Trick or Treat!!

Another Halloween. If I buy the candy at the last minute, I can avoid eating it all and I have done that before. If there's a bag of Snickers lying on the kitchen table, it usually calls out my name, “Ron..just one...only one...there will be enough for the kids!”

A day later the empty bag is in the basket.

One Halloween, I ran out of candy as a line of little kids were lining up at my door. The worst thing to do would be to say, “Sorry, I'm out” and close the door and crush the innocent world of a little girl dressed up as the Ice Princess. So I got my junk bowl which was full of spare change and dumped some into her bag.

She shouts out:

“THANK YOU! HEY...THIS MAN'S GIVING OUT MONEY!”

The kids at the house next door came running when they overheard that.

So, I parceled out dimes, quarters, nickles and pennies just to be sure no one was disappointed. Once that gaggle of kids had moved on, I turned off the outside light, killed the living room light and hid.

Halloween Memories...Only about three which stick with me.

My first one I remember I was dressed as Casper the Ghost. The plastic face mask was great for holding in your breath's humidity and making your face sweat. The gown was good for tripping up on. Once I got home, the police, my Dad, went through the candy to make sure there weren't any razor blades, arsenic and such. While doing so, he deftly stole all the Necco Wafers he could find. I was OK with that as Necco wafers were disgusting. He could have all he wanted. That and the black licorice too.

My last time going out for Halloween was when I was 14. That was a tough one to pull off because I was about 5 foot 6 and weighing over 100bls. Most of the people's doors we rang questioned our group about our age.

“You're kinda big for a 12 year old huh?” they'd comment.

“Yeah, I get told that all the time in school.” I'd lie.

The funny thing is, these same 14 year olds will come to MY door on Halloween looking for free sweets. I look at them as robbers as this candy is for the little ones. Ah well, can I complain since I did it myself back then? No, but I now know what all those adults thought of us then when we did it.

The last memory was a pure teen one. Halloween meant partying and that's what we did. One of us had stolen from his parent's liquor cabinet a bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey. I had my own Jaquin's Peach Flavored Brandy which was good for a decent buzz. The rest of us had a sort of Pot Luck combination of beer, pot, wine...you get it.

While we were boozing it up on the corner of Hamlet and Legris by Perry's house (a cool guy about 10 years older than us. He never called the cops on us!), Mark M. finally demanded that the Irish whiskey be opened up. He then took a very brave teenagerish, looooong slug from the bottle. It looked like he was just drinking water. He then turned around and vomited it all up on the back of Jimmy's leather coat...which he was still wearing. The puke just ran down his coat onto the street. We were a bit amazed at the volume of it all

“Wow, that'a a lot! More than that dog pukes up that lives in McNulty's house!”

That was entertaining as none of us saw that coming.

In about 15 mins, Mark could barely walk. We watched him stumble the whole 20 yards to his front door and go in.

The next day, I was in my RIC classes, regretting I got home drunk around 3 AM.

So, that's it. All the memories that stuck with me. This doesn't include the adult nightclub/bar Halloweens were people try to dress up to win that prize and then puke in the parking lot after.

Lincoln Center or Trinity Rep, They're Both Valid

Apart from actually having magical powers like Samantha Stevens in “Bewitched,” the Internet is pretty witching too because of it's supernatural ability to find people. The other day I came across a girl I knew when I was a teen who was damned important to me (ie: we raped one another's virginity away) and Patricia Kennealy, the first female rock critic out of the '60's and pagan wife of Jim Morrison from The Doors.

Keneally is depicted in the movie “The Doors” as this pagan/witch/rock-groupie writer who was into Celtic rituals, blood drinking, general mayhem and finally a published author. I wasn't looking for her directly but tripped across her blog and thought, “Jesus...this is the closest I've ever came to Morrison!”

As I read it I sat here realizing my blog is pedestrian and boring as hell compared to hers.

Pawnticket: “Today I'll bore you with a rant about how I hate several past math teachers and sadly, to this day, how I carry a grudge. (These little entries I write let slip through aspects of my personality I should best perhaps leave hidden. You think I don't know that this happens?). That and I'll tell you how to make a pasta sauce.”

Keneally's Blog: “After a concert in San Francisco, Jim and I slipped down to Golden Gate park, sniffed some akyl nitrite and fucked like a couple of retarded gorillas. The next morning I interviewed Linda Ronstadt from the Stone Ponies...Oh, the check from Rolling Stone magazine finally came in.”

*Attaining that Kind of Glory*

The closest I came to any stardom was usually from the audience pit. There's a line that separates the fabulously famous from the wretched mob in the audience you know, it's called a riot fence. At book signings or autograph giveaways the dais and desk will separate you and it was at that kind of venue where I met Joan Jett, Warren Zevon and John Lennon's son, Julian. I met them for all of 40 seconds and had to move on as the line was pushing up from behind.

“Move along plebe! Your few seconds to genuflect in front of her Highness is OVER!”

What's amazing about this kind of success and stardom is always how it always has a lifespan. People meet, they jell well together, they produce something, hit it and ride the wave as long as the dynamics of the group are allowed to grow and mature. But there always comes a point when it must die. A Jumping the Shark moment will occur and trying to keep it on life support just becomes sad looking.

Jumping the Shark? That's an old Hollywood term for when a TV series has run it's course. A popular show that's riding high will have been said to “be over” when the writers really are grasping for straws to enliven the show and keep it going. The old show, “Happy Day's” had a scene where the Cunninghams and Fonzi go to Hollywood and Fonzi, jumps over a shark on water skis. What makes it even cheesier is that he's still wearing that leather jacket. In retrospect, this moment signaled the death knell of the show.

Anyway...

A scant few of us attain that kind of glory like in rock bands, movies or sports, where you are foisted to Godhood. But, if you think back on your own lives, there were some moments you were God, for a while at least.

I can point to several times when I did attain it. It was at the ages of 12, 14, 22, 23, 25, 33, 45ish. Those times in my life where when everything I managed to touch, turned to gold. Those times lasted anywhere from a few months to a year. But like everything else, time moves you along and trying to rest on those laurels won't do. You can't control nor corral it, you just let it happen and enjoy the ride for however long it's going to last.

Let's see, at 12 I can remember reaching that height in my sixth grade class career as being the best and it was proven out by a national test. I've written about that story before. At 14, I was wild and free w/o any parental supervision, growing up as fast as I could. In my early 20's, I was with a gang at RIC where due to all the differing personalities bouncing off one another, it managed to broaden our very own and mine. Later in life there were times where I had “made it” according to the Machiavellian definition of Life, as my Dad put it. So there were moments where I was King for a bit, even though it was a much smaller stage than the one Jimi Hendrix was on.

And that's OK, because I did manage to be a King for a while.

You too must've have moments in your life when all you could do was bat them out of the park without so much as even trying to.

OK, fine, this blog ain't Keneally's but she was struck by that rare lightning that put her on a larger stage. A stage is a stage and we all act on one.  

Making the Motion of Wiping Mud Off My Forearm...

Ever been in a conversation where the other was just itching for you to say something negative about them, so they can confirm that your opinion of them sucks? The questions I was asked, even the sentences when spoken, were at a metered pace. God is that a tip off! That and the fact they are desperately trying to lead me down a path that'll give them their verification. The problem is that I try to be polite, give replies that won't pin me down so I don't hurt their feelings. But after a while, I get annoyed with the pestering and if you want the truth, you're going to get it.

I once wrote about this a while back on this blog. This women kept hitting on me HARD, almost like swinging a brick into my face and I wasn't in the least bit interested. You'd think no eye contact or one word replies work. Nope. If the target of your affection won't reply, turn the volume up to “11” and that'll work...right?

So last night, after a few months, I meet her again. During our conversation she asks me an odd question. If she were a dog or I, which one would we be? For myself, all I could think of was a German Shepherd dog as that's all I've owned.

“Why a shepherd?”

“I guess because of their silly loyalty, attachment and that amazing annoyance they feel if a stranger should come near their 'den.'”

“What about me?”

I can't think of a decent answer as I don't honestly know specifically every breed's cartoonish, stereotypical qualities. I tell her she isn't a poodle as she has none of that high maintenance issues with her.

She presses on to pick a dog and I then say, “I don't know! You tell me the qualities of an Alaskan husky? A Spaniel? A Schnauzer?” The point I was telling her that this wasn't the best way, for me anyway, to get me to describe her.

She tries a different tact. “You said a Shepherd...that hates strangers getting close to you.”

“Yep” I said.

“Why?”

I then tell her this great philosophy of life I have. “I detest and hate others who can't keep their messy, flea infested, smallpox infected lives away from mine. In short, I hate it when other people's lives, their drama gets splattered all over me. It's a huge violation of etiquette in a way, much like loudly farting at a dinner table you've been invited to. You're a pig.”

She thinks on that and says,”Well, everyone has issues...we all make mistakes.” I tell her that's true and yes, we all need to be flexible when it comes up, but then I ask her, “Is being a heroin addict for the past 7 years, a whoopsy kind of mistake? Is being a sloppy alcoholic a mistake? It's a long standing illness...not some mistake. You may want to help them but guess what nurses and doctors do when treating an Ebola patient? They wear environmental suits and keep a distance...they don't French kiss the patient to prove friendliness!” I repeat it again....”they keep distance!”

I ask her this. If her friend or close acquaintance borrows her car, and you know she's a boozer, and she wraps it around a pole later on that night, do you think...”Awww...people should get second chances?”

I answer that for her before she can reply, “NO! This jackoff just ruined your car because they're idiots. They just screwed up your month because you now have no car for work, for getting anything done and to top it off, I bet they have no money to repay you as well! Your friend is probably immature and selfish.”

“Do you kindly forgive them or do you kick yourself for being suckered into giving the car to being with? That's what I'm talking about, keeping fuck ups as far from me as possible.”

“Jesus...you're strident about that.” She says.

“Yep, I learned those lessons time and again throughout my childhood. As I got older, I'd occasionally make the silly mistake and slip and then I was suckered into some situation that predictably went splat.”

As I told this story, I could see the look on her face. It looked guilty which then displayed some annoyance with me. She then responds...

“You hold too high a bar for people to jump!” Now her tone of voice is bitchy pissed off. Guess why?

“Yep I do...and it drives away about 30% of the people I come across...safely puts a ton of distance between me and them.”

I end the conversation with this. “Look, I bar people from my life who are continual fuck ups. You know which people get really pissed at me for thinking this?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Only continual fuck ups take offense.”

**

Perhaps I'm showing my age. I was raised with an etiquette which demanded you NEVER besmirch other's lives, property or whatever. You respected their boundaries. If you vomit, try not to puke into their lap, the floor is good enough. If you have some personality quirk, then don't inflict onto others if you can help it. Above all, you had to be able to put yourself into the others shoes and see how your own behavior might effect them.

And that's the crux huh? Being able to see another's point of view. Those messy people I've come across in life are incapable of seeing anything but their own needs and wants and can be seen charging to whatever it is they want, stomping on everyone's feet to get it.

They're children still. Forever 12 years old in an adult's body. There are thousands of these people out there...do I have to tell you this? If you know they exist, then you aren't one of them.  

I Would Miss Electricity Though...

Click and See the Scene

I saw this movie a long time ago when either of the three major networks would shove in a flick to fill up a late Sunday afternoon. Jerimiah Johnson at first seemed corny as hell but as the movie went on, I became more interested. What struck me throughout most of it wasn't the dialog or action sequences, it was the dead quiet. All you hear are Jermiah's footsteps, the wind or barring those, nothing at all. For a few moments, you can experience what that silence is like if you've never been away from it all. That silence is enveloping. I've only known it for short periods and I mean short, hours at most. I have no idea what that would be like for months.

There were real mountain men back then, around the 1840's. From what a history professor told me, those guys never did stay long up in he high country. They trapped what they could, came back down and traded it. The career usually lasted three years for most. If you weren't killed by the Indians, eaten by bears or busted through thin ice, became wet then froze to death, you plain just became worn out from having to deal with the elements when your so exposed like that. You can't build permanent shelter when you are running trap lines all the time, so you camp out and move alot...even through those bitch winters in the Rockies.

The movie's climax is that scene in the clip above. It's kind of spooky really. Jeremiah's been gone so long into the woods he's forgotten most of his past, civilization and even the particular days in a calender. He's gone from someone who's been juggling 140 variables a day in his civilized life to being pretty much numb. It's what he wanted when he set out and got it in spades.

**

PBS occasionally has decent programs on, mostly when they in their donation drives. We accidentally came across “Alone in the Wilderness,” that was shot in the late '60s. In it, you see a real life Richard Proenneke who at 51, builds his own cabin w/o powertools in a remote part of Alaska. He so enjoyed his first stay there that he retired to the cabin till he was in his 80's. As we watched it, us guys seemed to be transfixed by his wood working skills and silly strength. You see him working all day sawing trees, chopping trees, finishing logs and then carrying them around. When was the last time you used a hand saw to cut anything? I haven't in a few years and cutting through a six inch bough of dried tree limb took me over 15 minutes. It would take Proenneke three. They guy had the stamina of a 16 year old kid.

Tough ol' bird.

Perhaps it's a guy thing, but as we watched it, most of us were in awe. We just kept commenting on this guy's ability to hack out of the woods all that he needed. Spoons to eat with? He carved them. Bear proof door locks? He carved those out of wood too. He fashioned his log cabin to such tight tolerances that no filler was needed to plug up any gaps where the draft might blow in. The only time we called “foul!” was when we saw him carry a roll of tar paper to be used on his roof. I guess you can't fashion that out of the Alaskan wilderness. He had to purchase that in Anchorage. He had enough to eat as his homemade fishing pole and troll lines would yank in fish after fish. Red meat? He had an old WW1 Springfield army rifle, w/o a scope, which good enough to take down an elk at 200 yards. You try shooting at a 4 inch circle with open sights at that range, you need the eyes of a hawk! One elk was enough to keep him fed through an entire winter.

When he became too old in his 80's to maintain that cabin life, others convinced him to come back to the “Lower 48.” He regretted it immensely but realized that at his age, he'd probably die trying to survive another Alaskan winter. I sometimes suspect he wouldn't have minded that at all.

I just finished reading his book and it's a decent read if you want to hear about how he did it. A good part of the book is about his wanting to find “quiet.” There's one passage where he steps out onto the frozen lake by his cabin, on some god awful bone chilling Alaskan night, just to watch the aurora flicker around. It was so quiet he swore he could hear it.

Here's the last paragraph in his book.

“I have no doubt that to others I am an oddball in many ways. The Lord waited a little too long to put me on one of his worlds. I don't like the look of progress, if that's what it's called. I would have liked the beginnings better. That is why this place has taken hold of me. It's still in those early stages and man hasn't left too many marks on the land. Surely have been to places up and down these mountains where other men have never been. How long before all this will change as the other places have changed?

I've seen alot of sights from this old spruce chunk, and have thought alot of thoughts. The more I think about it, the better off I am. The crime rate here is close to zero. I forget what it is like to be sick or have a cold. I don't have bills coming in every month to pay for things I don't really need. My legs and canoe provide transportation. They take me as far as I care to go.

To see game you must move little and look alot. What at first appears to be a branch turns into that big caribou bull up there on the benches--I wonder what he thinks about? Is his brain just a blank as he lies there blinking in the sun chewing his cud? I wonder if he feels as I do, that this small part of the world is more than enough to think about?”

Could I do it? Probably not. I'm the same age as Proenneke was when he set out and I can't swing an axe for 30 minutes straight. Add to that, I'm a klutz, I'd swing the axe into my calf eventually. Also, the isolation...real isolation...hmmm...unsure about that too.

I may enjoy the quiet, the peace, but alone with your own thoughts for months? Would I go batshit crazy or would it be healing in nature? Probably I'll lean to crazy. Cabin fever back then was real and the cure for it was to get out of the damn cabin, go for a walk, see the trees and wildlife and experience something different than those four walls, even if it's -30 degrees out there. Shit! There were times here in Pawtucket where I wouldn't want to go get a pizza if it were 5 degrees because it “was too damn cold” and the car wouldn't heat up until I got to the pizza joint. So I'm going to leave a warm cabin to romp around in subzero weather? Nope. I'd probably be found next spring, naked, with twigs stuck up my nose and a suicide note written in squirrel blood that makes no sense when read.

Richard in his home made cabin, happy as a pig in shit with the isolation.