A place to indulge my narcissism... and write stuff...
What cinema runs through the eyes of your mind? Video killed the radio star, and our imaginative millions of blood fed celluloid tales we held conscious interpreting the music. Nevermind. Do they pass your mind? Flickering when fluoride hits your teeth or dark your eyes? Pictures of Lily, or some person you’ll never have? I had a woman living in my head like that once. Actually, several have squatted transient.
I ended up with her.
And down without her.
Images
The flags of my country and the Commonwealth I live in were blowing as nearly perfect rectangles against a background of sprinkle carrying stratocumulus. While my audio was processing the “Star Spangled Banner” as performed by a Fitchburg State College coed, the rest of my mind hobbled through an obstacle course of conflict.
In the recent past, fictional WMD’s leading to a real war, torture tales and the sickening greed of the entitled in this country have seriously challenged my faith in America as a “shining city on a hill.” Yesterday, however, the love scenes shone everywhere on an otherwise grey day. As announcements were read, a woman of my vintage signed them to a young boy in the stands. Wheelchairs were propelled by smiles. Many Fitchburg State College volunteers chatted with the athletes, offering praise and encouragement. The SpEd teachers organized and led their kids from event to event. Parents smiled. Some cried. One young man, upon seeing his mother and sister across the track, breached it to hug them just as a race was beginning. Nobody cared. The Special Olympics is about belonging more than competing and nobody lost anything. Everybody gained. Seeing the wonder in my son as he gazed at his medals is a moment I’ll never forget.
As the flag stood still I calculated all the love and effort expended to take care of special needs children, especially in this bluest of states, Massachusetts. I wondered with doubt, if most other countries took care of these “troubled and afflicted” the way we do. I briefly thought if red-states do. It hasn’t always been this way. An elderly family acquaintance once coldly uttered, “In my day, we used to put kids like Kyle away.” Thankfully, that day is past. It’s called progress, and seeing it on display yesterday instilled some much needed optimism in me about who we are.
“A troubled and afflicted mankind looks to us, pleading for us to keep our rendezvous with destiny; that we will uphold the principles of self-reliance, self-discipline, morality, and–above all–responsible liberty for every individual that we will become that shining city on a hill.”
Ronald Reagan, announcing his candidacy for President of the United States at the New York Hilton, New York, NY on November 13, 1979
Friday was a unique and fun day for me. I mean, it’s not every day you eat turkey sliders stuffed with brie and go see a Sox-Yankees game, but Friday was one of them. Now I’m not naming any names, but on this night I was the lone member of The Nation in a posse of Evil Empire do-ers headed to Fenway Park. Yeah, we play in a “pahk,” not a multi-billion dollar galaxy with cushy, twenty-six hunnret dollah empty blue seats. The ringleader, who I’ll refer to as “John,” even wore an “Evil Empire” tee-shirt adorned with that Gothic baseball logo that once struck fear in the heart of the Nation. Things started to get creepy on the cab ride into the city. While I chatted in the front seat with the cabbie about the Cup chances of the B’s, I swear I heard “John” and “Patty” giggling about when their “Joba the Nut” would plant a 97 MPH stitched saber in Kevin Youklis’s ear.
It’s just a beer before the game, right? Well, usually, except this mass-produced, blue aluminum cylinder manufactured to evil standards by a now Belgian behemoth corporate brewer didn’t meet “Jimmy’s” standards. Supposedly this guy knows something about canning, but I was stunned silent watching this maniac “friend of John,” eyes bulging, literally crushing the blue bud vase declaring, “No Yankee logo? It’s not evil enough!” OK… Into the park we go. I felt like Patty Hearst when she was a hostage and her SLA captors forced her to accompany them during an armed bank robbery. Little did I know that the four who ventured up from Mordor, NJ for the game had nice Section 12 seats, while the lone Sox fan was really there just to fetch beers for “John’s” sister, “Tanta” in the bleachers and listen to her drone on for 11 innings about how “Jeter doesn’t suck,” and “Posada doesn’t suck.” At one point, some no-name Yankee caught a popup and she again exclaimed, “that guy doesn’t suck.” When I suggested that hauling in “a can of corn” doesn’t exclude a ballplayer from suckage, “Tanta” ordered me to get her another beer.
That and several Yankee meetings on the mound was basically it for 8 2/3 innings. I mean it’s like these guys all have Blackberries in the infield and about every 3rd batter, Posada sends them all an Outlook invitation so they trot to the mound for another meeting. “Tanta” chuckled sarcastically at that one then ordered me to get her another beer. I’m happy to report I made her drink Sam Adams “Boston” Lager. Suddenly, like an evaporating 3-0 ALCS lead, Jason Bay launched the Millennium Falcon over “the Monstah” at the 379’ mark and a 4-2 Evil Empire lead was erased. The Nation joyfully erupted in a way that could only be eclipsed if they could see Dick Cheney waterboarded in the dirt by second base, but I digress…
Two innings later, Kevin Youklis, plotted against earlier in the evening, waterboarded Dick and drove the silver spike through the heart of the empire with a bomb onto Landsdowne Street and everybody jumped up and down at home plate. Just like Little League. After the game, I tried to get the out of towners into the new House of Blues, but when the doorman asked for ID’s, “Sue,” the last of the “Mordor Four” decided that laying down on the sidewalk would be a more efficient way to fish out her license from a sea of Yankee bobblehead dolls in her purse. It’s funny, but the Derek Jeter bobblehead looked smaller than the rest… Not sure what that was about… The doorman shot me a look that said, “Yankee fans?” I thought the Yankee logos they all were wearing pretty much told the story, but I just threw back the “oh yeah” eye roll and Mr. Doorman shut it on us. Still, I let “Sue” take the fall for the group. It was a great night, uh, well, you know, as fun as being with Yankee fans can be, and I owe “John” for the ducat. Thanks, “John.”
Anyway, I caught up the kids again Saturday afternoon and we reminisced about the game. It was about 4:00 and game 2 of the series was just starting on the TV behind us at Boston’s Black Rose. I told “Jimmy” and “John” that even though it was April, that might be the best game we see this year at Fenway. They agreed. Well, at least until the circus-like game 2 finished…
My “vacation” this week consists of caring for my son and granddaughter while their mothers have a real vacation in the Caribbean. Oh, I’m also checking work email intermittently because… well, just because. On Monday morning as Maddy napped, Kyle and I caught an episode of this year’s “Rescue Me” on the DVR. In one scene, the boys sat around the firehouse table and debated whether, given the choice, they’d give up “an eye or a nut.” I don’t recall who chose what, but later as Kyle, Maddy and I dominated the left lane toward Nana’s house, I asked Kyle for his opinion on the “eye or a nut” question.
Dad: “Kyle, do you remember that scene today when the guys were talking about whether they’d give up an eye or a nut?”
Kyle: “You mean ‘Rescue Me?’”
Dad: “Yeah, so which would you pick?”
Kyle: (a little embarrassed) “I don’t know. What would you?”
Dad: “Oh, a nut for sure. What about you?”
Kyle: (after some thought) “An eye.”
Dad: “Whoa, really?”
(Now at 17 and hormones raging, obviously Kyle’s nuts are much more important to him than mine are to me at 50, but his rationale just cracked me up.)
Kyle: “Yeah, then I could get an eye-patch like Captain Hook.”
Dad: (laughing and thinking… “Yeah, and keep the boys.”)
Maddy had no comment…
That’s all I’ve got for ya.
Unlike Jed Lowries “Texas League” bloop single yesterday, there aren’t many “tweeners” when it comes to Massachusetts Senator Edward M. Kennedy. Adored by the left and demonized by the right, he’s led a life of privileged imperfection. None of that mattered yesterday for the 77 year old Red Sox fan as he threw the first pitch to open the 2009 season for the Sox.
As he peered in at new Hall of Famer Jim Rice, the childlike glee on his face spoke a unifying language for kids of all ages:
“Play Ball!”
The glass of a shattered automobile window is a beautiful greenish pattern of little cubes, all glittering like unique ice crystals. Those on and around my cars rear window were enhanced by the light spring rain falling. Inside the drivers side rear pane once sat my laptop computer, but it apparently was fed up with my abuse and jumped through the glass in a desperate run at freedom while I dined with some work friends at a local Naked Fish.
I slept soundly last night in spite of a 45 minute drive home accompanied by the loud slapping of a plastic bag enduring 60 mile per hour winds and a fear that my laptop would use it’s knowledge to take me down. After all, it knows all my internet log ins to banks and brokerages. I was pretty dazed when I got home, but made the required calls to shut off account access. Well, I tried. Shutting off a credit card is doable 24/7, but without your logins and passwords, disabling web access is a challenge.
Anyway, with the help of openoffice.org and an external backup, I was able to retrieve my login data, access my accounts and change my passwords. I also shut off my credit card. Replacing all the files I’ve worked on recently won’t be so easy. Most of the important ones can be found attached to emails, but many are gone forever, including pictures and videos not uploaded to YouTube. It will be kinda like putting that window back together.
How do you measure the passage of time? Obviously we use seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and 50th birthdays, but I mean those moments. Some of those are the year you graduated high school (1976), got married (1987) or divorced (1996). We also know the year of our children’s births (1989, 1992) and those of our parents (1933, 1940), but it’s difficult, for me at least, to put those dates in context. For example, many of us have our stories on “where we were” on September 11, 2001 and October 20, 2004, both epic disasters in New York, one real and one symbolic only to Red Sox and Yankee fans…
Lately I’ve been reeling when scanning channels, I note a date on a movie and think, ‘Wow, it’s been 20 years since “Field of Dreams” was released,’ before flashing a thought about where exactly those 20 (now 21) years went…
Another cinematic phenomena for adding context to racing years is seeing a movie listed that I’ve been meaning to see, and still consider “fairly recent,” but actually was released several years ago… Some examples:
As I researched these films, the list became full of these dark films that for some reason I don’t want to see. Maybe I’ve got enough darkness.
March 19, 2009 – Megan and I tried to convince Kyle to do some of his “Heath Ledger as the Joker” impressions before launching into his masculine rendition of “My Heart Will Go On,” but he would have none of it. In this first clip, my boy perseveres after the background song and mike go out on him mid-tune… Other kids might have wilted, but Kyle never chokes when he’s got a mike in his hand and an adoring crowd to perform for…
After hosing off some overheating equipment and the rabid fans during intermission, “old brown eyes” came out for an encore.
Last weekend Kyle and I blurred through a magical history tour from Philadelphia’s Independence Hall to the US Capitol and all of these in between:
We also toured a variety of culinary haunts from Pat’s King of Steak in South Philly to Sam and Harry’s steakhouse in DC. Neither Sam nor Harry allow jeans in their house of beef, so the boy and I cabbed it to a Men’s Wearhouse for khaki’s, dress shirt and a belt. Given Kyle’s conscientious objector status regarding clothes shopping, it wasn’t a bad trip. Mr. Daley was very agreeable, and after a brief fitting of the pants, we were out of there.
It was a great learning experience for Kyle and while he may not understand the subtlety of the moving Vietnam wall, he was patient and respectful through several walking hours on Saturday. Once the pain from his fallen arches got to be too much, my hand went up and a taxi arrived. We took it easy on the misty Sunday, limiting our stroll to the Capitol and the National Gallery of Art. The Capitol seemed pretty deserted for a nation teetering on the economic abyss. Shouldn’t these people be pulling all nighters? I mean working, not chasing interns… The National Gallery was pretty uninspiring compared to other “great” museums like the Met and MFA, but the wire sculptures of Alexander Calder did stand out.
As we wound our way along the curving, stone wall lined Delaware turnpike headed back to West Chester, PA, I asked Kyle what he thought of DC. “Dad, my feet hurt.”
© 2026 Fifteenkey
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑