Sunrise with the White Album

On early Sunday mornings WZLX, 100.7FM, has “Breakfast with the Beatles.” A few minutes ago I was listening to the song Why Don’t We Do It in the Road? off the White Album. That caused me to time warp back to an English class I had at Rhode Island College taught by Paul Anghinetti.



Paul was one of those professors who spent half the class pontificating on life instead of teaching the subject matter. He was quite opinionated about my generation, the Boomers. He would, rather jokingly and amusingly, criticize the hell out of us over whatever thing he could find. The thing was, he was right.


“You people can’t WRITE! You can barely read for that matter! Want to know when I last taught a real English class? Huh? It was 1972 for God’s Sake!! No one I came across after then could do it!” Pauly (as he preferred to be called) had no problem telling us how horribly educated we were up to that point.


Another morning in his class brought this.


“Oh, you think YOUR generation, the 60’s and 70’s are going to be the ones who “mark” the 20th century? Noooo! It was WWI and WWII that’s going to be remembered. You think the Beatles are going to be the signature of the past 100 years? And another thing! You people have NO morals! Hell, you display it in your music…”Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” is a perfect example!


Pauly wasn’t a prick. He was just lamenting all the things he grew up with. The WWII generation was being shoved aside and forgotten. In fact, Pauly was one of the more entertaining professors I’ve had at RIC.


And now I’m hearing Yer Blues now, “My mother was of the sky. My father was of the earth. And I am of the universe. And you know what it's worth.“(nothing at all).

English Dept. at Craig Lee

What You See Isn't What You Get

Conjure up your stereotype of a “surfer dude.” Now add to that image, scruffiness, granola and torn LL Bean shoes. Also, bedeck him with a personality that is seemingly unaware and always three seconds behind everyone else. Have it? I met a guy like this last night.


We were outside the Celtic watching the first snow flurry when I asked him about the cast on his right foot and how he came to break it.

 He answers. “Sheesh…some fat guy fell on it while I was fighting him and his three friends, sort of tackled me by falling down onto my legs. I was wasted and didn’t know it was hurting till six hours later. It sort of sucks, having to limp about at work and stuff.”


I ask him where does he work, thinking it was some sort of job requiring that he stand all the time.


“I work with a scientist. We make new cancer therapies.”

In my mind I say the word “bullshit“ to myself as he tells me this story. God, another peon totally inflating his carriage and position in this world. There are thousands of them!

“Ok, let’s flesh this out a bit more” I say to myself. I know something of cancer, sickness and medical advances. Let’s see how long this dimwit can sustain this fiction.


“What do you do? Does it involve new chemo treatments or radiation? I ask.


“No, no…We extract T cells from a patient’s body, change the DNA via a virus carrier, to increase their targeting onto the specific cancer they have. Then we grow them in a medium…sorta increase the cell counts by ten to twenty fold. We then replace these super T cells back into the patient. We inject a Rambo army of T cells onto the cancer.”


“T cells? Viral manipulation of DNA? “Growing medium?” I stand there shocked hearing these words coming from, what seems, a pothead.


“What school did you go to? You have a degree in biology? I ask?


“Yeah…I got a bio degree…(snort)…from Rhode Island College” he says.


I then ask, “Do you remember a Ted…”


“…Duluk?” He says, cutting me right off and answering correctly. Ted Duluk is a biology professor that I knew one time. And he worked at RIC.


I stand there still, not believing what I’m looking at. This guy looks too fucked up to be able to tie his own shoes. What bio engineer looks like this?


Later on, I remembered the old movie “The Absent Minded Professor.” I then realize that this guy, who was much younger than me, was probably his generation’s version of this goofy personage.

A Few Christmas Memories

Well, another Christmas comes at us at 100mph as usual. There are the people you must send cards to, gifts to buy and the parties to attend. With me, memories of past Christmas’s will crop up.


When I had a family so long ago, we’d used to go to our Uncle’s Christmas Eve party at his house on Sterry St. The Irish celebration does not include much food as the Irish could never cook to save their lives. There was however, much alcohol. I can remember the adults first acting normal then getting progressively louder (read as: drunker) till one of them fell on the card table knocking it over. We kids took advantage of the situation by doing what we wanted as the adults were too silly to manage us. Overall, it was a fun night.

A strange occurrence would happen later in the night at each of those parties for years for which I was never given a proper explanation. A man would show up, an Irish national, and would back slap and shake everyone’s hand. He would work the crowd and collect money and checks from them. The adults would be talking about people I never knew, one being Bernadette Devlin. The name stuck with me because of the odd last name sounding like the DEVIL. He would stay about 30 minutes and claim he had many other parties to attend that night. When I asked why he was collecting so much money my uncle would say, (in an Oi-rish accent) “Oh Ronnie, he’s collecting for the poor in Ireland, it’s a Christmas gift from us to them. They can buy shoes, clothing and food with it.”

Being seven years old you believe what grown ups tell you.

A few years later I finally figured it out when I learned that this man was a “Southie” from Boston, an illegal Irish immigrant and was armed. One night he was showing an automatic pistol to someone in my uncle’s driveway. I happened to be looking in the right direction when he pulled it out halfway from his winter coat.

The brain clicks…one plus one equals…the Irish Republican Army. I later learned that this “Bernadette Devlin” was radical agitator during the Troubles in Ireland.

“Collecting for the poor in Ireland…huh?” I sarcastically thought to myself.




*****

As I became much older and as our family was being whittled down one by one, my brother and I would find our other friends who were in a similar situation and create our own “family” for that night. On Christmas Eve’s, we would ape an East Side of Providence Jewish tradition and go to Chinese restaurants. Since Christmas Eve and Christmas itself pretty much shuts down the state, your Jewish will find the only other race that kept their businesses open that night, the Chinese.

Our group was pretty varied. We had a RISD art teacher, a cab driver/writer, a few lawyers and a couple of actors from Trinity Rep where my brother had been working. We’d eat, drink and recall past Xmas’s or just yap in general. My brother never drank much and whined to go home early. Sure, fine. I’d then go over to the Polish family I knew to finish out the evening. I’d be offered a few shots of some Polish rubbing alcohol called “Spiritus.” Augh, that stuff was awful! Christmas mornings brought a nice breakfast of fried rice and crab Rangoon!

Applications are now being accepted.

Ok girls! Here's the new application! Get it filled out and we can start the interviews soon!

                                    Application for Girlfriend





Name_____________________________________________


Address___________________________________________




Phone #____ - ______-______




SS#___ __ _____




Credit Card # _________________(For vetting purposes only! Really!)




Height_____________




Weight____________ (Don’t lie now!)




Age_______________ (Really Don’t lie on this one!)




Hair Color__________




Are You? (check one please) Single___ Married___ Married and Looking to Cheat___


Have a Crazy Ex Boyfriend Who Will Follow Us Wherever We go_____






I. Past Relationship History


Do you have Children? (circle one please) Yes/No
Are they living with you? Yes/No
How many? (Fill in here, If you have over 2 children, stop this application immediately!!!!)_____


Do You Want Prospective Boyfriend to PAY FOR EVERY DAMN THING THEY WANT? Yes/No


How many Men have you slept with? (circle one please) One, Two, Three, Four, So many that keeping count is meaningless now.


Does former husband/boyfriend refer to you as:


The one that got away


The “lump”


That goddamn whore who took everything I had!






In the past have you ever? (circle any and all)


Faked an injury, blamed your boyfriend so you could call the cops on him?


Been convicted of over 6 DWI’s?


Been accused of “whining?”


Bulimic or Anorexic?: (If bulimic, do you clean up your own vomit off the carpet?)

 Been in and out of cocaine rehab centers?








II. Psychological Analysis


Do you know what Butler Memorial Hospital is? Yes/No


Do you know what anti-psychotic medications are? Yes/No


Is your self esteem lower than a flea‘s? Yes/No


Does the phrase “hitting bottom” have any meaning to you? Yes/No






III. Employment History


Are you working? Yes/No


Are you a “working girl? Yes/No (Answering Yes or knowing what this means


precludes you forever!)


May I call your former employer? Yes/No


(If former employer uses the words “f’ing bitch, damned thief or stubborn as a


Donkey,” you are precluded)






IV. Financial Test




1+1 =


You’ve been arrested for insider fraud, your first phone call should be to…


A. Your Lawyer


B. The take out pizza joint


C. NOT TO ME




You’re paycheck this week is $1,000. Your bills are $400, $100 and $300.


How much money can you spend on the weekend?


A. $200


B. $17,500


C. $1,000






Thank you for taking the time to answer these questions. I hope you will do well. Please download this, fill it out and tack this to the giant oak tree in Slater Park at the north end of the duck pond. Sorry, my real address must be kept secret.

Filthy Rich...

So what can I talk about now? Ugh, running out of ideas here. All I’m doing now is looking at this screen, listening to Skynard’s Ballard of Curtis Lowe and being stared at by a German Shepherd.

I’m dressed in Polartec pants and a ratty looking plaid shirt (I won’t get rid of it, I like it!). My hair is a wild mess and I.don’t.care. The bills are paid, the bank account is nicely stuffed and I have no real pressing issues to attend to today.

God, if were a millionaire, I’d be worse. There’s a scene near the end of There Will Be Blood where Daniel Day Lewis is lying, passed out in a hallway of his mansion, with a half eaten steak on a plate and a bottle of vodka by his head. Olympic style sloth! I might be able to one up him on that if I had that ridiculous freedom the super rich have, to be able to ignore even those most basic social norms like going out in public looking like you’ve been dipped in Crisco oil.

I once worked briefly at a hoity toity country club where I could witness the rich. The entrance fee was $40,000 and yearly dues about $10,000. Not only did you need that but being a WASP was a help. Membership was by invite ONLY. Being an eye-talin cathylick just won’t do.

There was a group of women members there, in their late 50’s, who spent the day drinking martinis and vogue-ing their way throughout the place. All of them dressed like the Queen Mother and probably didn’t shower in days. Their hair was unkempt and their skin had that oily sheen. What’s funny, that look was aped by the other older women who didn’t have access to that particular clique just yet.

The men? One I swore was a SS Waffen type. This guy was Aryan Poster Boy and when he found out I used to work in social services, he could barely hide his disgust. The other guys either were perfectly dressed or looked like the caddys.

You know, it’s probably good I don’t own 51% of Pfizer’s stock. I’d be so immoral and crooked it would take three lawyers to screw me into my clothing each day. That kind of freedom would allow me to do anything I wanted…and I’d probably do it. Then I’d get bored and try to find something even more outlandish to try out. I’d be an adrenalin junkie.

*****

I once dated a rich cougar way out of my range. To give you an idea of her assets, her parents owned a large oil delivery business and were kind enough to buy each of their three kids a house of their own.

I met her at a club in Providence one night and after the usual phone chat we made a date. She gave me the directions to her home in Scituate and when I pulled up I realized I was way out of my league. She met me at the door with a glass of white wine in her hand, dressed in Nieman Marcus and gave me the quick tour of her country estate home. Know what I was thinking as I saw all these assets tastefully displayed? I thought, “Oh god, she wants me to be her Kept Boy.” I was feeling like this date was going to suck real quick, real fast.

Well, that night turned into a summer and autumn. Things went better than I thought that first day when I saw her in her home.


She had that air of “protection” enveloping her. The protection that family money can bring. No matter how badly she behaved, not that she did, there was always Daddy to pluck her out of it. Well, when you do have that cocoon, what do you know of daily threats when you’re just middle class? You are going to be spoiled by that comfy lifestyle.

Ok, that’s it…I will work on this more or not.

You Can Get Anything You Want...

When I awake, the first thing I do in the morning is get the dog out side to do his thing. If I’m not fast enough, he’ll find the “good” carpet and do it on that. I’ll stand there in the backyard, still very drowsy, swaying somewhat on my feet as my balance hasn’t returned yet. For me, doing any task two minutes after waking up is pathetic. I have terrible coordination, but that’s another story.


For several mornings I’ve been noticing the grey skies, the leaves piling up on the ground and that enveloping silence as the song birds have fled south. I stood there a few days ago, looking around and whispered to myself, ”November…a perfect November.”

 To tell the truth, I like November.

 November meant this to me growing up. Tan and gray looking woods, the first stinging cold nights and Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in our family was a small affair as our family was small to begin with. Also, there was this weird Edwardian air to our family and that holiday. We weren’t boisterous nor garrulous. We seemed almost “proper” when we sat at the table. Then again, the tablecloths came out and the good plates were used. Nothing was told to us kids to shut up and be on our best manners. It was expected.

As you grow and move from just the experience of your family to others, you can be wide eyed at how different others are. I can remember a Thanksgiving while around an Italian family. They seemed to be SHOUTING all the time and had relatives in the thousands stuffed into a small house. These people are nuts I can remember thinking.

Other Thanksgivings showed me how some families had NO problem rekindling a family feud over some grievance that occurred fifth-teen years ago. I once saw one where the brothers started whomping one another and then spilling out into the driveway to continue it. The only injuries they sustained was from falling down hard onto the concrete and not from any fists.

A few Thanksgivings had me drunker than a monkey, eating too much and then collapsing on the couch or even the floor to sleep it all off. But that was back then when I could drink warm, straight Popov vodka. It helps to be a teen with a liver that works very, very well.

One ceremony I make sure to do is find on the radio, Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant Massacree. That’s how you finish out Thanksgiving and cap off a November.

Autumn, Durfee and Buck Hill

I haven’t written much in a while. I suppose that’s due to work and running out of subjects that charm me.



Fall is here in spades though. In the past few days I’ve been seeing more V formations of geese heading out of here. One time a while back I saw them flying at night which I thought they never did. That night I heard that honking noise, I looked up and saw the under lit bellies of the birds flying south. Observing nature can be improved by city light pollution! I’ve been told they “fly south” for the winter but where in the South? Probably some golf course in Hilton Head?


Here’s a thought that just popped into my head about autumn. I used to hunt with a friend a long, long time ago up in northwestern RI. We used to go for pheasant and anything else that moved. We weren’t seasoned hunters by a long shot. We were city boys who managed to pass the State’s Hunter Safety course and didn’t get lost in the wilds.


Our first “hunt” was at a place called Durfee Hill management area in Glocester. After we signed in to DEM’s hunting station, another hunter passed us who asked: “Do you have dogs?” Mark and I answered no and the guy told us we weren’t getting anything whatsoever. He didn’t have a dog to sniff and scare out the pheasants and warned us we were about to waste our time. Mark and I didn’t listen. This was our first hunt and we were ready to go.


We spent about four hours by the marshes watching those with dogs bag bird after bird. All I got was frosted fingers and muddy feet. I suggested to Mark we hike up into the deeper woods to find out if there was anything up there. We found nothing.


So, we became bored and hunted trees for a bit.


We were both itching to fire Mark’s shotguns. Both were 12 gauges. One was cheap with a steel butt plate, the other a hoity-toity Remington 870 with a fat recoil pad. Mark, being the generous prick that he was, lent me the cheap one. If you’ve never fired a light weight 12 gauge, the entire recoil hit travels right into your shoulder. If you want a comparison, just have some one ball up their fist and punch you in that shoulder pocket where you would place the butt of the gun.


I burned off a box of 25 Remington Nitro Express shotshells. We both were blasting bark off of trees and I noticed that my entire shoulder was becoming pretty sore. When I got home, I found it was bruised.


When you check into DEM’s hunting station, you’re also supposed to check out and fess up to what you bagged. We go in and this officer asks us did we get anything. I tell him no, nothing at all due to not having trained beagles to find the quarry. He then mentions he heard a lot of firing a mile east on the ridge and asks again. I tell him we “missed.” He then, in disgust, stamps the book and sends us on our way.


We “hunted” for one season only. The only things I managed to get was guff from local Burrilville hunters who regarded us Pawtucket city boys as carpetbaggers and a nice little autumn tour of the hills of RI. Oh, and we both bagged a bevy of oak trees.

Damaged Goods

“Wanna do an Irish Scotch?” the hot little cutie asks.


“no…NO!” I say in shock as I pull away from her.


My accumulated prudence has shown me that loading up quickly on high power alcohol will lead me to no good end. Plus, I don’t like being out of control.


She, on the other hand, was still young enough to think she can control it all.


It wasn’t an invitation to drink, it was an invitation to hang out and get to know one another better. But she might have well as said, “Hey, wanna hang out and mainline some heroin with me?”


She was pretty and younger. Nineteen years younger than me that is. The age difference wouldn’t have been such a big deal BUT she’s also a psycho.


I had heard enough about her past from others, from her own mouth and just generally studying her to know she’s dangerous. Not in an evil way mind you, just one bad decision after another type of dangerousness. She can barely keep her life’s canoe upright and dry.


If I had been much younger, these facts wouldn’t have stopped me. I would’ve easily invited her into my life. She would’ve satisfied my demands quickly. Cute, adorable and READY. And in, oh I’d say, 3 weeks time been I’d be regretting it all. But I turned down a very easy mark last night, and a cute one to boot. Within 20 minutes of my denial she was sitting on the hood of her Kia making out with, what looked like, a short and fat neo-Nazi/biker wannabe.


What is happening to me?


Now I have set up my own desk, a few chairs and interview women. “Can I see your resume? Are you currently employed? Are you a skilled or non-skilled worker? Do you careen your life from wall to wall, barely missing lethal obstacles all along the way? How many kids do you have? Are you a gold digging bitch?”


I do this in my head as I talk to women. I rate them on the FUCKED UP scale. And the little Miss I was enamored with last night scored “Outstanding” on FU scale!


And the older I get, the higher I set that bar. If you wish to apply for the position of knowing me well, please…please know how to at least live you life with some common sense!



Irish Scotch:


1 oz Jameson’s Irish Whiskey

1 oz Johnnie Walker Black Label


Pour over ice, strain and fill shot glass. Chuck it into your mouth, swallow. In two minutes, experience the “Technicolor yawn” as it all comes back up.

Small Piece of Heaven

There is a tree not too far from my home that’s the first to turn fiery red before all the others. For years it always has anticipated the colder days that creep in. Though it’s strange to see it turn color in late September when there are still days in the 80’s. That tree is too eager.



I like autumn. I like it because the swamp humidity of summer finally abates. The humidity can be so thick that all night long, the skies bloom with a pinkish orange glow from the thousands of street lights here. With fall, the skies clear and the stars can show through. A real black sky for once.


I’m not the type to go on foliage tours but I can be sometimes awed by the splash of color some trees have while driving around. The closest I’ve "toured" may be the woods that begin in earnest on the Massachusetts border about a mile away from here. I used to go off into the woods by myself chiefly to avoid humanity, and then I’d notice the colors of the trees. Yes, I do have an on gain/off again misanthropic steak in me! Jean Paul Satre once said, “Other people, are Hell.” Boy, he is right!


If you’ve spent anytime by yourself in the woods you cannot be entertained or distracted by cell phones, texting, radios or anything else for that matter. You are left to your own devices to busy yourself, and usually that’s your own thoughts. Your day to day life teaches you to discount the trees, fields, streams and other things in nature that have NO bearing on your attempts to make a living, or get to the dentist. But stand away from that busyness, and you’ll notice your brain will fill itself up with that need to be occupied by looking around you at the details of the woods.


It’s nice really, just being concerned about the trails, oak and the startling quacking of ducks tucked away in some impenetrable stand of cat tails. Oh, and then there is the fiery foliage. After an hour or more you forget your hustling city life.


When I’ve had enough (more likely: I have to get back) another thing will happen. As I walk back to my home, I’ll hear the rising commotion of the city as I approach it. The highway, traffic and the bustle of “getting it done yesterday” remind me I’m still part of society and there are things I have to get done.

Daniel Boone's VERY REAL Adventures

There is a station called RTV (Retro Television Network) that’ll show old family oriented, Disney-ish programs. Bachelor Dad, Daniel Boone and New Moon is the usual fare. I’ll flip to it if Matt Laurer’s show gets stuck for 5 minutes on the latest woman’s shoe fashion. This morning I’m not sure what RTV was up to, but it was not kid friendly.

Instead of Daniel Boone I saw Alberta Bear Hunting! The show had a barley polished quality of community access cable shows. The MC of the program was this beer bellied hunter who showcased a guided bear hunt in the very nether regions of Alberta, Canada.


He hired an outfitter who had “baited black bear hunts.” Here’s how it works. They bait 55 gallon drums full of pig carcasses spread out over quite a few square miles. Each bait station has a tree stand about 80 yards away. You then sit in the tree stand and wait. A black bear will come along for the freebies in the steel drum and you can take your time placing your shot.

If you know anything about today’s high powered hunting rifles, they are as easy to operate as a cigarette lighter. Also, an 80 yard shot is not a hard task at all. You can be trained hit targets 10 times out of 10 in an afternoon.


So, our MC has a camera team filming him and another camera aimed at the bear. You hear a loud CRACK as the gun goes off and I swore I saw a pink spray emanate from the bear’s chest. The bear flops around on the ground for a few seconds before coming to a very final halt.


Afterwards, the outfitter and the hunter run up to the bear and ooh and ahh over it’s paws, claws and how “cleanly the shot was made.” Clean? How can you miss from that distance? Usually a shot from a rifle like that will easily blow through a pine tree.


I found out a guided, baited hunt will cost you just $3,500 in Canadian dollars. The accommodations in backwoods Alberta include a shitty looking tent, a park picnic table and hopefully, cases of beer.


No Great Adventures of Daniel Boone with Fes Parker this morning. I guess the kids who watched this this morning got a dramatic, gory real life lesson.

Don't Forget What They Are...Animals!

“I’d guess I would grade myself as a C+ dog owner. He’s not sick, not underweight and his coat is shiny, I’ve done my part.”


I said that about myself during a conversation about the lengths some pet owners will go for their animals.

I was surprised at the devotion some will shower upon their pets. Years ago, my brother was indisposed in the hospital and I had to drop off his cat at the vets for it’s yearly check up. The vet did the usual checks and then commented to me, thinking I was the owner, that the cat had plaque and needed dental work.

My eyes widened and in surprise I said, “What? It’s a CAT!” The vet looked at my funny and then said nothing, going on with his examination.

“Dental work for a cat? Is he kidding?” I thought to myself.

No, he wasn’t.

 I knew of a woman who spent about $4,000 to save her Rotweiller from organ failure. I didn’t comment as she was visibly upset recalling that time but I still couldn’t help but think of that figure…$4,000. I also didn’t understand how anyone can become that attached to a dog, to the tune of four grand.


I began to really understand just how eager people are about their pets when I got my first dog five years ago. I used to walk my then small German Shepherd puppy through Slater Park to get him socialized with people. That’s when I met and learned about other dog walkers. I generally don’t start up conversations with strangers in that park whenever I went there but other dog owners who would pass me would stop and comment on my pup. They’d bring up all the aspects of breed, vets, animal health and everything else under the sun about pets. What I noticed from many, was that they treated their pets like their own 4 year old kids. I would wonder at them as they turned into gushing ninnies as they cooed and ahhed their little fake kid on the end of a leash.


One time, I was talking briefly to a woman walking a weird poodle/golden retriever. It looked like a genetically modified Franken-Dog. She wondered what I fed my dog when I said;


“Whatever’s on sale, whatever is the cheapest food and that’s usually those 30 pound bags.“


The look on her face changed in an instant to complete derision. She thought I was equal to the worst child abusing fuck that ever walked the Earth. How dare I feed my “child” lower shelf dog food!


Judgment. That’s what I learned about some pet owners. They’ll size you up by how slavishly devoted you are to your pet. And no, I’m not feeding my dog Iams or the latest expensive food Ralston-Purina can guilt trip me into buying.


To some pet owners, my dog needs to be rescued by a DCYF for doggies.

Taste is Optional

Larger

Damn I can get serious…time to do some housekeeping, open some windows and lighten this blog up a bit.



Let me talk about the firebombing of Dresden, Germany during WWII if you will permit….Ah ha!


Anyways...


What was your first concert? Mine was Frank Zappa when I was 14. It was a hell of a choice for a first concert I can tell you.


My brother was an avid guitar player most of his life. He brought home albums just to learn the licks and riffs of various rock guitarists and I got to hear some pretty strange music. One day when I was 10 years old he brought home an album called Zoot Allures (translation from French: “Damn It”) by Zappa. The album art on it was this dark looking hippy in white slacks with an obvious hard on, with two other women band members sitting nearby. I was thinking to myself, “What the hell is this?”


My brother put the record on the player and I heard this god awful shit coming from his speakers. There was little harmony and the music went every place no notes should bother to go. I watched my brother bitching to himself trying to keep up with Zappa’s guitar work. I left to go outside.


My brother had a decent stereo system at the time and a huge pile of records to listen to. I would paw through his stacks and pull out what I wanted to listen to. Lynard Skynard, Led Zeppelin, Springsteen and the Alman Brothers were just a tiny fraction of music he owned and could choose from. I would love to play anything new he bought but that Zappa album wasn’t one of them.


If you ever came by my house in the 70’s, chances were very high you always heard music playing and my brother playing along to it. You’d either notice the music as background or you would listen to a particular song you liked. I did that with all the selections he’d play.


He kept playing that Zoot Allures album and I became used to it as background music. But, after two months or so, I started liking it. Soon I was pulling it out to play. It grew on me, this weird music. As the years went by, he bought another 10 to 20 Zappa records to learn from and I listened to them all.


One day in ’79 he had told me he had bought four tickets to a Zappa concert at the Providence Civic Center and would I want to go? Hell yes!


I never saw a collection of potheads, freaks, hippies and various other creatures collected in an area like the civic center before in my life. And to top it all off, I was probably the youngest one there as the rest of them seemed all adults to me. Too cool!


So, I will need to add to this story. I was at that time a pothead as well. My brother was the one who introduced me to it. My brother, Tom, Jack and I were sitting in the arena, smoking joint after joint when you could do that w/o the Providence detectives sneaking around the arena like they do today. By the time the lights went down I was fried.


The lights opened up and there he was, in person, the real Frank Zappa. The color of the lights and the loud music thumping off my chest was wonderful! I knew all of the songs he played in the first set and it was amazing as first concerts always are. When the first set was over, the main lights came up and I was shocked to see this pall of marijuana smoke drifting around the arena. I’m not kidding folks, it looked like fog inside that building. But again, this was 1979 when AIDS didn’t exist, cocaine wasn’t supposed to be addictive and things generally were a bit more relaxed.


After the concert, we ended up at a Sambo’s restaurant. Remember Sambo’s? It was pretty decent burger and fries place and it was the only thing open in Pawtucket at that late hour anyway. I can remember taking over and over again with my brother about what I had seen, the excitement and actually being within 50 feet of Zappa.


The next day was a school day and I told everyone what I had seen. It was met with a “Who’s Frank Zappa?” Ah well, I would’ve said that too if my brother wasn’t an ardent player trying to find the most difficult pieces to play.


God I have great long term memory, short term is another matter! I know what I was wearing at that concert too. I had a two tone denim cowboy looking collared shirt, Disco opened mind you (top two buttons remained unbuttoned), a pair of ratty Levis jeans and those Jox sneakers that were popular back then. It was a typical fashion un-statement from a young teen boy.

Knowing When To Quit

Many moons ago in a career I started right out of college, I was embroiled in a legal case that absorbed a good 18 months of my life. In a nutshell, a political war had broken out which I managed to sidestep for a good while but was eventually drawn into. It involved one group trying to employ their friends by pushing out another. One after another, the old group I belonged to was shoved out the door. I was the last one. Most of the others, who were tossed out, never fought it. There were only two of us who did. Rachael gave up after getting some cash. I kept at it because I wanted heads on a platter.



I won. I won because I was seriously pissed off and did not quit. Would I do it again the same way if I had the chance? Well, not exactly. I would’ve eased up a lot had I the chance. But that’s hindsight for you, no?


But, that’s not what I want to talk about, but rather my state of mind during those two years.


That was the time I really learned what tunnel vision was about. What revenge, anger and hate and how it consumes you. Without having the benefit of perspective because your so wrapped up in current events, your life stalls due to jealously orbiting one aspect of it. I learned later, that the way I was acting was very nearly like a hotly pissed off couple going through a bitterly contested divorce.


Week passing into week, I turned my fight into a full time job. I hired three lawyers to cover all bases. I probably looked like General Patton directing various salients blitzkrieg-ing my way into the enemy. I created a large poster board where I mapped all information and alliances of my enemy. I knew them fairly well and their personalities, so I crafted a plan on how they’d react to my moves. I ran various scenarios they may have used to defend their positions in order to preempt them. I planned for best, middle and worst case scenarios.


Christ, now that I reread that previous paragraph I astonish myself! It was a divorce!


There are only 24 hours in a day and you have only so much energy. When you pour large amounts of exertion and focus into something, other things in your life drift back. It did for me. A close friend at that time drifted away somewhat and found his future wife by doing so. My brother probably became sick and tired of my talking about the case. I created a file in the basement with all those damned court documents. I never created files before for anything! I am certain I became “less fun” a person. Jesus, talk about obsessing!


*****


The summer of ‘95 I found myself again. I was camping in the northwest of RI near Clarkville lake when I released all that crap in a summer afternoon. I really don’t know how I managed to do it, but here goes…


I went off by myself to hike around the lake when I found a large escapement of rock to climb. I scampered up it fairly quickly. It was about 40 feet above the lake and it provided a nice view to the west. The July day was quite hot and windy. I sat on a sun heated boulder and looked at water and the white pine that forested the whole area and I felt like I was the only person there. There was nothing moving in that piping midday sun but the wind.


My mind can be engrossed in calculating one idea to another, sub-referencing left and right and thinking of the past or ideas for the future. My brain can move faster than I can speak if you’ve ever spent time with me. I’ve always been like this and the past legal battle really enhanced that high speed processor in my head.


But for once, I thought of nothing as I sat on that rock.


I looked at the trees, water and the horizon towards the Connecticut border and I was calm, finally. I guess that I felt that way because nothing else existed but what I saw. “In the moment” your Zen types would say.



Again, it’s hard to explain but there it is. I dumped all that animosity at that rock. I wasn’t trying, but it let go. There are times when you decide, consciously or unconsciously, to head off in a new direction. I guess I naturally gravitated towards that new path.


In a few months, I was back to real life once again, reclaiming my old friends and met Roberta.

O.P.P. (Other People's Property)

Sounds like a great working title? I'll have to work on it.

Idle, Screwy Rich

Growing up in Pawtucket doesn’t afford too many experiences to hobnob with the “rich.” By rich I don’t mean Donald Trump status. I mean making over $150k a year would qualify. In a way, that is considered the high end of middle class. But I’ll start that figure as on your way to being rich.

Seven years ago, my brother worked with a magazine whose emphasis was on RI. In order to generate a splash and revenue, the magazine would offer this deal to upscale Providence restaurants. If the magazine gave a free, color, whole page ad, would the restaurant cater a party with free liquor and food? Ten times out of ten the restaurant would say yes.  Advertisers, media types from paper, radio and TV were invited to attend and all other hanger-ons too.


I managed to attend one of those parties as my brother was in need of “help.” He was being dragged down by cystic fibrosis and my attendance was more of a “just in case” need should something happen.


I hate social events where I know so few people and have little connection to. I won’t go out of my way to network or make friends there. I find it incredibly shallow, dull and usually you never see these people again. Light conversation can be had at the ER or bus terminal too and you probably won’t seen any of them again either. So what’s the difference?

 I did managed to luck out as two other writers (who I did know) where at the event. We commented on the crowd and happenings to one another. All the women were under 30, svelte and were dressed in the latest fashion. The men were of two types. The business ones who “made it” and the business ones who were schmoozing their betters to gain some access or favor. It struck me as a great big suck-up party with the latest social etiquette and Mojitos.


Around 10:30, the party started to move to the back room of the restaurant. That’s when the real business deals started. I began to notice people occasionally dart their head up from some table, there and here, wiping their noses and throwing their heads back.


Peruvian Marching Powder. Nose candy. Whatever it takes to get that contract signed! This went on at a casual pace till 11pm.


Finally the restaurant was closing up and wished us gone. It was suggested by the partiers we move onto Westin’s International Yacht Club. So off we went.


I hung with the people I knew and learned some gossip about who was who. I then got to watch some of the wealthier party goers act like spoiled little brats. A couple, a business owner and shrewish wife, decided to display their awful marriage for us. She, in a drunken/coked haze, accused her husband about that “little slut” he’s been seeing. He quickly moved her to the elevator banks where they continued their “talk.“ A trophy wife I was informed about must’ve been looking for better prospects as I watched her toy, tease and flirt with a WBZ ad executive. The husband of said trophy wife was half snoozing at the bar. Another well off couple were quietly, but within earshot, haggling over their fucked up son at Moses Brown.

 

When Westin told us to beat it, about 1/3 of the party ended in an East Side home far too elegant for use. I was sprawled on the couch, begging for sleep while I had to listen to that couple whose husband had a “little slut” continue their bitching in the kitchen. Later on, I heard a loud THUMP come from upstairs with yelling followed by more yelling. Down the stairs comes one of the ad girls shoving her tits back into her blouse followed by either the boyfriend or some business guy she met earlier. She grabbed her coat and shot out the door to her car.


I realized I wasn’t going to get any sleep and dawn was about hour away, so I got my brother, told him we were done and bugged out.


I was driving home down Blackstone Blvd. thinking to myself how the previous night wasn’t worth it. The sun hadn’t risen above the horizon and I realized I’d shoot half of this new day sleeping. That too was going to be a waste.


My brother, who was slumped in the seat next to me, prophetically answered a question I kept in my head most of the night.


“Well, they’re not all screwed up” he says.


“No, not all, just 90% of them?” I said back.

You Kids Get Off My Lawn!!!

On my way to work, I have to drive by Saint Raphael’s, my old high school, to reach 95 south.


I was sitting at a red light near the school the other day, marveling at how young they all are. The fact is that the kids who attend that school are always 14-18 years old and I’m the one who keeps getting older. So of course they look younger!


I find “communicating“ with them not too easy. Sometimes I wonder if it should be tried at all. There are absolute, demonstrable differences between the young and old, especially in the our ways of thinking. I sometimes think we have little in common anymore. What’s important to me means little to them and vice versa. I can’t tell you of the latest cool song on KICKS 106 but I can tell you all about why “layering” was important to 70’s music.


At an older age, you’re not amazed by much because you’ve seen it before or; you have been surprised so many times by life you become blasé to weird discoveries. The youths’ world is new and exciting, my world is older and getting more predictable. When you have done something 800,000 times, you tend to know it intimately and yawn at it. Though if you dropped me into some very strange Thailand slum, I’d be quite surprised. But how likely is that going to occur?


*****


I’ve asked others, “Am I turning into my father?” Am I just getting older and becoming what we all turn into…our parents.


A couple of years ago I had a talk with English professor at Rhode Island College who also taught within the Warwick school system. I asked him that same question and he said, “Partially you are because you’re older and we all get “old” the same, but let me tell you, these kids today are that different.”


“They grew up faster and had a very different education than you.” he reminded me.


From what I know of today’s schooling, it’s strictly more genteel than the one I remember. Sink or Swim was the only rule in my schools. I’m not advocating a return to that but I swear there were some decent life’s lessons to be learned from that point of view. You learn to focus on a goal and not give up no matter what. Yeah, it sounds like Navy SEAL training but there are some benefits to that as well. You don’t have to be a showy Drill Sergeant all day long to use it. You learn to balance that drive with your humanity and still keep that command of tenacity when needed.


At a job in healthcare, not my current one but one near Providence College I saw how “soft” some of these kids are. I saw many, who when encountering a problem, just give up. Now the answer to those daily problems didn’t require a degree in Calculus, but just some common sense and a willingness to “walk right through the fire.” But I saw from some a deep willingness to avoid, at all costs, the pain and stress from solving problems, and some of those problems were tiny.


That doesn’t assist independence or any skills towards individuality. If you rely on your peer group the whole time to help you over most obstacles, you remain vulnerable to the day when you are alone and w/o assistance. And that day does come, more than once too.


Ah, don’t mind me…I hear my Dad speaking through me again.

Public Relations!

For those of you who do not know me personally, I dye my hair. Oh yes, this blog is going to be full of bombshells! Anyway, I’ve been dying it since I was 25. I found my first gray hair at 19 and I was 50/50 salt and pepper when I was 25. Ugh, I inherited my Mom’s genes. Every male on her side of the family went totally gray by 30...and I’m another.

Sure, it was out of vanity I started coloring it. At 25, you aren’t supposed to look old at that age. Back then, I used to hang out quite often by the beach near Paddy’s in Misquamicut. Having gray hair very nearly gets you “banned from the beach!”

There is racism against everything. The biases out there are against overweight people, too thin people, where you live is another, what your job may be. Judgment is a constant occurrence and it can change hour to hour. And to tell the truth, I engage in too. You can’t help to size someone up the first time you meet them. Also, your decisions on people you know change as your perception of them changes. The problem with those appraisals is that they may be totally unfair and negative.

“Put your best foot forward!” I heard that one as a kid from my Dad, but he was keenly aware of it all due to his occupation.

I’ve said to those who know me that I don’t dye it for them, I color it for people who don’t know me. You’d be very surprised at how the public treats you if your hair is gray or not.

There are times when I let months go by when I don’t dye it. It gets annoying to lather that goo in as it gets all over everything…and dyes everything else too. The walls, floor, towels and my shirt get to be Clairol #14 as well.

One time at Home Depot several years ago, I had bought two fence panels to fix my fence. My German Shepherd was large enough to gallop and crash through the rotted sections to the rat-dog in my neighbor’s yard. I did not want to explain to the little kids who lived there why my dog ate theirs.

Out in the Home Depot parking lot, I had an easy time sliding the first fence panel onto the roof of my Mazda. The roof was nice and metallic slick. The second panel didn’t go so well. Wood on wood doesn’t slide to well. I was man handling it into place when out of the corner of my eye I see and hear a young man running towards me saying: “Sir! Sir! Let me do that! I can get that up there!”

I stood back as the kid shoved the panel up into place. Now my hair at the time was longish and quite white. I surmised he thought I was far too old to be moving fence panels around. That explains the “Sir” I was hearing. He seemed proud of himself helping me out and I thanked him.

I thought to myself, “Wow, it’s happening once more, I’m 68 again.”

So, at 25, I colored it to keep those too early genes from expressing themselves. I was 25, not “old.” Now, I do it to keep from being judged ready for the old folks home.

Thank God It Wasn't a Dream

I don’t remember many of the dreams I have. Mundane dreams are forgettable. In the first few minutes of waking up, most of my dreams evaporate away. Children dream of monsters, spaceflight or yellow zebras on skateboards. Adults dream of taking the car to the mechanic.

But this morning I had a dream of someone I haven’t seen 27 years. SueAnn D. came back to me this morning.


I met SueAnn at a friend’s home 27 Aprils ago. I never did forget it. Then as now, I can tell you what she was wearing the first time we met. She had on a pink Oxford shirt, white capris and a light brown leather coat. The hazel eyes, dirty blond wavy hair and a delicate face quickly interested me. It’s amazing how guys can be spellbound in a nanosecond; I was.


We piled into my old Chevy Nova for a cruise. SueAnn, Dave and I were crammed into the front seat, with me driving. Rachael and Scott took the back seat and slid all the way down to make out, completely ignoring us.


Sue and I found out we went to the same schools but of different grades. We had a fun time comparing teachers we both had. Dave kept to himself, greedily sucking on a joint and the two in the back seat were hidden under an old, slightly mildewed quilt I kept there.  As Sue and I talked, our eyes met and there was an inviting stare that two people who like each other will give. That stare occurred while driving on Blackstone boulevard in the East Side of Providence. I remember that as well.


Do I spill my mind further? Hell why not.


June is a great month for full moons. They light up the landscape enough to read by. That June moon lit up place here nicknamed “Canada Dry” by we locals. Canada Dry has fields of sand, white pine trees on small hills and much needed privacy. Sue and I were there one June night.


Sex is different for guys vs. girls. We get so lost, immersed and focused that nothing else exists. That night with Sue, I may have gone further. When I was with her then, you could’ve lit off an M-80 near me and I probably would not of heard it.


I thought she looked that pretty that night.


Well, like many of my relationships with girls, it was either her, I , both or our friends who screwed it up over real or imagined reasons. Sue and I never made it past that summer.


I didn’t dream of that particular memory of Sue this morning. What I did dream of was her typing out her college application to Rutgers one night so long ago. And that typing in her room was all it took to have me thinking of her this morning.

Crikey!

I heard a voice I haven’t heard in a long time, Steve Irwin’s. I don’t usually watch TV, but I’ll have it on at times as background noise. This morning I hear, “..’ahlo Bruce’s and Sheilia’s! The CIA drawpped one of they-uh satellites awn Aus-STRILE-ya.”


I lean over to peek around the wall and find out Irwin made a movie I never knew about,
“The Crocodile Hunter: Collision Course.”


One of the funnier moments in Irwin’s life was when he was explaining on Laurer’s Today Show about why he teased his crocodiles with his baby daughter Bindi. If you remember, there was footage of Irwin bouncing his baby daughter on her feet about 15 feet away from a pond of crocs. Of course, Irwin got a ton of shit from doing that.


Laurer, finally asked Irwin “would he have done anything different” if he had known he’d become a world wide embarrassment.


Irwin answers:


“Mite, I’d wish I’d had gawn soifing that die.”


Off screen, you could hear one of the Today Show's cameraman start giggling at that comment. So did I.


Too bad he died. Though it sort of seems fitting he was taken out by a ray. It reminds me of how Sam Kinnison‘s life was ended, considering his life style, by a teen drunk driver.

Teach Them Early and F Them Up!

Israeli Girls Writing Hate Messages on Artillery Shells

This time I have to change the names to protect the innocent.


I used to ride the bus when I attended kindergarten. We’d all meet at the intersection of Mayfield and Evergreen around 7am. There were about eight of us, all in various grades. We’d play there to burn the time, barely keeping off the neighbor’s lawn as we were warned. Two of us there were from the LaSalle family, an older brother and younger sister who was my age of five.


The LaSalle’s lived about three blocks over. Once I describe the house and lot, you’ll immediately get just what kind of family they were. Walking down Constitution street where they lived, the homes were mostly Capes, with small front yards that were well kept, that until you came to the LaSalle yard. The LaSalle’s had no front yard to speak of really. There was no lawn save the open dirt and some ratty looking bushes. The gray bare wood porch leaned far too forward to seem safe to stand on. The house was a faded yellow color that flecked chips of paint to the ground. There were times you could walk by the house and hear shouting inside from Mom or Dad…and then a loud THUMP of something, followed by screaming. You didn’t know what just happened but could imagine it with all your will.


The five year old, Jen LaSalle, was a tiny, skinny girl with an unfortunately too narrow looking face. For her size, she seemed easily breakable. The dark eyes and hair suggested a trace of foreign-like gypsy in her. She wasn’t an ugly kid but she didn’t fit in with the typical Irish or Polish pedigree that was our neighborhood. While at the bus stop, she didn’t speak up too often like the more gregarious kids did. When she did talk, it was usually one on one.


For the time I did know her, Jen had a perpetual, dirty looking cast on either her right or left arm. When asked how she broke it, she had a short curt answer that killed any further attempts at learning why. Being curious, we asked her older brother who confessed that she “fell a lot.” Now, this was 1969, DCYF probably would not be alerted to that. It was true that kids fell all the time then. You’d have to have the burn marks of iron on your chest to get the school or State suspicious.


Jen sported, I swear, the same three potato sack dresses girls her age wore then. It was either the yellow, blue or pink one she constantly wore to school. I suppose her Mom cycled which color to wear every few days. Jen wasn’t dirty but the filthy cast, the same clothing and her barley brushed out wild hair didn’t give you the impression she was all that hygienic either.


Kids, even five year olds, have a pecking order. They ape their parents, older siblings and friends on how to play that game. Kids learn very quickly about the rules that allow you to climb on that ladder, or to push others off of it. Jen and her brother didn’t climb too high on that ladder. Her older brother, being more contentious, had little problem fighting for one more step that many though he was usurping, but Jen rarely fought.


One time at our bus stop, the other girls had learned of something and teased Jen to show her butt. “C’mon, Jen, let us look, c’mon!” Jen protested, “No! Go Away!“ The girls ganged up on her and yanked her dress up, panties down. On her butt and part of her thighs you could see the red marks of a belt.


I usually sat behind her when we rode to school. At most times we didn’t talk too much but my curiosity took over and I asked, “What happened?” She shot around in her seat and said, “None of your business!” She coupled that with snarling face that shut me up. She was still stewing about being pants-ed and ill treated by the girls. As we got to school and got up to leave the bus, she turned around and told me, almost apologetically, “It doesn’t hurt anymore anyway.”


A month later, Jen disappeared from our neighborhood and class. Her brother said an aunt came to get her and was going to live with her from “now on.”


That wasn’t the only family I knew of around here that was a mess.

Tales of the Wily Homeowner

Put, put, sput, put, put….RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! CRACK!



My neighbor is courting his death this morning by cutting down his own huge maple tree.


I once helped a neighbor do that a few years ago. I had stopped by Billy’s to see what the noise was all about. It was coming from his backyard when I see him and a neighbor trying to cut down a maple whose trunk was about three feet thick. So, I had to jump in.


They were using those cheezy Home Depot electric saws, three of them in fact. Apparently all three had chain blades duller than butter knife. As the blade heated up, they’d switch off to the next saw to use.


We were going at it for thirty minutes when a stranger came into the backyard and watched us for a bit.


“Are any of you guys licensed arborists?” he finally shouted.


Tom, who was up in the tree trying to rope off a large bough, shouts down, “What’s an arborist?”


The guy then tells us we are about to kill ourselves due to how we were making the cuts. He then goes to his truck out front and comes back with a “climber’s saw.” What luck we had, a real arborist was visiting his friend across from Billy’s house that morning.


A climber’s saw is a gas powered chain saw. It has a dirt bike engine’s torque ratio and the name on the blade support said, Husqvarna. And yes, there is or was a dirt bike brand name of Husqvarna. The “licensed arborist” explained to me our chain saws we were using were good for cutting twigs. He fires up his monster a digs right into the base of the tree making a v-cut. That took him about 56 seconds to do. He then tell us to yank on the ropes as he makes an opposite “check cut.”


I ran like a scared little girl when that tree started to come down. I swear it was headed straight for us, but apparently the way the guy cut it, if fell off to the side. Where he wanted it to fall.


He told us later that we would’ve dropped the tree onto the neighbor’s fence and their pool had we kept up the cuts we were making. There’s experience for you, and the right tools.


So, I await the sound of someone’s roof crashing in, the shouting and sounds of approaching fire trucks as this guy’s tree comes down today.

My Little Schoolhouse

Patty Hearst,  aka "Tanya,"  Posing with an Uzi for the Symbionese Liberation Army

Reading the story I wrote about my fervent Nixon supporting neighbor reminded me of another ardent politico I knew. This time it was a teacher.

 Ms. Barbados, yes...Ms. She was a mid 20 something fifth grade teacher who ran one of the three fifth grade classrooms in my grammar school. I never had her but knew all about her due to our class being next door to hers. Every other day, we’d hear her screaming at her class over God Knows What. I don’t think she took anything lightly as she treated everything as a fight to the death. Her dark brown eyes had the ability to screw you to the wall. Now that I look back on it, her fervent teaching ways stemmed from her "Revolutionary Zeal."


Ms. Barbados was a fierce, left wing, womens libber socialist. She was the only teacher to wear jeans while teaching and many times she kept her dark long hair under a blue or red bandana. It wasn’t too hard to imagine her in camouflage carrying an AK 47 for Che Guevara. The school’s principal, Valmour Collette, kept wide berth of her.


It was 1975 when I was in the fifth. That year you saw the leftwing was winning wildly. The Woman’s rights movement was exceptionally hot with Helen Reddy and women refusing to wear bras.  In Congress, the Church Committee was trying to castrate the CIA. I can remember a news story of a Congressman holding up an electrically powered pistol, used for really quiet assasinations and questioning some CIA deputy about it.  Also, you saw the continuing rise of the environmental movement. Do you remember that Crying Indian commercial and the polluted rivers?


One day, our class was invited to watch a movie in Ms. Barbados’s class about pollution. We all piled in there, carrying our chairs from our classroom and trying to find a decent spot in front of the movie screen. Before we could watch the movie though, we had to listen to a political speech from Barbados.


She went on…and on…about pollution, the corporations and every other right wing evil out there that was poisoning our precious Earth. When she finally shut up, we got to watch a documentary on sudsy rivers, filthy beaches, and countless shots of smokestacks belching black soot. The move ended it’s tour of Filthy America with a moral saying “It’s about time we ended this destruction of our country.” There was final shot of smokestack being imploded and crashing straight down under it’s own weight. At that moment, the kids who had Ms Barbados as a teacher all started cheering wildly at the sight.


I and the other kids from our class looked around in slight surprise. We didn’t all cheer that explosion. Then again, we weren’t little foot soldiers in the Barbados Revolutionary Force for the People.


I didn’t hate her or her politics. At 10, what real positions do you take on “issues“?  I found her to be a bit intolerable with her strident nature.


There is no way she could get away with that in today’s schools. You can't unbend a paper clip in a classroom today without being accused of making a pointy weapon. And never mind training a classroom of 10 year olds from a copy of Das Kapital.