I had mentioned before that ADHD, and being creative, never mind the fact that they're hopelessly intertwined, create their own issues. Not the least of which, is the fact that there is a vast group of people out there, who consider creativity to "disposable," ie, art is not the necessity that say, accounting, physics or medecine are. And it REALLY bugs me, that some people can look at a Van Gogh painting, a Richard Avedon photograph, or see Shakespeare performed, and think, "I could do that if I tried, what's the fuss about?" Excuse me, but if you're of average creativity and intelligence, DO NOT have the temerity to think that, even if you did produce some creative work, would anyone remember it in 10 years, or 50 years, or 500 years? You think about that. Suffice to say overall, I don't share that attitude; creativity requires as much inspiration, as much talent, as much training and innate LOVE as any other endeavor out there, period. Probably more than some.
And some of you out there are probably wondering about the Croatian Gangsta nick--well, it's like this; as much as people have ever literally and metaphorically poked and prodded at me, as much as I have said before, I just wanted to be left the hell alone, for the longest time, well....some people just don't get it, and thus you DO have to figure out ways to keep your space about you. In person, this isn't too hard, because I've been told I'm a fairly emotionally transparent guy; if I'm pissed at you, you'll know it, guaranteed. Online, that was another matter. Thus, a nick with a bit of menace to it was enough to repel most people, and the ones that DID have the step-to that would allow them to see behind the facade usually deserved to be there.
I've spewed a lot of venom lately, released a lot of long-held baggage, in an effort to simply get on with life. Martha tells me I am in fact getting better at this whole social thing, and I do feel better for the most part, despite the usual difficulties of merely trying to get on with things, self-improve, and do all the things that I should. I have to, of course, because on top of everything else, I'm 40 now, and my body just ain't gonna do the things it was once capable of, never mind the battle of such middle-age stuff as high blood pressure, having to take your glasses off to read fine print, and other nonsense. Trust me, it's no freakin picnic.
And portions of my life actually have been pretty good, I do have a few reasonably good memories from my childhood, but overall it was fairly spotty even REMEMBERING half my childhood. Those things that stick out most? My parent's holiday parties, when I was growing up in Wauwatosa, WI; banished to the upstairs while the grown-ups took over the place, one of the three of us kids would sneak downstairs every so often for a soda, (that's pop, to you non-Wisconsin folks, just like a "bubbler" is a drinking fountain.) and some Frangos. Frangos, for the uninitiated, are mint-flavored chocolates sold only at Marshall Fields stores, and they are divine. They qualify as the fondest memory I have of my childhood. A vacation when I was maybe 7 or 8, to Pentwater, MI was another great memory, so much so that when I had the chance, I took my daughters there years ago, and at the very same ice cream shop that has been there since my childhood, I had one of the best (and funniest) experiences I ever had with my own kids; my oldest, Shelby, was sitting across from me and her sister on a picnic table, looking at the signs on the side of the building, as she was learning to read right about then. She said "daddy, does that say pizza and subs on the side of the building?" and before I could even look to respond, her little sister Sydne blurts out, "sound it out, Shelby!" I damn near cried right then, between pride and sheer hilarity.
Another moment has to do with the Brooks Stevens Automotive Museum, when it was in Wisconsin, and the one car that rendered me speechless. Anyone who knows me, knows I am positively, utterly passionate about cars; more the look and art aspect, really, than anything technical, although I didn't do badly as a mechanic all those years. Anyway, I was 12, and the car in question was a 1936 Talbot-Lago "Teardrop" coupe, one of 6 ever made, and the prettiest blue I've ever seen. Or maybe it WAS just the car itself. In fact, it probably was, because last summer, I went to the Concours D'Elegance at Cranbrook Academy in Bloomfield Hills, and saw Peter Mullins' Teardrop, which is a rust-amber color. The first time I saw it, when it went through for its award, it was like seeing an old lover after the better part of a lifetime, things are different, but that feeling still burns just like you figured it would. Provided it was right to begin with, but that's an issue for another time. I had the chance to relay to Mr. Mullin, a Los-Angeles philanthropist and car-guy-extrordinaire, my tale of being blown away by the blue car. His tale told me he shared the same feeling I did, and it positively warmed me. And I must add, the guy who took me that time to the Brooks Stevens Museum was a guy named Michael J. Bohl, as I recall, the same guy who gave me my first 35mm camera and taught me to take pictures, AND how to draw cars in perspective, two talents keystone in my being to this day. Mike, if you're out there, I owe you a debt of absolute gratitude, regardless of whatever may have transpired between you and my mom. (this was all post-divorce, don't get excited, everybody,)
Anyway, I'm sure I will expunge, expound, and rant endlessly about my life so far, and hope, and do, and dream, and all those things....another time.