Before or How Resolutions Don’t Equal Loss

Thats me on the left, making as ass of myself. I think we were all singing along to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” at sunday night karaoke at the Daniel Street Bar and Tavern. As dives go, the place isn’t that bad and a huge crowd of us swarm in every sunday for the silliness and embarassment that is karaoke. A funny moment caught on film by my friend Jared. I hate it.

Don’t get me wrong, we had a great night and I love my friends dearly. What I hate is me in these pictures. In the past, I have been incredibly embarassed about my weight gains and losses and gaining again. A never ending cycle of self torture and overindulgence. Every year, on New Years Eve, I made the same resolutions over and over again, only to see myself fail, or even worse, sabotage myself to definitely fail:

1. Lose Weight

2. Find Love

3. Win the Lottery

Ok, that last one is more of a wish than a resolution but nonetheless, every year, those three resolutions would be written down, tucked into my wallet to remind myself of what my vague goals were. And what happened every year? I would diet like mad, starve myself, exercise constantly and painfully then relapse into old habits of eating fast food and chinese food, pizza, ice cream, etc and re-gain any and all losses and then packing on a few more pounds in the process. The cycle is evil and cruel and worst of all, I was doing it to myself.

To hide this from myself, to camouflage the damage I was doing to my self esteem, body image and own sense of self worth, I would go shopping. I would buy bigger and bigger clothes, clothes that were at least a size too big. This way, I could hide the truth, not only from a date, family or friends but also from myself. Looking at these pictures of myself, I realize I’m hiding behind oversized or black clothing, masking the reality and bullshitting myself into thinking I’m thinner because the clothes were over flowing.

I hate that about myself. I hate that for so long, the person I have been the most deceitful to, the one I have been lying to the most and treating like complete and utter shit is myself. And I think when I look at these pictures, I’m hit with the reality of how I truly feel about myself. I’m ashamed. Ashamed of my weakness, ashamed of how I must have appeared to people and ashamed of how I’m percieved. Don’t get me wrong, this is not my heaviest. I was once well over 300 pounds, but being in the 200’s for so long is no better.

So now we come to this year. The resolutions were the same. Scribed on the back of a business card and tucked into a corner of my wallet, I added a few more this year.

Ok, so a couple of those are unrealistic ( I really think I have a shot with Tori Amos, heehe) but in all seriousness, I need to learn to love myself more and to stop punishing myself for not meeting expectations. That revelation has made me a happier guy. Took me a few months to get on track but now, the weight is falling off, I feel healthier and happier than I have been in a long time. The workout has become a part of my life and less the’damnable activity I have to do to feel better about myself’. Every day has become a new challenge that I truly enjoy. I either go for a run in the morning and work out at night at the gym or, as my has been for the last couple of days, gym in the morning and a quick run late at night. I ache all over, my ankle is swollen sometimes, my knees complain and I LOVE every minute of it.

My true friends ground me in reality and remind me that no matter how down I get, no matter how disapointed I may be in myself, they still love me and that gives me hope every day as I struggle forward.

This is the year I “Lose The Buddha” (copyright) and get back at least to my rugby shape. Would be nice to be 220, be nicer to be 200 and nicer still to be less than 200. I haven’t seen under 200 since sophomore year of high school! I’m on track, I know I can do this now and knowing without a doubt that a goal is there and it’s achievable makes all the difference in the world. In the past, the weight loss was a vague goal, something I promised myself, tried and then, ultimately failed because my goal was not determined or defined. Now I have a goal, I have a number and lastly I am making one more important step: I am throwing out the oversized clothing. This is a little drastic, but a step I need to take. Otherwise, I’m just tempted to try to fit into them again. I can’t throw it all out, but a good majority of it is definitely going to goodwill tomorrow. I don’t want to hide any more, I don’t want to feel ashamed of who I am and how I look.

So far this year, I have lost a total of 32 lbs. I have lost 18 in the last 3 weeks thanks to some inspiration and support from a few good friends and not to mention a $500 bet on the line. My total has to be over 60 lbs of weight loss by august!!! I think I can do it…I know I can do it! That Money is so mine…..

Hopefully, photos like this, photos of me hiding behind clothes, will be a thing of the past. And I know you are wondering, but really I have no anser: why is Jen sticking her finger in my ear?

Horrorpops or Welcome Back The Rockabilly!

 

How could you not fall in love with this woman??

My musical vision and tastes have been a little narrow lately. I’ve been focusing on my own little local scene and the careers of my good friends. My devotion and friendship had blinded me to the music beyond my borders and my circle of friends. Then, I heard her.

Listening to NPR the other day, a story came on about about the resurgence of rockabilly and psychobilly around the world. And not just the music, but whole aesthetic that comes along with it : tattoos, Betty Page hairdos, flat tops, leather, etc. Think the movie The Outsiders, but with alot more attitude and ink. I had always been a fan of The Reverend Horton Heat, Ronnie Dawson and other bands that fell under the psychobilly umbrella during the early 90’s, but over time, well, I sorta lost interest in the uniqueness of the sound and the melding of old school rockabilly with punk rock. The scene didn’t notice my indifference, the scene carried on and grew stronger and stronger. The story from NPR was illustrating it’s growth and popularity in places like Denmark, the UK, Belgium, Amsterdam and even in Japan. One of the bands they mentioned was the Horrorpops.

I’m embarassed to admit that I am definitely coming late to this party. The Horrorpops have been around since 1996 and I’m only just now hearing them for the first time. With my encyclopedic knowledge of most things in the alternative rock arena, I had to admit, I had never heard of them. The NPR piece played a sample…and I completely fell in love. How could you not? This amazing woman with an incredible voice rocking out with a stand up bass??? Their recordings really allow you to hear every pluck of the strings as she plays her custom made stand up bass, built just for her by her husband (DAMMIT!!) Kim Nekroman, whose own band, the Nekromantix, produce their own brand of dark psychobilly. Nekroman is also in the Horrorpops playing guitar. I went straight from work to Bullmoose Music and bought their cds, after adding them on the crackspace as well. Now I just need to see them live and so do you!!! If you hear about them playing in your area, run, don’t walk, to that show!!! I’ll probably see you there….

http://www.myspace.com/thehorrorpops

 

Not really a blog or Damn! I work way too much….

I was looking at my page today and I realized I haven’t written in a few weeks. I have alot to say and so much on my mind, but down time to get my thoughts into some sort of coherent state has been a rare commodity of late. So bear with me while I try to find a way to collect myself and the randomness in my life and start writing again. Not to throw a pity party for myself her, but this is just a quick list of some of the life silliness:

1. Working 12 hour days almost every day and no days off for 3 weeks now. They say someone is coming to join the company who can cover my job during my days off. This magical person has yet to appear….

2. The Gym. Ok, this one is well within my control, I know, but I spend almost 2 hours a day there now. I’m on a mission to get rid of the Buddha Belly.

3. Family health issues. I’m sure we can all relate….

4. Dating life is non-existant. This is probably my own fault and it’s a gripe I’ve had for quite awhile. There are several amazing women in my life who I’m proud to call friends and I wouldn’t give any of that up for the worl. But but but! There is that thing missing from my life, that deeper connection, I truly miss that. And due to all the other things going on, I am probably oblivious if someone is even remotely interested in me. So please, if you are reading this, hit me over the head with something…bring me back to reality…

Soon, I plan on writing some more once I catch my breath a little. I have stories of new music that has entered my life, trials and tribulations of the gym and nights out with friends that should be enough for a couple hundred blog entries alone…but until then, take care my friends…I’ll be back soon.

Doom or You THINK I would have noticed sooner….

Something was wrong. I’m not sure when I became aware of it, but yesterday, I felt out of sorts.

On my way to work, I drove right past the dealership and didn’t realize until I was all the way into downtown Portsmouth that I should have been at work. Quickly turning around, I accidentally ran a red light (no, I wasn’t distracted by a red head, that’s another blog) and narrowly avoided running into a UPS truck, parked out in the middle of the road instead of off to the side as they should be.

I had decided to wear my trenchcoat to work since it was light and the weather was absolutely beautiful outside. At almost 70 degrees, this was a gift of early spring weather. The windows were open and White Zombie’s “More Human Than Human” was thumping on the stereo. I felt good about myself, relaxed, almost optimistic. Several people I passed by honked their horns and waved. I didn’t recognize these people, but I smiled and waved anyway. So rare that someone is just waving to say hi or honking hello, usually the waving is of a middle finger and the honking means “FUCK OFF!”

I got to work and sat for a minute, letting the final beats of White Zombie finish up. I opened the door and saw what all the waving was about: the bottom half of my coat had been shut in the door. My nice black trenchcoat was caked with mud and soaking wet. Frustrated, I hung the coat up in my office and called the drycleaner to get a price on a cleaning.

The next few hours, nothing went right. From printing the wrong forms to being tossed 15 projects all at once and being told they all needed to be done “Now-ish”, nothing seemed to be going right. I take all the pictures of out inventory for the various websites we report to and yesterday, it was truck photo day. I lined up a bunch of trucks and managed to get through 5 of them before disaster struck.

As I attempted to leap into the last truck, my right foot slipped on the running board sending me careening backwards into the door which, like a springloaded trap, swung out and rebounded , smacking me in the back of the head. Falling to the ground in defeat, I just sat there laughing as a concerned coworker came running up to see if I was alright. That’s when it started to rain.

Back safely in my office, more minor mishaps were plaguing me. On several occasions, I forgot how to spell my own name and twice I assigned a title to the wrong person. Frustration doesn’t even begin to describe my mood. I walked across the street to get a salad from McDonalds. After waiting in line behind the one person who was apparently unaware of what was on the menu at any McDonalds (I can only assume that she had crawled out of a bunker somewhere where her only contact with the outside world was a ham radio with no access to news or any entertainment of any kind for the past 60 years) I got up and ordered my Santa Fe salad thingy and made it back to my office. I ate a few bites from the top before digging deeper into the salad and discovering wilted, rotting lettuce at the bottom.

I ran back and got a new salad and even got a promise from the manager that the next one was free. As I walked out the front door of the McDonalds, I found the one, solitary piece of unmelted snow on the sidewalk. I felt my feet go out from under me. As I sprawled across the parking lot, I watched my salad, now free of its bag, launch into the air like some bizarre UFO and hit a parked car, spilling it’s contents all over the back window. The manager came running out to help me up. My clothes were now slightly soaked from the steady rain that had been falling. After retrieving my third salad, I went back to my office and prayed for 8pm to roll around. I just wanted to go home, nothing else, nothing fancy, no more surprises, just please, let me go home.

Eight o’clock came around and I darted to my car. Finally, I could end this day. But first, I had to stop off at Wal-Mart to get some necessities. Kitty litter was needed as well as bottled water and air freshener. As I walked up and down the long aisles, aimlessly searching for air freshener, the unthinkable happened: I got lost. No, seriously…I was lost. I had no idea which way was the exit and actually stood confused for about 20 minutes, trying to find my way out. It all went wrong when I wandered into the sporting good section looking for some new hiking gear. No sooner than I had spied the multi-tool that I wanted to buy than I made a wrong turn and found myself staring at the gun section. I didn’t think this was legal anymore, but there they were: bebe guns and various other rifles all on display in a glass case with nobody around to keep an eye on the potentially lethal merchandise. Boxes of ammo of all kinds from bebes to buck shot sat in small boxes behind the glass counter top. Next to the display were bows of all sizes and arrows of varying degrees of lethality.

In my mind, I pictured some deranged idiot wandering into the store unarmed and finding this little cubby hole of weaponry in the back corner of the store, arming themselves and proceeding to wreck lethal havoc on the other shoppers going about their normal shopping. Slightly unnerved by this lack of security, I turned around and….where the hell was I? Why can’t I see the exit?

I turned up one aisle thinking it was the right way. It looked promising, there were the dvds and there were the toys….then, I was stuck in the car department…what the hell? I backtracked again and found myself at that same counter. Had I wandered into a time warp? Determined to get out, I decided to cut diagonally across the store and despite some minor diversions (Hanes plain t shirts on sale!) I made it out.

Getting home was rather easy. No almost missed traffic accidents, no deer wandering into the road, no hailstorms. Collapsing into bed when I finally got home, one thought came across my mind: how in the hell did this day become so fucked up and confusing? A conflagration of factors had come together to just completely mess with me but what had started it all? What event had set in motion this perfect storm of oddities and accidents?

I kicked off my sneakers, stretching out my toes and feet, feeling the coolness of the air for the first time all day. I stood up and unbuckled my belt while I looked for my ‘house pants’ and I de-trousered myself, I looked down and there was the reason. There was the explanation. I knew something had to start the day off wrong and there was the proof. The one thing had set in motion the minor tragedies of my day:

I had put my underwear on backwards.

Music or Why I Wake Up In The Morning

 

 I’m a second generation punk rocker. I came in when new wave was wiping the slate clean by mixing in jamaican rhythms and rock steady beats. Punk was still alive and still strong, but it was taking a break from the mainstream. My very first concert was The Clash, who at the time, were fusing their sound with the new wave and creating some of the best music of our generation. As the concert film says when the Clash are being brought to the stage ; “The ONLY band that Matters!” I was 9 years old when I saw Joe Strummer and the boys on stage. I wish I could have been older so I could appreciate the moment better and fully drink in the experience of seeing these rock icons on stage.

It would be almost 10 years before I would get to see Joe Strummer on a stage again. In that time, my interest in music grew and grew. One of the great things about growing up in New Hampshire during the 80’s was that there wasn’t alot to do. I know, that doesn’t sound right and at the time, I know I was a bored kid but that boredom forced us to go out and discover things and make our own fun. I lived by the ocean (still do) and most of my fun involved going to the music store in the mall, buying the latest vinyl (later,tapes), heading down to the beach and listening to music. The two things became intertwined for me: music and the ocean. Each having their own rhythms, each supplying a soundtrack for my life. Many summer nights, we would sit on the rockwall, listening to everything from Michael Jackson (yes, just like everyone else, I owned the Thriller album) to the Dead Kennedys and of course, my beloved Clash.

For awhile, I had two record collections. One was the stack that I let my friends listen to all the time, full of the mainstream silliness (Duran Duran, Flock of Seagulls, Bruce Springsteen, Michael Jackson, Motley Crue, etc) and then there was the other collection. The other collection was my little secret, only brought out on special occassions. Full of the Clash, the Jam, the Buzzcocks, Sex Pistols, the Ramones, Richard Hell and the Voidoids, MC5, Blondie, Iggy and the Stooges, Fugazi, Minor Threat, Black Flag, Dead Kennedys, Dead Milkmen and not to mention countless local bands and Boston bands of the street punk era. This was the collection I kept hidden from the ‘preppie’ crowd because it was uncool to be a punk. Despite the treatment I received from the people in my school, I wanted desperately to fit in. I dressed conservatively, pretended not to really like the very thing that moved my soul. I was just as fake as the people I spent my days with. When I was outside the confines of my small town and hanging out with kids who, like me, held in this secret love for punk rock and all it stood for, only then did I feel like I was myself.

Finally, in my sophmore year of high school, I came out of the closet and revealed to everyone that indeed, I was a PUNK ROCK KID! I dyed my hair blue, bought some combat boots from a surplus store, a long black trenchcoat from Chess King that I proceeded to cover in patches and pins and even a metal chain that ran across the back of the shoulders. I had a dog collar necklace with a padlock in the front, just like Sid Vicious. My jeans were torn in the knees and patched with band patches. Literally overnight, in the eyes of my peers at school, I went from normal kid to punk rocker. As my friend Jeremy put it : “Wow, you must have had one hell of a weekend!”

The reason behind my boldness wasn’t just to live my life as I truly was but I was influenced by other people in school. I grew up down the street from Joe King, the lead singer for the Queers. No, they were not a gay punk rock band, the name was picked in the early 80’s and it stuck. One of his band mates was a guy in a grade below me named Chris Barnard (B-Face) who had the same kind of transformation: one day, he looked like any other metalhead kid in the school and the next, he showed up with orange spiked hair and was rocking the whole punk rock halloween costume. People were shocked, but accepting. I thought if he can do it, why can’t I?

My experience was vastly different. My assumption of acceptance was based on the experience of a kid who was already popular and in with the cliques at school. I was already the freaky outsider kid to begin with. Add the colored hair and combat boots and well, now I was the scary outsider kid. Fights and trying to avoid them became a daily occurrence. I tried out for football when my hair was cut in a mohawk and was beaten by most of the football team for the way I looked. The beach, never the most accepting place when it came to strangeness, became a dangerous place for me since other kids, looking for any reason to fight anyone, always seemed to make a beeline for me. Usually, I would hear “Nice hair faggot!!” and then be tackled to the gound and have to fight to get back up. Ah, good times.

But it wasn’t all bad. By now, I was old enough to drive and had friends who could drive and we would head down to Boston for shows together. We found TAAANG! Records, who used to have their headquarters in Cambridge MA, down the road from Harvard Square. This was my refuge, my home away from home. We would hang out in the square or in fron of their headquarters, meeting bands, talking with musicians, hanging out with other punks and all going en masse to local shows. I became part of a ’scene’,  I belonged. I found a place where the freaks and punks all hung out together for the love of one thing: the music. Boston was wild back then: one wrong turn and you would end up in Roxbury which, if you grew up in New England in the 80’s, getting lost in Roxbury is one of those horror stories everyone understands…. The Boston scene was amazing! Every weekend, we would head down to Harvard Square, meet up with the rest of the crowd and head to shows. I loved it! I lived for it! I would make it through another miserable week at school and my part time job just so on the weekends, I could head into Boston and join my people. And on the rare occasion we could get away, we even snuck down to NYC to see a show at the classic CBGB’s. That was almost like a religious pilgrimmage when we set foot in that club. My first time was to see the Exploited, I’ll never forget walking in and seeing a wave of mohawks lined up in front of me.

The music brought us all together,  misfits finding camaraderie through punk rock. Some weekends, we even hit The Rocky Horror Picture Show (but thats a whole OTHER blog) but for the most part, we would hit shows at the Rat, Middle East, The Channel, old Lansdowne St, Cask and Flagon. I’m surprised I have any hearing at all these days… :) 

In 1989, I saw the Pogues for the very first time in Boston MA. This was an eye opening experience for me. At the time, I was so wrapped up in being punk, that other music had been left behind. And some of my old favorites, including the Clash, had been collecting dust at the back of my record collection while the more hardcore punk was getting some regular airplay. My friend Garrett played the Pogues for me while we were heading to Manchester NH for some party. I almost had to pull over, I was so overwhelmed by the sound. Traditional irish music mixed with punk aesthetics and rhythms. Amazing!! I was thoroughly taken with them and knew that the next time they played here in the states, I was going. For so long, my musical vision had been narrowed but the Pogues really opened my eyes and broadened my interest. Suddenly, I was listening to Sinead O’Connor, the Pogues, the Chieftains, etc. All music I would have scoffed at earlier, I found myself wrapped up in.

The Orpheum, Boston MA: I was right near the front row when the show started. Some forgettable opening bands had finally cleared the stage and the Pogues were ready to hit the stage. There was some delay (we would later find out that they had to revive Shane McGowan who was found in a drunken stupor in his dressing room) but finally the lights went down again and the unmistakable opening of “IF I SHould Fall From Grace With God” started up. Shane was shoved onstage, beer in hand and began belting out the song. I was entranced, like the first time I had ever heard punk rock, the music became a transformative experience. This was beyond a rock concert, it was a cultural awakening for me, reminding me of the joy and power of music.

And there, standing behind Shane, playing guitar and singing along, was Joe Strummer. Unannounced, unbilled and totally by surprise, there was my punk rock hero, singing with the Pogues. I was awe struck. My hero, the man whose music changed my life in many profound ways was here again, here at a moment where I was discovering this new sound. He looked as happy as ever. The Pogues gave him lead singing duties on a couple songs, but mostly, he was back up for Shane. They did a cover of the Clashs “London Calling” with Shane and Joe sharing vocal duties and I wanted to cry. That one song felt like my worlds were colliding: my old punk rock life and my new soon to be adult life. Joe had obviously mellowed over the 10 years since the first time I had ever seen him. Older, grayer, more mature but still able to be a rock star.

The following year was college and that same year, Perry Farrell put together the first Lollapalooza tour. Alternative music would burst onto mainstream radio, no longer condemned to the world of college radio. And our little club, the misfits, the rejected, the disaffected, the downright crazy kids that had kept punk and alternative music alive on the fringe, would be thrust into the spotlight and the outcasts became the mainstream. The scene changed quickly from a reclusive little club and shows in dingey bars and clubs to arena rock shows and record moguls. Gone were the intimate little shows we loved and cherished. For those of us who were there from the beginning, it was hard to adjust and grow with the music. I learned to change and evolve and grow beyond the halloween costume and punk postering to a genuine love for all music, but at heart, deep down in my soul, I’m still that teenager with the blue mohawk and the combat boots and I’m looking forwad to the next show.

Hermit or Why Didn’t You Go Out Last Night?

I admit it, sometimes, despite the cheery demeanor and the carefree attitude, sometimes, I crave total solitude. I don’t mean just some alone time for a few hours or having some private time some place: I mean no phone, no internet, no tv, no sound, no visitors. An impenetrable fog envelopes me (thank you Sarah Vowell) that nothing can get through and I need to be alone. There is no cure for this condition, nothing anyone can say or day to alleviate it, I just have to ride it out and hope I don’t miss too much in the real world while I’m locked away playing “The Hermit”.

I think this need for alone time is probably one of the main reasons behind why my relationships crack and crumble sometimes. I admit, I’m not the easiest person to know, once you get beyond my jolly exterior. I keep alot hidden, not from view, but at least hard to find. But, right when someone is going beyond the exterior, part of me wants to hide, curl up in a ball someplace, lock the doors, close the windows, pop in one of my mix cds and shut out the world for a little while. And no matter how much I explain that this is just me, that sometimes I need to go away, I hurt feelings, I step on emotions and I fail expectations.

So I offer this as an open apology.

-I’m sorry if I don’t return calls right away. I truly meant to, honestly, but I was already locked away when you called.

-I’m sorry if my inbox is full. I tend to look at messages when I’m away, but trying to answer them when my mind is elsewhere is useless.

-I’m sorry if I didn’t respond to your comments on Myspace. Please don’t stop leaving them: they draw me back into the real world and remind me what I’m away from.

-I’m sorry that I didn’t go out last night. I wanted to, I knew it would be fun and part of me regrets the hermit inside.

-Most of all, I’m sorry to let you down. Please understand that this comes and goes, sometimes its a day, sometimes its a weekend, but I will return and do my best to make amends.

Dealing with Overseas Customer Service or Please, come up with more original names!

When I was a kid, I collected comic books. In the storage room of my house, carefully inserted in plastic sleeves and in numerical and alphabetical order, I have boxes and boxes of comics. If it was published between 1975 and 1995, I probably have it or had it at one time in those boxes, carefully preserved and accrueing value. At times, I have sold some of these comics, mainly to make room but more for the need of money at one time or another. The summer before I went to school in England, I spent almost every sunday at my own table at a flea market, selling off duplicate copies of some of my more treasured pieces in my collection. I made $1000 just from those! I was a a happy guy! So, along with this collection, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of the history and characters of the Marvel and DC universes.

So today, one of the first things I had to do at work was call GM for an in-service date for a 2007 Grand Prix that I was stocking into our system. I call these companies every day to get in-service dates so we can know if we do any work to the vehicles, we can claim it under the factory warranty. During the week, I know that if I call during business hours, I will almost always get an American call center, but on the weekends, I know it’s a crap shoot. One of the common practices of the foreign call centers is the “Anglosized Name Change”. We have all encountered this. Someone with an obviously thick Indian accent saying “Thank you for calling chevrolet, dees ees ‘Bob Smeeth’, How may I assist you?”. I will never understand this practice, I know it’s to put the caller at ease, that they are talking to someone who will understand and be able to address their concerns, but come on? why the fake name? Just tell it like it is and move on. We are all in on this particular joke.

Anyway, so here is the conversation I just had:

“Hello, This is Reed Richards, How may I assist you?”

“I’m sorry, what was your name again??”

“Reed Richards.”

“From the Fantastic Four??”

-silence-

“How are Sue, Johnny and Ben doing today?”

“I’m sorry sir, this is Chevrolet is there something I can help you with?”

This is when I realized that my geekiness had just made me an asshole. Here is this poor guy, just trying to do his job and I’m calling out for naming himself after a superhero. I suddenly felt like Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, eagerly correcting and scolding those around me who were clueless to the history of my past comic book obsession. Resigned to my prickishness, I allowed him to walk me through his entire script rather than explain that I have called a million times and all I want is the in-service date.

Yes, we buy lots of these at auction.

No, really? an open re-call? I’ll get right on that.

No, thank YOU for getting me that in-service date.

Humbled, I hung up the phone and started doing some real work, hoping I don’t offend anyone else today…….

Dorkiness or Why the hospital staff knows me so well….

I feel the peer pressure. ‘Everybody’s doing it man! Come on!” But I have to ask a simple question here: Why oh Why is dorkiness equated  with self inflicted injury? Everyone has these lists about dorkiness and all have involved some horrific stories of near maiming and death due to silliness. So rather than mask this as just a list of dorkiness, I’m stating upfront: I’m surprised I’m alive sometimes when I think of the crap I’ve done to myself. This is a list of maiming and mutilation. Yea of weak stomachs, turn away now.

• When I was 6, I watched an episode of the old Superman tv show (in re runs for the smart asses who come up with any age jokes). Immediately inspired by the daring-do of our hero Superman, I immediately went outside, climbed on top of the picnic table. Now would be a good time to point out that the picnic table was situated over a cement patio. I looked in through the kitchen window at my mom and with arms outstretched I yelled “Look MOM!!! I’m SUPERMAN!!!” And with that, I took a flying leap. Gravity is a cruel mistress and one I hadn’t been properly introduced to until that day. I landed face first onto the concrete slab. All of my baby teeth broke in half and literally blew out of my face through a lovely gash in my cheek. I was unconscious of course, and don’t remember anything of that day or the rest of that month. I suffered a severe concussion and I think the count was 60 stitches to repair my face. The only thing I have to remind me of that old scar is a tiny portion of it on my upper cheek.
• When I was 7, I decided it would be a fabulous idea to ride my bike barefoot. Ah, the joy of feeling the cool breeze between your toes as you cruise around the neighborhoood. I really do reccomend it, but be carefull. Don’t go popping wheelies like I did. I popped a wheelie in my friend Justin’s yard. He had been daring me and daring me all night, so finally, I pulled an epic wheelie, going fully vertical with the bike. Unfortunately, the bike didn’t want to stay upright and own I crashed. As I was heading to the earth, my bare foot caught the spokes of the front wheel which were still spinning away. I felt a slight tug and I looked down in time to see the ball and heel of my right foot get sliced off. They spent 2 hours scraping rocks and fressh cut grass from the wound. Maybe it wasn’t two hours, but certainly seemed that way.
• Also when I was 7, I started experimanting with cooking. I would help my mom prep veggies, roast chickens, boil pasta. I was a fast learner but the one thing I didn’t learn right away was technique and proper equipment for the job at hand. So one night, I’m skinning carrots with a paring knife. I was holding the carrots out in front of me and slicing away with the knife. Suddenly, the knife mistook my left forefinger for the carrot, a common mistake, I’m sure. The blade easily sliced through the finger and into the knuckle, breaking the bone and severing the nerve endings. I remember the pain was so excrucutiating that I ran around the house uncontrollably, shaking my hand to and fro hoping the pain would go away but all that did was redecorate portions of the house with a splat of color here and there. They re-attached my finger and it still works, but I have no feeling in it. This one finger has been the source of the most hospital visits since that day. It has been broken 4 times, sliced or cut so deeply as to require stitches at least 7 times and dislocated 10 times.
• When you are a kid, your best friends can come from some of your worst experiences. My best friend in elementery school was Jerry. But he wasn’t always my best friend, in fact, the way he introduced himself to me, well, you would think we were enemies. On a dare, someone asked him to load his lunchbox with rocks and hit someone with it. So he went out into the shoolyard, found the biggest rocks he could find and jammed them into his Battle Star Galactica Lunchbox, the one with the Cylons on the front and when you opened it up, the inside had, written in red, “Intruder Alert!” and “By Your Command!”. As we were being let out for the day, he spied me in the hall in front of him. Without a second thought, he hauled back and then smashed the back of my head with the loaded lunchbox. Severe concussion later, we were best of friends.
• On a hot summer day when I was just going into 4th grade, I decided to make stovetop stuffing for myself, an easy meal to make and I was pretty confident in my cooking abilities at that point. The problem is, nobody had every explained heat stroke. With no A/C and a temperature of 90+ degrees, I started boiling the water for my stuffing. One of the symptoms of heat stroke is disorientation and loss of consciousness. Standing in front of the stove, with the boiling water in front of me and the heat of the day all around me, I got a bit woozy. I remember not being able to stop myself as I fell forward. I reached out for the first thing I saw, which was the boiling pan of water. The pan flipped over spilling its contents of boiling water, butter, bread crumbs and seasonings (mmm, can almost smell it just thinking about it) onto my right foot. Skin does a funny thing when its boiled and I don’t reccomend anyone trying this trick to find out how funny. Second and third degree burns later, I was still hungry.
• I’m skipping lots of other dorky injuries here and going straight to high school. My freshman year, I used to play with knives. Now, don’t panic, I’m not a weirdo. And for those with a wee bit of a fetish, no, I’m not into ‘knife play’. Someone had given me a butterfly knife and I became obsessed with being able to open and the close thing with lightning speed. I didn’t feel like a bad ass, I wasn’t being macho. I have OCD and when someone showed me how to use that knife and the steps involved in opening and closing it, well, I just had to learn that for myself and it became a repetitive habit. Opening and closing, flicking it around my hand, tossing it half opened from one hand to another. I like to say I was quite good. Then one day, I slipped. The phone rang while I was juggling this thing around and I got up to answer it. Funny thing about coffee tables, they are never in the way unless you have something breakable, hot or dangerous in your hands. I tripped and fell face first, strecthing out my hands to stop myself, I forgot the blade was in my right hand. I didn’t notice until I got up that my arm was all wet and my hand felt strange. I looked at the back of my hand and there was a large bump sticking up and to the outside part of my hand, slowly turning purple. I turned my hand over, it felt heavier somehow and thats when I saw the hilt of the blade sticking out of my had, the blade itself buried in my palm. I laughed, I couldn’t feel a thing. I wrapped my hand in a towel and called my mom at work to let her now I was going to the hospital. The pulled the blade out and 12 stitches later, my hand was good as new, just a patch of scar tissue in the base of my palm to remind me and to remind all you kids out there: Never Play With Knives!!!!

So I guess I had a funfilled childhood and I didn’t even mention the life threatening asthma, the fights, the bullying, being kicked by horse, almost drowning, electrocuting myself by peeing on an electric fence….ah, good times.

Strangeness from the search archive…

“my little sister is growing big boobs”

 I know I have mentioned boobs in the past. I’m a big fan, a cheerleader for the power of boobs in all their incarnations. But how the hell did THAT search term come up with my blog?? I looked way back to the beginning of this blog, stories of my trip to Monhegan Island, Boston, my good friends in the band Sirsy and even my more recent posts about my sisters death and my strange food encounters and silliness from the past few months….how in the hell does that search term relate to my blog?? I’m almost offended.

The flip side to this is: why is that searcher so interested in their sisters boobs? Is there some sort of implied incest situation happening here? Which again, brings me to my own blog: do I mention incest anywhere??? I think NOT! I almost wish I could contact the searcher and suggest that perhaps they need some counseling….

Not in on the joke OR What I did thursday night,….

A coworker introduced me to a friend of hers last week. She seemed bright and cheerful, engaging smile, dark brown hair that came to a sort of swept forward bob cut, small wire frame glasses and a wardrobe to remind you that perhaps she was a little bit on the punk rocker side of life. So naturally, at my friends urging, started chatting with her. We emailed and texted for a couple days, talking on the phone briefly through the week and agreed to meet up for drinks at Margaritas on thursdays night.

As I pulled into Margaritas parking lot, I got a text message.

“Something came up, I can’t make it”.

I wasn’t surprised. My dating life has been one singular disaster after another and getting stood up again, well, I just had to laugh. I don’t know how I pick these people or how they find me, but I get fooled every single time. Somehow, I’m missing something.

I sat in the parking, staring at Margaritas. Those colors were too bright and cheerful for my mood. The bright yellow of the sign was like turning over on a lazy sunday morning and catching that single beam of the rising sun that has evaded the curtain and lands directly on your face, waking you and reminding you that you should be elsewhere, doing something, anything….I pulled out of the parking lot and headed over to downtown Portsmouth.

A cloud was forming over me, the kind that few things can dissipate. To weather the storm that was brewing, I took myself shopping. Barnes and Noble, Best Buy, BullMoose Music are all wonderful for distracting my troubled mind. I know this is weird for a guy, but going shopping, even window shopping (no, not literally shopping for windows) just seems to distract and calm my nerves.

I pulled up in front of BullMoose and got a parking spot right out front. Holy crap! That never happens. Usually, I have to park up near the square and hoof it to the music store. Suddenly in a good mood, I went inside. I love this store. One of my fantasies is when (yeah right) I win the lottery, my first stop would be here at Bull Moose so i could clean them out of all the other cds I want but don’t yet have. I just picture myself showing up with a shopping cart and just piling it up with cds until there was a leaning tower of Piza in the cart, precariously balanced cds tilting too and fro until I made it to the waiting limousine. Yup, its a mild fantasy, but it’s mine.

I went in through the doors. and my heart sank.

There she was.

In the check out line with three friends.

I felt this lump in my throat and  my face flushed. I turned towards the new releases, barely able to see what was in front of me, my mind racing with lots of colorful expletives. She stood there at the checkout, chatting cheerfully with her friends and as they walked towards me to the exit, I pulled on my fake salesman’s smile, turned and said, “hey, how ya doin?”

Silence.

Not even a glance in my direction. The four of them just kept chatting like I wasn’t there. Like I was invisible and my voice nothing more than an annoying breeze.

They exited the store and thats when I saw the bag one of her friends was carrying: a take out bag from Margaritas.

I heard the four of them burst into muffled laughter outside the front door, obviously some great joke had been played successfully and they were enjoying a good laugh.

Mindlessly, i leafed through the cds in front of me. Finally, i pulled out my phone.

“have a good nite” I texted to her and then deleted her from my phone.

This morning, as I was coming into work, I called my friend and explained to her what had happened. There was a pause then she burst into laughter. Again, I felt like I was missing out on some fantastic prank.

“Thats so like her,” she said through her giggling.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh she always does that, thats just how she is” her laughter finally trailed off.

I could feel that stormcloud over my head again. This time it was worse, thunder cracking in my ears.

“If you friend was such a fucking cunt, then why did you introduce me to her?”

Silence again.

Then the unmistakable click of the phone being hung up.

I sat in my car outside work, waiting for the storm to pass a bit before I went inside. I very rarely get angry, very rarely do I let that emotion overtake me. When I was a teenager/early 20something, anger was something that I could not control sometimes and I lashed out at friends, family, anyone within earshot. It’s a base and ugly emotion that does nothing but worry and destroy. I like to think I have no time for anger anymore, no time for things that waste my time. But this was too much.

Slowly, I felt my bloodpressure comedown, the redness to my face slowly gave way to my usual paleness.

And then……

Thank whatever powers there may be for friends. When I get wrapped up in an emotion and lose all perspective, my friends are there to ground me. I had let myself go into a hopeless downward spiral of self hate and anger, but a single helping hand from a good friend pulled me out of that whirlpool. A few emails and text messages later, and the storm was gone, nothing more than a potent memory.  A good friend flattered and teased me, giving me something positive to latch onto and that made all the difference. We joked and laughed a bit back and forth on texts and emails. Finally, i felt like I was in on the joke, instead of being the butt of it. And the laughter I heard was my own…