Change is Optional

1-2-3 Green Light

2010-08-08T19:12:00.000-07:00

I've managed to purge a lot of my obsessions.

I do laundry as needed; the piles of dirty clothing in our bedroom are a testament to my progress. I dust only when the dustbunnies threaten to claim dominion of our space. I make the bed, but rarely.

I’ve realized that while I have scant recollection of my extensive Saturday cleaning sprees, I have wonderful memories of weekends spent at the ocean or in the mountains with my rara.

Make no mistake, I’m far from cured. I’m inclined to polish the Rolex at the mere hint of a blemish, and the phone is rubbed clean of prints with each handling. If compulsion is obsession’s shadow, then I’m now frightened of shadows.

None of my mania compares to my fixation on that tiny green light. I wish the Droid had multi-colored signals¬¬—yellow means proceed with caution, red the sign of certain rejection. The color I pray for is green.

Green is affirmation. Green means go. Green clears the path so that I can take my gaze off the ground and crook it toward the sky…

The Wish is Father to the Fear

2010-07-26T18:46:00.000-07:00

"The wish is father to the fear," my therapist tells me.

I look at him quizzically knowing he'll wait patiently for me to ask outright, "What does that mean."

"That what you fear you secretly wish." he answers.

"So if I'm afraid of dying then I'm secretly wishing I'd die?" I ask, opting for the most extreme example, hoping to stump his little theory.

"Part of you, yes." He answers, flexing his unstumable brain.

"Interesting."

"Let's ally it to your example that you're afraid you'll get fired from your job. You repeatedly talk about not wanting to get fired, yet you keep getting in trouble. And if behavior reveals what a person really wants, then it stands to reason that deep down, your intention is to get fired."

"You don't seriously believe that I'm trying to get fired, do you?" I ask.

"Not consciously, no. But it's important to reiterate that 90% of all decisions are made on an unconscious level, and if that's true, then unconsciously yes, you want to get fired."

"But I don't want to get fired." I say.

"I disagree." He says.

"Dude, I'm telling you, I-don't-want-to-get-fired."

"I hear what your saying, but it's incongruent with how you act, and not wanting something to happen is different than being afraid it will happen. The wish is father to the fear."

"Stop saying that!"

"You want me to stop speaking the truth?"

"No, of course not, but...see...I'm afraid but...god damn it...you got me all fucked up." I bark.

"I'm quite sure I didn't fuck you up, someone did, but it wasn't me." he says.

"Smug prick." I mumble.

He smiles.

"OK, so I wish they'd fire me." I lie.

"Keep going." he says.

"Then I can be poor, lose my insurance, be thrown out on the street, and be a homeless loser."

"I think we've stumbled on something here." he interrupts.

"Wha?" I ask, slack jawed.

"That last part." he answers.

"Homeless loser?"

"That very last part." he says.

"Loser." I whisper.

"If you didn't unconsciously think you were a loser..." he's goading me to finish.

"Then I wouldn't wish to get fired."

He marinates me in his self righteous stare. I wonder if he can hear me berating him with every swear combination I know, and a few new ones.

MultiPlease

2010-07-23T06:11:00.000-07:00

Please.

You could call it a prayer, but I'm not sure I believe in God.

You could call it a request, but it fails to telegraph the desperation.

You could call it politeness, but I'm beyond that.

Please.

It rolls around inside my head every time I dream of the possibilities. It preambles the mantra that there will be no harder worker, no more determined promoter, no more enthusiastic a marketer.

Please.

But it's also a plea to the universe for redemption. An affirmative answer allows me to transcend, like Phoenix, into the unknown. It permits me to sigh years of baited breath.

It gives me a chance to let go.

But there are times that defiance creeps in. Please is demanding, like I'm owed.

Please, I am owed.

And should the universe deny me, please is my excuse to refuse plan B, to give up on writing. Please is the anvil that collapses the parachute of gratitude, plunging me into self pity.

Then please will be the answer to looking on the bright side, Maybe it's all for the best...

Please.

For now, I'll use it to hush the myriad of thoughts, good and bad, that hurl at me everyday. I've never been this close...I'm almost there...But what if it doesn't work...What if they hate it...I'll be stuck in purgatory forever...

Please!

Bryan The Great?

2010-07-05T18:59:00.000-07:00

I read presidential biographies hoping they'll reveal what makes men great.

I go to church and watch men of faith profess God's greatness, but they all seem to ignore the fact that understanding greatness on God's level can only lead to an unabashedly prime example of how far we are from achieving it.

Yet I wonder what legacy I'll leave behind, if anyone will consider me a great man.

I guess it all depends on the yardstick. Measuring greatness depends on the scale. Great can be simply doing the right thing. So in that sense I've fallen short.

One could say I'm a great survivor. But surviving is merely the ability to wait out a struggle. Although overcoming adversity doesn't render one great, falling and getting back up does.

Sometimes I measure greatness by way of accomplishment, accumulation, and status, but using this scale leaves room for scoundrels.

Maybe it lies in simplicity, peace of mind, or morality. Not necessarily in a religious sense, but an ideological one. Perhaps greatness is merely self-actualization leading to an unshakable foundation of belief in oneself that leads others to admiration. Maybe it's being a husband, model employee, or responsible citizen.

Or maybe the genesis of greatness begins with the question; just like neither the chicken nor the egg could have preceded the idea of such, maybe defining greatness will help me achieve it.

So here goes...greatness is---

Trying to be better than I was yesterday.

God's House

2010-06-27T18:27:00.000-07:00

I have a vivid memory of my hungover mother's voice demanding I get up and get ready for church. The Catholic Church frowns on denim and leaves the wearing of such heathen garb to inmates and atheists. That day Mom forced us to dress in our Sunday best. But it doesn't matter how nice the ribbon looks on a bowl of rotten fruit, it still stinks. Mom spent the entire hour of church refereeing our abominable behavior. She had to separate Kev and I, putting me near Jess, which wasn't any better. With no one to pester, Kev fell asleep, prompting mom to nudge him like a NHL player nudges an opponent.

During communion, just as she thought we settled down, I'd leaned over and asked, "Hey Mom, am I supposed to chew the cookie?"

To which she yelled, "It's not a god damn cookie."

After taking the Lord's name in vain, she ushered us out, screaming at us the whole ride home. We spent the remainder of Sunday morning in lock down. Kev escaped out his window, Jess nodded off, and I snuck down to watch the faithful sin box.

No institution has garnered more bad press recently than the Catholic Church. The child abuse scandal of the last decade has publicized the secrecy and deception within the Church, tools the Catholic theocracy uses to conceal its shameful behavior. Though the child abuse is responsible for enormous damage, the decline of the Church began long before this outrage. The true failing of the Church lies in its refusal, or perhaps even inability, to evolve. Like all living, breathing entities, it must adapt or die. Some changes call for major revisions of doctrine. Maybe priests should be allowed to marry, or women should be allowed entry to the priesthood, or gays, well, maybe gays should be allowed something, anything at all. Even barring these major changes, the Church has not evolved in small ways--like a meaningful service or sermon, Sunday school for children, music that evokes emotion, liveliness, spirit... Consequently, followers of this rigid faith are finding comfort, love, joy, community, and God in other places.

So, the stage was ripe for churches like The Vineyard to sprout with a new attitude, call it "no pressure sales." Rachel and I went to The Vineyard this morning for Sunday service. We were greeted at the door with smiles, no wait, with ear to ear grins. A friendly man interrupted us as we looked in awe at a sign that read, "Food and Drink Welcome. Lids are Appreciated." Wait, coffee in church? In fact, free coffee and bagels were served in the cafe in the next room. Wait, a cafe in the next room? Friendly, welcoming people, too?

There was no ornate altar, just an unassuming stage with instruments. We were guided to padded, comfortable chairs. There were no petrified pews, no stuffy old fart priests, standing high above us in a pulpit condemning us unless we contributed 15% of our gross, not net, to the church.

Rachel and I sipped our delicious (french press) coffee while listening to the pastor, who sat gingerly behind an electric piano, asking us to open our hearts, and join him in praising the Lord. He burst into song, accompanied by guitar, bass, and soaring voices. It might have been the most exhilarating experience I've ever encountered. Until the sermon...

Pastor Dave spoke of our expectations of love, how we assume love to be romantic, that love is more than that, and that in a nutshell, God loves us. Granted, he was funny, completely unlike any sermon I'd ever heard, but it smacked of the same old, repackaged homily.

Yet the parishioners and Pastor Dave exude peace. It's hard to picture them depressed, and if they ever are, they turn to God. Later this afternoon, riding bikes down Memorial Drive, I felt Him. He may not have been there at that moment, but He's been there.

God has to be the largest real estate owner in the universe. He has a house in every town, every city, in multiple zip codes, often on the same street, so we'll continue our search for Him. We're just not sure which house He's staying in at the moment, but we're hopeful just the same.

Insanity Defined

2010-06-24T19:28:00.000-07:00

Let's celebrate the individual who first looked at a plant and reasoned that it could be cultivated, then transformed into the fine white powder so sought after today. It takes ingenuity to look at vegetation and see a multi billion dollar industry. I wonder if she knew... Could she even have fathomed the power of that funny white powder?

Some believe it to be highly addictive while others claim the rush is psychological. When it hits my blood stream, I feel it instantly, and my heart races. What some call euphoria, I call elation. If you're not careful, you'll fall into a full fledged habit, using just to keep the edge off. In large doses it causes anxiety. Beware of the crash that leaves many listless, tired, and horribly depressed.

I use daily and can't stop. What's worse, I don't want to. I rapaciously crave it every minute.

Despite ample warnings of the dangers, it still permeates most every facet of my life. You won't find anyone that hasn't been affected, some with devastating consequences. You see it on the subway, droopy eyed sloths, just awaiting their next fix, and they'll get it because it's that easy to find...

I know the first step is to recognize I have a problem. OK. I am sugar's bitch...

Dad Vs. Walt

2010-06-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

What attracts me to shows like Breaking Bad? Rachel asks constantly about my infatuation with characters who tread the line between savior and wretch. I argue that it's the superb writing, or the depth of character that ensnares me, but it's more...

Following a diagnosis of advanced lung cancer, Walt starts a meth lab to stockpile cash for his family before he dies. What ensues is an exploration of a man who reaps all the rewards crime has to offer, without the consequence. It's the consequences that make the show so compelling.

I watch the show, and others like it, with a unique eye. I've been there. From this perspective, the show rings true. The writers must be ex-drug dealers to write with such realism.

I can write this, I tell myself.

Where would I start? From experience. A show about a father and two sons robbing jewelry stores might make compelling television. Walt is desperate. Dad wasn't. Walt is virtuous and tainted by the trade. We were just tainted. Walt does what he does for his family, feels regret, and knows what he's doing is wrong. Dad would do it again.

I watch Walt in hopes of understanding Dad. At sentencing, the judge said: This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time. I wonder if my father thinks about his legacy and what he'll leave behind. A treasure map? Maybe I can write the next Indiana Jones.

Maybe the writers of Breaking Bad can weave some sympathy into Dad. It might take an overhaul, a sex change, and fifty one flashbacks to get there, but I'm willing to bend if they are.

OCD

2010-06-10T18:48:00.000-07:00

I can't leave the volume on a prime number and hate it when clients stop on prime numbered reps.

The shiny things I own must be constantly polished. Fingerprints and blemishs give rise to chaos. Peace is only achieved with a fine, microfiber cloth. Anything even suspected of coarseness will be discarded.

All doors must be locked before bed. They must be checked and re-checked. Sleep cannot be achieved until a locked state is confirmed.

Dirt...enough said.

Side note: anyone can clean dirt. Visible dirt is three levels beyond dirty. Even unseen dirt is an affront and must be dealt with abrasively.

Dust effects the speed of technology, therefore, cable boxes, The WII, my computer, and cell phone must be free and clear of dust at all times.

Under no circumstances should one willingly go to where bugs congregate. To enter the realm of bugs invites malaria, West Nile, or at the very least, nasty welts. Heed my warning: Bugs will contribute to our downfall.

I almost died once, the day Rachel licked the Rolex. It was cleaned within seconds of the violation, then discussed at length.

"You must never lick the Rolex."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Have we met?"

"That stupid thing. I can't even hold your hand on that side for fear I'll rub up against it!"

"Right. Because then you smudge-y it."

"Mmm-Hmm."

But I have vine ripened and relaxed somewhat with age. No, Rachel never treats the Rolex like a lolli, but neither do I insist we spend Saturdays cleaning the entire apartment. (Now I just do it when she's not looking).

HX

2010-06-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

Jurell is one of my maintenance staff at the Gold’s Gym in manage in Saugus, and yes, I hired him because he was named after Superman’s father. He’s twenty and reminds me of me at that age; all machismo, hoisting weights he has no business lifting in an attempt to put on the size that’s never coming. He works hard with supervision but if I get let my mind wander I’ll find him in the men’s locker room, reading the paper. Stuck one Friday night for desk staff, I ask him if he’s willing to help out.

During the shift, I ask him to retrieve a bag from a young woman who brought it up to the women’s only section. When he comes back he places the bag under the desk and says, “That girl wants me.”

“Really?” I chuckle.

“No doubt in my mind.” He answers.

“How can you tell?” I ask.

“Oh, I know,” he says, grinning.

“So, ask her out.”

“You think I should?” he blushes.

“Totally.”

“Isn’t there some rule against dating the members?”

“Only if you’re a chicken shit,” I goad.

“I’m no chicken shit, I just don’t want to harass her,” he says innocently.

“Tell you what, I’ll bet you ten bucks I can get a date with her first.”

“No offense, but aren’t you a little old for her?”

“I got ten bucks right here, just burning a hole in my pocket, you in?” I felt two ways, if Jurell won, I could stop liking her, and if I won, I won.

Jurell snatched up the ten and ran off to ask her. When he returned he handed over the ten, “She said no?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m just not ready. But I will, tomorrow.”

I folded the ten neatly and walked away, toward the women’s only but she wasn’t there. Perched above the gym, I spotted her on a stair climber, on the main deck. I tried to make it look like I just happened upon her. Forgetting every smooth line I’ve ever heard, I simply say hi.

“Hey there,” she answers.

“You just joined, right?”

“Sure did. Have we met? I have to admit, when I joined I just finished my fourth third-shift in a row so I was a little out of it.” She has long dark hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. I almost beg her not to tie it back but think better of it.

“No, I’m Bryan, the general manager.”

“I’m Rachel,” she says.

She’s wearing a tank top with thin spaghetti straps, shorts, and two extra elastic ties around her wrist. I can’t help but think of a Porsche when I look her over, marveling at the curves. I climb aboard the machine next to hers and notice Jurell watching from the desk, hoping his fumes don’t set of the fire alarm.

“What do you do?” I ask.

“I’m a nurse,” she answers, toweling off beads of sweat from her forehead.

“Wow, pretty intense.”

“It can be.”

“What kind of nurse?”

“ICU,” she answers.

“Wow, wicked intense.”

She chuckles, “Gotta love that accent.”

“Accent? Oh, yeah, sorry, been here all my life, it kind of stuck,” I say.

“Never lived anywhere else?” she asks.

Try to sound worldly, try to sound worldly, is all I can hear, “Oh, yeah, I lived in New Hampshire for a few years, and Florida.”

“Oh yeah, me too, well, I’m from NH and lived in Sarasota for a few months, hated it though, so I came back here to go to school.” She places her hands on hips that would make a renaissance painter cry. I try not to stare.

“I lived in Clearwater. Nice place to visit but not to live.”

I’m ignorant of any signs or symptoms of boredom. She stops the machine and wipes it down, walking over to a mat to stretch.

“So, what’s your favorite book?” I ask.

“Why, you like to read?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“Love it.”

“What’s your favorite book?” she asks.

“I always loved The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand. It always comes across different every time I read it. I guess maybe because I’m different every time I read it.” I say, garnering the scoff of a few jealous meatheads within earshot.

“Oh my, I love that book. What else?”

I try not to watch her stretch but bask in the fact that she’s paying more attention to it than me, “Loved Sophie’s World.”

She ponders then says, “I think I started that but couldn’t get into it. What was it about?’

“It’s like a crash course in philosophy.” I say.

“Oh yeah, nah, couldn’t do it, too dry for me.”

“What about you?” I ask, trying not to get bagged looking down her shirt.

“I’m a total cheese ball. I read these fantasy books. I’m such a geek, they were by David Eddings, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“Oh please, I’m the king of cheeseballs.”

There’s a pang of disappointment when she gets up, indicating the stretch is over and her workout complete. “Will I see you tomorrow?” I ask.

“Thursday maybe,” she replies.

Back at the desk, Jurell renews his resolve after we watch her walk out, “When I see her next I’m gonna make my move and spend that ten on her.”

“Really? Want to make it double or nothing?” I ask.

Simultaneous with his agreement to the new terms his jaw drops to the sight of Rachel walking in.

“Hey there, I have a question for you.” She says before I cut her off.

“Let’s go outside.” I say, walking by Jurell, I whisper, “Close your mouth, you’re attracting flies.”

I follow her to her car, parked haphazardly near the dumpsters. “You said you’re free after 8 most nights. I’m taking you out for dinner tonight before I go to work at 11.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up here.”

“See you then.”

A moment of pity washes over me as I walk back in, but it vanishes when I remember Jurell’s comment about my age.

“Where’s my twenty?”

GTFO and the Temple of Doom

2010-05-31T05:33:00.000-07:00

Rachel and I have learned so much from each other. I learned to recognize my disdain for close relationships as a self protecting mechanism. Rachel jokes that I come home from work, unable to speak, because I've run out of words. I small talk for a living, inbetween sets with clients, which is why I circuit train them, to leave them with little breath to converse with. But they are nefarious creatures who outsmart me with superior cardiovascular skills.

But ultimately I credit my success as a trainer to the intimate relationships I've built with clients after watching the care and nurturing Rachel puts into her friendships and her patients.

It's not all one sided though. She's learned what I like to refer to as--Wrap It Up. Wrap It Up is an art form; a specific phrase or tone invoked at the right time that portrays, without rudeness, that any given conversation is seconds away from ending. It most likely begins with, "All Righty, well..." or is subtly brought on by an acute sense of purpose. It's important to get across that although the conversation is in fact important, there are more pressing things to do. Seeming annoyed is the best way to get this across. Not annoyance at the obstacle in front of you, keeping you from being elsewhere, but a general pissiness that shows hesitation is detrimental to future tasks.

There are times I have to swoop in on her conversations and institute an emergency Wrap It Up--- "Hun, we gotta go." Other times a simple glance from her tells me to shed my secret identity as mild mannered indifference boy and don the cape and cowl of GTFO, (Get The F$ck Outta Here), my alter ego; faster than a speeding conversation.

Lately she's been wielding her own brand of Wrap It Up, but still relies on the master. She'll inform me before going somewhere that I am to use my powers at will, which leads me to wonder why we didn't institute the "No Thanks, We Already Have Plans," scenario. Take last New Year's Eve. With my super interpretive powers I read between the lines of an email she received from an acquaintance inviting us to a New Year's Party. The email mentioned something about a pot luck dinner but added "bring your instruments for the ceremony afterwards." My instincts kicked in and I immediately called for the afore mentioned "previous plans" scenario but Rachel stayed open minded--Kryptonite to GTFO Man.

The party went off as planned. Everyone brought a meatless dish, clue one that we were headed for disaster. The conversation was stimulating, lulling us into a false sense of comfort. Before the promise of dessert, everyone was invited into the living room for the 'Ceremony.' The room was set up so that everyone could take a seat on the floor. I chose a seat. Accoutrements peppered the floor, including tambourines, maracas, drums, candles, and a huge pile of tobacco in front of the evening's master of ceremonies who I dubbed, Chief Arch Nemesis.

For three hours they chanted, prayed, and banged the drums. Three hours. As a recovering Catholic, the church never subjected me to three continuous hours, not even on Christmas. My powers were no match for the group, so I turned them on my side kick--Get Us Into Shitty Situations Girl.

My beams of resentment are still fixed on her...

So stay tuned because you'll never know what adventures we'll find ourselves in next...wait, what's that?Rachel inviting someone over for dinner? I must go...

Slippery Pete

2010-05-23T16:24:00.000-07:00

J-1 has a row of phones fixed to the wall near the stairs. Three are in use. Inmates huddled close to the cradle press the receiver to their ears. I pick it up the only free phone and dial my grandmother. All I hear is the hollow sound of distant oceans. I dial zero, the operator ignores me. Busted? I shrug it off.

“You need a pin number,” my cellmate informs me as I pass him. “You need to fill out a request and get your numbers approved. What’d you think you could just pick up the phone and call whoever?” he asks.

I’d like to snap him in half.

“How do I get a pin number?” I ask him.

“Get a form.” He says, zipping off like a munchkin from Oz.

Rock is the day guard whose enormity causes me to wonder if he’s manufactured from the same raw material that helped erect the building. His tattoos are more like brandings, bright red lightning bolts that taper from his elbows, etched into his skin, warning he is not to be trifled with. He addresses inmates like a wolf in sheep’s clothing waiting for nightfall to shed his disguise and make a meal of us all.

The block’s tension is an unstable mixture. Rock’s gunslinger, twiddling fingers constantly threaten to activate the door controls. During my first week he lugs three people who fail to make it to their cells in time. The inmates segregate according to race with the occasional group of varietals considered untouchable, labeled sex offenders or rats.

Pete, one of the block’s Runners is part of the prison’s permanent work force. He's essentially, Rock’s gofer, running around all day, sweeping, mopping, and dusting.

Barren gums fail to dam Pete’s tongue so he slurs each syllable. Jailhouse tattoos resemble ink blots. A faded swastika on his right shoulder blade was haphazardly embedded with a sewing needle and pen ink. He killed a man point blank with a shotgun and claimed it was self defense.

Just after lockdown Pete and Rock exchange words. We scramble to the door. Our vantage point makes it difficult to see. Pete paces back and forth, into his cell and out. Rock is at attention, immovable.

Pete’s anger bounces off the concrete and reaches our door garbled. We fill in blanks where we can, something about a mop. Rock offers two options: to calm down or face the move team. Pete chooses the latter.

Rock turns his back. Pete disappears from sight.

Chaos ensues. The percussive rhythm of rolling thunder fills the block like a stampede. Anxious fists pound on doors and drum up tension as Pete emerges from his cell with a bottle of baby oil.

The anarchists fall silent with the echo of boots marching with clocked precision. The move team reaches the block in two single file lines. Clad in executioner’s black, each officer is synchronized with the collective. Singularity is set aside in the name of unity. The plastic face guards of their helmets gleam under the florescent light, flesh and bone are secure under layers of protective material.

Pete steps sinisterly backward and sprays baby oil. Once the move team is inside, a hush blankets the block. Rock manually unlocks the door with his key and holds it open. The move team’s tight formation is headed by clear shields that deliver a jolt that incapacitates on contact. The first two hit the baby oil and careen into the wall. The rest halt like the remnants of a decapitated body watching its head roll to the ground. The middle two, now in front, stand on the precipice of the slick and attempt to help their flailing counterparts. The team tightens their formation and takes shorter steps.

The commotion pours through the vents. Do not move! You’re only making this worse! Pete’s coffee cup hits the floor, gets kicked out of the way, and tumbles onto the block. Watch his other arm! Get it down! Cuffs, cuffs, get’em tight! They drag Pete out, cuffed, and slide him along the floor through the oil.

Back in formation, they lift Pete off the ground by his limbs. I can see the swastika veiled under his soaked cotton shirt, his muscles tense from the pressure.

My cellmate flops on his bunk, returning to business as usual. Rock cracks the cell of another runner and orders him to clean up the oil and pack Pete’s things up.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

2010-05-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

Someone slides a newspaper under my cell door so I twist around to reach it without leaving the bunk. Dad's on the front page, elbows propped on the arms of a chair, fingers laced, supporting his chin. Handcuffs peek out from under his shirt. The headline reads: Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed.

His face is softer than I remember, his head shaved bald. I look for signs of stress but find none.

The article jumps from the page. I focus on what the judge said to dad before sentencing him to twelve years:

This concludes a bizarre series of crimes that I am still unable to fully understand. It is really quite extraordinary, and very, very sad. How as a father you could have involved your sons in this is beyond my capacity as a father to comprehend. But we all have choices in this world. And you are going to live with yours for a long time.

The article concludes that during a robbery we threatened we'd kill the victim if he failed to report the robbery was committed by three black men.

I'm interrupted by the guards call over the loud speaker, “Canteen, A through M, pickup.”

The doors pop open. I’m sensitive to any and all stares, especially from the black inmates. Next door is Malakai and his cellmate Donovan. I argued with Donovan one night after he cut into my reserved phone time. He towers over me but is soft and perpetually sweating. A walk from his cell to the shower leaves him winded.

Malakai is surprisingly agile despite his gimp leg. He has no kneecap after his gun went off while he tried to pull it from his waistband. It missed his penis by inches before blowing a hole in the top of his knee. He’s the most boisterous voice on the block, pacing up and down the hall; spouting about the collective evils that make up the entity he calls “The Man.” The Man is racist and utterly corrupt. The Man is responsible for Malakai’s ability to procure a weapon and rob the convenience store that in turn robbed him of a normal gait. The Man is white.

He mills about the block, paying no particualr attention as I dart out the door.

I snatch up my canteen bags and hurry back to the block. I pass Donovan, sweating near the phones, the receiver pressed to his ear. Malakai emerges from his cell and limps toward me. I drift to the opposite side of the hallway to avoid him. He adjusts and meets me head-on.

“Excuse me.” I say and move to sidestep his intrusion.

“Where you going with my canteen, white boy?” he says.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“My canteen.” Malakai says.

“Our canteen.” Donovan reiterates over my shoulder.

“As a matter of fact you can drop that shit off every week from now on. White. Boy.” Malakai says, letting me know he read the article.

Other inmates take notice. My options disappear in thickets of dread. At the end of the hall is a door that connects the east and west sides of the building. A guard emerges, keys jingling from his belt.

I whisper, “I don’t want any trouble, you can have the bags. Just let me bring them to my cell so the sergeant doesn’t suspect anything.”

“Do that.” Malakai responds.

I rush to my cell and set the bags down. My hands shake. I pull a pair of socks from my locker and stuff one into the other then fill them with tuna cans pulled from the bags. With the socks wrapped tight around my wrist, I run out into the hall.

Donovan shouts out a warning, but it’s too late. I aim and take out Malakai first. The cans crash against the side of his head as he goes down.

Simultaneous with turning my sights on Donovan, the call goes out. The sergeant shouts into a receiver clipped to his shoulder, “Move team to east down, I repeat, move team to east down,” which means officers are suiting up in riot gear to take me by force to the hole.

The weight of the cans pulls my arm across my body. I wield the makeshift mace and aim for the porous flesh of Donovan’s shoulder but he turns expectantly and takes it in the chest. I swing them circular, gain momentum, and bring the cans down on his head.

I know the disciplinary committee will suspect this is a hate crime, perpetrated against a minority by a cold callous mind, so I turn the tuna cans on Ritchie, the closest Caucasian.

The ensuing quiet brings clarity. The shaking subsides. I kneel at the sergeant’s behest, interlace my fingers behind my head, and lay on my stomach per his demands.

Lack of Wits

2010-05-09T15:10:00.000-07:00

I considered some of the crowd friends, until they cheered for my opponent. Shawn Lachowitz, or ‘lack of wits’ as I called him when he was out of earshot, was a pipsqueak. I flipped him off after he called me a name, I couldn’t recall which, there were so many. It was something derogatory, Polak probably, that one always pissed me off.

The crowd cheered, hit him and knock him out, so succinctly it sounded rehearsed. Their faces blurred while I focused on Shawn and where the first punch might come from. It was left. My teeth clattered, one knocked loose. I covered my face. Shawn knocked the wind out of me. I gasped. He finished me off with a flurry of punches to the face and neck. I fell to the ground crying. The crowd dispersed in a shower of post fight commentary. He’s a pussy. Wasn’t much of a fight was it?

Someone helped me up. Blood trickled from my lip. I left the bulk of it in the grass. So much of my blood was spilled in the field behind the school it surprised me when dandelions didn’t spring up crimson.

I ran toward the woods, crossed the ramshackle bridge taking my hand off my jaw long enough to hop over the missing planks. I sighed at the top of the hill. Peace lay beyond, nestled in the rolling hills deep with vegetation. It was to me what the Fortress of Solitude was to Superman, my haven away from the tortures of life.

My brother saw me first. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked.

“Shawn,” sounded like Slawn with my fat lip.

“That little pissant? You can’t take that little bastard? Jesus Christ!”

Mom came into the room. “Oh my god not again.” She rushed over and examined my face. My eyes filled with tears. “We should go to the emergency room,” she said.

“Aww Mom, it’s just a few cuts and scrapes, he’ll be fine,” my brother interjected.

“He will not be fine. Look at him.” She stepped back. They both looked me over.

“What are we going to do about this? I need to speak with his teacher again.” she said.

My brother rolled his eyes, “What, so he can get creamed again tomorrow? I’ll take care of this.”

“How?” mom asked.

“Just don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it my own way.”

“How? By beating the kid up? That won’t solve a thing and you know it.”

“Well, it’s better than talking to his teacher. Hello, we’re trying to avoid a beating not cause one.” He had an airtight case and she knew it. Mom still remembered some schoolyard logic.

“I’m not going to let you go and smack some kid around. Figure out another way.” she said.

“Clean him up. I’ll take him to talk to Shawn’s brother. I have shop class with him.”

He walked through the woods, I traipsed behind. My face had not finished rebuking me for getting in the way of Shawn’s fists. My brother’s hands were clenched. I was afraid there would be another fight.

“Will you catch up!” he snapped.

I ran but stayed behind. “Whub are youb ghunna doob?” I asked with my bloated lip.

“Just keep quiet. I’m going to smooth it all out. Make you two friends again.”

“But we aren’t fwends!”

“And then I’m going to train you to kick Shawn’s ass.”

“But howb amb I ghunna doob thab?”

“Shut up, will you. I need to think.”

Shawn soaked his fist in ice water outside his rent controlled apartment building, his brother sat next to him, smirking. They stood when they saw us coming.

“Stay here.” My brother ordered. I obeyed.

Shawn’s brother, Stan, was tall and fierce looking with a scar that ran the length of his right cheek. I readied myself for a fatter lip when these two titans clashed. My brother’s hands unclenched, his shoulders slumped. He met Stan with a smile and a handshake and pointed me out with a thumb over his shoulder. Stan looked over and nodded. They shook hands again. My brother walked past me, I hurried behind.

“Whab you tell hib?” I asked.

“I told him you were sick and that beating you up was contagious.” he said sarcastically. “What does it matter, it’s all set. Shawn isn’t going to bother you anymore. Now I can teach you how to make his face look like yours.”

He seemed excited. The common ground we stood on was based principally on the fact that while he was interested in teaching me to inflict pain on Shawn, he wasn’t inflicting it on me.

“The Carnival will be here during April vacation, you’ll fight him then.” He said. It was one of those conversations I wasn’t sure if he was having with me or about me with himself. “Just walk right up to him and start swinging, and don’t stop!” he said forcefully, “there’s no way you can lose.”

I had doubts.

The next day he summoned me to the basement where his bench was set up. The floor was strewn with sand filled, plastic weights. “Lay down.” he commanded.

I complied. My rail thin arms reached up to grasp the bar. Two of the smaller disks were locked into place on each side. He helped lift it off and let go, it crashed into my chest. I kicked my feet and struggled to push it off.

“Come on! Push it up you pussy! Jeez, Mom can lift this much!” he chided.

He pulled it off just as I turned a light shade of blue. I sat up, gasping.

“Man, how can anyone be so weak?” he asked, “It’s all that crap you eat. You need to eat something that’ll put some meat on your bones.” he marched up the stairs barking at me to follow. “Sit!” he said, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table.

Mom sat opposite, reading the paper, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. My brother got a glass from the cupboard and a dozen eggs from the fridge, plunking them in front of me as he sat down.

He removed an egg and cracked it on the side of the glass. It oozed from shell and into the glass. He did it with another, and another. Three eggs clouded the glass.

“Drink it.” he demanded.

“No. Way.” I said.

“You want to get strong then you have to drink that.” He pointed to the glass.

“Never.” I reiterated.

“Drink it or forget about me helping you.” he threatened.

“Tell you what,” my mother said, “I’ll give you five bucks if you can do it without spitting them out.”

“Hell, I’ll do it for a fiver.” my brother said, reaching for the glass.

I snatched it away, “She was talking to me.”

A drop spilled over the rim and hit my thumb. It sat on my skin like mercury. There was no way the eggs would make it past the lump in my throat. I held my nose and closed my eyes. The stench of raw egg filled my lungs. My eyes opened wide, “Let me see the fiver,” I said to Mom.

She fished out a five from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table. I pinched my nose--three, two, one, gulp. The eggs slipped down my throat with ease. I gagged once before finishing them off. My mouth felt coated with ooze. I shot up and grabbed a Hostess Cupcake, tore at the plastic wrap, and shoved it in my mouth before collecting my five.

“Good, now let’s try that weight again.” my brother said.

For two weeks it caved in my chest. My brother gave up. I snuck down whenever he wasn’t home and just pushed the empty bar.

Trucks rolled into the field next to Eastman Gelatin. I watched the Carnies hop out and begin erecting the rides. The Skydiver was the first one to rise above the field. Even unassembled it looked ominous. Mistaken for a Ferris Wheel, the three story ride rotated at an alarming speed with each sealed compartment spinning on its own axis. The Bumper Car’s adjacent roof caught wallets, change, and lunches that fell freely. Carnies cleaned up all the unintended tips while the ride was running. A sign sanctioned the behavior—Not Responsible for Lost Items. It was the type of ride my brother and Shawn shouted obscenities from, and spit, hoping to hit someone like me.

They assembled the Tilt-A-Whirl, Round-Up, Haunted House, and The Flying-Bobs. Still the Skydiver cast a shadow over them all, over me. Smaller trucks hauled in the Mid-way. The ring toss awarded pink or blue stuffed teddy bears. The dart game gave out mirrors stenciled with clever clichés like, I’m so Happy I could just shit!

Opening night, I saw her, waiting to get on the Tilt-A-Whirl. I turned and met her gaze and quickly turned away. The surly Carnie took my ticket. Nick read like ick on his grease blotched nametag.

I dashed to the steel half shell in the back and looked for her. She was dressed like a tomboy in camouflage pants with lots of pockets, black hooded sweatshirt, and a black baseball cap. Her soft, round face, was accented with rosy cheeks. Hair spiraled from under the hat in long curly locks of chestnut. The ride was full, ick headed toward me with her in tow.

“She’s riding with you.” he grunted.

“Sorry, I guess the ride is pretty full.” she said.

I stiffened, suddenly aware that my breath smelled like corndogs. “Whatever,” I said, trying to act disinterested, like my brother when he talked to a girl, but came off sounding curt.

“I’ve never been on this ride before is it scary?” she asked with a soothing tweet. Her hands braced the handle that locked across our laps.

“No.” I answered, searching for something smooth to say, “But some kid puked on it last night.”

She made a face like she bit into a lemon, “Ewww, that’s gross.”

Something swelled in me. I felt like I could scale the Skydiver, stand atop its highest point, and sing. “Yeah, puke is gross,” I agreed, catching the tail end of her rolling her eyes. “You’ve never been to the carnival?”

“No, I just moved here with my Aunt.” she smiled again.

“Cool.”

The ride jerked forward. I pushed the heel of my left foot into the floor to prevent from sliding. It sped faster, my knuckles turned white. I peeked at her. She giggled as our cart swung around.

The ride slowed and reversed. Now she would have to fight centrifugal forces to keep from hurling into me. My heart sank. Her grip gave out and she slid into me. My mouth went dry, bits of corndog dried and crumbled. An actual girl was pressed against me. Her body was soft and smelled flowery fresh. We were pinned to the side of the cart as it spun.

When it slowed she didn’t scoot away, didn’t seem repulsed by being close. She moved away as the ride came to a stop. Our eyes met, I looked away.

“Thanks for letting me share.” she said, tucking a wavy strand of hair beneath her hat.

“Yeah, well, I usually ride alone, but it’s ok.”

We stepped off the ride. She was about to say something when raindrops pounded the brim of her hat. I was startled to see her behind me after I ran for the arcade tent.

“It looks like a passing shower.” she said, looking up at the sky. Raindrops pelted the tent like a drum roll.

Billowy clouds hovered on the horizon. A dark gray patch loomed directly above. “Yeah, but the rides will be all wet now. I have to go home.” I tried desperately to restrain the prepubescent crack of my voice.

“Hold on I’ll walk with you.” she said while zipping her sweatshirt.

The storm passed. The sky opened up, a breeze swept up a mixture of lilac and asphalt. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, my feet dragged along the sidewalk.

“My name is Crissy by the way.” she said despite the gold medallion that dangled from her neck, her name spelled out in cursive.

“Cool.” I replied.

We reached her street. It wasn’t far from the school. The license plate of the car parked outside her house read Coco.

“Coco?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s my last name.”

“Crissy Coco? Your name is Crissy Coco?” I chuckled.

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.” She looked hurt so I stopped.

“Sorry,” I said still smirking.

“Are you going to the carnival tomorrow?” she asked once I wiped the grin off my face.

“I’m there everyday.” I replied.

“Maybe I’ll see you there?” she asked, avoiding eye contact.

“I don’t know. I have to lift weights tomorrow.”

“Oh, ok. If I don’t see you there I’ll see you at school.” she looked disappointed, and when she mentioned school, I joined her.

“Well, bye.” I said and ran away.

I don’t think my feet touched the ground on the way home. I burst through the front door and was deflated by the weight bench. Several of the larger weights were loaded on the bar from my brother’s last set. I stared it down. Bravado seeped from every pore.

I stripped it, slid on the tens, and lifted it off the cradle. My right arm shook uncontrollably, every muscle tightened. I unlocked my elbows and lowered the bar. There was no recourse if I failed. My brother would find me, choked to death by two meager weights and a long steel bar. My eyeball twitched as I pushed. It budged an inch before succumbing to gravity. Panic set in, I thought of Crissy, imagined her standing by my side, hanging on my chiseled arm. I pushed again, past that sticky one inch mark, and up to the top.

I sat up, elated. Was it the eggs? It had to be the eggs! I leapt up the stairs, two at a time. Three eggs cracked and ready---Three, two, one, gulp, Hostess Cupcake—one step closer to becoming an Adonis.

The next day there was a spring in my step. My arms flared out to the sides as if I were a gunslinger. The sleeves of my t-shirt were rolled to expose walnut sized muscles. I even shaved.

She was playing Ms. Pacman under the arcade tent wearing skin tight jeans, white high top sneakers, and white socks with the jeans tucked in. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, same black sweatshirt, Crissy glittered from her neck.

She saw me and abandoned the game, flung her arms around my neck and squeezed. I was surprised she got her arms around me, I was huge.

“Come on.” she said, wildly excited.

She clasped my hand in hers and led me through the crowd. I didn’t care where. She stopped at the foot of the ramp to the Skydiver, “Will you go on it with me?” she asked.

My arms took their rightful place back at my sides. A breeze rustled my hair as the carts roared by. “The Skydiver? It’s not really that good.” I whispered so it couldn’t hear my insolence.

“Are you kidding? It looks like a blast. Oh please? Normally I’d be afraid but now I have you to protect me.” Her arm interlocked in mine.

She stomped up the ramp, I tip-toed. ick stood at the controls, manhandling the levers. His five o’clock shadow read seven thirty. I wanted to protest, to block my ears from the gears that screamed warnings to turn back. I looked up and drank in its enormity. Long luminous tubes of neon fired sequentially, in clusters, then altogether. It may have looked festive but I knew it was Morse code for Come ride the handbasket to hell!

The gears screeched out a final decree, leeeeeavvvvve nnnnnowwwww! ick pulled the safety pin. The cart swung open to reveal two youths younger than me laughing hysterically, screeching, “Again, again!”

“Come on, come on, let’s go!” ick shouted over the snarl of the generator.

Crissy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the cart. “Tickets!” he snapped and snatched them from her hand. He slammed the cage shut and sealed it with the pin. I watched him work the lever, a blast of air hissed from the compressor.

I grabbed the solid steel wheel to prevent us from spinning. Crissy wrapped her arm around mine, just like my vision, minus the chiseled arm. The cart climbed a few feet and stopped to load more people. The wind whistled through the grate and sent a chill up my spine. I held on with all my might. Another hiss and the cart climbed to the peak. I adjusted the wheel to stay upright. My arms ached.

“Wow! Look at the view.” Crissy shouted.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, the view.” The cart gained speed. No more stops.

I tried in vain to hold the cart still but gravity overpowered me. I cursed silently, then aloud. After five times around we stopped and reversed gears. Five more rotations, I counted. On the fifth it screeched to a halt, we were poised at the peak. ick was letting people off. I made it! No puking. No awkward high pitched screams.

The cart moved forward and pit us with the ground. I scanned the crowd. Adrenaline pumped freely. I was scared yet thankful to the twisted mind that engineered the ride’s solid steel construction. After this I would pet stray dogs, run with scissors, maybe even kiss Crissy on the lips.

My new found invincibility dwindled when I glimpsed my brother emerging between two trailers. I retraced his steps to the small crowd lurking in the shadows and knew one of them was Shawn. ick set us free. I scurried down the ramp and into the shadows between rides. It was too much to process, giant rides, soft scented girl, imminent danger. Crissy stood next to me, giddy from the ride.

“That was so fun, wasn’t it?” she asked before noticing I had gone pale. “Are you alright?” She touched my arm. I pulled away.

My brother strutted by in pursuit, stopped, then leaned back, “Gotcha!” he said, “Let’s go, its time.”

“Go where?” Crissy asked.

He looked her up and down dismissively, “They’re waiting, let’s go.”

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“My brother,” I whimpered.

“This is your brother?” She sounded surprised.

He grabbed my arm. I didn’t protest. It was either Shawn or my brother, maybe both in the end. We slipped between two trailers, shaking Crissy’s pursuit. I felt my eyes transition, light to dark. The festive sounds faded to a hodgepodge of background noise.

“Now remember, don’t even give him an opportunity. Just swing and don’t stop.” my brother repeated.

It echoed in my head. I heard it as a statement, a commandment, a mantra. I even heard as an answer to a logical question. How do you beat a bully? Just swing and don’t stop. It made sense. And in someone else’s hands, it might have worked.

We twisted through a maze of trailers to a clearing. The crowd parted to let us through. Shawn stood at the end, throwing punches at his brothers open hands. As we faced off my brother drifted away and stood in the middle of the crowd. Shawn’s brother joined him and I realized what my brother had done. This was a trial by fire. Like the time he tried to teach me to ride my bike by bending the training wheels up and forcing me down the neighborhoods tallest hill.

Just swing and don’t stop formed a beat in my head. There was no turning back. A loss ensured future beatings from anyone in the crowd. Just swing and don’t stop. Maybe the eggs would help.

I glanced at my brother. His patience was running thin. I thought of Crissy. Something other than fear coursed through me. It was the excitement of returning to school as the hero that beat Shawn Lack-of-Wits. One last glance at my brother heading toward me and I propelled myself forward. The element of surprise washed away Shawn’s snicker. He didn’t have time to put up his hands to block. I socked him right in the jaw.

The just swing and don’t stop offensive showed promise. I hit him a half dozen times until he readjusted and countered with swing and don’t stop’s only defense—bob and weave.

Bap bap bap, and it was over. My brother had to pull him off me before he knocked me unconscious. Something I’m quite sure he did so he wouldn’t have to explain to Mom why I was a vegetable.

Use, Abuse, and Dependence

2010-05-03T17:09:00.000-07:00

Just like I’m not sure whey protein builds lean muscle or that steady state cardio burns fat most efficiently, I’ve never bought the disease concept of addiction. Twelve steppers will have a field day with this but the idea that I have an incurable disease whose symptoms will flare up at mere mention of using again doesn’t seem right.

I agree that AA is brainwashing and, let’s face it, we could all use a little brainwashing. First and foremost, the program gave me a place to be that was safe. Somewhere I could step outside my own thinking and be with people that are doing what I couldn’t do alone. Second, it gave me a plan, twelve steps, or commandments, that helped me put the pieces of the puzzle if not together, at least in order. It made me responsible for me.

But something struck me as odd about how adamant AA is about denying any religious affiliation. The word God is in six of the twelve steps. AA’s attempt to sidestep being tagged a religion is to follow the word God with, as you understand him, suggesting any power greater than oneself will suffice, like the power of the group, or electricity. Some skirt the issue by saying, “I don’t know anything about God, I just know I ain’t him.”

There are other inconsistencies that led me to seek other forms of recovery. In one of the chapters of the Big Book, AA’s Bible if you will, it states that if the recovering addict avoids social situations where alcohol will be served then that alcoholic still thinks alcoholically and is in need of greater perspective. This made a lot of sense to me since I’ve never really had an issue being around alcohol but slide a mirror full of coke in front of me…

So I left the hallowed halls of AA in search of a deeper understanding of addiction. The problem I found was differentiating between Addict and Non-addict. The issue wasn’t with how they differed as much as how each addict perceived what an addict was or, more importantly, wasn’t. I couldn’t admit I was an addict until I reconciled my criteria with reality. When I studied addiction in school, I found that clinicians didn’t use the term addict or alcoholic, but instead tried to place each patient along a continuum. Some use substances with no life consequences, some abuse with varying degrees of consequences, and some are dependent. In the latter, tolerance is measured as a means of determining severity. Each point along the line has a sub-category that measures functionality or how much one’s use, abuse, or dependence affects their ability to thrive.

With all this advanced understanding of addiction, I’ve come to realize that for me, addiction was only a symptom of a larger issue. For me the twelve steps were like pruning a rotten tree’s bad fruit while ignoring the roots. I needed replanting. I engaged in intense psychotherapy.

It’s hard some days not to feel gypped. I wouldn’t give up my life experience for anything, feeling as though it makes me unique and worthy of the brand. Mostly I feel robbed, now more than ever, of the tools needed to weather the storms of life.

The behaviorist would say that addiction is only a behavior that has physiological consequences and that cessation of said behavior will end any suffering. That behaviorist has never been on the receiving end of a smoking crack pipe, I can tell you that…

On occasion, a student will ask if I will ever drink again. As an ardent rejecter of the disease concept, I feel somewhat hypocritical in saying no. The truth of the matter is I still have all the isms. I’m hopelessly addicted to sugar, can’t relax in a mess, you could eat off any surface of my car (when I own one), and can be a moody, cranky SOB if things don’t go my way. This keeps me from experimenting again or using recreationally, if there is such a thing.

HUBRIS

2010-04-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

I've long had the desire to pass on what limited wisdom I have to share. With babies on the back burner until I’m confident that I can both financially and psychologically handle one, I seek to espouse my vast life experience to anyone who’ll listen.

When I stand before a class of freshmen, all wide eyed and bushy tailed, and weave my tale of woe, it’s fascinating to watch. They look me over and ready themselves for another long winded talk about the dangers of whatever. They’ve heard it all before, seen movies, read books. About halfway through they perk up. I grab their attention and they’re glued to the end. I'm always sorry I don’t leave more time for questions.

The questions vary widely, from general inquiries about my age to ignorant questions about what kind of gun I used or if I ‘took care’ of the woman that ratted me out. I know my message has fallen on deaf ears when a kid asks something like that. Out of the whole crowd I'll entertain many, interest a few, and truly reach one. The one emails me or gets in touch through the blog to say I inspired them to seek help. It fuels my desire to publish my memoir and go global, or at least to Rhode Island.

But nothing is as humbling as a loved one you just can’t reach. When I finally got sober I entertained visions of converting my brother. I invited him to hear me speak at a meeting in the hopes he’d see where he was headed.

“Wow, you were bad.” He’d say.

“No worse than you.” I’d reply.

“I never stole from Dad.”

I left it alone. I stole to push Dad away, while he remained subserviant. What he couldn’t see was that we were serving the same master--self medicating to cope with the pain.

In the end we parted ways, seven years and counting since we’ve spoken.

So I adopted a surrogate brother, one who listened intently to the advice I doled out. He did more for me than I for him. He gave me faith that although change is optional--it’s not impossible.

But he stumbled along the way, got tripped up by transference. I recognized it for what it was but couldn’t get him to see the forest through the trees. I never imagined the cold, hard, whip of his anger would be turned on us. He left without saying a word.

But that is the punishment for my hubris. Another brother sacrificed on Anger’s Altar.

Foot in Mouth and Head Up Ass

2010-04-18T18:59:00.000-07:00

I have no affinity for meatheads. Those Archie Bunker described as, "Dead from the neck up." Managing Gold’s Gym in Saugus, I dealt with them everyday, asking them not to drop the dumbbells and placing heavy sanctions on grunting. Monopolizing weights in an unconventional manner, one of the strict rules, took finesse to enforce. At first I approached them with the chip on my shoulder fully exposed. My brother was a meathead, brawn fueled by searing anger. Meatheads are generally irrational, demand respect they don't give, and interpret reprimands as invitations to a fight. One guy called me a faggot after I asked him for the fourth time to stop slamming the 100lb dumbbells on our brand new rubber floors.

I tried to discard the chip and approach them without anger, which only begets more anger. I was nice, made sure no one else was around when I talked to them, and gave more chances than was warranted. I realized my prejudice against men acting like inflated boys stemmed from the fact that I suffered from the same malady.

On Tuesday I left work and traveled to Planet Fitness to work out. I became a member because my neighbors wanted a trainer and joining was easier than paying their daily workout fee. Planet Fitness is a bare bones club. No dumbbells over 60 lbs. No group exercise classes. Barely any trainers and the ones they do have make $10 an hour. They are so strict that they have what's called a Lunk Alarm, a siren that sounds whenever someone disobeys the golden rule: Don't act like a meathead.

I was in a dogshit mood. When I sat up after a set of bench presses with the fifties and placed them on the ground, they made a thud. The Lunk Alarm reverberated through the building. Someone behind the desk beckoned a floor trainer to inform me that dropping weights is not allowed. I was shocked, but acquiesced, nodding in acknowledgment before walking away in disgust.

I noticed the other trainers congregating, whispering about the bad attitude on the floor and what to do about it. I kept my head down, turn up my ipod, and reminded myself that thuds are open to interpretation. I did another set of presses, over exaggerating the softness with which I put them down. Then I went to the seated row where I felt someone's presence over my shoulder, "Excuse me." he said.

"Yeah." I responded.

"Take your headphones off, please." he ordered. I took one off. "We're not set up for circuit training. I need you to go and clean up those dumbbells."

I considered the list of possible responses flying at me from all directions, most notably, Don’t worry pal, someday you'll make more than ten dollars an hour, but I abstained and said, "OK."

Before I could do my set, he interrupted again and barked, "I need you to do it now."

I paused. My temples flared. I bit down hard. "Right away." I answered, and did what he asked.

For the rest of the workout he hawked me from the desk, waiting for me to defy another unspoken gym etiquette rule. I behaved, frothing at the mouth.

Before I left I approached the desk and said, "Sorry about all that," and walked away, realizing that the universe gave me a glimpse of just how raw my anger still is, and how when it clashes with someone else's it's a recipe for disaster.

I guess two raws don't make a right.

The Kraken

2010-04-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

I should've known he was a demigod. At sixteen, he drove my mother's Chevy Citation into a brick wall with such force; the engine block breached the dash and his chest cracked the steering wheel. He tried to hurl the case of beer he'd been swilling over a fence, but the ensuing rain saturated the cardboard and gave out mid swing. The cops burst onto the scene as Budweiser's rolled down the hill.

The Kraken, as he'll be called for the duration of this post, was sent from the depths to wreak havoc on commuters. His roar sounded like: "All this drunk driving is bullshit. What they should do is test you after one beer. If you can drive fine, then they should put a one on your license, two beers, then you get a two, and so on. I drive better drunk," meaning any spark of fear was extinguished with a dose of alcohol. Predicting incidents was as easy as predicting the sun's presence in the morning sky. It started when he stole a car from a neighbor, twice, and was caught doing donuts in a field.

Whenever an innocent driver needed to be harassed, or a brazen driver silenced, The Kraken was released to stalk the streets and highways. Three hours late picking me up from work one night, he followed a woman home that cut him off. He had no designs on her; it was her husband he sought. The poor woman drove around her apartment building with The Kraken in tow, screaming for her husband to intervene. When the husband came, he was swallowed whole.

Someone beeped at him after he cut them off. To scare us, they chased us, swerving as if to side-swipe our car. The Kraken called their bluff with a whip of the wheel and slammed into their port side. The tables turned and we chased them. But their vessel was faster and they escaped with only dented side panels.

During a simple trip to the store, we happened upon some innocents, angered by a flat tire on the side of the road. Their profanity in a school zone was too much for The Kraken, he swerved toward them to provoke the response that justified the beating they took. The Kraken's girlfriend shouted at me, "Go out there and help him!" I responded, "Help him do what," knowing the incident was over; The Kraken was already in the car, driving away.

While doing 50 in a 30, The Kraken gunned it when a police cruiser flashed his lights in pursuit. We would have made it if The Kraken's blind rage allowed him to think more than one move ahead. Turning right would have concealed us. We turned left. The cop arrested me for hindering his investigation after I lied when asked if The Kraken was trying to outrun the police.

After six DWI's and the threat of mandatory jail, The Kraken swam to Florida in a used, metallic maroon, Trans Am. During traffic stops, he adopted an alias, giving authorities my name and social security number. I'd routinely travel to his lair to turn myself in for warrants issued in my name. They'd drop the charges when the officer that wrote the citation failed to pick me out in a photo line up.

I recently found out that after decades of revocation, The Kraken got his license back. I will breathe a sigh of relief on the T tomorrow but will pray for safe passage over the Charles.

Ass Mode

2010-04-04T17:51:00.000-07:00

Do you know someone? Sure you do, you're a superstar. But how many people do you really know? I'm talking about intimacy, tried and true. It's knowing when a person is about to burst with anxiety, and being the only one able to bring them back from the brink. Rachel does that for me. Friday, after a particularly long week, I came home to pizza, Kombucha, and two cupcakes from Whole Foods...all my favorites. She encouraged copious amounts of TV, and left me in peace as I saturated my brain with sugar, salt, fat, and mindless television. If that isn't love...

As cliché as it sounds, its a two way street. I am an expert at detecting the slightest hint of anxiety in Rachel's voice. With a mind running on warp speed, she can sometimes be forgetful, losing things like her keys. There are sign posts that she's going to the 'Bad place' and I step in as soon as I hear her starting to retrace her steps out loud. I find whatever she's looking for, usually somewhere obvious, and avert a crisis that would inevitably spill onto me eventually, (Like the time she chastised me when two horseflies stalked us all the way up a mountain and she screamed, "Bryan! Fix it!!!")

There's my brother-in-law, The Reverend Austin. Not always the most astute, he at least knows when to back off when I'm in Ass Mode. And I delight in his allowing my intrusions into his life since it reminds me that if I were able, I'd make a damn good therapist.

These are the people that stay with me in the face of my biting anger, when I feel capable of twisting both of their heads off because they take forty five minutes to pick out a pair of shoes. So who knows you?

That Familiar Ring

2010-03-28T09:03:00.000-07:00

I find marriage preferable to dating. If I could pinpoint one experience that tipped the scales it would be the time I dated Sophie.

We met on a dating site. I had just about given up on whole internet dating after five dates with women who posted pics of themselves from high school, when they weren't seventy pounds overweight. Sophie emailed me and we set up a date for the following night. She was thin, pretty, with long curly locks of jet black hair. We hit it off so I decided to take her somewhere fancy for dinner. The conversation flowed, but with each successive wine, red flag number one (ultimately ignored) waved in my face. The more she drank, the more shifty eyed she became. By the end of dinner it looked as though she was watching a tennis match the way her eyes moved pendulous in their sockets.

The next red flag waved at me the first night we spent together. It was ten o'clock and she said, "If you want to have sex we better hurry, I just took my psych meds and they make me very sleepy." She nodded out in the middle of foreplay. I should have cut my loses then and there, but I'm male.

Rather than listen to the nagging voice in my head assuring me this could only get worse, I invited Sophie to my cousin's wedding. It was more about putting on airs since all my cousins were star athletes, married to pretty girls. Sophie was my trophy.

During the rehearsal dinner, Sophie ordered drinks as if Prohibition would be reinstated at midnight. By the end of dinner she was slouched in her seat, eyes darting to and fro so I feigned a stomach ache and got us out of there. Crisis averted? Crisis postponed.

Since no booze would be served at the church, I felt safe. Sophie looked amazing in the dress I bought her. She was sociable and impressed me to the point that I decided it might be ok if she had a drink or two at the reception. In all the grandeur, I lost track of how much she had. Walking out of the bathroom she ran up to me shouting, "The DJ said I could sing, I'm gonna sing!" and zipped off before I could catch her.

By the time I made it back into the hall the DJ was announcing her, "And now, to sing for the bride and groom, Sophie!"

The thump of It's Raining Men started. I scanned the room but found only the piercing stare of my 80 year old grandmother. I moved out of her direct line of fire and took a seat to wait it out.

"Humidity is rising," she sang, "Barometer's getting low. According to all sources, the streets the place to go..."

Confined to the stage, it seemed that I'd only have to live down a modicum of embarrassment, until, "Tonight for the first time, just about half past ten, for the first time in history, it's gonna start raining men..." She left the stage and started slinking around the room provocatively. The wave of horror passed, the crowd clapped to the beat, and the wedding party was into it.

It was at, "God bless Mother Nature, she's a woman too. She took off to heaven and she did what she had to do," that she approached my uncle, the father of the groom, and proceeded to give him a lap dance during the chorus, "It's raining men, Hallelujah!"

My head had reached the table by then, my face seven different shades of red when I heard the youngest of my cousins yell, "Yo Bry."

I ignored him.

"Hey, Bry!" he called again.

I looked over.

"Why's your girlfriend so shy?"

2010-03-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB3Gv4oZdWo

State of the Union

2010-03-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

Rachel and I have regular talks, prompted by her, about the state of our lives together. Some of our knock down drag out brawls have stemmed from these chats, mostly due to my resistance to the change she'd like to impose. Most talks begin with a simple question that usually gets the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. She'll ask, "So, what do you see us doing with the rest of our lives?"

If my typical 'I don't know' fails to back her down, I'll try to placate her with an answer that disarms her, "We're going to try to be as healthy as possible so we can love each other longer." But this is a short term answer, providing little time to flee, or come up with something tangible. If I can't, the physicality of my depression surfaces, my shoulders slump, and my tone wanes. My one word answers are like spurts of gas on a fire. My hope is that if I piss her off enough I won't have to deal with the reality: I just don't know.

This answer worked in the past, but again, only temporarily, she'll give me my time, and space, with an assignment, "Why don't you think it over, because it's something I'd really like to discuss with you."

I've grown to hate this. Mostly because when the time she allots expires, it's talk-time cubed. This backs me further into a self imposed corner, I lash out, and we fight. It comes down to this--Because of my felonies, I find it hard to dream the way she would like us to. I feel inept because the choices I've made in the past dilute my hopes for the future. I don't want to dream for fear we'll hit the CORI roadblock and feel the pang I feel daily over the fact that I'll probably never return to being a therapist for addicts.

Our talks follow a pattern: Rachel brings up the future, I shut down, she pries me open, I admit that I feel like I'm holding us back, she comforts me, and I postpone yet another attempt to move forward. But with Rachel, it's sink or swim.

I do have a plan: I started this blog as an exercise in writing, so thank you if you're a follower. Second, it forces me to write and follow a deadline (I try hard to write every Sunday). After reading other blogs, I've realized that if you don't know me (and maybe even if you do), this is pretty boring shit. If you happened upon my blog without my prompting, please let me know, but I doubt you exist. Thirdly, I started Change is Optional because I'm rewriting my memoir. The last version garnered some attention from agents. I even signed with one last year, but let the contract run out after I realized it just wasn't good enough.

Perpetrators is almost finished. Aspiring authors write blogs because an agent's second question before offering representation is, "What's your platform for marketing this book?" Most writers mention their blog, which is a great platform if you have tons of followers who leave comments.

So please spread the word, join the blog as a follower, and leave a comment now and again to help me not only publish, but stand tall during State of the Union talks. Believe me, it helps.

PS...I told Rachel that after the book sells we'll buy a farm and I'll write about our adventures living off the land, unless we starve. I also plan to advocate for restructuring of the CORI laws, so that felons like me can spread this message, especially to kids: the consequences of your actions may reach further than you can ever imagine.

Thanks Again...

Housefit

2010-03-07T13:33:00.000-08:00

They didn't die as much as they're in the process of decomposing. I'm talking about Rachel's Housefit, a designation more than a name for the clothes I don every time we return from 'Out.' The fact that 'In' has its own attire is due to the fact that 'In' is always preferable to 'Out' in my estimation and should be celebrated with clothing that reflects the mood. Housefits need to be relaxed, (Editor's note: The word relaxed here refers to the fabric. Relaxing would surely fit better, but in terms of fabric, the fibers must be in a constant relaxed state, either by design, or age, the latter being preferable).

The original Housefit started with pajama pants I picked up at TJ Maxx. We weren't shopping for them, but low and behold, on the sales rack, for just $10, was a pair of blue cotton jammie pants I just had to have. We discovered the reason they were a sale item after walking to the Salem Willows one summer night. The fly, held together by a single button, lent itself to random 'exposures.' We jokingly started calling them the Wenie pants (Wenie because I spelled weenie like genie in a text to Rachel). So unpredictable were these pants that we had to warn unsuspecting company that they might see more than they bargained for.

The Housefit caught on. Soon enough Rachel was wearing hers, a long sleeve T swiped from my closet and a pair of light blue pants with rubber duckies everywhere. They were the pants she wore on our first date, after she was canceled from a night shift at work (A shift I suspect to this day was orchestrated to bow out if the date was a bust). We went back to my place, changed into Housefits, and watched dumb comedies all night.

A few weeks ago she pointed out holes in the crotch, a looser, weakening waistband, and faded, pale ducks. Sewing was suggested as an option to prolong the iconic half of the legendary Housefit much the way stitching was proposed to keep Frankenstein together, but then yesterday, she sat down and tore a four inch hole in the ass. With the discovery of even more breaches, it was decided to lay them to rest.

Reverend Austin, now living with us, wears a pair of black sweats, long sleeved green T with regular T underneath, "For temperature control."

Do you have a Housefit? Please share...

2010-02-27T16:44:00.000-08:00

When was the last time you received an apology that really hit home? A few weeks ago, I think I did. Dad was over for another session of foam rolling, still holding the title of tightest man alive. Surprised he hasn't imploded, I actually found myself enjoying the company, basking in an opportunity to stroke my inner child and show Dad how smart I am.

The topic changed to my brother and his recent employment issues working the front desk at a gym they both are belong to. He was reprimanded for the third time about his sugar going low, a constant issue for him, and in a preemptive strike, he quit.

I asked Dad, "What does he intend to do when he graduates?" To which he replied, "Go for a Master's degree, I think, although I think he'll have trouble getting a job with his insulin problems."

"Never mind that, he won't even get a second interview with his felonies."

"Yeah, you mentioned how hard it's been for you." His facial expression goes from blank to grimace as he rolls his IT band.

"Hard? Try damn near impossible. I can't even get in the door for a counseling job. They wouldn't even let me sweep the floors of a rehab. And he wants to work in healthcare? Good luck."

By now he's moved onto his thoracic and looks like an ironing board trying to balance on the roller, "Hold on, Dad, I need to modify this," I grab a towel, roll it up, and exchange it for the roller. All conversation ceases while the tries to bend his spine over the cushy towel.

"I'm getting nauseous," he says, rolling onto his side. Usually my clients go pale on me but Dad's Twilight complexion makes it hard to tell.

"Just take it slow."

He tries again with the same result, "Nope, I think I have to stop."

"Okay. I've never seen a thoracic so tight before. Next time we'll see how tight those rotator cuffs are. I'm betting they're like drums." I say, walking into the kitchen.

"Well, I appreciate you showing me this, son, got time for lunch?" he asks.

I check the clock, "Sure."

"Then I can drive you into work." he offers.

"Sounds great."

"You really think it's going to be that hard for him to find a job?" he asks somberly.

"Next to impossible, I'm afraid."

Like a thunderbolt hand delivered by Zeus, he says, "Geez, I'm sorry, Bry, this is all my fault."

"What is?" I ask, taken totally off guard while I fish through the cabinet for my keys.

"The robberies, they were all my fault."

I close the cabinet door as if to capture the reverberations and maybe play them later for Rachel. I pretend the admission doesn't knock the giant chip off my shoulder. I quell the desire to leap, jig, or otherwise break down, grab a rolling pin, and knock him senseless for taking twelve years to own up.

We go to lunch and talk, like a father and son.

Later, working out between clients, I text Rach, knowing she'll calculate the magnitude. I go to contacts in my cell and press the appropriate letter to bring up Damdams (One of many aliases I have for her including but not limited to: poodams, poodamacious knid, and our personal fav---rara). I texted: "Dad said sorry for the robberies and said it was all his fault," and sent it off.

A few seconds later, Darth Vader's labored breathing (Dad's ringtone) sings through my cell. Instantly, I realized my faux pas. My Freudian slip complete, I sent the text to the wrong contact. Instead of Damdams, my brain selected Dad. Panicked, I start pacing the gym floor. I couldn't recall the text, nor could I ignore the call. I dialed him back.

"Sent the text to the wrong person, ey son?" He asks.

"Dad, you have no idea how long I've waited for you to say that."

"Why?"

"Obvious reasons."

"Well, I'm glad I did the right thing."

"Me too."

Life Lessons

2010-02-21T10:31:00.000-08:00

Few other jobs lend themselves to bouts of self righteousness the way personal training did to me. I'd been in gyms most of my adolescent and adult life and got certified as a trainer because it complimented my schedule as a full time student.

I started out at The Evil Empire: Bally's, in my hometown of Peabody, and like many newly certified trainers, I was stricken with an obnoxious self righteousness. I became unteachable, insufferable. In short, a fool who spoke more than listened. Unhappy with their policies and sub par trainers, I started looking for another job.

I applied to The Sports Club LA and during the initial interview, a sharply dressed woman led me to a walk-in closet and handed me a stack of paper. One was an application. The other, an anatomical map with lines pointing to the muscles they wanted me to name. I failed not only the test but also the chance to realize that wisdom doesn't come from what you know, it spawns from the humility of knowing that you don't know.

On my way home I read an ad in the paper for Gold's Gym and went straight from the train to drop off a resume. The woman at the desk interviewed me on the spot and said she'd like me to meet the owners.

I met with them the next day and they offered me a position as an assistant manager. One Saturday after closing I took one last walk on the floor. To my surprise, I found a member standing on the cardio deck, between machines, walking in place while staring at her feet.

I asked, "Did you know that we closed about fifteen minutes ago?"

No answer.

I moved closer and spoke louder, "Excuse me, Miss, are you okay?"

She looked at me and said, "Yes, I'm fine."

I asked her again if she knew we were closed. She said, "Oh, no I didn't."

I wanted to run and call an ambulance but was worried she'd pass out, so I asked, "Do you know where you are?"

She pondered, then said, "No."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday?" she replied.

"Close. Do you know what year it is?" I asked.

"No."

"How about the president, do you know who the president is?" I asked, trying to keep her talking.

"Johnson?"

I ran for the phone, called 911, and dropped the receiver knowing they'd come. I made a beeline for the vending machine that spit out my sugary selection. Still conscious, she took the drink and sipped hesitantly.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"Funny."

"Do you know what city you're in?"

"No."

The ambulance showed. She started answering some of the questions correctly but still got obvious ones wrong. They took her to the hospital and kept her for observation, discovering that her electrolytes were dangerously low. Life presented a chance to familiarize me with its fragility, but instead I walked away thinking the woman was an idiot.

Not long afterward, I received a call from an elderly man looking for a personal trainer who could come to his apartment. He wanted me to train his wife, who was experiencing periodic losses of balance and consequently had suffered devastating falls. When I met her, she had a shiner that covered half of her face.

She was 95, frail, and could barely walk without a walker. He had suffered his second heart attack and was worried that he wouldn't be able to help her if she fell again. We used the equipment in the apartment building's basement.

She admitted to me while looking out the window into the courtyard, "I'm ready."

"To be done?" I asked, thinking I worked her too hard.

Her eyes glossed over, "To go," she said, "I've lived a full life. I've traveled, raised a wonderful daughter, had a successful marriage. Look at me. I can barely walk. I've become a burden. It's time for me to go. If it wasn't for Joe, I'd go now," she said, as if she could flick a switch. It was an example of how to face death with integrity, but instead I still obsess over death's inevitability.

I walked into Equinox last summer, humbled not by the prospect of working with the cream of the crop, but more by its location, knowing what passed for excellence in Boston far exceeded anything in the suburbs. In the classes Equinox paid me to attend, I faded, listening to less than half of what some of the greatest minds in fitness were trying to teach.

With lagging sales and dismal paychecks, I started looking for a different job, thinking yet again of a geographical cure for ignorance. Instead, I laid down my arms, picked up a foam roller, then bought a few sessions from the best selling trainer in the company, hoping to learn from his knowledge and experience. Maybe after forty years I'm learning to listen, instead of lusting after the sound of my own voice.

German Potato Bread

2010-02-17T11:46:00.000-08:00

4 cups of flour
4 cups of potato
1 tablespoon of salt
2 tablespoons of dry yeast
1 egg
1/2 cup of hot water

Peel and slice potatoes and place in a heavy saucepan covered with salted water. Bring to a boil and simmer for ten minutes or until the potatoes are soft. Set aside to cool. Combine flour, salt, and yeast in a bowl. (You can activate the yeast by putting it in a half cup of heated water 115-125 degrees. I tried this and think my yeast was bad, but the bread still came out awesome).

Place potatoes in a ricer. (It makes them more blendable than mashing). Mix potatoes, flour, and egg and let sit for 30 minutes. On a well floured surface, mix the dough one more time by hand, shape onto a baking sheet. Preheat oven to 450. Place bread on center rack and spray oven with water before closing (this gives the bread a nice crunchy crust). Move bread to bottom rack for another 30 minutes. Enjoy...

Supah Soakah

2010-02-14T15:10:00.000-08:00

Mom mounted bird feeders along the rail just outside the French doors so she could watch them feed. With each passerby, seeds fell to the ground, "They do that on purpose, for the ground feeders, so they can eat too."

"Why can't they just go to the feeder?" I asked. The question revealed my feelings on bird feeders, they were stupid, so I resumed watching MTV's Real World.

Another time she screeched, "Oh my god, there's one right there, Bryan look!" waking me from a midday nap.

Pissed the house wasn't ablaze, I snapped, "What is it?!"

"Its an Icterus galbula, a Baltimore Oriole, they only come around once a year and its extremely hard to get them to come to feed." She was beaming, fishing through the basket next to her barcalounger for the binoculars. She could sit reclined for hours, sipping Folgers and smoking while leafing through The Audubon Sibley Field Guide to Birds of Eastern North America.

"Yeah, Ma, that's great, let me know if any pterodactyls show up to feed, I'll let the cat in," I said, rolling over.

She spent countless hours in the yard, tending to the ducks, feeding the bunnies, and weeding the herb garden our cat Dizzy spent most of his time in because of the fresh catnip. At any given time neighborhood felines could be seen lounging there, pie eyed.

Mom wanted me to share in what her new home allowed her that our city home didn't. Plus, drunk half the time, she had little time to enjoy these trivial luxuries. Squirrels were the bane of her existence. They'd climb down from their perch, high in the trees, enact a move known only to gymnasts and contortionists, and feed, upside down, on birdseed. This made Mom furious, and me giggle, for it was then her anger would spew in an array of profanity the likes I've never heard.

"You God damn, mother fucking, shit bag, diseased vermin, get the fuck off my porch!" she'd scream as she marched toward the porch, sending the rodents scattering, along with anything else within earshot.

One day she noticed my super soaker, one of the few things left after I sold all my possessions to coke dealers. "Does that thing shoot far?" she asked. I knew instantly her intentions. "Mum, seriously, you're starting to scare me," I said.

My brother and I stole the super soaker from Toys-R-Us and used it to soak the unsuspecting drivers we sat next to at traffic lights. Kev pulled up, I soaked them, and we'd watch as they stuck their hand out to see if it was raining.

Her search for better pest protection came after she wrote multiple letters to the bird feeder company that claimed their product was Squirrel Proof. In response, they sent her the: VARI-CRAFTS VCSBF1 Bouncer, a feeder that resembled a tiny Fort Knox, designed to shake off squirrels so that lighter, winged creatures could feast without interruption. It failed. The VCSBF1 bouncer was no match for hungry squirrels. To his credit, Dizzy tried to catch them but ultimately failed. His depth perception may have been impaired--the squirrels easily traversed the frail branches, but Dizzy went plummeting toward the ground.

Mom used the soaker to scare off rodents. Our screen door was constantly soaked where she'd blast "those God damn squirrels" with hot water. It wasn't long before an air pumped BB gun showed up, the origin of which I chose not to ask about. But lest she fancy BB sized holes in her screen, she had to open it before firing. The noise alerted the squirrels, who were always faster than she. So, as with any creature hell bent on survival, she learned to live with them.

One day, as I sat watching Danger Mouse on Nickelodeon, something caught my eye. It looked like a dragonfly buzzing around one of Mom's feeders...until I realized it was a hummingbird. (dragonflies don't move like harrier jets). It zigged left, rose high above the feeder, then zagged like, 'A bat outta hell,' as Mom would say. I scrambled for the binoculars and waited with baited breath. A few minutes later it returned. I froze, scared to move for fear it would spell out 'haha' in jagged movements and blast off. But it stayed and fed and was beautiful.

From that point on, one of us called to the other, "Come quick! There's a Red-winged Blackbird outside on the feeder." The overpriced $80 feeder we'd been suckered into buying had worked, magnifying our excitement.

She instilled in me a greater appreciation for the finer things in life that don't necessarily sparkle, but that leave an indelible mark nonetheless.

Word Jumble

2010-01-31T15:58:00.000-08:00

In high school, when I wasn't being admonished for my deplorable behavior, a teacher would actually try to reach out to me. Sophomore year, an English teacher pulled me aside and used the gentle approach, to which I responded favorably. He said, "You know, they say English is one of the hardest languages to learn." To which I responded, "What do I care, I'm never going to England."

He was right, of course. There are inconsistencies in the language that are maddening, redundant, and sometimes just plain stupid. Case and point---Oxymorons. A short list of my favorites include:

Free Gift
Business Ethics
Military Intelligence
Civil Disobedience
Daily Special
Female Gunman
Spendthrift
Prison Life
Freezer Burn
Gun Safety

But my absolute favorite is Passive Aggressive. It attempts to join complete polar opposites, and it's just so fabulous at explaining what I do so perfectly.

Last week I had lunch with Dad. In an attempt to keep the conversation flowing, thereby avoiding awkward pauses, I asked about his knees, both of which have been replaced because of the damage caused by decades of masonry (please note that he wasn't employed as a mason, it was just a hobby).

He denies pain, but admits he still has trouble with stiffness and feels like Frankenstein when he walks, which is noteworthy because I always picture him as Darth Vader, whose ominous breathing plays whenever Dad calls my cell. I extoll the virtues of foam rolling, which helped my lower back pain, and is currently helping me regain my thoracic mobility. The idea resonates, and he asks me to show him.

Keep in mind that my motives are purely rooted in helping the man I share such a volatile history with. Deep down I admit that if it works, it would send a giant fuck you to my brother, who is seeking a degree in exercise science from UMass. I ask, "Doesn't Kev assess your tightness or suggest foam rolling?" Like a lawyer, I know the answer to my own question. If Kev had learned about foam rolling in school, he wouldn't agree with it. Hell, I didn't until I experienced it firsthand. Now I think that foam rolling could single handedly achieve piece in the Middle East. I believe that our anger is caused by the fact that we're all tight as drums. Women don't suffer as we do, Rachel foam rolls comfortably, never grimacing once.

So, today I showed Dad how to roll those pains away. When I told Rachel about it, I commented that foam rolling wouldn't work on Dad, as pure evil lubricates. I was wrong. Pure evil binds.

I killed two birds with one stone, I guess.

Request Denied

2010-01-24T12:24:00.000-08:00

Anger is a great motivator, providing the will to act. Evolution instilled the impulse, helping us protect ourselves so we can survive. But as energizing as it is, it bows in the presence of a greater motivator: Guilt.

In the absence of a crime, guilt is neurotic. At least that's what my therapist used to tell me. It resonates each and every time I fell compelled to visit with Dad. I worked hard to abandon the expectation of him coming close to my ego ideal of what a Dad should be. Instead I've suffered one crushing disappointment after another butting against what is and what will never be. Instead, I am crippled by a mistrust of males and only have a handful of male friends. The Reverend is the closest. Our bond stems from scars that refuse to heal, left by men whose job was to prepare us to survive this life, instead of just donating sperm, and using us to achieve their own nefarious deeds.

My anger and guilt erect walls that protect feelings of inadequacy. I’ll never be free of feeling like a little boy, cowering in the presence of Dad almighty. But when he asks me to call grandma I don't. When he asks me to patch things up with my brother, I scoff, opting for my pride in the face of a stalemate. Until I'm presented with an ideal father, incorruptable in matters pertaining to his son, do not ask me to nurture relationships that will bear no fruit, nor provide any solace.

Request denied!

Change, Optional?

2010-01-17T18:34:00.000-08:00

We've had discussions about lofting our mattress. We anticipated the arrival of Reverend Austin. To accommodate him, it made sense to hoist our mattress so that he sleep beneath us and avoid the any sleep disturbances caused by slumbering in the high traffic living room. To do so required getting rid of the bed frame, a platform, and one I've had for over a decade.

The loft idea fell by the wayside and wasn't given a second thought. The Reverend came, made himself cozy on our couch, and hasn't complained once. Last week, he built the loft out of scrap wood, packed it up, and zipped it down to us, resurrecting the plan and sending me into a complete tizzy.

I pride myself on my ability to accept change. I roll with it, welcome it, and accept it with only a modicum of apprehension.

Right?

In reality, I resist change. I sanction it with silence, withhold excitement, and withdraw. My first change embargo happened when Rachel wanted to combine our incomes and work as a team toward our financial goals. I resisted, using my credit card debt as an excuse. I even went so far as to deny her my savings, savings that would have helped her get out of her cash hemorrhaging condo. A move, I might add, that would have benefited us both.

I'm sure my reticence had something to do with my fear of intimacy. Symptoms of Male's Disease whose delirium includes a deep paranoia of female hidden agendas. Part of me was convinced she would squander my earnings. My mind changed when it dawned on me that if anyone was squandering, it was Visa and MasterCard. Once I relented, rara paid off my debt within six months.

Another momentous hurdle for Rachel to overcome was moving. Long had I lamented about my desire to leave Salem and its high polluting, coal burning, power plant. It took Rachel close to a year to get me out.

So many people have bestowed upon me accolades for overcoming so much adversity in my life, when in fact I merely survived. It's true that I have worked hard not to repeat my transgressions. To do so takes thorough examination, self actualization, and hard choices. I still feel as though I'm in flux, pushing hard to shed the false beliefs that hold me back. Tragedy, it seems, is easier to weather than the simple changes, life on life's terms.

As for the loft, it took a rare moment of honesty. Feeling cornered I yelled, "Excuse me, in case you two haven't noticed, I don't accept change very well. I love that bed frame. Do you have any idea how many coke binges I've slept off in that bed?"

They both laughed, then proceeded to store the loft in the basement, where it mocks me.

Sitting Duck

2010-01-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

I wake to her banging the window and shining a flashlight down on the pond next to the house where the ducks nested during the summer.

“God damn it, get away from those ducks!” She screamed loud enough to wake neighbors.

“Mom, what the fuck are you yelling at?” I shouted.

“That goddamn fox is stealing eggs from Emma!” she screeches, “Go down there and scare it!”

I didn’t argue. I knew that with Mom, it's best to do as your told. Walking down the stairs, clueless as to what scared hungry foxes, I grabbed a copy of the past due property tax bill that scared the hell out of Mom. I also grabbed a pot and wooden spoon and in my boxer briefs, I ran toward the pond, clanging the pot and yelling in chorus with Mom in the window, providing the only light.

The next day I came home to an unmarked van parked in the driveway. Inside I found Mom and a professional trapper. “Normally I’d set a few traps and catch the thing, but with kids in the neighborhood, I can’t,” he said, “What I can do is give you these,” and he handed Mom what looked like M80’s.

“These are quarter sticks,” he continued, “illegal without a permit, so you never got them from me. All you do is find the hole and chuck one in.”

Mom nodded. I'm sure she’ll throw the dynamite away and never give it a second thought. She paid the man for his time and for the quarter sticks. I waited patiently to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, Mom handed me the sticks without instructions since I already heard.

“You can’t be serious.” I said.

“I want you to find that hole and blow that thing straight to hell.” Her eyes flared.

“Mom, these are quarter sticks of dy-na-mite, you know, T-N-T.”

She raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Mom couldn’t voluntarily raise an eyebrow; it was an involuntary response, a warning not to continue debating. “Do you know where the term sitting duck comes from? It’s because ducks on a nest never leave their eggs. They’ll die before they leave them and I’ll be damned if I’m going stand idly by while Emma gets devoured by that goddamn fox.”

She forced the sticks into my hand. I turned to go and she stopped me, “Wait, you’ll need this,” handing me a lighter.

I found the fox hole halfway between the house and the city dump. If I returned and feigned success she’d ask, in a voice I would only hear as Marvin the Martian’s, “Where’s the earth shattering kaboom, there was supposed to be an earth shattering kaboom.”

The earth shattering kaboom shook the forest floor, and no doubt, drew the attention of the fox safe in his hole. I possessed the intestinal fortitude to point a loaded gun at someone’s face, but lacked the callousness to toss a bomb into a foxhole. His only crime was to answer the call of his growling stomach and who was I to interrupt nature’s design?

“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Mom asked, sitting on the lawn chair, swinging.

“Nope.” I replied.

She smiled, “Good.”

Savasana

2009-12-31T13:50:00.000-08:00

Flat out on the yoga mat, my body tells me again: enough. I'm sore from yesterday's class, and it feels hotter today, pushing 110 degrees. Sweat pours from me like a waterfall, preventing combustion. My muscles feel strong and I complete a few of yesterday's elusive poses, but after each one my heart thumps and my breath is hard to catch. Above me is a fan, set to low, in the center is a reflection of my limp lying form. Beside me, just outside of center, is rara, dripping but still working.

The fan swirls.

Sweat rolls unrelentingly. I try to get up. My heart pins me down. I acquiesce. Back inside the fan, back to purgatory. Ceramic space heaters blow with prejudice, cook fuckers, cook. I focus on a single blade. My eyes spin in their sockets.

The fan churns.

I remain still, staring. Yoga is completely different from what I know. It follows the body's kinetic chain, strengthens connections, and stimulates, encouraging peace. It is lack of peace that pins me to the mat. My heart, aerobically trained, feels out of sync with my body. Connections are cordoned off, impassable, forcing me to recall another time, when I fancied myself a bodybuilder. But in reality, my body flowed with the fuel of insecurity. I force fed myself to pack on size, to survive the unpredictability of an alcoholic and a sadist.

The fan agitates.

I wish I gave myself a break then, as I do now. I wish I never pushed against gravity, the weight of my depression, weights too heavy for my joints to bear. I am paying the price, taking that break too late, the damage is done...maybe...

Prison Laundry

2009-12-27T15:55:00.000-08:00

Ideologically, I'm changing. Things matter to me more now than they ever did, like my carbon footprint. I find myself conscious of the things I do everyday that might make it a little deeper, or etched. We don't use plastic anymore and try hard not to purchase things that come in petroleum laden casing. We don't cook with it or use the microwave as much, if at all (Although I do use it to time my recipes, like the chicken pot pie that's in the oven right now).

Take laundry. We tried countless times to use only organic detergents. Tide and the like are poison to both us and the environment. But each time our clothes ended up smelling like a wet dog. Not the best scent for trying to keep clients, but I did fit in better on the T. Once again, at rara's behest, we are trying a product recommended by a fellow crunchie, I'll keep you posted, or maybe you can just approach me and take a whiff.

But as with all things, rara has taken laundry to a new level, preferring to take garments into the shower to clean. I have the utmost aversion to this, not because I don't applaud her efforts but because of the trauma it evokes. Let me explain:

Just after the initial strip search in prison, the guard hands you bedding, heavy denim, and a fishnet bag for laundry. Every Wednesday they collect those laundry bags, which we cons stuff and tie as tightly as we can for fear the bag will open. If your bag opens and loses your laundry, it can take weeks for the property offer to get around to answering your request for new duds. Sometime Wednesday afternoon the bags come back either steaming hot and burnt, soaking wet and smelly, or my favorite, microwaved, steaming hot on the outside, wet and cold in the middle.
I favored buying extra bars of soap from the canteen, so that once a week I could wash my clothes in the shower. It wasn't uncommon to see me walking to the showers fully dressed. No, this wasn't to thwart off those who might seek to follow up on my dropping of the soap, it was so I could scrub my clothes clean and avoid the possibility of the laundry leaving me with only one outfit.

These days, post prison, I am grateful for the opportunity to use a washer and dryer, as I am grateful for the opportunity to do just about anything without being strip searched first. rara, God bless her, uses a Yahoo group called Freecycle whenever we need to downsize, or are ever looking for something, like wine glasses, hiking boots, chairs, desks, bulletin boards, or Brita water filters. In Nahant, she got us a washer for free--and it screamed and hissed so loudly that sometimes we had to turn up the TV or leave the apartment entirely. Now, since she started bathing with our dirty laundry, things are showing up around the apt that she hoped I wouldn't notice, like the Laundry Spinner and the drying rack. I might have to shank her.

Traditions

2009-12-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

Traditions are like compulsions, done over and over, without much thought as to why. Growing up, we'd attend midnight mass on Christmas eve. Why? It was tradition. We set up a traditional tree, decorated with ornaments made by my Polish grandmother. We ate a traditional Polish dinner, pierogi, golabki, kielbasa, and cruscik. I haven't continued any of these traditions, for the most part, they nauseate me.

Today, I create my own traditions. On Sundays, we get together with our neighbors downstairs and eat the dinner I prepare, usually out of the Fresh and Honest cookbook from Henrietta's Table, where we got married. We sit, hopefully reverend Austin is there to bless the meal, mostly by remaining quiet, resting his neck. Tuck (Aka: Tuck Amuck), sits patiently, waiting for me to toss him a morsel, several actually.

Being with Allison, or Al, never Ali, and Gaylen feels like home to us. They've been here since we moved in but it's only been lately that we've gotten this close. Actually, Rachel has always been close to them, it's me that it takes a while to warm up to. Mostly because of my faltering filters, that fail to stop me from saying whatever comes to mind. Countless times throughout the year, I've left them speechless. My sense of humor is like quills on a porcupine, relaxed, they are soft, erect, they prick.

Allison and Gaylen have the type of relationship that rara and I have. Separate, they are completely different people. Gaylen has an undeniable edge, that fiery anger that makes her a menace on the road and a riot after a few drinks. Allison buys humane mouse traps that contain rather than kill. Picture Gaylen in the early morning hours letting our mouse free in a field, something I'd do for rara. I wonder if, to the mouse, the experience is like an alien abduction without the anal probe. But I digress.

Unlike oil and water, they emulsify, their differences gloss over, and they blend. It's hard to imagine one without the other, or that either exists as separate entities. Sunday dinner, and our lives are richer because of them, good friends truly are hard to find.

A few Sundays ago I attempted what seemed a simple crab and corn chowder recipe. I bought all the ingredients except the rock crab that Whole Foods doesn't carry. The fish counter suggested I try H-Mart in Burlington. So Reverend Austin and I made the trek. We could tell by both the business of the lot and the predominance of the shoppers going to and fro, that H-Mart was a different kind of store. The size of a typical Shaw's, inside it opened up into a unique shopping experience. Immediately to our left were several glass cases of jewelry. With a furrowed brow I turned to Reverend Austin just in time to see him shrug.

To the right, a food court of sorts lined the wall, only there was no pizza, burgers or, greasy tacos, there were only Japanese steak houses, and Chinese fresh fish joints. The produce section was a plethora of every imaginable fruit and vegetable. The back wall was sectioned for meats, the reds made up only a fraction, the fish stretched the entire length of the building. They had everything imaginable, and five varieties not yet discovered, including a tentacle section. At each station stood at least three workers, waiting to assist. I asked for crab and was directed to the corner where several varieties sat chilled in a cooler. Only one was shelled and canned. I grabbed what they had and made my way to the front.

Many things stood out as Reverend Austin and I, made our purchase. One was that along with food, parts of the building were sectioned into smaller stores where one could buy a TV, luggage, T-shirts, and the aforementioned, Jewelry. But what stood out the most was the fact that as I hurried through, I was stymied countless times by groups of people standing in the way. Typically, this annoys me, until I realized that it wasn't coincidence, running into these groups. More than shopping, most were there to chat, catch up with old friends, or make new ones. There was a sense of community amongst these people and I found myself feeling ashamed of pushing my way through, intruding on these people's Sunday Tradition, just so I could get back to my own.

2009-12-12T20:22:00.000-08:00

Someone said, "It's like they got married in a Starbucks." It's funny how many people take offense when we tell them we got married in a restaurant. So conventional, marriage seems, that when it's done unconventionally, people write it off as if our bond isn't sacred.

I used to joke with Rachel that the only thing that mattered to me was the ring. I felt she needed it. She felt she had enough gems. So I bit the bullet, spent more than I had, and bought her the ring I am proud to see sparkling under the track lighting of the wine tasting we attended tonight. She, in turn, employed a local artist to design my band, using gold and stones bought by reputable, sustainable companies, who don't pollute or use slave labor. So quintessentially rara.

The ceremony was held in The Charles River Hotel, in the function room of Henrietta's Table. We invited close friends and family, 35 in all, to sit with us, enjoy a great meal with organic wine, the food prepared using ingredients bought from local farms, that grow mostly organic produce. The ceremony, performed by the newly ordained, Reverend Austin Ritter (rara's bro), could not have gone more smoothly, hilarious yet poignant. After, we ate, drank, some danced, without the stuffiness of most conventional weddings. The cake was perfect, the flavors accentuated by the excitement of the day, and the proximity of those we love the most.

For me and Rach, the day could not have been more perfect. We married in the same fashion as we live, for each other, conscious of where our money goes, careful to consider the long term consequences of our actions.

And we laughed.

Karate Kid

2009-06-13T08:14:00.000-07:00

The plan was fiendishly simple. Kill my brother, a stroke of genius. And who could blame me? No one. No jury in the world would convict a helpless, abused, doe eyed preteen of murdering such a callous individual. I’d parade countless witnesses that would corroborate my story, neighborhood kids that witnessed every wedgie.

So I enrolled in self defense classes. Cal, or sensei, was a seventh degree black belt that ran a studio with his son, Cal Jr. Cal was portly with golden skin, slicked back hair, and an overbite that gave some words a sucking sound. I never once saw him out of his gi, coveted for the black belt that proclaimed him a badass beyond reproach. It wrapped tightly around a rotund belly, he’d rest his hands on the knot as he looked over the class, casting disparaging looks, remarking about our softness and lack of discipline.

His son was the epitome of deception. Soft, soft spoken, shy to a fault. It almost made me doubt the veracity of his black belt, faded; possibly one of his fathers’s pulled from the closet, next to the untouched loafers, just under the tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches.
Pictures of Cal Sr. fighting in tournaments adorned the walls near the shrine, an alcove at the end of the empty studio where swords were mounted on a marble alter. Their lacquered handles gleamed seductively under the recessed lights.

No one was allowed to touch them out of respect for the weapon. Weapons were the last resort of the warrior, Cal would say, he must first learn to use his brains. It was that last resort I always waited for him to describe. Hoping he’d offer the justification for the hate I felt, that at times made me sick to my stomach. I’d wait patiently for him to elaborate, but he only talked of defending, never offending, of Sun Tzu and The Art of War whose teachings hung from a tapestry opposite the shrine:

When able to attack, we must seem unable;
When using our forces, we must seem inactive.
When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away.
When far away, we must make him believe we are near.
If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him.
If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.

I studied them. Learned to recite them on command. Except the last one. It slipped from my memory, evaded repetition, and washed away like liquid through a sieve. The last tenant mocked me, exposed me for what I was, a spy infiltrating to learn how to kill my brother, to use the art of defense to wage, not protect.

During sparring sessions my anger exposed me as a fraud. I’d rage toward opponents, no longer a representative of the tenants that hovered above, their essence betrayed.
Cal stopped every match, yanked me aside and reprimanded me for ignoring the first, last, and only rule of sparring, no contact. With each infraction I was sentenced to pushups until he saw that I needed a lesson in control.

He summoned Cal Jr. to the room, paired me against him, mumbled something about seeing if I had what it took. I saw it as my chance to expose him as a fraud. Cal Sr. offered the pads, shin, elbow, and head. I waved them off. We bowed to the master to show respect, to each other.
Fight! Cal asserted. I was already in my stance, brimming with energy, on the balls of my feet aching to move forward. My head snapped back. The hard rubber sole of Cal’s shoe hit front while the solid concrete assaulted my back. He flattened me with a kick I never saw.
I sprung up; water welled in my battered eye. Cal Sr. cupped my head in his meaty paws and rotated it left to right, checking the damage.

“Pay attention, your weight’s all over the place. Center.” he advised. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I was already poised, weight on my heels, primed to take the brunt of an oncoming attack. Fight!
Cal Jr. stood, immovable. I waited, ready to defend. The anger begged to engage. It built like steam against a turbine. When it was clear that Cal wasn’t going to initiate, I shuffled forward only to meet the gaze of water stained ceiling tiles. My legs were swept out from under me. I was once again flattened by an attack I never saw coming.

I had fantasies of becoming Cal Sr.’s progeny, the chosen one prophesized to take the art of self defense to the next level and beyond. I searched my body for a mark that slated me The One. I only found a mole that loosely resembled Charlie Brown. But the position was filled. Cal Jr. was next in line. The best I could hope for was to teach the Saturday morning toddler class when Cal Sr. was too tired. I quit after receiving my brown belt.

Suicide Watch

2009-06-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

During assessments I used to have to ask if patients had any suicidal ideations. Most veterans answered no because they knew I'd paste myself to their sides if they answered yes. An affirmative was always followed up with whether or not they had a plan. Only once was I given details. He was transferred to the psych ward and spent a portion of his thirty day stay in four point restraints. If conspiracy is father to the felony, the plan is the offspring of ideations.

When my anger chews me up and spits me out I fight back, swinging at ghosts, hitting only tangible things that matter most. I push love away, try to snap bonds in half. Isolate. I drag myself to therapy and pit my PhD in pain against her Masters in Social Work. So far she's held her own. We'll see what happens when I really try to push.

In session three she asked if I still felt like using. Of course I do, because this year has been so hard. But its less like a craving and more like a golden parachute. My way out of pain, however temporary. After thirteen years I'm smart enough to know that when I pull the cord, an anvil will jettison from the pack and drag me to the ground.

After I admit that I want to use she asks, "Do you have a plan?"

Funny how the same follow up exists for relapsing as for suicide.

Coincidence?

I think not.

WAAAAAH!

2009-05-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

There are benefits to being neurotic. For instance, I get to swing pendulous between extremes, moods turn on a dime, loving and hating at the same time makes for an interesting day. My neurotic side gets edgy at the prospect of a new therapist and shoots down potentials for having a lazy eye or a turkey neck. They're all crazy as Christians, he'll lament. I choose a woman so he'll compare her to Mom, orchestrator of this mess I call a psyche. She'll examine. But I'll shut her down at the door. Sorry, Bryan's unavailable at the moment, but if you'd like to leave a message....

I tried a male whose timidity fell somewhere between kitten caught in a thunder storm, and turtle surrounded by bored teens. I swear he salivated at my list of symptoms and their catalyst. I wrote him off, delighted that I present such a challenge.

I see her Monday. A smell something like potpourri or sleepytime tea will permeate the air. I'll decline all beverages. She'll interpret my choice of chairs. Hers will be cordoned off with everyday trinkets, glasses maybe, a cell turned off. Books will line the shelves, the titles will spill forth like bullet items on a resume. She read Jung and Erickson but finds Freud too...too...whatever. He snorted cocaine to quell a crippling fear of social occasions. Ditto. Call him what you like, the man had impecable taste in narcotics.

I'll need her to challenge me if this is going to work. She'll have to fight because I protect it. Cup it in clenched hands crowbars can't pry. Over time, she'll push me to release it, but how can I release the very thing that defines me?

My essence.

My pain...

Hindsight

2009-05-03T17:59:00.000-07:00

Flashback to 05/02/1987. Like any other 17 year old, my friends were my world, impressing them, my priority. Twenty two years later, Blaine sets up dinner on a night that we're all free. Ritchie and Tommy blow it off. Pete's detained by work. Blaine, Chris, Duane, Rachel, and I sit down to dinner. Olivia, our waitress, is wonderful, engaging, attentive. Alcohol flows, tongues loosen. The skeletal remains of past insecurities wash up on waves of nostalgia. But I am inherently different now...or so I thought.

I wear my past like a red badge of courage, proof that the depths of depravity are inhabitable. I flaunt it, deliver it on the butt of jokes about amorous cellmates and rusty shanks. Dad's ring tone is Darth Vader's labored breathing. Part of it is a giant fuck you to the other survivors who hide it like a hairy mole. Grandma behests, Don't tell a soul, lie if they ask...except when she marched me to the Social Security Office in Lynn. She told them I paced the floor non-stop in an effort to squeeze an over juiced system for disability. And why shouldn't you? The Spanish and the Blacks all do it all the time.

And so I sit through dinner. Split a burger with Rachel, my arm around her, caressing. We check out her ass when she goes to the bathroom, their praise validates my petty existence.

At her expense.

There was a time that I was quite astute at keeping my neurotic side from grabbing the wheel and driving us into a ravine. I think it's time to go back to therapy...

Lilliputian

2009-04-01T17:07:00.000-07:00

I’m little. No huge revelation there. Just take a look. Big is the last thing that comes to mind when looking at me. But I’ve always fantasized about being big. Working out everyday and gulping protein shakes only made me look like a blow fish, over-inflated and still…little.

They say you have to think big to be big. So I earned two college degrees. But intelligence is all relative. Compared to say, a vascular surgeon, I’m really little. I overcompensate with an outrageous personality, but little men with big personalities just look like assholes most of the time.

My littleness was tempted by the power of things like firearms. I felt so big the first time I held a gun. But when it went off by mistake it only shed light on how little I was. After I checked and rechecked to see if my stray bullet killed anyone, I realized I wasn’t big enough to wield it.

So overwhelming was my desire to be big that I followed other bigs like my father and brother into jewelry stores to rob them. For that they sent me to the big house where I had to survive amongst the most dangerous bigs in the world.

But I wised to the fact that to survive, I’d have to play the cards I was dealt. I embraced little and realized that bigs were the minority. I dropped twenty five pounds, toned down my personality, and let my guard down because vulnerability attracts other littles, especially female littles.

But nothing makes me feel littler than my felony conviction. It looms the biggest detriment to my littleness. Nothing looks as large on an application as --Have you ever been convicted of a felony. Massachusetts Law says I can seal my record, 15 years after the last day of my sentence, including probation. My record is eligible for sealing in 2017.

Maybe I'll apply to work in a flying car factory.

Getting Baked

2009-03-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

Budgeting is hard, especially since I don't make any money. Training is in the dumps.

Discretionary income?

Please.

So we tighten our purse strings. I can't spend over ten bucks without hearing it from Rara. "Three dollars, three times a week, is nine dollars, that's thirty six dollars a month that we could put away." So I try not to spend. I bought braided bully sticks for Mow the other day and was handed my ass on a platter. Damn that broad can do math quick. She figured what that would cost us over a millennium, then broke it down to me in terms I understood. "If we want to buy things for her to chew, maybe something else needs to go, like chips," referring to my inability to stop buying munchies. (Notice she didn't say wine.)

I feel guilty. Rachel gets up for work at 5am every morning. So do I, but I move from the bed to the couch, switching one snuggle buddy for another. The neurotic part of me feels castrated. I'm the man, (picture me beating my chest here), I should be bringing home the bacon.

On the other hand, we have gotten creative. We cook together more. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, we huddle around the mixer, baking, sifting through cookbooks and magazines for recipes. We eat healthy for the most part, incorporating grains, fruits, and veggies, whenever we can. The challenge is to avoid ingesting five hundred calories before the batter even sees the inside of the oven. Time is spent contemplating baking them at all.

Ever notice how hard it is to make broccoli taste better and how easy it is to turn a sugar cookie into an insulin coma? The other night we made the aforementioned. Rachel made a sweet lemon glaze for the topping. I melted down chocolate. We voted on which were the best.

Any guesses?

Showdown at Fresh Pond

2009-03-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

It was a great walk up until that point. Mow frolicked in the small stretch of wood bordering the golf course, nothing new, but when she boldly stood at its edge and looked my way, I knew it was on. She baited and I fell hook, line, and sinker calling, "Mow Mow, this way."

She glanced back, poised to blow me off. I readied. We looked like two gunslingers, facing off at high noon, that is if showdowns consisted of one gunslinger running headlong into an open field while the other shouts obscenities. My blood boiled, propelling me forward.

I swooped upon her and grabbed her up, anthropomorphizing her with talk about how mangy mutts don't disobey me. I catch myself, as always, on the edge of an abyss. The edge of my anger. She did what any pup would do. I try to remind myself that running full speed toward a dead fish sounds like the most fantastic thing ever to her. I let her go, along with my homicidal ideations, and breathe. I leash her and deescalate, finding it hard to do these days. Eventually, I drop the leash again. Before my end hits the ground, she bolts back to the rotting carcass a few hundred feet back. I blast past her, feeling a measure of sick satisfaction that I outran a ten month old puppy. Her eyes begged, please Dad, don't kill me. Again I caught myself before committing the deed. Mow would live another day and I would be forced to temper my rage.

My therapist constantly points out the fact that my anger is never commensurate with the circumstance. Dubbed male's disease, he reiterates that I am struggling with the pain I'm in by dumping my anger on convenient targets. He adds that anger is usually equal to how weak I feel, that males especially, combat feelings of weakness by spewing anger on the world.

But I continue to fail at reconciling with the fact that I am human, and as such, try to deny my own ambivalence. No one can be all one thing all the time, and every powerful emotion has an equally powerful opposite. The equation sounds so simple: to acknowledge that we are comprised of both a healthy and neurotic side means that great love gets countered by stifling rage. I love you, and hate you equally.

It has never been more apparent that this concept eludes me as when Rachel says things out of the blue like, "It's the paradox of being Bry," referring to a conversation she had with her brother, Austin.

"Meaning?" I ask.

"You can be so resistant to change, you fight it tooth and nail, yet I've never met anyone with such a tremendous capacity for it."

Mow is safe, for now, but ignorance hasn't proven blissful at all. It becomes more and more apparent that digging out of old habits is like digging out of prison one painful spoonful at a time. But I'm hopeful...

Editor's Note: No Mow's were harmed during the writing of this post.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2009-03-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

FELLOW FOLLOWERS: I have finally launched my website: www.changeisoptional.org from now on all blog posts will be there and here. The site is for potential schools to check me out and see what I do...spread the word. Let me know if you know of any schools that need me. Thanks again for your support.

We are all faced with change. When there is dysfunction, we adopt behaviors that help us survive, that become so enmeshed into our unconscious, we never give them a second thought. Some lay dormant, others manifest in obsessions. From isolation, depression, and acting out to more serious problems like drinking, drugging, promiscuity, and crime, we act on our unconscious motivation to survive life, rather than live it.

We ask of those struggling, “Why don’t you just stop behaving that way,” and become even more frustrated when they shrug and reply, “I don’t know.” Both sides lose patience, and the lines of communication are severed.

Often, the catalyst for change is either a significant emotional event, or as in the case with the addict, hitting bottom. This can take years. As the consequences become more dire, family and friends may initiate ‘Tough Love’ in an attempt to force the willingness to change, and to preserve themselves from further emotional harm and deepening feelings of helplessness.
Nothing short of complete honesty will get the addict through this crucial time. Anger is high. Relapse is likely. Emotions crescendo.

Developing new coping mechanisms begins with the realization that anger is a non-optional response to pain. Confronted with the root cause of their need to self medicate, the addict comes full circle and must face the fact that substance abuse is a symptom, not the cause, of their issues.

Neurotic behavior can be traced to a faulty belief system. Beliefs about oneself that are inconsistent with reality, such as low self worth and self contempt, can cause erratic behavior. Guilt in the absence of a crime is neurotic, as is anger in the absence of any real threat. Faulty beliefs require thorough examination, often with the help of a trained professional. Here, the distinction between the ‘Dry’ addict and the recovering addict, emerges. Dry addicts see no need for change aside from cessation. Recovering addicts choose to look beyond the behavior.

Public Speaking 101

2009-02-14T07:46:00.000-08:00

I survey their faces at the start of class, during my introduction, and notice the ones that may embark on the road to hell. No one can convince them not to travel it and very few turn back, not until they realize the climb out hurts far more than the fall. Utopia is a concept dependent upon current generations learning from our past mistakes. But the inherent folly in our nature is that we need to experience it firsthand, despite wisdom’s warnings.

One tells me that cutting helps release her anger and gives her a sense of control over it. I grimace, knowing anger is a non-optional response to pain, toxic waste that no one wants dumped near them. But anger demands expression, so we’re forced to stuff it down. Inevitably, like a beach ball submerged, it pops up elsewhere, like cutting.

I feel a tremendous connection to these kids, especially the one that sits just outside my periphery and pretends to be bored, nodding off. Later, she’ll admit to taking an oxy, an 80, enough to knock most of us on our ass, but she’s stingy about the details, the why, the true reason for doing something so reckless. Some jump right in the water, others dip a toe to see how painfully cold the plunge will be.

They size me up and write me off before I utter a word. Soon their expressions change as whatever stereotype I fit initially is shattered. Suddenly they can relate, perking as I tell their story, wondering how I know.

I still get nervous but eventually find a groove. I focus on the one avoiding eye contact or cracking jokes in the back corner, in other words, me. After, I bask in the adoration and check my blog incessantly for new followers. Occasionally someone like my cutter contacts me and tells me she heard something in my story...

I hope to reach them all but am satisfied to reach even one. Healing is like tunneling out of prison one spoonful at a time. I’m still going through the process, I guess that’s why they say, progress not perfection. After all, change is optional.

Brothiz

2009-01-29T19:05:00.000-08:00

I'd have to ignore a few key issues before arriving at anything resembling brotherhood; my homicidal hatred of Kev, his blatant, twisted cruelty, the fact that we haven’t spoken a word in years. Besides his relentless abuse and putting my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, we were as thick as thieves. We made it through a tumultuous childhood, traversed the white capped waters of addiction, and waded through the hell that is incarceration.
But there was a split. I got sober and he didn’t. I ran headlong into the brick wall of his addiction, trying hard to get him to see the path to righteousness. All I ever ended up with was a headache. Hubris hurts.
I see Rachel with her siblings. They all have their own issues, quirks developed the same way we all get them, faulty parenting. But credit is due, the bond they share is undeniable, and like most people who share DNA, each would take a bullet for the other.
Dad tried as hard as he is capable of to bring us back together, but I denied him. “Would you be willing to sit down with him and try to hash it out?”
“No.” I said, savoring it a little longer than was necessary.
“Why not?” he asked, annoyed.
I thought about it for a few seconds and answered, “To be honest, I’m not even sure what our feud is about anymore. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
I can’t and won’t deny that I miss him. I go over our history again and again, hoping to uncover some nugget of understanding. To what end? I’ll get back to you. I’ve been obsessing on the bond he shares with Dad, the one I still feel felt left out of.
So I declare that from this day forth I have adopted a new brother, Rachel’s brother, Austin. He laughs as heartily at my sense of humor, doesn’t pound the piss out of me for the sheer fun of it, and doesn’t actively put my life in danger (at least not yet). His anger is fresh and electrically charged, while mine is showing signs of decay. When he visits he draws off my thoroughly useless knowledge base and asks questions like, “What’s crack like?”
“Well,” I say, “you know that feeling, just before you become violently ill where you have to decide whether to sit on the toilet or kneel?”
“Yeah.”
“Like that, only worse.”
“Why on earth would anyone want to do that?” he asks wide eyed.
“Because it’s awesome,” is all I can answer.

Death Watch

2009-01-19T20:06:00.000-08:00

Death was neither early nor late, on time or past deadline. There were factors that made him less an exact science and more an estimation. She was ready. What the cancer hadn’t taken was dim and fading, but she refused to face him. He’d wait.

Her son tiptoed in with a tray, and placed it down gingerly, she knew him as John the orderly. He sat down. Death acquainted himself with the anger that flared behind his ice blue eyes.

“Where’s my petunia?” she asked John the orderly.

Bryan answered, “She’s out Mum. Here, take these,” and handed her a fistful of pills.

For the past sixty days she had subsisted on room temperature Ensure and morphine. She reached for her smokes. “Mum, you shouldn’t smoke those.” he asserted.

“Hmmph, why not?” she replied, her point too poignant to argue.

He let her smoke, watching her nod out. “Why are you lying to me about Jess?” she asked.

“Mum, she left,” is all he offered in reply.

“Where’s Kevin?”

“He’s in prison, Mum.”

Her face contorted. “Bryan? My Bryan, please take care of him? He needs you.”

“I know, Mum, I will.” he replied unconvincingly.

Tears rolled hers and his. “He’s so angry. He won’t handle this well.” She looked over to where Death stood in the shadows. “What’s he doing here?” she asked.

“Who?” he asked.

“That guy.” She pointed to the corner

“Don’t know. What’s he want?”

She pondered, “He’s here to get me.”

“So go.” he said.

“Fuck that.”

“Well, you didn’t go when Uncle Teddy came, or The Goddess.”

“Well, he’s creepy.” she added.

“Mum, lay, I need to change your bandage.”

She acquiesced. He exposed the bandage that covered her stomach, peeling it back. Death shifted from one shadow to another, closer. The tumor threatened to breach her abdomen. Death watched her son’s reaction to his stench. Not long now.

Her son left. She stared. Death stared. “I can’t go yet. I don’t want to leave my kids.”

No answer.

“Fuck you!”

By nightfall, she fell into a trance. He put her where no one could reach her. Her eyes fell blank. She shivered. Her eyes failed to close or even blink. Death marked her passing by extinguishing each candle, one by one. While the last one flickered, he pulled her from her vessel.

My Midlife Crisis

2009-01-05T20:01:00.000-08:00

It's not recurring, this dream. I'm on top of a skyscraper. My crippling fear of heights is noticeably non-existent. Peering over the top, the clouds block my view of the ground. I have a distinct memory of jumping before, something I'd never do. Someone is suited up and ready. They jump as I slip off the side. I manage to grab and hold on. I hang. Clouds lick my feet. Imminent death waits to break my fall. Although my grip doesn't give, shows no sign whatsoever of giving, I know I'll die if I let go. I try to come to terms with death, a topic that permeates my waking thoughts, the idea of there being no me. I can't seem to integrate death's inevitability into my psyche. It seems so implausible, and yet...
I don't fall but wake with a start.
In the past year I have become truly lost.
I have no idea what turn to take next. The sign at the crossroads points in all directions, so therefore, at none.
It's all about choices, but choices are about options.
School? A Masters? In what? I'd love to teach but can't have my record sealed until 2017.
I'd love to write more books, but the process is so maddeningly slow.
I'm starting to crack.
Can anyone help me figure out what to be now that I've grown up?

12.24.79

2008-12-22T07:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him

2008-12-07T20:05:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude, is that your girlfriend?”

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

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

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

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

I nodded yes.

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

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

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

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

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

Ode To Blaine

2008-12-03T06:55:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Care Less

2008-11-03T18:43:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

I'm not very good at caring.

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

I hate caring.

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

Weaknesses are exploited.

Manipulated.

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

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

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

It's Not Easy Being Green

2008-10-31T18:56:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt from my memoir:

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

Attitude of Gratitude

2008-10-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

I’m afraid of dying.

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

It’s a common fear.

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

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

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

Twenty six years and counting.

Any Leway on That 15 Minutes?

2008-10-16T19:36:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Outbound only?

Well, where the hell is inbound?

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

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

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

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

I was right.

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

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

Man Held in Jewel Thefts

Nashua Suspect Accused in Robberies Netting $2.5 Million

and

Mastermind of father-son jewel heist team jailed

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

Prodigal Son

2008-10-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

My brother and I don’t talk anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what do you think? Should I do it?

Dirt, Cheap?

2008-09-30T07:09:00.000-07:00

I clean.

Big deal, right?

Maybe you don't understand.

I CLEAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

White is Right

2008-09-17T18:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Classic Grandma.

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

Maybe we should keep them behind fences.

Just Curious

2008-09-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

Who is this?

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

My brain is sprained trying to figure it out.

Miss Bossy Pants Meets Mr. Sensitive

2008-09-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Could there be some transference going on here?

Nah, it’s definitely the hair…

Primal Scream!

2008-08-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

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

She cut it Friday.

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

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

I said no.

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

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

This kind of fuckbucket.

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

Agent R

2008-08-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

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

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

My name in lights, so to speak.

Then why do I feel numb?

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

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

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

Technology Sucks!

2008-08-07T10:50:00.000-07:00

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

Shit!

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

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

That's where Rachel grabbed the phone.

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

She took the diplomatic route, bulleting the particulars:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shades of Caucasian

2008-07-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mowmow has a myspace

2008-07-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

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

Tango With Evil

2008-07-21T10:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Go see it.

There Goes Tokyo

2008-07-14T08:15:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

But how do you police these companies?

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

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

And then teach us.

Henchmen

2008-07-07T20:17:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

It makes me wonder what the application is like.

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

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

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

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

Agamemnon Was A Pussy

2008-06-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

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

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

Big deal.

Let me ask you this:

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

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

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

Meet Mow Mow.

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

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

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

she should follow and sit, expecting a treat.

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

Hubris.

She bites everything, as stated earlier.

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

This works, kind of.

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

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

So we’ve called in reinforcements.

A trainer will be here Saturday morning.

I’ll keep you posted.

Just One Man

2008-06-10T06:08:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is all about choices

2008-06-02T18:47:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Rachel disagrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wait...

2008-05-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe The Wait is trying to teach me a lesson.

STOP WAITING...

Dog Whisperer For A Day

2008-05-18T17:02:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I should get in line behind Pete.

Dog Day Afternoon

2008-05-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

Take a second.

Look at her.

Ask yourself:

Self,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe I should get a dog.

Nature vs Nurture

2008-05-04T17:50:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Say hi to Gary.

What Dreams May Come

2008-04-28T17:21:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ignorance truly is bliss.

Cataloging Crimes

2008-04-21T05:42:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Six boxes. Six catalogs.

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

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

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

I am NOT Batman

2008-04-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I still owe myself seven hundred bucks.

Jack and the ProteinStalk

2008-04-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So far the fads are winning.

Penis on Wheels

2008-03-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Servant waits while the Master bates

2008-03-23T17:19:00.000-07:00

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

Everybody loves Bry

2008-03-17T06:02:00.000-07:00

Its not comfortable, not in the sense of familiarity, but comfortable like a silk suit. The material caresses, the fit is fantastic, but not at all what I'm used to, comfortable but uncomfortable at the same time. I'm talking about the natural high I've been on for over a week now. I was in Lexington, talking to the freshmen about exercise and nutrition, they loved me, asked their teachers if I would come and speak more often. The number one highest rated speaker they have, at least that's what they tell me to keep me coming back, and it works. My total body conditioning class is overflowing, some of the late arrivals don't even have weights, but stay anyway. My clients keep renewing, and others are lining up, because they have heard I'm a great trainer. Next month I sit with one of the better agents in the business to discuss my memoir. I attended a sales course for work and had to leave early. My coworkers complained they'd be bored without me. Everyone thinks I'm a riot.

But it won't last. No high ever does.

Ever since my first experience with drugs I've been caught in a vicious cycle of instant gratification, followed by self loathing, depression, and the subsequent hunt for the next high. Like all highs, this one will end with a crash. A plummet back down to earth where reality reveals me to be a good trainer, a decent writer, and lucky not to have gone back to prison, or a life of crime. When agents reject me, It'll be because my writing sucks. When my class is sparse, I'll be because I made it too hard. If my clients don't renew, it'll be because I'm an awful trainer. It's the duality of ambivalence, that tender trap. To deny it is to deny my own humanity. To misunderstand it dooms me to repeat it. My therapist tells me I can't ever be all one thing, that behind every intense emotion lies its polar opposite, lurking, waiting to center us, to balance the equation.

Thank god for Rachel. She lets me soar for awhile, tethered to reality but when I fly too high she grounds me. Sometimes it takes a a good, hard, slap to revive me. She winds me back up and sends me off into the world. She doesn't say it but I know she's bracing herself for the next crash.

Today I feel numb. Another unique aspect of living a life less ordinary. There are times, when someone really gets into my story, that I can feel that familiar pang, like before a robbery or scoring an ounce of coke. But I don't miss it.

Well, that's a lie.

I miss it sometimes.

Presents = Love

2008-03-02T16:12:00.000-08:00

My 38th birthday is Tuesday and all I can think is, Big F'ing Deal. Birthdays are heralded as special days but in reality I didn't do anything magnanimous, except get yanked from a womb I'll spend the rest of my life trying to work my way back into (Holla Freud fans). But this year more than any other I feel less like celebrating the day Mom pushed extra hard so she could expel the one thing keeping her from boozing, the only reason she refused to breastfeed me. The day after having me, her breasts turned into taps. Although if what they say is true, that whatever Mom ingested would be passed through the breast milk, Mom was coughing up coffee brandy with a nicotine chaser.
It's a far cry from my tenth, the year Mom threw a party and invited all my friends. (Well, she invited my 1st grade class, hardly friends since I was a recluse). But they came and I was the man of the hour. My 'friends' gathered around the race car cake my mother made, a tribute to how much she paid attention, since I've never once alluded to being a fan of racing. To her credit she abstained from drinking, or at least curtailed it enough to avoid flipping out when we decided to re-wrap the cat in one of my present boxes.
I received a myriad of gifts but ultimately hunched over my Lego collection after I assimilated the small box Mikey Newhall gave me into the collective. Mikey took awkwardness to a new level. The type that could calculate Force=Mass x Acceleration in his head but had trouble zipping up or fastening his belt after taking a whiz. I piled my presents high, thirteen in all, and sat back to take in what they represented: Presents=Love.

Am I Bad?

2008-02-25T05:40:00.000-08:00

The subject comes up from time to time, in episodes that sometimes take days to pass. It comes to me when I'm writing my memoir, my third attempt to put to paper what everyone tells me is a fascinating life. It surfaces in the microscopic details I have to employ to help recreate on paper what lives so vividly in my mind. Sometimes it seems like ages ago, another life. But such feelings are cast aside by the realist in me who is immoveable, rigid, and stubborn. The truth is that no matter what the circumstances, no matter what outside forces influenced my decision to act, I should have known better.

My father, brother, and I, robbed jewelry stores in New England for close to five years. The cap we said was enough before we'd stop kept getting bigger, a hundred thousand, two, a million. Some of the robberies barely netted us a few thousand, one took a month to plan and an hour to execute, all for a few boxes of catalogs. Others were huge, blanketing every available surface in our house in gold, gems, and cash. I thought I knew lust's allure when I discovered what other uses there were for the old back massager I found in our attic as a teen. The day I rolled around on ten thousand dollars in cold hard cash made that seem like an itch in my pants.

During those robberies we beat a man, duct taped two of them to wooden chairs then left them to fend for themselves. We shoved loaded guns into all their faces and threatened their lives. And ironically, one was killed after we chose not to rob him. A week later someone put a bullet in his head for the same reason we were only going to cuff him to the bathroom sink while we cleared out his store.

Today I'm clean, living a quiet life, on a tiny island, where people go to die, is how a friend describes Nahant. I prefer it that way. Considering where I could be. My brother is behind the wall for two more years, bringing his grand total to ten. Dad served 11 and a half of his twelve years. He's retired, collecting government checks, and living off his retirement fund.Prison never leaves me. It haunts my dreams. Part of my desire to see the memoir published is so the world can judge my father. I realize my head is on the same chopping block. But I offer it humbly, or so it may seem.My therapist tells me guilt in the absence of a crime is neurotic. What about guilt in the presence of one? He also says there are no bad people, only people with greater or lesser degrees of mental health. It took me a long time to allow these ideas to rent space in my head, let alone come to some understanding of what they meant.

Am I bad? Sometimes it takes convincing.

Cultivation with intent to distribute

2008-02-15T05:43:00.000-08:00

Dreamer. Drifter. Lolligager were the words that described me best as a teen. I blame it on my drug use. Excuse it away with a joke that I only have two brain cells left and they don't get along. With every joint a little voice in the back of my head whispered a wives' tale that every hit deleted brain cells as efficiently as my backspace button deletes the awful sentences I write. Case and point:
My room was deplorable, clothes scattered everywhere, an intricate system where each pile represented a degree of dirtiness from soiled to slightly smelly. Surface space was sparce. Dust piled high. The room stank of cat piss from the abandoned cat my sister brought home. He resided in the attic ajacent to my room and emerged every night to defecate under my desk. Mold spawned in patches from the food I discarded. The shades were forever drawn. Dank slathered the walls making it hard to discern their actual color.
It was early spring. I rolled a joint. Some seeds must have fallen on the rug, into some primordial ooze, because they sprouted. The next day three spaghetti looking strands squiggled in between the grooves of my shag carpet.
I gathered them with the fervor of a god, feeling omnipotent, the giver of life, and scurried to the backyard where I knew there were clay pots and dirt. I gingerly set the sprouts on the picnic table and scurried to the garden and filled one of the pots with topsoil. In complete darkness I submerged the ends of each sprout in a finger sized hole and cradled the pot while I carried it back to my room. The next morning I woke to the nourishing rays of sunlight bathing my sprouts. I was elated.
I needed a bigger pot for the rest of the seeds I fished out of the cellophane baggie of weed. I planted five more in a giant fish bowl and set them in the backyard to bake.
I thought briefly of what Mom would do when she saw them. The pot seeds were hers, from the buds I plucked from her stash. Her silence was assured in the threat of me saying out loud what we all knew when her bedroom door was shut and the sweet smells of sinsemellia wafted through the kitchen. Mom was getting baked again, time to make cookies.
In no time I had plants with thick green leaves, like the ones I saw pictures of in High Times Magazine. I never read the articles. I just looked at the cool pictures. But mine looked more like sticks than plush bushes. I cradled them and carried them across the street to my neighbor, a body shop mechanic with a master's degree in botany.

"You have to separate the males from the females," he said while shooting me a look that exposed me as a fraud for trying to pass them off as exotic posies.
"How do I tell?" I asked while lifting the leave of the tallest one, looking for little green testicles.
Another look, this one exposing me as a dumbass, "The females flower. And you can't let them. If they flower, they die." he said while traipsing off to wrestle the venus fly trap he fed with Miracle Gro, the one capable of eating small children.
"How do I stop it from flowering?" I shouted.
"Prune it," and he was gone, Indiana Jones style, machetti in hand.

So while I looked up what prune meant in the set of encyclopedias I plagiarized school papers from I decided to consult the High Times Magazine.
In the question and answer section someone asked, 'I heard my urine is good for my plants. Is this true?'
The editors answered yes with a lengthy explanation that I ignored. I pruned the females, extraced the males, set them aside to dry out, and stood over the remaing females like a pervert getting ready to deliver a golden shower.
I put head to pillow dreaming of plentiful, red veined buds. Not only was I going to be a self sufficent stoner, but I was going to get rich off of whatever I didn't smoke.
Dreamer, Drifter, Lolligager woke the next morning to the sight of my freshly pruned females wilted and brown. Some of them were speckled in black spots. They looked like they contracted the plague.
I revisited the article and read it through. The words 1 part per 100 jumped out. One teaspoon of nitrogen rich urine to each gallon of water.
As I smoked the microwave dried leaves, a headache rumbling like storm clouds in the reccesses of my head, I crossed off botanist from the list of potential careers. All that was left was space cowboy, or writer.

P-Y-N-K

2008-02-11T09:10:00.000-08:00

He's a little bit of a thing, faded and pilled, with red dots from the sheets. And he's lost that new bear softness. He's a pink and white baby Gund. I can't seem to find another, not that I'm looking. I sleep with him every night, nestled in the crook between my chin and chest. I fall asleep on my back but inevitably flip to one side. He either gets tossed and re-gathered when I get up to pee, or he survives the turn and is spooned, cradled, and held tight to me. I am lost without him. I'll turn on every light in the house if I can't find him but he's always under the bed or my girlfriend snags him. She has her own, a replica of a bear she had as a kid, but she is gluttonous and hoards all the bears. He is irresistible, so beyond mild agitation, I can't blame her. I bought him at FAO Schwartz in Boston and he has become a MAJOR player in our relationship.

I slept with a bear early on, Bob, a panda stuffed with little styrofoam balls. I know this because after he disappeared I found his lifeless body near the trash bin in the garage, a place I wouldn't visit for all the candy in the world. But I was distraught. When I picked him up his body felt limp and liquidy, his one eye glimmered with the eternal blue flame of the water heater. I think the trauma of that event might have sworn me off getting close to any other bears. Although there was a coarse, flame red, chicken, embroidered with green and yellow sequins my grandmother brought me from Poland. But he lacked panache, was completely unsnuggleable, and made my skin itch the same way the insulation in the attic did whenever I snooped for early Chrismas presents. It was only later in life that I understood why Mom called him asbestos chicken.

In my late teens there was Monium, another panda, I'll let you figure out why I called him that. But he was way too big to sleep with and brought back flashbacks of when Mom used to prop me up in a pile of stuffed animals with my bottle, safe and sound, so she could go mix a drink and chain smoke. I have to admit even in my late thirties, freakishly large, novelty, stuffed bears freak me out.

At Plymouth State College, where I majored in drug dealing, altered states of consciousness, and drunken makeouts, I had a brown bear, but someone bearnapped him and he was never heard from again.

Which brings me to P-Y-N-K. He is alive, in me, and speaks through me. You could say I channel him. He is his own bear. With his own personality. He loves crunchy fish, fresh kitty if it's sliced thin and is really lean, and has recently had to stop eating squirrels due to their high cholesterol content. The genesis of his voice came from when I used to live with my mother. She kept ducks in a pen under the porch and bunnies in thier own cage further out in the yard. In the morning, following strict written orders to feed them and give them fresh water, I'd often find the ducks loose and lounging under the bunny cage. I was only a month or two into my sobriety so I'd sing to them in a cute, squeaky voice I knew only they'd understand:

Bunnies and Duckies
Bunnies and Duckies
Bunnies and Duckies
Just don't mix.

Because then they'd be

Dunnies and Buckies
Dunnies and Buckies
Dunnies and Buckies
That's a neat trick.

And so now he lives with us. He waits patiently for us to fall asleep on the couch and wake up in the wee hours, trudge up the stairs, and into bed where I'll joke if I can't find him, "Pynk is probably out fighting crime." Either that or Rachel snagged him before I could.

The Rara Calculator

2008-02-04T06:15:00.001-08:00

You've reached for one, whenever you can't quite figure out the plus, or minus, hundred in your checking account or when you're trying to figure out that pesky interest compounded over a fiscal year. I'm talking about a calculator. I need one the second my ten fingers and toes fail me. But what about that mental calculator, the one we use to weigh risk against reward, the one we say those emotionless sociopaths seem to be born without.

Some of them are simple, like mine. Right plus wrong, should I times shouldn't I, consequence squared divided by impulse. Others are way more intricate, like Rachel's. Rara's calculations are a unique mix of calorie worthiness, morality, general safety, pleasure, and emotion. Nothing as neurotic as planned spontaneity, or three months salary socked away, never to be touched. Hers has a special button, one marked with a symbol that mixes the above criteria into one, comprehensive, educated decision. (We men avoid that button in favor of the one we think calculates logic but in the end we'll just end up doing something crass like spelling boobs with 80085).

We were on roller blades when she calculated the breeze in our face plus the adrenaline rush and minused out the missed weeks of work times piles of unpaid bills if she got hurt. (She's the bread winner. I can do my job from a wheel chair if need be). One quick press of the equal button and we were back home, unstrapping those aligned wheels of death and opting for a nice quiet night sipping wine and eating organic dark chocolate from the safety of our living room.

My Mom used the same calculator only she had what I called the Fuck It button, a manual override. She'd look at the last entry in her check book, the one that read -.78, and pull out her credit card, wave it around and say, Fuck It.

Try this...

2008-01-28T09:07:00.000-08:00

Need new ideas for breakfast? Try this: take two whole grain waffles, I like the Kashi Heart to heart, my GF likes the Van's Wheat Free. Toast them and cover them with your favorite flavored yogurt. I like Stonyfield Farm Banilla, she likes Wallaby's black raspberry. Add fresh seasonal fruit (blueberries are $40 a pint in the winter, so I use bananas from September to May). And top with raw nuts, not roasted or salted. It's a perfect meal. Whole grain carbs, a decent amount of protien, and plenty of good fats. Plus, whenever you get bored just change the flavor of the yogurt, nuts, or fruit.

220 minus your age

2008-01-22T06:52:00.001-08:00

Last night at work I had an appointment with a woman, 35, 5'10", 180lbs, 46.2% bodyfat. She is pre-diabetic, her grandfather has had both legs amputated because of the disease. My brother was type 1. His pancreas doesn't produce insulin. But the recent rise in the incidence of type 2 is alarming to say the least. I see it all the time now and it is completely unecessary.

Glucose is blood sugar. Our bodies cannot use carbohydrates. It has to convert the carbs we eat into glucose. This happens in the stomach when our pancreas releases the hormone insulin that binds to carbs and wraps them up for transport to our muscles. Once our muscles are filled, the remaining glucose is stored as fat. (Ahh yes that wonderfully efficient metabolism of ours, stores fat so easily it's scary). Robert Atkins' low carb diet sought to shut down insulin production forcing your body into ketosis, essentially forcing it to rely on the body's stored fat as its source of energy because there were no precious carbs around. (my opinion of which I'll withhold for future posts).

Type two diabetes makes me mad. No one should be getting this disease. It occurs when our bodies become resistant to insulin, and a decreased insulin production. In short, you've burned it out! Insulin receptor sites dull and the body is left with dangerously high blood glucose levels.

More than 80% of people who have type two diabetes are overweight. Ok, Ok, I'll stop with the preaching...Here's the good news: Exercise can help.

Every time we exercise we burn all our stored glucose. This is why we recommend doing cardio for more than fifteen minutes. After the first fifteen, hopefully, all things being equal, (you eat six meals a day, 8-12 servings of fruits and veggies, and you're not a giant ball of stress), your body will then turn to that ever efficient source of stored energy...fat.

Here's the kicker, post workout meals are just as important as breakfast, lunch dinner, and all the wonderful high fiber snacks in between, right? Why? Because after your body burns its stored glucose it needs to replenish it. Eating a nice bowl of oatmeal with fresh fruit will help fill those worked muscles back up with glucose. Exercise helps re-engage a failing system, it increases insulin sensitivity, and reverses the effects of type 2 diabetes.

Weight training helps create new muscle mass. New muscle mass means more room to store glucose, more room means more energy, no more nodding our on the commuter rail or at your desk while playing Tetris trying to look busy.

I hope I've scared you into running right out and joining a local gym. You're going to need those limbs so prevention is key. Unfortunately it's not just a grandfather disease anymore, kids are now being diagnosed at a rapid rate, it's a friggin pre-epidemic. So let me help you out. Post your questions, send me your workouts, let me know what your trainer says. Change IS optional. Knowing how is half the battle.

Cardio formula: 220-your age= your maximum heart rate. Train within 60-80% of that number. Make sure you complete a steady, slow, 5 minute warm-up, and a five minute cool down.

Yesterday...

2008-01-21T08:07:00.000-08:00

My 250lb client told me she can already feel changes. We met the first day the new 50,000 sq. ft. club opened. She walked around with a glazed look in her eyes.
"Can I help you?" I asked, thinking her husband would answer. He had the same look only slightly more pessimistic than hers.
"Yes, I signed up and bought three personal trainer visits, I need to get started." She was easily the largest client I've ever had. Part of me was delighted, who the hell can't show someone like this results? But on our first day I realized the challenge we both faced. She had a tough time fitting into the machines, a problem that could have easily backfired on me. Sometimes I forget how hard it must be for anyone even slightly overweight to join a gym and work out with the likes of The Boston Celtic Cheerleaders. But she didn't care.
"I need to do this." She proclaimed as she peered at me over the rims of her designer glasses, forgiving me my digressions and squeezing herself into the leg extension to spite me. Her flaming red hair contrasts the dull steel gray of the machine she is manhandling.
On our second appointment we chat about the upcoming weekend, did she have any plans? "Oh I'll probably make some jewelry, bake some muffins, that's how I got this way you know, baking," she chuckles, "flour and sugar. And alcohol."
"Are you in recovery?" I ask. Not a typical question, but we addicts can sniff another out in seconds.
"Seventeen years." She answers while hoisting thirty pounds up with both legs.
"Twelve." I say.
We both crack up laughing. Her laugh emanates from deep within and rumbles out of her like a stampede. A bond is set and drying. We meet twice a week. I help her get fit, she helps me empathize.