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Sailing Experience: The Long Winded Answer

Wednesday, May 16th, 2007

The one trophy I still just MUST WIN!

I’ve been giving out the 5 second answer to the question of “how much sailing experience do I have” over and over again at the Sailing Club I joined up at, and started sailing at a few weeks back. Somewhat justifiably so, as a new member, my experience, is open to question; and suspicion, as apparently, sailing prowess is something that some people tend to embellish. For the record, and as reference for those new friends at the club who wish to know a bit more about the crew member they may be hosting on this weekends 4:00pm sail; I submit:

The best place one can be is on the plane between the wind and the water. I consider myself to be a proficient if not accomplished sailor. I have been sailing for 35 years now; 35 years ago being the first time I was “officially” tossed the tiller and left to my own devises to “make the boat go” at the age of nine. I was most likely first on a sailboat quite a bit earlier considering that, being on the boat was something my father quite enjoyed.

My father taught himself how to sail when he was around 10 or 11 during the summers he spent at my grandfather’s cottage in Northern Ontario. He caught the bug which subsequently infected his entire family for two generations. This infection will be discussed at greater length later in this submission.

I was enrolled in sailing school at aged 10. I will admit to not really liking it all that much at first; but it did afford me the opportunity to make a few life long friends… The next year I enticed a few non-sailing friends to enroll, which most likely enhanced the likelihood, I’d stick with it. I did stick with it advancing through the CYA Sailing School Program from White Sail, basic to Bronze Sail, advanced and Silver Sail, racing over the next four years. I lived on water from April to October each year; and in the water the months between taking swimming classes in the winter.

Somewhere around my 14th/15th Birthday, I became a CYA certified sailing instructor and did a two year stint as the Junior Instructor at my club. By my 16th Birthday I became the Head Instructor; teaching both kids during the day, and adults in the evenings that weren’t spent racing…

My 16th birthday also allowed that I get a driver’s license; which expanded the schedule from club racing and the odd “parent chaperoned” out of town regattas to a full blown schedule of racing every danged weekend there was a regatta within 300 miles. I had bought a Laser with my previous years earnings; me and my cousin John [who factors in continuously from this point forward] and who was now MY junior instructor would load the Lasers onto the trailer each weekend; sail, drink buckets of under-aged beers, camp out and chase young female sailing schooler gals from club to clubs dotting the Great Lakes, St. Lawrence Waterways from Hamilton to Brockville and on up the Rideu Canal into Ottawa. We spent two glorious summers as notorious sailing bums…

And, we certainly were bums. No fancy get up or gear. We’d arrive in a broken down old Nissan pickup truck, two Lasers on the trailer, one on the roof… A box full of rapidly thawing meat; some cereal and a couple of cases of beer I’d managed to buy primarily as I had already grown to a gangly 6 ft 2 in height; AND the guy at the beer store was friends with my dad… We’d essentially, puke our gear, tent, boats, sweats, wets into a makeshift trailer park-like campsite onto the lawn of some of the toniest Yachting Clubs in Ontario. These days, I’m not proud to say that on the occasion we needed to do a little ‘between’ races driving on Saturday nights… the first year I’d hand off the keys to John, who being 15 the first year round; we figured wasn’t subject to DWI prosecution. It got even better the second year, as although John had gotten his drivers license that fall, he’d had it revoked for, indeed, DWI prior arriving to teach that next year; our logic became, that he couldn’t suffer two DWI prosecutions simultaneously… We weren’t that bright when it came to certain behavior; but eh, it worked out just fine AND we didn’t, thank goodness KILL anyone; we did almost kill ourselves a few times, but eh, what kid didn’t?

Those summers sadly came to a close after the second year; John went off to become Head Instructor at his club; I went off to Toronto. I came back in the summer to teach the first two years, but eventually… I slowly sank into to horrors of the “lean” sailing years. Oh, I’d head home for a Soling Regatta on a borrowed Soling here; a club race on my dads boat there… Its horrible to say this, but I made a point of sailing at least once ONCE!?! each year… [I usually got more than that in, and those Soling regattas where a frikin' blast; sailing by the seat of my pants, with my father!].

On about 14 years ago; the infection I mentioned earlier surfaced after years of dormancy on the occasion of my father’s 60th Birthday. Over the years at family gatherings, usually spurred on by semi-druken chest pounding by John and I trying to relive our competitive past; we’d challenge each other to a match race… Of course, every one of each of our 12 brothers and sisters, having had been in sailing school; wanted in… And on a hazy hot and muggy hungover drunken Sunday morning, the day after we celebrated my dad’s 60th. The six of us, keen enough to drag ourselves the ten miles to the club, got out sailed three rabbit start races… John, won, my wife at the time built a trophy which we handed out that Thanksgiving, thus starting a family tradition that has seen continuous action since that hot and muggy hungover GREAT day of sailing… There are 50+ names on the trophy; my Dad’s brother’s boys from England, who have the bug are on there as are the various lovers, wives and husbands; and most importantly the names of 10 grandchildren of John and mines fathers and mothers.

Have I mentioned that enjoy sailing; and that this enjoyment comes quite naturally?

Although, racing is a passion. I’d have to admit that anytime spent afloat is: ‘good time spent’. During the lean years; my idea of the perfect vacation was to ’steal’ my dads boat for a week or two, after Labor Day, after all the pleasure boaters finished their summer sailing and left the entire Lake Ontario and St Lawrence to me and my wife, or whatever friend might want to sail these great waters, eat great food in the chilly night air; kick the ice off the hatches in the morning; perk a pot of coffee and head off for another early-fall blustery fresh aired out sail!

Last year I was afforded the opportunity to race ferociously with that fella who factors into my sailing history quite consistently. John has bought himself a Shark, is helping to build out the fleet at his club, which is now home to 10 Sharks; he campaigns the boat from Hamilton to Brockville and on up the Rideu Canal to Ottawa. He chases the hottie-deck-chicks and cougars [in his mind]… He calls his boat “The Trailer Park Bouys” and arriving in his beat up old van at some of the toniest clubs in Southern Ontario with his rag-tangled crew; these days his twin and older brother… His campsites at the week long World Championships are Class lore!

I had a great year sailing with cousin John last year… This year; I’ll get as much or more sailing in, eventually my new pals at the new club may agree, that I’m a proficient, if not an accomplished sailor.

They’ll definitely get to know just how infected I am!

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On Knowing… Part III – The Capsizing of the Arrow

Thursday, May 10th, 2007

The Arrow was one of the number of smaller one man sailboats that came out of the 1970’s to replace the aging Sunfish and challenge the Laser’s growing dominance in the class. A cat boat; with just a little bit more sail area and a whole lot more beam than the Laser; this extra beam, provided a bit more stability for the less accomplished sailor; BUT added a lot more weight and one huge problem in-so-much as, if you went over, you were DEFINITELY going to turtle.

Turtling your dinghy is one big pain in the butt. For those who don’t know what the frick I’m talking about… A well designed boat, when capsized will rest sideways on the water, the balance of buoyancy in the hull to the configuration of the rigging allows the mast and sail, now resting in the water, to prevent the boat from turning past 90 degrees. Righting a typically capsized boat is a snap; simply crawl out onto the centerboard, or dagger and and let your body weight bring the boat upright… most people can with very little skill or effort capsize ANHD right a Laser without getting wet.

Turtling is when the capsized boat tips beyond 90 degrees… Think, mast pointing straight down, centerboard pointing straight up… To right a turtled boat, you basically have to stand on the gunells, jump up and down and reef on the centerboard with all your strength… I’ll give you a small tip her, for all of you trying to right your turtled dinghies, try positioning the boat in such a way that the waves will assist in the righting… I’ll let you figure that out.

The Arrow we had in our backyard, was one of two my father was, trying out as potential boats to add to the aging fleet our sailing club used for its junior sailing program. I can’t remember why we kept these boats in the backyard; but regardless, there they were at my disposal, and I used them best I could. Now, seeing that at the time I was nine, and not yet enrolled in sailing school. I usually used one of them, without sails as a swimming platform. My father would take me out under sail from time to time; I will note that my father is an exceptional; sailor.

Given the extra beam and the extra weight and extra stability of the Arrow; it really wasn’t that fun a boat to sail for an exceptional sailor, definitely not so in lighter winds. In heavy air, it could be a good ride, probably even better for the little kid joyriding while his dad set out on a honking, planing reach; maybe catching the odd good wave and doing a bit of surfing [a point of sail tenfold more exciting on a Laser]… I don’t recall too many time my father taking me out in a good fresh breeze but I do remember one time more than the others.

Maybe it was that it was a gloriously sunny day in late spring. Maybe my dad had had a few extra beers; I never concerned myself with my dad’s beers, to me they represented that most consistent and enjoyable of assignments growing up… Forget mowing the lawn or shoveling the snow; “…get me a beer” was the call I could hear from anywhere in the yard, the call to grab a cold one from the fridge, run it over to him, or maybe struggle with three or four for him and his pals; get a great big thank you from the guys; get a big ol thank-you from that one guy who was ultimately the absolute dead center of my entire my existence, my universe…

The wind was blowin’, the sun was shining; I helped best I could as my dad rigged up the Arrow. I most likely would have already squeezed into the old Kapok keyhole life jacket myself… LIFE jacket is kind of a misnomer for what they called life jackets back in the 70s. Look at it this way; for buoyancy, they used this weird shredded vegetable matter called kapok, which they theoretically sealed into plastic bags to keep this weird fiber dry and theoretically buoyant. These bags, which were usually waterlogged after the first year or so of use, were sewn into puke orange fabric; sewn into a shape that strongly resembled stocks used to chain prisoners up in the town square in medieval times. Putting on a life jacket in the 1970s was essentially similar to the sentence for stealing a loaf of bread from the baker in 1678.

I have absolutely positive memories of this sail with my father. Despite being hobbled in this puke orange bloated water logged torture device; I was having a blast. We were probably just sailing back and forth across the two mile stretch, shore to shore on this lake we called the Bay of Quinte. I’m sure my dad was just sailing reach to reach in order to maximize the fun; giving his boy a bit of the thrill of sailing…

Any good sailor can capsize a boat. Its not the end of the world; the boat tips, you get wet, right the boat and sail on. Heck, we’d do it ten times for fun later when we’d go for a sail after sailing school class or before the start or after the finish of a race.

My father claims that the hiking straps popped, and that he unexpectedly flipped off over the side of the Arrow; over we went. Now, this claim of a some part breaking; its happened to me, AND considering the chain of events that happened next, is an absolutely believable claim; one I support my father in to this day. He’s made wilder claims about wilder accidents in his life; some, well one surrounding the events in which his neighbor lit his garage on fire just as my father noticed the ninny was using an electric pump to drain the gas out of the tank in his car in order to effect some repair or what not… That claim, which we all also support, resulted in my father’s leg looking like a side of beef after 3rd degree burns and months of skin grafting surgery so professionally meted out by the medics at the Canadian Armed Forces in Kingston… My dad’s not one to make false claims.

Over we went.

No big deal; ‘cept for the Arrow being quite a bit worse a piece of naval architecture than expected… This probably would a fun little dunking in an otherwise blast of a sail. I’m sure my dad could have righted the Arrow quickly if he didn’t first have to collect his boy, now floating around in the Bay of Quinte, bobbing around like the town drunk in the stocks after a good night of grog. Perhaps if I could have actually moved my arms, I may have been able to either keep hold of, or swim back to the boat on my own. As I was being collected by my dad, the Arrow turtled.

Again, NOT that big of deal. My dad being quite a burly man and “way stronger than your dad”, could have easily stood on the gunells and yanked the Arrow back upright with little effort. Here’s were things started going somewhat more wrong than would be expected.

First off, the mast step on the Arrow proved to be, well lets just say, quite flawed. The mast step on a Laser is a 20 inch deep hole in which you put the ’stayless’ mast and tie it down with the cunningham which, working double duty as a devise to allow you to control the luff tension on the sail. The mast step on the Arrow, was a ‘deck step’; a small pin held the mast to the deck, tensioned into place, theoretically by the shrouds and forestay… theoretically our mast popped out of its step, and although not separating itself from the boat, basically sank to act as an anchor helping to keep us, upside down.

Add to this the centerboard falling out; AND not being made of something that might float, sinking… I must have assumed we were in quite a pickle; AS a matter of fact I know I thought we were indeed in a pickle as, from what I’ve been told I did what any 9 year old kid would have done; even if that 9 year old kid weren’t being held in bondage, strapped into the terror device now soaked through, weighing twice it’s weight and probably no more able to keep me afloat than say, one of the empty beer bottles I had neatly stacked back into its case on the way to getting my old man and his buddies another couple of beers before we went out for this damned sail… what any 9 year old kid would have done; I started crying; AND, from what they tell me, I started crying out for help.

I’ve always counted myself lucky. I grew up with great friends in a great small town; surrounded by about 10 gazillion things to do and parents who basically not only let you do them, but suggested that you give them all a try. I’m sure I’m not the only boy who can remember his dad being the absolute center of their universe, but I think I am a bit lucky to remember the exact moment that center of this universe of mine was shakin’, turned upside down, the exact moment I began questioning just how stable this bloody universe of mine was.

Here I was, wet, weighed down, crying and crying out for help while our disabled craft bobbed up and down in the waves. To me, the outlook appeared pretty dim. Our chances of survival, quite bleak; here I was, most likely assessing the situation and realizing the chances of ever enjoying Friday night’s Mac & Cheese dinner to be pretty much… done. AND then, here’s dear old dad… bobbing around with the boat, telling me to STOP crying, AND “stop calling out for help, ya ninny”! WHAT??? I’m basically a goner, and this crazy old fools using his last gulp of breath… his dying words, to call me a ninny! Some universe this turned out to be…

…in the end; indeed, me and my dad survived the ordeal. As my father well knew, we simply floated up on shore within’ a half hour or so. He collected and stowed the various bits and pieces that remained of the Arrow, disengourged me from my ‘life’ jacket and walked up to the house of the folks on whose shore we’d washed up on to call my mom and have her bring the car around with the trailer to cart the whole mess home.

It was probably on my dad’s recommendation that the club not buy Arrows for the Junior sailing program, but instead bought a fleet of six Lasers’ six boats I’d grow up on, having a blast on, while screaming down the waves on a scorching plane on… Six boats, I’d capsize a hundred thousand times, 50,000 of which times, not even getting wet. Six boats, I’d later use along with the rest of the fleet when I ran the sailing school as head instructor for years.

The day after my dad and I capsized the Arrow; he went out and bought me a ‘Stearn Life-Vest’. As it sounds, this was a snazzy little life jacket, zipper front, four small foam panels sewn into light weight nylon fabric, held together with light weight mesh. The back panels where black; the front red; there was a “Stern” crest on the front; all the hot sailors at our club wore stern vests…

The day after we capsized the Arrow, was perhaps the day my dad stopped being the absolute, rock solid center of my universe and became, simply the smartest man I’d known; and ever would.

On knowing? – I know I have enormous shoes to fill!

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We’ll all have to Toss our Parents Onto the Heap of Dead People;

Monday, April 24th, 2006

The Heap of Dead People they Called their Friends…

Death has come close rarely, but near quite often. As with most of you, I have lost foolish friends, either in high school or in college, or at various points along this way to where we find ourselves now. Certain among us have experienced close death, AND have a far greater understanding of it than I will have for quite some time. To those, I say, let me seek your help when my time comes. I know for certain it will be coming soon.

It was a given that this objective to tell 100 stories of 100 friends would have to, at one point, settle upon dead friends. For me, fortunately, beyond the likes of Michael and a few others whose distance in time, makes their faces familiar but their names forgotten… for me, of the 100, but a few are gone.

The big lovable deaf guy at Colorization who suddenly died of cancer… the pain in the ass faggot who died of aids. Chris, a beautiful childlike soul, who just up and died before illustrating the most wonderful of pieces of music in pencil crayon. Friends who almost died… Or old friends like Steve Banks, whose memorial I missed just a few weeks ago. Funny, I wonder if he considered me a friend as I did him.

I’ve suffered very little… But I have watched, and am starting to watch with greater frequency my folks watch their friends fall dead around them. Funny enough, I’ve on more than one occasion; felt the loss of a friend of my parents pretty close to their loss… So I might say [?]

Ken Bailey

I consider my father to be my best friend. That said, my father comes from a different time, where certainly sons would not be best friends, and the associations they made with other men would not be held in the same light us little boys of the next generation hold our friendships to now. My father has stories of the boys he palled around with as a little trouble maker. These stories focus on events, rather than the feelings they held for one another. Secretly, I know that when my dad and Lorne, and whoever else it was with them; found 6 sticks of dynamite, and proceeded to blow up half of Markham Ontario; I secretly know that these men… where friends!

As a boy looking up to his father, you tend to miss the fact that your father is just the man you will eventually be. Actually, my father was quite a bit younger than me the first time I had enough forethought to think of things like this. My father was hard working guy, raising a family long before the age I thought maybe doing some hard work and raising a family might be an interesting endeavor.

Sometimes, I have tried to consider my father, NOT my father, and NOT my friend, but as a regular dude, with his own friends… he just happened to have a family as, ALL of his friends did. His, friends… Jim Honey, Jim Craig, Ken Richards, Ken Bailey… and honestly hundreds… more faces, voices, stories passing so rapidly in and out of memories that it would be absolutely impossible to catch them here. When I was young, I saw my father a king amongst his friends, as I grew older, I saw my father as a wonderfully friendly man. I have always aspired to my father’s friendliness…

A mother’s friend is the other woman who you know will always take care of you when Mom’s not around. Becky Coe, Mavis Weaver, Doris Rolf, Mrs. Collar, Mona Richardson, Gloria Honey…

In the late 70’s they found an illegal toxic waste dump on a farm across the bay from the small town I grew up… I still have questions as to why Mavis, Mona and Gloria are not playing bridge with mom, rather than being the first and many of bridge partners she’s lost since her 40’s.

Ken Baily lost his wife, Beano, another friend of our family while she was in her 50’s. Ken, Beano, AND Mona and a host of others all sailed happily on the bay upon which they found the dump… THAT is not the issue here. I grew up with my friendly parents friends, most on boats, most just living, growing and raising their families along side my folks who where arising theirs.

The callous title of this quick little story was meant to be just as it is. One day I WILL toss my parents on the heap of dead people they called their friends. They were my friends as well. One helluva a great big wonderful people. One great big heap of extended family; I slept in their homes, ate the meals they cooked their kids… their kids who forced me; or were forced by me into heaps of trouble.

No, I am definitely NOT looking forward to that day, but… as I have to, I will toss my folks in with their friends one day…

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Ya’ever Wanna Kill that Friend Who Up and Died on You?

Monday, April 24th, 2006

I’ve been a lucky man. I’m 43 and so far death hasn’t really hit me too hard. My folks are still alive [albeit, scaring me regularly with tales of ailments and hospital visits]. Same is to be said for the close Aunts and Uncles. I lost a few, lets say people I kinda knew in high school to the typical follies of, mostly alcohol and automobiles… I’ve been to two funerals; one that of the dear father of my oldest friend and the other, my Aunt Penny’s; my dad’s youngest sister. I loved Penny, but I remember that day NOT so much for the saying goodbye to Penny, but more for it being the first time I saw my “Captain in the Military” father cry. The pins, knocked right out from under me… The day your father becomes human… Funerals… I continue to count my blessings. Those are other stories…

This story is about Michael Prentice; a short story in so much as Michael was a very good but sporadic friend. He popped into my sphere of friends quite by happenstance, left the sphere then re-entered it again and again whenever that happenstance clock movements of friendships put his cog against the other cogs of friendship.

He was a good friend.

I met Michael thru Doctor Giggles… I was just back from my Central American, post business failure misadventure. Floating around Toronto after a series of failed interviews. Soaking in my remorse that perhaps no junior manager/human resources minion would ever look fondly upon the resume of a failed CEO, President, entrepreneur… with anything but fear. To waste the time of non-employment, I wasted my time, some nights, sipping beers and playing NTN trivia at the “Hoops Sports Bar” on Yonge; really, as always… I was just out to kill time… Enter Dr. Giggles.

A short balding stocky man; a self-professed wheeler and dealer. A guy who hated being whooped trivia. I beat him a few times one night, he sidled up to me, we talked for a few hours; next thing you know I’m at a meeting with this Dr. Giggles, Syd Capp [whose story shall or has certainly been told], Michael and Jay Abrams… Jay Abrams, a co-founder of Alliance Atlantis films. In other words, beating Dr. Giggles at NTN trivia provided me a seat at the tippy-top table of the Toronto film and television industry. Not top brag, but firkin ho-hum. If there’s anything I despised more at the time it was the Toronto film and television industry.

Syd and Michael had joined forces to do something spectacularly dull. Syd who came from the “Clause 12″ world of Canadian Tax dollar sucking motion picture development had teamed up with Michael; who came from the “just barely better than industrial video” shoot it, cut it and sell it to cable bidness. They were going to as they said, “mine the back forty”, i.e. grab pre-shot footage, remix it and re-sell it to the exploding specialty cable station market. They would use dollars made in this nefarious venture to fund their own, more creative endeavors. Syd was the money gatherer, Michael was to be the guy who would get it done. On an aside, Syd had an interest in interactive media; liked my history and the way I spoke business, and so offered me a desk in his and Michael’s playpen.

It was actually kind of fun being with folks on the fringe of the most sycophantically ass kissing industry on the planet. An industry where name dropping, fables of historic non-deals made over “great meal stories” at fake restaurants was more important than actually turning revenue. I hung out there until I got a real job with another fake company out of Portland Oregon who were about to launch in Toronto. I left the playpen with Michael as a friend.

Michael was a big dude, taller than me and definitely heavier. A video production dude cliché from the top of his conservatively not short, but not mangy hair to his stovepipe cut jeans and cowboy boots. He drove a Bronco and had the, “No, the best place for… this” AND the “best place for that is…” attitude down to a T. The type of guy who would, when told that you really enjoyed the risotto at Bar Italia last night, would say… “No, the best place for Risotto is…”. Thankfully he wasn’t one of those, “the best place for risotto in… etc etc etc” type guys. Nope Michael was Strictly Toronto.

Strictly Toronto… Upper Canada College, Rosedale, Forrest Hill… I won’t get into it. Let’s just assume that Michael was an Anglican [Episcopalian for my American friends]; his folks moved to the gentle northern, pastoral ‘burbs; Michael, the Bronco driving black sheep who settled for trips to Thailand and film school over a life in finance. When I met Michael he had already parlayed the blue chips for a seriously entertaining list of stories of foreign miss-adventure; he had settled into the industry; he had socked away some dough; he had bought a house and was living with his wife in Forrest Hill. In other words, he had married a nice Jewish girl.

Outside of ALL the reason’s I could have really disliked Michael. His humorous disdain for the war between the Goys and the Heebs in the city of Toronto was precious. He bargained with his wife to pass on their son’s circumcision unless she was to allowed for their daughters to have the female version, all the rage in small villages in India… He won that battle; AND he continued to complained every time she forced him to donate that minimum $2,000 offering at temple; as for temple, he went every time it didn’t conflict with a round of Saturday morning TV/Film golf/bidness… Michael and his wife had two girls in quick succession; neither was circumcised [as far as I know].

This story ends in death.

As I have mentioned Michael and I hooked up sporadically. After the film/TV bubble burst, and after he fell out of graces with Syd, we started to see more and more of each other. I was bouncing around from one pre or post public offering Internet venture to another. Alternately being wowed and bored by my 26, 27 year old employers who for the most part actually believed that the toilet paper they called stock was worth the millions that were listed on whatever penny ante exchange they had managed to list it on… From time to time I had easy access to you know what; Michael liked you know what and would ask me to set him up with you know what…

At a low point, I got Michael a job with an old business associate who wanted to add video production to her shopping list of media offerings… I left for New York. Michael seemed happy, working with this strong businesswoman associate of mine. We’d see each other time to time. Actually, we had drinks together at “The BEST place for martini’s in New York” once while he was shooting a G-zero spot for some project…

Yes, this story truly ends in death.

Then comes the day I get a call from this strong businesswoman associate/friend of mine. I’ve fired Michael; he’s a fuck-up. Then comes the email from Michael saying he had just landed a 12 show deal with some cable specialty channel; then comes the day I get a call from Syd saying they had found Michael face down on the couch in his quite comfortable Forrest Hill home one morning apparently having suffered a, you know what, induced heart attack.

A nice upbringing with good parents that as far as I know supported every bronco riding adventure and business venture he ever entertained. Relative success enough to plant real-estate roots in one of the better parts of town; a wonderfully friendly, smart as a bug wife who adored and raised the kidlets; a new path, a gig back to past successes from what I’m told… YEARS of experience with you know what to know what you know what can do to you; I mean, he handle a serious binge of you know that other thing in Thailand for two years [or so the story goes].

When I got the call from Syd, I was in my cubbyhole at the underwear office, submerged in my own problems and dealing with my own monsterish friendship with you know what. I remember being a bit sad, but not surprised. It was close enough to lunch that I could wander outta the office and over to one of the Irish Pubs on 8th. I ordered a Guinness [no significance there at all]… Raised it in the general direction of Toronto…

Michael, you stoopid FUCK, next time I see you, I am going to smack you so hard up side the head, you’ll die all over again. All these things, good things! To hell with all those good things Michael; you gave up on two beautiful little girls and the mother you left in horror to raise them.

Suicide has many a form.

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Wedding daze

Friday, December 16th, 2005

It was a slow day the day Sally first walked into my corner bar. It was early on a Saturday, the day shift rummies had left, and the night shift rummies were, well, late again. Just me and Carlos… in comes Sally.

She looked like she could handle herself, but considering Carlos, a no less than 250lb latino, prison tats all over the oak tree he used as neck, a neck that carried about 200lbs of gold chain I might add… Considering Carlos had done his 10 years on an aggrevated rape and assualt charge, I thought I’d keep the corner of my eye on her. I wasn’t amused finding that he’d siddled up to her while I was in the back getting fresh ice.

I didn’t know Sally, I didn’t know that within minutes she’d be commenting on each tatoo, and asking after each saint and symbol on each chain… “Is that Saint Anthony?” “What’s DE-EK mean?”. Within fifteen minutes, Carlos had out a picture of his 13 year old daughter and was almost sobbing to Sally about how much he missed his little girl. They carried on until the night shift came in, and I lost track of her… I think that might have been the first night I heard “the laugh”.

A few weeks later she was in again with some friends, it was busier, she pointed out JP as the boyfriend. I believe my thought at the time was “whose this bookworm?”. I quit my job at the bar a few weeks after that, and didn’t see Sally again for a while.

One night, Jennifer was out of town and I was shufflin’ about the hood thinking about going into the city. I popped into the corner for my warm ups. A young couple were at the bar, we said hello. She told me we’d met before, but I had no recollection. Sally had transformed somehow from what I recalled a bit punkettish, to a sweet bob-haired midwestern gal. I didn’t recognize the bookworm either, as he seemed to have aged from my memory of him as some beany little twelve-year old. She convinced me that it was really her; the three of us chatted the night away… they asked me back home to play games. Games, games and more GAMES! – Friends it would be.

How do you meet people? Work, school, the health club; I guess me being me, I do tend to meet a lot of people in bars; and well, very few at the health club… Doc, Steven, Jennifer, Henry to name a few have become good friends. Friends you see outside the bar. Sally and JP became even closer friends than most. It was great having new friends in a friendly nieghborhood. Most of our friends were Jen’s former friends, these two felt more my own.

I have hundreds of great memories with Sally and JP, more than a few Sally would KILL me if I even hinted upon here. More than the memories though, Sally and JP became “that” type of friend. The type you had no discomfort with, the type who’d laugh at you when layed out, sprawled all over the tomato plants they’d just planted a month earlier. The type of friends whose company alone meant a great time was at hand.

Knowing Sally and JP went down that isle today makes nothing but perfect sense. Watching these two kids is like watching an old married couple; you know that ONE married couple we all know that seem perfectly matched AND genuinly happy in each others company. Oh sure they bicker, and JP often makes sally “cross”; but when they laugh, crimey when these two laugh, it’s like that sigh of relief you had as a kid when you saw your parents make up… I mean, all is right with the world when Sally and JP laugh.

I can’t wait to visit Sally and JP and their 7 kids one day. I am certain that that trailer is going to be full of laughter! Sally’s infectious cackle and JP’s “father knows best” ca-juggle. Another certainty is that two these kids will make it work! Well, either make it work, or change the rules. I can’t picture JP with anyone other than Sally; I can’t see anyone but steady as she goes JP putting up with that level of torment.

So, tonight, we wish ‘em well and send them on their way. A way they’ve already been going for quite some time. Later tonight, I gaurantee we’ll here them laugh. Tonight, most certainly all is right with the world.

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Oh to live on Beer Geek’s Mountain

Thursday, April 21st, 2005

As mentioned earlier, I’m struggling not to make this a teenaged girl’s diary. Not a report on the daily doings of Uncle GoGo, not the daily glop and glue of the sloppy sap that I appear to be floating on these days… This is not a diary entry but yet another story of friends, these stories I’m trying to pound out of these little keys out of this soak old brain before they drown in all the other things I’m pouring on it these days. This story may sound a bit like a diary entry as this story began this last weekend when three great friends who I hadn’t seen for years and years flew down to the city, specifically to drink beer. Carl, his sister Ina and her husband Ralph, had come down to Beertopia, we planned to meet, we met for one of those really great weekends.

I will have to immediately exclude Carl from this story, although, well, he will appear from time to time to flash that goofy grin and interject with one of his classic semi-segwaynic master pieces that immediately plasters a new never before seen smile on your face… The story of Carl runs way beyond my re-introduction to Ralph and Ina. In the future, if you do read the inevitable story of Carl, I assure you, you will need professional help un-sticking your stuck on “tickle fast” tickle button. Carl is by far the greatest Goofball I have ever known; more exactly, I’d have to say that any Goofballedness I may claim to have, I’ve learned from Carl, the master of all goofy Goofballs! Diverted…

Ina, the sister of the Goofball and Ralph own the Cafe Vollo. Have owned it and operated it together for 18 years or so, together. That my friends has to be some kind of marathonic like “being together all the time” record for a couple, living working eating and sleeping together. An honorable record AND they also managed to raise two boys, good boys at the same time… OK, the funny aside this weekend, Ina and Ralph did start a lot of conversations with, “while we were in Naples, we weren’t speaking to each other…” or “…we were on this train, we weren’t speaking to each other…” or the classic “…we were at the restaurant, we weren’t speaking with each other… but did manage to order for each other”…for some reason the start of these stories seamed as logical as they were funny. Ina and Ralph appear to be one of those couples who soundly “beat the odds”. I won’t even begin to predict how they’ve done so in such a spectacular fashion.

I know Ina and Ralph through Carl, but I also know them through Cafe Vollo, which from time to time I would frequent as a regular; at other times would find myself in only as an occasioneller, in 18 years, you can be both over and over again. Vollo’s one of those comfortable little places, an Oasis at it’s location on the most commercial streets in Toronto; food drink and friends at a slow pace in a sea of fast food places… When I was first going there as a regualr, it was wine and Italian; since then they appear to have grafted on beer… beer in a Big Big Big way. Vollo is now a craft beer bar on top of a wine and Italian restaurant, not having been there for years, I’m having a hard time trying to figure out how they could have managed to jam all this good stuff into such a tiny precious little Oasis on Toronto’s most commercial street. I can only imagine this tiny precious place jammed with folks enjoying exactly what they like, pressed together as happy people allow themselves to be jammed when enjoying themselves; Ina and Ralph enjoying them being there.

Beer. I’ve always loved beer, beer has let me down a few times. I’ve got mad at beer a few times, and most definitely beer has been mad at me more than once. I’m pretty non-selective when it comes to beer. Oh I mean, I do like good beer, micro-brewed beers, brewed by men and women who love the beer they brew are obviously my preference, but heck, toss me a silver bullet while tailgating the Bills; I’ll pop it, tip it and pour it down the pipe just as quickly as I would any “loved” beer.

The reason for Ina, Ralph’s and Carl’s visit was beer… Beyond Beertopia, their agenda included visits to New York’s finest beer bars [bars they don't want to emulate, but bars they could pick up a few things, pointers from here and there]; there were also a few “beer stores” [Canadians shudder at the very term], beer stores where they could buy samples of the many hundreds of beers they’d like to serve at Cafe Vollo. Like to serve…

The LCBO, the beer police and beer-auchracy… All beer bought in the Province of Ontario, that’s in Canada, must be bought through the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario. This board, basically does not want the people of Ontario to drink, or at least, they do not want Ontarians to have any real choice in what they drink. Molson swill and Labatt swill seems to do the trick for most, so why not all? Every time Ralph and Ina want to present a new loved beer to their customers, they must first subject the people who love making their beers to the horribly beer-o-cratic LCBO… Any of them who have had experience with this beer-o-cracy will usually just say no. Any of them who live in the more economically free “down here”, undoubtedly will say no… Alas, Canada’s misinterpretation that Americans cannot make beer continues, there loss, AND as far as I’m concerned just another great big black eye on that monstrously wrongly implemented thing they jokingly call free trade and globalization… Ooops…

So here were Ina, Ralph and Carl, in the greatest of great places sipping beers they could not have. Enjoying their continued learning of a marginal but interesting thing, I think the word is, here they were exuberantly enjoying being Beer Geeks! I gladly tagged along; although consistantly making many mistakes; mistakes like bringing these beer lovin’ folks, in the city as Beer Geeks to a Belgium restaurant when these Beer Geeks tastes run so American; mistakes like dragging them to The Whitehorse for History, the Whitehorse were on a quiet mid-winter, mid-week, mid-afternoon, one can simply melt into the old wood walls while aimlessly pouring pale yellow swill down the empty pipe and into that place that makes your head spin and forget the daily shits that had been shoveled on you earlier in the day. The Whitehorse, were ol’ what’s his name died, and where on sunny Saturdays they serve up their swill to a gaggle of frat boys waiting to strike out again and again that night… Mistakes like constantly ordering Lager in front of these ol’ Ale, hrrrr, hmmm, OK Ale snobs [smile].

Of course, it was no mistake organizing the meeting between Ina, Ralph, Carl and the Roman. That little coup resulted in the creation of a fivesome of friends that seemed to eat up the entire weekend. You can always tell when you’ve hooked the right people with the right people; any “meet stress” dissolves instantly and in very short order the people you introduced are talking rapidly about anything and everything you know absolutely nothing about… Nothing nicer than the silly smile on the face of the great big Goofball apprentice, nodding in agreement to stories about places he’s never been and experiences he never had; nodding as if to say, YO good friends, tomorrow I will have had these experiences, and by next year, well, I’ll be a definite part of these stories of places I’ve never been, things I haven’t seen and experiences I’ve never had yet. Precious is that big and goofy grin.

The next day found me on a mission, a mission to haul Ina, Ralph and Carl around point to point in Brooklyn visiting mysterious sites of high importance to Beer Geekdom… Places I’d even been to, but never saw them for this quality. At “American Beer Distributors”, in my old neighborhood no less, I found Ina, Ralph and Carl bouncing through the isles like a 10 year old boy in a Neil Simon play would bounce around Mr. Clancy’s Soda Fountain, 5 & Dime Candy Store, you know out in Flatbush or up in the Bronx. Ralph, carefully selecting new brews to be sampled by the hardcores up at Vollo, Ina leading him to the ones he may have missed, Carl, well Carl, just wandering around with that goofy grin looking like he was already tasting from the handfuls of bottle that he had placed in his side of the shopping cart. Beer Geeks seem such a more happier bunch than those Whinies you see skulking around the wine stores with the serious look of scholarly proffesors on their faces, or those drunk after the first 10 bottles tatsted Scotch-Heads.

Of course the over arching sad point is that most if not all of these beers Ina Ralph and Carl had clutched with such glee, would ever make it by the LCBO; that the contents of these bottles which these Beer Geeks held, studied and placed with an almost giddy irreverence into their basket, would only ever be tasted by a very few, very lucky, probably somewhat select group of people at the Oasis in Toronto Ontario’s, cafe Vollo. Seems a shame, but then again, there is a good group of friends of my little group of friends here that I’m sure will feel quite blessed that their friends Ina, Ralph and Carl went to such happy troubles.

After the second beer stop of the day, another store, surprising with a smaller selection but still an almost barely overlapping selection from the selection at the last place. It was during this stop that Ina planned her ambush. Disappearing for just a moment to collect her arsenal… Now, here’s another sign that you’ve hooked the right friends with the right friends [said the Goofball apprentice as he rubs his knuckles on his chest and says, ya, I did OK]; here’s another sign, it’s when one of these friends starts making better plans than you had made for the next meeting of all these friends. Ina, a Beer Geek, but a restaurateur at heart, had stocked up on all the things required to undertake a full frontal lunch assault on the studio of this beautiful Roman they’d all just met. Hey, I’d thought we’d just pop in for a quick visit, nope, Ina had prepared us for the next mission of the day. D-Day, the landbourne assault on Dumbo… and away we went…

Let’s just say, these good friends are all now good friends themselves, anymore, and this all may become more sloppily sappy than even I could bare. Small snippets, hastily assembled chairs, just enough plates to go around beers such as “Arrogant Bastard” being tasted, wine flowing, bread breaking conversations breaking out all over the place; all finished off with the last bottle of wine while lounging in the sunshine watching a school bus load of tiny kids throwing rocks into the water at the absolutely stunning beach between the oldest and most prettiest bridges in this greatest of great places. Hmmm… says the Goofball apprentice, I done did good indeed. Kisses goodbye, we’ll see youse agains soons all spoken, me and the Beer Geeks headed out on the rest of the days main mission, more beer…

The rest of the days detail are delicious but relatively unimportant, you can safely assume it was more beer in perfect beer spots. If I had the urge to become a Beer Geek myself, well, I’ve got my day of initiation all planned ahead of me. We did have to miss a spot, unfortunately as, the sun just wasn’t cooperating and I had to unleash my secret plan to end the day on my roof watching the sunset over the Midtown Manhattan Mountain Range then drag these Beer Geeks into MY beer bar for a final swig and a taste of what is, OK arguably the best pizza in Brooklyn, which of course makes it the best pizza in all the world… The night, the great weekend ended simply watching the Simpson, eating pizza and drinking some passable brews at the place I go to, well pretty much everyday single damned day.

Hooking up with old friends you barely remember having is well, a hoot, a treasure when you become better friends than you were when you were last friends. Of course Carl being good friend glue, I guess this was probably bound to happen. Hooking these friends up with new friends and having them become good friends is, well downright spectacular… You know, I’ve not once yearned to go back to Toronto. Oh, I’ll pop in pop out, see the sister, but for the most part, trips to Canada are family affairs that take place in those two small towns stretched out along the 401 just a nip over the border. That all changed this weekend. I now have this absolute desire to take a trip up Toronto’s most commercial street, up to the Oasis, were we’ll start with a few beers on the patio, eat a great Italian diner, then slip into the bar to sample a few of the rarities. I’m sure Ina, Ralph and Carl, the lovable Beer Geeks, old friends, pals who got a great big ol’ kick outta my big ol’ burly Brooklyn home will crack open a special one. Pour out some glasses… a toast to the day we spent climbing Beer Geek’s mountain, now that’ll be a toast.

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It’s Misty… Or is it?

Friday, April 8th, 2005

I’ve been experiencing instant friendships quite a bit lately. Who knows, Spring, good fortune or maybe its just due to the fact that, I’ve been flung open recently. Of course, instant friendship, no time, I’ve never liked using time as a measure of how good friends you are with someone, I mean, time does allow for a greater mixing of memes, but one quality meme shared in an instant could easily equal all the memes shared with another over a life long friendship. Let me sing you a song.

I’m actually wondering if Misty really existed at all. She showed up in the middle of a desperate night. She had already had an impact on our lives, her arrival [or theoretical arrival] prompting Dylan to make an initial sweep of the dirt burying our lives. Uncle GoGo the aging frat boy and his side kick the never-there SUPER-D. Another pal, Pauly Paul, the big ol’ New Yorker, commented that the place looked like a crack den. Having been to a couple crack dens, I’d have to add, a “dirty” crack den. Anyhow, the mere mention that we would be hosting a pretty young friend of a friend we’d never met before, prompted Dylan to clean, and me to cry because he cleaned.

Misty appeared at our door in the middle of the night; I spoke with her more on the phone than in person. We met quickly at the Shredder club, her bonding with my friends over commonalities I barely understand. Dylan stuck by her side, playing the role of the bigger big brother as she lived through her first ever night in this greatest of great places. Being with another new friend, I left her in the hands of my greatest of great friends the next night… she proceeded to scrub the last bits of the dirt left behind from bad times… the next day was peppered with reports on how our fixtures sparkled and or floor shone. Frikin doo-dad-diddly, I didn’t even knew we had a floor.

I finally got the chance for a chat with her last night, her last night. We tried to jam 10 years of friendships into an hour, we got quite a ways, but then I had to go down. Exhausted from a great week. I trundled off to bed. I woke up, she was gone as she said she would be. Off to figure things out. Make good choices on whether or not to return and when.

I can say this with absolute certainty. This friend of a friend, a great friend; a person I’d barely heard of until Monday, I can say with certainty, that if she does return, if she really actually exists at all; she’ll be returning to an already well established circle of friends. It would appear that the length of time you know some one is also no measure of how good a friend, but is also no measure of how much sap can be poured out over them as well… don’t worry though, I’m not Misty, I’m just happy to have had a cool visit from a cool person, at yet again, the right ol’ time.

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Ken, the beutifully Jazzy Jazz Mongrel – Redux

Thursday, March 31st, 2005

It would appear that angels can visit you throught the internet… I’ll fire email off to Ken, the beutifully Jazzy Jazz Mongrel’svarious addresses regualarily but not frequently… And, now it looks as though he’s back. Who knows, maybe my New York friends will one day get to hear him tinkle the ivories and bare the full-assed brunt of his devilishly dark wit.

Perhaps…

——————————————————-
I started to send you this wonderful e-mail and this
computer killed my story. Needless to say I may just
have to give you a quick collect call.

Your story is beautiful and I guess its because I love
to read things about myself especially when written by
someone who loves you. So far you’re the only one who
has that I can remember.

I don’t remember doing the survey, possibly because I
just blocked it out as I have with so many things. I
used to just eat all that shit and smile. Now I’m
lashing out. I can’t keep it from spilling out. Of
course the system has a hold of me now and I’m doing
the out-patient thing again and I just hate my life
these days. And for what? Because I’m dating a white
art historian, intellectual property lawyer who cheats
on me and if I break a mirror over it she calls the
cops on my black ass. I wants me a Bollywood girl.

Find a song of mine called “Tell Me Lies”

http://www.garageband.com

It should be on the all time jazz charts at ..45 I
think.

Or just look for jazzmonger.

Also check out a CBC site called ZeD for other
submissions including a couple of paintings.

I do remember us taking strawberry microdot and going
to see West Side Story because we couldn’t get tickets
to see David Bowie in the Elephant man, lighting my
southern comfort on fire and telling Mr. Roos that I
was old enough to drink in New York. It all comes
back. I remember sleeping in your parents garage
which gave me my first taste of living on the streets.
Yikes! What happened to me? I’m a desperate
alcoholic who shouldn’t drink but I just can’t seem to
get it right. The only time I ever stayed straight
was for a year and a half from May 1997 to February 2
1999 it was at this time that I met the most beautiful
woman I’d ever seen. I started to drink and lost her
and my dignity. There is so much I’d like to tell you
but I think I save that for a phone chat. Libraries
only give you so much time on their farging computers.

Love you like a brother

always.

Ken Skinner
——————————————————-

Love you like a brother, I know what he means here, but I have to laugh as perhaps, he could have meant something else. Please send good karma to my pal here, he’s a wee bit fucked up, but he deserves better.

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One L Michele – Part One of Many Many More

Friday, March 25th, 2005

OK, enough of the guys for a while, time to hit a hard one. Besides, I gotta get this one down before it gets paved over with false memories brought on by all the similar things that have happened since it. OK, the guys have been fun, but feel I’m risking being falsely identified as the faggot [and you KNOW I mean that politely], the craptastic sapalicious anal-izer of all things that happened last night at yesterdays bathhouse… Anyhow, this is an avoidence, you see me avoiding this, why am I avoiding, well because boys and girls, this is the big one, the extremely personal one. Actually…

I’ll preface this ‘part one’ prologue this with a couple of warnings for the squeamish amongst you. Firstly, turn back now or cover your ears and duck; if you do decide to proceed, do yourself a big favor and download a big old load of big assed gee-tar ballads. Vintage 70’s super groups would likely serve you best, launch them, crank it and, well well well just sit back and enjoy a tale so wo-full, well, it’ll just break your heart.

Fooling with you, really it’s just the standard fare tale, young man moves to the city, meets young girl, takes young girl for a wife then proceeds to hang with the transsexuals as the young wife begins fooling about with her art/business partner who just so happens to share the same name as the young man who moved to the city. You’ve heard it, lived it all before, it’s a story told day after day after day in all those books you see the secretaries reading on the subways, on the way to and from work, dreaming of Fabio, settling for guys like me. Avoiding it still, see that, yes, I am avoiding it still, but, well here we go…

Part One –Mushy Meetings:

Part one starts out in the usual place. A guy with an open heart, waiting to fill it with the excitement of a movie and a first kiss. It had been two years since the end of what he thought should have been that previous thang that shoulda just kept right on going. Two years, two problems, firstly, I believe we are meant to bond, so an open heart creates a sad loneliness that just aches day in and day out; secondly, as my buddy Rick said so eloquently once… two years, “I had stored up enough god damned jizz to shampoo a small brown bear”. Two years, is a very long time in your twenties [of course, now in my forties, two years is barely enough time to read the paper and gulp down a coffee for breakfast].

So, there I was, all lonely and horny, beginning to shed my flea bitten artist habits… still living like and with a couple of artists but focusing more on money making, and obviously, money spending. I am pretty sure money plays a big part in this one…

I had been working at this place that colorized black and white movies [dare to jar that memory open and I'll be sitting at this here computer, typing furiously for the next seventeen and a half years]… Colorization, I was changing Jimmy Stewart, Orson Wells, Emory Parlle and Peter Lore from beautifully toneful bits of black and white history into mushy noise reduced globs of ill picked and poorly placed colorfully soulless saps that were to dance dollars into the hands of the folks who then would re-secure the rights to these now brutalizingly colorful ’shows’ that were once old movies that had fallen into public domain.

A full 75% of my co-workers were either Ontario College of Art grads or Ontario College of Art dropouts like myself. I had worked my way up to upper management, one L Michele became an Art Director. In other words, she picked the colors and I told all my old art school pals where, when and how to stick them.

There’s a side story here… Before taking the plunge, I had been eyeing one L Michele for quite some time. I was ready to ask her the scary question, but then she applied for a promotion, a promotion to that Art Director gig… It being mostly my decision on who would get the gig, I felt it highly inappropriate to ask one of the candidates out on a date the day after I had interviewed her. It took a god damned month for me and my partners in this crime to come to a god damned decision, a whole month on top of those danged two years… run little brown bear RUN.

So there I was, ooogling a gal, AND getting good advice from her pal that I was, indeed being ooogled back. Couldn’t ask her out so what to do, what to do but what the heck, throw a party. Money was good, it was time to show off that this hunter and gather at the young old age of 24 or something had hit the nutpot, sorry, had, nut the jackpot and had enough extra dough-ray-me to invite the gang over and feed them from the cooler he filled mostly himself. By the way, sorry kids, this is actually how we all spoke back in Canada a way back at that turn of that century we called the late 1980’s, early 90’s. We wuz speakin’ post punk hallalua glory be god that the cowboy didn’t blows us all ups before weze all got the chance to make and spend all this money talk.

Relatively, I had it good, I was living in about 2000 square feet with a couple of pals; the sign on the door of these 2000 square feet read “The Parkdale Sports Fishing and Hunting Club”. Indeed, what else to do but throw a party, invite the gang, invite the job candidate, play it coy but get and give some insider info so that when the decision had been made, the question could be asked… The party ended up being the weekend before the Friday we finally hired one L Michele for the job.

There’s a sweater, a drafting table and phony ploy from a great old friend mixed up in this story as it heads off to the in-between time between Saturday’s party and Friday’s decision… Let’s see if I can remember which came first and who did what to who now. But first, an intermission, an interlude and a bit of advise to those twenty something year olds who might be planning to throw thier own party… One, plan your parties in early spring so the chicks wear, then discard their sweaters strategically about the house; Two, be sure to invite all peoples who have spoken kindly, highly and often about all the goodness you have offered humanity; and thirdly, if you have a microwave, hide your alarm clock, otherwise, drunken experiments that destroy both may easily ensue. Fucking Twenty Something Year Olds… that was a perfectly good alarm clock!

More on parties in the late eighties, you gotta know the context kids. Remember at this time DJ’s hadn’t yet been invented. Most of the good ones were still tossing the ball on whatever playground it was they grew up on. Club drugs were still being prescribed as relaxants to couples undergoing marital counseling, heck there really weren’t any clubs, well at least not the hanger sized snake pits full of hopped up happy kids that came a few years later. OK, OK, ya ya there were clubs, but to us these were just fading sweaty places, uptown, halls full of aging Ginos and Ginettes, drinking happily named drinks and dancing to tired out old disco dreck. This was a moment in-between. This was the time that all the stuff I had come of age with, stuff like punk, [I mean real punk, not this emo crap the kiddies swoon to these days], stuff like heroic painting and The Dukes of Hazard etc…. This was the exact moment all these things dried up and blew away. My hog hair bristles sat idly glued into each of their individual paint pots. We had grown up and grown out of a whole big bunch of things; conversly, we hadn’t quite grown into something else, quite yet.

Our party was mus-ikked by pre-recorded mixed tapes. Songs would have easily included our old favorite punky-dunkalicious standbys [I'm so bored of the U.S.A], and the stuff we were listening to, in this in-between time; Hank Williams, Ema Sumac, maybe some Roy Orbison. To old for the Smiths, to young, well too fucking young and fucking meaninglessly few in fucking numbers [fark you I AM gen-X], to have anything that was really fuckin’ ours. I do recall it being a really good party though.

So yes, one L Michele dropped by to pop a few beers from that cooler. She came wearing a light blue sweater, I spoke with her and her friends a few times, I kept an eye on her to make sure none of the other hunter gatherer types were angling in on what I wanted quite badly at that time. Ways back then we were a much more polite lot, at least my gang anyhow. Oh, there were a few, lte’s call ‘em, young Turks, jerks who had histories of bagging and bragging, but it just didn’t seem to be “the thing” with my crowd, my polite crowd. Maybe it was just the Art Schoolish overly read overly left pedigree and/or the fact that sexy feminism hadn’t quite percolated itself into the form of lipstick lesbians and lady friends who NOW like to bag and brag like the big boys themselves. I had wary eyes on one “bag and bragger” who was spending attention on one L Michele; one L Michele handled herself quite handily…

When the party was over [most likely sometime early Sunday afternoon], amid the beer bottles, cigarette butts and the usual layer of post party scum, we found, a nice light blue Sweater.

It’s always fun to be picked up. Matter of factly, I think this is the case in most cases. Oh I don’t know, I have on occasion, thrown my growl into the ring, I have gotten all he-manny, attempting to snag the “what I wants” from moment to moment, but honestly, growing up with punkish childhood angst and Art School ethos, just didn’t leave me with the tool required to dive into the frat boy pool and compete for the super lovelies. Stick with what you know, let them come to you; uber passive aggressiveness; sickly charm a little compassion and a little empathy… I had one L Michele in the bag, I was now in possession of her light blue sweater.

…AND with that, this is the END of part ONE of many… Tune in next time, when the we’ll examine just how the light blue sweater, drafting table and phony ploy from a great old friend lead us directly to the wasted, or rather the years of growth and experience, eight great years, eight years that I will just have to ask you… just WHAT did you do… Eight years, was a vey long time, I think it may deserve Parts 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and, maybe 7 and 8, and in all likelihood… 9.

My god, NO, we’re not talkin’ “best years of your life”… just good years that helped fill the gap between, well between then and now.

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What is up With Doc?

Saturday, March 19th, 2005

You must know by now, where you meet the best of your friends. You meet great friends at school, often life long friends. You meet good friends at work, sometimes you’ll even know these people for a year or two after you quit that damn assed job… Outside of that, unless of course you’re the church going type, the best friends you meet will be the peoples you meet at your local bar [or simply your local in my world].

I have and have always had a number of “locals”. Matter of fact, and this is already a future hummm in progress, fact is, I always have at least four or five locals on the go at any given time… heck, the other day, I realized I had become a regular at a bar at 23rd and 1st, O’Connels, only because it’s right near the NYU Dental Center, and doink, I’m there once a week, I have a Local for my trips to the Dentist… [free shot of Jamison when I pop in post-op with a face swollen and stuffed with cotton]. I digress, the story of all my locals is on the burner, keep your eyes and ears posted… I promise a serious slew of twisted tales… BUT, wait, this little ditty isnt about locals, it is about one of my most favorite Irish/Bostonian dude-guys [thanks Wade], Doc.

The place I call my Manhattan local is a place called the Swan. OK, here’s the thing, it’s been my Manhattan local for over six years now. The x introduced me to the place mere moments after I met her. I’ve been hitting the German taps at the Swan since, since well, over a year before I moved here. A local is a place you frequent, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not twice a week like it once was… I frequent the Swan now… primarily to see Doc.

Doc’s is an older gentleman [the term gentleman survives today only to describe gentlemen like Doc], he’s older, I believe he’s 69.

Let’s get these facts out of the way; Doc is 69 he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart AND a Bronze Star [more on that later. For my Canadian, and now Italian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired NYC plastic Surgeon, he’s gay, AND he is the best damned Republican I have ever had the pleasure to meet.

Doc and I struck up a conversation long before nine eleven… Doc and I became good friends on the basis of my complete non-homophobic ability to kiss him on the lips every time I saw him, and our ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic [non-partisan democratic mind you] enlightenment. Doc is a true American argument… I mean, c’mon, he’s not only gay, a decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican, he’s also from the Land of the evil, cursed family that tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that booze running flaming wackos… ooops, sorry, Doc is from Massacheustis [the place I cannot not only not pronounce, but cannot spell].

The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he’ll talk about himself… He was born to middleclass Irish folk up in Boston, AND he has the accent to prove it. Haven’t heard much of his childhood story, but some how he got himself through med-school. It was back in the sixties, he somehow knew, he’d have to serve; an old prof who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned down there, but when that sheltered assignment was up… he requested to go to Nam [he had the opportunity to do Germany, but he REQUESTED to go to Nam].

He honestly hasn’t told me much about being a warrior/doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me a weird drunken story about this cove he’d often swim in and how he rescued a small child from the currents and the sharks, how he stitched up this boy after the boy had been bitten. He has yet to, but we have an agreement that he will one day tell me how he was awarded his Bronze Star. It is a story, a date, I am very much looking forward to.

It gets a bit sketchy, but he returned from Nam… and skippity-skip-to-lou a whole whack of stories I have yet to hear later, he became a renowned plastic surgeon in the one place outside of L.A. where plastic surgeons are regarded as absolute gods, NYC. Again it’s sketchy, but I can tell you this by seeing his old apartment, he was living the 1960’s / 1970’s Halston lifestyle…

Sidebar, Halston was the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leap frog years above that silly white haired boy who had a loft he called a factory down in the heroin ridden scum town they called… Art. Nope ladies, Halston was NYC in the 60’s and 70’s AND Doc’s old apartment stank of Halston… mirrored walls, zebra print bed sheets, red shag carpets and 100’s of thousand little glass figurines… every where. Not to mention two cute as doodles little doggie dogs who survive to this day at 16 and 18 years of age.

Doc has told me stories of being pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold Roles Royce… He ‘Falls’ with his pal Trudy [heir to the scientist who invented no more tears and sold it to Johnson and Johnson], he ‘Falls’ with Trudy at Villa Desta [along with Donettelo et al]… he’s a once a year Winter regular guest at the Bermuda Beach Club… He has introduced me to friends, good friends, who own restaurant chains who get chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limos. He has told me all these stories, and, the way he has told them, I have never once felt belittled, or subrogated to another class. Doc, my good dear friend, knows the value of friendship… I will leave it at that.

Actually, no maybe I won’t… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas as I was, in a forgetable state, Doc gave me the greatest compliment a friend could give… I had a whole big whakin’ pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through them with Doc… Gordon, he said, you don’t need to go to your AA meetings… you don’t have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take a month off whenever you’re feeling out of control… Gordon, he said, go to the NYU Dental center [across from the VET] on first Ave, they’re cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth… Gordon he said, you and Jen will remain good friends… and, you’ll meet someone soon… we then proceeded up Park, him drinking, while me holding him upright as I was, well at his advise taking a month off. True, utter beautiful friendship.

The compliment came when he told me, Gordon, ‘the nice thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things to be attempted to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have issues; issues are so much more easily manageable’. I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I would stick on it until the day I die… Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I actually feel the moment I walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… nuff said about that.

I have a vague memory of the things I wanted to get up to as I started to write this stuff about my good friend Doc. I think I may have wanted to write about our non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union [over which Doc and I have buried hours!]. He’s a Republican, I’m a Canadian [and we’ll leave it at that]… We see eye to eye on about 90 percent all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in the Gomorrah theory of the US of A, and where as I see a country, empire, epoch, not yet even beginning to take it’s place in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same position…

I wanted to write about these conversations, but as I got into writing this, I believe I may have started to realize, that although the stuff you “talk” about with your friends may be important, it really is the beautiful opportunity to talk WITH your friends, share the shit, the luck of having someone close, dear and on your wavelength that makes it all important… Craptastic Sap Master, Signing Off…

Love you guys!

[PS, I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of advice, AND I revel in the advise and examples of life living they give me… to my older friends, Doc, Paul, Fred to name but a few, I am honored, FUCKING HONERED, to have their friendship, and to have axcess to their wisdom…AND am beholden to passing the wise advise they give me onto these younger friend of mine]

Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like a Potatoe.

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