True Love

I didn't do it nor would I. Why would a little tart like the one above have anything to do with me except to gain admittance into the US then become an American citizen? But I heard a story the other day about some one who did.

“I know a guy who tried it, used to visit me at times when I was in Manomet. They guy was 41, particularity obese, not very good looking and had had nothing but bad luck with women ever since he was a teen. Hmm...already past 40 and getting desperate, you see that a lot!”

“He became a true believer in “Svetlana,” a Russian girl he found on the internet site and had corresponded with for over three months. I saw her picture, she was 20, hot and spoke about this much English.” (He was holding his finger and thumb about a millimeter away from one another to make the point). Да, я очень люблю тебя!! Diyava! I love you many much!” he says in a bad Russian girl accent.

“Scott paid the fees, the airline tickets and everything else that was needed to ship her over here. I was guessing it was about $4,000 when it was all tallied up, but he was determined and believed that she would be the girl for him.”

So before Scott had pulled the trigger, B. asks him, “Do you think there might be a small possibility that she's totally conning you?”

“Oh NO! She's the real thing! I've emailed her many, many times, she's always asking about ME, so interested in what I do, where I work, my home...all about ME!”

“Uh huh” B says. “Who typed the emails if she knows 15 words of English?” He let that question hang in the air.

So Svetlana lands at Logan, and she is the real thing apparently. 20 years old, eager and pretty. She was nothing but authentic, hot danger for any man by the way she walked. He takes her to his home in Carver and settles her in. Within a week, they were married by a justice of the peace after she complains that living as a singles couple was “shameless” and against her Russian Orthodox religion.

“B. it's perfect! She's like a 1950's wife! Cooks, cleans and is she a tornado in bed! It's the best four grand I ever spent!'

B. answers. “Well, Scott, I'm glad you finally found the one.” What could he say but nice little white lies to not burst this bubble? Why get involved?

Scott worked off 128 at one of those bio-med companies you see all along the road there. One day, he's called to the lobby and there waiting for him is a Massachusetts State Sheriff.

“You Scott De'Lorren....” asks the Sheriff?

“Yes” Scott answers. 

 

“You've been served.” says the Sheriff as he shoves a thick envelope into Scott's hands.

After plowing through all the legalese, Scott realizes this is a petition for divorce initiated by Svetlana. They had been married five months. “Irreconcilable differences” was the accusation. Svetlana was already an American citizen by then. It seemed that she had learned just enough English to study American divorce law while in her home town of Smolensk...or at least knew someone who did.

Scott begged and pleaded but Svetlana would have none of it. Within some pretty quick order, they were divorced. Scott, still stinging from it all, hires a private detective to find out where she ended up. He couldn't let go just yet .

She had moved to White Plains, outside of NYC and was living in the extra bedroom of another Russian wife, who was married and doing pretty well. Svetlana in short order found a man closer to her age, a lawyer and the two were steadily headed for marriage.

B. who is “sort of” consoling Scott over all of this once it was clear Svetlana was never coming back says, “Scott. Did you really think that a cute 20 year old was going to fall for a guy like you? C'mon, have you LOOKED in the mirror?” This was rather cruel but it was sharp reality slap to him. “You were a lonely sap and here comes this sex kitten....god, you bit that hook, line and sinker!”

Moral of the story? Hell, do I have to tell you?

The Learning Curve

I've taken up hiking and scrambling again, just to see if I can still do it. I can, yet it takes longer. I had an acquaintance suggest that I hire a prostitute to get over any mid-life crisis. It would be easier and perhaps more fun and possibly less dangerous. Though idiot me will fall for a pretty face out in Las Vegas and that ain't going to end well. We'll see.

As you get older, you definitely know yourself. If you don't by 50, I don't know what to tell you. For me, taking on any new hobby/job/idea/whatever involves a learning curve and I know how those go for me after all these years. The one threat I know? I have to be very aware that the new whatever can involve me falling 30 feet, being electrocuted or some other ugly mishap, and it'll happen very early in the curve. The early part, for me anyway, can be lethal or maiming. I go reallll sllllow when I start something off that could possibly ruin my day.

Here's an example:

Years ago, I learned how to build my own stereo speakers. The electronic wiring is just a mind problem that just needs pencil and paper. The actual building of the box requires tools, some pretty nasty ones like a table saw. So, being all gung ho to have speakers that could rival the best out there, I headed up to Home Depot to get me a small table saw.

Cutting small or short pieces of MDF board wasn't so much of a problem. I made a push stick so my hands were clearly far enough away from that blade. I had learned to use the guard as well so I'd keep all my fingers. The problem occurs when you try to rip a large board.

There is a guide called a “fence” on the saw and it's supposed to keep your piece straight as you slowly move it into the blade. Any deviation from that might “bind” the blade. Bind the blade and the board will kick back at you.

So I was pushing my large piece through, trying to keep the saw lined up on the pencil line I had drawn and forgot about also keeping the piece snug to the fence. All of a sudden, the piece lurches back into my gut. I spin around, half bent over like someone had sucker punched me. right in the stomach. “Owwwwww! It was solid hit.

I kept all my fingers, both hands and arms and the only price I paid for this early learning was a sore stomach.

Live and learn they say. I prefer to “learn and still live.”

**

I had taken a small hike out in the woods of Seekonk and w/o a trail map because I was too lazy to print one off the computer. So out I go, romping around, getting my legs accustomed to this again when I begin to notice the trail markers had changed from red to blue. “Huh?” I thought, “perhaps they changed the color.” I kept going and noticed that I wasn't arriving at the 17^th century ice cutting pond I kinda knew was only a half mile away. So I kept plodding on. I did this till I arrived at a spot I had began with earlier. I was amazed. How the hell did that happen? Then, I had remembered from long ago that if you're lost and you keep walking, you tend to walk in giant circles w/o knowing it. I was surprised to have proven this to myself. Why does that happen? We all favor one leg over the other and if you take 4,043 steps, always leaning 1/5 of an inch to the right or left, you create a large circle eventually.

“Shit, they weren't kidding.” I realized.

In my head I scolded myself as I made my way back to the right trail “Get a DAMN map next time. Take the compass with you smart ass! Or you'll spend a night being eaten alive by bugs as you wait for the dawn to begin again.”

So today I go out, to woods I know well and sort of “get lost” and made my way back using the map and compass I was so sure I never needed. Yeah, good thing I didn't start on Buck Hill in Gloucester, or I could get to see Douglas MA by mistake, or Thomson CT, or God knows where.

“Never get out of the boat.” Martin Sheen said in Apocalypse Now. Well, true, but if you do go, start in the shallow end, at least you don't drown and learn to swim.

 

Wolf Hill

Hiking up Wolf Hill has taught me a few things:

1. I am out of shape from a winter of sitting down, napping and eating
2. I need better shoes. A sneaker's sole don't cut it when you're walking over roots and rock
3. I can pant pretty hard!
4. When there is an incline of 35 degrees, they mean 35 degrees! My calves were burning
5. I forgot what shin splints were.
6. I made it

I did surprise myself on the time I took, it was only an hour but I haven't done this stuff in years so it's a good start. The other surprise were the old memories that had nothing to do with hiking that came upon me when I crossed National Grid's land. Why I was having memories of being about four years old I don't know why. I do pay attention to that, when old memories pop up for some seeming odd reason. 

**

 

This is how it starts. It look sort of inviting as they put in railroad tie stairs for you to get up the very beginning of the trailhead. The problem is that this is the last time you see any engineering to help you out on the trail The rest is up to you. 

So far, so good, There were just some light rises and depressions to move along but the trail was open, clear and navigable 

Then as I made the turn I came upon this. Nothing but rock and all UP. This is where I find out Avia sneakers are useless on rocks like these. 

When I was coming down the path on the left, I got these weird memories from being a little kid. I wans't sure if it was the area, the sound of high voltage snapping and crackling above my head or what. But I felt as it were from some old vacation spot, trip or whatnot. I kept remembering the old Enchanted Forest kid's land that once was in operation a hundred years ago. Who knows? But the sense of deja vu was strong. 

I finally find it. This is a memorial to a WW2 crash site in the middle of nowhere. A Lockheed RB-34 lost it's engines. From the witness statements the pilot was trying like hell to restart them when the plane smacked the shit out of the top of the hill, into that boulder. When the rescuers arrived, the land was on fire, the fuselage was crumpled up against the boulder and other plane parts scattered around. A more grisly find were blackened, somewhat human being looking piles of goo thrown about the hill. There's absolutely nothing there now to suggest a plane had ground itself up there. Not even a tiny metal scrap. 

Here's the boulder and the memorial stone. I don't know how long it's been there but someone's been hiking out here putting up flags. Probably more than a few people because you can see all the memorial stones place upon that boulder as well.

The memorial itself. Again, I have no idea how old it is but another thought hit me. Who humped a 100lb gravestone and the cement to make a base all the way out here?

Coming back down the hill I came across this. A boat. Who the hell would tote a boat up a hill only to dump it in the middle of the woods? I've seen stolen cars left in the woods, that's pretty common, but this? Weird. 

I finally have a sit down to rest those legs. You can't smell it but my jeans, sneakers are covered with permethryn insecticide. The last thing I wanted to get out here are deer ticks. I don't want a months-long misdiagnosed Lyme's disease or babieosis. Bizarre blood borne pathogens are not my cup of tea so I'll stink of Union Carbide chemicals for a while.

Well that's it. My takeaway is that I can do it at 54 and probably a bit more if I got my legs a bit more worked out.

Hey, Found Something to Write About..

From the Onion Comedy Site:

LITTLETON, CO—On April 20, when two students at Columbine High School opened fire in a brutal shooting spree that left 12 classmates and a teacher dead, many feared that this affluent suburban school would never be the same.

Members of Columbine High School's popular “in” crowd, who, more than four months after the tragic shooting at their school, have finally begun to exclude losers again.

The atmosphere is optimistic. Slowly but surely, life at Columbine is returning to normal.

Thanks to stern new security measures, a militarized school environment and a massive public-relations effort designed to obscure all memory of the murderous event, members of Columbine's popular cliques are once again safe to reassert their social dominance and resume their proud, longstanding tradition of bullying and tormenting those who do not fit in.

"We have begun the long road to healing," said varsity-football starting halfback Jason LeClaire, 18, a popular senior who on Aug. 16 returned to the school for the first time since the shooting. "We're bouncing back, more committed than ever to reject anyone who's different."

Added LeClaire's girlfriend, pretty cheerleader Kellie Nelson: "A school where the jocks cannot freely exclude math geeks, drama fags, goths and other wash-outs without fearing for their lives is not the kind of school I want to go to."

On Sept. 6, amid a pep-rally atmosphere of marching-band fanfare, cheerleaders and mass chanting, a group of jocks wearing T-shirts bearing the slogan, "We, Not You, Are Columbine" were escorted by armed guards into the school for the first day of the new semester. Approximately one hour later, anyone not in the right cliques were allowed into the building through a side door.

**

“The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel it's warmth.”

A proverb I never heard before...

I have no answers to this, nor anything meaningful to say either, and I ain't getting onto the issue of gun control, but just a couple of stories I remember from then when I was a teen.

I've written about him before, Steve, a congenital dork, dweeb, goober, nerd who rested on the bottom rung of the social ladder of St Rays high school. The one sad story I told you about was when he admitted it was he who sent a “Valentine's Secret Introductory Rose” to one of the prettier girls in our class. Each year boys could buy single roses, send them anonymously to a girl they liked and if they were brave enough, reveal themselves later in the day. Steve tried that, but the popular girl out of either protection of her social status, or perhaps out of a true “not feeling that way about him” rejected him as easily as she could in front of 30 of his peers. THAT little show got around the gossip circuit within an hour for the whole school and because Steve was a loser-troll, the magnitude of his crime was made all the worse. “How DARE you...YOU! Make an attempt to ask out one of the Top Ten girls!”

Steven never returned with an AK 47 to pour out 12 years of revenge for the bullying, shame and abuse that was heaped on him daily. Had he done so, I don't think I would've been too surprised. But that wasn't Steve's personality. He turned the pain onto himself by moping about his school day and keeping in the shadows.

He never showed up for any of the reunions and who could blame him? Many of the kids he knew then were his enemy via the exclusion from the fun teen friendships, mileposts kids achieve at that age and all that the other joys the teen world has to offer. Why meet again those who kept you from all the fun?

**

When I was a young teen, Soldier of Fortune magazine was the only rag, and perhaps Guns & Ammo then, where you could order para-military items, “How To's” and the “Anarchist's Cookbook.” Occasionally I'd paw through it as we kids just burned up summer days at the mini mall near my house. There was sometimes nothing else to do but hang out inside CVS for their a/c and read the mags till we got the annoyed look from the manager.

His real first name was Wayne and he lived not more than three blocks from me and I didn't even know it. He was about three years younger than me and his existences was a surprise to me when I finally met him. My buddy M, knew of him because the kid routinely wore Vietnam tiger stripe camo when he went to jr high school at Goff. If not that camo, than any “utility” type of clothing you could get in 1979. On top of his head was a regular issue Army cap. I was told he had no friends and was avoided by others because of being “weird.”

One day, M, I and Wayne run into one another outside the same CVS and I start to goof on his apparel as it seemed a bit too much for a hot July day. The kid just gave me the meanest, most hateful stares you ever saw. It's a stare that usually only worn out, cynical adults give after a life time of having to make compromises to get along. This kid was probably 12 then.

So, to ease the situation I steer the conversation over to the Soldier of Fortune magazine Wayne just bought and talked about those tactics the Green Beret's have to kill you with their little pinky. He gets annoyed still because I don't know what I'm talking about and he corrects me when I get it wrong. I then ask him if he knows any of “those moves” and he says he does and I ask him to try one on me. I regretted that pretty soon.

He gets behind me and in a flash and with some power too, uses his left hand to compress my throat and his right hand slides up and over my scalp and with a claw like motion, digs his fingers into my eyeballs. He wasn't faking it.

Know what you feel when you can't breath AND your eyeballs feel like their going to squish out? You don't know where to defend yourself first, your throat or your eyes? You tend to reach for both and in doing so, you are an uncoordinated mess. This goes on for, I guess 20 seconds when my buddy M steps in and has to literally bash Wayne on the top of his head to stop it.

As I spun around and saw M toss Wayne onto the ground, I see Wayne's face. He's excited! He's focused! He has a shit eating grin from ear to ear.

He LIKED doing this. I bet his heart was racing too.

You know those moments in your childhood and teens where you experience the real, ugly side of life? Either it's a person or event you are witnessing and it leaves you feeling the ABOSLUTE creeps after it happens? It's called “growing up” and your innocence is forever altered. If you're lucky, they're don't maim you nor are lethal. They're just learning experiences you managed to get away easily with.

Wayne was one of those experiences and not so much about what he did but that look on his face that creeped me the hell out. If there was anyone who would shoot up his school because he was weird and excluded, it would be him. He never did. From what I learned he joined the military right after high school. He probably begged to be sent as part of advisory command when we were training the CONTRAS who were causing all sorts of trouble in Nicaragua. If he did get to go, he found a real home for himself.

Those two, Wayne and Steve, were probably the worst social misfits I knew as a kid. Neither shot up anything (but I wonder if Wayne fantasized about it) and apparently made something of their lives, even with their impoverished social networks.

And we keep cranking out more of these kids daily I hear...

More Tales from the Past

I haven't written anything because I'm running out of ideas! I've told you all of the Xmas stories, the New Year's Eve stories....and I'm sure you don't want to read about me rambling on about a subject only I care about.

So here goes this...

McManus Restaurant was a sort of clone of the Newport Creameries that dot this state. There was one McManus in the strip mall were we hung as kids on Armistice, but being a bit too young to be attracted to restaurants, plus having no money, we barely went in there.

That wasn't the case for my older brother and his friends. They had part time jobs and some spending money to waste in there. Mostly it was to turn it into a hang out for teens, as long as they kept buying rounds of coffee, the manager didn't seem to care. For a while at least.

They ran their welcome out in an inventive way though.

**

There was a family of three boys that lived not too far away. The Crusoe family. Each of the boys unfortunately inherited those genes for “prominent ears,” or “Dumbo Ears” as we called them. We kids in that neighborhood and time ruthlessly bullied them about it. To think on it now, we ruthlessly bullied each other for our shortcomings as well. Too short, too fat, too skinny, too stupid, too smart, too ugly...you get the picture.

Times have changed and kids can't bully one another..oh wait, there's cell phones and Snapchat!

There was a friend of my brother, a Save Dupanic (I leave it up to you to figure out the clever way I disguised this name) who one day completely shocked the Crusoe family in McManus's.

The teen boys sat near the window booth and guess who comes in? The entire Crusoe family and they regrettably chose a booth right next to my brother and his friends. After a few minutes, Save Dupanic turns around in the booth, facing the Crusoe family and does something only teen boy with no regard to social etiquette can do.

He grabs both his ears with his fingers and stretches them out as far from his head as he can, all the while screeching, “EEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEE! EEEEEEEE!” Where upon the teen booth bursts out, laughing their asses off.

The Crusoe family sat in silence over that one. I assume no one complained to the manager.

**

Jo Jo lived on Armistice Blvd and I never knew his real story. Retardation, autism, cerebral palsy...I never knew. But to see him walking and stumbling down the street, we kids branded him as retarded. So did my brother and his friends. Once a day, weather permitting, his mom would give him some money to go to McManus or CVS to get some ice cream or candy or whatnot, depending on what he wanted. The problem with Jo Jo was his incessant drooling. He would wipe his mouth at times but I guess he thought that as long as it wasn't dripping off your chin yet, it was OK.

So, Jo Jo comes into McManus one day, orders an ice cream cone and drools. My brother's friends had just sat down in their usual booth. Jo Jo leaves happily with his treat and the waitress comes over to my brother's table.

“Same thing boys?” she asks

“Yep, 5 coffees and 10 halfs on the back burner.” Halfs meaning english muffins.

Save Dupanic (him again) then chirps up, “Oh....and can we have a cup of Jo Jo's drool too?”

“THATS awful! He CAN'T help IT! You boys have NO IDEA what he goes through.” the waitress chides

I was told she stormed off but put the order through anyway. The manager was no where to be seen.

Final Straw...

On another day, the teen boys go to their usual booth to order up the same thing but one of them adds a bit something extra to the order. It wasn't Save Dupanic this time and I won't say who but refer to him as, umm...Paul. Yeah...Paul..who now is the, or could be the sales manager for a very large jewelry display company...or not!

Paul adds this to the check after the other boys give their order.

“Can I have a blow job too?”

I was told the 20 Something waitress just narrowed her eyes and walked off.

Then comes the manager.

“That's IT! I've put up with your guys SHIT long ENOUGH! You NEVER use PROFANITY with my girls! If you DON'T get out of here I GOING THROW YOU OUT ON YOUR EARS!!”

The boys left...

Jimmy and I then got a sort of part time job ourselves. Since my brothers's friends were banned from McManus and couldn't get their coffees and english muffins, we did it instead. For a fee of course, usually keeping any change leftover from the transaction. They'd now have to sip the coffees and eat the muffins while sitting in front of Egan's Laundromat, a definite demotion! I'm sure the waitresses in McManus figured out these daily orders from two grammar school kids. Why would two 11 year old boys want five coffees and five english muffins? The order seemed awfully familiar.

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

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

(ripping off Thomas Dylan!)

Kip's. Those signs have been there since 1970

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

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

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

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

Wait...

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

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

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

Ok, I'll admit this one.

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

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

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

**

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

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

The downside...

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck?” I thought to myself.

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

Can you tell I'm NOT aging gracefully?

Aspirational Living

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

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

**

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

She comments:

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

“Why would I want that?” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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