'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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Odyssey (Part V)
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The Odyssey (Part IV)
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.
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.
Friday, May 16, 2008
The Odyssey (Part III)
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Odyssey (Part II)
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.
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.
Friday, May 09, 2008
The Odyssey
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)
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)
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
My Winter Of Discontent (Prologue to "The Odyssey")
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.
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.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Backyard Games
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Good Stuff
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Home, Sweet Home
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.
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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.
Monday, March 31, 2008
MLB 2008
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.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
My Newest, Most Favoritest, Politician
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.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sull's Blog Turns One!!!
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.
Monday, March 17, 2008
26 + 6 = 1
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Top 5 - Hangovers
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
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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Top 5 Records - Life
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!!!
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!!!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Weekly Weigh In (Week 10)
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.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Red Sox To The Rescue
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!!!
Monday, February 04, 2008
A Nation Of Patriots Haters
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.
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.
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