FM vs. Reality

Today’s Shower Idea

2011-12-26T12:00:00.005-05:00

I do my best thinking in the shower. I guess it’s that onemoment during the day I am truly free to think without even the smallestdistraction. The problem is, the shower is also the one place I have no methodof capturing any passing glimmers of brilliance. I can’t begin to tell you ofall the beginnings of great pieces of music or potential epic novels that havecircled down my drain over the years. But today’s post isn’t about thinking inthe shower – rather about a thought I had today and actually took the time tojot down for later use.

Today I read an article about a space phenomenon that led meto develop in my head a quick high-level story arc. I could envision my sagabeing spread out over the span of multiple volumes featuring generations ofcharacters and taking place over several centuries – life, love, determination,death, heroism and courage. Now I know I’m being a bit vague here as there isthe potential I could one day sit down, put pencil to paper and get this epicyarn out of my dreams ~~and into my car~~ and into your sweaty little handsin the form of a book (or other new-fangled paperless reading device). But thescale of this story brought about another thought I actually would like toshare: I wonder if humanity could musterthe vision and maintain the support to accomplish something greater than anyindividual person.

Here’s where I’m going with this: Those oft-cited mostimportant accomplishments in human history – like the pyramids or the GreatWall of China – took lifetimes to build. One person has an idea to buildsomething. This idea is maintained by a series of other people as a motivatorand morale builder for leading a society of non-workers. The actual “work” isdone on the backs of slave labor which is easy for non-workers to then supportfor extended periods – even generations. Eventually it becomes an assumptionthat the work must continue and the job will be completed, hence the burden ofmaintaining the momentum becomes simpler. When you are born with a projectunderway, it is all the more difficult to make the leap to questioning why theproject was even started; why it is continuing.

The story I came up with today dabbles in this idea of theneed for a group of people to inspire the current (or slightly future) Human Raceto come together and begin a project that will take multiplegenerations/lifetimes to achieve. Those that start the project will never seeit come to fruition. Neither will their children. But it requires resources,input and support from all members of humanity to achieve. With the culture of immediacy we live in todaycould you imagine us being able to transcend politics, transcend the instantgratification to embark on a project that will require global sacrifice? Where those making that sacrifice today may notlive to witness tangible progress on said project?

I don’t have the answers. Maybe they’ll come to me in the showersometime.

The Douchebag Songwriter Strikes Again!

2011-11-29T15:58:00.001-05:00

Over the past few years, I've written songs with the intent of them being played by a band. Band songs sort of fall together organically, requiring a riff and a hook and the rest kid of takes care of itself. But as a douchebag songwriter, I always strive for more deliberate melodies - as though I really meant it to sound like that.

About a week ago, I got a melody in my head. Often when songs come to me, I hear them played on other instruments but I ultimately translate it to guitar. This song I heard as a piano song and when I took a shot at doing it on guitar, it was both thin and difficult to play. I'm no pianist. I could pick out a tune if there was a gun to my head, but I don't spend any time practicing it. And any times I've recorded keyboards on my songs it's never been the primary instrument; more a noodly background buzz.

Anyhoo, this song simply has to be a piano song. Now I don't actually have a proper piano - just an electric wannabe. But for the purposes of this 'proof of concept' demo, it's sufficient. With a little rigging, I've put together a fairly listenable rendition of the noise I've had in my head for the past week:

There's a few more parts I didn't have time to get together. I'll post the finished song whenever I get around to it. If you're interested, here's the lyrics. I tell the story of a hopeless lonely fella who sits in the bar night after night and, having given up any hope of finding companionship himself, has found a sense of superiority as he watches others on their desperate search for love:

Last Call

You see the weak and lonely ones

Their desperation entertains

You see them come and go and come

Just to go and come again

You see yourself above the fools

Far beyond the dirty ones

You keep your distance from their claws

Safe and sound alone

From the first round they escape the silent room

Until the last call

So they don’t leave cold back to their quiet tombs

Until the last call

They’re all so afraid

You hold your cards close to your chest

Trust withheld from everyone

So sure that they can’t comprehend

Not a glimpse for anyone

And still they circulate false smiles

Radiate their welcoming

To greet a wink with open arms

Open knees and hearts

From the first round they escape the silent room

Until the last call

So they don’t leave cold back to their quiet tombs

Until the last call

They’re all so afraid

When all is said and done you pack your things

Head back to your soft empire

Kept company by the judgments in your head

Cleanse your soul of old desires

Sometimes you call

She doesn’t speak

To reinforce

She’s strong/you’re weak

But not afraid…

I don’t need the want, I don’t need the pain

I don’t need the tears, I don’t need the shame

I don’t need disease, I don’t need the fear

I don’t need the risk, I don’t need it clear

I just need the one, the one who holds me in

The one who chains the doors, the one who won’tbegin

To tell me that I’m wrong, or tell me that I’m small

Or make me insecure, when faced with the last call…

Life In The Hive pt 2

2011-11-13T19:37:00.001-05:00

I'm not going to post every single song on the Bees album, but there are a few standouts I'd like to share. And here's one: track 2 - This, My Cave.

Originally intended to be a mile-a-minute punk tune, This, My Cave has been reduced to its simplest form. The original riff played at quarter-speed on acoustic and lyrics written for shouting now set to something of a melody:

I think the lyrics are straight forward enough, not requiring much translation. But I will make a quick note:

After my Dad took off, he moved away to California. I kept in fairly regular touch with Pops and even sent him a Bees tape to check out. He called me after listening to it and was kinda bummed that there was a song where I said I hated him. Here's the offending section:

I've got some friends
They live three thousand miles away
I don't see them until the weekend at Christmas when they stay

I'm feeling lonely
I'd rather be alone than live a day like them
I can't help but hate them
Empty circles filling up their brains
This, my cave

In fact, my intent here was actually to say "I've got nobody except some loved ones who, because of geography, I do not get to see as often as I would like to." The rest is directed at (of course) those fucking Bees.

I explained this all to my Dad, but I don't think he believed me.

The Modern American Dream

2011-10-13T10:17:00.002-04:00

My first reaction to these whole "Occupy Wherever" rally things was to dismiss it as a small genuine protest that became an excuse to hang out, party and break things. I still sorta think that's what it is. But being a guy who has at many times in his working life been frustrated by the seemingly heartless decisions made by those above but not had a platform or outlet to purge it - I can now appreciate why this thing hasn't stopped yet. There's a pervasive unhappiness in our New Country here. And more and more, the unsettled masses who know something is wrong but have no idea how to fix it are being inspired to support those who at least are voicing their unhappiness.

Having the stones to stand up and say "this country stands for something more than what we're getting" is not unpatriotic. And I don't say 'getting' like I or anyone else deserves to be given something they didn't work for. We at the mid to bottom work hard every day - legitimately harder than many seen above us who are compensated exponentially more than us below. I'm not talking physical 'work,' but rather carrying the heavy burden of a workload previously carried by several people in ever thinning organizations and being told if we cannot manage the burden then we are failing. We are motivated not by the positive reward but the threat of the burden being taken away and the security of even an unfair position not being ours. 'The Modern American Dream' is not the pursuit of freedom from oppression through hard work and fair reward... it is the avoidance of destitution through a hard built perception of value to an organization that genuinely feels you are lucky they pay you at all.

I'm no anti-establishment zealot nor a hipster who thinks it's funny to protest against evil corporations while sucking on a $7.00 Starbucks coffee in an ironic fashion statement. But I sympathize with the current unfocused display of confusion and frustration and hope it opens up a few eyes from on high. Anyone will work hard if they believe they are getting a fair deal and what they deserve (or at least the knowledge that someone above is not getting multitudes more on the backs of their poor treatment). America has been spoiled by foreign slave labor and as a result is willing to sacrifice Quality in their products and the long-term success of the country whose creative and innovative spirit developed their products in the first place for a lower cost/higher margin/greater profit bottom line. It's short-term money grabbing without long-term planning for future growth and development. America is more than capable of sustaining strong profit while creating brand loyalty through production of Quality products. But 'strong profit' is no longer enough. And businesses have a difficult time creating and sustaining morale when they are not sufficiently inspired or compensated. It's hard to solve the problems of your employer when you have to choose between paying your entire rent or mortgage or putting gas in your car or food in your kids mouths.

A great leader would address these protesters directly (and they would certainly also be speaking directly to many too weak or burdened to protest themselves - but share the frustration) and inspire them to channel their current passion for change into creative, productive outlets - outlets that can generate the rewards they cannot find in the modern working world. A great leader would inspire American business to create opportunities (be it government intervention, tax concessions for businesses that generate X amount of legitimate jobs and opportunities or subsidizing education to create a new generation of inspired American business leaders) and invest in America - leveraging our strengths with long-term vision for long-term success.

At the end of the day, America will not survive if it is not allowed to do what it does best: invent, solve and make. And today our passion is wasted on yelling in the street.

Life In The Hive pt 1

2011-09-29T12:20:00.002-04:00

Around the time of recording the band's demo in 1991, I was a bit of a mess. I had effectively dropped out of school so I could 'party' with pals all day (I ultimately got my shit together and graduated), get high on whatever was available to get high on and create music and art. This was a creative high point for me - I was putting together comics, making psychedelic line drawings that were getting some attention in the community and the band had a rented out practice room (that smelled more than a bit of piss, but was a good place to get drunk and jam all night) and a few shows under our belts.

Anyone who's seen my Youtube or Vimeo page knows I'm no stranger to the ways of The Pink Floyd and those epic, bloated conceptual double albums of the 1960s and 70s. So my stroke of genius (heh) was of course to write a hardcore punk theme album, with a story that could be told both musically and visually but would not compromise on the down and dirty simple and loose structures of punk and the violent rage and 'moshability' of thrashcore.

The concept was called 'Bees' (as you will see, I had a thing in my head for always titling albums with a four letter word - my har-har inside joke) and the story is as follows:

Our hero has isolated himself in a small apartment type room (the cave) refusing to exit into the outside world, surviving only on food and drink and smoke and whatever he can order by phone and get delivered to his door. His only entertainment and joy comes from drawing images on his walls with graphite pencil. From his window all he sees is a large bee hive hanging from a tree limb and a steady stream of bees entering and exiting and doing their mindless thing. Eventually he becomes paranoid of them and believes society as a whole have become giant thought-controlled bees who have been programmed to capture him and make him into one of their mindless drones. For some reason the authorities (it is not revealed, but one can assume it is neighbors or family or his landlord or someone) kick in his door and he kills the first person to enter his room. During the grand finale of the story our hero has been placed in some sort of facility where he can be contained and perpetually drugged - which he perceives as having been brought into the hive for removal of his free thought.

A lofty concept, with obvious nods to other such concept albums - dealing with madness, isolation, violence and rebellion. A string of songs were written by 18 year old FM, and were presented to the band with some positive reaction. The opening track is actually what I considered a rather hard edged yet epic acoustic song which sort of sets the scene and the general feelings of our hero towards those bees out there beyond his window. Here's the original solo acoustic demo of the track as recorded within hours of writing in 1991:

This song was a huge departure from the Too Baked To Skate punk we were playing previously, and the band (although sympathetic to the project) didn't really see it as something they could get behind. There does exist a practice tape with a full band version of the track, but it was never formally recorded.

From here, the album was to take an unwavering hardcore stance with what I considered fairly brutal lyrics. Each song was bridged with a hard spoken word segment that sort of led from one part to the next - a la Henry Rollins or Jello Biafra or Kurt Brecht. Only one song - titled 'Society' was ever put together as a true hardcore song before the band fizzled out. Only one recording exists of a band practice in late '91/early '92 where the 'Society' lyrics are completely illegible and the sound quality almost unlistenable. If I can lay my hands on it, I may post it so you can at least hear what it was to sound like and the truth behind the intent that this was to be a true hardcore punk project. That song had a level of complexity we had not achieved previously with lots of rhythm changes and catchy mosh riffs and all of us were really proud of it as I recall. But it was not to be.

The Bees concept would stay with me for a few years and even today (at age 38) I am considering revisiting it. The next couple of posts, we'll discuss what became of Bees and it's ultimate recorded structure and expansion.

Songwriters Are Douchebags

2011-09-28T20:46:00.000-04:00

I had this guitar. It was a no-name brand 'flying V' style thing that I spray painted flat black then took my box of acrylic paints and made a large multi-colored nuclear explosion up on the big big pointy part there with a red smiley face on it and wrote underneath it "FUCK OFF AND HAVE A NICE DAY" and of course made all the As into little Anarchy symbols. I was 14. I had already popped the lock on Mom's liquor cabinet and had scored a few nickel bags of pot from some scary black dudes who hung out all day on their porch. I had purchased my first Black Flag album and was just learning the evil ways of the Dirty Rotten Imbeciles. The appeal of punk (as most stuffed shirt revisionist history ass hole rock writers will surely tell you) is that anyone can do it. Or at least anyone will think they can. At 14 I thought I could. So me and my trusty flying V rocked one out. These are the lyrics to my first song: "Too Baked To Skate" - written in 1987 at age 14:

It's Saturday afternoon
Had too many bongs
Try to thrash around
But you're too far gone
The road starts to spin
Board begins to shake
Do a 'skull grind'
Because you're fucking baked
You are bleeding now
But you do not care
Time to go home
And put superglue in your hair

Spike your fucking mohawk
Spike it three feet high
Need some money for more weed
Tell your Mom a little lie
"Mom, I need some money
for a school trip.
Yeah, maybe tomorrow
I'll bring home the permission slip."
Your Mom gives you the money
For a nice fat dime
Time to start the whole fucking thing
Another fucking time

This time on a half-pipe
Going 'round and 'round
Do a hand plant
You're fucking upside down
Your wasted friend comes at you
Rail slide on your head
You should've known you were too baked to skate
Too fucked up to shred
Fucking Nazi punk
Shouldnt've smoked that reefer
Now you're in a wheel chair
Watching reruns of Leave It To Beaver!

Not exactly world shattering stuff but considering the time and the age of the writer it's fairly edgy I guess. And really, how many songs have you heard with a Leave It To Beaver reference? The music was a bouncy thing performed as fast as I could spit out the words somewhat legibly.

Here's how it sounded when recorded by my shitty band in 1991 in my friend's basement by the drummer's Dad who had a primitive recording rig. We had a lead singer/yeller, but this was always the song where I stepped up to the mic and belted it out. Here's 18 year old FM at the peak of his angsty testosterone-fueled rage:

I ultimately became the driving force behind this anarchic underage booze fueled Connecticut Hardcore punk garage band called "Chemical Persuasion." In those days it was pure shocking rebellion. I used to bring my songs to band practice with lyrics written on a wadded up piece of paper in my back pocket and a rough tune in my head. Generally the guys would read it through, laugh and then see how many times they could fit the word FUCK into the lyrics without messing up the phrasing too much. I was now officially a 'songwriter.'

The term 'songwriter' fills my head with images of thin, pale young men in black, skin tight and long-sleeve turtleneck shirts with wisps of stringy beard hair and bad skin with a chain smoking habit and an air of superiority. Simply put: douchebags. And I guess in later years I fell into a douchebag songwriter phase.

I have spent the past few days converting a bunch of songs I wrote and sang solo acoustic into my beat up boom box in the early to mid 90s after the band fizzled out and I slipped into married working life. I've never performed a single one of these songs live or in front of anyone - not even my wife - and only shared them with a few pals (who generally were nice enough to tolerate my shit). But listening to them almost 20 years later, some of them are quite good and mark a few rather momentous events in my life. The time has come for me to bring them out of the box. You're welcome to join me for what will surely be an uncomfortably revealing and potentially embarrassing display over the next few weeks. For the record, I'm a little freaked but mostly excited.

Greetings, Starfighter…

2011-07-28T12:50:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid, my Mom wasn't too keen on me rotting my brain all summer at the movie theater. She felt quite strongly that, although I was "a bright boy with lots of potential," modern-day movies contained a level of sex, realistic violence and gore that she simply did not want me exposed to. It was not always this way. She and Pops used to bring me and my Sis out to see some of the big blockbuster movies on the big screen. Here are a few movies that I WAS allowed to see that stick out in my mind as the ones that probably changed her perspective (using ‘confidence-in-my-masculinity-inducing’ flowery bullets):

Grease

I know, right? Grease seems so innocuous by today's standards. But my Mom was flat out disgusted by this movie. Was it Olivia Newton-John’s skin tight leather pants? No. Was it the drive-in make-out scene where John Travolta gets his balls slammed in the car door? Nope. It was one single phrase in one single song that forever banished Grease to the household smut pit: “The chicks will cream for Greased Lightning.” Perhaps the fact that I’ve never forgotten that phrase is testament that she was probably right.

Raiders Of The Lost Ark

Face-melt scene, FTW! It’s completely awesome and classic and all that, but I was like 9 years old in the theater watching this. I wouldn’t let my son watch it now, and it’s fairly tame by today’s standards. This was like 1981! ‘Nuff said.

Buck Rogers In The 25th Century

Before it was a classic, campy sci-fi TV series it was a classic, campy sci-fi movie with space shuttles, little robots with talking Flava-Flav clocks and Erin Gray in skin-tight spacesuits:

Let’s just say that Erin Gray had something of an impact on my dark and sticky path to manhood. Hmmm…

Before this turns into a Cracked.com ‘why classic entertainment is actually stupid’ article, let me get to the point: Although my Mom was not willing to allow me to actually witness the movies of my day, she would buy me the novelization of any movie I asked for. Her reasoning of course was “Well, at least he’s reading.” That what I was reading was often more descriptive in its violence and sex than the movies were ever allowed to be was kind of my little secret. You know like, until now.

For example – the commercials for the Michael Douglas/Kathleen Turner flick Romancing The Stone presented it as a comedic action/adventure romp through the jungle with a bumbling Danny DeVito as the ‘heavy.’ Mom decided it may be a bit too violent for me, so I got the drug using, graphic violence infused and explicit sex scenes filled paperback book version:

When I finally did watch the movie years later, I was a bit disappointed it was so tame.

Another – Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom… After getting burned by Raiders of the Lost Ark, Mom was on to Spielberg and Lucas. And in this case, rightfully so. No child under 16 or so should be allowed to see that scene when the creepy shaman guy tears the screaming slave-boy’s still-beating heart out of his chest and shows it to him as he dies. But let me tell you, reading it is the stuff of nightmares… not because it’s so gory, rather you are left to imagine what it looks like – while knowing it has been filmed and you someday CAN see it:

The final film novelization I’ll mention is one that I picked up not because of a commercial or schoolyard rumors that it was cool. I simply spotted it on the shelf, saw that it was based on a movie and grabbed it. And man am I glad I did:

I must’ve read The Last Starfighter 20 times as a kid and teenager. It’s a great book and I later found to be an equally great movie. I watched it recently with my kids and was so wrapped up in it I actually got a little choked up at the end (stupid, I know). I have such fond memories of this story that I think I’m going to run out and pick it up for my sons to read. And maybe we’ll pick up a few other books while we’re there… Is there a novelization of Zookeeper?

Oral Pacification and The Unbroken Habit

2011-07-25T13:21:00.001-04:00

My oldest son is the victim of our parental inexperience. With our subsequent children we had learned from our mistake. But it cannot be denied - there are few things cuter than a baby or toddler who soothes him or herself with a soggy, wrinkled little thumb. Of course by the time he was four or five (and entering the sick and diseased world of pre-school and kindergarten) it was far from cute. Rather it had become a source of endless anxiety: frantic calls from frustrated teachers, late night trips to pharmacies for infant illness remedies and visions of second-mortgage requiring orthodontal bills.

Over the years we have tried a variety of medieval devices and dissuaders to break this cycle of anti-hygiene: foul-tasting digit dips and Oriental foot-binding inspired wraps and straps - all to no avail. Eventually, we tired of the battle and left our hopes to the schoolyard - secretly hoping for a mild jungle gym teasing that would both disengage the shriveled and foul appendage and encourage a little 'hair on the chest' masculinity. But alas, it seems not to be. Despite the early stages of dental deformity, the boy has been overwhelmingly accepted and left to his anxious sucky-sucking in relative peace.

Today, after a brave first day of Tadpole swimming lessons (which consisted mostly of small children putting their faces in water and blowing real hard) we stopped for a celebratory treat on the short drive home: the much coveted 'donut' stop. To drive home the message of my paternal pride we not only stopped but actually got out to stand in line so the actual donut choosing could be personalized. A special event indeed.

As we stared as glazed as the delicacies before us, we were woken from our fat and sugar anticipatory stupor by a sudden "OH NO YOU DITN'T!!" uttered by the large black woman before us in line. "You think you can just go sticking that thumb in your mouth where other people 'bout to eat? Nuh-uh, mister!"

I looked to my son - white as a sheet - and then to the woman who gave me a large smile and knowing wink. "Thank you," I whispered to her as she turned to pay for her flavored iced coffee.

The Impoverished Executive

2011-07-16T09:37:00.001-04:00

"Life is a spiraling whirlwind of stressful things I cannot contain or control. Let me count the ways..."

Did I ever tell you about the time I got the big promotion and an accompanying pay cut? No? Well it’s a lovely story – and as today’s thing is a direct result of it, here’s a few highlights:

In 2008, I was an hourly employee on a team that was working on a major project. The project was hugely successful. I was promoted into a new position where I manage the processes we implemented with the project. The timing of this promotion coincided with a major downturn in the economy where hourly employees were being asked to take voluntary time off and stuff. I was made into a salaried employee and have earned approximately two-thirds of what I earned in 2007 since. Oh, did I mention that when this pay change happened my wife was 5 months pregnant with our third child?

Since then, my family and I have been through some pretty rough patches: a serious foreclosure scare, broken down cars with no way to get to work, scraping together meals just trying to get through the next pay check… you get the idea. And while all this stress was going on at home, at work I am in a high-profile position working with individuals at the highest levels of the corporation. I am seen as one of the forefront business leaders. Yet as I am picking up packages of ramen on the way home to feed the kids, my peers are leaving early to pick up their clubs in their new BMWs to hit the links.

Grating. Demoralizing. Frustrating. Feel free to add your own –ing.

So hey – this is all history, right? It’s 2011 now and things must have gotten better by now… Well, a little. As long as nothing out of the ordinary happens. Like a birthday. Or Christmas. Or a vacation.

Ah, vacation. Today is my first day of Summer vacation. We’ve been planning it for a few weeks. We made some reservations at a hotel near an amusement park to meet up with some family for a long weekend and everything. And the pay schedule worked out that I’d come into some extra funds a few days ahead of time. Perfect. Almost.

Last week I found out that “due to the Fourth of July holiday” things were delayed and the extra bucks we had planned our vacation around weren’t going to be available until after the vacation is over. So… no cash to actually do things during said vacation. We can get to the amusement park and the hotel is already paid for, but we can’t afford to do stuff like actually get into the park or feed the kids.

Over the past couple of years I’ve had several moments where things seemed really hopeless. And to be honest, this is one of the less ‘life-critical’ moments to fall apart over. But you know, being in a desperate financial position for an extended period is wearing. And over time I’ve gotten to the point where if someone at work asks me to go to lunch and I say “no thanks” (but really mean “I can’t afford to”), I’m nearly in tears as they walk away. Fucking miserable.

Today is my son’s 2 year birthday party. I’m a ball of stress. People are coming to our house and I need to host. I need to feed them. I need to make a cake. I need to keep people entertained. I need to leave them with the perception that I am not at any moment going to shatter into a million pieces like a cheap clear beer bottle tinkling down a steep paved hill and that instead I am a successful professional who has things under control and is going on a wonderful vacation where my kids will not want for anything and life is good and I am happy.

Pray for me.

However Long It Takes…

2011-05-02T10:33:00.004-04:00

It’s not like I’m the only patriotic person in America. And there are far better writers writing far better takes on the death of Osama bin Laden. But I feel like I need to get this out, so here goes.

There aren’t too many people in the civilized world who, if they were alive at the time, wouldn’t say they were strongly affected by the events of September 11, 2001. I was extremely affected. I remember the nights after the attacks, looking up into the sky and seeing the stars above and realizing: this is the first time, and probably the last time I will see a full, clear sky with no passing planes. Our entire continental United States was declared a no-fly zone for all commercial flights for a couple of days, and I remember it being kind of eerie, the calm quiet after the horrific storm.

On September 10th, 2011, my wife and I were pretty sure she was carrying our first child, and there was hope in the air. On September 11th, that hope was replaced with fear for the future of our country, our stability, our child’s life. I remember wondering what sort of world he would grow up in – Would he live in fear that the bus he was riding to work may be carrying a suicide bomber, moments away from violently disrupting American civility? Would he be forced to move to the wilderness with limited resources, for fear of the live warfare happening in the cities and former peaceful suburbs? My mind reeled with these extreme visions of Apocalyptic horror. Because I had seen the towers fall. I had seen people so frightened of the climbing flames that they jumped to their deaths, choosing a peaceful plunge over suffocation and burning.

By the time our first son was born on May 2nd, 2002, Ground Zero was well underway of being cleared, and much of the fear in the United States had been replaced with a dangerous mix of unwavering patriotism and bloodlust for the man behind the attacks, and frankly anyone who resembled him – even if only by nationality or race. Every house had a flag hung high, the economy was struggling but showing signs of coming back around and we had hope again. We supported the war in Afghanistan and were eagerly awaiting pictures on TV of Bin Laden’s head on a stick being paraded down the streets of Kabul, while onlookers threw rocks and garbage at it. But that didn’t come.

Then Saddam Hussein started acting up again. So we started telling playground rumors that he was mixing mustard gas in his bathtub and was going to gas his civilian population and then he was going to gas New York City and school children would die. And the political cartoonists made him look a little more like Bin Laden, and the lines were blurred. And with the full might of our patriotic, bloodlusty military, we went in and pulled him from a dirty hole and hung him in the streets while people threw rocks and garbage and we cheered. But the glow of our national orgasm wouldn’t last for long, and when our blue balls started to ache for victory and returning heroes we got impatient and got all crazy for domestic regime change. So urgent was our need for change, we didn’t even want to see another old white guy in office. And we voted in a guy whose name rhymes with Osama, just so we could make him feel stupid until he either ended the war or brought us Bin Laden’s head on a stick.

Today is May 2nd, 2011. Today my son is 9 years old. Today Osama bin Laden is dead.

Every September 11th, I am brought to tears by some fucking TV news retrospective. I feel stupid when I cry over it. But I can’t help it. It was fucking tragic, and every year I am overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness and anxiety that the world can come crumbling down and kill my children. Today I cried again. I was driving to work. I had already heard that Bin Laden had been killed, but it didn’t really hit me until I was by myself on the highway listening to of all fucking things the new Beastie Boys album. I simply realized I had tears in my eyes. And when the tears stopped I felt better.

Now I know the war’s not over. As a matter of fact, I expect something bad will happen quickly - as all those mother fucking, murdering, freedom-hating, religious fucknuts decide who the new leader of the symbolic America destroyers will be. People will die, and it will be sad. But I feel like a weight has been lifted. I have a little closure. And today I will celebrate the 9 years of my son’s life knowing that there is one less evil out there for him to be afraid of.

Testies - 1,2,3...

2010-07-26T17:43:00.001-04:00

Hang on, I'll be right back.

What's up?

2010-05-02T07:03:00.004-04:00

I guess I owe a big explanation why I left the world on the edge of their seats... I mean, how do you start an epic story like the one below and then not reveal the answer? Worse yet, not even an update for months? If I was a faithful reader, I'd be kinda pissed. So if you're one of those - I'm genuinely sorry. There is a grand ending to the story below, and I plan to reveal it one of these days. But for now - it's on hold. Always leave 'em wanting more - thanks, PT.

So, what have I been doing? you might ask. Well, I've been wallowing in financial crisis, for one. Tough times got REAL tough. But throughout all the stress, pain and tears, Missus Mungus and I have come through strong. All is on the mend there. The ole job has been eating up all my time as well, so not a ton of hours available to work on epic saga. So, I've been focusing on the instant gratification - one liner - business. Twitter: www.twitter.com/fungusmungus

I've also revived my first love: comics. I've started a daily webcomic illustrating the bizzarre behavior demonstrated by the inhabitants of an alternate universe of bi-pedal piggies: http://tlpig.wordpress.com/ . This has been a true labor of love. Comics were my passion all through my school years including an attempt at an illustration major in college. The realities of life did not allow this to come to fruition (needed aday job to like eat and stuff. That forced me to quit school and work). But now I have an outlet. And I'm totally digging it. If you'd like to check it out, I've added an update box over there on the top left of this page.

Fear not, fellow XE-ers, FM vs. Reality readers and friends - this site is not dead. A place to write some long-form discertations on the WTF moments in life is always needed. But in the meantime, check out the comic - and say 'hi' on twitter sometime. There's friends there.

A Fiction: Part XXI

2009-09-23T06:27:00.003-04:00

“I must say it’s really quite remarkable. We never thought you’d make it this far. But clearly we made the right choice with you.” A small square panel embedded in the chamber wall throbs as the words are spoken. The walls are an unfinished metal, the joints of the panels plainly visible. It is clearly a strong, sturdy structure, yet built by someone with little regard for cosmetics. “I apologize for leaving you literally hanging for so long. The environment here takes some getting used to. It requires a process of adjustment.”

At first the tingling in my toes is a small irritation, but it is slowly climbing my leg – growing in intensity as it goes. Then I feel it in my fingertips. Soon it has spread up all of my limbs and begins to work at my chest and groin. I begin to panic a bit, instinctively shaking my arms to get the blood flowing again. Soon I am thrashing to work the crawling itch from below my flesh – its insidious etching like microscopic knives cutting me from the bone to the surface. My eyes are darting from side to side and the once irritant is now agony. I tuck my knees into my chest and wrap my arms around them and squeeze. Behind my now closed eyes, I am a ball floating in a pool of electric fluid, the less I move the easier it washes over me.

Either the sensation is lessening or my senses have dulled as I open my eyes and spread my limbs like newly formed wings. I am slowly spinning in all directions – end-over-end, around and twisting – but it is not disorientating. I see every scratch and imperfection in the surface of the chamber in perfect clarity. My mind builds a map of the welds and scuffs and I could recite the uneven corners like rote. I raise my open hands before my eyes and feel power surge through them. I make fists and can imagine driving them through the walls with little effort. My body feels of perfection – any cuts or bruises are gone, my worn muscles now taut and strong, my mind clear and full of peace.

“What has happened to me?” I cry out – elated.

“Adjustment, as I told you to expect, Mr. Cole.” The voice is from within the room. I spin my head to see the speaker, but am still rotating in the air, and cannot find the man. “We have such hopes for you. We could not wait for you to reach your potential naturally, as that could take years without this type of intervention. Most never achieve it, though you are clearly not like most.” I still have yet to spot my host and am sure I have rotated past every inch of the chamber more than once.

“Why can I not see you?”

“You will learn to see me, Mr. Cole. But you must be patient. You have come a long way towards your goal very quickly, but you still have a few connections to make on your own. And when you do, many things not visible will be seen and many secrets will be revealed.” The voice is stifling a laugh with much effort, and coughs. “But of course even I am not complete yet. We will complete our transitions together you and I. We will do great things, Mr. Cole.”

My imagination reels with the wonders I am hearing for the first time – disembodied voices, physical (?) transformations… and the word appears in my mind as though it were placed there, which I presume it may have been. “Evolution?” I speak to the air.

“Nature evolves over millennia, Mr. Cole. And the individual knows no benefit. Nature is bound by time. You and I, though – we do not have this limitation. We are our own generations and re-generations. We are on an expedition, Mr. Cole, to discover our potential and the ultimate potential of our kind. We will see the infinite.”

As the cloud of thought clears before my eyes, I realize I have stopped rotating and am moving feet first towards the floor. Before me, a doorway slides up and away and I see a dimly lit passage beyond. Testing my legs, I walk through – my first steps towards the unfathomable.

A Fiction: Part XX

2009-09-03T12:58:00.001-04:00

Chapter 3

Abyss

I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death. It is death who fears me. I do not fear death.

The scrabbling on the harsh ragged ice has torn my fingertips apart. At first, I am cold – cold like I have never felt before. But gradually, the cold becomes a simmering warmth that grows first in my chest and extends out to my fingers and toes. I cannot close my eyes, the blinding light above my only link to the world above ice and above water. I can see a hint of blue through the pane as day lazes above. One final push on the ice and I drift down into the abyss. The light fades as I fall away into the pitch below. Hope fades and I open my mouth to breathe in and end it. I exhale all the air in my lungs, the bubbles rushing past my eyes and coming to rest on the ice ceiling above. Then I inhale. I expect spasms of pain as my lungs fight to reject the liquid being pulled into them, but there are no spasms. There is no liquid. I am breathing air.

I open my eyes to find myself suspended in space in a nicely lit metal-walled chamber. I close my eyes again, and reopen them expecting to find the chamber gone – a figment of my last moments imagining. But the chamber remains. I breathe deep, luxuriating in the act, as my head clears and my heart slows. As I relax, I begin to ponder my surroundings at length. I stretch my one functioning arm out but I am too far to reach the wall. I attempt to shift my weight to see if there is gravity here or if I am held in the center of a weightless room. Suddenly my head begins to spin and my stomach turns. As I throw up the contents of my belly, I note that it does indeed fall past my feet and onto the floor below, splashing up onto my water logged shoes. Gravity indeed.

The force holding me in place seems equally placed throughout my body – not focused on my torso for example – my head feels as weightless as my feet. I can move my limbs, but cannot generate enough force to move myself about. I am fixed in place. It is quite comfortable and after a few minutes I begin to get drowsy, and slip into sleep.

In my dream I float through the pane of ice into the open air. As I float up beyond the ice cliff wall, I see Angel’s Head. There are men climbing off the deck onto the ice with rope and teams lowering supplies. The rear of the ship is lower than the front, and on second look is actually below water at the furthest point. Angel’s Head is sinking and the crew is abandoning her. There is black smoke billowing from the stairwell on deck – a fire below I assume. Suddenly the scene seems to speed up and the sun moves across the sky until it grows darker. I watch as Angel’s Head sinks lower and lower until finally she breaks away from the ice and slips into the depths. The men on shore all turn to look into the sky. They are waving at something… then I realize –they are waving at me! Wait, they’re not waving, but shaking their fists. I am not to blame! It was Hawthorne and the captain, not me! Slowly, the ice they stand upon begins to fail beneath their feet and to my horror, I watch as 30 men are lost to the sea, cursing me with their final breaths…

“Welcome home, Mr. Cole” the voice says as I open my eyes.

A Fiction: Part XIX

2009-08-29T07:17:00.003-04:00

VII

The deck of Angel’s Head lurches to my left, and I slide face-first toward the thin wood edge wall. I tuck just in time to avoid my head taking the full blow, but I hit the wall hard, and am winded. At first it’s just hand tools and debris that follow my slide, but the slope of the deck steepens, and the larger equipment starts to slide in my direction.

Despite the danger, I am transfixed by the scene before me: The men that had been trying to get into the control room have now broken the glass and are piling into the room. As the ship tilts, men fall from the high deck to the icy water below. There is another group that has descended upon the snowmobiles and arctic supplies. The clear favored prizes are the vehicles of course, but there is heavy fighting for the boots, jackets, ropes and tools. One man is able to start the one closest to me, but he is pulled from the machine, dragged to deck and beaten as another takes his chance upon the beast. This cycle continues with men fighting to get position in the seat, but being torn down before the throttle can be engaged. Now the men have lost all hope as the snowmobile edges down the sloping deck towards me. They jump aside and begin their own slide toward the icy doom below. I wake from my observational haze and throw myself to the side as the speeding behemoth barrels past me. With a deafening crash, the wall and railing I have been lying on break away, and I fall into the stark white silence of ice and snow.

For a moment, as I fall, there is no sound. My mind races with thoughts of my life and impending death. My expectation of icy water is proven false when my descent is broken by piled snow. My left shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, and I am sure it is broken. In the moment I take to recover, I look up to see the snowmobile, which has landed on its back end, towering above and teetering to fall upon me. I roll to my side, and fall into a large crack in the ice and find myself sliding feet first into darkness. My back and legs are torn as they rip across the jagged ice. But as soon as it started, the slide ends and I am again falling through bright white space and land hard on solid ground. I look up at the sheer ice cliff above, and for a moment take in its pure beauty. The sun glistens off its uneven walls and I am reminded of the cathedral where my grandfather’s funeral service was held - stoic and elegant, with an air of unearthly peace.

Looking up, I notice a puff of ice and snow blown out from the top of the cliff. Then I see jagged shards of ice separating from the wall followed by a large, dark mass. Unable to support its weight, the glacier is passing off the snowmobile once more in my direction and I watch as it falls in a shower of shimmering ice. Again, I get my wits and scramble to my knees. I throw myself across the ice and claw my way as far from the cliff base as I can before the impact.

The snowmobile crashes into the ice floor with an explosive reverb, shattering the ice in all directions, and throwing a spire of water 50 feet into the air above me. A crack appears all around me and I find myself alone on a wobbling plate of ice as it breaks free from the larger floor. I grab the plate’s edge in a desperate attempt to float through the maelstrom, but it tilts up into the air and over, and I find myself below the ice, in freezing water – blackness below and clawing at the light above. My fingers search for an opening, but to no avail. I slam my fist against the ice but only push myself further down into the icy depths. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, …

A Fiction: Part XVIII

2009-08-15T03:57:00.001-04:00

In my dream, I am standing at the top of a large ice hill overlooking a field of snow. The snow is falling heavily, and I cannot make out the horizon. Above is cold steel grey cloud – no hint of sun, just even, grey light. I hear a small buzzing sound and search the sky. There’s nothing there, but I am sure I hear a small plane. I raise my arms to signal it – They are going to see me. I’m saved!! I squint my eyes and see a small black spot in the clouds. Yes!! It’s headed this way!! The spot grows larger and blacker but I still cannot make the shape of the craft. It nearly fills my vision now and I feel I am floating, my body sliding up towards my head. The buzz is getting louder and louder until it is a mind-shattering roar…

I wake to the roar of the ships engines in full throttle. My head presses uncomfortably into the headboard of my bed as I slide up with the acceleration. I roll towards the small port hole and wince as my sheet tears from a patch of hardened blood on my chest. I run my hand down, incredulous – have I been in a fight? Why am I bleeding? I look out at the water racing past my small, round window. Wherever we’re going, we’re sure in a hurry to get there. I hear heavy footfalls as someone runs past my door. Listening closely, I hear muffled shouting on deck. I roll out of bed and quickly dress, carrying my shirt with me to pull on as I make my way outside.

The cold air stabs my lungs and steals my breath as I step out onto deck and survey the chaos all around. Men are running and shouting in all directions. Some have made a line up the staircase to the control room. Above, a small group is pounding and banging on the outside of the control room presumably to gain access. To my right across the deck, Hendricks is up on a small platform, handing out orange life vests to all who will take one. He spots me and frantically waves me over. I push my way through the crew surrounding him, temporarily warmed by the close contact, and climb up to stand beside him.

“What’s going on? Are we sinking?” I ask. Hendricks is sweating with the work and takes a moment to catch his breath. I look over the rail behind him as something catches my eye. What is that? Are those whales? No, they’re oddly shaped, irregular. I am thrown back from the rail as ice showers over. The towering wall of the iceberg slides past having brushed the side of the ship. Hendricks kneels down and offers me a hand.

“The ship is out of control. Someone has locked himself in the control room and pushed us full out. This area is full of icebergs! Surely we’ll crash!!” Hendricks falls to the floor, his cool demeanor suddenly broken. His breathing is harsh and erratic. He is slipping into shock. I put my arm around him and help him to a seat on the edge of the deck. Overhead, a life boat swings across the deck and out over the open sea. It lowers quickly and crashes dangerously into the side of the boat, breaking away a section of the rail and side wall. Three crew men reach over to hold the boat in place, while two others climb in. I stand and rush over towards them, but too late – all five are inside and the boat is being lowered towards the racing sea below. I look behind to the lift controls and wave my arms to get the attention of the man running the panel - make him stop – but too late. I hear screaming as the hoist jerks wildly and the cables holding the boat snap up into the air. I fall flat on the deck as one flicks down across an unsuspecting crewman racing across. It hits directly between his shoulder and neck, embedding itself 6 inches down through his chest. He is knocked to his knees and falls forward, dead before his face touches wood.

I pull myself carefully to my knees and am about to stand when, with a scream of splintering wood and twisting metal the ship comes to a lurching stop. I am thrown forward – sliding across the wet, ice covered deck – with the rest of the debris strewn about. There is yelling from above as the crew’s fears are realized: we have crashed.

A Fiction: Part XVII

2009-08-12T05:42:00.003-04:00

“Captain?!” I shout through the locked door. “Captain, open up. It’s me, Cole.” Silence… “Are you sure he’s in there?” I say to Nelson who is standing nervously behind me. I try the handle again, this time with a bit more force. Placing my hand on the door, I estimate its strength. I can surely get through it. Nelson, sensing my intention, grips my shoulder and pulls me back.

“You can’t just break down his door, Mr. Cole. C’mon, let’s go see Mr. Roderick. He’ll tell you what you need to know…” I hesitate but ultimately back away from the door when I sense Nelsons fear. I need answers, I think to myself as I follow Nelson into the sun.

The wind whirls past me wetly as we step out on deck and move towards the ladder to the control room. There’s a flurry of activity around the research teams equipment. Four large crates have been place semi symmetrically down the center of the platform. Men armed with pry bars and hammers work feverishly to pull them open to some success. The second crate from me has a gap slowly opening on one side. I pause in anticipation as the crate is opened. Two men climb inside and start knocking at the walls from the inside. The top is lowered to the deck and the sides are pulled away to reveal a shining blue snowmobile strapped to a sturdy looking wooden pallet.

“What the fuck?” I turn to Nelson who is himself looking up the ladder towards the control room. Roderick and Hendricks are climbing down, apparently to inspect the cargo. Roderick looks to me, then to Nelson and they exchange a concerned look as Roderick reaches the deck and turns to me.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Cole. A bit soon to be up and about I should think.”

“I have a questions I need answered. Where is the captain?” Roderick waves Hendricks away and puts his arm on my shoulder to direct me towards the rail. Nelson follows close so as not to miss a word.

“The captain is under the care of Dr. Sawyer. He has become ill and is in need of extended rest. He must not be disturbed. Surely you understand.” He smiles and pats my back. “Quite an adventure you had down there, eh? Shame about Stuart of course, but the balls you had to swim out… I envy your courage. Not sure I could have done the same.” I am not about to be swayed by flattery.

“You left me. The ship fucking disappeared. I had no choice.”

“Please, Mr. Cole. You must understand – Hawthorne believed we were in immediate danger.” Roderick grips my arm. “We had the entire crew’s safety in mind. You are but one man. One man’s sacrifice could have saved twenty lives. As it turns out, after some extensive tests, the danger proved to be overstated and we returned. To find you floating up to the surface above the Ether… remarkable, really. Well, all’s well that ends well, and all that.” Again, Roderick smiles.

“A man died! Don’t you care?”

“Men die all the time. At sea and everywhere else. Stuart understood the danger when he signed up for this voyage. As did you I believe. Now if there’s nothing else, Mr. Cole, I’m tiring of this conversation. If you are able to work, please be on deck in the morning looking sharp. Otherwise, stay out of the way until you have recovered fully. The rest of the crew is at your service. And I’ll ask you not to make such a clatter around the captain’s door again. Dr. Sawyer rang me to complain. He suggested I restrain you. I will do no such thing, but be clear, Mr. Cole, I will if this behavior continues.”

My face is hot with rage as Roderick turns and walks towards the men on deck. All four crates are open now. Three snowmobiles and a crate of assorted arctic gear. I am too pissed to give it much thought as Nelson walks me back to my room. He says nothing as I step in and close the door behind me. I open a small box near my bed and pull out a fresh single edge razor blade. I slice four clean lines into my chest, the pain releasing my rage. My head goes light as my blood streams down to my belly and I breathe, slowly.

A Fiction: Part XVI

2009-07-15T04:57:00.000-04:00

III

“What do you remember?” the hollow voice inquires.

“They were iridescent and bulbous, buoyant and warm. They carried me.”

“Jellyfish?”

“Yes… yes, they may have been.”

“Do you remember what happened to Hawthorne?”

“He never came back. I guess he got lost.”

“And Stuart… where is Stuart?”

“I set him free. Where am I? What is this place?”

“Angel’s Head, of course.”

“Where did you go? Why did you leave us?”

“It was not safe.”

“Safe? Were you attacked? Safe from what?

“Please, Mr. Cole. You’re upsetting yourself. Do try to relax.”

“RELAX? Are you fucking kidding me? I could’ve died out there! And fucking Stuart…” My head begins to throb and the room spins slowly.

“I’m going to be sick…” My stomach twists as everything once again goes black.

“Good morning, Mr. Cole. How you feeling on this fine day?” Nelson is waiting for me at the top of the stairway, his right hand outstretched. I take his hand and he pulls me into an embrace. “Everyone was so worried about you. It’s good to see you up and around,” he says into my ear.

“I feel pretty good. Still a bit green around the gills so-to-speak, but as long as I keep moving, it’s OK.” We walk to the rail and look out to the rolling sea, the sun at our backs. The early morning sky is pale blue, with flecks of cloud scattered along the horizon. “How far have we gone since I was picked up?”

“You ask me, not far at all. We’ve been circling. It’s a big circle, mind you. But it’s hard not to notice the sun rise and set on the same side of the ship.” Nester laughs his hearty laugh. “They left something down there that they still want.”

“Maybe they hope to recover the Ether. I’d like to know what happened.”

“Could be, could be. There sure was a lot of excitement when you were down there. There was cheering in the control room early on. They came pouring out of the room saying you found something or other. But things got pretty somber after Mr. Hawthorne showed up.”

I nearly fall as the blood drains from my face. “HAWTHORNE IS ALIVE? HE’S HERE ON THE SHIP?”

Nelson puts an arm under mine to support me, and helps me to a bench. We sit. “Didn’t they tell you? He was found on the deck the morning after you went down. The dive team was scheduled to go down and try to hook a cable to your sub. But when Hawthorne woke up, he started screaming that we had to leave, that we were all in danger and all that nonsense. Captain made the call to go.”

My head slips into my hands as the deck spins across my eyes. I jump to the rail and vomit over the side. “I have to see him,” I say, a long line of spittle hanging from my lip. “Where is he?”

“Why, he’s gone Mr. Cole. Chopper came for him right after you were rescued. No need to worry. The captain’ll tell you the whole story. Told me to tell you he wants to see you later in the week.”

“Bring me to him now.”

A Fiction: Part XV

2009-07-12T12:26:00.003-04:00

It has been 9 days since I sent Stuart off. Since then, I have occupied my time with a rigid routine that consists of hourly radio and SONAR checks, power level reviews, and regimented small meals and water consumption. This morning (there is no light this far below, but I have made a conscious effort to maintain a standard night/day schedule) I was able to restart the propeller drives, but a full force attempt in every direction yielded no positive result. I believe we have hooked ourselves onto an object embedded in the sea floor. Either this or the object Stuart brought aboard has weighed us down. I will attempt to open the cargo door and release the object, but again, I do not expect a positive result.

3 days ago I noticed a tremor in my right eye. I was not immediately concerned, as it was a standard common muscled twitch. But it has gradually worsened and I believe it may be indicative of a more serious condition. I find myself digging my forefinger into the muscle as it spasms in an effort to soothe the little beast, but it continues it’s flexing beneath the probing digit. I have considered a bit of self surgery to release the tension in the muscle and have found a blade sharp enough for the performance, but my routine does not allow for the time it would require so it will have to wait.

The enhanced view screen shimmers with hazy blue ghosts as objects pass by my window to the sea. Some are easily discernable as familiar sea creatures but others I do not recognize. My eye muscle spasms as I stare into the black abyss and observe the gaseous bodies drift past. In them I see shapes and visions – of times past and those yet to be. I see my mother’s eyes as they look into mine, so caring and concerned. She wonders when I will be home and safe. She has been dead for nearly a decade, but there she is before me – beckoning. And there are stars and swirling universes of worlds and peoples. They visit me and tell me of my insignificance. They lilt me to sleep and provide me with images of soft places and comforting patterns. I stand and move to the next station of my routine – the radio.

“This is submersible Ether in distress, is there anyone there?” This is my standard message to the outside world, and I send it hourly on all available channels. On each the response is static – always static. I move to the SONAR screen and watch four full rotations. The light green line sweeps the black globe and finds nothing. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Nothing. I stand to move to the power panels. As I do, my eye is caught by a small dot in the upper right quadrant of the SONAR display. I quickly fall back into the chair and wait for the next rotation. There… THERE IT IS! A dot!!! It’s moving across the circle – not perfectly in my direction but getting closer. How can I signal them? What can I do? I race to the radio and switch on the first channel.

“This is submersible Ether in distress. Please respond.” I count to ten and switch to the next channel. Again. “This is submersible Ether in distress. Please, is there anybody there?” …Ten. Next. “This is the submersible Ether from Angel’s Head. Angel’s Head are you there?”

“PLEASE. IS THERE ANYONE THERE???” I look at the SONAR screen and see the dot moving yet closer. It is within two miles southeast and moving slowly north. In 10 minutes it will be at its closest point – less than one mile. LESS THAN ONE MILE!!! I race to the back and pull out the S.C.U.B.A. gear. I spread it all out and around for easy access and begin tearing off my clothes. As quickly, I start pulling on gear. I badly twist my small toe as I yank up the legging – I think it’s broken. Keep going. Both legs on now. I stand and pull the shoulders up and jam my arms through and into the gloves. I pick up the tank and heave it up onto my back nearly falling as I drill the tank dials into the base of my skull. The stars clear and I pull the cap over my head. I reach down and grab the mask, pull oxygen feed into my mouth and slip on the flippers. Without a look back I pop open the hatch and drop into the water.

I didn’t take into account the temperature – I’m freezing. Well, no time to change my mind. I start to swim to the surface. I wonder how long it’s been – more than ten minutes? What will I do when I reach the surface? Swim to the vessel? I have no flares or signaling devices. My heart is pounding in my chest. I pump with all I’ve got but the water around me is still pitch black. Something brushes my leg and I reach out – it’s the cable for the solar power unit. A life line! I run the cable through my fingers as I continue my journey upward. Every hundred feet, there is a junction of two cables and I begin to estimate my progress. I can’t make it in time! Panic is setting in. I drop the cable to pump my arms and force my way up. I begin to see light around me… is it my imagination? The light takes form and the angelic patterns from the view screen surround me and lift me higher and higher. I fear I may be losing consciousness as the visions pull me upward, their faces calming and soothing. Then suddenly all is dark and quiet. I am not moving. I float still and hang in the depth. My eyes close and my breathing slows as I hear the bell of my air supply ringing.

A Fiction: Part XIV

2009-07-11T09:18:00.000-04:00

Chapter 3

Waiting for the sun

Stuart died.

When I think of people dying, I always imagine a quiet moment; their faces grow still, their eyes glaze a bit and they look upwards as though seeing the face of God. Peaceful, always peaceful. Maybe I’ve seen too many vid-dramas.

Stuart decided early on that he was going to hold on to the last. He fought death literally with all he had. First, there was the moaning. It started as a pained breath, but over the course of 16 hours it became a near-constant hum. The moaning lasted for nearly 12 hours more until Stuart drifted away into restless sleep. I had been comforting him with a torn bit of my shirt and cool water on his forehead and chest. When he drifted off to sleep, I thankfully did as well. A little over 4 hours later, Stuarts eyes shot open – wild and clear – and the howling and screaming started. His body shook in constant tension as he took deep hysterical breaths and let them go in a swirling siren of agony. He lay there on the cold steel diamond plate floor, my every attempt at comfort swatted away with rigid strength. It was clear I could offer no help, so I moved away and searched the first aid kit for something to close my ears. I cut a few small triangles from a larger gauze pad and rolled them into my ear canals, softening the horror of Stuart’s spasms. I spent the next hour activating emergency equipment and attempting to re-engage the drives. I was under the main console tracing the wiring and looking for damage when I realized… the sub was silent.

I have to admit, I considered my food situation. The sub is stocked with enough dry rations for three individuals at average consumption for one week. I estimate I can ration this for myself for up to five weeks. By then, I expect either Angel’s Head will find me or I will convince myself to suit up and swim to the surface – Stuart will not be edible after a few days – maybe a week. I decided to let him go.

Before I lowered him into the water, I wrapped Stuart in the blanket from the first aid kit and tied it tight with some thin rope I found in the back hold. The concept of God is passé in this day and age, but I feel compelled to say a few words.

“A pleasant voyage, Stuart. Your suffering is at an end, my friend.” With this, I pushed Stuart out into the sea and closed the hatch behind him.

A Fiction: Part VIII

2009-07-05T08:53:00.001-04:00

The interior of the sub is bathed intermittently with deep red and pitch black. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings and pull myself up off the floor. The sub floor is slanted towards the back and I struggle to get to the front screen – black as well. Either the screen is damaged or the outside lighting is off. Fuck. I shake my head and take a minute to fully assess the situation. I hear the whirring of fans blowing fresh air from the oxygen converters – that’s good. We at least have emergency power… we... STUART! His body rolled beneath the console on impact and is still there. I sit on the floor next to him, wrap my arms around his torso and drag him out into the main aisle. He was knocked cold – not good. I stand and shut off the emergency systems. The main power comes back up and all the equipment comes to life. Then I pull open the first aid cabinet on the wall. What do I need? A blanket, some bandages for his head, a cold pack…

“Solemn chain flower cold?” I turn and see Stuart sitting up, his hands on his knees. He looks at me curiously. “Flower cold?”

“Stuart, lay down. I don’t know what kind of injuries you have.” Stuart stares hard at me, rolls to one side and lies down. He is shivering. I cover him with the blanket and start to check him for injuries. I gasp as I check his head. The back of his skull is soft and bloody. There is fluid oozing from his ears and his eyes dart back and forth. Oh, Stuart, my friend. It’s not looking good. I need to get help. I stand and move to the instrument panels.

“Fear column lines patsy…” Stuart offers behind me without rising.

“Thanks for the advice, Stu, but I need to try the radio first.” Stuart grunts in what I think is approval. The radio lights up and I hear familiar static. “Angel’s Head, this is Ether. We have an emergency. Please respond…” Static. “Angel’s Head, this is Ether. Please respond. We have an emergency.” Nothing.

I walk over to the SONAR display and watch a full rotation, then another. “Stuart, what am I doing wrong here? I don’t see anything.” Stuart pulls himself up and crawls over to the display before I notice. “Jesus, Stuart. Lie back down! You’re in no shape to…” Stuart puts his hand to my mouth and leans into the display.

“Cage my pollen stone…” he says quietly. He closes his eyes and moves back to the floor.

He may not have said the right words, but Stuart was clear as day: Angel’s Head is gone. We are alone.

A Fiction: Part XII

2009-07-04T08:30:00.002-04:00

III

Once I got the hang of it, piloting the sub was fairly easy. You certainly had to predict your stops and turns, but the little sub was more reactive than I expected. Hawthorne was pleased with my progress and even let me pilot the sub to the surface once Stuart was complete with his equipment diagnostics and calibrations. He took over as we approached Angel’s Head, presumably in fear that I would crash into the side, but once we were out and standing on deck, he patted me on the back and said, “Gentlemen, meet your new sub pilot. I’m retired.”

Now, back in my room and thinking back on the day, I smile to myself and lean back in satisfaction on the bed. I wonder what all the secrecy is about. Lost treasure I suppose – afraid that the crew will mutiny to get their hands on the booty. Well, being on the front lines, I guess I’ll know before anyone else what’s going on. A submersible pilot – who would’ve guessed? Angel’s Head is starting to feel like a grand adventure. We’re nearly a month out and I don’t want the trip to end.

Having been turned away from a search for Hawthorne, I make an attempt for the latest headlines.

FORBIDDEN INFORMATION – NOT ALLOWED

What the fuck? I search for entertainment news.

FORBIDDEN INFORMATION – NOT ALLOWED

Music.

FORBIDDEN INFORMATION – NOT ALLOWED

Insects.

FORBIDDEN INFORMATION – NOT ALLOWED

Must be temporarily down, I think to myself. I’ll ask Roderick in the morning.

I turn on the vid screen and choose a classic pirate film. I recall a man swinging from one ship to the next before I drift off to sleep… For the first time in my recent memory, I do not dream.

The next two weeks pass in a blur. Every morning following the Roderick inspection, I stay behind to train with Hawthorne. We are fast becoming good friends (at least in my estimation) and I have grown to trust him more than I’ve trusted another person in quite some time. I am fully functional now as a sub pilot and Hawthorne has been accompanying Stuart and me for the last few days more as a final check of aptitude than to provide any new information. Today, Hawthorne has slipped out for a dive as Stuart collects sea floor samples and I pilot the sub looking for unique specimens. As usual, I have no idea what Stuart is actually looking for or if what he is collecting is just for practice. Most days, he releases all he has collected before we head back up.

“Move us over by that rock formation, Cole. I see something.” I’ve gotten very good at precise movements underwater and we smoothly slide over to where Stuart has directed. “Perfect. Thank you.”

“You should see me parallel park,” I say in my driest tone. Stuart smirks and continues peering into his scope. I watch as the robotic claw rocks back and forth, sweeping away silt from an object half buried in the sea floor. I hear Stuart gasp.

“I’ll need to blind the main screen,” he says and I quickly try to get a look through the cloudy water before the screen goes black. It is a rounded object, about 7 feet across and a foot tall. The surface is grooved or marked with symbols or etched writing. The robotic claw grasps the object and starts to flip it up from the floor as the screen dims. “Sorry, about that. Just following orders,” Stuart says, almost genuinely apologetic. I hear a THUD below my feet as the object is loaded into the hold. A second THUD confirms it has been brought aboard and is secure.

The sea floor once again appears before me and I take a good look at the hole where the object had been. It’s deep - as though the object was moving at high speed and impacted with the sea floor as opposed to softly settling into place. Stuart continues reading his instruments and typing data.

Suddenly he jumps up. “I don’t see Hawthorne on my scope! Where is he?” Stuart pushes me aside to look out the front screen. “Turn the sub around, Cole. He may be lost or in trouble.” I grab the controls and rotate the sub around. The sub grinds across the sea floor. I am shaken and lean forward, driving the nose of the sub down. Both Stuart and I are thrown to the floor as we impact.

A Fiction: Part XI

2009-07-02T06:49:00.001-04:00

I was introduced to the man named Stuart as I climbed into the submersible for the first time. Hawthorne, Stuart and I were to head down below, and Hawthorne would give me a few lessons in submarine operations and protocol while Stuart performed calibrations on the equipment. I took the co-pilots seat and watched as Hawthorne walked me through the power ups.

“This switch is main power. This one: communications. Here is the CG enhancement display and this one: the turbines.” I looked through the glass wall in front of me and noticed all the solid objects on the deck of the ship were outlined with a faint blue haze. I paid close attention assuming there would be a test later on. Stuart flipped on a light over his seat and began switching on equipment in the back. “Stuart has the robotics controls and the emergency systems.”

Stuart looked up and continued where Hawthorne left off. “Here’s a rundown of the emergency systems: first, we have the solar flotation balloon. Pushing this button releases the balloon and it rises to the surface, collecting sunlight and maintaining power – or at least enough to maintain air pressure and a few other critical systems. The balloon also broadcasts a distress signal. In these cases are three fully functional S.C.U.B.A. systems. This hatch in the floor opens, and as long as the sub is within 10 degrees of upright, the internal air pressure keeps the water out. You essentially just drop in. There’s a week of dry rations here, first aid here, defibrillator…” My mind had begun to wander as I looked around the interior of the sub. I imagined being below the surface and the discoveries to be made. I looked at Hawthorne, my curiosity growing as to what his purpose was. “… SONAR display is here. Got it?”

“I think I have most of it, yes. No quizzes yet, OK?”

Stuart smiled. “The tests come later. Today, you’re just here for the ride.”

As if on cue, the sub was lifted into the air. I held the arms of my seat tightly as we swayed above the deck. We were moved out over the water and quickly lowered to the surface. Soon we were moving away from the ship and heading out to open water.

“This lever is for forward motion. This line is dead stop. This direction moves you forward, this direction, back. The wheel is for steering. Left, right, just like a car. Push the steering column forward to nose down, back to nose up. You also have these two pedals for hard side-to-side. Left goes left, right goes right. Easy enough.” He turned to Stuart. “Ready to submerge?”

“Ready,” Stuart answered.

“This dial is for the ballasts. Turn this way to release air, this way to pump them for buoyancy. Would you like to do the honors?” Hawthorne was giddy. Clearly he was enjoying showing off his toy. I carefully turned the dial and with a loud hiss, we slowly sank beneath the waves.

Of course I have seen the docu-vids of sea life and ocean exploration, but nothing prepared me for the sheer beauty I beheld. The early morning sun filtered through the ocean surface on beams of shimmering light; the schools of fishes darting here then there, then here again lit up like pinpoint bulbs. Once settled below, Hawthorne edged us forward and down to the depths below. My stomach caught in my throat as the darkness filled the glass before me; the once clear and shining sea life now highlighted with artificial blue haze on the screen. Something large skirted the edge of our view and momentarily filled the height of the left side – then it darted away, never to be identified.

“The sub can withstand a depth of 5,000 meters,” Hawthorne said as I fought nausea. “Any deeper and we crumple like a tin can. The sea floor here is only 1,500 meters, so no worries. It’ll take about an hour to get all the way down there, so sit back and relax. Once there, I’ll let you take the wheel and we can do a little ‘joy riding’.”

I leaned my head back in my seat and closed my eyes to settle my stomach. Soon I lost the thread of my thoughts and slipped into dream. I dreamed of birds floating through the sky, weightless. I had no body and land was nowhere to be seen – just birds and sky…

A Fiction: Part X

2009-07-01T06:59:00.002-04:00

Chapter 2: Into the Ether

FORBIDDEN INFORMATION – NOT ALLOWED

So much for a web search for Elijah Hawthorne, I think as I prepare for sleep. Today was an interesting day and I am becoming more and more curious what the goal of this ‘research’ is. We’ve been heading due south for nearly two weeks without so much as a decrease in speed. The intensity of the labor I am required to do has made the time pass quickly. Today, as the men were gathered on the deck for the morning inspection, the ship was brought to a standstill. Roderick came down as he always does, but today had a dejected look I’ve not seen before.

“Gentlemen, our guests have requested you all spend the day below deck. A few of you may be asked to come up if extra hands are required at any point, but primarily you will stay below. I have drawn up a list of tasks for you to do both in teams and individually.” He sighed, “I hope this is not indicative of what we are to expect of the next few weeks. I can only imagine the state of the ship if we are not allowed access to maintain her over days or weeks. The filth…” He swept his eyes around the deck and ran his hand down the brass rail behind him, looking longingly at the sparkling sheen. “That is all. Have a safe day.” Roderick slowly turned and began to walk in the direction of the control room, his head slightly bowed as if defeated.

Before he reached the stairs, he was stopped by Nelson, who requested to have a word. They walked together out of earshot of the rest of the crew and had what appeared to be a rather animated discussion. At one point they stopped and looked back at the crew, who were now going over the task list and creating a plan for the day’s work. The schedule created, the men started filing below deck for the day below.

“Mr. Cole?” I heard Roderick call behind me. “Please return to the deck.” Hendricks shot me a look of concern as I turned to walk back. Roderick and Nelson stood together at the foot of the stairway waiting for me.

“Mr. Cole, Nelson tells me you have been getting on quite well on Angel’s Head.”

“I feel lucky to be aboard, sir. That is true. I hope I have met your expectations, sir.” Nelson nodded in approval of my tone.

“Mr. Cole, you have exceeded them. As reward for your efforts, Nelson has nominated you to stay on deck today and work with our guests. I hope this opportunity meets your approval?”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate the recognition. But surely there are men below with more experience who may be more deserving.”

“Your inexperience is part of why you have been chosen, Mr. Cole. You have not yet acquired any bad habits from what I can tell. Nelson will bring you to Dr. Sawyer to give you a once over. The physical requirements of the tasks ahead could be dangerous if you have any unforeseen physical weaknesses. A precaution we must take. Surely you understand.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir” With that, Roderick climbed up to the control room and went inside leaving me in the care of Nelson, who directed me to the back deck and the office of Dr. Sawyer. The office was what you would expect of a ship’s doctor: an exam table, a folded X-ray machine strapped to the wall, all the tools of the trade either screwed down or held with Velcro, presumably in case of rough seas.

Dr. Sawyer was seated at a small desk in the corner, head in hands reading through papers. He spun around as we entered and said, “What is it? What do you want?” He appeared distressed in some way and I was momentarily concerned he may become violent. Nelson wasn’t phased.

“And a ‘good morning’ to you Dr. Sawyer. Our Mr. Cole here has been selected to work with our guests in their scientific endeavors,” Nelson said calmly. It appeared he knew what to expect from the good doctor and had learned how to handle him as well. Dr. Sawyer smiled and stood, extending a hand.

“Of course, of course. Do sit down,” he said as he motioned me to the exam table. “Thank you, Nelson. I will send him after you once we have completed.” Nelson bowed his head, gave me a wink and stepped out the door.

It was a surprisingly thorough exam: lifting limits, spirometry, stress tests. He even included a psychological analysis which consisted of him saying a short statement while looking into my eyes with a magnified scope presumably to watch for pupil dilation. A few I remember:

A fish jumps to the shore and is trapped in the sun

A woman is taken against her will by three men

An astronaut discovers a leak in his helmet during a space walk

A man stands outside a burning house,his family trapped inside

That sort of thing. I was distracted throughout the exam by the odor of Dr. Sawyer. I gathered that his unkempt appearance extended beyond his clothes and shaving discipline. His sessions of bathing are few and far between. He can’t have much experience in close quarters, I thought to myself. “Have you been on many voyages, doctor?”

“This is my first,” he answered shortly. Clearly not open to further discussion. “I hereby declare you fit to serve in the name of SCIENCE!” he shouted and raised his hands above his head. I caught a fleeting hint of a smile. “Now go. GO and do not come back unless you are dying.” He attempted a faux German accent. I guess this is what Dr. Sawyer considers humor. I gathered my things, put back on my black belt and coat and headed out the door.

The research team was on the front deck when I made my way forward. Hawthorne was manning a mechanical hoist that lifted the submersible out of the water and over the deck. I could feel Roderick’s eyes from the control room as the sub was lowered to two U-shaped stands, his concern for the condition of the ship. But despite a slow swaying of the sub, Hawthorne expertly lowered it gently to rest.

The sub looks like a large, blue egg with robotic arms extending from beneath and a turbine on each side. The access hatch extends from the top of the sub and there are storage boxes inlayed along the sides. I helped secure the sub to the stands and help attach the ladder to the side so the team can go in. Hawthorne barked a few orders to his team and they quickly began loading the sub with tools and equipment. Then, to my surprise, Hawthorne walked over to me.

“I hear you are joining our team, Mr. Cole,” he said. “Welcome.”

“I’m just here to help. Anything you need, sir.” He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re coming with us. I am the only one who can pilot the sub on the ship. The rest of my team are lacking in the instincts to learn – scientists – you know. So I have asked the captain to provide me with a member of the crew to become my backup. They named you.”

I was stunned. “I’ve never been in a submersible, sir. Are you sure I’m qualified?”

“Have you ever driven a car? It’s a talent becoming rare these days. Well, have you?”

“Yes, sir. I had a car until just a few months back.”

“Then clearly you are my man,” he said with a large grin on his face.

A Fiction: Part IX

2009-06-30T20:12:00.002-04:00

At promptly 2:59am, the last rope is untied from the dock, and the Angel’s Head is away. At first we only seem to drift off and I wonder if something may be wrong. But suddenly the engines burst to life, and we quickly reach cruising speed as we draw away from land. With the exception of the captain and the executive officers in the control room, the entire population of Angel’s Head is on deck to say our last goodbyes to land for God knows how long.

I lean over the back rail by myself sipping from a bottled water I found in the small chiller in my room. I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out the earth filled cellophane I had collected on shore. Careful not to lose it in the breeze, I empty the contents into my cupped right palm. In my left, I tip my open water bottle until a thin stream pours into the earth. I stare transfixed as the earth is washed away into the endless ocean below, until finally there is nothing but cool clean water in my hand. I raise it up over my head and let it fall into my hair and down my face; a quick refreshment before the long days work ahead.

I hear footsteps approach behind me. I turn to see Hawthorne lean on the rail beside me.

“I haven’t properly introduced myself. Elijah Hawthorne is the name.” He extends his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Cole, sir,” I say and shake his hand.

“No ‘sirs’, Cole. Please just call me ‘Hawthorne’. So are you ready for the long trip?” he asks.

“Not 100% sure what to expect to be frank, Mr. Hawthorne. They haven’t told me much.”

“And they won’t. My work is of the utmost… delicacy, Mr. Cole. I’m sure you understand. But I expect things will be a bit clearer as we go along. Can’t be helped.” He pats me on the back and steps away towards the front of the ship. Delicacy. A curious word, I think to myself. I walk to the front deck of the ship and spot Hendricks and soon we are down below for a long day of labor.

A Fiction: Part VIII

2009-06-30T19:04:00.004-04:00

Sitting on the end of the bed, I rub my new room key between my fingers. I still can’t believe it – full-size bed, satellite entertainment system, on-screen internet, an above water port hole and a door. My own door! The shared lavatory down the hall has five toilet stalls and eight shower stands. No waiting. If the paid help has amenities such as these, I can only imagine the luxury on the guest deck. I stretch my sore body as I recall the previous two day’s events.

Today the ship sets out, but I’ve stayed on board since Wednesday – no reason to leave. Wednesday night, after an hour to unpack my things, Nelson collected me to give me the grand tour. And grand it was: the gourmet kitchen - fully staffed and stocked, the exercise room with only the best equipment. I was introduced to the rest of the Angel’s Head crew and a few members of the scientific team at Wednesday meal time. I met three of the five team members. Mum’s the word on their mission from what I can gather. All-in-all, everyone seemed pleasant enough.

We sat down to a full formal dinner, during which the captain said a few words: “Gentlemen, in 32 hours we will set out to parts unknown on a mission of the utmost secrecy. The challenges we face are many, the questions we will answer are few. But I am assured that the goals of our guests are pure and of the best interest of man.” With this, the man introduced to me as Hawthorne raised his glass.

“Let me now introduce the newest members of the crew to you all. First, we have Mr. Steadman.” A tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses stood at his seat and bowed his head. “Mr. Steadman is a talented meteorologist and assures us he will keep us free from storm.” Steadman smiled, looked around the room and took his seat.

“Next, I will introduce Mr. Cole.” I held up my glass but stayed seated. “Mr. Cole comes to us from the fishing vessel San Pedro. He comes highly recommended as an honest and dependable man.” Having never mentioned my previous vessel, I was surprised by the mention. I hadn’t even filled out any paperwork. They did mention a background check on the flyer, so I guess I should’ve expected them to check me out. Guess I checked out OK.

“Lastly,” the captain said with a sigh, “let me introduce Dr. Sawyer. Having lost our previous ship’s doctor, we performed an extensive search for just the right man for our unique needs. Dr. Sawyer comes recommended by our guest Mr. Hawthorne, and I am confident he will make a great member of our crew.” Dr. Sawyer was a short, stocky man with thick dark glasses and an unkempt scruff of beard. The captain clearly didn’t approve, but seemed to tolerate the man nonetheless. My curiosity passed when the good doctor took the captain’s hand in a hearty shake. Perhaps they are friendly after all…

The meal ended soon after and with a few friendly nods from those around me, I headed off to my room for my first nights sleep aboard Angel's Head. I always dream, and that night I dreamt of the sky. I was not of body, nor was there any sign of land nor sea. Just wide open sky.

Yesterday, I was woken early by a buzz box on the wall. Nelson had told me there was one in every crewman’s quarters. It would go off at the same time for the first few weeks to synchronize the schedules of all the members of the crew. Then, once settled, the buzzer was silenced for the balance of the trip (excepting of course if someone slips out of groove, Nelson had said).

I jumped out of bed, had a quick shower (I was in first rotation. If I missed my 5 minute slot, I could not shower until after night mealtime), and put on one of the ten crisp white uniforms hanging in standing storage. I stepped out of my room and followed the yellow line painted from my door to the deck where I joined the line of crewmen standing at attention.

Roderick appeared from the control room and stepped down the stairs to the deck. He walked the length of the line, looking us up and down. “Mr. Nelson?” he said as he stood in front of me.

“Yes sir,” Nelson said as he stepped forward out of line. He kept his eyes forward.

“Have we no more black belts?”

“Sir?”

“Mr. Cole here is wearing a brown belt. Have we no more to give him?”

Without turning his gaze, Nelson said, “I was just heading into town to get him a new one, sir. The ones we have in storage are not up to your standards, sir.”

“Thank you Mr. Nelson. Please be sure to do so. And hurry up about it. We have much to do before we set out tomorrow.” Nelson stepped back into line. “Mr. Cole, you will spend the morning with Hendricks today. He will give you instructions and monitor the quality of your work. We have the highest standards on Angel’s Head Mr. Cole. Are we clear?”

“Sparkling, sir.”

Roderick smirked to himself and turned back towards the stairs. “Excellent. A safe and productive day to you all.” The group stayed in formation until Roderick climbed the stairs and closed the control room door behind him. Nelson was down the stairs back towards his room before I had the chance to breathe, presumably to leave the ship and fins an appropriate belt. I was impressed with the leadership on the ship and was feeling lucky to be part of such a crack staff.

“So you’re with me,” a gruff voice said into my ear. I turned to see a blonde haired boy of no more than twenty-five reach out his hand to shake. I took it and was taken aback by his weak grip. Hasn’t worked a hard day in his life, I thought to myself. He led me down into the third deck to a large storage area with a small, square door opened to the outside sea air. Through the door poked the end of a conveyor belt turning slowly.

“The last of the supplies are on that truck.” He pointed out the door to a box truck backed up to the other end of the conveyor. Three men stood waiting to unload. Hendricks waved and they started throwing boxes on the conveyor.

“OK, Cole. Get ready. The red marked boxes go in that corner, the blue in the freezer back there and the green over there.” I was quickly corrected of my first impressions as Hendricks started loading in. Fucking shit, this is brutal, I thought to myself.

After an hour of stacking thirty to forty pound boxes around, I was building a pretty mean sweat, so I unbuttoned my jacket and started to pull it off. “NOOOO!!!” Hendricks yelled. “If Roderick catches you out of uniform, we’ll both be tossed overboard.” Not wanting to make a bad impression my first day, I buttoned back up my jacket and kept on.

We stopped for a quick meal in the storage area for a few minutes around mid-day, then continued on well into the evening. “We’ll finish when we’re done,” Hendricks answered when I asked how long our shift was. I’m no stranger to hard work, but I could barely climb the stairs when we were finished and headed towards the evening meal.

“Welcome to Angels’ Head,” Hendricks said after we ate and walked back towards our rooms. Waiting for me at the foot of my bed was a tightly wrapped black belt with shiny brass buckle.

A Fiction: Part VII

2009-06-30T07:05:00.002-04:00

III

Having retrieved my bag from the shit-hole room in which I will never sleep, I make my way back towards the Angel’s Head. I wonder to myself why I was so eager to join this crew. My outburst of having no ties to the land surprised even me when the words left my mouth. But ultimately they were true. I have no love for the land or those who live on it. I’m certainly more fond of this quaint seaside town than the city where I spent my youth. But nothing keeps me here.

I walk over to a small sandwich stand and purchase a hearty lunch. I carry it over to a patch of grass next to the fence beyond which is the pier where the Angel’s Head is tied. I sit and face the sea and breathe deep its air. As I eat, bicycles pass in slow procession. This small town hardly embraced motor vehicles before they were banned this close to open water. I look down and spot the rectangular cellophane from a pack of smokes. A rarity these days to be sure, smoking is a luxury only embraced by the working class, a group to which seamen belong. I pick up the cellophane, hold it open with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, and fill it with a handful of loose earth with my right. I fold the little package and slip it into my shirt pocket. I finish my lunch, stand, close my eyes and meditate on the ground beneath me. I open my eyes to find another pair looking straight into mine.

“What the fuck?” I say, startled.

“Easy there, Mr. Cole. It’s just me.” With a brown handled paper bag hanging from his left hand, Nelson stands before me with his wide-toothed grin blazing in the sun. “I saw you on my way back home, thought I’d bring you back with me if you’re ready.”

“Nelson… Yes, I’m ready.”

I pick up the remains of my lunch and drop them in a trash can near the pier entrance and we walk. “How long have you been on Angel’s Head, Nelson?” I ask as we slowly make our way towards the pier entrance.

“I’ve been on least forty charters… last one was much like this one. I’d say all told, nearly twenty years. Better part anyway.” His eyes gloss as he peers off into the sun. A look of near sadness crosses his face.

“What do you know of this trip?” I ask.

“Oh, not too much. A young man by name of Hargrove chartered the ship for an extended voyage. Rumor has it, for a few months. He has a group of fellas with him – five or six I guess – who have set up all kinds of crazy contraptions on the Angel. Supposed to be some kind of scientists or something. With that dive cage and sub, I’d guess they were going to deep water looking for something. Ne’er know what till they find it I suppose. Real secretive about it. Even the skipper says he don’t know.

”As for you, son, I wouldn’t worry too much. You’re young and look strong. I ‘spect you’ll learn the ropes pretty quick. Once you’ve settled in, you’ll find the Angel’s as fine a place to hang your hat as any other. A real thing of beauty she is.” Nelson trails off and gets that glazed look again.

“Tell me about the captain. What’s his story?” Nelson stops and puts his hand on the fence rail, his head down as though he is overcome. He stoops and sets his bag on the ground.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

With one hand raised to his forehead, Nelson says, “Gimme a minute, boy. Just a minute. I got a chill that swept straight through me.” Then quietly to where I can barely hear, he says, “like death.”

After a few moments, Nelson is looking better and says so. I try to help him along but he shakes me off saying, “Get the fuck off me, boy! I ain’t one of your lady friends back on shore!!” Nelson smiles and we keep walking. I don’t bother correcting him that we ARE on shore. Before long we are through the pier entrance, down the pier and face-to-face with the Angel’s Head. I block the sun with my hand and marvel at her.

“Well, let’s go see your room, son,” Nelson says as we make our way up the ramp.

A Fiction: Part VI

2009-06-27T17:05:00.000-04:00

As my current ship is set to sail today, and the deadline for applying for the research vessel is tomorrow, I have decided to risk all and resign my position. I’m not worried – there’s other ships out there if this doesn’t work out. I stuff all my things in my backpack and climb up on deck.

“Fuck you going?” says my bunkmate as he helps with the final preparations for voyage.

“See you around.”

“Not likely,” he says. “’Bout time I got the top bunk.”

It’s all yours, I think to myself as I climb down the rope ladder to the small skiff waiting to take me to shore. Once on solid ground, I book a room in the nearest dive I can find, drop off my things and head off to join the crew of Angel’s Head. I ask the pier master directions and he points down the far end of a long line of massive cruise liners.

“She’s a beaut,” he says as I squint vaguely in the direction he’s looking. “Lots of fancy looking equipment and sharp uniforms on the crew. First class all the way.” I take a breath, tuck in my shirt and head off.

Angel’s Head is clearly a world class vessel: 178’ long with a crew of 12 including captain and first mate. The vessel can hold an additional 16 people comfortably in the most luxurious rooms available. First impressions, it is a modified pleasure yacht. Having only the experience of an 8 man fishing vessel, I am not familiar with the types of equipment standard on such a ship, but there must be hundreds of antennae and dishes, along with a dive cage and what appears to be a small submersible attached to the rear, ready for deployment. The ship is loaded with gear, but not cluttered. The ship is immaculately clean and organized. My heart races as I begin to climb the ramp.

“Who goes there?” rings a voice from the deck. I cannot see the caller, so I continue to climb. As I reach the rail, I am greeted by a sharply dressed black man, his skin offset by his blindingly white uniform. He is smiling, and opens the gate to allow me to the deck. The handles on the gate are stunningly polished brass, and the deck itself is gorgeously finished, swabbed to a glorious sheen. I imagine as the newest member of the crew, I will be the one to maintain this deck, and curiously I’m looking forward to it.

“I’m here to apply for any open positions you have,” and I hand him the posting I had folded in my pocket. He takes the sheet, looks me up and down and looks me in the eye, his smile broadening.

“Have you a girl back on shore?” he asks me with a glint in his eye. “Is she pretty? Have you said goodbye?” He laughs and puts a hand on my shoulder. “My name is Nelson. Come this way to meet Roderick – the First Mate. He’s greeting all the new men personally.” He leads me around to the front deck and up a ladder to the operations room above. There are four men within, two seated at the front panels closely inspecting several complicated displays, another man standing over them and taking notes on a clear plastic clipboard, and seated at the back of the room in a large tall chair is clearly the ranking officer in the room. He is sipping a steamy cup of either coffee or tea, I can’t tell which. Each is wearing an identical bleached white uniform and they are all cleanly shaven and well groomed. They appear well fed and comfortable. The room is air conditioned and well lit.

“Mr. Roderick, sir? This man is here to join the crew.” Nelson brings me over to the man in the tall chair.

“Are you now?” He pierces me with his steely eyes. “What is the longest voyage you have been on, friend?” he asks.

“Looks green to me, skip,” says the man with the clipboard.

“I’ve been a member of one crew. Our longest voyage was 45 days in harsh seas last winter. I suppose I am ‘green’ as you say, but I will work hard and am not afraid of months without setting my foot on land.”

“How about years?” I am startled by a voice from the corner at the back of the room. I hadn’t noticed this fifth man. He rises from his seat and walks towards me. He is a hulking figure, outweighing me by at least 50 pounds and taller by three inches. “How do you reckon you would fare without the sight of land for several years?”

“There’s nothing on this land for me. I have dreamed of a life at sea since I could walk. My life has been leading to this moment and I am ready to give myself to this future. Your future, if you will have me.” He leans into my face and I can smell his breath. It smells faintly of peppermint. I can feel his breath on my cheek. I stare into his eyes, consciously not wavering them for a moment. Finally, he pulls away.

“He’ll do” the man says and returns to his seat in the corner.

Roderick appears shaken, but quickly composes himself as the tension clears in the room. “Well, if the captain likes you, I certainly have nothing to say about it.” He puts out a clean, manicured hand. “Welcome to Angel’s Head, Mr. …”

“Cole. My name is Cole. I appreciate this opportunity, sir,” I say.

“We’ll see,” says the captain without turning in my direction.

“You are welcome to bring your things aboard immediately, Mr. Cole. Nelson, please show Mr. Cole to his room.”

“So, where’s my bunk, Nelson?” I ask once we are out into the balmy sea air.

“There are no bunks on Angel’s Head, Mr. Cole,” he says with disapproval.

“Cole. Just Cole,” I say.

A Fiction: Part V

2009-06-24T17:53:00.004-04:00

CHAPTER ONE: THE KILLING JAR

At the age of 27, my professional career had come to an end, my relationship was over and all ties with the world I had known were intentionally severed. I had left the city and traveled east until the trees cleared and ocean filled my sight. Within two weeks, I was a crew member of a small commercial fishing vessel. The captain was a real motherfucker – those who tried to deceive him never tried twice. I joined the crew with another man, John Jacob was his name. He had worked several other ships before this one and apparently had gotten away with his fair share. One day Jacob was ordered to repair a net that had been damaged during a storm. He replaced the damaged net with a new one he dug out of storage, believing no one would notice. The captain gave him such a beating he didn’t walk for a week. And when he did, he had a limp most of us believe he will have till the day he dies. I made no real friends on the ship, and was always looking for another vessel to call home.

The ship was anchored off the coast of New Bankland and we were all ashore for a four day leave. New Bankland is a quaint little town – decorated for the tourist trade, but behind the fresh painted antique shops, the town was home to all the whoring and debauchery any seamen could ask for. On this night, the deck crew all met in the same back-alley shit hole, for an evening of booze and women. I was never one for heavy drink and was only in the room for the card tables and conversation. I was holding my own, winning more often than not, and was getting some unneeded attention from the various ladies of the evening hoping to share in my purse. This apparently wasn’t an agreeable situation with one of the locals at the bar. He called out the one whose hand was on my knee who leaned in closer to me, smiled and waved in his direction. This got his goat, and he propped himself up and lumbered over.

I could smell him before he spoke – a mix of whiskey and cigars. By the look of him, he had been here most of the day, and was the worse for it. He wrapped his fist in my collar and tried to pull me up. I soberly spun around and knocked his arm away, a move that nearly spilled him to the floor. But he came back swinging, and caught me in the center of my chest. I hadn’t expected it and was gasping when he swung again. I ducked before he made contact and he spun and fell in a most comic fashion. He made one attempt to raise himself on his rubber arms before he fell silent on the floor. A roar from the room signaled my triumph and his friends picked him up and carried him out. I settled back into my seat and my new lady friend returned her hand to my lap as I continued to play.

After a few more less successful hands and I was ready to go, my lady friend on my arm. I left a generous tip, smiled at my shipmates and headed toward the door. As we walked, a notice taped to the wall near the exit caught my eye. I stopped for a better look.

ATTENTION:

EXPERIENCED DECKHANDS NEEDED FOR EXTENDED VOYAGE

DESTINATION AND PURPOSE UNDISCLOSED

FULL BACKGROUND CHECK WILL BE PERFORMED

INTERSTED PARTIES – REPORT TO THE RESEARCH VESSEL ANGEL’S HEAD

BY NOON WEDNESDAY

DEPARTURE SCHEDULED 3AM FRIDAY

I tore down the notice, stuffed it in my pocket led my lady out the door and into the night air.

A Fiction: Part IV

2009-06-22T14:27:00.005-04:00

She is showering when I creep from bed and steal out the door, a few necessary belongings in a pack on my back. For a quick moment I pause and wonder what she will do with her life now that I am gone. Has she become so helpless that she cannot pull herself together? Or is this the wake-up call she needs to get her life back on track? I descend the stairs, pull open the door and toss myself into the human traffic and am swept away, the ground slick from the overnight rains, not taking another moment to look back.

The crowd carries me the four blocks to the entrance of the parking garage where my car is stored. I work my way to the edge of the stream in time to grab on to the frame of the doorway and pull myself in. I reach into my bag and pull out the small red book where I keep pass codes, addresses and personal notes on various subjects. Thumbing through, I locate the page with the facility access code. I type it in and wait for the CLICK that marks the unlocking of the heavily secured door. A blast of cool air envelopes my head as I pull the it open. Feels good on my damp skin. As the door closes behind me, I am suddenly in another world – full of hollow white noise and echoed drips and drops. My smallest movements reverberate around me in a swirling cacophony of sound.

I shuffle up the concrete staircase ahead of me and exit to a large chamber filled end to end with covered vehicles, many with years of dust built up on top. I stop and once again consult the red book to find the space assignment for my car. Wiping the dust from the multi colored floor plan hung on the wall, I find the block I am looking for and head off in that direction. There is no sign of any other life in this facility and I reckon I am the first to step foot in here for months if not years. I kick up a haze of dust with every step – like walking on a distant moon. Row after row goes by, the dust as thick on this as the next. Driving in the city is nearly unthinkable for those of us who live here.

It’s been some time since I have driven; although I have kept my license active in case of emergency or pure desire. Films and adverts still are woven with those romantic images of cars on the open road, wind-blown hair and action chases, although most of the younger generation have never driven a vehicle – public transport being the primary mode these days. But I have retained the bug, and have enjoyed a ride now and again – several years though it has been.

I reach the area my car should be, stroll down the row of covered cars and find my numbered space. Closing my mouth and eyes, I reach below the front and grasp the elastic cover and pull up, a cloud of dust and rodent excrement flying up and around me. I walk around the driver’s side, pulling the cover along to reveal the blue shine of my car. I stuff the cover into the storage bin attached to the wall at the back of my space and move around to the driver’s door. I place my fingers into the black insert behind the door, a green glow emanating from within. The interior lights come to life and the door pops out and slides back towards the rear of the car. I climb in and the door slides forward, the quiet hum assuring me it is ready to move. I throw my bag onto the opposite seat and strap in, a series of diagnostic displays appearing on the windshield before me. My hands on the control wheel, the car smoothly rolls forward and into the narrow lane.

THIS VEHICLE IS UNDER FACILITY CONTROL. PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CHANGE DIRECTION OR SPEED. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED WHEN MANUAL CONTROL IS RESTORED.

I ease back and wait as I am driven through the endless maze to the exit ramp. I scroll through the list of environmental soundscapes until I find some appropriate music for long term driving.

PREPARE FOR MANUAL CONTROL RESTORATION. TRAVEL SAFELY. WE LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR RETURN.

“I won’t be back here again,” I say not expecting a response. “So long Mr. Facility Control… A pleasant end to you…”

For those who live here, the city is an easy place to leave. One scan gate verifies your registration status and you are given access to the Overpass Skyline. This is a direct route out - no stops. It is not so simple for visitors. They have to pass through a series of secured gates to ensure they have paid all local tariffs on purchases and have been given every opportunity to declare their reasons for having visited. All vehicles are scanned for hidden contraband or undeclared items. This exit process has been rumored to take hours if there is any sign of deception. City residency has its privileges.

There is a Skyline scan gate just outside the exit to the parking garage. Once passed, I relinquish control to the automated traffic control system and look out at the cityscape below. The brown haze that has filtered my view of the sky the vast majority of my life begins to break and clear, the suns edges sharpened in the clear. Looking forward, I notice vegetation beginning to show itself from between scarred buildings and sidewalked lanes; a slow transformation from urban sprawl to forested habitation – ultimately the vegetation will break and the sea will appear. I close my eyes in anticipation and fall into the throbbing music that supports my travel. I lose all sense and slip into dream.

A Fiction: Part III

2009-06-22T06:26:00.002-04:00

It actually takes some effort to throw myself from the rushing crowd into the small opening that is our doorway. It’s a small cut out in the side of a commercial building – our flat is directly above a small bakery that has been struggling of late. I am awoken every day with the owner screaming at his wife that they are “losing it.” The smell of fresh baked breads and cakes mixed with the pain of failing business and lost momentum. His father (and father’s father) was the star of the neighborhood, but people can’t be bothered to go out and pick up fresh items any more. Food is primarily door delivered by large conglomerates and the “mom and pops” of the past are a disappearing novelty.

My key sticks in the lock in its usual familiar way. I jiggle it open and creak through the ancient doorway. The landing is just big enough for the door to swing. I have to climb the first step to close it. I step back and check for new mail. The usual shit: statements of payments, advertisements for services and requests for political support. “The Norm” is the new slogan term for the status quo or business as usual. This one reads

MODIFY THE NORM. AVOID THE RISK OF CHANGE. MAKE NOW BETTER.

Fucked-up world.

I hear music coming from our apartment as I climb the stairs. I time my steps to ensure I use my left on the 9^th stair, otherwise my shoe may be seen hanging from the bakery stock room ceiling. I won’t miss this place; the years of dust and debris, the missing foot grips, the unsure hand-rail. It is black as pitch excepting the light from beneath the door above. The light is broken as someone walks past – presumably her. I steel myself for what I intend to be a quick break.

The entry door is not locked (as usual), and I open it slowly. She is standing at the window, her arm draped across the sash. Her thin body moves slowly in time to the music. She is as beautiful as the day we met. It’s funny: she was a traffic officer with the city’s commission on parking. My car has been mostly unused for the past few years, but in those days it held a certain status to drive a fossil fueled vehicle; “against the grain,” extravagant, and somewhat rebellious. My meter had overrun it’s time and she was preparing to have me towed. As I approached her, I found her immediately attractive. I was carrying two large bags of groceries, and was able to convince her to allow me to put them in the back seat. Her smile raised the hair on the back of my neck as it does now seeing her by the window, the cold city light reflected on her face.

“You got in just in time,” she says. “It’s starting to rain.”

I put my bag on the table and move towards her. She turns and I see she has been crying. As usual.

“How are you today? Have you been outside?”

“There’s nothing out there for me,” she answers sharply and quickly changes the subject. “I saw on the morning reports that there was a bad train accident this morning. 12 men killed – no women. Isn’t that strange? I was worried you had been one of them. I tried to call your supervisor and he said you were not in.” She turns and races into my arms, sobbing. After all these months of silence and pushing away, TODAY she breaks the ice wall and comes to me. I hold her limply and I feel her body tighten up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Her swollen red eyes now wide with curiosity search mine for a clue.

“I’m leaving. I don’t know if I’ll be back. I’m here to get a few things and then you’ll be alone.” Short and sweet as I intended. The steel in my heart begins to soften as she falls into the nearest chair. Her breath is deep and I worry she may be sick. But I am resolved. I turn and walk towards our room. Entering, I see the bed we have shared and I am flooded with images of her, beautiful and naked, her desire for me honest and warm. I ache for her once more, but I know that it cannot be that way again. I must go. I must…

I turn and she is there behind me. She reaches her arms beneath mine and holds me from behind. I loosen her grasp and we fall to the bed, her face a wash of tears, her eyes clear and urgent. We share this moment, both of us knowing it is our last.

A Fiction: Part II

2009-06-21T11:43:00.003-04:00

I realize sitting on this train is the first time I’ve relaxed since I left it this morning. I got to my work building almost an hour later than expected. The lobby was nearly empty as I exited the revolving door. My steps echoed on the marble floors and walls as the receptionist greeted me.

“He’s waiting for you.”

“Thanks.”

I entered the elevator and pressed the button to my floor. Alone, I checked myself in the crisp chrome walls. Sharply dressed as always, but my eyes gave away the stress I was feeling. I took several deep breaths to clear my head. A mist of sweat appeared on my brow, but it was due more to the uncomfortable temperature than the tension in the air. Since air conditioning limits started being enforced a few years back, elevator travel has become most frowned upon. Normally I take the stairs, but being late there was no other option. The lift slowed and the doors slid open.

What followed was a nightmarish comedy of frustration and machismo that ultimately left me jobless and satisfied. The details aren’t worth retelling here but quickly put, my supervisor was indeed waiting for me with the agenda to cut my position. He’s been hard on me for some time, and my lateness and missed deadline were the justification he was waiting for.

I resolved myself early on that I would not be fighting for my position. I spent the balance of the day cleaning out my desk and locker, saying goodbye to coworkers and calling my clients in hopes of preserving relationships for independent work. Now back on the train, it seems foolish to have done so. I won’t be in that line again.

The message screens on the wall flicker to life with a photo of a small boy's eyes with

WHEN YOU SHOW VIOLENCE, THEY SEE VIOLENCE. STOP THE VIOLENCE

printed over them. Fucked up world.

I guess I’ll just tell her I’m leaving. She has been becoming more and more distant since her father passed. Once her sisters went home after the service, she would sit for hours in the chair, lights off, alone. I tried to get through to help her, but she pushed me away. A hand on her shoulder was brushed away. A kind word produced tears at best; anger at worst. But she stays nonetheless – more out of habit than need. I don’t think she has thought of me since he died. Hardly notices. I wonder if she’ll cry. I wonder if she’ll even know I'm there.

The train is stopping now. I consider calling before I get too close to home; see if she needs anything. Fuck it. Clean and easy will be better. I’ll walk in, tell her quickly, grab a few things and go. I loved her once. I would’ve killed for her. Now I feel cold towards her.

As I reach the street surface and the harsh neon lights from all sides, I breathe deep the air I always hope will be fresh when I come out of the train station. But it’s nearly as stale as the air below, just not as still. It moves as the throng of people breathe and the vehicles swirl it around. I hate the crowds here. I can’t walk the two blocks from the stairwell to the building where we live without being brushed and shoved and pushed. I crave open space and clean air. The sea. I crave the sea.

A Fiction: Part I

2009-06-20T10:28:00.007-04:00

I've been toying with the idea of writing a fiction. I've spent the last few days putting a sweeping epic story arc together. This will take a while to complete. Perhaps all summer, perhaps a year or more. That being said, here's part one...

PROLOGUE:

FINALE

The train is late today. It’s an hour past when it was scheduled to arrive. When I asked the woman in the graffiti covered and urine-odored booth what was going on, she dismissed me by saying, “You’ll have to wait like everyone else.” So I am.

I’ve always believed you can know a person by observing how they behave while waiting on a platform for a late train; the man who continuously checks his phone for either the time or missed calls and messages, the old woman who sits on the bench and knits, and the vomit-stained , clearly homeless and mentally disturbed man who mutters under his breath and pretends not to stare at the pretty young girl in front of him. I know these people as well as I know myself. And I know myself implicitly.

I am a simple man. I have no aspirations for wealth or fame or power. I just wish to work hard and earn enough to comfortably survive, nothing more. I do not judge people, merely observe and learn. I am a generous lover, finding more satisfaction in the pleasure I give than receive. I am faithful and dedicated, in work and relationships. I am sometimes distractible in that I have dreams beyond my day-to-day. I often dream of long voyages at sea. The honest hard work and sense of accomplishment in surviving the elements and the challenges of maintaining peaceful comradery in confined spaces.

I can hear the train approaching as my companions on the platform begin to gather their things. I have but one bag slung over my shoulder that contains some papers I owed my supervisor two days ago. I avoided him yesterday, but today I must own up to the fact that the deadline was missed. I board the train and it pulls away with a huff. The lights flicker and a tinny voice apologizes for the delay.

I watch the ever changing messages and adverts that scroll through each of the mounted screens on the walls of the train. The one closest to me has been cracked and displays nothing. But screens are plentiful enough that I can clearly read the next one down.

BUY LOCAL. WHAT YOU SPEND RETURNS TO YOU.

That’s a fucked up notion… Well, it’s a fucked up world. I observe the other glossy eyed passengers gaze at the screen and wonder if they believe what they read without question.

The train is coming up on my stop. I can see the clock mounted over the platform and realize that not only is my deadline missed, but I will be late for work as well. Ah, well. My supervisor is a busy man and most likely will not mention my lateness. I’d better speed up so maybe he won’t notice at all.

Ummm....

2009-06-03T18:13:00.003-04:00

So anyway, like I was saying....

Today I feel pretty good. I mean, usually I feel pretty good but today it's a little something extra. Not sure what it is. Been exercising a bit more - but no, that's not it. It's raining outside right now so it's not the weather. And the Mungus family is dead broke so not that either. Work is stressing me. Not that. In fact, I can't think of a single good thing going on today. But I'm still feeling good. What the fuck?

I was eating breakfast this morning, checking out a few sites and writing back to DJD thanking him for a little recognition (never took the time to figure out those HTML link tricks, so click on his link on the left to see what I'm talking about. C'mon, it's not that tough - lazy). It was early - like 5:30am - and my youngest son snuck up and tugged on my shirt.

"Whatcha doing up little dude?" I asked.

"Nuffin'" was his reply.

I said "It's pretty early. You should go back to sleep."

"Not tired."

So as I was about to get myself some cereal anyway, I took out his bowl and poured him some too. There we were, before the sun was up, munching Cocoa Puffs at the table. He was chomping away, all smiles, his little legs swinging from the edge of his chair. Years away from hitting the floor. When we were done, he took his bowl and dropped it in the sink - little man that he is. I turned on some cartoons, got him some juice and sat down with him for a few minutes and put on my shoes.

Checking the clock, I knew it was time to go. He gave me a big hug as I headed for the door. He didn't whine or cry as I kinda expected, he just hung out with his juice all happy watching some toons.

Missus Mungus called me around lunch time and said when she got up, my son couldn't wait to tell her how he and Daddy had breakfast together. She said he was so happy all day. So was I little dude, so was I.

OK, Really Back This Time...

2009-05-11T15:29:00.002-04:00

I've been on a bit of a hiatus trying to get the old life back on track and such. And so far, so good. Over the next few days I'll update on a few things going on. Today I'll start on the most important ones involving the Mungus family.

First, Missus Mungus is now seven months pregnant. This being kid #3 the old muscles are stretched a bit more than the previous times - so she's big as a house already and ornery as a rattlesnake. Two more months to go (we're due in July) and the really hot weather has yet to hit. We may be introducing air conditioning into the Mungus house for the first time as a result. Time will tell. But all in all, she's in good health as is the kid (another boy by the way - that makes three boys. My Three Sons. I should name him Chip or Robbie).

Been piling up all the old nursery room stuff. The crib is missing a few pieces. When I went on the manufacturers website to order replacement parts I discovered the crib has been recalled for safety concerns. Once I was done freaking out about that I read a little further. Turns out the safety issue only happens if you put the crib together wrong. This poor company has to shell out millions to recall items, manufacture and mail out idiot proof parts and tarnish their reputation because their customers can't follow the instructions? Remind me never to own my own business - it sucks out there.

Besides that, Missus Mungus has been saving us a fortune by buying "lightly used" baby clothes from Ebay, etc. We have no second thoughts about this plan. We have reared two sons in warm weather now and can testify to the fact that most first year baby outfits are worn once or twice before being outgrown. So these are basically new clothes.

Update on the oldest son: remember a few months back I had written about his teacher's concerns with his attention in class? We had decided back then to have him evaluated in April. This has now happened and we are awaiting the diagnosis. We go back in two weeks.

The week before the appointment, we had a parent/teacher conference. She has very much changed her tune since the initial concern (somewhat to our relief). He is still disruptive to the class - gets up out of his seat a lot, hums to himself, makes shooting and spaceship sounds, etc. But when asked to explain what the class has been taught, he knows it. He has absorbed it. He is ahead of the rest of the class. He will move ahead to the next grade and may be considered "advanced." That being said, he is affecting the other kids. So this is where the evaluation comes in. I think we are going to dodge the medication bullet, but whether the school will be open to some new learning techniques will be interesting to say the least. I'll give an update once we have the appointment.

Plenty more to write about. Be back soon.

Just a Quick Howdoyado...

2009-02-21T07:45:00.003-05:00

Been promising an extended post for a while now. Works been crazy the past few weeks, but it's finally starting to come together and slow down for me. No time for a full update, but here's a few things going on or that have been on my mind:

Missus Mungus IS EXPECTING OUR THIRD KID!!! We're due in July. Kinda sucks as we probably won't do a whole hell of a lot this summer as she'll either be big as a house or recovering... But we are completely psyched. Took us months of trying (even had to get medical intervention - but that's another story), but we did it!!
They laid off 27 people at my job this week. "The economy sucks and it won't get better for at least 9 months" is the basic message we are getting from senior management. They are confident we can remain profitable for that stretch of time without additional layoffs. I have very good job security at the moment but it's scary out there. Feel free to tell your own stories in the comments section.
Speaking of work, I'm getting a big promotion next week!!! Salary position (I've been hourly my entire working life), my own front office and a direct impact on the daily and long-term runnings of the business. Tons of pressure considering the economy. If I can't keep things running smoothly, I'm fucked. 'Course if things go good, I'll be a hero. Another crazy few months ahead.
The kids are stir crazy from being cooped up in this house all winter. Frankly, they're driving us crazy. The energy they should be expelling running around the neighborhood is instead used up throwing their toys and jumping on the furniture. They are goofy kids and are great at making their own fun. But after 12 hours with them, Missus Mungus and I are ready to choke them and each other. I make light, but this is a pretty serious issue. We haven't figured out how to keep them occupied, let them have fun but still be respectful and keep the house together. And with Missus Mungus in pregnant "nesting" mode, chaos and clutter don't fly.

That's about all that's going on. And I guess really that's a lot.

And Now We Are LIVE

2009-01-30T06:28:00.002-05:00

I've spent the last year at my job working on setting up an inventory management system called JD Edwards Enterprise One. For the past six weeks, I've worked on nothing else. This past Monday, January 26th 2009, the system went "live."

We had some balls starting this thing up... did a complete shut down of the previous system - Live without a net. It's been a crazy couple of weeks, this week especially. Haven't really seen the family much. But now this week is over, the system is up and running and I'm taking the weekend off.

Holy fuck, I'm tired.

I'll post again after some sleep and some much needed family time.

I'm Back. Now Let's Get To It...

2009-01-15T04:43:00.000-05:00

Merry blah blah and Happy New blah. Too late for all that...

No time for a holiday recap, and frankly, you'd get better at a million other blogs. I do have a good story to tell about Xmas day (and following weekend) at the Mungus house, but I'll save it for the next post. I've got an issue and it ain't gonna wait.

I've got two sons. The younger is 3 years old. He's in pre-pre-school (next year pre-school, following year Kindergarten) and is a joy and a love. I've written of him before. Never have I seen a creature so trusting and unconditionally giving of himself. So innocent and full of joy. He's got this awesome devious side as well, which eases my concerns that the world will chew him up. He'll be fine. I am already sure.

My older son is at the ripe old age of 6 and in his fourth year of school (two years of pre-school, etc...). Last year was his first in our local public elementary school and our first to receive reports of concern from his teachers. "He is having trouble paying attention in class" and is sometimes "disruptive." Uh-oh. They started using the buzzwords every parent of a son (or any kid, I suppose) dreads. We met with the Kindergarten teacher last year and she assured us that although she had her "concerns," in all likelihood he would "grow into" the structure of school. But she did warn us that if he was behaving similarly in First grade, it would become a serious issue. "The expectations are raised at every grade change, and behavior evaluations become more stringent" she said.

So here we are in First grade. Hell, the year's 2/3 over... and THE NOTE has been sent home from the teacher: Little Mungus jr. "has had to be spoken to on several occasions over the past few days to calm down and focus on the activities of the class." Oh shit. They're diagnosing him.

Missus Mungus spent yesterday afternoon discussing this issue with a few other Moms outside waiting for the kids to come out. She spoke to five Moms. Three of them have put there kids on medication after "concerns" from the school. She was shocked as am I.

So what the fuck? First thought is: it's all that acid I ate in the early nineties coming back to haunt me. Now my kid is broken. The I look at these round peg in a round hole Moms and think, "there's no way she ever did acid or any other hard drug ever." No basis in fact that one, but I'm pretty sure it ain't that.

So is it something environmental? Town water supply tainted? Maybe it's like mold in the school or some shit? Because I refuse to believe that an entire generation has now evolved out of normalcy and must be drugged to assimilate and function.

Barring environmental causes, here's what I believe has happened: kids haven't evolved, teaching styles have. Back in the good old days of the forties and fifties, teachers were allowed some minor corporal punishment. Kids were scared of their teachers and didn't act out as a result. Thanks to the hippy dippy sixties, everyone said "hey man, relax. They're just kids. You can't go hitting kids... School should be a place where they find out who they are, man. They need to find their inner spirit and set it free..." Then the law suits started, school freaked out and now we're at a place where they are afraid to discipline at all. Geez, they're so afraid of getting sued for "emotional trauma" they don't even declare winners and losers during kids sports anymore. "Everyone wins because we all had FUN!!!" Shit.

My kid is a good kid. He listens (for the most part) at home and we can generally get him to do all the stuff we need him to do. And yes, sometimes he's a little scared of us. Not because we hit. We don't. But he knows when we say fucking do something, you better do it or there will be consequences (usually we just take away a favorite toy or some other deprivation of fun for a span of time).

The school is scared to discipline so they are drugging all the kids.

Let me end by making an admission: as a result of the note, my wife and I called our doctor. He has arranged for our son to be "evaluated." The facility that evaluates kids is so backlogged with requests that we were unable to get an appointment until mid April. It's a fucking epidemic.

In our minds, we dream that this evaluation will prove our son to be labeled "normal," like the last minute DNA evidence that shows up minutes before they pull the switch on the electric chair. Then we will have this document to prove to all the future teachers that yes, we have heard your concerns and our team of experts has assured us that it is your problem Mr. Education System, not ours.

My son's "keep off of drugs free" card has yet to arrive. Let's see if I have the balls to give you an update in a few months when the verdict comes.

2008-11-16T09:33:00.000-05:00

FM vs. Reality will resume it's regularly scheduled programming after the end of the 2008 X-Entertainment Advent-ure is over. Please stand by...

I guess we'll see...

2008-11-05T06:09:00.000-05:00

I was the first one to vote in my town. I was standing out there at 5:10am - an hour before the polls open. I was there before the volunteers showed up to set up the folding tables and stuff. Sounds extreme, but in reality I'm usually at work by 5am. I got to sleep in for this.

At 6am, when the polls opened there were over 300 people behind me. It was pretty intense. People were having political discussions and debating the referendum questions and shit. Crazy.

I was discouraged from the start. I am a conservative for various reasons and live in an extremely liberal area. In effect my vote doesn't count every year. But I vote religiously every year, local or national. So I voted and my vote didn't count. Obama will be President.

You know, I don't have anything against Obama. He seems like a nice enough guy and will probably do an OK job. It'll do wonders for our international PR at the least. And really, things can't get much worse.

So good luck, Mr. Obama. I didn't vote for you but I welcome you as my new President. Congratulations.

An FM Mini Comic!!!

2008-10-24T19:22:00.000-04:00

So I'm thinking now that you know more about me than those I share actual space with and such, I'll start giving you a look at the things I create. Here's a mini comic I drew in my little black book a few weeks back. Click on each page for the full hi-res scan. Enjoy!!

The Apocolypse is Here... But That's OK

2008-10-20T19:47:00.000-04:00

So I hear it's the end of the world. I hear the economy is collapsing and the country's infrastructure is caving in. I hear that people are miserable and starving and don't have health insurance and the water is bad and the weather is changing and it's all my fault. I find it hard to believe. What the fuck did I do?

To be honest, my home economy is looking up: the job is busy as ever, I have all the overtime I can handle (still working 60+ hours a week), gas and oil prices are going down just in time for the heating season and my biggest worry is trying to SAVE enough EXTRA money for Xmas. Am I just lucky, or is it not as bad as they're telling me?

Unlike previous years, I haven't kept up on the election. I've been a casual observer this time around. Ultimately, I get the feeling it won't really matter either way; Washington is unable to make any real change in peoples lives these days. For all the fist banging and pontificating, not much will change over the next four years (excepting catastrophic event of course). Philosophically, I lean to the right I guess, so I'll vote McCain. I don't like the government having too much of my money and giving it away on my behalf. When I hear that the US gave billions of dollars in foreign aid or to help out victims of some typhoon or something, I feel I've done my part. I no longer feel obligated to give charitably as in effect the government has done so for me. If the government gave away less, and in turn TOOK LESS FROM ME IN THE FIRST PLACE, I would be inclined to give and ultimately be a better member of society. I don't like the government making these decisions for me. I prefer a government that trusts me to do the right thing.

Anyhoo, back to the coming Armageddon... I actually have been pretty worried about the state of things. But really, it's all rooted in what I see on TV. My neighbors seem happy enough as do my coworkers. There's a general state of malaise and melancholy, but again I think it's coming more from what people BELIEVE is happening as opposed to what is happening to anyone. Sure there are tangible signs of bad mojo in the air, but those can always be found when you look for them.

The only real thing that has happened over the past few weeks is the stock market crash. My 401k lost some big potential bucks there. And a lot of other people lost imaginary money too. And I guess that sucks. When you have your hopes and dreams wrapped up in the promise of invisible wealth it must be disturbing to your sleep and lifestyle as the smoke is blown away. Sorta like trying to drink water with your hands: you can get a good gulp now and again, but you can't hold on. In the end it flows through your fingers.

I prefer to keep my dreams close. I will work to the day I die as it is clear there will not be such a concept as "retirement" when I get there. But as long as my sons grow to be men I can be proud of and they proud of me then fuck the smoke dollars. I'll get by and things will be OK. As they are today.

I'm Not Gone!!!!!

2008-10-15T20:30:00.000-04:00

Nope. Not gone. Been working like a dog the past few weeks. But I'm still alive. Catching up on bills and getting ahead for Xmas per the plan.

I'll write something substantive within 48 hours. I promise.

FM

A quick look at now

2008-09-20T16:40:00.000-04:00

Today is a good day...

I slept more than my usual 5 hour stretch. Woke to the sound of our giggling children creeping to wake us. Had nice breakfast and watched a little quiet TV while the boys played on the floor with trucks. We all went outside and did a little light yard work. The boys rode their bikes in the driveway and sometimes stopped and pretended to fix my car. It was sunny and cool out with a noticeable autumnal bite in the air.

After the yard was done I had a good, hot shower and crawled into some clean, warm clothes. Right now Mrs Mungus is reading a book, the boys are playing video games in the basement and I have a second to write about how good things are.

Next will be dinner and some play time with the boys. Once they're in bed Mrs Mungus and I plan to watch a movie and maybe start picking through some of the crap in our basement to see if we can get a tag sale together.

We have come to the conclusion that money is much tighter than we have believed for the last few weeks. The traditionally over-the-top Xmas we try to do for the boys every year is looking to be a bit out of reach at the moment. So back to the extra long hours and a few months of belt tightening. Today is Saturday. No work today. Tomorrow is Sunday. No work tomorrow. More than a day before I really have to deal with that reality.

Of course it's good to know you're working for a goal. It's also good to know you're working for the goal of making your kids happy. The reality I am faced with (long hours, weekends at work, etc., to have the ability to get a few extra Xmas gifts for your family) could be much worse (low pay, no overtime, inability to pay bills or mortgage, etc).

I am thankful for what I have. Today is a good day...

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act V - The Final Chapter

2008-08-21T14:02:00.000-04:00

Interesting fact about Old Man Mungus: I have always lived in a home that required me to walk to school. In my first house in upstate NY I walked to Kindergarten with my sister, the house in Woodstock was right down the street from the local public school and Manchester was no different (although the walk was significantly longer). Now I’m not gonna give you that “uphill both ways” bullshit, but it literally took half an hour to walk to my new Junior High School. Not a problem at this point in life, but later on when the drugs entered the pictured, “perpetual tardiness” was a common label by the school staff for me.

I remember walking up to the school and there being a large crowd of people outside. I thought maybe there was a fire drill or something, but it turns out this was the “line” waiting for the doors to open. Like the line for a Kid ‘n Play concert: parachute pants, those angled hairdos with the lines shaved into the eyebrows, Adidas sneakers with wide laces and giant gold chains hung around necks. I was in “high-water” Husky jeans and a plain T-shirt. My hair was a sad attempt at Michael J. Fox’s in Back to the Future – but the dual cowlick (one dead center middle front and one dead center middle back like Alfalfa) never let me pull it off. I was the whitest kid in the world – a fish out of water and I really didn’t fit in. I was shit scared.

I hesitantly strolled up to the screaming mob that were my new peers and inched my way up to the outskirts. I knew no one of course so I stood with my hands in my pockets waiting for something to happen. 7:15 a bell rang. I could see movement at the front of the herd as we all started filing into the set of double doors that had mysteriously opened in the side of the large brick building. I had worked my way up to the middle of the group now and for a moment thought I might lose my balance and fall. I was pressed up against strangers in designer clothes and pretty girls with newly blossoming breasts. My heart was pounding as I was pulled into the building and we were marched into an assembly hall. I was led to the 7^th grade section and sat with a girl with long dark greasy hair and a pink sweater with large glasses and a boy who was wearing an Ocean Pacific shirt with a surfer on it and had a skateboard standing between his legs. Back to the Future was my first exposure to skateboards and I hadn’t actually seen one so close before.

“Cool skateboard” was the only thing I could think to say.

“Thanks,” he answered and turned to talk to someone else. First attempt at contact with the local populace? Fail.

The principal reminded me of a sweaty frog. He stammered when he talked (my mom would later refer to it as “babbling”) and sloppily welcomed us to a new school year. At the end of his intro, the 8^th and 9^th grade classes were dismissed and sent to their new home rooms. The 7^th graders were kept behind and called one by one to the front of the auditorium to receive their home room assignments. My name is down the list a bit (starting with “L”) so I was able to get a good look at those called before me. The usual cast of characters were present: the jocks, the skids, the povs, the preps, the shop class guys, the pretty girls, the popular girls, the slutty girls, the black kids (who marched to the front with such bravado as to receive a smattering of applause), and the loser hick kid who smelled. Oh wait, that was me.

There was bit of laughter as I walked to the front of the room. I am physically a large guy, nearly 6 foot by this time and heavy. Not obese, but just big. Turns out (and I hadn’t realized it before) that my size is quite intimidating. I honestly never realized it. Here (although I was clearly poor and it was assumed by my size, kinda stupid) I had an authority of presence. The laughter was followed by a few Flava Flav “DAMN BOYEEEE!!!”s at my size and at that moment I was flooded with a certain confidence that this would be OK. I would be left alone and I could just do my thing and get through this. Yes I may be laughed at; girls would be scared of me (this was the case for many, many years to come), and friends would be few and far between. But I would (and did) get through it.

I actually made few friends that first day. I had someone to eat with at lunch and eventually got myself to a level of acceptance with the boys in my new school. I became something of a class clown due to a vast comedic knowledge acquired through my hours of classic TV viewing and late night talk shows (by this point I had a TV in my room – a 3” TV/AM/FM/Cassette combo) and had taken to staying up late to try and catch Letterman. I always preferred Letterman to Carson. He was “dangerous” (at least in the eyes of a 12 year old boy) and had this odd way of seeing things. So Letterman and “The Best of Saturday Night” all fueled my wise-ass reputation. Luckily, my Woodstock education was well beyond that of the kids who had come through the Manchester school system. I really breezed through 7^th grade and wasn’t challenged again scholastically until High School. But I had changed by then. I wasn’t the innocent hick anymore.

By 8^th grade I had befriended Vinnie (I’ve spoken about him before) who influenced me toward the darker side of things. By 9^th grade I was experimenting with heavier drugs like coke and acid and drinking pretty heavily. Mom had no control over me whatsoever and I knew it. I feel guilty in hindsight as now Mom has passed on, but I was a kid and I certainly can’t be blamed for acting out. OK, maybe I can, but there was no Dad around to kick my ass and Mom had no idea what to do, so she hid.

The summer between 9^th grade and High School really stand out in my memory. I was flown off to stay with Dad and his wife in California. I was 15 and full of myself. I considered myself an artist by then and carried myself as though I really had something to say. And honestly, I did. Dad had recently moved north to Sacramento and was doing quite well. I was pretty excited about the trip and decided to stay clean and sober the entire summer. Sacramento was an artist’s city and I looked forward to the galleries and coffee houses Dad was telling me about. When I arrived, Dad informed me that he expected me to pick up a summer job while I was there. I had never worked a day in my life, but said what the fuck. I knew it would have to happen eventually so why not here? Why not now? I tried my luck at applying for all the Del Taco’s and El Polo Loco’s around but it turns out I wasn’t Mexican. Even the grocery stores were overflowing with cheap labor. I don’t know if Dad bought it that I couldn’t find a job, but he made me a deal anyway: go get a volunteer job and I’ll pay you an agreed upon amount at the end of the summer to go home with. Cool.

I volunteered to work at the Sacramento Downtown Food Bank and spent my mornings packing paper bags full of basic food items – beans and rice, cereals, canned goods, etc. I met a lot of really cool people there including some of the homeless. I really enjoyed my time there. Dad agreed to let me sign up for some guitar lessons in the afternoon a few days a week. I ended up hanging with this cool stoner guy who was a hair band casualty but played a great guitar. He showed me a lot and I ended up becoming a pretty good guitar player as a result.

I walked everywhere I went only stopping for the daily cup at Java City. I was young, healthy, sober and happy. Again, I spent almost all my time by myself, but that was OK. I was good at being by myself and really felt like part of the community there. I really liked Sacramento and could’ve seen myself living there had things not happened the way they did. Then I went back to Manchester for my first year in High School.

Within the hour of getting back into my closet of a room, I had sparked a bowl of weed I had stashed in my desk all summer. It was a revelation. I had never been so high and didn’t realize how much I missed that feeling. There were only a few days before school started and that was all it took to wipe out the positive energy from my trip to Sacramento. Things really spiraled out of control. The day before school, my Mom came home from work to find our bathroom all trashed and spattered with blood and hair stuck to the mirror and sink. Using nothing but scissors and a disposable razor I had given myself the world’s most fucked up Mohawk. I had nicked myself all over and still had open un scabbed wounds when Mom burst into my room. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE????”

The first day of High School I sat down in my home room to shock and nervous laughter from those around me. There were scabs all over my head, I was wearing a black FLAK jacket and combat boots and had a crooked 2” wide mess on top of my patchy nicked up head. Those who knew me said “What the fuck” and those who didn’t know me said nothing. I already had something of a reputation as a crazy fucker and this just cemented it for folks. I would spend the bulk of High School in isolation and that suited me just fine. I was anti-social and declared myself an anarchist (although I did nothing to demonstrate this and have always been the gentlest fella you could come across – it was all an act for the attention I outwardly said I didn’t want – ahhh, the teen years). The Mohawk was refined over the years and ultimately ended up as 5 beautiful spikes from my brow to the back and ended in a foot or so of thin straight hair. By college I had taken to simply combing it to one side although in a pinch it remained functional as a Mohawk until one day I simply shaved it off – a look I maintain to this day.

This story ends at the beginning of adolescence - an event marked by the end of Junior High and the scarring shave of my head. But here’s a glimpse at the future that awaited me:

The art career never panned out more from my lack of drive than lack of talent. The family fell apart, I took to heavy drinking and ultimately would have died penniless and alone had it not been for the chance meeting of my future wife. That’s another amazing story waiting to be told. But not today.

I went through many interesting potential careers and eventually happened upon my current job, one that I love and hope to keep for many years. Kids have come as has home ownership and a growing sense of stability. In the early 90’s, Manchester was revitalized through the building of a world-class shopping mall. This immediate revenue was reinvested into the schools and downtown area as well as police and fire equipment and staffing. My wife and I made the decision to stay here and send our kids through the newly reinvigorated school system. So far so good. Now it feels like Home.

The isolation of my childhood provided a skill for self-contained entertainment which has served me well over the years. I am hesitant to get close to people and let them in directly. But I am perfectly willing to express my deepest darkest secrets through song, illustration or anonymous internet posting. I have difficulty sharing my hopes and fears with my closest friends – even my wife occasionally. Often it takes me time to analyze an issue or concern and I share it only when I have a proposed solution (after a time of shitty attitude or emotional distance). I am wired to function alone and sometimes operate in a mode of forced co-habitation, though obviously I am not perpetually miserable in the company of others. I often hide my discomfort through humor and continue to be the class clown of yesteryear. The joy I get from the smile of my wife and the laughter of my children cuts through all the anxiety and fear. And for the most part, I'm happy.

I have so many more tales to tell of those teen years: the acid experiments, the music, the artwork and the ultimate maturation into the man I am. And that will take some time. And frankly, as much as I have enjoyed writing this I feel I have been selfish in my self-indulgent autobiographical story telling. And I have other stuff to write about.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act IV

2008-08-08T04:23:00.000-04:00

A vision of the past is only as clear as the years in between then and now. I have imbibed in many a substance in my day and the clouds of intoxication have wiped many a situation from recollection. But the defining moments are never erased, only the low times in between. Those first hours in the house in Manchester were a defining moment for me.

Lack of grass or yard was the first of many changes I would need to accept into my new reality. The second was the house itself. The grand entrance and high ceilings of our Home in Woodstock was now replaced with a choked doorway and small dark rooms. It was a unique house, clean and with many architectural oddities - a narrow spiraling staircase, a large round three-panel picture window - and although I would eventually be familiar with all its corners and crevices, it never earned my love as a Home should. But as I said, I accepted it as a place to hang my hat and as the setting for the tragic events that would ultimately define the man I have become.

My new room was nothing more than an exaggerated closet, a narrow space between my bed and "Odd Rods" sticker covered dresser. A large desk was squeezed into the space at the end of my bed and blocked the door from fully opening. The door had a metal post that extended into my room, designed for clothes hangers to be held - my new closet. I hung the posters from my previous room but here they looked childish and immature, innocent throwbacks to a soon forgotten time.
After a near sleepless night due to unaccustomed house-settling creaks and moans I decided to check out the landscape of the surrounding neighborhood. I set out on my bike. I soon learned that "banana" seats and large U-shaped handlebars would not be an acceptable form of transportation in my new surroundings. But on day two, I innocently and confidently set off. The scenery of suburbia leaves something to be desired, especially when you have spent your life in a postcard worthy corner of New England. The duplex and triplex housing, the acres of asphalt and the traffic congestion were all new to me, not to mention the startlingly gruff attitude of the local inhabitants. To be honest, I had barely had a conversation with a black person let alone been a neighbor or gone to school with one. I had seen my fair share during visits to the city with my grandparents, but my grandparents had lived in their house since the beginning of time and were respected members of their community. I had never encountered intimidation before, especially from other races. And honestly, I was so inexperienced that I may not have recognized it when it happened. I must have been a sight - the country hick nerd boy with glasses on the retro 70's bike riding along the sidewalk, gawking at the people walking and figuring out how to use a cross-walk button.

In the weeks before my first day of school, I ventured outside and learned the area pretty well. I learned where to get comics and where to get gum and fountain drinks. I learned where the library was and where the local kids my age hung out. I learned the streets where people would confront you and ask you for money or if you "needed something." All this I learned alone.

The only major positive advancement that came with this relocation was the availability of CABLE TELEVISION. Cable was not available out in Woodstock. Matter of fact, it was another two or three years before it would be offered there. But here it was for me - a frenzied blur of MTV and Captain USA, ESPN and CNN. And all the networks with gorgeous reception (without having to adjust the "rabbit ears" for each new channel). This really was something of a breakthrough for me. It would eventually change my world and how I saw myself in it. The possibilities held in 30 channels (as opposed to the 4 I had in Woodstock) were endless. And for those first few years it lived up to its promise. The late 80's were my Golden Age of television and in my mind have yet to be repeated in the amazing diversity of programming available to me. Yes, today I have like 200 channels (many in glorious HD) but many of those channels are duplicates. At any one time I can find 7 or 8 separate shows devoted to renovating houses either for resale or luxurious surprise (for example). Again, future posts will illustrate my views on television, so I won't go on now. But let's just say again that TV was (and is) a huge part of my generation and skewed us a certain way. Today's kids are skewed another way due to the differences in the TV programming available. It's amazing that TV has this kind of power over society, but it does and we all know it.

I think I can wrap this up and get to the point by the end of Act V. I know this is long-winded and I hope those following along are getting something from it. It's a huge release for me and I find myself re-reading the posts for my own insight into the man who is me. Again, I've come this far and must finish it, so expect the grand finale within a week.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act III

2008-08-04T16:12:00.000-04:00

If you met me now you would never guess my backwoods upbringing. I can recall endless hours spent tromping around the woods building forts, finding new trails, swords and arrows - all that shit. I would come home FILTHY. Mom would have me strip down to my undies (or less) outside so I didn't track mud and dirt through the house. I would be marched straight to the shower and hosed down.

Nowadays, I'm seen as something of a city guy. Those around me are surprised when I speak of weekend camping trips with the family and cutting down tress in the yard and stuff. I'm like a closet hick. You can take the boy out of the country but you can't take the country out of the boy and all that.

So up until the age of 12, I lived in the woods. It was during this twelfth year that my father got himself a 16-year itch and moved out - presumably to bigger and better things. See, Dad (much as the man I have become) was a work-a-holic. He did the 60+ hour weeks and was driven by work primarily. Yes, he said his motivation was family (this is the mental justification for the work-a-holic) but ultimately he was out for himself.

Being a father of two myself now, I cannot imagine leaving my family under any circumstances. If my wife tomorrow decides she is no longer in love with me or is just up and leaving I would fight for her and my kids to the end. I would win her back one way or another - woo her.

You know, it's fucked up when you go through this argument in your head. Like, WHY DON'T I JUST WOO HER ALL THE TIME??? WHY WAIT FOR HER TO THREATEN TO LEAVE?? Now look, she hasn't threatened to leave. The old marriage is still in pretty good shape and healthy, but ya know... don't take it for granted dumb ass...

OK, back to the story:

So dear old Dad walks and leaves Mom, Sis and me to fend for ourselves. Mom gets a job as a computer programmer (pretty cool for 1985) and we move closer to where she works in Hartford. Welcome to Manchester, Mr. Mungus...

Before I get to Manchester, let me say that Dad DIDN'T quite leave us high and dry. Maybe for the first couple of years. But Dad DID get pretty successful and DID support us (and his eventual new family) pretty well from afar. And from afar I mean that Dad relocated to California - where (in the late '80s) there were big bucks to be made for the right folks in the right places. But yeah, it was pretty lean there when we moved to Manchester. We were semi-poor country folk in a bustling metropolitan suburb. And we got eaten up. All three of us.

It's kinda weird how it happened - it's like a blur: Dad invited me and Sis to stay with him for a few weeks over the summer. We still lived in Woodstock. Dad was already living with another woman - someone we knew from childhood. She was one of Dad's coworkers (he swears to this day there was no affair, but it's pretty likely that was how it went down). Sis and her, they clashed from day one. There was yelling and screaming and the like. Lots of "I hate you"s and "You're not my mother"s. But I got on with her pretty well. She was younger than Mom and a little hipper. We were there for maybe a week and we got the call from Mom. "When you get back to Connecticut, we'll live in a different town. I've enrolled you in a new school."

Sis exploded. Dad and poor new step-Mom had no idea what to do with a 16 year old girl. Slamming doors and hysterical crying was the mode of the day. And it was ugly. I don't recall getting wrapped up in my sister's madness; I was (am) more the brooding, internalizing type of guy who is much more comfortable staring at a wall, drawing a picture of people being chopped up or putting my face on my knees and slowly rocking for a few hours. This is before I really honed in my drawing skills and learned to channel anger and frustration into violent illustration so it was all quiet intensity from me.

Clearly, looking back my parents felt it would be "cleaner" to do the move while we were away - sort of an adolescent "trap." And for me, it was probably the best plan. Had I been there during the move I can imagine myself trying to sabotage the movers - setting up trip wires and piercing foot traps.

Sis and I flew back to Connecticut (I won't say "flew back HOME" - not yet) and were introduced to our new town. I remember the ride into Manchester: the shopping plazas and empty factories, the past-it's-prime Main Street complete with a dozen or so homeless living in the park by the library. We pulled up to a modest two-story house and got out. I was standing on pavement. A small patch of grass was pinched between our parking space and the parking lot of the adjacent flower shop. We had one tree. They officially took the boy out of the country.

I know I wandered a bit from the narrative of the previous posts with this one. But this is what came so this is what is. I do have an ultimate point to make with this, so bear with me. I'll get there. Act IV soon to come.

The Self Absorbed Man in Isolation: Act II

2008-07-28T14:38:00.000-04:00

I suspect those who grew up in the American Mid-West were in a similar situation: During winter months I spent endless hours in front of the almighty television. I'll go into further detail in future posts what shows had the biggest impact, but let's just say I ran the gamut from daytime PBS to 80's prime time. There were times my obsession was bad enough I would play sick just to stay home and watch TV. Sad in retrospect.

I was never really comfortable around groups of friends; I've always been a one-on-one kinda guy. And when there was an individual friend who was spending time with me, I was devoted to the one friend unwaveringly. Always been loyal like that. Got me fucked over a few times. I make "best friends" easy.

During summer months when school was out, my parents would send me traveling to visit with family for weeks on end. Looking back now, I suppose they were trying to save me from additional long stretches of solo time. They would plop me on a bus and send me to Brooklyn, New York to spend a few weeks with my Grandparents (on my mother's side) or upstate NY (Monroe to be precise) for my Dad's parents. They did their best to keep me occupied: Both sets of Grandparents had huge gardens. I spent many an afternoon pulling weeds. My Brooklyn Gramps had grape vines growing in his back yard. I was in charge of the annual wine-making. He'd give me loose instructions and once everything was fermenting in sealed bottles, he'd give me a glass of some previous year's vintage (I was too young to know any better, but I hear his wine was like turpentine).

Brooklyn Grampa and my Great Uncle (Dad's Uncle) Sonny (real name: Sylvester) were painters by hobby. They both worked in oils and attempted to pass on the skill. I actually took to it quite well although my patience got the better of me later in life. I do pen-and-ink illustrations now as a hobby. Despite some basic instruction and pointing in the right direction, all of the above activities were done alone. Yup, despite best intentions I still ended up in isolation - only now I was in a strange locale with no friends around or people my age. For the years between age 9 and 16, I spent my summer vacations with Senior Citizens.

It's funny: as I write this I realize how my wife is forever saying "God, You're like an old man!!!" I guess those summers really influenced my temperament and interests. More on that later...

Act III will be a study in how these early experiences affected my relationships and work life. I'm pretty pumped to see what comes of this, so expect an update within a week.

The Self-Absorbed Man in Isolation

2008-07-15T02:30:00.000-04:00

At the risk of being perpetually self analytical, I'm gonna tell you a little about my childhood:

I was born in upstate New York. My family lived there until I was 6 or 7 when we moved to north eastern Connecticut; Woodstock to be precise. I can't speak for other places as I only grew up where I did. But it seems to me there is something unique about that corner of the world. The populace is very aware of their history - a history riddled with superstition and witch burning. At all times you are surrounded by thick vegetation and dark forest and are told early on to be in by dusk.

Woodstock also prides itself on having the last "active" one-room schoolhouse. Every year in public elementary school each grade spent a few weeks in there. You were required to dress in late 1800s period garb, learned to write with ink and quill and played all those colonial games that you see in reenactment movies. Thinking back sometimes it feels like I have a vision of a previous life: the happy, young Pilgrim boy who one day disappeared into the woods never heard from again.

My parents rented a big, yellow cube of a house. It was huge. We rented from the owner of Woodstock's (at the time) only manufacturing facility. They made foot switches for sewing machines among other things. The owner was an eccentric rich woman in her mid to late forties. Her husband had died and left her everything including the mansion on the hill, the switch factory a small boy scout camp, a 3 star restaurant and our yellow house - all of which were on the same thousands of acres piece of land I considered my personal playground.

My one sibling is my sister. I've mentioned her before - the one who had the accident. At this time she was pretty and popular and had no interest in hanging out with her geeky little brother. So I spent the majority of my time alone. I had friends; I wasn't an outcast or anything. But living in a place where it was a hike to get to the neighbor's house left me and my friends at the mercy of our parents. Geographically challenged, I'd like to say.

I learned very quickly to entertain myself, a talent I possess to this day. I spent endless hours tromping around the woods by myself - scouting locations for GI Joe adventures and building forts and shit. I spent a lot of time inside my own head.

Let's us consider this the end of act 1. I can't spend all day reminiscing... The bills must be paid and stuff. But now I've gone and started, so finish I must. Act 2 soon to come.

It'll get worse before it gets better...

2008-07-10T16:02:00.000-04:00

So it seemed like I was really on a roll there for a bit. The family was doing pretty well (despite the troubles trying to get pregnant again), work was coming together, the cursed car hasn't had any issues in a while... smooth sailing. And then it happened: Another role change at work. In addition to the current work load.

I am a supervisor of 25 people on a manufacturing shop floor. All the personnel issues, the Quality problems, efficiency, training - the list goes on. Now the fucking "scheduler" who organizes the orders through production starts really flaking out on the job: aggressive, confrontational behavior, delusions of power beyond his role. He was acting as a Production Manager, not a "scheduler." On top of his shit attitude, we have been taking lots of late orders and falling behind. He gets taken out/I get put in.

So let me get this straight: Full-time Managing position and full-time Scheduling position. OK, no pressure. Just the weight of the corporation on my shoulders. If I fuck up, a global organization fuck up. Millions of dollars are at stake with my every decision. No shit.

Me being me I have reacted by putting in more hours. 12 hours minimum. Luckily I have managed to maintain my "hourly" standing. Not salary. I work more, they pay more.

Little bit of a strain on the home front while I get settled. Every day I get a little closer to grasping "The Big Picture." It'll come. But today: I'm stressed.

As you know, I just write about the things around me. Others can write of current events, 80's toys or mutant bunnies. I have no format. I just throw down what comes. If it means anything to anyone - great. If it's just a bunch of garbled shit - sorry.

I've missed writing about all the crap I do on a daily. It's a nice release at these stressful times. So I'll be posting more often. Assuming anyone still checks in here, bear with me. It'll lighten up eventually. But I think it'll get worse before it gets better.

It's a shade lighter way down there at the end of the tunnel

2008-04-24T06:37:00.000-04:00

The desperate state I was in has now passed. My nose is once again above water level. I can breathe again.

New job transitions suck. It has never seemed that way to me. In the past, a new job was always exciting. Time flies by as you're learning new stuff, interacting with new people, finding your little niche... This time: Holy Shit. The biggest problem was (and remains) that the guy filling in behind me needs immediate training. He has no idea how my former area works and it's my job to teach him (while starting my new role). So I guess this situation is kinda unique. They back-filled me with an unqualified dope.

Anyhoo, things are back on track: many of my new responsibilities have been delegated to others, many of my old responsibilities are being covered while Unqualified Dope gets up to speed and I can make some progress in my new area.

So I've taken a step or two back from the ledge and am starting to turn back towards the door. Things are getting better - slowly, but better nonetheless.

Just below the surface...

2008-04-14T19:58:00.000-04:00

Since I got the "big boost" (as I've been calling it) the other week, I've felt like I'm treading water and slowly sinking. My "to-do" list is ever growing and many tasks have been re-re-re-prioritized to the point of almost being lost. I know what you're thinking:

"It's just fucking work, FM. Ease up on yourself. You're gonna burn yourself out."

And of course, you're right. It should be that easy, but it's not. I spend more time at work than anywhere else. It is the primary function of my life at this point. Yes, my family is first and foremost in my priorities. But in my head, all this working is FOR THEM (even though it ultimately keeps me from them much of the time). I work hard to make their lives better. I work so hard that right now, right this very second, my life sucks. I'm tired, I'm a ball of stress and my nose is at water level.

I've got a meeting presentation to put together (the meeting is tomorrow), a huge project due Friday (today is Tuesday), a 2 page self description for the new HR manager they have brought in (due ASAP), a budget meeting this morning justifying all the shit I spent money on, production scheduling three days a week, training my replacement for my former position while running my former area and learning and running my new area, all the while keeping the wolves at bay as the transition occurs. I'm up to my eyeballs.

When I read the above paragraph, I almost stop breathing. I slip beneath the surface, stretch my hands up and grasp for a hand that won't come and plunge into darkness. Gone...

But then I stop typing, stand up, peek in on my sleeping children, put on my shoes and coat, creep out the door into the early morning darkness, get into my cursed car and head off for another day of treading like the good little bee I have become.

Buzz, buzz...

Prologue -

My present situation cannot last long. I will fall apart soon. If this is a test, I am barely passing. My resolve is fading. I am losing my grip on things. I am falling behind never to regain control. I cannot imagine a two-day weekend let alone time to use the three weeks of vacation I need to use this year. I don't know whether to cry, scream or implode. Time will tell.

It's just a fucking job.

It was worth it

2008-03-27T04:41:00.000-04:00

I really like my job. I like the people I work for, and the people I work with. Well, most of them. There's always one. A troublemaker. A morale killer. He is my equal in title and status. Or was, until today.

I work in manufacturing. We make shiny things. I won't go into much detail for the sake of anonymity, but that's it; shiny stickers. Over the last 8 years, I have worked my way from an entry level position, to the leader of my shift, to the leader of my department, to a leader in the corporation. The company has two product lines, rigid shiny stickers and flexible shiny stickers. I am in charge of the lucrative rigid line and have full responsibility for their production in all aspects. I set the quality levels and hold the group accountable to it, I provide training and assess individual performance.

The afore-mentioned trouble-making morale killer has my same role for the flexible product line. His area is segregated behind a wall where many secrets live. It is a secured room, not easily accessible, with multiple production machines hidden away. Over the years, he has hired friends, family members, drinking buddies, gambling associates to work for him. He plays favorites, does not hold his group accountable, barely provides training, and lies to our shared boss on a regular basis. Morale is low in his area, and it is slowly creeping out to other areas. We are missing orders, and have not ended the fiscal year in good standing. Today, all that changed.

Today I was given my annual review. An interesting process; I write a "self-assessment," my boss adds a few comments, and we discuss the future. I never sell myself short. I throw every minute detail of my accomplishments (no matter how insignificant) and make them out to be infinitely important. This year I went a step further. I added commentary about the morale killer. I voiced my disappointment in my boss for not taking him out. Man, I have some balls let me tell ya. It was worth it.

He has been given a choice (effective Monday) of taking a lower position or leaving the company. I have been given responsibility for his area as well as mine. Many of my other responsibilities have been (thankfully) taken away so I can focus on turning that area around. Oh yeah, and a promotion and a big raise.

My wife and I had a conversation last night after I broke the news. We agree that the sacrifices we have made (her staying home with the kids, my long hours at work not seeing her or the kids) has now been justified. I am somewhat concerned though. The addicted gambler who is close to losing everything is only inspired to carry on when he wins big. I am in danger of becoming a work-a-holic. There are days when I can't leave work AT WORK. There are days when I can't leave work for long hours because I must fix every problem before I go. There are days I forget why I'm doing it. For them. For us.

It's been a tough couple of years, but today... it was worth it.

A Change of Pace

2008-03-15T07:21:00.000-04:00

Life is a whirl...

One day I was sitting around thinking about nothing when my youngest son walked up to me and said "Daddy, whatchdoin'?"

"Nothing," I replied a little gruffer than necessary. It had been a long day at work, the wife was a bit on edge, and thinking about nothing sounded like a nice temporary break.

"Daddy, play with me."

I said nothing. I looked him straight in the eye. He stared straight back. In my mind I raced through all the things I wanted him to know; the right way to be around people, how to handle assholes, when it's OK to have fun and when you must stand your ground. I passed through all the love I have for him, his brother and my wife. I shared the stupid things I've done in hopes that he may learn my lessons without him having to feel my pains. We moved on to responsibilities and what it takes to be a man. How working too much in an effort to better yourself and your family can be noble unless it becomes excessive and obsessive. Then it's just time away from home. I transferred my hopes for the future and the horrors of my past, the things I've never told anyone and the things anyone could plainly see if they cared enough to look.

His eyes are deep and pure. They hold the endless enthusiasm and hope that I must fight to preserve in him. I fear the day he starts to lose his innocence and passion for living. It happens to all of us, but maybe not him... not him. He's special. He makes chaos. He makes joy. He makes love. He makes fun.

His eyes shift and the thread frays and snaps.

"Daddy, play with me."

I smile, get up, grab his hand and follow him... wherever he wants me to go.

And the beat goes on.

2008-03-07T17:19:00.000-05:00

I was 7 years old. The year was 1980. My family was making the long drive from Woodstock, CT to Buffalo, NY for my cousin Wally's wedding. We made the trip in one day. I don't recall how long it took, but I'd have to estimate (based on what I know now) that it took about 7 hours. Who knows, maybe more. It was a pretty uneventful trip, and as I barely remember most things before I was 10 or so, it's remarkable I remember it at all. Why do I remember this trip? It's during this ride that I wrote my first song.

I still remember a few lines. Nothing groundbreaking; I'm no Mozart. But it's a cute little tune:

We went through the river,
We went through the rain.
And then we turned and came back again.
Oh, yeah, yeah.
Came back again.

Like I said, I was 7. I don't recall writing any other tunes until I was 11 or 12. I was in Junior High School, and I had recently befriended the coolest guy I had ever met in my short little life: Vinnie Murray. Vinnie was awesome: he had a blue jean jacket that was almost completely covered in assorted sized safety pins. Where safety pins were missing, he had drawn the most amazing images of anarchy and punk rock. Vinnie was a black guy with a six inch tall mohawk. He skateboarded, was admired by all the little white girls (and had his way with them at will), he drank and did drugs and he was an incredible comic book artist. He was an inspiration.

Vinnie and I started putting some comics together. I had my characters, he had his. They got together and wreaked a path of death and destruction everywhere they went. We were like gods in our minds. Vinnie and I used to hang out at the local Record Breaker record store. When I say record store, I mean REAL VINYL. Now, up to this point, the only records I had bought were Chicago 17, Huey Lewis's Heart of Rock 'n Roll and all the Wierd Al Yankovic I could get my hands on. Vinnie introduced me to the independent/punk section of the store. My first trip in with him, I walked out with D.R.I.'s Dirty Rotten LP, Iron Maiden's Live After Death (a choice made solely on album cover art) and Black Flag's Damaged. A week later I was back for The Circle Jerks Golden Shower of Hits, Metallica's Kill 'em All and The Cro-Mags Age of Quarrel. I was hooked on punk from this point until I discovered John Coltrane in my early 20's. It was awesome.

Vinnie and I tried to write some songs together. Here's a small sampling:

Too Baked To Skate

It's Saturday afternoon,
Had too many bongs.
Try to thrash around,
But yer too far gone.

Road starts to spin,
Board begins to shake.
Do a skull grind,
Because yer fuckin' baked.

Not exactly Shakespeare. But songs like this made us legends. A band was formed but it got to Vinnie's head. He got into some trouble with the law (arson) and was ultimately placed in a facility to get the help and attention that he required to be a functional and productive member of society.

A second band was formed called Chemical Persuasion. I played guitar and wrote the songs. We played a few shows and had a good time. We played for beer money. Eventually we got a band room that turned into a party room and we started falling apart. Those were ugly times. Then my sisters accident and it was over. I pretty much holed up for a few years. I was the reclusive artist. I was depressed, and the king of excess. I barely showered, drank until sick, ate acid until it didn't work any more and smoked anything I could wrap a rolling paper around. I had a death wish. I gained almost 100 pounds during this time and lost nearly all of my friends. I dropped out of school and spent all day creating. Everything I did was awesome (whether it was or wasn't).

I remember drawing this picture of a mirror. The reflection is of a man who has just slit his wrists and blood is dripping into a reflected sink. Across the page in splashed red ink was one word: SUICIDE. I drew this picture and left it hanging on my easel when I went out partying. Some friends and I dropped a bunch of acid and climbed this mountain. We spent the whole night up there in the wilderness. When I got home in the morning all spent and gross, my mom was nearly in tears as I had not called or left a note. She thought I had gone off to kill myself.

I wrote a bunch of songs during this time. I recorded all of them. It's actually pretty positive stuff. I think it's the music that got me through. I haven't played any of these tapes for anyone ever. Not even the missus. But I listen to them sometimes when I'm down. They remind me how good things are now and how far I've come. When I met my future wife, the clouds magically lifted and I was suddenly happy. I wrote songs for her. I made beautiful things again. I wooed her with poems and art and insight into my vision of reality. She came to love me and I, her.

The band got back together in the late 90's. We wrote some songs and played a few shows. Then kids and a real job and time dried up.

I've since started another band. A few guys from work play instruments. The drummer lives 40 miles away. The bass player lives in Ireland. We have only played together in the same room once. Since then, we have made music online. I write a song and record a demo. The drummer lays down a drum track, than the bass goes in. If necessary we pass it around a few times to tweak and mix and such and then, VOILA!! a finished song. This band makes me happy. I get to be creative without a major investment of time away from the family. And it's the best sounding music I've ever written.

What's next? Who knows. A show? Maybe. Right now it doesn't matter. Right now I'm happy.

Fun is in the eye of the beholder

2008-03-04T19:21:00.000-05:00

When I was a small child (my parents told me) I used to laugh in my sleep. Mrs Mungus says sometimes I still do. I don't remember any of those dreams, but I do remember waking up at times thinking "THAT WAS FUCKING BRILLIANT!!" My unconscious mind has a knack for creating hilarious situations. My waking mind keeps me entertained as well. And that's the problem.

Sometimes (usually at the most inappropriate times) my mind finds the most ridiculously skewed way of seeing things. Picture being called into an executive meeting (I'm no executive mind you, but for some reason I am often asked to represent my group for the uppity-ups in the front office), sitting back waiting your turn to speak, and suddenly noticing an individual in the room with a slight speech impediment. This man (let's call him "Jim") verbalizes "L"s as "W"s. No shit.

Bob (the Lab Technician): I understand how the system can be used to manage our inventory, but how will items be identified?

Jim: You mean how will you wable your wacker?

Bob: Excuse me?

Jim: You want to know what the wable will wook wike for your wacker?

Bob: Yes. What will the label for our lacquers look like?

My boss's boss's boss is in the room. And I am quickly losing it. And NOBODY else is in on the joke. I asked people afterwards. No one fucking heard it but me. The conversation turns to generating "wables for the wift" and I audibly snort. I excuse myself as though I am having some sort of medical emergency and collapse in the hallway. Holy fucking shit that was funny.

Have you ever been in that situation? Everyone else is in "serious mode" and you're in the corner chuckling to yourself, holding back explosive laughter? Yup, I'm usually that guy. The guy that laughs at funerals. The guy that seeks out those forbidden videos of people getting hurt or killed. The guy who watched "Faces of Death" for a laugh.

At times my propensity for finding the humor in the darkest situations has reached it's limit. My sister was in a really bad accident in the late 90's. The house was empty and I was home with a friend watching bad movies. We were pretty stoned. The phone rang and I was too high to answer it. The machine picked it up and my friend and I listened as my mother's shaken voice explained that sis was in the hospital and may never walk again. I swear to you I've never laughed so hard. "Picture that!!" was the only phrase I could say. I laughed and said it again and again. It was funny. Until Mom showed up. She asked me to come with her to the hospital. I got in the drivers seat (now totally sober), Mom in the passenger seat and my friend in the back. I drove my friend home. None of us said a word the entire ride. When we got to the hospital, my Dad (who lives 3,000 miles away in California - 6 hour flight) was waiting. How long had it been since the accident and me finding out? I was off fucking partying while my family was facing the first of many terrible trials? Did they try to find me or was I so far out of reach they dismissed me? Mom is gone now, so I'll never know.

My sister never did walk again. That's not funny.

Speaking of coffee...

2008-03-03T13:05:00.000-05:00

Yes in-double-deedie, I do drink a lot of coffee. And booze. Sometimes coffee AND booze.

Saturday night at the Mungus house is drinking night. I don't generally drink more than two or three beers during the week (more than that is snooze time). But Saturday is another story. I go into work a little later than usual, space my caffeine consumption (so as not to crash too early), get the kids to bed a little early and... off we go. Generally I'll start with a caffeinated alcoholic beverage (winter time is Irish coffee time, summer I may indulge in a Sparks or whatever the latest 6-8% alcohol energy drink is) then move on to beer.

As times are pretty lean around here, beer brand is limited to the bottom of the shelf brands (Busch, Natural Ice, Milwaukee's Best). These not-so-fine spirits get the job done, but leave me dehydrated and with a splitting headache Sunday morning. Sometimes on special occasions (or around tax time or something), we'll splurge on some Sam Adams or something a bit higher up the wall. And on those occasions it seems the required recovery time is less. But again, these are special occasions.

Over the course of a standard Saturday night, I may need to intersperse caffeinated beverages in (to keep the Beast Sleep at bay). The standard procedure is: a pot of coffee is made in the morning. This pot is consumed. A second pot is made in the evening. One or two hot cups is made, the rest goes in the fridge for emergency speed consumption. If the Beast rears its ugly head, a quick mix can be swirled up and swallowed within 30 seconds driving back said Beast into the shadows for a while. Any remaining cold coffee is reserved for the Sunday morning recovery scene.

During the course of writing this, I have consumed 3 large cups of coffee. I don't stop to look at my hands very often, but when I do, they shake unconsciously. Sometimes they have a mind of their own. My writing is often illegible even to me, as my grandmotherly shaky scrawl meanders about the page. It's a crazed mix of cursive and block letters. Often, I don't know which style I'm writing in. I watch the words flow from my pen as if watching subtitles on a fast-paced foreign film. Wait! was that a typo? that didn't make any sense. What language is this?? What's going on?

I'll write more of my adventures with coffee in the days to come. Stay tuned.

Too much work and no play makes FM a dull boy...

2008-03-01T04:56:00.000-05:00

As stated, I have a wife and two kids. The Missus and I have made the decision that it is best for the kids for her to stay home with them until they are in school all day. Then she can break away and finish school and ultimately have a career. We own a house and a couple of used cars. Yup, we're poor. Not like there are "red envelope" bills in the mail or constant harassing phone calls at dinner time, but there's no extra money for fun. Heck, there's no extra money for necessities. Luckily, I have a pretty good job and am paid by the hour. So I work. A lot.

As I write this, I am on a lunch break smack dab in the middle of my standard 11 hour day. My commute is 45minutes to an hour, one-way. So I'm away from home for a grand total of 13 hours. Sometimes when work is especially busy I work 12 or 13 hour days. That's 14 - 15 hours away from home. With 2 meals and some hygiene time, there's little time for sleep. Sleep is my enemy.

My enemy follows me from waking to sleep. It attempts to overcome me during waking hours. It taunts me with its comfortable embrace at inappropriate times. My safety is far from its concern. It tries to drive me off the road and jogs my coordination. It clouds my judgment and makes me think things are far more extreme than they are, good or bad. It waits for me when I least expect it, then pounces on me and makes me a liability. It makes me poor company. Quiet night at home = nodding off on the couch.

The wife and I struggle through my not being around so much. The big kicker: when I am around, I'm tired. I play it like I'm not, but I am. All the time. Sometimes I try to cover it up by hiding my exhaustion behind a veil of caffeine. After a stretch of 5 or 6 days of 4 1/2 - 5 hours of sleep each, the jig is up; I'm tired and there's no denying it. A pot of coffee after dinner can't keep my eyes open. But if I succumb to sleep after large amounts of caffeine I have nothing to look forward to but numb limbs and rolling and twisting dreams. Restful it is not. So the battle rages on between the Beast and me. Yin and Yang, light and dark, wet and dry, bitter and sweet - endlessly dancing and cutting and swiping until cold, dark and weary we collapse into each other and the pent up restfulness of years is loosed like a wave. And I drink deep. And sleep, forever sleep.

I need some more coffee.

My curse.

2008-02-24T11:21:00.000-05:00

I had this car. I had it for fourteen years. When I bought it, it had 12,000 miles. Fourteen years later: 222,000. It still ran great, but I have a long commute to work. I got a little gun-shy and decided it was time for a new (used) car. I found one.

For the tidy sum of $3,000, I was now the proud owner of a 1998 VW Jetta Wolfsburg edition; sunroof, power windows, leather seats, low miles, the works. I loved this car (still do). It was the greatest thing ever... until the check cleared. Less than one week after purchase, the brakes suddenly felt a bit "spongy." When I sat at lights, the pedal would slowly drop to the floor until the car started rolling forward. Not good. Keep in mind, this is a private transaction purchase. Bought the car out of someone's front yard. No legal recourse. So I brought the car to the shop, and $1,400 later, I had me a new set of brakes. OK, I can live with that.

Two days after getting the car out of the shop there was a new development, hesitant shifting (it's an automatic). It took a while to get into second gear, then struggled to drop back into first. Transmissions are a car owners worst nightmare. After the third opinion, I opted for a complete rebuild. FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS. Now, I am a man of limited means. The wife and I bit the bullet and took out a line of credit to pay for all this. We had already taken out a loan to buy the car, this was gonna hurt.

THE DAY AFTER I got the car back from the transmission place, there was a big snowstorm that tracked up the Eastern US seaboard. Being the dedicated individual that I am, I showed up early for work (expecting that others may not show up due to the weather). An hour into my shift, someone from another area brings a guy through the building looking for "whoever owns the black car." Uh-oh. The individual driving the plow in the parking lot apparently couldn't make out my black car against the stark white snow bank. So he did everything he could to include my car one of his many big scoops. Broken driver's side window, mirror broken off and a totalled driver door. I took the stance of "it's not driveable," had the car towed and picked up a rental car at the plow companies expense.

Man, the rental car was nice: 2007 Dodge Charger. Balls compared to the little VW. Even ran OK in the snow. Rear wheel drive, but traction control made it smooth. Had it for a week. Finally the day came when I would get back the VW; new door and all. Picked it up and returned the rental. Low and behold, the customer service asshole discovered a small scratch on the rear fender. "You'll be hearing from our claims rep" he said. Fuck off. I have yet to return their calls. I'll probably get a summons before long.

I had a couple of good weeks with the Vee Dub, until the rain came. I'm driving home from work, a light mist in the air. My wipers were set for intermittent and all was good with the world. Then the wipers stopped. I flipped the switch up and down. I could hear a little motor whir, but no movement. Luckily it wasn't a downpour, or I would've been stuck. Got home and was able to re-attach the assembly to the motor. Real pain in the ass (not to mention the freezing cold temps. Ever try to use small hand tools with stiff fingers?? Sucks). Put it all back together after confirming it was working OK. Did one last check. No problem... except that when I shut them off, they stopped right in the middle of the windshield. You've gotta be fucking kidding. No time to fix it right then. I spent the next few days driving around with the wipers in my face... taunting me... saying "you got ripped off. This car is gonna kill you." I fixed 'em before the next rain.

Then the real cold weather settled in. It was 5 degrees Fahrenheit when I drove to work. I got in the parking lot, made to get out, pulled the door handle and... nothing. It was like the door was locked; no clicky, no openy. I try the passenger side... dead.

Now let me give you a little background about my self: I don't enjoy drawing attention. I certainly don't like drawing attention when I am in a position of weakness.

Directly across from me in the parking lot is a guy who works for me. Directly behind me, another guy who works for me. It would have been simple to open the window and wave over help. But I just couldn't. I started up my car and drove away. I parked a little ways down the street from my work and pondered my situation. Window? I'd fall and crack my head open. Sunroof? can you imagine if I got stuck halfway and accidentally released the brake with my feet? I'd be rolling down the street, helpless until I hit a tree or careened over a cliff? definitely out. Last resort? the passenger side back door. I slowly pulled the handle aannnndddd.... "click" it popped open. I slid the passenger seat forward, slid my seat back as far as it would go, and squeezed myself out. Freedom at last!! When I got outside after work, it was considerably warmer and the doors worked just fine. And continued to work just fine until the next snowfall.

I generally leave for work bright and early (4am). A new snow had fallen and I was leaving a bit earlier than usual to compensate. I opened the door, started the engine and took out my scraper/brush to clean off the windows. Job complete, I climbed inside the car to go to work. OK, that would have been too easy. Of course what REALLY happened was: the door had frozen while I was brushing off the car. Fuck you. No really, fuck you. I tried all of the doors. The driver door was the only one unlocked and it was frozen closed. Now let's us ponder this scene for a moment: car running, doors locked. It's 3:45am, my wife and kids are snuggly in bed inside while I am FREEZING MY ASS OFF outside. Oh yeah, the house keys are locked inside the car too.

I imagine banging on the glass of our bedroom window to wake up the Missus. She would not only call the cops, but kick my ass after they left. The only good news? the cell phone in my pocket. So I placed an early morning call and woke her up. I asked her to come to the front door and when she got there I would explain. She showed up, I got the spare car key and opened the passenger side door. Off to work.

I would love to sum this epic drama with a bit of sardonic wisdom. A great lesson I have learned as a result of this "life experience." But for now, I've got nothing. Fuck my car. Fuck my curse. Can't afford a different one, so I'm stuck.

The End.