Uncle GoGo

I have spent a lot of effort over the last decade or so deflecting the notion that I am an alcoholic. I can’t count the times I’ve had to explain that modern calculations on alcohol intake MUST be flawed as given my own consumption, I was not an alcoholic, more likely I was dead. In the end I have come to a conclusion that trying to explain your drinking to someone while mostly drunk to someone who is mostly sober is simply a folly.

So, now, I’m not drunk, AND no longer drinking all that much, OR, perhaps, applying current thinking; I AM CURED! - Praise Jesus?

The diseasification of stupid drunkenness by way of the lexicon of alcoholism is really irksome. Really, if I were to classify myself as an alcoholic, a judgment many have laid upon me; then I am by definition diseased and then, am I really responsible? - Doesn’t “disease” inheritently imply that I am not 100% culpable in this condition of mine; that I have some how contracted this condition through some genetic flaw. Even if we were to classify alcoholism as a preventable disease, doesn’t it being a disease render it somewhat, inevitable.

This may have the appearance of yet another preamble to yet another rant on the end of personal responsibility in our culture… and it most certainly could be, but there is another problem in this thinking of alcoholism as a disease. The diseasification of stupid behavior such as drinking too much further skews, not only the idea of personal responsibility; but, also, by allowing us to see drunken idiots as diseased, allows us to classify drunken idiots as victims.

AND here we go again! Our whole notion of victim has been shifted. We’ve already turned over half of our criminals into victims; now we’re adding all of our idiots. Our pool of victims, now already swelled past the breaking point with thieves and vandals from bad neighborhoods; sixteen year old single mothers; fat people and now, alcoholics, no longer has room for the poor unfortunate sod who takes the bullet at the bank robbery gone bad… Absurdly, many of the folks who USED to be victims have been shuttled off to that mind-space reserved for heroes; SADLY those victims that can’t be bent like a pretzel into the hero model have simply been left out in the cold…

I am certainly NO victim, and… I have found it rather easy to stop drinking so much. As a matter of fact, its been quite easy to drink nothing at all. It has been SO easy that I think some people close to me may even be questioning whether I really am an alcoholic at all? - I mean, if little ol’ ME can beat this disease, this affliction that has so tragically taken so many in our society… If this scourge IS this easy to beat; by someone as simple as him; rather than conflict with conclusions, he must not have had the disease at all. [Get your calculators out folks, its time to re-work those figures you measured me against].

Of course, on the other hand… perhaps my swift recovery from this horrible disease places me in the realm of heroes?

…now; truth be told people.

Indeed, by common calculations; I am most certainly, an alcoholic. BUT, as easily as I make that admittance I addimantly REFUSE to classify myself as diseased. My drinking too much to the point were I became habitually drunk was NOT only preventable; it was really just plain old idiotic. Pricking my ass on the spire of the temple of my own stupid mistakes, indeed…

Sorry folks, I hate to disappoint… I have NOT concurred an impossible affliction. I have NOT battled insurmountable odds and defeated my desperate demons. As with all the other bad habits I’ve had over the years and that includes ALL the known bad habits one can easily think of, well, except maybe for, those few known bad habits that require apparatus… like with all my bad habits; I simply found something better to do.

Excuse me if I’ve jumped on your notion that some other friend of yours, suffering a similar affliction has the possibility of an excuse here based on the fact that he is simply suffering a disease. Sorry, in my opinion, its his owned damned fault. AND… quite obviously, at this point…

I need a smoke!

…which of course, is not true.

As far as inner-city baby-gear is concerned, the stroller is item #1 on the list of things to be considered most carefully. I mean, mobility… We don’t have a car; will not own a car in the very near future. This family is on foot; on the subway and in the occasional cab. Eight hundred dollars; amortized over the 4 or 5 years we’ll be carting this kid around is a pittance. We have no problem wiping year old yucky-icky-goo off all the other used, pre-owned, pre-loved baby items we buy for our baby off eBay and Craigslist, but this babies gotta go good…

Sweet ride baby! - Comes with everything shown above, everything you need to convert it from a carriage to a stroller. The big ol’ back wheel make it ideal for tacklin’ the subway stairs. The ‘basket’ detaches in a snap; and weighs about 10lbs. We’ll leave the chassi chained up to the stairs downstairs when we walk up the four flights home; and heck, the kid could probably live in the bassinet and/or seat for the next 4 or 5 years.

It comes with accesories; an undercarriage basket, a couple of different tops and baby coverings… We’ll probably buy the add-on cup holder and travel bag that fits on the handle. I betcha, Robbie, with her years of ’street vending’ experience, will have this puppy customized to the point where a weeks worth of groceries could be strapped, buckled, pinned, glued and/or clipped on in a blink.

So; although we still like the cardboard box solution… Hey, from what we’re told; this COMES in a big ol’ cardboard box. We’ll probably end filling THAT with shredded newspapers and use it as a crib!

NOTE: I’ve been told that this is typical behavior; AND that my interest in the baby strollers will most likely become an obsession. I’ve already found myself contemplating, how I could motorize this machine; make it float, and ultimately, make it fly; in a stable controlled manner, obviously.

The thought struck me the other day; this is a city of magicians. Next time you’re here; simply ask someone for anything; the object of your desire will be in your hands in moments; any object. Every last ‘thing’ known to mankind can be obtained, here in this city; simply by wondering if its available. I have been to other cities; many have their own unique conveniences; many have have a similar treasure trove of all things one could possibly desire… I challenge anyone in a race to obtain, say, a banana, a cup of coffee, a toasted bagel with scallion cream cheese, a pack of smokes, two bottles of wine, a bathroom floor mat and a bottle of beer from your favorite micro brewery. (OK, the bagel’s not fair)

Convenience is definitely a key component to a perfect day.

This morning, a woman got on our train and recited the worn out old story of how she was collecting for her three daughters at home; that she was pregnant and had exhausted all options for assistance. At the next stop, another woman, quite young, and as Robbie pointed out surprising beautiful and relaxed for a woman with two toddlers in tow; another in a stroller and yet another strapped to her chest in a pouch… We all got off at the same stop; I helped her with the stroller and Robbie held the hand of the youngest up the stairs; this city could use a few more escalators.

There is NEVER an open bar stool; our place for Chinese screws up our order somewhere in the one minute and 35 seconds it takes for the delivery guy to get to our door after we hang up the phone… There is nowhere to go pee outdoors anywhere… Every last single radio station in this city appears to be tuned to “All Hip Hop - All the Time”. If you can find a place to eat outdoors; its almost guaranteed your table will be at a 15 degree angle from level. 6 out of 10 people are distracted by their cellphones at any given time, this advances to 9 out of 10 when you reach the checkout counter; 10 out of 10 people working behind the counter are on their cellphones.

…suffering in silence is part of the process; I’ll have a brand new list tomorrow…

The other morning, I walked out of an appointment in a part of the city I don’t normally find myself, I was faced with 6 options to pick up a coffee, banana and the paper to read on the train. I happened into a bodaga and found myself surrounded by a group of Sikhs eating Indian breakfast grub from a huge steam table multicolored with bowls of sweet smellin’ glop… I joined ‘em for a bite; grabbed my banana and coffee; forgot the paper, descended into an empty subway station to the almost cliche sounds of a lone saxophone; found the paper on the train and headed off to the studio with a nice bug smile on my face.

(Hassles/Conveniences) X Surprisingly Wonderful Unexpected Incidents = The Measure of a Perfect Day.

So far…

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!

Last night, mi amore comes running out of the bedroom… “it moved, it moved, it moved!!!” - I put my hand on the belly and felt a kick, then we cried ourselves to sleep…

It just keeps getting better!

I was first introduced to Jerry Falwell in a round about way in an episode of “WKRP in Cincinnati” back in, oh, probably 1979. A great American sit-com centered around a collection of cartoon likenesses of the cartoon characters of the day… Herb Tarluk, the cartoon cut-out of the morally challenged sales guy; Venus Fly Trap, the cartoon cut-out guy from the hood [who actually turned out to be a cartoon cut-out of a successful middle class black jus pretending to be from the cartoon cut-out hood]; Johnny Fever, the cartoon cut-out washed up stoner burnt out cartoon cut-out hippy… [and the Professor and Marian]. On this episode, this cartoon cut-out collection of fine people were being challenged with the loss of advertising revenue after a cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell had organized a boycott of companies that advertised on WKRP, companies like the one who made Red Wigglers…

The ever indecisive, lovable old Mr. Carlsen was about to side with the more traditionally meek cartoon cut-outs in his crew, Herb and Les Nessman… After a heated debate with the well groomed cartoon cut-out 80s prototype sensitive man, Andy, he chose to test the cartoon-cut out of Jerry Falwell… He presented the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell with the lyrics to John Lennon’s cartoon like musings… “Imagine”… “Of course we’d put that on our can’t play list”; “Imagine, there’s NO heaven… blasphemy” proclaimed the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell in cartoon cut-out like fashion… Needless to say; the rolly-polly, jolly old cartoon cut-out of everyone’s favorite dad on the block, Mr. Carlsen became determined, NOT to fight the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell; but alas, to simply weather the storm.

I seem to recall this storm amounting to not much more than a short squall that, in the end, outside of slightly helping to blow Ronald Reagan into the White House and a few “flag waving” “Righties” into the legislature; not amounting to very much at all.

If you examine it closely; Ronald Reagan was going to enter the White House one way or another. His collection of an additional 5 to 6 million votes from “Jerry’s silent-moral majority” may have been the push he needed in round one; but did they really have much of an impact on him taking every state outside of Minnesota [or the such] in round two? America was sick of lickin’ it’s chops, and pandering to those who railed around the nations flaws as the Democrats had been doing since Nixon’s little embarrassment. America just wasn’t gonna put Mr. I HATE ISRAEL AND EVERYTHING IT STANDS FOR back into the White House…

I think a lot of people these days fail to see the ebbs and tides of American politics. Sometimes the great political tidal system flows, sweeping Americans up into a grand cause; at other times it ebbs, and FOLLOWS the opinions of the citizenry as they cower away from their responsibilities. Reagan was the swift moving tide this nation needed at a critical time when the crumbling infrastructure of the Soviet Union was about to implode; without a “strong” America; where would the world be? The Soviet system, suffering from the syphilis born from fucking itself for three generations was going to collapse; better to collapse into American arms than into, utter destructive chaos, OR say into the arms of China, or say into a Europe so socialized and confused that most nations couldn’t hold a government for more than three days… except, hmmm… oh ya, right, the Germans.

Blah, blah, blah… my interpretation of history, which remains quite ridiculous, at this point usually results in the accusation of having drunken too many sips from one coolade container or another; lets get back to examining the cartoon cut-out of Jerry Falwell.

It’s really is quite simple, Jerry’s Silent Moral Majority’s hot button issue was abortion; they also liked to railed against what they saw as a tide of homosexuality sweeping across the nation; destroying all that was decent in their extremely narrow perception of what American decency was… In reality, they were a bunch of folks who had been damned right pissed off since Johnson gave away the last broken down chicken coop to the, eh, hem, ni… blacks back in ‘68. The press coverage of the fake-flower-power revolution had confused and fooled them into believing that a revolutionary army made up of a hoard of GAY hippies was about to wash over the nation… They hid their agenda behind the cross, funny enough, pretty much the same way the hippies hid their agenda behind their “two-fingered”, “up yours” peace sign gesture.

The plebeian tribes squabble as the Emperor Monkeys chuckles and takes all the bananas for themselves.

It’s 27 years later; more states not only allow abortions but fund them. Abortions are more available than they ever were in Jerry Falwell’s worst nightmares. The argument the 5% or so of American’s who are gay, is no longer whether they should step out, speak up or surrender for psychological reprogramming; they are no longer the pariah; legislators no longer shudder at the prancing proud army, but rather sit and have relatively reasoned debates over whether or not we should call their couplings a simple civil union, or a marriage. Needless to say; being part of the 5% or so American who call themselves gay is a whole heck-uv-a-lot easier now than it was 25 years ago… or so.

Jerry Falwell’s Silent Moral Majority DID hold some slight bit of sway in the rhetoric of American politics. Through basically what amounts to a scheduling error; they managed to force conservative Presidential politicians to genuflect and swing to the far right for a few months as they headed through the Southern Primary’s on their way to Super Tuesday… This all changes this year with Super-Duper Tuesday being the first and final “Big Stop” on the ticket next year… Note the Republican front runner imploring that government “stay out of American’s personal lives”.

In the end; after the rhetoric, even the most creepy-right-religious of American politicians, supported by Jerry Falwell’s silent moral majority failed to really bend the American tradition, to more or less live and let live all that far from the absolute dead center of the road… where it belongs.

A good American is one who stands up and struggles for what he believes in; if what he believes in matches a significant number of other American’s beliefs; AND if he effectively leads these people, and gets their beliefs an audience before the government of the day he becomes a Great American. Despite what you think, or what I think, approximately 10,000,000 American’s held the same beliefs as Jerry Falwell; and likely many more than 10,000,000 hold extremely similar beliefs. Jerry Falwell got these American’s and their beliefs a hearing… now, that hearing didn’t amount to much; but heck, THAT was not Jerry Falwell’s fault; rather, maybe it is the proof that this system of government does kinda work, kinda.

We live in a country where, over a relatively accessible cable channel, one can now watch a cartoon show depicting small cartoon cut-outs of young children saying “fuck” at least once or twice a season, I saw episode, I think back in ‘05 where a cartoon cut-out likeness of everyone’s favorite cartoon cut-out Paris Hilton is coughing up cartoon cut-out cum every five minutes… Companies like those who make the “Red Wigglers” regularly advertise on our cable channels. Abortion is relatively available; homosexuals can get married in Massachusetts and/or form binding civil unions in many states… The storm, she did blow, but, in the end I think, you, me and the good’n’stoned DOCTOR Johny Fever weathered the storm quite nicely.

I mean, just how moral would you like US to be?

Clearing out the jumble after a long and cheerful weekend spent NOT doing the work I could have been doing but instead doing all the fun things I ended up doing; After a weekend of being the BEST damned dock whore I could ever possibly be… The Headline on Today’s paper screamed at me the results of a poll that had NYers exalting Mikey Bloomberg as a better Mayor than Rudy “America’s Mayor” Giuliani; AND a better candidate for Presidente. I think I’m starting to agree with these NYers.

Although my love and respect and adoration and devout worship of Rudy will never diminish, I gotta admit, Mikey’s doing a pretty damned good job. OK, Mikey and Me don’t see eye to eye on all this nanny-state crap, even though I’d really, really, really like to see a lot fewer incredibly huge fat ugly slobs chowin’ down buckets of trans fat soaked burgers and fries, chicken, burritos, chips, ice cream cones etc etc etc at one damned sitting as their un-humanly fat butts melt so frikin ungraciously over the sides of the double wide plastic orange benches at the local McDeath outlet…

Despite this difference of opinion on the role of the state in keeping us idiots alive; or trying to make us more healthy; I think America needs Mikey B’berg to RUN and become President. His, “I bought this, it’s mine and I’ll take a dollar a day” approach to governing this “used-to-be ungovernable” city has been a breath of fresh air in a city where the air hasn’t been all that fresh for some 400 years. I think America would be well served by someone who simply bought the Presidency out from under the Illuminate supported ass-jokers the so-called two party system candidates the ’star chamber’s’ been spitting out over the last few years. I mean come on, the lesbian wife of the guy whose TRUE claim to fame was being the ONLY President to get caught getting his dick-sucked in the Oval Office replacing the retarded son of the high priest of the Skull & Crossbones, class-o-’37… John Edwards! Barak-bin “I’m building my candidacy around some weepy book about my oh so interesting life growing up with a mother whose excuse for NOT being able to stick it out with my father is some weird, I gotta solid Liberal Arts education that forced me to abandon my son with his Grand parents in Hawaii so he could stick with his buddies, and learn enough about being black to fit into the South Side Chicago, oh lets hep the po’ people of our left behind neighborhood” Obama!

People… please! More than a year to go and already the mess we call the press is starting to chuck it all and say; lets let the guy who plays that guy on TV be President; you know that bald NYC DA guy Dalton, Thomas, someone… ya, that guy…

I say, let Mikey buy the big chair! - He’ll WIN us the war on terror; AND save us all a buck-fitty while we’re at it…

But, oh, but it was, such a beautiful weekend!

Last Friday, me and my shrink dedicated this week to the new program, TCB. Yep, folks, I’m sticking my tail between my legs, completely prostrating my former position on the idea of putting my brain into the hands of someone who actually followed through on the ridiculous notion of becoming a therapist; someone who not only wants to help people, but thinks he might just be able to do so. Don’t get me wrong; the fact that TCB is what we’ve come up with is DEAD ON proof that I picked the right guy! I mean, the last thing I would ever want to hear would be something nurturing… And the worst thing anyone could ever suggest was that I scour my past for some nugget of some wrong that was foist upon my younger me by father, teacher, priest… Nope; this week; its all ELVIS baby! Takin’ Care of Business!

Happy Mother’s Day!

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!

Triple Ouches

When you have made this many mistakes; you learn to cherish them. I totally agree with who ever it was that mentioned that you will learn a hundred times more from one mistake than you will from 100 triumphs [if indeed that was ever mentioned].

I have and always will take full responsibility, something my father ingrained in me with the gentle sole of his standard issue Armed Forces boots; AND have absolutely NO regrets. He who claims no mistakes; is no more than a ghost or even more likely an insecure lier. Some of the most interesting moments in my life have been been the struggles to overcome my biggest mistakes! I am nothing but the composite of my successes, failures and mistakes…

Feeling the hot and moist breath of 50 gently tickle the hairs on the back on my neck. Oh, there’s a few years left before the ultimate “midway” performance review; but I feel it coming, it cannot be outrun… It will soon be time to turn ’round and embrace the old guy.

I could list a series of goof, gaffs guffaws and blunders that pock my life like the face of the kid who was so far out of the running for prom-king that they forgot to put his picture in the yearbook; there are a few that would warrant enough examination to afford a shrink’s child two years tuition at one of the best prep schools in town. I’m trying to think what my favorite might be…

Would my favorite be one of those mistakes I saw coming; slowly ambling over the horizon as I simply dithered away waiting for the obvious decent and eventual cataclysmic impact and destruction of the entire foundation I had built, usually upon the wreckage of numerous previous mistakes; OR would my favorite be one of the spectacular sideswipes… Mistakes that appear initially as surprising unexpected events until some healthy personal forensics reveals that, at the source, as per usual is a tiny point of decision; a seemingly insignificant wrong turn down the wrong fork in the wrong road; perhaps a missed intersection or on-ramp. Perhaps I would have to pick a favorite from each category.

I’m assuming that over the next few years the amount of effort I spend untangling certain past mistakes will, be as great, or greater than the effort required to steer clear of the next big mistakes… My challenge for yesterday.

Happy Birthday to Me

I burned just a little less than about one fifth of a gallon of gasoline over the weekend… on six separate occasions I fired up the four horsepower motor on the boat that I borrow three times to get out of and and three times to get into of the harbor I sail from around a tight packing of sailboats in this tiny little harbor. Oh, I could have sailed into and out of the harbor; I’ve sailed into and out of tighter spots than this before; but its a rule I respect in respect for the feelings of the anxiety that sailing this close to the other boats may cause in the minds of the others who sail on the weekend in these small little boats from this tightly packed harbor.

I fired up the four horsepower motor to get through a lull in order to get my small little boat back into the small tight packed harbor on time… I’ve sailed through lulls before AND the wind was filling in from the south as per usual… but its not my boat I share it with others and I felt the need to respect the clock and make the boat ready for the next bunch of sailors.

I burned a little bit less than one fifth of a gallon of gas while sailing this weekend I thought to myself as I rode the packed subway to work again this morning… Last Friday I walked home from work and I boiled a few eggs under the light cast by the one florescent light bulb that lights the counter under the cabinets in my small but adequate galley style kitchen. I felt a bit guilty that the eggs weren’t from free range chickens but then again after all I was just going to mash them up and mix them with Kraft mayo and spread them on whatever bread was left over from last nights lovely dinner that we made with ingredients bought from our small local grocer. I can do better.

Don’t get me going!

I have to remind myself to find an alternative to the processed and prepackaged Kraft mayonnaise AND, I really should speak with my baker with regards to the source of their flower and the process in which they bake my bread in the late evening/early morning down the street from my tiny apartment. I should start walking to work more often; at least as often as I walk home. For after all, this slight decrease in the crowdedness may trigger the positive response which could get that one extra person riding the train rather than say, taking that cab that causes traffic congestion and leads to one more car caught idling in the intersection blocking the truck needed to cart that big bag of fair-trade coffee to the front door of my local coffee house. Cafe Collage not only serves up a fine cup of fair-trade coffee but posts signs to assures me that a small percentage of the change I drop into the tip jar does not go to top up the slavery like wages the proprietor pays his dread-braided student barristas; BUT that one penny from my fifty cent tip will be put into a fund that will go towards some cause they all can agree on at the staff meeting they hold every Friday. If only his monthly expenses don’t all of a sudden catch up to him like they did a few months ago when he cut all the hours and had one less employee to serve me my fine cup of fair-trade coffee.

Maybe tomorrow I wont buy the paper hoping that this sacrificial personal act of making a butter-fly-wing-flapping like gesture will resonate as a sound business decision in some boardroom the need to reduce circulation and save the bark off one of the trees in the acres of trees cut down up in Quebec that are required to print the 400lb Sunday edition of the Times that is chock full of stories about how we’re all trying just so desperately hard to save this planet for our kids whose diapers we have no clue what to do with since we protested sending barge loads of garbage sailing down the east coast to one of a dozen or more closed open-mine coal pits that we don’t know what to do with except definitely not using them as landfill sites where we can chuck all our garbage out of the site of the cameras that shoot all that footage for the six 24 hour news outlets we all have been watching…

Excuse me, I have to check on something.

I just looked out of the window of my office to find traffic moving well along the tangled ribbons of expressways that carry the single occupant SUVs that pour into the city looking for the ever more illusive parking spot at the foot of these bridges where they’re constructing yet another tall building full of 1,000 square foot condos that’ll be packed full of flat screens on which the owners can watch seemingly angry people bickering over whats the right answer to solve all our problem while wishing they had the time and energy to take out the bikes and ride past my building this weekend while trying to convince themselves they are making a difference.

Am I doing my part?

Apparently, I should be living completely differently being more vocal as I haven’t attended any rallies which definitely brings into question my devotion to the service of all the causes to make everything so much more better… I routinely question the dogma, that I read in the papers which makes me a suspect of not truly believing that everything I do is impacting the future. I walk without thinking, thinking that what I’m doing is actually taking step after step, the steps required to turn our society around before we coast at full throttle past this brink of disaster while the kids in the backseat watch “Happy Feet” over and over on the DVD player mounted to the roof of the Tahoe that they use to take them all kayaking. I’m a failure for not saying anything… while they continue to keep telling me over and over that they’re doing everything they can to live there life better than I live without thinking of the consequence that impact their kids futures.

But while you’re not looking maybe while you’re reading your paper; I’ll quietly keep doing the things that I’m doing. Not because I’m worried, nor because I’m trying. I could care less about your efforts, I laugh at your suggestion that I use less energy to do the things I am doing. Which of course is mostly walking around not thinking I could make any difference. I chuckle at the nylon get-up you wear on your bicycle as you ride up my street yapping and screaming about how wonderful it is you’re doing all the things that are required to make it all better. After saying what I’ve been saying I’m sure I hardly deserve it, but I’ll gladly accept my very own pat on my back for all the things I have and have not been doing. After all is this not what you are after when you put on that t-shirt and pack all those slogans into the back of the pick-up and drive over five hours to catch up with all of your friends as they try to get coverage to make sure we are all worthy of all this self congratulations?

I guess as they say, as per usual I could always do better but I think what I’ll do is continue to remain quietly doing the things that I’m doing.