The six pack (6-25)
This isn't a typical 6-pack the same way I'm not a typical guy. The typical 6-pack is cold and intoxicating while mine is warm and refreshing. Okay, well I'll let you be the judge of that. Today I am going to tell you 6 stories about various times in my life. It's completely random. It's reminiscent of when you open up a photo album and see various pictures that take you back to those moments. In a moment I will open my photo album to you.
All of this comes from the other day. I was talking a friend of mine and she sensed that there's a part of me that is bottled up. She asked, "Who hurt you?" I didn't realize that I was so guarded about some things but I suppose I am. I guess there are some parts of my past I don't like to talk about. Isn't everyone that way? Do we wear our pain as a badge? Is our discontent with some of life's moments just another accessory to go with our daily outfit? Do our harshest lessons compose our uniforms? Okay, so I'm being a little dramatic. I suppose that I'd rather talk about life in the positive context the majority of the time. I dont really think its baggage so much as human nature. We often lock things away we dont like or don't want. Apparently I'd been doing that. I'm generally a very open person. I'll talk about anything. I'll even give my opinion on most things no matter how ridiculous I look, which can be often.
But pain does weird things to you. It can make you close doors you think are open. In this case I needed her perspective. She was the catalyst to unlock some of those doors. I'm not speaking romantically either. She didn't make me love again, or let things go. It was just an online friend who asked the right questions to turn my attention to the attic of my being. So I answered her questions truthfully and openly. I opened up and I felt good for it. What are friends for right?
So with that in mind, here are 6 little stories, or should I say photographs:
1. It was 1983. I was a little Eddie. One of my half brothers got married and afterwards there was this big shindig complete with a monster spread and some DJ guy spinning tunes all night long. Almost immediately this girl had her eyes on me. I believe I was 8 when this occured. At that time sitting still wasn't easy for me (funny how that still applies), and speaking of which it didn't take this girl very long to come over and make a request. She wanted to dance. I had never danced with a girl before. I was scared out of my mind. This girl wasn't going to take no for an answer either. I believe she was going to stay firmly planted in the chair next to mine, and I'm not sure the Catholic priest who performed the wedding could exorcise her from my side. I had to think fast. The first thing I could think of was telling her that I would only dance when my song came on. "What's your song", she asked. I confidently replied Maneater by Hall and Oates. It's the only song I dance to I maintained. So then she makes a straight line to the DJ. Can you guess why?
She returned a few minutes later to prepare me for the dance that would be coming soon. She went back to her table and assured me she'd be returning for her dance partner or so she thought. For whatever reason the DJ didn't play the song. An hour passed and we all ate. Another hour passed with more food. Nearly 3 hours and a ton of cake and meatballs later, it came on. "She'll only come out at night, the lean and hungry type. Nothing is new; I've seen her here before." Daryl Hall was well into the song, and I was shaking in my rented shoes. Where was she? As it turned out, she went to the DJ so many times, I guess she irked him and he waited until the end of the reception to play it. By then everyone was completely drunk and all the kids were completely stuffed and those who didn't have tummy aches had a nap. I was in the stuffed category; she was in the nap category. I escaped. It was a flattering experience and a very scary one for a little boy who still thought girls were icky.
2. When I was 4 years old I had my first real memories. I remember getting up at dawn because my dad did and I think I mimiced everything he did at that time. We lived in this ugly green house on the 2nd floor. I used to look out the window at dawn and take in the beautiful sky. Dark turning into light was fascinating to me (it still is) and when it became light enough to see around the living room, I'd bring in the sports page and get to work. Obviously I couldn't read so well but that didn't stop me from going through the sports page front to back. Nowadays I have the wisdom to skip around and target the things I want and I get through it much faster.
3. This is a short one. In 1984 for 2 weeks I wore 1 white glove like my favorite musician of the time, Michael Jackson. My parents couldn't afford a Beat It or Thriller jacket so I had to make due. I went with the one white glove. The problem was that I was a little monkey. I went out to play clean and came back a few hours later looking like Pigpen from the Peanuts comics. All the Clorox in the world couldn't keep that glove white. It was probably a good thing too, because if memory served me correctly school started shortly after the demise of the one glove and wearing one glove to school would have netted me an ass kicking if not a lecture from an assistant principal or some other undesired effect.
4. When I was hitting my early teens I had the greatest cat ever. His name was Putter (not named after anything golf related). He was orange with a little white and a hint of brown. He was one tough cat. I used to call him the catfather because he owned the neighborhood. He'd often return home with scars on his nose and the occasional piece of fur missing, but when I'd see that I'd wonder how bad the other cat got it. I'd be the backyard or out on the front porch and there he'd be just ripping some poor cat apart. I never saw another cat get the better of him. He protected his territory very well. One day the 3 cats a few houses down put a hit on him. It was late winter time and there was still a lot of snow on the ground. As Putter was making the rounds it seemed like all 3 of those cats attacked him at once. Those odds were too much even for a kitty-warrior like Putter. It was only 2 houses down from mine and when it occurred to me what was going down, I had no choice. I had to help my feline friend. I started chucking snowball after snowball at those cats. I even connected on a few. I hoped it would provide the distraction Putter would need to flee the scene, but that cat wasn't going anywhere. After my arm began to tire of pumping snowballs at a very determined 3some of cats, I finally said screw it and ran over there to chase them away. There Putter stood defiant with a badly cut nose.
Putter was as loyal as he was stuborn. He was a very temperamental cat, but he always had time for me if I wanted to pet him or hang out a little. His most moving trick was the many times he brought me dead birds or dead mice as gifts. One day I woke up next to a dead bird, another day I reach for the controller for the television at my feet only to find another dead offering. It was a bit freakish but still a moving gesture on his part. He was the best cat ever. One day he went outside and never returned. I never saw him again. It was no secret that other cat owners in the neighborhood hated him and a cat that went outside everyday for 4 years and then returned home in time for dinner wouldn't just disappear and run off with a woman, or join the circus. I suspected foul play but I could never prove anything nor find him. It took me years to even consider getting another cat after his disappearance. I really loved Putter.
5. Here's another quick one: I remember one weekend where I went camping overnight with close to a dozen friends and friends of friends. I was in my early twenties and at the time I drank occasionally as opposed to now, where I hardly ever drink. It was still a time when I drank to hang out with people and not because I really wanted to. You know, social drinking. My weapon of choice: malt liquor. At the time I was heavily influenced by the hip hop culture. I didnt wear baggy pants with underwear hanging out, nor did I dress thug-like or anything like that. I wore then what I wear now, basic things like a t-shirt and jeans, or a t-shirt and shorts. But I did listen to hip hop (mostly things that were on the abstract level). I played basketball 5 days a week and of course I drank Colt 45, Olde English, or Saint Ides malt liquor on the weekends.
On this particular evening we were at this place called West Falls. There was a beautiful little 40 foot tall waterfall falling into a small swimming pond with a beautiful little pocket of flat land right next to it. The land was at the bottom of this small gorge. It was comprised mostly of small flat rock and was a nice spot for as many as 20 people to camp.
As the night began so did I. I drank a 40 with the quickness. I think I did it in about 15 minutes. There were the usual cast of 5-6 people I knew well, but there were also a handful of new people there that night that I really didn't know. In the darkness with the stars overhead and the waterfall at my side surrounded all around by beauty I made an ugly decision. I decided that I could or should impress everyone with my drinking skills. Why I thought this was a good idea or why it would matter, I'll never know. I started on my second forty of Colt 45 and finished just as fast as the first, meaning I did 80 ounces of malt liquor in 30 minutes. Then I started on my 3rd 40 ounce. Yes, great idea I know. It took me a little longer to finish it; I think it was dispatched in less than an hour. Now that I think of it, at the time Colt 45 came in a 45 ounce bottle instead of a 40 (get it). So that's 135 ounces of malt liquor (thats almost 4 liters) in 90 minutes.
Everyone was in awe. Wow Ed, youre a drinking machine. I was feeling so good about myself for a few minutes and then it happened; I had to yak. There wasn't going to be any negotiating with my tummy, I was in big trouble. Because it hit me so fast, I didn't have time to leave the crowd or be alone in agony pleading with the lord or myself for mercy for an amount of time. I asked everyone to pardon me for a second then went about 30 feet away to some thick bushes and released the hounds. When I returned about 10 minutes later looking like hell the consensus was that was some of the best puking anyone had ever heard. My friend said I sounded like a bear. All in all it was pretty embarrassing but it did set a new trend for me in the 10 years since. Whenever I've had too much to drink and feel the need to yak, I politely excuse myself from the group and then they know what will happen next.
6. Sometimes you see someone often and pay no real attention to them. What I mean is that you see them a certain way and that's it. We all do that. You have a silly friend, a stoner friend, an obsessive compulsive friend, a dangerous friend, etc. Hopefully they are all not the same person. This whole theory is especially true somewhere where you work or volunteer. You have colleagues and you see them a certain way, time passes and nothing changes. Then once in a great while they surprise you and blow your mind or at least your conception of who they were.
This has happened to me a few times, but I'm thinking of one in particular. This goes back about 4 years or so. I was working at WBNY, the Buffalo State radio station. The guy/girl ratio was about 3 to 1 in favor of the guys, so when a new girl came into the station, the guys would flock to her and they'd all try to get into her pants. It was actually really funny to watch the horndogs go to work, but I'd always feel sorry for the new girl who was under attack. Now of the 10 or so ladies who worked there at the time, I thought a few were attractive but I'm not the kind of guy to pursue women in that way. I always try to go with the flow. If I meet someone and hit it off so be it, but I usually try hard not to force anything, or hit on people. Of course this is a sure fire way to be alone the majority of the time, but hey I have really high standards and I only compromised them 1 time ever. I hated myself for that so much that I promised myself to never, ever do that to myself again. So I try to be respectful of women, even if they are so pretty I can't speak properly.
It was a Friday. A handful of us were hanging out in the station lounge talking about music, movies, or pop culture as we often did. Then one of the ladies of the station walked in. I'll never forget how she looked. She had light makeup on, which I never saw her in previously. She had on the most beautiful dress, fantastic shoes and her hair looked fabulous. Every thing about her was amazing except one thing, her face. Her eyes carried pain behind them, there was definitely something troubling her. I guess this is where the chivalrous part of me came forward. I remember thinking how could someone who looked so beautiful look so sad. I wanted to do anything I could to help her. So I started talking to her, asking her questions. It didnt take long before she opened up about all the things troubling her. But right when things began to get deep, some station schmuck would wander in and try to join the conversation.
I sensed she didn't want to share her troubles with everyone so I asked her if she wanted to talk in private in the station office. We went up there and talked for over 2 hours. Somewhere in that time I fell for her. It was someone I had seen around for over a year and thought nothing of it or her, but one afternoon made me think she was the prettiest person I'd ever seen in front of me.
Life is really funny that way. It's like when were kids and our parents give us the you think you know everything, but you don't know crap lecture. I think I got that one a dozen or so times. Apparently it wasn't enough because it still happens to me on occasion. I think I have something figured out and then there's magic, and no one can predict when magic will occur. Well, except maybe if you bump into Criss Angel or something.
Okay so that's it. Theres my 6-pack. Thanks for reading.
This isn't a typical 6-pack the same way I'm not a typical guy. The typical 6-pack is cold and intoxicating while mine is warm and refreshing. Okay, well I'll let you be the judge of that. Today I am going to tell you 6 stories about various times in my life. It's completely random. It's reminiscent of when you open up a photo album and see various pictures that take you back to those moments. In a moment I will open my photo album to you.
All of this comes from the other day. I was talking a friend of mine and she sensed that there's a part of me that is bottled up. She asked, "Who hurt you?" I didn't realize that I was so guarded about some things but I suppose I am. I guess there are some parts of my past I don't like to talk about. Isn't everyone that way? Do we wear our pain as a badge? Is our discontent with some of life's moments just another accessory to go with our daily outfit? Do our harshest lessons compose our uniforms? Okay, so I'm being a little dramatic. I suppose that I'd rather talk about life in the positive context the majority of the time. I dont really think its baggage so much as human nature. We often lock things away we dont like or don't want. Apparently I'd been doing that. I'm generally a very open person. I'll talk about anything. I'll even give my opinion on most things no matter how ridiculous I look, which can be often.
But pain does weird things to you. It can make you close doors you think are open. In this case I needed her perspective. She was the catalyst to unlock some of those doors. I'm not speaking romantically either. She didn't make me love again, or let things go. It was just an online friend who asked the right questions to turn my attention to the attic of my being. So I answered her questions truthfully and openly. I opened up and I felt good for it. What are friends for right?
So with that in mind, here are 6 little stories, or should I say photographs:
1. It was 1983. I was a little Eddie. One of my half brothers got married and afterwards there was this big shindig complete with a monster spread and some DJ guy spinning tunes all night long. Almost immediately this girl had her eyes on me. I believe I was 8 when this occured. At that time sitting still wasn't easy for me (funny how that still applies), and speaking of which it didn't take this girl very long to come over and make a request. She wanted to dance. I had never danced with a girl before. I was scared out of my mind. This girl wasn't going to take no for an answer either. I believe she was going to stay firmly planted in the chair next to mine, and I'm not sure the Catholic priest who performed the wedding could exorcise her from my side. I had to think fast. The first thing I could think of was telling her that I would only dance when my song came on. "What's your song", she asked. I confidently replied Maneater by Hall and Oates. It's the only song I dance to I maintained. So then she makes a straight line to the DJ. Can you guess why?
She returned a few minutes later to prepare me for the dance that would be coming soon. She went back to her table and assured me she'd be returning for her dance partner or so she thought. For whatever reason the DJ didn't play the song. An hour passed and we all ate. Another hour passed with more food. Nearly 3 hours and a ton of cake and meatballs later, it came on. "She'll only come out at night, the lean and hungry type. Nothing is new; I've seen her here before." Daryl Hall was well into the song, and I was shaking in my rented shoes. Where was she? As it turned out, she went to the DJ so many times, I guess she irked him and he waited until the end of the reception to play it. By then everyone was completely drunk and all the kids were completely stuffed and those who didn't have tummy aches had a nap. I was in the stuffed category; she was in the nap category. I escaped. It was a flattering experience and a very scary one for a little boy who still thought girls were icky.
2. When I was 4 years old I had my first real memories. I remember getting up at dawn because my dad did and I think I mimiced everything he did at that time. We lived in this ugly green house on the 2nd floor. I used to look out the window at dawn and take in the beautiful sky. Dark turning into light was fascinating to me (it still is) and when it became light enough to see around the living room, I'd bring in the sports page and get to work. Obviously I couldn't read so well but that didn't stop me from going through the sports page front to back. Nowadays I have the wisdom to skip around and target the things I want and I get through it much faster.
3. This is a short one. In 1984 for 2 weeks I wore 1 white glove like my favorite musician of the time, Michael Jackson. My parents couldn't afford a Beat It or Thriller jacket so I had to make due. I went with the one white glove. The problem was that I was a little monkey. I went out to play clean and came back a few hours later looking like Pigpen from the Peanuts comics. All the Clorox in the world couldn't keep that glove white. It was probably a good thing too, because if memory served me correctly school started shortly after the demise of the one glove and wearing one glove to school would have netted me an ass kicking if not a lecture from an assistant principal or some other undesired effect.
4. When I was hitting my early teens I had the greatest cat ever. His name was Putter (not named after anything golf related). He was orange with a little white and a hint of brown. He was one tough cat. I used to call him the catfather because he owned the neighborhood. He'd often return home with scars on his nose and the occasional piece of fur missing, but when I'd see that I'd wonder how bad the other cat got it. I'd be the backyard or out on the front porch and there he'd be just ripping some poor cat apart. I never saw another cat get the better of him. He protected his territory very well. One day the 3 cats a few houses down put a hit on him. It was late winter time and there was still a lot of snow on the ground. As Putter was making the rounds it seemed like all 3 of those cats attacked him at once. Those odds were too much even for a kitty-warrior like Putter. It was only 2 houses down from mine and when it occurred to me what was going down, I had no choice. I had to help my feline friend. I started chucking snowball after snowball at those cats. I even connected on a few. I hoped it would provide the distraction Putter would need to flee the scene, but that cat wasn't going anywhere. After my arm began to tire of pumping snowballs at a very determined 3some of cats, I finally said screw it and ran over there to chase them away. There Putter stood defiant with a badly cut nose.
Putter was as loyal as he was stuborn. He was a very temperamental cat, but he always had time for me if I wanted to pet him or hang out a little. His most moving trick was the many times he brought me dead birds or dead mice as gifts. One day I woke up next to a dead bird, another day I reach for the controller for the television at my feet only to find another dead offering. It was a bit freakish but still a moving gesture on his part. He was the best cat ever. One day he went outside and never returned. I never saw him again. It was no secret that other cat owners in the neighborhood hated him and a cat that went outside everyday for 4 years and then returned home in time for dinner wouldn't just disappear and run off with a woman, or join the circus. I suspected foul play but I could never prove anything nor find him. It took me years to even consider getting another cat after his disappearance. I really loved Putter.
5. Here's another quick one: I remember one weekend where I went camping overnight with close to a dozen friends and friends of friends. I was in my early twenties and at the time I drank occasionally as opposed to now, where I hardly ever drink. It was still a time when I drank to hang out with people and not because I really wanted to. You know, social drinking. My weapon of choice: malt liquor. At the time I was heavily influenced by the hip hop culture. I didnt wear baggy pants with underwear hanging out, nor did I dress thug-like or anything like that. I wore then what I wear now, basic things like a t-shirt and jeans, or a t-shirt and shorts. But I did listen to hip hop (mostly things that were on the abstract level). I played basketball 5 days a week and of course I drank Colt 45, Olde English, or Saint Ides malt liquor on the weekends.
On this particular evening we were at this place called West Falls. There was a beautiful little 40 foot tall waterfall falling into a small swimming pond with a beautiful little pocket of flat land right next to it. The land was at the bottom of this small gorge. It was comprised mostly of small flat rock and was a nice spot for as many as 20 people to camp.
As the night began so did I. I drank a 40 with the quickness. I think I did it in about 15 minutes. There were the usual cast of 5-6 people I knew well, but there were also a handful of new people there that night that I really didn't know. In the darkness with the stars overhead and the waterfall at my side surrounded all around by beauty I made an ugly decision. I decided that I could or should impress everyone with my drinking skills. Why I thought this was a good idea or why it would matter, I'll never know. I started on my second forty of Colt 45 and finished just as fast as the first, meaning I did 80 ounces of malt liquor in 30 minutes. Then I started on my 3rd 40 ounce. Yes, great idea I know. It took me a little longer to finish it; I think it was dispatched in less than an hour. Now that I think of it, at the time Colt 45 came in a 45 ounce bottle instead of a 40 (get it). So that's 135 ounces of malt liquor (thats almost 4 liters) in 90 minutes.
Everyone was in awe. Wow Ed, youre a drinking machine. I was feeling so good about myself for a few minutes and then it happened; I had to yak. There wasn't going to be any negotiating with my tummy, I was in big trouble. Because it hit me so fast, I didn't have time to leave the crowd or be alone in agony pleading with the lord or myself for mercy for an amount of time. I asked everyone to pardon me for a second then went about 30 feet away to some thick bushes and released the hounds. When I returned about 10 minutes later looking like hell the consensus was that was some of the best puking anyone had ever heard. My friend said I sounded like a bear. All in all it was pretty embarrassing but it did set a new trend for me in the 10 years since. Whenever I've had too much to drink and feel the need to yak, I politely excuse myself from the group and then they know what will happen next.
6. Sometimes you see someone often and pay no real attention to them. What I mean is that you see them a certain way and that's it. We all do that. You have a silly friend, a stoner friend, an obsessive compulsive friend, a dangerous friend, etc. Hopefully they are all not the same person. This whole theory is especially true somewhere where you work or volunteer. You have colleagues and you see them a certain way, time passes and nothing changes. Then once in a great while they surprise you and blow your mind or at least your conception of who they were.
This has happened to me a few times, but I'm thinking of one in particular. This goes back about 4 years or so. I was working at WBNY, the Buffalo State radio station. The guy/girl ratio was about 3 to 1 in favor of the guys, so when a new girl came into the station, the guys would flock to her and they'd all try to get into her pants. It was actually really funny to watch the horndogs go to work, but I'd always feel sorry for the new girl who was under attack. Now of the 10 or so ladies who worked there at the time, I thought a few were attractive but I'm not the kind of guy to pursue women in that way. I always try to go with the flow. If I meet someone and hit it off so be it, but I usually try hard not to force anything, or hit on people. Of course this is a sure fire way to be alone the majority of the time, but hey I have really high standards and I only compromised them 1 time ever. I hated myself for that so much that I promised myself to never, ever do that to myself again. So I try to be respectful of women, even if they are so pretty I can't speak properly.
It was a Friday. A handful of us were hanging out in the station lounge talking about music, movies, or pop culture as we often did. Then one of the ladies of the station walked in. I'll never forget how she looked. She had light makeup on, which I never saw her in previously. She had on the most beautiful dress, fantastic shoes and her hair looked fabulous. Every thing about her was amazing except one thing, her face. Her eyes carried pain behind them, there was definitely something troubling her. I guess this is where the chivalrous part of me came forward. I remember thinking how could someone who looked so beautiful look so sad. I wanted to do anything I could to help her. So I started talking to her, asking her questions. It didnt take long before she opened up about all the things troubling her. But right when things began to get deep, some station schmuck would wander in and try to join the conversation.
I sensed she didn't want to share her troubles with everyone so I asked her if she wanted to talk in private in the station office. We went up there and talked for over 2 hours. Somewhere in that time I fell for her. It was someone I had seen around for over a year and thought nothing of it or her, but one afternoon made me think she was the prettiest person I'd ever seen in front of me.
Life is really funny that way. It's like when were kids and our parents give us the you think you know everything, but you don't know crap lecture. I think I got that one a dozen or so times. Apparently it wasn't enough because it still happens to me on occasion. I think I have something figured out and then there's magic, and no one can predict when magic will occur. Well, except maybe if you bump into Criss Angel or something.
Okay so that's it. Theres my 6-pack. Thanks for reading.