There is one way to stop bullying, drug use and crime, but no one wants to do it because it seems a little harsh. It might be, but it would work.
Schools have bad kids go to tour prisons or have inmates come to schools and talk about how bad drugs are. It's not enough.
Here’s what they should do. Find the toughest kid in the school. The one who smokes, does drugs, picks on other kids. Makes them afraid to go to school.
Every school has at least ten of them. Find the baddest of the bad, put him on stage with the convict and let the convict tell his story and then rape him.
At the end, when the bully is rocking back and forth in tears with his arms around his knees like Glenn Close in the shower in Fatal Attraction, the convict puts it away, zips his pants and says, “Any questions?”
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Fight Clubhouse
So the neighbors had a fight the other night so loud I could hear it through the floor.
The whole building could hear them going and it was the usual fight kind of thing like:
“GET THE F OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
“IT’S MY HOUSE.TOO!”
“I DON’T CARE! I PAID THE LAST MONTH’S RENT AND YOU OWE ME, YOU ASSHOLE!”
Better than reality TV.
And I have my ear to the door like a safecracker listening to it.
The only problem is, it got quiet and I couldn't catch the resolution of the conflict because by that time, they’ve stopped yelling.
It would have been nice if they could have finished the story they started by shouting. “WELL, PERHAPS I SHOULD BE MORE SENSITIVE TO YOUR FEELINGS!”
“AND I’LL TRY TO BE MORE CONSTRUCTIVE IN MY CRITICISM!
“YOUR MOTHER ISN’T A CUNT AND I’M SORRY I POINTED AND LAUGHED AT HER ARTIFICIAL LIMB!”
“I’M SORRY I FUCKED YOUR DAD!”
“IT’S OKAY, HE’S ALWAYS BEEN CURIOUS TO TRY IT WITH A GUY!”
The whole building could hear them going and it was the usual fight kind of thing like:
“GET THE F OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
“IT’S MY HOUSE.TOO!”
“I DON’T CARE! I PAID THE LAST MONTH’S RENT AND YOU OWE ME, YOU ASSHOLE!”
Better than reality TV.
And I have my ear to the door like a safecracker listening to it.
The only problem is, it got quiet and I couldn't catch the resolution of the conflict because by that time, they’ve stopped yelling.
It would have been nice if they could have finished the story they started by shouting. “WELL, PERHAPS I SHOULD BE MORE SENSITIVE TO YOUR FEELINGS!”
“AND I’LL TRY TO BE MORE CONSTRUCTIVE IN MY CRITICISM!
“YOUR MOTHER ISN’T A CUNT AND I’M SORRY I POINTED AND LAUGHED AT HER ARTIFICIAL LIMB!”
“I’M SORRY I FUCKED YOUR DAD!”
“IT’S OKAY, HE’S ALWAYS BEEN CURIOUS TO TRY IT WITH A GUY!”
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Wide Awake in America
"When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep... and you're never really awake. With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything's far away, everything's a copy." - Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club.
For about three weeks now, I’ve been getting by on about four to fivehours of sleep a night. I’d been used to being shocked out of bed by an alarm clock that sounds like one the angry aliens from Mars Attacks screeching by my bedside.It could be a lot of things. It could be the change in financial status since Melly is working full time again. It could be the tensionof rushing through my daily commute to get my wife and son in the sameplace at the same time. It could be that my five average cups of coffee are playing Texas Hold Em in my nervous system. It’s definitelynot the fine lineup of infomercials on TV at 3 in the morning or the unreal array of reality shows on On Demand. I wake up, usually to go to the bathroom, and that’s it. I can’t get back to sleep. I can lay down. I can close my eyes. I can pretend I’m about to fall asleep, but that’s where the charade ends.
For about three weeks now, I’ve been getting by on about four to fivehours of sleep a night. I’d been used to being shocked out of bed by an alarm clock that sounds like one the angry aliens from Mars Attacks screeching by my bedside.It could be a lot of things. It could be the change in financial status since Melly is working full time again. It could be the tensionof rushing through my daily commute to get my wife and son in the sameplace at the same time. It could be that my five average cups of coffee are playing Texas Hold Em in my nervous system. It’s definitelynot the fine lineup of infomercials on TV at 3 in the morning or the unreal array of reality shows on On Demand. I wake up, usually to go to the bathroom, and that’s it. I can’t get back to sleep. I can lay down. I can close my eyes. I can pretend I’m about to fall asleep, but that’s where the charade ends.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Farewell, Leslie Neilsen
From Airplane, the Naked Gun tv series and movies. You gave us all some great laughs and will be sorely missed. Even the ones that seemed to be cranked out like Wrongfully Accused, had some belly laughs. The kind we need. You left a great legacy. Thank you.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Anything wrong with that?:
Okay, I have three separate points to make here that seem to be the hot-buttom items in social and political arguments. I could have laid them out as three separate issues and presented them that way, but eight-year-olds who want to go swimming aren't interested in waiting for editing. They want to go swimming NOWWWWWWWW!
So, here we go.
First, a shit storm started a few years ago when Al Gore did a Power Point presentation demonstrating over how the polar ice caps were melting and the planet was being subject to the buzzword of global warming. It could have gotten people thinking. Instead it got people fighting.
Now, he was pointing out something we should think about. Maybe you didn't agree with it. But it was most definitely worth thinking about. Maybe you'd make some kind of an effort to slow the effects.
1) Maybe you car pool.
2) Maybe you get a hybrid.
3) Maybe you ride public transportation.
4)) Maybe, maybe, maybe it makes you help our planet last a little longer.
5) Maybe you believe it is the way it is supposed to be and either the universe has decided our time is done to go extinct. Maybe God will look around and say "Guess it's time for the judgement day."
But we're thinking that either something should be done. Is there anything wrong with this."
No
Second, we have people who want to defend their country. Their only sin is homosexuality. They are different. And they want to fight to defend to defend and represent the country they love. This is in a time of war, not just a time of peace for percs of scholarships and training to list on the resume. These men and women want to fight to defend the country they love that sometimes doesn't love them as much.
But we're thinking there's something something wrong with that.
The part that the Seinfeld episode left off after, not that there's anything wrong with that was damn right there isn't.
Now, third, and I was surprised Proposition 19 in California failed to legalize what grows naturally in many parts of that state and with help in many parts of many other states. If you don't want to smoke pot, here's a brainstorm, don't smoke it. Either way, you're not protecting the children because children aren't allowed to have it. Even the ones who sometimes know how to get it. There's no vote that stop the bad kids from being bad kids, only good parents.
There you go, now think.
Anything wrong with that?
So, here we go.
First, a shit storm started a few years ago when Al Gore did a Power Point presentation demonstrating over how the polar ice caps were melting and the planet was being subject to the buzzword of global warming. It could have gotten people thinking. Instead it got people fighting.
Now, he was pointing out something we should think about. Maybe you didn't agree with it. But it was most definitely worth thinking about. Maybe you'd make some kind of an effort to slow the effects.
1) Maybe you car pool.
2) Maybe you get a hybrid.
3) Maybe you ride public transportation.
4)) Maybe, maybe, maybe it makes you help our planet last a little longer.
5) Maybe you believe it is the way it is supposed to be and either the universe has decided our time is done to go extinct. Maybe God will look around and say "Guess it's time for the judgement day."
But we're thinking that either something should be done. Is there anything wrong with this."
No
Second, we have people who want to defend their country. Their only sin is homosexuality. They are different. And they want to fight to defend to defend and represent the country they love. This is in a time of war, not just a time of peace for percs of scholarships and training to list on the resume. These men and women want to fight to defend the country they love that sometimes doesn't love them as much.
But we're thinking there's something something wrong with that.
The part that the Seinfeld episode left off after, not that there's anything wrong with that was damn right there isn't.
Now, third, and I was surprised Proposition 19 in California failed to legalize what grows naturally in many parts of that state and with help in many parts of many other states. If you don't want to smoke pot, here's a brainstorm, don't smoke it. Either way, you're not protecting the children because children aren't allowed to have it. Even the ones who sometimes know how to get it. There's no vote that stop the bad kids from being bad kids, only good parents.
There you go, now think.
Anything wrong with that?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Hack Diaries: Drugs, Deli and Underwear
So there was this dude, right?
I got the Call with less than an hour left of my Sunday shift.
“Car 5. Clear.”
“Car 5, 10 Dupont Terrace.”
“10 Dupont Terrace. Got it."
He was on the sidewalk. Not wearing a suit, but dressed the way you would if you had the money but didn’t want to look like you were throwing it around.
“This is just going to be a quick round trip,” he said. “I just need to go to Rite Aid and get a sandwich.”
I didn’t point out that both were not available at the same store as I didn’t like to argue with fares.
“I asked the guy at my building where I could find a good Jewish deliand he didn’t really know of any.”
That explained it. Next to Rite Aid was a place that made great deli-style food.
“Okay, I see. You’re going to Fruit Basket next to Rite Aid?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said they had really good sandwiches and soup there.”I concurred and explained to him that in Quincy and most of the South Shore we didn’t have “Jewish Delis” the way you would in a traditional neighborhood in New York but had mostly sub shops instead.
“The nearest I can think of one that calls itself a Jewish deli wouldthe S & S in Inman Square in Somerville. That would be a place where you could get a kreplach or matzo ball soup. But the Fruit Basket makes great sandwiches if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Perfect,” he said. Relieved, but still seeming very uncomfortable.
“I broke my arm the other day. I thought I knew what pain was. I was wrong. Rite Aid has a prescription for my and I’m starving at the same time. Add to that, I have a stomach issue where I have trouble keeping pain medicine down.”
This explained the smell of pricey import I could smell wafting off of him. He’d had a few to grease the tracks, was feeling good and I wastaking him to get more pain medication. Good to be rich.
“Oh man, I’m glad you told me that. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No man, this is all I really need. Thanks. Hey, did you grow up in Quincy?”
“No Holbrook,” I admitted.“I grew up in Braintree, the whole place looks a lot different.”
“What year did you graduate?”“Thayer Academy, 79.”
“Ok, so you graduated before Jeremy Roenick and a whole bunch of girlfriends I had.”
“Banged the headmaster’s daughter my senior year,” he said like it was commenting on the weather.
“I got straight A’s but that’s what Iremember most.”
This guy was now my hero. And by hero, I meant Chevy Chase in Caddyshack.
“You’re kidding?”“Swear to God. The headmaster’s house was right across the street fromthe school in this historic building and he walked in on us in bedtogether. We were both 17, we were seniors and A students and had fullwalks to college. We were having fun.”
That’s awesome. First of all, he’s dressed like James Bond on his dayoff. He lives in a condo where a month’s service fee was more than myrent and car payment combined and he schtupped the headmaster’s daughter.
This guy was a little bit Fletch and a little bit older BillMurray.
“It sounds like you had the resume and impressive credentials, he should have been glad to see it happening,” I said, warming up to feelsafe in the familiarity.
“I know, right?”
“Hey this is going to sound like a weird question, but you seem toknow your way around,” he inquired. “The airline lost my luggage and Ihave no underwear. Is there any place in walking distance where Icould find any in walking distance to my place?”
This was one of the most interesting fare’s I’ve ever had. He’d mixedimself a Janis Joplin cocktail of alcohol and painkillers and now wewere on this magical mystery tour and I was his guide to good deli andunderwear.
Up until now, the only really interesting thing that had happened waspicking up a mother and two daughters at Stop & Shop in time to hearthe piercing fire alarm going off. I looked at the younger of the two daughters ear-muffing against the noise accusingly and said “What did you do?”
She looked at me, all defensively for a second, then started to laugh.
“You didn’t let the Keebler elves free again did you?” then I spokeinto my sleeve. “Lock down the hollow tree, we have breech. I don’t know, follow the trail of fudge. Do I have to do everything”She was my buddy from then on and her mother and I loaded the bagsinto the roomy trunk.So I take my rich, stoned, broken an inebriated fare to Rite Aid andpark, letting the meter run. Planning to take him to find fruit of thelooms at AJ Wright afterwards.So after about 20 minutes, I see my new hero make his way from RiteAid to Fruit Basket, 20 minutes later he comes back out.
“Ok, thanks for waiting. I can’t wait for this Reuben. It looks likethe real thing.”“They make a great Rueben,” I encouraged. “Did you get the Russian?”
“I did, and some extra from dipping.”
So I told him the best place to find underwear is across the street,but he was exhausted from this adventure so he said he’d rather justgo home.
I told him AJ Wright and even Family Dollar should be able tosupply the underwear he was looking for.
“Perfect,” he said. “I appreciate it.“I’d asked one of the guys who works for me but he told me about thisplace he goes to find $25 underwear. I was ready to fire him just forthat.”
“Sounds like he was bragging,” I said.
“Kind of a weird thing to brag about to your boss, isn’t it?”
Right.
“I’m just looking for a $5 pack of fruit of the looms. If I had the extra money, and I do, I’d take it to Father Bills and buy food forsome hungry people.”
“The guy’s probably just showing off.”
“Maybe, but like you said, it’s an odd thing to brag to your boss about.”
True.
So I take him back to his condo, and he asked me to rifle through hiswad of cash. He covered the fare and took care of me with an extra,generous 10 spot.
“Hey, thanks for everything, I appreciate it. Is that enough?”
“That’s perfect. I appreciate it. You going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. Just going to enjoy my sandwich and try to heal.”
“Well hang in there. Feel better and try to relax.”
I drove to the nearest gas station and filled the tank and drove itback to the cab garage, eager to share my adventure in downtown Quincy. Finally feeling I had a story worth sharing with a group of world weary cabbies who look like they’ve either seen it all or missed it all.
“Hey, Stoney,” I called to the dispatcher through the bullet proof glass ready to start a great story. “You know that guy from Dupont? We drove less than two miles but he needed narcotics, deli and underwear.”
“Is this the rich guy with the broken arm?” he asked. “I took him toRite Aid the other night.
“Right, kinda hammered but a pretty nice guy?”
“That’s the one,” I said.Behind me, Al, Yellow Cab’s equivalent to Coach from Cheers walked in,catching a piece of my conversation with Stoney.
“You guys talking about the rich guy with the broken arm?” Al asked.
“You got him too?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “He had me laughing my ass off."
Cash is usually the best tip. But sometimes a really good story lasts longer.
I got the Call with less than an hour left of my Sunday shift.
“Car 5. Clear.”
“Car 5, 10 Dupont Terrace.”
“10 Dupont Terrace. Got it."
He was on the sidewalk. Not wearing a suit, but dressed the way you would if you had the money but didn’t want to look like you were throwing it around.
“This is just going to be a quick round trip,” he said. “I just need to go to Rite Aid and get a sandwich.”
I didn’t point out that both were not available at the same store as I didn’t like to argue with fares.
“I asked the guy at my building where I could find a good Jewish deliand he didn’t really know of any.”
That explained it. Next to Rite Aid was a place that made great deli-style food.
“Okay, I see. You’re going to Fruit Basket next to Rite Aid?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said they had really good sandwiches and soup there.”I concurred and explained to him that in Quincy and most of the South Shore we didn’t have “Jewish Delis” the way you would in a traditional neighborhood in New York but had mostly sub shops instead.
“The nearest I can think of one that calls itself a Jewish deli wouldthe S & S in Inman Square in Somerville. That would be a place where you could get a kreplach or matzo ball soup. But the Fruit Basket makes great sandwiches if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“Perfect,” he said. Relieved, but still seeming very uncomfortable.
“I broke my arm the other day. I thought I knew what pain was. I was wrong. Rite Aid has a prescription for my and I’m starving at the same time. Add to that, I have a stomach issue where I have trouble keeping pain medicine down.”
This explained the smell of pricey import I could smell wafting off of him. He’d had a few to grease the tracks, was feeling good and I wastaking him to get more pain medication. Good to be rich.
“Oh man, I’m glad you told me that. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No man, this is all I really need. Thanks. Hey, did you grow up in Quincy?”
“No Holbrook,” I admitted.“I grew up in Braintree, the whole place looks a lot different.”
“What year did you graduate?”“Thayer Academy, 79.”
“Ok, so you graduated before Jeremy Roenick and a whole bunch of girlfriends I had.”
“Banged the headmaster’s daughter my senior year,” he said like it was commenting on the weather.
“I got straight A’s but that’s what Iremember most.”
This guy was now my hero. And by hero, I meant Chevy Chase in Caddyshack.
“You’re kidding?”“Swear to God. The headmaster’s house was right across the street fromthe school in this historic building and he walked in on us in bedtogether. We were both 17, we were seniors and A students and had fullwalks to college. We were having fun.”
That’s awesome. First of all, he’s dressed like James Bond on his dayoff. He lives in a condo where a month’s service fee was more than myrent and car payment combined and he schtupped the headmaster’s daughter.
This guy was a little bit Fletch and a little bit older BillMurray.
“It sounds like you had the resume and impressive credentials, he should have been glad to see it happening,” I said, warming up to feelsafe in the familiarity.
“I know, right?”
“Hey this is going to sound like a weird question, but you seem toknow your way around,” he inquired. “The airline lost my luggage and Ihave no underwear. Is there any place in walking distance where Icould find any in walking distance to my place?”
This was one of the most interesting fare’s I’ve ever had. He’d mixedimself a Janis Joplin cocktail of alcohol and painkillers and now wewere on this magical mystery tour and I was his guide to good deli andunderwear.
Up until now, the only really interesting thing that had happened waspicking up a mother and two daughters at Stop & Shop in time to hearthe piercing fire alarm going off. I looked at the younger of the two daughters ear-muffing against the noise accusingly and said “What did you do?”
She looked at me, all defensively for a second, then started to laugh.
“You didn’t let the Keebler elves free again did you?” then I spokeinto my sleeve. “Lock down the hollow tree, we have breech. I don’t know, follow the trail of fudge. Do I have to do everything”She was my buddy from then on and her mother and I loaded the bagsinto the roomy trunk.So I take my rich, stoned, broken an inebriated fare to Rite Aid andpark, letting the meter run. Planning to take him to find fruit of thelooms at AJ Wright afterwards.So after about 20 minutes, I see my new hero make his way from RiteAid to Fruit Basket, 20 minutes later he comes back out.
“Ok, thanks for waiting. I can’t wait for this Reuben. It looks likethe real thing.”“They make a great Rueben,” I encouraged. “Did you get the Russian?”
“I did, and some extra from dipping.”
So I told him the best place to find underwear is across the street,but he was exhausted from this adventure so he said he’d rather justgo home.
I told him AJ Wright and even Family Dollar should be able tosupply the underwear he was looking for.
“Perfect,” he said. “I appreciate it.“I’d asked one of the guys who works for me but he told me about thisplace he goes to find $25 underwear. I was ready to fire him just forthat.”
“Sounds like he was bragging,” I said.
“Kind of a weird thing to brag about to your boss, isn’t it?”
Right.
“I’m just looking for a $5 pack of fruit of the looms. If I had the extra money, and I do, I’d take it to Father Bills and buy food forsome hungry people.”
“The guy’s probably just showing off.”
“Maybe, but like you said, it’s an odd thing to brag to your boss about.”
True.
So I take him back to his condo, and he asked me to rifle through hiswad of cash. He covered the fare and took care of me with an extra,generous 10 spot.
“Hey, thanks for everything, I appreciate it. Is that enough?”
“That’s perfect. I appreciate it. You going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. Just going to enjoy my sandwich and try to heal.”
“Well hang in there. Feel better and try to relax.”
I drove to the nearest gas station and filled the tank and drove itback to the cab garage, eager to share my adventure in downtown Quincy. Finally feeling I had a story worth sharing with a group of world weary cabbies who look like they’ve either seen it all or missed it all.
“Hey, Stoney,” I called to the dispatcher through the bullet proof glass ready to start a great story. “You know that guy from Dupont? We drove less than two miles but he needed narcotics, deli and underwear.”
“Is this the rich guy with the broken arm?” he asked. “I took him toRite Aid the other night.
“Right, kinda hammered but a pretty nice guy?”
“That’s the one,” I said.Behind me, Al, Yellow Cab’s equivalent to Coach from Cheers walked in,catching a piece of my conversation with Stoney.
“You guys talking about the rich guy with the broken arm?” Al asked.
“You got him too?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “He had me laughing my ass off."
Cash is usually the best tip. But sometimes a really good story lasts longer.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Remake 'Em Danno
Hawaii-5-0.
Great show from the 70s. Cool as you can get. Cops in Hawaiian shirts, pissa theme song and lots of great scenery and chicks in bikinis. I’m glad they waited for a generation to pass who had never seen the original.
The chance you take on rebooting a show is that it ultimately pales in comparison to the original.
Jean Smart appears as the Hawaiian Governor and Minister of Exposition who explains that Steve McGarrett is her first choice to lead an elite, Untouchables-like team that is above reproach.
She explains she’s read his file and was impressed with his six years with the Navy SEALS, five years in Naval Intelligence, a tour of duty in Vietnam while still in the womb, and his record of once bludgeoning a man to death using only his engorged penis.
Instead of showing respect to the governor, he blows her off and says she’s out of her league, until he finds out that taking the job is the only way he’ll get to avenge his father’s death.
Naturally, instead of reviewing files, past records and conducting interviews, the best way to put together an elite team is to just walk around and recruit whoever you tend to run into.
“Hey, guy from LOST!” McGarrett seems to say. “You seem generically Asian, come join our merry band/task force.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a hot chick relative who wears bikinis a lot do you? Actually, lets hold off on that until after the third commercial break when people start to lose interest because they have to work the next day.”
Scott “Yep, James Caan is my dad.” Caan steps into the role of Danno,a natural partner for Steve McGarrett since they have that great alpha-dog-mine-is-bigger-than-yours competitive thing that passes for macho camaraderie on TV.
The show might turn out to be one of my favorites.
It’s got all the great stuff the original show had, they’re just going through the complicated setup. Every show does it the first time out of the shoot.
Time will tell.
Oh yeah. One other thing, Jack Lord had better hair than Alex O'Loughlin.
Great show from the 70s. Cool as you can get. Cops in Hawaiian shirts, pissa theme song and lots of great scenery and chicks in bikinis. I’m glad they waited for a generation to pass who had never seen the original.
The chance you take on rebooting a show is that it ultimately pales in comparison to the original.
Jean Smart appears as the Hawaiian Governor and Minister of Exposition who explains that Steve McGarrett is her first choice to lead an elite, Untouchables-like team that is above reproach.
She explains she’s read his file and was impressed with his six years with the Navy SEALS, five years in Naval Intelligence, a tour of duty in Vietnam while still in the womb, and his record of once bludgeoning a man to death using only his engorged penis.
Instead of showing respect to the governor, he blows her off and says she’s out of her league, until he finds out that taking the job is the only way he’ll get to avenge his father’s death.
Naturally, instead of reviewing files, past records and conducting interviews, the best way to put together an elite team is to just walk around and recruit whoever you tend to run into.
“Hey, guy from LOST!” McGarrett seems to say. “You seem generically Asian, come join our merry band/task force.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a hot chick relative who wears bikinis a lot do you? Actually, lets hold off on that until after the third commercial break when people start to lose interest because they have to work the next day.”
Scott “Yep, James Caan is my dad.” Caan steps into the role of Danno,a natural partner for Steve McGarrett since they have that great alpha-dog-mine-is-bigger-than-yours competitive thing that passes for macho camaraderie on TV.
The show might turn out to be one of my favorites.
It’s got all the great stuff the original show had, they’re just going through the complicated setup. Every show does it the first time out of the shoot.
Time will tell.
Oh yeah. One other thing, Jack Lord had better hair than Alex O'Loughlin.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Hack Diaries: Tales of Adventure
So I was faced with an ethical dilemma Saturday. I’d picked up a fare at 1000 Southern Artery, which is usually populated with the elderly and occasionally the variously trouble. So when this guys showed up wearing tan Dockers and a tee shirt, pretty much how I’d be dressed if I was allowed to be a bit more casual, I hopped out and popped the trunk and placed his suitcase into the cab’s trunk.
We made the small talk one usually makes with a cab driver once feels comfortable with.
"Yes the weather is nice," he said. It was sunny and around the mid 70s so I agreed.
We observed it was Sept 11.
“Man, hard to believe that was nine years ago.”
“Isn’t it,"I agreed. "It’s a different world since then."
And sports.
“I’ll tell you," he said, the closest he'd come to controversy, but I was still on his side. "Steroids have because as part of the game as a bat and a ball. They know they’re using them, and they’re lying if they say they didn’t know it."
A pleasant enough conversation over the ten minutes to the T station, I popped the trunk and took his bag out for him while he ran the credit card machine and gave me a $2 tip.
I finished up logging the trip in the front seat, then I looked to the right and saw him walking up the T station with a huge split down the back of his pants. If he'd ripped them getting out of the cab, he would have, and worse, I would have heard it. It wasn’t so much a split as it was like he was wearing a pair of assless Dockers.
He’d seemed pleasant, perhaps I should go tell him? He was on his way to the T, so he’d be sitting down, maybe no one would notice. No, the crowd was already pointing and giggling.
Fortunately. I was lucky enough to get another call so I could be off without wrestling my conscience any further.
Which brings up an important point. Crazy people seem to like me. I’m not sure if they perceive me to be a good listener or if they are just able to smell one of their own. One pickup needed a ride from a local drug store to a rental apartment complex. I can’t say which one, because he seems to believe he is a marked man and that members of both the Taliban and the Mossad have his photo on the wall of their Honeycomb hideout and use it for target practice with their Kalashnikovs. A veteran of Desert Storm, I thanked him immediately for his service before he even began to open up on his further exploits of having dropped C4 in the cocaine stores hidden beneath Manuel Noriega’s command bunker several stories beneath the Panama Canal and spitting in the face of Muammar al-Gaddafi1 after his fetishistic assassination, which he'd confessed was something of a pet project for some time, was cancelled for some reason or another. Despite, this deep black ops, special service work., my fare is getting special medication and renting an apartment. Damn system. Just ain't fair.
We made the small talk one usually makes with a cab driver once feels comfortable with.
"Yes the weather is nice," he said. It was sunny and around the mid 70s so I agreed.
We observed it was Sept 11.
“Man, hard to believe that was nine years ago.”
“Isn’t it,"I agreed. "It’s a different world since then."
And sports.
“I’ll tell you," he said, the closest he'd come to controversy, but I was still on his side. "Steroids have because as part of the game as a bat and a ball. They know they’re using them, and they’re lying if they say they didn’t know it."
A pleasant enough conversation over the ten minutes to the T station, I popped the trunk and took his bag out for him while he ran the credit card machine and gave me a $2 tip.
I finished up logging the trip in the front seat, then I looked to the right and saw him walking up the T station with a huge split down the back of his pants. If he'd ripped them getting out of the cab, he would have, and worse, I would have heard it. It wasn’t so much a split as it was like he was wearing a pair of assless Dockers.
He’d seemed pleasant, perhaps I should go tell him? He was on his way to the T, so he’d be sitting down, maybe no one would notice. No, the crowd was already pointing and giggling.
Fortunately. I was lucky enough to get another call so I could be off without wrestling my conscience any further.
Which brings up an important point. Crazy people seem to like me. I’m not sure if they perceive me to be a good listener or if they are just able to smell one of their own. One pickup needed a ride from a local drug store to a rental apartment complex. I can’t say which one, because he seems to believe he is a marked man and that members of both the Taliban and the Mossad have his photo on the wall of their Honeycomb hideout and use it for target practice with their Kalashnikovs. A veteran of Desert Storm, I thanked him immediately for his service before he even began to open up on his further exploits of having dropped C4 in the cocaine stores hidden beneath Manuel Noriega’s command bunker several stories beneath the Panama Canal and spitting in the face of Muammar al-Gaddafi1 after his fetishistic assassination, which he'd confessed was something of a pet project for some time, was cancelled for some reason or another. Despite, this deep black ops, special service work., my fare is getting special medication and renting an apartment. Damn system. Just ain't fair.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
School Days
This is a week that was always full of anxiety for me when I was a kid.
Summer ended with Jerry Lewis singing You'll Never Walk Alone. Usually meant I'd walk alone through Holbrook High the next day.
I'd frequently begin vomiting right after the song ended. Weeping would frequently follow and my mother would begin the pep talk/words ofconsolation shortly thereafter. One night Father Joseph Power had to come over to talk me down from an anxiety attack and twice I spent an hour on the phone with Samaritans.
For years afterward, I'd get sick on the day after Labor Day as though it were part of a biological clock.
In my day there were no news stories or outrage about harrassment or bullying. There was no Trenchcoat Mafia. I was all taken as part of a rite of passage as a student at a piece of shit school called Holbrook High.
My son has none of this. I like to think it's because he has a father who had been there and sometimes shows him how to fight and sometimes how to walk without fighting and how and when to acknowledge the bugs who inhabit his world. I like to think between me and my wife, we've instilled enough confidence that it shows in his walk and that keeps away the prepubescent predators as well as if he were wearing armor. That's what I like to think. I sometimes think it skips a generation. I've also walked behind him and acted like a skinheaded 200 pound bodyguard at his school. My mom once showed me this poem, just before the start of school one year. For a single Mom, she hoped it would instill something. This is for you, Ma.
Dear World
Author:
Dan Valentine
My young son starts to school today...It's going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he's been king of the roost...He's been boss of the backyard...His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings. But now things are going to be different. This morning he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure...It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans...It's an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow...To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage. So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him...Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know. But do it gently, if you can. He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero...that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader...Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend. Steer him away from envy, if you can...and teach him the secret of quiet laughter. In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat...Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong...Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon...Teach him to listen to all men - but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through. Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he's sad...Teach him there is no shame in tears...Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success. Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don't coddle him...Because only the test of fire makes fine steel...Let him have the courage to be impatient...Let him have the patience to be brave. Let him be no other man's man...Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself. Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind. This is quite and order, World, but see what you can do...He's such a nice little fellow, my son!
Summer ended with Jerry Lewis singing You'll Never Walk Alone. Usually meant I'd walk alone through Holbrook High the next day.
I'd frequently begin vomiting right after the song ended. Weeping would frequently follow and my mother would begin the pep talk/words ofconsolation shortly thereafter. One night Father Joseph Power had to come over to talk me down from an anxiety attack and twice I spent an hour on the phone with Samaritans.
For years afterward, I'd get sick on the day after Labor Day as though it were part of a biological clock.
In my day there were no news stories or outrage about harrassment or bullying. There was no Trenchcoat Mafia. I was all taken as part of a rite of passage as a student at a piece of shit school called Holbrook High.
My son has none of this. I like to think it's because he has a father who had been there and sometimes shows him how to fight and sometimes how to walk without fighting and how and when to acknowledge the bugs who inhabit his world. I like to think between me and my wife, we've instilled enough confidence that it shows in his walk and that keeps away the prepubescent predators as well as if he were wearing armor. That's what I like to think. I sometimes think it skips a generation. I've also walked behind him and acted like a skinheaded 200 pound bodyguard at his school. My mom once showed me this poem, just before the start of school one year. For a single Mom, she hoped it would instill something. This is for you, Ma.
Dear World
Author:
Dan Valentine
My young son starts to school today...It's going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he's been king of the roost...He's been boss of the backyard...His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings. But now things are going to be different. This morning he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure...It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans...It's an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow...To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage. So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him...Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know. But do it gently, if you can. He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero...that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader...Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend. Steer him away from envy, if you can...and teach him the secret of quiet laughter. In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat...Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong...Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon...Teach him to listen to all men - but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through. Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he's sad...Teach him there is no shame in tears...Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success. Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don't coddle him...Because only the test of fire makes fine steel...Let him have the courage to be impatient...Let him have the patience to be brave. Let him be no other man's man...Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself. Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind. This is quite and order, World, but see what you can do...He's such a nice little fellow, my son!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Hack Diaries: Day 1
Saturday morning. 4 AM.
Showed up for my first 12 hours shift with a large Dunkin Donuts Hazelnut and my unsullied ambition. My first cab was a Ford Sedan that had hack saw marks where it's ignition had once been and it wouldn't start so I told the dispatcher and he set me up with a cool mini-van.
Minivans seemed safer and more lucrative to me somehow. Minivans are soccer moms and little league kids heading for pizza, karate teams, cheerleaders and elderly people with lots of groceries.
Not many serial killers tend to favor the Town and Country so I took some comfort in that.In addition, there was a drink holder for my Dunkin Donuts coffee cup and it seemed sturdy. Once I was set and the mileage was set to go and gave the Dispater the "Car 38 Clear" he sent me on my first job.
I set the GPS to Furnace Brook Parkway, which was a long road but familiar and close by.My first fare turned out to be a 22 year old girl who wasn’t going far, but the one mile walk seemed too far to do the walk of shame in Do-Me boots. – 2.20 tip. Fair gratuity for a short enough ride. Her phone looked like it cost more than my watch, but it’s all part of the costume of the young, which I took into account.
After that I cruised around some of the stands to see which one looked empty and in need of cabs despite the earliness of the hour. I sat at the Quincy Center T station for a while, the radio was quiet as I’d expected a Sunday morning to be. I figured I’d shoot the breeze with a couple of other drivers who I’d hope would share a kinship rather than a rivalry. I lucked out and shook a couple of hands.
As I was the first one there, I took the first fare to get off the train in search of a ride. A punkish kid in his mid 20s with a purple streak down the center of his hand and a canvas bag around his acoustic guitar. I didn’t expect much from a busker, but he seemed safe. We talked and shared lots of dudes, mans, and bros. $1 tip. What the hell. I was new enough to be grateful. Have a good one.
The radio was quiet between 7 and 8 until I got a call not too faraway from my spot at the Kam Man Asian Market. It turned out to be a waitress at the local IHOP who knew the value of a tip to hand me a whole $10 for a 6.60 fair.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ventured.
She said, “sure,” no hesitation. Are those cream filled footballs back on the menu at IHOP now that football season is back.
“Absolutely, aren’t those good?” she said enthusiastically. Perhaps she was trying to get that tip back in trade. “They’re part of our featured menu now.”
I told her she’d see me this week.
Driving a cab wasn’t as scary as I’d expect it.
New York City cab drivers tend to get flagged down by people walking. In Quincy, it’s usually someone who calls for a cab to pick them up. Those aren’t as scary as the random types who stick you with a screwdriver if you go to a different church than they do. Besides, more often than not, we have their address to pick up or drop off. We can find them. The violent types don’t tend to give their addresses or destinations.
For example, I picked up a fare from Faxon Commons who needed to getto North Station to catch a train in fifteen minutes. I got her there. I drove faster than I tend to on my own for the reasons that A)it wasn’t my car and B) I had a tip riding on it. She scanned her credit card and it didn’t register. She scanned it again with one foot out the door, then she asked me to come to her apartment to get the $50 fare later that night.I stopped by several times, leaving a note on my business card. She called me and left a voice mail at 10 PM, after I was in deep REM sleep, then the next morning and asked me to come get the fare. The mention I would be calling the police seemed to grease her wheels in making good.Later in the day, I brought my van to help a couple of guys move some equipment, a TV, some computer stuff and a few IKEA artworks about four blocks. At the end of my shift, I found a state of the art laptop in the passenger shotgun seat. I drove to where I’d dropped him off and buzzed every mailbox but no go. His neighbor happened to know him,so I left him a business card. He called me the next morning and I met him at Quincy Center T station while on lunch and he tipped me more than his total fare had been the day before. He has my card, he knows I’m honorable and I expect he’ll be calling back. The tip got me a Nathan’s #4 combo platter lunch.
On the whole life is good. I feel good. I feel honorable. Looking forward to driving in the driving rain from Hurricane Earl next weekend. Guys named Earl don't scare me. The hurricane has the name of a toothless guy in a trucker cap who works at a Citgo Station. How scary can he be?
Showed up for my first 12 hours shift with a large Dunkin Donuts Hazelnut and my unsullied ambition. My first cab was a Ford Sedan that had hack saw marks where it's ignition had once been and it wouldn't start so I told the dispatcher and he set me up with a cool mini-van.
Minivans seemed safer and more lucrative to me somehow. Minivans are soccer moms and little league kids heading for pizza, karate teams, cheerleaders and elderly people with lots of groceries.
Not many serial killers tend to favor the Town and Country so I took some comfort in that.In addition, there was a drink holder for my Dunkin Donuts coffee cup and it seemed sturdy. Once I was set and the mileage was set to go and gave the Dispater the "Car 38 Clear" he sent me on my first job.
I set the GPS to Furnace Brook Parkway, which was a long road but familiar and close by.My first fare turned out to be a 22 year old girl who wasn’t going far, but the one mile walk seemed too far to do the walk of shame in Do-Me boots. – 2.20 tip. Fair gratuity for a short enough ride. Her phone looked like it cost more than my watch, but it’s all part of the costume of the young, which I took into account.
After that I cruised around some of the stands to see which one looked empty and in need of cabs despite the earliness of the hour. I sat at the Quincy Center T station for a while, the radio was quiet as I’d expected a Sunday morning to be. I figured I’d shoot the breeze with a couple of other drivers who I’d hope would share a kinship rather than a rivalry. I lucked out and shook a couple of hands.
As I was the first one there, I took the first fare to get off the train in search of a ride. A punkish kid in his mid 20s with a purple streak down the center of his hand and a canvas bag around his acoustic guitar. I didn’t expect much from a busker, but he seemed safe. We talked and shared lots of dudes, mans, and bros. $1 tip. What the hell. I was new enough to be grateful. Have a good one.
The radio was quiet between 7 and 8 until I got a call not too faraway from my spot at the Kam Man Asian Market. It turned out to be a waitress at the local IHOP who knew the value of a tip to hand me a whole $10 for a 6.60 fair.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ventured.
She said, “sure,” no hesitation. Are those cream filled footballs back on the menu at IHOP now that football season is back.
“Absolutely, aren’t those good?” she said enthusiastically. Perhaps she was trying to get that tip back in trade. “They’re part of our featured menu now.”
I told her she’d see me this week.
Driving a cab wasn’t as scary as I’d expect it.
New York City cab drivers tend to get flagged down by people walking. In Quincy, it’s usually someone who calls for a cab to pick them up. Those aren’t as scary as the random types who stick you with a screwdriver if you go to a different church than they do. Besides, more often than not, we have their address to pick up or drop off. We can find them. The violent types don’t tend to give their addresses or destinations.
For example, I picked up a fare from Faxon Commons who needed to getto North Station to catch a train in fifteen minutes. I got her there. I drove faster than I tend to on my own for the reasons that A)it wasn’t my car and B) I had a tip riding on it. She scanned her credit card and it didn’t register. She scanned it again with one foot out the door, then she asked me to come to her apartment to get the $50 fare later that night.I stopped by several times, leaving a note on my business card. She called me and left a voice mail at 10 PM, after I was in deep REM sleep, then the next morning and asked me to come get the fare. The mention I would be calling the police seemed to grease her wheels in making good.Later in the day, I brought my van to help a couple of guys move some equipment, a TV, some computer stuff and a few IKEA artworks about four blocks. At the end of my shift, I found a state of the art laptop in the passenger shotgun seat. I drove to where I’d dropped him off and buzzed every mailbox but no go. His neighbor happened to know him,so I left him a business card. He called me the next morning and I met him at Quincy Center T station while on lunch and he tipped me more than his total fare had been the day before. He has my card, he knows I’m honorable and I expect he’ll be calling back. The tip got me a Nathan’s #4 combo platter lunch.
On the whole life is good. I feel good. I feel honorable. Looking forward to driving in the driving rain from Hurricane Earl next weekend. Guys named Earl don't scare me. The hurricane has the name of a toothless guy in a trucker cap who works at a Citgo Station. How scary can he be?
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Hack Diaries
So this weekend I go Travis Bickle and start driving a Quincy Cab.
Melly's got a temp job and between the two of us we make enough to be really worried about bills and food and other stuff we're used to like HBO and eating. This isn't the same as the weekend flea markets or her selling aromatherapy necklaces.
This is handling cash and vouchers for transportation. I'm looking at it as an adventure and trying not to worry about potential dangers. Those can be avoided. Old people take cabs. Handicapped people take cabs. People without cars but with tons of groceries take cabs. Those I can seek out. Play to the strengths. People tend to like me. Old people especially. I'm likable. The ones who don't like me tend to telegraphy that quickly and I keep my mouth shut. I interviewed with Wayne, the top honcho at yellow cab in Quincy and he filled out the forms for me and took my photo. I took the paperwork he handed me and brought it to the Quincy Police Department. Once I was sure they'd forgotten me or my application had been lost I called the police station and they told me it was all set. Forty five dollars and a thumb print and I walked out with my hackney license, good for two years in the city of Quincy. The one regulation they called my attention to was I was required to wear a collared shirt when driving the cab.
"Why?" I asked. "I'll do it, but why?"
"I'm not sure," the lady behind the bulletproof glass at the police station told me. "I guess because you'll be driving tourists and they want you to make a good impression representing the city."
I saluted and tried not to make it sarcastic and left. Ready to worry about my new adventure.
So, short of developing an unhealthy fixation on teenaged Jodie Foster, I’m set for my first shift as a cab driver. I’ve filled my Jack Bauer messenger back with a book, a box of Kleenex, Special K cereal bars, a GPS, my iPOD with the book wav I’ve been trying to get to the past few weeks and a notebook to further record adventures to pass on to you, the reader, here.
I took a long lunch hour from the day job to go to the cab garage to have a quick orientation of how things work. This was a nice addition to the Xeroxed manual I’d read the night before After giving me the once-over of operating the meter, the radio and the clipboard log, my trainer, Mick, told me to just have a ten, three fives, fifteen ones and a pocket full of change on me as a bank to make change for fares. He also told me, should I have a handicapped or blind fare, to call their attention that I was there and let them take the lead on how much help they would require. This seems like a good tip, not only because otherwise would be an insult to the fare, but would also make a good impression on those on the sidewalk observing who may or may not decide from their observations whether they’d call Yellow Cab should they need one available. I took a black Sharpie to a bunch of comedian business cards and crossed out everything but my name, my cell phone and my email address.I am paying to lease the cab and pay for mileage, everything above that is mine. I have my fingers crossed and am hoping the first few days, although I’m told they will be rough in getting into the swing,will prove fruitful enough to continue doing this. I also am hoping to score enough to get Robbie some back to school clothes and at least one Chinese takeout dinner for my wife an I based on this weekend’s take-home. And at least one decent story to pass on here. Wish me luck on both counts.
And should you need a cab. I'm around.
Melly's got a temp job and between the two of us we make enough to be really worried about bills and food and other stuff we're used to like HBO and eating. This isn't the same as the weekend flea markets or her selling aromatherapy necklaces.
This is handling cash and vouchers for transportation. I'm looking at it as an adventure and trying not to worry about potential dangers. Those can be avoided. Old people take cabs. Handicapped people take cabs. People without cars but with tons of groceries take cabs. Those I can seek out. Play to the strengths. People tend to like me. Old people especially. I'm likable. The ones who don't like me tend to telegraphy that quickly and I keep my mouth shut. I interviewed with Wayne, the top honcho at yellow cab in Quincy and he filled out the forms for me and took my photo. I took the paperwork he handed me and brought it to the Quincy Police Department. Once I was sure they'd forgotten me or my application had been lost I called the police station and they told me it was all set. Forty five dollars and a thumb print and I walked out with my hackney license, good for two years in the city of Quincy. The one regulation they called my attention to was I was required to wear a collared shirt when driving the cab.
"Why?" I asked. "I'll do it, but why?"
"I'm not sure," the lady behind the bulletproof glass at the police station told me. "I guess because you'll be driving tourists and they want you to make a good impression representing the city."
I saluted and tried not to make it sarcastic and left. Ready to worry about my new adventure.
So, short of developing an unhealthy fixation on teenaged Jodie Foster, I’m set for my first shift as a cab driver. I’ve filled my Jack Bauer messenger back with a book, a box of Kleenex, Special K cereal bars, a GPS, my iPOD with the book wav I’ve been trying to get to the past few weeks and a notebook to further record adventures to pass on to you, the reader, here.
I took a long lunch hour from the day job to go to the cab garage to have a quick orientation of how things work. This was a nice addition to the Xeroxed manual I’d read the night before After giving me the once-over of operating the meter, the radio and the clipboard log, my trainer, Mick, told me to just have a ten, three fives, fifteen ones and a pocket full of change on me as a bank to make change for fares. He also told me, should I have a handicapped or blind fare, to call their attention that I was there and let them take the lead on how much help they would require. This seems like a good tip, not only because otherwise would be an insult to the fare, but would also make a good impression on those on the sidewalk observing who may or may not decide from their observations whether they’d call Yellow Cab should they need one available. I took a black Sharpie to a bunch of comedian business cards and crossed out everything but my name, my cell phone and my email address.I am paying to lease the cab and pay for mileage, everything above that is mine. I have my fingers crossed and am hoping the first few days, although I’m told they will be rough in getting into the swing,will prove fruitful enough to continue doing this. I also am hoping to score enough to get Robbie some back to school clothes and at least one Chinese takeout dinner for my wife an I based on this weekend’s take-home. And at least one decent story to pass on here. Wish me luck on both counts.
And should you need a cab. I'm around.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Stuff I learned from Al Pacino
If you're tangled up, just tango on. - Scent of a Woman
When the shit hits the fan, some guys run and some guys stay. – Scent of a Woman
If you love a man's garden, you gotta love the man! - Serpico
You find out life's this game of inches, so is football. Because in either game - life or football - the margin for error is so small. I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don't quite make it. – Any Given Sunday
Guilt is like a bag of fuckin' bricks. All ya gotta do is set it down– Devil’s Advocate
All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don't break them for no one. - Scarface
I gotta hold on to my angst. I preserve it because I need it. It keeps me sharp, on the edge, where I gotta be. – Heat
I subscribe to the law of contrary public opinion... If everyone thinks one thing, then I say, bet the other way... Glengarry Glenn Ross
A person has an opinion. It's only an opinion. It's never a question of right or wrong. – Looking for Richard
Never hate your enemies. It affects your judgment. - Godfather III
Wyoming ain’t a country. – Dog Day Afternoon.
When the shit hits the fan, some guys run and some guys stay. – Scent of a Woman
If you love a man's garden, you gotta love the man! - Serpico
You find out life's this game of inches, so is football. Because in either game - life or football - the margin for error is so small. I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don't quite make it. – Any Given Sunday
Guilt is like a bag of fuckin' bricks. All ya gotta do is set it down– Devil’s Advocate
All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don't break them for no one. - Scarface
I gotta hold on to my angst. I preserve it because I need it. It keeps me sharp, on the edge, where I gotta be. – Heat
I subscribe to the law of contrary public opinion... If everyone thinks one thing, then I say, bet the other way... Glengarry Glenn Ross
A person has an opinion. It's only an opinion. It's never a question of right or wrong. – Looking for Richard
Never hate your enemies. It affects your judgment. - Godfather III
Wyoming ain’t a country. – Dog Day Afternoon.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
This one's for you buddy.
Robbie,
As I write this, it's 7/11/10 and you're eight years old trying to get
me to join you in the bathwater temperature pool. It's unfortunate
this is the kind of time I take to start making notes, because these
are the times I get lost with you, and you are the only thing on my
mind. There's another list of stuff like this somewhere, your mother
might kknow, it might
be in your baby box. It's just a list of stuff I want you to hold on
to, not to forget because if I am lucky enough to see you grow into
the man I have in my mind, I'll be one of those annoying grandfather
types reminding your
kids about stuff like this.
Remember:
1) Frozen Freddies - 325 Washington Street Quincy
2) Tony's Clam Box on Quincy Shore Drive - you were a fan of the fries
and the ice cream but I couldn't get you to try a clam or an onion
ring.
3) Don's Joke Shop on Hancock Street in Quincy
4) New England Comics on Hancock Street, a few doors down from New
England Comics.
5) Pizza slices at Schoolhouse Pizza - Owner was former Eagle Scout
who liked to compare notes on Pinewood Derby Tips
6) whole pizzas at Alumni Cafe, where they'd sometimes turn on
Penguins of Madagascar for us if there were no sports games going on.
In addition, at ag 8, you'd discovered Blink 182 and the Foo Fighters.
You liked listening to Drunken Lullabyes when I played it in the car.
I hope you remember these because these were things we shared. Places
we laughed. Places we spent time. Places we loved going together.
Places I loved showing off to you. Places I loved showing you off to
other people.
There will be more to follow. I know it. Since you're only eight.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Goodnight, Ma.
So my last blog entry had more emphasis on Father's Day. I felt bad posting that one because I still hadn't written about my mother. The reason being, I wasn't ready. I still might not be ready. The truth is, the hands writing these words are attached a purse-holding, anything-you- say,-Ma, Mama's Boy.
My emotions regarding my mother, who left us May 3rd only come in sizes starting at "Louisiana Purchase" and getting larger from there. So trying to pour out a pint for the blog wasn't happening.
Ma let me come home when I was an irresponsible drunk who had hit bottom and had no noteworthy skills besides breaking her heart. She made room. She put up with me when I quit a respectable suit and tie, several thousand (I forget how much at the moment but at the time it was a lot) job to get up and tell jokes. She made sure I knew to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and not to talk with my mouthful and hold it in and count to ten and to have Kleenex with me at all times and if I didn't have something nice to say, compliment the weather.
My whole life she was mother and father, not just to me but to two girls and two boys who stayed that way regardless of age or legal designation. She did this through a combination of advice, a stern look and the technique that Clarence Budington Kelland said of his father, she just"lived and let me watch." The stern look was reserved for off-color language and unacceptable behavior among other things. In that area, I had an extra tool that would allow me to get a little further than my siblings once I'd developed the skill. I could make my Mom laugh.I could say more if I could get her to laugh at it. It didn't matter the subject. She made me a better comedian because she made me think and talk fast. Sometimes not right away though. The first Christmas I brought my future wife home for Christmas, my mom worked into the conversation how she didn't want a big deal made over her funeral.
Merry Christmas.
The subject came up again a few weeks ago when she was in the hospital getting a pacemaker installed. She didn't want any big to-do or any weeping because she had lived all she wanted to. She'd done all she'd wanted to do. So she absolutely would not have us spending money on a big send-off.
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Ma. We've rented a wood-chipper."She laughed to the brink of doing a spit-take with her ice chips. "We thought it would be fun for the kids." To top it off, she said through a laugh "I have rotten kids!"
I left a little bit after that, but told her I'd check in the next day when she was expected to come home.The next time I would communicate with her would consist of her ssqueezing my finger. At work the next day, my cell phone vibrated. I pulled it from its holster and saw it was my brother, Dick. I stepped away from my desk and took the call in the hallway near the elevators to talk to him. She'd had another heart attack during her procedure. It didn't look good. The rest of the week Dick, Marie and I would take turns just sitting in the room with her, giving her ice chips and cooling her face cloth. A week later, she was gone. Monday morning at 2 am, Dick called and told me she had passed. It was over.
The day after that felt better than the week before, when I could just watch her endure, instead of enjoy this vital life she lead. She'd had her last laugh. And I gave it to her. And that's the best way to close. With a huge crowd, or with my Mom.
Good night, Ma. You've been great.
My emotions regarding my mother, who left us May 3rd only come in sizes starting at "Louisiana Purchase" and getting larger from there. So trying to pour out a pint for the blog wasn't happening.
Ma let me come home when I was an irresponsible drunk who had hit bottom and had no noteworthy skills besides breaking her heart. She made room. She put up with me when I quit a respectable suit and tie, several thousand (I forget how much at the moment but at the time it was a lot) job to get up and tell jokes. She made sure I knew to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and not to talk with my mouthful and hold it in and count to ten and to have Kleenex with me at all times and if I didn't have something nice to say, compliment the weather.
My whole life she was mother and father, not just to me but to two girls and two boys who stayed that way regardless of age or legal designation. She did this through a combination of advice, a stern look and the technique that Clarence Budington Kelland said of his father, she just"lived and let me watch." The stern look was reserved for off-color language and unacceptable behavior among other things. In that area, I had an extra tool that would allow me to get a little further than my siblings once I'd developed the skill. I could make my Mom laugh.I could say more if I could get her to laugh at it. It didn't matter the subject. She made me a better comedian because she made me think and talk fast. Sometimes not right away though. The first Christmas I brought my future wife home for Christmas, my mom worked into the conversation how she didn't want a big deal made over her funeral.
Merry Christmas.
The subject came up again a few weeks ago when she was in the hospital getting a pacemaker installed. She didn't want any big to-do or any weeping because she had lived all she wanted to. She'd done all she'd wanted to do. So she absolutely would not have us spending money on a big send-off.
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Ma. We've rented a wood-chipper."She laughed to the brink of doing a spit-take with her ice chips. "We thought it would be fun for the kids." To top it off, she said through a laugh "I have rotten kids!"
I left a little bit after that, but told her I'd check in the next day when she was expected to come home.The next time I would communicate with her would consist of her ssqueezing my finger. At work the next day, my cell phone vibrated. I pulled it from its holster and saw it was my brother, Dick. I stepped away from my desk and took the call in the hallway near the elevators to talk to him. She'd had another heart attack during her procedure. It didn't look good. The rest of the week Dick, Marie and I would take turns just sitting in the room with her, giving her ice chips and cooling her face cloth. A week later, she was gone. Monday morning at 2 am, Dick called and told me she had passed. It was over.
The day after that felt better than the week before, when I could just watch her endure, instead of enjoy this vital life she lead. She'd had her last laugh. And I gave it to her. And that's the best way to close. With a huge crowd, or with my Mom.
Good night, Ma. You've been great.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Father's Day
So it's one of those moments I don't know if he'll remember Monday butI'll probably see show up in the scene I envision showing up in themontage that will flash through my head when he gets married.It was the first time Robbie went with me to plant flowers, clean thestone, and generally clean up the grave where my two parents now rest.I can still remember doing this stuff with my mother when my Dad wasthe only one in it when I was five or six, certainly younger thanhim. Young enough that I was one of the few kids in my neighborhoodwho had seen a cemetery both in the daytime and outside of a horrormovie.It had been a while since I'd even been to the grave, not that I didn'tthink about my dad pretty frequently. I think the fact I lost him whenI was four had me giving more thought to him, and maybe holding himhigher than I would have if I'd known him. It's conjecture now. But things changed when Ma passed and Heaven was a golden gate with lotsof clouds and wings and harp music again. So when I told Melanie Iwanted Robbie to help me with a project, she told me he might not be moved the way I hoped.She had both her parents until she was an adult, she didn't understand, I wanted Robbie to do the job with me. I didn’t want him afraid of the graveyard. I wanted him to want to make the cemeteryplot of his grandparents look nice, because it was a nice thing to do for them. We had some petunias for my dad's side and some marigolds for mymom's side. We did, the cleaning and he wielded the sponge and watercan like a pro. He lifted and replaced the toy car he'd placed therethe week before with the care and respect of a royal offering.Our last task, the one that took the most time, was cleaning off theplaque about 10 feet from the CARNEY headstone that identified theveteran status of my father. It was badly overgrown with grass untilthe four corners were obscured. Robbie tried using the weed whacker, which was taller than him, and he tried his best but he offered it backto me. When I was done I had him read that his grandfather was part ofthe 104th Medical Regiment. Born Aug 17, 1921, Died March 17 1970.Once the grass was cleared and it was readable, he gave it a gooddousing with the watering can.And I watched my son clean his grandfather's grave. I can't explainwhy that hit me as significant as it did. It was a connection. And ifyou believe in that kind of thing, which I do. I was showing my sonoff again for the only opinion I've wondered about but couldn't get. Ithink I know the answer. Yep. Great kid there.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
I'd like to beat a child
Time to put the cards on the table. I have never abused a child. I have never struck a child. My son may
grow up one day with issues having to do with his father, but none of them shall ever involve my raising my
hand to him. We have, in fairness goofed around and things gotten out of hand, but each time out that ended
up at the bathroom cabinet seeking the mercy of mercurachrome of the soothing bactine and a band aid,
usually came along with at least one giggle while explaining what had actually happened. It's part of
playing hard. It's part of growing up as male. Females may encounter the same kind of experience, but
having grown up male, I can't speak to that.One way or another, you know the kind I'm talking about, I have never once raised my hand and struck my
child. I like to think I am raising the kind of a son with enough sense of self that he will one day, over
budweiser perhaps, admit that his behavior may have been worthy of it, but he'll admit that I never hit
him. Theyn, maybe we'll hug, or something Robert Bly like that.Now, that part aside, I have chosen as a subject today, how much I'd like to strike other kids. The loud
ones, the ones yelling in the nice restaurant, the ones yeslling without supervision at the movie theater,
the ones dressing like members of the Beastie Boys although they haven't passed the third grade, the ones
who have talked out of like to a check out girl and not been struck down, reprimanded, dirty looked, forced
to apologize or otherwise make amends for being a punk.
A child is a work of art you mold when he first comes out of the shoot, they wipe him off and hand him to you. He's your responsibility. He's got some of your DNA which is part of the equation. I'm a bigger beliefer in nature than nurter. Raising a kid is a verb. It's work, but, done well, it shouldn't seem like a job.
So this weekend when it came to my attention, that Robbie, who gets along with everyone I've seen him talk to, is telling me that a couple of incubi told him they don't like him because he's annoying. Which is a word I don't remember using when I was a kid. But it was ebough to make me want to clothesline the little kid.There you have it. I am a good father to my kids, But I have a recurring desire to beat on other kids. Fortunately, I've seen Robbie pushed by other kids, he's pushed back. I even had a report from the afterschool teacher that he had to have a talking to and a time out with the other kid about keeping their hands to themselves. I got the Paul Harvey rest of the story from Robbie later. His proud father bought him a happy meal on the way home. He'd earned it. He didn't provoke the problem, but he pushed back and ended it.Didn't matter. I still wanted to smack the kid. I've got my kid's back.
grow up one day with issues having to do with his father, but none of them shall ever involve my raising my
hand to him. We have, in fairness goofed around and things gotten out of hand, but each time out that ended
up at the bathroom cabinet seeking the mercy of mercurachrome of the soothing bactine and a band aid,
usually came along with at least one giggle while explaining what had actually happened. It's part of
playing hard. It's part of growing up as male. Females may encounter the same kind of experience, but
having grown up male, I can't speak to that.One way or another, you know the kind I'm talking about, I have never once raised my hand and struck my
child. I like to think I am raising the kind of a son with enough sense of self that he will one day, over
budweiser perhaps, admit that his behavior may have been worthy of it, but he'll admit that I never hit
him. Theyn, maybe we'll hug, or something Robert Bly like that.Now, that part aside, I have chosen as a subject today, how much I'd like to strike other kids. The loud
ones, the ones yelling in the nice restaurant, the ones yeslling without supervision at the movie theater,
the ones dressing like members of the Beastie Boys although they haven't passed the third grade, the ones
who have talked out of like to a check out girl and not been struck down, reprimanded, dirty looked, forced
to apologize or otherwise make amends for being a punk.
A child is a work of art you mold when he first comes out of the shoot, they wipe him off and hand him to you. He's your responsibility. He's got some of your DNA which is part of the equation. I'm a bigger beliefer in nature than nurter. Raising a kid is a verb. It's work, but, done well, it shouldn't seem like a job.
So this weekend when it came to my attention, that Robbie, who gets along with everyone I've seen him talk to, is telling me that a couple of incubi told him they don't like him because he's annoying. Which is a word I don't remember using when I was a kid. But it was ebough to make me want to clothesline the little kid.There you have it. I am a good father to my kids, But I have a recurring desire to beat on other kids. Fortunately, I've seen Robbie pushed by other kids, he's pushed back. I even had a report from the afterschool teacher that he had to have a talking to and a time out with the other kid about keeping their hands to themselves. I got the Paul Harvey rest of the story from Robbie later. His proud father bought him a happy meal on the way home. He'd earned it. He didn't provoke the problem, but he pushed back and ended it.Didn't matter. I still wanted to smack the kid. I've got my kid's back.
Monday, May 17, 2010
This is one of those days where I intended on doing some serious writing, so as a result, the laundry got more attention than it's earned. I loiter on facebook and make sure the dishes are in tip top condition. Anything but write something useful and readable.
This is also one of those days where I really don't feel like writing because I am expected to do so, so in true scribe fashion, I am writing about how much I hate writing. I have two papers due soon on highly technical aspects of computer maintenance and programming but prefer to bitch about the weather, crappy pop music and recently discovered pop music. If I can find the time, maybe drop a few F-bombs on the suckitude of the 2010 Red Sox season thus far.
I was thoroughly pumped a few weeks ago when I bought my son Robbie the most recent volume in Jeff Kinney's Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. Not only did he say "Yes!" with Marv Albert-like enthusiasm when I handed it to him, but he actually finished it the next day in a single sitting instead of bringing in his Nintendo DS unit where he normally chaired a lunchtime coffee klatch while networking the units together in a virtual outdoors while reposing in the warm, dry comfort of indoors. In the days before Bill Gates existed as a role model, parents frowned on such behavior. I'm still content to have him work that muscle in his head once a while as well.
More than once I've found Robbie paraphrasing Sam from iCarly's axiom that "reading is like TV for your head." Good man.
One the same trip I'd picked up Robbie's book, I'd bought Stieg Larsson's Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Jim Butcher's Dead Beat. I was already reading Leg Grossman's The Magician's on the suggestion of a friend so they would be my to-do list once school finished.
Speaking of which, outside of the substances that inspired me in youth, my prime motivator was a deadline, which calls now. Two term papers are due by midnight. Let's see if I can make it. Later friends.
This is also one of those days where I really don't feel like writing because I am expected to do so, so in true scribe fashion, I am writing about how much I hate writing. I have two papers due soon on highly technical aspects of computer maintenance and programming but prefer to bitch about the weather, crappy pop music and recently discovered pop music. If I can find the time, maybe drop a few F-bombs on the suckitude of the 2010 Red Sox season thus far.
I was thoroughly pumped a few weeks ago when I bought my son Robbie the most recent volume in Jeff Kinney's Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. Not only did he say "Yes!" with Marv Albert-like enthusiasm when I handed it to him, but he actually finished it the next day in a single sitting instead of bringing in his Nintendo DS unit where he normally chaired a lunchtime coffee klatch while networking the units together in a virtual outdoors while reposing in the warm, dry comfort of indoors. In the days before Bill Gates existed as a role model, parents frowned on such behavior. I'm still content to have him work that muscle in his head once a while as well.
More than once I've found Robbie paraphrasing Sam from iCarly's axiom that "reading is like TV for your head." Good man.
One the same trip I'd picked up Robbie's book, I'd bought Stieg Larsson's Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Jim Butcher's Dead Beat. I was already reading Leg Grossman's The Magician's on the suggestion of a friend so they would be my to-do list once school finished.
Speaking of which, outside of the substances that inspired me in youth, my prime motivator was a deadline, which calls now. Two term papers are due by midnight. Let's see if I can make it. Later friends.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Goodbye, Ma
A lot has happened since the last time I wrote here. My mom had another heart attach two weeks ago and passed a few days later. By the time it came it arrived as mercifully as a pill that says 'this will make the hard part go away," and we more glad to see that after a week of seeing her suffer and feed her ice cubes and figure out which of her gestures had become part of her pantomime to identify her needs, which had gotten fewer and fewer as time passed along.Ice cubes in my mouth, cool cloth on my forehead, "soft" had become her code word for "I'm too hot, take this damn blanket.
None of us knew how much was pain or how much was inflicted by mercifiul morphine. She couldn't tell us. She didn't know. She wasn't having a good time.
What I was sure of is that my only method of communicating with my mother had been reduced to squeezing a finger or a thumb to express, I know you're here. I'm glad to see you. It's alright.I love you. I love you. A week before, once she'd had the initial heart attack. The one we didn't know until a week later, when the doctors worked it in as part of their usual updates like "by the way, she had a heart attack last Friday."
She and I were sitting in her hospital room, talking lucidly about the same stuff we always did. Robbie' Cub Scout Activity, the Red Sox suckituded that had opened the 2010 season.
This was not the first time we had brought this subject up of her checking out. Once someone passes what they consider middle age and enters old age. Maybe it just starts when someone decides they've done all they plan to do and each day becomes another race against the sun, starting watching the Guiding Light, reading Reader's Digest, sashaying into that night's Jeopardy.
Death becomes that elephant in the room. You're already paying taxes, there's only one other constant and it's sitting there with an abacus counting down your time.So she brought the subject up once again. "I should be home in a few days," she began. "But if this is it, I'm fine. I've done everything I've ever wanted to do. I want you to go on.I tried shaking my hands and go, ok, ok, I understand. We've talked about this and so much other stuff over the years that there wasn't much that had been untouched.
"I remember the first time you brought this up," I told her. It was the first year I brought Melanie home for Christmas dinner, it was you, me and her."We were having the roast beef dinner with potatoes and the usual trimmings and Ma mentioned how she didn't want a lot of rigmarole at her funeral. This would have been a buzz kill at any event outside of Christmas. I excused myself to the bathroom and spent the next ten minutes getting the crying out of my system. Melanie and I discussed it on the way home and how Ma and I didn't talk about this a great deal and the novelty had more that a little bit of effect on me.
Then she said it again in the hospital.She was determined to let me know, just like she had every day, that any debt that existed between us on my part or on hers, were square and covered.I knew Ma had plans written down and contracts and to do lists for everything she wanted done if she didn't make it out of the hospital.So when she started in again.
"Listen, If I die, I don't want a lot of rigmarole," she said. While I still had neglected to look up the literal meaning of rigmarole I knew where she was going "And no boo hoo-ing, I'm ready. There is no reason for anyone to get this old."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Ma," I told her. "We've already rented the wood-chipper."It wasn't shock. It wasn't anger. It was just a silent sink in of what she'd just heard her on say. Then she started to laugh.
"A wood chipper?" more laughs. Louder. Deeper. Faster.
"Yeah, we thought it would be fun for the kids."More laughs that turned into a laughing fit.I knew I'd won when she was laughing as hard as I'd ever seen her laugh and she managed to say "I have rotten kids."
That's how I got completion with my Mom. I made her laugh for the last time.
Thanks, for that, Ma. Love You.
None of us knew how much was pain or how much was inflicted by mercifiul morphine. She couldn't tell us. She didn't know. She wasn't having a good time.
What I was sure of is that my only method of communicating with my mother had been reduced to squeezing a finger or a thumb to express, I know you're here. I'm glad to see you. It's alright.I love you. I love you. A week before, once she'd had the initial heart attack. The one we didn't know until a week later, when the doctors worked it in as part of their usual updates like "by the way, she had a heart attack last Friday."
She and I were sitting in her hospital room, talking lucidly about the same stuff we always did. Robbie' Cub Scout Activity, the Red Sox suckituded that had opened the 2010 season.
This was not the first time we had brought this subject up of her checking out. Once someone passes what they consider middle age and enters old age. Maybe it just starts when someone decides they've done all they plan to do and each day becomes another race against the sun, starting watching the Guiding Light, reading Reader's Digest, sashaying into that night's Jeopardy.
Death becomes that elephant in the room. You're already paying taxes, there's only one other constant and it's sitting there with an abacus counting down your time.So she brought the subject up once again. "I should be home in a few days," she began. "But if this is it, I'm fine. I've done everything I've ever wanted to do. I want you to go on.I tried shaking my hands and go, ok, ok, I understand. We've talked about this and so much other stuff over the years that there wasn't much that had been untouched.
"I remember the first time you brought this up," I told her. It was the first year I brought Melanie home for Christmas dinner, it was you, me and her."We were having the roast beef dinner with potatoes and the usual trimmings and Ma mentioned how she didn't want a lot of rigmarole at her funeral. This would have been a buzz kill at any event outside of Christmas. I excused myself to the bathroom and spent the next ten minutes getting the crying out of my system. Melanie and I discussed it on the way home and how Ma and I didn't talk about this a great deal and the novelty had more that a little bit of effect on me.
Then she said it again in the hospital.She was determined to let me know, just like she had every day, that any debt that existed between us on my part or on hers, were square and covered.I knew Ma had plans written down and contracts and to do lists for everything she wanted done if she didn't make it out of the hospital.So when she started in again.
"Listen, If I die, I don't want a lot of rigmarole," she said. While I still had neglected to look up the literal meaning of rigmarole I knew where she was going "And no boo hoo-ing, I'm ready. There is no reason for anyone to get this old."
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Ma," I told her. "We've already rented the wood-chipper."It wasn't shock. It wasn't anger. It was just a silent sink in of what she'd just heard her on say. Then she started to laugh.
"A wood chipper?" more laughs. Louder. Deeper. Faster.
"Yeah, we thought it would be fun for the kids."More laughs that turned into a laughing fit.I knew I'd won when she was laughing as hard as I'd ever seen her laugh and she managed to say "I have rotten kids."
That's how I got completion with my Mom. I made her laugh for the last time.
Thanks, for that, Ma. Love You.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Creating Jobs for the Philippines just because we like them.
So the sitdown with the operations VP started cordially and quietly before it went dark and morose. “Hey, Bob come on in and have a seat.” He didn’t come right out and say “Don’t worry, you aren’t being laid off,” so I knew it was out there.
My job was being shipped off to the Philippines where some shirtless guy who was currently selling jewelry made from his own kidney stones would begin doing my job for five dollars a day, or three drachmas or a chicken or whatever it is they use for currency over there. The last time I’d gone through this it had been in something of a classroom setting with the VP saying, you probably have been expecting this, but today is your last day.
At least this time it was a bit more vague, but gave me a fuse to work with. Sometime in the next thirty days, I'd be offered a package to stay on for sixty more should I chose to stick around.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, I had to stiffen my sinews,which hadn’t been stiff since I’d come to work at this job, make sure the suit still fit, and hit the bricks again for the next gig.
My job was being shipped off to the Philippines where some shirtless guy who was currently selling jewelry made from his own kidney stones would begin doing my job for five dollars a day, or three drachmas or a chicken or whatever it is they use for currency over there. The last time I’d gone through this it had been in something of a classroom setting with the VP saying, you probably have been expecting this, but today is your last day.
At least this time it was a bit more vague, but gave me a fuse to work with. Sometime in the next thirty days, I'd be offered a package to stay on for sixty more should I chose to stick around.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, I had to stiffen my sinews,which hadn’t been stiff since I’d come to work at this job, make sure the suit still fit, and hit the bricks again for the next gig.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Hello, I must have been going....
The moment a man sets his thoughts down on paper, however secretly, he is in a sense writing for publication. - Raymond Chandler
I found the above quote when I was looking for something that sounded cool in my Facebook status or Twitter....Twit. That's not the one I picked. I picked a quote that would have come across as awesome when Robert Mitchum said it in a pithy inner monologue when he wasn't making cool metaphors involving Los Angeles weather.
I bring it up only because I have done more writing in the last year than I have in past ten, on a daily basis, for an audience that more often than not has seemed appreciative. And I've enjoyed it. Even at under 460 characters at a shot on Facebook or 140 or something on Twitter, it is a page.
Nearly every great quote from nearly every great author could probably fit into the same space. Get enough of them, wham, you got a book. Thus I challenge myself to fill a larger space on a more regular basis. I'll try to keep it, or at least try hard to get it to interesting. The game is afoot.
Three-two-one go.
I found the above quote when I was looking for something that sounded cool in my Facebook status or Twitter....Twit. That's not the one I picked. I picked a quote that would have come across as awesome when Robert Mitchum said it in a pithy inner monologue when he wasn't making cool metaphors involving Los Angeles weather.
I bring it up only because I have done more writing in the last year than I have in past ten, on a daily basis, for an audience that more often than not has seemed appreciative. And I've enjoyed it. Even at under 460 characters at a shot on Facebook or 140 or something on Twitter, it is a page.
Nearly every great quote from nearly every great author could probably fit into the same space. Get enough of them, wham, you got a book. Thus I challenge myself to fill a larger space on a more regular basis. I'll try to keep it, or at least try hard to get it to interesting. The game is afoot.
Three-two-one go.
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