12.24.79

“We are all going to midnight mass and that’s all I want to hear about it!” she screamed loud enough for Santa, even Jesus, high in the heavens, to hear. That vein in her temple throbbed, seconds away from losing her feeble grip. Mom dragged us off to Mass because Babchi (Polish for Grandmother) insisted our problems stemmed from a lack of faith.

I passed my brother on the way to get dressed after spending a few minutes fussing over the tree. There was too much blue on the left, not enough green in the center. Babchi’s handmade ornaments glistened. Crystal beads sparkled without a hint of the pipe cleaners that strung them together. Santa’s helicopter flew, Frosty tobogganed, and Rudolph skated on a mirror. The star was store bought, God forbid. Mom hoped that Babchi would craft one like she had for her sisters, but Babchi played favorites. "Maybe if you spent less time in rehab, I could teach you to make your own," she'd remark.

The star stood out like E-Z Cheese slathered on filet mignon, but I didn’t care, too busy with my daily inventory of gifts. Should I pile them or was it taboo?

We staked out spaces under the tree. I took the left, Jess dead center. Kevin, too cool to care, flanked right by default, his gifts eventually flowed there as Jess and I delineated invisible borders.

Thirteen total. I preferred them spread out rather than piled up, tapered. I succeeded in staving off my burgeoning curiosity since that year I found my bounty hidden in the attic crawlspace. Christmas morning lacked the usual fanfare since I had ruined my own surprise. Not this year. I only peeked at one, the soft one, knowing full well it was a throw away, a pillow embroidered with a choo choo.

It was nine thirty. I’d just have to sit through Midnight Mass.

“You’re not wearing jeans to twelve o’clock mass!” she screamed into a cough, thick and robust, a cigarette dangling from her lip.

“Jesus Christ Ma, settle.” Kevin argued back.

“Don’t even. If Babchi sees you in those it’ll be my ass too.” she half joked, the fuck you half, the most endearing half. The other half feared Babchi as much as we did, as much as Dziadzia did. Grandpa was so afraid of her he had his own room in the attic of their two-family home. I'm convinced he’d live in the downstairs apartment, if Wujek didn’t already live there. We called him Uncle Wujek, uncle uncle, but I didn’t discover the redundancy until long after he passed.

The snow piled high on both sides of the road. My stepfather drove maddeningly slow, tired from chasing down shoplifters at the local Richdale he managed. He made the papers the day he chased one into oncoming traffic. The boy was hit, flew thirty feet, and was pronounced dead at the scene. I didn’t see it. I just saw my stepfather stand over the boy’s body, nudging Grim out to collect what was stolen. I hated him long before he proved what a retch he was, so I tried to forget the fact that his blood money probably paid for half the gifts under the tree, that and Dad’s alimony.

Tradition dictated we spend the evening at Cioci Franny’s, Mom’s sister. Babchi waited at the door to criticize each one of us before granting passage to the basement. Laughter reached us as we stood for inspection. Kevin’s hair was too long, shirt untucked, niechlujny (Slovenly). Sneakers over dress shoes would fall on Mom for letting him out of the house dressed like a Plucha (Slob). Being second afforded me the opportunity to tuck in my shirt. Still, I deserved a wallop for my year end report card that dubbed me unsatisfactory in all areas except gym.

Downstairs, I was greeted by Cioci Gladys whose husband, Henry, made a fortune unloading the family plumbing business. It cost him the love and loyalty of his two eldest sons who felt slighted after helping him build up its six figure price tag, only to be left out of the deal. As always, my eyes globed onto Gladys’s three carat ring, the subject of much contention among the females of the family, too showy for Mom, a built in pool with slide, to Cioci Franny.

Cioci Franny’s four boys milled about the room while Uncle Ray’s pickled finger waded through an icy glass of scotch, his hip stiffer than usual. Soon enough Santa would appear with the same stiff hip, slurring Ho Ho Ho’s, and passing out gifts.

After mass, while everyone slept, I crept down to the living room to lay on the sectional. Four more presents appeared, marked from Santa in Mom’s handwriting. The wind blew swaths of snow past the window. Being near the tree felt like standing inside Cioci Gladys’s diamond. Sleep seeds sprouted, weighing down my already heavy lids.

By dawn, the tree’s red hot bulbs threatened to snitch on me. A night away from bed was a major violation. I extinguished it before it could sing. I’d need piping hot coffee to appease the sleeping beast. She lay under a mound of blankets. I exchanged vices, a glass of melted ice and booze for the coffee and made sure her cigarettes were within reach. Jess woke. I left my offerings to join her in the living room, both of us held in limbo until Mom and Kev woke.

It was the one day a year that Kevin magnanimously let me wake him without flack or a beating. He even woke Mom. His imposing size and disposition lent him more and more freedom from her wrath.

I tried to saver opening them, but was weak. While Mom sipped hangover elixir and smoked, I sat amid torn paper and toys: Legos, Clash of the Titans action figures, Godzilla, and Stretch Armstrong, ging tinglers, flu floobers, tar tinkers, and who whobas.

In the end I raked in seventeen presents. Seventeen symbols that proved they loved me.

Only three hundred and sixty four shopping days left until they do it again…

Him

The cold nipped. I walked with determination, but the same apprehension persisted. I was different, older, yes, but fundamentally different. My fists clenched inside my jacket pockets, my pace quickened. I couldn’t see the door to Capt’s yet, hoping to at least gauge what kind of entrance I’d make.

At the door, I felt him close by, to my left. Still rail thin, a rogue curl swirled out of the tail end of a wave that escaped the liberal use of product. He was in need of a gel intervention, still. His clothes were dated, not fashionable, or particularly stylish, seeking neither to stand out nor blend in. His eyes darted around the room, scoping which shadow he’d spend the night cloaked by.

There was no need to wonder if he was high. It was just a matter of figuring out what his poison was that night. Coke, no doubt.

He checked in, exchanged pleasantries with Lisa, and stared Erin down, waiting for her to flinch before saying hello. I felt the need to offer her an excuse. She meant the world to him back then, but I decided to ignore it and him for that matter. I was there to party, touch base with old friends, mingle. I couldn’t let his presence bother me.

I ate, watched with glee as Rachel worked the room. At first I slipped back into old habits, preferring the corners to the electricity emanating from the middle.

I flirted with the hors d’oeuvres waitress, shook hands with Jim LeDuke, the principal’s son and the first person to offer me a seat in the cafeteria the first day of freshman year.

I couldn’t locate any of the guys I hung out with. Ritchie and Tommy wouldn’t be caught dead at a reunion. Tommy told me as much on the phone a month prior. I haven’t seen or spoken to Ritchie in over a decade. Across the room I saw a gathering of my old crew, Duane, Lisa, and Chris. I moved over to them. Duane and I embraced. Chris, already shitfaced, seemed taken aback when I stepped toward him, like he was trying to remember whether or not I still owed him money for a bag of pot we split. We all roared at the retelling of the senior prom, where we spent only twenty minutes before deciding to travel into Boston, to Northeastern, where my brother had an apartment. There we drank and smoked till we all passed out, sticking out like sore thumbs in our rented tuxes and Duane’s father’s emerald green Jag. He ruined the night by stealing weed and two hundred dollars from my brother’s roommate.

I relaxed. No one seemed to blame me for the fact that he loomed on the fringe. No one blamed me for the deplorable things I had to do to protect him all those years. Besides, I made enough of a splash to drown him out altogether with where I’d been since: rehab, robberies, prison, now a personal trainer and hopeful author, with the hottest girl in the room. Just then Boomer, the class genius, pulled me aside.

“Dude, is that your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” I answered. A compliment I couldn’t really accept credit for was coming, but I did it anyway.

“Man, you need to get a ring on her finger, she’s awesome.”

I smiled and noticed that he was watching, jealous. I got angry. No one else noticed him.

I ignored him, trying hard at first, then effortlessly. Erin approached but Pat intercepted and pulled me aside, “You were the one that dated Ellen, weren’t you?”

I nodded yes.

“Man, I took her to the senior prom. She only went so she could be close to you. I was pissed.” he said, half joking, the other half still reeling.

It wasn’t me, but him, Pat was talking about. I shrugged it off. He moved through the crowd, on the way to the bathroom.

Erin and I finally had a chance to talk. She was always a little standoffish, but one-on-one she softened and let her guard down. We talked as if a lifetime of choices hadn’t separated us. I’m thankful Erin never truly fell for him. He’d hurt her. I’m indebted to her for making him feel better, if even for a short time.

By the end of the evening I lost track of him. Just before I left I spotted him, standing alone near the window looking out at Salem Harbor. I knew what he was feeling, left out, alone, afraid. I walked over, put my arm around him like I had wanted to do a billion times before and told him it was going to alright, that the pain wouldn’t last forever, his life is better than he could ever imagine.

I pulled him close, enveloping him before he vanished, gone but not forgotten.

Ode To Blaine

Some leave a fingerprint that takes a dusting of nostalgia to jog the memory.

Others leave imprints that trail off to another time and place.

There are those that leave scars, gnarled patches of the damage left in their wake.

But occasionally someone makes a meteoric impact on your soul, that no amount of time can erase their memory.

Blaine stepped into my life under the pretense of easing his own pain, self medicating like we all did at that age. When he asked if I knew where to get any weed, I looked him up and down. Clad in a bright yellow raincoat and matching boots, an argyle sweater, and course green corduroys, I thought, “This son of a bitch is going to get beat down.”

I told him I had a fiver I could kick in. If he went down beyond the hole in the fence, he’d find Mark, the neighborhood dealer, standing around a barrel fire with his friends, Larkey and Freddy. “Watch out for Larkey, he might try to steal those boots,” I only half joked since Larkey thrived off conflict in any form. But Blaine was resolute, and trekked down the sandy hill to where they stood, huddled.

“Whoa, it’s the Gordon’s Fisherman.” Freddy remarked.

“No, dude, that’s friggin’ Gilligan.” Larkey added.

It took two seconds to brand him. From then on he’d be referred to as Gilligan.

Blaine laughed, “That’s a good one. I was hoping to procure some smoke. Could you gentlemen point me in the right direction?” The group fell silent. Larkey took a strategic position behind Blaine. There go the boots, I thought.

Mark snickered. He was holding, always. My Catholic school friends were born with silver spoons, educated, articulate, and my public schools friends were, well, not. But Blaine was different. While the rest of us struggled with our identities, Blaine only ever wanted to be Blaine. Take him or leave him. I think they knew that in the first five seconds of meeting him, just like I did. Blaine walked away, boots intact. Mark even gave him six for ten, something he only did for his best customers, like me.

Our twentieth reunion was on Friday. I was as reluctant to go now as I was during all four years of high school. I never really felt like I fit in. I favored obscurity and remained on the fringe.
Blaine met with a lot of adversity in high school. He’ll tell you he doesn’t remember it like that, but I do. People took issue with the one thing I admire most about Blaine, his integrity.
Blaine handled private school differently and summed up his perspective in a drunken stupor after the reunion where he hugged everyone he met, drank like a sailor on leave, and partied like it was 1999, “I’d give you the shirt off my back, but you’ll never get me to change my mind if it’s set.” And he means it.

We’re great friends and in a way, he’s a hero of mine. He stands for something but does so unassumingly, and he asks for nothing in return for his unconditional friendship.

Care Less

I need to start in the bathroom, definitely the bathroom. But wait, there's tons of dust on the Playstation. The dust needs to go first, then the bathroom, definitely the bathroom. Suddenly I’m Rainman.

I scrub every tile, twice, frenzied. The toilet is rubbed so thoroughly I'm surprised a genie doesn’t emerge and grant me three wishes. The sink gleams. I detail the vanity, wash the towel racks and mop. I move on to the living room, relocate the black couch to the kitchen, turn the green one on its side, vacuum, mop, and hand dry the floor. I roll up the rug, vacuum both sides of the pad, mop the floor underneath, and hand dry the rest of the hardwood. Frenzied. Why?

Because Mow Mow had surgery today and Bry Bry doesn't care very well. Rachel's concerned. Watches her intently now that she's home, even calls the vet to make sure her shaking isn't a sign of something serious (Other than the fact that she had her ovaries yanked out).

I look for dirt, unable to cope with intense emotion. She’s just a dog, I remind myself, and I’m just a human.

I'm not very good at caring.

If it weren't for Rachel, I'd isolate myself and consider the interaction I have with people on a purely superficial level--satisfactory. I avoid close relationships. I usually stay on the periphery of potentials because relationships are risky. I've been burned. My brother and I don’t speak.

I hate caring.

It requires vulnerability and where I’m from, vulnerability is weakness.

Weaknesses are exploited.

Manipulated.

Of course I’m sane enough to realize these beliefs for what they are: Faulty. But my neurotic side has his own agenda, out to prove my worthlessness by grabbing the wheel at every turn and changing my course, away from stability, fulfillment and happiness, towards uncertainty, anger, and isolation.

So I clean and let the two sides battle it out. Heads, my healthy side wins and clean is clean enough, caring isn’t so bad, and Rachel isn’t out to kill me softly.

Tails, and the dirt multiplies, caring is poison, and Rachel, well, SHHHH, she might hear us…

It's Not Easy Being Green

The following is an excerpt from my memoir:

I noted the date, a full month before Halloween. I approached Mom to ask for help in securing the makeup needed for my costume. With my voice softened to pathetic and in my best wounded tone I asked, “Mum will you help me be the Hulk this year?”
A reading lamp bathed half of her in light. She was stretched out with a drink in her hand. “Sure baby, how can I help?” she asked.
“He’s green.” I said, holding out the comic to her.
She grabbed it as if it were the daily news. I fought the urge to snatch it back and explain the damaging effects of oils and dirt in her skin, but refrained. “Aww honey, of course I’ll help.”
“I need green makeup. Can we go downtown after school tomorrow and buy some at the costume store?” It was a move tantamount to check in chess. She was not mated, but certainly cornered. I was asking for more than white sheets to fashion into ghosts, or endless toilet paper for makeshift mummies.
“I’ll do you one better. Go get me one of your brother’s old shirts,” referring to ones he had outgrown, yet I was five years and three thousand burgers away from fitting into.
My dash almost left a wake of flames on the hardwood. I fished out a plain light blue button down like the one David Brenner wore before a Gamma Ray attack rendered it a pile of tattered rags hanging by threads off the Hulk’s massive shoulders.
I handed it to her gingerly. Times like these were few and far between and volatile, like getting a woodland creature to eat from your hand. I remained still, calm and collected, careful not to make any sudden moves.
She took the shirt and freed it, tossing the hanger aside. Pulling shears from the bedside table, she set the shirt down and smoothed it out over the sheets. She turned to a picture of the Hulk in the comic, one that spanned two pages to emphasize his enormity. My tongue desperately wanted to warn about the dangers of scissors on the waterbed, but I held back, afraid it would shut her down.
She cut lengthwise, jagged, to match the natural tears of the transformation, and stopped just before the seams under the collar so it would still fit snugly. Then she fished out a pair of old jeans from her closet with Jordache embroidered into the back pockets.
I still needed the green face paint but was too scared to remind her. Nagging ignited her already short fuse and the threat of the paddle loomed over every impulse. I thought of asking Dad. Maybe we could just swing by the store Friday before he dropped us off at Grandma’s. I hated asking him for things because there was never cocktail hour where his senses would be dulled.
On Halloween morning I rose for school. My costume hung in the closet, set apart from the other clothes that were pushed aside to make room. I almost thought the colors were more vibrant, the stitching particularly taut, as if the Halloween gnomes set to work on it during the wee hours.
I dressed for school after setting a steaming cup of coffee with extra sugar by my mother’s bed, just the way she liked. Maybe the caffeine would jog her memory. At school I paid less attention than normal.
On the walk home I hurled rocks at the weather station the city put in the woods that year. It was a little bigger than a phone booth with instrumentation mounted atop girders that stretched skyward. I tried to take them down but my aim was skewed by anger. When I reached the house I saw that Mom’s car had moved.
I ran through the yard and up the back stairs, then flung open the back door to reveal Mom and her drinking pal Jeannie sitting at the kitchen table. I scanned for a bag or any evidence that the trip to get booze was supplemented with a quick stop at the costume shop. Nothing. I didn’t say a word. I went to my room, crawled into the closet, and read comics, reminded by both the pangs in my heart, and the oncoming dusk, of her abandonment.
That night I stood in front of the mirror clad in the Hulk costume. Without the makeup I looked like a document pushed through a shredder. I shuffled heavy feet to her room where she and Jeannie were smoking pot. I pushed open the door and gave them a second to drink me in.
“Aww sweetie you look wonderful, we did such a good job on that costume. Jeannie doesn’t he look menacing?” she said while exhaling a puff of the joint Jeannie was stuffing under her gigantic ass.
My look shot daggers at her. “I can’t go.”
“Can’t go? But you’re all dressed. It’s Halloween, of course you can go,” she said.
“I know I can go. But my costume is stupid, it doesn’t make any sense.” My tone stayed even.
“But we worked so hard on it, sweetie. It looks so good on you, doesn’t it, Jeannie?” She cast a glance at Jeannie, who was trying hard not to launch from her seat.
“No, it’s stupid because I’m not green. The Hulk is green.” I added extra inflection to each syllable.
I saw it dawn on her, the mistake, the neglect, depending on who you asked. “Oh sweetie I forgot.” She stood and came to me with open arms. I stopped her cold with a calculated hissy fit. I ran in place while tuning in circles. Tears flew freely. She gathered me up. I tried to wiggle free but finally succumbed. I let my body go limp as she hugged me. Eventually I hugged her back. She lifted me and carried me to the kitchen and set me down on the chair. A look of intent flashed across her face. “I can fix this,” she whispered while giving me a wink.
Jeannie followed along, holding her ass before sitting across from me. Mom tore apart the cabinets, finding what she needed among the baking ingredients and the poisonous cleaners under the sink. She took a bowl and plunked it down on the table along with the items from the cabinets--white shoe polish, green food coloring.
Mom wasted no time combining the two. She squeezed the shoe polish bottle, saturating the sponge tipped applicator until polish dripped into the bowl. She squeezed harder. Polish squirted in four directions. She tossed the crumpled container aside and grabbed the tiny bottle of coloring. A drop plummeted into the soupy polish, disappeared for a fraction of a second, then mushroomed outward.
“Voila.” Mom said in a terrible French accent.
Jeannie spoke the sum of all my fears, “Are you sure you can put that on his skin?”
“Why not?” Mom shrugged, frowning at Jeannie’s audacity.
Mom grabbed the polish container from the floor and read the label. “May be harmful if swallowed. If swallowed do not induce vomiting. Dilute with milk or water. Consult a physician if vomiting or fever persists.” Satisfied, she turned toward me while dipping the applicator into the mixture.
It hit me all at once, the smell and the burning. My eyes watered. Where I thought I had her, she trumped my hissy with a solution, any complaints and I would lose her.
After covering all the exposed skin she set to work on messing my hair. She used her metal pick, the one she used like a pitchfork to get her hair to beehive. I had to blink to make sure no tears smeared the polish on my face. She sent me off, stinking, possibly flammable, with no regard to the possible long term effects of trans-dermal shoe polish exposure.
I walked the streets. Onlookers snickered, a few took pictures. At the school Halloween party I entered the costume contest. There was another Hulk but his makeup was splotchy and caked. I was so nervous when they paraded us onstage beads of sweat gathered, but the polish didn’t run. I glanced over at the other Hulk. He looked like he was melting. When they announced me the winner, the showman in me shined. I posed, flexed, and snarled. For the briefest of moments, I was The Incredible Hulk.
It took weeks to scrub it from my skin. I spent long hours soaking in the tub. I used the splotches to my advantage. They got me out of gym class for three weeks straight. I spent time between baths enjoying the enormous haul of candy I collected that year, truth be told the costume was a hit. Mom pulled it off.

Attitude of Gratitude

There are only a few things that I’ve done for longer than a quarter century. Two come instantly to mind. One of them is inappropriate to mention here. The other is exercise, and lately, I have no desire to do so. There have been countless times that I didn’t feel like working out, but this is different. All the other times I didn’t feel like it I still did it and often got the best workout of my life, but now my lack of desire has been followed up by a lack of execution. Other than my total body class, I haven’t worked out in two weeks.

Rara wants to buy us bikes. Yeah, I’m aware it’s almost November, and so is she. If you’ve been paying attention and thank you if you have, you know Rara not only finds the best deals, she finds the best time of year to buy.

I’m encouraged. But I still feel burnt out on exercise.

And then I picked up Dad who had a total knee replacement. He recovered at a place that doubles as a nursing home. I walked through the front door and passed a man in a wheelchair sleeping, unsupervised, in the lobby. After a short elevator ride the doors opened to reveal two elderly women, one talking to the wall, the other singing to her counterpart’s back, Sinatra I think. Then I passed room after room after room of forgotten souls, some mobile, others bed-bound, all of them looked at me like I was Death, passing through, touching no one, granting no peace.

My grandmother begs my father not to commit her to one. I’m going to side with her on that one.

I’m afraid of dying.

Terrified of facing what it will be like to cease to exist.

It’s a common fear.

What trumps it is living long into my nineties, decomposing in some human warehouse.
Dear youngins, if in fifty years you’re working in one of these places and you come across me; you have my permission to smother me with a pillow.

I need to be more grateful for today, look at the trees changing, delight in the laughter of a newborn, and make sure those that matter know how much I care.

I worked out tonight, cardio and my class, and hope to do so tomorrow.

Twenty six years and counting.

Any Leway on That 15 Minutes?

Memoirs are considered narrative nonfiction, so I had to write a proposal. Chapter Outline, Bio, Marketing Plan, Competing Titles, all of it has to stick out among the other fifty proposals a publisher may have seen that day.

My agent looked at it for the fourth time last week and suggested more changes. She wants all the newspaper articles written about the jewelry robberies. I have them on my hard drive, but she wants the originals. So I hopped on the T, right down the street since we moved to Cambridge, alone mind you, without Rara, to visit The Boston Public Library and their extensive microfilm department.

It was easy since Rara took me there a week prior and held my hand through the ordeal. I'm no slouch. I can find my way around. But on my solo mission, proud after finding the articles I sought, I entered the greenline T stop and noticed out of the corner of my eye, that it was outbound only.

Outbound only?

Well, where the hell is inbound?

More to the point, where the hell is Rara to lead the way?

Last time we were here we took the outbound because we headed into Allston for Korean soup.

It was like I lost all my senses at once. I walked aimlessly, trying to think like a civil engineer, "If I were a geek, where the F would I put the inbound train?"

Five blocks later, I realized that the inbound was probably across the street from the outbound.

I was right.

Good thing because I'd probably still be walking aimlessly around town.

When I got home I re-read the articles written at the time of Dad's arrest. I couldn't find the one about me or my brother because Dad got most of the press. My two favorite headlines:

Man Held in Jewel Thefts

Nashua Suspect Accused in Robberies Netting $2.5 Million

and

Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed

Warhol wrote that we all experience 15 minutes of fame during our lifetime. I hope mine wasn't wasted on jewelry robberies. Maybe I can squeak out five or ten more on the NY Times Best Seller List.

Prodigal Son

My brother and I don’t talk anymore.


After decades of conflict, we found a way to co-exist.


But when he demanded the three grand I owed him, even threatened to take me to court, everything collapsed. He was entitled, but I had just broken up with my girlfriend, things were tight. I asked him to be patient, I could barely afford food. In the following months I had to rely on credit to stay afloat. I just finished paying off those shylocks, ten years later.


My brother is the one I hated most growing up. One third of the memoir I wrote is attributed describing his cruelty. I absolved him long ago, intellectualizing his behavior; family dysfunction has a way of warping things. I’ve never come to an understanding of why I’m the only one of the three of us that has had any measure of success, however limited. I came out of it with a strong belief in therapy. My brother thinks it’s a bunch of crap.


Type I Diabetes is his crutch. He hobbles around on it like it’s a battle scar. Low sugars make him prone to violent outbursts that leave doctors, and Dad, shrugging. I’m not fooled. If my therapist is correct, anger is a non-optional response to pain. Pushing it down is like trying to keep a beach ball submerged; inevitably, it pops up elsewhere. His low blood sugars are the psychological manifesting itself in the physical.


I can only imagine that Dad feels some measure of guilt for my brother’s inability to rejoin the collective after eight years of being locked up. My brother tried, went back to school, made it onto the honor roll. His probation officer violated him after his first dirty urine, the judge’s reluctance to send an A student back behind the wall waned after the second one.


Dad called me last night at work and asked to speak to me. I need to see you, eight-thirty in the usual spot? Most sons never worry that meeting their Dad for a pizza at Regina's might be the call to rob again. It’s the first thing that pops into my mind. He told me a sentencing glitch and recalculation means my brother will be released on Friday. With Dad’s knee surgery scheduled for Thursday, there’s no one to pick my brother up.


I wouldn't ask if I weren't having my knee replaced. I know you have your differences. I was hoping you two could set them aside. Maybe get along again.


Dad doesn’t understand that it’s never been about money. My own brother threatened to take me to court. He forgot that when I got out I had to take care of Mom, alone, while cancer ate her alive. He forgot that the reason he has his inheritance is because of me.


Our relationship dissolved over a paltry three grand, the going rate for brotherhood.


So what do you think? Should I do it?

Dirt, Cheap?

I clean.


Big deal, right?


Maybe you don't understand.


I CLEAN.


It wasn't always an obsession, a war, if you will, against dirt. At one time, I really didn't care about the matter, or more precisely, I ignored it because everyone else in my family was so obsessed with it. Ignoring it was my of telling them to F off.


It's not like you have to go out of your way to be messy. Just don't do anything, and watch dirt slowly, but surely, take over. Dust wisps in, coating every surface. Grime permeates shower tiles so subtly you hardly notice the build-up. Floors, once smooth and slick on your bare feet, become course and grimy.


My room growing up was deplorable. Mold grew freely, green patches formed like lily pads on all my wooden furniture. Discarded food crusted, molded, then crumbled to dust before ever being acknowledged. One of our eight cats frequently pissed under my desk, he wasn't neutered.


There were two spots that I kept clean, or at least free of clutter, my bed, and my porn collection, which was stored high lest the cat desire some reading material to shit on. In drunken stupors, I'd lie in filth, face down, careless.


Given the fact that she screamed about it constantly, I can only surmise that Mom saw Satan in dirt. She hunted it like a marksman, paling in comparison to her mother, who'd move all the furniture just to give the room a rim job.


But then...something happened. Dirt bothered me. I noticed it. Everywhere. The first time I cleaned a hardwood floor I stood over it, unconvinced the mop picked up all the dirt. I knelt with towel in hand, and wiped up my arch enemy, glaring at my mop the same way one looks upon a traitor.


Once I moved into my own place, things went from bad to worse. I worked long hours to make it on my own. Sunday I scoured. Monday I relaxed. Tuesday, dirt's assault began, showing up in the corners, random dustbunnies scampered across the floor. Wednesday, I'd clean. Friday. Sunday. Random spot checks on non-essential cleaning days. God forbid someone invited me out. I'd have declined, knowing full well dirt loves an empty house.


My therapist calls the behavior a neurotic loyalty to Mom. He must live in filth. Dirt and I have reached an understanding. It accumulates. Sometimes I let it, others I don't. It's hard to keep up an obsession, especially when you live with people who don't seem as offended by dirt's existence. It's not that Rachel is a slob, she just has better things to do. It's ironic how I've spent a good deal of my life trying to combat the very thing I'll be buried in when I pass.


Unless I'm cremated and mixed into a vat of 409.


Get my lawyer on the phone. Time to change my will.

White is Right

It's a good god damn thing we keep those niggers behind fences!


She declared. It surprised us the same way a blown tire might have if it was blown by a laser from an alien ship. My brother and I looked around at first. I checked the radio to make sure we weren't tuned to WKKK while my brother rolled up the window, either because he thought it came from outside, or to keep the flagrant racism in.


Grandma sat in the back, purse clutched to her chest, wig secured by enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector. We were driving by a low income housing development just after gorging on Thanksgiving dinner.


Her rascism was usually more subtle. The tightening of her grip as we walked by anyone of color, the forbidden line that dissected the neighborhood, white from black, the generalizations spoken under her breath to friends, They all steal, you know.


When we were caught robbing jewelry stores and plastered all over the 6 o'clock news, she was devastated. I can't imagine the embarrassment, humiliation, and shame. Her peers would look down on her as a failed Mother.


She blamed it on a woman, Some girl did this to your father, brainwashed him into stealing, he'd never do it on his own. My therapist says she's right, it was a woman that brainwashed him, her.



I don't talk to her was her response when Rachel asked if she ever saw my sister. She ruined the family's good name by having a baby with a black man.



The family's good name? I thought. Didn't Dad single-handedly drive a wrecking ball into that long before my sister gave birth to the anti-Christ?



Classic Grandma.



John McCain will receive a vote from her not because he stands for what she believes in, but because he's the 'right' color. I fear others, black and white, are going to the polls this November to pick a color, not a candidate.



Maybe we should keep them behind fences.

Just Curious

Who is this?

Wow! I found your blog last month and read all the entries that same night! I came back tonight to re-read the one that mentions my name, although, it's mispelled (no "ce" just a "z")I'm glad you're ok and I think you are a great writer... hopefully, you have some better memories of me...

My brain is sprained trying to figure it out.

Miss Bossy Pants Meets Mr. Sensitive

It’s as if she said give me the Demi Moore but they gave her the Hitler. Since it’s been short things have changed. Now she’s Miss Bossy Pants.

Colonel Rara demands Mow Mow and I walk in tight formation. Mow Mow on my left, my eyes forward, shoulders square, feet always pointed in the direction I intend to walk.

Warden Rara says lockdown is at 11pm sharp. Mow Mow is to be crated regardless of whether or not she’s tired. The Warden needs her sleep, Mow Mow needs routine. There will be no discussions about going to bed without me.

The accounting firm of Rara & Rara says that the procurement of dog treats are no longer allowed through a vendor, “We can buy ten pounds of ground beef for what pet stores charge for lips and assholes.”

Maybe it’s because she’s under the most stress ever and works a million hours. Is it possible I’m misinterpreting all this? Could bossy really just be determined? Maybe her discipline offsets my wanting to spoil our dog rotten.

Could there be some transference going on here?

Nah, it’s definitely the hair…

Primal Scream!

I’ve been telling her for three and a half years now. Not directly. We men save direct for car salesmen and strippers. No, I’ve been telling her passively, aggressively, don’t cut your hair short.

She cut it Friday.

99% of me has no problem with it, it complements her round features, her almond eyes. But she disobeyed an indirect order, and there’s a part of me, 1% to be exact, that is enraged at her insolence.

I’m as far from a manly man than you can get. I cry, love Pixar movies, bawled when I watched The Notebook (Damn that Nicholas Sparks!). I don’t drink and have very few guy friends. In general, I shake my head at the male gender, but this is a violation against something primal, something raw.

I said no.

Of course rather than express it, release the rage, and process it in a healthy, productive manner, I want to punish her, shut down, make snide comments, and deny her affection. Sing along guys, you know the words!

She brought the castrated hair home, wrapped in elastic, to donate to cancer kids. Cancer Kids! Now what kind of fuckbucket complains about his GF cutting her hair when one, she absolutely loves it, and two, it helps dying kids?

This kind of fuckbucket.

Maybe I should re-grow my mullet, all business up front with a party in the back.

Agent R

There is something wrong with me. No one is up in arms over this statement, I'm sure, but now more than ever I know it to be true. After more than three years of hoping, dreaming, and working for my dream to become a reality, I'm one giant hurdle closer.

Last Monday I signed and dated a one year contract to have my memoir represented by the Pratt Literary Group. It came with a letter of congratulations. I'm on their site as an active project, along with a bio.

My name in lights, so to speak.

Then why do I feel numb?

Part of it has to do with the fact that, other than my super supportive GF, I had no one to tell. The reason my memoir is attractive to agents, and hopefully publishers, is because of the extraordinary circumstances that has lead to Christmas being just another day, and Thanksgiving a time to be grateful for the fact that there is no Thanksgiving.

It's like an atom bomb blew my family to pieces, leaving shards strewn across two states. Dad lives with grandma. My brother's back inside. And my half sister lives in NH. We haven't been in the same room together in I don't know how long.

My agent asked me what my vision was for the book. I promptly answered, "To use it as a tool. To travel around to high schools and give talks, maybe reach a student like me, and let them know that change is optional: here are your options."

Technology Sucks!

My F'ing Playstation 3 crashed. AGAIN! Sunday I switched it on, prepared to sacrifice a few brain cells carjacking Corvettes and beating up hookers playing GTA 4 when a message appeared. I knew instantly what it was, it happened a year ago, almost to the exact day. "Hard drive has been compromised and needs to be rebuilt. Rebuild now?" And the friendly OK glowed like a beacon. Only when I pressed it, it just rebooted the system and brought me back to the same message over and over again. No GTA 4, no Corvettes, no hookers.

Shit!

So I called Playstation and they informed it will cost me $150 to fix. "But this is the second time it's happened, I barely got a year out of this new one you sent me."

"Sorry, the warranty is expired." The customer service rep said.

That's where Rachel grabbed the phone.

I snickered, thinking, you're in trouble now, dude.

She took the diplomatic route, bulleting the particulars:

• Only a year old.
• This happened to us once already.
• Boyfriend takes impeccable care of said device. (I didn't even take the plastic off the top, it kept the dust off the console and was easier to clean).
• He doesn't download off the Internet, pirate games, or play burned CD's in it.
  

She met with what I can only assume was false sympathy because she asked for a supervisor. Things went from bad to worse.

He essentially accused us for the meltdown siting the unlikelihood that the problem could happen to the same person twice, a rarity according to Mr. Supervisor.

So she tried logic, "Could you give me some examples of how a hard drive could be compromised? I mean, we live by the ocean, is it the salt air, the dust, humidity? I mean if it is our fault I'd like to know how we can prevent it from happening again so our $150 investment isn't wasted."

He offered some crap explanation about getting regular updates online, which I got, but essentially we're screwed.



After the crushing disappointment of knowing there was no other recourse, I added insult to injury. Online were numerous blog posts and forums that described the same problem happening to others, like me, just wanting to shoot some drug dealers.



I'm angry, of course, but mostly disappointed. I hate feeling helpless. PlayStation should be ashamed of themselves. Even car manufacturers recall faulty vehicles regardless of the expense. Maybe there's more at stake being behind the wheel of a improperly built car, maybe I should start carjacking or beating down hookers, that might get PlayStation to do the right thing.

Shades of Caucasian

I couldn't deny it when my therapist called me a misogynist. I didn't wonder why, or even try to excuse it. I was raised by one of the meanest woman to ever walk the earth, and to make matters worse, my mother unleashed her on me.

Babchi was my Polish grandmother. She was a five foot five, one hundred and eighty pound brick shithouse with tremendous upper body strength. Thick droopy jowls made her face look like it was melting. Parts of her skin failed to change color in the sun, leaving her splotched like a spaniel.

Babchi never spared the rod. As a matter of fact, she cultivated abuse into an art form, employing public humiliation and blunt instruments to carry out her particular brand of cruelty. She favored metal spatulas but didn't discriminate. I was once hit with a vacuum cleaner; my brother was bludgeoned by a lamp. She had laser accurate aim when logistical issues prevented her from reaching you in time. We joked she had boomerang heels. I never once remember feeling affection for her. She never made any attempt to curtail her dominance with random acts of kindness, never felt guilt the way Mom did after a doling out a beating.

After Mom died, I took pity on Babchi. I hope I never witness a mother lose a child again. She literally fell apart after that. Succumbing to Parkinson's, she died in a nursing home. I failed to visit with any frequency and she never remembered who I was when I did.

Some people leave lasting impressions on my memory. I remember the tall bald man at the end of my street I thought was God, the milkman that brought us a two and a half gallon jug of cream by mistake, my college professor who saw in me what I couldn't.

Some of these memories are like deeply embedded scars. I'd like to forget Babchi and the legacy she left behind. But I see her every day on the back of my hand, and in my chin, where the skin lacks pigment.

Mowmow has a myspace

http://www.staffyclub.com/public/user/name_MowMow/

Tango With Evil

It’s an original Alex Ross painting, the only artwork I own. Rachel bought for our first anniversary and it adorns our living room wall. Tango With Evil, aptly named, because to even touch him is toxic. He is the Joker, and dare I say, one of the best villains pop culture has to offer. It doesn’t surprise me that so many other antagonists fall short of the mark. They lack panache. In The Dark Knight, Ledger puts it best when he tells Batman, “I don’t want to kill you. You complete me.”

The theater erupted, laughing at the tag line from Jerry Maguire, but to us diehards, we know it’s what lies at the core of the relationship between these two titans. The Joker has no problem admitting, “Its not about money, it’s about sending a message.” Batman and the Joker represent two ends of a spectrum, ideology against ideology. The Joker kills to ridicule Batman’s only rule. “You could’ve saved them if you killed me just once.” Bruce Wayne knows killing The Joker would put an end to his senseless violence but is forced to live with his choices because to kill, "Makes me no better than him."

The Dark Knight lives up to the hype. It satisfies the diehards and entertains those only familiar with the two movies. Jack Nicholson will live in infamy as a different kind of Joker. Ledger’s death only seems sadder now that we’ve seen what he’s capable of, range beyond comprehension.

Go see it.

There Goes Tokyo

"Anyone with a weight-related medical concern and whose waist is bigger than the acceptable size –- a rigorous 33.5 inches for men and 35.4 inches for women –- must lose weight, according to a new law in Japan. Otherwise, they face compulsory diet advice and follow-up visits for three to six months. For some perspective, the average male waist size in the U.S. is 39 inches, while American women average 36.5 inches.The idea is to reduce the ranks of the overweight by 10% over the next four years and 25% over the next seven years.

"If not, the government will start fining companies and local governments, who are the providers of health coverage for the majority of Japanese. Ultimately, Japan hopes this campaign will help curb its health-care costs, which have been increasing, just like waist sizes."

What? They're going to fine companies? I am in awe to say the least. Maybe it's because Japan is an island and they're worried the thinner people might get pushed off. But no matter how you slice it (Pun intended), Japan is one ballsey country.

So I ask myself, "self, could this work here?" Rara and I often ponder why aren't people's health taken into account when figuring out health insurance rates? If I go to great lengths to exercise, eat right, (Whole wheat pasta and organic broccoli while writing this), and keep my cholesterol, blood pressure, and blood sugar in check, then why are my rates the same as the guy eating Baconators? After all, we charge higher premiums to irresponsible drivers. Why not do the same for irresponsible eaters?

Our obesity epidemic is closely tied to socioeconomics and poor food choices are often a matter of logistics. There are no Whole foods in Roxbury, and fruits and vegetables don't last as long as preservative laden snack foods and frozen dinners. Another factor is the way foods are marketed. Lucky Charms are now allowed to tout having a serving of whole grains in every bowl. Vitamin water is mostly sugar, preservatives, and coloring, marketed as healthy. Gatorade asks, "Is it in you?" There should be a sub text that says, "Then get it out." Maybe they'd clean their act up if a ten percent fine were levied against their profits and reinvested into education, so that people could make more informed choices.

But how do you police these companies?

The FDA is a dinosaur. Remember Pirates Booty, that organic snack food with only 3 grams of fat, none of it saturated, and a calorie count so low you could eat a whole bag and not go overboard? The adage says, "If it sounds too good to be true then it probably is." Good Housekeeping tested Pirates Booty and found tons of saturated fat and calories. When wind of their findings caught the FDA's attention they sent the makers of Pirates Booty a letter, asking them to correct the label. It should have been pulled and the company fined, heavily. Pirates Booty issued a statement and placed it on every bag, undoubtedly written by their crack marketing team, stating that due to high demand they were forced to change the ingredients and didn't make a peep about getting bagged lying.

As with all our cultural problems, when you peel back the layers, you get more layers. I'll watch Japan closely; fingers crossed, and hope that even if they fall on their fat asses, they'll learn something valuable.

And then teach us.

Henchmen

Sometimes I joke that I have Attention Deficit Disorder but in reality, I have Attention Surplus Disorder. Case and point: The Dark Knight arrives in theaters July 18. Mark your calendars. Mine’s been marked for months. In anticipation, I’ve watched the trailers, three in all, so many times the tiny screen on the website threatens to permanently burn into my screen.

My unique attention to detail brings to mind the lives of those we seldom even notice in movies, Henchmen. And if you think about it real hard, depending on the movie, several henchmen are killed and you never gave it a second thought. It’s the mastermind we focus on. But without Henchmen they’re really just a one man show, easily defeated.

We often think of them as dim witted, easily swayed, the consummate follower. But we seldom ponder their attractive attributes, they’re loyalty, obedience, strong work ethics, and wide open schedules. It almost impossible not to wonder why they even applied given that their fate is woven into the fabric of the story and the outcome is never favorable. Can you recall a movie where a Henchman was the last one standing?

It makes me wonder what the application is like.

Name
Address
Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If no, why not?
Please list most recent pillaging experience first:
Please list any specialized skills you have i.e. safe cracking or kidnapping.

I can recall one movie that explored the lives of henchmen pretty accurately, Donnie Brasco. Can you?

By the way, in writing this I realized what draws me to ponder these inane subjects. I’m fascinated because at one point I was a Henchman; a 1996 article in the Boston Herald even said so:

MASTERMIND IS SENTENCED IN GEM THEFT RING
Date: September 20, 1996 Page: E24 Section: Metro
DEDHAM -- A four-year probe into a father-and-son jewelry heist ring came to an end yesterday as one of its masterminds pleaded guilty to armed robbery, larceny and conspiracy charges. John Frederick Sobolewski was sentenced to 12 years in state prison for his role in robberies that netted more than $1 million in Massachusetts. The 54-year-old electronics salesman from Nashua changed his plea to guilty in the face of mounting evidence following the guilty pleas of his two sons, Kevin, 28, and Bryan, 25, whom he recruited for the robberies.

Agamemnon Was A Pussy

All Agamemnon did was sacrifice his daughter to win a war.

Then, after his cheating wife’s tawdry taunts, he walked on some purple carpet.

Big deal.

Let me ask you this:

Did he ever watch two seasons of The Dog Whisperer and then go out and buy a purebred puppy thinking all he needed was a collar and a few forceful pulls on a leash to get it to obey.

Well I did. And my hubris was a grander scale than that wimp.

(Note: I in no way, shape, or form, liken my experience with this dog to that of rearing a child. God forbid I fail at this I can always drive my dog to the pound. Parents don’t have that luxury, although school shootings would end tomorrow if we instituted a put down policy on all kids up to the age of 18. Think about it: “Sorry junior, it’s just not working out. You’re Mom and I think we’d do better with a different breed. So we’re going have to put you down).

Meet Mow Mow.

Yes, Mow Mow. She’s beautiful, rambunctious, and very playful. But I can’t help but wonder if our breeder didn’t feel a little like God when she spliced in some old Atari PacMan into the genetic stew of our pup.

She chomps e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

So we read dog books on positive training, no violence here, to raise young Mow Mow right. They tell you how to teach Sit. It goes something like this:
Wait for your dog to sit. Click and treat. (We’ve chosen to clicker train our dog).
Every time it sits on its own, Click and Treat.
Then start to walk backwards after she sits,

she should follow and sit, expecting a treat.

Click and Treat.
When she does this 80% of the time, add the command “Sit.”
Not bad right? Conditioning at its best.
It works. It elicits feelings of power I’ve never felt before. To shape the behavior of this beautiful being…priceless. I’ll get ten dogs if it’s this rewarding.

Hubris.

She bites everything, as stated earlier.

The book says that whenever she comes in contact with human skin to yelp out “OW!” just like Mom or her brothers and sisters would do in the pack.

This works, kind of.

Anyone walking by our house must think we have Turret's.
When she chews on something she’s not supposed to the book says to offer her an alternative. This works, kind of.

When I say she chews everything, I mean everything, metal, wood, flooring, sticks, rocks, trees, grass, cars, the couches, the coffee table, you name it, she chews it. Offer her an alternative, she chews that until you turn your back.

So we’ve called in reinforcements.

A trainer will be here Saturday morning.

I’ll keep you posted.

Just One Man

I try really hard, but it feels like a crusade. I am just one man. Fitness magazines are the purveyors of myths. It’s the stuff conspiracy theories are made of: They play on fears, I sell only truth. I can get my clients to agree with what I say. They need to believe it.

I do it too. I want what I want and I want it sooner than now. Don’t ask me to wait. God bless you if you come at me extolling the virtues of patience. I admit the hypocrisy inherent in asking it of the people I train.

That said, here’s the deal: Men would be better off cutting the weights they use in half and paying strict attention to form. And women would be better off applying a little meathead logic to their training, in essence, Lift More Weight!

I see it all day long. Men and boys alike, hoisting weights far too heavy, stressing their joints, destroying their ligaments, all so they can answer the question ‘how much can you bench?’ without feeling like a giant pussy.

Contrarily, filling the group exercise studios, are the women. Buying the myth that cardio will burn their fat, and high reps will tone their muscles. Wrong.

I honestly wish I could turn the gym up-side-down, shake it like a snow globe, and have the men settle in the classes, and the women on the free weight floor. Why?

Back in the 80’s I was a meathead, mullet and all. I wore a thick, tight, gold chain, tapered Levis, high top sneakers, and listened to Motley Crue, Dokken, and Great White. I also buried myself under the heaviest weights I could hold. Now I’m paying the price. My back kills. My neck is all fucked up and my knees protest every time I run more than ten feet. I wish I could sit down with 80’s Bry and tell him his life wasn’t any better bigger. As a matter of fact now, almost thirty pounds lighter, life is a million times better.

When I started personal training for a living, I was perplexed about why it was so hard for my women clients to lose weight. I put them on elaborate cardio programs, low carb, high protein diets, and had them perform hundreds of reps with low weights, but none of it worked. At the end of the day they might have been lighter, but their body fat percentage not only stayed the same, in most cases it went up.

Then it hit me. My certification manual didn’t differentiate between the sexes. It didn’t have separate chapters for training women as opposed to men. It dealt with changing human muscle, not gender specific muscle.

Muscle doesn’t tone. It gets smaller, stays the same, or grows. There is no rep range that’ll tone and not build. It’s a myth that women can build bulky, huge muscles. It’s against their physiology, completely contrary to how their bodies work. Estrogen is anti-muscle building, testosterone builds. That’s why we men can usually whip themselves into shape faster than women.

The benefits of weight training have finally caught up to and are now surpassing cardio and range from increasing insulin sensitivity to preventing and reversing osteoporosis. Several exercise journals have reported recently that resistance training is actually better than cardio at burning fat. Who knew? I try to get my clients to understand that exercise isn’t about racing against calories. Calories in vs. calories out doesn’t always work. My clients get an education on metabolism, how it works, why their bodies are in fat storage mode, and how to get their bodies to start spending what it has saved.

And therein lies the problem. With so many periodicals catching people’s attention with, “Loose fifty pounds of fat in ten minutes,” I can’t compete. My plan of retaking control of a metabolism that has slowed takes at least six moths of hard work, determination, and discipline. Shit!

It is all about choices

When Rachel and I started dating I had a head full of therapy. It was unarguably the best therapy I’ve ever engaged in. It forced me to look at and challenge my core beliefs, including many I didn’t know I had. My therapist was versed in the art of Determinism. Determinism is the belief that everything in nature is caused. The definition of Total Determinism is that all someone’s thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are caused by one or more determinants, and that beliefs, especially those which are emotionally loaded, are powerful determinants of thoughts, feelings and behaviors. “We are what we believe.”

It’s a philosophy like any other, open to debate. Rachel and I spent many a night curled up on either side of our favorite green couch debating Determinism’s boldest statement: Free will doesn’t exist.

To prove its point, determinism uses deductive reasoning: If man is bound by determinants, then any choice he makes is not of free will, he is motivated by unconscious desires to serve his determinants.

Rachel disagrees.

“It’s all about choices,” She stated, point blank, then waited for me to respond.

I was apprehensive. Rachel, like me, loves to play devil’s advocate. It’s one of those qualities about our mates that we only find endearing in hindsight.

“There is no free will if we’re bound by determinants.” I answered, expecting her to accept my airtight case.

“I don’t believe that. Even if you are behaving on an unconscious level, you can still make a choice to do or not do something, it’s all about choices, ” she pulled out some eighties logic on me, quoting from an old Rush song, “Even if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice.”

It was the first time I heard her say it, and it won’t be the last. Like all mantras, it’s only powerful if the person saying it truly believes it, and she does.

We revisited it when I pondered leaving my job. "You can choose to stay and see how it goes, or you can choose to take a chance." (I was going to leave out the part where now I work only half the hours and make more money). "See, it's all about choices."

When we thought about moving to escape the fourth most polluting powerplant in the country, I doddled, worried it was a mistake. "We can stay or go. Either way it's a choice." It was her way of of forcing me to recognize the truth...need I say it again?

On Saturday Rachel and I were faced with a dilemma, more mine than hers. We went to BestBuy to buy a camera to take pictures of our new puppy, Mow Mow, (not here until June 12th, stay tuned).

While we were there we picked up an extra memory card for the camera and a zip drive for Rachel to save all her school work.

Rachel scanned the receipt in the parking lot:
Camera $179
Extended Warranty $29.95
4 Gig Memory card $29.95
No zip drive.

“We have to go back.” Rachel said without thinking. But she’s in a relationship with me, a former criminal, and as lazy as a retired donkey.

“But it’s way back there,” I whined. This from a man who jogs three miles, three times a week, to nowhere in particular, “it serves them right.”

Rachel crooked her neck, as if trying to rattle loose the thorn stuck in the logical side of her head, the one that allows her to date an unethical heathen like me. “Seriously?” she asked.

“They’re a big, faceless, conglomerate,” I stopped myself there, knowing my argument, if not contested, could easily mushroom. It would start slow. I’d take more than one lollipop from the bank or sneak nine items through the eight item grocery line, and eventually, I’d be taking down armored cars.

We went back. I let Rachel do the talking since for her it meant another feather in her ivory wings, for me it was one step back from Hell.

In the car she smiled, held my hand, leaned in and kissed me softly on the cheek and said, “See, it’s all about choices.”

The Wait...

I used to love cocaine. I dabbled in gateway drugs, but not for long. Pot was a daily habit from day one, but coke brought me out of my shell. The real Bryan surfaced without fear of reprisal socialized with others, even girls. But I ended up on the seedy side, smoked all my worldly possessions (and some other people's possessions) until I ended up in rehab, then eventually prison. But none of it compared to the waiting. Any recovering addict will tell you that the waiting is the hardest part, worse than coming down. So I've assembled a montage of moments in my life where The Wait has caused me to gray prematurely:

The earliest I can trace back my hatred of The Wait is Christmas. At least two full months of build up for one day of reckoning. It was especially trying for me because the more presents I got, the more I thought Mom loved me. (See post Presents=Love for details).

I spent a total of nine years drinking and drugging. In that time were countless instances where The Wait took its toll.

The Wait almost destroyed me the day my lawyer told me the Assistant Attorney General wanted to put me in a line up. I panicked because I was guilty and another charge of armed robbery easily doubled any time I was already looking at.
All I could think about was the fact that in every movie, the perpetrator was always number five, so my mantra became, 'Don't be five. Don't be five.' The day of the line up, they handed me my number, 5, and I took it to the jury box where I was told to stand with five cops and a homeless guy they plucked off the street ten minutes prior to the victim's arrival. I was sunk. I figured my only choice was to capsize and confess in front of everyone. But my grandmother put up her house to pay my lawyer ten grand and I wasn't about to waste her life savings.
When the moment of truth arrived, the cameras switched on, and everyone was in place, they announced that the victim was coming in. The Wait ground time down to a slow, steady vibration that rattled my head. While I waited for it to crumble, questions begged: Should I look straight ahead, or make eye contact with the victim? Was it too obvious to look around at my counterparts to see what they were doing? Was that nose pick a signal from my lawyer telling me to look more innocent?
I decided to copy number 6 and look straight ahead, like a cop. They brought in the victim. I remembered his face, having stuck a gun into it a year prior. He walked down the line, stopped between me and 6, then scurried out of the courtroom.
That's it. Thank you all for coming. We have some lovely parting gifts for you. I'm going to prison now. Good night.
But The Wait had other plans, another pass through. Was this a good sign? During the second walk, the victim stopped again, between me and 6.
When all was said and done, The Wait made me sit in the court cafeteria until my lawyer came and told me the victim was unable to identify anyone in the line up. As a joke, he gave number 6 his card.

Prison is tantamount to being The Wait's bitch for three years. Want to know what it's like? Here's an easy way to find out: Lock yourself in your bathroom for three years. You can come out once a day, for an hour, but only if it's in the company of rapists, murderers, and drug dealers (This might not be much different than Thanksgiving for most of you). Every other day make sure someone comes in and strip searches you, don't forget the bend and spread. Every meal should be served stale, cold, or leave your wondering why the small breasted carcass that was baked and presented to you as dinner coincides with the shortage of pigeons in and around the yard.

The Wait serves only one other force in the universe and that's Cancer. They go hand in hand. Once we accepted Mom's diagnosis and consequent death sentence all that was left was The Wait. Sounds morbid, perhaps a bit cynical, but there is a gift in Cancer. The Wait allowed me to tell her everything I needed to, and she me.

The Wait still tests my patience. The puppy won't be here until June 12th. Four agents have my manuscript and none have gotten back to me. I've spent my life waiting. And when each episode of waiting ends, another begins, until I realized, I do it to myself.

Maybe The Wait is trying to teach me a lesson.

STOP WAITING...

Dog Whisperer For A Day

You can't deny that you love him. I do. I admire anyone that cracks a code, looks beyond the naked eye, and can interpret subconscious desires. It is awe inspiring. Something I aspire to. Cesar Milan, AKA The Dog Whisperer, may be the second coming of Christ, here to balance the dogs because we humans are a lost cause. Maybe Jesus had it wrong the first time around. Besides, any species that walks behind another picking up its droppings is clearly not in control. So who’s mastering who?

I wish I could bring Cesar to work with me to balance the pack of trainers that run aimlessly around BSC, me included. I think he would agree that our current pack leader, an English bulldog, has been given power he doesn't understand. He is what Cesar would call: Insecure Dominant, the type that ends up squashed under the wheel of a car, either hit because of overexcitement or because he was pushed; no one cares to ascertain which.

Marykay is best described as a Yorkie. Submissive, almost to her detriment, but not because she's weak; she lacks confidence. When she breaks out of her shell she'll topple any sized Alpha male and assume leadership of the entire pack.

Alex is the resident, oversexed, Rottweiler. Once he grabs hold of your leg, it's best to just let him finish, otherwise you'll have one cranky Rottie on your hands and that's everyone’s problem.

Chad is a Lab. Loyal, highly intelligent, seemingly balanced, but periodically gets into his bag of dog food and eats the whole thing.

Pete is a pit bull who Cesar would call a red zone case, too aggressive to train. For the good of the pack we'd have to put poor Pete down before he kills us all.

Cori’s one of those unique hybrids with the intelligence of a Border Collie and the drive of a Husky. But the duality makes her chase her tail incessantly. Even after she catches it, she'll try again, expecting a different result.

Angelica is an Afghan, bred for show. A hopeless flirt, she devastates the pack with her glare that says, "Sniff it if you want, but mount me and I'll end you."

Tim is a Duck that doesn’t know he’s not a dog. The pack accepts him as one of its own but only because it’s our nature, and in times of famine, we’ll look to young Tim for sustenance.

And me, I’m best described as an old mutt, one of those dogs that gets himself into trouble if I'm not exercised enough. I’ve done serious pound time and new tricks seem to evade this old dog. This post is a perfect example.

Maybe I should get in line behind Pete.

Dog Day Afternoon

Take a second.

Look at her.

Ask yourself:

Self,

What in the world would prevent you from bringing that face home?

Only my desire to eat it just to obtain its power.

That's our potential dog. Someone I'll take anywhere from two seconds to three months to name. Like the time it took me twenty nine days to come up with the name of my favorite cat. We brought him home. He slept. Mom wanted to call him Snoozy. I balked. He had white paws. The name Mittens was kicked around till it rolled near my feet and I kicked it out the door. I told everyone to leave it alone. He'd reveal who he was in due time. This particular feline had an affinity for waking out of a sound sleep and dashing off into any given direction. Zoom? Mom asked, frustrated but aware of how stubborn I can be. One day he snapped to, bolted toward the kitchen, and forgot his claws were no match for linoleum. Headfirst into the cabinet his name was finally revealed: Dizzy.

Of course there were surnames: Dizzy Machismo (Diz Machiz for short), Dizzle, Cutesie Wootsie Dizzy Whizzie. The list went on.

I've always wanted a dog but now, in the face of the most stability I've ever known, I cower in the face of a decsion with long lasting ramifications. It's like Rachel says, "You always do this whenever you're faced with something big to decide." She's right.

I am neurotic to the point to paralyzation. Too many what-ifs to consider. Most notably: What if I fail? What if I ever look at that adorable little face and consider it a nuisance? There's never a good enough time or a good enough place.

I have a tattoo. A wolf howling. I got it because it was always a dream of Mom's and mine to see wolves in their natural habitiat. Mom wrote in her diary that she regretted never doing it before cancer took her. I got the tattoo to remind me that life is too short to wait. To date I've seen that nature show with all the wolves but not my dream. Time is ticking.

Maybe I should get a dog.

Nature vs Nurture

Can’t say that I liked him at first, wasn’t his fault really, dudes just don’t typically like other dudes. Besides he was an alpha male, so am I, sometimes, when Rachel allows it. Plus, he’s all fucked up. A neurological disorder has rendered him walking as if he was hit by a car, recently, maybe daily. Rachel calls it a mild gait disturbance. Yeah, like I only have a slight case of neurotic.

In actuality, he has hereditary spastic paraplegia. I’m not sure what that means, but it looks like his upper and lower torso are in a race, and the upper is winning. It instantly makes me feel bad for him. Then I feel bad for feeling bad. Then I feel grateful. Then I feel tiny because two days ago I felt bad about myself for a tenth of a second. Until I realize, I’m not him.

But Gary and I share the same affliction. His was genetic. Mine was environmental. We’re both survivors. Maybe that’s why I perceived a clash where there was none. He’s hard to get to know, but in a shy unassuming way. I’m hard to get to know because arm’s length is close enough, unless you’re a hot chick.

Last night we all went out to a bar, a hole in the wall pub with barely enough room to move. While walking out he inadvertently bumped into a chucklehead that took his instability as provocation. I saw his face, ready to say something smug to Gary. My fists clenched. I’d have punched him square in the neck without thinking twice if he spoke (I'm sure Gary would have had he seen it too). That’s how I know I like him now. He’s loyal to a fault, and braver than I’ll ever be.

Say hi to Gary.

What Dreams May Come

It’s been a harrowing experience, trying to live a dream. It all started with an unusual love of books. Perpetual anger toward my parents caused passive aggressive tendencies that prevented me from actually opening them. I expressed anger by reaching dizzying heights of ignorance, just to hurt then as much as they hurt me.

But I couldn’t fight the allure. I perused the book section of Caldoor, looking for that one that sent shivers up my spine. It was usually a heavy bound, thick papered, science fiction novel, something that would jive with my love of the genre. I was already a fan of Space 1999, Star Blazers, and DC Comics. But I never read a word of it. I just fell into that catatonic state in front of the TV while Mom shook her head at my grades, on the phone with Dad who, from his house an hour away, shook his too.

I have an old copy of a book I tried to write when I was ten. It reminds me that from a very early age I was enamored with books. Saturday I came as close as ever to the fire, the dream that burns if I get too close but fails to warm me when I stand too far away. For the past three years I’ve tried to put on paper what everyone says is a fascinating life. On Thursday of last week I finished my third attempt, the one with a voice, a cadence, a common thread. So I paid the fee to attend The Muse and the Marketplace, a two day writer’s conference held at the Omni Parker House in Boston. I went the extra mile and paid extra to have the first twenty pages of my memoir read by the agent of my choice.

At 4:10 the room cleared of the previous twenty minute appointments. Hopeful authors scampered off, excited or devastated; agents tend not to beat around the bush. I walked to my table, hoping to see a contract spread out, no words necessary. But instead I found a friendly faced man, the one I chose, sitting patiently. I sat down and introduced myself.

“Let me ask you, what are you doing now?” he asked in response to the twenty pages that chronicle my first day in prison.

“I’m a personal trainer at Boston Sports Club.” I answered, wondering if he was expecting to hear, ‘Robbing jewelry stores, didn’t you read?’

He looked impressed, then pulled out my manuscript and said, “Well, I read this and you’re a really good writer. Your descriptions are right on, not too detailed, just enough to put me there.”

I’d like to say I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. But his compliment set off a frenzy of anxiety. He was supposed to tell me it needed a lot of work. He was supposed to tell me his agency wasn’t taking on new clients at this time. He was supposed to take out a tube of lighter fluid, saturate the pages, and set them ablaze.

Instead, I heard, “Feel free to send this to the agency.”

Last night I sent it. Now I wait for a rejection or worse, a positive response. I might have to revert to my old ways, lest my head explode. I’m not used to praise.

Ignorance truly is bliss.

Cataloging Crimes

The job marked the point where my brother and I started to wonder if Dad was out of control. He thought we that we could take down The Jewelers Building in Downtown Crossing, one jeweler at a time. If you've seen it, you know security's tighter than Fort Knox.

But we had inside info that an errand boy emerged every day and carried an armload of boxes three blocks, to the Fed Ex store.

A week before Christmas, the streets bustled with shoppers. Dad and I chatted back and forth on walkie-talkies, about to give up and go home when suddenly, the errand boy passed by. I signaled Dad and moved in behind him. I checked the gun secured in my waistband. Ahead, I saw Dad but not my brother. His blood sugar had dropped. Dad sent him to get food. Too late to abort, Dad lunged and shoved his gun into the kid’s side. The top boxes tumbled. I scooped them up as the kid squawked, Hey! Hey!

Dad snagged the remaining boxes and we ran to the car parked three blocks away. My brother continued to stuff hot dogs into his mouth after we picked him up. I tore open the box that was supposed to contain fifty grand in diamonds. Instead I pulled out a catalog. The chewing ceased. The car fell dead quiet.

Six boxes. Six catalogs.

We didn't know the jewelry store owner owned a police scanner. He heard our random transmissions, the catalogs were sent as a precaution.

Christmas was ruined for us, and possibly anyone expecting a catalog. Another job was planned and soon enough the catalog incident was forgotten. A few days ago while in Boston to take a class, I bumped into the Jeweler’s Building. It was like bumping into an old classmate whose friendship had turned sour. I reminisced quietly while the building continued to shun would-be robbers.

Which begs the question: If a crime falls in the middle of Boston, and no one profits, is it still a felony?

I am NOT Batman

I just finished Batman Begins for the umpteenth time. Possibly the best Batman to date. I speak as not only a fan of the genre, I've seen all the movies, hate all the actors after Michael Keaton, and own Knightfall in it's entirety, including The Vengeance of Bane #1. I can't wait for The Dark Knight with Heath and feel Hollywood has revived the character by returning to its grass roots and pulling plots from over fifty years of development.
At one point I traveled the same rocky road that made Bruce Wayne that venerable character so woven into our pop culture. My travels, unfortunately, lead me to a myriad of state run facilities.
My training, like Bruce's, started in the Martial Arts. Mom signed me up to the YMCA for their self defense classes. Uechi Ru is one of those arts that prefers you not fight. Should the occasion to defend yourself arise, well sure, rip out the offender's throat, but first try not to fight. For those of us who were tormented by bullies, you know how that goes. I quit after going for two years and only achieving a yellow belt.

I needed to learn the art of death. I was consumed with the idea of killing my brother. (Think of the worst bully you've ever known, square that, and multiply it by pi, that's my brother). So I found a studio in the town square that had Nun Chucks, butterfly knives, and pointed metal stars, hanging in the window. Fred Villari's School of Self Defense was the answer. They sold weapons. Surely they taught you how to use them. I didn't need the tour or the complimentary lesson, I just needed Mom to write a check.

I attended every class, climbed the ranks, yellow, orange, blue, green, green stripe, brown, brown stripe. I bought every book I could find on the arts and studied them all. My favorite was on Ninjitsu, the art of assassination. It even had an order form for an authentic Ninja uniform in the back. I filled it out and anxiously awaited its delivery.

It came riddled with pockets and drawstrings. The hood came in three separate pieces. It was so authentic I had to bring it to class and ask Sensei Cal to show me how to put it on. Clad in the uniform, facing my bad ass, assassin self in the mirror, I decided to take it out for a test run. I consulted the book one last time and memorized the more important points: Blend. Remain unseen. Never cast a human shadow. And leave no witnesses.

I took to the streets, draped myself in the shadows, calmed my lifelong fear of the dark, and headed to Grossman's to steal some wood. We thugs had every tradition every Halloween. After we spent the night searching for someone to buy us a pony keg, we mounted a cross atop the First Hill overlooing the school, and set it ablaze. I should note, we did this for attention, (no one pays much mind to a docile cross. But light it on fire...) Cops and fire trucks showed up. We grabbed the keg, ran away, and returned to a pile of smoldering, stolen two by fours.

I did pretty good moving through yards, ducking out of view, and getting there undetected. What I didn't plan for was the thirty foot high fence, cameras, and the fact that the wood was fifty shades brighter than my suit. I lost my motivation to remain concealed halfway home when I realized it was useless. A police cruiser caught me scurrying across Main Street, traditions fell by the wayside after my arrest. I quit Fred Villari's after I bought a quarter pound of weed with the money my mother gave me for private lessons. I tried to sell it but ended up fronting myself the majority.

I still owe myself seven hundred bucks.

Jack and the ProteinStalk

I heard him say it in his deep, booming, resounding tone that can be heard from anywhere in the gym. Tim talked to his doe eyed, perpetually happy, Asian client using that condescending, self righteous tone trainers are notorious for. "Now what are you gonna eat when you get home?" He asked, setting her up.

"Um, I don't know, I haven't gone shopping. Maybe just some cereal?" She asked instead of answered.

"Gotta get protein, and a high quality protein, whey is the highest quality protein." Tim bellowed.

"But I'm lactose intolerant." She replied. This threw Tim for a loop. His brow fell like a curtain after a play.

"They have lactose free whey protein now. Gotta get your high quality protein. It helps build muscle."

I'm surprised he didn't rub her head and swat her behind as he shoved her off with a head full of misinformation and the belief that she needed to ingest this whey or go catabolic on a grand scale.

I wanted so badly to remain neutral. I took this job to reinvent myself and shed my own self righteous ways. Tim and I were alone in the break room shortly after. My filter must have been down for repairs because I said, "You know, Tim, there's no scientific evidence that proves protein builds muscle."

"Yeah, it does, it's the highest quality protein." he reiterated.

"Actually, if you're referring to its bioavailability and essential amino acid profile, beef is the best. But none of it is proven to build muscle."

"Muscle is made of protein." Tim said, looking at me as if I was an idiot.

"True, but that doesn't mean that if I eat it I'll build muscle."

"Yeah it does. And whey is predigested." he added.

"What's that have to do with building muscle?" I asked.

This stumped Tim. "I don't know. But I like it," he said before striking a most muscular pose and scampering out of the room.

Protein, like all nutrients, provide calories. There's no way to prove whether or not strength gains come from a specific nutrient or overall calories. This is the problem with nutrition. Balance is the key. Suppose protein is solely responsible for building muscle. Vitamins and minerals (from fruits and veggies, NOT MULTIVITAMINS) are needed to help transport, and support the anabolic process.

The jury is still out on young Tim's declaration. Tim, with his magic protein beans, has fallen prey to genius marketing rather than solid science. Reputable sources don't recommend that more than 15% of overall calories come from protein (20% if you're an elite athlete). Maybe we should spend our money on basic whole foods instead of investing in the latest fad.

So far the fads are winning.

Penis on Wheels

Relationships are hard, no news there. Rara and I have been together for three years and one of the hardest aspects of living as a couple is finding other couples to hang out with. Worst case scenario: you find a couple that's cool. You share common interests. You dine, have a few drinks, maybe head back to their place and realize that you've just spent three hours with people who imagined the evening would end with a little partner swap. Best case scenario you meet a couple and find two new friends to weather the storm with. Maybe they've been through a slump and can relate when you, as a couple, inevitably do. But realistically you meet a couple and love one of them, only to have your hopes dashed because the other one is a chucklehead.

We met Andrew and Erica one summer morning while walking a cocker spaniel we occasionally dogsat. She broke her leash and ran right up to them. A conversation ensued and the seeds of a new friendship were planted. I liked Andrew, a former Marine, wrought with some overt maleness that was easily overlooked because he was just plain fun to hang out with. Unfortunately, Erica was on her quest to match wits with Rachel, a nurse. She constantly made glaringly ignorant statements like, "Female muscle tissue is different from male, it's more sensitive," and "I used to model so I know the human body." Yeah, like porn stars know how to screen for prostate enlargement.

We lost touch. Well, more like, we know where they are, and it would be easy enough to call them, but I just can't watch Rachel suffer any longer.

Then there was Christine. We met her one Sunday while we were admiring Duke, a burly bulldog with an equally burly owner. Duke let us shower him with attention before sauntering off to lift his leg over a rhododendron. After his piss he spotted Daisy, Christine's skittish collie, and moseyed up to her for a ride, (you'll excuse the pun), doggie style. We exchanged pleasantries amist Duke's writhing and Daisey's whimpers, and Rachel, god bless her kindness, invited Christine to dinner after Duke was out of earshot.

Christine was in the mist of a sexual orientation crisis. She hit on Rachel, dated our friend Colin for three months, then left us all for a butch lesbian more manly than Colin or I put together.

Which brings us to last night. Rachel invited her friends Liz and Meagan for dinner. It might be important to mention that the last two couples have been, shall we say, heterosexually challenged. Maybe she is sending me an unconscious message: Make one false move, bucko, and I'm heading to the other side. She would be a loss my gender would miss dearly. During a friendly game of Pictionary my usual spot next to Rara was taken by Meagan in a dry run of my worst fear come true, so I took Liz's side and we proceeded to play.

The word was burst. So in an act of desperation, I drew a picture of a penis "bursting," as any man will attest to the sensation. I saw her eyebrows crinkle in confusion, or disgust, so I added a set of circles at the base to clarify. She blurted, "Penis on wheels!"

She didn't guess 'burst' before the timer ran out. But we did win by quite a large gap. I'd have to say that finding that as a couple, finding a couple to hang out with takes trial and error. And more importantly, a willingness to draw outside the lines to find that perfect fit. It's fair to say I like Liz and Meagan, even if they eye Rachel like baseball scouts eye a new recruit. But their job isn't that hard, there's no brochure needed, especially when I say things like, "No, you lesbian, those are testicles."

The Servant waits while the Master bates

It started with the usual pangs of adolescence that blossomed into a desire to grind my pelvis into anything in a skirt. But my fear of girls overrode the will to act and I had to settle for grinding against inanimate objects, like the desk. Until I entered into an intimate relationship with an old back massager I found in the attic. It started out innocently enough: me, shirtless on my bed, massaging everywhere but the area that ached. I tried to ignore it. But it beckoned. It ‘slipped’ and a wave of pleasure overcame me. I held on as long as I could. Thirty seconds, give or take a few.
I had every intention of living life to the fullest with that massager, until the fateful day it died in a plume of gray smoke. I had to find another way to avoid the temptations of actual sex rather than appliance based simulated sex. I did pretty well for awhile, until I got sober at 23 and decided it was time to experience it in the flesh.
Enter Sandy. She attended my Tuesday night AA meeting. She was the only female in the meeting that didn’t have a front tooth missing or three rug rats running around. I suggested coffee afterwards and to my surprise, she agreed.
At coffee, we sat together in a booth. Sandy ordered tea. I had medium regular with extra sugar. “I’d love to go on a date with you sometime,” Sandy blurted between sips.
It caught me off guard. Maybe she sensed my hidden agenda. I tried not to react for fear it would expose me further, “How about tomorrow night?”
“Why not tonight?” She answered, her raised eyebrow made me realize I wasn’t the only one with an agenda.
We went to her house and once the lights dimmed Sandy turned into a rapacious predator. She said the filthiest things I ever heard outside of porn. She wanted to suck things, lick others, and asked me if I wanted to pound her into the mattress. Of course I wanted these things. But hearing them verbalized made them a little too real. My virginity was never a matter of integrity, only shame. Its abrupt three dimensional end, was a little too real for me. So I told her the truth.
“Um, before we get too involved in this there’s something I should tell you.”
Sandy leaned back. Candlelight illuminated her face. “What is it?” she asked tenderly.
“It’s just that…well…I’ve never done this before.”
No one knew. It felt weird to say.
She led me to her room where a candle provided the only light. When the time was right I reached for a condom, fiddled with the rapper, and rolled it on. It desensitized me, which helped.
Sandy moaned, panted, and screamed obscenities. I had a mental checklist going: I really liked the oral, wasn’t a fan of the slippery tongue in my ear, could’ve done without her asking me if she was my little slut. None of that mattered when I got behind her, though, and I was well on my way to finishing when Sandy rasped, “Slap me.”
I stopped and looked around, wondering if I heard her correctly. She said it again, “Come on baby, slap me.”
The whole idea crushed my groove and turned me off. “Um, I’m really not into that.” I said passively.
There was a short pause that made me think the matter was dropped. So I got back to work. A few strokes later, it came up again. “Please baby, slap me.” She repeated. I fumbled with a few words before she ordered, “Do it now, slap me now!”
I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I leaned forward, wound up, and smacked her upside the head. She broke the awkward silence that ensued by saying, “No, you asshole. I meant slap my ass.”
There were others. Shelly had a hygiene problem that roused my dog and forced him to leave the room. There was my first ménage a trois where I experienced pleasure overload that caused temporary erectile dysfunction. And let’s not forget Jeanine, who I inadvertently thumbed after our senior prom. I guess I’d say I’m an advocate for sex education, lest anyone else end up like me. I’m fortunate to have learned from my mistakes. Enough to bag a babe like Rachel.