The rituals of parking have always amused me. People will spend inordinate amounts of time, energy, and money in the pursuit and acquisition of "the perfect parking spot". They will circle malls for 20 minutes to save themselves from a 2 minute walk. They will hover over a spot waiting for a car to leave the spot they want, and impatiently honk their horn if it does not leave fast enough to suit them. In the city, where parking spots are often violently protected, the youngest son will be drafted to save the family parking spot while Dad goes to Home Depot for some project supplies. He will be issued the family Uzzi and told that if he loses that spot, don't come home. Private parking in New York city costs more than my mortgage per month.
Yes, parking in much of America approaches the intensity of war. Many trips are planned around finding and acquiring the right parking spot. At Christmas, people will show up to the malls 1 to 2 hours early just to find and secure a parking spot 30 feet away from the door they want to rush into when the mall opens. A successful shopping trip sometimes being gauged by the spot they scored on the way in. "No Martha, I didn't get that gee gaw you wanted, but you shoulda seen the parking spot I got. It was great. Right next to the Sears door. Only had to go around the Mall twice."
While I don't understand this fascination with finding the right spot, the parking scofflaws really get me. Those folks who are positive that general parking courtesy is for the unwashed masses but not meant for them. The guy who parks his huge new Hummer at an angle, wasting 4 spots. The spot creator who sees a parking spot where none existed before they came onto the lot. Often they show up in groups which results in lanes so choked up that it takes 10 tow trucks and 15 mall cops to sort out the maddness. The old couple who park in the firelanes next to the doors. Grandma gets out and heads in, leaving Grandpa sitting in the car reading his Sunday paper and sucking down a thermos full of coffee for 2 hours. And then there is the handicap spot poacher. The lowest of the low. The sleaziest of the sleaze. I have often been tempted to knife their tires. But what good would that do? They'd only be in the spot longer and never understand why they had ther tires slashed.
When I drove tractor trailers for a living, I was delivering some fire damaged furmiture to an insurance company wharehouse for evaluation. This wharehouse was located in one of those newer industrial parks outside Baltimore. Set up in two long rows of connected spaces, the loading docks faced on the alley shared by both. Classic piss poor planning by the architects. If a trailer was backed in, the whole lane was blocked. The dock I was aiming for was a tough back in. In order to hit square and still miss the various obstacles in my way, I had to end up with the tractor at a right angle to the trailer just as I hit the dock. After several attempts, I was just backing up for that final stab when a UPS truck zipped in behind me. The driver hopped out and started to head to another door. "Hey, didn't you see me backing up Bud?"
He Looked at me and said, "Calm down buddy, I won't be more than a few minutes. I'm in a hurry."
"Oh, he's in a hurry", I thought, "That makes it okay. Sure, go ahead, Block me off. Your time must be more valuable than mine." I had only spent the last 15 minutes to get to this point. The more I thought about his inconsiderate attitude, the angrier I became. So I came up with a plan. I jockeyed my truck and trailer around to where I had him completely boxed in. I got out of the truck and went to lunch. I took a long lunch. A little over an hour.
When I returned from an excellent gravied meatloaf and potato spread, there was quite a commotion waiting for me. A suit came up to me and asked me if I was driving the rig. I answered in the affirmative. He started in hard. Who was I to block off one of his drivers? It was costing UPS lots of money to have him down. Blah, blah, blah. I let him rant for a minute or so and then I stopped him. "If your driver had not pulled in behind me just as I was backing up to the dock, maybe he'd be on his way and I would be backed in where I should be."
The supervisor, who must of driven 20 minutes to get there was not hearing me. "I don't care about that, you have no right to keep us from carrying out our deliveries"
"Well bud, I was here first. Your driver had no right pulling in and keeping me from my delivery. I figured since he didn't seem to care about me, I would go to lunch and I did. Good meal too. And if you don't get out of my face, I might just go back for dessert."
He did not want to, but the suit calmed down enough to get my point. I got in my truck, pulled it out of the way and Buster Brown went his merry way. I backed in and made my delivery. The long and short of it was UPS filed a formal complaint and a bill for the delay with my company. I had to get a couple of signed statements from some dock guys that confirmed my story before I was let off the hook and had the black mark removed from my record and the money deducted reimbursed.
Blatant Self Indulgence
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Friday, February 25, 2005
Getting some Religion
I engaged a rabid, foaming at the mouth, Bible thumping maniac in polite conversation the other day. At least it started out that way. For a minute or two. Then I mentioned UFOs. Whoa dude. Wrong subject. It went from wrong to a disaster in communication when I took the stance that we likely had neighbors in the heavens and they were likely smarter than us.
Now the Right Reverend Billy Bob Baker (name has been changed to protect the insane) got up on his pulpit and set down a sermon that left me astounded that an otherwise smart guy could lose it like he did. In a nutshell ( so to speak) the Rev contended that God made Man in his image. That there was only one God and he didn't repeat himself by conjuring up any competition.
What just took me two sentences to Clif Note took Billy Bob 15 minutes. Between the "and God saith's" and the "In the beginning", I managed to digest his point. When it seemed he was done and not just catching another breath for his fire and brimstone, I made another mistake. I said, "Well, cool Bob. But if we are his chosen people, and we're the best he could come up with, then I'd say he needs to try again. He might just get it right the next time".
The Rev didn't say anything. He just looked at me. Kinda creeped me out. Then he seemed to grow larger and the veins in his forehead began to pulsate. His hands began a spasmatic clenching. I could see that Old Testament gleam in his eyes. One cannot stand up to religious convictions held by a manic madman. Add in the purposeful tweak of his nose, and beating a hasty retreat seemed wise. So I did. Hope I don't see him for a couple of weeks.
Now the Right Reverend Billy Bob Baker (name has been changed to protect the insane) got up on his pulpit and set down a sermon that left me astounded that an otherwise smart guy could lose it like he did. In a nutshell ( so to speak) the Rev contended that God made Man in his image. That there was only one God and he didn't repeat himself by conjuring up any competition.
What just took me two sentences to Clif Note took Billy Bob 15 minutes. Between the "and God saith's" and the "In the beginning", I managed to digest his point. When it seemed he was done and not just catching another breath for his fire and brimstone, I made another mistake. I said, "Well, cool Bob. But if we are his chosen people, and we're the best he could come up with, then I'd say he needs to try again. He might just get it right the next time".
The Rev didn't say anything. He just looked at me. Kinda creeped me out. Then he seemed to grow larger and the veins in his forehead began to pulsate. His hands began a spasmatic clenching. I could see that Old Testament gleam in his eyes. One cannot stand up to religious convictions held by a manic madman. Add in the purposeful tweak of his nose, and beating a hasty retreat seemed wise. So I did. Hope I don't see him for a couple of weeks.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Leaders with Thick Craniums
W and Vlad met the other day in Slovakia. W voiced his concerns about Vlad and his cavalier treatment of democracy according to the famous "W's Definitive Guide to All Things Democratic". For his part, Vlad assured W he was doing the best he could. Cut us some slack dude. We's new at it. You don't just pick up and give folks freedom overnight. You have to beat some of them over the head first. Cuz we's Russians fer chrissakes. He went on to say it was more a reason of biology. The Slavic craniums are a tad thicker than your average white guy's. Sense comes hard in that part of the World.
W nodded and said, "I know jes what you mean Vlad. We gots similar folks in the ole US of A. We's call em Liberals. You can beat them 2 times in a row and they still don't git it. "
W nodded and said, "I know jes what you mean Vlad. We gots similar folks in the ole US of A. We's call em Liberals. You can beat them 2 times in a row and they still don't git it. "
Monday, February 21, 2005
An Icycle Ride
Damn. All the way home from errands in the snow storm, I conjured up a great topic for discussion. Well, not discussion via two way communications, but more of a one way musing. Again I have blown it. Did not strike while the iron was hot. Now all that comes out of my head is snot. I'll stick with it for a few minutes more. Keep the keys moving in and out. Something is bound to dawn on me. Punch some music in, kick back, and ..............well, I am waiting here. I am ready now. Uh, anytime would be nice. Jeez, when there's no way to record, my mind can't keep up with the subject options. Silly to insane, thoughts to expand on tease me until I get home. And then they're gone.
Went ice riding yesterday. It was one of those glorious winter days. Blue sky, 15"F, and blinding snow cover everywhere. Had to wear my sunglasses, even in the woods. Though I am ready to see Spring, bike rides like yesterday get special notice when archiving my memory for future retrieval.
We rode over 12 miles on snowmobile trails. Almost perfect conditions. The normally rugged terrain filled in with snow by hundreds of snow machines, creating smooth rollercoaster trails for us to rip up. Mostly hardpack with just enough hard ice to justify the studded sneakers. I wore just the right combo of duds. Not cold, not hot. Perfect. The bike worked well. Shifted with little hassle and I made all the climbs I attempted. A great day in the woods. If I hadn't been sportin my winter physique, I could have stayed out there all day. But since I have taken on the appearance of a whale, 2+ hours and I was all done. Toasted, thrashed but damn happy.
I had so much fun, I planned a repeat performance this morning. But what do I wake up to? Snow and the prediction is now 8" to 12" before it's done. Shoot! There goes those perfect conditions. We'll have to get another thaw and a freeze before it approaches what we had yesterday. At least I was lucky enough to catch the trails when they were just right.
Went ice riding yesterday. It was one of those glorious winter days. Blue sky, 15"F, and blinding snow cover everywhere. Had to wear my sunglasses, even in the woods. Though I am ready to see Spring, bike rides like yesterday get special notice when archiving my memory for future retrieval.
We rode over 12 miles on snowmobile trails. Almost perfect conditions. The normally rugged terrain filled in with snow by hundreds of snow machines, creating smooth rollercoaster trails for us to rip up. Mostly hardpack with just enough hard ice to justify the studded sneakers. I wore just the right combo of duds. Not cold, not hot. Perfect. The bike worked well. Shifted with little hassle and I made all the climbs I attempted. A great day in the woods. If I hadn't been sportin my winter physique, I could have stayed out there all day. But since I have taken on the appearance of a whale, 2+ hours and I was all done. Toasted, thrashed but damn happy.
I had so much fun, I planned a repeat performance this morning. But what do I wake up to? Snow and the prediction is now 8" to 12" before it's done. Shoot! There goes those perfect conditions. We'll have to get another thaw and a freeze before it approaches what we had yesterday. At least I was lucky enough to catch the trails when they were just right.
I'm Ready, Freddy
A late Feburary snow is falling. I sit here in the office, looking out and know I am ready now. Ready for what you might ask? Just what is he talking about? Well, I'll tell ya. I'm ready for a climatic change. A swap to more sane wheather. Warmth, sun, dirt and grass. I want the windows open and bugs to swat. Yeah I'm ready, Freddy.
I love Maine. I love the seasons. All 5 of them. But if there was one thing I would change, it would be the cut off date for Winter. Sometimes winter way overstays it's welcome. Hanging on like a cancer, it nibbles at my optimism. The longer days that signal Spring lose their positive impact with 2 feet of snow on the ground and 8" to 12" more on the way.
But the Winter hump has been humped. It is in it's last gasps. I know if I can hang on a tad longer, Mud season is just around the corner. A month of glop and slop as the deep frost leaves the ground. My basement becomes the set for "A River Runs Through It". And yet, I look forward to the cold and wet wheather of Mud season. I know that what comes next are the 3 seasons that make Maine a special place. Maine springs, summers and falls produce days from which post cards are made. Even Winter is great, just stays a bit too long. So, so long Ole Man Winter. It's time to hit the trail. Get lost.
I love Maine. I love the seasons. All 5 of them. But if there was one thing I would change, it would be the cut off date for Winter. Sometimes winter way overstays it's welcome. Hanging on like a cancer, it nibbles at my optimism. The longer days that signal Spring lose their positive impact with 2 feet of snow on the ground and 8" to 12" more on the way.
But the Winter hump has been humped. It is in it's last gasps. I know if I can hang on a tad longer, Mud season is just around the corner. A month of glop and slop as the deep frost leaves the ground. My basement becomes the set for "A River Runs Through It". And yet, I look forward to the cold and wet wheather of Mud season. I know that what comes next are the 3 seasons that make Maine a special place. Maine springs, summers and falls produce days from which post cards are made. Even Winter is great, just stays a bit too long. So, so long Ole Man Winter. It's time to hit the trail. Get lost.
Lost the Trees looking at the Forest
Today I awoke a satisfied man. Ten minutes awake, my perspective changed. Yesterday I spent many hours cleaning and organizing the garage. It seemed a hopeless and lost cause. But 8 hours of picking at this, arranging that and sweeping it all up, left a new look that almost gleamed.
Appropriately self satisfied, I sat in the middle of it all and toasted my accomplishment. I surveyed the order I had created. All the carpentry tools organized and ready for that next chunk of wood to butcher. The Bike crap in boxes marked with labels. The leaves that had migrated in swept up and all yard tools hung up. A cave of narrow aisles between haphazard piles had become a room once again. Room to move. Room to groove. I did a little dance.
Yeah, last night I sat and enjoyed what I had done. This morning, flush from this recent victory, I began plans for future campaigns. The roof, the bathroom, the upstairs hallway, the......shit! All of the undone and deteriorated rushed through my brain. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed. Back to square one. My shoulders drooped. I lost the trees looking at the forest.
Life is like that. Considering the Big Picture can be an unsatisfactory experience. The Big Picture can seem daunting and leave us in despair. Sometimes just looking at that next step instead of journey's end is the only way to travel.
Appropriately self satisfied, I sat in the middle of it all and toasted my accomplishment. I surveyed the order I had created. All the carpentry tools organized and ready for that next chunk of wood to butcher. The Bike crap in boxes marked with labels. The leaves that had migrated in swept up and all yard tools hung up. A cave of narrow aisles between haphazard piles had become a room once again. Room to move. Room to groove. I did a little dance.
Yeah, last night I sat and enjoyed what I had done. This morning, flush from this recent victory, I began plans for future campaigns. The roof, the bathroom, the upstairs hallway, the......shit! All of the undone and deteriorated rushed through my brain. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed. Back to square one. My shoulders drooped. I lost the trees looking at the forest.
Life is like that. Considering the Big Picture can be an unsatisfactory experience. The Big Picture can seem daunting and leave us in despair. Sometimes just looking at that next step instead of journey's end is the only way to travel.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Staying Connected
Depending on where we are going
Often depends on where we've been.
Knowing what just transpired
Can explain and help define
Our current place in time
But forget your previous moments
A connection is broken
A synapse to the past
Leave you isolated, removed
Staggering in the here and now
Stumbling and awkward,
you live but often wonder why.
Often depends on where we've been.
Knowing what just transpired
Can explain and help define
Our current place in time
But forget your previous moments
A connection is broken
A synapse to the past
Leave you isolated, removed
Staggering in the here and now
Stumbling and awkward,
you live but often wonder why.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Failing to Materialize
I will sometimes approach this blog with intensity and purpose. I will have fixed on something to rant on, reflect on, or fawn on. It will spark my interest early in the day. By the time I get home and chow down, I will have the point figured out and how to get there. Between the time I finish dinner and the moment I fire up the computer, punch a tune in and stretch the digits, it's gone. Adios, see ya later alligator. Just like that. If it ate at me all day, I know it was important. Had to be. Sadly, I wasn't quick enough. So I sit here, all dressed up and nowhere to go.
Other nights, I sit down with nothing in mind. On auto pilot, I kick up the blog screen. No plans, just another part of my computer ritual. I want the blog handy. Just in case. So what happens, an odd thought will occur to me and it's off to the races. 1400 words or so later at dark thirty in the morning, I will kick back from the desk. Exhausted, seeing double, and completely drained. And pass out satisfied.
Catching the iron when it's hot is a crap shoot. I do not seem able to turn on the good stuff at will. Perspectives fail to materialize on cue but often show up unintentionally without being asked. Tonight for instance. Tonight I am intent in my pursuit of something to put on paper. Tonight however, those deep and meaningful words are MIA. Getting anything out of the ole noggin is like pulling teeth. Words begrudge me. Thoughts fight to remain hidden. Like a game of hide and seek, I am always "it".
I have been thinking all day of my time with the Blog. My inability to be creative is not going to stop me. Come Hell or high water, the words are going down. Just by going through the motions, oftentimes something will click into place. And oftentimes not. Oh well. If I can't be inventive or original, I can always be boorish and obtuse.
Other nights, I sit down with nothing in mind. On auto pilot, I kick up the blog screen. No plans, just another part of my computer ritual. I want the blog handy. Just in case. So what happens, an odd thought will occur to me and it's off to the races. 1400 words or so later at dark thirty in the morning, I will kick back from the desk. Exhausted, seeing double, and completely drained. And pass out satisfied.
Catching the iron when it's hot is a crap shoot. I do not seem able to turn on the good stuff at will. Perspectives fail to materialize on cue but often show up unintentionally without being asked. Tonight for instance. Tonight I am intent in my pursuit of something to put on paper. Tonight however, those deep and meaningful words are MIA. Getting anything out of the ole noggin is like pulling teeth. Words begrudge me. Thoughts fight to remain hidden. Like a game of hide and seek, I am always "it".
I have been thinking all day of my time with the Blog. My inability to be creative is not going to stop me. Come Hell or high water, the words are going down. Just by going through the motions, oftentimes something will click into place. And oftentimes not. Oh well. If I can't be inventive or original, I can always be boorish and obtuse.
Nothing Important, just the usual
Apparently it does not matter what I post here. No one is watching anyway. And if they are, the words written must not be worthy of comment. On one level this bothers me. But when I look back at the flood of commentary I have unleashed recently, I am not bothered. I started this whole blog gig to rekindle creative fires. And even though my words may be ho hummers to everyone else, they please me anyway. I have written more in the last 3 months than in the last 3 years. Writing is my first interest. Reading it a close second. If anyone else likes it or hates it, great. But to please myself first is my top priority.
Friday, February 18, 2005
The Truth
Today I have 3 windows open to the world. I can hop around from one to the other and pursue the Truth as others see it. After looking at the diverse slants on several issues, I conclude that Truth is not a summation of factual information, Truth is the interpretation of factual information. Facts of anything become the building blocks upon which the Truth is built. That the Truth of something depends on the filters used in viewing it. As I peruse the various takes on Truth, I am constantly reminded of a Tom Cruise movie where a Marine colonel on the witness stand loudly proclaims to the effect, "You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!" And he is right. I can only handle my Truth.
Evil
As a follow up to Truth, I was just confronted with the idea of Evil. Another in a long line of interpretative ideas that resists universal agreement. One man's Evil is another man's crusade. To blindly condemn another's actions as Evil without attempting to discern the reasons for that Evil is wrong. Recognize that Evil is not cut and dry. Black and white. Certainly we attempt as groups to define Evil so that we can co-exist together. But in the long run Evil is what we make it.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Thinking of Jason
Jason is a friend of mine. He is what we now label as a
special needs person. Jason is a ward of the state. Paying attention is not
something Jason does well. Jason reminds me of Baby Huey. Big, dumb, and not a
mean bone in that 400 pound frame. Always ready with a kind word, Jason is
concerned for everyone's well being.
Jason forgets sometimes. Almost burned down his apartment one day. Left something on the stove, started watching the tube, and his kitchen caught fire. Jason resolved any future lapses in the direct and simple way Jay does everything. He got rid of his TV. Now all he has at home is his Bible, his bike, and a stereo he cranks gospel tunes on.
My friendship with Jason goes back at least 15 years. Back then at age 12 or so, Jay only weighed around 250, but he made an impression even then. I had just given some young punks what for when I caught them teasing him for being, well, the way he is. Instead of thanking me, Jay just said, " They can't help themselves, just like I can't help being me." Even as a kid and the target of truly cruel remarks, Jason could not get angry.
Over the ensuing years, Jason and I would cross paths. His simple and direct view of Life always picked up my day. Nothing was difficult for Jason. He could either do it or he couldn't. And he was comfortable with that. No angst. No anquish over meeting some societal set of goals, conditions, or mores. When I allow Life to overwhelm me, I find myself envious of his simple take on things. But I know he was right 12 years ago. I can't help being myself, just like he can't help being himself.
Jason forgets sometimes. Almost burned down his apartment one day. Left something on the stove, started watching the tube, and his kitchen caught fire. Jason resolved any future lapses in the direct and simple way Jay does everything. He got rid of his TV. Now all he has at home is his Bible, his bike, and a stereo he cranks gospel tunes on.
My friendship with Jason goes back at least 15 years. Back then at age 12 or so, Jay only weighed around 250, but he made an impression even then. I had just given some young punks what for when I caught them teasing him for being, well, the way he is. Instead of thanking me, Jay just said, " They can't help themselves, just like I can't help being me." Even as a kid and the target of truly cruel remarks, Jason could not get angry.
Over the ensuing years, Jason and I would cross paths. His simple and direct view of Life always picked up my day. Nothing was difficult for Jason. He could either do it or he couldn't. And he was comfortable with that. No angst. No anquish over meeting some societal set of goals, conditions, or mores. When I allow Life to overwhelm me, I find myself envious of his simple take on things. But I know he was right 12 years ago. I can't help being myself, just like he can't help being himself.
Shopping for more than I bargained for
A bit of fiction wrapped in reality with a dose of truth mixed in. A narrative about the limits of love. A tale that confirms all men are losers and hopeless when left to their own devices. Shows that all men need mothers, that's why they marry them. (1243)
15 years ago or so, I went Christmas shopping with a friend of mine. It was a mutual aid trip to shop for our signifigant others. A one shot deal. We were not going to return empty handed. My friend had a list his dear wife had given him 2 months earlier. Prioritized, with certain items underlined and where they might be scored. Me, I had nothing, not even a clue.
The largest congregation of retail stores was an hour away in Newington, NH. He picked me up at 7:30 AM. I had offered to drive, but ever since I put us in a ditch that one time, my friend liked to use his car. Cool, his fuel, not mine.
Hitting the Fox Run Mall parking lot just shy of 8:30 AM, we were shocked by the mob already in place and impatiently waiting for the doors to open. We had to park 1/4 mile away. After the hike in, I wished I had packed some water and a snack. Just as we got to the doors, a poor security guard unlocked the doors. Like drug crazed rock concert fans, old ladies, old men, little kids and teen aged girls surged through the door like water finding a break in the dam.
My friend and I were a tad suprised and concerned. We had never encountered rabid shoppers in such overwhelming numbers before. And we knew this scene was being repeated at all 40 hundred doors that encircled this shopper's heaven. All of a sudden I had visions of fighting ole ladies for some trinket. Or being tackled by a distraught aunt who saw me take the last of that one thing she just had to get for her favorite niece, Josie. I looked at my friend and I am sure we were on the same page. "Let's go get some breakfast and let the whackos have at it. We'll come back", he suggested. Not needing my arm twisted, I did an about face and we headed back to the car.
Breakfast at IHOP was a joke. Apparently there are thousands of folks like us who are waiting for the rush to settle before shopping. And every single one of them were at IHOP for breakfast. We waited 20 minutes for a table and both orders of eggs and appropriate sides got screwed up. The coffee was bad, the juice tasted like a tin can, and the waitress was rude. Gotta love IHOP.
The only positive note struck during breakfast was my ability to convince my buddy to forgo shopping the malls and instead head down into Portsmouth. Downtown, small shops, spread out, and watering holes liberally sprinkled through out. Any concern over finding anything on his wife's wish list was forgotten at the mention of liqour and the free flow there of. He had a weakness for the demon rum, especially when free of that spousal evil eye. I was okay with booze. At mid 30, I had been through the wringer and survived. I could take it or leave it.
What a great day it turned out to be. My friend found that special something from a kitchen store and I scored some spiffy earrings locally made . All before noon. It was decided that because breakfast had been solid, lunch should be mostly liquid. We had walked quite a bit. We were feeling dehydrated and besides, we were done shopping. Time to kick back and relax. Hmm, that flaw in logic would have some payback.
About 3:30 PM, I remember looking over at my friend. Between us lined up in formation was a double file of empty shot glasses and a pile of mangled lime slices next to them. I remember his pasty face and the way his head kinda hung down. I remember he looked like I felt. Ah tequila. It had been a few years. But like riding a bike, you never forget. Salt, shot, slice. Repeat as needed.
I voiced some concern about getting home at some point. My friend got up, staggered crablike to the bar and returned crablike with 4 more shots and a fresh bowl of lime slices. I guess that answered my question. He wanted to chew on the idea for awhile longer. We toasted something and drank the first 2 shots. And as my friend raised his slice to bite, he missed his mouth and his head went clomp face down on the table. "Oh Great," I thought. "Now I'll have to drive home".
Feeling just a little perturbed and taken advantage of, I sucked down the remaining 2 shots one right after the other. In my haze and fixated drunk, I was bothered that there were some unbitten limes in the bowl. Wanting to make everything come out even, I counted 3 left. That meant 3 more shots. I somehow found my feet and the strength to use them. I fell towards the bar, my legs hurrying to catch up. Had I been able to focus both eyes on the same thing at the same time, I might just have made it too. But the bar I reached for was just out of reach. Down on to the bar room floor.
I was done. It was all over. As I laid there looking up at the pressed steel ceiling, I pondered about the last time I felt like this. Just as I passed out, I remembered. It was 8 years previous on the second night of my marriage. My wife and I had gotten gloriously drunk on tequila in much the same way. And I was the last man barely standin that time too.
15 years ago or so, I went Christmas shopping with a friend of mine. It was a mutual aid trip to shop for our signifigant others. A one shot deal. We were not going to return empty handed. My friend had a list his dear wife had given him 2 months earlier. Prioritized, with certain items underlined and where they might be scored. Me, I had nothing, not even a clue.
The largest congregation of retail stores was an hour away in Newington, NH. He picked me up at 7:30 AM. I had offered to drive, but ever since I put us in a ditch that one time, my friend liked to use his car. Cool, his fuel, not mine.
Hitting the Fox Run Mall parking lot just shy of 8:30 AM, we were shocked by the mob already in place and impatiently waiting for the doors to open. We had to park 1/4 mile away. After the hike in, I wished I had packed some water and a snack. Just as we got to the doors, a poor security guard unlocked the doors. Like drug crazed rock concert fans, old ladies, old men, little kids and teen aged girls surged through the door like water finding a break in the dam.
My friend and I were a tad suprised and concerned. We had never encountered rabid shoppers in such overwhelming numbers before. And we knew this scene was being repeated at all 40 hundred doors that encircled this shopper's heaven. All of a sudden I had visions of fighting ole ladies for some trinket. Or being tackled by a distraught aunt who saw me take the last of that one thing she just had to get for her favorite niece, Josie. I looked at my friend and I am sure we were on the same page. "Let's go get some breakfast and let the whackos have at it. We'll come back", he suggested. Not needing my arm twisted, I did an about face and we headed back to the car.
Breakfast at IHOP was a joke. Apparently there are thousands of folks like us who are waiting for the rush to settle before shopping. And every single one of them were at IHOP for breakfast. We waited 20 minutes for a table and both orders of eggs and appropriate sides got screwed up. The coffee was bad, the juice tasted like a tin can, and the waitress was rude. Gotta love IHOP.
The only positive note struck during breakfast was my ability to convince my buddy to forgo shopping the malls and instead head down into Portsmouth. Downtown, small shops, spread out, and watering holes liberally sprinkled through out. Any concern over finding anything on his wife's wish list was forgotten at the mention of liqour and the free flow there of. He had a weakness for the demon rum, especially when free of that spousal evil eye. I was okay with booze. At mid 30, I had been through the wringer and survived. I could take it or leave it.
What a great day it turned out to be. My friend found that special something from a kitchen store and I scored some spiffy earrings locally made . All before noon. It was decided that because breakfast had been solid, lunch should be mostly liquid. We had walked quite a bit. We were feeling dehydrated and besides, we were done shopping. Time to kick back and relax. Hmm, that flaw in logic would have some payback.
About 3:30 PM, I remember looking over at my friend. Between us lined up in formation was a double file of empty shot glasses and a pile of mangled lime slices next to them. I remember his pasty face and the way his head kinda hung down. I remember he looked like I felt. Ah tequila. It had been a few years. But like riding a bike, you never forget. Salt, shot, slice. Repeat as needed.
I voiced some concern about getting home at some point. My friend got up, staggered crablike to the bar and returned crablike with 4 more shots and a fresh bowl of lime slices. I guess that answered my question. He wanted to chew on the idea for awhile longer. We toasted something and drank the first 2 shots. And as my friend raised his slice to bite, he missed his mouth and his head went clomp face down on the table. "Oh Great," I thought. "Now I'll have to drive home".
Feeling just a little perturbed and taken advantage of, I sucked down the remaining 2 shots one right after the other. In my haze and fixated drunk, I was bothered that there were some unbitten limes in the bowl. Wanting to make everything come out even, I counted 3 left. That meant 3 more shots. I somehow found my feet and the strength to use them. I fell towards the bar, my legs hurrying to catch up. Had I been able to focus both eyes on the same thing at the same time, I might just have made it too. But the bar I reached for was just out of reach. Down on to the bar room floor.
I was done. It was all over. As I laid there looking up at the pressed steel ceiling, I pondered about the last time I felt like this. Just as I passed out, I remembered. It was 8 years previous on the second night of my marriage. My wife and I had gotten gloriously drunk on tequila in much the same way. And I was the last man barely standin that time too.
The barkeep was not impressed. Barely 4 in the afternoon on a Sunday and he already had 2 falling down drunks to deal with. "Damn Mainers. Ain't a one kin hold their likker." He gets some customers to help scrape us up and deposit us in the back to hopefully sleep it off. He rifled our pockets. Took our keys and wallets.
Somewhere in the vicinity of 9:00 PM I come around. Waking up in a dusty store room filled with beer boxes, liquor boxes, mops, and brooms. Right next to me, my friend blissfully snoring, curled up in fetal position and all angelic. If not for the drool coming out of his mouth, he might just have passed as one. I stumble out to the bar, retrieve our wallets and keys, say thanks and throw a twenty on the counter. I ask for a phone. The bar keep says go ahead dial direct and he smiles.
Making that phone call after being gone for over 14 hours on a trip we assured would only take 4 was everything I expected and worse. After explaining how we had decided to stop for a drink after a succesful shopping trip, the silence on the other end assured me a cold shoulder when I got home. No hysterics. No recriminations. Just silence and then, "See you in the morning. Don't wake me up." Click. Whew, home may be where the heart was, but tonight it was a cold, cold heart waiting for me.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Winging it
Up here in Maine, winter snow has an accumulative effect.
Snow that fell in November is likely to see April. This often results in a
tunnel like roadway system as the built up snow becomes harder to plow back. So
the plow guys perform a magic feat called "winging". Driving close to
the side of the road, the primary plow pushes into the bank forcing it up and
back. It is caught by a higher secondary (the wing) plow that forces it and the
built up banking back even further. The result is what appears to be a stepped
bank.
A good winger is an artist. Able to force the most obstinate bank back and still not take out everyone's mailbox. An angry winger is just the opposite. They will leave 20 mangled mailboxes in their wake and all the snow they winged in the end of your driveway. It is not a good idea to get on their wrong side.
And I am afraid I am starting to get on their nerves. Or more accurately, Stub, our young mutt, is getting on their nerves. Stubb is a sweet dog. As dogs go, she is smart I guess. But when it comes to the rare traffic on our road, she is numb as a hake. Friday AM, I am digging out the end of the drive. Stubb is with me or nearby. I hear the plow coming. And who is in front of the plow? Yeah, our little Stubby. Just barely able to stay in front, she has this manic look on her face, tongue draggin, and stubbed tail going full tilt boogie. She dips off the road just about the time I figure she's dead meat. The plow guy goes by and he does not look happy.
Properly chastised, I give Stub what for. She knows she's screwed up, but the look in her eyes indicates she has no clue about what. Damn young dogs. So today I am at the other end of the drive opening it up a bit more and I hear the plow coming. From the lower more stressed sound, I can tell they have the wing out. As it comes into view, yep, Stub is leading the parade. I did not even know she was out. But that didn't matter. This second offense in 2 days is bound to come back on me the next snow storm.
A good winger is an artist. Able to force the most obstinate bank back and still not take out everyone's mailbox. An angry winger is just the opposite. They will leave 20 mangled mailboxes in their wake and all the snow they winged in the end of your driveway. It is not a good idea to get on their wrong side.
And I am afraid I am starting to get on their nerves. Or more accurately, Stub, our young mutt, is getting on their nerves. Stubb is a sweet dog. As dogs go, she is smart I guess. But when it comes to the rare traffic on our road, she is numb as a hake. Friday AM, I am digging out the end of the drive. Stubb is with me or nearby. I hear the plow coming. And who is in front of the plow? Yeah, our little Stubby. Just barely able to stay in front, she has this manic look on her face, tongue draggin, and stubbed tail going full tilt boogie. She dips off the road just about the time I figure she's dead meat. The plow guy goes by and he does not look happy.
Properly chastised, I give Stub what for. She knows she's screwed up, but the look in her eyes indicates she has no clue about what. Damn young dogs. So today I am at the other end of the drive opening it up a bit more and I hear the plow coming. From the lower more stressed sound, I can tell they have the wing out. As it comes into view, yep, Stub is leading the parade. I did not even know she was out. But that didn't matter. This second offense in 2 days is bound to come back on me the next snow storm.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Blah, Blah, Blah
A common theme among bloggers is finding subject matter that matters enough to write about. Blah, Blah, Blah, quote the sentiments of one particularily frustrated blogist. Another wasted many bytes typing the same expletive deleted at least a couple hundred times. Neither approach offers any readers that warm and fuzzy feeling so many are looking for when they surk and lurf Blog World. I can understand their frustration. The need to write something overwhelms the ability to come up with, well, anything. So, Blah, Blah, Blah.
Breathing in, Breathing out
I was going to take a breather tonight. No writing. Just
lurk a little and poke through some other blogs, then head to bed. Sleep
through the night instead of writing through it. But the faded and stained key
board would not let me. Ideas and twists I read on other's sites would not let
me. The music I picked would not let me. All of them conspiring to rob me of
much needed shut eye. Is it that I want to create or just not go to sleep?
Now that I am in one of my mild manic states, sleeping doesn't cut it. I have to stay up until fatigue and exhaustion leave me in a heap. One shoe on, one shoe off. Spread eagle on the floor, couch, or veranda, I run until I'm rung out. Yeah, sleeping is for losers. Sleeping is paying no mind or even the slighest attention to anything but breathing in, breathing out.
REM time is a fine time.
For heads on plush pillows
and bodies wrapped in soft quilts.
But I have no time
For those unremembered moments
behind shut eyes and closed mind.
Need to think the next great
thought, reason,or rhyme.
It is bound to pop up
If all night I stay up
The moment will come
The question that eats me
The answer I seek
That has always left me dumb
Will become evident
At a quarter to one
And quite clear to me
By a quarter after three.
But I better hurry
Not waste any time
I'll be face down on the floor
By a quarter to four.
Now that I am in one of my mild manic states, sleeping doesn't cut it. I have to stay up until fatigue and exhaustion leave me in a heap. One shoe on, one shoe off. Spread eagle on the floor, couch, or veranda, I run until I'm rung out. Yeah, sleeping is for losers. Sleeping is paying no mind or even the slighest attention to anything but breathing in, breathing out.
REM time is a fine time.
For heads on plush pillows
and bodies wrapped in soft quilts.
But I have no time
For those unremembered moments
behind shut eyes and closed mind.
Need to think the next great
thought, reason,or rhyme.
It is bound to pop up
If all night I stay up
The moment will come
The question that eats me
The answer I seek
That has always left me dumb
Will become evident
At a quarter to one
And quite clear to me
By a quarter after three.
But I better hurry
Not waste any time
I'll be face down on the floor
By a quarter to four.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Honoring an old adversary
I started writing in journals when I was 11 or 12. By the time I hit high school, I had some of the composition basics down. As a mostly self taught writer, I had many irritating habits I carry to this day. I am prone to long rambling sentences with many commas, so by the time I make my point, the original thought is often wasted and lost in the previous dribble. A good speller with a fair vocabulary, I tended to force words to meanings they were ill suited to. I could write and make sense, but I did it in a sloppy and haphazard way.
Capt Stremba would have none of it. He threw back almost every piece I ever wrote and insisted I do it over. Not one to over instruct, his comments made their point with clear brevity. Words like " Repetitive", "Like commas?", or my favorite, "And your point is?" What really irritated me is that in our class, there were only a few he treated this way. Everyone else got their grade on the first try. I felt picked on. No, I was picked on. I realize he picked on me for a reason. He knew I had the ability to write better. I was just lazy.
His editing abilities of high school compositions are only one reason I remember and honor his memory. Of equal and lasting importance was his ability to prognosticate. In my Junior year yearbook he foretold my future accurately with 10 words.
"These are critical times. Degeneration is around the corner. Watch!"
Man, was he ever right.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Caught bein Stupid
I believe in the right to be stupid. On occaision, I have been known to be very enthusiastic and gifted at exercising that right. But you can only escape the consequences of your actions so many times. Caught twice being stupid at age 28 became a milestone in my digression from the cradle to the grave.
I spent the first 28 years of my life on the move. Born into a military house, we were never anywhere. Always about to move, moving, or just moved. 12 schools before I graduated high school, I grew accustomed to not knowing my classmates. I gave up joining in any meaningful bud type situations. I existed on the periphery, just outside the in crowd.
After college when my fate was my own to determine, I went with what I knew. I traveled. A frantic, manic pinball, I pounded America's great interstate system jockeying tractor trailers. Spending any layovers getting drunk, doing drugs and bedding any woman who'd have me.
One day I woke up in the Boone County Jail. My head hurt. My face hurt. I wanted to puke, but knew I already had and there was nothing but my stomach coming up if I did. I couldn't find my favorite Peter Bilt hat. In the drunk tank crammed with 5 or so like minded souls, I realized I may have just been caught across the line again.
Hazy and befuddled, I did a review of the preceding 12 hours. Yesterday, caught a cab from the Oakland County Jail in Michigan. After 7 days on that holding cell floor I knew I could sleep anywhere. The only semi-permanent resident, I made and lost many friends that week. Some guy puked on me a couple of days ago. I hadn't showered all week. I was ripe. Mr Cab driver, take me away from here. On the way to the Airport, front tire blows. This won't do I say. I have a plane to catch. So he runs her hard til the flat flames up and he has to stop 1/4 mile short of a good time. I run run and catch the door at gate 13 just as it closes. Whew, made it. Sober and very relieved to see Detroit disappear, I naturally take to drink. 4 or 5 cocktails later, we land In Cincinnatti. I apologize to my rowmate for my odor and head to the first bar in the airport. My last memory is raising a shot glass and loudly proclaiming my appreciation of freedom. And then I wake up here. In jail again. Damn. Day 8 and still in jail. Just not the one I started the week in.
I was out of control. My stupid ability to ingest outrageous amounts of inebriating substances had failed me. In the last 8 days, I had finally found my limit and crossed it not just once, but twice. I was in the hoosgow. Two black eyes, a flat nose with only one working nostril, and wishin I was brain dead, I mumbled from beat lips, " Uh where am I and why am I where I am?"
The short story. Too many shots at the airport and 6 state cops carried me to jail. Not happy to be incarcerated again, I take it out on my bunkies. They bounce me around for round 2 and steal my hat. In court by 11:00 AM. Judge takes pity on me after hearing my tale of woe. Fines me $150 and time served. That will be cash, thank you very much.
I spent the first 28 years of my life on the move. Born into a military house, we were never anywhere. Always about to move, moving, or just moved. 12 schools before I graduated high school, I grew accustomed to not knowing my classmates. I gave up joining in any meaningful bud type situations. I existed on the periphery, just outside the in crowd.
After college when my fate was my own to determine, I went with what I knew. I traveled. A frantic, manic pinball, I pounded America's great interstate system jockeying tractor trailers. Spending any layovers getting drunk, doing drugs and bedding any woman who'd have me.
One day I woke up in the Boone County Jail. My head hurt. My face hurt. I wanted to puke, but knew I already had and there was nothing but my stomach coming up if I did. I couldn't find my favorite Peter Bilt hat. In the drunk tank crammed with 5 or so like minded souls, I realized I may have just been caught across the line again.
Hazy and befuddled, I did a review of the preceding 12 hours. Yesterday, caught a cab from the Oakland County Jail in Michigan. After 7 days on that holding cell floor I knew I could sleep anywhere. The only semi-permanent resident, I made and lost many friends that week. Some guy puked on me a couple of days ago. I hadn't showered all week. I was ripe. Mr Cab driver, take me away from here. On the way to the Airport, front tire blows. This won't do I say. I have a plane to catch. So he runs her hard til the flat flames up and he has to stop 1/4 mile short of a good time. I run run and catch the door at gate 13 just as it closes. Whew, made it. Sober and very relieved to see Detroit disappear, I naturally take to drink. 4 or 5 cocktails later, we land In Cincinnatti. I apologize to my rowmate for my odor and head to the first bar in the airport. My last memory is raising a shot glass and loudly proclaiming my appreciation of freedom. And then I wake up here. In jail again. Damn. Day 8 and still in jail. Just not the one I started the week in.
I was out of control. My stupid ability to ingest outrageous amounts of inebriating substances had failed me. In the last 8 days, I had finally found my limit and crossed it not just once, but twice. I was in the hoosgow. Two black eyes, a flat nose with only one working nostril, and wishin I was brain dead, I mumbled from beat lips, " Uh where am I and why am I where I am?"
The short story. Too many shots at the airport and 6 state cops carried me to jail. Not happy to be incarcerated again, I take it out on my bunkies. They bounce me around for round 2 and steal my hat. In court by 11:00 AM. Judge takes pity on me after hearing my tale of woe. Fines me $150 and time served. That will be cash, thank you very much.
Revelations happen everywhere it seems. Spontaneous understanding of the big picture can come like a hammer on the heels of being blind drunk. Laying there on the lower bunk looking up at that smelly stained mattress over me, I knew change was upon me. What kind of change would reveal itself in the near future, but for now I knew my life as I knew it was over.
25 years later I sit here and reflect. I bring up the day I realized Life isn't found at the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle or in a bag of cocaine. But for that brush with the law, it might have been too late.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
The Tip of my Brain
I was trying to remember something. At the kitchen table, that first cup of coffee in front of me sat ignored. Did I dream it? Was it from my checkered past? Or from my unblemished future? Lost in thought, I missed my mouth with the coffee cup. Hot coffee in my crotch brought me back to the here and now. Damn. It was on the tip of my brain.
MAD
MAD. Or more properly put, Mutually Assured Destruction. An odd concept. I envision two hard asses at a bar. After likkerin up for a couple hours, they agree to go out back and pound each other into oblivion. And what's odd is they have come to a mutual agreement regarding the outcome, but pursue the result anyway.
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