At the end of a holiday...

...I can report that, by working through the weekend, I've gotten enough writing done that I don't have to do any more for my clients before I leave for Connecticut on Thursday. A good thing, too, as I suspect the list of details I have to take care of will consume all of tomorrow, and there's little doubt some form of excrement will strike the Rotating Ventilation Unit on Wednesday.

So why don't I feel relieved?

When I first thought about putting words here, I was all set to rant. Several things I read/heard about today really cheesed me off and, following the Shit-Rolls-Downhill Rule, they will affect me sooner or later.

And then I got sidetracked.

I shouldn't have thrown my sad Sinatra songs into the CD changer, damnit. Something way inside told me that's where my head is today, and that something was right. But I have to tread very carefully through this field of broken dreams.

Some -- mainly female-type people -- will dispute me on this, but there is a distinct difference between reactions to male and female romantic angst. When a woman is lonely, when she wants to ditch some dude or actually does so, the sympathy for her flows like a river. She clearly deserves better than she's getting, and everyone hopes the next guy that crosses her path is the one. After all, who would dare trample such a sweet flower except some creep that should have the clippers taken to his private parts?

PARENTHETICAL MEA CULPA: I've done this too, extending my sympathy to poor, downtrodden little flowers without regard for reality....

But when a guy gets shat on, it's his fault. She wanted something better, should have had something better, saw that he was a dead loss, and damn! she was right. Maybe his johnson was more cocktail sausage than Foot-Long-Hot-Dog, maybe he didn't have the coin to give her all she was entitled to. Maybe he was weird enough to want to live outside the normal pattern, and was thus unable to sacrifice himself for her dreams. Or maybe he couldn't compete against the Tall, Dark Strangers. In short: you blew it, schmuck, and you deserve to take the fall.

I'm not slanging all women here. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Hell, no one knows better than I how essential they are to a man's complete, satisfying life.

All this is my typical long-winded way of saying that I am not particularly happy with my situation right now. Some of it is entirely my fault, but there is a component of the malaise that I can pin on a select few members of the Opposite Sex. Three of 'em, in fact.

And yet, knowing full well that various female persons -- and a few males who are so wound up in the whole Woman-as-Goddess bag that they have become rancheros without huevos -- would bad-rap me for being explicit, I am once again forced to edit myself even before I spill my guts on this page.

So no revelations here, no names. All you can learn from this is that I am lonely and feeling somewhat victimized by my own stupidity and the manipulation of a couple of women who promised much and departed my life with without hesitation or regret for the carnage they left behind.

Am I making sense here, or is this all incomprehensible jive? I can't trust myself to say such things in face-to-face situations any longer; when I confess feelings and needs directly, I'm ultimately left with nothing but broken promises and memories of what could have been but never will be. Or the you-poor-bastard look from women who know that some other guy has offered them much more than I can, even if he ultimately doesn't deliver.

Whether you can dig it or not, that's why Mr Beam and I are here, listening to Frank lay down the sad songs.

It wasn't supposed to be end up like this.

And it never ends. If the current forecasts hold true, not only will I, blazer-clad, have to stand around outside in humid high-80s weather in Connecticut, but will have to deal with a past dream, desired but no longer desiring me, who is determined to "look me up" while I'm there....

Somehow, I doubt that the tony town of Greenwich has any dives where I can spill my guts to the barkeep at "quarter to three...."

So it's me and Frank, who didn't have it as easy as people think. Sing it, Blue Eyes.

It ain't easy to go on with the act, Jim.