Next, Get the Wax Out of My Brain....

I have Eustachian Tube Dysfunction and have had it since about five years ago. The funny thing is that this is commonly a kid's disease...I'm 51. Dr. Doug says that he sees adults with this on a ratio of 1:20 or worse.

“You're kinda too old for this...but it happens. I see it all day long in kindergarten kids. It's imperative we put the tubes in their eardrums, they're still trying to learn language...can't have a deaf kid in school we can't cure!”

I ask him what's the difference.

“None, only that we can do this operation w/o any anesthetic on adults, kids we have to sedate. I know you'll sit still for this, you did the last time.” And then he winks at me.

“It feels like you're putting a red hot screwdriver into my ear.” I say.

“Yeah, everyone says that.” Dr. Doug assures me.

As he probes deep into my head, he tells me a story of having to convince his 13 year old little league son that “just smacking a ball with all you're might with a bat isn't enough, you have to learn form.” My form included gripping the arms of the chair, gritting my teeth and trying to keep absolutely still while he has these odd instruments deep into my ear.

Anyway, I got this done after putting up with being half deaf on that side of my head since, I'd say, last December. You get tired of tilting your head towards people to understand them. If not that, you're saying “What?” all day long. Add to that, you sometimes give up and decide to cut yourself from the social world while everyone else is yapping it up bigtime. The reason being is that all that background noise makes conversation sound like a gravel truck dumping its load. Gibberish.

But the major reason I had this done, was music. I have a two speaker system in my house and for too long, I couldn't hear half of it. Ugh.

The first thing I did when I got home from Dr. Doug's? I put on the stereo and I finally could hear it all.

“Damn...I was missing all of that!” I thought.

But after a while, something wasn't right. I know music well enough to know that some of the recordings I have weren't sounding right. So, on my knees to that altar I go and I start moving sliders, knobs and cue into what may be missing from the mix I created. There's no decent instrument or stage separation, weird focusing in one corner of the room and a host of other oddities.

“Why is it sounding like shit?” I thought.

“Goddammit...that bastard did something wrong with my ear.” I conclude.

After ten minutes of fiddling around with various control panels, I found that the “extension processor” button was deactivated. I hit it and the Choir Invisible of God's Angels started to sing sweetly.

“You.silly.son.of.a.bitch!” I told myself. I had the entire processor unit bypassed. No amount of fiddling was going to do anything. How could I have forgotten?

“Too many buttons...too many buttons.” I consoled myself.

So now, I have David Bowie's “TVC One Five” playing wonderfully and I am not about to sue Dr. Doug anytime yet.

If your nuts enough, sit with the processor unit in you lap and get it "just right!"

Even worse? Keep a clipboard on your couch at ALL TIMES with various settings and circuit paths ready. 

What Some Girls Go Through

There are girls who fall on the Earth beautiful. Everything is proportionate and symmetrical. They are the “right” height, weight and fit right into the current cultural idea of beauty without trying the slightness bit. They could eat a whole greasy pepperoni pizza, chug it down with beer and perhaps gain one ounce. Other girls hate their guts to no end.

There was one girl I knew who had the interesting breeding of Greek, Indian and perhaps a bit of French in her. This mix worked itself out rather well in that it made her look unique. Her sister didn't have the same luck of winning the DNA bingo game but this one sure did.

When I used to belong to a gym I would see two types of young, 20-something women. One was the sweat pants clad type who came in, worked their ass off and sweated up a storm along with any other guy there. She was there to stay fit. The other was the drop dead gorgeous ones who dressed in the latest workout gear and go to the gym to do what? Lose weight? No, they had little reason to be there in the first place. It looked as if they were making an “appearance” because that's what you do.

So I knew this cutie and another (not that kind of drop-dead cute), who, for a while would go work out together. The work-out girl wore her lousiest clothing while the cutie wore black yoga pants and a loud florescent purple/black shirt that form fit well. That fit in well with her black, shoulder length hair that spilled down straight her back. She had these nearly black brown eyes that could affix you to the wall.

After about ten minutes, the cutie complains, “Why are they all staring at me?” Every guy in the gym spotted this one and couldn't help but look.

“What?” says workout girl.

“Them! I can't exercise with them looking!”

“Well...look at what your wearing...of course they're gonna look.”

“Ugh, it's sickening.” says cutie.

Workout girl then says, “Could you give me some of that 'sickening'...if you don't want it?'”

**

“Do you know what it's like when every guy you pass, in the street, store or wherever walks all over your body with their eyes?” cutie asked me once.

“Nope...I have no clue. Don't you like the attention? I say

“Ugh...not ALL the time!” she complains.

I'm standing there, trying to listen as well as I can and mentally undressing her too. I was no different. She had that look so few are ever born with. I was as guilty as every other male that ogled her. Prior to this moment, I had no idea how she really felt about it all.

“Sometimes I wish I were 12 again, skinny, gangly and a goofball. No boy gave a crap about me and it wasn't until I got hips and breasts...everything changed then. All the boys I once knew who were cool...changed in their way with me. The whole world was flipped upside down.”

I tell her some girls would love to have 10% of what she had. She responded with a “Well, I wish I could give it to them...I hate having to block every guy that comes onto me, even when they don't come on to me, they are, they change their demeanor once they talk to me...even you, you know.”

The only other time I heard of this was a girl I knew in my 20's, who was a Barbie Look-alike. She looked good even if you threw her into a mudhole. She came from “some” money to an Italian family in Warwick and was hated because of this too. I can remember her too complaining about having to spar with every guy that she came across. One time when she came to work in a tee shirt that said: 

Leave.

Me.

Alone.

I told her I thought it funny. She said she wore it everywhere, and also at the beach. She meant it too.

Today, she's 46 and has since lost that kittenish look. She says she doesn't regret it all. “Now, being a bit overweight and having crow's feet....guys treat me normally. When I was 20...leaving the house was like walking into battle.  Back then it was so hard trying to pick out the right guy from ALL of them that came at me...I picked a lot of wrong ones too. Had the choices been fewer...” You could see on her face wondering about it, if she had less to pick from.  

Click and Watch..a Great Song Too...

Lorelei!

When I think of Lorelei, my head turns all around.

As gentle as a butterfly, she moves without a sound.

I call her on the telephone, she says be there by eight.

Tonight's the night she's movin' in and I can hardly wait.

The way she moves!

Ooh-ooh-ooh, I gotta say!

Styx Playing Lorelei, Click It!

Years ago at a simple part time job I held in college, management of some state office buildings in Providence, I once got to know a few Dr's whose job it was to pour over federal disability applications. One of them, a man of about 59, was telling me how he found “youth” again at a cocaine party he was at off of Blackstone Boulevard on the East Side of Providence. Nice digs, that area.

“I'm 59...I felt it was over for me...then I try the coke and I find I have the same energy, optimism and drive as 15 year old!” He stared off into space for a few seconds before adding, “Of course, it would eventually kill me to keep it up..but what a revelation! I thought I'd never feel that again.”

I ask, “Do you wish it were back forever?”

“Of course! I look at you, you're 21 and I'm jealous...God..the girls I chased back then. Well, there's no Fountain of Youth. But you....you are living it now!”

**

I tripped across Styx's song Lorelei this afternoon. I haven't heard it in years and forgot just what a optimistic, high energy song this is. For just a few seconds, it turned me into a 21 year old again. A nice, little endorphin rush. I can remember when a swaying hipped girl would drive me slightly insane and this song's writer is flying high on the fact that his girlfriend is moving in with him. He is ascending to Heaven. I can remember that feeling back then too.

I find this video on Youtube and the fun part is watching the kids to the right, start swaying and bouncing in their chairs when the initial drum riff hits. Of course they do, this song's power ties into their electrical circuitry at the right voltage and amps. The energy and their youth are easily compatible. Good!

That's it...enjoy!

Get a Clue, Little Shrew!

“Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”

--Benjamin Franklin

I'd say they can stink after three minutes!

You'd think I would be happy with some girl throwing herself at me. Well, if I was an undiscriminating slut I suppose so. Just because you throw an anchovie/pineapple pizza at me, doesn't mean I'm going to eat it. I have preferences, tastes. And just because your female and your making it too damned easy for me to fish you out of the water, doesn't mean I'm going to tug on that line. I may like haddock but not rockfish. I ain't desperate enough to eat roadkill when I pass it on the highway. Some guys are though.

I was out, Friday night in some local joint in Rehoboth. This woman, near my age, starts to become friendly. Ok, fine. But as the hours wore on, she kept hitting on me heavier, like with a piece of re-bar from a concrete form. I wasn't in the least bit interested. In her mind, if I wasn't responding, it was because she wasn't trying hard enough. Solution? Turn up the volume.

In those situations where I wish to be left alone, I'll be polite but give one word answers, little eye contact and the usual coolish shoulder to nip in the bud any aspirations of the other. 99% of the time the other “gets it.” I get it too when I'm trying to work up a possibility and it's going nowhere.

This is called simple etiquette.

You'd think people reaching their 40's would have a clue about that. Ugh, I guess not all.

We were watching the Bruins lose unfortunately but before that, they had made a goal and this hard selling girl, uses the crowd's enthusiasm to spin around, give me a tight hug and bite my chest through two shirts I was wearing. I didn't expect that at all and it stung like hell.

She had immediately spun back to watching the TV in a second and she did not see the reaction on my face. A guy I didn't know at the table did though. My face said: “Jesus H Christ! That hurt.!” That then turned into a second darker look that said: “Get.the.Fuck.Away.From.Me.”

The message was just for her and it was strong on my face, but the concussion of it made the guy, who wasn't the target of my annoyance, spin around and not look at me another second. I scared him with it apparently. Collateral damage!

I really,really,really,really,really dislike anyone breaking into my personal space that haven't been invited there in the first place. It's like some stranger bursting through your front door and you think, “Gee, thanks for knocking!”

My coolish reaction to her did make her leave at times, but of course, she'd find new courage to tap into and have another go at it. Sigh...I'd have to use a woman's “Ice Princess” tactic each time to quench her little blaze.

She did finally leave me alone. By the end of the night, she had come by our table to pick up her jacket that was left there and I said “Goodbye” and she gave the most detestable looks you saw ever. It said, “I hate you for denying me my candy!”

I thought, “Too bad...you're outrageous performance really endeared you to me...didn't it?”

Later on a friend said. “Look, she's pushing 50 and for some women, they freak, they then get desperate and will use anything to get your attention. It's like someone clawing at you as they're drowning...no wonder you pushed her away. She's getting close to the age where the dating market has no use for her...”

I say,”Well, yeah in some cases. Other women her age actually do have some social skills though...That's was irked me the most...that 'barging in'...intruding...god how I hate that.”

He remarks, “You sound like your Dad.”

“Yep...parts of me did become him”  

Finally Got to It

This is a place I have never been before, the RI Veteran's Cemetery. I have promised to visit an old friend buried there and viewed the trip down like any Rhode Islander would, to damn far. It's like driving to Tulsa. “Exeter? Exeter's way out on the edge of the Earth!” By the way, I found Exeter to be filled with farms still.

The cemetery is a big place really, so big that the wind has nothing to stop it and it blows like it does on Nebraskan wheat fields. I'm not used to that. Also, there are various memorials to the Marines, SpecOps and other Rhode Island units that fought in wars. To my surprise, it was sort of full of people visiting graves. There was an ongoing funeral while I stood there upon my friend's grave, about 80 yards from me.

“CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three volleys of shots had rung out, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin. I spin around and I see an honor guard with those old WW2 M1 Garand rifles smoking, pointing into the sky.

I had forgotten just how loud a high powered rifle can be. I hadn't fired one in over a decade. Never mind a monster rifle like a Garand. Well, guess what I thought to myself then, “This is a military cemetery...moron.”

**

I had met Vin in 1993 as he was a guest teacher in Ericksonian hypnotherapy at RIC. He was also one of the guys who regularly attended symposiums, lectures at Esalen at Big Sur in California. I've talked about Esalen before. What a time and place to be when a part of the hippy movement coalesced there and brought forth the Human Potential Movement that's still sort of going on today. At the class I had with him at RIC, he demonstrated how to induce hypnosis on someone, me. He knocked me the hell out with his little story that woos you into a weird sleep almost. I thought that way too cool.

For some reason, as people always do, Vin and I hit it off. How friends are made is always a hit and miss adventure, one that I think is more due to chance meeting than much else. We were “close” in an odd way. We came to know one another rather well as we both resonated to one another's personality. We weren't close friends as we didn't see each other that often at times. In fact, years could go by before we met up again and we'd pick up where we left off. There was also a huge age difference, he at the time was 67 and I was 29. Even so with that, we easily grooved into one another.

Vin was a vet from WWII. He was a sergeant in the 103^rd “Cactus Division” that invaded the south of Europe after Normandy was opened up in the north. He had told me he had come close to being killed there twice.

“We were in the Rhineland attacking a village stuffed with Wehrmacht soldiers. We had to crawl along the fields as they had spotted us and started opening up on us. I then heard a good THUMP and looked just to the right of my head. Next to my head was a smoking mortar round that had fallen there, half buried in the grass. It was a dud. Had it gone off, my head and torso would've been all over that field.”

“Another time, I was placed on the battle roster for an attack in the streets of small town, for some reason I do not know, I was taken OFF that roster and a guy I sort of knew was put in my place. The next day, that guy was taken out by a German sniper.”

“To this day, I often think of those two times and why I lived...pure damn luck I guess. I still don't get it”

Coming home from the war, he gained his PhD, taught at BU when GI Bill money was flooding institutions, bringing in not your usual students. These new students were a bit older and have traveled the world; and participated in a major war. This pile of new money also afforded newer ideas as it broke down some of those old, ossified colleges.  The Eisenhower Era of Leave It to Beaver was about to come to an abrupt halt. 

At the same time, everything else in the US was changing. Beatniks, civil rights protests, hippies, Vietnam, you name it.   In universities, original, stranger ideas on how to teach were being experimented with. For Vin, that meant unconventional therapies as Freud and his crowd were abandoned for the exciting, unfamiliar viewpoints in psychology. Adler, Skinner, and the birth of client centered therapy. The Human Potential Movement (how far can you grow? how well? how high?) was being born, to culminate at Big Sur in the 60's at Esalen. From every direction novel change was coming. Dylan's the Times They Are a'Changing was their anthem. Vin readily adopted this newer thinking and luckily was there when it all happened.  

Want weird? How about acting the different parts of your life out in real time, as if you went to Actors Studios West, being taught by Lee Strasberg himself. And that too was new, method acting.  Don't laugh, the empirical studies done later bore out that these new therapies, worked. 

Vin, in his later years, tried to find out just where the happiness in life lies. We spend our entire lives trying to find something that lasts, that sticks, but it always fades. He had come to the conclusion that since we have five senses, taste, hear, see, feel and smell, and that's all we have really, he would indulge them as much as he could. So, he became a wine collector, albeit starting late in life.

He told me a story once about coming through Logan airport, carrying an expensive bottle of Italian Trebbiano Toscano wine when it slipped and smashed on the concourse floor.

“SON OF A MUTHAFUCKING BITCH!!” He tells me he yelled out. He then knew he had only one chance to smell the wine's bouquet and he got down on his hands and knees to sniff it up.

“You did this? Christ, you don't let any small chance get away from you, do you?” I said.

“Son, in those instances, you have to move quick! Grab it while you can!” he said.

Good advice.

**

Three months before he had died, Vin told me he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I sat there completely helpless in anything I could have said. What do you say to that? What fixes can you offer? None really. I eventually eeked out this, “Is there anything you want to do...before...go to Europe again? See Italy again?”

“I hope too.” he said.

The last sight I had of him was while I was trotting down the stairs, looking back and flipping my head with a “see you later” nod and then got into my car and drove off. I did not attend the funeral as it was family oriented and as I have said before, we were friends but in the “see ya in eight months” variety. I had told myself I would go and visit his grave but like many other things I promise to myself that doesn't need my dire attention, I blow off.

Thirteen years have passed since he was buried and today I finally made it there. God, talk about procrastination, or perhaps we're still engaging in that style of friendship, “See ya in few years.”

What's odd, and I'm not alone in doing this, is that I had a soft conversation with him. It's so a completely human thing to do. What did I talk about? I mentioned the fact that we had struck up a friendship out of odd circumstances. That you chose to be buried here. I remembered parts of his life, the war, the divorce, his career and how he managed to keep jogging into his 70's. How he was at Esalen during a time when it was all “happening.”

As I left, I murmured, “You had a hell of a life Vin, nothing to complain about. You have done more things than I have...more than what many Rhode Islanders ever do.”

I'm glad I knew him and am glad I finally made it there.  

"And Their Music? It's Just Noise"

Probably one of the reasons why my brother and I could listen to any music we wanted was because our parents, like most of the parents born in the Depression, couldn't understand the lyrics. I find that true too, as I would swear I understood a favorite song only to find out it's lyrics weren't what I thought they were.

Song lyrics like, “We Built this City on Logs and Coal” by Jefferson Starship or say, a classic like Hendrix's Purple Haze: “'scuse me while I kiss this guy.” Abba's Dancin' Queen sounded like “See that girl, watch her scream, kicking the dancing queen!”

Since my parents gave up wondering about the crap my brother and I listened too, we could listen to anything as long as it wasn't too loud. In fact, that was the only rule: Don't Blast the Music.

Alice Coopers Billion Dollar Babies was a great album in that it's fun rock music to listen to. Fun in the same way Live at Budakon of Cheap Trick fame. Had my parents looked at the song list and read a few of the lyrics, they would've burned the album and then salted the earth upon which it was burned. The album had titles like:

“I Love the Dead” A song about necrophilia, with Alice panting as if he was porking a corpse

“Sick Things” A song about those deeply secret little hobbies many of us have and will take to the grave with us when we die. God Forbid the public find out!

“Raped 'n' Freezin' A song about finding a slut in the desert and being raped by her

These were the songs I was singing along too when I was 7 years old. It's a good thing I couldn't sing worth a note as Dad and Mom probably did their best to block me out. To tell the truth, at 7, I didn't know what Alice was singing about either, but it was tune catchy and you could sing along with it.

One night, as I was watching the Smothers Brothers show, I found out Alice Cooper would be their guest to sing “Unfinished Sweet.” I ran into the kitchen to get my Dad to tell him “He's on! He's on! Come an' see!”

“Who's on?” my Dad asked.

“Alice Cooper! C'mon! Come see it!”

“Who's she? He asked.

So Dad comes to watch. When he finds out Alice is really a male named Vincent Furnier, he becomes completely dismissive to whatever he could possibly sing. Already he has pre-judged this song as crap.

As Unfinished Sweet turns from a common set of a dentist's office to a staged tooth pulling involving dancing molars, giant forceps and a mascara covered Alice, he shouts out, “Maureen..Jesus H...Come and see this moron!”

Alice dances around like while the molars carry and parade him and Dad tells my Mom, “This is talent? This is what the kids like? My god...it's AWFUL! Why would any guy wear black make-up?”

Well, what do u expect from a guy who still hummed Big Band songs from the 40's.

Click the pic and see the show on the Smothers Brothers, it's shitty quality so put up with it. I was surprised to find it.  

Another Pretty One That's Out of Reach

I once heard a funny simplification of the difference between a Democrat and Republican. “A Democrat wants to be able to fuck anyone they want in any way, shape or form while a Republican wants to be able to charge you any price he wants for any product or service.”

Ok, so I am what you'd call a socially progressive/fiscally conservative type. What the hell does that mean? It means that “I don't care what you do in your backyard as long as you don't spill it into mine” and “I'm a cheap Yankee New England skinflint and stop eyeing my money!”

You want to rape sheep in your cellar? Great! Rape them all! Just don't expect me to join you and don't pester me to accompany you. I also expect the same favor returned to me. Please don't disturb me with what I may do in my cellar either!

I will leave.you.alone, if you leave.me.alone.

As far as fiscal conservatism goes, this is how I define it. Keep your goddamn greedy hands away from my pile of cash. I abhor tyranny in any form including any State power that wishes to tax me to death AND any private, market based entity that would love to monopolize and corner the market...and me...into paying whatever price they set for their goods. The worst of both worlds would be being taxed to death on a product I need that's wholly owned and controlled by Pfizer, who sets the retail price 1,400% above cost, because they can.

Of course, like many other people, my stance on issues can waver on the left/right scale depending on how I view them. Add to that is the ability to understand “shades of gray” and not that soft core porn movie about sado-masochism (which by the way, I don't care if you engage in). It's 2015,

whatever you can do to have a good time, get on with it, so long as it doesn't cause a murder.

There's a girl, half my age of course, who I've been eyeing from time to time. God love 25 year olds! They're all beautiful! Anyway I eye her with no real attempts at wheedling my way into her world. I'm just sniffing around, seeing what she's about and such. However, it's always sort of a shock when you find out some fact about someone that floors you and proves your initial analysis was way the fuck off.

She's blond, adorably cute, shy and soft spoken with big clear eyes. I learned, from her body language, that she's a bit uncomfortable around men though. I surmised that was from her lack of experience and attendant absence of confidence. So what, that made her even more attractive.

Well, I was half right about her lack of experience being stemming from just shyness. She was modest and cool due to her being a bit religious that caused her to be slightly distressed. Well, slightly more than a “bit religious.”

“Bob Jones? Bob Jones University? You went to Bob Jones?!” I say, trying like hell to stifle my shock and revulsion.

To look at her, you'd never think she ever went to an indoctrination camp like that. She seemed far too cute, seemed too “normal” from her white bread appearance. I then realized too, that she'd never allow any guy to touch her unless a ring was placed upon her finger...and one from a faithful Christian man to boot. This explained a lot about her behavior and her reaction to men. Hell, if she knew what I was doing at 14...she'd think I was the Demon Pazzuzu and she'd hold a cross to me. It ain't in any shape or form “going to happen” for me.

If she knew me well. This is how I'd look to her...Pazuzzu

I don't care whether you profess to believe in one religion or another. What will set my internal smoke detector to scream LOUD is when I come across anyone who is extreme far left or far right in their views. When you become rigid and intractable in your views, I see mental illness...no joke, I do! The world is far too complex to be simplified down to such positions. Hence my belief in “shades of gray.”

Bob Jones U. is a right wing, Christian Fundamentalist training camp, in my view anyway. I don't suspect all the kids that go there are Soldiers for Christ, hellbent on saving the world as many of them, in their hearts, are good people...but the shit they believe in is a bit too inflexible for me. Here's a bit about Bob Jones from Wikipedia:

“Strict rules govern student life at BJU. Some of these are based directly on the university's interpretation of the Bible. For instance, the 2011–12 Student Handbook states, "Students are to avoid any types of entertainment that could be considered immodest or that contain profanity, scatological realism, sexual perversion, erotic realism, lurid violence, occultism and false philosophical or religious assumptions." Grounds for immediate dismissal include stealing, immorality (including sexual relations between unmarried students), possession of hard-core pornography, use of alcohol or drugs, and participating in a public demonstration for a cause the university opposes. Similar "moral failures" are grounds for terminating the employment of faculty and staff. In 1998, a homosexual alumnus was threatened with arrest if he visited the campus.”

According to Bob Jones's Student Handbook, I've violated every rule before I was 15. I did it with zeal and passion. I fully chewed, swallowed and digested some pretty heavy SINS at that age.

Bob Jones reminds me of this.

SS-Junkerschule Bad Tölz, Nicely "Following Orders!"

"The officer candidates had to meet stringent requirements before being allowed into the officer schools; All SS officers had to be a minimum height of 5 foot 10 inches (5 ft 11" for the Leibstandarte) and had to serve for at least six months to a year in the ranks prior to being considered for a place at the SS-Junkerschule. Typically, a Waffen-SS member reaching the rank of Rottenführer could choose either to embark on the career path of an SS-non-commissioned officer or could apply to join the officer corps of the Waffen-SS. If choosing the latter, he was required to obtain a written recommendation from their commander and undergo a racial and political screening process to determine eligibility for commission as an SS officer."

Ah well, I guess I'm too much of a reprobate, in dire need of salvation, for her to even consider giving me head. Ha! I had to put that in! Anyway, my idea of a Sunday isn't to sit and adore a statue of Christ while blindly following political beliefs someone else has decided upon. I will decide that for myself. 

I will say this though, those who are in the trenches for the Social Mission of the Church have my respect. Faith without Works is meaningless to me. I think of ArchBishiop Romero in El Salvador, a champion of the poor, who was gunned down while delivering a sermon in his church by gov't troops. Or those Ursuline nuns who were done in the same way. That's courage. That's living like Christ daily.

That I can admire. Perhaps the cute one I know can become that?