Kick, Drink, and Be Merry

Lechmere station is equivocal to mars. Nothing is right there, and it’s certainly not part of the city.

I leaned against the brick wall, thick with years of painting over the same white-roller paint jobs and it looked like all the memories of my childhood, hanging around old arcades and cheap, weeklong carnivals.

There’s an old circus sign hanging 3 feet above my head advertising “Trolley Snacks” but the splintered, red counters have been folded up to block the windows. The conductor walks by me, his loose cap barely on his shiny bald head and slams through one of the rusting black doors. When he returns 5 minutes later, he looks at me before he boards.

“this trains leaving”

“I’m looking for the D”

“Only E’s leave from here, switch at Park”

The vision from the platform haunts me as I’m riding through the Rat tunnels underneath the Capitol. The rails pull up, and veer far to the right, while the wires of the trains cables and power lines hang in the air like empty staves of music. In the distance the spotted condo’s and their satellite dishes seem to have a hum of a life I can’t quite describe. In the distance, without sound and only small images, things seem to go as their planned. People move about their homes, and they seem happy, and the wires bring in options for interests and the trains, and their lego-yellow platforms seem stream-lined; its all correct and for a minute things seem right with the world. As if the scene playing out comforts me with a pat on the back and say its all attainable.

In the middle of the tracks, theres a sole patch where the rubber had been torn up, likely for repairs and a gapping plank of wood sits slightly below level with the rest of the platform. I don’t really know what it means but its there and I feel as if it should carry some weight.

Back in the bar, the party rages on. I spent 20 minutes talking to a 22 year old girl who’d had too much tequila and how her financial advice to clients is “the markets fucked, keep the money in your mattress.” We trade the normal pleasantries searching for common ground and she tells me she was in Taunton once in 8th grade for a cheerleading competition. I’ve heard more than I needed and excuse myself for the bathroom.

In the dining room, there’s beer all over the tables and theres a half eaten pizza every third table. I can’t help but think there’s a herpes culture expanding like the universe on every puddle of PBR with cheap cups flipped over standing in it. The guys in the bathroom greet you with a nod; enough to establish a lack of hostilities, not enough to warrant conversation. I’d rather talk to the guys here anyway, they don’t come with an agenda. There are three kinds of women at these parties, those that are trying to sleep with you, those that think you’re trying to sleep with them, and the small few who are too drunk to care.
Tonight the latter was Ashley, who had all the early standings. “So is mine” she said after I told her my names hard to pronounce correctly. When she told me her name, I questioned how she got like this.

“My team has a rule that you can’t leave the field until all the booze is gone, and we have a huuuuuge cooler and I had to drink it all myself because I wanted to go to the bar.”

She could not have been more than 110 lbs. “What were you drinking?” I needed to know, this wasn’t beer drunk and it was 3 in the afternoon.

“It was tequila, and vodka, and beer.” I had to assume that was at least two different drinks and not some sort of alcoholic Voltron, but given this woman’s demeanor, it very well could have been.

In some ways I can’t help but feel I’ve stumbled upon some Dionysian grove in this beat-up shanty in East Cambridge. Surrounded by slaughterhouses and local banks, and building that were once proud captains of industry that look today sullen and as if they were the lone survivor of the car accident on the family road trip. The 9 to 5 stiffs dance like children, out of synch with the music and spill on themselves with no regard. I can’t help but look with an out of body experience, and wonder when we’ll all be too old, or when I should grow up. When the feds will kick in the door or when everyone will just fade away like all the Rocky Points and King’s Castles. I’m wondering when the ball pit became too germy and when my Coney Island baby is coming home.

Cheers my fellow kickers. We should drink as if this is our last stand against the growing hum of complacent tomorrow, whatever it brings.

Why can't I own a Canadian?

I'm one of those conservatives that thinks goverment should have as limited a role as possible in peoples lives, and this Burkeian "moral authority" crap is directly opposed to my beliefs. A guy on the music forum I frequent posted this letter from 2002 that I thought people needed to read.

Why Can't I Own a Canadian?
October 2002

Dr. Laura Schlessinger is a radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show. Recently, she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22 and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following is an open letter to Dr. Laura penned by a east coast resident, which was posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted fan,
Jim

Saturday. In the Park. I think it was the 4th of July.

some men capture what I can forget to keep in mind. Sometimes the saltbowl can still be beautiful. every so often, even in the depths of summer, when all the flip-flops fuse with the side walks, we can still have a celebration.

Of the two 4th of July celebrations I've been to in the city the first was a celebration of people, and the second might as well have been a friends episode.

That first time was my first residence in Boston, and we moved in on the first of June. Nestled in a student-free brighton hill, we were swallowed up by what people refer to as "real boston;" the commuters, the families, the children on scooters hasseling you for money, the cars crawling and the bikes weaving between them. The night had already come in and because of the holiday, a holiday you felt more strongly here, we all walked in the street, thousands of people migrating to the Hatchshell to watch the Pops. The charles looked like a bayou and there wasn't a patch wide enough for the blanket but the music rang along the banks and we all ate ice cream like children. I was proud to say I felt no emotions then.

The harvard bridge with its satellite vision of the state street art work filled up full and clear like the whole damn city was going to blow. The T's rang with efficency and we all were half deaf. The heat wave gave way to icy cars and in the middle of summer we all shivered like a rung church bell. I carried fast food in a brown paper bag, and we all went back to an old brick building with the floral hotel carpeting in the stairwells. we sat in a poorly ventilated living room and left only the screen door closed. We stood on our balcony that looked out to the back of the buildings across the way, ugly in their honestly, traced the ages in delapidating portions and make-shift carpentry. We drank to our freedom in every regard and toasts let the bubbles lat out on the floor.

For all the miersery on the north shore, or hardnosed lesson of the southern. For the memories in the west and the day to day here, I could never be a man from another place and time. Today I share its destiny. Lick the salt from the rim, shoot the last of the night, and stumble back to an old stylus and ramble till dawn.

Old Friends and Blue Roses

When I was in high school they used to joke that there were the Feats of Brow. A selection of things I’d done because I was stupid and basically got shit lucky if you don’t factor in my penchant for argument and that I ooze charm.

One of them revolved around a girl name Kristen McCarthy. As was my lot back then, I played an effective wing man because I had ridiculous stories, could talk about anything (a discipline I’d studied when I asked a ripe young politician why he would watch a show as effeminate as Days of our Lives. “You need to be able to talk about anything.”), and I had a joke or two. In the course of that charge, I ended up saying, hey if I’m going to keep doing this for you, why don’t you set me up with someone I like. My rearing in Taunton taught me to be at least a superficial schemer. You don’t get anywhere without a plan.

We ended up managing to execute the date, and through the course of it somewhere I picked her up with a cheeseburger. At 26, I’m not proud of it, but at the height of the Austin Powers fame, I made a cheeseburger talk like the character Fat Bastard, and despite her vegetarian tendencies, managed to swing this into what at the time counted for a relationship.

She was the first girl to really break my heart for no good reason either. It wasn’t that serious, but I’ve never taken that sort of thing well. It’s a large part of the reason I’ve a bitter sod. A lifetime of thinking this one was going to work, and it never did. A year or so back I was with an old familiar group and they’d told me she was pregnant; a South American guy who didn’t speak English. I had to just shake my head. She had a wild side and went for guys who were generally troubled. If it weren’t for that cheeseburger I don’t think I’d have had a chance.

The other day our camping department put up a giant banner in our lobby and it stand to the left of my door. It’s a standard marketing piece, shots of kids from summers past and big, brass, letters saying what its all about, but I look at the same kid in one of those photos every time, because as much as I know it isn’t, she looks like Kristen’s 18-year-old twin. It’s more weird that I hadn’t thought of her, or that time of my life in a lifetime. I’m not the same person, in fact when I remember myself at that time; it seems more like a brother, than me. But there I am, in a world removed with a terrible haircut and oversized t-shirts. And there she is, sitting outside my office, as a reminder of so many things; who I was, how far I’ve come, how far off the path life can go, and the myriad of reasons she might have chosen that direction.

In all, it’s a reminder of why I write. Sometimes I’m working through problems when I sit down and write but sometimes its good to remind yourself of past failures and victories, to remind yourself of why you do what you do, where you ought to be going, and what drives you down that road. I was thinking I should give her a call to see what she was up to. I expect her to be alone with a kid, and sometimes you can use an old friend’s voice, or a good story to carry you through, but I honestly wouldn’t know what to say. She’s not on a different road anymore; she lives in a different state (metaphorically). I think maybe I’ll send her a single blue rose. She’d understand, and maybe for a half a second she’d remember who she used to be too.

I love my kickball team

In case its not evident. This is leigh, stabbing me with a bunch of needles she found in the Fenway because I made fun of her Alma mater, Northeastern University. I'm assuming the reason we're "Entering Taunton" is because she hunted me down.

when my friends played wow...

So if you didn't know, I am a nerd of uncomprable versity and unabashed admission. That established, I play W.O.W. (world of warcraft).

there are roughly 10 million players worldwide so I don't know why anyone should feel pushed into a corner, but regardless they sometimes do. Since the game was released in November or 2004 its always been about, existing around the game, a social enviornment.

When it was released it was the most in demand item you've read about. Issel and I went to the mall, actually 2 of them, and between the 4 stores there we only found one copy. I offered it to him, and he passed saying "we should buy it together."

"What if the next store only has one copy?"

He bought it. The next store had none.

I think it was released on a tuesday. I searched every day that week for a copy, but to no avail. On saturday I'd got out of bed at an unprecedented 7 am and drove to a Target in Seakonk, about a 30 minute drive on the hopes that they had one.

When i'd arrived I walked as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself to the videogame section. The games were stacked out from the back of the shelf and there between two games I can no longer recall was a gap. I peered down the hole to find one lone copy of WOW there in the back, hiding from public awareness.

It was all I could do to not sprint down the aisle, when I put it on the counter I crowded around it, to the confusion of the old woman buying sucks behind me in her fur coat. The cashier asked if i'd like anything else.

"no." I can still remember thinking I was snappy, but I could care less. I raced home, shot issel a text and spent the next few weeks addicted.

Somewhere in there, later on Marshall came hom from Officer Training with a broken leg and, unable to do much of anything, we got him into the game. We all kept in touch, we all made plans through the game. We talked on vent, and shot the shit while trying to take down any number of celebrated computer-drive adverseries.

We waited outside of January-cold buildings in strip malls, all lifeless except for the massing of nerd sitting outside and talking about the game, for one event steve and I ate wendys, for the other jon and I got drunk. Times been passing, friends have been dropping out. In the fall I left the group of guys I'd played with for close to two or three years.

In short its just a game, and the day will come where I put it down for good. Life is temporal and things fall by the wayside, but more than just a game, WOW served as electronic watering hole, the proverbial office water cooler for friends I'd grown up with and some I'd never met. And now it too has run its course.

For its detractors, wow was a nerd heaven that only the slovenly and the fat engaged in. Children that never grew up, who only had friends on the internet. But despite the way many would intentionally and ignorantly spin it, it was the same as walking around the mall, or sitting in the backyard throwing back beers, just in computer form.

And now, barreling down on its 5 year dominance of the video game industry, wow is becoming more and more unappealing, because while the game is basically the same, the friends have all taken off for greener pastures. In many ways, its no different than real life, except out here, I'm not forced to look at a list of guy and their non-deplumes that never light up...

Happy Raiding.

Mtv will save my job

If you were a conscious person following the days of 9/11 and you watch TV more than passing one by in store windows you likely heard some variation of this phrase: “You know, for those younger people out there that came up in the MTV generation, this isn’t going to be gone tomorrow. This is real and permanent and it’s something we really have to live with.”

I should have been offended. The idea of guessing someone’s emotional reaction is arrogant at best, even if you’d come up in the same generation. I caulked it all up to the angry wilting of youth the young newscaster was feeling, realizing she was going to be on local news covering traffic jams with the local baseball team soon. But I’d heard the phrase or something like it constantly for weeks after 9/11, talking points and platitudes coming like fads in its own journalistic microcosm.

But if she was right, and my cranky tantrum was juvenile and immature, I think at this critical juncture, I’ve got to passing talking points of my own. We’re currently sitting in an awakening to how much of a sham the world of finance really is. As one market research correspondent remarked, “money isn’t anything with inherent value, we prescribe value to it, and gold’s no different.” WOW!


I didn’t go to school for finance, I went for English, and when the real world reared its ugly head, I went back for Political Science. At no point in my 17 years tenure at college did I believe I was doing anything other than the abstract. We knew what we were, and the first of those things was “mocked” by those with “purposeful” majors. That’s the sin I’m talking about, finance has paraded around for years as some concrete piece of machinery, intricate in its assembly and operation. Too difficult for the lay person to figure out. We went to men with Ivy League degrees and experience for support, and only in a time of unwavering rebuke, when we’ve walking into the proverbial coat room at the Christmas party and saw it fucking the boss were they ever forced to admit…this is all a sham.

This has left us with will. How we will the markets to be, how we determine the state of the country to be in (financially of course), English majors willingly accept the poverty they’ve chosen, but they’ve never asserted we were needed to run the country. So now we need to imagine.

The accusation being lobbed at President Obama as a last ditch effort by the finance industry to screw over a man they despise is that his tone is ruining the country. These 40 something’s are telling me that I have a short memory span? I can recall the last 4 years, and while I’m chomping at the bit to make that comparison, it’s done nightly on Olberman and The Daily Show, so I’ll make my point that I came to the dais with.


Should not the attention-deprived, Ritalin-addled, multi-takers of this new generation, those quick to forget the gravity of a situation, those iKids that move on before the last things over, aren’t they the solution? We need consumerism they say, now more than ever we can’t save.


If the forgetful are the engine by which the country is run, maybe gravity is not the merit we should long for. Maybe we should all believe this will be gone tomorrow, spend like the axe isn’t looming over our heads and remind ourselves that the past is long gone. There’s a book out there to the title of something like “How the Irish saved Civilization.” Its thesis from my understanding (having not read it) is that all the great old historic texts from the Old World were saved in a Celtic library while the originals or their near offspring burned while Rome was sacked. If all of what I’ve writing is within a foot of being accurate, the next book should be called “How MTV saved the American Economy.”