I Wanna Be an Astronaut, a Fireman, a...

Most of the kids I knew in grammar school have scattered to the four winds. I may know the whereabouts of a couple but mostly, the information I have on most is non-existent or unreliable gossip. A few I heard about went on to greater things or ended up in prison. The majority turned into their parents and live nice middle class lives in and around Rhode Island

Today I finally got my hair cut. Had you seen it, it looked like a nice mop. I go to one of those old style barber shops populated by men who read the out dated magazines like Guns & Ammo, Hot Rod or an Auto Trader.  There's always the day's ProJo lying on a chair too.  What was weird is that there was a “Rhode Island Marriage” magazine. I'm not sure why there was this frilly magazine, aimed at dreamy 20 something girls, thinking of princess weddings, was doing in a "guys" barbershop. You can flip through it and be envious of the rich young who get married on the cliffs of Jamestown and have receptions at private homes in Newport, that are situated sixty feet from the high tidewater mark. 

But today there was a “Mom” there with a boy of about six in amongst all us guys waiting our turn for a cut. I felt uncomfortable a bit because she seemed to keep drilling me to the wall with her stare.

Finally she says, “Ron?”

Of course, I had no idea who this was. I finally had to stop her in her enthusiasm about seeing me again to ask her her name, Lisa D.

“Oh God...you remember me from the sixth grade?” I was surprised because when I was twelve I didn't have this shock of blinding white hair on the top of my head.

I ask if she was getting her son a haircut and she tells me no, she was doing this as a favor for her sister, who she was visiting this week.

She explains, “I'm in Manhattan still, I come up every now and again to see the family.”

So, we do what everyone does when you don't see each other for decades, you tell of your life story, condensed of course.

(As I write this, “I Think I Love You” is being sung by The Patridge Family in my headphones!)

She tells me she went to Brown U, then to Yale and spent her career as a senior risk management officer for Lehman Brothers in NYC, but not anymore. 

Great. I'm now shrinking a bit because this chick opposite of me probably has a bazillion more dollars than I have and to top it off, a career of promotions, world travel and all that crap.

I ask her about risk management in banking. “Oh, it's about due diligence, fiduciary responsibility, SEC compliance and the such. I also headed up the desk for our Cayman Islands Division.” I suspect she figured I didn't know Jack Shit about finance, so I turn the conversation to another tack.   I then ask if she was there when Lehman Brothers collapsed. The conversation suddenly gets a bit cooler.

“Yes.” is the answer I get, one word.

“From what I know of Lehman, didn't they have their fingers in all sorts of bad loans and deals that spanned the world? And when the last shoe fell, Lehman's exposure and “mark to fantasy” accounting caused it to nearly die in twenty-four hours?”

She's quiet as a mouse.

“Cayman Islands? Did you manage high net worth clients...you know...establish accounts for them in that 'tax jurisdiction?'” When I said that jurisdiction phrase, she shot a look right at me.

I smiled at her. I found it out. She was a senior level “risk management” officer whose job at the time at Lehman was to obfuscate everything.

“Lisa...it was nice to meet you again...and it's time to get my haircut.”

Yeah, I was an asshole. But I couldn't help it because here was one of those bankster types who, even though her particular contribution to this fiasco was small, was sitting before me, in a barber shop in Pawtucket.

I think most of us in sixth grade were fairly innocent, as far as humanity goes. Some of us ended up being drug dealers, criminals, Xray techs or business owners. Where our innocence ended up at our age now is a slight more different than it was then. Though some of us remained a bit more innocent than the rest.  

These places still exist.

Spring Can Arrive Any Day Now, Please.

One of winter's little annoyances are potholes. Usually they're not a big deal on side streets when you're driving less than 30mph. They're more fun if you smack them at 70mph though.

I was on 95 North, nearing the Providence line when I saw it. Up ahead, fast approaching was a nice smallish but sharp edged pothole. I was moving too fast to respond to it and I heard this great WHACK! It was the type of whack where it shoots through the frame of the car and into your body as well. I let off on the accelerator, wondering just when my right front tire would start to unravel itself. Luckily for me it didn't.

Don't you love that flow of adrenalin that you get after a near miss? I had that after I passed that hole and jolt. Once my heart calms down, I mutter to myself at the lousy condition the road is in. Always blame these things on the other guy, it helps your own self esteem!

Later on that day, I'm up in Mansfield, MA. I was at another Irish pub called, ready for the odd name? Flynn's. Anyways, I'm outside and wonder to myself, “I wonder how that tire did fare?” I go to look and on the sidewall is this great, big fat lump.

“Oh shit...I drove on the highway up here with THAT?”

I let some air out of the tire, no...alot of air to decrease the pressure on that fat huge aneurysm that my tire now has. The drive home was fun, with my expecting it to finally burst and lurch my car to the left into god knows what. I made it.

So, thanks to New England winters I bought another tire.

I may be a skinflint. I can ignore car problems that aren't critical, but I'm not so cheap to endanger my life!

Add these two things

And you get this. 

Davey...

I could write about what I’m doing now which is sitting here, staring into this screen. I'm wearing gym pants, a slightly torn insulated flannel shirt and I'm popping peanuts into my mouth. Boring? You bet it is. So the next little story is more fun. 

 Around 1978, we had a new kid move into the neighborhood by the name of Dave. Dave was a couple of years younger than us but he turned out to be a barrel of fun once we got to know him and his family. The first time I even knew about him was due to his Mom. Our front door was always open in the spring and summer. It let the light in and the breeze as well. Also, it's inviting to anyone who wished to stop by. Since it was open so much we heard just about anything going on in the neighborhood too.

“GODDAMMIT DAVEY! GET YOUR ASS INTO THIS HOUSE!” This was the first time I heard Dave's Mom and anything about this kid Dave. She must have had a good pair of lungs because we heard her cleanly from a block away. 

A few days later this Davey shows up and we find out he's totally into finding trouble. This was good as trouble was very, very fun. He also had the mouth of a sailor as every other word was “fucking this and fucking that.” He was rambunctious, full of energy and didn't shy away from much of anything. My Mom, after hearing us play a bit on the front lawn of our house, comes to the door to see who this new kid is. “”My God, Who IS that? “Ma, That's Davey Baylor! He lives around the corner” I tell her. She walked away from the front door, keeping an eye on this kid as he walked home. 

Now flash forward a few years and we're all teens. We come to find out Davey is a natural ladies man as all the girls in the neighborhood and beyond felt the need to wriggle out of their panties for him. We could never figure out how he did it. We'd wonder why the rest of us guys would strike out time and again with the very same girls but he managed to nail them all. He'd tell us lurid tales of this girl or that girl he had in his cellar the night before. We'd be surprised at how he managed to get certain girls we thought would never slip out of their jeans until they had a ring on their finger. 

His other ability was to drive up and down main drags, finding those teen girls who walk three abreast and pick them up and, of course, nail the prettiest of them in his car. 

We were sooo jealous. The best we 16 yr old guys could do was jack off a lot to girls we liked. Dreams are free you know.

I have to admit, Davey came into his own in his teen years. Why? Because he had that drop dead handsome look of Barry Gibb. 

He really did look like Barry, minus the beard. He had the similar mane of hair that spilled across his shoulders. 

Davey also learned early that ignoring girls who threw themselves at you was like catnip to a kitty. They go nuts if you deny them their candy and throw themselves even harder at you. 

 ***** 

Now about Davey's Mom. She came to adulthood in the 60s. She was a good ten years younger than the usual Moms in our neighborhood and also had a different view on sexual matters, pot, drinking and the other liberating views the 60s managed to teach her. By 1978, she was an early 30 something single Mom who liked to party on the weekends. One great thing about his Mom was that she was close enough to our age to sort of “fit in” but just a bit. She was still THE MOM of one of us but we knew she was different. 

She used to own a VW PartyWagon that had all the lights, leather interior and refrigerated bar that was affixed to the wall inside the van. None of our Moms smoked pot but around Dave's Mom, you picked up the odor on her sometimes in her clothing. 

At times, we'd be out in their backyard by the pool, drinking beer and rapping (rapping as in: TALKING). Davey's Mom joins us and sips her beer, listening to us talk when she spies Nick and asks: “Nick, How come you don't have a girlfriend yet?” Now a 30 something chick asking a teen guy this question is a doozy. Nick got all shy and defensive about it, trying to come up with some excuse when she knocked us all out with the next statement. 

“You know Nick...If you were just two years older, I'd fuck the shit out of you!” 

What balls! What audacity! What truth! 

Having one of your friend's Mom say this is something else. We didn't know how to respond except to get real quiet real fast. Poor Nick had no idea what to say. Sixteen years of experience doesn't give you much to fall back on when you're hit with something like this. Davey's mom leaned back into her chair, sipped her beer and spied Nick for a few moments more. We began to wonder if she'd hit on him sometime during the night. She never did. 

 ***** 

 Now, I've seen this happen. One of my friends who has a teen son or daughter, will have other teen girls show up, either as friends or the “girlfriend” coming over to spend some time. I'll see the Dads look, but just two seconds longer than usual at this friend and I know what he's thinking. Yes..she is a pretty girl and you cannot help but look. But NONE of them have ever mentioned a word like Davey's Mom did so many years ago. 

Let's flash forward a few decades. I used to work at Pot au Feu (also known as Poodle Fur) and I had this conversation about Davey with the chef there. The chef then said he too knew of one Lothario in his teens and lamented that he too never got the girls like these charm magnets could. I them tell him what finally became of Davey. After the years go by, he has the State Courts hunting his ass down to pay child support to three different Moms he manage to knock up and leave. 

The chef then looked at the ceiling and said: “There IS justice in this world!”

More Normal Than Normal

Click to see Tyrell Discussing Replicants

“More normal than normal” was a phrase I learned while doing social service work. It was stolen and reworked, from all things, the Blade Runner movie. The saying applied to those out there in the world who are slightly afflicted with mental retardation, schizophrenia or Asperger's and were high functioning enough to make their way in the world. But they'll also have just enough of those slight oddities that can tip off the “normal” world as to who they are. Those tip offs invite instant and long lasting judgment.

I can remember advising a few clients to dress a bit more conservatively in order to create an impression of normal. Sweat pants and tops with tomato stains on them were a dead giveaway. For the guys, longer hair was actually better due to the time old fashion of buzz cutting anyone who spent enough time in institutions or hospitals. The women we'd tell to fashion their hair to a more adult look versus the way you'd do it for an eight year old. We tried to make them look and act like loan officers at your local bank in order for them to be accepted more easily.

These little things actually did soften any rigid appraisal. If it was known that the person was afflicted somewhat, the “nice look” would help still.

*****

Now, “more normal than normal,” change it to “more competent than competent” for us unaffected people in the workaday world.

I was talking to a late 20's something women not too long ago about her work. She was an actuary (actuaries figure out the odds for insurance companies; which cities may default, who will slam their car into a tree drunk) for a large insurance corporation based in Warwick. The firm used to or still is using Snoopy as a spokes-dog. Are these hints obvious enough?

OK. The was going on about how she's sick and tired of the culture within the organization. Every day she has to balance her dress between conservative, sexy and fashionable. She has to make sure her speech isn't affected by the swearing that'll slip past her lips. Any off-corporate subjects she speaks of, like “How was you weekend?” has to be self-censored. What she really did that weekend was to have a girl's weekend at Attitash Ski resort, get drunk and try to score a cute looking guy for the night. Those truths she has to shove deep down at the Monday “weekly action meeting” they have. The topics are so bland they could be white bread with mayo.

“I'm on stage, I'm doing a four act play with an opera somewhere in the middle every day.” she tells me.

“I'm not kidding, it's a major act. Sure, the work I do isn't an act but everything else around it seems to be. I have to come off as this little nerdy, science girl who is a math whiz. And I swear, the culture around us is always looking for some way to trip us up, either individually or our section. The upper management it seems are conducting guerrilla wars to “stress test” us with change to see which section fails or who in the entire organization fails. It's bad enough we're trying to do our job without someone tossing in a monkey wrench to see which of us can't handle it...They actively seek out ways to winnow away any of our weakest links. Even if that weakest link is decent enough because they excel at one particular thing and in general are 'decent enough' at everything else.”

“Guess what they also expect of us...they want to know how we're “bettering ourselves” outside of work. They love to hear that we're competing in some sort of way for the gold out there. It could be a bike race, a 5k run or a hobby that can be judged with Blue Ribbons...and they want to hear that you won.”

“I'm sick of 'perfect.'” she finally says.

Yeah, I'd be sick of that too, if taken to that extreme. I'm not perfect, not by a million miles, add to that my black sense of humor and eclectic interests. I wouldn't survive amongst a bunch of gray suited stiffs who brag that their weekend consisted of taking their happy, normal wife and kids to a happy, normal museum and had a happy normal time. I'd be talking about the cool way hydroponics works, only because it's that interesting. I'd know that their little minds would busily churn that information over to something like...I have a grow-op in my house.

Don't You Have Any Balls?

A while back, my friend R and I talked about the old times at the One Way drug store that was operating in Slater Park. We still can't believe that that parking lot where all the kids hung out managed to get away with what they did then for over nine months before the cops decided to shut it down. A week later, the same crew showed up at Pascale's trucking and used their dirt lot as a newer pharmacy for all of the teens to drive by and pick up what they wanted.

R and I thought, why didn't we get into it too? The selling and the rivers of money that came from doing that? We both were close enough to the whole thing to nearly be “part” of it except we didn't sell , we just hang out. We both agreed that neither of us had the balls to do it. We were two of a kind, worry worts who would see pitfalls first and not the sunny positive side. But even so, people far dumber than we, far 'tupiter ( 'tupiter is a local Pawtucket term for stupid), managed to succeed wildly with it. We then thought, with our common sense and the fact we could read and write, we might have done better than they.

No, we two didn't possess what those others had which was a street smart sense that enabled them to smell trouble, cops or detectives when it was in the air. We didn't have the childhood learned skill which taught one how to be a petty thief and liar. These other kids had a particular childhood that taught them well and prepped them for a career in teen dope selling. R and I may have been “friends” of these guys, but we'd never let them watch our wallet for four minutes either. They were that kind of people. It was sort of like palling around low level mafia, but you didn't want one of them dating your daughter.

Had we created our own part time jobs at Slater Park, we both figured that by the time we were eighteen, we'd amass, each, probably $20,000 for our own. Not a bad figure to have in your bank account when your a senior in highschool in 1982. We picked the age of eighteen because being busted with half a pound of pot when your a minor was no real problem then. Imagine that if you can? Being a minor, before the draconian laws against drug dealing were created, a minor would've been sent home to his parents with a good “talking too” from the judge. Things were so different then. We weren't greedy enough I guess to over come our hesitation at trying this lucrative trade.

There were guys we did know who did it didn't stop at eighteen. They kept at it and finally amassed enough cash to create a start up businesses. By amass I'm talking easily over $100,000. All of them I knew who built a “legit” business have managed to keep them going or expand them. Why get a business loan from a bank when you can use shoe boxes full of $100s?

Today, these guys in are in their mid forties, married with teen kids. At BBQ's, they compare the tuition at Bay View Academy and Mount St Charles. They now see retirement on the horizon and IRA's are spoken of. On the lighter side, the best material for decks by the pool is discussed. The American Dream captured! These guys finally gained respectability. To look at them today, they are balding, some with bellies and others with crow's feet and you'd never guess in a million years what they were doing at 16.

Another reason why we never did it was due to the fact R and I never really smoked pot on a regular basis. Those who did, got their start in dealing because if they sold enough, small amounts, they'd managed to have an ounce or two leftover for their personal use. Some of them stopped right there.

And then there were the kids at Slater Park who realized that doing this was easy money, really easy money. How many 16 year olds did you know who drove that year's latest sports car? We knew kids who bought new four-wheelers, snow mobiles and other toys like that. What did their parents think? You'd be surprised. Alot of them were selling or probably giving their Mom's and Dads free pot. And in one instance, I knew of one Dad who was actually sort of proud his teen son was pulling in $600 a week from his little operation.

But R and I, never really smoked enough to be motivated to sell so we'd have our own little baggie. Nor did we need to ply our parents with dope to continue living at home once we graduated high school. Add to that that all the other little skills needed to be a street level dealer. Damn our parents for raising kids who played by the rules (most of the time).

And the crowd that was pushing cocaine? That crew was very dangerous and their mentality was certainly different than your laid back pot dealer. A pound of ditch weed might have gone for $500 in 1982. A kilo of coke was $10,000 out of Central Falls. By the time it hit Boston, it was $23,000. That's serious money and when it gets that large, people tend to arm themselves, with Mac-10's. You can make your purchase in CF, drive up 95 to Southie or Somerville and come home with $13,000 profit. Jesus H Christ.

R and I made our money the old fashioned way, we worked for it. What idiots we were! Well, that's what we told ourselves when we looked back on it. R could've started his business without the intrusion of Bank of America and I, being the cheap son of a bitch that I was then, would've just banked it. Ah well, neither of us had the guts, skill or mentality for it.

But It Makes Me Feel So Damned ALIVE!

It's funny how other people can see aspects of your personality you can't. Or rather, alert you to something that you do know about yourself but have sequestered to the attic and forgotten. It's a part of me that I have written about before when it came to the Charlie Horse's I get and how I responded to people trying to help. I was alerted to this yesterday and I'll get around to that story in time.

But first, here's something interesting that I learned from some younger ones who gave me the nickname, Ronimal (Ron-Animal...get it?). When I heard it, I told them that when I was in high school, I had the nickname “Animal.” I told them how odd it was they should come up with a moniker that was very similar to the one I had been given when I was 16. The original nickname came from those in my gym class when we were playing various games. They never did explain why I had that name but from what I could gather, my adrenalin would shoot up and my eyes looked a bit wild when we competed in a game I enjoyed. Perhaps I twisted, leaped and struggled like a wet cat when contact sports was involved too. I'm not entirely sure, but the look in my eyes was there, that I did know. I liked some of those games....really liked them to show it on my face. If the game had NO rules and it was “Catch as catch can,” I loved it.

Now that I am remembering this, it was even earlier in my life. My Dad would go out of his way to tell me to “calm down” when I got wicked excited about some game or whatever it was I was doing that ramped me up. Gee Dad, toss convention and let loose!

Adrenaline...that's the key.

Anyway, here's another time I was called an animal and not for a very good reason. As boys, we weren't the best behaved kids. Also toss into that, the mistaken accusations that you sometimes you get slammed with due to your past behavior.

Gary McClintock, whose name I can use since he's long since gone now, threw a “paint bomb” at the next door neighbor's house and sped away. The funny thing, he used some of the paint to befoul our house too in his run. But he nailed the house next door better than ours. Gerdy, who came out, began shouting at my house, to my Mother who was standing in by the kitchen door, that I had done this. That was a mistake as I had been in the house all afternoon. My mother's protests didn't dissuade Gerdy at all. Then I heard this, “You keep that ANIMAL away from my house! He should be locked in a cage!!”

No joke. She said it. Gee...what had she observed about me as a kid at other times?

Now to yesterday. I mistakenly whacked the hell out of my thumb with a knife. Those french knives can be razor blades mind you. I may have used one 100,000 times in my past but you can't always escape the occasional cut, or the every ten year Charlie Manson-type slice. I had nailed myself fairly well and was trying to stop the blood which didn't want to stop due to the way the skin was sliced.

A friend, who gathered up a First Aid box, was helping me staunch the bleeding. He used hydrogen peroxide which is known not to sting but I suppose the slash was so deep and the fact it was nice and cold woke up those exposed nerves. After the second dousing of the H2O2 and with my thumb burning in pain, I kept my eyes glued to that bottle. I knew, if that came at me a third time, I was going to push it out of the way. My adrenaline was UP and I felt something appear a bit...Animal was coming up. It was the Fight for Flight thingy animals are known for. I wasn't thinking, I wasn't being rational...all I wanted was to get away from the pain. Rationally tell me certain procedures are for my “own good” and half of me will understand and accept, the other half of my brain is becoming the Hulk and doesn't hear logic at all.

Adrenaline...

I have to admit that the help I was getting was out of care and concern. The motivation is laudable. It was not purposed torture. I wrote before one time, while I was in the backyard once with both thighs all balled up due to a Charlie Horse, that I switched into this persona. I had a friend try to help me deal with the pain. I shoved them away with a “NO! GO AWAY!” I might have acted...no...I was like a wounded animal.

I can't tell you where this comes from. I have no idea. I have said that if I’m ever in a car accident, I know the firemen will have to shoot me with a dart gun like they shoot a cougar that's wandered into a mall in Portland, OR.

Animal, Ronimal, being nicknamed one, having people see wild eyed enjoyment in me from “In your face competition.” These observations are from people who have never met one another and over the decades. Do you think there's a bit of truth to it? You bet there is. I've been reminded of it again.

Ah well, it's part of who I am. I'll be a Ronimal and as part human and part animal,  I'll have to learn to accept any veterinarian’s care when needed. You'd think I'd be more into adrenalin rushes, more risk that to me is completely exciting. Guess the smarter part of my brain has kept me from bunji jumps, base jumping and Russian roulette. I”ve told you the story before how I was restricted from climbing Mount Hood, all 11,000 feet of it for my own good.

I admit this, I can get bored real quick with the usual. I like the PCP-Angle Dust like highs I get from doing something a bit risky.

Animal, Ronimal and whatever hairy wild beast I can be compared too = Adrenaline Addict?

 

Wow, This was enlightening!  I just Googled adrenaline addict and I hit this link.

 

γνῶθι σεαυτόν...or Know Thyself...not a bad thing to do!

Odd...

I like naps, afternoon ones if I can sway it. Those little cat naps are at times more pleasing than eight hours of sleep at night. They're also the ones where the best dreams are made. Today produced an odd one.

 

Many of these dreams consist of just talking to people. Dead relatives, rock stars and others from my past. Some are not so nice. Those ugly ones have me talking to people who are showing their worst sides. Great, I get to relive part of the past in all it's ugliness right here and now. Other times the interactions show them at their best and fullest. That's the times when people weren't afraid to drop the act, the mask or at least have the bravery to be themselves and speak their minds as they truly are. In those times the play between we two is natural and genuine.

 

So, I'm having a conversation with my Mom, who was svelte and thin. This must've put her in the early 60's and prior to that before middle age makes us all fat. But as dreams go, this felt like it was taking place in the 90s. As the conversation is moving along, I see her put a tube to her nose and snort, what I think is face powder off the kitchen table. No, it wasn't face powder at all I come to find out. I find her stash on the bureau, a heaping pile of rocky cocaine. I exclaim she must have spent a small fortune to buy it. I then turn around to see her quickly hide another amount in the back of an upholstered chair that swings out like some secret hiding place. Mind you, my Mom's closest approach to any illicit drugs was nil. Any drugs she took at all, came off a doctor's prescription pad.

 

All the while the dream is playing out, I hear Blind Melon's No Rain playing in the background.

 

What the hell was this dream all about? I say to myself as it awakes me.  An hour has gone by and I still have “No Rain" playing in my head.