Seems I'm Being OutVoted on the Image I have of Myself.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

(ripping off Thomas Dylan!)

Kip's. Those signs have been there since 1970

When we were young, we could stay out all night partying and finally come back from Providence to hit up Kip's restaurant as it was opening for the day. I clearly remember one older waitress being snarky with us about “some of us having to work at that time of day.” She was pissed she was working a shit job at her age and noticed us bleary-eyed kids coming home from a night of drinking. I guess the fact that we existed pissed her off or made her aware of a life she could no longer have. We gypped her on the tip.

What I noticed was that near the door, old guys would be there at the open and sipping coffee, reading the newspaper or just talking. They were slightly or grossly overweight, bald or had blindingly white hair or both. They moved in a slow measured pace. These were the bored local retirees who had nothing to do all day but start it with Kips. After that, I have no idea where they went. Probably a lot of tv watching...or puttering around.

They say you need less sleep as you get older and I find that to be partially true. As a 20 something, if I could swing it, sleeping to noon was doable. Not anymore I can't. That's partly out of guilt and the fact that a day doesn't seem to last as long as they used too. Sleeping in past 7 am is sin now as there is shit to do, even if it is just minor errands to run.

A few years ago I got up at dawn, without any alarm and layin bed hoping I'd drift off again. No go. Well, might as well get up. I did and in the space of 30 minutes got real bored and decided to get a quickie breakfast at Kips. I found myself sitting with the old men near the door as they are the first to arrive. I occasionally butted into their conversation about local stuff and sort of enjoyed their old memories as I could access them. I was near enough to that time when they happened. Granted, I was just turned 50 and they in their early 60's but there was some overlap. I sort of liked the comradery. As I left, I looked back and saw them as they were, old guys with guts and ever increasing lined faces. But I surely wasn't one of them.

Wait...

I sat with them. I talked to them. I have the cotton white hair. I have the lined, sun damaged face. I have a measured gait and fear winter's icy sidewalks.

It hit me I that I was. At least a kid brother who was just behind them as we all went over the hill. Dammit!

What's next? Sitting on the park benches in Slater park, feeding the geese? I see those guys nearly every morning when I cut through to get to Seekonk to gas up the car.

Ok, I'll admit this one.

I WAS sitting on a park bench in Slater Park last summer. I had been playing with a digital camera and took 100 pictures then deleted 98 of them. It was just an excuse to play with electronics. As I sat there, I wanted to close my eyes for a bit. Just a bit mind you. The next thing I heard was a gaggle of kids from a daycare on an outing, all yelling that they saw fish in the pond. I immediately was startled aware, thinking I had just zoned out of a minute, till I felt something wet. I was drooling.

I quickly wiped my mouth and realized I had fallen asleep for a few. Son of a bitch! I hope those kids didn't see...or anyone else walking by that could've and I had NO idea because I was zonked out.

I can imagine what people may have thought as they walked by. “Awww...he looks like Dad on the couch...Dad drools on his shirt too! Poor ol' guy...Let's take a pic!”

**

There are benefits to getting older. I can read people's faces and garner the truth (most times from the younger ones who haven't learned the Art of Poker Face). Most cops ignore me walking, standing or driving because as they profile me they see: “White hair, lined face....old. Probably out to CVS to get his script or shop. Completely no threat at all.” They ain't too far off either. The last time I drove buzzed on 95 at 3 AM was probably over ten years ago. I'm not out that late at night to be a threat to anyone anymore.

The other benefit is that you develop that perspective on your own life and the lives of others near your age. You become more...accepting of other's personality faults (to the degree they don't splatter their lives on you) and you begin to become more aware that the bare necessities of life are the true luxuries. Cue up the song from Disney's Jungle Book, ”The Bear Necessities.” A full cupboard, full gas tank and a decent pair of heavy slippers in winter go a long way vs. owning a ski vacation home in Breckenridge Colorado. Less is more finally makes a hell of a lot of sense.

The downside...

I hate to say it but you start to notice you are becoming irrelevant by the day. Older women feel this keenly as they find out they seem to become more and more invisible in men's eyes. If this weren't true then the “youthful makeup” industry would die in a week. Shop clerks scan you wearily hoping you don't get confused or stand there bitching about some very minor problem. No small talk, little eye contact and here's your change and goodbye. I also find that I don't give a shit about any newer music, the latest clothing fads or the whatever everyone else is chasing. You get old enough to finally discard, forever, that need to fit in. The total independence is nice but comes at a cost of being tragically unhip. So.be.it.

The other part of aging and you can't ignore it, is the wear and tear you've put on. Your body will over rule ANY idea that it doesn't like. Go ahead..try to argue with a sore knee and go rock climbing. Guess who wins? A misguided dream I had about a year ago was to climb Mt Katahdin in Maine. The final assent is along the “Knife's Edge” where 60 mph winds can blow you off and you fall 3,000 feet with plenty of time to think about it on the way down too. Shit...I can't get on my roof now w/o securing my ass with rappelling rope to make sure I don't slip and fall 17 feet. I had gone up there a year ago and half way up I had to stop moving and stop freaking out over the height as fear will make you fuck up and fall. I sat there, calmed down and very deliberately move up the rest of the way.

I'm going to crawl along Katahdin's two to three foot wide cliff made of smashed boulders? Nope.

And then this happened tonight. I had received a Dunkin' Donuts gift card from my dentist (creating further business or a Thank You for dropping $10,000 over the years?) and I finally decided to use it. I got some donuts, brought them to the car and I looked at the receipt as the teen girl had problems swiping the card. I wondered if the problem would show up on the receipt. What...I saw, was a 10% discount for “Seniors.”

“What the fuck?” I thought to myself.

I never asked for it. She had looked at me, that Tolman High school girl and automatically punched that in.

Can you tell I'm NOT aging gracefully?

Aspirational Living

The owner, creator of J. Crew is dead today. He managed to tap into and promote that 80's Yuppie culture where looking like a hip, vibrant but not stuffy Reagan Republican was ticket. J. Crew was for those who couldn't afford Ralph Lauren but weren't as villainous or despicably common as those who could only afford the Gap. But one day though! Their aspirations might take them into that Lauren Club via the front door!

I never wore J Crew and the closest I came to Newport/Amagansett Long Island chic was when I bought a pair of white Dockers because I could't find a pair of painter's pants with all the pockets and loops. I liked them because I too, was infected by what was cool back in the 80's and 90's...to a point. The problem arose where that I, being a guy, had minimal knowledge on keeping whites “white” and found that multiple washings on “hot” with Clorox turns any quality fabric into burlap eventually. Any stain, mark, or smudge on anything white exposes you as lowborn, a pig and a sinner! Ah...it was too much work to stay pure!

**

McCoy stadium each July 3^rd holds their largest fireworks show and being a local I could manage a close seat without having to deal with the extra 70,000 influx of tourists that show up for this one event. I had my perch at a friend's business where it sits above and back some from the natural depression in the land where McCoy sits. At the time I was driving a Chrysler Sebring convertible because I liked ragtops when one of the wives of my friends comes up and makes a snarky comment about it. She had asked if I “still wasn't past” that youthful, 20-Something lifestyle I had so enjoyed when I was a young man. I was 43 at the time.

She comments:

“You should get an SUV.” and points to all the SUV's parked in the lot. Everyone it seemed who used my friend's lot to watch the show was driving an SUV.

“Why would I want that?” I say.

Lisa then expressed that stultifying middle class practicality, “Well, you can fit many kids in them or fill it with groceries/sports equipment or say pack it for the vacation.” There was also a heavily laden hint that I wasn't conforming that I swore I heard in her voice. My not driving an SUV was an abnormality that must be corrected. It would explain why I saw so many SUV's parked there...everyone else had one!

“Lisa, know what I see when I look at an SUV? I see bigger tires, larger diameter exhaust systems, larger oil filters....more oil...MORE COST! What's the MPG on that monster you drive over there? How much does Pawtucket slam you on the taxes for that?”

You could almost hear her brain going “beeeeeeeeeeeep” as it flat lined. My comment made NO sense to her. I go on to explain that in order to live “the good life,” it takes not just more money, a lot more, but also the ability to cut costs and NOT play that game of “Keeping Up with the Jones's.“ It also takes the guts to tell your friends to “go to hell” if they pressure you into a life you think is maniacal.

“You run your own life like a business Lisa...cut the costs where u can, on what you want...AND make the money too. All I see from some of you is that you kill yourselves just trying to make more and more money to maintain what you have or to show off even pricier vehicles, vacations or schools for your kids. God forbid you start lagging...they'll talk about you! You won't get invited to all the cool parties!”

Fuckin' High School all over again. I know it takes a while to shed that conformity once out of your teens, but you hopefully do. But to have it in your late 30's and beyond? Ugh!

**

Another instance where I thought was cute. It always seems to happen at any social event where you have to wear something other than a tee shirt. I then opt for a Ralph Lauren polo...HA!

This past summer at a BBQ I was talking about relocating. I am getting older and can feel it...elderliness, looming retirement isn't that far off. Hell, I've noticed that it takes me longer to do things now but haven't till now admitted it. I am aware and others will be as well in time. So, as you get older you need an easier life, or one that has less BS to it. Hopefully you can swing it w/o the sneaky torpedoes that can hit it and thwart you from your goal. A heap of good luck always helps instead.

I wander...anyways, I was talking about relocating, preferably to Delaware as it's tax structure is amazingly simple and LOW. Add to that, a smaller home and smaller life in general. Due to Delaware's easy tax law, damn near every major corporation in the US flags their business out of there. The real estate taxes in many parts of Delaware make my Pawtucket seem like a fiefdom ruled by a cruel, tyrannical Medieval Lord hell bent on taking my youngest daughter AND my last penny. (Shit...now where have I heard Pawtucket...or Rhode Island for that matter described as a fiefdom...MK? You?). The big thing for many retirees is to lower costs and usually the huge one is real estate expenses and taxes. I won't get into medical expenses that may crop up and easily outstrip what you pay in taxes...THAT you can't escape unless you move to Canada or the EU...and I ain't going to where the winters are crueler nor can I speak fluent Wallonian Dutch.

I was telling this relocation idea to “John” and he eyes me in a funny way. “You want to go smaller? A smaller house, car...everything? That's not very American, is it?”

No joke, he said that...“not very American.” It's true huh? America...BIGGER and BETTER is the cry! John, in his own way, was going bigger and better by running his business, ever expanding, ever working 7 days a week to make it happen. It afforded him the vacation to New Zealand, the kid's private school and etc. I wonder if he remembers about bitching about the heating costs of that McMansion of a house he owns in Dighton? I do. He also drives a monster SUV but just has one kid. I guess the empty seats and space are for effect.

IF..and this is a god damn big IF...I make it to retirement, old age w/o life torpedoing my ship due to God-Knows-What, or say the shitty longevity my family seems to have where I have so far, happened to outlive most all, I'd like to find myself in less expensive circumstances, surf casting off a dock in Lewes, Delaware, in white Ralph Lauren ensemble.

Cut your costs, screw bigger and better..and I can dress like I'm from Amagansett, strolling up and down the boardwalk of Rehoboth Beach, fingering my nose without a care knowing my tax bill for the land and house is a measly $400 for the entire year. All of that without having to wipe myself out by living beyond my means to impress.

Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes

41 22 27 51N

71 32 49 50W

After being blown off by a octogenarian friend, I took off for Matunuck beach instead. Why there? I had heard Bowie's “Heroes” and it kept playing in my head for hours and some of it's lines reminded me of a time in my youth. We all make songs “our own.” When I reached the beach, it was populated with surfers who were daring the gigantic waves that rolled on in from the hurricane Maria which is still hundreds of miles to the south. The others there were the local beach house renters/owners who, I noticed, jealously guarded their front yard parking spots with warning signs and very nearly the same spots they picked out on the beach. I have to admit though, everyone was friendly. I walked the length of the beach, getting my calves wet from the surf which was so high it was running over the entire beach up to the beach grass and to the escarpment where the regular soil begins. I had my Garmin out, looking for a particular spot, or near it, for a place at a time when I was 25 and had one of the best summers of my life. I found it. Why would it move? It was just a patch of sand where I plowed the fuck out of D'Arby one summer night. I recognized the homes, break waters and such to be very confident I was in the same area. 

 41 22 27 51N

71 32 49 50W

“Wow...Here!...This is pretty much it! What a summer!” I thought.

I never planned on being a beach bum as a career for the few summers I managed it. I didn't rent/own any property down there and I commuted the whole distance a few times a week during those summers in my 20's. What started all of that was the purchase of a Dodge 400 convertible which is made for summer excursions. I had been turned onto convertibles by D'Arby who owned one when I met her. After I got mine, I found myself, without any conscious decision, navigating to the beach more and more. It was one of the very few summers I managed to get a passable tan for my lily white Irish skin.

I ended up getting that tan (sort of), windblown, tousled hair that was permed into place by the salt spray that was in the air and to top that off, an attitude of looking stoned and relaxed w/o having to suck on a joint. Add to that a Mr Zog's Sex Wax visor, smelling of coconut oil sunblocks and a variety of pastel shirts in various Caribbean colors and ripped shorts. Again, none of this was planned, it just sort of happens to you.

Drinking, surf casting, fucking, partying, drinking, going to concerts, drinking and plain chillin' on the beach was my day job. Either I was doing this with my Pawtucket droogs or my RIC ones, neither mattered as no one said “No” to going to the beach for the day and night. As I did this, a change occurred in me, I became so relaxed and carefree that it bled into my regular non-beach life. I went barefoot a lot more, I didn't freak on the small details and generally I was more happier. Lackadaisical to the nth power. It began annoying some people who hated the fact I could do this. Jealous much?

But, it all comes to an end as the summer days shorten and the crowd at the beach changes to more locals as they take it over again from the tourists, like me. The drive home at night with my top down I could pick out the rising of the autumn constellations in the East. Another summer over. The only way to carry this forward is in the middle of winter. Then you have to drive north to the ski venues where the Beach Blanket Bingo mentality is revived but this time around the Lodge and slopes. That is prohibitively more expensive, but nice to experience once in a while. I tried it. I bashed my head good skiing once, but I had a hell of a time at the Lodge.

Also, you grow up and hit 30 and the summer vacation attitude wanes as there are bills to pay, careers to advance on and in my case, play nurse to a family of terminal relatives. Adulthood surely sets in fast! 

And this and it's true: You cannot go home again. The younger generations who now own the beach, who own all those good times, quietly exclude you from joining their ranks. And would you want to join them as this freaky old person who hangs around 22 year olds? No, every generation bans the one that came before. You have to get out of their way. In a real sense, it's their time now.

Today, after my walk up the beach I stopped by the Ocean Mist to get a beer or two. I remembered how many times I was in here in my youth watching bands, hanging out with D'Arby and sitting on those rocks with her getting high off of ditch weed. Today, I sipped my beer watching the surfers, from the deck, paddle further and further out till they became just dots on those waves when something happened.

As I drank the beer, there was a different but old recognizable taste to it. It was taste and smell I remember from my 20's. I tasted the beer and the sea air together. There is a definite difference I say! For me anyways! About a minute or two later, a lot of memories came back, the relaxation, the careless attitude, my old 24 year old self, for a while anyway. I was surprised at how an old memory, that I pretty much have forgotten in my day to day life of today, came back in a flood.

I had several thoughts run through my mind too. A young man, in his early 20's, is trying to “come into his own” or “make it.” It doesn't necessarily have to be financial (although it helps!) but I think it's when you finally are completely independent, finally away from the support of your family. You stand on your own with a strong, healthy dose of confidence that isn't annoyingly boastful or aggressive. It's real and solid and does not have to be pubically broadcast nor brayed. A young man will dream of what he wants, whatever it may be and he'll work towards it's fruition. And by way of the Golden Touch, which 20 Somethings can possess in great quantities, if they only allow themselves to believe it, you achieve much of what you want, for a while anyway, as long as it can last.

I realized sitting there on the Ocean Mist deck, watching the young surfers, that I had achieved a great deal of it all, at one time, when I was a young man. I had the hot girlfriend, the cool car, the decent job that afforded me time off when I wanted it (plus the money), the freedom to come and go as I pleased w/o family interference and that Golden Touch where with the slightest effort, I made things happen. All the planets aligned for a while.

I'm 53 now and I can't return to that period in my life whatsoever and you know what? I don't have to. I was there. I owned it and own it still. I had “come into my own” a long time ago.

Resting on my laurels? Nostalgia? You bet! But the thing about it all, I can point to the trophy still on the shelf, inscribed with this:

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing, will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be heroes, just for one day

Though nothing, will keep us together
We could steal time, just for one day
We can be heroes, forever and ever
What'd you say?

Jet'ro

The first time I met Dave Boisclair was at the Celtic Pub back around the year 2000. I had given up on my previous neighborhood club because it's clientele had become younger, bringing their wanna-be hoodie culture and techno music in with them. This drove me and other late 30-somethings out. I was advised by a group of nurses from Arbor Fuller hospital (some who I had known) to try out the Celtic as they said it was a great, fun joint without anyone trying to emulate South Bronx hoodlums.

The first time I was in the Celtic, I was surprised at the filth, age and haphazard décor. It can remind you of a hut/home clumsily built from the shipwrecked flotsam and jetsam that washes up on the beaches of Haiti. However, the place was packed that night, hopping 'n' rocking and loud. I knew no one there and my social skills/motivation, at times, can border on aloof and “get the fuck away from me.” At others, I can be pretty gregarious and demand the center spotlight. That night was was in a half and half mood.

I had wanted to sit down but the place was so packed there was just one available seat at the bar. As soon as I spied it I made a run for it like rat over a pile of garbage, slithering through everyone and finally by this really big guy that I brushed as I moved past him. The guy was about six foot three, had hands the size of bear paws and he was built like a gorilla. This was Dave. He was dressed in his uniform with a radio handset hooked to his epaulet. When I was scampering by, surprising him, he had let out a big “Well, Hello There!”

“Hello to you too!” I said back.

For some reason, we started chatting it up then and there.

He had ordered himself and I a beer and we started talking about the usual stuff two new people talk about, the "Who Are You Conversation?” Where did you grow up? Where do you live? What do you do. When we both realized we both had been to Goff Jr High school, pretty much in the same cohort, he asked if I remembered a teacher, a Miss Van Dale who taught there. I was transported back to 1979 and remembered this hot blonde teacher who taught a “US government” class. To a bunch of 14 year old boys, it was like having a Vouge model up at the front of the class. It was then Dave and I really started to talk because we were finding out we had pretty common histories growing up in Pawtucket. Keg beer party spots in Slater Park, the best intersections for bumper skiing on snowy streets as kids, Bobbys Rollaway and gossip about girls we grew up with. We even both had funny stories about Ray Mahtieu, owner of the Checker Club where Dave worked at for some time.

I took an immediate liking to this man.

After a bit, he pulls me along to the back of the place to meet the other firemen there. I met a ton of Thurbers, a guy I inadvertently knew (from another school) named “Cherry.” He commuted from New Hampshire to Pawtucket for his fireman's job and a bunch of other I met that night.

Once I heard someone call him “Jet'ro.” Later I figured out the nickname. It goes back to the show “Beverly Hillbillies” character Jethro Bodine. Dave was as big as Jethro and at times, had the same silly boy's enthusiasm for fun plans. Jethro Bodine would throw himself into a days long project to build himself a rocket, out by the see-ment pond, to fly and meet “Moon Maidens” that inhabited the Moon. Jethro got his information from a comic book he took as Gospel.

Dave was not as dumb as Jethro but there were times when someone would mention an idea, a thing to do, a place to go visit and if Dave liked the idea, he'd become animated and spirited and try to get everyone else to join up and go. I think it was this innocent, eager boyish buoyancy that got him named “Jet'ro.”

I can credit Dave for “getting me into” the Celtic faster than I would have. I made a slew of new bar buddies and felt welcome there. I began to know the guys on the Pawtucket Fire Dept and learned a ton of shit about suppressing fires, that and stories of some great Pawtucket infernos these guys had been at. Star Gas or the Narraganset Park fire were two I got inside information on and how they attacked it. The guys told me how the spray from a garden hose that everyone has at their house, would evaporate to steam if you tried to put out a large fire with it. That's how hot residential fires can get.

“Don't do it yourself..call us” I was advised.

**

It's All Small Town in Rhode Island

In November of 2003, my brother was in his terminal stage of cystic fibrosis. I had been caring for him knowing that the end would eventually come but my brother was so damn stubborn death had to wait another few months. As ugly as this may sound, I did as little for him as I could because that would keep his strength and “fight” up. If I took everything over, he'd degenerate into an infant and I wasn't having that. One morning in November he yells at me from his bedroom to call 911. I go in and find that he cannot stand up out of his bed when just 12 hours earlier he was roaming about freely. “Shit,” I think, “a stroke.” After calling, I go back and oddly enough he managed to drag himself upright on the bed and I sort of carried him along to the living room sofa. He was walking like a sketch from Monty Python, badly.

The first apparatus that arrived was a pumper truck from the McCoy stadium station as they're the closest. The guys come in and I tell them the story and one asks, “Is he on any meds” and I say “Yeah, a ton of them” and go to the kitchen to get them. When I come back into the living room, the rescue had arrived on the heels of the McCoy truck and Dave Boisclair comes into my house, carrying a large bag of last ditch effort tools to make you alive again.

“Dave? What are YOU doing here?” I asked. I was genuinely surprised and confused.

“You called.” said Dave, matter of factly.

“What?” I say.

It took a few seconds. After seeing Dave standing there in his uniform, purple gloves and lugging so much equipment that it hit me.

“Shit..that's RIGHT..You work for the fire department!” I say.

When I saw Dave at the Celtic, it was for play time, put on a buzz and talk your head off. Many times he would be in civilian clothing, other times in his work duty clothes. I took him as a friend and not a fireman. That image I had of him was pretty well burned into my mind as “a buddy” and not anything else. He wasn't just a fireman. He wasn't just his occupation. If anything, he was a neighbor who had a family and an all around regular guy. People are more than their occupations and Dave fit that too.

He wired my brother up to this thingy that took vital signs, asked him a ton of questions and while the other EMT guy got the stretcher, Dave says,

“Ronnie..we were just drinking beers 12 hours ago...how can you forget what I do for work! You weren't that drunk last night..hell, you can barely drink a six pack!”

I couldn't explain it to him. I just saw him as a regular guy and had forgotten what he did for a career.

He then pulls me aside to say, “We usually take people to Memorial....is that where you want him to go?” I told him that the best place would be the Cystic Fibrosis Clinic at RI Hospital, but if Dave HAD to take people to Memorial as policy, then...

“Don't worry, I'll take him Rhode Island. I'll just explain it real quick to the dispatcher that our estimated time will be a bit longer than usual. I can do it.”

That was cool of him...real cool.

Dave recalled that story to a younger fireman we were talking to one time, trying to explain to him that in this job, you could very easily get a call to rescue someone you know. It happens.

**

Dave's gone now. A cancer had spread throughout his body w/o him knowing it. I was told he was lucid till the end. Good.

People have come in and out of my life like it's a bus station. But there have been a few that I've managed to keep, if I could. Dave was one. He was much more than an acquaintance at an Irish pub. Our paths intersected more often than not and I was glad for that. One of the things I try to remember, how to make my life grow...is to ask if a certain thing, event, job, person, has improved it? Dave improved mine. He did by opening up and inviting me to a great social outlet that I enjoyed thoroughly for 17 years and he delivered my brother to the one place in the state that had the means and equipment to handle cystic fibrosis.

People, being what we are, and I'm not immune, can be judgmental. All throughout Dave's life, mine..and YOURS, people can criticize severely. Well, I leave the detractors with the last lines from Capra's “It's a Wonderful Life.” 

Dave was a major success with this, easily. 

New Wave

“It's every generation that throws a hero up the pop charts”

The first real New Wave song I heard, that stuck with me, was B52's “Rock Lobster.” My brother had bought the album, came home and put it on the turntable. He was earnestly excited at this new acquisition. I sat there on my bed, sort of perplexed as there was very little harmony or a beat I could groove too because it seemed sooo simplistic. And never mind the backup girl singers who were basically screeching. I had grown up on heavily layered 70's rock that kept getting more complex. I enjoyed that stuff as I knew it well. Rock Lobster reminded me of that old show, Dr. Demento that would play silly and simple novelty songs late Sunday nights on WAAF (remember the Cocaine Realty Building? WAAF Giraffe?). But my brother's response to the B52's looked as if he took them seriously. How can you take that shit for real? It's CRAP!

“What do you think?” he asked once Rock Lobster ended.

“Ummmm....” was all I could say. I had the same response to Zappa's “The Torture Never Stops” when he brought that album home. It took a bit longer for me to get my head around this New Wave stuff. Zappa's music, I came to learn and figure out, had a method in it's seeming screwy madness. It was complex as hell, chewable, with a hundred facets to approach and enjoy. New Wave reminded me of a 4 year old kid's colored xylophone that you'd whack away on. “Ding, ding, dingy-ding!” 

Perhaps that was the point. Simplicity. A revolt against 70's progressive concept rock. It was easy to jump around too and a new cohort of kids were coming into their own, they need their own music to rally around. That cohort was my brother's generation when they hit their late teens.

The house started to fill up with more and more New Wave albums. I'd see something like Gruppo Sportivo, a Dutch band that took the punk scene from London and made it their own. It was then that I first heard of Peter Gabriel as well. I was too young to have much money to buy albums so I'd have to rely on my brother, who did have a job, to bring newer ones into the house. For the longest time, he'd bring home Zappa, Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull and all the greats, then the bastard started bringing home this weird shit. To me, it was like being deposited in a foreign country and I had to get used to eating strange cabbage filled thingies as that was their common cuisine. No, what it really was, was a 13 year old kid (me) being forced to move away from his local, parochial home town world view. “Dammit! It's not like HOME! The bed smells funny and the food tastes weird!” I had the same response when Dad would take us on vacations to the Cape and I found Hyannis, Eastham unacceptable because it wasn't home.

**

In one way, I'm glad New Wave did come along when it did. Fucking Disco music was dominating damn near every radio station around here. I can point to a specific month and year when it was impossible to avoid it, February 1978. I have a distinct memory of my going up and down the radio dial on my brother's stereo, in a futile attempt to find any rock songs. All that I could find was one disco song after another. I turned off the system and left the room in disgust. It was that bad. But thanks to New Wave, it started to unseat the Empire of Disco and throw it's ass into the gutter. Because New Wave arose, it allowed all other kinds of music to come back again too. Thank God! The final emancipation was when 94 WHJY went from a classical music station to AOR in 1981. Finally! More choice!

And I can't deny this. New Wave made me grow up even faster than I already was. High school/college kids love to form bands and play, emulate and hope to be just like their Heroes they hear on the radio. On top of that all, it's great fun! Since my brother and his friends formed a band, specifically in the New Wave kind, I could tag along as a roadie and get into the college bars at 14. That certainly opened my eyes more to what else was going on. It was then too, where I fell in love with audio equipment, how to use it, run a mixing board for the front and back of the house, and above it all, develop an ear for sound. All great stuff when you're in the 8^th grade! To this day, I tweak a system I have in my living room. I shoulda been a music engineer, one who couldn't play the riff of Smoke on the Water unless I looked at the fret board.

Today...I like Disco, New Wave, even the B52's. Huh? What did he say? This only makes sense because I am old now and all of that music from then is nostalgia to me. I can hear Donna Summer's “Bad Girl's” (which I detested in '79) and can hum along to it and remember that summer of '79 when I first noticed Gail's body was far more interesting in a bikini vs. what it was a year or so earlier. I know, nostalgia only remembers the good, not the ugly. It also is a bit pathological if you decide to move self, bag and baggage into it. But c'mon...every generation is in love with what they grew up with. Give it time. Even Grunge Rockers of the 90's are now pining away for the days when Nirvana was alive and racing up the charts.

Getting Someone's Goat

In order to maintain or move up the social ladder, you have to develop a reputation that everyone agrees is “normal.” In fact, be more normal than normal. There's nothing people love to do, when you're not around, is to gossip and unfairly judge you worse than than a Jesuit Inquisitor. So defend you must! Unless you're like me and want to fuck with people's heads, start fires and come out of a social situation good and scratched up...for fun! It's almost guaranteed they'll talk about you for days!

I did this more so when younger, screw around in situations that had, perhaps, a casual, unwritten order to them. Actually, it was an instant attention getter if you do something to cause other's mouths to drop. Also, I found it pretty comedic. The humor was generally completely LOST by those who couldn't sub-reference a joke fifty different ways in under five seconds. Those people were kinda boring, commonplace and dull. Though you do need these people there, they're the mark, those of us who get the joke will be our audience and will demand continual torture of the dullard.

At an annual 4^th of July event, I managed to piss off a few people on purpose. I don't know why I go down that road but I do it willingly, with gusto! Once I get someone's goat, I can't help but to abuse it to no end. Of course, after it's all done, I won't get any invitations to their house anytime soon.

I don't know how we got on the subject but dating later in life came up. I then opine that when I was dating more so than now, I'd come across women who invariably had kids from a previous marriage or whatnot. I made it a point to surreptitiously find out about those kids. What I did, was to ask if their kids liked school, did well there and specifically, asked if they did well in English class. Why English? Because it's kinda hard to succeed at the other classes if you can't read.

If the Mom's told me the kids suck in school, hated it, or really sucked in English, I then became pretty damned suspicious about that. Why....did they do sooo poorly? Was their home life so god damn chaotic that education was impossible? Did the kid have some weird genetic problem? Was the kid an asshole to begin with? If I found out that any of these were the case, I'd never have a second or third date.

Why am I so ardent? Because I've been through it before where the little bundle of joy would like throw the TV onto the floor when he didn't get his way. That or call DCYF and lie about his Mom burning him with cigarettes. That was alot of fun. I will not repeat it.

But when I told a group of women at the party of my RULE #1, some of them became super defensive.

“Whaddya mean if they don't do well in school? What if they're just a bit slow? What if they need help of a tutor? Why blame the Mom? What? Is YOUR life so damned perfect? Huh? What do YOU know? You've never been married or had kids!”

I had tried to repeat my view but I was getting shouted down nearly. It then hit me. The old Shakespeare quote does fit, “The lady doth protest too much.” What I realized, was that a few of them took my view as a condemnation of their own, personal child rearing success. Gee...what archery on my part! Nailed it! Bullseye! And I wasn't even trying.

So...why waste a good chance to make the situation far worse and have fun at it?

I don't know where my next comment came from. I was good and buzzed because I rarely drink now and putting down half a case of Yuelings over a 3 hour period got me going. I think I was thinking about marriage in general, how it's NOT always the panacea it's claimed to be and the other thousand problems that can muck it up.

So I remember a short conversation I had with a Pawtucket fireman and it gave me the comment I needed to shock the staid, middle class, married women there.

“Ya know...if I wanted a really pretty girl, just for a short time..I can always go to Las Vegas, get an 18 year old teen prostitute, at one of those agencies where it's completely legal. I too, can make believe I'm a teenager again and use her like a Shake 'n' Bake bag!”

(No joke. I said that)

For about seven seconds, everyone there just sat there in dumb silence.

On the eighth second, they ALL rose up in condemnation of my idea. “You PIG! A teenager! What about STDs? What about being LOYAL? That's GROSSSS!”

I then said: “Do you want to hear the story?”

They all shut up pretty quickly as they thought I was about to further shock them about my nailing a high school girl in a hotel bed. Nope, I was about to tell them a true story about a fireman I know. The story I was about to tell was a bit of condemnation of marriage when it doesn't work.

Fireman B: “My marriage has been dead for years. As it was going down, I tried ways to make her happy. I had bought that house in Matunuck she wanted, a pretty pricey beach house that made me work far too many hours of overtime, plus a second job. When that didn't make her happy, I relented to paying for plastic surgery. I spent $9,000 on a pair of tits for her and other things, that made her look she was 19 again. Christ...I went into hock over her”

I keep telling the tale...

“She had long ago shut me off sexually and to tell the truth, I was ok with it. I didn't find her that appealing anymore anyway, but I still liked girls, wanted to get some. So I went to Las Vegas, with some other guys...not to gamble, but to pool our money for a weekend long escort.”

He told me that once the agency verifies you, find out you ARE who you say you are...and can come up with the $2,000 fee for a weekend girl, they send over a catalog to your hotel.

“I flipped through the pages and I picked HER! She looked like the girl next door, the girl you knew on the cheerleading team. I had her for the whole weekend! It wasn't just sex, but I turned her into a tour guide for me in Las Vegas too. The best part? She LEFT ME on Sunday night when our contract was up...she WENT AWAY!”

“Fireman B” I say, “What's cheaper? Marriage or a teen escort from Las Vegas?”

“The teen!” he blurts out.

The girls I had insulted around the table sat there in silence. I could READ their faces after they heard the story. What was it I read? I saw them quietly thinking about their own husbands, whether they'd stray, whether they would stay put. Perhaps even there was straying but due to whatever...they stayed married. It was a conscious surrender and as long as they were Wife #1, with their names on the deed, 401k and such...a dalliance that lives in Las Vegas could be tolerated.

I stood up from my chair, I pointed at the women and said, “I'm RIGHT.”

The whole time I was doing this, I felt like giggling. Here I was poking the bears through the cage bars with a stick and I couldn't STOP! I kept at it even though I was probably, most assuredly, spending to zero any good collateral I had with them before.

Ah, I hadn't done this in a few years. I used to do it all the time when younger.