SullsBlog

The Littlest Angel

2011-12-13T08:47:00.002-05:00

There are events in life which occur with such resounding force that the shock waves are felt for decades. The ripple effect of these events can be felt by those who where never present or even born when the event occurred. December 14, 1970 is the date of one of those events in my life and that of my family.

Its the day my brother died.

He was 1 month, 26 days old.

Derek was born in mid-October during the brilliance and splendor of Autumn in New England. I remember going to visit my mother and Derek in the hospital the day after he was born. My aunt and I drove over to Saint Margaret's hospital in Dorchester braving a chilly fall rain. As we made our way to the maternity ward we stopped at the gift shop. I begged her to buy a little doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, for my new brother. After what probably seemed like hours of groveling to her, she relented. I can't recall presenting him with my gift, but it became a fixture in his crib, at our home.

A new baby adds spice to a home, sometimes mild and sweet and at other times hot, unbearably hot. My mother was born high strung. If she were in school today she would be diagnosed with ADD, ADHD, PTSD or one of the myriad of other afflictions, abbreviated with letters. The month following Derek's birth was a mish-mash of highs and lows. The tenor of the household mirrored my mother's mood.

I can remember her crying uncontrollably, while smoking at the kitchen table while Derek was lying on the couch, surrounded by pillows.

I can remember sitting with my mother on the front steps of our apartment in Hyde Park. It was a warm Fall day and the trees were shedding their leaves. She allowed me to hold my brother while she watched, tentatively. I remember the smell of crisp fallen leaves while I cradled his tiny head.

I remember my mother and I laughing uncontrollably while I "helped" her change his diaper. He peed all over the two of us.

I remember my father (who was usually no where to be found) and mother fighting loudly, while I rubbed my brothers head while he lay in his crib.

The night of December 13, 1970 was a typical night in my childhood home. My mother downstairs smoking cigarettes and drinking tea. My sisters playing in their room. My brother Mark and I jumping on our beds in our room. Mark and I took Derek out of his crib and put him on my bed. We jumped around him while he lay in the middle. He didn't cry, he just seemed content watching us. We assumed he enjoyed the gentle jostling.

The next few days were a blur.

Who knows what traumas we block out of our minds. If we knew then they wouldn't be blocked, but open for examination. Some memories are best hidden from our consciousness.

I don't remember much about the day my brother died. I recall sadness, grief. I recall standing across the street from my house with the snow lightly falling, telling a schoolmate from my kindergarten class about my brother. I recall my mother promising me that they would bury my gift, the baby-boy-blue doll with him, so he wouldn't be alone. My mother brought me a flower from his funeral. We pressed it in plastic, and put it in an encyclopedia. From then, through my high school years, I would come across it when looking up something beginning with an "S" or a "T" and think of him.

My mother was never the same. From mid-October to December 14th every year until the day she died was torturous. She blamed herself for his death. The morning he died she got him from his crib for his morning feeding. She tried to get him to latch on, but he just wouldn't take her breast. She tried again and noticed that he was cold, motionless. He was gone.

"Crib Death" we were always told. When my mother passed in 1999 we found Derek's death certificate amongst her belongings. Cause of death: acute cardiac failure, emaciation.

Emaciation.

That explained the years of autumnal depression. The years of self loathing and self destruction. I, myself, thought I played a role in his passing. For decades I thought that maybe that night we were jumping on my bed that we hurt him, somehow. It was no ones fault. Our frolicking on the bed had nothing to do with it. My mother gave him everything she had, unfortunately she barely had enough to care for herself. The well had run dry.

Christmas time was always bittersweet. Ghosts of Christmas past were not friendly specters guiding my mother toward redemption, but haunting reminders of inadequacies and failure. Someway, somehow, my mother was able to emotionally detach immediately the day after the anniversary of Derek's death each year and get ready for Christmas. I don't know how she did it, but she was always able to pull off Christmas without her emotions getting in the way of our enjoyment of the holiday. As the years went by her grief became more and more transparent until it got to the point where she was paralyzed by her loss and unable to find any joy in the season

The year Derek died and for many years following, there was a Christmas special on TV titled "The Littlest Angel". It was the story about a boy (played by Johnny Whitaker, Jodie on "Family Affair") who dies and goes to Heaven, but is allowed to go back to earth to get his cherished treasure box, so he may give it as a gift to the Christ child on Christmas. Each Christmas I imagined that Derek was the "littlest angel" and gave his favorite toy, his doll dressed in baby-boy-blue, to baby Jesus.

In August of 1999, when I received the news of my mother's death my thoughts immediately turned to Derek.

I imagined him welcoming my mother into heaven.

I imagined her sense of relief when he forgave her for not having enough to give.

I was comforted by the thought of them being together again.

40 Days (and counting)

2010-07-28T08:53:00.005-04:00

In 40 days my five year old goes to kindergarten.

Halle - fricken - lujah!

I love my kids to death and I will definitely miss having my little guy around (read here)as evidenced by my previous posts. But enough is enough. For 7 years I have spent 95% of my waking hours (and a good chunk of my non-waking hours) with my kids. I'm not complaining...not in the least. My job has allowed me to be there to raise my kids to school age, no day care, relatively few baby sitters. I have two incredibly well adjusted, polite, intelligent, 'too smart for their own good' boys and the reason for that is the constant presence of me and my wife. Its been hard, though. Juggling a full time job while taking care of my boys while trying to maintain a house leaves no time for anything else. I've been able to sneak in a few rounds of golf and a few drunken weekends, but my life has drastically changed from eight years ago. In 40 days I'll get some reprieve. I'll have time to take naps just like pre-kids. I'll have time to play nine holes in the middle of the day. I'll have time to read and blog. It me time! From 9AM to 3PM Monday thru Friday its me, me, me...

The rest of the time will still be chaotic...hockey, baseball, school stuff, room cleaning, "eat your g-d green beans!", etc... But now I'll have my days back...to clean the kids room, actually do my job effectively, go to the dump more than monthly, clean the garage...no more messy house...no excuses.

No excuses?

Man I'm going to miss those guys.

Auntie Rosie

2010-03-25T07:57:00.000-04:00

25 years ago today my Aunt Rosie passed away. She was just shy of her 45th birthday.

My family buried my Aunt Rosie 24 years ago today. The day we buried her was a typical early spring day in New England, cold, windy, moisture in the air. She was 44. The age I am now.

I recall the moment we heard she had passed. My mother answered the phone. She didn't say a word, but I could tell by the growing contortions to her face that someone we loved was gone. She dropped the phone to the floor. "Rosie's dead" she struggled to say and started crying uncontrollably. My mother never cried. Hardened by divorce, poverty and infirmity she was a rock. She rarely showed emotion and when she did it was usually anger. Her anger was never usually directed at one person she was just angry at everyone and everything. When she did show another emotion like love, surprise, affection or disappointment it was palpable and visceral. Watching her cry was heart wrenching. I too rarely cry. My stoicism similarly born out of a feeling of hopelessness and resignation. As I stood there watching her wail I felt like I was watching a movie about someone hearing about a loved one dying. I became an emotional sponge, soaking in my mother's grief, but unable to feel my own.

I often refer to my mother, grandmother and aunt as my "Holy Trinity". Being a good Catholic boy and a son of Irish descendants I knew from a young age that Saint Patrick used the three leafed Shamrock to teach the pagan Celts the symbolism of the Holy Trinity:the father, son and holy ghost. These three women made up for the lack of a father and gave me all the support and love I needed to make up for many of the holes in my life. My mother gave me strength and perseverance. My grandmother taught me the value of unconditional love and to the appreciation of life's little things. My Auntie Rosie gave me everything else.

Rosemary C. Norton was the first born of John Norton and Cecilia (Mc Lean) Norton. She was the oldest of five children. Her father, "shuffled off to Buffalo", as my grandmother used to say because he literally left his family and went to Buffalo, leaving her to help her mother raise her brothers and sisters. I don't know much else about her childhood growing up in the Mission Hill section of Boston. According to my mother she was very intelligent, artistic, but kind of shy and a loner. Her and I were thrust into very similar roles being the oldest child in a broken home. She probably bore more responsibility than she should have which caused her to become controlling and cautious.

My earliest memories of her are of me sitting in her lap and listening to her read to me. I also remember driving in her car watching her sip coffee and smoke cigarettes. I also remember calling her when my parents were having knock down, drag out, fights. She would reassure me on the phone while my siblings and I would huddle in my room with the door closed.

When my parents divorced she moved in with us. Knowing that my mother was not in any shape mentally to be raising five kids she slept on the couch, in our beds or in a chair for a good part of five years, until we moved 100 miles west from Boston to Northampton. During her time with us she did everything a parent would do and more. She helped us with school work. She drove us to appointments. She comforted us when we woke up from a nightmare. She took us on adventures to Plimouth Plantation, the Museum of Science, Walden Pond and many long car rides around Eastern Massachusetts usually ending up at some Antiques shop or the "Dover Country Store". When I was ten she and my Uncle Mac took my younger brother Mark and I on a two week long trip out west to California, Utah, Nevada and Arizona. We camped, stayed in hotels, visited National Parks and big cities; things I never could have done with a single mother of five. She helped me study every day for two months prior to me taking and passing the entrance exam to the prestigious Boston Latin. We were her kids and she was as much a mother to us as our own mom.

I vividly remember the day my mother got the phone call telling her that we got accepted into a subsidized housing project in Northampton. The first thought running through my mind within seconds of my mother getting of the phone was "what are we going to do without Auntie Rosie". We found out a few months later. Within a year of moving my mother was once again overwhelmed. My mother had a new support system in her sister Carol who lived one town over and her brother Joe and his wife Feno who also lived nearby, but it wasn't the same. Rosie kept my mother in line as well as the rest of us. She had a way of making you not want to disappoint her without making you feel guilty. With out Rosie around my mother spiraled ot of control leaving us hanging in the wind.

After we moved west she did her best to visit as often as possible. Her monthly visits eventually became bi-monthly visits, which became quarterly visits which became holiday visits. She had spent a lifetime bearing responsibility for others mistakes and now she needed time for herself. She explored interests like horticulture; she was president of the American Begonia Society. She traveled around New England particularly up to Maine. She studied meditation and was an avid reader.

The week before she passed she visited us in Northampton. My mother had suffered a burst brain aneurysm a year earlier and was up to help her run some errands and checking for things she needed. She had an eventful visit filled with catching my brother Mark in a compromising situation with a girl, in-fighting between my siblings and me being in various states of inebriation. She was not happy with "her kids", but when she left that Sunday there were no hard feelings. We all gave her big hugs and kisses and chased her car like little kids as she drove out of the parking lot, waving wildly. That was the last time we saw her alive.

A week later, sometime after midnight my Uncle and grandmother found my Aunt in her chair complaining of a severe headache. She had headaches for years, but chalked it up to stress. After my mother's stroke, she paid more attention to her pains and even had scheduled an appointment for a thorough check up. She died later that day.

Very few days have gone by in the past 24 years that I don't think about Auntie Rosie. Whether it be the smell of coffee and cigarettes, a little blue car putting down the road(she drove a Renualt), a pastel colored sunset or the sound of my wife reading to my kids, I think of her.

In August 2002, on the three year anniversary of my mother's death, I was restless. I was drinking heavily. My wife was expecting my firstborn. I had recently had huge marital problems. I was lost and in need of direction. I thought deeply about my "Holy Trinity", the people I could always turn to when I was in trouble. I went out that day and got a shamrock tattooed to my left shoulder to honor them. As I sat in the chair and the artist went to work I started to softly cry. "Are you OK. Do you need me to stop" the dude asked, thinking I was in pain. "No man, its fine. Just thinking about some loved ones".

I'm Alive

2010-02-10T19:56:00.002-05:00

I will resume this blog thing soon. I need to get my shit together, but didn't anticipate how tough juggling hockey, work, etc...would be. My four year old heads off to kindergarden in 200 days, so I'll have time to breathe...and write...

The Littlest Angel

2009-12-13T18:40:00.000-05:00

Youkatek

2009-10-08T12:23:00.008-04:00

I hate facial hair. I have grown a beard a few times over the past 30 years, but never kept it past three weeks. It gets itchy, food gets caught in it and I look like an old man or at least, an older man. While shaving last week I started out with my usual routine. I shave the sides first starting at the right ear, down the right cheek to the right corner of my mouth. My 6 year old son Matt was brushing his teeth while I was shaving. When he saw my partially shaved face he screeched "Yoooouk!"; foamy toothpaste flew from his mouth. When I went to finish the job he pleaded for me to leave the goatee ala Kevin Youkilis, gold glove first baseman for the Boston Red Sox. I carefully shaved the other side and trimmed my neck into a respectable goatee. He was elated. "Dad, your not Youk, you're Varitek" referring to the Boston Catcher Jason Vairtek who also sports a goatee albeit less cro-magnon than the neanderthal-like Youkilis. As I patted down my freshly shaved cheeks and admired my manly growth he blurted out "You're Youk-a-tek!!!" and laughed with a blend of self amusement and derision. I gave him a big, juicy kiss on the cheek making sure I rubbed my growth back and forth across his cheek. He laughed at first, then complained that it itched. "Wait till mom feels this", I explained as I knew she wouldn't like it at all.

Today is day ten of the "Youkatek" and its getting more Youk than Tek by the day. Tonight the Red Sox take the field in LA in their quest of winning a third World Series title in six seasons. I'll try to sport the Youkatek till they get knocked out of the playoff or until they bring home another title. Until then its itch, itch...scratch, scratch.

And probably no sex.

Frozen In Time

2009-07-23T12:21:00.004-04:00

My wife often says "I wish the kids would never grow up; I wish they'd stay this age forever". I'm paraphrasing, but the sentiment is that time is flying by and she wishes that she could remember them at this age as vividly in twenty years, as she does now.

Twenty years from now I'll miss Peter's squeaky, testosterone-less professions of undying love or Matthew's full lipped kisses every time we part, for more than a few minutes. Its hard to imagine that there won't be a time when we don't have to carry the boys from our bed to their bed, half asleep, stumbling over toys and shoes in the dark. But I differ from my wife. I can't wait for the next age. I relish every minute of whats happening in my kids life now, but am just as excited for the next big thing. I can't wait for the day Matt can walk to school by himself. I will jump for joy when Pete can pour his own bowl of cereal, eat it without making a mess and put his bowl in the sink.

My cousin Sue's daughter Meagan passed away six years ago. For the past four years the family has put on a golf tournament in her memory. They raise anywhere from $3000 to $4000 per outing and the proceeds go toward research on childhood leukemia, which was what cause her death. She unknowingly had the disease and she died suddenly; the details are too heart wrenching for words. She was three when she passed and each year at the tournament there are pictures of her displayed at the check in, on buttons or on fliers advertising the tournament. Everyone who attends the tournament is getting older, greyer, taller, skinnier, balder, but there is Meagan, as cute as ever, never aging, forever young, smiling a mischievous smile, frozen in time. I had a brother who died at 1 1/2 months old. We have few pictures of him, but it's the same; he'll always be an infant(read here).

Close your eyes and think about the following people: your mother, your best friend from childhood, your first boyfriend/girlfriend, your spouse...what image do you see? We usually revert either back to our earliest memories of that person or the last time you saw that person. Either way, its an image that's frozen in time, a snapshot that's indelibly marked in your memory. What will my snapshot be of my boys? Will it be the day they were born. The day Matt played in his first baseball game? The day of Pete's dance recital? A day of the two of them at the beach or skating in the backyard? Or will it be them as teenagers or young men or middle aged men playing with their kids.

Will I miss the view of Peter coming out of the bedroom with his shirt on backwards smiling proudly that he dressed himself? Will I long for the days that Matt wants nothing more than to cuddle into the crook of my arm while watching the Red Sox? Of course. But I am grateful that we can add to the "snapshots". I look forward to what pictures we can add to the photo album.

Burnt

2009-05-15T09:08:00.006-04:00

This is not a picture of me, but it could be. My life has been a non-stop flight to Burnoutville. Don't get me wrong things are great. I am coaching my son Matt's Cal Ripken League baseball team, coaching his spring hockey and serving on the board of directors of the Amherst Hockey Association. I have been working on home improvements like finishing my basement and maintaining the yard. I have been going to the gym 5 days per week and am almost at my five year low weight and five year highs in strength.I have been watching the Celtics and Bruins playoff run and even caught a few Sox games in person. Life's been great, but when you add all of this up combined with work and family and ...well...it doesn't add up. There are not enough hours in the day to do all of this without casualties.

The casualties have been the following in no particular order:

Golf (I haven't played a round since February in NC and only been to the driving range once around here; I didn't join my golf club this year)

Blogging (ironically I have been getting well over 600 hits a day due to an image of a baseball I posted on my last post on April 6th.)

Sleep.

Time with the Mrs. Sully.

Sex (even the solo stuff).

Friends (do I have any left?).

Drinking (non existent, man do I need to get drunk).

Eventually this will slow down for awhile. Hockey is over next Thursday till August. Baseball will be over by July. The Bruins got knocked out of the playoffs last night and the Celts will go down to the Cavs if not Orlando in game 7. The AHA board will meet once in June then not again till August. I figure by the end of June I should get some me time.

Till then I will run around like Ray Liotta near the end of the movie "Goodfellas", when he is scurrying around town trying to avoid the Feds in the helicopters while trying to unload guns and drugs. At least he had the benefit of an unlimited supply of cocaine to keep him going. All I've got is coffee...lots of coffee...

MLB 2009

2009-04-06T09:03:00.003-04:00

Today is Opening Day in Major League baseball. Yeah...I know...the first game was last night, but night is not day. I am a traditionalist in the sense that baseball is best seen in the light of day. The uniforms look whiter, the grass looks greener and daylight is more consistent than stadium lighting. That said this is going to be a great season for MLB. Both New York teams are opening new stadiums. The reigning A.L. M.V.P. is a normal sized guy instead of a steroid built machine ala A-Rod and every team in Baseball with the exception of Toronto and Baltimore has a shot at the playoffs.

Last year I predicted Red Sox and Mets in the fall classic with the Red Sox prevailing. Ok, so I'm no Jimmy the Greek, but did mange to pick 3 of 4 playoff teams in the National League and 2 out of 4 in the American League. With out further adieu, here are my picks for the 2009 MLB season.

American League

East: Red Sox
Central: White Sox
West: Angels
Wild Card: Yankees

Tampa was a fluke and will be floating around .500. The Red Sox arms are too much for the Yankees and will wrap up the East by mid-September. The Yankees will win the Wild Card in the last week of the season fending off the Twins as well as the surprising Indians. The Angels win the weakest division in baseball by Labor Day. The Central will be a bloodbath with every team in contention coming into September. Chi-sox will eek out the Twins and Indians with the Royals having a winning season, but unable to break through to the playoffs, yet.

National League

East: Mets
Central: Cubs
West: Dodgers
Wild Card: Diamondbacks

The Mets will not make a liar out of me three years in a row and handily win the East as the Phillies suffer from a post World Series hangover. The Braves will actually be in both the Wild Card mix and the East, but D-Lowe can't pitch every day.
The Cubs will once again be the best team in baseball and handily win the Central. The Dodgers and Diamondbacks fight it out in the Wild West with one winning the division and the other the Wild Card.

Playoffs

AL

The Red Sox will play the White Sox and win in six. The Angels lose to the Yankees setting the stage for another Boston/New York showdown with the Sox winning in five putting their mark on the new Yankee Stadium.

NL

The Cubs sweep the Diamondbacks and the Dodgers surprise the Mets. The Cubs beat the Dodgers in seven.

The World Series will be the most watched in history as the Red Sox add insult to injury by sweeping the Cubs in four and forcing the longest suffering fans in baseball to watch the World Series celebration on the hallowed Wrigley Field.

Plaaaay ball!!!

Auntie Rosie

2009-04-01T10:12:00.005-04:00

My family buried my Aunt Rosie 24 years ago today. The day we buried her was a typical early spring day in New England, cold, windy, moisture in the air. She was 44. The age I am now.

I recall the moment we heard she had passed. My mother answered the phone. She didn't say a word, but I could tell by the growing contortions to her face that someone we loved was gone. She dropped the phone to the floor. "Rosie's dead" she struggled to say and started crying uncontrollably. My mother never cried. Hardened by divorce, poverty and infirmity she was a rock. She rarely showed emotion and when she did it was usually anger. Her anger was never usually directed at one person she was just angry at everyone and everything. When she did show another emotion like love, surprise, affection or disappointment it was palpable and visceral. Watching her cry was heart wrenching. I too rarely cry. My stoicism similarly born out of a feeling of hopelessness and resignation. As I stood there watching her wail I felt like I was watching a movie about someone hearing about a loved one dying. I became an emotional sponge, soaking in my mother's grief, but unable to feel my own.

I often refer to my mother, grandmother and aunt as my "Holy Trinity". Being a good Catholic boy and a son of Irish descendants I knew from a young age that Saint Patrick used the three leafed Shamrock to teach the pagan Celts the symbolism of the Holy Trinity:the father, son and holy ghost. These three women made up for the lack of a father and gave me all the support and love I needed to make up for many of the holes in my life. My mother gave me strength and perseverance. My grandmother taught me the value of unconditional love and to the appreciation of life's little things. My Auntie Rosie gave me everything else.

Rosemary C. Norton was the first born of John Norton and Cecilia (Mc Lean) Norton. She was the oldest of five children. Her father, "shuffled off to Buffalo", as my grandmother used to say because he literally left his family and went to Buffalo, leaving her to help her mother raise her brothers and sisters. I don't know much else about her childhood growing up in the Mission Hill section of Boston. According to my mother she was very intelligent, artistic, but kind of shy and a loner. Her and I were thrust into very similar roles being the oldest child in a broken home. She probably bore more responsibility than she should have which caused her to become controlling and cautious.

My earliest memories of her are of me sitting in her lap and listening to her read to me. I also remember driving in her car watching her sip coffee and smoke cigarettes. I also remember calling her when my parents were having knock down, drag out, fights. She would reassure me on the phone while my siblings and I would huddle in my room with the door closed.

When my parents divorced she moved in with us. Knowing that my mother was not in any shape mentally to be raising five kids she slept on the couch, in our beds or in a chair for a good part of five years, until we moved 100 miles west from Boston to Northampton. During her time with us she did everything a parent would do and more. She helped us with school work. She drove us to appointments. She comforted us when we woke up from a nightmare. She took us on adventures to Plimouth Plantation, the Museum of Science, Walden Pond and many long car rides around Eastern Massachusetts usually ending up at some Antiques shop or the "Dover Country Store". When I was ten she and my Uncle Mac took my younger brother Mark and I on a two week long trip out west to California, Utah, Nevada and Arizona. We camped, stayed in hotels, visited National Parks and big cities; things I never could have done with a single mother of five. She helped me study every day for two months prior to me taking and passing the entrance exam to the prestigious Boston Latin. We were her kids and she was as much a mother to us as our own mom.

I vividly remember the day my mother got the phone call telling her that we got accepted into a subsidized housing project in Northampton. The first thought running through my mind within seconds of my mother getting of the phone was "what are we going to do without Auntie Rosie". We found out a few months later. Within a year of moving my mother was once again overwhelmed. My mother had a new support system in her sister Carol who lived one town over and her brother Joe and his wife Feno who also lived nearby, but it wasn't the same. Rosie kept my mother in line as well as the rest of us. She had a way of making you not want to disappoint her without making you feel guilty. With out Rosie around my mother spiraled ot of control leaving us hanging in the wind.

After we moved west she did her best to visit as often as possible. Her monthly visits eventually became bi-monthly visits, which became quarterly visits which became holiday visits. She had spent a lifetime bearing responsibility for others mistakes and now she needed time for herself. She explored interests like horticulture; she was president of the American Begonia Society. She traveled around New England particularly up to Maine. She studied meditation and was an avid reader.

The week before she passed she visited us in Northampton. My mother had suffered a burst brain aneurysm a year earlier and was up to help her run some errands and checking for things she needed. She had an eventful visit filled with catching my brother Mark in a compromising situation with a girl, in-fighting between my siblings and me being in various states of inebriation. She was not happy with "her kids", but when she left that Sunday there were no hard feelings. We all gave her big hugs and kisses and chased her car like little kids as she drove out of the parking lot, waving wildly. That was the last time we saw her alive.

A week later, sometime after midnight my Uncle and grandmother found my Aunt in her chair complaining of a severe headache. She had headaches for years, but chalked it up to stress. After my mother's stroke, she paid more attention to her pains and even had scheduled an appointment for a thorough check up. She died later that day.

Very few days have gone by in the past 24 years that I don't think about Auntie Rosie. Whether it be the smell of coffee and cigarettes, a little blue car putting down the road(she drove a Renualt), a pastel colored sunset or the sound of my wife reading to my kids, I think of her.

In August 2002, on the three year anniversary of my mother's death, I was restless. I was drinking heavily. My wife was expecting my firstborn. I had recently had huge marital problems. I was lost and in need of direction. I thought deeply about my "Holy Trinity", the people I could always turn to when I was in trouble. I went out that day and got a shamrock tattooed to my left shoulder to honor them. As I sat in the chair and the artist went to work I started to softly cry. "Are you OK. Do you need me to stop" the dude asked, thinking I was in pain. "No man, its fine. Just thinking about some loved ones".

Cameltoepia

2009-03-27T07:59:00.004-04:00

The past few months I've had a consistent morning routine. Wake up. Lay in bed. Wait for my wife to bring me some coffee. Watch "Morning Joe" on MSNBC. Channel surf when Joe's right wing rhetoric gets too much to bear. More often than not I watch the music video channels for a song or two then tune back in to hear about the fiscal crisis and other political banter. Occasionally the kids, one or both, make their way down the hallway to my bedroom and crawl into bed with me for a bit until they get bored then head out to the living room to watch cartoons. The other morning I switched from Joe to VH1 and there was Lady Gaga. She was writhing around by the pool, petting a dog, playing poker, practically 69 ing a dude all while wearing a skin tight one piece bathing suit, sporting...you guessed it...camel toe.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no prude. I'm all for glimpses of female anything. As a kid I couldn't wait for the Boston Sunday Globe to be delivered, mostly for the sports section and funnies, but also for the flyers. Every department store flyer had a section were there would be a "lady" modeling some underwear, bras or stockings. I would study these pictures trying to make out any shape or form that I could trying to picture what was underneath. There wasn't much to go on as I'm sure they airbrushed any detail out of those photos, but occasionally you could see the outline of a nipple or if really lucky something outlined down in the nether regions.

As I lay in bed the other morning I was thoroughly enjoying the fine art work and direction of Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" video (see here). So was my 6 year old son. He was staring at the screen, blankly. I could almost see the surge of hormones coursing through his system as he was studying the screen. I immediately switched back to MSNBC and with that he jumped up and left the room. I then switched back to VH1, not for my own enjoyment, but to really study this video putting myself in the mind of a six year old. The video ended and a new one started. "Beyonce" wearing a skin tight leotard with two other girls dancing around singing about "all the single ladies". More crotch shots.

I turned 16 in 1981, the year MTV made it on to our televisions by way of a new communication medium known as cable television. Not every community got cable right away. I had cousin's who lived in a neighboring town who got cable a few years before I did in early 1982. While visiting their house for a Sunday afternoon dinner I lay on the couch all afternoon watching corny, grainy, jumbled videos of musical acts like Styx, The Rolling Stones and Queen all had videos that mainly showed the band jamming away or playing out some ridiculously contrived skit that loosely went along with the theme of the song, or not. A few years later Madonna brought sex into the equation. Even when she was writhing around with a lion, moaning and groaning about having sex like a virgin, she was covered up albeit in some sexy garb, but covered up nonetheless.

No T. No A. No CT (and I don't mean Connecticut!).

When WhiteSnake came out with "Here I Go Again", model girlfriend of David Coverdale, Tawney Kittean draped herself over the hood of his car in various seductive poses, but never gave us a glimpse of what was underneath her flowing dress. It was hot, sexy and worthy of putting in the spank vault for another time, but quite tame. "Hot For Teacher", "Cradle Of Love", "California Girls", "Cherry Pie" were all sexy videos from the '80's that titillated without actually showing the actual tit. No camel toe in sight.

Moving into the '90's Chris Isaak's "Wicked Games" video had a teen aged Helena Christianson writhing around on the beach, showing some ass cheeks and snuggling with a much older Chris was the epitome of the sexy video. The buxom (and I mean that in a good way) Mariah Carey came on the scene in the '90's and upped the sexy ante a bit with videos like "Honey", but was still wholesome enough to let the kids watch. The 90's also brought us Brittany in her catholic school girl outfit asking the be "hit" one more time. Dirty, yep. Sexy, no doubt. Camel toe, no.

Then came the 2000's.

The video world has became a virtual Cameltoepia. Cisco's "Thong Song" (see here) seems tame compared to Christina Aguilera's "Dirty" (see here). "Dirty" seems tame to NERD's "Lap Dance" (see here). The 2000's leave nothing to the imagination. Raw, hardcore, unadulterated, its a Cameltopia. No need to scour the flyers for found porn. No need for binoculars at the beach. Glimpses of thong underwear peeking out at you from the top of some low rider jeans are no big deal anymore. Kids today just have to tune in to their favorite music video channel to have all their curiosities met. It's only a matter of time when full frontal nudity will be the norm then there will be nothing left to the imagination.

I clicked over to VH1 this morning to find a 50 year old Madonna, sporting a leotard, spreading her legs and shaking her money maker. A long way from her "like a virgin" days. I clicked right back over to "Morning Joe" and the kids wern't even in the room.

Some things are best left to the imagination.

(Click here for a cornucopia of Cameltoepia, Maxim's 20 Hottest Music Video's)

More Good Stuff

2009-03-20T09:57:00.006-04:00

As of yesterday I've been doing this blogging thing for two years. Here are some of my best pieces I've posted over the past year.

Backyard Games

A Summer Day 1975

Hitchhiking, Switch blades and Jaws

The Evening of August 14, 1999

The Last Day of Camp, 1982

Then There Were Two

The Couch Surfer

First Road Trip

(Part I)

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Dear Blogspot...

Happy reading!!

Póg mo thóin!

2009-03-17T13:07:00.003-04:00

Last year I posted a piece that was semi-optimistic about the situation in Northern Ireland titled "26 + 6 = 1" (read here).

What a difference a year makes.

Two British Soldiers were murdered Saturday March 7th and a police officer, Stephen Carroll, was shot down March 9th by two separate splinter groups of the supposedly disarmed IRA (read here). People of the "north" need to brace themselves for a long summer of curfews, harassment and violence. Although people on both sides are condemning the violence this was bound to happen. As long as an occupying force continues to occupy the animosity never leaves (lesson to US: get out of Iraq ASAP). No one living on the Island of Ireland, Catholic or Protestant, Unionist or Republican thought the peace would be lasting.

There is a line in the movie "The Departed" where Matt Damon's character turns to his girlfriend when discussing their relationship and says "If we're not going to make it it'll have to be you that gets out. I'm fucking Irish, I'll deal with something being wrong the rest of my life". This sums up the Irish psyche as much as any quote I've ever heard. There is a somber, resignation about the human condition that is ingrained in every person boastful of their Irish heritage. If it wasn't an Irishman that came up with the saying "The more things change, the more they stay the same" I'd be genuinely shocked.

How do the Irish deal with their jaded and skeptical outlook on life? Living life to its fullest, living life like there's no tomorrow and by finding humor in the darkest of situations. "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die" is the mantra many Irish live by.

My wife sent me this joke today.

*An Irishman moves into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry, walks into the pub
and promptly orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but
serves the man three beers, which he drinks quietly at a table, alone.*

*An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more.
This happens yet again. The next evening the man again orders and drinks
three beers at a time, several times. Soon the entire town is whispering
about the Man Who Orders Three Beers.*

*Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the
town. "I don't mean to pry, but folks around here are wondering why you
always order three beers?"*

*"Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies. "You see, I have two brothers, and
one went to America, and the other to Australia . We promised each other
that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank as a way of
keeping up the family bond."*

*The bartender and the whole town were pleased with this answer, and soon
the Man Who Orders Three Beers became a local celebrity and source of pride
to the hamlet, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch
him drink.*

*Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender
pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening.
He orders only two beers. The word flies around town. Prayers are offered
for the soul of one of the brothers.*

*The next day, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first
of all, want to offer condolences to you for the death of your brother. You
know-the two beers and all"*

*The man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear
that my two brothers are alive and well. It's just that I, meself, have
decided to give up drinking for Lent."*

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!!!

Dear Blogspot...

2009-03-16T09:31:00.007-04:00

Dear Blogspot,
You may have noticed recently that we've been growing apart. I don't visit as often. I've neglected my readers. I've stopped reading other bloggers stuff. I just wanted you to know that I still love you, but things have changed.

I have found someone else.

Her name is Facebook.

She is fresh, attractive and non- judgemental. I don't feel any pressure to log on to her page. She has connected me with dozens of old friends with whom I can instantly reminisce about old times, instead of sitting around for hours trying to conjure up memories and hunt and peck them down on my keyboard. Many of the people I've shared with you on my webpage at Blogspot have now come to life over at Facebook. With you, those old friends just sit there, static, waiting for someone to read about them, occasionally. On Facebook old friends come alive. I can see that Sheryl from summer camp back in the '80's just "went for a hike". I can read that an ex-co worker "just put on a pot of coffee". I can see that a friend from the old neighborhood has kids that are uglier than THEY were at that age. Facebook is instant gratification. It's cocaine. You on the other hand are like an old, drunk, uncle, telling the same stories over and over and over.

You know that we first got together I was upfront with you. I told you that I wanted to have a place to write some stuff and archieve thoughts. I made you no promises except only to write when things were fresh, relevant and interesting. Lately you have been smothering me. I feel obligated to you when I am too young and active to be tied down. I need to be free and do what I want. I hope you understand. I know what you are going to say. "Facebook is just a fling. She'll rock your world, then leave you after she's had her fun." Maybe so. But I have to do this for me.

It's not you... it's me.

I still love you. I'm just not "in love" with you anymore.

I hope we can still be friends.

Your friend,
Sully

PS: Maybe this is just a phase. Please don't hate me.

PPS: I know that Facebook is pretty open about things, so maybe the three of us can go out some time? ;)

Six Years

2009-03-09T09:26:00.007-04:00

My oldest son Matt turns six at 10:24 this evening. With maybe the exception of my own birthday, March 9, 2003 is the most important date in my life.

I am not going to wax poetic about the virtues of fatherhood. Fatherhood is what it is. Its a mostly thankless job wherein the rewards are few and far between.

Some might guess that having an absent father is why the day is so important. Wrong again. Although me not having a father around definitely impacted every aspect of my upbringing (read here), not having him around may have been for the best. He was not the most stable, nor upstanding individual (criminal, actually).

If its not love of fatherhood or being the "dad I never had", then what could it be?

I have led a semi-charmed kind of life. The first twenty were tough. Real tough. The next eighteen were lived with complete onanistic abandon (read here, here and here, and here). My first twenty years I bore responsibilities no kid should have to bear. (If you are a regular reader you've heard some of the horror stories, if new read here, here and here) I helped raise my brothers and sisters when my mother had checked out emotionally first and physically later on. When I had enough, I overcompensated and focused on my own needs to the point that no one else mattered. Not even my wife, who had helped me transition from adolescence to adulthood and helped spur me along to independence.

The driving force behind my self-absorption was my competency. I am one of those people to whom everything comes easy.

I have never had problems making friends. Girls, no problem. I maintained straight A's through fifth grade (except penmanship; you can't BS penmanship) and once I realized that I could get B's by simply listening in class, I rarely did any studying and only homework when necessary. I am good at all sports. I didn't pick up a golf club till I was 30 except for an occasional bucket at the driving range and within a year of playing I was shooting in the eighties. I have had some of the best jobs just fall into my lap. Summer camp counselor, after school coordinator, youth sports director, right up to my current job. Never the best paying, but jobs where the quality of life is so good that friends making three times as much have been enviable. I lived the "life of Reily" until March 9, 2003, because I could.

On March 9, 2003 it was the first time in eighteen years that I turned my focus outward. It was time to disengage the pause button and start the process of reciprocity. I welcomed the responsibility before me, but more than that, I welcomed the challenge. I honestly wasn't personally challenged by something since studying for a passing the entrance exam to Boston Latin (a prestigious Boston "exam" school) when I was in sixth grade (unfortunately I got my acceptance letter forwarded to me after we moved 100 west of Boston, to Northampton Mass, that summer).

I'm not complaining. The fact that things come easy for me makes life with kids easier than most. I have an extremely flexible job which allows me more time with my kids than any dad I know and most moms. My modest upbringing taught me to not want for much materially, so we live within our means. Life is as good as it was before Matt, but in a different way. I feel better about myself. I feel like I am part of something bigger than myself. Being challenged as a parent every day is more rewarding to me than scoring playoff tickets, getting on an exclusive golf course or being the last one standing after a night of drinking. I would love to get World Series tickets, play Pebble Beach or binge drink in Vegas, but I don't have time right now. I have more important things to do.

"An idle brain is the devil's workshop" is an old English proverb. After a successful eighteen year run the workshop is closed.

Thanks Lori and Matthew for changing my life...for the better.

Reports Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

2009-03-03T08:30:00.004-05:00

Alright, none of you thought I was dead, but I was closer than you'd think. The month of February was one of the most stressful months I've had in the past 20 years. I was in jeopardy of losing my job. My brother Mark was reported as a missing person. My kids were deathly ill. I watched my family's retirement money shrink down to pre 2000 levels. There were a few times in February that I thought I was having a stroke. Racing thoughts, heart palpitations, tingling of the extremities. I haven't had that much anxiety since I took a white shit (read here about my white shit). Don't laugh. You take a white shit and see if you don't feel like you've lost your mind.

Even though we here in New England got hammered with a 12 inch snowstorm, March came in like a lamb for me. My skating rink is back from the dead. I turned 44 on the first and got some great gifts. My troubles have subsided to manageable levels. St. Paddy's will be here soon which means spring is just around the corner. That means coaching baseball, watching baseball, playing golf, feeling alive again. Things are looking up.

When I started this blog thing I knew that it would Eb and flow. I hemmed and hawed for months whether to start a blog because I knew I wouldn't be able to be as prolific as I wished (ala my cuz, Suldog) due to my busy life. I realistically thought I could post once per week. That's been my average over the past two years. Some months I posted a dozen times and others I've posted once. I promised in my first post that I wouldn't write for the sake of writing, so my posts will be frequent when I have time and energy and be non existent when life is being lived instead of being written about. When I disappear for a week or a month it's most likely because I'm living life.

I AM alive and kicking!

Blah!!!

2009-02-13T12:41:00.002-05:00

Doldrums, cabin fever, a case of the blah's...whatever you want to call it...I've got it. Work...sucks. Snow...sucks. I've got an employee who is a complete douche bag. Even a couple of 50 degree days haven't lightened my mood; it just pisses me off more that my rink is melting. I have had zero creativity, drive or need to socialize, so blogging has been non-existent. I am hopping in my SUV Saturday after Matt's hockey practice to visit my brother and sister in North Carolina. Me and the fam will be making it a leisurely trip stopping in D.C. and N.Y.C. I might even get in a round of golf with my bro. Maybe wallking some fairways and getting on the open road will get me back on track. Until then...BLAHHHH!!!

The Snow Game

2009-01-27T06:19:00.004-05:00

(Seven years ago the New England Patriots made an improbable run to win their first of three Super Bowl championships. With a backup quarterback, a rag tag offense and punishing defense they defied the odds makers and beat the "greatest show on turf" St. Louis Rams, featuring the now leader of the Arizona Cardinals, Kurt Warner. Their Super Bowl run started in a snowy evening in Foxboro Massachusetts.) This piece was originally published 9/7/07.

January 19, 2002.

The Snow Game.

The greatest football game in New England football history.

I was there.

The New England Patriots have played bigger games (as of the date of this writing they have played in 5 Super Bowls), they have played in closer games, had games with more controversy (1976 playoffs vs Raiders, sno-blower-gate) and they have played games in worse weather conditions. There has never been a single game in their history that could compare with this games combination of magnitude, atmosphere, suspense and exhilaration.

The Pats had a season that was typical of those since Bob Kraft had bought the team in the early 90's, competitive, hopeful, but missing some unknown key ingredient. The one difference between this team and the others in recent history was that they were peaking. They had earned a home playoff game and in every possible scenario it would be their only home playoff game thus making this game the last game played in the drab, dismal Schaefer... Sullivan...Foxboro Stadium. As horrible as it was a venue, it held a vault of beer soaked memories that could never be replaced by a state of the art stadium. Going to Foxboro Stadium was like going to a football game in the town of Bedrock circa 2500 BC. Touch football in the rock strewn, gravel parking lot. The smell of meat cooking on ridiculously huge grill fires. Drunken fights at 11:00 AM, two hours before kick off. Blood and beer.

The week leading up to the game my buddy Billy and I had been scouring the net for tickets to the game. Billy is a hard drinking , hard living guy who bought his father's roofing business back in the 90's and was my golf partner. He had bought season tickets back when Kraft bought the team, but had sold them recently to a vendor of his. We had gone to lots of games together, but were on a mission from God to go to this game. We wanted to experience one last game like cavemen, drunk, eating meat and watching fights. On Friday afternoon I found some tickets for $200 a piece and immediately called Billy, excitedly. He had already gotten us tickets from a vendor, for free.

Yoo-hoo!!!!

Saturday we got on the road at 11 AM. packed with beer and a crock pot full of meatballs and sausage. The game was an 8PM start, but we had a plan. Drink. Check into our hotel we booked knowing it was going to be a late, drunken evening. Spend the afternoon in Providence drinking. Get on our cold weather gear and head to the game. Things pretty much held to plan.

During our ride down the Mass Pike the snow had already started falling as predicted, but was not yet sticking to the frozen pavement. It wisped back and forth across the road blown around by the speeding cars. We checked into our hotel in Attleboro on Route 1 about 5 miles from the stadium at 1PM. We plugged in the crock pot and hopped back in the car for the 15 minute ride to Providence and its warm, inviting stripper bars. The snow was still light as we made our way into "Club Fantasies". We opted for this joint on the recommendation of the front desk clerk at the hotel over the infamous "Foxy Lady". There is nothing like sitting in a warm, cozy stripper bar with 50+ naked women prancing about while drinking beer and shots of Jaegarmeister as the snow piles up outside. Its like Apres Ski without the Apres or the ski. Billy and I sat at the bar for the most part occasionally heading into "The Pit" (a squared off section next to the main stage) for a $5 sample table dance(an R-rated version of the $25, X-rated, private table dances done upstairs. We had lost time while in the joint and when we walked out sometime after 5 PM it was into "white out" conditions.

It took us 45 minutes to make the 15 minute ride back to the hotel. We put on our "long johns" and waterproof gear, gathered up the meatballs and french bread and headed toward the stadium. My Bonneville handled surprisingly well in the snow and the trip to the stadium went smoothly. We stopped at a liquor store 2 miles from the stadium and Bill went in. He came out with 12 nips of Grand Mariner. We pulled in to the stadium parking lot and there were no discernible parking spaces. The snow was at least 8 inches deep. I had plugged the crock pot into my a/c converter which plugged into my lighter on the way to the stadium from the hotel, so we expected some steamy, hot meatballs to go with our beer. No go. The converter not only shorted the lighter, thus making our meatballs cold, it shorted out half the electrical system including the defroster, heater and inside lights. We sat in the car eating luke warm meatball grinders washed down with ice cold beer. 45 minutes before game time we filled our pockets with beer and nips of Grand Mariner and headed for the gates of the stadium. At the gates there were ticket takers and droves of security. I thought for sure we would have all of our booze confiscated. I handed the ticket taker my ticket and got a token pat down by a disinterested security person. I know he must have felt one of the five beers I carried in in my jacket pocket or one of the six nips I tucked in my socks. I turned to Billy as we headed to our seats in Section 216 and said "I guess Kraft is trying to save money on demo and is hoping someone brings in a bomb". "I'll drink to that" he said as he hoisted a Grand Mariner in a mock toast.

The scene at our seats were something that could not be duplicated by the best of Hollywood's special effects artists. Snow was falling sideways under the dim lights. The grounds crew was walking back and forth over their respective yard line snow blowing the line so you could see the yardage. Players were warming up mainly by running in place or doing jumping jacks as to not get injured before the game even started. A fog was enveloping the stadium caused by the breath of 60,000 strong anticipating the kickoff.

The game developed slowly. The only scoring in the first half was a Raiders touchdown, Gannon to Jett. In the third quarter the Russian born Sebastian Janikowski and the South Dakota born Vinateiri, both seemingly oblivious to the weather, accounted for dueling field goals with Janikowski winning 2 to 1. With the Pats down 13-3 the crowd got restless. Our half of the stadium, on the Pats sideline, spontaneously started chanting "We want Drew" in response to Brady's inefficiency. Drew was warming up on the sideline and seemed to zip the ball a bit stronger as the pleas for his entry became louder.

Then there was the forth quarter.

Brady appeased the masses by driving the ball down field early in the quarter and ran one in cutting the Raiders lead to 3. Miss cues on both sides ensued. With under two minutes to go Brady dropped back to pass and was being tackled when the ball popped loose. The crowed groaned collectively as a Raider pounced on the ball. I started yelling hoarsely, drunkenly "His arm was going forward, they are going to reverse it." I repeated it a number of times while people stood in dead silence or headed sullenly for the exits. Some guy a few rows in front turned around and told me to shut up. Just as I was about to dive over a couple of rows to fulfil the trifecta of booze, meat and blood the ref said the play was being reviewed. I suddenly went from drunk "belligerent" guy to drunk "knows what hes talking about" guy. The call was reversed and everyone was hugging, high 5-ing and kissing like it was New Years Eve. The guy that told me to shut up even gave me a high 5 which I reciprocated as hard as I could.

Brady took advantage of the second chance, but couldn't get us within "chip shot" range which on a night like that would've been inside the ten, if that. He got us to the 30 with just under 30 seconds to go. The snow seemed to pick up in intensity when Vinitieri was lining up the field goal attempt. As the ball lifted off the ground into the falling snow I immediately sunk my head. The trajectory of the kick was way too low to travel 47 yards and I didn't want to see it miss. As I stared at the pile of beer cans and bottles of Grand Mariner, covered with snow, piled at my feet the roaring erupted. The kick carried just enough over the cross bar to tie the game at 13 - 13. Every hair on my body was standing on end. People were falling over their seats. For two straight minutes everyone in the stadium was bouncing in unison, screaming and laughing.

This never happens to us, we never get the breaks.

The ghosts of Ben Dreith, Buckner, Piersall, "The Fridge", Desmond Howard and Bucky Dent who had been lingering over the moment retreated hastily from the joy and ectasy rarley experienced on a January night in New England.

Over time was anti-climactic. We won the coin toss, drove the field and AV made a chip shot right in front of us to win the game. As Lonnie Paxton was making snow angels below the stands were a sea of euphoria. People were screaming, jumping, cackling, hooting, hollering and even crying. I stood there like a lifeless spector not making a noise, but soaking in the sights and sounds of the moment until Billy bear hugged me bringing me back from my daze. No one left their seats for an hour. Every fan stayed there listening to the post game interviews being broadcast over the loudspeakers, drinking smuggled booze and telling tales of this game and games prior. It was like an Irish wake, drunken and raucous, but touching.

We made it back to the Bonneville about 2:30 AM, but didn't get out onto Route 1 until after 3AM. We passed out at our hotel immediately. I woke up at 7 AM to take a piss. As I stood over the bowl, still drunk, I noticed that my right hand was killing me. I inspected it figuring I must have slept on it the wrong way, but the palm was black and blue. I sat on the end of my bed flummoxed, then it hit me. As I walked out of the stadium I high fived at least 1000 people.

We got on the road by 10 AM. At home I alternated between worlds on my couch while watching the Steelers and Rams win. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the breath rising and the snow falling. It was a mid-winter nights dream.

Just Another Ordinary Day

2009-01-21T10:48:00.005-05:00

Today is just another ordinary day. I woke up. Drank a shitload of coffee. Made breakfast. Got one son ready for school. Got the other one ready for the day. Did some work. Checked the ice on my rink.

Inauguration day is always amazing to me. Peaceful transfer of power, hope, trepidation all converge in a show of pomp and circumstance that rivals most monarchies. Freedom is fluid and the fact that we can change the ruling party overnight without bloodshed or violence makes this country the most remarkable and stable society in history. Yesterday a black man was sworn in as President of the United States. No shots fired. No unusual displays of discourse. As extraordinary as it was that we elected a black man as President of the Untied States it was just another ordinary inauguration. It was just a beautifully orchestrated show of our countries unity and common ground.

To me,the fact that this Inauguration Day was business as usual shows how far we have come and what makes our country the greatest in the history of this planet.

Here's to many ordinary days to come.

The Rink...Bigger and Better

2009-01-14T09:01:00.008-05:00

Last year I built a skating rink in my backyard (read here). This year its bigger and better. Last year it was about 60 x 25 when all said and done. This year its 70 X 40. A new net and some tweaking such as keeping an unfrozen hose in the basement for nightly icings have made for a perfect surface. Since I dropped my digital camera in my coffee Xmas morning I can only download picutes in the camera's memory (the memory cards are unusable in the camera, now), so when I buy a new camera in the next week or two I'll take some action pics. Until then enjoy some pictures taken after this past weekends snowstorm.

Normalcy Returns...Whatever THAT Is

2009-01-05T07:59:00.007-05:00

Since my last posting life has been a roller coaster, on ice, with the riders all smoking crack, puking, with the flu and me strapped to the tracks.

December 13, 2008

My five year old son Matt and I left hockey practice at the Mullins Center on the UMass campus both drained. I had that foreboding feeling you get when you know you are getting sick. Matt is usually a tiger on the ice, but today skated like a kitten. He starts a small cough as we pull into our driveway.

December 17, 2008

Matt and I are both coughing all night, but it subsides in the AM. Matt goes to school to endure his own sleep deprived hell, while I have to fight my lack of sleep while doing last minute Christmas preparations with my three year old Peter in tow. Pete hasn't gotten sick...yet.

December 19, 2008

Matt goes off to school in the AM. Amazingly, he hasn't missed a day off school, but is obviously not feeling well. He has a dry cough and is lethargic, but can function. I have offered to keep him home each of the last three mornings, but he chooses to go to school. He must realize that being home with me while I'm sleep deprived and sick would be worse than him being sleep deprived and sick sitting in his classroom. Pete still seems OK. Mom goes to work each day and seems oblivious to our plight. She is immersed in her yearly pre-Christmas mania. She won't be able to relax until sometime Christmas night. I am supposed to meet my friend Eric in Foxboro tomorrow for a night of drinking then a Pats game in the snow on Sunday. I consider cancelling, but figure that being sleep deprived and sick while drunk watching football in the snow is better than being sleep deprived and sick hanging out with a stressed out wife, sick kid and an energy filled unsick kid.

December 20,2008

I wake up feeling better than I have in days. Matt seems better too. I get out while the gettin's good. I drive to Franklin Mass where I meet my friend Eric who currently lives in Maine. We have gone to a Pats game every year for close to 20 years. Even when he lived in Cleveland we would meet in Buffalo for a game. We spent the night drinking, re-telling drunken tales of old, etc... I fall asleep in a queen sized bed to the sound of my own snoring.

December 21,2008

Eric and I trudge to the game in an eight inch snowstorm. I am not hungover, but only have three Bud Lights in the car in the parking lot outside of the stadium while cranking the heat and watching the snow melt on my wind shield. the snow piles up outside my vehicle. We are sitting eight rows up from the field in the corner end zone. The game is a joke. The Patriots are up 24 - 0 sometime in the second quarter. We consider leaving early, but are the types that don't leave cause you never know if a once in a lifetime play or occurrence will happen. In the third quarter it does. Cassell throws a screen pass out to his left to Randy Moss who has a 70 yard clear run to the end zone, our end zone. As he cruised down the sideline it was as if he was all alone and running toward me, only me. Like in a love story with two lovers running toward each other in a field of daisy's I made my way down the eight steps and got to the railing overlooking the end zone just as Randy crossed the goal line. He started walking toward me with the ball outstretched. I quickly realized that he was bringing the ball to a kid who was standing next to me with his dad. As he handed the ball to the starstruck tyke I was reaching down patting Randy on the shoulder pads. It was a real, live Coke commercial (you remember the one where Mean Joe Greene throws the shirt to the kid). We leave the game in the forth quarter with the Pats up 47 - 7. I get home and scour the Internet for footage of me and Randy's moment.

December 22, 2008

While I was on my "man" weekend Pete and Lori become ill. Pete has a 102 degree temp and Lori has an upper respiratory something. She goes to work, Matt goes to school and Pete pukes a half a dozen times. There always seems to be penance to pay after a "man" weekend. Pete naps numerous times throughout the day as do I.

December 24, 2008

Pete is getting better, but still whiny. I drop him and Matt at my sister-in-laws while I drive to Boston to pick up my Uncle Mac. I stop at my mother, aunt and grandmother's grave site and leave them a Christmas gift then head to BC where my uncle has worked for 45 years and picked him up for the 100 Mile ride west. We get back to Northampton around 2 PM and spend the afternoon watching "A Christmas Carol", doing last minute wrapping and watching the kids get wound up for Santa. We go to my sister's house for a turkey dinner about 6PM, but get out of there by eight to put the kids in bed, for Santa.

December 25, 2008

Christmas morning was magical, until I dropped our digital camera in my coffee, ruining it. If I dropped the camera 1000 times it would not have fit perfectly in my cup as it did. The day was great, otherwise. We hosted dinner at our house. While the kids played with their new toys the adults drank wine and Irish coffee, gorged themselves on my wife's dessert creations and watched "Bad Santa".

December 26, 2008

I dragged my ass from the couch playing the Wii Santa brought for the kids and placed plastic down on the area I had snow blowed last week on the side of my house. My rink will be bigger and better than last year. My uncle helps lay down the plastic, but falls hard on his ass, but is OK. He won't be the first person to fall on his ass on the rink this year.

December 31, 2008

In the midst of his first school vacation Matt is in a Wii induced coma, rarely leaving the couch to eat or use the bathroom. At one point I think he shit himself and just when I'm about to yell at him I hear the cat was scraping around in the litter box. We have a babysitter come over around 5 PM and we go out for a quick, but intimate dinner at the Whately Inn. We go home and play the Wii until 11 PM. We go to bed and are asleep 1/2 hour before the New Year.

January 2, 2009

Matt and I are skating on our rink. Pete went skating for the first time earlier in the week at the Mullin's Center free skate and was able to stay up by himself by the end of the skate. He has no interest in skating today, but says he'll skate with "mom" when mom skates. Fricken "mama's boy"! There are a few rough spots, but it's skatable now and will only get better with consecutive icings and colder weather.

January 3, 2009

Hockey practice was nothing short of awesome. Matt and I were both back to our normal selves, skating hard for the first time since early December. We just introduced sticks and pucks to practice which makes it feel like hockey instead of skating practice. Tomorrow we'll skate on our rink at home then it's back to school Monday. Time to get off the roller coaster.

The Littlest Angel

2008-12-14T10:01:00.000-05:00

Paying It Backward

2008-12-11T11:29:00.003-05:00

Last week I brought my clients to a Christmas party. Being a director in a non-profit human service agency I have lots of responsibilities. One of those responsibilities is making appearences at various agency functions some involving the folks we serve and others with just co-workers. I loath these events. When attending the events with co-workers I have to make small talk and feign interest in people's problems and stories. When attending events with our individuals I have to make small talk and feign interest in their problems and interests.

In the last few weeks I have been more misanthropic than usual. I have been irritable. My kids have been driving me crazy. My employees have been driving me nutty. My wife and I can't have a conversation that doesn't end in some sort of arguement or misunderstanding. Going to a client Christmas party was the last thing I needed.

The party was held at a large banquet hall, the same place where my agency's annual dinner is held. There was a sumptious buffet dinner served complete with carved roast beef, turkey and ham with plenty of fixin's. I got a plate of food and sat down at a table with three of my current clients. They are men with traumatic brain injuries who are living in one of our residential programs. They were in the holiday spirit greeeting people who passed our table and humming along to holiday music. I was eating quickly, hopng to slip out unnoticed while going up for another plate of food.

As I was shoving a hunk of ham in my mouth I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a former client who I hadn't seen in a whlie. He told me how he had moved on from one of our group homes into his own semi-supervised apartment and that he had just gotten his driver's license. I was floored. This is a guy who has a borderline mentally retarded diagnoses and had been living in a highly restrictive program set up for high risk clients. I congratulated him on his successes and promised to visit him in his new digs.

As I went up for more food someone yelled out my name. It was a woman who I worked with ten years ago who suffered from variuos mental disabilites and was a raging alcoholic. She informed me that she has been sober for three years and is living independantly with only 2 hours of staff per week.

Comming back from the buffet line I saw a table with men I had worked with who were all living in the same group home. I sat with them and listened to them tell me about their successes like working or getting along well with family and housemates.

On the way for some coffee I met another guy who I worked with who moved in with new housemates recently who were much less challenging than his former housemates. He shook my hand and hugged me and said "I remember you Dave Sullivan, you took me to Cape Cod to see the seals" and he proceeded to make seal noises. We laughed, fist bumped and went on our way.

After dinner I slipped out, grabbing a few cookies off the dessert buffet in the process.

As I drove out of the parking lot I thought about the party. I had seen at least twenty past and present clients. All of them were happy to see me. All of them were doing well. All of them were making the best of their lives and didn't bitch and moan about their situation. I thought about each one of my individuals and the time I spent with them; the good times and tough times. I realized that I had a part in all of their recent fortunes be it big or small. Driving down the road I realized that I was smiling.

For the first time in weeks I wasn't miserable.

First Road Trip (Part VI)

2008-12-01T10:16:00.001-05:00

I awoke to the sight of my uncle looming over the piles of cushions and blankets looking slightly amused. "Do you guys want to go to IHOP for breakfast?". To this day pancakes are some of the best medicine for my hangovers and it was no different then.

Sunday morning was sunny and brisk. The leafless trees made things a bit brighter than a few weeks earlier, thus exacerbating the pounding in my head. We were seated right away and discussed the Patriots chances that day. The coffee was horrible, but helped to bring us back to some sense of normalcy. We all agreed that the Patriots high powered offense gave them a shot at a win. We dropped my Uncle off in front of his house and purposely stayed in the car as to avoid answering my aunt's prying questions.

We headed south on Route 1 toward Foxboro. As we approached the stadium traffic came to a crawl. The smell of charcoal and cooking meat was almost as intoxicating as the perfume and booze from the night before. As we were being parked we saw our first fight. Two punks punching an older guy while the older guy's old friend was trying to pull the punks away. The older guy had a bloody nose. There were no police or security in sight so the fight played out to its gruesome end. Punks 7, Old Guys 0.

We skipped the tailgating, having done enough partying the night before and headed right into the stadium. We went down to the end zone to watch warm ups. The receivers and tight ends were doing passing drills directly in front of us. I was in awe of the size and speed of these men up close. Andy Hasslebeck, a Patriots tight end caught a warm up toss and ran up to the stands were I was standing. He looked me directly in the eye and said "Hi". I was at least a foot higher than him in the stands, but we were eye to eye. I mentally crossed off "NFL Player" on my list of dream jobs.

We settled into our seats and watched a great game. The first play of the game was a flea-flicker. Grogan handed off to Tatupu who tossed the ball back to Grogan who hit a streaking Stanley Morgan for a 76 yard touchdown. At half time I called Terri from a pay phone to let her know we made it safe and sound. She invited us to stop by after the game. Easton is the next town over from Foxboro, so I said we would. The game ended in regulation tied at 27. Despite the heroics of Tony Collins, Steve Grogan and John Smith, this game was a microcosm of their 2-14 season and although they were close, the Patsies gave up a field goal in OT. We fought through the sea of drunk men to the Corona and headed to Easton.

Terri invited us in and we met her mom and dad. Her dad was a hulking Italian man who looked like he could have played for the Patriots. We went to her room where we giggled about the previous night. I wanted to get on the road before dark, so we gave each other some hugs and decided to get together again soon. The ride home was uneventful. We drove non stop hoping not to tempt fate one more time. I dropped Jeff off at his door and he thanked me for "the best night of his life". He wrote Charlene back and forth for a year, but never saw her again.

It was a wicked good time. I was more than thankful that I could report to my mother that her car was in one piece and that I managed to stay out of jail. Upon returning home I kissed my mother and went straight to bed. I lay there staring at the ceiling, basking in the glow of a successful first road trip. I didn't get the girl, but then again I didn't get arrested. I thought about the next road trip and where it would take me. The horse was out of the barn.

First Road Trip (Part V)

2008-11-25T12:20:00.005-05:00

Jeff and Charlene went back to making out on the log. "Come on Char, we've got to get out of here. Lets walk to Robin's house 'cause the cops will be watching the car", Terri said urgently. "Don't worry Terri. You are wicked nervous for no reason" slurred Charlene. "Come on Jeff, lets get the fuck out of here. We've got to get back to Boston. Its after midnight", I demanded. "I ain't fuckin' goin' anywhere", Jeff was hammered. The days drinking combined with the fact that I was trying to separate him from the one girl that finally allowed him to stick his tongue in her mouth made him ornery. I looked at Terri and shrugged my shoulders, resigned to sitting in the woods watching the happy couple push the limits of their fledgling sexuality. Terri wasn't so patient. "You boys can stay here, but we've got to go" she pronounced. "We're staying right Char?", Jeff was insistent on keeping the night going. "Jeff let me talk to you" Charlene stood up motioned for him to follow her. They stumbled through the brush behind a tree. She talked, he nodded. When they were done talking they rejoined us. "Come on Terri, lets walk to Robin's. My brother will pick us up there if I call him". Jeff was silent, but even in the darkness I could feel him glaring, seething. "Lets go down the hill parallel to the trail", I tried to act like I had a plan. We had just enough ambient light from the parking lots that we made it down the hill unscathed. There were no cops in sight as we peered out from behind the building. We walked over to the car. Jeff and Charlene started groping each other, while I opened the door and got in the Corona. Terri came over to the drivers side window and made me promise to call her in the morning to let her know we made it back alright. "I promise I'll call you" Charlene assured Jeff as he got in the passenger seat. Once in the car Jeff said "Thanks a fuckin' lot Sully". I stared forward, starting the car. I beeped as we drove by the girls walking to their friend's.

We drove in silence up 138 toward Boston. I replayed the nights events over in my head. How did Jeff get a girl and I didn't? Terri definitely likes me. Should we have stayed? How did I not get arrested today? I looked over at Jeff as we passed Blue Hills Reservation; he was out cold.

We pulled up to my grandmother's house just before 1 AM. While parking I hit the curb, hard. We walked in the door and there was my aunt and grandmother watching TV waiting for us. "What was that out there? Did you hit my car?" , here comes the inquisition, I thought. "No Auntie Rosie," I responded in a sing songy voice "I'm just not used to parallel parking in front of cars. I hit the curb". It was partially true. Instead of backing in like you are supposed to when parallel parking I just pulled straight in, nailing the curb. "Well, glad you're back safe and sound. Come on Ma lets go to bed. Oh, Mac wants to take you boys out for breakfast before the game tomorrow". My Aunt and Grandmother got up and gave me kisses and retired to their bedrooms. I pulled some cushions off the chairs and love seat and put them on the floor for us to sleep on, then got some blankets and pillows out of the closet. As we lay there in the dark Jeff broke his silence, "Sorry Sull". "You don't have to be sorry. I understand".

I really did.

First Road Trip (Part IV)

2008-11-22T08:19:00.009-05:00

"Hide the booze. We're getting stopped by the cops" I bellowed, turning off the music and shoving my beer under the front seat. I pulled over to the side of the road. The car was silently bathed in bright white light shone from a spotlight mounted on the cruiser. My breathing stopped as the officer peered in my driver's side window. "Good evening son. Can I see your license and registration?". I opened the glove box and there was the empty pint of Blackberry Brandy. I quickly shoved it under some paper napkins my mother had accumulated from trips to various fast food joints. I deftly pulled out the registration from under the napkins and empty booze bottle. I turned to the officer, handing him the documents, expecting an inquiry about the contents of the glove box, but he didn't notice. "You got your license yesterday?", he chuckled. He poked his head in the car. "Looks like you've got your hands full in there" he said to Jeff whose look of ecstasy was replaced by one of someone who had just shat himself. "Was I speeding officer?" I asked trying to get the attention out of the backseat where the beer was hidden somewhere in the mass of bodies. "No son, but you rolled through a stop sign about a mile back and I noticed you had too many people in the car. Where are you guys going?". "The movies", I lied, quickly. "Well this is a warning. Come to a complete stop next time and don't overload your car. Have fun." He handed me back my license and registration and gave me a smile that might as well been a high five. I started breathing again and the party rolled on.

We got to the party spot just a few minutes after getting stopped. We parked in front of a strip mall and went around to the back. There was a wooded hillside with a trail leading upward, dimly lit by the from the parking lot. We ascended the trail fumbling and feeling our way up the hillside. I strategically place myself behind Terri. Near the top of the climb the trees were basked in an orangish glow. At the top of the hill was a wooded glen formed by four huge rock faces in a semi circle. There was a roaring bonfire in the middle of the glen with dozens of kids drinking beer from a keg that was placed next to one of the rock formations. The hum of chatter hung over the glen mixing with the crackle and smoke from the fire. It was a modern, teenage Stonehenge. I imagined teen aged druids doing the same thing thousands of years earlier.

Our arrival was accompanied by drunken screams. Girlfriends of our girls coming over to give hugs and proclamations of their drunkenness. There were a few inquiries about us strangers, but we naturally blended into the scene. I struck up a conversation at the keg with a guy wearing a North Easton High hockey jacket. I asked him if he knew Jim Craig, the goalie from the 1980 US Olympics Hockey team that had defeated the Russians en route to winning the gold medal, being that he was from Easton. He drunkenly regaled me with stories of Jim Craig playing hockey and partying with his older brothers. After some time he asked who I came with. When I mentioned Terri he asked "You bangin' her?". "Not yet." I replied with a hint of self assuredness which got me a high five and a loud, intoxicated "WHOOOO, HOOOO", the closest we get to a rebel yell here in stoic New England.

I found Terri, Renee and Lisa hanging with some of their girlfriends by the fire. I did a sweep of the glen looking for Jeff. Jeff was nowhere to be found. Neither was Charlene. I went back to the fire to hang with the girls. I pounded down keg beer listening to the girls chatter about who was dating who and who was wearing what and who was doing what drugs. I watched Terri and even while spewing gossip she was adorable. Our eyes met for a second and I nodded my head away from the fire in the direction of the keg. We walked side by side toward the keg, playfully bumping each other. I grabbed her hand and held it tightly leading her past the keg to the edge of the glen. As we reached the darkness I turned to face her. Her form was silhouetted against the glow of the fire, breath rising in the cold November air. I couldn't see her eyes or mouth, so I reached up, brushing her cheek, searching for her lips. As I leaned in toward her, a commotion broke out in the glen. "Cops", someone shouted. Sure enough four uniformed officers appeared over Terri's shoulder entering the glen from the trail. Kids scattered in all directions like leaves in the wind. I grabbed Terri by the hand and led her deeper into the woods. We reached a small clearing where Jeff and Charlene were cozying up on a log. "What's up?", asked Charlene.

Fucking cops.

First Road Trip (Part III)

2008-11-19T07:49:00.003-05:00

On the road again, our attention turned toward girls. I could see Jeff getting visibly nervous the closer we got to Easton and the promised land. I hadn't seen any of these girls since the summer at 4H camp. Terri was the object of my affection. She was tall, brunette and had big, beautiful green eyes which stood out remarkably against her olive colored complexion. The other girls were equally stunning in their own right. Lisa had the quintessential Irish look complete with alabaster skin, dotted with adorably understated freckles. Renee was petite with dark brown eyes and an ass to die for. Shari was the cheerleader; blond, buxom, bombastic. I ran through these mental images over and over as we made our way south down 138, occasionally breaking my train of thought to sip on my beer.

Terri's directions were perfect. She was waiting for us on her front porch. She poked her head in the front door, yelled something, then made a beeline for the car. I had Jeff jump in the backseat, so I would have an unfettered view. She jumped in the front seat. "Lets get out of here before my dad comes out and wants to meet you guys", she said then kissed me on the cheek. As we made our way to Shari's house I introduced Jeff and offered his bartending services. I glanced over at Terri while following her directions. She looked as good as remembered. She was wearing a yellow Izod Lacoste sweater with a puffy white vest. A pair of Calvin Klien Jeans and white Reebok sneakers finished off her ensemble.

Shari screamed in delight, greeting us at her front door. We filed into her house to figure out the plan for the night. Even though her parents weren't home she was paranoid about us drinking in the house. Terri and her had been friends since they had taken dance class together at 3, but in recent years they weren't as close. Shari was a cheerleader, class president, a regular chatty Cathy. She bordered on obnoxiousness. She was also a priss. When we told her we would be picking up Renee and Lisa and going to a keg party she balked. Sitting around a fire in the woods drinking beer was not Shari's idea of a party. Drinking Boone's Farm Apple wine at a member of the football teams house, who's parents are vacationing in Mexico, was more her speed. We called Renee and Lisa from Shari's and made plans to pick them up in ten minutes. Shari decided to back out of the nights festivities which was disappointing, cutting down the ratio of girls to boys. I gave Shari a big hug and promised to call or write. I was sad that her stacked self would not be joining us.

On the way to pick up Renee and Lisa we stopped at a package store. Jeff was 18, legal drinking age, so he went in and picked up a case of Bud Talls and a pint of Blackberry Brandy. Terri suggested we stop by her friend Charlene's house and see if she wanted to go out. Once there Terri got out of the car and in a few minutes came back with a tall, good looking blond.

Shari...who?

We got to Renee's where Lisa and Renee were outside waiting for us. They piled into the car and after some hugs opened some beers. As we got on our way to the kegger I looked at Jeff in the rear view mirror. He looked like he had died and gone to heaven: beer in hand, a tall blond on his lap, two girls on either side of him singing "Journey" at the top of their lungs, goony smile plastered on his face. The car was a rolling party. The pint of brandy was passed back and forth, the beers were flowing and the music was cranked. The scent of perfume inter-mingled with the smell of alcohol; the ultimate aphrodisiac. While the girls were screaming out the chorus of "Don't Stop Believing" I saw flashing blue lights in the side view mirror.

Oh, shit.

First Road Trip (Part II)

2008-11-12T09:00:00.002-05:00

Everything happened so fast. Jeff was oblivious to the situation, half drunk in the passenger seat. I was running on pure instinct and adrenaline. I saw everything as if it were in slow motion, so what in reality happened in twenty seconds, seemed to be twenty minutes.

Immediately , I went into damage control mode. "Hide the empties and dump your beer. Stay in the car. I'll be right back", I commanded. I got out and surveyed the damage. There was a little streak of red paint on the bumper, but that was it. I looked back toward the Camaro. The driver was running the 100 yards from the Camaro toward me at full speed. "Are... you...OK?" the driver asked, breathless. He was a big, black man. He smelled of cologne and was dressed all in black which accentuated the gold chains hanging from his thick neck. "Yeah, we're OK", I creaked, afraid he was going to go off on me. "You got kids in there?". "No, just me and a friend". " Man, I didn't see your blinker 'till I was going by you, then I was in that field. Thanks for speeding up man, you saved my ass". "Yeah", I said confused, realizing that he was not mad at me. "You need money for damages?", he pulled out a roll of what looked like twenties the size of a baseball. "Naw, naw its just a little paint on the bumper." "Well, here is something for it. I gotta get back there. Alright". He handed me forty bucks then turned around and sprinted back to his Camaro. I stood watching him, dumbfounded. Jeff got out of the car and asked "What the fuck is going on?". "The guy just gave me money". The Camaro went speeding by and let out a long and loud beep. The rear bumper was scrapping the pavement sending sparks flying ten feet out from behind the tail fin. We got back in the car and back on the road. Jeff chastised me for not getting more money off the guy. "He was obviously a drug dealer and wanted to keep us quiet" Jeff espoused, as if he was familiar with lots of drug dealers. I stared forward at the road, sipping on my tallboy, absorbing the recent events.

We pulled up to my grandmother's house around 4 PM. My Aunt Rosie answered the door and gave me a big hug. I introduced her to Jeff and she lead us in. My Uncle Mac was sitting in his recliner,as usual, watching some college football. I said "Hi" as I walked by and he said "hi" back. My aunt and uncle never married and lived with their mom out of convenience, not necessity. My gram was in the kitchen folding laundry she had just taken in off the clothesline. I gave her a big squishy hug and she offered us something to drink. "How about a beer?" Jeff blurted, stupidly. I shot him a dirty look. My grandmother seemingly oblivious to his request grabbed some glasses and said "How 'bout some tonic?". I nodded and she poured us a couple of Cokes. My Aunt was not so oblivious. She remained silent, but gave me a "I know what you're up to" look. Jeff and I went to the parlour and sat down with my uncle to watch football. After an hour of watching football and talking football my grandmother came out to offer us dinner. I sheepishly declined saying we had plans. "What are you doing tonight?", my aunt piped up, smiling as if she were the cat that ate the canary. "Just meeting some girls I know from 4H and Camp...there's...a...a party", I stumbled, not wanting to give away too much without outright lying. "Are you going to be drinking at this party?", now my uncle and grandmother seemed to be paying more attention. "No, no maybe I'll have one or two...". "Just be careful" she interrupted my bullshit in mid-bullshit. Jeff and I took our cue and got up to leave for our night of broads and booze. I promised I wouldn't be out too late.

Yeah, right.

First Road Trip

2008-11-11T08:35:00.004-05:00

"Pull the car over, take the keys out of the ignition and meet me inside" the officer droned as if he'd said it a million times before.

I heard him say it a week earlier, moments before I sat down at his desk and he explained why I had failed my drivers test. "Parallel parking, you were too far from the curb. Everything else was OK."

This time he beckoned me over to his desk with a wry smile. "You know you touched the curb?". Since I did everything else right a week earlier the only thing he had me do was parallel park and I blew it. "Yes." I politely replied. Jeff was going to be pissed. We bought Patriots tickets back in August. My mother said if I got my license I could have the car for the weekend, for the Pats.

Please officer. Have a heart under that austere, Nazi looking uniform. "Well, you barely grazed it. Promise you'll practice parallel parking?". "Yes sir, officer". "Here's your temporary license. Your permanent one will come in the mail in a few weeks. Drive safely."

Yeah, right.

I picked up Jeff in front of his apartment around 1PM. Being that it was a Saturday Jeff was still drinking coffee. He was hung over. His mom yelled "Be careful bo..." from the doorway just as Jeff slammed the car door. Jeff was 18 and had graduated from high school earlier that year. He wasn't doing much with himself, mostly drinking nightly living at his mothers apartment working as a janitor at a local elementary school.

I had met Jeff five years earlier playing baseball in the neighborhood. He was a few years older than us, always had greasy hair and a mean temper. He was famous for coming up with an injury when his team was losing and for eating sugar sandwiches. Even the white trash condidered him too trashy. As we got older we would drink beer at his house because his mother would do us packies if we bought her some booze or cigarettes. None of us liked Jeff, but after weekend after weekend of drinking at his house watching the Celtics, Bruins and RedSox his idiosyncrasies seemed to fade and I came to see him as a good friend, albeit a frickin' mess.

He was a pariah in the neighborhood partly due to his eccentricities and partly self imposed. He wore flare cut jeans when everyone else was wearing straight cut. He wore big old shit kicker boots when everyone else was wearing sneakers. He wore a tattered, smelly old Wrangler jean jacket while most everyone else was wearing Barracuda style jackets in poplin or courdaroy. If you had a jean jacket it had to be Levi's, but jean jackets were for hicks or burnouts.

Jeff had dressed well for the occasion. I prepped him a week earlier by going with him to the mall. He bought some straight legged Levi's, a white button downed oxford shirt and a pair of Nike Cortez with the red swoosh. The sixty dollar investment in his wardrobe was not for me. It was for the promise of picking up some girls. I knew some girls who lived in Easton, not far from my grandmother's house in Boston, where we were going to spend the night before the Pats game. I knew Jeff's chances at scooping on some girls was almost non-existent being that he had only kissed one girl in his life and there was some question as to whether they were related. His mall makeover was more for me, because if Terri, Renee, Lisa or Shari saw me with a shit kicking, jean jacket wearing, greasy haired hick, there would be no chance of me getting on base.

As my mother's Toyota Corona station wagon eased onto I-91 south Jeff reached into his gym bag in the back seat and pulled out a couple of cans of Bud tallboys. We toasted ourselves, then the Patriots. We were already drunk on the anticipation of getting drunk, hanging out with girls and going to see the Patriots. The beers went down smoothly as we barrelled down the Mass Pike toward Boston. Jeff manned the cassette player switching back in forth between Springsteen, Journey, AC/DC and Zeppelin. He also bartended for me, while I concentrated on my driving, being a new driver and all.

As we got to Natick, just fifteen miles out side of Boston, a Camaro got on my tail. I pulled into the right lane to let him pass. I turned to Jeff asking for another tallboy and could see the Camaro driving parallel to us in a field adjacent to the Pike heading for a grove of trees. I sped up trying to give him a chance to pull back onto the Pike before crashing into the grove. Just as we got even with the grove I felt a little bump, then heard screeching brakes. As I pulled over I looked in the side view mirror. I could see the Camaro do a three sixty across the road and smash into the Jersey barrier separating the eastbound and westbound lanes. The car lurched up the barrier almost going over and landed back on all four tires.

Son of a bitch.

Paint It Black

2008-11-05T07:44:00.005-05:00

At 11 O'Clock last night many wrongs were made right. Our country has finally disavowed the politics of hate and personal attacks. Our country has finally eschewed the failed policies of G.W. Bush and the republican party. Our country has finally taken the most symbolic of gestures and made a black man the holder of the highest office in this country.

Three hundred and eighty nine years ago the first African slaves were brought to this country at the Jamestown settlement in Virginia (damn those limey bastards!). Last night the citizens of Virginia helped put a man of African decent in the Oval Office. Finally the pride felt by all those immigrant groups who came here post 1619 to seek a better life can be felt by the people whose ancestors were forced to come here, forced to build this country and forced to take there place at the back of the line behind all of those who came after. President Obama's election has not erased the 389 years of misery and pain, but it is a symbol of what can be realized in this great country of ours despite of our faults.

President Obama is not a baby boomer or a Generation X'er. He is like me, the first American children raised in the post civil rights era. We were told that all men were created equal. We were told that color of skin does not define a person. We were told that there should be no limits on what anyone can achieve regardless of where they came from or what they look like. Unlike any generation born prior we drank the Kool Aid and we believed. Of course we had hundreds of years of ignorance and fear to overcome, but we drank the Kool Aid and it made sense, common sense. As children we were unaware of the fact that in the years just preceding our births our sports teams weren't integrated, that black men were not allowed in certain jobs or allowed to eat in certain places. As we grew up we were confused as to why there was all of this emphasis on "race" when we couldn't see the problems. We grew up with black people holding elected office, teaching classrooms, fighting fires and policing the streets. It wasn't until we grew up that we realized what we had heard, seen and observed growing up was just an illusion. Things weren't OK. Racism was still alive and well and feelings of equality and unity were only a recent phenomenon.

The biggest lesson we can gain from Mr. Obama's election is that what you teach your children becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. We can continue to teach our children our idealistic views of how the world should be and if they don't bear fruit immediately, just wait forty years or so and the lessons learned as youngsters will produce amazing things, unbelievable things.

"I see a White House and I want to paint it Blaack...", the Stones bastardized lyrics keep playing in my head. Many of McCain's cronies were saying that when Barack got in office he would paint the White House black. I say "Paint it Black"...why not...this has been 389 years in the making. Our country was built on the backs of Black slaves who had the same wants, hopes and needs as any other human being living in America and now that a Black man will be living in the Whitest of houses let him do whatever he can to improve the human condition for everyone. Even if he paints it black.

Halloween, Leaf Jumping and Another Couch Surfer

2008-10-31T07:58:00.023-04:00

I've written a bit about my mother-in-law in the past. She lives on the gulf coast of Mississippi. She moved to Mississippi the year my wife graduated high school with her husband who had recently retired. She was one of the lucky few people who actually made out when Hurricane Katrina made landfall in her sleepy little southern town(read here). She got out of town just before landfall and spent the next seven weeks sleeping on my couch, until things were livable back home. Almost three years to the day she returned to what must be the most comfy couch in the world as evidenced by its repeated use (I can attest to its comfiness being banished there for the occasional drunken night of sleep). When visiting her this past May she informed us that she wanted to come up and spend some time getting to know her grandchildren better in the fall. At first we thought it was just wishful thinking, but when she booked her ticket there was no turning back. I had mixed feelings.

My boys got the shit end of the stick genetically from my side of the family. My mother died at 52, dad at 53, so they don't have grandparents around on my side. I want my boys to have a grandmother they know and love, but my mother-in-law plain doesn't like kids. My grandmother Norton was a mushy, cuddly, butterball of love and hugs whose idea of fun was going to the movies or going out for ice cream. My mother-in-law is not the stereotypical grandmotherly type. She owns two bars, smokes, gambles, fun to hang with, if you are 43 not 5. My father-in-law lives next door, but isn't the grandfatherly type, yet. I have hope that he just doesn't know what to do with young kids. When they can go fishing, split wood and work heavy equipment I think they'll be more bonding.
My mother-in-law did her best in her latest seven week stay. She brought them to the park, went bowling, pumpkin picking, out for lunches and ice cream, but most of all she was there to see their smiling faces staring back at her as she opened her eyes each morning. She walked Matt to and from school a few times and even went to a "family dance" at the school. Early yesterday morning my wife drove her mother to airport in the dark. When the boys woke up they came running into my bedroom and wondered where "Nana" went. They were sad to hear she went back to Mississippi. It made me happy to know they were going to miss her and that they got to know her better

My boys favorite fall activity: Jumping in huge piles of leaves.

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This morning on my way to the gym I saw a dear old friend Junito. He is a firefighter in town and was on his way to work. We spent our teen years raising hell. Drinking, girls, general mischief. We reminisced a bit about Halloween's past. In our early teens it was all about egging houses, soaping cars and TP ing trees. In our later teens it was all about drinking and throwing big parties. From 1982 till 1985 we had huge Romanesque Halloween parties in which the debauchery bordered on the criminal. I informed him that I was working the door for a huge Halloween UMass party tonight at my golf club and all he could say was "The more things change...".

The best book of all time about Halloween is "The Halloween Tree" by Ray Bradbury. I have spent the past month reading a chapter or two every other night to my boys. Although they are too young to truly appreciate Mr. Bradbury's tale of eight boys who travel through time looking for their sick friend while visiting Halloween celebrations during the past 4000 years, they were enthralled, nonetheless. I will read them the last chapter tonight after Trick Or Treating and before I head out to work that party.

Have a safe and Happy Halloween and don't worry about me, I'm not afraid of naughty nurses, sexy witches, wild ho's or lady cops in short shorts, well... maybe the wild ho's

The Couch Surfer

2008-10-14T12:18:00.018-04:00

My brother Mark and I have always had a love/hate relationship. I love him and he hates me.

I am the oldest of six and ruled over my siblings without mercy. Being the oldest of six in a fatherless family I felt like I was the dad, responsible for every one's well being, but omnipotent and all knowing. My brother Mark, being two and three quarter years my junior, bore the brunt of my out of control ego. He dealt with my hubris in two ways. He was contrary to everything I was. If I liked the Red Sox, he liked the Yankees. If I wanted peanut butter and fluff, he wanted peanut butter and jelly. His other coping mechanism was humor. He developed a keen sense of humor which diffused almost any situation. He was almost like a super hero with the power to change situations through laughter. Teachers, police, my family, even myself; no one was immune to his ability to turn the tables and make the most dire of circumstances light, thus diffusing the situation. His manipulative abilities were so great that he felt bulletproof...until he was firing bullets at himself.

When we became adults our paths diverged. I eschewed the self destructive coping mechanisms that I utilized to get me through our tumultuous upbringing. I confronted my demons. I disavowed escapism. I learned how to live in the present. Mark did not. He reveled in his self destruction like a circus acrobat, working the high wire without a net. The problem is when you finally fall, with no net, its going to hurt, a lot. Maybe kill. At some point I gave up on ever having a normal, adult relationship with him which, in my definition, includes reciprocity, acceptance and understanding. His dishonesty, drug use and lack of empathy, while understandable with our fucked up childhood, was unacceptable for me now, as an adult.

Shortly after I married my wife in 1992, my brother skipped town. He owed people money, he was in trouble with the law, so he went as far south as he could to escape his troubles, Key West. I don't know much about his exploits in the Keys except for the bullshit stories about his lavish spending and tales of debauchery. He moved around quite a bit in his fifteen years as he never had the same number or address for more than a few months. Occasionally he would leave the Keys to escape troubles, dry out or look for more trouble.

On Easter Sunday the spring of 2007 I got a phone call from Mark, the first call in many years. It was the first time we talked since a year after my mothers death in 1999 when he was on a drug fueled binge and he called me to let me know he was coming to get me for all the times I wronged him while growing up. At first he sounded like a WWF wrestler, calling out his opponent with pedantic, hackneyed insults. Then it got dark. I hung up after he started talking about chopping me up into bits. Although I knew that his rock induced tirade was full of empty threats, I was done. With my mother dead and buried I think he subconsciously assumed her mantle of guilt and insecurity. While speaking with him that Easter I sensed a vulnerability and resignation that I hadn't sensed in him since we were huddled together up in our bedroom, frighteningly listening to our parents fist fight in the parlor down below. I knew he had to be dire straits to reach out to me, his sworn enemy. His oppressor. He talked about spending the past few months living and working in a devastated post Katrina New Orleans and that he wanted to come home, to Massachusetts. Within a month he made it up north, with his ex-stripper girlfriend in tow, but ended up in New Hampshire, suicidal and alone, when she ran off with one of his associates. Eventually they succumbed to their codependency and reunited.

She and he eventually made their way to Northampton where they burrowed their way into my sister's home, just across town. This wasn't the first time he stayed there for an extended period. Numerous times since my mother's death he stayed with her when he had no where else to go and needed some family connection. In previous visits he never completely burned his bridges occasionally getting drunk and obnoxious, but never exhausting my sister's hospitality. This time was different. He was losing his mind. Eventually she had to ask him to leave. As usual he got his shit together long enough to find a place to live and get a job working nights. This was short lived. His grandiosity, paranoia and boorishness crescendoed in early September when on a warm, late summer morning I awoke to find him sitting in a chair on my backyard deck. He didn't look right. He said he had been drinking all night. He said he wanted to die. He couldn't understand how he had lost his girlfriend, his place to live, his pride. He repeatedly lamented his decisions over the past 20 years.

It was time to pay the piper.

Years of avoidance and diversions had taken their toll and he could no longer run from the one person who could catch him, himself. I spent the day listening to his epiphanies and self analysis. I suggested that I bring him to the hospital so he could get some professional help. He vehemently declined not wanting to be compared to my mother who had spent some time on the "Fifth Floor". I fed him dinner and let him sleep on my couch with the understanding that he needed to leave and find a place to stay in the morning. He spent the next week couch surfing, staying with whoever would take him in. The next weekend I received a number of frantic calls from my sister's who had been spending a similar day with their brother to the one I had experienced a week earlier. This time he relented and agreed to be hospitalized.

After a few days, I went to see him. He greeted me with a huge hug and went into a 15-minute diatribe about his new diagnoses and his insistence that now that his problems of codependency and drug dependency have been identified then he would be fine. He looked like a new man, so much so, I agreed to let him stay with me until he could find a place to live. My wife was shocked. I vowed years earlier when I received that crazy, crack fueled phone call that I would never have anything to do with him ever again. Was I a bad brother? Did I treat him badly? Have I really been there for him? My own guilt was kicking in.

I picked him up from the hospital and immediately lay down the ground rules: no drinking, no drugs, we get your whole paycheck to hold for you until you get your own place, follow your post admission plan which included A.A. meetings and therapy, no contact with your Ex. He agreed to them all. The first few weeks were great. He helped around the house during the day, went to meetings in the afternoon and worked all night. We watched the Sox in the playoffs and the Pats in the midst of their 18-0 run. He played with his nephews constantly, waking up each morning to their smiling faces staring at him nose to nose, while he awoke on the couch. We spent mornings drinking coffee, talking politics, religion and recollecting happier times. Best of all he made me laugh. He is the one person who could always make me crack up whether it be in church, making faces during the priests sermon or at home mimicking my mother's scolding. This was the brother I always wished I had. In confidence, I told my wife that he could stay as long as he wanted.

Then he missed a nights work. Then another. Then a meeting. He started sleeping longer and longer some days never leaving the couch. He was starting to act erratic again. When confronted about his backslide he became defensive. One night when I was at work my wife got a call from him that he needed a ride home from downtown. He was drunk. When I got home and no one was there, I knew what had happened. I called her and she confirmed my suspicions. I waited for him on my porch and pounced on him immediately upon exiting my wife's car. He denied drinking even though I could smell the booze emanating from every pour. I threw him to the ground and held him there until I realized that this is what he wanted. He needed an excuse for his fuck up. I let him go and told him to leave.

The next day he apologized and I, against my gut feeling, let him back into my home. His regression continued, unabated. Supposedly his hours were cut at work, his therapy was cut back and his A.A. meeting times had changed. He was prepping to go. He was supposed to set up an appointment to get an abscessed tooth fixed. When he didn't go to his appointment he tried to say they wouldn't take his insurance. I called his employer and they said he hadn't been to work in days and was not yet eligible for insurance. I called the dentists office; he had never made an appointment. I knew the end was near.

He spent all Halloween Day lying on the couch. As the kids dressed in their costumes he took a shower to get ready for "work" and "therapy". I dropped him off at his therapy group and went back to soak in the ghoulish festivities. The next morning he was no where to be found. The couch was empty. I left for the gym with the boys and wondered if he would be back. When we got home just past noon I made the boys a sandwich and sat down at the computer to do some work. I heard some noise from the back deck and found my brother snoring in a deck chair. I went back to my computer and a minute later He came in the house and went straight to the bathroom. Sensing something was wrong I went to the back door to see if there was any sign of drinking or drugs. There was a piece of paper towel on fire on the table inches from freshly fallen leaves which were strewn all over the deck. I ran into the bathroom and burst in screaming at him to get his ass out to the deck to see what he had done. He ran out and swatted out the flames with his sleeve. I stood there, smouldering, while he sat back in the chair, emotionless. I asked him what the fuck was wrong with him. He didn't answer. I grabbed him out of the chair and jacked him up against the wall. An audible crack sounded when his head and torso broke the vinyl siding. I threw him into the backyard with him screaming "What did I do, what did I do?". "You tried to burn my fucking house down, get the fuck out and don't ever come back here." He walked down the street and I watched him turn the corner. I went back in the house where the boys had napped through the drama. As I gazed upon their sleeping faces I realized that this was not the place for him. My house, my wife, my kids were constant reminders of what he didn't have. Stability, piece of mind, home. I packed up his stuff and put it outside the garage door.

When my wife got home I filled her in on the afternoon's events. I decided to fire up the leaf blower and blow all the leaves from my deck. As I started to blow the leaves from my front yard a siren pierced the quiet of the grey All Saints Day afternoon. The cop car turned down the street next to mine which parallels the park. I had a bad feeling. Yelling to my wife who was in the kitchen I told her that I had to check out something and would be right back. As I turned down Arch Street I could see a firetruck, an ambulance and two cruisers. My heart inched up into my throat. I drove by the scene, rubbernecking, but couldn't tell what was going on. One of the firemen on the scene directing traffic was a friend of mine who said a jogger found some guy in the park. I knew it was him.

The next morning he called. He told me that when he left my house he went to the liquor store, pounded down a fifth of Vodka and passed out in the park near my house. The police PC'd him and let him go at about 4 AM. He wandered the streets till he called me. I grabbed his stuff, put the boys in the car and drove to meet him. He got in my car. He was crying. He kept saying "I've got to go, I've got to go". "You do", I agreed.

We drove to the bank so he could cash a paycheck and then to Dunkin' Donuts. I drove him to the bus station as if I was driving him to the gas chamber. When we got to the parking lot I got out and hugged him. He leaned in the car and gave the boys a kiss. I started to well up, but willed it back. "I'll see you again, It'll be OK, I'll see you again", he tried to reassure me. I knew he was telling one last lie.

His bus wasn't leaving town until later that afternoon. When my wife got home from work I returned to the bus station. I sat, unseen, on a fire escape overlooking the bus station. I wasn't sure if I was there to make sure he got on the bus safely or just making sure he got on the bus. As the cue formed at the bus for Springfield, Mark leaned on the brick bus station wall talking to a girl wearing a backpack, working his magic, spinning some yarn. He left a parting shot and dashed for the line. Once he got on the bus I crept down the fire escape and walked back toward my car. As the bus passed me I stopped, staring at the tinted windows, hoping that he knew that I was there.

Falling Into Hibernation

2008-10-07T19:47:00.000-04:00

Somewhere between 12:30 AM and 1:00 AM Saturday morning I made the transition into hibernation mode.

I played in my last golf outing of the year on Friday grinding out 36 holes of golf up in Keene, New Hampshire. As I drove alone, north, in the dark morning, I fondly replayed the events of the past summer. The end of my 70 minute ride culminated in a dark, looming, Mt. Modadnock being silhouetted against a bright, misty sunrise, igniting the first trees of the annual autumn blaze. I got out of my car and stretched. I went to the clubhouse of the Bretwood Golf Course and waited for the men to show up. They came from all over, Boston, Manchester, Rehoboth, Acton, Holyoke, all corners of southern New England 16 in total. As we teed off the weather turned. The sky became overcast and spit out raindrops sporadically. The cold penetrated my multiple layers of golf gear for the first time since early last spring.

The day was enjoyable. The golf was mediocre. Three good shots followed by a bad shot, followed by a horrible shot, followed by a miraculously lucky shot. After 18 holes we ate lunch and switched up teams. By days end we filed away enough laughs, bloopers, fairways and greens to carry us until our next outing in the Spring. Our foursome finished first, so we headed straight for the bar and grabbed some drinks. As the other groups trickled in and the drinks flowed on, the room got louder, bordering on boisterous. We payed out the winners who, in turn, bought more drinks for the losers. When we wore out our welcome we headed into Keene to the local brewery for a few more. Around 8 PM I headed south to attend a benefit for a co-worker whose dad is sick in Brazil. After a few drinks there I met a friend at a bar down the street from my house to watch the Red Sox. I stumbled in the house between 12:30 and 1:00 AM., drunk as fuck. I didn't even see the end of the Sox game.

I woke up Saturday morning hung over for the first time in a long time. My wife took the kids out for gymnastics, errands and visiting. They were gone all day. I lay in bed all day, covers up to my chin, watching hours and hours of college football, listening to the wind outside, waiting for the toxins to dissipate. When I arose from my self imposed tomb I went out into the cold fading sun lit afternoon. Squirrels danced through my yard looking for winter sustenance. I did the same driving to "The Hangar" for some boneless chicken wings. After stuffing myself, I took a nap, in order to rest up for a night of bumping and grinding and puking. Not me. I moonlight as a bouncer for college Frat and Sorority parties my buddy hosts at my golf course. I've been doing this for the past six years, most weekends while school is in session, from October to May. Except for breaking up a few spats and helping a few drunk girls to a couch and a basket to puke in the night was uneventful. I fell asleep around 3PM with visions of coeds doing shots and cleavage dancing in my head.

Sunday was similar to Saturday. Sleeping in late. Gorging myself. Watching alot of sports, particularly NFL pre-game. Around 3PM I took a walk to the park with the wife and kids. We tossed the football around, played some tackle and pushed the boys on the swings. On the way home I stopped and watched the squirrels scurrying up and down the oak trees at a frenetic pace gathering up acorns for the coming winter. Upon arriving home I retreated to my bedroom where I watched the Patriots play in the 4 O'clock game then the Red Sox at 7:30. In between, I tried to be a good dad and read the kids a few chapters of "The Halloweeen Tree". I fell asleep sometime after midnight after watching the Sox blow it in extra innings.

From now until spring, this will be how the weekends will be: laziness, cocooning, solitude and introspection. I won't mind if the weekends are rainy, cold, snowy. Its the time of year to recharge the batteries until the snow melts and the sun returns and I wake from my hibernation.

Summer '08

2008-09-26T07:54:00.025-04:00

I was scheduled to play in a two day golf tournament today in Great Barrington at Wyanteunck Country Club, one of my favorite courses anywhere, but it was cancelled due to the back to back, east coast storms we are experiencing here in Massachusetts. Today is a chilly, rainy fall day perfect for sitting under the covers in my sweats watching football. Since I'll have to wait 'till tomorrow to watch football in my sweats, I'm going through pictures I've taken over the summer to decide which ones should be developed and which ones will sit on my computer indefinitely. I did a similar post at the end of spring(click here)wherein I posted pics of my maniacal spring. Here are some pics of my more than maniacal summer.

Then There Were Two

2008-09-16T09:00:00.002-04:00

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I am a stay at home dad...kind of. My job as a director in a non-profit, human service agency affords me the chance to be home during the day. I get my work done by phone or computer and if need be get my sister or sister in law to watch my two boys if I have a meeting or emergency. My son Matt was born 5 1/2 years ago. For his first two years on earth it was just me and him, Monday through Friday, in tandem. We went to the gym together (him in his "carrier" 'till about ten months), ate meals together, napped together, golfed together (once again, him in the carrier or in the stroller. Yes, I pushed a stroller around the golf course!) everything together.

When my son Peter was born three years ago, he joined the "boys club". Three of us, all day, playing, living and learning, but most of all, loving. This past summer the "boys club" was in full swing. Trips to the lake, "bear hunting" in the park (before you call PETA, it was pretend), thousands of pitched baseballs, bike and Big Wheel rides around the block, lunch at the driving range. We even, on occasion, let a girl into the club named "Mommy" who joined us at the beach, on the golf course and even a trip to ride the swan boats in Boston.

Summer is ending and fall is on the horizon. Now the "boys club" is down to two. Matthew started kindergarten last week. On his first day of school we walked him 1/4 mile up the hill to his new club. He'll make new friends, learn new things and live a new life filled with new and exciting experiences. Me and Pete will be back at home running the old "boys club". Just me and Pete. Going to the park, playing ball, eating PBJ. It won't be the same without Matt, but different isn't necessarily bad. Matthew and I had two years alone in the club without Peter wherein we got to know each other unlike no other. We mimicked each others movements, words and emotions. Now I'll get to know Pete in the same way. The "boys club" will live on for two more years until Peter makes that walk up the hill in the waining days of summer. Then we'll close the doors to the "boys club", but not for good. The club will be open on school vacations and from June 21st until Labor Day for the next 20 years or so. After my boys are done with college and make their way out into the world I hope they'll take some time and revisit the "boys club". Hopefully we can keep the "boys club" going indefinitely. It'll always be open for business

The Dark and The Light

2008-09-11T08:52:00.007-04:00

The Dark
Seven years ago, this very moment, I watched the unfolding drama taking place in New York City (read here for my recollection of that morning). I have always been interested in world affairs, reading Boston Globe from front to back each morning and watching the news each evening. After 9/11 I have had a heightened awareness of the United States standing in the world and developed a cynical view of our governments overall foreign policy.

Grease makes things run smoother. That's what our current administration does not understand. The Bush doctrine runs in absolutes. Terrorist attack... go to war. Political disagreement...disengage diplomacy. That's not how the world works. Back in prehistoric times how could members of different tribes interact without conflict? By shows of good faith. Offers of food, shelter, resources, assistance were ways to indicate that tribes were friendly and trustworthy. Nothing has changed in thousands of years.

Being that we are the world's preeminent power don't you think we would improve our standing, develop new allies, strengthen out existing relationships by spending on our money helping other countries, especially those who currently despise us? Look at it this way. When Ben and Jerry's has a "free ice cream" day they are advertising their product in the hopes that the money they lose in giving away product with be recouped and future business will increase. If they spent their money on running ads putting down Friendly's Ice Cream and spent money trying to undermine the Friendly's corporation, they still have to spend money to sell their product, because the destruction of Friendly's does not guarantee that people will buy Ben and Jerry's. You catch more flies with ice cream.

War should always be used as a last resort. In WW II we stayed out of the war until knew all the players and knew that we had to go to war or lose everything. After 9/11 we knew very little, but fabricated intelligence in order to appear to be doing something. We still haven't found the people responsible. Why? Because we haven't greased the wheels, we blew up the car.

The Light
I was reading Rolling Stone magazine while doing cardio at the gym yesterday. The issue was dedicated to comedy and there were a couple of jokes that made me laugh so hard that I almost fell off the Precor machine.

Joke #1:

A guy's having sex with his wife. All of a sudden he looks over at the door and there in the doorway is his eight year old son standing there. The kid looks horrified and runs away. The guy says to his wife "Well, I better go talk to Jimmy". He puts on his clothes and goes down to Jimmy's room. He opens the door and there's Jimmy nailing Grandma. The father goes "Oh, my God!" and the kid goes "Not so funny when it's your mom, is it?".

Joke #2:

Guy goes to the doctor and the doctor says, "Sir, you've got to stop masturbating!" and the guy was like, "Why?" and the doctor says, "So I can examine you".

"Tootsie"

2008-09-09T07:51:00.006-04:00

I don't know how many of you have seen the movie "Tootsie", but if you were born after 1980 and have no idea what I'm talking about let me fill you in. Dustin Hoffman was trying to get an acting job as himself, a man, and got nowhere. He found out that a soap opera was looking for a strong female lead and decided to go to an audition dressed as a woman and got the job based on his improvisations as a no nonsense, kick ass, feminist who would take no shit from anyone. Of course, hilarity ensues due to the fact that he is really a man and has to deal with the harassment and struggles of being a woman in a male dominated world. Her nickname by the chauvinist director of the soap is "Tootsie". He even calls her this while slapping her on the ass. In the end everyone finds out her/his secret and more hilarity ensues.

Since the coming out party for Gov. Palin as the republicans VP choice I keep seeing "Tootsie" up on stage. A strong willed, independant, modern woman who can bring home the moose meat, fry it up in a pan and spit out more kids than a paddy in heat (my apologies to Irish moms, but as my cousin says, everyone makes fun of the Irish and its OK, except for the black Irish, of course). She is firing up "Wal-Mart" women all over the country and is the biggest celebrity this side of Barak Obama.

Tootsie did the same thing. She was on every magazine and TV show touting feminist ideals and the destruction of the glass ceiling. In the end everyone found out Tootsie's secret and the feminist fad was over. I keep wondering, what will we find out about the Governor? Its hard to say as she is yet to do an interview 12 days after her announcement as VP candidate. I would suffice to say that she was brought in to fire up the Republican base believing in core issues such as no gun control, overturning Roe V Wade, expanding the death penalty, teaching "intelligent design" as a valid theory of evolution and turning the U.S. into a Christian Theocracy.

The shock to the world when everyone found out that "Tootsie" was a man was more disappointment than anything. No one was hurt and women were empowered even though it was by deception. Women are in for a shock when the truth comes out about Palin. The Republican machine has "dressed her up" to appear to be a middle class, struggling mom who is driving the minivan to hockey games and PTA meetings. Is it possible for a family whose mother is a Governor and father is a BP oil executive who owns a commercial fishing business to be middle class? We'll soon find out who the real Sarah Palin is and it won't be as entertaining as a man playing a woman, dressed in drag. I wish it were that funny.

BC/GT Challenge

2008-09-07T15:24:00.006-04:00

Plez, from the ATL, is a huge Georgia Tech fan. As a proud alum, he put his pride on the line last year by accepting a challenge I proposed to him. If the Boston College Eagles, led by Matt Ryan beat his beloved Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets, then he would have to put the Eagle logo on his blog for a week and vice-verse. Last year he was a man of his word and displayed the Eagle for a week and was complimentary of the Eagles play that day. He even got on the Matt Ryan bandwagon as a Heisman hopeful. This year he accepted the same challenge and the outcome was much different. The "Ramblin' Wreck" , eaked out a win in Chestnut Hill 16-13 in a horribly played game. Both offenses sputtered. The BC Quarterback, Chris Crane, was a painful reminder that Matt Ryan is now leading the Atlanta Falcons (talk about ironic) to victory. He could not throw the between the numbers and had at least 7 tipped passes. Tech was equally as pitiful on offense, fumbling the ball numerous times. The defenses were decent enough, but in the end Tech made one fewer error than BC and now you can admire the GT Yellowjacket displayed prominently at the top of my blog. My cousin Sul-dog and I watched the game perched over the 15 yard line and had a great time despite the horrific play on the field (read here for last years family reunion at the Heights). BC fans have been spoiled over the past eight years. Things don't look promising in the Heights. Congrats Plez and lets hope both teams look better in the weeks to come.

Isn't "Juno" A City In Alaska?

2008-09-03T15:13:00.005-04:00

I am taking a break from the "Masshole Memoirs", as my friend Tim likes to call my blog, to kvetch about Alaska's Govenor Palin. As most of you have heard unless you've been on vacation...on the moon...that John McCain's running mate Sarah Palin has a 17 year old daughter who is five months pregnant. Do I care that a 17 year old is pregnant...not really. My mother was 17 when I was born and let me tell you, not the best thing. I can say with full conviction that she would have been better off having an abortion and not having kids till she was grown up, which may have never happened, but I digress. I am happy (cause I'm still here yeaaaa) that back in those days prior to Roe Vs Wade pregnant teens, especially Irish Catholic pregnant teens, thought it was relatively normal to have kids when they were still kids. There is a huge double standard here that the mainstream media has not yet exposed and that is if Barack Obama had a 17 year old daughter that was pregnant the Republican machine would be having a field day!

The party that touts "abstinence" as a method of birth control and drones on about family values and the fact that the godless liberals are ripping apart the moral fiber of this country have no further to look than number two on their Presidential ticket to see their failed policies and rhetoric. Regular readers of this space know the one thing that drives me "ape shit" is hypocrisy. Here are my points:

1) If Palin's daughter was poor, minority, fatherless or drug addicted or all of the former, then the religious right would says that the reason why she was pregnant was a moral issue and bring up the fact that she probably needs religion, an intact family unit and more religion. What's Palin's daughters excuse? "Her and her boyfriend got carried away in a loving moment and made an innocent mistake" is what they'll tell the congregation. Of course 17 year old black girls living in NYC, the place we can all agree as in moral decay ala Gomorrah, don't have loving moments with their boyfriends. They just fuck like animals and have no feelings other than jonesing for crack and succumbing to those decadent Hip Hop lyrics.

2) I can't speak for the Palin family, but she will be number two on a republican ticket, a party which touts abstinence as a method of birth control. If the Palin's sent their daughter to abstinence class, had her sign a "chastity agreement" or did nothing at all the outcome is the same, she is as knocked up as Jaime Lynn Spears. Right now the Red Stater's are all singing her praises, but are they really when she is now the poster child for ineffective birth control.

3) Isn't it a tad hypocritical to bash single parents who want to have kids (ala Murphy Brown) and gays that want to adopt because in their stunted view "how can you give your kids enough attention when you don't have someone to share the parenting?". The last I knew, Governors work 16 hour days and have very little time off. Her husband works for BP as an oil-field production operator and owns a commercial fishing business, which doesn't leave a lot of "family time". They have an intact family unit with plenty of financial resources, but their kid still got knocked up. I guess all of that family values shit the republicans have been shoving down our throat since Regan doesn't mean a thing. Even when you have the most traditional of families and a strong family unit with no financial concerns things can still go awry.

4) Why are her kids off limits in a political race? Since we know little or nothing about her what are we supposed to go on? Well, since she runs on an ultra- conservative platform we can use her own social views as a benchmark for evaluating her effectiveness. By having a 17 year old pregnant daughter she appears to be a failure as a parent by definition of her and her party's platform. If kids are off limits when evaluating a candidates character then lets ask the Kennedy's, Nixon's, Ford's, Regan's, Bush 41, Clinton's and Bush 43 about kids being off limits...yeah... right.

I have no personal issue with Mrs. Palin. I'll be the first to admit, as 99.9% of America will attest, that I know next to nothing about her. I do have an issue with the Republican party and how they will try to win at all costs, including spinning a 17 year old girls pregnancy to their advantage even when it goes against their core beliefs and have been bashing liberals on this for 20 years.

In the movie Juno, a 16 year old girl gets pregnant and decides to give the baby up for adoption to a well off couple. It paints an unrealistic and rosy picture of teen pregnancy. She lives in suburbia somewhere, has lots of support, is far from destitute and it all works out in the end. If the movie took place in NYC and the girl was black and poor with no father and a mother on crack would there be a rosy outcome? Isn't Juno a city in Alaska?

The Last Day Of Camp, 1982

2008-08-28T10:20:00.005-04:00

I could see the steam rising from the water as I chugged full steam down the hill toward the lake. The chill in the air was refreshing, as it had been a hot, steamy summer in the foothills of the Berkshires. As I approached the beach, I stripped off my t-shirt and threw my towel at the waters edge, while in a full sprint. I timed my steps perfectly onto the metal docks and after five tentative strides plunged into the chilly waters of Highland Lake. I swam out to a raft moored 75 feet out from the last dock and climbed aboard. I stood surveying the scene, soaking it in, knowing that this would be my last 7 AM plunge of the year. In a few minutes campers, accompanied by their blurry eyed counselors, would make their way down to the waterfront for a quick dip in the lake so they could earn their Polar Bear badge which would be given out at the "Candlelight Ceremony" that evening. The badge would entitle them to all you can eat ice cream sundaes after the ceremonies. As a camper, I like most of the other kids at Camp Howe, opted for the warmth and comfort of my cabin bunk over the shock and chill of the lake. Steve, the waterfront director, waved to me from the deck of the boathouse, his summer home. Steve was the coolest guy I knew. He was in his early 20's and good looking. He is one of the few people I've ever met who could get away with wearing a Speedo. He owned his own mobile DJ business. He DJ'd our weekly dances, he dated all of the hottest counselors and got to spend all day every summer on his deck overlooking the beach cranking out tunes from his boom box. He took me under his wing this summer making me the only male counselor to lifeguard the waterfront. It was me, Steve and eight girls every day for eight weeks patrolling the waterfront, giving swimming lessons, teaching CPR and First Aid. As uncool as I was, I was perceived as cool by association with Steve and the gorgeous waterfront staff.

Steve beckoned me to the boathouse, so I dove back into the water and swam over to the docks just as the first kids were gingerly dipping their toes in the water. "Last day Sull", Steve said with some melancholy. "last chance.". "Last chance?", I questioned him, wondering what I had missed. "Sull, I know you dated Carol for most of the summer, but you have completely missed the boat". "What do you mean?", I replied, clueless. "Brandl came to see me last night and spilled her guts out. She's liked you all summer, but you started dating Carol, then when you broke up with her she thought that would be her in, but you never did anything about it."

I was replaying the summer in fast forward through my frontal lobe. How did I miss all the signals? Steve must be wrong. Karen Brandl was the cutest, hottest, sweetest girl in camp that year and most any year. She was way out of my league and I knew it from day one when we were paired together for some lifesaving exercises. She had a boyfriend back home. She was the head of her cheer leading squad. She was absolutely perfect. I would catch myself admiring her from across the dock while the children splashed about unaware of the danger they were in by my inattentiveness. I resigned myself to being friends with her and never attempted any flirtation. We would take walks and talk about our single moms, trials being the oldest of big families and hopes for the future. I confided in her my crush on her friend Carol, another lifeguard and she was the go between to get us together. Carol and I became the camp couple of the summer and the preteens lived vicariously through our courtship, ups and downs and subsequent break up. All that time, Karen and I were the best of friends. We lay on our backs at night on the cool sand and looked at the stars shimmering over the lake. I hugged her when she broke up with her boyfriend back home. Our cabins would always buddy up during the camp Olympics. We always sat next to each other in the dining hall, her at the end of her table of campers and me at the end of mine. When I saw her standing alone, not dancing the last slow dance of the year, I excused myself from my ten year old dance partner and went over to her. I led her out onto the dance floor and swayed to "Stairway To Heaven". I had no idea why she was crying.

Steve patted me on the back and said, "Sull, I've known about her crush on you all summer. She's always looking at you, she's always where you are. Well, you've got the rest of the day to do something about it". He saw the look of enlightenment on my face and felt his job was done. "Man, I can't believe you didn't know!", he laughed, almost mockingly then proceeded to walk over to greet the Polar Bears frolicking in the inner den.

I made my way up the hill to the flag raising ceremony which happened every morning right before breakfast. Everyone in the camp would circle the flagpole with the boys on one side coming from the boys unit and the girls on the other. I looked at Karen from across the circle. She was busy talking to her campers, smiling and engaging.

She was not staring at me.

After raising the flag, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and the 4H pledge we made our way to the dining hall. My campers and I sat at our usual table while Karen and her campers sat at the table next to us. We turned to each other and said "good morning " simultaneously and giggled. She turned to talk to her CIT and I kept looking at her. She turned to say something and caught me staring. "Whats up...everything alright?". She broke my trance. "yeah..ah...I..I need to talk to you alone later." "OK, lets walk down to the waterfront together after breakfast. I'll meet you at the flag pole after the bugle." "OK", I said briskly and turned to pass the pancakes or toast or something to avoid staring. During breakfast I glanced at her occasionally trying to catch her looking longingly at me. Maybe Steve was yanking my chain; I didn't catch her once.

After breakfast I met her at the flag pole and we made our way down the hill I had sprinted down two hours earlier. Time had slowed down. Whats up...everything OK", she asked. "Yeah," I was pussing out. "I'm just sad its our last day here. It flew by so fast. I'm going to miss everyone."

I couldn't bring myself to ask her.

"Yeah, me too. I'm going to miss everyone." We walked the rest of the way in silence with the sounds of campers hooting and hollering their way down to the beach. We went into the boathouse and got our clipboards and whistles. At the bottom of the stairs she turned to me to say something, then stopped. She gazed into my eyes right through me. I gazed back. For a moment time stopped. Then the pause button was released and things started moving again. She turned and made her way out the dock to the outer den to teach her Advanced Swimmers. Steve was right. "You are such an idiot; she liked you all along" I said to myself as I gathered my Beginners for their final swimming test.

We walked together up the hill for lunch without a word between us, just an occasional glance. We sat at our respective tables and occasionally looked over at each other smiling, knowingly, as if we were going to burst. After lunch was rest hour, a time where I usually napped while my campers usually hung from the rafters, gave each other wedgies and gossiped about which 12 year old girl on the other side of camp had the bigger boobs. I couldn't sleep, so I went over to Borquies cabin where his eight year olds were lying quietly in their bunk. "Dave" I asked him "did you know that Brandl had a crush on me?" "Jesus Sully, everyone knew, even Carol. Its why she broke up with you. Brandl told her and Carol flipped out." I didn't want to correct Borquie, but the break up was mutual. We dated for three weeks and she never let me get past first base. Not acceptable when camp was full of plenty of girls that would do more, alot more. "You are kidding Sully. You didn't know that? You are with Brandl all the time. You spent more time with her than you did with Carol when you were with Carol".

He was right.

Eric Powell, camp jock and most popular counselor came over and we sat on the picnic table in front of Dave's cabin. He brought over his boom box and we sat listening to "Funeral For A Friend/Love Lies Bleeding" on an album oriented rock station out of Springfield. That song goes on for about 11 minutes and I sat there thinking about all the missed signals. What if we dated all summer? What if I never said I liked Carol? Should I even bother now with me being a senior in Northampton and her going back to her head cheerleader/best looking girl in school lifestyle at Pioneer Valley, 40 miles from me? Then it hit me. We were friends. If there was more then it would happen, all in good time. At the end of the song when it changes from a funeral dirge to a raucous party song Powell jumped up on the picnic table playing his fiercest air guitar solo of the year. Just as the song ended the bugle sounded the end of rest hour. Time to head back down the hill to lifeguard the rest of the afternoon for free swim.

When I got to the waterfront Karen was already manning her post on the raft. I took my place on the outer den next to Darlene, whom I had known since my days as a camper. We were campers together, CIT's together and now counselors working waterfront. She was a stunner, as were all the girls that worked the waterfront. Six feet tall, legs up to the sky, tanned. We were mistaken as a couple because for the last few years we would always swing dance to "Jailhouse Rock" each Wednesday at the dance. There was never anything more than friendship, but after this situation, I had to wonder.

"I'm so excited for you David" she greeted me with a hug. The hug wasn't particularly unusual as she greeted most everyone with a hug. She was syrupy sweet, but in a real maple syrup way, not the fake stuff.

"Why?". I knew why.

This was getting ridiculous. "I talked to Karen on the way down here and she says you know. She's so happy". "So you knew all summer Dar?".

"Of course silly."

When it came time to switch guard stations I asked Dar if I could take raft next so I could see Karen. I swam out to the raft and took the life preserver from her. I put my hand on the small of her back. She smiled and dove in toward the docks. I spent the rest of afternoon out on the raft soaking in the late August sun, anticipating the evening to come.

The Evening of August 14th, 1999

2008-08-14T16:20:00.019-04:00

I had just drifted off to sleep when I heard a loud knock on the backdoor. I knew immediately that something was wrong. My wife and I lived in an apartment on a desolate stretch of road in the Connecticut River valley of western Massachusetts in the town of Whately. The houses on that road were spaced far apart and most of my neighbors were farmers. I knew that who ever was knocking had to have driven and if someone spent the time to drive out to my house, it must be urgent. I peeked out the window and saw a Massachusetts State Police cruiser in my driveway. I had left my wife an hour earlier at a food festival in Northampton where we sampled food from some local restaurants and had a few drinks. Did she have an accident? Did I hit something on the way home and not know it? In my heart I knew what it was. I opened the door. "Are you David Sullivan?" the female officer asked with an ultra official voice that only a statie commands. "Yes", I groggily replied. "Is your mother Cecilia Sullivan who lives at the Walter Salvo house in Northampton?". My peripheral vision was lost; the officer appeared to be at the end of a telescope. "Yes", I replied. My eyes quickly welled up and I went numb. "Mr. Sullivan, I'm sorry to tell you that your mother died sometime in the past few days. Her body was found in her apartment by a friend in the Salvo House." I stared blankly at the officer. Her male counterpart broke my concentration. "Are you OK sir?". I was holding on to the door jam for support. "What happened? How...was she..", was all I could get out. I felt like I was falling into a deep, dark hole with no end. The male officer was moving his lips, but all I could hear was my own breathing. "...call him with any questions", he handed me a card with a phone number of the detective in charge of the case. "Are you going to be all right Mr. Sullivan?", the female officer asked. "Yeah...thanks" I creaked. I turned and shut the door.

The police detective was matter of fact, "she died on the toilet, the way we found her she was probably trying to pull herself up with her good arm using the bar, but something happened, heart attack, whatever. There was no evidence of foul play, but we found a bunch of empties by her chair and a bunch of medications, she was on a lot of medications, huh?" "Where is she?" I interrupted. "She went directly to 'Pease Funeral Home' over by the hospital. There was no need to go to the hospital she was there for three, maybe four days." "I talked to her on Tuesday, so it wasn't more than three." "Well, she was in bad shape. It was hot up there and I'm surprised that no one complained about the smell earlier." I was numb to his insensitivity and wanted to hear more, however painful the details. "Can I see her?" "You'll have to call the funeral home in the morning, but you don't want to...I mean...you shouldn't. Its bad. Just remember her like she was the last time you saw her."

That was easy.

I took her to her favorite restaurant, The Bluebonnet Diner, for lunch on her birthday, August 7th. She didn't seem right. She only ate half of her meal and was very spacey. She had been disabled since the age of 35 when a brain aneurysm burst, causing her to have right side paralysis and no hope of getting out of the hole she dug for herself by marrying at age 17 and having 6 kids and a divorce by the time she was 24. The last time I saw her she was getting out of my car at her apartment after lunch at 'Bluebonnet'. I put her wheelchair next to my car and helped her transfer from the front seat to the chair. I tried to help push her to the front door. She had a hard time disengaging the brakes. "Ma, push the brake up, I can't move..." "All right, all right. Leave me alone!", she snapped. and wheeled herself to the front door. I chided, "Bye, Maaa" in a sing, songy voice hoping to get her to lighten up. She responded by waving an arm in the air, irritated, without turning around. I got in the car and my wife and I laughed at how stubborn she was. I never laid eyes on her again.

I called my brothers and sisters after I got off the phone with the detective. By this point shock had settled in and I have no recollection of my conversations with them except that I was surprised by the lack of emotion in their responses. Her death was expected, exactly when was the question. She had been given last rights dozens of times over the years, but always pulled through. Maybe their lack of discernible affect was not shock, but relief that the years of self loathing and self destructive behavior was over. She could finally stop running from the demons. My wife came home and I gave her the news. I saw my devastation in her eyes. I realized that her face was mirroring mine and that realization caused me to break down. I didn't cry again until days later when I was carrying my mother's casket out of Blessed Sacrament Church. I faced my brothers who were holding the other side of the casket. They both looked like they did when they were little boys, vulnerable and needy. My face was mirroing theirs.

Soon after my wife got home we went to bed. The next few days were going to be stressful at best and if I stayed up I'd just be torturing myself with memories of Ma and me swimming at the lake, playing catch in the backyard or her rubbing my head as I lay in her lap, watching television. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I was comforted by the thought that my mother was with her infant son Derek who had died 29 years earlier, her sister Rosemary and her mother in a place better than this one.

Curses, Tagged!

2008-08-11T09:27:00.008-04:00

I've been tagged a number of times in the past year and a half since doing this blog thing. I've only responded to a couple. Not because I don't like them, but because they usually take time and thought, both of which in my case are limited. Melinda from Canada, whose photography I've enjoyed for most of my time in the blogosphere since finding her in my cousin Suldogs blog faves, has tagged me.

Here are the rules:

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.

2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog; some random, some weird.

3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.

4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

The Facts:

1. I born a poor black child. Besides being a memorable line in "The Jerk", Steve Martin's comic masterpiece it is also the title of one of my first blog posts (read here). Ok, I wasn't really born black, but I was as poor as fuck. For those of you who think assistance programs (welfare, food stamps, etc...) are just ways for people to scam the system and not necessary all I can say is "fuck off". Children should never starve because their parents don't have their shit together.

2. I hate hypocrisy. I'm sure most people do. I don't care if you are into bestiality, cheat on your income taxes or love American Idol, but don't put others down for what you do yourself. I despise bestiality and people that cheat on their income tax... Leave the hypocrisy up to experts: politicians, evangelicals and baby boomers.

3. I love being a dad. Not just because my father was a complete douche bag, but because its the only time in my life I have ever felt or given unconditional love.

4. I am good at everything, but great at nothing. One of my former employees asked me once "Is there anything you are not good at" as I was throwing 25 yard spiral after spiral to another employee at the beach. My answer "I don't think so". I am a real renaissance man. The flip side? My attention span is too short for me to ever get great at something. Where were we...oh yeah...number five...

5. I've been to every state, but Alaska. Some of them were no more of a visit than taking a dump in the airport (Omaha Nebraska). I hit most of them during a trip I made across the USA in the summer of '85. You can read about the shenanigans and hilarity of the trek in a series of blog posts titled "The Odyssey" right here on this very blog.

6. I love golf. I am a huge sports fan. I grew up playing sports, watching sports, living, breathing sports. I didn't pick up a golf club until I was 29 years old and I regret I didn't find the game earlier. In high school I thought the golfers were prissy, little wimps and I was pretty much right. The guys were wimps, but the game they played was one of the toughest. I love the fact its all about you. There is no one to blame when you hit a bad shot or lose a hole except you. You police yourself and its your job to enforce the rules. It is a gentleman's game and maybe someday I'll be one...a gentleman, that is.

7. Fall is my favorite season. Being that I have traveled all over the U.S. I have a huge appreciation for living in New England. Fall in New England is my idea of perfect weather. Cool, dry air comes down from Canada washing away the hot, stale summer humidity. The days are warm and the nights are cool to chilly, perfect for sleeping. Quintessential fall scenes include sitting in the bleachers at Fenway in late September with the sox in the playoff hunt. Tailgating in Foxboro before a Patriots game second or third week in October as the leaves are reaching their peak color. Teeing off at a golf course on Cape Cod with the fog and dew enveloping the course and finishing the round in brilliant, leafless, mid- November sunshine.

8. I love Canada! Ok, OK that was shameless kissing up to Melinda who called me "Suldog's talented cousin, David", but how can you not love a country that gives us hockey, beer, Seth Rogan, The Trailer Park Boys, April Wine, bacon, Mounties... and the list goes on.

Now for the tagged:

Andraste
Dirty Red
Random Lunacy
Chicago Zack

I only tagged four folks because thats all the time I have for now. Happy tagging!

Hitchhiking, Switchblades and JAWS

2008-07-28T07:25:00.005-04:00

The DJ on WRKO warned of another shark sighting and we were getting antsy. There were shark sightings every hour on the hour during the summer of '75. It wasn't safe to go in the water, but it wasn't the water where we wanted to be. Even though the city of Boston was in the grips of a sweltering hot summer we didn't want to hit the beach. Not for fear of a shark attack, but because we wanted to go to the movies. Jaws had just hit the movie theaters, horrifying audiences and causing thousands to never swim in the ocean ever again. I sat on the curb in front of my apartment listening to my transistor radio with my friend Sean trying to figure out how we could possibly go to a movie our parents would never let us see. I had plans to meet up with my friend Neil later that day. Neil was a friend from my Catholic school that was one of the most deviously fun kids I had ever met in my ten years. He had taught me the best spots to peg cars with snowballs, the best stores to pilfer candy and how to elude the security guards at Curry College where we would run wild through the grounds stealing tennis balls, scarfing down food in the cafeteria along with many other harmless endeavours. Neil would have a plan.

We met Neil around 9:30 AM at his house and we hopped a bus to Cleary Square. Our friend Stevie, who was another Catholic school classmate, lived on the other side of the square and he was all in for going to see Jaws. Stevie was waiting for us on his porch when we got to his house. We sat on the stairs thinking of our plan. First we would have to get there. The Dedham Cinemas were four miles away and we only had enough money to get into the movie, so a bus was out of the question. We could walk, but that would take over an hour and it was already approaching 90 degrees. Neil suggested we hitchhike. Yeaaah...hitchhike. Just stick out your thumb and get a ride to where ever you want to go. That was easy. Now the hard part, how would we get into an R rated movie. Stevie suggested that we sneak in. Effective, but risky. Sean suggested that we buy a ticket for the latest Herbie The Love Bug movie, which had to be G rated, then go into Jaws. Maybe, but there would be ticket takers checking especially since this was such a high profile flick. I offered that we just ask someone to pose as our parents and buy us a ticket. Everyone thought that was a stupid idea, that no adult would do such a horrible thing as to buy a kid an R rated ticket. We decided to play it by ear, but first things first we had to get there. We stepped off the porch, crossed the street and put out our thumbs.

We didn't walk for more than 5 minutes when a car stopped. "Where ahh you boys goin?" he inquired. "Dedham Cinemas" I piped up. "Hop in, but watch all the crap in the back theah, my cahs a wreck", he informed us. I got in the front seat and sized the guy up. He had long, scraggily hippie hair and a fu-manchu mustache. He had a cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth and a Narragansett beer between his legs. There was a switchblade sitting on the gearbox. The others jostled for position in the back, while I stared forward, pretending not to notice the beer and the switchblade. He started down the road taking a right onto Eneking Parkway in the direction of the cinemas. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him reach for his beer and take a swig. He then reached down and picked up the switchblade. "You fuckin' kids think you're cool?" he screamed as he flicked out the blade, pointing it in the air so all could see. I felt like pissing myself, but was not as shocked as the others, knowing all along that the switchblade was there. "Are you kids stupid, I could be a murderer or a child molester, you are sooo fuckin' stupid." "Please let us out", Sean whimpered. The rest of us felt the same. "I'll bring you to the movies", he half chuckled, "but promise me you'll never hitchhike ever again!". "We promise" we all said in unison. He took a long swig of his beer and threw the empty can out the car window. The next five minutes seemed to take forever as we drove in silence. "Take it easy boys" he said and left us in the parking lot of the theater.

"Holy Shit," said Stevie, "we almost got wasted". "Shut the fuck up," scolded Neil,"he was just fucking with us". I knew Neil was just as scared as us, I saw it in his eyes, but he always appeared cool and in control. We quickly moved on to the task at hand which was to get into the movies. I approached a middle aged guy and his wife and asked him to buy us tickets. "Where are your parents?" he asked with genuine concern. "Well...my moms divorced...and she was gonna take me, she really wanted to, but she has to stay home with my brothers and sisters and..." "Ok, Ok" the guy interrupted my line of bullshit, "How many are you?" "Four, here's the money". "Ok, follow us". We got in the ticket line with the couple and the escorted us right into the theater, no questions asked. "Thanks" I blurted out as we got to the door of our theater and ran for the front row. We got the last four seats together as the theater was filling up fast.

The movie was well worth the trouble. It had everything a ten year old would want in a movie, a little bit o' nudity, bawdy dialogue and of course a blood thirsty shark. After the movie we decided to walk the four miles home. Half way home we it started to pour. We got completely drenched. None of us suggested that we hitch a ride.

When I got home the smell of dinner and the warmth of my couch reinforced the fact that I had made it through another adventure safe and sound. As with most of my childhood adventures my mother never knew the better. I probably told her I was playing baseball all day at Neil's or that I was at the library or the YMCA. To this day I've never hitched a ride, but I do swim in the ocean.

A Summer Day, 1975

2008-07-10T08:03:00.012-04:00

I kept one eye on the TV and one eye on the front door. The humidity was already starting to build even at 8 AM, which made my butt stick to my chair at the dining room table. Don Kent deemed our oppressive weather an official heat wave as the temperatures were expected to reach the mid nineties. My Captain Crunch was having a hard time maintaining its crunch. I added some more cereal to my sugary milk. I would need my energy today because I was spending the day with my grandmother.

A cab pulled up in front of our apartment. My grandmother's voice boomed down the walkway as she settled up with driver, probably finishing up a conversation about her grandchildren or a movie she had just seen. She waddled up the walkway to our front door, where I was waiting. "Aren't you ready yet?" she scolded as I was still in my PJ's. "I'll get dressed right now!" I assured her and bounded up the stairs as fast as humanly possible. When I came downstairs my brothers and sisters were strewn about the living room watching "The Flintstones" already looking hot and sweaty. Two fans were strategically placed on either end of the room to maximize the cooling effect. It didn't seem to be working, but I didn't care. My Grandma was taking me to Nantasket Beach for a day of fun. I stood at the front door and waited for my mother and grandmother as they finished up their tea at the dining room table. My mother kissed me and told me to be a good boy. We were off.

We walked briskly to the end of the street where we would catch the first of three buses and two trains. I was 10 and she was 60, but she moved quickly. Living in the city her entire life she was a walker. She never had a drivers licence. She never had a need for one making her way about the city on foot, buses, trains or taxi's in a pinch. While waiting for the first bus I stood soaking in the summer morning. The smell of fresh cut grass permeated the atmosphere as Mr. Crowley was cutting his lawn that was kitty corner across the street from the bus stop. Honey bees flew in and out of flowers that grew along a chain link fence that bordered the sidewalk. The bus pulled up to the stop bringing with it the smell of diesel and exhaust. We took the first two seats across from the driver, although instinctually I wanted to head for the back of the bus as I did everyday during the school year. We hopped on another bus in Cleary Square. Then a train in Mattapan Square. Then another train to somewhere in Quincy. Then a bus to Nantasket Beach.

The hour and one half hour bus, bus, train, train, bus journey culminated in a crescendo of anticipation when I could see the giant roller coaster while driving down the beach road. "The Comet" was the signature ride at Paragon Park, a small 'Coney Island' style amusement park that beckoned from across the street from the beach. I dashed off the bus over the sea wall, into the sand while my grandmother waddled over the sea wall and down to the spot I had staked out for us, half way to the water. I spent the next few hours swimming, shell searching, rock throwing and sand digging, while my grandma waded up to her hips and watched me from her beach towel. Sometime after 1 PM she made me get out of the water and wait on my beach towel while she waddled over to the food shack to get us lunch. I lay there on my belly taking in the smell of the ocean, mixed with suntan lotion and fried food, while digging my toes deep into the cool sand and feeling the soft terry cloth towel on my cheek. We decided to eat lunch on the sea wall hoping to keep the sand out of our food.

After lunch we went back down to the beach for another hour. After sufficient browning we packed up and headed across the street for some sweet treats. We stood by the window of a candy shop and watched a machine push and pull Salt Water Taffy, my grams favorite. She bought a box. I opted for ice cream with a cotton candy chaser. We then made our way into the amusement park. My grams favorite thing to do there was Skee Ball. I played a few games with her then switched to pin ball while she continued to attempt to best her Skee Ball high score. After the treats settled it was time for rides. Grandma watched as I was spun, dipped, flipped and wrung by the Tilt O' Whirl, Round-Up, Scooters and of course The Comet. As the sun started down toward the horizon she joined me on the Sky Ride which was a ski lift type of ride which gave you a bird's eye view of the park. The setting sun combined with the haziness illuminated everything in the park with an orangish glow that can only be duplicated in mid summer by the sea side.

After the Sky Ride we made our way to the bus stop and the long ride home. I snuggled into her side during each leg of our trip home fading in and out of consciousness, visions of the surf and orange light in my head. Upon returning home I kissed my mother, thanked my grandma, kissed her and walked through the windy living room straight up to my bed, exhausted. The smell of cigarettes and conversation wafted upwards. I heard two toots of a car horn. I heard the cab door slam from my bed. Goodbye Grandma. Thank you. I love you.

Work + Vacation = ?

2008-06-25T08:51:00.005-04:00

If you already didn't know I am a director in a non-profit human service agency. Each summer for the past 19 summers I take my clients, patients, individuals...whatever the politically correct term is these days for a weeks vacation. This week we are staying at a cottage right across the sandy parking lot from the Wellfleet Beachcomber located on Cahoon Hollow Beach in Wellfleet, Massachusetts. We've been here since Saturday and fun is being had by all. Below I am reposting an entry I wrote about a day in the life of one of these trips years ago in which The Beachcomber (or "Comah" as most who know it call it) made a cameo appearance.

The Longest Day

5:30 AM, June 23, 2002.

The first full day of Summer.

The longest day of the year.

The last memory I had of the alcohol soaked evening before was the sound of Jabe and Marcus cackling incessantly in between tokes while lounging on the deck. That was only three hours earlier. The morning was foggy, as most mornings are during early summer on Cape Cod. The fog is especially thick in Chatham where we were renting a house for two weeks for our clients with mental retardation. I have been organizing vacations for my clients for years. These trips are usually the highlight of the year for these clients whose usual day consists of: waking up, being shipped off to a day program to seal envelopes or break sticks under the guise of having a meaningful "job", come home, eat dinner, go to bed. The staff also look forward to these trips. Staff usually make slightly more than the person who mans the counter at Drunkin Donuts with 100 times the responsibility. With most of my staff being poor this is usually the only chance they have to spend a week in a house on the Cape.

Lying in bed listening to the sound alternate between the lapping of the waves and the pounding in my head I had a decision to make. I could lie there and hope to fall back asleep, knowing that we had a full day ahead sightseeing in Provincetown and going to a reggae show at the Beachcomber in Wellfleet. I could also go down to my car, drive five minutes to Chatham Seaside Links and walk nine holes in hopes of sweating out some toxins and clearing up the fogginess. I teed off around 6AM.

The Seaside links is a small, hilly golf course a couple hundred yards from Chatham Harbor. I couldn't see the water through the soupiness. First hole. I striped my ball down the middle of the short par four. I found my ball two feet from the green. I chipped my ball to six inches then tapped in for a birdie. As I bent over to retrieve my ball from the hole I violently heaved. I turned around instinctively to see if anyone saw my dry heaving, but there was nothing to see, it was covered in the soup. The next eight holes were a blur. I dragged myself to the car and lamented my decision not to lay in bed.

I returned to the house at 7:30 AM, no one was up yet. I had expected Tim, one of the staff who was not completely wasted the night before, being the designated sober person, to be up getting breakfast ready. I threw a couple pound of bacon on the griddle and made a pot of coffee. Like ghouls from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video, staff and clients alike were drawn from their crypts by the smells emanating from the kitchen. Everyone ate breakfast on the deck, replaying the previous evenings events.

All were in agreement that the highlight of the evening was when Tim ( who is a cross between Barry White and Urkel) smooth-talked the hottest girl in the bar to dance with each of our clients. Dancing with the girl was the highlight of the evening for the clients. The highlight of the evening for the staff was confronting some young posers, primped and tanned, who were making some off color jokes loud enough for us to hear at the expense of our "men". "I can't believe you are jealous of some retarded guys" I said to one of the youngsters as I stepped directly into his line of sight. Marcus added "Yo Sully, that guy couldn't even talk to that girl never mind touch her" as the hottie was spinning one of our guys around, swing dance style. The kid took an abbreviated step toward me, but must've thought twice after sizing up the situation. He had six plus of his buddies with him. I had me, Marcus, a hostile black man in an all white bar. Jabe who, when not working for me, was a bouncer who actually looked forward to tossing drunks out onto their heads. Sammy, a thick necked, mild mannered Puerto Rican who can bench 300 lbs and Tim who still had a menacing stare from his days as a pimp in Springfield back in the eighties. As I stepped in to give the young man a firm "talking to" a girl that was with their group started yelling at the youngster. "You aah such a fukin' losah...those retah ded guys aah wicked cute". By this time the bouncers had taken notice of the scene. Having worked the door myself I commiserated with the big man on how tough it was dealing with drunks and explained the situation. He had a "talking to" with the youngster. He and his crew left, embarrassed and defeated. After breakfast everyone went back to bed to rest up for the day.

The next few hours were a blur. I tried to sleep down at the beach, but the sound of kids playing and seagulls squawking awoke me each time I started to fade. At 12:30 PM we loaded up and headed 30 minutes north to Provincetown. Sammy was driving the van along with Tim and our "men". Me, Jabe and Marcus followed in my Bonneville. Tim and Sammy were the designated sober people today as they would be driving with the clients. We cracked open some beers in my car. Jabe took a percocet I had hanging around since my wife had surgery weeks earlier. Within ten minutes he asked if the car was upsidedown.

The afternoon in Provencetown was spectacular. The fog had burned off by 2 PM and the sky had a hazy blue hue. We ate, shopped and people watched. Me, Jabe and Marcus went to a bar on the water down by MacMillian Wharf . The rest went to get Ice Cream. We left the bar after a couple of Bud Lights. On the way out of the place a dude walking in looked me up and down and said "mmm, hmmm, yummy". Gay or not, its nice to be appreciated. I gave him a high five and caught up with Jabe and Marcus who were moving quickly toward the town center.

We arrived at "The Beachcomber" around 5 PM. The "comah" is located on a sandy bluff about 75 feet above Cahoon Hollow beach overlooking the Altantic Ocean. The haze and heat we endured while exploring P-town had been replaced by crisp, cooler air fueled by a slight on-shore breeze. By this time Tim had joined me, Marcus and Jabe as "off the clock" leaving Sammy in charge of the men. Sammy and the men headed inside the club while the rest of us hiked down the steep path to the beach. Down by the water Marcus pulled out a "J" and after numerous attempts trying to light it in the breeze got it sparked. We sat in a semi-circle looking out at the water and decided that we were currently in the best location on the planet. With a new found spring in our step we glided back up the path toward the sound of the reggae music.

"Yellowman", a Jamaican reggae star known for having yellow hair, light skin and half his face missing from cancer, was starting his first set. We entered through the outdoor bar section of the club and could see the yellow one swaying to the ska beat on stage while the audience was bouncing in rhythm. Marcus and I headed into the sea of bodies moving and grinding while Jabe and Tim opted for the cool breeze and openness of the outdoor bar. The smell of sweat, booze and ganja was an intoxicating mix; I was lost in the hypnotic beat. As I exited the dance hall to the outdoor bar I could see the beginnings of the full moon peak above the horizon. I gathered the whole group and we went to the edge of the bluff to watch the moon rise. Once the moon escaped from the horizon it appeared to sit on top of the water, floating in the waves. A tanker heading out to sea appeared below the moon as it headed up into the darkening evening skies. We all went back to the club where Yellowman was intensely thrashing about the stage as if he were having a seizure. The crowd pulsed as he wailed on.

The show ended about 10PM. Sammy gathered the men and headed back to the beach house. The rest of us lingered at the outdoor bar opting for fruity, girly drinks with enough suger to temporarily neutralize the sedative effect of the day's drinking. Now that the show was over the outdoor bar became crowded. Bodies pressed against one another, some cute and inviting, others just sweaty and drunk. We maintained a semi-circle at one end of the bar looking out over a dune. The moon had risen just over the dune and the wispy dune grass was silhouetted against the luminous sphere. We again decided that this was the best location on earth.

At 10:45 we decided to head back to the beach house. At the Orleans rotary I decided that instead of heading south off the rotary toward Chatham we would head 25 minutes west toward Hyannis. There would still be some action there, even on a Sunday night. The bars in Hyannis weren't as promising as I had anticipated. We drove down Main Street, slowly, assessing the possibilities. After cruising Main Street twice we decided to head to a bar in neighboring Yarmouth that would not have the excitement we were looking for, but would be a place we could get a final drink before heading back to the beach house. It was now midnight and we had not had a drink, except for sharing two beers we had stashed in the car, since leaving the "Comah".

We entered "Molly's" and immediately bellied up to the bar. Ben was there again. Ben had probably tended bar there every day since the place opened. He spoke in a thick nasally Irish accent having had his nose broken a number of times as semi-successful prize fighter in his youth. His claim-to-fame was fighting on a Hagler under card. "What'll it be fellers" lilted the brawler. The black guys drank Johnnie Walker. The white irish-american guys had a Guinness. The bar was empty except for a table with two guys and two girls. Jabe struck up a conversation with one of the girls. She was cute. She had smooth, milky skin dotted with a few freckles. Her strawberry-blonde hair was the perfect complement to her complexion. I detected a mild brouge.

At first there was lighthearted banter flowing between Jabe and the girl. At some point while the rest of us talked amoungst ourselves at the bar their conversation turned . She, not being as drunk as we, mistook Jabe's sarcasm for arrogance and rebuffed his advances. Jabe had his ego bruised and all it took was a sideways look from one of the guys to set him off. "What are you looking at" he barked at the guy. "Not much" said the guy. I immediately headed toward the car knowing what was to come next. As I pulled the car around Marcus ran up to my drivers side window "Sull, pop the trunk. You got a crow bar or a golf club in there?". "Get in" I bellowed like a father who is disgusted by his sons childish behavior. Tim appeared on the passenger side door and got in. We pulled up to the front door just in time to see Jabe face to face with the guy. Jabe was barking at him, then suddenly spit his gum in the guys face and walked away. A sense of relief washed over me as he poured himself into the backseat of my Bonneville. "I'm too old for this shit guys" I said as we took a right out of the parking lot for our 20 minute ride down Route 28 toward Chatham.

The ride back to Chatham was dead quiet. Marcus and Jabe were passed out in the back seat, while Tim and I stared at the road ahead. We returned to the beach house at about 1:30 AM. Tim disappeared into his room in the basement. Jabe and Marcus headed out to the deck to smoke and recap the days events. I settled down into my bed. From the deck floated the pungent smell of smoke and the sounds of hushed laughter.

Hypomania

2008-06-02T08:09:00.023-04:00

Hypomania is a mood state characterized by persistent and pervasive elevated or irritable mood, and thoughts and behaviors that are consistent with such a mood state. It is distinguished from mania by the absence of psychotic symptoms and by its lower degree of impact on functioning.

From April 1st until late summer I suffer from hypomania. I haven't been officially diagnosed, but from working in the human service field for 20 years I know that I am afflicted.

Paper pusher heal thy self.

Anyhow, in my simmering state of mania my plate has been full. In addition to banging out "The Odyssey" series of blog posts I took my annual trip to Gulf Shores Alabama to visit my mother-in-law for Mother's Day, took my son Matt to a sox game, watched my god daughter make her First Communion, worked on my lawn, played in some golf tournaments, started my golf league, threw Peter his third birthday party etc...

Instead of me writing about all of this just check out the pics. A picture paints 1000 words!

The Odyssey (Part VII)

2008-05-31T07:02:00.004-04:00

I woke up in our tent for the first time on the trip. In the midst of partying with the cowboys the night before, Tom had made it out behind the Mud Butte Post Office/Bar/Store/Restaurant/gas station and set up our tent. It was a pleasant surprise. I rewarded his diligence by getting him a coffee. I sat on the front steps of the building looking out across the plains to a butte of in the distance and wondered if that was the "towns" namesake. It was impossible to judge the scale with nothing else on the horizon or in the foreground. It could have been 1/4 mile away or ten miles away. I wasn't about to find out. It took pretty much all the energy I had to walk back to the tent, drink my coffee and help pack up the tent. We thanked our elderly host and got back on the road. In parting we told her to watch out for those "bikers". She assured us she was ready.

As we got into far western South Dakota there were once again signs of civilization. The towns had more than one building and we didn't have any fears of running out of gas or being stranded next to a broken down car. When we got into Wyoming we took a detour north of the highway to "Devils Tower". It is a cylinder shaped rock formation jutting out of the prairie made famous by the movie "Close Encounters Of The Third Kind". Richard Dreyfus's character was obsessed by visions he had of the structure and started making replication out of mashed potatoes, garbage, dirt etc...Devil's Tower is where the aliens made contact with humans later in the movie. There was also quite the prairie dog exhibit at the viewing spot for the Tower which cautioned against venturing out into the area between the exhibit and the Tower due to rattlesnakes hiding in the prairie dog holes and attacking. We had tempted fate enough on this trip, so far, and I had no desire to be sucking venom out of one of Tom's extremities.

Back on the road heading west the topography changed. The road became more hilly and there was more vegetation, although scrubby; it felt less lunar. Around mid afternoon we noticed some mountains on the horizon and figured they must be the "Big Horns", a mountain range which cuts through the north central part of the state and was just outside of our next destination, Sheridan. For hours we drove toward the mountain chain as they slowly grew larger and larger until they towered above us.

In Sheridan we found a campground well before dark and set up our tent. We did some supply shopping in town which included some Coors Light Silver Bullets and some Yukon Jack. We had a nice campfire complete with Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Bread and Butter. A nearby camper came by and introduced himself. We offered him a beer and he offered us some crystal meth. I declined, but Tom snorted a few lines. The guy said it was like coke and with that reassurance I did a line. It burned my nostrils and I winced like having a nose hair pulled out suddenly. He offered another round and I declined. It was my only experience , ever, with that stuff. Tom did some more. Our guest drank another beer then excused himself as he had to get back to his campsite and his family. A real family man, I thought.

The next morning was chilly, but refreshing. We had gotten to bed early and with the exception of the crystal, had done relatively little partying. Our next destination was Yellowstone National Park . We made our way over some mountain passes through the Big Horns and down to Cody which is where the Buffalo Bill museum is located. We checked out the exhibits, ate some lunch and got on our way. We had been on the road for a week and it felt like a lifetime. The ride to Yellowstone was ripe with anticipation. I drove, while Tom perused some travel books he had about the park. The plan was that we would spend three days at Yellowstone and three days at the Tetons. All systems go.

The Odyssey (Part VI)

2008-05-30T07:33:00.007-04:00

'What the fuck happened last night' I thought as I came to. The room was spinning. I made a beeline for the bathroom and violently heaved. I felt an intense burning on my neck as I kneeled at the toilet bowl. The room turned red. It got hotter and hotter. Was I having a stoke? When the heaving subsided I tentatively stood up and realized that instead of turning on the light I had turned on one of those red lighted overhead heating lamps that were popular in the 70's and 80's. My anxiety level went from a 10 down to a 7 as I was still shaken up from the last nights events. I walked up the basement stairs, where the guest rooms were located , into the living room of the main house. Tom was sitting on the couch staring blankly at the TV. The Cubs were playing a day game as was the custom before they defiled Wrigley and put in lights. That means it was after 1 PM.

"Sully. How did we get back here last night?" Tom asked with a hint of concern in his voice. "Bro, you don't remember what happened last night?" I was pissed that he was clueless. He looked at me blankly. "You don't remember me dragging you out of that dudes apartment after he tried to fag out with me?". "The last thing I remember was sitting on that guys couch and smoking a bowl" Tom said as if he let me down. I explained to him what had happened. We sat there for an hour or two saying nothing, watching the Cubbies. I had a piece of toast and retired to the guestroom around 4 PM. I stayed there all night while Tom had dinner with his Uncle and socialized. I alternated between sleep and awake trying to absorb the previous evening. I felt bad that I popped the guy, but did he drug us? Did we give him some kind of gay signal we were unaware of? Do I look gay? Does Tom look gay? Should I never drink again?

Years later when I saw the movie "Dahmer" I had a bout of PTSD and wondered that if I didn't fight my way out that stupor and pop that guy, would the cops have found my head in a freezer next to my dick? I eventually went to sleep for the night.

The next morning I was up before 6 AM. I felt a lot better having put some sleep between me and the "Incident". Tom was up soon after and we decided to hit the road straight away. Our next destination was Mud Butte, South Dakota. When Tom was a kid he found Mud Butte on the map when plotting his future trip across country. He thought the name was funny and referred to it as "Mud Butt". Now we were on our way to Mud Butt.

We head west on Route 212 and after a few hours driving we made a stop in Watertown, South Dakota for some McDonald's. Neither one of us broached the subject of getting beer, even though I'm sure we both thought it. We got on the road right after Mickey D's and head out into the plains. During the next few hours I felt like I was on another planet. I had never seen this type of topography before and I felt like I was watching a movie. The land was flat and there was no sign of human civilization for hours. Occasionally there would be a butte in the distance or a small rolling hill to traverse, but to me it was like traversing the moon. We couldn't get any radio stations on the dial, so Tom did a medley of his favorites. Tom drove and sang "Love Is The Drug" in response to my allegations that we were drugged. He then broke into "Sympathy For The Devil" and continued on with "Smoke On The Water". He went on for at least an hour. I watched him in amazement as he belted out tune after tune feverishly, white foam forming at the corners of his mouth. As bizarre as it was watching this guy fall away into his rock n' roll fantasy it was contagious and I found myself joining in during the chorus and occasionally singing along.

We pulled into Mud Butte around 4PM. Mud Butte consisted of one house which was the only store, bar, restaurant, pool table, post office; the only anything. An elderly lady was working the counter and greeted us heartily. We ordered a few beers and sat at the bar/lunch counter. The woman asked if we had seen "The Bikers". We hadn't seen any on the road. She said they were due into town any day now. She said they came in once per year and camped behind the building and "raised holy hell". We were a bit nervous until she showed us pictures of the bikers... or should I say bicyclists. Around 6 PM some real live cowboys strolled in of the range for some beer, pool and grub. There were about eight of them and they looked at us suspiciously. Tom and I were playing pool and gnawing on some pigs knuckles that were in a jar on the bar. The old woman had comped us. One of the cowboys asked for the next game. We played partners. They asked where we were from and that opened up a whole line of questioning. "Is that near New York City?". "What's it like in one of those skyscrapers?". "Do you know anyone famous?". "They were impressed that I had seen Robert Dinero at my friends father's cafeteria in NYC. One of the ranchers offered me some Red Man chew. When I said 'yeah' with some false bravado the cowboy said "Are you sure?" Having done some Skoal in my day I thought that I could handle it. The head rush was intense. I had to go out behind the building and puke. When I came back in everyone was laughing. My face had turned green when I ran out and the tough, leather skinned ranchers were having a big ol' laugh at my expense. I grabbed a beer and did another shot and laughed along with them. We drank beer, played pool, did shots and shot the shit deep into the prairie night.

The Odyssey (Part V)

2008-05-28T08:08:00.006-04:00

We entered the bar around 8PM. It was nothing special. It was your typical 1980's bar with cheap round Formica table tops and metal bar stools. We sat down and a waitress came over immediately. We each ordered a shot and a beer. She came back with two shots and two beers, each. The place was busy for a Sunday night. Many of the people we saw at the Lakes were most likely here as the women all appeared to be attractive. Maybe they were just attractive because of the two for one drinks. We struck up a few conversations with folks around us, but were mostly content to drink and soak in the scenery. The "Madonna" look hadn't made its way out here to the Midwest, yet so most of the girl were clad in longish skirts and poofy blouses or designer jeans and Izod Lacoste Tennis shirts. On the guys were jeans, predominantly black Levis and pastel colored Oxfords. We watched the mingling as it flowed in synch with the musical genius of Duran Duran, Culture Club and Simple Minds. Tom and I were not in uniform. I was wearing a pair of beat up Calvin Klien jeans with a tan sweater pushed up to the elbows. Tom had on a beat up pair of faded blue Levis with a black t-shirt with a faded "Rush" on the front.

Tom was not comfortable in this situation. He hated the music. He wasn't half as horny as me; the girls didn't have any effect. The the two for one drinks buoyed his psyche just enough to make the place bearable. After a few rounds he was almost having fun. I watched Tom watching the scene. I still had no idea what made this guy tick. He was 25 years old. He looked like a cross between Crispan Glover and Christopher Reeves as Clark Kent in "Superman". Underneath his easy going, laid back demeanor was one hard nosed, intense dude. One Saturday morning at Camp Howe we had a pick up tackle football game. Even though Tom was 5 years older than most of us and built rather solidly, he was picked last. We all assumed that he was a geek and not athletic or tough. After the game all the guys could talk about is what an animal he was. I had been the recipient of a few of his tackles and was shocked at how little mercy he showed in a pick up game between friends. It was comforting to know that if the shit hit the fan, Tom would have my back or at least he had it in him.

Around midnight we were absolutely shitfaced. The novelty of having the waitress bring massive amounts of booze to us for little money wore off after the first few rounds, but the damage was done. I was sipping on a Coors Light when I noticed Tom on the way back from the bathroom talking to some guy. When he returned to the table he said that the guy offered to let us party at his place after hours. Tom said the guy had some great weed.

When the place closed we followed him to his apartment. When we got out of the car he introduced himself as Greg and shook my hand. We followed him into his place. It was very clean and organized. He invited us to sit on the couch while he made us drinks and packed a bowl. We sipped our drinks and waited for Greg to emerge from his bedroom. Greg sat next to Tom and sparked up. He passed it to Tom who took a massive hit who then passed it to me. I took a small hit knowing that I was already too wasted and I was probably going to have to drive us back to Jerry's being that Tom was done. I passed it back to Greg who then got up and put on some music. Tom passed out completely and Greg sat next to me. He asked about our trip and other inane bits of small talk. I got up to use the bathroom. When I returned the lights seemed lower than when I left. I sat back down on the couch. I felt uneasy. I felt something on my leg. It was Greg's hand. "What the fuck are you doing?" I jumped up. "Its OK, your friend is asleep", he tried to reassure me. I went over to Tom, "Tom wake up!", I slapped him in the face. He was out cold. "Its OK, relax, relax, stop flipping out", Greg said with more urgency. I felt really queasy, as if I was fighting to stay conscious. Greg had sidled up next to me and grabbed one of my hands. He tried to lead me back to the couch. I suddenly felt some semblance of lucidity and punched him square in the nose. It exploded like a tomato. He fell back on the couch and pushed a blanket against his nose stop the blood. I grabbed Tom by the arms and pulled him forward. He hit the floor hard, which was enough to bring him temporarily out of his stupor. I put my arms around him and dragged him toward the door with him helping as well as he could. Greg got up from the couch and tried to block the door, but the blood started flowing all over his pink Oxford shirt again, uncontrollably. He relented either because his foyer started to look like a murder scene or because he knew if he didn't move, it would be a murder scene. I got Tom back to the VW and poured him into the passenger seat. With time I found my way back to Jerry's. I left Tom in the car and went to our guestroom. I passed out on my bed fully clothed with my sneakers still on.

The Odyssey (Part IV)

2008-05-27T08:56:00.000-04:00

The morning was cool and misty. I lingered in my sleeping bag listening to the water of the Mississippi River rush by our "campsite". I had to take a dump, so I left the coziness and headed out in search for a bathroom. I found an outhouse next to the park office. It was a true outhouse, a shed with a hole in the ground. There was a chair with a hole cut in the bottom above the hole. I wondered whether I could hold out long enough to run to the car and find a nearby gas station or fast food joint, but I was already "prairie doggin'". I sat on the chair and hoped that nothing crawled out of the hole. They did have a good quality toilet paper.

Tom was still sleeping, so I sat on a picnic table next to our site and watched the river run. The campground supervisor came by a few minutes later and struck up a conversation. "You and your friend are lucky" he said. "Why is that?" "Neither one of you woke up with a water snake in your sleeping bag". With that Tom bolted up, he must've been listening from the comfort of his bag. "At night they like to find anything warm and snuggle up for heat. Lots of people have been bitten in the morning because they don't bite until folks try to get out of their bags. You boys are lucky!". Two nights on the road and we narrowly avoided catastrophe twice.

It was Saturday morning and we wanted to make Minneapolis by mid afternoon as it was only a five hour drive. We would be staying with Jerry Solon, Tom's Uncle, for a few days. This was all part of Tom's itinerary that he had mapped out in his head since he was a twelve year old. I was along for the ride and didn't mind letting Tom decide where we were going and what we were doing. I was happy to give up any semblance of responsibility and decision making and go with the flow, where ever it went. We pulled into the Twin Cities just past one and decided we needed beer. We pulled into a shopping plaza and Tom ran into a package store. As I sat in the bug I noticed something strange. Everyone was huge. There were big asses everywhere I looked. I had to think...did I take acid this morning and it just started kicking in? Minnesota is the "Land of 1000 Lakes" and all I could think about was Land O' Lakes, butter that is. Butter must be the staple of the local diet along with buckets of grain and corn feed. Tom got back to the car and we drank a beer while I pointed out the heifers as we drove to his Uncle Jerry's.

Jerry and Tom embraced while I stood at the side of the bug drinking a beer. After some brief introductions we entered the Solon's home and sat down to watch the Kentucky Derby. I couldn't care less about the race, but feigned interest knowing that these people would be housing and feeding us the next few days. Jerry's wife put a drink in my hand and we settled down to watch the "fastest two minutes in sports". Three minutes later Tom and I excused ourselves so we could visit Tom's cousin who was in college at St. Cloud State.

Tom's cousin David was a huge, strapping mid-westerner who along with his butter eating must've been hitting the weight room daily. He was playing guard for the school's football team and showed us a letter he had received from the NFL regarding interest from pro scouts. The excitement of being on a college campus and the thought of partying with some hot coed's was short lived when David informed us that everyone was studying for finals and no one was partying. He did, however, hook us up with someone who knew someone who could get us some weed. We made our deal and smoked a joint on the way back to Jerry's.

The next day we tooled around Minneapolis checking out the area around Lake Calhoun and Lake Harriet, which must be a no butter zone, because the girls were definitely a lot less bovine. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and the area around the lakes were filled with sunbathers, joggers and more sunbathers. We sparked up a few and sat on a blanket admiring the view. Tom had a small boom box and was intent on finding a good rock station. Tom was a rock connoisseur. He had DJ'd at his college radio station and knew every rock song and artist from 1965 till 1985. When a song would come on he would recite the date, artist, album, band info, liner notes... whatever he knew about the song. Years later when I saw the movie "American Psycho" in the scene when Patrick Bateman (aka Christian Bale) was preparing to kill one of his victims by dressing in a rain suit and plastic (to shield the blood when he chopped him up with an axe)and espousing upon Huey Lewis and his body of work in response to "Hip To Be Square" playing on his stereo, was a dead ringer for Tom's espousing about his rock. I wondered if the screenwriter had met Tom and gave Bateman Tom's idiosyncrasy to enhance his psychoticness.

We had dinner at the Solon's and decided to head out to a bar we heard about on the radio that had a two for one happy hour. It was a Sunday night and expectations for an eventful night were low. So much for expectations.

The Odyssey (Part III)

2008-05-16T09:00:00.000-04:00

The cold air burned my nose and throat with each breath. My mouth was dry and I had that familiar ringing in my head. Upon waking I quickly sat up and surveyed my surroundings. I was completely disoriented not knowing where I was or how I got there until I saw the yellow VW through the trees near the road. "Where the fuck was Tom?", I thought as I stood up out of my sleeping bag. He had fallen asleep next to me on the tent we were to drunk and tired to set up, so we used it to cushion our crash site. I took a few step toward the car, were I figured he was still sleeping, but was startled to hear him trouncing through the woods behind me. "Sully you have to check this out". Not ten feet from where we crashed out was a steep drop off down to Lake Huron. While I was sleeping Tom had hiked down to the lake shore and checked out the scene. "Holy Shit, we could've killed ourselves if we took three more steps" I said. "Come on, lets go down to the Lake. This is awesome!" I wasn't excited, just cold, hungry and grateful that my laziness the night before may have saved our lives. "You can go back down, but I'm going to the car. I'm fucking freezing my balls off." Tom dismissed my irritability and went back down to the lake.

I went to the car and started it up, cranking the heat as high as it would go. I turned on the radio and cruised the dial. The only familiar artists I came across were Rush and April Wine. Canadian music sucks, I decided, as I sat in the bug shivering and hung over. We were in Sarnia, Ontario, just north of Detroit. We would try to make it to the mighty Mississippi by nightfall, but if Tom didn't get his ass up from the lake soon we would be lucky to make Chicago. Tom showed up wet from a frigid dip in the lake. "That was great, we've got to dip in Lake Michigan, then in the Mississippi so we hit all three in the same day!". I feigned excitement as I just wanted him to get a move on, so we could get some coffee and a bite to eat.

We drove south to Detroit listening to shitty Canadian pop music. We went back into the US and got some decent good old fashioned American music on the radio. Mick Jagger had just come out with his solo debut and the single "Just Another Night" was in heavy rotation. As we drove into Detroit Huey Lewis was belting out "Do You Believe In Love" while we surveyed the squalor. Detroit was dirty and dingy, at least from the highway. There were at least a dozen abandoned cars on the road on our ride through the city limits. The "Motor City", how ironic.

Our next target was Chicago. We drove with the windows down as the weather was sunny and warm, in the seventies. Our route took us along the southern edge of Lake Michigan, so according to plan we got off the highway near Michigan City and found a place to take a dip. We parked in a lot adjacent to a sandy beach. Surprising to me there were waves coming into the shoreline. Tom stripped down to his shorts and ran for the water. I did the same with less zeal. The water paralyzed me and I lost my breath momentarily. I ran back out onto the beach while Tom swam around unfazed by the chill. "That water is about 45 degrees" an elderly onlooker espoused, amused by our youthful stupidity. "Yeah" is all I could get out as I wondered how far up into my body my balls had retreated.

We got back in the car and popped open some Exports in celebration of our accomplishment. We drank our way through Chicago and across Illinois to Dubuque , Iowa. There we found a campground on the banks of the Mississippi River just as Tom envisioned. To fulfil our Manifest Destiny we waded in the muddy water. Tom thought it was a good idea to sleep the same way we did the night before, under the stars, so we didn't bother to set up the tent. Dubuque is located where Wisconsin, Illinois and Iowa converge so we drove over the river to East Dubuque, Illinois, north a mile or two into Wisconsin and back over the river into Dubuque, Iowa. Three states in ten minutes. No big deal. I've done that dozens of times between Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire and much drunker than I was now. It was another starry night as I snuggled down into my sleeping bag. I listened to the waters of the Mississippi lapping the river bank as I drifted off. I was far from home and getting farther.

The Odyssey (Part II)

2008-05-13T09:37:00.000-04:00

The morning was dark and rainy. The trees and grass were covered with so much moisture that it looked like there had been an ice storm overnight. I woke up sober for the first time in months. I hadn't felt this sense of anticipation since I was a fifteen year old sophomore going to a prom with seventeen year old senior. I brought my last bag out to the 1973 Yellow Super Beetle my friend had driven down from Killington Vermont only 48 hours earlier. Tom had been up before me and had taken a walk down to the store for some coffee and donuts. He met me at the car as I crammed my bag into the backseat of the overcrowded VW Beetle. Everyone was still sleeping in my apartment, so I tiptoed into my mother's room and kissed her lightly on the forehead. As I exited her room I heard a faint, raspy "I love you". I closed the door to her bedroom, pretending not to have heard her and bounded down the stairs and into the bug.

We headed west on Route 9 out of Northampton and into the foot hills of the Berkshires. It would have been quicker to head south to the Mass Pike (Interstate 90) which is then a straight shot to Buffalo, but we wanted to drive through Goshen where Camp Howe was located to add some symmetry to our odyssey. Camp Howe is where Tom and I met, me the Boys Unit head and Boating Director, him an intern of sorts for his college program, but I never knew the real story. He was five years older and seemed to be there out of some obligation. He had an "advisor" that visited him occasionally during the summer. I thought it might be his parole officer. We opened our first Molson Export as we headed by the western shore of Highland Lake. Camp Howe was somewhere through the trees on the eastern shore emptily waiting for a new crop of summer campers. We drove west into a driving rain storm.

Route 9 meets up with Interstate 90 just outside of Albany, New York. We were only an hour into our trip, but I already had a buzz going. Drinking beer in the morning is different than drinking beer at midnight. There isn't the usual drowsiness, the buzz is milder and pleasantly euphoric. The beer took the edge off my trepidation of heading across country with a guy I didn't know outside of the idyllic setting of summer camp. Somewhere outside of Syracuse the clouds disappeared and the air dried out. I rolled down the window and let the wind blow over my face as I stuck my head out the window. I was drunk. We pulled into a rest area for a bite to eat. Back on the road we discussed our planned route and our plan of attack. We wanted to head through Niagara Falls, across Ontario to Detroit. Then west through Chicago up to Minneapolis to visit his Uncle. From there it would be west through South Dakota into Wyoming and Yellowstone. From there...well...was something we'd play by ear depending on funds and tolerance for driving and each other.

We pulled into Buffalo about 4 PM. A cloudy haze enveloped the city as viewed from 90. Factories and mills were pulsing out smoke at an alarming rate. This must be the beginning of the industrial Midwest I thought and felt some appreciation for living in the wilds of Western Massachusetts. Niagara Falls and Canada were about twenty minutes north of the city. We drove past the massive power lines that surrounded the falls. We drove over the Rainbow bridge into Canada and the waiting customs agents. While in line Tom asked me if I had any weed on me. I immediately said no figuring if I had it I would have smoked it. When we were almost to the booth I remembered that I threw a roach in the pocket of my denim jean jacket. I reached in and it was there. I had no time to think as we pulled up for our turn at the customs booth. I quickly reached in and popped the roach in my mouth. "Welcome to Canada" the affable agent greeted us as I chewed on a tar filled, roach which was more like a half a joint. I kept my mouth shut feigning to stare at a map while Tom answered all of the usual questions. "We are here on vacation". "No, I have nothing to declare." "We are from Massachusetts." We took a right after the toll booth into the park that borders the Canadian side of the falls. We got out of the car for some photo opps and tossed a football around for a few to stretch out our legs. We hopped back in the car and drove west across Ontario toward Lake Huron.

The ride through Canada was dark and tiring. We stopped for dinner somewhere in Ontario around 9 PM and bought another case of beer as our first case was gone about an hour outside of Niagara. Around 11 PM we were getting close to Huron and scoured the map for a campsite. We found nothing, so we took a road that seemed to boarder the lake and looked like it was far from any civilization. At the roads end we could hear the Lake , but it was pitch black. We were too tired to pitch the tent, so we got out our sleeping bags placed down a tarp and slept under the trees and stars. I slugged down my last Export of the night and lay down on my back. I could see the starry sky through the budding trees as I drifted off.

The Odyssey

2008-05-09T08:06:00.001-04:00

Spring 1985 exploded in technicolor.

The sky seemed bluer, the grass greener, the girls prettier.

The winter had been the darkest I had known. I was depressed. I had dropped out of college a year earlier to care for my younger brothers and sisters after my mother had a debilitating stroke. I was 19 and felt like I was 40. I was trying to manage my mother's $400 per month disability check from Social Security to feed, clothe and house the family. Everyone was drinking or drugging from my mother on down to my 12 year old brother. The darkness culminated on March 27th when my 45 year old Aunt Rosie died of a burst brain aneurysm, the same thing that had handicapped my mother. The day we buried her was a quintessential day in Boston for a funeral, cold, windy and overcast. The next day was sunny and in the 80's causing the leaves to burst from their buds. Spring had come just in time.

Spring has always had an energizing effect on my psyche. This spring I was downright manic. When my mother had her stroke I had to sell my car to pay back student loans that came due the day I left school. When my aunt passed we "borrowed" her car. (My Uncle Mac and my Grandmother who lived with my aunt had no use for a drivers license living in Boston and using public transportation their whole lives). After not having a car for a year, being able to go out your front door and drive anywhere is like being an ex-con who can drop the soap in the shower with out worry. Relief and liberation.

Having a vehicle made it easier to bring my mother to doctors appointments and grocery shopping. It also enhanced my social life (its easier to date when you can pick up a girl in your car insted of her riding on your handle bars). I had turned 20 on March 1st which made me legal to drink in Massachusetts; I was grandfathered in when they turned the drinking age from 18 to 21. I was legal and had a vehicle. I spent the next month maniacally shaking off the fog of winter. My buddies and I were taking advantage of my new found mobility partying everywhere from Stockbridge to Boston.

One night in late April I received a phone call from a friend, Tom Sogard, I had worked with at Camp Howe in Goshen, Massachusetts. After catching up on things he proposed that I join him on a cross country trip. I told him that I was broke, but he insisted that I could borrow the dough and either pay it back when I had it or work it off at his brothers hotel in Killington Vermont. I had a little buzz going and the thought of escaping the previous years hell made it easy to say yes without considering any consequences. He told me he'd drive down from Vermont in the morning and we could make our preparations. I hung up with him and there was a knock on my door. My friend Jimmy was at the door with news of a kegger down on the Connecticut River. We smoked a bowl and headed for the kegger. Within minutes of my phone conversation I forgot about the impending trip.

The night was typical. Drunkeness. Talking to girls. Trying to hook up with girls. Getting shot down by girls. Drinking more to cover up the embarrassment of getting shot down by girls. I headed home about 1 AM. As I drove by my friend Ishmiel's apartment I saw him standing on his porch. He beckoned me with a wave and I pulled over. He invited me in for a game of chess and a bowl. After a few hours we finished our game of chess and our weed. I left my car in front of his house and stumbled across the parking lot to my apartment and passed out on the couch.

I was rudely awakened by a loud knocking on my door. It was 7 AM and I felt like I was still drunk. I pulled myself up off the couch and shuffled over to the door. "Are you ready to go?" Tom bellowed. I stood there with amnesia. I knew I had spoken with him about going somewhere, but where? I feigned lucidity. He came in and sat on the couch. "I figured that we would go to Eastern Mountain Sports to buy a tent a sleeping bags, then we can go to that camera place on Main Street to get slide film, I've got the route planned out. We're going to take the northern route through Niagra..."

I remembered!!!

He asked me to go across country. I reminded him I had no money and he reminded me that he said it was all set. He wanted to go to get breakfast. I told him I had to shower.

As soon as he left I went to my mother's bedroom and woke her up. I told her about Tom's proposition and surprisingly she thought it was a great idea. She even offered me $200 she had in a savings account she hadn't told me about (I didn't find out until I withdrew the money that the withdrawal left her with $1.98 in that account). I then tracked down the next most responsible sibling in the family, my sister Christine and informed her that she was in charge (my brother Mark who is two years my junior was partying too much, my other sister Deb had moved out to live with another family, sick of the situation and my brother Greg was still only 12). She may or may not have responded, but I didn't care. The torch was passed. That was the point when I felt truly alive; the sense of anticipation was electric. I spent the rest of the day with Tom buying supplies and mapping out our route. We went to bed early, him on the couch, me on the floor. I fell asleep sober that night for the first time in months.

(more to follow)

My Winter Of Discontent (Prologue to "The Odyssey")

2008-05-06T07:28:00.014-04:00

Random intermittent reinforcement.

The same thing that keeps the casinos in business was the same thing that kept me going for years. As long as I had one good day, every once in a great while, then each morning when I woke up I could think that maybe this would be a good day. The winter of 1984-85 almost killed that theory. I couldn't afford to go back to Westfield State and I was too depressed to go out and find a job. My mother had a stroke two days after I graduated High School in June of '83 and recovered after brain surgery. The following January she had another which left her completely paralyzed on her left side. A January later I was paralyzed by my circumstances, no college, mother disabled, brothers and sisters devastated by poverty and uncertainty, no job. On top of all that, the previous fall, my brother left a candle burning on top of his stereo while passing out drunk. Everything was ruined. All of my clothes, books, childhood mementos, gone. The apartment complex owners moved her immediately, but into a much smaller apartment. There was no random intermittent reinforcement, just constant negative reinforcement.

My days that winter consisted of laying in bed until noon, scrounging up some money by offering to go to the store for my mother and keeping the change so I could get a 3 for 5 deal from Smitty. He had the cheapest, shittiest weed around, but it got me high enough to occupy my mind temporarily. Every evening, after I cooked dinner for my family, I would head out to friends to drink. Even though I was broke I always found a way to drink. I would roll into bed around 2 PM, drunk and numb.

In mid-February I decided to get a job at the insistence of my Aunt Rosie who had visited us from Boston. She was distressed at our situation, but living 100 miles away could not do anything, but give some occasional moral support and send an occasional check to my mother. The job was at a nursing home and was mindless. It gave me money to help out my mother, but also gave me the means to drink and drug as much as I wanted, which was always. When my Aunt came back to visit in March she was happy to see we had gotten curtains for the windows and that the refrigerator was full of food. She was not happy with much else. She chastised me for my drinking when she heard me crashing in the door late night. She absolutely flipped out when she walked in on my brother having sex with a girl in the room she was supposed to sleep. When she left Sunday evening I was guilt ridden and ashamed. The next night we got the call.

I came home from work and my mother was sitting in her chair, crying. My Aunt had a stroke. Just like her sister. She was 45.

We made our way to Boston and her wake. My brother and I smoked a joint and drank from a fifth of Seagrams 7 on the walk from my grandmothers house, where my aunt had lived, to Folsom Funeral Home. Upon entering the foyer I was greeted by family and friends, but could only focus on the casket sitting in the center of the viewing area. I made a beeline for the kneeler ignoring condolences that were softly spoken in my direction. I knelt and closed my eyes unable to look at her. She was so many things to me. As a toddler she was my playmate. When my parents were fighting she was my confidant. When my father left and she moved in, she was my dad. When my mother was emotionally unavailable, she was my mother. She taught me, she listened to me, she loved me. I slowly opened my eyes and looked upon her face. The taste of the whiskey and the weed lingered in my mouth. I thought about how disappointed she was when she had left my house on Sunday. I thought about how she was one of only a few people in the world that loved me unconditionally. I remembered warm spring days walking through Arnold Arboretum looking at the trees and flowers. I remembered the sound of her laughter watching us wrestling in the sand on Wolloston Beach. I remembered the smell of coffee and cigarettes that were a constant presence in her little blue Renault. I remembered the the sound of her voice reading to me while I snuggled in the crook of her arm in the dim light of her reading lamp. I started crying. I hadn't cried in years.

I stood up from the kneeler and quickly made my way to the exit, ignoring more condolences. I found the bottle of Seagrams I had stashed in the bushes and walked in the rain to Fallon Field near my grandmothers house. It was raining lightly, not much stronger than a mist. I sat in the dugout, cried and polished off the bottle. I cried harder, then softer, then harder until it was just a whimper. I felt better, but couldn't tell whether it was the booze or the crying. I walked back to my grandmothers and decided that I had to start living again. I had to go back to school. I had to get away from my current life.

We buried my Aunt the next morning at Saint Josephs Cemetery in West Roxbury. It was cold, raining and blustery. While standing over her flower covered casket, I realized that I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and take control of the things that I could control.

My family gathered at my grandmothers house after the service for cold cuts and conversation. My brother and I sat on her front steps, side by side, sharing a pint of whisky "hidden" in a brown paper bag. We reminisced about sitting on those same steps eating ice cream and chuckled at our deviance. Beams of sunlight shone down in between the clouds and the temperature noticeably jumped up a few degrees. Spring had arrived just in time.

Backyard Games

2008-04-25T08:00:00.008-04:00

We were the last of the sandlot heroes.

The advent of video games, fear of the sun and child abductions have driven kids indoors, unless it is in an organized situation like Little League or "play dates". Its not that parents of my generation didn't care about our well being, its just that the world was a safer place and that being a kid was being a kid. We weren't bombarded by adult messages and themes as kids are today, so left with hours at our disposal without direct adult supervision we did kids things. The kid thing I did the most was sports, particularly baseball. We played all sports. Football in the fall and winter. Basketball when the gym was open, at the "Y" or on the blacktop. Street hockey whenever the inspiration struck. But baseball was my true love. We would play as soon as a green or brown patch shone through the snow in March until the snow covered the ground somewhere around Christmas.

Playing baseball as much as we did we learned the game by playing it. We weren't instructed how to make a "crow hop" in order to throw the ball a little harder from the outfield we just did it automatically by trial and error and watching the older boys technique. Playing on uneven, disheveled lots honed our hand eye coordination, so fielding on a mowed, raked manicured infield became as thoughtless as breathing. Putting together and umpiring our own games gave us a sense of responsibility and organization that you could never glean from joining a team and having the adults do everything for you except hold the bat and throw the ball. For us baseball wasn't just a game, it was a lifestyle.

My backyard baseball experience did not prepared me for my first Little League game, which was nothing short of a debacle. We were all excited for our first "real" game. Back in the old days Little League teams in Boston were comprised of kids from the same neighborhood, so all the kids I played with everyday were on my team, The Blue Hills Community Church Giants. The coaches had an uphill battle, because we had all been playing together for much of our nine years, so coming in and trying to tell us who would play where and how to do it was met with youthful skepticism. We knew that even though Ricky was fast as hell, he couldn't hit, so batting him lead off just because he was fast was a waste. Bobby was afraid of ground balls, but his dad was the coach, so he was getting alot of work at second base when right field was more his position. In practice I was at short stop which was appropriate because I had a great arm which had been developed by throwing snowballs at cars, rocks at trains; I pretty much threw anything I could find at anything that moved. The day of my first game I showed up to the field thinking I was playing short.

When we got to Kelley Field in Readville my whole family was there. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, my grandmother. I was excited to show off my abilities and never was one to shy away from the spotlight (as evidenced by my many goof filled scenes filling our home movies). Coach Burke called to me as I sauntered over to the diamond. "Sully, lets talk". as he was holding a catchers mitt. "I want you to pitch tonight, OK?". "Ahh...Yea...OK coach", I agreed. I felt like throwing up. Mike who was the only kid who practiced pitching and was assumed to be the pitcher was taking balls at short, my assumed position. I had never thrown off a mound or ever pitched to a real catchers mitt. We all took turns pitching in our backyard games, but this was upping the ante. I warmed up with the coach behind the backstop and felt good. I had a good arm, so after a few pitches I was zipping them in there and felt like it was no different than the backyard.

We were up first and I was batting second, so concentrating on my hitting took the edge off for the moment. We went down 1,2,3 swinging at everything offered. I took the mound and thrwe to my catcher in warm ups. I was throwing everything high. Coach Burke came out and gave me a pep talk. "OK, Sull, keep the ball down. Hit the mitt. You'll be fine." My hands started to shake. Everyone was looking at me. For the first time in my life I didn't want to be the center of attention. When the ump pointed toward the mound indicating that I should pitch I took a deep breath. I reared back and fired a ball down the middle of the plate. "Striiike" yelled the ump. The batter never took the bat off his shoulder. I relaxed a bit and took another deep breath. I fired another ball in there, high. The next three pitches were in the dirt. The batter never took the bat off his shoulder. He went to first, proudly. The next batter did the same and so did I. Coach came out. "Just throw strikes. Let 'em hit it."

Two on, no outs. Throw strikes. "Ball one", said the ump, more emphatically than necessary. The next seven pitches were balls. I had walked in a run without getting an out. Everyone was urging me on. The next batter swung at the first pitch and missed. I hit him with the next pitch. Another run in. I pitched two strikes to the next batter then a wild pitch which plated the third run. With that the coach came out and motioned to Mike at short to come to the mound. "Sull, go to short." As Mike took his warm ups I stood at short in a daze. It was as if I never pitched. It was if I had walked straight from my car out to short and none of the last half an hour had happened. Why did he pitch me? Mike threw strike three to the batter. The next batter hit a ground ball to first and Tommy stepped on the bag for the second out. The next batter hit a ball up the middle. I ranged to my left, picked up the ball to the right of the second base bag and threw a strlke to Tommy at first. My family cheered wildy and I had a huge smile on as I ran to the dugout.

We didn't score a run all game.

After the game my uncles worked with me on pitching. I pitched balls until it was dark and was pitching by the light on the back stoop. I never pitched again that year. Because of my strong arm every coach I've ever had, at every level, has tried me on the bump. Every coach has realized that I can't throw strikes. I think of kids today and could they have handled putting the first seven guys on with out an out without parents getting outraged or the kid breaking down. Today it wouldn't happen. Skin today is too thin and kids don't learn how to handle dissapointment and adversity. I felt bad about my outing on the mound, but soon forgot by the next organized game. Why? Because the next day I was playing with my friends in the backyard with plenty of chances to redeem myself, working on my hitting, fielding balls and striking guys out. We cared about Little League, but we cared more about our daily games. Our backyard games mattered more because they were everyday, all year round. Whether it be in Little League or in the backyard, between March and October each year, baseball was life for me and my friends.

Today my backyard games consist of me and my two boys, Matt 5 and Pete 3. I pitch ball after ball while they hit away. Saturday morning Matt will play his first organized game of T-Ball. The kids hit off a tee and there is no scorekeping. I am coaching the team and it is going to take every ounce of patience in my six foot, 200 lb. frame not to whince when the tykes swing and miss (while the ball is sitting on a tee!). I hope I am not so old school that I wear my distain for the "everybody wins" mantra on my face as I am giving some needed encouragement. I hope not to alienate any parents by giving real, constructive, feedback and instruction. Any personal frustrtations will be all worth it when my boy runs out to his position, pounding his fist in his glove, anticipating a line drive or ground ball. As much as I am anticipating out first organized practice, I can't imagine it compares to our backyard games.

Good Stuff

2008-04-15T08:07:00.005-04:00

Now that I've been doing this blog thing for a year I have taken some time to reflect on what I've written. Some of it has been good, some of it not so good. Some of it explains why I am completley fucked and other things say "well he's not all bad". I have enjoyed writing all of it and to me thats what counts. Here are some of my best posts as evidenced by the glowing comments and deemed so by me. (Click on the title to read each post)

Sull's Blog Turns 1
How it all began.

The Longest Day
It was a long ass day on the longest day of the year. My favorite story to write.

The Littlest Angel
Story about my brother Derek who died at 2 months old. Grab your hankies.

I Was Born A Poor Black Child
Some insight into my psyche. Don't be scared, its not as bad as I seem.

Where Were You When...
Where I was and what I was doing during some of the biggest moments of the past five decades.

Top 5 - Hangovers
How I haven't ended up in rehab, I don't know.

1992 vs 2007
Baseball and extreme drunkeness. As American as it gets without the apple pie (or Chevrolet).

The Snow Game
True story. More beer, broads and ball.

Tiny Dancer
About the only thing me and Elton John have in common.

At The Beach
Spooky mix between Stephen King and Ray Bradbury.

The Sins Of The Father
The story of laying eyes on my cousin Jimmy (aka Sul-Dog) for the first time in 40 years.

The Breakdown Of Society (Part II)

The Breakdown Of Society
My misanthropic kvetching.

Learning To Glide
Proud dad moment.

The Rink
Coolest (no pun intended) thing I've ever done!

New England History And Hubris
I predicted the Patriots debacle! (Kind of, sort of)

26 + 6 = 1
A bit O' Irish history on St. Paddy's Day.

If you read all of these then you have more time on your hands than you know what to do with. Happy reading!

Home, Sweet Home

2008-04-08T08:04:00.004-04:00

This year winter in New England has been just short of unbearable. Here in Western Mass, somewhere between Stockbridge and Boston, there is still snow in the woods and ice covering some ponds. As I write I can see piles of snow where my hockey rink stood this winter. At One O'clock this afternoon the World Champion Boston Red Sox will take the field for the first time since last October and usher in Spring with a pop of the mitt and a crack of the bat.

The Red Sox left their spring training home in Fort Myers Florida 19 days ago in a roundabout way back to Boston and their home, Fenway Park. They flew to Japan for two exhibition games against Japanese league teams and two real games against the Oakland A's. These games were like having a dream about being on a tropical island with a gorgeous woman for two days and then waking up cold in Siberia next to a polar bear in the dead of winter. The Sox then flew to L.A. for two meaningless exhibition games against the Dodgers to help celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Dodgers moving to New York. They then flew to Oakland to finish out their four game series which started in Asia. Next it was on to Toronto, Canada for a three game series against the Blue Jays. From Toronto they were finally homeward bound to Boston. Two continents, three countries, multiple time zones, 11 games and 20,000 frequent flyer miles later the Red Sox will bring Spring back to us New Englander's. That is what the rest of the country doesn't get about New England's passion for the Red Sox. The Sox rescue us from the cold,dark and despair of winter. They are with us practically every day from April to October, always in the background while we are doing yard work, at the beach, attending wedding receptions or cooking in the backyard. We associate them with all of the things that are good about summer in New England. Radio, TV or Internet they are there for us, everyday, faithfully. Win or lose the sound of the Sox on the radio is as calming as listening to the waves crashing on the shore in Wellfleet or the sound of a mothers heartbeat.

This year the green of the grass and the home whites will be accompanied by another vivid color...gold, the color of the Red Sox World Series rings. If you are reading this you made it through the winter safe and sound. Now its time to start living again.

MLB 2008

2008-03-31T08:21:00.004-04:00

Last year I predicted the World Series winner (see here). Baseball hasn't changed much since last year and my picks aren't much different. Without further adieu my 2008 MLB picks.

American League:
East: Reds Sox
Central: Detroit
West: Angels
Wild Card: Cleveland

Ok. So last year I predicted the Yankees demise. I was close. Joe Torre wasn't fired by Memorial Day, but the Yankees dug a hole they couldn't completely get out of. This year they will not make the playoffs as they completely implode. Money can't buy you love.

This year I like the Sox to win the East again. Cleveland will finish second to a resurgent Detroit for the Wild Card in the Central. The Angels will have a challenge from Seattle, but win the West running away.

National League:
East: Mets
Central: Cubs
West: Dodgers
Wild Card: Brewers

The Mets collapse of last year will not repeat itself. Santana will completely dominate weaker NL hitters and possibly win 30 games. The Cubs made a furious run after a tough start last year, but will cruise wire to wire to win the Central this year, although Milwaukee will be there close behind and take the wild card. The Dodgers will get a boost from Torre and squeak it out over the D-Backs.

ALDS/ALCS: Sox beat the Indians; Detroit beats the Angels. Sox beat the Tigers.

NLDS/NLCS: Mets beat the Brewers, Dodgers beat the Cubs. Mets beat the Cubs.

World Series:

Red Sox beat the Mets in six. Another demon exercised.

No Mookie.

No Buckner.

No Schiraldi or Stanley.

No excuses.

I'll check in at the All-Star break to gloat or make excuses. Nuff ced.

My Newest, Most Favoritest, Politician

2008-03-26T13:22:00.006-04:00

David Patterson, the new Governor of New York has snorted cocaine, smoked weed and had a bunch of extra marital sex. He is a true man of the people.

Move over Bill Clinton. John and Teddy Kennedy step aside. I've got a new favorite politician.

I don't know much about the man as he just came on to the national scene after Eliot "swallow bitch, don't" Spitzer got busted buying hookers. Both of these men committed morally suspect behavior, but there is a huge difference between the two. One is a hypocrite and one is a human being. As AG of New York Spitzer spent most of his life prosecuting people to the full extent of the law. He was merciless and known for his bulldog style. As he was busting some prostitution rings he was utilizing others. Patterson beat the press to the punch and decided to disclose his personal indiscretions as soon as he took office. I've never understood what people do in their personal life has to do with doing their job. Yes, I don't want a drunk plumber installing my new garbage disposal or a day care worker toking on a crack pipe before watching my kids, but since when is sainthood a prerequisite for being a politician. As I said, I don't know Patterson besides what I've read and seen, but as of right now I would trust this guy more than any politician ever.

This type of disclosure is unheard of, but times have changed and this will become the norm.

Why?

Who out there, born after 1950, can say they have never smoked weed, bumped some rails or have had some action on the side? For all two of you who haven't done one of those things, what else have you done? Have you cheated on your income tax? Have you coveted your neighbors wife? Have you lied to your spouse? Have you disrespected your parents?

We all lie, cheat, steal, sin in one form or another. The difference between true morality and hypocrisy is owning up to your faults and not letting pride and hubris run your life. It takes a lot of energy to keep up the facade of infallibility. Humility is much easier. I don't want my politicians worrying about their image, I want them worrying about us citizens.

I don't care if my mailman is into bestiality, I just want him to deliver my mail. I don't care that my landscaper grows weed, I just want him to cut my lawn. I don't care if my barber is a degenerate gambler, I just want him to give me a good haircut. I don't care if I don't care if the President of the United States gets a hummer in the Oval Office from an intern, I just want him to keep the economy in good shape, educate and care for our children and keep us out of senseless wars.

He who is without sin cast the first stone.

On second thought, the cat is staying inside when the mail truck comes rumbling down my street.

Sull's Blog Turns One!!!

2008-03-19T07:54:00.007-04:00

I've maintained this blog for one year as of this Saturday. Every five days or so I spend an hour or two banging away on my laptop, hunt and peck method, trying to archive my thoughts. In my first post I equated blogging to literary masturbation because its something you do by yourself for your own satisfaction (statistics show the number of hits the average blog gets per day is just above one). How did I find myself on this onanistic path? Here's the back story.

Late in the summer of 2006 I was driving home from a weeks vacation in Maine. My wife and two boys were in one car and I was in my Grand Cherokee loaded to the hilt with beach gear, suitcases and sand. Since we had separate cars I decided to detour south, down to Boston, instead of heading west, out to Western Massachusetts. Driving in my solitude toward the city of my birth and where I spent my formative years was an exercise in the art of melancholy. Crossing the Tobin Bridge into the city I could feel the weight of my past pressing down on me squeezing out long suppressed emotions. I didn't have a particular destination in mind, but I knew where I'd end up. I went to visit my mother's grave site.

My mother's ashes are buried in Saint Josephs Cemetery in West Roxbury in the grave site occupied by the remains of my Grandma Norton and Aunt Rosie. You could say that the three of them are my "Holy Trinity" as they were the three most important people in my life in my first twenty years of living. I didn't have a father growing up, but I had three mothers. I spent about a half hour there, thinking about them in life and how much they would enjoy my boys if they were here now. Instead of my usual "tour" which would include visiting various places in my old neighborhood I felt a strong urge to visit my brothers grave site. He was buried with the Sullivan's at New Cavalry Cemetery in Mattapan, a short ten minute ride through Roslindale, but a world away emotionally. Derek died as a two month old and buried with him was much of the connection to the Sullivan side of my family as my parents divorced shortly after.

As an adult I had only visited Derek's grave once. In 1995 I had work related business in Boston. I had remembered that my mother said that Derek was buried "up on Walk Hill road", so I drove over to American Legion Highway and turned up Walk Hill road. There are a number of cemeteries in that area of the city, so I visited a few before I found the one I was looking for. I went to the gate house in each cemetery and gave them the pertinent information in order to find the grave site. The first two cemeteries were a no go, then at the third the man behind the counter said "well, we do have a grave site with a Thomas Sullivan and an Anne Sullivan, but no Derek. Just a "baby boy" Sullivan died 1970". As I drove through the chasms of headstones windshield wipers working frantically I saw the site. I didn't even have to look at the names. The familiarity of the place struck me in the gut as I remembered being here as a child. I walked over to the four foot tall stone bearing the name SULLIVAN in large raised block lettering. Upon reading the names on the gravestone I knew I was in the right place, but something was missing... my brothers name. The autumn rain got colder and intensified. I stood there crying. My heart hardened. It couldn't get much harder.

Now I was back at Derek's grave ten years later. It was hot and dry. My anger with Sullivan's had died with my father's passing in 1997. I hadn't been back to his grave since that rainy November day, but found it immediately. I thought about what he'd look like now. Would he be a good guy? Would he be happy? Would he love me? After a few minutes of sobbing and contemplation I started perusing the names on the grave. Anne T., Daniel J., James E.. I started making connections with the names. I knew that Thomas C. Sr. was my grandfather and Thomas C. Jr. was my uncle. I knew that Daniel J. was my great-grandfather and that James E. was my father's uncle Jimmy who used to live with my Auntie Pat over on Hyde Park Ave. There were give or take another eight names there and it sparked my interest in who were the people I was named after. I went to my car and got an eraser less pencil I got to keep score while playing golf at The Ledges in York, ME a few days earlier. I wrote in large block lettering above the top name on the stone "Derek 1970". I got in my car and headed west.

As soon as I walked in my house I started Googling names of the people I had seen on the stone. Almost immediately I came across a website called "Political Graveyard". Its a site dedicated to achieving all of the burial places of dead politicians. I knew through my mother that the Sullivan's had "connections", but thought all of them were nefarious as my father was know as a small time criminal. I was shocked to see that my grandfather and uncle and many great uncles, have all held elected office in Massachusetts. I even saw that my cousin Jimmy who I hadn't seen since I was three ran for Mass. State Rep. I googled Jimmy's name and there it was, Sul-Dog-O-Rama, Jimmy's blog. I started reading his stories, thoughts and commentary. I spent the good part of two days studying his blog, looking for keys or clues to my past. I came across an entry he had titled "The Gift". In the post he describes a gift he bought my "Auntie Ba" and when describing the scene on Christmas Day eludes to "couple of infants, the boy's cousins". "That's me!" I thought. At that point I knew I had to make a connection, but when and how? Then in an ironic twist that could only occur in a life as twisted as mine my cousin Jim posted about the death of my cousin Joey. I had some relationship with Joey even after my parents divorce because Joey lived close to my home in Hyde Park. We occasionally got together to cause trouble, but as we got older his trouble was much more dangerous that that I liked to partake in, so we drifted apart. I emailed Jimmy my memories about Joey because I couldn't figure out how to post them to his blog comments. At that point we shared some emails and I started becoming a regular commenter on his blog. I admired his writing abilities and penchant for storytelling.

I wanted to start a blog, but knew with two small boys and a job and no time that it would be years until I could write. Why did I want to blog? Lets see I'm opinionated, I think highly of myself, I like to bullshit; seems like I was made to blog. Last March I wrote my first entry titled "Another Stupid Opinion". I hope I have been true to the sentiment expressed in that post that I promised that if anything my blog would be entertaining.`70+ blog entries later I don't really have a sole purpose for my blog besides archiving stories, dispensing my opinion about sports and social/political issues and pulling the occasional laugh. I can't promise you anymore than you've seen this past year except maybe more stories about drunkenness, stupidity, learning the hard way and life. "Bluster and Blarney Since 1965" describes my blog right under the title at the top of the page. One of my prized (and I mean that with all sincerity) employees Tim McGonagle probably best describes my blog with a description of my blog in his blogroll:

Sull's Blog: My boss Sully's blog. Very entertaining Masshole memoirs.

Masshole Memoirs.

That about sums it up.

26 + 6 = 1

2008-03-17T07:49:00.012-04:00

I spent the last few weeks reading Malachy McCourt's "History Of Ireland", mainly while on the cardio machines at the gym. The book condenses 2,500 years of Irish history into 400 pages of entertaining and insightful reading. I grew up in a predominantly Irish-Catholic neighborhood in Boston and through osmosis learned much about the history of Ireland. I am about 75% Irish, give or take a few percentage points, but if anyone knows anything about Irish history you know that Ireland has been invaded by so many outsiders that few from the Auld Sod can claim pure, unadulterated, Irish blood.

Irish symbolism was everywhere in my childhood from Irish flags flying from the flagpoles, directly beneath the American flag of my more affluent neighbors, to the cloth shamrocks we would sew into the collars of our jackets. I used to see a bumper sticker that I knew had something to do with Ireland, but never understood it until I was in high school. It said "26 + 6 = 1". Next to the equation was an image of the complete island of Ireland. This is in reference to a uniting of the complete island of Ireland, which would consist of the 26 counties of the country that is now known as The Republic of Ireland and the 6 counties of Northern Ireland which is part of Britain. The British have been invading and inflicting themselves upon their island neighbors to the west as far back as the beginning of recorded history. The terrorism that developed in the 70's through the 90's was aimed at ending British rule over Northern Ireland and having a united, complete country.

As a kid I never gave "The Troubles", as the problems in the North were called, a thought. I was not aware that many of the illegal activities such as gambling, gun running, extortion and drug selling that we were part of life in the city of Boston was a means of funding the Irish Republican Army, the terror organization that was trying to force the British out of Ireland. Many of the Irish social organizations that would march in the parade through South Boston each March were funneling money 3000 miles across the Atlantic to fund the terror campaign against the British. Many legitimate business owners and people also funded the IRA. When I was older and heard rumors of local peoples involvement in the IRA it was confusing to me that people that lived so far away would care so much about a place they left. Until I did my own reading and learning did I understand that the British used every terrorist tactic to keep the "unruly" Irish people in line for hundreds of years. They used rape, starvation, torture, imprisonment in their efforts to conquer and subdue an entire island nation.

In reading Mr. McCourt's book I had an epiphany ( James Joyce first coined the term) of sorts. I realized that the struggles in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland's struggle to become independent is similar to the plight of the Black man in the United States. Both have had to endure living in the midst of people that hate them based on racial identity. Both have had their women raped. Both have had horrible atrocities committed against them in the name of law. Both have been treated sub-human.

Can we condemn Black youth and Black leaders for being militant and being bitter after the years of abuse that was inflicted upon them at the hands of the same government that was supposed to protect them? At least in the case of the Irish, with the exception of a few broken treaties, the British never promised the Irish anything, but pain and suffering to please the crown. 70 and 80 years after gaining independence the Irish were still so bitter that they were willing to commit violence to reach their goal of a united Ireland. The violence of the 60's that many Blacks still alive today experienced first hand have hardened many a black man. Fortunately for the United States, Martin Luther King, a proponent of non-violent change was the leader of the Civil Rights movement. His non-violent protest, I feel, is the basis for relative peace that is place in the North of Ireland today. Acts of non-violence like Bobby Sands hunger strike in the 80's and Gerry Adams disarming of the IRA in the 90's led to the "Good Friday Accord" in 1998 part of which states that when a majority of those living in Northern Ireland vote on it and are in agreement, that the English will leave the North and the Republic of Ireland will for the first time in history, be whole.

An Irish Blessing

May you always have walls for the winds,
a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire,
laughter to cheer you, those you love near you,
and all your heart might desire.

Slainte!

For a thoroughly entertaining view on having some Irish blood coursing through your veins check out Friday's post at my cousin Jimmy's place, click here Sul-Dog.

Top 5 - Hangovers

2008-03-05T08:08:00.007-05:00

Saturday night I went to a surprise birthday party for my friend Sammy. His birthday was the 26th of February, but his wife held the party on Saturday March 1st which made it an even bigger surprise. I've known his wife, Marisol, long before he moved to the mainland from Puerto Rico back in 1990. She was one of the first Puerto Ricans I ever met when I moved to Northampton Massachusetts from Boston way back in 1977. Her brothers Manny and Hector were amongst my best friends growing up. When I RSVP'ed for the party I mentioned that it was my birthday on the 1st.

The party was held at the VFW hall in Florence. Start time was 6 O'clock, but my wife took me out for a birthday dinner prior to the party so we showed up at 7 PM, fashionably late. A bunch of guys from my old neighborhood were there, plus guys I used to play softball with, so the beers started flowing...and flowing...and flowing. At one point the lights went down and Marisol came out with a birthday cake for Sammy. Everyone sang Happy Birthday then got back to the business at hand, drinking. A few minutes later Marisol came out of the kitchen with another lit birthday cake. In my drunken haze I didn't make the connection until she started toward me, laughing. My face turned from the pinkish glow I had from my slight state of inebriation to a deep scarlet brought on by embarrassment. It was a nice surprise and found out later that even my lovely wife had hidden the surprise from me. As soon as folks realized that it was my birthday too, the flood gates opened. I didn't spend another minute the rest of the evening without a drink in hand. What was going to be an evening of dinner and a few drinks with friends had morphed into a night of full blown Bacchanalia.

Sunday morning was hell. The dim light peeking into my bed from beneath the shades was blinding. My wife, taking mercy on me, kept the kids occupied while I lay in bed wondering if I were dying. I have always had a high tolerance for alcohol. I've never blacked out, but have definitely done some stupid, fucked up things while cocked. Saturday night wasn't one of them. I basically got drunk, went home and went to sleep. If I drink water right before bed I can usually avoid a prolonged hangover and function. Saturday night I was so drunk I walked in the house, walked to the fridge, looked in, looked at the sink and then walked to my bed. I didn't have enough energy to get a cup and turn on the water, thus massive hangover instead of run of the mill hangover. As I lay in bed past noon (my wife usually doesn't show much mercy, but it was my birthday "weekend", so she was extra understanding) I thought about how this hangover compared with other memorable hangovers. I can never rate which hangover was the worst because hangovers are like childbirth, once they are over you forget how bad they were thus get drunk/have a baby again. Here, in no particular order are my Top 5 Most Memorable Hangovers:

Spring 1980

You never forget your first. I had been a seasoned drinker since I was 13. Always in moderation, never drunk. We would steal beer from parents coolers or fridge's and drink one, two tops. Just enough to get the beginnings of a buzz. Half the time we wouldn't even drink a full beer, but faked it just to be cool. I was now fifteen and went up to our local ball field armed with two bottles of Donelli Lambrusco that me and my friend Rich had an older kid in the neighborhood get for us. The red wine was warm and tangy going down. It burned coming back up. I stumbled to my house and up the stairs to my bedroom. I woke up in the morning and the room was spinning. My head was pounding. This was the first time I told myself that I would never drink again. The next weekend we upped the ante and got a case of Narragansett.

Winter 1985

I had gotten a job at a nursing home. Two nurses asked me to go out drinking at a bar just over the Vermont border in Brattleboro called "Flat Street". Since we were all 19 and the drinking age in Mass was 20 it made sense to drive 40 miles to VT where it was only 18. Besides, these girls were HOT, how could I say no? The night was a debacle. After making out with one of them on the dance floor the other, who was the driver, stormed out. I asked my dance/make out partner why her friend was so upset. She said that her friend had a crush on me, then turned and went after her friend. I went back to the bar firing down 100 Proof Vodka Collins thinking that the girls would come back in and that maybe they were just hashing out the details of the menage a trios that was to follow. They never came back.

The details of the rest of the evening were too many and are probably worthy of their own post, but the highlights were running into an old girlfriend, more making out, smoking weed, hitching a ride back to Massachusetts, getting into a fight, and waking up in a snowbank outside my apartment with the sun coming up. I lay in bed for a good part of three days only getting up to puke, piss or drink water. I was shaking like a leaf on a tree. This was most likely alcohol poisoning coupled with hypothermia, but I never went to the hospital. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

June 1992

I was on the Cape for a week with some clients from a residential group home I was managing. While one of my staff stayed sober with the clients me and my friends spent Sunday drinking. We started the day with Cape Codder's (Cranberry juice and Absolute) went to the beach with a few cases of beer, went back to the beach house to have dinner which consisted of steak and beer then went out to some bars to drink some more. I woke up the next morning with a run of the mill hangover or so I thought. I went into the bathroom to take a dump. Like most guys when I was done I took a look into the bowl to see what kind of masterpiece I created. I did a double take. A cold sweat washed over me from head to toe. There was a white log floating in the bowl. At first I thought that maybe it was a balled up piece of TP, but upon further inspection it was indeed a white shit. I called to my friend Mike to confirm and he said "wow Sull, that's really bad". With that I crawled into my bed, curled up into the fetal position and started to shake. As the morning wore on I realized that when I woke up I was still drunk and the hangover was just starting. It was a creeper. I didn't get out of bed until that evening, drawn out by the sounds of the men playing poker. I wasn't the same the rest of the week and I even had to go back to Western Massachusetts on Wednesday, three days early. I didn't feel right for weeks after the Cape. I finally went to the doctor. Diagnosis: Dehydration brought on from excessive liquid consumption with depletion of electrolytes, possible alcohol poisoning. I can say that I haven't had a worse hangover since and that this event was a wake up call. From this point in my life on I drank with a new found, relative, moderation. Relative is the key word.

October 17, 1992

I know the date because it was a week before my wedding, the night after my stag party. The details of how I got drunk are once again worthy of their own post, but here are some highlights (or low lights, six of one half dozen of the other). Two kegs, fifty guys, gambling, strippers, Sambuca, ten cases of beer, race riot, ambulance, cops...I got home at about 3 AM and my bride to be was still out with her cousins who took her out, what else, drinking. When she did stumble in we took turns puking for the next 12 hours. We stayed in bed all day, cancelling plans to have breakfast with her mother, alternating between sleeping and barfing. The only thing that gave me comfort was knowing that she was feeling worse than me. We were already like a married couple.

March 1997

I was on a golf trip in Orlando with me a seven other guys. The routine was this: Wake up early, drive for an hour, play 18 holes at a spectacular golf course, head to the clubhouse for drinks, go back to the hotel for more drinks poolside. Take a shower with drinks in hand. Go to dinner. Go out to a stripper bar or some other bar. Get drunk. Go to bed. One night late in the week we had a particularly wild night which included much of the above. When morning came we were due to play golf at Metro West Golf Course which was relatively close to the hotel, so we had a little extra time to lay in bed. This was a mistake because I fell back asleep. When the men realized that I wasn't at the car they sent someone up for me. When I got to the car the men gave me a standing "O". I gave them a wave and then disappeared behind a bush for some much needed dry heaving. When I appeared back at the car the laughter was deafening. I closed my eyes and lay back in my seat. Instantly we were getting our bags out at the course. The first hole was a slight uphill par four. I mustered up every bit of energy and concentration I had and smacked a ball 250 yards down the middle, one of my best drives of the week. My approach landed ten feet from the hole. I just scared the edge of the cup and tapped in for par. As reached down to pull my ball from the hole I started to dry heave. I thought for sure my head was going to pop off. I walked back to the golf cart and put my head in my hands. I didn't get another par the rest of the day, but recovered in time to have some "hair of the dog" poolside. I took it easy the rest of the week.

As you see I haven't had a memorable hangover in ten years. Relative moderation, age and kids have changed my drinking habits. (Being hungover with kids yelling, banging and shitting in their diapers is the worst; in the five years since my oldest has been born I've had about one hangover per year) My life is too busy these days to spend a day in bed "recovering". I still go out on occasion and tie one on, but instead of weekly its now just a few times a year at an occasion or event. I haven't gone out for New Years in fifteen years or St. Paddy's in 5. The appeal of drinking for drinkings sake is gone. I can still throw 'em back and love to get my drink on. I drink strickly for effect as I'd rather drink milk or soda with meals and water to quench my thirst. I will still get drunk on occasion but with trepidation and caution. This is one Top 5 list that I don't want to add to. I hope the rest of my hangovers are forgettable.

My wife sent this to me in an email. I used to love "Cheers" and this is one of my favorites.

The Buffalo Theory

In one episode of 'Cheers', Cliff is seated at
the bar describing the Buffalo Theory to his buddy, Norm. I don't think I've ever heard the concept explained any better than this.

'Well you see, Norm, it's like this . . . A herd
of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members.

In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells.

Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol
kills brain cells.

But naturally, it attacks the slowest and
weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine.

And that, Norm, is why you always feel smarter after a few beers.

Top 5 Records - Life

2008-02-29T09:53:00.011-05:00

43 years ago tomorrow my mother pushed me out into this world. I don't know much about March 1st, 1965. Legend has it that on the evening of February 28th "Ma" was eating beans and hot dogs, while watching a documentary about JFK with the same title as his book, "Profiles in Courage". She had some rumblings in her tummy which she thought at first was the beans and dogs, doing what beans and dogs usually do, but soon enough realized that it was me.

I had my mid-life crisis a few years back. One could argue that due to my precarious genetic makeup (both sides of my family are chock full o' unhealthy folks) that mid-life for me was at about 27 years. I held off on my mid-life crisis until I was about 35, after the death of my mother. I went through a period of introspection and self centeredness that is necessary to make sense of this thing that we know as "life". Purpose, meaning and all of that shit. A mid-life crisis is like a economic recession, you don't realize that you had one until its over. Mine is over and done with. I feel good about the path I've chosen and am looking forward to what life has to bring.

Birthdays have never been a milestone or benchmark for me. I've never set deadlines for my personal achievements or goals, so to me birthdays are more for the parents than they are for the person with the birthday. For some reason this year I have been perserverating about March 1st. Whether it be the long, snowy winter or a reaction to my mid-life crisis I have had a newly developed maudlin sentimentality for my birth date. I have thought about how my life and birth has/had affected those that were there. I have pondered my existence.

Appropriately, in celebration of my birthday I present you with my Top 5 songs about life. Whether it be how to live life, the meaning of life or just plain bitching about the human condition these songs were the first that jumped out. As in previous Top 5 posts (here and here) these are my personal opinions and feel free to share others you may think relevant. In no particular order, here they are, my Top 5 Songs About Life:

Click on the song titles for links to the full lyrics.

Secret O’ Life - James Taylor

I have to admit this is my favorite because its message is so simple and so true. We have no control over things like the "planets spinning through space" so concentrate on the things you can, love and happiness.

"The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time
Any fool can do it
There aint nothing to it
Nobody knows how we got to
The top of the hill
But since were on our way down
We might as well enjoy the ride"

Two Step - Dave Matthews Band

"Celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain
Were climbing two by two
To be sure these days continue,
These things we cannot change"

Find someone to love and hold on for the ride.

Drive - Incubus

Whether it be a teenager unable to find direction or a man in mid-life crisis feeling like he's lost all control, this song about self-determination is an appropriate anthem.

"Sometimes, I feel the fear of,
uncertainty stinging clear.
And I can't help but ask
myself how much I'll let the fear
take the wheel and steer.

It's driven me before, and it seems to a faint,
haunting mass appeal.
But lately I, am beginning to find that I,
should be the one behind the wheel."

Times Like These - Jack Johnson

I just like that this song nonchalantly laughs in the face of inevitability.

"In times like these
in times like those
what will be will be
and so it goes
and it always goes on and on
and on and on it goes"

No Such Thing - John Mayer

"They love to tell you stay inside the lines
But somethings better on the other side"

If you can get past the fact that John Mayer was banging Jessica Simpson amongst many other beautiful women and with his pop sensibilities should be the last person to preach about non conformity, his message in this song rings sincere. Don't run with the crowd or do what your parents expect. Learn how to play guitar and bang hot chicks.

Immediately upon contemplating a Top 5 about LIFE I thought of "In My Life" by the Fab Four or "Life's Been Good" by Joe Walsh, but felt that they were too obvious ("Dust In The Wind", Kansas, can you say hackneyed). I tried to come up with things relevant to ME.

Because its all about ME.

Happy Birthday to ME!!!

Weekly Weigh In (Week 10)

2008-02-12T08:35:00.000-05:00

In my grief and despair I forgot to do a weight update last week. Last week I had zero weight loss and this week I only lost a pound. I could have a million excuses from work deadlines to the Patriots reverting to the Patsies, but the only excuse is laziness. I averaged three days per week in the gym the last two weeks and my eating has been under control, but the intensity of my workouts and food choices have leaned more toward weight maintenance than weight loss. I anticipate with the world getting back to homeostasis, illnesses gone, Super Bowl a painful memory. Then I can get back into my routine and drop 20 more pounds in the next 5 weeks. Even if I get to within a few pounds of two bills by the Ides of March then I'll be close to "Speedo" shape (delete that thought from your memory banks immediately or you may face irreparable damage). I haven't seen or heard from Billy in a while. Maybe I'll just get a check in the mail.

Red Sox To The Rescue

2008-02-06T14:31:00.000-05:00

Spring training is just days away and before you know it we will be watching the ring ceremony Opening Day at Fenway. Those thoughts alone buoyed my psyche a tad on Monday morning, the day after the Patriots debacle. Then that evening a call from the Red Sox talked me off the ledge and back to safety. Let me explain.

Two Saturdays ago I spent most of the day milling about my house doing housework, playing with the kids etc... My wife spent the month of January working OT, so she was gone each Saturday until 2 PM. The Red Sox internet sale started at 10 AM, so I logged in and checked my computer screen every few minutes between skating on my backyard rink, doing dishes and feeding the kids lunch, to see if I made it out of the "virtual waiting room" and on to the area were I could buy tickets. Around 3:30 PM I checked the computer and I was in the ticket buying area. I started browsing games and when I came across the first tickets I wanted to purchase I started the ticket buying process. I entered all the pertinent information and when the form was completed I hit enter. The screen went blank except for the Red Sox logo at the top of the screen and a few icons. I started to sweat, but didn't yell or scream. I clicked a few of the icons, but nothing changed. I manually went back to the last page, but instead of the last page it sent me back to the virtual waiting room.

I screamed.

My wife came running over and I excitedly attempted to explain what had just happened, but all that came out of my mouth was something akin to "pig Latin". I stormed around the room. I tried calling the Sox. Busy signal. I was losing my mind. Now granted, I was not sitting at the table watching the screen refresh for five hours, but I knew if it took me five hours to get a chance at tickets, it would probably be another five before I got another chance and there would be jack shit left. In my rage I fired off an angry email to the general contact email for my beloved Red Sox. I figured that it wouldn't accomplish squat except to make me feel temporarily better. The next time I had a chance to buy tickets was after 10 PM and there were no tickets left together; just singles or obstructed view. I went to bed hating the Sox.

Monday morning I received this email:

David,

Thank you for your email and feedback regarding the sale the weekend of January 26. The loyalty and devotion we receive from Red Sox fans is astounding. We hope to provide you with the appreciation you deserve.

It is first important to understand that all systems were functioning properly allowing us to set another record for tickets sold over the weekend. When we think it cannot go any higher, demand for Red Sox tickets continues to climb. We have sold more tickets as of this date in 2008 than to date any previous season.

When purchasing tickets online, the system is designed to assure that once you have reached the buying process, you are able to complete your order without difficulty. The waiting room provides that buffer. By limiting the number of fans attempting to purchase tickets at any one time, fewer have trouble completing their order. For the most part, those efforts have been extremely successful.

All of that said, we understand that you were not as fortunate in your attempts to purchase tickets. For the past week, we have analyzed all purchases from the sale. In our efforts to thwart scalping, we have confiscated orders from those who exceeded the posted limits of 8 tickets per person. Additionally, we have been scouring the online secondary market and confiscated tickets from illegitimate resellers.

As a result of the difficulty you encountered and your having made us aware of it so quickly, we would like to provide you with the opportunity to purchase up to 8 tickets from those that have been confiscated. Please understand that availability is still limited, however the number of fans who experienced problems was also minimal.

To check availability and to purchase tickets please contact me directly, either via email or at the number below. Also, I look forward to more detailed information on what occurred during your attempts to purchase. Understanding exactly what you encountered will help us to resolve the problems in the future.

Thank you again for your feedback and continued support of Boston Red Sox baseball.

Andrew Dennen

Boston Red Sox

2007 World Series Champions

adennen@redsox.com

(617) 226-6368

I immediately called his number and left a message saying of course I would be interested and gave him some possible dates. Just to be safe I emailed him with the same info. I checked my computer every fifteen minutes for new email and stared at the phone as if it would help the process along. Monday evening at 4:30 the Red Sox called just as I was in the midst of reliving the Super Bowl nightmare by reading suicidal blog entries. I was able to get 8 tickets to three different games. I thanked him a dozen times and told him that the Red Sox just might have saved a life that night. I'm sure he thought I was a mental case and in my state of mind Monday he wasn't far off base.

When I hung up I felt differently then when I got on the phone. I felt like there was hope and light at the end of the tunnel. I could smell the sausage and peppers cooking out on Landsdowne Street. I could feel the peanut shells crunching under my feet as I was making my way to the beer line. I could hear Elton John singing softly "Someone Saved My Life Tonight". Thank you Red Sox, Thank you!!!

A Nation Of Patriots Haters

2008-02-04T09:44:00.000-05:00

Congratulations New York Giants.

You don't need my "atta boy" to validate your victory; you deserve every kudo that comes your way. Not since the "pre-Brady Pats" have we seen a team so thoroughly manhandle the Patriots and smack them in the mouth as the Giants did in the desert last night. That said, I am disappointed and angry. I am disappointed that the Patriots couldn't finish the job. It’s like having a perfectly fine pregnancy for nine months and giving birth to a still born. All that work, all those hopes and dreams, for nothing. I am angry for reasons that have nothing to do with the game last night and the result of the game just makes my anger all the more bitter.

I started watching the pre-game shows around 10 AM yesterday. Of course the usual cast of characters on ESPN were weighing in on the game and doing their fair share of Patriots hating. Assumptions of guilt were being discussed, as fact, concerning "Spygate", taping by the Patriots of the Rams walk through before Super Bowl IIIVI and congressional inquiries by Senator Arlen Spector concerning the NFL's destruction of the spygate tapes. It appeared that no one was concerned about the game at hand and that many just wanted to put as much doubt in the public's mind about the legitimacy of the Patriots run, as to diminish their accomplishment when they ultimately won that evening. This Patriot hating went on into the Fox pre-game with a little less venom, as not to alienate viewers, but enough veiled references to the nation's distain for the Patriots, that I had to stop watching.

I was feeling good about the media coverage of the Patriots until Friday's press conference with Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner. He got barraged with spygate questions and did a poor job of deflecting them. Then disgruntled Eagles fan, Arlen Spector, senator from Pennsylvania, came out saying he wanted to meet with Goodell, Brady or anyone who could clarify just what was on those "spygate" tapes. As Saturday rolled on the media frenzy over the Patriots intensified. A former employee supposedly told someone at the Herald that the Pats taped the Rams walkthrough before Super Bowl 36 and the Patriots haters started trying to equate that alleged act with the rationale for the Pats beating the Rams. Hate, Hate, Hate right up until kick off.

The Patriots are in shock, but they will be back. When the shock wears off they are going to be pissed off. Family and friends will be giving them bits and pieces of what was being said and what the media's response was from Friday until kick off, while they were in their "bubble" of protection preparing for the game. The respect that was deserved and the deference usually given to a team in their position was non-existent.

The country hates the Patriots. Their coach appears conceited, their quarterback appears flawless, their organization appears monolithic. Fans will always hate on the team that has dominated for a long period of time because they want their team to be there, on top. Fans can hate and that’s OK because that’s the nature of the beast. The media is not supposed to hate. Never before has the media vilified a team that has accomplished so much with as much class and dignity. The other dynasty's have all received their coronation and kudos. The Patriots have received nothing but scrutiny and disrespect.

Randy will be back. So won't Brushci, Seau, Samuel. Maybe not Stallworth. Coaching staff will be intact. Remember in the movie "Stripes" the dude called "Psycho" (Don't call me Francis!) and his list. Guaranteed that when the smoke clears and the confetti is swept up the Patriots will start compiling their list and start knocking them off one by one.

Nobody circles the wagons like the New England Patriots. If you thought they were arrogant, aloof and unlikable this year, what until next year. 18-1, with a bigger chip on their shoulder and the seventh pick in the draft adds up to a lot of pain for the rest of the NFL.

Arlen Spector, Merril Hodge, Don Shula, Steve Young, Peyton Manning, Mercury Morris, Tom Jackson, Kurt Warner, Ladainian Tomlinson, Eric Mangini, Roger Goodell and all of the rest of the haters watch out, you're on the list. Who is number one on the list? We'll see next September.

New England History and Hubris

2008-01-30T07:52:00.000-05:00

Patriots fans should be prepared for an upset of major proportions on Sunday. Unfortunately most fans in "Patriot Nation" can not fathom the vaunted Patriots offense being shut down or the timely Patriots defense showing up too late. My head tells me the Pats will roll to a fourth Super Bowl title in seven years. My heart says "Watch Out!". Winning here in New England has been taken for granted, not by the players. The New England Patriots organization is the best all time in the ability to play one game at a time and not take any opponent too lightly. But the fans of the Patriots have developed a case of hubris not seen ever before this side of the Bronx.

Most Patriots fans are also Red Sox fans, so you would think that after watching a team be one strike from a World Series title (1986) and completely collapse they would think twice about ordering their "Perfect Season 19-0" T-shirts before the final game is over and the Patriots have more points on the board than the Giants. All New Englander's have to do is look at recent and distant local sports history, aside from the Red Sox, to realize that a fourth Super Bowl banner being unfurled at Gillette this September is NOT a fore gone conclusion.

The 2001 NFL season was only six years ago. The Patriots had an unbelievable run from Thanksgiving to the Super Bowl to enter the big game as 17 point underdogs. Similarly to the Giants the had a good mix of players and a great coaching staff who knew how to scheme just enough to win. Not win pretty, but win. We all know how that ended up. We have gotten to where we are now in the ranks of the NFL starting out like the Giants, a moderately talented team who's guts and smarts have put them in a position to change their teams destiny.

A more poignant and historical example of the underdog pulling off the impossible one has to look no further than Brookline, Massachusetts where in 1913 a 20 year old ex caddy named Francis Ouimet shocked the entire sporting world and won the US Open in a playoff over Harry Vardon and Ted Ray at "The Country Club". By 1913 Vardon had already won 5 British Opens (known as The Open Championship) and One US Open which made him the most prolific golfer of his time. Ouimet was a 20 year old, with local amateur experience, who was so green that he had a ten year old (Eddie Lowery) caddying for him during the Open. The Brits, Vardon and Ray, were heavily favored to sail back to Briton with the US Open trophy as even seasoned US professionals like Walter Hagen and John Mc Dermott had no chance to beat Vardon. Vardon was the Tiger Woods of the early 20th century. He had endorsements, a line of golf balls (the Vardon Flyer) and more trophy's than anyone else. He even had a golf grip named after him that is used to this day. It took a fluke, local knowledge, naivete and dumb luck for Ouimet to defeat Vardon.

Are the Patriots the best team ever? They are the best I've ever seen in my 42 years.

Will they destroy the Giants? My prediction is Patriots: 41 Giants: 21.

Can the Giants win? Absolutely. Whether it be hunger, a scheme, naivete or dumb luck they have a fighting chance.

You know that hackneyed, but all so true saying "Any given Sunday"...

Weekly Weigh In (Week 8) and Whining

2008-01-29T14:15:00.000-05:00

I am as sick as a dog. I've got a fever, post nasal drip and a nasty cough. I started feeling run down on Sunday, but still went to open skate with my son for an hour before his skating lesson. Yesterday I hit the gym, but could only muster up enough energy to do a half an hour of cardio. This morning I could barely get out of bed. I haven't been this sick in years, but maybe I'll start puking and lose a few more pounds. I am down to 216. That translates into a 19 pound weight loss. When I get over this bug I will be hitting the weights harder and extending my workouts. I need to go back to sleep and rest before my sister-in-law (who had mercy on me after hearing my pitifully hoarse voice this morning and took the boys off my hands for a while) brings my kids back home. Oh yeah, no sign of Billy. Rumor has it he and Veruca Salt have holed up in Willy Wonka's place schmereing chocolate all over each other and licking it off (Don't call the cops Veruca is like 45 now).

Weekly Weigh In (Week 7)

2008-01-24T11:59:00.000-05:00

16 Lbs lost, 24 to go. My kids got sick last Thursday night and were sick until yesterday, so I didn't see the gym until this morning. I went to the Pats AFC Championship game Sunday, so I ate like a pig and drank like a fish. With all that going on, I still lost three pounds. I finally heard from Billy. He has been on a big roofing job about 60 miles away and hasn't had time for the gym. He says he's down about 8 pounds, but is going to have to play serious catch up to get down to my level. Seven weeks to go and there is a clear front runner. Tune in next week for another episode of "As The Fat Burns" or in Billy's case "As The Gut Churns".

Why I Am Going To Hell: Reason # 56

2008-01-18T08:56:00.000-05:00

Being a director in a non-profit human service agency people often assume that I am a good person, bordering on sainthood. "That's sooo great you work with those people" and "You are doing God's work" are things I hear quite often when telling folks what I do for a living. Little do they know that I am a self serving bastard who capitalizes on any opportunity for self-gratification. Let me explain.

Wednesday morning I was logged on to Ticketmaster trying to get Patriots AFC Championship tickets. After hitting the refresh button for an hour and a half it became apparent I was not going to the game. I rationalized that it would be better watching at home in the warmth of my living room instead of freezing my ass off sitting in single digit temperatures and bone chilling wind. Then I had a revelation.

Handicapped seating.

Being that I work with folks who have physical handicaps I am fully aware of that a certain amount of seating at any public event needs to be put aside for the handicapped per the ADA, Americans with Disabilities Act. I have brought clients to games in the past and never had a problem getting tickets. I called the ADA number at Gillette Stadium and was put on hold. As I listened to some old play by play with Gino and Gill I thought "are there people out there so desperate for a ticket that they would feign a handicap to get them?". The box office attendant answered " Patriots Ticket Office" and startled me in mid-thought. I ordered two tickets, the maximum and since I have ordered tickets from them in the past it took less than a minute. I hung up the phone and floated around the room on cloud nine. The elation was short lived.

My conscience kicked in, full bore.

I wasn't like someone faking to be handicapped in order to get tickets, I have my choice of real, live, handicapped dudes to choose from who love the Pats and would love to go to the game. But I came to the realization that I ordered the tickets because I wanted to go to the game, not because I knew one of my men would want to go or out of the kindness of my heart.

My guilt lasted less than my initial elation and I started calling everyone who would listen, to brag about my latest coup de grace.

I may be going to hell in a bucket, but at least I'm enjoyin' the ride.

Section 120, me and my newest, bestest, client.

Go Pats!!!

Watching Paint Dry

2008-01-16T08:08:00.000-05:00

I have a guilty pleasure that I rarely admit to doing.

It involves a four letter word.

G O L F.

In the winter from January to March I love to watch golf on television. I know, I know, you would rather watch paint dry, but to me seeing those green fairways and ocean vistas give me a much needed mid-winter lift. After March I will watch golf in tiny snippets just long enough to see who is winning a tournament, except for the Majors (The Masters, US Open, British Open, PGA Championship) and Ryder Cup where I may watch the entire final round.

I didn't start playing golf until I was 29, but once I started, like most things I like, I became addicted. My USGA handicap index is 8.8, which means if the normal par round of golf is 72 then I average 81. Since my oldest son was born in 2003 I have not played consistently. My actual handicap is higher than 8.8 since it takes a certain amount of rounds played to make a significant change in handicap; I've only posted a few round per year since 2003. That said I can still make my way around a course. The first winter following my first year playing I could not get enough golf so I watched anything on TV concerning golf. Thus the genesis of my winter golf TV obsession.

In January the PGA Tour starts with two tournaments in Hawaii. The TV coverage for these events doesn't start until 7:00 PM East coast time, so I usually fall asleep to the sound of wooshing drivers and tepid applause. The tour then moves to California and Arizona for the next seven weeks where golf is played on quite a few desert courses and the famed Pebble Beach. By the time the tour heads to Florida in March I have had my fill of TV golf and am ready to play here in New England, even if it means driving two hours to Cape Cod to play 36 holes in windy, 40 degree weather.

The Bob Hope Chrysler Classic Pro-AM is on at 3 PM Eastern Time with a full field of pros and celebrities such as Carson Daly, Sterling Sharpe, Alice Cooper and hosted by comedian George Lopez. Pro-Am tournaments are fun because you get to see the pro game juxtaposed with the amateur game. On one hand its makes you feel good that you are better at something than Jerry Rice, but you also see the glaring difference between the celebrities and the pros and it reminds you that as good as you think your golf game is, you suck compared to a tour pro.

Spring Training is a month away. My first round of golf for the year is two months away. Opening Day at Fenway is three months away. Beer at the Beachcomber is five months away, but warm breezes, palm trees swaying and drives splitting fairways are hours away with the click of my remote.

65 days 'till Spring!

Weekly Weigh In (Week 6)

2008-01-15T13:27:00.000-05:00

13 lbs total weight loss since 12/2/07. I have had no problems with dieting or exercise as evidenced by the results. I did have pizza and chicken Saturday night right before the Pats game in anticipation of a trip to the AFC Championship Game. I will continue to eat whatever I want one meal per week until I get down to 200 lbs. You might ask, "where is your friends chart?". Billy hasn't been heard from in almost two weeks. I hope he hasn't gone off the wagon and started gorging himself. As I see it, weigh in is on the Ides of March (March 15) and I should come in at about 200-205 lbs. Billy will be lucky not to gain weight. If your reading this Billy, put down that fork and get into the gym, before you're 10 lbs. heavier and $200 lighter.

The Snow Game

2008-01-11T07:41:00.000-05:00

This is the sixth anniversary of the game that changed the fortunes of New England football forever. Here is a re-post of my account of that wonderfully, snow-filled evening. It was one of the most watched playoff games of all time, so I know most of you were watching, somewhere. Enjoy, reminisce and drop me a comment about where you were on...

January 19, 2002.

The Snow Game.

The greatest football game in New England football history.

I was there.

The New England Patriots have played bigger games (as of the date of this writing they have played in 5 Super Bowls), they have played in closer games, had games with more controversy (1976 playoffs vs Raiders, sno-blower-gate) and they have played games in worse weather conditions. There has never been a single game in their history that could compare with this games combination of magnitude, atmosphere, suspense and exhilaration.

The Pats had a season that was typical of those since Bob Kraft had bought the team in the early 90's, competitive, hopeful, but missing some unknown key ingredient. The one difference between this team and the others in recent history was that they were peaking. They had earned a home playoff game and in every possible scenario it would be their only home playoff game thus making this game the last game played in the drab, dismal Schaefer... Sullivan...Foxboro Stadium. As horrible as it was a venue, it held a vault of beer soaked memories that could never be replaced by a state of the art stadium. Going to Foxboro Stadium was like going to a football game in the town of Bedrock circa 2500 BC. Touch football in the rock strewn, gravel parking lot. The smell of meat cooking on ridiculously huge grill fires. Drunken fights at 11:00 AM, two hours before kick off. Blood and beer.

The week leading up to the game my buddy Billy and I had been scouring the net for tickets to the game. Billy is a hard drinking , hard living guy who bought his father's roofing business back in the 90's and was my golf partner. He had bought season tickets back when Kraft bought the team, but had sold them recently to a vendor of his. We had gone to lots of games together, but were on a mission from God to go to this game. We wanted to experience one last game like cavemen, drunk, eating meat and watching fights. On Friday afternoon I found some tickets for $200 a piece and immediately called Billy, excitedly. He had already gotten us tickets from a vendor, for free.

Yoo-hoo!!!!

Saturday we got on the road at 11 AM. packed with beer and a crock pot full of meatballs and sausage. The game was an 8PM start, but we had a plan. Drink. Check into our hotel we booked knowing it was going to be a late, drunken evening. Spend the afternoon in Providence drinking. Get on our cold weather gear and head to the game. Things pretty much held to plan.

During our ride down the Mass Pike the snow had already started falling as predicted, but was not yet sticking to the frozen pavement. It wisped back and forth across the road blown around by the speeding cars. We checked into our hotel in Attleboro on Route 1 about 5 miles from the stadium at 1PM. We plugged in the crock pot and hopped back in the car for the 15 minute ride to Providence and its warm, inviting stripper bars. The snow was still light as we made our way into "Club Fantasies". We opted for this joint on the recommendation of the front desk clerk at the hotel over the infamous "Foxy Lady". There is nothing like sitting in a warm, cozy stripper bar with 50+ naked women prancing about while drinking beer and shots of Jaegarmeister as the snow piles up outside. Its like Apres Ski without the Apres or the ski. Billy and I sat at the bar for the most part occasionally heading into "The Pit" (a squared off section next to the main stage) for a $5 sample table dance(an R-rated version of the $25, X-rated, private table dances done upstairs. We had lost time while in the joint and when we walked out sometime after 5 PM it was into "white out" conditions.

It took us 45 minutes to make the 15 minute ride back to the hotel. We put on our "long johns" and waterproof gear, gathered up the meatballs and french bread and headed toward the stadium. My Bonneville handled surprisingly well in the snow and the trip to the stadium went smoothly. We stopped at a liquor store 2 miles from the stadium and Bill went in. He came out with 12 nips of Grand Mariner. We pulled in to the stadium parking lot and there were no discernible parking spaces. The snow was at least 8 inches deep. I had plugged the crock pot into my a/c converter which plugged into my lighter on the way to the stadium from the hotel, so we expected some steamy, hot meatballs to go with our beer. No go. The converter not only shorted the lighter, thus making our meatballs cold, it shorted out half the electrical system including the defroster, heater and inside lights. We sat in the car eating luke warm meatball grinders washed down with ice cold beer. 45 minutes before game time we filled our pockets with beer and nips of Grand Mariner and headed for the gates of the stadium. At the gates there were ticket takers and droves of security. I thought for sure we would have all of our booze confiscated. I handed the ticket taker my ticket and got a token pat down by a disinterested security person. I know he must have felt one of the five beers I carried in in my jacket pocket or one of the six nips I tucked in my socks. I turned to Billy as we headed to our seats in Section 216 and said "I guess Kraft is trying to save money on demo and is hoping someone brings in a bomb". "I'll drink to that" he said as he hoisted a Grand Mariner in a mock toast.

The scene at our seats were something that could not be duplicated by the best of Hollywood's special effects artists. Snow was falling sideways under the dim lights. The grounds crew was walking back and forth over their respective yard line snow blowing the line so you could see the yardage. Players were warming up mainly by running in place or doing jumping jacks as to not get injured before the game even started. A fog was enveloping the stadium caused by the breath of 60,000 strong anticipating the kickoff.

The game developed slowly. The only scoring in the first half was a Raiders touchdown, Gannon to Jett. In the third quarter the Russian born Sebastian Janikowski and the South Dakota born Vinateiri, both seemingly oblivious to the weather, accounted for dueling field goals with Janikowski winning 2 to 1. With the Pats down 13-3 the crowd got restless. Our half of the stadium, on the Pats sideline, spontaneously started chanting "We want Drew" in response to Brady's inefficiency. Drew was warming up on the sideline and seemed to zip the ball a bit stronger as the pleas for his entry became louder.

Then there was the forth quarter.

Brady appeased the masses by driving the ball down field early in the quarter and ran one in cutting the Raiders lead to 3. Miss cues on both sides ensued. With under two minutes to go Brady dropped back to pass and was being tackled when the ball popped loose. The crowed groaned collectively as a Raider pounced on the ball. I started yelling hoarsely, drunkenly "His arm was going forward, they are going to reverse it." I repeated it a number of times while people stood in dead silence or headed sullenly for the exits. Some guy a few rows in front turned around and told me to shut up. Just as I was about to dive over a couple of rows to fulfil the trifecta of booze, meat and blood the ref said the play was being reviewed. I suddenly went from drunk "belligerent" guy to drunk "knows what hes talking about" guy. The call was reversed and everyone was hugging, high 5-ing and kissing like it was New Years Eve. The guy that told me to shut up even gave me a high 5 which I reciprocated as hard as I could.

Brady took advantage of the second chance, but couldn't get us within "chip shot" range which on a night like that would've been inside the ten, if that. He got us to the 30 with just under 30 seconds to go. The snow seemed to pick up in intensity when Vinitieri was lining up the field goal attempt. As the ball lifted off the ground into the falling snow I immediately sunk my head. The trajectory of the kick was way too low to travel 47 yards and I didn't want to see it miss. As I stared at the pile of beer cans and bottles of Grand Mariner, covered with snow, piled at my feet the roaring erupted. The kick carried just enough over the cross bar to tie the game at 13 - 13. Every hair on my body was standing on end. People were falling over their seats. For two straight minutes everyone in the stadium was bouncing in unison, screaming and laughing.

This never happens to us, we never get the breaks.

The ghosts of Ben Dreith, Buckner, Piersall, "The Fridge", Desmond Howard and Bucky Dent who had been lingering over the moment retreated hastily from the joy and ectasy rarley experienced on a January night in New England.

Over time was anti-climactic. We won the coin toss, drove the field and AV made a chip shot right in front of us to win the game. As Lonnie Paxton was making snow angels below the stands were a sea of euphoria. People were screaming, jumping, cackling, hooting, hollering and even crying. I stood there like a lifeless spector not making a noise, but soaking in the sights and sounds of the moment until Billy bear hugged me bringing me back from my daze. No one left their seats for an hour. Every fan stayed there listening to the post game interviews being broadcast over the loudspeakers, drinking smuggled booze and telling tales of this game and games prior. It was like an Irish wake, drunken and raucous, but touching.

We made it back to the Bonneville about 2:30 AM, but didn't get out onto Route 1 until after 3AM. We passed out at our hotel immediately. I woke up at 7 AM to take a piss. As I stood over the bowl, still drunk, I noticed that my right hand was killing me. I inspected it figuring I must have slept on it the wrong way, but the palm was black and blue. I sat on the end of my bed flummoxed, then it hit me. As I walked out of the stadium I high fived at least 1000 people on my journey out of the stadium.

We got on the road by 10 AM. At home I alternated between worlds on my couch while watching the Steelers and Rams win. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the breath rising and the snow falling. It was a mid-winter nights dream.

Weekly Weigh In (Week 5)

2008-01-08T19:20:00.000-05:00

Weekly weigh in was Monday. Down eight pounds to 227.

Last Tuesday I cut out all sugar and high carbohydrate foods in a modified version of the "South Beach Diet". When I've done this in the past, combined with cardio and weights, the pounds start dropping, rapidly. During the two weeks of the holiday I stayed at about 231 lbs, which was amazing considering the amount food and drink I consumed. An 8 lb. weight loss during the first month is more than expected considering Christmas fell smack dab in the middle of the first month. Now that starch and sugar have been gone for a week I estimate by February 1st to be down around 215 lbs.. In a week I'll start adding low glycemic fruits back into my diet as well as low glycemic grains. Last week and the upcoming week is nothing but low fat protein and low glycemic veggies.

My buddy Bill, with whom I have a substantial wager over who will lose more weight by the Ides of March, wants me to post a progress meter for him, next to mine, for comparison. I am thinking a flower motif. Pansies possibly? Tune in next week.

The Rink

2008-01-07T08:36:00.000-05:00

I've done some cool things in my life. Played baseball for the Red Sox. Won thousands in Vegas. Had menage a trios with Charlize and Fergie. OK, so I've dreamt about some cool things, but one cool thing I've always dreamt of was having a backyard hockey rink.

My dream is now a reality.

Two winters ago I was sitting in my living room in the dead of winter with my then 2 1/2 year old and 8 month old boys, bored out of my mind. It was too cold to go out to play and we had already exhausted our library of DVD's. To avoid this kind of boredom in winters to come I came up with the perfect solution, a backyard hockey rink. The following winter I started looking into how I would get one started. The problem. It was 70 degrees on January 26th and the chances of making a usable rink and getting enough use for the effort was negligible. I scrapped plans until this year.

Starting in October this year I fired up my search engines and started researching backyard rinks. My first inclination was to buy a kit. There are a variety of kits out there, but most of the online feedback I read was negative. It wasn't cold enough, the ground was uneven, the liner ripped, nothing but problems.

The next option was to build my own rink by going to Home Depot, buying plastic sheets, wood, lights, etc...and building a rink from scratch. Most people's experiences doing it this way were much better, but you still have to deal with mother nature, uneven terrain and equipment failure.

The last option was to wait until the ground was frozen,rock hard and start sprinkling water in an area of the yard until you have a skatable area. This option was the cheapest, but could only work in sub freezing temperatures and lots of man hours.

I did a combination.

After a big snow in mid December I sno-blowed an area 65 feet by 25 feet right down to the grass. I then flooded the area, so all the low spots were filled with ice. After a few days and nights of filling in the low spots I put down plastic, molded it to the snow banks surrounding the snow-blowed area and filled the rink with water. Within three days we were skating.

Temperatures are expected to be above normal during the next week here in New England, but we just got a straight week of skating. We were out on the ice an hour at a time two times per day. On Wednesday my father-in-law (who happens to live next door) brought up a couple of hockey nets he hasn't used in over thirty years. I put one on each end of the rink and we now have our own hockey arena. To my suprise they could still take a slapshot without the net breaking. I put out a flood light so we could skate at night.My four year old son Matt and I were out playing hockey under the stars this past Thursday night at 7 PM. The temperature, -2 degrees fahrenheit. Its easy to play in such cold when the warmth of your house is only steps away.

This rink has been a dream come true and has surpassed any and all expectations. Now if I could only figure out that menage...

"O"

2008-01-04T08:35:00.000-05:00

Iowans are ready for a Black president.

Is the rest of the country ready?

Obama now has a bulls eye on his back. Figuratively. Literally.

I am one of a long line of democrats. I live in, as Mitt Romney said on NBC this morning, the "Bluest State" in the country, Massachusetts. I work with the underprivileged at a non-profit human service agency. I benefited from Public Welfare being the child of a single mother. Out of all the candidates running for our presidency I like Obama better than the rest. I am ready for a black president. Most of America is ready for a black president. The small percentage that aren't, are extremely dangerous.

Lincoln

JFK

RFK

MLK

Besides being gunned down in cold blood each of these men were ardent proponents of civil rights and played huge roles in the struggle for racial equality. It is in my liberal, democratic, blue state living, opinion that if the majority of this country's white citizens did not believe that all men were created equal that white people would still own slaves. Black people would not be able to vote, own property, shop, eat and live among us "privileged" whites. The majority of Americans are ready for a Black man to be president. The lunatic fringe isn't.

The presidency holds a certain amount of danger as evidenced by the mountains of security which follows the man. There are always disenfranchised individuals and groups who will make a half-assed attempt at taking out the president due to subliminal messages from a movie (Hinckly) or an attempt at gaining infamy. Obama is in grave danger.

Obama will be President, if he lives that long. He is young, idealistic and fresh, not unlike JFK was in 1960. JFK had to overcome his Irish-Catholic background. Obama has to overcome his skin color. America was ready for change then. America is ready for change now.

If 250 million people are ready for a Black president and one person isn't and that one person has the will and means to be sure that a Black man's only entry into the White House is through the housekeeping entrance, then there won't be a black president.

I am not naive by any stretch of the imagination. There are plenty of people that won't vote for Barack due to his skin color. Racism, sexism and classism is alive and well in this country of ours, but just because someone won't vote for a black candidate doesn't mean that they want that candidate assassinated. There are more than a few of the lunatic fringe that would like to see all black men dead, especially one running for the most hallowed office in the land, President of the United States of America.

Barack has to worry less about Hillary, John, Mitt and Rudy than some racist with a gun bought at WalMart and the will of an Islamic Jihadist. "O" looks too much like a bulls eye. A "B" might be a harder target.

Back To Normal

2008-01-02T08:13:00.000-05:00

The decorations are off the tree and stored away. The mountains of toys which encompassed half of the living room now encompass half of the kids bedroom. The refrigerator actually has room for groceries and is now free of leftover turkey, ham and desserts. Time to get back to normal. We still have the creche lit up in our bay window and it will remain there until January 6th, the "Feast of the Magi", then its off to the basement until December 8th next year (December 8th is the "Feast of the Immaculate Conception").

I enjoy the solitude and slow pace of early winter. To me its a time to recharge the batteries and get things in order for the coming year. This is the time of year when I plan vacations, catch up on work projects and do some home organizing. I look forward to the small increases in light each afternoon. The Celtic, pagan in me responds viscerally to the rhythm of the seasons. Don't get me wrong. I follow the teachings of Christ and think he was a great man. He is the son of God just as we all are the sons and daughters of God. My Celtic, pagan ancestors appeased the Romans by adopting Christ and Roman Catholicism to avoid persecution, while still revelling in their pagan myths and beliefs. I've done the same (to avoid the persecution of my mother, grandmother and the Nuns at my school). I sat through hours of religious studies in Catholic School and hours of praying in church, but am affected more by the increase and decrease of the light as dictated by the tilt of the earth, than the light of God.

Getting back to normal means blogging on a regular basis. I've stepped out of the blogosphere for a bit while tending to the rigors of the holidays, doing some year- end projects up at work and building a skating rink in my backyard (the rink is 65 x 25 and as of this posting is ready to go).

Happy New Year to all and take some time during this quiet time of year to recharge, revitalize and get things back to normal. Embrace your inner pagan.

Holiday Hangover

2007-12-26T08:18:00.000-05:00

Here is a sampling of the fare I enjoyed in a three day span from Sunday to Christmas night:

A Turkey Dinner with ALL the Fixin's, A Candy Cane, Hershey Kiss Cookies, Homemade Waffles with Pure Maple Syrup and Bacon, Chocolate-Peanut Butter Cookies, Baked Stuffed Shells with Meatballs and French Bread, Lindt Lindor Truffles, Black Cherry Lambic Beer, Chocolate Coconut Pecan Pie, Lindt Lindor Truffles, Bacon, Ham, Homefries and English Muffins, Lindt Lindor Truffles, A Meatball Grinder on French Bread w/cheese, More Chocolate-Peanut Butter Cookies, A Nestle's Crunch Santa, A Milk Chocolate Santa, A Marshmallow Filled Chocolate Santa, , Baked Ham with Mashed Carrots, Peas and Biscuits, Lindt Lindor Truffles, Coffee with a triple shot of Bailey's Irish Cream, Lemon Lush (a decadent dessert that has a recipe so secret that if I told you it, I'd have to kill you, so don't ask), Lindt Lindor Truffles, More Lemon Lush....

This morning I feel like I just spent the week on a drinking binge in Vegas and my liquor intake was relatively low.

I won't step on a scale 'till after the New Year and a weeks worth of cardio and weights.

Does it seem bright in here or is it just me?