JLooney.com

Speaking of darker sides, let me share with you the tale of how I am kinda responsible for my brother getting divorced. Now before you get all bent and horrified at what a terrible person I am, understand that he’s better for it. He’s currently married to a wonderful gal that we all love dearly, and his first wife was a tremendous pain in the ass, and pretty kooky even by our messed up standards. I’ll change names and stuff to protect the guilty, but other than that, this tale is absolutely true.

So my brother Moron (not his real name) gets married to this girl named Sybil (not her real name either, and of course, no correlation between her and the literary figure with split personality disorder is intended or implied). Now to be honest, none of us really gave her much of a chance from the start, and so in that respect, I feel a little bad, but not too much. After they get married, they move into this apartment not too far from Old Midvale. It’s one of those two-story apartment buildings with a single row of 4 apartments on the top floor and 4 apartments on the bottom row. They lived on the top floor in the apartment on the far east end. The location of their apartment will be important in a minute. Sybil was terrified of living in that neighborhood from the get-go, and made no small amount of protest about it, but it was what they could afford while Moron was working and paying the bills while she went to school to be a hairdresser or some shit.

One day my sister (Moron’s twin) calls me up and asks if we want to go do something with her and her husband (who we like) later that night. Megan and I had no plans, so we decided we were down for whatever. Well, when the two of them show up to pick us up, we decide that trip to Wendover is a pretty fine agenda for a Friday night. Off we go, headed west on the 201 at 10pm on a Friday. We decided that we should stop and get some beverages for the ride, so we pulled off the freeway in West Point or Tooele. While we’re at the Top Stop, we decide it’ll take too long to get to Wendover and we’re already bored. But what to do on a Friday night like this?

I don’t recollect who brought it up, but I remember that me and Vince (that’s his real name – I couldn’t think of anything clever and I don’t think he cares) were all over it. We decide we need to stop and get some materials first, so we pull into Albertson’s and buy a broom, a roll of duct tape and 25’ of nylon cord.

“Why these particular items?” You may ask. Well, we had a very clear plan, and these items were critical to it being executed perfectly.

When we arrived at Moron’s apartment at around 11:00pm, I went up the half-flight of stairs to his front door and quickly ran a strip of duct tape along the edge of the only front-facing window in their apartment, effectively sealing it shut so they couldn’t open it from the inside. I then took about 3 feet of the nylon cord and tied one end around their doorknob and the other I cinched tightly to the stair rail right in front of their door which would keep them from opening it at all since it opened by swinging inward. While I was getting this handled, Vince broke the broom handle off and jammed it into the sliding glass door at the back of the house – the only other exit – which prevented them from opening that door. Within 30 seconds they were helplessly sealed inside their apartment and there was nothing they could do about it.

But they didn’t know they were sealed inside their apartment, and we weren’t patient enough to wait around for morning time, so as soon as I saw Vince come back around from behind the house, I pounded on their front door like I was trying to get inside to escape a zombie attack, and then jumped the rail down to the ground and ran for the car a block and a half away where Megan and my sister were giggling like schoolgirls. We watched from afar as the lights came on, and as they attempted to open the door, then the window, and then watched as they frantically tried to figure out what to do, laughing our asses off the whole time.

It’s one of the best pranks I’ve ever pulled, hands down. We drove away laughing and didn’t think much of it again.

Until family dinner the next Sunday. When Megan and I arrived, Sybil was in the middle of a tremendously over-dramatic recounting of how gangsters had terrorized them by sealing them in their apartment a few days back, and how traumatized she was that she lived in an apartment that a drug dealer had clearly inhabited previously, and on and on and on. I was on the verge of interrupting her to burst her bubble of gangster tales and Soprano-like hijinks when I got the look from Megan, so I shut my mouth and said nothing, but pretended to empathize with her tale of criminal mischief and gangland warfare while laughing myself to tears on the inside.

Fast-forward about 3 weeks. Megan and I are hanging out with my sister and Vince again. It’s Friday, we’re bored, and then someone says it:

We could mess with Moron and Sybil…

Again, I have no recollection of who brought it up, but it didn’t take long before we were at Albertson’s to buy another broom, another 25’ of nylon cord, and another roll of duct tape. Within 30 minutes of deciding to do the deed, I was jumping the rail as Vince came running around the corner from behind the apartment for the second time that month. We made it to the car before we busted out laughing ourselves into tears. The four of us laughed so hard and so long that my sides hurt for days afterwards, no lie.

Again, we didn’t think much more of it (except for the fun we had thinking of what epic tale Sybil would make up this time).

Until Sunday dinner came around again. I remember very clearly sitting on the fireplace hearth next to Sybil when she began telling another overly-dramatic account of how gangsters had again terrorized them because they’d been mistaken for drug dealers (and if you’ve never met my brother I can assure you there’s no earthly reason you would ever make a mistake in judgment so colossal as to think he was a drug dealer), and on and on and on. I couldn’t take it any more. Half of me wanted acknowledgement for this epic prank, and the other half just wanted to expose this bullshit story she was telling, so I interrupted her mid-sentence and said simply “it wasn’t gangsters. It was me.”

Now, mom was absolutely horrified that I would do something so terribly malicious, which kinda surprised me since she’s known me for so long and is pretty well aware of most of the dumb/mean/creative stuff I’ve done in the past, but the important part isn’t that mom was freaking out on me for being the devil incarnate. No, the important part is that when I told her that it had been me, Sybil’s eyes narrowed to slits like they were about to focus a wicked laser beam that would bore right through my black heart and leave nothing but a pile of ash to blow away in the fierce tempest of her anger. Only she didn’t shoot any lasers. She didn’t even yell or scream at me. She just got up and walked out of the house. A few seconds later, Moron’s cell phone rang. Sybil was calling him from my moms driveway and demanding that he come outside and take her home. He of course complied, and I caught all kinds of hell from my family, which in truth, wasn’t entirely undeserved.

I never saw her again, and a few weeks later she moved out and filed for divorce.

Now, am I directly responsible for the divorce? Not exactly. I mean, I didn’t marry her. That was Moron’s choice, not mine. And I’m sure that there was more going on than just me and Vince pulling a prank or two, but I gotta think that what we did had something to do with it, and I suppose I should feel a little bad about that, but I don’t. I absolutely adore Moron’s new wife. She’s sweet and refreshing, and she’s good for him.

Sao that’s the tale of how I caused my brothers divorce using nothing more than a broom handle, some nylon cord, and a roll of duct tape. Truth is, I could laugh right now just thinking about it. Is that wrong?

So you know how I’ve pretty much resigned myself to having every fast food restaurant on the planet screw up my food, right?

Well, here’s a little story about last Friday night…

After a long day of training, Elizabeth and I were headed back to my house (she sometimes crashes there on the weekends when she trains). I was hungry and so was she. Because we have an acute lack of Big Kahuna Burger’s in Utah, I offered to stop at Mickey D’s for some cheeseburgers. Elizabeth also requested 3 chocolate chip cookies.

As I pull up to the speaker and red LED light board that allegedly “ensures the accuracy of my order” but which has failed to deliver on that promise even once, a tragically anonymous and at the same time familiar voice rang out, garbled by the supposedly weatherproof speaker and rendered unintelligible long before the soundwaves ever graced the membrane of the microphone on the other end by the poor grammar and heavy accent of someone who speaks little English and has no business working a drive thru anywhere east of Redwood Road.

I placed my order: 2 cheeseburgers no pickle no onion, two normal cheeseburgers, a large order of fries and three chocolate chip cookies.

I waited for an unreasonable amount of time for such a simple order, even at 11:00PM, which is usually a sign of epic fail about to happen. Eventually, I was handed a bag of food and I drove away, down the street to my house.

You’ll no doubt recall my last rant about the Golden Arches, and so it was with no uncertain amount of trepidation that both Megan and Elizabeth looked on while I opened the bag and began to divvy up the food. Two cheeseburgers for me. Check. At least I wouldn’t be the one hungry tonight if they’d screwed up. Two cheeseburgers, no pickle, no onion. Check. Looks like Elizabeth gets to eat, too. Large Fries. Check. 6-piece chicken nuggets. WAIT JUST AN EFFING MINUTE!! I didn’t order any damn chicken nuggets, what is this box of non-descript flavorless random and wholly unidentifiable bits and chunks of reconstituted generic poultry doing in my bag, and where are the effing cookies?!

I went off, as any other perfectly normal and well-adjusted person that shares my not-completely-unreasonable expectations for fast-food establishments would. Now, because I actually had MY food, it wasn’t as ugly or offensive as it could have been, but it sure as hell wasn’t nice at all.

When I was starting to hit the down-slide of my ranting and railing (you can tell when I hit that point because I start to get winded and throw out a string of F-Bombs to try and sustain the momentum and scale of the rant), Elizabeth asked me why I never check the bag before I pull away. As it turns out, that did more for the perpetuation of my rant than the string of F-Bombs, and I managed to stretch this particular episode to damn near 20 minutes, which is pretty respectable considering it was over 3 chocolate chip cookies that weren’t mine anyway.

So after consuming my cheeseburgers, I was still hungry, and figured that with enough ranch and barbecue sauce to dip them in, the nuggets were just barely on the right side of edible. After grabbing the sauces, I reached in the bag and pulled out the little square box containing the offending bird-parts out of the bag. In doing so, the contents of the box shifted ever so slightly against the edge of the container and made an almost imperceptible ‘bump’.

For whatever reason, they non-English-speaking minimum-wage earners had put the three chocolate chip cookies in a chicken nuggets box.

Shit.

So, my deepest apologies to McDonald’s for a completely unwarranted and misguided rant based on my own limited perception. You guys did fine, my bad. Keep up the good work.
And next time, put the damn cookies in the little paper bag thingy they go in.

A few years ago I made a new friend. It was under inspiring and enlightened circumstances that we first made each others acquaintance. I was drawn to this person, hungering to learn more about them and explore the possibilities that had drawn us together and what potential may lay before us. I was impressed by many of the qualities of this person, and was genuinely interested in getting to know them, and to actively find common endeavors to work on together.

My new friend indicated that they were equally impressed with me, and shared the same interest in getting to know each other and finding projects to work on together where our individual skill sets would compliment each other and bring a greater degree of success to whatever the project may be.

We attempted several times to meet for lunch, dinner, whatever – after several weeks we still hadn’t found a time that worked for both of us, and had yet to connect anywhere other than over the phone, through text message, or on Facebook. It seemed like something had gotten in the way, and I just wasn’t sure what that “something” could be.

It turns out that it was me.

You see, after this friend had added me on Facebook and started following my status updates and comments, they got to know another side of me. As I’m sure you’ve gathered if you’ve followed this blog or my Facebook at all, I pretty much put it all on the table. I don’t hold back on passionate comments and spirited debates, and I make no secret of my opinions and views, and at times my humor and cynicism can be dark and even caustic and offensive to some.

But I am who I am, and I don’t pretend to be anything else.

After seeing that side of me, my new friend (who I still admire, love and deeply respect) lost interest in any cooperative efforts or opportunities. I don’t bear them any ill will. In fact, when I learned this it prompted me to do some pretty deep and honest introspective reflection. As I was working on this internal consideration of myself, I heard from a few other sources that they had had similar experiences of me – powerful and inspiring at times and dark, cynical – even offensive – in others. And it put some distance in some of these relationships when they saw what they judged to be “the man behind the curtain”. One of my very dear friends described it this way: “If I didn’t know what a soft and tender, gooey-on-the-inside guy you were, I’d think you were a real asshole based on your Facebook and blog posts.”

Which got me to thinking about the dichotomy of my own personality, which I’m pretty certain isn’t uniquely mine. We’ve all got a light side and a dark side, right? And which side is the one behind the curtain? What if I really AM a dark and cynical person, and the gentle, loving, amazing side of me is the one behind the curtain. Or what if the dark side of me is what’s behind the curtain and I hide that person with my brilliance?

I could go in a lot of different directions with that concept alone and I’m sure that tangential posts will follow later, but for right now I want to talk (perhaps a bit more vulnerably than I typically do) about this dichotomy of me.

As a skinny kid with buck-teeth, red hair, coke-bottle glasses and a last name like Looney, I was a pretty easy target growing up. Hell, I probably would’ve kicked my ass if I’d seen me – it woulda almost been wrong NOT to take advantage of such an easy target. Even at a very young age I knew that being a tender-hearted kid wasn’t going to help me any when it came to adolescent taunting and tormenting. I taught myself first to not react (mom and dad said if I ignored the teasing, my tormenters would get bored and stop, and it was worth a try), then to fight back. Being physically inferior to about 80% of my peers, I chose to develop a sharp tongue rather than a strong right-hand. I covered up the tenderness that was there and hid it away, protecting it from the harsh reality of junior high and high school. I used sharp words and angry cursing of epithets not only as a defense mechanism, but to prove that I belonged. More often than not I used it humorously rather than a direct attack (which could have easily resulted in another ass-kicking). But regardless, the need to be accepted and acknowledged is one of my primal motivators. I absolutely HUNGER for acceptance and approval.

Wow. That’s a scary little secret to admit to.

I know I am inspiring. I know that I am a teacher. I know I am brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous.

I also know that I am an instigator. I know that I am offensive. I know that I am impatient, angry, condescending and crude.

I am all of these things, and in each moment, my pendulum swings from one to the other. Sometimes it swings to the darker side of me, and I push people away with my caustic words and harsh judgments. Others, it swings to the light and I inspire, lead, support and teach and embrace the beautiful diversity within us all.

I believe that this polar opposition, this yin-yang within us all, can be our greatest teacher if we are willing. Without this scared little child lashing out at others from the darkness and pain within me, would I even know the powerful, loving accepting man that I am? If I could wield a spiritual scalpel and surgically remove that dark part of me forever, what might I lose with it?

I have been asked, at times, to behave myself, watch my tongue, or to flat-out censure my thoughts and actions to keep from offending others. This always feels like a denial of myself.

I mean, why is offending someone else such a bad thing? I’m offended – ok, I don’t really offend that easily – I’m BUGGED by a great many people and the things they say and do. But that gives me a reason to challenge my own beliefs and improve myself! Why did that bother me? Why do I feel so strongly about this? Why do THEY feel so strongly about it? What do they know that I don’t?

Why would I try NOT to offend you by denying what I think or feel, or who I am?

Is it more inspiring to hold up the mask, censor my speech, and just fake it in moments of darkness? Or is it more inspiring to embrace the truth

I have two sides, and I choose to share both freely.

I’m posting this before I’ve had coffee (or even brushed my teeth for that matter), so I can’t really be held responsible for the content here.

I was never a huge fan of Seinfeld, but I always loved Kramer. Here is every Kramer entrance from the entire run of the show, in chronological order.

Enjoy.

There’s been recent talk in Salt Lake City, particularly from sources with the Downtown Alliance, for a push to outlaw panhandling. As you can imagine, it’s been accompanied by debate on both sides. Should it be illegal to beg, or ask for money on the streets?

I mean, we’ve all seen the dirty guy on the freeway off ramp with a tattered cardboard sign that says something like “Hungry. Please help.” or “Homeless Vet, anything helps” – the text varies, but the message is basically the same. And I’m sure we’ve all judged these people as well, dismissing them as too lazy to get a job, just a drunk trying to get enough money for booze, or any number of other judgements that come all too easily and quickly.

I’ve got my own personal beliefs on this one.

When I was 18, I worked at The Lion House in Downtown Salt Lake. I didn’t have a car, so I usually rode the bus both ways. In those days bus fare was 60 cents, so a buck-twenty covered my round trip, and I usually didn’t carry more than I needed. It wasn’t uncommon to be approached by someone asking for money, and I usually turned them away, saying I had nothing to give and then paying my fare as I got on the bus for the ride home.

One day, I was approached by a man with a a black eye and a bruised face. He had a split lip and a little dried blood on the corner of his mouth. He wore dirty and very worn clothes, and clearly had not bathed or shaven in awhile. He had a small piece of paper on which he’d written “I got beat up and robbed. Can you help me?” In retrospect, I don’t know if he was asking for money or not. He could have been asking for some first aid, food – anything, really. But in that moment, I assumed that he was asking for money, and for whatever reason I didn’t dismiss him like I did all the rest with a simple “sorry, man” or “I don’t have any change” – I paused and considered him, and actually looked in his eyes. I saw a person there, not a vagrant or a beggar. And I thought about the 60 cents in my pocket, the bus fare home. My dad worked just a few blocks away and I could have gotten a ride home with him, although it would have meant waiting 2 hours until he finished his day. Feeling selfish, and disgusted with myself for being so at the same time, I simply shook my head. This man looked in my eyes with a simple dogged determination that can only come from being rejected thousands of times each day, and yet knowing of no other choice than to keep asking. He never spoke a word, perhaps because his injuries made it impossible or painful at the least, or maybe because no words were needed. He cracked the slightest smile barely raising just one corner of his mouth, gave me a thumbs up, patted my arm and walked away.

I was in turmoil for days afterward, tormenting myself by asking over and over “why did I not give?” I took extra cash with me every day afterward, hoping to see this man again and be able to give him something, something to ease my own pain and self-loathing at having turned away someone in need when presented with the opportunity to give. I never saw him again, and the only comfort I have even as I cry recalling this brief moment from years ago is the lesson this man taught me without even knowing it.

I give now, as often as I can and to anyone that asks. It is not mine to judge their worthiness of my giving, and who am I to judge the value of what I give to them? Sometimes it’s just the change from my ashtray, sometimes it’s more. But every time I give, I look them in the eye.

The way I see it, my part is to give. It’s none of my business if they need it or not or what they do with it once it leaves my hands. I benefit and make my world a better place simply because I gave. Hopefully, it makes their world better, too.

Years later, a passage from Khalil Gibran’s masterpiece The Prophet was shared with me. I feel that it is the embodiment of what I feel:

You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have–and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’.

You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.”
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers… and you are all receivers… assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.