Over the River and Through the Woods!



Yum!

Thanksgiving is upon us once again and some memories of the ones past come to me.

To begin with, I came from a small Irish family. Secondly, the Irish could never cook even if their lives depended on it. Our family dinners weren’t horrid, it was just that the available choice and fare was rather limited. Limited by the fact the Irish can’t cook anything besides the simplest meat and potato type dishes.

As a kid, my mom would cook this each and every year. A turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, disgusting squash and that bouncy, cylindrical thingy called Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. Now all the food she cooked was pretty decent, but that squash…ugh.

The problem with squash was that when put on your plate, some of the liquid would run into the other food on your plate. In my child’s mind, it would poison and ruin the other food there. I’d sit there deftly pushing the squash to a part of the plate where it couldn’t leech into my other food that I did like. On top of that, it was a vegetable and as a kid, all vegetables tasted like newly cut grass to me. Vegetables were vile weeds.

The Italians revolve around food. We Irish used the food as an excuse to drink beer. As dinner was finished, we kids would be chased from the table so the adults could do what they really wanted to do on Tday, drink. My Dad, Mom, Grandparents and the occasional Uncle would sit there getting gooned. Though my Mom was a lightweight, she couldn’t handle more than three Narragansett beers total. My Uncle on the other hand could drink the brewery.

As we got older, Thanksgiving day meant getting sloshed ourselves. My brother and I would attend the yearly St Raphael/Tolman HS football game at McCoy stadium at 10 am. We did this for three years and each time we’d smuggle in the cheapest Popov vodka. We two weren’t the only ones in the crowd who were feeling no pain. I can remember a kid I knew in high school, Tim C., who fell down the stairs at McCoy and didn‘t feel a thing.
  
Ever drink yourself into oblivion at 11am? You can if your 15. You’re far too dumb to know otherwise. One time, my brother and I became soo drunk, that we got lost driving home from McCoy stadium. Want to know how bad that is? McCoy stadium is about 1/2 of a mile from my house and my brother was too silly drunk to figure out the drive. That was back when you could drive completely sloshed without much fear of being charged with DWI. Boy, how things have changed!

In our 20’s, Tday was becoming a hindrance to us. My brother and I would bolt the food down and head out of the door as we had “better things to do” than hang around with the parents and grandparents who were boring anyway. Again, culture comes into it. We Irish have “roving wakes” and roving Tday parties. We go from house to house to visit friends and have a drink or two. We’d be offered food but of course, that’s not what Tday is for…is it? Well, not for Pawtucket Irish it wasn’t.

It wasn’t until I was working in Western Cranston did I see what a “real” Thanksgiving was. Cranston is full of Italians and when I was working there, I saw the spread these people put out! I was amazed! These people used beer and wine to wash down the buckets of food they’d prepare and DEMAND you eat.

Let me tell you how bad the Irish are. I thought ravioli came from a can till I attended a Tday party on Phoenix ave in Cranston in 1987. Provolone cheese? I thought there was only “Kraft” cheese! There was course after course of food and very little drinking, now how weird is that?

So, enjoy your Tday, watch the Macy’s Day parade. And if you’re going to drink, pass out on the floor and become the joke to your family, it’s cheaper than hiring a lawyer. 

Misheard Lyrics and The Neighborhood

I can remember someone of importance in the Reagan administration mentioning that Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” was Reagan’s favorite song. The official said it was a high energy, uplifting song that exemplified the greatness of America. However, some DJ once commented that if you read the lyrics to that song, it had nothing whatsoever in it that was uplifting about America at all. Sure, the song is energetic and the refrain “born in the usa” being repeated over and over again does sound patriotic. But…as that DJ mentioned…

In an ironic sense, the Reagan administration sure picked the song that encapsulated America at that time.

*****

Speaking of Vietnam vets, I never knew one personally. I barely remember one that was blown to bits and was a neighbor when I was just a tiny kid. That would’ve been Michael Dalton.

Patrick and I were playing in the street by the curb (yes, our parents thought the street was a safe place to play, it was 1971) when we were about six years old. I overheard Mr Robinson and Mr Jeffries discussing a funeral they had to attend. They spoke in hushed tones but I managed to pick up on some of the phrases.

“Jan, did you know it’s a closed casket?” and another phrase I heard, “Damn, half the torso?”

Mind you my idea of death was what cowboys did after killing 200 Indians first. The cowboy gets shot, grabbed his chest, slumped over and died a hero. I never knew what the word “torso” was but what do you know of anatomy at six?

I found out years later Michael Dalton was blow up by a booby trapped Viet Cong defense complex they had earlier fled. It was one of their nasty tricks, wire an abandoned military position to explode if it was tampered with by the enemy. And poor Michael tampered with it just enough…

Later on that year, we kids romped through the neighborhood on Halloween. As we approached the darkened Dalton house, the parents ushering us told us all to quiet down. One of the younger ones of us asked why we couldn’t ring their doorbell and get candy. The parents ignored the question and pointed out the Britt family across the street always had tons of candy and we all stormed that house instead. We never heard from the Dalton family much again after that.

Michael Dalton

More and More I'm Seeing...

“I’ve been laid off over six months now, live with my grand parents, have tattoos and a four year old boy. I’m a great catch for the next guy that comes along.”

This dripping sarcasm was said by H. who I was talking to last week. Actually, for the little, frail looking hipster woman she was, she had a better grasp of reality than most. She was right. When I found out she was living with her grand’s, I thought there was no way was I going to carry her around financially. I wasn’t about to be purchasing “good times,” laundry detergent, gasoline and the occasional winter coat for her kid.

She knew her polish is now worn off and can’t compete in the single arena with those with jobs.

What I’m stumbling across now, or running into more often, are people who are out of work. A lot more.

Unemployed. I’ve been there once. The thing about it is the incredible boredom that comes with having every day of the week off for months. I learned to clean the house, deep clean it, three times a month. I found myself painting, doing yard work and inventing inexpensive projects around the home to keep busy. Anything to have purpose for that week.

Also, you live in some sort of weird limbo even amongst your friends. You may be laid off due to no fault of your own and yet you feel “different” still. Your friends get up, work, have a goal, direction; even if it’s only for that day. While you get up and look out the window and reread the newspaper twice. You float.

Your occupation, without you knowing it really, is a huge part of who you are and at some levels, where you derive some of your pride and self esteem. Go without that work, even a chintzy job, and you’ll feel the loss.

Nowadays, I’m reminded of when I was out of work by all these new ones I keep running into. If I was out of work again, what would I do? Besides pumping out 20 resumes a week? I’d be cleaning the house, doing yard work, painting…

At the Gym Zoo

I joined a gym not too long ago from the helpful push of friend who was wishing to knock off a few pounds herself. My motivation for it is two fold. One, get my weight down to that range where it should be, and, to build up my health. I see too many patients in the field I work who are nearly awarded cripple status. I see the future and the future says to me: “You’re not going to get younger but OLDER.” I have no wish to end up like my Dad who had the World’s Greatest Beer Gut either.

But, I’m not going to chat about health, cardio or vegan diets, I’m going to tell you of the types I see in the gym. I’ll try not to be disparaging and caustically sarcastic.

Planet Fitness is divided into three exercise areas. Cardio, weight lifting and this Olympic style workout area where they do exercises I’ve never seen before. I spend my time in the weight lifting and cardio areas. Others spend their time elsewhere as you will find out.

*****

The Ahnult Schwarzeneggars

The first thing that struck me was the weight lifting area. You have these guys who are muscled out and never leave that section. Now I can’t condemn all of them, but a good many watch themselves in the huge panel wall mirrors when they press weights, and also when they’re not.

I hear they watch themselves in mirrors to improve their “form” as they pump iron, but I swear, I sense a huge amount of vanity there. The fact that when they’re not working out, they’ll go by the mirror and look at themselves strutting tips me off to a bit of self love there.

A friend once commented on them as these Ahnults say to themselves in the mirror, “Do you love me? I love me!”

To be totally honest. I’d like to look like that and be 21 again. But, I never had the body type nor will I be 21 again. Also, you can tell which ones aren’t juicing it up and it is totally natural. Those guys I find aren’t staring at the mirror all the time.

*****

The Moms.

This group is forever 39 years old. They sport a slightly pudginess and are trying to knock off that stomach and ass bulge. You’ll find them on the stairmasters for an hour and a half at times. A lot will read a book balanced on the top of the machine, or have ear buds planted into their heads. They pump their legs away at a dizzying speed and are in their own world then.

It seems most are pretty oblivious to the night club, pick up, meat market nature to this gym. Though I few I swear look like they’ll stray, but most are VERY married. I can imagine these Moms speeding up their work out around 2ish to finish up and pick up the kids from school and getting on with their busy Mom lives.

I understand why these women do this. Growing older isn’t a crime for a guy but it IS for a woman in this American culture. So a little vanity won’t kill them, in fact, it’ll improve their health as well.

*****

The Teenager/Stripper/Fell-On-This-Earth-Cute-and-Thin/Possible Anorexics

These types do not need to workout at all. These young ones come in and ride the bikes, stairmasters and jog on the treadmills, all cardio stuff. They also are the ones who will wear the most skin tight workout clothes you can imagine. I suppose starting early working out is a good thing but to look at them, you’d swear they didn’t have any reason to lose any body fat. There are two types really. One set will work out and sweat puddles on the floor and ignore everyone and the other group might curl 5lb weights ten times and then open their iPhones and text for 20 minutes. The worker ones don’t bother to strut around the gym while the little cheerleader ones with the cute outfits and cell phones will.

*****

The Staff

The majority of them are helpful. They check you in, clean up rags, keep the bathrooms fairly well and will answer any questions you may have about the machines or workouts. You can also “hire” one of them to specifically design and run you through a routine.

I did notice this however.

If you’re a cute, thin and in no need of losing weight, the male staff instructors will trip over themselves guiding you through your workout. I’ve watched and overheard a few staff talk about the “form” of the pretty girl’s workout then switch to, “So, where do you live again? You live in Seekonk? I have a good friend that lives in Seekonk! We’re so alike!”

If you’re not cute, thin and adorable, the instructors work you through the routine like a dray horse pulling a plow. And there is very little chit chat. No attraction there.

As for instructors guiding us males through a course, it’s drill sergeant time. “Oh, don’t make any effort to get over my obstacle Private Pyle! If God wanted you over this obstacle he’d would’ve miracled your ass over it!”

“That’s it? You’re doing 125lbs? My grandmother does that before her tea every morning!”

*****

And Lastly, The Guys Like Me

There is a set of us guys pushing 40, 50 and 60 in there. The ones I’ve talked to are there for two major reasons. One group had their doctors harangued them to lose weight or get fit, the other group laments their loss of youth and are trying to reclaim some of it back. Most of us belong to either category in some sense or the other. I can understand it. One guy, about 55, said that this was his last real chance to get fit again before getting “fit” would become an impossible chore. “I want to look as good as I can before it’s pointless.” he told me. Another comment I can understand.

I told him I didn’t want to turn into a greasy slug as I aged. He was a bit jealous of me as he said that he wished he started in his 40’s. But actually he was in better shape than me when it came to jogging on a treadmill, which makes me pant like a dog in July. This guy could run to Boston and back and not stop.

We’re all youth abscessed here in the ol’ USA. Then again, what culture from time immemorial wasn’t?

Po Po

There have been instances where friends, coworkers and acquaintances who know me well enough have accused me of being judgmental, opinionated and…picky. It’s true…and I’ll tell you why.

After years and years of being taken by friend and foe alike (now mind you, I’m not totally cynical and jaded yet) I’ve learned to put my radar on “high” when meeting someone new. You can never really know a person from by just looking at them. It can give a hint as to who they are, and that’s it. Most people aren’t going to volunteer that they’re alcoholics, cocaine addicts, gamblers, wife beaters and so on and so forth…will they?

So, my radar is “on” when I run across someone new. Also, my brain has a sort of smoke detector that rings like BLOODY HELL when it comes across someone that’s pure trouble. I had the perfect example last night at the wonderful Irish bar I attend for mass.

I was talking to J. when this unmanageable street whore stumbles into the bar with a black eye (no joke!) and slides up to the bar asking M, pointing at me, if I was a “po po.”

She then spins around, far too close to my personal space and asks if I was a po po.

“What’s a po po?” I ask.

“Oh, don’t give me that…you know damn well what I’m talking about” she says.

“No.I.don’t.” I respond back.

“Hey, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter sweetie, I know people and you‘re a po po” she goes on.

Ok, so I lose it. I don’t ordinarily blow my temper but I hate, just hate it when people insist that you understand something when you plainly don’t.

“NO, I DON”T KNOW WHAT A PO PO IS! YOU HAVE TO USE THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!” I yell back at her.

She’s startled a bit, leans back. Then she goes on to quote some kid’s rhyme but re written by her that included the word “fuck” in it about 21 times.

“Oh, Ok..fine…fine.” I say and break off eye contact and go back to talking to J.

She finally stumbles off, out the door when I turn to J and M and ask what a po po is.

“A po po is a cop, policeman…she thought you were a cop Ron” J. tells me.

“A po po is a cop? I really wondered about that. Sure, I don’t know every word every generation creates for it’s own slang but “po po,?” it sounds like a two year old talking.

Yeah, my radar and inner smoke detector went off like a nuclear bomb. All I saw was this threat, this wreckage of a person, covered in parasites, diphtheria and plague germs wanting to get it on me. No way EVER!

My judgmental attitude unfortunately gets reinforced by encounters like this…

7,000 Feet Up

I took a friend to Purgatory Chasm up in Massachusetts today because she’s never seen it. I have a few times and it’s a little glacial gouge/rip/sore in the Earth up there. It’s pretty interesting as you have giant boulders and escarpments that rise up to seventy feet above your head. I once rock climbed it over a decade ago without falling and smashing my legs.

It’s an near effortless scramble to climb over the debris that’s in that tiny gorge. 

The hardest “climbing” I’ve ever done was at Mt St Helen’s in 1993/96. No, I’m not making this up as I can point you to a friend who I was staying with way back then in Oregon.

You can pretty much drive up to the foot of Mt St Helens but then you have to park the car, get out and start humping your way up. When I went, the entire area was devoid of any life, any plants. I can report to you that the whole area, to the horizon, looked like the Moon.

I’m not a mountain climber by a longshot. What I have done is called "scrambling."  But I have hiked in some weird/odd/sort-of-inaccessible places in my life. Mt St Helen’s is a hike/climb that’ll beat your ass if you’re not used to being up around 7,000 feet. Oxygen isn’t as plentiful as it is here at sea level. I was panting as I was climbing into the blast crater and every step was a bitch because all that’s supporting you is sand and volcanic dust.

Why do I do it? I want to see bizarre places and things others usually don’t.

*****

Here’s a goofy story. My return to Portland a second time included, with what I thought, would be climb up Mt Hood. Mt Hood is 11,000 feet up. A week prior to flying out there I called the Timberline Lodge that’s situated about half way up the mountain. It’s a ski resort/base camp for the area. If you’ve seen Jack Nicholson’s movie The Shining, the “Overlook Hotel” in the movie, is actually Timberline Lodge.

Anyways, I called the girl at the desk there and asked what the snow pack was in late July. She told me about 18 feet still. She asked if I was going to do a climb and said that I’d have to register with the Lodge first and check in my equipment. I then said, “I won’t be checking in any equipment.” There was a pause on her end of the line when she asked:

“Sir? Are you a technical climber?”

I answered, “What’s a technical climber?”

She then told me I was to be restricted from climbing that mountain no matter what I said.

A technical climber is one of those guys you see carrying tons of rope, petons, grappling hooks, solar powered GPS devices and wearing -50 degree parkas and boots covered in aluminum spikes.

My friend M.K., later on , was a bit incredulous at my naïve belief that I would just waltz up that mountain. “Don’t you know how many real climbers die on that mountain every year?”

Nope, I didn’t. And being the fool I was, I tried going up. Thanks to the staff at Timberline for stopping my silly ass.

Mr Winthrop! Hard To Port! Aye! Aye Sir!

Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
I'm empty and I'm aching and I don't know why.
Countin' the cars on the New Jersey turnpike
They've all come to look for America, all come to look for America

 

America

 

Paul Simon.

America. Supposedly at one time it was where you could flee to escape the serfdom of Europe. Or at least, from whatever your background. You had chance to shrug off your old life and “make it here.” There was no guarantee that you would, but the chance was there. Now the only freedom offered is to become rich enough where the day to day realities of surviving don’t bother you. You purchase it today.

If you’re a boomer or at least a child of the 70’s, you’re probably into self actualization. If you aren’t, you are; because it surrounds everyone of this country. Big business has turned a rather singular, personal quest for improvement into a cash cow.

Losing weight, exercising, tweaking your mind, mental issues, marriage/relationship problems, self help books, PBS tv shows with the newest Depak Chopra offering the a DVD that’ll show you how to improve your life. It’s all out there. Everywhere.

I was born this self help era into without even knowing it. I think my realization hit me when I saw a book on my mother’s table called, Your Erroneous Zones by Wayne Dwyer. I read it and barely understood it at twelve. But there it was, a guide on how to “get what you want out of life.” I thought my mom had everything she wanted, what would she be lacking? Well, chalk that up to an immature kid who hadn’t really lived life yet.

There have been, for lack of a better phrase, episodes in my life where I wanted to change course. The impetus for that was an acknowledgment, that came late of course, that what I was doing, who I was with; was headed no where.

One such episode I call the “Horton’s Lot” part of my life. I grew up with an odd mix of middle/blue collar class kids who were proto-criminals. Sprouting punks if you will. Defiant little pricks who acted out just to be free, or more likely, to expend a reservoir of anger that was created by god knows what in their pasts.

Horton’s lot was a parking lot next to a sprawling chemical complex called Teknor Apex that made just about anything out of poly vinyl chloride. We’d all gather there on most nights, more so nearer the weekend to hang out. The weekends it was a party spot where we all could drink and have fun. For some reason, the Pawtucket Police never bothered us. Till one night.

The lot of us just engaged in typical adolescent misdemeanor behavior. Drinking, smoking pot and driving drunk when it wasn’t the crime that it was today. But a select few of us, seemed to be gunning for something more exciting and dangerous.

One night, the police and a few detectives were spying on our group without our awareness. Then, like you see on cop shows, a bunch of police appeared out of nowhere and swarmed through our crowd. They blew past most of us and gunned for John Z. and threw him up against a car and slapped the cuffs on him.

After that commotion, I had to ask why they wanted him as I was clueless. Stacey said he had been involved in a armed robbery of a liquor store earlier that week. He was the ripe age of 17. Dumb shit he was. Up until that point, I had thought of John Z as an overactive, wanna-be tough guy looking for a lot of attention.

After that, I reevaluated why I was hanging around that crowd. I immediately stopped going there, to the consternation of everyone. Where is he? Why doesn’t he come down here? Have you seen him? To quote another criminal, Charley Manson, I had X’ed them out of my life.

Since then, I have X’ed others, jobs, attitudes and behaviors out of my life.

You can make course correction after course correction to what you think is better, and most of the time you’re right, at least 60% so. But it never satiates you does it? There is always a push for something “better.” Something else is lacking or there is something else you want.

Now that I think of it, Self Actualization isn’t just a phenomenon of the 70’s, it’s always been here. I’m sure there was some poor hard scrabble farmer a thousand years ago who wished his ears of corn could be fatter and tried something to make them so.

HA! All we did to the “I want MORE out of life” was to codify it from a movement to a quasi religion and finally a business venture.

Will I stop wanting more out of life? Hell no, I’m human.  We're all "looking for America" still.

I Have Many Stories...and I Can't TELL THEM!

I had a great idea to talk about. However, if I did, I’ll be crucified by the few who would know exactly what I’m talking about. The idea was “lushes.”

Hemingway wrote in A Moveable Feast that they used to call Parisian women drunks “poivrottes.” Poivrottes are loose, female rummies . He was referring to the class of people who frequented low life bars like the Cafe des Amateurs just prior to the outbreak of World War II. He specifically said of the bar and crowd that frequented it as “the cesspool of the Rue Mouffetard.” Ernest avoided it like the Plague.

　

And I’m going to stop right here.

*****

In other news, I’m on vacation. It’s probably the first “real” one I’ve had in years. Well, it’s probably the first typical one I’ve had that everyone else in the workaday world gets. What have I done with it so far? The first thing I did was to turn my brain off.

Summer time can afford you the freedom of turning your brain off. Go to the beach for 17 hours with your toes in the sand while sipping a drink and a shift will occur within you. Well, if you’re lucky enough it will. You relax. By the way, it’s not the alcohol that does it either.

Whimsical, carefree and breezy. That’s my idea of a true vacation. It‘s one where you can invoke a certain state of mind.  I was buying a ton of new clothing at the Emerald Square mall today and I was walking and purchasing in an easy lighthearted manner. Even competing with the rest of humanity driving on Route 1 in Attleboro, I was still buoyant. Now compare that with a vacation in Ibiza or the Caymans. A sunny attitude can be had anywhere and it’s probably the only thing that does matter, no matter where you are, doesn’t it?

My sprightliness has returned. I haven’t seen that in a long while. I’m going to make an effort to incorporate that…and a few other changes.

Narcissim and Christ on the Cross (sort of...)

I love taking psychological tests. I love reading about myself. Why not? In today’s age the entire country is about narcissism and it’s high time I jumped on board. Sing it with me, loud and proud…”ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME!”

The pop tests you can find on the internet don’t really measure anything. The better ones have reliability and validity tests done on them to make sure they actually work. Those particular tests actually do measure what’s inside of you.

One personality quirk about me is that I can throw myself into helping other people. Well, I’m not surprised by that since I started my career out of college in the social work world. But as you age, you learn why you are the way you are. And personalities beyond the age of 20 are pretty much set in concrete.

I had a conversation with a co-worker about this. I told her there are two types of people in the world. The nurses and the nursed.

There are those of us, who w/o thinking, help. It’s a knee jerk reaction. We help anyone who’s down. But, the problem with that is…are those who fail to walk upright on their own. Those people, who are quite capable of leading their own lives, give them over to someone else to lead. WE carry them. We nurse them. And like any fool, we learn too late when to drop their sorry asses into the dirt and realize that they’ll never learn to stand on their own. They were in no need of any “nursing” at all. They never wanted to lead their own lives.

We “nurses” need a triage system where we can correctly diagnose the wounded. We can list them as: Truly injured, Slightly injured, Needing a shoulder to cry on, needing someone to talk to. And…Faking it so bad because they just want out of working/being responsible/dishonest/unreliable…ok..you get the picture.

I”ve become better at this…and some I know have as well too.

I probably will never lose this aspect of my personality…and I don’t want to. It’s what makes me who I am to the very core. Though it’s tempered with some practical realties that there are those who will never learn to “grow up.” I will spend my precious efforts on those who need it.

Yakkity yak....

So, what can I talk about now? I’ve thought about loyalty to a corporate job, my inability to drink more than four beers now or say psychological affairs.

I’ll do all three.


Years ago, and I mean YEARS ago. My dad was what you would call a “company man.” He came out of the Korean war, got a CPA degree from Bryant U and was hired by First Federal Savings and Loan down in Providence. He started as a teller and through time kept climbing the ladder; loan officer, operations manager, VP then was finally voted in as CEO by the board. He lived and finally died there.

I remember the contract he was given to sign before he was finally installed as CEO. In it, there was a mention of his “loyalty” and “perseverance” to the company. With that, he was knighted. He would tell me that with enough time, hard work and sincerity I could attain a position like his when I grew up.

My Dad would be rat meat in today’s business world. In all my dealings with large organizations, I’ve never seen loyalty ever being paid back. Today it’s “What you done for us lately?” Your career success seems to be provisional, week to week.

******

Drinking. I can watch others pour it down , stumble and fall and somehow keep going. I cannot even come close to that. They say alcohol is a depressant and god, it is ever for me. I get enough beer into me and all I want to do next is crawl into my bed. This is a good thing. I’ve seen how others careen their lives into one wall after the other with their ability to “stomach their liquor.”

I do like the buzz it provides however. Generally I’ll loosen up and actually talk more. But to throw up Maker’s Mark through my nose? Forget it!

Also…

I once witnessed this girl who was busted twice for DWI. It cost her Dad $12,000 to get her “off” on both charges. Jesus H. Christ…$12,000. I’ve made this black comment to others before and I do stick to it. I’m not worried about sliding my car into a school bus full of kids, I do worry about hiring an attorney to mitigate the awful circumstances the State surely would like to crucify me with.

　

*****

When I want to, I can sit and listen to anyone go on…and on…and on about their personal lives. This patience was taught to me from an old career where you learn not to automatically respond to whatever someone can throw at you. You become aware of your own reactions and learn to quiet them down.

At my age, I can come across marrieds or those in long term relationships where they can open up, connect and develop a tighter emotional connection with me versus their husbands/boyfriends. It’s something to see really. Relationships that are utter deserts with little or no feelings involved. The girl stays put due to the financial DIS-incentive to leave. It’s even worse for marrieds as the girl can end up on the short end of the deal in a divorce. Yet, even though they choose to stay put, they still seek out someone to connect to. Welcome to my couch, please feel free to free associate and you won’t get charged the $80 an hour at a therapists office.

The best relationship, the most successful one I’ve ever seen was this couple who were dating for over 10 years. They refused to get married or move in with one another. They kept each other’s apartments and visited each other when they felt like it. They were the most relaxed couple I’ve seen. She never came to me to bitch, talk or whatever about her life!

Here’s something I heard a few years back about a marriage vow that I though was very cool indeed. A friend attended an outside wedding in some fields up in Douglas, MA by a lake. A perfect day I was told. When they came to the part in the traditional marriage vows you hear all the time, they changed it from this:

“from this day forward I promise you these things. I will laugh with you in times of joy and comfort you in times of sorrow. I will share in your dreams, and support you as you strive to achieve your goals. I will listen to you with compassion and understanding, and speak to you with encouragement. I will remain faithful to our vows for better or for worse, in times of sickness and health. You are my best friend and I will love and respect you always.”

To this:

“from this day forward I do not promise you these things. I may laugh with you in times of joy and comfort you in times of sorrow. I might share in your dreams, and support you as you strive to achieve your goals. I might listen to you with compassion and understanding, and speak to you with encouragement. I might remain faithful to our vows for better or for worse, in times of sickness and health. You are my best friend and I will love and respect you as far as I can.”

The whole point behind that, was that in promising NOT to promise, if the marriage should die of whatever reason, neither party can feel gyped as there were NO guarantees ever made.

That let both of them off the hook. What maturity!

Anger Management 101

If you know me well enough you’ll know that if you comment on a personal fault that I know isn’t true, I’ll just brush it off and never give it a second thought because I know it to be false. If the comment is true, then I’ll stew over it for a good hour and be very quiet.

A few nights ago in my watering hole I was talking general business, politics and whatnot to the owner when he made a comment that I vehemently agreed with.

T says, “College today isn’t worth it. The kids coming out of Boston are $100,000 in debt at a rate of nearly 9%…You could do better by becoming a plumber.”

That’s when I nearly rose out of my seat, sticking my finger in T’s face and rather forcefully said, “YOU’RE RIGHT! Those greedy bastards, those banks, are the ones who love enslaving you forever with their debt!!”

My reaction, to others, seemed over the top. To me? It was right in line with my leftist political ranting. Angry young man of my youth is “angry approaching 50 man.” Believe me, my life in whole has toned down a lot now that I’ve hit soft middle age. But…BUT…my views on how this country should operate are still hot.

“For fuck’s sake Ron, I’m only talking here…” says T.

Yeah, he was right…we were just talking. This wasn’t a pulpit to be preaching from.

I wasn’t always like this…

I have a friend, who was a Commander in the Navy and had taught me the art of “barking.” When an officer feels like dressing down a subordinate, you raise your voice and very clearly say what you wish to say. It’s not an emotional, off the handle yelling tirade. It’s a controlled, reason-filled near shout. You keep unbroken eye contact and never swear or you‘ll blow it. I have watched my friend turn to mush nearly everyone he’s managed to set his sights on. It can be pretty devastating. His having a career in the Navy as a bridge officer gave him much experience to do this correctly.

This trick has come in handy as I rag on bank managers, auto mechanics and any other person who manages to push that one button I have. And that ONE button is hard to push. But that’s another story…

Not only was I taught this, but I got to see him use it in so many instances I realize that he can be an angry fuck looking to unload on someone. Ah well, we all have our faults. I noticed I was beginning to ape this behavior in him. Uh-oh!

I had better choose my time and place more carefully when my revolutionary zeal fires up.

Mother Nature

The above photo is pretty cool, huh? Now you know what a miles and miles of smashed forest in Massachusetts looks like from 500 miles up.

I’ve never been, seen or even been remotely close to a tornado touchdown. Though the curious, twisted 12 year old boy in me would like to see one, from a good mile away. I guess it’s like watching a NASCAR race crash up. Rhode Island isn’t known for these storms, are they?

My only close brush with nature that nearly killed me happened when I was eight years old. My friend at the time Rick W. and I were on my street, trying to one up one another about the fact neither of us were afraid of a thunderstorm that was rolling by above us. That’s was pretty common as the boys in our neighborhood tried to prove we weren’t afraid of nuttin’.

It was strange thunderstorm, there was no rain nor any heavy wind, but plenty of cloud to cloud lightning strikes that boomed like God’s Own Bell. I think they used to call these “electrical storms” back then, if there ever was such a designation. This storm just flashed and banged for a good fifteen minutes before the “event” happened.

I can clearly remember. I was turning towards Rick’s house when I heard a weird snapping sound and seeing sparks explode from his bike that was lying on the lawn. I then remember I then turned toward my house and ran home SCREAMING like a little girl. As I was turning the corner of my house, I ran into my Dad who reached out his arm and scooped me up a bit and I fought him like a tiger to get into the house. I was yelling how I was nearly hit but it was obvious he didn’t see it and didn’t believe me. I made it inside and found Mom and spastically told her what had happened. She brushed it off thinking I was just plain scared from the storm itself.

About a minute later, Peggy Burns, who lived next door called up and asked my Mom was I alright. Finally, I had proof I wasn’t making the story up. Peggy said she saw a thin bolt of lightning hit the telephone pole and a second even thinner branch hit Rick’s bike. My Mom had turned towards me with this look of shock as she was getting the real story.

“SEE! SEE! I WAS NEARLY HIT!!” I kept saying.

My brother, on the other hand, just teased the hell out of me for acting like a little girl about it. Ah…what does he know?

To this day, I don’t like those storms that spray lightning all over the place, I still count out the flash to thunder in seconds to wonder how damn close it is.

The World at 3 MPH

“Nobody Walks in LA.” A song done by Missing Persons came to my mind today. I had to drop off my car on Broadway in Pawtucket to get some work done and walked the two miles back home. I never walk now and haven‘t for years. I drive the four blocks to the Pakistani store if I want Tic Tacs.

You miss a lot when you drive. I think most of us have driven routes so familiar that we can do it thinking about what we need to do tomorrow and pay no attention to what we drive through. I can.

But, walking back home, I got to see things at a slower pace and up close. I passed by an old cemetery that was populated by people whose first names that are never used now. Edwin, Jedidiah and there was one Percival that was buried there. These guys died before 1920. Then as now, you can tell who had some cash and who didn’t. The larger and more ornate the headstone, the more bucks. Then you’d see a crop of little limestone headstones with just the first initial of the person followed by the last name. That entire poor family was buried about 30 feet from a main road and train tracks. The last one died in 1902. The headstones were no bigger than desktop computer.

As I went on, I walked past the rail depot of Teknor Apex. They were using these huge vacuum hoses attached under the train that sucked out the powdered polyvinylchloride into three 100 foot silos. You see rusting steel latticework , old hurricane fences and dandelions sprouting up alongside them. For once I didn’t smell plastic. I could as a kid when air quality measures were a joke. Teknor Apex is probably that last of the old sprawling acreage type factories here. The other businesses I saw were smaller, hole in the wall types. I had no idea there was a small apparel shop dedicated to evening gowns for beauty pageants. That and someone still trying to make a dollar doing typing services. That was odd to see.

What I see driving around here but pay no mind to are the young mothers walking their little kids. I passed a few and they talk to you! “Good morning!” one Mom said and I halted for a half second before I responded, a bit surprised. Wow, people you pass on the road can sometimes greet you.

And the smells. The only smell I get in my car are stale cigarettes, transmission fluid leaking from a quart bottle and that faint hint of gasoline. On the streets I was walking I was hit with smells I knew as a kid. There is a house here where the same rhododendron I remember as a kid is still growing and it’s in bloom. I had forgotten about that creosote smell railroad ties have, but it was drifting up to my face as I was stepping from one to the other. Finally, when I reached my neighborhood, that house on Legris St still has that huge pine tree oozing sap, and that was fuming in the morning air. I used to walk by that each morning on my way to school a few hundred centuries ago.

There is a world out there within a two mile radius of this house, and I had forgotten about it.

(and on a happy note, the tire place called me to let me know that the price they’re charging me for two tires and an alignment, is actually pretty fair!)

Battle Hardened Kids

How Did We Survive?

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can and didn't get tested for diabetes. My Mom smoked. Then after birth, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints with bars wide enough to stick our little heads through and strangle on.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, no locks on doors or cabinets. I can remember as a kid the product “Janitor in a Drum” that looked like wonderful lime-ade that was under the kitchen sink cabinet. I never drank it though but it was accessible. When we rode our bikes, we had no helmets. My friends envied Evel Knievel and we built ramps to jump garbage cans with our bikes. More than a few of us landed badly. Cars of that time had no air bags whatsoever and the seat belt in the back seat was stuffed under the back cushion as it was an annoyance.

I drank the awfully chlorinated Pawtucket water from a polypropylene hose. Bottled spring water from Maine then? Never heard of it. Four of us would drink Coke from the same bottle and I don’t remember anyone contracting anything.

We ate those pink Hostess Snowballs, white bread and real butter and everything was full of sugar, but we weren't overweight because......

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on. Mom’s of that time thought we were “underfoot” and shoved us out the door at every chance. We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem. Trial and error didn’t kill us.

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes nor video games at all. We had three major networks and fuzzy UHF channels. We had no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms. We had friends and imaginations instead.

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no lawsuits from these accidents. We played in the dirt and probably had numerous microscopic thingys crawling on us from that. As kids, we all should’ve received Purple Hearts for wounds. I can remember falling off a 40 foot railroad trestle into a disgusting algae filled river. I was sideswiped by a moving car when I was eight while riding my bike. Mikey fell off his bike and smacked the pavement so hard he was knocked out.

We made up games with sticks and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out any eyes. The same goes for BB guns.

Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Everyone was not a “winner.“ Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. There were no “Thanks For Participating” trophies then. Imagine that!!

We fought one another. Boys vs. boys and girls vs. boys. There was plenty of equality between the sexes then when it came to dirt yard scuffles. Over some argument when I was nine, I had smacked Gail S. across the face. She responded by gut punching me when I wasn’t looking. I saw Carrie M. swing a pool skimmer into John’s face about something I forget now. Yes, we were a violent bunch of rug rats at times then.

None of us died, no of us became deathly ill and we had FUN.

I’m 47 years old, not quite 50. There are times when I am startled by that fact, if I live, that I will turn 50. For some reason, I never thought it would happen!


What a landmark birthday that can be. I suppose being 50 is a lot easier than turning 50. Then again, most of the excitement or dread at turning a certain age was forgotten the next day. Life isn’t that different when you cross an arbitrary line drawn in the sand.


What have I noticed about this age? You pile on such experiences that you can read people’s faces and discern the truth pretty quick. Also, you can easily see the authenticity in another person even if they’re unaware of their source of who-they-are. You can’t help but recognize the same ol’ facial expressions or speech people use again and again. People are people and they repeat things a lot.


Fun is different now. When you’re a kid, you can have fun with wild abandon without any judgment. There’s nothing wrong with getting filthy or imagining your day away.
Then, you hit your teens and you and everyone else seems to be hell bent on being seen having fun. Never mind the joy itself, as long as you can prove that you did have it. How many stories did you tell or hear others tell about weekends? Each weekend seems to be more berserk than the last. This doesn’t really abate till your in your late 30’s I swear, from what I’ve said and what others my age then said as well. Now, I could care less what others think of my idea of “fun.”


My idea of fun is more in tune with what I want versus any conformity to the people I know. I can be on my roof toying with an FM antenna array even though I look like some ham radio geek. So what… I LIKE IT.


Now I can care a little less how fashionable my clothes are, how I’m supposed to behave or what I can talk about or even if I’m cool. This is the compensation I get for getting older. I can publicly sneeze and have a clot of snot unexpectedly come flying out. Oh well, those things happen. Had I been 25 in a nightclub and did that, I’d be banished to Siberia.

I’ve had a conversations with someone who has a similar desire as I do, to live away from the insanity of the city and pressures of a career dominated life. Traffic, other people, things everyone wants done yesterday and having to fix other people’s problems that contaminate your own life, be it work or home seem never ending.



His is to live by the ocean that is slightly populated. Mine is to live by a lake or at least deep into the woods in similar fashion. This has been pulling at me since I was ten years old.


I was reminded of this last night when I watched a movie called Black Robe. It’s about a Jesuit priest trying to form a mission among the Hurons in Quebec back in the 1600’s. There were appealing shots of canoes paddled along high cliffs and scenes of deep woods. Above all of this, everything was hushed. Saguenay Quebec seems wonderful!


It’s funny how movies, with me at least, can invoke that feeling of peace. I’ve had this feeling with several other movies showing similar landscapes. Never Cry Wolf showed the Alaskan tundra, Jeremiah Johnson displays the Grand Tetons and The Last of the Mohicans opens up with a fog covered Shenandoah Valley. My just looking at a film of it can make me contented.


Have I actually experienced it? Sure. Don’t think I just live vicariously via movies. One time a ways back I was on an escarpment of Mt St Helen’s mountain. It was the south side, the side that wasn’t blown to little bits and still had a forest. It was a late July afternoon and I sat down among this field of alpine-like flowers and grass and looked south along the Cascades. The only noise I heard was the wind. After about an hour I had forgotten about many things in my life. My job, the need to drive back to Portland later or the worry of getting to the airport to drop off the rental and bolt to the concourse to pre-board. These things slipped away, for a while at least. If I had a blood pressure cuff I can bet my BP had dropped to slightly below normal then.


Dreams are free, that’s what is great about them. But they remain just that, dreams. They have as much consequence as the thin air. But, and thanks to my Dad for this piece of advice, if you want to create something in your life, plan it. Break it down to manageable pieces and work towards it. Realize you’ll be hampered by obstacles and the like but always focus on that goal. Eventually you can realize it.