Six years ago today, the world completely turned upside down. I was a bartender during the time that it happened, so, of course, I was sleeping. After the 5th call of the morning, I decided to turn over and see what was going on. I remember thinking to myself, "somebody better be dead or dying for me to be woken up by this." I also recall regretting those words instantly. Jeremy Forest told me to turn the TV on, and I spent the entire day watching coverage, like everyone else. Was it an inexperienced pilot on a two-seater? Was it a failed engine? It never entered anyone's mind that it was a plotted, calculated terrorist attack. There were a million different opinions as to what happened, but a terrorist attack wasn't one of them.
Shortly after the plane crashed into the first building, yet another crashed into the second building, followed by news that the Pentagon had been hit, and attention quickly turned to "Where is the President? Have they hit the White House?" and P.O.T.U.S. was being whisked away, but it was to an undetermined location. In a matter of a couple of hours, the incidents of the day had turned from tragic accident to hostile, unabated attack.
I was sitting in my apartment with an extreme uneasiness about my safety in this world, as if the terrorists were targeting me in Portsmouth, NH to prove a point to the world. As I thought more about it, though, it came to my attention that I had been taking for granted the blanketing safety provided by my countrymen for my entire life to that point. We can shit on this nation for a number of things. Our healthcare is substandard, our areas of poverty are being neglected, and our leaders can't be trusted, but only once in my 32 years of life have I felt completely exposed. In a country this big, that's unbelievable.
So, as the buildings began tumbling down like a neighborhood of playing cards, hoards of noble, honorable, sacrificing men and women walked into the rubble as everyone else was trying to get out of it. With full knowledge that the collapse of the first two buildings had compromised the structural integrity of the others around them, these uncommon citizens marched forward in their search for any survivors, unsure of what they'd find, if anything, but feeling that it was their duty to look.
2750 people died at Ground Zero, including 450 firemen, police officers, and port authority employees, who went into the wreckage to save a grand total of 20 people. If the events of September 11th, 2001 have shown us anything, it's the resolve of America and Americans. Please take a few moments out of every day to think about those that go to work every day to risk their lives, so we don't have to risk ours. Heroes aren't found on basketball courts or football fields, and they're not found on movie screens or TV sets. Ironically, true heroes in this country would rather go unnoticed and lay under the radar. Yet another thing that makes them true heroes.
Yes, today is a great day to acknowledge the public service folk that lay it on the line daily in the name of safety, given the anniversary of their most recognizable performance. However, maybe it would be more important to acknowledge these people for less recognizable performances, for this is when they truly earn it.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Irony
Yes, I need to write more. I have posted once since February and that was a fuckin' re-post. Whenever I'm asked why I'm not really writing anything, I always explain that nothing's really happening in my life. Well, the same may be true now, but why does everything have to be solely about me? I mean, there's other shit going on in the world, right?
Saturday: I'm watching a college football game, and in the postgame interview, I shed a tear. In my 34 years, 2 months on this planet, this has never happened concerning a sporting event. Did my favorite player break a longstanding record? Did my precious UNH Wildcats upset a powerhouse? No and no. To be honest, I don't know one player on either team, but both teams know Jasper Howard, and they're both playing for him that afternoon. Honestly, neither team really cares who wins the game, because Jasper Howard is the only thing on their minds.
After a win over Louisville the Saturday before, Howard opted to spend his Saturday night going to a dance. Standing outside the student union, Howard suffered a stab wound to the abdomen and was pronounced dead on his way to the hospital. He wasn't trolling the streets and it wasn't 3 AM. It was a University sanctioned event, for Christ's sake! Is there anything more benign than a college dance?
So often, you hear about athletes that survived in tough surroundings in their adolescence, only to go to college locally and stick around with the same shitheads that made their life more challenging in the first place. Ultimately, these guys move onto the pros and terrorize other people (see Jones, Popeye and Artest, Ron) or animals (see Vick, Michael). Well, Howard grew up in Little Haiti, a borough of Miami. Now, I've never been there, but I don't think a white guy from New Hampshire would survive long. As difficult as it was, Howard opted to move far away from home, leaving his mother and sisters behind. His plan, after being the first in his family to go to college, was to work diligently, enabling him a career in pro football and a way to get his family out of Miami. This was all he wanted.
I wasn't there. I don't know what happened. Maybe Jasper Howard reverted to his roots and started the skirmish. Maybe he said something that would qualify as threatening. And maybe, just maybe, the knife wielding assailant will proclaim that he was defending himself, and maybe he was. None of that matters now. Jasper Howard is an example of what we should be. He took his lot and tried to squeeze everything he could out of it. On the Saturday following his death, the University of Connecticut was playing a road game at West Virginia and nobody cared. Everyone in the stadium was more interested in letting Howard know they were thinking of him.
Jasper Howard was imperfect. It's what he was dealt. But we should all have a little of him in us.
Jasper Howard (1989-2009)
Saturday: I'm watching a college football game, and in the postgame interview, I shed a tear. In my 34 years, 2 months on this planet, this has never happened concerning a sporting event. Did my favorite player break a longstanding record? Did my precious UNH Wildcats upset a powerhouse? No and no. To be honest, I don't know one player on either team, but both teams know Jasper Howard, and they're both playing for him that afternoon. Honestly, neither team really cares who wins the game, because Jasper Howard is the only thing on their minds.
After a win over Louisville the Saturday before, Howard opted to spend his Saturday night going to a dance. Standing outside the student union, Howard suffered a stab wound to the abdomen and was pronounced dead on his way to the hospital. He wasn't trolling the streets and it wasn't 3 AM. It was a University sanctioned event, for Christ's sake! Is there anything more benign than a college dance?
So often, you hear about athletes that survived in tough surroundings in their adolescence, only to go to college locally and stick around with the same shitheads that made their life more challenging in the first place. Ultimately, these guys move onto the pros and terrorize other people (see Jones, Popeye and Artest, Ron) or animals (see Vick, Michael). Well, Howard grew up in Little Haiti, a borough of Miami. Now, I've never been there, but I don't think a white guy from New Hampshire would survive long. As difficult as it was, Howard opted to move far away from home, leaving his mother and sisters behind. His plan, after being the first in his family to go to college, was to work diligently, enabling him a career in pro football and a way to get his family out of Miami. This was all he wanted.
I wasn't there. I don't know what happened. Maybe Jasper Howard reverted to his roots and started the skirmish. Maybe he said something that would qualify as threatening. And maybe, just maybe, the knife wielding assailant will proclaim that he was defending himself, and maybe he was. None of that matters now. Jasper Howard is an example of what we should be. He took his lot and tried to squeeze everything he could out of it. On the Saturday following his death, the University of Connecticut was playing a road game at West Virginia and nobody cared. Everyone in the stadium was more interested in letting Howard know they were thinking of him.
Jasper Howard was imperfect. It's what he was dealt. But we should all have a little of him in us.
Jasper Howard (1989-2009)
Friday, September 11, 2009
September 11, 2001
Eight years ago today, the world completely turned upside down. I was a bartender during the time that it happened, so, of course, I was sleeping. After the 5th call of the morning, I decided to turn over and see what was going on. I remember thinking to myself, "somebody better be dead or dying for me to be woken up by this." I also recall regretting those words instantly. Jeremy Forest told me to turn the TV on, and I spent the entire day watching coverage, like everyone else. Was it an inexperienced pilot on a two-seater? Was it a failed engine? It never entered anyone's mind that it was a plotted, calculated terrorist attack. There were a million different opinions as to what happened, but a terrorist attack wasn't one of them.
Shortly after the plane crashed into the first building, yet another crashed into the second building, followed by news that the Pentagon had been hit, and attention quickly turned to "Where is the President? Have they hit the White House?" and P.O.T.U.S. was being whisked away, but it was to an undetermined location. In a matter of a couple of hours, the incidents of the day had turned from tragic accident to hostile, unabated attack.
I was sitting in my apartment with an extreme uneasiness about my safety in this world, as if the terrorists were targeting me in Portsmouth, NH to prove a point to the world. As I thought more about it, though, it came to my attention that I had been taking for granted the blanketing safety provided by my countrymen for my entire life to that point. We can shit on this nation for a number of things. Our healthcare is substandard, our areas of poverty are being neglected, and our leaders can't be trusted, but only once in my 32 years of life have I felt completely exposed. In a country this big, that's unbelievable.
So, as the buildings began tumbling down like a neighborhood of playing cards, hoards of noble, honorable, sacrificing men and women walked into the rubble as everyone else was trying to get out of it. With full knowledge that the collapse of the first two buildings had compromised the structural integrity of the others around them, these uncommon citizens marched forward in their search for any survivors, unsure of what they'd find, if anything, but feeling that it was their duty to look.
2750 people died at Ground Zero, including 450 firemen, police officers, and port authority employees, who went into the wreckage to save a grand total of 20 people. If the events of September 11th, 2001 have shown us anything, it's the resolve of America and Americans. Please take a few moments out of every day to think about those that go to work every day to risk their lives, so we don't have to risk ours. Heroes aren't found on basketball courts or football fields, and they're not found on movie screens or TV sets. Ironically, true heroes in this country would rather go unnoticed and lay under the radar. Yet another thing that makes them true heroes.
Yes, today is a great day to acknowledge the public service folk that lay it on the line daily in the name of safety, given the anniversary of their most recognizable performance. However, maybe it would be more important to acknowledge these people for less recognizable performances, for this is when they truly earn it.
Shortly after the plane crashed into the first building, yet another crashed into the second building, followed by news that the Pentagon had been hit, and attention quickly turned to "Where is the President? Have they hit the White House?" and P.O.T.U.S. was being whisked away, but it was to an undetermined location. In a matter of a couple of hours, the incidents of the day had turned from tragic accident to hostile, unabated attack.
I was sitting in my apartment with an extreme uneasiness about my safety in this world, as if the terrorists were targeting me in Portsmouth, NH to prove a point to the world. As I thought more about it, though, it came to my attention that I had been taking for granted the blanketing safety provided by my countrymen for my entire life to that point. We can shit on this nation for a number of things. Our healthcare is substandard, our areas of poverty are being neglected, and our leaders can't be trusted, but only once in my 32 years of life have I felt completely exposed. In a country this big, that's unbelievable.
So, as the buildings began tumbling down like a neighborhood of playing cards, hoards of noble, honorable, sacrificing men and women walked into the rubble as everyone else was trying to get out of it. With full knowledge that the collapse of the first two buildings had compromised the structural integrity of the others around them, these uncommon citizens marched forward in their search for any survivors, unsure of what they'd find, if anything, but feeling that it was their duty to look.
2750 people died at Ground Zero, including 450 firemen, police officers, and port authority employees, who went into the wreckage to save a grand total of 20 people. If the events of September 11th, 2001 have shown us anything, it's the resolve of America and Americans. Please take a few moments out of every day to think about those that go to work every day to risk their lives, so we don't have to risk ours. Heroes aren't found on basketball courts or football fields, and they're not found on movie screens or TV sets. Ironically, true heroes in this country would rather go unnoticed and lay under the radar. Yet another thing that makes them true heroes.
Yes, today is a great day to acknowledge the public service folk that lay it on the line daily in the name of safety, given the anniversary of their most recognizable performance. However, maybe it would be more important to acknowledge these people for less recognizable performances, for this is when they truly earn it.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Eli's Coming...
It has been 5 months since I last wrote, and I honestly couldn't say why. There have been customary ups and customary downs and plenty of things blog worthy, I suppose, but I just haven't put together words for public consumption. I've been promising a few of you that I'd spit something out, but it was an empty promise because life has been wildly systematic and rudimentary lately.
Then somebody's bombshell became part of my problem. A higher up in our office was let go and, of course, it has adversely affected his wife who just happens to be my direct superior and a good friend of mine. Yes, these things happen, and they happen with more frequency than anyone would like, especially in this trying economic time. He's an incredibly bright man and a natural leader and I'm confident his climate will be minimally affected. But the reason nobody minds when the snow globe is shaken is because nobody lives in the snow globe. They live outside of it. Right now, my boss and her husband are in the globe.
I've had a very shitty couple of days. There are a couple of people within the walls of my office whose dignity I'm reliant upon, because it continually reminds me that the shit on the outside doesn't touch the bliss on the inside. Since I've known them, they've acted with integrity, morality, and a level of decency that all would love to boast they carry, yet most fall short. They fall short because the universe can be a wretched, unforgiving place and because a guy may disrespect another guy today, and that other guy is a douche to a gal tomorrow due to a sense of entitlement. This happens everywhere. Seemingly, everywhere but our office. Until yesterday.
But maybe it didn't happen in our office yesterday. Maybe the higher ups made a conscious choice over $85 worth of Chinese food in a smoky board room, and this choice was made not because of nepotism, but because they honestly felt that their company would be better set up for success without this person in their plans than with him in them. If that's the case, then can I blame this company or the people that have made this calculated, thought out decision? If that's the case, then I can't. But I don't know what the truth is, so everyone has a question mark above their head right now.
But I have a friend. And she's in the fuckin' globe and she can't get out. And this becomes my problem because she's a better human being than the grand majority of those I've bumped into in my life, and the type of people that encapsulate her makeup are deserving of the best treatment from anyone. Today, she doesn't deserve this. If this were an open dialogue, you, reader, would tell me that although my passion is compelling, it's ultimately not my problem and life goes on. If that's what you were about to say, then you and I should have a cup of hot chocolate and catch up sometime. When the people that treat other people right are being treated wrongly and I'm standing on the side of he who treats wrongly, then I'm on the wrong side. I hate being on the wrong side. I'd rather be impoverished and fighting the good fight than cowering for the sake of safety. But I don't necessarily know that there's a wrong side right now. I just know that my friend is trapped in a globe and I wouldn't mind finding a way to shatter the son of a bitch. And I wouldn't mind knowing the truth so the possibility that my perfect world utopian scenario can still exist is alive and well. Sometimes a sliver is all you need.
Then somebody's bombshell became part of my problem. A higher up in our office was let go and, of course, it has adversely affected his wife who just happens to be my direct superior and a good friend of mine. Yes, these things happen, and they happen with more frequency than anyone would like, especially in this trying economic time. He's an incredibly bright man and a natural leader and I'm confident his climate will be minimally affected. But the reason nobody minds when the snow globe is shaken is because nobody lives in the snow globe. They live outside of it. Right now, my boss and her husband are in the globe.
I've had a very shitty couple of days. There are a couple of people within the walls of my office whose dignity I'm reliant upon, because it continually reminds me that the shit on the outside doesn't touch the bliss on the inside. Since I've known them, they've acted with integrity, morality, and a level of decency that all would love to boast they carry, yet most fall short. They fall short because the universe can be a wretched, unforgiving place and because a guy may disrespect another guy today, and that other guy is a douche to a gal tomorrow due to a sense of entitlement. This happens everywhere. Seemingly, everywhere but our office. Until yesterday.
But maybe it didn't happen in our office yesterday. Maybe the higher ups made a conscious choice over $85 worth of Chinese food in a smoky board room, and this choice was made not because of nepotism, but because they honestly felt that their company would be better set up for success without this person in their plans than with him in them. If that's the case, then can I blame this company or the people that have made this calculated, thought out decision? If that's the case, then I can't. But I don't know what the truth is, so everyone has a question mark above their head right now.
But I have a friend. And she's in the fuckin' globe and she can't get out. And this becomes my problem because she's a better human being than the grand majority of those I've bumped into in my life, and the type of people that encapsulate her makeup are deserving of the best treatment from anyone. Today, she doesn't deserve this. If this were an open dialogue, you, reader, would tell me that although my passion is compelling, it's ultimately not my problem and life goes on. If that's what you were about to say, then you and I should have a cup of hot chocolate and catch up sometime. When the people that treat other people right are being treated wrongly and I'm standing on the side of he who treats wrongly, then I'm on the wrong side. I hate being on the wrong side. I'd rather be impoverished and fighting the good fight than cowering for the sake of safety. But I don't necessarily know that there's a wrong side right now. I just know that my friend is trapped in a globe and I wouldn't mind finding a way to shatter the son of a bitch. And I wouldn't mind knowing the truth so the possibility that my perfect world utopian scenario can still exist is alive and well. Sometimes a sliver is all you need.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Ahh, the friendly skies...
I don’t know what all the hullabaloo is about. Anytime I say I’m going to the airport, somebody always proclaims “Ooohhhh, I love to fly!” To those people, I say “I think you’ve eaten too many complimentary peanuts.” I hate it. I mean, I really hate it. If I had John Madden’s bus, I would be taking that monstrosity to Fort Lauderdale instead of this death rocket.
Let’s go over what a typical flight day entails, shall we? Wake up at the asscrack of dawn because you want to beat the crowds (dipshit, if everyone wants to beat the crowd, then you ARE the crowd), get to the airport in record time in order to stand in line.
“How many are you checking in, sir?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too big to carry on.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too small to check in.”
“You’re in the wrong line.”
“Lois, come here. Have you ever seen this before.”
“Please check the board. I know they were working on the engine.”
But you go through another snake like maze to the next checkpoint, and after walking through a number of times, are greeted by a good rodgering because you left your belt on and the buckle’s too big. Once you finally abscond your national-security compromising hand lotion, you wait for an absorbitant amount of time for the plane, which you can clearly see through the window, but just isn’t ready for you to sit on.
And now to the flight. Isn’t this fun? Find whatever seat’s available. At this point, it’s probably next to the unshowered fella with the breathing problem and no reading material. He’s taking the outer seat because the view through the window makes him feel like shipping a used Soft Baked Apple Bar your way. You graciously take the inner seat (what choice do you have?) and squeeze past him, even though he’s unwilling to compromise his current position, so you have to pull a Retton and somersault into your 18 inch wide home.
Waiting…waiting…waiting…
OK, it’s time to take off. This is where it really gets enjoyable. The plane sits on the runway behind 22 other vehicles with the same idea. Finally, your plane’s number is called and you’re ready to take off. The man in the snazzy coat up front steps on it and nearly shoots you into the back wall. I hope you brought your gum,. You’re gonna need it. Oh, and some aspirin wouldn’t hurt, either.
You’ve made it in to the air. You’re plateauing. With the exception of the continual fear that if something goes awry, there’s not an airbag big enough to save you, you’re in pretty good shape…
And then…turbulence. You’re bumping around, you’re bouncing, you’re nauseous. You’re praying for a Gawddamn refill of ginger ale, but none are available because the Captain has asked even the flight attendants to buckle up (not a good sign, by the way). There will be no stomach settling pretzels or ginger ale until after you actually need them.
But the turbulence subsides, and the flight takes on an ordinary path. You get the next few hours to look out the window and envision what it would be like to land on this patch of land and that building. You realize how expansive the land is and recognize that you’re life is more nondescript and unfulfilled than it was before you boarded. You’re depressed now.
Did you like the ascension? Oh, that’s good, because you’re gonna get another hefty dose of it on the way down, but with a hint of “he’s going down a little fast, isn’t he?” thrown in for posterity. Then the death rocket’s 6 tires land on Earth, bounce the rocket a couple of times, then goes from a million to 6 MPH in a matter of seconds. You put your head down, and color yourself lucky and thankful that you weren’t going to be the lead story tonight.
Waiting…waiting…waiting…
Time passes and it’s OK for you to stand, but I’m not sure why you would, because you’re not leaving until everyone else has gone, it seems. But they’re officially in vacation mode. Plus, they’re at the endo f an article and they’re not yet ready to leave. After all, they’ve paid $469 for a ticket on the rocket and they’re sucking the nickels out. So, you stand and wait, patiently, but what you really want to do? What you really want to do is let out a barbaric yawp. Unfortunately, the airline frowns on that.
You make your way through the lingerers and get out of the plane. The next piece of travelling pleasure is baggage claim. Aaahhhh, baggage claim. Just follow the signs. Take this left, then another left, then another left, then another left, take a right, go down the stairs, head out the door, go across the parking lot, grab the shuttle, make your way into town, take a right at the retard selling fireworks, and you should see the baggage claim about a ¼ mile up on the right. Credit to the airlines, as 90% of the time, your bags are there.
Have a great vacation. Can’t wait until it’s over so we can do this again.
Let’s go over what a typical flight day entails, shall we? Wake up at the asscrack of dawn because you want to beat the crowds (dipshit, if everyone wants to beat the crowd, then you ARE the crowd), get to the airport in record time in order to stand in line.
“How many are you checking in, sir?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too big to carry on.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too small to check in.”
“You’re in the wrong line.”
“Lois, come here. Have you ever seen this before.”
“Please check the board. I know they were working on the engine.”
But you go through another snake like maze to the next checkpoint, and after walking through a number of times, are greeted by a good rodgering because you left your belt on and the buckle’s too big. Once you finally abscond your national-security compromising hand lotion, you wait for an absorbitant amount of time for the plane, which you can clearly see through the window, but just isn’t ready for you to sit on.
And now to the flight. Isn’t this fun? Find whatever seat’s available. At this point, it’s probably next to the unshowered fella with the breathing problem and no reading material. He’s taking the outer seat because the view through the window makes him feel like shipping a used Soft Baked Apple Bar your way. You graciously take the inner seat (what choice do you have?) and squeeze past him, even though he’s unwilling to compromise his current position, so you have to pull a Retton and somersault into your 18 inch wide home.
Waiting…waiting…waiting…
OK, it’s time to take off. This is where it really gets enjoyable. The plane sits on the runway behind 22 other vehicles with the same idea. Finally, your plane’s number is called and you’re ready to take off. The man in the snazzy coat up front steps on it and nearly shoots you into the back wall. I hope you brought your gum,. You’re gonna need it. Oh, and some aspirin wouldn’t hurt, either.
You’ve made it in to the air. You’re plateauing. With the exception of the continual fear that if something goes awry, there’s not an airbag big enough to save you, you’re in pretty good shape…
And then…turbulence. You’re bumping around, you’re bouncing, you’re nauseous. You’re praying for a Gawddamn refill of ginger ale, but none are available because the Captain has asked even the flight attendants to buckle up (not a good sign, by the way). There will be no stomach settling pretzels or ginger ale until after you actually need them.
But the turbulence subsides, and the flight takes on an ordinary path. You get the next few hours to look out the window and envision what it would be like to land on this patch of land and that building. You realize how expansive the land is and recognize that you’re life is more nondescript and unfulfilled than it was before you boarded. You’re depressed now.
Did you like the ascension? Oh, that’s good, because you’re gonna get another hefty dose of it on the way down, but with a hint of “he’s going down a little fast, isn’t he?” thrown in for posterity. Then the death rocket’s 6 tires land on Earth, bounce the rocket a couple of times, then goes from a million to 6 MPH in a matter of seconds. You put your head down, and color yourself lucky and thankful that you weren’t going to be the lead story tonight.
Waiting…waiting…waiting…
Time passes and it’s OK for you to stand, but I’m not sure why you would, because you’re not leaving until everyone else has gone, it seems. But they’re officially in vacation mode. Plus, they’re at the endo f an article and they’re not yet ready to leave. After all, they’ve paid $469 for a ticket on the rocket and they’re sucking the nickels out. So, you stand and wait, patiently, but what you really want to do? What you really want to do is let out a barbaric yawp. Unfortunately, the airline frowns on that.
You make your way through the lingerers and get out of the plane. The next piece of travelling pleasure is baggage claim. Aaahhhh, baggage claim. Just follow the signs. Take this left, then another left, then another left, then another left, take a right, go down the stairs, head out the door, go across the parking lot, grab the shuttle, make your way into town, take a right at the retard selling fireworks, and you should see the baggage claim about a ¼ mile up on the right. Credit to the airlines, as 90% of the time, your bags are there.
Have a great vacation. Can’t wait until it’s over so we can do this again.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Awakening
Leaving flowers on your grave
Show that I still care
But black roses and hail mary’s
Can’t bring back what’s taken from me
I reach to the sky
And call out your name
And if I could trade
I would
--The Offspring
"The best thing about our friendship is that I feel like we're immortal when we're out together." These were the words uttered by my friend John at a point when we were younger. He felt that when we were all together, all eight of us, that we couldn't be touched. And it was true... until it wasn't anymore.
Twelve years ago, Mike Catizone passed out on a familiar carpet after a night of drinks, smokes, and unmentionables. When everyone finally went to sleep, Cat made sure it was quiet in the night, grabbed his keys, and went to find his way home. None of this was abnormal. As ridiculous as this sounds, Cat was the best drunk driver we'd known, and if someone wants to do something, there's really no way to stop him. So, off he went onto the Auburn roads. I never heard from him again.
Cat went into a coma and was brought to Elliott Hospital in Manchester, NH. We sat in peaceful unrest and waited for any word to tell us how our friend was doing. We got there early and we left late (and some, not at all). We received word that if he came out of it, he would have brain damage and wouldn't walk normally again. We had conversations about how he'd never want to live like that. That he'd be miserable in that setting. So, knowing that he could hear us when we spoke, I let him know nobody would be mad at him if he quit and faded away. That night, he was gone.
For a period after that, I left the world, too. I was here, but I was numb. I drank more than I ever have, I listened to nobody, and my grades, which were more than passable for a guy that didn't study much, had begun to sink like a stone. Who cares? What's it matter, anyway? We all leave sometime and this, what we see and do, is irrelevant. It's safe to say I was a little fucked up. I was angry, bitter, cold and desolate.
And out of that desolation came an appreciation for the time when that wasn't the case. When I was surrounded by great moments and conversations. When I felt like I couldn't be touched. When I felt as part of a community of friends. And I began to embrace those friendships that meant something, because I didn't know how long they would be around for. Sometimes, as I slip back into a sense of entitlement for what it is that I possess, I reminisce to the time when I thought there was no purpose to anything, and I re-grow an appreciation for those that have graced my life.
And for those that left too early.
I love you, buddy. And I miss you dearly.
Show that I still care
But black roses and hail mary’s
Can’t bring back what’s taken from me
I reach to the sky
And call out your name
And if I could trade
I would
--The Offspring
"The best thing about our friendship is that I feel like we're immortal when we're out together." These were the words uttered by my friend John at a point when we were younger. He felt that when we were all together, all eight of us, that we couldn't be touched. And it was true... until it wasn't anymore.
Twelve years ago, Mike Catizone passed out on a familiar carpet after a night of drinks, smokes, and unmentionables. When everyone finally went to sleep, Cat made sure it was quiet in the night, grabbed his keys, and went to find his way home. None of this was abnormal. As ridiculous as this sounds, Cat was the best drunk driver we'd known, and if someone wants to do something, there's really no way to stop him. So, off he went onto the Auburn roads. I never heard from him again.
Cat went into a coma and was brought to Elliott Hospital in Manchester, NH. We sat in peaceful unrest and waited for any word to tell us how our friend was doing. We got there early and we left late (and some, not at all). We received word that if he came out of it, he would have brain damage and wouldn't walk normally again. We had conversations about how he'd never want to live like that. That he'd be miserable in that setting. So, knowing that he could hear us when we spoke, I let him know nobody would be mad at him if he quit and faded away. That night, he was gone.
For a period after that, I left the world, too. I was here, but I was numb. I drank more than I ever have, I listened to nobody, and my grades, which were more than passable for a guy that didn't study much, had begun to sink like a stone. Who cares? What's it matter, anyway? We all leave sometime and this, what we see and do, is irrelevant. It's safe to say I was a little fucked up. I was angry, bitter, cold and desolate.
And out of that desolation came an appreciation for the time when that wasn't the case. When I was surrounded by great moments and conversations. When I felt like I couldn't be touched. When I felt as part of a community of friends. And I began to embrace those friendships that meant something, because I didn't know how long they would be around for. Sometimes, as I slip back into a sense of entitlement for what it is that I possess, I reminisce to the time when I thought there was no purpose to anything, and I re-grow an appreciation for those that have graced my life.
And for those that left too early.
I love you, buddy. And I miss you dearly.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Oh, the coming wind...
"There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October."
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
Poke your head out the window. Exhale completely. Now, close your mouth, open the nostrils, and take it in as much as you can. Autumn has arrived. Leaves, they're a-changin'. College and pro football are on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday... well, they're on a lot. The Sox are once again in the playoffs. I can't get enough of fall sports
I've been doing pretty well at my "real" job recently, and considering it's the first day of the month, I took it upon myself to grab an extended lunch. I customarily tap the biometric time clock before I leave the building (as the powers highly suggest), but I knew before I left my desk that the 60 minute lunch limitation didn't apply to me, so I looked over my left shoulder, then my right, and darted for the door.
I walked slowly and without purpose to the bank, making certain to greet everyone along the way. I got myself a haircut from my favorite greek barber, Nick, and graciously overtipped him for his artistry contributing to my $11 haircut.
(ASIDE: Nick, I love bay rum. We all love bay rum. It makes us feel clean and in control of our appearance. But when I get my hair cut at 12:45 and at 7, my friend Jeremiah asks me if I just got my hair cut by Nick, the Bay Rum barber, well, it's a sure sign that a little dab'll do ya. We cool?)
OK, this is where autumn kicked in. There's a place here in Dirty Dover called Harvey's. It's rather nondescript, except for its longevity and its self-proclamation that they carry the world's greatest pork pie. With that said, I had their pork pie this past weekend, and it's absolutely phenomenal. Judy Moreau phenomenal? Not quite, but very, very good, nonetheless. But Harvey's is what autumn is all about. The New England chill of October takes a backseat as you sit there, engulfed in a turkey and rice soup and a Boston Globe. And that's what I did today. I wish it was a little bit colder, but there's only so much I can control.
That's what Harvey's does. It makes you wish the outdoors were colder so you'd feel that much warmer within its confines. How many times have you said "you know, it's pretty decent out here, but I wish it were a little more uncomfortable"? My two hour lunch turned my day from "ho-hum" to "downright giddy". Harvey's will do that, too.
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
Poke your head out the window. Exhale completely. Now, close your mouth, open the nostrils, and take it in as much as you can. Autumn has arrived. Leaves, they're a-changin'. College and pro football are on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday... well, they're on a lot. The Sox are once again in the playoffs. I can't get enough of fall sports
I've been doing pretty well at my "real" job recently, and considering it's the first day of the month, I took it upon myself to grab an extended lunch. I customarily tap the biometric time clock before I leave the building (as the powers highly suggest), but I knew before I left my desk that the 60 minute lunch limitation didn't apply to me, so I looked over my left shoulder, then my right, and darted for the door.
I walked slowly and without purpose to the bank, making certain to greet everyone along the way. I got myself a haircut from my favorite greek barber, Nick, and graciously overtipped him for his artistry contributing to my $11 haircut.
(ASIDE: Nick, I love bay rum. We all love bay rum. It makes us feel clean and in control of our appearance. But when I get my hair cut at 12:45 and at 7, my friend Jeremiah asks me if I just got my hair cut by Nick, the Bay Rum barber, well, it's a sure sign that a little dab'll do ya. We cool?)
OK, this is where autumn kicked in. There's a place here in Dirty Dover called Harvey's. It's rather nondescript, except for its longevity and its self-proclamation that they carry the world's greatest pork pie. With that said, I had their pork pie this past weekend, and it's absolutely phenomenal. Judy Moreau phenomenal? Not quite, but very, very good, nonetheless. But Harvey's is what autumn is all about. The New England chill of October takes a backseat as you sit there, engulfed in a turkey and rice soup and a Boston Globe. And that's what I did today. I wish it was a little bit colder, but there's only so much I can control.
That's what Harvey's does. It makes you wish the outdoors were colder so you'd feel that much warmer within its confines. How many times have you said "you know, it's pretty decent out here, but I wish it were a little more uncomfortable"? My two hour lunch turned my day from "ho-hum" to "downright giddy". Harvey's will do that, too.
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