Let’s Make Farago Great Again (Sturbridge Massachusetts)

I remember the moment as if it was 40 years ago (because it was). My five-year-old nephew squinted, peered into my eyes and said “you’re not like other adults are you?” Out of the mouths of babes…

I’ve spent my whole life wearing that “odd duck” label, as both a badge of honor and a scarlet letter. Vacillating between wit-afflicted trouble maker and “unappreciated” outsider.

Sitting on the mulch boundary between a mall access road and UNO pizza, pausing on a three-day journey to West Virginia, I don’t know what I am, now.

In some profound sense, I’m nothing. Other than a 65-year-old Wandering Jew suffering from existential angst.

Winging It

What brought this on? Hanging out with my old wingman.

Strike that. Back in the day, I was his wingman. I didn’t so much enable female company as watch him charm the birds from the trees.

At some point in our reunion I realized our relationship had been a reenactment of childhood trauma.

I grew up the third of three boys. I observed my brothers achieve considerable athletic, academic, social and sexual success. And not from afar. We all went to the same private school.

I was “little Farago.” They were the “adults " I was never like, hard as I tried.

And good lord did I try. It was a fruitless pursuit that left me angry. At myself. Triggering bouts of depression that my parents didn’t understand, or make any effort to ameliorate.

Quite the opposite. My absentee father’s lionization of my brothers and my mother’s mental and physical abuse made self-doubt and self-loathing a chronic condition.

The Barbarian Inside the Gates

I’ve met people who’ve reacted to similar stresses by becoming masochists. Not me. I don’t want anyone to hurt me physically. Nor would I ever do that to another human being. It’s not my nature.

But I’ve often wondered, as I’m doing now, if I’ve ever fully evaded my father’s admonition “you’re your own worst enemy.” Subconsciously subverting my own success.

To use British hyperbole, I’ve changed careers like some people change shirts. I’ve moved more times than some people have hot dinners. I’ve been divorced twice. I’ve walked away from at least two highly successful careers (media and hypnosis).

I tell myself I bailed out of a desire to find new mountains to climb, and greener pastures.

There is truth in that. I take pride in a life of diverse experiences and groundbreaking achievements. But I can’t get over the nagging feeling that I haven’t left a large part of it out on the field (ESPN hyperbole).

Et Tu U2?

So here I am, out on a Ridiculously Random Motorcycle Tour with U2’s lyric playing in my head. I still, haven't found, what I’m looking for.

These posts are viewed by a fraction of the readers garnered by my car and gun blogs. I try not to look at – or care about – the reader count. But I do. A part of me yearns for the validation I worked so long and hard to achieve.

I've always defined myself by my work, fatherhood and sexual conquests. While I will never fail to cherish the second and finally abandoned the latter, I’d be lying if I didn’t justify this two-wheeled rambling to myself as a way to reignite my writing career.

TTAE’s relatively anemic reader count put paid to that goal. On the other hand, let's call it the positive side, obscurity leaves me more-or-less writing for myself. For the honor of truth.

I want, I have to accept this. I will never find peace until I stop seeking external approval and value myself just for being me.

An intelligent, funny, kind-hearted, curious man with a cynical but not bitter view of the world. Who always tries his best. Who follows Star Trek’s mission to split infinitives. To boldly go where I’ve never gone before.

Yes, I’ve been bold. Still am, obviously. But it’s been boldness born of desperation. Not self-confidence. Fake it ‘til you make it personified. A modus operandi that’s worked for me. As far as it has.

By the Book

I recently watched a TikTok video where the commentator hid a book under his sweater.

“People don’t know the title of the book,” he said. “But they know it’s there.”

He urged his audience not to hide their weaknesses. Their trauma. Because you can’t. Hence this post.

Stop Dragon My Heart Around

On my way here, stopping at a light, a dragonfly approached my new fairing, moving this way and that like a helicopter on speed. And flew off.

A few miles later, it happened again. This time a dragonfly landed on the windshield’s edge. It remained there until the light turned green. I waited a good ten seconds, until it left.

As I took off, I couldn’t help but see my visitors as a sign.

Where previously I saw myself as a butterfly, flitting about in the wind, I suddenly saw myself as a creature that darts this way and that. Racing around, hovering, and racing around some more. And, occasionally resting.

Perplexity reveals that “dragonflies account for roughly 0.02% to 0.13% of all insect species.” Rare AF and totally amazing.

Is that really me? I’m pretty sure my nephew’s never said ”you’re not like other adults” to anyone else. I’m equally sure that’s only me, the dragonfly, if I accept it.

After I wrote the above, I found myself on a two-lane road winding through the Connecticut countryside as the evening sun prepared to take a powder. Alone. Not knowing where I’d spend the night.

I switched Fritz into Dynamic mode and upped my pace. My Bimmer was a jet fighter, following an unknown path with astounding grace and pace. And I was happy.

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