Lifelong programming has taught us that everything in this life is somehow supposed to end “happily ever after.” Books of nursery rhymes, Bible parables and Disney stories pound into our head at an early age that, yes, life has it’s challenges and tragedies but in the end, everything will work out just dandy! The main story of the western world’s most popular religion follows this thought without wavering. The savior of the world— after a lifetime of doing good— is captured on trumped up charges and is brutally tortured and killed. In the end, he comes back from the dead, fries up a little fish dinner for his friends and then transcends into heaven, thereby saving the entire world from the consequences of a life of sin.

I’m not sure what it is about this philosophy that has kept it alive for thousands of years. I’m sure I can say I haven’t seen it happen consistently in my own life. From what I’ve been told, it doesn’t seem to work in the life of my friends either. We all seem to ride that nonstop E-ticket rollercoaster of life’s glorious highs and crappiest lows, somehow waiting for the ride to come to a gradual stop at a thatched beach hut in the Caribbean where we will spend the rest of our days sipping piña coladas and surrounded by swaying palm trees and frolicking hardbodies. The truth of the matter is that some of us, indeed, are lucky enough to glide into that thatched beach hut. Unfortunately, as we do so, just as many of our fellow riders fall out of the cart, hit the ocean and get eaten by sharks. It’s a brutal fact of life that no one makes it out alive and some people do so with a great amount of suffering and pain. Still we hand down the “happily ever after” stories to the next generation as if we somehow believe if we tell enough people they will be the ones to actually make it happen. “I’m a goner, but you go on and save yourself and the others!”

I suppose I ramble about this because of my own current situation. As I write these words, I find myself in the middle of one of my own “catastrophic” life dramas. My company, which has flourished for the most part of almost five years is tanking. Okay, so it isn’t death or terminal illness, but just the same it brings with it that sense of insecurity and doom that can totally rock the foundation of one’s world. However will I pay the bills? Keep my home? Pay my employees? Live a standard of life of which I am accustomed? Am I going to end up homeless? What will I do with all my “stuff?” What will all of my friends think about me? All of these questions run around in my head nonstop but I also notice that each question is accompanied by this nagging voice that, at one instant whines that all of this isn’t fair and at other times reminds me that everything will turn out okay. Apparently this voice firmly believes that life has nothing better to do than just stop and jerk me around for awhile before setting me back on the path to wellness and good fortune. In spite of any temporary episodes of terror, my actual future of peace and well-being remains intact. At least according to the voice. Stupid, stupid voice.

The fact is, I know better than all of that. It doesn’t always turn out “happily ever after.” Every day human beings in this world face intense challenges that make losing a business look like dropping a penny. Entire populations face drought, famine, civil unrest, oppression, murder, rape and countless other atrocities. Even if I lost everything I currently own, I would still be living the life of luxury compared to the situation of some beings. It is something I completely lose perspective on when my own ego-world becomes threatened. I find myself frantically praying to any God who is out there anywhere to listen to me and “fix” my situation. Why I feel like this is what I am owed, I don’t know.

In one of my panic-stricken moments today, I realized that no matter what happens to my own “life story,” I’m going to be okay. I have the abilities to get my company back on its feet and, even if that doesn’t happen, I am blessed with talents and the know-how to start doing something else. Ultimately, “happily ever after” doesn’t come from the up and down of the rollercoaster, it comes from the raising of the hands and the screaming at the top of the lungs. It is the combination of both the ups and the downs that give us  the thrill of the experience. In this awareness, I know I am not the ride. I am the rider. Whatever shapes and curves the track takes, I can only let them come. It is all as it is and as it supposed to be. In the knowledge of that, there is a deep silence that quiets the inner voice and puts me right smack in the middle of the joy and the wonder of the moment.

But it still makes my stomach feel all funny.

Many movies feature a scene where someone is trying to make a decision between right and wrong when suddenly a little devil and angel pops up above the thinker’s shoulder in an attempt to sway one way or the other. It’s kind of a funny concept but not one that’s very helpful to me. I mean, I’m completely capable of fouling up decisions on my own without having some little specter poking me with a pitchfork, then popping out of existence right about the time I need someone to blame everything on. What I really need is a dummass angel. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, a dummass angel is a little guy that pops up over your shoulder right after you’ve made a bad decision or done something really stupid, simply says, “Dummass!” then disappears. His entire job has nothing to do with helping you out in any way, only to humiliate you. Here’s an example of what I’m referring to: I’m giving information to a woman on the phone and she asks for my middle initial. My middle name is Forrest so I tell her my middle initial is “F.”

“‘S’ as in ‘Sam’?” she asks.

“No ‘F’ as in ‘Frank’,” I say.

“I like that name,” she says. “My dad’s name is Frank.”

“Actually my name is not Frank, it’s Forrest.”

After a beat she says, “Then why didn’t you say your middle initial is ‘F’ as in ‘Forrest’?”

“Good question. For the answer, perhaps I can ask this little guy right here…”

“Dummass!” (Poof!)

Well, now where did he go?…

One of today’s hottest movie stars, Zac Efron, is on a TV talk show. I’m sorry to say I don’t really keep up with this young man’s career but I’m sure he’s a fine actor. At one point in his interview he talks about his mother and the camera swings to the audience to reveal her. Suddenly I’m thinking, “Wow! Zac Efron! Your mom is hot! Who cares about ‘High School Musical,’ Zac, what nights does your mom come to the PTA??” And that, kids, is what middle age like.

I’m convinced that auto mechanics are the universe’s most observant beings. I know, I know, it’s impossible to conclude this just from watching them. It certainly appears as if they have no idea that 3/4 of their grease-stained underwear is hiked up above their trousers. This is all part of the mobile machine laborer’s secret deception.

The fact is, I’m mesmerized at the uncanny ability these seemingly mere mortals have to diagnose each and every problem of my car with only a quick scan of their hawk-like eyes. I’m fascinated by their immediate knowledge that, when I come in for a change of spark plugs, I also need a new rear axle. Just this week my Subaru was receiving a much needed oil change when “Lloyd” helpfully offered, “While I’m down here I can see yer transmission don’t look too good. I can fix ye up fer ’bout seven hunnert if ye got some exter time.” I marveled, not only at his automotive skills but also his crafty use of authentic King James English.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate this kind of service. On the contrary, I often wish other professions would be as equally helpful. For example, it would be nice to hear my hairstylist say, “I’m going to take a little more off the top… and while I’m up here I can see you need some neuro-brain surgery. For an extra fifty grand I can fix ye right up.”

Believe it or not, there was a time when folks didn’t get this type of treatment. I can remember when I was a youngster riding to the mechanic in my Grandfather’s old Ford Falcon. Grandpa would steer into the garage, lean out of the window and yell, “Need a fan belt!” Before the Nutty Buddy could drip all the way down my elbow, a single fan belt was installed and paid for without a second auto malady diagnosed. I chuckle now as I remember those were also the days you couldn’t screw off a bottle cap or call your best friend “Dude.”

I wonder what pandemonium you would cause if you went to an auto mechanic and pretended to be an escaped mental patient. You could drive your car up and babble “Put a new muffler on my car! No new tail pipe! No new universal joint! No new dash board! Just a muffler! Do it now and no one gets hurt!” Being concerned professionals, they would be forced to talk you out of this. “Calm down, sir,” they would say. “Let’s be rational. No one has only a muffler installed anymore. Now let’s slowly and carefully take a look at that distributor.”

Why can’t today’s mechanics be more like Goober and Gomer Pyle from The Andy Griffith Show? Whenever anyone came in to “Wally’s Garage” for repairs, Goob and Gome fixed the problem immediately and got the customer out in a hurry. Then they would go hang around Floyd’s or serve as temporary deputies. What rubes! They had no way of knowing that technology would become so advanced that mechanics would one day have to keep your car for hours or even days in order to become aware of every leak, crack, pull and fray. Or that a person would never again be able to find a accessible retail source for that freaky Jughead hat.

It’s wonderful to live in an age where advanced knowledge and skill makes everything less complicated. If only my Grandpa were still alive. He would be amazed at what today’s mechanics could do to that old Falcon.

Late August of 1972 my entire family was brutally tortured, then slaughtered by a teal and beige casual sport dress. It was a thigh-length, sleeveless with round neckline and princess seams on the front and reverse. Authorities said the dress buttoned all the way down the back. To make matters worse, it was a size 8. By all accounts it was a very high-end, quality garment. Before 1980 crimes by dresses were rarely reported in this country. Most victims of dress crimes were too embarrassed or intimidated to come forward. I had no choice. My entire family laid in pools of their own blood scattered throughout our modest ranch home, victims of outer-wear violence. I alone was spared that brutal day. I had spent the summer at a special camp for children who couldn’t tan. Little did I know, before that summer was over I would be orphaned, severely depressed, and gain an intense distrust of women’s clothing. The investigation of the crime took almost three years but eventually the perpetrator was discovered on a rack at a consignment store in Atlanta. The dress was tried, convicted and given the death sentence. In April of 1986, after serving almost ten years on death row the dress was cut up into hand towels and various scraps. Even though I know justice was done in this case, you now know the reason that, to this day, I can not wear a dress.

I have to say goodbye to a good friend today. Comedian George Carlin died yesterday at the age of 71. George wasn’t a personal friend of mine. In fact I never got the chance to meet him in person or even see him perform live. He was, however, my comedy idol.

In high school while all my friends were listening to disco tunes or the latest albums by KISS, Journey or Van Halen I was studying Carlin records. Yes, there was the excitement of listening to an album I wasn’t supposed to be listening to (my mother would have killed me had she found out) but my true enjoyment went far beyond that. I was captivated by Carlin’s comic timing. Even though I knew nothing about comedy technique or structure, I could tell on an intuitive level that I was listening to brilliance.

Carlin could make me laugh just by putting the right pause before a word or by giving the perfect inflection on a pronunciation. His deep, distinguished disc jockey voice served not only as a contrast to his zany, irreverent observations but also as the proper adult permission I needed to listen in. The real joy for me was not just in listening to him say words I dared not utter, but that he was saying them in a way that made it sound like uttering those words was no big deal. He stripped the words of their “giggle” factor and injected them with true meaning. In doing so, he made those words at the same time silly and monumentally important.

Maybe the most unintentional result of listening to George Carlin was that he served as my introduction to the Catholic faith. Even though I knew he was making fun of it all, I still discovered a great deal of love and respect for Catholicism from George’s material. Growing up Southern Baptist in East Tennessee, I probably would have had very little exposure to that religion from any other source.

During the 1980s when I was working as a stand-up comic, I always threw some “Carlinisms” into my act. They were never stolen jokes, but I would always try to deliver one of my own the way I imagined George would have done it. I doubt the audience was ever aware of it, but it would always make me laugh and I was happy to do it as a tribute to the master comic.

As George aged and his comedy persona evolved from the wiser-than-thou hippy to the pissed-off-at-the-world old man, I lost some interest in his act. I found enjoyment in his short-lived TV series and I’d tune him in occasionally when he had a cable special but he alienated me a bit when the little sparkle in his eye turned to anger. Still, I knew it was all an act and whenever I saw him on interview shows he just seemed like someone I’d like to hang out with. I only wish I’d gotten the chance.

Bye George.