4AM

I don't know about you, but I will have a dreams that will abruptly rouse me. They're not nightmares like a kid will awake screaming to. These particular dreams I have I call “truth dreams.” It's the substance of the dream that I find surprising yet familiar as well. Surprising due to my being half- aware of the “truth” and familiar due to the same reason. I guess my unconscious will dig through the back closets of my brain and bring forth things I’ve forgotten about. It's 4 AM now and I have been awakened by one.

Without giving you an entire history of my mother, here she is in a nutshell, or rather here is what I surmised her to be till one day she invalidated a good part of that summation. On the surface, my Mom would leave most people, and me at the time, underwhelmed. I had thought I had known everything that was possible to know about her and her chances of expanding any horizon on her life, personality or what-have-you was at its end. What you see it what you get and there ain't anymore.

In the dream, I was going downstairs into the cellar to find my Mom carving rock into little statues. I stood there, in quizzical surprise, when I said, “I didn't know you could do that!”

She responded that she never did it before, it was just a new hobby that she figured she'd try out. And it was apparent she had some decent talent at it too.

Then I awoke.

Years ago, as my brother and I were leaving the house, we passed our Mom who was at her kitchen table, smoking cigs and drinking her Lipton tea as she always did. She had that constant disinterested look on her face. She unexpectedly stirred, opened her mouth and opined on the essence of her two grown sons.

“Ken, you're the social butterfly. You are constantly bouncing from group to group, talking, meeting ...and Ronnie, you just do whatever the hell you want.”

I stood there wondering to myself, “Where in the hell did that come from?” It wasn't till a little later on that I realized she was right about us. This women who I sort of gave up on long ago wasn't quite finished yet and did possess some hidden expertise.

And now I dream the same story in the dream world of symbolism to remind me.

Besmirched!

Interesting conversation with a few friends out on the Cape who do public relations.

I related to them a series of events I'm privy to and the actions of an NGO, a private concern and a gov't concern. These people on the Cape I know have done “emergency damage control” when an event becomes public and is detrimental to their clients.

The gist of their reaction to my story was: “Are they (the private concern) that stupid?”

 

Party A, who is being ripped apart in the press should have gotten out in front of the ball immediately according to these PR people. Even if your client is guilty as sin, you get YOUR story out as fast as possible and keep hammering away at it before public reaction starts to solidify. He says the “solidification” process can happen as fast as a week but is pretty much done in one month. It's hard as hell to manage perceptions once the infection has had a chance to settle in.

“Rehabilitation of a damaged image is an awful thing to deal with.” he related further. “It's far cheaper and more effective to get it right at the beginning.” “Re-Branding has NEVER worked either.”

He mentioned an old saying, “I'd rather be caught in bed with a dead whore, than a live boy.” I chuckled when I heard that one. The meaning that it's better to deal with the somewhat appalling vs. the very appalling.

“...and it sounds like Party A has been captured in a very ugly way...” he went on to say.

In today's internet age, you gotta move fast!

Not Good Enough...

I spent the day down in Newport which coincided with Spring Break, which I totally forgot was happening around now. We were winding our way through the crowds of drunken college kids when I realized, “Hey, I used to do this!”

Used to...

We ended up at an outside bar on Thames St where I spent the time people watching, which is a great hobby really. What was fun watching was the high pressure testosterone/estrogen mating attempts by all of those involved. The guys were hitting on enough girls in hopes that a ratio of 1 in 50 may just pay off.

Nothing changes I find. The girls, in 45 degree weather, were as lightly clothed as possible. And some were in bikinis in this weather, strutting up Thames St in high heeled shoes, or knee length leather boots. Some of those girls know exactly how to “peacock” to get the guy's attention.

What was surprising, was how picky they all were about each other. From my perspective, the women there were all pretty. It's hard not to look good when you're of college age. BUT...even amongst themselves they were sifting just which ones were the best. Damn. Tough judgments!

When you people watch you also eavesdrop. I know it's none of my business but so what, some conversations are entertaining. I overheard two Salve Regina girls, in teeny shorts, bemoan the “wrong colored hair” on one the guys that was hitting on them both.

“Gawd...it's almost BLACK! Ya think he dyes it?” Asks one.

“No, it's real..even his eyebrows are black...you can talk to him if you want to...I don't care. “ Says girl # 2, who was releasing this one to her friend to catch.

“Wrong colored hair?” I thought to myself. Damn. What if you have ONE freckle on the tip of your nose...are you disqualified? I guess in this Survival Game the fussy rules are that meticulous.

It was an hour later that I listened to a group of guys sit in judgment of the girls that were passing them by on the sidewalk. The commentary was pretty funny to me. Luckily for the girls, those comments weren't so vocal for them to hear.

“Filthy Pig!” One of they guys said, followed by head nodding of his friends. Gee, I thought that girl that passed them was fairly cute, what the hell is wrong with her?

Or.

“Look, there's an Ultimate PIG...Kyle..YOU can have that one, you like the sows right?”

Or..

“Oooh! Skank Heaven there!” One of the boys points out a group of girls coming down the street. Again, I found nothing wrong with them at all.

As that group of girls passed, the boys shoved one of their friends toward them to make a connection but he retreated as fast as he could complaining that, “Forget it! Her eyebrows are too straight!”

There were girls there that looked like they did belong on a Hollywood set. Girls who fell on the Earth pretty with the additional luck of having rich parents. Girls whose skin maybe needed a just a hint more of a tan, and it's just mid March now. Girls who learned how to breezily walk without a care in the world. “Too young to know, too old to care.” That was the attitude some have and display it well.

You could tell these girls came from money. To have perfect hair like that and well coordinated, fashionable clothing from bottom to top takes some money and a lifetime of living with your rich peers who have all the knowledge of just “how” to look.

Those girls, denied about 99.999999999999999% of the guys who came near them, or perhaps even looked at them.

And there I was, pushing 50, thinking, “My God...MOST of you, guys and girls, have NOTHING to complain about when it comes to looks...most of you are fine...would you lay off one another!”

I Punch Girls!

When I was a kid, I'd hit girls. There was no problem in that because the girls I grew up with had no problem smacking boys. We'd both were whopping one another wrestling or playing whatever game that would degenerate into a shouting match which culminated into a tumble on the ground.

I'm sorry to say I lost two fights with girls. AnnaMarie and Gail. AnnaMarie because she was nine and I was five and there was no fair match there to begin with. AnnaMarie was a tomboy who loved to wrestle WWF style and I, being so small then, lost every time.

AnnaMarie grew up to be full blown, butch-dyke lesbian I hear. Well, I guess that was foreshadowed.

Gail, on the other hand was my age. Gail, had more anger in her than a hydrogen bomb and had NO problem letting others bear the brunt of it. Gail showed no signs of being a lesbian but she sure did show her skills at fighting. She came from a family of mostly sisters who competed with everything, and Gail being the baby of the family had to fight extra in order to claim her share.

I forget the incident, but we were both ten and we had pissed one another off over god knows what. I was so ticked off I was going to rat her ass out to her Mom and Gail wasn't having any of that. As I was walking to her house I was tackled into the street by this little girl. What started then was an earnest fight to the death.

Arms flying, legs kicking, spit spitting and all the usual things you see in a fight were included. We were both holding our own pretty much when she landed a nice, clean, solid fist to my mouth. She split my lip. I then manage to land one right into her gut and took the wind out of her. When her lungs worked again, she burst into tears over it while sitting crouched in the street holding her stomach like she she was gut shot.

I, however, was pissing blood all over my face and I stood down when I noticed that. I was sooo surprised that I was bleeding from a fight with Gail. We have both fought before but it wasn't that serious. None of us ever drew real blood. Gail fought like a boy and did I find that out quick. I was the most injured of the warring parties so it was deemed that I “lost.”

A few summers later, when I grew tall quick and Gail filled out, we  tried a furtive and abortive attempt at kissing one another. It was more like knocking teeth together than a cute, first kiss between 14 year olds.

By then, I guess Gail and I had moved beyond that.

Shocking Pastels!

Remember this ad campaign? I do. Never mind the cigarettes, just look at how he's dressed. I knew guys who dressed like that when we hit up the clubs in Providence in our 20's.

If you were going to JR's Fastlane (oooh! Fastlane!) or Sh-Booms, Baby Head or say the Lupo's, you MUST have the proper attire to catch the girl's eyes in 1985.

We knew one guy, who we nicknamed, “Johnny Hardhat.” He won that name by being an awful braggart about anything related to plumbing, electrical, framing, concrete, welding...you get the point. He was another “Why, I know it all...I could build you a house ontop of Mt Washington if I so felt it!”

Johnny Hardhat had the audacity, or more likely, a total lack of taste, to show up at some URI hangout on Matunuck beach wearing pretty much what Don Johnson wore on TV. He got the look down right though. White linen jack, linen pants and this screaming pink flamingo Izod golf shirt. Oh, and I forgot...the WHITE shoes for god's sake!

Ok, I will admit here. This is about as far as I went aping that style. I rarely wore socks with my topsiders when I wore them. I never owned white linen pants nor a Banana Republic sports jacket. But, coming from a DeLasallian high school, I learned one NEVER wears socks with topsiders. How gauche!

I still don't wear socks with topsiders. Some habits die hard.

Anyways, some of us guys were dressed like Havana Bob back then. I guess it's not that bad really, considering the Cranston High Rise hair we saw on some of the girls from back then.

“Hi! Where ya from?” “I'm from Craaaaan-stin!” say would say, snapping her gum.

Eye-talian guidettes. There was something cute about them under all that hair and eye make up from then.

Fledgling Upstarts!

When you're older, you sometimes can't help but offer advice. I hope when I do, I don't seem superior doing it, but my motivation is just out of good will.

A friend, Tammy H. (not her real name, but she'll probably figure this out anyway) was complaining to me about how her girlfriends incessantly gossip about her. “My life, “ she said, “isn't that entertaining, but I guess that's all they have to talk about since they're married and bored.”

I advised her how I handle gossip. Since it's impossible to stop it, I just tell everyone I know this:

“Please, gossip about me. Make it memorable, in fact..MAKE IT UP! Because, since people gossip about me...I will gossip about THEM” I'm a great believer in the “glass houses” truism.

There now. That's an easy way to square it with the bank, huh?

Now a great story about “squaring it up.”

Sons have various relationships with their Dads. They are innumerable really. They can run the gamut from good, fostering and healthy relationships to abusive, destructive ones. Or there's the Dad who was never in the picture. So you get the point?

My relationship with my Dad always ran hot and cold as it depended on the circumstance of the day. There were times when I hated the Hitler and other times when I was amazed at what he knew. Also, he had this great asset of having both feet on the ground and this ability to read reality as it lay in front of him without coloring it.

But, stories of “Dear Ol' Dad” are boring, so here's one where I fucked him over at the age of seven.

Being a kid isn't easy. You are always struggling for more freedoms to be accommodated. Why not? Your selfish, single minded and greedy when little. But, there's that damned parent in your way either looking out for your best interests or just trying to quiet their day for their selfish convenience.

It was a Saturday, I was playing with the others down at the end of the street where all the neighborhood kids would meet. It was around noon when my Dad shouted down the street for me to come home to eat lunch, and I being far too involved in whatever game it was we were playing, I stalled for a good ten minutes before I started onto home.

When I finished lunch I was about halfway out the door, my Dad stopped and blurted out an ORDER that I was to stay in for the rest of the afternoon due to my dilly dallying when he called me to lunch earlier.
 

“What?” I thought to myself? Then I shot back at him “Why??! Why do I have to stay in the house? It's SATURDAY!!” As a kid, parental logic must always be questioned when it starts curbing your desires.

“Why? Why? Because I said so, that's why.” he finally said.

Without knowing it, my Dad was instilling in me a good sense of rebelliousness and hatred of authority at a young age. Truth be known, I overheard my Uncle more than once advise my Dad that he shouldn’t be so overbearing when it comes to raising his boys. So I was not acting out just from a young boy's impetuousness all the time.

I submitted to Dad's demand. What was I going to do at seven anyway? I moped around the house seething at the injustice. I then ended up in the cellar, trying to invent some fun thing to do when I came across some nails, 40d framing nails. They're a good 2.5 inches in length.

So I played around with these, dropping them from my fingers like a B-17 drops bombs, onto imaginary German installations...making those booming sounds to myself, when an idea hit me like a flash.

“Nails flatten tires...these nails could flatten asshole's car tires out in the driveway too..” 

So I went upstairs and managed to go outside w/o alerting Dad to the fact I was no longer in house. I made it “look” like I was just a kid playing near his car. By the rear left tire, I placed the pointed end of one nail against his tire so that when he backed out into the street, the nail would drive itself in from the weight.

 

I then went back inside my house to fool around and a couple of hours later my Dad took off for Sears/Roebuck on Main St in Providence like he did every Saturday, to hang out in his childhood neighborhood.

With him gone, I flew out of the house and back to my friends at the end of the street to play games and whatnot. I came home around 5ish when Mom would be serving supper, but Dad wasn't home yet.

My Mom was wondering just where in the hell her husband was and about 40 minutes later Dad arrived with a great story.

“Maureen, you wouldn't believe the crap I had to put up with. I was on the Division street bridge when the car started going, flump, flump flump and I pulled over to find the right rear tire flat.”

“Did you ever get that spare fixed like I told you too?” My Mom correctly surmising that Dad didn't and hence his lateness. 

“Well, that doesn't matter now...I managed to get it into that gas station on East Ave and they as they were fixing it, the mechanic called me in to show me what had flattened the tire...it was this HUGE nail!”'

I, eating this all up, blurted out, “Was it a shiny new one?” This was a slip up of my own, as I was reveling in the crime I had committed and just HAD to say something and be a part of this conversation. It's true, going back to the scene of the crime and taunting the detectives to catch you is a thrill.

I can still see my Dad's face as he looked at me to this very day. It was a look of dawning realization. His face said w/o any words...”How the hell did you know that it was a new nail?” That transformed into...”It was YOU who did this!” However, I sat there looking as bewildered as a seven year old kid could be about road hazards to tires and I think this may have saved my ass. My Dad was looking at me, with just barely enough circumstantial evidence, far too shy to convict me...and powerless to act. Powerless because what seven year old knows how to flatten a car tire..or can one?

He had to let it be.

Wonderful...

I've heard many ex-military types bitch that the Iraqi insurgency would NEVER fight the American forces one to one, on the desert plain in an open battle, that the insurgency always did it from shadows and short attacks. The Vietnam vets had the same complaints about the Viet Cong as well.

Well, think about it. What poor, weak and rag tag band with inferior weapons would take on a power that is the US Armed Forces on an equal stage? You'd be dead meat in six minutes. A young son is that too, powerless against the far reaching dominion of DAD.

I became an insurgent, a VC. And I won that battle that day.

This was my start, any son's start really, to where we reach that age where we can outwit our own Dads and become...equal and then share the power to where one day, we surpass them.

Sons should perform coup d'etats on their Dads. You better if you are to grow up.



Moon So Strong It's Casting Shadows.

I'm not very sure, but I swear I've been ill with a strange malady. I feel I have half of the symptoms of your regular flu. Malaise, tiredness and at times this feeling my brain is half “on” with a diffuse headache that I can sort of localize but then slips scrutiny. Thank God, I don't have the snot, coughing and other slimy aspects of the flu. Who knows what the hell it is.

I suppose this has been going on for about a week and flares up at different times during the day. The malaise will dawn on me and for a good several hours, I drag.

Last night I came home from work, took care of the fur kid and flipped on my various electronics, the stereo and computer and settled in for a night of reading. As I was doing this, I could barely keep my eyes open. I then admitted to myself I should just give up and go to bed, at 8:45PM. I rarely go to bed this early. It was a quick surrender to this fatigue.

I had at fitful sleep, waking up several times during the night till I finally roused myself at 4AM. I can't lie in bed fully awake for more than twenty minutes hoping I can go back to sleep, so I might as well get up. I get up, get the dog outside for his morning sniff, piss and what not when I notice something oddly beautiful. The moonlight.

My backyard, the neighborhood and entire sky was glowingly alight with this ghostly blue cast. To add to this, the temperatures were fairy warm for 4am in early February with a light wind. Also, at this hour in the morning, there is little sound to be heard; even the characteristic drone of the city is fairly tempered at this hour.

Most mornings when I'm out letting the dog do his business, I have a disposition of “will you hurry up already?” In winter, waiting for the dog to finish up can make me peevish, as it's damned freezing out most mornings here. But, this time, I walked around the yard, front and back and then up and down the street just to witness this pleasing, moon created phosphorescence.

I felt good then.

I don't always get these moments, and am surprised when I do, but it was worth it to finally crawl out of bed this morning.

And perhaps this ailment is coming to an end soon.