What Thanksgiving Means to Me by Way of Probability and Statistics

The Madchronicler2 Comments

Amazing the things that inspire you to write. Take this morning. I was sitting at work punching in a level sensor quote and suffering from an ailment known as “Chronic Myjobsucksitis,” when out of the corner of my ear (is that even a phrase, or is it another of my infamous “Frankisms”?) I heard the opening bars of “Tuesday’s Gone” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Suddenly, the sensor quote I was working on became the farthest thing from my mind. My creative juices began flowing. Before I even knew what was happening I had opened a blank Word document on my computer and my fingers were doing their familiar, ritualistic dance across my keyboard. And here we are. “Tuesday’s Gone” has ended and has been replaced by “In The Limelight” by… *SIGH*… Rush. But my inspiration has not waned. I just need to finish my sensor quote before continuing. *DOUBLE SIGH* Be right back.

Okay, that’s done. Amazingly enough, the only thing I have “pending” at the present time is an RMA (Return Material Authorization) for one of my customers, but that can wait. Priorities, priorities, priorities (sarcasm fully intended). Considering it’s the day before Thanksgiving and anywhere from 75-80% of my customers are gone or will be gone by noon, I’ll have some time to work on… well, the sh*t I get paid for later. But for now…

I haven’t written anything in a while, so if this composition seems a bit choppy at first, I apologize. Hopefully said choppiness will pass the more ritualistic dancing my fingers do across my keyboard (not sure why I felt the need to repeat that other than it sounded and continues to sound ‘kinda cool). We’ll see. I can’t make any promises.

As I mentioned, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. In years passed, said holiday played second fiddle to the night pre-¬Thanksgiving. This year, though (and last if I’m being honest), all that has changed. Instead of leaving work, heading home, grabbing a quick shower and heading to the bar, tonight I will be leaving work, picking up my daughter, heading home, feeding her, putting her to bed and thereafter either a.) beginning to review for my Probability and Statistics Final or b.) playing “World of Warcraft.” More than likely the latter considering my Final is still two weeks away and I promised myself I’d take advantage of Drexel’s mandated “Thanksgiving Break” this year despite my cumulative grade sitting precariously close to the C/D threshold. But I digress.

Being that I’ve opted to shelve my wild and crazy life for the time being (sarcasm definitely intended; my life hasn’t been wild or crazy in almost a half-a-decade) in favor of a more stable life of fatherhood, homeownership, husband… hood (?) and school… ership (man, the “Frankisms” are coming out in force in this composition!), I find myself inevitably pondering things that I’ve never really pondered before. Like Thanksgiving. As the virtually insignificant songs that followed… *SIGH*… “In The Limelight” segue in to Green Day’s “Welcome To Paradise” and I feel a renewal of energy course through my system (good Green Day is the musical equivalent of speed for me while “In The Limelight” and virtually anything by Rush is the musical equivalent of swallowing a bottle of Quaaludes), I find myself pondering the question, “What does Thanksgiving mean to me?”

Certainly a shade easier than the Multiplication Principle.

“What does Thanksgiving mean to me?” by way of the Multiplication Principle: “My mother is hosting Thanksgiving Dinner. There will be 4 different kinds of Hors d’oeuvres, 5 different kinds of drinks, 1 type of main course, 6 potential side dishes, 1 type of roll and 2 different types of desert. How many different combinations of ‘Thanksgiving Dinner’ are available?”

The answer is 240 (4 times 5 times 1 times 6 times 1 times 2). A relatively easy problem, but realistically? There are some situations where an analytical mind excels and some where a non-analytical one does. In this particular case, I don’t anticipate trying all 240 combinations in one Thanksgiving. Sh*t, I don’t know if I could do it in all the Thanksgivings I have left in my life! So I’m going to stick with the non-analytical… and less-obese approach. Analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 1.

“What does Thanksgiving mean to me?” Well, the obvious answer is that it’s a time to give thanks for all the good stuff in my life. And despite my ever-existent propensity towards focusing on the negative and not on the positive (what can I say? Said propensity is about as prevalent a dynamic in my mentality as the “Frankism”), I’ve got to say, there’s a lot for me to be thankful for this year.

First and foremost, I’m thankful for my daughter, Cara and my wife, Nicole. I’m thankful that they’re a part of my life and I’m thankful that they’re in good health. Cara especially considering how things started for her—a month premature, a week in-and-out of the hospital with jaundice, a successive run of colds and stomach bugs back in January of this year that lasted for almost three weeks and virtually undid all the “real food” training Nicole and I had given her. I look at her now as she scampers around the house verbalizing sentences that only she can understand (for the moment), eating everything from apples to chicken, and I think to myself: wow. I really didn’t foresee this early on. I mean, I mused over it, but I was so focused on getting her “right” that I forgot about all the “good” stuff that awaited me. This stuff. This time. I’m thankful that she’s grown healthy and strong, finally eclipsing the 20 pound mark in the last week. I’m thankful that she’ll be able to eat and enjoy Thanksgiving dinner this year, at least whatever portions of it she “likes” this week.

And the other part of that “equation?” I’m thankful for my wife, Nicole, who nine years in to our relationship continues… daily… to intrigue my mind, body and soul. Who continues… daily… to be to most fascinating, intelligent and caring woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I couldn’t ask for a better life partner… couldn’t ask for a better mother to help me raise my daughter. I know that I extol the virtues of “Nicole” often in these compositions and for some of you reading this, the practice is likely getting a bit tedious. But not for me. I love you, baby.

The above paragraphs by way of standard Probability: “A man has 10 total relationships in his life (I’m speculating; I don’t actually know how many relationships I’ve had in my life but 10 is a nice, round number). What is the probability that of those 10 relationships, 1 lasts forever?” The solution? I will now proceed to abbreviate. P (9 failures) = 0.90. P (1 success) = 1-P (9 failures) or 0.90 = 0.10. The P = 10%. Simple? Yes. But I count myself lucky that I’m in that 10% bracket. Analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 2.

There are other things that I’m thankful for. My friends and family have been and remain my greatest bastions of support. Daily, they push me to be better than an everyday, Monday through Friday Joe-Schmoe with a bad case of “Chronic Myjobsucksitis.” Even at 35, they realize that I’m never too old… that if my goal is to one day teach and not sit behind a desk doing sensor quotes for 45 hours of every week whilst getting kicked in the proverbial nads on a daily basis by a company that I’ve given my all to, I should keep pushing to achieve it. I speak of my mother and my sister first and foremost, but beyond them? I consider myself a very, very fortunate man in that I remain close compadres with so many people that have been a part of my life since the days of my wistful and at times misunderstood youth. How many of us can claim that the same people we were friends with as Freshman in High School are our closest friends at 35 years young? How many of us can look at our Facebook or Twitter feeds, see the names there and honestly say that we maintain “some” semblance of a friendship with those people? An occasional phone call, email or Christmas card, even? I know people who have a couple hundred Facebook friends. Among them multiple ex-girlfriends, unsavory types and people they haven’t spoken with in years who think everything is “boss.” I have 140 FB friends. Of those 140, I’d wager a good percentage are people I still maintain a correspondence with. Not a bad ratio, friends. How can I not be thankful for that?

The above paragraph by way of Binomial Probability: “A man has 140 Facebook friends and 22 Twitter followers. He maintains a ‘true’ friendship with 110 of his Facebook friends and 19 of his Twitter followers. Given the existing conditions of ‘true’ friends and followers, what is the probability that exactly 1 of 4 friend or follower invites will be ‘true’ and not just some random Joe-Schmoe who follows him because he likes ‘Jeff Dunham’ and so do they?”

The solution? More complicated than previous problems ‘cause we’re dealing with Binomial Probability, but the answer is… prepare for abbreviation… P (Exactly 1 “true” FB friend/4) = 0.029 or 3%, and P (Exactly 1 “true” Twitter friend/4) = 0.009 or 1%. To find the overall probability, multiply 0.029 by 0.009 and get an even smaller answer: 0.000261. The reason being? There’s more chance of getting a greater number than exactly (or only) 1 “true” friend in both situations because said man maintains a higher percentage of “true” friends on both FB and Twitter, namely, 79% of his FB friends and 86% of his Twitter followers. That’s great if you’re in to calculating the percentage of friend/follower invites you accept on FB/Twitter, but really, really bad if you want people to like you. Henceforth, analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 3. Seriously? If you’re calculating something like this using math you deserve to have your “human” card revoked.

What else am I thankful for? I can think of many things. I am thankful for my job, despite the fact that I’m not exactly its greatest fan at the moment. Not everyone has a steady income and… at least for the moment (or until my boss reads this)… I do. I’m thankful for my health, albeit not as great as it once was (seriously, I know I’m only 35, but I’m beginning to realize that with each year, I feel it a little bit more; nothing too invasive thank God, but there is a noticeable difference). I’m thankful for “World of Warcraft” if only because it provides me with a much needed release from working full-time, going to school part-time, being a parent and husband full-time and trying to squeeze between six and seven hours of sleep a night in (is it scary that I consider sleep a part-time activity at this juncture?). I’m thankful for what I see as a gift—writing—but others see as a means for me to ramble incessantly for a few pages about everything from Scientology to Probability and Statistics. Oh well. “I is what I is.” I’m thankful for Probability and Statistics which—when combined with Industrial Hydraulics—really keeps my brain frosty (and achy, but that’s an unfortunate side-effect sometimes of using it). My almost-completed “man cave”; my deck and my grill; my backyard; my collection of sports memorabilia; my movie and music collection; my ability to play pool (but no other sport); “Sesame Street”; and last but not least…

I’m thankful for my life. All 35 f*cked-up-at-times-but-always-entertaining years of it. If I missed anything? Well, I think the blanket-term “life” handily encapsulates the remainder. “What does Thanksgiving mean to me?” Simply spoken, friends, it signifies happiness…

About 80-85% of the time (at least). Or, if you take the median, 82.5% or 0.825.

The above composition by way of Probability and Statistics: “Given the following conditions, calculate the probability of the variable X (Serendipity). X (Serendipity) = 240 (possible variations on Thanksgiving dinner) times 0.10 (the probability that 1/10 relationships will end up succeeding) times 0.000261 (the probability that 1/4 “friend” or “follower” request ants on FB or Twitter are or become ‘true’ friends) times 0.825 (the probability that Thanksgiving and any thoughts that said holiday inspires signify happiness) = 0.0051678 or a shade over 0.5%. A half a percentage point? That’s it?

I’m not sure, but I’d wager I missed a variable or two. *TRIPLE SIGH* After all that. Ironic, huh? Analytical mind 0, non-analytical mind 4. Point, set, match.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

“Tuesday’s gone, with the wind…”

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.”

The Dark, Eternal Heart of CouchEvilTrue

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

My friends! It’s been too, too long. I’m sorry, but my life has taken a hectic turn as-of-late. Are things settling down? No. But I’ve recently determined that the hectic pace of my life is no longer an excuse not too write. Besides, I’ve got way too much sh*t racing through my mind presently to ignore my need to get it down on paper (or in a .wpd file).

I guess that when it comes to writing, I’m a bit of a junkie. Have been, and likely always will be unless I suddenly and unexpectedly loose the mental capacity and stamina to ramble on about topics that have little or no significance outside of my own, and a few others people’s subjective realities (HOLY RUN ON SENTENCE, BATMAN!). Outside of my dependency on caffeine and my continuing struggle to quit smoking (down to three to four smokes a day, people. Almost there!), I have very few addictions save for this one. I guess it could be worse. I tell my wife on a regular basis that she lucked out. Instead of marrying an alcoholic-meth-head-wife-beating-man-whore, she married a guy who thinks he’s interesting and doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Good… trade?”

I guess, though upon reading the title of this Blog post, she’s likely wishing she were married to Walter White (that’d be the alcoholic-meth-head-wife-beating-cancer-stricken-man-whore from AMC’s “Breaking Bad”) and not me. Sorry, honey, but this needs to be done.

Subsequent to the untimely demise of my lawnmower a few weeks ago and my purchase of a brand-new, self-propelled Toro Recycler 6500, a certain someone who once went by the surname “’M,’ Prophet/NotProphet of COUCHEVILTRUE” postulated—upon seeing my OLD lawnmower standing silently by the curb of my house—that leaving it for Marple/Newtown Waste Disposal was a BAD idea. Had I learned nothing from my experiences with the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue almost five, odd (and yes, they HAVE been odd, friends) years ago? What if, he postulated, said dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue had somehow vacated the lifeless body of its once-host upon its destruction, and floated around in the ether for a few weeks before choosing a NEW host: that of the lawnmower that my father-in-law purchased for Nicole and I as a housewarming gift in April of 2006? After all, my history with said lawnmower was anything but rosy. I’d cite examples (and will, eventually), but before doing so, perhaps I should take a few moments to sum-up, for any newcomers, the sad, sordid history of CouchEvilTrue.

Those familiar with said history, feel free to skip the next few paragraphs.

THE SAD, SORDID HISTORY OF COUCHEVILTRUE

In 2006, when Nicole and I purchased the house that we currently reside in with our daughter, Cara, and our two furry, feline children Pandora and Roxy, there was a furious debate over a number of electronic and non-electronic formats about what should be done with my old couch, henceforth simply called COUCH. You see, COUCH and I had a history that went back to my first, post-college apartment in Jenkintown (Incarnation Two: Pat and Kim London and our live-in, Tom Noonan). Said COUCH disappeared from April of 2000 through November of the same, a period of time otherwise known as my “Vagabond Phase.” Thereafter, it reappeared in the living room of my apartment in Northeast Philadelphia with… um, Tom Noonan (damn, Tom, we’ve actually “lived” together three times? How f*cked up is that?) before following me to my apartment in Drexel Hill, otherwise known as its final resting place.

Said COUCH was, simply put, the one piece of furniture that I owned. Its estimated age at the time of its demise was 35 years in this reality, potentially more depending on which school of thought you adhered to back in COUCH’S formative years of existence (1998-2006):

SCHOOL ONE: COUCH was simply another piece of overused furniture, passed down through the generations that reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, Jim’s Cheese Steaks, New England Pizza’s Buffalo Wings and incontinent landlords. The prospect of bringing something so vile and foul in to a new house was about as appetizing as the thought of some of the actions perpetrated upon its surface, a surface that was, in appearance and texture, a hybrid of corduroy pants and a welcome mat. Said school of thought believed that it should be disposed of as all old, meaningful furniture should be—with sledgehammers and circular saws—and left in pieces by the dumpster at Talltrees Village in Drexel Hill, never to be seen again.

SCHOOL TWO: COUCH was more than another piece of overused furniture, long passed its prime. COUCH was the embodiment of evil: the physical manifestation of a deity that called itself “CouchEvilTrue,” a deity older than the universe or universes that had, for whatever reason, chosen to instill its essence or “black heart of ichor” (depending on who you asked) in COUCH. Those who adhered to SCHOOL TWO believed that not destroying, not abandoning, but KILLING COUCH would result in, among other things: the Flyers and Sixers having the worst seasons in their long and storied histories, my wife cheating on me with a man that looked like Mister Clean, me turning in to a Tequila-aholic and getting fired from my job, my wife divorcing me, me totaling my car and ending up as a stumbling, muttering wino, eternally stalking the dark and shadowy alleys of South Philadelphia (you can probably imagine which school of thought I belonged to). Rather than dispose of it, these “believers” in the oily tendrils of CouchEvilTrue (“Oyez, oyez”) advised me to carry it upon my back—my own, personal Ring of Power—throughout my life. Were I to dispose of it, they reasoned, I would be forever damned to misery.

The debate between the two schools grew over the space of a few months, and morphed in to “The Collected Couch Chronicles,” an almost 100 page treatise on what should/should not be done to or with COUCH. Said treatise was a compilation of various emails, Evites and other “E” words that circulated between a dozen plus members of my subjective reality, eventually culminating in the destruction of COUCH and a haunting final proclamation from “’M,’ Prophet/NotProphet of COUCHEVILTRUE”:

He mourned, alone, in a corner of the basement. To his eyes, moss, mildew, water dripped down the crags of the wall. Stroking a hand through his matted hair, eyes rolling around his sockets, fixing one place then another without comprehending the first. Breath whistling past teeth which had come undone and hung now like boxes placed randomly on basement shelves, he mourned. All his thoughts were bent towards one object. An object lost. All his hopes were fixed on it. His desires. An object lost. Rocking now, back and forth without heed, plucks a spider from the wall, stuffs it past his cracked and broken lips. “I’ll have it again, I will, they’ll see. I’ll have it again, my…. PRECIOUS!!!” You have been warned.

So ended the saga of COUCH, or CouchEvilTrue (depending on your chosen school of thought)… or so we believed.

THE SAD, SORDID HISTORY OF MY LAWNMOWER, AKA “THE BANE OF DOCTOR FRANK-EN-STEIN’S EXISTENCE”

Nicole and I received many housewarming gifts upon purchasing our first house in Broomall. Trinkets, appliances: our families and friends were incredibly generous. Among these gifts was perhaps THE most generous but controversial item that I can claim ownership of SINCE COUCH: my lawnmower. The first time I attempted to mow the lawn of our new house, I caught my finger on the starter cord and came within about a half an inch of slicing it off. 10 stitches later and an ignominious trip to Bryn Mawr Hospital riding shotgun in my father-in-law’s truck—my bloody finger protected by a bag of ice and a make-shift bandage of blue painters tape and Bounty—I was mended, though too this day, I still have little or no feeling in that finger (Bring a pin! Stick my finger! Watch me bleed but feel no pain! FUN AT PARTIES!). I developed quite an aversion to mowing my lawn, an aversion that it took me weeks to overcome. By the time I successfully mowed my lawn in late May of 2006 (a full six weeks after the finger incident), it was virtually beyond help. Crabgrass and Dandelion covered, it didn’t even begin to recover until this spring. Yet I labored with the blasted thing, regardless, year in and year out, toiling away to make my lawn look as presentable as possible given the circumstances.

What circumstances? A blade that jammed on an inch of grass regardless of having it set at the highest height. A 15-20 minute sequence involved with starting it that involved priming and pumping what I can only classify as the “GO” lever. In its latter life (the last two years), an acrid cloud of white smoke that belched out of the engine every time I made a turn and poisoned my immediate neighbors (said smoke could be marketed as a suburban chemical weapon). A handle held in place by an ill-fitting bolt and washer (the original bolt and washer having disappeared sometime in 2007) that I would need to stop and re-tighten an average of three times per mowing (four for my backyard). In essence, it was the Frank-en-stein’s Monster of lawnmowers, and God help me, it was MINE. Until this past spring when…

…When I finally purchased a NEW lawnmower, the aforementioned Toro Recycler 6500, complete with a self-propulsion system, “cruise control” (I can take my hand off what I can only classify as the “GO” lever and it… KEEPS… GOING!) and a detachable mulch bag that I can remove without turning off the mower! It requires no priming, and has a larger gas tank than my original mower. In short, it’s the Cadillac of Toros. And my lawn has never looked better. All memories of that original bastard child of Mother Nature and Mister Green Thumb were subsequently forgotten as I wheeled the blasted piece of garbage out to my curb on a Sunday afternoon. There the f*cking thing sat, waiting for a mercy that only God or a Waste Disposal Management Crew could give it. I left for work the Monday after I placed it there, stopping briefly to spit on it from the driver’s side of my car before pulling away…

…Only to return home that night and discover the blasted beast still sitting by the curb.

I was shocked in to silence, and sat staring at it for a moment from the driver’s side of my car. Since 2006, Marple/Newtown Waste Disposal had removed everything from dead animals to old furniture from my curb, due largely in part to the $50.00 stipend we give them every Christmas. My wife just informed me that we didn’t tip them this past Christmas (2009), which could rationally explain why they didn’t remove the unsightly piece of lawn care machinery that sat taunting me by the curb as the sun set on yet another GLORIOUS Monday in my subjective reality. But where’s the fun in rationality?

Dejected, I slowly rolled the mower up the coarse and cracked blacktop of my driveway, stopping ever-briefly at my car to push the OPEN button on my automatic garage door opener, and sighed as the garage door only opened half way. Forced now to not only keep the mower, but duck under the half-opened garage door and potentially snap my spine in the process, I bit back a sob. It was then—as I wheeled the mower in to its customary place between a stack of empty boxes and my garbage cans—that I remembered “M’s” prophecy from the previous afternoon.

Did I, thereafter, reluctantly face the realization that the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue cannot be killed? Did I, thereafter, feel the need to call the “believers” in SCHOOL TWO and concede that I was wrong? Is this Blog entry nothing more than my concession, a concession that I am reminded of every time I walk in to my garage and see my own, personal Frank-en-stein’s Monster sitting silently… TAUNTINGLY…

I did not. In truth, I haven’t spoken or written of this until tonight. If SCHOOL TWO is correct in their assessment that the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue now resides within the clogged fuel-line of my old lawnmower, then I have nothing to fear. Said beast has not moved from its spot in my garage since. In truth, part of me—the part that has oft been maimed by the red (RED! It’s RED!) demon-spawn of Suburbia—fears even touching it. I will not destroy it, lest I risk the POSSIBILITY (mind you, I’m simply calling it a “possibility,” not a “definitive”) that it is, in fact, the current host of an evil far older than the oldest of evils in this or any reality. Older even than Cheez Whiz: a tantalizing condiment, the mere thought of which causes shooting pains to travel through my left arm. “Oyez, oyez.” Mmm. Processed cheese product. Good on a steak sandwich, but better mixed with salsa.

But I keep my experiences with my original lawnmower in perspective, despite the fact that it no longer has any functional relevancy in my weekly lawn-care regiment. “Believers”: I will concede that it is conceivable that the four odd (and yes, they HAVE BEEN odd) years that I battled with said mower for lawn supremacy were nothing more than a penance for my decision to KILL COUCH in the Spring and Summer of 2006. I will concede that the dark, eternal and EVER-PRESENT heart of CouchEvilTrue has potentially spent the last four years avenging itself upon me and my lawn, and were I to dispose of my old lawnmower, said evil would float around in the ether for a few hours, days or weeks before possessing my new seed spreader and causing it to take one or more of my toes as a blood sacrifice. I will concede that the prospect of simply offering my old lawnmower to the Marple/Newtown Waste Disposal Department is about as conceivable as not having to spend a thousand bucks a month on day care for my daughter, Cara, especially if Nicole and I can no longer afford to offer them a stipend every Christmas. I will concede these points and will leave the damnable creature right. Where. It. IS. But…

If the black heart of ichor that was, is, and remains CouchEvilTrue still exists in my subjective reality; if it’s oily tendrils reach out, even now, from the confines of its prison within my garage, then by association, all of you—both “believers” and non—are in danger. If you are reading this, then you exist within my own, personal subjective reality, and YOU ARE IN DANGER. Despite your posturing to the contrary four years ago, each of you—even the most staunch Prophets/NotProphets of CouchEvilTrue—took sledgehammer or power tool in hand and howled in ecstasy while you dismantled what one “believer” called “The Velveteen Couch.” Even you “M”: you supplied a sledgehammer. Just because its evil influence hasn’t touched your lives yet does not mean that it won’t. Perhaps it is the inherent goodness that exists within me—a NON-alcoholic-NON-druggie-NON-wife-beating-NON-man-whore that likes to ramble incessantly about topics that only he seems to care about but believes staunchly in the providence of God and the Toro Recycler 6500 (AKA “The Escalade of Lawnmowers”)—that is keeping this ancient evil at bay. Or perhaps it is the inherent goodness in my wife, Nicole; or our newborn child, Cara. But I ask you as friends… my good friends… to help me come up with a means by which to eradicate this dastardly force from our lives once and for all. We need a plan, else the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue may forever shadow our lives and enshroud our fates.

If what “M” said was true, then this may only be the beginning.

“Oyez, oyez.”

Join with me. I have Cheez Whiz!

The Man I Once Called "Dad"

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I’ve been pondering something for a bit. A story? An essay? Another “Dr. McDreamy Unappreciation Thread?” Sorry, friends. Nothing that humorous or concrete. Fact is, I’m not really feeling like myself at the moment, and haven’t felt like myself for the last couple of weeks. I’ve been distracted… confused… I’ve been trying to decide how to handle something and have had little too no luck. That said, it’s time to throw it out to the group (whatever group is reading this, right now), and gauge their… YOUR reactions. Maybe you can help me figure out this little conundrum that has descended over my life and psyche these last few, waning weeks of winter (ah, alliteration: one of the many annoying literary tools of the once-English Major).

DISCLAIMER: There is little room for humor in my current state of mind, so if you DON’T want to read something serious, cease and desist before reading further. Re-navigate your web browsers to Funny or Die, College Humor, Texts from Last Night, Fox News or some other comedy website and enjoy. END DISCLAIMER.

A few weeks back, I received a letter from my father. There you go: blunt and to the point. Those of you that are unaware of my familial situation, a brief history before I continue: My father and my mother were separated when I was nine, divorced when I was in my teens. My father remarried and moved to Arizona sometime around my 18th Birthday, leaving behind him two children, one ex-wife, and the sum total of a Third World Nation’s debt in child support arrears owed to said ex-wife. The last time I saw my father was his wedding. The last time I spoke with my father was 1997. We’ve corresponded via snail mail and electronic mail on a few occasions. I’ll get in to them in a bit.

Flash-forward to a few weeks ago. In the space of a few hours, not only did I receive a letter via snail mail from him, but so did my sister, and even more shockingly, my mother. The correspondence ranged from excessive—a five page letter to my sister—to borderline laughable—a “Thank You” card to my mother. It was the first my sister and mother have heard from him in almost as long as he’s lived in Arizona. We shared our respective letters, as well as our respective thoughts on them (again, ranging from indifference to anger). Admittedly, the whole incident left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth for multiple reasons that I wish to explicate herein, not the least of which is the overwhelming need that I feel to protect my mother and my not-so-little sister every time my father rears his head.

All my life, I’ve prided myself on regretting nothing. Not my choice of career throughout my 20’s, not my current choice of career in my 30’s. I’ve never regretted a failed relationship. I’ve never regretted my choice to take Badminton and Walking For Fitness in college rather than Algebra and Biology. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for a reason. Even my greatest failures-choosing a woman over a friend; choosing to leave CVStress in 1999 for a job as a glorified telemarketer, only to return less than two years later at a lower pay grade and have to work myself BACK up the corporate ladder-have had their benefits, and have helped evolve me in to the man I am this unseasonably warm March 19th in the Year Of Our Lord, 2010.

But…

My wonderful wife Nicole, AKA the mother of my equally wonderful and cherubic daughter Cara, made an interesting point the other night. It was shortly after I read her the letter. I’m not sure how it came up in conversation, but she asked me, “Honey, if you got a call tomorrow telling you that your father had passed away, how would you feel?” This question invariably led to another, “would you regret not letting him have the opportunity to see his granddaughter?”

There are many things I can say about my wife of almost five years, the former Nicole Michelle Gentile-turned Nicole Michelle Gentile-Marsh (or just “Marsh” depending on the mood you catch her in). I can talk about how kind and gentle she is; I can talk about her fun-loving attitude and her rarely-viewed but definitely existent sick sense of humor. I can talk about how she keeps me young despite the five year difference in age between us. I can talk about her love of baseball and the way she’s made me remember mine, but the ONE THING I can say about her above all else?

She knows my soul. Better than anyone that has ever existed in my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Somewhere between Jenkintown, State College and Hatboro-Horsham, PA… somewhere between Indianpolis, IN and a little plot of prison ground in Abington, PA endearingly referred to by my brethren and I as “Oz”… Somewhere between Morrisville, North East Philadelphia, Drexel Hill, Broomall, Royersford and York, PA (with a side jaunt to LOVELY Lavonia, GA for good measure), there was her. There was ALWAYS her. The one person who knows me almost as well as I know myself. Homage, baby. Respect and love. And with that one statement, she quite literally called my “punk” card and sent my mind spiraling to the point where it currently resides.

How WOULD I feel? WOULD I regret not letting him have the opportunity to meet his granddaughter?

I’m of multiple minds on the subject. You could call me schizophrenic, or just confused. I leave that up to you, and I will bear you no ill will if you choose to believe me one crazy motherf*cker (but don’t be surprised if you wake up with something undesirable at the foot of your bed. “A man in my position can not afford to be made to look ridiculous!”). There’s the jaded part of me… the part that has been repeatedly Rochambeau’d by the man that spawned my existence. Said part of me embodies anywhere from 80-90% of my mindset about the man I once called “dad” on a daily basis. So much of my history with him falls in to this category.

Case in point: my last “conversation” with him in 1997. By “conversation,” I am of course referring to the traditional meaning of “conversation,” i.e. talking to a person and not texting, emailing, IM’ing, Facebooking or Tweeting them. I was living someplace between Jenkintown and State College, PA, and though I’d graduated from Penn State in the spring and was working full-time as a Shift Supervisor for CVStress in Horsham, PA, I was still the equivalent of a homeless vagabond, traveling between “State Pen” and my apartment in Jenkintown on a bi-weekly basis (whenever I had a weekend off).

One autumn night in 1997, I received a phone call from my father. He was completely unapologetic. He claimed to have done the things he’d done for good reasons. “I needed a fresh start”; “I needed to seek my fortunes elsewhere.” Anyone who’s had or has deadbeat parent has heard the litany of excuses, and I see no reason to include them all herein. But the kicker was highly UN-common: “I regret nothing I’ve done.” Said conversation ended rather abruptly with me hanging up in tears and my roommates comforting me. Less than an hour later, I was sitting at the bar at the now-defunct Houlihan’s in Jenkintown, PA drinking myself in to oblivion. Somewhere between drink five and six, I vowed to never let the man back in again. I woke up the next morning and went to work as normal, albeit with quite a nasty hangover and the unpleasant aftertaste one acquires after multiple shots of tequila.

But…

Flash-forward a few years to the Year Of Our Lord, 2000. Life in my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence was MAJORLY in flux. I was on my second tour of duty at CVStress, not as a Shift Supervisor, but as an Assistant Manager. I’d been overlooked for promotion multiple times despite an exemplary service record (sounds like the f*cking military, I know, but any of you that have ever worked in Retail know how regimented it is). I was working as the Interim Manager at the now-defunct CVStress in Plymouth Meeting, PA (“Interim Manager,” simply put, meant that I had all the responsibility of a Store Manager but none of the money). I’d recently been forcibly evicted from my pseudo-girlfriend’s apartment in favor of her ex-boyfriend, AKA her baby’s daddy, and was living on the floor of the apartment my friend Tom shared with his mother and his brother. In short, I was quite literally at rock-bottom.

It was from within the depths of my despair-the worst I’ve ever known-that I hatched a plan: I would be the better man. I would contact my father and attempt to resolve the feud between us because it was the only way I’d get my life back on track. At the time, I was, and STILL AM a firm believer in the concept of “karma,” and I believed my bad karma to be the direct result of my aborted relationship with what I liked to call my “Biological,” a relationship that I believed I had caused the dissolution of.

I told you this was going to be a mind-trip. This is your last chance to turn back. DISCLAIMER (IBID). END DISCLAIMER.

So I wrote him a letter. I believe it was about seven or eight pages, written in long-hand on sheets of yellowing, college-ruled loose leaf I had left over from college. In it, I apologized to him for virtually everything that had transpired between us over the course of a decade plus. Despite my aversion to doing so at that time, I bore my soul, explaining my current life-situation and my concerns. I asked for advice on everything from relationships to work. In short, I turned to the man that I’d once called “dad” for guidance. His response arrived a few weeks later. He offered me insight in to the things that I’d inquired about. He updated me on his own life-situation, which at the time was significantly better than mine. He told me about the beauty of the low-desert in Arizona and he “waxed poetic” on the lonely sound of a coyote crying at night. But in response to my heart-felt apology? “I do not feel the need to apologize for anything that I’ve done, as everything I did, I did for a reason. I have no regrets, son. I hope you understand.”

That quote is verbatim: the only portion of his letter emblazoned in my memory forever despite said letter’s subsequent disappearance. That night in 2000 ended in virtually the same fashion as the one from three years earlier save for one difference: instead of getting drunk at Houlihan’s in Jenkintown, PA, I got stoned in the parking lot of a park in Huntington Valley, PA. Somewhere between the first drag and the moment I passed out in the driver’s seat of my 1998 Dodge Neon to the sound of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” I vowed never to let the man back in again. I woke up a short time later, thanks largely in part to the opening movement of “Egmont, Opus 84,” and drove home. Within a few weeks time, I had an apartment in North East Philadelphia, had been promoted to Store Manager of the same store I had been Interim Manager at, and was in a healthy and nondestructive relationship for the first time in almost four years. I’d stopped smoking weed, never to turn back.

Karma.

All correspondence between us ended after that. In the subsequent time between 2000 and last year, I scrubbed the 1998 Neon in favor of a 2004 Chevy Cavalier, met and married my soul mate, left CVStress for a job as an Office Manager/Inside Sales Rep, bought a house, started pursuing my Master’s and found out I was going to be a father. In February or March of 2009, my “Biological’s” wife and his father passed away within a few weeks of each other. For the first time in almost a decade, there was correspondence between us, albeit limited to me expressing my sympathies in an email, and him replying in kind simply with, “thank you.” It was the right thing to do. The courteous thing.

Flash-forward to a few weeks ago with the letters received by my mother, my sister and I and you’re current. As mentioned previously, much of my history with my “Biological” has been negative. The previous paragraphs are merely a sampling of that history. Yet I also spoke of “multiple minds” a few paragraphs ago. Along with that 80-90% of me that has been jaded by my experiences with the man I once called “dad,” there’s also the compassionate, human part of me that feels everyone deserves a chance at redemption.

How WOULD I feel? WOULD I regret not letting him have the opportunity to meet his granddaughter?

It’s a tough decision, and not one that I, obviously (if this blog post is any indication) take lightly. Despite a mindset that is 80-90% jaded toward the man I once called “dad,” I’m 50/50 on whether or not I should allow the man to meet his granddaughter. Do I feel he has earned to right to do so? No. One heartfelt apology does not make up for the decades he spent not apologizing; not accepting responsibility for his actions; ADAMANTLY not regretting his actions. One heartfelt apology does not make up for the times I was reduced to tears at being abandoned by the man I once called “dad.” Those drunken, substance-influenced nights in which I tried desperately to forget, only to return home, look in the mirror, and see the man I once called “dad’s” face staring back at me, a flush across his Irish-English-Scottish cheeks and a twinkle in his deep, blue eyes. Those times I wrote a story, a poem, a journal entry or a blog, stopped to review what I’d written and shivered at the similarities between how the man I once called “dad” writes and how I do. My laugh? The same as his… the man I once called “dad.” My sense of humor? The same as his… the man I once called “dad.”

In fairness, not all of what and who I am is inherited from the man I once called “dad.” My work ethic comes from my mother; my capacity to enjoy life comes from my sister. My personality is derived from years, piled upon years, piled upon DECADES of personal refinement. And the soul my wife knows better than anyone else on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence is mine. But often, I am reminded in some way, shape of form of who my “Biological” is. Be it in an expression on my daughter Cara’s face or in something I say or do, he is there often, despite the fact that I rarely pay him more than a passing thought. Would you believe that previous to this blog entry, the last thing that I wrote with him as the overarching topic was a poem that I wrote over 10 years ago? Probably not. Trust me: I’m not f*cking with you. It’s the truth.

But…

So much of who I am IS reflective of his lineage. I can not deny that. Were the shoe on the other foot… were it me in his position, seeking forgiveness from the people I’ve wronged and the things I’ve done while reluctantly facing the twilight of my life, how would I feel if I were denied the chance at redemption? An opportunity which per the religious catechism I so staunchly believe in, all God’s creatures have?

ANSWER: I don’t know. And writing this little exposition has in no way brought me closer to the resolution of the psychological debate raging within my “tied up and twisted” mind. I remain of multiple minds on the subject. 50/50, friends. The ole’ flip of the coin. Heads or tails… which will it be? But I needed to write this; needed to get it all on paper, regardless of how unintelligible it may seem. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. I welcome any insight that you can offer. I can be reached in any number of ways for “conversation.” Whether you prefer the traditional means of “conversing” or “conversing” via text, email, IM, Facebook or Twitter. I’d throw Google Buzz in there, as well, but it kind of blows. And no “sexting” please. I find the prospect of sending naked pictures via text to random people a bit disturbing.

Frank Marsh. 3/19-3/20/10.

Musings from within the Maelstrom

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

A quick note before I begin: the aforementioned “maelstrom” is a more elaborate way of describing the pseudo-blizzard blowing outside the insulated brick walls of the two story colonial in Broomall, PA that I share with my wife Nicole, our daughter Cara, and our two feline children Pandora and Roxy. The scene outside my window is pretty picturesque if that’s the kind of scene that you are partial too. Me? I’ve never been a big fan of snow. Never been a big fan of Norman (I like to call him “Normal”) Rockwell, either, AKA the master of the painting portraying a sleigh ride through the countryside complete with pine trees, a cabin and the occasional covered bridge. So “Hallmark.” So generic. I can almost here Burle Ives crooning beneath the reassuring cacophony of Alice in Chains’ “Rooster” emanating from my headphones. Crank up the volume, baby. “Rooster” seques in to “Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns” by Mother Love Bone and I can feel my creative juices starting to flow. NOW we’re talking. Or… writing?

Sure, a fresh snowfall looks beautiful and sure, a half a foot of snow when you’re of school-age is pretty significant (force of habit: I still listen for school number 356 on KYW, News Radio, 1060 AM; 356 was the snow number for my grade school some 22 odd years ago). But when you’re 34… When you have to get to and from work in the midst of it… when you can already feel your lower back tightening from the shoveling that is still hours away… well, what can I say? Snow excites me about as much as the prospect of lobotomy with a dull spoon. And anyone who’s ever had one of those will tell you they’re not pretty. Not that I know anyone that ever had a labotomy with a dull spoon. Now a RUSTY one…

I digress. Sorry.

Depressing, huh? Knowing me and my propensity for reminiscence, you’d expect me to be writing something reflective of my youthful days of “yore”: days when I’d wake up at 6:00 AM of my own accord (not because of the alarm on my phone booming the opening chords of ACDC’s “Thunderstruck”) to the intoxicating smell of pancakes and coffee, not the fading scent of the formula spit up on my shirt and the crap my eldest cat, Pandora, just took in the other room. What can I say? Not everything that happens in my life hearkens back memories of the 20 to 30% of my childhood (pre-16, mind you) that I speak so highly of. FACT: Save for the two plus hours that my wife and I spent trying to put Cara to sleep tonight (she’s been cutting her first tooth now for the better part of the last month. I wish the darn thing would just come in already!), I’ve been consuming musical tracks from the aforementioned two bands (Alice and Mother), along with Temple of the Dog, Pearl Jam, Seether, a sprinkling of Tool and more than a healthy dose of Soundgarden. Said music? Not exactly conducive to the psychological equivalent of a Normal Rockwell painting. More like something painted by Dali or Picasso, with a touch of Georgia O’Keefe thrown in for good measure.

FYI both Moto-Droid and iPhone users: Pandora Internet Radio is an amazing application. Pick a genre of music, and watch in awe as the app creates an entire, commercial free radio station of songs in that genre. This particular station that I am listening to is called “Mother Love Bone Radio.” I also have “The Who Radio,” “John Williams (yes, the composer) Radio,” and for my wife, “Meet Virginia Radio” (mid to late-90’s Top-40 Rock). My musical tastes remain incredibly eclectic.

Yet again, I digress. Let me take this opportunity to reiterate, or in Netspeak, “retweet” my previous apology.

Is there a point to what I’m writing, currently? Yes… and no. Yes, I’m writing with a purpose. Out of necessity, really. You see, I’ve known for a while now that I need to start writing again. I’m not simply talking about the occasional blog entry or rambling essay (though admittedly, Nicole and a few others DO enjoy a good piece of Mental Flatulence). No. I’m talking about something substantial. To continue to deny the writer in side of me the freedom to express himself is the proverbial equivalent of one of my pre-16 year old “friends” smothering my face in a snowdrift… what we used to call a “whitewash” back then, pre-learning it’s actual definition and etymology (per my old friend Wikipedia, “To whitewash is to gloss over or cover up vices, crimes or scandals or to exonerate by means of a perfunctory investigation or through biased presentation of data.”). It’s who I am. I’m also a husband, father, homeowner, taxpayer and working stiff, but before I was any of these things, I was a writer. I can’t afford to lose sight of the basic foundation of who I am. Without that foundation… let’s face it friends, without it, the whole goddamn house of cards that is your ole’ buddy Frank, AKA The Mad Chronicler comes tumbling down. Said collapse is generally followed under most, if not all circumstances by the once-secure and confidant individual curled up in a fetal position in the corner sucking his or her thumb. I’ve been there. I’ve been that poor soul. I’d rather not be that person again… EVER.

What about the “no?” The other answer to my previously posed question (“is there a point to what I’m writing, currently?”)? That’s easy. I’m not trying to change the world with this blog entry, friends. It’s a goddamn blog, not a mission statement. I’m attempting to exercise my mind. You know: get those neurons which have been dormant for too long now rolling belly to back, and back to belly; the psychological equivalent of my daughter’s new, favorite activity. I’m attempting to re-familiarize myself with the ACT of writing.

Which brings me to “Halcyon Days.” Not “The Endworld Trilogy.” I’ve realized over the last few days that in my subjective universe, “Endworld” relies heavily on “Halcyon Days” for relevancy. That was never my original intention when I started writing “Halcyon Days.” For those of you reading this that haven’t the slightest notion of what I’m talking about, I’ll give you the basic premise. “Halcyon Days” was… err, IS a novel I began writing about a year or a year and a half ago. I made it about 50 pages in before my Masters program at Drexel University began. After that, it was academic (no pun intended). School sequed in to Nicole’s pregnancy, which sequed in to Cara’s arrival, and “Halcyon Days” took up permanent residency in the “UNFINISHED NOVELS” folder on my computer’s desktop. But unlike so many of the other aborted attempts at novel writing in that folder, “Halcyon Days” has never been far from my mind. Has, in fact, grown MORE a part of my mind with the passage of time and experience.

It is the story of Robert Allen, and it is the story of Roland MacNuff. Confused? Understandable. In “Halcyon Days,” Robert Allen is actually the author of a series of novels called… you guessed it, “The Endworld Chronicle.” Robert grew up in a fictional little town in South Jersey called “Halcyon Bay” which resides on the shores of the Delaware Bay, known locally as “Little Atlantic.” Robert’s Hollywood lifestyle, burgeoning career (the movie version of the first of his bestselling books, “Endworld,” is in pre-production as the novel begins) and self-imposed exile from the small town of his youth is interrupted by the sudden passing of his mother, and he is forced to return and face the ghosts of his past while putting his mother’s affairs in order. He is reunited with the friends of his youth. Among these, his first love, Melissa Stark, who… well, I can’t give away everything. The bottom line is this: “Halcyon Days” has an outline. It has a framework. In my mind, it has a beginning, a middle and an end. It’s lighthearted, but is underscored by a darkness that only I can see at present (after all, I’m the only one that knows the MacGuffin!). I have full scenes outlined in my mind… with musical accompaniment, no less. Not Alice or Mother, Soundgarden or Tool, but the songs of my pre-16 year old youth… those formative years when I was nothing more to most than a rollie-pollie, pear-shaped target for noogies and “whitewashes.” Songs like LA Guns, “The Ballad of Jayne” and Def Leppard, “Hysteria.”

And in order to re-write “Endworld,” I know now that I need to write “Halcyon Days” first. Why? Well shoot, friends: how deep do you want to delve in to my psyche? I know why it has to be this way. It has something to do with writing a character based on myself to get MORE in touch with another character based on myself, i.e. if I write about myself writing about Roland MacNuff, then it will be easier for me, Frank Marsh, AKA The Mad Chronicler, to write about Roland MacNuff… in Netspeak, IRL. Insert Winky Emoticon HERE. You have permission to smack me the next time you see me.

Do I digress? Not really. But it is getting late (12:30 AM, to be precise), and my thoughts are growing steadily more disjointed as this composition unfolds. Generally a sign that I should start shifting in to “wrap-up” mode, along with the shortening of my paragraphs and a growing reliance on frivolous punctuation like the ellipse and the semi-colon to make my point.

And that point is? Simple, really. Before I was Normal Rockwell, I was the love child of Salvidor Dali, Pablo Picasso and Georgia O’Keefe. I was reared on the literary stylings of Andrew Wood, Layne Staley, Chris Cornell and Maynard Keenan, though admittedly, my primary musical accompaniment since the late-90’s has been very Top-40’ish. Before I was a husband, father, homeownwer, taxpayer and working stiff, I was a writer. I remain a writer, albeit one that has spent the better part of the last decade plus hibernating within his two story, brick colonial in Broomall, PA. Said insulated brick walls have protected me and my family from a seemingly endless series of proverbial psuedo-blizzards, and within these four walls, our collective life together has been the equivalent of a Normal Rockwell painting, complete with a soundtrack penned and vocalized by good ole’ Burle Ives. Don’t mistake me, friends: I am thankful for this. Every day of my life I wake up and thank God for my family; every night before I close my eyes, I ask God to bless them and protect them so that I may see them the following morning.

But I lost sight of something integral over the last decade plus. I stopped taking chances; I started playing it safe. It’s been an eternity since I’ve been awake long enough to see 12:57 AM in bold, black letters on my Moto-Droid. By taking the occasional risk, i.e. fighting back the sleep that threatens to overtake me in favor of telling a bit more of Robert Allen’s, Roland MacNuff’s… OR Frank Marsh’s story, perhaps I will be able to discover a balance between the still, silent atmosphere of my home (broken only by Temple of the Dog singing “Say Hello 2 Heaven”), and the inspirational “maelstrom” raging outside my window.

Goodnight, world. Much respect. Insert Winky Emoticon HERE.