Crystal and Me

I would like to write in this idiotic blog more often but one of the problems is that most of what I would want to say has to do with getting older, being older, or some variation thereof. I have never really wanted to be so narrow in my blog interests and so I have posted relatively infrequently, not that anyone has complained, mind you.

Well, Christmas came about a week ago and I received a book as a gift. It's by Billy Crystal the comedian, actor, and sometime philosopher. I would tell you the name of the book but that would require that I stand and walk about twenty feet, so I will let you find that out for yourself.

I have always been sort of lukewarm on Crystal. He's funny, but in a decidedly Jewish sort of way. As a guy in his 60s, I'm only too familiar with such folks as Sid Caesar and Milton Berle. Also, I'm not much of a reader. I prefer television. But I decided I'd open the book and read a few pages. Anyway, I've got to tell you that about ten pages in, it's not a bad read. What's more, up to page 11 the theme is pretty much about getting old, specifically the downsides, of which there are many.

Not only has the book been a bit comforting in and of itself, but it has convinced me that if I want to write a blog entry concerning the tribulations of aging, I ought to go ahead and write it. Anyway, what I'm saying is that for those who have avoided this blog in the past, the future might give you all the more reason. We'll see.

Staying After School

On this past Friday afternoon I visited Mrs. Virginia Gilbert, a.k.a Miss Plimell. Miss Plimell was my 2nd and 3rd grade teacher. That was 1958 to 1960, a long long time ago. I was in the 2nd grade and Miss Plimell was in her second year of teaching. She was in her mid twenties.

I knocked on her door and her husband answered. He was an older gentleman and her second husband. The first one died about seven or eight years ago after something like 47 years of marriage. Dangling from my hand was a holiday gift bag containing a jar of raspberry preserves. I told him that it was a gift for Virginia. He asked me if I wanted to give it to her personally, and I said I would love to, if it were no trouble. He led me to a back room in the house that had a television. There she was, sitting in a recliner; my long ago teacher, Miss Plimell.

She is no longer 25, of course, nor was she in amazing health, but we chatted for a couple of hours. She is still pretty sharp for a person near 80. She remembered not only me, but many of her old students, who were my first classmates. I filled her in on what some of us were doing, and who had died. She had a few stories of her own concerning some of those students. She talked about her life and some of what had transpired through all the years. I was glad to listen, after all, she was one of my first teachers, and the only teacher I had for two years.

Anyway, she seemed glad to see me, believe it or not, and she asked me to return. I promised her I would. I will keep that promise.    

My Career Paradigm

This blog entry is really going to be just one long whine, so I'm warning any person unfortunate enough to come along its words not to read them. Okay, you've been warned.

I work at The Ohio State University. I started my employment there in 1974. I have always worked in the University Mail Department. We collect inter-campus mail, sort it, then redistribute it across the campus. In 1974 there was no email, consequently we were the communication hub of the university. Every morning five mail carriers would invade with a vengeance the university's approximately 120 buildings; hurriedly collecting the inter-campus mail. They would then return to headquarters where we would rapidly sort the mail for redelivery that same day. It could be argued that other than the university's various hospital departments, and the university police, we were the most important non-academic department at the university. More important than the landscaping or maintenance departments.

Things have changed. There were buildings that would receive several thousand inter-campus letters, flyers, etc., every day. That was once upon a time. Those same buildings now receive a few dozen. We have been murdered by the advent of email. This is not a new thing. We've been limping along for at least a decade. For ten years it has looked as if the higher-ups could close down our department at anytime. But that is not my complaint. My whining really starts now.

The guys I work with these days know our department is unimportant. Those in charge know the same thing, consequently the department is often assigned inferior employees when job openings arise. We no longer have a supervisor in our work area. Add these factors together and you end up with a lot of ugliness.

One day one of our delivery guys had a box weighing a few pounds to be delivered that day on his route. That guy was scheduled to take a vacation day the following day. I watched him pickup the box and evaluate its weight. He placed the box back on the counter and for a few seconds he just eyed it as his mind contemplated. Finally he muttered aloud, "I'm going to let this package wait until tomorrow's delivery."

I heard myself instantly bark, "No, you're delivering it today."

My uninspired coworker mumbled back, "It can go tomorrow. It doesn't make any difference whether it is today or tomorrow."

"Take it today," I ordered.

Just to be clear, I am a semi-retired, non supervisory, part time employee. But I guess even nobodies can get fed up.

To be fair, genuinely good employees treat the department with abject disrespect too. One afternoon there was inter-campus mail to be sorted but instead of doing that work, one of the truly hard working guys was sweeping the floor in the hallway. The hallway floor had a higher priority than did the mail.

This is hard for me to take; thus, this blog entry. What I find curious is that I should care enough for it to occasionally get my blood boiling. As I have said; the department clearly does not have high status, and I have never been a career-oriented guy. My self-worth, what there is of it, I have always gotten from other aspects of life. Still, shirking assigned duties can get me riled.

The good news is that I cannot go on much longer. This pain will soon end. I have been financially able to fully retire for a long time. I'm at the point where I no longer feel like setting the alarm at 6 AM without good reason. And of course the department itself is on its last legs. Still, I fall into distress with what my eyes behold. I have been victimized by a paradigm shift via technology. I might as well be assembling 8-track tape players alongside slipshod coworkers. Actually, that might be rather amusing.

Good Bye Pennies

There aren't very many common, everyday items I hate more than a penny. I've hated them for years. I have hated two pennies more than one penny, and three pennies more than two pennies, but there has always been a number, a tipping point where the pennies became tolerable due to their sheer numbers. For me, I think it has been approximately 10 pennies. I'd rather have ten pennies than no pennies. Of course I would quickly convert the pennies to a dime.

My hatred of the penny goes back to high school. In my high school, picking up a penny from the floor was considered very uncool. I was uncool enough without making matters worse, consequently I refrained from rescuing the wayward one-cent coin.

After my high school days, I went into the American work force. I bought a lot of snacks out of vending machines. Excluding the gumball machine, I know of no self-respecting vending machine that ever took a penny. Even when candy bars were a dime long ago, a candy machine would refuse a penny.

There is nothing so exasperating as feeling a hunger for an 85 cent bag of potato chips only to discover that the massive amount of change in your pocket is a quarter, four nickels, and six pennies. This happened to me a few days ago. I glared at those copper coins with hatred and frustration. They did not go back into my pocket.

Early this afternoon while at my workplace, I was pulling some keys out of a pocket when a couple of coins came out with the keys. I did not see the coins but I felt them land upon my shoe. Since they were not readily visible upon the floor, and coins being coins, I knew they had rolled under a nearby table. Not knowing the value of the escaped coinage, I decided to give a quick search under the table. After exploring around for thirty seconds or so on my hands and knees, I spotted two pennies. I immediately realized that I had lost a half minute of my life to two pennies, pennies which I did not bother to retrieve. To make matters worse, I hit my head on the underside of the table as I was backing out from under it. None of this modest tragedy would have transpired had my pockets been free of pennies.

At 1:06 PM today I made the decision to forever vanquish pennies from my person, automobile cupholders, and any other place where one or more pennies might be secured. From now on I will leave pennies in the change tray at grocery stores. Small numbers of pennies owed me will be charitably rejected.

I have quickly done the math and I figure if I live to be 95 (25 more years), and spurn all pennies until that time, I will be forfeiting approximately $4.62, depending on inflation. With a hatred like mine; it's worth the sacrifice.

  

Fake Blogging

I am going to make a confession; I have a second blog, and no one can ever know its internet location. It has an alias for a author, even a photo of someone else next to the name, a photo stolen randomly from the internet. That blog has about twenty posts and in some ways is closer to being a diary than is this blog. The closest this blog comes to that blog is the specific blog entry where I write about being 14 years old and finding a treasure trove of porn in a trash can. Now, just imagine that being the most docile entry, and you can imagine that other blog. We all think this stuff, I just put it into a blog. However, like everyone else, I won't let anyone know those secrets are inside me.

Not all of the entries are about erotica. It goes about 50/50. I generally lean to being liberal, but some of the blog entries are politically incorrect; too politically incorrect to have my name attached to them. It's not that they would be embarrassing, exactly. It's just that they are kind of personal opinions. Still I want to air out these thoughts, at least a little.

I have several blog entries written by "guest bloggers". One such guest blogger is an attractive, 30-something woman. In her blog commentary she states that all things being equal, she prefers older men. In her blog entry she says that when compared to younger guys, older guys are "more thoughtful in every room of the house, including the bedroom". Unfortunately, for her to appear somewhat realistic, if not sane, her "older guys" are never much over 50. Now well into my 60s, it would appear that I'm gotten too old for my own fantasies.

Now and then I am tempted to tell someone about this second blog, specifically it's internet address. Then I give it a little more thought and good sense takes root and I keep silent. The blog actually has readers, at least according to the view counter. In fact, that guest blogger I mentioned had several dozen readers viewing her confession. I'm not sure if someone came upon that blog entry and sent the link to various friends, or if someone came upon that blog entry and returned to reread it twenty-four times over about a week or so. Either way, I've never had twenty-four views of this blog's entry about my little league career. And that was non-fiction, unfortunately.    

The Day the Music Died

I am 63 years old and partially retired. I have a lot of spare time so I decided I would undertake a constructive hobby. I decided to take up the violin. I wasn't sure I would enjoy it, so I rented an instrument. It cost me $20 a month with all the money going to the purchase, should I get that far.

I picked up the violin after work one day and as soon as I got home I took it out of the case. I went to YouTube on the internet for lessons. The first day, and in fact within an hour or so I knew how to hold the bow in my right hand and how to hold the violin using only my chin and my shoulder. The next thing was fingering the strings; how to properly do it. I learned how, technically, but clearly I was going to have to spend a lot of time practicing. I had plenty of time and I am willing.

By the end of about the second week, or approximately twenty-five or thirty hours of practice, I tried to play every violinist's first piece; Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I placed the bow onto the strings and began. It was very slow, crude and an made a lot of mistakes, but I actually did it! By the end of a month I could play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with a bit of soul. I also had a couple of other selections that I could perform, albeit crudely. 

Six weeks in and I had a handful of tunes that though they were not done expertly, were fully recognizable to any would-be listener. After two months, and countless hours of practice, I decided I would take my violin out to a local park for a free recital for any passersby. Believe it or not, an older woman stopped to listen. When I was done she smiled and said, "That was really very good." It was my first compliment. 

That in the italicized was how I thought it might go; my violin career. It seemed plausible. I was willing to learn the correct methods and practice, and I had no thought of being a virtuoso. I don't think I was looking for the unrealistic.

The reality is; I picked up my violin after work and as soon as I arrived home, I took it out of the case. I placed it under my chin and at the "10 o'clock position"; just as the experts advised. I found two problems; the violin was not held securely, making it impossible to play, and worse; it was painful to turn my head to the 10 o'clock position for more than about thirty seconds or so. My neck just did not want to do it.  

I partially solved the problem of securing the violin by placing several folded towels on my left shoulder, held in place under my shirt. It was better but probably not the long-term answer. As for the pain in my neck and upper back caused by keeping my head turned to the left; that actually got worse. After holding the violin in place for a few minutes using only my chin and shoulder, I tried to turn my head to the forward position. Not only did I find my neck almost locked into place, but I felt a shooting pain down my jaw and into my chin.  

I tried again the next day and nothing had changed except for the shooting pain had gotten worse. I think at that point I knew I was done, my career finished before the bow and touched the strings, before a single note had been played, my career finished literally before it had begun. The next morning I placed the violin in the case and when I climbed into my car to go to work, the instrument came into the car with me. After work I returned the violin to the music shop where I had first rented it two days before.

The lady behind the counter good-naturedly remarked, "You didn't give it much time."

"Well, I gave it enough time to feel achiness in my neck and pain in my jaw and chin," I replied with a smile and a note of regret. "I gave it enough time to know I was never going to be able to do it."

Then after a short pause I added, "I gave it enough time so that it'll make for another in a long line of mildly amusing, self-effacing blog entries."

Writing In a New Room

I am writing this from a room in my new condo. I think in my last post I was in the grip of my anxiety disorder and I stated that it would be nice if I composed my next entry from my new residence. Well, here it is.

I am in a one floor, ranch-style condo on Columbus's northwest side of town. It's in a relatively small, very quiet condo community. A few hours ago a neighbor, an older lady named Pam, came by and gave me a welcome gift of a basket with some fancy mints. It is a far cry from my old condo community which had loud cars, barking dogs and occasionally barking neighbors. I never knew the name of any of those old neighbors, not one, and I lived there for over 20 years. In my new condo it took two days. I met a neighbor before I had furniture.

As for my anxiety disorder that I have mentioned in this entry and in my last; it is not gone, but it has subsided greatly. Death no longer seems imminent.

I am buying new furniture and carrying almost nothing of any size from my old place. The old sofa, rickety table and chairs, and bed are going either to the Volunteers of America, or out along the curb for bulk trash pickup. In about a half dozen car trips I have moved small appliances, dishes and plates, a few small pieces of furniture, and a lot of knickknacks. This evening I made one of my last trips back to the old condo. I drove off with golf clubs, some clothes, and the few hand tools I own. With my car loaded, I locked the old condo's door and drove a few blocks down the street when I abruptly pulled off the road. I had suddenly realized that I had forgotten one of the most important things. I had been taking stuff from the basement, closets, and from the drawers. I had missed what had been prominently hanging from one wall in my living room.

Mom, Dad, wherever you are, no need to fret; I drove right back and got it... 

Framed photos of Mom and Dad, as they were during WWII

The Travails Of Buying a Condo While Suffering From An Anxiety Disorder

I'm pretty sure that somewhere in this nitwitty blog I have mentioned I have an anxiety disorder. It's pretty much impossible to explain what an anxiety disorder is like to anyone not familiar with the illness. In extreme cases, an anxiety disorder can be completely debilitating. A person might be unwilling to leave the house, or even a room. As for myself, I have it good compared to some others. Most of the time the affliction is pretty manageable and I'm not overly bothered by it... most of the time.

About six weeks ago I realized that I could afford to have a domicile upgrade. In other words; I decided to move into a nicer place. For some strange reason I thought that my anxiety disorder would not be affected by this decision. I hired a realtor and put her to work. I looked at my first house prospect, chatted with the other realtor, and everything seemed fine inside of me, psychologically speaking. Then, a few days later, came a proverbial cloudburst. I realized that I was in for putting a lot of my life savings into the new house, buying new furniture, and then getting everything moved from one place to another. My anxiety disorder went crazy, in effect, I went crazy.

My doctor prescribed for me an anti-anxiety medication. I was told that it would be easily tolerable. Well, it would have been easily tolerable if I had flushed it down the toilet. Three days into the medication I awoke one morning... well, that's just it; I barely awoke at all. I felt very lethargic. I suffered from nausea, and of course I still had the anxiety. I missed a day of work, spending the day on my sofa, nauseated and half comatose. So much for that medication.

I realized that I was going to have to go about this whole buying process quickly. It was either going to be fast, or I was going to die. Well, maybe not die, but at least be in miserable state of anxiety.

I looked at a few places and finally decided to buy a nice, ranch-style condo. As recommended by my realtor, I made an offer significantly below the asking price, a move that worked to fuel my anxiety. I received a counter offer, but my realtor advised me to make yet another offer rather than accept their counter offer. With my anxiety now through the roof, I made a counter offer. The result was yet one more counter offer from the condo owner. I had had enough and so had my anxiety; no more counter offers. I accepted their last offer. It may have cost me a few thousand dollars. Such is the price of an anxiety disorder.

Next came the professional inspection of the condo. I watched the guy check the pipes, the electrical outlets, and the furnace. He found a couple things that were fixable but unacceptable as is. Naturally these issues will have to be remedied one way or another or I'm probably going to retract my offer. If you think this situation eases my anxiety, you would be mistaken.

Anyway, that's where I stand as of today, October 8th, 2014 at about 5:57 PM. Maybe writing about this ordeal will act as therapy and help with the anxiety. It can't hurt, trust me. Heck, maybe my next blog entry will be written in my new condo and this extreme anxiety will be just a bad memory. That would be nice.        

Old Stuff

I've got a ton of old stuff. I can be seated at my computer, swivel around in my chair and my eyes will focus on several ancient relics.

There's an open closet just to my right. I can see a team shirt I wore while playing softball around 1976 or '77. In fact, now that I look in the closet a little deeper, there are two softball shirts hanging in there. One of them has Out-r-Inn stitched on it, which was the tavern that sponsored us, sponsored us about 1979 or so. Hanging alongside the softball shirts is a coat that was purchased for me by a former girlfriend. We broke-up in 1984. There in the closet is a workshirt from the mid-80s. Up on the shelf is an analog video camera, one of those things that weighs about 20 pounds. Okay, I should to get rid of that.

Across the room is this old table. Upon it is a computer that I no longer use but have never felt compelled to dispose of. The table was in my first apartment, left behind by the previous tenant. I moved into the apartment in 1970, the table has been with me ever since. I received my chest of drawers in the same apartment at the same time. I see in the corner a floor fan. God only knows how old that is. I probably bought it at Sun TV about 40 years ago. Next to my computer monitor is a souvenir cup from Yosemite. It's 25 years old, or in other words; practically new.

In the basement I have two sets of golf clubs. One was used by my father until he bought a new set, which represents the other set of clubs down in the basement. My dad died in 1991. There is a hockey stick down there too, hanging on the wall. The stick was used during the one and only hockey game I ever played in the mid-70s.

There is one new item in my cellar; a hot water heater. I had it installed yesterday. It cost me $700. I can afford $700. There wasn't much financial sting because I've saved some money over the years. Geez, I wonder how.  

A Personal Imperfection

I have a few imperfections. I admit it. One of them stays pretty well hidden most of the time, even to the people who know me best. But the imperfection is there, this I can assure you.

I have an anxiety disorder with distinct hints of depression. The anxiety disorder generally goes by GAD or General Anxiety Disorder. It isn't always general however. About a dozen years ago I had trouble driving a car because the anxiety took the form of  obsession/compulsion. I had an unrealistic anxiety of wrecking the car and killing myself or others. Driving was terrifying. Even being a passenger was unsettling. I got cognitive therapy from a psychologist and over the course of a number of visits over several weeks, I beat the obsessive/compulsive element of the problem and ever since I've been able to drive a car with just occasional periods of emotional discomfort.

For most folks who have this form of disorder, their first negative experiences come fairly early in life. I first started getting signs when I was in my late forties; much later than the norm. For the last fifteen years or so the disorder has been with me. I can't shake free of it and probably never will. The good news is that most of the time it is not much more intruding than a background noise. But there are times when it just kind of jumps out at me and then just as quickly ducks back undercover, just lurking.

Now and then the disorder grabs a hold and sticks to me for a longer period of time. Maybe a week or so. I will feel despondent and worn out. I try to hide it because no one can do much about it. But for me, when those times come, I will occasionally get a moment when the discomfort subsides and I get an instant of feeling good. This "instant" is just that; perhaps fifteen seconds or so. Like the sun bursting through an overcast sky. That bit of sunshine may not be much but it can be enough to let me know that the sun still shines.

The last month or so the anxiety and depression have been unwelcome guests a bit too often. I am back with a psychologist and taking cognitive therapy. I also have medication which I have not yet taken due to the very real possibility of adverse side effects which happened to me about ten years ago when trying a different medication.

For me this isn't a totally crippling affliction. I still go to work, laugh, and crack bad jokes. But it can be like going to work and cracking bad jokes while standing in the cold rain; much of the fun and enjoyment is absent. But I'm an optimist, and I know sunny days are just ahead. They always have been.          

Being Seldom Seen Really Isn't So Bad

This blog is called the "Seldom Seen" blog because, well, no one knows anything about it. According to the visitor counter, I've had like six views in five years. That's not an altogether bad thing, by any stretch of the imagination. The wrong person sees this blog and it could ruin their day, maybe even a whole week. Fortunately my mother can't see it, unless she faked her death, which she might have done, just to get away (obviously it's not "too soon"). What if Joy Laughlin, now Joy Laughlin D'Avanzo happened to see this moronic blog? She's an old high school classmate of mine and if she ever saw it she would lose complete respect for me, if she had any to begin with, which seems unlikely.

I'm afraid some terrorist group is going to come along my blog while searching the internet. Some organization like Isis. They'll think those Americans are a bunch of numbskulls and they'll figure they can move right in. So yeah, being seldom seen isn't so bad. However for me it is therapeutic. I can practice both my typing and my spelling. I can talk about my long-ago past; as a young teenager I would ogle the girls in Playboy Magazines. I can yak about how clowns still kind of creep me out. I think I have mentioned in one of these blog entries that men's locker room benches are so unsanitary that I refuse to sit on one even if wearing a suit of armor. Point is; the blog does serve a purpose, just not a worthwhile one.

Doug Miller and Willis "Pillsie" Moore

 

Ordinary people rarely get any long-term recognition after they are forever gone. They are usually forgotten in short order by everyone but their families and friends. A few years back a guy died who I worked with for 20 years. His name was Doug Miller. He was an ordinary nice guy. There was talk about honoring him by putting his name on a bench outside the building. This was never going to be a granite statue in his honor. It was going to be just a simple brass plate with his name on it screwed to a bench. Still, it never happened. Those in charge of the project never got around to doing it. Now a few years later, there is a percentage of new employees that have never even heard of Doug Miller. I’m not mad about it. It’s just the way it is. People come and go, making way for yet another in an endless parade of generations. 

Recently my companion and I traveled to a corn festival in Strasburg, Ohio, located in a distant part of the state. We've been going to the same small town festival every year for nearly 20 years. A couple of times while en route we have taken a brief side trip for ice cream in the remote village of West Lafayette, Ohio. There on the property of the Dari Hut is a modest brick memorial to Willis “Pillsie” Moore. Part of the memorial is a showcase with photos of Willis and his wife, and a miniature, six inch baseball bat, just like the ones Willis would carve for kids.

See, Willis “Pillsie” Moore was the school custodian at the village elementary school from 1921 to 1956. He befriended many of the students. In his spare time he would carve the little baseball bats and give them away. But he gave other things away too, most notably; kindness. He would occasionally fix a broken bicycle, glue the binding of an old book, and generally lend a helping hand wherever he could.

Willis retired in 1956 but he remained in the village and died there in 1982. Through the years the citizens of West Lafayette did not forget the kindly school custodian. In 1993 they decided to erect a simple but proud monument next to the Dari Hut, the monument dedicated to Willis. It is on the site of the old elementary school. In 2003 Willis “Pillsie” Moore was voted into the town’s Hall of Fame, voted in for “humanitarian service” along with long-time area politicians and local athletes.

I like to visit the little memorial. It’s somehow reassuring that a person can be remembered for simply being a thoughtful, unselfish person. No earth-shaking political speech required, no great invention needed. 

It certainly isn't a brass plague on a bench, but Doug Miller did get mentioned in my silly blog. He deserves higher recogniton. Maybe a lot of us do. 

Avoiding Senior Citizen Embarrassment (by guest blogger Gus Newcomb)

My name is Gus Newcomb and I’m 76 years old. I've been divorced for 16 years; have three kids and five grandkids. I live alone in a decent townhouse apartment in Milwaukee. I am retired but I volunteer at a food bank, am a member at a golf club, have a number of friends, and generally try to keep busy. But I’m not getting any younger. There are times when I wake up with some pretty significant aches and pains. Sometimes I will awake and find something like a knee or perhaps my hand has swollen up. The other day the heel of my left foot was so sore that I could not put any weight on it. I don’t know why it was sore, I do not remember injuring it, I figure it must be that the heel is 76 years old and it’s getting kind of fatigued.

Gus Newcomb

Truth is, I carry a cellphone not so much to call anyone socially, or to receive calls, but just in case I have a sudden health issue and need to call someone for assistance. It’s kind of sad, really. I've always considered myself to be self-reliant. I’m still self-reliant I guess, but I’m no longer self-reliant without a safety net.

One of the oddest things about advancing age in my situation is that should I suddenly need hospitalization, requiring someone to enter my apartment; I don't want to have its contents embarrass me. Consequently, over the last year or so I have felt obliged to vacuum at least once a week. In fact, these days I feel it necessary to keep my sink and kitchen countertops free of debris. I rinse dirty dishes and put them straight into the automatic dishwasher. I now feel an obligation to neatly place my clothes on hangers rather than depositing them on the bedroom floor after wearing. Just in case I’m hospitalized for a few weeks and someone needs to turn on my computer to pay a bill, I no longer keep photos of women on the hard drive. In fact, I have made it a habit to clear the internet history every so often, just in case the wrong person gets curious should I not be around. And now that I'm older I have gotten into the habit of wearing holeless socks and clean underwear. I'd hate to be rushed to the hospital in an ambulance and have some pretty nurse pull down my trousers and find I am sporting stained underwear. That would be the ultimate old guy embarrassment. We elderly dudes might be ancient and creaky, but we're not dead.   

  

Sometimes Being Popular Can Suck (By guest blogger Heather Caine)

Heather Caine

Okay, my name is Heather Caine. I’m now 15 years old. I do not want to sound stuck-up or a snob, but I’m pretty popular at school. It’s not like I’m way cool, but I am kinda popular. I am a reserve cheerleader at school and next year I’ll probably be on the regular squad. Last weekend I went to a pizza party with a guy from the school basketball team. His name is Kevin. The party was in the basement of one of the guys on the football team. Just about all of the cool kids were there. After the pizza we all kind of chilled and watched a movie. About halfway through the movie Kevin wanted to make-out. I did not want to so I told him I wasn’t in the mood. To tell the truth; someone else was on my mind.

Okay, there’s this guy who sits behind me in History class. His name is Cal Denton. Sometimes during the class I will hear him say stuff to some other people who are usually sitting somewhere behind me. He doesn't yell or even talk loud, he just sometimes says stuff in a quiet voice. He has this great sense of humor and he can be so funny. I mean, I sometimes just have to laugh. Then there’s these other times when he will say stuff that is really nice and even sort of sweet. I overheard him tell Mindy Connors that she was wearing a really cool necklace. Cal will say nice things like that.

A couple of weeks ago Gary Waters was with a bunch of his friends walking down the hallway when he knocked the books out of the hands of Teddy Catlin. Gary then laughed and called Teddy a “spazaholic”. Gary Waters is like twice as big as Teddy. Anyhow, Cal was right behind Gary when all this took place and he just calmly whacked the backpack Gary had dangling from a hand, and then he kicked it down the corridor. Gary turned around and saw Cal standing there and I thought a fight was going to break-out right there in the school corridor. But Cal just looked Gary in the eye and in this calm voice said, “Look who’s the spazaholic now.” I swear I could see the fear in Gary’s eyes as he just backed away and went to pick up his backpack. Meanwhile Cal helped Teddy pick up his books. It was one of the scariest, and yet coolest things I have ever seen.

The next day in History class I turned around in my seat and told Cal that I saw what he did in the hall to Gary. Cal just sort of smiled, shrugged and said that he had gotten mad and that he usually doesn't act like such an idiot. It was a way cool, totally awesome thing to say.

Okay, I’m going to be honest now; I really like Cal. I’d like for him to ask me out sometime. Trouble is; I know he won’t. See, he’s not really all that popular around the school. Heck, he sort of sided with Teddy Catlin there in the hallway and to be truthful, the kids think Teddy is kind of gross. I suppose I could get brave and ask Cal out for ice cream or maybe just to chill and hang-out, but I’d bet he would say no, and besides, what would my friends say about me going out with Cal Denton? 

Sometimes being popular can really suck.        

      

The Illness of Sentimentality

Sometimes I think I have some kind of rather harmless mental illness. The latest version of this malady is that I have this desire to run around with my old, childhood pal, Paul Green. That may not sound weird, it might sound even kind of quaint, but hold on, I’m just getting started.

My family moved from one neighborhood to another when I was 7 years old in 1958. One of the first kids I met in the new neighborhood was Paul Green, an urchin I may have mentioned before in some blog entry. We almost immediately became best buddies, Green and I. Together we rode our bicycles hither and yon. One day we would climb to the top of a sycamore tree and the next day we would explore the dark depths of the city’s rain sewer system. Usually I would call him simply “Green”, but when we were really having a high ol’ time I would gleefully label him “Greenie-boy”. For about five years Green and I were inseparable.

Eventually cracks began to surface in our friendship. When we were about 13 or 14 years old things began to change. Although I could not identify it at the time, the simple fact was; Green was emotionally maturing faster than I was. It seemed like overnight Green lost interest in bean-shooters and slingshots. He no longer wanted to play “army”. Cap guns no longer interested him. It seemed like in a matter of just weeks my pal was talking favorably about girls. Soon thereafter he began to care about how he dressed.

Eventually Green started saying rather rude things to me when I would suggest some boyish activity such as playing with his set of toy Calvary men on his basement floor. It wasn’t long before he was hanging around a different set of friends, many of whom openly smoked cigarettes. By the time we began high school we had gone our separate directions. Still, the demise of our friendship did not change the fun we once had.  

Now, many years later, I have this strange desire to do many of those boyhood things again. In fact, I have this strange desire to do those things again with Paul Green. Unfortunately this can never happen. It is impossible. You see, I do not want to participate in long-ago activities with today’s 62 year-old Paul Green. In fact, that sounds kind of depressing. No, instead I have a desire to engage in those bygone pursuits with the 9 year-old Greenie-boy. 

There is no cure for this form of illness. About all that can be done is accept it, which means reflecting on that past era and when a pleasant memory comes to mind, give it a smile. Heck, who knows, maybe right this very moment Greenie-boy is thinking back on his boyhood as he is writing into his blog. If he is, I hope he’s smiling. Some illnesses really aren't so bad.  

What a Blast (By Guest Blogger Charlie Sheridan)

Yesterday my mom told me I ought to write something for the internet. She is always saying that she wants me to express myself. I told her that I did not have anything to write about but she said that I ought to just say whatever comes to mind. She told me I need to double check my spelling. So anyhow, I hope I do not mess up too much.

Charlie Sheridan

My name is Charlie Sheridan. I’m 11 ½. I’m not exactly old but there are a few things I've learned. I found out that all the fun stuff is bad for you. I guess that’s why grown-ups don't let us kids do them, or at least that’s why they try to stop us from doing them.

I like candy more than just about anything in the world. My favorite is Reese’s Cups but I like just about any kind of candy. Snickers, Baby Ruths, even Lifesavers are all pretty darn good. I once ate a whole ten dollars’ worth of Butterfingers and it didn't bother me one bit.

Yep, candy sure is great. But there is one thing I like more than candy and that’s firecrackers. A few weeks ago I cut a neighbor’s lawn and with the $9 I earned I bought a sack of firecrackers from this kid, Teddy Paninski. Teddy gets them from his big brother who lives far away. I got all kinds of firecrackers.

Okay, let me tell you about firecrackers. The fireworks that sparkle or the ones that create a lot of smoke aren't real firecrackers. They’re for sissies. I suppose a smoke bomb can be fun if you do something with it, like throw it in the door of a porta-potty when someone is sitting in there, but usually I wouldn't waste my time with a smoke bomb. Firecrackers explode. Exploding is what they’re all about and that’s what makes them fun. But just setting-off firecrackers by themselves can be boring. You got to blow stuff up. Personally, I like exploding model airplanes and cars. There’s nothing cooler than putting a firecracker in the back seat of a model car and lighting the fuse. The car blows up just like a real car would if it got hit by a bazooka.

One cool thing to do is to put one or two unlit firecrackers in a model car, squirt some lighter fluid into the car, and then throw in a lit match. The car will erupt in flame and then a few second later the firecrackers will blow up sending burning plastic everywhere. It’s just so neat.

One time me and Billy Evans went to a toy store and bought this little balsa wood glider. It cost about $2. I paid $1 and Billy paid $1. I taped a firecracker to the airplane, lit the fuse, and then Billy threw the airplane off a bridge. The plane was floating along through the air as nice as could be when all of the sudden: POW!; the firecracker exploded and the airplane turned into splinters that fluttered to the ground like snowflakes. How neat is that!? 

One thing I know for sure; when I grow up I’m going to eat a lot of candy and blow-up a whole bunch of stuff with firecrackers. And oh yeah, there won’t be any dumb girls around to bother me.