Maybe I Should Stand Still

I may have mentioned that I am not a very coordinated fellow. I have a rich history of bumping into things, knocking shit over, and/or just wiping out for no discernible reason. I typically take what I call "my annual fall" in the winter months. I'll be shoveling the driveway or simply standing still when suddenly my feet will fly out from underneath me and I'll come crashing down on my butt (actually I've been pretty lucky this winter season. I haven't had a spill yet. "Yet" being the operative word here). The tumbles usually aren't of the breaking bones variety but more along the lines of "Oh shit, I hope no one saw that" genus. I'm probably going to wind up on YouTube against my will one of these days with the some unfortunate tag like: "Fat Dude Toppling into an Icy Puddle LOL!".

Recently I've been going through some old pics from when I was a kid and I found one that represents my gracelessness quite well. It's a picture of me holding a damp facecloth to my bicep while my sister Mary stands guard over me. Why was I holding the damp facecloth on my arm? Well, I'll tells ya.

It was Mary's birthday (and if I'm correct at guessing the ages here, it was her 4th birthday which would make me 7) and after the cake had been devoured and the presents had been opened, I went out bike riding with my friend Joey. Now Joey had a super fancy and lightweight BMX-style bike. I had an old Columbia with ape hanger handlebars and a banana seat. It weighed nearly as much as I did. Joey was a kid who was much smaller than I and he had seemingly boundless energy. It was always really hard to keep up with him. He'd be doing all these little jumps and hops up and over curbs and stuff while still maintaining a significant lead over me. He was fast, light, and he never ever tired. In other words, the opposite of me.

On this particular day Joey rode over to my house and we did what we usually did. We'd ride up and down my street and in and out of my driveway. The driveway was halfway down the street so we'd go as fast as we could down the hill and then turn into the driveway at the very last second. The goal was to hit the entrance at an angle where we could get some air. It all sounds harmless enough but there was the added danger of the giant tree.  The giant tree sat on our neighbor's property but its trunk stuck out juuuuuust enough onto our side that if you miscalculated your angle of approach, you could end up with a face full of bark. I saw that tree up close and personal more than once. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The two of us were riding around at the top of my street which kinda made me nervous because there were a couple of brothers who lived in a house right there who were notorious bullies. They had chased me and another kid away from their house when we were walking home from school. They had warned us not to let them catch us in their yard (But we weren't in their yard. We were on the sidewalk. Why would we go in their yard in the first place? Silly bullies, you make no sense). Now here I was riding around in front of their house in bold defiance of their territorial borders. It made my palms all sweaty. Joey was riding around like a lunatic hopping up onto the sidewalk and then using the sloped driveway entrances like mini ramps. He could not be stopped. I was trundling along behind him showcasing my limited catalog of tricks: The Poppa Wheelie (that's what I thought it was called. I realize now that I must have misheard someone say "pop a wheelie" and never thought to question the name), The Curb Jump (a.k.a. The Spoke Breaker), and of course the ever-popular Sliding Skid (my personal favorite...although it did tend to limit the life span of my tires by quite a lot).

Joey was doing these amazing jumps using the lip of the curb and the slope of the driveway as his ramp. I was impressed. I watched him over and over again until I knew just how he did it. On his next approach, I followed on my two-wheeled tank of a bike. He hit that curb and he FLEW across the sidewalk landing neatly and dare-I-say gingerly about 5 feet away. I hit the SAME curb at the SAME speed and my bike nearly came to a complete stop when the front tire hit. I managed somehow to stay upright and followed Joey around for another attempt. This time I watched as he lifted the front tire at the very last second before it hit the curb. OH! That's how he does it. I was so excited to try it out for myself.

I wheeled around and made a bee-line for that curb. A split second before hitting the curb I lifted that giant front wheel up and when the back tire hit, my bike and I were suddenly airborne. Holy shit! I had done it! Hey! Lookit me! I'm totally DOING A TRICK! I was so excited that I hadn't actually failed at the jump that I completely forgot one of the most important parts of this particular trick: Stopping. I looked up and right in front of me loomed a chain link fence that clearly wasn't going to swerve at the last second. I scrunched up my face and slammed full speed into the fence. My bike added insult to injury by clonking me on the head with its handlebars. Thanks for that, bike. I was leaning up against the fence doing an injury inventory when I noticed that my arm really hurt. Hmmm, I'm gonna have to go have Mom check on that for me when I get home. Let me just bend down and pick up my bike here. Huh, that's weird...I can't bend down. My arm seems to be caught on something. Lemme look and see...what...is that...why is the fence going INTO my arm like that? That's when I realized that I was impaled on the top of the chain link fence. The prongs were sticking right into my left bicep. Ow. Ow. Ow. [Note: I tried to find a picture of a chain link fence with those prongs but apparently now-a-days they make them all roundy and no longer have the super sharpened spikey bits anymore.]

I don't remember exactly how but somehow I managed to extricate my arm from the grasp of the fence. I looked around to see where Joey was and he was no where to be found. He had bailed. He did the typical kid thing of panicking about "Oh shit, we're gonna get in trouble for breaking that fence" and took off. Thanks Joey. No, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I looked at the deep wound on my arm and I remember thinking, "Huh, that doesn't look so bad". And then it started bleeding. A lot.

I was still remarkably calm as I got back on my bike and started down the hill to my house with my left arm out of commission. I zipped down the hill, made the right-hand turn into our driveway too quickly, lost control of the bike and went full-on Superman-style into the not-so-welcoming arms of that goddamn giant tree. It made a huge racket and all the kids in our yard came running over to see what had happened. And that's when I started crying. I had crashed so hard that my handlebars where all crooked and the chain had fallen off (I remember that because it had scratched the hell out of my ankle and gave me a grease tattoo on my calf). I hobbled into the kitchen and there my Mom had to figure out what had happened from my open sobs and snot bubbles. I was a mess. Somehow she determined that I wasn't dying and got me cleaned up and calm enough to take this photo. But don't worry, I survived. Check it:

No need to go to the hospital for stitches or perhaps a tetanus shot...just put some Mercurochrome on that fucker and walk it off kid.

To Hell with Kix, I Want Quisp

I have three sisters; two older and one younger. Sometimes when I tell people that they say things like, "Oh, that must have been hard for you growing up. Y'know, being the only boy, huh?" Nope. Not at all. Think about it: My oldest sister Theresa (we call her "Tree" by the way) was saddled with the burden of having to break-in our parents. She had to test all their rules and limits to see where the weak points were (and she found them too...woo-boy did she ever). Patty, the second-oldest, kinda got the shaft. I mean, Tree is the oldest, I'm the only boy, and Mary is the youngest (I can't call her "the baby"...cuz she'll punch me in the arm). So Patty is Jan. No one wants to be Jan (not even Eve Plumb). Patty showed us all up though by being the only one of us (so far) to produce an offspring. She single-handedly made sure that our giant-head genes were passed on to the next generation. And Mary had to deal with me as an older brother. Shit, I had it easy.

Growing up in a small apartment with 4 kids, 2 parents and a grandmother made for an interesting childhood. The place where we lived until 1986 didn't have much in the way of real doors either. Most of the rooms, including the bedrooms, had those shitty vinyl accordion folding doors (I tried to find an example of those doors but none of the pics did them justice. Suffice it to say that they were cheap and would come out of their tracks nearly every time you tried to open or close them). Yeah, that doesn't really cut it if you're looking for some privacy or if you don't want monsters to come in your room. Only the bathroom had a real door but it was the only bathroom for 7 people (did mention that I have 3 sisters? I did? oh, ok). This is one of the reasons I wanted a single-family house. I wanted some goddamn privacy and some real doors.

Mom used to like to rearrange the rooms in the apartment. And I don't mean just moving where the couch is. No, she would swap out entire rooms. This meant that my bedroom, at one point or another, had been relocated to every room in that apartment with the exception of the kitchen. The kitchen was the only room that remained constant. She liked to keep us on our toes I guess. I did eventually get my own room (once Tree went off to college) but it suffered from the lack of a door as well. And since it was right off the noisiest room in the house; the kitchen, it was occasionally hard to go to sleep (especially with the kitchen light beaming through the slats in my "door").

For most of that time we were a single-income household and I can't for the life of me figure out how the hell my parents managed that (Mom went back to work when Mary turned 6 or 7). I mean, we were nice kids and all but holy shit we'd eat you out of house and home. I mean look at these faces. These are the faces of kids who meant business.

No, I don't know what I'm looking at. All I know is that I'm the only one who was classy enough to get dressed for this photo. Vesty/stripey shirt thing? Check. Wide-as-fuck shiny, white belt? Check. Just a hint of belly showing? Check and mate bitches. 

How did I get that cut on my chin? A simple story there. Patty and I would take my Tonka trucks to the top of the street where we lived and then we'd sit on them while they hurtled down the hilly sidewalk. It was fun AND dangerous! Double score! You'd think that I got that cut from a spectacular yellow dump truck wipe-out involving a neighbor's car suddenly pulling out a driveway (although that happened too) but no, I got that when I fell off the curb walking back up the hill to do it all over again. I am quite clumsy you see.

My dad's job driving a delivery truck in Boston required him to get up at an ungodly hour to start his shift. He then would come home about 12 hours later (sometimes later, depending on how shitty his day was) where we would attack him at the front door. Can you imagine four bobble-headed kids barreling down a long hallway towards you after a long day? Holy shit. After flinging ourselves at him we'd demand his attention for the next hour or so while he tried desperately to wind down from work. Dinner would be served by 6PM or so and we'd all sit in the kitchen watching TV and fighting over the last sawdust-dry pork chop or stuck-together spaghetti. After dinner everyone would go about their business (homework, washing dishes, getting ready for bed, punching each other) while Dad would remain in the kitchen doing his crossword puzzle with the TV on. He'd usually start to nod off at the kitchen table with Mom saying "John, why don't you just go to bed?". Because he's stubborn dammit. He'll go to bed when HE wants to! Or at least not until he nods off for the 10th time and his cigarette burns yet another hole in the cable rug around the kitchen table.

Dad also did the weekly grocery shopping for the family on Saturday mornings. Since he was so hard to get him to ourselves during the week, it was considered a special treat to be the one who got to go with him. Not only did it mean that you got Dad all to yourself for a good couple hours but more importantly it meant that you got to choose the cereals for the week. That was a highly coveted position to be in and we'd get pretty competitive about who got to go. Being the one to pick out the cereals for the week was basically the kid equivalent of winning the lottery (now with marshmallow bits!). Another bonus was – depending on how long it took to do the shopping – Dad would sometimes take the one who was with him to Brigham's for an ice-cream. Holy shit. That was huge. An ice-cream that you didn't have to scarf down in fear that the others were waiting for you to let your guard down to swoop in and take the rest (at least that's what it felt like). You could sit there at the counter and listen to the grown-ups talk about whatever the hell they were talking about and just ENJOY your ice-cream.

As we got older of course it became less special to spend your Saturday morning in a Ceratani's grocery store pushing a shopping cart up and down aisles that had saw dust all over the floor (what was with the saw dust anyway? Was it meant to sop up spills? Cuz all it really did was make most of the floor really slippery and it would clog up the front wheels on the cart. Most of the carts at Ceratani's had wheels that were completely jacked-up). I would still go with him every now and then through high school but it was not the same. We didn't have the connection that I think we both wanted at that time in our lives. I think I was there mainly so that he'd have someone to carry all the stuff up to the 3rd floor of the apartment building. And eventually – after some pretty intense arguments that we had about the choices I was making – I stopped going with him on Saturdays completely. We just didn't get along if I'm honest. We barely spoke for months during my last year of high school. Basically he had called me out on my bullshit and at the time I hadn't been mature enough to agree with him and change. Now I get it and I'm glad he did that. I'm glad that I grew a pair and told him that he was correct before he died. It's been 14 years since he passed away and this June it'll be 16 years since Mom died. I can't believe that. Those numbers seem impossible. I'm glad I had them as my parents.

Mmmm...pie and cigarettes

A Knight Out

Last night the Wiff and I went to go see Keith Knight, gentleman cartoonist, speak at the Malden Public Library and sign some of his books. He wasn't scheduled to begin his presentation until after 7pm so we decided to go grab some food early-bird style. The first place we went to was over in Malden and after standing by the sign that said "Please Wait to be Seated" for what I determined to be far too fucking long with no one coming over to us, we decided to leave. Just as we turned to leave a hostess/waitress finally came over and asked "Two for dinner?" Yea, not anymore lady. We're outsies.

We decided to head on over to Melrose so we could check out Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet's new-ish store right there on Main St. The store is run by Rebecca and Gene Bernaldi and I went to high school with Rebecca. She is what I would describe as super smart and a genuinely nice person. I couldn't be happier for her success. Unfortunately, Rebecca wasn't working when we were there but since the store is really well done and the layout is intuitive, it was fine. They made great use of the space and the choices offered are impressive. Plus, the woman who helped us look for a bottle of wine was friendly and knowledgeable. I sound like a commercial or something. Whatever, I liked it. Go there if you can.

After buying the wine we went across the street to this little restaurant that the Wiff had wanted to check out for some time. Stearns & Hill's Bistro certainly looks the part of a good, neighborhood restaurant with the brick and dark wood facade and with the name of the place done in tile above the doors. The bar and restaurant area are all tastefully decorated and I liked the muted lighting in the place. However, I think most of the attention to detail has been spent on creating the atmosphere and not, in my opinion, where it really counts: the food. We ordered the calamari appetizer since it's usually a good gauge on how much control a kitchen has over the quality of the meals it produces.

The appetizer came out and although the presentation was decent, they failed the true test. The calamari rings were just this side of being rubbery little gaskets and the breading was far too thick. Ok, not a great start but let's reserve judgement shall we? I had ordered a burger done medium/well and the Wiff got a shrimp salad doo-dad. When the burger came out it was quite well done (overly cooked and super dry) and the fries were greasy little blobs with not even a hint of crispiness. Bummer. The Wiff said the shrimp were also over done. The overall vibe I got from the food was that the kitchen was lazy. They didn't seem too interested in trying to win new customers. The prices were reasonable but even a decently priced meal that isn't tasty will feel like a rip-off. Ah well, next time we'll just go to The Blue Ox.

During our dinner the thunderstorm that had been threatening to come finally did. The skies opened up and dumped an impressive amount of rain down onto the quaint little streets of Melrose. I looked like a movie where they have those huge rain maker things. It was epic. I put the thought that all our windows in the house were wide open out of my head and we made our way over to the library after the rain stopped. Keith's talk was cool and it was interesting to hear him talk about the projects he's been working on. I also didn't realize just how far ahead a syndicated cartoonist has to have their strips ready. It's like 5 weeks ahead for a daily strip. That's a lot of work. Even though he went to the same high school as me (go Tornados!...or..y'know, not) and I've been a fan of his stuff for years, I'd never actually met Keith. The Wiff went to college with him and I did know one of his sisters though. The guy is just super laid back and confident and it's nice to see he's doing what he loves to do and that he's able to be very successful. Thumbs up all around peeps.

What was not a thumbs up was the fact that the building where I had my very first job is now closed. The Malden Public Library is now in a whole new-to-me section that while I'm sure is better in the sense that it's not a crumbling building that is impossible to heat or cool it just does not have the same "cool factor" as the old building. I dunno when they moved but I'm sure it's been twenty years or something like that. I've not been there since 1988 myself. It didn't even smell like a library y'know? I just kinda...was. Hmph. Stupid reality.

We made our way home and as we turned onto our street it became pretty clear that the little storm we saw in Melrose had been much more intense back home. There were tree limbs and leaves everywhere. Several trees had major damage and it looked like the wind had blasted right down the street stripping leaves and branches like a big hand. We pulled into our driveway and went into the house to deal with the water that had been blown into the house during the storm. Luckily for us it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. The big ol' tree in front of the house had only lost a relatively small branch which had fallen harmlessly onto the curb. Whew. That could have been much worse (and had been for some).

Then at 2:30 am I was awakened to a bizarre noise that I could not identify. I was still in a sleep fog when I heard it again. It sounded like a giant shopping cart with a stuck wheel and is full of empty bottles being dragged down the street sideways. I laid there listening to see if it would happen again and sure enough it did. GGGRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrararttllllllllllebbbbbrrt!!! Oh. What. The. Fuck? Who the hell is collecting recycled beer bottles at this time of the night? Goddamn crackheads, just cuz you can't sleep doesn't mean the rest of us want to be kept awake to listen to the crazy adventures of your sad existence ok? Go away...damn you...go away. Then, as I woke up some more I thought, "Hmm, that's no shopping cart." I got up and went into the front bedroom. As I looked out the window I saw the source of the noise. A huge truck with a fucking wood chipper on a trailer behind it was parked right in front of my house. Two very fat men were tossing branches into the big gaping mouth of the machine. BBBbbllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaAAAHHHaaarchhTT!! Sigh. Goddamn city living.

I whispered my very best gypsy curse upon them and went back to bed. I will eventually move away from all these people. Someday this WILL happen, just not today.

Old Man

My 20th high school reunion is today. Holy piss. This is distressing not in the "where has the time gone" kind of way but more like "there's no fucking way I can really be that old, can I?" Oh hell yes I can. And am.

Until recently I was really only in touch with about 5 people from high school. With the advent of Facebook I've been in contact (sort of) with some more people (come to find out that one of them actually works for the same company I work for. Small world). My high school experience was one of non-participation. I just didn't buy into anything really. Maybe I should have, I dunno. It may have made the time there more interesting certainly. The friends that I hung around with back then also weren't really interested in doing typical high school stuff (well, typical sanctioned high school stuff at any rate), so we just kinda didn't have a real involved connection with the school. It was just a place that we had to go to.

It's only with hindsight that I can see the benefit of having a more involved school experience. High school for me wasn't an awful time but it wasn't particularly pleasant either. It just kind of ... was. I didn't have a choice so I went. It was kind of like having a crappy job. But along the way I met some pretty cool people who made it tolerable. I didn't keep in touch with a lot of those people over the last (jesus christ) 20 years though and seeing some of them might be interesting but I don't want to make those reconnections at an official reunion. Maybe that's due in part to the not having a connection to the school. I don't associate places with time or memories. I'd rather go grab a beer or something. That way we can fully enjoy the uncomfortable silences and awkward lulls in conversation more fully.

I know that some of the people that I've seen on Facebook are going to this reunion tonight and that's great for them. I just can't do it.

Found Some Pictures

I was poking around in the batch of pictures that I have and I came across a couple of gems. The first one is of my dad at my sister Theresa's first birthday party (this is the apartment where I grew up. I still have dreams that take place at ol' 70 Linwood Street). I just love the look on his face. I can't decide if it's just a really happy expression or a "Holy shit this is for real now, thank god for beer!" look. I'm gonna go with the former. Plus I like the super-pale legs blending into his white socks.


The second one is my mom with what appears to be a gang of angry teenagers. The pic says it's from 1958 so that would make her 22 or so here. My mom is the one in the center of the pic with the dark shorts and pudgy knees. Even though she looks like she's about to kick the ass of whomever is taking the picture I'm pretty sure it's just the sun in her eyes. Plus, she only kicked ass with a wooden spoon in her hand. And I don't mean cooking. That shit hurts.

I miss them a lot.