention at this point.
Here we sit with basically no one but the two of us, not counting immediate family. I have a friend back home, as does she. We all speak every couple of weeks with one-word text messages. We’re good.
She went from humble academia, to high society, to corporate mom.
I went from metal head, to soldier, to tech traveler, to county sheriff, to professional art guru, to writer/journalist, to husband/step dad/grandpa/struggling musician/still dabbles in writing/recluse.
Sh*t.
We’re the song that saves the world; at least our portion.
Together, we are Wyld Stallyns.
We’ve already been everything else.
Happiest seven year anniversary to my Sam; LOTR reference both intended and not. I’ve never made it this far in the game. Now what?
An art emergency?
Been a minute; why not?
Fifty bucks an hour is nothing to sneeze at for side gigs.
Hell, my whole life is a side gig now.
Update: it’s 4am, and we just got back from middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma.
The fine art world waits for no one. That’s why my fellow Democrats are secretly plotting to push fine art logistics into the spotlight if they regain power. Too many billionaires dodging wealth taxes by pouring fortunes into fine art, keeping it in transit, and then storing it at a Deleware freeport. Man, the book I could write about the stuff I saw and did all over America. Blow the lid off that f*cker, but I digress.
I no longer blow lids, work in art, or write books. Just blogs, songs, and naughty poems.
Did I ever tell you about the time I delivered a truck full of art to storage hidden in a cavern? It belonged to a former American Vice President…
Nah, no one wants to hear about me smoking a joint and writing a song while sitting next to Jimi Hendrix’s grave, or the time I had lunch in Detroit with the guys from FFDP, Volbeat, and Hell Yeah. Man, working in the art world kicked ass, from what I recall.
Do I remember enough to fill a book? Some of it’s pretty blurry.
That gig was a Gen X dream, but I don’t think I love myself enough anymore to pen a gonzo, narcicistic memoir.
See? This is what eight hours of staring at a highway will do to you. Five years was enough for me. I wonder why more truck drivers aren’t serial killers…
The Gonzo Wolf 
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