I've Decided To Go To Prison

        I’ve decided to go to prison. Call it a career move.
        I don’t know how I’ll get there. It can’t be for a violent crime. As much fun as armed robbery might be to commit, I couldn’t live with the consequences. Plus, I’d probably end up at some hell-hole maximum security state penitentiary, like Folsom, instead of a Club Fed, which is infinitely more pleasant. I may be out of my fuckin’ mind, but I’m not stupid.
        Getting into prison may be harder than I think. I’ve got no priors, and I can afford a great lawyer. And I would use a great lawyer, because he or she would be my best chance at cutting a deal to get me into my prison of choice. Knowing which prison I’d want to go to is something I haven’t done any research on, either. One more thing to add to my to-do List.
        I’ve always thought “fraud” had a nice ring to it. And I love the word “embezzlement”. Okay. Now it’s starting to come together.
        How much fun would it be to create a fictitious person from scratch? Then become that person? I’ve done a little acting. Let me tell you. It would be a blast. Think “Tootsie” on a massive dose of steroids, without the gender bending.
        I could just pretend it was Halloween. For a year. I’d come up with a name, and fabricate an entire past. Where was this guy from, and what was his childhood like? What schools did he go to? Would he be the shy type, who, incredibly, has never been laid? Or would he go the other way, and say that he’s slept with everything that had a pulse? So may choices.
        The fraud part would lead to the embezzlement. After I falsified records, forged documents, and manufactured bogus....everything, I could get credit cards under my new alias, then run up exorbitant bills, with no intention of paying. But I’d have to take it a step further. I’d have to steal lots of money from the company I work for. Well I’m creative, and I’ve got an M.B.A. and a finance degree. I’m sure I could figure something out.
        The more I think of it, the more fun this sounds. And really, it’s as victimless a crime as there can be. I’d return all of the money I embezzled. I’d give back everything I bought. Well, almost everything. It would be pretty hard to give back a first class trip to Australia. And the Ferrari F430 Spider would be worthless after I totaled it from driving too fast while under the influence.
        Hey. I’m going to prison. Let me live it up a little.
        When I got out, I could write about how I pulled this caper off, and what it was like to be in prison. I’d go on talk shows, and do interviews on Today and Good Morning America. I’d get psychoanalyzed by Dr. Phil and Oprah. I’ll bet The View would positively love me. And I’d definitely get to cop a cheap feel off of Kelly Ripa. That wouldn’t suck.
        This prison talk reminds me of one of my favorite principessa stories. The first time she drove to my new apartment for the weekend, I was showing her around. She saw a notebook lying on a counter. The notebook’s cover had a picture of me, dressed up on Halloween as a rock star. I had on a wig, make-up, spandex pants, chains, and no shirt. Actually, maybe it wasn’t Halloween. Maybe it was just a typical Tuesday in June. Anyway, the picture got her pretty head spinning.
        We were sitting around and got into a conversation about what I was really like. That somehow lead to a discussion about deviant behavior. That lead her to pop the question.
        “Have you ever been in prison?”, she asked. When she said it, she smiled and raised her eyebrows, as if a response from me in the affirmative would be a bonus point. I laughed, and replied incredulously “No!”. She tried to back pedal, and said “I meant jail, not prison, like, overnight in the drunk tank or something!”. I saw right through that and replied “No you didn’t, doll. You said ‘prison’ and you meant prison. It’s okay. I’m laughing aren’t I?” She quickly copped to it. But I digress.
        My plan to enter prison is similar to the plight of Rubert Pupkin in The King Of Comedy. I'll do something so ridiculous that I'll either become famous or get committed for it. Probably both. So I’m off to the big house. I’m not sure when, but I’ll let you know how it’s going from my cell. And I don’t mean as in “phone”.
        They do let you have internet access from prison, don’t they?


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a prison full of Wrongs) Reserved.

Clint's Mind Fuck Tours, Inc.

Note: I wrote this several days ago. It was going to be yesterday’s post. But the Dark Side was strong in me yesterday, and I was compelled to do something different. When I can articulate where I was at when I posted yesterday, I'll share that. Thanks for reading.

        Another bout of mental necrophilia. This time about something completely different. And like a bus that lies about where it’s going, when I hop on this mind fuck tour, I think it’s about somebody else. Or something else. So off I go, and before I know it, it’s clear that this is about me. So I end up in a different place than I thought I would. The destination is never the one that flashes on the marquee on the front of the bus. And as many times as I take this trip, I’m always surprised by that.
        Clint’s Mind Fuck Tours, Inc. has been around for as long as I’ve been able to think. I’ve tried to take this line to solutions a million different times, and it always fails me. It promises me a safe trip in the form of guided action. It guarantees resolution through adept problem solving and analytical know how. But once I get on, it’s a nightmare. And where it takes me, if I let it, is hell.
        Maybe it’s time to change bus companies.
        I’ve made progress in that area. Before, I would get on this bus and ride it until the end of the line. Sometimes the trip would take weeks. And when I reached my final destination, I would have no idea where I’d been. Worse, I’d have no idea where I was. So I would convince myself that the trip was a good one, and that I ended up where I wanted to be. I had to do that then. Because I wasn’t aware enough to understand what had happened. And I wasn’t strong enough or wise enough to admit that I had just made a colossal blunder by taking this fuckin’ bus. Again. Denial was my only option then.
        It’s not now. Now I’m learning that this ramshackle tour company is not the way to travel.
        Clint’s Mind Fuck Tours, Inc. is therefore going out of business. But as much as I want it to, it’s not going away overnight.
        I still take it far too often. But I don’t stay on as long. I know now where this bankrupt operation is taking me, and I get off quicker.
        Previously, I was just a passive passenger on this juggernaut that was speeding through life, running over whatever it had to to get where it wasn’t going. And whatever it couldn’t run over, it just swerved around. Just like in the movie “Speed”.
        When I let my reckless mind take me on this ride, it’s an awful trip. It’s painful, and disruptive, and it takes me out of my current life and into my past. My very painful past, where I didn’t have the tools or the support I have now. Where I was a different person who did life differently. It sucks me back in and does everything it can to convince me that I’m back at camp, or alone at school, or any one of a million different traumatic scenarios that are no longer applicable. My mind does not want to recognize that I have grown beyond that. It wants to keep me stuck there. And sometimes I let it. And when I do, it hurts so much I can get lost in the pain. Completely lost. “Gilligan’s Island” lost. “Lost” lost.
        My mind also loves to predict the future, but it’s usually wrong. Does that stop it? No way. It actually encourages it, because it wants to eventually be good at predicting the future and therefore get it right. Because my mind can’t stand failure. So it tries even harder. Gathers more information, devotes more resources to figuring it out, takes up more space. All of which generally just takes me out of life and fucks me up.
        When I catch myself and choose to step off of this nightmare bus ride, I have the opportunity to connect to something else. I give myself the chance to connect to something that can take me where I need to go.
        Deep within me, there is a center that knows where I need to be and has what it takes to get me there. That’s Clint’s Heart and Intuition Spiritual Tour Bus Line. But getting on that bus is not easy for me. Not yet.
        That bus is still sometimes hard to find. I have to first get on the Mind Fuck bus and realize that I’m going nowhere fast. I have to go through all of this pain to realize that I’m on the wrong path and that there’s another route available.
        I’m in transition between these two routes right now. Letting go of the old ways is still very difficult. Sometimes it feels impossible. Like an addiction. I’m not used to the route yet. It’s still a great unknown. And as much as I know it is the way, I don’t completely trust it.
        That’s why I keep getting challenged to trust. I keep being presented with opportunities to do it different because, fuck, I need the practice. I’ve got forty plus years of doing it the old way. If I’m going to get better at taking a different path, I better learn to travel down it, and travel it as often as possible. I hate that about this work, but I know it’s true.
        So here I go, closing one company and starting another one. A better one. One that can take me where I want to go. One that enriches my life, instead of distracting from it.
        And just like starting a new business on the outside, starting a new one on the inside takes a lot of work. It takes the support of those around me. It involves taking risks, sometimes incredibly big, scary risks. It takes faith in myself. It means following my true inner voice, when other voices inside of me and outside of me tell me that I’m crazy.
        And it takes love. Love of self. Love of others. Love of life.
        Amazing to me how it always boils down to that.

©2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a bus full of Wrongs) Reserved

HallowThanksChritmas

        It has already started.
        The day after Halloween, a radio station started playing Christmas music, twenty-four-seven. Retail giants like Wal-Mart, Stop & Shop, and Home Depot have got their Christmas merchandise out on the shelves. Television commercials, bestowing the almighty glory of spending, are ramping up the hype. They deliver us from the evil of the economy and to the temptation of buying somebody a diamond ring. Make sure you give it to them while its snowing.
        Some people hate this premature cultural barrage of Christmas.
        I am NOT one of those people.
        I love it.
        And not because I approve of the commercialization of Christmas. In fact, I don’t even look at all of the hype that way. It’s not commercialization. It’s celebration. That’s honestly how it feels to me. It really is just a simple matter of perspective.
        It has everything to do with what I bring to the experience. Not what the experience brings to me.
        Christmas is about getting together with people I love. So when I see a television commercial where people greet each other at a holiday party, even if it’s an advertisement for a tire company, what I respond to is the joy of the gathering. I completely focus on that because it makes me feel good. I can’t for the life of me remember what tire they’re hocking.
        Christmas is about bright, colorful lights and beautiful decorations. So when I see all the retail stores displaying their holiday wares, even in early November, I just get excited. I don’t care how far away the day is. I can start looking at all this bright, shiny, sparkly, beautiful stuff NOW. And I can keep looking at it. For months. How cool is that?
        Christmas is about shopping at all the malls and stores that are decorated and lit to the nines, playing a never ending stream of holiday music, as you search out a gift for somebody you really care about. The crowds don’t bother me. The more the merrier. It’s just plain fun to be part of all that mayhem.
        When it comes right down to it, Christmas is about love. So when I hear a holiday song, even if it’s two months before the holiday itself, I feel love. I feel warmth. Happiness. Joy. Peace. How can that be bad?
        The expression on a person’s face, and the warmth I feel from them on Christmas eve or Christmas morning, positively DOES IT for me. Every time. Every year. Every person. Without exception.
        Then there’s Thanksgiving. It could appear that all the Christmas hype absolutely steamrolls over our national day of gratitude. I love Thanksgiving too. So what I do, conceptually at least, is just sort of combine it with Christmas and make it a massive, two month celebration. ThanksChristmas. It starts the day after Halloween and ends on December 26.
        In fact, since I love Halloween so much too, I could combine all three into one big holiday and call it HallowThanksChristmas. That’s how the whole holiday season feels to me. I absolutely love this time of year. A two month celebration of joy. Bright lights. Gifts. Love. Costumes. Shiny things. Food. People. Life.
        I realize that I’m probably in the minority here, but what else is new. I know, however, that there are more out there like me. More people who find all this holiday hullabaloo fun and uplifting and exciting and joyful. Kindred souls who look past the hype, and focus on the message. Merrymakers who look inside, and see what’s real.
        Let me know you’re out there, Two Month Holiday Revelers. If not, I’m still going to feel the same way. But it would be so much more fun if you joined me.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a Positively Festive Amount of Wrongs) Reserved.

Cycle Chant

       Recently, I took up chanting. Whilst riding my bike. Whenever I pass a fellow exerciser, even though I’m chanting, I smile and wave. This induces a bewildered look from most people. The audio-visual dynamic of a man chanting while cycling as he waves at you is probably a little strange. Maybe people aren't used to a guy on a bike being friendly. Or chanting. Or both.
        For some reason, cyclist, the kind who dress like they’re doing the Tour de France through your neighborhood, can come off as the unfriendliest exercisers ever to break a sweat. “Unfriendly Cyclist Syndrome”, or U.C.S., afflicts thousands of people around the country, especially in affluent areas like mine. Cyclists with U.C.S. rarely acknowledge any sort of greeting. They don’t even grunt at you. Why the attitude? Is this because they’re in “The Zone” and can’t come out of it? Are they resentful of people who drive and take that out on everybody, even pedestrians? This is not a rhetorical question. Any avid cyclists out there who can help me with this, please respond. I want to understand.
        Cyclist rarely smile at me when I’m riding because they probably think I’m completely bastardizing the sport by combining chanting with bike riding. Or maybe it’s because I never wear a helmet. Ever. I hate the damn things. Yes, a helmet could save my life if I fell. Yes, it’s foolish not to wear one. So I’m a fool. A dangerous fool. I’m okay with that.
        Chanting as I cycle gets me my cardio while I practice a spiritual pursuit. Eventually, I want the chanting to help me quiet my mind, which is one of it’s benefits. I haven’t gotten there yet.
        Maybe when I do, I’ll become one of those Unfriendly Cyclist because I’ll be in a place where I don’t know there’s anybody else on the planet, never mind somebody coming the other way waving at me. If that’s the case, I’d better get a helmet as well. Because if I’m that out of it, my chances of being hit by a car increase from unlikely to unavoidable.
        No. I can’t accept that. I trust that, when I get to the point where the chanting quiets my mind while I’m biking, I’ll still be aware enough to be friendly and appropriately alert. That has to be way. Because I’m always going to smile and wave. And I’m not wearing a helmet.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a cataclysmic amount of Wrongs) Reserved

Getting Into...Not Falling

        In my past intimate relationships, I always resisted falling too hard. That’s probably a common male phenomenon. Many men look at love as something that happens to them, not something they happen to. I don’t feel that way anymore, but I used to. When a guy believes that something is “happening” to him, there is usually an automatic, primitive response: Fear. Men believe that they are always supposed to be in control. It’s a fucked up mind set, but it is present, to some degree, within the deep recesses of the male mind. It’s evolutionary. It’s primitive. It’s survival based.  And it’s constantly reinforced by society, by culture, by other men, and even sometimes by women. This paradigm has functioned, or disfunctioned, for thousands of years. But it’s an outdated model.     
       When I did fall in love, it felt just like that: falling. I fell yesterday. Off of my bike. It sucked. The best thing I can hope for after a fall is to get my ass up and say “I’m, okay. I’m not dead.” I pull myself up from the pavement, brush off whatever is stuck to me, lick my wounds, and hop back on the bike. There’s usually some short lived euphoria and gratitude that I’m still alive. But that’s it. “I survived” is the best I can do. Ya-Hoo. Why the hell would any man look forward to that?
       What I need is a new phrase. “Falling” In Love just doesn’t work for me. If I can metaphorically compare the greatest experience on earth with taking a spill off of my eighteen speed, then the analogy is tragically flawed.
       How about “Getting Into Love”? That’s much better. Like “getting into”
 a Ferrari. Or “getting into” a great song. Tell me that doesn’t sound better than “falling” off of a ladder.  When I “get into” something, as opposed to “fall” into something, everything is different. First of all, “Getting Into” implies that I have a choice, even if it’s not a completely conscious one. And I believe that as adults, we do choose, consciously and unconsciously, who we love. “Getting Into” is something to relish, to look forward to, to savor, to enjoy. “Falling” is something I try to avoid. And when it starts happening anyway, I usually hurt myself even more by trying to stop it. “Getting Into” is a wonderful, beautiful, spiritual process. When I “Get Into” a piece of music, or a movie, or any work of art (which a woman definitely is), I’m completely enthralled. I show up, as myself, one-hundred percent. That’s a much better experience than wiping out on my bike.
       Guys love to “get into”...well...you name it. A band, a car, a new piece of loud machinery, a sport, their lover. A guy who’s “into” something is happy, energized, passionate, attentive, open to the experience, present, content, and himself. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be when you’re in love with somebody? Isn’t that what men want to be? Isn’t that what women want their man to be with them?   
       Maybe “falling in love” doesn’t work for woman anymore either. Either way, I’ll stick with “Getting Into Love”. It’s a far more user friendly description of what is essentially a spiritual experience. It's more from the heart, and more in tune with my male psyche. And it doesn’t suggest that I’m taking an unplanned, unwanted free fall into a pool with no water.  
       “Getting Into Love” is similar to anything a guy gets into, but far more intense. Like the best thing you’ve ever dreamed of, amped up even further. Past ten. Past eleven. Think about guitars, cars, drums, motorcycles, football, power tools, boats, and countless other things guys get into. They stay into them for life. And these are only things. The woman a man truly loves is infinitely more beautiful, alluring, fascinating, passionate, sexy, fun, challenging, wonderful, awe-inspiring, sensitive, responsive, and life-affirming than anything else a guy could possibly imagine. With the possible exception of a metallic purple and copper 1967 Corvette convertible with a 427 and a window shattering, 500 watt stereo system. No wait, scratch that. That's just my primitive brain talking. My heart knows the truth. A woman I’m completely in love with is infinitely better than anything I ever dreamed of. Even the ‘Vette.

© 2008 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and Wrongs) Reserved

I encourage Comments. So let me hear you.