Oscar, my dog, has a propensity for doing things that are beyond our comprehension. What he did today was downright disgusting.
So we play in an indoor soccer league on Wednesday nights. I sweat a lot, even when I'm not moving. I'm pretty sure that I'm never 100% dry...ever. Anyway, after our game, I changed shirts and threw the dripping-wet one into my duffel bag as we went to the Dr's Inn for our post-game happy hour. It was late when we got home so I didn't bother to unpack, and I continued to not bother to unpack until today, Sunday, four days later. Over these four days, that nasty t-shirt marinated, not only in its own juices, but also in the aroma of my socks, the shirt Tom wore to play goalie, my shoes, and my shin guards, which I've used since high school. Needless to say, it was quite noxious when I opened the bag and transfered the contents to my laundry basket.
Oscar, being the curious dog that he is, felt the need to sniff everything. I've gotten used to that, since he's part black lab and part beagle. But what he did next blew my mind. He continued to sniff my laundry, then sunk his head in it and burrowed around until he was satisfied that he'd smelled it all. And then...he started sliding his head back and forth across the top of my smelly laundry, at least 10 times. He sort of looked like Stevie Wonder, back and forth, back and forth, wiping his face with my socks and my t-shirts and everything else that Michaelene dares not touch until it's clean. He continued until I grabbed him and made him stop. I don't get it. I don't get him.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Metal Night
It's been a while since I've posted anything. Wedding planning and buying a house sort of took priority over blogging, among other things. But things are starting to settle down a bit. Thanksgiving was pretty crazy. A small family get-together at our centrally-located apartment turned into 13 people (and one dog) packing in wall-to-wall. I guess it was symbolic of the Thanksgiving meal itself...you wouldn't ever believe that you could fit so much into a finite space, but you just keep making room and shifting things around and somehow in the end it all goes down.
We just started an indoor soccer league at the Sports Garden. It's a mix of people who have and haven't played soccer. And those of us who have played, haven't played in years. Oh yeah, and we're mostly out of shape. The first game was pretty ugly. We're apparently in the co-ed 'B' league. We lost 15-4, and it could've been much worse. The most frustrating part was that I know if I'd been in better shape we could've played better. I really got to the point where I couldn't breathe, as did most of us. Indoor soccer is tough. It's a constant sprint. Two of the people on our team had run a marathon 2 weeks before and even they were winded. So I've decided to try to get in a little better shape for our next game this week. Yesterday morning (Saturday), we went to the gym. I did my usual lifting and abs routine, then got on the treadmill. I did the 5k program, my usual 3 miles. I ran the first mile at 7.0 mph and the second at 7.2 mph. Then I decided that I needed to work more on shorter distances and higher intensity. So I ran half a mile at 8.5 mph. It's only a little over a 7-minute mile pace. When I was in high school and in shape, I could run a 5:45 mile. At the end of this half-mile I really thought I might die. I'm not sure the heart rate monitors on the machines are entirely accurate, but it said mine was 198 beats per minute. According to the 220 minus your age formula, my max heart rate should be 195. I cooled down, though I couldn't get my heart rate below 125, then got off and felt kinda dizzy for about a half hour. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to recover.
Last night we went out with Jen & Kevin and Charity & Greg. Greg works in advertising at one of the local radio stations, and had a list of places he had to stop at for Molson promotions. The first place we met him at was Montage Grille, which usually has jazz and blues bands, some rock bands. Well we found out as we walked in that it was metal night. We felt a little out of place. I, in my brown striped sweater (hey! it was cold!) and Michaelene in her lime-green jacket didn't quite blend in with the black-clad and face-pierced metal crowd. The first band was just awful death metal. I know you have to have some sort of musical talent to play it, but they used so much distortion that it was just a constant roar from the amps, accompanied by the typical incoherent death metal growl. Thankfully we got in at the end of their set. The second band was much better. A 3-piece group, they described their music as progressive rock/metal. The guitarist reminded me of the guy from King of Queens. He was this fat guy wearing flannel. The bassist was this skinny guy in a t-shirt and tapered stonewash jeans. I was intrigued, but they really really rocked. Kevin, Greg, and I were 100% tuned into their set, while the girls were more tuned into the others staring at them and making fun of them for even being there. Oh well, we escaped in time.
We just started an indoor soccer league at the Sports Garden. It's a mix of people who have and haven't played soccer. And those of us who have played, haven't played in years. Oh yeah, and we're mostly out of shape. The first game was pretty ugly. We're apparently in the co-ed 'B' league. We lost 15-4, and it could've been much worse. The most frustrating part was that I know if I'd been in better shape we could've played better. I really got to the point where I couldn't breathe, as did most of us. Indoor soccer is tough. It's a constant sprint. Two of the people on our team had run a marathon 2 weeks before and even they were winded. So I've decided to try to get in a little better shape for our next game this week. Yesterday morning (Saturday), we went to the gym. I did my usual lifting and abs routine, then got on the treadmill. I did the 5k program, my usual 3 miles. I ran the first mile at 7.0 mph and the second at 7.2 mph. Then I decided that I needed to work more on shorter distances and higher intensity. So I ran half a mile at 8.5 mph. It's only a little over a 7-minute mile pace. When I was in high school and in shape, I could run a 5:45 mile. At the end of this half-mile I really thought I might die. I'm not sure the heart rate monitors on the machines are entirely accurate, but it said mine was 198 beats per minute. According to the 220 minus your age formula, my max heart rate should be 195. I cooled down, though I couldn't get my heart rate below 125, then got off and felt kinda dizzy for about a half hour. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to recover.
Last night we went out with Jen & Kevin and Charity & Greg. Greg works in advertising at one of the local radio stations, and had a list of places he had to stop at for Molson promotions. The first place we met him at was Montage Grille, which usually has jazz and blues bands, some rock bands. Well we found out as we walked in that it was metal night. We felt a little out of place. I, in my brown striped sweater (hey! it was cold!) and Michaelene in her lime-green jacket didn't quite blend in with the black-clad and face-pierced metal crowd. The first band was just awful death metal. I know you have to have some sort of musical talent to play it, but they used so much distortion that it was just a constant roar from the amps, accompanied by the typical incoherent death metal growl. Thankfully we got in at the end of their set. The second band was much better. A 3-piece group, they described their music as progressive rock/metal. The guitarist reminded me of the guy from King of Queens. He was this fat guy wearing flannel. The bassist was this skinny guy in a t-shirt and tapered stonewash jeans. I was intrigued, but they really really rocked. Kevin, Greg, and I were 100% tuned into their set, while the girls were more tuned into the others staring at them and making fun of them for even being there. Oh well, we escaped in time.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
More on dreams (or should it be "Moron Dreams?")
Dreams have always been a mystery to me. I am of the belief that they share some deep meaning, that they are a portal into the depths of our minds, which we are not able to consciously explore. Our deepest thoughts come to life in our dreams. Our unconscious fears present themselves in a desperate attempt to be recognized. Our unknown desires beg to be pursued. That being said...I believe my mind and body have always tried to share my dreams with others as these dreams unfold. As a child, I would often sleepwalk. I'd wander into my parents' room and awaken them, striking up a midnight conversation. I once remember waking from a dream where I'd been frustrated that I couldn't get my Nintendo to work. The next morning my mother told me how I'd made my way into their room, still asleep, and kept begging them to "Just get it set up! Just get it started for me!"
Most of the time, dreams occur simply in the mind. The body lies asleep while our dreams play themselves out in the mind only. This has not always been the case with me. I remember once in high school when I woke up physically acting out my dream. It was the first night back in my own bed after a 10-day trip to Europe. I'd spent 3 days in England, touring London and the surrounding English countryside. We'd visited, among other things, the palace at Windsor. We then took a ferry across the Channel into France. There we spent time in St-Malo, Tours, and Paris. In approaching Paris, we travelled up the Loire valley, stopping to see several medieval castles. It was amazing, and le chateau de Chenonceau was the one that really blew me away. Anyway, long story short, that first night back home, as I was getting in bed I flipped on the Discovery channel. They were running a program on European castles. Several of the castles we'd toured were on the show, which put me into a mood of instant nostalgia. Inevitably, as I slept that night, I dreamt of being back in these castles. In one of my dreams, I was in a castle. I was poking around one of the small bedrooms, when all of a sudden a trap door came down. I was stuck in this room, unable to escape. I began to pound on the wall with both hands, hoping to alert someone as to my presence in the room. I then woke up from the dream, finding myself kneeling on my bed, pounding on the wall with both hands. Amused and a little embarrassed, I crept back into bed and fell back asleep.
On at least one occasion I pulled another fellow sleeper into my dream. My junior year in college, I shared a room with Eric, a good friend since our year together in the freshman dorm. One night, as I slept, I dreamt that Eric and I were playing together in a rock band. We were at a practice session, working out some new songs. I told Eric, the other guitarist in the group, that perhaps he should try playing the bridge like this, instead of how he'd been playing it. I was then awakened by the real-life Eric, from across the room. I looked over and saw him propped up on one elbow, eyes squinting, shouting angrily, "What!?! No! No way, man! No way!" He then rolled back over and went to sleep. The next morning I told him about our little interaction. He was quite entertained by the story, but had no memory of it happening.
The third, and so far final, interactive dream I've had took place at my parents' house after moving into my first apartment in PA. Michaelene and I had gone back to visit for a long weekend. I was staying in my old bedroom, fondly nicknamed the cave for both its darkness and lack of heat. Since my departure, the cave had been converted into a part-time guest bedroom and part-time exercise room, housing my parents' elliptical trainer. That night, I dreamt of being lost in a dark cave (a bit ironic, I must say). I was desperately trying to find my way out of this cave, when all of a sudden I saw a stream of light coming in through an opening ahead. In retrospect, I've figured out that this is where I began crossing over into consciousness. The light I saw was actually the light coming in through the edge of window not covered by the shade. In my dream I began to run toward this light, my salvation. In real life I jumped out of bed and began to run toward the window. After a few feet I came to an abrupt halt, as I ran head-on into the elliptical trainer and bounced backward onto the floor. I awoke with an intense pain in my right hip from one of the two impacts. I got back in bed, but didn't manage any more sleep. The combination of pain and frustration with the oddness of my life kept me awake.
Most of the time, dreams occur simply in the mind. The body lies asleep while our dreams play themselves out in the mind only. This has not always been the case with me. I remember once in high school when I woke up physically acting out my dream. It was the first night back in my own bed after a 10-day trip to Europe. I'd spent 3 days in England, touring London and the surrounding English countryside. We'd visited, among other things, the palace at Windsor. We then took a ferry across the Channel into France. There we spent time in St-Malo, Tours, and Paris. In approaching Paris, we travelled up the Loire valley, stopping to see several medieval castles. It was amazing, and le chateau de Chenonceau was the one that really blew me away. Anyway, long story short, that first night back home, as I was getting in bed I flipped on the Discovery channel. They were running a program on European castles. Several of the castles we'd toured were on the show, which put me into a mood of instant nostalgia. Inevitably, as I slept that night, I dreamt of being back in these castles. In one of my dreams, I was in a castle. I was poking around one of the small bedrooms, when all of a sudden a trap door came down. I was stuck in this room, unable to escape. I began to pound on the wall with both hands, hoping to alert someone as to my presence in the room. I then woke up from the dream, finding myself kneeling on my bed, pounding on the wall with both hands. Amused and a little embarrassed, I crept back into bed and fell back asleep.
On at least one occasion I pulled another fellow sleeper into my dream. My junior year in college, I shared a room with Eric, a good friend since our year together in the freshman dorm. One night, as I slept, I dreamt that Eric and I were playing together in a rock band. We were at a practice session, working out some new songs. I told Eric, the other guitarist in the group, that perhaps he should try playing the bridge like this, instead of how he'd been playing it. I was then awakened by the real-life Eric, from across the room. I looked over and saw him propped up on one elbow, eyes squinting, shouting angrily, "What!?! No! No way, man! No way!" He then rolled back over and went to sleep. The next morning I told him about our little interaction. He was quite entertained by the story, but had no memory of it happening.
The third, and so far final, interactive dream I've had took place at my parents' house after moving into my first apartment in PA. Michaelene and I had gone back to visit for a long weekend. I was staying in my old bedroom, fondly nicknamed the cave for both its darkness and lack of heat. Since my departure, the cave had been converted into a part-time guest bedroom and part-time exercise room, housing my parents' elliptical trainer. That night, I dreamt of being lost in a dark cave (a bit ironic, I must say). I was desperately trying to find my way out of this cave, when all of a sudden I saw a stream of light coming in through an opening ahead. In retrospect, I've figured out that this is where I began crossing over into consciousness. The light I saw was actually the light coming in through the edge of window not covered by the shade. In my dream I began to run toward this light, my salvation. In real life I jumped out of bed and began to run toward the window. After a few feet I came to an abrupt halt, as I ran head-on into the elliptical trainer and bounced backward onto the floor. I awoke with an intense pain in my right hip from one of the two impacts. I got back in bed, but didn't manage any more sleep. The combination of pain and frustration with the oddness of my life kept me awake.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
What the...? Where am I?
Today was just a bizarre day. By the end of it, I felt exhausted and abused. First of all, I felt as though I were some sort of U.N. Ambassador. Working in a Rochester hospital, I'm surrounded every day by nurses from Ukraine, Poland, and Russia, as well as doctors and residents from all over the world, but most notably India, Pakistan, and the Middle East. But on top of that, on my caseload for today were patients who spoke French and Spanish (which I can at least speak), as well as Italian, Greek, and Ukrainian. And none of these people spoke English. Or so I thought.
The other thing that made my day stressful was that I ended up getting yelled at by all my patients. Most of them are confused little old people. One woman was yelling at me for stretching out the contractures in her calves and hamstrings, asking me "God dammit what's wrong with you!?!" The woman in the room next to her, the French-speaking patient, started out polite, and then ended up screaming at her nurse and me when I tried to translate to her that the nurse wanted to give her medicine. We found out that she spoke decent English. "You don't know nothing! Medicine! Medicine!?! Ha! You don't know nothing about my medicine! You don't know nothing!" She then punched the nurse in the stomach, so we left her to fold her sheets as she'd been doing. The guy across the hall from the French-speaking patient has a 40 year history of IV-heroin use, and becomes delusional and agitated at times. I found him wandering the hall, very unsteadily, so I tried to help him back to his chair. He ended up yelling at me to not be ashamed of my Latino heritage (I'm not the least bit Latino, but have been mistaken for it before).
The toughest, though, was a new patient I picked up today. He'd just been diagnosed 2 days ago with metastatic cancer of unknown origin, and was told by one doctor that he would probably only live 3 more months. Understandably so, he became a bit depressed and withdrawn. They ordered a physical therapy consult on him just to keep him moving so that he could safely go home and not have to spend any unnecessary time in the hospital. I read that he is a Vietnam veteran, and also that he has a history of post-traumatic stress disorder, but didn't exactly put the two together. Well as I got him up to walk for the first time, I stayed slightly behind him and kept a hand on his back to make sure he was steady on his feet, as I do with all my patients for the first time. He quickly turned and yelled over his shoulder "Hey, I'm not some old cripple. You don't have to hold on to me! And I really don't like you being behind me!" I explained to him that I wanted to make sure that he was stable and that I wanted to be safe. Two steps farther and he whipped around again. "Take your damn hands off me." So I did. He was pretty steady, so I walked beside him down the hall. As we got toward the end of the hall, he was getting close to the wall so I walked quickly behind him to the other side, so as not to run into the doorway. As soon as he'd realized that I'd switched sides, he immediately freaked out and came after me. He brought his hands up toward my neck and came quickly at me shouting something...I can't even remember exactly what...about being a Vietnam vet and not liking it when people move around behind him. I managed to hold his wrists and keep him from choking me long enough for him to settle down, then did my best to explain that I was sorry and just didn't want to run into the wall. Thankfully I stay calm in situations like this. I actually remember thinking, as he was trying to choke me, "Okay, just stay calm and let him get out whatever pent-up frustration he's got stored, then take back control of the situation." It worked, he settled down, and we continued on to the waiting area around the corner. We sat for a few minutes and talked. He apologized, then apologized again twice more when we got back to his room. I just made a concerted effort to stay in front of him. But tomorrow he's coming up to the PT gym, so we'll see how that goes. Wish us luck...
The other thing that made my day stressful was that I ended up getting yelled at by all my patients. Most of them are confused little old people. One woman was yelling at me for stretching out the contractures in her calves and hamstrings, asking me "God dammit what's wrong with you!?!" The woman in the room next to her, the French-speaking patient, started out polite, and then ended up screaming at her nurse and me when I tried to translate to her that the nurse wanted to give her medicine. We found out that she spoke decent English. "You don't know nothing! Medicine! Medicine!?! Ha! You don't know nothing about my medicine! You don't know nothing!" She then punched the nurse in the stomach, so we left her to fold her sheets as she'd been doing. The guy across the hall from the French-speaking patient has a 40 year history of IV-heroin use, and becomes delusional and agitated at times. I found him wandering the hall, very unsteadily, so I tried to help him back to his chair. He ended up yelling at me to not be ashamed of my Latino heritage (I'm not the least bit Latino, but have been mistaken for it before).
The toughest, though, was a new patient I picked up today. He'd just been diagnosed 2 days ago with metastatic cancer of unknown origin, and was told by one doctor that he would probably only live 3 more months. Understandably so, he became a bit depressed and withdrawn. They ordered a physical therapy consult on him just to keep him moving so that he could safely go home and not have to spend any unnecessary time in the hospital. I read that he is a Vietnam veteran, and also that he has a history of post-traumatic stress disorder, but didn't exactly put the two together. Well as I got him up to walk for the first time, I stayed slightly behind him and kept a hand on his back to make sure he was steady on his feet, as I do with all my patients for the first time. He quickly turned and yelled over his shoulder "Hey, I'm not some old cripple. You don't have to hold on to me! And I really don't like you being behind me!" I explained to him that I wanted to make sure that he was stable and that I wanted to be safe. Two steps farther and he whipped around again. "Take your damn hands off me." So I did. He was pretty steady, so I walked beside him down the hall. As we got toward the end of the hall, he was getting close to the wall so I walked quickly behind him to the other side, so as not to run into the doorway. As soon as he'd realized that I'd switched sides, he immediately freaked out and came after me. He brought his hands up toward my neck and came quickly at me shouting something...I can't even remember exactly what...about being a Vietnam vet and not liking it when people move around behind him. I managed to hold his wrists and keep him from choking me long enough for him to settle down, then did my best to explain that I was sorry and just didn't want to run into the wall. Thankfully I stay calm in situations like this. I actually remember thinking, as he was trying to choke me, "Okay, just stay calm and let him get out whatever pent-up frustration he's got stored, then take back control of the situation." It worked, he settled down, and we continued on to the waiting area around the corner. We sat for a few minutes and talked. He apologized, then apologized again twice more when we got back to his room. I just made a concerted effort to stay in front of him. But tomorrow he's coming up to the PT gym, so we'll see how that goes. Wish us luck...
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
"Music is the soundtrack to the crappy movie that is my life." - Chris Rock
During our recent 5-hour car rides to and from my parents' house in Ellenburg, Greg talked about his idea to make a CD that goes year-by-year through his life so far, containing songs that were influential or meaningful to him at that time. I've been thinking a lot about which songs I'd pick for my life, and here's the working list so far.
Gotta Boogie was on Weird Al's self-titled first album, which my grandfather gave to my brother and me at this time. Take Off, same thing. My grandfather gave my brother and me the Great White North soundtrack, which we practically memorized in a month. I can only hope that I hang onto my sense of humor like my grandfather did. I don't remember how I ended up with the La Bamba soundtrack, but the song La Bamba quickly became my favorite. It was just fun to sing along to phonetically. In 4th and 5th grade I was a huge fan of DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince. I had all their albums, and Parents Just Don't Understand was my favorite. MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice were the next step up in the hip-hop phase of my life.
I listened to Tom Cochrane's Life is a Highway every single day in 6th grade. There was a girl that year who had a crush on me, and knew that this was my favorite song. So, hoping that I was listening, she called into the Open House Party (with the Wiiiiiiiiild Armenian John Garabedian) and requested and dedicated this song to me. Unfortunately I wasn't listening. She was a bit peeved, but she got over it. Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg were at the top of my hip-hop phase, which was full-fledged in 7th grade. I bought a black and white flannel to look like Dre and thought that Nuthin but a G Thang was my anthem.Silly little white kid living in the sticks. Warren G came along right at the end of my hip-hop phase, which was finally and definitively put to rest when I borrowed Pearl Jam's Ten and Vs from my friend, Kevin.
This music was like nothing I'd ever heard before. I guess I'd seen Pearl Jam and Nirvana on MTV, but when I sat alone in my room and put Ten in the CD player, it blew me away. Black, in particular, really moved me. I'd never heard anyone sing with this much sincere emotion. I admit that Eddie Vedder, at times, can mumble incomprehensibly with his lyrics. But the pure emotion in his voice is more than enough to make up for that, particularly with the visceral growl heard in his early years with Pearl Jam. Pearl Jam literally changed my life.
At age 15, I went to a Bob Marley festival in Detroit with my best friend, Joe, and his aunt. This was my first exposure to reggae music. When we were on our way to the festival, I made what could be the stupidest remark of my life. "Bob Marley, he plays reggae, right?" About a month after I came home I was going through my brother's room, recently abandoned when he left for college. I found a tape he'd made from his friend Jason's CD's. On side A was Legend, a greatest hits collection from Bob Marley & The Wailers. Even without the drugs, it was mind-expanding.
When I was 16, I re-discovered the Beatles. My mother was and still is a big fan of the Beatles, even though I had to break the news to her that they'd done drugs in the 60's. She'd never heard such a thing before. In the quest for non-conformity which ruled that stage of my life, I am the Walrus seemed to suit me best.
At age 17, I went to my first real concert, the H.O.R.D.E. festival in Saratoga. On the bill were Kula Shaker, Leftover Salmon, Soul Coughing, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Beck, Primus, and Neil Young. Simply amazing. And when I heard Foo Fighters' Everlong, it exactly what I'd felt at that concert - "Hello, I've waited here for you, everlong...Breathe out, so I can breathe you in, hold you in." I was hooked.
At age 18, high school ended. Drastic changes, and we all went off in our own directions. August 20, 1998 was sort of our last hurrah. Pearl Jam was playing in Montreal, and I went along with Ashley, Shawn, Buck, and Joe. At 5 the next morning, Buck was off to the bus terminal en route to Puget Sound. A week later, I left for Ithaca, Joe went to Vassar, and Ashley and Shawn stayed home to attend Plattsburgh State. Things would never be the same again, and the ultimate goodbye song, Yellow Ledbetter, bid us farewell.
When I was 19, I left for a semester in Aix-en-Provence, France. Another eye-opening experience. I began to see things from a global perspective, rather than the narrow-minded and short-sighted American way. There, among other things, I found Manu Chao. His song, La Mentira, describes my original reaction to this new perspective.
When I went to France, I had no problem with culture shock or homesickness. The newness of everything, along with my mind as a sponge to soak everything up, overcame these emotions. Sure I missed people, but I knew I'd be coming home in four months. When I came back to the States, however, I had a terrible transition back into my old life. I felt as though so much in my life had changed, while nothing back here had changed at all. It was frustrating, and it seemed like no one else understood this. I went into a semester of isolation, trying to surround myself with as many things French as I could. This coincided with the free days of Napster. I downloaded thousands of French songs onto my computer. Among these was Amiyo, by Bisso na Bisso, a collaboration by Congolese hip hop artists who'd emigrated to France. The song uses vivid imagery to describe a beautiful woman, absolutely ideal. They sing about their longing for her, and plead with her to just give in and end their suffering by letting them into her life. For me, though, it described my longing to be in France. This ideal place I'd known and left and just wanted to get back to. No one understood my longing, but that didn't matter to me.
Shortly after turning 21, I began my first internship in physical therapy. I spent these six weeks with my grandparents, who lived only 3 miiles away from the hospital. While there, they asked me a few times to play guitar for them. I didn't really know many songs they liked, but when I played More Than Words by Extreme, my grandfather's eyes lit up. He'd heard that song about 10 years before and ran out and bought the CD. "The rest of it's dirty, you don't want to listen to it," he said. But he loved that song, and played the melody on his harmonica while I played the guitar for it. It was brief, but a memorable connection with my grandfather.
When I was 22, I spent the last great Christmas Break at home with my family. Both Jim and Buck were home as well, and we spent most nights either playing hockey or Atari, which Jim had just bought on eBay. Buck was the DJ for his college radio station's international music show, and brought a bunch of mp3's to Jim's one night. We spent a good 20 minutes listening to Lhasa de Sela's El Desierto, trying to decide if she sounded sexy or scary (turns out it was both). This song was my introduction to Lhasa's music, which came right in the middle of my Latin music phase.
At 23, I graduated from college, and was finally forced to join "the real world." I had to officially cut the cord and venture out on my own: find a job, get an apartment, pay bills. During this time, the song Hoy Me Voy by Sargent Garcia really sang to my experience. In it he sings about it being a beautiful morning, he gets up, sees the people milling about, in search of some shade. But he has to get out of his hometown, as much as it hurts him to think about all he's leaving, because there's no work there and he has to find a way to support himself.
After a few months, homesickness set in. I bought my first Neil Young CD, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere. The title track was what I needed to hear. It made me feel better to know that someone else seemed to miss his home as much as I did.
At the end of last year, we moved from PA back to Rochester. For me, it meant being 3 hours closer to home. It's also a bit of a homecoming, as both Michaelene and I were here for a year in college, and we have a group of friends living in the area. I haven't yet picked a song for this year. I still have 7 1/2 months, though, so there's no pressure yet.
Age 6 - Gotta Boogie, Weird Al Yankovic
Age 7 - Take Off, Getty Lee (from The Great White North soundtrack)
Age 8 - La Bamba, Los Lobos version
Age 9 - Parents Just Don't Understand - DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince
Age 10 - U Can't Touch This, MC Hammer
Age 11 - Life is a Highway, Tom Cochrane
Age 12 - Nuthin But a G Thang, Dr Dre
Age 13 - Regulate, Warren G
Age 14 - Black, Pearl Jam
Age 15 - No Woman No Cry, Bob Marley & The Wailers
Age 16 - I am the Walrus, Beatles
Age 17 - Everlong, Foo Fighters
Age 18 - Yellow Ledbetter, Pearl Jam
Age 19 - La Mentira, Manu Chao
Age 20 - Amiyo, Bisso na Bisso
Age 21 - More Than Words, Extreme
Age 22 - El Desierto, Lhasa de Sela
Age 23 - Hoy Me Voy, Sargento Garcia
Age 24 - Everybody Knows This is Nowhere, Neil Young
Gotta Boogie was on Weird Al's self-titled first album, which my grandfather gave to my brother and me at this time. Take Off, same thing. My grandfather gave my brother and me the Great White North soundtrack, which we practically memorized in a month. I can only hope that I hang onto my sense of humor like my grandfather did. I don't remember how I ended up with the La Bamba soundtrack, but the song La Bamba quickly became my favorite. It was just fun to sing along to phonetically. In 4th and 5th grade I was a huge fan of DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince. I had all their albums, and Parents Just Don't Understand was my favorite. MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice were the next step up in the hip-hop phase of my life.
I listened to Tom Cochrane's Life is a Highway every single day in 6th grade. There was a girl that year who had a crush on me, and knew that this was my favorite song. So, hoping that I was listening, she called into the Open House Party (with the Wiiiiiiiiild Armenian John Garabedian) and requested and dedicated this song to me. Unfortunately I wasn't listening. She was a bit peeved, but she got over it. Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg were at the top of my hip-hop phase, which was full-fledged in 7th grade. I bought a black and white flannel to look like Dre and thought that Nuthin but a G Thang was my anthem.
This music was like nothing I'd ever heard before. I guess I'd seen Pearl Jam and Nirvana on MTV, but when I sat alone in my room and put Ten in the CD player, it blew me away. Black, in particular, really moved me. I'd never heard anyone sing with this much sincere emotion. I admit that Eddie Vedder, at times, can mumble incomprehensibly with his lyrics. But the pure emotion in his voice is more than enough to make up for that, particularly with the visceral growl heard in his early years with Pearl Jam. Pearl Jam literally changed my life.
At age 15, I went to a Bob Marley festival in Detroit with my best friend, Joe, and his aunt. This was my first exposure to reggae music. When we were on our way to the festival, I made what could be the stupidest remark of my life. "Bob Marley, he plays reggae, right?" About a month after I came home I was going through my brother's room, recently abandoned when he left for college. I found a tape he'd made from his friend Jason's CD's. On side A was Legend, a greatest hits collection from Bob Marley & The Wailers. Even without the drugs, it was mind-expanding.
When I was 16, I re-discovered the Beatles. My mother was and still is a big fan of the Beatles, even though I had to break the news to her that they'd done drugs in the 60's. She'd never heard such a thing before. In the quest for non-conformity which ruled that stage of my life, I am the Walrus seemed to suit me best.
At age 17, I went to my first real concert, the H.O.R.D.E. festival in Saratoga. On the bill were Kula Shaker, Leftover Salmon, Soul Coughing, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Beck, Primus, and Neil Young. Simply amazing. And when I heard Foo Fighters' Everlong, it exactly what I'd felt at that concert - "Hello, I've waited here for you, everlong...Breathe out, so I can breathe you in, hold you in." I was hooked.
At age 18, high school ended. Drastic changes, and we all went off in our own directions. August 20, 1998 was sort of our last hurrah. Pearl Jam was playing in Montreal, and I went along with Ashley, Shawn, Buck, and Joe. At 5 the next morning, Buck was off to the bus terminal en route to Puget Sound. A week later, I left for Ithaca, Joe went to Vassar, and Ashley and Shawn stayed home to attend Plattsburgh State. Things would never be the same again, and the ultimate goodbye song, Yellow Ledbetter, bid us farewell.
When I was 19, I left for a semester in Aix-en-Provence, France. Another eye-opening experience. I began to see things from a global perspective, rather than the narrow-minded and short-sighted American way. There, among other things, I found Manu Chao. His song, La Mentira, describes my original reaction to this new perspective.
Todo es mentira en este mundo
Todo es mentira, la verdad
Todo es
mentira, yo me digo
Todo es mentira, porque sera
-------------------------------
Everything's a lie in this world
Everything's a lie, it's the truth
Everything's a lie, I tell myself
Everything's a lie, why?
When I went to France, I had no problem with culture shock or homesickness. The newness of everything, along with my mind as a sponge to soak everything up, overcame these emotions. Sure I missed people, but I knew I'd be coming home in four months. When I came back to the States, however, I had a terrible transition back into my old life. I felt as though so much in my life had changed, while nothing back here had changed at all. It was frustrating, and it seemed like no one else understood this. I went into a semester of isolation, trying to surround myself with as many things French as I could. This coincided with the free days of Napster. I downloaded thousands of French songs onto my computer. Among these was Amiyo, by Bisso na Bisso, a collaboration by Congolese hip hop artists who'd emigrated to France. The song uses vivid imagery to describe a beautiful woman, absolutely ideal. They sing about their longing for her, and plead with her to just give in and end their suffering by letting them into her life. For me, though, it described my longing to be in France. This ideal place I'd known and left and just wanted to get back to. No one understood my longing, but that didn't matter to me.
Shortly after turning 21, I began my first internship in physical therapy. I spent these six weeks with my grandparents, who lived only 3 miiles away from the hospital. While there, they asked me a few times to play guitar for them. I didn't really know many songs they liked, but when I played More Than Words by Extreme, my grandfather's eyes lit up. He'd heard that song about 10 years before and ran out and bought the CD. "The rest of it's dirty, you don't want to listen to it," he said. But he loved that song, and played the melody on his harmonica while I played the guitar for it. It was brief, but a memorable connection with my grandfather.
When I was 22, I spent the last great Christmas Break at home with my family. Both Jim and Buck were home as well, and we spent most nights either playing hockey or Atari, which Jim had just bought on eBay. Buck was the DJ for his college radio station's international music show, and brought a bunch of mp3's to Jim's one night. We spent a good 20 minutes listening to Lhasa de Sela's El Desierto, trying to decide if she sounded sexy or scary (turns out it was both). This song was my introduction to Lhasa's music, which came right in the middle of my Latin music phase.
At 23, I graduated from college, and was finally forced to join "the real world." I had to officially cut the cord and venture out on my own: find a job, get an apartment, pay bills. During this time, the song Hoy Me Voy by Sargent Garcia really sang to my experience. In it he sings about it being a beautiful morning, he gets up, sees the people milling about, in search of some shade. But he has to get out of his hometown, as much as it hurts him to think about all he's leaving, because there's no work there and he has to find a way to support himself.
After a few months, homesickness set in. I bought my first Neil Young CD, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere. The title track was what I needed to hear. It made me feel better to know that someone else seemed to miss his home as much as I did.
Every time I think about back home, it's cool and breezy
I wish that I could be there right now, just passin' time
Everybody seems to wonder what it's like down here
I gotta get away from this day-to-day running around
Everybody knows this is nowhere
At the end of last year, we moved from PA back to Rochester. For me, it meant being 3 hours closer to home. It's also a bit of a homecoming, as both Michaelene and I were here for a year in college, and we have a group of friends living in the area. I haven't yet picked a song for this year. I still have 7 1/2 months, though, so there's no pressure yet.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Weird Dreams
I rarely remember my dreams. They say that you have to wake up in a REM cycle of sleep to remember them. Maybe timing is everything. When I do remember dreams, however, they are usually bizarre. I don't have any of the typical dreams...flying, falling from high cliffs and waking just before hitting the ground. Mine are much more perplexing. I really have a hard time analyzing them. Some of my most recent remembered dreams are as follows.
About a week and a half ago, as gas prices were on a steep incline, I had a dream that my boss came to me during the work day. She told me that, due to the increase in oil prices, the hospital I work for may have to lay off somebody in 2 or 3 months. It wasn't a definite, but if this were to happen, it would definitely be me. I told my boss about my dream the next day, but she didn't really laugh at it. That made me a bit nervous.
Some time last week, I guess I heard the alarm go off in the morning. Normally Michaelene gets up first and showers. Then she comes in and wakes me up about 20 minutes later. Well on that particular morning, I apparently fell back asleep and began to dream. In my dream, I'd decided that I would hide on her when she came to wake me up. Then all of a sudden, I found myself sleeping in a parking lot outside a late-night restaurant. So I crawled out of my bed and into the back of a pickup truck which belonged to the owner of the restaurant, still inside and soon to drive home. After lying in the truck for a few minutes, the owner came out and found me. She was none too pleased. The reason she was upset, I found out, was a bit bizarre. In the cab of her truck, there was a pizza oven. The oven was set to turn on when a weight sensor was set off in the back of the truck. Since I'd climbed into the truck, I set the sensor off and the pizza in the front of the truck had started to cook prematurely. She was pissed and just stared at me until I climbed out. Thankfully I was awakened shortly afterward. I learned my lesson: don't mess with chicks who drive pickups.
The last dream I can remember was this past Sunday morning. I had to work on Sunday, so maybe that's why I was dreaming of the hospital. For those of you who don't know, I am a physical therapist and work at an inpatient hospital. A large part of my job is to work with patients who've just had hip and knee replacements. In my dream, we'd all heard that someone famous had just had surgery and would be in our department. Then early one morning, one of the transporters came down and told us that Snoop Dogg had just had a knee replacement. I was excited to learn if he really talked, you know, like Snoop Dogg (fo' sheezy my neezy). But before I had the chance to find out, I was awakened by the disgusting sound of my dog throwing up last night's dinner on the rug. Some mysteries were just never meant to be solved, I suppose.
Most of the dreams I remember revolve around high school. When I spent my semester in France, I had a ton of high school dreams. I remember one that had to do with our senior variety show. Something happened to the people in the next skit, so our director told my friends Shawn and Buck, and I to improv. The skit went something like this. Shawn walks into a room. Buck, the narrator, announces, "This is Shawn in the bathroom." Then I come running full-speed across the stage and take him out with a brilliantly-aimed slide tackle. Buck says, "This is Adam slide-tackling Shawn. Any questions?" Exit stage left, and wake up.
Another dream from France involved a mixing of home friends with my French host family. In my dream, I was sitting in the kitchen of my host family's home eating lunch, when the door bell rings. My host mom hollers "Come on in!" She didn't speak English in real life, but at that point I wasn't ready to dream in French (I have only dreamt in French since returning to the States). So then around the corner comes my friend Jim's mom, Sue. Apparently Sue and Sylvie, my host mom, were the best of friends. Sue had brought a bag of coffee beans as a gift for Sylvie. Wake up.
I'm sure I will think of more, and will post them when I do.
About a week and a half ago, as gas prices were on a steep incline, I had a dream that my boss came to me during the work day. She told me that, due to the increase in oil prices, the hospital I work for may have to lay off somebody in 2 or 3 months. It wasn't a definite, but if this were to happen, it would definitely be me. I told my boss about my dream the next day, but she didn't really laugh at it. That made me a bit nervous.
Some time last week, I guess I heard the alarm go off in the morning. Normally Michaelene gets up first and showers. Then she comes in and wakes me up about 20 minutes later. Well on that particular morning, I apparently fell back asleep and began to dream. In my dream, I'd decided that I would hide on her when she came to wake me up. Then all of a sudden, I found myself sleeping in a parking lot outside a late-night restaurant. So I crawled out of my bed and into the back of a pickup truck which belonged to the owner of the restaurant, still inside and soon to drive home. After lying in the truck for a few minutes, the owner came out and found me. She was none too pleased. The reason she was upset, I found out, was a bit bizarre. In the cab of her truck, there was a pizza oven. The oven was set to turn on when a weight sensor was set off in the back of the truck. Since I'd climbed into the truck, I set the sensor off and the pizza in the front of the truck had started to cook prematurely. She was pissed and just stared at me until I climbed out. Thankfully I was awakened shortly afterward. I learned my lesson: don't mess with chicks who drive pickups.
The last dream I can remember was this past Sunday morning. I had to work on Sunday, so maybe that's why I was dreaming of the hospital. For those of you who don't know, I am a physical therapist and work at an inpatient hospital. A large part of my job is to work with patients who've just had hip and knee replacements. In my dream, we'd all heard that someone famous had just had surgery and would be in our department. Then early one morning, one of the transporters came down and told us that Snoop Dogg had just had a knee replacement. I was excited to learn if he really talked, you know, like Snoop Dogg (fo' sheezy my neezy). But before I had the chance to find out, I was awakened by the disgusting sound of my dog throwing up last night's dinner on the rug. Some mysteries were just never meant to be solved, I suppose.
Most of the dreams I remember revolve around high school. When I spent my semester in France, I had a ton of high school dreams. I remember one that had to do with our senior variety show. Something happened to the people in the next skit, so our director told my friends Shawn and Buck, and I to improv. The skit went something like this. Shawn walks into a room. Buck, the narrator, announces, "This is Shawn in the bathroom." Then I come running full-speed across the stage and take him out with a brilliantly-aimed slide tackle. Buck says, "This is Adam slide-tackling Shawn. Any questions?" Exit stage left, and wake up.
Another dream from France involved a mixing of home friends with my French host family. In my dream, I was sitting in the kitchen of my host family's home eating lunch, when the door bell rings. My host mom hollers "Come on in!" She didn't speak English in real life, but at that point I wasn't ready to dream in French (I have only dreamt in French since returning to the States). So then around the corner comes my friend Jim's mom, Sue. Apparently Sue and Sylvie, my host mom, were the best of friends. Sue had brought a bag of coffee beans as a gift for Sylvie. Wake up.
I'm sure I will think of more, and will post them when I do.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Early Memories
One thing that really bothers me is when I tell people about my earliest memories, and they tell me that I couldn't possibly remember that far back. It infuriates me! Everybody says that I only think I remember things, because I've heard people talking about these certain events. I don't buy it, though. I really really remember this stuff!
Scientists say that kids first memories come at an average age of three years old. The key word here is "average." To have an average, you need some numbers above and some below to make the average. In my case, I believe I come in on the lower end of this curve. Then childhood amnesia sets in. As kids develop cognitively, they tend to forget much of what happened between the ages of 3 and 7 years. Some memories persist, but most are lost.
The very first thing I can remember in my life is climbing on a sawhorse that used to be behind our house. I think it was a sawhorse, anyway. It was shaped like a walker. I'll post a picture here if I ever find one. Anyhow, it sat under the trees that used to line our backyard. I can distinctly remember climbing on it, in front of all the trees. And I can't imagine why anyone would have talked about that with me. A few years ago I was telling my parents about this memory and they both said, "Oh yeah. We did have that back there. I don't know why we had it, but we did." This memory has to have been from the summer or fall after I turned 2 years old in April. That winter, in 1982-1983, there was a huge ice storm that brought down all of the trees behind our house. I also remember a little of the aftermath from the storm. I remember looking back behind our house, seeing several of my father's friends cutting up the trees with chainsaws. And I remember asking my mother what Lanny was wearing over his ears. He had on ear protectors, which I'd never seen before. And I remember my mother telling me that he wore them because the chainsaw was so loud that it hurt his ears. Again, I don't know why anyone would have told me about this conversation.
Another early memory I have is of sitting on a stool in the living room of my great-grandparents' house and seeing my great-grandmother(GGM), Frances, come into the room with a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. She died shortly before my third birthday, so I must have been two years old when this happened. There is another memory to go along with this. After she died, I must have gone to their house and, not seeing her there, wondered where my GGM was. At the age of three, death and mortality are difficult to understand. Months later, perhaps, I remember meeting my GGM, Alma, from the other side of the family. When I was introduced to her, having only known one GGM in my life, my reply was "Oh! So this is where great-grandma has been staying all this time!" When I told my mother about this as a teenager, she said she'd forgotten about it happening.
One other fun memory-and I'm not even sure how old I was, but probably 3 or 4-is of riding on the back of my mom's bike, in those big old plastic kids' seats. I would get bored staring at the back of my mom's head, so I always wanted to lean to the side to look ahead at what was coming up. This would usually throw us off balance and scare my mom half-to-death. :)
One last memory, which I find bizarre to have held onto all these years, happened during the summer when I was probably 3 or 4. I can remember being outside playing and becoming thirsty. I went up the stairs and through the outside door to the back porch, then into the kitchen where I found my mother. I asked for a drink and she poured some kool-aid into a cup. I was chewing gum, so I asked if I could keep it in my mouth while I drank. My mother told me it would be okay if I was extra careful, so I was and I drank the whole thing without swallowing the gum. I was so proud of myself!
So, for anyone who might happen to read this, let me know what you think about memories. Do you have any from your early childhood?
Scientists say that kids first memories come at an average age of three years old. The key word here is "average." To have an average, you need some numbers above and some below to make the average. In my case, I believe I come in on the lower end of this curve. Then childhood amnesia sets in. As kids develop cognitively, they tend to forget much of what happened between the ages of 3 and 7 years. Some memories persist, but most are lost.
The very first thing I can remember in my life is climbing on a sawhorse that used to be behind our house. I think it was a sawhorse, anyway. It was shaped like a walker. I'll post a picture here if I ever find one. Anyhow, it sat under the trees that used to line our backyard. I can distinctly remember climbing on it, in front of all the trees. And I can't imagine why anyone would have talked about that with me. A few years ago I was telling my parents about this memory and they both said, "Oh yeah. We did have that back there. I don't know why we had it, but we did." This memory has to have been from the summer or fall after I turned 2 years old in April. That winter, in 1982-1983, there was a huge ice storm that brought down all of the trees behind our house. I also remember a little of the aftermath from the storm. I remember looking back behind our house, seeing several of my father's friends cutting up the trees with chainsaws. And I remember asking my mother what Lanny was wearing over his ears. He had on ear protectors, which I'd never seen before. And I remember my mother telling me that he wore them because the chainsaw was so loud that it hurt his ears. Again, I don't know why anyone would have told me about this conversation.
Another early memory I have is of sitting on a stool in the living room of my great-grandparents' house and seeing my great-grandmother(GGM), Frances, come into the room with a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. She died shortly before my third birthday, so I must have been two years old when this happened. There is another memory to go along with this. After she died, I must have gone to their house and, not seeing her there, wondered where my GGM was. At the age of three, death and mortality are difficult to understand. Months later, perhaps, I remember meeting my GGM, Alma, from the other side of the family. When I was introduced to her, having only known one GGM in my life, my reply was "Oh! So this is where great-grandma has been staying all this time!" When I told my mother about this as a teenager, she said she'd forgotten about it happening.
One other fun memory-and I'm not even sure how old I was, but probably 3 or 4-is of riding on the back of my mom's bike, in those big old plastic kids' seats. I would get bored staring at the back of my mom's head, so I always wanted to lean to the side to look ahead at what was coming up. This would usually throw us off balance and scare my mom half-to-death. :)
One last memory, which I find bizarre to have held onto all these years, happened during the summer when I was probably 3 or 4. I can remember being outside playing and becoming thirsty. I went up the stairs and through the outside door to the back porch, then into the kitchen where I found my mother. I asked for a drink and she poured some kool-aid into a cup. I was chewing gum, so I asked if I could keep it in my mouth while I drank. My mother told me it would be okay if I was extra careful, so I was and I drank the whole thing without swallowing the gum. I was so proud of myself!
So, for anyone who might happen to read this, let me know what you think about memories. Do you have any from your early childhood?
Monday, August 15, 2005
My dad
My dad's a weird dude. Maybe it helps to know a little bit about his upbringing. He grew up on the Shutts Road, named after our family for being the first to permanently move there around 1815 (my dad swears it's named after him for being the first person from the road to go to college). He was in the 7th of 9 generations so far who have lived within a space of about 2 acres. Think about that...2 acres and everyone from your great-great-great-great grandparents on down has lived there. They didn't have any running water until the 1960's. That might not be a problem if you live in the South. But imagine it here in Upstate NY - it's 25 degrees below zero, there's 3 feet of snow on the ground, and the wind is blowing 30 miles an hour. Now imagine that you've got diarrhea and you have to run outside to the outhouse every 20 minutes. Not only that, but you've got to fight off the 9 other people who live in your home just to get to that outhouse.
Eight brothers and sisters. My dad's job was to peel potatoes. My mom says that when they first got married, she once asked him to peel potatoes for the two of them, and he had already stripped about 6 before she could stop him.
And speaking of outhouses...one of the great traditions on the Shutts Road took place every year on Halloween night. The neighborhood kids would go around and tip over as many outhouses as they could get away with. Unfortunately, sometimes they'd play hide-and-seek that same night. Dad told me about this time when one kid, either chasing or being chased by someone else, came flying around the corner of a neighbor's home and fell right into the hole that was no longer covered by one of the overturned outhouses.
But my dad, yeah, he has always been Mr. Baseball. He graduated from the Shutts Road and went off to college to play baseball. I guess you could say he majored in Phys. Ed., but whatever. He was the stereotypical dumb jock. Pulling pranks on campus, getting kicked out of sporting events, proud of his C+ GPA because it meant he could stay on the baseball team. One of my favorite stories he tells from his college days was when his roommate was being a douchebag to everyone else. So, to get back at him, they all went in after him one night while he was asleep. He was wearing just his tighty whities, so they stripped all the covers off him, tied him to the mattress so tight he couldn't move, then dragged the bed with him attached to it down to the campus quad. It was a warm night, so he didn't get hypothermia. But the next morning when all the other students were headed to class and found him still there, he got more than a few sarcastic comments.
My parents went to the same college, all 4 years. They knew all the same people, and one of my dad's roommates even dated and ended up marrying one of my mom's roommates. But they never met until the last semester of senior year. They were both education majors, though my mom was more of the typical bookworm. She was still dating her fireman-grapefarmer-turned-politician from back home. My dad was single and looking. Just at the end of the first semester of senior year, the college made it mandatory for all education majors to take a Drug Education Class in order to graduate. So now, all of a sudden, there are 600 or so students who need to take this one class at the same time in order to get their diplomas. My mom shows up to class on the first day and sees her friend's boyfriend and decides to sit next to him. Then my dad comes to class and sees the same guy, who he also knew, and sits on the other side of him. All through the lecture my dad and this other guy are checking out and commenting on all the girls in the room. As the class lets out, feeling pretty good about himself, my dad decides it's time to make his move on his future wife. Keeping in mind the stark contrast between their upbringings and personalities, i.e., my mom was the 95-lb nerdy girl who claims her sport growing up was skee-ball...my dad decides to go with what he knows best. He asks her if she wants to go see the minor league hockey team play that weekend. She counters with a polite, yet firm, 'no' and makes her way out of the lecture hall. Shot down. The next week, he decides to take a different approach.
Somehow, in some strange twist of fate that I have given up on trying to figure out, it works and he's got his foot in the door. It blossoms into a relationship, and she ends up dumping her boyfriend from home, with whom she'd spent the past 5 or 6 years. To be funny, my parents like to tell people they met taking drugs, as in the Drug Education Course. My grandparents didn't see the humor at first.
The first time my mom went to meet the rest of my dad's family at the family compound on the Shutts Road, she discovered the North Country accent. One of the brothers asked her politely to "Pass the 'buh-DAY-duhs". Not wanting to seem rude for having no idea what he was talking about, she pretended not to hear him. When he asked again, she really panicked, and froze out of fear of passing the wrong thing. Finally another of her future brothers-in-law motioned toward the POTATOES, and she was relieved to hand them over.
So back to my dad being a weird dude. He's always been a baseball coach. And if you've ever known a baseball coach, or any coach for that matter, you know how colorful their language can be. And by colorful, I mean they can make a drunken truck driver hopped up on speed and meth-amphetamines blush. But my mom, being the "perfect one," as she's been dubbed by her siblings, wouldn't allow such language in the house where her children were to be raised. So my dad was forced to resort to other expressions. For example:
He also liked to kid around with us when we were little. I remember several times asking my dad where he was going, and having the following conversation:
By this point, I'd given up and left him alone to go wherever the heck he wanted. I thought for the longest time that Timbuktu was a fictitious place. I would later find out that it is a city in the west-African nation of Mali. I also believed, through the same reasoning, that Tupper Lake (which was often referred to as Upper Tupper Puddle) was a made-up destination. So when I was perhaps 5 years old and riding in the car with my parents, and saw the roadsign saying something like "Now Entering Tupper Lake," I thought I'd entered the Twilight Zone. Not only was it a real place, but it was within driving distance of my house!
As we grew up, I guess my mom started to relax her control of Dad and his behavior, because we started to hear the unfiltered words come from his mouth. For example:
So yeah, that's my dad. And he sometimes doesn't recognize me when he sees me. A few years ago, the college baseball team he coached for was playing near where I was in college. I talked to him on the phone the day before the game telling him I would be there. When I got to the game, I went up behind the bench, tapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a quick "Hey" and a smile. He stood up, looking at me with an expression on his face that was half confusion and half annoyance. A few seconds later he realized that this was his own son, you know, the kid who'd lived in the same house for 18 years, who was making him poor in order to attend college, and who shared half the same genes as his. I hoped he felt stupid, but I'm not sure he did. Later in the game, he came over between innings for a quick chat with my girlfriend and I. In those 30 seconds, he decided to tell us about the abscess he'd just had lanced from the back of his throat, which had been giving him bad breath for weeks. He felt the need to tell us about how much of it drained into his mouth, and how awful it tasted. Then, with a quick, "Man that abscess was wicked," he was off to his duty as third base coach.
Shortly after that was my grandmother's 75th birthday get-together. This was maybe the 3rd time that Michaelene, now my fiancee, had met my parents. We drove an hour from college to meet up with the rest of the fam. Our first stop was my parents' hotel room. We were there a few minutes early, so my father hadn't had time to fully primp for the occasion. As we were talking to my mother, I noticed my father walking toward the other side of the bed and pulling his pants down. He had to tuck his shirt in, but instead of going behind the closed door of the bathroom he felt that in this 10 foot by 10 foot room he'd be invisible if he were on the opposite side from us. My mother didn't see him, which was fortunate for everyone. A look of panic made its way to my face. When Michaelene first saw me, she didn't know what was wrong, not yet having seen his black boxer briefs which have so painfully burned their image into my memory. Then she looked and saw him doing his thing, and managed to keep a straight face long enough for us to regroup in my car. I had to explain to her a lot of what I've just written about my father. Then things seemed to make more sense. But yeah, my dad's a weird dude. You're frickin' A right, he is.
Eight brothers and sisters. My dad's job was to peel potatoes. My mom says that when they first got married, she once asked him to peel potatoes for the two of them, and he had already stripped about 6 before she could stop him.
And speaking of outhouses...one of the great traditions on the Shutts Road took place every year on Halloween night. The neighborhood kids would go around and tip over as many outhouses as they could get away with. Unfortunately, sometimes they'd play hide-and-seek that same night. Dad told me about this time when one kid, either chasing or being chased by someone else, came flying around the corner of a neighbor's home and fell right into the hole that was no longer covered by one of the overturned outhouses.
But my dad, yeah, he has always been Mr. Baseball. He graduated from the Shutts Road and went off to college to play baseball. I guess you could say he majored in Phys. Ed., but whatever. He was the stereotypical dumb jock. Pulling pranks on campus, getting kicked out of sporting events, proud of his C+ GPA because it meant he could stay on the baseball team. One of my favorite stories he tells from his college days was when his roommate was being a douchebag to everyone else. So, to get back at him, they all went in after him one night while he was asleep. He was wearing just his tighty whities, so they stripped all the covers off him, tied him to the mattress so tight he couldn't move, then dragged the bed with him attached to it down to the campus quad. It was a warm night, so he didn't get hypothermia. But the next morning when all the other students were headed to class and found him still there, he got more than a few sarcastic comments.
My parents went to the same college, all 4 years. They knew all the same people, and one of my dad's roommates even dated and ended up marrying one of my mom's roommates. But they never met until the last semester of senior year. They were both education majors, though my mom was more of the typical bookworm. She was still dating her fireman-grapefarmer-turned-politician from back home. My dad was single and looking. Just at the end of the first semester of senior year, the college made it mandatory for all education majors to take a Drug Education Class in order to graduate. So now, all of a sudden, there are 600 or so students who need to take this one class at the same time in order to get their diplomas. My mom shows up to class on the first day and sees her friend's boyfriend and decides to sit next to him. Then my dad comes to class and sees the same guy, who he also knew, and sits on the other side of him. All through the lecture my dad and this other guy are checking out and commenting on all the girls in the room. As the class lets out, feeling pretty good about himself, my dad decides it's time to make his move on his future wife. Keeping in mind the stark contrast between their upbringings and personalities, i.e., my mom was the 95-lb nerdy girl who claims her sport growing up was skee-ball...my dad decides to go with what he knows best. He asks her if she wants to go see the minor league hockey team play that weekend. She counters with a polite, yet firm, 'no' and makes her way out of the lecture hall. Shot down. The next week, he decides to take a different approach.
"So what are you doing this weekend?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Wanna go watch the indoor lacrosse game?"
"Sure."
Somehow, in some strange twist of fate that I have given up on trying to figure out, it works and he's got his foot in the door. It blossoms into a relationship, and she ends up dumping her boyfriend from home, with whom she'd spent the past 5 or 6 years. To be funny, my parents like to tell people they met taking drugs, as in the Drug Education Course. My grandparents didn't see the humor at first.
The first time my mom went to meet the rest of my dad's family at the family compound on the Shutts Road, she discovered the North Country accent. One of the brothers asked her politely to "Pass the 'buh-DAY-duhs". Not wanting to seem rude for having no idea what he was talking about, she pretended not to hear him. When he asked again, she really panicked, and froze out of fear of passing the wrong thing. Finally another of her future brothers-in-law motioned toward the POTATOES, and she was relieved to hand them over.
So back to my dad being a weird dude. He's always been a baseball coach. And if you've ever known a baseball coach, or any coach for that matter, you know how colorful their language can be. And by colorful, I mean they can make a drunken truck driver hopped up on speed and meth-amphetamines blush. But my mom, being the "perfect one," as she's been dubbed by her siblings, wouldn't allow such language in the house where her children were to be raised. So my dad was forced to resort to other expressions. For example:
"Holy ever-lovin' cow!" = Why surely you can't be telling the truth.
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Jack!" = You will find this hard to believe, but it is the truth.
"You snake in the grass!" = You have done something that I'm not fond of.
He also liked to kid around with us when we were little. I remember several times asking my dad where he was going, and having the following conversation:
"Where ya goin', dad?"
"Crazy!"
"No, where ya goin', dad?"
"Timbuktu!"
"No, where ya goin'?"
"I'm goin' to Tupper Lake."
By this point, I'd given up and left him alone to go wherever the heck he wanted. I thought for the longest time that Timbuktu was a fictitious place. I would later find out that it is a city in the west-African nation of Mali. I also believed, through the same reasoning, that Tupper Lake (which was often referred to as Upper Tupper Puddle) was a made-up destination. So when I was perhaps 5 years old and riding in the car with my parents, and saw the roadsign saying something like "Now Entering Tupper Lake," I thought I'd entered the Twilight Zone. Not only was it a real place, but it was within driving distance of my house!
As we grew up, I guess my mom started to relax her control of Dad and his behavior, because we started to hear the unfiltered words come from his mouth. For example:
"You're frickin' A right!" = I whole-heartedly agree with you.
"Yeah, that and a rat's ass, buddy!" = I whole-heartedly disagree with you.
"Shit and a rat's ass!" = ??????? (I have no idea what this is supposed to mean, but it has been used in all sorts of contexts.)
"Well frick me runnin'!" = I am quite pleasantly surprised.
So yeah, that's my dad. And he sometimes doesn't recognize me when he sees me. A few years ago, the college baseball team he coached for was playing near where I was in college. I talked to him on the phone the day before the game telling him I would be there. When I got to the game, I went up behind the bench, tapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a quick "Hey" and a smile. He stood up, looking at me with an expression on his face that was half confusion and half annoyance. A few seconds later he realized that this was his own son, you know, the kid who'd lived in the same house for 18 years, who was making him poor in order to attend college, and who shared half the same genes as his. I hoped he felt stupid, but I'm not sure he did. Later in the game, he came over between innings for a quick chat with my girlfriend and I. In those 30 seconds, he decided to tell us about the abscess he'd just had lanced from the back of his throat, which had been giving him bad breath for weeks. He felt the need to tell us about how much of it drained into his mouth, and how awful it tasted. Then, with a quick, "Man that abscess was wicked," he was off to his duty as third base coach.
Shortly after that was my grandmother's 75th birthday get-together. This was maybe the 3rd time that Michaelene, now my fiancee, had met my parents. We drove an hour from college to meet up with the rest of the fam. Our first stop was my parents' hotel room. We were there a few minutes early, so my father hadn't had time to fully primp for the occasion. As we were talking to my mother, I noticed my father walking toward the other side of the bed and pulling his pants down. He had to tuck his shirt in, but instead of going behind the closed door of the bathroom he felt that in this 10 foot by 10 foot room he'd be invisible if he were on the opposite side from us. My mother didn't see him, which was fortunate for everyone. A look of panic made its way to my face. When Michaelene first saw me, she didn't know what was wrong, not yet having seen his black boxer briefs which have so painfully burned their image into my memory. Then she looked and saw him doing his thing, and managed to keep a straight face long enough for us to regroup in my car. I had to explain to her a lot of what I've just written about my father. Then things seemed to make more sense. But yeah, my dad's a weird dude. You're frickin' A right, he is.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
New Idea
Well I've obviously not done a great job of keeping this up-to-date, as far as a journal goes. So I've decided that from now on, it'll be less of a what's-going-on-with-Adam blog, and more of a collection of "random musings." So here's the first entry, as far as that's concerned.
I was in Wegman's today and saw that they now sell pre-packaged cotton candy. Of all the awful crap I've ever eaten, that may be the worst. I used to enjoy it, though, in the context of a toy, rather than food. My favorite thing to do with cotton candy is to spit on it. If you get a decent amount of any liquid (saliva has just always been the most readily-available for me) on cotton candy, it eats through it. I like trying to spit enough on that it goes all the way from one side to the other. Try it sometime.
Also...as I was watching Secondhand Lions (good movie), I discovered something rather peculiar about my living room electronics. My TV is an RCA, and the stereo I bought last week is a Sharp. On the stereo remote, there is an "X-Bass" button, to boost the bass. When I hit that button, it turns the TV off. How random that, with all the possible frequencies, these two functions are the same. I thought it was kind of fun, but Michaelene seemed less amused. Oh well...
I was in Wegman's today and saw that they now sell pre-packaged cotton candy. Of all the awful crap I've ever eaten, that may be the worst. I used to enjoy it, though, in the context of a toy, rather than food. My favorite thing to do with cotton candy is to spit on it. If you get a decent amount of any liquid (saliva has just always been the most readily-available for me) on cotton candy, it eats through it. I like trying to spit enough on that it goes all the way from one side to the other. Try it sometime.
Also...as I was watching Secondhand Lions (good movie), I discovered something rather peculiar about my living room electronics. My TV is an RCA, and the stereo I bought last week is a Sharp. On the stereo remote, there is an "X-Bass" button, to boost the bass. When I hit that button, it turns the TV off. How random that, with all the possible frequencies, these two functions are the same. I thought it was kind of fun, but Michaelene seemed less amused. Oh well...
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Picture above
The picture above is one I took while at home in Ellenburg last December. On the way to a family Christmas party, the day after a good snowfall, I decided to stop on the Narrows Bridge of Chateaugay Lake. Looking north, this is the view that greeted me. The evergreens covered in snow prompted Michaelene to sing out, with a smile on her face, "Christmas town!" We agreed that, if there ever were such thing as a Santa Claus, he'd surely live somewhere like this. With as much travelling as I've done, I'm hard-pressed to name a place with a natural beauty as diverse as the Adirondacks. Summer, fall, and winter are all filled with breath-taking images like this one. No matter how far away I am, this is where my soul is at home.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Back for a bit
Well it's been a good 4 1/2 months since my last post, so I figured it was high time for another one. Maybe this one will last through the summer, who knows? Life in Rochester is great. I'm enjoying it much more than in PA. Knowing people here has been a great help, but we've also met a lot of really cool people thru work, who get together socially as well. We're settled in now and it feels like we live here, no longer a "we-just-moved-in" kind of thing.
Work's okay, it's a job. I've always known that I wanted to do something with my life where I can help people. I'm feeling lately that I don't have a great passion for PT, but knowing that I am helping people has been getting me through it. So in the meantime, while I try to sort things out and decide what I want to do with my life, I'm trying to find new hobbies.
I still enjoy playing guitar, and want to get back into taking lessons up here. I'm slowing down on my genealogy research for the time being, with the hope of getting caught up on the website, trying to get what I already have up there first. I don't care what people say, you know, that only 50 year old men do genealogy. I've always been big into family and big into history, so it only makes sense that I get into family history. Why should I wait 30 years to get started? Oh yeah, since I mentioned it, the website is http://www.shutts.net/ . Check it out. My cousin, Casey, did all the design for it. I've put a little bit of it up, but he's done most of the work for the site. I give him credit for all the parts that look good, and take the blame for everything that looks like crap. We just got a new PC and I plan to get Dreamweaver, so I'll be taking it over permanently soon.
I also want to get into digital photography. It's been a very minor interest for a long time, but I feel like it's something I'm decent at and will enjoy doing. It's also a hobby that leaves you with an end product, something tangible to show for your efforts. I'll be putting up some of my current pictures on my photobucket page: http://photobucket.com/albums/v127/veddie10/
And I might try to get into a soccer team in the Rochester league. It's pretty big around here, so I'm not sure if I'm ready for it yet. Maybe I'll just start with some indoor to get my feet wet again. We'll see.
So anyway, that's a quick update on what I'll be working at this summer. Stay tuned for more.
Work's okay, it's a job. I've always known that I wanted to do something with my life where I can help people. I'm feeling lately that I don't have a great passion for PT, but knowing that I am helping people has been getting me through it. So in the meantime, while I try to sort things out and decide what I want to do with my life, I'm trying to find new hobbies.
I still enjoy playing guitar, and want to get back into taking lessons up here. I'm slowing down on my genealogy research for the time being, with the hope of getting caught up on the website, trying to get what I already have up there first. I don't care what people say, you know, that only 50 year old men do genealogy. I've always been big into family and big into history, so it only makes sense that I get into family history. Why should I wait 30 years to get started? Oh yeah, since I mentioned it, the website is http://www.shutts.net/ . Check it out. My cousin, Casey, did all the design for it. I've put a little bit of it up, but he's done most of the work for the site. I give him credit for all the parts that look good, and take the blame for everything that looks like crap. We just got a new PC and I plan to get Dreamweaver, so I'll be taking it over permanently soon.
I also want to get into digital photography. It's been a very minor interest for a long time, but I feel like it's something I'm decent at and will enjoy doing. It's also a hobby that leaves you with an end product, something tangible to show for your efforts. I'll be putting up some of my current pictures on my photobucket page: http://photobucket.com/albums/v127/veddie10/
And I might try to get into a soccer team in the Rochester league. It's pretty big around here, so I'm not sure if I'm ready for it yet. Maybe I'll just start with some indoor to get my feet wet again. We'll see.
So anyway, that's a quick update on what I'll be working at this summer. Stay tuned for more.
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