One of the most frequent complaints I've heard from men, especially those married more than 10 years,  is that their sex life just what it used to be. 

Sometimes of course, the cause is the kids. Raising kids can be all consuming leaving little time for anything else. But other times kids have nothing to do with it, they're out of the house, and there are other factors at work. 

If you want to build a successful long term relationship that includes the passion and intimacy most men crave, then you'd better be honest with your spouse and yourself. There's nothing that destroys a relationship as quickly as dishonesty.

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Here’s what actually happened.

She was trembling and a little flushed when she walked into the examining room to take my blood pressure and prep me for the doctor.    “I haven’t done this in a while,” she said, pumping up the blood pressure cuff, nervously eyeing a hypodermic needle on a stainless steel tray.  “Lately I’ve mostly been working in the back reviewing medical charts.”   I twitched a little, actually at a loss for words.   This was when I (rather unwisely) remembered how a good joke can sometimes put a person at ease.  “Don’t worry,” I said, smirking to force feed the humor.  “I’m a doctor.  I’ll tell you if you do it wrong.”    

The problem was that this turned out not to be so funny - mostly because she didn’t get the joke.   In fact she didn’t get it so much that when she let the air out of the blood pressure bag she whispered, “You have excellent blood pressure, doctor.”

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The other day I got an email from my daughter Leah. Take a look at this it said, referring  to a Vimeo video link. And when you get there fast forward 20 minutes in.

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I love the way her head falls when she has been drinking vodka and the paperback she imagines she is reading falls from her hand and the ash from her cigarette flakes down onto the inside of her boozy tank top just under her naked cleavage, burning a tiny lace of holes in a place not too far from her heart. I love that she has sunk this low into the bottle and that I am in there with her. I love that her family has abandoned her – her precious grown children who cannot fathom the way she has thrown away her life; her two ex husbands, the first a good man with common sense, too good and with too much sense for the tragedy that is her, and the second a prick who should, if there is a God, die in misery. I love that I am all that is left for her – because, let’s face it, I am no prize myself, just a sober drunk and a miserable bottom feeder who began big but was laid low and is now barely hanging on to a hourly job with no guarantees that any of this will last without him fucking it up. I love that I am just one step far enough behind her to be able to make sure she does not catch fire and burn up like a gin-soaked rag. I love that her life has taken these brutal and cursed turns, brought upon her by her fate alone. I love it because she needs me. God help me, I love it because I am the only one left who still loves her.

She was beautiful – I don’t want you to ever forget that. Everyone else has. But don’t you forget it, you judgmental bastards walking by her outside the strip mall, seeing her sitting on the ground against the flowering bushes, her mascara streaked head lolling back into a crown of honeysuckle (Yes, I know you’ve seen her). If I lifted her today, right now, from the sidewalk, took her home and washed her face and hair, gave her coffee and dried her inside and out, you might just see enough of what I mean to get the point. I’ve seen pictures of her at 19 with a baby in her arms and a fire backlighting her on Christmas Eve, and no Madonna and Child that Raphael could have painted would have ever filled in the frame the way she did. Where she started and how she started is a long, long way from where she has landed now.

She told me her story during those three weeks we worked together on the graveyard shift at the deli counter of the 24/7 Safeway. By the time I met her she had legs like soda straws and her blouse and apron swam on her, but she was wide awake during the night and could stay sober enough not to take off her fingers with the slicer, so I let her work with me and by the end, by the time they fired her, I had heard it all and gotten deep, deep inside her where I am to this day. There was very little left that I did not know about her after those three weeks, even if I didn’t care to know it, and to say that I started to love her for her past, her present and even (or mostly) for her lack of any real future, is to say that I had been waiting a long, long time for her or someone like her to show up and surround me with her need.

The story she told me is not your story. Then again, her story is not as far from yours as you might want to think. A tweak in fate here, a tiny twist in your genetic code there, and you’d be the one with the high-strung temperament chasing you all the way from a husband working his way up as a union mechanic, from two sweetheart daughters who you kept washed and ribboned and your Saturday job at the Cut and Curl, to that night when your inability to forgive your parents, your husband or yourself finally overcame you in shifting tectonics of anxiety and you drank and drank and drank until you started to pound yourself in the face with your own fists again and again - your wailing children and unshaven husband watching as the police and EMS technicians carried you through the drizzling night into the yawn of an idling ambulance. Don’t forget that it’s only an accident of family history and the rules of chance that kept you from marrying again after your first husband divorced you and you lost your children. And it’s simply you planning and god not laughing at your plans that helped you avoid a second husband who gave you a job in his insurance company where you and he drank away the cash flow and he beat you and then left you alone in an empty, over-mortgaged house after he took every table, plate and chair (not to mention the car, the motorcycle and the barbecue grill) to go set up house with a much younger drunk than you. When you see her with me and I’ve got her under her arms, rolling her out of some bar in which I found her, remember that, but for the grace of your birth, it’s you whose shoulders are caving into my chest, whose short, shambling hair is plastered by the sweat of other drunks against the protruding bones of your eye sockets as I lower you into my car. It’s merely the cosmic dust of happenstance that keeps you out of a bed with me in my tenement apartment, sleeping off your liquor at night.
The world is full of us, of you and me. And any of us could be her. Although, I have to admit that, in the end, she is who she is – there’s no getting around that. I have taken her and sat her skinny ass down in one of those smoke-stained retro chairs that we set up in stale church halls where the drunks and abusers and reformed addicts sit and confess our sins and inject each other with the power to go on another day without having to shoot ourselves with a needle or needle ourselves with temptation. And she will bounce from that meeting into the sunlight or the moonlight, promising me the sun and the moon, and when I kiss her goodbye and go off to the shift I have to work to keep us in clean clothes and edible food she will deceive me and find a place to quietly sit and pretend to read her cheap paperback (a final tilt at civilization) and smoke her cigarettes down to the filters and drink her way into another life – a life where she has grandchildren who come running into her arms when she calls, and a handsome, graying husband trimming the grass of a big backyard and where she dreams she is free to enjoy the fruits of all the clean and sober work she has done.

You see, a woman has to dream and someone has to love her for it and that someone is me. Why, you ask - because no matter what you think, there is a person inside that woman. And who’s to say that her life and the way she lives and the way that she will die is not what God intended for her or any of us all along. I had another life planned but the righteousness I had about that life was beaten out of me a long time ago, about the time I drank away a thriving business I built with my talents for telling a story and making a good buck, about the time I had to let go of what it was I though God had planned for all of us righteous and arrogant fools. So I see it differently now.

I see a world where the drunks will inherit the earth. I flip it all on its head - the way fate flipped her on her head and me on mind - as I tend to my flock of one. In the place that she and I live it is you with the estates and the two and three cars garages and the jobs so big you can barely contain your heads inside them; you who the world looks down on as we addicts and losers cluck our tongues and shake our heads at the edges of your driveways and gated communities. You are the ones who stoop in shame as you overspend on your children’s college educations and your summer houses. It is you who God admonishes when you use others as an excuse for your inability to be as down low and wasted and close to the edge as we are. In this world God giggles as he blesses the dammed and the down-trodden and he leaves the rest of you to beg for his forgiveness. I dare you to tell me that this might not just be the way God wanted us to see the world from the moment he hung his only son on a cross between a beggar and a thief.

So step up now and give me your order. We’re all in this together – whether it’s you snoring, drunk and peaceful, in the bed next to me when I go home tonight or whether it is she – there is no difference or distance between us. A pound of food that will feed you is a pound of food that will feed all of us. And I love the way your face twinkles just a little when you take the package from my hands as much as I love the way she will someday die in my arms, human and forgiven.

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“(AP) – July 16, 2010 - JEFFERSON CITY, Mo. — Missouri abortion clinics will face new mandates to offer women ultrasound images and heartbeats of their fetuses as a result of legislation allowed to become law Wednesday by Gov. Jay Nixon . . . The new law will require consultation in person instead of over the phone and mandate that women receive a description of the "anatomical and physiological characteristics of the unborn child."

Re: Budget Saving Measures


I am tickled pink to report the phenomenal success of the right-to-life law that has recently been passed in my home district of Jefferson City, Missouri. In fact, so many poor, destitute and single pregnant women in Jefferson City have now surprisingly chosen to have their babies rather than be made to listen to the heartbeats and a detailed description of their unborn fetuses (along with a gruesome account of the termination procedure which local officials “recommend” that doctors whisper in the expectant woman’s ear) that it has actually given me cause to think of how we might use this same strategy to shrink the enormous budget deficit brought on by our godless democratic colleagues as they break faith with the American people by spending government money to care for the sick and feed and house the poor even as hard-working Republican citizens go to church and pay our salaries. I say this - if forcing a socially deprived, desperate woman to listen to a heartbeat or the description of an ultrasound will cause her to keep her baby, imagine how we might use this same psychology to cut billions of hard-earned dollars from our federal deficit.

To wit, I propose that we immediately consider the following legislation:

The Blackmore Expired Food Amendment – This amendment to the food stamp program would make it mandatory that anyone applying for food stamps first starve their children and/or themselves for a period of two weeks before being allowed to register for the program. After that, they would be allowed to apply for a one month trial period upon which they would receive an allotment of food stamps that could only be used to buy foods that have passed their expiration date (preferably eggs, milk and cheeses that are more than three months old). While this measure may seem harsh, only the truly destitute and hungry will likely stay with the program long enough to make them eligible for the “Food Stamp Elite Access Program,” entitling them to pay 80 cents for one dollar’s worth of food stamps and saving the government hundreds of billions in this program alone.

The Blackmore Medieval Medicine Measure – Millions of illegal aliens, drug addicts and just plain lazy unemployed individuals are sucking money from federal health programs by entering government funded hospitals and treatment facilities simply because they won’t pull themselves together or because they insist on working long hours in poor conditions at sub-minimum wage jobs. Imagine the surprise of these folks when they find out that – in order to receive federal health care – they will have to allow doctors to examine and treat them using techniques that date back to the 15th and 16th century. For instance, if a drug addict were to apply for government sponsored rehab - under this new federal program he would be confined to a rat infested cell with the criminally insane where a priest cloaked in a black hood would perform an exorcism on him while forcing hot wax down his throat. Or let’s say an undocumented alien were to walk into a government clinic with a badly mangled arm caused by operating heavy machinery in an illegal sweatshop; he or she would be anesthetized by placing a leather helmet on his head and then being hit repeatedly with a wooden mallet prior to having the arm amputated with a rusty sickle. While this bill may further the accusations that we Republicans are cruel and heartless, we will not, nor should we deny care to anyone truly in need. If those in need don’t want to have leeches placed on them to treat their asthma that’s simply their choice (and the federal government’s gain).

The Blackmore Boondoggle Bill – Who among us likes to work? Not me, that’s for sure. Well if this psychology motivates all of us why not use it on those who are seeking federal unemployment benefits. You want to collect an unemployment check? No problem. We’ll give it to you and you won’t even need to qualify or answer a single question. All you have to do to get the money is agree to take a trip at the government’s expense to a remote, undisclosed Island in the Arctic Ocean off the coast of Siberia. Your unemployment checks will be forwarded to a PO office box in Moscow and you can pick them up anytime you feel you’ve taken enough from other Americans who have to work for a living. Once again, lest we Republicans be thought of as heartless, the American people will be encouraged to think of this as a working vacation where all they need to do to earn their money is to relax on sheets of black ice surrounded by hungry polar bears. Remember we are compassionate conservatives and it’s the least we can do for those who are stressed out by not being able to find a job, not to mention what this will do for currently employed American’s who will have their hours cut and have to work much less as unemployment rolls drop by 85% in the first year alone.

The Blackmore ‘Share’ Housing Act – Remember the days when your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and even a boarder or two lived with you and your family in your tenement apartment? Well, neither do I, but I’m sure that millions of Americans do fondly remember these quaint depression era stories and are probably longing for the good old days. This act would bring them back while also allowing us to continue helping our failing banks and domestic car companies with bailout money that would preserve executive salaries. We are not asking people to come to us to seek housing, but if they have to why not further the concept of America as a melting pot and allow people of all races, creeds and social backgrounds to live together in single family federal apartment units. No more than four families of six people each would have to share a single unit and we would ensure that the apartments were ethnically integrated without bias toward religion or national origins. For instance, those of Pakistani and Indian origin as well as Christian, Muslim and Jewish families would live together in one big happy cooperative apartment. And in the true spirit of America no one would be turned away from the program or evicted, even if tensions rise (as they sometimes do in big happy families).

Note, at present the above are just for your consideration and are in need of funding for further study. Funding we may be able to acquire as budgets are freed up when the recently passed Blackmore Send Your Child to Work Act takes effect and millions of children saved by our right to life legislation reach their fifth birthday and are forced to go to work in order for their parents to qualify for federal subsidies. I eagerly await your comments.

Sincerely,

Alvin Blackmore

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The results of a study reported in the NY Daily News may surprise you. Here's the link: http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/2010/06/11/2010-06-11_study_finds_men_are_more_emotionally_hurt_than_women_over_bad_relationships.html

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Parenting's hard and sometimes we make mistakes. Read more about one parent's error at this link: http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/magazine/articles/2010/07/25/perfectly_human/

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DISCLAIMER: Adult content. This is real honest talk about a serious subject; the terms and language expressed in here will be straightforward. Please be advised prior to reading.

As I have talked about addictions and men and all that is involved, I want to reiterate that I am not an expert on this. This is a combination of stories of my own and other men I have worked with who have struggled with this. I am by no means saying this is how it happens for each and every person. What I am talking about and bringing to light is what has been discussed in our groups and what events have transpired in these mens lives.

I am not trying to draw fast and hard lines and say if you do this, this is what the outcome will be. That is better left to the “experts”. I do believe that pornography is harmful, however each person and each couple is responsible for discussing it. I believe having open and honest conversations is the best approach as opposed to being caught off guard. What a couple chooses to do in their own home is between them, but I strongly encourage all of you to have some discussion about it, so you know where each other stands. The whole purpose behind this series is to help bring insight and understanding and hopefully create a start place for discussions.

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Riverside Hospital
Behavioral Health Center
Weekly Admission Report
Monday, July 5 – Sunday, July 11, 2010


Patient #RH70510m1
53 Year old male, Nicholas Z. presented with neurotic tendencies arising from an inability to water his lawn due to drought restrictions. Patient reports having spent over $35,000 on lawn care and a computerized sprinkler system and was admitted by his wife after she found him laying face down weeping onto the grass. Mr. Z told doctors he hoped his tears would help his dying Kentucky Blue Grass and High Fescue Mix. Sedatives have been prescribed and Patient is now noticeably calmer although medication was adjusted after Patient began running back and forth behind the nurse’s station in an attempt to adjust imaginary sprinkler heads. Patient told nurses that, “The grass needs to be green ... green god dam it ... green I tell you ...” but was ultimately restrained by orderlies pretending to be illegal immigrants who had come to cut the Patient’s lawn and adjust his sprinkler system.

Patient #RH70510m2
42 year old mother, Dianna S admitted herself at 9 a.m. on Monday saying she believed that her 12 year old daughter had been trying to kill her by repeating the words “I’m bored” thousands of times over the three week period since the girl’s school year ended. Apparently the Patient was able to remain calm for the better part of the first three weeks of her daughter’s summer vacation but finally snapped earlier this week when she threatened to send her daughter to “a farm, where they make children work all summer picking cotton under the hot sun in their bare feet alongside wagons pulled by farting goats.” Patient told the admitting psychiatrist that she wouldn’t have really sent her daughter to a farm but “would it have killed her to read a book or go outside or help me with a little house work?” The daughter was also interviewed by the hospital social worker who decided to end the session when the girl would only respond to her questions with the phrase “I’m bored.”

Patient #RH70710w1
22 year old male, Charles P - recently graduated with a degree in history from Petersburg College - admitted after his parents found him feeding his Burger Barn uniform into a wood chipper. Doctors have determined that the Patient is suffering from “Latent Reality Syndrome” characterized by the Patient’s inability to face the fact that his college diploma isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on and that he has to now get a real job. Parents also told the attending psychiatrist that their son spends long stretches searching his dresser for drugs that may have been left over from high school and attempting to contact his fraternity brothers “so they can start a band or get drunk or pick up girls or something.” Patient’s mother also reports that Mr. P has been attempting to crawl into bed at night with his parents “just like he used to do when he was a very little boy and was scared because he thought there was a monster in his closet.”

Patient #RH710810t1
17 year old female, Cindy T admitted to emergency room with burns on her thighs, buttocks and back after paramedics had to pry her from the seat of her 1987 Dodge coup which had been sitting in one hundred degree heat at the edge of her parent’s driveway. Patient had been wearing nothing but flip flops and a two piece bathing suit which the admitting physician reported “wouldn’t have had enough material to make a couple of eye patches for a midget.” Miss T was treated for her burns and released from emergency care but then admitted to the Behavioral Health Center when she could not be restrained from removing her bathing suit to take cell phone pictures of her burns which she then planned on posting to Facebook so her boyfriend “wouldn’t forget about her when she while she was gone.” Attending psychiatrist diagnosed Patient with nervous exhaustion brought on by heat stroke and an obsession with having to get to the beach to prevent “all those little summer sluts from getting their dirty hands on” her boyfriend.

Patient #RH70910sa1
35 year old male, Marty N was brought in by ambulance from his job as a salesman and admitted after hallucinating that he was the last man on earth who was still working. Apparently Mr. N had been unable to make his monthly quota after repeatedly receiving automatic email replies and voice mail messages telling him that the person he was trying to reach was on summer vacation. Attending Psychiatrist reports that Patient spent the first three hours in the observation ward incessantly turning his pockets inside out and mumbling, “I’m sorry, Gary, I’m really, really, really sorry, but I just don’t think there’s anyone left anywhere to sell anything to.” Attempts were made to contact the Patient’s boss, Gary K, however automatic email and voice mail replies informed hospital staff that Mr. K would be away on vacation for the remainder of the month of July.

Weekly Summary
This week’s patients are all making good progress and no serious complications have arisen. Behavior Health Unit administrative and medical staff are all performing satisfactorily. Doctors, Nurses and administrative staff all report that patient load levels are acceptable and that they are all “just happy to still be working in an air conditioned building in July.” New programs being tested to lessen seasonal summer stress for staff include: “take your liquor to work day” where doctors and nurses bring in tequila, margarita mix and crushed ice on Friday’s and then drink heavily while watching patients act out the neurosis, fantasy or hallucination of their choosing; and “Summer Sanity Sundays” where medical and admin staff gather in the hospital chapel and pray desperately that that the summer won’t get to them in the same way it’s gotten to the people who they’ve had to admit the previous week.

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[As seen and overheard in San Francisco’s McCarren Airport on June 11, 2010]

Given how much they are hiding from each other it is inevitable that they will fall in love.  She smartly sits on the stool beside him, camouflaged behind a cheap travel necklace which has been layered on an artificially inflated décolletage that is itself pushing down on a lightly spanked tummy and a stale lungful of smoke from the cigarettes we catch a whiff of as she walks by.   Once seated, she promptly disturbs the inner edge of his personal space with the calculated crossing of her waxed calves.  For his part he appears smitten with the tits and the legs, but would never let on that he hates the way she does not initially look at him even though he too is good looking and even though he knows that she knows she could bend him over his stool and make him slap his own ass in exchange for her phone number.  The two of them are fools and liars, in the same way all the rest of us are fools and liars, but when she giggles softly after he opens up and tells her that he doesn’t think there’s an airport bar left in North America with which he’s not intimately familiar, they both seem to realize that something will happen between them at this bar that will be just as thrilling and lovely in the present as it will be mind-numbing and slightly sorrowful in the future.

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