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.   

Saying Good-bye

The other day I was thinking about the custom of saying goodbye. I've been told that not every culture does it. I guess in some places one person just turns around and walks off without uttering a word of farewell. That would seem kind of weird to me. 

But the very act of saying goodbye can have sort of built-in difficulties. You have to leave a friend’s house. Saying goodbye can be tricky. You really have to go, but on the other hand you don’t want to look as though you’re rushing off. It has to be a reluctant goodbye. It takes some thespian training.

There is this problem of saying goodbye to a loved one just before his or her death; a final farewell with the emphasis on “final”. If a person says goodbye to someone who is on the brink of death, the dying person then knows that as far as his life goes, it’s curtains. In essence the dying individual has been told that he might as well give up the fight; he’s finished. So, do you really want to tell a friend or loved one that he’s kaput? As noble and emotional as it sounds, saying goodbye in such cases can almost be an act of cruelty. It certainly is not always feasible.

I sometimes call my telephone answering machine when I want to remember something later on. No one uses, or listens to my answering machine but me, so I can say pretty much what I want when I call it. In fact, not long ago I telephoned my answering machine concerning my thoughts on saying goodbye. When I had finished my brief recording, I automatically said goodbye. Before I said goodbye I politely babbled, “I’ll talk to you later.” Of course the second I said these things I realized how dopey it was. It kind of reminded me of the guy who sends me emails and as a greeting writes what period of the day it is when they are composed, such as "Good Evening". I'm left to wonder if there is something in his brain that thinks I'm reading his words at the same time he is writing them. 

I was at a friend’s house recently when she had trouble with her landline telephone. I messed with the phone a bit and then used my cellphone to call her number, just to check on her phone. The telephone rang, she picked up the receiver and I began talking to her from a few feet away via my cellphone. Everything seemed to be working normally. So with my friend looking me in the eye from five feet away, she said that she was going to hang-up which was then followed by the compulsory, phone-conversation-finis of “goodbye”. The slight misuse of her final word had me chuckling. Of course I would not have found it so amusing if I were on my deathbed.        

One of My Biggest Fears

This is going to sound impossibly paradoxical, but one of my biggest fears these days is the fear of becoming a complete hypochondriac. To add to that paradox, I’m going to the doctor tomorrow and talk to him about it. I’m going to the doctor for other reasons too, of course. I would not be concerned about becoming a hypochondriac if I weren’t going to the doctor for some illness, and illness that in all likelihood is imagined. The specific reasons why I’m going to the doctor tomorrow are that I have been having some mild discomfort in the gallbladder area (I looked up its location on the Net), and I have a pea-sized lump in my groin. The mild discomfort is probably nothing more than a muscle strain, and the pea-sized lump is undoubtedly a harmless cyst. But put them together and use some anxiety-based inventiveness and you can come up with some kind of cancer. I know I did. I can imagine someone saying, “He had this little ache that he thought was nothing, but darn if it wasn’t cancer.”

Yeah, my biggest hypochondriacal fear is cancer. The cancer has got to be some fatal variety. Why fear a cancer that cannot take your life? If I have a headache that is something other than the standard frontal headache, I immediately think I have a brain tumor. I worry about cancer of the pancreas too. That’s generally fatal. To a lesser degree I have fears of liver, stomach, and bladder cancer. Any kind of pain, mild or severe, in the appropriate area, and I know it’s a sign of cancer of that region’s vital organ.

Another fear of mine is ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. I know I have ALS when an object accidentally drops out of my grasp. I figure I’m losing strength in my hands and that can only be ALS, or so I believe. Another thing that will do it is a few seconds of slurred speech. That’s another potential symptom of ALS. I ought to know, my hypochondria forced me to do the research.   

This hypochondria is pretty nasty in its own right. There are days when I do not have a bout with some imaginary affliction, but there are days when at various times I will swear I have two or three terminal illnesses. In the morning it might be stomach cancer. In the afternoon it’s a brain tumor. By that evening I’ve got the first symptoms of ALS. This is hard on me. It’s just not a lot of fun. Fortunately I have a sense of humor about it. I’m additionally fortunate that a sense of humor is not a symptom of a fatal disease; at least none I’ve been able to find. But I’m sure I’ll keep looking.      

I Want Assisted Living Now (by guest blogger Cecil Tackett)

Cecil Tackett

I’m only 44 years old but I’m looking forward to having assisted living. As soon as possible I’m going to an assisted living facility. But I’m not going to just any assisted living facility. No sir. I’m going to one that has nothing but gorgeous women doing the assisting.

I can picture the place now. It will be great. I’ll have one honey helping me out of bed in the morning, and another bringing me breakfast. Then I think I’ll get a deep massage by some super hot girl named Lola or Amber or Heather. Cripes, I can almost feel her slender fingers now, gently rubbing my back as I lie there limp. Following the massage, I’ll have yet another babe bring me lunch.

If I don’t take an afternoon nap, I’ll have some stunning doll push me around the grounds in a wheelchair. I can walk, but why should I use my legs when a dazzling dame can push me in a wheelchair? And of course I’ll have still another girl bring me dinner. If she is really a knockout, I’ll have her feed me. Yeah, some beautiful woman feeding me pork barbecue and crepe suzettes.

I’m saving the best for last. Sometime in the evening I’m going to have two sweet babes giving me a bath. One will be soaping my body while the other is giving me a shampoo. They will have fun doing it. The girls will do a lot of giggling. I think I’d want yet another girl to towel me off, sprinkle on the talcum powder, and then help me pull on my pajamas.

So yeah, that’s my thoughts on assisted living. If you ask me, it sounds pretty good. But I don’t want to wait until I’m 80 when I can no longer enjoy it. I’m ready to enjoy it now. Maybe this Obamacare can help me out. I’ll have to go to their website.      

Preserving Via the Net

One of the nice things about the internet that doesn’t get enough notoriety is that whole groups of people can stay in contact with each other through the years. It doesn’t really require much effort. It might take a little work to find the people, but once that’s done, it’s easy street.

This year my high school class is having its 45^th reunion. I keep in contact with about two dozen of them, albeit this contact might be only once or twice a year. I know of the whereabouts of well over one hundred classmates, although some of them are now underground, so to speak. Forty years after they graduated, I’m not sure if my parents could have recalled the name of a single schoolmate. As far as I know, my mom and dad lost track of all their high school chums the day they graduated and got their diplomas.

My last blog entry someone actually left a comment, believe it or not. You can go read it if you want. The comment was written by some idiot named Bob Sayre. I went to high school with this dingbat. Both Sayre and I were no more than 18 years old then. Now we’re 62. We were not best of buddies in high school. We did not hang-out together. I never went to Sayre’s house after school, and he was lucky enough never to have gone to mine. But we were solid casual friends. We would occasionally bark wisecracks at each other in various classrooms. Now all these years later -45 years, to be exact- we are doing the same thing via the internet.

People can complain about the internet, how it has its hate sites and how it oozes pornography, but in most respects the Net is pretty cool. Just take Sayre and me for example. All of these years later two morons are still ribbing each other. The internet changes many things, but it also works to keep some things the same, which is not an altogether bad thing. 

Now, I'd go back and reply to Sayre's comment, but I have already called him an idiot and a dingbat. If I say much more, that asswipe will start whining.