Of Wheelchairs and Scary Movies

A long time ago – 1980 to be exact – a movie called The Changeling came out and scared the bejus out of me, even though I never saw it. I didn’t have to, as the television ad left mark enough on a young boy with an overactive imagination.

From what I recall, the ad depicted a wheelchair – an old fashioned one, all wooden, basically a chair with wheels attached – sitting in the dark corner of an attic. The camera slowly circled and closed in on the wheelchair, while the sinister-voiced narrator intoned something along the lines of…

‘What happened to you Joseph?’
(ominous pause - closing in on wheelchair)
‘Why did they want you to go?’
(another pause – now the camera is right on top of the wheelchair)
‘And why do you still remain!?

…at which point the wheelchair spins around and roars across the floor at the shrieking individual foolish to investigate those strange noises coming from the attic.

Yeesh. That ad left me with a healthy respect for oddly creepy antiques left lying about people’s attics.

But I do have some happy memories surrounding wheelchairs. (Christ, did I just type that? Happy? Wheelchairs?) Namely the one my friend D stole many moons ago, although perhaps the word ‘stole’ is a misnomer. It implies a certain use of stealth, or guile, and D simply pushed this particular wheelchair down the street after finding it outside the hospital.

D brought the wheelchair home to B’s apartment, where it became a fixture in the living room. It was quite comfortable actually, certainly better than the floor, and had several other advantages, all due to it’s inherent mobility.

First of all, sitting in the wheelchair you were free of the dilemma faced at any crowded house party when you finished your beer: namely do I get up and get another, thereby risking losing my seat? Or do I wait until someone else gets up and try to prevail upon that person to bring me back a beer? If you had the wheel chair, well then, no problem – you simply wheeled yourself to the refrigerator, grabbed a new beer, and wheeled yourself back.

Even better, you could wheel yourself out of the apartment altogether if the occasion demanded it. There were a number of us living in different apartments in B’s building at the time, and if you felt like seeing what was going down on the 3rd floor, but weren’t feeling especially motivated, why, you could just roll yourself out the door and down to the elevator and the 3rd floor - all without leaving your comfy seat.

The wheelchair was also an extremely effective prop for random bits of guerilla street theater. A particular favorite: wheeling a friend half-way across the crosswalk at a red light, dumping him out of the chair, pretending to kick and beat him, grabbing his wallet, and running away. Always a hit with passing motorists.

Yes, that particular wheelchair was not scary at all. Sadly, it met it’s end long ago, in a tragic fall from a 10th floor window.

Fearless - Part I

“Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd…”
-Fearless, Pink Floyd

Halloween abounds with scary stories. Stories about vampires, ghostly apparitions, and supernatural forces. Stories about terror. Stories to make us feel afraid.

This is my story about fear. There are no monsters, demons or unearthly visitations in this tale, just one very frightened individual. I don’t claim that this story will make you afraid, or even shed any light on what H.P. Lovecraft calls the “oldest and strongest emotion of mankind.” ‘Write what you know’ I’ve been told. Well, this is what I know about being afraid.

Several summers ago I dabbled in the sport of skydiving, thinking to qualify for my ‘A’ license. The hows and whys of this decision are not important for the purposes of this story; I’ll fill in any necessary details as we proceed.

What you should know is that on my 30th birthday, I found myself just aft of the cockpit of a twin Otter, ascending to 14,500 feet, miles away from any friends or family on this red-letter day. Seated in front and beside me were two Jumpmasters, who were going to accompany me on this my first AFF jump. To use the ultimate cliché, I was minutes away from jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.

Which is where the being afraid part comes in.

I was sweating profusely. The plane was packed with about twenty other jumpers, and though it was the middle of the summer I was wearing a jumpsuit, parachute, altimeters, a flotation device and radio. I would’ve been damned uncomfortable if I was at ease, and I most certainly not at ease. My heart was racing, pounding away like it was going to fly out of my chest Temple of Doom style. ‘That can’t be good,’ I thought and then was glad I’d hit the bathroom multiple times before the last now –call. I’d known I’d be terrified and wanted to avoid the shame of soiling myself. What I hadn’t known was exactly how terrifying terror would be.

C, the Jumpmaster seated to my right, reached across and tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Breath Dan,’ she said, ‘take deep breaths.’

I realized I was breathing rapidly, shallowly – probably on the verge of hyperventilating.

‘Right,’ I replied, ‘breath… deep breaths. I will. I’m cool.’

That was obviously a lie. Sure I looked cool – well mostly cool, aside from the whole sweating heart racing not breathing thing – and in a snap shot taken in those minutes I do look collected, giving the thumbs and wearing a slight smirk on my face. But if you look closer, you can see my stare is entirely vacant, my eyes focused on something far past the photographer. If you know me well, you might recognize the entire expression – it’s one I seem to reserve for unpleasant occasions. It’s the expression I wore when my heart was broken for the first time. It’s the expression I wore when I put my dog down. It’s the expression I wore when we buried our friend.

The Otter reached 14,500 feet and leveled out. Somebody opened the door set in the fuselage in the rear of the plane and a blast of cold air rushed in. Singly, in twos, in groups, all of the jumpers in front of me began exiting the plane. Since AFF students exit last, I watched them all go. Each time they’d assemble in front of the door. There would be barely heard shouted commands, a blur of motion, and they’d be out the door and ripped out of my vision by the air rushing past outside. Each time people exited the plane would shudder and seemingly bounce, as it adjusted to carrying less weight. Each time I saw this I slid a little further down the bench toward the door, as the Otter’s occupants seated ahead of me dwindled. Each time my heart skipped a beat and I thought, ‘There is absolutely nothing outside that door and I’m headed right towards it.’ I wondered if I’d be able to stand up when the time came.

And suddenly the plane was nearly empty. Just the pilot, the two Jumpmasters… and me. My field of vision narrowed down to a tunnel that stretched between me and the door. You could’ve set off a hand grenade behind my head and I wouldn’t have turned to look.

We all stood up. S, the other Jumpmaster who’d been seated in front of me turned to face me and spoke.

‘Are you ready to skydive?’

Unless I replied in the affirmative, the jump would stop right here. They would not take me out, they would not fly with me unless I was capable of driving myself to it.

‘Yes,’ I answered and a voice inside my head wondered ‘who the fuck said that?’

‘Then take your commands from C.’

I felt like I was having some sort of out-of-body experience. Part of me was shrieking in terror, more scared than I’d ever been in my 30 years, and hinting that now would be a really good time to sit the fuck back down and take the plane to the ground, like normal people. The other part – the part that apparently had the upper hand – was like an automaton with programmed instructions it had to follow, regardless of any clamor to the contrary in the background.

We moved to the door and took up our positions. C was on my left, hanging half in and half out of the Otter and facing me. S was crouched to my right, also facing me. I was in the middle facing forward, my left foot flush with the edge of the door.

‘Check in!’ I shouted and looked at S. He gave me the go-ahead. I turned to C.

‘Check out!’ I yelled and C gave me her go ahead.

This was it. I was on the balls of my feet. I rocked to my left, swaying towards the door and the open air beyond. I reversed direction and rocked to my right, back into the Otter. I rocked to my left again, except this time I didn’t check my momentum and I stepped out of the plane.

A Couple of Drinks Taken

“…However, she got so sick that my grandmother, who was a master of ceremonies at these affairs, took matters into her own hands.

‘Mrs. Murphy,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid we must get you into the Hospice for the Dying.’
‘Horse piss for the dying,’ said the old lady in shocked tones. ‘Jaysus, these are quare times.’

Eventually, Mrs. Murphy agreed to enter the Hospice for the Dying and myself and my grandmother and Mrs. MacHugh and one or two others went over with her. We left in a taxi about ten o’clock in the morning, and the minute the public houses were open Mrs. Murphy suggested the ‘message.’

‘Ah, dear Jesus. I don’t like to pass that old pub. Many’s the pleasant hour spent. Can we not go in for the last drink?’

My grandmother was always amenable to a request of this nature. ‘Certainly, Mrs. M.’ she said, and she banged on the glass partition between us and the cab driver. ‘Jarvey, pull up here at the pub on the corner, Jemmy Gills.’

So we climbed out of the cab and I was delighted at what these old women would be got up to but I had to let on to be terrified.

‘Give us four pints and four half ones of whiskey,’ said my grandmother, ‘and I think the lad will have a dandy glass of stout.’

I had my wine glass of porter and the others had their pints and their whiskey. The chat between my grandmother and Mrs. Murphy came to me and my grandmother not to mind my drinking stout for if I had it now I would never know the taste of it later when I grew up. Alas, that was where Aughrim was lost.

In and out the next pub we were, and in a like a shot with us to a third, until eventually were over to the south side of the city and across the Liffey…

After having visited about seven public houses on the north side of Dublin, we proceeded to do a little drinking on the south side. We emerged from a public house opposite the Hospice for the Dying at eight o’clock in the evening, having left our native north-east at ten o’clock in the morning and I was twisted, as the saying has it, physically as well as in the other way; my head was sunk on my left shoulder.

In the spills of the rain, an old gentleman came over to my grandmother. ‘That’s a beautiful boy,’ he said. ‘Tis a pity he’s deformed.’

‘The curse of Jaysus on you. That child is not deformed. He’s just got a couple of drinks taken.’

-Brendan Behan, Confessions of an Irish Rebel

Recollecting Saturday's revelries with Heather and her brother the other night put me in mind of this passage. I guess sometimes life imitates art.

On the Nightstand: Weird Fiction

If I find myself enjoying a particular writer for the first time, I usually head onto the net and do some research. Specifically, I do a Google search on the author’s name and ‘interview.’ I like to read the authors’ views on a variety of topics: why they write, their approach to the craft of writing, their takes on the subjects they choose to write about, which authors have influenced them, and so on.

Since I’m now about halfway through China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station and finding it absolutely brilliant, I did a little digging…

China Mieville on what he refers to as Weird Fiction:

“When I use the term, I'm referring to the tradition which seems to me to have reached its high point in the works of writers such as Lovecraft. The point for me is that this is writing which blurs the boundaries between science fiction, fantasy and horror. It's that celebration of the Weird, combined with a disrespect for what I think is an arbitrary distinction between fantasy and sf, that I really love.

The fantasy I admire draws much more directly on fantasy's surreal and baroque traditions - it may play fantastic games with its form, as much as with its content, and it generally marshalls the fantastic in a somewhat combative mode, to challenge expectations. I like writing that's aesthetically ornery.

I think for the genre to develop the continuing cross-fertilisation with other fantastic modes - science fiction and horror - is crucial. I also think we need to look outside the genre - without ever apologising for the genre, I stress - and learn from the best writers in other traditions. We have to take ourselves seriously as literature, as well as as fantasy.”

China Mieville on his prose style:

"I'm a very different stylist from Harrison, who is above all about precision. I'm more influenced by people like Sinclair, and also -- though hopefully in a slightly more restrained way -- by the High Pulp writers like Lovecraft and Clark Ashton Smith. I certainly work very hard at my prose -- though I know it's not to everyone's taste -- and I still feel I've work to do. I do think that sometimes as a genre we are too forgiving of lacklustre prose. I think it's important to remember that language is more than just a conduit for information; form matters, as well as content. And though minimalism in various forms has become very trendy, I don't see that as the only way of doing 'correct prose'."

Mieville puts me in mind of Neil Gaiman – not in terms of style – but in the way both authors ‘cross fertilize’ fantasy with other genres. Neither Perdido Street Station or American Gods are what many would consider a fantasy novel i.e. a Tolkienesque epic quest with elves and swords and wizards in a pseudo-medieval setting. I love Tolkien’s work but I intensely dislike the way his particular mode of writing fantasy (and that of his countless, mostly inferior imitators) has come to strictly define the genre. While using fantastic elements in their plots and writing, both Gaiman and Mieville demonstrate the broad possibilities open to writers who work in this genre...

...And that's about one more pseudo lit-critic awful cliche than I can take right now. I think I need to pull at this thread of thought some more, because there's quite a bit more jangling around inside my hand. It just didn't make it to your screen properly this time.

Beer For Breakfast

So....the Hancock Street Pub Crawl...both Heather and Geoffrey have posted detailed accounts of Saturday's goings on...I'll just throw in a few more details and comments for posterity's sake.

The weather was perfect - sunny and not too cold at all. An ideal afternoon for walking the streets of Q-town with a healthy buzz. Many of us were decked out in the official bright orange pub crawl t-shirts, so we received a lot of honks and waves from passing motorists, to which we responded with various cheers, yells and shrieks.

For a while we pushed a shopping cart along with us. It was ideal for holding coats, sweaters, t-shirts and pins forsale, and various times, assorted pub crawlers. At some point the cart was abandoned.

The dancing. I am heartily sorry I somehow missed the sight of Geoffrey dancing. Although considering that Sarsfield's and Club 58 were the 18th and 19th stops, maybe I didn't miss it. I am, however, reasonably sure that I didn't engage in the a-rythmic robotic motions Icall 'dancing.' Better for all involved, and there was other tomfoolery to be engaged in.

We didn't ditch Geoffrey at the last bar. We misplaced him. At that point, our group cohesion - already frayed by many beers - abruptly dissolved. We probably should've been roped together, like climbers ascending Everest or third-graders attending the circus on a field trip. But alas, the crawlers fragmented and dispersed, singly and in small groups, into the night.

Alive

Well I made it to the end. Ten hours. Two miles. Twenty bars.

I feel a little 'off' today though. And recollections of the last stops are hazy.

I'm going to lie down now.

The Witch City

As my cousin points out, Salem receives a lot of publicity during the Halloween season, due to the infamous Salem Witch Trials. Tourism booms and crowds of people descend on the Witch City to attend various Haunted Happenings and visit cheesy tourist traps. Restaurants and bars are filled to capacity by folks looking to party and celebrate Halloween in a ‘spooky’ atmosphere, while Wiccans, witches and pagans come to feel a non-existent connection between their current practices and the ravings of deluded Puritans dead these past 300 odd years.

I am never in Salem during Halloween season. Perhaps I’m missing a really fun time. Perhaps I’m being petty – after all, I don’t live there and the tourists undoubtedly pump scads of money into the local economy. I’m certainly being territorial. I have deep roots in Salem – my mother’s side of the family hails from Salem, and many of my relatives still reside there. Part of me resents all these ‘outsiders’ flocking to ‘my’ city and trampling over the scene of precious memories in order to celebrate a meaningless holiday.

Yes, I know I’m a misanthropic curmudgeon. These are some of my recollections of Salem.

This is the Hawthorne Hotel. My aunt and uncle had their wedding reception there, and I can remember attending. I must’ve been two or three at the time, which makes this practically my oldest conscious memory. I have a picture from that occasion, of my cousin Jim and I, dressed up in some unfortunate Little Lord Fauntleroy outfits courtesy of our mothers, having a rather earnest conversation for a pair of toddlers. It’s perhaps my favorite picture.

This is the Peabody-Essex museum, newly renovated, remodeled and reopened. Back in the day it was two separate museums, the Peabody and the Essex Institute. After he retired from the GE plant in Lynn, my grandfather worked at the Essex Institute. I can remember Grumps taking me down to the museum to introduce me to the staff. I can also remember sitting on the front steps of his house, waiting for him to return from working his shift there. The house was (and is still is) at very top of the hill on Mt. Vernon Street, and from the front steps I could see down to the bottom of the hill to where Grumps would round the corner and start uphill.

Some other things I remember about my grandfather…

He had an impish sense of humor. The living room of the house on Mt. Vernon Street had a working fireplace. I remember my grandfather getting my attention during a family gathering there and tossing some firecrackers into the fireplace on the sly. I remember the ensuing uproar. Gram was not pleased.

Grumps had a workshop in his basement. He bought some child-sized tools for my cousin Jim and I to use down there. To the best of my recollection, we mostly put them to use making wooden swords to hit each other with.

Old-fashioned metal garbage can lids make excellent knightly shields.

Luckily, Jim and I emerged from these tilts with all of our eyes and fingers intact. The only lasting damage done on Mt. Vernon was when the little girl down the street took a shovel to my nose, leaving a scar that remains today and slight bend to my nose.

My difficulties understanding the opposite sex go waaaay back.

When I was child, my family and I would go to Mt. Vernon Street every weekend. At least it seemed like every weekend, though in actuality it may not have been. Every evening before I went to bed, Grumps would ask if I was going to get up and help him make the coffee in the morning. This seemed like a weighty responsibility to me, to be allowed to share in such an adult undertaking.

I love coffee.

Grumps died when I was seven. The cancer ate him very quickly. In my memory he was simply sick one day, and dead the next. I was allowed to attend the wake, though my sister was not. I had never been to such a thing before. I decided that was not him in the casket.

I hate wakes.

This is the Salem Willows. The tiny rickety roller coaster that once stood there is long gone (if it ever was there – my memory could be inventing it’s one-time presence there) but the carousel and various kiddie rides remain. Best of all, the arcade still stands as well, with mostly the same complement of games it had when I was in junior high. Skee Ball anyone? Air hockey? Sea Wolf? And I’m willing to bet you can still get a bar of blue-colored popcorn from one of the stands there, to gnaw on as you walk along the beach.

Going to the Willows was a huge deal when I was a kid.

Actually, it still is.

Straight to Hell

One last bit about the Red Sox. Bill Simmons aka 'The Sports Guy' writes an excellent column for ESPN's Page 2. He is also a Red Sox fan, and the three pieces he wrote beginning last Thursday (a day which will live in infamy) capture the agony of being a member of Red Sox Nation as well as any writer has done over the last week.

Paradise lost, again

Twenty minutes after the Yankees eliminated the Sox, I called my father to make sure he was still alive.

And that's not even a joke. I wanted to make sure Dad wasn't dead. That's what it feels like to be a Red Sox fan. You make phone calls thinking to yourself, "Hopefully, my Dad picks up, because there's at least a 5-percent chance that the Red Sox just killed him."

Paradise lost, postscript

He wasn't concerned about hurting Clemens' feelings, or worrying that Clemens' final major-league start was going into the boards as a Level One Gag Job ... he just wanted to save the game while it was still winnable. And that's why he's Joe Torre. And that's why Grady Little is Grady Little.

Letters from the Nation

So I'm pulling out of my parking garage in downtown Boston on Friday. The Ethiopian guy who collects the money looks awful. Like he hasn't slept in days. I ask him if he's doing OK. He says, "I have never felt so awful. Not even when my own father died ... my own father. I have only been in this city for a few years, so I'm new to this. I don't know how you people do this. In my neighborhood are lots of college kids from New York, and they were cheering after the game ended. I am a peaceful man ... a PEACEFUL man I tell you ... but I swear to you I went outside looking to fight some Yankee fans ... just awful."

One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer

Along with Heather and Geoffrey, I'm doing the Hancock Street Pub Crawl for Little Hearts this coming Saturday.

Two miles. Ten hours. Twenty bars. For the children.

I'm doing ok as far as sponsors go, but if anyone has a burning desire for some charitable giving, feel free to drop me a line and we'll see what we can work out.

World Class Fad

Sourbob has returned. And man is he pissed about the Cubs.

Yet Another Quiz

Blame my cousin - she asked for another quiz. Plus, Dr. Seuss is eternally cool.


Which Dr. Seuss character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Pac Man Fever

A couple of weeks ago, Chris at pressure drop wrote a great post about nostalgia and old-school video games. His progression from Pong to various classic arcade games brought back many memories of my own misspent youth (and quarters).

However, today's kids feel no such nostalgia or affection for the classics. This article chronicles the reactions of a group of children, aged 9 to 12, when exposed to some of the games Chris and I grew up with. Some samples....

On Pong

Tim: I would never pay to play something like this.
John: I'd sooner jump up and down on one foot. By the way, is this supposed to be tennis or Ping-Pong?
Becky: Ping-Pong.
Gordon: It doesn't even go over the net. It goes through it. I don't even think that thing in the middle is a net.
Tim: My line is so beating the heck out of your stupid line. Fear my pink line. You have no chance.


On Tetris

Tim: Which button do I press to make the blocks explode?
EGM: Sorry, they don't explode.
Becky: This is boring. Maybe if it had characters and stuff and different levels, it would be OK. If things blew up or something or—
Sheldon: If there were bombs.
Becky: Yeah, or special bricks. Like, if a yellow brick touched a red brick it would blow up and you'd have to start over.
John: Why haven't I won yet? I've paired up so many of the same color.
EGM: Don't worry about colors.
John: I just lined up six of the same color. Why didn't they blow up?
EGM: Nothing blows up.


On Space Invaders
Kirk: I'm sure everyone who made this game is dead by now.

(link via S.F.A.D.)

The Randandom Menace

More questions from the good folks at Cheddar X.....

1. What was the last person, thing or event that made you cry?
Putting down my dog.
2. What was your most recent vivid dream about?
Well, last night I had a dream in which flesh-eating zombies were infiltrating the general population. Having seen Dawn of the Dead at an impressionable age, I knew exactly how dangerous this situation was and did my best to warn people. But as is usual in these types of dreams, noone would listen. 'These zombies are very well-behaved' they said. 'Perhaps you're overreacting - we had some zombies over for drinks last night,' they said.

Sometimes the things that come bubbling up from my lizard brain give me serious pause.
3. What is the best bumper sticker you've seen or thought up?
I am actively seeking a bumper sticker that states "I Hate Fox Sports."
4. Who was your worst room mate? Why?
Some guy who talked too much. We threw him out.
5. What do you order most often when you go out to eat?
Porkchops and a baked potato with sour cream.
6. What's your cocktail of choice?
Gin martini (Bombay Saphire) strait up, with a twist.

Going to the Chapel

My cousin has done his usual superb job and posted a gallery of photos from my sister's wedding.

It Ain't Me Babe

The Good: Getting on by a cute little third year student from RISD Friday night at the airport.

The Bad: She's like what - 19? 20? Well below the cut-off for age-appropriate dating. Sigh - enjoy the ego boost and move on.

The Ugly: Going through security, Young Miss Thing sets off the metal director and is pulled aside to be 'wanded.' As I'm waiting for my bag to come off the belt, chatting with her, the security points to her and then me and asks...

...."Adult traveling with a minor?"

Ouch.

Dead Man's Party

I warned them. I tried, I really tried.

Two Irish lads, immigrants to the United States, with their visas stamped for the Red Sox Nation. Decked out in recently purchased Red Sox jerseys so shining white you knew they were just off the rack, screaming and yelling and cheering with thick brogues; cries of 'there's yer man' in a Cork accent for every Pedro strikeout and 'fer fuck's sake' for every Nomar out.

"You can still walk away from this," I said to them, as Pedro began to implode on the mound, "it's not too late for you."
They stared at me, not quite comprehending. Neither of them said anything.
"Look, you have to understand - the Red Sox are going to do this to you. Every year. For the rest of your life. Quit now while you're ahead."
Still no reply. Ah well I thought, I tried. There's no hope for me. I'm like a junky when it comes to the Sox. I know this stuff is bad for me. But I do it anyway. But those two - they can quit before they're hooked. Before the monkey gets on their backs.

After eight and half, I stepped outside the local. I had to regroup, to take in some cool night air and quiet, soothe my twitching nerves. I was staring out into the parking lot when I heard the door to the local open and close behind me. I looked over my shoulder and say my two acquaintances disappearing into the night. Running - literally running - across the parking lot. Good on them I thought. A wise decision.

I made some half-hearted joke to Heather's Certain Someone, who was also outside trying to hold it together, and headed back inside. It was a grim scene in there. No more of the full open-throated cheering that had greeted the earlier heroics of Trot, Tek and the boys. Now there were scream of rage, shrill accusations made at the TV, inarticulate sounds of anger and grief. How can you cheer in a situation like that? It'd be like the condemned trying to sing For He's A Jolly Good Fellow on the way to the Death House.

It was like a goddam firing squad.

And yet...

...I know I'll be back for more. Next year. Next spring.

Every so often I meet that girl - the one who makes me feel short of breath, who makes me do a double take, who makes my heart race. When I do I know it may end in heartbreak - always has ended in heartbreak. But each time, I ante up for more, buy the ticket and take the ride.

And every so often - in a strange symmetry to the series of explosion we call Dan's romantic history - I encounter that Red Sox team - the ones who stretch my nerves to the breaking point but somehow make me believe that maybe - just maybe - this is the year. When I do I know it may end in heartbreak - always has ended in heartbreak. But each time, I ante up for more, buy the ticket and take the ride.

I'm hoping for an intervention at this point. This is an illness and I need help.

Fight The Power

Someone on the staff down at the local - I'm guessing it was Peter (the owner) set up a shrine of sorts behind the bar. I would describe it as some sort of Irish baseball voodoo hex-remover set up: a large candle in a red glass container on a white plate; surrounded by votive candles at all points of the compass; flanked by two statuettes of praying nuns; with an inflatable baseball marked with the Red Sox logo, perched on a shot glass, standing sentry in the rear.

Here's hoping it works one more time.

Long Distance Dedication

Can anyone tell me if Kasey Kasem is still alive? This question has been plaguing me since shortly after I picked up my morning fix at the South American Dunkin Donuts. I certainly hope he's in good health - he's brought me many hours of solid entertainment. First as the voice of Shaggy on Scooby Doo, then as my musical sherpa on American Top Forty.

But in just case he's dead, I'd like to offer my own special tribute. Every week on American Top Forty, Kasey would make a Long Distance Dedication for some special listener. Through his gentle agency, pre-teens around the states could call up and have Here Comes The Sun dedicated to the glue-sniffing thug who was their boyfriend at summer camp. It was always a moving portion of Kasey's show.

So today, in honor of Mr. Kasem, I'm sending out John Wesley Harding's The Devil in Me to the Cubs and the Red Sox as they prepare to rip asunder another year's worth of hopes. A special shout out to Nomah, who's turned the 3 spot in the batting order into some sort of black hole/temporal vortex where no hits are allowed. Cheers lads, and here ya go. And a one and a two...

I shot John F. Kennedy,
in Dallas in 63.
They blamed it on Oswald carelessly,
But it was the devil in me.
Put jesus on the cross,
I put a gag on the boss.
I kissed him on the cheek so he couldn’t speak,
But that was the devil in me.

It was the devil in me.
It’s the devil in me that’s unlevelling me,
put it down to the devil in me.

I made you breakfast,
put poisoned sheets on the bed.
I made you cry, coulda made you laugh instead,
But that was the devil in me.
So I killed you off, I tore your famous brown furcoat,
I laughed at your cough, ignored your suicide note.
But that was the devil in me.

It was the devil in me.
It’s the devil in me that’s unlevelling me,
put it down to the devil in me.

I blew up the bus, I started World War III
Hijacked the plane with Qadaffi, blew the hostages free.
That was the devil in me.
I’m sponsored by a company,
that I don’t believe in.
I advertise their things for cash, that ain’t deceiving.
No, that’s just the devil in me.

I gave you acid rain,
I polluted the sea.
I covered your thoughts up,
with graffiti.
You can call me by my real name,
or you can call me humanity.
Because it all seems just like human behaviour,
it all seems like human behaviour to me,
Put it down to the devil in me.

It was the devil in me,
It was the devil in me.
Well it’s the devil in me makes me do these things,
Devil in me that makes me sing,
Devil in me gave you a wedding ring,
Put it down to the devil in me.

That's it for today folks. Until next time - keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

Centerfield

My local is an Irish bar. Not some tourist-trap faux Irish bar with tacky prints of Yeats and the Cliffs of Moher hanging on the wall, but a bar that is largely staffed and frequented by Irish immigrants.

This atmosphere makes watching the play-offs there a rather surreal experience. You'll be sitting there, drinking a beer, cheering, in the middle of a crowd that is also cheering, yelling and shouting advice at the television screen, some of them in near indecipherable Belfast accents. And the bartender will tap you on the shoulder and say: "There's nine innings, right?"

A question like this is completely understandable. Americans - even if (like me) they've never played a day of organized babeball - have learned the rules and concepts of the game from a lifetime of osmosis. Foul tips, sac flys, tagging up - we know these things instinctively, and have an advantage over those trying to understand what can be a confusing game, with little or no experience of the game to go on. Which is why I occasionally find myself giving an impromptu seminar on, say, the strike zone, what is foul and fair territory, and why a foul ball is a strike unless there's already a two strikes.

The Boys of the Old Brigade

Wakefield and Timlin have been the men on the Red Sox pitching staff this post-season, throwing up lots of zeros that mean lights out for the opposition.

They also make me feel about ten years younger, evoking a weird sort of deja vu where it's 1992 again and I'm sitting on the floor of an unfurnished living room in Baltimore, watching Wake pitch brilliantly for the Pirates and Timlin in a blue and white Blue Jays uniform.

Hand me another Natty Boh, hon.

Ain't That A Kick in the Head?

This one's for Bunny - Which Rat Pack Member Are You?

You are Dean Martin
The Devil may care, but you sure as hell don't. You're cool, calm and collected, viewing the world from your self-contained castle of easygoing cynicism. You rarely crack under pressure and despise pretension. Strangers tend to find you detached and cold, and you're sometimes scarcastic to the point of cruelty, but since when do you give a damn about the opinion of others?

Link via the Yeti.

What Fresh Hell Is This?

Impressions from a ballgame....


Pedro Martinez - way to be a professional. Really now: down by a run, runners in scoring position with no outs - not a good time to make a purpose pitch. And yelling at the Yankees following that? Listen Pedro, if Roger 'Terry Cooney and Ninja Turtles' can stay cool that day, so should you. I really hope you were telling the truth when you said hitting Garcia was unintentional - otherwise you are as selfish a certain members of the Boston media *paint you.

Karim Garica - Nice late slide into Walker - that showed some class. And helping your buddy Nelson attack a groundskeeper for cheering too loud and then whining about cutting your hand - just the icing on the cake. You're a scrub. **

Manny Ramirez - another guy who lost his cool. You should've let your bat do the talking. Instead you added fuel to the fire and then struck out flailing at a third strike.

Don Zimmer - what the hell were you thinking, charging out there like that? But hey, you already know it was a damn silly thing to do, and had the class and maturity to make a pulic apology.

Tim McCarver You sir, are an idiot. Were you even watching the same game as the rest of us?

*Interestingly enough, this same Shaughnessy column is running in the New York Times labelled as a 'Boston View.' Riiiight.

**And if does turn out that the groundscrew member has cleats marks on his face and body - meaning he got the boot while on the ground - you and Nelson could face assualt and battery charges. If that's the case, I wonder if the New York Post will condemn you as a 'classless punk' for stomping a special ed teacher?

From the Nightstand

I just started reading two new books. I always read two at a time - one fiction, one non - because I like to be able to pick between the two depending on my mood.

The nonfiction title is Montcalm and Wolfe, by Francis Parkman. Why read a history book first published over a hundred years ago? Well, my knowledge of the French and Indian War (known abroad as the Seven Year's War) is scanty, and Parkman's account is a classic that reads as well in the 21st century as it did in the 19th. The fact that many of the events chronicled occurred within driving residence of chez Dan - in the neighborhood so to speak - make the book even more compelling. And finally, I've had a lifelong interest in military history. Some folks find this odd. Then again some folks subscribe to the silly notion that violence never solves anything. But now I'm starting to stray from my narrative path, and Caleb Carr explains the appeal of the genre much better than I can.

My current fiction read is Perdido Street Station, by China Mieville. I've loved reading fantasy and science fiction ever since my Dad pressed a copy of The Hobbit into my greedy little seven year old hands. The unfortunate thing is that there is a lot of hideous bilge published in both of these genres - awful pseudo-Tolkien nonsense standing alongside the thin gruel of badly written space opera. Although I'm only thirty pages into Perdido Street Station so far, Mr. Mieville seems to have turned the trick of coming up with something new and compelling. I haven't enjoyed a fantasy novel this much since Gaiman's American Gods.

Confessions of a Quiz Junkie, Volume 18.3

I think it's the pictures. If the quiz results come with cool-looking graphics, then I'm probably going to take the quiz. And post the results. With the shiny picture.


Nemesis


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla

Bow Your Heads...

...and pray for God's forgiveness.

I've seen this elsewhere, and had it emailed to me, so I figured I'd add my voice to the Fenway Faithful.

Our Father,
Who art at Fenway,
Baseball be thy game.
Thy kingdom come, World Series won,
On earth as it is in the Cask n' Flagon.
Give us this day, oh Pedro Martinez, and forgive us our losses,
As we forgive those, like young Billy Buckner.
And lead us not into depression.,
But deliver us from the Curse.
Amen.

I Still Miss Someone

Actually, I still miss several someones. Over the past eighteen months or so, people dear to me have left my life. Some left on their own. Some I asked to leave. Some died.

I miss them all.

What I wonder is, when does it stop? When do certain things - a song, a place, a smell, a Red Sox game - cease to trigger memories and longing for the company of the departed?

Is there some sort of statute of limitations on this?

When I was in college I dated a girl whose favorite song was In My Life by the Beatles. I didn't much care for the song then. I think I understand it better now.

There is no statute of limitations on grief of any kind. And why should there be? As James Ellroy has noted, closure is preposterous concept, sold to us by the pop-culture self-help gurus of day time television. The idea that you can magically dispell the dark moments of your life and live only in bliss and joy is silly. You may deal with these things - put them in proper perspective and file them away. But they are always with you. You are always marked -Permanently marked - by the dark times.

Love in the Red Sox Nation

Throughout my checkered romantic history, I've never paid much attention to differences of race or religion or geography.

To my way of thinking, this is what constitutes a 'mixed marriage.'

Genie in a Bottle

Now showing: Heather's selection of the best of the 105 comments from her Christina Aguilera is Fat Pig post. Enjoy - some of these are true gems. My personal favorite?

Christina looks like shit but she looks like shit in a whole new way now.

Spam o' the Day

Subject line: be more attractive.

I'm trying forfuckssake! Stop nagging me.

The Insidious Mask of Dr. Randandom

My recalcitrant body still refuses to cooperate and come back to optimal working order. Last night I alternately lay awake and read until five this morning; today I have lovely cough reminiscent of Doc Holliday's plus occasional hot and cold flashes.

What this means for me is: a nap immediately after work so I have my head screwed on somewhat strait in time to watch the Red Sox take on the Yankees.

What this means for you is: a post of random observations, factoids and blurts strung together in an unhinged fashion, like cheap beads on one of those cruddy necklaces you made at summer camp. Because despite my illness, you know I got the love for you. Aaaaw yeah.

So... Austin. Austin involved a lot of eating. Brunch at Threadgill's. Dinner at The County Line, involving big Fred Flintstone size ribs. Dinner at a really good Tex-Mex restaraunt whose name escapes me at the moment. Two breakfasts at Kerbey Lanes. You get the idea.

There was also, of course, a trip to a used bookstore, where I bought nice cheap copies of this and this - not that I actually need more books. I just need them.

George Clinton was on my Southwest Airlines flight home. Checked in at the gate (boarding group C) all by himself, no entourage. He's a big man in real life.

I am so buying this. Yes, I'm a big geek.

I eavesdrop. Not in the creeping-about, ear-to-the-door manner - more like sitting in a bar or at a bus stop listening to people ramble on. It's diverting and entertaining, and very easy to do in this age of the cell phone and people who INSIST ON SCREAMING INTO THEM IN PUBLIC. And to the young woman wondering 'why are there no good men left?' Why that's easy - we're listening to you rationalize why you stay with the latest in an undoubted long line of assholes that you've dated.

Ask And You Shall Receive

Knock and the door shall be opened.

And if you got the blues, a friend with a sense of humor as twisted as yours will send you a howlingly funny link. From the Khan of Baltimore, to me, to you: Bar Signs - non-verbal communication for drinking success.

My own personal recommendations for memorization? The signs for:

Thanks for buying me a drink.
I will now retract my claws of death.

You call the shot.
I will follow you to tequila hell, my captain.

Let us spring up out of our sober shells.
We will soar like drunken eagles.

Alcohol has twisted my tongue.
Nothing I say is true. But I really like you.


Really, I do. Like you, that is.

The Stand

Allright..ok...one wee post then. Why should my loyal half dozen suffer because I got them naughty blues?

Wednesday evening I sprang myself from the ER, despite the cluckings of assorted RNs and doctors. Going the ER is bad enough but barring a life-or-death situation, I'm certainly not going to allow myself to be admitted if I can walk out under my own steam -just hand me that waiver thankyouverymuch.

I drove my ailing self to the airport Thursday and caught a plan to Austin Texas - spent Friday alternately sleeping and coughing. Though I never quite reached full-steam for the entire weekend, by Friday evening I was well enough to go out to the Iron Cactus on 6th Street for dinner. Which brings us to the today's story...

While I was using the men's room at the Iron Cactus, a young man who had obviously taken a drop or two, entered and took up position at the urinal next to mine. He then announced to the rest of in the bathroom that he was going to 'break Tom Hanks record.'

I wasn't sure what record he was referring to - his reference escaped me. But I soon got an idea what he was about. As this gentleman relieved himself, he was also cheering..no, urging himself..or his member...on to great things. "Go on...yeah...that's it...no, not yet...just a little more...eighteen seconds...more... ." I'm telling you, this guy was focused.

Somebody tell Tom Hanks that his record for longest urination was sorely challenged, if not outright broken.

Coming soon... Dan's First HonkyTonk, courtesy of my good friend R. and his lovely wife H.

Unsatisfied

As Sam Gamgee said...

"Well, I'm back."

Slightly worse for the wear, but upright and mobile. Thank you to everyone who sent their well wishes.

More posting later this week (tomorrow?), when I'm in better spirits. In the meantime...

Go Red Sox.

I Forgot

I forgot how much I hated the emergency room. Tries my patience, it does.

I'm beat. Y'all take care; I'll be back next week.