September 1998 – March 1999
1998
September
October
November
December
1999
January – April
September 1998
September 2022 — Introduction and Explanation
01 New Beginnings
02 Wedding Rant
03 Dream Girl
04 The Art of the Herf
05 Shopping
06 Family
07 Tinkering
09 Jinx
10 No More Aliases
12 Prelude to a Kiss
13 Saturday with the Boys
13 Clinton: My Take
14 Almost Perfect
16 The Good Life
17 Ramblings
18 Graduation Day
19 The Ball
20 Glimmerglass Revisited
21 Back to Work
22 Fall
24 Hobbies, Now and Then
25 Talent
27 Scent of a Woman
29 Busted?
30 Reflections on September
September 22, 2022
Introduction and Explanation:
If you want additional information on the whys, wherefores and historical context of the Internet and Blogging, you might want to look at the companion posts:
When Blogs Collide
The World Wild Web
Both were posted the 5th of October 2022, when I first announced these Archives.
What follows is another take, and a more in-depth explanation:
Having been a life-long journaler, I began toying with the idea of putting a journal on-line almost as soon as the technology became available. My first ever attempt was in March 1996, and several other, short-lived projects followed. But it was not until the 18th of May 1997, when I posted the first entry in my Hiking Journal, that I began what has ultimately—25 years (and counting) later—morphed into the blog you are reading now. Over the years, the blog has moved, changed direction, and modernised, but the fact remains that I have been consistently blogging since 18 May 1997, which I believe make this the second-longest running, consistently updated, personal blog on the Internet.
But back to 1997: at that time, I was living with a woman I now refer to as She Who Must Not Be Named (You Harry Potter fans will get the reference) and SWMNBN was not a fan of on-line web-logs. Therefore, I had to create and maintain mine in secret, counting on the anonymity of the early days of the World Wide Web to protect me. In those day, before Google, you pretty much had to know the URL of a website in order to find it, and you’d never find it unless you knew it was there and you wanted to find it. So, I felt pretty safe.
The Results, as you will see, were sorta mixed.
These early journal entries are what was posted to what later became my blog. They have not been altered except (on rare occasion) for clarity, and to remove the names of people who I expect would rather maintain their anonymity (now that we have Google). To accomplish this, I retro-fitted the device I adopted when I changed the name of the on-line journal (as it we called them in those days) to Postcards From Across the Pond, which was to refer to people using a label instead of their name, and this was done because, by that time, my on-line ramblings were becoming quite popular, and not everyone wanted to appear as a bit player in the story of my life.
A final note I feel I should mention after having re-read these old entries: I am not now, nor was I ever, an alcoholic. That notion was foisted upon me by another girlfriend who, while she had good reason to be hyper-vigilant concerning alcoholism (her ex was a violent alcoholic and she—a self-described co-dependant—took him to numerous AA meetings) she was a bit like a solution in search of a problem and anyone she saw who had a drink needed, in her view, to be introduced to the 12-steps. I had had a drinking problem, in that I drank too much, spent too much time drunk, and too much money on getting drunk. I had, however, stopped drinking even before I met her, but that didn’t satisfy her. She still preached the Gospel of Bill W and took me to an AA meeting, where the other members, when they heard that I had simply stopped on my own, smiled smugly and assured me I would start drinking again because I wasn’t following the 12-Step Program.
I didn’t go back. Nor did I start drinking again, not in a way that was a problem.
One of the things she drummed into me (without anything resembling proof) was, if an alcoholic (which she assured me I was) stopped drinking, and they stopped drinking for, say, ten years, then they took a single drink, they would immediately fall—not to the level they had been at when they had quit drinking—but to the level where they would have been if they had never stopped drinking.
It was a ludicrous notion, but it stayed with me. Then one evening, about four years later—by this time I was with SWMNBN—we were at dinner with our cigar-smoking buddies (herfers, at a herf) and everyone was ordering drinks and I couldn’t find a decent non-alcoholic substitute and SWMNBN said, “Oh for God’s sake, have a beer. It won’t kill you.” (SWMNBN might have been a dyed-in-the wool control-freak, psychotic narcissist, and a bully, but she wasn’t stupid.) So, I had a drink, and my world didn’t crash down around me, and I found I could enjoy quality over quantity, and I have been a responsible drinker ever since.
And I was not, and never had been, an alcoholic.
I hope you enjoy these early entries. They are, if nothing else, an interesting look back at the early days of the web, the technologies, and how it has all changed.
As for my ramblings, however, I can’t guarantee you’ll learn anything from them.
Tuesday, September 1, 1998
5:39 PM
New Beginnings
I can’t stand it any longer! My life has been drifting aimlessly for some time–I haven’t been writing, I’m gaining weight, I keep sleeping the better part of the day away and hating myself for it–so I made the decision (quite suddenly, while watching my boss work on the new router) to get back on track.
Eat right, get up early, be productive; simple, right? Not for me! I then spent the rest of that afternoon setting up a spreadsheet to track my goals, resolutions and behavior patterns.
It could have been worse; I worked on it only for about two hours and I’m relatively pleased with the result. I can now track all of my proposed goals and activities aimed at improving my physical and mental well-being.
I decided to begin at that moment, not in the morning, or after the weekend—those are old drinking-resolution tricks designed to put off sobriety for as long as possible—so I joined the ‘Water Club’ and drank a bottle of water. (Believe me, given my lifestyle, that rates as healthy).
The rest of the day went just as well. One of my goals is to fit this healthy (OK, healthier) living into my life without taking up a lot of time, so when I got home, I set a timer for 20 minutes. I then took the dog for a respectable walk, exercised, avoided napping, cut up a plumb and was on the couch eating it and leafing through a magazine with just under a minute remaining. Not bad. I just hope I can keep it up. How many resolutions begin well and peter out after a week or so?
The main idea behind all this it to get some movement in my life (work on the book, finish my genealogy, do something) not to excise vice from it. Even though the program tracks beer and cigar consumption (points are lost on these categories) it is more to gain a clearer idea of how they fit into my life than to lessen their influence in it.
Cigars are becoming a big thing with SWMNBN and I. More so with SWMNBN, but I am lately finding myself looking forward to sitting on the patio in the evenings with a good cigar. I smoked one the other night; a huge mother that a fellow herfer gave me. He told me it was mild, and it was—smooth and soft with a nice, wood and leather taste. It took an hour and a half to smoke it, but when I finished, I only wished it had been longer. I’ve got to find out where he bought that thing; I need to get more. My supply of cigars is actually getting low.
SWMNBN, on the other hand, has amassed nearly two hundred cigars over the past month or so. As is her habit, once she decides to acquire a hobby, she dives right in. She spends a lot of time lurking in the cigar newsgroups, corresponding with other cigar smokers, reading about different brands and styles and leaf types. And, of course, buying more.
She has several boxes of different, expensive, cigars in a cooler (called an Igloodore, in Herf language) as well as over seventy in various Tupperware containers (called Tupperdores) and real humidors scattered about the house. She gloats over them, she counts them, she categorizes them, reads about them, sometimes she just opens the covers and sniffs them or picks them up and fondles them. The only thing she will not do is smoke them.
“They’re aging,” she says, or “that one was a gift, I’m waiting for a special occasion,” or “these are for gifting.” According to her math, if she has 200 cigars, she can go to about 30 Herfs, smoke 3 and give away 5. In reality, however, if she starts with 200 cigars and goes to 30 Herfs, she’s going to end up with 400 cigars, as she always seems to return with more cigars than she left with—all of them gifts that she can’t smoke. At this rate, we’ll have to move into a bigger house in another year, just to make room for the cigars.
I don’t mind. It’s a respectable hobby and she deserves a little indulgence. I can’t afford it as much as she can, but I’d just piss the money away someplace else; I might as well spend it on a vice. Besides, I really enjoy the Herfs; I get to drink beer, smoke cigars and relax in the company of other, intellectually stimulating people? It’s really quite nice.
Now if I could just get the taste out of my mouth.
Wednesday, September 02, 1998
6:30 PM
Wedding Rant
It’s a quiet, peaceful time, these last days of summer. No fights, no hassles, just placid, lazy days.
Then why am I so edgy?
Probably because, despite my repeated resolutions, I still cannot seem to get anything accomplished. I have been eating better, exercising, and reading, but I haven’t touched my novel yet and I remain unable to grind out a decent Journal entry. I just feel so . . . hollow. It’s like I don’t exist; or like I am living someone else’s life.
A lot of the time, it doesn’t really bother me. Sometimes, I actually enjoy just moving through the day as if I am in a movie, starring in some real-life “Truman Show” or something. Other times I feel trapped behind some invisible wall that I can’t seem to step through. The claustrophobia is sometimes overwhelming.
Intermission for dinner.
We went to my brother’s wedding last weekend. It was the first time in our five and a half years together that SWMNBN agreed to go with to me to see my family. At first, I was optimistic; hoping she had, indeed, resolved to be a little more flexible.
The wedding was never a big deal; it was his second and it was going to be outside. No one had to dress up or go through any great trouble to get ready; and we didn’t have to plan on spending the entire day there. A nice, simple affair at which she could be introduced to some of my family and be pleasant to them for a few hours.
Before we even left, she began. As sweetly as could be, she reminded me, “I’m only doing this because I love you.” I thanked her, told her I knew she really didn’t want to go and offered to let her stay home. “No,” she said, “I’m doing this for you.” I knew then that everyone would be better off if she would stay behind.
I give her credit, she didn’t make much of a fuss at the wedding. She smiled politely as she was introduced to everyone, then wandered off by herself. I kept trying to stay with her, but she had suddenly developed a ‘limp’ and said her foot hurt and she had to keep moving; she couldn’t stand in one place and talk to anyone. I suggested sitting down at one of the many tables. “No,” she said, “I have to keep moving.”
She did sit down to eat.
My other brother showed up shortly after we ate, with his wife and daughter in tow. My brother, the groom, and I were glad to see them; we all hadn’t been together in one place in many years. It lasted all of about 10 minutes. We were all standing around the table, talking when SWMNBN simply got up and walked around the corner of the house. I went to find her, and she was standing, just out of sight, with an expression on her face that reminded me of a cornered rabbit.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, “You looked scared.”
“I am,” she said.
I just turned around, went and said a quick good-by to my brothers, and came back.
“We’re leaving.” And we went to the car.
Nothing was said about it, then or since.
There was nothing new in any of this, but it did graphically demonstrate what I have been feeling all along–there is simply no hope for us.
Forget about me and what I would like, what about her? Doesn’t she deserve a man whose life she wants to be involved in? If she’s so keen on doing things together, why doesn’t she find someone whose family and activities she can tolerate?
Watching her with my family, I knew: there is no way she will ever agree to visit them again, and no way she will want me to, either. The older I get, the more important my family (what little is left of it) is becoming to me; and the more resistant she becomes. This can end no other way except by our breaking up.
And that’s so sad. And so unnecessary. We really do some fun things together. She is fun and witty and smart. Yet it just isn’t working. After all this time it still isn’t right with me. I don’t get to see my kids as often as I would like, and went I do, I have to be taking them somewhere, doing something with them, spending money on them, because I can’t bring them here. I want to visit my father again, and I would like to spend some time with my brothers. I think that is what really, deeply angered me. It was a special occasion, I was with my family whom I haven’t seen together in one place in over ten years, but she couldn’t see fit to tolerate it because they are simply not good enough for her.
Another thing that got me thinking that day was when my brother asked if I had seen Dad. I told him I hadn’t, but the truth was I saw him last spring. I had skipped work and sneaked down to visit him. I couldn’t tell my brother, however, because SWMNBN doesn’t know, and I didn’t want to get into a big fight at their wedding. I mean, there are many things I could do that I might need to lie about, but visiting my father? It’s all too bizarre.
Since the wedding, however, she’s been the model of reasonability and seems to be making an effort to do some of the things I want to do.
But it’s all too little too late. Perhaps at one time we could have repair this relationship, but it’s so far gone now that there is no hope left. I just wish I could get her to see that.
Thursday, September 03, 1998
12:06 PM
Dream Girl
I’ve been re-thinking my girlfriend situation.
After yesterday’s rant, I went to bed and found her already asleep. I slid in beside her, trying not to wake her up, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be alone. Really alone.
I thought about sleeping in a strange, empty bed and waking up to the silence of a vacant apartment. I know I would become accustomed to it in time (and I used to actually enjoy it) but the idea seemed suddenly sad and unnecessary. Much as I bitch about her, and much as I have some real issues with her, I really don’t want to be without her. Not yet, anyway. What I really want is for it to be like it used to be, but I wonder it that can happen.
As I’ve mentioned, she’s being very sweet lately, and I feel myself growing fond of her despite my desire to break up with her. There are, after all, still many good things left in this relationship. But there remains the issue of her inability and unwillingness to accept me, all of me, for who and what I am.
Is that reason enough to throw away the time we have invested, as well as our hopes for the future? I think it is, but then I see how sweet she is being, and I think I should give it just one more chance . . .just one more . . .
And then I dreamed:
I was with my dream girl (I’ve had these types of dreams before, always at the end of a relationship. I continually dream about a nameless, faceless woman who, just by being with me, makes me content). It was night and we were in a large, empty field. We were kissing and hugging, and she suddenly had to go to the bathroom. She walked a short ways off, where, only half-hidden by the darkness, she pulled down her jeans and squatted. I loved her then, for her openness, earthiness and the lack of shyness that could only come from knowing me as well as I knew myself.
When she came back, we embraced again. We undressed and I felt the smooth firmness of her body against mine. There was passion, and a deep knowing of one another. I breathed in the fragrance of her and felt her entering me as I entered her. Her eyes, when she looked into mine, blazed with a deep, unqualified love.
Her hair, cropped short almost like a man’s, was light brown in color, like mine used to be when I was younger. The unusual shade of green in her eyes was similar to my own. I wondered that I wasn’t embracing myself. Perhaps that part of me that SWMNBN refuses to accept?
Maybe I should go into therapy.
Friday, September 04, 1998
12:56 PM
The Art of the Herf
God help us all, but I can’t seem to shake the obsession of posting this journal to the Web. All this work, for what? It’s not as if anyone is going to read it and I’ll certainly get tired of it in a few days. I can’t even seem to keep up with regular journal entries, let alone spending the extra time posting them on a web page.
Speaking of time, I’ve got some today! I’ve been in a computer class for the week, and today, graduation day, the instructor finished up early and we left at noon. Coincidentally, today is the day the dog is at the groomer; she doesn’t have to be picked up until 4:30 or so. That leaves me 4 complete hours totally to myself! I’m simply giddy with the possibilities.
It is a glorious, late-summer day out there, sunny, clear, warm, perfect for roller-blading, bike riding or even just taking a nice long stroll. So, what were my ideas? Originally, I was planning to sneak out and go drinking, but I’m still a bit washed out from yesterday to attempt that. Instead, I came home, ate a decent lunch and am inside pecking away on the keyboard.
What a putz!
Maybe I’ll get some work done in here, then go out. I have a three-day weekend to look forward to; I should be able to get outside for at least some of it.
We were outside yesterday, SWMNBN, myself and the rest of the crew. We were having an impromptu Herf at the Starbuck’s in Stuyvesant Plaza. I arrived at about 5 o’clock and lit up a Dunhill Corona second, one of my favorites. I’d been pounding coffee in class all day and had eaten only a Big Mac for lunch. So, instead of buying something to eat, I bought another, large coffee and lit up the cigar.
About halfway through I thought there might be a problem. I began to feel lightheaded, pleasantly, at first. Then, as I was finishing up, I felt dizzy and flushed. My skin became clammy, and I started seriously looking around for a place to hurl.
I didn’t, thank God, but I continued to feel slightly nauseated for the rest of the day. Even now, I feel washed out and not at all ready for a bout of drinking (which I had been hoping to do) or cigar smoking. So maybe staying inside and working on my Journal isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Saturday, September 05, 1998
9:22 PM
Shopping
Saw my dream girl again last night. I was with a friend of mine, and she was in love with both of us. None of us seemed to mind this arrangement. I kept thinking she was someone I used to know when I was younger, but when I asked my friend, he told me I was wrong.
I wonder if this all means something. I doubt it; I also dreamed of a clogged toilet, so it’s not always a good idea to look too deeply into the underlying context of dreams.
Today was a shopping day. I thought it might be a good thing to do. SWMNBN was going to do some clothes shopping so I figured I could go look at the computer store while she picked through the racks at Penny’s. When I tried to make my escape, she made it plain that she expected me to stay with her. I figured that, in the long run, it would save time if I just forgot about the computers.
Are there any ladies out there reading this? Do you want to know how to keep us guys interested in you? Here’s a hint: GIVE US A CHANCE TO MISS YOU!!!
I don’t care how stimulating you think your company is; if you make a guy stay by your side twenty-four hours a day it becomes boooooooring! Go shopping, go out with your friends to watch the Chippendales, go read a book for chissake, and leave us the fuck alone! We’ll come back, honest!
And so, I followed SWMNBN around the store while she asked me questions like, “Does this look good on me?” and “What do you think of this combination?” How can she reasonably expect me to answer those questions? After all, she’s the one who has to help me match my ties every morning before I leave for work. Mostly, I just nodded my head and made affirmative grunting noises, hoping she would interpret them as agreeable answers. The kindest thing anyone could have done for me at that moment would have been to hand me a rock so I could bash a hole in my skull to let the boredom leak out.
Eventually, I found a stray plastic clip that must have slipped off of some article of clothing. I played with that, giving it my full attention, until it was time to head for the check out.
It’s just as well. The last thing I needed was to get lost in an electronics store. I probably would have made some boneheaded impulse purchase; God knows I don’t need to spend any more money.
I actually managed to get some reading done today. I’m currently reading “Lake Wobegon Boy” by Garrison Keillor. That man is too funny. The book is about a 40-something guy and his misadventures with his girlfriends, family, and job; something I can relate to.
SWMNBN and I smoked on the back patio this evening. After the Starbuck’s Herf, I wanted to see if I could finish a cigar and not get sick. I lit up one of the Dunhill’s again but found it too harsh and acid tasting. I gave that one to Karen and got a Don Diego corona. That one was smooth and mild and I was able to enjoy it.
Even though everything is still green and lush, it is plain to see that summer is ending. The evenings are clear and cool, and the sky is filled with stars that used to be hidden by the humid haze of August. The older I get, the more I find myself liking autumn.
My web journal is coming along nicely. I’ve got most of the structure set up, and I’m almost done with the introductory pages, such as they are. I’m offering very little in the way of explanation and commentary, at least at for now. Anyone who stops by will just have to read the entries and figure it out as they go along. Maybe I can add more bells and whistles as time goes on but at least for now I’ve got something going. It will be a while before I can get word out anyway, so it’s not as if anyone is going to be looking at it real soon.
It would be a lot easier if I could tell SWMNBN what I’m doing, but I really don’t think that would be a good idea. She might not mind, but if she did, she would mind a lot, and I don’t feel up to the hassle.
She’s downstairs watching TV right now. Hopefully, she’ll fall asleep on the couch and I’ll be able to upload some pages without fear of her walking in.
Sunday, September 06, 1998
11:30 PM
Family
We visited SWMNBN’s family today. Between birthdays, anniversaries, holidays and the occasional trip just for the hell of it, SWMNBN and I get to see her family about once a month. This time, the occasion was her sister’s birthday.
I don’t mind, really. The visits are generally pleasant and, while not a laugh-riot, I usually manage to have a good time.
Except I hate the drive.
Since it’s her family, SWMNBN always drives down in her car. I get to sit in the passenger seat while the dog cowers in the back. (We must have the only dog in the world who is terrified of riding in cars.) It’s not that SWMNBN is a bad driver, or anything, I just prefer to be the one with my hands on the wheel. Nothing unusual in that.
The trip is a two-hour drive south through the Hudson River valley. A scenic, bucolic ride that culminates on a horrific stretch of the Taconic State Parkway. For the final third of the trip, we drive over a narrow, hilly, windy road populated with a fair share of inattentive, impatient, and just plain crazy drivers. The Parkway, in that area, is often bordered by stone walls and guard-rails instead of break-down lanes and a median strip. There’s nothing like trying to pass a car at 65 miles an hour while driving up and down hills and around corners with barely a yard between you and the other vehicle and a brick wall your only other option.
I close my eyes a lot.
On this trip, I was reading the “Wobegon Boy” book. Unfortunately, the section I was in happened to be about a funeral and, humorous as it was, I found I didn’t really care to think too much about dying at that time. I put the book away and tried to keep from imagining how I would look in my coffin after being mangled in a car wreck.
Obviously, we made it.
SWMNBN’s family, while more in the mainstream of American life than my own, is just as quirky and dysfunctional as any other.
The visit was typical. We ate–lasagne, breaded eggplant, meatballs, chicken, assorted vegetables and breads (this was a small meal)–discussed alien abductions and supernatural phenomenon with the sister, listened to her father talk about corrupt politicians, took a few walks around the neighborhood, ate some more, and left. In all, we were there about 7 hours.
The ride back was better; it usually is. In the dark, I can’t see the dangers and the territory becomes more and more familiar instead of alien. It never seems to take as long as the drive down.
We got back over half an hour ago. We walked the dog under a bright, yellow moon and now SWMNBN is asleep on the couch in front of the TV.
Maybe I can finally get some work done.
Monday, September 07, 1998
4:54 PM
Tinkering
A dreary, drizzly Labor Day.
Just what I needed! If it had been nice, I’d be outside mowing and raking and trimming and clipping. Instead, SWMNBN is on the couch watching the Home Run Record being broken, and I have plenty of time to devote to my ‘hobbies.’
I finally managed to get out to look at some computers. It was, as I imagined, a waste of time. First of all, the stores have very little to offer (there is so much more on the web) and secondly, all the ‘back to school shoppers’ were out in droves, making casual browsing difficult, if not impossible.
Besides, I can’t afford anything anyway.
Right now I’m working on a Compaq Aero 486/33. It’s a decent enough little laptop, loaded with Win 3.11, the MS Office Suite and miscellaneous games. I keep my budget, my journal, my novel and my scheduler on it. It is a little awkward, having to copy journal entries from here, paste them into my web pages on the desk-top and upload them to the web from there. That’s a lot of wasted steps and there is always the danger that SWMNBN will stumble across my journal files on the desk-top, which we both share.
I guess, for now, it will have to do. I just hope I get better at this file shuffling and uploading. I was practicing last night, and it sometimes got pretty confusing. It also took several hours to upload four entries. That’s because I was, at the same time, trying to figure out how I wanted to link the pages to each other. Once I work off the rough edges it should go quicker. (It had better, or these will be the last entries you’ll be seeing.)
I was able to spend several, uninterrupted hours working on my journal this afternoon. SWMNBN has been watching the game since 2:00 and, from the sounds of it, she will be down there for a while longer. Maybe I’ll be able to get all of the background work done today.
A wild night last night! At 3:20 in the morning we were hit hard with an amazing display of lightning and thunder. The flashes lit up the entire street in half-second bursts of eerie, white light; the ensuing explosions rattled the windows. It was so loud SWMNBN woke up and came to bed. So did the dog. She’s developing a fear of thunderstorms (the dog, not SWMNBN) and spent the night sleeping between us.
I laid awake for some time, enjoying the light show and the cool gusts of wind that burst into the bedroom at regular intervals.
Tomorrow I go back to work. It will be good to settle into a routine again. Once the background work is completed on this journal, maybe I can go back to simply living my life and commenting on it occasionally.
Tuesday, September 08, 1998
2:05 PM
Back to Work
For the past week I’ve been getting up later than usual and dressing in casual clothes. Today, I got up at my normal time and found myself attempting a Windsor knot in full darkness.
When I walked the dog, the air was cool and crisp, and the grass still drenched with dew. At the end of our lane, a small cluster of teenagers waited for the school bus and, as I drove out of our development, I saw the sun just beginning to peek above the trees.
Fall has arrived.
I work in downtown Albany. Something that is still new to me. For 22 years I worked at the same job in a building on the outskirts of the city. Then, just a few months ago, a promotion lured me away from the land of free and ample parking into an area where parking spaces are not even a luxury, they simply don’t exist. Therefore, I now drive, not to the office, but to a parking lot where I catch a bus.
The idea of a bus is so foreign to me. SWMNBN sees nothing unusual about it. Having grown up in a city, bus travel is somewhat commonplace for her. To me, however, having grown up in the sticks where buses did not venture, getting around meant one thing: owning a car. If you didn’t have wheels, man, you were a complete loser. So, when I finally heard about buses, I naturally assumed they were for the poor and disenfranchised. I never envisioned myself riding in one.
Yet here I am, parking my car in the vast, nearly empty parking lot, and queuing up behind the rest of the early risers waiting for the express to downtown. I used to loath it, but now I find it gives me a chance to read and relax. The bus stop isn’t crowded at the times I use it and it’s pleasant to spend the extra few minutes outside in the fresh, morning air. Likewise, downtown is nearly deserted when I get there. The streets are wide and empty, and the early sun lends a look of newness to the tired architecture.
It has occurred to me, however, that sooner or later it’s going to rain. Or snow. It’s pretty much going to suck then.
I like to get to the office early, and not just because I like to get out early. I find I can get more work done where when no one is around. (Also, if I have any personal business I want to take care of on company time, that’s the time to do it.)
I work with computers. And I’m not being vague for the sake of anonymity, I’m being vague because that’s what my job is. I work in a small unit of computer professionals and, because I don’t possess any particular skill, I fill in wherever needed. Database design, programming, network troubleshooting, help calls, whatever. It’s a good gig. I never meant to get into computers, but that’s where I‘ve ended up. I could’ve done worse.
Today was a lazy day. A lot of reading e-mail, returning phone calls and some of that personal business I alluded to in the previous paragraph. A nice, easy day to help me get back into the swing of things.
On the radio this morning, I heard more about that storm we had the other night. Apparently, while I was enjoying the show, people were dying. It turns out it was one hell of a storm. Trees down, power out (still out, in some places) cars crushed, houses destroyed. Three people were killed by flying debris. It’s horrible to think I was lying there, actually enjoying it. I’m just glad our area missed the worst of it.
I think I’ve finally gotten most of the background work completed on the Web Journal. All I have to do now is find a quick and easy way to upload it all. Maybe it’s finally time to look into joining a Web ring.
Wednesday, September 09, 1998
8:55 PM
Jinx
It figures. Just as I finish extolling the wonders of the bus ride, I woke up this morning to a dreary, drizzly day. I must have jinxed myself.
The air was chilly and damp, the clouds low and gray. It wasn’t raining when I left, but it was when I stepped off the bus and onto the sidewalk downtown. It’s a short walk to my building, but the rain made it seem much longer. Naturally, I didn’t have an umbrella. Real men can take the rain; umbrellas are for sissies. Real men, however, DO wear jackets, but stupid ones don’t–I had left mine home assuming that, since the calendar said it was still summer, it would be warm.
There’s really nothing more for today. I probably wouldn’t have bothered putting up such a lame entry, but I’ve finally gotten Cracks Of Time into some sort of stable design and I want to try uploading the pages. I’m hoping the process won’t take long without all of the tweaking and tinkering I’ve been needing to do these past eight days.
Hopefully, something interesting will happen soon and I’ll be able to upload a more engaging entry.
Thursday, September 10, 1998
9:14 PM
No More Aliases
I’m really enjoying this on-line journal.
I have generally written in my journals as if I were writing to an audience–and occasionally I have shown sections to some of my closer friends–but now I really do have an audience. Well, a potential one, anyway. It’s still a little early to expect visitors.
I did apply for membership in some web-rings. That may seem a bit premature with this site having been up just over a week, but I’ve been keeping a regular journal for 28 years, so I doubt I’m suddenly going to stop now. As I mentioned on my “Why” page, posting to the web just seemed like the next logical step in my Journaling experience. I only wish I had begun sooner.
What stopped me for so long was the anonymity issue. After I thought about it for a long time, I finally decided to simply post my regular journal entries. The project suddenly solidified then, yet still I had that anonymity hangover which prompted me to create a pseudonym for anyone I mentioned.
I’m not going to do that any more.
After running the odds, I figure there is little chance of anyone I know will actually stumble onto this site. Even the most popular journal sites don’t get more than two or three hundred hits a day. That sounds like a lot until you realize there are probably 30 million people on-line in this country alone.
And I’m not the type who worries about some stranger knowing how to find me. You want to find me? Look in the phone book.
I am slightly amused by the warning on some on-line journals. It’s usually some variation of “Friends and family keep out.”
First of all, if I really was a friend or relative of someone who I knew had an on-line journal, they’d need a lot more than a warning to keep me out of their site. And secondly, if they didn’t want their friends and family reading their private journal, why did they tell them they had posted it?
I, for one, definitely do not want any of my family, friends, or co-workers reading these pages. So, I’m not telling anyone about them. No one. If anyone manages to find these pages, the odds are overwhelming that it will be some prefect stranger from Utah and not one of the twenty or so people who might actually recognize themselves here.
With that in mind, I have added some photos and done away with the idiotic aliases. (God, I can’t believe I even gave an alias to the dog!)
The only person whose name I will continue to change is SWMNBN’s. As I have said, she is an extremely private person and I do feel I should respect that. My family, my friends, my co-workers–none of them are going to be harmed if I don’t think up some alternate identity for them.
Saturday, September 12, 1998
9:40 PM
Prelude to a Kiss
Busy couple of days.
Friday dawned cool and crisp. For the first time this week I was up with the alarm, I prepared for work and was pulling out of the development while pink wisps of clouds glowed in the eastern sky. The river was still as a pond, thick with mist rising like slow, easy steam.
Most of my day was taken up with a meeting.
The meeting was an introduction to our new firewall and was being presented by the guy we had hired to build it. Apparently, he had a lot to tell us and none of it was simple. Terms like DNS, TCP/IP, SMTP made my eyes glaze over after the first fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, this was something I needed to know about, as maintaining the network, which includes the firewall, is a big part of my job. What surprised me most about the meeting (or the three and a half hours of it that I was involved in) was how much of it I actually understood. After all this time, some of this stuff is actually beginning to make sense. A lot of it, however, still falls under my definition of ‘magic:’
INQUISITIVE USER: How are we able to get to the Internet?
ME: I don’t know. You click this icon, then something magic happens, and the Internet appears.
(SWMNBN always says, “Any technology that is sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic.” I tend to believe that.)
After getting out of work, I retrieved my car from the parking lot, went home, walked the dog, gave her some food, grabbed a few cigars and headed out to the Malt River for a Herf.
SWMNBN and another Herfer were already there. I ordered a pint of stout and soon the others arrived.
SWMNBN had been cigar shopping again. She had bought a few that afternoon at Edleez cigar shop in Stuyvesant Plaza and had ordered even more over the Internet.
I started out with a Baccarat–a corona I had bought some time ago. It was mild and smooth. A nice cigar.
After another beer I lit up a small, cigar SWMNBN had bought for me that day. It was wrapped in a veneer of vanilla-scented cedar which gave the cigar a slightly noisome vanilla odor. I smoked it because the smell really was obnoxious and the others were (jokingly) complaining about it. Also, I didn’t want to bring it home and put it in my humidor for fear it would make all of my cigars smell like vanilla.
It wasn’t a bad cigar, but after a while it developed a slightly noisome vanilla taste. I put it out about halfway through.
In the traditional cigar swap, I ended up accruing 12 cigars. That was due to one guy giving out more than he should have, and another had gone through his humidors and took out a whole bunch of cigars he wasn’t going to smoke. There were quite a few and we divided them amongst ourselves.
Then we ate.
I ordered the shark, but they were out of it, so I had to have grilled tuna. I also had some of their clam chowder–one of the best I have ever tasted–and their famous chicken wings. As usual, I stuffed myself.
After dinner I felt bloated and lethargic, so there was nothing else to do but order more beer and have another cigar.
I smoked one of the cigars someone had given me some time ago. It was good enough. I don’t like harsh cigars (I’m still a cigar-wimp) so I was a little leery of it, but it was surprisingly smooth and mild. The more I smoked it, however, the more it began to kick back. I got it down to two inches, then surrendered. SWMNBN, of course, made a big deal of me wasting so much of a good cigar, as if they are fucking gold or something, so I told her to take the stub and smoke it herself. She did.
We stayed longer than usual because the owner had just installed a big screen TV in the oak room and we all went in to watch ALIENS. It was a nice piece of hardware. Digital signal with a crystal-clear image on a screen that had to be about 8 foot square. While we watched, we started making plans for Monday Night Football Herfs, and a World Series Herf.
We left about 11:30 and I made it to bed just after midnight. SWMNBN, wired from drinking soda all night, stayed to read her newsgroups. I drifted away quickly, which is unusual for me and, shortly after, SWMNBN came in to ask me a question about a problem she was having with an E-Mail attachments. I mumbled what I hoped was the correct solution and she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Just then, it occurred to me that, although we had been together for the past six hours, that was the first time we had kissed.
It was mildly unsettling to think that we had both grown so complacent. I took that thought with me as I drifted off once again.
Sunday, September 13, 1998
11:39 AM
Saturday with the Boys
I was up on Saturday at 8:00. SWMNBN slept in.
I felt surprisingly good for having done so much carousing the day before. My head was clear enough, but there were some disturbing bags under my eyes and I had that unmistakable feeling of sluggishness that tells me my body is begging to be taken better care of.
Living healthy does have its rewards. Back when I was fanatical about eating right and reducing the fat in my diet, I could actually feel the good it was doing to my body. There was no sluggishness or heaviness at all; I felt clean and energized. I also had to avoid meats and sweets and any kind of alcohol–you know, all the fun stuff. When I began slipping back into old habits, my body rebelled at first–I nearly got sick eating a hot dog. But after a while I became immune to all the bad stuff again and now I drink coffee, guzzle beer, eat hamburgers and smoke cigars. I don’t feel bad, per se, but I do know I could feel better. But then I wouldn’t be having as much fun. Life is such a trade-off.
It was 9:30 when I left to get The Boys. The day was clear and warm as a summer morning. The trees are still full and green, and a quick look might fool you into thinking it was still the middle of August. On closer examination, however, it’s plain the trees are too green; a deep, rich, earthy green with undertones of umber. The hillsides and meadows are covered with golden rod, dying buds of Queen Anne’s lace and plumes of pampas grass which, from a distance, blend into the unmistakable rust color of autumn.
I had no definite outing planned for the Boys, so we had brunch at Friendlies, discussed school and tried to think up some way to kill the next 5 or 6 hours. A movie was out. It was too nice a day. So, I agreed to take The Boy someplace safe and let him try his hand at driving a standard.
We went to the parking lot where I catch the shuttle bus–a huge, empty sea of blacktop during the weekends–and he drove around the perimeter, practicing shifting and stopping. He did OK, but that only killed about half an hour. We headed from there to Stuyvesant Plaza so I could go to my bank.
While at the Plaza, he told me about a bet he had with a teacher. He had been given a 74 digit number and told that, if he could memorize it by Tuesday, he would get $10. Long ago I had read a memory book and I told him that, if he used the system I had learned from the book, he could do it easily. The only problem was, I had forgotten the memory system (ironic, isn’t it?)
I did remember I had some notes on it, so we drove to SWMNBN’s house to get them. The Boys waited in the car while I ran in to get them. This was about noon time. SWMNBN was in her bathrobe, reclining on the couch surrounded by bags of pretzels and assorted snacks, watching TV. “I’m tired today,” she told me, “I’m not going to do the laundry.”
I got my notes and left.
We decided, in order to be able to work on the memory system, we should go to the Mall. This was agreeable all around. It was where the Twins wanted to go in the first place and The Boy wanted to visit the food court because he was hungry again. We went to Colonie Center and the Twins wandered happily off to look at CD’s and computer games. The Boy and I went to the food court where we spent an hour or so working on the numbers. We got it down to a system and I left it for him to figure out the remaining steps.
There is a cigar shop in that mall (one of about three in this area) so I went for a visit. I bought a few cigars and The Boy pulled out a pack of panatelas. “Buy these for me?” He asked. “I’ve got money, I’ll pay you back.”
I paid for everything and gave him his cigars before it hit me that I had probably just committed a crime, or at least done something unethical. I told him to make sure his mother didn’t see them, as she would certainly know who bought them for him, and I shuddered to think what SWMNBN would say to me if she found out what I’d done.
When we finally left the mall it was late afternoon. The sky had clouded over, and the humidity had descended like moist wool. I took them home and came home to find SWMNBN still on the couch. I made dinner, cleaned up after dinner, and worked on my Journal a bit. Then, when it got dark, I went out on the patio to smoke one of the Chessmans I had been given the night before.
It was a Churchill, and lasted nearly an hour. For much of that time, my neighbor was out on her patio with a bunch of her friends; all women, all divorced, all drinking. It was soothing to sit and listen to them. (Our back yards are the size of postage stamps and are separated by these little “privacy fences” put up by the homeowners association. If the fence wasn’t there, I could have reached over and touched them, so listening to their conversation wasn’t really eaves dropping so much as it was unavoidable.) They were loud and laughing and telling stories about their divorces and how their lives had improved since they dumped their husbands. It was a cheerful, almost celebratory conversation; nothing maudlin or bitter. After a while they decided to go to dinner somewhere. As they left, I heard one remark that she hoped they would have to sit at the bar to wait for their table so they could check out the guys. Nice to hear that men can be sex objects, too.
When the cigar was down to about three inches I asked SWMNBN to put the dog on her leash so I could walk her while finishing my smoke. It seemed like a good idea, but walking while smoking was not the relaxing activity I had envisioned it to be.
First of all, the smoke kept blowing back into my eyes. And then there was the dog, always tugging and pulling, or me tugging at the dog, or having to pick up dog shit with a cigar clamped in my teeth and the smoke making my eyes water. It pretty much sucked. Maybe I’ll try it without the dog next time.
Sunday, September 13, 1998
3:57 PM
Clinton: My Take
I read the text of the Starr Report this morning. Here’s my take on it:
First of all, let me state for the record that I am no fan of the Clintons. This man is a sleazebag and a thug. However, the American people elected him, twice, knowing he was a sleazebag and a thug (remember the slogan, ‘character doesn’t matter, it’s the economy, stupid’?) That he, and his wife, are guilty of severe crimes, I have no doubt.
Starr’s problem is, Clinton and his cronies are not new at this. They’ve been conducting shady dealings since before he was Governor of Arkansas. They are good at it; and they are good at covering their tracks. This is evidenced by the fact that, four years and millions of dollars and countless witnesses later, the only thing Starr could pin on Clinton was a blow-job.
When I first heard that the report was on its way to The Hill, I thought, “Oh boy, this is going to be it for the Clinton Gang.” And then, of course, there was the hue and cry and all the commentary and the debates and the speculation.
Then I finally had a chance to read it myself. Eleven counts–all of them relating to Monica.
Now I’m torn. Is the man fit to be President of the United States? In my opinion, no. Does this report contain sufficiently serious charges to merit impeachment? In my opinion, no. Will we pretend that the charges are enough to merit impeachment so we can go ahead with it? Of course we will.
Again, let me say I have no doubt Clinton is guilty of some heavy crimes. But he is an inveterate criminal and a consummate liar, and, because of that, Starr was able to prove nothing. And if nothing can be proven then the crime does not exist. (Remember O.J.?) All of Starr’s findings revolve around an office romance and subsequent extramarital affair. Is that sleazy? Sure. Is it unethical? Sure. Does it compromise national security or constitute a treasonable offense. Far from it.
Office romances happen. Men get blowjobs in the copy room all the time. And they lie to keep others from finding out about it.
Granted, they don’t always lie to the Grand Jury about it.
Now, SWMNBN’s take on this is that, being the President of the United States, he should be setting a moral example for the rest of the country.
That sounds good, but it just doesn’t sit well with me. I want him impeached, but I want him impeached for the right reasons. If it’s a high crime you’re looking for, I don’t think it’s been found. If, on the other hand, you’re going to make morality the case, then, OK. But make your case.
I question the reasons for posting the report to the web for everyone to read. Was it simply so everyone could be outraged by the lurid details of the affair, which might make it easier for congress to make immorality an impeachable offense? I think so.
And despite the supposed shock of middle America over these ‘lurid’ details, how many of us haven’t done similar things? Anyone here who has never been laid in a car? Anyone here belong to the mile high club? Anyone here care to tell the Grand Jury about the most unusual intimate encounter they have every had? If we were all lined up and forced to tell, I’m sure workplace sex, blowjobs, and foreign objects would be prominently mentioned.
It’s also interesting to note that this one lie he was caught in that led to these charges was Monica’s fault, not his. He would still be free and clear if she had just swallowed.
Was up at 8:00 today. Another glorious, late summer morning.
It would have been a great day for hiking, which is what SWMNBN had said we were going to do. But somehow, that never happened. It also would have been a great day for SCUBA diving, but since SWMNBN had reserved this day for hiking, I could not book a Diving excursion. Instead, I walked the dog, perked some Kona coffee and settled in to work on my Journal.
SWMNBN slept late again, still a bit washed out from Friday. That’s one of the advantages of being an alcoholic. I can drink and it doesn’t bother me very much. As long as I stick to pints of stout, I don’t get hangovers and I can drink a lot without appearing drunk. But SWMNBN’s a novice; my abilities came only after years of dedicated practice.
My Journal was coming along pretty well, but then SWMNBN got up and wanted the computer.
Since I couldn’t work on my Journal, I turned my attention to the 74 digit number I was trying to memorize. I told her what I was doing and why, but still she kept calling to me from the other room about something she was reading in the paper. After a while, I began banging my head on the desk until I saw stars. That can’t be good for me, but I was just so frustrated I didn’t know what else to do. She still didn’t catch the hint.
During the afternoon, I did the laundry, put the dishes away, made lunch, cleaned up after lunch, loaded the dishwasher, folded the laundry, made the bed and walked the dog. SWMNBN watched the Bills game. Do you see a role reversal here?
At least she became interested enough in the game so that I could finish some Journal entries and memorize that number (a piece of cake if you use The System). It’s nearing dinner time now, so I’ll probably have to start that soon.
Monday, September 14, 1998
8:26 PM
Almost Perfect
From Wobegon Boy, by Garrison Keillor
” . . . [a bachelor] is not driven by fear of his wife. You can see this in the way he walks into the bar. You can see that this guy is not operating on a strict schedule. Nobody is going to burn his butt if he doesn’t get home by six o’clock Nobody is going to rant and rave if he has beer and brandy on his breath. Moral disapproval is not a big factor in his life.
“When you care what a woman thinks about you, you start looking for a safe place to stand. You try not to make mistakes. You think, If I can just keep from making her mad at me, I’ll be okay.”
I didn’t mean to write today. In fact, I was trying to avoid it. It was never my intention to update this Journal every day–I never updated my other one that often. Originally, I just wanted to get a bundle of entries uploaded, and then so much happened over the last few days I simply had to write about it. And now, I’m just washed out and can’t think of anything else to do but ramble to myself.
I promise I’ll try to skip a couple of days. Soon.
Today was going to be a ‘perfect’ day. My program for healthy living has a potential of 18 points in a single day. I managed to get up on time, eat right, take a walk and all that before leaving for class this morning, and during the day I proposed that, once I got home, I would finish the regiment come hell or high water. But when I got home, I didn’t find hell or high water, just SWMNBN.
She’s still not feeling well and decided to stay home. That precluded practicing my guitar so, with the perfect score no longer in reach, I didn’t bother to exercise or work on my novel. If I didn’t have this headache, I’d go out on the patio, drink a beer and smoke a cigar.
I just came in from walking the dog. It feels like a midsummer’s night out there–hot and still and heavy with humidity. The peepers are singing and the air is thick with the scents of cut grass and warm blacktop. Ah, the sounds and smells of summer; how they take me back:
Sleeping out under the stars . . . skinny-dipping in the creek . . . sneaking out in the dead of night and creeping through the backyards of the sleeping town for the chance of a few, furtive moments and a stolen kiss . . .
God, I miss being young!
There was another thing we used to do when I was young that I haven’t thought about in a long while–Pool Hopping. All it involved was swimming in someone else’s backyard pool. The trick was not getting caught. And, oh yeah, you had to be naked.
A bunch of us would sneak out and circle through the fields to come up behind the Wolfe’s house–the only family in our whole town who had a built-in pool. (This was a very small town, and I didn’t even live in it–I lived a mile outside of it amid the corn and potato fields.) We would strip naked, climb the fence and splash around until we thought someone had heard us. Then we would vault the fence and scramble, bare-assed across the field, squealing with laughter. I haven’t had fun like that in so long. (Obviously, this was before the invention of video-games and cable TV.)
You know, there is a pool in our development, not very far from this house. It’s a moonless night. I could sneak over there at midnight and . . . I wonder what would happen?
Here’s some ideas: A broken leg from trying to climb the fence. Arrest warrants for Trespassing, Indecent Exposure and (I’m sure) some sort of sexual abuse. I wouldn’t serve any jail time, but there would be those embarrassing articles in the newspaper (with photos if I was particularly unlucky), some community service and court-ordered therapy.
God, I miss being young.
Wednesday, September 16, 1998
10:40 PM
The Good Life
A cool, clear evening; not at all like the muggy nights we’ve been having lately. SWMNBN and I went shopping to pick up some dinner earlier. When we left the house at 7:00, dusk had already settled; by the time we returned it was fully dark.
I took another one of the Chessmans out onto the patio and had a leisurely smoke by myself. I’m really beginning to enjoy a post-prandial smoke, though I’m not certain if it’s the cigar or the quiet time that I like more. It’s soothing, just sitting silent in the dark, listening to the crickets and the low drone of distant traffic, contemplating the stars and the rising smoke. Last night, I brought out a Don Diego and a pint of stout. That was even better.
At times like that, I find I can be grateful for the life I have.
We have a good life: a nice, tidy little home with an orderly lawn, good jobs, a comfortable income which allows us to indulge ourselves, we’re healthy, intelligent and kind to each other. Maybe there really isn’t anything more. Maybe the time for excitement and passion is past, maybe I have reached the days of quiet reflection and the restrained enjoyment of life’s more subtle pleasures.
If I have, please shoot me.
Thursday, September 17, 1998
7:52 AM
Ramblings
Ikon classroom #10
I just finished Garrison Keillor’s book, Wobegon Boy.
It took me a long time to finish it; it’s not a large book, I’m just a slow reader.
It’s odd, but I tend to become more inspired and more inclined to work on my own novel after reading a bad book as opposed to a good one. Keillor has such a way with words, it’s intimidating. His style is simple yet elegant, humorous and heart wrenching at the same time. He paints an entire scene with broad strokes, then focuses in on a few spare details that make the picture come suddenly alive:
“A couple in their twenties, plump and pale as raw turkeys, she in giant yellow shorts and a Mets sweatshirt, dull blond hair chopped short, and he in a loose red-flowered shirt, with long greasy black hair, dark glasses. You could imagine them emerging from their wedding, a little unsteady from vodka sours, climbing into a car loaded with pickle dishes and serving trays, and driving home to Long Island and capsizing into bed and waking up with the dreadful knowledge that they had married in self-defense someone who shared their worst qualities.”
I read something like that and think, “Why bother? I could never be that good.”
On the other hand, when I read a book of clumsy prose and poor construction, I am encouraged to continue my own work because I know I can do better (or at least about as well).
So why, if my class doesn’t being until 8:30, did I get here early enough to finish a book and begin a Journal entry?
On Monday and Tuesday I left the house with plenty of time to reach the school. On a good day, it’s only 15 minutes away. However, ‘good days’ do not include any day between Monday and Friday, especially at rush hour.
I am so spoiled by driving in to work before the day begins and returning before it ends that I could not take that start-stop-start-get-cut-off-stop-again melee called rush-hour. After two days, I gave up and started leaving the house at my regular time, which gets me here a full hour and a half early.
That’s OK. I read, eat breakfast at the nearby McDonald’s and relax a bit. Getting here ten minutes early after a 35-minute freeway free-for-all is a pretty lousy way to begin the day.
This school thing is really cutting into my life! I was counting on getting out of class early on Friday’s (it’ a tradition) to go out drinking. The Instructor, however, just told me that we’d be having a VERY full day today and could not hope to be out until about 3:00 tomorrow. This sucks! When am I supposed to drink?
12:35 PM:
First, a week of Access programming, then that firewall meeting, and now I’m sitting here through the likes of DHPC, MUP, WINS, ActiveX, OpenGL, DNS, PPTP and FQDN. My brain hurts! People aren’t meant to absorb this much information. (As Dilbert-creator Scott Adams has said, “It’s like trying to fill a teacup with a fire hose.”)
These are good classes, but there is such a lot to learn. Also, I feel like I’m participating in a huge commercial for MicroSoft.
8:27 PM:
After I got home this afternoon, I decided I wanted to go look at printer ink at the local Office Max. SWMNBN didn’t want to go, but she did ask me to pick up some snacks while I was out.
I like to drive the long way into town, over the backroads through the as yet undeveloped land. It’s such a pleasant drive, even if it is a little longer. SWMNBN has given up trying to persuade me to use the highway; unless she wants to drive, that’s the way I’m going to go.
There was nothing much at Office Max, just a lot of expensive gadgets, so I left my car there and walked to the Grand Union. It was good to be outside, even at the shopping mall.
The sun had just set and the world seemed suspended in that magical moment between day and dusk. The hard shadows of daylight were gone and everything seemed soft and placid.
Parking lots merged into one another and stretched to the edge of the horizon. Mini-malls, anchored by big chain stores, rose like gaudy islands in a vast sea of macadam–TJ Maxx, MJ Designs, Home Depot, Cracker Barrel. There were flowers and shrubs and trees and strips of concrete-bounded grass, but it was all landscaped. Raw nature had been banished long ago and allowed to return only with a dress-code imposed. The air was rich with the scent of Chinese take-out and car exhaust; faint traces of nail-polish remover wafted through the open door of the beauty parlor. The smells of the suburban strip mall.
At the Grand Union, I noticed they were already in full Halloween-mode, complete with cotton spider webs and festoons of crate-paper pumpkins. Only mid-September and already they’re pushing for November. Soon the Christmas decorations will be up. It’s going to be a long season.
I drove home the way I came, out of town along the main road where the buildings abruptly stopped and fields of scrub brush began. There are signs in the fields now, offering lots for sale with the assurance that the area has been rezoned for commercial and light industrial use.
Then I turned onto the back road that snakes around to our development, where the gently rolling land is cultivated and wide fields of corn–dusty green in the fading light–stretch out as far as you can see. It’s such a peaceful, reassuring sight; my heart swells every time I see it. SWMNBN thinks it’s ‘too farmy.’ Soon, there will be signs here, too.
Friday, September 18, 1998
12:44 PM
Graduation Day
Once again I am looking forward to getting out of school and getting back to the routine of work.
Since beginning my ‘New and Improved Program for a Healthy Life,’ the only thing I’ve actually kept up with is this Journal. Eating well has definitely fallen by the wayside (today I’m having a third cup of coffee and a bag of peanut M&M’s for lunch), I’ve been sleeping past the alarm on a regular basis and, since I haven’t been home without SWMNBN being there very often this past week, I have not been playing my guitar, exercising or getting outdoors to walk.
The main purpose of this regiment was to be healthier in body (sleeping well, eating regularly, exercising and taking vitamins and supplements), mind (reading) and spirit (playing guitar, writing in my Journal, talking long, reflective walks) so I would have the energy and inspiration to do the things I really want to do (work on my novel). So far, working on my novel is one of only two categories I have not yet put a single entry in.
Writing, they tell me, begets writing, but so far, after finishing a journal entry, I don’t much feel like having a go at my very stagnated novel. Perhaps I should reverse the order.
As far as this class goes, the most interesting thing that has happened all week is the disappearance of my lab partner.
She was a tall blonde with a plain looks and a healthy complexion who wore pegged jeans, tight sweater-shirts, heavy, black shoes and a confident air. She was assigned to me because we happened to be sitting near one another. She was not very outgoing at first, but once she discovered that I was familiar with her town (Davenport, a rural farming community some two hours from here) she became quite chatty.
She was young, and marked important passages in her textbook, not with an asterisk or exclamation point, but with a practiced drawing of a pair of surprised eyes. She was flush with new love, something that was obvious to me even before I saw her penning lengthy letters to some guy named Sean while the instructor lectured us on the wonders of TCP/IP.
Much as she liked to chat during class, she was up and off like a spooked pony at each break. I would see her, walking determinedly down the hall far ahead of the rest of us, on her way to the bank of phones provided by the school for official use. I would pass her on my way to the coffee room. Down, and back. I wondered who she could be talking to so often and for so long. I doubted it was Sean, otherwise, how could she have enough words left to fill all those pages in between breaks?
She knew her computers. Like me, she had not expected to get into the field, but proved clever at figuring them out so her company was sending her to school. The commute was a killer, however, just under two hours each way. She was often nodding out in class.
On Wednesday, she returned from lunch a little late and told me she had rented a hotel room for the remaining two days of the course. She would be staying in town that night, and Thursday, and wouldn’t be so tired from the long drive. I saw her on the phone again during the afternoon breaks and waved to her as she pulled out of the parking lot in her little red car at the end of the day.
I never saw her again.
It’s all very odd. She obviously expected to return–she left her books and copious letters to Sean behind on her table. When it became evident she was not coming back, I gave them to the instructor who said he would have them forwarded to her. He was mystified as to what might have happened to her, also.
9:50 PM
SWMNBN and I went for a fish fry this evening. It was nice to be able to do something together for a change.
The place was packed. We stood in line for quite a while, holding hands and exchanging kisses. It felt almost like the old days.
In the dining room, a young family was sitting near us; a father, perhaps thirty, wearing a polo shirt and shorts, his wife in a neat red blouse, her dark hair bobbed in a utility cut. The children, two impish boys and a well-mannered girl, were not yet ten. They were a handsome family, exuding contentment in a way you can’t fake. It made me regret having wasted those days. I used to have a wife and children, but I couldn’t see far enough beyond myself to realize what I had. I was a failure as a husband and as a father. And now, it appears, I’m becoming a failure as a boyfriend.
I wanted to talk to SWMNBN about it, but I knew she wouldn’t be interested. I tried to think of something less controversial to discuss over fish fries but could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t generate either apathy or disapproval.
We talked about the dog. A lot.
Saturday, September 19, 1998
9:56 PM
The Ball
My Dream Girl made another appearance last night. I haven’t seen her in a while; I’ve missed her.
It was Thanksgiving at my grandmother’s house, like it used to be years ago; plenty of food and relatives. Grandma and Grandpop were both there, as well as my Aunt Dot–all of them have been dead for many years. I was in the parlor with my Dream Girl. We were studying a copy of the graphic for my web journal, trying to come up with a new design. (In the dream, there was a chicken bone in the graphic, but it looked kinda cool.)
We were standing close, and I slipped my arm around her, placing my hand on her flat stomach. She reached down, took my hand and placed it on her small, taut breast. Fearing my relatives might see us, I moved my hand back to her stomach. She moved it back to her breast, smiled wickedly at me, and kissed me.
I woke up at 5:30; SWMNBN was still asleep on the couch.
We actually had a good day today. The trip to Cooperstown she was supposed to go on with the Herfers last weekend was postponed to this week, so I was able to go, too. We packed a lunch, some cigars and the dog and headed out at about 9 A.M.
The day started out gray and overcast, but by the time we were under way the clouds were gone and it turned into a bright, autumn day. We took the scenic route, through the tidy little towns of mid-state filled with farm-stands, bed and breakfasts and shops selling over-priced jams to tourists. The trees are turning now, lending decidedly orange and red hues to the hillsides.
Cooperstown was a bit crowded due a renewed interest in baseball history, but not nearly as crowded as I imagine last weekend, which was the day they first installed the McGwire exhibit. We found a place to park with only a little difficulty and hiked, with the dog, through the throngs of tourists to the Baseball Hall of Fame.
Some others showed up a bit later and they and SWMNBN went in to see the exhibits. I volunteered to wait outside with the dog. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice; I’m not the baseball fan, SWMNBN is. Initially, she said she would mind the dog (since it’s her dog) and allow me to go in with the guys. I didn’t even entertain the suggestion, but it was sweet of her to offer. (On the other hand, when the dog interfered with our plans to go on a booked-and-paid-for trip to St. Maartin last winter, she offered to stay home with the dog and allow me to go. I took her up on that one and I’m still hearing about it.)
The only thing I might have wanted to see was Mark McGwire’s jersey, bat and ball from his record-breaking home run. That exhibit, as luck would have it, was right up front. If you stood near the ticket booths, you could plainly see it. So, I did.
Allow me to reach deep and attempt to summon words deserving of the majesty and grandeur I beheld: It looked like, . . . like, . . . like a jersey, a bat and a ball.
OK, so I’m not much of a baseball fan.
Once the gang was inside, I parked myself comfortably on a bench and decided to smoke one of my cigars. I had brought several sizes, from a corona (5 inches, for you non-cigar smokers) to Churchill (about 7 and a half inches). I lit up the corona, expecting that I wouldn’t have to wait very long. I mean, how long can you look at a bunch of bats and balls. I figured 15-20 minutes, tops.
I should have lit the Churchill.
It wasn’t that bad a wait for one simple reason; (listen up here, guys) dogs are a babe-magnet. About every second woman who walked by had to stop and pet the dog. I got several life stories and a peck of anecdotes about other people’s dogs. The time went quickly enough.
Two hours later, SWMNBN came out and said the guys would be along later. We had to leave for Part II of the Herf–meeting up with the others at Glimmer Glass State Park. We were afraid that, if we waited any longer, they would think we had stiffed them and would turn around and go home.
We got to the park just as that was about to happen. They had already eaten lunch without us and were thinking of going home when we pulled into the vast and nearly vacant parking lot.
One of the guys, who is about my age and rides a Harley motorcycle, wasn’t upset about having to wait for us for so long because he’d had an excellent ride out to the park.
The picnic was pleasant. We ate when the guys from the Baseball Museum arrived, and spent the rest of the afternoon smoking cigars and enjoying the weather. The breeze off the lake was refreshing and there were a few boats and one brave sail-boarder out on the water. The dog didn’t know what to make of a person skimming across the choppy water holding onto a big, colorful triangle, so she barked incessantly whenever he came into sight.
The ride back went quick enough and we ordered take-out for dinner. According to my “Healthy Living Calculator,” today rated a 2 out of 18 points (3, now that I’m working on my Journal). Still, it was one of the nicer days I’ve had in some time.
SWMNBN is already asleep on the couch and as soon as this I uploaded I’m going to go to bed.
Maybe my Dream Girl will keep me company tonight.
Sunday, September 20, 1998
9:01 PM
Glimmerglass Revisited
It seems I’m still trying to find my ‘voice’ for this Journal. That’s a bit unusual since I’ve been keeping one for so long and have not had any trouble in the past. Now, however, some of the passages I write seem, even to myself, somewhat forced and stiff.
Part of the problem may be that I’m updating so often. Prior to this, I usually only wrote after a major event or when I felt I had something to say and it all just poured out of me freely and naturally and without any reservations. In this one, I feel myself being pulled in several directions at once. There is the feeling that I am ‘on,’ that I am talking to an audience and therefore ought to be entertaining, coupled with the feeling that, since I am talking to an audience, I ought to be more selective about the things I say. I find I have to edit some events, not only for the privacy of those people who deserve it, but because some things I mention on their own might not make much sense without a long and rambling explanation which would eclipse the main entry.
The only other major change in my journal experience was when I switched from pen and paper to computers. That move freed me up considerably, allowing me to write more and edit my rambling accounts into something coherent. I was quite proud of some of those entries and often had the feeling I wanted to share them with others.
Now I am sharing them (potentially, at least) and I find myself striving to return to that free and easy prose I had cultivated in my pre-on-line entries.
Yesterday, I detailed an outing which lasted the entire day and, while I don’t think it was a bad entry, I managed, in my haste to get something posted, to leave out some of the more significant things that happened.
At the lakeside in Glimmer Glass Park, we had a brief conversation about one of the members of our cigar group who wasn‘t there–a tall, thin man, about 40, who is attending college and always joking about how impecunious he is. He is soft-spoken and very intelligent and, although he talks about his college experiences and what he is doing now, he rarely makes reference to his past. Whenever we go out, he drinks soda and one time he refused to eat a piece of cake because it had been baked with Kalua.
I had him pegged as a recovering alcoholic. Apparently, I was right.
The discussion was in no way disparaging of him. He was admired for getting his life back on track after which must have been a long career of drinking. From there we fell into a discussion of our own experiences with alcohol.
Some people had left by this time, SWMNBN does not drink at all and never did, another guy, who is about thirty, contributed the usual experiences of college binge-drinking, and another told some surprising stories of how far into the bottle he had crawled during a brief period of intense unhappiness. It was plain to me that none of them possessed the true dedication to drink of a bona fide alcoholic.
I didn’t try to top them. I told my story simply, leaving out much detail, and tried only to leave them with the impression that I used to drink a lot but didn’t anymore. There was no use, or need, to try to make them truly understand.
Even SWMNBN doesn’t understand, and neither do my friends who drink but aren’t actual alcoholics. Sure, you might like to drink, you might even like it a lot, but for me, and people like me, it is so much more than that.
I think back on those days, when alcohol filled my life. It wasn’t a pastime, it was a way of life, an all-consuming passion. Back then, I was either drinking, or thinking of drinking. My day revolved around acquiring alcohol. A lot of other behaviors sprang out of that–drug use, infidelity, money problems. It took an act of supreme will power to finally quit–something else a non-alcoholic cannot appreciate. The 30-year-old simply grew up, the other guy got another job, found he was happier and just didn’t want to drink as much. I did tell them that I never drank because I was unhappy, or swept away with the crowd–I drank because it never occurred to me to not drink. I drank because it was central to who I was.
It was a light conversation; I wasn’t trying to prove a point or convince them of anything. Again, there was no need. They really didn’t need to understand the inner mind-set of an alcoholic. But it does make me feel different.
When I’m in a bar, when I feel that cool, heavy glass in my hand and the creamy, bitter stout sliding down my throat, I am more content, more at ease, more myself than at any other time. I love the whole experience, the stale, smoky smell, the chatter of conversations, the flicker of soundless television sets, the feel of the bar beneath my elbow and the way the barmaid knows exactly what I want and brings it to me without me having to say a word. It’s a comfortable feeling, the feeling of being where you belong.
What struck me, as we touched on that subject and moved on to other things, was how little these people, including SWMNBN, knew about me.
They knew only what I told them, that I used to drink, then quit and now had it under control. Mostly, that’s true; I drink with them most every time we go out and I always have only three glasses of stout. Never more. I can control that much. But all the while I was telling them about how my drinking days were behind me, I was thinking about how often I slip out of the office to go drinking with guys from work, and wondering how much longer I was going to be able to convince myself I have everything under control.
Am I making too much of this? Is the fact that I like to get together with my friends and cut loose occasionally any real cause for alarm? Probably not, except that I can see it escalating. I see it, but I don’t care. I’m actually exhilarated by the idea. It’s like I’m pushing a boulder down a hill and it’s gaining speed and momentum and at some point it will get beyond my control and all I will be able to do is hang on and see where it crashes. And I’m looking forward to the ride.
Now that might be cause for concern.
Monday, September 21, 1998
11:21 PM
Back to work
There is something so civilized about rising with the dawn, putting on a nice, starched shirt and an Italian silk tie and going to the office. It gives the day purpose.
Not that I did a lot. I spent the morning reading e-mail and catching up on some projects. The afternoon was quiet enough that I had a chance to catch the Clinton show on the Internet.
What a circus this whole thing is turning into. The Presidency has really been brought to a new low. Now I don’t want to point any fingers as to who is to blame. The media certainly has been eating this up, and there seems to be a whole lot of people really eager to get Clinton at any cost. But he was the guy with his dick in her mouth, wasn’t he?
The weather here has been unusually hot and humid these past two days. It was in the high 80’s yesterday and quite humid. Today was nearly as bad. I’m actually looking forward to it going down into the 50’s later this week. It’s a little odd to see people walking around in shorts and halter tops while the leaves are turning orange and Halloween decorations are up.
It was a lazy day all around. SWMNBN and I went shopping after work and by the time we got everything put away and had some dinner it was eight o’clock. Then we sat out on the patio and smoked some cigars. A new shipment arrived today. Two boxes of Havana Classico’s–one for each of us. Not a bad cigar, and really inexpensive, too. I now have over one hundred cigars of my own, and SWMNBN has more than twice that. How crazy is this?
We sat outside talking for quite a while, about our jobs and plans for the coming fall. A nice, quiet time which helped me feel a little bit closer to her emotionally. A little.
It was after eleven when we came back in and now she’s checking her e-mail and cigar newsgroups. I’m hoping to be able to get on the Internet so I can post this before I go to bed. Five thirty comes pretty early and it looks like I’m going to be up past midnight at this rate. Even the dog is disgusted. She doesn’t like to go to bed while we’re still awake and she’s huffing and moaning in the doorway now, giving us the sad eyes and trying to urge at least one of us to go to bed so she can get some sleep.
SWMNBN has finally realized how late it is and is signing off. Now it’s my turn on the PC. I’m going to post this and hit the sack.
Tuesday, September 22, 1998
8:21 PM
Fall
The weather finally broke.
When I drove to work this morning, in the dark, I had to put the AC on, it was still that hot and humid. Right now, however, all the windows are closed and I’m sitting here in a flannel shirt. It’s supposed to get down into the 40’s tonight and into the 30’s tomorrow. That’s more like it; I’m looking forward to eating some good, old-fashioned cold-weather food. I helped SWMNBN make her famous chili tonight (it will be ready tomorrow, I can’t wait!) and this weekend she’s going to roast a chicken and make an apple pie. (Despite any failings I might attribute to SWMNBN, she is an excellent cook.)
The cigar infusion continues. SWMNBN arrived home from work today with another hundred dollars worth of cigars she bought at a local shop–a rare and expensive brand she has been searching for for some time. Now we have cigars in the freezer again. (You cigar aficionados will know what I’m talking about.)
Thursday, September 24, 1998
10:20 PM
Hobbies, Now and Then
SWMNBN came home with more cigars again this afternoon. She hasn’t missed a day this week and the freezer is about full.
(Okay, okay, I’ll explain: Cigars occasionally have Tobacco Beetle eggs imbedded in them. Under normal humidor conditions — 70 degrees with 70 percent humidity — they rarely hatch. But if, during shipment or storage prior to purchase, they were exposed to heat, the eggs can hatch and little beetles will burrow out of your cigars, and into your other cigars. It’s the tobacconist’s equivalent of downloading software with a virus in it. By freezing the cigars, you lessen the risk of hatching bugs. And since we now have several hundred dollars worth of them, I think a trip to the freezer is well worth the effort.)
She is getting so into this cigar thing, it is becoming a mania. Much like all the other hobbies she has taken up.
When I first met her, she was into golf. So, I bought some clubs and visited the driving range. We bought each other golf paraphernalia for Christmas and birthdays and became a pair of well-equipped golfers. We had golfing friends and spent weekends on the courses. Then she got tired of it. I went by myself a few times, but it wasn’t as much fun. And besides, I sucked.
The clubs languished in the foyer for a few months, then were moved to the garage and finally to a rented storage unit.
Then she got into biking. We bought bikes, rode the bike trails, bought all sorts of biking accessories.
The bikes are keeping the golf clubs company now.
One year it was gardening. She drew maps of the backyard and plotted how she could best arrange the shrubs and flowers. She bought computer software to help her and tons of books. We visited garden centers and nurseries and spent weekend after weekend mulching and weeding and trimming.
Then it was hiking. The shoes, the packs, the books, the maps, the clothing, the special harnesses for the dog–all packed away and collecting dust.
But she’s like that. When she finds something that interest her, she goes all out. She reads up on it until she is an expert. Then she buys all the accoutrements–good ones. Then she participates as if there is no tomorrow. Then she forgets about it.
Nothing wrong with that. Not really. I tend to like trying new activities, and having her dive in first keeps me from having to do any research since she does enough for both of us. I don’t even mind spending all that money. I would spend it somehow, I might as well spend it on something I enjoy doing.
It’s the junk that bothers me. All the accumulations of all these activities sit around, and around and around. This place is too small to hold all her exercise equipment (Did I forget to mention that she used to be into exercising?) the hiking gear, the gardening tools, the numerous bird feeders, binoculars and bins of unused seed (forgot that one, too) and the books upon books upon books.
So now, it’s cigars. Never mind about the large cooler filled with boxes of expensive and exotic cigars sitting in the dining room, or the half dozen humidors scattered about the house under desks, in closets or stacked on the kitchen table, or the bundles of cigarcicles in the freezer or the new accumulation of books, (At least they are all being used. For now. But what will happen in another few months when she grows tired of this fad?) the biggest problem, right now, for me, is her obsession with the Internet cigar groups.
It’s after 11 o’clock and she’s still at it. Not only does she monopolize the PC, but she sits right behind me while I’m writing this. And she keeps reading to me. Constantly. She’s doing it right now.
Just when I was getting into the rhythm of writing a Journal entry, posting it and going to bed, she starts spending all night on-line. I waited her out the first few times, but last night I finally gave up and went to bed. I had to get up extra early to do the upload in the morning before I left for work. That was about 6 AM. I’m not at my best before my second cup of coffee so it took a lot longer than it should have. Tonight’s not looking very good, either. From the looks of her, she’s not the least bit fatigued. She’s probably good for another couple of hours.
She just yawned. There is hope yet! I’d like to get this posted and get to bed before midnight.
Friday, September 25, 1998
6:10 PM
Talent
SWMNBN is late this evening. Usually, she’s home by now. Maybe I can get a jump start on my Journal entry.
I had to take one of the Twins to his doctor appointment this afternoon, which also required me to leave work early.
The Twin was my not-quite-autistic son. He’s 18 and doing relatively well as a high school senior but has a lot of trouble trying to relate to other people. He has no social skills and is hampered by obsessive behaviors (he can’t stop talking about ducks, or his cartoon shows). A while back, I took him to a doctor who recommended a psychiatrist. The shrink put him on Luvox. I was pretty skeptical; I am not a proponent of drug therapy.
Years ago some doctors wanted to medicate the other, really autistic Twin, and last fall, the school psychologist claimed that The Boy (my ‘normal’ son) had Attention Deficit Disorder and encouraged his mother and I to put him on mood suppressants.
So, when this doctor told me a drug could help my son stop obsessing about ducks, I really didn’t believe her. The short story is, it works. I haven’t heard about ducks since he went on the meds, and it seems to be helping him focus a little better. It is not a cure-all, but it helps.
8:37 PM
Frozen pizza for dinner tonight. Well, it wasn’t frozen when we ate it; I cooked it first. Speaking of food, the chili she made on Tuesday was fabulous. I had it for dinner Wednesday and Thursday. I thought I’d give it a rest tonight.
We’re back in our places again. Me at my laptop, SWMNBN at the PC, reading excerpts of cigar news to me. Recently, she wrote a very touching memoir of her first experience with cigars. It was a story she had told me several times and she finally wrote it up to share with our small cigar group. I won’t quote it here, but believe me, it was well-written and quite poignant. Her friends encouraged her to post it on the web, so she did. She’s gotten some good reviews on it already.
For someone who makes a conscious effort to shun the limelight, SWMNBN finds herself in it pretty frequently. At 8, she won a state-wide poster contest that her parents hadn’t even known she had entered. She was interviewed in the New York Times and got to meet the Governor. She met another Governor a few years ago, after winning some state-wide innovation and productivity award. Someone will probably find her story and want to buy the movie rights.
I guess that’s just how it is. People like myself, with mediocre talent, seek out the spotlight in order to assure ourselves that we have talent. Truly talented people don’t look for the spotlight, the spotlight just finds them.
I’m not bitter. I think it’s only right; I just wish it held true more often. I, myself, am becoming tired of the spotlight being training on untalented people. Being popular or notorious isn’t talent; talent is creating or singing or acting, and doing it well. That kind of talent deserves the spotlight. The rest of us should try harder, in private.
I was going to even out my diatribe on SWMNBN’s abandoned hobbies by going into a list of all the activities I have taken up, spent money on and left behind, but I’ve already written enough. That will have to wait for another day.
Sunday, September 27, 1998
10:51 AM
Scent of a Woman
I was with my Dream Girl the other night.
We were lying together, me on my back while she curled up like a kitten beside me, her head resting on my chest. I could feel her weight, it was a real, palpable sensation uncommon to my dreams. (It was probably the dog sleeping on me). We were cuddling contentedly, my arms around her while she slept peacefully. And I could smell her; that unmistakable scent of a woman in love.
There is nothing quite like that smell; the sweet, sensual scent of contentment. It’s a lively, eager smell, the smell of deep happiness and comfort; a smell that speaks of openness and familiarity, of willingness and desire. It is a scent that makes me drunk with bliss.
I have often wondered if it is that smell, or the feeling that comes with that smell, that I am addicted to. All my girlfriends smelled that way in the beginning, and I drank it in. But, after a time, the smell would fade, only to be replaced by the sour scent of discontent. That too, is a real smell; I smelled it in Chris and Sue and Jayne, to name a few. It is the smell of a doomed relationship.
I used to smell that sourness in SWMNBN, she used to reek of it, but not anymore. Now she seems, if not content, at least reconciled to … something. Now she just smells normal, like a co-worker or a cousin.
I never woke from that dream. It’s probably just as well. I really wouldn’t have wanted to have awakened, all aching and amorous, only to find the dog’s dopey face staring into mine.
Reality, what a gyp.
The weather on Saturday reverted to hot and humid. That’s pretty much how it is here in the northeast during the fall–hot one day, cold the next, then hot again. This year is a little more extreme than normal, but the current weather really isn’t all that unusual. Still, once summer is over, I do long for it to get cold (or at least cool) and stay that way. At this time of year, I begin to crave hot cider, stews and thick, steaming soups. Not something you want to eat while it’s 80 degrees outside.
I left at 9:30 in the morning to get The Boys. We went to Denny’s for brunch and, as usual, had some illuminating conversations. During the course of the meal, The Boy’s latest love interest was brought up and I asked if he was going steady with her. He didn’t seem to be familiar with the term so, for my benefit, he outlined the current dating jargon.
According to my son, what follows are the sequence of steps in the life span of a teenage, dating relationship:
#1: Talking: This is a pre-dating phase, where the two young people, though interested in each other, are not actually dating. It is a time of scoping each other out and getting to know one another.
#2: Seeing: This phase, also known as “Together” indicates that the two are an item, yet they are not yet officially labeled an “Item.” There is, instead, a “Respect Factor” in that neither partner will seek to go out with anyone else. This is the phase where the couple would begin “doing work” or, making out, on a regular basis.
#3: Going Out: At last, a term I recognize. And it means the same thing it did as when I was a teenager. Going Out means you are a solid item, you are going steady, you are boyfriend and girlfriend.
#4: Marriage Factor: This phase begins after the couple has been “Going Out for a really long time.” That would be about 6 months, according to my son. In this phase, you are basically like an old, married couple and “if anyone tries to mack on your girl you can legally give them a beating.” That’s nice to know.
#5: Break Up: This is the next logical step and it’s one I know well. This step hasn’t changed much over the years either and there are still only two ways to do it:
Good: you part as friends, or at least not mortal enemies.
Bad: you don’t speak to each other any longer and probably spread hateful rumors about your erstwhile partner to any of their prospective, future dates.
After Denny’s we ran some errands and I took them to some record shops so they could get their semi-monthly music fix. We ended up at a nice quiet park with some sodas where we relaxed and talked a little more.
I brought them home about 2:00 and then headed to Larkfest–a local, annual block party type of affair. SWMNBN had told me she and some of the Herfers were going to be there so I parked my car way down town and hiked several blocks into the fray.
At first I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me to bring The Boys and I began to get the “I’m a bad father” guilts. After a few minutes, I realized there really wasn’t much to do except eat expensive food and listen to deafeningly loud and overlapping bands while pushing your way through a pulsating crowd of semi-drunk avant-garde teenagers. Twin 1 would have been scared to death, Twin 2 would have gone into sensory overload and The Boy would have run off with the roadies to get high.
As for myself, I found that the idea of meeting up with SWMNBN in that sea of humanity worked much better in theory than in practice. I walked the length of the festival several times without bumping into her or any one of the group. Still, it was fun. Just looking at the people was worth the trip. The streets swarmed with young girls in diaphanous dresses, shimmering ornament dangling from every conceivable part of their bodies–eyebrows, lips, navels, ears. There was hardly a woman there without a stud in her delicate nose or a spike piercing her tender tongue. Most were accompanied by their mates, sullen young men outfitted in loose clothing, multi-colored hair and intricate tattoos. Quite a feast for the senses.
After my third trip through the throng, I stopped at a market and bought a bottle of beer. As I continued on my way, swilling from a paper bag, a wino sitting on the curb called out to me. At first, I thought he wanted my bottle, but I saw he had his own. As I neared him, he made it obvious he only wanted to shake my hand. This he did with enthusiasm and familiarity, as if I were a long-lost brother. I moved on, puzzled. Perhaps he was a future incarnation of myself and simply wanted me to meet the man I am destined to become? With half a bottle of beer in me, that made for interesting speculation.
I finally ran across the little group of Herfers when one of them, a tall, wide, and dome-shaven man, stuck out of the crowd enough to catch my eye. SWMNBN was far too short to see. The only others who had come were the erstwhile AA member and his non-Herfing girlfriend. The five of us wandered about for another hour or so, smoking cigars and marveling at the sights. Then the tall one caught up with some of his band-buddies and the remaining four of us decided to go out for dinner.
SWMNBN and I had both parked far away, so we went to where the other two had parked. They had driven in separately, so the girls rode together, and the boys rode together. It was just a short trip to the Washington Tavern, where we had decided to eat, but both sets of us managed to have profitable conversations.
The boys: We confessed to one another that we were alcoholics. I told him how I had been totally dry for a while, but could now drink moderately without too much trouble. He told me he had tried that, and was unable to do it, so he chose to avoid all alcohol. He didn’t like it, but he was at peace with it. We exchanged war stories and found a lot of common ground both in our drinking obsessions and our struggles to overcome them.
As for the girls, they found they were both Buffalo Bills and Yankees fans. They both have degrees in English Literature as well as a variety of similar interest (not to mention that they both live with ex-alcoholics). By the time we arrived at the Washington Tavern, they had decided they were twins separated at birth. They had also already decided what we were going to order.
It was really good spending time with another couple. I found it a lot easier to deal with SWMNBN in the presence of other people. The petty grips and prejudices I have melted away as silly and inconsequential in the friendly banter.
It’s odd, but one of the things I like to do best is tell self-effacing stories about myself. I do it with my friends and we all have a good laugh. However, if SWMNBN points out a supposed short-coming, I become defensive and sulky. With the other couple, we were able to trade stories and I found it all truly amusing. I was, at last, able to laugh at myself when SWMMBN told the story. It made me more hopeful about our future than I have been in a long, long time.
Before we parted, we made tentative plans to go to the theatre and the symphony together. Just the four of us, not as part of a Herf.
I remained mellow and hopeful even as SWMNBN and I sat together on the couch back at home (amazing what a few glasses of stout will do for your mood). As the evening progressed, however, she brought out the snacks and ate and watched TV until I thought I would go crazy with boredom. I stayed up until 11:00, hoping we might go to bed together, but she outlasted me and ended up sleeping on the couch.
This morning, after another horrific thunderstorm, the weather was positively steamy. At 9:30 this morning, with the ground still saturated from the storms, I managed to break a sweat while taking the dog just a short walk. SWMNBN and I were supposed to roast a chicken and make fresh apple pie today. I think that will have to wait until the weather turns again.
Tuesday, September 29, 1998
9:22 PM
Busted?
A disturbing thing happened at work this morning.
Yesterday, before I went home, the computer guru showed me a procedure he wanted me to do first thing the next morning. (I always get there before anyone else.)
I was to log on to the Internet Proxy Server as the Administrator, open up the server manager and click the option “Anonymous” off. No problem.
This morning, I did just as he asked. It went off without a hitch.
When he arrived, he checked with me to see if everything was working all right. I told him, “Sure,” and he said now he could track “the logs.” I didn’t know what he meant, and had no interest in finding out, but he asked me to come along with him. In the computer room, he logged onto the Internet Server, opened some log files and there, for the whole office to see, were all the Internet sites visited by anyone in the entire agency–along with their names!
Apparently, prior to my clicking on that option, all that came up in the logs was the name “Anonymous.” As we scrolled through the files, there was my name, and the URL for Cracks of Time.
I made a point of not noticing it, and all he did was smile and say, “I’m sure all that was for research purposes.”
Getting caught surfing the Internet on an Agency PC is not what I’m worried about–and it’s not what they’re looking for, either. The point of the tracking is to find and block any “inappropriate” web sites the employees might be perusing. I’m not going to get into trouble for surfing around, even to the journal sites. But what if they decide to check one out, just to see why I’m at it so often? Suppose my co-workers log in to the Cracks of Time?
Oh God, I don’t even want to think about it!
Never mind that I’ve written some pretty personal stuff in here, I’ve also revealed some things that could get me fired.
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit!!!!
My only hope is that they won’t be too curious about where one of their own has been surfing to and won’t bother to check it out. After a while, those logs will be deleted and I’ll be safe again.
But now I know I can’t check on my site at work. What a bummer! And I’ll never REALLY know that no one at work is seeing this. (But maybe that won’t be so bad, because the people I work with are really super and I like each and every one of them a whole lot, and I never really lied about going to the dentist so I could leave work early and go drinking. Honest.)
Could have been worse. I might not have found out about the log files.
Wednesday, September 30, 1998
4:33 PM
Reflections on September
Wow, a month already since I took this Journal on-line. And what has happened?
– I spent two of the last 4 and-some-change weeks in computer school.
– I took the dog for 65 walks.
– On 19 of the past 30 days I managed to take my vitamins and dietary supplements.
– On 11 of those days I managed to drink some water.
– I ate what I consider to be a healthy lunch 24 times, and got in 16 healthy dinners.
– I did 280 sit-ups, 184 push-ups and 158 squat-thrusts and I lost 0 pounds.
– I took 10 long walks, worked on my hobbies 16 times, practiced my guitar 8 times and didn’t work on my novel at all.
– I watched 24 hours of TV, had 16 beers, and smoked 17 cigars.
– And I posted 27 Journal entries.
Now, what have we learned?
I see that my life, and the situation I am choosing to live in, looks somewhat bizarre when revealed in these little snippets of prose. I’d love to tell you all that this is simply because I am a poor writer and didn’t explain everything very clearly, but I can’t. The truth is, my life and the situation I have chosen to live in is truly bizarre. Even I can see that when I read these pages
Perhaps some good will come out of this. Perhaps, by writing about my life in this way, I’ll see more clearly the traps I have set for myself. I could learn to avoid them, or to escape them, or to set them better. The choice is mine.
And finally, during the month of September, there were 165 visits to this web site.
Thanks for listening.
On to October.
October 1998
02 My Job
05 The Good, the Bad, and the Melted
06 Off the Leash
08 Keeping Secrets
09 Of Journals and Cigars
10 Jinxed but Good
14 Begin Again
15 Ready to Roll
20 I’m Back
22 I Knew This Would Happen
23 Fall Back
24 I Like Bikes
27 Heights and the High Life
Friday, October 02, 1998
7:07 PM
My Job
As I mentioned earlier, our computer department now has the means to track what Internet sites employees are surfing to during the work day. My task was to go through some of the logs, find any porno sites and block them. Most sites are easy to spot, but there are some ambiguously named sites that might or might not be porn-related. In order to keep from blocking legitimate sites, my boss told me to visit each of these sites to ascertain whether or not they were, indeed, pornographic.
So, my job, for a few hours yesterday morning, was to surf the Internet and look at pornography.
After that, my co-workers and I went to have a few beers for lunch.
Gotta love it!
[NOTE: In my defense, I also did some database programming, and I did monitor other activities on the network aside form web traffic. For effect, I like to point out the fun or unusual things I do during the course of my day, but I really do have a job that requires me to do regular work. (Does it show that I am still a little concerned that my co-workers and/or boss might have found this site?)]
Beyond that, the day was pretty typical. I can’t write much more because we’re getting ready for the Boston cigar trip tomorrow. I had to stop on my way home to get some subs to eat on the ride out and now I have to pack the cooler and load up my Herfdor with a bunch of cigars, and make sure my camera, cigar lighter, cutter and other paraphernalia are at the ready.
Monday, October 05, 1998
11:06 AM
The Good, the Bad and the Melted
Boston was a trip!
It’s truly odd. I get angry when SWMNBN continues to steer me into activities that, left on my own, I would never do. It makes me feel pushed and manipulated. Yet, at the same time, I never fail to have fun doing these things. I guess that means, if I was on my own, I’d have less fun, but I’d be happier. Does that make sense?
At any rate, we all rendezvoused at our local cigar shop, piled in the rented van and set out for Boston. The day was sunny and cool, not at all unpleasant. We stopped for a picnic lunch about mid-trip, and made Boston at 2 o’clock–just a half hour behind schedule. (That’s pretty good for this group.)
We parked off the interstate in an underground garage and ascended to the street, finding ourselves in a bustling and busy and unfamiliar environment. I was totally out of my league, but SWMNBN, born and raised in Brooklyn, took charge. It was like watching the dog when we take her into the mountains on our hikes; inside she’s a lazy couch-potato, but once in the wild, her instincts take over and she becomes The Mighty Hunter. It was no different with SWMNBN. We gave her the lead and her instincts kicked in–all we had to do was keep up. In the middle of this city, she found the meeting place (several blocks away) within ten minutes.
I’m finding that cigar people are like a fraternity. As soon as we met and were introduced, it was like old home week. We chatted, compared Herfdors, traded cigars and retired to the BrewMoon for some locally brewed beverages.
The afternoon was spent visiting area cigar shops and then we went to dinner at Morton’s Steak House, a Chicago based establishment.
What an exquisite meal they had for us. We had a private room, and the table was set with linen and crystal and elegant flatware and, of course, cigars. The chef performed the menu for us, and the food was superb.
That was Saturday.
Sunday, we had to play catch up. I was up early doing laundry and washing dishes and then SWMNBN got up and said we needed to go shopping.
The dog seemed a little clingy, following SWMNBN around and not letting her out of sight, but we figured that was normal after having been left in the care of a puppy-sitter for the entire previous day.
We shopped, and returned to find that the dog, out of worry, had made herself sick. She had thrown up all over the carpet and, while that was being cleaned, we discovered that the refrigerator had suddenly stopped working.
Dog puke, melting ice cream, thawing pork chops and spoiling milk filled the next hour or so. Being late Sunday afternoon, there was no one available to call for service, so it was get some ice and move what we could to the coolers and the neighbors.
Today, I’m taking work off. SWMNBN needed someone to call around to find a refrigerator repair service and then wait for the repairman to show up. I was elected. I don’t mind, I can use a day off to relax.
Hopefully, everything is under control now. The housework is done, the fridge is on its way to being fixed (or to the junk yard), and I’ve got plenty of time to work on my web pages.
And the dog is pretty happy about not being left alone, too.
Tuesday, October 06, 1998
10:09 PM
Off the Leash
Monday turned out to be quite a full day. SWMNBN came home in the early afternoon so I had to stop working on my web pages. The repairman showed up shortly after and pronounced the old refrigerator dead. SWMNBN, having already done her research in preparation for such an event, went off to buy a new one.
I went with her, naturally, but I didn’t have much to do. Mostly I stood behind her nodding my head in agreement. The whole process took about fifteen minutes.
In the late afternoon, SWMNBN read her e-mail and found that a mini-herf was being called for a guy visiting from out of town. She decided we would go. No complaints from me. Then, as the appointed time drew near, she began to feel poorly and decided to stay home. I was expecting her to tell me she had decided we were both staying home; I was ready and waiting for it.
A little background: Something happened the other day that got me thinking. During the planning phase of the Boston trip, it was decided that someone needed to pick up the van. One guy volunteered, then somehow got me involved in it, then somehow put me in the position where I was going to do it myself–even though I had never even volunteered in the first place. I was confused, but certainly willing to do it. After all, it’s really no big deal. SWMNBN, however, disagreed and sent off an e-mail telling the rest of the group to, in effect, stop taking advantage of her boyfriend.
“You know what your problem is,” she asked, rhetorically, “you’re too willing to do what other people want you to do. If someone asks you for something, you just do it, you never think about whether you want to do it or not. So, here’s what you’re going to do, you’re going to blah, blah, blah, blah . . .” It occurred to me then that she was right, more than she knew. Most things I do or do not do are not decided by me, they are decided by her. Where I go, who I see, what I eat for dinner, what I watch on TV, it all follows her whims and wants. And that’s not a criticism of her so much as it is of me. If I want to do something, I should just speak up. If she gets angry because I speak my mind, then it’s her problem.
The trouble with realizing this was that I suddenly developed a huge chip on my shoulder. I was just looking for her to suggest I do something, anything, other than what I made up my mind to do. It could have been anything, suggesting I wear a sweater, offering me a book to read that she found interesting, switching the channels on the TV. I knew I’d just blow up and start screaming like a lunatic over some stupid little thing and come off looking like a moron.
So, I waited. And Monday night, I wanted to go out and meet this guy for drinks and cigars. If she didn’t want to, that didn’t mean I had to stay home. That was an issue I thought I could defend, a stand worth taking, a fight worth winning.
But instead, she just turned to me and said, “If you want to go without me, that’s OK.”
Son of a bitch! Just when I was getting ready to test my spine. I swear that girl has radar.
So I went out. Alone. Without anyone watching me. It felt so good! I can’t remember how long it’s been. It brought back vague memories–good ones–reminders of a time when I could do as I pleased, when I had a mind of my own which, as I recall, was filled with opinions.
The Herfers met up with the out of towner and we all went to the Washington Tavern for wings and beverages (sodas for them, stout for me). We smoked, watched the game (boy, does Green Bay suck this year!) shot the shit and had a generally great time. I even made it home before midnight.
This morning, SWMNBN was feeling worse so I took more time off from work to help with the new refrigerator. It was delivered at about 11:00 but it took several hours to peel all the tape off, wash all the parts, put it all back together and transfer our food into it from the coolers. Everything now seems back to normal, waiting for the next domestic emergency.
I spent the rest of today tinkering with my web pages so I’m pretty tired of PC work right now. I think I’ll just load this up and go to bed.
Thursday, October 08, 1998
10:22 PM
Keeping Secrets
Some months ago, I got a Fortune Cookie containing the advice “The best way to keep a secret is to keep secret the fact that you have one.”
I thought that was more profound than most wisdom found inside of cookies, so I made a point of remembering it. It has proven especially true where this Journal is concerned.
Recently, I told a friend about Cracks of Time. Just one person; the one person in this world I truly believe I can trust. I didn’t reveal the URL though, I just wanted to let them know I was doing an on-line Journal–after all, they get to listen to all this crap in person, I couldn’t imagine they would want to read it as well. But then I got thinking: just knowing that this Journal exists is probably enough of a clue for anyone to find it. So, I tested the theory out.
Pretending I knew absolutely nothing beyond the fact that a journal, by me, existed, I did some generic searching and within two and a half minutes, arrived at the Cracks of Time.
It was not a comforting feeling.
I gave the URL to my friend the next time we spoke–after all, there was no hiding it–and exacted solemn promises of silence.
So now the truth hits home: this Journal is easy as hell to find. The ONLY thing that keeps it hidden is ignorance of its existence. But that, at least, is something I have some control over.
I am still confident that the odds of someone I know stumbling upon this site accidentally are about the same as randomly running into an old friend who happens to be in the state of Minnesota on the same day you are. They are astronomical. But . . .
There’s really nothing to be gained by worrying about it, so I don’t. I’m just a bit unnerved by how easily this Journal can be found out by someone with the knowledge of its existence and the desire to find it. Luckily, most people I know (SWMNBN in particular) lack both of those criteria.
And I will never tell another soul about this Journal. Ever. I swear.
The weather turned wet and warm on Wednesday. The days have been gray and drizzly, but not quite as cold. SWMNBN is still sick. I’m sure the up and down temperatures haven’t helped, and neither has all this going out and smoking cigars.
We were out again last night. It was, as usual, a great time. I had my usual three pints and three cigars and a big rack of ribs and a lot of laughs. But this morning I was dragging a bit.
Friday, October 09, 1998
9:48 AM
Of Journals and Cigars
Apparently, there is a lot to be said on the subject of thinking one can keep an on-line Journal from friends and family; more than I can fit into a post to the Diary List, so allow me to ramble on about it here in my Journal:
I’ve been keeping journals in one form or another since I was 15. I still have most of them and they are, to me, priceless.
The desire to keep a journal is, like the ability to curl your tongue, something you either have, or you don’t. As for myself, I don’t know why everyone doesn’t keep a journal. I can’t imagine not having one. To other people, writing down what you do and what you think on a daily basis is either boring, lunacy or an invasion of privacy. I guess that’s a good thing; it takes all kinds to make a world, and all that.
Over the years, I have desired to share my Journal with other people, and occasionally I have found someone with the emotional maturity, the understanding and the desire to share. Those were special times and special people. Neither came along very often.
The only person I truly regretted sharing my journal with was a girlfriend from many, many years back. Sometime after we met, while the bloom was still on the rose, I told her about my journal and she asked if she could read it. I let her.
As the passion leaked away and resentments began to rise, the tone of my journal entries began to change from that of a man sick with love to a confused boy wondering how to make sense of the transformations in our relationship. I suppose, in a more mature person, reading a journal entry about yourself, and seeing yourself the way the other person sees you, might help you understand and enable you to build a better relationship. Well, not with her. If I wrote about any faults in our relationship, she came at me with a fury. So, I told her she couldn’t read the Journal anymore.
It is really difficult to put the toothpaste back in the tube, and so it was with this. After being privy to my most private thoughts, she was not now going to allow herself to be shut out. She accomplished this, as she accomplished most things, by unleashing her wrath. If I refused to let her read my entries, there was a 100% probability that she would tear into me. If I relented and allowed her to read it, there was only a 70% chance of rants. So, more often than not, she was allowed to read what I wrote. And more often than not, she made me regret it.
So I did the only logical thing I could think of (I never claimed to be very smart)–I began keeping TWO journals. The REAL one, and the one I let my girlfriend read.
That went on until we finally broke up.
Now I’m a little more selective about who I allow to read my journals. And I never allow girlfriends to read them!
When I first discovered Web-Journals, I was thrilled. Here, at last, was the opportunity to read other people’s journals–something I rarely had the opportunity to do. After a while, I was, naturally, tempted to join in the fun.
As I noted in my background info, the anonymity issue kept me off-line for quite a while. Then I did the math and took a calculated risk. Others think I am taking a huge chance–I think I’m taking a small one.
Sure, I found these journal sites. And so did you. My guess is that you, yourself, keep a journal, or used to, or want to. Otherwise, why would you be here?
I’m certain there are exceptions, but I feel safe in saying that most on-line journals are read by other journal keepers, on- or off-line.
This is a comfort to me, for two reasons:
First, because I keep my own journal, when I read someone else’s, I understand. I am not horrified, grossed out, shocked or whatever by the things people say about themselves or other people. I understand, because I do it myself. I know the journaling experience, not as a voyeur, but as a participant. I know about the process. I understand. And I expect most visitors to my site do, as well. This is what enables me to speak freely here; those few of you reading these words are most likely doing the same thing yourselves. You know. You understand.
The other reason I am comforted (and I know I’m beating a dead horse here) is that, unless you keep a journal yourself, you are not likely to seek out and read journal sites. Why would you?
Believe it or not, there is a whole sub-culture of people out there whose hobby (for want of a better word) is bestiality. They have web sites. With photos. I know this only because I hit on one while policing my office’s Internet use. (Some sick fuck working here actually sits and looks at that stuff all day.) Other than that, I would never have seen any site like that on the Internet. How could I? It never even occurred to me that they existed, and if it had, I surely wouldn’t have gone looking for one.
So I still believe that, without the knowledge that I maintain an on-line journal, and the corresponding desire to look at it, the odds of anyone I know reading these pages is very slim indeed. And if they happen to be seeking out journal sites because they are interested in putting their own journals on-line, well, then they understand.
I think, as journalists, we tend to think that most people are like us. They aren’t. Your average person doesn’t give a rat’s ass about recording the events in their lives. So, if we continually stumble across each other’s sites, that’s only because we travel in a relatively small circle.
But that’s one of the reasons I’m here.
I have, over the years, enjoyed writing in my journal. I have, on occasion, enjoyed sharing it. But now, I have tapped into a reservoir of like-minded people, all of us willing to share our journals with each other. I think this is fabulous, and worth the risk of being ‘outed’ by my non-journalling friends.
Spending time with like-minded people is a joy. I’ve done it over the years by becoming involved in certain hobbies. When you share something like that with another person, you are almost automatic friends.
Which brings me to cigars.
Over this past week, I have met 5 people from the Boston area, one guy from L.A. and another guy from Long Island. I have genuinely liked them all. What drew us together was an appreciation of fine cigars. That’s a lot different from a journal, but the concept is the same, meet on common ground, and move on from there.
SWMNBN and I have commented several times on how we have not yet met anyone we haven’t liked at these cigar meets. It isn’t that we have common ground with all cigar smokers, as I’m certain there are plenty of nasty people who smoke cigars. What we have in common is that we enjoy cigars, and formed a club so we could enjoy them with other people.
So, to bring us back to journals: there are a lot of people keeping journals out there, there are not quite as many willing to share them, there are fewer still with the desire (and the know-how and the time and the equipment) to post them on the web, and only a sub-set of those people are willing to join web-rings and list servers and participate in on-line discussions about their experiences. I think these are fairly select groups, and I can’t imagine many people outside of these groups would want to spend time and energy surfing the web for journals.
Especially with all those Bestiality sites out there.
I apologize for being expository; tomorrow, back to my screwed up life.
Saturday, October 10, 1998
7:32PM
Jinxed but Good
Naturally, the day after I wrote that last entry, my girlfriend found my on-line Journal.
In my panic, I deleted all of it, from Tripod and the PC, and vowed never to do it again.
Wednesday, 14 October 1998
5:37 PM
Begin Again
Explanatory Note: Obviously, my resolve to stop my on-line journal–as well as my chagrin at being found out–lasted all of four days. I seem to have merely moved the journal from one site to another, hoping, once again, this this would be enough to shield it from SWMNBN.
Finally getting my act together.
This site has been bare for several days and I have been so busy I have barely had time to post a “Technical Difficulties” message, much less re-design the entire site.
This is the new look. There will be a new slant, too, as soon as I figure out what it is. The Who, What, Where pages have yet to go up also. There is still a lot of work to do, and I won’t be back in town until next week.
. . . until then . . .
Thursday, 15 October 1998
5:18 PM
Ready to Roll
It’s getting there. Still a bit of tweaking to do and background to write up, but all in all I’m pleased. Being pressed for time as I am, it promised to be some time before all that is finished, however.
I’ll be busy for the next few days and won’t be able to get at this at all. Just as well, I can use the break.
My new pages are arranged to make it as convenient as possible for *me*. I actually write the entries right onto the page itself, instead of working on my laptop, then doing a cut and paste and arranging all the links. I’m still getting used to doing it this way, but I think I’m going to like it much better.
It’s also going to take me a while to get used to writing with the knowledge that people I know are reading this. That didn’t hold me back before; now I’ll have to learn to be a little more diplomatic. Just a well, I tend to look on the dark side of situations far too much; maybe being encouraged to think happier thoughts will make me a happier person.
I doubt it, I’m too good at being gloomy.
Have a nice weekend, I know I will.
Tuesday, 20 October 1998
5:31 PM
I’m Back
Another short one today, I’m afraid. And I had such grandiose plans.
SWMNBN and I spent the weekend in the woods—snug in a cabin in the wilds of the southern Adirondack Mountains. We hiked and canoed and chopped wood watched the stars and sat by the fire–an active but mellow weekend. Although I thoroughly enjoy spending time with nature, I was looking forward to returning to the land of hot and cold running water. Mostly so I could write.
Sitting by the fire one night, I finally finished reading last month’s writer’s magazine. It contained three of the most poorly written articles I have read in a long time, yet I learned, or re-learned, something valuable from each one. This excited me, and prompted me to take copious notes of our adventures in the mountains so I could write it all up the next time I got near a computer.
This desire sparked an urge to expand on my web pages even more and, during the quiet hours, I drafted plans and outlined articles. My return home should have been marked by a flurry of activity sustained by creative mania. Instead, we found another “Call to Herf” waiting for us on our E-Mail, and I ended up watching Monday Nite football at a local bar, a pint of stout in one hand and a cigar in the other. Not an altogether unpleasant way to finish up an extra-long weekend, but it put me over the top, energy-wise.
I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I don’t want to drink another beer, I don’t want to smoke another cigar, I don’t want to hang out in another bar, I just want to curl up on the sofa with a good book and some hot chocolate and listen to some classical music.
But I’m not doing that, either. I’m still trying to put at least some of these plans in motion. I expect I will write up the camping trip and post it to my Home Pages. You can check it out if you’d like. It might not be there tonight–the photos certainly won’t be—so look again in a week or so. Maybe I’ll have it done by then.
That’s another thing I want to do—link my other pages to this one. It would be a one-way deal; you’ll be able to find them from here, but you won’t be able to find this Journal from the other pages. It’s like this is the inner sanctum. I tell my friends and family about my Home Page—it has photos and genealogical information and (soon) photo essays of our trips. And I tell other friends about The Cigar Pages, which started out as part of my Home Page but has now taken on a life of it’s own. I separated them because not everyone we know needs to find out that we are cigar aficionados.
And I tell almost no one about this Journal. If you’re here, then you’re most likely a perfect stranger. That’s how I intended it to be from the beginning, but I made some modifications along the way. Now, I tell my most trusted friends and family, so if you know me and you are reading this, consider yourself one of the chosen few.
I hope you feel honored.
Thursday, 22 October 1998
4:49 PM
I Knew This Would Happen
When I began publishing my Journal on the web, one of the driving ideas behind it was to have a web site that was updated continually so that people might actually come back from time to time to see what had been added.
While that was getting into full swing, I was also doing some other, personal pages of limited interest. (This is not an advertisement for those other pages–I have already mentioned them and will be listing them in my “People, Places, Things” pages once they are done, so if you want to find them, look for them there.)
Those pages, which featured photographs of my cigar-smoking excursions, caught the attention of our cigar group and I was promptly nominated to be our official web-master. This was fine with me. As I told the group, I would have posted the pages anyway, and to have ‘official’ sanction meant I could send the URL to other cigar smoking groups and begin building a wider audience.
I was actually looking forward to having pages that would be updated on a semi-regular basis and that would, not doubt, draw the attention of the cigar-smoking community. It was what I have been looking for since I began publishing on the web–and I simply fell into it by accident.
Then SWMNBN volunteered to ‘help.’
First, she didn’t like the lay-out and had me change the pages from the format I had designed (which was a frame-like imitation without the bother of actual frames) to a true frame environment. This was no small task.
Then she didn’t like the way the frames navigated, so I changed them to her specifications. Then, last night, she sat down to do some work on part of the web-site, pronounced it unacceptable, scrapped the whole thing and started it over from scratch.
I’m so tired of it all. I would love to be able to do things together with her, but the fact is, anything she touches becomes hers; the only way I can truly own anything is to make sure she knows nothing about it. Yet she wonders why I am so jealous of my private time and guard the moments I have to myself.
I’d better stop there. Now that she knows about this Journal, I expect she’ll be reading it from time to time (God knows I would if the role were reversed) so I really don’t want to get too deep into it. Let’s just say I’m pissed.
Otherwise, life is good. I’m putting my energy into this website and my other, personal home page (I’m nearly done with the camping trip write-up), and my real job is finally going somewhere. I was hired as a network administrator a few months ago, but lately they seem to have discovered that I have a talent for database programming. I’m working on some projects now and it’s gratifying to end the day knowing I got some tangible work accomplished.
I expect that’s enough bitching for one day. I want to get some more work done on the rest of this site, as well as my personal home page. Once SWMNBN gets home, I’ll see what new look she has unveiled for the Cigar Pages.
Friday, 23 October 1998
4:22
Fall Back
I’m writing this on the 23rd but I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to post tonight. SWMNBN and I are scheduled for a Herf (I’ll get to the Glossary page soon, I promise) at the Malt River Brewing Company tonight. All this partying is cutting into my web-time.
I’m still a little sore about her taking over my Cigar Pages web site. I got an e-mail from her this morning on our CigarNet Mail Group announcing that she is going to move the site to Tripod so she can take advantage of the MS Front Page extensions. More power to her. She’s welcome to it; now I have more time for my own pages.
Daylight savings time ends this weekend. I’m sorta sorry to see it go. These past few weeks have been one of the two times that I am able to rise, dress and make the trip into work in total darkness. With my commute now extended by a fifteen-minute bus ride, the days of darkness are becoming fewer.
Don’t get me wrong. I love summer, and rising with the sun to find the world dewy and fresh. Those days are warm and open, and I drive to work with the sun already high despite the early hour.
But now, and during the darkest days of December, it is full dark when I wake up. The stars shine, hard and white in the black sky while I walk the dog. My drive to the bus is in darkness and the loud, drafty bumpy ride into downtown reminds me of those few times I have risen before the sun to catch a plane and ride the shuttle-bus to the airport. Flying away from Albany cannot help but bring a smile to one’s face, and remnants of that same feeling of freedom touch me, though in a somewhat softened form, each of these dark mornings.
When the bus lets me off at my office, the streetlights are still on, and the city looms gray and empty. In my office I watch the dawn break slowly over the Helderburg escarpment and the distant hills where my boys and I camp during the summer. It is a peaceful, bucolic scene and a pleasant way to begin any day, even if I’m at work.
Monday it will be light again when I leave for work, then will come those awkward days when it is dim enough upon pulling out of the development where I have to turn my car lights on, yet nearly full daylight when I pull into the bus parking lot. Those are days of some embarrassment, when I absentmindedly walk away from my car with the headlamps blazing impotently into the rising sun.
More than once I’ve returned from work to my car battery lifeless as flat soda.
So I look forward to the dark days again, those cold, joyless mornings where the simple act of arriving at work is an accomplishment in itself. There is a bit of satisfaction in conquering the dark and cold that I do not get during the lazy days of summer. Then, life is simply pleasant. Anyone can deal with pleasant–winter, much as I dislike it, builds character.
Saturday, 24 October 1998
7:25 PM
I Like Bikes
Back at the Agency I used to work for, office e-mail is often used as a company-wide bulletin board. People offer to buy, sell and trade all manner of items. Personally, I sold a lot of items that way while I worked there, and it was through one of those e-mail postings that we got the dog.
Last week, when an e-mail was sent advertising a motorcycle for sale, it was forwarded to me at my new office (I am gone, but not forgotten). I thought about it, briefly. I had gotten rid of my last one because there was no place to ride it here in yuppie hell, and I had no place to store it over the winter. I couldn’t see getting another one.
But the price was low and when the guy (who was a friend of mine) found out I was interested, he knocked even more off the price. So I located a place to store it and made arrangements to have a look.
The plan was to go look at it on Saturday while I was with my boys, which would give us something to do. I stopped at our storage unit to drop off a few things and pick up my helmet, which I had hung on to for no apparent reason. When I arrived at the boys’ house, I explained the plan and we all got into The Boy’s car so he could drive. It was then that I realized I had forgotten my helmet. No harm. We drove to Denny’s for brunch and then I had The Boy drive us all, somewhat out of our way, to the storage unit.
It wasn’t until we pulled up in front of the locked door that it occurred to me that I keep the key for the storage unit in my car. I had to go to the front office and ask to borrow their bolt cutters. Then I had to buy a new lock.
With the helmet (at last), The Boy drove us all out into the wilds of Greene county to have a look at this bike. (By the way, he’s had his license only a few months, but he drives very well. I wasn’t the least bit concerned the whole time and only had to tell him to slow down three or four times.)
Although my memory had worked against me, the weather was in my favor. It was a golden autumn day, sunny and warm with a bright blue sky and just the hint of a breeze. It was the sort of day that used to make me think about motorcycles even before it occurred to me to own one.
I pretty much knew I was going to take the bike, unless it was a total piece of crap. It wasn’t. It was shiny and black and, despite being a 1981 model, in good repair. I’m a small guy, so I don’t like big, heavy bikes, and this was a Honda 400, just my size. I bought it on the spot.
Now I can’t imagine why I ever got rid of my old one.
It all came back in a rush: the smell of leather and gas and grease, sitting astride the seat and feeling the big machine between your legs (yes, there is something very phallic about motorcycles, and don’t let anyone tell you different). There was the familiar feel of the handle grips and the rumble of the engine. And then we drove away, me on the bike, the boys following in the car.
I love being on a bike, it’s the only place I feel so totally alone and in control (except, perhaps for SCUBA diving, which is probably why I like that so much, also). Even if you’re riding with someone, it’s still just you, and the bike, the wind and the white noise of the engine. You’re a tiny capsule of sound speeding down the highway, a merging of man and machine. You drive with your mind, not with your body. When a curve comes along, the bike just seems to tilt and swing with the road of its own accord and there is that grand feeling of oneness with the bike. I loved all the old feelings and how they became fresh again–the cool wind, the warm sun, the tingling in my hands from the vibrations of the bike. Within two miles I was exchanging salutes with other bikers, affirming our fraternity despite my having rejoined only minutes before.
The ride home was long, and I savored every second. My mind began to race, recalling those things I needed to be thinking–watch for potholes, grooved pavement, oil slicks and wet spots. Keep an eye out for other drivers and watch your speed (as the exhilaration often causes me to neglect local speed limits). And I began remembering bike moments of the past:
. . . pulling out of a party on midsummer’s eve, a warm, humid night, my then-girlfriend and I both riding our bikes, she has only recently gotten her license, I worry that she might freeze up with all her friends watching but she swings out of the driveway, dipping low in a graceful, tight and impressive curve. I follow, very proud of her . . .
. . . giving a ride to our baby-sitter, the 16 year old daughter of my pastor, she was 6 when I traveled with her and her family to Mexico and now she watches the children for my wife and I, she rides comfortably behind me, not stiff and nervous like my wife, she holds me but I feel no fear in her slender arms, just an easy joy, and when, in a moment of inattention, I pull out in front of another vehicle and have to gun the engine and practically lay the bike on its side to make the corner and miss the car, she makes no move that might upset us and leans as naturally with the bike as I do; the bike, myself and her, all one, make the corner, right ourselves and continue on in one seamless motion and it is good to be alive . . .
. . . riding, as I often did, as a passenger on the back of my friend’s bike, it is summer and we have used our lunch break to cash our pay checks. We work second shift at a State Agency, I have only been there a few years, I am 25, I have never owned a bike. As we return from the bank, the sun is beginning to set and the sky glows gloriously red and orange, I look to the west, feel the wind on my face, smell the freshness of the evening air and know I must own a motorcycle. . .
Shortly after the scene described in that last paragraph, my buddy decided to buy a bigger bike and sold me the very one I was riding on that evening. He taught me to ride, and I can think of no better gift he could have given me. Then I taught my girlfriend, and passed the gift, and the joy, on to another.
The ride ended at my ex-wife’s new husband’s garage. They had agreed to let me keep it there over the winter, for which I am deeply in debt to them (my ex-wife and I get along much better now that we’re not married to each other, and I genuinely like her husband). One ride, and now I was putting it away until April. It about broke my heart.
But now I own a bike, where three days ago I wasn’t even thinking about it. And even though I won’t see it again until next spring, that one ride I took was practically worth the price I paid for it.
Tuesday, 27 October 1998
4:52 PM
Heights and the High Life
So strange to be rising with soft dawn glowing outside my bedroom windows, to be able to pick out my socks and match my tie without having to turn on my reading lamp. When I walk the dog, the stars no longer shine; instead, the sky is a luminous powder blue. Denuded trees stand like stark silhouettes along the horizon.
At the bus stop I have to double check to make certain I have turned off my headlights, and by the time I arrive downtown, the sun is high and glinting off the glass of the office buildings.
When I left work yesterday, my shadow was long. It stretched out far behind me while I waited for the bus, spreading over the dark green of the Capitol building’s park-like courtyard, blending with the spidery shadows of the trees and merging into the gray wash of the building itself. The air was already chilling up in preparation for the evening. The long nights are coming.
Boy, is winter going to suck. Hard.
Busy week ahead. I spent last night playing catch-up with my various webpages (they’re still way out ahead, however). Tonight, we’re going to a retirement dinner (not mine, unfortunately), tomorrow night is the concert (classical, not rock), Friday is another Herf (still hoping to get the glossary up so you’ll know what I’m talking about) and Saturday is, of course, Halloween. The party never ends; I get tired just thinking about it.
We hiked on Sunday. It was another glorious autumn day and, fortunately, we didn’t waste it sitting inside tinkering with web pages. We went to North South Lake and hiked the loop to Artist’s rock and Neuman’s ledge. We’d been there before, but it is such a breath-taking hike we thought it deserved a repeat visit.
I like hiking, and I like that fact that SWMNBN gets manic about it. Otherwise, I’d just sit home with a beer and a cigar (or, worse, without a beer and cigar) and let all that beautiful weather and scenery go to waste. Unfortunately, she tends to go a little bit overboard.
North South Lake is a short, easy and scenic hike but, as usual, I had to bring the pack with all the ‘necessary’ gear in it. This pack is a high-tech, expensive piece of mountaineering equipment with buckles and straps and fastenings that rivals my scuba gear. Whenever I strap myself into it, I feel like I’m putting on a parachute. In it is the bug spray we never use, the first aid kit we never use, the large and bulky flashlight we never use, extra maps and books we shouldn’t need, a compass we’d better not need, extra clothes we don’t need, several types of high-energy foods, all the dog’s gear and a special sack containing about 20 pounds of water, of which we use about 3.
Sometimes I don’t mind, such as when we undertake a really long hike, like the 13 miles we did last November when it rained and snowed (just a little). But Sunday’s hike was, literally, a walk in the woods.
Because it was such a nice day, there were a lot of other people on the trail. Most of them were wearing jogging shorts, sneakers and flannel shirts. Some of them carried small bottles of water; others carried small children. Yet here I was, decked out like Grizzly fucking Adams ready to conquer two-thirds of the Adirondack Trail. I felt like the doofy neighborhood kid who, when invited to a backyard touch football game, shows up in full NFL gear.
Despite the embarrassing over-preparations, it was a nice hike. The 4-mile trail goes up along a ridge and opens onto Artist’s Rock, a huge protrusion of granite that affords a wide-angle view of the entire Catskills. It is, quite literally, breath-taking, especially to someone as afraid of heights as I am.
The trail then moves along Neuman’s ledge. The book states that there is “a disturbing drop” beside the trail, which is akin to pointing out that hurricanes are “somewhat windy.” On one side of the narrow path is the forest. On the other, is a straight shot to the valley floor. Disturbing doesn’t quite cut it for me. Terrifying comes close.
It is a bit odd, my fear of heights. I’m extremely sure-footed and have a great sense of balance. On the lower rocks and ledges, I can jump and climb and balance with the best, but once the height gets over ten feet or so, I freeze. On both trips across this ledge, my palms began to sweat, and I tended to lean noticeably toward the forest side.
At one bend in the trail, the rock ledge juts into a point that overhangs the valley. Last year, SWMNBN crawled out and looked over the edge. This year, she walked up to the edge, and I forced myself to crawl up to it, inch by inch, fists tight, my breath coming in shallow gulps. But I did look over, and I got photos (they’re posted on my other page).
SWMNBN, closer to the edge of Newmen’s Ledge than I’ll ever get.
After I crawled back to safety, another group of hikers, a woman and two men, sauntered up to the very lip of the rock and looked casually into the abyss. I had to turn away. I couldn’t breathe while looking at them. Even now, safe on level ground, simply writing about it is making my palms sweat.
November 1998
14 I Didn’t Mean to Do This
15 Yup, It’s November
17 Work, Work, Work
19 More Tinkering
20 Going Home – Part I
21 Going Home – Part II
22 Scents of the Season
23 The Writing Process
25 Unexpected Outcomes
29 Family2
Saturday, 14 November 1998
9:12 AM
I Didn’t Mean to Do This
I awoke early this morning from a very life-like dream. I won’t bore you with details, but it shook me up some and I came awake confused about where I was.
It was still very early, but I got up, made coffee and settled into my office to write a normal journal entry, my first since halting Cracks of Time (again) just over a week ago.
I began tinkering with the web pages, and in a bit found myself looking over the Cracks of Time pages. Then I checked my NedStats. People are still visiting. Not many, but even though the site is gone, folks still drop by.
And I realized I missed doing this and, as you may note in the People, Places Things update section, I was not getting any more work done on all the other things I had imagined I was neglecting in favor of this web site. So I figured, ‘What the Hell.’
Here’s another entry. Maybe there will be more.
Sunday, 15 November 1998
7:58 AM
Yup, It’s November
We’ve been enjoying a relatively warm fall and, even though the trees are devoid of leaves it is sometimes hard to remember that the year is nearly over.
This morning, when I got up, it was cold and gray. A chill wind is making the bare branches wave against the brooding sky and . . .
8:04 PM
Wow! Got caught up in the CigarNet pages and my other, personal web page. They are both on XOOM but XOOM has been down for the past week or so and I was getting frustrated not being able to update them. So I moved them all here.
That’s right, Cracks of Time is now bunking with the two other web sites. Don’t worry, you won’t be bumping into strange people in the hallways—I think I have everything nicely compartmentalized. It did take a bit of work, however.
I managed to take a break (although somewhat reluctantly) to help SWMNBN with the raking. It’s cold out now (which was what I was getting at when I first began this entry at about 8:00 this morning), bitter and windy and dreary. This is that ugly time between the bright days of fall and the first snows of winter, when everything is gray and barren and lifeless.
Most everything is done now; I’m just tying up a few loose ends, of which this entry is one. I need a break.
And I never did get to my novel.
Tuesday, 17 November 1998
5:37 PM
Work, Work, Work
Not that I’m complaining.
I’m actually enjoying finally getting things done. Much as I thought I was making yet another mistake, I’m glad I consolidated all my pages and continued with the Cracks Of Time. I’m actually finding new ways of getting these entries up more quickly so it doesn’t eat into my day as much.
There is, however, that lingering paranoia that people I know might find this page. Funny, I was so cock-sure before. Now that SWMNBN has found these pages, however, I have to admit there is no such thing as a sure, or even safe, bet.
To help, just a little, I moved the pages, just a little. They’re still in the same site, just under a different sub-directory. Unless you know the name of it, however, you’re not likely to find it. I did this because of the traffic hitting the Cracks of Time site for all the other pages I have here. Imagine if one of the group asks “Why the odd URL name?” and SWMNBN says, “Oh, he used to keep his journal there.” and some clever soul types in “\..\journal.html” just to see what comes up. I know I’d do that.
Now, all they’ll get is a message that I’m gone, and telling them they can request the URL. If anyone of them is desperate enough to want to read my private “posted for all the world to see” journal that they go out and get an anonymous e-mail just so they can trick me into sending them the URL, then, fine, they deserve it.
Anyway, I’ve only gotten one request so far (“Hi, whoever you are.”) and I’m pretty sure it’s no one who knows me.
Have I rambled on that subject long enough? Thought so.
As I was saying, the work, in all areas, is going well. The Cigar pages are filling up. Now that we have something going everyone wants to be in on it. And that’s great. The guys are sending us (I mean, SWMNBN) articles and reviews and other neat stuff. She manages to make the time to arrange and upload it all, and I’ve been working on the photo-essays of our Herfs. Right now, I’m finishing up the bit about the camping trip SWMNBN and I took last month.
I know none of this is really meaningful, but it’s still nice to look at something you’ve been working on that is finally completed. No matter what it is, it gives you a sense of accomplishment, a little boost of pride and satisfaction.
Other than that, it’s quiet. I’m just working, concentrating on finishing these half-completed projects, and hoping the momentum will carry on to my novel.
We’ll see. The night is young yet.
Thursday, 19 November 1998
2:57 PM
More Tinkering
Trying something new. Again.
I’m experimenting with keeping the journal on a floppy disk. That solves the ‘privacy issue’ involved with keeping the written text on the PC. And this way I can write my regular Journal entries and put them directly into web pages on the floppy, then just upload them from there. Also, I’ll be able to tinker with it at work–on lunch and breaks, naturally.
This has got to be the only on-line journal that talks so much about the problems of putting up an on-line journal. It’s journal narcissism. Really, there must be something else going on in my life.
Besides cigars.
We’re going out tonight. We haven’t Herfed since last Friday and, frankly, I’m in the mood for a cigar and a beer. I’m really looking forward to it.
I think I’ve got my web pages situated for now, though there are a few things I have to add to each of them. That can wait, however. Mostly, I’m just trying to catch my breath so I can figure out what to do next. This new way of updating Cracks of Time should help.
Let’s see, I’m maintaining three different web sites, writing a novel, working a full-time job, taking care of a spoiled cocker spaniel, updating my regular journal, constantly adding to my photo albums, and for hobbies I have scuba, cigars, guitar, photography, my genealogical research as well as all the normal household bullshit like laundry, dishes, etc–and the holidays are coming. Yeah, keeping Cracks of Time on a floppy is certainly going to make all the difference, time wise.
Have fun. I’ve got to go catch a bus.
Friday, 20 November 1998
3:37 PM
Going Home – Part I
(This entry turned out to be a long one. I am therefore going to spread it out over at least two days. This is not to spare you, the reader, from having to read so much at once. It is to spare me, the writer, from having to sit up until midnight finishing this.)
Lately, I’ve been thinking of going to visit my dad, so over the past week I collected my latest genealogy information and photos (dad seems to like my digging around the family roots) and set aside a few cigars.
Then I waited for an opportunity.
This morning at work, I had a meeting about some database design that was supposed to run for several hours. Instead, it was over in less than an hour and there didn’t seem to be much else to do, so I skipped out early, got to my car about 10:30 and headed down to the bar/restaurant where dad has been working as a handyman since his retirement.
I headed south from the bus parking lot, taking the interstate, then the highway, then the county roads. It’s a long drive, but the familiarity and sense of coming home made it seem short. The day was overcast and damp with fine rain falling from a solid bank of gray clouds. Had it been colder, it might have been described as raw. As it was, it was merely dreary. I arrived at the ‘country club’—a golf course with a bar/restaurant—while they were still serving breakfast.
It’s such a different atmosphere down there, but one I’m familiar with and was able to slip back into like an old glove. I sat at the bar. The dining tables were all but empty, occupied by a single, middle-aged man with a newspaper and the day’s special. At the large, box-shaped bar sat a man with only one arm, a cheerful and well-mannered child (whom I took to be his son) sat on the stool next to him. On the other side was a tall, lean man in a flannel shirt and a black cowboy hat. Next to him was an older man with gray hair and a red, white and blue racing jacket and cap, both emblazoned with ads for Pennzoil. I was the only one wearing a tie and, although I didn’t feel out of place, I was glad I had worn my leather jacket instead of my executive style trench coat.
The barmaid was perky and plain and brought me coffee and a menu–a single, photocopied sheet of paper with the breakfast selections listed. Nothing fancy here, but the food was good and hot and there was plenty of it.
I asked if Bud would be coming in after work (this was his habit, and it is how I usually find him). She looked quizzical. “Bud doesn’t work here.”
“He used to,” I insisted.
“Well, he used to do some handy-work for us occasionally, but I haven’t seen him in here in a long time.”
With that, she left me to my omelette, home-fries and thoughts.
After my second cup of coffee, I paid my tab, and left, feeling I had no other option than to attempt to visit him at his house.
Now, this had got to seem strange to anyone reading this, but it’s simply a fact of my life: although my own girlfriend does not want to see my family, does not want my family at her house, and isn’t even too keen on me going to visit them, my father’s wife (that’d be the step-monster) makes her look like a model of congeniality.
The last time I saw my dad (sometime this past spring) he invited me back to the house after we left the country club bar. His wife (who has not seen me in years) never said a word to me, even though I greeted her and spoke to her several times. She finally left in a huff, which suited dad and I just fine.
However, being invited back and just showing up are two different things. I have been left just standing there on the doorstep on occasion, and that never sits well with me. Still, I felt that, having come so far, I should give it a try.
I took the back way to the house—the same one I grew up in—over roads that, until a few years ago, were dirt. Now they consist of a single strip of macadam hardly wide enough for two cars to pass each other. The forests and fields had changed little in the thirty years since I used to roam them; there were a few houses here and there, but mostly it just looked smaller. I wondered if that was because I was viewing it in relation to the larger world I now know, or if, in my mind, I still see it from the perspective of a small child.
As if to prove my suspicion about the newly paved road, a pickup truck met me head on as I was almost at my father’s driveway. He had to back up to let me in before he could get by. The only vehicle in the driveway was my dad’s old pickup.
The place looked cluttered and run-down, not airy and open as it did when I lived there. Some time back dad and his wife had put a big swimming pool in the back yard next to the workshop, then they built a deck around it. They also erected a little screen-house for sitting out in during the summer, and installed one of those NASA-sized satellite antennas (the ones that are now about as big as dinner plates) for picking up several hundred channels of nothing so they would have plenty of nothing to watch during the long winters. His wife took up pottery at one time, and soon ceramic animals and gnomes inhabited the areas about the bushes and satellite base.
Years ago, when this was all fresh and new, it made the small yard seem close and over-used. Now, however, the bushes and trees are wildly over-grown, and the gnomes are dull and mossy. The deck around the pool is weathered and sagging and the pool itself is empty. The screen house has become a haven for old lawn furniture and is packed with all manner of random cast-offs. Stray bits of deteriorating lumber lay about in small, random piles or lean crookedly against the porch or pool-deck. It looks sad and tired, like an old man who has lost interest in life.
The dogs barked and yapped as I approached the rickety porch gate, then I saw my father come out of his workshop.
He was dressed, as always, in a gray work shirt and pants. A cap covered most of his bushy white hair. A cigarette dangled from his thin lips.
“I hardly recognized you,” he said when he got close enough to speak over the yelping dog.
I told him I had stopped to bring him some more genealogy information. He said he had been working on his ‘boat.’ Then we just stood there, and for an awful moment I thought he wasn’t going to invite me in. Then he lifted the latch and pulled the gate open. I had to duck around an unruly rose bush to enter the yard, but I managed to get in and close the gate.
“What boat,” I asked. Closer now, I could see where his white hair was taking on a dingy yellow, like aged newspaper. A day’s growth of stubble covered his chin; his clothes, layered with wood dust, hung loosely on his frame.
“The same one I’ve been working on for the last ten years.”
He ambled toward his work shop, and I followed.
The interior was much as I remembered–piles of sawdust everywhere, old tools hanging from hooks or laying amid heaps of scrape wood on make-shift counters and work benches. A small Franklin stove burned in the far corner, keeping out the damp chill. Dust and the smell of wood smoke hung thick in the still air.
In front of me, were there used to be a large worktable, sat a huge, half-completed replica of the USS Constitution.
Saturday, 21 November 1998
8:56 AM
Going Home – Part II (Read Part I first)
The hull of the ship, which, by itself was about 5 feet long, looked well on its way toward being completed. The masts and rigging had not been started yet, but there was a long dowel rising from the place where the main mast was going to be that reached nearly to the ceiling.
“I had to put that on to make sure I had enough room to build it,” my father explained. Then he rummaged through a pile of wood and came up with another long dowel about 3/4 inch in diameter. “This is how long the ship will be with the jib boom in place.”
He fitted the dowel into the bowsprit and traced in the air the area the sails, when completed, would take up. It is surely going to look impressive.
Although I had not heard about this particular project, it didn’t surprise me. My father had built several other models over the years, some while I was still living at home.
His first was a working model of a grist mill. Where he came up with the notion I have no idea, but once he got it into his mind, he did not let it go. He spent countless hours in his shop working on the model, making it up as he went along and solving problems as they arose. What he ended up with was an entire street scene.
The centerpiece, the mill, actually worked. He had fashioned the grinding stones from old whet stones and had it hooked to a small motor. You could actually pour salt into the top of the mill and have it ground into fine powder.
The finished model was about six or seven feet long and had a house, the mill and a running stream that supposedly turned the water wheel that powered the mill. The stream and water wheel were actually run by pumps and motors, but everything else in the model was authentic.
For the mill, he had sewn small sacks for the ground grain, and had carved tiny tools to lay about on benches and hand on the walls. The construction of the buildings was with hand-hewn beams and boards. He used tiny slivers of wood to ‘peg’ the structures together, just as they had in the 18th century. The roofs were shingled with bits of carved cedar and the furniture was all handmade, pegged, and hand-woven. He even carved utensils for the kitchen table and sewed articles of clothing for the occupants. He carved a few cows and horses and built a wagon or two. The only thing he did not include were people.
The roofs and fronts of the houses were built so they could be detached, allowing people to look inside.
His second model, another mill, was just as detailed.
Then he built a miniature of the Erie Canal, consisting of a working series of three locks with horses on the towpath. He took a trip or two out to mid-state to see the real canal as part of his research for that project. As I recall, the water system gave him quite a bit of trouble. He was still working on that one when I got married and left home.
Those three models all ended up in museums. I actually went to see them when they were first put on display, but they have since been passed around to so many different exhibitions that even my father doesn’t know where they are any more.
This was why, when I looked into the unfinished hull of the USS Constitution, I wasn’t much surprised. Awed by what he had done, yes, but not surprised at the fact that he had done it.
The hull, as I said, was nearly done. He was in the process of laying the deck–board, by board. Nothing in any of these models was done piecemeal or in modular fashion; all the workmanship was as authentic as possible. So, there was no pre-assembled deck sections, just carved boards being laid down over the beams and glued, one by one, into place.
Through the open spaces I could see the cannon deck. Each cannon was hand lathed and set into hand-carved bases. There were pulleys, ropes, cannon balls, boxes, barrels, stairways, all fashioned in miniature, by hand, to the last authentic detail.
“How are people going to see what’s down here once you finish the deck?” I asked.
“Oh, they’ll be able to see enough through the cannon ports.”
I stooped to look through. Yes, you could see a lot of the detail, but not all of it. There was no way to appreciate the painstaking detail from peeking through the ports.
“What about the decks below this one?”
“I left a bit of the other side open and put some lights in,” he explained.
I edged around to the starboard side of the ship. Sure enough, there was a wide, rectangular opening in the hull. My father flipped a hidden switch, and several tiny Christmas-tree lights illuminated the darkness inside. I bent to look.
More of the same amazing detail: coils of rope, barrels, boxes, ladders, stairways and simply the beams and construction itself. I wondered if he had left any way to replace the bulbs once they burned out. I doubted it.
I tapped on the lower hull with my knuckle. “And what about the decks down here?”
“Ah, there’s not much to see in there anyway. Just a bunch of beams and cargo and ballast.”
Knowing my father, he had walled in hand-made barrels, authentic ballast (whatever the used on the real Constitution) and beams painstakingly carved to look hand-hewn.
I ran my hand over the hull. Like the real ship, it was covered with a layer of ‘copper’ plates. I wondered if this had been painted on, but I could feel that each section was, indeed, a separate plate, held in place with tiny rivets.
“Those are cut up beer cans,” he explained. “There are 22,000 nails in them. I spent two years on that part.”
I worked my way back to the port side.
“What are you planning to do with it?”
“I guess I’ll give it to a museum, like the others,” he said. I could only hope that happened. Other people need to see this.
After admiring the ship, I told him of my latest affectation–cigars. He’s been a smoker all his life and, although he has smoked primarily cigarettes for some time, I knew he could still appreciate a fine cigar. I gave him three of my more exotic brands, for which he seemed grateful. I hope he enjoys them.
The talk turned quickly to more mundane matters. How was the family, who and seen who last and how were they getting on. Our last visit together was more than half a year ago, but it took all of ten minutes to say everything we wanted to say to each other.
“I’m not working at that country club anymore,” he said. I was glad he brought it up, I hadn’t wanted to mention the fact that I had just come from there and they didn’t even seem to remember him. “The old man retired, and the kids have it now. They’re not interested in fixing things; they just want to run the place into the ground.”
He puffed on his cigarette. We stared at the boat some more.
“I’ve got more time to work on this now, but I don’t have any money,” he said at length. “I get an odd job now and again, but mostly I just have nothing. If I don’t find some steady work soon, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He ran his hand over the unfinished deck.
“So mostly I just putter around out here. It’s good to work on this, I get going on it and then that’s all I think about, I don’t think about my troubles anymore.”
I pulled two twenties out of my pocket. It was all I had on me; I wished I had more.
“Here,” I said, “do something nice for yourself.”
He took it without a bit of awkwardness.
“Thank you.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t want us to be in that position; I wanted for him to not need my help, I wanted him to be able to enjoy his retirement, not work through it.
“Enjoy those cigars,” I said. “I’d best be going before your wife comes home and finds me here. That wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone.”
I let myself out, ignoring the barking dogs and sidling around the renegade rose bush. Back at my car, I brushed a few stray burrs from my chinos, once again glad that I had chosen to wear my old leather jacket and not my Stafford trench coat.
As I pulled out and headed back toward home, I noticed that the huge old oak tree in the field across the road had split. This tree, sturdy and stout throughout my youth, had been climbed in and carved on and sat under a great deal during my early life. And now the huge bough that had jutted from one side had fallen under its own weight, pulling down a section of the trunk with it.
This had not happened recently. The exposed wood was weathered and healed over in places where the tree was determined to restore itself. The crook of the fallen limb that lay against the ground had long since sunken into the soil; grass and weeds had taken root and now grew on and around that which had once been unreachable.
I drove away, following the familiar roads I had walked so often as a young boy, wishing I could, just once more, return to find everything fresh and young and alive.
Sunday, 22 November 1998
8:45 AM
Scents of the Seasons
A bright, crisp, blue morning. When I walked the dog earlier, the frost wasn’t on the pumpkin, but it was all over the cars and the grass. It’s supposed to go up into the fifties today; quite a change from the damp, dreary weather we had on Saturday.
This weekend’s agenda–Christmas shopping. I’m leaving soon to spend the day at the mall, Christmas shopping with my boys. This is always interesting. Since they’ve gotten old enough to have their own money and make their own choices about what to buy, I generally just stand back and watch. It gets amusing sometimes.
SWMNBN and I went shopping yesterday. Not a big trip, just a quick jaunt down to the local Bed, Bath and Beyond to get some items for her family. It wasn’t super crowded; not yet. I’m hoping that the mall today will be something less than a mob scene.
It was interesting to be back at Bed, Bath and Beyond. We haven’t been there in a long while, and I noticed that the smells took me back to particular times in my life. You’d think it might remind me of Christmas, the smell of pine and potpourri and scented candled, but it didn’t. (What reminds me of Christmas is the scent of new clothes. As a kid, that was the only time of year I would get new clothes and the smell of a freshly opened shirt or new jeans still makes me think of Christmas, even if it’s the middle of August.) Walking around in Bed, Bath and Beyond, and taking in all those smells, gave me the sensation of being in a new relationship.
That makes sense; new relationships always require several trips to Bed, Bath and Beyond, or some similar store, to purchase all the accoutrements of a new life. It actually made me feel good and more optimistic about my current relationship. Maybe there is something to this ‘aroma-therapy’ after all.
But, you ask, if I have experienced all these relationship ‘beginnings,’ doesn’t that mean there have been an equal number of endings? Doesn’t that period also require purchases to accommodate the sudden change of lifestyle? Shouldn’t these types of stores also remind you of the ‘end’ of a relationship?
No, what reminds me of the end of a relationship is the smell of K-Mart.
Monday, 23 November 1998
1:28 PM
The Writing Process
Allow me to explain how, for me, the writing process works, or doesn’t.
First, it’s a cyclical thing—periods of intense activity followed by months of doing nothing. It’s the way I have approached writing my whole life, and it’s why I have not amounted to much.
At its zenith, I am quite productive. I write every day, two to three, maybe four, pages at a sitting. It’s a wonderful, heady time, a time when I feel right with myself, centered, at peace, the only time I am able to call myself a writer without either cringing or apologizing.
I write every day. Then one day, I don’t. It’s just one day, so I don’t feel bad about it. Maybe I actually write again the day after. But maybe not. Two days becomes three, and the inertia is harder to shake off. A week passes, a month. What I was writing, and why, fades from my memory. I try to relax, but I cannot shake the nagging, niggling feeling that I should be doing something. Usually, I drink to quiet the voices, although now even that outlet is severely curtailed.
After a time, the voices die away. I convince myself that I can lead a normal, happy life without writing. There are, after all, many happy people who do not write. I could become one of them. Then, for a while, I try.
These are quiet, restful days, days of drifting and not writing. That’s what I do during these periods: not write.
But one day I realize that the low buzzings in the back of my brain are the voices. They never went away, I was just able to ignore them for a while, and now they’re no longer nagging me to write, they’re calling me a failure. They get louder and more persistent until I actually begin to voice their opinions for them.
“I suck.” I’ll say to myself, or “I’m such a loser!”
I become short tempered and irritable. I yell at myself, call myself names; sometimes I hit myself. I sit for long periods doing nothing. I have no energy. I sleep a lot. I want to drink. Badly.
I continue to feel worse and worse and worse, then, when I reach the nadir, I start to believe I can, after all, accomplish something with my life. I begin to feel lighter. My energy returns. Ideas come and I begin working on different projects.
Still, I don’t write, but I feel better knowing I am working toward writing.
This involves getting everything done that I didn’t do during my non-writing phase. I update my web pages, clean out my file drawers, arrange my desk, buy new socks. I stay up late, get up early, make to-do lists and find I get a thrill out of checking the items off, one by one.
During this time, my life becomes very orderly. But soon over-work makes me irritable again. I realize I am running in circles. I struggle to finish all the project I have begun. And still the writing waits.
Then, one day, when I am finally satisfied that everything has been straightened, cleaned, followed up on and my mind has quieted to a point where I can focus it, I look at my writing. I’ll propose to re-read what I was doing so I can ‘get back into it,’ but I rarely do. Usually, I’ll just stare at the words on the lap-top screen for a couple of days. Then I’ll just start.
I won’t even know I’m beginning. “I’ll just touch up these few lines,” I say to myself, and the next thing I know there are three more pages written.
And I’ll write. Every day. The pages will pile up, my mind will be quiet and once again at peace. I’ll start referring to myself as a writer and I’ll feel so good, and the writing will come so easy that I will marvel at why I ever stopped in the first place. I’ll know I am where I belong. I’ll know I am right with the universe. And every day I’ll sit at my lap-top and add more pages to my story.
Then, one day, I won’t.
I’m at the end of my ‘organizing’ phase right now. That’s why all my web pages are up-to-date. My files and desk have all been straightened out and I really did buy new socks. Now I’m just waiting to begin writing.
Wednesday, 25 November 1998
5:32 PM
Unexpected Outcomes
I had to exchange our theatre tickets this week.
We were supposed to go see “A Christmas Carol” on Saturday evening, but SWMNBN’s brother and his wife are bringing the two children to her parent’s house that day. We’re going to go down again (2nd time in three days) to see them. It should be a nice visit, but we will be unable to see the play.
So, I had to exchange the tickets. I put it off on Monday; Tuesday I thought I’d do it Wednesday and Wednesday (today) I was doing my best to avoid it.
I drove in to work this morning so I could visit the Doctor at lunch time. (I have–or used to have–a mole on my butt that was itching me, and I had him take it off. My mother died from letting a suspicious mole go too long, so I don’t even give them much of a chance to act up. First time they do anything, they’re history.)
On my way back to the office, I was actually heading toward the exit that would take me to the theatre district (for those of you not familiar with Albany, that was said with heavy sarcasm) but at the last moment I changed my mind and went directly back to work.
I thought about pushing it until Friday, but then decided to just go ahead and do it after work. So, briefcase in hand, I set out on the six or seven block hike down the hill to the Capital Repertory Company’s box office.
As I happened to be walking by the Capitol building, I heard my name being called out. It was Glenn, an old friend of mine from way back.
A little background: Glenn and I were really good friend and did a lot of things together. Back about 1990, he moved to Tennessee. I called him a few times, but after a while we fell out of touch. I have, sporadically over the past several years, been attempting to locate him with no luck.
Then, here he steps, out of the Capitol building just as I am walking by.
We did some fast catching up, exchanged numbers and agreed to meet on Friday for a beer. It’s going to be so great getting back together again after all this time.
On the way back from the box office, I ran into someone I used to work with a few months back. For a few weeks, after leaving my old office and arriving at my current position, I had a job at the Attorney General’s office. This guy was one of my employees and one of the few things I did while working there was attempt to change his status from ‘Temporary’ to ‘Permanent.’ He was a really great guy and a hard worker, but politics had come into play and, as I was leaving, he was getting ready to follow. When I met him today, he told me he had, after all, been granted permanent status. I was very relieved to hear that.
So, for all my internal griping about having to exchange the tickets, I ended up very happy about it.
Do you think I’ll learn anything by this?
Nah.
Sunday, November 29, 1998
9:53 AM
Family2
Sorry I haven’t written in a while (hey, why am I apologizing to you?). I’ve been busy trying to get all the deleted archives back up–that was finally finished this morning–and, of course, there were the two trips down to see SWMNBN’s family.
The two days could not have been more dissimilar, though the visits themselves were practically interchangeable.
The weather on Thanksgiving was wretched. It rained, sometimes hard, sometimes not so hard, and was cold and bleak and foggy. Driving down was not fun for SWMNBN.
Yesterday was one of those weather anomalies we’ve been having of late—a freakishly warm, sunny, clear, almost summer-like day. At the end of November.
It was welcome, however. The drive down was much less white-knuckle, and the scenery was much better, too. This is a bonus for me because all I get to do on these car trips for amusement is look out the window.
On the first trip, the rain came down in sheets in some places. The sky, the parkway, the scenery was all a monotonous tone of gray. Then the fog rolled in. The winding, narrow lanes were made more treacherous by the blinding spray of water from passing cars. And there were a lot more of them.
Yesterday, the sky was that brilliant, autumn blue, sporting a bright, warm sun. From a distance, the delicate, outer branches of the denuded trees looked like fine gray fur; the far-off hills appeared to be covered in a soft, pale blanket, interspersed with specks of evergreen.
Along the highway, the rocky, rolling terrain of the lower Hudson valley sped by, covered in dry leaves, silent trees and great outcroppings of rock. Among the hills I could sometimes see an interconnected system of field-stone walls; ancient and decrepit, I wondered just how long they had been there. One hundred years? Two hundred? That was not out of the question. Colonial history seems to ooze from the ground in this part of the state.
At one point in the trip is a scene I look forward to each time we drive down. Just beyond the I-84 intersection near the Putnam County line, is a farm. If I look to my right, I can, at a convenient opening in the treeline, see down into the valley. There, enclosed inside a large cow pasture, is a miniature scene right out of Little House on the Prairie:
Nestled next to a scenic brook and surrounded on three sides by split-rail fences, sits an abandoned, but sturdy, little house. It’s small, probably only two or three rooms, but it is old and has the appearance of an 18th century farm stead. No wires or utility lines of any kind run to the structure, nor are there any in sight, which gives the little house a feel of isolation and self-reliance. There is a large porch on the front, spanning the entire width of the house. The front door, and all the windows, stand open; black, vacant eyes into another time. Owing to the numerous cows grazing about, the grass around the cabin is lush and green and neatly trimmed.
On every trip, I gaze down at this tiny, bucolic scene until the trees once again obscure it. I can easily see myself sitting in a rocker on that rickety front porch, watching the placid cows grazing in the front yard, listening to the babble of the brook as it rolls by. I would be drinking a beer, smoking a good cigar, and letting evening fall quietly around me. I would be at peace.
Then the trees return, and SWMNBN pulls out to pass another Sport Utility Vehicle on the narrow, twisting road and I have to struggle to keep from slamming on the ‘passenger brake.’
At the house there was family and lively conversation and food: the traditional Thanksgiving lasagne, ham, Chinese hot and cold noodles, yams, buttered vegetables, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, meatballs, bagels, a type of Jewish wafer cookie that is to die for, apples, oranges, celery sticks, carrots and, oh yes, turkey.
Saturday was much the same, except, in addition to all of the above, there was pizza and fresh, homemade turkey soup.
Have I mentioned that SWMNBN’s mother is pure Italian?
She is, almost, the quintessential Italian grandmother. Unlike other Italian matriarchs I have known, who gesticulate wildly and are quick to apply a wooden spoon to unruly children (or adults), SWMNBN’s mom is calm, kind and soft-spoken. She is, however, not happy unless you are eating something. Any time I have ever been there the woman never stops preparing and serving food. And it is always good food.
Snacks, cookies, coffee, tea, bread—it’s always available. Then she gives you plates of turkey, ham, meatballs, pasta, whatever. Then it’s time for cake and ice cream. And more coffee.
By the time we leave I’m feeling like I won’t have to eat again for a week, but she always makes us take a container of leftovers anyway.
Beyond all that, it was simply a hectic couple of days. By the time we got home last night, SWMNBN looked beat (she always drives even though I’m willing to help out). She slept on the couch and didn’t get up to go to bed until about 9:00 this morning. She’s still there.
I did get to see my buddy Glenn. We met at The Pit for a few pints and had a really great time catching up. Hopefully, we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.
December 1998
01 Death, Slow and Painful
02 Fade to Black
03 Travelling Day
04 Spring Fever
14 Busted Again!
Tuesday, December 01, 1998
10:49 AM
Death, Slow and Painful
This post was supposed to go up last night, but I was just too washed out with depression and anger to write. And all over . . . nothing.
I had a good day at work–made some real progress on my projects, joked with my co-workers, read on the bus–then, when I got home, I worked on some of my photography and web projects. I played my guitar and sang to the empty house. I made hot chocolate. I wrote e-mail to friends.
Then SWMNBN came home.
I don’t play my guitar around her because it annoys her. I don’t use the computer when she’s around because A) she wants to use it, and B) there is very little that I am doing with it that she would approve of. So, with nothing else to do, I stood in the kitchen and watched her take off her coat and shuffle through her mail, just like I usually do.
She asked me a question. I gave her an answer. She misunderstood it. I told her again. She, apparently, misunderstood again. When I tried to clarify, she threw the mail down and got mad.
I left, re-resolving to simply not talk to her anymore. It just isn’t safe.
Ten minutes later, naturally, all was well. She was chipper and chatty and asking me why I was so sullen. I avoided the question. Even now I find it difficult to give a coherent answer.
Why we fight, when we fight, who’s right, who’s wrong, none of that matters. What matters is that, for the past year or two, we haven’t had a whole lot to say to each other, and when we do, we can’t seem to exchange more than two or three sentences before someone gets their knickers in a knot. To me, this isn’t a problem, it’s a symptom of a larger problem.
Maybe I can see this more clearly because I’ve been here before. I’ve suffered through these times and can now not mistake this for anything other than what it is—the ragged end of a relationship.
What she probably sees is a brief flare-up, gone and forgotten as quickly as it begins. What I see is the festering carcass of what used to be a lively and joyful relationship. At this point, I cannot conceive of this relationship regaining any of its prior strength. I think it will just lie there, writhing and choking on its own bile, until it finally dies. Yet neither of us has the courage or the compassion to walk up to it and put a bullet through its head.
I’m mostly to blame there, since I’m the one claiming to know how terminally ill it is.
I am so obviously, deeply and desperately unhappy, yet she clings to me like grim death, claiming to love me while she sucks the life out of me.
Last Wednesday, euphoric about running into my friend Glenn, I began telling her about it. I told her how we were going to get together for lunch to talk over old times.
“You like that,” she said without looking away from the computer screen, “talking about old times. That’s why you don’t like to spend time with me, because I don’t talk about your past.”
“I spend time with you,” I replied weakly.
“But you don’t like to,” she said. “There’s a difference.”
I could have said, “I’d like spending time with you if you weren’t such a fucking bitch,” or, “I’d like spending time with you if we could do something I want to do for a change.” But, instead, I said nothing, re-resolving to simply not talk to her anymore. It just isn’t safe.
For a long time now I’ve been berating myself for not having the balls to go ahead and tell her about what I’m doing—tell her that I meet my friends and visit my family without her. There’s really nothing wrong with doing any of that, yet I found myself unable to tell her.
I finally got over that. It occurred to me I could improve things immeasurably if I simply took a stand. So, I did. I proposed to tell her about meeting Glenn for a few beers on Friday, and decided to let her know I was planning to meet with a few old friends later this week.
When I told her about my meeting with Glenn, however, and watched her eyes glaze over with disinterest after only a few seconds, I realized it wasn’t cowardice that was keeping me silent—it was apathy. I simply don’t care to tell her what I’m doing, and she doesn’t care to hear it.
Yet another symptom of a doomed relationship.
We shopped last night after she recovered from her hissy-fit. I pushed the cart around the supermarket, silent, while she flitted around the isles in obvious good humor, attempting to make me laugh. At the checkout, surrounded by tabloid headlines and placid yuppies, I thought, “How come there’s never a random, crazed gunman around when you really need one.” Shoot her or shoot me, it would make no difference to me.
I am that unhappy. But it wouldn’t take much to make me happy. I just want her to listen to me. I want us to be able to talk again. I want her to care about the things that are important to me.
God, I sound like a woman. Maybe I should just go out and buy a dress and get it over with.
Wednesday, December 02, 1998
4:24 PM
Fade to Black
The long nights are here.
It’s full dark when I get up now, not a hint of dawn, indistinguishable from the dark I go to bed to. When I walk the dog, the stars are still out. This morning, the Big Dipper was almost directly overhead, and to the east was the barest hint of an orange glow.
While I wait for the bus, there is a distinct promise of dawn. The streetlights lining the parking lot are still on, but the glow in the east has spread across the horizon, silhouetting the distant trees along the entire edge of the lot and fading from dusty orange to powder blue to cobalt to night.
Downtown, the sun has still not risen, but the soft gray of twilight is everywhere. Daylight does not appear until I am securely in my cubicle drinking my second cup of coffee.
In the afternoon it is much the same. I leave as the sun is sinking behind the office buildings and arrive at home to walk the dog during the gathering gloom of dusk.
But not today. Today I left early for a doctor appointment and a haircut.
We are still experiencing a stretch of unusually temperate weather. As I waited for the bus the sun was bright and warm and the sky a crystal blue.
After finishing my errands, I found I still had plenty of daylight left, so I took the dog for a long walk—without my coat. Although the sun was still an hour from setting, its low arc across the sky made for a protracted twilight. On our walk, it shone through the spare trees with a blazing intensity, throwing long, stark shadows against the rejuvenated grass.
Back inside now, I can see night falling outside my window. The sun is gone; the world has returned to gray on gray under a sky that moves closer and closer toward black.
I notice I talk about the weather a great deal in these pages. I think there are two reasons behind this. First, I like being outside, so the weather is important to me, and second, it’s a safe subject.
As long as I am rhapsodizing about the weather, I’m not bitching about my girlfriend.
To be fair, I am beginning to see that she is not a bad person, she’s just opinionated and strong willed, whereas I’m flexible and easily cowed. I think we are simply at cross-purposes. That does not, however, make things any easier.
On the other hand, I just received my box of Don Diego Maduro Torpedo Cigars. While typing this, I was on AOL’s IM with a herfer, and on the phone with SWMNBN—we managed to agree on a time and place for a quick herf. Things are looking up.
Aren’t computers grand?
Thursday, Dec 3, 1998
10:45 PM
Travelling Day
I went to NYC today on business. It turned out to be a really nice trip, thanks in no small part to the unseasonably warm weather.
As usual, I arrived at the train station earlier than I needed to. We were supposed to catch the 7:00 train out of Rensselaer station, but no one showed up. When the 8:10 pulled in, my co-workers arrived, and we boarded that one.
This whole day was being devoted to a single meeting with our NYC MIS Staff which wasn’t going to start until 2:00 PM. We, therefore, had a lot of time to kill once we arrived at Penn Station.
As both of my companions were women, we went to Macy’s. Everything was decorated for Christmas and it was, at once, uplifting and disconcerting. It reminded me of being in St. Maarten (one year ago this very week) and seeing Holiday decorations hanging in windows while I stood in the tropical heat wearing shorts and a tee shirt. From Macy’s, we went to Toy’s (backward R) Us on a fruitless quest for the elusive Furbie or Furbal (or something like that) doll.
We bought lunch at a deli and decided to eat in a nearby park.
When we arrived at the park, we were surprised to find that all the tables and chairs had been removed and stood there wondering why that would be, until one of us suddenly realized it was December.
So we sat on the Library steps with a bunch of other New Yorkers eager to take advantage of the weather.
The meeting was actually interesting. I won’t bore you with the technical details, but it was compelling enough for me that I didn’t even notice we went so far over the allotted time that we missed our train.
By the time we left the office, it was dark. We stepped out into the warm, summer-like night and I was so energized by the events of the day and lulled into contentment by the weather that I didn’t even want to go home. I felt like seeking out a quaint little restaurant and eating at a table on the sidewalk, then just touring the town, looking at all the festive decorations.
Instead, we went to Penn Station and caught the late train.
I had two Heinekens and a bag of pretzels for dinner on the train and didn’t get home until nearly 9:00. Still, it was a good day, but I’m a little tired right now.
Friday, December 4, 1998
5:49 PM
Spring Fever
Played hooky today so I could run a few errands and take advantage of the extraordinary weather.
So, naturally, I spent the morning inside tinkering with my web pages.
I did manage to break away to do a few little things around the house, then I took SWMNBN to lunch. We visited the cigar shop and ate at a quaint little restaurant, then went back to the cigar shop. All in all a good afternoon.
After that I stopped a Friday’s for a stout and a smoke. I lit up one of the ones I had just bought and found it to my liking.
<sigh>
I had such good intentions about writing a decent entry, but I’ve just looked at my hit statistics and found that an ISP based in my hometown has hit my web journal. This makes me think that someone I know is reading these pages. This makes me . . . I don’t know, but I have to think about this for a while.
See you.
Maybe.
Monday, 14 December 1998
5:37 PM
Busted Again!
Oh. Just. DAMMIT!!!
January – April 1999
Explanatory Note:
The final post for 1998 is a bit cryptic, and then the entries continue as if nothing happened, with no explanation. Oddly, even my off-line journal provides nary a hint as to what happened. However, this note was posted to the URL:
This site has been moved to a new location.
If you wish to visit, please send me an
E-Mail and I will send you the new URL.
I apologize for this inconvenience,
but circumstances have made it necessary
And, I have my memory.
What happened was, SWMNBN found my web-log. Again. And, as you can imagine, she was none too happy about it. She made me delete the whole thing from the web and my computer. Chagrined as I was, I readily complied. But then I discovered that she hadn’t actually run across my journal on the World Wide Web; she had found it by hacking into my secure files and folders on my computer and reading it there.
Once I found that out, I saw no further need for honesty. So, I restored the files (strange how, as smart as she was, she didn’t think of that) and put them all back on the web, but in a new location (just in case she had noted the URL during her snooping). And that set a new tone for our relationship: she couldn’t trust me, and I couldn’t trust her.
I see by the following posts that I may have tried to tone it down a little, however, and the sudden appearance, on the 1st of April, of the word “Hell” in the title of every entry, was probably an attempt to change direction. As it happened, I ended up completely turning the blog around—on the 20th of April—by making it an Irish Dance On-Line Journal, and tapping into the Irish Dance Web-Ring.
01 Jan – God Help Me, Not Another Techie Toy
04 Jan – Becoming a (Palm) Pilot
22 Jan – Another Gray Morning
03 Feb – Ch Ch Ch Changes
19 Mar – Dear Abbey
01 Apr – A Good Day in Hell
02 Apr – Insanity in Hell
05 Apr – Holiday from Hell
08 Apr – Hell’s Backyard
14 Apr – Vacating Hell
17 Apr – Out of Hell
Friday, January 01, 1999
7:05 AM
God help me, another Techie Toy!
During our Thanksgiving visit to SWMNBN’s parents, her sister-in-law, showed me her PalmPilot III. I was impressed, but skeptical. Then, during our Christmas visit, I asked for another demonstration. I ordered one for myself the next day ($250 from Buy.Com). It arrived on Tuesday, and I’ve been spending all my time tinkering with it and downloading add-on software for it.
I had hoped it might replace my ‘perfect paper pocket pad’ and, perhaps, take over a few of the laptop’s functions. As it turns out, I think it just might replace the laptop, with only minimal decreases in speed and functionality.
I am (obviously and incredibly) already keeping my journal on it. The Graffiti© software took a bit of getting used to, but after a while I found I could write on the PalmPilot almost as fast (and certainly more legibly) than I can write on paper. There is a built-in keyboard, also that can be “typed” on. It’s a tiny graphic of a keyboard; you use the stylus to tap on the letters, and I found I am able to use two styluses to ‘touch type’ with some success.
I find that in writing something as long as this, a combination of methods works best.
Now if I can only find a spell checker
Monday, January 04, 1999
2:15 PM
Becoming a (Palm) Pilot
This thing is too cool! I’ve got to find out how I am going to be able to print (and hide) all the data I am loading up into this thing.
It’s so small I can carry it in my shirt pocket, yet it has easily taken over all the functions I used to use the laptop for. All my many accounts, budgets, records, appointments and diversions fit here so well that I have started 1999 by leaving the laptop home.
And I keep finding more and more uses for this thing: last night I ran across an article on how to use the Palm III to steal cars with electronic locking devices, and this morning I discovered that you can download pornography for it! (Well, actually it’s more like erotica, but still . . .)
Friday, January 22, 1999
8:40 AM
Another gray morning.
I’m on my way to NYC ; doing a solo act this time. There’s hardly anyone on the train today. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday, or maybe it’s the weather.
My relationship has entered that gray static state; where actions are automatic but meaning is absent. SWMNBN, aside from having a boyfriend who is all but gone, appears to have some real problems (or perhaps her problems are because of that).
In addition to rarely sleeping in bed, she appears to be addicted to the Internet. We had a four-day weekend last week (three days for the holiday weekend, an extra for the weather) and she spent an inordinate amount of time on the PC, surfing the web, looking for Cocker Spaniel stuff to buy over eBay. She did this late into the night, then would sleep on the couch until I got up—then she would get in bed.
The other night, a work night, she was at it again. I went to bed at 11 or so expecting her to follow shortly. When I woke up at 3:30 and found her still not in bed, I snuck a look into the computer room. She was still there. She came to bed sometime later, but did not kiss me. I wondered why—she usually makes a point of waking me when she gets into bed, probably to show that she does, indeed, sleep with me on occasion. But that night she didn’t. Was she mad? Did she find out anything? Then I recalled that, recently, when she has been coming to bed, I haven’t found out until I woke up to find her there. Has she stopped waking me when she puts in an appearance because she doesn’t want me to know how long she stays at the PC? Or am I just reading too much into this?
Whatever the case, I am not imagining the fact that, after spending most of that night surfing, I came home from work the next day and found her still in bed. She didn’t even get up to let the guy in to fix the ceiling.
When your hobbies start causing you to lose time from work, it’s time to admit you’ve got a problem.
But still, . . .
9:10 am
. . . as far as problems go, I’m way out ahead, I am still hanging on, going through the motions in an empty relationship hoping that, someday, it will just fall off like an old scab.
Problem is, I’m not as young as I used to be and I don’ have all this time to waste.
As it stands now there is no putting this back together; I don’t care a whit for her, I resent her being in my life, and she cares more for the dog than she does for me. This is so screamingly obvious to everyone. Except her.
The train is quiet except for the hum of the wheels against the rails. It is foggy outside and all is shrouded in a blanket of soft gray.
The city approaches. Time for work.
5:00 pm
A good day. A productive meeting and I found my boss there. We rode back on the train together and had a few beers. As usual I talked more than I listened, but I still learned a lot. I still think I made the right move coming to this agency.
Wednesday, February 03, 1999
6:01 PM
Ch Ch Ch Changes . . .
First and foremost, I thought I finally got this web-diary nonsense out of my system. After posting the most recent entry, I saw once again that a URL from Kinderhook was looking at the site, and I freaked and decided to pulled it all down. Again.
I still hadn’t gotten it out of my system, however, so I spent a day playing hooky and working out a new web-design, name, layout, security scheme, etc., etc.
You might have noticed that the last few entries were written on my new Palm Pilot. I don’t think I’ll be doing that too much anymore, either. It’s a great gadget, but typing for any length of time is pretty tiresome, and it‘s difficult to not make errors.
So, I’m back to a laptop. Not THE laptop, a new one.
We were at a staff meeting about a week ago and it just hit me that I should ask for a laptop, since I have so many projects going and all. I went into Ann’s office right after the meeting, said I wanted a laptop and she set me up with this.
It’s sweet! A P-233 with about 4 GBs of room and 64 MB of RAM. It’s got a CD and a modem and a mouse/touch pad and a battery that actually works. I went in cautiously, as I usually do, but then ended up loading it up with . . . everything. I’ve got all my files from the Aero laptop and the desktop on here. I have it set up to download my digital camera photos, do all my web work, play Doom, etc., etc. I even loaded MS Flight Simulator (the whole thing). It ran great, but I took it out when I couldn’t find a way to make the joy-stick work. It has dial-in capabilities but I also loaded AOL v4 (accessed via the boys’ account) so I can surf the web without being monitored.
I re-arranged my desk and the room to accommodate it, too, running a phone cable and power supply to my work area. Now I don’t have to even use the desktop, though I still log on to surf if SWMNBN isn’t around; Road Runner is still the fastest, easiest way to the web. (I wonder how the web site uploads will go with this thing?)
I still keep all my budget, notes and cigar data on the PalmIII. I mostly use this to dial in to AOL, play Doom and work on my novel.
Yes, I have actually gotten back to it. I began on Feb 1 and haven’t missed a day yet (ha ha). It‘s going well enough but I’m really stuck on Chapter One (again—third version of this same chapter). I ended up doing a complete restructure of the earlier portion of the novel and, naturally, have to go back and write it over. I can’t just leave it until I’m finished then do a complete re-write like a normal person would.
I just hope I can keep the momentum going (who am I kidding, I am hoping I can start the momentum going).
Lot’s more going on, but it’ll keep. I’ve got other things to do right now.
Friday, March 19, 1999
10:07 PM
Dear Abbey
An interesting thing happened this past weekend that turned a key on why I am so stressed out and pressed for time and not getting to do the things I really want to do with my life.
And now I’m going to tell you all about it.
Some time ago I bought a PalmIII, a gadgety thing that allowed me to replace much of the functions of my old laptop (which I had to return to my old office). It was an amazing piece of equipment, with a spreadsheet, relational database, address book, drawing capabilities, note pad, you name it. Just the type of thing to keep me occupied. After a few weeks, however, I realized it was taking up more time than it was saving—mostly due to the way data had to be recorded (you write on a special portion of the pad and it translates into text; at least for people with decent handwriting, it does).
So, after having spent a few days getting all that data in there, I endeavored to find a way to get it all out again. (With me so far?)
I wrangled a new laptop from my new office, spent a week setting it all up to my liking, then downloaded all the data off the PalmIII into spreadsheets and databases. It worked great, but the relational database on the laptop was more powerful than the one on the PalmIII so I set about building a new application for my budget. I figured it would take about an hour.
I didn’t finish it Friday night, even though I stayed up late to work on it. Saturday, SWMNBN did the laundry and I tinkered with my program. I was up until midnight. Sunday, as SWMNBN was calling me for dinner, I ran the last test. It worked fine. All the options were in place and doing exactly what I wanted them to do—track each dollar I spend and sort, select and report via categories or flexible queries. All that remained to do was to delete a superfluous control off of the main form. I selected it, clicked delete, and the program blew up.
Naturally I had not thought to create a backup.
Surprisingly, I didn’t fly into a rage. Oh, I was angry, and frustrated, but throughout dinner, as I calmed myself down, it began to become clear to me just how much time I had wasted. For no fucking reason. So I proposed to myself that I simply stop keeping track of my spending, at least to that exacting degree. And that’s when the odd, eye-opening event happened.
Every time I proposed to stop tracking my spending, I would get a cold, panicky feeling inside, the same feeling I used to get years ago when I first began proposing to myself that I stop drinking.
“This activity is not doing you any good,” I said to myself, “It is costing you time and money and is giving nothing back in return. It is standing in the way to your ability to do what you want to do with your life. So stop doing it.” And then the voice inside me would answer, “But I can’t!”
This was a cause for some amusement since I could clearly see what was happening, even though I felt powerless to stop it. When I was trying to stop drinking it was a little more serious; now I was only trying to stop needlessly keeping track of my spending habits. Well, and my cigars, too (where and when I acquired them, where I store them, where and when I smoke them, etc, etc). And my clothes (when I wore what and what matches with what).
I began to realize it was a bigger problem than I had originally thought. Much of my time, it seems, is spent keeping track of . . . well, everything. Accordingly, I immediately proposed to make a list of all the things I make lists of, but thought that was simply too weird. Instead, I went back upstairs and stayed up until midnight again re-creating the budget program.
On Wednesday, I went to see my shrink. She was sympathetic, if somewhat amused, and agreed that this is a full-fledged obsession. As I suspected, this is all related: Alcoholism is an obsession and simply stopping drinking does not make a person less prone to obsession, it simply allows time for different obsessions to surface. I have always been obsessed with lists but my shrink says that the pressures of living with SWMNBN probably are making it worse.
Ironically, she suggested I make a list of all the things I keep lists of. I told her I had thought of that but she said it was a good idea, as long as I used it to figure out which items I would be able to live without and drop them, one at a time. If I tried to go cold turkey, she said, the anxiety would be too great. I had to agree; I was anxious just thinking about dropping one of them.
So I made the list. Or started to. I got up to 66 items on the laptop alone—I hadn’t even begun looking into the notebooks and collections and calendars. And just what I had on my list was enough to make me realize I am more obsessed than I thought.
I keep track of how many minutes a day I watch TV. I keep track of how much water I drink, what I eat, if I walked the dog. I keep track of what time I get up in the morning and if I take my vitamin every day. I keep track of how much money I have earned. Ever. In my entire life (it’s over half a million, in case you are interested). I save all the letters I have received and written, even the e-mails, and track all the gifts I receive or give.
And then there’s the quantifying.
In addition to the record keeping, I very often create some sort of rating system. My list of ‘Every Place I Have Ever Lived,’ for example, contains numerous columns (such as ‘Closet Space,’ ‘View,’ ‘Distance From Neighbors,’ ‘Distance from Swimming,’ etc.) into which I place a numeric code. These codes are averaged to produce a final, overall grade for each location. [NOTE: The ‘List of Every Place I have Ever Lived’ is not to be confused with my ‘Copy of the Floor Plan of Every Place I Have Ever Lived’ file.]
I have a similar list for every girl I have ever dated (subcategorized by the actual, formal girlfriend list, which is sub referenced by the ‘Who I Had Sex With’ list) with similar categories which produce a final rating for each lucky contestant. And, to top it all off, this final, overall rating was then added to the ‘Places I have Lived’ final rating to show an overall quality of life rating for the period of time I was with that particular woman living in that particular location.
Is this nuts enough for you, or shall I go on?
Actually, I find all of this quite amusing. It has never occurred to me to do anything other than keep records of everything (though you’d think a Journal and Daybook would be enough) but it never occurred to me, until I looked at that list, just how out of hand this has all gotten. SWMNBN, of course, knew I was a compulsive record-keeper, but never could have guessed at the depth of my obsession.
Still, there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. Unless and until it interferes with my ability to lead the type of life I want to lead. And that’s what it’s doing; the work of keeping up with all these lists and records and databases is taking up most of my time. And when I am not keeping track of something, I am thinking about what I should be keeping track of. When I am away from my lists—my computer, laptop or notebooks—I actually become anxious. And the anxiety grows the longer I am away. (Which is why I carry a notepad and pen with me, always.)
So I am weaning myself off the habit. It won’t be easy. (For example: I parked in a different spot this morning and caught myself counting the steps from my car to the office so I could tell if this parking spot was closer than the one I usually use, and when I was at lunch today, as soon as I paid the tab I automatically reached for my pad and paper so I could record the expense.) But I overcame alcoholism and biting my fingernails so, with the proper support and determination, I’m sure I can beat this, too.
Actually, now that I think of it, I stopped a lifelong and deeply ingrained habit of fingernail biting only through envisioning myself a someone who doesn’t bite their fingernails (a la Anthony Robbins). Maybe that would work here, or at least make it a little easier to go through withdrawal. (The shrink told me I would, and said that in extreme cases of compulsion people are actually confined to something akin to a detox center to help them over the rough spots. SWMNBN said she was going to make a ‘Patch’ for me that looked like a little spreadsheet, something I could stick on my arm.)
I guess I’ll try that (no, not the Patch)—creating a vision of myself as a person who does not compulsively keep track of everything. (By the way, I haven’t even thought about biting my nails since trying this trick just about a year ago.) In the meantime, I’ll just have to stay away from spreadsheets and databases.
One of the other, really cool, things the shrink told me to do was make a list (aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhggggggg!!!) of ‘Thing I Have Always Wanted To Do But Have Not Had Time For Because I Was Too Busy Making Lists.’ She said that, when I find myself with more time on my hands—which will happen—I should do one of those things rather than allow myself to be tempted back into ‘List Mode.’ This is good because the Shrink suggested it as a way to help me. And since SWMNBN suggested the Shrink, this idea of filling my time with things I want to do is, by extension, her idea and has, therefore, been wholly embraced by her. Basically, it’s a blank check for me to be able to do whatever I want. (Well, within reason.)
I’m already taking Irish Step Dancing. It’s something I’ always wanted to do and SWMNBN has given it her full blessing (although she politely declined to take it up with me because it’s so boring and stupid). I’m having a ball with it; it’s fun and it’s good exercise and, despite SWMNBN’s assertions to the contrary, I think the music is just fine. Plus, it’s hard not to have a good time bouncing around in a room full of bonnie young lasses.
Wow, this is one long entry. I’m not sure if it’s a record (let me check my list) but it’s quite long winded. Thanks for listening.
Thursday, April 01, 1999
6:11 PM
A Good Day in Hell
A pleasant, relaxing day. My days at work, lately, are spent programming, which is an agreeable thing for me. I am in early and, therefore, get to leave while there is still much of the day ahead. It rained lightly during my trip to the bank at lunch, but by the time I walked to my car at 3:30 it was a decidedly dry and spring-like day.
There was the usual flurry of activity when I arrived home (get the mail, walk the dog, change out of my shirt and tie, etc.) but I then spent an invigorating hour or so practicing my step dancing. After that, I was winded and sweaty and ready for a refreshing walk. So was the dog. I started out wearing a light jacket, but soon found I was very comfortable in short sleeves.
We met the new neighbor and wandered around a bit, then retired to the front yard where I lit up a well-aged Montersino SWMNBN had given me. I was trying so hard to relax that I didn’t realize how much I was enjoying the cigar until nearly an inch of it was gone.
The cigar was over a year old, and it smoked smooth and mild with no hint of bitterness. The ash, light gray, nearly white, in color, was finely textured and the burn was perfectly even. With each rich puff, I relaxed more, until, in a deep repose, I made a promise to myself to never again smoke anything that had not been aged at least a year in my humidors. A promise I am certain to break, as I don’t have nearly enough aged cigars. Still, it is a worthy goal to shoot for.
The weather was prefect. The dog and I sat in the yard waiting for SWMNBN as the light grew dim and the underbellies of the clouds glowed pink. Birds twittered, geese trumpeted overhead and one by one the colonial-style lamp posts, lined up like stick soldiers up and down the block, winked on at random.
It was a flawless evening; one of the few we are blessed with over the course of the year. The weather is not often kind to us here in upstate NY. There are only two good seasons, mid-spring and early fall. Beyond that, the weather pretty much sucks.
Early spring is a morass of muck and unexpected snow; it isn’t until the ground firms up and the climate stabilizes that the days become pleasant. On those days, such as this one, it is a pleasure to sit outside and watch the evening fall. The temperature is agreeable, the winds of March have died down and the dormant pests of winter have not yet awakened. During this brief pause, life is perfect.
Then, of course, the bugs come out.
Mosquitoes are the most ubiquitous pests, but the black flies put them to shame for the few weeks before summer begins. During this time, sitting outside is impossible. The tiny black bugs swarm and bite viciously, driving any rational person into the safety of a properly sealed dwelling. But they are, thankfully, ephemeral. Once summer arrives, the black flies disappear.
That’s when the real heat and humidity take over.
As much as I enjoy sitting outside and smoking a cigar, I find I do it less in the summer, preferring to sit, cigarless, inside where the air conditioning is.
Early fall brings a brief respite, but the cold arrives in force far too soon. And then it’s winter once more. I’ve always maintained that the only people who put up with this climate are people who are born here and are too stupid to move. I, of course, include myself.
Dreary as our seasonal cycle can be, for now, at least, everything is perfect. My cigar is perfect. The dog is quietly behaving. And now, at full dark, SWMNBN arrives home.
An enthusiastic welcome from the dog, a few last, flavorful puffs on the Montecristo, and it’s time to go in and make dinner.
No regrets. I have enjoyed this day to its fullest.
Friday, April 02, 1999
7:23 PM
Insanity in Hell
After yesterday’s experience with an aged cigar, I proposed to repeat the activity this afternoon. The HerfTones are currently at the Malt River for a Good Friday Herf, which SWMNBN and I decided not to attend. So I am having my own, one-man Herf here in the front yard.
I had to run back to the DMV right after work today to file the necessary papers to get the necessary title to get my motorcycle on the road. What a pain.
Back home it was walk the dog, practice my steps and see if I could come up with another well-aged cigar.
What I found was an A. Fuente Gran Reserva that SWMNBN had given me almost two years ago. I haven’t had much experience with the Fuente products, but I figured the cigar was old enough, so I tied the dog to the tree, sat in the lawn chair and fired it up.
It was heaven, again. That’s two days in a row of smooth, flavorful, relaxing smokes. I just wish I had had the foresight to buy about six boxes of good cigars two years ago, then I could continue to smoke nothing but aged cigars.
It was a sublime day, nearly as perfect as the day before. I sat in the cool breeze, watching the sun sink low over the pleasant, landscaped lanes that surround my home and wondered how long it would be before the advancing juggernaut of construction made its presence felt even in this placid place.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard), I didn’t advocate raping the landscape until I got mine and now oppose raping the landscape so no one else can get theirs. I’m not opposed to construction, but I am opposed to insanity.
They want to build a Wal-Mart now.
I learned about this the other day when two well-dressed young ladies came to my door.
I didn’t hear the doorbell, but was alerted to their presence by the lunatic barking of our cocker spaniel. The dog is good like that; she feels it’s her job to notify us of any movement on the street by barking her fool head off. And if someone actually approaches the house, she goes into ‘Mad Dog’ mode. As I said, I don’t mind. Usually it’s a salesman.
Her barking is so furious that the salesperson cannot roll into their well-oiled spiel. All they can do is smile lamely through the narrow window while I attempt to calm the dog by shouting, “Down, Killer!” Then I squeeze out onto the porch to keep the dangerous dog inside, something that really puts them off because now they have to talk to me without having gained entrance to the house. It is usually at this point, with the dog still acting like the hound of Hell and the salesperson still smiling weakly at me, that I fold my arms over my chest and say, “OK, what are you selling?”
This throws them so off guard that, very often, they just tell me straight out without the lengthy preamble. That’s when I say, “Not interested,” and step back into the house, leaving them standing on the front walk with nothing but the dog’s muffled barks and snarls for company.
This time, however, the women at the door didn’t seem to mind the dog’s behavior and invited her outside where they patted and cooed until they won her over. I still tried the “What are you selling line,” but it turned out they only wanted me to sign a petition.
“We want to stop them from building the Wal-Mart,” they told me. I signed first, then got the story.
A Wal-Mart. A 24-hour Super-Center. Acres of retail outlet and concrete where an apple orchard now stands. I felt for these people; I knew what was at stake for them.
Some years ago, SWMNBN and I visited the development these women now call home. The unfinished houses we toured were massive and beautiful and located on a quiet side road next to an apple orchard. They started at a quarter million and they all sold within a year. I bet the town told them the apple orchard was ‘forever wild.’
If that Super-Center goes up, those houses won’t be worth the materials they’re made of.
As I said, I am not opposed to construction. But a Wal-Mart? Let’s ignore the fact that there’s a 24-hour Price Chopper Plaza about a mile and a half up the road from the apple orchard. Or that there’s a 24-hour Hannaford Plaza across the street from the 24-hour Price Chopper Plaza. Or that there’s a 24-hour Grand Union Plaza right next to the 24-hour Hannaford Plaza. And let’s, for God’s sake, ignore the fact that there’s a 24-hour Wal-Mart plaza not seven miles in the other direction!
This isn’t something the community needs or even wants. I don’t ever recall, in the six years I have been here, waking up at 2 AM and thinking to myself, “Gee, I wish there was a place really close by where I could get some cheap consumer products.”
This isn’t community enhancement, it’s insanity.
They invited me to the town meeting to help protest, but it was our dance class night so I knew we wouldn’t go. I did read in the local paper that they succeeded in putting the construction off for a few months. A temporary moratorium was the best they could do, though I guess that’s about all they could have hoped for. I’m sure money has already changed hands, favors have been offered and accepted and Wal-Mart is going to win—now, or six months from now. Perhaps, at least, they have bought enough time to sell their houses and bail out before they lose everything.
In the same paper that announced their victory, however, right next to “Concerned Citizens Delay Wal-Mart Construction,” was another headline reading, “Town Board Approves Construction of Home Depot.”
That Home Depot is going to go in the same shopping complex that already has a Builder’s Square! These competing companies are going to have two gigantic warehouse-sized stores offering identical merchandise right next to one another. One of them or both of them are certain to go out of business within the next two years.
This isn’t community enhancement, it’s insanity.
Monday, 5 April 1999
5:55 PM
Holiday from Hell
This isn’t to say we had a bad Easter, but, rather, that we spent Easter elsewhere.
I was with my boys on Saturday, and one of the twins just got a job at Denny’s as a dishwasher. We did our usual brunch (at Denny’s, oddly enough) and wasted some time at the mall, then I took the other two home and dropped the Twin off for his first day of work. It brought to mind the day I got my first job (also as a dishwasher in a restaurant) and how my father drove me to work that first time. All very nostalgic but nothing to get worked up over. I just hope my son has a better introduction into the world of gainful employment than I did—I absolutely hated washing dishes and walked out the first day.
Easter Sunday we took a trip to SWMNBN’s parent’s house. It’s two hours south of here, closer to NYC than I care to be but, surprisingly, it’s less cramped and built up there than it is here in Half Park. The dog is able to walk with the family down narrow, winding and well-used lanes without fear of being run over. The houses are large, the yards often cluttered with years of growth and collected oddities, and hemmed in by colonial-style fieldstone walls. The trees are gnarled and ancient, lending a lived-in flavor to the neighborhoods.
There is little hint of the straight, sterile style of construction which permeates Half Park.
Thursday, 8 April 1999
6:35 PM
Hell’s Backyard
It occurs to me that I sit in the front yard only about 4 or 5 times each year, and always on the fringes of the season when the nice weather is here but the patio furniture isn’t. These are nice days—reminders of the summer past or a hopeful peek at the upcoming season. Sitting in the front yard offers a view that is both familiar and unusual. It’s pleasant to watch the activity of the neighborhood—the dog walking, jogging, roller blading—and to wave at the occasional familiar face. It’s soothing to see the curved and tree-lined lanes. It’s a view that makes me feel part of this community; it’s a view I am going to miss.
I have returned to the back yard.
Spring has officially arrived: The grill is working, the patio furniture has been retrieved from storage and I am sitting at the glass-top table smoking a Don Diego, drinking a Guinness and feeling only a little guilty about not raking.
The weather has been quite balmy for early April, especially when you consider it is not unusual to see snow—sometimes large amounts of it—this time of year. We’ve had a stretch of warm and sunny afternoons, perfect for sitting outside, though now that streak seems to be ending.
Clouds are sliding in from the west, covering the sun and giving a gray cast to the sky. The wind is picking up, too; a strong, gusty breeze that makes the barren trees twist and sway. If you could ignore underlying warmth in the wind and the haze of buds tinting the tips of the tree limbs, you might think it was November. Rain will be coming soon.
My cigar (inexpensive and hardly exotic but good enough for an everyday smoke) is nearly gone and there is only a swallow or two of Guinness left. It’s time to go back in, perhaps for good. Much as I am coming to enjoy this sitting and doing nothing, I think it’s time to get moving once more. There are chores to be done (remember the raking?) and my novel wants attention.
I’m sure I’ll be back here, just not every day.
Wednesday, 14 April 1999
7:15 PM
Vacating Hell
The new Eckerd’s Drug store / Food Mart / One-Hour Photo Center opened the other day. Thank God for that! It’s been so inconvenient having to drive to one of the 3 CVS Pharmacies within a 4-mile radius. And you can’t swing a cat without hitting a mini-food store.
At least they didn’t plow up any more of the quickly disappearing forest to build this monstrosity—they bulldozed private dwellings instead.
It’s not as it they had to convince anyone to give them up, however. People have been leaving in droves to escape the juggernaut of construction rolling up Routes 9 and 146, so I’d figure the ex-residents probably got a decent deal on property that had little value.
This is something that seems to escape the attention of Half Park’s town planners: in order to support all this retail space, you need people to shop there. If you drive out all the people, you’re going to end up with empty stores.
It’s already begun. Half Park is riding so high on this wave of booming population that they haven’t noticed that it’s over. The population has leveled off and is beginning to go the other way. New construction is not selling the way it used to and more and more houses are sitting empty or are up for sale.
I read recently that the county north of ours built 2 million cubic feet of retail space last year. In that same year, however, 2 million cubic feet of retail space was vacated. Commercial enterprises are no longer competing for the patronage of newly settled residents, they are taking customers from other retailers. And, one by one, they are going out of business. The local Mall now stands half empty, the huge MJ Designs recently went belly up and the Sysco Food Mart—which stood very near to where the new Eckerd’s Food Mart now stands—floundered and closed last year.
But they keep on building.
Here in the backyard, however, all is quiet and calm. I’m here, once again, with the dog, a pint of Guinness and a very fine cigar. Nothing exotic today; I’m taste testing a C.A.O. Anniversario. SWMNBN and I are thinking of investing in a box of them so I thought I’d smoke this one I’ve been saving to see how much I like them. So far, I like them a lot. It has a muduro wrapper, which gives it a nice, rich flavor, and it has an easy draw. The burn is a tad uneven, so I guess it could have used a little more aging, but the taste is just fine.
A puff, a sip of Guinness, sit back and listen to the birds. Mmmmmmm. Life is good.
I haven’t been out here in a while. After that string of mild days the weather became more ‘seasonal’—which means it got cold. We have been lucky this year; I have to keep reminding myself that it isn’t even May yet.
Even now it’s cloudy and a bit on the cool side, but the daffodils and phlox are in bloom and snow is a distant memory.
During the cold snap, I did a lot of tinkering with the web site. I think I’ve got it tweaked to my liking. I hope so, because once warm weather settles in for good, I plan on spending a lot more time sitting outside and a lot less time sitting at my PC.
Unless, of course, I’m working on my novel.
Saturday, 17 April 1999
9:37 AM
Out of Hell
SWMNBN and I joined the HerfTones last night for a herf in Saratoga Springs.
Perhaps that statement requires a little clarification: if you haven’t followed my ‘Cigars’ link and visited the HerfTones website, then you don’t know that ‘HerfTones’ is the name of the cigar enthusiasts group I belong to and that a ‘Herf’ is what cigar smokers call a get together where cigar-smoking is the primary purpose.
So now you know.
At any rate, SWMNBN, the HerfTones, and I went to Saratoga Springs, a small city about 20 minutes north of Half Park. I’ve been there many times, but this recent, close scrutiny I have been giving to Half Park has awakened a new appreciation for it.
One of the first things I noticed was, it has sidewalks. Actual concrete strips reserved for pedestrians! And not only could you walk on them, there were shops and boutiques and cafe’s and restaurants and taverns all along them!
You could park your car, as I did, and actually walk to different establishments. In addition to the array of stores and eateries, Saratoga boasts a large and picturesque park, an artist’s retreat, a performing arts center, a variety of museums and, of course, a racetrack.
It was so refreshing to be in a city that actually catered to visitors instead of making them feel, at best, like an afterthought or, more typically, like intruders.
Had they bothered to look north, Half Park might have learned a lot from Saratoga Springs.