We Already Know the Answer

I know a young woman who was minding her own business, going about her day, when the actions of fools ruined that day for her. It's possible they've ruined the next month for her as well. K was driving to work. Behind her, as I'm told, two boys were in a race, speeding up fast behind her. One of them misjudged the distance and clipped her car, sending it airborne into telephone pole, severely injuring her.

She'll survive. The injuries she sustained will take some time to heal though. Knowing her age, her disposition, I am confident she'll make it. She has strength but I'm sure she would rather forgo this test in tenacity. Who would want to prove their grit this way? She never asked for this. She has nothing to prove in my estimation.

When I found out she was hurt, and badly, my first reaction was “Jesus Christ...she's way too young, to young to leave us.” I was then told she'd make it so that threat was off. Once I heard about the details of the crash, I then started thinking about how no matter how carefully you plan your life, make well thought out, prudent decisions, something out of nowhere can come and smash that all up. It's sort of like that freak meteor that blew up over that Russian town, splattering people with blown out window pane shards.

“No Fair!” I'd shout as a six year old, over some injustice, only to be told to shut up because something or someone with more power lorded it over me. Damn right it's no fair. K didn't deserve this nor did those in Russia. But it happened anyway.

Life can say, ”We'll tell you what's fair and that's THAT.

For me, the trick here is to realize there's no safety really. You can't know the future in detail nor plan for it in particular. You can sort of generalize about it, but that's as deep as you can look into a crystal ball. The specifics are indistinct. So live as you wish since it all can be taken away in an instant.

We live minute to minute. We get our information about our world right then and there and then we can adjust. If we're lucky, we get a heads up, but it's rare. Take it as it comes, they say. But you and I can't “take it as it comes” when we're served shit on a platter. We hate it. I suppose we could take that annoyance, convert it into motivation to make the best of a bad situation.

Perhaps that's the best answer we have.

K will overcome this. She has the benefit of youth and prior experience of dealing with BS. She won't enjoy the struggle. Nor would I. But she, you and I know the only answer is to “go forward.” You know of the Phoenix bird myth? You see it played out countless times in real life. A mythical bird that is reborn after being destroyed by fire, again and again and again. The ashes coalesce to give rise to a new bird.

K is a Phoenix. So are we all. It's an easy choice. We've practiced this since we've been kids.

Savoy Truffle

Italian voters, who had to bear imposed austerity (doing with less and hating it), have told the ECB to shove it and voted their Prime Minister Monti out. Of course, the rich holders of Italian debt freaked out and sent the markets crashing yesterday. They are bitching that Italy is “ungovernable” now. Ungovernable in that Italian citizens aren't staying bent over and liking it.

 

But that's dreary. Instead I'll talk about candy.

 

I'm an internet addict. I love my information and I read it all. I was looking up a candy my Dad loved and once tried to get me to love. Real black licorice.

 

Real black licorice, if eaten too much, can cause heart arrhythmia. The CDC warns that eating two ounces of the stuff can make your heart do the rumba. So the good stuff has been tempered down a bit, in the US at least. But the Europeans and Australians don't step on it at all. You get the 100% heart kicking licorice.

 

I did find the licorice he liked. It was the good old fashioned kind that melted like tar in your mouth and makes your heart tap dance. They shaped it into a Scottish Terrier dog and hence, they were known as Scotties.

 

I must've been around six when he brought a bag of the vile stuff home. He sat at the kitchen table, chucking Scottie after Scottie into his mouth while reading the paper. He then offered me a piece and the smell of it reached my nose before I popped it into my mouth. Ugh! I tried it though as his insistence.

 

“Good huh? I love them. Don't you?” he said.

 

I chewed it and wanted to spit the mess out onto the kitchen floor but I couldn't to do that. I nodded my head “yes” and made a beeline to the front door and heaved that gloop right onto the front lawn. Not only did it taste bad but it looked like hell on the grass as well. It sort of reminded me of an oil spill.

 

I may have rinsed my mouth out too.

 

But all licorice ain't bad. The red Swizzlers I can eat a whole bag of if I'm not paying attention.

 

Remember these? Fruit slices made into candy. Those I loved when my grandmother would buy them. The cherry ones especially. Now look at all that granulated sugar! A dentist's dream. My grandmother was an Irish immigrant and LOVED candy. I suppose it's an English cultural importation but from what she told me, there wasn't much sugar to be had in the backwater of Annagh, Rosscommon where she grew up. In 1904 it wasn't available and you weren't foolish enough to spend what little you had on expensive sugar. To her delight when she emigrated, she found the United States had tons of cheap, sugary candy. She came to the US when she was twenty and lost all her teeth by the time she was fifty. Guess why?

 

I thought this one a goof, Mary Janes. I thought, "why name a candy after a codename for marijuana?" I haven't seen these in years really. If you forget them in your pocket during the summer, they melted and bonded to your jeans like glue.

 

In this picture are those wax bottles full of flavored, sugary liquid. I used to buy those from a small corner store run by Jim Brodeur. Jim Brodeur looked exactly like a toad and sat on a three legged stool most of the day in his store. He was a grumpy ol' toad on his lily pad for sure. If he moved, you'd call up a priest to say you had witnessed a miracle. He had NO patience for we kids as we peered into the glass case at his candy selection.

 

“I ain't got all day!” he'd bark. Or, “You got enough money?”

 

Back to the bottles.

 

I'd get them but never, NEVER would chew the paraffin wax. I knew kids who would chew and then swallow it. Gross! Those kids I knew would eat anything too, I remember. We had various discussions about what would happen to you if you did swallow it though. It ranged from nothing at all to a two day diarrhea session. I never bothered to find out.

 

The only time I did see someone react to sweets was Jimmy M. He had purchased a whole half gallon of bubble gum ice cream and ate it all in one setting. Bubble Gum Ice Cream was multicolored and filled with tiny Chicklett gum pieces. He scarfed it down like a dog worried that someone else would snatch it. He was sort of right as we would beg one another for piece of candy or gum if the other had it. Well, it didn't work out too well for Jimmy. Ten minutes later he ralphed it all back up. We kids thought it made an interesting pattern on the sidewalk, all Technicolor and wavy like you melted a bunch of Crayola crayons. It proved to be a great ball bustin' joke on Jimmy for a good three days after.

 

I haven't been a candy freak since I was a kid. I can only say that if I discount the liquid sugar treat I guzzle every day, Coke. But, in general, I don't eat much candy now.

 

Since I was hopping all over the retro candy sites last night, it put the idea in my head to find something I used to get as a kid. Today I bought some of these below, Spice Drops. I gave three to the dog and scarfed the whole bag down in one hour.

 

 

Extra bonus points if you get the title to this piece! Hint: The  Mauve Album.

The First Five MInutes

It feels as if I'm hurtling straight up from somewhere very deep. Then it comes to a total stop without whiplash. My eyes open and I am now awake.

 

This feeling doesn't happen all the time, but I can go from lightly dreaming in my sleep to wide awake in what feels like seconds. I was lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling wondering what time it was. The house is dark and I hear the rain pattering the siding. Ah I think, it's still Sunday and they did predict rain. With this I can fixate my spot on the map. Sunday. Home. Rain. Quiet. It must be late afternoon and you've awaken from a nap.

 

I lie there, enjoying the stillness for once instead of jumping out of bed. Rain bands come and I can hear the pelting rise and then fall a few minutes later. The drain spout outside my window will start gurgling louder now, after this burst of rain. I like the sound.

I keep still. Any movement will warn the dog and he'll jump up with his silly, happy abandon when he realizes that I'm not dead. I swear he has celebrated every single time I've gotten up. I should be thankful about that, but having a boisterous welcoming party next to your bed every morning isn't my idea of easing into the day. So, I keep still.

 

I'm nicely cocooned in this bed and feel tingly as well. The TechLoft quilt I have has keeps me nearly stinging warm, not a bad feeling in winter. I listen closely for any of the usual neighborhood sounds but hear none. Everyone else has done what I have done, and that's to rustle deeper into your nest. Why go out into 35 degree rain if you can avoid it?

 

As my mind clears and shakes off the sleepiness, I run the calendar in my head. “What do you have to do now?” I think, scan and remember that there's nothing of import to get done, the day's chores were done hours ago. Freedom!

 

I finally rustle the quilt and swing my legs out of bed, nearly smacking the dog as he has quickly bolted straight up, from where he sleeps, which is right by me on the floor. I sit there, trying to move my dog's twenty pound Neanderthal skull off my lap. Where he learned to plop his head in my lap after I sit up I do not know. We do this every time. This is part of his celebrating I suppose.

 

I don't turn on the lights, I seem to prefer it dark. I go to the West front window and look out. Everything's slick and dark. The street pavement shines. I see the snow is melting and I quietly cheer to myself, “Yes! Get rid of it!” I go to the East window on the other side, yes, same blackness and slick shine to everything. That's OK because I'm dry and beaming warm still from the NASA quilt I own.

 

I walk by the darkened den and see the computer and monitor LED's blinking away. The living room's stereo does the same, little Christmas lights winking on and off. I finally get to the bathroom, to do you-know-what. I have much Coca Cola in me and it wants out. The dog still thinks he can follow me in, after eight years of being told “No!” With a thud, he'll plop on the floor and wait for me.

 

After this, I go to the living room, sit on the couch and stretch halfway out. My eyes dimly focus on the ceiling above and I notice how damned relaxed I am. Great!

Busted!

Rake: noun. One devoted to a life of sensual pleasure; a debauchee; usually a man who is morally unrestrained; a Roue.

 

 

*****

That word was used to describe a friend of my brother's a long time ago, Kevin. Before I learned that, a 'rake' was a tool for gathering up fallen leaves. He was a rake alright, and a good one too. He was one of these guys who fell on the Earth with natural good looks, an affable manner and if girls were close to him, you could nearly hear their ovaries rattling. He used these talents to schtup as many of these women as he could.

Well, Kevin became fairly successful managing a bond desk for a large financial interest in downtown Providence. He found “the” girl and got married. Portia (no joke, that was her first name) was a professor who taught at Brown University's Alpert School of Medicine and they settled into the upper middle class life. A few kids came along the way eventually too. They lived off Blackstone Blvd in a Tudor style house that wasn't garish at all. In fact, it was one of the smaller homes you'd see over there. It was a nicely kept, cozy home surrounded by high English gardens that hid it from the street.

From outward appearances, it all looked stable and perfect.

Once again, my estimation of people was clouded by the fact I didn't know the entire story.

I was invited, just once, to one of their brunches. They held these brunches every Sunday and it was Kevin and Portia's family and one from down the street. I was the new addition that day.

The visiting family included a pretty sixteen year old girl, a boy of about twenty who was home from college and their Dad. Dad was this nearly too loud, gregarious sort who I found out was a managing salesman for a pharmaceutical company. I watched him, in front of everyone there, comically and jokingly poke fun at his son for not having the cutest girlfriend that could be had at Rutgers. That degenerated into Dad busting his son's balls for not having a girl friend at all. I thought this kind of cruel and began wondering about these “near rich” people. The son would parry his Dad's not so hidden insults with, “Dad, I'm too busy with classes for that!” No matter, you could tell his Dad thought his son should always be on the Dean's List, a Letterman for some team, and have the prettiest girl as well. I guess the son wasn't interested in being a god damn number one success in everything he did.

But that display wasn't what struck me.

I caught Kevin, staring at this guy's sixteen year old daughter. It was one of those hypnotic stares, a hungry stare a guy will give when he sees a pretty girl. She was a pretty girl. She had a dewy appearance about her, and a healthy does of innocence as well. Kevin locked onto her and wouldn't let go.

The young girl was oblivious to it. She kept eating her food, jumped into the conversation as she did and remained unaware of Kevin's drooling. Kevin, by the way, was 43 years old.

I kept darting my eyes to Kevin, then to her and back to Kevin to watch this show. Also, I wanted to see if this young girl would catch on. She didn't. As I was watching this, I then felt someone looking at me. I looked up and as saw that Portia, Kevin's wife who was standing against a wall near the table, was watching me watch her husband. She then darted her eyes away and lo and behold, her avoidance of me betrayed it all. She knew that I knew her husband was eating up this young girl with his eyes.

This scene confirmed an earlier conversation I had about Kevin with Portia. I told her that Kevin, along with a girl I knew a long time ago, Kelly, were the only two I've known that were masters when it came to social situations. Either one could walk into a room of strangers and in about five minutes, lead them all, be well liked and have the room rapt upon them. These two were that good. These were social butterflies who finally gained a Ph.D.

Portia sighed and commented, “Yeah...Kevin is very social.

I guess Kevin never did stop being a rake. I wonder how many other women he had while being married the entire time?

See what happens when you get the facts? Your initial conclusions about people can be way off! I thought this family was happy and successful. I guess there was more to be found once you peeled away that Boston Ivy that grew halfway up their house to see underneath! The English gardens, the wonderful careers, the right cars and all the other superficial trappings don't tell you the whole story.

I was never invited back. I guess Portia wasn't too keen on my learning anything else about the family.

Dirty Minded Young Teen

Last night, I was talking to Don about the schools we had gone to. He then was a bit surprised to find out I went to Goff Jr High here in Pawtucket.

He asks, “My Mom taught at Goff. What years did you go there?”

“1977-1979...what was her last name” I ask.

“Mrs York.”

The name sounds awfully familiar to me. I then ask him on a hunch if his Mom taught French classes. He said she had. It then all came flooding back to me.

“You're Mom was Mrs York? Wow, do I have a story about her!”

The guy looks at me suspiciously. I then start the story by apologizing because it will involve sexual references to his dear, Sainted Mother.

“I pulled a bit of a joke on your Mom back then. She had set herself up for a joke and I leaped at it. I knew I could get away with it because of a double entendre.”

I continue the conversation and explain to him how the joke I pulled set itself up.

In French classes, you learn the verbs by conjugating them. Here's an example.

The word “finish” in French is finis. Here's how you conjugate it.

Je finis. Tu finis Il finnit (I finish, you finish, he finishes)

Nous finnisons Vous finisez Ils finnisent (We finish, you finish (formal) and they finish)

Do you remember how teachers would ask a question to the whole class, and then pick out someone randomly to answer it? Mrs York did that to me one Friday in that French class of so long ago.

She was pacing back and forth in the front of the class, firing questions out when she asks, “What does the verb “venir” mean?” She pauses some and then looks at me...”Ron?”

I knew the answer and I also saw a way to goof on her as well.

Venir in French means to “come,” as in “come here.”

So I answer her with a strong emphasis on a particular word. I say, with all gusto, “It means to CUM.” Come, cum...what difference is there in pronunciation? I could totally get away with saying it. I sat there, looking innocent as can be too.

You know when someone hears something and they stall for a full, complete one second before they flow and move on again? A fat pregnant pause? Mrs York sure paused. She stalled, pondered for that full second at the way I answered the question, and went on with the lesson. I secretly sat there trying not to laugh my ass off. Oddly enough, none of the other kids in her class caught it. I guess it being late Friday, they were all half asleep, waiting for the bell.

Don looks at me with the strangest face. I then have to remind myself that I was talking about his Mom. I then quickly have to explain the times and situation once again so he doesn't feel too insulted.

“Hey, I was 14 then...there was no attempt at besmirching your Mom, just a joke...”

He was OK once I reminded him.

But then he pulls out his phone and starts texting.

“What's your last name again?” he asks.

I tell him and guess exactly what he's doing, he's texting his Mom this story.

“Hey, tell her I apologize! Really...I mean it...It was just a joke, I was just a kid then.” I say

After a few minutes, he hands the phone to me. On it was this and sort of paraphrased.

“Ron! It's nice to hear from you again. So you DID know what you were doing that day! It's ok, 14 year old boys are allowed to say stupid things. I'm glad you met my son. Wow, I can still remember you from 34 years ago. I hope you are doing well!”

It really is a very small world!

Tyranny

I can remember my Dad advising me that, “If you are loyal to the company you work for, put in the hard work needed, then advancement, growth and success will come.”

It worked for him. It worked for him because back then, companies realized that keeping good people meant you had to give loyalty back to those who showed it to you. It was a two way street and those companies that practiced this held onto their best people. Business, if it were smart and saw beyond the next quarter's profit statements, took a longer and wider perspective.

Not for some companies though.

A friend, who works for a private energy interest, was asked to put in over two days worth of work during the recent blizzard. If getting into work was going to be a problem, and it was for many, then sleeping over and living there, would solve that. The company would have, at the minimum, people there to run the operations. The generators would run, data closely watched and any problems could be solved.

Now that the blizzard had peeled away to Nova Scotia, the work needed was done, things got back to normal. That until the director saw his labor costs for having people stay on twenty four hours a day. He then sought ways to cut the pay of those who agreed to stay on.

He wasn't going to pay them for the entire time they stayed.

This was against the implied agreement he made with the employees.

After a raucous argument and the promise that administration was going to dig their feet in the ground on this issue, the union was called. It was assumed that the union would yank the balls off administration if they attempted to do this. The people who stayed over would be paid.

Too late, the damage was done.

I was told that many were happy that the pay issue was solved, but they were focused on the very first reaction of management, which was to cut pay. The first, true and heartfelt action by the company was to screw their own people. This naked exposure of their disloyalty could not have been more openly displayed. They shown their authentic selves in the brightest of light.

“Fuck.Them.And.What.They.Want.” was the response heard from more than a few employees.

Team building does not include treating your own as adversaries.

As far as perception management? Any future attempts to say they want to nurture the “team” will be met with disbelief.

Had my Dad been alive and working at the plant, he would've been shocked. He'd leave and besmirch their name to any and whoever.

You can say that, “Well, times are different now.” I'd say 'yes and no' to that. Here's what's not different though, human nature. People are still going to react like they've always done.

Damned Annoying Conscience...

When much younger I'd leap at the chance to help someone. “No problem!” I'd say.

Well, after being taken and used by unscrupulous selfish pigs, I wised up. I started picking and choosing just who I'd rescue. There were many times I'd could've offered a helping hand but quietly held back, saving myself  the effort and grief.

Like every one else this morning, I kicked open the storm door as a snow drift had tried to entomb me in my own house. I managed to move a few feet out onto the sidewalk and stood there, gawking at the other, higher snow drifts, my buried car and the unplowed street.

“It's gonna take me half a day to dig that car out and the other half to dig the walkways out...shit.” I thought.

As I was inching along the sidewalk by my kitchen door, slinging the snow over, my neighbor, a much older, very alone women, chimes in from her upstairs window.

“Ronnnnnnie! Ronnnnnie! Could you dig me out?”

Immediately I turned around and said this: “I'll see what I can do old girl, this is one hell of a snowstorm.” And then broke off that conversation and back to shoveling. I said that to toss plenty of cold water on her idea. I quickly surmised that the TON of work shoveling would be doubled had I agreed to dig her out also.

So, I kept digging along, having a conversation with myself on whether I'd do it.

“Son of a bitch...it's bad enough I'm trying to burrow my way to the street...I have to do it again next door?”

I finished up, came in, pulled off my frozen jeans and sat down for a good two hours before I started noticing a nagging sound in my head.

“Ronnnnieee....”

I then think.

“She's near 80, she's weak, she can't escape, she feels trapped...Oh for God's sake...What else were you going to do today anyway? Watch TV? Clean the house? (Christ, I won't do that!), Blow time on the internet? Get out there and help her.”

So, back out I went. I dug away, tossing that heavy crap onto her lawn. I managed to free her to the yet unplowed street I live on. “Well, it gives her some sense of not being trapped.” I thought.

Perhaps, if I make it to near 80, someone might do this for me, I’ll need it then.

Pay it forward they say. But that doesn't mean I enjoyed it.

Schadenfreude

We all wear a face for the public, to our co-workers, friends and strangers. We put on an act. Even to the ones we are married to or have been friends with for decades. We have inside of us deficiencies and ancient offenses we slyly cover up.

 

It's all about social standing. Which, I swear, we start to learn in kindergarten. Then we are truly tasked with the tough job scrambling up the social ladder. It's somewhat surprising when someone throws down the gauntlet and becomes your enemy for the sake of competing against you. God, do we learn it early! Kurt Vonnegut once thought that childhood and the toys we buy them don't prepare them at all for what's to come. “I doubt that any playthings could prepare a child for one millionth of what is going to hit him in the teeth, ready or not.” I forget who said it but “high school” doesn't end at high school, you're playing that game till you get old and useless. I say it starts way earlier than that. You learn all about promoting what's good about you and hiding what's “bad” at an earlier age.

 

There are times now that I'll have a conversation and something will come up where I'll say, “Hey, I'm taking certain faults to the grave...no one will find those out!” Then I'll jokingly point an accusatory finger at my friend and add, “...and so will YOU!”

 

Before I had any real depth of experience with the world and people, I would genuinely be surprised at some revelation exposed in others. “Wow! I never imagined that about him/her!” Now it doesn't bug me in the least. Why? Because when you seen this occur countless times, it becomes ordinary. I'm reminded of the BTK killer out in Oklahoma. When interviewed, one of the neighbors was surprised. “He was such a nice man, so quiet and kept a nice lawn.” Well, no one who has a bag of hidden sins is going to parade that in public. Whether it be a guy who has a fetish for fur or you've murdered 34 people. Admitting you cuddle with mink or have murder implements in your home, sort of knocks your standing down with the community.

 

*****

 

I learned a bit of information about an acquaintance the other day. The guy struck me genuinely as a “nice guy.” My estimation of him wasn't incorrect as everyone else thought the same of him as well.

 

(This has nothing to do with this piece. I have Pandora radio on my headphones now and it's set to a Lite 70s rock station. I swear all that music was created out of the Alan Alda-types, Women's Lib and “sensitive male” thingy that was in vogue then.)

 

Anyways, back to the story.

 

This nice guy did love to put on a buzz with craft beers, or if he was broke, with cheap and lousy craft beer. I never did suspect he had a problem with alcohol. There are two kinds of alcoholics, functional ones and dysfunctional ones. Functional alcoholics manage to get good and greased on the weekends but can show up Monday ready for work. They also can maintain some steady control on their driving, relationships and the day to day chores that makes your life move along on a straight line. For these people, alcohol isn't a problem. This is what I thought this nice guy I'm talking about was all about.

 

I come to find out he was busted a week or so ago with a blood alcohol content that was outrageous. He scored above a .35 on a State Police breathalyzer. That's an Olympic feat! It would take far less to knock me out. I'd be in the gutter looking like a drowned, greasy looking rat. Some guys can pack it away I guess.

 

Other information came out about him. WJAR was more than willing to publish as much embarrassing information on him as they could. This guy had two prior DUI convictions as well. This, I never knew about.

 

Upon learning this, I had no surprise, no shock. I had no global change in my judgment of him. I just added that piece of information I know of him and filed it away like a bored office assistant. What did get my brain running were the costs of a lawyer to fight a third offense, which you can't when you register a BAC that's a near all-time-record on the Attorney General's computer database.

 

Good luck to him.

 

Had I been a much younger man, I would've been blown away by these revelations, even a bit snarky about his mistakes. It's very easy to feel good about yourself when you unfairly compare yourself to someone who has fallen. But now how do I react? It's no biggie. (I like using LA surfer talk!) What happens as you get older is that you learn finally that people are people and you aren't so quick to condemn.

 

What do I mean? I mean that after years of witnessing everything you have, you hopefully learn to stop that excoriating judgment. There's no need for witch burnings when damn near everyone screws up royally. I suppose you can shake your head at those who continually keep fucking up with same problems. However, even with that, you know how damned hard it is to change yourself too, so why point a finger and stamp “hypocrite” on your forehead.

 

What's the use of crucifying people in public? Those who demand and engage in the open destruction of the fallen, are just dumping all pent up rage, the stuff that's gone wrong in their lives. They have someone they can beat on with that old Freudian trick, displacement. If you can't take your anger, misery out on the person who injured you, you can find safer one to target. You want to find the most eager prick in a lynch mob who's salivating at the chance to vomit all their personal pain? It's the guy leading them, carrying the noose.

 

I'm no Bible Thumper, but the saying, “Judge not, lest ye be judged” makes a lot of sense.

 

You're going to want me on your jury someday.

Larger Than Life

“I bet you haven't done anything crazy in your whole life.” S. commented to me.

I thought to myself, “Huh? Where did that come from?.”

I tell him, “At my age...not anymore. I've done crazy before.”

“Yeah, but you look like you've never done it.” He counters with.

Oooh, that wasn't a well thought out comeback.

“Sure, with the way I look now, with my graying hair and ever lengthening crow's feet. You assume I've always been this age and never once was young. After a while, crazy isn't as cracked up as you think it is...and I'm not about to disclose some of the wilder things I've done either.”

I turn back to to what I was doing and say under my breath to myself, “Punk!”

Everything isn't “awesome” nor “epic.” Those of that crowd are searching for this, plain excitement. They remind me of bored kids of wheat farmers in flat and dull Nebraska. For some reason, those in that generation seem bored by everything anyways. Even if they were brought up in a major city where you can get anything you want. I guess after having a lifetime of seeking an excited endorphin fix has ironically numbed them. Each fix gives less and less of a kick. I swear, most are too weary to go and locate real action and instead, they use words to drudge up a monotonous memory of when they did get off on doing something that was “epic” and apply that to some mundane thing they've recently accomplished.

“Awesome.” That word comes from “awe inspiring.” I'm sorry, but getting so drunk that I vomit through my nose outside a nightclub doesn't produce awe in me, instead it makes me feel distressed. Nor do relating stories where I slid my car into a telephone pole, then a 100 year old oak tree, make me feel qualified for a medal. Though I've known some who wear their silly and very expensive escapades, as a badge of honor.

“I had projectile vomiting on the inside of my windshield that hid what I was seeing. That's why I crashed into the Quicke Mart! I'm so fuckin' awesome!”

Know how I judge that amazing experience? I think, “You're a fuck up!”

You know, if you do re-frame your quite obvious and avoidable mistakes in your life as “epic-ness,” then you are a hero and can feel quite good about yourself.

I found a great site, called Urban Dictionary. In it, all possible slang or idioms that have been or is in use now is sarcastically defined. Below is a European's view on the word “awesome.”

Awesome: The American adjective. A concept, object or act whose worth lies somewhere between non-objectional and life changing. Also, a word whose meaningful definition(s)and correct applications are now obscured and have been raped to death mostly by the 25 and under crowd. It has been overused as "the" catch phrase used to describe a situation, person, event, movie, taking a shit, etc. The abuse and birth as a catchphrase has its origins among avid gamers and pretentious English majors.

Example:

We defeated Hitler. Awesome!

We have potato chips. Awesome!

You want epic-ness? Go to Syria and walk the streets of Aleppo as a jeans wearing, blonde looking American, you'll see and witness awesom-ness on a scale you never dreamed of!

And I'll answer to one epic and awesome experience we did as bored teenagers. Apocalypse Now was a cool movie and Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore's comment on napalm got us rascally boys thinking, “Is it possible to make napalm?” It is.

Gasoline and Styrofoam is all you need, it'll gel the gas to a sticky mess. You stuff several gallons of that into a 4 inch PVC pipe and stuff a magnesium illumination flare into it (procured (stolen) by one of us whose Dad worked for the Coast Guard). Then cap both ends, take it to the back of Slater Park and yank the flare's ignition cord. Do remember to run like hell or things will go badly.

That was awesome That was epic.