I'm Good for Making a Heel Out of Myself!

I was holding back on this story. I can tell it now because I sort of got confirmation I wasn't a complete jerk.

This relates to the a few stories back about my toothache and how I figured out dog antibiotics are really just fine enough for people to take as well.

For those of you that have had toothaches, you understand the exquisite pain they can cause and how nearly breathing on a “hot” tooth can make it scream. For those of you who never had the experience, slam your thumb in a car door, you'll understand then.

I attended a funeral a week or so ago for Robert Thurber Sr, a one time Chief of the Pawtucket Fire Department. I had met him years earlier as he was a regular at a pub I have visited a thousand times. Chief and I weren't close friends but more of acquaintances. Even so, after numerous meetings and conversations, I came to like the guy as he was genuine. I use “genuine” as that he was very upfront in his opinions, not a BS artist and actually interested in other people's life stories. He told me great tales of major fires I remember that hit Pawtucket that he had to command. Also some comedic stories about various calls he went on I won't repeat here. Well, I may tell of the Andy Panda story one day.

So, I got to like the guy as he was open, full of great stories and understood that 90 minute one on one conversations are the norm in an Irish pub. Believe me, the major reason for Irish pubs are the conversations, either they be about fuel injectors or astrophysics. Plus some beer.

**

Chief lived out his life and died. I attended his funeral. I haven't stepped inside a Catholic church in fourteen years since I managed my brother’s funeral in 2003. The morning of Chief's funeral, I was in the parking lot across the street, popping Cephalexin tablets and Ibuprophen before I went in, figuring that by the time the event was done, the pain killers would still be working on my teeth. I would be OK.

So, I sat in the pews, going through the motions of sit, stand, kneel, sit routine when it came to the Holy Communion part. I got up and got in line to receive it. When in social situations like this, you go through all the motions as it's expected.

“The Body of Christ.” the priest intones. I held out my hand and he placed a triangular wafer into it.

As I was walking back to my spot on the pew, I thought, “God, I ain't chewing anything today. I can't even eat overcooked pasta.” So I popped the wafer into my pocket.

As the Mass went on, I noticed this red haired priest was shooting looks at me. My paranoid self thought, ”Oh God...another gay priest..the same type I ran into at St. Raphaels who would ogle at the teen boys.”

That wasn't the reason he was looking at me though. As I came to find out.

So the Mass comes to an end and we follow the casket out. As I was just about to exit the main doors, this same priest darts at me and says, rather a bit too loud.

“I don't want to make a scene.”

I was half awake as I was walking out so I became alert real fast, but kind of confused about what was going on, as he said this to me.

I lean over kind of far, nearly tete to tete so the conversation is softer and he asks.

“Did you eat the Host?”

“No.” I say kind of nonchalantly.

“Can I have it back?” he demands.

I reach into my pocket and deftly place it into his hands, trying not to alert EVERYONE else there what had just happened.

I quickly slip out the main doors onto the steps and moved on like nothing had happened.

**

Later on in the day, I tell this story to my friend in Plymouth. He's guffawing as he hears it. He was once an altar boy and knew all about these rituals.

“You IDIOT...don't you know that that host, the wafer...is CONSECRATED?”

“What does that mean?” I ask

“Shit” he says. “I can't believe you went to a Catholic DeLassalian school and don't know this!”

“That wafer, that Host is the Body of Jesus! It's gone through transubstantiation. It has literally become the flesh of Christ himself!”

“No it hasn't!” I shoot back.

“Look” he says, “You and I know that it ain't, but to that priest it IS...and he wasn't about to let you just walk out of the church with it in your pocket, to sit there for three weeks.”

“Did you know...if the church was burning down, the priests have to eat every consecrated wafer from the Tabernacle? Not to let them burn up if they can help it? Those priests have to account for every host they consecrate!”

“No wonder that priest was eying me the whole time.” I say.

My friend goes on, “He probably was at dinner that night, with the other parish priests when he chimes in with a 'Hey, you wouldn't believe what some guy tried to do today..walk out with a Communion host!'”

Sigh...I not kidding, my first thought was to NOT eat the thing because both rows of teeth were SCREAMING that morning. Ah well...no matter. It's not like I'm going back to explain myself. The priest is probably setting up an Excommunication Mass right now...aimed at me.  

I read in the new that the Great Lakes are 95% frozen over. The last time that happened was in 1979. I remember the winter of '79 and it sucked. Granted, it wasn't a snowy winter and nothing in comparison to the year's prior Blizzard, but '79 was a bitch due to the constant cold.

We all have snippets of clear memories that are with us forever. The one I have from '79 was standing in my 9^th grade homeroom, reeling off half assed the Pledge of Allegiance, while looking out the window. Out there in the neighborhood was this. The sun had barely come up over the horizon, casting a sickly light yellow on the layers and layers of old, gray ice that had built up over the weeks. Ice on branches, ice on the street, ice on the sidewalks, ice on the snow. It looked like a two inch glacier was poured in place. Ugh. On top of that, Goff Jr High never did believe in comfortably heating the building, so it was cold in that classroom.

I stood there, lamenting the fact that April, late April when things get much better was a WHOLE TWO MONTHS away. When you're younger it takes forever to get to the next month. Still, I felt I was justified in complaining, not that it did any good but I wasn't alone in getting things off my chest, everyone hated that winter.

Then as now, I tend to hibernate in winter. I won't go out unless I have too. I once was reminded by a childhood friend I'd decline to come out and “hang out” if it was too cold. I told him I don't remember saying that, to his dismay, but I then said, “It sounds like something I would say.” Back then, I preferred to wrap up in an afghan and watch Laverne and Shirley. If the heat came on, my brother and I would dive towards the vent where it would come out of. At night, my bed had the additional cover of a Coleman sleeping bag. It was all good because I hated feeling cold and I was susceptible to it in spades. If you shook my hand then, or now, in winter, at the right time, it's like shaking hands with a zombie. My hands and feet freeze.

Today, I'm the same way, or rather I've returned to it. In my twenties, I would be on SugarLoaf in western Maine, freezing my butt off and falling down on a ski slope, but I managed to tolerate that biting cold. Or I'd say “yes” to going out on a January night to Providence club, only to leave at 1 AM to hit up a breakfast joint and come home around 4. Cold? So what. Tailgating at Gillete in December, drinking cold beer, I did it.

Not anymore.

Today, I was wrapped up in a blanket and I had on my favorite wool socks on while I watched bobsleds fly down hill on NBC. If the heat comes on I drape my arm over the edge of the couch to feel it swirl by. On my bed is a TechLoft quilt when I finally go to bed.

I am 14 again.  

Dentist, Brain Surgeon...Vet? What's the Difference?

I am a confirmed single guy now. I have crossed a threshold that only single men would even try to do. I have taken dog antibiotics.

I have numerous capped teeth on the left side of my mouth. For decades, they've held in place and have served me fine. Up until two days ago when one on the upper side started to start throbbing. Great, the cap has failed and the pulp is fighting an infection. Last night, a second one, on the bottom half started to scream it's bloody head off. I could easily trace my pulse from the throbbing on that one alone.

Huh? TWO at the same time in different places? That ain't right.

I find out the trigeminal nerve loves to do something called “referred pain” which will cause ghosts of pain to occur in teeth NOT infected. Cross wiring it is basically. I learned from various dental websites this is common. Wonderful.

Add to that, it's a holiday weekend and my dentist is probably skiing down Attitash now.

I popped Ibuprofen to ease the flashing pain. It barely touched it.

So I'm rooting around my cabinets to see if I have anything else that might work and I find a bottle from Abbott Animal hospital in Rehoboth that's prescribed to Wolfgang/German Shepherd/Owner: Ron M.

“Kefelx 500mg tablets...hmmm” I think to myself.

I've taken Cephalexin before, years ago and didn't have a reaction. So this time, I opened the capsule up, took barely 1/5 of the dust and swallowed it down. I was waiting for any whacked out drug reaction to occur. Nothing happened.

Then after two hours I popped a 500 mg capsule and hope to God it worked. Well, knocking on wood, it seems to be working well. I'll keep popping these dog drugs to murder, with NO mercy, that damned bacteria inside that tooth.

Yeah, yeah, I know...NEVER self medicate. But you see, I'm a guy...and I know everything! I've lived alone for so long that the ONLY one I rely on is myself. You learn to sew your own clothing, do your own laundry, clean the house (If the mood suits me) and a million other things you can't rely on the wife to do. Add to that a certain conclusion I reached decades ago. It's not “If you want things done right, you have to do it yourself,” it's: “If you want things done YOUR WAY, you have do it yourself.”

Oh, add to that a ridiculous independence that I can't seem to shed.

On a side note, the women I work with can sometimes act like Mother Hens and henpeck the shit out of me to do this, to do that. I know it's well meaning as single guys are notorious for blowing off advice. I can't escape NAGGING when it's for my own good I guess.

So, score another round for Single Guy Answer #34002/233.b

“When snowed in, rifle your dog's supplies in case of emergencies.”  

Doggie Dental Works for People Too!

Cupid

It's Valentine's Day. It's also the anniversary of the fire bombing of Dresden, the largest massacre in European history. How's that for mixing in a little historical  misery on an otherwise fun holiday? Thank the British/American Bomber Command for igniting and incinerating 25,000 Hansels and Gretels. The word “firestorm” comes from that bombing as we accidentally discovered what happens when you drop 300,000 napalm bombs across a city at once. Everything that can burn, does. The turbulence at 15,000 feet for the bombers was so bad it knocked the big, fat Lancaster and B24 bombers from their course. All the residential and commercial fires converged into a single column of fire that was a few miles in diameter and shot skyward.

According to Kurt Vonnegut, who survived the bombing as an American POW in Dresden, there was only one person to have benefited. He did. He said he got about $12 per casualty when he wrote the book Slaughter-House Five, which shot to the top of the charts when it was published. Other than he he says, no one else benefited as Dresden was not a military hub nor armaments city. That action didn't shorten the war by one day. You have your history lesson for the day.

**

For us guys, we tend to see Valentine's Day as a chore. Some of us may be happily married or in a fun relationship, but most of the guys I've known regarded it as an obligation. It was one not to be shirked as the repercussions are dire. Single guys such as myself could not give a damn about it. Single women I've seen go out in groups and have anti-Valentine's Day parties.

Years ago, I was at my pub and noticed a few girls approaching. They were done up red and white clothing and one was carrying a baby doll made up to look like Cupid. Except this Cupid had a steak knife shoved in it and it's plastic neck was cut halfway through. Red paint was splattered on it which make it look like a botched abortion (sorry for that image, but I'm feeling snarky now).

We found out that these girls were using the day as an excuse to have a party and why not?

Past Valentine's Days for me, let's think...

I had my lower lip smacked by a TV remote when I refused to purchase a car for someone for that day. Ouch.

The most thoughtful gift was a story I wrote about why I was glad this particular person was on the Earth.

I got many kudos for another when I bought little gifts that detailed the tiny, little things I learned about her over the year.

The most expensive...that would be an entire perfume setup thingy, Guerlain Shalimar, that included mists, oils and the such. To me it smelled like ozone. To her it was something else.

The cheapest. A bag of Snickers and Doritos. She was sort of pissed but she had always loved them.

The worst. Standing outside in the parking lot of the Capital Grill having a screamfest argument over God Knows What with her. That provided great entertainment for anyone passing by.

Most profitable. Getting a ton of sour apple candies from the others in Mrs Keough's third grade class. We all made little construction paper pouches where we all dropped candy into.  

High altitude pic of Dresden before it went up in one single flame. The lights in upper left are marking flares being dropped 

It All Equals Out in the End

It can take years, but it's funny how life repays you in full.

I was mildly surprised that I can still can shovel this water laden snow. In fact, I sort of gauge my relative health by this, can I still shovel and am I any more worn out from last year? Of course, my heart rate was thumping away from doing this work but I could keep at a steady pace. Any physical prowess I have doesn't come from clean jerking weights nor sprints. My talent is just plain, pig-headed, deliberate slogging on through. I guess that's why I can marathon bicycle for thirty miles, but can't sprint to catch another 50 year old. Anyway, yippy-hooray for not dropping dead shoveling limitless slush. I did pop an aspirin before I did it though...just in case.

As I was doing this, a couple of younger kids come by, I'd say about 12 years old and they offered to “finish the job” for me for $30 a piece. Poor kids, they sure picked the wrong guy to discuss money with.

“I have this ¾ of the way done...and you want $60 to finish the front walkway and car?” I turn away and go back to shoveling.

The kids walk off and get about fifty feet away when the longer haired one turns around and shouts.

“Ahh... knock yourself out OLD MAN.”

I almost said something but caught myself. I had done the same thing, almost, when I was his age.

As a thirteen year old, my buddy J and I were profiteering off another snowfall by going around charging the exorbitant fee of $5 a piece to shovel you out. These were 1977 dollars. As we finished up one old lady's house on Enfield St, an older man across the way waves us over. Great, another paying job.

We told him it would be $5 a piece. He ignored that and pointed to what he wanted shoveled. I noticed he had two late model cars in the driveway and a pool that took up most of his backyard. I said to him again, as I thought he did not hear us that it would be $5 a piece.

“Oh, I can't pay you boys any money.” he said.

“You.god.damn.liar!” I thought to myself.

I then pulled J's arm and we walked to the street and then down it. The old man then yells at us to come back and I turn around and say:

“You got MONEY! It took MONEY to have that pool all summer long HUH? YOU can shovel until you DROP!”

If he could run and beat me with his own shovel, he would've. No matter, I was pissed off as much as he was.

And then today, I had two similar kids hand to me what I handed to that man from so long ago.

Just desserts!   

Be a Busy Beaver!

I partially blame this 70s book for it all!

“Living up to your potential” was a catchphrase I heard often as a student in grammar school. Usually the more younger teachers were the ones to utter that. The teachers who were over forty at the time couldn't give a damn if you did or not, as long as you made a C- in their class. But they were from the WW2 generation and “making the cut” was all that was required in the Army and all that was needed in life.

“Making the cut” was and is military phrase. The command would need say, twenty people for a particular task, they'd get the aptitude tests out, count down twenty of the top performers, lay a ruler down on the paper and tear the paper at the twentieth person.

I suppose there are theories in education that have their day, like fashion, and then drift away, like the old Rinehart penmanship system.

Did I live up to my potential in school? Hell no. It was too much effort for too little gain. I had no problem in school as I liked it and received better than usual grades. I could ace tests if I wanted too, but that required spending more time studying vs. watching and dreaming about Kristy McNichol on TV. I had various teachers try to motivate me to to EXCELL each time. At times I'd do it just to placate them, but I took no great sense of success or profit from it. Like most kids, I enjoyed any verbal praise from a teacher or adult, but it was just that, verbal. It wasn't long lasting nor at times sincere. So I gave the teacher a few A's and shut them up, then back to a more pleasant pace of walking than Olympic style marathons where the “gold medal” wasn't really such a great gain.

I once said before I was a B+/A- student while my brother was one of those who was A+ most of the time. The motivation? Dad. He wanted to please him. He managed to keep those grades till he attended Providence College and discovered off-campus parties and the such. Even with that, his grades suffered just enough to lose the summa cum laude to the demotion to magnum cum laude upon graduation.

From what I saw, those “living up to their potential” all had a air of desperation to them. There were a very few who had excellent grades and that nonchalance. Those people were naturally gifted Einsteins anyway and didn't expend much to achieve success as it was easy for them. You've seen that nonchalant look. Imagine a trust fund 20-something in Newport, living the easy life with that air of “It doesn't matter what I do, Dad's money will always be there anyway.” The others, who weren't born with rich, wealthy brains, but a chance to succeed, had to slog it out and became haggard looking for doing so. They had to work at it.

I would occasionally see them fret when they received “just an A” on a test. I think I could see them replaying the chewing out from their parents they'd get for failing to achieve perfection of A+.

Some of those kids I knew then I hear about today. What did their nose grinding efforts get them? It got them to comfortable middle class and that's it. Oddly enough most of them work in the civilian sector of defense. A few I've spoken with are sick of the constant budget pressures or deadline demands. I swear I can almost hear them think at times, “Hey, I was a National Honor Student, I should've had an easier time at life!” Nope my friend, you're going to be squeezed like the productive sponge that you are to your employer at General Dynamics.

I on the other hand took a different track. I chose social services and ended up in comfortable middle class as well. In either case, maintaining 100% or just 80% of your potential still won't get you remembered for eternity. There will be no parades for your efforts on Main St when your long since gone.  

Of course, this clip helps too,click away!

Coming of Age in the 70's

I once said before that two things ruined my career as a Catholic. One was the biology textbooks in high school that offered a better reason for it all, and the National Lampoon magazine.

I have managed to come across the entire 70s decade publication of them. As I re-read them, I began to remember I was ten years old when I first started seeing this very adult, sick/dark humor. I loved it because it was one: something my parents would've flipped about had they known I had this in my room and two: the magazine showed more truth about life than was being fed to me.

But, now that I'm rereading it I discover perhaps it wasn't such a great idea at all, as a ten year old, to be exposed to Qualludes, cartoon sex, comedy articles about Fascist governments in Europe complete with old photos of executions and a host of other very mature XXX whatevers.

Sitting in Miss McHale's fifth grade class, trying to explain “fisting” to another ten year old (as I read about that the day earlier in the magazine, complete with “how to's” and cartoons) wasn't easy. No way was I going to tell the other girls about that but I explained it to the boys, some of who felt complete revulsion and others wanting to know, “How the hell do YOU know about that?”

As a kid, you want to grow up quick, seem grown up to your friends. You lie/ape/act your way to convince your friends you're older than you look and seem cool. I wasn't the only one doing this, all the others too were in on the game. All kids want to be grown up and have that freedom.

Anyway, here's a few items I've uploaded to show you the education I got, on my own, as a ten year old

Now this I still find funny because it was true. We kids turned the street in our neighborhood into a war zone around July 4^th. The “Bangalore Dog Torpedo” I found funny. We never tied a 100 salute rug to a dog's tail, but we annoyed the hell out of Mrs. Lutz's dog, Mugsy, with bottle rockets once.

1975, the War in Vietnam was finally lost and the magazine had poked fun at it still anyway, rather at anyone connected to it.

Charles Rodriguez showed me what I sort of knew already as a kid, that many adults were just full of it. 

In our neighborhood, the various families tried to outdo one another at "normal" and success.  My own parents weren't immune to "Keeping Up with the Jones's" either.  This bit by BK Taylor told me what I again, knew already, or at least felt that the entire charade was just that. 

Trots and Bonnie was my favorite. Here you had a couple of 13 year olds, one entirely innocent, the other completely jaded and a talking dog who was the “moral” conscious of the two.  

     

                                   

                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
 What was great too about the magazine is that they showed kids exactly as they were. We weren't Little House on the Prairie nor the Brady Bunch as the TV suggested. Add to that the illustrators and editors would use kids as butts of their jokes. What follows here is something we all did as kids, ruin the house for Mom, except none of us were shot for it.