Month: April 2014

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Every Picture

Every picture I’ve ever seen of myself tells a story. Sometimes that story is a wonderful one of redemption and joy, but other times it’s the story of a boy fighting against himself, trying futilely to get somewhere. Still other pictures bring back memories of times and people that have been long gone. Some names I don’t even recall, but their faces ring true all this time later. We had that moment. We shared at least the amount of time necessary to seal that memory behind glass for the world to see.

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Me and my big sister.

Out of all the people I’ve taken pictures with, the one who appears the most in those photographs with me is my sister. We are only 15 months apart in age, and many people assumed we were twins back then (much to her chagrin — she’s the older one). But we took a host of photographs together, many that still exist to this day. I think it’s because our parents (but mostly our mother) decided she wanted to chronicle our growing up years. Isn’t that why most parents pick up a camera in the first place?

I have pictures of us from Florida, with huge Mickey ears plastered to our sweaty foreheads. And there are pictures of us at Dutch Wonderland, posing next to Barney Rubble, looking like rubes. Still other pictures are random ones from around the house in Southwest Philly, us posing by not posing. Mixed in are also the stock photographs we would take every few years in the back of the grocery store where the picture people would set up shop. I wore ties for those. I am smiling in all of them. I love my sister, and it shows through even back then when I tried to be mewed up to my heaviness. Continue reading “Every Picture”

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Locked Out

“I don’t have to pee. I don’t have to pee. I. Don’t. Have. To. Pee.” I kept telling myself that for the past ten minutes. It didn’t matter that I had just used the toilet fifteen minutes previous, or that as a rational adult I can hold it for quite a long time. The only … Continue reading Locked Out

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Caffeine Love

cup-of-coffeeI fell in love with coffee just after I got married, the blissful haze of wedded bliss leading me to try all kinds of new things I had never ventured to try before. She drank coffee in starts and stops, but I had been content to live vicariously for at least a year, drinking various other hot drinks while she drank heaven. Until we tied the knot, and then it was on.

And there are so many different types out there too. Before then I thought there was but one, like the one ring forged in the fires of Mt. Doom. It was “coffee,” like “eggs,” or “deer,” or “pajamas.” But that’s not the case at all, I realized once I decided to just go for it instead of simply dipping my toes in the wading pool. So I dove in headfirst, into the Olympic-sized swimming pool of coffee, the various flavors and shades, the textures and densities, the sizes and the culture.

Now I can tell a Colombian bean from one grown in Antigua (in the taste), and I have sampled such flavors as Autumn Spice, Pumpkin Latte, and Green Apple. Green Mountain, and Dunkin Donuts, and Starbucks, and various other big names began fighting for space in my refrigerator, right after I got married, and in my cabinet, and in my coffee mug as well. And I don’t have just one either. I have three distinctly different mugs that are specifically for my coffee. I know. You’re jealous. Continue reading “Caffeine Love”

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Checked Out: Week 13

They key to a successful week is getting to spend time with the family, outlining and planning the next portion of my next novel, eating some good food, and, of course, having some good reading material. All of that criteria was met and exceeded this week. Not only did I have great reading material, but … Continue reading Checked Out: Week 13

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900

il_570xN.530350248_bs57It’s odd how something that is completely unrelated to something else can still trigger those memories in my mind. For instance, I was listening to Rod Stewart this morning (The Motown Song) and it made me think about Pepsi. Of course the song is all about hanging out and listening to old records to set the mood. It has nothing to do with Pepsi, but follow my logic…

When I was in high school I worked on a mushroom farm. It was 1991, so the song was on the radio a lot, and we listened to it while we worked. That song will forever be indelibly linked to mushrooms, fertilizer, heat, Losing My Religion, and Diet Coke soda. The mushrooms, fertilizer, and heat were related to the boxes we were packing to ship off to people trying to grow mushrooms, the song was another big one in the rotation on the one radio station we listened to, and the Diet Coke was what our boss let us have when we were in some downtime. As I can’t stand Coke, my mind instead goes to Pepsi when I hear the song, as it did this morning.

That happens a lot to me since my mind is always going a mile a minute, and I pretty much dare people to keep up, to trace back my brain’s journey to get to the bizarre destination. In fact, it has gone on so long that it has become sort of a game for me to even figure out my own logic and connections, a variation on the six degrees of separation, but internal instead of external. It’s why a pair of blue jeans reminds me of Von Hayes, why a kid on a bicycle brings back memories of the Empire State Building, and why Fred Flintstone saying “Yabba Dabba Doo!” inspires me to do the Humpty Dance.

So, I think about 900, and what comes to mind are the SATs, you know, the exams that are supposed to test your potential ability. I recently found out that the newly revised (again) SATs will feature a return to a 1600 perfect score, so I will theoretically be able to compare my score with my daughter’s score when she takes the test in 8 years. Back in my day, the math score had a ceiling of 800, and the verbal score was the same. Usually people did a lot better on one or the other, but the score to look at was 900. Most schools would accept you if you scored a 900, so it was what you strove for, right? Continue reading “900”

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Jay’s Lakers

Magic Johnson 1987 NBA FinalsIt was the summer of 1987, before the rise of the internet and 9/11, before the music of Nirvana and Dave Matthews, even before the popularity of the taco bell dog and Beverly Hills, 90210. In fact, my family had just gotten an Apple 2-C computer, on which we could play such illustrious games as Agent U.S.A., The Oregon Trail, and Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? I was supposed to be selling magazines that summer, but that job was cut short when I proved to be an awful salesman. So, my mom shipped me off to Laurel Lake Camp for two weeks.

The camp itself was a marvel, on a large-sized property in mid-western Pennsylvania. It was a Christian enterprise, so the activities were geared towards not only having fun but also all about including room for Jesus to shine through. We stayed in cabins that seemed as if they had been on the property since Taft was president, the boys on one side of the property and the girls on the other. While we were all pretty young, it was still at that age when we were first beginning to notice girls as more than just bothersome.

Each cabin was instructed on the first evening at camp to come up with a name in time for the bonfire, to be shared with the rest of the camp. It would be our official cabin name for the duration of the two weeks, so they gave us half an hour to spitball and come up with pure gold. Well, we did the spitballing, but it was near impossible to agree on a name.

There were 8 guys in our cabin, and it was the second one from the end of the row, so we threw around names like 8 Dudes, Cabin 2, and No Name Cabin. Honestly, those were our choices. It didn’t help that we had just met each other that day, so no one was really willing to step out and be the leader during the process. Our counselor was probably about 8 years older than we were, but he seemed ancient to us at the time, and his name was Jay. Just before we had to leave to head to the bonfire this kid named Tony spoke up.

“Um, you guys like the Lakers?”

“Sure. Magic Johnson is amazing.”

“So, why can’t we just be Jay’s Lakers?”

“Uh, because our counselor’s name is Jay?”

“Why not?”

“Sure.” Continue reading “Jay’s Lakers”