September

There is a stranger conspiring against me. He waits until nightfall to enact his various plots, schemes, and dastardly deeds. He hides like a ghoul -eagerly awaiting my descent into the land of nod. He is a fiend, he is my enemy, and he is faceless.

I live in the midst of two large schools of learning. A middle school and a high one. During daylight hours there's lots of commotion and activity but as the sun sets the neighborhood grows stark, silent.

The middle school ball field and the high school's soccer turf mirror one another across my street. The middle school field is unkempt and mostly dirt with a patch here or there of dead grass. By contrast the high school land is eternally green. Made of synthetic fibers. A lie. There are shadows of shadows that threaten the street whenever the sun sets. The sodium-vapor street lights that line N. Van Ness are of little help.

So far, he has thwarted me time and again. I am left unawares as to how he knows my rhythms.

And when I catch him, he will pay.

Mateys

"Hey, my brother's gonna see if his skiff will float, today, and he's going to fail miserably. You want to go watch?" Marc said the word skiff without pretense, as if it were lingo he used every day. That's because it was.

****

Listening to him talk, you'd never guess he was a D student. C minus at best. He'd rattle off words like "Bilge," "Transom," and "Lanyard" unselfconsciously when we were still more excited about going to the Country Store at "Bearskin Neck" than checking out girls.

My young life can easily be split into several categories: the dull moments, the entertaining, and those spent causing trouble. The latter two were, quite often, one and the same and Marc was involved in every one of 'em. His parents owned a nifty little summer house in Rockport, Massachusetts. Home of my first broken heart. Wasn't a girl that did the deed, unless you consider the township of Rockport a lady. I surely do. I loved visiting with the Sawyers, whenever I got the opportunity, at their seasonal home. Some of my fondest memories involve that little city by the sea. Especially during the summer.

My mother had been friends with Marc's mom, Eleanor, long before I was born and Marc and I became best friends in the bargain. Neither one of us aware of when or how it happened. We were born a week apart and of the same temperament; both of us spaceshots. We knew it because there was no end to the teasing we'd endure. He got it a lot worse than I because he didn't have two cool, athletic older brothers. Marc had one, uncool, anti-athletic older brother who was less popular than Marc. At least Marc had brains and was exceptionally funny in spite of the derision and shit people threw at him.

The nickname "Looney" Sawyer slammed into Marc like the Engine of a locomotive in August of 1986, coinciding with the release of "Stand By Me." The parallels between Marc Sawyer and Teddy Duchamp, Corey Feldman's character, were too close for him to sidestep. He carried that shitty nickname around as if it was embroidered on every tee he owned. People can be pretty cruel everywhere, but in Charlestown -a place where people take pride in being called "Townies"- some kids seemed to be blessed with the gift of viciousness.

****

"Bah-ul-ship!" I heard him saying as I approached.

"Say it again! Battle Ship!" demanded a kid who was six years older than Marc.

"No!"

"Come-on just say it, Looney, Say it! And I'll leave you alone."

"Bah-ul-ship!"

"Haha, you're a fucking spaceshot! OH, look, it's spaceshot number two!"

To which Marc replied, "Go Fuck yourself!"

Marc shot the older kid two bobbing, trailer-park, birds - his middle fingers at full mast while the rest bent at the middle knuckle, pumping his arms up and down as the asshole in question strolled away, in a fit of laughter.

The Double trailer-trash finger was Marc's greatest weapon; His heavy guns against the cruelty. Pick a fight with him, call him "adopted" (which he was) or "Looney", talk shit about his old man's Funeral Parlor and he'd give you the double guns and throw you a "Go Fuck Yourself!" He was my hero in that way. Whatever problems people confronted him with, he always stood up for himself. I wish I stuck up for him more.

His older brother Chris used to get it so much worse than Marc ever did. Maybe because he was a much bigger kid and about five times more vocal, effectively courting disrespect. Chris was a year older and a grade above us.

I can remember one time while we were playing red rover in the schoolyard, Chris's name was called.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, calling Chris Sawyer right over."

He ran full steam, actually chugging, as he barreled across the schoolyard. I guess he didn't see the two kids he was aiming for "double-clutch" (one putting their arm under the other's armpit) on him. When he reached the other line and collided with their arms he smashed to the ground and, somehow, slammed into the wrought iron fence behind the kids. He let loose an ungodly bellow that I can still hear tonight. It was as close to an unintentional "AWOOGA!" that I've ever heard. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

"AWOOO! AWOOOO! AWOOOO! AaaaWOOOOooo!"

Chris, sounding the alarm of a broken arm. It was the only one I can remember, as a kid, happening in the winter months*. Marc and Chris got along well enough but every once in a while they'd get into a public fight that embarrassed the hell out of me, (yet was pretty hilarious to witness). They swore vigorously in public and were unafraid of authority figures: teachers, priests, the bus driver. They even once got me barred from the town barbershop, telling one of the most popular adults in town to Go Fuck Himself. (Which was a sentiment I didn't share.)

For two weeks out of the summer I got to hang out with these two maniacs while they were on vacation. Marc and I would ride bikes to the beach, hunt for crabs, buy penny candy, and get ourselves into all kinds of mischief. I remember one time a little Circus pulled into town with a big top and everything. Spending time in Rockport was like living, for a moment, in a Norman Rockwell Painting. It was Amazing.

One day, Marc informed me that his brother had bought an ancient Boston Whaler; a rusty old flat-bottomed boat, purchased with his savings. Marc and Chris were the only kids I knew of that got an allowance. Neither of them had ever helped their parents out with much. I think the allowance came from staying out of their parent's hair and not acting up during wakes. (Dust-ups during wake hours were far more common than you'd think.)

****

"It's got an outboard engine on it but it's still just a piece of shit. He paid Two Hundred Dollars for it. I told him it was a bad purchase... The thing is a Garbage Scow! He's been trying to make it sea-worthy for the past three weeks. She'll never make it out of the Harbor." said Marc.

Marc's diction got better -the pronunciation of his R's more articulate- when he moved to Rockport for the summer. I was smiling, always a fan of Marc's eloquence.

"So, you want to go down to the Yacht club and watch him try to put the piece-a-shit in the water?"

Some phrases, no matter how careful your diction, always come out Boston.

"Let's go," I said, already walking towards my GT Performer.

"Fuck yeah!"

The Yacht Club, which hunkered on one side of the wharf, had a bunch of boats up on racks and still more floating around the harbor. We could see Chris's "piece of shit" hanging above the pier on a crane as we approached. A small crowd had already gathered full of yacht club folks that were there to help. Standing close by were Chris's friends, general on-lookers, and various other yachtsmen. We were still walking towards the crane when Marc started yelling.

"THERE'S NO WAY THAT THING'LL FLOAT."

All hands turned.

"SHUT THA FUCK UP MARC!" Chris looked sideways over his shoulder.

A high-pitched cackle came from Marc as I tried to inchworm some distance between the two of us. Everyone returned their gaze to the boat as the gang swung the crane's arm over the side of the pier. Marc started a countdown.

"20 seconds to disaster! T-minus 20...19...18"

"MARC!"

"...17..."

They lowered the boat, stopping for a few moments so that Chris and a few other people could get into position on a dock below. Marc chattered nonstop, while they worked.

Once Chris was ready, the boat was lowered the last few feet into the water and he gingerly stepped aboard his vessel. It didn't take long to see that there was more than one hole in the hull. The wind was sucked out of our collective chests.

Marc flew into hysterics. His cackles soared to impossible Higher tones. Chris looked up at him, furious, the steady rise of water at his feet powerless against the flames in his eyes.

Inexplicably, Marc's brother -after a cursory glance at the outboard motor- sloshed his way to the back of the boat and tried to turn the engine over. Marc was almost crying with laughter. He recognized what was about to happen and he said, "wait, wait, wait..." He had one hand over his stomach; and the other gesturing "halt." It was as if he was pleading with his brother to draw the entertainment out to greater lengths. Asking his brother permission to dwell in this moment of hilarity, for all time.

The engine didn't turn.

Chris yanked on the engine's cord several more times, to no avail. He stopped, staring at the outboard, muttering to himself. With the water cresting the tops of his Nikes he started to bail the boat with a small pail, refusing to give in. Marc yelled, "ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! AWWOOOOOOGA! ALL HANDS ON DECK! ABANDON SHIP!"

Chris heatedly scrambled up onto the dock, towards the ladder leading to the pier, pushing people out of his way as he went, ready to kill his brother. All the while, Marc screamed his high pitched laugh: "Aaaaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!"

Marc saw the red in his brothers eyes and yelled, "RUN!" while his brother angrily started up the ladder. We took off towards our bikes.

Over his shoulder, Marc yelled, "Got a great deal on that submarine!"

****

A couple of years later, Marc and I got into a fight because I had called him a "Headbanger" when we were still newly teenagers. He had gotten into Metallica and bands of that nature. He'd tape "Headbanger's Ball" and lend them to me. I guess that's what clued me in.

I don't understand why he took exception to the moniker. Truth be told, he was the coolest kid I knew. Maybe it was because we lived in a town that allowed zero self expression. Maybe it was because I said it in a less joking way than I intended. Either way, we didn't talk to much after that. And I missed borrowing the tapes.

****

When we started High School I would hear things about Marc. How he had become a "Warlock" or hung out in "The Pit" in Harvard Square, a place where the freaky kids were always welcome; a safe haven for the odd, spookey, and tortured souls. I also heard once that he had, supposedly, been living in a T Station Tunnel. In one of the walls. My response to that was "if that's true that's crazy." But I wanted to know more.

During trips home from High School, on the 93 bus, the kids of Charlestown were unmerciful. They produced fresh insults at a breakneck pace. Marc received no reprieve (especially when he wore his cloak.)

I regret not being cooler to the guy. I wish I had spoken up more and laughed less. Even if it meant my undoing.

****

A couple of nights after the incident with the boat, Marc and I were out on the roof stargazing, wondering whether we'd die if we fell off. All the while we were crunching our way through a family sized bag of Lays potato chips. We climbed back through his bedroom window and discovered that Chris had fallen asleep in Marc's bed. We tried to wake his brother up by imitating Darth Vader's voice by shouting into an antique box fan.

"LUKE! Wake up, LUKE!" I said in my best James Earl Jones, my face smooshed against the fan.

Marc followed with, "WAKE UP! MOTHERFUCKER!"

He drew the sentence out like he was the hero in a slow motion action sequence. He then reached his dirty fingers into the bag, pulled out a chip, and crunched it next to the fan as we both laughed. He found an especially large chip and -just before he ate it- looked at me and paused, grinning ear to ear, then stuffed it into the back of the fan.

"Ftttttppppp!" The chopped-up chip, now dozens of tiny chips, flew out of the fan and onto his corpselike brother, still fast asleep.

We were on the verge of uncontrollable giggles but recovered quickly, recognizing the business at hand.

We popped another chip into the fan. Others followed suit: "ffffttttppp! fffftttttppppp!" One after the other, potato chips met their death, small pieces of their bodies crashing all over Marc's brother and his bed.

As is often the case with adolescent boys, we got a little out of hand. The one funny- sounding chip that quickly turned into several presently morphed into the whole bag.

Marc upended the entire crinkly goddam bag, dumping every last chip into the fan with relish. He smirked like the Grinch.

The fan, now on high, sounded like a tiny little wood chipper. In a moment his brother and bed were covered in an oily yellow blanket. We lost our hold on sanity and fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.

As we were catching our breath Marc said, "Let's go get the Doritos."

****

When his brother finally did wake up, he instantly noticed something was amiss. "Muthrrrrfuggging assholes..." he muttered in his sleep, brushing salty dust off his shirt as he stumbled back to his own bed.

Behind him, on the bed, he left behind the most perfect silhoutte.


-Chris



*A Lie. Michael Christopher broke both an arm AND a leg on a ski-trip to Wildcat Mountain over Christmas break one year. Everyone on the bus had to wait for him while his cast was set. He entered the bus on crutches, to cheers of "Mogul Mike." I had to smile. The last time I had seen him was at lunch.

"Walshy come down the Double Black Diamond with us!"

I'm all for danger but I don't have a death wish.

"Yeah, let me finish this hot chocolate and I'll meet you guys at the top of the hill."

Moment to Moment

I'm a big fan of gadgets. Once a friend of mine was criticizing a guy who was over excited about their iphone and I had to stop her. "I LOVE iphones..." I kind-of blurted. She was really tearing into him too. I know that technology scares a lot of people. The truth is it scares me too but iphones are Awesome. (Note the capitalization.) There are some things that shouldn't be meddled with though. Like vacuum cleaners... My mother got one a few years ago. She called it Robby. "Robby the Rowbit" is how she said it. I found it a little unsettling. I went on-line and googled robots. Oh boy. There are dancing robots and there are robots that can talk... there are also robots fighting part of our war right now. There are also robots that make it harder for me to catch my train. I can't tell you how many times I was running for a train when I was home and I had to stop, put my money into one rowbit just so it'll gimme a card to slide into another rowbit. A time-wasting tag team.


"The Kings of Leon" kick a lot of ass. I never thought I'd say or type the second half of that last phrase but... now I've gone and done it. Never before have I really listened to any album and thought, "I feel like, somehow, they're talking about my life." These guys provoke that reaction. I feel silly for the thought because I'm not 17. (I've never felt 17. Not even when I was 17.) Eternally 12 but never 17. Maybe it's because they're a band that's also a family and my job is working with my brother. If you can call it work. It's more of a calling and we're pretty lazy. Little or no work. Hopefully, this is the year all of that changes. Perhaps it's just because they rock!

There's a place, up North, called The Lakes Region. Winnipesaukee to be exact. I'm pretty sure a piece of my heart is buried there. There are always things that'll flash through my mind, out of nowhere, that mean very little to me. Mostly it's stuff from movies, or something somebody said, or a short lyric from a song... and very rarely does a place pop into my head. However there is one, randomly, that seems to jump out of nowhere. The Lakes Region in New Hampshire. Places with names like Meredith, Laconia, Winnisquam, Wolfeboro, Moltonborough, and Gilford illicit a pang deep in my soul. I feel like I'm always heading back there. On a frozen night when it'll take forever for the heat to warm up the summer house or on a hot day with all of the car windows rolled down. In both instances I'm driving, smiling, and happy but the very thought of it fills me with longing. For good times gone and memories forgotten. Besides, the Kellerhaus probably wouldn't be open when I got there anyways.

Sometimes I wish I could appreciate "the moment" more. There was one moment I completely appreciated recently. My brother and I were hanging out at an infinitely cool place called The Farmer's Market in Los Angeles. It's right next to an outdoor mall that masquerades as cool but doesn't come close, called "The Grove." Every time I go to The Farmer's Market I wonder why I don't go there more. It's got all kinds of great stuff. Especially character. The other night we were planning on seeing "Defiance" at the movie theater next door, at "The Grove", had a a couple hours to kill, and Davey wanted a treat. So, we went to peruse the stores in The Market while there we ran across a full on Country ho-down. I also spotted a creperie which always seems to go unnoticed and I don't know if I'll let that happen any more... I had to order a waffle with strawberries on it. I'm pretty sure it's my new favorite food. It was amazing. So much so that while I was eating I said, loud enough for everyone to hear "this is the best decision I've made in a while!"

There are some moments, though, that you wish you weren't in. I don't know if this qualifies but my brother and I were riding our bikes home from a show the other night on Sunset Blvd. when we were stopped at a red light, not several blocks from our house. While stopped at the light a man was crossing the street with a bandage on his head. He was dressed like a normal person. (The inverse of this would be a maniac, a crazy, or a street person.) As he got closer and eventually passed right by us we could see that he was openly bleeding while he looked at us furtively. Moving steadily and at a good clip for someone with a major head injury. Now, at this point, you may ask, "but didn't you try to help him?" And my answer to you good sir/ good mam is that he was a serious looking individual and he didn't ask for any... We watched him move past and then my brother thought aloud, "How do we know he's not filming a movie down the street? This is Hollywood."

Good Day, Good Year good people,
-Chris

A Short Winter Journey

The other night, as I made my way to the local liquor store, I found myself walking solo through the streets of the town I grew up in. Strolling through the tail end of a snowstorm, the streets near desolate. I bundled up before I left my house and just as I stepped out the door I put the buds of an iPod in my ears. I guess I always feel the need to supply a soundtrack whenever I step into the outside world. But when I got outside the wind was whipping the snow up and down the streets and through my wool jacket, as if it were a sieve, I could hear the quiet susurration of the snow and I was caught. Wrapped up in the cold snowy blanket of my town.

The streets were plowed but not as well as they should have been. It's a good thing I brought home boots. It's also a good thing that it was only one week from Christmas. I was covered in new, warm gear. (Even though I spend eleven of my months in Los Angeles. Don't think I don't appreciate it.) As I made my way up the hill next to my house I thought I'll turn the iPod on later. The world was so great, perfect in fact. Later, while recounting my journey to a friend, I thought about why I love the snow. Mainly it muffles the everyday sounds I hear. The mechanical, the urban, the modern noise sound pollution.

So many nights I'd be in bed at 51 Sullivan Street, wide awake and dreaming. Wondering if someday I'd end up in another bed -in a completely different place- an alternate reality in some other universe and I'd sit and listen through my walls and windows. Opening my ears* to the night sky. Almost always the first thing I'd hear would be 93. The major highway that's about a mile from where we live, heading to points North and South. I'd lay in bed and think about the truckers on the long haul or the motorcycle guy racing through traffic. Maybe I'd hear the docks and the banging of heavy equipment. The beep, beep of something backing up near the waterfront. Farther away, closer to my imagination, people yelling about important cargo. Maybe a plane inching across the Heavens, far above my bed.

On New Years Eve as I walked up the street, on a solo quest for spirits**, I made way through a quiet night with the whipping wind as my guide. The crunching of snow my only conversation... I never did turn on my iPod.

Love,
Chris




(*My heart breaks every time I look at my eyeglass prescription and see those negative sixes but if blind people's other senses are enhanced, then my negative six has to count for something right?)

(**I certainly did get really wrecked that night, though. Had a great time doing so. Just in case you're wondering.)

The Great Charlestown Haircut Drought

I come from a place called Charlestown. By all counts an extremely special place. I tend to scribble a lot of nostalgia on these here pages and for good reason. The town of my youth and upbringing is extraordinary and I can't imagine having grown up anywhere else. Charlestown was and will always be a place full of amazing history. It's one square mile full of magic and character. Kind of like The Shire. (We even have an obelisk.)

As a child growing up in C-town, the pillar of our community was Jack the Barber. (You'll receive no argument from anyone who knew him.) Jack's Barbershop, on the corner of Elm and Bunker Hill streets, was the hub of my childhood Universe. Presently, the town Barber is an able hairsmythe (and good friend) Pat Owens at the Bunker hill Barbershop but -way back when- most everyone got their hair cut by Jack. Jack was the best.

I got my very first hair cut at Jacks place and I'm sure a lot of other kids did too. He was the kind of guy that would have you run across the street to the liquor store for a six pack, then spray you with his water bottle and tell you dirty jokes upon you r return. He was responsible for more nicknames than anyone else in our town. Titmouse, Pickle, Sausage, Buckethead, his brother Pailhead... All classics. Kids used to go to Jack's Shop and hang out even when they didn't need a haircut. Sometimes, Jack would kick people out for conflicts or slights. This happened to me once and it was devastating for more than one reason.

I used to hang out with a ridiculous crew. The Sawyers: Marc* and Chris. Marc and I were almost inseparable, our birthdays were a week apart, and we were best friends. Marc was an extremely intelligent kid who never applied himself at school but had a great depth of knowledge on any subject. He'd often get teased by older kids but, then again, so did I. We were both dismissed as "space shots" which is why we were close. Together, we were a couple of real misfits. Add Marc's brother Chris into the mix, who was two years older than us, and what you had was a real fine mess.

Marc and Chris would get into fights, with each other, everywhere we went and never cared about causing scenes. On a street out in the open, the boys and girls club, a doctors office, McDonalds, Papa Gino's, Pharmacity:

"OH Yeah? I'm telling Dad!"
"FUCK YOU! Tell Dad, See if I give a flying fuck!"

Or. Randomly. To no one in particular:
"Ya Mother got a dick on her elbow... AND SHE FUCKS HERSELF LIKE THIS!" (Flapping one arm like a crazy human bird.)

Shit like that. The Sawyer's Dad, incidentally, is a saint named Jacky**. An all around awesome guy, with a great sense of humor, who happens to be a funeral home director. A trip to the movies ofttimes would involve a trip downstairs to the mortuary to ask Jacky for money. He'd have to take a break from embalming a body to throw Marc a couple of dollars. Sleepovers always made me a little jittery.

This one time I went to get my ears lowered, I was probably around 10, and the Sawyers wanted to join me. I got along great with Jack the Barber but I had no idea he had a blood feud with the Sawyers. When I arrived, Jack said the Sawyers weren't allowed into his Shop.

"Walshy, What're ya doing hangin out with a couple of no-good-niks like them?"

Before I knew it they were all screaming at each other. With Jack saying, "Get outta here you little bastards!" Swiping at them with his broom.

And the Sawyers yelling, "Go Fuck Yourself, JACK! "FUCK YOU!" throwing trailer trash middle fingers.

"I oughta kick your ass, you little Motherfuckers! Walshy, you get outta here too for bringing those bastards into my place!"

I was mortified. I couldn't believe it. I loved Jack but they were my friends. We were all standing outside of Jack's shop and he shut both the metal gate and door in our faces and pulled all his shades down. Meanwhile, the Sawyers were still yelling, "FUCK YOU JACK THE BARBER!" in the middle of Bunker Hill Street for longer than necessary. After a moment, I asked them what I was gonna do about my haircut.

The Sawyers told me, "Don't worry about that! We'll take you somewhere where you can get a good haircut, don't you worry."

And they took me to Umberto's. Umberto was a greasy old Italian guy who barely spoke English. He'd say things like "I make you look like good American boy..." and when he was done cutting your hair he'd say "Booshey, Booshey, Booshey." He was a little creepy.

That day he gave me the second most tragic haircut I've ever received. The Sawyers insisted it looked great but my mom thought otherwise. She brought me back to Jack and to his credit, he fixed it for free.

Then, we were hit with one of the most significant disasters in Charlestown History, neck and neck with Lori-Ann's donut shop closing down, slightly worse than the Colonial troops losing The Battle of Bunker Hill.

Jack The Barber retired on September 13th, 1992, the year I was a freshman in High School, and his retirement was nothing less than catastrophic for the male hairstyles of Charlestown. When he finally called it quits, people didn't know what to do with themselves. It wouldn't be for another three years and three months that we'd have a competent Barber to call our own again. Pat Owens opened his shop, not a block away from Jack's old place, with Jack's blessing and Jack's license on December 15th, 1995. In those three years the male population of Charlestown was sent scrambling for solutions to what would become the worst haircut drought since the town was settled in 1629.

There are horror stories that people tell: about where they went to get their haircuts and the terrible experiences they had. My best friends, brothers, even my dad tells bad haircut stories from that time. It wasn't uncommon to hear,

"I went to Nick, Tony's nephew, in the Post Office building and he eviscerated my head..."

Things were getting so bad, people were consulting their Thesaurus for new adjectives to describe the atrocities committed on their noggins. I even went back to Umberto, at one point, and he made up for my last visit by bestowing on me the NUMBER ONE worst haircut I've ever received. He made me look like a Hitler Youth. Replete with an Adolf stash. And I hadn't even had facial hair when I walked in. I still can't figure out how that happened.

Some haircuts were bad and some were terrible but you can't always blame the Barber. I made some bad decisions myself. For example: the idea to get a shamrock, a V, and the word "IRISH" cut into my head for the first day of Freshman year in High School. Then there was "Fantastic Sams" which was probably the best of the worst but still far from decent. Their version of a Barber was a flamboyant guy, he looked like a poor man's Fabio, who cared more about socializing than cutting hair. One day I was heading down to "Fantastic Sams" and asked my dad for some money to get a cut. He said, "where ya goin?"

I said, "'Fantastic Sams'."

My dad paused a moment then said, "Oh, YEAH? When you see Sam. You tell him, I'm gonna kill him..."

And I nearly fell to the ground laughing because I knew that he was talking about the social flamboyant guy who had been ruining every one's hair. And my dad, without previously having mentioned it, had gotten a terrible cut from the guy. Luckily, Charlestown would be saved by a young upstart who had risen through the ranks to open his own Barbershop just in the nick of time. (Pardon the pun.)

Pat Owens had been cutting Townie hair since he was a kid. I got a haircut from him at the Bunker Hill Park when I was little. He'd bring his rechargeable clippers up and give everyone haircuts for free. I remember he had to stop in the middle of cutting my head to go and recharge the batteries. Now, he's got his own shop and he's even got some memorabilia from Jack's. He's got Jack's old sign and the poster of the monkey "taking a dump" that used to be in Jack's bathroom. Pat's shop has since moved to where Rosie's Convenience store used to be, across from the Training Field. (But that's another story for another time.) The reason I bring up his shop and the paraphernalia is because one of the last times I was in his place I saw something rather great.

It was a flyer for the Grand Re-opening of "Fantastic Sams" Pat had been given in his travels. On the flyer it said,

"Come to the Grand Re-opening of 'Fantastic Sams' and receive a FREE HAIRCUT!"

Underneath it Pat had written in magic marker: "And we'll fix it for just 15 dollars!"


-Chris

(* One of my favorite Marc stories involves one of the kids that Jack had given a nickname to and I mentioned in the story above: Pickle. Pickle was an older kid, my oldest brother's age, about six years older than us. About 17 when we were 11. One day Marc was walking up the stairs in-front of my house and about to enter when he spotted Pickle walking down the street. With the front door barely open I heard Marc yell, "Yo, Pickle... Dill out man!" To this day, one of the funniest things I've heard anyone say unprovoked.)
(** Jacky was also the first person I remember telling, before I reached double digits, that I was going to be a comedian when I grew up. He responded by saying, "That's Great.")

Ballooning* (*A lesson in Humility)

Once, on my twelfth or thirteenth birthday I got one of the best presents I've ever received. For a long time I had expected something extraordinary. The knowledge of Kings? A visit from the Gods? Perhaps my coming of age would activate latent superpowers... no matter. Because birthdays, at that age, are always good. And this one was no different. It was one for the ages.

There wasn't a large group of kids like -my favorite visit to the movies -when I got my Mom to take us and The Sawyers to see Friday the 13th V. And there weren't a clown or a pink Gorilla like: never. As I recall it was just me by my lonesome, playing out behind our house, waiting for some cake. (Vanilla w/ vanilla. Oh, I can gobble a whole chocolate cake. Alone. With all of the lights out. But V and V is my favorite.)

So there I am playing my own game. Doing my own thing. Abiding. When my aunt arrives. "Christa-fa! Look what I braught YA!" And trailing behind, I'm sure were the rest of the Walls -my cousins- but all that I saw was the biggest, hugest, most large, blue balloon in the History of Balloons. So Big, in fact, that I was scared to hold it as I thought I would leave my deck. Come to think of it I don't know why that would be a fear for me. Her family carried it onto the deck and somehow we tethered it to a chair. Just after trying and failing to tie it down to a weighted HP Hood milk crate. I'm surprised that the chair didn't pull "a Danny." I was convinced that that balloon would pull my house into the sky, if the knot were tied right. It was Huge. You wouldn't believe me if I told ya.

There I was. Staring, eyes wide, mouth agape, and wondering how best to utilize this balloon. (See: above.) When the perfect thought hit me like an intercontinental thought missile launched from another brain. A thought so good it couldn't have come from my own head and yet there it was. "I'll go and get my friends." It was still early and I knew exactly where they'd be.

Without warning I jumped onto my huffy and sped off. Leaving tiny rubber tire marks all the way up Sullivan street. I flew two blocks and hung a right on Russell. The instant I turned the corner a kickball game came into view. The yelling intensified as a play reached it's peak. Kids were screaming "RUN, RUN... RUN!" and "THROW IT. GET HIM."

Teeth gritted, head bowed low, and bike swaying side to side I peddled as hard as possible to reach the game with a quickness. Time stood still. The game seemed forever out of my reach, as it remains to this day. I yelled, "Guys, you're never gonna believe this..." A head turned, then another, and another... everyone looked at me. One kid, Michael Lynch, happened to be tying his shoe as I yelled. When he looked up he must've had a greater field of vision than the rest of us because he pointed. Everyone else was facing my direction. And from my crouched position, on my bike -looking straight ahead at the neighborhood kids- I was the first to see his finger touch the sky.

Not yet at a complete stop, I followed Michaels index finger. My head turning back and up. With my mouth wide open I was hoping for a Wonkavator or a UFO or Cuckoo Man from "The Mighty Heroes." What I got instead was a GIANT. BLUE. BALLOON... the rest of the kids followed my gaze and started to let out exclamations, "LOOK at the size of that balloon... WHOA... WOW... HOLY SHIT." I bellowed, "My Balloon!" Letting it out as if the Balloon were a Blue Monster I had created, in my room, after years of studying alchemy and dark sciences forgotten for centuries.


I tried to tell them about my balloon and how it had been purchased for my birthday. How it was the reason I came to be standing in-front of them. They didn't believe me. After a little pleading that went nowhere they began to return to their game, not caring about the ownership of a balloon. Little or no sympathy. "Well, there it goes," was all that was said. "Happy Birthday." What else could they say? Other than, "that sucks man." I was being ridiculous in the first place. I came to brag and left a liar.

A good lesson to start my year: Losing a Balloon to the sky. That was my first real big dose of humility. And I needed it. Sooner or later (I like to think it was sooner) I came to a realization that I can't make a big deal over stuff like that. It's in a balloon's nature to fly. Sometimes, I'd have to let 'em go.

Every year on June 2nd I release a Big Blue Balloon into the atmosphere. At some point it'll pop and send my dreams into outer space. Eventually, those dreams'll come back for me in a rocketship.
-Doogie Howser M.D.

New Beginnings

Got a haircut today. Before it happened...I came damn near close to a mullet. Almost there. Something inside of me said, "gotta go get haircut. Now." Then, as the woman with the scissors ruffled my hair, deciding an appropriate course of action, another voice -deeper down- said, "don't you let her doit!"

"Gaul-dang-it, don't you be a pussy! Not this time!"

This other voice likes to speak in exclamation. Round these parts we call him the Rebel. He protested the entire time. Although, he had more profound/ relevant arguments than he regularly does. Ya see, normally his arguments involve a Shlitzy lisp with arms flailing in wide arks. And usually, not always, he wants to prove to you why institutions like the Government "don't want anybody to have anyfun anymore." Or "they don't want me to get no pussy either..."

He's right. Most of the time. He lives on his terms. It's too bad I'm not him. I live in wonder at how it all "could be?" My imagination occupies the what-if dimension. A necessity for creativity. And today, as I was sitting in the mullet-butcher's chair, I spent most of my time listening instead of arguing.

Mullets equal character. A definition people enjoy reading over and over again. True comedians should be making statements: of silliness. People should always be laughing. The mullet wave has come and gone and right now it's on the uncool/ perfect side again. Two of your favorite people have mullets: Kurt Russell and Bruce Lee. You'd probably get more work... Also, guess what, David Lee Roth Pussy!

OK, OK. Point taken. But at the time there was nothing I could do. The lady was already well into taking down the "Fisher Price My First Mullet" atop my skull with a pleasurable look on her face. I couldn't tell her to stop. I'd have walked out of Floyd's Barbershop looking like a redneck version of the sophisticated man/ elegant lady.


I let her cut. And cut and cut. Now I have the same-old high and tight haircut that I've been getting since I was a kid. Back when I lived in Stephen King's story "The Body." Instead, I've decided to view this day as the first in the life of my new mullet. Bruce and Kurt had to start somewhere, right? I think so. Besides, the winter is coming up... and the rear part of my neck gets might-tee cold.
-Chris