Author: fifteenkey (Page 19 of 95)

The crying was real and broke my heart. She’d lost someone dear to her and there was nothing I was going to be able to do about it. Or was there? She had passed out in the back seat, tear streaks still moist on her cheeks. I did try to find her friend, but our searching came up empty. From the Timberland, I literally crawled to search under armor, but it seemed a cold case. “Flounder” was lost somewhere in the “Bob’s Store” and Big Papi wasn’t bringing him back. I was well aware this was a traumatic event and there was no way I wanted responsibility for a future moment when Maddy shrieks to some therapist, “MY PAPA COULDN’T FIND FLOUNDER!” A mild tremor at the thought coursed my body and it confirmed a drastic measure was required: intervention. I took the rural routes along 31 and 140 until I reached Berlin. No, Massachusetts, not Germany. Madison was still groggy, and as I brushed her hair from her post-nap eyes, dried yogurt announced itself. Not surprisingly, simply breaking the plane of the Disney store brought Maddy back and a stuffed “Flounder” brought back her smile. I threw in an “Ariel” nighty because I’m her grandfather and that’s what I do. Now shopping can tire a woman out, so we hit up the food court for a slice. A merry-go-round now sits at center court… I’d say the intervention was a success. For today.

The film director’s burden can be heavy. Aside from handling budgets, unions, unexpected flatulence during a quiet scene, the elements (weather, not the periodic table…) and petulant “stars,” the creative process itself is most daunting. There are times the director must encourage, cajole, and yes, even demand breathtaking performance from actors in order to weave his or her story. This is one of those times…

[Note the smiling “agent” shows up at the 1:58 mark…]

This song takes me back to the old “Youth Activity Center,” or “YAC” in Wakefield. It’s the place we’d go most weekend nights and the primary activity was hanging out before, but mostly after killing a few beers with our pals. It was in a basement of some old town building just off the lower common. Dillard and I would usually thumb from Greenwood and then inevitably be late getting home for our 11:00 curfew. Some cool townspeople ran the place, but I’m not sure I’ll remember them all right now. Freddie Roberto was usually there, as was Richie Wood. Richie was considered “very cool,” but once called a ball on the nastiest knuckler I ever threw in a Babe Ruth league game. It started out headed right at the hitter, who bailed out like I threw cheese at his chin, then the floating orb darted down and right over the plate. Perfect strike. Later at the “YAC” Richie apologized and admitted, “I missed it.” That was cool.

Upon arrival any night or Sunday afternoon at the YAC, it was usually not apparent my buddies were in the house. Dillard and I would have to shuffle back into the bowels of the men’s room where Freddie would be holding court. Of course the men’s room was where “Chico” and “Fitzy” dashed wearing nothing but paper bags on their heads during the “streaker” craze around 1973. Anyway, only after discussing the current state of the football team and other weighty issues like détente between the US and Russia would we emerge to mingle with the masses. My memories aren’t well lit right now, and neither was the YAC, but the place was lined with tabled booths on 3 sides, featured a pool and ping-pong table, and had a jukebox on the 4th wall, near the entrance. There are only two songs I remember the spew out of that thing; I guess that makes them unforgettable. The first was Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love.” It’s obviously a great song, and was the only top 10 single for the band in the US. It also features one of rocks great guitar riffs that would reverb endlessly because Glenn Forbes would kick the jukebox repeatedly so the record would skip and repeat the riff. Yeah, good times.

The memory tune is a “Star Trek” transporter room, atomizing me back to the YAC every time I hear the Billy Preston opening keyboard, the nasty Mick Taylor wah-wah solos and Jagger’s guttural yelps. Then there’s both Mick’s and “Keef” on the haunting background vocals. That’s the thing. That chorus. Yesterday on the commute home, I analyzed it, sang it, and loved its construction. Each refrain of the chorus starts off with one “Doo,” followed by three sets of “Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo.” I love words and they don’t always have to have deep meaning. Sometimes they can just be Doo Doo.

“Doo…
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo”

[For the record (and for Barb), this is my 763rd post. One more than Barry Bonds 762 career home runs. I have no comment on how performance enhancers may have contributed to my impressive stats.]

On Sunday while I was whisking my best girl down to the Cape for a 21 hour mini-vacation (unsuccessfully interrupted by creepy crawling mildew), my lovely daughter Megan illegally unethically hijacked my Facebook account and wrote:

“Leo Daley<— Cried at Toy Story Three. Dad, stop logging onto FB on my MAC!”

In a clear case of piling on, “Work Joyce” (as opposed to “Play Joyce”) commented:

“Sobbed at Toy Story Three. On the other hand, I’m a post-menopausal mother-of-two. What’s your excuse again?”

Due to popular demand, I’ll tell you why, yes, I cried at “Toy Story 3.” I sniffled (it was borderline not even a cry) because there were (mostly) men (toys) in mortal danger, and they faced that peril like men (toys) with the same manly (toyly) courage that made me cry in “Saving Private Ryan.” OK, that’s only partly true. Mostly, what pulled my heartstrings was the possibility I might lose these characters as a connecting thread of my life with my children. There was also a part featuring Andy and his mom that that made me think of Joyce and her son Nick, but she hasn’t seen the movie yet and this ain’t no plot busting blog, but this is.

Three years and six days ago, I posted “72films,” which were not consciously ordered, but curiously 4 of the first 15 jerk tears from my ducts:

• Field of Dreams – “Dad, wanna have a catch?” The idea of “connecting” with your dad after a life of distance…
• Brian’s Song – “I love Brian Piccolo. And tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him.” I sometimes project myself onto the screen and “live” the film. The idea of losing my best friend when I was 12 was overwhelming.
• It’s a Wonderful Life –“Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?” Most days we go through this life not thinking of the impact we have on others. Being reminded that someday there will be that awful hole swarms the senses.
• Forrest Gump –“I miss you, Jenny. If there’s anything you need, I won’t be far away.” Oh, man. This special man who absolutely “knows what love is” finally gets his Jenny… then she dies.

Of course movies aren’t the only times I’ve cried, but I’ll simply say those other times involved losing people I loved, even temporarily, or thinking I might. Looking forward, I also see life-affirming experiences and tears of joy, but I’ll just stay right here in this blubbery moment.

So what’s my excuse? I love my life and the people in it. I feel it. I try to blend myself across a wide palette of creamy perception and colorful emotions that allow me to experience its unbounded dimensions. Crying cleanses the soul’s canvas anew for creating life experiences of increasing breadth and depth. Or maybe, as some of the people I love would say, “you’re just a mush.”

Many of us have scrap book mind fragments of family dinners long digested. I can’t really recall any including my Dad, but there was that one Sunday and I know we ate at a restaurant. That was cool. It would be nice to have some footage of this one. I’d love to hear my Nana (checkered dress) Lily’s voice and the banter between her and my mom (to Nana’s right)… Megan recently worried aloud that “dinner at Nana’s (mom’s) may never be the same.” Oh, the table beneath the fake, plastic ceiling beams will be the same, and the 1980’s vintage glass cabinet of stacked, black audio components will still draw Maddy’s curiosity, but the spirit in the room may be forever changed.

This week I pulled out the videocam for a series of interviews with my little blond ambition, and when I hooked up the series of wires, corsets and pulleys to download the directorial magic to PC, a still representation caught my eye. While I lack tangible moving pictures of most family dinners past, we do have this one, and it moved me.

[From left to right, Katie’s friend, Katie (Uncle Dave’s daughter), mom’s sister Auntie San, Anne (Uncle Dave’s wife), Mom, nephew Ryan, mom’s sister Auntie Bev, mom’s brother Uncle Dave, Kyle, Megan… and a guest appearance from Maddy)

The initial filament fire for this post occurred at church when Father Tim proclaimed, “Let us offer each other a sign of peace.” Peace. It’s such a simple word, yet a profoundly elusive state. As I kissed her, I remember thinking, “I really want peace for her.” It’s all relative, I know. I lack the capacity to delve into the complex forces against world peace, so I’ll stay very local. We don’t live in Kandahar province, so our “peace” is unlikely to be shattered by the shrapnel of an IED, yet we’re constantly bombarded with conflict from work, family, friends, handymen, commuting, shopping, television, radio… life…and death. Our inner peace can even be invaded by our own thoughts of doubt, shame, guilt, insecurity, anger, the Yankees…

My good friend Michael signs all his emails, “peace.” It’s a nice valediction and so preferable to “Best.”  Really? “Best?”  What does that even mean? It seems insincere, cool and trite business-speak. “Peace” is so warm, like a hot chocolate with those little marshmallows, but you can’t really use it in business for fear the recipient would coldly think, “freakin’ hippie.” Speaking of hippies, I still remember reading a Sports Illustrated article around 1974 about Bill Walton and his 88 game winning streak UCLA Bruins. I was a Walton fan [Michael was “Wilkes” to my “Walton” as we thrashed different combinations of our brothers in 2 on 2 action at 67 Greenwood Avenue. Of course, we were in high-school and they were like 6th graders, but that’s not important right now…] and when the article ended with a description of big Bill “flashing the peace sign,” I was captured by the coolness.

OK, back to church where the coolness of circulating blades are 300 feet above the congregation… It always seems a little uncomfortable scanning the radius of your pew position for strangers to do the “peace be with you” drill. Are we just not comfortable with “peace?” Do we subconsciously believe uttering the word is somehow a sign of weakness? I’m sure Dick Cheney does. I knew this post was doomed when I pecked the five letter title… I guess like many things we desire in this life, “peace” is aspirational. I love John Lennon’s song, but every time I hear, “Give Peace a Chance,” I think… “nice song, but a pipedream in this world.” I guess the best we can do is “think globally, act locally,” and do all we can to bring peace to those close to us.  Maybe that could get around.

Peace.

I miss the World Cup competition. Since discovering the beautiful game over a few pints in a London pub in 2001, I’ve looked forward to it every 4 years. Other than Joyce’s son though, I really have no one to talk to about it. Nick plays and will do so at UVM beginning this Fall, but even so, I can’t help thinking that every time I open my yapper about it up he’s thinking, “Oh. My. God. I can’t believe this guy is bringing up soccer again…” Anyway, without any buddies to talk futbol, I’ll just talk to myself about it here…

Top Ten reasons Futbol (Soccer) rocks

1. The field is called “the Pitch.” – I love that! It makes more sense than “gridiron.” The pitch at Old Trafford in Manchester, England is the Yank, uh, Fenway Park of futbol in the UK. It seats 75,957 fans and has the nickname, “Theatre of Dreams.” Old Trafford has been home to the Premier Leagues legendary Manchester United since 1910, except for an 8 year span beginning in 1941 when it was BOMBED DURING WWII! That’s history.

2. Players get “carded.” – If you simply display “unsporting behaviour,” that may get you a yellow (warning) card. Be a real dick and the ref draws red from his two card deck and you are “sent off” for the duration and must leave the area and go to a local pub (OK, I made the pub part up, but I’m certain it’s happened often…). My favorite part is when the ref approaches the offending player and raises the card high above him like, “this is an official citation for your unsporting behavior!”

3. Head – You gotta use it if you want to play the world’s game. The Spain-Germany semi-final was decided by a spectacular Carles Puyol header at the 74th minute as the diminutive defender skied above bigger Germans to slam the “Jabulani” ball into the net.

4. Time Waits for No One (Except the Ref) – Once the official time expires on the stadium clock, only the ref really knows how much “extra” time (due to injuries and other delays) is left.

5. Athleticism – Soccer players have to be in superb condition, and average 6-7 miles of running during a match. You won’t see Kevin Youkilis or David Ortiz out on “the pitch” for long… At the World Cup level, these are among the best athletes on the planet.

6. Skill – Some of these guys dribble a ball with their feet with skill equal to Marques Haynes dribbling with his hands and don’t even get me going on the skill it takes to execute a bicycle kick…

7. No timeouts! – The game has two 45 minute halves with no stoppage… That means no commercials, kids! It also means there are no 5 hour Sox-Yankee death marches.

8. Corner kicks – Of course everyone knows the corner kick was conceived under the Sheffield Rules in 1867. It is awarded to the attacking team when the ball leaves the pitch at the end (goal) line (goals are excluded from this rule… duh) after being last touched by a defending player. The attacking team then gets to kick the ball back into play from the corner closest to where the ball exited. The corner kick is a prime goal scoring opportunity and can be a very exciting moment in a match. Skilled “strikers” will often try to “bend” the ball from the corner up and down into a crowd of players fronting the goal, hoping a teammate can redirect a “header” past the keeper.

9. Drama – In the 2010 Ghana-Uruguay World Cup quarter-final, the teams battled 1-1 into a 30 minute overtime when Ghana was swarming the Uruguay goal for a sure decider. Minutes past the 30 minute “extra time” a sure goal by Ghana was denied when a Uruguayan defender stopped the shot with his hands. Ghana was awarded a penalty kick, a 12 yard unabated boot with a 77% success rate. The game, the futbol hopes of the African continent, and a lifetime of glory or infamy came down to one kick by Ghanaian striker Asamoah Gyan. It was a stunning and sad moment to see Gyan clang the ball off the crossbar.

10. Arts and Sciences – To watch a team work the ball down the field, ping-ponging passes that seem to be drawn by magnets from foot to foot, is sports beauty combining precise geometry, law-defying physics, and infinite artistic imagination. Every kick, every play and every game is so different… and beautiful.

Some soccer suckage:
1. Overtime penalty kicks – Teams compete hard for more than 120 minutes (90m regulation plus 30 of “extra time”), then ties are settled by 5 penalty kicks each? Me no likee.

2. Diving – Some players drop like deer in hunting season if just breathed on by an opposing player, feigning certain death to draw a penalty. They roll with contorted faces and writhe in pain like their knee, ankle or testicles have been blown apart. Moments later they’re up galloping like Bambi. That is a blight on the game that has to be addressed.

3. Vuvuzelas – I wake up sweating, nightmaring about paying for World Cup flights, accommodations and tickets, only to have some assjack blow one of those down my audio canal for 90-plus minutes. (Maybe it’s just a South Africa thing…)

Futbol is not the worlds game for nothing. Kick me your comments pro or con…

The word itself is sickening. “Suicide.” It sounds gross, messy like some jiggling blob of slimy oil washing ashore with a dead bird in its killing embrace. I don’t want to contemplate the infinite black horizon seen prior to the act, but instead focus on how we can help one another avoid seeing even a shadow of that painful void.

Researching this of course turned up a Wikipedia entry for the 1980 Ozzy Osborne song, apparently written as a tribute to Bon Scott of AC/DC who drank himself to death. Now while sudden suicide is the subject here, I know there are many people slowly killing themselves through one form of abuse or another, but that’s a post I hope I never have to write.

Since the death of my nephew, Ryan, I’ve spoken with four people who have lost siblings to suicide. It’s staggered me how many people just around me are sad remainders of suicide. A couple weeks ago, a warm consoling hug included a whispered, “I can relate.” Only later did I learn about the loss of her closest brother two years ago… Just yesterday one of those conversations brought tears to the survivor as she recalled the loss of her sister 25 years ago… Twenty five years! I guess the impact of that loss never really subsides. The questions, doubts and guilt may scar over, but the wound never heals. As tides move in and out of our personal shores, the emptiness gets exposed when your confidant is not there, at random 10AM Thursdays, and at weddings that should never have been missed.

My sister-in-law is handling the loss of her son with amazing resilience and grace. The Monday after the Saturday funeral I called her to see how she was doing. “I got out of bed!” She then described the beautiful park she was walking in and how she tried to get Ryan to walk with her. If only he had, even just once, the experience might have changed his perspective…

Now Tammy is doing more than walking. Well, she’s walking for the cause of suicide prevention by supporting the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention in a “WalkOut of the Darkness Community Walk” in Wakefield on October 2nd.

Please support her if you can. You never know whose life you might be saving.

Twenty four hours ago I was a whiney bitch, a petulant little boy who wasn’t getting everything exactly the way he wanted it. I was feeling put on and put out. Today I wasn’t all that much better, but an email, a visit from the plumber and a trip to see Megan at the Jathar Salon turned me around.

The “I hope you feel better” email was filled with love and elevated my Zeppelin from a deflated state, face down on the mat. It reminded me of the love that blankets me from life’s occasional bitter chill. The doorbell forced me to turn the Zep 180 degrees (not so easy in a living room) and welcome Shawn the Plumber. Water, while essential, can destroy a home if left dripping long enough, and my 80 year old Craftsman bungalow was sort of in a Stooges, “Water? Turn on anything, you’ll get it” phase. A minor faucet rebuild in my evil lair fixed a hot water leak there, but the real fun was still to come a floor below… Megan’s shower had been leaking into the basement since, oh, when the Sox won the World Series. I’m thinking 2004 or 2007, not 1918, although the house has stood almost since then (1930). [An 80th birthday party may be in order.] Anyway, Shawn was good and he could see with a small chrome flashlight that the water was dripping back from the faucet-head because it wasn’t “pitched” correctly. “Pitch” and water is a theme here lately. On Tuesday, a roofer will arrive to install $3,100 worth of roll roofing on a shallow pitched area of my roof that never should have been shingled, but I digress. Once the fridge was rolled back and a hole cut into the wall behind it, Shawn replaced the problematic pitch pipe along with some other parts and leak be gone! Still, parting with $775 proved painful for plumbing. Yeah, yeah, enough with the palliteration…

An hour later I was under wraps at Jathar while Megan sliced white hairs with shears and childishness with wisdom. [At this point, we’re going to a Luv’s diaper commercial. They are so much more pleasant than the actual experience…] It was a good cut on both fronts. It is extremely rewarding to see my girl so happy. She’s thriving professionally and as a mother, and growing as a woman. I’m so proud of her; I just wish she’s drive slower…

Teeming with a new ‘tude, Kyle and I headed home and engaged in our typical banter. Driving down Main Street in Waltham, I spotted a Cigar Store Indian. “Dude, cigars! You want one?” Kyle looked at me with a filthy, disgusting look and then uttered one of his funniest lined ever, ” “I’ll never turn out like you! Ever.” Screw it. I got two and I’m smoking the Montecristo right now. With smooching off the menu tonight, a cigar is a perfect pairing with Maker’s on ice.

So here I sit under a huge oak while birds whistle their last pre-slumber songs. Wonderpets sing Maddy to sleep in the living room. From my lair above, I hear Kyle laughing. My old house may be leaking, but it’s full of love. Megan just called, deliriously happy and on her way to see Lady Gaga with one of her graduation presents. It’s a privilege to be able to help make dreams come true…

Speaking of dreams come true, right now in a very happy hollow, Joyce is “futzing.” That’s her word for filling her Cape home with loving touches. Her boys in red sox are on in the background. A couple girlfriends are close and she’ll laugh with them this weekend. Her son will join her soon. I miss her, but knowing how good she feels right now is all I need.

Now Maddy needs me to cover her with a loving “blankie.” Life is beautiful.