Leave A Tender Moment Alone

I'm that Tired Guy sitting in front of a twenty-two inch screen on a Sunday evening with a yen to write something, anything. I'm that Tired Guy, the one who isn't afraid to admit how young and gullible he was back in the day.

Here's a funny memory.

It was the Fall of 1987 and Sixteen Year Old Me was a senior at Ashland High School. My uncle had invited me to go with him to watch the Patriots / Dolphins in Foxboro. I remember it was a very muggy September afternoon and we got drenched by multiple rainfalls sitting on the uncomfortable metal benches of good ole Sullivan Stadium.

I'm also pretty sure the Patriots lost.

They did a lot of that during those years.

After the game my uncle dropped water-logged Sixteen Year Old Me off at home probably thankful I was no longer dripping all over his leather seats. My mother and step father weren't home and my brother Doug was now a freshman living at Bentley College. This meant I had to take our family yellow lab / german shepherd mix Gibson Erhardt von Krastog (or Gibby, for short) out for a walk.

Off we careened down Sunset Road, skinny Sixteen Year Old Me clinging to the leash while Gibby dragged me up the hill and down the hill.

(Oh and for the record Sixteen Year Old Me was probably 110 pounds soaking wet. But I digress.)

Finally he found a good spot to do his business. Normally I'd yank on the leash and he'd resist a bit before allowing me to steer him home, but this time he had found something interesting on the ground and was gleefully ignoring my insistent tugging. He snuffled around for a bit, digging with his front paws and scattering dirt and fallen leaves all about.

Just as I approached he leaped away as an angry swarm of yellow jackets burst upwards from the hole he had dug.

Moments later Sixteen Year Old Me felt a burning sensation on my behind and immediately burst into motion.

That's right folks, Sixteen Year Old Me got stung in the but-tocks.

I'm not afraid to say Sixteen Year Old Me ran like a girl. Heck, I know some girls who were a helluva lot faster than me back in the day. In fact, they're probably still faster than me. And smarter too, but that's a tale for another time.

Off we ran up the hill and down the hill until we reached home. I flung off Gibby's leash, gave him a dog biscuit and then in set mind-numbing panic.

You see, my mother was allergic to bee stings. She once stepped on a dead bee (or hornet, I don't recall which) and had to be taken to Framingham Union Hospital.

And Sixteen Year Old Me honestly wasn't sure if I was allergic too.

Unfortunately no one was home so my fear grew exponentially (even though at the time I didn't exhibit any signs of having an allergic reaction). When we panic it's quite easy to forget our rational side and give in to that little boy or girl hiding deep inside all of us.

And if you've ever listened to my wife you'd know I can be a drama queen.

So Sixteen Year Old Me did the only thing I could think of at the time.

I called my friend Alyssa.

Y'see Alyssa worked at a hospital (or medical center, I don't remember which) and Sixteen Year Old Me figured she'd know about this kind of thing. She was smart, she wanted to be a nurse, and well Sixteen Year Old Me didn't have many options at the time.

The following is a vague and error-filled recreation from the dregs of my Tired Guy Memory (tm) of that fateful phone conversation which would forever shape my understanding of the scary world in which we live:

"Ummm...hi...Alyssa? Are you...ummm...busy? Oh, yeah, how are you?"

Yeah, I was THAT suave. Just a great conversationalist.

Still am. Just ask the wife.

"Hi Peter. Are you ok?"

She had this quiet, calm voice. Perfect for a nurse (even if she hadn't graduated high school yet, so I was feeling pretty good).

"Ummm...yeah...well I need your help. I got stung by a bee and I don't know if I'm allergic."

I could sense my time was running out. The burning was AWFUL. And there was PAIN too. And ITCHING.

Oh and did I mention the Awful Melodramatic Impending Sense of Doom (tm) that flew all over my frazzled thoughts like a swarm of bees that had been unearthed by a curious dog on a muggy September day.

You get the idea.

"That's not good."

No, no it wasn't.

Didn't she realize the ENORMITY of this situation? But then I recalled she was a nurse (or rather someone who worked at a hospital or medical center...I really don't remember) and that meant she had to remain calm even during the worst emergencies.

And clearly my phone call was one of those Code Reds or Blues or whatever they're called.

I needed help.

Stat.

"Yeah."

Good comeback by me. Remember, suave.

"And...?"

Nice leading question. Like I said, she was smart.

"Oh yeah, umm...so what do I do now?"

There had been a slight pause, and Sixteen Year Old Me knew Alyssa was poring over the dozens of medical texts at her immediate disposal. Because everyone knew nurses sat next to all manner of Useful Medical Stuff so they could read them during the rare down times in between emergencies.

"It'll be ok Peter," Alyssa had instructed. She had been so calm, professional. "You need to find meat tenderizer. It will help with the swelling."

Sixteen Year Old Me paused.

"Meat tenderizer? You mean like the thing you use to smack meat to flatten it?"

Sixteen Year Old Me was dubious.

"Yes, that's right. Meat tenderizer."

She had said it so deadpan that Sixteen Year Old Me took it for the gospel it surely was.

"Ummm...ok...let me look for it."

Sixteen Year Old Me had desperately ransacked one of the drawers that held all manner of cooking implements, from pokers and things with pointy ends, to spoons and stirring thingies that were used to, well, stir stuff.

Finally I had found the object of my search - a gleaming metal mallet with a square furrowed head to evenly distribute the tenderizing. Relief washed over Sixteen Year Old Me like a man lost in the desert who miraculously discovers a lush oasis.

"Found it! So you want me to use this on the bee sting?"

"That's right."

"And I'm supposed to hit the bee sting with this thing?"

Sixteen Year Old Me stared at the metal mallet clutched in a white-knuckled fist.

"Yes."

Oh she had been so calm!

"Well ok then, here goes."

And so Sixteen Year Old Me pulled down my pants and struck my ass several times with that metal mallet.

Yep.

Needless to say, it didn't work but the bee sting certainly hurt a helluva lot worse than before.

And that's when light dawned on Sixteen Year Old Me.

Well that, and the soft laughter on the other end of the phone.

"I can't believe you told me to smack my ass with a meat tenderizer!"

More laughter.

"You meant the powder, didn't you."

Even more laughter.

"I guess I'm not allergic to bee stings after all."

Nope.

"Are you going to be ok Peter?"

How sweet.

"Yeah, I'll live. See you tomorrow at school."

A stifled giggle.

"Oh Alyssa, do me a favor and don't tell anyone about this ok?"

I still don't think "mortified" is a strong enough word for how Sixteen Year Old Me felt on that fateful day.

"Sure Peter. I'm glad you're ok. See you tomorrow."

Sixteen Year Old Me hung up the phone and then gathered up my wits, my pants and my dignity.

Nothing ever came of that bee sting.

To be fair I haven't been stung by a bee since (thank goodness).

But if I ever do, Thirty-Nine Year Old Me knows exactly where that powder is in the pantry.

As for the other so-called remedy, let's just say I'd prefer to leave that tender moment alone.

G'night folks.

Demented And Sad But Social

I'm that Tired Guy the one who has been in absentia for far too long, at least according to the three people who actually follow this blog. I'm that Tired Guy so full of 80s angst right now but tragically no John Hughes around anymore who could direct the perfect film about it all.

Back in the day we had some core story-lines. There was the geek (or was that "dweeb"?) who desperately wanted to hang with the so-called "cool crowd". We had the troubled outsider pining away for the cute girl far above his own social status. Then there was the alternative girl struggling to maintain her place in the universe yet swayed by the pretty smile of the rich boy. Some wanted to be just one of the guys, earn a spot on the Greek Council, create the perfect girl, ski the K-12, celebrate a birthday, even collect butterflies and play football. Boomboxes had so much more meaning then.

And all my instincts
They return
And the grand facade
So soon will burn
Without a noise
Without my pride
I reach out from the inside

And always our intrepid hero (or heroine) endured faithful yet hapless side-kicks, convoluted schemes, weird science, wonder joints, unconventionally conventional wisdom, music, hilarity and mayhem and finally acceptance that only the 80s cinematic visionaries could reproduce.

So where am I going with this?

Pining for yesterday is wasted effort. Fond reminiscing is not. Of course most days we all live in the real world...unless you're a Tired Guy like me.

Let me explain. No it would take too long. Let me sum up.

Perception is not solely limited to four years wandering the hallowed halls of Ashland High School. I would be naive to suggest otherwise. However, regardless whether you were a card-carrying member of some breakfast club or simply found yourself on the outside looking in, the seminal time of high school shaped a portion of who you are today.

(Right now I'm a rhombus. Back then, a square. No surprise right? But I digress.)

Some embraced their burgeoning sense of self-realization during that time using it as a solid foundation to achieve success in the subsequent phases of their lives. From college and grad school to the workplace and building a family (or blazing a trail of broken hearts) your identity might have been drawn upon the experiences of high school angst giving you purpose. At the very least you had an entire decade of pithy, eloquent, somewhat sentimental, carefree and downright humorous quotable movies to prop you up and remind you the world could still be an ok place. You knew the lyrics to every song, could visualize every scene as if you had just watched it yesterday and figured everyone else embraced them the same way you did.

Eighties - I'm living in the eighties
Eighties - I have to push, I have to struggle
Eighties - get out of my way, I'm not for sale no more
Eighties - let's kamikaze 'til we get there

And maybe, just maybe, everyone in your age bracket finally grew up and matured, accepting the social and cultural strata of high school had ended spawning a new era of equality and wholesome goodness.

Not likely.

Unfortunately cliques will always remain cliques, especially in today's business world. Your boss likes you, tolerates you, or wants to find a way to get rid of you. The corporate machine has favorites and grinds into gristle the perceived failures. Nepotism does exist, and in some places thrives. Smart people are dumb outside of their element (which is probably true for most people but hear me out) while intellectual ingrates somehow command respect, dollars, luxury cars, titles, offices, executive assistants for their executive assistants and a continually growing sickly morass of "haves" and "who cares" versus "have nots" and "so whats".

Whether you work in Dilbert's cubicle farm, owe allegiance to the Michael Scotts of the world or just do enough to keep your office space and red stapler safe from the unwashed managerial caricatures of the 80s and today, ultimately keeping your soul intact is a daily challenge.

Now I've got a terminal daydream
Something that you'll never know
I keep it right here in my backpack, mon
And take it wherever I go

With brown-nosing an ever-evolving art form, false acceptance is sad reality. The morons who annoyed you back in high school now wear designer suits and earn more money than you do. They drive nicer cars, have bigger homes, sport trophy wives and have perfectly white teeth.

Why is that?

Oh many reasons.

Maybe they're smarter than you with a greater appetite to succeed at any cost. They probably know how to play the good ole boy game like a bridge grand master. They're certainly better at golf, landing the tough sale, typing comprehensive spreadsheets (or having someone do it for them), saying nothing of substance at meetings and can drink more than anyone you know. They offer oily smiles, fake handshakes, their eyes bear curtains and if you often find yourself wondering where you stand then it's already too late. For some reason they think you envy them, want to be like them, do the things they do, hobnob with the beautiful people. They are the standard by which everyone else, in business or in life, should be measured.

Still looking for that blue jean, baby queen
Prettiest girl I've ever seen
See her shake on the movie screen
Jimmy Dean
James Dean
Rock on

Almost like an 80s movie.

Believe it or not, I have never wanted to be them.

But I have wanted to be like them.

(See what I did there?)

I'm not ashamed to admit I've wanted to be popular. Or date the untouchable, unreachable girl who made your legs turn to jelly whenever she flashed those baby blues. Who doesn't want to be the wise heirophant doling out pearls of wit and witticism to a captive audience clinging to your every nuance? Or be the go-to guy in the office when the boss needs the best of the best to step up and take the lead?

So please, please, please
Let me, let me, let me
Let me get what I want
This time

We've all been that 80s down-on-your-luck hero (or heroine) at some point in our lives. The feelings never truly fade. You want acceptance. You want to be liked, appreciated, respected. Success breeds opportunity and who doesn't want to excel at their job, in their social arena, in a sport, at their craft? That's why Nike's run of "Be like Mike" was so successful. Put yourself in those shoes for just a little while and brush against greatness. But at the end of the day, I'm not like them.

I think that somehow
Somewhere inside of us
We must be similar
If not the same
So I continue
To be wanting you
Left of center
Against the grain

The problem is I don't want to pay the price for sacrificing what I think is right, what is noble or what is good to achieve those results. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not some morally upright individual looking down from my thousand foot perch and showering the world with holier-than-thou epithets one might find in fortune cookies or the local left wing website.

Maybe it's because I chose not to conform a long time ago. Oh I'm such the rebel! But honestly I don't think anyone would classify me as alternative or non-conforming.

More like staid, consistent, nice.

Dull.

That said when non-conformity becomes chic, alternative also grows dull. The whole point of non-conformity is difference, uniqueness, an intriguing sense you are following a separate path rife with adventure, danger or at the very least something new to experience. Or simply what you are doing is the right thing for you and you alone.

I know the preceding passages sound bitter and are full of logical holes. Believe me, I know.

And at the end of the day, that's how I've been feeling lately. Sadly it hurts a lot.

Sometimes the sandwiches are tasty concoctions of quality meats, cheeses and the right kind of bread. Other times, well, even the Tired Guy gets tired and has to let off a little steam.

But I remain ever the optimist. This too shall pass, and I draw inspiration from a bevy of low budget whimsical larks whose messages and music remind me to this day it's ok to wish for something, but always remember who you are, where you're going and who is along for the ride.

The films from the decade of decadence still hold a charm that resonates with our generation. The music from that time is a reminder we all carry our own anthem with us. Whether you considered yourself alternative or popular, the one constant as we grow older is people can change their hair, their clothes, their musical taste, their eye liner or their politics but they cannot change who they are inside.

Don't you try and pretend
It's my beginning
We'll win in the end
I won't harm you
Or touch your defenses
Vanity, insecurity

And if that's not enough there's the simple fact John Hughes originally wanted Billy Idol to sing the quintessential song from his most quintessential movie (I've actually heard this version and it's terrible in comparison). Billy couldn't get it done in time so Mr. Hughes found another band.

And the rest was history.

How cool is that?

G'night folks.

Where Do These Stairs Go?

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who wonders each morning if today is the day. I'm that Tired Guy pondering life's mysteries like a teenage girl examines prom dresses. Some are sheer and sexy, but mom won't let you wear it. Others are frilly and flowery, but not showing enough leg puts you in the category of Joan Cusack wearing the neck brace while trying to drink from the water bubbler. Oh sure you have the handy doily to mop up the excess water dripping unceremoniously down your face, but who values substance over style these days anyway?

Sometimes I think I'm an anachronism, just like that Debbie chick in the song from the place.

You know the one, right?

Debbie just hit the wall
She never had it all
One Prozac a day
Husband's a CPA
Her dreams went out the door
When she turned 24.
Only been with one man
What happened to her plan?

But then I realized the world grew up around me and I refused to hop on board. Because it's easier to enjoy the past while struggling with the present. Memories are safe places because we can remember things as we'd like them to have been, and not necessarily for what they were. They're choreographed, the colors are brighter, the moments more poignant.

As for the future, what's that really anyway? Is it seven figures plastered to a 401k that you laboriously and painstakingly kept alive through turbulent economic times? Do you really carry that number around with you like matching luggage as the commercial suggests?

Big money got a heavy hand
Big money take control
Big money got a mean streak
Big money got no soul

Maybe I am on board except I'm chillin' in steerage with Jack waiting for my Rose. Or was that the other way around?

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

Why? You see I don't subscribe to the thought it was her parents keeping her down. They knew the truth. All that rock and roll, drinking, cavorting, lasciviousness. They were the custodians of the all-powerful trust fund. They suffered her living under their roof. She had to be protected. Her future, her prospects, their reputation, all of these things and more needed safeguarding. From the world? Maybe. From that good for nothing, hip-gyrating Johnny Castle? Possibly. From herself? More likely.

Yet Baby allowed herself to be stuck in that corner. It was all part of her very calculated and diabolical plan whose end result would always be an ensemble dancing number to a song sounding more in line with the 80s than the 60s. She fought against The Man by defying what proper civility of 1963 required.

'Cause I've had the time of my life
And I've searched through every open door
'Til I found the truth
And I owe it all to you

You can't tell me she didn't know what she was doing. And all of you nodding right now, please turn to page 23 of the hymnal.

She refused to let life pass her by.

Can you blame her?

Last night the missus and I watched Pixar's Up, a wonderful yarn about an elderly widower and a young, overeager Wilderness Explorer flying to South America in search of...so many different things.

As the film unfolds in 96 minutes of color and clarity, I couldn't help but think it was a mirror reflecting all those fractured pieces of myself I often wondered about on a daily basis, and sometimes even scribbled here.

Simply put, Pixar's imagination goes far beyond mere animation. They delve into the heart and soul of what makes us human.

"My name is Dug. I have just met you, and I love you."

Too often I stare out the window of my office wondering about where I should be, what I could be doing, and a host of dangling "what if's". The proverbial square peg in a round hole. Whether it's complacency or some trick of the mind rationalizing any which way most of us allow ourselves to remain trapped, suffocated or cornered. And by the time light dawns on Plymouth Rock, you look in the mirror and realize it's now 2010 and the 80s are starting to sound like the oldies.

Call me a relic
Call me what you will
Say I'm old-fashioned
Say I'm over the hill
Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock 'n roll

The truth is, we all let life pass us by at some point, to some degree. The trick is making certain you keep together who you are no matter how curvy or pot-holed the road might be. I've said it in this space before and I'll say it again: cherish your family, find strength in their love for they have such utmost faith in you that nothing, and I mean nothing, can stop you from achieving anything.

We all have an Adventure Book, just like Ellie. And in it there's a chapter entitled "Things To Do".

So here's some advice that I myself need to follow just as much as the next Tired Guy: Fill that chapter up people. Fill it with images of your successes, no matter how slight. Engage your imagination and seek adventure, whether it's on your own, with a loved one, a gathering of friends or in the company of strangers. Strive toward those goals, you know the ones that have lain dormant and covered in dust for far too long. Start a family, renew your vows, finish a scrapbook (or start one!) and take the first step away from complacency and head to the light Carol Ann! Exercise that creativity, plan a journey, change careers, ask that pretty girl (or cute guy) out on a date.

If you want to change your direction
If your time of life is at hand
Well don’t be the rule be the exception
A good way to start is to stand
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking cross the floor
Put one foot in front of the other
And soon you’ll be walking out the door

Maybe even work on a novel that's been percolating in your brain for more than 25 years.

I promise, you won't regret it.

Cross my heart.

G'night folks.

On The Turning Away

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one generally caught somewhere between reality and madness, typically between the hours of 6 AM and 10 PM (that's Eastern Standard for our European friends...or 10210 Mongo Time for Hawkmen and Arborians).

Yeah, I like sci fi. Sue me.

As usual, I'm contemplative and restless. Oh and tired, always tired.

With some soothing Floyd in my background, I decided to hop on and craft something.

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away?

Why?

Call this one a dedication to my most favorite red head from Ashland. Methinks she needs a pick-me-up. And somehow I think reading my blathering might actually help.

So away I go...

There was a time about ten years ago when I contemplated the unthinkable. It was more a view on the edge of the abyss than an actual attempt to end it all. My wife (first one folks, she was the practice dummy...no wait, that was me...) had just left me, told me our marriage was a lie, she was no longer in love with me, hadn't felt that for years and it was time to move on. My life was spiraling away, I had lost my job (I worked for her parents...they told me I had to leave...go figure?), I lived a bajillion miles away from the only family I had and the world was pretty damn bleak.

It was a Friday. I remember it well. I had decided I wanted to watch a sci fi show called Farscape, and my stomach kept complaining if I didn't fill it up there would be hell to pay later. And who watches new shows running on empty anyway right?

Naturally I thought about chinese food. It doesn't cure the common cold, it wasn't a Stephen Hawkins' solution to some esoteric scientific something-or-other, but it was the remedy I sought nonetheless.

Besides, who in their right mind passes up tasty boneless spareribs and fried rice?

Yeah, all you vegetables and health food nuts go stand in some other line. I'm talking clogging-the-arteries tastiness!

Anyway, there I am driving along Davis Road in my reliable blue Toyota Corolla when all the loneliness, despair, anguish, fear, disgust, embarrassment and downright shame hit me.

I had failed.

The dream was over.

No wife. No possibility of children. No career. No prospects.

No dreams.

Nothing.

It may sound absurd...but don’t be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed...but won’t you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me

And so I stood upon the edge of the abyss and stared down that horrible black hole with only darkness glaring sullenly back at me. Driving, heedless of the speed limit, of the curves and waves in the road, the roar of the car's engine muffled as if I stood dozens of feet away, lost and fading.

The end really was near.

I remember in a very clinical, detached way that this was probably what depressed people felt like as if boxed in and suffocating from an invisible weight crushing their will to live. I remember distinctly that I could make that choice, easily, effortlessly, calmly, logically.

No more problems.

No more tears.

No more heartache.

No more me.

If I ran away, I'd never have the strength
To go very far
How could they hear the beating of my heart
Will it grow cold
The secret that I hide, will I grow old
How would they hear
When would they learn
How would they know

And then I blinked.

It's a funny thing really. Robert Frost talks about the path less traveled, but I think most people forget which road they're even on most days anyway. We're so caught up in what we have to do, how much money we make, the debt we're in, the pointless toys we amass, the loves we've lost, the decisions we should have made. Friends lost and friends found, and always the memories to help assuage some of the agony...at least for a little while.

But when faced with a real decision, how quickly we either lose or gain clarity. In that one instance, the paths present themselves and as rational beings we can make the most irrational of decisions for all the right reasons that went dead wrong. That which does not kill us makes us stronger, forged in the flames of failure or success, for better or worse.

Somewhere deep inside of me, buried beneath the pain and tears I found my core, that indelible part of me whose essence was wrapped up in the memories of a loving mother, a father's advice, a brother's quiet steadfastness, the warm smile of a close friend, the camaraderie of laughter, and ultimately, the soulful gaze of moist brown eyes of my greatest companion, a black labrador retriever of such surpassing compassion that I will forever be in her debt.

My dog Jasmine. She loved me, without reservation or hesitation and asked nothing in return. You cannot truly appreciate unconditional love unless you have a dog (or a cat I suppose, but my experience is limited there). And the surprisingly simple depth and breadth of that power can be so all encompassing, so invigorating, that quite honestly for me it was the splash of cold water I needed.

And so I grappled with my demons, hurled them down and walked away from the edge.

The first step is always the hardest.

Thankfully I realized then I didn't have to do it alone.

At the end of the day, we all have the inner strength to overcome any obstacles. To those of you feeling sad and downtrodden, hear me out:

You are NOT alone.

Coming up close
Everything sounds like
Welcome home, come home
And oh by the way
Don't you know that I could make
A dream that's barely half awake come true
I wanted to say
But anything I could have said
I felt somehow that you already knew

Cherish your friends and family. Feel again the good times by listening to the songs that inspired you. Read those passages from favorite books whose message still resonates with you to this day. Gaze upon old photos of images bright with color and context. Dig deep inside yourself and find that kernel of optimism, the core that makes YOU you.

And remember at the end of the day before you turn out all the lights even the smallest of friends can have the greatest impact of all.

G'night folks.

A Tradition Unlike Any Other

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who cherishes a crisp, clear autumn day almost as much as a fine bowl of steaming clam chow-dah. I'm that Tired Guy, thrilled the Autumn Confluence is finally upon us.

Oh yes, the Fall season heralds to the world some of humankind's greatest creations.

No, I'm not talking about cheerleaders, although they are a close second.

I'm talking about playoff baseball.

And football.

Basketball.

And hockey.

Oh my!

From an early age, I've been fascinated with sports. Growing up in Massachusetts I really didn't have a choice. Between the dynasty that had hoisted 16 banners, the black and blue bruisers on skates, the Minute Men wearing shoulder pads or the snake-bitten boys of summer I had a wealth of entertainments from which to choose.

I blame both my dad and grandfather.

For years my dad picked up Doug and me on a Sunday morning, drive an hour or so through fifteen different towns until we arrived just before lunch time at my grandparents' house in Sharon. After dispensing with the customary pleasantries and family traditions that included the obligatory "How are you doing in school?" interrogation from my grandmother, some really bad yet normally clean jokes provided by my grandfather and a gruff grunt of greetings from our ever loquacious uncle, my brother and I would descend like locusts upon my grandmother's pantry and refrigerator with murderous intent.

(Ah, how I love the run on sentence! And that's what's so funny! I just fell victim to one of the classic blunders - the most famous of which is "never get involved in a land war in Asia". But only slightly less well known is this: "Never go against proper grammar when food is on the line"!)

Armed with my grandmother's homemade iced tea that never quite tasted the same each time we drank it, Doug and I happily dove into the glorious feast set before us. Gorged upon cold cuts, egg or bulkie rolls, cheese, mustard, mayo, Pringles chips, the occasional pickle and, of course, a bowl of Lipton's ring noodle soup we then retired to the living room. The area was spartan at first impression, a long couch set against the equally long window separated by a coffee table and small love seat and anchored on one end by a squat color television and the other by my grandfather's recliner. Sprinkled throughout were small frames on mantles or end tables bearing fond memories of the past: young cheerful gap-toothed grins and curly-haired curmudgeons from days long gone.

And there we gathered, each taking our accustomed places as decreed by the unwritten Hartog Accords passed down through the ages since Sports began. Our attentions were focused upon the colored face of the wooden box from which sound and light issued forth bearing news of the heroic deeds performed by mighty Titans known as Bird and Grogan, Evans and McHale, Hasselbeck (will bring us back!) and Rice.

For hours we were transfixed by their adventures, hearts upon our sleeves as we all glared, cajoled, cried, shouted and cheered our heroes to victory. At some point my father would retire to his basement room for a nap, both my grandfather and I nodded off, he upon his chair and me stretched out on the couch with a novel loose in my hands leaving Doug the sole custodian of the television and the ultimate responsibility of pulling for the good guys.

Hours passed and we'd all awaken refreshed, ready to finish the final two acts of our Sunday.

The first would be the choice of dinner, ranging anywhere from D'Angelo subs to KFC buckets to Canton House chinese food to the ultimate delicacy: Town Spa pizza!

What a wicked game you play
To make me feel this way
What a wicked thing you do
To make me dream of you

Arguably the finest pizza I have ever tasted, small circular shells of finely crafted cheese and sauce, dough and love. Oh how I miss thee Town Spa! My grandfather would drive us to the old pizza joint, and we'd go to the bar next door to play some pinball while we waited for our order to be ready. After a few tries at the old pinball machine achieving scores in the high five to six hundreds, we'd scurry quickly back to Town Spa. In the small antechamber that housed the designated takeout area patrons would mill about all anxious to carry the cardboard treasures home to their respective families. When the name "Harry!" was brazenly announced from the kitchen like the clarion cry of a thousand trumpets my grandfather swept forward triumphantly and laid claim to our prize. Homeward bound, the car's interior was engulfed by the delicious blended aromas of italian spices, melted cheese, tomato sauce, hamburger and mushrooms.

(Editor's Note: The Town Spa pizza to which I refer is circa 1989 and earlier before they moved the restaurant to Washington Street. After that, the pizza was decent enough...but never quite captured the essence of the original.)

Back at my grandparents' house the poor pizzas met their timely demise amidst discussions of the earlier games and the usual outcry of non-mushroom lovers (and you know who you are!) mercilessly castigating my grandfather and I for adoring such a delicacy adorning our pizza.

Once the last piece disappeared, it was time for the Final Act of our Sunday: cribbage.

Some would describe this merely as a card game.

But to us...ohhhhhhh this was all about blood, guts and glory!

We competed in earnest, I with my lucky pillow in my lap, Doug seated upon the coffee table, and my grandfather nestled in the corner of the couch. We kept a running tally of wins for posterity...and bragging rights. There would be the familiar jokes and jabs, clever plays and setups and from time to time the triumphant exclamation from my grandfather when the points in the crib exceeded those in his hand as he gleefully moved his peg around the cribbage board.

In the end Doug and I learned strategy, math, gamesmanship and sportsmanship.

And above all that, we simply enjoyed spending time with family.

Many years have passed since those halcyon days. There's a lot less hair on the dome, and thin silver threads have grown where none had been seen before. I now have two little boys whose adventures are just beginning, and don't think I won't be teaching them how to play cribbage when they're old enough to learn.

Those lost Sundays resonate within me still and while the longing for Town Spa pizza and a few rounds of cards may have diminished with distance and time, the cherished memories spending Sundays with my Dad and grandparents will never disappear.

With Apologies to Andy Rooney

I'm that Tired Guy, you know the one who hasn't written a darn thing in this space in over a month. I'm that Tired Guy whose creativity ebbs and flows with my mood and stress level.

In other words, I've been distracted.

Writers block is like a dam against which my creativity struggles and breaks. I can feel its energy, an unbridled enthusiasm coupled with an intense yearning to put to words my thoughts and feelings and ideas.

My writing is fractured at times, like a glass pane shattered into thousands of scintillating fragments. I can sew together a brilliant tapestry rife with color and sound one night, and barely string together two coherent sentences the next.

I guess that's why I don't do it for a living.

So tonight's piece is probably going to ramble in all kinds of directions. I've been focused on introspection lately, but that kind of exploration gets repetitive after awhile. Instead, I think I'll just make random comments on some random thoughts that I randomly thought about recently.

In other words, here comes a rant.

Sorry folks.

What ever happened to consideration? Is it so gauche to hold the door open for people? Better yet, why is it such a difficult act to allow an obviously pregnant lady through a door first rather than just bull your way forward?

I believe one of the worst things to happen to Western Civilization was when society and fashion decided men should no longer wear hats. I'm not talking baseball caps, but actual chapeau from the 20s. Maybe I'm not seeing it, but society seemed more inclined toward politeness when men wore hats.

We can dance if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
'Cause your friends don't dance
And if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine

I've heard some women say they don't want men to hold doors open for them. Apparently it's emasculating...to a woman. Something about power, equality that sort of thing. I've got no problem with that. But I subscribe to the belief that chivalry isn't dead. It's simply been misplaced by the "me" culture. Fast food, in-your-face, it's all about the way I want it and you can kiss my finely sculpted Calvin Kleins if you don't like it.

How many times have you been locked in traffic, you let some car merge ahead of you and the driver doesn't even bother to acknowledge your gesture. Oh I bet they'd acknowledge some other signs though right? A strategically placed bird right where their rear view window can catch it usually does wonders for one's complexion. Apoplexy is totally out girlfriend. Road rage is the new red!

Signs, signs everywhere there's signs
Blockin' up the scenery, breakin' my mind
Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign

Wow, am I really that petty?

Nah. But it does piss me off more often than not.

Consideration people! Is it that hard to give?

Apparently so.

I was taught to treat people as I would like to be treated. Maybe I'm just too nice? Oddly enough, seeing this kind of negative behavior motivates me to be nicer, more considerate. If there's a cosmic balance then I better dump a whole lot of kindness, compassion and courtesy into the other bucket to offset the general stupidity I see on a daily basis.

Sadly I don't subscribe to the "me" network.

I'm an "us" kind of guy.

The further on I go, oh the less I know
I can find only us breathing
Only us sleeping
Only us dreaming
Only us

I'm not directing anyone to be anything. My blog is not a recipe for salvation, a road map of ideas or a commentary on the soul's weather vane. But I would point out that it's generally "ok" to be courteous, respectful, kind, sometimes generous, forgiving, considerate and even a little nice once in awhile.

Maybe I need more sleep?

Just put me in a wheelchair
Get me to the show
Hurry hurry hurry
Before I go loco
I can't control my fingers
I can't control my toes
Oh no no no no no

G'night folks.

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.