The dull pain behind my eyes has been nearly constant for almost six hours now. Tears want to roll down my cheeks but I cannot seem to summon them, even though I am crying on the inside. The back of my neck is tight, and my stomach feels as though it has clutched into a tight little ball . I feel trapped within myself, and utterly, utterly alone.
I am directionless, floating propelled by a current I am unable to fight, and am too tired to fight if I could. I'm tired of always fighting. I'm tired of always fighting.
I am drenched in paranoia. I feel unable to trust anyone; eventually everyone will turn against me if they haven't already. They talk about me behind closed doors; they snicker at me behind cupped hands; they are setting me up for a fall. They laugh at me. They're setting me up.
Family and friends with the best intentions tell me it's OK, try to give me positive affirmations, try to help me see the bright side. I know they are trying, but they are doing it wrong. The more they tell me how good I am, the more I know I am not. I can never be what they see. I am a fraud.
I'm not looking for "oh it's going to be OK," or "I am here for you," or "let's talk about it." They are well-meaning, but they don't fill the gaping empty hole. I am trapped inside my my own head, locked in, screaming. Can't they hear me screaming? Can't you hear me screaming?
The inevitable question I cannot answer: "What's wrong?" The cruelest question you could ask me. The question itself taunts me; it is asked knowing I cannot answer. What's wrong? If I knew I could fix it, change it or leave it.
I can never stop fighting, yet I am too tired to fight anymore. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't want to have to fight this anymore. Yet, I must.
Somewhere, echoing inside my hurting head, a sliver of a sane voice tells me to hang on; this storm will pass, like all the others have passed. But why must I suffer the storms, again and again?
I am tired of always fighting. I will cry myself to sleep tonight. The demons have won this battle; the war rages on.
So tomorrow
(Tuesday, January 6th) I will be 48 years old.
As this
birthday began to make itself visible in the horizon a month or so ago, I found
myself eyeing it suspiciously, even fearfully. 48. Four dozen years. Only two
years away from the half-century mark.
Jeez, I’m old. I’m so old I’m -
*gasp* - middle-aged! (Consider the Suzi
Quatro song from which I borrowed this post’s title, with her snarling put down
of the stereotypical male midlife crisis: “You've got the kind of a mind of a
juvenile Romeo/And you're so blind you could find that your motor ain't ready
to go...” Ouch!)
But, as the
day has drawn ever closer, I changed my stance and decided to embrace it. Sure I’m older, but I've had many truly
wonderful experiences during my 48 trips around the sun. I figure I’d like to make it to 100, and by
that measure I’m not even halfway there!
Many folks
have their lifetime bucket lists – the things they want to do, see or
experience before they die. Since I have
already declared 2015 to be the First Annual Year of Bryan (first of many – I’m
going to 100, remember?), I have put together my bucket list not for life, but
for this 48th year! So here
are the 48 things I want to do, see or experience before 49 shows up in 365
days. Some are musts, some are wants,
some are hopes and dreams – but all are actually doable. I figure I will check in here at the blog
about once a month and let you folks know how I’m coming along. And please, if any of you wish to help out on
any item on the list, by all means speak up! The First Annual Year of Bryan is
for all to participate in and enjoy!
In no
particular order:
1.Lose 48 pounds (4 pounds a month is
very doable, I figure)
2.Develop weekly exercise program (get
off my butt and move!)
3.Complete 1967 baseball card set (already
in process!)
4.Front porch painted (desperately
needed)
5.Deck repaired/sealed (desperately
needed)
6.Learn to drive (this would be a major
accomplishment)
7.Convert vhs collection to digital (already
in process!)
8.Convert album collection to digital (already
in process!)
9.See One-Eyed Doll in concert again – this time
as a VIP (my favorite current band – if you read this blog you know that!
Kimberly and Junior are awesome folks, but to get to hang out after a show with
them would be amazing!)
10.See Sparks in concert (my two all-time
favorite bands are Bow Wow Wow and Sparks.
Got to see Bow Wow Wow in concert, but not Sparks…yet)
11.Visit the beach (it’s been years since
I’ve seen the ocean)
12.Truly return to regular blogging schedule (I
keep trying!)
13.Start my own podcast (have wanted to do
this for awhile now)
14.Write a book (I keep trying!)
15.Learn to cook pastitsio (I am spoiled
by the annual Greek Food Bazaar here in Lancaster; I will learn to cook this
dish well!)
16.See Mount Rushmore (one of our country’s
sights I’ve always wanted to see in person to truly take in its scale and
majesty)
17.Travel out of the country (I've never
been – not even to Canada or Mexico)
18.Attend a murder-mystery dinner (they always seem like fun)
19.Host a cookout (something I've wanted
to do for as long as I’ve owned the house)
20.Enroll in a beginner yoga class (ties
into the earlier exercise thing)
21.Get back on radio in some way (used to
do radio in college and loved it – and miss it!)
22.Try again to reconnect to Shillington, PA (I
blogged about discovering that a childhood best friend had passed away in this post. Something is still nagging at me
to find a way to reconnect to someone from that era of my life. I’d like to follow that urge and discover why
– where will it lead me?)
23.Volunteer (I want to find some way to
give back)
24.Take an improv comedy class (I have
always been impressed by those who can do improve well; I’d like to see how
well I could do at it)
25.Research family tree (already in
process – wonder how far back I can go?)
26.Spend one full week "off the
grid" (one week with no internet, no iPhone, no Facebook…)
27.Cut debt load in half (already in
process, I am pleased to say!)
28.Create a passive income source (sure
would help with the debt load)
29.Taste a truly expensive scotch (just to
see how truly different it is from the stuff I can afford)
30.Host a game night (I love Wil Wheaton's
“Tabletop” YouTube series – I’d love to have a group of friends over for a
board game or two like that)
31.Host a movie night (have a group over
to watch a couple of my personal faves)
32.Attend a storage auction (I’m a sucker
for those storage auction shows on TV!)
33.See the Grand Canyon (another one of
our country’s sights I've always wanted to see in person to truly take in its
scale and majesty)
34.Drop grudges (some I have held for too
long. I want to learn to forgive)
35.Speak before an audience of 1000 or greater
(ah, the great fear of public speaking!)
36.Be onstage (sort of ties into the item
above, but maybe as more of a baby step: just get onstage, even in a
non-speaking role, just to put myself in front of people)
37.Learn to juggle (it always looks like
people who can juggle well are having a blast!)
38.Prepare my will (I may plan to make it
to 100, but sometimes the Universe has other plans. Best to prepare)
39.Be a part of a flashmob (have wanted to
do this for some time)
40.Take a hot air balloon trip (seems like
it would be both peaceful and exhilarating)
41.Have a real lobster roll from Maine (can’t
get ‘em much fresher, I’m told)
42.Take a coast-to-coast train ride (what
better way to see the country?)
43.Learn CPR (just think I should know in
the event of an emergency)
44.Fire a gun (for the experience)
45.Visit a zoo (loved the zoo as a kid;
haven’t been to one since I was a kid!)
46.Learn to play the harmonica (for those
days when I get the blues in my soul)
47.Get a professional massage (I’m told it’s
wonderful)
48.Cook every single recipe in a cookbook (just
start at page one and work my way through!)
To feel as if every compliment you receive is insincere,
as if you're being lied to
as if they're all laughing at you
To feel, deep in your soul, that you're being
set up
torn down
walked on
worked over
and that everyone - everyone - will eventually
turn on you
or leave you
or deceive you
To feel that clutching in your gut
To feel like you're crying out from deep inside your own mind
where you are trapped
To feel like you're crying out from deep inside your own mind
where you are trapped
To feel like you are crying
"Yea I know its killing me Yea I know its killing me Yea I know I know I know I know I know I know I need a Last cigarette, last cigarette, last cigarette, one before I go to bed..."
- Dramarama, "Last Cigarette"
At my worst, in my junior year of college, I was on a two
pack a day habit. Stop and think about
that for a moment. 20 cigarettes in a
pack means 40 cigarettes a day. To maintain that level of smoking, I had to
pretty much constantly have a cigarette going. And I pretty much did.
My smokes were always within arm's reach of the bed when I
went to sleep at night – you know, for those
wake-you-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night cravings – so the morning routine
involved having my first smoke of the day lit and half gone before I even got out of bed. If it
was a weekday, there were the before and after class clutches of smokers to
join in with. I smoked while I walked
between classes. I smoked before and
after meals in the dining hall. I smoked
while playing pool in the commons building.
I smoked while I studied back in the dorm room. If it was a weekend, well, there were parties
all over campus, and you couldn't have a drink without a smoke. Hell, I even mastered the art of smoking in
the shower.
Back then, though, most people I knew smoked. I knew more people who smoked than people who
didn't. It was something we just did. It was relaxing, stress-reducing. It was a social activity. It looked cool and chicks dug it, or so we
told ourselves. Hey, what better way to
break the ice with a cute co-ed than to ask if she had an extra smoke – or better
yet, to come to her rescue with an extra of your own if she was smokeless and nic-fitting.
We coughed up black stuff, we hacked and wheezed, we smelled
like chimneys, our clothes were permeated with the stench of stale tobacco, our
fingers were yellowed with nicotine stains.
And yet we smoked, smoked, smoked and smoked some more.
I had smoked on and off pretty regularly since I’d guess
about age 13 (confession: as a third or fourth grader I had experimented a
little bit thanks to neighborhood friends’ older brothers and sisters letting
smoke some of their cigarettes – usually as part of the pact made with the
younger siblings in exchange for their silence around their parents), but it was in college where I became a true
smoker. Never mind my terrible sinuses
or semi-annual bouts of bronchitis – smoke ‘em if you got ‘em!
One year, a particularly bad bout of bronchitis brought my
smoking to a temporary halt. I
physically could not breath in regular air without launching into an extended
coughing fit, much less inhale a lungful of tobacco smoke. After about a week, I was at my wit's end,
decided I was feeling well enough, and broke down and had a smoke. And another.
And then another. As coincidence
would have it, the bronchitis had run its course, and within a day or two I was
feeling much more like myself again. When
I recounted for anyone who would listen that finally smoking was surely what
had cured me, my roommate simply shook his head and said, “Bryan, you
have no friend in the Surgeon General.”
After college I wound up spending a few years in the
restaurant industry – again finding myself among a group of people who
smoked. Heavily. By now I was down to a more manageable half a
pack a day, but still I smoked. My
girlfriend at the time and I lived in a tiny two-room apartment, and we both
smoked - she probably more than I, although with a drink or two in me I could
still run through a pack or more in an evening if the mood was right. We’d tell each other that we really should
quit; we’d make pacts to quit together, but we never did quit.
Now, fast forward a few years. That girlfriend and I had split up; I was out
of the restaurant biz and doing very well in my marketing career. Well enough, in fact, that I was ready to
move out of that cramped apartment and buy my first house. As my friends and I were moving things out of
the apartment, I saw a sight I will
never forget. We pulled the sofa away
from the wall, and there was a nearly perfect outline of the sofa on that wall –
clean wall where the sofa had been, soot- and smoke-stained wall where it had
not. I vowed at that moment that I would
not treat my new house that way. I made
a rule for myself that I would not smoke in the new house. I would go outside
to smoke.
Over the course of the first two or three years in the
house, that's exactly what I did. There has
never been a cigarette smoked inside this house since I've owned it. I either went out on the front porch or the
back patio if I wanted to smoke. Slowly, over time, without realizing it, I was finding less and less
desire to stop whatever I was doing to go smoke a cigarette. Soon I was pretty much only smoking at work on
lunch break.
The Day came at the end of week's vacation from work. As usual for me, it was a stay-at-home
vacation. One night I went out on the
patio and lit up a cigarette. After just
a drag or two, it occurred to me that this was the first cigarette I had lit up
in a week. Not intentionally, not
consciously, it just hadn't occurred to me to smoke; I hadn't needed to smoke. “I don't need this!” I said to myself and
crushed out the nearly unsmoked cigarette.
That was September 4, 2004.
Ten years ago. I have not smoked
another cigarette since that day.
I vowed that I would never be one of those militant
ex-smokers. I’m of the live and let live
school: you want to smoke? Go ahead,
enjoy. Believe me, I know how good that
smoke can be. You're trying to
quit? Believe me, I know how hard the
habit is to break. But I am living proof
that it can be broken – for good.
For three years, from my first grade through third grade years, my family lived in Shillington, PA, a suburb of Reading. Governor Mifflin Apartments, the development where we lived during that stretch, looked every bit of the year we moved in, 1973: long brick buildings in the style of colonial mansions (set along cleverly named thruways with names like Colonial Drive and Mansion Drive...ahem), at each end of which were three floors of four apartments each. First-floor communal laundry rooms and halls of storage lockers tied the two ends together.
The central playground where we kids spent most of our time would terrify the safety-conscious parent of today, but in the 70s it was perfectly fine to have metal monkey bars, a metal swing set, a metal sliding board and a metal merry-go-round all baking in the summer sun on a canvas of macadam and surrounded by chicken wire fence. We seared our skin, scraped knees and elbows regularly, lost teeth, got mildly impaled by bare ends of chicken wire, cracked skulls and more, but we all came out of it OK. Builds character, right? There was even half a basketball court and a volleyball court in the back of the playground. Ever play volleyball on macadam surrounded by chicken wire fence?
Behind the playground was a small wooded area, with a path that led down to a little creek. It was a great place for us kids to build forts, climb trees, learn how to curse and how to smoke cigarettes and how to throw a punch. We were Tarzan swinging through the jungle; we'd make little ramps and jump our bikes over the creek in our best Evel Knievel impersonation; we'd make small fires and watch dead leaves burn. If we were really lucky, some of the bigger kids would join us and tell us stories about how the world worked, but more often than not they'd just be there to chase us away so could use the woods for whatever the bigger kids did there (coming of age lessons I wouldn't be old enough to learn until after my family moved back to Lancaster).
There was, as there always is in each chapter of your life, a cast of characters, but 40 years on the names and faces grow hazy. Friends like Mike Magaro, who is one of the few whose last name I can remember because when we referred to him it was always as if his full name were one word: Mikemagaro. There was an Indian girl, Shefali; a kid about year older also named Brian (I spell mine with a "y," but that wasn't the differentiator at that age - he was "Big Brian" and I was "Little Bryan"); Harry, who was always unfindable when we played hide-and-go-seek in the storage lockers; Adriene, the girl I walked home from school with each day and was my first grade "crush." There was my first bully, Barry Winkler, who would chase us smaller kids around with rocks or his BB gun and relentlessly picked on me, sending me home in tears more times than I can count. There was my first best friend, Steve Yoder.
Steve Yoder and I became friends in the second grade, and it was in my runnings around with Steve that I did many of the things already listed. I taught myself how to ride a bike thanks to Steve letting me ride his before I actually had one of my own. We'd spend hours playing air hockey at Steve's apartment, throw a football or baseball around on a weekend afternoon (or gather other kids and try to get a game of kickball going). We had dinners with each other's families. Typical best-friend stuff.
After third grade, my family made the move back to Lancaster. Soon, a new cast of characters replaced that Shillington crew, and as I got older memories of Shillington faded deeper into the background - never completely forgotten, but rarely thought of. Not quite a year ago, I was digging through a box of some old school papers and other scribblings from my youth. I had always written stories, back as far as kindergarten, and I was fortunate to have some teachers along the way - specifically, in Shillington, my first grade teacher, Miss Londeen, and third grade teacher, Mrs. Voigt, - who actively encouraged my writing and creativity. Hidden in this box were stories I wrote back then, often using myself and my friends as the characters.
It made me a bit nostalgic, and I decided I was going to try to see if I could find any of the folks I would have known back in Shillington online. I fired up Facebook, and the first name I thought to look for was my old friend Steve Yoder. Well, in this area of the country, Yoders are as common as Smiths, and Steves are all over the place. At least a hundred Steve Yoders popped up. OK, let's see...what if I did a search for what would have been my graduating class had I stayed in Shillington? Sure enough, there is a group page for Governor Mifflin School District Class of 1985! I figured this must be paydirt! Would I recognize any names? If I joined the group, would anyone remember me from my three-year stint at the beginning of that class's journey through school?
I began to scroll through the page, and stopped about five posts in. It was a link to Steve Yoder's obituary. Steve had been killed in an automobile accident in May of 2011.
I had not spoken with or even seen Steve Yoder in nearly 40 years; I had barely thought of Steve in that time either, save for brief bouts of nostalgia. Yet, it was like being punched in the gut. The first best friend I ever had in life had reached the end of his, more than a year before I had stumbled across this link to his obituary. There would be no "hey, remember me?" No getting together for a beer after 40 years. No finding an old friend.
That pretty much put the immediate brakes on my nostalgic search. I didn't want to to know who else might be gone. I tried to join the group's page, but it seems that group has been inactive for some time - no one appears to be moderating the page and my request to join is still languishing there. Somehow appropriate.
That night, I sat quietly in my living room, with no TV or music, and raised a toast to my friend. I don't know where we go when we're done here - the traditional concepts of Heaven and Hell seem far too cut and dried to me, yet I'd like to believe there is something more, some better place. Wherever that is, I hope that when my time to go there comes, I will finally get the chance to meet up once again with my old friend for some air hockey or to toss a baseball around. Until then, I wish him peace. And, I have had reinforced in me that it is worth it to take the time to tell those you consider friends - good friends, best friends - how much you value their friendship. You never know when someone you'd least expect to be gone, will be.
Some of you may have noticed that it has been awhile since the last time I posted anything. Three months, to be exact. The holidays are always a hectic time in Ruttville, as we add both my brother's and my birthdays into the mix of Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Years. This year, I also went through a very rough patch in my constant battle with my demons (more about that in a moment), and continue to work hard at rebuilding my career and digging out of the hole that nearly five years of under/unemployment put me in. Let's just say I didn't feel much like writing.
Now that we're on the 2014 side of the ledger, though, things are looking up! There are positives to celebrate and stories to share, plus so much good music, writing, and other assorted whatnot to tell you about. So, here I am, posting again. A good thing, I think.
Three months is a fair span of time, and things happened while I was away. Here are some quick notes about my world since we last spoke:
1. I went back into therapy.
As I noted above, my demons really ganged up on me as 2013 drew to a close. The panic attacks started coming fast and furious, and a few friends and family members got to experience a full-out Bryan breakdown or two - never an enjoyable thing, for me or for anyone around me. Decided to stop trying to fight alone and ask for help. Actually found the same therapist I worked with over a decade ago, the one who originally diagnosed my OCD and Social Anxiety. Getting back into regular sessions with Dr. Atkins has proven to be the right move. She has already helped me so much, and I plan to keep working with her for the immediate future, anyway. 2. I began practicing meditation. Ties in with my return to therapy. Dr. Atkins also happens to run a two-part meditation workshop, which she recommended to me and I decided to go. I am so glad I did. I am learning how to be calmer, more mindful, and more accepting of the world around me. I wasn't seeking any religious or spiritual guidance, and the workshop was not presented as such; rather she focused on the health and relaxation benefits of meditation. I recommend it highly.
3. I grew a beard. Then I shaved it off.
I'd never worn a beard before. Well, OK, a goatee at one point for a short while, but it was the 1990s and I think it was required that everyone wear a goatee at one point. Anyway, decided to take part in No Shave November. Was kind of surprised to see how much grey came in with those whiskers. I mean, I've been going bald for some time now, but never grey! I kind of liked the look of the beard, and then I didn't. Then it itched like all get out, and after a few more days it didn't. I liked it again at that point, and then later on I didn't like it. I figured if I'm waffling that much, it's not meant to be kept. I suppose I'll never be a mountain man. 4. This blog passed the five-year mark. Yep. Half a decade. December 13th was the anniversary, which passed unnoticed this year. I'm proud this li'l ol' corner of the Internets is still around - five years is an eon in cyber years, you know. With luck, it'll be here another five... 5. Briefly, I considered shutting the blog down altogether.
I wondered if, after five years, I wasn't writing because I had no more to say. Had the blog run its course? Was it time to just say thank you and goodbye, everyone? I came damn close to archiving everything and pulling the plug, but at the last minute decided to wait and see if the muse came back. Glad I did!
6. Amadeus' nose changed colors.
I've written before about how my one cat, Edison, has had his coat change color as he has grown, from a snowy white Siamese kitten powder puff to a dark brown and golden tiger-stripe. Not to be outdone, his brother has had his nose change color. No, really. Took the cats to the vet for their annual rabies and distemper vaccinations. The distemper vaccine was given nasally, with an eyedropper. Edison tolerated it well, but Amadeus developed a very severe reaction to it. He would sneeze so hard his whole body convulsed, and he had rubbed his nose so raw it was bright red. After he got better and his nose healed, it had gone from pink to black. The vet says it's hyperpigmentation, much like when we get freckles or darker scars. It may go back to pink over time, or it may not. Either way, Amadeus is fine. Oh, and he's not getting the nasal vaccine ever again. 7. I celebrated another lap around the sun.
47 as of January 6th. How did I get so old? Good celebrations with family and friends, and even had "Happy Birthday" sung to me by the CEO, President and Vice President of the company I work for. So it was a pretty good birthday, I must say. (And I am still promised a sushi dinner or two!)
8. I'M BACK, BABY!
In the immortal words of George Costanza...
It's been awhile since I have had the need to blog about my battles with my internal demons, but here I sit on a Sunday evening finding myself in the midst of a storm inside my brain that rolled in so fast I did not have time to prepare. Usually I can see these clouds forming and, while I can't always thwart the incoming attack, at least I am usually able to take the appropriate steps to shelter myself (and those around me) from the worst of the maelstrom.
Perhaps it's wrong to say I didn't see this one coming; a more correct assessment would be to say what I thought was a thunderstorm turned out to be hurricane. It's been a long, tough, painful week at work. What folks who do not suffer from the sort of anxieties and depressions many of us battle do not understand is that we also tend to guilt-sponges. For as long as I can remember, whenever I sensed that people around me were upset or angry, my immediate assumption has always been that I must have done something wrong; that somehow this disturbance in the peace is my fault. Now, sensible people would see that, if something were indeed their fault, they would be directly approached about it; if no one is telling them they are at fault, sensible folk deduce that they must not be at fault and move on with their lives. Not so with me. No, in my warped world, the very fact that I'm not being directly confronted about something only serves to make it clear that I am indeed the problem. That Social Anxiety Demon who keeps me believing that I am forever at risk of being set up for embarrassment, humiliation, or ridicule, whispers in my ear that everyone must be talking about me behind my back. Paranoid? Damn right you should be paranoid! They're out to get you! I hate that demon with every ounce of my soul. That demon holds me back more than any other I battle.
That demon had me convinced this week that I was the cause of the issues that made it a difficult week, but the week seemed to end on a reasonably high enough note. I was feeling better about things and headed into the weekend ready to begin anew. Saturday went by uneventfully, as did this morning, but by mid-afternoon, my internal world was in shambles.
I can't tell you when it happened or even how it began. I realized I was sitting on my sofa in the living room staring blankly out the window with neither the TV nor the stereo on (a rarity indeed!) in silence, wanting to scream, to cry, to beat my fists against the wall. My head had begun to hurt, as if my skull were being pressurized from inside and likely to blow apart at any moment. My stomach lurched and I felt physically weak. Since about 2:00 this afternoon, this is how I have felt. The physical discomfort is not constant, other than the headache, but the want to just cry and scream in some sort of primal release is very strong. As I write this I am simultaneously holding back tears yet wanting them to flow.
And the worst part of it all? I can't tell you why. I don't know why. I don't think there is a "why."
Sure, there are things that are wrong in my world, as there are in anyone's. Yes, I am fighting to regain the sense of security I once had before the economy collapsed and I found myself back to living paycheck to paycheck and struggling to stay above water, but so are many people. I have a plan for those things, a strategy to rebuild, and it is working, slowly but surely.
Sure, there are the life choices I wish I would have made differently, such as never learning to drive or never marrying and starting my own family, but those situations are what they are, and they are certainly not new issues that just arose in my mind this weekend.
So what is it? Why is it? Why do I feel like this, and why does it happen so often? Especially when it hadn't happened for such a long stretch?
To be clear, this is not a panic attack I am experiencing. I know those very well, unfortunately. No, this is a depression attack, and I am smack dab in the middle of it. Funny, though, that the "rational" part of my brain realizes this much, and is allowing me to communicate it through writing. I just want it to stop - I want this episode to stop, and want this all to stop happening ever again. I want to be a normal, regular person. I just wish I were normal.
I will get through this. I always do. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?
When Amadeus became a permanent resident of Ruttville last summer, he had only been a resident of the planet for four weeks. He was a bonus in the transaction that brought his "older brother" Edison to my home; the feline equivalent of the untested prospect tossed into fulfill the "player to be named later" provision in a baseball trade: While in the process of adopting Edison, I mentioned that I wanted to find a second cat as well, so that they would keep each other company while I was at work. The folks I was adopting Edison from mentioned having another kitten they needed to place, and soon sent me the picture to the right. Who could say no to that face?
Though not as immediately apparent from his appearance as Edison, Amadeus is also part Siamese, on his mother's side. As he has grown, the most telling feature giving that away is his apple-shaped head. It was never fully clear what breed his father brought to the mix. There's some tiger tabby in there for sure, but it would not surprise me to learn that there is more than a little feral cat in Amadeus' heritage. From nearly day one, he has been the wilder of the two. Where Edison seems to carefully plan out his activities throughout the day and remains mostly calm and aloof, Amadeus tears willy-nilly around the house climbing shelves, knocking things over, occasionally misjudging jumps. You can almost watch him get an idea in his head to do something and immediately race off to do it, without benefit of the filter Edison employs to at least briefly consider the ramifications of his actions.
Amadeus is the one of the pair who has actually drawn blood from me - twice! Neither time was on purpose; in both cases he was flying around the house at top speed. The first time, he was chasing his brother around. I was sitting on the couch watching TV, and suddenly they were both charging directly towards me. Edison made a last-minute course correction and dashed under the coffee table, but Amadeus couldn't stop himself. Instead, he used my arm as a runaway truck ramp, and, in his attempt to slow down, gave me a nice little scratch to remember the occasion. The other time, he was sitting on my lap when my brother came by the house to visit. My brother's arrival on the porch just outside the window by the sofa startled Amadeus, who tried to take off running just as I was trying to pick him up and set him on the floor. One of his back claws caught my lower lip, and a mildly gory scene resulted.
These events gave Amadeus one of his many nicknames, Slasher. His previous owners hadn't named him yet, but early on called him Hot Rod; my father bestowed the title of Ricochet Cat to him for his tendency to go top speed until he hit a wall or other dead end, then bounce off that to another apparently random direction. But it was my mother who gave him the most fitting nickname: Nix-Nootz. It's a Pennsylvania Dutch term for a mischievous child who is always getting himself into trouble, often despite himself. Not a bad kid, but one who can't seem to help himself from having a little devious fun when the opportunity presents itself. And that, in a nutshell, is Amadeus.
He climbs to the highest perches he can find, and then hollers because he cannot figure out how to get back down. He starts fights with his brother and finds himself pinned to the ground and on the receiving end of warning nip or two. He's a bit of a thief, known to jump up on the table and snatch a paper towel or napkin and take off running with it, only for me to find it later shredded into confetti in the upstairs hall. He makes people laugh out loud with his antics.
But for all his craziness, he is one of the most loving cats I've ever known. He throws himself bodily against me and rolls over on his back to have his belly scratched, purring so loudly you can hear him across the room; he always returns the favor by licking my arm. He curls up on top of me or in the crook of my arm to go to sleep, and usually waits until I have fallen asleep myself to leave. He usually comes running when his name is called, hoping for at least a chin scritch. He will engage in conversation, mewing responses to whatever I am saying.
Amadeus and Edison have grown into two cats with very distinct personalities, but I am so glad to have them both in my world. As I've mentioned before, I know the positive effect they have had on my life; friends and family have also commented that I seem much happier having them around. And now they have each passed the 365-day mark.
Happy Birthday, little Nix-Nootz. Here's to celebrating many more of them for both you and your brother!
Every now and then an opportunity will present itself wherein you have the choice of two courses of action. How you choose to respond to these little "tests" that the Universe throws at you are, perhaps, the most honest appraisal of your character, especially when it is obvious that no one but you would ever have to know whether or not you passed the test. Well...no one but you and your conscience. Also, I do believe the Universe keeps score.
This morning was the first Saturday in a long while that I decided to get up early and head downtown to Lancaster Central Market, the country's oldest continuously operating farmers market and a place used to frequent quite regularly on weekends. There is a Thai stand there that serves up the most amazingly delicious fresh veggie spring rolls; S. Clyde Weaver's deli stand is the perfect place to stock up on sandwich fixin's for the week; there's always something delicious being offered at The Goodie Shop. More fresh produce and fresh baked goods than you can shake a stick at overflow aisle after aisle of locally owned stands, and I am a big proponent of the buy fresh/buy local concept. Market is also something of a community gathering place where friends meet for coffee or where you've got a better than even chance of running into someone you know and getting lost in conversation for awhile. There's a reason it has lasted for over two centuries. If you're ever in Lancaster, PA, you need to make it a stop on your itinerary!
As I said, it had been awhile since I had been at market. Having been un-/under-employed for a stretch meant that some expenses had to be cut out. Now that I'm getting back on my feet, I am happy to be able to add regular Market stops back to my routine.
Despite its heritage, Market makes some concessions to the modern world around it, among them the ATM machine in the southeast corner of the building. It was there that I was tested this morning. I needed some cash for shopping and to boost my pocket money for the week, so I decided to take $40 out of my account. Annoyingly, the machine had a notice on it indicating it was out of receipt paper, and so would not be able to provide a receipt for the transaction, but I needed the money. I swiped my card and punched in my $40 request, and after a moment of churning the machine instructed me to retrieve my cash. To my surprise I found four $20 bills.
My first thought was that the machine had made mistake and taken twice the amount I wanted from my account. Without a receipt, though, I had no way to see what the ATM thought I had asked for. I replayed the screens I had just walked through in my head: "Did I hit $80 by mistake?" No, I was certain I only asked for $40. Then it occurred to me that this ATM is different from most in that the cash dispenser is not just an open slot where the cash is slid out to you, but rather requires you to open a plastic door. What if someone had tried to get money out before me and, not knowing to open the door, figured the transaction hadn't gone through - and wouldn't know until he checked his statement that he was out forty bucks?
Either way, something was amiss. I walked over to the nearest stand and explained the situation to the standholder, who offered to call the Market Manager over for me to talk with. I shared the story with her, as well as my thought that either I had be double-hit or the money belonged to someone else. After apologizing for not being more alert to refilling the machine's receipt paper, she offered to bring me back to her office to use her computer to check my bank balance online and see how much was actually taken from my account. If it turned out that my balance was correct, then she would hold onto the money for a period of time to see if anyone claimed it. If not, either I could keep it or donate it to charity.
I had just about logged onto my account when another gentleman knocked on the Manager's office door. He explained that he had tried to take $40 out of the ATM but didn't get his cash, and then had gone to another ATM elsewhere in town. When he took out his $40 there, his receipt showed his balance down $80. As he told his story, I verified that my balance was correct; clearly the other $40 was his. He was very happy to get it back, and thanked me profusely before going on his way. The Market Manager also thanked me, and added, "You've got some good Karma coming your way!"
I walked out of Market feeling pretty damn good. One person I shared the story with said, "They should have given you some type of reward." No, no they shouldn't have. First of all, no one should ever have to be rewarded for doing the right thing, and I believe in this case I did the right thing. Second, I'd like to think that if I were the one missing the $40, someone would do exactly the same for me. I've been at points in my life where a missing $40 would be a financial calamity; how do I know that wasn't the case for this person?
I'm not going to lie; there was a time in my life when I probably would have pocketed the cash and gone on with my day happy to have scored a windfall. Found money, right? But over the years I have learned that there is much truth to old adage that the Universe pays you back whatever energy you send out times three, so you want to send out positive energy whenever you can. I also believe strongly in the snowball effect of paying things forward.
Which is why I share this with all of you. I'm not seeking pats on the back or praises for being an honest person; that's who I am, and trust me, being so can be a double-edged sword at times. No, I share this because I hope each of you will take the next opportunity that presents itself to you to "pay it forward," and do the right thing. Then, share it with your friends, whether you have a blog or a Facebook page or just tell the story in person. Think of it as your little part of making the world a little bit nicer of place to live in.
Now, I've got some delicious veggie spring rolls to dig into, so it's time to stop blogging and start eating!
Toward the end of last July, the two most awesome cats in the world came into my life. I adopted two kittens, both of them Siamese/tiger mixes, from the parents of a good friend who needed to place them in a good home. At only eight and four weeks old, respectively, when they arrived in Ruttville, Edison and Amadeus were so tiny the could share a standard-sized cat carrier with room to spare.
They earned their names immediately: Edison proved to be the thinker, the more inventive of the two, and remains so now. It's fascinating to watch him as he observes, learns, and figures things out, from how to best position himself for sneak attacks upon his younger brother to how to pry open the cupboard door and find the packet of cat treats hidden within. Amadeus was from the start the more vocal cat, mewing out melodies as he explored his new digs, and even now chirps and yowls and sings happily on a regular basis.
I call them brothers, even though they are not from the same litter. In fact, Edison's first year on the planet began very roughly. You can see in early pictures of him evidence of a nasty wound on the top of his head, which was part of the reason he needed a new home. Edison was an orphan, and my friend's folks owned the cat who was Amadeus' mother. Since she had just recently had the litter that included Amadeus, they took Edison in hoping the mother cat would adopt him as part of her new brood. Unfortunately, in cat development, especially at such an early stage, four weeks of difference in age is apparently an unbridgeable gap. Not only did the mother reject Edison, but she saw him as a threat to her kittens and attacked him.
I was finally ready for a new pet, having had to put down a wonderful Siamese named Napoleon a few years earlier due to kidney failure. My friend posted Edison's picture on Facebook and I immediately shot her a message saying I'd be happy to give him a home. When I spoke with her mother to make the arrangements for cat delivery, her mother asked if I'd be interested in a second kitten as well, and sent me Amadeus' picture. I was immediately sold - but more on his tale in about four weeks...
Edison is mostly Siamese, but over the past year as he has grown, his coloring has darkened and clear tiger-stripe markings have become evident. He still has the darker ears, nose, tail, and feet of a Siamese, but as you can see in his then and now pictures, there are times when he appears facially to have the markings of white Bengal tiger. His Siamese side means his personality is somewhat aloof, but he is also the self-appointed guardian of the household and will immediately come over to greet - and inspect - anyone who comes through the door. Early on, he taught himself to play fetch, either with a wadded up ball of paper or with a small stuffed mouse which he often carries around with him when it's not carefully hidden out of paw's reach under the sofa; at times I'll be sitting at the computer writing and will feel a paw at my ankle, and there will be Edison, having brought me that mouse or a paper ball he hid somewhere, and look at me as if to say, "OK, it's time to play. What are you waiting for? Throw it!" And lose himself in the joy of chasing and bringing back his prize for as much as an hour.
That tiny ball of fluff who could share a cat carrier with his brother is one year old today. He's now grown to almost twelve pounds, and is quite the regal feline, but he can sure make me laugh when he momentarily forgets himself and lets the kitten still in him come to the surface. Is it coincidence that I have not had nearly so many battles with my personal demons which I've discussed on this blog in the past since Edison and Amadeus have been in my world? I think not.
So, for a kitten who, in his first 8 weeks on the planet had been orphaned, attacked, and had been moved to three different homes, Edison has turned out to be one cool cat. Happy Birthday, my Friend. I'm glad your third home turned out to be the charm!
Try as I may, I cannot seem to get a blog post written lately.
Oh, it's not for lack of ideas. There are plenty of things I want to write about. There is music to share, sites to recommend, internal anxieties to comment upon - the usual stuff of this blog.
But there's other stuff, too. I would like to write about my time in college radio, share a few stories from back in the day. I'm eager for baseball season to begin. Last year I hardly wrote about The Grand Old Game or my beloved Phillies at all, yet I still get several hits each week on a few of my older baseball posts: The 8 Ways a Batter Can Reach First Base, 10 Damn Good Reasons to Be a Phillies Fan, and 12 of the Greatest Baseball Player Names in History all rank among my most often read posts. Plus, without my cheering them on last year, the Phils had an extremely tough year. My team needs me!
I want to comment more on current events. I want to get back into posting more of my creative writing more often. I want to share the hilarious antics of Edison and Amadeus.
So it's not lack of ideas.
Lack of time? Well, admittedly my world has been hectic lately, but when isn't it? Nah, that's too easy an excuse. There is always time. There's time while I'm waiting for the bus, time while I'm on lunch break, time when I'm letting my eyes glaze over watching something dumb on TV (although no one needs to be bad-mouthing Amish Mafia now, ya hear?)
It seems, then, that to get the blog posts going again, I need to just, well, get the blog posts going again. Just sit down and write. Just write.
Can it be that simple?
Well damn, that's what I did tonight, and lookit - a blog post!
My fellow record collector geeks out there will attest to the fact that each of us who while away hours thumbing through threadbare copies of Glen Campbell LPs, faded Firestone Christmas compilations, and the assorted other wretchedness that inhabit milk crates in dusty corners of thrift shops or fill the dollar bin tables at record shows, or who relentlessly scan auction site postings and mail-order lists, all in the hope of finding that unexpected gem or long-sought piece of vinyl - especially at can-you-believe-it prices - feels the same abundant joy on those rare occasions when such a search pays off. Sure, nowadays you can easily shell out the big bucks online for a copy of just about anything, or find it ripped to mp3 on some obscure shareblog, but it isn't the same, man, it's just not the same.
There's an unparalleled exuberance in bringing that amazing find home and giving it that first spin on your own turntable that defies description for those born without the vinyl geek gene. Sure, even in the most extreme cases of finding "holy grail" records after sometimes literally years of searching, we pretty much already know what the records sound like. It's the having of it, the owning the physical product, the wondering about the life story of the copy now in our hands (...how many people have owned and loved it before us? what records did it share shelf space with? why would anyone have ever parted with it to begin with but boy am I glad they did...). We instantly become Daffy Duck awash in treasure: "Mine, mine, mine!"
On truly wonderful occasions, though, the vinyl grooves of our new-found treasure reveal stunning new things to us, as happened to me with my first vinyl find of the new year. Finally found a surprisingly cheap copy of a 1977 UK punk compilation called Streets, which I've been looking for for some time for two reasons: first, it's one of only a few vinyl appearances of The Doll, a great unheralded band I have written about here before; second, its catalog number is BEGA 1 - the first album released on the Beggars Banquet label, which was very important in the independent record scene of the first punk era. It's a decent encapsulation of the second-tier scene in early UK punk, and many of it's tracks already exist elsewhere in my collection: "Cranked Up Really High" by Slaughter and the Dogs, "Ain't Bin To No Music School" by The Nosebleeds, John Cooper Clarke's "Innocents," heck, even The Doll's cut, "Trash," has been in my singles box for quite awhile. But among the tracks I was not familiar with was what I have since learned is the only vinyl release of a song here titled "Talk Talk Talk Talk" by virtual unknowns The Reaction.
When The Reaction's track started, my ears perked up immediately. Opening with a fantastically skittish riff that settles into a choppy mod jam (pun intended), this is the kind of song I love. But then the vocals hit and...hey wait a minute...I know these lyrics!
"Well yeah I told you before when I was up, society was bringing me down..."
One of my favorite songs of the MTV synth-pop era was "Talk Talk" by a group called Talk Talk. Talk Talk would later have a big worldwide pop hit with "It's My Life," later made a hit again by No Doubt, but in 1982 they were skinny-tie New Wavers with this incredible song. But I had no idea - no freaking idea! - that it was actually a cover of an old punk tune! A bit of Googling taught me that Talk Talk's lead singer Mark Hollis had been, in earlier years, the singer for a little-known punk group. Yeah, that's Mark on The Reaction cut alright!
The Reaction's total vinyl output seems to have been this track on the Streets compilation and two other tracks on a one-off single (now added to my "holy grail" list, natch), which is a damn shame because oh man does this original version of this killer track sizzle! I am happily stunned!
For your listening pleasure, here is the MTV classic as most people know the song, "Talk Talk" by Talk Talk, followed by the original, "Talk Talk Talk Talk" by The Reaction. Compare and decide. Me, I've got some crate digging to do!
Today this humble little blog celebrates four years online! Quite amazing to think that when I was posting my first screed bemoaning the inconsiderate behavior of so many folks at Lancaster's historic Central Market on this date in 2008 that it would grow to 467 posts read by 14,060 unique visitors representing 117 different countries across the globe! I thank each and every one of you - whether you're a regular reader or just happened to stumble upon the site by chance - for being willing to take in my rantings, ravings and recommendations, for cheering me on in my battles against my demons, for being my road companion to many live shows, and for bearing with me through my occasional hiatuses (or, perhaps, hiati?). You make this worth it; you give this blog purpose. You have my gratitude.
I've been trying to determine the best way to celebrate four years in today's post, when it struck me that perhaps it might be time to provide at least a partial answer to the question I am often asked, How did I start listening to all that weird music I write about so often in the first place? There are many factors which came together to shape my musical tastes, many of which are near impossible to truly pin down. But there is one major influence that is easy to point to. And what better time than Year Four of the blog to write about Side Four?
Side Four are words spoken in my family in the hushed tones reserved for Very Special Things Indeed. While our reactions to Side Four varied then and vary now, all of the members of my family know Side Four very well. We were all, in some way, affected by it.
In the late 1960s/early 1970s, Warner Bros. Records issued a series of mail-order only compilation albums the called Loss Leaders. The concept was a good one: folks will gamble a dollar a record to hear a selection of new music, will probably find a couple tunes they really like, and then are likely to pony up the dough for a full album or two by those artists who caught their ear. Most of these were two-record sets for $2, and my parents had several of the good ones including one that is often heralded as among the best of the bunch, 1970's The Big Ball. Boasting excellent tracks from stalwarts like Arlo Guthrie, Neil Young and The Beach Boys; psychedlic folksters like The Pentangle and a pre-Stevie Nicks/Christine McVie Fleetwood Mac; and now-forgotten gems from The Fifth Avenue Band and Savage Grace, The Big Ball captures the turn of the decade from the groovy 60s to the far out 70s as well as any album you might name. For three sides of its two records, that is. Then there was Side Four.
Side Four held within its grooves a host of forbidden delights, a cornucopia of crazed cacophonies, the most geeked out stuff you ever heard. It was wild, it was vulgar, it was rude, it was in your face. And it changed the way I listened to music. Warner Bros. had given Frank Zappa a sub-label of his own, Straight/Bizarre Records, to which he could sign any act he chose and let them record with relatively unrestricted artistic freedom. Side Four collected several of these, along with some like-minded artists, in an offering of pre-punk underground anti-mainstream performances that, in hindsight, boggle the mind that they existed in the same world - on the same compilation! - with James Taylor and Joni Mitchell and Small Faces.
Side Four begins with Ed Sanders founder and leader of one of the more notorious subversive hippie bands of the era, The Fugs. Sanders warbles/shouts "The Iliad," a ironic character study of the typical insensitive intolerant good ol' boy of the day who hated those longhaired, drug-tokin', obviously queer hippies with their free love and peace and all that. Ed spits that hatred in your face and dares you to wipe it off, and in the process predates the far more "commercially acceptable" Charlie Daniels tale of "Uneasy Rider" by at least three years:
Up next, The GTOs warble giddily about "The Captain's Fat Theresa Shoes". The GTOs (Girls Together Outrageously...or Organically...or Orgasmicly...or, as they declare on their lone album, 1969's Permanent Damage, "all those other O's") were a group formed by a bunch of honest-to-goodness groupies led by the infamous Pamela des Barres. Their childlike chanting and simplistic music would have fit in perfectly with the New Wave era:
Following that, the Captain himself! The late Don Van Vliet, better known as Captain Beefheart, had recently released his yet-unequalled masterpiece Trout Mask Replica, and from it the stunning "Ella Guru" was plucked for this collection. With shifting rhythms and odd time signatures, the surprisingly catchy shoulda-been-hit inspired many, from Pere Ubu to Tom Waits. It remains a classic:
Zappa himself shows up for a bit of a doo-wop goof with The Mothers of Invention celebrating a well known poor-man's drink of the day. "WPLJ" (white port and lemon juice) goes down just a smoothly as its namesake...and slowly eats away at your guts, again just like its namesake:
At this point, Side Four hits its crescendo, with a visit from the legendary Wild Man Fischer. Fischer was a street singer who suffered from severe schizophrenia, who was known to hang out on Sunset Strip shouting his "songs" at the top of his lungs for anyone who would pay him a dime to hear one. Zappa corralled Larry (Wild Man's given name) into a recording studio, put a microphone in front of him and rolled tape. Zappa found studio musicians to put a musical bed under some of the more "melodic" compositions, allowing others to stand in stark a capella harshness. The resultant album, An Evening With Wild Man Fischer, is a stunning creation which will leave you wondering just how blurred the line between celebration and exploitation truly is. (For a truly emotion-wrenching experience, dig up the documentary on Fischer's life, Derailroaded, and then ask yourself where that line is.) For The Big Ball, Warner Bros. created an elsewhere unavailable hybrid of two tracks from Evening, the absolutely wonderful (if lyrically inscrutable) "The Taster" and its explanatory companion track "The Story Of The Taster." Here are both as they appear in their original forms:
Finally, the tour of the bizarre ends with a remarkably straightforward little piece of folky sunshine, Pearls Before Swine's "Footnote." Kind of like a palette cleanser after an exotic meal, "Footnote" brings you safely back to the real world after surviving Side Four:
In those six tracks, you can hear so many sounds that clearly influenced my musical choices later in life. And the most telling thing about Side Four? There is a seventh and final song on that side, one that I seldom ever listened to then or now. I have never been able to stomach much at all from The Grateful Dead. A few songs here and there are OK, but the endless, formless jam-band concept is one I've never been too keen on. So, for all my love of Side Four, the seven-plus minutes of "Turn On Your Love Light" that seems oddly tacked on at the end is as out of place as I would be at a Grateful Dead show. (Apologies to my Deadhead friends - I respect your love of the band. Just never was and never will be my thing. Peace?)
So, after four years, a peek into what made me, well, me. Stick around for the next four years, friends!
