Daddy, You're a Fool to Cry...

You know, I got a woman
And she lives in the poor part of town
And I go see her sometimes
And we make love, so fine
I put my head on her shoulder
She says, "Tell me all your troubles"
You know what she says?
She says, "Daddy you're a fool to cry
You're a fool to cry
And it makes me wonder why"

I won't use her name because Rhode Island is way too small. So it'll be Danica for now. Danica was a “sort of” trust fund girl and way out of my league. Her Dad managed to create a little business Empire and bought all three of his daughters a house when they got married. Nice life huh?

When I met her at her front door on our first official date, she stood there in white capris, with a glass of white wine in her hand and I said “Hello.” In the next second I looked straight past her into the well appointed, large home. Once invited in, I quickly scanned the place some more and realized this girl was more then well off and comfortable. She had been married at one time and her now dead husband had been a Major Domo in the RI education system. So money wasn't a problem at all for her. Nor was the hefty life insurance policy that kicked in.

I spotted a German coffee grinder, an Italian coffee maker and espresso machine on the huge kitchen counter. A six top gas grill and the kitchen had vaulted ceilings with nice, professional lighting. My kitchen has single overhead globe light. Customized upholstered kitchen chairs that fit snug up against this inlaid teak/mahogany table made by some master craftsman, I'm sure. My kitchen table says “Formica” on the bottom of it.

“Shit..” I thought to myself. “All I have in my pocket is $175 to wine and dine her tonight.” She had that, at least, in wine in her mini wine cellar I found out a bit later. My attempt at going to the Capital Grill would mean nothing as she probably fed her cat from there. This was the mid 90's mind you so do the inflation factor there.

But, as time would tell, she did dig me for who I was and didn't mind I was from...ugh...Pawtucket, living in a smallish Cape Cod style home that needed a good dusting.

Soooo...how do I tactfully state this? Early in the relationship, after we finished making love/fucking/makin' bacon/doing the Fantango, I lay there on the bed like most guys, exhausted and spent. I was starting to drift off when I hear this from her.

“What bothers you? Really, down inside?”

I get startled out of my nice, deepening relaxation and in my head I say “Huh? What was that?”

It sounded like an interview question to me. So I answered it in that applicant's way, turning all negatives into a positive. I had to THINK now. Damn. My brains ran out out my ears ten minutes earlier for Christ's Sake. I felt like I had to spurt out some resume lines to satisfy her.

An aside that has nothing to do with this but now I think of it. A woman I knew was being interviewed for a psych research/professor/statistician position at Brown U. It was one of those all day interviews where they tour the place, meet various committees and the administration. Finally, she's at the end of her day and realizes this job isn't for her at all. The final bit of the interview process asked her this:

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” they asked.

She answers:

“In five years? Hmmm...to tell the truth, in five years I'd like to become a Shetland pony.”

She got up and left. She had then taken a job at RIC where there was “less horseshit” according to her.

I always thought that was funny and ballsy.

Anyways...

It's 3 AM and I can't sleep and my left eye is hurting. Jesus, pink eye or eye lash cancer, gotta be one of the two. It looks like someone has socked me there. I had the stereo going and that old Rolling Stone's song comes on, which I haven't heard in years and I hear that line, “...tell me all your troubles.”

“Oh wow” I thought, “I remember THAT.”

You don't have to schtupp me in order to get me to “reveal” about myself. I can reveal at most anytime if in the mood. If I have known you for a bit, I can volunteer some pretty shocking stuff if I want too and follow it up with a brush off attitude. “What was I going to do about it? It was out of my control anyways. You just deal and move forward, there's no other way.” 

 Click if you want to hear the song.

 

A Couple of Warm Christmas Stories

Once again, I have run out of things to talk about which explains the lack of anything posted. I have told most of the cooler Christmas stories I have known so here's a few Xmas vignettes from the long, long past, when phones were screwed to walls and there were three TV channels.

Archies's Tavern was a locally famous restaurant here in Pawtucket that was situated pretty much on the grounds of a chemical complex, namely, Teknor Apex. No matter which side you stood, N,S,E or W of Archie's, your view was of chemical silos, networks of pipelines, rail junctions with rail cars full of polyvinylchloride. Perhaps the most scenic view was of an auto body shop that looked like the mafia would torch soon. Mendon street was never known for it's curbside beauty. I'm sure zoning ruled it “Industrial.”

Archie's was famous for their “Caveman Cut” beef entrees. They served you an untrimmed slab of meat that jutted out past the edge of the plate and being a kid, I swore most adults ordered it “barely singed” with the blood still running. To me, that was “raw.” I have to give the restaurant credit for one thing though. They finally succeeded getting me to like mushrooms. Prior to that, I saw most mushrooms as growing off of anything dead and why would I want to eat that? Mushrooms were EVIL. Thanks to a Castelucci recipe, I learned that if you marinate mushrooms, they were heavenly.

It was the Xmas week of '75 or '76, I forget...I'm old, when my Dad got good and juiced one night there.

Nearly every Friday night, we'd go out to a local restaurant, then hop over to Almacs in Seekonk to the do the weekly shopping. As with most nights out, Dad would order his two Manhattan cocktails but then wait till we got home to break open the Narragansett beer. Mom would have “one” beer as she would get drunk off of the fumes and Dad might have four as they watched the Friday night line up of Mary Tyler Moore, Loveboat, Newhart or what have you.

But that particular night back in the mid 70's, Dad had about four Manhattans at Archie's. I'd seen this from time to time and it wasn't a great problem. In fact, if he were buzzed it was a hell of a lot easier to caboodle favors out of him if you pitched the idea just right towards him. It's how I finally got my BB gun once. When we left Archie's that night, a light fog had crawled in and started to freeze on any surface, including the roads. There was a thin layer of ice on everything that you know is incredibly slippery.

We got into the giant Impala my Dad drove, he fired it up and tried to drive away, but the tires just spun and spun causing a huge roar. The car would lurch forward, roll back and back and forth we went. Normally this would piss my Dad the fuck off but he was laughing his ass off this time as he gunned the engine again and again.

From the back seat, I could see my Mom, turning her head towards him and just watching in a dull amazement. Finally, the tires bit the road and we shot forward. It was all of 400 yards to get back to our house. That took nearly 20 minutes.

“RICHARD! LOOK OUT!” my Mom yelled as he slid though an intersection, right past the stop sign.

“Ahhh...it was empty!” my Dad retorts.

On York Ave, he managed to slide the car into a snow embankment near Stop & Shop. My Mom just fumed as he rocked the beat back and forth to get it free. There are times when your parents forget they even have a child in the back seat and start talking freely.

“Ever since you got promoted, you think you can do anything you want!” my Mom complained.

“What? Can't I enjoy my success once in a while? It took me ten years to go from comptroller to CEO! I'm gonna enjoy it when I can!”

“Let me drive the car home!” Mom says.

“You can't even drive a standard!” says Dad.

“THIS CAR ISN'T A STANDARD!” yells my Mom

She was right. My Dad pulled some lame excuse out of his ass.

We finally get to our street when my Dad manages to slide into the curbside of our house. BANG! The giant monster of a car nearly bounced off it when it hit. My Dad laughed.

“You HIT the curb!” my Mom yells.

“It's my OWN curb for God's Sake Maureen! (I swear to God on High, he said this)

Inside the house, my Dad was enjoying opening his Narragansett while my Mom, who sat at the same table, had smoke coming from her ears. He then starts singing the opening song from the Mary Tyler Moore show when it came on.

“You're gonna make it after all...” Dad croons to Mom.

“Shut up Richard!”

**

Christmas Eve mass was always held at St Joseph's on Walcott every year. I guess when we were old enough, we finally attended it and I swear the only reason was to blow off the Christmas Mass the next morning at 11 AM because we had presents to open, relatives to visit with. I wasn't a particularly religious kid and I wasn't always keen on even attending regular Sunday morning masses let alone one at midnight. One, it was late and I wanted to sleep. Two, it was usually f'ing freezing out at that time of night and I preferred to be warm and snug INSIDE my house. I'm still the same way, by the way.

One year, my brother, who was a full blown teen then, said he'd “meet up with us” at St Joe's mass at 12. When asked where he was going that Christmas Eve, he said to Mirza's, his best friend from that time.

“Oh..Mirza's? Say hi to them all for us.” My brother complied and said he would.

So, after getting into my itchy woolen suit my parents had bought me from Sears, we all piled into the car for the four minute drive to St Joe's. I was resigned to this as I had no say, but realized it would be short enough (vs. the High Mass that next morning that lasted as long as a Pope's funeral) and it WAS Christmas tomorrow plus a whole week off from school.

The church was packed and Mom, Dad and I settled into the pew and I kept looking around for my brother. I finally spotted him, along with Mirza, Burns, Chubsie and Dirt Bomb (aka Jimmy K) sitting about five pews behind us.

Kneel, stand, sit, kneel, half sit, do the Watusi as we Catholics do during Mass. My brother and his friends were making a small, slight, barely audible commotion amongst themselves, but not enough to draw the ire of the of congregation. It's what teen boys do when they pack rat together.

About five minutes later, I heard a strange sound, an almost gurgling sound followed by a SPLAT! A second later I hear an older women's “Oh Dear!” comment.

I turned to see my brother, who is holding his mouth, making a bee line through the pew of people, to the aisle and out the door. Jimmy K, the infamous “Dirt Bomb” started to laugh but then caught himself quick.

What was odd is that my parents didn't notice this nor see their son bolt. There was some slight murmuring near those pews but it died down once the priest started officiating again.

“Huh? I wonder what that was about?” I thought to myself.

Later once we get home, my brother is already there with Mirza and Dirt Bomb. I ask what the hell happened and Dirt Bomb says, 'Your brother puked in church!” and busts out laughing.

After a few seconds, I realized they're all piss drunk. My brother had ralphed up whatever cheap vodka they were drinking before they went to church.

Apparently that was the whole plan, as my brother was old enough to go to midnight mass with his friends, alone. They were first at Mirza's house getting gooned on cheap Popov vodka.

I don't know who had to clean up the puke at St Joe's though, probably some poor altar boy.

Merry Christmas and everyone lived happily ever after!

39 years ago. Wow. Pink Floyd's “The Wall” came out 39 years ago. Anyone born on that day in 1979 now fears the impending doom of real middle age this year! Just one more till 40! Hit that and everyone rushes to finalize any dream they were trying to build or even attempt. Because once you push through your 40's, the story of your life is largely written. Afterwards, it's mainly epilogue.

I haven't listened to The Wall in it's entirety in years to tell the truth. I have soo many hours of music on tiny SD cards that I'm overwhelmed with choice. But tonight I listened to it again since today was the anniversary of it's issue. Not only that, I can thank bit torrent protocol and a little thievery for getting the re-mastered version of it tonight. The remaster ain't that bad.

I had forgotten or perhaps more truly, I found out finally how well crafted the album is. And again, after packing on the decades I hear it differently now. It's two hours of Roger Waters obsessing over every rotten thing that ever went wrong with his life, and I do mean obsess. If you forget the lyrics and listen to the music, it's a long, grating steely guitar horror show with a relentless background beat of the blades of Vietnam Era Huey attack helicopter. Listen to the instruments, it's there! That “thump, thump, thump” shows up in various synthesized sounds throughout. I'd put the album right up there with the movie The Deer Hunter for it's ceaseless stewing in PTSD. Both do a great job at immersing you in it.

Jesus, it's work to listen to this and to defend yourself from it's vibe at the same time. The album is a damned assault on a coherent mind. The music is doing exactly what Roger intended, which is to nearly inoculate you with his agony.

Apparently after hitting 60+ years, Roger finally made some peace with the worse angels of himself, or at least learned not to haunt himself forever with his personal demons.

I have too, mostly. We all do as we age.

The other thing that struck me about listening to it all the way through was that I did the same as a young teen. I had this album when I was 15 and can remember how many times I played it from beginning to end. At 15, I was a sophomore in high school and attending Driver's Ed classes at Jenks across from McCoy stadium. I can remember it being a cold bitch of a winter too. A ton of memories came to me and here's what struck me.

I was a child then. Still a child at 15. Every kid who's 15 is! How could I possibly have fathomed this album at 15? I couldn't. I hadn't lived enough years to even grasp it yet. I thought, even at 14, I was a worldly teen, doing whatever the hell I wanted and getting away with it. I felt BIG! Yeah. Sure. I was an “adult” then. Cue the laugh track! In one year, I'd be driving a two ton car. In three years I could legally purchase a firearm. Lord Above! How can we possibly think anyone 18 and under is mature enough for anything like that? I sure as shit wasn't!

I'm pushing 55 soon and I notice that my thinking is doing something the developmental psychologists I knew an eon ago told me would happen. My thought process is concertizing. Like a knee joint, your thinking gets “stiffer.” You slowly lose that flexibility to notice subtle, fluid nuances in conversation the young can twist and jump around in. You then tend to rely on what's worked all the time, a smaller set of tools that's always been there for you and not the nifty artworky stuff the young love and can use with impunity. (I think I have just described 'conservatism' in my convoluted way!). In short, I suffer from knee-jerk dismissive-ness when I hear the kids talk. I tell myself “I know better” and can outright reject what they say or believe. But, that's the price of gaining that wisdom of experience. And you can't achieve that till you pack on DECADES! Or am I covering up my 'getting on in years' inflexibility with lofty sounding words like, wisdom? Probably both! I am a zillion times smarter now and I also rebuff kids too easily.

Anyways...

The 55yo self vs the 15yo self. God, what a difference that is I came to find out tonight from just listening to music.

I'll steal station 101.5's tag line, “The Sound Track to Your Life” because it sounds cool. For me it's kinda true. I find that I can pigeon hole my entire life according to the Top 200 List to each year I lived. The Wall did that to me tonight.

I'll Bring the Popcorn

I once was invited, about ten years ago, to cook a Thanksgiving dinner, or at least help with 80% of it. I haven't done it since. What happens is that people start to butt in as they're absolutely sure you're doing it wrong. The real problem is that they've never seen how it was done right in the first place, ever, in their lives.

Add to that those who bring a pot luck dish to add to the dinner. They insist you critique it. That's an occasion to whip up a big FAT white lie, or many of them.

I”ve been in this career over 20 years. I'm not Jacques Pepin and don't claim to be. There are a few things I can do that I bat out of the park, routinely. And...there are other things I can butcher with almost 100% certainty each time.

So, a week before we were to meet, I warned the others, who were going to “help” to understand what prep means. Prepping doesn't mean you do it at 8 AM for a 1 PM dinner.

“Well, why not? They can ask

“Where are you going to put the food you make to keep it warm?”

“The oven.”

“Won't the turkey be in the oven then?” I say.

“Ohhh...” The light bulb finally goes off. “But what about the top of the stove?”

I answer, “We'll be cooking off those items that have to be done in the last hour, all four burners will be occupied.”

Silence...

I finally say, “There's only so much equipment and room here, we have to use strategy!”'

**

I had preheated the oven and after a while I opened it up to stuff the turkey in. What was odd, I should've been hit in the face with a heat wave but was met with a nice warm breeze instead. I looked at the dial and it said 350 degrees. Uh oh, something's up. I asked B when he used the oven last and I hear this, “Oh, about 10 yeas ago”

“B, this oven is waay off. It's not 350.” After you work for years around ovens you can guesstimate the temperature from just how your face is hit when that first blast comes from a just opened oven.

I get shouted down.

“Oh, the oven's fine! It works! Put the damn bird in the oven.” B says.

So I do, but behind his back, I jack the dial to 450.

I found this funny as some guests were about to go ballistic when I was about to dump something called a mirepoix into the garbage after I had used it.

Many meats, including turkey, are best cooked on top of a layer of carrots, onions and celery, that's a mirepoix. It adds flavor, color and all sorts off goodies. When the turkey was done, I hefted it out of it's pan onto a plate, drained the juice than was about to toss the browned, nearly burnt mirepoix into the trash.

“What are you doing!” Two people spoke up.

“I'm done with this, it can go now” I say.

“No! No!” We want it! We'll eat it! Those two say. They looked at me as I were nuts.

I stood there, realizing I could not explain to them what those veggies were for and how destroyed they were after baking in an oven for over 3 hours. I'd be shouted down. So I shut up. They put them in a bowl to eat when everything else was done.

Those who live in Plymouth pride themselves on NOT eating that canned cranberry sauce. They make their own. D. had brought her own in as a pot luck addition. The berries are cheap there and they damn near grow everywhere there's water. D asked me to try a bit and I did. The “sauce” is not pureed and it has berries in whole form still. I tasted it and nearly gagged. The acid in them would knock out an ape. Not only that, the berries were still crunchy which told me they were barely scalded when she cooked them.

“So? How is it? She asks. In that anticipation I'd pat her head for a job well done.

I lie as best as I can. “Oh, it's fine, put it in the fridge.”

I turn back to the counter and don't dare swallow this crap, waiting for that moment when I can spit it out. I manage.

A Simple Trick for Mashed Potatoes.

I had drained a pot of them and then returned said pot back on the burner to evaporate any water that was left. Once again, the crew had to interject their disapproval.

“You'll burn THEM!” I hear Dammit, once again if I TRIED to explain why, they wouldn't believe it. This time I ignored them and drove off the water. Why have mashed that's sloppy? Let the butter do the creaming trick instead of thinning water.

The same holds for making your own autumn squash too. Get rid of that water! Unfortunately, D was in charge of making those.

Finally we hit the table and pass the food around. Due to being raised with manners, I HAVE to put some of the other's pot luck food on my plate to at least seem I want it. EXCEPT that destroyed mirepoix. Though I see everyone else taking a heaping of that greasy, burned mixture.

I pile up my plate and I noticed D's crunchy cranberry sauce and her water-shedding squash is already forming a little river polluting everything else on my plate. Everything else seemed to be in order though. I chow it down, taking the most minimal bites of the cran and squash.

So, after we're all done, K wants to surprise us with her own pumpkin pie which she made from scratch. Well, this might be good I say to myself.

I did, until I saw her cut the pie up. The center of it was still gelatinous and all I could think was salmonella. The pie wasn't cooked all the way through. So, being nice, I accepted my piece and ate all that WASN'T near the center. Though no one puked the days after though I came to find out.

Had we done the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, it would've been far easier.

 

Being sick as a kid teaches you about afternoon TV game shows and soaps (for us Boomers), huge piles of Kleenex and how easy it is to coax up another round of vomiting if you've been doing it for three days straight. As for the Kleenex, my mother once came into the living room with an old towel and said, “You've blown through two boxes of Kleenex...they're pricey. Use this!” I was ok with it, a big giant SNOT towel. The terry clothe nap does a great job at absorbing it all.

The only weird memories I have being sick as a kid are the dreams I'd get, even more imaginative ones if I had a fever. 99% of them were forgotten as soon as I would awake but you knew how weird some of them were. The 1% never made any sense as they morphed from one subject to another in rapid succession. I'd wake up, think on it, forget it and go onto the next matinee that's going to play in my head. The only benefit of being sick as a kid is that no one expects anything from you except to stop pestering them for sympathy or requests. “You're sick not DYING!” my brother would say. That or “Ohhh...pooooor bebee” he'd torment me with.

As a teen it's still sort of the same but you are expected to nurse your own damn self. I had one sickness, now that I look back on it, that probably was pneumonia. I was coughing and sneezing pure wood glue traced with hot streaks of blood and felt like someone had beaten me with an ax handle. I gave my mother a bit of a shock once. I had got up from the couch to go the bathroom for something and I was wrapped up in a giant quilt because I was so cold. As I walked by her, she shot an amazed look at me. I didn't get it then but I came to realize my own Dad had worn the same quilt and walked by her, just as sick back in February '77. He ended up dropping dead at the kitchen table from bilateral pneumonia. Guess the deja vu for her was pretty intense.

A few days later, while rotting on the couch, my brother opined that perhaps, “I should take a shower or something” as all I did during the past few days was either space out on the couch or tried to remain unconscious in bed. I was too tired to eat, move or do anything else beside hack up that bloody wood glue.

“The last thing I want to do now is get WET” I told him. It was late November and this house was always drafty and though I could put the shower setting on “Boil,” getting out meant I'd evaporate in that chilly air and be even more miserable.

I wondered how I looked so I looked in the bathroom mirror. Ugh. Red crusty nose, lips with extra peeling skin, very greasy stringy hair...and I probably smelled like a dead goat but how could I tell? My nose was full of snot. I gave in and took the shower.

I froze like I knew I would later but did it only to shut the brother up.

I eventually got better though to my amazement I lost 6 pounds. The first day I walked to school I stepped outside into that freezing 6AM morning air and hacked my brains out. My lungs, being fairly cleared still weren't ready for that abrupt change in air. That was fun. The only thing facing me now was nearly a week's worth of school work I had missed.

Being sick as an adult? Oh great! Life's responsibilities don't take a break at all!

Matt, Rob, Mark and I ended up at Barn's apartment on Penn St by Atwells after class as we didn't want to drive home during a major snowstorm from RIC. To be honest, it was more of an excuse to get real drunk for free and crash at his place. We were already getting drunk in a classroom at RIC earlier in the afternoon. (We could get away with things like that then...we were SPECIAL!)

At Barn's place, I had noticed the back of my throat burning, then the sneezing came on and by the next morning, a full blown chest cold or flu. I'm not sure which one. Either way, I was a mess and felt miserable. It was time to head home so we got a ride from Barn and he dropped me off in front of Robert's Hall where my car was nicely plowed in. After a few minutes of digging I got it out and headed home, dreaming of a nice long nap to forget how shitty I felt.

So I get home and realize the driveway, sidewalks at my house are NOT shoveled. “FUCK!” I have to do this now while I'm sore and wretched. I get out of the car and start shoveling the Great Wall of China from the front of the driveway, all the time hacking and nearly losing my balance because I'm so out of it. I finally go into the house and there's Mom, with another list of things she needs done because she was snowed in and was too scared to drive at all. I say “Sure, in about 8 hours! After I sleep!” I thought digging the house out was enough for now and any additional requests can wait.

I peel off my wet, frozen jeans, the wet frozen boots and crawl into bed, lamenting ALL the crap I have to put up with AND being sick. Woe is me. Is there anyone I can sue in court was my attitude.

Yeah, right. Get used to it kid! As I got older, I replayed this show out countless times when sick. You drag yourself along till you can't and thee will be NO medals or parades for you either! Sick? Snotty? Coughing blood too? Fuck you! Get back into the trenches you!

Yesterday...

I haven't been sick in years, except for the occasional norovirus that's a gift to me because of the profession I'm in. But I must've caught something last week as it made it's appearance on Friday.

First was the copious snot I keep sneezing out. Well, that's odd. I haven't sneezed like that in years. Then the watery running snot that kept flowing. “Oh shit” I thought. “Don't go into my lungs! Don't go into my lungs!” I begged the virus. Too late, it had. Then came the ridiculous coughing that can made my face turn beet red and is kind of startling to anyone watching. Add to that, the old feeling of someone having beat me with an axe handle came back as well. Aaaa-CHOO! as I fire another rope of snot into those damned paper towels that rip up your nose if you use them 30 times in a row.

In my head I say: “Admit it kid...stop wishing it way, you ARE sick!”

As the day passed I kept getting queries from others, “Are you alright?” “No...but I will drag myself on” was my answer. Later on that night Red, comments: “I know you're HERE. You're doing the work...You've helped me too...but YOU have totally checked out! I can see it in your eyes!”

I tell here she's right. I HAVE checked out. When sick, disappearing from reality as much as I can is a coping tactic. Why be so Zen and “in the moment with the here and now” with the sickness? I'd rather be floating around Pluto and occasionally check in when need be. Which is what I did. Return to reality just enough times to keep things going safely is all that's needed.

Driving home and using the tried and true tactic for sickness I've always used, unconsciousness was my plan. I did a very good job at it too. I zonked out and stayed that way as long as I could.

I haven't been sick in a long while and I was kinda surprised at how it can beat the shit out of you. Then again, I was much younger then and being nearly 55 now, well...I guess things can wear on you a bit harder than usual? What I noticed was that although the body may be less adept at fighting it all, my mind isn't. It's plain pig headed, unreasonable stubbornness that keeps you going. It's what I've always done in my life to tell the truth when other more subtle tools won't work. If the scalpel wont' work, use the ball peen hammer!

I'm feeling a bit better today and by my side, is a nice snot TOWEL at the ready. Thanks Mom! Great idea if the Kleenex runs out!

60 Beats per Minute, 120/80...Sunday Morning, As It Shout Be

Click and Play the Mood Music Needed Here

You know them. You have too if you drive. Aggressive guys in over sized pickup trucks. A couple of months ago on an early Sunday morning, W. and I were heading to Mt Watatic on the Mass/NH border. Most of the ride consisted of riding up 146 and then 190 and it probably wasn't even 7 AM yet. 
 

There was no rush to get there as this was a for fun and entertainment. Just lay back and we'll get there soon enough. The mountain ain't going anywhere. It's Sunday morning and a normal person would have a casual attitude. Hence that song I posted up top. The song nails it right on the button.
 

But...

As we were going up 146, winding it's way through the woods, it was pretty empty that early. On occasion we'd see low clouds rolling up the hills as the sun was just starting to burn them off. Other drivers were few and far between. I was doing the speed limit because I know how bored small town cops are and they would like nothing better than to pull me over. Being a cop in Millbury can't provide much in the way of excitement. (Bet you don't know where Millbury is, neither did I till we drove through it). 
 

Well, for some reason a young guy in one of those pick up trucks that have grills that look like their purpose was the same as the “hedge hog” teeth on Sherman tanks in WW2, to bulldoze down anything it's path, gets up right on my ass. He's tailgating me within a couple of feet. This is odd as there is plenty of room on the entire highway to drive on. 
 

I'm looking in the rear view mirror and think, then comment to W., “God, here's another one.” Within 30 seconds he swings into the left lane, hammers down the accelerator and takes off down the highway pushing 90 with the engine of his truck so revved up I can hear it suck air into the intake. 
 

I start shouting through the windshield. “It's Sunday MORNING kid! RELAX!”

“W, I see these guys all the time. I don't think there's a moment when they're NOT waving their dicks around and especially when they're behind the wheel! Even on a Sunday morning!”

We get to Watatic mountain and enjoy the rest of the day.

**

Today's Sunday morning...

Winter's coming. I have been busy buttoning up the yard, house and whatnot so I don't have to do it when it's 30 degrees and snowing. So, at times, I have to make a run to Home Depot to be overcharged for things. Coming back, I have to drive over a bridge where below, the Amtrak Acella rides by. For you locals, you know this is Newport Ave by the Market Basket. You also know that anyone driving south from that stretch in Attleboro can usually hit that bridge still doing 50mph and then be completely surprised when they crest the hill, and see, the traffic and RED LIGHT on Cottage Street. 
 

But it's Sunday morning today and as I leave Home Depot, climb that hill and what do I see on the empty road behind me? Another Big Balls pick up truck that's all jacked up riding up onto my tail. Of course, he nearly skids to slow down but doesn't go into the other empty lane till we're nearly at the red light, which is turning yellow. He blows through it, with AUTHORITY! I then yell out the window, “Tough guy! I bet you got the BIGGEST DICK in RI...You faggot!”

He didn't hear me. How could he with that diesel engine roaring? The few people on the sidewalk by Honey Dew donuts did though. Whoops! Not what they were expecting to hear at 7 AM on a Sunday morn. Great, now I'M the one shattering the peace of a Sunday morning...

If you have a short, very tiny penis, you MUST get one of these.

I Ain't Dead Yet, Still Have It..Somewhat.

So why am I doing it? Hiking and climbing? I'm 54, 30lbs beyond my normal weight range, have less lung elasticity and “should know better by now” about dangerous pursuits.

Is it an older man's last, desperate clutch at his youth? You're GODDAMN right it is! I've long since reached the age where self deception falls away. I know myself. I know what I am, not who, but what. (Really, think of it in that term of “what” and you'll soon reach some startling conclusions about yourself). And I know full well I'm testing myself on these climbs to see what reserves I still may have and what has waned. And some things have waned. When pulling myself up a 50 degree slope by grabbing branches, I could feel that my upper body strength ain't was it once was. My cardio stamina? That too has waned. I found myself having to stop more often now vs. when I was young humping up these rocks. On the plus side, I found out my ankle's tendons are probably leather now from doing this all summer. I can walk on anything horribly uneven now.

I never believed that 50 was the new 40. Know what the new 50 is? It's 50, period. On these climbs, I came across many teens who are made of elastic, strong and bounce their way UP these slopes. For them, they have the physical wherewithal. At my 54, it has to be mental. I accomplish this with fuckin' sheer, hardheaded determination as my natural strength diminishes. It's what I have left and so far, it's enough.

For women who dread getting older, it's beauty. Tight skin, perky tits and that damnable, compelling magic to turn men's heads as they pass by. For guys it's power (financial, political, career or whatever), strength and vitality. You're not supposed to admit this but c'mon, look at Propecia hair restorer, the beauty industry for women, Viagra and much older people in Coral Gables wearing sports Lycra attire to shuffleboard. It's a giant elephant in the room and since I was a kid I often pointed them out to the dismay and consternation of other people. “Oh Jesus...he went there again!”

We love youth and what it means and hate the fact it fades.

So, I'll admit it. I'm still hanging onto what youth I still own. So-do-YOU! I know a guy in his late 40's who has gone back into the ring to box. Another tries to pardy hard at Gillette arena concerts and yet another who tries to stuff his overweight ass into a kayak and cascade down whitewater. And why mention all the 40+ girls in the gyms? That's a given. We Boomers won't just age gracefully!

Here's a bitching complaint about what Boomers have turned into.

"staring down the barrel of middle age burnout" Click it!

This isn't new. Ever since we hid in caves, afraid that an eclipse would eat and kill the sun forever, we glorified youth as beautiful. But we Boomers created a religion out of it. I'm one of them.

There now, we're past those awkward truths about hanging onto youth, we can move on now...

I first got the idea of climbing from an Eastwood movie called, “The Eiger Sanction.” It was panned by critics in every way but one, the cinematography of having to film a climb on the north face of the Eiger was astonishing to Hollywood's technical people. The Eiger was known to kill experienced climbers with ease. In fact, a climbing adviser for the film got his face flattened. A boulder had came loose, tumbled down the mountain, striking his face and sending him to Heaven rather quickly.

So, being 10 years old, the tree in the backyard was my Eiger and with nails, rope and a good deal of imagination, I started to climb up it. I was about 20 feet up, hanging there, suspended when the old rope broke and the next thing I knew I was rolling on the ground. But I was 10 and made of rubber so I just got up, got a new rope and tried again.

In high school, I had a geometry teacher who taught boring algebra with it's quadratic equations, graphs and such. She rarely strayed off that topic when one day she said, rather deadpan, that she spent her last summer climbing the Matterhorn. Since when do boring math teachers have interesting lives? This surprised my 15 year old worldview.

This perked me up and I asked a bunch of questions of her. How much to do it? She wouldn't say but I suspect she came from some money, from some where. How can you breath when the oxygen is 80% less that high up? Ever fall? Freeze toes off? Later on, we immature teen boys wondered if she gotten laid on the world's highest peaks too. A real, hard core Mile High Club.

So, a few years pass by when I notice an escarpment in Attleboro composed of that red slate rock you see all over that town. Hell, why not try? When your 20, you think death and accidents only happen to other people and up I went. It was perhaps just 30 feet up and there were plenty of hand and footholds to make use of, but to fall 30 feet onto jagged rock below, would've cut my scrambling career short.

I lived.

So as a few more years passed, I learned about the needed safety measures you have take. Busting a leg 6 miles into the woods w/o an Iridium phone, ain't too smart. I never invested too much money into this and did it only on nice spring, summer and fall days. It was a pass time if anything else but I learned a few things that have come back to me all these years later and why I did it. You learn a lot about yourself.

Maybe it's a guy thing? You prove to yourself you can “do it.” For some reason I'd put myself in situations where I had no one else to rely on but myself (Gee, that sounds familiar to me and others that know me) and see if I can pull it off. The navigation, the climbing, the stamina, the decisions you have to make. All go to improving that situational analysis. Be Aware! Wake Up!

**

I've done about, perhaps...14 places this summer so far. So what does the next season hold? I keep looking at Katahdin in Maine, the worst one around here for height, struggle and weather. To do it, you have to know yourself and what I've found out is to go damn slow. The problem occurs is that too slow won't get you off the mountain before sunset. So, camp in place, overnight with thunderstorms at 4,000 feet? I'll have to think on it some more. 

The People You Meet on the Trails

 

The Trail Runner: I never knew they existed till I hit the trails again. I suppose each sport has it's “extreme” variant and hiking/scrambling seems to have theirs. The guys/girls you see out there doing this have about 1% body fat. They are incredibly fit and all seem to be about 23 years old. They alone can wear the spandex tops and bottoms that accentuate everything that a great looking body should look like. They also tend to wear Oakely sunglasses whether it's sunny or not. Gotta need those accessories to finish the look! The first time I saw one was while we were going up Blue Hill outside of Boston and this guy comes thumping by us, at a decent clip, uphill! Some of those grades will make your calves burn but these types are too fit for that to happen anymore. Their bodies are trained! The second time was when we were going up Mt Watatic and I swore I heard a deer bouncing by me and I caught a glimpse of a shadow. No, it was a runner bounding down the slope past us fairly quick, leaping past rock, roots and streams.

The next time the summer Olympics are on, look at the sprinters. These trail runners have that kind of body. Am I jealous? Sure. I want six pack abs and the ability to wear spandex in the forest or a busy street without looking like a pile of PlayDoh stuffed in a plastic lunch zip lock baggie.

The Normal, Traditional, Not Dysfunctional and Wholesome Family: It's a family outing and they're all there, Mom, Dad and with the gaggle of kids swarming in and out. Mom is usually leading the way up the trail. None of them have any of the equipment and are dressed like they're going to Olive Garden after the hike. The funny thing I saw was that, at times, I'd see the Dad with a backpack baby carrier. The baby seemed totally disinterested in the whole thing. The Dads did too come to think of it from judging the look on their faces. This Sunday hike was the wife's idea. “Great idea honey, let's do this instead of lying on the couch watching women's gymnastics on TV and drinking beer.” What bothered me about it was that on one trip, I saw a couple of family groups out there with all the mosquitoes, disease bearing ticks and rocky trails where you can bust a kneecap or break an arm depending on which way you fell. No matter, just because you're 15 miles from the nearest outhouse/road/cell phone tower shouldn't worry you at all.

The Former Cheerleaders Who Stay Desperately Thin: You've seen them in the mall, soccer fields, schools and you can see them on the trails. They're usually older women, 40+ who still have nearly the same figure as they did when they were in high school. They are wearing the sports Spandex, if they can get away with it. They travel still in that teen girl pack mode, three abreast if the trail is wide enough. Some have great unlined faces due to Botox or surgery, but time still etches itself on those faces in one way or another. Each has their cell phone out till the signal dies. They absolutely HATE the Trail Runner Girl who may bound by them. The Trail Runner Girl is about 23 and in fantastic shape with the assured hope of at least seven more years of looking young and great. One bolted by one Cheerleader group I saw and after the pretty one was out of earshot, the old cheerleaders started to complain about the way she dressed. No ladies, admit it, you're jealous YOU can't look like and get away with it anymore.

Hyperactive Teens: You hear them about 50 yards behind you on the trail but can't see them. Just wait. They'll catch up to you! They come by, usually 4-6 in a pack and they too aren't well equipped either. They look like they'll be hitting Misquamicut beach after. With all that energy and great, young cardio, they charge right past you with a quick, “Hi!”. The boisterousness of their talk will fade as they easily disappear into the woods ahead of you. However, give it time, you'll catch up with them. Since they charge onto these trails with all the gusto of hoping to hit the summit in 20 minutes, they blow all their stamina fairly quick. I, tortoise-like, will come upon them later on, sitting on rocks, with “this was harder than we thought” faces on them. They all tend to quiet down the higher they go too. The reality of clambering over rock is a wake up call. This is WORK. They also bitch about losing their cell phone signal. The teen girls complain their neat sports clothing is getting dirty.

The Geologist/Biologist/Botanist...Hobbyist: I came across a few of these guys. One was collecting rocks and showing me the various crystalline structure of them (like I cared) and another was plucking leaves off some plant and putting them into little zip lock bags. Both times I had asked if they were working for URI or some other scientific organization and they said “No,” they just enjoy doing this. They're not hiking at all, they're just exploring. The only two others I knew who did this was from long ago, Ted Duluk and Duncan Grey, both PhD's in Biology and who did go prancing into the woods looking for weird creatures and plants. The two had a weird sense of humor and by weird, I mean they took a Kermit the Frog doll into the woods and placed him in various horrible accidents that befell him. Kermit under a boulder. Kermit drowned in a stream. Kermit falling down an escarpment with his arms and legs all broken and twisted around his body. Kermit wasn't wearing his day-glo orange vest and got shot by a hunter. How do I know this? The two would take pictures of various creatures, plants and Kermit, transferred them to slides to show us in Biology class from an overhead projector. “Here's Polypodiopsida, a common fern.” *Click* “And there's Kermit sinking in the mud! Haw, haw, haw!”

I shit you not. They did this.

Anyways, back to my story.

The HardCore Environmentalist

I saw these guys on top of Watatic and Wachusett. They tend to climb in groups and all wear clothing purchased from LL Bean's catalog. They look the part I swear. They know every plant, rock, animal and geologic history of any spot you encounter them at. On Wachusett, a group of them were hawk watching. I never knew hawks migrated south for the winter and each time they saw one, they entered it into some data book. The funny thing about it is what follows.

These guys all had spotting scopes which go for several hundred dollars to thousands. They humped this equipment up the mountain and set it up. As W. and I sat on a bench below a fire tower, one of the guys yells out, “Peregrine! Peregrine falcon! 11 O'clock HIGH!” With that alarm, seven spotting scopes swung to that position and all started jabbering away about the bird.

I turn to W. and say, “Hey, that sounds like those old World War II bomber movies, like Memphis Belle, where the gunners yell out, “Bandit! Bandit at 11 O'clock high!” Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat! And the Messerschmidt goes down in flames. I had said it a bit loud when the leader pulls his head off his scope to shoot me a dirty look.

Gee, sorry!

The Granola Guy/Earth Mother: These are usually older people, my age and up who look like 60's hippies. When you come upon them on the trail they're usually alone, are kind but say little. I think they're kinda perturbed that their peace was disturbed by another human, me. I have to admit though they are very knowledgeable of the trails, forest and such, but I think that comes from their environmental bent that they have. They “hike and climb” but not for the usual reasons. They do it because if you're in the woods, you have too, and they like being alone. They would be the type that would be the “thru hikers” you'd meet on the Appalachian Trail, all in tune with nature and all that good shit, as long as they are ALONE. Eventually they put off a vibe to me that says, “Ok, I've acknowledged you, I've talked to you, now leave me by myself with the trees!”

Guys Like Me: We're older, heavier and either alone or in a small group. We tend to have the equipment and a more serious look on our faces vs. the younger ones. We're huffing and puffing and forever looking to where the trail leads to next, because the idea of staying overnight with the bugs is not fun if you get lost. We fall into two mindsets, or a blend of the two. We're trying to hang onto what's left of our youth or prove we “still got it” and/or we're doing what that Dr has told us: Exercise or be dead in 10 years from heart disease. One guy, about 60, tells me with some pride that he climbed Mt Washington and it took him “only 14 hours.” He hung that out in the air once he found out I was “just 54.” Ok, you win. You climbed Mt Washington and I haven't. Guys are guys, we're always competing about something or other.

We're dressed like rag bags. There's no stylish spandex or really rad and cool colors. Why do that? We're in the woods and our shitty clothing is perfect for this! We're dirty, sweaty and our hair looks like we never knew what a comb was. We're older men, we don't care anymore! Once we reach the summit, we're found sitting on a rock, just looking around. The younger ones run to and fro, with their phones out, taking pics of everything. They're off the summit in less than 20 minutes. Wow! All that work to leave as soon as you get there.

Mr. Forest Ranger.

Dressed like Smokey the Bear, crisp and clean uniforms to boot. They're Forest Cops whose job it is to keep the likes of me and you from killing yourself out there. They're also loaded, like the environmentalists, with every scrap of information you wanted to know about the mountain. I tend to look upon them a bit warily because they are COPS. They'll tend to look you up and down to see if you're poaching, stealing precious rocks or stinking of weed. They're a step below Game Wardens and I've run into a few of those in the middle of no where when I was in my 20's. They assume you have to be doing something illegal if you're out here. Lucky for me, they profile me as the silly old guy who might bust his leg proving he can still do what he did in his 20's and not a drug mule.