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Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian
Wet Brain Todd Versus The Glaswegian
10-3-12
There were four passengers on the shuttle: Felix, (a tall, lean Vietnam Veteran with a hat stating so), Wet Brain Todd, a small young Eastern European woman, and myself. As we waited for Time To Go the driver and I were talking about China’s new aircraft carrier. This went on to the dispute between China and Japan over a set of islands. Felix, whom I know to have opinions worth hearing, entered the conversation. He began to make a point, and I was happy for his input.
However, Wet Brain Todd, who had appeared to be unconscious, began mumbling. As the mumbling didn’t seem to be words, and Todd’s eyes were closed, Felix assumed it was drunk sleep babble, and attempted to wait it out. When the mumbling lulled we all assumed Todd was done, and out. Felix resumed speaking,
And so did Todd. He apparently thought the subject at hand was not worth a discussion, because “IbeenAfghasstanIkillfifteenmuhfuhkin’people. Sowhat? Maaaaaaaaan.” All this with his eyes closed.
To be clear Todd was not in the current conflict in Afghanistan. He’s 50, going on 51. He claims to have been in Afghanistan when he was 17. He’s claiming to have been in Afghanistan in 1978. When we had NO ONE in Afghanistan.
He also claims to have had a Fight Club behind Gilley’s, where he’s made $500 a night fighting people.
Todd says many things.
Felix attempted to resume talking, Todd would not let him. He kept slurring some crap about “Iknow’bouthisshit”.
The tension finally peaked when he said “Nonono. Iwasinthemilitary. Iknow.”
At which point Felix leveled a look so incendiary that I thought Todd’s breath and hair would catch fire. He then announced that he was going to be quiet, as he didn’t want to be the source of disharmony. There was some minor back and forth between the two men, but an unhappy silence descended over all of us.
There was a feeling that things could turn really ugly with one wrong word. Todd had even offered to step outside with Felix, though the latter was too civilized to indulge. It’s an awful form of tension, and we smothered under it.
About 90 seconds later I spied a cyclist approaching through the mist.
“Incoming Bike”, I announced. The driver moved to help the rider rack their bike. Unfortunately Todd, now awake, noticed my turn of phrase.
“Incom’nbike? THATsoundsmilitary, maaaaaaaaan!”
‘Fuck’, thought I. ‘This will be the worst ride ever.’
Then driver and rider entered the shuttle. The new arrival, a man from Glasgow named Chris, said in his burr “Hoo’s eerrrywahn doon tanay’?”
Most mumbled ‘alright’.
Todd said “Hey, ‘scuseme. Wha’youjus’say?”
“Doon’ werrry, suhn. Whan ye bin in the coontrry a coopla
yeuhrrrs yull beguhn to pick oop tha acsuhnt. Yull underrrstahn’ tha prrroper
Anglish we speak ‘roond heerrre.”
“Wha?”
“A coopla yeuhrrrs. Yull be floont.”
I was snickering at the lovely break in tension, but this wasn’t the end of it. Todd had more questions.
“A’youGerman?”
That brought the laughter. Felix followed up with, if I recall correctly, “Can’t you hear he’s Russian?”
More laughter.
“Nuh. Se’iously. Whe’yafrom?”
“Istanbul.”
More laughter.
“Huh?”
“He’s a big Turk, Todd.”
“Really?”
More laughter.
Meanwhile we’d set out for Kittery. During the ride every time Todd said anything it was instantly upended by Chris, and spiked by Felix. He finally just sat and looked mystified at everything that Chris said.
Eventually even the young woman, who had been trying to be quiet, and avoid notice while Todd was ramping up, was laughing freely.
As we neared the end of the ride Chris said “Ut’s ulwehs an advainture ahn the shuttle. Yuh ne’errr know hoo yerrr gwin to meet. Boonch a crazay Uhmerrrricans. And a Scotsman!”
“I thought you said you were French!” said Felix, as Todd said something like “Wait, wha’?”
Todd stayed on, the rest left, and we all had a laugh. Todd fell asleep in his seat.
As he was leaving Chris pulled up next to Todd’s window and pounded under it to wake Todd up. He then shined his bike light into Todd’s face.
“Wehk oop! Ye’ve to goo hoom! Arraight?! G’Naight!” And he rode off.
As we stood outside reviewing the ride, from in the shuttle the driver and I heard “Thefuckdude! Thefuckin’sjgagndanognroagaoighhjsdhgk!” 90 seconds later Todd figured out how to undo his seatbelt to come out a yell at ME for waking him up.
The driver corrected him and pointed at Chris’ back as the man pedaled off into the night.
Swaying in place and confusion, Todd said “Awmaaaaaan…”
And I left, thinking at some point I need to thank that Glaswegian for rescuing that whole situation from awful, and turning it into one of the best gut laughs I’ve had in while.
“Wha?”
“A coopla yeuhrrrs. Yull be floont.”
I was snickering at the lovely break in tension, but this wasn’t the end of it. Todd had more questions.
“A’youGerman?”
That brought the laughter. Felix followed up with, if I recall correctly, “Can’t you hear he’s Russian?”
More laughter.
“Nuh. Se’iously. Whe’yafrom?”
“Istanbul.”
More laughter.
“Huh?”
“He’s a big Turk, Todd.”
“Really?”
More laughter.
Meanwhile we’d set out for Kittery. During the ride every time Todd said anything it was instantly upended by Chris, and spiked by Felix. He finally just sat and looked mystified at everything that Chris said.
Eventually even the young woman, who had been trying to be quiet, and avoid notice while Todd was ramping up, was laughing freely.
As we neared the end of the ride Chris said “Ut’s ulwehs an advainture ahn the shuttle. Yuh ne’errr know hoo yerrr gwin to meet. Boonch a crazay Uhmerrrricans. And a Scotsman!”
“I thought you said you were French!” said Felix, as Todd said something like “Wait, wha’?”
Todd stayed on, the rest left, and we all had a laugh. Todd fell asleep in his seat.
As he was leaving Chris pulled up next to Todd’s window and pounded under it to wake Todd up. He then shined his bike light into Todd’s face.
“Wehk oop! Ye’ve to goo hoom! Arraight?! G’Naight!” And he rode off.
As we stood outside reviewing the ride, from in the shuttle the driver and I heard “Thefuckdude! Thefuckin’sjgagndanognroagaoighhjsdhgk!” 90 seconds later Todd figured out how to undo his seatbelt to come out a yell at ME for waking him up.
The driver corrected him and pointed at Chris’ back as the man pedaled off into the night.
Swaying in place and confusion, Todd said “Awmaaaaaan…”
And I left, thinking at some point I need to thank that Glaswegian for rescuing that whole situation from awful, and turning it into one of the best gut laughs I’ve had in while.
Labels:
Life
Friday, June 22, 2012
Reminded by Portugal 3 Denmark 2, Group Stage, Euro 2012
You get used to things
And
In so doing
Assume
Some things
Must be
And can’t be changed, that to even try would guarantee failure
& looking foolish for it.
June 2002
June 2002
I’d become used to
Toilets full of blood I couldn’t explain
Nights bereft of memory
A life of neither hope nor direction
Mornings of “Whose blood is that?”
And
“Do I have any friends left?”
And when my drinking failed to kill my unnamed hurt
I hoped it would kill me
But it failed to do that.
I assumed that there was no other way
No possibility of my sobriety
But I had no other ideas left to try.
So I spent several insomniac nights
So I spent several insomniac nights
Channel-flipping
Chain smoking minutes
My drying blood turning liquid once more
Cop Shows
Sit Coms
Politics
Reruns
Infomercials
The 2AM Litany of Loathing
The background noise of a certainty that this was doomed
to fail
I was sure to die of drink.
Cop Shows
Sit Coms
Politics
Reruns
Infomercials
Why bother drying up? Dammit it’s too late to buy whiskey…
Cop Shows
Cop Shows
Sit Coms
Politics
Reruns
Infomercials
Soccer.
Stupid drunk: you forgot the World Cup was starting. Is this a repeat? No, it’s in Asia! It’s live at 2AM! Hope?
USA! Vs
Stupid drunk: you forgot the World Cup was starting. Is this a repeat? No, it’s in Asia! It’s live at 2AM! Hope?
USA! Vs
Portugal.
We’re fucked. Portugal are tipped by some to win it all.
We’re going to lose, and I’m going to die drunk.
But USA won
We’re going to lose, and I’m going to die drunk.
But USA won
3-2
I accepted the challenge,
I accepted the challenge,
The gauntlet thrown by our National Team doing what was
assumed they couldn’t possibly have done,
And I have done for myself
What I assumed I couldn’t possibly have done,
And have done it now for 10 years.
Chris Walters, June 2012
Chris Walters, June 2012
Labels:
Life,
Personal Growth,
Poetry
Monday, June 4, 2012
Shuttle Trip 6-4-12
Shuttled to and from town for sugar, for Full Moon creative endeavors. Mildly eventful trip.
Thought I was getting harassed by 20 somethings fresh from D-Street. "Nice Cane. Hey you." was said to my back. It reminded me of the times way-the-frak-back when 40 somethings from Wally's/The Old Bridge would say to the back of my mohawk/spikes "Nice hair. Hey kid."
I made up my mind that, like the bikers/redecks of old, I would ignore them. But, should they push the issue, and not leave me alone, as running from the event was not a possibility, extreme measures (headbutts, biting, scrotum-hook on newly-finished cane put to any possible use) were acceptable. I figured I could take out one before the other 2 (3?) took me down. Some consolation prize for the pain and inconvenience of beating, but you take what you can get.
Nothing happened.
Got to PoPro, they came in after, and one of them had a cane. A shitty, collapsible cane. Nothing was said, which pleased me.
Turns out "Nice cane" wasn't intended as a threat; it was a compliment from a child (even if he's legally entitled to pickle himself) with the manners of a mentally impaired house-cat.
I returned to the shuttle, and mentioned to another passenger I'd seen around for years about what happened. We reflected on dumbasses mouthing off, and I mentioned how I wish the Old Bridge still existed to send such people to.
We ended talking about one of the toughest men in The Old Bridge, Mario. I'd actually been thinking about Mario lately, wondering what became of him.
I'd see him at Richardon's. He'd come in and say in his heavily accented English "Heeeey, buddy! Howyou?" "Great, Mario! What's happenin'?" "Fine, buddy! Fine!"
These things I knew about Mario: He was Cuban, didn't speak English well at all, and had arrived in the 70s, or 80s. I thought he possibly arrived in 1980 expulsion from Cuba, but didn't know for sure.
He had some of the darkest skin I'd ever seen, and, though decades older than me, the features of the Gerber Baby.
I also knew from stories in the neighborhood that Mario was a Grade A badass. This is a man who stood maybe 5'5", weighing 150lbs if that, who was known to knock down with one punch men 300+lbs. In a dive bar.
I'd heard he was a boxer in Cuba.
I learned tonight that he had been on his way to being a major champion, winning 39 fights. Then Castro.
Mario hated Castro, not just on spec, and for the ruining of his country, but personally, for ruining his career.
He'd ended up in prison for murder (circumstances I don't know), and had seen someone die there every week.
In 1980, when Castro cast out all the "undesirables", the mental patients, the prisoners, the counter-revolutionaries not worth killing, Mario was released, and put on a boat.
He happily left Cuba, and set sail. For what he thought was Miami.
But was actually Portsmouth, NH. Imagine his surprise...
But he liked it, and never left.
"Ilikehere! 'stoofuckin'cold, butIlikeit!"
After what he left, Portsmouth, even in barely-civilized 1980, must have seemed heavenly.
Mario always elevated my mood when he came in, always so cheerful, and genuinely friendly. Turns out that was in genuine appreciation of what he had. I'd been thinking about lately, and was glad to find out all this about him.
Turns out he died a few years ago. Not surprising, given his age, and the intensity of his life. Gator, the owner of Wally's and briefly The Old Bridge, paid for his funeral. There was no plot, or interment of ashes, however. Mario's ashes are in the basement of D-Street. The man who told me said he liked to believe Mario would be happy with that, which kind of made sense: he spent all his time at TOB, and seemed to like a dive.
This man, though, said he'd been looking for a way to contact Mario's family in Cuba, and see if they wanted his ashes. I thought that was pretty cool, and hope he succeeds.
Until then, Mario rests in an environment that, while not luxurious or restful by most standards, is NOT a Cuban prison, and therefore "Fine, Buddy, fine!"
Thought I was getting harassed by 20 somethings fresh from D-Street. "Nice Cane. Hey you." was said to my back. It reminded me of the times way-the-frak-back when 40 somethings from Wally's/The Old Bridge would say to the back of my mohawk/spikes "Nice hair. Hey kid."
I made up my mind that, like the bikers/redecks of old, I would ignore them. But, should they push the issue, and not leave me alone, as running from the event was not a possibility, extreme measures (headbutts, biting, scrotum-hook on newly-finished cane put to any possible use) were acceptable. I figured I could take out one before the other 2 (3?) took me down. Some consolation prize for the pain and inconvenience of beating, but you take what you can get.
Nothing happened.
Got to PoPro, they came in after, and one of them had a cane. A shitty, collapsible cane. Nothing was said, which pleased me.
Turns out "Nice cane" wasn't intended as a threat; it was a compliment from a child (even if he's legally entitled to pickle himself) with the manners of a mentally impaired house-cat.
I returned to the shuttle, and mentioned to another passenger I'd seen around for years about what happened. We reflected on dumbasses mouthing off, and I mentioned how I wish the Old Bridge still existed to send such people to.
We ended talking about one of the toughest men in The Old Bridge, Mario. I'd actually been thinking about Mario lately, wondering what became of him.
I'd see him at Richardon's. He'd come in and say in his heavily accented English "Heeeey, buddy! Howyou?" "Great, Mario! What's happenin'?" "Fine, buddy! Fine!"
These things I knew about Mario: He was Cuban, didn't speak English well at all, and had arrived in the 70s, or 80s. I thought he possibly arrived in 1980 expulsion from Cuba, but didn't know for sure.
He had some of the darkest skin I'd ever seen, and, though decades older than me, the features of the Gerber Baby.
I also knew from stories in the neighborhood that Mario was a Grade A badass. This is a man who stood maybe 5'5", weighing 150lbs if that, who was known to knock down with one punch men 300+lbs. In a dive bar.
I'd heard he was a boxer in Cuba.
I learned tonight that he had been on his way to being a major champion, winning 39 fights. Then Castro.
Mario hated Castro, not just on spec, and for the ruining of his country, but personally, for ruining his career.
He'd ended up in prison for murder (circumstances I don't know), and had seen someone die there every week.
In 1980, when Castro cast out all the "undesirables", the mental patients, the prisoners, the counter-revolutionaries not worth killing, Mario was released, and put on a boat.
He happily left Cuba, and set sail. For what he thought was Miami.
But was actually Portsmouth, NH. Imagine his surprise...
But he liked it, and never left.
"Ilikehere! 'stoofuckin'cold, butIlikeit!"
After what he left, Portsmouth, even in barely-civilized 1980, must have seemed heavenly.
Mario always elevated my mood when he came in, always so cheerful, and genuinely friendly. Turns out that was in genuine appreciation of what he had. I'd been thinking about lately, and was glad to find out all this about him.
Turns out he died a few years ago. Not surprising, given his age, and the intensity of his life. Gator, the owner of Wally's and briefly The Old Bridge, paid for his funeral. There was no plot, or interment of ashes, however. Mario's ashes are in the basement of D-Street. The man who told me said he liked to believe Mario would be happy with that, which kind of made sense: he spent all his time at TOB, and seemed to like a dive.
This man, though, said he'd been looking for a way to contact Mario's family in Cuba, and see if they wanted his ashes. I thought that was pretty cool, and hope he succeeds.
Until then, Mario rests in an environment that, while not luxurious or restful by most standards, is NOT a Cuban prison, and therefore "Fine, Buddy, fine!"
Friday, March 30, 2012
Walters' Rules of Wrist 3-30-12
If you hate anyone Jesus doesn't like you. End of.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A politician who is after a government job by saying the government is evil is as trustworthy as Fred Phelps offering blowjobs to join his church.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Saying to a trauma victim "Get Over It!" about anything is good way to, at best, lose a friend, at worst experience some trauma of your own.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A politician who is after a government job by saying the government is evil is as trustworthy as Fred Phelps offering blowjobs to join his church.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Saying to a trauma victim "Get Over It!" about anything is good way to, at best, lose a friend, at worst experience some trauma of your own.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Labels:
Rules of Wrist
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saint Pat's
Once upon a time I planned to create an occasion-specific outfit for St. Patrick's Day. It was devised in reaction to the BeingIrishMeansBingeDrinking, and other assheaded misconceptions in this country.
I was going to wear a suit of orange, with England flags scattered about.
"green represents the Gaelic tradition of Ireland and the orange represents the followers of William of Orange in Ireland, with white representing peace, or a truce, between them."
"A Protestant, William participated in several wars against the powerful Catholic king of France...Many Protestants heralded him as a champion of their faith."
You can imagine how that suit would have gone over with any true Irish, or anyone who knew their history.
One of the last St. Pats I drank I was in the Press Room at the beginning of Amateur Time. I was at the dartboard end of the bar, with what turned out to be 3 elderly Irish men, all strangers to me and each other, and all quietly drinking, with new and welcome friends. We chatted. An old Dubliner bought me a drink. Men of kindness, and character, all wearing green in understated ways that didn't demand attention, but asserted itself nonetheless.
While none of them liked the way the day was celebrated here, none had any animosity towards the young and stupid, something that puzzled and impressed me with its sharp contrast to my own feelings. We parted as friends, all to their homes about 6:00 PM.
I realized that my Orange Prick Suit would have only offended these men, that no one else in the place would have even understood. I gave up the idea. Regardless of any skepticism to religion I harbor, or how I might prefer history to have gone differently to suit my morality, in the here-and-now (or there-and-then) I had met good people, and my life was better for it.
My Irishness is as remote to me as it is to most Americans. The brief look I've had at my father's family tree revealed a number of Mc's, O's, and Mac's, though many of the Mc's and Mac's are Scottish. None of my Celtic relations are more recent arrivals than the 19th century as far as I know.
However, those three decent men at the Press Room, whose names I've forgotten, impressed on me that there are indeed some great things about Irishness, and they do indeed deserve celebration. Maybe one day this country will know what they are.
I was going to wear a suit of orange, with England flags scattered about.
"green represents the Gaelic tradition of Ireland and the orange represents the followers of William of Orange in Ireland, with white representing peace, or a truce, between them."
"A Protestant, William participated in several wars against the powerful Catholic king of France...Many Protestants heralded him as a champion of their faith."
You can imagine how that suit would have gone over with any true Irish, or anyone who knew their history.
One of the last St. Pats I drank I was in the Press Room at the beginning of Amateur Time. I was at the dartboard end of the bar, with what turned out to be 3 elderly Irish men, all strangers to me and each other, and all quietly drinking, with new and welcome friends. We chatted. An old Dubliner bought me a drink. Men of kindness, and character, all wearing green in understated ways that didn't demand attention, but asserted itself nonetheless.
While none of them liked the way the day was celebrated here, none had any animosity towards the young and stupid, something that puzzled and impressed me with its sharp contrast to my own feelings. We parted as friends, all to their homes about 6:00 PM.
I realized that my Orange Prick Suit would have only offended these men, that no one else in the place would have even understood. I gave up the idea. Regardless of any skepticism to religion I harbor, or how I might prefer history to have gone differently to suit my morality, in the here-and-now (or there-and-then) I had met good people, and my life was better for it.
My Irishness is as remote to me as it is to most Americans. The brief look I've had at my father's family tree revealed a number of Mc's, O's, and Mac's, though many of the Mc's and Mac's are Scottish. None of my Celtic relations are more recent arrivals than the 19th century as far as I know.
However, those three decent men at the Press Room, whose names I've forgotten, impressed on me that there are indeed some great things about Irishness, and they do indeed deserve celebration. Maybe one day this country will know what they are.
Labels:
Heritage,
Saint Patrick's Day,
Tradition
Friday, March 16, 2012
Old Piece of music redone
Conceit
It had synth guitars, and sounded like it had synth guitars. I recorded real guitar parts because, unlike at the point when I wrote the piece, I can.
It had synth guitars, and sounded like it had synth guitars. I recorded real guitar parts because, unlike at the point when I wrote the piece, I can.
Friday, January 27, 2012
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