You’re running out of time. It’s almost December 31st, and everyone needs a New Year’s Resolution. What’s it gonna be this year? Finally grow out those mutton chops? Learn to speak Klingon? Arm wrestle Justin Beiber? Do some sit-ups, climb a mountain, gut a deer, paint a fence?
It’s always the same for me. “This is the year I lose weight.” Dick Clark’s been my diet coach for a long time. New Year’s Eve meant confronting all the soda, Suzie Q’s, Bits O’Honey and bowls of Count Chocula I’d eaten in the previous 364 days while rockin’ to the televised hits of Toto, Billy Squire and Juice Newton as Dick narrated the ball’s descent. Just a snippet of “Auld Lang Syne” still makes me spit out whatever I’m trying to swallow whole before everyone screams, “Happy New Year!” While my siblings or friends tooted paper horns, counting down the seconds, I rehearsed my resolution - that this year, 1978, 1985, 1996 or 2009 – pick a year, any year – would be the year I finally shed unwanted tonnage.
This Friday night won’t be any different. I’ll huddle in front of the TV, cursing Dick’s persistence, wishing I could say 2011 would be the year I instead kickbox an angry kangaroo, spend a night in Delaware or vote Libertarian. But no. 2011 is THE year I lose weight.
I’ve decided to embrace the root of my lifelong strife and go out in blaze of cheesy greasy glory, targeting five fast food creations that defy nature, their very existence calling into question the molecular order of things. From the DoubleDown chicken sandwich to the McRib, from the Cheesy Bites Pizza to the Grilled Stuft Burrito, with a handful of Sausage Pancake Mini Maple-flavored bites thrown in for good measure, I aim to earn this year’s resolution with every fat-saturated caloric chew. I’ve convinced Maisie, my 11-year old daughter to join me. Kids today need to know there are consequences for the actions their parents force them to do.
Maybe these artery-obstructing choices are, “The Five Foods You’ll Eat in Hell,” but I’m not so sure. Everyone’s always smiling on the commercials, and who doesn’t love extra cheese slathered in imitation garlic butter? People without New Year’s resolutions, that’s who.
KFC’s our first stop, and my daughter’s having second thoughts. “Will I feel gross after I eat it?” she asks, not entirely serious but worked up enough to make me wonder if she’ll hyperventilate herself out of this trip.
We split two of the Colonel’s latest creations – the Double Down and the Doublelicious, the former having gained notoriety by substituting two boneless fried chicken pieces for the bun, holding together a generous helping of bacon, cheese and mystery sauce. We split them and share our booty. “This is a swirling vortex of yumminess,” Maisie says, but less than an hour later, she’s filled with remorse. “I feel sick. Why did you make me do this?” I’d answer but can’t, the salt from the sandwiches rendering my tongue useless.
The next day we tackle the newest menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts – Sausage Pancake Mini Bites –udder-sized meat-type sausages wrapped in a thin, maple-flavored pancake. It takes a leap of faith every time you bite into mass-produced sausage, and this effort requires something more like a catapult. As the mini bite reaches my lips, the pancake gives a little, like a soggy eggroll, but I continue, eating the fleshy tube in two bites. Maisie takes one nibble and announces she’s done.
“That tasted really gross. Why are we doing this again?” I don’t answer, gobbling down the remaining bites. The hint of artificial maple lingers in my throat like the syrupy perfume of an IHOP assistant night manager who knows her way around a waffle iron.
I spend the next week trying to figure out when I’ll fit in the rest. It’s not easy finding time for fast food.
Pizza Hut’s Cheesy Bites pizza is like the Ishtar of pizzas. “A pull-apart crust with 28 cheese-filled bites!” brags the Pizza Hut website. Sadly, just as Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty couldn’t save a lousy movie, Pizza Hut’s inability to execute on its vision leaves us bereft. This pizza resembles a giant circular Sasquatch plaster casting with mozzarella-filled toes. This yeti needs a manicure. I keep the large man-beast comments to myself so we can dig in, and we eat most of the pizza before giving up. “That was not worth it,” Maisie says. That doesn’t stop me from eating a dozen bites and four slices, reminding myself 2011 is my year.
Two days later I enter McDonald’s, scanning the menu for the McRib. It’s not there! McDonald’s has been playing cat and mouse with McRib lovers for years, selling it at random times in out-of-the-way locations, creating a semi-myth about the ground pork, pickle and onion sandwich to the point where you had a greater chance of sharing a McDLT with Whitey Bulger than finding a McRib in your neighborhood. The woman behind the counter asks for my order, and I say, “So you guys don’t have the McRib.”
“Yes we do,” she says as she points to a small sign pasted to the register. “Get one before they’re all gone – the famous McRib!”
I buy a McRib Large Extra Value Meal and head home. Maisie’s waiting (she’s no quitter), and I split the sandwich in two. It looks nothing like its photo – the sauce thin, the pickles sad and the few errant white onion shards bunched in the corner in what looks like fear. As for the rib aspect of the sandwich, I wonder what tiny creature was deboned for my lunch – McRabbit? McBadger? Hamburgler? But this sandwich isn’t gonna eat itself so we dig in.
“This has a weird taste,” Maisie complains, swiping my fries and leaving the kitchen. She’s given up on this quest, resigned to the idea that New Year’s resolutions are for processed pork lovers. I finish hers and mine in a few gulps.
I’m left alone for the final challenge – a visit to Taco Bell where I’ll dine solo on a Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
One might assume that any food using intentionally poor spelling is hiding something, but after one bite, the only thing this Stuft masterpiece is hiding is its fabulousness, and I don’t care how it’s spelt. The burrito sits warm in my hands, its top grilled brown, bite after bite revealing pockets of rice, cheese, beans and just enough chicken to explain away the misspelling.
I’ll miss you the most, Grilled Stuft friend. You’ve warmed my belly, caressed my heart and made me wish I didn’t own a calendar. That way, every day would be carefree, just like the playful way you tease me with each tickle of my taste buds. I love you, Grilled Stuft Chicken Burrito.
But this is serious. In only a few days I must declare my intentions for 2011, and this burrito’s thrown me off. Maybe I could sneak away to Taco Bell once in a while – I mean, it’s kind of like a church, right? I could claim sanctuary and declare 2011 as the Year of “Tim and the Yo Yo” or “Tim Learns Jazzercise!” No. I’ve been down this road - 1986’s cheese fries are today’s chicken burritos and 2016’s frosted apple fritters, so it’s time to man up. No more stuft burritos, no more mini maple corn dogs for breakfast and no more Spam-flavored hype hoagies – just me and my muesli and maybe a scoop of yogurt if I’m feeling dangerous.
I say goodbye to you, my five cheesy fried meat-laced friends. But if we do run into each other, let’s pretend we never met. Dick doesn’t need to know. It’s easier that way.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A Reason to be Thankful
He was a nine year old boy, and he needed my help. I didn’t know his name, where he lived, where he went to school or if he had brothers or sisters. I didn’t know his parents, the color of his bike or what posters hung on his walls. I knew only that he was sick and that somehow we were linked. Something in our blood, a chemical signature, like a fingerprint far below the surface, matched up perfectly, and the boy would die unless I helped him.
The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.
I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.
I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.
The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.
The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.
By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.
My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.
I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.
My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.
In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.
A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.
I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.
The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.
I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.
I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.
The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.
The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.
By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.
My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.
I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.
My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.
In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.
A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.
I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.
I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween is Hell
Halloween is here again, and I pray for a swarm of locusts to keep us indoors. I dread this day, remembering the evils Halloween visited upon me as a child. Once I became an adult, I thought I could ignore it, but as a parent, I realize Halloween is relentless, spreading its misery around like a sugar-crazed trick-or-treater flinging razor-filled apples into the crowd.
I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.
My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.
My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.
My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.
So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.
Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.
As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.
But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.
I’ve warned my kids about the horrors of Halloween, but they’ve had none of it. “Kids will beat you up!” I’d say as my son pried JuJu Bees from his molars. “They’ll all laugh and point at you,” I’d scream as my daughter lobbed Sweet Tarts into her brother’s mouth. “You’ll wet your pants, and they’ll make you dress like a savage,” I’d cry, and that’s when they’d walk out to check on the status of their outfits.
My earliest memory of Halloween didn’t have much to do with the actual holiday – it had more to do with the costume. From the first day of preschool, I learned to fear costumes. For tucked away in a back room sat the Costume Box! My classmates and I dreaded fingerpainting days and mudpie meetings, knowing the slightest spill or smudge meant a teacher-supervised trip to the back room for a set of clean clothes. Instead of the standard fare of Toughskins, jumpers and hand-me-down tee shirts, we’d be dressed in a selection from the Costume Box. It was filled with princesses, knights, sailors, nurses, pilots, dancers and cowboys. Every day an unlucky classmate would make a mess and be dragged into the back room, only to emerge minutes later, transformed into a mini member of the Village People.
My day of reckoning came one morning after spending so much time worrying about staying clean that I forgot to make it to the bathroom. I burst into tears, not so much from poor bladder control – more from the truth awaiting me in the Costume Box. As my teachers hustled me off, I lobbied hard for the construction worker outfit, thinking the tool belt would distract the kids from noticing I wasn’t wearing any underpants. But no! They had crueler designs – buckskin Indian chaps and an elk-bone chest plate, and I’m sure they contemplated war paint but figured my tears would make it run. I spent the rest of the day alternating between making a wigwam out of crayons and hiding from the kid in the General Custer outfit. I knew then I didn’t want any costumes in my future.
My first real Halloween experience took place in kindergarten. My mom coaxed me into wearing a dime-store devil costume, a non-breathable vinyl coat and a mask of the Lord of Darkness himself, complete with two tiny red horns that lit up at the press of a button. As I approached the school bus on Halloween morning, the entire busload of kids ran to the windows and laughed. I panicked, pressing the button and lighting up my horns again and again and again, prompting louder laughs, making me cry and run back home, a pint-sized Lucifer humbled in front of his minions.
So traumatized was I by the wholesale Rejection of Satan that I avoided Halloween completely until sixth grade when my friends and I fixated on the laziest Halloween costume next to the “eyes-cut-out-of-a-sheet-ghost” look – the Bum. The Bum, or Classic American Hobo consisted of a ratty sweatshirt, tattered pants, and an old bowler or stained sunbonnet. We’d take a cork, burn the end and smear our faces, just enough for a cartoonish five o’clock shadow. We were aiming for the rail yard tramp of yesteryear look but ended up like a squad of midget Emmett Kellys, wandering from door to door in search of the perfect popcorn ball.
Armed only with our charcoal-smudged faces and pillowcases, we spent the night bartering and cajoling for candy from every house in town. After a few hours, we struggled down the street, our bags bulging with booty. If there’s an easier mark out there than a pack of pre-teen bums wandering down the poorly lit street, lugging pounds of candy and fruit, I’d like to see it. With three blocks to go before home, a pack of kids jumped us. I don’t remember much except getting hit and tossed to the ground. As I rolled over, a girl a few years older than me was on top, slapping me back and forth across the head, knocking my derby aside, screaming, “Give it up, little boy! Give it up!” I did what any pudgy twelve-year old holding $35 worth of stale sweets would do – I took my lumps and held onto that bag for dear life. My assailant eventually grew tired of thumping me and gave up, running off with her cohorts into the night. I sat up and smiled, thinking we’d won, only to find that my fellow bums had surrendered their loot at the first sign of trouble. Despite being the last tramp standing, I couldn’t decide which was more painful – getting my butt thoroughly kicked by an 8th grade girl or having to share my candy.
As a parent, I’ve confronted Halloween head-on in hopes that my distaste would discourage my kids from participating. But I’ve had no luck. Many times my wife and I have listened to our son’s sermons on the curative powers of nougat, and there’s nothing like finding Kit Kat wrappers under your daughter’s pillows in early February.
But I’ve refuse to share in their love of Halloween. The sad truth is that I resent Halloween – the happy faces, the confident choosing of costumes, the careless disregard for dental hygiene. And I have a way to go before I can put this nightmare to rest. I see no end to the costume parades, the endless stream of wrappers, and the ringing doorbells. But one day, who knows when, I’ll be rid of Halloween, and my world will be a better place. And at that point, I’ll buy my own candy.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
"In Treatment - Holding his nose, Tim tours Concord's Waste Water Treatment Facility"
I need a favor. Today’s topic concerns things not meant for polite conversation, so can we agree to a simple word swap? In the place of terms and phrases that refer to unavoidable biological processes, I’ll insert different words, like “sunshine,” “joy,” “roses,” and “happiness.” Your cooperation is appreciated.
I arrive at Concord’s Waste Water Treatment Facility (aka, WWTF) at 7 AM, ready to delve into Concord’s happiness, to find out how we handle this happiness, and what it takes to receive, clean, test, treat and dispense of the city’s happiness, in all its forms.
Since moving here six years ago, I’ve noticed that smell, usually while driving on the highway just south of the city’s center. This odor’s become a steady feature on all O’Shea family road trips. “Yuck! What’s that smell?” one of us would remark, earning the standard response, “It’s the waste water treatment plant!” followed by a chorus of approving nods. I’ll note that using the same excuse while sitting in traffic outside Boston is not met with the same approval. Medford’s a long way from Exit 13, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.
Mike Hanscomb, WWTF’s Superintendant, greets me at the door and introduces me to Mark Fuller, the facility’s Operations Supervisor. Mark wastes no time sharing terms like “Activated Sludge Plant,” “Sequence Batch Reactor,” and “rapid dewatering process.” When he says this last phrase, he adds, “We’ll save that part for last,” and chuckles a bit. What goes on upstairs, I wonder. I don’t know sunshine from shinola.
This facility opened in 1981, processes five million gallons a day and is staffed by fifteen employees, many with long tenures here. I meet Roy Tobin, a twenty-five year veteran of the WWTF and my host at our first stop on today’s Tournament of Roses Parade.
“We’re going to the Influent building,” Roy says as we drive, a light misty rain falling on the windshield. “This is where everything starts.” I open the truck door and can smell it, an odor that crawls up my nose, over my eyes and rests like swamp gas on my brain. Roy, and his co-worker, Burt Richards, he too a long-time veteran of the business, don’t seem to notice a thing.
The Influent building is where the roses arrive, sent from pump stations across the city, and travel up three huge inclined pipes, each filled with enormous 60-foot screws, like something out of Journey to the Center of the Earth. The liquid roses churn upward into giant rectangle structures with tightly packed steel combs that remove sticks, leaves, gravel, and what Roy refers to as “rags.” Today’s the one day of the week that Roy and Burt haul everything’s that been combed out of the millions of gallons of rose-filled water for burning, leaving it devoid of anything that can’t be broken down by biology.
Back at the main building Tom Neforas, the Lab Manager, greets me. “We provide analysis to meet state and federal guidelines,” Tom says, adding details about reducing solids, bio-oxygen demands, and water quality until he’s interrupted by Kristen Noel, the Lab Technician and resident microbiologist. “We’re bug farmers,” Kristen says with a confident look. “We do what nature does, only faster,” she says as she leads us outside.
Kristen explains how their role is to foster processes to break down the happiness naturally, rather than bombard it with chemicals, with the goal of returning clean water to the river and giving clean fertilizer to local farms. Kristen speaks at a rapid clip, knowledgeable and direct. She knows a lot about Concord’s happiness, that’s for sure.
We walk towards the Bio Towers, climb the steps and peer into the tops of these two huge two-story roofless concrete boxes. Kristen explains, “These towers are like giant Petri dishes.” Countless giant sprinkler heads spew grey-brown water that cascades down over rows and rows of cedar and plastic racks. “The water makes a biofilm over the planks – and the more it builds up, the more the slime helps break down the waste.” It’s noisy as the warm water casts a humid haze around us. “Once the water leaves here, it’s one step closer to being clean enough for the river.”
Then to the Aeration Basin, which looks like a massive Jacuzzi. The water is a frothy color of charcoal and slate, a dingy milkshake coated with a covering of fist-sized bubbles. “This is the Happy Tank for microorganisms,” Kristen yells over the bubbling brew, explaining how air promotes the growth of good critters, like nematodes, but I’m too distracted by the idea that air, water and bubbles create mist and maybe that’s not the rain I’m feeling against my skin.
In a hut near the river, Kristen samples the water, measuring its chlorine levels. She explains that this entire waste water process started after the Clean Water Act of 1972. “Before that law passed, waste water went right into the river,” she says, a look of puzzled defiance in her eyes.
Mark meets up with us, and we head to the two secondary clarifying pools to take core samples of their bottom “blankets.” While the huge rotating arm makes its slow sweep across the murky water, Mark tutors me in lagoon systems, parts per million and refers to himself as a “Used Food Engineer.” He mentions upstairs again, and he and Kristen laugh.
We’re standing on a gangplank over the water, only a metal guardrail separating me from years of therapy. Mark hoists a long plastic tube down into the water, hits bottom, raises the pole and empties the contents into a jug. We need a sample from the second pool, and Mark hands me the pole. I do what he did, feel for the pole to reach bottom and bring it up, but before I can empty it, the pole wavers. I look like a mime with an imaginary fish on my hook. I brace myself against the railing, gain control, and empty the cloudy water into the bucket. I try ignoring the drops of water that land on my face and neck.
After we test the pools’ contents back in the lab, Mark asks, “Are you ready to head upstairs?” Tom chimes in, “We’ll give you an honorary degree if you survive the Sludge Room!” Ok, now I’m worried about upstairs.
We’re outside again, and Mark reaches down towards a giant steel plate in the ground, behind the main building. “This is the Sludge Holding Tank.” I look down and take a massive whiff. Whatever hideous odors I’ve experienced in my life were like the sweet smell of a baby’s blanket compared to what I just inhaled. But on we walk. Mark’s determined to show me what upstairs is all about. I’m not sharing his enthusiasm.
“This is the Sludge Dewatering Process. We take the solids left in the tanks, send them here and turn them into Class A biosolids.” Mark opens the door and I’m hit with a stench most foul, my mind filling with words like putrid, fetid, rank, disgusting, and this was a huge mistake. He shows me how solids are mixed with polymers, squeezed dry, doused with lime, heated, pasteurized and dumped into a waiting truck. I move my head from side to side, seeking an air pocket of relief, but agitating the air only makes it worse. Mark points to the presses where the solids are churned and kneaded before they head to the ovens, and I want my mommy and nose plugs. Mark continues, but all I can think of is about the odors assaulting my soul. I’ve smelled joy before but never like this – this is serious joy, like a joy-filled laser penetrating my skull, embossing a permanent olfactory impression no amount of Febreze can ever erase.
We move down to the loading bay as a truck drives off with a load of freshly pasteurized biosolids, headed for a farm in Gilford. “Farmers use the biosolids on cornfields, but only for cattle corn. We could use it on corn that we eat, but the ‘ick’ factor is still too much for us to do that,” Mark explains. Right now my entire world is ick to the factor of 100. And the idea that cows eat biosolid-laced corn to make milk, and that we drink the milk from these cows is both repulsive and sensible to me. I’ll never think of cheese the same way again.
It’s good to know about places like this, and an occasional whiff of what goes on here is a nice reminder that there are people who take care of things we’d rather not talk about, and we’re lucky they do. And if there’s one thing I learned after spending a day with my new friends on Hall Street, it’s that everyone’s sunshine stinks, no matter what we think about ourselves.
I arrive at Concord’s Waste Water Treatment Facility (aka, WWTF) at 7 AM, ready to delve into Concord’s happiness, to find out how we handle this happiness, and what it takes to receive, clean, test, treat and dispense of the city’s happiness, in all its forms.
Since moving here six years ago, I’ve noticed that smell, usually while driving on the highway just south of the city’s center. This odor’s become a steady feature on all O’Shea family road trips. “Yuck! What’s that smell?” one of us would remark, earning the standard response, “It’s the waste water treatment plant!” followed by a chorus of approving nods. I’ll note that using the same excuse while sitting in traffic outside Boston is not met with the same approval. Medford’s a long way from Exit 13, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.
Mike Hanscomb, WWTF’s Superintendant, greets me at the door and introduces me to Mark Fuller, the facility’s Operations Supervisor. Mark wastes no time sharing terms like “Activated Sludge Plant,” “Sequence Batch Reactor,” and “rapid dewatering process.” When he says this last phrase, he adds, “We’ll save that part for last,” and chuckles a bit. What goes on upstairs, I wonder. I don’t know sunshine from shinola.
This facility opened in 1981, processes five million gallons a day and is staffed by fifteen employees, many with long tenures here. I meet Roy Tobin, a twenty-five year veteran of the WWTF and my host at our first stop on today’s Tournament of Roses Parade.
“We’re going to the Influent building,” Roy says as we drive, a light misty rain falling on the windshield. “This is where everything starts.” I open the truck door and can smell it, an odor that crawls up my nose, over my eyes and rests like swamp gas on my brain. Roy, and his co-worker, Burt Richards, he too a long-time veteran of the business, don’t seem to notice a thing.
The Influent building is where the roses arrive, sent from pump stations across the city, and travel up three huge inclined pipes, each filled with enormous 60-foot screws, like something out of Journey to the Center of the Earth. The liquid roses churn upward into giant rectangle structures with tightly packed steel combs that remove sticks, leaves, gravel, and what Roy refers to as “rags.” Today’s the one day of the week that Roy and Burt haul everything’s that been combed out of the millions of gallons of rose-filled water for burning, leaving it devoid of anything that can’t be broken down by biology.
Back at the main building Tom Neforas, the Lab Manager, greets me. “We provide analysis to meet state and federal guidelines,” Tom says, adding details about reducing solids, bio-oxygen demands, and water quality until he’s interrupted by Kristen Noel, the Lab Technician and resident microbiologist. “We’re bug farmers,” Kristen says with a confident look. “We do what nature does, only faster,” she says as she leads us outside.
Kristen explains how their role is to foster processes to break down the happiness naturally, rather than bombard it with chemicals, with the goal of returning clean water to the river and giving clean fertilizer to local farms. Kristen speaks at a rapid clip, knowledgeable and direct. She knows a lot about Concord’s happiness, that’s for sure.
We walk towards the Bio Towers, climb the steps and peer into the tops of these two huge two-story roofless concrete boxes. Kristen explains, “These towers are like giant Petri dishes.” Countless giant sprinkler heads spew grey-brown water that cascades down over rows and rows of cedar and plastic racks. “The water makes a biofilm over the planks – and the more it builds up, the more the slime helps break down the waste.” It’s noisy as the warm water casts a humid haze around us. “Once the water leaves here, it’s one step closer to being clean enough for the river.”
Then to the Aeration Basin, which looks like a massive Jacuzzi. The water is a frothy color of charcoal and slate, a dingy milkshake coated with a covering of fist-sized bubbles. “This is the Happy Tank for microorganisms,” Kristen yells over the bubbling brew, explaining how air promotes the growth of good critters, like nematodes, but I’m too distracted by the idea that air, water and bubbles create mist and maybe that’s not the rain I’m feeling against my skin.
In a hut near the river, Kristen samples the water, measuring its chlorine levels. She explains that this entire waste water process started after the Clean Water Act of 1972. “Before that law passed, waste water went right into the river,” she says, a look of puzzled defiance in her eyes.
Mark meets up with us, and we head to the two secondary clarifying pools to take core samples of their bottom “blankets.” While the huge rotating arm makes its slow sweep across the murky water, Mark tutors me in lagoon systems, parts per million and refers to himself as a “Used Food Engineer.” He mentions upstairs again, and he and Kristen laugh.
We’re standing on a gangplank over the water, only a metal guardrail separating me from years of therapy. Mark hoists a long plastic tube down into the water, hits bottom, raises the pole and empties the contents into a jug. We need a sample from the second pool, and Mark hands me the pole. I do what he did, feel for the pole to reach bottom and bring it up, but before I can empty it, the pole wavers. I look like a mime with an imaginary fish on my hook. I brace myself against the railing, gain control, and empty the cloudy water into the bucket. I try ignoring the drops of water that land on my face and neck.
After we test the pools’ contents back in the lab, Mark asks, “Are you ready to head upstairs?” Tom chimes in, “We’ll give you an honorary degree if you survive the Sludge Room!” Ok, now I’m worried about upstairs.
We’re outside again, and Mark reaches down towards a giant steel plate in the ground, behind the main building. “This is the Sludge Holding Tank.” I look down and take a massive whiff. Whatever hideous odors I’ve experienced in my life were like the sweet smell of a baby’s blanket compared to what I just inhaled. But on we walk. Mark’s determined to show me what upstairs is all about. I’m not sharing his enthusiasm.
“This is the Sludge Dewatering Process. We take the solids left in the tanks, send them here and turn them into Class A biosolids.” Mark opens the door and I’m hit with a stench most foul, my mind filling with words like putrid, fetid, rank, disgusting, and this was a huge mistake. He shows me how solids are mixed with polymers, squeezed dry, doused with lime, heated, pasteurized and dumped into a waiting truck. I move my head from side to side, seeking an air pocket of relief, but agitating the air only makes it worse. Mark points to the presses where the solids are churned and kneaded before they head to the ovens, and I want my mommy and nose plugs. Mark continues, but all I can think of is about the odors assaulting my soul. I’ve smelled joy before but never like this – this is serious joy, like a joy-filled laser penetrating my skull, embossing a permanent olfactory impression no amount of Febreze can ever erase.
We move down to the loading bay as a truck drives off with a load of freshly pasteurized biosolids, headed for a farm in Gilford. “Farmers use the biosolids on cornfields, but only for cattle corn. We could use it on corn that we eat, but the ‘ick’ factor is still too much for us to do that,” Mark explains. Right now my entire world is ick to the factor of 100. And the idea that cows eat biosolid-laced corn to make milk, and that we drink the milk from these cows is both repulsive and sensible to me. I’ll never think of cheese the same way again.
It’s good to know about places like this, and an occasional whiff of what goes on here is a nice reminder that there are people who take care of things we’d rather not talk about, and we’re lucky they do. And if there’s one thing I learned after spending a day with my new friends on Hall Street, it’s that everyone’s sunshine stinks, no matter what we think about ourselves.
FSP- Round Two!
I'm happy to report that the Favorite Song Project is a success. Three weeks ago I shared my quest for that perfect list of my favorite songs and asked readers to share their favorites. The response, both locally and from far away, has been impressive. From Seattle to Sun Valley, from Vermont to Virginia, and from New York to North Carolina, with lots of places in between, you shared your favorite songs.
Some wrote of inner turmoil. Carmine, from Concord, wrote, "Not happy with this list. Painful, and yet therapeutic." Big Star's "Back of a Car" made his list. Don, my long-time friend and true music snob, wrote, "This is the 'Schindler's List' of songs - it's a 'good' list but many other good songs got left off, and that hurts me." Don included gems from Elvis Costello, Luna and the Velvet Underground, after first sharing a list of '80's hair bands that would not appear on his list.
Tom from Connecticut wrote, "To describe this task as difficult is an understatement," then provided a list with detailed descriptions, like, "La "Villa Strangiato" by Rush. "Geek rock as good as it gets. Put this on in your car and you'll be doing 90 before you realize it."
People chose songs like "Netherlands" by Dan Fogelberg, "We're All Alone," by Rita Coolidge, and Sonny Rollins' "St. Thomas." Lists included Etta James, The Stooges, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Prince, The Pogues and The Beatles, to name a fraction. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" made the most lists, and kudos to the young woman from Seattle who included "Video Killed the Radio Star," by The Buggles.
Many joined the Favorite Song Project on Facebook (103 members and counting), where they post lists, share lyrics, video clips and comments on each other's song choices.
The best response came from William Rogers, "81 years young," from Allenstown, New Hampshire. William wrote me an eight-page letter about his favorite songs. "I read your article and I found it extremely interesting, but narrowly centered on young people." He wrote eloquently about his love of Big Band Music, like Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," "Let's Dance," by Benny Goodman and "Green Eyes" by Jimmy Dorsey. His letter is an education in Jitterbugging, classic singers and the local Big Band hot spots back in the day. So you to, Mr. Rogers and to everyone else who shared your favorite songs, thank you and keep those lists coming!
Some wrote of inner turmoil. Carmine, from Concord, wrote, "Not happy with this list. Painful, and yet therapeutic." Big Star's "Back of a Car" made his list. Don, my long-time friend and true music snob, wrote, "This is the 'Schindler's List' of songs - it's a 'good' list but many other good songs got left off, and that hurts me." Don included gems from Elvis Costello, Luna and the Velvet Underground, after first sharing a list of '80's hair bands that would not appear on his list.
Tom from Connecticut wrote, "To describe this task as difficult is an understatement," then provided a list with detailed descriptions, like, "La "Villa Strangiato" by Rush. "Geek rock as good as it gets. Put this on in your car and you'll be doing 90 before you realize it."
People chose songs like "Netherlands" by Dan Fogelberg, "We're All Alone," by Rita Coolidge, and Sonny Rollins' "St. Thomas." Lists included Etta James, The Stooges, John Prine, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, Prince, The Pogues and The Beatles, to name a fraction. Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" made the most lists, and kudos to the young woman from Seattle who included "Video Killed the Radio Star," by The Buggles.
Many joined the Favorite Song Project on Facebook (103 members and counting), where they post lists, share lyrics, video clips and comments on each other's song choices.
The best response came from William Rogers, "81 years young," from Allenstown, New Hampshire. William wrote me an eight-page letter about his favorite songs. "I read your article and I found it extremely interesting, but narrowly centered on young people." He wrote eloquently about his love of Big Band Music, like Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade," "Let's Dance," by Benny Goodman and "Green Eyes" by Jimmy Dorsey. His letter is an education in Jitterbugging, classic singers and the local Big Band hot spots back in the day. So you to, Mr. Rogers and to everyone else who shared your favorite songs, thank you and keep those lists coming!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Favorite Song Project
Got a favorite song? Better yet, got fifteen? It’s been more than thirty years, but I think I finally have my list. Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve tried to create my list of favorite songs. For a long time, I searched for the definitive song – that one song I could claim as my favorite - the one that played in my head in a constant loop of self-reassurance, the soundtrack for my life. This song, I would tell myself – this song is me!
I mulled it over incessantly – in my room listening to records, riding the bus to school, while my friends and I debated Lennon versus McCartney, whether Jim Morrison was alive and selling burritos from the trunk of his car at Dead shows, or how Run DMC sold out the day they let Steven Tyler into the recording studio. I first chose a Beatles song (“I Feel Fine”), then the Doors (“The Soft Parade”), then moved to “The Lemon Song,” by Led Zeppelin until, while listening to the record in my friend’s bedroom, his mom walked in, heard the lyrics, turned the record player off and sent me home in shame. Her concern was that Robert Plant, while exhorting the baby in the song to squeeze his lemon, was apparently referring neither to an infant nor citrus fruit.
Then I discovered The Clash, The Ramones, Joe Jackson and The Jam. It’s tough to pick a favorite when they’re all less than two minutes long. On I searched, spending much of my formative years listening in vain for my favorite song. Flirtations with Foreigner, Frank Sinatra, Linda Ronstadt, Talking Heads, Devo, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Hank Williams yielded no success. Even month-long obsessions with Patsy Cline, Stevie Nicks and Joni Mitchell left me no closer.
I now know choosing just one song is a fool’s errand. I’ve dedicated a better part of my life trying to craft that one perfect collection of my favorite songs – the mix partygoers would hear next to the keg, nodding subtle approvals to each other over the din of the bass and drums, or the collection my friends would play at my funeral, or as the soundtrack for the video tribute charities would commission in my honor for all the nice stuff I did for sea birds and trees. Cue the video of me nursing diseased conifers back to health as Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police” fades into Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” while I scrub oil off a pelican’s soiled beak. And just before the screen fades to black, I shed my hazmat coveralls and look off across the calm sea while Hall and Oates’ “Your Kiss Is On My List” plays softly in the background.
The truth is I made those mixes with the hope others would hear them and judge me – that somehow an O’Shea Original Mix would show up backstage in the hands of ZZ Top or the surviving members of The Who. They’d hear it and send forth their roadie minions to locate the true genius who captured the perfect combination of songs, showering me with praise, front row seats and a black concert tee shirt for free. Alas, roadies don’t ring my house, and my music snob friend Don still reminds me of the mix I shared with him ten summers ago that had the temerity to include Skid Row, Journey and Ratt songs. Our friendship’s never been the same since he learned I knew all the words to “I Remember You.”
Once I dismissed the idea of happiness through others’ approval, I found the path to success in this life-long quest. The songs I’ll choose will be my favorites, and they’ll tell a story about me and no one else. I’m not alone in this idea, and to prove it, I’ve asked dozens of friends to share their favorite songs with me. What an education! I have lists upon lists - everything from U2’s “One” to Jerry Vale’s “Old Cape Cod,” to “Paradise City” by Guns N Roses to “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton to the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen.”
I’ve learned that an ex-Marine named Rufus loves “I Like My Women on the Trashy Side,” that Roberta Flack still has one big fan in Vermont, and that the Rolling Stones make most lists but the Beatles make almost none! I found out that my buddy Ed - the guy who once swore Kiss was the greatest band of all time - has refined tastes that run from John Prine to Graham Parsons and Tom Waits, but “Love Gun” is nowhere to be seen. And I know my pal Don won’t accept the idea that .38 Special’s “Hold on Loosely” could be on anyone’s favorite list. “There’s something wrong with you if you put it on your list,” he warned me, a look of crazy lurking behind his music-snob eyes.
“Asking to pick a favorite song is like asking to pick a favorite brother,” wrote my second favorite brother Mike. He had some trouble with this assignment because, “You can really only pick your final list if you stop listening to music or just before you croak.” He then shared his top fifteen and did a nice job of combining Bach, The Bogmen, Radiohead and The Ventures into an eclectic sonic stew.
So today I launch the Favorite Song Project, an effort to share our favorite songs, to remember why we love them, and to tell each other what makes them our favorites. The Favorite Song Project, or FSP, is simple. Write down your favorite songs, narrow them to fifteen and share them – you can share with me, your buddies, your family, your co-workers, or complete strangers. Nothing says, “Understand me for who I really am” by baring your soul through fifteen song titles that help define you. Sure, your mother-in-law may not know a crunk cup from a sitz bath, but that’s OK – if Lil’ John’s opus “Get Low” is on your list, then pass the crunk juice and write it down!
We don’t judge in the FSP. If your top songs include the chorale version of Psalm 87 as sung by the Gelding, Indiana Men’s Choir, go ahead and write it down, even if the next guy’s favorite song is “Jesus Christ Pose” by Soundgarden. There are no bad songs or bad choices in the FSP – except for a cappella Billy Joel songs. The FSP draws the line at “For the Longest Time.”
So join the FSP and share your favorites with others. You can email them to the project’s mailbox (favoritesongproject@gmail.com) or you can join the new Favorite Song Project group on Facebook.
So what’s a favorite? It’s a song that makes you smile, cry or remember a time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. A favorite song is one that reminds you to call a friend from grade school, hoist another beer or brew a second cup of tea, the ones that have you wondering what happened to that girlfriend from eleventh grade, the one who dumped you because you loved the Stray Cats more than her. My favorite songs are the ones that make me feel alive. They set a groove, move me, ease my mind and remind me how much love, hate, pleasure and pain there is in the world. My favorite songs help me make sense of my life, in all its good and bad.
So give it some thought – post your fifteen favorite songs on Facebook (search on “Favorite Song Project”), or send an email to favoritesongproject@gmail.com, or just write them down and listen to them. It’s a good thing to feel alive. Cue the music.
Tim’s Favorite Songs, in no particular order
Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright – Mike Ness
Blank Generation – Richard Hell and the Voidoids
Rosalita – Bruce Springsteen
Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose – Dwight Yoakam
Let It Bleed – The Rolling Stones
The Pretender – Jackson Browne
English Civil War – The Clash
Buick City Complex – The Old 97’s
Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who
The Seed 2.0 – The Roots
Custard Pie – Led Zeppelin
Me and Bobby McGee – Janis Joplin
Fly Me to the Moon – Frank Sinatra
I Call Your Name – The Beatles
What’s So Funny ‘bout Peace, Love and Understanding – Elvis Costello
I mulled it over incessantly – in my room listening to records, riding the bus to school, while my friends and I debated Lennon versus McCartney, whether Jim Morrison was alive and selling burritos from the trunk of his car at Dead shows, or how Run DMC sold out the day they let Steven Tyler into the recording studio. I first chose a Beatles song (“I Feel Fine”), then the Doors (“The Soft Parade”), then moved to “The Lemon Song,” by Led Zeppelin until, while listening to the record in my friend’s bedroom, his mom walked in, heard the lyrics, turned the record player off and sent me home in shame. Her concern was that Robert Plant, while exhorting the baby in the song to squeeze his lemon, was apparently referring neither to an infant nor citrus fruit.
Then I discovered The Clash, The Ramones, Joe Jackson and The Jam. It’s tough to pick a favorite when they’re all less than two minutes long. On I searched, spending much of my formative years listening in vain for my favorite song. Flirtations with Foreigner, Frank Sinatra, Linda Ronstadt, Talking Heads, Devo, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Hank Williams yielded no success. Even month-long obsessions with Patsy Cline, Stevie Nicks and Joni Mitchell left me no closer.
I now know choosing just one song is a fool’s errand. I’ve dedicated a better part of my life trying to craft that one perfect collection of my favorite songs – the mix partygoers would hear next to the keg, nodding subtle approvals to each other over the din of the bass and drums, or the collection my friends would play at my funeral, or as the soundtrack for the video tribute charities would commission in my honor for all the nice stuff I did for sea birds and trees. Cue the video of me nursing diseased conifers back to health as Cheap Trick’s “Dream Police” fades into Boston’s “More Than a Feeling,” while I scrub oil off a pelican’s soiled beak. And just before the screen fades to black, I shed my hazmat coveralls and look off across the calm sea while Hall and Oates’ “Your Kiss Is On My List” plays softly in the background.
The truth is I made those mixes with the hope others would hear them and judge me – that somehow an O’Shea Original Mix would show up backstage in the hands of ZZ Top or the surviving members of The Who. They’d hear it and send forth their roadie minions to locate the true genius who captured the perfect combination of songs, showering me with praise, front row seats and a black concert tee shirt for free. Alas, roadies don’t ring my house, and my music snob friend Don still reminds me of the mix I shared with him ten summers ago that had the temerity to include Skid Row, Journey and Ratt songs. Our friendship’s never been the same since he learned I knew all the words to “I Remember You.”
Once I dismissed the idea of happiness through others’ approval, I found the path to success in this life-long quest. The songs I’ll choose will be my favorites, and they’ll tell a story about me and no one else. I’m not alone in this idea, and to prove it, I’ve asked dozens of friends to share their favorite songs with me. What an education! I have lists upon lists - everything from U2’s “One” to Jerry Vale’s “Old Cape Cod,” to “Paradise City” by Guns N Roses to “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton to the Sex Pistols’ “God Save the Queen.”
I’ve learned that an ex-Marine named Rufus loves “I Like My Women on the Trashy Side,” that Roberta Flack still has one big fan in Vermont, and that the Rolling Stones make most lists but the Beatles make almost none! I found out that my buddy Ed - the guy who once swore Kiss was the greatest band of all time - has refined tastes that run from John Prine to Graham Parsons and Tom Waits, but “Love Gun” is nowhere to be seen. And I know my pal Don won’t accept the idea that .38 Special’s “Hold on Loosely” could be on anyone’s favorite list. “There’s something wrong with you if you put it on your list,” he warned me, a look of crazy lurking behind his music-snob eyes.
“Asking to pick a favorite song is like asking to pick a favorite brother,” wrote my second favorite brother Mike. He had some trouble with this assignment because, “You can really only pick your final list if you stop listening to music or just before you croak.” He then shared his top fifteen and did a nice job of combining Bach, The Bogmen, Radiohead and The Ventures into an eclectic sonic stew.
So today I launch the Favorite Song Project, an effort to share our favorite songs, to remember why we love them, and to tell each other what makes them our favorites. The Favorite Song Project, or FSP, is simple. Write down your favorite songs, narrow them to fifteen and share them – you can share with me, your buddies, your family, your co-workers, or complete strangers. Nothing says, “Understand me for who I really am” by baring your soul through fifteen song titles that help define you. Sure, your mother-in-law may not know a crunk cup from a sitz bath, but that’s OK – if Lil’ John’s opus “Get Low” is on your list, then pass the crunk juice and write it down!
We don’t judge in the FSP. If your top songs include the chorale version of Psalm 87 as sung by the Gelding, Indiana Men’s Choir, go ahead and write it down, even if the next guy’s favorite song is “Jesus Christ Pose” by Soundgarden. There are no bad songs or bad choices in the FSP – except for a cappella Billy Joel songs. The FSP draws the line at “For the Longest Time.”
So join the FSP and share your favorites with others. You can email them to the project’s mailbox (favoritesongproject@gmail.com) or you can join the new Favorite Song Project group on Facebook.
So what’s a favorite? It’s a song that makes you smile, cry or remember a time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt. A favorite song is one that reminds you to call a friend from grade school, hoist another beer or brew a second cup of tea, the ones that have you wondering what happened to that girlfriend from eleventh grade, the one who dumped you because you loved the Stray Cats more than her. My favorite songs are the ones that make me feel alive. They set a groove, move me, ease my mind and remind me how much love, hate, pleasure and pain there is in the world. My favorite songs help me make sense of my life, in all its good and bad.
So give it some thought – post your fifteen favorite songs on Facebook (search on “Favorite Song Project”), or send an email to favoritesongproject@gmail.com, or just write them down and listen to them. It’s a good thing to feel alive. Cue the music.
Tim’s Favorite Songs, in no particular order
Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright – Mike Ness
Blank Generation – Richard Hell and the Voidoids
Rosalita – Bruce Springsteen
Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose – Dwight Yoakam
Let It Bleed – The Rolling Stones
The Pretender – Jackson Browne
English Civil War – The Clash
Buick City Complex – The Old 97’s
Won’t Get Fooled Again – The Who
The Seed 2.0 – The Roots
Custard Pie – Led Zeppelin
Me and Bobby McGee – Janis Joplin
Fly Me to the Moon – Frank Sinatra
I Call Your Name – The Beatles
What’s So Funny ‘bout Peace, Love and Understanding – Elvis Costello
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Fire House Rules
“Are you ready?” the Battalion Chief asks me as I lurch towards the smoke-filled room. I’m dressed in firefighter’s gear, the helmet strapped on my head, the oxygen tank’s harness pinching my shoulders, the air mask covering my face. I must look like somebody’s fifth grader on “Take your Child to your Dangerous Job” day – my boots are three sizes too big, the helmet slides back and forth, and I’ve resisted the urge to ask for a pair of pants with cuffs so I won’t trip on the bottoms. I don’t know if I’m sweating from nerves or from the 95 degree heat, aided by the twenty pounds of gear I’m wearing. Firefighter outfits don’t necessarily “breathe.”
We’re in downtown Concord just off Main Street, outside one of the Sanel Block buildings, slated for demolition in the coming days. The owner’s given the Concord Fire Department permission to use the buildings for training until they’re torn down. With no money in the budget for a new training facility, the Fire Department takes every opportunity it finds to practice its skills, and tonight it’s Engine 4 and its five firefighters’ turn.
Jim Freitas, Engine 4’s knob guy (he controls the flow of water from the truck), gives me advice as I wait my turn. “Remember – it’s all about the couplings,” Jim tells me. Jim’s been with the Department for a little more than five years. He found me my gear when I arrived, showed me the fire station’s layout and was the assistant chef who served dinner a few hours ago. That dinner’s about to make a special, one-time only reverse appearance if I’m not careful, so I listen to Jim explain. “It’s all about the male and female couplings. The female end will always lead you back to the truck – the male end heads towards the fire,” Jim explains as he shows me the difference in the male and female hose ends. “Feel for those metal bumps and then the hose, and you’ve found it.”
“Bumps to the pump,” Chief Ken Folsom reminds me, “Once you find the hose, don’t let go of it. Follow it like a clothes line until you get out.” I try to say something funny like, “Hey, ‘Female Coupling’ would be a great name for an all-woman heavy metal band,” but Ken and Jim are focused on the tasks at hand, and I probably should be too – besides, with the air mask covering my face and the nascent signs of heat stroke gnawing at my brain, it would’ve sounded like, “Tell my wife to remember me fondly.”
This drill’s designed to test firefighters’ ability to evacuate a smoke-filled, pitch-black burning room while flames rage nearby – the key is to find the female coupling and follow the right hose to safety. I have an advantage over Engine 4 – I watched the first few go through the drill earlier, standing in the corner with a thermal imaging camera, seeing them fumble in the rubble-strewn darkness for the exit. The room was completely dark, any chance for the twilight to make it through the one window erased by the smoke pouring from the machine on the floor. Taking my eyes off the camera meant instant midnight, so I kept my eyes fixed on the ghostly image on the tiny screen.
“Your air is on,” Chief Folsom tells me as he hits a button on the side of my mask, the cool air bathing my sweaty face. He leads me to the room, and I begin. I’m seconds into the exercise, and any appreciation I’d had for the work firefighters do has increased tenfold. I can’t see a thing, my gear is heavy, and I’m crawling on my hands and knees searching for the metal sections of the hose. Add a screaming citizen and actual fire into the mix, and I’d be the last person you’d want to see coming to your rescue.
Lieutenant Alan Robidas, and firefighter Dan Bickers, from Central, are running the exercise and coach me as I go. “So what are you looking for?” “What will you do once you find it?” “Where’s the wall? Have you found it yet?” I find the couplings underneath broken ceiling tiles, heed the Chief’s advice and grasp onto the hose, following it to the end.
Outside, the Chief and the men from Central debrief Engine 4, reminding them not to be fooled by the overlapping hoses. Moments later, I’m in the fire engine, Jim sitting next to me as we drive back to the station. Chief Ken treats us all to ice cream for a training exercise well done. It may be the first time in my life I actually earned a bowl of ice cream. It was delicious.
I’d arrived at the station hours earlier, right at the start of the thirteen-hour night shift. Lieutenant Merle DeWitt greeted me at the door and introduced me to Paul Sirois. Paul’s been a firefighter in Concord for almost eight years and will be riding in the ambulance tonight. This team of five firefighters works four days in a row with four days off – two day shifts of eleven hours and two night shifts of thirteen. Scott Marcotte, a third-generation Concord firefighter, on the job since 1987, provides a primer in the city’s firefighting footprint. “We have three stations plus the ladder truck on duty all the time. Each station has five firefighters, an engine and an ambulance, and Central has the ladder truck. One of the five firefighters in each fire house is also a paramedic, so we’re usually pretty busy.”
Merle then explains the bell system. “One’s for a medical call, two’s for a box alarm, and three bells probably means a building’s on fire.” I’m dizzy with anticipation, and as we sit down for supper, I wonder how fast these guys will bolt from the table at the first sound of bells. Dinner passes with no bells but with a lovely chicken dish and a Swiss chard salad from the station’s garden. “It’s been unusually slow - very quiet this summer so far,” Scott mentions to me after dinner. “Don’t be surprised if we don’t get many calls.” Scott’s an expert as a member of Engine 4, the busiest by far in the city, outpacing the other stations by hundreds of calls each year.
A firefighter waiting for a call is a lot like an ice fisherman waiting for a fish – you sit, you wait, you eat, you chat, and you clean your gear until a fish arrives or the bell rings, and then it’s time to move. About five hours into the shift, as we sit watching TV, Paul and Jim share stories of things they’ve seen on the job and how “Murphy’s Law prevails at a fire.” Paul emphasizes that trust is the key to a firefighter’s success. “We have to have each other’s back – always,” he says to me. It’s a calm scene until a bell rings, and Paul is out of his recliner like he’s been shot out of a water cannon.
Before I realize what’s happening, Scott asks me if I want to join Paul on the “bus,” (what they call the ambulance). I agree and Scott runs down the hallway to catch them. I follow him and make it before the ambulance pulls out, grabbing a seat in the back. Paul’s driving the bus tonight and Keith Richardson, the fifth of tonight’s crew, the team’s paramedic and lead chef, scans his laptop in the front to see where we’re going.
We arrive at a high-rise just off Main Street, and Alan and Dan from Central greet us at the door, their ladder truck parked in the lot next to the building. We move to the elevator, Paul pushing the stretcher and Keith lugging the portable EKG machine. Moments later we’re in a woman’s apartment - she’d called 911, complaining of chest pains, and Keith jumps into action, asking about her ailments and checking her vital signs. Minutes later we’re in the hallway with the woman on the stretcher. Dan asks her if she wants us to shut off her TV, still blaring in her bedroom. “Leave it on for my cat,” she instructs, and we head downstairs. She’s lucid and talks with Keith, who’s a combination of professional, precise and very friendly, asking her, “On a scale of one to ten, where’s your pain now? What did you have to eat tonight? Have you been taking your medication?”
We arrive at the hospital, Paul and Keith wheel the woman inside, and after a brief exchange with the nurse on duty, and we leave and drive to the station. “Calls like that are about seventy percent of what we do,” Paul tells me as he readies the stretcher for the next call. Not quite a scene from ER, but lack of drama at a time like this is a good thing.
Back at the station, it’s well past midnight and the place is quiet. Keith does his paperwork and Paul restocks the ambulance. The others are resting, waiting for those bells to ring. I find a comfortable spot and drift off to sleep, content in the conviction that Concord’s in good hands with people like this down the hallway, ready at a moment’s notice to set things right.
We’re in downtown Concord just off Main Street, outside one of the Sanel Block buildings, slated for demolition in the coming days. The owner’s given the Concord Fire Department permission to use the buildings for training until they’re torn down. With no money in the budget for a new training facility, the Fire Department takes every opportunity it finds to practice its skills, and tonight it’s Engine 4 and its five firefighters’ turn.
Jim Freitas, Engine 4’s knob guy (he controls the flow of water from the truck), gives me advice as I wait my turn. “Remember – it’s all about the couplings,” Jim tells me. Jim’s been with the Department for a little more than five years. He found me my gear when I arrived, showed me the fire station’s layout and was the assistant chef who served dinner a few hours ago. That dinner’s about to make a special, one-time only reverse appearance if I’m not careful, so I listen to Jim explain. “It’s all about the male and female couplings. The female end will always lead you back to the truck – the male end heads towards the fire,” Jim explains as he shows me the difference in the male and female hose ends. “Feel for those metal bumps and then the hose, and you’ve found it.”
“Bumps to the pump,” Chief Ken Folsom reminds me, “Once you find the hose, don’t let go of it. Follow it like a clothes line until you get out.” I try to say something funny like, “Hey, ‘Female Coupling’ would be a great name for an all-woman heavy metal band,” but Ken and Jim are focused on the tasks at hand, and I probably should be too – besides, with the air mask covering my face and the nascent signs of heat stroke gnawing at my brain, it would’ve sounded like, “Tell my wife to remember me fondly.”
This drill’s designed to test firefighters’ ability to evacuate a smoke-filled, pitch-black burning room while flames rage nearby – the key is to find the female coupling and follow the right hose to safety. I have an advantage over Engine 4 – I watched the first few go through the drill earlier, standing in the corner with a thermal imaging camera, seeing them fumble in the rubble-strewn darkness for the exit. The room was completely dark, any chance for the twilight to make it through the one window erased by the smoke pouring from the machine on the floor. Taking my eyes off the camera meant instant midnight, so I kept my eyes fixed on the ghostly image on the tiny screen.
“Your air is on,” Chief Folsom tells me as he hits a button on the side of my mask, the cool air bathing my sweaty face. He leads me to the room, and I begin. I’m seconds into the exercise, and any appreciation I’d had for the work firefighters do has increased tenfold. I can’t see a thing, my gear is heavy, and I’m crawling on my hands and knees searching for the metal sections of the hose. Add a screaming citizen and actual fire into the mix, and I’d be the last person you’d want to see coming to your rescue.
Lieutenant Alan Robidas, and firefighter Dan Bickers, from Central, are running the exercise and coach me as I go. “So what are you looking for?” “What will you do once you find it?” “Where’s the wall? Have you found it yet?” I find the couplings underneath broken ceiling tiles, heed the Chief’s advice and grasp onto the hose, following it to the end.
Outside, the Chief and the men from Central debrief Engine 4, reminding them not to be fooled by the overlapping hoses. Moments later, I’m in the fire engine, Jim sitting next to me as we drive back to the station. Chief Ken treats us all to ice cream for a training exercise well done. It may be the first time in my life I actually earned a bowl of ice cream. It was delicious.
I’d arrived at the station hours earlier, right at the start of the thirteen-hour night shift. Lieutenant Merle DeWitt greeted me at the door and introduced me to Paul Sirois. Paul’s been a firefighter in Concord for almost eight years and will be riding in the ambulance tonight. This team of five firefighters works four days in a row with four days off – two day shifts of eleven hours and two night shifts of thirteen. Scott Marcotte, a third-generation Concord firefighter, on the job since 1987, provides a primer in the city’s firefighting footprint. “We have three stations plus the ladder truck on duty all the time. Each station has five firefighters, an engine and an ambulance, and Central has the ladder truck. One of the five firefighters in each fire house is also a paramedic, so we’re usually pretty busy.”
Merle then explains the bell system. “One’s for a medical call, two’s for a box alarm, and three bells probably means a building’s on fire.” I’m dizzy with anticipation, and as we sit down for supper, I wonder how fast these guys will bolt from the table at the first sound of bells. Dinner passes with no bells but with a lovely chicken dish and a Swiss chard salad from the station’s garden. “It’s been unusually slow - very quiet this summer so far,” Scott mentions to me after dinner. “Don’t be surprised if we don’t get many calls.” Scott’s an expert as a member of Engine 4, the busiest by far in the city, outpacing the other stations by hundreds of calls each year.
A firefighter waiting for a call is a lot like an ice fisherman waiting for a fish – you sit, you wait, you eat, you chat, and you clean your gear until a fish arrives or the bell rings, and then it’s time to move. About five hours into the shift, as we sit watching TV, Paul and Jim share stories of things they’ve seen on the job and how “Murphy’s Law prevails at a fire.” Paul emphasizes that trust is the key to a firefighter’s success. “We have to have each other’s back – always,” he says to me. It’s a calm scene until a bell rings, and Paul is out of his recliner like he’s been shot out of a water cannon.
Before I realize what’s happening, Scott asks me if I want to join Paul on the “bus,” (what they call the ambulance). I agree and Scott runs down the hallway to catch them. I follow him and make it before the ambulance pulls out, grabbing a seat in the back. Paul’s driving the bus tonight and Keith Richardson, the fifth of tonight’s crew, the team’s paramedic and lead chef, scans his laptop in the front to see where we’re going.
We arrive at a high-rise just off Main Street, and Alan and Dan from Central greet us at the door, their ladder truck parked in the lot next to the building. We move to the elevator, Paul pushing the stretcher and Keith lugging the portable EKG machine. Moments later we’re in a woman’s apartment - she’d called 911, complaining of chest pains, and Keith jumps into action, asking about her ailments and checking her vital signs. Minutes later we’re in the hallway with the woman on the stretcher. Dan asks her if she wants us to shut off her TV, still blaring in her bedroom. “Leave it on for my cat,” she instructs, and we head downstairs. She’s lucid and talks with Keith, who’s a combination of professional, precise and very friendly, asking her, “On a scale of one to ten, where’s your pain now? What did you have to eat tonight? Have you been taking your medication?”
We arrive at the hospital, Paul and Keith wheel the woman inside, and after a brief exchange with the nurse on duty, and we leave and drive to the station. “Calls like that are about seventy percent of what we do,” Paul tells me as he readies the stretcher for the next call. Not quite a scene from ER, but lack of drama at a time like this is a good thing.
Back at the station, it’s well past midnight and the place is quiet. Keith does his paperwork and Paul restocks the ambulance. The others are resting, waiting for those bells to ring. I find a comfortable spot and drift off to sleep, content in the conviction that Concord’s in good hands with people like this down the hallway, ready at a moment’s notice to set things right.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Six Reasons to Love the World Cup! (or at least watch a few games)
I was once like you - sick of people telling me to love soccer. I grew weary of pundits extolling the virtues of “the beautiful game,” how we Americans must embrace it like the rest of the world. Scoldings about soccer were like dental hygienists begging us to floss or our mothers reminding us to eat our kale. For many years, I was a man who swore that a prescription for a joyous sporting life was one part baseball, one part football, one part Indy 500 and no parts soccer. Until I started watching.
When you first start watching soccer, it’s like peering through a keyhole of the door to an alternate universe. Fans sing lusty fight songs, blow plastic horns and set off smoke bombs. Commentators say things in refined English accents like, “His opportunistic venture into the mouth of the stalwart defense yields a stroke of brilliance!” When national pride is at stake, like it is with this month’s World Cup, everything gets kicked up a notch. The game are more intense, the fans more rabid and the rewards greater. And for the next thirty days, we can feast upon the dozens of games at our fingertips. If there was ever a time to contract a rare, month-long, non-debilitating yet highly contagious tropical disease, it would be now. Excused absences and World Cup soccer are ideal bedfellows.
So, from one former non-soccer fan to you, the ardent American sports lover who’d rather watch adults play poker in a windowless room or think watching left turns on an oval track constitutes excitement (are we really rooting for tires?), I’m here to tell you what’s to love about the World Cup. Give it some thought and drop me a line if you want to watch a few games together. I’ll be at home, in front of my TV for the next month, flossing the kale out of my teeth.
Reason #1: The US is Good (No, really, I’m serious)
We probably won’t win it all and may not make it very far, but we’re no Faroe Islands, that’s for sure. It wasn’t long ago that the rest of the world told jokes about the US team like, “An armadillo, a three-legged goat and eleven Americans walk onto a soccer field.” I don’t know how the rest of the joke goes, but the punch line is, “And the goat uses the armadillo as a crutch to score a hat trick to beat the US!” Uncle Sam’s Army is highly ranked, is led by a handful of players who excel in the best leagues in the world, and has a legitimate chance to advance well past the first round. Then again, we were considered a contender four years ago and were embarrassed worse than that time your buddy “pantsed” you at the bus stop in eighth grade, the lesson being, “Don’t believe the hype and always wear a belt.” But seriously, we’re pretty good.
Reason #2: North Korea – Santa’s Little Helpers
Rooting against North Korea’s soccer team is like rooting against Santa’s elves, if Santa referred to himself as “Dear Leader,” wore crazy person sunglasses and was the worst boss ever! The team had to hire Chinese cheerleaders because no one has enough money for bus fare, much less for a plane ticket to South Africa. Kim Jong-Il, nuttier than an outhouse rat, refuses to televise the games, fearing a loss would shame the nation (as opposed to abject poverty and chronic malnutrition). Its government made this statement after a loss in the qualifying rounds: “The game has turned into a theater of plot-breeding and swindling.” Just imagine if they win! We’d hear things like, “The heroes of the Fatherland have quenched their thirst with the blood of the foe, mocking the spiteful conspiracy to rob our sons of their birthright.” To top it off, there’s a distant, remote, improbable chance that North Korea would face South Korea, two nations technically still at war. The mind races with the plot-breeding possibilities.
Reason #3: USA versus England
If you watch just one game, watch this one. The last time the US beat England was in 1950, and we haven’t come close since. England’s team is loaded with some of the best players in the world, including Wayne Rooney, a temperamental goal-scorer with a face like a pork chop and the quickness of a pit viper. England takes credit for inventing soccer, and it hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966. Many expect them to go all the way, but they have to tussle with us first. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what they did to the White House in the War of 1812.
Reason #4: What’s in a Name?
Every team has a nickname, with African teams sporting the best - “Super Eagles,” “Indomitable Lions,” “Bafana Bafana.” The worst? Australia’s “Socceroos” – sounds like a lukewarm yogurt and Vegemite nutrition shake. Slovenia’s a close second with its “Little Dragons.” Nothing instills fear like a miniature version of a pretend creature. Was the name “Bitty Unicorns” already claimed by the team from Narnia?
Reason #5: Saving the Drama for your Mama
Would you rather watch reruns of Ryan’s Hope than see a minute of soccer? If so, have I got the story lines for you! Consider Argentina’s coach, Diego Maradona, who many consider the greatest player of all time. After a brilliant career, a slide into drugs and a chance for redemption, Maradona’s vowed to run naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if his team wins. He’s like Roger Clemens, Britney Spears and Frank the Tank rolled into one person. Or how about England’s John Terry? He’s won countless league titles and awards and was expected to lead England to World Cup victory as its captain. Until he slept with a teammate’s wife. That player left the national team and Terry’s no longer the captain. Whoops. And then there’s France. With moments remaining in its do-or-die qualifying match against Ireland, down by a goal, France was desperate, needing a tie to advance to the World Cup. Enter its most famous player – Thierry Henry – who palmed the ball, not once but twice, and handed it (literally) to his teammate who scored the equalizer. No justice, no peace, writes the man of Irish heritage.
Reason #6: No 7th Inning Stretch Necessary
At some point, even the most jaded baseball fan has to admit that another 9-4 Red Sox victory over Kansas City on a muggy June night is just plain boring. The seventh inning stretch? Seriously? Do you really need to stop the action to remind baseball fans there’s a game going on? Soccer doesn’t need a Slim Goodbody exercise routine to a Wayne Newton tune to reenergize its fans – the game provides all the energy and excitement you could ever need, and then some.
You Gotta Watch These Games!
USA vs England – Saturday, June 12@ 2:30 PM on ABC (“Give me liberty or a two-goal victory!”)
Brazil vs North Korea – Tuesday, June 15 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN (Samba music and bikini-clad fans or paranoid recluses with god complexes? You choose!)
France vs Mexico – Thursday, June 17 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN2 (France is lucky to be here, and Mexico hasn’t forgiven Napoleon III for his misguided dreams of conquest)
Greece vs Argentina – Tuesday, June 22 @2:30 PM on ESPN (Ninety spirited minutes of soccer followed by symposium titled, “Learning from our Mistakes - Debt, Currency Devaluation and Civil Unrest”)
Portugal vs Brazil – Friday, June 25 @ 10 AM on ESPN (Colonist and Colonizer meet on the last day of pool play – only Portuguese spoken here)
When you first start watching soccer, it’s like peering through a keyhole of the door to an alternate universe. Fans sing lusty fight songs, blow plastic horns and set off smoke bombs. Commentators say things in refined English accents like, “His opportunistic venture into the mouth of the stalwart defense yields a stroke of brilliance!” When national pride is at stake, like it is with this month’s World Cup, everything gets kicked up a notch. The game are more intense, the fans more rabid and the rewards greater. And for the next thirty days, we can feast upon the dozens of games at our fingertips. If there was ever a time to contract a rare, month-long, non-debilitating yet highly contagious tropical disease, it would be now. Excused absences and World Cup soccer are ideal bedfellows.
So, from one former non-soccer fan to you, the ardent American sports lover who’d rather watch adults play poker in a windowless room or think watching left turns on an oval track constitutes excitement (are we really rooting for tires?), I’m here to tell you what’s to love about the World Cup. Give it some thought and drop me a line if you want to watch a few games together. I’ll be at home, in front of my TV for the next month, flossing the kale out of my teeth.
Reason #1: The US is Good (No, really, I’m serious)
We probably won’t win it all and may not make it very far, but we’re no Faroe Islands, that’s for sure. It wasn’t long ago that the rest of the world told jokes about the US team like, “An armadillo, a three-legged goat and eleven Americans walk onto a soccer field.” I don’t know how the rest of the joke goes, but the punch line is, “And the goat uses the armadillo as a crutch to score a hat trick to beat the US!” Uncle Sam’s Army is highly ranked, is led by a handful of players who excel in the best leagues in the world, and has a legitimate chance to advance well past the first round. Then again, we were considered a contender four years ago and were embarrassed worse than that time your buddy “pantsed” you at the bus stop in eighth grade, the lesson being, “Don’t believe the hype and always wear a belt.” But seriously, we’re pretty good.
Reason #2: North Korea – Santa’s Little Helpers
Rooting against North Korea’s soccer team is like rooting against Santa’s elves, if Santa referred to himself as “Dear Leader,” wore crazy person sunglasses and was the worst boss ever! The team had to hire Chinese cheerleaders because no one has enough money for bus fare, much less for a plane ticket to South Africa. Kim Jong-Il, nuttier than an outhouse rat, refuses to televise the games, fearing a loss would shame the nation (as opposed to abject poverty and chronic malnutrition). Its government made this statement after a loss in the qualifying rounds: “The game has turned into a theater of plot-breeding and swindling.” Just imagine if they win! We’d hear things like, “The heroes of the Fatherland have quenched their thirst with the blood of the foe, mocking the spiteful conspiracy to rob our sons of their birthright.” To top it off, there’s a distant, remote, improbable chance that North Korea would face South Korea, two nations technically still at war. The mind races with the plot-breeding possibilities.
Reason #3: USA versus England
If you watch just one game, watch this one. The last time the US beat England was in 1950, and we haven’t come close since. England’s team is loaded with some of the best players in the world, including Wayne Rooney, a temperamental goal-scorer with a face like a pork chop and the quickness of a pit viper. England takes credit for inventing soccer, and it hasn’t won the World Cup since 1966. Many expect them to go all the way, but they have to tussle with us first. And don’t think we’ve forgotten what they did to the White House in the War of 1812.
Reason #4: What’s in a Name?
Every team has a nickname, with African teams sporting the best - “Super Eagles,” “Indomitable Lions,” “Bafana Bafana.” The worst? Australia’s “Socceroos” – sounds like a lukewarm yogurt and Vegemite nutrition shake. Slovenia’s a close second with its “Little Dragons.” Nothing instills fear like a miniature version of a pretend creature. Was the name “Bitty Unicorns” already claimed by the team from Narnia?
Reason #5: Saving the Drama for your Mama
Would you rather watch reruns of Ryan’s Hope than see a minute of soccer? If so, have I got the story lines for you! Consider Argentina’s coach, Diego Maradona, who many consider the greatest player of all time. After a brilliant career, a slide into drugs and a chance for redemption, Maradona’s vowed to run naked through the streets of Buenos Aires if his team wins. He’s like Roger Clemens, Britney Spears and Frank the Tank rolled into one person. Or how about England’s John Terry? He’s won countless league titles and awards and was expected to lead England to World Cup victory as its captain. Until he slept with a teammate’s wife. That player left the national team and Terry’s no longer the captain. Whoops. And then there’s France. With moments remaining in its do-or-die qualifying match against Ireland, down by a goal, France was desperate, needing a tie to advance to the World Cup. Enter its most famous player – Thierry Henry – who palmed the ball, not once but twice, and handed it (literally) to his teammate who scored the equalizer. No justice, no peace, writes the man of Irish heritage.
Reason #6: No 7th Inning Stretch Necessary
At some point, even the most jaded baseball fan has to admit that another 9-4 Red Sox victory over Kansas City on a muggy June night is just plain boring. The seventh inning stretch? Seriously? Do you really need to stop the action to remind baseball fans there’s a game going on? Soccer doesn’t need a Slim Goodbody exercise routine to a Wayne Newton tune to reenergize its fans – the game provides all the energy and excitement you could ever need, and then some.
You Gotta Watch These Games!
USA vs England – Saturday, June 12@ 2:30 PM on ABC (“Give me liberty or a two-goal victory!”)
Brazil vs North Korea – Tuesday, June 15 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN (Samba music and bikini-clad fans or paranoid recluses with god complexes? You choose!)
France vs Mexico – Thursday, June 17 @ 2:30 PM on ESPN2 (France is lucky to be here, and Mexico hasn’t forgiven Napoleon III for his misguided dreams of conquest)
Greece vs Argentina – Tuesday, June 22 @2:30 PM on ESPN (Ninety spirited minutes of soccer followed by symposium titled, “Learning from our Mistakes - Debt, Currency Devaluation and Civil Unrest”)
Portugal vs Brazil – Friday, June 25 @ 10 AM on ESPN (Colonist and Colonizer meet on the last day of pool play – only Portuguese spoken here)
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Free to be Wii
If I ever needed proof I’m no athlete, I think I’ve found it. My shoulders ache, my neck feels like it’s wrapped in cement, and there’s a tingling burn stretching from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. My ailments come not from half-nelsons, dodgeball or co-ed karate – they come from a video game. I’ve discovered Wii Tennis, and I don’t care how sore it makes me.
You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.
It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.
My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.
After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.
Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.
This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.
I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.
Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.
The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.
I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.
I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.
I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.
Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.
It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.
But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.
Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.
You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.
It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.
My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.
After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.
Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.
This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.
I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.
Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.
The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.
I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.
I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.
I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.
Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.
It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.
But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.
Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tolling for Dollars
Among the handful of constants in this life – death, taxes, overcooked asparagus – one such constant bears investigating. I speak of tolls, that unavoidable fact drivers in America face day after day after day. But what’s inside that booth? Who’s collecting our money, and why do we thank them for taking our cash? These and many more questions await me as I spend a day in Hooksett as a toll operator.
I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.
I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”
Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.
From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.
Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.
Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”
I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.
There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.
“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.
Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.
Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.
A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.
A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.
One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.
My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”
“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.
“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.
This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.
One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”
This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.
Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.
One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.
I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.
I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”
Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.
From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.
Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.
Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”
I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.
There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.
“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.
Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.
Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.
A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.
A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.
One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.
My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”
“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.
“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.
This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.
One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”
This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.
Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.
One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Hot Mess
I’ve always tried to ignore certain friendly notions, like, “Let’s go winter camping” and “You should wax your chest,” and until I tried it, I’d have added, “Hot yoga is something you must do!” to that set of suggestions. But after last week’s experience, I’m rethinking everything. Hot yoga, or “Bikram” yoga, is different than your standard yoga. It’s essentially volunteering to exercise inside a large terrarium, akin to spending ninety minutes doing slow-motion jumping jacks in Nana’s attic apartment in early August, except Nana’s wearing next to nothing and sweat’s flying off her like loose change off a Tilt-a-Whirl rider. I guess we’ve run out of fitness ideas because exercising like you’re doing yard work in the Gobi Desert seems crazy.
My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.
I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.
I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.
Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.
It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”
Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.
I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.
Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.
“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.
It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.
Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.
My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.
My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.
My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.
I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.
I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.
Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.
It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”
Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.
I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.
Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.
“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.
It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.
Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.
My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.
My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
I How I Learned to Survive the Apocalypse
The end is near. Okay, maybe not next week but it’s coming at some point. And we all have a theory how it’ll go down. Adherents to the world’s faiths - from Catholics to Druids, from Zoroastrians to Methodists, from Jews to Muslims - everyone has a theory, and none paints a rosy picture. If it isn’t fire, then it’s brimstone. If it isn’t forty days of rain then it’s a plague of frogs. And if it isn’t Elvis on Ed Sullivan, it’s definitely Snookie on the Jersey Shore. Between bangs and whimpers, it’s tough to know what to expect. But I’m less interested in how it’ll happen – I need to know how to survive once the dust settles.
If it’s true what Steve Martin once said, that “All of life’s questions are answered in the movies,” then it’s time to turn there for some answers.
I’ve spent the last week immersed in a series of post-apocalyptic movies, learning what to expect once the end arrives, and what to eat, wear and avoid if I make it through. And based on what I’ve seen, the future’s a bummer. Expect it to be filled with desperation, danger and death as well as violence, hunger and Kevin Costner, in either a mailman outfit or with gills behind his ears.
The catalyst for this assignment was last week’s premier of the latest post-apocalypse movie – The Book of Eli. In it, Denzel Washington stares down the forces of evil and illiteracy as he does his part to save civilization.
So as you prep for surviving the end of the world and get ready to embrace whatever the future may hold, give the following some thought. And just remember no matter how bad the future may be, it’ll be lots better than Waterworld.
Revenge of the Bookworms
Film: The Book of Eli (2010)
The Gist: It’s been 30 years since nuclear war destroyed most of civilization; in the war’s aftermath, all books were burned, blamed as the source of discord; no Bibles remain except the one in Eli’s backpack, and he’s walking to the West Coast with it, on instruction from a voice from above. Eli runs into trouble along the way. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Eli, aka, “The Walker,” (Denzel Washington) interrupts his daily Bible reading to dish out doses of righteous justice against those who block his way; handy with a machete, a scatter gun and his fists.
Who to Avoid: Carnegie, a small-town boss with big dreams; he’s one of the few who can read, wants that Bible and will do whatever it takes to get it; sounds like Regis Philbin when agitated.
What We’ll Eat: Cat meat and roasted vulture
What We’ll Wear: Sunglasses and comfortable shoes
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Say goodbye to library late fees and summer reading assignments.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Gun-toting elderly cannibals can be quite hospitable.
Quote to Memorize: “You will be held to account for the things you’ve done.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tips: Bring plenty of cat oil lip balm, sunscreen and a bicycle, because it’s a long way to San Francisco Bay on foot.
Last Gas for a Thousand Miles
Film: The Road Warrior (1981)
The Gist: The world runs out of oil, leading to nuclear war. Bands of roving thugs rule the roads, looking for gasoline. One community with its own refinery is besieged by the bad guys and plans an escape to “paradise” on the coast; all they need is a big truck and a savvy driver with nothing to live for. Max, the Road Warrior, arrives to lend a hand. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Max (Mel Gibson), a former cop, drives a V8 Interceptor, carries an unloaded shotgun, loves his dog and doesn’t want any trouble unless it comes looking for him; when trouble does arrive, Max handles it with stoic aplomb and defensive driving.
Who to Avoid: The Lord Humungous, aka, “The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla,” a muscled Austrian goon who wears an iron mask and studded leather suspenders; gives lengthy speeches over a makeshift sound system while his minions pop wheelies, fornicate, pillage and destroy. Any reference to current governors of western states is purely coincidental.
What We’ll Eat: Canned dog food and snake meat
What We’ll Wear: Street hockey equipment, leather chaps and knitted scarves
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Zero peer pressure to brush our teeth
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Children will have limited verbal skills, hair like the bassist from Motley Crue and can throw boomerangs with amazing accuracy.
Quote to Memorize: “You want to get out of here, you talk to me.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Tuck your hybrid car away until the nuclear fallout subsides; you’ll be the envy of all marauding gangs of murderers until they catch up to you and kill you.
Water, Water Everywhere . . .
Film: Waterworld (1995)
The Gist: Global warming melts the polar ice caps, covering civilization in water. Hundreds of years later, a hearty band of civilized folk is attacked by the Smokers, a rampaging pack of morons who seek the secret map tattooed on a girl’s back that leads to dry land. A mysterious loner, the “Mariner,” wants to be left alone but is forced to save the child and her guardian from certain death. Chaos, bad dialogue and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: The Mariner (Kevin Costner) sails the oceans alone on a super-cool catamaran, minding his own business, until he agrees to help save the girl and her map. He can hold his breath underwater for hours on account of his gilled ears and webbed feet.
Who to Avoid: The Smokers, led by Dennis Hopper in one of the worst displays of over-acting ever captured on film. They row across the ocean in the Exxon Valdez, smoke cigarettes and look for people to kill while firing guns from their jet skis.
What We’ll Eat: Barbequed sea beast blubber, Spam and Jack Daniels
What We’ll Wear: Garbage-accented smocks and form-fitting swim trousers
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Recycling urine into drinking water
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Jet skis are finally cool.
Quote to Memorize: “I’ve sailed farther than most have dreamed.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: First learn how to swim; the gills and webbed feet come later.
Not Without That Baby!
Film: Children of Men (2008)
The Gist: It’s 2027, and not a single child’s been born for almost two decades. Between pandemics, terrorists, concentration camps and the slow but unavoidable demise of the human race, the near future is a miserable place. Theo, the protagonist, gets dragged into the middle of a plan to help the only pregnant woman in the world deliver her baby while avoiding both opportunistic and murderous home-grown terrorists and the anti-immigrant British police state. Chaos, mayhem and anxiety ensue.
The Hero: Theo (Clive Owen) works in the Ministry of Energy, living a dead-end existence, avoiding terrorist bombs and rock-throwing gangs of kids (and that’s just in the first five minutes) until he agrees to help a pregnant girl and her unborn baby escape to safety. His plan to do it for the money falls apart, and Theo finds himself in a world of trouble, armed only with flip flops and a trench coat.
Who to Avoid: You can’t trust anyone in the near future, except for Michael Caine and his catatonic wife. The government offers out at-home suicide kits (“Quietus - You’ll know when the moment is right”) while terrorists fight pitch battles in the streets. But you can still listen to rock and roll and drink wine, so it isn’t all bad.
What We’ll Eat: No one has any time to eat – too busy escaping, fighting or hiding.
What We’ll Wear: Same as today except a lot more wrinkled.
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: With no kids around, we can use foul language all the time.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: The “Pull my finger” trick still gets a laugh.
Quote to Memorize: “The last one to die, please turn out the lights.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Maintain friendship with eccentric older pal who helps you escape once the double-crossing terrorists come for you – and they will come for you.
It’s Mail Time!
Film: The Postman (1997)
The Gist: It’s 2013, about 20 years since nuclear war ravaged America. A loner with a working knowledge of Shakespeare escapes the clutches of a ruthless army and is saved by the skeleton of a postal carrier and his mail truck. The loner becomes the Postman, redeeming American society from the brink of collapse through the regular delivery of the US Mail until the menacing army arrives to exact rough justice. Chaos, mayhem and tearful goodbyes ensue.
The Hero: The Postman (Kevin Costner) has no intention of helping anyone but himself as he tries to survive in the wilderness. But he becomes the center of a popular movement to throw off the yoke of tyranny. Somehow he gets all the credit when his second-in-command does all the work.
Who to Avoid: The Holnist Army with its Law of Eight, led by General Bethlehem, a former copy machine salesman turned megalomaniac, who leads his horse-riding soldiers through the northwest, taking conscripts, housewares and women while hunting down the Postman for stirring up trouble and making fun of his artistic ability.
What We’ll Eat: Vegetables, horse meat and mule stew
What We’ll Wear: What can only be described as “Distressed Comfort Chic”
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Line dancing, bodyfathers and Tom Petty
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Despite the lack of shampoo and conditioner, everyone will have great hair.
Quote to Memorize: “How much mail can a dead postman deliver?” (asked in a rhetorical manner)
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Decline any civil service job offer unless it comes with a life insurance policy and a really fast horse.
If it’s true what Steve Martin once said, that “All of life’s questions are answered in the movies,” then it’s time to turn there for some answers.
I’ve spent the last week immersed in a series of post-apocalyptic movies, learning what to expect once the end arrives, and what to eat, wear and avoid if I make it through. And based on what I’ve seen, the future’s a bummer. Expect it to be filled with desperation, danger and death as well as violence, hunger and Kevin Costner, in either a mailman outfit or with gills behind his ears.
The catalyst for this assignment was last week’s premier of the latest post-apocalypse movie – The Book of Eli. In it, Denzel Washington stares down the forces of evil and illiteracy as he does his part to save civilization.
So as you prep for surviving the end of the world and get ready to embrace whatever the future may hold, give the following some thought. And just remember no matter how bad the future may be, it’ll be lots better than Waterworld.
Revenge of the Bookworms
Film: The Book of Eli (2010)
The Gist: It’s been 30 years since nuclear war destroyed most of civilization; in the war’s aftermath, all books were burned, blamed as the source of discord; no Bibles remain except the one in Eli’s backpack, and he’s walking to the West Coast with it, on instruction from a voice from above. Eli runs into trouble along the way. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Eli, aka, “The Walker,” (Denzel Washington) interrupts his daily Bible reading to dish out doses of righteous justice against those who block his way; handy with a machete, a scatter gun and his fists.
Who to Avoid: Carnegie, a small-town boss with big dreams; he’s one of the few who can read, wants that Bible and will do whatever it takes to get it; sounds like Regis Philbin when agitated.
What We’ll Eat: Cat meat and roasted vulture
What We’ll Wear: Sunglasses and comfortable shoes
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Say goodbye to library late fees and summer reading assignments.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Gun-toting elderly cannibals can be quite hospitable.
Quote to Memorize: “You will be held to account for the things you’ve done.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tips: Bring plenty of cat oil lip balm, sunscreen and a bicycle, because it’s a long way to San Francisco Bay on foot.
Last Gas for a Thousand Miles
Film: The Road Warrior (1981)
The Gist: The world runs out of oil, leading to nuclear war. Bands of roving thugs rule the roads, looking for gasoline. One community with its own refinery is besieged by the bad guys and plans an escape to “paradise” on the coast; all they need is a big truck and a savvy driver with nothing to live for. Max, the Road Warrior, arrives to lend a hand. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Max (Mel Gibson), a former cop, drives a V8 Interceptor, carries an unloaded shotgun, loves his dog and doesn’t want any trouble unless it comes looking for him; when trouble does arrive, Max handles it with stoic aplomb and defensive driving.
Who to Avoid: The Lord Humungous, aka, “The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla,” a muscled Austrian goon who wears an iron mask and studded leather suspenders; gives lengthy speeches over a makeshift sound system while his minions pop wheelies, fornicate, pillage and destroy. Any reference to current governors of western states is purely coincidental.
What We’ll Eat: Canned dog food and snake meat
What We’ll Wear: Street hockey equipment, leather chaps and knitted scarves
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Zero peer pressure to brush our teeth
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Children will have limited verbal skills, hair like the bassist from Motley Crue and can throw boomerangs with amazing accuracy.
Quote to Memorize: “You want to get out of here, you talk to me.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Tuck your hybrid car away until the nuclear fallout subsides; you’ll be the envy of all marauding gangs of murderers until they catch up to you and kill you.
Water, Water Everywhere . . .
Film: Waterworld (1995)
The Gist: Global warming melts the polar ice caps, covering civilization in water. Hundreds of years later, a hearty band of civilized folk is attacked by the Smokers, a rampaging pack of morons who seek the secret map tattooed on a girl’s back that leads to dry land. A mysterious loner, the “Mariner,” wants to be left alone but is forced to save the child and her guardian from certain death. Chaos, bad dialogue and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: The Mariner (Kevin Costner) sails the oceans alone on a super-cool catamaran, minding his own business, until he agrees to help save the girl and her map. He can hold his breath underwater for hours on account of his gilled ears and webbed feet.
Who to Avoid: The Smokers, led by Dennis Hopper in one of the worst displays of over-acting ever captured on film. They row across the ocean in the Exxon Valdez, smoke cigarettes and look for people to kill while firing guns from their jet skis.
What We’ll Eat: Barbequed sea beast blubber, Spam and Jack Daniels
What We’ll Wear: Garbage-accented smocks and form-fitting swim trousers
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Recycling urine into drinking water
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Jet skis are finally cool.
Quote to Memorize: “I’ve sailed farther than most have dreamed.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: First learn how to swim; the gills and webbed feet come later.
Not Without That Baby!
Film: Children of Men (2008)
The Gist: It’s 2027, and not a single child’s been born for almost two decades. Between pandemics, terrorists, concentration camps and the slow but unavoidable demise of the human race, the near future is a miserable place. Theo, the protagonist, gets dragged into the middle of a plan to help the only pregnant woman in the world deliver her baby while avoiding both opportunistic and murderous home-grown terrorists and the anti-immigrant British police state. Chaos, mayhem and anxiety ensue.
The Hero: Theo (Clive Owen) works in the Ministry of Energy, living a dead-end existence, avoiding terrorist bombs and rock-throwing gangs of kids (and that’s just in the first five minutes) until he agrees to help a pregnant girl and her unborn baby escape to safety. His plan to do it for the money falls apart, and Theo finds himself in a world of trouble, armed only with flip flops and a trench coat.
Who to Avoid: You can’t trust anyone in the near future, except for Michael Caine and his catatonic wife. The government offers out at-home suicide kits (“Quietus - You’ll know when the moment is right”) while terrorists fight pitch battles in the streets. But you can still listen to rock and roll and drink wine, so it isn’t all bad.
What We’ll Eat: No one has any time to eat – too busy escaping, fighting or hiding.
What We’ll Wear: Same as today except a lot more wrinkled.
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: With no kids around, we can use foul language all the time.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: The “Pull my finger” trick still gets a laugh.
Quote to Memorize: “The last one to die, please turn out the lights.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Maintain friendship with eccentric older pal who helps you escape once the double-crossing terrorists come for you – and they will come for you.
It’s Mail Time!
Film: The Postman (1997)
The Gist: It’s 2013, about 20 years since nuclear war ravaged America. A loner with a working knowledge of Shakespeare escapes the clutches of a ruthless army and is saved by the skeleton of a postal carrier and his mail truck. The loner becomes the Postman, redeeming American society from the brink of collapse through the regular delivery of the US Mail until the menacing army arrives to exact rough justice. Chaos, mayhem and tearful goodbyes ensue.
The Hero: The Postman (Kevin Costner) has no intention of helping anyone but himself as he tries to survive in the wilderness. But he becomes the center of a popular movement to throw off the yoke of tyranny. Somehow he gets all the credit when his second-in-command does all the work.
Who to Avoid: The Holnist Army with its Law of Eight, led by General Bethlehem, a former copy machine salesman turned megalomaniac, who leads his horse-riding soldiers through the northwest, taking conscripts, housewares and women while hunting down the Postman for stirring up trouble and making fun of his artistic ability.
What We’ll Eat: Vegetables, horse meat and mule stew
What We’ll Wear: What can only be described as “Distressed Comfort Chic”
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Line dancing, bodyfathers and Tom Petty
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Despite the lack of shampoo and conditioner, everyone will have great hair.
Quote to Memorize: “How much mail can a dead postman deliver?” (asked in a rhetorical manner)
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Decline any civil service job offer unless it comes with a life insurance policy and a really fast horse.
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