Freeze This Moment A Little Bit Longer

I'm that Tired Guy, the one craving fried whole-bellied clams, fries, a chocolate shake (with heaping scoops of ice cream), mozzarella sticks and a clam chow-dah. I'm that Tired Guy who would sing off-key to nearly all the songs on the Indigo Girls' first album with his buddy Wayne while speeding along the back roads of Ashland and Westborough on the way to Harry's.

I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life after all
Yeah

I'm an autumn kind of guy, but there's one summer that remains indelibly etched upon my memory.

Twenty years ago was the summer of 1989, a time that saw the return of everyone's favorite fedora-wearing adventurer, the resurrection of the caped crusader and a farm transformed into a baseball heaven. The decade of decadence was crawling inexorably to a close, and I had just completed my first year at Brandeis University. There was D&D at Dave's house, volleyball at Mike's house, Axis & Allies at Bill's house and cards at Sean's house. There were the Holliston girls, a Spanish foreign exchange student living at my house, candlepin bowling by the incinerator and of course, the "Diner at the End of the Universe."

I had a job, a car, a beautiful girlfriend.

I had youth, energy, copious time.

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you
Even when I know you're wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance
Five hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me

But most importantly, I had my mother.

My mother loved all of my friends equally, treating them as if they were her own. She had a way about her that encouraged laughter, a sweet disposition that was beyond contagious.

Honestly, I think she could talk the paint off of walls.

My brother Doug would tell you how much she aggravated the crap out of him, constantly needling him with questions about his comings and goings, his erstwhile romances, of friends and destinations, classes,virtually anything. "Grouch" was my brother's nickname for her, and he even purchased a small green plush Oscar the Grouch toy for her, a small window into Doug's very subtle sense of humor. Yet there would always be a mischievous gleam in his eye when he'd respond to her questioning, recognizing the dance and never taking the lead.

And he wasn't alone. Somehow she'd manage to choose the one part of the day when Doug and I were battling it out on Sega hockey or soccer to come downstairs and want to chat. As if we cared? Couldn't she see we were engaged in a massive conflict of epic proportions? Bragging rights were at stake, and she wanted to play the 20 Questions game?

Years later I understand and appreciate it more clearly. The substance of those questions were irrelevant. So too was the inquisitive barrage, nothing more than a feint, a calculated ruse to mask her true intentions. In truth, she was trying to impart to her sons a meaningful lesson about life one that encompassed an emotional connection, of togetherness, and of family.

Whether we recognized it then or not, my mother was teaching us the vital importance of just being there.

Let me fill your heart with joy and laughter
Togetherness, well that's all I'm after
Whenever you need me, I'll be there
I'll be there to protect you
With an unselfish love that respects you
Just call my name
And I'll be there

I credit my mother for encouraging my penchant toward creativity and writing. She was the one who'd drag me to Lauriat's Bookstore at Shoppers World and instruct me to pick out a book or three. And there I'd stand, enthralled by the wondrous shelves brimming with unexplored worlds ripe for conquest. From Tolkien to Moorcock, Anthony to Brooks, Alexander to Donaldson my mother made certain I would storm out of that magical store with bag in hand anxious to go home. Once there I would fly down the wooden steps two at a time to the basement bedroom Doug and I shared intent upon tearing through page upon page soaking up the far flung adventures of Frodo and Elric, Bink and Allanon, Taran and Thomas Covenant.

I recall a specific day (and there were many of these) long before the summer of '89 when I was grounded for doing something stupid, forgetful, ungrateful, disrespectful...whatever my illustrious step father deigned to dub me. Downtrodden and beaten emotionally, I loitered about the living room aimless, like a leaf caught in a soft breeze. My step father was away on business, but I wasn't allowed to leave the house.

She had smiled at me.

"I have an errand to run," she had said winking conspiratorially. "And I need you to come with me."

And then I remember leaving my confinement and arriving at that magical of bookstores. Soon enough we returned home flushed and triumphant, the blue Dungeons & Dragons Expert (tm) boxed set clutched in my little hands. Oh such treasure!

"It'll be our secret," she had whispered as she hugged me close.

I still have that boxed set on my bookshelf in the basement downstairs and every time I glance at it a sly smile crinkles my lips.

Little things like that can make all the difference in the world to a young, impressionable child.

The summer of 1989 saw many things: a duet that lip-synched their songs, the start of a Bush administration, an ecological nightmare in Alaska, bloodshed at Tiananmen Square, an earthquake at the World Series and the beginnings of the end of the Cold War.

But I'll never forget how alive I felt that year.

And yet...it's bittersweet.

As the summer of '09 slowly wanes, I recall fondly that other time 20 years ago, of friends now grown and gone their separate ways, and of how I was once on top of the world. Yet most of all I remember my mother, hale and whole, proud of her two sons and eager to see where their own adventures would take them in the days to come.

Kirk was right, as usual. "Of all the souls I have met in my travels, [hers] was the most...human."

Of the depth and breadth of my love for her, these poor words scrawled here cannot properly describe. My mother let my brother and I be ourselves, a gift beyond measure. She never asked for anything in return other than our love and affection. And while I clumsily make my own attempt to bring color and depth to her memory, suffice it to say a bright light left this world the day her music died in the autumn of 1994.

Hold The Pickles

I'm that Tired Guy, the one who admires both sunrise and sunset and never grows weary of Nature's beautiful wash of violet, crimson and gold. I'm that Tired Guy who was once afloat in a clear ocean as the undulating waves gently rolled away the cares of the world.

Our honeymoon to Aruba will forever remain with me. As Traci lay upon her chair reading her book, I had entrusted to her my glasses and then trudged wearily toward the water. 2006 had been a very trying year and 2007 hadn't started off all that well either. Other than the upcoming wedding in April the burdens of my past, both financially and emotionally, had taken their toll and we had needed relief. So there we were, Traci nestled comfortably beneath a tiki umbrella curled up with her novel, and me floating aimlessly in the blue.

Looking down on empty streets
All she can see
Are the dreams all made solid
Are the dreams all made real
All of the buildings
All of those cars
Were once just a dream
In somebody's head

Oh, I'm not much of a swimmer. And without my glasses, I'm as blind as can be.

But I wasn't interested in seeing.

I needed something more subtle.

More intangible.

More elusive.

I needed hope.

By that point of time I had lived in Georgia for nearly 13 years. Prior to April 14th, I had been married twice, held three jobs, dug my way out of debt only to foolishly fall right back in, and watched my mother wither and die at an intolerable distance. I was exhausted. No, that's not accurate. I was tired, bone weary and empty.

And I hurt.

When the day is long
And the night, the night is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of this life
Well hang on.
Don't let yourself go
Everybody cries
And everybody hurts sometimes.

There had been plenty of moments when I could have given up, packed the camels and trudged back north.

But I hadn't.

I had stayed on, kept the house, paid the bills, accepted my mistakes but wallowed in guilt nonetheless. You'd think a boy living in Ashland and growing up in an angry household where you and your brother were constantly told you weren't any good, you weren't smart, you were nothing might throw in the towel.

Maybe I just didn't want to give someone the satisfaction that they had beaten me. After all, Khan gave Kirk a mere 60 seconds. But we all saw what a resourceful man can do with a little bit of time and a prefix code.

Sadly no. I'm no hero.

In retrospect, it was an admixture of fear and a stubborn refusal to quit.

The prospect of packing it all in, selling the house, finding a new job, turning my back upon the last decade and then some to head home, worn out and defeated was not appealing. But even more so, the reality of doing all that deeply frightened me. I'm a creature who craves consistency, in life, at work, with my friends and family. I can handle change, albeit not very well, but I muddle through nonetheless.

Yet somehow I knew there had to be more, that I hadn't made all those choices just to end up a burned out husk wondering why and how and the unfairness of it all.

I was right.

And then I run til the breath tears my throat
Til the pain hits my side
As if I run fast enough
I can leave all the pain and the sadness behind
I love to feel the rain in the summertime

Despite everything, even my predilection toward worrying about situations over which I have absolutely no control, my time in exile had finally witnessed deliverance.

Thank you Traci. I love you more than soup.

Floating in the healing waters surrounding Aruba, I had found myself again. My body enveloped by a warm cocoon of soothing calm, I had stared off toward the horizon and can honestly say I had never been more relaxed. The wreckage of my mind had slowly cleared, like midnight's veil lifting to reveal the dawn of a new day. Hope restored, I had made a vow to overcome the many travails before me, before us. Armored with the strength of love and conviction I could finally release the accumulated years of frustration and pain that had been crippling me. It was time to move on, face the challenges both old and new, and take them on one by one. Invigorated, I left the cleansing ocean a new man full of purpose.

These are days
These are the days you might fill
With laughter until you break
These days you might feel
A shaft of light
Make its way across your face
And when you do
Then you'll know how it was meant to be
See the signs and know their meaning
It's true
Then you'll know how it was meant to be
Hear the signs and know they're speaking
To you, to you

Of course, our honeymoon eventually ended and in rode reality on a pale horse. We returned home to face the problems we refused to pack, and only ourselves to rely upon. But as Jon Bon once said, we had each other and that's a lot.

Heck, that's more than enough most days.

Now some of you might be saying you've heard my sorry song before. I submit I'm no philosophical savant breaking new ground with powerful introspective visions. Perhaps I'm trolling through another rendition of "Woe is me" and "See how I'm better off now" and all that rot.

And you'd be right.

However that's the point of this space. I'm really just a regular guy trying to understand an irregular world. Am I out to solve the mysteries of the universe?

Maybe so, because everyone knows by now it's all about the sandwich.

Ultimately, my next sandwich might use the same bread, the same condiments (ribbed for her pleasure!), the same deli meat.

Except pickles.

My brother once ate an entire plate of pickles at a bar mitzvah because he was bored. No sandwich. Just the pickles.

He's a very wise man.

Life According To Billy

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who would listen to _Songs In The Attic_ in its entirety every night freshman year just to make certain I didn't miss a single lyric.

Ahhhh Billy. Standard issue at Brandeis back in the day. I owe my entire fan-dom to three very dear friends: Sean, who took me to see one of his shows at the Centrum in '89 where we sat waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay in the back; Andy, who I am certain knows every lyric to every Billy Joel song and could probably recite them backward or forward; Bruce, who put up with me visiting his dorm room every night around midnight so I could play a round or two of Arkanoid...and enjoy that very album.

(Ok, so it was a CD. But saying "album" makes me feel cooler, like I grew up in the '80s or something.)

(Which I did.)

Anyway.

What can Billy tell us about life? For one thing, don't marry a super model. Uptown girls got nothing I want.

For another...well let's just take a stroll through some of the music. I might even hum a few bars so cover your ears.

You know those lights
Go bright on Broadway
But that was so many years ago
Before we all lived here in Florida
Before the mafia
Took over Mexico
There are not many who remember
They say a handful still survive
To tell the world about
The way the lights went out
And keep the memory alive

Florida doesn't count as the South, leastwise not to me. So many New Yorkers relocated down there, the state is merely an extension of the Bronx and parts of Long Island. Go visit any restaurant between West Palm Beach and Miami and tell me how many northerners you run into. It's like a freakin' traffic jam I tell youz. Fuggedaboutit!

Ironically in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, my wife is from South Florida...but was born in Philadelphia. I'm not sure which is worse. I'm kidding sweetie! Love you!

Regardless, the 21st Century scoreboard looks like this: Red Sox World Series Wins - 2, Yankees World Series Wins - 0. Keep the memory alive Bambino!

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known
And I believe there is a time
For meditation in cathedrals of our own
Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes
I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us
It's either sadness or euphoria

Some very sobering lyrics there William! Has anyone ever seen their best of times? Have they already passed us by and we didn't realize it? Maybe you've been in a relationship that started out fine, eventually unraveling as you took the left turn at Albuquerque...and she didn't. Well, life isn't black or white but there are times when taking a stand on one side or the other does give you hope for what could happen next. Ultimately, I can only live my life within my own context. The good news is, I don't have to live it alone. If you're fortunate enough to have someone - a friend, a husband or wife, a dog or cat - who understands the real you, then your best times, and your worst times, well it's all part of your own ever-evolving tapestry.

Oh how I wish I learned the piano when I was younger! The music is in my soul, but I can only give voice to it through words. And while at times I might be eloquent, there is nothing more moving than the right chords played the right way at the right time.

Onward...

She comes to me when I'm feeling down
Inspires me without a sound
She touches me and I get turned around

Love is not enough no matter what the poets say. The bonds of friendship are what keep things going. Who do you want at your side when things are bleak? If more than one face comes to mind, count yourself fortunate.

My brother Doug is at the top of my short list. He is arguably the nicest soul I have ever known. Still waters run deep, and there's not a shallow thing about him.

Especially his nose. But that's an entire blog topic by itself.

And Traci. She is my best friend. She cares about me more than I deserve, and quite honestly I cannot imagine life without her.

If friends were currency, I'd be a wealthy man.

We're almost done.

Well I'll never be a stranger
And I'll never be alone
Wherever we're together
That's my home

Our wedding song. 'Nuff said there.

From a town known as Oyster Bay, Long Island
Rode a boy with a six-pack in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west
Of the Rio Grande

Our dreams were a lot bigger when we were younger. As we age, that childish innocence sometimes gets lost along the way. But you know what? It's still there, lurking behind every tasty sip of a Friendly's chocolate Fribble and in every delicious greasy slice of Papa Ginos pizza. There's no reason to lose it. Oh sure, we're all tempered by the days in between. Hell, I've been married three times, lost my mother at an early age and seen my fair share of heart ache and pain.

Despite all that I won't let go of my dreams. I may yet become a published author. And when Noah is brought into the world this October, another one of my most precious dreams will be realized. Noah and Benjamin, their laughter will be the sweetest music my ears will ever hear.

So before we end, and then begin
We'll drink a toast to how it's been
A few more hours to be complete
A few more nights on satin sheets
A few more times that I can say
I've loved these days

Me too Billy. Me too.

G'night folks.