Category: Family and Friends

Random musings about family and friends.

The Shore – A Long Overdue Appreciation

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

You’ll notice that I did not entitle this “The Jersey Shore – A Long Overdue Appreciation.” That’s not because I wanted to disassociate it from the terrible MTV show starring Snooki, J-Woww and the Situation (though if I had, would you blame me?). No. It’s because for those of us that have lived our entire lives in close proximity to it… that have vacationed there for as long as we can remember, it has always been just “The Shore.” There’s no need to specify the state unless you’re not from around here, and by here I mean Pennsylvania, New Jersey, southern New York and to some extent Maryland and Delaware, though both states have their own coastlines and by association, their own “Shores.” My Shore? It is a part of our culture here in the mid-Atlantic. We grew up with it and many of us have started rearing our own children on it, much in the same way that our parents reared us on it decades ago.

If you ask people about their memories of the Shore you receive a whole range of responses. My wife’s memories, for example, are very different than mine despite the fact that our respective resorts were and remain only a few miles apart. Her memories involve time spent staying in one of the many, retro-Americana motels-turned-condos in North Wildwood, whereas mine involve staying in a one floor, three bedroom rancher in North Cape May a block off of the Bay. She remembers crabbing the inlets surrounding Wildwood Crest with her father while I remember fishing the Bay with mine. She remembers playing amidst the neon spectacle of the Wildwood Boardwalk while I remember the tranquil strolls I used to take through the Washington Street Mall. She remembers food like Mack’s Pizza and drinks like the infamous Lime Rickey. I remember Patty Melts and Shirley Temples from the Jackson Mountain Cafe. There are similarities between our experiences–Uncle Bill’s Pancake House, for example–but for the most part, her experiences seemed highly irregular to me at first and mine seemed the same to her. At first.

That’s because in both cases, we have made a concerted effort to duplicate our own experiences for each other over the course of our first 12 years together. Why? Perhaps to gain a better understanding of the other’s childhood, or perhaps just to get the f*ck out of dodge for a couple of days at a clip and go someplace not hemmed in by buildings and super malls. Maybe just because we both love the Shore so damn much and we can’t be away from it for long before we start to “dry out.” I honestly don’t know, but it has always been a part of our relationship, and one that I cherish greatly.

Early on, I would take her to Cape May at least once a year. In subsequent years our resort of choice has shifted back to Wildwood. Last summer, we took our then-two year old daughter Cara to the latter with us for her first time ex-utero (she had been previously while still sheltering in Nicole’s tummy) and watched her revel in the same things that we had reveled in as children. We watched her dig trenches in the sand and I helped her build a sand castle. She was terrified of the ocean but she went in once or twice, albeit while clinging tightly to her mommy or her daddy’s neck. She called the beach the “Big Sandbox” and the ocean the “Big Bathtub.” We ate dinner at the Ravioli House. We wandered along the Boardwalk. We went on rides and played games. We coddled her with junk food and ate a decent amount, ourselves. And while the week was slightly overshadowed by the specter of Hurricane Irene which had blown through a few days before our arrival, it was a wonderful, albeit truncated experience.

Fast forward a little more than a year to late October, 2012 and you know as well as I do what just “blew through” the Shore. You’ve heard the reports and you’ve seen the pictures. To say that Sandy was a vicious bitch is an understatement. In the process of “blowing through” she pretty much leveled the entire New Jersey coastline with a combination of high winds, huge waves and torrential rainfall. Not even my three year old throws a tantrum like the one Sandy just threw and Cara? She’s thrown a few dandies. I remember seeing the devastation that Hurricane Katrina dealt New Orleans back in 2005 and while I’d never diminish what that city endured and continues to endure I’m inclined to say that at this point? The scenes that are being played out over and over again both online and on television of the Shore look eerily similar to the scenes that we all grew so familiar with in August of 2005.

I am grateful that Wildwood and Cape May made it through the storm… not necessarily unscathed but less-scathed then their counterparts further north. It means that the landscape that I return to in subsequent years will not be overly altered from what it was the last time I was there (we did not make it down this year due largely in part to the arrival of baby number two, Natalie). But a few of the scenes that I have witnessed of the areas north of Wildwood have been especially jarring. The one that really sticks in my mind is the still of the Fun Town Amusement Pier in Seaside Heights, New Jersey.

Understand that I was primarily a southern New Jersey beach goer growing up but when my mother and my father first separated  and then divorced in the late 1980’s my father moved to northern New Jersey. He took a liking to older, less frequented resorts like Asbury Park, Sandy Hook and specifically, Seaside Heights. He took me and my little sister to the last on numerous occasions and much of the old pier that has since been annexed by the Atlantic Ocean used to be our playground. The steel spine of the roller coaster that now sticks up and out of the water? I rode on it a few times. The log flume too. Long before Seaside Heights was Jersey Shore-ified by Snooki and her alcoholic brood it existed and has existedin my mind as a slightly less significant keystone of my childhood than Cape May.

But now? Little remains of not only the pier, but the Boardwalk that I knew so well and what does remain is battered and broken, some might say beyond repair. But I will not. I have faith in the good people of New Jersey and in her surrounding areas. Even in Snooki and her drunken counterparts though admittedly, my faith in them is slightly less then my faith in… well, normal people. I know that they will work together to rebuild what was destroyed. I have faith in their governor who has quickly transformed from a frequent target of ridicule to a Rudy Juliani-esque figurehead of strength and leadership. It is said that leaders… true leaders emerge from the ashes of disaster and while I never doubted Governor Christie’s capability to run his state (not always to my agreement but what politician, Democrat or Republican ever does?), I have seen a different side of him these last few days. I have seen not just a politician but a man who’s own childhood was spent along the Shore. A man who is visibly exhausted and mentally scarred from watching what nature did to the beloved locales of his own youth. And while I’m not endorsing the man for president in 2016 he has finally forced me to take notice of him. For what it’s worth? Insert pat on the back and handshake here. Well played, Governor Christie. Well played, indeed.

This blog entry is not a political propaganda piece, however. Anyone who uses something like this to further their own agenda or the agenda of another is a reprehensible human being which is why I am grateful that, even with arguably the most important presidential election of my lifetime less than a week away, the two major candidates for the highest office in the land have suspended what has been an increasingly ugly campaign in an attempt to focus on more pressing issues like saving lives and rebuilding infrastructure. Were I an undecided voter this year (which I am not), the candidate that campaigns the least between now and November 6th would win my vote and no other issues would matter (’cause let’s face it: They’re of equivalent  if not equal minds on what needs to be done to fix this country, they just wear different ties).

But that is neither here nor there. The title of this blog entry is “The Shore – A Long Overdue Appreciation” not “My Feelings on Politicians and Election Day, 2012 (with a look ahead to 2016).” Perhaps I should refocus on the piece that I had originally intended to write.

Many outsiders, even some that have lived in this area their whole lives think of the Shore as little more than one big and dirty amusement park by the sea. They think of it as a landfill covered by overpriced properties and mom and pop establishments that do a year’s worth of business in four or five months and then shut down. They use the term “overrated” when they describe it. Even people that I work with have a low regard for it, citing that it is “not a real seashore, not like Florida or California, or Hawaii or the islands of the Caribbean.” Those people? They have read way too many stories about hypodermic needles and medical waste washing up on the sand. The Shore is more than just the place where New York City’s garbage goes to die. It hasn’t been that for decades and even when that was occurring it was occurring in one or two, isolated places and not up and down the entire coastline. It is more than tacky, plastic souvenirs, bumper stickers advertising mile markers and hermit crabs. What is it?

It is the sum of a million… a billion or more shared memories, dating back not just decades but centuries. Some might say it is the lone similarity between the generation being born in to the world currently, the generation that proceeded it, the generation that proceeded it and onward and backward. In my opinion? Those people would be correct. After all, it is difficult to discuss World War Two with someone unless you’ve studied it. It is difficult to relate to Disco when you’ve never heard a Donna Summer song. It is difficult to discuss “Twilight” when the only vampire book you’ve ever read is “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” and it is difficult to relate to an iPad when all you ever used as a child was a typewriter.

The Shore, though? When you tell your grandfather about the Lollipop Motel in North Wildwood he knows what you are talking about without the benefit of a Google search. When you tell your grandmother about how much you love Kohr Brothers Frozen Custard she smiles and says, “so did I when I was your age.” When you tell your aunt or uncle about “The Shack” in Long Beach Island she or he immediately removes her or his iPhone from her or his pocket and brings up a picture of a teetering, gray-black, roofless structure with a tarnished American Flag hanging over its facade. “This Shack?” she or he says and you smile and nod. When you meet a stranger on the street who is wearing an Asbury Park sweatshirt and you look at him, nod and say, “Stone Pony,” he knows immediately that you are talking about the place where Bruce Springsteen got his start 40 plus years ago and he gives you a thumbs up. Even people that disagree about which Allentown Billy Joel was referring to–Allentown, New York or Allentown, Pennsylvania–concur that families from both towns “spent their weekends on the Jersey Shore.”

Why? Because despite time’s sometimes cruel advance the Shore remains timeless. Certain aspects of its appearance change on a whim and in the days, weeks, months and years ahead, likely to be known as the post-Sandy Era or Epoch, many of the aspects of its appearance that my wife and I grew up with and that we introduced Cara to last year will most certainly change, even before we can introduce Natalie to them. There isn’t much that any of us can do about it: Sandy took choice out of the equation when she roared ashore like a child who’s pissed off that you scolded at her for not eating her carrots and told her to go to bed. But despite it… despite its ever altering face the Shore is still the same place that it has always been. Despite the fact that the Star Jet roller coaster in Seaside Heights has been claimed by the Atlantic Ocean and now looks like a twisted, modern art interpretation of a drowning snake in its death throes what it was and what it represented remains and always will remain. Those rides upon its steel spine will remain a part of not only my memory, but a part of millions upon billions of others’ memories, as well.

And that, really, is the crux of what this little piece of Mental Flatulence is about: Memory, and how it personifies itself. How it lives and breathes despite the fact that most people call it an “abstract concept.” It’s not, guys. It’s as alive as I am. We all have memories, whether we summered at the Shore growing up or vacationed in Disney World every year. I would never claim that one is greater than the other… that Atlantic City is greater than Virginia Beach or that Ocean City, New Jersey is greater than Ocean City, Maryland. I can only speak from experience and per my experiences? There is something special about my Shore that transcends a popular reality show on non-Music Television. Maybe its just me but I don’t think so. I’ve seen the comments, the Facebook statuses and the Tweets about what happened there, and the majority of people that are talking about it are doing so from their own, individual memories. “Remember when we went here,” and, “look at what happened there.” Here? There? Everywhere up and down the coastline? “There be haints, guys,” as Pat McClane (I almost made it this whole blog entry without an ENDWORLD reference) might have said if given the opportunity. Years upon decades upon centuries worth of haints that exist because of our own, shared experiences. While superficially, much of what we knew has been forever altered beneath the surface, the Shore that we grew up crabbing, fishing, eating, drinking, playing upon and strolling through… the “Big Sandbox” that we grew up digging trenches through and building castles upon… the “Big Bathtub” that we grew up terrified of unless we were clinging tightly to our mother or father’s neck…

It is still there. It always has been and it always will be. Not because it was spared Sandy’s wrath but because it wasn’t.Because Sandy, despite the swath of destruction that she left in her wake did something entirely unexpected. She made something that had, like Governor Christie, been reduced to little more than a punchline in a sub-par reality show real again. I won’t thank her for that anymore than I’ll endorse Chris Christie for president in 2016. But I’ll never forget the impacts of either, and that may end up being the most important thing that I take away from this experience.

Just Another Appreciation, AKA The Equivalent of a Gen Ed Appreciation

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I think the title says it all. Or does it? In truth, the title really says nothing other than what it says. This could be an appreciation of anything from “The Walking Dead” to Pez… from the futility of being a Philadelphia Eagles fan to being a Conservative Liberal or a Liberal Conservative (and I’m not going to tell you which I am because really? I might be both… or neither). And while I am entering the composition of this little piece of Mental Flatulence with the foreknowledge of what it is going to be an appreciation of… well, I guess I thought that the title I chose was a better one than “Anniversaries: An Appreciation.” The former keeps you guessing and makes you want to read on to solve the mystery while the latter can be easily dismissed as me, once again talking about myself. Now that I’ve admitted to my ploy you have my permission to look away or you can continue to read. Either way I got credit for a blog hit which is good. I’ve always said that if I ever make it to 100 hits on a single blog entry I’ll go public. If you want me to go public then that’s a good thing. If you don’t I highly suggest that you stop clicking on the links when I post them. ‘Cause I’m doing it at 100 whether the world wants me to or not.

You have been warned.

Incidentally, my last entry–“Penn State Proud – A Psuedo-Madman’s Take”–remains my high water mark for hits: 70. Most everything else that I’ve written has remained between 30 and 50 hits total. I have no reason to think that this particular entry will in any way, shape or form rival my last or my second most viewed entry ever–“What Thanksgiving Means to me by way of Probability and Statistics” (66)–but I’m hopeful. I’m always hopeful that there’s more out there for these musings than word of mouth via Facebook or Twitter because despite my sometimes inane ramblings that are, seemingly, meaningful to only one or two people (myself included), I maintain that there are a few quality ideas in them. A few. Um…

Inci-incidentally, if you are interested in reading either of those two blog entries you can link the Penn State one HERE or the Thanksgiving one HERE. All of my other entries are accessible via the main page of Random Musings HERE. Notice also the addition of a “SHARE ME” box directly directly beneath my profile and a “G+” icon at the top. Please, feel free to pass any of these entries on to your friends. Help me get to 100 and fulfill my dream of publishing something (I’m not discriminating). And with that bit of shameless promotion out of the way, I will now return you to my current blog entry, already in progress.

All together now: Oh thank God. 

Today is a momentous day. For me, at least, and hopefully for my wife. Today is my seventh wedding anniversary. There was a time, a little over a decade ago where I never would have dreamed such a thing possible. Pre-November, 2001 I was… well, I guess you could say that I was romantically a rudderless ship. I’d spent the better part of six plus years obsessing over relationships that either should have been or were but ended too quickly. Many of those relationships took on an almost cult status in my own mind over time. I even referred to the women that I had those relationships with by surnames like “The Feminine Bane of My Early Existence” or “Miss Issues Incarnate.” My earliest pieces of Mental Flatulence, composed on my old 286 HP with the monochrome screen were primarily devoted to tales of my escapades with them or related to them. I have never forgotten those tales. They are compiled forevermore both on my home computer and in a white binder that I keep with the rest of hard cover collection in my home “office” entitled “Mental Flatulence Volume One: Musings from Beyond the Wormhole.” But it was a different time for me, then… a different mentality. “Chaos [was] a friend of mine” as Bob Dylan once said. I was a prophet of anti-inspiration: I drew from negativity. And I was prolific though only a few, select people read those pieces… sh*t, read anything I wrote back then.

Inci-inci-incidentally, if you’re interested in reading them please email me using the link at the bottom of this page under “Creative Commons Agreement” and I will be happy to forward you a copy. Um…

Yeah. Sorry. Shameless self promotion penalty flag number two on this blog entry has been thrown. One more and I’m disqualified.

Yet in 2001 something entirely unexpected happened. Many of you reading this know the story. For those of you that don’t I’ll rehash it for you. In June of that year I–still a Store Manager for CVStress–was transferred out of my cushy little mall store in Plymouth Meeting, PA to a higher volume strip store in Havertown, PA. Needless to say, the assignment was a daunting one. Not only was my crew larger and testier but for my first time as an actual Manager I had a pharmacy. Said pharmacy at the time that I took over employed a young intern who attended Temple University named Nicole Gentile.

In all honesty, friends? I barely registered her presence at first. Don’t crucify me for that: She never has. I was too busy trying to fix the front store’s problems. I was coming out of my longest ever relationship–a whopping seven months–and was adherent to the unwritten credo of the CVStress Front Store/Pharmacy relationship: One does not associate with the other unless one is forced to. Yet over a short period of time, specifically early July through early November of 2001 that changed. I found myself taking more notice of her than I had before: Her deep, brown eyes, her curly, brown hair, her smile which was just downright radiant and her personality which was infectious. I won’t even tell you what I thought of her body as those memories are mine and mine alone. Who the f*ck was this girl that had caught my attention, seemingly out of nowhere? Sometime in early November post-almost killing myself trying to get a box of pharmacy bags for her out from behind a stack of promo trays and post-the back rub she gave me after a long weekend of setting up Christmas I was faced with a choice. I had been informed by my then-Shift Supervisor Donna that someone in the store, specifically in the pharmacy was interested in me though I did not know who. Simultaneously, my then-Photo Lab Supervisor Sister Mary of the Photo Lab (yes, she was a nun on sabbatical) informed me that the then-District Photo Lab Supervisor, Jess, was interested in me, as well.

My choice: Do I pursue the known commodity–Jess and I had been associates for a while and were both Front Store employees–or do I embrace the mystery? The *GASP* pharmacy. I was initially torn. I weighted one against the other and eventually made my choice. I asked Donna to pull back the curtain and abracadabra: I discovered that the person with an interest in me was Nicole. To say that I was enthused would be an understatement. I was ecstatic. I went out that night with my friend Pete to a bar in Northeast Philly to discuss my course of action and sometime around 9:30 PM, I made the call. I did so from a payphone outside of a now-defunct bar, the name of which I can not remember (across from Whisky Tango on the Boulevard: Someone help me out, please?). I called her parent’s house because it was the only contact info Donna had in the HR system for her. Little did I know she lived in South Philly at the time and not in Havertown. But eventually she got the message and returned it and the rest? History, friends. Almost 11 years worth.

Oh thank God. 

Our first date was on November 11, 2001 but this blog entry is not about our first date. It’s about anniversaries and an appreciation of them. Fast forward to 2005 and a sun-bleached day in mid-October. I found myself standing upon the altar of Sacred Heart Church in Havertown, PA about 75 yards from CVStress Havertown with my wedding party behind me. I was sick as sh*t… I had awoken Saturday morning with the same cold that Nicole had been fighting all week. But thanks to a couple of attentive groomsmen and about half a package of Tylenol Cold and Flu, not to mention a handful of Fuzzy Navals (Vitamin C, man: Can’t beat it, or so I told myself) I was upright and able to breathe. And when I saw her walking up the aisle toward me, flanked on either side by her mother and her father? Niagara Falls. I had always feared that I would cry at my own wedding and embarrass myself. Whether the tears were substance induced–cold medicine and vodka–or not at that moment? I really didn’t care what anyone else thought of me… could have cared less whether I was a blubbering idiot or completely composed. That moment was the happiest moment of my life. “The Feminine Bane of My Early Existence” and “Miss Issues Incarnate?” My sordid relationship history? The fear that one of my two Best Men was going to Wet Willy me as they had claimed they would? Nothing mattered at that moment but her. Every married man claims that his wife was, at the moment that he saw her walking down the aisle, the most beautiful woman in the universe. Every married woman counter-argues that “[we] have to say that.” I can’t speak for anyone else and wouldn’t dream to. But when I say it? I mean it.

And that’s what this day is all about: The anniversary of not only my wedding day but the anniversary of the happiest moment in my life… the culmination of years of playing Skirmish with mine and Bob Dylan’s friend Chaos and embracing anti-inspiration. I really never did think it would happen for me, guys. Had you told me that I would be where I am right now pre-November of 2001 I would have looked at you askance, much in the same fashion that I would look at you presently if you told me that “The Walking Dead” stinks, that Pez is disgusting, that the Philadelphia Eagles will win the Super Bowl this year with Andy Reid as their coach and Michael Vick as their quarterback and that despite my double talk, I’m either a Liberal Democrat or a Conservative Republican. Back then I was a product of my situation, much like I am currently albeit for different reasons. Pre-November, 2001 I would never have allowed myself to believe that I could be happy because I was so accustomed to disappointment. And it took me until mid-October of 2005 to convince myself that it was possible… took me until that moment when I looked down at my left hand and saw the ring that has rested consistently on my finger now for seven years shining back at me. I remember feeling an all-to-brief wave of contentment rush over me at that moment and a little voice that I have rarely heard speak in my mind did so. And do you know what it said?

You did it, Frank. You did it. 

I remember briefly closing my eyes, taking a deep breath and smiling. Seconds later we were pronounced man and wife and the insanity commenced. I smiled for pictures for the next approximately six to eight hours. I forgot about my cold and drank copious amounts of alcohol on top of what I had already ingested. I ate delicious food and I continued to embarrass myself by dancing my a** off to everything from Springsteen to Bon Jovi (no Chicken Dance, though… we had a strict No Chicken Dance Policy). I listened to people wishing me and Nicole well. I accepted gifts. I greeted relatives and friends, many of whom I have, sadly, not seen since. The remainder of that day is still a blur in my mind and my memories of it are few and far between. But I will never forget standing there upon that altar less than a football field’s length away from where I first met Nicole Gentile, once Pharmacy Intern turned Nicole Gentile Marsh, PharmD. I will never forget that brief moment of serendipity (of which I have not had many since).

There have been days since that day that have ranked among the happiest moments of my life. The day that we made settlement on our little three bedroom, one and a half bath Colonial in Broomall with the finished basement that habitually floods and the backyard that I can’t maintain no matter how hard I try. The day that I found out that Nicole was pregnant and the day that our first born, Cara Angelina Marsh graced us with her presence in 2009. The day that I found out that Nicole was pregnant again and the arrival of our second born, Natalie Theresa Marsh earlier this year. The day that I finished re-writing “Endworld.” The day that I finally leveled my Hunter to 60 in the original, non-expansion World of Warcraft and the day that I finally beat my friend Austen in Words With Friends. Those days? They are memorable but save for the birthdays of my daughters I will never celebrate them. They are supplemental. Because?

Because anniversaries celebrate moments. Moments in time like that moment seven years ago on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existance when I looked in to the angelic face of my wife, veiled in white as the priest told me I could “kiss the bride” and I thought, a second before my lips locked upon hers…

You guessed, friends: Oh thank God. 

Happy Anniversary, Nicole. All my love, now and forever.

(NOTE: Shameless self promotion flag number three for excessive shameless self promotion thrown simultaneously with my initialing of this blog entry. I am hereby disqualified from writing anything else. So, if you want to read more, you can link the rest of “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman…”)

 
 
 

“Contrary” – An Appreciation

The Madchronicler2 Comments

If you look up the term “contrary” in any dictionary you receive a definition similar to, if not the same as this one:

Contrary [kon-trer-ee] (ADJ, N): 1. Opposite in nature or character; diametrically or mutually opposed; 2. Opposite in direction or position; 3. Being the opposite one of two; 4. Unfavorable or adverse; 5. Perverse; stubbornly opposed or willful. 

That particular definition was taken from www.dictionary.com, one of my many internet bookmarks and an app on both my phone and my Kindle Fire. “Contrary” is not what I like to consider one of my “chosen words.” You know the types of words that I’m referring to, especially if you are a writer like I am or I aspire to be (depending on whose opinion you ask). If you’ve ever read anything that I’ve written–be said “anything” one of these oft ignored blog entries or the novel that I just finished writing–you are likely familiar with my “chosen words.” Examples include: “Aforementioned,” “segue” and “frighteningly.” I don’t even think I used “contrary” once in “Endworld.” Not even “contrary to popular belief” or “contrary to what you might be thinking.”

I’m not sure if the omission of a relatively common word is conscious or subconscious. After all, I generally try not to be “contrary”: Not in life, nor love, nor… well sh*t, friends, anything. I try very hard to keep a positive outlook despite the precariousness or dreariness of a given situation. But some days? Well, some days I remember the words of a once-acquaintance who used the term “contrary” to describe a different circumstance. When said acquaintance was having “one of those days,” she called it a “Contrary Day,” i.e. a day where she was just… off. Not depressed nor angry, just “contrary.” I’ve heard others refer to it as everything from being “bleah” to being “out of it.” I didn’t learn a lot from that once-acquaintance. If anything, I learned how much of a dick with arms and legs I can be, and if that person is reading this right now–as I sit in what my wife Nicole calls “my divot” on the couch in our living room with the Sixers on mute across the room and Bach playing over the speakers of my laptop–I’d like to take this long, overdue opportunity to say that I am sorry.

Refocus. Eyes forward. Oh crap, if I look forward I catch a glimpse of the Sixers beating the “best team in the NBA” by 15 points late in the Fourth. Refocus. Eyes on the screen of my laptop. Back to “contrary.”

Lately, friends, I’ve been feeling quite “contrary.” Primarily over the last week or so. Said (“said” definitely equals another one of my “chosen words”) “contrariness” is due largely in part to my current work situation–down a person in my department for the next month/forced to do her work and my own during one of the busiest periods we, as a company, have ever experienced–and by association my newly elevated stress level. But there are other factors contributing to it, as well, some that I have been able to diagnose and some that remain a mystery.

One that I have been able to diagnose is ‘kinda simple: I’ve a hole in my soul where there once existed a novel. There’s an emptiness inside of me now that “Endworld” is done: A sense of loss that I can equate with many things, some that I would write about had I more time and energy and some that are somewhat… private that I won’t regardless of how lucid I am. As a wise sage of the cinema once said: “I keep those thoughts for myself.” The solution to my problem? I could start the next novel. I am, in fact, itching to start it. But beginning something as extensive as a novel directly on the coattails of something equally extensive is a daunting task, especially in light of the workload I am carrying currently. And considering that the fate of “Endworld” in many ways remains up in the air until I receive feedback first, from the person who is currently editing it, second from my wife who is currently reading it and third, from a collection of a dozen or two “beta readers” that have expressed interest in previewing it, I think its best not to begin the second until I know for sure if the first has appeal. So for now, “Endworld” book two will remain a plot in my head and a rough outline sketched out in virtually indecipherable cursive on a legal pad until such time as I am confidant that it has legs.

I also equate it to life: Beginning a serious relationship on the coattails of another, serious relationship is oft times doomed for failure. Some times it works out. Take Nicole and I: I came out of a serious relationship and within a few months I was inan even more serious one with the woman I would, eventually, marry, alias the mother of my one daughter, Cara, and the soon-to-be mother of my second daughter. For those of you reading this that don’t know yes: Nicole and I are expecting what I have been calling a “plus one” for the last few months. Cara Angelina’s little sister, Natalie Theresa Marsh is due in early June. But many times? What most people call a “rebound” relationship does not work out. It fizzles and the participants are left even more scarred than they were before beginning it. The moral of the story? Take a little time after you complete something epic, be that something a book, a relationship, a job or any number of “a’s” and a noun before you begin something equally or more epic. Sometimes the jump works out. Others? You end up in a worse place than you were before. I’m thankful… damn thankful that my situation turned out the way it did. If there’s one thing that isn’t contributing to my “contrariness” right now it’s my marriage, my family and my friends. Not to mention a surprisingly dominant home basketball team that just spanked the Bulls by 16 points. “Show ‘ya ‘luv,” Philadelphia. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a professional basketball team in this town that we can be proud of.

Diagnosed, then: Factors contributing to my “contrariness.” One: My work situation. Two: My desire to write the currently untitled sequel to “Endworld” (though my buddy Matt’s proposed title, “Red-Headed Stepchildren of Endworld” remains the frontrunner). Those are the two most prominent. But is there a third? A fourth? Likely, but I honestly don’t know. This little, psychological cross-examination of my current condition has thus far only yielded those two. I guess that my virtual incapacity to win a single game of “Words with Friends” could be a third. Consider: I have four years and some change (if you count my 24 Graduate credits which are currently sitting in educational limbo at Drexel) of experience with the English language in an academic setting. I have a relatively extensive vocabulary that, contrary to what you may believe is not limited to my “chosen words.” I can pull words like “redressed” and “factoid” out of my a** if given the appropriate tiles and board set up. Each word yields me anywhere between 30 and 40 points (my highest yet–“flux”–actually yielded me almost 60 thanks to good positioning). But then my opponent plays “axe,” hits a triple word score and a triple letter score on the “x” and completes “avoid” and “da” on a perpendicular and a parallel/ends up with a shade under 100. I can’t tell you how close I came to cursing that person out via the “Words with Friends'” chat function/throwing my brand new Kindle Fire through the screen of my television from my position within “my divot” upon the couch. If that person is reading this right now I am sorry. Reference my aforementioned capacity to be a dick with arms and legs. The moral of the story, friends? Extensive experience with the English language does not make you a “Words with Friends” ringer. If anything, it acts as a crutch when combined with your incapacity to do simple math.

Incidentally, current record on “Words with Friends”: 1-9 in my last ten matches. That one win was my only win and it came at the expense of my brother-in-law who has now avenged himself on me three or four times since, most recently by approximately 200 points. If I ever win another game I will likely leap up from “my divot” and dance a jig in the middle of my living room before I relapse in to my “contrary” state. But I digress. Refocus. Eyes forward. Oh f*ck, Nicole is watching “Phineas and Ferb.” Refocus. Eyes down and on the screen of my laptop. But… it’s… Skiddley Whiffers! 

What about a fourth? Perhaps the dearth of decent television right now (though blessedly, “The Walking Dead” is due back on a week from this Sunday) or the lack of time to do anything other than sleep, work, occasionally grab a bite to eat (down almost 10 pounds in the last week… nothing like a stress and “contrariness” crash diet to drop that extra coating of winter fur or in my case, holiday fat) and sleep again. Perhaps the fact that I am now blogging while watching the “Tour ‘de Ferb” for the umpteenth time and am desperately longing for a new episode of arguably the best cartoon on television before it stagnates. In truth? The third, fourth, fifth or dozenth factor (if one exists) doesn’t matter. I am “contrary” right now because of factors one and two. Little more explanation is needed save for this: I decided roughly two hours ago, right after Cara blessedly went right to sleep that I would take a little time to write an appreciation of “being contrary” and I did. Not just for myself but for the person who originated said concept. It’s a good one, friends. A worthy addition to the list of euphemisms people use for having “one of those days. “I’m having a contrary day.”

Take it out for a test drive the next time you’re feeling “bleah” or “out of it.” Try it on for size. If you like it, use it, and spread it around so that others can use it, as well. And while you’re at it, try writing about your state of mind. You don’t need to be a writer or an aspiring writer with “chosen words.” You’ll be amazed at how much better you feel afterwards. Much less like an overworked, stressed out, oft times dick with arms and legs that can’t win a single game of “Words with Friends.” You feel semi-normal. And maybe… just maybe “semi-normal” is enough to help you cope with your “Contrary Day.” At least, that is, until the resurgent Sixers play the Heat on Friday night.

Show ‘ya ‘luv. 

F.

Anniversaries, Ray Bans, Chronic Migraines, a Little ENDWORLD and the Awesomeness that is Spotify

The Madchronicler2 Comments

Happy October 15th, everyone. Incidentally, October 15th just so happens to be my wedding anniversary so before I write anything, let me first take a moment to wish my words-can-not-describe wife Nicole a Happy 6th Anniversary. For some of you reading this that have been hitched longer than that six years might not seem like much of a milestone but for me it’s monumental. Pre-Nicole the longest relationship I’d ever been in was roughly seven months and most of my relationships averaged between one night (with the occasional breakfast thrown in for good measure) and four months. Amazingly enough, when you factor in the amount of time we’ve dated (or, if you’re more of a traditionalist, the amount of time we’ve “courted”) we’ve been together for 10 years this November 11th. Despite our proclivities towards a more casual, laid-back lifestyle now she still keeps things interesting on a daily basis. She’s about as good a mother as I’ve ever encountered and as phenomenal a spouse as I could ask for. Nicole, I know you’re reading this. I love you with all my heart and always will. OH! And thank you again for the Ray-Bans. I’m nervous as f*ck to wear them (I have a knack for breaking expensive things, sunglasses especially) but I’ve always wanted a pair. In the words of William (remember, friends: No longer Roland) MacNuff: “‘You ‘done good, kiddo.”

It’s been a rough couple of weeks for me. I’m not going to lie. One or two people inquired recently why, in mid-September, I seemingly paused… at least publicly… all activity related to the writing of ENDWORLD. Fact is I did. Reluctantly. I ‘kinda had to. Shortly after I returned from vacation I had an… an incident I guess you could call it. I was beset upon quite suddenly by something that I had suffered from as a child but had, at least to my knowledge, kicked in the subsequent years since: Chronic Migraines. I actually ended up in the hospital for a weekend because of them. While I was released that Sunday afternoon and allowed to return home the damn things didn’t stop. In fact, they became more consistent albeit not as severe as they had been that weekend. I was forced to give up caffeine because the doctors considered it to be the trigger. I was asked to limit any stressful activities (also, they determined, a trigger) temporarily until I could meet with a Neurologist and work up a treatment plan. I was told to start going to bed earlier which sadly meant the end of my late night writing sprints… at least for a time. I followed all of this advice to a tee because no one should have to live with what I had to live with that week or two after I returned from vacation and continued to deal with in the two weeks after I was discharged: Constant pain is not a welcome companion on mine or any one’s journey through their own, subjective universe and if you are reading this and suffering from something similar you have my sympathies. I… truly… feel your pain.

So I did as was requested of me. I finally got to see a Neurologist who helped get me back on my feet via meds and a few recommended lifestyle changes and here I am. I’ve been virtually caffeine-free since mid-September (I am allowed to drink the occasional soda now but energy drinks, sadly, are no longer permitted), have been sleeping better (no more middle-of-the-night migraines, thank God, Allah, Buddha, or whatever deity/deities you worship), and… now that I’m feeling more like a reasonable facsimile of myself again, I’ve decided over the last few days that I am long overdue to return to the one thing that I have been holding off on, i.e. finishing ENDWORLD. So finally–as those of you that follow me on Facebook, Twitter and Google+ are aware–I finished up my read and revise of Parts One and Two and started Part Three (appropriately subtitled “Deceived”) yesterday. And after a five page writing jog (definitely not a sprint) over the course of about six or seven hours yesterday, things appear to be moving along (albeit somewhat less-frantically than before; I guess that’s what a limited caffeine intake does to you). I’ve got my fingers crossed that I can finish this thing by the end of this year. While that’s a significantly longer time frame than I had originally anticipated (the end of August and the end of September have both come on gone as you are all well aware) I’ve come to understand something vital over the last few weeks’ experiences:

I’m not under any pressure to finish this by a set date. No publisher is hanging a deadline over my head and while I hate keeping my editor waiting (I’m sorry, Amy, but I promise: When I’m done it you’ll be the second too know (right after Nicole)) I hope she understands. As for those of you–my friends and my family–that have been waiting for something to “Beta Test” if everything goes the way I hope it will you should have something in your stocking by this Christmas. That’s my new goal. ‘Cause to be completely honest with you? I want to finish this. Why? Because I’ve got some really cool ideas for the re-write of the sequel that I can’t wait to put on paper and because I owe it to myself and to the people that have most supported me to make this happen. That’s pretty much all I’ve got right now on the ole’ book. Thanks for your continued encouragement and advice. Specifically, I’m looking at not only you, Nicole, but you, Matt, Tom, Steve, Pat, Kim, Amy, Renee, Emily… all my “peeps” that have given me feedback and if I neglected to mention your name I’m sorry. Booyakasha. Respect. 

All that said, an unrelated topic: Spotify. Who reading this uses it and who loves it as much as I do? I read about it in the tech mags a few months ago when it first rolled out to the us here in the states and I never thought much of it. After all, I’ve got a couple thousand songs on my four year old iPod Classic. Who needs streaming music for $10.00 a month? Let me tell you something, folks: I finally gave in and downloaded the free service this week with the 15 day trial of the Premium service (the one that you can get on your mobile as well as your PC, iPad, Tablet or whatever you’re using) and in all honesty? I had no idea what I was missing. Pandora? Slacker? Shazam? Move aside. I have no doubt that when my 15 day trial of the Premium service is up I’m subscribing to it. I’m writing this from work right now and before you detractors out there reading this question why I’m blogging when I’m supposed to be working understand that I was working all morning. Now that I’m caught up and have some time to kill I’m blowing time so THPT! (much love). I’ve only created three playlists so far and the one that I’m listening to right now–entitled “The State Pen Years”–is loaded with music from the artists I used to listen to while I was in college. 335 tracks so far ranging from old-school Soundgarden to The Prodigy. Throw in a little Primus, Marilyn Manson and a dash of The Mighty Mighty Bosstones for good measure (shout out, Billy D) and I’m in audio heaven. Half the stuff on this playlist is music I used to own on either tape or CD. If on tape said music was simply lost over the subsequent years since I left school and multiple moves, and if on CD said music was likely sold for beer money back when I was in college or stolen by one (or more) ex-girlfriends. But now? For a couple of bucks a month I have all those songs back in mu possession. Consider the last five songs I’ve listened to while I was writing:

5. Rob Zombie, “More Human Than Human.”
4. Soundgarden, “Face Pollution.”
3. Smashing Pumpkins, “X. Y. U.”
2. The Prodigy, “Smack My B*tch Up.” (I apologize to those of you with sensibilities. Please note: I don’t condone, it’s just a cool song)
1. Soundgarden, “Superunknown.”

Now playing: “Save Yourself” by Stabbing Westward. All in all a well-rounded collection of tunes whether they are your cup of tea or not. Is it wrong of me to presume that this and similar innovations (like the iCloud) are going to eventually kill iTunes and MP3s? Feel free to debate that question if you so desire to do so but as far as this music-lover is concerned? I’m all in on the awesomeness of Spotify. Well done, Sweden. This may be perhaps the best thing you’ve given the western world since the watch. Or perhaps the utility knife. Every so often you come up big. Booyakasha. Respect. 

And with that, I’m about done, everyone. My boss has finally given me the green light to go home for the day and I plan to. I have a sixth anniversary to celebrate, a daughter to play with, a book to write and a soda to drink (I’m due for one: Haven’t had one since Tuesday PM). So with one, final salud and just one more Booyakasha for good measure I’m going to slip on my brand new Ray-Bans and roll. Thank you all, again, for your continuing attention, advice, support and friendship. I thrive on it more than you can imagine. Peace.

11:30 AM; 10/15/11

 

Retrospection Revisited

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Back when we were all incarcerated for nine months in “State Pen” PA, and no one lived any place else, I had this idea. Said idea was the product of many pensive afternoons spent sitting in the shadow of one of the science buildings on campus. I can’t remember the name of it presently, but I remember I called it “The Shrine of Science” in multiple journal entries and poetry compositions. Hell, it might not have even HAD a name. It was just this really cool, U-shaped building that had its own courtyard. Said courtyard had the usual accoutrements: benches, trees, trashcans (no ash-trays then; society had not evolved in 1996-1997 to the point that it felt ash-trays were necessary). My customary position in said courtyard, however, was not reclining on one of the benches like the sun-lovers, or leaning up against one of the trees like the nature-lovers. No. My customary position was seated atop an steel grate, beneath which howled an ancient generator. Subsequent years and their accompanying wisdom have helped me to realize that what I postulated in my imaginative mind THEN to be a Morlock stronghold or a Gatekeeper of the Beam was, in fact, nothing more than a commercial-sized heater, and my reason for sitting there was not wholly symbolic—an English Major sitting in “The Shrine of Science,” scribbling entries in his journal—but practical, i.e. it gets really fucking cold in “State Pen” in October, and stays that way until late March/early April.

One frigid afternoon… I think it was in January or February of 1997… I formulated this idea whilst warming my ass on the completely pedestrian heater grate inlaid in the walkway that was my customary resting place in “The Shrine of Science.” I was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Mountain Dew (not an uncommon sight, as anyone who was incarcerated with me in “State Pen” for those nine months in 1996-1997 will attest to), and completely independent of anything else, I began thinking about my life. All 21 ½ years of it. Where I’d come from; where I was; where I was going. Admittedly, I was very, VERY confused at the time and this thought process quickly segued in to another: Why not write an epic poem called “Retrospection” looking back over the course of my life from a poet’s standpoint in an attempt to gain some clarity and direction on my current situation? At the time, the idea seemed ingenious. And the initial stages of composing “Retrospection” were quite enlightening. I started seeing my situation with a clarity that I hadn’t had before. The two-three weeks spent working on “Retrospection” were, academically, my best in “State Pen.” In fact, were it not for the sheer amount of “academic” work I did in those two-three weeks, I likely would not have graduated in May of 1997. My 60.7 average in my Ed Psych class would have ended up on the wrong side of the letter “D” and I would have been forced to prolong my stay in “State Pen” for another couple of months. Thankfully, my incarceration ended in May and I was allowed to graduate with my class, thus achieving the goal I’d set for myself of graduating in four years and NO MORE… albeit with a relatively meaningless undergraduate degree and a mountain of debt that didn’t get paid off until the summer of 2005.

Yet something happened around the 10th or 11th Stanza of “Retrospection.” I looked at what I was writing, and realized that what I was writing had absolutely, positively no bearing on anyone or anything but myself. It wasn’t even poetry. It was a glorified journal entry with one or two rhyming couplets per stanza. Was it serving its purpose? Yes. But did I foresee a greater purpose in what I was composing after re-reading the first 10-11 stanzas? No. And as any honest artist—writer or otherwise—will tell you, we do what we do not solely for our “art.” Any artist that tells you that is full of shit. We do what we do because we want our work to appeal to a greater demographic. In short, we want our 15 minutes of fame and god DAMNIT, we want it NOW. This desire doesn’t always pan out. I’m not exactly raking in the royalties from the work I’ve published. But long-term, THAT is my goal. Not simply to spend the rest of my natural life writing for ME and me alone, but to one day write things that will entertain others. Make them laugh, make them cry: kind of like “Cats” (shout out to the Royal Masque, circa 1992-1993, and Barricade Productions circa 1993-1994). Shortly thereafter, “Retrospection” perished, never to be seen again. I don’t quite remember what I did with the 20 or so hand-written, loose leaf pages that contained it, but knowing my propensity for extravagance back then I likely burned it or sacrificed it to the “Shrine of Science” gods.

Amazingly, though, this idea of “retrospection” has never left me. Privately, I’ve done it multiple times. Never publicly. I don’t think that the term “retrospect” or any derivative thereof has ever appeared in a single blog post or email I’ve composed in the last decade plus. Until now, of course. I feel that it IS important to look back over the course of your life on occasion. It helps put things in to perspective. Am I at a point in my life currently where I feel directionless? Confused? Am I sitting atop a proverbial heating grate of my own creation in my own, subjective reality, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Mountain Dew whilst staring out at the steel-grey sky overhead, and the small flakes of snow that alight gently, soundlessly upon the black-iron benches and the leafless trees that dot the U-shaped courtyard of my mind? No. I’m sitting behind my desk at work on a Saturday morning, listening to “But, Honestly” by the Foo Fighters, a Diet Dr. Pepper close at hand and the prospect of a cigarette about as far from my mind as it’s been in almost a decade (my recent bout of “sinusitis” has all but rid me of that nasty habit, it seems). The temperature outside is a balmy 71 degrees (Heat Index: 80+) and the next precipitation forecasted for Royersford, PA (where I am now) and Broomall, PA (where I’ll be in a few hours) isn’t until overnight tonight. Not snow, but thunder storms. “Thunder Boomers” as my little sister Katie used to say.

Directionless? Confused? Certainly not. During my incarceration in “State Pen” back in 1996-1997, I was penniless. I was not jobless, but my job as a nighttime circulation clerk at the Pollock Library paid me a $150.00 post-tax stipend every two weeks, a stipend that promptly went toward cigarettes, alcohol, McDonalds Chicken McNuggets and occasionally my rent and utilities. My relationships usually lasted no longer than 24-48 hours, generally from Friday night at midnight (when I got done work) through Saturday or Sunday evening (don’t get the wrong idea, friends. As anyone that spent any portion of those nine months with me in “State Pen” will tell you, I was not a man-whore. I was just a guy who liked to hook-up with random women from time to time, regardless of whether those women were people I just met or people I’d known for years. Not a man-whore, just a bit of a chauvinist). My home was a two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of Calder Commons which I shared with three rent-paying roommates (one male and two females) and one or two non-rent paying roommates (you know who you are “Vato”). I drank copious amounts of alcohol and smoked copious amounts of weed. And I was LOST in every sense of the word.

Now? I work a steady job that pays me well, albeit an, at times, less-than fulfilling employment. My bi-weekly allowance is the $50.00-$150.00 that my wife deposits in my checking account dependent on when our mortgage and our bills are due. I generally don’t see the rest and I’m fine with that (one thing my 34 ¾ year old, 6’ 1”, 280 LB frame does NOT need at this point is a bi-weekly rationing of Chicken McNuggets). I’ve been in a relationship with the same woman for nine years this November (married for five this October 15th) and my home is a three bedroom, one and a half bathroom Colonial on a little street in suburbia that I share with my wife and our 11 month old daughter, Cara, not to mention our two cats Pandora and Roxy, and this week, my “dog-in-law” Melanie. I drink copious amounts of Diet Dr. Pepper and haven’t smoked a joint in a very, VERY long time. But ask me if I’m directionless or confused and I’ll scoff at you before smiling and telling you that no, my friends. For the first time in 35 years on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, i.e. my subjective reality, I’m FOUND. I’m a gosh-darned living, breathing testimony to “Amazing Grace,” along with remaining a living, breathing facsimile of a smiley face.

“Have a Nice Day.”

But you knew that, didn’t you? If you’re reading this, everything that I just wrote save for the bit about my “dog-in-law” and perhaps my proclivity toward Diet Dr. Pepper is likely not “breaking news” to you. In fact, the last three or four paragraphs completely contradict my previous statement that artists create “art” not simply for the sake of their “art” or for their own, personal purposes, but because they want to appeal to a greater demographic. Before passing judgment on me, though, consider the following: At approximately 11:30-12:00 this morning/afternoon, I will be departing work and heading home, where I will eat a quick lunch and take a quick shower before getting ready to head to a first birthday party: that of our friends’ Sarah and John’s daughter, Ava. Tomorrow, I’ll likely be heading over to our friends’ Caren and Matt’s/Tom and Michelle’s to meet THEIR newborns, Josephine (Josie) Molly and Grace Learned. In less than a month, I’m hosting 50-60 family and friends in my three bedroom, one and a half bathroom Colonial on a little street in suburbia for my own daughter’s first birthday party. Of those 50-60 family and friends, many were in some way, shape, form or loosely connected fashion incarcerated with me for nine months plus in “State Pen.” I say plus ‘cause as anyone who knows me knows, my tenure there only diminished in frequency after May of 1997. Truth be told, I was still a frequent visitor through the summer of 1998. Said people—my fellow “State Pen” inmates—will not be arriving with a six pack of Yeungling or cold, now-defunct Pennsylvania Pizza in tow, but with THEIR little one’s and spouses in tow: “Vato” and Kim plus one; Austen plus three and Tom plus two to name a few.

And it doesn’t end there. Also in attendance will be my little sister Katie plus three and my mother plus three, not to mention my in-laws Mariann, Chuck, Deborah and Andrew plus one. Nicole’s friends whom I met nine years ago when THEY all lived somewhere between South Philadelphia and Temple Pharmacy School and no one lived anyplace else are ALL plus one’s or two’s, with one plus three to boot. And of course, I’m a plus two (plus four if you count my cats whom I’m helpless NOT to think of as my children). All will be arriving at 2:00 PM (RSVP’s pending, of course), and will not be staying until long after a midnight reveler who calls himself “The Mad Chronicler” decides to make a drunken run to the now-defunct Pennsylvania Pizza for “Boones” Malt Liquor. Rather, all will be leaving at approximately 6:00 PM to return home to their respective, nightly routines. Give the baby or babies a bath; get them dressed in their PJ’s and ready for bed; read them their favorite Dr. Seuss bedtime story (Cara’s is “The Lorax”); watch over them as they drift off to sleep in their cribs or beds, their little legs curled up beneath them, their little bodies rising and gently falling as they sleep the sleep of the peaceful… the innocent. Carefully tip-toe out of their room, being careful not to step on the creaky board that lays 14 ½ inches and to the left of the door; being FURTHER careful not to unlatch and re-latch the door too loudly as they exit the room. Retire downstairs and spend the waning hours of the day watching “The Hangover,” and silently muse about how the seemingly unbelievable anecdotes presented in that movie didn’t always seem so unbelievable. Back when we were all incarcerated for nine plus months in “State Pen” PA, and no one lived anyplace else. Silently reminisce… “Remember when…”

…And helplessly return to the U-shaped courtyard outside “The Shrine of Science” where—upon a perfectly pedestrian heating grate inlaid in a perfectly pedestrian walkway—a 21 ½ year old pre-adult sits beneath a steel-grey, central Pennsylvania, winter sky, pondering how directionless and confused his life currently is. As he sips from a warm bottle of Mountain Dew between puffs of a cigarette and watches the first snowflakes from what will eventually amount to a six-inch snow squall alight gently upon the black-iron benches and the leafless trees that dot the courtyard, said pre-adult conceives of a plan: he’ll write an epic poem entitled “Retrospection” in which he’ll look back over the course of his life from a poet’s standpoint in an attempt to gain some clarity and direction. Maybe THEN he’ll have a better idea of where the fuck he’s going. He begins…

“Life is a bloody, ongoing fight… peril is endless and counters the light…”

Said opening lines will eventually grow in to a 10 or 11 stanza, uncompleted epic poem called “Retrospection.” Said 10-11 stanzas will disappear a few weeks later, never to be seen again. Said poet will go on in the next 13 years to graduate college by the skin of his teeth (and 0.7 points in his Ed Psych class), meet and marry the woman of his dreams—the embodiment of his heart, soul and mind—purchase a home with her, begin raising a child with her—the physical embodiment of the his union to the woman of his dreams—and host a first birthday party in which his checkered and LOST past meets his and his fellow inmates from “State Pen’s” stable and FOUND present. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” From “State Pen” PA to suburbia, friends, it’s all academic. That’s “retrospection.” To be able to look back on where you were, and see how far you’ve come. To know that the confusion felt by that 21 ½ year old seeker sitting pensively within “The Shrine of Science,” imaginatively wondering if the low hum beneath the steel grate he sits upon is a Morlock stronghold or a Gatekeeper of the Beam resolved itself in to quite a nifty little life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, i.e. his subjective reality. Being able to see that isn’t simply something personal to the writer. It’s not “art” for the sake of “art.” It’s something that everyone should be able to do. You, me… EVERYONE. And THAT is a comforting thought.

“Have a Nice Day.”